‘Memory is the diary we all carry about with us.’
– Oscar Wilde (1854-1900); an Irish author, poet, and playwright
IT was a warm night one Saturday in 1964, and I had decided to spend the early part of it fishing at my favourite spots along the lower part of a mountain stream that flows by my village. It is the same stream that passes by our house, but farther, down past the village, it is slightly wider, and where there are pools, they are deeper and bigger — perfect spots to catch catfish.
Alas, nowadays, nobody fishes there anymore because with the village having a much bigger population and too much wastewater flowing directly into the waterway, the stream has become quite polluted. In contrast, the stream was in pristine condition up until the early 1970s, by which time I had finished secondary school.
Beyond the pleasures of reading and the thrill of playing football, angling — the art of fishing — held a special place in my heart as a cherished pastime. Not only did it provide much amusement and unbridled excitement, but it was also a source of great pleasure. What’s more, the bounty of fish it yielded never failed to delight my family, who relished it as their favourite fare.
My top favourite was catfish, especially when mixed with ‘tempoyak’ (preserved durian paste) and cooked in a bamboo stem. This dish never failed to transport me to culinary heaven and left me blissfully content until my next meal.
So, there I was, an 11-year-old boy perched on a weathered log, my feet dangling over the edge and my eyes fixed on the dark waters below.
The moon had yet to rise, and the only semblance of light came from an old brass reflector lamp that sat beside me. It was a hand-me-down from my father after he bought a new one for himself.
The lamp emitted a weak, yellowish glow that barely illuminated my surroundings but was enough to help me with the task at hand.
After waiting for what seemed hours, my patience began to wane, and my hopes dwindled with each passing minute. I had cast my line multiple times, but the fish were not biting. It was as if they had all decided to take the night off, leaving me stranded on the log with nothing to show for my efforts.
Despite my disappointment, I refused to give up. I was determined to catch at least one fish before the night was over. So, I sat there, my eyes glued to the water, and my mind wandering. I thought about my father and how much he loved fishing. It was his passion.
As I sat there lost in thought, the silence was broken by a sudden commotion in the water somewhere downstream. I picked up my lamp and went to check what it was. To my surprise, I saw ripples forming on the surface and a fish jumping out of the water. My heart leapt with excitement, and I quickly re-baited my hook and cast the line out into the water.
Almost immediately, I felt a tug on the line, and before I knew it, I had a catfish on the other end. I pulled it in and quickly re-baited my hook a second time.
As soon as I cast my line out again, I got another bite, and then another. I caught five before the fish stopped biting. I was considering moving to another spot when I heard another commotion in the water, and again it was downstream.
I literally ran towards the sound and soon I was catching catfish one after another in quick succession, barely able to keep up with pulling them in and unhooking them.
It was a feeding frenzy, and the catfish were biting like crazy. I never had so much fun fishing in my life.
As the night wore on, I realised that I had caught more fish in one outing than I had in the last month.
With that realisation, I decided to call it a night and started to pack my gear. I figured that if I caught any more fish, they would be too heavy to carry home by myself.
As I threaded my way through the thick undergrowth, the humid air clung to my sweaty skin. I carefully navigated, mindful of the old kerosene lamp in my hand. The lamp was my only source of light, and without it, I would be stranded in the dark.
As I came to a fork in the trail, I paused, trying to remember which way to go. But my mind was blank, the memory of the path ahead lost in a fog of confusion.
In an effort to stay calm, I reminded myself that I fished in the stream several times before and knew the trail to my village like I knew the back of my hand. So, I carefully examined the trails.
The left one seemed to lead uphill while the right one was a little flatter and seemed to continue through the dense forest. I had to make a decision. Should I forge ahead, hoping that I was heading in the right direction, or should I backtrack?
With a heavy sigh, I decided to retrace my steps to re-establish my sense of direction using the stream as a point of reference.
As I arrived at the water’s edge, I realised that my excitement had carried me much farther down the winding stream than I had intended. The unfamiliar surroundings left me feeling disorientated until my father’s words from our past fishing trips along the same stream echoed in my mind.
“Remember, our house is up there,” he had said, pointing in the direction of the towering mountain that watched over our village. “No matter how far you venture downstream, you won’t get lost. If you lose your way along the jungle trails, always return to the stream. The flow of the water will guide you.”
With my father’s voice ringing in my ears, I resumed my journey, my weak lamp casting a dim light on the twisted vines and towering trees that loomed around me. The night was alive with the sounds of the jungle, insects buzzing and birds calling out from the canopy overhead.
But after walking for several minutes, I began to doubt if I had chosen the right path. The trail twisted and turned in ways that seemed unfamiliar, and my lamp flickered, threatening to die out any moment. I stopped to shake it gently, listening to the sloshing sound of the kerosene, which told me that it wouldn’t last long. Despite my desire for brighter light, I refrained from turning up the wick, mindful of the dwindling fuel.
As I paused at the bottom of a hill to catch my breath, I decided to go a little farther before deciding whether or not to backtrack once more.
To my great relief, upon cresting the hill I beheld a sight that filled me with extreme joy. It was the main path used daily by the villagers to go to and from their paddy farms, rubber gardens, or the surrounding forests. And there, right beside the well-trodden path was a familiar landmark, a giant tree that I had always called Si Dahi.
In Bukar-Sadung, a Bidayuh dialect spoken in Serian District, “si” is the same as the Malay “si”, which is the equivalent of the English “the”, while “dahi” means big or large. So, Si Dahi literally means “the big one”. The tree was not only very wide at the base; it was also very tall.
The village folks knew it by a different name but as I was more interested in it as a prominent landmark, I personify it with a name, much like we label things, places, and people.
Its big gnarled roots that protruded above ground served as seats for whoever felt the need to take a breather on the way home.
Si Dahi was more than just a tree to me; it was a symbol of home, of familiarity, of belonging. Its towering height and massive girth spoke of the resilience and strength of the land and the perseverance of its people.
As I sank down onto one of its gnarled roots, my body trembling with fatigue, I felt a surge of emotion wash over me.
I was still a mile or so from our house, but leaning against the great old Si Dahi made me feel safe. And as I sat there, I felt deep gratitude to my father for his instructions about the jungle.
I never said anything about that fishing trip to my parents. As far as I was concerned it was a tough solo lesson that impressed upon me how the jungle can be a harsh and unforgiving environment for those who are not familiar with its ways.
It is a place where survival is the ultimate goal, and every creature must adapt to its surroundings in order to thrive
For those who are uninitiated, the jungle can be a dangerous place. The thick foliage and dense undergrowth can make it difficult to navigate, and the presence of predators such as snakes and other wild animals can make it a perilous place to be.
To survive in the jungle, one must have a certain level of knowledge and experience. This includes knowledge of the flora and fauna, as well as an understanding of the weather patterns and other environmental factors that can affect one’s survival.
It is also important to have the proper equipment and supplies, food and water, and appropriate clothing and shelter for long trips. Without these essentials, even the most experienced jungle dwellers can find themselves in trouble.
It should be noted that I was a jungle boy and brought up in many of the ways of the wilderness. I knew what I was doing, yet I was unprepared for the brief lapse of memory that caused familiar trails to vanish right before my eyes. It was scary and a hard lesson indeed.
The views expressed here are those of the writer and do not necessarily represent the views of the New Sarawak Tribune.
