Borneo: Into the Wild

September 2007 – Sabah State, Malaysia

A Childhood Fascination

Borneo.
Even as a child, that name stirred something deep within me — a spark of wanderlust. It conjured visions of untamed rainforests, rare wildlife, and mysterious tribes hidden far from the modern world.

I imagined towering jungle canopies, rivers choked with roots and shadows, and the cries of unseen animals echoing through the mist. It was, in my mind, one of the last truly wild places left on Earth.

Answering the Call

In September 2007, that childhood dream became reality. I traveled to Sabah State, Malaysia, a place where rainforest meets reef, and adventure begins the moment you step off the plane.

My goal wasn’t just to visit. I wanted to venture deep into Borneo’s darkest jungles, where leeches clung to your boots and hornbills swept overhead, and then trade my hiking boots for fins to explore the coral gardens once hailed by Jacques Cousteau as among the most beautiful in the world.

An 11-Day Journey

Over the course of eleven days, I would move between pristine rainforests and dazzling tropical waters, from the shadowy riverbanks of the Kinabatangan to the crystal-clear depths surrounding Sipadan.

This is the story of that journey — of wild encounters, remote landscapes, and the magic of Borneo.

Borneo: A Wild Frontier on the Edge of Change

The Third-Largest Island on Earth

The island of Borneo is one of the largest in the world — a vast, lush expanse of rainforest home to orangutans, gibbons, pygmy elephants, and countless other species found nowhere else. Shared by Indonesia, Malaysia, and the tiny kingdom of Brunei, it is a land that feels both ancient and untamed.

A Modern-Day Wild West

There’s a raw, almost Wild West atmosphere to Borneo. Settlers from mainland Asia, Malaysians from other states, and foreign companies are all pouring in, eager to stake their claim while there’s still land, timber, and resources to be had. The pace of change is rapid — and not always for the better.

The Vanishing Rainforest

Once, Borneo was blanketed in one of the largest unbroken rainforests on the planet. Today, much of that green canopy has been replaced by endless palm oil plantations. The vast lowland forests are nearly gone, with most of the remaining primary jungle now clinging to the mountains.

Deforestation hasn’t just altered the land — it’s also harmed the coral reefs offshore. Sediment run-off from cleared hillsides clouds the water, choking reefs that were once vibrant with life.

Sabah: My Gateway to Adventure

In September 2007, I traveled to the northeastern Malaysian state of Sabah with my friend Eric, eager to see what remained of this wild paradise. Before stepping foot in Borneo, we made our first stop en route in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia’s bustling capital — a sharp contrast to the deep jungles that awaited us.

A Stopover in Kuala Lumpur

Gateway to Borneo

A City on the Equator

Before stepping into the wilds of Borneo, Eric and I spent a single day in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia’s sprawling, modern capital. Gleaming skyscrapers pierced the tropical haze, and the air was thick and humid — a constant reminder that this metropolis sits right on the equator. With only a short time before our flight to Sabah, we decided to make the most of it and visit one of the country’s most famous sites: Batu Caves.

Batu Caves: Sacred and Spectacular

The Batu Caves are a towering limestone formation, sacred to Malaysia’s Hindu community. At the entrance stands a colossal golden statue of Lord Murugan, shimmering in the sunlight. The main cave is reached by a steep flight of steps and contains well-manicured walkways, shrines, and colorful statues depicting scenes from Hindu mythology.

Choosing the Wild Cave

While many visitors remain in the temple area, I was drawn to a different part of Batu Caves — the wild cave tour. Unlike the polished pilgrimage route, this section had no concrete, no artificial lighting, and no safety railings. Instead, it was raw, dark, and alive in the most unsettling way possible.

The Cave That Crawled

The moment I stepped inside, I knew this would be unlike any cave I had explored before. Thousands of bats clung to the ceiling, their high-pitched squeaks echoing through the blackness. Beneath them, the floor was alive — billions of cockroaches and centipedes feasting on the bat droppings that fell in a constant rain from above.

To move forward, I had to wade through writhing piles of insects, the ground shifting beneath my boots. The smell was rancid, a pungent mix of ammonia and decay, and the sound of millions of tiny legs skittering over each other was something I will never forget. It was raw nature at its most primal — and most unforgettable.

From the City to the Sea

Flying into Sabah State, Borneo

Tawau: The Frontier Gateway

From Kuala Lumpur, Eric and I boarded a short flight to Tawau, a city in Sabah State, Borneo. Tawau had a gritty, frontier feel — grimy streets, sweltering heat, and a restless energy. It wasn’t a place we lingered in; rather, it was our jumping-off point for the turquoise waters waiting offshore.

Mabul Island: A Diver’s Paradise

From Tawau, we made our way to Mabul Island, where we checked into rustic beach bungalows overlooking the clear, shallow sea. Mabul is well-known in the diving world — not for towering coral walls or massive pelagic fish, but for something more subtle: muck diving.

The Art of Muck Diving

Unlike traditional diving in coral gardens, muck diving takes place over sandy or silty ocean floors. At first glance, it seems barren, but look closer and a hidden world appears. This is micro diving territory — a treasure hunt for tiny, brilliantly camouflaged creatures.

• Frogfish blending perfectly with a sponge.

• Mimic octopuses shifting shape and color in an instant.

• Seahorses no bigger than a fingernail, swaying with the current.

Macro diving, by contrast, focuses on the big marine life — sharks, rays, and turtles — and for that, the legendary Sipadan Island was just a short boat ride away.

Life Among the Sea Gypsies

When we weren’t diving, Eric and I wandered Mabul’s sandy footpaths, eventually finding ourselves in the village of the Bajau Laut, also known as Sea Gypsies.

These people are stateless nomads, belonging to no nation. They live their entire lives aboard hand-carved wooden boats, migrating from one fishing ground to another across Southeast Asia’s maritime borders without concern for political lines. Large families sleep, cook, and raise children in their small vessels, with the sea as their home and lifeline.

Their village on Mabul was little more than a collection of makeshift huts perched on stilts above the shallow lagoon. Kids paddled past us in dugout canoes, laughing and splashing, while elders repaired nets in the shade. Life here was hard, but it had a rhythm — dictated entirely by the tides.

Sipadan Island: A Mountain in the Sea

A Coral Summit Rising from the Depths

Sipadan Island is unlike anywhere else I have dived. It rises straight out of the deep ocean, the tip of a massive undersea volcanic mountain topped with a living crown of coral. Surrounding it, powerful ocean currents sweep past, carrying nutrient-rich waters that feed an incredible abundance of marine life.

Protected Waters and Limited Access

Sipadan is a protected marine reserve, which means no one is allowed to stay overnight. Diving is strictly controlled, with a limited number of permits issued each day. I managed to secure permits for just one day.

To get there, Eric and I boarded an open-top speedboat for the hour-long journey from Mabul Island. The ride was exhilarating, the wind whipping across the bow as the turquoise waters gave way to the deep blue of the open sea.

A Wild Interior and an Untamed Past

Sipadan itself has no permanent buildings other than a small ranger hut. The island’s interior is dense jungle, home to large monitor lizards that roam freely.

A few years before my visit, the island made headlines when a group of divers was kidnapped by Abu Sayyaf militants from the nearby southern Philippines. That thought lingered in the back of my mind during the trip, but it was quickly replaced by awe as I experienced the beauty of the place firsthand.

Diving the Steep Walls

The diving at Sipadan is unforgettable. Sheer coral walls plunge thousands of feet into the deep, alive with color and movement. On every dive, I encountered dozens of green and hawksbill turtles, gliding past within arm’s reach. White-tip and black-tip reef sharks cruised effortlessly along the drop-offs, sometimes disappearing into the deep blue below.

To this day, it remains the best turtle diving I have ever experienced — an underwater paradise balanced between raw wilderness and strict protection.

Maliau Basin: Borneo’s Lost World

A Hidden Rainforest Fortress

Deep in the heart of Borneo lies the Maliau Basin, part of a vast network of protected rainforests roughly the size of Singapore. This ancient ecosystem spans 25 kilometers across and sits at around 3,000 feet above sea level. What makes it truly unique is its natural fortress — sheer cliffs encircle the entire basin, shielding it from development and keeping its interior largely untouched.

Only about 30 percent of Maliau has ever been explored. Its isolation has created a self-contained world, rich in rare and unusual wildlife found almost nowhere else on Earth.

Life in the Untamed Jungle

Maliau is a place that demands respect. The air is heavy and humid, the ground a churn of mud and tangled roots. Leeches are everywhere — not just clinging to the forest floor, but dropping from branches above. Malaria is common, and venturing here is not for the unprepared.

The rewards, however, are extraordinary. Gibbons call from the canopy, their whoops echoing through the forest. Orangutans and clouded leopards still roam these trees. Even the critically endangered Sumatran rhino is rumored to survive here, a ghost of the ancient jungle.

The Trek into the Unknown

I signed up for a five-day trek into the basin, staying in simple wooden shelters deep in the wilderness. The authorities who manage the reserve take its remoteness seriously — they required a doctor’s note to confirm I was fit for the challenge before granting my permit.

The trek was everything I’d hoped for: hot, muddy, exhausting, and utterly unforgettable. By the end, my arms and legs were covered in insect bites and leech scars, but I hardly noticed. I had walked through one of the last truly wild rainforests on the planet — a place so untouched it feels like stepping back into a prehistoric world.

Long Days in the Jungle

Each day we hiked for roughly ten hours through thick mud and suffocating humidity, following trails that often seemed to disappear into the jungle. We hauled ourselves up ropes and wobbly wooden ladders, scrambling over slick roots and steep slopes to reach the top of the basin’s ridge. My friend and I were the only hikers in the entire reserve, accompanied by a small team of rangers and porters who guided us through this remote and unforgiving wilderness.

Leech Attack from Above and Below

The leeches were relentless, attacking from both the ground and the sky — dropping from overhanging branches straight onto our heads. Every thirty minutes we had to stop and pull them off our clothes, and if we were unlucky, our skin. Rest was impossible; sitting down meant becoming a leech buffet, so whenever we needed a break, we stood. I stayed vigilant and was lucky enough to avoid a single bite, but others in our group weren’t so fortunate. Our ranger and several porters — some hiking in nothing more than flip-flops — were savagely gored by the bloodsuckers.

Views from the Ridge

Reaching the top of the ridge felt like stepping into another world. Before me stretched an endless sea of green — the vast, unbroken canopy of the Maliau Basin rainforest. It rolled away to the horizon in every direction, untouched and mysterious. Knowing that so much of what I saw remained unexplored filled me with awe. Somewhere in that green expanse still roamed some of the last surviving Sumatran rhinos, along with countless species of plants and animals yet to be discovered.

Strange and Rare Jungle Plants

At the top of the basin, we encountered some of the rainforest’s strangest plant life. Carnivorous pitcher plants clung to the ground and low shrubs, their colorful, fluted mouths filled with sweet nectar to lure in unsuspecting flies. Once trapped, the insects were slowly dissolved by the plant’s digestive enzymes. Nearby, we found a massive carrion flower plant — not yet in bloom, but still an impressive sight. When it does open, for only a single day each year, it releases a stench so foul it can be detected for miles, mimicking the smell of death to draw in its pollinators.

Nights in the Jungle

We slept in simple wooden shelters, cooking our meals over an open fire while the raucous sounds of the rainforest echoed around us. My friend had never been in a jungle before, and when the cicadas began their deafening chorus after dark, he froze in alarm. He was convinced we were under attack by wild animals and could hardly believe that such an intense, almost mechanical roar was coming from nothing more than insects.

Dawn and Dusk in the Basin

Morning and evening were always the best times in the basin — not just because the air was cooler, but because the jungle truly came alive. Gibbons and other primates stirred in the treetops, while massive hornbills glided overhead. The canopy rang with the haunting, high-pitched calls of gibbons and the deep, resounding whoosh of hornbill wings slicing through the air. Far above, branches shook as monkeys leapt from tree to tree, occasionally hurling their feces hundreds of feet down toward us — a reminder that in their jungle, we were the visitors.

Waterfall Relief

Despite the long, grueling days of hiking, there was always a welcome reward — the cool, rushing waters of the waterfalls that poured from the basin. After hours of slogging through mud and humidity, plunging into those clear, invigorating pools was pure bliss and the perfect antidote to the jungle’s relentless heat.

A Challenge Worth Every Step

The hike through the Maliau Basin was one of the most challenging — yet also one of the most rewarding — journeys I have ever undertaken.