When Wandering is a Way of Life

Kota Kinabalu International Airport | 1,399 words

Translated from Chinese by Yee Heng Yeh

“Attention. Passengers of the AirAsia flight AK5137, AK5137, destination Kuala Lumpur. You may now begin boarding, thank you.”

The announcement rang through the airport in three languages. In the departure lounge, passengers started to wheel their suitcases forward or hastily picked up their backpacks, flocking to the gate to prepare for boarding. Some fumbled with their wallets to take out their ICs (identity cards), while others already had their passports in hand, ready for the ground staff’s inspection.

For most people, nothing beats the feeling of returning to their roots, but for many long-term wanderers, this might well be a dream that’s just out of reach. Once again I was leaving this city with a heavy, reluctant heart.

Whenever I have to bid farewell to my hometown, the airport always serves as the final checkpoint. It’s like a bridge that spans two dimensions, neither a starting line nor an end point—I cross over, back and forth, again and again. 

I hauled my luggage onto the boarding bridge, flanked on both sides by reflections who mirrored my every step. I looked at them: with their belongings in hand, they were already moving on to life in the capital city of Kuala Lumpur. I reminded them, “This place is your home. You’ll return someday, just not right now.”

Every time I come back, I notice the increasing numbers of young people taking off from this place, filled with dreams and determination as they embark on their own journey. A spark of hope glimmering in their eyes, the way it once did in mine. 

The “H” Marker

“What’s your flight number? I can give you directions to your check-in counter!” the young driver had said when we pulled up to the airport’s departure hall.

“Oh, it’s fine, you can just drop me off wherever it’s convenient for you to stop. Thank you!”

What he didn’t know: I was already well-acquainted with the counters of this airport. I’m not bragging about how much I’ve jetted around the world—the thing is, because of who I am, I’ve had to travel to and fro since I was a child. 

Ever since I received my IC at the age of 12, I’ve had to leave and return every 90 days—that was what my mom always told me, and I would just obey dutifully, blithely unaware as to why. It wasn’t until I was about to leave this city for studies abroad that I discovered my IC was missing an inscription of the letter “H”.

A “true Sabahan” must have this “H” marker. My mom’s from Pahang, so my official identity takes after hers. Although I was born and raised in Kota Kinabalu, I cannot reside here continuously. I would face certain restrictions if I purchased property here, and it’s also harder for me to set up a business. 

“Please be sure to keep this entry slip safe—don’t lose it after you leave the state.” Though the customs officer had clearly seen the Sabah address on my IC, he, as always, kindly reminded me: You’re not a “true Sabahan”.

Though we belong to the same country, I, like those from Peninsular Malaysia or Sarawak, am only allowed to stay for brief periods upon each “arrival”. The never-ending cycle of leaving, returning, then leaving again, right here at the Kota Kinabalu International Airport, has become a core refrain of my memories growing up.

Forget It …

While waiting in line at the departure counter I knew so well, I was surrounded by “departure” in all its forms.

A family was taking a group photo in the airport, joyfully capturing memories of their trip to Kota Kinabalu. Lovers wistfully parted ways for now—even their silence held the weight of a thousand unspoken words. A few lone individuals wordlessly scrolled through their phones, simply passing time.

This airport has undergone several renovations, and the meaning it holds for me has also continued to evolve over time. 

In the past, coming to this airport filled me with indescribable excitement, because it was the gateway through which I’d soar towards freedom and rebirth on the wings of my dreams. Unsatisfied with the job opportunities in Sabah and curious about the world beyond, I ventured out to make a new life in the capital. Whenever I returned, my old secondary school friends would celebrate the fact that I was working in Kuala Lumpur. No one expressed any qualms they might have harbored. 

One friend, who had come back to Sabah after completing a Master’s in civil engineering overseas, told me he earned a salary of RM1800 a month. There was no way he could save up money. He looked at me and said, “Ah, if only I was bold enough to go work in Peninsular Malaysia, like you!”

I tamped down the pang of remorse and homesickness I felt, because it seemed to me out of place to say it out loud. Even if your wanderings arose from a need to face your life’s harsh realities, it might well constitute the fresh start that others longed for.

Coming back again to the same airport, the same spot, that thrilling anticipation of freedom and rebirth had long dissipated. This was simply another departure, signifying that I was not yet done with my days of wandering far away from home. 

“Can I apply to become a true Sabahan?” I would sometimes ask my mom.

“You’re sure you want to work and settle down here? Otherwise, what difference would it make?”

“Alright, let’s just forget it for now …” Conversations on the topic always ended on this note. 

Rising Plane, Setting Sun

In the airport’s duty-free zone, I drifted down the long hallway with the other travelers, each of us searching for our own exit. 

The airport was different today—it was usually bustling and bursting with tourists from all over the world. These tourists could only take quick peeks into the lives of the locals, mimicking the way they spoke and admiring the traditional cultures that the indigenous peoples “performed” for them. The sight of such turbulent swarms of tourists had always bothered me—I sometimes felt sorry that they might not have seen the real Sabah.

Today, the lively buzzing was gone, replaced by a quiet, somewhat forlorn atmosphere. Most of the faces around me sported familiar features and complexions—they seemed to be domestic tourists, with only a sporadic few speaking Japanese or Korean.

Planes were still taking off and landing—the twilight over Tanjung Aru served as their backdrop, the yellow sky gradually deepening into amber. Lovers strolled along the hallway, heads leaning in close to each other as they watched the sun set through the glassed walls. An old couple sat side by side on a bench in that vast, empty space, talking at length.

What would be left of Kota Kinabalu, Sabah, without its tourists? The scene before me was a lesson in appreciation, for this was a view I had never properly looked at: a Kota Kinabalu that was languid, romantic, and laidback.

In the past, I would complain from time to time about the inconvenience of public transportation here, feeling that I couldn’t move around quickly enough. It seemed that only by leaving for a larger, more well-connected city would I be truly pursuing my dreams. Wandering away from home has long been a way of life for Sabahans. We are always parting ways and setting off, returning and reuniting.

My plane slowly began to glide across the runway, before finally lifting off in flight and pulling away from the ground. Passengers on board took out their phones to photograph the spectacular sunset view outside the window; perhaps the tiny figures down on the beach were also snapping pictures of the plane departing in the dusk sky.

The sea appeared calm, light occasionally glinting off its wrinkled surface. The town of Kota Kinabalu, Gaya Island, Mount Kinabalu … they all melded together, shrinking in size until they were a mere speck in the eye.

I was taking off from Kota Kinabalu once again, but deep down, I actually yearned to land here, to take root and sprout in this soil. I knew that no matter where I go, the beauty and warmth of Kota Kinabalu will always be with me.

“I’ll return someday. Just not right now.”

© Danny Chew

English translation © Yee Heng Yeh

Commissioning editor: Wong Kai Hui