I first saw the Rajang River through the silver mist of dawn.
At the time, I was emptied by the loss of my grandfather; part of my soul felt as though hollowed, leaving a cold, echoing ache. A friend had told me, “Go to the Rajang. Its waters have a way of carrying sorrow toward the sea.”
Sceptical but desperate for peace, I stepped onto a salt-worn longboat. The boatman was an Iban elder whose face was a map of the river itself, wrinkles branching like winding tributaries. He didn’t ask much; simply steering us into the heart of the current and cut the engine.
We drifted. The world narrowed to the rhythmic lap of water against the hull and the occasional cry of a hornbill overhead. After a long silence, the elder spoke. “Do you know? This river knows how to cry, and it knows how to laugh.”
