Beyond The Byline James Ritchie The Man Who Lived His Stories

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When the bylines of James Ritchie and Rudy Beltran - his crime desk chief - frequently hit the front page of the New Straits Times, I was still in secondary school in the 70s.
I loved the stories they wrote - stories that blazed across the front page under bold, commanding headlines. As a secondary schoolboy, I was already delving into the detective thrillers of James Hadley Chase, Agatha Christie, and Earl Stanley Gardner’s Perry Mason series.
For some reason, I connected the NST crime desk reporters with the characters in the stories I read - like detective Paul Drake from the Perry Mason series, Lieutenant Traag from Chase, and Inspector Poirot from the Christie stable.
As crime reporters, Ritchie and Beltran brought readers to the frontlines of fear, exposing the truth behind notorious figures like Botak Chin, delving into gangland and Chinese triad stories, and being among the first reporters on the Jean Perera Sinnappa murder scene.
Ritchie and Beltran had a rare instinct for chasing leads.
I was hooked on Beltran’s and Ritchie’s stories. They gripped me - raw, real, and riveting. There were other crime journos on the desk at that time, but it was Ritchie who lit the long fuse. He reported crime like it was folklore.
Both men had set the bar - not just for storytelling, but for courage, curiosity, and journalistic conscience. Their bylines weren’t just names on a page; they were legacy signatures etched into the very fabric of Malaysia’s crime desk history.
Borneo bridge
However, Ritchie’s journey didn’t end in the blood-stained corridors of the crime beat. In the 1980s, he traded the smoke-filled pressroom of Jalan Riong for the thick, breathing forests of Borneo.
He moved to Sarawak - not just as a journalist, but as a chronicler of culture; a witness to heritage; a storyteller of forgotten voices and as a bridge between two worlds.
Ritchie became a brother to every Dayak. He walked with warriors, slept in longhouses, and earned a place few outsiders ever did - in the hearts and homes of Sarawak’s indigenous communities.
Along the way, he also crossed paths with Bruno Manser, the Swiss activist who championed the Penan cause and brought global attention to Sarawak’s rainforests.
Though their methods differed - Manser took the route of confrontation, while Ritchie chose the pen. Ritchie had a quiet respect for Bruno’s heart and conviction. He understood the soul of the man, even as he documented the story through a journalist’s lens, with empathy, insight, and a deep love for the land.
Ritchie didn’t just write about Sarawak. He lived it. A musician, he sang with its people, listened to their silences, and translated their truths for a national audience that rarely understood the weight of those stories.
Years later, I became a journalist myself - but not on the crime desk. My beat led me down many winding roads - politics, faith, culture, science, healthcare - and into the quiet triumphs and unnoticed tragedies of everyday Malaysians.
It was in these stories, told in kopitiams, hospital corridors, and village verandas, that I found my true calling: not just as a reporter, but as a storyteller.
Meeting a hero
And it was this same path that, in time, brought me to Sarawak - where fate would place me within reach of the man whose byline that had once lit a fire in my schoolboy imagination: Ritchie - grizzled, grounded, and still burning with purpose!
As I looked at him, the early thrill of reading his stories came rushing back. I remembered those bold headlines and gritty narratives - how Ritchie stripped the varnish off crime to reveal the raw, human truth beneath.
Sipping white coffee at the White Rajah Café, Ritchie and I, joined by the hotel’s genial general manager, Dominic Muthu, who arranged the meeting, fell into easy conversation.
There was no pretence, just the warmth of shared stories and a sense that this meeting was long overdue. Ritchie spoke the way he wrote - measured, rich with insight, and always anchored in the people he had met along the way.
At the time, I was a reporter with the Borneo Post, still finding my footing in the Land of the Hornbills - fresh to the norms, nuances, and rhythm of journalism in Sarawak.
Chasing characters and humanity
As a seasoned journalist, Ritchie didn’t hold back. He offered tips and wisdom I still carry with me to this day. “Don’t just chase quotes,” he said, stirring his coffee.
“Chase character. Anyone can report what someone says. But can you report who someone is?”
He told me to walk slowly through every village, shake every hand, and never forget a name.
He shared how, once, a longhouse chief only opened up to him after a whole day of silence - because Ritchie had quietly helped rebuild a broken bamboo bridge with the villagers.
“You earn trust with your hands, not just your pen,” he smiled.
He had a hundred such tales - about losing his boots in a swamp, eating unfamiliar jungle fruits to avoid offending a host, drinking harsh home-brewed liquor offered to guests and scribbling notes in the rain under a leaking thatched roof.
But always, the lesson was the same: the story lives in the people, and you must be willing to “live and be” among them, not just write about them.
In a world that often chased headlines, Ritchie chased humanity - and in doing so, became the story worth telling.
Age no obstacle
After that coffee house meeting, Ritchie and I crossed paths a few more times. He was always on the move, chasing stories, even in his 70s, with that same restless energy of his Balai Berita days in Kuala Lumpur.
The last time I saw him was two years ago, in my rural neighbourhood. He was on his motorcycle. He stopped to ask for directions to the home of Sarawak’s last hangman, who happened to live nearby.
Word got around that the old hangman was dying, and there was Ritchie - still chasing the story, notebook in hand. Even as a septuagenarian, his human battery never ran flat.
His curiosity never dulled, his resolve never wavered. He was determined to capture the last words of the last hangman before they faded into silence.
For me, Ritchie was more than just a journalist - he was a mentor. He gave me invaluable tips on how to practise journalism in Sarawak, teaching me to listen to the land and its people, and to always chase character, not just quotes.
Will miss you, bro. Rest in peace! - Mkini
JOSEPH MASILAMANY is a veteran Borneo-based journalist who writes on a variety of subjects including religion, culture, and interfaith understanding.
The views expressed here are those of the author/contributor and do not necessarily represent the views of MMKtT.

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