By Marlynda Meraw
WHAT face do we give the unseen? How do we give the invisible a sense of tangibility? To imagine giving a spirit a face would be an attempt in capturing the untouchable.
Long ago, when communities lived deep in the interior, cut off from the world beyond, the forest was the only world they knew. Survival depended on nature, and daily life revolved around seeking the protection of spirits residing within it.
Dr Chali Unggang, an advocate for Bidayuh culture and tradition, explained that people of that time longed for closeness with these unseen forces, and closeness required a way to honour them, to earn their favour.
It was in that longing that imagination and craft came together. The kitupeng (Bidayuh ceremonial mask) took shape; carved to embody the very spirits the community leaned on for protection. By giving face to the unbeheld, they created a physical connection to the unseen.
Shape of the shadow
But how do you give a face to something you have never seen? How does imagination take hold of the formless?
The answer lies in the celebration of the Gawai Birantu, a traditional rice farming festival held in Serian. During the rituals, the tukang tabur (ritual chanter) would call upon the spirits inhabiting the four great mountains in Serian: Mount Pangking, Mount Abun, Mount Sibantan, and Mount Sirumpang to bless their crops.
As villagers kept watch over their fields, a figure would appear in the distance: a lone, massive, faceless presence standing silently among the crops. This was the bombo, one of many spirits descended from the mountains. Villagers could only ever glimpse this single figure, but the tukang tabur, gifted with a deeper sight, could see dozens more moving beside it, spirits summoned to bring life to the land.
In the festival’s earliest years, this solitary bombo appeared faithfully before the people. But as Dr Chali noted, the people longed to close the distance between themselves and the sacred. So they began to carve masks in its likeness, dressing themselves to mirror its form.
Laut Tunjam, a 71-year-old elder from Kampung Engkeroh, recalled that once people began wearing the kitupeng and taking on the bombo’s shape, the spirit stopped appearing altogether.
“The bombo no longer appear after the people started wearing the kitupeng,” said Laut.
Once the Bidayuh took on the spirit’s form through these carvings, its physical visits ceased. But this was not abandonment. The bombo simply chose to remain unseen, leaving the kitupeng behind as a lasting bridge between the community and the forces that still watched over their livelihood.
Inside the ritual, role, and taboo
Traditionally, the kitupeng is worn during Gawai Birantu to present the wearer before the paddy spirit, and again during Bidayuh healing rituals for the sick.
The wearer of the mask is known as the babai (grandfather) kitupeng. Before taking on this role, he must undergo ritual cleansing, for the kitupeng carries real weight: once worn, it may pull its bearer into a trance. The role of a babai kitupeng is never carried out alone–there must always be at least a pair, or even more.
“There needs to be at least one male and one female representation of the bombo,” said Dr Chali.
During the celebration, the babai kitupeng would carry a tambok (woven basket) on their backs, gathering tokens of food and drink offered by the villagers. These tokens, known as buis, must be shared between the babai kitupeng and the bombo at the end of the celebration. Without the buis, the wearer risks ponek (unfulfilled craving) believed to bring severe misfortune, even death.
On the fourth day of the Gawai Birantu, the villagers would head to the river, carrying a small, one-foot boat filled with flowers of fruits and a chick. The boat is later set adrift on the current, and the spirit steering it would be commanded not to follow the villagers back.
Dollah Linggang, village head of Kampung Engkeroh, warned that on the walk back, the villagers must remain quiet, with no sound breaking the air save for their footfalls.
“Not a single word or murmur is to be made. It is the taboo,” said Dollah. “The babai kitupeng must also leave their attire masks behind by the riverbank.”
What follows is a period of confinement. For eight days, the villagers observe bangun, during which they are forbidden to touch the greens of an empani (small bamboo species) and sago, lest they fall ill. The kitupeng left behind must also remain untouched, only to be collected once the confinement ends.
What happens should the taboo be broken? Dollah shared the story of a boy who once violated the prohibition, relentlessly pestering his guardian for sago–a craving the people believed had been planted by the evil spirits. Worn down, the guardian eventually gave in and fetched it. Soon after, the boy fell ill, shivering under a blanket.
“When the boy’s parents returned, he asked his father to untie the binds around his limbs. But there was nothing binding the boy,” said Dollah.
It seemed that the boy had been bound by the spirits with unseen knots. By the time his parents brought in a shaman, it was already too late. The boy had succumbed to the curse for breaking the prohibitions.
Taboos are rarely born of caprice. To honour them is to walk hand-in-hand with peace. But to cross that line is to invite a reckoning–one paid in currency far heavier than we would ever care to imagine.
Hungry timber
The craftsmanship of the kitupeng is crude by design–its texture and finish shaped entirely by the wood the carver chooses.
“If it’s a softwood, the mask’s surface will appear smoother,” Dr Chali explained, holding up a photograph of a kitupeng.
Softer wood like ginte, he noted, yields a smoother and more forgiving finish, while hardwoods like ironwood resists the blade, leaving behind a rugged, more visible chisel marks. Come festival time, like the Gawai Dayak procession, some of these masks even catch a coat of paint, stepping out into the light of the community.
Wearing the full costume is no small feat either. Slipping into the kitupeng means wrapping yourself in a complete suit woven from palm or coconut fibres. It creates this thick, wild, hairlike texture that traps every ounce of heat, turning the entire outfit into a sweltering second skin.
While widespread mass production of the kitupeng does not exist, people still carve them when the need arises or a request is made.
But for Dr Chali, the real distinction has nothing to do with wood at all. It’s whether a kitupeng is breathing with purpose, or merely hollow timber. Collectors often buy them simply to mount on a wall as exotic display pieces, but a mask only truly comes alive once its maker empowers it, or it’s called into a ritual and given a sacred role.
A living, empowered kitupeng cannot be treated like an object. It is approached almost like a member of the household–one that demands to be fed. To keep it, the owner musts regularly lay out offerings of rice, betel nuts, chicken blood, tuak (rice wine), cigarettes, and boiled chicken innards on a sanggar (offering altar), murmuring soft words to let the mask know its meal is ready.
“They (kitupeng) have to be fed often in the beginning, like once a fortnight, and it is reduced to once a month, and later once every few months,” said Dr Chali.
It’s a striking contrast to the masks seen parading down the street in modern processions today; empty vessels carrying no spiritual or ritual weight, yet still standing tall as a heritage too precious to let slip away.
Flesh and fangs
To the sceptic, the stories of kitupeng may sound like little more than ghost stories drifting on the evening breeze, lingering fragments of folklore designed to pass the time. Yet stories rarely rise from nothing, and every myth holds a truth in someone’s lived experience.
In the heart of Kampung Engkeroh, Serian, those encounters were once as real as the soil beneath the villagers’ feet.
Cassius Laini, a retired teacher from Kampung Krusen Kranji, shared a striking memory told of a man named Babuk Disol–babuk being another affectionate Bidayuh term for grandfather.
While walking through the village, Babuk Disol stumbled upon a strange, childlike figure perched atop a river rock, twisting and tumbling with the careless abandon of youth. Curious, he called out into the open air, asking whose child was playing so freely, only for a voice to boom down from the branches of a nearby langsat tree.
“That is my child! My son, Bujang Bunut!” Before Babuk Disol could even perceive the source of the voice, an adult female bombo dropped swiftly from the foliage, scooped up her child, and ran off before human eyes could fully comprehend their shapes.
“The rock still exists, by the river of Kampung Engkeroh,” said Cassius, noting that the smooth, unnatural grooves on its surface were resulted from what the locals believed to be carved by the bombo’s fangs as they whetted it.
Cassius recalled another encounter, this time involving a former student who crossed paths with a bombo on the way to school–a claim easy enough to dismiss as a child’s overactive imagination. That doubt disappeared the moment Cassius asked the student to draw what they had seen.
“The child’s drawing really looked like a babai kitupeng. The child must’ve really seen a bombo,” he said.
For Cassius, the drawing was proof enough. No child could easily conjure such precise detail from imagination alone. It was this same conviction, that these masks carry a reality beyond the physical, that shapes how the community treats the kitupeng itself.
Because power and purpose are carved into these masks, a kitupeng demands absolute reverence. A proper protocol must be followed even when simply borrowing one. The mask itself must be formally addressed and told of the arrangement.
Dollah learned this the hard way when he stepped in as a babai kitupeng for a parade because the original wearer was feeling unwell. The men agreed on the substitution themselves, neglecting to announce the change to the mask itself. That very night, as Dollah slept, a nightmare came for him.
“The kitupeng had my thumb in its mouth as if it were eating it!” Dollah recalled, his eyes widening at the memory of the phantom bite. It was a realisation, a lesson to remind him that the mask demanded its own consultation.
Lineage of the living wood
Stepping into the role of a babai kitupeng and wearing a “live” mask is a privilege reserved for specific lineages. Traditionally, it belongs to families from villages like Kampung Engkeroh, Kampung Mayang, Kampung Mentung Merau, Kampung Prangkan, Kampung Bugu, Kampung Jenang, and Kampung Taee–though generations of intermarriages have gradually extended those rights into neighbouring communities.
For those curious souls who only wish to try on an “empty” mask with no spiritual ties or waking sentience, the boundary is open.
“It is heavy to wear, though. The kitupeng is not light, even when carved with softwood,” said Dr Chali.
Such is the complex nature of the kitupeng–a piece of timber transformed into a living presence the moment breath, belief, and purpose are worked into its grain. It stands as a proof of humanity’s old, relentless need to reach across the invisible veil, giving a physical face to the wilderness so we might feel a little less alone in the world’s vast, untamed expanse.
The masks left behind by the riverbanks and the unwritten taboos passed down through generations are not relics of superstition, but monuments to humility. They remind us that to coexist with nature requires acknowledging that we do not own the earth, and that some doors are better left closed out of the deep, enduring respect for the mysteries that keep the world breathing. – DayakDaily
