Brunei is not a country that reveals itself at once. You understand this as you cross the long Sultan Haji Omar Ali Saifuddien Bridge — a ribbon of asphalt suspended between mangroves and sky — linking the nation’s main territory to the Temburong enclave, isolated within Malaysian land.
It’s an hour’s ride in a silent, almost ritual minivan. Outside the window, the jungle drifts by like a dense, impenetrable wall. Inside, Margelyn — known as Margy — speaks softly, her Filipino accent and gentle smile radiating the calm of someone at peace with herself. She knows the road well. Next to her, the driver steers carefully. They seem like family — and perhaps they are. For years, they’ve been guiding small groups of visitors into the heart of Ulu Temburong National Park, one of Southeast Asia’s most pristine corners.
Ulu Temburong is often called the green lung of Borneo. It covers about 40 percent of the Temburong area and has been protected since the 1990s. The Bruneian government has preserved it with remarkable discipline: no paved roads, no industrial development, no extraction. Only scientific research, controlled tourism, and respect.
Over 150 species of mammals, 300 species of birds, and thousands of plants — some still unclassified — live here. But you don’t need to know all that to feel small. You only need to step into the rainforest.
This commitment to preservation is not just national but part of a wider regional effort. In 2007, Brunei, Malaysia, and Indonesia signed a historic agreement known as the Heart of Borneo initiative, also supported by organizations such as WWF. Its goal is to protect one of the largest remaining tropical rainforests on Earth — more than 220,000 square kilometers — through cross-border cooperation in protected area management, combating illegal logging, and fostering sustainable practices among local communities.
Ulu Temburong is a cornerstone of this project: a tangible example of how a small nation can play a major role in safeguarding the planet’s natural heritage. Here, the jungle is not just a place to visit, but a living system — one that breathes thanks to a deliberate political choice: to place nature at the center, not at the margins.
Our starting point is a small jetty on the Tutong River. A wooden boat with an outboard engine awaits us. Onboard is Mira, barely nineteen, a local guide with a light step and steady gaze, her patience glowing in her calm demeanor. It’s clear this is not her first time leading tourists. The ease with which she moves, her spontaneous smile, and her graceful gestures all reveal how much she loves her work. Her enthusiasm has the freshness of youth but the confidence of someone who already knows exactly what to do.
The boat takes us to a base camp, a simple structure with open-air tables and a covered kitchen. This is Sumbiling Eco Village, a small settlement run in harmony with the forest, where thatched and wooden huts blend seamlessly into the landscape. It’s not a resort — more a functional resting place designed to welcome visitors respectfully within the natural environment.
Meals are served outdoors, sitting on wooden benches while the sound of the river hums in the background. The atmosphere is sober, authentic, and stripped of excess — a return to essentials, where every detail invites you to live in tune with nature.
We eat something quick, without asking much. The important thing is to continue. Soon we set off again, gliding upriver through a narrower stretch, between protruding stones and small rapids that our boatman navigates with skill.
The boat slows and slides toward the riverbank. It touches the muddy ground, and we prepare to disembark, one at a time, with that subtle hesitation born of unsteady footing. With the river behind us and the forest ahead, we face an uneven stone staircase — an entrance of sorts, inviting us to begin our trek.
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The first obstacle is a suspension bridge, made of wooden planks and ropes. It sways slightly — a challenge for anyone afraid of heights, like me. But we cross it slowly, one step at a time. On the other side, the forest reclaims its dominion. The trees soar — some over sixty meters high. Vines hang like curtains, broad leaves cast shade even at noon. The air is humid and dense, but pure. There is no scent of decay — only wet earth, resin, life.
Mira tells us the names of the plants: dahan, used for building canoes; nipah, the palm with broad leaves used for roofing; rattan, a strong vine prized for handicrafts. She speaks of animals — the colugo, a flying mammal akin to a bat; the Bornean red-headed parrot; the gibbon, whose cries echo at dawn. But today we see none.
The jungle knows how to keep its secrets.
I decide to stop at a wooden shelter — a rest spot with two stone benches, where peace is broken only by the hum of insects and a faint whisper of wind in the leaves. Alice and Mira continue ahead until they reach a sturdy metal tower, climbing up to the canopy walkway — a bridge suspended thirty meters above the ground, threading between treetops. Later, they’ll tell me that from up there, the forest looks like an endless green sea.
I remain below, content to listen to the forest’s music, to breathe in that scent of damp leaves, and to feel — thanks to my fear of heights — part of something ancient.
On the way back, the boat stops by a muddy bank along the Tutong River, where a small stream winds its way into the forest. We wade in with our feet submerged, brushing past roots, stepping over stones, and feeling the wide leaves graze our shoulders. The air cools. The main river’s murmur fades, replaced by the gurgle of water running between rocks.
After a few minutes, we reach a small waterfall, hidden among the dense vegetation. As it falls, it forms a circular pool surrounded by smooth stones and moss — an intimate, almost secret place.
This is what they call the jungle spa: tiny fish, drawn to the dead cells of our skin, swim toward our feet immersed in the cool water. The tickling is intense — almost unbearable — but it makes us laugh. It’s a light, playful moment that might seem at odds with the forest’s solemnity. Yet it belongs to the same balance — nature that nourishes, heals, and connects.
We return to base camp, sip a coffee, and board the boat back to our starting point. Margy is waiting with the minivan. No one speaks much. We’re tired, but satisfied. We’ve walked little more than three hours — but crossed worlds.
Ulu Temburong is not an extreme adventure. It’s an immersion — a place where time slows down, where the noise of the world fades, and where you can feel the heartbeat of the earth beneath the trees. It doesn’t need to shout its beauty. It simply exists. And that, in an age of excess, is already a miracle.
As the Sultan Haji Omar Ali Saifuddien Bridge flashes beneath us once more — this time in reverse — the driver, perhaps to break the quiet of the journey, turns to me and asks,
“Mr. Zanchi, what do you think of Brunei?”
“Brunei reminds me of Cinderella,” I reply…
But that is a story for another chapter.
Photos by Guglielmo Zanchi (Pluto)
For more eco-travel inspiration in Brunei, visit https://www.bruneitourism.com/
Watch FantasiaAsia video here: https://youtu.be/VVQYIPWxky4?si=Zu696BGGZhvztIEP
