Empire of the East by Norman Lewis Page B

have none of this. There was nothing in the sparse dwellings, with their carefully tonsured thatch and split-bamboo walls, that served no purpose — pots and pans, a sack of rice, pets, fishing gear, a coffer to hold festival clothing — the tools of existence, and no more.
    A man of standing suddenly appeared among the group, and the others drew away. The headman, as we took him to be, was in his late forties; eyes creased from scanning far horizons, a patrician expression that rejected the promptings of chicanery, a conclusive and instantly fading smile following all his pronouncements. With a sweeping gesture he invited me into his house, and since he spoke only the Acehnese dialect, Andy was called upon to do his best with a translation. It was a tricky business, for difficulties arose not only from differences of language, but of minds. ‘They are speaking always like words of a song,’ Andy said.
    The man spoke of the Acehnese fisherman’s life. The calling, he said, was a hereditary one, and nobody could be accepted into it without being born into a fishing clan. In the village of Beuloh, marriage partners were sought only among the sons and daughters of other villages. It was fortunate — he laughed — that weddings did not happen too often, because they were expensive affairs that could land the family in debt for up to a year. Funerals, too, were expensive, involving the burning of boats, which the government had now banned as being backward and contrary to the national culture. In the household the woman handled all the financial business, but in no circumstances was allowed to enter a boat, and could be divorced if she did so. The village was as close to being self-sufficient as any village could be. They even possessed a part-time cobbler who made the shoes, and a dozen men working together could build a house in ten days. To be able to take the measure of the outside world, however, every man was obliged to visit the town of Tapaktuan, forty miles away. In this way curiosity was cured, and it was an experience, the headman said, with another of his short decisive laughs, that few wished to repeat.
    According to the headman, matters of health were the only aspects of their existence calling for the intervention of an outsider. A healer travelled up and down the coast, despite governmental prohibition, to look after their physical well being, and a dentist from Medan turned up every few months to take care of their teeth. The headman said this man was so good at his job that, having removed a few teeth, where necessary for cosmetic reasons, he would cement in the artificial replacements, leaving the patient ‘looking like a politician’.
    For this genial conversation we sat together along the edge of a platform in the village’s largest room, which, the headman told us, was used as a council chamber by the notables when affairs of importance had to be discussed. At this point most of the platform space was taken up by a woman weaving on a loom. When we showed interest in the design, the headman waved us away with a gesture of impatience. A pointless whim, he said. Something to use up time. Custom did not permit a woman to wear a garment she had woven for herself. It would have to be given away. While these discussions went on, beautiful, grave-faced, silent children wandered in and out. Occasionally averting its eyes, a child would risk a quick, shy fingering of my clothing. Strong on protocol, as usual, Andy told us that custom did not allow the fishermen to smile in the presence of a guest.
    Supplies and communications were the fishermen’s current problem. They themselves lived on the less prestigious varieties of fish, but lobsters and crayfish, much in demand in the town, were picked up by the bus and taken in to Tapaktuan. Now, as a result of the emergency, the buses had ceased to come. One had been attacked, or so it was said, the headman didn’t know where or when, and some said the driver had