Ritual Meals on Home Island

For Cocos Malays, as in many others cultures, rituals commonly take the form of meals. Usually, these take place at the host's house. Dozens of guests are invited. Women prepare the food during the day and then men pray and eat before sunset prayers. These kind of meals are sometimes called "kenduri" or "selametan". I've been told that they used also to be called "kondangan".  In this blog, I provide a little more detail on a typical ritual meal. 

A husband and wife play host and hostess. Their relations and friends are the guests.The hostess provides the cooking space (her open kitchen out back of her house) and cooking materials (rice, chicken, spices, etc.)

Nulung (helping out)

The first stage is the helping out or nulung. Female guests provide, individually, cash in an envelope (selawet) and, together, the  labour (preparing the food). Whether these guests are invited or expected, and the extent to which this is implicit or explicit, is unclear to me. Food preparation takes them from the morning till about 4pm. At some point in the day, usually earlier, some of the male guests will drop off cartons of drink bottles and cans (water, soft drinks etc.)

Eating some of the food prepared.

It's not all just cooking though. At some point, they also eat some of the food they have prepared. I have never been privy to these preparations--it is inappropriate for me as a man to do so. Luckily, I have my co-researcher, Moni. Moni helped out at Mak Azaha at the 1000th day anniversary of  her father's passing away. This is the final send-off for the departed. Moni's fieldnotes are quite moving, I think:

It was also very touching to have Mak Azaha go to each of the grandmothers and mothers who had been helping nulung for this final kenduri the 1000 days. She had a bowl full of slawet money and personally spoke to each one almost in a hugging fashion to say “thank you so much for being there” and the grandmothers like Nek Azrin nodded and said a comforting word. It seemed like they were exchanging a tear or two with Mak Azaha, which they then wiped away on their tudung (veils). After the women had their lunch they also said their goodbyes to Mak Azaha and her mother Nek Azaha; more tears and heartfelt expressions accompanied this. One grandmother comforted Nek Azaha (whose husband passed away) with the observation she still has her daughter and she also has 4 grandchildren. I wish I had said something heartfelt I think I was lost for words and only said terima kasih; I really regret I couldn’t think of anything more to say.

Male guests gathering outside.

Ngaji (praying and chanting)

The men inside have just finished praying and
chanting and are getting their take-away bags

At around 4pm the male guests become involved. Typically attired in a sarong and a baju. Some of the men they gather out 

the front They might be on the verandah, neighbouring verandahs, or simply lounge around on their 4wheelers and golf buggies. Some filter into the front room and, led by an imam, begin praying.

Jemput Makan (eating together)

Waiting to start eating

Praying completed, by about 5.30pm, some of the men will head off home or to the mosque. Others head around to the back for the next 'stage' of the ritual. We could call this eating together or jemput makan. Plates are distributed. The imam will do a short blessing on the  food. Then there is a short wait while the men exhort each other to start eating "ayo, jangan malu-malu!" (c'mon, don't be shy [get into it]!). 

Finally, each men heap some rice onto his plate and chooses from some of the dishes the women prepared earlier. These male guests sit down and eat, as is the custom, with their right hand. When they have finished, after an interval, the women and children get up to eat. By this time the men are already starting to excuse themselves ostensibly to head off to Magrib prayers, either at the mosque or at home. Others wait around for their wives and children. And with this it seems the formalities are complete. 

Female guests' turn to eat

During rituals, our actions often have an explicit meaning. Drinking champagne by yourself from a bottle is different from drinking to a toast. 

So what does a ritual meal on Home Island mean? In a simple sense it is to 'mark' or 'signify' an event. Go any deeper than this and it gets complicated and controversial, so I'll have to revisit this topic in subsequent blogs. But, if I've piqued your interest, why not look at a short piece I wrote on ritual meals in Java. 

In this blog I have used photographs from the ritual meal (kenduri) put on by Matt Macrae and his wife Wak Maureen for their 100 day kenduri of Wak Maureen's father. The fieldnotes excerpt by Monika comes from a kenduri held by Pak and Mak Azaha. Thank you so much to these wonderful hosts and all those involved for allowing Monika and me to take part!

A place away: Cottages in the jungle

Nek Sofia and his pondok

Notions of place and time play a large, if largely unacknowledged, role in culture. In this blog, I consider notions surrounding the beach shacks of the Cocos (Keeling) Islands.

Pondok viewed from lagoon.

When we stop and squint up at the clouds, peer at an insect, or reflect on a grain of sand we might wonder. Are we really dust hurtling through an expanding universe after a Big Bang? Are we caught in an endless cycle of rebirth and destruction? But for the most part, dividing up the days and the world into categories is not something we typically spend much time worrying over or reflecting on. Just as surely as the world was propped on a turtle or Atlas, we take our notions of time and place for granted.

Children's' drawing of a pondok. Taken from the book Cocos Kids What do You See?

For Cocos Malays some aspects of the world are divided into pairs. The mainland (a.k.a. “Australia”, “tanah besar”) and Cocos Islands (Pulu Kokos) is one pair. Then there is dalam (lit. “inside” referring to the lagoon) and luar (lit. “outside” referring to surrounding sea). Home Island is predominantly Cocos Malay, while West Island (Pulu Panjang) is predominantly white people (dorang putih). Another important distinction is rumah (house) and pondok (beach shack).

The school teachers at Nek Sofia pondok.
Here's what they caught.

Nek Sofia has contributed a lot to the Home Island community over the years. He was a teacher, then in charge of the Post Office here, and also a Shire President. His wife, Nek Sofia, teaches Year Ones at the Home Island school campus (“Naming and Binding” for what “Pak” and “Nek” mean). He is also the father-in-law of Pak Sofia (see “A Young Muslim Leader” for more on Pak Sofia). He and his wife have been most generous and welcoming. They invited all the school teachers to their pondok a couple of weeks ago.

Joey and Nek Sofia arriving at the pondok.

On Wednesday (12/03/14), he kindly invited me to visit his pondok. Pondok / beach shacks are located on the islands south of Home Island. You access them with your boat, but if the tide is low enough, you can walk to them. The shacks are built near the shore of these islands. Older local people recall visiting pondok on the weekend. This is also confirmed in some written historical accounts. Currently, it seems that Sunday is the preferred day to spend at the pondok. However, some are falling into disrepair, indicating that the custom may be in decline. Nek Sofia visits twice/week to keep his chickens fed.

Nek Sofia feeding scraps to the chickens .

Poo, Pens, and Plots

When we arrived, we were greeted by some pretty happy chickens. Nek Sofia raises them so they can be eaten at the end of fasting month Hari Raya (the Glorious Day). Raising of chickens at the pondok seems to be something of a tradition. It might be related to concerns about chicken poo polluting the ground water if you raise chickens around the catchment area on Home Island. This is reflected in a message in The Atoll (Thurs 6th Mar-Wed 19th Mar, 2014), the community newsletter. I asked about eggs. Nek Sofia explained that they are hard to find seeing as the chickens are free to roam around the jungle.

After the scraps were finished, Nek Sofia chopped some coconuts open.

The chickens pecked away at the meat.

Cooking place

Inside the pondok. They take great care of their pondok.

Nek Sofia used his net to catch some little mullets.
You can use these for bait, but his wife loves to fry and eat them.

 What does “pondok” mean in Malay? From my Indonesian experiences, I’m used to “pondok” meaning something like “cottage”. In the phrase “pondok pesantren”  (lit. ‘cottage of Islamic pupils’) it refers to an Islamic boarding school. While many boarding schools are indeed urban, in a Javanese context, the word “pondok” in this phrase has (like the English “cottage”) connotations of a rural secluded place. Monika also thinks of pondok pancing, a place where you go fishing. In the various usages we considered, what seems to be common is the sense that a pondok is “a place away”.

Joey stood guard over the bounty.

This connotation also seem to apply among Cocos Malays on Home Island. For Australians on the mainland, “a place away” might be something like a Bali holiday or indeed, a holiday on the Cocos (Keeling) Islands. But if you live on the Cocos (Keeling) Islands, it seems the place away is the pondok. However, there may also be a culturally specific significance to pondok.

I got the feeling Nek Sofia didn't want to leave. 

The distinction between house and pondok might be related to Southeast Asian notions of centre and periphery. When the sea trade between China and India began to flourish, about two thousand years ago, traders brought Indian ideas about power to many ports in Southeast Asia. At least since that time, the idea has been that power is concentrated in the centre and dispersed at the periphery. (This contrasts the ‘modern/rational’ idea that, for example, Australia’s jurisdiction runs, undiminished to its territorial borders.) However, the periphery was also a place where people could attain power, by fasting, meditating etc in the wild and untamed areas. The monk-like people who inhabited these areas could, in some ways, legitimately challenge the power of the raja (king) in the centre. At least, that’s how I remember it—I haven’t got my books with me here!

But Joey was tired and wanted to go home.

From what I can tell, the house-beach shack distinction is not about power. But I think elements of the centre-periphery idea apply. Possibly, it is not that the pondok is just peripheral to Home Island’s centre, but also that it is untamed to Home Island’s domesticity. Anyway, even if I’m right about this, I’m sure there’s more to it. I hope to understand it more deeply. 

Take her home Skipper and First Mate

Thanks so much to Nek Sofia (husband and wife) for being so generous and helpful to me and my family.

Built places, social spaces

Panorama view of  some Home Island houses

Sedentary human societies build permanent structures to reside in. How do these structures affect social life and vice-versa? Let's consider the Cocos Malays of Home Island.  

Satellite image of Home Island residential area. Taken from a screen grab in Google Maps, the midday sun reflects brightly off the same portions of the roof of each house. On the left is the lagoon, The dark green square to the right is the tennis courts.

Cocos Malays residing on Home Island live in a single residential area. Locals refer the area using the term "kampong". This Malay term, depending on the context, can designate a village or an urban area. Although Google maps labels this as "Bantam Village", I haven't yet seen or heard that term used here. So what it is called? There seems to be little agreement on this issue.* My impression is that people refer to the residential area as "kampong", but without a distinguishing name. 

  Houses 1-24 comprise two shorter rows of houses. In the middle is the cyclone shelter, park, and mosques. "Cyclone Shelter"  is written over houses 30-31 and 54-55. 

There are 102 houses on Home Island, by my estimation. 96 of these are based on the same design and house the bulk of the Cocos Malay population of about 470 people. The 96 houses: 

• two  short rows of houses nearer and parallel to the foreshore (1-24 ), 
• four houses south of the mosque (25-28), 
• three longer rows (29-96). 

The remaining six houses are unique.** 

Construction of these 96 houses began in 1985 and was completed in 1995 (see Blog "Homes in History") . Some accommodate only a couple or, indeed, are currently empty. The upshot is that 2-3 generations of one family often reside in a single house. An exceptional house has 10 residents and 4 generations. But an older couple with their daughter and her husband and then their grand-children could be considered typical.

Front view of house

Legally, local residents do not own the houses; but rather lease them long-term or rent short-term from the local government (the 'Shire'). I lived in one of these houses with Monika and the kids for 11 days in 2011 and one month in 2014 and really like the design--it felt homely and simple to me. But how have the Cocos Malay people lived in them?

Side view of  house. At the far left is the original house front. The satellite dish and water tank are beside the kitchen and ablution block respectively. Silver car and two four-wheelers are parked facing the rooms. The boat is next to the cooking area. The shed out the back is for wood?

The back of the house, usually called "luar" (which means "outside"), according to the general patter, is usually the place of cooking, eating, and socializing. These back spaces are connected to each other through walkways. Access to the front is limited. There are exceptions, but in the following, I will try to explain this general pattern.

Front and back

Plan for houses

To start with, let's take a walk through the house. From the road out the front, we cross an open area, then reach the patio. Through the front door (visible on the left of the above plan), we enter the "Sitting Room". One door opens into "Room 1" another into the "Kitchen". Walking through the kitchen, we enter the long back "Verandah" area. The doors to Rooms 2 and 3 are on our left, while the Ablution Block is on our right. The number of rooms built depended on the needs of the families when they moved in.


Over the years, almost all families have extended on the basic plan. The back "Verandah" areas of various houses are in various stages of being enclosed. Larger extensions, sometimes even two story, lavish extensions, are often built (see my Blog "Laying some foundations" for an example). Sometimes it's younger generations and sometimes older generations who live in the front; I haven't been able to detect if there's pattern. Either way, after extensions are completed original house often appears as an old appendage to a large living space out the back. 

Architecturally it seems back-to-front, but, that is only if we assume that the front should be open and the back closed. If the back from should be open, then from a social perspective, it is entirely the right way around.

Original house with three bedrooms. Behind this is a two-story extension. Further back is a lively and open kitchen eating area.

 The original house has limited use for social interaction. Around sunset and into the night you can sometimes see locals sitting on the front patio. I have seen the "Sitting Room" used as a TV room and as a place to pray. And on one occasion, I saw someone, appearing to be in a rush to deliver a document, visit my neighbour's house using the front door. Generally, people don't use the front door.


This is indicated by footwear. Before  entering the house, custom dictates one most remove footwear. Little footwear can be found at the front of the house. Most is at the back. Again, indicating the importance of the back part of the house

...and shoes are piled at the back door

Front view of house. The front is roped off...

Indeed, some front areas seem to have been effectively roped off. Granted, this protects the lawn. But it also encourages  people to go around, by the side, to  the back.  


Generally, movement from front-back is impeded.  Granted, we can see right through the front door to the light from the veranda out the back in the image "front view of the house". However, the  front  lawn is roped off as if often the case. The footwear etiquette mentioned above also hinders free front-to-back movement. 

It all looks very clear on the map with house numbers. However, it was only when I saw this map that I could make sense of my experience of houses. Prior to that, I had mostly experience houses by entering from the back; and I hadn’t connected the backs of the houses with the fronts. I have never been to the front of some of my friend's houses; most probably because that is where their elderly parents live. So it might be hard to believe, but I thought the house fronts were separate.

...people eat and watch TV in the open area out the back

View across the patio, meanwhile...

The back is where I have experienced the warmth of Cocos Malay hospitality. It is where more of the cooking, eating and socialising occurs. In the photo to the left, the family preparing for the wedding are busy eating and watching TV. In terms of the original architectural design, the Cocos Malays have reversed the design. The back is the focus of household social life.

Inside and Outside

Now to complicate it just a little. The "back" part of the house, as I have called, seems to be more commonly referred to as "outside" (luar). This seems to imply that the front part is "inside", but I'll need more fieldwork before I can comment on that. If, however, this does turn out to be the case, it might indicate a connection with notions of the lagoon (referred to as "dalam") and surrounding ocean. (referred to as "luar")

Side to side

From Nek Sofia's porch (house number 4) to the neigbor's porch (house number 3)

House number 5,6 and 7 along the foreshore and their different colored porch pillars

Our children walking from the neighbour's kitchen into Nek Sofia's backyars

Social life also occurs along another important dynamic--side-to-side. First as we noted elsewhere:

Even if family members do not live under the same roof, they tend to live close by. The village is less than 500m wide at its broadest point and yet related family members often live in very close proximity. One turn of phrase an informant used to describe this kind of arrangement was living belakang kebun (‘on the other side of the yard’).

Connection is facilitated by the openness of the backs of houses. Fences, of sorts are built in the front of house, as in the photographs above. However, between the houses the connection is often less impeded than the front. Smoke, smells, sounds, and people drift from one house to another. People will traverse three or four houses just going through the backs of neighbouring houses. This is not just limited to family--all neighbours seem quite closely connected. While Nek Sofia was cutting fish, Moni thought she was talking to herself. But it turned out, she was talking to her sister-in-law in the adjoining property. While the front might be fenced off, sides often are not.

Nek Sofia pointing towards her neighbour and sister in law's kitchen at the back of the house  (where the smoke is rising)

Cocos Malays sometimes facilitate sideways movement. As noted above, ropes and footwear etiquette impede back to front movement. By contrast, I have not come across deliberate attempts to prevent sideways movements (such as, for example, the construction of a fence). Indeed, sideways movement can be facilitated by the construction of paths between the backs of adjoining houses. 

Trees and shrubs make a kind of arch over a concrete path
 between Nek Sofia's house and their relative's.

Space and Sociality

Longhouse

This makes an interesting point of comparison with the longhouses of Malaysia. I grabbed this nice image on the left from a Malaysian doctor's website

In "Space and sociality in a Dayak longhouse", Christine Helliwell describes her experience of living in a longhouse. Each section of a longhouse is inhabited by different families. All are connected through light, smell and sounds. If you are quiet, others in the longhouse will call out after you. Social life is made possible through this continuing contact.

She also evokes the way space works in a great online book:

 I could not understand why my hostess was constantly engaged in talk with no one. She would give long descriptions of things that had happened to her during the day, of work she had to do, of the state of her feelings and so on, all the while standing or working alone in her longhouse apartment... I came to realize that the woman’s apparent monologues always had an audience, and that they were a way of affirming and recreating the ties across apartments that made her a part of the longhouse as a whole rather than a member of an isolated household. In addition, I recognized with time that she was almost certainly responding to questions floating across apartment partitions that I, still bewildered and overwhelmed by the cacophony of sound that characterizes longhouse life, was unable to distinguish.
Eventually I too came to be able to separate out the distant strands that were individual voices, which wove together magically in the air and flowed through the spaces of separate apartments. These were never raised as the dialogue moved through four or even five partitions, but their very mutedness reinforced the sense of intimacy, of membership in a private, privileged world. Such conversations were to be taken up at will and put down again according to the demands of work or sleepiness: never forced, never demanding participation, but always gentle, generous in their reminder of a companionship constantly at hand....
Not only sound but light as well flows from one apartment to another — particularly at night, when the longhouse is demarcated against the surrounding blackness by the tiny lights glowing up and down its length. In explaining why they sow the seeds of a plant bearing red flowers along with their rice seed, Gerai Dayaks told me that once in bloom, the flowers serve as ‘lights’ or ‘fires’ for the growing rice: ‘Just as human beings in the longhouse at night like to see many lights around them and so know that they have many companions, in the same way the rice sees the flowers at night and does not feel lonely’. At night in the longhouse one is aware of the presence of companions by the glow of their lights and their hearths. If a light is not showing in any apartment, its absence is an immediate source of concern and investigation. 

One day, I'd like to write something as profound and beautiful as this. But I wonder, how does moving out of long houses into Western-style houses affect the social life of a community on Borneo? I'll return to Home Island and take a look at what a different approach can tell us about the homes.

Structure and social life

I'm going to use a structural approach. Structuralism in anthropology focuses on the role of structures in human culture and society. Structures take different forms. They can be:

1. infrastructure--roads, houses, harbours, printing press, the internet etc.. 
2. economic--gift-giving and capitalism etc.. 
3. social--caste, class, gender, family etc.
4. thought--grammar, monotheism, nationalism, laws etc.

Structure is essential for human life, yet it restricts our lives. Imagine we didn't drive on one side of the road but drove wherever and however we wanted. Traffic would be chaos and we could not safely get anywhere. Structure provides us paths and roads in life. Nevertheless, we resent the structures for limiting us; can't live with them, can't live without them, it seems.

The Home Island houses homes are structured along two axes: front-back and side-to-side. The front to back is emphasised through the design of houses: a bold patio and "Sitting Rooms" subsides in the Verandah. Extensions head backward. On the other hand, the back is the focal point for social life. The back may even overshadow the front. The other axis is the side-to-side. This is emphasised through the fenced-off front of some houses and the ease of access with neighbours in most.

It should be noted that the house of the old "king" of Cocos, the last of the dynasty who had ruled the Cocos Malays, was built on a cross design, nevertheless the building seems open to all directions, without a clear sense of front and back.

Oceania House

It's a bit of a leap for me to assert this, but one could speculate that it was necessary (on an unconscious structural level) merely to distinguish from the 'ruled', whose social life is structured along axes.

We anthropologists have applied ourselves, in recent decades, to understanding to what extent we can act independently of structures (that is, act as "agents") or not. This has been somewhat ill-advised, seeing as philosophers have been struggling with the more general question of the possibility of free will for over two millennia and have not come up with anything conclusive. Undeterred, we have persisted with our own rather complicated riddle of the Sphinx, which will probably end up eating us too. 

Nevertheless, I wonder how the structure of the houses shapes social life? And, to what extent is social life independent of the housing structures? Certainly, the way people have extended their houses seems to indicate some acting outside the structures (that is as "agents")--but this is debatable. My colleague Paul Thomas at Monash wrote to me:

Your description suggests some effort to remodel through the act of living in the space, a cultural shepherding of people around the house effectively subverting the original design.

Because of this, he thinks that front-back might be inadequate descriptions. And then, as he suggests, we need to know about the original plan. Was it created by a public servant on the mainland? Was there any input from local residents about the design?

I finish with more questions than answers. I thought this would be an easy blog to write, but it's been the hardest. This indicates to me, there's a lot more to be said on the interaction of social life and built spaces on Home Island.

* Here are some samples of conversations (from memory) with people aged in their 50s and above. I didn't want to use the term "kampong" or "village", but all the other terms I could think of seemed inappropriate. So here we go, cue annoying anthropologist:

Me: What do you call the kampong here?
MA: Home Island.
Me: No, not the island, I mean just the kampong.
MA: the kampong. 

Me: Bapak panggil kampong ini kampong apa?  (Father, what do you call the kampong here?)
NT: [pauses asks friend]
Friend: tak ada. (there's no name)

Me: Nek, orang sini panggil daerah ini apa? (Grandpa, what do the people here call this area?)
NM: Kampung Kankong. (Kampung Kangkong)
Me: Kampung apa? (Kampung what?)
NM: Ya Kampung Kangkong; itu kan nama jalannya. (Kampung Kangkong, that's the name of the road [which NM's house is located on--this implies just the area around the road])
Me: Ya tapi apa nama semua rumah di sini dari 1 sampai 100, apa namanya kampung ini? (yeah but what's the name of all the houses from 1 to 100, what's the name of this kampung?)
NM: Ya Kampung Kangkong (Yeah Kampung Kangkong) 

Me: What's the name of this village?
NS: [pause] "Kampong Home Island".
Me: And what do you call it in Malay?
NS: "Kampong Pulu Selma". 

But then the name of the island itself is open to interpretation:

According to this sign "Pulu Kelapa" is the name of the island

This seems to confirm my impression that there is no widespread term for the residential area.

I am also a little confused about the meaning of "kampong". Nek Mimi, and elderly man, seemed to use the work kampong in contrast to hutan (jungle), such that any cleared area, with or without houses, was called kampong.

** The unique houses are as follows:

• 97-98 are the nurses' accommodation. 
• 99 is a uniquely designed house. 
• The lot where I am staying  comprises two houses: Pak Emma's family and the tourist accommodation "Ocean Villa". I think it is "100". 
• Above us are 2 newer houses on the un-numbered lots in the sketch.
• "Oceania House" the former residence of the Clunies Ross dynasty, now owned by an Australian man who is busy restoring it.
• The doctor's accommodation.

Participating and Observing

Anthropologist at work.

Participant-observation is anthropologists’ preferred method of gathering data. Basically, we live among the people we study and take part in their lives. In this blog, I explain participant-observation by taking the example of my co-researcher, Dr Monika Winarnita.

Participating and observing.

Anthropologists generally gather, analyse, or debate about data they gain through fieldwork. This fieldwork takes a special form. It is not through surveying people, creating a focus group, or through observing people through a telescope. Rather, fieldwork takes the form we call “participant-observation”. We also use the word "ethnography" in one of its senses, to refer to the same thing.

In Perth, Australia, 2007

What is this thing? Anthropologists observe human life and, where possible, participate. Anthropologists live among the people they study and spend a lot of time just 'hanging out' and chatting. For example, before her research on Home Island, Dr Monika Winarnita’s first fieldwork project was a study of Indonesian women migrants in Perth. Monika is an Indonesian woman who has migrated to Australia, so you could say she was studying her ‘own people’. The women she studied were in a dance troupe, so Monika rehearsed and performed with the group. In the photograph she is being taught a dance from Banyuwangi, Indonesia (the place, coincidentally where I did my fieldwork 2001-2002, so I joined in on this one).She also spent a lot of time off-stage just hanging out with the members. She wrote up her analysis in various forums including her PhD dissertation. This included AV material of her troupe rehearsing and dancing.

Participating in daily life on Home Island. 

Doing participant-observation, we try to fit in as much as possible. This is facilitated through learning the local language/dialect (if the anthropologist is not already proficient).  In this photo, you can see Monika preparing for a Batang Buruk [sic.] cake, a month in advance of the wedding where it will be served. The general principle is "when in Rome, do as the Romans do". 

Making a family tree.

Nevertheless, we also do things Romans don't necessarily do.  We often interview people, take photos of mundane settings, record AV material, draw sketches and maps, keep families trees (a.k.a. genealogies), and so on. With regard to family trees, for example, anthropologists used to record them with a pen and paper. Now, in many situations we work in (e.g. hospital waiting rooms or bicycle enthusiasts), genealogies are decreasingly relevant. Yet they still prove useful where family is an important form of social organisation. And, where this is the case, we have software to help us (see my Blog "Naming and Binding"). Here Monika is creating a family tree, with the help of Mak Sari.  Aside form this, we'll keep a journal and field notes every night; or at least try to! In these ways, anthropologists may supplement data obtained from participant-observation.

At school

Participant-observation is what happens when anthropologists interact with the people they study. Our job is not to capture customs and ritual unaffected by the outside world. For example, I go to a kenduri (a Malay ritual) then sit down and watch Western Australian regional televisions with advertisements for “Aussie” sheep farmers. This kind of thing interests us, because participant-observation is about the changes and various influences in society and culture as much as what stays the same. Also, the data we gather is about what happens when we, as anthropologists, interact with local people. We cannot, and do not especially want to, observe the culture in a 'pristine' state. So the 'data' of participant-observation is not neutral, unbiased vision of a culture; rather it is the result of the interactions between the anthropologist and the people who are studied.

On Facebook.

For example, over the past decade, human interaction has been increasingly mediated through social media. Indeed, some communities exist only online. Some members of the Home Island community, especially wives,  interact through Facebook. There is also a large (compared to the size of the Home Island population), Cocos Malay diaspora who use Facebook to stay in contact. So her fieldwork requires spending time on the Internet.

Chatting with Nek Iman

Why do anthropologists do participant-observation? We think it helps us 'put ourselves in their shoes'--to understand the world from the perspective of the people we study. We hope to experience how they understand the world and their place in it and how the society they act within is ordered. The aim is to contribute to understanding cultural and social aspects of being human. Many anthropologists find the experience of fieldwork extremely challenging and rewarding--for many, it changes their lives in profoundly positive ways.

Family meal with Haji Wahibb, Hajah Atie and their son Alfin.