There was a distinctly festive air about the beachside football field. Flags and buntings fluttered in the breeze while sunshine and people spilled over sand and grass. On this particular April Sunday, a crowd of young and old gathered for Kaul, an annual festival of the Melanau.

As far back as they can remember, the Melanau people have always known the sea, from their heartlands centred around Mukah, on the coast of Sarawak. Their traditional ways still mark their lives as they move towards the 21st Century and their staff of life, the sago palm, which thrives in coastal swamps, is still encountered in myriad forms. Sago starch, extracted from the core of the tree, has always featured in their diet. It is used as a flour, as sago pearls and made into biscuits. Just about every part of the tree is used to make baskets, brooms and other everyday implements. Sago also features in traditional rituals from marriage to pagan healing rites. Predictably, the Melanau have been fisherfolk. The original Kaul, essentially a pagan thanksgiving, was held independently by various Melanau villages to appease the spirits of the sea. It is traditionally held at river mouths in the month of March, after the rages of the Northwest monsoon have passed.

With the majority of the Melanau people now Christians and Muslims, the pagan reasons behind Kaul are evolving into an ethnic celebration unique to the Melanau culture. On this beachside football field, the original spectacle once provided by animal sacrifices and pagan chants have been replaced by traditional and sporting activities held within a cordoned arena. It is an occasion that stirs both community and ethnic spirits.

Spirits are particularly buoyed by the spectacle of the tibau, a popular Melanau game. Simply put, the tibau is a giant swing, although swinging is anything but a benign children's pastime with the Melanau.

Kampung Tellian

The tibau is a daunting test of courage and skill, the players normally being young, unmarried men out to impress the womenfolk and to garner status among their peers. Less sympathetic observers often consider it a near suicidal gambit. This particular tibau - "just a small one," according to one Melanau - was about 5 storeys high.

The tallest part is an inverted V-frame of two resilient hardwood poles. Four massive rattan cables ran from the apex to tether it to the ground, holding it upright. Another rattan cable, looped at the end to form the swing, hung down from the apex to almost reach the ground.

Completing the tibau was a wide, angled rack nearly three storeys high with rungs almost every metre or so. It faced one side of the inverted V-frame and doubled both as a grandstand and springboard for the game.

No nails are used in its building, for metal is not favoured by the spirit believed to inhabit the tibau.

Playing on the tibau was delayed until after the festival was officially opened by the the guest-of-honour. Perhaps it was to draw the attention of the crowd to other events of the day. The only people on the tibau for the moment were spectators taking advantage of the height of the rack for a vantage point to watch the day's unfolding activities.

The Tibau - a suicidal gambit?

It began shortly after sunrise, with the ride out to sea by two fishing boats - one small and another, large. Both were typical of fishing boats currently being used. These were traditionally and lavishly decorated with palm fronds.

The serahang, elaborate palm leaf baskets built around two-metre poles, were especially important. They held the offerings to the spirits of the sea, symbolised by token helpings of sago pearls, sago biscuits and betel nut. This ritual may be held for the spirits of the sea but the attention spent on the boats show how important the fishing vessels are to these people.

An offshoot of the Kaul celebrations are the water sports or Sukan Air, held the day before. These sports are essentially boat races of several categories, from dugouts to large 40-horsepower motorised craft. Winning one of these events guarantees certain recognition for a man's skill with his boat. The esteem won is more valued than the prize money. To break the tension, there is also a quite comical duck catching event. Ducks are released midstream and enthusiastic contestants dive in for a hilarious, feathered free-for-all. The person who catches the most ducks wins not just the event, but the ducks too. The smiles left in the wake of the Sukan Air are a prelude to more fun with the main, land-based festivities of Kaul. This year's Kaul began as it always had, on the return of the two decorated boats to land. The serahang were taken out from the boats and planted on the beach. The attention then turned to the guest-of-honour who officiated at the celebration. For Mukah, this was the beginning of a series of events.

It started with a silat (Malay martial arts) demonstration, followed by a traditional Melanau dancing, a showcase of traditional games, and a tug-of-war competition - all calculated to finish by midday, before the heat got too oppressive.

The action took off on the tibau without fanfare sometime during the silat demonstration. Looking out, the crowd around the grandstand suddenly noticed the tip of the tibau swaying gently, flexing under the weight of the players bobbing in and out above the heads of the crowd and the disciplined moves of the silat team.

For those at the back of the crowd around the arena, the tibau was a good entertainment alternative, if not better. The aim of the game is to climb to the highest rung of the rack with the free rattan cable, sit firmly in the looped end and push off. It's exhilarating from that height, and it is only the warm-up. As the swing moves out, another participant readies himself on the top of the rack. When the swing comes in, he jumps for the rattan cable. As both swingers settle into a firm knot of bodies, the swing returns to the rack - with another jumper waiting to get on. The first jump from the topmost rungs raises the most terror- offset by a rush of adrenalin as intense. Before the momentum gives out, there can be as many as seven people grappling for a secure grip at the end of the swing. The tibau's thrill is a body-slamming, bone-bashing blend of teamwork and camaraderie needed to best the swing, which courses like a curve ball under the impact and shifting weight of many bodies. The soft sandy ground beneath is some, if little, consolation when a jumper misses. Injuries are not unexpected. An ambulance was on hand, just in case.

The Serahang

The ooo's and aaah's of an appreciative tibau audience buzzed audibly and carried on into the next event - the traditional dance of thanksgiving, done to the hypnotic rhythm of gongs and drums. Serahangs and brass platters of offerings were gracefully carried as part of the dance by men and women in Melanau costume.

This was followed by a display of traditional games played by Melanau children. Though none could claim to be as spectacular as the tibau, they were all links of the Melanau heritage to the present. Like most traditions around the world today, these forms are changing under the pressure of progress.

But the Melanau are standing up for their traditions and their ethnic identity. There is a growing realisation that it is important to realise and remember who they are and to make this understanding relevant to the community's progress.

The celebration of Kaul is just one avenue taken. Relevance, in this case, includes an open air stage production in the evening where a traditional costume contest is held in the search of a neighbourhood beauty queen and local musicians play Malay pop songs. Cultural dances are also featured to balance the programme.

The balance between old and new is illustrated startlingly in the last sporting event of Kaul on that beachside football field - the tug-of-war. It is a game with a singularly British flavour, but played with absolute Melanau gusto.

The teams of ten-a-side were fairly well matched, and their sweaty heaving worked the crowds into a cheering frenzy. Eyes were riveted with passion to the marker on the rope and faces grimacing under the strain.

Soaring above it all with a measure of cursory interest, however, were the tibau players, enthralled by their mastery over their immediate fears. They were not unlike us, distant observers coming from a world apart for glimpse of a delicate, universal tussle between tradition and progress.

The Kelabit Connection

Footloose In Sarawak

Pun Ritai's Home Page