I love the very sound of that name, Kanowit.
In the early sixties, it was a little jungle village.
Whichever direction you look, you would see only tall trees and thick green undergrowth.
It was a veritable green paradise.
Situated where two rivers met, what one saw was this huge expanse of water.
There were no roads connecting the different towns and villages.
Our main means of transportation were the slow putt putting boats.
We had one main street with two rows of shops.
Slightly beyond the shops was our primary Catholic school.
Walking further up would be the Mill Hill priests' house.
Then the Church, with the Mill Hill sisters' convent.
The same path led to the only hospital we had, run by the sisters.
For me, it was a magical time of my life.
Where we lived so close to nature and God.
Where the entire village was my playground.
We did not have cars.
We went everywhere on foot or bicycles.
I even recall when the streets were paved.
The shopkeepers claimed it would make it so much hotter.
It did not.
We lived in an apartment above a shop.
In the cool evenings, we children came out to play.
Adults sat on road curbs chatting.
While swallows flew in and out of their nests built on the ceiling of the shops.
Shopkeepers knew not to disturb their nests,
for they bring in good fortune.
It is said of mountaineers that even when they left,
The mountains always remain with them.
For me it is Kanowit, the little village nestled in the jungle.
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