In the previous episode, the missionary arrived in Miri, a modest coastal town that served as the administrative centre of Sarawak’s Fourth Division. The episode explored the town’s unique character, from its palm-fringed streets and bustling bazaar to the mission house and church nestled behind government offices. We were introduced to the rhythms of mission life, the challenges faced by early pioneers like Fr Henry Jansen, and the evolving community shaped by both local traditions and new arrivals. As the story unfolded, the missionary’s experiences highlighted the spirit of adaptation and perseverance, setting the stage for further adventures and deeper connections in the next chapter of this ongoing journey.
Each day for me was a new and wonderful experience; the people, their dress, the languages, the palm trees and flowers with their lovely scent, the colours, the sounds, the monsoon rains, thundering on the roof, the sticky heat afterwards, the sudden sunrises and the green, pearl, vermilion, magenta sunsets and the almost immediate nightfall. I loved every moment of it. I felt I was in Paradise.
After a day or two one of the priests asked me if I would like to accompany him on a pastoral visit to a longhouse among the Ibans. These are the same tribe as the famous headhunters of Borneo I got hold of an Iban phrasebook and set about memorising a few useful phrases. The writer was to be my parish priest for the next five years. It did not harm our relationship when he heard I had studied his little book. Later on in Seria the bishop on a visit had criticised my use of an Iban phrase. He was a linguist. I can still see the quiet smirk on the parish priest’s face when I defended my choice by quoting from the small book. It was not quite on the level of Herod and Pilate shaking hands but I was getting there. But my application to the language was quite superficial for I knew that I would not need it in my future appointment. Little did I know that in every posting I would have in the future I would need this language. Right up to my last years in Brunei I was using Iban more and more in my pastoral work. In fact Malay is the official language in Malaysia as it is in Brunei yet the Ibans are so ubiquitous that their language prevails over all others. The Sarawak Field Force is recruited from all the tribes yet Iban is the common language spoken and understood by all.
It was a long day of excitement for me, the day of our departure. The boat would leave at 8 pm. I was to find in Borneo that time is not what we were told about when we studied Philosophy. It was only more so and also approximate especially connected with transport. .But unlike Godot it always turned up. I had already had a private view of the type of vessel we were to sail in. It is called locally a “Chinese launch”. It always reminds me of those illustrations in the bible of Noah’s Ark. It is a tight little craft, with rounded hull, compact, with windows let into the sides. There is no deck. There is a hold for goods and passengers, who are provided with a bench which runs round the side. The engine was in the stern. Simplicity is the word. Our destination was an Iban longhouse, Rumah Pidek ( Pidek’s house) on the river of that name which was a tributary of Sibuti River. In that area were the famous Batu Caves which were featured on BBC TV some years ago.
I had no idea whatsoever of what lay before me. It was going to be a journey of several hours and it was a wet and squally night. But first we had to eat. All the noise of the day had gone as the shopkeepers pulled down their shutters and went to bed. One coffee shop remained open perhaps for the convenience of late travellers like ourselves. We were glad to get shelter from the cold rain but soon the heat of the kitchen and the smell of the sizzling frying pans with the smoky atmosphere made me wonder whether I would not have been better outside in the rain. We ordered mee hoon, a fried noodle dish, that stands high in the affections of the Chinese. It is the original junk food- much like the beloved fish and chips in Britain. Of course it is very tasty, oily and entirely suitable on such a wild night. It was monsoon time, which goes from mid-October till the end of January, traditionally the time of Chinese New Year. Borneo is known as ” the land below the wind” because the monsoon winds blow north of the island and rarely inflict damage except on innocents like myself- but that was a long way off.
Our little boat was waiting, tugging strongly at its moorings, swaying rather dangerously- in my opinion. We had to mount the gangplank carefully in the darkness with the crew lending a hand. We headed for the hold to stake our place to stretch out. The engine notched up another couple of revvs. We were moving. The Miri River, like all the North Borneo rivers, has a sandbar which has to be treated very carefully. I was fascinated to hear the voice of the pilot intoning the varying depths as we crawled through the sand bar- just like those movies of the old sailing ships. Everyone listened for it was in their interests to do so.
Get ready for a wild ride in the next episode, where our intrepid missionary swaps the relative comforts of a government bungalow for a pitch-black, stomach-churning voyage along the South China Sea, only to be greeted by a canoe so delicate it makes a paper boat look sturdy. With crocodiles lurking beneath the black water, tattooed Iban headmen as guides, and the ever-present threat of mosquito mutiny, this chapter promises more than just spiritual adventure—it’s a test of nerves, balance, and the ability to keep one’s legs from cramping at the worst possible moment. Brace yourself for mishaps, marvels, and a dash of missionary mischief as the journey upriver truly begins!
