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Western Mail,
August 10th, 1935
Land of Poisons, Witchcraft and Curses
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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!”
Beating of Drums
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!”
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