A Walk Down Memory Lane in Kuching

I am promenading along the Waterfront beside the long Sarawak River. The footpath, paved with mosaic tiles, stretches through gardens and hawker stalls for at least a kilometre. Small boats are plying up and down the river. Bright midmorning sunlight glints off the gently flowing ripples. Stopping near Khatulistiwa Café, a unique rotund building, I gaze beyond the simmering water at a large, imposing building on the opposite bank. It is the State Legislative Assembly Building, modelled after the architecture of a Bidayuh long house. A lightning conductor is perched on the highest point of its golden tapered roof, lending more vibes of grandiose to the building.

Almost twenty-five years ago, the State Legislative Assembly Building was non-existent, and so was the waterfront footpath. I was nineteen then, new to Kuching and terribly missed my family in Miri. I always made a requisite stop at exactly the same spot after school, casting my pent-up feelings into the river, letting the water toss it around and having it washed back to me again. The nursing of loneliness was a painful process. It sapped my energy and hollowed my confidence from inside out. My hostel mates quickly came to my rescue, taking me along on various outings, and gradually making me fall in love with the city.  We enjoyed strolling along the river, talking aloud about our dreams with utter abandonment.

A short distance further east from the legislative building lies  Fort Margherita, a white castle-like building with well-preserved battlements. Keen on visiting the palace, I walk down a pier and hail a boat on a derelict and rotting water taxi berth. Unfortunately, I have to give up on the idea when the boatman reveals that it is not open for tourists. I regret quickly after the boat has puttered off. Despite the fact that tourists are not permitted into the residence, I could have walked around its perimeter to enjoy a closer view.

Back in my student days, I never worked up enough courage to cross the river, thinking it too risky.  Should I go on being chicken-livered as that? I give myself an emphatic shake of the head. I have to experience how it is like being close to the castle. I wait for another boat to come and board it with a few European tourists. When I bend to sit down, the boat bobs and the smiling boatman tells me not to panic. I hold onto the edge of the boat for dear life as the roaring engine propels it towards the opposite bank. When the boat arrives at the destination, my heart rate slowly returns to normal. The scenery is a far cry from the hustle-bustle across the river, very quiet and laid-back, with simple houses on stilts dotting the landscape. 

 I venture around, skirting the magnificent Astana, which seems to glow in the sun. In the heyday of White Rajah Dynasty, while Charles Brooke and Margaret Alice were having an idyllic afternoon tea, had they ever wondered the palace would be vacant one day and a nerdy man like me would go around watching it from the fence with curious, stupid eyes? Along my aimless amble, I come across a mosque, some little farms, a school, a shop that sells layered cakes and a building that houses a row of food stalls. The sounds of bicycle tyres meeting the gravel, punctuated by the splashes of water from the river, constitute a rustic charm that not only mellows me out, but also engenders within me a sensation akin to that of discovering a new world.

            On my trip back to the Waterfront, the boatman asks me why I left the village empty-handed.

            ‘What is famous in the Kampong?” I enquire.

            “Layered cakes,” says the boatman, his gold tooth sparkling. “The main attraction of Kampong Boyan.”

            I look at the other passengers on the boat. Each of them carries in their hands some plastic-bags full of colourful layered cakes, with a few salted fish among them. Wait, I saw the cake shop just now, didn’t I?

            When I disembark, I walk kitty-corner to Jalan Padungan past the cat statues and have a decent plate of barbecued pork Rice at Chinese Barbecue Specialist, my favourite coffee shop during my student days.  The taste of the barbecued meat stays the same, still as succulent and well-charred as that before. Having treated my stomach, I take a different route, going past a row of bank buildings and Hilton Hotel, searching for a place that was my regular haunt in the past. When I find myself on Jalan Main Bazaar, another hub of many closely huddled shops, my eyes swim from one signboard to another, hoping to see the shop I have been searching for. At the sight of a white signboard with red and blue letterings, the Star Company, a shop with a long history of selling quality SPM and STPM reference books, I almost jump for joy! I enter the shop and what unravels before me is the self-same arrangement of bookshelves I saw in the past. I browse through narrow alleys of books and the flip of each page reminds me of how tireless and determined I was in looking for a good book as a student. To show my obeisance to the bookstore, I buy a magazine and a pen.

            My craving for Siobee, a type of Chinese meat dumplings, leads me to the open air market on India Street. When I arrived at Kuching with my mother in 1990, it was where we had our three meals. Sin Kwang Heng, the stall that sells Siobee, is at the front portion of the market. I was disappointed at my first taste of the delicacy, which I found rather bland. But ever since I returned to Miri in 1991, I have yearned for it more and more. To slake the desire, I order four dumplings and a glass of iced soy milk. I chew one by one slowly to savour the taste, and detect a faint aroma of fish in the well-minced and pounded pork. Why? It has become much more delicious than what I can remember. Has my long absence played a trick on my taste buds?

From the Open Air Market, I walk to the post office using a short cut through the garden of Little Lebanon, an Arabic restaurant. Built in 1931, it has strikingly impressive Corinthian columns along its facade. Long before the city bus routes were altered, my then best friend, Simon Dupuree and I always waited for a bus back to our school, the now defunct St. Patrick’s School on Jalan Stampin at one of the columns.  Simon was the key figure in curing me of homesickness.  He familiarized me with various routes in Kuching, and the post office was among the first places he introduced to me.  It is also where I regularly posted letters to my family in Miri. Each of my letters had a title, and Mom still keeps them in her old suitcase.

My next destination is Jalan Tun Abang Haji Openg, an area where many historic museums are located. I walk past the stately St. Thomas church and the long-operating Merdeka Palace Hotel. The hum of zipping traffic fills the air and the heat from the afternoon sun squeezes more and more sweat from my pores. When I enter the first museum, the Natural History Museum, my spirits are perked up by the cool air of the efficient air-conditioning. I pay RM4 for the entrance and feast my eyes on the juxtaposed displays of fossilized rocks and tree trunks. A tall totem pole stands erect outside the museum, a favourite spot for photo-taking. The next place I visit is the Arts Museum, known well for the motley assortment of handicrafts and paintings inside. I roam the Kuching Museum too, which is famous for its many exhibits of stuffed animals. One of the last museums I explore is the ethnographic museum, accessible on the other side of the road through an overhead bridge. There, traditional artefacts and scale models of long houses are found aplenty. My trip ends on a high note at the Islamic Heritage Museum, noted for its elaborate religious and cultural displays.  My favourite exhibit being an Islamic armour of the crusader era, which makes me in awe with its beauty.

I actually visited some of the museums as a student. Compared to what I did in the past, I view the exhibits with more appreciation and understanding.  Those who have been dedicating their lives to preserving our heritage the likes of all these really deserve praise and respect.

My visit to Kuching will not be complete without a trip to St. Joseph’s Cathedral. I always went to pray in the church when I was a student. It is quite a long distance walking to the church. The sweltering sun sears my skin and my steady strides become tottering steps. I drag myself past the Heroes' memorial tomb and a garden with a quaint gazebo and some intricate stonework. I heave a sigh of relief when St. Theresa Secondary School comes into view. I quicken my pace and finally reach the Cathedral, just in time to attend a wedding mass. I dip my fingers into a stoup and cross myself. Before entering the pew, I genuflect. Although every single action of mine seems insignificant, it reminds me of so many God-given fond memories. The atmosphere of the mass is warm and fuzzy, and I enjoy singing hymns with the congregation. I cannot see the faces of the bride and the bridegroom because they are standing with their backs towards me. Deep in my heart I bless them. The sermon is short and simple. I chuckle silently to myself when the priest jokingly suggests that the newly wed should have a mutual email and Facebook accounts.

              After the mass, I double-back to the Waterfront, in whose vicinity my hotel is situated. Despite my aching legs, I am glad to have retraced most of the routes I walked before. At the first hint of evening, I take a taxi to the location of my alma mater, St. Patrick’s School, which is now where the Inti College stands.  Although there is no trace of the school left in the college, the surroundings remain more or less the same as they were. The thought of St. Patrick’s brings to mind two La Salle brothers - the late Brother Albinus and Brother Henry. The former, the then director of the school, was always concerned about the well-being of me and my friends in the hostel. Knowing that I love to read, he introduced a lot of literary classics to me and I spent a lot of time devouring them in the library. The latter, Brother Henry, liked to correct my English and teasingly call me ‘Peculiar Pure China.’ Every time before speaking to him, I would make a mental examination of my sentences but he would still detect errors in them like a blood hound. Without the two brothers, my love for the English Language would not have been that deep. 

When night makes its presence felt, I have dinner at Aladdin Café on Jalan Carpenter, an eatery recommended by Tan, a good friend in Kuching.  It is my first time dining at the café, and the steamed chicken rice I order is surprisingly delicious, the meat smooth and the fluffy rice well-infused with chicken stock.  

Kuching is a mesmerizing diorama at night, especially along the Waterfront. After dinner, I sit on a bench near Khatulistiwa Café, and witness an enchanting sight. The river, mirroring the brightness of the buildings on both sides of the banks, is a celebration of colours at its best.  Among the rich colourfulness, the golden iridescence of the State Legislative Assembly building stands out like a beacon. Occasionally, a boat skims across the reflection, reducing it to shreds and spreading the burnishing light around in circles of ripples.  The beauty makes me half-drunk with gratefulness.  How fortunate of me to have come back here after so many years.

Kuching, thank you for the abundance of old and new memories. It feels good to tread your ground again.