Published: February 1, 2026

Before us, the Sarawak River unfurls—an artery of life carrying livelihoods across generations, its untold stories settling quietly into silt and time. Across the river, the gigantic Sarawak flag stretches in splendour: yellow grounding its form, red and black striping the bendera, and a nine-pointed star at the centre, bearing the significance of the nine divisions where the people lives in harmony.

Though Kuching lies only a two-hour flight from Brunei and an hour from Miri—where we take off—this is my first time setting foot on its soil. Within the first hour, the land has already taken hold of me. The river seems to lift its veil of mystery, breathing slowly beneath the sun, like an ancient vein that remembers too many stories, yet never too few.

I turn to Mr. Kuek and ask instinctively, “So, how did the name Kuching come to be?”

We have worked together over the past year—he, as editor of the supplement at See Hua Daily, and I, offering poems and prose on art and culture. This journey is, in part, a courtesy meeting; in part, a continuation of that quiet exchange. Ma, my mother, travels with me.

He smiles, weighing the question. “There are three stories,” he says lightly. “When James Brooke arrived at the dock, the locals supposedly mistook his question and named the place after the cat — kucing. Others say it comes from longans — mata kucing, for the fruit’s resemblance to a cat’s eye, once abundant here. And then there is the history version, traced through Chinese miners’ dialects and settlements.”

He shrugs. “Which one you believe is entirely up to you.”

Our meeting is brief; he takes us on a tour of the Malay kampong by car. We see a familiar serenity that reminds us of my grandparents’ kampong at Sungai Teraban—the mosque, the kampong house on low-pillar stilts with a spacious verandah at the front, and a slightly curved cemented staircase leading up to it. I notice some young children idling their time on the verandah. It was exactly the kind of quiet I liked to enjoy, simply relaxing and letting my thoughts float.

After our short encounter, I spend the rest of the day exploring with Ma. Together, we walk into the city centre, letting the old streets introduce themselves in their own time. Little do Ma and I know that in the following days, we will step into a parallel space, where old time stands new once again, and faded memories are renewed.

The Chinese streets carry a mixture of old and new, built into old essences. Part of it whispers melancholy, while another part sings fresh vibrancy. We see kopitiams—old coffee eateries quietly exhaling aromas brewed across a few generations. We buy traditional biscuits like pong pia, husband cake, wife cake which tastes and forms remind Ma of her childhood, and me of Ama, my grandmother. We walk paths traced by footsteps of yesteryear; each step treads lightly while the heart grows heavy.

Traditional Chinese biscuits and cakes which tastes and forms remind us of our childhoods.“

Young generations take over family businesses, but if you take a second deep glance, they are, perhaps, merely split images of their forefathers when the streets were still young in the bygone days.

Time and space are only repeating themselves, only people change, and that is the only constant that will remain unchanged.

Shops are decorated with red lanterns as Chinese New Year approaches. Upbeat songs of well-wishing, accompanied by drums and gongs, float in the air, painting the streets with renewed energy.

The next day, we walk to India Street. Along the way, we pass by shops selling Dayak fashion and cultural trinkets and instruments like the sape—their fashion a trove of treasures of traditional and modernly revived trends.

We stop by a road sign reading “Jalan Ewe Hai,” where two elderly gentlemen pose proudly with broad smiles. I can’t help taking a photograph and asking their companions why. They tell us that they are from Singapore, and the elderly gentlemen are great-grandchildren of Ong Ewe Hai, a pioneering Hokkien businessman and the first Kapitan Cina Captain of the Chinese of Kuching during the Brooke era.

At India Street, batik drapes sway beside Indian textiles, and spices bloom in vivid colours. An elderly putu mayam vendor sells his delicacy on a motorcycle, his steamer placed on the seat, with a small but brilliantly designed cardboard sign that reads “Pak Abu Putu Mayung.” He wears a crimson tarboush with a black tassel and calls out warmly, guiding us toward The Indian Mosque’s slim alley—which can easily be missed by unfrequented travelers—while his hands remain busy preparing traditional Indian snacks made from steamed rice flour noodles.

As the capital and most populous city of Sarawak, Malaysia, Kuching is a vibrant economic hub, yet culture, history, and diversity form the vertebrae of its society. While roaming the streets, Mr. Kuek’s explanation, the one which I find most compelling, lingers in my mind.

In the nineteenth century, when Kuching was still known as Sarawak, Chinese antimony miners—predominantly Hakka, with Hokkien, Teochew, and Cantonese traders alongside—shaped this land through labour and speech. Mining settlements were named not by decree, but by use. In their dialects, words for mining town, old settlement, or rich town sounded close to khong-cheng, ku-cheng, or fu-cheng. Spoken daily in markets, at docks, near furnaces glowing with antimony fire, written on ledgers, the sound travelled faster than meaning. When recorded by Malay and European who were unfamiliar with tonal nuance, it remained as Kuching.

It is not a claim carved in stone, but one of phonetic inheritance—of a name worn smooth by work, fixed through repetition, preserved because it was useful to say. Compared to later folk explanations, most famously the association with cats, this reading follows a regional logic: in Southeast Asia, towns often inherit their names from labour, sound, and trade, rather than symbolism.

Kuching, then, may not be a word born of metaphor, but of voices—miners calling across time, leaving behind a sonic trace of a once-rich mining town.

We continue to pass by an old shop tended by an elderly woman and her son. We buy traditional taosua pia red-bean cake and bi-phang puffed rice cake from them out of nostalgia, though we later find other shops sell them for less. Before we leave Kuching, I suggest returning to the shop. Ma asks why.

“Because the whole experience reminds me of Ama and her shop,” I answer without hesitation, in sweet reminiscence of the many school holidays I spent at Ama’s shop in Tutong during my childhood.

Time and space are parallel, and we seek refuge and solace for familiarity within unfamiliarity. In reminiscence, I become small again, and Ama is young once more. Perhaps each of us holds dearly a piece of reminiscence like a trinket to our hearts—like the great-grandchildren of Ong Ewe Hai, the putu mayam vendor who insists on tradition, and the new-generation shop owners who continue to work in their grandfather’s old shops.

Names linger this way too—not for what they mean, but for how they are carried. Worn by voices, repeated until they belong, they stay. Like Kuching—a sound shaped by labour and memory, held in the mouth long after the hands have stilled.

Ketuk, ketuk, ketuk, ketuk.

The unoiled roller shutter rolls down to claim the day’s end. Tomorrow, the streets will be alive again. The river continues its quiet charm.

古晋——一个时间流淌的声音

发布日期：2026年2月1日

我们凝望着前方的砂拉越河，在这个炎热的上午，眼前的风景仿佛掀开了一层神秘的薄纱。河水在阳光下缓慢呼吸，像一条记得太多故事的古老脉络，故事静静沉积在河泥与时光之间。

河对岸，巨大的砂拉越州旗高高飘扬：金黄底色，红黑条纹镶嵌其间，中心的九角星承载着砂拉越人民团结一致的意义。

虽然古晋距离文莱仅两小时飞行，而距离我们的起飞点美里仅一小时，这竟是我第一次踏上这片土地。抵达不到一小时，我便已爱上了它。

我转向郭编辑，自然问道：“古晋这个名称是怎么来的？”

过去一年，我们一起共事——郭敬之是《诗华日报》副刊编辑，而我向他提供艺术与文化的诗与散文。这次旅程，主要是礼节性的拜访，母亲随我同行。

郭编辑微笑着，轻声说道：“有三种说法。有人说，当布鲁克抵达码头时，当地人误解了他的提问，于是把地方命名为‘猫城’——kucing。也有人说，名称源自曾经盛产于此地的龙眼——mata kucing，因果实长得像猫眼，所以简称‘猫城’。还有一种历史说法，是通过中国矿工的方言和聚落流传下来的。”他耸耸肩，“相信哪一种说法，完全由你自己决定吧。”

他接着开车带我们游览马来村。那熟悉的宁静让我想起爷爷奶奶的村庄——有清真寺、低柱支撑的马来传统建筑房屋、宽敞的前廊，以及通向廊前用水泥做微带弯曲设计的台阶。我看见一些孩子在廊前悠闲地消磨时光。这正是我儿时喜欢的宁静，只想静静地坐着，让思绪满天漂浮。

我和郭编辑短暂会面后，再与妈妈继续探索。我们漫步走入市中心，让古街按自己的节奏向我们展开自我介绍。只是我们未曾意识到，在接下来的几天，我们即将步入一个旧时光会焕然一新，斑驳记忆重新鲜活的平行空间。

华人街道融合了旧与新，部分低声诉说着不舍逝去的忧郁，另一部分则充满勃勃生机。我们看到老咖啡店，空气中弥漫着几代人冲泡过的香气。我们买下传统糕点如砰饼、老婆饼、老公饼等，其口感与形态让妈妈忆起童年，也让我想起外婆阿嬷。

米香是福建传统特色小吃，主要以大米为原料，另加上黑芝麻、花生、或原味，口感酥脆、米香浓郁，是童年的最爱。“

我们沿着岁月留下的脚印行走，每一步轻踏，心却沉重。我看见年轻一代接手家族生意，但仔细看去，他们或许只是当年街道年轻时祖辈身影的映像。时间与空间不断重复，唯有人在变，这便是唯一不变的常数。

商铺开始挂起红灯笼来迎接农历新年。欢快的祝福歌声伴随着鼓锣锵声，飘荡在空气中，为老街道注入新的活力。

第二天，我们步行前往印度街。一路上，我们经过售卖达雅克服饰、文化饰品及萨佩乐器的店铺——传统与现代复兴的珍宝在这里交织。

两位银发先生面带自豪开心的笑容与写着《友海街》的路牌合影，吸引了我停下脚步。我朝他们拍了照片以后并问其同伴他们和路牌合影的原因。同伴告诉我们，他们来自新加坡，而这两位先生正是王友海——一位成功福建商人，也是布鲁克时代古晋的首任华人领导甲毕丹的曾孙。

在印度街，巴迪布料在印度织物旁摇曳，缤纷色彩的香料散发出浓烈的香味。

一位年长的putu mayam摊贩骑着摩托车出售印度小吃，蒸笼置于座椅上，上面摆着一个小巧却精致的牌子——《Pak Abu Putu Mayung》。他头戴挂着黑色流苏的绯红费兹帽，向我们招呼，并一边引导我们走向那若不熟悉的游客会很容易错过的印度清真寺狭窄的小巷，一边双手仍忙于准备要售卖的传统印度蒸米粉。

作为砂拉越的首府及人口最多的城市，古晋是一个充满活力的经济中心，但文化、历史与多样性和平共存才是社会的脊梁。

漫步街头时，郭编辑的历史解说在我脑海里久久回响，这也是我最认同的版本。

十九世纪，古晋仍被称作砂拉越时，中国锑矿工——主要是客家，福建、潮州与粤商——通过劳作与语言塑造了这片土地。

矿区聚落并非由命令命名，而是使用而生。在他们的方言里，矿镇、古城或古镇的词语发音接近 khong-cheng、ku-siang 或 ku-cheng。我想象，这些词语在市场、码头、账簿上及闪烁锑火的炉边日常流传，其声音传播得比意义更快。当马来人和欧洲人以不熟悉的声调记录下来时，它便成为“古晋”。

这不是刻在石上的定论，而是一种语音传承——一个被劳作磨平、通过重复固定、因使用而得以保存的名字。与后来最著名的民间解释“猫”相比，这种解读更符合地区逻辑：在东南亚，城镇常因劳作、声音与贸易而得名，而非象征意义。

古晋，或许并非源自隐喻，而是声音——矿工跨越时光呼喊的声音，留下昔日富矿镇的痕迹。

我们继续经过一家老店，由老妇与其子经营。出于怀旧，我们买了传统豆沙饼和米香饼，尽管后来发现其他店卖得更便宜。离开古晋前，我向妈妈提议再去光顾那家店。妈妈不解问为什么。

“因为去那里让我想起阿嬷和她的店呀，”我毫不犹豫地回答，一面甜美地回忆起童年在文莱都东度过的许多暑假时光。

其实时间与空间是平行的，我们只不过在陌生中寻求熟悉的慰藉。每次回忆中，我再次变小，阿嬷也再次年轻。也许，我们每个人都珍藏着一件心灵的怀旧小物——就像王友海的曾孙、putu mayam小吃摊贩，以及继续经营祖父老店的新一代店主一样。

名字也是如此——不是因其含义，而是因其被承载、被传递。它虽被岁月磨平，却通过重复而归属并长存。就像古晋——一个由劳作与记忆塑造的声音，即使矿工双手已静止，声音依然停留在口中。

呵特、呵特、呵特、呵特……

未经上油的卷闸缓缓落下，老店宣告一天的终结。明天，街道将再次生机盎然，砂拉越河依旧静静流淌，散发它独有的神秘与魅力。