Chugging up the river, bound for Bingo

Press, 28 December 1989, Page 17

Chugging up the river, bound for Bingo

LOREEN BREHAUT

?, whose husband is an oilfield engineer in Sarawak,

writes about a trip upriver in Borneo and an ape rehabilitation project.

WE WERE ON the wharf at 7.30 on a clear morning. The previous afternoon, we had spent quite a while discussing with boatmen and casual passers-by what time boats left to various destinations.

There had been much hilarity and willingness to help, but very little information. We turned up to take our chances.

It appeared from the signboards each express-boat now displayed that the next was leaving for Binyo at 8 o’clock.

None of us had ever heard of Binyo. I searched my map while my friends discussed times of arrival, price of tickets and the possibility of a return trip the same day. None of us were keen to spend an unscheduled night in a remote Borneo village. It seemed that Binyo was two-and-a-half hours upsteam. A return boat would leave there at noon. We boarded.

Other passengers found us a highly-entertaining group, with our sunburnt white faces, cameras and a map. They asked

where we were going. Binyo? Why? Just for the ride? Really, foreigners are funny.

We offered the map so we could be shown where Binyo was. They politely studied it, passing it from hand to hand, and looking at it closely. Clearly, none of them could make any sense of it.

“Side river,” a young woman suddenly said, and everyone nodded. I studied the map again. There were a multitude of branches drawn as faint wavy lines all along the river’s course. Some of them had indistinct names.

Promptly at eight, the boat set off with a powerful surge of engines. The plain wooden seats were confortable, and from the windows (which we promptly opened) we had a waterline view and a refreshing breeze. The locals all kept their windows tightly closed and turned on the rotating fans which swung about, dangerously close to their heads, banging and grinding on every sweep.

Someone turned on the video at the front of the cabin. A Chinese movie began, the colours very bad, the volume very loud. The locals sat, entranced. We stared out of the windows.

Along the river banks, swampy palm growth alternated with the coconut plantations and gardens of native longhouses. Some of these were large villages of 50 or more families, all under one long roof.

The boat would occasionally stop to put down or take on passengers or freight. Women crouching on floating logs, doing their laundry, would glance up briefly. Sometimes whole families would be bathing in the shallows — young girls washing their hair, or small, lathered children jumping into the water to rinse off.

Between these settlements was jungle. Tall trees pushed up through undergrowth six metres high, all matted with vines and creepers. Occasionaly waxy orange flowers hung down and were reflected in the dark brown water. Twice, a massive hornbill, the totemic bird of Sarawak, leaped from a high branch and flapped noisily across the river. On the video, men in suits with green faces stepped into taxis and rushed along crowded city streets looking serious. Outside, there were single houses, their only access the river, built on tall piles. Their outhouses floated over the river shallows. Sometimes they were built together into large kampongs, with a whole row of outhouses along the riverbank. Then our boat would nose its

way between two of these flimsy toilets so that someone could leap off with their shopping from the big town downstream. At one village a small, wiry man sitting opposite me suddenly sprang to life. Until now he had showed no interest in us, nor had he joined in the discussion about our destination. Now he pointed at the village. “Pandan!” he announced. “Labang!” he pointed to the river on our left. “Binyo!” he indicated right. I was impressed. No wasted effort trying to explain technicalities to people who didn’t understand the language. He’d waited until we got to the appropriate branch of the river, then he could explain it all clearly with no unnecessary words or gestures.

He sank back into his seat, smiling broadly. Several of his teeth were missing, his throat was heavily tattooed, his earlobes were stretched in the oldfashioned way. For the next hour, he appointed himself my guide. He directed when I should be ready with my camera, named the villages we passed. We passed huge barges loaded with jungle logs, on their way down to the sea, and empty barges being towed back up the river. There were log-rafts being pulled downstram by small motorboats. Plenty of escapee timber floated downstream unannounced. We had noticed that all the express-boats carry a spare propeller shaft — striking a submerged log occasionally must be

inevitable. There was other river traffic. A small boy paddled across the river to a house on the other side, the Borneo version of taking a basket to Granny, perhaps. In the shaded shallows there would sometimes be a man standing in a tiny skiff, throwing a net into the water, or a couple sitting quietly tending their handlines. Family-sized longboats, crowded with people and belongings, would be steered confidently by father in the stem with his prized outboard. The video had now changed to all-star wrestling, complete with enthusiastic American commentary. Huge, strangely-coloured men grappled each other. Binyo was finally reached, exactly at the scheduled time. It turned out to be a timber-loading area, not a village. One of the huge timber companies has a logging camp inland. A large group of employees live in the middle of the jungle. The timber they fell is hauled down a clay road to the river depot, then

barged to the sea. Binyo felt like the Wild West. There was one trader, mainly a clearing-house for foodstuffs being sent to the inland camp: sacks of rice, cartons of canned drinks, trays of eggs. In this unlikely place we were given coffee laced with sweet-ened-condensed milk and a packet of sugary crackers. Dozens of locals took turns to stand around and stare at us as we consumed this, an occasional brave soul asking our destination. We saw our boat’s cargo being unloaded, including a carton of ornate golden sports trophies. A fighting cock, tethered by one foot, and firmly tucked under its owner’s arm like a fancy handbag, went ashore. A friendly bystander told us that this branch of the river is famous for crocodiles. Our downstream journey was spent competing to sight them basking on logs or muddy banks while our fellow passengers devoted themselves to the vicarious excitement video.