Here we had to stay two weeks, while the remainder of our baggage was being brought up and until a new station for storing goods had been established in the jungle higher up the river. Rajimin had an attack of dysentery, and although his health improved he requested permission to return, which I readily granted notwithstanding his undeniable ability in skinning birds. He was afraid of the kihams, not a good shot, and so liable to lose his way in the jungle that I always had to have a Dayak accompany him. It is the drawback with all Javanese that, being unaccustomed to these great jungles, at first they easily get lost. Rajimin joined a few Malays in building a small float, on which they went down the river. Several Malays aspired to succeed him as taxidermist, but showed no aptitude. I then taught one of our Javanese soldiers who had expressed interest in the matter. Being painstaking and also a good shot, the new tokang burong (master of birds), the Malay designation for a taxidermist, gave satisfactory results in due time.
One day while I was taking anthropometric measurements, to which the Ot-Danums grudgingly submitted, one of them exhibited unusual agitation and actually wept. Inquiring the reason, I learned that his wife had jilted him for a Kapuas Dayak who, a couple of nights previously, when the injured man was out hunting wild pigs for me, had taken advantage of the husband's absence. Moreover, the night before, the rival had usurped his place a second time, compelling the husband to go elsewhere. The incident showed how Dayak ideas were yielding to Malay influence. He was in despair about it, and threatened to kill the intruder as well as himself, so I told the sergeant to strengthen the hands of the kapala. I could not prevent the woman's disloyalty to her husband, but the new attraction should not be allowed to stay in the house. This had the effect of making the intruder depart a few minutes later, though he did not go far away. The affair was settled in a most unexpected manner. The kapala being absent, his substitute, bonhomme mais borné, and probably influenced by her relatives, decided that the injured husband must pay damages f. 40 because he had vacated his room the night he went out hunting.
We procured one more prahu, but the difficulties of getting more men were very great, one reason being that the people had already begun to cut paddi. Though the new year so far brought us no rain, still the river of late had begun to run high on account of precipitation at its upper courses. High water does not always deter, but rapid rising or falling is fraught with risk. After several days' waiting the status of the water was considered safe, and, leaving three boatloads to be called for later, in the middle of January, we made a start and halted at a sand slope where the river ran narrow among low hills, two hundred metres below the first great kiham. Malay rattan gatherers, with four prahus, were already camped here awaiting a favourable opportunity to negotiate the kihams, and they too were going to make the attempt next morning. As the river might rise unexpectedly, we brought ashore only what was needed for the night.
Next day at half-past six o'clock we started, on a misty, fresh morning, and in a few minutes were within hearing of the roar of the rapids, an invigorating sound and an inspiring sight. The so-called Kiham Atas is one kilometre long. The left side of the river rises perpendicularly over the deep, narrow waters, the lower part bare, but most of it covered with picturesque vegetation, especially conspicuous being rows of sago palms. The prahus had to be dragged up along the opposite side between big stones. Only our instruments were carried overland, as we walked along a foot-path through delightful woods, and at nine o'clock the prahus had finished the ascent.
Not long afterward we approached the first of the four big kihams which still had to be passed and which are more difficult. Having been relieved of their loads the prahus were hauled, one at a time, around a big promontory situated just opposite a beautiful cascade that falls into the river on the mountainous side. Around the promontory the water forms treacherous currents. Above it eight or nine Malays pulled the rattan cable, which was three times as long as usual, and when the first prahu, one man inside, came into view from below, passing the promontory, it unexpectedly shot out into the middle of the river, and then, in an equally startling manner, turned into a back current. This rapidly carried it toward an almost invisible rock where Longko, who was an old hand on this river, had taken his stand among the waves and kept it from foundering. The Malays were pulling the rattan as fast as they could, running at times, but before the prahu could be hauled up to safety it still had to pass a hidden rock some distance out. It ran against this and made a disagreeable turn, but regained its balance.
The next one nearly turned over, and Mr. Demmini decided to take out the kinema camera, which was got in readiness to film the picturesque scene. In the meantime, in order to control the prahu from the side, a second rattan rope had been tied to the following one, thereby enabling the men to keep it from going too far out. This should have been done at the start, but the Malays always like to take their chances. Though the remaining prahus did not present such exciting spectacles, nevertheless the scene was uncommonly picturesque. After nine hours of heavy work, during most of which the men had kept running from stone to stone dragging rattan cables, we camped on a sand-ridge that ran out as a peninsula into the river. At one side was an inlet of calm, dark-coloured water into which, a hundred metres away, a tributary emptied itself into a lovely waterfall. A full moon rose over the enchanting landscape.
At half-past six in the morning we started for the next kiham, the so-called Kiham Mudang, where we arrived an hour later. This was the most impressive of all the rapids so far, the river flowing between narrow confines in a steady down-grade course, which at first sight seemed impossible of ascent. The river had fallen half a metre since the day before, and although most kihams are easier to pass at low water, this one was more difficult. The men, standing in water up to their arms, brought all the luggage ashore and carried it further up the river. Next the prahus were successfully pulled up, being kept as near land as possible and tossed like toys on the angry waves, and pushed in and out of small inlets between the big stones. In three hours we effected the passage and in the afternoon arrived at Tumbang Djuloi, a rather prettily situated kampong on a ridge along the river.
I was installed in a small house which was vacant at one end of the little village, the greater part of which is Malay. There were two houses belonging to Ot-Danums which I found locked with modern padlocks. Nearly all Malays and Dayaks were at the ladangs, where they spend most of their time, remaining over night. Coal, which is often found on the upper part of the Barito River, may be observed in the bank of the river in a layer two metres thick. It is of good quality, but at present cannot be utilised on account of the formidable obstacle to transportation presented by the kiham below.
Our Malays soon began to talk of returning, fifteen of the twenty-four men wanting to go home. Payment having been refused until the goods left below had been brought up, a settlement was reached and the necessary men, with the sergeant, departed for Telok Djulo. In the meantime we began to convey our belongings higher up the river, above the next kiham, where they were stored in the jungle and covered with a tent cloth.
After the arrival of the luggage which had been left behind, there was a universal clamour for returning home, the Malays professing great disinclination to proceeding through the difficult Busang country ahead of us. Even those from Puruk Tjahu, who had pledged themselves to continue to the end, backed out. Though wages were raised to f. 1.50 per day, only eight men remained. To this number we were able to add three Malays from the kampong. One was the Mohammedan guru (priest), another a mild-tempered Malay who always had bad luck, losing floats of rattan in the kihams, and therefore passed under the nickname of tokang karam (master of misfortune). The third was a strong, tall man with some Dayak blood, who was tatued. Djobing, as he was named, belonged to a camp of rattan workers up on the Busang, and decided to go at the last moment, no doubt utilising the occasion as a convenient way of returning.