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Bijdragen tot de Taal-, Land- en
Volkenkunde 170 (2014) 215–249 bki
brill.com/bki
Songs and Sorrow in Tanjung Bunga
Music and the Myth of the Origin of Rice
(Lamaholot, Flores, Indonesia)
Dana Rappoport*
Researcher, Centre Asie du Sud-Est, Paris, France
danarapp@cnrs.fr
Abstract
The songs of Tanjung Bunga (Flores, Indonesia) refer in their lyrics to the myth of the
origin of rice. This myth, sung several times a year, recalls the loss of a young sister who
sacrificed herself so that her body would be transformed into rice to feed her people.
Studying the lyrics along with the behaviour and verbalized reactions of the singers
offers insight into how these songs intensify sorrow. Two groups of songs are studied,
those pertaining to the myth of the origin of rice, and those pertaining to the myth of
Siamese twins.
Keywords
Flores – music – myth – rice – emotion
* This article is a revised version of ‘Le chant et la peine à Tanjung Bunga. Musique et mythe
d’ origine du riz (Lamaholot, Flores, Indonésie)’, in H. Bouvier (ed.), L’art du pathétique en
Asie du Sud-Est insulaire. Le choix des larmes, pp. 60–118. Paris: L’Harmattan. I wish to thank
all the singers from Tanjung Bunga, and also F. Baraldi, F. Léotar, G. Nougarol, P. Yampolsky,
C. Friedberg, and H. Bouvier for their insightful comments on early drafts.
© dana rappoport, 2014 | doi: 10.1163/22134379-17002023
This is an open access article distributed under the terms of the Creative Commons
Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Unported (CC-BY-NC 3.0) License.
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…
Music, a system of farewells, evokes a physics whose point of departure is
not atoms but tears.
cioran 1987 [1952]: 122
∵
How do societies respond to sorrow? In Papua New Guinea, the Kaluli laments
imitate the sound of the muni bird with the deliberate intention of moving
others to tears: music is organized through the metaphor of the bird that
mediates the feeling of loss and abandonment (Feld 1990). In Indonesia, the
Sa’dan Toraja perform song laments as a replacement for weeping: singing is
for them ‘a substitute for their grief, a replacement for their sorrow’ (Rappoport
2009). While some societies intensify sorrow, turning weeping into song and
song into weeping, others may convert it into musical forms not meant to
encourage weeping but to produce other effects.
This article investigates the connections between songs and sorrow in a
small region of Indonesia, inhabited by a thousand rice farmers. Having gath-
ered ethnomusicological data on the Tanjung Bunga peninsula of eastern Flo-
res, I came to realize that the songs of this region, exclusively performed as
alternating duets, were endowed with a distinctive dysphoric quality1: they
were grave, slow, characterized by strong harmonic tension, and I was drawn
to them because of their intensity, which I perceived as their sadness. Did
the singers themselves feel this tension? It became clear that they did. The
singers explained that the singing had to take place under certain conditions.
For a song to be performed properly it had to be not only flowing (puna’) and
slow (mao), but also earnest, modest, understated (mia), simple (Ind. lurus2),
and ‘heartfelt’ (Ind. pakai perasaan). Besides, during two recording sessions,
1 I use the word ‘dysphoria’ to describe a state of sadness that encompasses any form of
melancholic distress. The etymon of ‘dysphoria’ is the Greek δύσφορος (dysphoros), which
comes from δυσ- (difficult) and φέρω (to bear). Dysphoria can be experienced by anyone who
has lived through a painful event. In this article, it covers a range of emotions (or afflictions),
starting with feeling blue and moving onto melancholy, sorrow and, finally, despair. It thus
describes varying degrees of grief.
2 ‘Ind.’ is used to signal words in Indonesian. The other words are in Lamaholot.
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figure 1 Eastern Flores in Indonesia
a few members of the audience wept silently. One of them told me that the
singing recalled the memory of his dead father. Another explained that he
felt engulfed in melancholic reminiscence (hukut, péten). Furthermore, several
farmers observed that music is not considered to be entertainment (geneku)
but a form of concentration: they told me that ‘true, good and human’ (dike’)
music ‘works inside the heart and the mind’ (ta’an ono ne matat): ‘filled with
feelings’ (Ind. penuh perasaan), it can bring tears to your eyes. The word ‘sad-
ness’, which apparently does not exist in the Lamaholot language, was never
explicitly mentioned.
These remarks point to a line of investigation concerning the effects of
music. Where does this song-induced dysphoria stem from? Is it brought about
by the lyrics, the music, context, or memories? How do those who experience
this dysphoria—both the singers and their audience—talk about it? This arti-
cle examines the nature of these dysphoric feelings, which pervade the songs
of this region. While the study of emotions is a rapidly growing field nowa-
days, in both the cognitive sciences and ethnomusicology,3 the anthropology of
‘musical emotions’—the study of ‘music-induced feelings’—is in need of more
ethnographic work. Admittedly, field data have allowed a more global under-
standing of the topic, not limited to purely psychological considerations and to
a single way of conceiving emotion. But how can a researcher coming from the
outside understand the links a given population establishes between its songs
and its experience of sorrow? How can one understand what sorrow means for
3 Becker 2010; Benamou 2010; Bonini-Baraldi 2013; Demeuldre 2004.
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figure 2 Location of Tanjung Bunga in the Lamaholot-speaking region
a group of people one is not part of? In certain cases, experimental procedures
can be set up that do not require proximity of the researcher and the singers. In
my case, I was able to gather a large amount of data by slowly getting to know
six singers in particular, over the course of several field trips, in two different
villages: Keka’ and Waiklibang. These two villages are located ten kilometres
apart on the peninsula of Tanjung Bunga (Figs. 1, 2).4
This article will not examine how the acoustic form of the songs contributes
to the experience of grief. While grief can be related to certain musical parame-
ters, it can also be studied through other elements involved in the act of singing;
in this article, I have limited my analysis of grief to the lyrics and the ways in
which the songs are performed. To start with, studying the vocabulary used to
talk about affliction will help map out the affects in question. Then, an in-depth
comparison of several songs rooted in mythical thought will identify recurring
dysphoric patterns in the lyrics, which, depending on when the song is per-
formed, may have different effects.
4 Since 2006, I have spent nineteen months in the Lamaholot-speaking region: from August
2006 to July 2007, I worked throughout the region, and since 2009, I have spent fifteen weeks
specifically on the Tanjung Bunga peninsula.
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An Agrarian Context
In the eastern part of Flores, a particularly dry area, the Lamaholot-speaking
populations5 live off the cultivation of rice and maize on grubbed-up plots of
land. Their year is divided into two seasons. During the dry season (from June
to November), they clear new fields. Leaving their cultivated fields to lie fallow
for two or three years, the farmers burn a new portion of forest to clear it. When
the rain comes, in November–December, seeds are sown; in April and May, the
maize is harvested first, then the rice. From June to October, the rice that will
be used for future sowing is stored in granaries.
Until today, this region of Flores is in danger of famine: eating sufficiently
is harder in this region than in others, because swidden farming is dependent
on the wet season, which is both irregular and becoming shorter. Because a
potentially bad harvest can threaten the very existence of these populations,
many rituals are concerned with the agricultural practices that govern the lives
of the farmers. The cultivation of rice is organized around an annual cycle in
which singing plays a crucial role. Most songs are tied to one of the five steps
involved in rice cultivation: sowing, weeding, harvesting, milling, and storing
the grain in granaries.
Agricultural work is one of the preferred settings for vocal performance
(Rappoport 2011a). In Waiklibang and Keka’, nine repertoires are still called
upon nowadays, although fewer and fewer young people are interested in this
music. These nine repertoires are almost all connected to the myth of the origin
of rice, which everyone learns as a child. Rice-related songs are therefore not
only sung for entertainment, but also as a means of survival. This myth is
not only expressed through singing and dancing, but it is also ‘performed’ or
‘represented’—partly by a young virgin selected each year to take on the role
of a key figure in the myth.
5 The Lamaholot language group consists of roughly thirty-five dialects belonging to the Aus-
tronesian language family (Keraf 1978). They are spread out over several islands, ranging from
the eastern tip of the island of Flores to the islands of Adonara, Solor, and Lembata, including
the coasts of Pantar and Alor. Today, the vast majority of Lamaholot speakers are Catholic.
Although Catholicism reached Flores and Solor as early as the sixteenth century, a large por-
tion of the population still mixes its Catholicism with ancient customs, calling upon Lera
Wulan—Tana Ekan (‘Sun Moon—Land Field’) and regularly feeding the land with animal
offerings (Graham 1996:158).
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Singing in Pairs
Duetting is the main musical texture of the western part of the Lamaholot area,
in which hardly any monodic forms are found. Several pairs of duettists sing
in alternation, one pair answering the others either by completing or repeat-
ing the lyrics performed by the duo that initiates a duet sequence. Between
the two voices, the simultaneous intervals are limited, which has led Philip
Yampolsky (2001) to speak of the ‘Balkan-sounding style of Tanjung Bunga’.
The form chosen both for agrarian activities and for mythical narratives is the
duet, which combines two voices, generally of the same gender, according to
various polyphonic techniques such as mobile drone, contrary motion, coun-
terpoint, canon, and parallelism (Rappoport 2010b).6 This tradition is threat-
ened nowadays by a decreasing involvement of the young generation, though I
observed a localized resurgence for duetting in one village caused by the sup-
port and encouragement of a retired teacher. Apart from the Tanjung Bunga
region, duet singing has now disappeared from many villages of eastern Flo-
res.
Duos require a close relationship, which over time also becomes an emo-
tional one. One does not sing with just anyone: it is important to find the voice
that will best suit one’s own. The choice of a partner depends on affinities and,
especially, on the colour produced by the blending of the two voices. The union
of two voices in a duo calls for a lot of time spent singing together. Only a high
level of mastery will ensure that the intervals between the two voices will be
rendered with precision. The best duos have been singing together for many
years. As a result, each singer sings with only one or two partners during his or
her lifetime. When one of the singers dies, the other singer’s pain is immense. In
August 2012, Bapa’ Sebran Nitit came to see me for a recording session. I made
him listen to his voice, which I had recorded six years earlier. He told me that
‘he had lost his noko’ (the second voice). He seemed devastated. That evening,
Bapa’ Sebran sang with Bapa’ Sogé Maran, and wrapped his arm around Bapa’
Sogé Maran’s shoulders (Fig. 3).
The shock of a loss—not only of one’s singing partner—can lead even
to silence. When a close relative dies, singers stop singing for many years.
If the pain is too strong, singing becomes impossible. Since 2006, on each
occasion that I have returned for fieldwork purposes, I have found that people
I have previously met have since passed away, whether because of illness or
6 For more on this kind of singing, see Kunst 1942, 1954; Messner 1989; Yampolsky 1995; Rap-
poport 2010a, 2010b, 2011a, 2011b.
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figure 3 Bapa’ Sebran Nitit (left) and Bapa’ Sogé Maran, Lebao, 22th july 2012
an accident. When I have played my recordings to the villagers, they seemed
deeply moved by the songs recorded in earlier years. These inner disturbances
are what I am trying to understand. The vocabulary used to talk about them
can provide us with some insight into these emotions.
The Vocabulary of Affliction
My mapping of the vocabulary of emotions was based on roughly twenty songs,
chosen both within and outside of the Lamaholot cultural area.7 After lis-
tening to each song, the singers in two villages were asked to describe their
feelings. In the list of expressions that were collected, nineteen described—
predominantly—dysphoric emotions, and eleven of these included the term
7 Ten singers (from both villages) listened to five songs external to their culture, and to ten
songs that did belong to their culture (from their own village, or from neighbouring villages
or islands). The songs had been chosen for a survey about taste judgements and not all songs
had a dysphoric quality.
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one’ (inside). While ono’ describes the inside of an object (a bag, a house), the
variant one’ is used more specifically to talk about feelings. Emotions are there-
fore located ‘inside’ (one’ mata).8 In the case of suffering (one’ beraran), this
interiority is ‘tense’ (ta’a one’) or ‘tight’ (one’ suke). When feeling in distress, this
interiority is narrow (one’ mata dudak), which leads to a stiffness that ‘prevents
the heart from breathing’. Narrowness leads to despair (one’ puna’, ‘inside with
no opening’),9 desolation and dejection. When suffering is physical, when ‘the
body is suffering’ (wekin beraran) or ‘feverish’ (wekin beringin), the word one’
is not used. Hence, there is a terminological difference between physical and
emotional suffering.
The vocabulary of sorrow in both villages suggests three degrees of afflic-
tions: moderate, deep, or unbearable (Table 1). The affliction brought about by
singing is moderate in intensity and never reaches the highest degree of sorrow.
Music on its own never leads to despair and it remains in the grey area of melan-
choly, affliction, and gentle sadness. It displays a languidness (hukut, péten, ‘to
remember’) pertaining to the absence of a friend, a relative, or a lover. Both
those who sing and those who listen feel that ‘their inside is hard’ (one’ suke);
they are sad (one’ belara, ‘to feel pain’), distressed (one’ kuran), and moved (one’
mata).
8 Mata has various meanings: eye, source, the state of being closed, completeness, and
death (Pampus 2001). The union of one’ and mata is surprising. What is associated with
the ‘inside’ is what completes it or what ‘closes’ it; the inside is ‘covered’ to create an
entity: interiority. One’ mata, which could be translated by ‘feeling’, is used frequently in
expressions such as one’ mata goé maé hala (‘my feeling is not good’) or moi one’ mata goé
hala’ (‘you do not know my feeling’).
9 Puna’ has seven different meanings: ‘complete, full, flowing, homogeneous, conjoined,
finished, desperate’. The phrase One’ puna’ was explained to me as denoting some form
of severe distress because the internal space has become full (in the sense that when two
things are joined together, there is no space left between them).
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table 1 The vocabulary of dysphoric emotions in Keka’ and Waiklibang
Affliction Village of Waiklibang Village of Keka’
moderate – one’ berara/belara (‘the inside is suffering’): to feel pain,
distressed, unhappy, sad
– hukut péten (‘to reminisce, to remember’): nostalgia,
lack, absence
– ta’an ono’ ne mata (‘filled with feelings’) – one’ kuran (‘inside less’): melancholy,
distressed
intense – One’ suke (‘blocked inside, difficult, lack, absence’): close to tears
(more than
sad but still – kuran one’ (‘less inside’): melancholy – heke’ ono’: to hold one’s breath
patient) – golo géré (‘rising waves’): overwhelmed – hukut tege’ (‘to remember too much’)
by a feeling – pero o saja (‘bitter not good’)
– one’ puna’ (‘inside with no opening’) – pero da one’ (‘bitter bad inside’): to
regret
unbearable – one’ suke dudak (‘inside lack narrow’): despair
(verging on – pikir wahak (‘to think finitude’): distress, despair
suicide) – one’ wahak (‘inside is the end’): distress, despair
– one’ mata dudak (‘inside covered – one’ senuker (‘inside difficult’):
narrow’): stifling hopelessness despondency
– one’ susa’ (‘inside difficult’)
– one’ susa’ dudak (‘inside difficult
narrow’): stifling difficulty
– pero da one’ (‘bitter bad inside’): intense
regret
– nawa di maé, pé dimaé a to diala:
bitterness, despair
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One’ thus points to the seat of emotions, whether they be dysphoric (one’
beraran ‘to feel pain’) or euphoric (one’ bréa ‘to feel happy’). In poetic speech,
often used in daily situations, one’ (the deeps, interiority, feelings) is paired with
matik (depth, bottom of the heart).10 These two words locate affects deep inside
a person, in the sphere of a specifically human intimacy. After several days of
being apart—I was already back in France—a singer sent me the following text
message:
Doan one’ kodi hukut Far within interiority recollection lingers
léla matik sama péten for a long time in the depths remains the memory11
bapa’ kobus, 2011
This distich, known by all, expresses the sorrow brought on by reminiscence,
which acts as a reminder of temporal and spatial separation. Feelings are
experienced within ourselves, in an interiority which is independent from
physical organs, be it the heart (wuak) or the liver (até). But pain is not solely
expressed with words, but also, and above all, in songs.
Songs and Mythical Thought
Many songs are made up of dysphoric semantic motifs which are drawn from
social memory and which give rise to a wide array of emotions. The songs
presented in this article, all collected between 2006 and 2011, were selected for
their melancholy character. They are not necessarily equivalent to one another,
as they differ in nature and length. All of the lyrics are fixed: they must always
be sung with the same words, without variation. I have grouped the songs into
two different categories: those pertaining to the myth of the origin of rice,
and those pertaining to the myth of Siamese twins. The myth of the origin of
rice is a pre-eminent myth amongst the populations of this peninsula and its
surrounding area,12 and it serves as the backdrop for the songs of the agrarian
cycle. The second group of songs is related—albeit more indirectly—to the
myth of Siamese twins in its way of envisioning loss. These two groups coexist
in this culture, though they are not intrinsically related; both of them are
concerned with dysphoria.
10 The word ‘feeling’ (tawe) can be used, although it is less common.
11 Literally ‘far inside always recall, for a long time in the deeps continually remember’.
12 This area extends 80 kilometres west, from Tanjung Bunga to Boru Kédang via Lewolema
(Figs. 1, 2).
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The Songs Related to the Myth of the Origin of Rice
The Myth of the Origin of Rice
Throughout the year, the myth of the origin of rice is sung in two different ways:
either it is sung in its entirety, during the haman opak bélun dance, which takes
place four times a year, or fragments of it are performed while sowing, weeding,
harvesting, milling, and storing the grain in granaries.
The story tells that in bygone days, humans only ate beans (Ind. kacang),
and were hungry. In order to survive, a young sister, Tonu Wujo, ordered her
seven brothers to buy swords. She requested that they prepare a field, slash and
burn the field, and then kill her in the middle of the field with some animals;
afterwards, they should not return to the field until the eighth day. Her youngest
brother killed her. Her teeth became maize, her flesh and her blood became
rice, the remaining parts became vegetables and beans. On the eighth day, the
brothers came to see the garden and saw the rice growing. After four months,
the mother visited the garden to look for her daughter. She called her in every
direction, but to no avail; at last, the brothers told the mother to come to the
centre of the field. All the rice plants leant over and embraced the mother. With
the harvest of this field, the brothers filled seven granaries; with the rice they
sold, they bought elephant tusks to get married. Thus one girl enabled seven
men to take wives. But these seven brothers did not get along anymore. They
fought, and that is why Tonu Wujo, ashamed, left to be shared, under her rice
form, in all the villages.13
While this myth is found all throughout Insular Southeast Asia in one form
or another,14 it seems especially prominent in eastern Flores and western Solor,
whereas it remains less known in the neighbouring islands of Lembata and
Adonara. This narrative has a fundamental role in the shared imagination and
vocal art of the Flores/Solor region. When it is sung, it has the power to move
people, sometimes even to tears.
Let us examine the sung version of the central part of the myth.15 The
mythemes tell the dramatic intensity that surrounds the death of the young
girl and her metamorphosis:
13 This is a summary of a myth that I have published elsewhere (Rappoport 2011a:111).
14 See Mabuchi 1964; Josselin de Jong 1965:284; Friedberg 1980:267; Lewis 1988; Hoskins 1989;
Erb 1994; Pelras 1974,; Barraud and Friedberg 1996.
15 This is an excerpt from the long sung narrative that I collected in November 2006, during
the period when the grain is stored in granaries. The transcription consists of 2,268
octosyllabic verses. In Waiklibang, this myth is known under the name Opak tutu ukut
raran Tonu Wujo (The story of the path of Tonu Wujo).
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Tonu nala tuén kulit Tonu changes skin
Ema’ nala balik kamak Ema’ changes body16
Bo kolo nala tutu Everyone listen to me!
alan ran nala marin lend me your ear!
Na’an oé Kasa Rua My brother, Kasa Rua
ama oé Jawa Ama my brother, Jawa Ama
Suri’ soda’ téti koten The sharp weapon cut the head off
gala palén lali jalén the spear pierced the gut
La Loku La Lodé La Loku, La Lodé
La Timu Bala Harut La Timu, Bala Harut17
Nogo nala tuén kulit Nogo changes skin
Ema’ nala balik kamak Ema’ changes body
Raé ilé o raé ilé Far away, far up in the mountain
ula kau wala lota koba a snake wraps itself around the peak
Raé ilé Ratulodong Far up on the mountain Ratulodong
Tonu suku Raja Tonu is from the Raja clan18
Lodo tuén duli Come down and circle the fields
buat to boté béra buat to carry her with haste
16 Throughout the myth, the sister is given different names: Oa’ ‘girl’, Nogo Éma’, Nogo Gunun,
Tonu Wujo—Tonu means Miss. Kulit kamak means ‘body’.
17 In the Waiklibang version I have collected, Tonu Wujo’s brothers are called Kasa Rua,
Jawa Ama, Butu Rua, Marin Bajo, La Loku, La Lodé, La Timu, and Bala Harut. Bala Harut,
the youngest one, is the only one who kills his sister, as he decapitates her. Karl Kohl
(2009:339–62) gives a slightly different version of this myth, collected at Belogili, a village
not far from Waiklibang.
18 Lamaholot social structure is divided into patrilineal clans (suku). In western Lamaholot,
the raja tuan clans (or ruling clans) are separate from the other clans (suku ama). Raja
here is a reference to the expression raja tuan, and indicates that Tonu Wujo belongs to
the ruling clan (Graham 1987:42–3; Barnes 1996:65; Rappoport 2010a:223).
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Nogo nala tuén kulit Nogo changes skin
Ema’ nala balik kamak Ema’ changes body
Lau nala éka dai From below, do not come up
beta nala éka dai tomorrow, do not come up
ara rua éka dai in two days, do not come up
ara telo éka dai in three days, do not come up
ara pat éka dai in four days, do not come up
ara léma éka dai in five days, do not come up
ara nému éka dai in six days, do not come up
ara pito éka dai in seven days, do not come up
buto getan gamo dai well into the eighth day, come!
buto getan gamo mio dai well into the eighth day, all of you come!
Nogo nala peso rin (From) Nogo springs the shoot
Ema’ nala hipa’ ana’ (from) Ema’ springs the sheltered child
Peso rin wuku’ getan Out from the young shoot spring the joints
hipa’ ana’ raru’ gait sheltered are the young stems19
In this sung version, the metamorphosis, evoked by the ‘joints’ (wuku’) and the
‘stems’ (raru’), echoes the anthropomorphic description of the seed as a ‘child’
(ana’) whose body will only survive and grow if it is protected by humans. This
‘protection’ (hipa’) announces the connection that will last throughout the agri-
cultural cycle: at the basis of the bond between the humans and Nogo Ema’—
the child-sister-plant born out of this murder—and between the humans and
the land, is an empathetic relationship.
In all the villages of the peninsula, most agrarian songs are based on this
myth. Their emotional colouring depends on the time of day during which they
are sung. I have chosen four songs performed at dusk at different points in the
agricultural cycle. Although one could have expected the harvest to be a time
of rejoicing and of euphoric feelings, the songs below illustrate another aspect
of the feelings experienced at this time of the year.
Najan perawi’ (the Supplication), a Harvest Song
Before leaving their field at dusk, the harvesters from Waiklibang ask Nogo
Ema’, the child-sister-plant, for her permission to go home. This request is
19 Excerpt from Haman Opak Bélun, entitled Gurun Gawak Be’ola Tugu, lines 1347–80.
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expressed as a supplication (perawi’) in the sense of a pressing plea. This is the
last address:
Biné’ koré léro léra Sister, the ending sun is setting20
go pé kaé ién go I’ve already called
na’an go perawi’ your brothers and I ask to leave
moé lekut léin toran you, fold your legs and wait
Tobo téden pati leran urin Sit, wait for your brothers till tomorrow
ama gopak téna mao your father lies as a boat adrift
galuk lima lota koba fold your hands one on the other
ban béda nuan doré wait for your brothers till tomorrow21
These lines carry several elements which all convey emotion, whether it be the
treatment of time and space, or the anthropomorphizing of the plant or human
relations. First of all, time: the scene takes place at sundown. When the sun sets,
when work comes to an end, the euphoria induced by working together fades.
The harvesters are going to leave one another and, more importantly, they are
about to leave this sister they cherish. The end of the day also announces the
harvesters’ hope for the following day, which is not without risk: will the child
still be there? Will the animals have eaten her? Regarding this song, one singer
comments on the separation between humans and their ancestors and the
resulting solitude in the following words:
It is sad! When we leave [the fields], it is as if the euphoria of being
together comes to an end—we have just lived together in the fields,
haven’t we? The song najan comes to an end, everyone goes home, we are
the only ones left, the brothers and sisters, the parents, and then comes
this song […] we were all together, the people went away and we are left
alone, a single family, and furthermore what we sing is the song (lian) that
comes from one of our departed ancestors, who is no more, even by just
saying it [saying the words], one can start crying […]. You leave, but we
remain alone.
franz pito koten, 23 June 2010
20 The word biné’ is used to address the sister of a boy or a man. It often refers to the sister
of the father, that is, the paternal aunt. For more details, see below ‘The brother-sister
relation’.
21 Leran urin and nuan doré have the same meaning, literally ‘the following time’.
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Being together intensifies the feeling of unity; sound and movement evince
the presence of others, kinship, union, help, and solidarity, all of which are
opposed to solitude. Space is also used to dramatize separation: while ‘the
sister’ has to stay in the field, the others will leave. What is implicitly staged
in this song are two separate spaces, a close one (the field) and a distant one
(the village). The plant is described anthropomorphically as her body (her legs
are held tight together, her hands are crossed one on each other), which is
echoed by its status (biné’ refers to the sister): the plant is never mentioned
as such and the tender address is to a sister. Finally, in only five lines, kinship
is brought up twice: both under the guise of brotherly relations and fatherly
ones. Thus, the sadness brought about by this song is tied to three types of
separation experienced by humans: they are separated from their sister, from
their ancestors, and from one another.
Punget, a Men’s Harvest Song
In another village, situated ten kilometres away, nightfall is sung about differ-
ently, but is experienced in the same way. In Keka’, the harvest song performed
at dusk is different for men and women. The one sung by men reminds us of
the harsh situation that this sister, who sleeps on the cold earth, has to endure:
Hode’ binék ko Take my sister
lera Pati Boli géré the sun of Pati Boli is rising22
lodo go hodé hodé biné’ kaé’ when it sets I have taken the sister
Binék Nogo Gunun My sister Nogo Gunun
turu lali tana tangen sleeps on the harsh earth
loné weli wato uten her pillow over there, a stone from the forest
Na’an hon ama béto Her brothers on their way, her father coming
lodo boté hodé biné’ coming down to take the sister
The feeling of pity and compassion for the child stems from the fear of solitude,
from the danger the child is exposed to, and from the risk of losing her. Hence
the importance of mothering: the plant is pampered like a young child and the
greatest empathy is shown to allow it to survive.
22 Pati Boli is the name of a farmer.
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Tuan nuan (The Day Falls), a Women’s Harvest Song
This women’s harvest song may also be called banu léko owa, with owa referring
to the evening:
Piku nuan pé kaé’ The time has come
léra pelau’ buno bauk the sun is setting
Go balélé ilé raé I can see the mountain over there
nuan pelau’ lodo nokok the time is growing dark
Go balélé woka raé I can see the hill over there
tuan nuan o tana bajo the day is falling on the sea23
Tobi légo bala légo Tobi légo bala légo24
Alone, the speaker looks into the distance. Space and time bring about a
moment of self-reflection, and an awareness of a here and an elsewhere. The
end of the day inescapably leads to a weighing down of the mind.
Oé bala, a Weeding Song
In Keka’, just under a month after sowing the seeds, the farmers split up into
small groups and spend the day pulling up the weeds that have already overrun
their fields. If the opportunity arises, if fellow singers are part of the group, they
sing duets all day long. Three songs (berasi kremet) are performed depending
on the time of day: one for the morning, one for noon, and one for the evening.
While the morning song is considered joyful and lively, the last song, also called
berasi kremet owa (evening weeding song), at sunset, is grave. It is made up of
hexastichs, the first four lines of which vary while the last two remain the same.
(Bapa kamé) Bauk lau (Our father) The night over there by the sea
lau gelipen ilé over there by the sea, on the other side of the
mountain
(Sajan kamé) nokok lau (Us) the darkness over there by the sea
lau gelého woka over there by the sea, hidden in the hills
23 Tana Bajo is an expression borrowed from the Nagi language of Larantuka and points to
the people living close to the sea, probably in connection with the Bajau people.
24 This line appears to be consisting merely of non-semantic vocables.
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Kamé ina majan We call the mother
(balako lélé o songdo don (balako lélé o songdo don neruko ao i)
néruko ao i)
(Bapa kamé) Tonu tobo (Our father) Tonu sits down
(pali kamé) duli tukan (our countryside) in the middle of the field
(Bapa kamé) Wujo paé (Our father) Wujo sits down
beun pali bawa the friend in the field below
Kamé ina majan We call the mother
(balako lélé o songdo don (balako lélé o songdo don neruko ao i)
néruko ao i)
Kamé ténan Tonu ohok We ask Tonu’s shelter25
kamé pali perat Wujo in the field we ask Wujo
Pali bawa ohok At the bottom of the field at the shelter
ida ohok at the shelter26
In this translation, the words in brackets are either vocal flourishes or discon-
tinuous fragments. These little, non-essential words (‘our father’, ‘our coun-
tryside’) speak of a ‘collective’ that acts as a shield against solitude—the soli-
tude of Tonu Wujo, or of the nocturnal haziness out there, by the sea, in the
lower regions or on the other side, which are all variants of a worrying spatio-
temporal indistinctness. Once again, the motifs of remoteness, of the end of
the day, and of the anthropomorphizing of rice can be found in this song. Bapa’
Kobus explains,
It is sad because we make a request to Tonu Wujo (Ind. kami pesan Tonu
Wujo), we ask her permission to leave, we have already made her content,
we have washed her and during this time, she is going to stay with the
weeds, and as for us, as na’an ama (‘brothers’27), we come to wash her so
25 The ‘shelter’ is the sacrificial altar set up in ceremonial fields, usually in their centre.
26 This closing quatrain is called ohok, meaning ‘shelter’.
27 Na’an (or na’a) refers to the brother of a sister and ama to the father. Na’an ama describes
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that she can live free and well, and then we send her a message (Ind. kami
pesan): ‘stay seated here’.
jakobus sogén brinu, 23 June 2010
This comment posits two subjects—the brothers and the sister—along with a
tension between the two—a request, a desire, and the need for a relationship.
The Myth of the Siamese Twins and Its Offshoots
The myth of the origin of rice, which is truly the basis for agrarian songs, should
be considered alongside another, less famous myth concerning the origin of
music,28 because it focuses once more on a loss. It seems to me that several
stories and songs have come to revolve around this myth and display variations
around the themes of intense sadness and death—death by suicide or by
accident, for instance.
In a village in Lamanabi, a mother called Wulo’ [Bamboo] gave birth
to a boy who had two heads. One of them, the elder, was called Kau,
and the other, the younger, was called Ré.29 They would sing and dance;
the younger sang the second voice (noko) and the elder the first voice
(bawa30). When they sang the hode’ ana [a kind of duet], one would do the
first voice, the other the second, and it was extremely melodious. They did
not live very long and died and were buried. A few days later, two bamboo
reeds sprung out of the earth, where their grave lay. A mother gave birth
to a body with two heads. This is where the sason rurén [twin flute] is said
to come from.
Known in a small area of Tanjung Bunga, this tale links the birth of the musi-
cal instrument to the death of the Siamese twins, whose body was both one
and divided. The flute is directly connected with death, loss, and dysphoria.
Furthermore, this unbound double flute is the focus of a particularly dysphoric
story, which I call ‘the lovers’ flute’. In this story, sound plays a highly dramatic
role.
here the brothers of a sister in a tender, respectful, and authoritative way.
28 I have rewritten this telling based on three versions collected in Karawutun, Waiklibang,
and Lamanabi.
29 They are sometimes called Lau and Ré or Kauré.
30 In one of the versions, the second voice is called hodé’ (in Waiklibang); in another version,
nahin (in Lamanabi).
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‘The Lovers’ Flute’
Although the unbound double flute has largely disappeared nowadays, it is
of major importance from both a musicological and a mythical perspective
(Rappoport 2010a). It is not used on just any occasion. Known as rurén in daily
conversations, it is named sason rurén in more literary language. It is made from
two pipes (wulo’), not joined, and played at the same time by one person. On
occasion, the pipes have been linked to a couple—the reed with more holes
being female31—but this has not (yet?) been confirmed by the musicians in the
field. The following story, however, suggests a possible lead in favour of such an
interpretation. I have collected several stories concerning this flute. Here is one
version told by Bapa’ Mao Hokon (from Riang Roko) in 2011:
A man was named Kopon, and a woman was called Wolé. This woman
never left her home.32 She did not work and would stay inside and sleep,
get up, sleep, get up, but never went for a walk and stayed up there. Who
would want this woman? Who desired her? No one could love her because
she was guarded every night. This man Kopon, however, wanted her. One
night, he climbed onto the roof, a roof made of leaves, he climbed and
climbed, then he came down from the roof and they made love. They
made love until the third or fourth night, when he came back again along
the roof but he dropped his dagger by mistake. The girl was sleeping below
and the dagger slipped down, fell through the roof and killed her. Her
brother was sleeping. In the morning, he called his sister to bring her her
meal. He called and called, but there was no answer. Maybe she was still
asleep? He called again, but nothing happened. He went up to see what
was going on, he pushed the door open: she was dead. The lover was there,
sitting watching over her. He told the brother, ‘Oa’ is dead’33.
The brother wanted to kill Kopon. But Kopon said, ‘Do not kill me! If
your sister is dead, I am to blame so we will prepare her grave.’ The brother
followed him to bury her. They left for the sea and dug a hole in the earth
for the coffin. The brother wanted to close the grave by covering it with
earth but Kopon said, ‘Do not close the grave! No, do not close it!’ So they
left and the coffin was not covered with earth. Kopon came back to the
village and told his mother, ‘Mother, prepare a bit of food for me.’ His
31 Vatter 1932:81; Kunst 1942:138; Yampolsky 1995:17–8 and track 9.
32 The narrator explains that she is a berokan, a girl from the nobility who never leaves her
home.
33 ‘Oa’ is a name given to girls and women.
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mother boiled some food and gave it to him, then he washed himself, and
once he was done, he put on a sarong and asked his mother, ‘Mother, I will
leave now, if during the night you hear something, do not make a noise,
do not speak, do not call for anyone. Above all, do not make any noise.’
He then left for the sea and cut a branch and tied the two inseparable
[bamboo], hung his dance costume, and his bells to a post and leant back
against it, then he climbed down into the hole, onto the coffin. He was
playing the flute. Men in the distance were saying, ‘What is this sound
that we hear and that we do not know?’ The sound grew stronger as the
night went on. The sound grew stronger as the night went on.34 When
the sound of the flute stopped, he was dead. In the morning, the mother
came to see the grave, by the sea, the earth had covered it on its own and
on the top only the two pipes were left. She took the flutes and the dance
costume, and went home.
This story describes the involuntary murder of a loved one by her lover, who
ends up committing suicide. The flute becomes the instrument through which
to communicate with the loved one and enables grief to be somehow overcome
beyond death. It displays a number of dysphoric motifs: murder, the decision to
commit suicide, the ‘drowned’ lover in the grave, the loss, the burgeoning reeds
at dawn. This double flute is linked, in that case, to suicide, which is also the
main theme of the following song.
Bewarén, a Suicide at Dawn
Though it is not directly related to the previous tale, the topic of suicide is also
present at Keka’, in the lyrics of the song Bewarén, considered to be the saddest
song in this village. This song is a duet whose weighty musical flow combines
a slow rhythm, unbarred held notes and a certain tension between the two
voices. It stands out by its theme and is performed in the evening, during the
harvest, or whenever the singers feel like it. The song goes as follows:
Kakaka ko Sister, sister
Ma ma ito dio Come see
Ekan raé In the field
Ekan raé lengat ékan tité naé In the field we will see each other
Ekan doan napé dasé go’é In the field almost at dawn
34 The narrator says this twice: Nokon’ mété doan, alan mété léré, meaning ‘The night further
and further, the sound stronger and stronger.’
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Moi go Look at me
Binék Nogo My sister Nogo
Léra géré béto moi go kaé’ The sun is rising, you arrive, you see me
Binék Nogo Gunun mio You, my sister Nogo Gunun
Neteng lima pai Show your hands
Lima logé kala bala Hands bedecked with ivory bracelets
Tilu todo nubu gorén go’é Ears adorned with rings
This song brings tears to your eyes when it is associated with your own feelings
of loneliness, personal pain, and grief. It is the story of a brother and a sister.
The brother, who has decided to commit suicide in the field, calls his elder
sister, Nogo Gunun, who answers, ‘Our parents’ house is here, do not commit
suicide in the field, stay at home.’ He invites her to come and discover his body
at dawn, when the sun rises. He sees her arrive, hands bedecked with ivory
bracelets and ears adorned with rings, and kills himself. In this song, a man
dies and not a woman. The reason for the suicide remains unknown, but the
singer suggests that it might have to do with a quarrel between the brother and
his parents.
Dysphoric Motifs
Whether related to the myth of the origin of rice or to the myth of the Siamese
twins, the lyrics of many of the songs of Tanjung Bunga revolve around six
or seven main dysphoric motifs: sudden death, violence, separation and loss,
supplication, the brother-sister relationship, and solitude.35
Death and Metamorphosis
Half of the poems describe a loss resulting from a violent death: whether by
sacrifice, suicide, out of despair, or by accident—these are all deaths that vary
in nature. Death is central to both myths. The tragedy of the myths reaches its
climax with the characters’ decisions to die. In the story ‘The lovers’ flute’, a
violent death keeps the two lovers apart forever, as one of them kills the other
by accident (his dagger slips and mortally wounds his lover in her sleep) before
35 It would not be right to limit the songs from Tanjung Bunga to dysphoric motifs only:
other songs (such as lian kenolon, goken, lian semogon, and morning and midday songs)
deal with other topics, like animal offerings, ancestors, and rituals. However, I suggest that
a great part of their songs are embedded in dysphoric motifs.
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he dies of despair. In this case, the sudden physical violence contrasts with the
slow death of the lover signified by the soft sound of the flute, which tells us of
an inconsolable grief.
What do these deaths entail? In some songs, death leads to loss (bewarén).
In both of the myths mentioned earlier on, death leads to metamorphosis: in
the myth of the origin of rice, Tonu Wujo’s body turns into edible plants that
are essential if society is to live on. Murder is thus linked to the fertility of
life via the cultivation of rice. This representation of a killing is probably tied
to agricultural reasons. The populations of eastern Flores, whose diet involves
plants that undergo vegetative reproduction, such as taros, yams, and banana
plants, must have discovered the cultivation of rice only quite recently. The
techniques for the cultivation of rice, which came from further west,36 modified
their relation to plants: ‘Taking the fruit, the produce or part of a plant that goes
on living is not the same thing as having to kill it to use it. Picking fruit from
a tree or collecting the sap from a palm tree does not destroy them (…). The
situation is fundamentally different with annual plants such as cereal and rice
in particular where harvesting the seeds leads to its death’ (Friedberg 2011:50).
This would explain the emergence of a myth specific to western Lamaholot
society. In the myth of the Siamese twins, it is as if the two brothers turned into
a single musical instrument made from two inseparable bamboo pipes. This
theme is taken up indirectly in the story of the lovers’ flute, in which two reeds
spring from the bodies of two people. In all other cases, death leads to oblivion.
Violence
Physical violence appears in some examples, each time leading to death. Two
stories describe a form of violence inflicted on the body by an exterior source:
Tonu Wujo is stabbed to death by her brother; the dagger stabs the lover. The
myth of the origin of rice gives some details about the violence inflicted upon
Tonu Wujo’s body: ‘The sharp weapon cut the head off / the spear pierced
the gut.’ Her suffering in a way goes on after her death, once she has been
transformed into an invisible spirit. Part of the myth I have collected (line 1462
to the end) describes her journey (from her place of origin to the place of
performance of the myth), and the times she was raped during her travels. In
one passage, it is said that after having been raped, she gave birth to a child
who was killed by the people of Adonara (line 1558), and that is why rice never
spread to this neighbouring island where, up to this day, neither rice cultivation
36 The myth of the origin of rice says that Tonu Wujo comes from Lio, a region west of Tanjung
Bunga.
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nor the related myth are to be found. Violence is mostly prominent in the myth
of the origin of rice, but does not really appear in the lyrics of the songs.
Separation and Loss
Separation is a fundamental dysphoric motif in the songs and matrix myths.
Most examples involve separation in both time and space: separation of the
seven brothers from their sister, between a brother and a sister, between a
mother and her child, between two lovers, between farmers and their ‘child’.
Often irreparable, separation is sometimes brought about by death. It is then
the irrevocable nature of the separation that infuses these examples with a
tragic quality. When it is only temporary, separation nevertheless remains a
reason for sadness. In the evening songs (Najan perawi, Punget, Oé bala), the
lyrics evoke a separation while announcing a prospective reunion (‘wait for
your brothers till tomorrow’). This promise carries a dysphoria in that, whether
permanent or temporary, separation always leads to absence. Grieving humans
as a result never cease to recall (hukut, pétén) their loved ones, and to miss them
(pero ‘bitter’). Emotional memory feeds off the other images conjured up by the
songs, which annually repeat the experience of being separated in time and
space. The moment that is put into song precedes the separation. It announces
it and underlines it. It is more the tension between union and separation that
causes the wrench, rather than the actual separation itself.
Supplication (perawi’)
Linked to separation, at dusk, the supplication that humans address to the
sister is considered to be the most moving song. They ask for her permission to
go, as they are about to set off, leaving her behind. Is it a simple request, a prayer,
or a supplication? The word perawi’ (from perat, ‘ask, pray, give an order, make
an order’) is not particularly spiritual in its meaning. One can ask (perawi’)
a child to go and buy sugar. However, here the word is used as an insistent
and sustained request equivalent to the Indonesian pamit, which is used when
someone wishes to leave. This request to leave has a certain intensity, both
for those who make it and for those to whom it is addressed, and that is why
the word ‘supplication’ seems more appropriate than ‘request’. This plea makes
one feel sorrow: it expresses the desire humans have to communicate with the
deceased, the hope humans place in the dead, and their fear that the girl may
disappear (and be eaten by wild beasts), bringing about a food shortage and, as
a result, the potential death of the group.
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The Brother-Sister Relationship
Three kinds of relationship are mentioned in the songs: brother-sister, mother-
child, and man-woman, with the brother-sister relationship being the most
prominent. In most cases, the songs are an address from the brothers to their
sister. Several factors account for its recurrence. The loss of one’s sister is
present in these songs because of the prevalent nature of the myth of the ori-
gin of rice.37 Furthermore, the importance of the brother-sister link is obvious
because sisters are at the heart of matrimonial exchanges in this society. For
the Lamaholot-speakers, marrying implies that a brother leaves his sister. By
giving his sister to another family, he will receive the tusk of an elephant from
the family of the taker, an indispensable object if he, in turn, is to find a wife.38
Furthermore, he will wed his daughter to the son of his sister. Thus, the brother-
sister relationship plays an integral role in alliance and kinship descent. In this
society, where marriage alliance is asymmetrical, a boy calls his sisters and his
parallel female cousins biné’, and a girl calls her brothers and her male parallel
cousins na’an. Gender distinctions in cousinhood are marked by an absolute
gender term that allows for the discrimination between male and female in
the brother-sister relationship, which is rarely the case in other Austronesian
societies (Barraud 2001). The terminology already denotes the specificity of this
relationship.
On several occasions, Bapa’ Kobus explained that ‘to lose your wife is not
serious, because you can change wives, but you cannot change your sister’. A
brother and a sister (na’a biné’), born from the same mother, are said to be born
from the same umbilical cord (na’a biné’ talé to’u, ‘brother sister a single cord’).
The brother-sister relationship remains so tight throughout a man’s life that he
is always particularly concerned about his sister’s and her children’s well-being.
The brother-sister relationship is said to be the model for the matrimonial rela-
tionship, and a husband and a wife are sometimes called brother-sister (Gra-
ham 1991:126). Moreover, a large number of exchanges are organized around
the brother-sister relationship. In other words, the brother-sister relationship is
prominent in songs, in myths, and in social interactions. Therefore, it is no coin-
cidence that separation from a sister is sung about and lamented. The sister, a
fragile virgin, is seen as a child whom one bears, breast-feeds, protects from the
37 In Bosavi (Papua New Guinea), the myth of the boy who became a Muni bird also describes
a rupture of the ade’ relationship, between a brother and a sister, and is also linked to the
themes of food, hunger, and reciprocity (Feld 1990:27).
38 Nowadays people often cannot find ivory, so they substitute money or other objects of
comparable value.
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