I think I become smitten with wherever I am in the world if I have enough time to linger and get to know it a little. This was certainly the case with the Mentawai settlements of Siberut Island, an isolated and beautiful (and, at times, uncomfortable) place that harbors some of my favorite travel memories of 2019.
During my last afternoon in the jungle my guide Agus collected strips of tan and brown rattan and wove a seamless farewell bracelet onto my wrist (I’m still wearing it as I type this; I’d reckon I’ll continue to wear it until it falls off). In what is no doubt an alphabetical coincidence, Agus noted that the series of M’s in the alternating tan/brown design of the bracelet symbolize Mentawai culture.
Amanjano marked my final evening at his house by selecting one of his family’s roosters and cradling it next to the hearth. There, the 62-year-old shaman, with his ropy muscles and full-body tattoos and red hibiscus in his jet-black hair, whispered a blessing to the creature: “Thank you for living your life, and for sharing that life with us,” he said (Agus translating for me as the blessing played out). “What we are about to do is not for amusement, but for the sustenance of this family. Your life feeds our own, and for this we are grateful.”
And with that the shaman handed the rooster to a younger man, who wrung the creature’s neck, plucked it, and cooked it for dinner. I was offered the best bits of the fried meat, which was mixed with sweet and sour sauce and spices; everyone else picked through the skeleton, which had been boiled in water, and the other meaty parts of the rooster.
I can’t say it was the best-tasting chicken I’ve ever eaten (indeed, free-range jungle-chickens yields pretty stringy meat), but it was certainly the most memorable.
I felt so geographically isolated during my time in the jungles of Sibert Island that I was faintly startled when, on the following morning, it took me less than an hour to hike from Amanjano’s house to the Baderaeket River, and less than an hour on the river before I was back onto the grid of civilization, back in the village from which I’d departed five days earlier.
Was I ever truly isolated during my time in the Mentawai jungles? I’d reckon I was, if only for the fact that there were no roads (or even formal walking paths) there, no electricity, no cellphone service, no plumbing or climate-control or consumer goods. For almost a week I lived (smartphone camera and charger excepted) according to a premodern daily routine.
Still, in physical terms, given the size of the island, I hadn’t travel all that far into Siberut Island.
Note: “Dispatches” are short vignettes, profiles, and mini-essays written and posted from the road, often in tandem with my Instagram account. For more full-formed writing, check out my book Marco Polo Didn’t Go There, or the Essays or Stories archives on this site. I don’t host a “comments” section, but I’m happy to hear your thoughts via my Contact page.
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