Kota Kinabalu, Malaysia
Despite my reservations with organized tours, a short three-day vacation with my unadventurous dad brought us two to a budget hotel in Kota Kinabalu, a tourist city in the island of Borneo, Malaysia, known for its recent economic growth as well as its beaches.
The hotel was decent, the AC blasting so hard my water was kept cool and my camera lens would fog up. Complimentary breakfast buffet included scrambled eggs and sausages. Buttered toast and cereal.
Through the window of our room on the ninth floor I could see the surrounding hotels and shopping plazas, all evidently designed for tourists. They were quite new, though many of the units were left empty. Right beside our hotel however, was a small village. The parked motorbikes, hung laundry on slack lines, the rust on the metal sheets serving as roofs - among other signs - told me clearly that it was inhabited by locals. More peculiar, a good section of the village was standing above water, on beams of tarnished wood protruding from a filthy polluted river. Luckily the next day we had some time for personal leisure; of course, I was compelled to explore.
I entered the village to the sound of cranes chirping. It was noon when I left the hotel, yet time seemed to be of no importance. The air weighed heavy with the sun, letting me know indeed that this is not the Asia that I came from. The streets were quite bare, giving me an impression that this village had been abandoned, made all the more eery by the clamour of children from inside of homes. Not all of them had doors. I saw an old man washing himself outside in nothing but a pair of light shorts, from water collected in a bucket.
Children seemed quite comfortable wandering by themselves. I chanced upon a small food stall stationed by a teenage girl, alone, serving two giggly boys some donuts and iced coconut milk. I lined up and felt boyish myself. To my surprise, she spoke English. For the equivalent of 1.75 Canadian dollars I bought 3 donuts and a large coconut drink. They were delicious. She asked me if I was looking for the mall and I said no (it was obvious where it was). She said foreigners never come into the village; that made me feel special.
Suddenly a loud human voice could be heard wailing from afar. It was prayer time at the mosque and I could see more people now, heading towards the same direction. I followed. Once outside the mosque, I was delighted to find another food stall, this time with a live propane grill and more elaborate prepared foods. It seemed to be a family set up, with very little English spoken. This made it all the more fun of course, by the goofiness of guessing games and hand gestures. Browsing their offerings, I was delighted to find exotic wonders that tantalize gourmands like me to travel - barbecued stingray, seaweed collagen, tapioca cakes, shredded mangos bathing in a tangy spice... And though the locals would grab and go, they asked if I would like to sit. A rather intimate seat by the grill was offered. No cutlery.
As I dug my hands into a feast, they quickly fetched someone nearby who spoke English. Notably polite, he was an elder cook. We had bonded well over our culinary experiences, and he was inclined to ask me about wages and working conditions back in Canada. He dismissed himself quickly after, lamenting the state of the economy post-Covid.
'I hope you come back here again,' he said.
Rather naturally I made it to the section of the village floating on water. Houses were linked together by a long winding bridge made of old wooden planks. I was curious enough to enter the village, but to walk on these planks I felt myself hesitate. Intrusive it seemed. Also dangerous. Do I dare?
I could see on the other side of this bridge the highway that divided the village from the mall. Motivated by a safe destination, my steps ever so gingerly I proceeded, toiling with my dread of falling into the catastrophic scene below composed of a revolting amount of garbage and moss. I was acutely aware of the contents of my backpack, and pondered for the first time in a while my own body weight. Children and seniors alike seemed amused by my bumbling prudence. They had grown up here; they knew the way. They knew the planks.
Yet I had held my breath, somewhat. When I made it to the other side, I felt relieved and didn't look back.
I didn't want to.
Philippe Kwon - 23/10/22