by BETHANY LUHONG BALAN
Falling asleep
to the sound of rain
waking up to the sound of voices
just outside my bedroom door
I take a shower
the water feels softer here
"it's the clay, from the river"
I don't know if that's true
But after my hair dries
It doesn't frizz or wave
It behaves itself for a change
I head to the kitchen
There's always people in the kitchen
the smell of coffee and Milo
the sizzling sound of food in oil
the smell of bunga kantan
petai, belacan, black pepper
the sound of chopping, pounding
plucking, mixing
dishes on the table, dishes on the floor
where a gaggle of aunties sit in a circle
cross-legged, laughing with their heads thrown back
busy and loud in their natural habitat
the sound of water running
dishes in the sink
the younger girls are always on cleaning up duty
the younger boys are always making messes
cooking is an event,
and everyone is invited
there's always food in the house
they make too much
and yet
nothing is wasted.
I hear dogs barking in the distance
I see them lounging on the verandah, just outside the kitchen door.
On the ground, under the long planks of wood, under the floor,
under our feet, in the shadow of the elevated longhouse
the roosters crow, hens chuckle and cluck
they scratch and peck at the cool dirt
I can see them from the window
I hear my grandmother
asking me if I have eaten
telling me to eat
eat your fill
“kuman”
“kuman, besoh”
Kayan and Iban voices on the radio
they play dangdut and sape songs
beads and feathers adorn the walls
dirt under my fingernails
mud on the soles of my feet
my people always build our longhouses to face the river
but because of this,
visitors who come from the asphalt road
are greeted by our back door
we turn our backs on tarmac and timber trucks
preferring to gaze wistfully
at the original highway of Borneo
snaking through the green and brown jungle
beating and pulsing a rhythm as old as time itself
we make jokes about it
we say
"it's a bit rude, but at least it's memorable!"
Uma Belun Leodian: the only longhouse of our kind in Sarawak
from ground level,
where a fleet of pick up trucks are haphazardly parked,
wooden steps lead up to the verandah
lined with dirty shoes of all sizes
huge basins of water hug the wall
for us to wash our feet before we enter the kitchen
for the young cousins to bathe
for us to host water fights
for us to wash up after a party
because the kitchen sink is too small
to accommodate the mountain of dishes left over
no one throws a party like the Kayan do
the Kayan word for rice wine is “burak”
Sungai Asap must be made from it
it flows so freely here
like the food
the music
the laughter
the poco-poco
more feathers
more beads
we sleep late but rise early
we keep longhouse hours
the aunties are always busy
their hands are never idle
they have pepper to farm
livestock to feed
food to prepare
clothes to wash
floors to sweep
my Dad told me, half jokingly, half earnestly
there's a reason why Kayan people point with their mouths
their lips puckered
towards the object in question
"tui"
it's because their hands
are always full
feet running on the wooden floors
the entire longhouse reverberates
when the children play
cousins laughing and rough housing
uncles and aunties scolding
"don't be so noisy," they yell
“asum nyawen!”
but it's always noisy
even the nights aren't quiet
the sound of cicadas
fill the gaps in conversation
the smell of asap jakok*
dried tobacco, betel nut, mosquito repellant
the smell of coffee
the smell of burak
glasses clinking on the floor
the sound of gossip
fading out as the night grows darker
falling asleep
to the sound of rain
* Note: “jakok” refers to the traditional hand-rolled Kayan cigarettes, smoked by most of the older people
