A Dayak Tribe Adoption …Mine
If I wrote this story backward…
I’d start by saying how fortuitous I am to be adopted into a Dayak family. How did this happen to me? I am still not too sure. But Borneo, Indonesia is now forever my second home.
Above all- I couldn’t be more grateful.
To be clear, I did not lose my family in America or anything along those lines. They are alive and well and are my #1’s. I was simply welcomed into a village family in Borneo, became extremely close with the eldest daughter of that family, and the rest is history.
“So with these three chickens, we will use them to welcome Ashlei as the new member of this family.”
- Dessy, my new sister
10.16.19
My Dayak sister, Dessy, (along with her other sisters Delly and Dewi and their father) are founding members of Sakolah Adat Arus Kualan, a customary school which teaches children of the forest about their culture, Dayak traditions, and the environment.
As time passes, generations of this culture become more dependent on packaged foods instead of forging in the jungle. It may seem like this all around the world, which is true and fine, however, the skills that are taught when foraging and learning about plants in the jungle is paramount to this culture. The forest is in their blood, though with every passing advance in their village, they become less aware of their precious jungle home and the things happening to it. Ringtones instead of birds singing.
Being around Dessy and the children of the village, I was immersed in the culture being taught and I couldn’t get enough of it. I was infatuated with the ways they utilized the natural elements around them to bend to the needs of humans. Life-changing.
Because of this, my acceptance into the village and the family was expeditious. They liked me because of my interests in their culture, for no other outside benefit to myself. To me, this village, this family, these children, were my second home. I felt as though I could have stayed in the jungle with them and been as happy as I would have been anywhere else. The love and energy was palpable and held on to my heart very tightly.
If I would have disappeared to West Borneo forever, I think my family would have understood why, once they arrived, ha!
Pictured:
Sister Dewi, Delly, Mom, and I lovin’ life.
Pictured (BELOW):
Bamboo soup for breakfast! Fish, snake, bamboo shoots and sambal from the previous day’s dinner.
One morning Dessy and I were sitting on the floor having some breakfast (pictured above, yum). I began to make plans for the interviews I had in mind and when I wanted to do them. Dessy nodded her head in agreeance to almost everything, but on Wednesday, she said my plans wouldn’t work.
“That day is your ceremony.”
Perplexed, I gave her a look that warranted further explanation.
She said, “Mom and Dad decided that when you were here last, that they wanted to adopt you into the family.” I was speechless. The last time I was there was about two months ago! She started to giggle… I’m assuming at the expression on my face. Still quite puzzled I asked what this ritual would entail and what this would mean?
Pictured:
Neighbors and friends with Mom (center) and Dessy (right) preparing bamboo to make the most delicious rice i’ll ever eat.
On the day of the ceremony…
Women began arriving at the house very early… as if this was routine. They made their way into the kitchen with baskets, knives, bamboo stalks, and very large leaves from the forest. After the women, groups of men started to walk up to the house as well! I was wrapping up some things on my computer that I had filmed the previous days and playing with the children on my “breaks”. Dessy told me that she had some errands to run for the ceremony. I asked what she had to do and she replied,
“We need chickens, three chickens!”
I opened my mouth to tell her that I wanted to go with her but she had already turned around and was out the door! About an hour later, Dessy returned with a box, and inside we the sacrificial chickens for my ceremony.
Dessy went straight to the kitchen, set the box of chickens down, and started to help the women cut up the fruits and veggies they had brought. I myself felt a bit out of place like I was at a friend’s family’s Thanksgiving dinner. I wanted to help but was not sure what to do. Traditions, superstitions, and unwavering techniques are extremely important in this culture. That being said, any “mundane” task, especially if being done for a ceremony, was performed with the utmost precision. I asked if I could help cut up some pineapple, I was permitted and then was giggled at pretty harshly. EVERYTHING had to be done in a very specific way and at a specific time. This was indeed a ritual, every aspect of it. If I couldn’t help, I would just have to observe and take it all in, by that I mean, pick up my camera and film.
I have participated in, helped conduct, and observed so many rituals in Bali (having lived there for one year), but NEVER had I experienced a ceremony that was for myself.
Amidst the chatter, I heard someone say “coffee” in the local language.
Most of these villagers do not know how to speak the country’s language, Indonesian. They only know their tribe’s language. On Bali for example, the entire island spoke Balinese but every village had its own dialect of balinese. it’s like that on every island. this is why indonesia’s government developed a national language in the 1950s.
I sprang into action and volunteered to make coffee for the 15 women sitting in the kitchen.
I left to get a pot and cups but before I could complete the task, a woman came over to me to “help”. It was under my assumption that she was sent into the kitchen to make sure I put enough “gula” (sugar) into the gallon of coffee. …I never put enough gula haha.
She prepared the remainder of the coffee for the women, with sugar, but let me carry it back out to the group like I had done it myself. Word got around that I don’t like sugar in my coffee but just about anywhere in Indonesia, sugar MUST go in kopi!
Only two of the women drank their joe because the Arak came out and that was definitely the drink of choice.
Arak is a type of rice wine made by the villagers through a process of fermenting and distilling rice. It is the drink of choice and worthy of the title. Depending on who makes it… depends on how strong it is.
This Arak was strong and as we passed it around, the first batch of bamboo rice finished cooking over the delicately made fire. Dessy and I shared a taste.
The rice was cooked inside the bamboo until the sides were burned and water started bubbling over the top.
She told me that this type of rice is only made for very special occasions. To this day… it is the best rice I have ever eaten and I believe, ever will eat. Sweet, yet savory, soft with a slight taste of bamboo along with delicious coconut that they shaved inside.
The rest of the invited village members came, Arak was shared, food was devoured, the rice disappeared first, and then Kek Jenu and Kek Bidin (the ceremony leaders) began.
When the ritual began:
The family: Mom, Dad, Dessy (eldest sister), Dersy (only brother), and I sat in a circle with Kek Jenu and Bidin.
The two remaining sisters live in another part of the island to attend proper school, they come home very rarely due to finances.
I sat in the circle, mystified at what was happening. Even though I didn’t understand a word that was being said, I felt it.
Dessy tried to translate as much as she could but eventually, I told her it wasn’t necessary, there was too much.
After a few hours, and a few chickens later… it was time to solidify the bond.
Kek Jenu (the ritual leader) had a cup of blood from the chicken, a cup of Arak (rice wine), and a piece of cooked chicken. First Kek went to Dad, he placed his thumb in the blood, wiped it on Dad’s forehead and then placed dried rice on the wet blood. Next, he had Dad recite:
There will always be a plate for you at our table.
Whatever we own, you own too.
Whatever we gain, you gain too.
Next, he ate a piece of the chicken and drank from the cup of Arak.
The same was done for Mom, Dersy, Dessy, and lastly, myself. I was nervous, scared to say the wrong thing, or mess this up in any way.
I was pledging myself to the family and they were pledging themselves to me. Kek Jenu gently placed his thumb in the blood, carefully wiped it on my forehead and then placed the rice to stick. I was handed the piece of chicken and placed it in my mouth. Then the cup of Arak. I drank from the same cup as everyone before me and at that moment, I knew something special had happened. I spoke the words……. what’s mine is theirs and what is theirs is also mine.
From that moment, I was granted authority amongst the family, a place to sleep, a plate to eat on, and place in their hearts. Forever.
Pictured:
Delly, Dewi, and I in Pontianak, West Kalimantan. These are the remaining two sisters who could not make it to the ceremony.
Read Into More Creator’s Thoughts
