|
Western Mail,
August 10th, 1935
Land of Poisons, Witchcraft and Curses
---
By GARETH JONES
“The land of poisons and of witch doctors, of magic and of
curses”— I pondered as I tramped rapidly along a river bank in the
middle of Java, looking every few moments for the crocodile which a few
days before had swallowed one of the native women.
I strode energetically along, for it was a Sunday afternoon,
cool for the tropics and I was sadly in need of exercise.
“Land of magic,” I repeated to myself as I left behind me
another village of grass shacks where women in scant attire - indeed, no
attire at all beyond the brilliant sarong below the waist - had looked
at me as if I were a museum curiosity or a strange being from another
world.
Let me see, I thought, I must be many miles from the rubber
plantation where I was the guest of an English planter. I had been,
warned to look out for snakes, which abounded in, the areas around the
plantation. The path was getting more and, more difficult to follow
and, I almost stumbled into marshes.
It was, indeed, in the heart of the Malay country – “land of
witch doctors and of curses.” Here were folk with strange beliefs who
thought that spirits dwelt in the mountains and in the streams and who
although usually laughing and gay, had depths of passion, which
expressed itself in savage revenge upon those who and wronged them. Had
I not heard of the dread at poisoning which had, sent white men hurrying
from Java back to Europe?
A Storm
A clash of thunder startled me as I thought at the tales I
had heard, of Javanese beliefs, tales, which had sent a shudder through
me. I glanced at the sky. Those were ugly, menacing blue-blank clouds
appearing near the volcanic mountains. They were moving rapidly and I
saw a streak of lightning, which startled me by its brilliance. It was
followed in a second or two by a, terrific clap of thunder. It was an
eerie place to be in - snakes, poisons, magic, thunder, lightning,
death, revenge – these words rushed through my head. Rain would come in
a few minutes. Where would I find shelter?
I ran for all my life was worth towards the nearest native
kampong (village). Would, I perhaps, fall, into the hut of the “witch
doctor” – the dreaded “dukun”? A few drops of tropical rain spattered
down on my head as I reached the first grass shack, and as I smiled to
the old women inside they bade me enter with gestures of welcome. It
was just in time, for the storm came clattering with a savage fury upon
that grass roof and upon, the banana trees around it whipped mercilessly
against the bamboo walls. Had I not entered my Cheeks would have been
stung by its wildness, for in Java rain is more than rain; it is a
machine-gun attack.
I glanced at my hostesses at the matting on the floor, at
the naked children who stared at me with infinite wonder in their eyes.
Primitive old women believing in the power of the witch doctors, in the
potency of chants, in the domination of magic, were those weird Malayan
natives, but they were hospitable enough.
Revenge
As I looked at them I remembered how the rubber planter had
told me of his friend, Jackson, who had struck a native many times on
the head, which is a sacred part of the body never to be touched. One
day Jackson fell ill, strange pains irritated him, but it was nothing
serious. They grew worse, however, and for months he suffered until he
became thin, his flesh seemed to disappear and his hands looked like
those of a skeleton. Nearly a year after he had struck the native he
died.
“ Slow poisoning by bamboo cane ground minutely into a
powder and placed In food” was the verdict of the doctors.
I recalled other tales of the Javanese natives, how they
went to the witch doctors for love potions. Had these hideous old women
in their youth sought the “dukun’s” advice in their love affairs? Had
they repeated strange incantations to win the heart of some handsome
native who owned more water buffaloes than any other in the village?
A child lay fast asleep in a corner of the hut. I knew
fortunately that there was one thing I must never do, and that was step
over his body. When a Malayan native is asleep his soul is believed to
be surrounding him, and if you walk over him you are touching his soul
and that does him grievous harm.
Black magic? All those strange folk who were staring at me
from the other huts of the kampong believed in Black Magic! And I had
met a Dutch lady who had declared defiantly to me, “I myself believe in
Black Magic and I practise it. There is not a loving couple in all
Batavia whom I cannot separate by Black Magic!”
The atmosphere was getting more and more eerie, as the
candles were lit, and I could hear the beating of drums ceaseless,
throbbing, exciting, in another part of the village.
A man came rushing through the banana trees, wildly,
enthusiastically. A look of joy was upon his face as he entered the hut
and gave a cry of triumph. What could it be? Had some magic sign
appeared in the sky? Had he seen three black ravens? Had he buried the
head of a goat and was thus assured good luck?
He turned to me and I heard words spoken - to my amazement -
in English! When I heard the words all my visions of magic vanished,
the eeriness of the surroundings disappeared, my memories of curses
faded, and the tales of poisonings became stale and unprofitable. The
words I heard in this distant village were those I might have heard any
Saturday night throughout Wales, and they were: “Good! Good! Football
ball! Football! Win. Hurrah! Five (pronounced “pybe”) goal. Other
team no good, no goal, Hurrah for football!”
|