Our boat glides through the calm waters effortlessly past longhouses. The pink paint, brushed in long, faded streaks along the wooden hull, distorts in the rippled reflections stretching out from around us. My guide turns to me and smiles, pointing towards an old crimson truck parked along the banks of the river only a few hundred meters away.

“We’ll drive one more hour, then you’ll see my village.”

What began as a simple journey up the Rajang River in Sarawak, Borneo had turned into an entirely new adventure—ripped from the pages of a Farley Mowat novel. Two days on cramped public boats had transported me from the busy ship-building port of Sibu along the island’s northwestern coast to the tiny town of Belaga, nestled deep within the famed Borneo jungle. Standing on the dock, I was left dripping with anticipation and sweat.

After a few moments of uninformed wandering—during which not a soul was to be seen—I made my way to the only accommodation in town. According to my guidebook, the owner and namesake of Daniel Levoh’s Guesthouse operated the inn with his wife. I stood on the doorstep and peered through the shuttered windows, awkwardly adjusting my weathered green backpack. “Hello?”

The hot sun beat down on my neck mercilessly, the faint scent of must rising from the straps of my backpack and marinating the air.

A kind face appeared. Daniel was perhaps 40s, perhaps 50s—it was hard to tell. His glowing eyes and warm, toothy smile seemed to belong to someone who had lived more than one lifetime. He kindly informed me that I would not be able to stay at the guesthouse, as he was heading back to his home village for a wedding.

I was crestfallen.

“Don’t worry, don’t worry! You can join me if you like!”

The idea was intoxicating, and terrifying. I had already spent days travelling upriver into the heart of the Bornean jungle. Why stop now?

Gifts, Boats, and a Crimson Truck

Before we left, Daniel told me that I needed to bring a present for the newly married couple. In his world, showing up empty-handed was unthinkable. He led me to the lone general store in Belaga, a dim, hot little shop stacked with bags of rice, jars of pickled vegetables, and dusty tins of biscuits. He pointed firmly at a massive 10-kilogram bag of rice. “This,” he said with a grin.

I wrestled it into my arms, the sack pressing into my chest like a concrete pillow. I couldn’t shake the image of me arriving at a Canadian wedding with a bulk bag of flour. Still, Daniel seemed satisfied.

From there, we clambered into a narrow wooden boat, motor coughing as we set off upriver. The Rajang twisted and coiled through walls of jungle. We passed borneo longhouses perched on stilts, children waving from the shore, birds calling unseen in the canopy. The water flashed silver as fish leapt, vanishing again with a splash.

Hours slipped by in the hum of the motor and the rush of green. When we finally drew up to shore, I saw it: the crimson truck. Weathered, battered, half-swallowed by the jungle. Daniel climbed in, fiddled beneath the wheel, and with a few sparks of wire the engine roared to life. Hotwired. Of course.

We bounced down rutted dirt tracks, jungle pressing in from both sides. My stomach lurched with each dip, the rice sack thudding in the back like a third passenger.

The Borneo Longhouse and Its Legends

At last, the road opened to reveal Daniel’s longhouse: a sprawling wooden structure elevated above the ground, stretching on like a miniature village under one roof. Some 150 people still lived here. It felt both ancient and alive, timeless and humming with energy.

As we approached, Daniel leaned close. “Long ago, my tribe were headhunters.”

I laughed nervously. He wasn’t joking. He explained, almost casually, the old traditions of taking heads in warfare, displaying them in longhouses as proof of strength. Some tribes even practiced head-shrinking rituals. Those days were long gone, he said, but as I looked at the dark corners of the house, I couldn’t help but imagine old relics tucked away in the beams, hidden from sight.

The Wedding

The wedding was already roaring when we arrived. Music and laughter spilled into the humid air. I stepped onto the deck, clutching my oversized gift of rice. As I offered it to the bride and groom, the crowd erupted into laughter. It was good-natured, the kind of laughter that sweeps you up in warmth rather than pushes you away. They saw my awkwardness and welcomed it. The couple chuckled, accepting the rice as if it were the finest champagne. Ice broken.

Almost immediately, a shot glass was thrust into my hand. Home-brewed liquor burned down my throat, fiery and unfamiliar. Plates of food followed—stews, smoked meats, rice piled high.

I found myself surrounded by elders whose skin told long histories of their lives. Tattoos covered them, winding across faces, down arms, onto feet. Each mark a record of courage, tradition, identity. A group of old women with face tattoos caught my eye, whispering and giggling like schoolgirls. Their smiles were disarming; their laughter made me feel less like a strange outsider towering above them, and more like a guest worth teasing.

Then Daniel returned, mischief in his eyes. He dragged me into a side room and pulled out a traditional headdress and shoulder piece. Before I could protest, he dressed me and shoved me back out into the throng. The music shifted, and suddenly all eyes were on me.

I was to dance. Alone. In front of everyone.

My movements were awkward and clumsy, more flailing than flowing, but the laughter that rose was joyful, not cruel. They roared with delight, clapping to the beat. I was embarrassed and exhilarated, my cheeks burning and my heart racing. It was one of the most spectacularly human moments of my life.

Midnight and the Chief

Later that night, with the party still raging, I stepped outside to relieve myself. The moon was high, throwing pale light over the jungle. A man stepped beside me—the chief himself.

I hesitated, wondering if I should find a proper spot. He waved his hand. “Anywhere,” he said.

And so there we were, standing side by side in the jungle moonlight, sharing a moment of unceremonious humanity. Then, as casually as if he were offering me another drink, he turned and said I could marry his daughter, if I wished.

I stammered, thanked him for the offer, and politely declined. He chuckled, as if he knew something I didn’t.

Lessons from the Borneo Longhouse

That night, I slept on a thin mat under the same roof as 150 others. The murmur of voices faded into the insect chorus outside. I drifted into dreams, half-drunk, deeply full, and profoundly grateful.

The next morning, we packed up and Daniel drove me towards the next town, alongside another villager heading to the store. As we bounced down the dirt road, the villager leaned over and told me I had to return for the upcoming animism festival. His eyes sparkled with the promise of another world waiting just beyond reach.

This journey remains one of the most spectacular travel experiences of my life. It taught me that hospitality often arrives unannounced, that laughter can bridge any language, and that some adventures can’t be planned—they can only be embraced.

Maybe one day I’ll return to that longhouse. And this time, I’ll bring something a little more thoughtful than a sack of rice.