IN the early 1960s, down in our little village at the foot of a grand old mountain, Mount Sadung in Serian District, about forty miles from Kuching, lived an eccentric fellow named Beh Rud.
Now, it isn’t too odd to have a rowboat, mind you, but having one far from any navigable river? Well, that was a sight for sore eyes, let me tell you.
The river was just a stone’s throw away, but Beh Rud had no use for that boat in the way most folks would reckon. Our village was miles from any proper waterway, making the ownership of such a contraption a curious endeavour at best.
Beh Rud claimed he built the boat as a hobby, not for grand travel. In his younger days, he’d picked up the skill from a Malay friend in Samarahan near Kuching.
When he returned to our neck of the woods, he was determined to prove that he could build a boat all by his lonesome — a fine way to show off his skills, if you ask me, and perhaps pick up a few new tricks along the way.
Now, his first two attempts were about as successful as a
cat trying to swim, but on the third go, he finally managed to craft a boat that floated in his big fish pond.
It wasn’t the prettiest sight, mind you, but pride glimmered in his eyes. After all, it was a boat, and it floated.
This pond of his wasn’t dug from the ground but rather created by a dam he built across a little stream that trickled between two hills. His house stood on the slope of one of those hills, giving him a fine view of his creation.
Now, when folks would ask Beh Rud if all that effort was worth it, he would puff out his chest and say, “If I can build a boat, I can build a house and many other things.”
It was his way of saying that learning was worth its weight in gold, no matter how many failures came before success.
I first saw that boat when I was about eleven, under his stilted farmhouse. My little brother and I stumbled across it one August weekend in 1964 while wandering a less-travelled path.
Nobody in our village owned a boat, for nobody needed one, so we were struck with curiosity. We often imagined ourselves rowing down rivers, our laughter echoing in the still air.
One day, Beh Rud caught us playing in his boat. He chuckled, and with a twinkle in his eye, made us an offer we couldn’t refuse.
“I want to get some rice to the mill, but first I want to dry it. The weather looks good today. If you look after the rice while I do another job, I will take you in that boat around the pond,” he said.
Well, that was a deal sweeter than honey. We watched over the rice, but truth be told, we spent most of our time playing in that boat, even dozing off under the sun till Beh Rud returned. The next day, we found the vessel waiting for us, eager for our adventures.
We spent many splendid hours gliding over the pond. It turned out that Beh Rud was having a grand time too, like a boy with a shiny new toy, rowing us about to explore all the nooks and crannies he could reach now that he had a boat.
After a couple of hours of such merriment, he turned to catching some fish using a net. We helped him set it up, moving from one spot to another, our excitement bubbling over each time we pulled the net and discovered our catch.
We caught so many fish that day that we couldn’t carry our share back to the farmhouse. Beh Rud, ever the gentleman, helped us lug the heavy load, claiming it was an excuse to visit our parents whom he hadn’t seen in months.
By November, the Northeast Monsoon rolled in like a relentless tide, bringing with it rains that turned the sky grey. December was a washout, with barely a glimpse of clear sky.
By January, the downpour became a steady drum, and the waters rose, swallowing the lowlands that separated Beh Rud’s farmhouse from his neighbours on the other hill.
The flood left many families stranded, and Beh Rud was marooned too. Yet, he saw a silver lining in this situation; his little boat had finally found its purpose.
With a chuckle, he remarked that while he wasn’t quite like Noah from the Bible, who saved all sorts of creatures during the great flood, his little boat had become a mighty asset in these troubled times.
As the days dragged on, and the floodwaters showed no signs of retreating, the neighbouring families, especially those with young ones, began to feel the pinch of dwindling supplies. Beh Rud, seeing their plight, decided it was high time to take action. He dragged his little rowboat from under his farmhouse, even though his arms felt like they’d been through a wringer.
With determination, he began to row through the flooded landscape, delivering much-needed supplies to those in need.
When he arrived at the first house, the family greeted him with sheer joy, relief washing over their faces.
The father, who had often mocked Beh Rud and called his boat a “boat to nowhere”, stood there, red-faced and humbled, thanking him sincerely.
At the next house, a mother with three small children welled up with tears of gratitude. She had once laughed at his seemingly useless boat, and now there he was, a lifeline in their hour of need.
Beh Rud continued his rounds, helping family after family, delivering food and ensuring they were safe. With each visit, the neighbours’ expressions morphed from embarrassment to heartfelt appreciation for the man they had once scorned.
The boat they had derided as “a boat to nowhere” had found its true calling, and they realised how wrong they had been.
After he helped everyone, the neighbours came to apologise, confessing their past mistakes and expressing their sincere regret.
Beh Rud, with his warm smile and kind heart, responded, “There’s no need to apologise. We all make mistakes. What’s important is that we are here for each other when it matters most.”
From that day forward, the villagers looked at Beh Rud through a new lens of respect and admiration. They appreciated not just his skills and resilience but also the generous spirit that flowed through him.
His “boat to nowhere” had become a bridge that brought the community closer.
As worry spread that another flood might come, the villagers rallied together to ensure the preservation of the craft that had served them so well.
They built a proper support to elevate the boat, keeping it safe from the damp soil that could rot it. As they had no ordinary paint, they used lime to whitewash the vessel, giving it a fresh, clean appearance.
Beh Rud watched their efforts with a blend of amusement and gratitude. His heart swelled at the sight of those who had once mocked his boat tending to it with such care.
“Well, I never thought I’d see the day,” Beh Rud chuckled, watching the scene unfold. “You all are making quite a project of my old boat.”
One of the neighbours replied, “Beh Rud, we’ve learned our lesson. This boat saved us. We want to make sure it’s ready for the next time.”
“I’m glad you care enough to do this,” said Beh Rud. “It means a lot to me.”
As the neighbours finished their work, the boat stood proudly on its new supports, gleaming in the sun. From then on, it wasn’t just Beh Rud’s little project. It became a treasured asset for the entire community.
The neighbours checked on it regularly, ensuring it remained in good condition and even using it as a gathering spot for discussions.
Beh Rud, eccentric as ever, found joy in the transformation of his boat and the change in his neighbours’ attitudes. What once was a simple hobby had evolved into a symbol of hope and cooperation, ready to serve the village in times of need.
The last time I saw that boat was during the year-end school holiday of December 1968. I was a lad in Form 3, a boarding student at Serian Government Secondary School, which was quite a distance from my humble village.
It was not a day filled with joy, for the shadow of Beh Rud’s passing loomed large over me; he had departed from this world a year prior, and his farmhouse now stood abandoned. His children had scattered to other farms, and his dear wife was too frail to tend to the land.
Out of curiosity, Little B and I ventured to that old place. To our dismay, the boat was missing from its usual perch. We were told that a neighbouring farmer had taken it in at the behest of Beh Rud’s widow.
This news brought a smile to our faces, for we held dear memories of that boat, and it warmed our hearts to know it was in good hands, cared for as it deserved.
The views expressed here are those of the writer and do not necessarily represent the views of the Sarawak Tribune.
