Secrets Behind Pacu Jalur—The World’s Most Thrilling River Race

Aziz, 57, danced to the sound of a rebab — a bowed string instrument much like a violin. His feet stomped against the floor, hands rose and fell, eyes stayed closed. Sweat trickled down his forehead. He had been performing Babalian for nearly half an hour.

Illustration of the Anak Coki performing Aura Farming

Searching For Sacred Wood

A minute later, the music fell silent. Aziz slowly lowered himself to the ground. He began to recite ancient mantras — words said to be hundreds of years old, passed down through generations with great care.

His lips moved soundlessly, his brow furrowed in deep focus. Around him, the crowd held their breath, listening in reverent silence. When a shaman performed Batonung, no one dared to break his sacred concentration.

He finished not long after. The air around him felt lighter now, as if the spirits that had gathered moments ago had quietly withdrawn. Aziz slowly opened his eyes. He told the village head he’d let him know as soon as he had the sign. The head nodded, then ordered a few young men to escort Aziz home

Babalian and Batonung are vital opening rituals in the making of a champion Jalur. Through these rites, the shaman seeks the perfect tree deep within the forest — the one destined to become the finest Jalur.

Jalur is a long traditional boat that has been used to cross the Kuantan River since the 17th century. In 1905, a speed race between the boats began as a symbol of honor among villages in the Kuantan Singingi region of Riau. The event, now known as Pacu Jalur, eventually has attracted worldwide attention— especially after the mesmerizing dance performances of the Anak Coki. 

In recent years, the dance has gained online fame. Social media users nicknamed it ‘Aura Farming,’ and the trend has quickly gone viral, followed by celebrities and major brands around the world. Marc Márquez, Neymar, DJ Steve Aoki, AC Milan, Manchester City — even Adidas —have joined the wave.

The Aura Farming craze has transformed Pacu Jalur into a global racing sensation — like MotoGP or Formula One, only this race takes place on water, not asphalt. Cameras and sponsors have poured in, turning the Kuantan River into a stage watched by millions.

Aziz said that times had changed, but the role of Jalur shamans like him was still needed in the village — even if only in secret, without anyone openly admitting it. Still, he said, it was nothing like the past. In his grandfather’s time, a single village could have dozens of Jalur shamans. Now, you’d be lucky to find one or two.

Two days after the ritual, Aziz claimed he had received a sign in a dream—showing him where to find the sacred wood for the Jalur. The village head then called a Rapek Banjar—a meeting of elders and local officials. After they reached an agreement, the village granted a permit, carefully considering factors such as forest sustainability and the distance to the site.

Once permission had been granted, Aziz set out with the village officials and skilled craftsmen into the forest. Before entering, he ate a single grain of rice, believing it would help clear the way. He also brought the full set of ritual objects needed for the jungle ceremony.

Aziz lit incense and followed the drifting smoke through the trees. He said its signs were clear — where scorpions and venomous snakes gathered, the wood held hidden power. It was dangerous, but that was exactly what made it special — such wood made a Jalur glide faster than any other.

At the foot of a towering meranti tree, he stopped and began the Menyemah ritual. He slaughtered a black rooster, letting its blood seep into the earth around the roots. He placed boiled eggs and yellow rice at the base of the tree, then sprinkled flour in a circle. All the while, his lips murmured ancient mantras:

Oi penguaso rimbo,

 nan iduik di solo-solo tanah,

kami nak membuek jaluar,

bori kami izin untuak menobang kayu iko,

jangan bori kami penyakik poniang,

peliharolah kami ge,

Sacred trees were believed to be home to the Mambang — forest spirits revered as guardians of the woods. Menyemah sought their permission before felling a tree and protected everyone present from misfortune.

When all was done, Aziz gave the signal. The workers swung their axes three times. A small piece of wood from the first cut, called sarok ba-antu, was set aside and kept by Aziz as a guide for the next stage. If any workers fell ill, he would use the sarok ba-antu as its cure.

During the logging process, certain taboos had to be strictly observed: the wood could not face west, no one was allowed to urinate nearby, and foul language was strictly forbidden.

Technically, a good Jalur log must be straight, 25 to 30 meters long, and one to two meters in diameter. It must also be dense and strong enough to carry 40 to 60 paddlers. Just as important, the log must be “inhabited” by the Mambang. Here, the shaman’s role becomes crucial — he must negotiate with the spirit to remain within the wood until race day.

In short, once the tree was felled, the wood went through a long series of processes before becoming a race-ready boat: it was cut and joined, scraped and smoothed, the bow and rudder shaped, smoked for hour, the panggar (seats) installed, and finally, motifs were carved to mark the Jalur’s identity.

A Slice of Fate

When the Jalur was finally complete and ready for the race, Aziz’s role became critical. He determined the Palangkahan — the most auspicious day to lower the boat from the village to the Kuantan River. On that day, villagers prepared Konji Barayak, a traditional dish, and shared it together in celebration

They celebrated the completion of a long, arduous journey — the making of the Jalur. The process took at least two months and cost around 150 million rupiah, funded entirely by donations from villagers. They worked hand in hand, both in craftsmanship and in financing.

But Aziz’s work was not yet over. The most challenging moments came just before the race. Beyond ensuring water spirits did not disturb the event, he had to protect the boat and the crew from Paramoyo — a supernatural attack believed to be sent by rival shamans.

Aziz had to make sure everyone stayed in their best form— from the Anak Coki, the dancer at the bow, to the Anak Pacu, the paddlers driving the Jalur forward with all their strength; from the Tukang Timbo Ruang, who gave commands and bailed out the water seeping into the boat, to the Tukang Onjai at the back, whose task was to push and stabilize the boat from behind. Everyone had to be in perfect harmony, body and spirit, for the race to reach its glorious end.

All night long, he burned incense and murmured mantras under his breath. With just a slice of lime, he could tell whether his Jalur would win or lose. If the lime landed face up, it meant defeat. If it landed face down, victory was assured. Fortunately, the lime he cut that night fell face down.

What made it unique was that he shared this with the villagers. They cheered as if victory were already theirs—even though the race had yet to begin. Aziz claimed he had led dozens of Jalur to victory, and this method had never failed him.

To this day, many in Kuantan Singingi still believe that a Jalur’s triumph rests in the hands of its shaman. Yet others argue it comes not from spells, but from sweat: long hours of training and the unity of the crew.  No matter how powerful a shaman might be, it counts for nothing if the team is not well prepared.