A tale of two bordering Bidayuh towns

The line drawn by a government or colonisers doesn’t just divide a people geographically but also changes the way they speak and act.

“LET’S go to the Sarawak/ Kalimantan border tomorrow,” said James Ritchie, a Sarawakian journalist who is a living legend in the Land of the Hornbills.

It was a Tuesday afternoon and we were having a beer, or two, or three, in a coffee shop in Kuching. Earlier, I had asked him about his jalan tikus (rat road) postings on his Facebook page.

It was a tempting offer of a border adventure as I find border towns fascinating.

Geographically, the population live in the same area at the (Sarawak/Kalimantan) border but because of a line drawn by a government or colonialists, the people changed their national identity. The Malaysian Bidayuh and Indonesian Bidayuh might have the same DNA but they dress, speak and act differently.

In the case of Serikin town, the Bidayuh community, who is from the Jagoi tribe, is separated by a border line pencilled by the British colonial government and Indonesian government in the 1950s.

The day after our coffee shop chat, Ritchie and I headed for Serikin, about 66km away, in his beat-up Toyota Corolla station wagon that he bought second-hand in the early 1980s.

Ritchie’s nickname is Apai Ragum (in Iban, apai means father and ragum is beard). He’s an Eurasian (to be specific, his dad is Scottish-Chinese and his mum is Welsh-Malay) with a beard.

His philosophy is, if you are nice to me, I’m nicer to you. He has written three dozen books on topics ranging from Tun Abdul Taib Mahmud, to Bruno Manser, Rajah James Brooke, the Penans and timber politics.

As we travelled in his car without air-conditioning, he narrated the story of how Brooke became the White Rajah of Sarawak. It was a fascinating story.

“That’s where Brooke set up his first fort (Fort Berlidah),” he said, pointing at Mount Serembu, which can be seen from the road to Bau.

We arrived in Serikin at about 1.30pm.

I first visited Serikin when I was doing pre-Sarawak polls stories in 2011. Back then it was infamous for the sale of wildlife. I have a friend who bought two leopard cats (small wild cats) there that he domesticated and kept as pets.

The sale of wildlife has since been banned and whether it is successfully enforced, is another story.

It is now a place famous for its weekend market where you can shop in Indonesia without leaving Malaysia. The weekend market is almost exclusively run by Indonesians.

Sarawakians visit it to buy cheap Indonesian textiles and clothes, vegetables, fruit and farm animals.

“James! You are here! Come and drink with us!” someone shouted from a warung selling bakso and beer.

In every corner of Sarawak, everyone knows James Ritchie. He even has an orang utan named after him.

In December 1989, on an assignment to write about a longhouse at Batang Ai dam, he met an Indonesian poacher who tried to sell him a baby orang utan. To cut a long story short, Ritchie rescued the ape, which was later named Ritchie. And he gave Ritchie to the Semenggok Wildlife Centre, which is a sanctuary for semi-wild orang utan.

The someone, who was drinking Tsingtao beer with his Sarawakian and West Kalimantan friends, turned out to be a Dayak activist who moves back and forth across the Sarawak/Kalimantan border. The 60-something Sarawakian was a truly borderless citizen of Borneo.

“This is Borneo! Why must I go through Immigration? If you say this is Malaysia, this is Indonesia, that’s a governing body. I live in Borneo!” he said.

That’s one reason why I love border towns. You meet characters who will not allow a boundary line on a map to stop them from living in areas where their ancestors used to live.

Serikin is like a listening post. Border residents are knowledgeable about what’s happening next door in Kalimantan.

Ritchie and I sat with the Dayak activist and the conversation ranged from West Kalimantan governor Cornelis, a Dayak and Catholic, who is at “war” with radical Muslims, to Putrajaya’s politics of Federalism.

“The Dayaks in Kalimantan are united politically, unlike in Sarawak and your Sabah,” said the activist. I nodded in agreement. “They might be from different political parties. But when they vote, they vote for a Dayak (Cornelis),” he ranted.

After three or four glasses of beer chased with Benson whisky, we headed for the highlight of our trip – the Malaysian/Indonesian border.

At the Malaysian military checkpoint that was surrounded by oil palms and jungle, soldiers stopped us.

“Where are you going?” asked a soldier.

“Just to see the border,” said Ritchie.

“How long will you be there?” he questioned.

“Just a short while,” said Ritchie. The Malaysian soldiers took our identity cards and allowed us to pass through.

We had to drive through a shallow river and I told myself this beatup car’s engine will surely die. And it did. We had to push it to kick-start the engine.

About a kilometre away was the Indonesian military checkpoint. There was a boom gate where half a dozen Indonesian soldiers were monitoring the border.

When you pass the boom gate, time changes on Indonesian soil. It is one hour earlier in Kalimantan.

We stopped at a tuckshop displaying a Djarum cigarette advertisement below its roof, and it sells mostly Malaysian products.

I ordered a bowl of Indomie noodles with chicken flavour, and tins of curry chicken and squid. It was one of the most delicious meals that I have ever had. I went for seconds.

We sat and watched Indonesians on motorcycles crossing into Malaysia to deliver vegetables. On a daily basis, Malaysians and Indonesians cross the border to visit relatives or do business.

I posted photographs of my border visit on Instagram and Facebook. Someone asked: “Anything interesting tourism-wise there?”

I answered: “Real tourism. Visiting authentic Indonesian Bidayuh villages.”