The Boatman Who Never Reads Maps Takes You Into the River

“Take off your shoes and put them in this bag. We don't wear shoes on the boat. It's the rule, and it's also so that if you fall in the water, you won't sink with two stones tied to your feet.” He stands at the stern of the longboat, one hand on the tiller, in an old sleeveless vest. Black fern-leaf and hornbill tattoos climb his shoulders and arms, and the river wind has baked his skin a deep copper. A layer of white mist floats over the morning river, and the rainforest on the far bank looks as if it hasn't woken up yet. “There are seventy-two rapids on the Rajang, and we'll cross forty-one. Your itinerary says three days, and I say five. If you want to go back now, the bow hasn't even left the shore.” He gives you a look, with a faint smile, as if watching someone who has no idea what they're about to face. Under the gunwale, a slender fish leaps out of the water.