Horrifying Video Shows Python Drag Tour Guide Underwater as it Tightens Its Grip Around His Neck

One second he’s spotting a snake for tourists… the next, a 20-foot monster yanks him into the river, coils like a noose around his throat, and drags him under—gasping for air as death squeezes tighter. The crew’s frantic rescue? Pure pandemonium. But what sparked this river beast’s rage… and why are human-snake clashes exploding in paradise? Click if your pulse can handle the unseen footage and the chilling warning for every adventurer. 🌊🐍💀

The murky waters of a Bornean river, teeming with the whispers of ancient jungles, turned into a death trap in seconds. What began as a routine eco-tour for wide-eyed adventurers—gliding through emerald mangroves under a canopy of chattering gibbons—spiraled into a primal nightmare when a colossal python erupted from the depths. Tour guide and seasoned snake catcher Heru, 32, a father of two with callused hands from years wrangling wildlife, plunged overboard after spotting the serpent’s diamond-patterned scales. But this wasn’t a casual brush; the 19-foot behemoth, a reticulated python weighing over 200 pounds, latched on like a living cable, coiling around his torso and neck before dragging him under in a frothing whirl of bubbles and muffled screams. Shocking video, captured by a crewmate’s GoPro, shows the beast’s muscular loops tightening with mechanical precision, squeezing the air from Heru’s lungs as his legs kicked futilely against the current. In a feat of raw heroism, two fellow guides dove in, one clamping the snake’s thrashing head, the other yanking its tail in a brutal game of keep-away. After nearly 60 seconds of underwater chaos—Heru resurfacing purple-faced and gasping—they pried the monster loose, hauling him aboard a dinghy that rocked like a cork in a storm. “It felt like iron bands crushing my chest,” Heru rasped later from his hospital bed in Banjarmasin, his voice a gravelly echo of survival. “I thought of my kids… then black.”

The incident, unfolding on November 5 along the Barito River in Indonesia’s Kalimantan province, has rocketed across social media, amassing over 50 million views on platforms like YouTube and TikTok. Filmed by Mohamed Alisa, a 28-year-old videographer on the tour, the 45-second clip opens innocently: the wooden longboat putters downstream, tourists in life vests snapping photos of proboscis monkeys swinging overhead. Heru, perched at the bow in a faded sarong and worn flip-flops, points excitedly at a ripple. “Python—big one! Stay back,” he warns in broken English, his tattooed arms—inked with coiled serpents from past close calls—reaching toward the water. Laughter ripples from the crew, mistaking it for showmanship. Then, catastrophe: the snake lunges, its jaws unhinging in a flash of ivory fangs, clamping Heru’s wrist. He tumbles in, the boat lurching as the python’s body—thick as a man’s thigh—whips out, wrapping his midsection in a vise. Underwater footage, stabilized by the GoPro’s gyro, captures the horror in grainy green: Heru’s eyes bulge, bubbles exploding from his mouth as the coils cinch his neck, veins popping like overfilled hoses. “Grab head! Pull tail!” Alisa shouts from the gunwale, his lens shaking. The rescuers—guides Budi, 25, and Sari, 29—plunge without hesitation, their splashes merging with Heru’s fading thrash. Budi pries the jaws with a boat hook; Sari heaves the tail, muscles straining against 90 psi of constrictor force. The python releases with a shuddering snap, slithering into the murk as the trio surfaces, coughing and entangled in vines.

Heru was airlifted to Abdulmoenim Saleh Hospital, where doctors marveled at his escape. Bruises bloomed purple across his ribs and throat, a fractured clavicle from the initial yank, and ligature marks etching red welts like a hangman’s noose. “Two more loops, and his windpipe collapses,” said Dr. Lina Hartati, the attending trauma specialist, who treated him for hypoxia and dehydration. Released after three days with a neck brace and a cocktail of anti-inflammatories, Heru returned to his riverside shack in Pangkalan Bun, where his wife, Siti, 30, and sons aged 5 and 7, greeted him with tearful hugs. “I handle snakes for tourists—it’s my life,” he told reporters, rubbing the scars. “But this one? It saw me as dinner. No more grabbing without backup.” The family, scraping by on $300 monthly from tours, launched a GoFundMe that surged to $15,000, fueled by global donors horrified by the footage.

Borneo, the world’s third-largest island split between Indonesia, Malaysia, and Brunei, is a biodiversity hotspot—and a serpent’s buffet. Reticulated pythons (Malayopython reticulatus), the planet’s longest snake species, stretch up to 32 feet and boast a grip rivaling a hydraulic press, capable of exerting 6,000 Newtons of pressure per square inch. Native to Southeast Asia’s swamps and rivers, they feast on deer, pigs, and even sun bears, swallowing prey whole in sessions lasting hours. Human encounters? Rare but rising: Indonesia logs 10-15 verified attacks yearly, per the country’s Forestry Ministry, with fatalities hovering at 20%—often farmers or fishers venturing too deep into the wild. This python, estimated at 15-20 years old by its girth, likely mistook Heru’s flailing arm for a floundering tapir amid the low visibility. “They’re ambush predators, not aggressive hunters,” explained Dr. Reza Ghorbani, a herpetologist at the Indonesian Institute of Sciences. “But habitat loss from palm oil plantations fragments their territory, pushing them into human paths. It’s collision, not conquest.”

The video’s virality—boosted by shares from outlets like VICE and Daily Mail—has ignited a double-edged debate. On X, #BorneoPythonAttack trended with 200,000 posts, blending awe (“Nature’s real-life Anaconda!”) with alarm (“Tourism’s turning paradise into a kill zone”). One thread by eco-activist @JungleWatchID, viewed 1.2 million times, blasted unregulated tours: “Guides like Heru risk lives for selfies. Where’s the oversight?” Tour operators in Kalimantan, like Heru’s employer Borneo Eco Adventures, defended their protocols: mandatory life vests, snake-spotting briefings, and no-touch policies. Yet insiders whisper of corners cut—underpaid crews incentivized to dazzle clients with “wild encounters.” Indonesia’s tourism board, eyeing $20 billion in 2025 revenue, announced stricter guidelines Monday: mandatory rescue training and drone surveillance for high-risk routes. “Safety first, thrills second,” Tourism Minister Sandiaga Uno posted on Instagram, flanked by python handlers.

Heru’s crew emerged as unlikely icons. Budi, a former fisherman with a missing pinky from a prior croc skirmish, recounted the rescue to local TV: “Heart stopped when it coiled his neck—felt like wrestling a chainsaw.” Sari, the team’s only woman and a mother herself, added: “I thought of my girl. No snake takes a brother.” Their bravery earned commendations from Jakarta, plus a $2,000 bonus from the tour company. But scars linger: nightmares of coils, a newfound wariness of ripples. Alisa, the filmer, grappled with guilt: “I hit record on instinct—now it’s saved lives by warning others, but I froze when he went under.”

This isn’t Borneo’s first brush with reptilian wrath. In March 2025, a 61-year-old palm worker in Sumatra met a grimmer end: an 8.5-meter python swallowed him whole, his sandals found at the entry point. Globally, python perils mount—from Florida’s invasive Burmese pythons devouring alligators to Australia’s amethystine giants claiming livestock. Conservationists like Ghorbani warn of a vicious cycle: deforestation for soy and timber has razed 30% of Borneo’s forests since 2000, per WWF data, displacing 15,000 snake species annually. “Pythons don’t migrate to malls—they’re cornered,” he said. Initiatives like the Heart of Borneo pact, a tri-nation effort to protect 50 million hectares, falter amid illegal logging busts. Heru’s attack? A stark billboard: Eco-tourism booms (1.5 million visitors yearly), but without buffers—elevated boardwalks, AI-monitored zones—it’s Russian roulette with scales.

For Heru, the ordeal reshapes his world. Back on the water by week’s end—scarred but stubborn—he’s training locals in non-contact spotting, armed with longer poles and panic buttons. “Snakes are family here—guardians of the green,” he muses, sipping teh tarik at a stilted warung. “But respect the wild, or it bites back.” His sons, wide-eyed at the viral clip, now mimic coils with garden hoses, turning terror to tale. Tourists, undeterred, book slots with a thrill-seeker’s edge: “Saw the video—still going!” one American posted.

Yet beneath the adrenaline lurks unease. As climate shifts swell rivers and stir migrations, experts predict a 25% uptick in wildlife clashes by 2030, per a UN biodiversity report. Borneo, jewel of the equator, teeters: pythons in the shallows, loggers in the deep. Heru’s brush with the abyss—a neck’s width from fatality—serves as siren. In a jungle where every ripple hides a hunter, the line between observer and prey blurs fast. For now, the river flows on, silent sentinel to secrets coiled in the dark.