Every few months in the second half of the 1960s, a young man named Juwa would journey from his family’s farm to the bus stop at Mile 27 along the winding old Kuching-Serian Road, now replaced by the Pan Borneo Highway..
The bus would take him to Kuching town, about 40 miles from our quiet, remote farming community. The more than 10-mile walk along a jungle path was no small task for most, but for Juwa, it was just part of life.
Juwa wasn’t from our village, but from another one nearby. Still, we all knew him well. He was a familiar figure, often crossing into our farms to sell various kinds of essentials — salt, sugar, cooking oil, soy sauce, matches, tobacco, and even cigarette wrappers.
Somehow, he managed to carry all these things, packed neatly into his large backpack and two multi-compartment racks attached to the ends of a bamboo yoke balanced across his shoulders. He was, quite literally, a walking grocery shop.
His strength always amazed me. With the miles he walked, crisscrossing the paddy fields and visiting different farms, his legs were as strong as steel. So, the long journey to Mile 27 didn’t seem to faze him.
Juwa was clever when it came to making his trips pay off. He never missed a chance to earn cash for the journey, usually by selling things like milled rice, raw sheets of natural rubber, or black pepper. These were items he never had to buy himself — his customers, often short on cash, would barter them in exchange for the goods he sold. It was a system that worked well for him.
But one of the main reasons for his trips to Kuching wasn’t just business. Juwa loved visiting Kuching’s first shopping mall, Electra House, opened in 1965. It was a world apart from the simple life we knew in the village and farmlands.
And in one small shop window there, on a shelf that seemed almost magical in his retellings, sat rows of shoes that, to him, were the epitome of sophistication.
He talked about those shoes endlessly whenever he returned from town, describing them in such vivid details that it felt like we’d seen them ourselves. But of all the shoes in that display, one particular pair stood out to him — a pair of black leather shoes.
According to Juwa, they were no ordinary shoes. They had a timeless design, the kind of style that would never go out of fashion.
The leather had a smooth, polished finish that caught the light, making it gleam with a quiet luxury. To Juwa, they weren’t just shoes — they were a dream, a glimpse of something finer, something beyond the everyday.
He couldn’t stop admiring the classic design. They had sleek, clean lines that made them look sharp. The slightly pointed toe added a modern twist while keeping a traditional feel. The stitching was flawless, and some fancy details gave them a touch of sophistication without being over the top.
Every detail felt just right. The durable laces matched the shoe colour perfectly, making them look even sleeker. The eyelets were set up precisely, ensuring a snug fit. The deep black soles matched the upper part, and the heel was designed for good grip.
The leather was smooth and free of flaws. Inside, it looked soft and cosy, promising comfort for his feet. He imagined them being the right weight — not too heavy, but sturdy enough to last.
He pictured slipping his feet into them, feeling the leather mould to his shape over time. The cushioned insole would keep him comfortable, allowing him to walk for hours without tiring. He could almost hear the soft click they’d make as he walked, adding to their charm.
He often stood outside the shop, gazing at these treasures. Sometimes he’d press his face against the glass, dreaming of how it would feel to wear those shoes. The shopkeeper would invite him inside, but he always had to shake his head — he didn’t have the money for that favourite pair — not yet.
Determined to make his dream come true, he took on every job he could find, saving every penny. He daydreamed about the moment he could finally own those shoes, picturing the joy they would bring and how his friends would admire them.
After months of hard work, that day finally arrived. With his savings in hand, he walked to the shop, his heart racing. When the shopkeeper handed him the shoes, they looked just as perfect as he had imagined. He felt a mix of excitement and awe as he bought them.
Later at home, he did not use the shoes immediately but put them next to his bed where he could glance at them admiringly. Now and then, he would pick up one shoe and turn it around and around in his hands lovingly, smelling the leather as he did so.
He told himself he would save them for the right occasion, like a festival day or a church service. But during the paddy harvest season, he was too busy to even think about wearing them.
Still, he was so enamoured with the shoes that whenever he felt like it, he would take them out of their box to admire and touch them. One afternoon, he put them on to feel the leather on his feet.
Oh, how wonderful they felt. How well they moulded to his feet, providing a snug yet comfortable fit. The feeling of soft leather against his skin brought a sense of luxury and ease, making each step feel effortless. Well-fitting, they enhanced his confidence. They made him feel poised and ready to take on challenges.
Encouraged by a cousin, he began walking on the packed dirt yard outside and around the house. At first, he felt elated, but after one round around his house, he had a strange feeling, a twinge in his heart that something was off. Something was not right.
Somehow, the shoes did not seem to fit the environment. They seemed incongruous — too shiny, too elegant, and too pretty for his rugged and rustic surroundings enclosed by the farms and jungle beyond.
How come he had not noticed it before? While they looked beautiful on the shop shelf, they somehow looked out of place in his house. He took them off and his socks too, and noticed how they didn’t complement his calloused feet with their spread-out toes.
Slowly and thoughtfully, he carried them inside, and before he put them in their box, he noticed how out of place they looked in the house.
For days, the shoes sat in their box, untouched, as Juwa wrestled with his feelings. Had he made a mistake? Were they too extravagant for someone like him? But then, something shifted. He was sitting under the shade of a tree one afternoon when his cousin came by, curious about the shoes.
“Why don’t you wear them to town next time?” his cousin suggested. “They’re not just for looking at, you know. They’re meant to be worn.”
The words sparked a realisation in Juwa. He had been so focused on what the shoes represented — a dream, a symbol of another life — that he had forgotten their true purpose. They weren’t meant to be hidden away. They were meant to carry him forward, quite literally.
The next time he went to Kuching, Juwa wore the shoes. At first, he felt self-conscious, but as he walked through the bustling streets of the town, he began to notice something. The shoes didn’t look out of place. They clicked softly against the pavement, blending seamlessly with the urban surroundings. People noticed them, too — not with judgment, but with admiration.
And in that moment, Juwa understood. The shoes weren’t a mismatch for his life; they were a bridge between worlds. They reminded him of the value of dreaming big while staying grounded.
And as he walked through the streets of Kuching, his heart swelled with pride. The shoes weren’t just a piece of leather — they were a reminder of his journey, hard work, and the possibilities ahead.
In the village, Juwa wore the shoes occasionally, saving them for special trips or meaningful gatherings. Over time, they became a part of his story, a symbol not of extravagance, but of aspiration. Every step he took in them reminded him that sometimes, it was okay to bring a little shine into a rugged world.
The views expressed here are those of the writer and do not necessarily represent the views of the Sarawak Tribune.
