By Christine Coburn
Kuala Balai ... the 'original', is hardly a place where one would expect to have a great night out. It lies deep in the jungle, a tiny hamlet at the confluence of the river Belait and its tributary.
The small settlement's larger offspring, the coastal town of Kuala Belait, is a throbbing metropolis by comparison. There would be no bright city lights or discotheques down there we thought. We were wrong. A great night out is exactly what we did have in that remote kampong, deep in the heart of Brunei's rainforest.
Some friends had suggested the riverside village as the ideal weekend retreat, a barbeque by the river and an overnight stay, and they had booked a night in the traditional longhouse that had been erected as an outdoor recreational centre. A small group of us set off late in the afternoon, down the long track which leads to Kuala Balai.
The jeep carrying some of our party bit the dust and potholes with relative ease. The sky was blue still, the late afternoon sun delineating the beautiful backdrop of the forest skyline along our route past smallholdings which gradually petered out until we were in almost uninhabited jungle. The forest canopy of Brunei is unique inasmuch as it is varied in character, less dense than most rainforests, interspersed with small stands of huge trees and the home of flying lizards, unique to Borneo. I had never seen one but kept a look out nonetheless. A couple of coucal, large hen like birds, rewarded me, and the incessant drone of cicadas lent a magical atmosphere as we rounded the last bend and came in view of the tiny kampong of Kuala Balai.
I heard the whoop of monkeys. A couple of cars parked beside the road had disgorged their passengers who were now fishing in the ditches; fishing for a small catfish, which when boiled into a gelatinous soup is reputed to assist post operative recovery. So I'm told!
We parked our cars and set off on the path along the boardwalk to the longhouse, a short distance from the road, past stands of bamboo, past monkey laden palms into the garden walkways of the longhouse clearing right on the banks of the slow flowing stretch of water. Across the river lies the famous skull-house that we had visited by boat many times. We settled on the landing stage, enjoying the evening sun, and waited for the arrival of our companions and a group of local Balai people, now living in the 'metropolis' who were to act as our hosts for the evening.
We declined the offer of the grill they had prepared for us at the back of the longhouse and instead hooted as some of our friends erected the strangest tripod barbeque that somewhere between its erection and the char-grilled to perfection fish dish, wobbled on its legs and toppled over, much to the amusement of our hosts and those of us who had eyed the strange affair with apprehension. Steve Shim, our trip co-ordinator, sprang to the rescue, salvaged the wonky barbeque, and worked tirelessly as barb e chef, until the sun dipped below the horizon, and the fairy lights, the generator hum and the cassette recorder all came into play and the peace of the jungle and the quiet reverie we had previously enjoyed were now given over to the sounds of a promising party about to begin.
Two cultures met that evening like the confluence of two rivers and formed a happy amalgam. It was a night to remember, everyone seemed to have a good time. The cool jungle air sat balmily on our shoulders and the river breathed its night-time scents of living things below its surface. Its inky blackness was illuminated here and there with the stars in the firmament and a beautiful ancient moon shone benignly on our antics.
I wandered down to the landing stage at the water's edge. As I gazed at the silent hypnotic flow, I was joined by one of the older Balai men who came carrying a torch. The river at night, and its dimensions, had reminded me much of a night I had spent on the Kinabattang river, and the elderly gentleman had read my mind. He shone his torch swiftly across the water and into the night sky. There were no red eyes in the torchlight beam; maybe on this occasion the creatures of the night, and the crocodiles, preferred to be out of earshot of the party music. Although the noise was melodious, not dischordant, its gentle strains drifted on the breeze and I could see that that more than a couple of our party were engaged in the dancing initially performed by the older men.
I rejoined the group. The graceful movements of the local dance, seemingly simple, proved strenuous to our unaccustomed western styles. There were hoots of laughter as some of our group tried to imitate the seriously graceful movements of the hornbill.
The calm deliberation of the older men, the anima of the jungle and its rhythms were reflected in the quiet serenity of their eyes. And much mirth was elicited by our clumsy attempts to copy them.
A good time was had by all, a second supper ensued and the celebration continued 'til well after midnight. I settled into my bed to the strains of gentle music. The older stalwarts seemed to need no sleep.
The gentle breeze dropped, the night became hot, I tossed on the foam mattress in one of the 'rumah cecil' reserved for the ladies, whilst the older members and some of our group partied on.
My friend Moira had brought along a mosquito coil, though I never saw a single one! It proved more malodorous than the perfumed tree bark the locals were burning and the modern foam rubber was sticky and cloying compared with the cool touch of the polished rattan floor-covering. I opted for the more comfortable floor. I thought about the items I had bought from one of the ladies, the neatly woven mat, a beautiful polished coconut ladle what a superbly innovative lifestyle jungle peoples live. Tomorrow it was back to the oil fields and the plastic by-products of society as we know it, but for now I drifted into the sweet embrace of the jungle, safe in the longhouse and my dreams. Kuala Belait was a whole world away.
Courtesy of Borneo Bulletin Weekend
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