Chapter 11
“It’s like being buried alive when the lights fail.”
(Avid Spelunker)
Off Grid: Gunung Mulu National Park, Sarawak
Standing outside the gaping cave entrance, Ernest listened intently to the reassuring jungle chorus. Taking a deep breath of jungle air to gather his courage. The drip of rain from the canopy, the shrill calls of unseen birds, with every step into the cave system, deeper into the limestone structures, those more familiar sounds gradually faded away until only his breath and the scrape of his boots against the rock remained. His headlamp cut a thin blade of light through the complete blackness, carving out brief glimpses of cathedral-like chambers where stalactites hung like frozen fangs, and the air was cool, damp, alive with the slow heartbeat of constant dripping water.
He moved cautiously with his partner, Thambi, a local Park Ranger who had offered to guide Ernest. Lowering himself through narrow passages that twisted like the throat of some vast serpent. The walls glistened with minerals, surfaces slick with ages of condensation. In one chamber, the ceiling soared into darkness beyond the light’s reach, and when he switched it off, the cave became a void, absolute silence and darkness that pressed against his eardrums, making his pulse thunder inside his skull.
Sometimes he felt the rock breathe. Darkness was absolute.
Awakened with the illumination at the limit of the lamp’s glow, strange rock formations appeared, columns sculpted by time, shapes that seemed almost human, almost animal, as though the mountain itself had been dreaming for a million years. Bats stirred in the distance, a sudden rush of wings, their cries sharp and fleeting. Somewhere far below, an underground river sang unseen, echoing through hidden caverns.
The call of the cave was mysterious, serene and lethal to the inexperienced and ill-equipped.
Ernest stood in the entrance cavern, gazing around in awe, feeling both very small and strangely infinite, as if he were walking inside the bones of the earth itself. It was frightening, humbling and magnificent all at the same time. He knew then that ‘Mulu’ was more than a park on a map. It was a spiritual labyrinth where one could lose the world and oneself without leaving a trace.
Wedging himself and contorting his body through the confines of the narrow tubular caves, if you could even call them that, gave new meaning to contortion. Ernest soon discovered that if he inhaled at a critical moment, it actually gave him a few inches of extra margin to slip through the S-bend to achieve relative luxury of fit into the next straighter section. Leading eventually to some of the smaller caverns that in turn led into the largest cavern of the system of caverns he was now exploring with his Penan guide Thambi, only a few feet ahead, leading the “charge”.
“Is it much further?”
“Not far now, my friend, have faith,” he laughed. His light shone forward and upward, revealing the exit to the tubular dolomite structure they found themselves slowly traversing, eventually leading to the main cavern and the exit to the outside jungle world of air and light beyond.
I’m right behind you as Ernest struggled with the weight of his awkward equipment, his harness, insulated waterproof body suit and heavy boots. Ernest's miner-like flashlight on his helmet illuminated Thambi’s muddied boots. Progress, although slow, enhanced the idea of exploring these deep caves, out of the sunlight and deep in the Earth. It was a spectacular, exhilarating experience. Difficult to express the thrill of the adventure, the challenge of the quest through the infinite labyrinth of tunnels, the potential of danger, the real danger all came together in an incredible and exhausting adrenaline rush. Now the day’s trek was coming to an end as the quest met with rest.
The Karst topography of Sarawak is nothing short of spectacular, boasting the largest of caverns as a million and a half years of tropical rainwater seeps through the depths, dissolving the limestone rock structure, eventually over time creating the dendritic series of caves, tributaries, tunnels, rivers and streams that make up the present-day cave systems. In places, the underground topography has been so eaten away by millennia of erosion that sinkholes form on the surface, creating a jungle-covered patchwork of indentations with no surface water flow, as all the water is instantly absorbed and flows downward into an ever-growing cave system, a provocative natural beauty in the remotest place on Earth.
Thambi instructed, “We still have a small river to cross to get to the next set of caverns, so make sure your dry bag is well sealed, and you put your camera inside.”
This crossing had to be strategically synchronized with the rains, as in Karst topography like this, whatever is happening topside in terms of precipitation is critical to the caver down below. It makes the difference between access between sections of underground travel and being trapped or drowned. Today, the water was not low, but the river was fordable. They could cross, and they would eventually reach natural light once again. Should they drop a flashlight or lose light for any reason, there is no artificial light, and there is no braille method of feeling your way out of the caves.
The millions of bats that live here don’t go this deep, but at least they have high-frequency echolocation to find their way to the outside world. Ernst and Thambi edged their muddy bodies forward through this constricted area. The smell and sound of water was near, as was the smell of guano from the bats; so Ernest knew his guide was on course. Adrenaline charged their weary bodies forward. They had been in the caves on a long trek away from natural sunlight. Ernest knew he would be glad for the surface.
There was absolutely no sense of night or day while in the depths of the caves, so when they finally emerged after almost 7 hours of crawling, trudging, swimming and sometimes even walking erect, the weary dirty spelunkers emerged at the entrance, or at least the main cavern of the Sarawak chamber, known as one of the largest known underground chambers globally, in Gulung Mula National Park. As they did so they were witness to the chittering sounds of hundreds of thousands of bats that made their dusk exit through the mouth of the cave.
Dusk gathered like an old priest draping the forest in violet robes. The cave yawned wide in the cliffs, a black mouth that had swallowed light for a million years. For a time, it held its silence, as though deciding whether the night was worthy of the coming exchange.
Then followed the first whisper of wings, tentative, hesitating. One, two, dozens, a scattering of shapes, and suddenly the stone throat exploded violently. The bats poured forth in a river of shadow, so dense it seemed the rock itself was unravelling into the air.
They did not fly at random but wove themselves into great spirals, tightening and loosening as though guided by a hidden hand. Against the fading fire of the western sky, their bodies formed shifting runes, living hieroglyphs written in the firmament. The old people of the valley would bow their heads at this hour, for they believed the bats carried the news from the underworld, that their swirling shapes were messages from ancestors too vast for the human eye to decipher.
The sound was a low roar, a churning breath that rose and fell like the sea; even the trees seemed to bend to its power, their leaves trembling as the tide wings surged overhead. Night came faster now with their passing, as though they drew the very last scraps of daylight into their endless possession.
At last, the western sky had surrendered its final glow, and the stream began to thin. A few stragglers darted into the dark, and then the cave swallowed itself again, silent, still, its great gulping sigh spent.
Above, the bats vanished into the jungle like spilled ink in water, countless, unseen, yet leaving behind the certainty that the night was now alive. The outward movement of the bats had precision, urgency, as if a single sentient being of gigantic proportions had been released from the genie’s lamp and soon disappeared into the dim distance. Their clamorous chittering and high-pitched squeaks pulsed through the air, guiding them towards their destination and their night’s prey, the bounty of insects swarming the jungles at every level. Ernest felt temporarily overwhelmed seeing this spectacle for the first time. Confirming to himself, he had come to the right place.
Ernest stood speechless, viewing the explosion of bats. He turned his attention to some of the geological formations near the mouth of the cave. “Thambi, these formations here, they look more like statues than stalactites”
Ernest was examining the array of unique limestone structures and configurations formed by the deposition of calcium and other minerals from dripping water over centuries, building a solidified form. For some people, their perception may easily translate shape into a mystical appearance, given that stalactites also formed a dark and sombre cave setting. Ernest noted that the array of stalactites and stalagmites throughout the entrance to the cavern system looked spirit-like and ghostly. Much like looking at cumulus cloud formations with a fanciful imagination, one could pick out just about any figure, shape or form the imagination would allow.
Thambi gave a thoughtful smile before entering into a response, “According to many legends, stories or our beliefs, however you choose to look at it, there is deep spiritual significance attached to these formations. Sit here,”
Thambi gestured with his hand. “We can rest, and I can explain some of the spiritual, mythical details you are asking about. I think you might find this interesting.”
Ernest, looking for an excuse to rest after 7 hours of caving, was ready for a little downtime.
Thambi began in a solemn, tranquil voice as they sat by the mouth of the cave. “When the sun sets, as it soon will, behind the ridges of Mulu, the air here at the mouth of the cave grows cool and alive. This, the elders say, is when the mountain begins to breathe. Look closely at those pillars of stone you were asking about, they, Ernest, were once people.
The old ones tell of a time when our ancestors lived too proudly, mocking the echo that lived inside the caves. They struck their blowpipes against the walls, laughing when the echo answered. The spirit of the cave grew weary of their foolishness and their noise, and turned them to stone so they would learn to listen forever. The ones that hang from above are those who begged for forgiveness; they reach downward, still trying to touch the earth. The ones that rise from below are the humble ones who look upward, seeking the light.”
Thambi changed his position to get comfortable, as he wasn’t expecting to explain spirits to a Westerner after spelunking all day.
“When the water rain drips from the ceiling, that is not water but the tears of the sky spirits who still mourn their kin who were turned to stone. The cool wind you feel is their breath, whispering through the hollow passages we just struggled through, carrying stories to those who still remember how to hear. Notice that I am speaking in a hushed tone, as we, the people of the forest, do not speak loudly here. The cave is a gate between worlds, the teeth of the sleeping earth. To step inside is to walk through the mouth of God. Before we enter, we leave a little tobacco and a little song, as a gift; so the spirits know we come in peace.”
Ernest added, “I did wonder what you were doing as we entered this morning.”
At night, when the bats rise like smoke, as we just witnessed, the cave glows faintly, lit by the spirits’ fire. The elders say if you stand very still and close your eyes, you can hear the spirits speak your name. Not the name you use among men, but the one the forest gave you when you were born. One day, Ernest, you will know your name. The point of this is that the stalactites and stalagmites are not lifeless rock. They are memories. They are our history. They remind us that human pride can be hardened into silence, but our humility lets the mountain breathe again.”
With that, Thambi paused, “I don’t know, Ernest, how much detail you want. I could give you a whole lecture on the spiritual history of the Penan people based on these sacred stones. Let’s get into the light and out of this gear.”
Finally, after a day of spelunking in the limestone caves, it was refreshing to breathe the sweet, fresh air outside the elaborate cave system.
Thambi watched his new friend before he spoke, “I felt the same way the first time I saw the bats make their appearance here. It's a nightly spectacle that one never tires of, and the spiritual nature of the caves is part of my being.”
As a gesture of newfound camaraderie, Thambi lightly grasped Ernest’s shoulder, “Please join me, my friend, in my family’s village. There are many more stories to tell. We are a people of stories. My father will talk until you flee into the forest. I promise you.”
They gathered their gear and loaded everything into Thambi’s vintage Land Rover. Thambi was not only a spelunking guide but a “Renaissance-Penan” who now worked as a park ranger in the National Park. He was one of the few whose generation had spanned the immense gap between the old, traditional ways of Penan culture and the modern world. He had been educated by missionaries, explaining his mastery of English and modern ways. Thambi was the Penan outlier of the new age.
They drove to the small village of Mulu just outside the National Park entrance. This small settlement grew up at about the same time as the park opening to service the park visitors and provide some basic amenities, and also home, or at least a temporary home, to some of the park rangers, including Thambi. Thambi had originally moved from the town of Marudi, located along the Barum River, in a village just a few miles from the townsite.
Thambi and Ernest unpacked the Land Rover and settled into the shack-like structure that served as Thambi’s home while he was away from his village, and so began the early stages of Ernest’s introduction into the ways of the Penan.
Thambi set two clay cups on the table. “Here,” he said, uncorking a woven rattan flask. “Tuak. After a day like this, it's the only proper drink.”
Ernest watched as Thambi poured the pale liquid, letting it swirl as it poured. “Never had it before,” he admitted. “Smells…gentle.”
“It can be gentle depending on how long the rice has fermented, Thambi said as he settled into the opposite chair. “Gentle, but ancient.” He lifted his cup as if in salute. “Long before any of us were here, the Kelabit and Kayan people brewed it in the Baram River Basin. Families used bamboo tubes to ferment the rice, sealing them with leaves and beeswax. You see, Ernest, unlike other tribes in Sarawak and across the mountains into the Indonesian side of Borneo, Kalimantan, tribes like the Iban, Bidayuh, Orang Ulu, Kayan and so on, my tribal group, the Penan, were up until recent times quite happily nomadic. Therefore, you see, we did not stop in one spot long enough to cultivate rice and therefore no Tuak, so we learnt to adapt, borrow and trade with our neighbouring tribes.”
Ernest took a cautious sip. “Sweet, sharp, warm. That’s smooth,” he said, surprised.
Jokingly, he added, feigning the words of a wine connoisseur, “Sweet yet slightly tangy with lingering notes of rice, fruits, ginger and, yes,” as he swirled a sip of tuak in his mouth, “caramel, much like Japanese sake, or a good dry wine.”
Thambi gave a polite laugh. “It was never really about the taste. Tuak was mostly ceremonial, for harvest festivals, weddings, and peace gatherings between villages. If someone shared tuak with you, it meant they trusted you. It meant you were welcome to sit by their fire.”
Ernest rolled the cup between his hands. “A drink as a handshake.”
“More than a handshake.” Thambi leaned in, voice low and Ernest. “It’s a reminder that you don’t face the world alone. You drink tuak to show connection. Peace. To say, “my home is open to you.”
The forest breeze brushed through the shutters. They drank together in quiet companionship.
“Well then,” Ernest said, lifting his cup, “to peace and connection.”
Thambi raised his own in response. “And to not get lost underground again.”
Their laughter rang softly through the cabin, mingling with the sigh of the trees as a new friendship was forged.
