Saturday August 8, 2009
Receiving due recognition
By LOUISA LIM
The old masters of traditional arts are one of the most committed yet misunderstood groups in Malaysia. Armed with fierce talent and conviction, they have begun their rebellion against dissent. Only time will tell if they can prevail, or disappear forever.
The infamous East Coast monsoon had been pounding the small shack mercilessly for over an hour, but the musicians taking refuge underneath its tin roof were not the slightest bit perturbed despite having no real cover from the dampness.
Twenty-two of them sat huddled together on bamboo mats, their Pagoda singlet-clad bodies swaying in unison from either the melody or wind, and their expressions focused on something other than the pervasive chill.
Eyo Hock Seng speaks little Chinese and no English, but is fluent in Kelantanese- Malay. There were no women, only men and boys. Some ran their hands deftly over funny-looking instruments while others acted as spectators.
This was a typical scene in Kampung Pasir Parit, an old-world Chinese village in Kelantan, where Eyo Kock Seng’s home is located.
Eyo, 54, is one of the surviving masters of wayang kulit or shadow puppetry. Together with the musicians, he puts on shows for his compatriots during the eve of important celebrations like birthdays or marriages.
Eyo is a bit of an anomaly among his peers because he actively champions an art form that is more commonly dominated by the Malays. With small, almond eyes and generous nose, he looks characteristically Chinese, almost like my neighbourhood grocer.
However, all that changes once he throws on his stage attire and takes his place as Tok Dalang, master puppeteer and story narrator. He morphs into this magical being, manoeuvring colourful puppets across the screen and simulating different voices in an uninterrupted flow of thick Kelantanese.
On that dark, drenched night, his story was about love. Called Di antara dua raja (Between two kings), it revolved around a Malay prince who was madly in love with a Thai princess that he threatened suicide if he couldn’t marry her.
And so the plot unfolded in a flurry of movements and funny, chiding repartee. Eyo sashayed the princess to his left arm in which his lovelorn hero stood. They exchanged playful banter, and his voice rose and fell as he seamlessly switched back and forth between the two characters.
Wayang kulit musicians performing in a little shack. For a moment, his bewitching voice and the loud, piercing music swelled above the rain and thunder. It made my hair stand on end.
My neighbour felt the same way. Shivering in her cardigan, she whispered: “I think he’s possessed.”
It isn’t unusual for some people to think that a Tok Dalang’s gift stems from black magic. I, on the other hand, think it’s pure talent.
Where do they go?
When I spoke to Eyo in English, he stared at me inquisitively. Having stayed in a Malay kampung his entire life, he spoke little Chinese and no English. This Malay-influenced upbringing was one of the reasons he dove headlong into wayang kulit 30 years ago.
“You’ve got to be able to pull off 12 different voices,” he said, with the help of a translator. “That’s the most important thing — the voices, then the characters.”
It is also a prerequisite for the Tok Dalang to learn to chant, or baca jampi, before each show so he can summon the spirits.
“The chanting allows them to enter my body. Without it, I won’t be able to put on a good show,” Eyo explained.
A performance by Pak Daud with his Dikir Barat team. This pre-performance ritual had cast a dark shadow over the art form, as people trembled over the prospect that it may contain supernatural elements. In 1995, the PAS-led Kelantan government banned the craft, and the Malay masters began migrating out of the region.
Eyo recalled this phase with particular clarity, saying: “Aiyoh, there was a time when you couldn’t even sell the musical instruments of wayang kulit. It was prohibited among the Muslims, but thank God, they weren’t so strict with non-Muslims so I hung on, and continued practising quietly in my village.”
When PAS lifted the ban in 2002, most Tok Dalangs had all but moved away, making Eyo the last of his kind. The government instituted several changes, however, and passionate love stories like the Ramayana epic had given away to plots which adhere to Islamic values.
“There used to be 10 stories altogether in wayang kulit,” Eyo said. “One time, it took me as long as two hours a day for 47 days to tell a story. The people loved it, because there was no TV back then. But nowadays, you’ll be happy if they have the patience to sit through two hours of it.”
As a result, Eyo finds it hard to keep the authenticity of the craft alive. He professed he has seven children he’s hoping to teach, but none of them are the slightest bit interested.
As performances like the wayang kulit slowly disappear without so much as a peep all over Malaysia, the National Heritage Department is trying to refocus the spotlight on its keepers.
As part of their efforts, they’ve taken us journalists on a three day-two night trip to Terengganu and Kelantan where these ancient art forms are still alive (albeit barely).
“We want to preserve these traditions,” said Mat Nasir Baba, assistant director of the department. “So we’re giving people like Eyo the support and recognition they deserve. There’s so few of them now that you can count them with your fingers.”
It’s no swan song
Another one of these heroes is Mat Daud Che Mat a. k. a. Pak Daud, a professional tukang karut — the creative leader of a Dikir Barat group — who also lives in Kelantan.
“I feel this urgent need to do something,” he said. “Otherwise, Dikir Barat will be gone forever.
“Things are a little better now,” Pak Daud said. “We don’t have as many bookings like before, but the audience is paying more per show, from RM80 to RM200 for the tukang karut and RM200 to RM400 for his group. It shows that there are people who really appreciate our efforts. Now, I’m looking for a successor, someone who can keep the momentum going.”
Pak Daud may be fragile 67-year-old, but he’s got the fire of a 20-year-old in him. When he sings, he roars.
He’s also driven and articulate, just as a tukang karut should be. They are usually former tok juaras who are promoted for their talent in creating spontaneous lyrics, for it is their ability to do this that establishes the reputation of the Dikir Barat group.
(Dikir Barat is a lot like Malaysia’s version of rap. The lyrics are crucial, and could determine if a performance triumphed or tanked.)
And his group has earned their reputation as one of the finest in these states. They’ve won several state and national championships, despite having 69 other groups to contend with.
“Your lyrics must be up-to-date, or else no one will listen to you,” Pak Daud said. “You need to tweak the lyrics according to the period. Recently, we’ve been singing a lot about the elections. We’re calling for harmony and solidarity among the races.”
However, it isn’t just preachy messages he’s trying to convey. Pak Daud admitted that he’d also sung about his own bittersweet experiences as a struggling performer.
“Once, a ticket seller ran off with the money. I didn’t receive a single sen despite working non-stop for seven days a week. I was so upset I wrote it down as a song. I called it Fakir miskin (or Poor pauper),” he said.
If anything, Pak Daud should be credited for his amazing memory. He has about 400 songs committed to memory, some of which he has created himself, while others had been passed down by his teachers orally.
When I asked him how he’s able to do so, he replied with a shrug: “You just hum them every day.”
Then, together with his 11 awak-awak (back-up singers) and seven musicians, Pak Daud began crooning one of his melodies, this time about happiness.
The music was buoyant, while the upper body movements of the awak-awak were lithe and spirited. And like most Dikir Barat groups in the old days, they formed a perfect circle. (“It’s only when RTM started filming them that they sat in a row,” Pak Daud pointed out).
Firmly planted on the stage, they clapped their hands, lifted their arms up in joy and swung their bodies to and fro. Most words were incomprehensible, but I could make out a few sentences amid the Kelantanese drawl.
“Semalom sayo raso nok mati, bangon semulo nok hidop lagi,” Pak Daud sang. (“Yesterday I felt like dying, but after waking up, I wanted to live again.”)
It was a potent allegory, as far as he was concerned. As traditional arts make their last, defiant gasp in Malaysia, people like Pak Daud are ready to give up their lives to see it flourish again. There is still hope, after all.
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