Cutting Through the Security Rituals

It began innocently enough one evening in an Iban longhouse on Sarawak’s Skrang River.

A dozen not-so-distant descendants of Borneo’s notorious headhunters had been entertaining an Australian journalist, me and our Chinese-Malaysian guide with traditional dances. The rest of the well-named longhouse’s 200 inhabitants sat with us on woven palm leaf mats under clusters of grinning ancestral trophies hanging from the ceiling like grizzly chandeliers.

As the last dancer bowed and shook our hands, all the women, responding to some unspoken signal, formed a semicircle around us. With our backs literally against the wall, we wondered momentarily if our blond heads had awakened their collective unconscious.

The attack, however, was decidedly 1980s-style. Within minutes each woman spread a rather uninspired array of beads, baskets and mats before her.

Artifact Stood Out

Wondering how to escape with something that wouldn’t take up half a suitcase, I saw one of those treasures that only a confirmed collector of weird artifacts could love, a well-used hunting knife with curved bone hilt.

The dented blade was wisely hidden in a scabbard made of two unpolished, unmatched pieces of wood bound together by woven palm leaf strips. A primitive carving resembling seven stones stacked in no particular size sequence rose from the top.

The nice thing about bartering is that both parties can leave feeling they’ve made a good deal. So in exchange for 25 ring-gifts (about $11) and two magic markers, the knife began its odyssey to America.

With 12 flights ahead of me and the hijacking to Beirut only three weeks past, I realized airport security might take a dim view of a knife-wielding tourist.

Knew From Experience

I remembered how an antique Syrian dagger (yet another souvenir) had caused a near panic when it went through an airline X-ray several years back, so I chose the direct approach and handed over the “weapon,” along with two plastic bags of film, at each inspection point.

With nary a grimace at the inconvenience, a Malaysian security guard was inevitably summoned. The knife, secure in bubble-wrap, was placed in a blue plastic bag, taped and labeled, and a receipt was issued.

Maybe airport personnel, accustomed to the unfathomable tastes of tourists, easily knew which passenger would be daft enough to want a knife so out of shape that it could hardly be pulled out of the sheath. In any event, security always found me before I could gather my baggage, and knife and I would be reunited until the next flight.

My favorite knife-interceptor was the handsome Indian-Malaysian at Penang. As I pulled the knife and film from carry-on, warning that “I have a little problem for you,” his already gorgeous smile broadened.

Reactions Varied

“I love problems,” he assured me, “especially from women.”

I didn’t have such a warm welcome on arrival at Medan, Sumatra. Although the customs officer seemed much more interested in unwrapping my bottles of Listerine than inspecting weapons, I wondered just how much the Indonesians were going to “love problems” when it came time to depart.

I needn’t have worried.

“Nice knife,” the inspector commented as I prepared to board a flight for Jakarta several days later. “Maybe you should give it to the stewardess when you get on board.”

The same casualness kept knife and me together for the next two flights.

Indonesia is a land of diverse cultures. As I left Bali for Sulawesi, I learned that it is also a nation with more than one policy governing “weapons and firearms.” Once again, the crew held the knife while I held the receipt.

Another ‘Weapon’

South Sulawesi, in particular the region known as Tana Toraja, is a cultural treasure house. It also is the home of a fabulous cigarette-smoking old woman who has some of the most interesting antique tribal pieces I saw anywhere in Indonesia.

Heaped together under her typical boat-shaped thatched roof in the little village of Ke’te Kesu were feathered headdresses, wooden funerary effigies, heavy metal bracelets and the most ornate kris (“stabbing weapon”) I had seen outside a museum.

The wavy blade was rusted beyond description. But despite the fears of imaginative customs officers, it was the gold-leafed scabbard that won me over.

Its gandar, the wooden part of the scabbard that encases the blade, was wrapped in an intricately sculptured pendok, metal sheath. The lower half was carved in thin ridges to represent rattan binding and the upper was a golden mass of vines and tendrils.

A dainty, yet sturdy, filigree loop, centered with a burnt-orange stone, completed the design. The loop allows the wearer to tie the kris to his sash, rather than slip it into a waistband as is common in Java and Bali.

Succumbed to $360 Lure

If the 400,000 rupiah price tag (about $360) was giving me second thoughts, an inspection of the blade’s hilt dashed them. A female figure, swaying in a 45-degree curve, seemed to float on a golden wave. The base of her skirt was studded with colorful stones.

After a rather feeble attempt at negotiation over cups of rich Toraja coffee (my covetous glances clearly belied my indifferent words), I left armed with the kris as well as a feathered, beaded bridal headdress.

For a thousand years, legends have credited the kris with mystical qualities. The blade is thought to contain the soul of its first or most valiant owner. Some are said to have the power of flight.

The latter quality, I felt, might prove useful as I handed over my $300-plus “security risk” with considerably more trepidation than I had the $11 Sarawak trophy.

Sure enough, once the knives were airborne they continued to arrive with me. Getting them off the ground, on the other hand, proved to be no small matter in Hong Kong.

Curiosity or Law?

Declared and X-rayed though the knives may have been, security women insisted that they had to see them for themselves.

With infinite patience they peeled off close to a roll of tape, an old shirt and yards of toilet paper with which I had painstakingly wrapped the leaning golden lady. The tissue unfurled like a desert nomad unwinding his turban.

Once curiosity or law had been satisfied, they devoted an equal amount of time to rewrapping.

It was only four hours later, however, on arrival in Tokyo that I was certain another legend of the kris was about to manifest itself: A kris, it is said, will reject an unworthy owner.

Unlike those in other countries I had visited, Japanese customs declaration forms specify “swords.” Straightforward to a fault, I dutifully listed mine.

Strict Japanese Policy

Honesty may be the best policy, but it sure isn’t the most convenient. (If caught, I could always have quibbled about how long a kris must be before it becomes a sword.)

Once again tape, shirt and toilet paper were unbound, this time with considerably less care. Customs officers huddled. The historic Japanese respect for swords notwithstanding, the verdict was unanimous: The law states that weapons cannot enter the country, and Japan is a nation where laws are obeyed.

After another hour, a solution was reached. The knives would stay at Narita, but I didn’t have to.

Three days later we were briefly reunited while a customs agent thoughtfully retaped the shreds of paper.

At last, the ultimate confrontation was faced, U.S. customs at JFK. Was it illegal to bring in weapons, even rusty ones? I wasn’t sure.

The legendary power of the kris prevailed. The inspector’s single question: “Did you have a good trip?”

Perhaps the soul of the kris’s first owner had secretly been yearning all these years to rest in New Jersey.