Katingan Dayak bronze bells: Traces of migration or local creative expression?

The scent of tabalien wood (Eusideroxylon zwageri) and the laughter of children playing in the yard greeted me as I stepped into a wooden house in Tumbang Panggu, a remote village in Indonesia’s Central Kalimantan province.

The house owner, Pak Awim (Pak is an Indonesian honorific similar to “Mr”, used respectfully for older men), is a local villager. He is one of my informants during my 2019 study on the traditional musical instruments of the Dayak Katingan Awa people.

After offering me a seat, Pak Awim carefully pulled a small wooden box from the corner of the room. It looked simple enough, but the way he opened it — with deliberate care as if he adored it — suggested something fragile and deeply treasured lay inside.

He then lifted a dark, curved piece of metal. Its smooth bend resembles the body of a shrimp. “Neng neok takung undang, a musical instrument shaped like a shrimp’s tail,” he said softly, naming an instrument most villagers no longer recognised.

Pak Awim picked up a small wooden stick and gently tapped the side of the metal, closing its opening with his palm. The tone that followed was distinct, yet strangely familiar.

In Java, a similar instrument is known as kemanak: a pair of banana-shaped bronze bells commonly played in gamelan ensembles.

How kemanak is played in the royal gamelan of the Kraton Ngayogyakarta Hadiningrat.

Unlike kemanak, though, the instrument used by the Dayak Katingan Awa people is not played in pairs but as a single piece. It is also performed using a different technique.

Its role is specific: it serves as a complement to the gong gandang ahung ensemble in the tiwah ritual, a Hindu-Kaharingan funeral ceremony.

This difference shows that the history of sound is never singular, nor confined to one place. It can emerge from evolving cultural encounters or from the creativity of local communities who, by coincidence, arrive at similar forms.

A Javanese origin?

The similarity raises a questios: did neng neok takung undang originate from Javanese kemanak?

Kemanak itself is often associated with a similar instrument in Africa. In the early 20th century, Dutch ethnomusicologist Jaap Kunst proposed that unique instruments like kemanak spread from Java to the continent through maritime migration, linking it to the split bells used by the Pangwe or Fang peoples in Central Africa. He also points to rock paintings in Brandberg, Namibia, that depicts figures carrying instruments resembling the Javanese kemanak.

A human figure believed to be holding a split-bell-shaped instrument (similar to a ‘kemanak’). From Henri Breuil’s book ‘The White Lady of Brandberg, South-West Africa: Her Companions and Her Guards’.

However, judging the similarity of instruments by shape alone is not sufficient. Linguistic, archaeological, genetic, and trade-historical evidence would all be needed before concluding that a cultural migration of this scale took place.

Colonial history has further muddied the origins of this instrument. Many monumental African works — such as the architecture of Great Zimbabwe or ceremonial masks — were once attributed to foreign civilizations, reflecting the colonial belief that Africans were “incapable” of creating high cultural forms.

This kind of colonial narrative also crept into the world of music: when an instrument appeared “complex,” it was often assumed to have originated “elsewhere.”

So, did the kemanak from the Indonesian archipelago really spread all the way to Africa, or do the instruments on these two continents merely resemble each other by coincidence?

British researcher Roger Blench found that the “African kemanak” was actually a different instrument, known as pellet bells or slit-bells, each with its own local function.

Moreover, slit-bells are deeply rooted in many African cultures. From Ghana to the Congo, they serve different ritual, social, and musical functions.

What connects all of these instruments, from neng neok takung undang to African split bells, is not migration but a shared resonance — the human desire to summon spirit, time, and togetherness through the lingering sound of metal.

Traces of local distinction

The neng neok takung undang of the Katingan Awa people bears its own identity, distinct from both the Javanese kemanak and the African bell.

This instrument consists of a single piece rather than a pair, and is played in a distinctive way: by striking it and then covering its opening to modify the resonance. Its timbre is bright and penetrating, sharply contrasting with the deep tones of the large ahung gongs.

Within the gandang ahung ensemble, its presence is optional — sometimes included, sometimes not — often played alongside the flat tarai gong. Yet as it becomes increasingly rare, the neng neok takung undang is no longer used in gandang ahung performances.

In other words, the neng neok takung undang is not just a copy of the Javanese kemanak, let alone evidence of cultural migration across oceans. It arose from the sonic logic, ritual practice, and musical ecology of the Dayak Katingan Awa people themselves.

To regard it merely as an offshoot of the Javanese gamelan kemanak would be to overlook the creative ingenuity of the local community.

Wider collaboration needed

The resemblance between the neng neok takung undang and the kemanak has long intrigued researchers. How did communities in the Indonesian archipelago and Africa come to share such similarities — in history, form, structure, function, materials, playing technique, and even sound classification?

Rather than asking who borrowed from whom, the idea of an “African gamelan” invites deeper collaboration between scholars of Africa and Southeast Asia.

Just as the Sound of Borobudur interprets temple reliefs as sonic archives, the concept of an “African gamelan” could serve as a platform for comparing instruments, recordings, and stories — allowing us to rewrite the history of world music from a new perspective.

To test such assumptions, researchers could establish fairer ways of documenting instruments, languages, and histories — while local communities contribute photos, recordings, and stories to a shared archive.

This way, the idea of an “African gamelan” would move beyond claims of origin or authenticity, fostering a cross-continental dialogue based on mutual respect.

Through collaboration and shared documentation, we can begin to see that sound does not belong to any single nation; it is the product of humanity’s long encounter with nature, metal, and the meanings we give to what we hear.

This article is republished from The Conversation, a nonprofit, independent news organization bringing you facts and trustworthy analysis to help you make sense of our complex world. It was written by: Muhammad Rayhan Sudrajat, Universitas Katolik Parahyangan

Muhammad Rayhan Sudrajat tidak bekerja, menjadi konsultan, memiliki saham, atau menerima dana dari perusahaan atau organisasi mana pun yang akan mengambil untung dari artikel ini, dan telah mengungkapkan bahwa ia tidak memiliki afiliasi selain yang telah disebut di atas.