Break Time

Uncle_an is a bit too busy lately. Will only be able to post new stories by next week end. Watch out for the business of selling old 'kicap' bottles and beetle nuts...coming soon...:)

Kacang Cendol after School

It is very hard to explain how much a cold sweet 'ais kacang cendol' was worth to us on the hot afternoons after school. I can only attempt to describe their real worth by relating our experiences and the sacrifices we were willing to make just for a 'mangkok' of 'angtau cendol'. Ooooh...they tasted soooo good!!

I think Kuching's 'angtau cendol' is the best in the world! Till today the 'angtau cendol' at open air market (no longer open air for a long long time now) and its 'offspring' outlets throughout Kuching is on the must visit list if I am in Kuching. I can still remember the name of one of several ice kacang stalls in Kuching - Chan Swee Kang. And of course there was the famous Ah keng, the guy that sell his 'ais kacang' on the tri-shaw in the kampongs.

The angtau cendol in Kuching is incomparable. The red beans that have swell to four or five times the normal size; are different from anywhere else that I know. And the green cendol, the dark almost luminous green cendol smells so sweet; unlike the light green so called cendol in KL. Of course the way the ice blocks were manually scrapped, before the advent of mechanization, were quite a major task. You can develop good strong arms by scrapping the ice daily. But mind you, handling the ice daily can take its toll on any human hand and you really do not want to pay too close an attention at the fingers of those cendol sellers. hehehe...

Imagine the kacang, cendol in a glass mangkok or ceramic bowl filled with very fine ice flaks and then came generous pourings of rose syrup, delicious gula apong syrup (not gula malacca mind you but 'gula apong' ok!), the 'air gula' and the creamy milk. The cendol man would use up one can of the creamy milk for not more then ten bowls of kacang cendol. No cutting corners here! Or you can have a choice of santan or coconut milk instead of the cream milk. Then the cute little spoons, plastic or ceramic, feeding the delicious concoctions to our hungry little mouths. On a hot humid afternoon day! Yummmy!!!

Of course we cannot forget the 'Special' - combination of jagung, pineapple cubes, red jelly strips, sago, green jelly cubes, etc. A bowl full of these colorful delicious stuff with the ice flaks, generous portions of cream milk that the cendol man would just pour round and round and round into the bowl. The rose syrup, air gula and maybe the gula apong too. The 'special' smells very sweet!! Yes, now I remember why, they would sprinkle some vanilla essence in the special if I am not mistaken. 

A bowl of angtau cendol, special or the kacang cincau would cost about 10 cents those days, equivalent to a one way bus fare on bus no 4B from Satok Suspension Bridge on the Matang side to Kampong Gita. Decision, Decision! Everyday we are faced with the decision - to get a comfortable 15 minutes bus ride home for the 2 miles from the bridge to the Kampong or enjoy a mangkok of delicious Kuching angtau cendol and walk 45 minutes the 2 miles on a hot dusty afternoon? Of course the cendol won every time.

After tucking in on the super cold, sweet, fragranced and creamy angtau cendol we would set foot on our journey home carry our heavy school bags over our shoulders. 

But never for long. Because there are 3 good old chaps who would cycle home from school every day. These guys deserve special mention! They are Akbar (now retired Professor Akbar), Hakim (now retired Marine Police boss) and Abang Abdillah Dtk Abang Othman ( now of the very senior Police officer in Sarawak). These three seniors would be cycling home and they would always take pity on the three 'cute' eurasian kids Piruz, Betty and me; walking home along the hot, dusty Matang Road. They never failed to stop and give us a ride home. 

It was not comfortable sitting on the bicylces' metal bars on the stony Matang Road for 2 miles on a hot dusty afternoon. The poor guys would be sweating profusely paddling their bicycles with the extra loads. We were chubby kids mind you. But they never complained and neither do we! We had our angtau cendol and we got our ride home, albeit not on comfortable bus 4B cushioned seats. These went on for several years to a point when we got too big or we got our own bicycles. 

Things do not always went our way though. Somedays these three good samaritans did not appear so it was a long hot and dusty walk home for us. Sometimes some other kids beat us to the ride but not very often.

I would like to say thank you to these three fine individuals who turned out to become accomplished gentlemen. And nothing beats Kuching's angtau cendol, special and kacang cincau!!

 

My Classmates and Teachers from Catholic Englsh Primary School

The Boys and Girls of Catholic English Primary School

Lawrence Chin, 

Robert Chin,

Mark Chin,

Cyril Moa,

Kho Khoon Haw,

Wilson Chao (younger brother of Johnson Chao)

Simon Heng (not Simon Ng)

Suvendren

Kumar,

James Kuo,

Vincent Toh,

Poh Kui Hua,

Annie Wong (I believed Annie Wong did not start from Primary 1, if I am not mistaken she joined later??)

Josephine Heng

The Teachers of Catholic English Primary School:

Sister Eulalia (who was the Principal before Sister Eulalia?)

Mr Lawrence Chong in Primary Four (I remember him because he confiscate by toy plane and canned me for playing in class) 

will update, add or amend as I get more names from the rest of the gang..

Primary Prime Times - Sister Eulalia

At the beginning of each year in primary school my parents would be busy buying our school books. I would be busy asking them to buy diaries or note books. I was always ambitious and wanted to start my diary each year beginning with my new year resolution. But somehow I usually did not get beyond the first week and after a few years I just end up with setting new year resolutions only. 'Hot hot chicken shit only' they said. (Now resolutions also do not have...hmmm).

I wished I filled the diaries more diligently as they could have been a great source of information for this particular posting. But it was not meant to be so now I have to shake the old coconut to jolt my memories of all those years in Catholic English Primary School. This explains why so little will be written despite spending six great years there.

Maybe I will ask for some help from the Chin cousins, Cyril Moh and Kho Khoon How (who is now in Shanghai perfecting his kungfu moves). Or maybe I check with Annie Wong, who according to Robert Chin is now in Sibu. Wonder if she still have her pony tail.....I am amazed Robert Chin still keep track of her.....wink wink.

Even on my first week in school I already gravitated towards the playground where the senior boys, like my brother Piruz, were playing; either on the concrete basketball court in the center or on the surrounding grass area. Boys were running about everywhere playing 'bapau' on the grass and others playing rounders and basketball on the basket ball court. I was fascinated by the sight of so much shouting, running, throwing and dodging the tennis balls. Different groups playing simultaneously and I wandered right in their midst. Very nice!

Then suddenly..WHACK!!..I saw stars! Someone had thrown a wet tennis ball at full force right smack into my eye. I was momentarily stunned and everything around me froze for a second. Then as quickly as it happened everything continued where it all stop. A big boy picked the ball that had fallen near my feet and aimed at a running boy a few meters ahead of him. This time he missed and the ruckus continued and no one paid any attention to me.

I carried a red eye for a few hours after that but I felt good. I felt initiated and had unintentionally earned my first of many stripes on the playground of Catholic English Primary School. From then on I spent most of my recess times playing rounders on the basketball court.

Rounders is like baseball, played by two teams of about 5 or so players. We used half of the basketball court with the 4 corners serving as the bases. A tennis ball or a soft rubber ball (like the stress balls we have these days) were used for the game. The two team captains would 'kompeng' to decide which team will serve first. (Kompeng is the rock, scissor or paper challenge thingy).

Serving in the game of rounders is somewhat similar to serving in tennis, but instead of using the tennis racket we would use our bare fist to bat the ball. The terror players like Lawrence and yours trully would use our clasped fists while the not so terror players (I won't mention names here) will use their open palms to hit the ball.

The objective was to hit the ball as far as you can from the baseline, then start running towards the bases. You may stop at any of the bases or run all the way to the home base if you can. The opposing team's objective is to prevent you from reaching the bases by hitting you with the ball as you are running. If they hit you with the ball before you reach the base then you are out. And if they caught the ball that you served before it touched the ground then your whole team is out and they get to serve instead. Your opponent will try to whack you as hard as they can. On a bad day at rounders your school uniform would have several ball marks on it. On a good day you there will be no marks but you just go home 'bau boyak' (smell like crocodile).

To primary school boys like us, rounders was a game of skills, agility and wile. The great rounders players of Catholic English Primary School are highly respected. If only we had a hall of fame then. Batting without giving your opponent to catch the ball was an acquired skill. Running and dodging the ball and taking the risks with a cunning run required highly athletic abilities and the cunning players were the more successful ones. The Chin cousins were among the better and regular players. Robert Chin and Cyril Moh especially. And I am sure James Kuo, whom I was just reminded was also in Catholic English Primary School, also palyed with us. 

But as all great athletics and sportsmen would agree, you cannot escape from injury no matter how good you are. Rounders was played on the basketball court and its surface was rough cement!! Sliding on that surface was no way nearly as pleasant as Wayne Rooney sliding on the grass of a football field. We had plenty of scraped knees, elbows and palms. Our knee caps have plenty of stamps on them till today. I guess that explains why my knees are so weak these days.

Whenever we scraped our knees, elbows, etc we would go to the clerk and principal's office for treatment as that was where the first aid kit was kept. I remember sitting on the treatment chair or accompanying my friends for treatment. First she would pour a disinfecting solution in a kidney shaped metal bowl and with the use of a tweezer dipped a cotton ball in it before washing the exposed flesh on our knees. This part your knees would shake and your hands would be gripping hard on anything and your eyes wet with tears. Then she would put the yellow iodine solution and slapped a plaster over your knees. You will be out of action for at least a week.

But despite this, visiting the principal's office for treatment was not too bad either. The 'she' I mentioned above was usually our school principle. We had the gentlest and most caring principal in Sister Eulalia. She looked so angelic in her nun's robe and headgear and behind her glasses. I thought she was so 'cantik' and would have willingly put forward both my little palms to be canned by her with the old wooden yellow 12 inch ruler they used those days. But she never did.

Sister Eulalia must have had her hands full those years with so many active and naughty boys in school. We were always playing games such as 'bapau', marbles, rubber band, plastic chains, etc. However I cannot recall any of us fighting despite fierce competition on the playgrounds and in class.

I remember Lawrence Chin was always top in class and it was very rare indeed if he did not get the number one position. I think Cyril was the next smartest boy in class. By the way I think maybe perhaps Lawrence did not cry on the first day in school...hehehe. But he was always the best dressed, well starched and ironed uniform, tucked in nicely, hair well trimmed, side parting with just the right dose of Code 10. I remember his school shorts had sort of metal buckles on the side where he can adjust the fitting. Stylo milo! 

In class we were always trying to please the teachers, rubbing the blackboard, cleaning the dusters on the wall outside the classroom, sending the books to the teachers' room etc. Teasing the girls in class or teasing some poor boy with the girls was also good fun.

Almost every term my class teacher would remarked in my report card that I was playful, day dreamed a lot and should pay more attention in class. The teachers did not understand me; I was cheerful not playful; imaginative and visualizing my dreams not day dreaming. Hehehe...bet my kids will use that line with me now.

Did Lawrence Chin Cry on the 1st Day of School?

hehehe....I received the following email from Lawrence Chin (the smartest boy in class) in response to Cry Babies of Primary 1:

"When I looked at your blog and some of the events that others brought up in the StJoeForm5(1976) blog, I am amazed with the long term memory you and the others have. I have images of the past, but the details are extremely (and I mean extremely fuzzy).
But one detail that I know for sure ----- I DID NOT CRY ON MY FIRST DAY IN SCHOOL !!!! This record must be sealed in the history book.

Do you recall how we were all seated in Primary 1? Were we seated in rows and were we divided into groups and each group seated around a cluster of tables? If I recall, we were seated in rows, like the adult students!!!! ..... or am I mistaken? I cannot remember sitting in clusters at any time in my school life. But then my memory is also not too good .....

And Annie Wong was also known as 'an ji gu ni' I think She is so fair and "white" that she reminds us of the lady pictured in the condensed milk tin. Her parents operate the canteen next to the school and the Chin cousins have the pleasure of the fierce Annie Wong during and after school!

The tallest boy was Khoon How. And the tallest girl is Poh Kui Hua (or "Ah Hua"). She towers above all of us boys! And one of the naughtiest boys is Bernard, the small little guy. And who can forget our rounders......

Robert and Cyril Moa are among the best!

Cheers,

LC

Anthony's remarks:

I am still not convinced about the not crying bit... hehehe..especially since my friend says his memory is not too good now, fuzzy... :) Any other witness from Primary 1?

If the brainiest boy in Catholic English Primary School is beginning to have fuzzy memories.... Aiyooo, what chance do ordinary chap like me have? :(

Cry Babies Of Primary 1

When I was six years old I was totally envious of Piruz and Betty. I watched them go to play school while I stayed home. PLAY school!! Can you believe their luck, they got to go to school to PLAY with other children while I stayed at home.

Each morning I would watch Betty and Piruz getting ready for school, showered, combed, dressed in very neat school uniforms and clean white shoes. I would wait for them to come home and after what seemed like forever, they would be back, completely dishevel, their uniforms soiled and shoes dirtied. They were sweaty and smelly too that mum would say '..bau boyak...' (smell like crocodile). At the time I wondered who would dare to get close enough to smell the crocodile.

They must have had so much fun and play at school to come back looking and smelling like that.

There were a few play schools - the one at the surau next door to ours, at the ‘balai raya’ next to Sekolah Gita, Cikgu Lily play school at Rubber Road that we knew as 'sekolah chicha (teacher) Lily'; the Nanyang Kindergarden, etc. There was a Cikgu Patong too. Anyway there were many choices of play schools and plenty of crying kids too I heard.

But I did not get to go to PLAY school. Instead I was pre-schooled at home by mum for primary 1. She was very protective over me (hehe..reminds me of Hassan Mak Lamah).

In January 1966 I finally went to primary 1 in Catholic English Primary School. The school uniform, the bata shoes and socks were ready one week before school started. I waited nervously for one week for school to start. Of course I tried the uniforms over and over again. I think they were light blue shirt and short with a red necktie. The bata shoes was white canvass with the green 'worm or noodle like' rubber sole. Dad also bought the round white chalk, wrapped in paper, for us to chalk our shoes while it was still wet after washing them.

Up very early at dawn and after a warm bath, mixing a kettle of boiling water with a bucket of cold tap water, I was ready in my school uniform which was so crisp from the starch that forced your body stiff and upright. It took me a while before I learn to fix the neck tie and the shoe laces myself. Dad gave up fixing my necktie that he bought the tie that I can just hooked to my collar.

Typically breakfast was bread with butter or planta and thick kopi susu instead of milo (to keep us awake mum said). The bread or 'roti paun' was the pineapple brand, baked at a particular shop in Green Road. Piruz and I can easily finish one whole loaf of bread between us if given the chance. My grandma used to say we can eat '...sampei becah perut...' and sometime she did not use the word 'eat' in our context but the phrase '...ngisik kedabang bubus...' I really do not know what language that was, 'terms of endearment' regarding our hearty appetite I am sure. hehehe...

Piruz, Betty and I would ride with dad on his bicycle from home to Satok wooden suspension bridge. It was a Raleigh of England and they were called 'basikal unta' or 'basikal gentleman'. Crossed the bridge and from there dad drove us to school in our white austin mini minor. The car had to be parked on the other side of the river as the bridge can only carry pedestrians, bicycles and motorcycles. We would all help wiped the dews off the car every morning with old towels, the yellow or blue cotton cloth sold at Shell stations.

For a 7 year old on his first day to school, crossing the Satok suspension bridge stepping on the wooden planks was very nervy. There were big gaps between the planks all the way across the river, and some of the planks were loose. You can see the Sarawak river flowing right beneath your feet as you crossed the bridge. And the bridge would sway from the movement of so many people crossing the bridge at the same time.

Catholic English Primary School is at Green Road, a simple single story, L-shaped building. Its walls were made of concrete (up to three feet high) and wood; and the dark grey roof of belian shingles. There were only six class rooms (primary one to six), a teachers room, the joint clerk and principle's office. There was a cement corridor in front of the offices and the class rooms; where we usually lined up to enter class. The small canteen was separated from the school block.

On arrival at the school that day I was greeted by a riot of crying children, a chaotic scene of parents carrying book lists and buying school books and stationaries, teachers sorting out sitting arrangements and the bigger kids running around and greeting each other after the long school holidays. There was just so much noise!

Suddenly, my hands refused to listen to the macho me and started to grip my dad's hands tightly, clinging to his legs and trying to hide behind him. Dad brought me into this scary room full of sobbing children and their parents. Suddenly a bell began to ring deafeningly for a couple of minutes and the parents stood up and started to leave the room. This seemed to signal a spontaneous increase in the sobbing and crying to a crescendo of screams and wailings. It was no orchestra I assure you! It was pure mayhem.

But I did not cry. Really, I was that close to crying but held back the tears that was swelling in ever so slowly. Nope, the tears were held back. I can imagine my late, fearsome tatooed Iban and Scottish grandparents in 'cawats' and 'skirts'..oops...I mean kilts, scowling in heaven at the sight of me crying. Hehehe...bet you do not believe me.

I remember sitting in class on a small wooden chair behind an equally small desk while dad went to buy my books, colour pencils, school badge and other stationaries. Despite being surrounded by crying kids and adults standing by the door and the windows, I realized I was sitting next to a cute little girl who was not crying. Catholic English Primary School is a mix boys and girls school. There was no chance of me crying after that.

I also noticed a boy, who was bigger then the rest of us, teasing some of kids, making them cry even louder. The boy later became a very close friend of mine in primary school. Khoon Haw was taller then most of us, has thick straight hair that stood up, chubby smiling face, and always showing us his kung fu skills. We played sword fights with our bare arms and he was the champion! He was also my stamp collecting kaki. He definitely did not cry on the first day.

The Chin cousins - Lawrence, Mark and Robert, who lived right across the street from the school. We used to envy them going back home during recess and able to rush home to fetch books and stuff that they forgot. They were not only very good in their studies but were also very good 'rounders' players. Lawrence was the undisputed No 1 in class every term exam and was always the most neatly dressed boy in class. But did they cry on that first day in school? Hmmmm....maybe, maybe not...hehe

I could not remember the names of any of the girls in primary school except for one or two. There was Annie Wong, who I recognized was very pretty (hehehe), she had very fair skin, sharp features, and her pony tail. And Josephine Ng, who is the twin sister of Simon Ng, a very serious and studious girl in class.

By around 11am, dad came back to the classroom with the text books, writing books, drawing book, color pencils, etc. I did not have my school bag that day and had to help dad carry some of the stuff home. My first day in Catholic English Primary School came to an end, and boy was I glad to leave the crying room. I wondered when would all the playing begin because school did not seem like child play to me.

I was excited and cannot wait to be home to show mum my books, color pencils, etc. We reached the bridge, dad parked the car and off we go across the bridge. I was nervous and kept looking down at the river flowing below. Despite walking ever so carefully, I dropped my brand new box of color pencils and saw them spilling and dropping into the river below. I was on my knees on the planks, grappling to save them, my very first set of color pencils. But most of them fell into the river. I was barely seven years old, on my first day at school, smaller then Adam is now, distraught, crying and tugging on dad to do something. To get the boat that was by the river bank and recover my color pencils. I was crying uncontrollably. I cried all the way home and was so sad that I could not eat lunch.

Dad bought me a new set of color pencils the next day. This time I had all my stuff packed in my school bag, a green canvass sling bag with metal buckles.

Technically I did not cry on my first day in school; I cried on the Satok bridge..:)

Hassan Mak Lamah

Hassan Mak Lamah was a really good boy who grew up to be a good chap. Hassan was a few years younger then me but we grew up together. He lived a couple of house away from us on Jalan Bunga Rose and looked up to us for advise on anything. Hehehe...bad news!

He was a lanky boy, genuinely a nice chap, hardly a bad bone in him and was very well brought up. Kudos to his mother, Mak Lamah, who was also a very nice lady. I remember Mak Lamah as a roundish, slightly overweight, elderly woman. She would move about in the kampung, hardly causing a stir, stopping by to chat with my grandma every now and then. Come to think of it she did seem to be on the street quite a bit; either going or coming from somewhere. I recalled her conversations were always pleasant. Despite our mischiefs I cannot think of a time when she ever complain to my grandma. 

Mak Lamah would spoil her only son to the maximum. She would buy him toys from Hap Joo almost every week - toy guns and sword, bags full of cowboy, indian and soldier toys, etc. She would send and fetch him to and from school every day till he was in primary six. The school was probably only 500 meters from her house! Every evening by 6pm Hassan would have been scrubbed and bathed, hair combed nicely, faced powdered 'macam tikus masuk dalam tepung', ready in his neatly ironed pajamas. He had all kinds of pajamas with cartoon  prints. 

Mak Lamah was very protective and strived to keep Hassan out of harms way. We used to jest that Mak Lamah would probably scold the pebbles on the street if Hassan accidently tripped himself on them. But he was a good boy.

I remember one morning Mak Lamah hurrying home from school, with an unconscious Hassan (still in school uniform - white shirt and blue shorts) over her shoulders. We found out later that Hassan had actually fainted when the school nurse was about to give him the BCG vaccination. He 'pengsan' at the sight of the needle. He then ran away from the school each time they tried to vaccinate him before he was finally vaccinated 3 attempts later.

Hassan loved playing with us which was just fine, especially with all the toys that he had. Every afternoon after school Hassan would hang around our house waiting while we finished our homeworks. My mother was very strict about that. We would not mess with our homework because she had a thin rotan that had purposely split into four at the end, which I can imagine it must be very painful.

We were mischievous kampung boys with lots of energy to expend and invariably had our share of troubles and tumbles. Despite Mak Lamah's attempt to keep Hassan out of harms way, he had his fair share. We all had scrapped knees, elbows, cuts and bruises to show for all our running around in the kampung. We would always had some form of medication on our knees or elbows. Hassan would usually have the non-stinging 'ubat biru' on his cuts while we would have the worst stinging 'ubat kuning' on ours.

There was one afternoon, when I, Hassan, Lingam and another chap, were running and chasing each other when Hassan took a tumble. He fell face down and sustained a small cut on his lips, which began to swell immediately. Poor Hassan was terrified and when he saw traces of blood on his hand he almost fainted out of fear. He kept on asking how bad was the cut on his lips and whether there was a lot of blood. Pucat!!!

We were not more then 10 years old at the time but the ability to 'seize the moment' came naturally. We were crowding around Hassan with 'concern' looks on our faces. One was holding his jaw, another was steadying him and I was trying to get him to lie down on the ground. We were exaggerating and telling him how bad it looks and that the cut was so big and need stitches. Hehehe...Hassan was at a stage where he will do anything for us if we can help him avoid needles.

Then came the alternative medicine advise! We told him to buy 'assam boi', the red salty assam boi that cost 10 sens for a packet for 5. Next we picked some really juicy limau kesturi from Ghani's garden (the neighbour who worked with the Agriculture Department). The red salty assam bois tasted so good when eaten with the juicy limau kesturis. But for poor injured Hassan whose lip is cut and swollen, the salty assam boi and the jucie of the limau kesturi was a potent and 'explosive'  mix!! The moment he sucked on the stuff, he let loose the loudest scream I had ever heard. I swear you could have heard it from Hap Joo's shop! 

Do not count on us hanging around when Mak Lamah come checking on Hassan. We were scampering off to hide in our house the moment Hassan let loose his scream. 'Putih tapak kaki', we would recall. But what we did not count on was that Hassan was also running and hiding with us, screaming in pain as he ran. Fortunately for us, Mak Lamah was not at home that day and after laying in hiding for half an hour we re-emerged relieved. Hassan has stopped screaming by then, still sucking on the salty assam boi and the swelling did not get any worse. Hassan did have a thick set of lips to start with anyway.

I am sure Hassan, wherever he is now, is still a jolly good fellow. One of the good guys.  

The titi dwellers

I wanted to migrate from the kampung series for a bit and start tracing my venture into primary school, but Nabiya and Marko wanted me to stay on in the kampung a little longer. They were curious to know more of the Kampung Gita where I grew up. They think that everything from my era was funny. So here I am, back in Kampung Gita in the 1960s and 70s so they can make fun of our bell bottoms, high heel shoes and clogs.

The kampung was like any other Malay kampung in Sarawak. Wooden houses with 'atap belian' roofs, belian stilts and resting on belian 'gelegars'. (I really cannot find an english word for 'gelegar' so just ask an old Sarawakian friend what it means. Belian is the iron wood found only in Borneo. Most houses would have wooden window shutters.  

Our house is No. 35 Jalan Bunga Rose, Kampung Gita (no post codes those days) and like most houses ours have verandahs with sturdy belian staircases. As a boy I used to get belian wood splinters, 'suran', in my toes or fingers and extracting them from under your skin was a painful experience.

Our verandah was a bit different from others. It was on a split level between the ground level and the first floor of the house and spacious. This was where we would surround mum in the evenings while she fed us nasi campur dinner from a large tray. Like noisy baby birds huddled in the nest, mouths wide open waiting for our turn for a handful of food from mum - 'makan sapik' as we call it in Sarawak.

No 35, Jln Bunga Rose was an average house, living cum dining room areas for visitors and three bedrooms. Originally the bedrooms did not have doors, just curtains hanging from a cord. The dining and kitchen were on a lower level. The floors were wooden and there were gaps between the planks of the wooden floors. As little kids we had fearful imaginations of pontianak or any hantu peeping through the gaps or poke their long finger nails through. We were very careful where we placed our feet then.

The bathroom was just a protrusion from the house, zinc walled, belian floors with gaps between the planks. When you shower, water would drain through the purpose built gaps in the floor to the 'juruk' below. The 'juruk' was murky, muddy, slimmy green drain below the bathroom. Most kampung boys would have their 'tales from the juruk'. Betty recalled I once fell in the juruk when I was around 5 years old and reemerge like the Swamp Thing, covered in slime from head to toe with bubbles in my mouth. 

Houses in Kampung Gita were quite similar, slightly different in size and shape but with the same basic concept. Wooden planks were arranged horizontally for walls, with slight overlaps for effect called "..dindin sisit" in Sarawak. The imperfections in the planks and craftsmanship would be very telling during the nights when rays of lights flickered through the cracks. Aiyoo..these cracks was probably why we had 'orang minyak' or 'pong pong' as Betty called him (or them?). Pong pong meant stark naked; so obviously Betty must have seen the 'orang minyak' in his nudity. Poor girl is 'traumatised' till today..hehehe. 

Then there was the far out 'outhouse'; the now extinct 'jamban'. Nope, no 'jamban tarik' for us. It was just a hole in the ground with a drum in it and the top end cut off. A small hut on stilts over the drum, zinc roof, zinc walls and a rudimentary latch door. Wooden floors with...hehehe...a hole in the floor where we did our big job. Whatever you do, do not look down through the hole. But kids are curious ...boy oh boy...do not look down! We also learnt how to hold our breathe for as long as at least a minute or more. Get your job done fast and furious if you must but get out, pronto! You do not hang around in there! Gross!!

For obvious reasons the jamban were ALWAYS built as far away as possible from the main house. Ours was a good 20 meters or so, right on the fringe of the jungle. As an 8 year old it seemed more like 100 meters. I remember a certain macho boss in the jamban and had constipation, hollering out loud for "AYER! AYER!". Yours truly would ran the whole imaginary 100 meters to give him drinking water. Man!!!

The distance to the jamban posed another problem for us kids - what if you need to visit the jamban at night? No way! Not with all the hantus in the jungle around you; probably giving birth to the mysterious late night 'titi' dwellers!

The drains lining the streets in the kampung have always been there. Those days we would have a simple wooden walkway over the drain, called 'titi'. Every house had a titi and ours was originally belian and later changed to concrete piles. I remember the day when my dad and uncle were working on replacing the belian titi with concrete piles. My dad's finger was almost crushed when it was caught between the concrete slabs. It must be very painful.

People in the kampung seems to spend a lot of time on their titis. Most built wooden benches for sitting on their titis. Some of the benches are simple one piece of wooden plank while others had back rests on it. The kampung folks young and old spent a lot of time sitting, congregating and socialising around the titi. The teenagers would gather at the titis at night, chatting, singing (trying to singing) with their guitars or dating. Later when television was introduced, the shows like Wild Wild West, Bonanza, Little House on the Prairie, etc led to the reduction of the titi dwellers.   

There were also the mysterious late night titi dwellers...hehehe. Because the jambans were far from the main house, most people were afraid to use them when nature's call came late at night. Out of desperation a very small number (I stress SMALL which means yours truly excluded...hehehe) would resort to the drain instead. 'Shadowy figures' hunched at the edge of the titis with their heads covered in sarongs in pitch darkness. You could see these shadows in the corner of your eyes as you walked the streets at night. I suspected that the titi dwellers actually used their neighbours' titis instead of their own. My dad built benches with back rests on both sides of our titis so that nobody could use our titi. The titi dwellers finally became extinct when street lamps were installed.

Nonetheless Kampung Gita was a very pretty kampung, cheery and full of sunshine. There was a lot of hustle and bustle, villagers in the streets, kids playing all kinds of games - hide and seek, kites, hop, skip & jump or jengkek as we knew it, etc. There were kids running, balancing a bicycle wheel with a stick; playing badminton and football on the streets. There were adults walking the babies and elderly folks stopping and chatting with neighbours. There were folks calling out to each other from the windows or verandahs, greeting and joking. The 'apek sekerem' (ice cream man) plying the streets ringing the brass bell on the wooden handle.  

The gardens were well kept and trimmed, flowering plants of all sorts planted in the garden. There would be 'bunga podin', cempaka, frangipani, roses, bourgainvillas, marigolds, etc. Each house would have some form of vegetable or edible plants in their garden or on the road reserves in front of their houses. Tapioca, sweet potatoes, bananas, yam or keladi, coconuts, rambutan trees, papayas, pokok pinang or beetle nut trees, chillis, tomatoes, kacang panjang, etc. We were practising 'buku hijau' if anyone can still remember that.

During the rambutan season the boys who did not have rambutan trees at home, would help themselves to their neighbours'. My late neighbour, Ghani, was the prime target. He worked in the Agriculture Department and had planted the best rambutan trees. During rambutan seasons we would be hanging on the branches of his tree while Ghani would be raining curses and profanities at us.

We had plenty to eat, boiled tapioca or bandung (now glamorously called ubi kayu) and eaten with cocunut and sugar were yummy. And of course we were told by the elders that you should not climb a banana tree or else you get 'burut'. Ask a Sarawakian friend if you do not know what burut means.....hehehe! Will talk about that another day. 

What made each kampung unique are the characters, personalities and lives of the people in the kampung. The casts of Kampung Gita were unique, not chosen nor picked, no director or producer, no scripts, some lead characters and many supporting; just a reality drama with numerous sub plots trudging along. Having stepped off the stage for more then 20 years and watching fleetingly from the side, I wonder if I can I really make sense of the main plot. It is an endearing story of surviving and thriving. 

For some it is a story of staying simple in the world of Kampung Gita. For a few who wished to dream of a world much bigger than Kampung Gita they let their imaginations bring them beyond the boundary of Kampung Gita and out of Borneo. Then there was a whole bunch of people who grew organically, branching out but remaining deeply rooted in Kampung Gita too and never wandering too far away. But there were sub plots of despair, sadness, delights and happiness too.

Meantime thank God the mysterious titi dwellers are extinct!

(My editor has a real job now working with an oil and gas company, but I do not need to remind her that she is still bonded to her father and needs to edit this posting. Till then ignore the 'england mistakes' or titi dwellers will visit you...hehehe..bye)

 

Raya Mischiefs

We were boys; and kampung boys were synonymous with raya mischievousness. Somehow they just seem to be drawn to each other. It was probably the lax supervision during raya days when our parents were distracted by the guests; perhaps it was the fact that we had had a month long lay off from mischief during posa and it was finally over and we were itching to go. Maybe it was the sudden sugar rush during raya after our abstinence that turned us into hyper active compacts. But mischief rules during raya.

The mischievous acts ranged from innocent minor little things that were cute to downright bad boys’ pranks. And of course there was a multitude of stuff in between which we were all guilty of from time to time that got us an immediate rebuke (or delayed punishments which cannot be delivered on the spot in front of visitors). These were the scary stuff; my mum would sternly and between gritty teeth tell us..."tunggu kau orang dah pulang, kenak kau!"...which literally means..."just you wait till our visitors leave, you’re going to get it!" Woh!! Those threats was scary; you were caught, found guilty and sentenced but given suspended sentence....I would rather we were given instant punishment; it was the suspense of waiting for the punishments that tortured us the most.

In such instances we would try to behave like angels in the hope that mum's heart would melt and forgive us; or we prayed really hard that our guests did not stop coming till late at night and mum would forget. Or if she did not forget we would go to bed early, pretending to sleep with on angelic smile while we slumbered. That usually worked and we would get a kiss instead. No parent would wake their kids up to punish them for an 'innocent' mischievous act committed ten hours earlier. You can call it scheming, we called it surviving and growing up. We observed adults do that all the time too...

Our boss was my brother Piruz, Chief Mischief Officer he was. But Betty was an able deputy and at times outdid the boss himself by far. We will get to that some time. I was the follower; at least I hoped my parents would think I was too young to think up those mischievous acts on my own… this riled the boss and his deputy at times. It was one of the rare advantages of being several years younger and having an innocent look… heh heh.

We were kids placed in an environment where it was just impossible not to succumb to temptations. There were cakes of all types, shapes, colours, tastes and scents and equal assortment of biscuits too. We had brown chocolate cakes, cheese cakes, creamy green, red cake lapis, dark marble cakes. The different aromas and scents from the vanilla essence. All laid out on the table ready for our raya visitors to enjoy. But they were so inviting, looking at us, mocking us, begging for us to pick them and taste them.

One of our chores during raya was to clear the glasses, plates and dishes after the visitors and before the next batch of visitors arrived. And believe me our visitors were non-stop during raya. During the 'interludes' we would swoop in on the cakes and biscuits. In between clearing the glasses, one hand lifting the cakes tray cover, the other moving swiftly on the cakes. Within seconds we would have a mouthful of the much sought after chocolate cheese cakes or the chocolate pandan cakes or the cake lapis. And at least a few pieces of pineapple tart biscuits, or the evergreen 'semprit' in our teluk belanga pockets.

After several such rounds mum would be vigilant when we circled the table, our noses catching the whiffs of delicious chocolatey, cheesy yummy scents of the cakes. We would drive mum up the wall when she realised how much of the cakes we had consumed and how often she had to replenish them on the table. Worst when our friends would drop by, hang out with us and partake in the 'feasts' and these are not considered “berjarah” because these boys would hang out all day or drop by several times in a day.

When we were kids, carbonated/fizzy drinks were rare luxuries and we looked forward to raya for these treats. In fact other than raya I cannot recall even seeing them displayed for sale at Hap Joo, Teng Wak or Oh Nga's shops. These drinks came in all sizes, colours and tastes. There were the small bottles labelled Aeroplane (belon) or Ship (kapal) brands. They were in orange, strawberry, sarsaparilla, and ice cream soda tastes. Packed in small wooden box of twelve bottles, they were fondly made in Petanak Road, Kuching. We were allowed almost free access to these drinks. Usually these drinks were served in tiny glasses that emerged only during raya. To keep the dispensing of the drinks in very minimal quantity.

Then there were the F&N Fanta and Mirinda drinks - Fanta green, red, orange, grape, etc and of course later the Coca Cola and 7-Up. These were the treasured, more expensive drinks and we were allowed little access if at all. They would be stored properly in a small store or even kept under the bed supposedly out of the boss' and my reach. However check our tongues and you would see the red, green, orange, purple and black shades at different times of the day; undeniable evidence that we had our hands on the treasured stuff.

Completely out of bounds for us were the Shandy, Anglia Shandy, because they contained alcohol. I remember a Shandy ad in the cinemas before, set in a cowboy saloon, a mean looking oriental cowboy, complete with boots and spurs, leather attires, sombrero, pistols in his hip holsters; pushed the swinging saloon door; stopped for a second as his eyes squinted and surveyed the room, amidst a feeling of suspense, fear and silence, approached the bar; slammed his fist on the bar top and demand for "...shandy...chin chin shandy..." and his face broke into a wide smile when the fearful bartender served in Anglia Shandy, the atmosphere changed into laughter and revelry after that.

So Shandy... how could we be denied our curiosity? With the boss leading the way we would have our share of shandy too, albeit secretly. I honestly thought a time when Piruz and I and maybe one or two other friends lying on the floor in our bedroom, feeling intoxicated after our shandy binge. (But my son, Mark, said: “Thats lame papa, shandy contains less then 1% alcohol"). Well maybe I have no tolerance for alcohol.

We were boys, growing boys, and we needed energy from all the activities and running around. And, trust me, there was lots of running around in the spacious kampung. So naturally we would forage for food and drinks all the time. Outside of raya time, Milo drink was most craved after. The Milo tins had to be kept well hidden from Piruz and myself. We loved our Milo in any form. We could just dip our spoon and enjoy the plain Milo powder as it is. Or we would enjoy our Milo drink thick and rich with milk powder (klim, dumex, nespray, etc), hot or ice cold Milo. There were times, when denied our Milo, Piruz and I would lie down in the bedroom and imagine when we grew up and got our own jobs and money we would fill up the 'tangki' in the bathroom with ice Milo and we would enjoy our Milo to our hearts’ delight. (...the tangki in our bathroom was where we store water for our bath; and it was made of concrete, 6 feet long, 3 feet wide and 3 feet deep. That was going to be one big Milo container).

It did get worse, our mischief; as the next contraband item that would start tempting us would be cigarettes. Being the inquisitive misfits we were, we succumbed to this temptation too. The cigarettes available in the house then would be my grandfather's Rough Rider and Camel, dad's 555 or Capstain. During raya there would usually be extra stock of these to offer visitors and guests to the house. The boss, I and a few friends would smuggle this precious foul smelling contraband and had our puff either in the bedroom or hidden somewhere outside the house. This was one adventure that we found difficult to escape capture as there were just too many tell tale signs - the smoke, the matches that went missing, the coughing from inhaling the smoke, the smell of tobacco smoke on the bajus, the tobacco left over in our shirt pockets, etc. And this would earn us maximum and usually immediate punishment.

Growing up in the kampung we had our share of being bullied just as we were bullies ourselves. Because of our mixed parentage and had a surname like Macpherson we expect to draw attention, flaks and brickbats from the kampung bullies, though there were really not very unpleasant experience. Betty was called batman just because her name sounds like 'bat-ty', Piruz would be called 'bango' meaning crane because he is very tall. However we held our own and earned the respect of most of our peers. Still there were a few we would enjoy dishing out some extras. These boys would invariably come to berjarah raya at our house despite the spats we had. Piruz, Betty and I would gleefully wait for them, as they were the more mischievous boys we anticipated that they would not refuse cigarettes nor deny an opportunity to 'steal' the ciggies when we were not looking. Boy, were we prepared for this. Camel cigarettes are the most sought after, as they are expensive , and it suited our scheme perfectly. Camels do not come with filters so it was easier for us to take out the tobaccos, put in the small mercun padi (available in abundance during raya) and packed back with tobaccos. I bet they had a BLAST!!

Less mischievous acts targeted at adults or children alike would include having their raya shoes and slippers hidden. The meaner the neighbourhood adults were to us the worse the treatment. There were one or two busy bodies who liked to report to our parents or to grandma of our naughty deeds in the kampung. They might find their shoes or slippers wet and no tell tale signs of what happened.

The 'really baddest' of the mischief conjured by Piruz, Betty and I was when we did a prank while one of our uncles was asleep. I won't elaborate what we three little kids did. .Wow!!! Nasty! It was capital punishment meted out instantaneously for us.

They were lots of 'gaming' activities going on in the kampung during raya too. These would include the harmless game of marbles and rubber bands. There would surely be the game of 'tungko' using the 'tudung lemenade' (lemonade bottle caps). Tungko was a game where we would draw a small rectangle (about 12 inches by 6 inches or so) on the floor preferably against a wall or anything upright like piece of wooden planks, etc. Four of five kids place a tudung lemenade each into a pool. Each kid at a time would take turns to throw the tudung lemenade at the rectangle from about four feet or so. The other kids would indicate which tudung for you to target with a 'cue' tudung lemenade like a cue ball. The cue tudung lemenade would be filled with candle wax or clay. If you hit the target and remain in the rectangle you win all the tudung lemenade. If your cue ended out of the rectangle or hit a tudung other than the target you would lose or 'tungko' as we called it. Well, it was something like that la...

The innocence of tungko may dissipate as the kampung boys graduated from tudung lemenade to 10 sens, 20 sens, 50 sens coins and even RM1 shillings. Some migrated to cards especially 21 and maybe poker at times. A practice they saw and participated with the Hap Jo, Teng Wak and Oh Nga when they celebrated Chinese New Year. But these were all in good fun and with very little money exchanging hands. The older boys were also quite honourable in that they never allowed the younger boys to participate. It was always restricted to those in the late teens and early twenties. The younger boys earned tips serving drinks, buying cigarettes or by just giving moral support, etc.

I guess we had our share of mischief, our experiences add colours to our lives and as our career and goals brought us further and further away from each other; hopefully reminiscing over these experiences would keep us close as brothers and sisters despite our differences.

As I worked on this post I remembered names and faces of the boys and adults from Kampung Gita who featured in all those activities and interactions. I hope to write about the people and faces of Kampung Gita some day.

Next have to be about my first day in school - Catholic English Primary School.

[Editor’s note: I know what they did to earn capital punishment…]

Selamat Hari Raya 4 - Berjarah Raya (Raya Visitng)

When I was in primary school, Raya would usually occur during the long school holidays at the end of the year. To an eight year old, Raya was a wonderful mixture of holiday mood, special posa atmosphere, raya shopping, nostalgic takbir raya and raya songs, colourful world of pelitas and coloured bulbs, sparklers and mercun padi, smells of fresh paint and scented sticks or garu, and the spread of delicious raya feasts. Raya was so special to every child then. I hope it still is now.

Everything that happened in posa month, all the fun, hype and activities led to the finale on raya morning. I can never get enough sleep on raya eve due to anxiety, but would still wake up in high spirits. We would normally be up on raya morning around 6.30am and waking us up on raya mornings was definitely easier then waking us up for school. We would be flocked off to the 'bilik mandi' which was a small outhouse made of zinc roof and zinc walls. Within that zinc bath house was a large rectangular cement 'tangki' where water is stored. I remember it was usually mum who gave us our baths; green milo tins and red or blue plastic cans called 'gayong' were used to dip into the the tangki and splash us with the icy cold water. If left to our own devices the shower would be invariably short and swift, 'mandi burung' my parents would say (literally translated to mean bird bath). With mum in charge we would get a full lather of soap and body scrubbing which would leave our skin pink and smarting.

Dressing up and getting into the new yellow, orange or brown teluk belanga took no time at all, right down to tying the 'samping', socks and shoes, topi melayu on our head and a face dabbed with Cuticura or Johnson baby powders. Sometimes when we overdo the powder part, my grandma would remark: 'macam tikus masuk dalam tepung'. Freshly showered, fresh faced and dressed in refreshingly coloured teluk belanga, I would be ready and waiting for the ride to the state mosque for raya prayers from uncle Kamarudin.

We lived next to the kampung's surau and my dad would be at the surau very early. I remember the surau was an elongated rectangular shaped building, made of wooden planks, painted blue with dark belian shingle roofs. The kampung folk would turn up at surau in droves, all dressed in teluk balangas in different colours and shades. The teenage boys and girls would sell stickers to collect funds for charity. Most homes would also have sent food to the surau for those who wished to have raya breakfast at the surau after raya prayers. Straw 'tikar golong' (rolled mats) used for prayers would have been rolled out since the night before to be ready for prayers.

My uncle however, would come to get me on his motorbike (I am trying remember the name of his bike) and we would head to 'masjid negri' in town instead. I remember the original masjid negri had a huge dark dome and that it was demolished some time in the late 60s (or it could be early 70s). The current masjid was built on the exact site.

The masjid negri still sits majestically on top of a small hill, surrounded by the cemetery where Muslims from the time of Raja Muda Hashim or earlier have been buried. The masjid is right by the Sarawak river next to Brooke Dockyard and Engineering Works (BDEW) where my dad worked and retired as the Superintendant. We visited BDEW many times while growing up; most of my dad's colleagues knew us by name, watched us grew up and kept tabs with how we did in school etc. I remember tales of spirits and yellow mud thrown from the adjacent cemetery in the middle of the nights. There was a case of a security guard at BDEW known as Pak Assan who fell sick after one such incident because he went to check and touched the mud.

In front of the masjid negri stood an old wooden shop, kedai Haji Sihat, selling an assortment of curry powders and traditional Sarawak malay kuihs like 'penyaram', 'jala', 'sarang semut', 'edam', 'kuih sepit', 'kuih cina', etc. The old wooden shop is still there today and still looked as old and decrepit as it did forty years ago. The curry powder from that shop is renown till today, I remember my family referring to the 'kari munggu kubur' (munggu kubur means cemetery). My uncle would usually park his motorbike next to the 'kari munggu kubur' shop and we would walk the short distance up the small hill, through the cemetery and reciting 'Al Fatihah' as 'sedekah' to the 'penduduk kubur'.

On raya morning, scores of the 'kampung munggu kubur' boys would be paid to look after our shoes. For 10 or 2o sens we got a plastic bag or a numbered pigeon hole for our shoes. Lose your number, scribbled on pieces of paper cut out of cigarette carton pack, and you will lose your precious raya shoes. It was not uncommon for people to lose or mistakenly take other peoples' shoes, sandals or slippers as there would be thousands of muslims attending raya prayers. I am sure there would be thousands of footwear that were of the same design, size, shape and colour. The flip flops were called 'slipar jepon' then and there were all blue or red or other colours. These days the shoe boys are still there, their business expanded beyond shoes to helmets ever since helmets were made compulsory.

Uncle Kamarudin is mum's eldest brother among seven siblings. There is a younger brother name Shah Jahan, who later studied medicine in Canada and migrated there. There were five sisters - Zamrud the eldest aunty, the late Mummy Esah who lived in Singapore who was such a lovable aunty, my mother - Chi Mohidin and her two younger sisters Mak Tuyah who later married and moved to Labuan, Usu Misiah who married and moved to Singapore. Usu Misiah is the mother of the singer actor Maizurah Hamzah (my closest claim to celebrity).

Anyway, as the eldest brother my uncle would be addressed as Abang Kamarudin by his siblings. Somehow for reasons I cannot remember, the nephews and nieces, all grew up referring to him as Abang Kamarudin. Today, our children, nephews and nieces would refer to him as 'Cik Bang', short for Pakcik Abang Kamarudin. Abang kamarudin worked in the government clinic in Kuching, now renamed Polikinik, as a senior attendant and was the union leader; Secretary General I think. He was very popular in the kampung and even dispensed vitamins and maybe even tablets and creams for simple fevers, headaches, rashes etc.

After raya prayers, it was customary for Abang Kamarudin and I to go visit my aunty and grand aunt who lived in Kampung Muda Hashim, on our way back from town. 'Berjarah raya' as we refer to these visits in Sarawak would begin immediately after the raya prayers. Berjarah (or Berziarah, as it is actually called in Malay) is the form of greeting among Malays where we would extend both hands and we 'berjarah' instead of the handshake in western society. Berjarah with our elders would involve us bowing and kissing their hands too. 'Berjarah' with the parents and grandparents usually involves them sitting on a chair, and the children or grandchildren would bow to kiss their hands and knees as we 'berjarah'. I cannot recall my children berjarah with me this raya, much less kissing my hands and knees...Hmmmm!

[Editor's note: I beg to differ, I tried to berjarah with you first thing in the morning but you told me to check on Adam's teluk belanga. I did manage to catch you later in the day, though.]

Abang Kamarudin and I usually concluded our 'berjarah' and arrived home by about 11am. At each relative's house that we visited we would have been feted with ketupat, lemang and fizzy drinks. That would not stop me dipping into mum's cooking as soon as I reached home. However the raya breakfast for the family cannot happen till after we 'berjarah' with grandma, mum and dad and asking for forgiveness for all the things we have done wrong over the last one year.

Usually by this time we would already have guests flocking to our home by the droves. They customarily arrive just as mum finished cutting the raya cakes and displaying them on trays and plates on the table along with the curries and the rest of the feast. The first batch of visitors would normally be my dad's staff from BDEW and their families.

Lucas and his wife and sons from Matang would always be the first. Lucas,was a very cheerful, chirpy man with a ready smile and a good hearty laugh. He had a distinct voice and spoke extremely fluent Malay. He was a very close friend of my late father and would come visit my dad long after they had both retired. The big Peter Chin and his family was another colleague of my dad who never missed raya at our house. I remember Peter Chin as a big guy with a gentle and quiet demeanour. His sons and daughters were also quite tall and big.

Then we had a contractor friend, Kho Kak Beng, who would never fail to come berjarah raya. As I recalled Kho Kak Beng was a small contractor providing manual labourers 'banging' on the rusty ships hulls that docked at BDEW. BDEW was a dry dock and ships would be steered into the dock, propped with bako woods on all side before the river water was drained out of the dock. The process of dry docking ships were a treat to my brothers and sisters. Kho Kak Beng is now a major corporate businessman with a company carrying his initials, KKB Bhd, now listed on the KLSE mainboard. There were many more colleagues and friends of all races from BDEW, PWD, DID, Marine Department, etc that would come berjarah raya at our house at No. 35, Jalan Bunga Rose, Kampong Gita.

The hustle and bustle of serving dad's staff and friends would be over by late afternoon. Then it would be the kids turn to go berjarah raya. Berjarah raya in the kampung for me would entail a group of friends of about the same age (between 7 to 10 years old) from the neighbourhood. We berjarah to almost ALL the houses in the kampung till late at night everyday for the whole of raya week.

We went berjarah street by street in the kampung - Jalan Bunga Rose, Jalan Bunga Cempaka, Bunga Kenanga, Bunga Raya, Bunga Teratai, etc. It did not matter whether we knew the families of the houses that we visited but after a few years of doing this I came to know most of the population of Kampong Gita anyway. Likewise, we welcomed everyone with open arms whether they knew us or otherwise. The process of getting to know will follow thereafter.

Usually the elders would ask us "kitak anak sapa?" (who are your parents?) and every family in the Kampung would know my family and would exclaimed...'Oh anak Bujang Macpherson dengan Chi' or '..cucuk Hj Smah'. Till today if I return to my kampung and stop by the masjid (the then surau) next to my house most of the elders would still fondly remember us when we were kids.

Neighbours and family members from afar would continue to berjarah during the later part of the raya week and sometimes the whole raya month of shawal. The practise of berjarah raya is still alive but probably not exactly the same as it was when I was an eight or ten year old boy. It would be unthinkable to allow our children to roam freely all day long till late at night, going house to house, in view of the security risks. But then I admit that raya really is special to kids of all ages.

However I am glad we still practise opening our doors on raya day to staff and friends of all race and religion. My first day raya spread in KL now still includes chicken curry, beef and mutton rendang, dhal, ketupat, satay and lemang PLUS our very own Laksa Sarawak! No berjarah for the kids though; except for Nabiya and Marko who spent their second day raya onward in Kampung Gita this year.

Selamat Hari Raya and do come berjarah raya!

(I wish my 'dependable' editor is back from berjarah raya in Kuching)

[Editor's note: Better late than never, papa, I'm back... didn't get much duit raya this year though... heh heh]

Selamat Hari Raya Part 3 - Raya Shopping and Petang Raya Phenomena

Like most boys, one of the most awaited events during posa months was the Raya shopping for baju and shoes. I was much too young to remember the earlier raya shoppings when I was seven or younger. I don't believe there were many children or adult clothing stores in Kuching in the early 60s. However I do remember the raya shopping at Ngiu Kee Store at the spanking new Electra House then. It was probably in the late 60s?

Long before Ngiu Kee and Electra House, my parents would proudly shop from nothing less then The Sarawak Trading Company. I presume The Sarawak Trading Company must have been a purveyor of high quality items as mum would vouch for the quality of the imported leather footwear and apparel from England.

Baju melayu or 'baju teluk belanga' proudly tailored in Kampong Gita would be the primary apparel for raya. The teluk belangas came in the colours of the rainbow and more. The men and their sons of each family would usually have their teluk belangas in matching colours. Dad, Piruz and I were no exception. Different colours each year. The shopping for songkok or 'topi melayu' as we called it in kuching then would be from India Street and usually during the last few days of posa.

The shopping expeditions for raya clothes would normally be completed as early as one to two weeks before raya. The teluk belangas on the other hand were often delivered on raya eve itself. On one or two occasions they were even delivered on raya morning itself. There were just not enough tailors in the kampong to cope with all the orders for baju kurungs and teluk belangas.

Our raya shopping trips would bring us to India Street, Ngiu Kee in Electra house, Khoo Hun Yeang Street and also Carpenter Street. Years later it would lead us to Sin Ah and Jen Hing tailors. I recall having a woollen t-shirt with red and black stripes, a brown cotton shirt with a printed motif that I remember was so comfortable. Chequered shirts in strong red, green or blue were my mum's favourite choices for me and cotton shorts in various colours. Our raya attire would not be completed without socks and black or dark leather laced shoes. Mum took pride in her taste and choice of clothings for us, remarking that we were always outstanding. Mother's love!

How I wish I had as strong a say in my children's dressing as my mother had over ours. I often jest about my son Mark's loose jeans which would drop below his hips and the boxers showing. Arrrrgh!!!! And kids these days would prefer tattered converse canvass shoes over a black leather pair. My sons Mark and Adam would have their own say over their haircut and styles too. In contrast when I was their age, I had no say at all. Haircuts would mean trips to the village barber, Pak Tinggal, whose wooden 'salon' was located next to bicycle shop at the junction near teh entrance to Kampung Gita. I guess times are different and I have to move on, unwillingly.

The first pair of long trousers I owned were a grey slack pair which my parents bought for me for raya in 1973, matched with a white long sleeve cotton shirt with two pockets. I can still recollect putting them on every night before raya. Hands in the pockets, admiring myself in the mirror from all angles. Man, I was hip personified...hehehehe!! And my first jeans were a pair of TEXWOOD, when I was in form three! I could not afford an AMCO. AMCO was The brand of jeans then! I do believe my sister Betty had a red or maroon corduroy AMCO. Well, I could not resist the AMCO temptation and did 'curi pakai'. Sneakers came in the form of North Star from Bata at the time. No adidas for me until I was in university, purchased with my first scholarship funds.

As posa came to a close the whole cycle of activities like visiting and cleaning the cemetaries; watching the 'anak bulan', declarations of raya by the 'mohor', beating of the 'bedok', etc started all over again. This time around the beatings of the bedok would normally have a much more upbeat mood to it. Either that or it was probably just the raya mood.

Visiting the cemetaries - or 'ngabas kubur' as it is referred to in Sarawak - involved bringing a pail of water with marigolds (bunga nerjas), bourgainvillas (bunga kertas) and pandan leaves; all from grandma's garden. The water and the flowers would be poured on the graves of our elders and loved ones after the reciting of verses from the Quran.

A chore assigned to me on the eve of raya was to catch the chickens and bring them to the 'tok imam' to be slaughtered. Part and parcel of that responsibility was holding the chicken while the tok imam conducted the ritual. There was a year when the 'mohor' only announced at 10pm that raya was the next day while most people had anticipated that raya would fall a day later. There was complete pandemonium, chickens being rounded up and brought to the 'tok imam'. Imagine the ruckus that ensued, chickens everywhere in the middle of the night.

The three chinese shops in the kampong normally closed by 8pm. But on that occasion it had to be reopened till well passed midnight to sell curry powders, coconut cream and assorted condiments. It was quite a scene at Chop Hap Joo, one of the three shops; the kampong folk lining up with their 555 book at midnight racking up stuff at the last minute.

[Editor's note: Visiting "Kedey" Hap Joo is a tradition that is still upheld by my generation! My cousin, Azie (Aunty Betty's daughter) and I never fail to visit Hap Joo whenever we're in Kuching. The thought of not going there is considered blasphemous! My brother, Mark, and cousin, Naeem (Aunty Lalita's son) used to HAVE to visit the shop EVERY single day for their Sugus and "Ayek Gas" - a result of Nini's indulgence.]

These three shops played quite a part in the lives of the kampong folk. The shopkeepers who went by the names of Hap Joo, Teng Wak and Oh Nga, regularly donated to the kampong folk during weddings, funerals, and to the surau during rayas, awal muharam, mauludil rasul or maulud nabi as we called the occasion then.

Hap Joo in particular, also provided employments to the handicap youths in the kampong, as delivery boys or shop assistants. There was a particular deaf and mute chap, that stood out, whom I remembered only as 'Mat Bebek'; an extremely pleasant boy who delivered rice, sugar, flour, groceries and gas tanks.

Preparing the home and getting it squeaky clean and ready to receive guests on raya day was tough work but amidst the raya songs playing on the radio and the 'takbir' from the surau next door made all the hard work fun. Polishing the wooden floors and stairs with wax and coconut husk brushes was something I remember doing on nights before raya. The ladies would be busy with new curtains to be fixed and new cushion covers to be fitted. And of course the familiar smell of fresh paint which stemmed from mum's hobby to paint the house, especially the living room for raya. Until today I still associate the smell of fresh paint to raya.

Mum and Nek Smah would be busy till late into the night cooking for raya. There were some serious cookings that went on before raya then. Our raya spread would typically be chicken curry, beef kurma, mutton dhal cha, yogurt (tairu) salads, sweet pineapple chutney. Just as well that raya is only once a year because the amount of ghee that went into the dishes and the 'nasi minyak could send one's cholesterol and blood pressure sky high. In addition we would have lemangs, Hj Samat's satay (or my grand uncle's Wa Mat's satay), plain and glutinous rice ketupats, biscuits and assorted cakes. Fizzy drinks, carbonated drinks that came in various labels -aeroplane, ships, etc - which were replaced in later years by Green Spot and then the F&N range, Coca Cola, etc.

Sparklers or bunga api, firecrackers especially the 'mercun padi' ruled the night of raya. All these sparkling fires and fireworks added more colours to the already wonderland of rainbow coloured bulbs that decked the houses and streets lined with pelitas and decorated archways. Rising above the din of the meriam buluhs, bustling sounds of excited children and harried adults was the nostalgic takbir raya which signalled raya has finally arrived...."Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar......Allaaahu Akbar; Allaahu Akbar Wallillah hilham...."

It would be well past midnight before we slept, our raya baju all neatly laid out ready to be worn next morning. I suspected the ladies would continue cooking way pass midnight perhaps till 3 or 4 in the morning.

To be continued...with berjarah raya.

Apologies for grammatical errors as my 'editor' is still on raya leave in Kampung Gita. Inaccurate information is entirely due to my memory failure.

[Editor's note: The editor was able to refresh her own memories of the beloved Kampong Gita over the past week, and managed to visit Hap Joo (though his daughter now mans the shop) for fizzy drinks and 20cent ice-cream with Azie]

Selamat Hari Raya Part 2 - Posa Yok Yok, Bertuntung, Meriam Buluh and Malam Tujuh Likur

As a young boy in the 60s, the eagerness to wake up for sahur dwindled after the first week of posa and I would rush through my early morning meals, eyes closed and head propped. Sleep was more valuable then having a meal but my grandma, Nek Smah would have nothing of this. Sahur was non negotiable.

I recall the years when posa coincided with the long school holidays in November and December. During those occassions we would become nocturnal creatures staying awake at nights and sleeping through the days. It was not uncommon to sleep till 6 pm in the evening till just before sungkei and skipping the pangs of hunger.

Nek Smah would grumble all day about our sleeping habits, telling us that our posa would not be counted and so forth. All these were soon forgiven come sungkei and after helping with the dishes, wiping the tables and sweeping the floors. Piruz would normally be the boss and delegated the chores to Betty and myself. Betty usually did the dishes and I seemed to be assigned to sweeping the floors most of the time. I remember an occassion many years later when Piruz and Betty quarrelled noisily over a transistor radio. Those days a teenager's life was centered around a radio just as ipods, laptops or mobile phones are to teenagers today. How else would we catch Credence Clearwater Revival. Anyway, caught between this 'terrible' fight over a radio, my trusted broom came in handy, swinging into action, hitting nobody but effective in breaking the fight. Betty and Piruz had a comical recollection of that incident.

The term 'posa yok yok' came about to refer to kids (me included) who posa but quietly raided the 'periok' (pots) during the day. Such raids were done stealthily and we thought we got away without Nek Smah's knowledge. Later we realised that she somehow must have known because how else can we explain the fact that she referred to our posa 'yok yok' on the very days the periok raids were executed.

We were often assigned chores during posa that I referred to as relief assignments by Nek Smah and mum. Such assignments included going to the 3 chinese shops in the kampong to buy stuff like bananas, ice blocks, sun valley orange squash, etc. On other days these assignments took the form of distributing to our neighbours the bubur kacang, bubur pedas and kuihs that Nek Smah have prepared. Our neighbours would in return give back other dishes that they had prepared. This practise of sharing dishes among the neighbours allowed us to enjoy added varieties for sungkei.

As these chores were normally done in the evening close to sungkei after a full day of fasting, resisting the temptation to dip your fingers in the goodies was not easy at all. I can recall at least 1 or 2 occassions when I completely 'forgot' (not conveniently forgot I must add) that it was posa month and ate one full banana before realising it. Nek Smah would say we were excused because it was not intentional and therfore it was our 'rezeki', thus our fasting that day would still count and not 'batal'.

On the occassions when we were awake and not hibernating during the days posa turned most of us into zombies especially in the afternoons. Nek Smah would remind us that we were supposed to remain active as usual and to work as hard as ever during posa as it is meant to test our resolve. Hmmm!

The nights of posa month however were totally different. We transformed, along with the entire kampong as all kinds of nightly activities unfolded. Small hawker stalls sprouted all over the kampong, selling stuff like 'sotong tutok', dried squid pounded on belian wood block with a hammer into threads of shreaded squid and eaten with hot chilly and black soya sauce. This would later be replaced with the machine pressed squids but they never tasted the same.

By mid posa month the kampong would be bathed in a sea of light and colours. Homes would be decked with rainbows of coloured bulbs. The home owners went to great lengths to outdo each other to be the best lighted home. And the streets would be lined with kerosene lamps or 'pelita' that were hung on wooden poles, the flickering lights emitted by the pelitas were a delight to the eyes (but not so the black smogs that clogged our nostrils). The more active young men of the kampong would often construct wooden arches and archways across the streets and lighted them up at night. The competition to be the best lit street at times pushed the friendly, amiable kampong folks a wee bit beyond friendly competitions. By 'malam tujuh likur', around the 27th day of posa, the kampong would be lit up like a delightful little 'disney land'.

The community activities during posa month would be powered by the young men and boys of the kampong. We started young and there was a clear hierarchy of duties. The young men constructed the arches and planted the wooden poles along the streets. The older boys filled the pelitas with kerosene, hung them on the wooden poles and lit them up. Meanwhile the younger boys' responsibility was to ensure that the lamps remain lit and policing to ensure boys from other streets do not sabotage their work.

In the midst of all this the boys of the kampong would have home made bamboo cannons or 'meriam buluh'. Dangerous contraptions filled with kerosene and lit with fire to create minor explosions. All to increase the din and noise during posa month.

The kampong streets would be filled with adults and children alike. People coming and going back from the surau. Kids selling and buying sotong tutok, families walking about admiring the lights and pelitas. Malam tujuh likur was indeed a sight to behold in those days. Betty was always in her element during those times with her friends Zaiton, Hasmah and many others and her usual comical mimicking of radio djs and raya greetings over Radio Sarawak.

To be continued..