“TUK… tuk… tuk… tuk… tuk… HAHAHAHAHAHA…”
The call rose from the Sarawak rainforest like something half bird, half human. I remember sitting in the longboat beside my Kayan friend and his uncle, whom I called Uncle Matthew, as we travelled upriver toward their village.
I had heard many bizarre bird calls before, but never one like this. At first, it sounded almost comical, as though the forest itself were striking wood with invisible tools. Then came the laughter: loud, human-like, and deeply unnerving. Beneath those wild bursts, I sensed something else: grief, panic, and a desperate pleading, as if a soul were trapped within the feathers.
I must have been staring into the trees with too much wonder, because Uncle Matthew noticed. He turned to me and smiled. “That is the call of a Helmeted Hornbill, or what we Kayans call Batu Ulok. Do you know why the Batu Ulok sounds like that?”
I shook my head.
Uncle Matthew looked ahead at the river, as though he were seeing not the water before us, but a story once told to him by his grandmother.
“Long ago,” he said, “there was a man and a woman who caught each other’s glances. Their love grew slowly, as love often does; through shared stares, small gestures, and the quiet certainty that one heart had found its match in another.”
The river carried us forward while Uncle Matthew’s voice carried us back through time.
“But the woman’s mother forbade them from marrying,” he continued.
The woman pleaded. The man came bearing offerings. Yet no matter what they did, the mother’s answer remained the same: a resounding no.
Days became weeks, and weeks became months. Their hope withered beneath her rejections. They suffered in silence, and that silence slowly changed them. Their love, once pure and bright, twisted into desperation and anger until they made a terrible choice.
They would kill the mother.
“One night,” Uncle Matthew said, his voice lowered. “The man went to the mother’s house carrying an axe. He moved quietly beneath the mother’s house and began chopping at the wooden foundations.”
The sound of the axe was steady and quiet, yet relentless.
“Tuk… tuk… tuk… tuk… tuk…”
Bit by bit, the timbers weakened. The structure trembled above him. Then, with a splintering groan, it gave way. The house collapsed, crushing the mother beneath the heavy beams.
For a moment, there was silence. Then the lovers looked at one another and laughed.
“HAHAHAHAHAHA…”
Their laughter echoed into the night, believing they were finally free to marry each other.
Uncle Matthew’s gaze remained fixed on the river. “The spirits of the forest saw what they had done,” he said. “The spirits saw that this love has been tainted and they were disgusted.”
They decided to punish the man, the woman and their descendants, not with death, but something worse: a curse.
“The man and the woman’s bodies morphed, twisted and folded, transforming them into Batu Ulok,” Matthew said softly. “And the only sounds they could ever make were the last ones they uttered as humans: Tuk… tuk… tuk… tuk… tuk…, the sound of the axe used to strike down the mother’s house and HAHAHAHAHAHA… their laughter when the mother’s house collapsed.”
I sat very still as the boat moved on.
The bird’s call felt different now. No longer merely eerie, but heavy with sadness, consequence and misfortune.
Uncle Matthew glanced at me and smiled. “That is why the Batu Ulok sounds like crying laughter,” he said. “It is the voice of broken love, a terrible choice, and a curse that can never be escaped.”
The longboat continued upriver and somewhere high in the canopy, another Batu Ulok called.
“Tuk… tuk… tuk… tuk… tuk… HAHAHAHAHAHA…”
This time, I heard something different. I heard a warning. I heard pain. I heard tainted love.
Perhaps that is why the story endures. It does not merely explain the call of a bird; it reminds us how quickly frustration and anger can misshape a human life.
That day, travelling upriver with Uncle Matthew, I learned that the Sarawak forest does not only echo with life, but also with stories and the geometry of human choices. – DayakDaily
A native of Sarawak, Jason works as an environmental consultant and zoologist specialising in biodiversity conservation and ecological risk assessments. When he isn’t writing or conducting fieldwork, he can be found birdwatching or sharing his zoological insights across various online platforms.
Jason is one of the Top 10 winners (Adult category) for DayakDaily’s 2026 Writing Competition with the theme “Sarawak Folklore”.
