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The Erau Festival
Borneo is a vast ecosystem of mountains, rainforest and rivers. The thick, impenetrable forest that covers the world’s third largest island acts as an enormous sponge, soaking up the rain, releasing a little at a time to provide a constant supply of clean water that runs into the streams and rivers that flow continuously from the mountains and highlands at its centre, through the coastal plains and into the sea.
Of the myriad rivers that run across the island, the greatest of them all is the Mahakam. The source of this massive waterway is the Muller Range, a body of mountains that lies in the heart of Borneo. The tributaries of this river cascade down from around 2000 m above sea level to 150 m above sea level, in a series of impassable rapids that stretch for more than 100 km. The Mahakam then snakes and loops through the lowlands, widening as it goes. By the time the river flows past the cities of Tenggarong and Samarinda into the sea, it is monumental.
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Strategically located on the banks of the Mahakam, Tenggarong is both a small but thriving modern metropolis and the seat of the ancient kingdom of Kutai, a kingdom that once dominated the entire region of East Kalimantan, and whose wealth and splendor rivaled and even exceeded that of Brunei Darussalem. Across Borneo, rivers have always been the principal highways for trade and commerce, the means by which the valuable trade goods of the interior have reached the outside world. By controlling the flow of goods, the Sultanate of Kutai became extraordinarily wealthy, particularly after the intensified exploitation of coal, oil and forest resources in the late 19th and early 20th centuries.
Drawing their wealth and power from tributes extracted from their peasants, the great inland agrarian kingdoms of Central Java excluded the outside world to the greatest extent possible, priding themselves on the purity and exclusiveness of their culture. In contrast, the riverine kingdom of Kutai drew its power from its unique position in a cosmopolitan network of trade and commerce that involved the fierce head-hunting Dayak tribes of the hinterland, the Malay farmers of the coastal regions, indentured Javanese labourers, Bugis and Makassarese sailors and settlers, and traders, merchants and miners throughout the archipelago and beyond, including the Dutch, the English and other Europeans. Members of these communities were welcomed into the Kutai commonwealth without being required to abandon their own cultures. Rather, aspects of these cultures were enthusiastically adopted by members of the elite and integrated into the ceremonies and rituals of the court, resulting in a lively, multi-cultural society open to innovations from the outside world.
The beau ideal of Kutai society in the early 20th century was Sultan Aji Muhammad Parikesit, who assumed the throne after the death of his father in 1910. Educated in Holland, Sultan Parikesit spoke Malay, Dutch, German, English and French. He is remembered as an avid amateur scientist, a skilled administrator, and a brilliant musician of diverse tastes. During his reign, he summoned jazz musicians, gamelan orchestras and string quartets to play before his court, usually mastering the skills of these musicians himself. A patron of both contemporary and classic arts and architecture, the Sultan built a massive, Dutch-style palace decorated in art nouveau style. He was also a keen conjurer, as the current palace secretary, H.A.B Ainuddin, remembers: ‘On one occasion, the Governor General of the Dutch East Indies paid a visit to the palace at Kutai. The Sultan asked to borrow his watch and placed it under a handkerchief. He then took a rock and appeared to smash the watch. There was a horrible crunching noise, and the Governor General reddened and swelled with rage. However, before he could emit a protest, the Sultan laughed, leaned over, and pulled the watch out of the Governor General’s pocket.’
With his vast personal wealth and flamboyant personal style, he was a natural target during the social revolutions that followed Indonesia’s Declaration of Independence. When the regional government of East Kalimantan came under communist control during this period, the party apparatchiks seized upon the palace as an obvious symbol of feudalism and collaboration with the colonial oppressors. On one occasion, a platoon of communist-controlled troops stormed into the palace to seize the Sultan’s ceremonial robes, which were taken to a nearby stadium and burnt before a jeering mob. On another, a gang of soldiers attempted to steal the Sultan’s gold crown and other heirlooms, although they were prevented from doing so by a contingent of policemen acting on orders from the central government.
In the feverish political environment of this time, the Sultan decided that discretion was the better part of valour. He abdicated from the throne in 1960, to retire into relatively modest private life in Samarinda. Even after the suppression of the Indonesian Communist Party, the Sultanate remained in abeyance, and the palace became a dusty museum filled with relics from an era that was increasingly regarded as irrelevant to the modern age.
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No one, least of all the son and heir of the late Sultan, could have predicted a revival of the Sultanate of Kutai as a cultural symbol, if not a political power, in the 21st century. Nonetheless, with the support of the regional, provincial and national governments, Sultan Adji Muhammad Salehuddin was officially coronated on 22 September 2001.
In order to provide the appropriate stage for the event, the regional government restored the museum to its original purpose and returned it to the royal family. On the day of the coronation, the building was filled with more than 100 members of the royal family and thousands of servants, retainers, onlookers and guests, including the Minister for Culture and Tourism, the provincial governor, representatives of the Sultan of Brunei, and Indonesian film stars.
At a cost of some US$6000, replicas of the traditional ceremonial robes worn by the Sultan had been reconstructed by tailors to the Javanese Sunan of Solo. After some delicate negotiations between the central and regional governments, the diamond-encrusted gold crown—weighing more than a kilogram and usually residing in a vault in the National Museum in Jakarta—was returned to Kutai for the duration of the ceremony under strict military guard.
The coronation ceremony took place as an integral part of the Erau Kutai Festival, a festival that gathers all the tribes and peoples of the kingdom together to redeem the earth, forests and waters of Kutai, and to ensure peace, prosperity, and abundance throughout the sultanate. In the days of Sultan Parikesit this was a glorious annual event, but even after his abdication, it was held at less frequent intervals under the sponsorship of the local government.
At the entrance to the palace was a mass dance that symbolizes the unity of all Dayak tribes. Accompanied by chanting, dancers dressed in head feathers and beads formed a procession to present the Sultan with a red spear symbolizing power, a piece of rope symbolizing unity, and a gong symbolizing culture. A strong drumbeat then filled the air, and Kutai guards bearing multicoloured banners ran out into the square. After their performance, rice was thrown at the exuberant crowd, and everyone danced as a Kutai gamelan orchestra played.
Despite the extent of his duties throughout the festival, the palace secretary granted time for a meeting the following day. In his late sixties and dressed in the pajama-like costume of the palace, he was proud of his pivotal role in the festivities and delighted to shuffle through a lifetime of memories of the Sultanate. Upon a request for an audience and a photo session with the king, the secretary silently disappeared through a door. He returned shortly, and announced that the king would be happy to grant an audience in a quarter of an hour or so.
The audience took place on the floor in front of a throne covered in golden velvet. The Sultan appeared with remarkably little fanfare. In fact, it took a few seconds before the identity of the modest old man – seated not on the throne, but on the floor in front of it – became obvious. Greeting a favoured grandchild and making a few nonchalant comments to the secretary, he smiled sweetly and offered his hand.
Asked for his comments on the significance of his coronation and on the place of the Sultan in modern Indonesian society, the stout, white-haired septuagenarian drew his breath as though to reply, then looked vague, and gestured to the secretary, who replied on his behalf, a pattern that continued throughout the interview. As the Sultan stared ruminatively out into the courtyard, the secretary spoke for his master: ‘The Sultan has no desire to interfere in the government of the region. That’s a matter for the state. The Sultan is merely a symbol for the people of Kutai, a living emblem of their cultural heritage.’
The interview soon ground to a halt. Helped to his feet by a servant on each side of him, the Sultan stood up, smiled sweetly one more time, and hobbled back into his private quarters.
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Real and effective power within Tenggarong lies elsewhere. Compared to the palace, the air was distinctly more charged at the house of Dr. H. Syaukani HR, the Bupati of Kutai Kertanegara, the man who has transformed Tenggarong and made it an example to which other regions aspire. Accompanied by three nervous minders dressed in their best batik shirts and looking fresh and relaxed, the Bupati emerged from his private quarters to the front room that served as an audience chamber.
After a polite greeting, the Bupati launched into an animated description of his vision for Kutai and his ambitious dream for the development of Tenggarong: a massive convention hall and theatre suitable for world class performances, a theme park on an island in the river to rival Jakarta’s Dunia Fantasi, a pool of performing fresh-water dolphins, a jet ski racing tournament, and luxury cottages to accommodate visitors from around the world. He also detailed programs to develop basic infrastructure and to help the disadvantaged of the area, including food distribution programs. In fact, he added, as part of the Erau Festival, every visitor and member of the Tenggarong community had been invited to attend a communal meal at the municipality’s expense.
When asked about how these projects were financed, the Bupati quoted figures for the gross product of the area, indicating a level of productivity to rival that of Brunei’s. While much of Kutai’s wealth has been utilized for national rather than regional benefit, it is evident that increased autonomy has resulted in increased prosperity for Kutai and its surrounding areas.
As he held forth, eyes glinting, the three minders nodded and laughed in unison at the appropriate points in his monologue.
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On Kumala Island, the site of the proposed theme park, Dayak from various tribes were staging performances all week as part of the festival. A wizened dwarf with a squeaky, high-pitched voice ferried visitors on a government speedboat with consummate skill and élan to a wharf where a large group of Kenyah Dayak stood dressed in eagle feathers, panther teeth, leopard skins and other traditional ornamentation.
A sulky old princess in her sixties, with her arms tattooed dark blue from wrist to elbow, wore brass earrings that stretched the lobes to her waist. When photographers took out their cameras she hid her face, demanding payment for the privilege of photographing her.
More affable was an old warrior, who proudly described his military career during the ‘60s as an auxiliary in the battles in Irian Jaya. Around his wrist his name was tattooed in the Morse code he had learnt while on service. With a trace of regret, he described cutting off the extended lobes of his ears with a knife at the request of his military commander, who considered them the mark of a savage.
The Dayak dances were powerful and fierce: Finely muscled young men with strong, white teeth mimed the ambush of a group of enemies in the forest, the cutting off of heads as trophies, and their return to the admiring women in the village.
The wide-eyed children slurped on brightly coloured ice-cream as they watched the show, while their parents chewed on rice and sate, provided free of charge by the municipality.
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The series of sporting events, dances and displays of martial prowess of the Erau Festival reached a crescendo on the final day. After a gathering of the Sultan and his court to offer prayers at the grave of Haji Imbut, Tenggarong’s founder, two enormous dragons more than eight meters in length were borne in procession by palace servants wearing bright yellow silk and carrying portable gongs and drums to a boat on the Mahakam. Belian, or witch doctors who are uniquely qualified to handle such ritually powerful objects, lit incense and chanted mantras as policemen and members of the armed forces erected barriers to restrain the gathered masses from swamping the boat.
Accompanied by the beat of a frenzied gamelan orchestra and the mantra of the belian, the boat made seven concentric circles on the river before the palace, only narrowly avoiding collisions with hundreds of crafts of all sizes. The crowds on the banks screamed and waved and pointed as the boat passed by. The dragon-laden barge proceeded to set forth on the three-hour voyage to Kutai Lama, the capital of the kingdom before attacks by aggressive Bugis pirates drove it inland several hundred years ago.
As the monumental Mahakam River rolls on its way down to Samarinda, it is a chocolate-colored giant, more than a kilometer wide and almost 100 m deep, and massive barges of coal pass rafts laden with logs on the region’s busiest highway.
On the way through the river-port city of Samarinda, where ocean-going craft met river barges, was a small village of houses built on stilts over the water. This was the home to a community of Bugis settlers from Sulawesi who acknowledged the sovereignty of the Sultan in the 19th century. Descendents of these warrior-merchants from Sulawesi greeted the servants of the palace of Kutai, each group dressed in their best finery.
Finally, the barge reached Kutai Lama at a point where four rivers converged. Canoes, longboats, dinghies, houseboats and police launches milled around dangerously, avoiding collisions by fractions of inches as they jostled for a position near the principal boat. A group of marauders clamoured up onto the decks from small canoes, snarling as they tried to reach the sacred serpents, but a group of guards and policemen repelled them unceremoniously, pushing them into the muddy waters. Palace servants used saws to sever the heads of the dragons from their cloth-covered, rattan bodies, which were then lowered into the water. This was the signal for every youth in the region to struggle by any means possible to grab a piece of the yellow cloth as a trophy.
It was also the signal for the outbreak of a fierce water fight in which no person was immune from attack. Boats with power pumps, hoses and nozzles used these to good advantage, while others made do with buckets and plastic bags filled with water. An overweight police sergeant on a launch drew a breath to bellow at a youth who had plastered him with a well-aimed bag, only to be struck by another bomb on the back of the head before he could emit a cry.
After running the gauntlet to visit the local headman, where members of the procession drank tea and dripped on his floor, it was finally time for the return trip to Tenggarong.
On the way home, the clouds gathered and the skies broke, pelting everyone with rain, but it hardly seemed to matter. No one could get any wetter, so it seemed best just to smile and enjoy the trip back up the river.