MY late father was, by trade, a journalist. In a less clinical telling, this made him an insatiable traveller and storyteller, traversing Sarawak’s rivers, peaks, and valleys in search of fodder for his writing. On a few of these journeys, he brought me along, and this particular one took us right into the heart of the jungle.
We travelled for hours by 4WD along half-crumbled roads, even needing to exit the car when a makeshift log bridge collapsed part-way. Aside from the earthen streak ahead, we were engulfed by deep rainforest green. The jungle nipped at the edges and kept pressing in, as if to consume us entirely.
After a long, bumpy ride, we arrived. What were we doing there, at this clearing in the middle of the jungle?
A Swiss environmentalist of some notoriety, championing the protection of these forest lands, had vanished years before. One theory posed that he had fallen while climbing this looming tower before us—Batu Lawi—his body lost in its deep ravines, never found. The tale was well on its way to becoming folklore of its own.
The story was irresistible to my father, who wanted to see the mountain for himself. Batu Lawi was a place people did not speak of without an accompanying legend, as though the peaks themselves demanded it.
“Do not raise your voice here,” our guides warned. “Don’t let the mountain hear you laugh. We must not be arrogant here.”
They cautioned that the area was inhabited by spirits who would act out if displeased. It was the kind of place where you minded your behaviour without being told, instinctively aware that you were in the presence of something “other”.
Sitting under a tarpaulin tent in a heavy rain that did not let up for days, I looked up from the base towards the soaring twin peaks. The mist hung low, and the columns were quickly swallowed by cloud.
They were twin towers of stone, their grey piercing the deep green around them. Deep in the heart of Borneo, without competition from any man-made skyline, they were unmatched as far as the eye could see.
Had these two stony pillars once been brothers, as my father recounted? What could have divided them so? By some tellings, it was a woman; by others, land or honour. They were turned to stone in stubborn pride and insult, refusing to yield in the way only brothers seem able to do. Standing side by side, yet unwilling to reach across the divide, they remain locked in silence.
Could a man be so bitter as to calcify and isolate for all eternity while the world around him moved on, holding a grudge as these solemn pillars stand today?
In the presence of nature’s awe, more than one explanation had emerged to account for this outlier. Another tale of the crags told of a great warrior, a giant, who roamed the highlands. The legends said he could cross valleys in a single stride, and that rivers bent around his passing. Fallen in battle, the twin peaks are his body split in two.
The idea that our realm is made from the bodies of ancient beings carried a poetry and truth that resonated beyond pure folklore.
These tales of giants who shaped the landscape, of champions of the land who have disappeared into the trees, lead me to reflect on my father—a giant in his own right. His body is now gone, but his legacy is woven into the tendrils of Sarawak. Part of the landscape itself, you might say.
Even back then, side by side with my father in the downpour, the peaks seemed to echo that truth to me, like a hero’s monument engraved with the names of generations—that the spirit of Sarawak does not forget.
Perhaps this is how the land keeps its stories—without books or mausoleums, but in mountains, myths, memories, and the quiet places where the jungle keeps its secrets. – DayakDaily
A proud native of Kuching, 34-year-old Rebekah Dawn Ba’o Ritchie is the co-founder of Small Town Creatives, a dynamic video production house. When she isn’t busy telling stories through text or video, she happily spends her time overanalysing Netflix shows.
Twiene is one of the Top 10 winners (Adult category) for DayakDaily’s 2026 Writing Competition with the theme “Sarawak Folklore”.
