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| Panorama from the peak of Batu Sicien, Tang Payeh: a fragment of paradise fallen on the land of Krayan. Photo credit: the author. |
By Masri Sareb Putra
Batu Sicien rises to a height of no less than 200 meters, standing like a solitary stone citadel in the remote highlands of Krayan, North Kalimantan.
Reaching this peak is never accidental; it requires intention, preparation, and respect for nature.
The journey begins in Tang Payeh, where travelers must first board a speedboat and navigate approximately five kilometers along the river.
Climbers must come well prepared. Tobacco is essential, not as a luxury but as protection against leeches and land bloodsuckers that thrive in the damp forest floor.
Proper climbing equipment is crucial: sturdy shoes for grip, gloves for rough stone, and thick clothing to guard against the cold air that intensifies with elevation. A lighter or matches must also be carried, both to cook meals in the forest and to provide warmth when the temperature drops unexpectedly.
The final ascent begins at the base of Batu Sicien itself. From here, climbers must scale roughly 150 meters of steep, rocky terrain.
The path narrows as it rises, and in places becomes sharply vertical. This is not a climb to be undertaken alone. It must be done in a group, with constant communication and mutual vigilance. For those who cannot bear looking down into deep, open space, this climb offers no compromise. One misstep could prove fatal.
History Carved in Stone
Beyond its physical challenge, Batu Sicien is a site layered with human history and cultural memory. The surrounding Krayan highlands hold traces of ancient human presence: fragments of ceramics scattered near rock shelters, old burial sites hidden behind massive boulders, and landscapes shaped as much by belief as by geography. These are not ruins meant for spectacle; they are quiet markers of continuity.
The mountain is also bound to stories that resist easy explanation. Among them are narratives surrounding the origins of the Lengilo people, whose past is preserved primarily through oral tradition. Tales of the “Aco Terror,” a period remembered for fear and survival, still circulate among elders, alongside the legends of Yuvai and Semaring, figures who embody courage, endurance, and moral order. Documenting these stories is not merely an academic pursuit; it is an act of preservation in a time when oral histories risk fading into silence.
Standing among these stones, one senses that Batu Sicien is more than a geological formation. It is a witness. It has observed generations arrive, settle, struggle, and endure. The climb, therefore, becomes not only a physical ascent but an entry into the layered narrative of human presence in Krayan.
Guided by the Land
Our ascent to the summit was guided by Marli Kamis, a local resident whose knowledge of Batu Sicien is rooted in lived experience rather than maps or instruments. Under his guidance, each step felt measured and deliberate. He knew where the rock would hold, where the ground would slip, and where silence was required. In landscapes like this, such knowledge is not taught; it is inherited.
As we climbed higher, the forest thinned and the air grew cooler. The sounds of insects and birds softened, replaced by wind brushing against stone. When we finally reached the summit, a sense of relief and quiet triumph settled in. The fatigue dissolved into awe. From this vantage point, the Krayan highlands unfolded in sweeping layers of green, river lines glinting faintly below, forests stretching unbroken toward the horizon.
The reward was immediate and profound. The air was crisp, the silence expansive, and the view unspoiled. It felt as though the land itself was breathing. Standing there, one could not escape the impression that this was a place deliberately left untouched.
The Heart of Borneo
From the summit of Batu Sicien, the landscape of the Heart of Borneo reveals itself in full clarity. Rolling highlands, dense forests, and distant ridgelines merge into a scene so pristine it feels unreal. Krayan is perhaps one of the only regions in Borneo that has not, and is collectively being preserved from, the destructive hands of deforestation. This preservation is not accidental. It is the result of generations of Dayak stewardship, guided by an ethic that sees land not as a commodity but as an inheritance.
Krayan feels like a land shaped with intention, as if created with a quiet smile. The Dayak people who inhabit this region have long understood the balance between use and care. They farm, hunt, and build with restraint, ensuring that forests, rivers, and wildlife endure. Here, sustainability is not a slogan but a lived practice.
Standing atop Batu Sicien, approximately fifteen kilometers from the village of Ba’ Binuang, one feels the weight of this responsibility and the grace of its fulfillment. The scene resembles a fragment of paradise, a small piece of Eden fallen gently onto the earth of Krayan. It is a reminder that harmony between humanity and nature is not a myth but a possibility, one that still survives in places willing to protect it.
As Dag Hammarskjöld once observed, “Never measure the height of a mountain until you have reached the top. Then you will see how low it was.”
At Batu Sicien, the mountain’s true height is not measured in meters, but in perspective, humility, and reverence.
