Indonesia, Etc.: Exploring the Improbable Nation by Elizabeth Pisani Page B
Authors: Elizabeth Pisani
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village head, Pak Pelipus.’ He swiped on.
Then he swiped back.
‘Wait, that is Pak Pelipus.’ I laughed. It didn’t seem possible. Apart from anything else, we were twenty-five kilometres away from Gaura, where the photo had been taken. In West Sumba that may as well be another planet: a different language, a different clan, a different set of loyalties. And the boy in the picture couldn’t be older than thirty now, nowhere near old enough to occupy the venerable position of village head. But Lexi, whose wife, it turned out, was from Gaura, was insistent. ‘It’s him, I swear!’ So we set out to find Pelipus.
In the one-size-fits-all government structure left by Suharto, village heads are supposed to keep office hours. I’ve never known one that does, but the office seemed as good a place as any to start looking for Pelipus. It was around 10.30 in the morning. A sleepy guard told us that Pelipus was off at an adat ceremony, he had no idea where.
Lexi and I bumped into one hamlet after another, hoping for news of Pelipus. Eventually, someone told us that he was in the next hamlet along, negotiating a bride-price. We teetered along a high ridge towards a clump of greenery, and parked the bike next to the village pigpen, which contained one sow and a large squeal of piglets.
Above us was a pointy-roofed house, its veranda creaking with the bride-to-be’s family. They were waiting for emissaries from the groom’s family, but they welcomed these other, unexpected guests. Grey-haired men rearranged head-ties and fished out pouches of betel nut to offer us. An ancient woman squatted quietly against the wall, rolling a golf ball of tobacco from side to side under her upper lip. There was the usual quota of teenaged boys, their hair carefully gelled for the solemnities. If an adult shifted and a small space appeared, it was immediately filled by a child. The kids were uncharacteristically tidy, scrubbed up in their impress-the-neighbours best. Negotiating the sale of a sister is a serious business.
In the middle of this press sat Pelipus. He was half the age of many of the men there, but he had clearly stamped his authority on the gathering. Though this was not his house, it was he who invited us onto the veranda, he who gave the nod to the women’s quarters to get another round of coffee going. He was friendly enough, but decidedly haughty. There was no question about it: this was the defiant child that I had photographed more than two decades before.
Pelipus and the family elders were discussing their negotiation strategy. There would be a number of niceties to observe before they could get down to brass tacks. First, Pelipus told me, they would have to kill a dog chosen by the bride’s family. A rato from each side would read the dog’s heart, to see if the pair were well suited. The dog would become the first course in a pig-roast dinner, shared by all sides as a sign of good faith.
As he spoke, I noticed for the first time that there’s a specific language for different types of carnage in Sumba: buffalo and pigs are ‘slashed’ ( potong : their throats are cut). So are chickens, if they are for the pot, though if they killed for the omens they are ‘parted’ ( belah : split down the middle to expose their entrails). Dogs, on the other hand, are ‘beaten’ ( pukul : actually closer to bludgeon), whatever the purpose.
It’s unlikely that the proposed marriage will be abandoned if the dog’s heart tells a sorry tale, but it does affect the price the girl will fetch. A bad omen means a possible split, and no sensible groom wants to pay too much for a woman who might go crying back to her own family. That’s a loss of property, theft almost; the groom’s side will use a telltale dog’s heart to beat the price of the girl right down.
Seizing on my interest, the men on the veranda launched into a role play of the impending battle of wills. In their make-believe negotiations, the dog’s heart speaks
Then he swiped back.
‘Wait, that is Pak Pelipus.’ I laughed. It didn’t seem possible. Apart from anything else, we were twenty-five kilometres away from Gaura, where the photo had been taken. In West Sumba that may as well be another planet: a different language, a different clan, a different set of loyalties. And the boy in the picture couldn’t be older than thirty now, nowhere near old enough to occupy the venerable position of village head. But Lexi, whose wife, it turned out, was from Gaura, was insistent. ‘It’s him, I swear!’ So we set out to find Pelipus.
In the one-size-fits-all government structure left by Suharto, village heads are supposed to keep office hours. I’ve never known one that does, but the office seemed as good a place as any to start looking for Pelipus. It was around 10.30 in the morning. A sleepy guard told us that Pelipus was off at an adat ceremony, he had no idea where.
Lexi and I bumped into one hamlet after another, hoping for news of Pelipus. Eventually, someone told us that he was in the next hamlet along, negotiating a bride-price. We teetered along a high ridge towards a clump of greenery, and parked the bike next to the village pigpen, which contained one sow and a large squeal of piglets.
Above us was a pointy-roofed house, its veranda creaking with the bride-to-be’s family. They were waiting for emissaries from the groom’s family, but they welcomed these other, unexpected guests. Grey-haired men rearranged head-ties and fished out pouches of betel nut to offer us. An ancient woman squatted quietly against the wall, rolling a golf ball of tobacco from side to side under her upper lip. There was the usual quota of teenaged boys, their hair carefully gelled for the solemnities. If an adult shifted and a small space appeared, it was immediately filled by a child. The kids were uncharacteristically tidy, scrubbed up in their impress-the-neighbours best. Negotiating the sale of a sister is a serious business.
In the middle of this press sat Pelipus. He was half the age of many of the men there, but he had clearly stamped his authority on the gathering. Though this was not his house, it was he who invited us onto the veranda, he who gave the nod to the women’s quarters to get another round of coffee going. He was friendly enough, but decidedly haughty. There was no question about it: this was the defiant child that I had photographed more than two decades before.
Pelipus and the family elders were discussing their negotiation strategy. There would be a number of niceties to observe before they could get down to brass tacks. First, Pelipus told me, they would have to kill a dog chosen by the bride’s family. A rato from each side would read the dog’s heart, to see if the pair were well suited. The dog would become the first course in a pig-roast dinner, shared by all sides as a sign of good faith.
As he spoke, I noticed for the first time that there’s a specific language for different types of carnage in Sumba: buffalo and pigs are ‘slashed’ ( potong : their throats are cut). So are chickens, if they are for the pot, though if they killed for the omens they are ‘parted’ ( belah : split down the middle to expose their entrails). Dogs, on the other hand, are ‘beaten’ ( pukul : actually closer to bludgeon), whatever the purpose.
It’s unlikely that the proposed marriage will be abandoned if the dog’s heart tells a sorry tale, but it does affect the price the girl will fetch. A bad omen means a possible split, and no sensible groom wants to pay too much for a woman who might go crying back to her own family. That’s a loss of property, theft almost; the groom’s side will use a telltale dog’s heart to beat the price of the girl right down.
Seizing on my interest, the men on the veranda launched into a role play of the impending battle of wills. In their make-believe negotiations, the dog’s heart speaks
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