The Riverboat and the Shadow of the City

The humidity in Kuala Lumpur didn’t just sit on you; it hugged you like a sweaty auntie at a Chinese New Year open house. For twelve-year-old Eddy, the only place to escape the heat was the place most people in the city tried to ignore: the river.

While his schoolmates were busy at the tuition centers or playing mobile games in air-conditioned malls, Eddy was at the muddy banks where the Gombak and Klang rivers met—the Muara. This was the heart of the city, the place where KL got its name, “Muddy Confluence.”

He wasn’t supposed to be there. His mother always said, “Eddy, don’t go near that water! Later you fall in and become fish food, then how?” But Eddy couldn’t help it. The river had secrets.

The Captain of the Muddy Water

Eddy’s best friend wasn’t a kid his age. It was Uncle Mutu, a man with skin the color of dark teak wood and a laugh that sounded like a tractor engine starting up. Uncle Mutu operated one of the small maintenance boats that cleared debris from the river.

“Oi, small boss! You late today! School principal catch you ah?” Mutu shouted over the chug-chug-chug of the engine.

“Mana ada, Uncle!” Eddy grinned, jumping onto the deck with the practiced balance of a cat. “History class was long gila. I thought my brain was going to melt.”

“History is behind us, lah. The river? The river is now. Come, help me with this log. If we don’t move it, the rubbish will pile up until we can walk across the water to Masjid Jamek.”

A Different View of the Concrete Jungle

As the boat drifted down the Klang River, the city changed. From the road, KL was all glass, steel, and “Don’t walk there!” signs. But from the river, the city looked like it had its shirt untucked.

They passed under bridges where the underside was covered in colorful graffiti—giant tigers and neon-style patterns that nobody on the street above ever saw. They saw the “hidden” people: the aunties washing their rugs on the stone steps, and the pak ciks fishing for ikan keli even though the water looked like teh tarik.

“Uncle, why the water so brown?” Eddy asked, poking a floating plastic bottle with a long bamboo pole.

“People forget, Eddy,” Mutu said, his eyes scanning the surface. “Last time, this river was full of life. Now, the city grows so fast, it treats the river like a rubbish bin. They want the tall buildings, the Merdeka 118, the TRX, but they forget the water that gave them the land.”

They watched as a monitor lizard, nearly two meters long, slid off a concrete ledge and disappeared into the murky depths.

“See that?” Mutu pointed. “That lizard is more ‘KL’ than any tourist. He knows the tunnels. He knows where the old tunnels from the tin mining days are hidden.”

The Secret of the Old Tunnel

One afternoon, the sky turned a bruised purple—the kind of color that meant a massive tropical downpour was only minutes away.

“We go to the tunnel under the old bridge,” Mutu decided. “Too dangerous to be in the open when the flash flood comes.”

They steered the boat into a dark, arched opening beneath a Victorian-era bridge. Inside, it was cool and smelled of damp earth and moss. As the rain began to hammer the city above—a sound like a thousand drums—Eddy noticed something.

On the walls of the tunnel, above the water line, were carvings. Not modern graffiti, but old markings.

“Uncle, look!”

Mutu shone his heavy flashlight. There were names and dates from the 1920s. There were Chinese characters, Jawi script, and English names.

“This was a landing point,” Mutu whispered, his voice echoing. “Before the roads were big, everything came by boat. Rice, tin, dreams. Your great-grandfather maybe stood right here. This river isn’t just water, boy. It’s a road made of memories.”

The Changing Tide

As the years of their friendship passed, Eddy saw the “Shadow of the City” grow. Massive concrete walls were built higher to stop the floods, hiding the river even more from the people. Green trees were replaced by “River of Life” blue lights and fountains.

“It looks pretty, Uncle,” Eddy said one evening, looking at the neon lights reflecting on the surface.

“Pretty is okay,” Mutu sighed, “but I miss the sound of the frogs. Now all I hear is the LRT and the cars. The city is winning, Eddy. Nature is just a decoration now.”

But that day, Eddy did something. He took out his sketchbook. He didn’t draw the skyscrapers or the shiny malls. He drew Uncle Mutu’s calloused hands. He drew the monitor lizard. He drew the hidden carvings in the tunnel.

“If I draw it, people won’t forget,” Eddy said.

Mutu patted his shoulder. “That is a good job, small boss. The city can build as high as it wants, but it can never bury the river. Not as long as someone is looking.”