The Kapuas

The Kapuas River, Kalimantan, Indonesia

On a river boat. On Indonesia’s longest river. Travelling from Pontianak to Putussibau. Why not fly? Why take a week when you could have done it in an hour or two?

Why not? I needed to get to Putussibau and I had a few days to spare. I did not feel like going back to Jakarta so decided to explore; after all, I had already walked from Samarinda to Pontianak. (see Crossing Kalimantan) That taught me that boat travel was easier. So…

Two days into a trip which so far had been a gradation from urban to less urban to marginally forested to totally forested: except where loggers were busy evading detection under military protection.

It was still dark on the third morning as I extricated myself from some sacks of rice where I had wedged my sleeping bag (I had bought a new one since my encounter with the snake in the jungle.) I stumbled into the wheelhouse where Simon, the skipper, hardly noticed me. He was focused on the on the shadowy threats of the river.

He flapped a hand at a thermos of coffee that Wati, the boat’s cook, had prepared.

Black. More sugar than coffee. Typical Indonesian sludge; I could never get used to it, but on a river in a wooden boat in a jungle it was great.

 I took my coffee and crawled out onto the bow. The darkened jungle fluttered in and out of sight in the heavy morning mist. The sun was still considering whether to make its searing presence felt.

I sat for a while enjoying the breeze and the coolness. It would not last all that long as we wandered along a line that zigzagged across the equator several times.

The third day. We were only half way.  I sat scrunched up with my coffee and peering into the disappearing gloom. There was definitely more jungle here. No huts or kampungs. The river seemed narrower. Was it flowing faster?

I needed to relieve myself so wandered to the back of the boat where a rickety plank fixed with blue tack to the outside of the keel made for a perilous seat as one let everything go directly into the river. The stains on the keel below the apparatus suggested that stomach problems were common.

Back in the wheelhouse, Simon kept a close lookout for the swirls of current that marked half-hidden logs. It was still early morning and the sun was still trying to break through.

We passed a small kampung. Villagers washing the river waved at us as we passed. A fisherman in his dugout canoe carried out his daily dawn patrol around the fish traps.

As on my trip to Muna, (see the previous chapter:  Magnificent Muna) I was reminded of Joseph Conrad. He too had traced paths like this in Borneo. Meanwhile, the old wooden cargo boat—the Bintang Prima—shuddered against the increasing current. Such boats themselves are part of a tradition that went back for centuries, even before Conrad’s time.

Malay and Chinese traders used them for there often nefarious but also essential trade. They also offered protection: this place had been the playground of headhunters. Being able to make a quick getaway from Iban invaders helped the traders keep their heads.  

The Bintang Prima had plied these waters for over thirty years. Simon and his crew spent most of those years living on board. This was their life as they traded between the coast and the farthest navigable reaches of the interior—almost 1,000 kilometres.

What did they carry upstream? Food, electrical gear and mountains of plastic goods. On the return journey they carried anything from illegally culled animal parts for Chinese traditional medicines, rubber, timber, birds’ nests and a few baskets of fruit. The so-called medicines fetched an incredible price from Pontianak’s Chinese traders.

I recalled my walk across the island and our stumbling across the corpses of animals of all kinds, most endangered, all killed for one small item such as their kidney or bile.

Wati and the other cooks who worked the riverboats made money on the side selling clothes. She did not always travel on the Bintang Prima. Unloading could take days so she and her fellow cooks jumped ship, so to speak. They probably could have made more working riverside brothels. Wati was made of sterner stuff.

We rounded a bend—I think it was the ten thousandth—and Simon pointed out a rickety wharf. We were going to stop for a while. Great: a rest. On dry land. I love boats, but four days on a wooden boat battling slowly up a river at a speed that allows trees to grow visibly has minor down sides.

Whenever a boat arrived, the communities sprung into life. Everyone would bustle round the jetty laughing and smiling, all most welcoming. Then we would be dragged off for coffee or a drink and a chat: a bit like the bush telegraph in Australia: keeping in touch with the outside world. The camaraderie was palpable.

In some of the larger towns such as Selimbau there were always a few boats moored but the excitement was still there. At no stage in the long journey did I sense any ill will or ill feeling: even the various crews were like an extended family. As with so many parts of rural Indonesia, here was the true pleasure of hum love and society.

Funnily, but not surprisingly, the further up river and the farther away from those who might notice, the more the crews relaxed. Gambling, drinking, visits to the ladies: it was all par for the course. Any religious strictures are fine as long as you followed them when it was politically correct so to do.

One of the crew—Bambang—even took a liking to me and made ‘certain suggestions’ which involved staying on the boat while the rest were rabble rousing.

The evening over, we returned to the boat and to our sumptuous accommodation. Simon, as befits the owner, had his own cabin furnished with a mattress. It seemed entirely possible that the bed lice and cockroaches could carry it in each evening. He scratched a lot, as did the crew, and as, eventually, did I. I wondered what else was living in the rice sack I had molded into a Japanese pillow. The crew made do with wherever they could lay their mats. Bambang moved frequently during the night. Poor boy: he just could not get any satisfaction.

As Simon threaded the Bintang Prima between the curves and currents he had to hug the bank to avoid what always fascinated and amazed me: I had seen them on the Kapuas near Semarang and in Sumatra on the Musi. Hundreds of logs are lashed together with rattan cord and the raft resulting island (about 500 square metres) is towed all the way downriver to Pontianak by a few small trading boats. The raft crews erect plastic-sheeted tents on the logs. Their job is to inspect the rattan ties. They strolled confidently over the floating platform. I tried not to think about what would happen if the raft buckled.

We arrived at a settlement called Semitau in the early afternoon but stayed on. Simon was not keen to continue into the evening on this part of the river.

‘Bahaya!’ he frowned.

Danger indeed. The river had already begun to curve almost violently. Whirlpools abounded. Currents snatched the boat and threatened to spin it round. It was wise to wait till dawn. A wise captain knew his limits and his river.

Just as will. Judging from the talisman on the boats I saw, the crews were covering all bases: the Koran, crosses, statues of Buddha and Ganesha: if it was protection we needed, we had it.

But I trusted Simon before the trinkets.