Childhood Home after Half a Century

We did our usual morning cycling on 13.05.2021, the first day of the Hari Raya holidays. As always, we paused for a break just in front of the entrance to the Istana - the official residence of the State Governor. This time, however, something caught my eye. I noticed two native-looking women walking casually down a narrow, steep earth track near the gate. Curious and intrigued, I decided to follow the path myself.

To my surprise and quiet delight, the trail led me to the area where I had spent my childhood. It stirred a wave of nostalgia. I had long assumed the place had been abandoned or left to the elements. But seeing signs of life, I realized it was still inhabited - still alive in its own way. The village of my early years was not forgotten after all.

Our family left our old village home for good in 1972, when we moved into a new single-storey semi-detached house near Likas. But that morning's unexpected detour reminded me that some roots never truly disappear - they simply lie waiting to be rediscovered.

The original route to the village house from the main road has been blocked off by this massive retaining wall built to hold up the roundabout in front of the entrance to the Istana.

After the initial steep steps, the path ahead looked instantly familiar - even after nearly fifty years. It was as if time had only lightly dusted the landscape, leaving its shape intact. Interestingly, the “locals” who have since taken over the area had made some modest upgrades, laying down uneven concrete slabs to reduce the risk of slipping on the old earthen trail.

Along the way, I struck up a conversation with a young woman carrying a bucket on her way to collect water. She told me she had been living in the area for over a decade. Originally from Sepanggar, she was part of a group of squatters who had settled here from various places. Judging from her appearance and speech, it seemed likely that many of the residents were of Filipino descent - a common story in many informal settlements around the outskirts of the city.

As I continued along the winding, hilly track - about 200 m from the main road to where our old village house once stood - I tried to spot familiar landmarks from my childhood. The open-air badminton court, once a proud concrete platform carved into a leveled section of hillside, had vanished beneath a cluster of makeshift homes. Its once-clear edges were now blurred beyond recognition.

The magnificent magnolia tree, which used to stand just beyond the court and filled the air with its rich fragrance, was nowhere to be found. It likely hadn’t survived the decades of change. Nor could I locate the tamarind and jackfruit trees we once climbed eagerly in search of fruit. They too had likely been overtaken - if not uprooted - by the relentless spread of thick vegetation and human habitation.

The landscape had changed, but walking that trail again stirred memories that felt vivid and alive, as if the place were whispering fragments of a forgotten past just beneath the surface.

The flat area cut out from hill slope for the construction of an open air badminton court is now occupied by squatter houses.

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The valley where we once tapped fresh water - channeling it to our house through hollowed bamboo pipes - still retains some semblance of its original contours. Though the stream may have faded, the lay of the land remains familiar. In its place, the squatters have dug a simple well to meet their daily water needs.

Left photo: Well dug at the valley. Right photo: Typical water conveyance via bamboo in our days at the village!

Existing well dug at the valley.

Internal view of the existing well.

Looking east from the water source lies the plain where my humble village house once stood (Read here). Today, there is no trace of any dwelling in sight - the landscape is bare, stripped of the structures that once gave it life. The exact spot where our house once stood is now unrecognizable, lost to time and the shifting terrain.

Yet, amidst the overgrowth, a small cluster of banana trees on the left caught my eye. They stirred a warm wave of nostalgia, reminding me of the very same trees that once stood proudly in front of our house. I could almost hear the laughter of children - my siblings, cousins, and I - playing tag, hiding behind those broad leaves, and racing around the trunks. Though the house is gone, those joyful memories cling to the land like morning mist, refusing to fade.

The creek - once one of our favorite playgrounds during school holidays - still winds its way toward the eastern end, quietly channeling a meagre flow of surface water even in dry weather. Though its banks have narrowed and its sparkle has dimmed with time, it remains a silent witness to the carefree days we spent splashing, exploring, and losing ourselves in childhood adventures.

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I ended my little “exploration” with mixed emotions. In the fifty years since I last walked these paths, Kota Kinabalu has transformed dramatically. Many parts of the city have surged ahead with modern developments - sleek residential areas, towering condominiums, and commercial complexes equipped with state-of-the-art amenities now define much of the cityscape.

And yet, just 1.5 kilometers from the heart of the State Capital, this once-familiar hillside has become a forgotten pocket - now a squatter colony where residents live without electricity and still rely on well water for their daily needs. The contrast was stark and sobering: a city marching confidently into the future, while a small corner of it seemed trapped in time, quietly enduring on the fringes of progress.