The Lost Archaeological Site of Long Midang, hidden deep within Borneo’s dense forests, whispers tales of an ancient civilization whose stories have long been forgotten by time.
By Masri Sareb Putra
“A prehistoric site has vanished. Cut through by a road,” said Dr. Aprianto, a Dayak Lundayeh who serves in the government and lives in Long Bawan, Krayan.
A single point in Long Midang, where traditional wells and salt factories once stood, now leaves no trace. Only hard soil, stones, and the rumble of passing vehicles remain.
What was once called the crocodile monument, sacred by tradition and crafted by ancestors, is now buried under memories that were never recorded.
Hearing this news hit me with a bittersweet pang. Perhaps this is how loss feels. It is not because the object mattered personally, but because a piece of history slowly erased itself.
It seems we are faster at building roads than at preserving traces of our past.
From Research to Reality
I knew the site first through the works of Robert Blust and Peter Bellwood, two names highly respected in Borneo prehistory. Their studies were later confirmed by the South Kalimantan Archaeology Office.
They documented artifacts, the megalithic age, and memories etched into the highlands of Krayan.
Today, these objects exist only as sentences in the past tense.
Dr. Yansen TP and I visited the area ourselves, exploring parts of the Bornean Highlands rarely touched. We wrote Jejak Peradakan Manusia Sungai Krayan - Traces of Human Civilization in the Krayan River (ISBN book, 2021, 340 pages).
Back then, we weren’t exactly writing history. We were chasing fragments on the brink of disappearance. Pieces scattered under tall grass, hidden in mist, or buried in villagers’ rice fields.
We temporarily placed them on Wikipedia because we believed only Dayak people could truly write Dayak history, from the inside out.
Folklore as Truth
History does not always come from university benches. Sometimes it rises from grandmothers’ tales, from myths passed down orally.
Take Yuvai Semaring, for instance. A figure both mystical and real, filling the narrative spaces and coursing through the blood of Krayan people. He is not just an ancestor—he is a direction.
Folklore, some call it. Yet who says myth is less truthful than official records?
Caves like Batu Sicien, Long Mutan, and Long Layu revealed axes and adzes. In the paddy fields, shards of old ceramics were buried. Once ordinary household items, now priceless evidence that the Lengilo people did not arrive from elsewhere.
They grew here. Lived. Died. And became the soil under durian trees.
They were not newcomers. They were native.
Symbols of a Lost World
Long Midang, which now seems a mere dot on the map, was once a center. Megalithic symbols stood there, including crocodile statues facing southeast and northwest.
Between these statues, I felt suspended in a timeline I could not fully grasp. The crocodile was more than a creature. It was a symbol. A guardian. A code.
There was also Batu Perupun, a stacked stone structure, likely an altar or marker. Now just a pile dismantled before it could be studied.
Batu Narit carried carvings of hornbills and circular pots. Were they prayers? Warnings? We may never know. But at least we can acknowledge that there was once a world that believed stones could speak.
In 2018, a team from the Archaeology Office arrived with measuring tools, recording coordinates and marking points. Silently, they confirmed that what we suspected was true. Excavations at Batu Sicien and Long Padi revealed undeniable traces: the people of Krayan lived here thousands of years ago.
Yet the road was built, and the site vanished.
Writing for the Lost
I believe history resides not only in what is found but also in what is lost, in what almost slips from memory.
I write this for the site that no longer exists. For the crocodile statue now relegated to myth. For the highlands that no longer rise in the eyes of national policy.
And for those who quietly know that a river is not merely water flowing. It is a place where memory settles, layer by layer, like sediment.
Though Long Midang is gone from the physical map, it remains in the stories, the fragments, and the soil beneath our feet. Its absence speaks louder than any monument ever could.
History, sometimes, is the echo of loss.
