June 8, 2008

Some Bomoh’s specialize in traditional medicine. Some Bomoh’s specialize in Urut (massage). Some Bomoh’s can only discern the cause of a person’s ailment which ranges from the benign, like excess wind in the body, to the more serious, like a curse or a spirit inhabiting the body. Some Bomoh’s practice a darker art, casting spells, summoning spirits, and cursing people. The Bomoh (medicine man, traditional healer, witch doctor – all 3 are legitimate translations) is a very real part of Malaysian life. Most Malaysians, particularly those living in the kampung, believe in and respect the Bomoh’s ability.
As I mentioned, some Bomoh’s specialize in Urut (massage). This is not your typical day spa, aromatherapy, candlelit, relaxation massage. This is a bone twisting, nerve pulling, grit your teeth, and endure it as long as you can - experience. Every Malaysian I have ever met has told me that for my particular ailment I should seek Urut (massage). They swear by it and tell me that if I only had urut I would be running and jumping again in no time. I have been curious about urut and I have wanted to try it but as I learned in KL, real urut is only done by a Bomoh in the kampung.

Well, now I am in the kampung and there is a Bomoh who lives in the neighboring village.

Pak Cik is massaging an enormously fat man. He grimaces in pain at every touch but insists that the urut is sedap (delicious). Pak Cik is half Malay half Pakistani. He is a tall, big boned man, quite large by Malay standards with closely cropped white hair. He is friendly, engaging, and quick to laugh. He has very deeply set eyes which are difficult to read and interpret and though he may be smiling his wrinkled face gives me the impression of a grimace.
Four men, including myself, all wearing kain pekat (skirts) sit in plastic chairs around a very low table. Everyone smokes and I desperately crave one of Pak Cik’s roll your own. We laugh about the fat man’s belly, Rahimi wants to know how many months pregnant he is and Pak Cik teases that he has breasts like a woman. Casey, Saadia, and Pak Cik’s wife all sit behind us cross-legged on a mat on the floor. They listen to our conversation or have their own but almost never join ours.

The house is constructed of wood planks, 1x4’s for the walls, and corrugated tin for the roof. The floor is a laminant roll and although there are several windows they are always closed. Pictures of Mecca and gold lettered Arabic and gold symbols in frames make up the only decorations. Apart from the 4 plastic chairs, the low table, and a fold up floor mat, the room contains only a storage shelf, the contents hidden behind a sliding door.
This room occupies the front of the house and is elevated on stilts. The family quarters are hidden behind a curtain at the back of the room. I know that beyond the curtain you must step down a few feet into the main house. I have only caught glimpses inside this room but I imagine it is like most Malay homes, extremely sparse and possibly completely empty of furniture. Pak Cik has three children and I assume they are behind the curtain from the faint sound of the television.

I hear the Azan (call to prayer) from the nearby Mosque and I recognize the unique and surreal situation in which I find myself. Pak Cik is a Bomoh but he has spoiled all my romantic notions of what a Bomoh should be. There is no bone through his nose, he isn’t wearing a cow skull on his head. There is no incense burning and though he has chickens scratching around outside there are none hanging from the walls or caged inside wicker baskets awaiting sacrifice. No vials of blood, just oil. No torches or candles, just light bulbs. No dark and ominous feel, just a warm, friendly gathering. Pak Cik specializes in urut and he can check for spirits and curses though he will not, to the best of my understanding, conjure spirits or make curses. There are Bomoh’s who will however and maybe they live up to the stereotypical witch doctor image, accepting only small currency coupled with a black rooster and three hens.

Another incident last night further exposed the wistfulness of my romanticism, juxtaposed the modern with the traditional, and had me shaking my head both with regret at the loss of an exotic and exciting image and with embarrassment for giving credence to such an image. Pak Cik uses an egg to determine what ails the body; maybe it’s high cholesterol, maybe is excess wind, maybe a spirit or a curse. He takes the egg, holds it in his palm and recites some lines from the Koran over it. There is absolutely no reverence during this incantation. The men continue to talk quite loudly and pay absolutely no attention to what is going on around them. Pak Cik then slowly rolls the egg around the man’s body quietly speaking lines from the Koran, occasionally pausing and blowing gently on the egg. Again, no reverence, no Hollywood aura. Even if I had been trying to create that scene in my head it would have been shattered when with his free hand the Bomoh answered his cell phone.

Pak Cik then cracks open the egg and begins peeling away the shell and inspecting the inside. I lean forward - maybe there’s a pebble inside the shell, maybe the yolk is bloody, maybe it’s Black!! No such luck, the egg contains a yellow yolk and that same transparent liquid all eggs contain. Pak Cik rolls it around in his palm a while, inspects it, and then dumps it in a bowl. He squeezes the juice out of some special leaves, mixes it with the egg, says another incantation, and then wipes the mixture on the man’s enormous belly and back.

That’s it. He smokes a roll your own cigarette, chats with us for awhile, and then calls me over for my urut. Though my romantic image of a Bomoh has been shattered I am so glad I met Pak Cik. The experience itself is eye-opening and unique but my body also feels so much better. I have more flexibility than I did before, my level of discomfort is significantly less, and I am finally sleeping soundly again. Pak Cik is determined to help me. I have visited him 6 times and he wants me to continue to see him until I leave the kampung.