The small band of mud-caked near-naked young boys were tearing through the lalang and the undergrowth from the direction of the river bank, shrieking and laughing as they stumbled over one another towards the foot of the staircase of this lone kampong house.

I was alarmed by their state of unusual excitement, and moved to the doorway to investigate. Gasping for breathe, they fought among themselves for the chance to report their discovery, "Uncle, a crocodile! At the river bank!" Arms were flung apart at various lengths to indicate the size of the feared reptile.

This was a matter of grave concern indeed for the Iban communities living along the placid Stutong Rive meandering around the outskirt of Kuching City. The dozen or so adults sitting in the room behind me immediately exploded into an animate discussion.

The scorching heat of the day had waned, and the stilted wooden hut with thatch roof was basked in the afterglow of the sun, as the evening dusk descended upon the surrounding rubber trees long abandoned to grow wild. Visitors had drifted into the hospitable shade of the little hut in small parties. They were on their way back from their gardens, where they worked the land as their ancestors had done for countless generations, even though they no longer needed to.