Borneo. Part 1: The Kinabatangan River, the Amazon of the East
- clementpoumeyrol
- Aug 16
- 11 min read
Since childhood, Borneo had lived in my imagination as an almost unreal place. An endless jungle, deep green and alive with the hum of insects and the songs of birds, inhabited by creatures found nowhere else on the planet. An island where nature still appears as it might have millions of years ago. I still remember the day, as a child, when I received and opened for the first time the sublime Jungles by Frans Lanting — a book that remained by my bedside for years. From that moment, Borneo became more than a destination: it became a promise.
In March 2025, during a trip planned to the Philippines, I decided it was time to keep that promise. Just a few hours by plane from Manila, the Malaysian state of Sabah stood out as the obvious choice: the Kinabatangan River, a labyrinth of brown waters fringed by jungle, and the Danum Valley, one of the oldest (over 130 million years) and best-preserved primary forests on the planet. This journey had two purposes: to prepare future itineraries for photography workshops, and to begin gathering images for a book project… which will remain secret for now.
Preparation
In the months and weeks leading up to my departure, I mapped out my itinerary in the smallest detail. I studied maps, seasons, potential observation sites, species characteristics — and above all, I searched for the best local guides, capable of meeting a photographer’s specific needs.
Then, just a few weeks before leaving, a twist: the state of Sabah was experiencing its worst flooding in over twenty years. Many residents — especially in Sukau, on the Kinabatangan River, where my trip was to begin — had to be evacuated. My guides’ stilted lodging was surrounded by water, with the added risk of saltwater crocodiles prowling nearby. Thankfully, shortly before I arrived, the waters began to recede. When I landed, the river was still high, but navigable, and photography from boats remained possible.
Arrival
After a long chain of flights — Manila to Kuala Lumpur, then Kuala Lumpur to Sandakan — the dream finally took shape. I stepped onto Borneo carrying a heavy camera bag on my back, not an easy feat with the strict weight limits of local airlines. Every camera body and lens had been chosen for a specific reason: here, every moment would count, and I would have to adapt.
Outside the airport, a broad smile awaited me — Asley, my host and guide, accompanied by one of his cousins. From our first exchanges, I knew I had chosen well: Asley is utterly passionate about Borneo, with an encyclopaedic knowledge of its wildlife, forests, and the threats they face. A regular contributor to National Geographic, he knows Sabah’s every corner: the meanders of the Kinabatangan, the deep forests of the Danum Valley, the wild coasts of the Sulu Sea, and the slopes of Mount Kinabalu.
After a quick stop for fuel and supplies, we left the smooth tarmac for a more chaotic road. Soon, oil palms stretched to the horizon — silent monocultures that have eaten away at the habitat of many emblematic species. And the numbers are staggering:
Bornean orangutan: population down 80% in 50 years.
Bornean pygmy elephant: fewer than 1,500 individuals in the wild.
Hornbills: eight species present, many in steep decline — up to 50% lost in just ten years in some areas due to deforestation and poaching.
Proboscis monkey: endemic to Borneo, already listed as Vulnerable, dependent on riverine forests, with numbers down 50% over the past 40 years.
Faced with this reality, NGOs and local communities work hand in hand: reforestation corridors, economic diversification, sustainable tourism… but the battle is far from won.
By mid-afternoon, we reached Sukau and the Sukau River Homestay — a simple room without hot water, far from the luxury standards of resorts, but with the authenticity and closeness to nature I sought. In Sukau, lodging options exist for all tastes and budgets.
I barely had time to drop my bag before Shah, one of Asley’s brothers, was waiting at the jetty. An experienced boatman and passionate photographer, he knows how to position a boat at the perfect angle, anticipate a hornbill’s flight or the sudden move of a proboscis monkey in the trees. During my stay, we would almost always navigate alone, in silence, to approach animals with minimal disturbance. Occasionally, one or two other people would join us, leading to pleasant conversations over generous, flavorful meals prepared by Asley and Shah’s sister.
Some boats here carry up to twelve passengers. Observation is still enjoyable, but for a photographer seeking exceptional images, nothing beats the discretion of a small craft and the freedom to move with the camera.
Day 1 – First Safari on the Kinabatangan
Just minutes after leaving Sukau’s jetty, the magic of Borneo began to work. We glided along the Kinabatangan’s brown waters, then turned into one of its most renowned tributaries: the Menanggul River. There, ahead of us, a massive grey shape cut through the water — a Bornean pygmy elephant (Elephas maximus borneensis) finishing its crossing. No time to compose the perfect shot, but the sight was unforgettable. The smallest elephant species in the world is also one of the most threatened. Their compact build, rounded ears, and placid temperament stand in striking contrast to their dense jungle home, where they can vanish in an instant despite their size.
We waited, hoping to see others from the herd cross, but none did. A few moved through the vegetation, no more than twenty meters from our boat. Photographing in the dim light of an equatorial forest from a moving boat is a constant challenge — every image is a battle against darkness and instability.
The Menanggul revealed more treasures. On a branch, a Barred eagle-owl (Bubo sumatranus) watched our movements. A little further, a Buffy fish owl (Ketupa ketupu) blended into the foliage. Overhead, a pair of Lesser fish eagles (Haliaeetus humilis) shared a meal.
As the light faded, we returned to the Kinabatangan. Silhouetted in the riverside trees were the elegant forms of proboscis monkeys (Nasalis larvatus). With their long, prominent noses — even more pronounced in males — and reddish-brown coats, they are part of the Kinabatangan’s identity. They gather at dusk on branches overhanging the water, a strategy to avoid nocturnal predators. Their powerful leaps, interactions, and gazes captivated me instantly.
Back at the homestay, another engaging conversation with Asley awaited. But nights in Borneo are short: the alarm would ring at dawn, to find the jungle at its most vibrant.
Day 2 – Magic Between Mist and Raindrops
The river still slept, wrapped in a thick veil of mist. Before the first light broke the horizon, we were already gliding on the water. This time, we headed in the opposite direction, upriver along jungle-clad banks.
A movement in the foliage drew our attention: a troop of Southern pig-tailed macaques (Macaca nemestrina) busy feeding. They tolerated us just a few meters away, indifferent to our presence. Light was scarce; each frame demanded patience and steadiness.
The mist gradually lifted, revealing my first Oriental pied hornbill (Anthracoceros albirostris), the most common of Borneo’s eight hornbill species. Over my stay, I would see six different hornbill species. Further along, atop a bare tree, a Silvered leaf langur (Trachypithecus cristatus) stood still, scanning the horizon. I imagined the view before him: an endless sea of green, flooded with newborn light.
Then, suddenly, the encounter every photographer dreams of here: a mother Bornean orangutan (Pongo pygmaeus) and her young moved from tree to tree in front of limestone cliffs. Their progress was slow, deliberate, every gesture betraying quiet strength. At the same moment, a Rhinoceros hornbill (Buceros rhinoceros), with its flamboyant casque and striking colors, landed nearby. For me, it is the most photogenic hornbill species in Borneo — and it would become one of my photographic obsessions.
We left this magical scene to explore a small river. A large Asian water monitor (Varanus salvator) basked in the sun just above my head. Further on, a Black-capped kingfisher (Halcyon pileata), much larger than its European counterpart, shot past like a colorful arrow. On a riverbank, Crab-eating macaques (Macaca fascicularis) completed the primate gallery.
Back at the homestay, a hearty breakfast awaited. I spent the rest of the morning exploring Sukau with my camera in hand.
Oxbow Lake – A Spectacle After the Storm
In the afternoon, we set course for Oxbow Lake, a biodiversity-rich haven accessible only when the water level is high enough. But Borneo isn’t a rainforest by accident: midway there, the weather turned in an instant. Twenty minutes of rare, torrential rain hammered down on us. Fortunately, both the equipment and the photographer held firm. Perhaps discouraged by the deluge, the other boats seemed to have deserted the river; we moved on alone.
The silence that follows the storm feels almost unreal. Droplets fall from the heights of the canopy as we slip into the narrow channel leading to the lake. Around a bend, two Rhinoceros hornbills (Buceros rhinoceros) put on an aerial festival, and we watch them for a long while. Farther on, a fish eagle (Haliaeetus sp.) stoops on a frog, seizes it, and vanishes — a scene too brief to capture, yet etched in my memory. In a nearby tree, a Woolly-necked stork (Ciconia episcopus) dries its wings.
Back on the river at dusk, more proboscis monkeys (Nasalis larvatus) stir in the trees. Then, the dream tableau: two Rhinoceros hornbills (Buceros rhinoceros) settle at the crown of a tree just as the moon appears. At my request, Shah positions the boat to catch the perfect composition. Moments later, another rarity: no fewer than four hornbill species gathered on a single tree as night falls — the sort of sight ornithologists dream about.
I fell asleep that night with images flooding my mind… and my memory card.
Day 3 – Patience and Proximity
The mist was even denser than on previous mornings. Today, we explored a large tributary we had not yet ventured up. The distant calls of gibbons echoed through the canopy, but wildlife was scarce. And that is precisely one of the charms of journeys like this: uncertainty, waiting, the unexpected.
As we turned back, Shah received a message — a large herd of Bornean pygmy elephants had been spotted on the Menanggul River. We set course immediately. As is often the case with these iconic species, guides communicate with one another, and soon several boats began to gather. Shah chose to hold back at a distance, engine off, and wait. The gamble paid off: the herd emerged from the vegetation and passed just meters away. A calf struggled to keep its trunk above the water. Then, in an almost surreal scene, some adults lay down in the jungle, barely twenty meters from us, to rest. The sound of snapping branches gave way to a soothing calm.
Back at the homestay, after a quick breakfast, I set out alone to explore the Keruak Reserve. Thirty minutes of walking brought me to the start of a brand-new trail, made tricky by recent rains. I leapt over a stream with my gear, and almost immediately came across fresh elephant dung. Caution. For several weeks, elephants had been roaming around the village, drawn by fruit trees in people’s gardens. Each evening, villagers kept watch, even using fireworks to scare them away — a complex coexistence of tourism opportunities and potential damage.
Further on, as the rain returned, I reached a watchtower near a giant fig tree. There, I caught sight of two Yellow-throated martens (Martes flavigula) leaping from branch to branch at great speed. They stopped abruptly upon seeing me, offering a few precious seconds of observation. The species is not threatened, but remains notoriously hard to see due to its agility and discretion.
That afternoon, we returned to the river. Proboscis monkeys, macaques, hornbills, eagles… and, around a bend, a young Bornean orangutan (Pongo pygmaeus) and its mother. For a long time, they stayed hidden, then the youngster finally appeared. His gaze pierced straight through me. Here, meeting the eyes of a wild orangutan is a rare privilege — and a reminder of what remains to be protected.
Night Safari on Foot – The Jungle in Darkness
Once night had fallen and a light snack eaten, I set off with one of Asley’s brothers, also an experienced guide, and two of his cousins — all of them having spent years exploring Borneo’s wilderness. Equipped with headlamps and torches, we followed a path up a nearby hill, known for its rare sightings. One evening, my guide had even encountered the near-mythical clouded leopard (Neofelis diardi) here — a ghostly feline few people can claim to have seen.
That night, another face of the jungle revealed itself. We found several sleeping birds, including Bushy-crested hornbills (Anorrhinus galeritus), the smallest hornbill species in Borneo, huddled side by side on a branch. Our lamps also lit up a multitude of insects with improbable shapes — and one tiny encounter: one of Borneo’s smallest frogs, Borneo puddle frog (Metaphrynella sundana), no bigger than a fingernail. It sits in small hollows in branches where rainwater collects, calling to attract a mate and deposit eggs. The tadpoles then develop entirely within this miniature aquatic world.
On the way down, our beams caught the slender form of a Banded palm civet (Hemigalus derbyanus), moving unconcerned by our presence. Searching for wildlife at night in a dense, living jungle brings a particular thrill — but it demands vigilance. The powerful trumpet of an elephant, close by, accompanied by its strong scent, convinced us to return cautiously to the homestay.
Day 4 – The Gomantong Caves and the Night River
Our last morning on the Kinabatangan began gently. The river shimmered under low, golden light, and though it was quieter than previous days, it still offered fine encounters: various monkey groups, a Stork-billed kingfisher (Pelargopsis capensis), and a Borneo black-banded squirrel (Callosciurus orestes).
The afternoon took a different turn. After half an hour on the road, we reached the Gomantong Caves, with Asley at my side. We climbed up to the main entrance, where most visitors stop. The acrid smell — from tons of bat and swiftlet guano — reached us well before we arrived. The nests of the latter, often mistaken for swallows, are harvested each year and sold at exorbitant prices, particularly in China, where they are prized for soup.
Inside, the light dimmed, but the air grew almost unbreathable for the sensitive. The floor crawled with cockroaches and millipedes, animating an almost unreal atmosphere. We ventured well beyond the tourist areas, up a steep staircase leading to an upper chamber. My camera bag weighed heavily, but the effort was rewarded with a view embracing both the immense mouth of the cave and the jungle stretching to infinity.
Nest collectors told us we had just missed two large flanged male orangutans, one of my key photographic goals for the trip. "Next time", I thought. We settled in at a vantage point to witness one of the region’s most spectacular events: the nightly exodus of more than a million bats. For over an hour, swirling clouds of them poured from the cave, pursued by raptors trying — and often succeeding — to catch them mid-flight. Photographing it was an exhilarating challenge: almost no light, fast and unpredictable subjects.
Before leaving, we glimpsed in the distance a family of Red langurs (Presbytis rubicunda), a species I would observe much more closely later in the trip.
Final Kinabatangan Safari – The River at Night
After a good meal and some rest, we returned to the river for a night boat trip. A white-beam spotlight helped us spot the glowing eyes of animals in the jungle, while a gentler red light allowed us to watch sensitive species without disturbing them.
Navigating in complete darkness is hypnotic. The senses sharpen; the jungle’s murmur becomes clearer. We found sleeping birds, a motionless kingfisher on its branch, a snake coiled on a vine, huge fruit bats, and even a palm civet making a spectacular leap.
Photographing in such conditions is possible, but demanding. In Borneo, it’s sometimes the only way to capture certain species. Either way, it’s an experience I would recommend to any traveller curious about the jungle’s other face.
After this final nocturnal encounter, fatigue caught up quickly. But in Borneo, even sleep is inhabited — the river’s echoes, the flutter of wings in the dark, the distant cries of primates followed me into my dreams.
A few hours later, in the dim light before dawn, the Kinabatangan stretched in an almost unreal silence. Mist still floated above the calm waters, and a few hornbills passed fleetingly through the barely brightened sky. Leaving this place meant leaving a river that had set the rhythm of my days and nights, and a homestay where I had been welcomed with open arms.
But in Borneo, every horizon hides another. Beyond the brown waters awaited the mythical Danum Valley — an ancient sanctuary over 130 million years old. Half a day of roads and rough tracks, and I would plunge into another world entirely.
-Clément Poumeyrol
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