‘Sarawak Folklore’ Silver Winner (Youth) – Bernard Yong Qian Ze

Skull of Bujang Senang at Jong's Crocodile Farm.

A Legacy at Jong’s

My great-grandfather used to say that the Batang Lupar was not just a river, but a living witness to every secret the jungle tried to bury. He passed those stories down to my father, who would sit me down and speak of the things that moved beneath the tea-coloured surface of the water with a tone of deep, unshakeable respect.

In our family, the river was never just a body of water or a source of food; it was a realm governed by ancient laws and a specific kind of justice that we, as humans, could only hope to understand from a distance. The most chilling and persistent of these stories was always the one about Bujang Senang.

My father told me that before the scales and the prehistoric teeth, there was a man named Libau. He was a legendary Iban warrior, a man of such immense strength and spiritual protection that he was believed to be untouchable in battle. But as my father always reminded me, even the strongest men have a weakness, and for Libau, it was a betrayal by those he trusted most.

When they murdered him and threw his body into the depths of the Batang Lupar, the river did not let him rest. Instead, his spirit was forged into something much more dangerous: a massive saltwater crocodile, a creature born of vengeance. My great-grandfather insisted that the white stripe along the crocodile’s back wasn’t a fluke of nature, but the ghost of the warrior’s ritual markings, a sign that he was still a fighter even in his new skin.

For decades, the name Bujang Senang was a whisper that kept us away from the water’s edge at dusk. My father described how the line between myth and reality began to blur as the years went by. It was no longer just a story told in the longhouses to pass the time.

Cattle would vanish from the banks, boats would be nudged by something massive and unseen, and eventually, people simply did not come home. To the rest of the world, it was probably just a large creature acting on animal instinct, but to my family, it was as if the river itself was reclaiming its territory. There was a tactical respect we had to give to the water because we knew who was reigning beneath it.

Everything changed in 1992, a year that was etched into our family history. After a young woman was taken, the fear in the community turned into a grim determination to end the cycle. My father remembers the hunt vividly, describing the way the air felt heavy with the realisation that the legend was finally coming to a head.

When the beast was finally caught and killed after an epic struggle, it was a moment of profound shock for everyone involved. It was nineteen feet long and weighed over a tonne, and there, as clear as the stories my great-grandfather had shared, was the white stripe across its back. The myth had finally been given a body.

But for me, the story has an even more personal conclusion. After the hunt was over and the physical reign of the white-backed king ended, his remains were brought to my grandfather’s farm, Jong’s Crocodile Farm. Growing up there, I didn’t see a monster when I looked at what was left of him. Instead, I saw a piece of my heritage. Standing near the remains of Bujang Senang at the farm, I felt a connection between the folklore of my ancestors and the reality of the Sarawakian wilderness. It taught me that nature has a memory, and that the beauty of our home is often intertwined with a very real, very dangerous kind of power.

As a student now, I look back on these traditions and realise that these myths were never just bedtime stories. They were a language of survival passed from my great-grandfather to my father, and eventually to me. My grandfather’s farm became the final resting place for a legend that defined our region for a century.

It reminds us that we are merely guests in a world that was never truly ours to tame. Even now, when I visit the river and see a ripple in the distance, I think of Libau. The animals may live in the farm, but the spirit of the warrior still guards the tea-coloured depths, reminding us that some stories have teeth, and some legends never truly die. — DayakDaily

Bernard Yong Qian Ze.

Sixteen-year-old Kuchingite Bernard Yong Qian Ze is a student at Borneo International School. During his free time, he prefers to keep things simple by hanging out and unwinding with his friends.