IN the bustling city of Miri, the past whispers through the rustle of casuarina trees, the crashing of waves against the Tanjung Lobang beach, and the call of engines echoing from the airport runway.
For Abang Usop Abang Narudin, 64, these sounds and sights are part and parcel of a life deeply intertwined with the city’s history and an ever-evolving aviation industry.
Now retired, Abang Usop had spent more than two decades at Miri Airport, starting as a traffic clerk with Malaysia Airlines in 1980, and rising through the ranks as the aviation landscape transformed.
However, his relationship with Miri began well before his professional career took flight, rooted in childhood memories, family legacy, and a deep sense of belonging.
“My first time arriving in Miri was in 1973,” he recalls, smiling at the memory.
“I flew on a Fokker 27 – it took about two hours. I was captivated by the rows of ‘pokok rhu’ (casuarina trees) that greeted us. It was like a forest lining the coastline.”

The trip was more than a personal milestone.
His father, Abang Narudin Abang Sarkawi, had been appointed as Miri District Officer, serving from 1973 to 1976, a period marked by significant political and infrastructural changes in the town.
The young Abang Usop, wide-eyed and curious, explored the town that was then slowly transitioning from a quiet oil outpost to an urban centre.
He remembers the rustic simplicity of old Miri, the Resident’s Office, Miri Harbour, the bustling Soo Chew Studio on High Street, and the bus station that would later make way for a roundabout.
“People now walk through Taman Jade Manis, where once we used to run freely. I used to ‘ngelayo’ (wander about) with friends, and we’d always end up at Haji Sahari’s mee Jawa stall. That was our breakfast ritual,” he says.
“There was also Kit Siang’s shop, and a little coffee shop nearby where customs and immigration officers met for morning tea.”
Miri was not without its share of challenges.
One of the most vivid events in his memory was the flood of 1973, triggered by the Pulau Kidjang disaster.

“It was catastrophic,” he says, the gravity in his voice reflecting the scale of the event.
“The waters reached Tanjung Lobang, sweeping through areas that had never seen floods before.”
Yet amid tragedy, nature offered wonder.
One of his earliest adventures was a boat trip to Gua Niah, an archaeological site famed for its prehistoric caves.
Accompanied by staff from the Resident’s Office, he travelled up the river, trekked the wooden walkway, and stepped into the pitch-black silence of the caves.
“I was in awe. Later, as a staff of a resort, I brought international students there. We used to hike through the tropical rainforest, showing them the living, breathing soul of Borneo,” he reminisces.
In 1980, he joined Malaysia Airlines as a traffic clerk, the beginning of a lifelong relationship with the skies and the people who passed beneath them.
“At that time, everything was manual: ticketing, check-ins, reservations,” he recalls.
“We used handwritten ledgers and heavy tag printers for baggage. It was tough but rewarding work.”
Over the years, he witnessed not just the digitisation of the industry, but also the transformation of the airport’s physical and operational systems.
The Traffic Department eventually rebranded to Customer Services, reflecting a shift in focus toward passenger experience and efficiency.
He remembers his first encounter with the BN2 Islander aircraft – a small, twin-engine plane used for short-haul routes.
“It was so compact you could practically reach out and touch the cockpit door. Loading baggage was a team effort, there was no automation back then,” he said.
Miri Airport itself has seen several incarnations.
The original terminal was built in 1968, but as passenger volume grew, plans for a new facility emerged.
By 1996, Abang Usop had already drafted a proposal for a larger terminal equipped with self-check-in systems, an idea that was ahead of its time.
“I submitted it because I saw what was coming; more passengers, more airlines, higher expectations, but the proposal was shelved,” he says, with a tinge of regret.
The current terminal, completed in 2003, was supposed to be based on a 1999 master plan.
“But when it was finally built, it didn’t follow the original design. That was disappointing,” he says, noting inefficiencies in space usage and passenger flow that continue to impact operations today.
Despite that, Miri Airport has flourished.

“We’ve hosted Boeing 737-200s, Fokker 50s, Twin Otters, so many aircraft types. Airlines came and went, but the airport remained a hub of connection, especially for remote communities,” he says.
While aircraft were the stars, it was people like Abang Usop who ensured everything ran smoothly behind the scenes.
He guided countless passengers, foreign diplomats, oil and gas workers, and local families through ticket counters, check-ins, delays and transitions.
“There’s a rhythm to airport life,” he says. “It starts before dawn and doesn’t rest until the last flight lands. It’s not glamorous, but it’s deeply human.”
His roles evolved, he trained new staff, managed operations, liaised with civil aviation authorities.
Colleagues knew him as dependable, grounded and generous with knowledge.
His institutional memory became an asset, especially during system upgrades and policy changes.
He retired with little fanfare, but much respect.
Today, Miri is almost unrecognisable from the town he first landed in.
The casuarina trees still stand, but they now line a city brimming with hotels, shopping malls and highways.

“Miri has grown. So has the airport. But I worry we’re not thinking big enough for the future,” he says.
“We need a truly international-class facility, not just for tourism but for business, logistics, emergency response.”
He still visits the airport occasionally, watching planes take off and land, his heart still tethered to the tarmac.
“There’s something about airports,” he muses. “They’re places of meeting and parting, of beginnings and endings. That energy never fades.”
For Abang Usop, the story of Miri Airport is not just about infrastructure or policy; it’s about people, memory, and a sense of purpose.
It’s about a city’s aspirations carried in the belly of an aircraft, and a man who stood at the threshold of every departure.
His voice softens when asked what he misses most.
“It’s the connection,” he says after a pause. “Every boarding pass had a story. Every passenger had a destination, and for a moment, I was part of their journey.”
In a world where aviation is often reduced to delays and destinations, Abang Usop’s recollections remind us of its soul, a symphony of movement, memory and meaning.
As Miri City commemorates its 20th anniversary as a city, it is stories like Abang Usop’s that remind us that development is not just about roads and terminals; it is about people who give meaning to the progress.