By D’Drift Team
THE rain falls steadily, draping Bawang Assan in a misty hush. The Batang Lebaan River lies swollen, dark, restless, less than 100-metres away from the nearest settlement. Ten longhouses stand along its path, their wooden frames bearing the weight of generations. Among them, Rh Jimbun Semilan stretches into the damp air, its ‘ruai’ (veranda) running long, sheltering lives within its 17 doors, with another 13 pushing against its boundaries.
Marcathy Gindau waits. Fifty-six years have shaped him into a man of patience, a man who understood that guests, like rivers, sometimes meander before gradually finding their way. When we faltered, lost in unfamiliar turns searching for his homestay, he came for us, moving through the rain as if answering a call. When we finally stood apologetically before him, Marcathy offered no rebuke—just a nod, a gesture toward his home.
The homestay opened itself up, a shared space worn by time but steady in its purpose. Two rooms, four beds each, simple arrangements that asked for nothing but rest. Yet, for those willing, the ‘ruai’ offered more—open air, the night pressing close, the way things had always been.
Lining the hallway leading to the kitchen, a row of ‘tajau’ (Iban vases) stood in quiet reverence, each one serving as proof to the deep appreciation of Iban heritage. Their curved forms, worn by years yet still proud, foretold stories long ago. In the living room, wooden shields of varying designs were displayed with equal pride, their intricate carvings speaking of craftsmanship passed through generations, a steadfast homage to a warrior tradition.
Since 2009, this place had taken in wanderers: students with notebooks full of questions, travellers seeking stories in the grain of the wood, voices from Indonesia, from America, from places that existed only as names until they arrived here.
When Marcathy said he received guests from across the globe, he truly meant it as we perused his guestbook in wonder. Even now, he was preparing—forty guests expected to arrive a few days down the road, drawn by a wedding that bridged Johore and Sibu, the kind of gathering where old ways met new beginnings.
Longhouses that remember, doors that welcome
Rh Jimbun Semilan stood among its kin: Rh Michael Ancho, Rh Joseph Abit, Rh Embark Tanik, Rh Joseph Sabang, Rh Abel Mang, Rh Peter Tinggung, Rh Thomas Sebong, Rh Stanley Dick, and Rh Suda Majoi. Yet, out of ten longhouses, only fifteen doors opened themselves to strangers, turning home into passage, into pause.
When asked what the longhouses offered, Marcathy spoke of visits—to neighbours, to the ‘antu palak’ (ghost heads); the old skulls that still hung quietly at another longhouse nearby, a history not erased but left to watch over the living.
Since the Lebaan River was only nearby, we couldn’t help but ask why there weren’t any water-related activities for guests to enjoy.
“It’s because there are crocodiles in the river now,” Marcathy said, glancing toward the water, his voice slipping into the past. Once, the river had been different, he shared, its pulse strong, its surface broken by the laughter of children.
Now, the waters stay still, their quiet drawing in those that waited beneath. Time had changed its course, just as it had changed the way people lived within the spaces, yet some things remained—memories, hands outstretched in welcome, the steady pulse of a place that refused to be forgotten.
Skulls that watch, spirits that linger
Marcathy’s voice lowered, his words pressing against the hush of the rain as he turned to a story not often told in daylight. The ‘antu palak’—the old skulls, silent sentinels of a time when vengeance was measured in bone. Their existence was not sinister, nor were there whispers of voices breaking the night, but something had happened.
It was recent. A film crew had come not too long ago, their lenses capturing the environment of Bawang Assan. The skulls belonged to a fellow resident, as they hung by the post just right outside her door, though at that time she was living in the city. That night, she dreamt—restless, uneasy. A presence pressed against her sleep, prodding, insistent—the sensation lingering long after she woke. The next night, it returned, so vivid it ached. It was enough to unsettle, enough for her to speak of it to the longhouse folk, enough for them to wonder if the skulls had not taken kindly to being disturbed.
“Since then, we have draped a cloth over the skulls and there hasn’t been an incident,” Marcathy said, his tone even, though there was a weight to it. A caution. The cloth remained, a quiet truce between the living and the remnants of the past.
For those who sought them, there were more—another gathering of skulls in a nearby longhouse. But Marcathy had one piece of advice for the curious: look, but do not capture. Let the eyes witness, let the mind remember, but do not press the moment into film. Some things were not meant to be taken away.
As a boy, Marcathy had heard stories from the elders. Tales of spirits lingering, not in malice, but in longing. The old skulls, restless even in their stillness, had made their attempts to ‘ngayap’—to court the women of the longhouse. An unseen presence, a fleeting touch in the night. Yet, nothing more had ever come of it. Over time, the stories, like the spirits, quieted. Now, the skulls simply hang, unmoving, their watch unbroken, their silence undisturbed.
Between departures and arrivals
The D’Drift team had come a long way, the road stretching behind us like a ribbon unravelled across the land. From Sungai Asap, we had set forth in the quiet hush of early morning, the sky still cool with the remnants of night. Four hours we journeyed, carving our way through winding roads and lush, endless green until the familiar pulse of Sibu came into view.
Tucked within our journey was a simple pleasure, a gift from our gracious host at Uma Belor—a taste of Kayan hospitality in the form of ‘Pitoh’—a glutinous rice, wrapped carefully in leaves and the warmth of hands that had prepared it with care. Each bite was a reminder of where we had been, even as we moved toward where we were going.
Just beyond Sibu city’s hum, 18km away, was where our next step laid—Marcathy Homestay. A mere half-hour’s drive from Sibu, it stood as a retreat for those seeking respite from the restless energy of urban life. Here, the world slowed, the air thick with the scent of rain and earth, the trees beckoning guests in a gentle welcome.
Should you find yourself yearning for such a place, Marcathy and his homestay are but a call away at 010-390 5137. The home and its emerald surroundings stand ready to embrace those who seek an escape, however brief, into the embrace of nature. –DayakDaily
