The journey to Loagan Bunut from Miri took almost three hours. The route passed through Bukit Lambir National Park, Simpang Bekenu, and eventually reached Beluru town. That was where the paved road ended.
From Beluru onward, the journey became a different kind of adventure. The road turned into a rough gravel track, full of potholes, dust, mud and unexpected challenges. By the time I reached Beluru, I would usually stop for a while—to use the restroom, buy some snacks, or simply take a short break before continuing the journey.
Sometimes, instead of stopping in Beluru, I would stop at the Petronas station at Simpang Bekenu to perform my Zuhur prayer. Since the journey was more than two marhalah, it had become my usual practice to perform Jamak and Qasar for Zuhur and Asar while travelling.
From Beluru, another 46 kilometres remained—nearly an hour of driving. And somewhere along that route was Sungai Bok.
Sungai Bok was not an ordinary river crossing.
The crossing was only about 30 metres wide, but during heavy rain, flooding or high tide, the entire stretch of road could disappear beneath two or three feet of water. For me, this became one of the most memorable lessons in learning how to drive a four-wheel-drive vehicle.
The first time I had to cross the flooded river, I listened carefully to the advice of my more experienced colleagues.
“Open the door slightly when crossing deep water.”
“Use low gear.”
“Never release the pressure on the accelerator.”
“Keep the engine running steadily, otherwise water may enter through the exhaust.”
And after crossing, always stop and check the air filter. If it had become wet, it needed to be dried immediately.
Some of my colleagues had even modified their vehicles by raising the air-intake pipe to a higher position. This simple modification made it safer to cross water that could reach two or three feet deep.
At the time, these seemed like practical tips for surviving a difficult journey.
Years later, I realised they were much more than that.
They were lessons in life.
In a remote palm oil mill, we learned not only about engineering and machinery. We learned to observe nature, understand the environment and respect the conditions surrounding the operation.
One of the routine practices in a palm oil mill was recording daily rainfall.
Every morning, the laboratory assistant would take the reading from the rain gauge and record the rainfall in millimetres in the daily operating report.
Initially, I regarded it simply as another routine piece of data.
But gradually, I began to realise how valuable that information was.
Rainfall could affect harvesting, transportation, fruit quality and ultimately the oil extraction rate. When heavy rain occurred, plantation operations could be disrupted. Fresh fruit bunches might not reach the mill according to schedule. Roads could become inaccessible, and transporters could face delays.
For a mill located beyond Sungai Bok, the consequences could be even greater.
Whenever flooding occurred, tankers carrying crude palm oil and palm kernels could become stranded. If the products could not be transported out of the mill, storage tanks would gradually fill up.
Eventually, rainfall was no longer just a number written in a daily report.
It became something I began to watch.
Something I began to study.
And, perhaps without realising it, something I became fascinated by.
Because of the frequent flooding at Sungai Bok, I started collecting monthly rainfall records. Year after year, the data accumulated.
Nearly ten years of rainfall records became my personal reference.
As I studied the data, I began noticing patterns.
Rainfall during the first and fourth weeks of the month generally appeared to be lower than during the second and third weeks. The pattern seemed to repeat itself from month to month and, to some extent, from year to year.
Then I noticed another interesting relationship.
Flooding at Sungai Bok seemed to occur more frequently around the middle of the lunar month and during the full moon.
Of course, rainfall alone was not the only factor.
Heavy afternoon and evening convectional storms could coincide with high tides from the river. When heavy rainfall and high tide came together, the relatively small river crossing could quickly become impassable.
Suddenly, the rainfall data became more than historical records.
It became a tool for planning.
By combining rainfall patterns, the lunar calendar, high tides and my observations of the river, I could make a reasonable prediction of when Sungai Bok was more likely to flood and when the road was more likely to remain passable.
I began sharing these observations with the transporters.
I advised them to concentrate more vehicles on the weeks when the risk of flooding was lower. If possible, they should avoid sending too many tankers around the middle of the Hijri month, particularly when the full moon coincided with heavy rainfall and high tide.
It was not a scientific weather forecast.
It was simply field experience supported by years of observation and data.
But surprisingly, it worked quite well.
The lesson followed me beyond the palm oil mill.
Whenever I organised outdoor activities, sports days or recreational programmes, I would also consider the same pattern. Whenever possible, I preferred the first or fourth week of the month and tried to avoid the second and third weeks, particularly around periods associated with heavy rain and high tides.
My colleagues eventually began to joke about it.
Because of Sungai Bok and my obsession with rainfall records, I had somehow become the “rain shaman.”
A dukun hujan.
I could almost imagine them thinking:
“Ask him. He will know whether it is going to rain.”
But behind the joke was something much more meaningful.
Working in a remote palm oil mill taught me that knowledge does not always come from textbooks, classrooms or formal training.
Sometimes, knowledge comes from standing beside a rain gauge every morning.
Sometimes, it comes from crossing a flooded river.
Sometimes, it comes from listening to an experienced colleague telling you not to release the accelerator.
And sometimes, it comes from patiently collecting small pieces of information for years until a pattern begins to reveal itself.
The Sungai Bok experience taught me the value of observation, data, experience and anticipation.
In engineering, we often solve problems after they happen.
But the better engineer learns to recognise the signs before the problem arrives.
For me, Sungai Bok was more than a dangerous river crossing.
It was my classroom.
The rain was my teacher.
The rain gauge was my instrument.
The river was my laboratory.
And the ten years of rainfall records became my textbook.
That was how, somewhere along the gravel road to Loagan Bunut, I unknowingly became the “Dukun Hujan of Sungai Bok.”
And that is my story today.
