The Medicine Man

In the late 1950s, when I was of preschool age but was not in school — because there was no preschool in our remote rural village — a ruffled, long-haired man frequently passed by our farmhouse. My family’s paddy farm was several miles from our village at the foot of Mount Sadung, about 40 miles from Kuching in the Serian District.

I recall him being dishevelled, with messy hair and a short beard that he trimmed with a tiny knife, its blade gleaming and unnervingly sharp. He also used that same knife to shave his hairy arms and legs.

I rarely saw him when we stayed in the village, but during the annual paddy farming season when we stayed on the farm, he appeared more frequently. My parents said his farm was further upstream, and the path to it ran along the boundary between our farm and our immediate neighbour’s.

To my child’s eyes, the man looked mysterious, with eyes that seemed to pierce through one’s soul. When his eyes drilled into mine from under his tousled hair, even as a child, I felt like he knew what I was thinking. That made me nervous and I could not decide whether to like him or not

Sometimes he would stop by to talk with my parents and drink some ‘tuak’, a mildly alcoholic rice wine my mother used to make in small batches “to keep visitors, especially the men, happy”.

Whenever he visited our place briefly, I kept my distance, but not too far because their conversations were often interesting. And I loved good stories. I still do.

He had a deep, gravelly bassy voice. I could feel its timbre vibrating in my chest whenever he spoke near enough to me. It made me wonder because no one I knew had that voice. I told my mother about it, but she only chuckled and suggested I was imagining things.

One day, I slipped and fell, dislocating my wrist. The pain was so intense that I cried until I could cry no more. It was the first time I realised my parents couldn’t fix everything, and that made me feel unsafe.

My young mind was confused. I wondered if I would ever be able to use my hand again. How long would the injury last? Would I die? Since my parents couldn’t help, what would happen?

Exhausted from the pain, I somehow fell asleep, only to be awakened by that deep, bassy voice. Opening my eyes, I found myself staring into the penetrating eyes of the hairy man. He told me not to worry, and his voice made my chest vibrate, easing my fear.

He helped me sit up and gently examined my wrist. There was a pleasant earthy, herbally smell emanating from him. I can’t remember exactly what he did, but with one quick move, he reset my wrist. There was a momentary sharp pain followed by instant relief as if my wrist had never been injured.

In that instance, I realised he was a healer — a medicine man whose role in our community I was not yet aware of, let alone comprehend. Most of what I felt then was deep gratitude for what he did for me when my parents were helpless in the face of my injury.

When talking about him with my parents in the days and weeks that followed, I gave him a nickname, Namba Tawar. After all, our customs prohibited us children from saying the names of our elders, so that was one way to get around the problem of identifying them.

In this context, “namba” means the elderly or senior person, man, or woman, while “tawar” refers to healing, usually using medicinal herbs. Namba Tawar, therefore, means a healing person (a male or female healer). Soon, the nickname caught on. My parents used it and then it spread among the neighbours.

My experience with Namba Tawar quickly made me realise the vital role he played in ensuring the health and well-being of our remote community, far removed from modern hospitals, clinics, and pharmacies.

Namba Tawar and his contemporaries in the village as well as those in nearby villages were well-respected. They held a significant status due to their knowledge and abilities to treat illnesses.

They used various plants and herbs to create remedies for common ailments. Their extensive knowledge of local flora was vital for treating diseases, injuries, and infections.

In 1962, I turned nine and was in Primary 3 at our village’s mission school. Despite being still small, I gained sufficient confidence to explore alone in the jungle around our farm. So, one school holiday, I decided to try some of the fishing spots beyond our family’s paddy farm. My mother told me to bring along my seven-year-old younger brother, Little B, to stop him from making a nuisance of himself around the house. Little B was sometimes overactive and could become a bit of a handful even for our patient mother.

Unknown to our mother, it was an excuse to see Namba Tawar’s place. I had never been there. It was not as near as I had imagined, but I didn’t mind the extra walk because I had been told that beyond the old man’s place was a good fishing hole.

The trip didn’t unfold as I had anticipated. Upon arriving at the property, we were captivated by the garden and felt compelled to explore it. While it resembled our food forest, that was where the similarities ended. This garden featured a broader range of unfamiliar plants and spanned a larger area.

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The garden before us was a unique sight, with rows of neatly organized plants. Lemongrass swayed alongside fragrant pandan, while galangal and turmeric emitted earthy aromas. Curry leaves bordered a patch of Indonesian cinnamon trees, filling the air with a sweet-spicy scent.

Clusters of star anise and cloves added subtle spice, while nutmeg trees and black pepper vines stood proudly. A stream flowed, lined with tangy tamarind trees and flourishing cardamom and ginger plants.

Kaffir lime leaves and wild ginger scents wafted through the garden. Daun ‘kesum’, vanilla orchids, and intertwined long pepper and betel leaf plants created a rich tapestry of aromas. Citrus fruits and exotic plants with pungent scents lined the edge.

The diverse scents were overwhelming yet delightful, each step unveiling new aromas. The garden showcased nature’s beauty and bounty, with each plant harmoniously enhancing its neighbours.

Amidst this sensory wonderland, the grandeur of nature’s gifts was evident. Little B and I, in awe, sat amidst this paradise of herbs and spices, a magical reminder of the world’s wonders waiting to be explored.

Years later, after I finished high school, and especially as I was very much into playing music, I delved deep into the properties of sounds, particularly the bass. I learned that it’s possible for a deep, bassy sound, to have a physical effect on the body. Low-frequency sounds can cause vibrations that you might feel in the chest. This phenomenon is due to the way sound waves interact with the body.

Sound is a type of mechanical wave that travels through the air (or other mediums) and can cause physical vibrations. Lower frequencies, especially those in the bass range, have longer wavelengths and more energy, which can be felt as vibrations when they hit a solid object, such as your chest.

In certain environments, such as in a quiet room or when the sound is particularly loud or directed at you, the effect can be more noticeable.

It’s also possible that individual sensitivity to these vibrations varies, meaning some people might feel them more acutely than others.

So, the vibrations of Namba Tawar’s voice in my chest were not just my imagination. This realisation was a relief because for a while I thought I was not as normal as other people. Whew!

The views expressed here are those of the writer and do not necessarily represent the views of the Sarawak Tribune.