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“Six students, two countries, one mission — and it all starts with a call.”

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“Six students, two countries, one mission — and it all starts with a call.”

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This morning, under the gentle sunlight,
we once again gathered around our now-familiar floral tablecloth,
and kicked off a cross-border online meeting.

Professor Eric Chen from Chung Yuan Christian University (Taiwan) joined us via screen,
to walk us through the phased goals, core tasks, and overall timeline of the Kenyalang Project.

But this meeting was more than just about confirming direction—
it felt like we were all collectively pressing the “start” button.

All six students were present, and Ms. Wong joined us throughout the session,
providing guidance, coordination, and helpful clarifications along the way.

By the end of the meeting, we had a clear understanding of each project phase,
and officially took on our first group challenge task.

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“This is where we stop watching, and start building — together”

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“This is where we stop watching, and start building — together”

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The afternoon sunlight streamed into the meeting room as we sat once again around the floral table that had long since become our “command center.”

After several rounds of discussion and self-nominations, we finally finalized the group divisions and election results:

Project Team
Leader: Chen Yi Fan
Deputy Leader: Kuo Hsuan Ting

Accommodation Team
Leader: Angelina Chai Lin Yin
Deputy Leader: Lai Yi Han

Finance Team
Leader: Lee En En
Deputy Leader: Liao Chi Hsiang

We spent quite a while at that table—not because no one was willing to take responsibility, but because everyone was genuinely considering where they wanted to dedicate their efforts, and how much they could take on. Some people stayed silent at first, others smiled and declined when nominated, yet eventually someone would quietly say, “Alright, if no one else will, I’ll do it.”

This election took more time than we had expected. But perhaps because of that, the final decisions were never made just to fill a slot. Instead, each role emerged from a gradual, deliberate process of self-reflection. It wasn’t merely a division of labor, but a shared moment of commitment—an unspoken “Yes, I’ve decided to take responsibility for this.”

The atmosphere during voting was calm, yet every ballot carried a trace of hesitation—and a great deal of trust.

In addition to the team structuring, we also confirmed several key points today:

1. Today’s schedule: Including the PPT production process, how we will divide data collection, and plans for upcoming field visits and filming.

2. Departure time for Taiwanese students: This gives us a clearer picture of how to arrange the schedule and work efficiently to complete this collaborative project within the limited timeframe.

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“We didn’t enter the community to design —we came first to listen to the voices of their everyday lives.”

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“We didn’t enter the community to design —we came first to listen to the voices of their everyday lives.”

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Today, we set aside our pens and sketchbooks,
and stepped into the heart of the community.
The sun was gentle, the breeze just right—
we began a quiet, meaningful dialogue between people and space.

We met:

👧 A little girl who looked up at us with bright eyes,
saying her dream was to learn English—
her gaze sparkled, as if she couldn’t wait to fly toward a better future.

👴 A man in his 70s, gazing into the crowd,
as if to say, “Growing old doesn’t mean waiting for the end—
it means living well. A chat with friends each day is the best nutrition.”

👟 A 92-year-old grandpa, lacing up his sneakers,
still running here every morning:
“Move your body, or the heart will rust.”

We passed families strolling under the evening sky,
walking toward their doorsteps of happiness;
young people who travelled far to seek hidden gems;
and kids running free after finishing their homework.

None of them spoke of architecture—
but through their stories, they showed us what it truly means to use a space.

We came with questions,
but left with gentle answers.

Today, we were not designers—
but listeners, observers, storytellers.

And through their voices, their footsteps, their quiet smiles—
our design began to take on a soul.

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The brightest part of the night market wasn’t the lights, but us.

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The brightest part of the night market wasn’t the lights, but us.

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On this day, we brought our friends from Taiwan straight to one of Kuching’s biggest annual events —
the Kuching Food Festival.

Crowds were packed, traffic was chaotic,
and what Google Maps promised would be a 10-minute drive…
turned into nearly an hour of inching our way into a sea of food lovers.

The air was thick with the scent of grilled smoke and coconut,
our ears filled with hawker calls, laughter, and the twang of a live band guitar.
Our eyes feasted on fried bananas, nasi lemak, Sarawak laksa, candied fruits… and yes, even fried insects (someone actually ate them!!).

We hopped from one stall to another—
this wasn’t a sit-down dinner with proper tablecloths or cutlery.
Instead, it was a sweaty, noisy, joy-filled dinner on foot,
seasoned with laughter and cultural exchange.

Every single bite of local food
was a living, edible record of cross-cultural co-living.

This wasn’t just a food festival—
it was an architectural internship for the stomach.

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Connecting the Dots｜Kenyalang, Still in Motion

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Connecting the Dots｜Kenyalang, Still in Motion

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We gathered around the same floral tablecloth,
opened our laptops, unfolded the maps,
and dove into rounds of integration and dialogue.

Each of us focused—organising data, exchanging thoughts, searching for references—
not just for the sake of a report,
but to piece together scattered observations into a cohesive portrait of Kenyalang.

This is the rhythm of collaboration,
the heartbeat of co-creation,
and the quiet proof that we are here.

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The sun was gentle today, and the breeze just right.
During a short break, we finally managed to take a long-overdue group photo at the pavilion outside Traffic Garden. Though not everyone was present, those of us here smiled effortlessly — a true reflection of this journey together.

This photo marks more than just a moment; it shows how we’ve settled into the rhythm, how we’ve grown closer, and how — even amidst all the busy tasks and duties — we still remember to pause and capture our shared story.

Some memories live only in our minds, but this one — we captured it.
A snapshot of our time here, and a gentle reminder that this journey was never walked alone.

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"We Encountered Real Life in the Early Morning"

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"We Encountered Real Life in the Early Morning"

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On this day, we stepped into one of the most grounded and warm-hearted places — the market.

The rhythm here is unique.
People begin preparing before the sun rises — pulling up stall shutters, arranging vegetables, grinding coffee beans.
By noon, the market quiets down.
Life here isn’t loud, but it follows a steady pattern: early rising, hard work, health, simplicity.

We interviewed vendors, chatted with neighbors, met curious children, and observed a skilled stall owner cooking.
One person enthusiastically introduced their Lei Cha;
another told us how their homemade pickles grew from a single jar into a full spread.
And then there was a little girl — wide-eyed, silent, quietly watching our “outsider” footsteps with quiet curiosity.

These smiles, voices, and gestures —
though not “architectural language” —
gently revealed something important to us:

True space users may not speak in design terms,
but their habits and daily rhythms are, in themselves, clues to how space is truly lived.

We didn’t leave with vegetables —
but we did leave with countless authentic details:
the very soul that breathes life into a space.

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"A Morning Scene in Motion: The Street of Mobile Veggie Trucks in Kenyalang"

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"A Morning Scene in Motion: The Street of Mobile Veggie Trucks in Kenyalang"

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Early in the morning, our group set out to witness one of Kenyalang’s most distinctive sights — the veggie trucks.

These trucks are more than just places to buy produce.
They are micro-hubs of daily life —
gathering spots where aunties and grandmas shop, chat, and catch up on neighborhood news.
Some of the drivers greeted us while arranging their goods, and one vendor even asked if we were there to "do research."

With the simple acts of opening truck doors and hanging up their scales,
these vendors quietly revealed the self-sufficiency and rhythm of everyday life in the Kenyalang community.

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"Stepping into a Corner of Green in the Community"

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"Stepping into a Corner of Green in the Community"

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Today, we visited the neighborhood garden cared for by Sister Zhihui.

This isn’t a tourist attraction, nor is it a “green space” marked out in some urban plan —
it’s a living landscape, lovingly cultivated by neighbors with shovels and hoes, one plant at a time. 🌿🥬🍅

Though small, the garden is filled with pomegranates, peppers, mulberries, sapodillas, lemongrass, kumquats, sand pears, pineapples...
As she showed us around, Auntie skillfully parted the leaves, pointing things out like she was introducing her own children.

What touched us most was how she specially picked fresh kumquats from her garden for the Taiwanese students in our group —
they made them into a drink, and with just one sip of that tart flavor, it felt like the Malaysian sunshine was healing them from the inside out — perfect for cooling off.

From this little corner, we learned: how to grow a life you love, in your own way.

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"This is our first time turning what we've seen and felt into the starting point of a proposal."

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"This is our first time turning what we've seen and felt into the starting point of a proposal."

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After several days of field research, interviews, community engagement, and late-night visits,
we officially held our proposal meeting this afternoon.

The meeting was organized collectively,
with everyone taking turns to share the design directions and entry points they had derived from their observations.
Some focused on the interaction between people and space, others emphasized the flexibility of mobile vendors,
and some proposed starting from concepts like “memory,” “care,” and “everyday rhythms.”

The papers on the table, the slides on the screen, and the sticky notes filled with ideas
all represent our efforts to piece together a coherent design framework from scattered information.

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"Witnessing the Moment the Market Wakes Up"

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"Witnessing the Moment the Market Wakes Up"

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During our last interview, we learned that local market vendors begin their day as early as 3 a.m.,
getting everything ready for the day ahead.
So we set our alarms, and at 3:30 a.m., we set out — a little drowsy, but full of respect.

The night hadn’t fully withdrawn; the streets were empty.
A breeze swept through the alleyways, and all we could hear
were the sounds of motorcycle engines and our own footsteps...
It was a little cold — and just a little bit... eerie.

But the moment we stepped into the market,
we were met with bright lights, neatly stacked produce,
and stall owners already deep into their routines — unloading, sorting, preparing.

Their day begins in the dark.
And through this early morning departure,
we finally caught a glimpse of the city’s earliest stirring.

At 4 a.m., Kenyalang belongs neither to the night nor to the morning —
but to those who persist in living.

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While the city was still asleep,
we split into two teams and made our way through the market —
the air still damp, the lights half-dim —
to carry out a sketch of humanity more vivid than we had imagined:
an “architectural” study beyond buildings, focused on people.

The two sisters who started their day at 1 a.m.
As they arranged their vegetable stall, they laughed and said,
"This is our everyday life — we’re used to it!"
Their voices were lighthearted, though their tired eyes said otherwise.

The couple selling pastries — mid-argument
We approached just as they finished an argument.
They looked at each other like they’d never speak again,
but when we got close, they leaned in together to answer our questions.

The auntie proudly promoting her craft
"I’m 80 years old. I’ve been doing this since my twenties. My skills supported my whole family — even sent my kids to university!"
Her pride was written all over her face —
what we felt was the quiet dignity of a craftswoman.

Space isn’t just about dimensions and materials —
it’s where lives intersect and stories unfold.

Each of them is a shining dot on the Kenyalang Story Map.

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“She doesn’t have a license for her stall — but she has love, stories, and a living history of the city.”

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“She doesn’t have a license for her stall — but she has love, stories, and a living history of the city.”

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At a corner of the market, we met a grandmother in her nineties.
She was dressed simply, spoke softly, but every word she said felt like a chapter from the past.

She told us she once worked for a British company when she was young.
It was an era of large families — she had to help raise 11 siblings in poverty.
But through hard work, she managed to hold onto something valuable: the art of making tea.

Now retired, she isn't wealthy, and she doesn’t have a business license —
but she still does what she can to help those who are struggling even more.

She whispered to us,
"That aunty who sells pineapples — her situation is very hard. And the police patrol near there… if you need to hide, take this alley over here…”
As she spoke, her eyes lit up — as if she were guarding something precious.

It wasn’t illegal — it was empathy.
A quiet kind of resistance, coming from a woman who has spent a lifetime watching over the city’s forgotten corners.

She said:

“I know many people — they’re not bad. Life is just too hard.”

We listened and took notes — not just to design a “space,”
but to make room in this city for understanding, dignity, and memory.

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After wrapping up our pre-dawn interviews, we returned to Hornbill House with breakfast bought from the market.
Warm rice dumplings, fried noodles, and traditional pastries — bite after bite, they felt like a reward for staying up all night.
Once we were full, we all instinctively took a nap.

It was our first time waking up so early, our first time heading out at dawn,
and our first time truly immersing ourselves in the rhythm of local life.

In the afternoon, we gathered around a table, starting to piece together our morning observations and individual reflections into emerging research directions.
Through words, photos, and recordings, a clearer picture gradually took shape.

In the evening, we went to a nearby laundromat to do our laundry —
a simple act of daily life, yet part of the rhythm of co-living.

Today, there were no fancy drawings —
just real exhaustion, real sharing, and a small sense of accomplishment.

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As the project officially enters its execution phase, we’ve come to realize:
the creation of a space relies not only on drawings and blueprints, but even more on coordination and division of responsibilities among team members.

Today, we completed our team’s task allocation.
This isn’t just a checklist of “who does what” — it’s a reflection of the trust we place in one another, and our shared commitment to this project.
Here are the roles of each member:

Chen Yi Fan
As the core coordinator, Yi Fan leads group discussions, integrates diverse perspectives, communicates proactively with mentors, and manages the overall project schedule.

Liao Chi Hsiang
Chi Hsiang assists with financial matters and is responsible for creating and maintaining the team’s Instagram account — sharing our progress and stories with the public.

Kuo Hsung Ting
As the meeting recorder, Hsung Ting carefully documents discussions and decisions, ensuring every meeting is traceable and accountable.

Lai Yi Han
Yi Han serves as both a documentarian of the design process and a dormitory assistant. She is responsible for photography and videography, as well as helping with daily documentation.

Angelina Chai Lin Yin
Angelina is primarily in charge of dormitory management — organizing cleaning duties — and also takes on video editing and visual storytelling.

Lee En En
As the finance lead, En En keeps a detailed record of the budget and expenditures, and writes daily team journals to capture the narrative of our journey in words.

This task list is like an invisible blueprint.
In the days to come, we’ll follow it to build not only our Kenyalang Project,
but also an unforgettable journey of collaboration.

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"This isn’t a report — it’s Kenyalang through our eyes."

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"This isn’t a report — it’s Kenyalang through our eyes."

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That evening, we gathered once again around the familiar floral table for our very first presentation of the Kenyalang project.

Though it was just a preliminary sharing,
each of us came with our own lens of observation and unique framework of thinking —
attempting to interpret Kenyalang through various dimensions:
community, culture, space, emotion, interaction, materiality… and more.

Some spoke about architectural logic, others focused on users’ daily routines.
Some began with the spirit of place, while others explored the flow of people, ecology, scents, or memory.
Like the densely packed notes and split screens on this slide,
every page of the presentation carried a seed of thought — quietly planted into the soil of this design journey.

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Kenyalang Night Battle Log｜“Presentation’s done — now I need food!”

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Kenyalang Night Battle Log｜“Presentation’s done — now I need food!”

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The presentation was over. Our minds were blank — and so were our stomachs.
Someone closed the shared screen and immediately reached for the Ceylonese cheese naan on the table:
"Sorry, I haven’t even had dinner yet..."

And they weren’t kidding.
We had spent the entire evening glued to our laptops — drawing, writing, formatting, rehearsing.
Even when food arrived, we just nodded in thanks and kept pushing through.

At that moment, that piece of naan wasn’t just dinner —
it was comfort after the grind, the lifeline of designers working deep into the night.
The table was a mess, but buried in the chaos were the traces of our effort.

There was no ceremony to that meal,
but there was a deep, shared sense of satisfaction.

This is the designer’s version of romance — finishing the report and still getting to eat warm naan.

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"The Way We Sit at the Table Sets the Rhythm on Site."

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"The Way We Sit at the Table Sets the Rhythm on Site."

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At noon, Mike invited us to have lunch together at Sam Sien Temple.

Perhaps noticing the fatigue we’d accumulated over the past few days under the sun,
he thoughtfully arranged two cars to take us there — saying he didn’t want us to get heatstroke or be too worn out from walking.

After lunch, we gathered around the long table in the temple for a relaxed yet important team coordination meeting.

Key discussion points of the day:

1. Group Photo Arrangement
The teachers suggested that the students first organize and take a group photo on their own.
If the teachers are unable to be present later on, they can be added into the photo digitally if needed.

2. Preparation for Phase 1 Presentation
Tomorrow is the presentation day for our Phase 1 outcomes.
Students should confirm the exact time with Eric and remember to send out a Google Meet link, so that Teacher Huang and the temple team can join the session online.

3. Task Assignment List
We have made initial arrangements for various tasks.
Chen Evon is requested to work with the subgroup members to compile a list clarifying the responsible person for each task.
The teachers are also happy to help review and fine-tune the list if needed.

4. Accommodation Team Progress Update
Curtain measurements have been completed — are there any follow-up actions required?
Accommodation team members are asked to provide updates and related details.

5. Communication Protocol for Weekdays
From Monday to Friday, due to other commitments, Mike and the teachers won’t be stationed at the Traffic Garden.
If anything comes up, please leave a message in the group chat as the first step.
In urgent cases, you may contact the teachers directly by phone.

Chatting about schedules and coordination over lunch felt a bit like a “family meeting.”
In that moment, we realized:
Beyond architectural design, what we’re truly learning together are communication, coordination, and a shared sense of responsibility.

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"Gathering · Gentle Connections Beyond the Project"

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"Gathering · Gentle Connections Beyond the Project"

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After lunch, we visited Min’s home for a quiet, comfortable indoor gathering — one that felt relaxed, yet still held a sense of purpose.

We began by relaying the key points from the lunch meeting to classmates who weren’t able to attend,
ensuring that everyone remained in sync, both in rhythm and in information.

Gradually, the atmosphere softened.
We sat on the wooden floor — some hugging pillows, others leaning against the sofa —
and it felt more like a casual conversation among friends.

What made today even more special was meeting other Taiwanese students who are also interning in Kuching!
We came from different schools and different projects, but in this moment, we connected naturally through architecture and shared experiences.

We exchanged stories about our living situations, internship setups, and daily routines —
bridging the gap between school and reality,
extending our conversations from drawings into everyday life.
And it all unfolded quietly in this cozy little living room.

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That evening, Min’s home was filled with warmth and lively energy.
The Taiwanese interns staying with him took the initiative to help in the kitchen, working alongside Min to prepare a hearty meal.

On the table: fragrant lasagna, comforting tomato scrambled eggs, and a refreshing cucumber soup —
each dish infused with care, connection, and the simple joy of sharing life.

As we ate, we laughed and chatted about the food from our respective hometowns,
and even the more reserved among us began to open up.

The biggest surprise?
After the meal, we were treated to homemade boba winter melon tea, lovingly prepared by the Taiwanese students.
One sip — sweet, cooling, and full of kindness —
it felt like the taste of home, and the warmth of people brought together.

That night, we weren’t just eating food —
we were sharing heart and hospitality from different places.
The sounds from the kitchen and the laughter around the table —
this was the truest form of cultural exchange.

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"Gathering Around a Table — Not Just to Design a Building, but to Begin Building a Way of Life."

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"Gathering Around a Table — Not Just to Design a Building, but to Begin Building a Way of Life."

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We arrived from different cities and countries,
dragging our luggage into this little house — a bit nervous, but full of curiosity.
And around a round table covered in a floral tablecloth, we sat down together for the first time.

We came from two universities, two nations,
but in this moment, we shared one identity:
co-builders of the Kenyalang Project.

On the table were notebooks, water bottles, sticky notes, and snacks of all kinds;
under the table, the light tapping of unfamiliar feet, still getting used to each other’s presence.
We exchanged names, exchanged smiles, and exchanged hopes —
for the month of living ahead, and for a project not yet born.

Some were taking notes intently,
some quietly observing the site,
and some were still trying to remember the name of the person sitting across from them.
But we all knew: this strangeness was just the beginning —
connection was already starting to take root.

That evening, there were no blueprints,
no finalized design direction —
just a group of people sharing stories around a table.

From this moment on, this place is no longer just a dorm —
it is the starting point of what we now call Hornbill House.

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"We Didn’t Just Move Into a Dorm — We Were Entrusted With the Responsibility of a Space."

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"We Didn’t Just Move Into a Dorm — We Were Entrusted With the Responsibility of a Space."

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The evening breeze still carried a trace of heat as we stood in front of the dormitory,
welcoming a handover ceremony that held far more meaning than it appeared.

In this moment, we were not just students, designers, or visitors —
we became the guardians of this space for the month ahead.

An official sent by the mayor came in person to inspect the site, offering us a warm welcome along with a few words of guidance.
The security uncle joined us for a group photo, his quiet but steady smile seemed to say, “You’re safe here — I’ve got your back.”

Workers in reflective vests stood nearby — not just laborers, but future partners in our shared dream.
Our teachers stood beside us, watching as if passing a torch,
marking the formal beginning of this cross-cultural journey of co-living and co-creating.

We weren’t just handed a key — we were handed a responsibility.
Tonight, we didn’t simply move in — we took up residence.
From this moment on, this building becomes our Kenyalang Nest.

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"We Didn't Talk About Drawings at the Table — But We Mapped Out a New Web of Connections."

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"We Didn't Talk About Drawings at the Table — But We Mapped Out a New Web of Connections."

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As night fell and the first day of handovers and introductions came to a close,
we finally welcomed our first shared meal of the journey.
Blue plastic tablecloths, red chairs, the clatter of pots and chopsticks from the kitchen —
even before we ordered, the atmosphere was already buzzing.

As we listened to Mike share stories about the local culture,
we began to pick up on each other’s sense of humor.

This wasn’t just a regular dinner —
it was our very first encounter across borders and campuses.
Here, we were no longer just students,
but teammates about to live together, design together, and sweat through the work ahead — together.

From this meal on, our Kenyalang journey truly took off.

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"We’re Not Just Shopping — We’re Stocking Up for a One-Month Survival Game."

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"We’re Not Just Shopping — We’re Stocking Up for a One-Month Survival Game."

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After dinner, under the guidance of our teachers and Mike,
our group marched into a nearby supermarket.
At first glance, it seemed like an ordinary grocery run —
but quietly, it marked the beginning of our shared living experience.

We stood in front of the refrigerated drinks for ages,
not debating what to drink, but asking, “How many days can this last us?”

It was our first time making decisions together for a shared space.
We weren’t completely familiar with each other yet,
but we were already deciding whether to buy that family-size tube of toothpaste.

We weren’t just shoppers weaving through the aisles —
we were a temporary family of six architecture students,
preparing for the month ahead.

Our project may have started on paper,
but our daily life began here —
with soap, drinks, and bag after bag of essentials,
slowly filling Hornbill House with the rhythm of shared living.