THE tapai pulut (sweet fermented glutinous rice) I had last week was just heavenly.

Each handful came smartly wrapped in banana leaf making them look like little green bags, the folds and layers of this natural packaging secured by a 3.5cm long lidi below the apex.

This was the way nenek ulu, my paternal grandmother, handled the sweet, mashed, juicy gem to preserve its taste and aroma for several days, or to sell to eager kampung folk.

Memories of early army days in the Sarawak interior in the late 1960s come to the fore every time I discover and consume this sweet tapai.

This has to be said as there were occasions when I unsuspectingly bought badly prepared and sour tapai.
After taking the first spoonful, I would curse softly and try to recall the face of the unscrupulous vendor.

Back then, I wished that the Ibans would only make tapai. Their fine ways would have definitely produced the country's best.

But they lengthened and refined the process to produce something even better to call their own -- sweet rice wine or tuak which any respectable family living in a traditional longhouse would not want to be caught without, especially during the gawai (festive) period.

They made tuak in rather large glazed earthen jars and pots. They scooped the clear liquid from the matured fermented glutinous rice base and poured it into glasses or tumblers, serving it to family members and guests alike.

It would have been impolite to decline the invitation to climb the steps and nikek rumah (come up to the longhouse) when called upon by its occupants on a gawai day.

It would have been even worse if you did not want to savour their little rice cakes and other sweet delicacies offered on a flat flowered iron tray that they would place on the woven rattan mat just in front of the family's door.

Actually it was irresistible, especially with their sincere and happy imploring, "makai, makai, ngirup wai" (eat, eat, drink my friend), as the wife pointed to the tray and held the glass of clear, or sometimes cloudy, beverage for you.

I remember my hesitant first sweet sip. "Mmm, nice, just like tapai", I said before gulping it all down as tradition required.

The comment made the husband and wife beam, pleased with the compliment I had paid for their fine product.

Then it was off to the next family which was just a few metres away next door.

It was at the third door and after I had begun to feel warm in the face and lighter in the head that I decided that prudence might be the better call, especially seeing that there were still 10 more doors to go.

It was a crucial leadership decision to make, but make it I did. I ushered the few non-Malay soldiers I had to go on ahead and clear the path, so to speak.

I followed closely in their wake, just to convey my felicitations while pleading some peculiar systemic disorder to avoid that predictable and, maybe, embarrassing consequence if there was no change of course.

The hastily improvised solution worked and all of us soldiers managed to sit down on the floor of the inner verandah with the elders to berandau (talk) in some coherent Iban.

It was during this pleasant sit-down session that a desperate shout and a dull thud was heard, followed by the audible but restrained laughter of some young boys.

"Nama nya?" (What's that?) asked one of the startled elders, looking in the direction of the ruckus.

His question quickly drew a gleeful reply from the boys.

He lowered his head briefly, only to raise it again and look past me, smiling. The mystery was quickly unravelled when he uttered, a gold tooth glinting, clearly amused: "Apooh, siko nyak udah laboh ke baroh."

Maybe the appropriate English translation of this would be: "Blimey, one of them has just crashed down to the ground."

As it turned out, one of my non-commissioned officers, whom I knew could hold his drink, had wandered to the outer open verandah which had a floor of spliced bamboo, already rotted by the elements.

It could take the weight of a small Iban without any trappings. It could not, however, handle a hefty well-fed soldier, not with his boots on and a rifle in his hand.

He crashed through the floor, down to the slimy, muddy earth below the longhouse. He was, fortunately, not hurt by the fall -- save for a temporary dent to his pride which, surprisingly, took a long time to go away.

I cannot help but recall these wonderful memories of a time in the past -- especially after having been together with some of the most beautiful people one can find in the country every time I consume good, sweet tapai.



I do realise that many may regard some of the decisions I had made during those early days to be improper. But I want to only ask my mother to forgive me for that because I was a young soldier then and life was just beginning to teach me a few things.

One of these lessons was definitely to have that sense of humour and be able to laugh at your own inconsistencies and ridiculousness.

If I had survived military service it was due to this, as well as by constantly being aware of how fragile life can be in His creation.

I was never an angel -- but fortunately I think never a fool either.

Agi idup agi ngelaban! (The Rangers' battle cry: As long as we live, we will fight!)


* Lt-Gen (R) Datuk Seri Zaini Mohd Said is a former army field commander. He can be contacted at panglima_sauk70@hotmail.com