‘The journey of a thousand miles begins with one step.’
— Lao Tzu, also known as Laozi, an ancient Chinese philosopher and writer, traditionally considered the founder of Taoism (Daoism). He is best known for his work, the Tao Te Ching, a foundational text of Taoist philosophy. His teachings promote
During the year-end school holiday of 1964, a group of us boys embarked on an ambitious endeavour — to build a bamboo bridge. The key word here is “tried”. We were young and small, and honestly, the task was well beyond our capabilities. Still, the spark of adventure and the allure of doing something extraordinary drove us forward.
The bridge was meant to span a twenty-foot-wide river about a hundred meters from our farmhouse. The idea was born out of sheer curiosity and determination to challenge ourselves, coupled with the desire to have some fun during the long school break.
Back then, fun was something you had to invent for yourself. Without TV, smartphones, or malls, our imaginations were our playground, and our hands were our tools.
From the outset, we knew this would be a monumental challenge. But we didn’t fully grasp how monumental until we got started. Let me clarify something: we had no clue about bridge building.
To us, a bridge was simply any structure that allowed people to cross a river without getting wet, whether it was elegant or a rickety deathtrap. That was all that mattered.
We also made a pact early on: if the bridge stopped being fun to build, we’d abandon the project. After all, what was the point if we were miserable? The whole idea was to have fun, to laugh and experiment, and to see how far we could push ourselves.
To say we were over-ambitious is an understatement. But in the 1960s, over-ambition was a necessity if we wanted entertainment. Without modern distractions, we had to be creative and resourceful.
Yet, as the days turned into weeks, the reality of the project began to sink in. Constructing the bridge was far more complex than we had imagined.
Some of the boys lost interest and wandered off to other pursuits. Others were forbidden from continuing by their parents, who saw the activity as a waste of time — or worse, dangerous.
By the end, only five of us remained: me, at 11 years old; my nine-year-old little brother, whom I nicknamed Little B; our 11-year-old cousin, Ratum; Mital, a 14-year-old neighbour with a mischievous grin and boundless energy; and Jisan, a 15-year-old whose family farm was a fair distance away, so he could only help occasionally. We were a ragtag crew, but we were determined.
We had no plan. That’s right — zero planning. We didn’t even know we needed a plan. We imagined we could figure it out as we went along, learning through trial and error. And boy, were there errors.
Our first discovery was that big bamboo poles weren’t necessary for strength; smaller ones worked just as well when bundled together. This realisation was a breakthrough for us.
We lashed thin poles in groups of twos, threes, or even fours, and to our amazement, they held up well. It was an eye-opener, a lesson in improvisation and teamwork.
Before we could start building, we needed the right location. We scouted the banks of the river, searching for two sturdy trees on either side to anchor our bridge.
Luckily, we found a pair of trees at the narrowest part of the river, and their branches were at just the right height. It felt like a small victory. Little did we know that the true challenges lay ahead.
Collecting bamboo poles was a slow process. Although we were kids, we had daily chores to help our parents on the farm. Time was never on our side. One afternoon, during lunch at our farmhouse, my father overheard our conversation about the bamboo shortage.
He suggested a simple solution — cut a few stems whenever we went to the river to bathe. It was genius. Over the next week or two, we gathered enough bamboo to get started.
Jisan, ever resourceful, found an old chisel that had belonged to his late grandfather. I borrowed a rusty, hand-cranked auger from a classmate. These tools became indispensable for drilling holes and joining bamboo poles together.
The first day of construction was a wake-up call. We immediately ran into a major hurdle: how to suspend the bamboo beam across the gap. None of our poles were long enough to span the river.
After much debate, we decided to join three poles end to end, creating a single long beam. But suspending it above the river was another matter entirely. We ended up tying the beam to other poles, which we secured to the tree branches.
At first, it wobbled precariously, threatening to collapse under the slightest pressure. However, as we added more bamboo supports, the structure gradually stabilised.
“I once saw a picture of a suspension bridge,” Mital said one day as we worked. “It had lots of strings holding it up.”
“Those aren’t strings,” Jisan replied knowingly. “My uncle says they’re steel cables. He saw them on the Satok Suspension Bridge in Kuching.”
“I’ve never seen steel cables,” said Little B, wide-eyed.
“Neither have I,” I admitted. “We don’t have steel cables. We’ll just have to make do with what we’ve got.”
And so, we pressed on, tying and lashing bamboo poles together, inching closer to our goal. Progress was slow but steady. Every setback taught us something new. We learned to improvise, to adapt, and to think creatively. The bridge was far from perfect, but it was ours — a proof to our grit and determination.
Finally, after weeks of effort, the day came when the bridge was complete. It wasn’t much to look at — more of a glorified bamboo tightrope than a proper bridge — but it worked.
We took turns crossing it, holding our breath as the structure swayed beneath our weight. When Little B made it to the other side without falling, we erupted into cheers.
In that moment, we felt invincible. It wasn’t just a bridge we had built; it symbolised what we could achieve together. The bridge may not have lasted long — it eventually succumbed to the elements — but its memory has endured. It taught us that even the wildest dreams could be realised with imagination, teamwork, and perseverance.
Looking back, I see the bamboo bridge revealing itself as far more than just a childhood project. It contained lessons that would quietly shape us, lingering long after the last knot was tied and the final beam was secured.
Through the twists and turns of its construction, we discovered what it meant to be resilient — to adapt when the river’s current threatened to undo our work, to try again when our first attempts fell short. We learned to think beyond the obvious, to be resourceful and creative with the little we had.
And perhaps most importantly, we discovered the pure, unfiltered joy that comes from embarking on a shared adventure. This joy wasn’t rooted in the final outcome; rather, it blossomed from the moments of laughter that rang out through our journey, the scraped hands and knees that told stories of our daring exploits, and the hopes and dreams we exchanged along the way.
Each step we took together became a part of our experience, weaving a narrative rich with connection and camaraderie. In these fleeting moments, filled with spontaneity and genuine interaction, we found the true essence of our adventure — a celebration of the journey, not just the destination.
In truth, we didn’t just build a bridge; we built something far less tangible but infinitely more enduring. We wove together a story, a shared memory that would bind us across time and distance. Every bamboo pole and rope became a link in the chain of our experience that moulded us into who we would become.
And now, decades later, I realise that the greatest bridge we built wasn’t the one spanning the river — it was the one that connected us, heart to heart, for the rest of our lives. This bridge, invisible but unbreakable, is the one I cherish most of all.
The views expressed here are those of the writer and do not necessarily represent the views of the New Sarawak Tribune.
