Ode to Conrad: a Borneo River

The lights of the boat dimly shine through the blanket of fog covering the river, whether it’s a trick of the mind or not, you can not tell. Standing with you on the meager jetty of logs anchored to the river bottom with rocks are entire families, some from Sulawesi, some from Samarinda, some from villages in the jungle not even Livingston could have found. They carry their entire lives with them on this journey and as you watch the boat approach and feel the water churning beneath the swaying logs you stand on, you can’t help but wonder what kind of lives these people lead, that they find themselves here at this hour, on this river.

The boat pulls up, silently beckoning you and your fellow mariners aboard. Only one man steps off the boat, he wears a shirt that might have once been a bright red but now has faded and darkened to something more akin to blood than anything else. On his waist he carries the weapon of his people, an intricate Mandau of Dayak make, his arms are covered in tattoo’s, depicting his status among his tribe as well as his deeds, what those are, you’ll never know.

You watch him walk up the jetty and as you do it seems that he is just as out of place as you, people stare at his markings and his weapon with intrigued, side-long glances, either he ignores their stares or doesn’t acknowledge them, but either way he walks proudly and defiantly into the rumble of traffic of the 21st century.

Your attention turns back to the boat, which is now about to leave you behind, stepping on as she pulls away from the dock you glance around at the people aboard with you, old, young, some too old, some too young, all poor, all spending a years worth of savings to make the trip up river. On the upper deck are the ones who were lucky enough to get beds for the overnight journey.

Men sit talking softly, smoking cigarettes, mothers play with their children, but many people simply sleep the hours away, either too tired or uncaring to take interest in the journey they’re on. From a window you can see the mist lifting up from the river, unveiling something infinitely more ominous, the jungles of Borneo stare at you with the eyes of a million creatures. It seems to you that there are in fact gods here, cruel, heartless gods who would equally grace you with the bounty of the forest as feed you to it.

Now the mist is gone, you can see the jungle rising up endlessly over the hills, a sea of trees surrounds you, only the river cuts through it all, the brown brackish waters taking you further and further beyond the grasp of modern man. Sometimes you can see his mark, a meager settlement, a run down logging camp, even the deepest reaches of Borneo are not immune, but the farther you go, the less scars there are on the land.

As the sun sets over the jungle is when you hear the sound, against the thunder sounding overhead, over the racket of noise from the boats engine, through the chatter of fellow boat mates, you can hear an army of insects hissing violently in the trees at your passing. It’s the jungle, simply reminding you that this is not your native land, and that to tempt the gods here is to tempt death, and they will most happily oblige.

On the morning of the second day, after the rain and the thunder has dissipated, you arrive at your destination, which is not a settlement by any means, in fact the boat carrying you hardly stops at all, instead a small speed boat pulls up alongside the steamer and a man gets out “Long Bagun, Long Paranhai” he yells, repeating it over and over again.

You and a few others step forward, a foreigner is among them, he is a soft kind of traveler, unprepared for the trials of Borneo. “Doesn’t this boat go to Long Paranhai?” “No, too big, ship sink” is the answer he gets. Everyone gets packed into the tiny speed boat and within moments the river steamer that protected you from the beasts of the jungle is far behind. No one speaks in the speed boat, the roar of the motors is simply too loud, the other foreigner tries to speak to you but you simply can not stand looking at him.

A child in natures playground, eager to explore the dense jungle. Young, stupid, nature won’t hesitate to kill you both if one of you fucks up in the jungle. You pass fisherman in small canoes, and you pass jungle, always you pass jungle, every tree home to some alien species that can likely end your life within moments of coming into contact.

The hours roll by, finally you see the makings of another jetty and your boat slows down and pulls up alongside what can only be described as usable wreckage. Only fifty meters from the river is the village, about six shops, a single losmen, and only sections of a bad road, the rest being dirt and mud. An old longhouse sits unused as people walk by.

An elderly woman makes her way along the road, passing you you can’t help but stare at the earlobes which reach her shoulders, the rings of gold still dangling from them. She stares back, equally in awe of you as you are of her. Perhaps frightened at the prospect of tourists this far up river, perhaps taking offense at your blatant staring, her eyes give no hint as to her thoughts, whatever they are she breaks the eye contact and continues on as if she had never seen you at all. What you are thinking though, is quite clear; that it’s far too easy to become Kurtz.