Musical storytelling and rice wine
Notes from a celebratory evening in Sarawak
Friday 16th May - Jak Ma’an Restaurant, Kuching, Sarawak
“Oh-haaah!” comes the cry of fifty-odd punters in unison before they each perform a vanishing act with their drinks. Small tumblers of pear-coloured liquid sunk in seconds. For a moment, we are the gooseberries passing off a grimace for a smile as we raise our empty hands to the air, still waiting for our first drinks to arrive. Sitting on the periphery of a restaurant-wide toast is an uncomfortable place to be. Awkwardness occupies the outskirts of celebration. Really, you are only ever one constituency boundary review away from acceptance; a single drop of something strong, a single drop of anything at all.
But this is Gawai and it only takes a moment for you to be swallowed up by the festivities. Blink and you’ll miss the initiation.
Gawai is the main event in the indigenous Dayak calendar, a harvest festival celebrated annually in the Malaysian state of Sarawak. Officially, celebrations are held at the beginning of June, but, as we rocked up to Kuching’s Jak Ma’an on a Friday night in May, we discovered to our pleasure that the restaurant had jumped the gun and started the party early.
Gawai is an occasion full of high jinks. It is a storming of all five senses. There are party games, from the international sport of ‘first one to down a can of beer wins’ to more customary entertainment honouring traditional hunting practices (it turns out I’m a dab hand with a blowpipe – bearded pigs beware). Delicious smells of Bidayuh food permeate the restaurant and spill out onto the tarmac; the descriptively named ‘chicken in bamboo’, jungle ferns freshly plucked from the wilds and stir-fried with garlic and ginger flower, and there is a colourful platter of seasoned insects, if you are so inclined.
However, there are two other components of Gawai that make it a festival like no other. A celebration of which even interlopers like us can suddenly be a part: the music and a rice wine that goes by the name of tuak.
“A gesture of reverence to the heavens, the earth, and the ancestral spirits” — Halomei Lin, Three Drops of Rice Wine
Tuak is what happens when glutinous rice is brewed for a couple of weeks, where alcohol and sugar levels are tempered by the addition of river or rainwater. In its classic configuration, tuak has a stylistic likeness to an off-dry daiginjo sake; served chilled, a suggestion of sweetness comes in the form of cantaloupe melon and longan fruit and, though it begins mellow and smooth, like all celebratory drinks there is fire in its belly.
Admittedly, comparisons with sake are somewhat lazy. Let it be known, tuak is no tribute act. Nor is it a poor imitation of something else. It is a rice wine in its own right. Ritualistic, tuak is representative of familial traditions, of tried-and-tested recipes that have been passed down from generation to generation. Above all, it’s a symbol of unity and respect; it brings communities together, whether through ceremonial gatherings or a simple toast in a restaurant, while ‘padi’ (the Malay word for rice plant) is regarded as something more than merely a vital food crop – it has an animist spirit that must be placated through cultivation, it must be treated with respect.
There’s an age-old belief that, during the fermentation process, tuak takes on the emotions of its maker. A sourpuss will make miserable rice wine. Angst breeds angst. Working our way through a flight of flavoured tuaks, it appears that the brewers must have been in good spirits while making them. The butterfly pea, a beautiful purple amethyst colour, is subtly floral and unassuming. The roselle, originally made for its remedial value, is a little sweeter on the palate and more hospitable as it welcomes your taste buds with open arms like a family member you haven’t seen in a while. And, though the white pepper appears somewhat matter-of-fact to begin with – even its choice of outfit is more practical – a little reciprocal encouragement teases out a smile from wine and drinker alike.
“Language evolves to communicate information; music evolves to communicate emotion” — Susan Rogers, Three Drops of Rice Wine
The musical storyteller
Arthur Borman is relaxed during the halftime interval, pin-balling between tables as he flaunts his bamboo zither. He has the look of a retired rock star: shoulder-length hair like iron wool, stitched together with a bandana; a simple black tee adorned by a traditional waistcoat made of tree bark; he’s wearing varifocals, opting for comfort over contact lenses. Beautifully minimalist, it’s a look I wouldn’t mind rocking in my post-work years.
Retirement is far from Arthur’s mind however. He is the doyen of the bamboo zither, or, to give it its proper name, the Pratuokng. A traditional Bidayuh instrument, the Pratuokng has been an integral part of Sarawakian music for hundreds of years. With strings carved out from its bamboo body and a drum tongue on one side, the Pratuonkng is capable of replicating the sound of multiple gongs. It’s an instrument that has been built for practicality without any loss of ceremony. One pair of hands does the work of several. The Pratuokng would also be on the edge of extinction but for Borman, who has committed the last decade to its preservation.
Arthur isn’t making tuak tonight, but, as he rekindles his set, his playing shares the one key philosophy with his fellow rice wine producers — the importance of being in the right frame of mind. The music makes a home out of his demeanour. The more he plays, the more hypnotic the sound becomes. He is in a trance-like state. Striking, plucking, drumming. Multitasking as meditation. He has the focused manner of a woodworker rhythmically plying his trade. Nothing is forced, nothing is strained. This isn’t the work of an amateur carpenter assembling a flatpack bookcase, scrambling around for a missing wooden dowel.
Arthur is a master hand and it shows. Anyone who has ever played a musical instrument (or simply watched a musician performing) will know how the instrument can become like an extra limb, an extension of the player. It too takes on their mood, becoming an offshoot of sensibilities, but in a more direct way than words could ever convey.
“Losses of dietary habits and flavours are an unavoidable part of the process of the evolution toward modernity” — Wei Ling Hung & Lin Huei Jen, Three Drops of Rice Wine
According to the academic Wendi Sia, indigenous communities increasingly have to contend with the loss of cultural life, language, and ancestral knowledge as the younger generations “become increasingly dispossessed and disconnected from the ways of their ancestors.” In the same way that Arthur Borman has had to work hard to pull the Pratuokng from the brink of extinction and resurrect a dying art, producers of tuak have also had to deal with a similar threat. Even Jak Ma’an, the restaurant we are sitting in, was established with cultural preservation in mind. Increased globalisation means a decline in local production and consumption.
Yet, tuak is not merely hanging on for survival but showing signs of strength. At a time when young people are often blamed for the decline in sales of alcohol, Sarawak’s younger generation are helping revive and rewrite the role of tuak within the region’s cultural space. For Sarawakian writer and academic Anna Sulan Masing, as more people migrate towards urban centres and away from the villages, “the connection with family and traditional practices becomes less tangible.” There is therefore a strong desire to reclaim and preserve this sense of cultural identity, a proclivity for sharing the history of tuak with others while also forging and foolproofing its future.
As we return for a matinée performance the following day, cooling ourselves off with a pineapple-flavoured tuak, the role that youth can play in preservation becomes even more apparent. A group of young lads, all wearing the universal expression of adolescent ennui, take to the stage and treat us to an afternoon of Sape music. The Sape is a four-stringed instrument (sometimes six), also of Bornean origin. Celebrity musicians like Alena Murang have helped increase the Sape’s profile on the international stage but here is proof that performers at a grassroots level are just as important.
From the outside, it seems as though teenage boys are the same everywhere – as if the Sape is to these aspiring musicians what the Fender Squier Telecaster was to me while growing up. A means of emulation, as well as a way of plugging your emotions into an amp and turning up the dial. Wordless expression at full volume. The performers take turns to show off their skills, their hands scurrying up and down the fretboard like ghost crabs. Their faces are unmoving, too cool for school, holding back a smirk as proud parents whoop from the sidelines. The music is subsequently nonchalant. One of the strings is slightly sharp, the occasional run-down is rhythmically loose. None of that matters though. These boys are the next custodians of the Sape. Even those waiting in the wings for their turn to play, doomscrolling on TikTok — the dirty summit of modernity — are focused when they take to the stage. They are seemingly aware of their responsibilities as performers and purveyors of Sarawakian culture.
Both music and tuak have a decisive role to play in bringing people together. Jak Ma’an’s founder, Magdalene Rosalind Crocker, tells us that this has always been one of her missions, but also why Gawai is such a significant date for the people of Sarawak. As we look around, revellers both young and old, local and foreign, are gathered as one. We are all thirsty for great wine, our ears craving equally great music.
Together, music and wine reflect a shared history of healing and guidance, of storytelling and cultural identity. We are not consumers but participants, we are listeners and drinkers sharing the joys of both. And, even when we arrive somewhere as complete strangers, sitting on the margins of a toast, we leave as companions. And to that, I say oh-haaah!
Further reading
I loved learning more about the culture of Sarawak, but obviously I’m nothing more than an interested outsider — this piece barely scratches the surface. If you’d like to read further, I highly recommend checking out the links below. And if you ever find yourself in Kuching, be sure to swing by Jak Ma’an for some delicious Bidayuh food and drink.
A Land of Rice and History by Anna Sulan Masing
Three Drops of Rice Wine edited by Wendy Teo, Wendi Sia, and Wei Ling Hung
Jak Ma’an! Authentic Bidayuh flavours – from the Sarawak Tribune
Really enjoyed this, and the music is beautiful! Not sure I've ever seen tuak available for purchase anywhere in the states but I imagine it must exist. You've got me determined to track some down!
......and the Kuching Kitties!