I am sitting on the floor of a village longhouse, a three-day boat ride from the nearest town. The wooden walls around me are painted with colorful animals and mystical beasts of the forest and the water, while the ceiling is inhabited by magnificently carved hornbills and monkeys. Sitting in a circle of women -around one of the many enormous aluminum pots, in which the freshly shredded coconut is blended with rice - we are preparing the sweet emping, the ceremonial dish for the annual „new rice” festival.
’Is it good already?’ - I ask a garrulous burly woman next to me. ’More time’ - she answers lightly, and continues to talk. She talks about traditions long gone by, times when people still wandered the forest, times when each member of the tribe lived in the longhouse, and she talks about grandchildren who go to the university and never come back.
As the stories pass by, she picks up a small piece with her hand. She crumbles and tastes it, and says firmly ’Now it’s good’. While the aluminum bowls are taken away, one of the elderly women waves me to her. Her veiled eyes and deep wrinkles transmit wisdom, just as her elongated earlobes under the burden of heavy silver rings, and the tattoos creasing her hands like spiderwebs testify to an extincting tradition. As I crouch down, she carefully holds my arm, and when her tattooed hand touches mine I feel a shiver in my spine. She murmurs to me the words of an unknown language, whilst the atmosphere is somehow still familiar. A woman is translating, while she knots a forest green beaded bracelet around my wrist, but the words she whispers bind stronger than the thread. ’Your new dayak name is Lawing. You are no stranger anymore. You are family.’
As I cuddle myself in the sleeping bag that night, in the same room we prepared the food earlier that day, I can smell the lingering scent of coconut and rice on my skin. It will certainly ease in a couple of days, but I am not sure I would want to let it go away.
