In the wee hours of the morning, I woke up with a jolt. It was annoying because getting startled out of deep sleep is never pleasant. We didn’t have a clock or wristwatch in the early 1960s so I couldn’t tell the exact time.
“Get up!” my mother whispered, careful not to wake my younger siblings.
“Why?” I asked loudly.
“Aiya! Not so loud! Someone needs your help,” she said.
That got my attention, and I quickly sat up, rubbing my eyes to clear my head.
“Who is it?” I asked, now fully awake.
“Mama Dee is going to give birth and Papa Dee needs someone to call the ‘bidan’.”
In our dialect, ‘bidan’ means midwife.
“I can’t leave her alone while I fetch the bidan,” Papa Dee said from the doorway. His paddy farm was slightly more than the length of a football field upstream from us.
The situation would have been different if my father had been with us, but he had gone to our village and stayed there for the night. My mother had to stay on our farm to look after my younger siblings.
“There’s no moon, it’s dark outside,” my mother said, stating the obvious. It was one of those monthly dark stages of the moon.
In our remote farming community, many miles from the nearest hospital and without any drivable roads, it was common for pregnant women to give birth at home. In Mama Dee’s case, she and her husband were staying at their farmhouse during the paddy farming season, like most of our people.
I knew the path to her place well because I had used it many times during my daytime fishing trips, but I had never walked it alone at night.
“I can do it, Mother,” I said, trying to sound grown-up and brave.
“You sure?” said Mother, a tinge of concern in her voice.
“Papa Dee will be with me part of the way. After that, Mama Dom’s place is not far,” I said as I prepared a torch using natural rubber we had tapped from nearby trees months before.
The rubber was one of several lollipop-shaped fire starters stored in a basket by our fireplace. When needed, they could be attached to a stick and used as torches. We didn’t have battery-powered torches, and taking our kerosene lamp would leave our farmhouse in darkness.
I was ten, going on to eleven, but I knew someone must fetch the bidan no matter what. Her farm was about a quarter mile away, linked to us by a narrow and winding path along the edges of the paddy farms. To me, the quarter mile felt like the length of four football fields. In the jungle at night, that was a long way, especially for a kid.
Trying mentally to blank out the darkness around me, I jogged along the trail, keeping the flame at the end of my torch in front to light the way and avoid burning myself with the melting rubber.
Contrary to what city people think, tropical jungles aren’t silent at night. The chirps, clicks, and buzzes of countless insects, the croaks of frogs and toads, and the hoots of owls create a loud symphony that can drown out other sounds.
I was doubled over and out of breath when I reached Mama Dom’s farmhouse. A dog barked furiously from under the stilted house. My throat was too dry to call out properly.
Mama Dom must have been expecting me or someone else because she opened the door before I could call her. She just knew.
“Give me a moment!” she said, disappearing back inside.
While waiting, I refuelled my torch. Moments later, Mama Dom emerged with a rattan backpack.
“I’ve been waiting for someone to call me,” she said as we headed to Mama Dee’s place, with me leading the way.
On the way, she talked about her regular visits to Mama Dee over the past month, checking her health and the baby’s development.
Mama Dom had helped my mother deliver at least three of my younger siblings. She and other midwives were highly respected in our community for their invaluable skills and knowledge. They were more than midwives; they were also herbalists and healers.
By the time we reached Mama Dee’s farmhouse, the early glow of sunrise was starting to show above the trees. At ground level, however, it was still quite dark.
Mama Dee was well into labour, and Mama Dom immediately got to work. In the low light of their kerosene lamp, I could see Mama Dee grimacing in pain while Papa Dee comforted her. Their farmhouse had an open-plan layout with everything in one rectangular space.
While Mama Dom and Papa Dee focused on the delivery, I went to the kitchen, boiled water, and prepared a simple breakfast of boiled cassava tubers, honey, and herbal tea. I was already feeling hungry.
Before the sun fully rose, the baby was born, a boy wailing loudly. After Mama Dom cut his umbilical cord, cleaned him up and placed him next to his mother to suckle, he stopped crying, and silence returned.
As I served breakfast, my father arrived, saying my mother had given him the news. I told them I should return to our farmhouse to help my mother and maybe catch some sleep. After taking a peek at the baby, I went home, feeling satisfied and proud of my role in welcoming a new life into the world.
Since that day, I contributed my bits a few more times and in different ways helping Mama Dom and other bidan deliver babies in the community. However, I have fonder memories of Mama Dee’s baby because that was my first experience. Thinking about it now and then over the years, I still have vivid memories of the goings-on; so clear that it feels like watching a 4k video documentary in my head.
When I was tasked with fetching the midwife in the dead of night, I had very little appreciation of what I was doing other than knowing that I had a duty. It took years for me to eventually realise how the experience offered profound insights into the essence of my community, resourcefulness, courage, tradition, and simple living. These are not just remnants of a bygone era but timeless lessons that resonate deeply with our shared human experience.
In the early 1960s, devoid of modern conveniences, community meant everything. My journey to fetch the bidan was not just an act of personal duty but an expression of the collective responsibility that bound the community together.
Every community member, regardless of age, had a role to play, ensuring that no one was left alone in times of need. My willingness to venture into the dark jungle at my mother’s behest had nothing to do with being brave. It resulted from a sense of duty though, being so young, I did not see it from that perspective.
To this day, I still love the ingenuity of rural life. Without the luxury of modern technology, the community relied on natural resources and traditional methods to meet their needs.
Take the torch using natural rubber as an example. Little did we expect the rubber tapped from wild trees near our farmhouse could become more than simple fire-starters.
Taking the lesson from that night, we often brought several of them along to complement our kerosene lamps when we needed to go out at night. Unlike kerosene lamps, they won’t get extinguished easily in the rain once they are aflame.
Nowadays, while enjoying modern conveniences, we can still learn how our ancestors utilised their surroundings creatively and efficiently. Their resourcefulness was driven not just by the need to survive, but also by a desire to thrive in harmony with nature.
My solo nighttime journey through the jungle highlights my personal growth, driven by the struggle to overcome my fears. At just ten years old, I was determined to act like an adult despite my apprehension about the perceived dangers in the eerily dark jungle. When it was over, I felt a sense of pride and accomplishment. Years later, I read that courage is not the absence of fear but the will to act despite it.
In writing this story, an American author, William Martin, came to mind. Known for his historical novels, he famously said, “The man who goes to the top of the mountain is not the same man who left.”
The challenges faced, the perseverance required, and the triumph of reaching the summit can lead the climber to personal growth, new perspectives, and a deeper understanding of oneself.
‘The greatness of a community is most accurately measured by the compassionate actions of its members.’ – Coretta Scott King (1927-2006). She was an American author, activist, civil rights leader, and wife of Martin Luther King Jr, one of the most prominent leaders of the American civil rights movement.
The views expressed here are those of the writer and do not necessarily represent the views of the Sarawak Tribune.
