The Enchanting Beauty of the Panorama in Front of Astana and Along the Banks of the Sarawak River in Verses of Poetry

Enchanted by the breathtaking panorama in front of Astana along the banks of the Sarawak River at dusk. Doc. Rmps/Ytprayeh.com

🌍 KUCHING, MALAYSIA | BORNEOTRAVEL: As dusk descends upon Sarawak, the last light of day drapes the land in amber and violet hues. Long shadows stretch across the earth, veiling a history both storied and scarred.

If you ever find yourself in Sarawak, linger in Kuching as twilight settles. Head to the Waterfront, where the Sarawak River glows with the embered reflections of the fading sun. Across the water, the Astana stands in quiet majesty, its silhouette whispering of a past both grand and turbulent.

Here, the evening breeze carries echoes of an era when the White Rajah, James Brooke, and his dynasty ruled these lands. Yet beneath the colonial grandeur, the river remembers deeper roots—the Dayak people, whose legacy flows like the currents beneath its surface. Their spirits linger in the rustling of ancient trees, in the rhythms of rituals still practiced, in the unbroken connection between land, water, and those who have called it home for centuries.

Astana is a symbol of grandeur and beauty

Along the tranquil banks of the Sarawak River, at the famed Kuching Waterfront, life blossomed. 

Stately shops lined the walkways, flowers in riotous hues adorned the paths —Asoka and bougainvillea flaming crimson like embers in the dusk. It was a garden, a vision torn from the pages of myth, a dream woven into the fabric of the past. 

Pristine, arranged with an artistry that whispered of both devotion and reverence.

I drank in the panorama, every fiber of my being attuned to its quiet splendor. Sarawak was unlike my homeland. Perhaps it was the touch of the British that rendered it orderly, polished, and disciplined—a legacy of governance that still lingered in its streets and sky.

Read Kuching Waterfront: A Captivating Blend of History, Culture, and Scenic Beauty

Across the river stood the Astana, the palace that bore witness to time’s unyielding march. Perched on the northern bank, opposite the harbor district of Kuching, the Astana had been raised by Rajah Charles Brooke in 1870, a bridal gift to his beloved Margaret de Windt. 

More than a single dwelling, it was a composition of three grand bungalows, each a testament to a bygone era. In 1931, master artisans from Hong Kong were summoned to embellish its interiors, their skilled hands breathing life into ceilings adorned with intricate stucco.

Since the dawning of Malaysia Day, the Astana had stood as the official residence of the Yang di-Pertua Negeri Sarawak, the Governor of Sarawak. It was a fortress of sovereignty, its doors rarely parted for the common traveler. Though the palace remained beyond my reach, the gardens were but a boat ride away—a haven of quiet grace upon the river’s edge.

That afternoon, the gates of the Astana remained closed. A grand event was in preparation, barring entry to all but the chosen few. 

Read Historical Tour of Sarawak Muzium, Kuching

Yet, I did not mourn the denial, for there was solace in the air, in the land, in the quiet strength of a towering shade tree, proud and unyielding, reaching skyward with the arrogance of age. I lowered myself onto the grass beneath its vast canopy, and there, I gave myself to thought, to memory, to poetry.

At the Banks of the Sarawak River

(I)
The banks of Sarawak’s river run quiet,
Where the first light of the sun no longer speaks.
A hush lingers upon its muddied waters,
Lanterns of Astana lost within its silted depths.

And there you stand—
Beyond the tide, beyond the reach of gaze,
Parted by a river’s silent decree.

A woman of the Iban treads the shore,
Her steps reluctant, yet steady eastward.
“We will reach the docks,” she says,
“We will reach before the dark descends,
Before the sun spills its golden breath
Upon the river’s restless skin.”

And in the waning glow of James Brooke’s Café,
The music of the Iban lingers still—
“Enti suba tua dara betemu,
Sigi nuan dambi aku ke sulu….”

Once, in the hush of childhood, I dreamt.
And my mother stirred me from that slumber.
“Iban is not your tongue,” she whispered.
“Do not go there.
It is no place for a child.”

Then, the first sun collapsed upon itself,
Its dying light a prism of rainbows
Spilled across the river’s sluggish tide.

Raspy echoes rose—
Perhaps the murmurs of unknown wanderers.

(II)
Ripples chased one another, their circles widening—
A fleeting mirage upon the current’s back.
Foam gathered at the Waterfront’s altar,
White ghosts in the twilight’s embrace.

Upon the banks of Sarawak,
I wove my melody in colors of seven blooms.
A hymn to the night,
A whispered prayer to the dimming light.

Perhaps at the end of this path,
Another incantation awaits.

And I shall step upon that dock—
The mooring place of your heart.

--- Masri Sareb Putra