Days In Long Bedian
When we arrived at the quay of Kuala Baram, it was smoldering hot and the palm-leaf roof only provided a bit of shade and no cool. We had missed the 2 p.m. boat to Marodi, and waited for the 3 p.m. express to start its engine; under no circumstances I might enter this tin can sauna without the blessing of some solid air conditioning.
These riverboats are very elongated, and metal-plated to prevent waves to rush into the cabin, in the event of a navigation error, or the collision with a floating tree trunk.
Twenty to three the captain started the engines, and Maureen and I boarded the vessel to find a pair of empty seats in the aft. There was place for some 100 persons, but certainly not for people of my size- I felt pretty crammed, though huddled cozily against my sweet jungle fiancée. There was the usual hustle and bustle, but always with a certain gesture of gentleness, typical for Sarawak if not for Malaysia in general.
At three sharp we departed and the vessel shot into the river like an arrow, hitting straight the current and thundering full speed up at some 50 miles/h through the gentle meanders of the Baram River. At every turn the boat shivered. Outside of the plastic window, depleted jungle and long houses of the Iban tribe passed by. After a while, the engine mechanist came by and collected fees from the passengers – twenty RM per person (5 US $) for the four-hour trip to Marodi.
“Let’s go out, and have a look,” said Maureen, and that’s what we did. Squeezing through a tight corridor we reached the engine room, where some 2000 hp were fully at work, rumbling with life, and radiating torrential heat waves. A little steel door opened to a tiny 10 square foot terrace with a wooden bench, above the water line. Better not fall into the river, I thought – hacked meat would be the unlucky outcome. We shared the space with two men and a box with chicken. The view over the river, racing away behind us was gorgeous, though under the deafening sound of two exhaust pipes, just aiming at us ten feet ahead.
Dusk fell when we reached the destination-of-the-day, the little town of Marodi. The little town, huddled against a hill, bathed in orange, rays reverberating from the Chinese temple and the ‘Chunk Hotel,’ in blue-white colors. A crowd of people gathered on the quay to welcome the passengers, meet a friend or relative, or just to enjoy the curiosity of the moment. Shops switched to electrical light, as Maureen pulled me along toward a hotel in the backstreet, called ‘Mount Mulu Hotel.’ It turned out to be run by one of her many cousins, and we spent the night in a clean and air-conditioned double-bed room for 40 RM (US $ 11).
We woke up in sunshine, and visited the new open-air market full of fresh vegetables and fruit, that gleamed in a dazzling morning sun. I bought some tiny banana, oranges, whilst Maureen bought river fish in sweet spicy chili sauce. Then we went for a short breakfast with mee (noodles), coffee and Soya drink, which cost us another US $ 2. We just about finished, when the express boat to Long Lama horned its signal vents. We rushed to the quay, and took seats in the speedboat. It was a smaller then yesterday’s, but at least twice as charged, with all kinds of merchandises. The whole skull of the boat was enveloped with sacks of tapioca, boxes with chicken, wood beams, and at least two motorcycles.
Leaving Marodi we finally entered the lands of the jungle frontier, where a friend is a friend, and everybody counts on a stranger like you count on your brother. There was a cozy and friendly ‘we among us’ atmosphere on the boat. Maureen took seat in the cabin whilst I decided to remain outside for the three or so hour’s up-river to a landing point, from where we would try to pursue our journey into the Borneo highlands. We steamed into the river, and the view was fantastic. Seated on a pair of tapioca starch sacks, I overlooked the river and saw our captain negotiate the currents among sand-loaded barges pulled up- and downriver, and the many drifting logs. He appeared increasingly nervous, as he stretched his head out of his command box to better screen the river of chocolate-brown color ahead. With a worried face he lit another cigarette – whilst watching the navigable lane that had shrunk to a mere fifty feet of breadth.
Maureen gave me company for a while, and said: “If you’re lucky you’ll see crocodiles.”
I kept my camera ready, but it wasn’t my lucky day. This said, the view was breathtaking, as the boat shot through the meanders of the narrowing river. Mountains appeared on the horizon, and the river cut through hilly terrain covered with Durians fruit trees. At a landing point called Long Banyak, the boat stopped and released a few passengers. We normally would have continued to a landing point called Tamalla somewhat higher up, but Maureen spotted a nephew in the crowd. She spontaneously decided to step out, chat with her nephew and look out for some road transport leading us to her native village, a lonely place called Long Bedian. Her nephew was a fairly athletic man in his late twenties, wearing dark sunglasses, and talking little. The kind of lonely man who thrive on the jungle frontier.
Long Banyak wasn’t anything but the warehouse of a large logging depot, built by tree trunks and wooden, irregular boards. A man’s world, it felt the stench of diesel, chain grease and sweat. It contained primitive sleeping quarters, a simple kitchen, and a radio room. A car arrived, and Maureen met another lady friend. She seemed to know about everybody out here. I walked through the house, to have a better look, as there was nothing else to do.
There was graffiti on the wall. It said:
“Love is killing, killing is love.”
A somewhat morose vision of the world, it fitted with the perceived reality of this tough place. On the wall hang Bowie knifes, machetes plus some cooking banana, and a company note, which strictly interdicted the sale of broken junk material.
I took some pictures to join Maureen, who sat in the smoldering heat under a sunroof, and waited for some transport. “Sit here, next to me,” she said and smiled. We might sit here until the cows come home, I thought. I was about to give up hope, when Maureen’s nephew reappeared. He beckoned us to follow him, and he invited us to climb into the cabin of his fifteen-ton-Mercedes diesel monster. There we where, on the dirt road, and the mighty truck rumbled up- and downhill along the jungle tracks. After some fifteen miles farther up river we reached Tamalla – a makeshift village in the vicinity of another huge logging depot. We said farewell to Maureen’s nephew, and continued our journey crammed into an aging Toyota pick-up.
“It’s one hour’s drive only,” said Maureen. I nodded with little enthusiasm, and I didn’t like the ‘only.’ On these forestry roads, there is little or no law- but be advised to follow the occasional arrow marks. These tell you on which side of the dirt road one should drive. Trucks, heavily loaded with tons of logs, thundered down the hill and plunged us into a cloud of red dust. Never get in the way of these guys! These scary diesel monsters can’t stop and won’t stop, because the breaks wouldn’t do, and the engine might blow, too. Closer to the village, the jungle receded being replaced by pepper plantation, rice paddy fields and hill flanks full of dry rice and corn.
Finally, at three-thirty in the afternoon, we reached Long Bedian. What a beautiful village! Draped around the crest of a hilltop, neat longhouses of the Kayan Tribe bathed in a gentle sunshine, whilst a range of high cloud-crested mountains loomed on the horizon.
“I’ll bring you to our three waterfalls,” said Maureen. But first we had to say hello to Uncle Jok, Uncle Lehan, Uncle Ngau and Uncle Joe. Maureen’s four uncles lived in one segment of the Longhouse, together with their family. Originally a warrior-headhunter tribe, these people were among the gentlest people I had ever met. I immediately felt accepted and the warmth of a strongly welded community. They looked at my face, gave me a smile without asking who I was or where I came from. After a friendly welcome with Maureen’s family, Uncle Jok’s and Uncle Lehan’s families joined as for a ride to take a bath under the waterfalls. After another thirty minutes of dirt road, we reached a lush valley in the shade of forbidding jungle-covered mountain crests. The area is currently being developed for jungle-hiking safaris and eco-tourism.
Steamy coolness filled the valley, and two branches with waterfalls merged into one stream of green ponds.
“Next time, you’ll come fishing here with me,” said Uncle Jok and smiled. We descended over clayey cliffs down to the river, and had a refreshing bath under the waterfalls. It felt wonderful to wash away the long day’s dust and sweat.
After a while Maureen gathered with her aunties, and I saw from their faces, that they were discussing a difficult subject. I didn’t understand anything what they were saying, but when I inquired from Maureen later, she said:
“ Look at the pretty lady with the long black hair, over there near the waterfall. She is my cousin L. (I’ll call her Lina for the sake of privacy). Well, Lina, she is only sixteen, but she is on drugs. She goes with a Chinese ‘gangsta,’ and she is also pregnant already. They took her to a pub, and gave her stuff to drink. She is on ‘Ice’ now.”
I was shocked. Can this be true ? It gave me the creeps. There was the lush scenery of this almost pristine landscape, which didn’t jive with this saddening story. If drugs can make it until this pristine spot, where will it ever stop, I asked myself.
Gradually, our family finished their bath. We were ready to go back to the car. It was getting dark when we drove back. Black, heavy clouds loomed ahead of us, and it was thundering. Uncle Jok picked a few veggies from the open fern field, and finally joined us. I sat on the open pickup as we drove, and I wondered what would happen. Somehow we arrived almost dry at the village.
Uncle Lehan’s bunch went to the kitchen to cook dinner, whilst Maureen and Uncle Jok guided me around the longhouses of the village. Longhouses are common for all the Borneo tribes. It’s a way of living, and results in very strong, intimate communities. The longest one measured some 800 feet, and Maureen introduced me to seven aunties, eleven cousins, five uncles and four nephews. I noticed that the elderly people had plenty of tattoos, and the long earlaps that are typical for the Orang Ulu headhunter tribes. They looked so happy. I had never seen so many happy old people.
But I was a little nervous, too. Monday morning was only some eight hours away, and I had to be back in the office by Tuesday morning. And we hadn’t solved our transport problem yet.
Before heading home, Uncle Jok introduced us to another cousin. This one was busy exchanging the air filter on a Ford Ranger pick-up. We talked a little before he agreed to drive us back to town for some 120 RM ($ 35). He new a new shortcut through the jungle, he said.
“If we are, I’ll drive you down in four hours. We’ll leave at seven, sharp.” He friendly nodded with the smile of a man, who says what he means. We went back to Uncle Jok’s and had an opulent meal of river fish and fresh jungle veggies. It had been a long day, my head looked like a tomato, and I felt very tired.
I went to bed and fell asleep- to wakeup two hours later with the buzz of mosquitoes feeding on my legs. But I felt too tired to fight them off, and slept until Maureen woke me up at six. Another bright morning, we had a quick breakfast. At seven we saw the red Ranger coming down the hill. The double-cabin was already more than full with a fat lady, her skinny husband and a number of kids. I had the honor to sit next to the driver, whilst some kids were relocated onto the open loading deck. Maureen squeezed into the cabin with the fat lady, the husband and the remainder of the kids. The cousin drove like a devil, chasing up and down the hills on narrow dirt roads, whilst overtaking any car ahead. “They clock up my dust filter,” he said and smiled. “A clocked dust filter means no power, and I need any bit of power for these roads.”
He drove yet another shortcut, before stopping the car. The skinny husband puked, after being squeezed by the ladies like a lemon on this rollercoaster. He relocated to the pickup deck, too. After one hour, we reached a large village called Long Lama. It’s a place on the upper Baram, and receives two boats per day. We stopped, and had another 2 $ noodle breakfast in the shade on the riverbanks. Maureen went out to buy jumbo prawns, but couldn’t find any – she bought instead a load of fresh river fish, after having met a few more aunties. We crossed the river on a private ferry.
They charged us RM 15 ($ 4) for a distance of only 500 feet. “Bloodsuckers,” grumbled my driver cousin called Ding, before pushing the pedal and to race into the jungle. After an hour of a rugged ride through forests, along limestone quarries the forest dirt road ended, to continue as pebble road through endless waves of palm tree plantations.
These gradually replace the jungle. It’s a double business. First you loot and sell the valuable timber, then burn and bulldoze the remainder, and plant palm trees. The people that live in the jungle loose their very existence, and so do primates and other wild animals. So what? They don’t have a lobby, don’t vote, they don’t count. Another sad story to be told.
With the end of the palm plantations, I had hoped the road would improve, but this wasn’t the case. A government-built road, it was full of potholes.
“Every time we are up for elections, they promise us a nice tarmac cover. But when the elections are over, nothing ever happens,” said my driver cousin Ding.
“It’s everywhere like this,” I answered laconically. Finally, our torture was over as we reached the junction at the Bintulu-Miri trunk road. We stopped to have another small bite in the shade of palm-leaf huts, and consumed a few chicken wings and sausages that grilled on open fire. I looked back to the mountains with a grain of nostalgia. In an hour’s drive, I would be back in the comfort of my air-conditioned apartment. But was it really worth living in such boring comfort? For a while, perhaps.
© 2004, text and photo, by Franz L Kessler
