There were ghosts everywhere. To a young mind, stepping out into the dark would only mean that you would be exposing yourself to an unknown terror. Ghosts preferred the night shifts presumably to retain anonymity as well as to avoid forging any kinship with the very humans they were supposed to terrorize.
An unsuspecting gatherer of the jungle produce learned the hard way that even the regular forays into the domains of these "orang halus" (invisible people) were no guarantee of safe passage. Heeding nature's call, he carelessly relieved the full fury of his bursting "spheres" onto a "busut" (hillock) which as many an informed Malay knew harbored its own "penunggu" (guardian).
True to form, the aggrieved party allowed for a cooling-off period of one night before striking back viciously. The penalty for this indiscreet act was a disproportionately excessive enlargements of the intruder's offending member, globe and all the following morning.
The moral of the story is that if you strongly believe that size counts, feel free to give the next "busut" you see a try. You have been warned though.
Steer clear of suspiciously "keras" (hard!) places like strange depressions, unusually shaped rocks and eerily silent creeks while these denizens were to have right of residence. If you must approach their living quarters, observe certain movements and recite some mantras for protection.
The world of Malay magic is never short of these clandestine figures. Take your pick. The "hantu bungkus" may be in shrouds but modesty was certainly one of its laudable characteristics.
The "jerangkung" meanwhile, had a penchant for raiding the kitchen. The "pontianak" after which a place in the Borneo heartland got her name, I presume, and also made famous by a number of films, such as the recent "pontianak" films that made Maria Menado a household name, was the tragic reappearance of one who succumbed to labour complications.
Speak well of others. These "others" include the inanimate for you can never know who or what you could alienate. Friends who turned up in school sporting shades of blue or pink faces or nicely puffed -up oral organs had only themselves to blame for indiscreet remarks thrown around.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
On a hunt or two
I strongly suspect that many smart-reading children nowadays will good-naturedly dismiss tales of haunted houses, ghosts and ghoulish giants for what some are meant to be - entertaining at most.
Ghosts, it seems, are fast losing their credibility and functions at a time when almost anything can be assembled by a do-it-yourself buff with an allen key, the oft-unappreciated high-tech ghost included. Thanks to that blessed contraption sometimes quite unjustly labelled as the idiot box, ghosts are as good as making regular house calls now and can be as friendly as your delivery person. Or more.
There was a time when ghost-busting was a deadly serious business though it could not be denied that some ghosts were invented to keep the more boisterous children in cheek.
From a very young age, I had often been warned against reprisals from a list of "hantu"(s?) who were specifically equipped and assigned different duties well-suited to their hidden features. So behave, or else.
Growing up in a small town like Kluang , my contemporaries and I were saturated with many accounts of people sighting frightful figures time and again.
Once, it seemed, developed massive breasts and when she chose to, flapped people out flat with her overdone adornments. The risk was yours should you enroll yourself as the "hantu kopek's" bosom pal because just a playful swing spelt only disaster.
Then there was the blood-draining "polong", our own answer to the celebrated Central European Count Dracula supposedly reared by a certain anti-social outcast. This one was duty-bound to turn away unfortunate victim like a hysterical wreck unless subdued by a powerful "pawang" (shaman).
There's more. It's the "tuju-tuju", a projectile that worked along similar principles as our international policeman's "elective bombings". Only this time, the handiwork wasn't quite as devastating because the missile could be directed at one individual target at a time. Still, it was the work of a friend all the same.
Ghosts, it seems, are fast losing their credibility and functions at a time when almost anything can be assembled by a do-it-yourself buff with an allen key, the oft-unappreciated high-tech ghost included. Thanks to that blessed contraption sometimes quite unjustly labelled as the idiot box, ghosts are as good as making regular house calls now and can be as friendly as your delivery person. Or more.
There was a time when ghost-busting was a deadly serious business though it could not be denied that some ghosts were invented to keep the more boisterous children in cheek.
From a very young age, I had often been warned against reprisals from a list of "hantu"(s?) who were specifically equipped and assigned different duties well-suited to their hidden features. So behave, or else.
Growing up in a small town like Kluang , my contemporaries and I were saturated with many accounts of people sighting frightful figures time and again.
Once, it seemed, developed massive breasts and when she chose to, flapped people out flat with her overdone adornments. The risk was yours should you enroll yourself as the "hantu kopek's" bosom pal because just a playful swing spelt only disaster.
Then there was the blood-draining "polong", our own answer to the celebrated Central European Count Dracula supposedly reared by a certain anti-social outcast. This one was duty-bound to turn away unfortunate victim like a hysterical wreck unless subdued by a powerful "pawang" (shaman).
There's more. It's the "tuju-tuju", a projectile that worked along similar principles as our international policeman's "elective bombings". Only this time, the handiwork wasn't quite as devastating because the missile could be directed at one individual target at a time. Still, it was the work of a friend all the same.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Jalan Station
Just call it Station Road if only to put to rest any uncertainty over its rightful spelling. In the mid-50s of the last dusty century, the road carried about it that extra sting that others in this small railway town could not lay claim to. The road starts from where it meets with Jalan Mersing and takes one to the station.
What set it apart was that attached exclusiveness it carried if a bit brazenly quite similar to what High Street was once to Singapore and Batu Road (now Jalan Tuanku Abdul Rahman of course) to Kuala Lumpur.
Along the short stretch were a few, just a few select stores if I may still correctly recollect, dishing out some branded and quite fancy merchandise from clothing to crockery to the discerning smokers' needs. These shrewd Indian entrepreneurs, probably Sundhis, Gujeratis and Sikhs too, as were their counterparts scattered at all corners of this once mighty empire from Nairobi to Hong Kong saw and seized the opportunity of a lucrative venture plus the prestige that came with the dealership of such desirable items.
It was not just the 'tuans' and 'mems' from the colonial service, the Kluang military garrison and the surrounding plantations but also the better-offs from among the local populace who graced the scene at these upmarket outlets along the street.
England ruled the waves and pretenders were never wanting. Mufflers and cravats in our stifling weather? And why not? Just speak to the English-speaking gentlemen in attendance and you won't be disappointed. He wouldn't blink an eye and you'd feel like a very relieved Mr. Holmes out on a successful mission. Elementary, my dear Watson, elementary!
Products carrying English labels were deemed superior naturally and they came with an ego-boosting price tag to match too. That was no deterrent, no Sir! Rather, they became more desirable. Mess. Crocket and Jones as were Debenhams and the inevitable Marks and Spencers had every reason to smile all the way to Barclays given such favaourable environment.
To lend some authenticity to the English "feel" about the operations, these establishments held Grand Summer Sales! Summer, indeed! Take your pick, be it Tootal, Viyella, Old Spice (can't help figuring what the Spice Girls would look like at seventy - but pardon the rude digression), John White, Ye Olde English (a tobacco brand, I think), were no strangers to Jalan Station. Not exactly Piccadily. Still, enjoy your Xmas in Kluang, while you may, James! They stuff cotton for snow just so you won't be too homesick. Bless them!
Not to be outdone was a watch dealer along this stretch who offered some luxury timepieces from the land of the world's precision timekeepers. A friend flashes a 400 dollar automatic Swiss beauty that according to him would be a lifetime investment. He had a point there.
Fortunately for the plain Mats like yours truly, retailers of such high-end products weren't the only ones operating along the row. Among the lesser players I can vaguely remember were a harberdasher and a bicycle seller cum repairer. A songkok maker made up the other and together they held their own regardless.
Like the Batu Road of old, there had to be the mere mortals too. But a landmark that stood out in memory and significance to me surely was the one that served us as a watering hole for the poorer revellers of the little town come high noon. Simply billed as the Government Toddy Shop, it was a small building, detached from the rest of the typical two-storeyed prewar (my guess) brick and wooden structure that came with the protective veranda from end to end. There was a cherry tree within its vicinity, a rather big shady plant that could not quite effectively cool the jolly joint come its happiest and most boisterous hours.
It had never pretended to be any sort of a bar much less a pub but what the loyal patrons may lack in the sophistication in their brother establishments that serviced the throats of the upper crust of the Kluang notables, they more than made up with their equal or even better show of spirited light-heartedness.
By three o'clock and almost without fail, some now well-soaked, would spill onto the road to share their wit and wisdom with all and sundry who cared to lend an ear even momentarily. I might be guessing, but I'm quite positive the subject for discourse could range from domestic intrigues to international relations.
As a child I had this fear of being roughed up by these poor stragglers as they trudged away unsteadily. I needn't have worried though for they were more than preoccupied with steadying their moves than even bothering a glance at a little fellow on his errand.
A mere stone's throw away is the railway station and its delighted coffee shop. It has been a long-standing institution - much a part of the town as the Jalan, the fancy shops or the noted fermented juice distribution centre.
Old timers and the occasional drop-in sippers sing praises over the faultless toast, the sinfully sweet "kaya"and the inimitably thick steaming "kopi O" served in the typically robust chunk of massive china that could have easily stood the test of time and trial.
The black powder, some say, gained royal pleasure but you can always check it with the present operator. They are branching out - that's the latest to make the rounds in the Klang Valley as of late- everyone's raving about kopitiams, but they're plain kedai kopi to me. I'm not surprised given the near-legendary standing.
No visit to Kluang would be deemed complete without popping into that unassuming joint (I must admit I was last there in 2003) or packing off a sample of the celebrated stuff (now I can get them at the nearest outlet at Tesco Extra) for though I can quite clearly remember two other noted roasters of Kluang of the time, this one could easily hold its own.
Lest I am dismissed as a die-hard anachronismic, just give that rather rustic place a once-over should you ever pop by the town. Who knows, you might get hooked-up too. And while you are there, look across to the mountain - Gunung Lambak. My grandson believes a certain Mr. Bigfoot (he pronounces it 'bag-fut'') dwells there. That'll be another story of course.
What set it apart was that attached exclusiveness it carried if a bit brazenly quite similar to what High Street was once to Singapore and Batu Road (now Jalan Tuanku Abdul Rahman of course) to Kuala Lumpur.
Along the short stretch were a few, just a few select stores if I may still correctly recollect, dishing out some branded and quite fancy merchandise from clothing to crockery to the discerning smokers' needs. These shrewd Indian entrepreneurs, probably Sundhis, Gujeratis and Sikhs too, as were their counterparts scattered at all corners of this once mighty empire from Nairobi to Hong Kong saw and seized the opportunity of a lucrative venture plus the prestige that came with the dealership of such desirable items.
It was not just the 'tuans' and 'mems' from the colonial service, the Kluang military garrison and the surrounding plantations but also the better-offs from among the local populace who graced the scene at these upmarket outlets along the street.
England ruled the waves and pretenders were never wanting. Mufflers and cravats in our stifling weather? And why not? Just speak to the English-speaking gentlemen in attendance and you won't be disappointed. He wouldn't blink an eye and you'd feel like a very relieved Mr. Holmes out on a successful mission. Elementary, my dear Watson, elementary!
Products carrying English labels were deemed superior naturally and they came with an ego-boosting price tag to match too. That was no deterrent, no Sir! Rather, they became more desirable. Mess. Crocket and Jones as were Debenhams and the inevitable Marks and Spencers had every reason to smile all the way to Barclays given such favaourable environment.
To lend some authenticity to the English "feel" about the operations, these establishments held Grand Summer Sales! Summer, indeed! Take your pick, be it Tootal, Viyella, Old Spice (can't help figuring what the Spice Girls would look like at seventy - but pardon the rude digression), John White, Ye Olde English (a tobacco brand, I think), were no strangers to Jalan Station. Not exactly Piccadily. Still, enjoy your Xmas in Kluang, while you may, James! They stuff cotton for snow just so you won't be too homesick. Bless them!
Not to be outdone was a watch dealer along this stretch who offered some luxury timepieces from the land of the world's precision timekeepers. A friend flashes a 400 dollar automatic Swiss beauty that according to him would be a lifetime investment. He had a point there.
Fortunately for the plain Mats like yours truly, retailers of such high-end products weren't the only ones operating along the row. Among the lesser players I can vaguely remember were a harberdasher and a bicycle seller cum repairer. A songkok maker made up the other and together they held their own regardless.
Like the Batu Road of old, there had to be the mere mortals too. But a landmark that stood out in memory and significance to me surely was the one that served us as a watering hole for the poorer revellers of the little town come high noon. Simply billed as the Government Toddy Shop, it was a small building, detached from the rest of the typical two-storeyed prewar (my guess) brick and wooden structure that came with the protective veranda from end to end. There was a cherry tree within its vicinity, a rather big shady plant that could not quite effectively cool the jolly joint come its happiest and most boisterous hours.
It had never pretended to be any sort of a bar much less a pub but what the loyal patrons may lack in the sophistication in their brother establishments that serviced the throats of the upper crust of the Kluang notables, they more than made up with their equal or even better show of spirited light-heartedness.
By three o'clock and almost without fail, some now well-soaked, would spill onto the road to share their wit and wisdom with all and sundry who cared to lend an ear even momentarily. I might be guessing, but I'm quite positive the subject for discourse could range from domestic intrigues to international relations.
As a child I had this fear of being roughed up by these poor stragglers as they trudged away unsteadily. I needn't have worried though for they were more than preoccupied with steadying their moves than even bothering a glance at a little fellow on his errand.
A mere stone's throw away is the railway station and its delighted coffee shop. It has been a long-standing institution - much a part of the town as the Jalan, the fancy shops or the noted fermented juice distribution centre.
Old timers and the occasional drop-in sippers sing praises over the faultless toast, the sinfully sweet "kaya"and the inimitably thick steaming "kopi O" served in the typically robust chunk of massive china that could have easily stood the test of time and trial.
The black powder, some say, gained royal pleasure but you can always check it with the present operator. They are branching out - that's the latest to make the rounds in the Klang Valley as of late- everyone's raving about kopitiams, but they're plain kedai kopi to me. I'm not surprised given the near-legendary standing.
No visit to Kluang would be deemed complete without popping into that unassuming joint (I must admit I was last there in 2003) or packing off a sample of the celebrated stuff (now I can get them at the nearest outlet at Tesco Extra) for though I can quite clearly remember two other noted roasters of Kluang of the time, this one could easily hold its own.
Lest I am dismissed as a die-hard anachronismic, just give that rather rustic place a once-over should you ever pop by the town. Who knows, you might get hooked-up too. And while you are there, look across to the mountain - Gunung Lambak. My grandson believes a certain Mr. Bigfoot (he pronounces it 'bag-fut'') dwells there. That'll be another story of course.
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