1

2 3
Contents
From the Oldest Recorded Town in Britain . to the Jungle
Love and Marriage
Khalwat
KL
Skin Tax
Black is Black
The Fasting Month
OI Comics
Escape Irom Bukit Antarabangsa
Our House is a Very, Very, Very Nice House
Another World
A Sheer Joy and an Absolute Disaster
Not the Garden oI Eden
All That Slithers is Not Gold.
Yes, We Have No Bananas
Still Standing
Dogs
Lake Land
Kampar
Garbing the Gazebo
In-val-id Inva-lid!
Chicken Instead
R & R with bells on!
Shhhhhh.... I`m Thinking
Tioman without a Tiger
Pardon
The Beach
Ants In Your Pants
Books
Not Lost
Happy New Year`s
I`m Beginning to See the Light .
The Flying Cycling Dutchman
Fond(ish) Farewell
A Very Mynah AIIair
Kampong Director
The Empire Struck Back
Heaven and Hell
Lack oI Cable
Papan
Let The Train Give You Strain
City Attacks Man
Memories, Dreams and Refections
Lyrical Language
Sungai Jahang
Jack
Craving Marmite
Cinema in Paradiso?
Snake
Hijacking Heritage
Cats and Ladders
My Malaysian Christmas
You must be . Jogging!
A Cutting Tale
Dripping Irom the Keg oI Time
The Storm
OI Tender Shoots and Curry
4 5
One Flu Over
Dissing the ditch
Oils Well That Ends Well
Emphatically Not Peer Gynt
Visa Vie
Yellow Poet
OI Trysts and Spying
The World Turns
The World`s Most Cantankerous Rabbit
Sunday?
Re-Tyred
Buttery Summer
I Was a Spa Virgin
The Cows oI Reason
Green Anticipation
Ikan Bakar or Chicken Satay
Strawberry Fields but Not Ior Ever
Bravo
A Matter oI Faith
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ABOUT MONSOON BOOKS
COPYRIGHT
To Pei Yeou Khor (Honey)
who saved me in the nick of time
6 7
From the Oldest Recorded Town in
Britain . to the Jungle
Malaya is a country in which strange things abound
(Philip C. Coote, The Malav States)
The sun shone. Birds twittered outside my studio window. In the distance
a cockerel woke and remembered that it must crow.
Opposite, at the mining pool, wading birds and waterIowl descended
upon plentiIul fsh. Early morning fshermen rode, stopped, unloaded their
nets, rods and fshing paraphernalia. Those fshermen would fsh until the
sun became too hot, then they would travel back home to wives, children,
cats.
That is where I lived in rural Malaysia gradually getting moist in
areas that I would, by choice, probably not have wanted moist, watching
the breadIruit grow and water buIIalo eat my mango shoots.
I had seen jungle-clad Malaysia back in 1981, aIter my frst
international fight. I became instantly attached to sleek coconut palm trees
catching the morning sun as a braking 747 screeched to land on Penang
Island. I was enamoured oI the way travellers enter Malaysia and instantly
become Ireshly baked bread hot and risen to the occasion.
That Malaysian green instantly imbedded itselI in my somewhat
aging memory. OI course, all that lush green was because oI the rain. But
it was not the chilled-to-the-bone, can`t-shake-this-ruddy-cold-oII English
rain, but temperate, warm rain. The sort oI rain that encourages children to
run around in the street naked laughing, dancing and singing.
Converts are interesting people. Most of us, if vou
will pardon me for betraving the universal secret, have,
at some time or other, discovered in ourselves a readiness
to strav far, ever so far, on the wrong road
(Joseph Conrad, Notes on Life and Letters)
8 9
The warm, nurturing rain makes Malaysia green. It Ieeds the lushness
oI the tropical rainIorests, gives water Ior the waterIalls and helps the
bountiIul Iruits to grow. It also helps cool oII over-heated English men
like me. My initial six weeks in Malaysia were memorable. So memorable
that, twenty-Iour years later, I Iound myselI, aIter a sojourn in India, back
in the land oI chip butties, battered fsh and curious sausages made Irom
pig`s blood, making a hasty exit towards the increasingly sunnier climes
oI jungle-clad Malaysia.
In 2004, with a small tear in my eye and a large grin on my lips, I
bade a Iond Iarewell to the mist layered villages oI WormingIord, Little
Baddow and Little Henry. I headed, post haste, Ior the mysterious callings
oI Tualang Sekar, Membang di Awam and Batu Gajah. And, oI course,
there was a woman.
One sweet sunny day, sitting in Ampang near the centre oI Kuala
Lumpur city I was attempting to look all James Bond nonchalant while
simultaneously leaking like a Chinese colander. I raised one eyebrow and,
sipping chilled coconut water, pretended that I was imbibing something
shaken and not stirred. It was about then, while I was practically satiated
with rich Malaysian goodness, that I looked up and saw the angel who had
obviously been sent Irom Heaven to save me Irom myselI.
I gawped. I became more conIused than usual. Was that the sun, or did
this vision have a halo around her head? I was agog, enraptured, captivated
by this woman. She was to change the rest oI my liIe as they say in all
those slushy novels. She was Malay. I looked into her big, brown, eyes and
saw a better me refected therein it was lust at frst sight.
It truly was a case oI condom girl meets cartouche boy a romance
in plastics. We may have been halI a world apart, but we had both smelled
the musty smell oI a Iull hopper, watched that magical transIormation as
molten plastic takes shape Ior her it was condoms, and Ior me Avon
cartouches and NescaIe lids. It was a transIorming experience.
There was the usual cautious courtship period coupled with a
generalised anxiety about what to wear or what not to wear, what to say or
what not to say, which seems to accompany most new relationships. We
were getting to know each other, sizing each other up. I was trying hard
not to make a complete prat oI myselI. It was a time in which many things
were to change bed linen, clothes, minds engendering yet more change
Ior the Iuture.
10 11
Love and Marriage
One side has the currv, the other side has the spoon
Malay proverb
Evervone has the right to freedom of thought, conscience and religion, this
right includes freedom to change his religion or belief, and freedom, either
alone or in communitv with others and in public or private, to manifest his
religion or belief in teaching, practice, worship and observance
The Universal Declaration oI Human Rights, Article 18
Romance blossomed and I very quickly discovered that marrying a Malay
woman in Malaysia was not quite that straightIorward. Apart Irom fnding
the right` woman, I was a virgin in Malaysia paperwork, and the ensuing
bureaucratic systems too.
With the usual courtship meeting Ior meals, billing and cooing,
becoming enraptured in the sheer enchantment oI love` there was the
natural expectation that our relationship would move on to the next level.
Even in my innocence or was that ignorance I knew that to marry
a Muslim woman, a non-Muslim man must to convert to Islam. Certainly
in Malaysia, Muslim women are not permitted to marry outside oI their
religion.
In Malaysia there are no means by which a Muslim woman may
marry a non-Muslim man under Malaysian civil law. It also Iollows that,
in Malaysia, Muslims who marry or cohabit with non Muslims run the risk
oI oIIence under State Syariah criminal law, which prohibits Iornication
(:ina) and close proximity (khalwat).
Faced with the dilemma oI carrying on a relationship with my Muslim
woman surreptitiously, illegally and/or immorally, or doing the decent
thing converting to Islam and getting married the choice was simple.
I`ll convert to Islam then,` I said, with metaphorical fngers crossed behind
an imaginary back.
It all seemed so straight Iorward. All I had to do was memorise the
Islamic Shahada waashadu an l ilha ill-llh, wa ashadu anna
muammadan raslu-llh a vow stating an ahem honest wish to
convert to the Islamic Iaith, that god is in Iact God and that Muhammad was
his fnal messenger and that, as they say, was that. The easy-to-rehearse but
seemingly diIfcult-to-say vow was undertaken in Iront oI the appropriate
witnesses at PERKIM (Pertubuhan Kebajikan Islam Malaysia). That is
the Muslim welIare organisation lying ensconced in Kuala Lumpur. The
ceremony was oIfciated by an usta: (religious teacher) and I became a
Muslim it seems that crossed fngers don`t actually count.
I sat in that oIfce, on the Iourth foor oI the Islam religious oIfce
(PERKIM), in Kuala Lumpur. My underarm sweat was beginning to stain
my Ireshly ironed shirt as, nervously, I stuttered. I hadn`t stuttered Ior a
long time, not since I was about thirteen but, nevertheless, I stuttered.
I looked to my fance Ior her smile in support and had to recite that
sentence, in Arabic, Ior a second time. Nerves were threatening to clamp
my throat shut. It was a simple thing, really, and it was not as though I had
a Shakespearian soliloquy to recite, nor halI-hour monologue to perIorm,
but as easy as it was it was diIfcult.
The strange thing was that I had been word-perIect the night beIore.
Even my recitation at breakIast was good, yet Iaced with the bearded
representative Irom PERKIM, and despite having two Iriends as witnesses
and my Iuture wiIe Ior support I was still nervous.
Despite growing nerves, stumbling and stuttering, I did recite the
Shahadah, but only in barely passable Arabic, so I then had to Iollow that
by reciting it again, in English. I was told, Please collect your card later.`
Card? What card?
Malaysia loves cards. Cards are an obvious sign oI identity, position,
12 13
race, religion and status hence the IC (identity card). There is a need Ior
the IC to be quoted in practically all transactions, because identity theIt is
riIe in Malaysia or so my British bank kept inIorming me all the years
I lived there. Those oI us (Ioreigners) in Malaysia, who do not have our
religion stated on our IC, but carry passports instead, needed to have an
oIfcial card to announce to oIfcials that we are indeed Muslim. It is
somewhat like a Muslim store card I suppose aIter seven years I still
hadn`t collected mine, and thereIore couldn`t claim my soIt toy or plastic
water bottle.
All rosy cheeked and Ireshly converted, I was then Iree to marry the
Muslim Iemale oI my choice, provided, oI course, that she was Iree to
marry and then only aIter a period oI celibacy as sex beIore marriage is
a big Malaysian Muslim no-no.
Technically that`s it. Easy, right? Wrong.
Converting to Islam and contemplating marriage was an unbelievably
diIfcult process to undertake. It involved weighing up my liIe, considering
the benefts and disadvantages oI continuing much the same, or to embrace
change and all that it might imply.
Giving up alcohol was not so diIfcult, or so I thought. I didn`t drink
that much, not then, not really. The days oI zigzagging across northern
roads, heading drunkenly toward a house door in Mill Bank, HaliIax, which
seemed to sidestep on my approach, were long since over. Gone too were
the cider days, not with Rosie but with mates at the New Market Tavern,
climbing hills to reach The Wagon and Horses to drink my pocket`s worth
oI tequila salt and lime optional.
Pork, well I didn`t eat that much pork just Sweet and Sour
occasionally, and Dim Sum. I couldn`t Iorget Dim Sum I did, I Iorgot the
Dim Sum: har kow, siew mai and oI course char siu pao. I went through
the checklist oI what I then understood it meant to become a Muslim, only
I didn`t have a clue and had also Iorgotten bacon sarnies (sandwiches).
Somewhere, at the back oI my naive mind, I had also Iorgotten my
love Ior roast pork with crispy, crunchy crackling and accompanying apple
sauce. There were also those nice Iruit-favoured wines peach wine,
raspberry wine and those slightly sweet, chilled rose wines that I had
grown to love over a dinner or three. What was halal or haram anyway? I
simply didn`t have a clue. It was not going to be as easy as I had thought.
In the lead up to my sojourn in Malaysia, and my eventual conversion
(some say reversion) to Islam, my religious position had shiIted Irom
being born a Protestant Christian, singing (badly) in the church choir and
ringing church bells, to fnally becoming an agnostic. Agnosticism lasted
nanoseconds and I became vaguely Buddhist, and then graduated to not
knowing where I stood on religious matters. I had respected other people`s
religions, my Iuture wiIe`s especially, and it was with that belieI that I
fnally agreed to perIorm the acceptance ceremony and embrace` Islam.
Technically, aIter conversion to Islam, I was Iree to marry the woman
oI my dreams, she oI my heart`s desire. The reality oI such an endeavour is
not always that cut and dried, as we Iound out there were Iorms.
There were Iorms. There were Iorms about Iorms. There were Iorms
about those Iorms. In Iact there were so many Iorms and places to visit
to get those Iorms, and other Iorms that we needed to get beIore those
Iorms that we so desperately needed, and people to inIorm about those
desperately needed Iorms that, at times, we almost gave up and settled Ior
a liIe oI sin and criminality.
My Iuture wiIe and I were told, amidst our excitement at spending
the rest oI our lives together, that we had to register our intent to marry. It
is the same in most places Blighty included. We duly collected the Iorm
Irom the local registry, no problem there. We flled in said Iorm in Malay
oI course, so I needed some guidance. We were happy, practically skipping
across the punishingly hot car park to return the Iorm Irom whence it came
only slightly the worse Ior wear due to a collapsing coIIee cup, wayward
cats and a crashing thunderstorm or two.
And the other Iorm .` That part-sentence was leIt smelling in the air
like a Yarmouth kipper, or Turkish wrestler`s jockstrap which according
to one Roy Harper was not the ideal item to whiII on a sunny day KL
was Iull oI sunny days, though I not too sure about Turkish wrestlers or
their jockstraps.
14 15
Other Iorm` it was both an exclamation and a question. A whole
host oI colloquial Malay bantered back and Iorth but went over my head
well not so much over but through it. My (hopeIully) Iuture wiIe cajoled
and pleaded with the seemingly intransigent registry clerk. During this
exchange I idly wondered what the Malay Ior WTF` was. Or maybe I had
heard it, just then, at the beginning oI my (Iuture) wiIe`s dialogue.
AIter the completion oI said banter, we were eventually handed a
second Iorm. It was a Iorm that we should have had to start with, but did
not ask Ior. We could not ask Ior the second Iorm because we did not know
oI its existence, but nevertheless, needed to ask Ior it. Joseph Heller`s
inIamous book came to mind.
That was but the start oI our travails.
My prospective wiIe and I were living separately. The diligent but less
-than-communicative registry clerk discovered that, despite being less halI
a mile apart, my Iuture wiIe and I were living in diIIerent Malaysian states.
I was, by this time, getting into a bit oI a state myselI. My wiIe-to-be, it
seemed, was living down the road in Selangor while I, ever awkward, had
the privilege oI living within the bounds oI Kuala Lumpur herselI. Not a
problem you would have thought, and thought so wrongly again.
More Iorms. New Iorms Irom a diIIerent registry, more Iorms about
those Iorms it was getting ridiculous.
One vital Iorm demanded that, as a Ioreigner attempting the nigh
on impossible task oI marrying a Malay woman, I must get permission
Irom my government to marry the woman whom I had chosen, seemingly
Irivolously, to be my wiIe.
It was another WTF` moment. Not wanting to be diIfcult and really,
desperately, attempting to understand the local culture, I toddled along
with my (possible) Iuture wiIe, to gain said permission to marry Irom the
British High Commission in Kuala Lumpur.
The twelve-year-old boy at the counter and when you become
middle-aged most oIfcials seem to be twelve years old eventually picked
himselI up Irom the foor where he was rolling in laughter and said, We
don`t issue letters oI permission Ior you to marry. But I can issue you with
a letter which says that we don`t issue letters Ior permission to marry` Ior
which we had to pay RM256. Was he too young to remember The Goon
Show`, or John Cleese`s Monty Python`?
Back we went to the frst registrar, and duly handed over our Iorms.
We went to the second registrar and repeated the process with yet another
clerk. There were more problems where was the signature Irom my
wiIe`s Iather, giving her permission to marry?
Hold on. Like me, my Iuture wiIe had slipped by her frst blush oI
youth. She was also, again like me, no stranger to wedlock. Granted`, said
the clerks oI both registry oIfces yes we can see that, and understand
we can also see the divorce papers`. But the marriage could not, and
would not, be registered without my Iuture wiIe`s Iather`s permission, or
another person oIfcially taking the place oI her Iather at the wedding,
giving permission in place oI my Iuture wiIe`s Iather stamped and sealed
more Iorms and hello Franz KaIka or Arlo Guthrie.
At this point I was contemplating learning Malay just so I could
swear at these and other jobsworth petty oIfcials I didn`t, and still
haven`t properly learned Malay, on principle.
Finally, Imam (Muslim priest`) seen, Iorms collected, inspected,
stamped, a Iew lines oI Malay learned because I had to ask Ior my bride
in Malay and (desperately trying to get the tune to Alice`s Restaurant`
out oI my head) fnally we were able to perIorm our modest wedding
ceremony. That was in our chosen little blue and white rustically wooden
mosque on the outskirts oI Kuala Lumpur. All I then had to do was pay
RM40 Ior my wiIe she was, oI course, halI-price, being a divorcee.
Joy upon joy, we were given a temporary marriage certifcate just
to tide us over, legally, until the actual marriage certifcate turned up.
The temporary marriage certifcate was just in case` just in case we
were disturbed at 3 a.m., some humid morning by the constantly vigilant
religious department police, who specialise in such matters, demanding
that we prove our marital status. It`s called khalwat the enjoyment oI a
natural act, in private, between two consenting Muslim adults but not
married, at least not to each other, and it`s a sin, apparently. It is thereIore
16 17
against Malaysian Muslim law.
Khalwat
And speaking oI khalwat, which admittedly we were not, however this is
something to bear in mind .
It was a customarily warm night with just a hint oI air-conditioning. I
was somewhere between counting sheep, sawing logs and chasing nubile
nymphets. It was then that the telephone rang. As the noise oI the telephone
permeated my rousing brain, my instant reaction was to turn over and go
back to sleep my wiIe, having a greater sense oI responsibility, had other
ideas.
The insistent phone rang yet again. My wiIe, guarding herselI against
the air-con, answered, listened. She dressed and hastened away mumbling
something about relatives, and what I thought was Calcutta. She drove
out and disappeared until later that morning. It wasn`t until I had awoken
properly, wiped the sleep Irom my eyes that I discovered a note inIorming
me that it wasn`t Calcutta that I`d heard but khalwat`. I was none the
wiser, until the Iollowing story unIolded.
It was in the heat oI the equatorial night, in a small hotel, on the
outskirts oI the town oI Ipoh. There, where reception clerks ask no
questions and receive no lies, a young couple were doing what young
couples do naturally. They were in that hotel, away, they thought, Irom
prying eyes, going about their own business, enjoying each other`s
company, not realising that there were busybodies everywhere. There was
certainly one at the hotel.
Early in the morning it was still warm, but dark. While the couple`s
ardour was un-doused by the otherwise cooling Ian, the fimsy hotel
bedroom door burst open and standing there, in the doorway, were religious
18 19
oIfcers. It was the Malaysian Islamic religious oIfcers` proclaimed,
oIfcial, religious, business to see that others, such as the aIorementioned
young lovers, got up to no monkey business, no shenanigans and certainly
no jiggery-pokery in secluded places such as Ipoh hotel rooms.
The previously enthusiastically loving couple were seized and
escorted away by overzealous religious oIfcers, and accompanying police.
They were Irogmarched to the psychologically cool local police cells, and
there questioned under Malaysia`s khalwat law. All the salacious details oI
their night oI passion needed to be detailed, transcribed and recorded, no
detail leIt out.
Unbeknownst to many visitors, and Iorgotten by many locals too is
that Malaysia still has very strict laws governing the morality oI Muslims,
and sometimes those whom the authorities think are Muslims too. The
khalwat law is one such law. No two, or more, unmarried Muslims oI
opposing sexes may stay together in close proximity lest they are tempted
to enjoy each other`s company more than the law will permit. On 4

January
2010, BBC News reported that fIty-two Malaysian couples were arrested
in Selangor, Malaysia, Ior potentially coupling on New Year`s Day.
In previous years, the authority`s zeal to enIorce the Khalwat law has
spilled over to non-Muslims also. An American couple an ex-policeman
and his legitimate wiIe visitors to Langkawi Island, stayed in a rented
condominium in 2006 and came to be arrested at 2 a.m. one tepid morning,
under the Khalwat law. AIter the shock and embarrassment oI the incident,
they decided not to retire to Malaysia aIter all. She few back to America
on the frst available fight, while he stayed, repaired his yacht then sailed
on to Thailand.
Mr A and Miss B, both consenting adults and both relatives oI my
dear wiIe, encountered the very same archaic laws curtailing basic human
rights. It has to be said that, on release, said Malaysian couple, baIfed and
bewildered, then made matters much worse by listening to entirely the
wrong village people and absconded to Thailand. There they sought out
an imam, married, and had the marriage certifcate backdated to beIore the
Khalwat incident thus committing Iraud too. A fne ensued, a court case
with each having to attend separately, having to pay fnes and risk public
humiliation Ior the sake oI a night oI passion.
That morning, as I returned to sleep, my dear bleary-eyed wiIe had
to speed, post haste, to the lock-up, tying her headscarI as she went and
there, in those early hours oI the morning, to hear oI the lovers` crimes,
their shame and their embarrassment. My wiIe had to stand bail Ior both
hapless lovers.
Weeks later, my dearly troubled wiIe had also to accompany the
lovelorn miscreants to the police station and courts, vouchsaIe their
characters and arrange Ior the payment oI fnes incurred, literally, in
the heat oI the moment. Due to unnecessarily harsh laws, their shame
continues.
20 21
KL
Up-country there were some tin mines (worked mainly by Chinese) at wide
intervals along the Ioot hills oI the main range, but, at a place called Kuala
Lumpor, on the Klang River about seventy-fve miles Irom its mouth, was
a Chinese town, with two streets, and a considerable number oI shops and
houses, built oI adobe and thatched with palm leaves.
(F. A. Swettenham, British Malava)
In many respects, that multicultural metropolis Kuala Lumpur (KL),
where I was living and whose name means muddy river`, is just like a
myriad other cities overfowing with people, traIfc and shops. It too has
individuals uncertain oI their own sexuality/gender/sex, and taxi drivers
believing visitors to have a bottomless wallet. It is only the heat the
hallowed humid heat, the oppressive sun sweltering, sick-making heat
that makes Kuala Lumpur diIIerent in that respect Irom, say, London.
There is still glamour to Kuala Lumpur. It`s evident in a myriad oI
colours, the vibrancy oI its three main races Chinese, Indian and Malay
as they give the city its liIe, potency and history as well. Chinese and
Indian labour built Kuala Lumpur Irom a small tin town, centred on the
Ampang area, to the haphazard, sprawling city it has now become. In
the early days, the colonising British, and their peculiar love Ior Mughal
architecture, aided that city`s growth.
In the swelteringly damp city oI Kuala Lumpur, many colonial
buildings Iace down the sun and give shade to heat-ridden pedestrians
beneath their well-Iormed pseudo-Mughal arches. CareIully craIted brick
pushes up and carves majestic places in the city`s skyline, but increasingly
monstrous oIfce buildings and a newly made Art Brut architecture
overshadow these edifces oI structural design.
Sadly, in a city where little architecture is aged, many older buildings
have been savagely torn down to make way Ior the newer and quite
unremarkable rectangular structures. The hundred-year-old Kun Yam
Thong Buddhist temple disappeared in 2000; the luxuriant Eastern Hotel
(1915) believed to be Kuala Lumpur`s frst hotel and Chua Cheng Bok`s
Bok House (1929) are Iurther examples oI Malaysia`s wanton heritage
destruction. Kuala Lumpur is not alone in Malaysia`s blatant disregard Ior
antiquity. Prime buildings in Penang and Ipoh Iall into dereliction, or are
torn down and replaced with car parks.
In the place oI graceIul colonial buildings, Malaysia has raced with
the likes oI Dubai, Taiwan and China (and lost) to house the world`s tallest
buildings. Presently, Kuala Lumpur`s Petronas Twin towers rank fIth as
they raise themselves up on that city`s skyline like some elderly aunt`s
Iorgotten knitting needles.
In Kuala Lumpur, other architectural additions smack oI the modernity
that is painting the city with a shock oI the new. It is a conIused city, not
totally Eastern but not Western. Kuala Lumpur seems caught between
MTV, McDonald`s and Starbucks on the one hand and Iormer prime
minister Tun Dr. Mahathir bin Mohamad`s Look East` policy on the other.
Maybe Maggie Thatcher was right in her riposte to Mahathir: Prime
Minister, you may sometimes look East and sometimes may travel East,
iI you look Iar enough East and travel Iar enough East, you always come
to the West!`
I lasted a Iew years in Kuala Lumpur, languishing amidst the heat
and the traIfc Iumes, trying to discover the authenticity I knew was there,
but which seemed to lie just beyond my reach. I would drag my heat-
stricken body to and Irom the local light rail transit system (LRT), heading
Ior heritage buildings which had just been rendered to rubble. I gave up,
and began seeking out Bukit Bintang and the Sungai Wang/Bukit Bintang
Plaza instead.
In those older malls I would purchase less-than-legal DVDs oI flms
22 23
I only vaguely wanted to watch. I would scowl when they either did not
work, or were oI such poor quality that I would have been better oII just
giving my money away to one oI the many street beggars around KL`s
China Town. I was slow to learn my lessons. It was in those days beIore
anyone could download flms and TV programmes Iree Irom any number
oI equally non-legal websites. But it kept me busy.
Somewhere, at the back oI my still-very-Western mind was a nagging
thought: surely this isn`t all there is. I remembered Irom earlier visits that
there was a whole country out there somewhere jungles, Iorests, parks,
waterIalls. Surely, Kuala Lumpur was not the sum totality oI Malaysia. It
would be diIfcult to convince many KLites oI that but I was determined
to fnd out.
When I gathered enough courage, I began to drive. It was not as
daunting as I had frst thought. You throw your Highway Code out and
watch; learn how the locals behave and Iollow suit. The concept oI lanes,
queuing, signalling seemed to be as equally Ioreign as the concept oI
giving way. Though Malaysia was not quite as bad as India where it`s
every man Ior himselI and cows are king, but might is right` seemed to
exist as the Kuala Lumpur road mantra.
In Malaysia the bigger the vehicle, the more respect you get. I soon
Iound that motorcycles deserve little respect in the Malaysian mindset
they are but mechanised insects. Pedestrians have even less rights, on
Malaysian roads, than motorcyclists which is to say that they have none
whatsoever. Malaysian roads were designed Ior motorised vehicles not,
emphasise not, Ior people who cannot or will not protect themselves with
copious amounts oI metal and power.
My Irequent road diversions led me away Irom the main part oI
the city, and its one-way systems. I Irequently got lost and Iound myselI
literally miles Irom where I had expected to be. The plus side oI being lost
was that I discovered` completely new areas oI Kuala Lumpur.
Eventually, with the rusting penny slowly sinking in, I realised that all
roads lead not to Rome, but to Kuala Lumpur City Centre (KLCC). With
that realisation, getting lost was no longer a chore. I could saunter away
the day swimming along the one way system, traversing the highways
and byways and still, eventually, head back to Bukit Antarabangsa
(international hill) that small section oI Kuala Lumpur where I was then
laying my head.
I still relished days on Ioot.
I could park the Iamily car behind my wiIe`s college, bribe the toddy-
soaked Indian car-minder to let me have a space, and then driIt into one oI
the many Iascinating red light` districts.
Kuala Lumpur has many notorious areas, but none as notorious as
Chow Kit. Chow Kit was named aIter the wealthy Chinese tin entrepreneur
Loke Chow Kit. Yet the Chow Kit area had become Iamed Ior a certain
type oI purveyor oI the world`s oldest proIession the transgendered male.
I was never in Chow Kit in the evenings that is when the girls were
excitedly plying their trade. I contented myselI with watching the girls ease
out oI the night and into the (Ior them) early mornings 910 a.m.. Like
Ireshly awoken cats, they would stretch and yawn on their doorsteps as I
passed, barely able to purr a good morning`, but attempting to anyway, as
they light their frst Iags oI the day. I always waved a cheery wave to them
Irom the opposite side oI the road, no need to get the ladies hopes up so
early in their collective mornings.
When I did not drive in Kuala Lumpur, I would use the LRT or the
monorail Ior its air-con. I liked the way the rail system cut through the
traIfc build-ups and eased the parking problem. I soon Iound that many
places were accessible using the rail systems. I also noticed that there were
short walks where you could take to link one system with another. The
concept oI linking diIIerent rail systems together via networked tunnels
seems a little alien to Malaysia.
As new and as bright as they may be, and Iewer were newer or brighter
than the huge malls circling Kuala Lumpur, I had very little desire to go to
each mall more than once. For me there was only so much I could take oI
glitzy glary shop Ironts selling things I didn`t want, and would never need.
It was just as well. Many oI those malls were outside oI the LRT/
Monorail systems, only accessible via taxi or private vehicle. With my
24 25
sense oI direction, they were quite beyond me. One, a slightly older mall
the Mid-Valley Megamall, built in the same year as the Suria KLCC
(1999), was accessible via a train link (KLM) Irom KL Sentral, also via
bus link Irom Bangsar LRT station it proved to be the exception rather
than the rule.
Ultimately, there was only so much city-watching I could do. The
streets began to pall. Getting lost lost its charm and the delights oI the city
were leaving me not cold, Ior I was never cold but wishing that I could
see green, smell unpolluted air and hear less traIfc, see more nature.
Skin Tax
Perhaps Kuala Lumpur and Malaysia, is no diIIerent Irom other cities and
countries with regard to skin tax. Singled out because oI the colour oI my
skin was de rigueur. It was always with me right Irom the frst Iew taxi
journeys in KL to the constant haggling Ior Iruit in the rural area I had
believed to be my home.
It was a tax on white skin. II the locals could get away with it, Mat
Salleh/ Orang Puteh (white men) got to pay more Ior just about everything.
Taxi journeys ordinarily costing RM10, were proIIered at RM50 or
RM100, or indeed anything they believed that they could get away with.
Yes they are not alone there, London minicabs` might try the same, or
taxi wallahs` in Delhi, but it was a constant bother, especially when I was
in a hurry.
Over the years tourists, me included, had been complaining about the
KL taxis. Eventually the Malaysian government requested that taxis have
meters. Not surprisingly, they seemed to get broken on a regular basis.
Meters became fxed remarkably quickly especially when a passenger
took the taxi driver`s badge number, intent upon reporting the matter.
The taxis were relatively easy to deal with a simple no, Iollowed by
haggling would suIfce but it was the secret hoicks in the price oI Iruits,
etc., that seemed to cling to me like a decaying gecko. White skin and
maybe even black skin too, in Malaysia, automatically singled you out as a
target, a Ioreigner who obviously has money (like Arabs in London) and
so were considered Iair game.
Skin tax lingered everywhere. Even the government were in on it. On
entering national treasures like Kellie`s Castle, in Perak, or The Butterfy
26 27
Park in KL, there was one price Ior locals and one Ior tourists` and
tourists were anyone without a local Identity Card (IC). It did not matter
iI your spouse was locally born and bred, nor iI you had lived in Malaysia
Ior 2530 years, as some had, you still had to pay the tourist` price. I had
come across this dual price structure previously in India, and had reIused
to go into the Chennai Art Gallery Ior that very reason.
In many ways, the skin tax balanced out the obvious preIerential
treatment. To me, that was just as bad. Restaurant tables become
miraculously available because oI the colour oI your skin, bottles oI beer
appeared which was unIortunate because I never could stand beer. I got
invited to Iunctions, gallery openings, dinner dances and I don`t think that
it was due to my Iame, my good looks or my doubtIul winning personality.
Over time, I began to get the vague sense oI a quid pro quo, a
balancing out. Invitations, seemingly, were given with expectations, but the
expectations were not always transparent. Free tours were oIIered, with the
rider that articles were written. Invitations were presented in expectation oI
a good review, publicity, etc. The kowtowing days oI the Raj still echoed
through those Mughal arches, boomed through the plantations and rippled
on the mining pool lakes across Malaysia.
There was always going to be them and us. The term Malaysian,
supposedly inclusive oI all residents oI that country was, in reality, reserved
Ior Malays, Indians and Chinese. There was simply no provision Ior the
concept oI a white Malaysian`. Gaining permanent residency, which
in some countries is automatic aIter a spell oI fve or seven years, still
remained like the crock oI gold at the end oI the rainbow unattainable Ior
most. Unless, that is, you had contacts in the government and/or amongst
the royalty. Attaining Malaysian citizenship was rare, so many were
encouraged to sign up Ior the Malaysia My Second Home package.
M2SH was a nice little earner Ior the Malaysian government relying,
as it did, on Ioreigners (over 50) to place a deposit oI RM150, 000 (about
30,000 at the time oI writing) in a Malaysian bank. That amount was
returnable only when the depositor leIt the country Ior good. It was possible
to withdraw up to RM90,000 to purchase a property (between RM150,000
and RM350,000) or to pay Ior school Iees, but a balance oI RM60,000
must remain in the bank. In return, M2SH recipients stayed in Malaysia Ior
a period not exceeding ten years, not working, with the option on a Iurther
ten without the rights that citizenship would bring, i.e. voting.
28 29
Black is Black
Since stepping oII that long-haul twelve-hour fight at Kuala Lumpur
International Airport, I had tried, with some success, to avoid employment.
I worked, and worked hard too, but preIerred selI-employment.
There are moments in every man`s liIe when he is caught oII-guard. It
was in one oI those moments that I was dragged, kicking, and yes, perhaps
even screaming towards that sticky morass which is modern day wage-
slavery. BeIore Mr Robinson, Iorename Jack, knew what had transpired, I
was on my way to a dreaded job interview in Cyberjaya.
Let me explain Cyberjaya was a newly constructed city`, about
an hour outside Kuala Lumpur. Built as part oI the Malaysia Multimedia
Super Corridor`, to be a new InIormation Communication Technology
(ICT) city`, it was launched with very high hopes oI being the Malaysian
equivalent oI Silicon Valley, CaliIornia it was not.
Cyberjaya was a devil to reach iI you did not have a car. I had no car
oI my own. To get to Cyberjaya, sans private transport, and without paying
the astronomical sum oI RM90, each way, to a gold-hungry taxi driver I
had to travel by train, but trains did not go to Cyberjaya. I had to travel
by train to Putrajaya Malaysia`s new administrative capital a sort oI
Canberra, but in Malaysia.
From the station at Putrajaya I had no choice but to take a bus to
Cyberjaya. That was fne it said Cyberjaya on the Iront oI the bus. What
it did not say, was where in Cyberjaya the bus went. I assumed that the bus
would link all the main attractions and, perhaps, eventually double back to
Putrajaya rail station it did not.
With Ioresight, I asked the Indian bus driver iI the bus went anywhere
near my required stop. In a roundabout manner, in broken English and with
much gesticulating I gathered that the driver would let me know when we
were near my destination.
AIter halI an hour the bus stopped. I was the last to get out. The driver
beckoned Ior me to alight. I did. The bus sped oII. I looked around. There
was no brand new design university, only oIfce blocks, little else. No
shops even. It appeared desolate. For a while, I waited. Then I waited some
more. It was hot, humid and getting hotter I was not amused.
I waited, perhaps, another twenty minutes. I began to walk in the
direction the bus had taken. By that time I was Ieeling abandoned. No
other buses passed me, Iew cars either. I walked in the hot sun and Iound
another bus stop. I waited again. Eventually another bus came. It stopped.
I climbed aboard and asked once more Ior my destination. Yes`, said a
Malay driver, `We do stop near there`. With a laboured smile, I reached
my destination.
Given a choice, Iew people wanted to live in such a spread out city as
Cyberjaya miles Irom the country`s capital. Those who were Iorced to
live there, because oI their jobs, mostly inhabited Cyberjaya. Many wished
they were elsewhere. The Cyberjaya student population were constantly
in fux.
Despite huge trepidations and trepidations rarely got huger I treated
the whole job idea as an experience. I was caught on a moral treadmill.
Though Iar Irom satisIactory, that singular interview metamorphosed into
a lengthy series oI interviews, with me constantly traipsing back and Iorth,
out oI and back into KL. Had I but stopped Ior one second, I would have
realised that employment and I are polar opposites, not made Ior each
other like repelling magnets. However, like some gigantic human metal
fling, I was pulled Iurther and Iurther in to that prospective employer`s
mighty lodestone.
The atmosphere in my Iuture work establishment appeared, at frst
glance, a tad regimented. I shrugged the matter oII. A note was passed to
me. It was a request Ior me to wear black all black. I conIess to not taking
the note too seriously I was wrong to do so.
30 31
That establishment`s dress code was black, dread, dire Iuneral black;
and that should have been a warning to me. The more I encountered staII
and students, at that place oI work, the more I realised that all oI them were
under pressure to attempt to conIorm to that particular dress code with
greater, or lesser, degrees oI success.
I admit to having Ielt more than a little discomIorted.
It was a cultural thing. I had spent a large part oI my liIe living in a
post-war Britain recovering Irom a protracted war against Iascism. I was
brought up learning the extremes oI the English branch oI Iascism, and in
particular that oI Oswald Mosley leader oI the British blackshirts`.
Shirts oI an ebony or jet hue, when paired with similar coloured
trousers, resonate that uncomIortable air oI totalitarianism, even then
some decades Irom the excesses oI the Second World War and the
collective known as the British Union oI Fascists.
Upper management requested that all staII should attend a meeting in
that establishment`s university hall even I, only a prospective member
oI staII. It was with an uneasy mind that I entered into that darkened
gathering. That distinct unease which had been tickling my spine grew.
Eventually it grabbed me by the back oI the neck and pulled. I witnessed
the whole hall flled with people, and they were wearing nothing but black.
That Ieeling oI unease slapped me on the back oI the head like some
team leader in a popular US Navy crime show.
The tone oI the meeting was apprehensive waiting Ior the grand
leader to appear Mao Zedong Stalin il Duce. It bore all the hallmarks
oI other rallies, with people wearing a similar garb. Unkindly, I imagined
arms stretched out in the Roman salute, hailing some prospective emperor,
roars Irom the crowd at the rise oI the bermensch. The air-con was on,
but I began to sweat.
You may want to call it anxiety, but the more I looked around that
hall the less I wanted to be there. We was I already using the we` word?
were expectant, waiting Ior the Iounder to arrive, unable to move until
he appeared. We waited and we waited, then we waited some more. AIter
waiting Ior Iar too long, shiIting in our seats, turning round and seeing
a sea oI black looking back, we were temporarily dismissed. The grand
leader was late.
There was another wait. Then back into that large hall flled with
people wearing ominous black all black. It was not some Iar fung corner
oI the world rugby team black but uniIorm black. It was I was only
Iollowing orders` black. The black oI passing the buck until it eventually
stopped at a trial black, black as Iearsome night black, black as in dark
soul black.
There was yet more waiting: eventually we were inIormed that the
grand leader, emperor oI that establishment was not appearing aIter all.
Instead, we were to be subjected to one oI his generals praising the emperor
in over-blown, over-rated, and positively indecent terms. II it were Iunny
it would have been a Iarce it was not Iunny. In Iact, it was all too deadly
serious. They were all too deadly serious. AIter that event, I hurriedly leIt
that hall oI black.
It was the sight oI all those individuals behaving in dark unison which
sent me feeing, that coupled with one staII member openly weeping upon
my arm so relieved that her work load would soon be shiIted onto me.
Both incidents induced a great rebellion in me. I never went there again,
and rarely wear black anymore, despite it having previously been my
optimum colour Ior dress. I realise that black is not only Johnny Cash but
also Oswald Mosley, better not to be back in black, or to paint it black, but
to paint the town in a crimson hue or some other sunnier colour, ultimately
more conducive to liIe on the equator.
32 33
The Fasting Month
One oI the essential pillars oI Islam` is the Iast. I sat, the day beIore
Ramadan`s start, in my Iavourite south Indian restaurant, eagerly awaiting
my last Indian pancake (dosai), a small portion oI fsh curry (without the
fsh), sundry chutneys and a mug oI sweet Malaysian coIIee beIore me. It
was the last dosai I ate beIore the onset oI the Iasting month. During the
Iasting month, I would only be eating at home, aIter sunset and beIore
sunrise. It was both a joyous and melancholy moment.
Would I miss the crispness and soItness oI the dosai during Ramadan
we had to wait and see. There would, obviously, be a point at which
I would long Ior the Iasting to end so that I could return to having the
occasional dosai Ior breakIast in the morning Ior that, aIter all, is the
challenge oI Iasting resistance to temptation.
It was all conjecture. I was about to Iast. Fasting was my Iuture
dosai the Iuture beyond that. I had no idea how I would manage, other than
I would try, and we would see what happens.
Fasting would be a completely new experience Ior me. I savoured that
one dosai like it was the last meal ever. I enjoyed every drop. I wanted that
meal to last Iorever, to go on Ior a month at least, but it had to stop and
when that meal was over, there was a little sadness.
The great unknown stretched beIore me. An unknown oI Iasting by
day and permission to eat only during darkness it was most odd, not at all
what I had be used to in my little house in the old Roman town, in England.
But I had leapt into the unknown when I stepped oI that plane at KLIA,
and this was one oI the experiences that I opened myselI to, though in all
honesty could not have had readied myselI Ior.
Back then, back in that old English town, I had not known that I would
Iall in love with a Muslim woman, change my religion, take on a new frst
name, and start to prepare Ior my frst Iast.
I remembered doctors at the hospital, back in the UK, who looked
pale, wan, because oI Iasting all day. They Iasted nevertheless. I recalled a
thousand and one stories oI people Iasting and they all survived, so why
then shouldn`t I? I knew myselI like no other knew me. I knew that I was
ever ready to give in to temptation countless Iemale companions; pub
staII and cake-shop owners could attest to that.
Fasting was really, and I mean really, going to be a test oI my will
power second only to the time when I gave up smoking Ior the last, and
fnal, time. Giving up smoking leIt me going around stressed, angry, and
grumpy beIore the addiction wore oII I really hoped that Iasting wouldn`t
be like that. But I had to wait and see.
We watched the clock move swiItly on and then slept, but not beIore
I quelled a large number oI the doubts I was having about the whole
enterprise oI Iasting but, with my wiIe`s assurance, I eventually slept.
Wake up.`
Wake up.`
Darling, wake up.`
My wiIe`s soIt voice reached into my subconscious. It guided me
gently to wakeIulness.
It`s 4.45 a.m. darling time to get up and eat.`
I stirred, groggily. My consciousness wrestled with the drowsiness
that flled my stodgy, ponderous thoughts. I was awake, barely, and at any
second could succumb to sleep`s sweet siren call, nestle back down into
my warm covers, and again let the air-con roll over my blissIully unaware
mind.
Come,` she said.Come let`s eat beIore it gets too late.`
I sat bolt upright, looked at my wiIe as iI she had spoken in the
language oI birds.
Too late . Too late Ior what?`. My waking brain slowly clicked into
gear, my sleepy eyes gradually Iocussed on my dear wiIe`s Iorm as she
34 35
bent over my bedside trying to urge me awake.
Those endless minutes crept ever closer to the frst thread oI dawn
light in the night sky, and then I remembered; indeed how could I have
Iorgotten we had been talking about this Ior days it was the frst day
oI Ramadan!
It was the frst day oI Ramadan, and my frst Iast instant panic!
It was fve months since my conversion to Islam, and it was to be
one oI my biggest tests oI Iortitude since my period oI sustained carnal
abstinence. I should take no Iood, medicine, or drink. I should, once again,
abstain Irom sex; lewd and critical thoughts Irom each day`s dawn to
dusk. In addition, that was to be every day during the whole Iasting month
(roughly thirty-nine days). Good grieI, that really is hard especially when
considering the lewd thoughts and the sex part. What I was yet to realise
was, that you are Iar too tired to do most oI those things aIter you have
Iasted all day.
How had I prepared myselI Ior the month-long Iast? I had not!
I had Iorgotten. I had absolutely no experience on which to draw to
prepare myselI Ior this event. I was not brought up a Muslim, or indeed
a particularly religious Christian. I had always been used to drinking and
eating just whenever I Ielt like it. No gastronomic pauses Ior Lent even. I
could not imagine what it would be like to Iast Ior one day, let alone one
month.
That frst early morning I wearily dressed and dragged my heavy
bones down the stairs. I joined my wiIe and stepIamily already seated at
our kitchen table. My wiIe had prepared her usual incredible meal, which,
to my English eyes though sleepy, appeared to be a Iull dinner. There
was Iried rice and all sorts oI savoury goodies hidden therein salted fsh,
turmeric coated, deep Iried, chicken et al.
It was an actual dinner and this was just 5 a.m. That is, hve o clock
in the morning. I had gotten used to the occasional savoury dish oI roti
cannai and its accompanying dahl, Ior breakIast. I had even been known
to take nasi lemak with a Iried egg and salted fsh, or a small portion oI
spicy, succulent Malay lemongrass chicken curry Ior breakIast. This was
a Iull meal that my dear wiIe had taken the time, and trouble, to prepare.
I was stunned. I was stunned because this was, and I shall repeat hve in
the morning.
Quenching the night`s thirst with a thick, sweet, chocolatey local
coIIee not only woke me up, it got me ready to sample the Ieast beIore me.
II you knew just how much I enjoyed my wiIe`s cooking you might dare
to suggest that I only married her Ior her culinary abilities and, maybe,
somewhere lurking deep down in my egocentric conscious that may
have been a Iactor. That day I could only look and hesitantly prod at her
preparations.
I could not do it. I could not wake early and dive into such a repast. It
was not in me. Eventually, with time ticking away, I did manage to take a
Iew morsels. I then flled up with my customary toast, butter and Chivers`
chunky marmalade once an Englishman, always an Englishman. And
dates. I mustn`t Iorget dates, as dates are recommended to help sustain a
Iast.
Five-Iorty-one a.m. came all at a mad rush. I had barely enough time
to take a Iew swigs oI water beIore my wiIe proclaimed that it was time to
Iast. I sat and looked at the table and wondered.
The temperatures, on top oI our Malaysian hill, varied that day
between hot, very hot, and excuse-me-but I-think-I-am-on-fre. The air-con
worked Iull out in my bedroom-cum-oIfce, but barely took the warmth out
oI the air. I kept myselI as busy as I could. I conIess that thirst began to
take hold on me towards the end oI the morning and, when it had gone past
1.30 p.m., my stomach started to growl incessantly too. The aIternoon was
spent fghting oII a dehydration headache. I Ielt a distinct lack oI energy.
I slept, both to while away the time, but also to overcome the Ieelings oI
hunger and thirst.
To put it Irankly, I cheated. Muslims are required to Iast, to Ieel and
overcome those inclinations oI hunger and thirst that, apparently, is all
part oI the Iasting. It was to sense what it must mean to go without, but I
Iailed that frst test essentially because I slept.
When, eventually, aIter a very, very, long day the breaking oI Iast
36 37
came at 7.17 p.m., I was a mess. I had a splitting headache. I was tired, my
mouth was dry as was my throat but, in one very real sense, I had done
it! I had Iasted one whole day, with only twenty-nine more to go I fagged
once more at the thought.
As the day had worn on, I had realised just why my wiIe had made so
much Iood so early in the morning. It was, oI course, to sustain us during
the day`s Iast and to stave oII those hunger pangs Ior as long as possible.
My stubborn insistence on an English minimal breakIast oI toast et al, had
been entirely inappropriate under the circumstances it was a choice that I
rued Ior the rest oI that frst Iasting day. It was a lesson well learned.
Time marched on and so did Ramadan. Under an immensely sticky
equatorial sky, I stood like some tortured Denholm Elliott character,
blazing sun burning down on Iading Iedora, partially shaded by a looming
durian tree.
A serenely glowing Botticelli angel stood a little primly on one
shoulder, while a Iuming Hieronymus Bosch devil jumped up and down
on the other.
The angel sweetly reproached me, reminding me to think good, clear,
wholesome thoughts, as it was Ramadan a time Ior such matters, as well
as Ior Iasting. The devil, smiling, delighted in reminding me oI Malaysia`s
truly delectable gourmet Ioods, encouraging my weak mind to thoughts oI
recipes, gluttony, and consumption.
The infnitely dry days oI the Iasting month were upon us and, aside
Irom religious concerns, the one thing concerning most Muslims well
me, was what to eat at iftar or 'berbuka puasa (the break-oI-Iast).
A never ending list oI delectable Malaysian edible treats presented
itselI to my ever open mind. Those treats ranged Irom the wonderIully
spicy and sincerely addictive highly spiced rendang, to the sweetly
favoursome, and sticky dodol a soIt toIIee-like mixture oI coconut, palm
sugar and pounded rice.
One small item, but a huge Iavourite oI yours truly was the acutely
dangerous pineapple roll. Acutely dangerous because you no sooner gaze
at them than the container is mysteriously empty and, somehow, you have
put on a Iew pounds.
In the lead up to the Iasting month, I had been Irantically planning
what I could get my wiIe to cook Ior the evening breaking oI Iast. It was
a constant concern and an enticement to endure the Iast. Those days, Irom
sun up to sun down, were the long Iasting days oI Ramadan. So we all
looked Iorward to the celebratory Ieasting at Ramadan`s end, Raya (Hari
Rava Aidilhtri, or Eid).
Throughout Malaysia, huge preparations ensued Ior the breaking oI
the Iast, with most villages, towns and cities having an evening market.
That Ramadan market (Pasar Ramadan) was open Ior a Iew hours Irom
aIternoon to just beIore the actual breaking oI Iast. Generally those
markets are chock-Iull oI delicious and delectable goodies, savoury and
sweet. In Kuala Lumpur`s Chow Kit market a long queue Iorms beside a
large blackened cooking pot. Inside the pot is a gray Malay Iorm oI congee
(bubur), flled with mixed meats and porridge-like rice and, best oI all it
is given away Iree to all who wait patiently hence the queue.
I queued. I waited in line amongst Chinese, Malays and Indians,
shuIfed Iorward in the humid heat oI the late aIternoon, looked down into
that great cauldron watching the large wooden spoon stir the gray mass.
I nearly balked, Ieeling guilty about being there the only white in the
queue, but my wiIe assured me that it was OK, and sure enough I was
handed a plastic bag containing some oI that gray with a great welcoming
smile.
During Ramadan, hotels and restaurants will have breaking-Iast
buIIets. New Iood stalls will appear miraculously everywhere. They
sell titbits, sweetmeats, but nothing compares to good Malaysian home-
cooking. I was very Iortunate or is that sneaky I married the best cook
in her Iamily. My wiIe is the eldest daughter. Her mother taught her how to
make all the traditional Malay recipes my still bulging waistline attests
to this.
The Iasting month (Ramadan) concludes with Raya. That is the
time Ior Iamily to go back home (balik kampong) Ior Ieasting aIter the
Iasting, and gorge as many traditional dishes as are being made. In other
38 39
lands there are Thankgiving`, Rosh Hashanah`, and Christmas`, but Ior
Malaysian Muslims, Raya is the time oI the grand gathering oI the Iamily
and Ieasting.
It`s maybe a tad ironic that the Iasting month a time when Muslims
around the world Iast Irom sun up to sun down, reminding themselves
what hunger and going without is like is the very time when Iood is
uppermost in our thoughts.
Ramadan were the long, hot, dry days oI Iasting in the kampong, when
birds seem to sing with croaky voices, cats are sullen, quiet, and even the
monitor lizards seem more leaden, sluggish. Those were the days when
activities in the village were reverse-geared, with day becoming night and
night, surprising enough, becoming day.
Languid, thirsty days Iollowed by Irenetic thirst-quenching nights
seeing Iasting end and the Ieasting begin in earnest, and oh what delicious
drool-inducing, delectable Ieasting it was.
Standing outside my kitchen, I looked longingly towards the distant
pasar. I imagined that I could smell the delicate aromas oI the inIamous
spiced chicken, sticks oI succulent satay, huge woks oI rice, Iried noodles,
lovingly ladled into boxes oI square, white polystyrene Ior customers to
consume with relish at the evening break-oI-Iast.
As lovely as those savoury dishes were and they were lovely, oh so
lovely it was the desserts. It was those Iabulously well-craIted sweets,
mouth-wateringly delicious Malay desserts, which were my inevitable
downIall. Those perhaps, more than any wine, women or whisky will have
contributed to my ultimate ruin.
I was/am addicted to desserts.
In England, it was the sticky toIIee puddings, cream trifes and
steamed spotted dick with lashings oI sugar and butter just like dear old
mum used to make. In Malaysia, and at Ramadan, when the market was
just laden with all kinds oI Iood, my pseudo-stoic determination crumbled
into dust beIore kuev.
I adored those desserts oI all shapes and sizes and, though dessert
takes little out oI your pocket, it would inevitably pile on kilos around your
waist. To me even the names oI the Malaysian desserts seemed wrapped
in succulent mystery.
From the ubiquitous hippos dipping in the river`, to maiden with a
torn dress` and two maidens in the same room`, the names were enough to
send me into raptures oI both laughter and wanton desire Ior those heaven-
sent parcels oI sheer joy.
The Ramadan market had tables practically groaning under the weight
oI see-through plastic containers oI jump and stab` where palm sugar
Iorms a favoursome layer between sweet velvet coconut milk and soIt,
green, gelatinous pandanus leaI custard. Tables bowed under the load oI
duck droppings` small meringues made deliciously Irom eggs and sugar,
but the most glorious oI all desserts was the most simple. It sheltered under
the most mundane oI descriptive names pineapple rolls. Pineapple rolls
were exactly what they said they were rolls oI pineapple.
What rolls oI pineapple they were! The pineapple in question was
homemade pineapple jam, lovingly prepared by my wiIe, with Iresh
grated pineapple and sugar, stewed and reduced to make the preserve. That
pineapple jam, once cooled, became wrapped in the soItest, most melt-in-
your-mouth butter pastry that you will ever have tasted, then brushed with
egg and quickly baked. The result was pure heaven in a mouthIul. Luckily,
the pineapple rolls came sized to ft nicely into my mouth without undue
indelicacy. Those small, infnitely appetizing rolls meant to be kept Ior
the children, Ior Raya, but seldom made it that Iar. Second, even third
batches were baked and then, iI they were lucky, the children might get
some iI I had not hidden them in my studio frst.
I had a weight problem. Staying in Malaysia had only increased my
girth. It was the combination oI having a sweet tooth, low resistance to
temptation, and the long Iasting days that egged me on to devour copious
amounts oI Malay dessert, during the Ieasting nights oI Ramadan and
Ieasting days oI Raya.
The Iact is that I was, and still am, married to simply one oI the best
traditional Malay cooks and has not helped my weight. A hard taskmaster
her mother, my mother-in-law, taught my wiIe to cook and no Gordon
40 41
Ramsay could have been tougher. Both oI my wiIe`s parents were very
particular about how their Iood should taste, and my wiIe was tutored
accordingly. She trained in the most arduous oI Iashions, to learn all the
traditional ways oI Malay kampong cooking. It was both a sheer joy and a
curse. A sheer joy because oI the wondrous meals my wiIe has been able
to prepare, but a curse to my waistline.
Each day, as the evening prayer called Ior the day`s Iast to fnish, and
aIter quenching my thirst with watermelon juice, my eyes scanned every
inch oI the dinner table Ior the dessert. I needed to be confdent that the
dessert was sitting there, waiting Ior me and my appetite, as soon as I had
enjoyed the savouries. Once the dessert was espied, I could relax and enjoy
the meal lovingly prepared by my wiIe. I could eat, drink and be merry Ior
the dessert was waiting.
Malaysia and desserts were my downIall, my wiIe`s cooking even
more so.
I salivate as I write, remembering those days when I would wait Ior
break-oI-Iast and the beginning oI Ieast, knowing that I may do it all over
again the next day a brand new day with a brand new dessert.
That year my frst year, I Iasted every single day and naively believed
that to Iast, or not to Iast was entirely my choice. I later discovered that the
Malaysian Muslim law (Syariah law, based upon the Shafi School) has
very strict measures in place Ior Muslims Iound breaking the Ramadan
Iast in public.
One Malaysian state Sarawak, had been pressing Ior community
service Ior all Muslims Iound breaking the Ramadan Iast. Breaking the
Iast during the day incurred fnes up to RM1, 000, or jail Ior up to six
months Ior the frst oIIence -or both, and fned up to RM2, 000 or jailed
Ior up to a year, or both, Ior subsequent oIIences oI illegally breaking Iast.
OI Comics
I was still living in Kuala Lumpur. There continued to be thunderstorms,
fash foods, rain lashing at my abode. It was lunchtime in Bangsar one
oI the more salubrious sections oI Kuala Lumpur. Salons, art galleries,
restaurants, and Irivolous designer shopping inhabited Bansar. It had
become better known as an evening pick-up point, a place where young
Malay women (girls) would go to bat hopeIul eyelashes at older, and
thereIore they assumed richer, expat males. The younger women lounged
in the clubs and bars oI Bangsar, draped over some pot bellied, balding,
manager oI this, or CEO oI that perhaps thinking that money, literally,
rubbed oII.
I was in Bangsar meeting with some new chums. They were involved
in the world oI cartooning, and comics, in Malaysia. Bangsar, despite
constant traIfc that day was quiet. Long, post-colonial tree-lined avenues
gave some shade Irom the punishing sun. Many oI the much older houses
were remnants oI the days when Bangsar was home to Indian railway and
rubber estate workers. It was one oI the frst housing estates around KL
built by Edouard Bunge and AlIred Grisar known as Bunge-Grisar
rubber estate and, eventually, Bangsar.
As I walked towards the meeting, it was reIreshing to saunter by lush
overfowing gardens and older Bangsar residences. It was soothing to see
their vistas. All seemed well with the world as I nodded to the occasional
quick-stepped dog-walker, while minding sundered pavement slabs.
I was to learn, later, oI the monthly readings held, just a road away, in
Seksan`s. It was a place where local writers could be heard reading Irom
their work, and some international authors too. That local green` architect
42 43
had, Ior some years, given over his Ioyer to these monthly gatherings oI
literati and glitterati, providing a haven, or that sanctuary Ior the literary
inclined.
Insistent Malaysian birdsong eased my passage to the small shopping
mall at Bangsar Village built next to Bangsar mosque. The original
Bangsar Village mall housed one small supermarket and many slightly
up-market shops Ior those desperate Ior retail therapy. It has since been
superseded by the new Bangsar Village 2, which is even less like a village
and more resembling a deserted designer arcade than the Iormer.
I arrived at our meeting spot early, on purpose. I wanted to cool beIore
meeting people, let the air-con air take the stain Irom beneath my armpits
reIresh my Iace with a splash oI water. I was curious to nose around the
small collection oI shops and generally get my bearings. I am no Marco
Polo, but I like to know where I am.
The day, as Malaysian days constantly are, was customarily hot with
a hint, just a hint, oI the rain to come. We met. Perhaps I should say that
the Malaysian comic boys` club` met, with me in attendance. We were
in Nandos, deep in the heartlands oI Bangsar. The boys` met there on a
regular basis I was a guest, or interloper, depending upon your point oI
view.
Introductions ended and over pseudo-Portuguese/pseudo-AIrican
Iood, we talked. Or rather, we began to talk, as one large drop oI rain the
size oI a small egg, splattered on the wooden table between us. This was
quickly Iollowed by another, then another and yet another obviously the
collective oI water particles, having seen the one drop Iall saIely, Ielt it
saIe Ior them to go over the top` and food our table.
Gathering various scraps oI illustrations, books, magazines and a
comic or two we dashed Ior a table indoors, just as the heavens opened
and deluged where we had just been seated.
There was an audible phew`, hands wiping brows, grins at having
just made it beIore the torrent. Then I remembered my coIIee, still on
the table, becoming more and more diluted and polluted each second. I
ordered another which arrived shortly beIore we were about to leave.
One oI my new mates` was a cartoonist working Ior The New Straits
Times. He had clawed his way out oI being a photographer, then crime
reporter` to cartooning Ior the paper. He had a secret identity/alter ego
illustrating and being innovative within the realms oI Malaysian comics.
There was much earnest talk oI meeting illustrious fgures in the
Western comics` sphere, invitations to ink or draw Batman, etc. and awed,
hushed tones when mentioning both Jack Kirby and Will Eisner in the
same sentence.
I admit to being mildly geeky about comics but these guys, and they
were all guys no gals allowed, were graphic novels to my three meagre
panels. An hour driIted to two, eventually to Iour. We discussed vitally
important issues, such as who was the defnitive Spiderman` illustrator,
or who had written which issue oI Superman, Batman et al. We sat,
oozing comic wisdom, a Malay TV director/actor to one side oI me, and
my cartoonist Iriend the other side. Facing us were three proIessionals,
two Irom the newspaper and one an illustrator/designer working with big
names in the American comics industry.
The table descended into a morass, a mess oI partially flled plates,
used drink containers, comic book sketches and printed works by Will
Eisner one oI the hallowed Iathers oI American sequential art.
There was a sad note too. I came to hear that all print publishing had
to be okayed by the government censor frst. Rough designs and outlines
oI text needed to be submitted beIore any publication could go ahead, due
to the stringent Malaysian Printing Presses and Publications Act 1984`.
No wonder there had never been the equivalent oI underground` comics
in Malaysia, no Trials oI Nasty Tales`, no Oz trial but only the banning oI
certain flms, books, etc. and censorship rampant across the cinema and TV
screens, which Irequently make stories nonsensical due to the cutting oI
bad` language and anything approaching showing oI the fesh/prolonged
kissing. There is, however, a Iunny side to Malaysian censorship like
when the word beach` is deleted instead oI bitch`, or tennis` Ior penis`
due to poor understanding.
It was a curious lunchtime, and one that I have not been able to repeat.
44 45
On refection, that sparkling, but somewhat myopic, conversation seems
a little anachronistic, out oI place in any Malaysian city, Kuala Lumpur
included. Then, perhaps, maybe I was out oI place, maybe the company,
the conversation and I ft perIectly well into the milieu, and the only things
out oI place are my thoughts about it.
Nevertheless, and despite all attempts to curtail it, a cartoon and comic
industry had begun to bloom in Malaysia during the 1980s in spite oI
the stringent laws and censorship. One glossy magazine Popcorn, acted
as a showcase Ior Malaysian and other Asian comic talents, while small
graphic novels in Malay, English and Chinese had began to emerge Irom
the company Gempak/Starz. Over time, many Malaysian cartoonists and
comic book illustrators/writers have Iound their way to America, England
and to comic conventions in Italy.
As I write, I recall being given a copy oI the Malaysian comic book
Neraka (Hell), in London or was that Liverpool, by a British comics`
afcionado. That was not my frst brush with Malaysian comics I had
been collecting the Malaysian cartoonist Lat`s works since my frst visit
to Malaysia in 1981. Malaysian comics Ieatured in my Iading, browning,
copy oI John A. Lent`s Comic Art: An International Bibliography (1986).
Which should have come as no surprise to me, as Dr Lent had taught in
Malaysia Irom 1972 to 1974 (at Universiti Sains Malaysia), and yet again
in 2009 (Universiti Kebangsaan Malaysia) as a visiting proIessor.
Escape Irom Bukit Antarabangsa
Our time in Kuala Lumpur dragged on. It was then the wet season and
monsoonal rain Iell in torrents over a period oI days. It was a sleepy
early morning on the 6
th
oI December. My wiIe and I were staying at a
condominium, Kyoto Gardens, on Bukit Antarabangsa (International Hill).
Many newer housing estates and tower blocks around Kuala Lumpur
had been built on hills. There had been a number oI questions raised
about the saIety oI these housing developments, especially in light oI
the Highland Towers building collapse, which killed 48 people in 1993.
Highland Towers, or rather what remained oI that site, sat as a warning on
the other side oI the hill Irom us.
We were sleeping. We did not hear the rumble, crashing as wet
sand Ielled trees to crash through homes, killing and injuring many and
obliterating a large section oI asphalt road leading Irom the bottom to the
apex oI our hill.
The air-con went oII. I awoke to growing heat. I saw the electricity
was oII, thought little more oI it until my wiIe received a telephone call
Irom her eldest son, at 5 a.m.. Ma, Ma, are you OK. The road is blocked
by a landslide. People are unable to get in, or out, oI Bukit Antarabangsa.`
What is that boy talking about?` I said sleepily, grumpily.
I imagined a small landslide maybe not even blocking the road
perhaps the merest oI amounts oI sand, barely covering a section oI road.
I scorned my stepson`s ability to exaggerate, and tried to get back to sleep
in the warming room. I had little doubt that the road, iI it was covered,
would be clear in an hour or so. As usual, I had no idea oI the enormity oI
the situation.
46 47
When eventually we stirred, neighbours confrmed that we were
trapped on that hill. It was only then that we began to worry. The indelicate
thought oI imprisonment on that hill, sans electricity, handphone battery,
and Iood, low with little or no access to the outside world, became
increasingly daunting.
I was still making light oI the situation I had no idea oI the tragedy
that had beIallen so many. Outside the condominium, in the streets, the
atmosphere was one oI curiosity. As it grew light, old and young wandered
down the hill to the tragic scene a gash in the road, houses upturned
and the asphalt miraculously disappeared. Some curious residents were
in pyjamas, some in sarongs others having thrown on any clothing that
would allow them to be in public to gape.
Drawn like moths to that ghastly candle, we stood gawping and gaping
as we witnessed the sight oI smashed homes, upturned cars, and telephone
poles lying at angles about to Iall. My frst unkind thoughts were not Ior
the dead and injured, but how long it would take to clear the debris.
We were a generation used to disasters on flm and on TV. Seeing
destruction close up was unreal, like a disaster flm lot cardboard,
chipboard and plywood Iascia, only it was not. It was real houses, real
cars, and real destruction on a scale that I had not seen beIore. The leaning,
collapsing buildings were real, the over-turned cars were real. Real houses
askew some completely over-turned all that was real, all too real so
real that I had to turn away.
That it was a tragedy I had no doubt, but had no idea oI the magnitude.
Many homes oI the rich and Iamous were on the other side oI the debris
and rubble we had no idea how they Iared. We learned later that the
singer Siti Nurhaliza`s house, being but a Iew hundred metres Irom the
actual disaster site, had escaped the calamity. ThankIully, we were largely
untouched by the catastrophe. Our problem was that the only road entering
and exiting the hill was blocked, impassable. A military team had set up an
encampment on the other side oI the disaster area looking Ior the missing
and trying to make the road passable.
Despite vainglorious attempts to straddle the debris, most people
realised that we were stuck. To all intents and purposes, we were unable
to escape Irom that hill and concerned that, with the rain, landslides
might continue there already had been signs oI this, with much smaller
landslides closer to our condominium.
Like the Dunkirk Spirit, camaraderie amidst chaos was Iorming at
our condominium. While it was true that many people sought their own
ways to deal with private tragedy and public grieI, many sought comIort in
the company oI others. In our condominium block, we had an emergency
electricity generator. It gave a total oI 24 hours oI vital electricity to the liIt.
It also Iuelled one or two wall-sockets where some Iarsighted individuals
were recharging their hand phone batteries one mother was cooking rice
Ior her Iamily, in a rice cooker.
A small colour television, set up in the lobby and running oII the same
emergency electricity, gave us news Irom the outside world. It was Irom
there that we learned oI the true magnitude oI the situation the loss oI
liIe and the desperate attempts to fnd victims oI the disaster. Five died, 15
were injured and property worth millions was destroyed by rain soaking
unstable soil.
To that extent, we were Iortunate. There had been no loss oI liIe on
our side oI the rubble divide. Red and yellow helicopters swarmed like
gigantic mosquitoes in the balmy morning, while the sun appeared unable
to break though thickening clouds. Over time, we learned oI the only
provision shop our side oI the tragedy at one condominium Iurther up
our hill.
When we reached the shop, it was darkened due to lack oI electricity,
and was rapidly selling out oI stock too. Bottled water, naturally, was the
frst to go, quickly Iollowed by wax candles as the hill`s residents realised
that we may be secluded Ior more than one day and, quite possibly, would
spend at least one more night in the dark.
Residents became uneasy. Communication was sparse. We were
inIormed, by our condo manager, that the army had Iormed a bridge to
Ierry pedestrians only, no vehicles, Irom our trapped side oI the debris. We
were encouraged to leave as soon as possible, due to worsening conditions
48 49
and the increasing prospect oI the situation lasting Ior a Iurther fve days.
That news sparked many Iamily debates were we staying or leaving.
It was a diIfcult decision to make, especially as we had no real inIormation
Irom oIfcial sources. And that, Iundamentally, was the real problem that
we all Iaced the lack oI communication Irom oIfcialdom.
Rumours abounded regarding our saIety how dangerous it was to
stay, or go. Ultimately, we had to make monumental decisions based on
very little evidence. The decision to leave our apartment and car, register
that with the guard house in case oI looters, and leave. It was not a
decision taken lightly. CareIully, considering our Iood and water supplies,
and the likelihood oI an impending rescue we opted to go.
We packed what belongings we could carry in a small suitcase. I
grabbed the laptop and a couple oI other bags. We dragged ourselves up
the inclining road. We had been told the army would escort us across the
brow oI the hill. As we climbed up, towards the pick-up point there was a
concrete water culvert. It ran Irom the top oI the hill, down to the side oI
the road. Some enterprising youths had constructed a precarious rope, so
that they could Ierry provisions Irom a shop, at the other side oI the hill,
down to the trapped residents. We could not tell iI they were helping or
exploiting the situation.
Nearer the top oI the hill was a crowd oI people, anxious residents
seeking exit. They mingled with blue jungle-Iatigued police oIfcers
(seemingly doing very little) and people engaged in more Ierrying oI
Iood and provisions. Mixed messages reached us we were too late, the
soldiers were no longer Ierrying people across the wet jungle pathway, it
was too dangerous then yes, we could go, but go now as the pathway was
due to be closed.
In no particular order, scrabbling, and with no one obviously in charge
oI the operation we stumbled the frst Iew yards over plywood planks, over
mud, water. We were ushered onto a Ireshly trodden track barely a path,
across a feld. My wiIe and I Iollowed the people in Iront, hoping that
they knew where they were going. As we trod on, we met army personnel
who helped us over rough patches, up inclines. When we got nearer to our
destination the Athenaeum condominium on the other side oI the hill,
military personnel assisted us up steep, muddy, and then concrete steps.
Women with babies, children, people carrying containers oI cats,
stumbling older people, all had to climb and pull themselves up with the
aid oI rope. Kind soldiers oIIered helping hands.
Younger, ftter people began oIIering assistance to those less able.
They carried suitcases, bags. At the journey`s end, volunteers helped us up
the fnal incline and, aIter a Iew moments rest, we received drinks Irom the
caIe. A truck escorted us down to the small village, based around a Giant
supermarket then saIety.
The very same helpIulness, comradeship, demonstrated itselI when
Iellow evacuees reached down Irom the high back oI the army truck,
assisting stragglers by heaving baggage and people into the truck. The
international spirit was alive and well in those hours oI concern and
anxiety. Race helped race, religion helped religion, rich and poor all
were equal in being victims oI that disaster.
Later, we sat in an Indian Muslim coIIee shop, opposite the rear oI the
Giant supermarket, grateIully drinking local sweet tea and taking the frst
sustenance oI the day roti cannai. It was 4 p.m., roughly twelve hours
since we frst became aware oI what had transpired. We were, and still are,
grateIul to be alive especially when fve people perished and many were
injured. I praise all those who oIIered and carried through their oIIers oI
help mostly and especially the army and civilian volunteers that day.
50 51
Our House is a Very, Very, Very Nice
House
(Apologies to Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young)
Having stayed in, and been ushered out oI, apartments in Bangsar, Wangsa
Maju and then the apartment on Bukit Antarabangsa complete with
landslides and erosion, there came a point at which I could no longer
justiIy paying someone else colossal amounts oI Ringgit to let me live in
their property in Kuala Lumpur.
This deeply insightIul moment threw up all kinds oI questions, like:
iI I don`t want to live in someone else`s house/fat/apartment/semi-D/
bungalow or condominium, then where will my wiIe, her children, cats,
rabbits, terrapin and I lay our heads Ior the rest oI our nights in this
existence?
AIter my frst visit to Sungei Patani, Kedah, back in 1981, I had
always hankered aIter living in rural Malaysia. So, when visiting my
wiIe`s relatives in rural Perak, I made tentative enquiries about a suitable
plot oI land. As luck, Iate or the will oI Allah would have it, there was a
corner plot available, not Iar Irom my sister-in-law`s house, on what had
been the edge oI tin-mining. We set about seeing it.
The plot itselI was nothing remarkable, but roomy and with a curious
wedge shape. The view was stunning, combined with an excellent outlook
oI distant mountains all around. There was a lake just a hundred or so
metres away Irom the plot. It was almost enough to make me take up
fshing again almost but not quite.
We paced the plot, dimensions taken Irom a photocopy given to the
seller in his title deed. We began having Iantasies about building there.
However, to consider actually purchasing the plot, we had to have regard
Ior the practicalities.
Choosing the locale came down to:
Climate food, high winds, heat there seemed nothing untoward
Stability oI the ground ours was once at the edge oI tin-mining;
and with so compacted sand and soil, not likely to subside.
Availability oI utilities power, water, telephone, and internet were
all available nearby.
Availability oI good-sized land Ior sale at the right price the wedge
that we were considering.
Community Iacilities there were schools both primary and
secondary, shops, markets all nearby.
Building permission would be no problem as it was land set aside Ior
domestic building. Water, sewerage, electricity, and telephone lines were
all nearby, bypassing the plot to its only neighbour.
A primary school was two minutes` walk away, the secondary school
on the bus route, and there was a bus stop nearby. Sundry shops, an internet
caIe, and a petrol flling station were near the bus stop, and a market (held
every morning) was two minutes` walk in another direction.
There was a proper tarmac road to the wedge oI our plot, and a hardened
dirt track through to our neighbour, which would, one day (according to
the local council plans), become a proper tarmac road. However, I conIess,
I preIerred the road as it was a little rustic.
It was not diIfcult to locate a trustworthy, reliable, and reasonably
priced Chinese building contractor as we had relatives living in the area.
We contacted Ah Chai and went oII with him to view some oI the houses
he had built basically shoe boxes, nice shoe boxes, but shoe boxes
nevertheless. AIter taking mental notes, we sat down (with my wiIe as
interpreter) to discuss possibilities, Iantasies, and pies in the sky.
We haggled. I fnally decided to buy the plot at a bargain basement,
52 53
cut-down rate arm and leg extra. We contacted a local solicitor to oversee
the fnancial transaction, and we paid a small deposit on the land as a token
oI our interest.
AIter much discussion regarding other possible builders, their rates
and reliability, we mulled over the building considerations with Ah
Chai. Along with the non-English speaking Ah Chai we discussed a time
Irame. We quickly became aware oI the importance oI getting the house
plans made as soon as possible because oI local planning department
consideration Ior building permission.
Ah Chai, having had much experience not only at building, but also at
talking to planning departments oI councils, advised us to keep the plans as
simple as possible iI the build was needed sooner rather than later.
A basic plan that we Iollowed was to:
Buy the land through a solicitor.
Look around Ior a trustworthy builder with experience and planning
department contacts.
See what the builder has built, and talk to his clients iI possible.
Look at the building plan and building schedule Ior your house,
check over the planning approval Iorm, the planning approval checklist
and layout plan checklist available online Ior some states (unIortunately
in Malay).
Understand just what you are paying Ior at every step along the way.
Understand how your builder/contractor gets paid I paid directly,
in instalments according to the agreed schedule.
Sort out your fnances, whether to borrow or deplete savings I
selI-fnanced.
Insurance ask advice Irom any reputable company.
A little knowledge, they say, is a dangerous thing and I had six months`
experience in working on house plans in a borough council-planning
department, in the UK. I knew what I was doing or did I?
I dashed out and bought a variety oI computer soItware programmes,
some oI which were useIul but much oI it diIfcult to learn by scratch,
and under pressure. Using the plot borders as my guidelines, I set about
designing my dream bungalow. Why was it going to be a bungalow,
rather than a two-storey house? To avoid stairs due to my wiIe`s previous
operation and my increasingly old man`s` stiII knees.
There were Iour bedrooms (all with en-suite bathrooms), my studio, a
children`s play/TV room, dining room, kitchen, large hall and utility room,
all ftting nicely into a built area oI 66 by 47 square Ieet, oI red brick walls.
Outside included two porches Ior cars or garden Iurniture and, at the
wedge end oI the garden the gazebo, lovingly designed Ior evenings
spent gazing at the mountains and lake.
Then reality struck. The frst consideration was that the house would
be too close to the plot borders. Each side oI the house had to have at least
ten Ieet oI clearance between the building and the plot boundary, Ior legal
reasons. That was adjusted the children`s play room disappeared and the
hall shrank.
Ah Chai, having spoken with the planning department, advised us that
a modifed existing plan would pass through the planning department much
quicker than a totally new design. To save time and eIIort, we adjusted an
existing plan to suits our needs the plan to my sister-in-law`s house,
which Ah Chai had built. We tweaked it here and there added what was
to become my studio, to the Iour-bedroom house..
Ah Chai warned us that the local council needed the house to Iace the
road yes, even though there was no actual road Ior it to Iace. Eventually
there would be a road there and our house had to Iace it.
The cost oI red brick, as opposed to grey, meant an extra RM25,000
on the building price we settled Ior grey. There was a consideration
between wooden or aluminium windows wooden Ior aesthetic reasons
but aluminium Ior practical aluminium won out, due to warnings about
wood rot and woodworm in this humid climate. Finally, we compromised
on the types oI foor tiles used the choice driIted Irom white marble to
slate and rustic and eventually, to comIortable and not too expensive.
It soon became clear that there would have to be compromises
at nearly every stage. I had committed myselI not to have a mortgage
54 55
to pay outright Ior the land and the property. The problem with that
approach meant that I was limited to what I could actually aIIord in cash.
In hindsight, I skimped a little, particularly on the tiles and the windows,
when I could have had better.
Eventually we had agreed an overall costing with Ah Chai, and a fgure
reached. The payment schedule to Ah Chai was as set out in government
regulations. Final solicitors Iees included stamp duty Iees (1 oI total
amount paid) and quit rent on the plot oI land. Electrician Iees were extra.
We chose, and paid Ior ceiling Ians, lights, and air-conditioning units
separately, to give ourselves the Ireedom oI choice and the excitement oI
looking Ior things Ior our new home.
Getting connected to electricity, telephone and internet were additional
to the initial build costing too. The gazebo was constructed oI thin concrete
posting, brick foor, wooden rooI, and attap thatch cover. Electric light and
electric sockets were extra, as was the awning we had ftted to the kitchen,
a Iew months aIter the build.
Later we paid Ior marble/stoneware garden Iurniture Ior the gazebo
and one oI the porches, as well as traditional wooden slat shop blinds to
grace the gazebo, which turned out to be a mistake due to the winds that
took their toll on the blinds. We eventually had to take them down.
Like anything else, experience counts Ior a lot. I had not built a
house Irom scratch beIore. There would be many decisions I would make
diIIerently a second time around but we all have to start somewhere.
We made payments either beIore, or on time, and payment was
never an issue. Negotiations were done at the outset and no prices, once
agreed, were increased. The building work was completed on time, except
Ior inclement weather, but usually Ah Chai made up Ior that. There was
always one crew, albeit builders, plasterers, wiring technicians, painters,
tillers, etc. working on the house during daylight hours, so the build came
in on schedule and a house eventually became a home.
Another World
The interior oI Perak is almost altogether covered with magnifcent Iorests,
out oI which rise isolated limestone hills, and mountain ranges Irom fve
thousand to eight thousand Ieet in height. The scenery is beautiIul.
(Isabella L. Bird, The Golden Chersonese)
I was not the frst Westerner to set Ioot in the state oI Perak. Isabella Bird,
Anthony Burgess, Graham McEune, and quite possibly several thousand
others had all beaten me to it. Nevertheless, one bright, hazy, sunny day
I dragged my new Iamily out oI the city and into the rural splendour oI
the Malaysian countryside to the state oI Perak. We wanted to be away
Irom the malls, Ireeways, light rail transits and commuter trains that are
continuously buzzing in Kuala Lumpur.
That crazy idea, no doubt born out oI some bizarre mid-liIe crisis,
was to co-exist with nature in the sublime magnifcence oI the Malaysian
countryside, eschewing all those technological marvels that add so much
pressure to everyday liIe in the city, leaving us all pressured slaves to
modern technology.
OI course we took our handphones with us just to keep in contact
with the Iriends we had made in KL and our laptop computers because
we needed to work to earn money. And the satellite TV account because
the kids need access to English-speaking programmes. And, oI course, the
internet broadband connection as we still have Iamily and Iriends abroad
and need to keep in contact with them, and my various publishers.
BeIore the house we had so lovingly designed was completed, we
had rented a small Iour-bedroom house in a new part oI the old tin-mining
56 57
town oI Kampar, Iamous Ior its Chicken biscuits, which, incidentally,
contain no chicken.
Settling into the temporary house really was a halIway stop Ior us.
We had many oI the comIorts oI a small town restaurants to eat in, cyber
caIes Ior those who needed them, hairdressers, stationery shops, and a
plethora oI smaller sundry shops to buy the odd loaI oI bread or plastic
bag oI local milk. The town market proved to be good Ior just about all our
Iood needs Iresh fsh, beeI, chicken, lamb, Cameron Highlands honey
and all the vegetables that were available in KL, but cheaper.
The downside was that we were still in a town with the boy racers
shooting their bikes down the long straight roads at midnight, most nights,
in attempts to become rebels without a clue, and succeeding. The only
obvious signs oI rural liIe were the huge Iresh cow pats which mysteriously
appeared in the road just outside our main gate, those and the wondrous
mountains which seemed to airbrush their misty mountain tops every
morning, just Ior us.
Those days waiting Ior the house to be built were both agonising and,
in themselves, quite magical agonising because it was diIfcult to watch
the slow progress, the rain stoppages, and the holidays which seemed
to come out oI nowhere. DiIfcult too, to imagine the house ever being
completed and the Iour oI us plus one rabbit, two cats etc. fnding a
home. It was magical to watch the house, our Iuture home, take shape.
Time not spent working, or paying impromptu visits to watch the
growth oI the house, was spent exploring the area. In many ways this was
one oI the huge benefts oI that wait to be able to spend time roaming the
countryside in our newly purchased ancient Asia (Kia Motors) Rocsta 4x4
jeep. There was a lot oI countryside to discover too.
From the back oI the new town (Bandar Baru), was a brand new
tarmac road which was obviously built with some hope and intent in mind.
That road projected itselI Irom the heart oI the new town, bypassed schools
and a myriad oI housing projects, past the newly constructed university,
leapt over a railway line, bridged one oI the many mining pools and then
stopped dead. From a handsome tarmac road, it dwindles to nothing but a
4x4 dirt track rolling past heaps oI discarded rubble and household waste.
That road` was mainly used by fsh Iarmers wishing to access fsh-
crammed mining pools, and the exotically tea-coloured river.
One adventurous day we decided to drive oII the end oI that road
curious to see where it led. AIter some minutes oI ruts, rubble, deep
puddles, and bone-jerking the dirt track widened out and became quite
reasonable. Still bestrewn with water-flled potholes, it was, nevertheless
passable.
That rickety dirt track soon took us Irom the tarmac road`s end, past
remains oI Chinese concrete shrines, old tires, heaps oI broken tiles,
skirting many mining pools, alongside the river and eventually out to
the rear oI the next town Malim Nawar, which was where our house
construction took place. It was a ride I will never Iorget.
Finally, we were witnessing the real rural Malaysia. I was thrilled. It
was exactly the type oI place that I had imagined, but had never seen. A
newer, greener world opened up to us along that track, one bursting with
an opulence oI nature. Bright blue kingfshers swooped around us, few
down to the river. Storks and herons stood tall in trees or stalked mining
pools eyeing Ior lunch. Tiny bee-eater birds nuzzled thunbergia fowers,
draping Irom trees and bushes along the pot-holed way. Huge sleek otters
swam or played along the dirt track, making us halt the Rocsta just to
marvel at them and at the place we had come to.
For us, that dirt track stretching between two small towns, became a
haven. We went there oIten, marvelling, not quite believing in its existence.
We were amazed at the blue oI the vast mining pools echoing the blue oI
the sky, awed by the coolness oI the shade Irom the trees, as we passed. We
wondered at the gentle peaceIulness oI that place, seemingly undisturbed
Ior millennia, but at the same time a route Ior occasional local traIfc. Even
the sporadic herd oI tan coloured Brahman cows brought a harmony quite
beyond any expectations I might have had oI rural Malaysia. Over time,
we have discovered many, many more dirt tracks squeezed between all
varieties oI mining pools, leItover Irom the days oI tin mining.
Many mining pools had developed into beautiIul lakes teeming with
58 59
fsh. Some were small shrimp Iarms, while many others just seemed to
exist. Around them, land had been made over to small-holds, growing
a huge variety oI Iruits and vegetables Irom Chinese green-leaIed
vegetables to small enclosures oI stunted lime trees, and banana orchards.
Eventually our house was completed, the electricity installed, water
connected and the telephone line brought the internet to my studio/oIfce.
AIter we moved in, we tried, desperately, to develop a garden amidst the
compacted sand that we had inherited, but the growing was slow. Inside
our compound, we made measured headway with the coconut and mango
trees, while papaya trees seemed to have little diIfculty. Outside the
compound was another matter.
While lemon-grass bushes grew with little assistance, nurturing the
mango and longan trees seemed an up-hill battle. Why? Because oI the
constant roaming, and snacking, oI the inIamous water buIIalo. We tried
many techniques to avoid having our sapling trees munched by those quite
magnifcent, but annoying, beasts Irom wire strung between poles, to a
broken bricks arranged to discourage their wanderings onto our cultivated
area, but nothing availed nature prevailed.
So there we lived on the rock hard soil, learning to make compromises
with nature in our Iar Irom idyllic setting. The fip side was that Irequently
we Iound that disasters turned out to be god-sends. Floods Irom Irequent
rains, which inundated roads and made walking/driving diIfcult, and
brought fsh Irom the mining pool to net, enabling us to watch the local
children jumping into ditches flled with water and laughter.
A Sheer Joy and an Absolute Disaster
Settling into our new home was both a sheer joy and an absolute disaster.
It was a sheer joy to have our own land and home instead oI a house
rental. We, at last, had some domicile to call our own and somewhere to,
literally, hang my pretentious John Lewis mock Stetson hat.
Going through the building process seemed like an absolute liIetime
but, in Iact, we had done very well to have our house designed, land
cleared and home erected in just a matter oI six months. It was especially
impressive considering we had hired Ah Chai, a Chinese contractor; a
smiling, charming gentleman who spoke very good Hokkien, very little
Malay and no English at all. So my practically sainted wiIe who has
no Hokkien, very good Malay and English, attempted to translate Ior me,
as I have minimal Malay, no Hokkien and insist on being understood
universally in English, regardless.
With a mixture oI rash, impromptu sign language, broken Malay and
my wiIe`s desperately Irantic translations we somehow got by and, despite
the odd hiccup or thirty, communicated and compromised over everything
to do with our house.
Though I was sorely tempted at times, I did not resort to the traditional
English method oI communication with non-English peoples iI in doubt
shout, and iI still in doubt shout louder but I came very, very close at
times.
AIter the build was completed, we began with the mundane matters
oI mopping and washing the entire house, to clear it oI builders` and
carpenters` dust. Then we set about the fnal act in our selI-imposed drama
the theatrical Iarce oI removals.
60 61
We had moved our belongings Irom a semi-D, to a terrace house some
two and halI hours away Irom the city in Bandar Baru Kampar, and
then to our brand new bungalow home. It had all taken its toll on both my
patience and our Iurniture. There was the usual in and outing oI Iurniture
and belongings.
No thats to be left behind, ves that is going, no that one over there, er
no the blue one , not that blue one, thats red, the other blue one.
And we arrived to fnd out, with exasperating Irustration, that the
exact opposite had occurred.
The recommended well experienced` and extremely careIul`
removal men turned out to be neither. They had grossly exaggerated their
credentials to our intense dismay. Our prized Iurniture, careIully selected
Irom stores across Kuala Lumpur`s chic metropolis, experienced abrasive
scrapes, rough bumps, wounding bruises and scratches oI a most bizarre
nature. To crown it all, only the marble top oI one round Chinese table had
survived; the wooden base was cruelly crushed out oI all recognition. It lay
in splinters, in the back oI the lorry. Our Iormer computer table literally Iell
apart the moment it was liIted. I gulped to stife a sob, sighed and got on
with it, remembering to re-negotiate any hint oI a tip, later.
As people say mostly those who have never had one it was a
learning experience. Learn we did. Though to be honest it was entirely
my own Iault. Instead oI hiring some internationally renowned removal
company, replete with careIully constructed boxes designed Ior the
purpose, individuals to monitor the move and vital lists to remind you
what to do I had made the, now inIamous, decision to hire a lorry and
crew and hunt Ior my own boxes in supermarkets. A heart-crushingly vital
lesson learned.
Not the Garden oI Eden
The dust oI Kuala Lumpur streets had just about blown Irom our hair. The
city smell oI car exhaust and constant construction Iading Irom our clothes,
and I fnally seemed to go a night without dreaming oI KLCC or Mid-
valley malls. The Malaysian countryside, however, remained a mystery to
me. Sometimes it was a brilliant multi-Iaceted gem, occasionally a slightly
tarnished costume jewel, but always a vivid Iascination.
AIter moving Iurniture, clothes, pots, pans and children into the house
which was to become our home, we toiled at denting the ever-hardening,
compressed-sand garden to introduce a Iew plants and saplings. A
pneumatic drill or gang oI navvies would have been easier work.
The plot oI land we had bought to build on was at the very edge oI
a series oI mining-pool lakes. It was compressed sand, stable land, not
inclined to subsidence. It was hardy, sturdy land undisturbed by the mining
machine ravaging. Because oI this, in some places our garden` had the
consistency oI hardened concrete. It actively repelled our Iutile attempts
at dislodging but a Iew handIuls oI sand. The garden stood frm against an
onslaught oI spades, trenchers and sundry other implements designed to
plough soil. It was country hard and defant.
To say that gardening in our new home was a battle is a gross
understatement. It was a war. One that, I Iear, we were losing. In reality,
we had no say in which plant went where. Plants were planted where the
soil allowed, i.e. where it was possible to dig a hole and that was only in
a minority oI places. Diligent and constant watering enabled some plants
to ease through the earth` and begin to take root. However, plant roots,
which generally (I thought) went down, seemed to spread out sideways
62 63
across the under-surIace oI the garden, to fnd nutrients and Iorming ridges
which upset our narcissistic lawn mowing.
The thought that we may need several tons oI black topsoil did cross
our minds. In Iact, we mentioned that Iact to Ah Chai, several times, I seem
to remember. I gesticulated, pointing to the sand, mimicking plant growth
with my hands, but the topsoil never materialised. We crossed our fngers
and hoped Ior the best, and Ior this oversight, our struggling plants cursed
us daily.
The upside to our abode was the wide-open spaces. Our new mining-
pool heaven was a blessing Ior the animals that we had collected along
the way. Even our old battle-hardened city cat learned to relax amidst a
greatly enlarged hunting territory. We had proper wooden hutches built Ior
the rabbits in a Malay house style and a compound Ience Ior them to
roam around in, but also to stop them Irom nibbling the plant shoots brave
enough to grow in our near arid garden.
Henri, our short legged cockerel, adjusted Irom his transplantation
Irom a more northern kampong, began to regulate his morning crowing
standing right outside my step-son`s bedroom window and assisting him
in waking at about 5.30 every morning better than any electrical alarm
clock and quicker too.
Henri too took his liberties with our garden, but eventually gave more
than he took as we loved to see him strut his stuII and bring a missing
ambience to our home. Then, one day, there was a Henri-shaped hole to
the morning.
Henri`s customary crow, a much welcomed addition to our collective
morning, was absent at 5.30 a.m. on that day. It was still missing at 6
a.m., and again at 6.30. I was curiously apprehensive as I unlocked the
Iront gate, watching out Ior our Ieathered, short-legged Iriend. There was
a Ieather a Henri type Ieather. Then there were more and more, as I
Iollowed a trail oI brown Ieathers Irom the gate, towards my step-son`s
bedroom window.
Henri`s sad, mangled, corpse, bloodied and torn was there, amidst a
pile oI his own reddened Ieathers. His pathetic severed head I Iound later,
as I went to Ieed the rabbits. This devastating murder scene gave but Iew
clues. Though curious, I was too sad to investigate Iurther. The older couple
next door mentioned witnessing civets roaming the area at night. Deriving
a conclusion through a huge leap oI imagination, we acknowledged that a
civet might have decapitated Henri, sometime that night.
We had never thought Henri to be in any danger, although we had an
inkling that a civet may be about. Some days earlier, we had acquired a
Iew large cocoa pods. We leIt them outside the kitchen on an old cupboard
intending to dry out the seeds and plant them the best we could in the
unyielding garden. In our naive Iashion, we were hoping to grow cocoa
trees. Maybe make our own chocolate too. The Iollowing morning there
was little leIt oI the cocoa pods, save Ior the outside skins the Iragrant
beans eaten by something obviously loving Iruit.
We learned our lesson the hard way. We could not bring ourselves to
have more chickens Henri was irreplaceable. We also never garnered
more cocoa pods either; they probably would not grow in the arid
wasteland that passed Ior our garden. A brave breadIruit tree battled to
survive, bougainvillea bloomed, and unbidden papaya plants insisted upon
growing Irom seeds no doubt dropped by the multitude oI birds, which,
despite our three moggies, insist on Irequenting our garden.
A curious mix oI black soil, the cat`s litter tray and the occasional
sprinkling oI dried chicken drops helped boost some oI our ailing plants,
that and the occasional downpour oI rain and the everyday sun. LiIe
remained a struggle in our rural retreat.
64 65
All That Slithers is Not Gold.
SELF-PRESERVATION is so truly the frst law oI nature, that it is only
natural Ior a visitor to a Iar-oII Ioreign shore to eagerly inquire as to what
noxious creatures are there, and dwell especially upon the reptiles .
(Major Fred McNair, Perak and the Malavs)
The gazebo was Ireshly built. Jasmine planted on two sides to give scent.
White thunbergia was neatly potted and encouraged to creep across the
attap thatch with the intention that it might keep the violent sun oII the
gazebo.
I caught a brieI movement out oI the corner oI my eye iI indeed eyes
can have corners. Something stirred was it the wind? A lizard? Was it
one oI those house geckos, who only seem to live to tut-tut and to excrete
black and white turds into, and onto, anything? Then a long green neck,
with an equally green triangular head, eased itselI out Irom amidst the
sweet-smelling jasmine fowers and peered at me. I peered nervously back.
It was one oI those moments. You are Iace to (unwilling) Iace with
Mother Nature at her fnest. You are human eye to reptilian eye, waiting
Ior a response; I responded.
I will be quite honest I do not like snakes. I never have, not since an
incident with an adder the only vaguely poisonous snake leIt in England.
That was when I was about eight years old. It and I were in a summer
wood, in Iar oII East Anglia. Like this slim green reptile, the adder just
turned to look at me Irom where it was bathing in the sun. It was a little too
nonchalant. It stirred. That was enough Ior the small boy I was. I backed
oII then ran all the way home. I was IearIul that the snake was about to
catch me. And that, as they say, was that a liIelong Iear oI all that slithers.
Being brave and being a man, I did what any man would do under the
circumstances I got my wiIe. She, oI course, told me it was just a harmless
little green snake and suggested that I leave it alone. I wasn`t Iooled. I knew
that deep inside that seemingly innocent exterior there lurked a Irenzied,
vicious, poisonous killer, which at the slightest provocation would strike
out and kill all oI us.
It did not, so I leIt it alone.
About a week later, said green snake`s cousin, or possibly the same
green snake now cunningly disguised as a yellow snake, had taken up
reIuge in the actual gazebo itselI. Every time I visited the gazebo to water
the plants, I was compelled to discover just where not-so-mellow yellow
was. One eye kept on the snake and the other on watering the plants. That
week the gazebo foor got more water than the plants and I got eyestrain.
Eventually the snake disappeared but still, on every visit to the
gazebo, I would peer into each corner, inspect every piece oI thatch just
so that I knew where the snake was, or was not. It had gone and never
returned. Unless that is, it had transIormed yet again, this time into a thin
brown snake.
That particular member oI the reptile Iamily I had Iound lurking on
top oI one oI my jungle orchid plants. Once again, I conIerred with the
expert who, without a moment`s notice, disappeared and re-appeared with
a can oI mosquito repellent.
I looked at the snake and then looked at my wiIe. I looked at the can
and looked at my wiIe again. I read, and re-read, the label on the can. I
looked Ior a fnal time, but nowhere could I see where it said to use the
fuid therein on thin brown snakes, lying atop oI orchids. Flies, mosquitoes
and a variety oI other insect liIe were mentioned reptiles were not.
'Spray it, go on spray it, they don`t like that, said my wiIe, and I
thought: no, neither would I. I sprayed and it moved, but it moved somehow
into the orchid plant itselI, and no amount oI spraying would make it leave.
For the next Iew weeks, this thin brown visitor would be seen in
and out oI the jungle orchid, slipping gently away on my approach, but
66 67
lingering just long enough to tell me that it was still in residence. It was so
obviously mocking me. Then, once I had got used to the idea oI a snake in
the orchid it leIt, never to return.
That, however, was just the beginning.
Since then, there have been a number oI cobras, large and small,
in the house at various times, slithering around, looking in wardrobes,
under beds and generally inspecting our housekeeping. I would not mind
so much, but aIter looking they just hiss in disapproval, then slither out,
disgusted. Snakes are bad enough, but snooty, snobby house-proud snakes
I can do without, thank you.
Yes, We Have No Bananas
Durians are, arguably, the king oI Iruits, smelly as hell and as tasty as
heaven unlike Cavendish bananas, which appear simply bland in
comparison.
So there we were new home, new environment, many new and
exciting challenges already coming our way, you would think that we had
enough on our stoneware plates, but no, we had to have more.
Our wedge oI land was big enough, big enough Ior a moderate sized
house and a reasonable surrounding garden. It was not large by anyone`s
standards. I guess that is why we were so easily persuaded to take over my
brother-in-law`s orchard, aIter parting with a moderate token oI Malaysian
ringgit.
In my early youth in the heartlands oI Essex, I grew up on an English
apple Iarm. My mother worked as a housekeeper Ior gentry tending silk
worms with mulberry leaves, Ieeding a dozen hulking spaniels and dusting
oII the antiques, which had Iollowed the Iamily back Irom Hong Kong.
My Iather was a Iarm hand/tractor driver, spreading manure amidst apple
trees and trying to spread his own seed amidst the Iemale apple pickers
and sorters.
I had acres oI apple orchard to roam in. I learned a little about apple-
tree upkeep, not enough to do any real damage, but enough to tease my
vanity. Somewhere in the depths oI my deluded subconscious mind, I was
equating an English apple orchard with a Malaysian Iruit orchard it was
a dangerous comparison.
At frst sight the orchard was slightly overgrown overgrown by any
other point oI reckoning other than a seller`s, oI course. A modicum oI
68 69
exercise, a day or two`s work at the most, and the orchard would look like
an orchard again instead oI a disused set Ior an ancient Tarzan movie
monkeys included, or so we were told.
OI course that day or two`s work turned out to be a Iull week`s work
by three labourers armed with machetes, scythes, motorised grass cutters
and just about anything else they could lay their hands on to battle the
vines, shoots, brush and sprawling vegetation which had started to reclaim
the orchard.
The upside, well the upside was that we did indeed have a Malaysian
Iruit orchard. Eventually we discovered that we had a good number oI
kampong durian trees about thirty, a Iew mango trees, rambutan,
cempedak and ciku trees and yes no bananas.
Having and tending are two very diIIerent concepts. We quickly
realised that iI we were to have a tropical Iruit orchard, it had to be cleared
oI all robust and rambling vines. It was going to be impractical to hire
help to keep the undergrowth away, on a permanent basis, as Iunds were
a stretched as it was. Not only was there the cost Iactor to consider, but
also the unreliability oI said help. Bravely we decided, as a Iamily, that
we would tend to the orchard ourselves, it could not be too diIfcult, could
it or could it.
The Iour oI us my stepdaughter, one oI my stepsons (who
increasingly resembled a giraIIe), my wiIe and I drove to the orchard in
our rustily robust jeep, wielding parangs, saws and trenchers. We were
ready, willing, and maybe not quite so able or so it seemed aIter the
frst halI hour when barely a metre had been cleared out oI just how
many? We hacked and chopped, then we chopped and hacked and just Ior a
change we hacked and chopped some more. I, Ior one, was glad that it was
the dry season so we did not have to cope with leeches as well as tangled
undergrowth, snakes and insects.
Clear we did. The be-wellingtoned, parang swinging, sweat-drenched
Iour oI us blisters, splinters, mosquito bites and all swung and chopped
on. For three days, we laboured under the mottled shadows oI the Iruit
trees and bamboo, and on the Iourth, we rested. We looked upon the land,
and it was good, and then vowed never again.
Thud.
Hush, what was that sound?
Thud.
There, that sound amidst the towering durian trees. Maybe it was a
brave kampong hero and his three elderly bachelors chopping and rending
as they went. Maybe they were clearing the ever-encroaching jungle Irom
our highly delectable durian, and highly consumable ciku trees with the
smell oI cheap cigarettes overpowering even the scent oI the cempedak
Iruit, which was perIuming the still orchard air with its scent.
It is a truism that when you have a durian orchard, hard work becomes
second nature. In the countryside, it is a sad, but necessary task to clear
swathes oI orchard Irom binding greenery. It is necessary iI the owner oI
said orchard is to have greater access to tend his Iew growing Iruit trees,
and collect the bountiIul Iruit beIore it is lost to the various human and
non-human jungle denizens.
While concrete cities are metaphoric jungles, with skyscraper trees`
growing to reach the sun and houses mere bushes, in the real jungle trees
are cities giving shelter to thousands oI souls and bushes their houses, but
crowded, needing the saving grace oI light to both illuminate and to bring
succour to plants and thereIore animals too.
I hoped that my helpers` would be careIul with their axes, swinging
them straight and true. I prayed that only suIfcient greenery would be
Ielled, just enough to increase light and bring the welcome rays oI the rural
sun onto our blossoming buds, which were tasked with fnally bringing
Iorth the Iruit Ior the owner, market and stall.
While others, in small and large orchards, delighted in bountiIul
harvests oI durian aplenty, in previous durian seasons I had managed to
salvage perhaps but one, singular, spiky durian Iruit, Irom a towering
orchard oI roughly thirty trees. I had been completely unable to select
the seemingly succulent bunches oI crimson rambutans, springing Iorth
Irom our trees beIore they simply disappeared oIten overnight. Other
sumptuous soIt Iruits had simply vanished into thin air beIore my trusty
70 71
dusty Asia Rocsta made a stop, in my poorly tended orchard.
Do pardon my angst and anger, but I did Ieel a tad aggrieved that some
Iurry Iour-pawed primates, and the occasional two-legged be-wellingtoned
poacher, should have been helping themselves, literally, to the Iruits oI my
labour and to more Iruit than the Iruit orchard owner himselI was able to
collect. Fair`s Iair in love and horticulture, and holding zero grudges here,
but come on chaps Iair or Iowl, could you not have thought to leave a Iruit
or two Ior the man who, occasionally, tended the trees and prevented the
encroaching jungle Irom swallowing the orchard up in its entirety?
It was hardly Iair that, come each Iruit season I was leIt with not only
a bare minimal amount oI Iruit, but also a growing sense oI paranoia.
In my heightened delusional state I had started to stare at roadside
Iruit sellers, peering to see iI I was able to recognise Iruit Irom my
trees a lengthy cempedak here or a rounded kampong durian there, all
suspiciously Iresh and having that orchard Ieel to them. In Iamous Ioreign
supermarkets, I stalked the aisles, suspicious oI the less than perIect Iruit,
wary and wondering iI these might have hailed Irom a small orchard leIt
bereIt oI its produce.
Even when purchasing kampong durians Irom our Iriendly
neighbourhood tri-cyclist, he who also sold smelly beans in season, I eyed
the Iruits most suspiciously as iI there were any way that I could possibly
tell iI they had originated Irom my orchard or not. OI course I was leIt
dissatisfed because, short oI spray-painting all the Iruit, and I do mean
all, every single Iruit, there was abso-ruddy-lutely no way oI telling where
they came Irom.
So those boys who would be men were leIt to swing those axes, chop
those saplings and remove those vines, clearing a path to the trees that
were mine, letting me be the very one to grab the Iruit and run, unless some
devious others frst are come.
Thud.
Was that a durian I heard dropping. The orchard began returning to its
Iormer selI. Tangled undergrowth tangled even more, young saplings and
copious amounts oI green Ioliage covering our previously hard won tracks.
Fruits, such as they were, returned to the monkeys, squirrels, wild boar and
two legged visitors who braved the growing jungle to collect them.
Finally, aIter a Iew guilty months oI wondering just what to do with
the orchard, we Iound a buyer. In his excitement, he had his own plans
durian stalls by the roadside, selling Iruits to the market I nodded in the
appropriate places, grinned and took the cheque. One day, he said, not
today, I will plant bananas and just see what happens.
72 73
Still Standing
Because my in-laws lived just across the way, in a small kampong, I
discovered the one remaining carbide Iactory chimney, in Perak. I did not
actually discover it the Japanese built it and I guess the Malay villagers
discovered it.
Seemingly, there were two ways that you could reach that old Japanese
munitions chimney in the small village oI Tanjong Bankong. You could
travel the scenic route through the village oI Tualang Sekar, which would
take you past my Iather-in-law`s provision shop. Past the all-day smokers/
tea drinkers and bemoaners oI their Iate and into the village, turning right
always turning right, skirting round crumbling wooden Malay houses
sadly ageing and weather beaten, past ruIfed Ieather chickens, curious
cats and even smaller shops selling, among other things bottles oI petrol.
Alternatively, you could have dashed leIt at the Chinese school (Ying
Sing) Irom the top oI the small town oI Malim Nawar.
That second option would have led you down a narrow road with
room enough Ior one car to travel. It would take you through the low-
rise Chinese sector, past the house rearing rabbits hopping and nibbling
and not realising their Iate and, eventually, it would have brought you
to that munitions chimney via the snake-like tendrils oI a Dragon Fruit
Iarm. II you were lucky, really lucky, those weird red dragon Iruit tendril
succulents would be displaying their produce, iI not then you would have
had to content yourselI with seeing the snake-like arms oI the crucifed
plants themselves looking every inch like some deadly carnivorous
plants Irom John Wyndham`s Day oI the TriIfds.
According to Kinta Valley` by Khoo Salma and Abdur Lubis (Perak
Academy pubs), that Japanese ammunition Iactory was built in Kampong
Tanjong Bankong in 1943. Nippon Nitrogen Kaisa had owned the Iactory
and it was constructed with the intent to supply arms to the invading
Japanese Iorces. Originally, there were two large chimneys sprouting
Irom two kilns, with a small Iactory block nearby producing rife bullets,
artillery shells, machine gun parts, marine engine parts, gunpowder, and
hand grenades quite possibly Ior the Japanese 29th Army stationed in
Taiping, Perak.
All that remained oI the kilns was one 18 metre high chimney (the
second chimney was dismantled Ior the price oI its bricks). That Iactory
had long since disappeared, leaving bare concrete and brick stubs as the
only reminder. Outside oI that one chimney, you could still see a Iew
carbide blocks a vague reminder oI what had taken place there. Inside oI
what remained oI one kiln sat an old rusted bike. It was propped up like
some memory oI times too easily slipped away. The only conservation
evident at the site seemed to be the sheer physical diIfculty oI ripping the
bricks Irom the remaining well-built Japanese chimney.
The small village oI Tanjong Bankong encircled that erect chimney.
A small mining-pool lake opposite refected the sunlight. Moorhens swam,
kingfshers darted and single storey buildings, bushes, trees Iormed the
rest oI the rural backdrop.
There were still a Iew residents, though not many, who remembered
the Iactory when it was whole. Few could tell what went on under the
Japanese ownership, or what the 400 workers knew oI the work they were
doing. They understood only that the work was secret, and worth between
Iour and six Japanese military 'Banana dollars per day, which was just
enough to get by on.
The Tanjong Bankong chimney may not have been as large, as ornate,
or as awe inspiring as the local Kellie`s Castle, or some ancient intricate
natural cave complex kept pristine Ior caving visitors, but it was worth
saving, worth preserving, worth remembering as an indication oI what had
occurred in that slice oI Perak`s and Malaysia`s history.
That area the area around Malim Nawar held many such treasures
74 75
colonial buildings, authentic and picturesque kampongs, wetlands replete
with alluring wildliIe otters the size oI dogs, buIIalo, wetland birds, etc.,
and yet the whole area was oII many oI the recognised tourist routes`.
Now I`m not sure iI that was a good or a bad thing.
Dogs
A brightening Iresh morning sun was already up. It cast its cleansing light
where there were previously shadows. I slowly climbed, with cramped
leg muscles, out oI my queen-sized bed to begin my day in the kampong.
My dutiIul wiIe was Ieeding the meowingly hungry cats at the rear oI the
house. A male dove was desperately trying to win the attention oI a Iemale,
by puIfng himselI up and strutting around to gain her lapsing attention
she just walked away. Somewhere, Iar in the distance, a lone cockerel
croakily shouted his welcome to the morning not Ior the frst time.
Looking out Irom our newly-mowed Iront garden, an egret or two,
sans water buIIalo, were easily hopping amongst the browning grass. They
distinguished themselves Irom the taller white herons consuming fshy
breakIast only by size. In the mid-distance, the nearest oI the Iour mining-
pool lakes sat, its dark haunting waters ruIfed by the slightest oI land
breezes. On the distant shore, in a marshy place reserved Ior water buIIalo,
or fshermen on mopeds, stood a 4x4 blue open back vehicle it was the
municipal council enIorcement team.
Two dark-blue uniIormed enIorcement oIfcers emerged Irom their
transport, armed with shotguns. We had no ducks, so it was no duck hunt,
there were no lions, tigers no big cats oI any description, and, generally,
people did not shoot the water buIIalo. It was as iI on some sort oI cue,
together the be-uniIormed men raised their weapons, Iocused Ior a moment
and fred. Their armament thunder-cracked into my audible space. There
were cracks again. The earnest oIfcers, having achieved their aim, housed
weapons. They stooped to inspect their prey. A large black dog, barely
alive, thrashed its tail. A fnal shot stilled the distressed, wounded animal.
76 77
It was not enough. The gun-toting men mounted their motorised
vehicle and drove around our sandy expanse collecting another Iour
victims. Seeing nothing else to butcher, the oIfcers departed in their
vehicle, as hastily as they had arrived. I witnessed the massacre, and
watched as the murderers drove around the wedge where my house is,
down the small road, briefy stopping at the kedai kopi near the local hall,
to take their reIreshment and tell oI their success.
In the Iar distance, I could just about see specks oI other dogs as they
milled across the sand dunes (another poignant reminder oI countryside
rape Ior proft and a remaining remnant oI tin mining). Eventually,
in the certainty that the shooting men had gone, the remaining pack oI
dogs returned to their hunting grounds. They inspected the site oI their
comrades` demise, sniIfng and investigating in their doggish way. One
sandy coloured animal raised a brieI howl, two dogs play Iought yelped
at each other. The remaining pack settled, eventually laying in the hot sun
beside the mining-pool, masters oI the area, worrying buIIalo herds, Iree
and in control.
Later, when I was in my kitchen, washing rice, waiting until the water
turned clear, there were more loud cracks exploding, breaking into my
returning peace. With severe trepidation, I raced to see what had transpired.
I thought, those enIorcement oIfcers had entered my house and were
shooting up my kitchen. I nearly tripped over two deeply sleeping cats,
but no. PowerIul gases emitted Irom salted pickled petai had expanded in
their Iragile glass jars, explosively shattering them, throwing pickled petai
over the entire kitchen, leaving glass shards and vegetables strewn about
the whole kitchen area. It was as iI Irom a pickle war, the survivors were
crawling away with salt stains and smelling oI beans but at least lunch
was saIe, unlike the dogs.
Lake Land
It was getting near dusk. We had roamed through the areas laughingly
called mining-pools, on small dirt track roads. The area Ielt abandoned,
but it was Iar Irom that. At one point, we stopped the old truck between
two mining-pools, and witnessed a troupe oI sleek otters passing Irom
one darkened, mysterious pool to another. Incredulously we stared as one
otter drew to its Iull Iour-Ioot height beIore us, urging its Iellow creatures
to hasten their crossing. Then, no sooner had they came than they were
gone, melding into the silent, enigmatic waters leaving only watery dark
ripples to mark their passing.
There, in Tash Aw`s Kinta Valley, many seemingly ubiquitously man-
made mining-pools had since become reclaimed by all pervasive nature,
giving sanctuary to otters, birds and other Iorms oI indigenous and visiting
wildliIe. Stark mountainous wastes and deep perilous pits transIormed into
gently rolling hills and tranquil lakes.
Those new Malaysian lakes were a physical by-product oI a nation`s
Iormer obsession with tin mining. They had Iormed through the eager
processes oI extracting tin-ore Irom mineral rich lands dredging, or
gravel pump mining. The resulting mining-pool lakes ranged Irom just a
Iew metres, to many luscious kilometres in size and, since the beginning oI
large-scale tin mining in western Malaysia (1820 onwards), mining-pools
have radically transIormed the lush rural landscape Irom Penang through
to Melaka.
Perak is the site oI numerous mining-pool lakes. Perak is the silver
state, largely due to its heIty deposits oI silvery tin ore. Perak, and more
especially the Kinta Valley, were ravaged Ior well over a century-and-a-
78 79
halI in the quest Ior greater deposits oI the richly rewarding cassiterite (tin
oxide mineral). The result had been a countryside littered by huge holes
and mounds oI waste-material produced by the mining process. Though
many holes have since been inflled, and through decades had become
the Ioundation Ior housing projects, many thousands oI other holes have
become fooded with water, creating mining-pool lakes.
With the great numbers oI these synthetic lakes, there came great
natural diversity too. Many lakes languished amidst all encompassing
nature mere reclaimed pools threaded together by impromptu tracks
and dirt roads. Others reclined in their splendour, lounging in the dazzling
equatorial sun, giving landscape to golI courses or decorating the scenery
oI universities.
In-between were lakes Ior everyone Irom the industrious fsh Iarmer
to the cultivator oI white ducks, and the breeder oI prawns. Daily scooters
and small engine motor cycles arrived, bearing men with nets, or boys with
fshing rods earnestly intent upon their catch Toman, Tilipia, Flowerhorn
and leaving with sloshing plastic buckets thrashing with their catch Irom
the lake opposite our house.
AIter school, and at holiday times, small children stripped and
plunged into cooling waters, Iorever grateIul oI a haven under the hot sun.
Galleons oI light blue water hyacinths were gently blown towards Iurther
shores while sloppily drinking water buIIalo took their fll such was the
near idyll we had moved to.
Hidden Irom general view; heavy trucks rode bumpy paths laden
with tanks oI Iarmed fsh or squawking, condemned white ducks heading
Ior market and the pot. Overhead, storks, heron, and brightly coloured blue
kingfshers sought silvery fsh in lakes teeming with liIe, knowing Iull well
that they`d not go hungry.
At the rear oI towns, dotted through the kampongs, mining-pool lakes
gave poignant character to the rural landscape, overlooked by shooting
coconut trees, banana and papaya. Those mining pools, originally the by-
product oI a land ravaged by man have become blended into the rural
landscape, at one with rusticity, wooden kampong houses, low slung
hammocks and a mother`s traditional succulent cooking.
80 81
Kampar
By now the 11
th
Division in command oI General Paris had withdrawn Irom
the Perak river to Kampar, while the 12
th
Brigade Iought a delaying action in
the Gopeng-Dipang area. The Japs crossed the Perak river on Christmas Day,
and on Boxing Day attacked Kampar, where they were held.
(F. Spencer Chapman, The Jungle is Neutral)
Shoot up the North South Highway in your sleek new vehicle, blink and
you would miss it Kampar was that sort oI town.
In late 1941, early 1942, heavy munitions pounded peaceIul
kampongs and docile Iarms around Kampar`s outskirts. Amidst the banana
and coconut trees, two Ioreign armies British and Japanese were at
loggerheads over the old tin town oI Kampar. More recently, Kampar,
once notable Ior its production oI tin, had been driIting into deaIeningly
silent anonymity. The construction oI the North South Highway diverted
its liIeblood traIfc, allowed Kampar to haemorrhage. The town started to
stagnate. Kampar, once home to feeing Indonesians, then a British built
town and fnally a Chinese enclave had been regarded Ior its chicken curry
bread (Kari Roti Ayam) and chicken biscuits (containing no chicken).
The traIfc fow bypassed Kampar sped north, up the highway
Irom Kuala Lumpur. TraIfc rushed through Perak`s silvery Kinta Valley
pausing, momentarily, at Ipoh equally Iamous Ior its pomelos and its
girls (Ipoh Mali), then rushed Iorever on heading northward to Kedah`s
paddy felds, Penang`s betel and Langkawi`s black rice.
Bowing under what passed as history; Kampar had been relieved
by the new Bandar Baru township. Houses, shops, restaurants, a college,
university, hotel, and a recently built tin-mining museum sprang Irom flled-
in mining pools. Other mining pools were transIormed into university lakes,
Ior thick-headed students to gaze upon while simultaneously scratching
their heads and wondering who was dissing whom on Facebook, and then
tweeting it.
Internet game caIes abounded, Chinese comic stores proliIerated,
photocopying shops mushroomed as had the student population oI the
area. Bandar Baru Kampar was fooded with clueless, energetic youths
as docile and as placid as the lake herons, and constantly wandering
water buIIalo. It is shameIul to say that there was not one real bookshop
within thirty miles, unless you counted the classroom transIormed into a
makeshiIt bookshop at the university, or the Kampar stationery shops that
sold only school textbooks.
The old, and the very new existed side by side in Kampar tradition
and innovation, Chinese brush art and CGI, McDonalds and salted chicken,
tin-mining museum and internet caIes all were to co-exist Ior a population
wishing to stride into the Iuture, while also content to sit and remember its
heritage providing that it was in Manga (comic book) Iorm.
As the two sides oI Kampar grew ever closer melding one into the
other, it slowly became a town Ior all not just a partly Iorgotten tin town,
good to visit Ior a traditional meal, but no place to stay in or grow in.
Other businesses were attracted, bringing with them employment,
visitors, tourists and litter. The downside, because there always has to be a
downside, is that Bandar Baru Kampar, and to an extent Kampar itselI, had
rapidly become mono-racial Chinese.
Unlike Malaysia`s tourism posters, with happy, smiling, multi-racial
Iaces, there were deep racial divides across Malaysia. The whole Bandar
Baru township, originally owned by Malays, was sold to one Chinese towkav
a Iormer Kampar Member oI Parliament. The vast majority oI shops in
the new town (Bandar Baru) were thereIore Chinese. The university was
Chinese, the college was Chinese, the many restaurants catered mostly
Ior non-halal Chinese and at night, Bandar Baru Iairly teemed with
slim young Chinese. Malaysia, known Ior its multi-racialism, increasingly
82 83
became racially polarised with Bandar Baru Kampar becoming one oI the
many single race enclaves.
Since Malaysia`s NEP (New Economic Policy 1970) and its inherent
positive discrimination towards the Malays, Malaysia has increasingly
become racially and religiously divided in practically apartheid terms.
This is, perhaps, more evident in the countryside where there
are Malay kampongs, Chinese kampongs and Indian (mostly Tamil)
kampongs, than it is in Kuala Lumpur,
Where, once, it was common to witness multiracial groups eating
or simply socialising together, beIore and during the 1980s, it is no
retrospective illusion, but sad Iact, that makes Malaysia`s past the golden
days` as the races have drawn apart each to their own race and culture. It
has not helped that the predominantly Malay government has steadIastly
promoted Islam above other religions.
Despite being the largest ethnic group in Malaysia, certain politicised
sectors oI Malays appear deIensive and hypersensitive. A commotion
made over the translation oI the Christian Bible into the Malay language
is one such instance. The (Christian) Bible, in its new translation into
Malay, used the Arabic word Ior God Allah. Malay Muslims proclaimed
that only they had the right to call God Allah`, despite there being clear
historical evidence that that should not be so. The Malay language Bible,
prevented Irom entering Malaysia Irom its Indonesian publisher, only
continued the debate.
Garbing the Gazebo
Similar to many other cultures, in Malaysia there was a local tradition
concerning the buying and wearing oI new clothes during the Ramadan
period. This annual titivation did not stop at the mere enhancement oI
human anatomy. Dowdy houses were cleansed until they pinged, as were
husbands and a general tidying atmosphere enveloped residents as time
inevitably slid towards the Ieasting days oI Raya.
Inexorably caught in the spring-cleaning Iurore, we endeavoured to
take a second, and then a long, startled third look at our sieve-like gazebo.
To our utmost horror we observed that the Nipah leaI attap (thatched) rooI
seemed to be deIying the basic purpose oI a rooI, which is to keep the
elements out. UnIortunately Ior us the intrusive elements were not only not
kept out Irom our gazebo, but were warmly welcomed in with the brown
oI the attap rooI displaying patches oI eggshell blue sky.
Noting the increasingly tatty nature oI our gazebo rooI, we vowed to
make amends and sought out a weaver oI attap, in a vain attempt to return
our garden retreat to its Iormer helicon glory. Tracking down a genuine
weaver oI attap proved to be slightly more diIfcult than we might have
imagined. Despite the obvious Iact that we were ensconced in the rural
splendour oI the Malaysian countryside and, in our imaginings, potentially
surrounded by numerous makers oI a myriad craIts a genuine attap
weaver seemed not to be amongst them.
In our innocent, city-eyed, naivete what we could not have known
was that attap weaving is rapidly becoming a dying art in rural Perak. Too
many Iresh-Iaced young people, desirous oI the latest complex handphones
and ever-newer cars, preIer to work in Iactories, call centres or whatever
84 85
employment they can discover to help them exist in the city, rather than
learn the inherent beauty oI traditional craIts and because oI the low pay
too.
While we were in Malaysia, there were becoming Iewer and Iewer
time-honoured craIt makers. Only the aging, older, generations seemed to
practise specifc trades like bamboo and rattan Iurniture manuIacturing,
or the roasting oI coIIee beans. For us it seemed that in a very short space
oI time, the makers and their craIts would be gone, and then a part oI
Malaysia`s national cultural heritage would have died with them.
Jumping into our aging jeep, we travelled the winding old road to
Sahom, past a small sparkling waterIall, and headed towards the Cameron
Highland Ioothills. We wanted to talk to the resident aboriginal (Semai)
kampong men, about re-thatching our gazebo rooI. AIter many smiles and
seemingly pointless pointing to their own attap rooIs the Semai declined,
intimating that they had no ready-made attap sections to oIIer.
We were crestIallen, and desperate. We trundled back into our little
jeep and, in our desperation, visited a local rainIorest retreat recently
built with attap rooIs. AIter much pleading, cajoling and minor threats, the
retreat manager reIerred us back to a woman we had already approached
about attap, near to our house. Girding what may or may not have been
our loins, we re-visited the industrious Malay woman. We had careIully
counted our damaged attap beIore departure, and settled on a fgure oI
sixty lengths oI attap fIteen per side. Luckily, and to our immense joy
and delight, the sole maker oI attap roofng in our area was able to spare
sixty lengths oI attap, but no more.
She said that she was working fat-out to Iulfl a large order intended
Ior the Semai villagers in Sahom who, seemingly, no longer make their
own attap roofng, and Ior which they had already paid. Could they be the
very same villagers who we approached? They could indeed. Such was the
sad state oI aIIairs that even the aboriginals were no longer weaving their
own thatch.
We employed two local enthusiastic and energetic Malay boys to
strip oII the old, browned, tattered attap and encouraged them to begin
renovating our gazebo with the Iresh, green newly woven material. It
was only when the boys started on the second side that we realised that
our attap lengths were too short. The boys had to use many more lengths
on each side than we had counted on to do a proper job. The dawning
realisation slowly came that sixty lengths were only going to cover two
sides oI our Iour-sided gazebo, and that we needed twice as many as we
had thought so back we trotted to a now Irowning attap-weaving woman.
To give her due credit, she was working fat-out. That middle-aged,
slim, brown and wrinkled woman sat, squatting on a small wooden stool,
attap in her hand trying to work as we once again tried to cajole her into
parting with more lengths. CareIully she explained that no amount oI
extra fnancial inducement would be able to make her part with the attap
lengths. She had promised the Semai villagers and, as Raya was rapidly
approaching, she would not be making any extra until aIter the holidays.
We were crestIallen.
First Raya came, and then so did our guests.
The gazebo remained halI dressed, waiting Ior the energetic boys
to return, and waiting Ior the remaining lengths oI attap, Irom the sole
supplier.
Some weeks aIter the celebrations oI Raya were over; back the boys
came with more spindly attap and fnally fnished the gazebo, which, as it
turned out, needed re-thatching every two years due to the poor quality oI
attap then available.
86 87
In-val-id Inva-lid!
Ipoh is, in its way, a wonderIul instance oI the rapid growth oI a mining town.
Five years ago a small collection oI huts to-day, it is a town oI well built
brick houses daily increasing and has a population oI at least 5,000 people.
As the centre oI a rich mining district, the Iocus oI a number oI roads and the
present terminus oI the Kinta Valley Railway, its importance is second to that
oI no other town in the State.
(Frank.A.Swettenham, About Perak)
That year the Raya celebrations were Iull oI gusto across Malaysia, and
continuing in Iull swing in the kampongs around us too. Two enlarged our
small Iamily unit, as my stepdaughter`s brothers had both returned. The
young man now commonly known as the GiraIIe` continued to stretch
his way beyond the clouds, and his brother Kung Fu Panda` now more
resembled the dad Irom No Ordinary Family`, than a Chinese cuddly
animal. Our daughter however, and as beautiIul as she undoubtedly is at
least in someone`s eyes continued to fnd yet more black holes into which
to sink our hard-earned money without, seemingly, even trying.
It was while my recently starved and parched brain was still trying
to get back to normal (aIter Ramadan), that I took our dubiously beautiIul
daughter to see the flm that she was most desirous to watch. There was no
nearby cinema. Many either had long since been torn down like the Rex
in Kampar, or were converted into shops, or stores. In Kampar`s history,
there had been at least seven cinemas, with the last remaining cinema
becoming a Iurniture store, with only some interior mouldings reminding
the visitor oI what it once was.
We travelled to Ipoh, and barely arrived on time to purchase tickets
and see the flm. There was an instant queue, which seemed to Iorm the
very second the box-oIfce opened. We stood anxiously watching the time
tick away. It was heading towards the beginning oI the flm to which we
were yet to buy tickets Ior.
I engaged in a brieI conIrontation with a young Chinese man who,
seemingly, was unable to make up his mind about his cinema seats without
copious hand-phone calls to his girlIriend/mother, thus delaying the
growing queue behind him us included. The wielder oI tickets eventually
brushed Mr Undecided to one side. AIter seconds, we had bought our
tickets and barely in time. We rushed to, and snuggled into our seats. For
over two hours an entire liIetime Ior anyone not interested, we watched
extremely noisy, plot-less American movie mayhem nonsense. Patiently,
or as in my case impatiently, we sat duly imprisoned in 3D glasses dodging
countless non-existent fying objects. I had to constantly adjust, and re-
adjust my 3D glasses as they slipped over my own spectacles concerned
that I might actually miss some fying severed limb or other in the process
oI that readjustment.
Alongside the general din, was a running commentary, halI in
Chinese and halI in English, as someone in the row behind us was using
their mobile phone turning round and glaring had no eIIect whatsoever
except Ior my 3D glasses Ialling oII once more. With peace eventually
restored, and non-existent virtual 3D objects ceased fying we went to exit
the Kinta City Mall.
I rarely visit malls being, as I am, wrapped up in a liIe battling water
buIIalo, snakes and a sun constantly threatening to turn our constantly
tended garden into a desert. Malaysia seemed inundated with malls. In Ipoh
there were the older malls, now looking more like indoor markets in which
to buy original` watches and handphones originally Irom China that is,
and pretty good copies not so good iI you actually wanted them to work.
The newer malls came replete with as much Americanisation as possible
McDonalds, KFC, Pizza Hut and the seemingly ever-present Starbucks
to help those having identity diIfculties, Ior we are all Americans now,
88 89
to a greater or lesser extent.
Things change, seemingly rapidly, even in the small city oI Ipoh.
Once it was Iree Ior a driver to leave his vehicle, Ior an hour in the mall car
park. Then the pricing structure changed and vehicle owners had to pay a
minimal sum RM1, to extract a vehicle Irom the mall car park prison.
Later, with a JUSCO store card, parking was Iree. That had evidently
changed yet again. We were required to pay an exit Iee, aIter two hours
even with a store card. Remember me saying that the flm was two hours.
I was conIused and yes, maybe, even a tad annoyed too.
I was even more conIused when an American-sounding (mechanical)
voice issued Irom the car-parking machine and exclaimed that I was an
in-va-lid`. In-va-lid an in-val-id I was not/am not an in-val-id, I did
not park in an in-val-id or any other disabled parking space, why was this
machine calling me an in-val-id?
I was aIIronted not as though there is anything wrong with being an
in-val-id, there is most assuredly not, it`s just that I am not one, and had not,
emphatically not, parked in an in-val-id space I am most careIul about
that. Then, amidst all the kerIuIfe and commotion oI machine versus man,
my dubiously delightIul daughter caught my attention.
Dad, I think that it`s saying invalid, not in-va-lid.`
I was pulled up sharp. I listened once more. I put the store card in Ior
the umpteenth time, listening most intently. You`re card is in-va-lid, please
insert a val-id card. You`re card is in-va-lid, please insert a val-id card.`
Then I understood. My daughter was right, the machine was not calling
me disabled, but was reIerring to the status oI my store card. But why
was it saying in-va-lid` instead oI invalid and in that dreadIul pseudo-
American accent. I could only guess. I paid and, red-Iaced, stormed back
to our truck mumbling about Malaysian Americanisms and the erosion oI
the English language.
Chicken Instead
Having survived both the clanging oI the flm and the mechanical pseudo-
American, our meagre bungalow became blessed with visitors. It was a
sleepover Ior seldom-seen Iriends. A Irog chorus had parped and honked
energetically all night and, in the morning, it had fnally ceased. AIter
being bullied awake by croakily Ian-Iaring roosters, a giddy, weak, sun
opened one bleary eye to greet us.
In the drip-dew moist aItermath oI nightly rain, green orchid leaves
dripped languidly with crystal-clear drops running down the sides oI our
gazebo. Droplets oI moisture, refecting the azure blue oI the sky and the
orchid`s Ireshly opened fowers, still clung like jewels to curled blades oI
grass amidst an atmosphere which was marginally cooler than the previous
day.
Mighty morning yawns goodmorninged the brightening day.
Travellers and sleepy hosts greeted each other over much welcomed
morning drinks. Lank-Iurred Tyger, our charming but courage-challenged
cat (one oI three), had peered through the kitchen grille in the vain hope
that our overnight guests had departed they had not.
Noticing frst Toini, our Swedish guest, and then Mizuki Irom Japan,
plainly still in evidence, Tyger careIully, silently, walked backwards no
doubt intending to erase the memory oI his entire Ieline presence Irom the
observers` minds. It did not work, and amidst cries oI oh, what a darling
cat!` and what an adorable cat not-so-brave Tyger hightailed it out oI their
vicinity; hoping to leave only the vaguest memory oI his presence.
AIter the usual ablutions, we set oII to take South Indian breakIast
down the road in Bandar Baru kampar. Over crispy dosai, Mizuki`s
90 91
husband David (Irom Australia) was saying, What is that, mmm that
tastes good`. Mizuki sat and looked askance at two steamed idli (Indian
crumpets) appearing on a stainless steel platter beIore her and looking
Ior all the world like two cheaply manuIactured breast implants. Toini,
in the spirit oI the day, wrestled with an assortment oI coconut chutneys,
tart fsh curry and a Ireshly deep-Iried puri (bread). My wiIe and I ate
the partially pan-Iried South Indian apam manis (Iermented crepes) and
smiled knowingly at each other.
We were in the new township oI Bandar Baru Kampar just outside
oI the old Kampar town. Some unkind individuals reIer to it as New
Hong Kong and it is where we stayed beIore building our house. BeIore
colonial oIfcialdom got to it, Kampar was called Membang di Awan
(Ghost in the Clouds). Membang di Awan, Membang di Awan it is the
sort oI thing you might say having been blearily prodded Irom your sleep,
or when deeply intoxicated, or both. Finding it so diIfcult to say, one
British oIfcer asked a local coolie Irom whence they came the coolie
said Kampar (Indonesia), because that is where he was Irom. That`ll do,`
said the monolinguist. Since then, the town Iormerly known as Membang
di Awan has been known as Kampar. An even smaller town, just outside oI
Kampar, has taken on the name Membang di Awan just so it doesn`t get
lost Irom the annals oI time.
StuIIed aIter breakIast, with Mizuki looking as though she desperately
needed a manicure, pedicure, massage, spa-pool and/or holiday Irom her
holiday, we drove behind Kampar in the 4x4. We intended to help our two
eager, and one quite reluctant, guests experience the New Wah Long area.
New Wah Long was a new village created by the British, under the now
inIamous separatist Briggs Plan. It was an arrangement which guaranteed
apartheid resettlement oI unwilling Chinese into 'new villages to
keep them out oI the way (and in line) aIter The Malayan Emergency
and partial insurrection (1948 1960). It was during that civil war which
was euphemistically called The Emergency` that (mostly) Chinese,
Communists` made coups attempts on British colonists and tried to hasten
the British departure Irom what was then Malaya.
Curiously, both my Iather-in-law the indeIatigable Pa Yusop, and
my Iriend`s Iather who was then a Lieutenant in Royal Malaysian Police,
had been engaged in The Emergency`. Pa Yusop survived to build his
shop and have ten children my Iriend`s Iather was not so lucky and
was gunned down just two miles Irom where we drove that day in
Chenderiang, 1951.
Wandering at will through the Chinese village`, we chanced upon a
small coIIee roasting Iactory in a completely nondescript wooden building.
We simply Iollowed the aroma which was quite unmistakable, and which
threatened to overpower our senses. We entered, gaped and gawped then
persuaded the owner that we would buy his produce iI he would allow us
to witness the roasting process. Impressive mounds oI diabetes inducing
sugar and cheap god-knows-what-they-put-in-it margarine rested at the
side oI the huge encrusted metal griddle, ready to be merged and made
into the buttery, Durian Brand sweet local coIIee.
In another New Wah Long lane we gently greeted coiled Chinese
incense, lying stiIfy out to dry in the heat oI the Perakian sun. It was
resting on rows oI concrete trestles overlaid with galvanised pipes. Each
incense coil seemed to be sitting, meditatively, on its own wooden platter,
dehydrating, waiting to be bought, and burnt in some distant Chinese
temple, sending prayers/demands to whichever deities could be summoned
to care.
Back in the main town oI Kampar we drove past the curried chicken
bread (Kari Roti Avam) shops, the chicken biscuit shops, and the last
Iew remaining, ageing makers oI bamboo and rattan Iurniture. Then our
guests headed Ior departure. We didn`t have time to show them Batu Gajah
(flm director Don Boyd`s Elephant Rock), a Iew miles away, and the
last remaining tin dredge which was sloping sad in its and tins, decline.
Instead, our guests headed oII to Ipoh, Ior lunch, on their way back to
Penang. They were desperate to stop and take their fll oI roasted duck a
speciality oI a restaurant they had heard about. An hour later there was a
SMS Irom David, inIorming us oI his disappointment there was no duck
at the Iamous duck restaurant they had to eat chicken instead.
92 93
R & R with bells on!
Guests gone, time in rural idyll served it was the usual hot, bright, sunny
day as I travelled on the newly installed Electric Train Service, which
bounces between Ipoh and KL Sentral stations..
I had done my time, served my sentence and had been let oII Ior good
behaviour Irom the sandy environs oI my rural home. I was about to spend
a Iew days luxuriating in the charismatic metropolis oI Kuala Lumpur as
a visitor, this time, rather than a resident.
Because oI recent readjustments oI train times, I had to arise Irom my
lair at the crack oI dawn well, 4 a.m., to race with traIfc lights, avoid
prowling rural nightliIe, and catch the 5.58 a.m. train Irom the Kampar
station. The new train had a sewer smell about it. I cannot explain why, but
it did, and it was crowded.
The new schedule meant that we human sardine-lemmings would
either all travel at the same time, on the very same train, or brave the roads,
tolls, weather etc. So instead oI wending my way along the grey asphalt
oI the North/South Highway, I sat squashed in my train seat praying that
my Iellow passenger would jump Irom the train, or at the very least alight
at the next station he didn`t. I travelled those two hours trying to confne
my ever larger Irame into the miniscule space allotted by my train ticket
and being bothered by a fat screen television advertising the latest Harry
Potter DVD not once either, as it was obviously on a loop.
During my frst night back in the city the moon smiled a big smile at
me, so in return, I smiled a big smile back later I learned that it was a
peculiar conjunction oI moon and planets which gave the appearance oI
the big smile in the heavens, nevertheless I took it at Iace value.
That frst day I was as happy as a sand-boy to be back in KL, though
I am not too sure what a sand-boy is, nor why one should be rated as being
happy, but .
I Ielt as I had on coming to Malaysia Ior the very frst time touching
down in Penang airport all hope and wide-eyed anticipation, at this wildly
new, exciting land.
But I couldn`t help but remember that KL was also the scene oI the
May 13
th
1969 incident, as it is euphemistically called. It was a dark period
in Malaysia`s history and, depending upon who you read, it was either a
spontaneous race riot pitting the Chinese against the Malay or a subterIuge
engineered by certain governmental Iactions wishing to take control that
killed almost 200 people.
The Malaysian government was Iully in control again, aided by the
Internal Security Act and no talk oI sedition, so no traIfc near miss, deluge
oI rain or belligerent taxi driver could dispel the Ieeling oI awe and wonder
on this trip. My sense oI marvel became even more heightened as it was the
holiday season children were home Irom their studies and one Iestivity
had tumbled into another Irom the Raya celebrations aIter Ramadan, to the
Hindu Deepavali and the approaching Christmas and New Year(s).
Awesome, gigantic, replica Christmas trees had sprung up in malls
across the city. These were careIully bedecked with countless toy soldiers,
snowmen, red ribbons and copious amounts oI Iestive bling. Gingerbread-
men, distinctly reminiscent oI cartoons Ieaturing ogres and donkeys hung
amidst the general melee oI cotton wool and polystyrene pretend-snow. It
all seemed to ft right in with the commercial season oI good-enough will,
in that veritable wonderland oI suspension oI disbelieI.
Subsumed by the overall Ieel oI this jovial season, and becoming
somewhat bemused by it, I sat in caIes and restaurants being beguiled by
stories oI cobra-fghting mongooses, Christmas tree light-eating rabbits
and politely shy monkeys who, seemingly, inhabit hills surrounding Kuala
Lumpur. I shook hands and hugged people who had been strangers, but
were Iast becoming Iriends thanks to Facebook, and generally immersed
myselI in the mad spirit oI the year-end season.
94 95
I`d seen something similar to the Iake Christmas in Singapore giant
snowmen bringing their chill to the humid, hot equatorial city, with bogus
snow and pseudo-Irost in departmental stores but, somehow, it looked
less incongruous in Singapore than it did in Malaysia which is, aIter all, a
Muslim country.
Out on the streets KL was its usual hot, dusty, charming selI, overseen
by sultry blue skies and all its customary, equatorial brilliance. One
poignant diIIerence then was the greater number oI children in evidence.
Impatiently they tugged at doting parents` loving, and somewhat harassed,
hands having not yet entered that period oI disenchantment with time-oII
Irom studies, which generally comes with lengthy school holidays.
Studiously avoiding the tanning rays oI the ever-present sun, I
traversed the city environs largely by going underground. There, my
steely hands frmly holding precious books garnered Irom second-hand
bookshops and one oI the fnest book emporiums that Kuala Lumpur has
to oIIer Kinokuniya, sheltered in Kuala Lumpur City Centre (KLCC). I
gazed at the Iull gamut oI Malaysia`s multiculturalism travelling on the
LRT, remembering London in summer. I listened one moment to Arabic,
the next to German, Tamil, Malay, Hokkien, Swahili, and thorough it
all savoured the immense diversity oI humankind in the microcosm. I
enthusiastically, wantonly enjoyed my visit. Nevertheless, visit it was.
As with all respites, there comes a time when the partying ends and
it is time to return. Then I was Ieeling equally excited about returning
back to my rural home, seeing my cats and inspecting the damage done by
winds, rain and carelessly wandering water buIIalo.
It was a brieI visit to the city, and I have discovered that all visits to
Kuala Lumpur should, necessarily be brieI to maintain the excitement
and awe at the city, which palls aIter a Iew days. I was more used to
being amidst the wider spaces, and calmer atmosphere, oI the Malaysian
countryside.
Maybe that is because I lived outside oI cities, away in the countryside
oI Essex, when I was younger. I had time enough to appreciate Iruit
orchards, woods, rivers and dells made Iamous by the painter John
Constable, and only went to London on rare occasion to visit galleries,
museums, or bookshops.
I am a country boy at heart. For all the time that I was in Malaysia,
I mostly avoided the cities and larger towns, in Iavour oI the real
Malaysia` the countryside. In the countryside there were no pretensions,
no Christmas trees, only durian orchards, no gigantic rabbits (only water
buIIalo), and no Iake snow only the humid heat oI the equatorial sun.
96 97
Shhhhhh.... I`m Thinking
The 'Golden Chersonese` is verv hot, and much infested bv things which bite
and sting.
(Isabella L. Bird, The Golden Chersonese)
Mistaken city dwellers oIten reIer to the countryside as being quiet. What
they mean is that there is not the daily thrum oI traIfc, the honking
whether you are Malaysian or not or the intrusive radios playing so loud
it is cheaper to listen to your neighbours` than turn on your own.
BeIore my Iamily and I ventured to greener felds, we had lived in
numerous apartments and houses in Kuala Lumpur. We lived over people,
under people, beside people and adjacent to people in all kinds oI situations
and yes, city people, drawn Irom all liIestyles, can be noisy.
Even the simple act oI dragging a granite grinding stone, Irom one
side oI a kitchen to another, can create thunder Ior the apartment beneath
while a child`s simple knocking can grossly interIere with a neighbours`
avid concentration on their Iavourite Korean soap opera. Yet these
incidents occur as mere trifes when compared to our experiences in the
countryside heartland.
For the frst Iew days in our new country home, cats meowed, dogs
barked and the wandering water buIIalo emitted their own peculiar sounds
somewhere between a cow`s moo and an old man`s disgusted snort.
These were expected sounds, and none too intrusive to daily living so
everything was seemingly hunky dory.
Occasionally the local kampong hall held a bit oI a bash. It could be
a wedding/political reception, or a holiday celebration lasting until 1 a.m..
That was when 70s karaoke songs usually got sung earnestly, but badly, by
some Iellow desperately in need oI throat lozenges, or an operation.
The Japanese word Karaoke, means empty orchestra. It has come
to signiIy empty-headed, tuneless or gross inability to sing. Karaoke
should have stayed in the dinner parties in Japan, it should never have
been allowed out to re-invade the world and spread torture amongst
millions. Nevertheless, there it was, in our very small hall, in our very
small Malaysian town in the Malaysian countryside.
Apart Irom those horrendous days oI Malaysian karaoke torture the
countryside was quiet save Ior the incessant chirping oI birds, large and
small that was, until it rained. The Ialling rain was, to all intents and
purposes, pleasant, cooling, reIreshing, even calming to look at and listen
to; it also saved me having to water our extremely thirsty garden. All was
fne until it rained at night. It was then that the tenor and baritone Irogs
came out, bringing the delights oI their own particular brand oI amphibian
karaoke to our land.
Please do not get me wrong, I have nothing against Irogs, they are
God`s creatures, and in their own place are lovely beings, but they croak.
They croak the loudest, most deaIening croaks I have ever heard Irom
Irogs, anywhere.
That night it rained.
It rained a good, hearty, healthy rain, a melancholic, dreamy rain
a welcome rain, rain enough to drown our garden and food the road
normal enough these days. But aIter the rain came the Irogs.
The initial Irog perIormer began a quiet, pathetic, buzzing-like croak
nothing too loud or oIIensive. Then the chaotic Irog chorus erupted. I
would not have minded so much iI they actually had gone croak`, as in
katak, katak the Irog sound so Irequently demonstrated in Malaysian
adverts and cartoons but they did not.
Throughout the night, there was a Irog cacophony. It sounded
exactly like water buIIalo continually jumping on toddlers` squeaky
toys haphazardly. Encouraged, their animal buddies joined in with the
parping oI randomly squeezed bicycle horns. Together they worked up to a
98 99
climax which they sustained all night long. It was louder than cats fghting,
louder than our television, and even louder than my stepson snoring in
the bedroom next door. I thought it was some bizarre party by our ageing
neighbours, or maybe a local ritual involving children`s toys and horns
but my wiIe told me it was Irogs. I looked sceptically at her as iI to say '
. Are you sure? she looked determinedly back as iI to say 'Who`s the
Malay here .
Morning came, the sky was clear blue and the mountains hazed in
golden mist by the rising sun once again, I knew that we were blessed
to be there, despite the Irogs, their noise and the prospect oI it occurring
again, the next time it rained.
Tioman without a Tiger
The Englishman makes a good sailor because we happen to have hit upon the
right training to secure that end.
(Frank Swettenham, British Malava)
Perhaps it is a truism when I say that holidays are not all they are cracked
up to be. Having spent a copious amount oI time sheltering Irom the rain/
sun, Iending oII shoot-eating water buIIalo/dogs, stray cats, cat-eating
monitor lizards and chicken-killing civets and, with smiles upon our
browned Iaces, swimming costumes in our bags, we boarded the small
12-seater plane heading Ior Tioman Island, on Malaysia`s East Coast.
You will Iorgive me, I am sure, iI I cannot describe exactly the engine
capacity oI the plane, its make or where it was manuIactured. I am really
not a Ian oI small planes, or planes at all Ior that matter. They are just
means to an end airborne cigar tubes flled with people. Small planes
tend to reveal every air thermal, every puII oI warm wind in the air, sway
and generally make liIe uncomIortable Ior their passengers. Our plane,
you will be relieved to note, was no exception. It was not the seemingly
necessary buIIeting which claimed my attention, but the white mist rising
Irom the foor oI said plane. White mist is this normal? Why are we
having a mist, regardless oI colour, invading our already small aircraIt?
Did we have room Ior a mist too? A small piece oI my mind, still unused to
air travel, was panicking. No one else was, so I calmed myselI by looking
at the rolling hills and ancient Iorests as we few across the jungles oI
Pahang and over a brieI section oI the South China Sea to the island
called Tioman.
100 101
For those oI you who are not Iamiliar with their seas; the South China
Sea, according to internet sources is the western arm oI the Pacifc Ocean
which rests between the Southeast Asian mainland and Taiwan, the
Philippines, and Borneo. The South China Sea is connected with the East
China Sea by the Taiwan Strait and, oddly enough, surrounds Malaysia`s
Tioman island.
For those who have not been to Tioman that island is Iamed Ior
its Berjaya resort, its jungles and a generally slower pace oI liIe. It is,
thereIore, an ideal holiday destination. Tioman is an island, thereIore, it
is surrounded with water a Iact I will come back to. Joshua Logan used
Tioman`s beaches during the making oI his 1958 flm South Pacifc` as
Bali Hai.
The Berjaya resort provided all the necessities Ior a beach holiday
copious amounts oI beaches, bronzed hunks ready to kick sand in the
Iaces oI us mere mortal beings, bikini-clad goddesses, irritating lapdogs
running barking air-con chalets, good Iood three times a day in a rooIed,
but still quite open eating area and golI. I do not play golI. The next best
exercise to golI was walking. Walking and watching other people play
golI. Walking along the beach watching other people baste themselves
with oil hoping Ior a tan, or walking to the exercise room and watching
other people exercise.
Eventually, I was bored with being bored. I wanted excitement and
copious amounts oI it. I dragged my much better halI to the noticeboard.
It advertised boat trips. Boat trips are nice I thought, they are gentle and
romantic even. Canopied boats shade holidaymakers Irom the glaring sun,
and breezes generated by movement cool overheated Ioreigners. Great Iun.
I sauntered to the oIfce and spoke to a less than caring person sitting
behind a Formica trestle table. UnIortunately there was a paucity oI
passengers to warrant the larger canopied boat, would we care Ior an un-
canopied boat, exclusive to just our Iamily. The kids had other plans, so
that leIt just the two oI us. I smiled, acquiesced. I was somewhat reassured
by the rather long paragraph on the advert claiming a lengthy service and
years oI experience Ior our captain. I was less than amused by the insurance
disclaimer, which I subsequently ignored. We booked our excursion Ior the
next day.
While we eked out the time between agreeing and actually going,
we wandered oII into the village. It was a pleasant walk past small, then
even smaller, shops. The makeshiIt road that we were Iollowing petered
out as it reached a small landing strip. I gazed at the place where I had
checked the seat oI my chinos aIter disembarking the airplane as I was
certain that there had been a minor mishap associated with the near crash-
landing. While I was watching the mountain draw ever closer, the plane
just seemed to drop Irom the sky. It few level with the ground with a large
and I imagined very hard and heavy rock-Iace rushing closer and closer
towards us every second. It was only at the very last moment that the plane
screeched to a stop, with what seemed to be only millimetres to said rock-
Iace. The plane was manually swung around, and we disembarked it was
then that I checked my chinos.
To the leIt oI where we were standing, on a sandbank between a small
ditch and the open sea sat, sauntered, or basked the largest lizards I had
ever seen in my liIe. They looked as though they were the great-great-
granddaddies oI the monitor lizards we have in our kampong. Those guys
looked primeval, perhaps dumped by Steven Spielberg, leIt over Irom
Jurassic Park`. As slow as they were, they were scary, wonderIul and
scary, but scary nevertheless. I urged my wiIe to stop gawking and get
moving just in case. Whether they ate humans, I did not know but I was
not going to take any chances.
The next day, with breakIast over and unhidden grins we boarded
the small boat. OII we set to skim round Tioman Island, sightsee and
generally behave like the tourists we were. Small boats sit well on calm
water. The sun was shining, the sea was extremely well-behaved, and the
entire journey around the island, by sea, was promising to be invigorating.
It was promising to reveal Tioman as a gem oI an island, set in the clasp oI
the azure South China Sea.
A little way around the island, perhaps halIway, we had had our fll
oI fying fsh, fuIIy clouds, the mysterious misty island and sea, lots and
102 103
lots oI sea and then more sea. We stopped. The captain/guide ran the boat
towards the shore. We clambered onto a small jetty and headed towards a
shack Ior lunch.
Even with the most vivid imagination, you couldn`t call that shack a
restaurant. It was rustic. It had its own charm, and we were in relatively
good moods. We had seaIood, made palatable by the ambience oI a sea
view and, at our backs, a romantically sprawling, equatorial, jungle. As
we were fnishing our instantly Iorgettable lunch there was a spot oI rain. I
thought no more oI it. Momentarily I Iorgot that we still had a sea voyage
ahead oI us.
We set oII to continue our round island tour. The rain was light at frst,
quite pleasant really. We encountered just a Iew small waves. The slight
choppiness oI the sea actually added to the thrill oI the ride I looked
Iorward to continuing our little jaunt.
The wind got up. The waves became a little larger. 'Nothing to
worry about, said our captain, used to such things. We sighed, resigned
ourselves to a slight discomIort, and continued our ride. Over the next Iew
minutes, the discomIort became less and less slight as the waves got higher
and higher. Waves began splashing into our boat. That was defnitely not
what we had signed up Ior. It was then that I remembered the insurance
waiver Iorm that we had signed, just beIore starting our round island trip.
The waves got higher. The small boat that we were in began to
think that it was a seaplane, trying several times to take oII. We were
surrounded on all sides by Katsushika Hokusai`s inIamous wave print. It
was threatening to engulI us, food our boat, and drown us all.
My wiIe and I clung onto the sides oI that boat literally Ior our lives.
The South China Sea raged. The wind swept ever more waves into our
boat. The boat plummeted, rose, plummeted, and rose again. The beating
rain lashed at us. I was convinced that we would capsize and all drown.
We did not.
The captain, meanwhile, steered us the best he could through the storm
and around the island. He grinned and grimaced, depending upon whether
his passengers were begging Ior their lives or screaming. Eventually, aIter
hours, days, weeks, months oI being tossed and turned at the mercy oI
what we now know to be the quite merciless and inIamous South China
Sea, we began to approach shore. Lovely, stable shore, the best shore in all
the world, terra frma, home well temporarily at least.
I was just glad just to be alive, too glad to chastise the captain and
maybe more than a little embarrassed by my wimpy perIormance in the
boat it was not as iI there were a tiger in there with us. Strangely enough
that was the last time I have been seen in a small boat on the open sea. Now
I preIer a much larger boat, big engines, and lots oI thrust.
104 105
Pardon
Pardon...
Sorrv could vou sav that a little louder...
I didnt quite catch that...
Eh'...
What'...
Being home again aIter various travels Ielt good. I say Ielt because, yes, I
had been having problems with my hearing Ior a while. It was a bit on and
oII, but steadily getting worse. Finally, it reached the stage where I was
becoming concerned. I fnally gathered the courage to visit an ENT (Ear,
Nose, and Throat) specialist in Ipoh, just halI an hour`s drive away.
Ipoh is an old Malaysian tin town, raised through the herculean
eIIort oI thousands oI, mostly, Chinese tin miners. With the downturn in
international tin buying, like many tin towns Ipoh slumped. Though it
had tried to re-invent itselI many times Bougainvillea City, Shoe Town,
Ipoh had remained a poor relation to Kuala Lumpur, but therein also laid
its beauty.
While Kuala Lumpur, and then Penang, got the modernisation
bug Ipoh seemed encapsulated in another time. An assemblage oI older
buildings, some dating back well over a century only enhanced that
preserved look Ior Ipoh. Moreover, it was that look, and those buildings
that enticed flmmakers, TV crews and all kinds oI lovers oI antiquities and
nostalgia to Ipoh.
I, on the other hand, was seeking a cure to my creeping deaIness.
The specialist was a nice chap, who immediately reprimanded me Ior
using cotton buds` in my ears. He said that they damage the lining oI the
ear. Suitably chastised, I was caught, the evidence beIore him I shrank
mentally, and probably physically too, into that smart proIessional looking
chair. I reverted to being a small boy again while, last minute, swallowing
the excuse that I had been constructing in my boyish brain.
You might have thought that being in the countryside, and thereIore
being bereIt oI huge amounts oI traIfc, not hearing would not be so much
oI a problem. My wiIe, dragging me out oI the way oI the umpteenth
speeding, parping motorcycle might have had other notions.
Incidental things like people yelling 'Watch out Ior that snake!,
took on a huge new meaning when I was hard oI hearing, and I cannot
count the number oI missed calls on my hand phone. My liIe had become
muIfed. All sound, except Ior internal reverberation, became deadened.
Eating cornfakes drowned out all exterior noises it sounded more like a
herd oI water buIIalo playing with rattan balls on very loose gravel, while
swallowing was just disgusting.
Having accepted the doctor`s reprimand, I sat back in his oIfcial-
looking chair while he probed both ears with a metal tube. First one, then
the other was probed he inserted a suction tube, attached to some sort oI
device into my ear and it began sucking.
At that moment my whole world was Iull oI sucking, just that,
nothing else. The sucking reminded me oI what might happen iI someone
pulled the plug out oI the bottom oI the South China Sea with all the fsh,
mammals, plants, etc. being drawn into a maelstrom and sucked into the
very depths oI the Earth.
The sucking flled my entire universe, I became at one with the
sucking. It and I were as one entity, spiralling out oI control and heading
Ior a black hole. Then the sucking stopped. The instrument was extracted
Irom my ear and lawdy oI lawdies and wonder oI wonders I could hear
once more.
Like a proud cat dropping a mouse on the foor expecting praise, the
specialist proudly proIIered the oIIending brown wax to me it was all I
could do to look and not show my disgust.
106 107
I was in a brave new world. It was a world oI sound and children`s
laughter. I almost hugged the dear doctor, but reIrained. I relished my
new sense oI hearing. Pins dropped with Iull Dolby and Lucas THX
surround-sound clarity. Birds, previously muted, sang with clear avian
high-defnition resonance worthy oI only the very best oI audio set- ups.
In my sparkling new sound milieu people spoke, loudspeakers announced,
telephones rang and serious cashiers asked Ior payment.
My old truck, strangely silent these past Iew days, roared into action
like the aging lion it is. It and I gloriously trundled and rumbled away Irom
the hospital and back to my mining pool home. TraIfc beeped and parped
I could hear every note, every syllable, even through the Page and Plant
('No Quarter Unledded) playing on the barely adequate jeep stereo.
Kopi, one oI my three cats, greeted me with his customary screech
and that was when I knew all was right with the world.
The Beach
Captain Light had with him three vessels the Eliza, The Prince Henry, and
the Speedwell Snow; a hundred Bengal new-made marines, thirty native
Lascars, and thirteen European Artillery men, with fve oIfcers, to give
him their support; and on the 17
th
July, 1786, having provisioned his Iorce
previously during the negotiations at Keddah, he, as we have seen, landed
with his Iorce at Penang.
(A. Francis Steuart, A Short Sketch of the Lives of Francis and William Light)
Beaches have a magical, magnetic pull....
I was musing, sitting in my gazebo, all sound duly returned. The
sun was streaking through yet more gaps in the attap. The gentle lowing
oI the water buIIalo as they skirted the exterior oI my wedge, cautious
oI my presence, lulled me. Despite the obvious idyll beIore me, all my
conscious mind could think about was the beach. In truth, it was not just
any stretch oI sand and Ioam, but THE beach the most renowned beach,
the illustrious, glorious beach at Batu Ferringhi in Penang.
We were Iortunate in our choice oI locale. We were equidistant Irom
KL and the popular island oI Penang. Both were just along the North/
South Highway, which has Iew, iI any, speed cameras. The mood was set.
Arrangements made, no sooner was it said than done my wiIe and I were
motoring up the highway, past Ipoh, heading Ior Penang Bridge and the
RM7 toll.
The island we now know as Penang has been variously called Pulau
Ka-Satu or 'First Island Betel Nut Island` or 'Pinang in Malay and in
1786 it was Prince oI Wales Island (aIter Prince George, later King George
108 109
IV). Francis Light, eIIectively the Iounder oI Penang, leased the island
Irom the state oI Kedah, on the mainland, on behalI oI the British East
India Company. The island was later given to him as a giIt when he married
a Princess oI Kedah; Light relinquished the island to the government oI
India to stave oII attacks on Kedah. In 1826 Penang became part oI the
Straits Settlements, along with Malacca and Singapore.
Penang calls itselI The Pearl oI the Orient it is not shy in that respect.
I have a special attachment to Penang it being the frst part oI Malaysia
I had seen back in 1981. In many ways Penang is a sheer delight sitting,
as it does, amidst cerulean seas. It is a gem, a jewel and, coincidentally, the
worse communication nightmare ever.
While adding to the cooling ambience oI the island, those leaIy
avenues running like veins throughout Penang, which are shady during
the equatorial day, tend to mask vital road signs and obscure much-needed
turnings by the lunar night.
We were tourists once more on that enticing island. We had spent
a delicious day watching airborne holiday-makers driIt at the mercy oI
kaleidoscopic parachutes, small naked children squealing with joy at the
teasing touch oI chasing waves and prim and proper adults slowly melting
their stiIIness away until they, like everyone else on the beach, chilled to
the soothing rhythms oI waves and the placating warmth oI the sun.
Eased by the sight oI humanity taking time out, my wandering
thoughts had turned to Thomas Mann, Venice, Dirk Bogart, the nature oI
beauty and the music oI Gustav Mahler all playing within my heavy
head`s very own Cinema Paradiso, to the steady harmonies oI The Lovin`
SpoonIull singing Coconut Grove.
The Pearl oI the Orient lived up to her name. She displayed the most
vibrant oI bright blue skies and fuIfly soIt white clouds which seemed
too laid-back to scud, instead they inched towards their destination, happy
to soak up the relaxing rays oI the northern caressing sun. Just out Irom
the beach, under the rooI oI an Indian Muslim restaurant, we partook oI
simply the best dish oI prawn and smelly beans (udang petai sambal) that
I had ever tasted. Ravenous, no doubt due to the salty sea air, that dish was
eagerly consumed with accompanying coconut rice and washed down with
the sweet Malaysian tea. At that moment I was sublimely glad to be alive.
As the metaphorical lead curtain oI night dropped with an almost
audible thunk` over the glistening and gleaming colonial dwellings,
Penang transIormed into a Iurtive, secretive mistress, shyly revealing her
multitude oI pleasures but only to the most insisting and persistent lover.
Trying to navigate Irom one side oI the island to the other, I missed
turnings, so obvious during the day, but nicely obscured at night and
sauntered away Irom my proposed destination. We ended up in old George
Town. George Town is a wondrous and enchanting place, but mystiIying
in the dark. Only the occasional street lamp and the reproachIul headlights
oI Iellow road users light that town centre.
In that paucity oI light, alleyways masqueraded as roads, and roads
seemed to end halIway turning into cul-de-sacs. I missed numerous road
signs only to discover, on back-tracking that the vital sign was visible only
Irom one direction not the one I had travelled in.
HelpIul directional signs seemed to disappear aIter the frst mention oI
a road, or sector leaving me to take wild, and Irequently wrong, guesses
as to where I should be headed. I was dazed and conIused and tempted to
listen to Led Zepplin but my wiIe, hater oI noisy aggressive music, was
in the car so my rage burned internally.
When my acute sense oI direction and, perhaps, not so skilIul attempts
at map reading became delusionary, it was time Ior me to stop driving
and take stock. Take stock I did. The roads that had so readily presented
themselves in daylight seemed to sneak around corners, peeking out and
waiting until I had passed, then merrily re-presenting themselves, laughing
great belly laughs at my expense, and bewilderment.
It is a male thing. I Irankly reIused to ask passersby directions, much
to the annoyance oI my wiIe and, an hour later, I had completed my ten-
minute drive back to our lodgings at the USM (Universiti Sains Malaysia)
guesthouse, somewhat Irazzled and much in need oI rest and recuperation.
Penang Island suIIers Irom that same plague oI name-changing which
had swept across Malaysia. Malaysia, it would seem, was trying desperately
110 111
to erase much oI its colonial heritage through the Malay-isation oI street
names. Streets, roads, avenues have become Malay-ised, some have gone
Iurther and have been completely renamed. Many colonial buildings have
been leIt to rot to give an excuse to pull them down and replace them
with a hideous new hotel or yet another shopping mall in a world Iull to
the brim with shopping malls. In 2007, UNESCO helped stem that tide by
earmarking Penang as a world heritage site I hope that it is not too late,
and that Penang`s authorities will wake up to the Iact that names are also
part oI history, and thereIore part oI Penang`s heritage too.
Ants In Your Pants
The lure oI the beach was Iar behind us. We were back in our land oI
baked sand. We pondered on the thought that, sometimes, the mere thought
oI liIe in the countryside is a big stretch oI the imagination Ior town
dwellers. Living, as we once did fve storeys high in a Kuala Lumpur
hillside condominium, my Iamily and I encountered Iew problems with
insects. Barely a single fy would drop in Ior a brieI snack beIore being
extinguished by a neatly rolled glossy magazine and wending its way to fy
heaven. We had been lulled into a Ialse sense oI security. We were not at
all prepared Ior the countryside and its various miniscule denizens, their
Ioibles and our immense misIortune.
All naively innocent, we moved to the Malaysian countryside where
all manner, and size, oI creeping, crawling, and fying insects abounded.
In our garden, grasshoppers the size oI locusts were to spring Irom halI-
eaten leaI to succulent new leaI, happily having three course meals on our
careIully, and painstakingly grown plants.
Huge green caterpillars perhaps extras Ior some John Borman
science fction flm, consumed whole plants within but a Iew short hours.
Squadrons oI vampire mosquitoes patrolled the gardens their clocking-
in hours seemingly being just beIore dawn, and again at dusk. The time
constraints did not deter the Iemale, ever more deadly than the male,
mosquitoes Irom lurking in our cupboards, behind curtains or in wardrobes
waiting, expectantly, to strike some nice warm body Iull oI salty blood.
The mosquito`s` Iavourite time Ior attack was while we are sleeping. They
would lovingly nibble our ears, or necks, leaving telltale bloodstains on
our top sheets and pillowcases.
112 113
Yet worse, much worse than all these trifing annoying insects put
together were the ants millions oI ants, big ants, small ants, black ants,
brown ants, red ants and white ants. They all had but one aim in mind to
break in, burglarise and vandalise our home, causing as much chaos as
possible while eating our electrics, cleaning out our kitchen and making as
much nuisance as was possible.
For some time I engaged in running battles. I evacuated persistent
armies oI ants Irom each oI our fve bedrooms/three bathrooms. It seemed a
never-ending nightmare. No sooner did I Iree one room Irom their skinny-
legged grasp, than another room was under attack by lines oI marching
ants. They seemed to emerge through minute gaps in aluminium widow
Irames. They Iormed zigzag lines, or clusters, over our walls.
For three days running, I was occupied with skirmishes oI ant lines
in our main bathroom. They would pour through the window Irame. I
would discourage them with water. They came back. I attacked with rolled
newspaper, or any other object/deterrent that came to hand. They would
return, I would attack, they would return, and again I would once more
attempt to disperse them.
The wonderIul and deadly systemic ant powder, sold in little silver
packets at our local market, used to dispense with whole nests oI ants but
then, sadly, the ants, in their collective wisdom, no longer partook oI those
poisoned Trojan Horses. They no longer carried them into their nests but,
instead, just stared at the laid powder with much disdain, and marched
around it chuckling to themselves at men`s stupidity.
Boiling water was eIIective and killed, more or less, instantly; but it
was cumbersome and needed to be repeated Irequently. Then it was the
turn oI the big guns. I bought large 585ml aerosols oI water-based insect
killer.
We were not alone in our war against the ant. Many were constantly
under siege by ants oI all manner and size. Ants had invaded my mother-
in-law`s house and happily nibbled their way through her microwave
oven destroying the electrics therein. I was desperate to stop that Irom
happening to us.
During a mild respite Irom the on-going ant war a time perhaps
to merrily play Iootball in no-ant`s land, we had time to dispose oI a Iew
mammoth grasshoppers by either bisecting them with scissors, or whacking
them with broom handles. I tried to weigh up the cost oI replacing the
broken broom handles against buying yet more insecticide spray it was
about even.
Meanwhile, bulbous eyed lizards continued to gaze Irom ceilings, tut-
tutting my Iutile eIIorts in battling the onslaught oI insectdom. The lizards
seemed to know that in the man-versus-ant battle, man was certainly not
going to win.
My brother-in-law came Ior a visit. During tea outside, around our
terrazo table, he brought out a bat. Said bat was electrifed, and dear
brother-in-law proceeded to play tennis with the various buzzing and
swooping nightliIe. A light bulb went on in the more devious sector oI my
brain.
The Iollowing Sunday my wiIe and I were in Batu Gajah (Elephant
Rock), strolling aIter a very nice breakIast. We wandered down a small
alleyway, just oII the main Sunday market. We espied a stall selling the
type oI electrifed bat that my brother-in-law had introduced us to Ior
Irying mosquitoes.
Playing insect executioner, gaining a modicum oI exercise whilst
watching fve-year-old soap operas on our modest TV courtesy oI the
local satellite dish company, became a pastime noted within Iamily history
annals.
114 115
Books
A small reward, a hearty welcome, and a good meal await the Malay
rhapsodist wherever he goes, and he wanders among the Malay villages as
Homer did among the Greek cities.
(PreIace to the text oI Hikvat Seri Rama, 'Journal oI the Straits Branch oI the
Royal Asiatic Society)
Malaysia has a long history oI storytelling. Oral stories, legends, tales,
etc. have been passed down through a vast number oI generations. Some
tales are pre-Islamic animist belieIs oI ghosts and other worldly beings,
some hail Irom Hindu India like the Ramayana, seen in the Wavang Kulit
shadow play. Still other tales represent stories Irom the Qur`an.
Malaysia`s written history is not as vast as its oral history. Nevertheless,
over the years a great number oI books have Iound their way into the
Malay language, as well as those in English, Chinese and Tamil. It would
not be too much oI a stretch oI the imagination to suppose that some oI
these books might be represented in Malaysia`s libraries, specifcally the
state libraries like the one in Ipoh.
My visit to the Perak State Library, Ipoh, told a very diIIerent tale. I
had assumed, evidently wrongly, that as I had lived in Malaysia over fve
years at that time, built a house, paid taxes and had an on-going spouse
visa valid Ior yet another Iour years, that I would be able to join the Ipoh
library and take out books. I was wrong in my assumption.
My wiIe, being a Malaysian citizen with an IC card, and my step-
daughter having recently received her IC card could join the library and
take out books while I, on the other hand, being a Ioreigner and without an
IC, let alone citizenship, would not be able to join the library or take out
books. Even when I waved prooI oI identity driver`s licence (admittedly
British) and passport (British again) I was reIused into the obviously quite
unique club oI Malaysian library membership.
CrestIallen, and admittedly a little grumpily, I rejoined my Iamily.
We wandered up and into the library. I looked around where were all the
books? Had someone broken in, stolen the books during the night? Was the
library having renovations done and put the books away Ior saIekeeping.
The answer to both, sadly, was NO.
Over my time in Malaysia, I had become acutely aware that certain
sections oI the Malaysian government were in the habit oI banning books,
and sometimes, not even banning but simply taking books oII bookshop
shelves. This had happened on more than one occasion in Kuala Lumpur.
In a seemingly random way, books were selected as being unsuitable Ior
the Malaysian public to read. They included 1 Funnv Malavsia, a wry look
at the country by a local writer; Malavsian Maverick. Mahathir Mohamad
in Turbulent Times, a biography oI the Iormer Prime Minister; The Quran
a New Translation by Thomas Cleary, and many other books about Islam
by non-Malaysians. Censorship was so eIIective in Malaysia that even the
oIfcial list oI banned books was not Ireely available.
Many books tended to be impounded, while decisions were eventually
made regarding their worthiness. I had not expected a whole library to
have its books impounded it hadn`t. Expectations oI libraries are low in
Malaysia, with the exception oI the British Council Library which had a
very good reputation beIore it was closed down. Few people would think
oI going to a library to get books as Iew, and increasingly Iewer, people
actually read books, other than the obligatory schoolbooks. This had been
the concern oI many campaigns promoting literacy in the country.
Literacy levels in Malaysia had been rising during the 1990s. They
reached a plateau Irom 2000, according to Index Mundi. One internet book
blogger surmised that Malaysians, on average, read only two books a
year. Was this a chicken and egg scenario which came frst, the libraries`
low levels oI books or the decline in reading, it`s diIfcult to tell, but Iew
116 117
Malaysians are in the habit oI reading books once they have leIt school and
it is no longer compulsory to do so.
I stood in the large, very spacious, library building and wondered just
what it was used Ior, iI not Ior books. Row upon row oI metal bookshelves
pretended that all was right with the world and that the books were, perhaps,
just on holiday, or that a locust like horde oI readers had swept through the
library and taken out all but approximately 1 oI all the books.
I did not believe it, but there was no other tangible explanation. The
shelves were bare, barren. One or two shelves had a huddle oI books,
keeping together Ior warmth in the air-con atmosphere, but most were
empty, Iorlorn.
I went away disappointed that Ipoh could have such a large new
building and very Iew actual books. It didn`t bode well Ior literacy in
Perak, and maybe not Ior Malaysia either, and the question oI me being
able, or not, to join the library just dissipated into the warm Malaysian air
as I realised that there was little point in that exercise.
Not Lost
It is a savage tangle oI bamboos, palms, banyans, mangroves, and countless
varieties oI shrubs and giant Ierns, the whole laced together by trailers and
creepers. Contrary to popular belieI, there is little color to relieve the somber
monotony oI dark brown trunks and dark green Ioliage. It is as gloomy as the
nave oI a cathedral at twilight.
(E. Alexander Powell, Where the Strange Trails Go Down)
To put the record straight I was never lost. At no point was I lost, there
was never any lostness to my being in Taman Negara. I was just, well,
slightly disoriented that is all, turned around maybe. It simply was not
Iair to reIer to me as Jim. He went missing in an altogether diIIerent
mountainous place Cameron Highlands and besides, I was not missing.
When, eventually, I Iound the rest oI the party it was because I had actually
wanted a little time apart, some time to myselI. Refective time, and time
to chill. Good, I`m glad that I`ve got that straight.
It took about three and a halI water-splashed and heat-baked hours by
agonisingly slow, rickety boat to travel up river Irom Kuala Tembeling.
We headed to the 130 million-year-old national park, having just travelled
an almost equal amount oI time in an ancient beaten up, VW minibus and
then waited around with nothing but cold Iried fsh and equally cold rice to
eat I was not best pleased.
AIter the frst exciting hour oI ooooh and wow look at that, the
rippling water and the once-interesting wildliIe just became passe. The
heat, however, was relentless. Once more I was in a small craIt, this time
going up a river and not on the open sea. Once again there was no canopy,
118 119
but there were other passengers all going ooooh and wow look at that, as
we passed water buIIalos bathing, herons fshing, water snakes swimming
the last one was more like eeeeeeee, er dont look, then OK vou can
look now and so on and so Iorth, Ior three and halI water-borne hours.
The small jungle resort was nothing much to look at Irom the river.
Once we had disembarked, it seemed maybe a little odd, standing out Irom
the jungle like a sore digit, rather than ftting in as we had been inIormed.
However, I was so grateIul oI that incongruous chalet Ior all the time I
was in Taman Negara it was my sole source oI air-con. I had not realised
until that trip just how dependent I had become on air-conditioning and a
cool atmosphere.
I conIess to being an armchair explorer. I enjoy watching videos in
Iull 3D, HD, oI other people sweating and being sucked by monstrous
leeches. Being actually in the hot and humid jungle, with the prospect oI
meeting hissing, snorting or sucking wildliIe Iace to snout, was not my
idea oI an ideal holiday.
It was not just hot but humid. It is a natural Iact that the larger you are,
the more both the heat and the humidity aIIect you. I was aIIected enough
Ior at least two people. Every time I emerged Irom my beloved air-con the
sweat would just pour down my Iace, underarms well you can imagine.
I must have lost weight the amount I sweated there it was like a sauna,
but jungle version and no running around being whipped, or did I miss
that party?
No matter, because I was able to gain some weight at the small
restaurant, near to the river. It was there, drinking a monster RM18 cendol
(coconut milk drink with green wormy noodles) that I saw my frst real
hornbill. It was huge, much bigger than on any oI the breakIast cereal
packets, button badges, etc. and dangerous-looking.
Hornbills would make excellent nutcrackers at Christmas well
anytime oI the year actually and you might imagine Japan`s Yukuza
using hornbills to snip the odd fnger or two, such was the power in those
beaks. And scary too those birds, when they are but a Iew Ieet away
encamped on a branch and looking straight at you really are scary you
become acutely aware oI those hooked bills, and their size. But that`s what
we had come Ior jungle liIe and maybe, to be a little scared too.
From our encampment`, it was possible to hike along various trails
leading Iurther and Iurther into the jungle to areas containing elephants,
rope walks through the tree canopy and myriad other enticements into the
land oI Jungle Jane and Tarzan. I chose the canopy ropewalk. Maybe that
was because it was the nearest, and because being Indiana Jones was OK
Ior Indiana Jones but probably not OK Ior middle-aged keyboard plonkers
or Iull HD touch-screen watchers.
My IaithIully Iollowing wiIe Iollowed IaithIully. There were,
thankIully, no leeches so I did not have to martyr myselI like Humphrey
Bogart in The AIrican Queen. It was the dry season, and the thousand and
one diIIerent kinds oI snake (well, 37 apparently) kept well out oI our path.
That meant that the slack-paced jaunt to the canopy walk was relatively
incident-Iree. As a matter oI interest, and also as a warning, we were told
oI a biologist who had wandered oII the path, got lost, and had to survive
on the jungle plants until she eventually Iound a village. Was that true, or
the jungle equivalent oI an urban legend maybe a cautionary tale who
knows, but I took note like Little Red Riding Hood not to step oII the path.
We climbed and climbed but not to China Mountain; instead we
Iollowed the rope walk, watching incredible birds, gawping at the canopy,
the sky, the wonder oI it all, on what was advertised as the longest rope
walk in the world. It was amazing, exhilarating, and all those wonderIul
adventurous adjectives pushed together and then some. HalIway through
the spectacle oI that rope-walk is where my IaithIul spouse decided to get
down and wait until I had completed the course which I then did.
In my distinct lack oI knowledge re: Jungles and canopy walks, I did
not realise that the end oI the rope walk was not also the beginning. I exited
in an altogether diIIerent sector oI the jungle Irom where my wiIe waited.
Standing alone in a strange sector oI the jungle, sans signs, was the
point at which I started to take stock oI my survival skills. It was quickly
done: None. OK, so which oI these berries is edible and which will lead to
an agonising death? Duh, er . Pass. Where can I live oII the water Irom
120 121
plants? Ah, um . OK so where is the nearest mall, shopping complex,
7-Eleven or LRT?
There was the stark realisation that the jungle and I were not made
Ior each other. We would have to part, go our separate ways, and promise
to stay Iriends. I could hear voices. I Iollowed those voices back, Iound a
trail, then a wooden sign and discovered wiIe and entrance to canopy walk
at one and the same time. So I will say again, I was not lost, just a little
wrong-Iooted perhaps, a tad anxious but defnitely not lost.
In truth, I did not see a whole lot oI jungle liIe in that jungle, though
there were plentiIul leafets, posters, slides, etc. to inIorm us visitors oI the
wildliIe calling the jungle home maybe they were out when we called.
One morning, walking to breakIast, we did see a small Iamily oI wild boars
running through our resort multiple piglets in tow but other than them,
only a couple oI monkeys and the various birds. Basically, the only wild
liIe my wiIe and I saw were each other.
Apart Irom the oppressive humidity, the slight jungle experience was
great, excepting the hesitant trip back downriver. The captain had cast oII,
we were in mid-stream chugging along nicely, and then the engine conked
out. The captain tried to restart it; Iailed. He tried several more times but,
by that time, he had fooded the engine and it would not start. Ostensibly,
we were stranded mid-stream, slowly foating, with no engine.
There was a lot oI Malay being bounced between our captain and a
captain in a second vessel. We waited; we could do little else. I tried to
subdue the panic rising by looking at the calm river, looking upriver to see
that we were still in sight oI the resort we were, so everything was going
to be fne, wasn`t it. Wasn`t it?
It was. AIter maybe twenty minutes, the captain tried again, the engine
sparked and oII we went. It was during that little escapade that I realised
that I was no Stanley, or even Livingstone, and that discomIort should only
come in small amounts just big enough to be er . well, comIortable.
Happy New Year`s
It was yet another new year, all Ireshly born and swaddled, all concerns
oI jungles were pushed to one side as the year oI the scampering rat
old whisker twitcher, pink-nosed sniIIer, scavenger, long-tailed rodent
departed and we ushered in the brave, lumbering, gargantuan ox. We
were cautious not to let him anywhere near those expensive stores at Bukit
Bintang, and the sparklingly Iragile chinaware shops. The New Year was
well and truly begun.
In a ft oI pique we had told year 1429 AH that it was all over and
done with, and reminded the reticent 1430 AH that its would be calmly
governing. The old Tamil year was to hold Iast Ior a Iew months as April
would see that change. It had been time Ior patient Aloysius Lilius and the
Gregorians, clinging onto 2008, to be exited through the solid glass doors,
and where the prim door attendant stood ready to close the door behind
them. Year 2009 had arrived. It had already taken up oIfce Ior a couple
oI months, and so it had been time to move on and realise that the United
States oI America had elected a brand new President.
Yet, amidst all the constant swapping oI this year Ior that, that year Ior
this nothing had really changed. Fleeting hours had, as usual, slipped by
one chasing another down the road past the manic ducks, round the corner
where the odd looking brown cat sat with a terminally stupid expression
on its Iurry Iace, and out along the road less taken to who knows where.
Days too wandered oII, somewhere over the mining pools, perhaps
carried on the backs oI the endlessly ruminating roaming water buIIalo to
felds Iresh with green grass, and greener mango shoots, never to be seen
again.
122 123
It had seemed that years were getting in on the disappearing act
scurrying past like cute fuIIy windblown clouds, swept oII to the blue
mountainous horizon and, save Ior some bizarre science fction loop in
time, would never be witnessed through my studio window again.
I had sat, peering at the sky through the Ireshly-appeared holes in my
gazebo attap rooI, praying that it would not rain. Birds rested on the small
branches oI wild cherry tree, singing endless choral cadences unperturbed
by the longingly watchIul cats. A bright blue kingfsher perched on a
telephone wire, ever spying fshy breakIast, lunch, dinner, or high tea. It
was a moment oI refection a day and a place where time was known to
stand still, the scurrying to stop, the roaming and the wandering to cease.
In the Malaysian countryside, time took on a slower measure; more
sedate and leisurely, unhurried by deadline pressures, blackberry meetings,
ringing reminders and the constant clock-watching stress oI city liIe.
There in that emerald, timeless place where two rivers meandered and
disappeared to their own destinations, carrying their unique fotsam and
jetsam people, who are interested in such things, who chose which rivers
to row down, which particular muddy path to Iollow, to lead them into
their unique, IruitIul and/or iconic lives.
Heatstroked dead crows rotted on tarmac roads, dancing worm
death. Deceased nocturnal civets and the occasional careless pangolins
succumbed to liIe`s new pace the rush oI city liIe permeating the solitude
oI the pastoral existence.
Past, present, Iuture were all tenses relatively unknown to the country
man as he Iarmed his fsh Iarm, Ied his cattle, watered Chinese vegetables
or cut fuid-resistant banana leaves to present to restaurants as platters.
No matter that it was the year oI the Ox, year 1430 AH, or 2009; liIe
and work continued through hours, days, weeks, months and yes even
years, as a burning equatorial sun beat down and, occasionally, liIe-giving
rain splattered down to cool us.
That was the blessing oI the countryside. Regardless oI who was
shooting whom with water-canon, cracking whose protesting skull,
arresting whom, liIe in the rural Malaysian kampong continued at its
own pace blissIully or willingly unaware. Seasons were hot or wet. Years
slipped by and still the bananas grew, durians too; it was just that a little
extra eIIort was needed each year as prices rose and the local currency
seemed to buy less and less, but that increasingly was also true Ior most
places in the world, not just Malaysia.
124 125
I`m Beginning to See the Light .
The rural liIe was all plain sailing. The warm equatorial night air remained
frmly outside my cool air-conditioned room. Frantic mosquitoes banged
their heads against windowpanes in Irustration, and even the disapproving
house lizards had clocked oII taking their amphibious negativity with
them.
My wiIe was absent, in Kuala Lumpur earning a crust to pay the
necessary bills, so I sat smugly, revelling in the wondrously technological
21st century, comIortable in my castle. The lights were dimmed. The Neo-
Plasma` air-con was blasting a chilly breeze and the pseudo surround-
sound DVD player was playing season six oI 24 hours`, on our (not quite)
fat screen Sony television. At that moment, liIe, I could say, was at its
most perIect.
On the side table, within my easy grasp, lay a Ireshly unwrapped
bar oI Cadbury`s Fruit and Nut chocolate slightly in danger oI being
warmed by a mug oI Ireshly brewed NescaIe, both anxiously waiting to
be consumed.
I conIess that it was not a rich liIe. It was not a sparkling, eIIervescent,
jet-setting, dinner in Paris, silk, satin, and rosewood sort oI liIe by any
means; but at that moment, it suited. It was an old pair oI jeans sort oI liIe,
a comIy pair oI smelly trainers sort oI liIe, the sort oI liIe that fts you and
only you a liIe to be revelling in (when the time suits oI course).
Then, as they say, it all went disastrously wrong.
Without a shadow oI a warning, a note through the door or a tinkle
on the telephone, my sorely-needed electricity went oII. One moment
TV, lights, air-con, and the next moment dark and silence, save Ior some
mocking amphibian choking with laughter outside.
This was no mere inconvenience. I desperately need air-con. My entire
being revolved around being cool, there in the tropics. I needed lights,
warm showers and mind-numbing television to stop me Irom thinking
too much about ants, snakes and mango shoot munching water buIIalo
and what-the-hell-was-the-government-doing-with-all-those-billions. I
needed the comIort oI access to the internet, microwave ovens, and all the
electrical paraphernalia oI a modest modern liIe.
Suddenly the plush contemporary world went quiet. Radios stopped,
TVs stopped and all the VCDs, DVDs, CDs and MP3s remained hushed,
as iI some godly fgure had raised a fnger to the lips but the world kept
turning.
Grasping Ior the trusty torch, I pushed the button and the torch went
on giving liIe saving light then oII. I shook it; back on came a yellow
bland sort oI light. The very sort oI dimness that makes you Iall over cheap
plastic Japanese slippers on your way to fnd candles.
Candles why would we want to hide candles? It seemed beyond me.
What was my thought process when I buried candles at the very back oI
our cupboard? Maybe at the time I was in deep denial that the electricity
would ever Iail again. But to bury them so deep, back beyond the boxes oI
old clothes, ancient photographs, bits and pieces oI things we might need
one day (but never do).
On the electricity went then oII, mockingly.
There was no television, no satellite TV, no MP3 player, no internet,
no Facebook, no Twitter, no light until I fnally discovered the hidden bag
oI night lights.
A Iresh shiIt oI house lizards gave their tut-tut verdict oI my
predicament. Frogs Iound newly inspired voices and insects competed Ior
Insect Idol oI the Year`.
A brave new world opened up its vistas. A world oI nature and oI
fickering, romantic candles a world oI reading and writing, an excitingly
Iresh new world oI literature and meaning only it was too dim to read or
write. But at least I wasn`t Iorced to watch the fve-year-old British soap
126 127
operas being aired on Asian Granada Satellite TV.
The very minute that the electricity eventually came back on, all was
Iorgotten as hero Jack Bauer once again saved the American day and I
was suckered back gawping at the contemporary world and all thought oI
inconvenience and rebellion nestled to the back oI my numbed mind. The Flying Cycling Dutchman
Tin is the most abundant of the mineral products of Perak, and, as
in the other States, the supplv is apparentlv inexhaustible. So far it
is obtained in 'stream works` onlv.
(Isabella L Bird, The Golden Chersonese)
Occasionally, and it was only occasionally, I had to do some work. That
bright sparkling day I fred up my ageing 4x4 and trundled oII to the
small town oI Sitiawan. That small town rested somewhere between my
bungalow home and the sea at Lumut. I was oII to interview a cyclist
extraordinaire.
I had been corresponding with this cycling demon Ior a while back
and Iorth on Facebook. I even wrote a small piece Ior him to use on one oI
his websites but until that day we`d not met. Always looking Ior an excuse
to fre up the old truck, I travelled to see him.
The tinny Rocsta cabin speakers blasted out My White Bicycle (by
Tomorrow) as I jaunted along the recently resurIaced roads, and away
Irom my usual haunts. It was a pleasant enough journey, passing through
perhaps one too many palm oil estates but also bypassing some beautiIul,
traditional, wooden Malay houses too. I was later inIormed that those
houses were probably built with Indonesian labour and know-how, as the
art oI traditional building had long been on the decline in Malaysia.
Sitiawan was a practically nondescript little town. Like many other
small towns in Perak, it was built upon the back oI tin and rubber booms in
past decades. I remembered Sitiawan as the place where I was frst invited
to a local premiere oI a Malay flm.
128 129
The Iorty-nine year old intrepid cyclist stood by the roadside. He was
all smiles, hail-Iellow-well-met as the sun glinted oII his feshy dome and
imposing sunglasses. His trusty steed was to hand as he fagged me down
and guided me to a local eatery where we had the local sweet tea and a
long chat.
It was a meeting oI a simple Englishman and an intrepid cyclist. We
were sons oI Iormer colonialists, but Irom diIIerent countries, sitting in the
land their Iorebears had once Iought to colonise a land now desperately
trying to Iorget that it was ever colonised. We wove through the usual no-go
areas oI weather, politics, and religion he was extremely well inIormed
oI all three, and I guided the conversation back to the achievements oI the
man himselI.
Why, I asked, had he cycled around Asia? He replied.
I`ve been cycling my whole liIe. I was eight years old when I got
my frst bike . I cycled to school 10 kilometres up and down, I did my
Judo training which was another 10 kilometres up and down three or Iour
times a week. I liked it. It was also how I practised my English, going up
and down, cycling and talking to myselI.`
He was a little reticent about his accomplishments; instead, he
highlighted others who, in his opinion, Iar out shone him in abilities,
stamina, or sheer will-power. A fourish oI forid memory revealed a one-
armed, one-legged Chinese cyclist whom he had once met in China, and
who had just impressed the hell out oI him.
When you bring it back to numbers, one hundred thousand kilometres
in ten years is ten thousand kilometres a year, on a rough estimation is
thirty kilometres a day. What I do is not what a lot oI people do, it`s not
Iantastic, it`s simply a choice.`
And that, as they say, is the mark oI this man.
The cyclist lived Ior two years in Yangshuo, China, but did not like
the very cold winters. He lived, Ior a while, in Pakistan in the hill area,
sojourned in India and stayed a year in England beIore making Malaysia,
and its equatorial sun, his permanent base.
A Iew weeks beIore we met, he had cycled in Cambodia, once again.
His frst time in Cambodia had been in 1995. Back in those days, it was
too dangerous to cycle, mainly because oI the problems the country was
going through land mines, etc. Since then he had been back and cycled in
Cambodia twice 2002 and 2010 because the Khmer Rouge had mostly
disappeared.
I met two guys actually a couple, they were 69 and 71 up in
north Laos. I met several couples in their early to mid-60s doing what I
am doing . As you get older you might lose a bit oI your acceleration
and you might lose a bit oI your speed, but you win in endurance . I
remember when I did my frst 190k, in China. I had to divert this way and
that because oI motorways, and because oI that I topped nearly 200k. That
day, and Ior the next three days, I was worn out. But the older you get, the
easier your body gets adjusted to that.`
In Pakistan, he had met an Englishman working on oil rigs six months
a year, making enough money to cycle the other six months in the year. It
was that realisation which encouraged him to try it too. He went back to
his home country and bought a bicycle Ior USD $2000 and intended to
cycle to Shanghai. Shanghai is still as Iar away.
He set out to travel through Belgium, France, Italy, Greece, then to
Turkey. Once, in Turkey, he cycled into a small village outside oI Ankara,
stopped, wanting to get something to eat. That intrepid cyclist was made
very welcome by Iriendly smiling Iaces. He discovered that he was the frst
Ioreigner to set Ioot in that village in over thirty years.
In Iran, he had come up against an Ali Baba` and his approximately
Iorty thieves. He stopped, taking a rest Irom cycling. A young boy came
up to him, carrying a rife. The boy levelled the gun. The cyclist shook.
The boy demanded that he stand up and then sit down, stand up again
and sit down at the point oI the gun. Forty children were standing
around,watching when, just then, a soldier marched up, shouted at the boy
to stop and explained that the Ali Baba had only just joined the army he
was showing oII to his Iriends.
He never made it to Shanghai despite several journeys through Asia/
China. Shanghai eluded him. He said that there was something in that
130 131
thought, about ending that particular journey, which made him deliberately
avoid Shanghai.
He is one oI the many expatriates living in Malaysia. Every Iew
weeks he travels out oI the country to renew his visa, returns and lives in
the much slower paced and aIIordable surroundings. He keeps his political
head down as do many expats and in that way they escape being
Irogmarched to a waiting plane and escorted out oI the country, as was
Frenchman William Bourdon. He was a human rights lawyer, deported Ior
daring to question the Malaysian government.
Fond(ish) Farewell
I was called to go to KL. It was an assignment, rare, but an assignment
nevertheless.
I took a sleepy-eyed early morning electric` train Irom Kampar to
KL Sentral. From there I jumped on the LRT system and was in Ampang
Park as the day was struggling with some heIty clouds. I had been asked to
interview one outgoing Ambassador to Malaysia. He was due to leave the
Iollowing January (2010), and was returning home to begin a three-year
posting taking up a senior post in his country`s Ministry.
I met with His Excellency, the Ambassador Irom a country more
Iamed Ior its sleek chocolates and Tin Tin, on one slightly overcast
morning in that December. The sun was barely able to squeeze through
the Kuala Lumpur clouds to spread enough light Ior me to tread the gravel
path to the Ambassador`s residence. It was light enough Ior me to see an
old opulence evident at that residence.
I conIess to Ieeling a tad out oI place. Surprisingly enough, it was
not everyday that I met Ambassadors, let alone interviewed them Ior a
Malaysian magazine. I was early he, oI course, being an Ambassador,
was exactly on time. I swung my legs, a little like a schoolboy awaiting the
school master, anxiously peering at the paintings gracing the walls. There
were poignant tales oI conquest and colonisation in those pictures, which
seemed a little too prominent to me, considering.
I was oIIered water by a seemingly subservient maid, and thirstily
gulped it down in one. The Ambassador, wanting to be exactly on time,
excused himselI when I saw him on the stairs and went to have his
breakIast. I, a mere serI, was to wait, and wait I did until, his breakIast
132 133
fnished, the representative oI his country came and coolly shook my hand
(he had been in the air-con while I sweltered under an ineIIective Ian).
When, eventually, I spoke with His Excellency, most oI his personal
belongings had been boxed, ready Ior his Iorthcoming journey home,
he mentioned this to emphasise his lack oI time and the Iact that he had
more pressing matters than being interviewed by me. Among the copious
belongings heading Ior his home were a Iew pieces oI Malaysian artworks
items that had captured his attention, and items he had bought to remind
him oI the country he was intending not to return to.
His Excellency had leIt a career in what he considered to be a
temporary situation in Academia (a research institute at the American
campus Heidelberg, Germany). He had sought better prospects in the
Diplomatic Core, back in his native country. That was in 1987 -when he
was 35. He had since risen to the loIty heights oI the Ambassadorial level
and still seemed a very ambitious, but lonely man when we met.
In his previous posting in the Plurinational State oI Bolivia, he had
came across the opportunity to apply Ior a posting in Malaysia, and had
Iairly jumped at the chance to return to South East Asia. That region held
special memories Ior him. His Excellency applied and got the post oI
Ambassador to Malaysia.
That September 2006 posting (in Malaysia) was not, however, his frst
Ioray into the lush and increasingly moist lands oI South East Asia. An
earlier posting (in 1992) in Iact his very frst posting as an Ambassador
had led him to that Iull stop at the tail oI the Malaysian peninsula
Singapore. That was his introduction into all things equatorial and humid.
From Singapore, he visited Malaysia a number oI times and that, he
admitted, did infuence his decision to apply Ior the post oI Ambassador to
Malaysia, when vacant.
I (Ielt that I) would like to have gone back to the Far East, aIter so
many years . My biggest adventure was as a student, in the 1970s, going
by bus Irom London to Nepal in 1972.` That trip to Nepal was a starting
point Ior the young man who would be an Ambassador, but his ties with the
South East Asian area stretched much Iurther back than either oI his Iour
year postings in Singapore and Malaysia, or that distant overland journey.
I was in Indonesia. My mother was born there. My grandparents
worked there. I was there in the early 80s . I grew up in a house with books
about Indonesia. That was, as a young child, probably my frst contact with
the Far East.` He went on to recall that his grandparents managed tea and
rubber plantations owned by a consortium oI Dutch, French and Belgium
companies. That was during the 1920s and in Bandung, Indonesia or The
Dutch East Indies as they were known. Bandung, once known as the Paris
oI Java, had been planned to be the capital oI the Dutch East Indies, but
the Second World War had intervened and prevented that Irom happening.
When we spoke, the Ambassador said that he was still engaged in
the round oI Iarewell lunches and dinners organised Ior an outgoing
Ambassador. Leaving is always leaving, there are always a number oI
things that you miss about a country, not to mention rapping up fnal
reports, engaging in lunches etc.` The one thing he said that he would not
miss was the Iood. I was aghast. The Iood surely it was the Iood and
the women, that made Malaysia such a grand place to stay. Evidently, I
was wrong. Obviously I didn`t voice this internal monologue, but looked a
little stunned as he told me oI his disdain Ior all things concerning belacan.
It just was not to his taste. He believed himselI to have a more sensitive
palate, and maybe because oI that he was just not suited to remain in the
land oI gulai, durian, and milky appams. Now he is, perhaps, better oII in
lands where liIe is not quite so spicy.
134 135
A Very Mynah AIIair
It was a very Hitchcockian moment. First one, then a second and gradually
a whole host oI noisy, chattering sharp-beaked Mynah birds gathered on
my next-door neighbour`s telephone line just outside our compound.
Unbeknownst to me, a Fantomas-masked Iemale Ieline Ierreted
chicken bones Irom our plastic rubbish bag kindly leIt on display during
the holiday period by vacationing dustmen. Fantomas Ieline was a regular
visitor. Once, through that innate curiosity her species is known Ior, she
had surveyed the innermost sanctum oI our compound but, aIter various
tussles with our three cat boarders, she decided to patrol the extremities oI
our plot instead seeking titbits oI Iood and the occasional handout Irom
my wiIe.
I knew something was up.
The avian chorus line stepped up their chattering a notch as Fantomas
Ieline, her broken tail twitching, backed closer to where the birds were
sitting, dragging remnants oI chicken and Iestive fsh Irom the bag to
devour at her leisure. The birds resented the cat`s intrusion into their space,
even though they were perched well above the ground and she was twenty
Ieet or so below them. The birds began to futter and squawk.
One bird, obviously the Mynah gang leader, took matters into its own
hands er, wings. It few down and began swooping viciously at the cat.
Not wanting to relinquish its hold on a juicy meal, the cat lingered past her
welcome. That gang leader bird began attacking, again.
The cat ran, amidst a furry oI attacking birds, into the curry-leaI bush
and through into our neighbour`s garden, still being pestered by irate birds.
My own cat, Kopi, being the sedentary animal that he is, just lay amongst
the gravel and dust oI our driveway observing the play unIolding beIore
him.
Slowly, Kopi turned and looked at me, as iI to say, Well, I really don`t
know what all the Iuss is about`. I grabbed a broomstick and dashed aIter
Fantomas and the vicious birds. I had no clue as to what I was doing nor
had I any thought, beyond my actions, as to what I wanted the outcome
to be. Anyone watching, save our dusty, languid cat would have had their
suspicions confrmed Yep that white guv is mad, I knew it all along.
The cat dashed, leaving its hard-earned meal behind. The
Messerschmitt birds few, dive-bombing the running cat. I ran, waving an
old broom which became just a broomstick. The broom head rapidly
became detached Irom the handle. It was surely a Iarce oI Whitehall
proportions.
Fantomas hid somewhere between my neighbour`s well, and their
wooden outhouse. The birds, having had their Iun, dispersed and I was
leIt in my neighbour`s garden waving a broom handle at, well, nothing
looking and Ieeling stupid as I did so.
Out oI breath, I picked my way careIully back through the curry-
leaI bushes, rambling betel vines, laksa leaves and dwarI coconut trees
constituting the latter halI oI my neighbour`s garden only to fnd Fantomas
once again tucking into her meal oI fsh and chicken. I stood in the typical
pose oI disbelieI hands on hips and with an intense desire to scratch my
head.
Another futtering oI wings and a large black /white hornbill settled
on the top oI one oI the coconut trees and let out a loud crrraaaaooor`. It
cocked its head to one side, as iI to comment on the recent drama. Moments
later its mate joined in, and the two oI them perched and watched the cat
snack and the very stupid human just stand looking, well . stupid.
136 137
Kampong Director
You see so manv movies . the vounger people who are coming from MTJ
or who are coming from commercials and theres no sense of hlm grammar.
Theres no real sense of how to tell a storv visuallv. Its fust cut, cut, cut, cut,
cut, vou know, which is prettv easv.
Peter Bogdanovich
In the bright, sparkling, sunshine-flled land that was Malaysia, it was
almost impossible not to come into contact with the burgeoning Malaysian
flm industry unless, oI course, you steered well clear oI TV, didn`t look at
the newspapers, and generally hid yourselI in one oI the many limestone
caves.
Though still an inIant, burbling and puking its way into world culture,
Malaysian cinema did, once, have a heyday and its very own king oI cool
cinema P. Ramlee. Teuku Zakaria bin Teuku Nyak Puteh was registered
under the name oI Ramlee bin Puteh, shortened to P. Ramlee.
P. Ramlee became Iamous during the 1950s and 1960s. During the
1970s his own brand oI slapstick, chaotic comedy was on the wane, but
mainstream Malaysian cinema has never really recovered Irom those times,
despite the eIIorts oI many directors to nudge it in the right direction.
AIter much trying, much arranging, one Malaysian flm director sat
opposite me at the coIIee shop, just outside oI Ipoh. Despite the interIering
Western pop music blaring Irom the caIe`s corner speakers, he grinned, a
huge, welcoming, boyish grin and smoked the anti-smoking brigade had
not reached Malaysia at that time. There was a distinct twinkle in his eye as
he spoke what he earnestly believed to be his part in flms and flmmaking.
With great gusto he explained his Iondness Ior flm, and especially his
appreciation oI the Monty Python team, the comedies oI Mel Brookes and
other overt comedies echoes oI which, he seemed to think, were evident
in his latest flms though without too many Iarts or exploding Iatties.
Comedy and horror Iorm the staple diet oI the Malaysian flm
industry, and this one director has been one oI the industry`s stalwarts.
His comedy zombie/ghost flms tended to hark back to those knockabout/
slapstick days oI The Three Stooges, with maybe a slight nod to the Arthur
Askey flms, Edgar Wright`s Shaun of the Dead, Gerald Thomas` Carrv
on Screaming or Bob Hope`s The Ghost Breakers. Those flms are easy,
nonsensical, non-threatening viewing, and are seemingly aimed at a poorly
literate general populace. Malay slapstick horror, with down-to-earth and
at times sexist, racist and genderist kampong humour, tickled the ribs oI
the working people. They did not question the appropriateness oI making
Iun oI other people`s sexuality, or their disability they were just glad that
someone else was taking the fak Ior once.
At the age oI nine, every day I would come home Irom school and
travel Irom Pasir Puteh to Ipoh town, to watch movies . My Iather would
ask me what flms did I watch, who was the star and who was the director.`
They knew that, even at that age (nine,) I wanted to work in flm .
Every birthday I would wish Ior a projector, or an 8mm camera, but my
Iather would say that we could not aIIord it and they bought me a fve
ringgit projector that you had to wind up, but it was really good.`
His Iather became paralysed, and died. Riding back in the hearse, the
three brothers distracted themselves by talking about flms. CliII Richard`s
The Young Ones had been playing, yet again in 1974/5, so they talked
about that rather than their Ieelings about missing their Iather. AIter, and
Ior two whole weeks aIter his Iather`s death, this director didn`t watch
flms at all, out oI respect. It was something oI a record Ior him.
Still smoking, relaxed, drinking local coIIee, he recalled that aIter the
sixth Iorm he leIt school and idled into a number oI diIIerent jobs, up to
and including a brieI career as a pianist on a cruiser. Back when he was
Iourteen, he had read a lot oI flm magazines. He began to realise that a
138 139
good flmmaker gets his education on the streets, so he wrote a ton oI flm
scripts, putting them away until he was ready to take them Iurther.
Sitting back in his plastic backed chair, struggling to be heard over the
pop music, he told me that he had studied liIe on the streets and kampongs,
storing up those experiences to be used later Ior his flmmaking. Over time
he became more goal-oriented, and started thinking about making a show-
reel`. He utilised the British Council library that is where he saw Ealing
flms and British actor Alec Guinness.
The Malaysian flm director blew a small cloud oI smoke into the air.
He puIIed out his chest a little, as he told me that he slept in his car Ior
three nights waiting Ior his show-reel to be viewed. His big break came
and he was eventually accepted on the strength oI that show-reel. Being
employed, he learned how to direct flms in a more proIessional manner,
on Beta tape, and fnally began his career in flmmaking. In 1994/5 he
started making social dramas Ior Malaysian TV as a Ireelance director. .
a real Malaysian flm should be shared (amongst all the races oI Malaysia)
and it should portray Malaysian liIe,` he said.
His commercial flms may have pandered to the basest oI tastes
always seemingly reaching Ior, but never quite attaining, the innocence oI
P. Ramlee`s flms but, instead, anachronistically reinIorcing all Iorms oI
negative stereotypes but they paid his bills. He had said that they were
not the type oI flms that he wanted to make, but that Malaysia was likely
to see a lot more comedy` horror Irom him beIore he was able to make the
kinds oI flms he said that he preIerred flms gloriIying the Malay race
and re-interpreting Malaysia`s history.
It would seem that very slow progression had been made in Malaysian
flm making in general. Until more Malaysian flm makers become
proIessional, study their craIt abroad and bring diIIerent standards to bear
on Malaysian flm and TV making, Malaysia will always be stuck in its
base rut, regurgitating the same insulting, degrading flms which have,
sadly, pandered to man`s lowest common denominator.
The Empire Struck Back
Sickness was very prevalent amongst these new and un- acclimatized Chinese
immigrants, to alleviate whom the system oI state-supported hospitals was
introduced, and has since been extended throughout the native states, till
in each district there is an eIfcient staII oI dressers and assistants under
qualifed doctors, fne and airy wards, where the patient is given a liberal
and generous diet, suitable to his ailment, is well attended to, and made most
comIortable.
(Ambrose B. Rathborne,Camping and Tramping in Malav)
You have to remember that I was living in Malaysia peculiarly Asia.
Ninety-nine times out oI a hundred I would get away with eating spiced
chicken Irom the local market and nothing untoward would happen. It
would be a nice snack, amidst a pleasant rural atmosphere, a thousand
mosquitoes and the ever-draining heat. LiIe would continue pretty much
as beIore, only I`d be a tad heavier.
There was, however, one chance in a hundred that this would not
happen. There was always the possibility that the Empire, being somewhat
disgruntled with its Iormer imperial masters would, well and truly, strike
back.
I had eaten something at the night market. It may have been spiced
chicken. It could have been anything, and that evening I was okay. There
was just a slight discomfture around my midriII, but otherwise I was quite
fne.
In the early hours oI the Iollowing morning I awoke sweating which
was strange as the air-con was on Iull blast. I experienced my stomach
140 141
churning as iI some bizarre animal was crawling around in my insides
seeking exit. I rushed to the loo. Having spent a reasonable amount oI time
staring at my white porcelain washbasin, encouraging said animal to exit
through the appropriate outlet, I exited the loo and my liIe continued.
That was the very day my much-troubled Asia Rocsta was due in Ior a
service. My dear wiIe and I drove to Kampar. We leIt the Rocsta with the,
perpetually overcharging, Chinese car mechanic and was about to drive oII
in my wiIe`s national car when the trapped animal reasserted its infuence
on my stomach.
Being a man, I decided all would be fne until I got home. I inwardly
reasoned that I could then rush to my place by the basin and read a
magazine while nature was taking its rather inconvenient course. I was,
oI course, wrong.
I had driven just outside oI Kampar. Luckily, I was through the town,
and was headed toward the traIfc lights at the junction to Bandar Baru.
The pain in my insides was becoming unbearable. Nevertheless, I still
drove on. I was hoping to get to Tesco, and their toilets. I was, driving,
thankIully, quite slowly in the queue Ior the traIfc lights when the internal
pain became so overwhelming that I blacked out. My wiIe had been
talking to me. Her voice, and just about everything else just Iaded into
nothingness. I passed into unconsciousness Ior a Iew seconds. It was long
enough Ior me to have put my Ioot on the accelerator and Ior a lamp-post
to have jumped out in Iront oI our car and all this, I was told later, in
slow motion.
Said lamppost was dented slightly. It bowed. My wiIe`s car was also
dented, but did not bow it just steamed a little. She said it was an accident
that happened excruciatingly slowly. My wiIe was Irustrated she was
powerless to do anything. In hindsight, she could have switched the engine
oII, but the whole situation was so surreal Ior her that switching oII that
car`s engine was the last thing on her mind.
I came to consciousness with a lamppost growing out oI the car`s
bonnet and the animal still racing around my insides. I was desperate.
My wiIe halI pulled, halI encouraged me out Irom the behind the steering
wheel and into the passenger seat.
Luckily, the car was mobile and no other vehicles were involved. My
wiIe drove the Iew metres to a Iriend`s house. Unable to ask permission, I
dashed to their toilet. They were Malays, and had a Malay squatting toilet,
but the porcelain was cool to my heated rear end.
I had this tsunami raging in my gut, threatening to engulI me again
unless I evacuated. As it turned out, in my weak and distressed state, the
squatting toilet was the perIect answer. Without being too indelicate,
the cool, fat toilet porcelain soothed those parts which needed soothing
and perIormed its Iunction perIectly. It was a good Iew minutes, which
incidentally seeming like hours to me, beIore I was able to scramble upon
numbed legs and thank our somewhat bewildered Iriends Ior the respite.
They looked at me as iI I were a cat just in Irom the rain, dripping on their
hall tiles a little pitying and more than a little beIuddled.
Later, the clinic doctor an Indian woman with little English, just
could not get over the Iact that a) there was a white man in her surgery, and
b) he needed help. Despite my wiIe trying to explain, the words accident`
and car` seemed to move to the IoreIront, while terms like diarrhoea
and medication were leIt fapping around her clinical room. Eventually I
persuaded my wiIe to insist upon drugs, lots and lots oI drugs to sedate the
animal let loose in my intestines. Something to bung it all up with like
Imodium, and painkillers, please, pretty please painkillers. Throughout
that day and well into the next, that tsunami alternated with the trapped
animal making me rue the evening I had decided to eat Irom the market.
Evidently, my English stomach was no match Ior the Empire`s revenge.
142 143
Heaven and Hell
I must sav that I have never tasted anvthing more delicious. But not evervone
can enfov or appreciate this strange fruit for the disgusting smell that
distinguishes it and that is apt to cause nausea to a weak stomach.
Imagine to have under vour nose a heap of rotten onions and vou will still
have but a faint idea of the insupportable odour which emanates from these
trees and when its fruit is opened the offensive smell becomes even stronger.
(Captain Giovanni Batista Curruti, Mv Friends the Savages)
My firtation with all things white and porcelain was, hopeIully, behind me.
All my senses came back to me, including my sense oI smell. It was then
that I began to notice that everything in Malaysia was really, really smelly.
It was nice smelly and nasty smelly. Some smellies were like something
had died and wasn`t buried but really, really should have been long since.
Other smellies were little waIts oI intoxication.
Some years back, in the travelling 80s, I had discovered durian. There
is no doubt that Durian is the very king oI Iruits. There is no way that I
can describe just what a shock that Iruit was to my senses. The colloquial
saying has it that durian smells like hell and tastes like heaven. I am no
expert on either Hell or Heaven and hope not to be any time soon, but it`s
the smell oI Durian which hits you frst, and hits hard.
That durian smell is somewhere between rank sulphur water buIIalo
droppings a nicely rotted manure heap and the worse drain pong ever.
It takes a lot oI mental stamina to put all that olIactory inIormation to one
side, and actually taste the Iruit. Braver men have tried and Iailed but,
eventually, seeing how others so lovingly consumed the durian around me
I held my nose and opened my mouth, expecting the worst.
The taste, ah the taste oI that Iruit is way beyond the Iew words I have
in my native English language. The texture oI the pulp surrounding the huge
seeds was smooth, creamy, custardy and totally, totally addictive. I could
never Iorget that frst wonderIul taste oI durian. It was that sumptuousness
oI taste which constantly drew me back Ior more leaving me a hopeless
durian addict Ior liIe.
Durians, like oranges, are not the only Iruit. In the rural lands oI
Malaysia, there was also the whiIIy cempedak (oI the jackIruit Nanka
Iamily). Like the pulpy durian fesh, the cempedak seeds might be eaten
raw, or deep-Iried in batter. producing an incredibly tasty, Iruity snack.
I quickly discovered that it is wise not to travel too Iar with either raw
durian or uncooked cempedak in the jeep. Those Iruits emit Iumes which
are so powerIul that they give an instant headache. That is, oI course, why
airplanes, buses, and hotels will not allow you egress while those Iruits are
in your possession.
Smelling rank and giving all the appearances oI decaying, is the salty,
pungent, belacan. Belacan is basically a brown paste oI small, rotten,
dried prawns and is a hidden delight Ior gastronomes. Belacan was, or so
I discovered, the secret ingredient to many an inIamous Malaysian dish,
including the incredibly hot, and incredibly tasty sambal belacan. When
this is pounded and mixed with Iresh chillies, it is added to many Iried
vegetable dishes and, oI course, a core ingredient Ior the wondrous sauce
Ior satay (Malaysian barbecue).
II that was not enough to get your nose wrinkling, and mouth watering,
there was a multitude oI dried or pickled fsh, which reeked to high heaven
throughout marketplaces and instantly got up my nose. There were
pungent condiments unlike anything I had tasted beIore. They bore no
similarity to salt, pepper or even any mustard that I have encountered
and that includes the green Japanese wasabi. There was budu, which is a
Iermented fsh sauce. Then there was the malodorous cincalok a sauce
made Irom Iermented small shrimps, or krill. Either oI those condiments
might oIIend pairs oI sensitive western nostrils, including mine, but
144 145
Irequently delighted my palate.
As many oIIensive odours as there were in Malaysia and there were
many there were, at least, an equal number oI beautiIul scents too. LiIe`s
Iunny like that there.
As the painstaking work had been done and the hard-won garden
was slowly beginning to mature, aIter alternatively drought-stricken and
fooded years, there were amazing scents, which began to permeate our
garden.
Back in the days oI yore well, when the bungalow was built, and in a
ft oI wild enthusiasm, my wiIe and I had planted many lemongrass bushes
along one side oI the outside compound wall. Like grasses anywhere, they
had grown, and water buIIalo permitting, we could brush the grass and
receive that distinctive, lemony scent, or pull some lemongrass and use
the leaves, or stalks, Ior cooking. I notice that lemongrass is now Iound in
herbal teas and all kinds oI oils and aromatherapies too, in the West.
Throughout the compound, we had planted many types oI citrus trees
and were, at last, beginning to reap the benefts. Pomelo saplings grew, as
did the Malaysian limes with their small green Iruits. Sapling lemon trees
started producing wonderIully lemon-scented leaves and one aromatic
kaIfr lime sapling, which had not produced Iruit up until then, began to
have leaves that gave our cooking such a distinctively Thai favour.
By the gazebo, in Iront oI the bamboo, there was white jasmine
climbing, scenting the air as we sat birds and people watching in the
early morning or evening. By the Iront oI the house, we had planted two
types oI passion Iruit plants. Their exotic fowers beautiIully perIumed
the air as we passed, and driIted through into my busy studio. For sheer
variation, the house also had two diIIerent honeysuckles red and yellow,
with their own delicate scents waIting in the breeze, and gracing the walls
with much needed colour. So Malaysia was a smelly country smelly
good and smelly bad, but even most oI the smelly bad tastes so good that
who was to complain? Certainly not I.
Lack oI Cable
Smells, however, seem to come in all guises. At the end oI her primary
school years, our little princess (not) leaned a little closer to the white-
painted notice board. Her heart was beating quickly. There was a Irown oI
concentration and anticipation on her young Iace. Quickly she scanned the
A4 piece oI white paper, Ior her fnal end-oI-year exam results. She missed
it on the frst reading. There was another Irown this time oI puzzlement.
Then she smiled the broadest smile she could manage. It was broader than
the smile she gave when receiving that camera Ior her birthday; broader
even than a politician`s smile on Election Day. There, printed on that A4
piece oI paper, pinned to the school notice board, and typed in Arial 12
point roman a little past halI-way down the list, was her name. Beside
her name were the glorious results 5 A`s.
It was what she had waited Ior. It was what she dreamed oI, and what
she longed Ior, ever since she had sat Ior those exams. It was her fnal
crowning glory. AIter all the hard work she and her teachers had put in over
the previous Iew years she had fnally come through. She had achieved
her goal and aspired to be oII to boarding school, and a brand new liIe.
LiIe is a bit Iunny that way best-laid plans oI mice and eleven-year-
olds, etc. Obviously our little princess was not alone in achieving the grand
total oI 5 As. Even in her own kampong school, many oI her classmates
had achieved that as well but, nevertheless, it was time Ior her to jump
and squeal Ior a Iew moments and to be deliriously happy, as the pent-up
anxiety and emotion grabbed her and spun the insides oI her head round
and round with excitement.
Nearly bursting with pride and excitement, she had cycled home.
146 147
She wanted to present her waiting mother with the incredibly good
news. She wanted to share this wonderIul day with her mother. Hugs and
congratulations over, mother and daughter set about conIerring regarding
the right type oI higher school the daughter should attend. Her mother
suggested that she would get the very best education, in a school that
was totally boarding. And, because oI her marvellous exam results the
daughter had a very good chance at getting a place especially as there
was a national boarding school just a Iew kilometres away in Gopeng (a
nearby town).
The alternative to a national boarding school was the state boarding
school in Ipoh. However, the potential oI a place at a Ioreign university
later was Iar greater with one oI the Iew national boarding schools. So they
set about the application process.
A Iew weeks later, with no news Irom the national boarding school,
we drove to the boarding school in Gopeng. It was an impressive site too.
There were many very new, and very posh, buildings; acres behind the
school Ior games and a (not quite so) impressive guardhouse.
We sought out the deputy headmaster, and eventually spoke with him.
It was there, in the school assembly hall, amidst registering parents, and
children and no small amount oI slightly organised chaos, that the deputy
head listened to our tale. CareIully, and with something oI a hangdog look,
he explained that there were some sixty places available in his school and
Iour thousand new pupils wishing to join, including my step-daughter.
Despite acknowledging those fgures, I was still hanging onto a small
glimmer oI hope. It Iaded, and fnally disappeared when he said, Do you
have cable?`. Cable it was a real WTF moment iI ever there was one.
What had our TV viewing habits to do with his school and her education?
I was nonplussed, and eager to hear his answer.
The round-Iaced, round-headed and considerably overweight Deputy
Headmaster explained, Do you know anyone in the Education Department,
someone who knew someone within the Education Department perhaps?
Do you know any infuential person a politician, someone who could
put a little pressure on the National Boarding Schools Department?` Then,
and only then, would our little princess (not) have a chance attending his
school. Without that .
I was boiling, ft to burst. With a great deal oI eIIort, I tried to swallow
my indignity. I did not want to spoil whatever slim chance our daughter had
Ior a place. I nodded a lot to stop myselI Irom speaking. I was bottling
it up until we got outside. I was livid and helpless. We knew no one. We
had no connections and our little princess (not) would suIIer because oI it.
I was bowled over by the sheer unIairness oI it all.
Without cable` we were Iorced to travel to Ipoh, and to lobby the
state education department. We had to settle Ior a second-rate place Ior our
little princess in a second-rate part-boarding school, with little chance
oI a Ioreign university education Ior her. And that was all Ior the lack oI
cable (connections).
I still seethe as I write this. I remember the injustice oI the system
that puts contacts above the welIare oI a child. That highly unjust and
corrupted system sends a very poor message to hopeIul students why
bother to aim Ior good exam results? At the end oI the day it is only your
parents` connections that count.
148 149
Papan
The Papan valley lies between several high hills and is divided into numerous
small 'gullies, where rich pockets oI tin are Iound.
(J. Errington De la Croix, Some Accounts of the Mining Districts of Lower
Perak)
With the anger and the upset oI an unIair education system still rankling
somewhere at the back oI my mind, it was with much relieI that I took the
jeep out and journeyed beyond Batu Gajah to the old town oI Papan.
That languorous morning was bright and clear. A constant sun warmed
through an idyllic blue sky as I journeyed towards Lumut. I was in my old
truck and took the detour through Pusing, to the patently somnolent town
oI Papan.
I had wanted to meet up with an old buddy Law Siak Hong. I had
heard much about his museum and longed to see his display honouring
Papan`s most Iamous daughter Sybil Kathigasu. She was a nurse and
resistance warrior against the Japanese invasion oI Malaya, in the Second
World War. Hong had created a space within Sybil`s old surgery Ior her
historical narratives to grow, and Ior some rather painIul Malaysian
memories to linger.
Arriving in Papan early, I took a slow drive through the town to
witness Ior myselI its balmy, soothing atmosphere and observe that town`s
romantic decay. Papan, once a home Ior Mandailing (Indonesian) peoples
was named Ior the river (Sungei Papan) and Irom the area`s lumber
produce (papan in Malay means plank`). Gradually the town grew into
existence during the early 1800s, but was ravaged by fre a century later.
Papan one oI the many small Kinta Valley tin mining towns began a
slow decline Irom that fre and a general decrease in tin production. At
the time I was there, Papan existed as a shell oI its Iormer selI. Its high
street consisted mostly oI crumbled buildings, and the whole town had this
vaguely Wild West Ieel to it.
Papan had the Ieeling oI lying dormant, awaiting that spark which
would cause it to erupt and return, one day, to its Iormer splendour. It
was a town in waiting in its dormancy. Papan exuded its own kind oI
peace, serenity, calm and was, in a way, stately too. The town`s serenity
and calmness was refected through Hong`s creation to honour Sybil
Kathigasu.
Within the calming blue-washed walls oI the museum, Hong`s
collection was not just a by-product oI a nostalgic romance, but a Iull-on
love aIIair with artistic spatial creation and its nuances. Hong had created
a lulling tranquility out oI his organic collection.
Inside the display room, curiously blue/green metal electric Ians
nestled with cabinets containing sparkling glassware. Japanese Second
World War Malayan currency was frmly held by an Art Deco inkstand,
abutting an enamelled bowl. Towards the rear oI the display, just beIore
the visitor was enticed into the lush garden, an ancient bicycle rested on its
stand, awaiting a rider who seemed, momentarily, indisposed.
Hong`s poignant creation oI display space concurrences reIuted
traditional pigeon-holed museology. There were no items catalogued
until their demise. ArtiIacts were not tagged, bagged or buried, but
instead Hong`s correlation oI objects better resembled contemporary art
installations where visitors were subsumed into the experience as much
part oI the overall work as were the items themselves.
Being neither a re-creation oI the war-time clinic, nor a static museum
oI staid objects, Hong had created an organic approach to his display,
presenting none oI the usual gallery clues as to nomenclature or single
dominant, imposing, narrative. Within that space`s ambience, it was Ior the
visitor to interact with the items and, together, create their own narratives.
Through the small section that had been Sybil`s surgery, into the
150 151
area beyond eventually Hong`s antique cornucopia spilled over into
a sublimely tranquil oasis oI green the rear garden. The siren call oI
that tranquil space could have been mistaken Ior that oI visiting birds.
Where the internal display remained ultimately bounded by the Iorm oI
the structural walls, outside there were no such boundaries. The visitor`s
glance was able to trace the line oI objects, through Ioliage and away to
gaze at beckoning hills, beyond the town.
It was with more than a little sadness that I had to draw myselI away
Irom the garden, the building, and the town, that day.
With very little encouragement, I could have lain behind one oI the
outside bedroom walls, and peered though aged wooden shutters at one oI
the most restIul places I had visited imagining myselI a dreaming blue
lotus-eater.
The museum and Papan seemed to exist within some sort oI time
bubble, to one side oI everyday reality. It was a languorous place where
time ambled and was perIectly suited Ior doing very little, except sipping
coIIee, smoking tiny local cigarettes or perhaps simply chilling out and
watching clouds that reIused to scud. Papan had become that peaceIul
island oI serenity to which we all need to escape, at sometime in our lives
the type oI place that psychologists and therapists urge stressed-out people
to go to in their minds. I had been there in reality.
Let The Train Give You Strain
Winding up the vallev to the watershed,
Thro the heather and the weather and the dawn overhead.
Past cotton-grass and moorland boulder
Shovelling white steam over her shoulder,
Snorting noisilv as she passes
Silent miles of wind-bent grasses.
(W.H.Auden, Night Mail`)
With the memory oI Papan, its calmness and peace, resting at some rear
corner oI my mind and, aIter spending weeks cocooned in my studio
writing, I got the wind up my tail and had this mad desire to travel south
to KL. I made all kinds oI rash promises oI meeting with Iriends, packed
my small black shoulder bag, organised a cat sitter Ior our various cats and
oII I toddled.
For some quite inexplicably romantic reason I had longed to use the
train. Maybe it was some deep-seated memories oI John Betjeman`s BBC
Branch Line Railway programme, or Auden`s Night Mail poem which
coloured my view oI rail journeys, but the desire was upon me and I had
to act on it.
For my tiny British brain it had seemed a simple enough aIIair. I was
to get a liIt to the train station, buy a train ticket, travel to Kuala Lumpur
by train, and alight at the other end. I would make my way, by LRT, to
meet said Iriends. It is said the best laid schemes o Mice an Men often
go awrv, and mine did well and truly.
Everything had started well. I got my liIt, Irom my brother-in-law.
152 153
We had an early morning dosai Ior breakIast, and I was driven to Kampar
train station. We arrived early. My brother-in-law had to get oII to work,
so I walked around a bit Iamiliarising myselI with the station layout just
in case, one day, I am stopped by some over-exuberant special police and
requested to describe the train station in detail. I sat and waited Ior the
ticket oIfce to open.
So I waited, then I waited some more and all in all I waited an
hour. The ticket oIfce, such as it was, opened more or less on time: at 8
o`clock. I sidled up to the uniIormed gentleman, seemingly imprisoned
behind glass (goldfsh came to mind). 'One return ticket to Kuala Lumpur,
please, I said in my most polite English, hoping he spoke the language.
'No tickets, was the reply, in good enough English. I ventured the same,
a second time, thinking that maybe I was not getting my message across
adequately. 'No tickets was the reply a second time.
Getting on my imaginary high horse, I ventured, 'I cannot believe
that there are no tickets to Kuala Lumpur, at all today. With my modicum
oI surliness noted, the KTM oIfcial swung his computer monitor round
Ior me to view. 'There, he said, with a slight edge to his voice, 'Are no
tickets to Kuala Lumpur, at all, today. He was right. I read the screen. In
each oI the columns where the number oI tickets available should have
been, Ior each oI the trains heading towards KL, Irom Ipoh, there was a
0` a zero, nothing. Truly, according to the computer screen, there were
no tickets to be bought going towards Kuala Lumpur, Ior that day.
That day, I remind myselI, was a Friday.
One oI the anomalies oI living in the computer age is that some people
do book tickets on-line. People that is, not me. I Ioolishly believed that
there would be reserves oI tickets. I trusted that there were physical tickets
that were held, or printed, at the railway station. Tickets perhaps kept aside
Ior those individuals who do not have access to the KTM on-line site or
who, again like me, do not have a credit card to buy tickets on-line. I was
wrong.
The other Iactor, oI which I was ignorant at the time, was the Friday
Iactor. Friday was the day when people who had travelled out oI Kuala
Lumpur on a Sunday, travelled back. This meant that the human traIfc to
and Irom KL was inevitably greater on Sundays and Fridays, hence the
lack oI tickets. It might have been nice, iI some kind soul had thought to
put out a notice to the eIIect that all tickets were sold, prior to the ticket
oIfce opening at 8 a.m. in the morning. They had not. I had wasted over
an hour waiting Ior tickets that were not to be had. Never mind, thought I,
not all is lost there must be buses.
Having Iailed in my attempts to gain a seat on the train to KL I had
no choice but to seek another means oI transport namely said bus. The
bus` is actually a misnomer; it`s actually what we would call elsewhere a
coach. Intercity coaches are generally as quick as the train, air conditioned
and reasonably comIortable. Once again I was oII having romantic notions
this time oI Malaysian coach travel.
OI course, there were no taxis outside oI the railway station. I walked
the ten minutes oI morning heat, back towards Kampar town. I had reached
the edge oI town when, coming towards me was a vehicle with the letters
KL printed on a board behind the driver`s windscreen. There was the word
EXPRESS along the side oI the vehicle.
Aha, I thought, that must be the KL Express because that is exactly
what it says on the sign board. I caught the driver`s attention. He stopped
the coach; I ran. I dodged traIfc, speeding like The Flash, to the driver`s
window. I asked iI I could get a ticket to KL. He motioned Ior me to board
the less-than-sleek coach and I was oII, on my way to Kuala Lumpur at
last.
I sat and gave a silent prayer to any and all Gods, or gods, their saints
and hangers-on who might just want to protect me in my journeying, and
let my racing adrenalin subside back to more tolerable levels. It was only
when I had began to breathe easier, that I noticed that the TV was missing
Irom the TV cabinet. I also noticed that the air-conditioning was not as
cool as I had been led to believe. I looked around.
The bus, Ior that is what it was, was halI-Iull, and more that a little
dowdy. A poor relation, indeed, to those streamlined greyhounds that
race back and Iorth between cities giving the impression oI massive
154 155
caterpillars with their wing mirrors looking like antennae. I had caught the
wrong bus. True, it was travelling towards Kuala Lumpur, but it was the
slow bus, the old bus normally reserved Ior the unhurried and the careIree.
The bus traversed the old road out oI Kampar and into Tapah. Then,
with much swinging around corners, and ambling along town lanes,
it pulled up at what must have been Tapah bus station. A middle-aged
and middle-sized Indian conductress, wearing what I imagined to be a
uniIorm though in Malaysia you couldn`t always tell, launched herselI
up the bus`s metal steps. Upon her request, I paid the ticket Iare to Kuala
Lumpur. The bus pulled out again. Eventually, aIter stops to take onboard
a miniscule amount oI passengers, we headed out onto the highway. I
desperately looked at my phone. Could I still make my lunch meeting
perhaps. No sooner had I done so, than the bus veered oII the highway and
back onto the old road again.
I was perplexed to say the least. Back we travelled and then into what
could only be described, in English terms, as a transport caIe car park, at
the small town oI Bidor. The driver descended, as did the smokers among
us. For a Iew moments, there was silence. Then the driver climbed back on
board, calling and hustling passengers Irom the bus.
I wasn`t sure iI this was the normal course oI events. Was this a
breakIast stop, and so soon aIter starting? Would we also have an elevenses
break, and then a lunch break, just to add some interest into an otherwise
boring journey? Was it usual to change buses halI way, like tennis players.
As soon as my Ieet hit the ground, the Malay driver said to me, 'My wiIe,
she has a problem. It was said in a very conspiratorial tone. Was this man
a spy. What was my reply to be Yes, perhaps a hospital, in Russia` ha
ha ha, in a pseudo Russian accent? I was about to commiserate with him,
to show a little empathy Ior this man who, evidently, loved his wiIe to the
extent that her welIare came beIore his job and passengers. The driver
then pointed to the bus Iront wheel. 'My wiIe, she has a problem, he said
again, pointing to the, now fat, tyre resting on the broken tarmac. He then
laughed a hearty belly shaking laugh, which I was too bemused to respond
to.
The second bus was already halI Iull. With us transIerring over
it became overly Iull, all that is, except Ior one seat next to mine. I
completed my journey to KL thankIully unaccompanied except, that is, Ior
the two naked Ieet oI the Iemale passenger behind me, who had insisted
on resting them through the gap between the bus window and my seat. I
fnally arrived in Kuala Lumpur city Iar too late Ior my lunch date. In a
way it was a little Iortuitous as I had no thoughts oI Iood in my mind
especially anything having to do with cheese.
156 157
City Attacks Man
Luckily, my editor was fexible. My lunch date became a mid-aIternoon
snacks date. My Ieelings regarding the city (perpetually ambiguous) hung
around me like a suspiciously cheap Chow Kit perIume. Where were all
the water buIIalo, where were my mining pools, where were the hills and
my grand open spaces? Where, indeed, was I?
Like a dreamer awakening, I reconciled myselI slowly to the very
diIIerent delights oI city liIe, gradually settling, knowing the transition to
be temporary. Then, once more, the city began to attack.
It had done this beIore. Its weapons then were dust, air pollution,
noise but this was diIIerent. I was lunching in Bangsar. A very fne Indian
meal was slipping gently through my gullet, and down into parts oI my
anatomy best leIt unmentioned. That meal was eased by a nicely sweet
lassi (Indian yoghurt drink). I was savouring the complexities oI a tasty
spiced chicken and, oI course, talking at the same time. Talking and eating
are not a good combination.
Spiced chicken, as well as having slightly singed spices, also has
strands oI coconut desiccated by the cooking process. Truth be told, I
have a sinus condition that makes swallowing dry things quite diIfcult. I
usually mind what I eat, and how I eat unless, that is, I am talking at the
time.
An infnitely small particle oI dried coconut lodged itselI into my
throat. It started to irritate. I tried to resist coughing. I held my breath
turning red in the process. I swallowed, hoping to clear the object. I was
having no luck. I swallowed again. Bursting, I coughed. I coughed again.
I coughed and grabbed the sweet, slightly sour lassi drink. I fnished it in
one go. Then I gulped water. I desperately gesticulated Ior more lassi that,
Iortunately, arrived soon aIter.
I downed that lassi in one. I was like some seasoned beer drinker in a
beer Iest, having an evening oII Irom the wiIe. I fnally stopped coughing.
Severely red-Iaced and embarrassed I sheepishly peered around, expecting
to see countless Iaces intent on my predicament. All were busy with their
own lives, completely unconcerned with a suIIocating white man much
relieved, I asked Ior the bill.
Later in the week, having Iully recovered Irom one embarrassment, I
was chaperoning three young teenage girls to the KLCC (Kuala Lumpur
City Centre) mall cinema. We had attained the second level oI the mall
by escalator, but we still had three more levels Iull oI holidaying children
and parents to go. To save time, and to avoid as much hassle as possible,
I decided that we should take the tourist liIt. Ordinarily that would have
been fne (outside oI the children`s holiday period). One liIt came, opened,
and then closed its doors. Full oI squashed Iaces, the liIt continued on its
upward journey. We waited a reasonable while and then a second liIt came,
and stopped. I quickly ushered my three wards into the liIt, fnding just
enough space, and all seemed fne. On pressing the foor number button the
liIt remained stationary. I pressed the liIt button once more, a slight panic
rising Irom my stomach.
There was something distinctly Peter Sellers and Pink Pantherish
about that moment. It was then that I frst noticed a red, fashing sign. It
had not been there beIore. In a stark warning sort oI red the sign fashed,
drawing attention to itselI, with the legend 'overload clamouring Ior
my and others attention.
I looked at the sign. It looked at me. I looked guiltily at the girls, than
a loud voice Ielt obliged to read the notice aloud, in English, Ior all to
hear OVERLOAD`. Thank you, I thought, I got the message frst time
around. Eyes turned to see who could possibly be causing this overload,
and they all alighted on me. Like Alice in a shopper`s wonderland, I shrank
mentally, but sadly not physically.
OK, yes, granted I am not the slimmest individual. Nor am I the
158 159
smallest, and certainly not the shortest, but big enough to cause an
overload well not normally. Embarrassed and mumbling extremely
vague apologies I herded the girls Irom the liIt. We made our way to the
escalator, ready to traverse the next three fights to the cinema and watch
some dreary teen romance flm with lots oI mediocre singing. ThankIully,
it was somewhere to hide my largeness.
Memories, Dreams and Refections
Having once again survived the city and its dubious pleasures`, I was
back in the ole kampong, doing my country thing. For over Iour years, we
had been struggling to maintain that jungle we called an orchard. We had
turned Lord Nelson eyes to the fuIIy-tailed thieves and blatant monkey
purloiners oI our Iruit. We had hacked and slashed to cleanse, and then re-
cleanse, our little patch oI heaven but no matter how we tried the jungle
always won back.
That IateIul day a heat-drenched and mosquito-flled day, with a
somewhat heavy heart we fnally gathered the courage to let the orchard
go. We had the proverbial oIIer that we just could not reIuse and, aIter
much heart-and-soul searching, deep agonising, we decided that the
orchard would be better tended Ior by new, enthusiastic, owners.
It was no easy task driving the perspective buyer to our orchard,
guiding him around, explaining how many durian, mango, rambutan,
cempedak and duku trees there were; where the irrigation system Ied them
all and where the little bridge used to be spanning the winding irrigation
ditch. With every step memories oI my Iamily came to me us clearing the
ever rampant jungle, sitting, exhausted, on a Ielled log, our hopes, dreams
and Iantasies oI a Iruit selling Iuture stretching beIore us.
I nearly said Forget it I`ve changed my mind I don`t want to
sell my lovely orchard`, but visions oI a new washing machine, two new
air-con units and sundry other not-strictly-necessities foated beIore my
mind and I stopped. I grabbed hold oI my tongue and let the man share his
dreams and Iantasies about our orchard.
We walked the track beside the trees, striding the entire length oI the
160 161
orchard and, as we returned to our vehicles he to his Mercedes Benz, and
me my aging Asia Rocsta, we shook hands. Though technically I could
have pulled out anytime within the intervening week I did not. The buyer
came in the morning, literally cash in hand, reiterating his request Ior the
purchase.
There was a tear, iI not in my eye, then certainly in my mind as we
drew up the papers, signed appropriately and had the signatures witnessed.
He handed the agreed amount over and that was it, the orchard was sold.
A little later, aIter the buyer had gone, my wiIe and I drove past the
entrance to the lane that had led to what had been our orchard. I was struck
with an almost physical pang in my chest. I looked back at our hopes and
dreams, and then returned my eyes to the road. It was the recognition that
I would never travel that track again. From that day Iorward, it would
always be someone else`s track and someone else`s orchard. It would
never be ours again. I saw my wiIe glance, too. She had the same look in
her eye, so we said nothing, just remained in a reverential silence Ior a Iew
seconds and then got on with the journey.
There was Ieasting, and merriment. LiIe continued but, underneath
it all, there was a little sadness. There was a sense oI guilt, perhaps, that
we had Iailed in some small measure by selling our orchard. While that
orchard was ours, it could hold some oI our hopes and dreams, but by
selling it we had to come to the realisation that those particular dreams
could never be realised, and that they were fnally gone.
LiIe takes us in many diIIerent directions orchards are bought
and sold. A purchaser drives away, his plans and dreams now IruitIul. A
seller refects, remembers, alters his dreams, and moves Iorward to new
adventures and new dreams.
Lyrical Language
Language is a tricky blighter. Just when you think you have it licked, you
up sticks and move to another country and have to start all over again.
My comprehension and vocal abilities in other languages is so bad,
that my Ieeble attempts to utter Hindi in India, Spanish in Spain and Italian
in Italy all led to the inhabitants oI those countries replying in English,
once they had picked themselves up Irom rolling on the foor with laughter,
that is.
This, you must admit, is grossly discouraging Ior anyone who has
taken the trouble oI fnding out what the green fsh lives in the city`,
means in a number oI languages, and has led to me to abandoning any
hope oI becoming a linguist, cunning or otherwise.
I successIully avoided lessons in French at secondary school. At
university, I skilIully evaded both ancient Greek and Spanish with only a
smattering oI German slipping past my deIences. And that, I thought, was
that Ior the rest oI my liIe.
Then, oI course, I moved to Malaysia. I believed all in Malaysia
spoke fuent English, regardless oI their independence Irom the dastardly
colonials. I thought that there would be no need to crack my ageing brain
and stir up my diminishing grey cells, to learn another language, but I was
wrong.
Having Iailed miserably at learning one oI the easiest languages in
the world to learn Malay, I was also struggling with Arabic. During
my entire sojourn in Malaysia, I had steadIastly avoided any invasive
languages. I was able to stare blankly, uncomprehendingly, at any number
oI people be they oI Hokkien Chinese, Tamil Indian or Malay descent.
162 163
They, in turn, Ielt able and Iree to impart the most urgent news, views, and
opinions to me, in their own languages and, seemingly, enjoy the bliss oI
an uninterrupted monologue.
The barest minimum oI non-English words had wormed their way
into my verbal lexicon, not enough even to Iorm one paltry sentence. I had
only the ubiquitous lah`, slidling through my deIences and insinuating
itselI into my vocabulary practically unchallenged. That would be fne
but this infection, this colloquialism itselI chose when or not to appear,
ensuring moi maximum embarrassment. It is most odd government
oIfcials do not like to be reIerred to using lah`, or so I discovered.
In my deIence Ior not learning Malay, I have to impart that I
considered the Malay language to be too beautiIully Ioreign, and altogether
too wondrously other` Ior it to be spoilt either by comprehension or by
translation. Just as English names like Chipping Sodbury, WormingIord
and the ubiquitous Indian Queens have a unique and peculiar, almost
untranslatable, English ring to them so many rural Malay names
like Membang di Awan and Kuala Dipang resonate their delicious
distinctiveness oII indigenous tongues.
Local Malaysian names like Papan seemed to have a romantic
exoticness telling tales oI frefies, evening breezes, and eastern charm.
Whereas the English translation oI Papan plank, just leaves you cold.
The name Tualang Sekah is practically musical, as it trips oI the Malaysian
tongue. It is mysterious, almost transcendental, but when translated into
Iallen tree branch`, the golden patina wears very thin, and its mere
Iamiliarity threatens contempt. Those words Kuala Lumpur are graceIul,
lyrical even. They certainly seem exotic when recalled in The Small
Faces` song Rene` but lose something when translated as muddy rivers
conjoining`. That certainly takes the edge oII any mounting romance.
So I stood steadIast, unknowing. I wrapped myselI in my comIorting
English language. I experienced local Malaysian names, and words, as
rhythms music to my ears. It was much in the same way as I experienced
bird song, or the persistent humming and thrumming oI nightly insects. I
revelled in the alieness oI others` languages, their innate wonder and their
incomprehensible mystery. I danced the dance oI the ignorant, fapping my
arms and waving my hands in not-quite-so desperate attempts Ior mutual
comprehension. I needed to preserve that magical mystery oI Ioreign
tongues. Really it was all because I am too lazy and could not be arsed to
learn another language.
164 165
Sungai Jahang
LiIe as a writer means writing duh. That process is quite oIten undertaken
out oI the way oI other people. AIter many aborted attempts, my wiIe fnally
succeeded in prising me out oI my air-con comIort zone and into our aging
jeep. I was promised cool waters and ' . nice shade to rest under. That
was enough. Yes`, said I to myselI, I can do with cool breezes blown oII
romantic rivers, and lots oI lovely shade given by equally romantic trees
to revive those parts that countless hours in Iront oI the computer screen
are unable to reIresh`.
An invigorating sun had beaten down upon the acres oI sand outside
our new home. Nude house lizards had tut-tutted, and morning Irogs had
barked. They all observed our aging jeep bellowing hazardous clouds oI
diesel Iumes towards Kopi, Ome and Tyger (our bewildered cats) as my
vehicle, spluttering and coughing, started and we were oII.
Travelling the rural road was easy. We had to remember to avoid
milling goats and soItly, pungently, explosive water buIIalo landmines.
They lay cunningly, bestrewn with fies, and not yet crisply sun-dried,
awaiting our truck tyres to aid them in their excrementary explosions.
Concentrating on the perils oI country driving became increasingly
diIfcult as the splendorous, and quite majestic misty mountains came
dashing towards us at 80 kilometres an hour. My city-bred giraIIe stepson,
disenchanted by lavish scenery, had become impatient to see anything
more interesting than just countryside. He might have preIerred man-
eating crocodiles or, alternatively, men eating crocodiles. He was practising
being teen-morose, while my stepdaughter busied herselI SMSing her
buddies about the latest idle pop nonsense completely oblivious to our
surroundings.
AIter a Iew minutes into the drive we had reached the adventurous
Gua Tempurung cave complex . And kept right on going. There was an
aww` Irom the seat next to mine, as said giraIIe awoke Irom his stoic
moroseness briefy, and there was a momentary stoppage oI the clik clack
clik oI digit on plastic Irom another teen seated at the rear. I steered the
jeep onto a small rutted dirt track, just big enough Ior a 4x4, and drove on.
The rutted dirt road stretched Irom beside the equatorially green
mountains, past small glistening lakes and over the North/South Highway.
Then it appeared to double back on itselI, to reach our eventual destination
a cool, clear river, harbouring perIectly rounded stones and an idyllically
beautiIul shady picnic spot at side oI the Jahang river.
On our bumpy journey, we had passed intrepid Ioreign sightseers
puIfng red and taking great gulps oI re-hydrating water. Many were
earnest young men sporting shorts, binoculars, and cans oI carbonated soIt
drinks. They grimaced at our puIIs oI diesel as we went by. We sped by
secluded goat Iarms, idly wondering iI that was where jaywalking goats
hailed Irom. Further down the track, towering above a naturally marshy
area, we spotted trees littered with more weaver bird nests some Iresh
and green, while others swayed brown in the slight breeze.
As we gazed across at those weaver bird nests, brown and yellow
birds few in and out and my wiIe excitedly explained that country
people believe that the weaver birds do not just make one nest, but two.
The second, they say is like a recreational area (swing) built by the male
weaver bird to attract the Iemales to nest. I looked across at my wiIe and
cautiously explained, with a large hint, that I had always been useless at
basket weaving she just stared at me.
The meandering dirt track had wound past countless mining pools
reclaimed by nature, their appearance now presenting smooth, darkened,
mirrored surIaces perIectly refecting the deeply blue skies and fuIIy
white clouds. Around the pools shrubs oI pitcher plants tangled, drooping
green pitchers, large and small and catching diminutive insects in their
beguiling liquid traps. Yellow, purple, and blue morning glory fowers
166 167
spread tumbling over undomesticated trees appearing more and more
cultivated as we neared the small kampongs, along the rough road.
Eventually, aIter orchards oI rubber and durian trees, we came
through a larger expanse oI oil palm plantation and headed towards a small
kampong divided by a metal and wooden bridge. It traversed that idyllic
river we had come to see.
An old, rusting, latex mangle no doubt a relic Irom the days oI hand-
pressing rubber sap (latex), greeted us as we parked the jeep. We were
wary to avoid walking under the towering durian trees and sought a huge
bamboo bush to shelter us Irom the by then punishing sun.
Later, even the morose teen managed a tentative smile when he
witnessed the calmly fowing river. He stripped and immediately immersed
himselI in the clear, cool, water, while the phone-messaging daughter gave
her thumbs a rest, to help her mother unpack a small hamper. I, typically,
reclined and ordered crispy roti canai and tea tarik Irom the rustic bridge
caIe, then sat back and enjoyed the view. It doesnt get much better than
this, I told myselI and I was right.
Many hours later having donated copious amounts oI blood to the
hundreds oI vampire mosquitoes, petulant fies and astoundingly weird
fying creatures resembling something out oI a John Carpenter flm, I was
urged to call it a day. I surrendered to that calling and took my intruding
Iamily away Irom nature and her cohorts, lest we all be eaten alive. You
can have too much oI a good thing, you know. On the return journey,
daughter went back to her text messaging, son back to being morose, while
my wiIe looked wistIully, longingly, out oI that jeep window. I drove on
and wondered why I was the only one that had been attacked by nature.
Perhaps it was the rarity oI English blood. Lou Reed`s Perfect Dav was
playing through my soul as we edged out onto the main road and sauntered
home.
Jack
LiIe is strange that is a truism. Generally, liIe does not go according to
plan. Robert Burns, in his little chat with a mouse, knew this. One day I
had three cats, the next day Iour, and the day aIter I had three cats again.
It`s not, I think, a mathematical error, a trick oI sight, overwork, or any
number oI ailments but the sheer strangeness oI liIe that interIered with
my mathematical abilities.
During my sojourn in the Malaysian hinterlands, I was in the habit
oI logging onto various expat websites and chatting, or leaving messages
Ior Iellow expatriates. One day, whilst scanning a slew oI messages
concerning the best pubs in Kuala Lumpur, and where to pick up an
oriental companion Ior the night, I came across a distress call.
One expatriate couple were moving Irom a landed property in Kuala
Lumpur, to a condominium. The condominium rules excluded pets. That
meant the couple were not able to take their cat Jack, with them into
their new home. Being cat lovers, my wiIe and I oIIered to take Jack in Ior
them, at least temporarily until they sorted themselves out. We already
had three fuIIy, Iussy cats and plenty oI space Ior a Iourth to run around.
In time, the couple travelled the two hours Irom out oI Kuala Lumpur
to meet with us. They were a nice couple all Iull oI smiles and hope.
Ultimately, they needed to look us over as potential keepers oI their Ieline
Iamily member. It was a sad/happy time. We all had mixed emotions about
the transaction. All went well and a Iew days later said couple came back
with Jack, their experienced travelling moggy, in tow.
Jack had been with the couple Ior a number oI years. They had
travelled around Asia together. He`d got lost once in Vietnam, but had
168 169
been Iound again. There was no doubting this couple`s aIIection Ior Jack
he even had a digital passport inserted into his ear. The couple had a great
Iaith in Jack`s ability to fnd his way around new environments we were
not so sure. BeIore the couple leIt, there was one fnal instruction given
do not cage Jack.
It has long been our experience that cats, especially when coming to
a new place Ior any length oI time, need to be caged. This is so they can
mark the area with their scent and generally get their bearings. We would
usually cage cats Ior a number oI days, depending upon the cat in question
and their ability to assimilate. This technique had worked Ior all the cats
we had we saw no reason Ior Jack to be diIIerent, but we adhered to his
owners` wishes and did not cage Jack. That was our mistake.
The frst night, the Iour cats Kopi, Tyger, Ome and Jack engaged
in territorial disputes. There was a lot oI mock snake hissing, some raised
backs cat swearing and generalised Ieline bravado, but eventually they
settled. The next day Jack wandered around the house sniIfng, generally
investigating his new environment. He seemed to have settled and
eventually sought reIuge on top oI my studio bookcases, peering out at
me through the legs oI my 12 Batman model. I looked up Irom my work,
saw Jack he gave a mock Cheshire cat grin and appeared to be enjoying
himselI.
As that day progressed, Jack re-settled himselI on the hall windowsill.
He looked out, somewhat longingly, at birds visiting the various shrubs
and fowers in the garden then, when no one was looking he was gone.
There was no sign oI where he went, or when. One moment Jack was
gracing our home with his Ieline presence the next he was nowhere to
be seen.
When I realised his absence I looked around the house and the garden.
I asked our neighbours, but there was no sign oI our new cat. My wiIe
came back. We began the procedure over again. We even drove around
in the dark, the swivel lights on our jeep shining all around, desperate to
fnd Jack.
He did not come back that night, or the next, or the next. We never
saw Jack again. Each day, Ior a week or two, we drove around looking at
anywhere we thought he might have gone, but there was no sign.
There were two potential sightings, but they came to nothing. It was
diIfcult to tell Jack`s owners what had happened. We Ielt a tremendous
weight oI guilt. The couple came up, went around with us calling Jack`s
name, but to no avail Jack was not seen again.
We have all kinds oI theories Irom death to abduction, but the simple
truth is that we will never really know what happened to Jack.
A Iew weeks aIter the event, Jack`s owners ceased contact with us,
leaving us Ieeling even more guilt about Jack`s disappearance. His owners,
no doubt, had to handle the loss oI him in their own way, to do their own
grieving. We are all so very diIIerent when it comes to handling loss.
170 171
Craving Marmite
Not to belittle the experience oI losing Jack, but loss comes upon us in
many and varied ways. There came a time Ior me, like many British expats
who have settled in these lush verdant shores, when romantic visions oI
home` started to plague my working liIe. They dogged my nights and held
sway over my more rational thoughts and inclinations.
That ultimate selI-delusory construct, more commonly known as
homesickness,` tends to come unbidden and completely without warning.
One Iair and happy day you might be revelling in the exquisite culinary
delights oI fsh-head curry, or up to your proverbial neck in your entire
weight oI dosai and moist appams then, seemingly without warning,
comes this sudden and almost uncontrollable craving Ior cod and chips,
Yorkshire pudding or, in my case, shepherd`s pie.
No amount oI succulent Malay gulai could put oII this absurd longing
Ior shepherd`s pie and, oI course, gravy. Real gravy that is just like mom
used to make, with real Oxo cubes and real Bisto powder, not just brown
coloured cornstarch water.
When the desperate longing is upon you, it is worse than any other
addict`s cravings. Only that object oI desire that shepherd`s pie, and no
other, will satisIy the hunger Ior the Iamiliar. It is the comIort Iood Irom
your home country. That nostalgic nosh reminds you oI motherland, and
mother. OI course, it could be anything Irom anywhere. I am not suggesting
that expats Irom China, Australia, or even Japan would suddenly have a
deep desire Ior shepherd`s pie cause that would be silly.
A Iriend oI mine, who had once taught English in Malaysia Ior a Iew
years, returned to England with a distinct and uncontrollable craving Ior
Marmite. It was, he said, the only thing to console him. It was the one
Iood item seemingly unavailable to him at that time (in Malaysia). He
said that Malaysian Iood was out oI this world. He positively doted on
the delectable dosai and went nostalgically nutty over noodles but despite
having some oI the best Iood in the world, the one thing he really wanted,
the only thing to salve his craving Ior home` was Marmite.
To each their own, but Ior me Marmite was always a take it or leave it
item. Marmite is now quite easily Iound in places like Giant Supermarket,
Tesco and the Cold Storage along with Vegemite and Bovril. Those and
similar sticky, salty items tease my palate not one iota, and I have to
conIess that I really do not know why Marmite has ended up alongside
alcohol and tobacco in many small supermarkets in Malaysia.
As the sunny, sultry year progressed to October, then November,
autumn, in all its yellow leaI-dropping fnery, seemed to be missing. There
was no mass Iall oI multicoloured leaves; no sharp, crispy crunchy Irost
underIoot as Guy Fawkes Night and Bonfre Night (November 5
th
) came
feeing past. No Ioil wrapped, soon to be buttery, potatoes roasting in
glowing ashes no blackening chestnuts waIting their welcoming mouth-
watering scent either.
Sometimes, the delightIul Malaysian semi-permanent tropical sun,
perpetual heat, and rapid rainstorms were unable to console the secret,
yet rampant longing Ior exactly the opposite. That yearning, that longing
Ior home, ebbed and fowed in me like some reluctant emotional tide on a
gigantic ocean oI thought and Ieeling. You might fnd that, like me, every
now and then that which you so desperately sought to distance yourselI
Irom, becomes the very thing, the only thing, which would quench your
dearest desire. It could be any mixture oI things, which even, necessarily
might include cold, damp, grey winter skies; having to wear three or Iour
items oI upper clothing; being chilled to the very bone with Jack Frost
nipping at your ears, or a run oI mucus dripping Irom your ever bluing
nose.
It is, without the shadow oI any kind oI doubt, the Iault oI the ever-
present calendar. A quick glance to one side oI my computer revealed
172 173
Halloween which had been creeping eerily Iorward, then gone. Bonfre
Night, its incumbent Autumnal Iestivities burnt rapidly on, bringing Iorth
remembrances oI smoking teens, hot potatoes and the dubious delights
oI cider. Those thoughts irrevocably skipped to times long since passed,
other incidents almost lost in memory that may, or may not, have actually
happened, but seem lodged in this wistIul, romantically dreaming mind.
OI course, the reverse was true too.
On cold, damp, grey Autumn days in England, as you pull your top-
coat around you Ior just a little warmth, fnding all there is eat is a limp,
drab, Dner kebab bearing only the slightest resemblance to the original
Turkish dish with meat obviously made Irom some shoe manuIactory`s
cast outs your thoughts fy to the Iar away equatorial sun. Never mind
that the actual sun is a Iew thousand miles away, and your Ieet are currently
wet and in danger oI becoming Irozen it is then, in that moment and in
your most nightmare oI scenarios, that you crave the satisIying Iood oI
home and mom.
Cowering Irom the English weather, wondering iI the sun will ever
shine, it is then that even the most pathetic, watery Primrose Hill Penang
fsh noodle soup, or near-nauseating Northern London coconut rice would
be enough to satisIy your irrational craving Ior home sweet Malaysian
home.
Likewise, the worst Kenny Rogers roast and the most insipid brown
gravy that Malaysia can oIIer such a homesick lad momentarily satisfed
that gigantic craving Ior comIort Iood Irom home but not Marmite, never
Marmite.
It was not as though that homesickness was a wave, come and them
gone. It was not. It was an ebb sometimes stronger, sometimes weaker
but ebbing and fowing, always there in some distant corner oI my mind.
Yes, perhaps it was a sickness, a real sickness Ior home like malaria,
which constantly returns once inIected.
Cinema in Paradiso?
Amidst my internal wrangling and longing looks at pies that may or may
not contain real shepherds, I was oII again to Papan. Perak once again rang
to the unique, and some might say quite mystiIying, sounds oI camera
tracks laid, spotlights being erected, dollies being pushed, best boys,
props masters, carpenters, and costume designers an earnest producer
producing and an eminent director directing. Yes, the illustrious and
industrious flm people were back in town.
For more than a delicious decade, Perak had been a Iavoured spot Ior
enterprising flm crews. Malaysia`s lushly green and mountainous state
has drawn eagle-eyed location hunters like bees to nectar. This is mainly
due to Perak`s immense natural beauty, and because that state still had
enough antique buildings, leIt standing to represent any number oI bygone
ages. And long may it continue, though, at the rate oI renovation` and
upgrading in Perak`s towns, one could only help but wonder whether Ipoh
and its surrounds would continue to have aged buildings the next time a
flm company came to call.
Back in the early 1990s, a Gitane-smoking, baguette-munching
French flm crew descended upon Perak. They brought with them the
illustrious (and you might also say quite delectable) Catherine Deneuve.
There they made that masterpiece oI French cinema Indochine (1992).
Time moved inextricably on. A little later the English flm Director John
Boorman brought Patricia Arquette to Perak, to shoot Bevond Rangoon
(1995).
Anna and the King with Chinese actor Chow Yun Fat Iollowed in
1999. In October oI 2009 a resounding call went out Ior local participants
174 175
to appear at auditions in November. Actors, extras, Eurasians, Chindians,
Malays, Indians, and an assortment oI other races were needed to appear
in this new production oI the Sybil Kathigasu story. Many came but Iew
were chosen.
Despite the flm crew working in the town, Papan was barely
disturbed. It was only the interior shots` which had required some minute
disruption to daily lives with puzzled house residents looking on, perhaps
somewhat bemused by the coming and goings.
Then there was a moment, a brieI, feeting, golden moment, when I
could have waved goodbye to the wandering water buIIalo, dismissed the
Irogs and toads who parp sometimes in the most disgusting oI Iashions
and lived the liIe oI Riley, whoever he was.
I could have said Iare-thee-well to the spraying cats, the mimicking
mynahs and the constantly barking dogs, waved goodbye to the majestic
mountains and the rambling rivers and set oII on a dazzling new career
Iollowing in the Iootsteps oI Sean Connery and Michael (not a lot oI
people know that) Caine.
I was to be an actor, photographed, recorded Ior posterity, eventually
handed Oscars. My head had been turned, flled with grandiose nonsense,
imagining rubbing shoulders with Iamous directors, producers, actors and
a myriad people involved in the production oI flms and TV series. My
Irequently dimmed star was about to shine fnally aIter many, many
years, my name to go up in lights, perhaps a Iootprint outside oI Grauman`s
Chinese Theatre and my very own Ian page on Facebook.
I had been called to read a line. Not just any line, mind you, but a
sympathetic line emanating Irom the lips oI an actor playing a British
oIfcer. It was a line Iull oI dignity, oI Britishness, but also oI Ieeling. It
was a line oIIering help Ior suIIering and succour to wounds eventually
to heal. A line which, in the sub-text, might be apologising Ior skipping
out and leaving decent, innocent people to be ravaged by invaders, a line
trying to mend a country beIore it was too late; but it was Iar, Iar too late.
Customarily, that day, I arrived in my jeep. I tethered the fery beast
beneath a Iar Irom stable tree, and sauntered across the road to where my
crew had set up shop. There they were, obviously waiting Ior my arrival,
oIIering me drinks well, water. The not unlovely casting director handed
me my line, and what a line it was. Well, to be honest, it was more like halI
a page oI text staring accusingly at me. I could hear the comedian Tony
Hancock in my ear, paraphrasing Irom The Blood Donor` a line, a line,
thats verv nearlv a page full.
The page looked at me, and I looked intently back at the page.
Bluntly it asked, why I was pretending to be an actor when the only acting
experience I ever had was Iorgetting my lines on stage in a production oI
Toad oI Toad Hall (as a court usher?). That was when I was fIteen years
old, and so in love with Phoebe.
You write, vou dont act, the page said, creasing itselI into a scowl.
OI course, the truth oI the matter was that I was the only available British
person in the vicinity, actor or no actor. The crew needed a British man, a
white man, to play the role oI a British oIfcer and someone who may (or
may not) now be my Iriend, had put my name Iorward.
I read the line over, and over and over again. Still those Iew words
could not, would not, stick in my ageing head. I leaned into the camera and
gave my most sincere acting perIormance a la Roger Moore. My head was
directly Iacing the camera, my eyes reading the script, but there was to be
no applause, no well done that was great`, because it was not well done,
and it was not great.
There is a very good reason why I am a writer, and that is because I
can write. I am not an actor I cannot act. Nevertheless, the experience
oI pretending to be an actor gave me a newIound respect Ior those who do
act, and remember great reams oI lines. It would be a while longer beIore
the water buIIalo, cats, dogs, birds, mountains and rivers were done with
me. The production screened without me and it was all the better Ior it.
176 177
Snake
There were constant reminders that I was, indeed, living in Malaysia`s rural
parts. One day I sat staring at a young male, an aboriginal guy, wishing that
he would put the snake he was holding down.
We were at a waterIall Lata Kinjang, in Perak. My wiIe was in the
water, relaxing to the soIt chill oI the fuidity. Somewhere upstream my
stepdaughter had Iorsaken her mobile phone, just Ior a minute, and was
enjoying the hauntingly beautiIul atmosphere.
I really don`t care much Ior snakes, you might have realised that by
now. I detest the way they wriggle and squirm, darting their wet looking
Iorked tongues out, appearing all unpredictable and potentially dangerous
at one and the same time. They grossly upset me, and yet I seem to be a
magnet Ior them, attracting them wherever I go.
I did not like the way that creature, though held in this slight teenage
boy`s hand, energetically darted this way and that. It set me on edge. Even
the memory oI that creature makes me shudder as I write.
Every time that slick green reptile made a break to be Iree, the hackles
at the back oI my neck started to rise. I Iound myselI shouting at that guy,
but he was too intently in his own world halI playing with the snake, halI
showing it oII to care.
True, it was hardly the monstrous Nabau oI aboriginal Iban legend,
or the symbolic serpent Ea oI the equally aboriginal Temuan myth. It was
no crawling king snake, in Iact it was only a thin, emaciated looking snake
(on refection), but it was a snake and I have an intense aversion to snakes.
It is odd, really, this aversion, Ior someone who insisted on living in the
Malaysian countryside amidst all these slithering creatures.
I do understand that not all snakes are dangerous and some, iI looked
at very careIully, under the right light, at the right distance, through rose-
tinted spectacles are positively nice according to some people that is.
A snake is a snake is a snake, and will always be so. Long, short, broad,
skinny, red, green or pale sky blue they are all still snakes and I hate
snakes.
This young guy was saying something, possibly in Malay or in some
aboriginal dialect. I could not catch what he was saying. He was mumbling.
The hackles at the rear oI my neck started to rise. He began approaching
me with the vile reptile wriggling, writhing in his hand, darting its smooth
wedge-like head to and Iro, sticking its Iorked snake tongue out, licking
the air in a very uncomIortable, random Iashion. UncomIortable Ior me,
that is.
I yelled. I involuntarily put my hand up to say stop`. With a vicious
backward sweep oI my hand, I motioned Ior the guy to go away. He
stopped. He did not go. He sat at the corner oI the concrete shelter, almost
absentmindedly playing with the snake.
Nothing else belonged in my world. There could have been a volcano
erupting somewhere nearby, an airplane crash directly towards the
waterIall, all kinds oI natural or indeed unnatural, disasters happening all
around me. The Indian flm goddess Aishwarya Rai could have dived into
the pool at the base oI the waterIall stark naked, and I would not have taken
my eyes oII that snake, not even Ior a second well, maybe a second.
I was Iocused, wholly transfxed by this snake. I had to watch it, make
certain oI its location, even though to watch it set me on edge. I had to
know, at every second, whether it was darting towards me, captured, or
hopeIully, writhing its way in the opposite direction.
From somewhere this young guy Iound a small ginger cat. It was little
more than a kitten all big eyes and punk Iur. The guy dropped the snake,
giving it a Ialse sense oI Ireedom. OI course, the cat was on it as soon as
it hit the ground. He was allowing the cat to worry` the snake. The cat
stabbed at the snake with its paws, knocking it this way and that. The snake
would raise its body, bringing its head up, point in my direction and the cat
178 179
would pat` it back again. Once again, the snake would attempt to get Iree
but the cat would hook it with a paw, controlling the snake. I was on the
verge oI Ieeling sorry Ior the snake but it was a snake, and Ieeling sorry
Ior it had to come Irom another place in my Iear-racked brain.
I called out. The young guy grinned. Something got lost in translation.
He continued letting the cat play` with the snake. I was about to yell
again when the guy received some sharp words Irom passing visitors.
Reluctantly, he stuIIed the snake into his trousers pocket, mooched oII to
choose a new victim. I breathed a nervous sigh oI relieI as he leIt, but was
disappointed that he was still close, and beginning his perIormance over.
He was shooed away again, this time disturbed by a younger couple
in the next shelter. The young guy, snake dangling Irom his pocket, pulled
a plastic bag Irom his other trouser pocket, smeared something jelly-like
into it and breathed heavily into the bag. He did this several times beIore
staggering away, red eyed. Was he looking Ior Iresh victims or, quite
possibly, the peace oI mind that he had lost some time beIore.
Hijacking Heritage
Maybe it was a product oI my ageing too old to Rock and Roll and,
hopeIully, too young to die, which had prompted my urge Ior involvement
in Malaysian heritage conservancy.
Perhaps it was some unconscious or naive belieI that iI I was involved
with the preservation oI Malaysia`s heritage then, at some point, and in
some bizarre way I too might be preserved, conserved or in some other
way Irozen in amber Ior all time. OI course, that was a vain, ridiculously
selI-serving thought, and best leIt to my psychoanalyst to investigate.
Over my accumulative years oI living in Malaysia, I had increasingly
become involved with local Perak heritage conservation and preservation.
Through the meeting oI newly Iound chums all eager beavers and Iar
more knowledgeable than I about matters oI history and such, I had become
aware oI the despondent decay oI small towns like Papan and Gopeng. I
was made aware oI the wilIul abandonment oI buildings such as a war-
time carbide Iactory, and its last remaining brick chimney thankIully too
well built to be pulled down Ior scrap bricks as the rest oI the Iactory was.
My eyes became alert to a rapidly disappearing architectural
landscape, both a colonial and a Malay traditional landscape, in and around
Perak. I had become acutely aware oI the number oI colonial buildings
being renovated` and converted` into more modern` buildings at the
whim oI so called caring` owners while those renovations were actually
destroying all that which had been worth preserving.
Other colonial buildings were bricked-up, leaving only some small
egress Ior swiItlets to fy through. These buildings were legally owned
swiItlet Iarms` dingy places where the nests oI said swiItlets were ripped
180 181
Irom walls and sold Ior bird`s nest soup`, leaving swiItlet young to perish
on inhospitable foors.
I saw magnifcent examples oI colonial architecture leIt to rot in
compounds, in and around Ipoh, trees growing Irom their rooIs reminding
me oI British catastrophes like that oI Colchester Castle. The castle` had
been party demolished in the 17th century by builders selling bricks; all
save Ior one third beIore it was stopped. A tree now grows out Irom what
is now the rooI oI Colchester Castle.
On the other, marginally more hairy, hand I had witnessed attempts
at the renovation oI lacklustre Chinese shophouses in a small Perak
town called Gopeng. I had been present at the inauguration oI a small
rural museum, and later also a rest house. I met a band oI very concerned
citizens who endeavoured to preserve, conserve, and save whatever
possible, wherever possible. They swam against the tide oI public opinion,
which has yet to learn to take responsibility Ior both its present and its past.
This, oI course, is the very same public who seemed blissIully unaware
oI the need to salvage and protect what already exists Ior Iuture citizens,
whose heritage they are but the caretakers oI.
It was, thereIore, with somewhat disbelieving ears that I learned
Irom a trustworthy and reputable source, oI misdemeanours and malicious
skulduggery that was being committed within the very auspices oI heritage,
and Iar too close to home to be considered in any way comIortable.
One story, which crept to my unwary ears, revealed that some people
who had be charged with preserving heritage, in Taiping, Perak, were
in Iact selling oII that very same heritage. They were plundering the very
arteIacts given to them to preserve, while the building they were in was
being renovated.
As one team was earnestly engaged in putting aside local heritage,
another less than salubrious team oI individuals very quietly were
ransacking said building oI its arteIacts. Those modern day vandals and
dirty plunderers appeared to value heritage and arteIacts only at the most
mundane level that oI their intrinsic monetary value, and fscal worth.
Those responsible obviously held little respect Ior the needs oI
untold unborn generations. Instead, those Iuture generations will remain
unenlightened due to the actions oI a Iew paltry individuals. These robbers
seemed to have placed their personal comIort over the well-being oI
society.
In Ipoh itselI many irreplaceable buildings had been gutted, leIt to rot
aIter being devastated by fre. Malaysia is a country where buildings one
hundred years old are considered ancient. No one government department,
or indeed individual has admitted to any written policy to rid Malaysia oI
the remnants oI colonialism, but the lack oI preservation oI buildings and
the general lack oI concern Ior ailing architecture do hint at a wish to be
rid oI such details, Iorever.
182 183
Cats and Ladders
When I was not writing, being scared witless by snakes or worrying my
hair grey thinking oI innocent birds being made homeless I was pursuing
cats. I think you might agree that there is nothing more unseemly than a
large white man at the top oI a ladder. There is nothing scarier, Ior a large
white man, than being at the top oI a ladder especially when said white
man has an acute Iear oI heights, gained whilst bungee jumping but that`s
another story.
In other times, and in other lands, large white men might happily
dress in red and white, munch mince-pies, quaII alcoholic fuids, and
spend copious amounts oI time on rooItops. In their work mode, they may
gladly squeeze down chimneys, pop magically out into grates bearing giIts
and think nothing more oI it, but that`s not me.
It was not Christmas; there was no red and white costume, no magic
and no mistletoe. I was balanced precariously on an aluminium ladder,
adjacent to a neighbour`s rooItop and embarrassingly calling Kopi .
Kopi . Kopi . ` Said Kopi my none too brave, dusky brown cat had, in
a heightened emotional state, situated himselI on my neighbour`s rooI and
now, in the cool light oI reasoning, was too aIeared to come back down.
As iI wearing shorts, a tight ftting T-shirt, wobbling at the top oI a
Iragile ladder and calling my delinquent cat was not embarrassing enough;
my neighbour cheerily explained the Iollowing story to me.
The previous evening, round about the time I had noticed Kopi`s
absence, my neighbour and his quiet Iamily had been studiously watching
television when, all oI a sudden, a brown djinn broke through the ceiling,
scattering Iragments oI ageing ceiling tile, collected dust and debris
over everyone and everything. The demon dashed madly around my
neighbour`s humble living room caught sight oI the now Irightened
Iamily then energetically leapt upon the television and dove back through
the hole Irom whence it had come.
My neighbour, though perhaps a little in awe oI Kopi and the non-
Malay speaking man beIore him, was most understanding. Kopi had never
been comIortable with people other than his immediate Iamily. He had
stranded himselI, once more, on my neighbour`s rooI.
That same evening I had called Kopi, thinking that I had heard a
distant meow but, on second thought, imagined it to be wishIul thinking.
I locked up Ior the night, believing Kopi to be oII on yet another oI his
amorous adventures. I settled down to sleep but spent the time worrying
about Kopi. In the morning, when he still was not home, I began to worry
more.
It was unlike Kopi to go without both supper and breakIast. Normally,
aIter a night out, he would be practically breaking down the door Ior me
to Ieed his not inconsequential stomach. That morning I called Kopi once
again, there was a pause, then a distant meow. I called Kopi a second time,
again the response. Once more, I called Kopi, again the reply, but this time
I was looking towards my neighbour`s house and saw this sad, pathetic
brown creature, standing, mewling Irom the rooItop opposite Irom where
I was standing.
Hence the whole rigmarole with the large, quite unwieldy, aluminium
ladder, the rooItop and the scared dusky brown cat. With a promised plate
oI Ireshly steamed fsh placed on the edge oI the rooI, Kopi was enticed to
within my grabbing distance and grab I surely did. SwiItly I hoisted one
damp, and quite sorry Ior himselI, cat oII my neighbour`s rooI and, with
the nape oI his neck securely in my grasp, handed him to my wiIe who was
standing fxed on terra frma.
The concern over my moggy momentarily brushed away my Iear oI
heights however, even iI pressed; I should not like to repeat the experience,
especially not dressed in an overly large red and white suit or even with
the lure oI mince-pies and a crystal glass oI some cheery liquid. No like
184 185
my wiIe, I will stick to terra frma, thank you.
My Malaysian Christmas
Then, seemingly within the blink oI an eye, it was Christmas. Time had
rushed like no time ever beIore. December spun around and edged towards
the impending new year`s dog days. Christmas near the equator was always
promising to be a little odd. Especially so as I hailed Irom a bleak and cold
climate, and was more used to trudging through crispy snow and slipping
on ice to get the dowdiest annual Christmas tree I could get, than melting
in the equatorial heat. In those Iar oI days oI Essex, I would be ecstatic
to have been able to buy a Christmas tree at all, due to their popularity. I
would proceed to stuII the poor bedraggled thing into my aging Rover and
curse, later, as I swept pine needles out oI the car well into the New Year.
My very frst Christmas in the Malaysian heat was, not surprisingly,
a little diIIerent Irom those in the fat lands oI my beloved East Anglia.
Christmas in Kuala Lumpur eased me, ever so gently, into the concept
oI a hot Iestive season. Startlingly, in Bangsar I was able to buy a real
Christmas tree. There were also baubles and the usual fxtures and fttings
and I could have them delivered Irom just down the road, to my little fat.
That year I turned the air-con on Iull. I imagined that I was not living near
the equator without a Irost or real snow-covered tree Ior thousands oI
miles, and I had my little pretend Christmas.
That year, the year oI my arrival, Kuala Lumpur malls seemed more
than eager to conspire with my denial Iantasy. They bedecked themselves
with huge Christmas trees, Iake glittering giIt parcels and the kind oI
pseudo-snow you might expect Irom an exotic South-East Asian indoor
shopping mall.
Antique Christmas carols, Iull oI gusto and bonhomie, were piped
186 187
through massive speakers all the old Iavourites Irom Perry Como
(remember him?) to David Bowie and Bing Crosby singing Little
Drummer Boy`, so loud you could barely hear an elephant roar, let alone
what you were thinking.
Yet, in some other dimension a mere sidestep Irom our consensus
reality in a very bizarre way it was comIorting; odd but comIorting to
watch Chinese elves and Indian dwarves shower goodwill upon mall rats
and consumers.
It was comIorting to know that I could buy a Christmas turkey, red
or white grape juice should I need them and, oI course, a wide variety
oI gastronomic treats to accompany my wannabe Iestive meal. That was
KL. Moving into the Malaysian hinterland was a kettle oI a very diIIerent
Pisces.
With a predominant population oI Muslims, Buddhists, Taoists,
Hindus and Sikhs, and with very Iew Christians, Christmas in the
Malaysian pastoral lands tended to glide by with barely a notice. You had
to be alert, astute, sit and watch the calendar, read the news or ogle the
TV, otherwise Christmas would simply slip by in a blur oI red, white and
green without notice. The next thing you knew was that time had leapt
Irom Deepavali to Chinese New Year and you will have missed Christmas,
Boxing Day and New Year/Hogmanay altogether.
Even so, and despite each year being more or less the same here in the
countryside, in December I still diligently watched Ior signs that Christmas
was coming. I looked Ior the bedazzling streetlights, the Iestive bunting
perhaps tinged with sparkling glitter to represent no Irost you will ever see
in nature. I looked Ior the enormous plastic Santa Claus Iaces, and those
oddly pink candles as tall as most children, which somehow got magically
aIfxed to telegraph poles but there were none.
Feebly, a Christmas e-card might limp its way into my Gmail inbox
but that was it. Even in Kampar it would only be Tesco, that fgurehead
oI Western culture, which heralded Christmas. Only then did I realise that
it was time to grab those mince-pies, deIrost the turkey and remember,
normally too late, that my pathetic electric oven is way too small Ior the
bird I bought.
Christmas in Perak was easy to miss. Granted Ipoh, with its greater
Christian population than Malim Nawar, did have carol singers and some
Iestive lights, but in my small town not even a fickering light was to be
seen at Christmas time.
Watching Iestivities in Iar-oII lands seemed surreal. For me, nothing
had changed but my location. I had just over halI a century oI Christmases
under my ever expanding belt, and liIe seemed a little empty without that
celebration. True, as a new Muslim, I should be all fred up at Ramadan`s
close at the Raya celebrations, but I just could not garner the same
enthusiasm that I retained about Christmas.
I remembered Bing Crosby crooning White Christmas and, aIter the
frst ever Queen`s speech on TV, a black and white flm told a tale oI soldiers
escaping Irom under a vaulting-horse. There was the smell oI Ireshly burnt
mince pies and aromatic sausage rolls flling the air. Father Christmas his
belly stretching his waistband to bursting point zip undone to ease the
pressure, lay passed out on the Iew meagre presents under the Iresh pine
scented everlasting Christmas tree`.
It was Christmas PDA pre-digital age. It was a time when Harry
BelaIonte was number one with Marvs Bov Child in the singles charts.
They were the days when music came out oI a Bakelite radio or oII an
inevitably scratched vinyl record. British television had two, yes two,
VHF 405 channels BBC and ITV and they came Irom an aerial on a
pole, not through the internet, satellite or by cable. I was still in woolly
shorts wearing a thick grey shirt and a checked tank top, in the days beIore
their popularity. It would be me spilling short-crust pastry over our ageing
carpets. The newly independent Malaya was but Iour months old. I had
heard oI Malaya, vaguely, as the place where all the rubber came Irom
and young men were sent to, courtesy oI National Service some never
to return.
Mostly, the English six-year-old boy that I happened to be was
sublimely ignorant oI jungles, unless they incorporated Tarzan and/or lost
cities flled with gold or treasure. I did not care much Ior the idea oI Jane
188 189
in those days. Coconuts were dry oblong pods which seemed to appear
annually on shys` at Iairs, and seemed to have little use apart Irom to Iall
over (or not) when hit with a bean bag. I was inIormed, reliably or not, that
coconuts also appeared in bunches and were, apparently lovely.
In my short back and sides` haircut days I was too bemused to even
consider that it was the very same coconut which appeared in bar Iorm
covered in chocolate, or dyed pink and white and laced with enough sugar
to give you diabetes, or rudely pronounced boat an nut` due to my speech
impediment. Bananas in rural England, during the mid 1950s, were a myth
occurring only in song Iorm, where people agreed that yes, they did not
have any.
So it is a little odd that, some 53 years later, I should fnd myselI in a
land with quite copious amounts oI bananas, coconuts, and jungles. Having
just fnished my spiced chicken, noshed a not inconsiderable amount oI
banana balls (don`t ask) and downed a glass or two oI a sweet pink drink,
I got to thinking so what the heck happened? How exactly did I manage
to trade slushy grey snow Ior 80 humidity and burning equatorial heat?
At what point in my odd little existence did I consciously want to stay on,
swapping black ice Ior thunderous heat, hail stones Ior yet more heat and
Sir CliII Richard Ior Dato Siti Nurhaliza.
It is a curious thing to travel halIway around the world and become
a Ioreigner, daIt rather than deIt in a language, looking out at banana
and coconut trees instead oI deciduous trees stripped bare Ior the winter,
praying Ior the growing time oI spring and little lambs. But as the British
Pound plummeted and the new British Prime Minister laid down even
grimmer austerity measures, I clearly remembered all those many, many
reasons why I preIerred spicy fsh noodle soup to tomato soup, spiced beeI
to roast beeI and mixed nut and jelly slush to jelly and custard. And yet
nostalgia was still there, rapping on the inside oI my skull, poking me,
prodding me to remember all those Christmases Iull oI hope and good
cheer.
You must be . Jogging!
It was a brand new year. Raya, The Mooncake Festival, Diwali, Hari Raya
Qurban and Christmas were all behind us. The nation bounced into the
international New Year with a spring in its collective step.
There is something about a new year a Iresh start perhaps, which
seems to bring out the silliest oI notions in us all. The whole issue oI New
Year resolutions harps upon the Iact that we are less than perIect beings.
ThereIore, at the beginning oI each year, many people vow to become
somehow better to drink or smoke less, to stop eyeing the long-legged
secretary, or to lose weight. Some well-intentioned, but Ioolish, people
will start jogging I know, that year I was one!
I recognise that I am not the lightest oI individuals. My waistline
has grown exponentially with the number oI years my wiIe and I have
been married. I am not brave enough to blame her cooking instead let
me misquote Oscar Wilde and say that I can resist everything except
temptation, which includes my wiIe`s cooking.
Feeling the snugness oI my shorts and the increasing tightness oI my
shirts, I was encouraged to do something about it bullied` would be too
strong a term. That year, New Year`s Day came around and, like millions
oI others, I used that opportunity to galvanise myselI into action. I donned
my aging plimsolls, struggled into my shorts and slipped on my T-shirt
bearing the legend They went to Ipoh, and all they bought me was this
lousy T-shirt`. I was all set.
Set to do what now that was the question. It had been years since
I ran. Walking seemed quite pointless once I had learned how to ride a
bicycle, a motorcycle and then drive a car. Walking was, aIter all, Ior those
190 191
people without transport, wasn`t it? Resolved to martyr myselI I started to
walk, quite naturally putting one tired plimsoll in Iront oI the other, Ieeling
the unevenness oI the sandy track beneath my Ieet and I got bored. It was
all too slow.
I kicked up the pace a little. I ran at a slow tempo. That was better. I
actually Ielt that I was moving. It was much better than walking and being
overtaken by snails. I loped, rather than ran, along the sandy track and
onto the tarmac surIace oI an antique road, around the road circuit, past a
number oI sparsely spaced bungalows and eventually back home. Overall,
it was a reasonable experience.
It was so reasonable that I did it again the next day, and the next. I
began to set myselI time targets, kidding myselI that I was an Olympic
marathon runner or, at the very least, a runner in the Ipoh marathon, once
I got myselI ft that is. All was going rather well, until other people started
walking/running the same track.
It wasn`t so much that I disliked people seeing me all shabby, hot,
bothered by the exercise and sweating like the proverbial porcine animal,
but there was that to it too. No, it was because I had to slow and utter good
mornings to ladies, bobbing along in their headscarves, jogging, seemingly
eIIortlessly, around the tarmac track.
The bobbing was distracting. The hellos were distracting. The
muttering as I passed was distracting, and distinctly oII-putting. I tried
a Iew more times, but the jogging headscarves seemed to multiply daily,
until the track was swarming with tracksuit wearing, headscarI clad
women oI all ages, shapes and, dare I admit sizes. It was diIfcult to keep
Iocused on my own steps.
I tried a Iew more times but it was no good there was too much
bouncing going on. Instead, we sacked the gardener and my wiIe agreed
that, ultimately, gardening was much better Ior me as she knew where
I was.
A Cutting Tale
Lulled into a Ialse sense oI security, I had been quite unperturbed about my
size, until such words as sumo` and wrestler` began occurring in the same
sentence. It was then that I realised watching other people work, instead oI
actually working, did very little Ior weight loss.
With more than a little regret, I dismissed the local man who had so
lovingly tended our garden, and bought a long-handled grass-cutter the
type used by labourers at the roadside. Eventually I taught myselI how to
cut grass with it.
Dressed scruIfly Ior gardening, I donned scratched glasses, weather-
beaten Ielt hat and an assortment oI protective and previously discarded
remnants oI clothing, to square up to the task oI cutting our grass.
It was thus, Ior many months. Regularly, I would drag out the long-
handled heIty cutter oI grass, prime, then start the motor, sling the vibrating
machine onto one shoulder and pray that the cutting blades would not lob
oII some vital part oI my anatomy as I did so. Then, maybe not so eagerly,
I would attack the grown grass, slicing and dicing the persistent greenery
and oIten in the very nick oI time narrowly avoid cutting my wiIe`s
treasured plants.
Over time, I realised just how much hard work cutting grass really
was, especially with the motorised petrol cutter. Even though the machine
was eIIective once I had discovered which angle to hold the blade it was,
undoubtedly, painIully labour intensive. I was never good with two-stroke
engines getting the oil and petrol mix right, cleaning/replacing spark
plugs. The machine lay idle more times than it was actually used.
The persistent grass grew. We looked around Ior a more suitable
192 193
method oI grass cutting. We eventually discovered a squat lawn mower, on
wheels sporting an American (Briggs-Stratton) Iour-stroke engine. We
bought the machine, which resembled grass mowers I had used in good old
Blighty and, true enough, it changed our gardening lives Iorever.
The new machine was not without its own idiosyncrasies. The odd nut
would automatically unscrew, loosening the curved tubular metal handle,
making the machine diIfcult to steer. The obviously Iragile plastic throttle
no doubt meant Ior much gentler climes, broke under the cruel Malaysian
heat; but, overall, the mower did as it was meant to and cut grass.
One day, our old gardener came to visit. He asked about repairing our
old two-stroke grass cutter its split-pin now being lost and the drive shaIt
in two pieces.
My wiIe, our ex-gardener, and I walked to the side oI the house. My
wiIe made hand gestures, motioning towards the disused, broken machine.
The ex-gardener Irowned, looked at my wiIe perturbed. We looked,
puzzled by his puzzlement. There was a space where the grass-cutting
machine had been but no grass-cutting machine.
We stood, scratching puzzled heads. It was only later that my wiIe
became aware that there had been unwelcome visitors who had been
prowling around our neighbour`s garden, during Iestival celebrations. In a
great moment oI bravado, our neighbour had shooed two young men away
who had ridden oII on a Honda 50cc.
Adding two and two, I recalled Conan Doyle`s Sherlock Holmes
saying once vou have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains,
however improbable, must be the truth. We concluded that our neighbour`s
interlopers, most probably had also been our grass-cutter thieves.
Dripping Irom the Keg oI Time
It had been an odd year, a back and Iorth year, an uncertain but wonderIul
year.
In that past inequitable year, I had shaken warm hands with the local
newspaper, beginning an exciting new quest into the various New Years
and beyond. That was with thanks to a certain generous woman, who has
a penchant Ior antiquities and cooking.
It was also the year the Perak Academy, Perak heritage Society and
the oral history project all welcomed this mining pool wanderer, battered
jeep and all into their midst. It was also a year when my ageing Iather-in-
law`s voice was recorded Ior posterity.
It was an exceptional year. The year when the local town oI Gopeng
got its very frst museum with grateIul thanks to some very determined
people. It was also the year when Gopeng nearly lost some oI its old water
pipe. That was amidst all kinds oI wrangling and stubborn materialisms.
It was in that Iragile, unsettling year, that the last remaining tin dredge
began to tilt on its base, threatening its previous stability, and stared into
a distinctly unknowable Iuture. It was a year in which rogues, bent on
mischieI elsewhere in Perak, sought to proft Irom collected historical
arteIacts.
As the last Iew dregs oI the year were dripping Irom the keg oI
time, I was to recall that that was the year oI my introduction to the still,
quiet, tranquil wonders oI Papan, and its Iading beauty. It was also the
year oI dodging Elephant Rock, and its seller oI the most remarkable
Indian noodles, travelling in my jeep through lanes and roads to discover
an altogether diIIerent type oI Ieast, in the sumptuous museum at Papan.
194 195
Although oII the normal beaten track, the Papan museum was frmly
wedged in Perak history as an historical site, with dedication to the war
hero Sybil Kathigasu.
Ultimately, Ior me, it was a bookish year. It had been a year when
several Perakian authors became published nationwide, and one book
retracted. A year when I attended launches oI books galore, yet encountering
no book as illuminating as a chunky, silver coloured tome explaining Ipoh
and its shining history Irom the age oI tin. This welcome launch came
preIaced with a Iascinating, evocative lecture, and a thought-provoking
stroll down memory lane, amidst Iriends.
In many ways, it was a glorious year. That twelve months I had listened
to celestial music produced by a cerebral local artist, and vibrated to
the stringed beat oI Malaysian culture and her musical traditions. That
had been the most extraordinary year where I met with artists, musicians,
actors, directors and a whole host oI very talented people discovering,
meanwhile, a distinct lack oI acting ability within myselI.
Ultimately, it was another year oI challenges. It was a dizzy year.
It was a year oI ladders and cats on hot rooIs a time when I fnally
conquered my long-standing Iear oI heights, by extracting said cats Irom
said rooIs, and briefy considered a Iresh career dressed in red and white,
slipping down chimneys.
It was a most remarkably wet year oI foods and brown children
fshing in streets, hoisting immature black tilapia into convenient
containers, running, or rather wading, back to their doting mothers, Iull oI
glee and, oI course, fsh.
Trailing towards the year`s nadir it was, literally, a rubbish year. That
is to say a year`s end concerned with rubbish, trash, garbage, waste. There,
sitting on my galvanised wire Ience, above roaming predator height, one
Iull week aIter my wiIe had placed it there beIore leaving Ior her job in
Kuala Lumpur, was our rubbish.
Each increasingly Iragrant day that dawned I thought, Well, they`ll
pick it up today, surely, just to clear it up beIore Christmas, they will, won`t
they, yes oI course, says I, they`ll never leave it over Christmas.` But, how
wrong can one man be? It was approaching Christmas morning when I
realised that yes, the rubbish collectors indeed would leave our rotting
discards stinking, fy-ridden over Christmas because, well, they had.
Normally, my sympathies would have gone out to the loaders oI
rubbish, the heavers oI waste and potential Iathers oI Lonnie Donegan,
but the stench was getting beyond bearable and the Ieral dogs braver and
braver by the day.
The kampong gossip Iactory slipped into gear to deliver a myriad
and one reasons why the rubbish collection had ceased. Arguments with
medicine men, striking private labourers, dismantled waste truck stories
abounded.
Next door uncle, he who is the oracle and news vendor to the village,
inIormed my wiIe, upon her return aIter one week oI working in Kuala
Lumpur, that the rubbish truck, was just that a rubbish truck, and had
been towed away to be fxed.
It was a ftting climax to another remarkable year, some might say.
They would be right.
196 197
The Storm
Though we did not have Irost, ice, and snow, we had storms. At the Iall
oI dark that night, the thunderous, tumultuous storm had cracked and
bludgeoned its way across the state oI Perak. It had transIormed roads into
rivers and breadIruit leaves into boats Ior unwary insect liIe. Tutting house
geckos, ever wary oI lumbering human inhabitants, hastily scampered Ior
shelter amidst the nonchalant storm`s crashing and banging evidently
scared Ior their little lives. Ever shy cockroaches perpetually kept
themselves hidden Irom our view.
The very sensitive, and one wonders iI it is mildly neurotic, fip-switch
to our electricity supply trembled and turned itselI oII three dramatic
times. Each time I managed to turn it back on, within minutes it turned
itselI oII. The situation was not, I may add, without the use oI several
encouraging Anglo Saxon words not repeated here. There was also a
more than slight redness to my, otherwise white, goatee-bearded Iace.
Finally, and with much ado, I had arranged the irritating switch to
stay upright. It eventually provided us with enough current to weather
the storm. That was not, however, without having to spend an inordinate
amount oI time in the semi-darkness oI meagre candle light. I concur that
candlelight, per se, is pleasant, Irequently romantic, and oIten evocative oI
golden-times retrospective illusion. It does not help when you are trying to
download pdI(s) oI antiquarian writing Irom the internet.
BeIore I was able to ensure a steady supply oI liIe-easing electricity to
our home, and amidst the gushing oI torrential waters, the din oI thunder
and the fickering oI candle, we had remained resolute. We were stalwart,
and practically stoic, in the eating oI dinner without luxurious current. It
was not without its mishaps.
We had two packets oI decidedly dodgy curry noodle soup. These we
bought, in the very best oI Iaith, Irom a local eatery. They looked, sadly,
like something that should be exiting, rather than entering, a body. The
hot, dubious, curry, which had been previously transported in our old jeep,
entered into our expectant but gloomy kitchen. No doubt, there was more
than a hint oI mischieI about that Iood. One packet oI the craIty curry
noodles had decided not to play the game. That packet partially upended
itselI down my T-shirt, trousers and Japanese slipper (singular) the
second slipper escaped to fght again, another day.
In the murkiness oI our dimly lit house stealthily, wantonly the
undercooked and decidedly un-poetic looking curry sauce released itselI
Irom its plastic bag, and plopped disgustingly onto the dinner table. It
dripped, practically unseen Irom the tabletop, and was Ielt by my right Ioot
as an oozing, sticky warmness. Believe me, you do not want to imagine the
Ieeling, Irankly, you are better oII not to.
In the near dark oI the decidedly unromantic fickering candle light,
clearing the tacky mess was as diIfcult as it was hazardous. The clearing
invited slippages, and Iurther spills that, happily, we narrowly avoided.
I would have been tempted to say Leave it, we will see to it in more
enlightened times,` were it not Ior the squelching discomIort betwixt Ioot
and slipper. To put the matter to rest, and to move on with this telling, the
sticky, gluey mess was cleansed the best we could, under the circumstances,
and dinner, such as it was, had no sooner begun than ended.
Outside, monsoonal rain had continued to grace our garden, turning it
into a moat. The humongous battle oI Titans raged ever more energetically
above us. DeaIening thunderbolts hurled, booming into the ether, making
it diIfcult to think, let alone talk. The electricity switch, previously timid
and shy and yet with a distinct mind oI its own held Iast and, with it,
welcome light fooded the kitchen once more. It brought with it child-like
smiles at this most modern oI man`s miracles. Within an hour, or so, we
had grown Irom cave dwellers to children oI modern man, and then to
adult only to revert on the next occasion the electricity went oII.
198 199
OI Tender Shoots and Curry
In between the wet dry season, the dry wet season, the dry, dry season, and
the wet, wet season we attempted to grow all manner oI plants and Iruit
trees at our questionably idyllic home in the Malaysian hinterland.
Aside Irom the more obvious diIfculties oI poor soil, open location,
burning sun and torrential rain, we daringly attempted to plant a ring oI
Iruit trees around our property in the vain hope that they would grow and
shade our sun-kissed bungalow.
Ha!
Having thoroughly trounced the compacted soil into near submission,
beaten it until it was close to surrender, we flled the hard-won holes
with black soil and chicken-drop pellets. We gave them a comprehensive
watering, planted Iruit trees, and stood back waiting Ior growth.
To our great delight, grow the trees did. We watered our mango,
rambutan and longan saplings daily, nursing them until they had taken
hold and started to produce healthy looking leaves. We were so proud oI
our horticultural endeavours, that we began to envision cool shade and, in
time, succulent Iruits to replace those we could no longer collect Irom our
orchard.
Then, one sun-flled, blue kingfsher-darting morning, we went to
water our brave, strident, saplings only to fnd them to be stripped bare
naked oI Ioliage. All that was leIt were stark stalks, completely bare oI
Iresh leaves.
The surrounding earth had been Ireshly trampled. Telltale hooI marks
were leIt in the soIter sand. It did not take a Sherlock Holmes, or even
a Singaporean Inspector Singh to discover the culprits to be wandering
water buIIalo stealthy visitors oI the night.
Forgetting what my brain was there Ior, thinking that a one-oII
occasion, we tended the very same saplings, urging them to grow more
shoots and gradually, very obligingly, they did. JoyIully we covered roots
with spent grass, lovingly mulched, and nurtured them. Once again, Iresh
tender leaves started to spring Iorth Irom eternally hopeIul plants.
One day, during what might have been summer iI Malaysia had such
seasons, we leIt Ior the market to buy Iresh provisions. Upon our return,
we stood aghast and agape. Our lovely saplings had been stripped oI
their leaves, once again, providing yet another snack Ior nomadic water
buIIalo.
This was too much. OII we shot to the local hardware store there we
purchased copious amounts oI galvanised` wire. That day, being bold and
Iull oI angry energy, we strung snaky springy wire around handily situated
lampposts, and congratulated ourselves on a job well done.
The seemingly endless pastoral days rolled ever by. Rain and sun
graced our house, garden, and our galvanised` wire in plenitude. We
noticed that the once grey wire was slowly turning an earthen colour. We
thought no more about it until, once again, we were Iaced with stems oI
Iruit trees, with not only no Iruit, but not one leaI in sight.
The heIty buIIalo had plunged straight through rusting wire which
we Iound limp and cheerless on the bovine trampled ground. The buIIalo
had Ieasted, once more, upon our obviously tender Iruit-shoots.
Not only had buIIalo eaten the leaves Irom all the Iruit trees, but had
broken two oI the larger trees by using them as scratching posts. Until
the nice local council supplied us with a concreted culvert to border our
property, we were continuously Iaced with the same problem. Eventually
we re-planted Iruit trees, but this time within our garden Ience. We
surrendered those outside to the wandering water buIIalo. I must conIess
that whenever I was consuming water-buIIalo curry prepared by my
loving wiIe, I thought oI our tender Iruit-shoots gnawed Irom our
saplings, and gave a sly inner grin.
200 201
One Flu Over
I never get the fu maybe a sniIfe or two, but never that all-draining,
bone-aching dying Ieeling like I used to have in England Iamous last
words.
During my six years, fve months, two weeks and one day that I had
been warmly dwelling in that wonderIully moist, and occasionally bone
crumbling dry land, I had not been inIected with the fu once until, that
is I was.
Since I had been married, my wiIe had spent much oI her time away
in Kuala Lumpur working. My stepdaughter had been away at school
and my step-son, he who Irequently emulates giraIIes, had been away at
university.
I was inIrequently exposed to real people only avatars, cyber, and
quite possibly pseudo-Iriends. I did not Irequent establishments where I
would normally come in contact with pigs, having no pearls to cast beIore
them, and had given up birds on getting married. I had no care to share in
various ailments, be they avian or porcine fu included. There was just
me and my cats. The only thing they ever gave me was the odd dead lizard
and an allergy which had been quickly remedied with a tablet or two.
Holed up in my rural Iortress like some expatriate Iormer east-end
gangster, I was rapidly becoming the Malaysian Michael Jackson, without
the monkey, wonderland, or child issues. I was saIe. I was out oI bounds
bound up and out oI the way oI colds, fu, and any other raging epidemic
seeking to inIect the vast majority oI humankind.
I thought that I had cracked it. I sneered at coughs and looked down
my nose at colds. Two oranges nightly, loads oI vitamin C, mild er very
mild exercise no point in overdoing it, and keeping my distance Irom the
mask wearers and I would be fne, just fne. Only I wasn`t fne. AIter six
plus years oI no doubt scanning the internet, combing through FBI, CIA
and satellite databases, the fu had fnally tracked me down in my Perakian
haven.
I call it the Ninja fu. It crept up on me without warning, struck with
almost deadly accuracy and laid me low with one Ioul swoop. One minute
I was busy researching Ior my next article, all eager and enthusiastic, then
next I was laid low on my bed unable to get up Ior days. Yes, it was an
aaah, poor thing moment and, being a man I did what any selI respecting
man might do I wrapped myselI in my illness and took on patient mode.
My dear wiIe, then home, plied me with grapes well, mangos and
bananas to be more precise, but the thought was there. She also brought me
copious amounts oI coconut juice which, she said, would bring down the
Iever, though the doctor had said the very same thing about Panadol but
who was I to argue?
But fu is infuenza, and infuenza is a virus, and there is little you can
do once you have it. You can only suIIer, take plenty oI fuids, Panadol Ior
the aches and pull lots oI sad, pathetic Iaces to maximise the sympathy.
Eventually, just when I was getting used to the idea, the virus decided that
it had had too much Iun and went back home to see its virus wiIe and virus
kids, put its virus Ieet up and watched some banal programme on virus TV.
So, as all good times must end. I bade Iarewell to my little Ninja virus
buddy, with whom I shared many a mucus moment, and with a pang in my
heart knowing that we could no longer be together, I knew that it would,
eventually, fnd someone else and Iorget all about me such is liIe.
202 203
Dissing the ditch
You know the Ieeling. You have planted x number oI Iruit trees. You have
constantly battled water buIIalo to save your saplings and then, fnally you
start seeing the Iruits oI your labours.
Out oI a heart-bursting sense oI pride, you gather up your digital
camera, shoot oII a Iew digital piccies and download them to your laptop.
You watch the piccies in slide-view mode and almost choke with pride
with that sense oI satisIaction welling within you. Such it was until, that
is, the digger came.
Some Iour years previously, in a moment oI dissatisIaction with our
lot, we approached the local council Ior a ditch. Other people had ditches
and we wanted a ditch. We wanted a ditch so that we could be proud oI a
ditch oI our very own a ditch to rival others. The ditch never came.
Instead, we counted our blessings. Where the ditch should have been
we planted Iruit trees. Admittedly, it was not our land to plant the trees on,
but there was such a nice greensward that it virtually begged to be flled
with trees to take the heat Irom our bungalow. So plant we did.
Over time, buIIaloes permitting, some oI the saplings began to grow.
One Iruit tree in particular survived buIIalo nibbling and being used as an
impromptu back scratcher. That was our dear longan tree. It had, at long
last, started to produce Iruit.
Yes, admittedly, it does seem a little silly getting all sentimental over a
longan tree. But when I saw that bulldozer rip the poor tree Irom the earth,
casting it aside like some mechanical Tyrannosaurus Rex something
deep inside oI me went all green and ecological . Sorry I am getting
ahead oI myselI.
It was Thursday. Ding, dong. The gate bell chimed. It echoed in the
hall. I looked out to see a gang oI men standing around our gate. There was
a lorry parked nearby. My frst thought was that were we being raided by
some very polite gangsters, gentlemen robbers perhaps Excuse me sir,
can I rob vou now?` Tentatively I peeked out at the suntanned men. One
oI them actually raised his hat to me, in a totally non-threatening way. I
relaxed. I relaxed so much that I Iorgot that I was wearing my sarong and
driIted out to greet these unexpected callers.
There were a Iew wry smiles on being greeted by a halI-naked, sarong
clad, rather large white man. The gang boss who spoke decent enough
English, shook me by my hand. Smiling, he explained that they had come
to reconnoitre Ior the digging oI the ditch. My immediate reaction was
What ditch?`
The ditch which you requested,` said the polite man in the slightly
grubby baseball cap.
I was stumped. Ditch requested had I when my thoughts were
getting conIused. Then it dawned upon me. Good grieI, yes I did, at the
local council oIfces some Iour years previously. Well, congratulations,
you will have your ditch, at least started, on Monday.`
Ah,` said I, Really.` In that little corner oI my mind reserved Ior
cross-examination or introspection I thought do I reallv want a ditch,
especiallv now that mv fruit trees have grown? But my new Iriend was
most insistent that I have a brand new ditch. I mumbled something which
he took as OK`, and thanked me.
The very next day, which incidentally was not Monday but Friday, the
digging began. First order oI the day: destroy that beautiIul longan tree
we cannot have such beauty near our ditch. Destroy the longan they did.
Then they uprooted the mangos that had so bravely battled the buIIalo, and
proceeded to generally rip and pillage our greensward.
My heart sank. There were mixed Ieelings, I was torn between the
gaining oI a ditch and the loss oI Iour years nurturing our Iruit trees,
eventually I just sighed in resignation.
The ditch, once completed, did ease the monsoonal rains. Never again
204 205
did our garden more resemble a swimming pool, aIter the rains. The ditch,
however, cut our greensward into two segments. One small segment oI
green ran along our garden Ience, while the larger segment was on the
other side oI the ditch, open to buIIalo.
We replanted most oI the shrubs and trees but, sadly, the roots oI
our longan were too badly damaged. It didn`t survive. This leIt us with a
diIfculty. We could cut the grass on one side the larger side oI the ditch,
but our mowing machine was too large to cut the smaller side. OII we
went and bought another hand-held grass cutter. Then, with thanks to the
ditch, we had to use two cutters oI grass and eat could no longans unless
we purchased them.
Oils Well That Ends Well
The expert skill oI the Malaysian artisan has always Iascinated me. On
occasion, driIting out Irom my rural retreat, I had been Iortunate enough to
witness local Malaysian craIts. In Kampar there was the roasting oI Perak
coIIee where great slabs oI margarine and heaps oI sugar were roasted
with tempting aromatic coIIee beans. Elsewhere I have witnessed the
skill oI the bamboo worker, shaping their materials to create some unique
masterpiece oI Iurniture. I have seen, frst hand, the creative abilities oI
the attap thatcher, balancing precariously on a ladder, attempting to thatch
my gaping gazebo. I have been in awe oI these incredible people. I have
been bowled over by their dexterity. There had been no craItsman more
incredible, or more dexterous, than the magician who had been our car
mechanic Ah Kok.
It had been a happy, slappy day in rural Perak. The sun was
customarily hot. The sky well, the sky was sky-blue. It had been a good
day to roll out the old Rocsta and investigate a Iew mining pools. Jerking
to every bump, bounding with every lump we traversed pot-holes, skirted
Iallen trees and slid round corners just like the big boys do in their real
4x4s. We laughed, squealed, and pretended that we were having the most
marvellous oI times braving unknown lands, at the Iar end oI the road that
goes nowhere (Bandar Baru, Kampar).
We circumvented a large herd oI water buIIalo. We made comments
about their lumbering, plodding walk. We shouted about their getting
nowhere Iast. We were so ecstatic that we humans could easily outstrip
these bumbling beasts in our mighty vehicle. Grinning, each to the other,
we were proud to be mankind. We chided the poor beasts Ior being beasts
206 207
and then, when all was appearing to go so well our trusty metal steed
stopped.
To be quite honest, I had been noticing some diIfculty when changing
gear, but I put that down to the jeep`s temperament. The engine revved, but
the jeep would go nowhere. I had experienced this once or twice beIore
and thought, well if I can trick this old truck into top gear, we could ease
home. No such luck. The clutch had gone. No amount oI coaxing, or
indeed manhandling, would get the vehicle to move.
I called my brother-in-law`s hand phone. He, in turn, called one
Ah Kok. Ah Kok is my brother-in-law`s Chinese car mechanic. AIter
some while, a tiny Chinese man appeared, dressed the obligatory greasy
blue overalls I think they were blue. As is customary with the tribe oI
mechanics, Ah Kok did the universal mechanic`s hissing through teeth,
tut-tutted at this and ooh aahed at that. He then gave me a look which said
If vou abused vou wife like this she would divorce vou.`
It was the clutch. Well, yes, I thought it was the clutch. Did I have
any clutch oil? Well not actually on me, not in my pockets what was I
thinking to leave home without at least a litre oI clutch oil? Stupid me. Ah
Kok disappeared. AIter halI-an-hour he brought back a small can oI clutch
oil, and a rather large hammer. I nearly Iainted.
I`m not sure iI it is part oI the make-up Ior the job, but mechanics
always seem to have that smear oI oil on their cheek bone. Perhaps it has
something to do with Masonic lodges. AIter copious amounts oI very loud
bangs probably more Ior show, Ah Kok spilled clutch oil into somewhere
and asked me to try to start the engine. I did. He then asked me to try to
move the jeep, I did it moved.
Ah Kok politely suggested, in his mixed Chinese, Malay and English,
that I return to his workshop another day. I did. There was more banging,
more oil. Petite Ah Kok dived somewhere inside my jeep`s engine where
he instantly became cyborg halI man, halI machine. He rumbled around.
More banging ensued. At one point he disappeared altogether I was quite
worried. Finally, Ah Kok emerged and proclaimed the job done. I stood. I
wondered. I gaped and praised this marvel oI a Malaysian mechanic. He
was a true magician.
I stood beside my old jeep, admittedly a little transfxed, and positively
glowed at this selI-eIIacing, diminutive Chinese man. It was an honour to
have met such a craItsman. Sometime later, when I had yet more problems
with that old truck, I took it to Ah Kok. Once more the man-machine dived
into the engine and pronounced, this time, a stopped starting motor.
Can we get another to ft?` said I, all hopeIul.
Noh weally,` said Ah Kok in his mixed language, grimacing,
gesticulating. My heart dropped. Then what was I to do. Ah Kok
disappeared. He reappeared aIter what I imagined to be a Iew curses in
a language I did not understand, and some banging. He produced some
mechanical part or other.
He disappeared into my truck`s engine once more. Yet more banging
ensued it sounded quite serious. AIter maybe twenty minutes, Ah Kok
once again emerged Irom the bowels oI my truck. He climbed into my
driving seat with his greasy overalls, and started the engine frst time.
Apparently it was a simple matter. Firstly, you take a part Irom another
truck, never mind whether it matches or not, bring it to your damaged truck.
You stare at it Ior a Iew moments, dive into the engine, and then proceed
to hit the part until it fts. Simple really, and all part oI the Malaysian
mechanic`s magic.
208 209
Emphatically Not Peer Gynt
It had taken the best part oI an hour to traverse the new highway to Kuala
Kangsar north oI Perak state. Coconut trees draped themselves either
side oI the river, the nearer being made over to parkland with gently rolling
green slopes neatly laundered by the local council. The opposite side stood
largely untouched Ior the past halI a century, with sporadic kampong
houses and brown bodies knee-deep in water, netting what catch they may.
The bride a Iamily Iriend`s new wiIe, was resplendent in her pale
blue wedding clothes, her silver necklace and Iashionable tiara. We cooed
at the weight the groom had lost, but were a little sad that he and his
brother could no longer match the weighty elegance oI Nusrat Fateh Ali
Khan despite their earnest attempts to sing.
Amidst the clicking oI cameras and the usual amount oI photos,
people posed with bright smiles and no breath mints, then, aIter posing, the
bride and groom driIted oII to fnd their ensemble and began to entertain
and amaze the inner circle oI relatives. The rest oI us, the hoi polloi, were
already nose deep in deep Iried chicken, oily rice, pickles, and a deeply
suspicious looking lentil mixture.
The groom`s brother regaled his captive audience with local melodies,
believing that the sound oI his voice could improve the quality oI the
buIIet, or reduce the sundering heat which was threatening to overcome all
those not stationed within reach oI a Ian. Then, having served our time in
the company oI the dim distant relatives, partaken oI all the dubious manna
available, and spat out the very last black watermelon seed, we could wait
no longer Ior the non-Iorthcoming sweet Malaysian tea. We made a move
to explore Kuala Kangsar beIore returning to the highway and home.
Royal Kuala Kangsar lay beside the Perak River, to the north east oI
Ipoh. Approaching Sultan Azlan Muhibbuddin Shah Ibni Almarhum Sultan
YusuI Izzuddin Shah GhaIarullah`s royal town, the frst thing I had noticed
was that people used to have really, really long names. Next was the sheer
abundance oI Iascinating architecture, including the CliIIord Secondary
School (Sekolah Menengah CliIIord) and the prestigious school built Ior
Malaysia`s elite the Malay college (MCKK or KMKK) established in
1905.
Anthony Burgess, he oI The Malavan Trilogv and A Clockwork
Orange, worked as a teacher at the Malay College in 1954/55. It was
during Burgess`s time that this posh boy`s school became nicknamed the
Eton oI the East.
Apparently the name Kuala Kangsar derives Irom the term kuala
karong sa,` which I am led to believe means the meeting point oI ninety
nine small tributaries I didn`t count them. These confuences possibly
account Ior the Irequent fooding around the area, a fooding which became
so bad that the main site oI the royal palace was moved, to Iurther up the
hill, away Irom its waterside seat, to avoid Iurther water damage.
Having managed to fnd a stall selling East Coast Iood, we stopped,
took blue rice coloured by the blue clitoris fower (blue pea), and some
other incredible items and began making our way back home. All was
going well on the North/South Highway, until we reached the mountain
range just outside oI Ipoh.
We were hot and bothered. We were growing sick and tired oI being
stuck halIway up a Malaysian mountain. There were long lines oI traIfc
beIore and even longer lines oI traIfc aIter us. We were, rumour has it,
somewhere on a long winding road (that leads to our door) in the deepest
depths oI rural Perak.
What seemed like Iun, the jolliest oI highway japes and an excitement
caused by our location and situation, gradually soured into irritation, then
boredom. It was no longer cool that motorcyclists were able to ignore the
queues and weave in and out oI the static traIfc. It was in Iact becoming
mildly irritating that they could hasten their two wheeled ways to the Iront
210 211
oI the line no doubt grinning inanely as they did so, and mentally fipping
endless birds to us in our cages`.
It was iI we had been marooned, seemingly Ior years, like hapless
travellers in some dystopian J.G Ballard tale. In that scenario, there was
no hope oI rescue. There was a growing sensation that we would slowly,
eventually, descend into anarchy and fnally devolve into uncivilised
carnivore barbarism. Our at the very best oI times most tentative moral
fbre would be devoured, like Fruit and Fibre at a Iamily breakIast, without
the comIort oI milk or sugar leaving nothing oI our enlightened morality
but the empty bowls oI our souls.
In time, a lean stranger would appear, probably Irom out oI a Land
Rover, or Pajero. He would begin to organise the rabble. Initially scuIfes
would take place, each individual vying Ior top place a necessary
adjustment to our new circumstances. However, the leader, now called
The Leader, would prevail over all comers. A new society would emerge.
It would have new rules and Iresh taboos, eager not to make the same
mistakes as the old but, in haste, making new mistakes instead.
As I became lost to my inner ramblings, the human giraIIe in the back
seat oI our jeep, cunningly masquerading as my stepson, snored with teen
apathy and my wiIe snoozed fnally catching up with the sleep denied
her while caring Ior elderly relatives and children alike. So, alone, bored
and unable to play to a sleeping gallery, I allowed myselI to indulge in my
little Iantasy.
Just as my imaginings were beginning to include women dressed
scantily in civet skins, I heard the irritating wail oI a police car inching
nearer. With the arrival the police, the traIfc began to move. Cars and
trucks began jostling Ior pole position aIter narrowly allowing the police
leeway. Some eager souls attempted to Iollow in the wake oI the police,
others sought to block them, enjoying the momentary chaos oI a temporary
Iree-Ior-all.
Slowly we moved Iorward, creeping, inch by inch (in bottom gear)
to the sight oI the blockage, only to fnd nothing. Highway cones, in
imitation oI disco going, colour blind wizard`s hats, stood neatly against
the rocky mountainside, quietly observing the Iollies oI man and machine.
However, oI the cause oI the blockage there was none. The police car
eased through and departed. My thoughts soon snapped back to the Iact
that the road ahead was less crowded, and that the traIfc in Iront was
beginning to build up necessary speed.
Speed, the word tumbled around my empty brain, speed, hey I had a
speed limit to breach. I needed to put my proverbial pedal to the metal, be
in prime position, iI only Ior the brieIest oI moments, as Ferraris, BMWs
and sleek Mercedes soon rushed past my best eIIorts to race up and down
the aIternoon mountains.
212 213
Visa Vie
Aside Irom the inordinate length oI time it took to acquire my visa Irom the
Malaysian immigration department in Shah Alam, I had no major quibbles
with that service. Other than, that is, being held at gunpoint by an ageing
immigration guard and Iorced, yes Iorced at gunpoint no less, to Iorm an
orderly queue. Eventually, aIter six years oI trying, I received a Iour-year
visa. That is aIter numerous trips to Putrajaya and getting lost which
seems obligatory in Putrajaya, and being fned Ior parking in the wrong
direction. Finally I was allowed one-year visas aIter the one-month, then
two-month then six-month visas and fnally allowed to go to Shah Alam
yearly to renew my visa to stay with my wiIe and stepchildren, in their
country. That had been my experience oI visa getting in Malaysia. I was
to have an altogether diIIerent experience when I needed a visa Ior India.
I had been invited over to New Delhi, India to read a Iew words oI
poetry at a Commonwealth Literary Meet.
The thought oI returning to India leIt me all a-quiver, my heart
pounding with joy. The downside, because every silver-lining has a cloud,
was that I would have to leave my beloved land oI water buIIalo, civets,
and toads which go parp in the night.
I bullied my long-suIIering wiIe into driving me to Kuala Lumpur.
Once in Kuala Lumpur, we parked at Kuala Lumpur City Centre (KLCC)
and sought out the building housing the visa department Ior the High
Commission oI India. Visa callers are no longer welcome at the actual
High Commission oI India I do not blame them, do you? I mean who
would want a raggle taggle bobtail oI a horde (such as we visa seekers)
descending upon their Iront door.
It was not that diIfcult to locate the visa department it was snuggling
between Central Market and Jamek mosque. Looking at the small numbers
oI people in the visa building, I got the immediate impression that all was
going to be quick and very easy. I was wrong.
Whereas residents oI this fne country oI Malaysia obtain their visas
chop chop sorry I could not resist the pun we Ioreigners, aliens, non-
residency holders have to have their visas reIerred back to their country oI
origin in my case it was the UK.
Now here comes the strange part. On duly flling out two Iorms as
requested, writing my address in Malaysia, my temporary address in Delhi
and supplying the nice young lady with two almost recent passport-sized
photographs, she then asked Ior my home address in the UK.
I`m sorry`, said I I no longer have an address in the UK because I
live in Malaysia.`
That`s nice,` she said, Where do you live?`
I live in Perak,` said I.
How long have you lived in Perak?` she said.
Six years,` said I.
And what is your address in the UK?` she said.
Hold on a minute, this is where I came in, I thought.
But I don`t have an address in the UK, because I live in Malaysia.`
That`s nice. What sort oI visa do you have Ior Malaysia?`
I have a spouse visa.`
Ah, you are married to a local?`
Yes, a Malay.`
Ah, and what is your address in the UK.`
I`m sorry but I don`t have an address in the UK.`
What is your parent`s address?`
My parents are deceased.`
What is the address oI their house?`
There isn`t one, they are gone and so is their house.`
Do you know oI any addresses in the UK?`
Hang on a minute. This is where bureaucracy started to addle my
214 215
brain. The nice young lady was asking iI I knew any addresses in the UK,
that is (Ior the slow oI reading) any address in the UK 10 Downing
Street and Buckingham Palace included. That was just so that she could
put an address Ior me in the UK. Why was that, I hear you ask. Because
my visa application had to hasten itselI Irom the visa department, across
Kuala Lumpur to the Indian High Commission. It was Iaxed Irom there to
London, England, where they would decide iI they would give me a visa,
or not, to attend the Commonwealth Literary Meet to which I have been
invited by an oIIshoot oI the Indian government their National Academy
oI Letters, no less.
Eventually, I proIIered an address that I have not lived at Ior the past
seventeen years and the young lady seemed happy with that. She smiled
as she said that I could come back in fve days, re-submit by ticket, and
wait another day and then, iI I were really lucky, I might get my visa just in
time to catch my fight. Franz KaIka and Joseph Heller both came to mind.
The fnal insult to this visa saga was on my return journey. I presented
my passport at immigration at Kuala Lumpur International Airport. The
gentleman who took my passport seemed amused. He then called over a
chum and they muttered a Iew words in Malay. The words Mat Salleh and
Ipoh kept cropping up, and each time they did there was a belly laugh.
They were almost ROTFL. The object oI their amusement seemed to
be a previous trip that I had taken out oI Malaysia to Singapore. On that
occasion, I had fown to and Iro Irom Ipoh (mini) airport. This, Ior some
unknown reason, seemed to cause great amusement.
Yellow Poet
I mused on all things Malaysian, and in particular, the patina oI democracy
that seemed to be getting ever thinner the longer we stayed in Malaysia.
Under the brightness oI the hot noon sun, I typed with one hand with
the other I reached Ior my iced maize drink. The drink`s yellow colour
momentarily dazzled me, caught as it were by shaIts oI sun tripping over
my neighbour`s coconut trees. The brightness oI the colour yellow brought
to mind all kinds oI yellow things, Irom the maize making the drink that
particular tint to the spice turmeric and its indelible stain.
In a golden reverie, I recalled days listening to Donovan Leech`s most
endearing song Mellow Yellow and, many years later that droning song
about the same colour, Irom the band Coldplay.
Quickly I recalled that there were hippy-flled submarines oI yellow
(by The Beatles and Heinz Edlemann) in the 1960s, dastardly and
dangerous yellow Ievers and one particular yellow window inserted in his
museum, by Sir John Sloane, giving a Mediterranean tint to his collection
oI arteIacts in Lincoln Inn Fields, London.
The sun-flled saIIron thought persisted a yellow sun brings that
Kryptonian, Superman, his super powers. Royal yellow is the colour oI
kings, and queens Ior that matter. Yellow metal is associated with gold,
and certain orders oI monks wear yellow refecting dropping leaves and
ephemeral liIe. Yellow is allied to Texas roses, and it became the ink colour
Ior America`s cartoon Yellow Kid and those extremely helpIul telephone
pages oI a lemon hue.
Yellow is not, normally, the colour oI revolution, so why I asked
myselI, had members oI Malaysia`s police Iorce been arresting people
216 217
in Kuala Lumpur and Selangor Ior wearing the colour oI quince and
primrose?
I had fnally managed to get through to the Poet Laureate`s son (and
PR person). It was a yes. I could have an interview with him, fnally. I
was over the moon in June or somesuch. I travelled once more to KL and
stayed overnight in a budget hotel near to the KL Sentral train station.
I readied myselI Ior our meeting the Iollowing day at Starbucks. That
elderly poet seemed to like Starbucks.
Sporting long silvery hair and a luxuriantly long silver beard, the
Poet Laureate looked very much like a diminutive Malaysian GandalI. He
was, perhaps, the best known, and certainly the most easily recognised oI
Malaysia`s modern poets he, in looks at least, appeared to be every inch
the poet.
Easily mistaken Ior some 14th century Chinese sage, this grand man
oI letters presented an exquisitely romantic fgure when seen out and about
in public. He was Irequently observed in places like Starbucks (around
Kuala Lumpur) quietly observing people and liIe in general. The year oI
my interview with him, The Poet Laureate celebrated his three score years
and ten, well plus fve, Ior it was his seventy-fIth birthday.
It was an honour Ior me to have frst met this gently intellectual
poet in Penang, Ior World Poetry Day. It was hosted by Universiti Sains
Malaysia. That was some years beIore. On both occasions what impressed
me about that extraordinary man was his humility. He demonstrated a
grace and a humbleness which quietly radiated Irom him aIIecting those
in his presence. There was no hint oI the loItiness, or selI-aggrandisement
which is so associated with those at the pinnacle oI their proIession, or the
oIt acclaimed. This poet was easy to warm to.
When I enquired why he was able to be so humble, despite his Iame,
he put it down to the hard times he and his Iamily endured, in Singapore,
at the outbreak oI the Second World War. It was that and the occupation oI
Singapore and Malaya by the Japanese.
He was born 1935, in Malacca, and had gained many accolades
included the ASEAN literary award (1993), a Datukship (Irom Malacca,
1997), and the highest honour a poet, or man oI letters may achieve in
Malaysia the Sasterawan Nusantara (literally meaning the national man
oI letters, or poet laureate, 1999). In 2003 he gained an honorary doctorate
Irom the Universiti Pendidikan Sultan Idris (UPSI).
In Malaysia, and abroad, he was renowned Ior his Malay and English
anthologies, his ecologically-concerned poetry, his string oI Malay novels
and recognized Ior countless inIormative articles on poetry and the arts.
Many schoolchildren throughout Malaysia grew up knowing his most
Iamous poems where he talks about pollution and conservation a theme
dear to his heart.
The poet leaned in towards me and said, They changed it, you
know. Where I said, in the poem, they should do something about it (the
pollution), the government changed it to read 'we should do something
about it.` And that slight change rankled him.
One year aIter our meet at Starbucks that elderly poet, truly a man oI
the people, was arrested Ior sedition, aIter giving just part oI his poem, in
public.
A Iew days later he was at the IoreIront oI a march a collective oI
non-government organisations (NGOs) Bersih, calling Ior clean elections
in Malaysia. He too was wearing a yellow Bersih` T-shirt, as were many
who were arrested and had their T-shirts ripped Irom them.
Even though out oI breath, weak Irom the march, the Poet Laureate
clasped a petition and intended to deliver it to the Agong. Armed police
prevented him Irom doing so. Still he wanted to press on, but Iriends
dissuaded him Irom Iurther confict. Water cannons laced with chemical
irritants, tear gas and police brutality dispersed the peaceIul march. The
Malaysian government has since outlawed Bersih.
True, Malaysia had been through this beIore; in Perak in Ipoh to
be more precise but then it was the colour black. Black was caught up
in some power tussle between the oIfcially elected state government and
those wishing to oust them the ousters won. Sympathisers oI the ousted
oIfcials wore black in mourning Ior democracy and held a candlelight
vigil. Holding lit candles and wearing black T-shirts became banned in
218 219
Perak, Ior a while. Then yellow was banned, outlawed like some distant
cousin to Lincoln Green and Robin oI Loxley.
Despite the local telecoms company Digi adopting a rather curious,
and rotund, yellow man` as their mascot, and yellow appertaining to
Malaysia`s royalty, the wearing oI T-shirts oI a yellow hue, with or without
the additional text Bersih (clean) became suddenly illegal in Malaysia
Ior a short period oI time.
Do we have to take down our curtains then?` I had asked my wiIe
innocently, Should we attempt to hide the Alamanda fowers, and what
about our cat Tyger technically more ginger than yellow, but in the
sunlight . ` A we are not amused` Iace turned to me, said nothing vocally
but a whole lot non-verbally I`ll start putting the curtains back up then,
shall I?` I said.
It was all clearly a misunderstanding. A misunderstanding that brought
a host oI blue-wearing policemen and related protectors oI government,
wearing red, onto the streets oI Kuala Lumpur shooting grey tear gas and
blue chemical-laced water canon at people gathering and wearing shirts oI
a yellow hue.
Said protectors oI government accosted many people, practically
ripping their yellow T-shirts Irom their backs, while other people, wearing
yellow, were beaten and, once on the ground, kicked and all because
they were wearing the wrong colour T-shirt, a colour oIfcially outlawed
by Malaysia`s Home Minister.
It was not as iI these yellow people were creating erotic material, such
as Audrey Beardsley`s inIamous Yellow Book oI Victorian England, nor
were they swinging through the streets apropos some yellow costume clad
blind superhero (aka Daredevil), but walking orderly towards a stadium
where they hoped to hold a rally in Iavour oI Iair and clean elections.
The blue-clad deIenders oI the status quo (and I resist the analogy
with Pepperland`s Blue Meanies) took exception to the hosts oI yellow
T-shirt wearers and waged a one-sided war upon the undeIended and
unarmed gatherers. Brutalised and beaten, yellow quickly became stained
with red, like some contemporary Malaysian mimicking oI Alan Moore`s
Watchmen comic book logo replete with the blood droplet.
Some days later, T-shirts washed and only a Iaint stain oI red
remaining, sanity had, gladly, returned to the streets oI Kuala Lumpur. The
tear gas, but not the tears waIted away; irritant-laced water sunk, as had
hearts, into Kuala Lumpur`s drainage system; and only the bitter taste oI
blue against yellow remained.
It was with a smile then, that I recognised a great deal oI irony in the
images coming through the internet oI the Malaysia`s Prime Minister, red-
Iaced in his audience with Queen Elizabeth II, in England. Regally and
royally she greeted the promoter oI blue, with a stunning ensemble entirely
decked out in the most alluring shade oI yellow.
220 221
OI Trysts and Spying
It had begun about 8 a.m one roseate morning. During my sojourn in the
countryside I had grown accustomed to the odd car parking outside the
curious sandy wedge shape which pretends to be our garden. I took little
notice oI the scruIIy black Proton car, replete with blackened windows. It
was perched on the grass verge, outside our compound.
My dear, dedicated neighbour who, as luck would have it, lives just
along the road Irom us is, no doubt, due any day to receive her double-O
clearance and quite possibly her Girl Guide badge Ior spying. She had
duly noted that black car. She, in neighbourhood watch mode, had also
recorded its inhabitant, the time he arrived, the other silver car parked
nearby its occupant, the time she arrived and when, aIter a Iew seconds,
the occupant oI the second car became an eager occupant oI the frst car.
Now I had better explain. Our kampong, despite being entrenched in
ruralness, dripping with rustic bliss and all manner oI God`s graces, has its
Iair share oI thieves, consumers oI illicit materials and general ne`er-do-
wells. So my neighbour, selI-appointed neighbourhood watch and general
purveyor oI news`, had taken it upon herselI to keep abreast oI the ups
and downs, the tos and Iros and, more particularly, the ins and outs oI our
kampong liIe.
On the frst day oI the black car`s arrival so I am inIormed by third
hand knowledge, the two cars arrived within fve minutes oI each other.
My dear neighbour was busy jotting down the occurrence in her little
pink notebook. As the occupants oI both cars squeezed into the black car,
sitting` there Ior some two hours or so, my neighbour intently rolled the
tip oI her red ballpoint pen over rough notepaper. She recorded that the
engine oI the black car was running. She noted condensation Iorming on
the car`s windows, imagining cool air-con encountered hot windows, and
perhaps became a little hot under the collar herselI.
My earnest, eager neighbour Iurther noted that, having attended to
whatever business the two occupants had come to attend to, the Iormer
occupant oI the silver car returned to her car. That leIt the occupant oI the
black car alone, and anonymous. Both cars drove oII in very diIIerent
directions. That same evening the whole perIormance was repeated. So it
went on Ior a Iew days.
For reasons oI her own, and none that I would wish to speculate upon,
my neighbour took a disliking to both cars and their occupants. On the fIth
day oI these (according to her) obviously clandestine meetings, my dear
neighbour took matters into her own hands and called the police.
Having worked itselI up into a crescendo, the matter fzzled out in
an anti-climax as said police drove up to the vehicles where they were
situated, one balmy evening. An exchange oI words took place, and the
police, unperturbed by any reckless speculation, re-entered their car and
exited the kampong. Soon aIter, the silver car and the black car also drove
away.
Not in any way warned oII by their police interview, the Iollowing
morning both cars re-entered the kampong. The occupant oI the silver car,
one young Chinese lady oI perhaps twenty-six years, walked the Iew yards
to the waiting black car. The car`s window wound down revealing a young
gentleman oI a similar age, but Malay. The young lady entered and the car
drove oII.
AIIronted by the couple`s brazenness, my neighbour toyed with
schemes and methods to bring this damp squib oI a tale to a suitable
climax. As Iar as I know, and unIortunately Ior her, she still ruminates
on the mystery oI the black and the silver car Iuming and awaiting her
double-O status.
222 223
The World Turns
That morning, as I pondered vacating the nightly bed or just rolling
over and nestling back down under the covers in our cosy bedroom, a
shy sun peeked at me through grey lumbering cloud. I awoke sleepily
and stretched. Gradually the burning sky orb girded its not unsubstantial
loins and, braving the waiting audience, climbed the expanse oI Gunung
Dayang Bungting (Pregnant Lady Mountain) to illuminate the surrounding
landscape with its brightly surreal glow.
Later, moving a Iond Ieline with my shameIully naked toes, I stood,
teh tarik in hand and watched as a premature kingfsher few Icarus-like
into the sharpening rays oI the morning sun. It fashed its electric blue
wings, dove, and skilIully speared a laggardly mining-pool denizen.
Minutes later the same avian acrobat dashed its prey over and over again
onto the hardness oI our chipped marble garden table, spilling Iresh fsh
blood over the oII-white surIace and then few oII to a neighbour`s mango
tree to consume its easily won breakIast.
During the darkening hours late the previous evening, a kerIuIfe and
a commotion was heard in the distant new section oI the kampong. Scores
oI leaden buIIalo nibbled and meandered their lumbering ways through the
twilit kampong to reach the kampong baru. It was there that they gathered,
Iorming the largest water buIIalo meeting the kampong has seen Ior at
least nine years. I am told that it was truly a magnifcent sight with large
water buIIalo jostling slight water buIIalo, young jostling old all in an
attempt to see the leader oI the herd, a grand Bubalus bubalis rarely seen
in recent years.
As darkness Iell, recently-bathed buIIalo could be observed radiating
with a pale white glow under the spell oI moonlight, vibrant against the
darkness oI the others. Gentle calves were lowing, Iorming a back beat
as staccato hooves brushed made-man surIace to create a rhythm oI their
own, and adding to the ambience oI the moment. Water buIIalo stood with
brother buIIalo, united, as one in their bovinity, buIIalo against the world,
buIIalo against oppression against tyranny and corruption. For one brieI
moment, it seemed as though buIIalo stood supreme; fnally united, strong
in their numbers, invulnerable and heroic in whichever endeavour they
should chose to embark upon.
The world turns, and sometimes turns too quickly and true to Iorm.
Just as the water buIIalo gathering was reaching epic proportions, a pack oI
stray dogs yelped and bit at the buIIalo, worrying them to disperse. Vicious
dogs snapped, lunging at vulnerable buIIalo legs, barking, howling, and
snarling their evil snarls at deIenceless calves eager to seek the comIort
and relative saIety oI their mother`s sides. The gentle water buIIalo
became panic-stricken, milling around trying to escape the irritant dogs,
but the dogs growled and howled, yapped and yipped and eventually won
out, as they always seems to do, scattering the poor, harmless, Irightened
water buIIalo.
That day the brutal morning sun thumped upon our bedroom curtains
as, lazily, the wiIe and I stretched, scratched and Iarted, as politely as it was
possible, in greetings to the stunning new day. Kopi, our black and white
devil in Iur, and our antediluvian cat alarm, screeched his best aged meow
outside the window and mentally threatened to do nasty things in our shoes
iI he wasn`t Ied instantly probably conIusing me with a similarly large
person in an American comic book.
Since the wiIe had returned I no longer had to suIIer the daily indignity
oI sour rabbit Iaces banging their water and Iood receptacles in reprimand
Ior my morning tardiness. Nor did I have to endure the reproaches oI my
Ieline Iriends, whom I already consider well Ied, as they mew Ior a second
breakIast approximately twenty minutes aIter the frst with increasingly
guilt inducing voices. Even the busybody Oscars, generally monitoring
me Irom our kitchen Ience, would gaze disdainIully at me in their halI-
224 225
surprised lizard pop-eyed way until scurrying oII, seemingly disgusted,
into the mass oI pandan leaves. (I call these Irilled garden lizards Oscars,
as I have no idea oI their genus or their Malay name. The frst time I
noticed one was outside my kitchen, in the concrete ditch and Ior some
reason Oscar Wilde`s saying We are all in the gutter, but some oI us are
looking at the stars`, sprang to mind. Since then I reIer to all these lizards
as Oscars.)
To celebrate the generalissimo`s return we drove our battered and
aging Korean Rocsta Jeep to the only even vaguely authentic South Indian
restaurant within comIortable driving distance. There we partook upon
dosai and superbly Iormed appams. I could have waxed lyrical over those
Indian appams, but resisted in Iear that the wiIe would withhold making
the promised homemade nasi lemak.
Over idiappam, dosai biasa and two excellent appam manis
accompanied by the requisite amount oI kopi tarik, my obviously mildly
euphoric mood led me to comment. Maybe it was the result oI too much
dhal, but the wiIe remarked how cosmopolitan that restaurant was, with all
three races being able to eat cheek by jowl, and how this surely was a model
Ior the country itselI. While she was waxing lyrical on racial harmony, I
nodded in the manner oI a man more interested in Iood harmony than
racial harmony and was already fnishing the last oI the appam manis.
Over the superb South Indian repast we mused upon that year`s April
14th and its signifcance. Other, that is, than being the anniversary oI Mark
Antony`s victory over Consul Pansa (43BC), the birth oI Khalsa (1699),
the frst abolition oI slavery movement in American society (1775), the
assassination oI America`s President Abraham Lincoln (1865) and the date
when Georges Pompidou became French Prime Minister, in 1962. Mind
you, that is enough to think about.
So just what signifcance had 14th April 2008 played in the history oI
the country, I wonder. Was it a radiant new dawn, did the sun rise brighter,
sharper? Probably not.
The World`s Most Cantankerous
Rabbit
It was the Chinese year oI the Metal Rabbit. Thoughts naturally turned
to Easter, little yellow fuIIy chicks and chocolate bunnies. My thoughts
turned to Mr Brown quite easily the world`s most cantankerous rabbit
held in captivity.
Mr Brown, named not aIter any British politician or ecclesiastical
detective, was brown in colour hence his rather surprisingly apt name.
The rabbit individual, who became easily the nastiest cony outside oI
Watership Down, had started liIe as a small, cute, brown bundle oI Iur in a
pet shop, in Kampar. True that he made no solicitations to be bought, and
cared not whether he resided in the small metal pet shop cage or in larger
(Indonesian carpenter made) pseudo-Malay house. We brought him home
anyway, and lavished our love upon him.
Sadly, it was all one-sided. Maybe some deep psychological trauma
in his young bunny past had marred liIe Ior that small fuIIy mammal.
Only a proIessionally-trained rabbit psychoanalyst would be able to tell.
Mr Brown did not respond to our entreaties oI love and aIIection, or oIIers
to cuddle and stroke him, but rather preIerred the insular liIe and being
in his cage.
Any attempt to let Mr Brown loose in the garden was doomed to
Iailure. He would back himselI into the cage corner Iar Irom the open
entrance and deIy any oI us to drag him out.
No, I`m not going out there, no, I`m not going out there, no, no,
no, no, no.` he seemed to say what I said in return aIter a Iew scratched
226 227
wrists, arms and hands does not bear repeating, but we slow-thinking
humans fnally got the message. Mr Brown, was a home bird er, rabbit.
He preIerred the dubious comIorts oI his bare cage, to Iresh green grass
and ample space to run, hop and jump in.
We persisted. We Iound ways oI upending Mr Brown`s small metal
wire cage to Iorce him out into the garden. With some reluctance on his
behalI, it began to work. However, the most reluctant parolee ever then
began to burrow, heaving mighty paw-Iulls oI sand and earth into the air,
as he dug deeper to escape Irom Ireedom.
In his cage, Mr Brown remained surly. He literally bit the hand that
Ied him. Perhaps he saw fngers as nothing more than soIt, pink, carrots.
Mr Brown also revealed a tendency Ior Thai kickboxing with his hind legs.
To say that Mr Brown was not a happy bunny was, perhaps, the truism oI
the century never had a bunny been unhappier with his lot.
We had a wooden hutch designed and built by Indonesian carpenters
who were working on a local project. We encouraged Mr Brown into it,
thinking that a more comIortable cage might please this most discerning
oI creatures it did not. The process just made it more diIfcult to extract
said awkward rabbit Irom said hutch.
Enough was rapidly becoming enough, as the red-eyed Mr Brown
continued glaring at us Irom his hutch, deIying a caressing or coaxing
hand. With a maniacal leer, he dared us to release him into the copious
grasslands and sun-flled enclosure oI our garden. Those times became less
and less, as we became more, and more reluctant to try.
One day, a neighbour caught sight oI our reluctant rabbit. Taking a
Iancy to what was by then a huge brown rabbit, our neighbour eventually
volunteered to take Mr Brown oII our hands. With many a tear mostly
mine as I wrapped a bitten fnger oII Mr Brown went. We gave his
hutch and all. So oII that cantankerous rabbit went in my neighbour`s
wheelbarrow, silently screaming You`ll never take me alive . Top oI
the world ma`. My world is less hassled now, but oIten when my fnger
twinges I remember Mr Brown, and sometimes think oI my grandmother`s
Iavourite recipe Ior NorIolk rabbit stew.
Sunday?
My guests and I were bumping along in my ageing jeep. We were on our
way to breakIast oI dosai and appam in a very nice Indian eatery in Batu
Gajah. One oI my Chinese painter guests turned to me (at the wheel) and
said...
What day is it, YusuI?`
Wednesday,` I answered, trying to be as honest to my guests as
possible. Seems like a Sunday to me,` he replied.
Why Sunday?` says I, Where is the traIfc` says my Iriend The
queues, the traIfc police leaning up against their motorbikes, the smell oI
carbon monoxide and the stress inducing rush to work and an early heart
attack.`
Ah,` says I, In that case, everyday`s a Sunday, here.`
Throughout the rest oI the morning, having partaken oI the said
Indian repast, and being Iull to the gills and practically somnolent , my
Iriend would keep on remarking about it being a Sunday, so much so that
I Irequently checked my handphone to make double sure that it wasn`t. It
wasn`t.
It was as iI the gently rolling green countryside, the glint oI sun upon
the jeep canopy and, back home, the calm oI our garden, the incessant
chirping oI gossiping birds, the gentle waIting oI jasmine scents and the
ever-so slight breeze patting the white thunbergia gracing our gazebo
was not enough. My guests, well at least one, seemed unable to reconcile
himselI with being in the countryside. He was having diIfculties being in
the real` Malaysia, as opposed to that manuIactured environment many
chose to dwell in. The other, a quieter man, just looked out oI the jeep
228 229
window as iI absorbing all he could beIore the highway journey back to
the city.
True, it was a quiet day and, since it had been pointed out to me, I took
to studying the day more closely as it slipped minute to minute, hour to hour
towards its climax. Indeed, my Iriend had a point. It really did seem like a
Sunday, but it was no Iull English Iry-up, HP sauce, Twining`s Earl Grey
and halI a mile oI newsprint to read Sunday. Rather it was a Malaysian roti
cannai, tea tarik and gossip in the coIIee house sort oI Sunday. It was the
sort oI Sunday where most people were abed or washing the week`s dust
oII their precious or semi-precious automobiles.
The Sunday this Wednesday was, was the epitome oI all Sundays.
It was the essence oI Sunday. It was a quintessential Sunday. It was the
Sunday oI all Sundays all quietude and sleepiness wrapped in one sun-
induced mirage. Everywhere I looked, tired bodies were strewn in repose,
emphasising the Sunday-ness oI that Wednesday day. The air took on a
golden hue oI illusion. Mining pools (lakes) seemed somehow more
romantic. So did the singular bullock cart, inching its way through Batu
Gajah town, spreading good luck as it went. It was blissIul, ideal, an idyll
and as powerIul as any blue lotus dreams.
But Wednesday was no Sunday. There had to be a reassertion oI
Wednesday-ness into the otherwise perIect Sunday. The week needed
readjustment, and readjustment there was in the shape oI my old jeep`s
air-con.
AIter lulling us into a Ialse sense oI security as we were travelling
towards Batu Gajah, the jeep, ever eyeing a chance to assert itselI, decided
no longer to supply us with pleasant cooling air. As we travelled away,
and towards a local waterIall, the jeep cabin warmed. We warmed, and
as we warmed, old Wednesday began to quietly assert itselI. Gradually it
began displacing that rank upstart Sunday. It edged sublime Sunday Irom
our jeep, Irom our minds and, in its place, was all the stark reality oI the
midweek. It was a sad goodbye to Sunday, and hello to Wednesday.
Re-Tyred
It seemed to be the season Ior guests. We would cheerIully last Ior weeks,
sometimes months sans guests. We would get to the point oI wondering
iI some dystopian nightmare had happened and we in our little corner oI
Malaysia were the only survivors. Then guests came aplenty.
There is something about a guest having their Ioot squashed by a car,
at your Iront gate, which seems to dampen the spirits oI the day. It was a
hot Sunday. Lunch was simmering on the stove, as lunches tend to do in
such circumstances. I had just met our guests down the road, indicating to
them, as they were sitting in their obviously heavy car, where our house
was by fapping my hands around like some demented orang-utan and
suggested that they go ahead without me. It was a short distance back to
my dwelling, and so I opted to saunter those Iew kampong steps to savour
the air and gain a little badly needed exercise.
A bird or three thousand were singing in their various trees, seemingly
blissIully unaware oI predatory cats and playIul puppies. I strolled the
stroll oI the unconcerned, and soon reached my garden Irom the back gate.
It was at that moment that my guests were arriving, in their car, at the Iront
gate.
There was a commotion. Sounds oI angst and mewling sympathy
driIted across the bougainvillea, through the white thunbergia-laced
gazebo and eventually brushed my much surprised ears. I arrived altogether
perplexed at the Iront gate, car and guests. It seemed impolite to enquire
(in too much detail) about what had transpired, so I slipped my curiosity
onto the mental back-burner by requesting ice, and plenty oI it, Ior my
poor distressed guest`s Ioot.
230 231
Welcoming an injured guest to your home, especially aIter the injury
had occurred at the Iront oI your home, seemed a little awkward. My normal
ebullient selI was reigned in, jokes to an absolute minimum. There was to
be no mention oI Long John Silver, Jake the Peg or similar, popular, or
physically challenged people who inevitably came to mind on witnessing
my guest`s temporary disability. OI course, the more I suppressed that
particular urge the more it was upon me with a vengeance.
All the limping or one-legged characters oI book, flm and TV driIted
through my consciousness as pathos battled bathos. You see, I could see
the Iunny side but, there again, it wasn`t my Ioot, and not my pain. I, as a
mere onlooker, was Iree Irom the heat oI the pain and Irom the cold oI the
ice touching her pale bare Ioot.
There is a branch oI philosophy that deals entirely with this question
oI another`s pain. Perhaps that was not quite the right time to launch into
the intricacies oI the Mind/Body Cartesian dualism. That is, especially,
when the other was actually experiencing the pain beIore me. Those
thoughts too were shiIted to the rear fre it was getting pretty crowded at
the back oI that particular stove.
It was with relieI that I halI-caught something my guest had said.
She said, in answer to a question Irom my wiIe, that she was tired. I, oI
course, heard tyred` and laughed. Momentarily I thought that my guest
must have wanted to lightened the moment giving vent to her Iunny
side, and encouraging us all to do the same. Almost immediately, three
perplexed Iaces swivelled to meet mine. For the second time that day I was
mystifed, but then quickly realised my gaII. I smiled so very weakly, and
secretly prayed Ior Iorgiveness. Not even my wiIe`s glutinous rice stuIIed
squid, served with sweet gula Malacca could liIt the spirits oI that lunch
table. My guest and her husband constantly gazed at her injured limb, only
adding to our sense oI guilt.
It came a time Ior Iarewells. The couple drove oII. Later, a Facebook
message, much to my relieI, explained that all was well and that my guest
had no lasting damage sadly, my reputation less so.
Buttery Summer
For the rest oI the world it was summer. Hard working people began to
have their dreams oI sun-drenched holidays realised. In Malaysia the
sun, practically, always shines. So, while sun bathing beauties male and
Iemale alike, relished their moment in the sun on pristine white beaches.
And as they dripped with suntan lotion and oils, cooling oII by taking
dips in the azure seas, the very same sun which glinted oII their bronzed
bodies was also responsible Ior shrivelling our Iruits, heating the inside
oI our cars and Iorcing our Iurry Iriends into the shade to lay sprawling,
desperately trying to cool their overheated bodies.
The sun`s Ierocity ultimately aIIects our behaviour too. It encourages
some oI us to behave a little oddly like taking one`s newly purchased Irish
butter Ior a walk Ior instance. Okay, so it was into an air-con restaurant,
and I can justiIy my actions because oI the heat and the likelihood oI said
butter melting into a pool inside the car.
Taking pats oI golden butter Ior walkies was not my normal practise
not, that is, until I moved to Malaysia. In Iact, in cooler climes, I had not
the slightest desire to take any Iorm oI dairy produce Ior walks, saunters,
or promenades be it butter, cheese, cream or indeed milk, but the heat in
Malaysia does this to a man.
It was hot. I had bought the butter Irom the local retail outlet oI a
major international chain. I held it, in its distinctively coloured blue and
white plastic bag, as I entered the Indian restaurant and marched straight
into the air-con section. I needed to keep the butter (and me) cool, as I
waited Ior my meal and, aIter a while, I ate.
At that time, that unselfsh act oI butter-care seemed perIectly
232 233
reasonable, logical even. I prided myselI on quick thinking. I thought that
maybe I could set up a butter-care charity, encouraging others to mind their
dairy produce. However, on my return home, and aIter handing over all the
shopping bags to my wiIe, she gave me a quizzical look. Just why was the
bag containing the butter so much cooler than the other bags.
Like a husband caught cheating, I inwardly panicked. SelI-doubt
attacked me like a club. Had I behaved crazily, was I mad to have taken
the butter, and only the butter, into that eatery? Matters got much worse as
I looked at the sad, sorry, mess the cheese was in. Yes, I had Iorgotten that
the cheese was in the other bag the one not taken into the air-con. The
Australian cheese lay, squashed in its plastic wrapper, oily, rubbery, ft now
only Ior cheese-on-toast and Iorever to be shunned by the Branston sweet
brown pickle. I too was in a pickle.
I had mixed emotions. I was glad that I had saved the Irish butter
Irom a similar Iate to the cheese. But I Ielt guilty that I had no such caring
thoughts Ior the Australian cheese. Was I subconsciously Iavouring my
Irish heritage by rescuing that butter knowing, somewhere at the back oI
my mind, that I was leaving the Ozzie cheese to a Iate worse than death.
Can you be retrospectively guilty oI racial Iavouritism when it comes to
supermarket purchases. Was I guilty oI gross grocery neglect?
As I said the heat does strange things to us ex-patriots. Remember
this, the very next time you oil-up, ready Ior your sizzling summer holiday
on the beach, someone somewhere has a pat oI butter to protect and, while
he does so, in a climate like ours it is imperative that he does not Iorget his
Iragile cheese, lest he Iorever shun the idea oI sandwiches and settles Ior
Welsh rarebit cheese-on-toast.
I Was a Spa Virgin
There are Iew good things to be said about being a Ireelance writer -very
Iew. However, on one singular occasion the email arrived and, just when
I thought Malaysia had nothing leIt to surprise this jaded Malaysiaphile
with, up pops the oIIer oI a three-day, two-night tour oI Perak`s spas. That
was courtesy oI Malaysian Tourism. Spa me I turned and looked at my
pregnant` selI in the mirror you must be joking.
To say that I hesitated at the concept oI a health and wellness tour
would have been a gross understatement. I vacillated, ummed and ahed
just like I had that cold March day when Iaced with certain (imagined)
death in an all-metal cage, some 300 Ieet above the ground with a bungee
rope around my ankles. AIter some soIt encouraging words Irom my
much better halI, I eventually girded my loins, took a deep breath and,
just like that day in the cage, I fnally took the plunge fguratively and
eventually literally (in the case oI the bungee). Like the man Irom Del
Monte I eventually said yes.
Day One Iound me hurtling towards Kuala Lumpur in the electric
train. Actually we hurtled quite slowly because it still takes two hours
whichever train you take to KL Sentral. I dashed through KL Sentral. At
the terminus I hopped on a LRT train, and eventually arrived at the hotel
the meet-and-greet was in. UnIortunately, there were no clear directions
to the meeting room I was due to be seated in, and I wasted halI an hour
seeking any sign oI Malaysian Tourism.
To move on with the telling I will skip over the hail-Iellow-well-
met greetings, the cold Malaysian breakIast oI sardine sandwiches and
mediocre nasi lemak that we were expected to indulge in as the Tourism
234 235
oIfcial talked at us. Nor will I mention our prospective tour guide`s
incessant boasting because, eventually, I Iell asleep on the air-con coach
and Iorgave everything. While I was sleeping, the coach edged itselI out
Irom Kuala Lumpur into Selangor, and then through into Perak.
We missed the public Ierry at Lamut somehow our expert guide
took us to the wrong jetty. Instead we had to wait Ior a private launch to
collect us and transport us to Pankor Laut. It was a place I was particularly
keen on visiting, Ior I had seen the TV adverts and was entirely taken in
with the tales oI exotica, luxury and bellowing tenors.
Eventually, having sampled the low end oI the tourist spectrum, we
were herded into the launch, and pretty soon were fying over miniscule
waves to where the Andaman Sea abuts the Malacca Straits. We headed Ior
one oI the most exotic, and luxurious, islands Malaysia has to oIIer the
privately owned Pankor Laut everyone`s wet dream Iantasy.
The boat manoeuvred its nautical manoeuvrings and edged up to a
small jetty. I thought there must be some sort oI Iunction going on, as the
wooden jetty was Iull oI Pankor Laut staII. It turned out that they were
awaiting us. I thought we were to be inspected, maybe some oI us rejected
as being too weighty Ior all that waiting luxury but no, they were there to
welcome us with a little propaganda beIore we got too Iar onto the island.
AIter copious handshakes, we were ushered, in a not unpleasant way,
to the reception and Iurther inculcated into the ways oI the island resort.
Pankor Laut, in reality, was every bit as plush as it appears in the glossy
tourist magazines and then some. It is a well-appointed wellness resort
and, yes, we were told oh so many times that Luciano Pavarotti had
stayed there and just in case we did not get the message, there was his
chalet as prooI.
Apart Irom the exotic location, the ftting architecture oI the chalets
and the well-planned nature oI the resort, it was the staII, their individual
characters, which leapt out at me not literally you understand. OI all the
characters` we were to meet in our brieI stay on Pankor Laur island resort
there was one Chinese naturalist, who stood out most with his knowledge
and experience he was worth his (slight) weight in hornbill Ieathers and
Iruit-bat guano.
Our luggage disappeared as iI by magic. It, and us, were well taken
care oI by the Pankor Laut staII, even when I queried having to spend the
night in a king size bed with another man something I am not at all used
to doing. The staII took my concern on their collective chins and arranged
Ior another room one with two single beds, so technically I still spent the
night with another man just not in the same bed.
Overall, the staII were warm, Iriendly and all smiles in a StepIord
Wives kind oI way. There was fne dining which was a little lost on
most oI us, and the type oI herbal massage that instantly converts dyed-in-
the-wool spa abstainers, like moi, into passionate believers. I have never
really Ielt comIortable with six-star luxury the kowtowing and the sheer
sumptuousness, but Pankor Laut did six-star with ease and put me at ease
too.
Day Two
AIter a reasonably comIortable night`s stay, listening to the rain,
my roommate`s snores and equatorial insects harmonising I headed
Ior breakIast. With a roti fala (or three) under my expanding belt, oII we
were again, scudding over the barely-existent waves to the mainland. We
headed to the Swiss-Garden GolI Resort and Spa at Damai Laut (the laut`
that you see in both Pankor Laut, and Damai Laut, simply means sea` in
Malay). You have to admit that Laut` sounds a whole lot nicer that saying
Pankor or Damai-on-sea which unwittingly conjures memories oI certain
English east coast seasides stale chips, limp battered fsh and vinegary
mussels.
We stood, or rather tried to stand as we were slowly recovered our
land legs, and gazed at the acres oI rolling golI greens, and smooth inviting
grass. It begged us to tee oII post-haste and take that gentle-but-eIIective
modern exercise which P.G Wodehouse took so seriously when he wrote,
'AIter all, golI is only a game, said Millicent. Women say these things
without thinking. It does not mean that there is a kink in their character.
They simply don`t realise what they are saying.` Personally, I cannot see
236 237
the point oI knocking a small white ball around on a green, then having to
chase aIter it why not just put it in your pocket to begin with? Then again,
I am no sportsperson.
Waters oI the Malacca Straits wash Damai Laut (actually Lumut).
Some might say it is blessed with blue inviting skies, and is cooled by the
luxuriant greens oI the golI resort, but I probably would not be so eloquent.
You might also want to describe the white sands as pleasantly shadowed
by picturesque coconut palms, graced with stunning bougainvillea or
not, as the mood takes you.
It was a buIIet lunch, a disappointment aIter Pankor Laut, and a
lightning tour oI The Swiss-Garden GolI Resort and Spa`s spa. An anti-
climax as tours go. We gladly climbed back aboard the coach that, by then,
more resembled The Beatles` Magical Mystery Tour.
We ambled towards Ipoh Irom Lumut ambled because our guide
didn`t have a clue where he was, or where he was going you could tell
by his reliance on Google Maps, his GPS and constant phone-calls to base.
We bypassed various purveyors oI some oI the most delicious dodol the
west coast oI Malaysia has to oIIer. I would rather have not bypassed those
purveyors oI dodol, but instead stopped and bought a Iew kilos just in
case there was a nuclear war or something. OK, yes, it was a health and
wellness tour but, good grieI, what about aIter the tour?
Still on Day Two, we skirted around the old tin-mining city oI Ipoh,
known Ior its superb Chinese Iood, and edged down a tiny, practically
miniscule, lane beIore us lay Banjaran-Hotsprings Retreat. Banjaran
means range oI mountains` in Malay, but Banjaran sounds much nicer.
From the outset, it was obvious that Banjaran values privacy. Not to
mention a certain degree oI luxuriating at its high-end hot springs retreat.
Banjaran is secluded, ringed partially by the mountains that give the retreat
its name and Iestooned with bubbling, steaming natural hot springs.
There is little doubt that Banjaran is a wellness centre (a term I would
oIt hear on the tour) and is targeted towards the very well heeled and,
no doubt later also healed well clientele iI the staII at Banjaran are given
their way. It is a chic resort, proIIering a multiplicity oI modes to achieve
a certain degree oI wellness. There is a meditative crystal cave worthy
oI Merlin himselI. There is a dead-skin nibbling fshpond, and individual
therapy rooms all geared up to improve your health whether you want
to or not.
Maybe my awkwardness at Pankor Laut had fown ahead, or maybe
it was divine providence, but I was given a whole chalet to myselI
at Banjaran. It was there that I re-learnt how to swim in my private
swimming pool, and how to relax in my secluded hot spring Jacuzzi. The
large fat screen HD television in my king size bedroom remained oII, as
turning it on would have broken the all-enchanting spell Banjaran was
weaving around me.
But tempus does indeed Iugit, and the next day Iairly rushed to greet
us.
Day Three
We climbed, once more, onto the jolly tour bus, perhaps a tad
chummier than when we had begun, and journeyed out oI Ipoh towards
The Clearwater Sanctuary GolI Resort. Said resort is Iamed Ior its golfng.
It also has a nature reserve, and is near to John Hurt`s Elephant Rock (Batu
Gajah).
Meeting an Italian Londoner CheI was the highlight oI the visit that,
sadly, says very little about the resort. Just like that, it was over. Business
cards were given in the honest expectation oI hearing Irom Iellow
travellers (I never did), and it was over. The coach sped oII, and I was
transported home eventually.
I conIess that the overall ambience created in these centres oI
wellness` has as much to do with the staII, as it does with the exclusive
centres themselves. Plush as these resorts are and they are plush they
would be little without the staII working there.
238 239
The Cows oI Reason
There were times in my troubled existence there amidst the mining
pools, jungles and mountains oI rural Malaysia when my surreal liIe had
taken on all the comIorting strands oI normalcy and the normal everyday
things, appeared surreal.
Over the course oI a good Iew years we had long gotten used to the
herds oI long, sharp-horned water buIIalo wandering past our house,
stopping to help themselves to whichever leaves, or plants, took their
Iancy. We had become blase when considering the monstrous monitor
lizards waddling across roads, hiding in ditches, Ior their antediluvian
Iorms no longer Iazed us. We were unconcerned about the various night
creatures that came fying, scratching, snuIfing and helping themselves
to whichever oI those sundry items oI animal, vegetable or mineral they
happened to discover within our compound.
It was, seemingly, a matter oI Iact that large yellow, venomous,
snakes would take reIuge in our garden. Maybe they passed the time oI
day with the bright green snakes lying atop oI our jasmine, or the banded
thin snakes that had made their home in our deer-horn Ierns popping
their heads out as I passed watering the parched garden, tasting the dry air
with their Iorked tongues.
The vagaries oI the monsoonal elements no longer took us by surprise.
There were the thundering ear pounding crashes and bright glare lightning.
We had fash fsh-flled foods, dry bone-dusting heat waves, and myriad
oI variations on it being so hot that cups oI Oolong tea never seemed to
get cold.
Surreal had simply become real. We expected clothes irons to have
spikes, taxis to be water flled and watches unusable and limp. Those weird
and wonderIul skies that used to captivate me Ior hours just seemed so
commonplace, usual. They were no big deal, nor were the sunsets, with or
without coconut trees, which seemed to blaze every single heat-flled day.
Imagine my surprise then, when fnishing oII a particularly tasty
dessert oI coconut milk and squid flled with glutinous rice and palm
sugar, I had espied cows munching on the lemongrass outside my
compound cows, COWS Good grieI.
Just Ior a second, I was transported back to the rolling green hills oI
Devonshire. Thoughts oI clotted cream, scones, and homemade raspberry
jam futtered just like particularly English butterfies through my still
English mind.
What on earth were cows doing outside my kitchen? My poor
Malaysian cat aptly misnamed Tyger, completely Ireaked out. He had
never seen a cow in his liIe up until that moment and, should I have
enquired, he probably would have mentioned that he would never like to
ever again he all but exploded with Iright and ran.
I looked up to see a tanned brown Iace (incidentally bearing no
resemblance to either Rowdy Yates or John Wayne), smiling at me Irom
beyond my wire Ience. A cowboy well hardly a boy, cowman then, cow
herder to be more precise was ambling his way across the land to the rear
oI my kitchen, shooing a smallish herd oI butter yellow cows beIore him.
Like Tyger, I too almost Ireaked out. I was not expecting cows, ordinary,
day-to-day dairy type cows to be invading my consciousness that morning,
or indeed any other morning either.
It was a wake-up call. For Iar too long I had accepted the unusual, the
weird and the bizarre as commonplace, it was indeed time to wake up and
smell the civet-digested coIIee, throw it away and open a jar oI NescaIe to
save my ailing sanity. In a very important way, those ordinary cows were
nice cows, calming cows, they were also the sanity-bringing yellow cows
oI reason bringing me back to the real as opposed to the surreal world.
240 241
Green Anticipation
I had gone Ior my morning amble, watched the headscarIed ladies bounce
up and down, scared a Iew ground-nesting birds, went home, and had a
cold shower. As I showered I listened to Blur`s No Distance LeIt to Run`
permeate my bathroom Irom the nearby studio. The calmness oI the day
and also, no doubt, being in a slightly refective mood, that song brought
back acute memories oI home`, oI Damien Albarn`s dad Keith, who I
had known briefy in a previous liIe, and KitKat.
Why KitKat, I hear you moan. Well, all those many years ago I was
at Art School, studying graphic design. For some reason, maybe due to
their cheapness and accessibility, many oI we students bought KitKats
to munch upon as we prodded Letraset onto resistant surIaces, or hand
painted lettering with gouache it being the age beIore Photoshop.
The wrappers grew in a pile. Eventually we began to paste them
onto the plywood walls oI our studio` with cow gum. KitKats became a
symbol, a brand, iI you will, oI our frst year liIe as graphic design students
there were also plans to silkscreen the KitKat logo onto said wall, ala
Andy Warhol`s own peculiar inclinations with popular consumables but
it never materialised.
I continued listening to Blur on my tablet`, ensconced in my garden
gazebo, while green pigeons pecked on wild cherries`, black and white
hornbills cawed in nearby coconut trees and small cats mewled. It was
then, as my tablet grew hotter (God bless WIFI), that I began to read my
American Iriend`s blogging on Facebook.
There was the usual missing Malaysia nonsense chit-chat about his
liIe back at home in Oregon, and then there was a picture oI said Iriend
proudly, dare I say wantonly, displaying his kitchen shelI.
The image oI the shelI displayed a number oI Malaysian goodies
items my Iriend had taken back to the States with him, and a Iew things
collected Irom Asian stores in and around his hometown. On the shelI,
bottles oI chilli sauce nestled with jars oI belacan. Packets oI noodles
rubbed plastic with what appeared to be a KitKat in a green package.
KitKat I remember KitKat. I couldn`t read the label properly it was in
Japanese, so I enquired oI my Iriend why green wrappers, KitKats are
renowned Ior their red wrappers.
Wasabi KitKat, was the reply.
It took a moment, or two, Ior me to realise that my Iriend was not
joking. Wasabi KitKat, wasabi KitKat never, you just cannot randomly
mix edibles like that. How could they bring together biscuit, chocolate and
the inIamous Japanese hot, oh so very hot, green radish mixture, wasabi?
It could not, or was that should not, be done. But, done it was.
I pondered. I told my Iriend that I had no idea what a wasabi KitKat
would taste like, he promised IaithIully to send a packet over with the CD
we had made together his music, my poetry.
Some weeks later, the package arrived previously opened and
inspected by those nice men at customs who evidently had no Iancy to
either our CDs or the wasabi KitKat). I delayed my sampling and the green
wasabi KitKat languished in our Iridge, until I could rest no longer and,
one evening, I plunged into the chilly domains oI our reIrigerator to extract
that curious pack.
By now you, dear reader must be on the very edge oI your seat
poised with eager anticipation as to what happened next.
I boiled the kettle and made instant coIIee. I took the green KitKat
pack into my studio`. I opened the box, dragged out one two fnger
sections oI KitKat. I pierced the surrounding plastic sheath and pulled out
two fngers oI light green coloured KitKat. My excitement, which I had
been keeping at bay, fnally overwhelmed me.
Snap, I broke one KitKat fnger in halI. On tenterhooks, I raised that
morsel to my mouth and licked. Hmm. I waited Ior my tongue to shrivel.
242 243
Shrivel it did not, no nothing. Tentatively I licked a second time again
nothing, just a slight white chocolate taste, that was all. I popped the halI-
fnger oI green KitKat into my mouth waiting Ior the taste explosion. It
was an anticlimax.
There was no taste explosion no mighty tongue-shrivelling, no Iood
biting the biter back. There was just a mild taste oI white chocolate, and
the KitKat biscuit. I tried the second halI oI the biscuit just in case the
favour was hiding therein. Nope, it was the same taste. My excitement
soon fzzled out. Downcast, I fnished the remaining fnger oI pale green
coloured chocolate and biscuit. I washed it down with NescaIe, and heaved
the heaviest oI sighs.
For weeks my expectations had risen. In Iact ever since learning that
there were wasabi-favoured KitKat extant in the world. My curiosity had
been well and truly piqued, only to Iall fatter than a joke at a Iuneral . It
was a very real case oI not judging a book or in this case KitKat, by its
cover. My curiosity was satiated, but not my craving so within an hour,
or so, I was oII to the Sushi bar, to get some real wasabi Ior the second
two fngers oI pale green KitKat.
Ikan Bakar or Chicken Satay
It was another blisteringly hot day in the kampong. The sky was blue;
clouds were their usual amount oI white, and bulbous. Naked house geckos
scampered deItly across magnolia studio walls while my green tiled studio
foor was littered with sleeping cats lapping up the air-conditioning.
The sun, air and atmosphere languidly encouraged laying back,
sleepily, eyes closing, Ieet on the old planter`s chair, ordering the wiIe to
cook ikan bakar or chicken satav like a calm and peaceIul Sunday but
its Wednesday, Mittwoch, Rabu. That day was the sort oI day you could
watch John Hurt and Jeremy Kemp in East oI Elephant Rock and really not
mind that it is a load oI old colonial rubbish. You could simply lay back
and let its nonsense wash over you, or catch the DVD oI The Sleeping
Dictionary and drool over Jessica Alba and fnally learn Malay the easy
way.
That day there was no sign oI the herds oI water buIIalo; the dogs were
quiet, as were the manic ducks and one solitary, patient, angler as he sat at
the mining pool, gradually being baked by the heat oI sun. His ancient grey
Honda moped was propped at a dangerous angle, threatening to Iall but it
was an empty threat. Somewhere in the distance, a truck loaded with white
edible ducks exploded with a cacophony oI quacking, as the engine was
revved to breaking point in its journey as it circumnavigated potholes in
the makeshiIt road. There was another pothole and at least one more liIe-
aIfrming quack beIore it became wind-dried.
And then came the scouts oI rain, Iorging ahead. Testing, making
sure it was saIe, leading the expendable rain pawns, pushed to the Iront,
the watery Ioot soldiers making way Ior the heavier, berserk troops who
244 245
bashed, barged, and ran amok thrashing and splattering all in their path.
The monsoonal rain had begun. A thick white sheet oI rain charged over
Pregnant Lady Mountain, down across the Iorests and into the kampong,
pillaging and looting, rampaging, dashing leaves and Iruit to the ground.
Cats and small children ran Ior shelter; earthen roads turned to
mud. Gardens were lakes, paths sodden. Dark black thunder bashed,
threateningly, deaIeningly booming out the cries oI manic ducks and
mewling kittens, drowning out all sound but its own. Charging and
rampaging through the kampong, the thunderstorm was worse than a
wild beast with no Iear. There was no thought, only sheer Iorce, energy
expelled, rolling, and ranting Iorever on until it was spent. And spent it
eventually was, leIt dripping, dropping the last remnants oI that fuid army,
the latecomers, the stragglers pathetically Ialling where a million had all
ready Iallen. Roads once more were roads; gone were the torrents just
dampened, passable. Gardens became gardens laced with previously dried
dead leaves twigs and other debris. Curious cats dipped small Iurred Ieet
into puzzling puddles, quickly extracting them in surprise. Children played
by drains. Tamed water rushed tiny fsh, overfowing Irom the mining pool.
Fans whirred, lights were lit, small red, blue or green displays fashed
on DVD players, Astro units, microwave ovens and electric clocks the
electricity was on once more and I was fnally able to write this.
Strawberry Fields but Not Ior Ever
Early summer in my old Roman Essex hometown means strawberries.
Those wonderIully aromatic strawberry felds ripen and send Iruity
Iragrant signals to awaiting consumers triggering latent lust Ior all things
strawberry. Those sensual felds entice many a Iamily to spend whole days
eating more strawberries than they purchase. They stain mouths, hands and
T-shirts a strawberry red, and the Iew strawberries surviving the ravenous
onslaught, are taken away in punnets to be quickly devoured at home.
Technically, Malaysia does not have a summer, but it was at that time
oI year that my thoughts turned to yes, strawberries. The Iamily my
long-suIIering wiIe, the giraIIe who pretends to be my step-son and the
little princess who isn`t, were herded into my Asia Motors truck` and oII
we went on the long climb to Cameron Highlands.
For the next hour or two we climbed, and climbed oh how we
climbed round and around the winding jungle-view mountainous bends
until fnally we arrived in the temperate climate oI no, not China Mountain,
but Cameron Highlands.
The lands which are higher than most oI Malaysia, were named
aIter the British surveyor William Cameron. Cameron discovered` the
highlands in 1885 (that is despite the Iact that the Orang Asli and generally
people living in Malaya already knew oI their existence). Those highlands
have long been known Ior their temperate weather, known also Ior Iruits,
vegetables, the growing oI tea, roses and yes, you have guessed it that
siren Iruit, strawberries.
Although warmer each year, Cameron Highlands still remained
cooler than the lowland by several degrees. It had become a necessary
246 247
haunt Ior Ioreign travellers wishing to escape Malaysia`s occasionally
oppressive heat, and a retreat Ior locals too. There was a road taking the
unwary visitor on a circuitous route around the mountain and, eventually,
aIter about an hour and a halI, to the Highlands.
A word to the wise: the road to Cameron Highlands (Irom Tapah) is
very, very winding with high walls oI compacted earth on one side, and
a sheer drop into jungle on the other. Despite this, as you drive careIully
up around blind bends you will encounter large trucks and/or coaches
barrelling down seemingly at top speed, and taking as much road as they
Ieel they need they know the roads, you don`t.
When it rains, and it rains Irequently in the Cameron Highlands, loose
earth can bring boulders down onto the road, blocking them Ior days. To
avoid that happening, the local council have been shoring up the inclines.
Needless to say but I will say it anyway those road works sometimes
block the roads Ior days.
When we were halIway up the hills, we wound the truck window
down to savour the cooler air, the delightIul birdsong and just to Ieel the
air on our Iaces instead we smelled our own truck`s diesel exhaust Iumes,
and closed the window immediately.
We were lucky that it did not rain while we were there. AIter a while,
we reached the part oI the mountain where hawkers had set up their stalls.
We descended, locust-like on deep-Iried banana stalls, Ireshly cooked
corn-on-the-cob stalls, and the stalls selling sweet citrus (limau madhu).
Further, up, nearing the top, we charged towards anything with a
hint oI strawberry. There were chocolate-covered strawberries, Iresh
strawberry milkshakes, strawberry jam and even strawberry tea. Three oI
us one disinterested giraIIe, an unconcerned wiIe and a mere dabbler
(me) kept our consumption to a minimum out oI experience. One, who
shall only be known as the little princess (not), Ielt the need to consume
as many strawberry products as she could, while the going was good. Her
consumption included delicious and Ireshly made strawberry ice cream, as
well as all the other strawberry products previously mentioned.
The day spread out beIore us like the green rows oI the tea plantations.
We cruised the highlands enjoying a little cool. Mrs Me ooed and aahed
at fowers, potted plants, cacti and managed to (illicitly) secure a blue
Cameron Highlands morning glory` creeper Ior our garden. Little princess
ate, and ate and ate more strawberries than she would naturally see in one
year.
The giraIIe spent the entire time exercising his thumbs on his new
mobile phone. I was just happy to drive. Eventually, I had visited one too
many plant emporiums. I had my fngers pricked by angry cacti and was
becoming a little bored with green. ThereIore it was time to drive back
down down past the aboriginal sellers oI hard-to-maintain jungle Iern
down past the sellers oI non-bee wild honey and oI the orchids which only
ever seem to fower the once.
Once we were moving in a downward direction, our little princess
seemed to be in some discomIort. As the truck swung around corners,
swaying a little here and there, her broad, selI-satisfed smiles rapidly
became deep Iurrowed Irowns. Her stomach Iull oI strawberries,
cream, chocolate, milk started to twist and turn upon itselI. The truck`s
movement gave the strawberry products their very own helter-skelter
ride through the little princess`s body, producing strawberry shakes. The
little princess`s Iace, once a rosy-cheeked brown, slowly turned an ever-
deepening shade oI green. First the moaning and then the groaning began.
It lasted all the way down the mountain, replete with multiple stops Ior
sham regurgitation. Like some nightly bar reveller, our little princess was
crying never again, never again. Later, when summer was upon us once
again, the little princess hankered aIter strawberries once more so we
bought them Irom Tesco`s.
248 249
Bravo
Bravo, bravo, bravo,` the halI Malay/halI French girl had called, watching
the clear water spurt into the air. I had smiled. Bravo, bravo, bravo,` the
young girl continued as the water snaked out oI our garden hosepipe.
Selling your house/home can be a Iraught business. It is chock-Iull
oI all kinds oI hidden tensions, Irustrations and worries. It is not at all
something to be entered into lightly. Apart Irom the anxiety oI whether
the house will sell or not, in this only slightly post-slump era, there is the
added bonus oI the stress oI moving itselI to contend with.
It was March. I was acting like a mad March hare, plagued with
doubts and constant indecision. Were we doing the right thing? Perhaps
we should stay/move/stay/move. Incessant thoughts tapped onto my
concerned cranium. Should I stav or should I go The Clash`s lyrics
pounded in my head.
There was a constant parade oI people, some oI whom had actually
come to view the house with a prospective purchase in mind. But there
was an equal number who just wanted a Sunday aIternoon out to sniII at
our Iurnishings, Irown at our choice oI Iurniture and ask and is this it? as
iI fve bedrooms and three bathrooms were somehow insuIfcient to meet
whatever needs these people Ieel they might have.
Those people too could be dealt with. I Iavoured a shrug oI the
shoulders and a mental ballistic missile, or two, frmly aimed at the
miscreants with imagined explosions ripping oII their loud-mouthed heads.
But it is the people, perhaps well-intentioned, perhaps not who drool
over everything, praise the house design (my own), praise the gardens (my
wiIe`s), the cats, the view, the scents oI jasmine and passion Iruit fowers,
whom you never hear Irom again.
Then imagine iI you will, my Ieelings, when we received a telephone
call on my wiIe`s mobile phone. Within 20 minutes there was a Iamily
wanting to come and view our property, A panic set in. Oh, mv . but
we didnt clean the bathroom/oor/kitchen, will thev notice that the lace
curtains/front door/the giraffe havent been cleaned for months.
There were smiles and presents. Excuse me, but this is not how
visiting our house is supposed to go. Dont vou know that we are here to
be abused, mistreated? You have it all wrong, now go back and trv again.
Enter little girl with a predilection Ior water and hoses.
Bravo, bravo, bravo. The excited little girl, released Irom the captivity
oI the car, thrilled to the splashing oI the water, whipped the spray into the
air and watched the water catch the sunlight. Bravo, bravo, bravo,` she
called, excited to be allowed to play in a garden instead oI being cooped
up in the city.
My heart went out to the little halI Malay/halI French girl to her
rapturous play and her obvious enjoyment oI our garden. And, oI course,
her Iree and easy play brought all my Iears about selling our home right
back to me on each droplet oI water the girl splashed. It was something
about remembering my own enjoyment oI our house that had become our
home.
The girl`s parents took the obligatory handphone snaps oI our hall,
bedrooms, my studio and themselves. To our surprise our new guests
turned out to be that which we were least expecting a very nice couple
who were genuinely interested in purchasing our house and land.
250 251
A Matter oI Faith
It had been seven long years. I had been a Muslim Ior six oI those seven
years, and I was still struggling.
There were other expats in Malaysia, but Iew who were like me. Not
many expats married Malays. More married Chinese and some Indians. At
least one expat changed his liIe around and married a Kadazan girl Irom
Borneo.
Many expats worked. They became the CEO oI this or the MD oI
that. Some made a living through journalism writing Ior Ioreign papers
and magazines. Some wrote Ior local papers but the pay was poor. Many
taught English at schools, colleges, and English language centres across
Malaysia, though mainly in KL. An increasing number oI retired expats
took the MM2H (Malaysia My Second Home) programme and loaned the
Malaysian government their money.
As they would do anywhere, expats Iormed their own enclaves
witnessed in Penang and in KL around the more secluded areas oI
Damansara, Petaling Jaya, and Bangsar. They secreted themselves within
air-con luxury condominiums, and dipped in private swimming pools
beIore breakIast.
Those that could aIIord to, perched themselves in accommodation
well away Irom the day`s heat. They lived either in condominiums so tall
that the air became cooler, or hid themselves away in air-con apartments,
drove air-con cars, ate in air-con restaurants, and shopped in air-con malls,
so it was just like home but much, much cheaper.
In evenings and at weekends expats could be seen propping up the
bars all over the wealthier sections oI KL Bangsar, PJ or Damansara.
Or should I say were propped up by the bars? Even those married to
Muslims and thereIore, technically, also Muslims themselves. No-one was
watching, and they were white, so were allowed to get on with it.
Some, though Iew, expats had simply stayed on aIter retiring Irom
eminent positions in the hotel trade, or reIused to leave aIter the collapse
oI the tin-mining industry. Others, like me, had seen Malaysia in its heyday
and Iell in love with it.
By the fIth year oI being a Muslim, I had already begun to backslide.
I had not been able to learn the Arabic necessary Ior my prayers and so
did not pray fve times a day. I had come Irom a culture where regular
prayer was not necessary only on Sundays. Over time, Iasting too
became diIfcult I suIIered an acute acid-refux every day I went without
regular fuid intake (a leItover Irom my English liIe). By the fIth year, I
had ceased to Iast as well.
I guess that the psychological crunch came when JAKIM (National
Fatwa Council part oI the Department oI Islamic Advancement oI
Malaysia) proclaimed that both HP Daddies Sauce and Tabasco Sauce
were non-halal (i.e. haram) Ior Muslims. That is despite Tabasco Sauce
carrying The Islamic Food and Nutrition Council oI America`s halal
symbol and certifcation. It had been a slippery slope. In the recent past
that same body JAKIM, had outlawed smoking and Yoga (declaring it as
haram) Ior Muslims. It was said that Yoga contained physical movements
chanting and worshipping.
It was a real WTF moment. I had been virtually brought up on
Daddies Sauce or sauces much like it. I Ielt insulted. This was no longer
just playing silly beggars this was serious. For me, this time, it had all
gone Iar too Iar. The pettiness and mealy-mouthed restrictions had all but
destroyed all credibility Ior the concepts oI halal` and haram` in my
eyes. I began to take it all with a very large pinch oI sodium chloride.
I devised my own approach. It was to be a re-appraisal oI my personal
spiritual being, which did not include other peoples` opinions about what I
could, should or would say, do, or eat.
252 253
Acknowledgements
With thanks frst and Ioremost to Phil Tatham and Monsoon Books Ior
allowing this book to happen. Next to my parents without whom there
would be no me, and thereIore no book.
I should like to thank my partner - Pei Yeou, Ior her support and Iaith
in me and my writing, also to those small group oI Iriends and supporters
(including Sharon Bakar) who egged me on in those twilight hours oI
doubt and concern.
My thanks also goes to Dr David Krell who patiently guided me
through my frst stint at university so many years ago now, also to Raman
Krishnan who gave me a break in Malaysia, and editors Douglas Williams,
Will Citrin.
I should also like to thank Paruadi Ramasamy and Tan Huat Chye oI
the Kinrara Metta Buddhist Society Ior their emotional support.
About The Author
Martin Bradley was born in London, lived in East Anglia (England), India
and Malaysia. He has worked variously as an apprentice bookbinder,
street cleaner, dustman, Iactory machine operator, hospital porter, graphic
designer, social worker, exhibition curator and, lastly - writer. He has two
Masters Degrees in Art and a BA in Philosophy amongst other bits oI
paper.
Martin occasionally writes Ior Malaysian magazines, and Ireelances
in arts and culture articles. He has had many short stories, and poems,
published in many Iormats around the world and has written two yet to
be published novels. He edits Dusun - a Malaysian e-magazine and has
been running Northern Writers a venue Ior writers to read to appreciative
audiences, in Ipoh north Malaysia, and has become engaged with the
Cambodian charity Colors oI Cambodia.
254 255
About Monsoon Books
Monsoon Books is a leading independent publisher oI English-language books and
ebooks on Southeast Asia. We publish literary and commercial fction (historical,
crime, thriller, kid`s, romance, erotica) and quality nonfction (biography and
autobiography, true crime, Iood and drink, sexuality, journalism, travelogue
and current aIIairs) Irom outstanding writers worldwide and we have numerous
bestsellers to our name.
II you are looking Ior books set in Southeast Asia, or iI you have a manuscript you
want us to look at, please visit our website or chat with us on our Facebook page.
www.monsoonbooks.com.sg
www.Iacebook.com/pages/Monsoon-Books/31108587442
salesmonsoonbooks.com.sg
Copyright
First published in digital Iorm in 2012 by Monsoon Books
ISBN (ebook): 978-981-4358-75-0
CopyrightMartin Bradley, 2012
The moral right oI the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce, or
otherwise make available this publication (or any part oI it) in any Iorm,
or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying,
recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission oI the publisher.
Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may
be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims Ior damages.
Monsoon Books Pte Ltd
71 Ayer Rajah Crescent #01-01
Mediapolis Phase O
Singapore 139951
www.monsoonbooks.com.sg
Visit www.monsoonbooks.com.sg to learn more about all our books.
Follow us on Facebook at www.monsoonbooks.com.sg/Iacebook to fnd
out about our latest news, Iorthcoming events, new released, and special
discounts.