There was a time when this weather-beaten "ancient mariner" (were I a seaman, that is), was a pretty tough and lean lad complete with the hungry look and all (permission, Mr. Shakespeare) to whom a five-mile cross-country run or more was no big deal even without so much as a familiarization peek at the track. Oh the exuberance of those halcyon days of youth and fun, for though I was not exactly a strapping Malayan hunk, there seemed to be no peak too high nor any physical feat too insurmountable for me to tackle.
Like many other teenagers of my day, I was seldom physically idle. There were simply too many abandoned TOL farms scattered just outside Kluang town along the unassuming Kluang-Renggam road to be ignored, so the little explorer in me and my kind had a whale of a time reaping the bounty, courtesy of the toil of anonymous farmhands of the Malayan Emergency era.
Health-wise, only minor complaints unsettled my rhythm now and then and such setbacks were easily taken care of by the trusty "Aspro" tablets dispensed by who else if not the ubiquitous "sinseh" perennially clad in his "Pagoda" tee and his rather precariously string pajama-like striped bottom.
My late mother though, often complained of little chest pains that again and again saw home administered "Kaki Tiga" and such similar remedies besides getting regular calls from a benevolent and if somewhat well-rounded "bomoh" with his helpful prescription of clean water that had gone through a "tangkal" session and poured out of an odd-shaped green bottle which made me think only of Aladdin or the Arabian Nights.
Gunung Lambak, the highest peak in Kluang did not deter me and my clan of Fourth Formers in our class of '58. All the climbers, our very obliging class master included went through the exercise very lightheartedly. This was not long after Kluang was declared a "white area" (no more communist threats). Many of us were shod only in the famous "Bata Jumper" school shoes but nevertheless merrily reported back to school to school the following Sunday none the worse for our 1000 for ascent or so.
Once, as a temporary teacher my fumbling ways got me my head cracked at a rugby game and to backtrack slightly, was once completely knocked out cold, the foolhardiness of trying to clear a "hurdle" which actually was a rigid structure meant to keep away unwelcome jaywalkers at our humble quarters. I feel headfirst onto the side of a little drain and they thought they had lost me. I was, without doubt, in my most boisterous teen years then.
I participated in about all the rough and tumble activities the life of a typical youth of the time offered. Gifted with such brimming health, could I be faulted for taking things in my stride in the easy-going manner so much like the make-belief cowpokes whose invincibility as exaggerated in my favourite screen Westerns we never questioned.
Though I was no indispensable star, the two-year stint as a trainee teacher at the Malayan Teachers' College at Pantai Valley, gave me the opportunity to thoroughly enjoy the facilities provided for enthusiasts of football, athletics, sepak takraw, and got my adrenalin flowing furiously at the rugby green.
The years piled on. Little nagging chest pains were brushed aside as troublesome "angin" of one kind or another. It's not for nothing that the all-curing "minyak angin" was created. Not that I avoided the doctor altogether. No. In fact I was once asked if I had not been imagining things in view of my otherwise active ways. It was the same with my mother who finally succumbed to old age and other unclear complications. Pain or no, she plodded on, busy raising my siblings and I and often working late into the nights on her hand-operated sewing machine rushing to finish orders for baju melayu and those aromatic Malay goodies especially during the Raya seasons year after year.
I was well into my fifties and moving slowly if a bit rather reluctantly towards retirement when together with a couple of colleagues, we braved the elements for a three-day Endau-Rompin jungle bash just for the experience. We took them all, the uncompromising weather, blood-sucking leeches, long slow trekking and wonderfully drenching (for the most part voluntarily sought) and a near run-out of ration due to poor planning. No one complained.
The pristine park then offered none of the creature comforts enjoyed by later day "campers" snugly cocooned in dry dormitories and even chalets, full board, mind you. No pain, but so much to gain in appreciating God's gift to us the weaklings.
I was my usual self, reasonably fit, a good eater but mindful of my sugar intake. So it came as a big surprise really when it was revealed upon my 62nd year of "lodging" in this uncertain world that all had not been too well with my brave heart for a good number of years already.
Now the haze is cleared somewhat and I am only speaking as a layman at best. The screen at the cardiologist did not lie. Partial blockage, that was it.
For things slowly begin to fall into place. That explains those mild stabbings in the chest - too mild to be of any concern really. Then there were those late evening and early night profuse sweatings way back in the sixties, those oh-so-stubborn coughings that persisted for nearly a month at times and of late, the drastic weight loss that's very obvious just by looking at my shrinking waistline.
Surprisingly, repeated health screenings (a service requirement over the years in my working days), plus the different tests to undergo two accompanying hernia operations gave no indication of any heart ailment ever.
Nicotine effect? Not likely for I gave up those supposedly macho-boosting sticks 20 years ago. Even then I could only be counted on among those "social inhalers".
A bypass looming? I am only familiar with those irritating ones at our PLUS highways.
For now, que sera sera.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Friday, November 20, 2009
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Happy hunting grounds
Our family moved to Kluang circa 1947 when I was about four. Physically, the town had not changed very much when I finally left for the Pantai Valley Malayan Teachers' College in 1962.
It was in Kluang that I first saw the iron horse. She was pulled by a black, dirty and "noisy" head that spat fire, smoke and steam as she thundered along her narrow tracks, so I noted. Little wonder some call her (or should I say him?) a loco.
We children called her the "bubur kacang" train. Close your eyes, try repeating "bubur kacang" at a furious pace and imagine you're that behemoth tearing up the miles of countryside and you'll probably understand why we gave her this tag.
It was also in Kluang that I got acquainted with the motorcar as we called them then. We're lazier now and they are just "cars" and "boats" and worst, "motor" for motorcycles (in Malaysia at least). But that's another story, and going off the path a bit, sorry. Anyway, I picked up the different models of those squalid contraptions through observations and through friends. I was able to get close to many of them, since for some years, I got myself engaged as a ball picker at the all-white tennis cum recreation club at Jalan Renggam.
The club grounds displayed a good collection of mostly made-in-England Morrises and Austins, and Sunbeams and Vauxhalls and Wolseys. Then to spoil the party was one frog-like VW.
Kluang enriched me in other ways too. My interest in books started with Enid Blyton's works. They were prizes I won for doing well in my primary years. In the upper classes I discreetly got hold of some naughty publications mostly loaned to me by cunning but well-meaning seniors. I also learned about the birds and the bees but the formal and no-nonsense way - through the Agama afternoon school. So what's the furor over sex-education now?
The Straits Times provided me with my daily doses of chronicles from the time I was in Form Four. Though he didn't earn much and only on occasions bought himself the Utusan Melayu, my father saw to it that I had access to ample reading materials. I also got a good collection of old books all given away by children of his friends.
The two columns that attracted me in the Straits Times were "Man in the Street" and "The Straits Times Saturday Forum". Both were their readers' contributions. A certain Tuan Djek recorded some interesting jottings from an estate in Kota Tinggi. I looked forward to this Tuan's lively narrations because estate life and a kampung born share much in common.
On occasions I laid my hands on a rival paper, the Singapore Standard. I enjoyed their Sunday comic edition. Drop by at the little Mudaliar corner at the Klauang Railway Station and a surprisingly good selection of books and periodicals from the staid to the saucy await the patient browser. One I especially looked forward to was the "Wide World", a monthly adventure magazine, so fulfilling to an armchair roamer like yours sincerely.
Weatherwise, Kluang was not too hot a place. At least, relatives staying for a night or two with us dreaded the cold but rather mandatory morning baths they had to endure. The twin peaks of Gunung Lambak served as an early warning system to impending rain over the town. We would see the hills obliterated by rain clouds first, and folks, better rescue your wash from the lines pronto or else!
Floods were almost regular annual occurrences . From our house up the government office hill we could see the depression by the railway track dangerously waterlogged, resulting from the overflowing Sungai Mengkibol. Kampung Yap Tan Sah, Kampung Melayu, parts of Jalan Mersing and the villages around suffered the indignity of the dunking. The Chung Hwa primary school, also on low-lying grounds was likewise not spared and the water took quite a while to recede.
We had no clock tower but time was kept by someone at the Kluang police station thrashing mightily on a kind of round metal gong hung up above the corridor each hour. The resultant reverberation served a considerable coverage. Rubbish collection and removal fell onto the Town Board, conveniently called "tong bod" by us Malays probably owing to the role the "tong" (bin) had upon the overall setup of the service provided.
Still on services, I often wondered why someone would walk the drains carrying a kind of back-pack while squirting some liquid downwards. It was only in school that I learned about malaria eradication. Medical teams visited the school regularly but we children tried to shy away from any treatment whatever especially the bitter cough syrup and the stinging lotion for cuts and abrasions. Then of course there was the fearsome needle.
A place would be nothing without her memorable characters. One who caught my fancy was the smartly attired but non-smiling railway station master. I was so impressed by the power he seemingly wielded that I professed to be assuming his powerful position some day; stiffly starched uniform, upright collar, scowling face and all.
His equal was a cashier at the central Electricity Board office a mere five minute walk from our house. There sat a very glum and non-speaking zombie for whom I cooked up all sorts of excuses to avoid our inevitable monthly encounter.
Walking the dos is fine, but along Jalan Ibrahim, I occasionally ran into an old man towing a swine on a leash. I presumed the over-sized squealer was condemned for the slaughterhouse somewhere, not that the poor pink snorter was any wiser. H1N1? Have no fear. It was unheard of yet, for man and beast moved jauntily without any care.
On the lighter side, there was the ancient trishaw rider to whom life aboard his rickety three-wheeler drive was an ever uphill task. Kluang and more than her fair share of undulating terrain, that's why. Try the Jalan Hospital route or climb the killer government office incline and you'll get the idea. Any request this way incurred extra charges naturally. On one occasion, to rub salt to the wound, a passenger was asked to disembark for the difficult part. No choice presumably for his well-endowed better half chose to stay put. The best part was his willingness to volunteer with the heave-ho of the uncooperative antiquity. Talk about chivalry today!
It was in Kluang that I first saw the iron horse. She was pulled by a black, dirty and "noisy" head that spat fire, smoke and steam as she thundered along her narrow tracks, so I noted. Little wonder some call her (or should I say him?) a loco.
We children called her the "bubur kacang" train. Close your eyes, try repeating "bubur kacang" at a furious pace and imagine you're that behemoth tearing up the miles of countryside and you'll probably understand why we gave her this tag.
It was also in Kluang that I got acquainted with the motorcar as we called them then. We're lazier now and they are just "cars" and "boats" and worst, "motor" for motorcycles (in Malaysia at least). But that's another story, and going off the path a bit, sorry. Anyway, I picked up the different models of those squalid contraptions through observations and through friends. I was able to get close to many of them, since for some years, I got myself engaged as a ball picker at the all-white tennis cum recreation club at Jalan Renggam.
The club grounds displayed a good collection of mostly made-in-England Morrises and Austins, and Sunbeams and Vauxhalls and Wolseys. Then to spoil the party was one frog-like VW.
Kluang enriched me in other ways too. My interest in books started with Enid Blyton's works. They were prizes I won for doing well in my primary years. In the upper classes I discreetly got hold of some naughty publications mostly loaned to me by cunning but well-meaning seniors. I also learned about the birds and the bees but the formal and no-nonsense way - through the Agama afternoon school. So what's the furor over sex-education now?
The Straits Times provided me with my daily doses of chronicles from the time I was in Form Four. Though he didn't earn much and only on occasions bought himself the Utusan Melayu, my father saw to it that I had access to ample reading materials. I also got a good collection of old books all given away by children of his friends.
The two columns that attracted me in the Straits Times were "Man in the Street" and "The Straits Times Saturday Forum". Both were their readers' contributions. A certain Tuan Djek recorded some interesting jottings from an estate in Kota Tinggi. I looked forward to this Tuan's lively narrations because estate life and a kampung born share much in common.
On occasions I laid my hands on a rival paper, the Singapore Standard. I enjoyed their Sunday comic edition. Drop by at the little Mudaliar corner at the Klauang Railway Station and a surprisingly good selection of books and periodicals from the staid to the saucy await the patient browser. One I especially looked forward to was the "Wide World", a monthly adventure magazine, so fulfilling to an armchair roamer like yours sincerely.
Weatherwise, Kluang was not too hot a place. At least, relatives staying for a night or two with us dreaded the cold but rather mandatory morning baths they had to endure. The twin peaks of Gunung Lambak served as an early warning system to impending rain over the town. We would see the hills obliterated by rain clouds first, and folks, better rescue your wash from the lines pronto or else!
Floods were almost regular annual occurrences . From our house up the government office hill we could see the depression by the railway track dangerously waterlogged, resulting from the overflowing Sungai Mengkibol. Kampung Yap Tan Sah, Kampung Melayu, parts of Jalan Mersing and the villages around suffered the indignity of the dunking. The Chung Hwa primary school, also on low-lying grounds was likewise not spared and the water took quite a while to recede.
We had no clock tower but time was kept by someone at the Kluang police station thrashing mightily on a kind of round metal gong hung up above the corridor each hour. The resultant reverberation served a considerable coverage. Rubbish collection and removal fell onto the Town Board, conveniently called "tong bod" by us Malays probably owing to the role the "tong" (bin) had upon the overall setup of the service provided.
Still on services, I often wondered why someone would walk the drains carrying a kind of back-pack while squirting some liquid downwards. It was only in school that I learned about malaria eradication. Medical teams visited the school regularly but we children tried to shy away from any treatment whatever especially the bitter cough syrup and the stinging lotion for cuts and abrasions. Then of course there was the fearsome needle.
A place would be nothing without her memorable characters. One who caught my fancy was the smartly attired but non-smiling railway station master. I was so impressed by the power he seemingly wielded that I professed to be assuming his powerful position some day; stiffly starched uniform, upright collar, scowling face and all.
His equal was a cashier at the central Electricity Board office a mere five minute walk from our house. There sat a very glum and non-speaking zombie for whom I cooked up all sorts of excuses to avoid our inevitable monthly encounter.
Walking the dos is fine, but along Jalan Ibrahim, I occasionally ran into an old man towing a swine on a leash. I presumed the over-sized squealer was condemned for the slaughterhouse somewhere, not that the poor pink snorter was any wiser. H1N1? Have no fear. It was unheard of yet, for man and beast moved jauntily without any care.
On the lighter side, there was the ancient trishaw rider to whom life aboard his rickety three-wheeler drive was an ever uphill task. Kluang and more than her fair share of undulating terrain, that's why. Try the Jalan Hospital route or climb the killer government office incline and you'll get the idea. Any request this way incurred extra charges naturally. On one occasion, to rub salt to the wound, a passenger was asked to disembark for the difficult part. No choice presumably for his well-endowed better half chose to stay put. The best part was his willingness to volunteer with the heave-ho of the uncooperative antiquity. Talk about chivalry today!
10 cents a trip
The nearest block of shophouses was merely a five to fifteen minute walk away from our quarters. For the womenfolk, running out of sundries would mean a much time-consuming hassle, what with dressing-up, a smack or two of the age-old AAA (Amoy) face powder and the never-ending search for that blessed but often misplaced rattan shopping basket and slippers and a woefully wet child to be attended to, before one could even step out of the house.
So they did the most obvious and convenient, for a minimal tip - engage the services of the young children of their neighbours, me included. Jalan Mengkibol then was a paradise in terms of traffic volume and our parents harboured no fear of us making a quick dash from the quarters in Jalan Ibrahim to the shops nearby.
We the service providers range in ages from eight to our early teens. The 10 cent "service charge" for the errand run was always gratefully accepted by us the all-boy ensemble. It was enough to get us an apple (a luxury to me), ice ball, or a toy pistol. The same amount could get us a fistful of sweets, oh all right, candies, since you love the yankees so much!
I seemed to be the most sought after errand boy simply because I would happily take even a five-cent trip and also according to my elder sister, because I provided faster service even if I hadn't the luxury of that paddle-powered two-wheeler.
I took it as a duty entrusted upon me, so the quick trip meant just that. It was straight to the designated shop, transaction over and back I rushed. The distance was covered in a much shorter time because for me it was a combination of playful skips and jumps at times. A brisk walk was the norm if I was supplied a longer list.
Mission accomplished, I would just as happily rush home, pocket lined with sweets or simply on a fuller stomach.
So they did the most obvious and convenient, for a minimal tip - engage the services of the young children of their neighbours, me included. Jalan Mengkibol then was a paradise in terms of traffic volume and our parents harboured no fear of us making a quick dash from the quarters in Jalan Ibrahim to the shops nearby.
We the service providers range in ages from eight to our early teens. The 10 cent "service charge" for the errand run was always gratefully accepted by us the all-boy ensemble. It was enough to get us an apple (a luxury to me), ice ball, or a toy pistol. The same amount could get us a fistful of sweets, oh all right, candies, since you love the yankees so much!
I seemed to be the most sought after errand boy simply because I would happily take even a five-cent trip and also according to my elder sister, because I provided faster service even if I hadn't the luxury of that paddle-powered two-wheeler.
I took it as a duty entrusted upon me, so the quick trip meant just that. It was straight to the designated shop, transaction over and back I rushed. The distance was covered in a much shorter time because for me it was a combination of playful skips and jumps at times. A brisk walk was the norm if I was supplied a longer list.
Mission accomplished, I would just as happily rush home, pocket lined with sweets or simply on a fuller stomach.
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