Travel has a way of lingering in the mind like an unfinished sentence. For us, the Mentawai had been exactly that. For more than a decade, one question kept resurfacing:
Will we ever make it to Siberut?
We were already heading to Sumatra, drawn by its dense jungles, its rare encounters with orangutans, and and the symbiotic relationship between humans and elephants. But beyond the mainland, across a restless stretch of ocean, lay the Mentawai people of Siberut.
A small orangutan hanging looking with curiosity towards me.
A mother elephant and her calf as part of the Conservation Response Unit in Tangkahan.
For years, the answer had always been no. This time, we asked a different question:
Are we willing to go further just for this? The answer was “yes”.
Only one thing had changed since the dream first appeared ten years earlier. We were no longer two. Our seven-year-old son had joined the expedition, bringing with him curiosity, chaos, and a sense of adventure that refused to sit still.
The journey began before sunrise on a Tuesday, the kind of morning where anticipation hums louder than engines. At 6 a.m., we stood ready to board the ferry to Siberut.
At 5:30 there was a local breakfast and still much hope of leaving for Siberut soon.
Minutes later, the sea rewrote our plans.
“No ferry today, nor tomorrow.”
The ocean had risen into something untamable, and no one was willing to challenge it. Just like that, the long-imagined encounter dissolved into uncertainty. Was this the end of the road, or simply part of the reason we travel at all? To meet the unpredictable, to stretch the mind, to surrender control?
At 6:30 a.m., a new plan was born.
Pacu Jawi or a bull race celebrated after the rice harvest.
Soy beans ready to become tempeh.
What followed was a week shaped by serendipity.
We wandered deeper into
Sumatra’s rhythms: witnessing the raw energy of Pacu Jawi, discovering intricate local craftsmanship, and stumbling upon the rare bloom of arafflesia flower, vast and otherworldly.
Buffalos preparing the brick clay as one of their favourite activities.
Contrary to what you think, Pacu Itiak is more than throwing a duck.
One of the most beautiful creations in nature next to a raflesia.
Then, one week later, we returned to the same harbour.
Same hour, same quiet tension. But this time, the sea had softened.
The ferry engine roared to life. The journey had resumed.
Ready to start the engine and go 2.0!
The mainland of Sumatra from a calm sea
A morning view of Padang Harbour.
Five hours on open water, a brief stop in Sikabaluan, and then landfall. Siberut.
Our goal was simple, yet immense: to witness daily life among the Mentawai.
From the harbour, motorcycle taxis carried us to a family living closer to the island’s main village.
Their choice to live there reflected a quiet negotiation between tradition and change. Education for their children, yet a home still built in the ancestral way, adorned with symbols of their heritage.
Lunch break at Sikabaluan, a first encounter with the calm pace.
Preparing the Sago bread-rolls.
Oncy: a guide, a translator, and, as son of a Sikirei, a cultural expert.
Through a fragile thread of modern communication, we had arranged Oncy as our guide.
Born and raised within the Mentawai culture, Oncy was more than a translator. He was a bridge between worlds.
Oncy enjoying a moment of rest with the other family members.
While we waited for the next step that would bring us closer to the Mentawai people, we had already, almost without realizing it, entered their world.
There, we encountered not one, but two shamans — or, as the Mentawai understand it, sikerei.
A direct and full encounter with two experienced shaman.
From there, the road ended and the river began.
A narrow wooden boat carried us upstream, deeper into the rainforest. The jungle closed in, thick and breathing. Occasionally, another boat passed. Locals, or travellers like us, each drifting through the same green corridor.
After one hour we arrived at our final destination and went ashore to get our first impression of the slippery mud and doing this, like the shaman, barefoot could be a winner, boots our salvation – thanks Oncy!
We walked. Through water, through earth, through the kind of terrain that forces you to slow down and pay attention. For our son, it was pure adventure. For the rest of us, a lesson in humility and balance.
A traditional boat trip on the way to uma.
The river was high, the mud was deep
At last, we reached the family’s uma—the traditional communal longhouse at the heart of Mentawai life where we would stay for three days.
The uma: a traditional Mentawi longhouse, our ‘hotel’ for the next three nights.
The kitchen: men prepare the the bamboo cooking pot…
… and women prepare the ‘sago bread’
A Mentawai tattoo, or titi, shows their bound to nature. On their hands we see lines that symbolise the roots of the sago tree. The hooks help them while hunting for fish and game.
As evening fell, Oncy spoke about the tattoos that covered many bodies around us.
These were not decoration. They were identity.
They reflect their relationship with nature, their skills, their place in the community. Patterns inspired by roots,
rivers, animals, and the sago palm form a living language on the skin.
Some believe these markings help the soul be recognized in the afterlife, carrying one’s story beyond death.
Evil bounces back from their flowery sun tattoo on their shoulders.
Rattan with its sharp spines represented as the long lines on their arms.
Life unfolded gently. No rush, no rigid schedule. Just a rhythm guided by light, hunger, and the quiet logic of the forest.
The open fire where sago is prepared…
… and encounters are made possible.
Morning arrived with roosters and mist.
The day began not with plans, but with participation.
A deep cultural dive for us, a daily life for them.
We followed the shaman and Oncy into the forest for another day of cultural and natural exploration.
while the mud was sucking our boots into its deepest layers, the shaman conquered it barefoot.
The jungle was round us, we heard it, we saw it, we felt it, while the shaman thought us to revere it.
After a tough selection, a dead sago tree is cut down
The sago worm a as traditional , high protein delicacy.
The experienced shaman knows where to look for the best worms.
Bark became clothing. Roots became medicine. Even decay held value, as we learned while searching for sago grubs, a traditional source of protein.
Every plant had a purpose for the Mentawai.
The bark of this tree is sliced with a microsurgical precision.
The bark of the tree is moistened and rhythmically tapped to soften it…
… after which it is hung to dry
In the afternoon, the women guided us into the river. Fishing,
Mentawai-style. Barefoot, knee-deep in water, hands probing the
riverbanks. The catch was modest: a few crayfish, a small fish, a turtle
too young to take.
But abundance here is not measured in quantity. It is measured in continuity.
A skirt of banana leaves serves not to scare the fish.
In Mentawai life, there is no strict line between religion and daily existence.
The shaman moves fluidly between roles: sometimes as a doctor, otherwise as
a priest, very often as friend and storyteller.
When illness strikes, he restores balance. When ceremonies arise, he leads rituals. When
stories risk being forgotten, he becomes their voice for this or a next generation.
Offerings to ancestors are made with care and necessary respect for everyone and
every soul-full-thing.
An offering is being prepared to make contact with the spirits of the ancestors.
A last smoke before the ceremony.
Singing mutually to listen and speak to the spirits.
Nothing is rushed. Nothing is taken lightly.
While the roosters where sacrificed, the singing continues. Dinner was late that evening…
The arrows are heated over the fire to allow the fire to penetrate to the core of the rattan wood.
Two roosters less to wake us up the next morning for another ‘normal’ day
in the life of the Mentawai tribe: looking for the right wood to make their poisonous arrows to use while hunting on wild animals.
Not every branch qualifies as an arrow.
Only specific types of rattan – one of their tattoo symbols – strong yet flexible, are chosen.
Special tools are used to extract and smash the juice from the right natural ingredients and to prepare the effervescent poison.
The acidic poison is carefully rubbed onto the arrows.
The self-made-poison, made by the Shaman, applied to the arrows, made from
chili and forest roots, is powerful enough to bring down a monkey or deer.
Yet hunting is never excess. It is necessity, guided by respect.
The knife stays sharp, the spirit free.
And that is where the essence of the Mentawai reveals itself.
A balance.
Between taking and giving.
Between human and forest.
Between the visible and the unseen.
A balance that has endured for thousands of years on Siberut and hopefully will go on many years.
Preparing a tobacco reserve for the day to come.
Beneath its simplicity lies a deeper truth: a balance many seek for a lifetime — a tribute to life.
A giant tree, a humble shaman, a balance and tribute to life.
Text and images from one of your world’s local photographers.
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