Kota Kinabalu

On the way down from Kinabalu Park, we pulled over briefly at Kampong Sinalapak where a row of roadside stalls stood ready to tempt travellers with their grilled meats. I had read earlier that their specialty was wild boar, a must-try if one ever passed through this way. Unfortunately, when we asked, the vendors told us that the boar meat wouldn’t be ready for at least another half an hour. As we didn’t have the luxury of waiting, we settled instead for their regular pork grilled over open flames. Perhaps it was the cut, or the way it was cooked, but the meat struck me as rather tough and chewy. It didn’t impress me and I wouldn’t be rushing back for it.

From there, the road brought us down into Kota Kinabalu, the bustling coastal city that in colonial days was known as Jesselton. The old name dated back to the British North Borneo Company, which had built up the town around its railway and trading port. Much of Jesselton was destroyed during the Second World War, and when the town rose again from the ruins, it eventually took on a new identity. In 1967, two years after the formation of Malaysia, Jesselton was officially renamed Kota Kinabalu, a name meant to reflect both the local heritage and the looming presence of Mount Kinabalu itself. 

Before checking into our Airbnb lodging, we made a quick detour to the FMM Sabah branch where Saw See wanted to say hello to the branch manager, an old acquaintance from her previous working days. The stop didn’t take long, and soon enough we were on our way to our accommodation in Tanjong Aru. The difference between this place and the cramped quarters we had endured in Kundasang was night and day. Spacious, airy and comfortable: everything one could want after a few days in the mountains.

That evening, we went looking for dinner, and a sudden craving pulled me in the direction of a Filipino restaurant. It had been more than 30 years since I last tasted Filipino food. My thoughts went back to Manila in 1992, when I had visited the Chess Olympiad and first discovered adobong baboi and lechon. I still remember how those dishes struck me back then. Adobo with its unmistakable sour tang from vinegar, earthy and comforting at the same time; lechon with its crisp skin that cracked under the bite and tender meat beneath. They were simple yet unforgetable meals.

Sitting now in Kota Kinabalu, those memories resurfaced. It’s funny how food can do that: how a flavour can unlock not just taste but time itself. I ordered the adobo and lechon again, half-curious whether they would match the flavours etched into my memory. They didn’t, not exactly, but that hardly mattered. The important thing was the recollection, the way each mouthful reconnected me back to Manila, finding comfort in its food.

This time, I also ventured into something unfamiliar: sisig. Later, when I mentioned it to a Filipino chess friend, Rico Mascarinas, he told me that sisig had grown into one of the most popular dishes in the Philippines. Back in the early 1990s, he said, you’d have to go to Manila to find it. Now, it was everywhere. To me, it was an intriguing dish, full of texture and zest, sizzling away with a fresh egg waiting to be mixed into the meat. Alongside it came pumpkin and prawns cooked in coconut milk. Altogether, it was a dinner that stirred memory, satisfied craving and left me with a renewed respect for Filipino cooking.

The next day was unhurried, a rare thing for us when travelling. We spent it leisurely in Kota Kinabalu without any particular agenda. A local café beckoned us with tuaran mee and Kuching laksa on the menu, both of which were welcome reminders of Sabah and Sarawak’s culinary diversity. Afterwards, we strolled along a shady, tree-lined Gaya Street, dipping in and out of shops, browsing without any intention of buying. 

My daughter pointed out the nearby now-closed Maybank branch which, oddly enough, had once become something of a tourist attraction. Apparently, a year earlier, the place had gone viral on Chinese social media and busloads of tourists turned up to have their photos taken in front of the bank. I shook my head in bewilderment. Why such things go viral, I will never understand. A bank is a bank, after all.

Later in the afternoon, we headed for the Shangri-La Resort in Tanjong Aru to catch the famous sunset. When we arrived, the seafront was already full with people, most of them tourists from China, jostling for the best views and selfies. It struck me as a pity that a high-end establishment such as the Shangri-La had to endure the kind of crowd that seemed out of step with its usual standards of elegance and exclusivity. Still, I must admit the sunset lived up to its reputation. The sky unfolded in magnificent colours—fiery oranges melting into purples and pinks—until the last rays slipped beneath the horizon. Dinner that night was another indulgence: seafood, fresh and plentiful, with crabs taking centre stage.

Our last day in Sabah brought us back once more to Gaya Street, this time for the Sunday morning market which locals had told us about. Perhaps my expectations were set too high, because the reality didn’t impress at all. To me, it felt more like an everyday pasar malam, but in the morning. Stalls upon stalls of the usual fruits, vegetables, trinkets, clothes and snacks. Pleasant enough, but nothing to write home about. We strolled into the October Coffee House where finally, I found my most exquisite cup of hot latte in Sabah, unlike the watery stuff that's commonly passed off as coffee. With all that done, we hurried back to pack, checked out of our Airbnb and made our way to the airport. A quick flight later, and it was Kuala Lumpur in our sights again.