“In every walk with nature, one receives far more than he seeks.”
– John Muir (1838-1914), a Scottish American naturalist, author, and environmentalist, often referred to as the ‘Father of the National Parks’. He was instrumental in the establishment of several national parks in the United States, including Yosemite National Park.
IT was the mid-1960s – maybe 1964, maybe 1965. Memory’s slippery like that. But I remember, clear as the sun at high noon, one lazy evening in our little village.
My younger brother, Little B, and I – about 10 or 11, and he a couple of years younger – were eating a roasted pumpkin and sitting cross-legged on the cool floor of Aji’s house.
Aji, a family friend, weathered hunter, and local character, was at the centre of it all, spinning a yarn about one of his peculiar adventures.
That day, Aji had returned from a hunting trip empty-handed and visibly frazzled. The jungle, it seemed, had bested him. His catch? A few fish, some scraggly ferns, and mushrooms so pitiful they looked ashamed of themselves.
The wild hogs he had pursued had vanished, leaving him to stumble out of the jungle and into a barren brushland.
“And there it was,” Aji said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “The rock. Yes, it had been there all the time near the edge of my father’s land, but I had ignored it all these years.”
He paused for effect. Little B leaned forward, his wide eyes gleaming. Aji described the flat-topped boulder, sitting alone in the wilderness like a throne for some forgotten jungle deity. It seemed the kind of thing that made you stop and wonder if the place had its secrets.
A Refuge in the Wild
Aji described how, dead-tired and desperate for rest, he’d clambered onto the rock, which was slightly higher than he was tall. During the climb, he scraped his arms and legs on the rough surface, but once he was atop, he couldn’t have cared less.
The rock was flat, its surface oddly smooth, as though polished by countless hands – or time itself. It was a strange, inviting kind of place.
“Maybe the gods themselves placed it there,” Aji mused that evening, his voice tinged with reverence. “Or maybe it was the devil.”
That night atop the rock, Aji had fashioned a crude shelter out of banana leaves and twigs. A small fire crackled beside him, casting flickering shadows on the jungle’s edge. He roasted the fish he’d caught, savouring each bite as if it were a king’s feast.
But what struck Aji most wasn’t the food or the fire. It was the sky. From his perch, the heavens seemed closer, more alive. The stars winked like old friends, and the moonlit jungle felt less like a wild, untamed beast and more like a sleeping giant. For all its indifference, the rock had become his refuge.
Aji’s tale ended there, but not before he added one last cryptic note. “That rock,” he said, leaning forward, his voice barely above a whisper, “it has a way of calling you back.”
Little B and I exchanged a glance, unsure what to make of it – whether to feel awed or uneasy.
A Year Later: The Rock’s Transformation
About a year later, on a muggy afternoon, Little B and I were out fishing in a jungle stream. The water was murky, our fishing lines barely visible beneath its surface, but the air was alive with the hum of cicadas and the occasional splash of a jumping fish. We hadn’t caught much, but the day felt full of promise.
As we made our way back home, we stumbled upon a scene that stopped us in our tracks. There, perched atop the rock Aji had described, was something we could hardly believe: a cabin. But not just any cabin. This was a proper little house, its walls made of solid tree trunks fitted so seamlessly together that it was as if the trees had grown that way.
Smoke puffed lazily from a chimney that pierced the roof. We blinked, half-convinced we were seeing a mirage.
“Aji!” Little B hollered, his voice breaking the spell.
Sure enough, Aji appeared in the doorway, grinning like a man who’d just won a fortune.
“Well, don’t just stand there, boys,” he called out. “Come on up!”
We scrambled up the log ladder that leaned against the rock’s side, our curiosity outweighing our disbelief. Inside, the cabin was even more impressive.
Aji had built himself a bed from small tree trunks, complete with a mosquito net that hung like a royal canopy. The room smelled of fresh wood and the faint, earthy scent of the jungle.
Lunch was a simple but satisfying feast of roasted sweet corn, jungle greens, and tea brewed from leaves Aji swore could “cure what ails you”.
“How’d you do all this?” I asked, my voice filled with awe.
Aji chuckled, leaning back in his makeshift chair. “The rock,” he said. “It gives a man ideas.”
The Rock’s Whispered Mystery
Over the weeks, Little B and I became regular visitors to Aji’s cabin. Each time, it seemed he’d added something new – a wooden bench here, a small garden there. But it wasn’t just the physical changes that intrigued us. There was something different about Aji himself. He seemed … calmer, more grounded. It was as though the rock had given him not just a home, but a sense of purpose.
One evening, as we sat around a small fire outside the cabin, Aji shared something that sent a chill down my spine.
“Sometimes,” he said, his voice low, “I hear voices.”
Little B and I froze, our roasted corn forgotten in our hands.
“Not voices, exactly,” Aji clarified, sensing our unease. “More like … whispers. Like the jungle itself is talking to me.”
“What do they say?” Little B asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Aji shrugged. “Nothing I can understand. Just … sounds. But they’re not threatening. If anything, they’re comforting.”
I wasn’t sure what to make of it. The rock had always seemed peculiar, but now it felt almost alive.
Little B’s Bold Suggestion
On one of our visits, Little B, ever the bold one, brought up a topic I’d been too shy to broach.
“Aji,” he said, his voice tinged with mischief, “you should get married.”
Aji nearly choked on his tea. “And what would I do with a wife?” he asked, laughing. “She’d just nag me to come down from my rock.”
Little B wasn’t deterred. “Our mother says Rita would be a good match,” he said matter-of-factly.
Aji raised an eyebrow. “Rita? The girl by the river bend?”
“She’s kind,” I added, feeling the need to back Little B up.
“And she makes the best banana cake!” Little B exclaimed.
Aji chuckled, shaking his head. “You boys are something else,” he said, handing us each a banana. “I’ll think about it.”
The Matchmaker’s Success
A few weeks later, as we passed Rita’s family farm on our way to the river, Little B couldn’t resist bringing her into the fold.
“You should give some of that cake to Aji,” he said, pointing to the sweet-smelling loaf in her hands. “He’s all alone up there.”
Rita laughed, her cheeks turning pink. “Is that so?” she said, her voice teasing but warm.
We thought little of it at the time, but it wasn’t long before whispers of Aji and Rita began circulating through the village. By the time I returned from boarding school a year later, the whispers had turned into full-blown news.
“Aji and Rita are getting married,” my mother announced over dinner, her smile as wide as the river.
A Home Full of Love
The wedding was a simple but joyous affair on a Sunday. A month later, during another school break, Little B and I went to the rock again. We missed Aji.
When we arrived, we noted that the cabin had become a proper home away from the village, its walls echoing with laughter and the scent of Rita’s cooking. Aji’s once-solitary refuge had transformed into a place of warmth and love.
The rock had been a silent witness to so much – Aji’s struggles, his triumph, and now, his happiness.
Maybe it did have a way of calling people back. Or maybe, just maybe, it was a reminder that even the unlikeliest places can become home.
Today, many decades later, I still see the rock as a refuge and vantage point – a flat, elevated perch that steadied Aji after failure.
Sitting at the border of land and wild, it was a place where exhaustion became clarity, fear softened into awe, and neglect turned to attention.
Its “whispers” give it a quiet, animistic aura; not menacing, but beckoning – an ordinary object with overlooked power that catalyses purpose and creativity.
The rock’s practical advantages (dry, breezy, defensible) support rest, ideas, and steady work – cabin, garden, routine.
What started as a solitary perch became a social node, drawing us, the neighbours, then Rita, until it anchored a home filled with warmth and laughter.
In the end, the rock was both a literal foundation and living metaphor: stable enough to enable change, and memorable enough to bind personal history to a place – a reminder that an unlikely ground can become the heart of a life.
The views expressed here are those of the writer and do not necessarily represent the views of Sarawak Tribune. The writer can be reached at hayhenlin@gmail.com.
