My School Days (Part Three)

(This third and last part of "I Still Remember"that appeared on SMK Tengku Mahkota's school magazine saw me putting pen to paper about a small problem that soon developed into a big crisis.  However, every cloud has a silver lining.  What did I do to solve the problem.  Just enjoy reading ...)
    

One night, my father asked me to get ready.  “I’m going to send you to Mak Ngah Besah’s house.  Her daughter, Ros will help you in Arithmetics.”  I quickly got ready an exercise book and some writing materials.  Out we went, in the dark cool night, to Mak Ngah Besah’s house not far from our home.

Kak Ros was a nice lady. She tried hard to make me understand the lessons but in vain.  The strange new environment, my shyness and my inhibitance prevented me from gaining any new knowledge during the first part of my tuition periods.  However, I did not make a lot of progress.  I still couldn’t remember how to solve problem questions, although I had started to get interested in shapes.  Although I read aloud repeatedly every day, it was still very hard to remember the multiplication tables.

Kak Ros (left) who gave me personal tuition on Arithmetics.  This picture was taken this year (2011)

Those were the problems I faced in my attempt to learn Arithmetics and Mathematics while in primary school.  When I enrolled in High School Muar for my secondary education, my problems did not seem to disappear.  I still failed my monthly tests and exams.  To make the matter worse, another subject accompanied Mathematics.  Now, there were two very difficult subjects to learn; Mathematics and Science.  The problem continued until I was in form three.

Mr Chiam Tah Meng, my Form Three Mathematics teacher at High School Muar

Every day and night, my parents prayed to God so that I could be relieved of my problems.  Probably their prayers were answered because suddenly I had a nice surprise.  All of a sudden, I passed the February test in form three.  This reward made me feel very happy.  I valued the change so much that the answer sheet found its way into my wallet and stayed there for a few months until it became so soiled. The transformation boosted up my courage.  I needed to be well versed in the subject that I had begun to like.  Looking around for help, somebody told me that there was a tuition class held at Lorong Serkam once a week.  My spirit rose, I registered for the class to get some guidance.  The lessons seemed to be easy this time.  The tutor’s explanation was crystal clear.  I could understand almost every topic taught.  Bursting with enthusiasm, I tried to do every exercise I could find based on the topics that I had learnt.  At school, when Mr Chiam Tah Meng gave me some exercises, I did every one enthusiastically.  I made a correction to every mistake.  In addition,  I did a lot of other sums that he did not give in the text book, then compared my answers with those in the answer key at the back page.  I did the sums again and again whenever I got wrong answers, until I arrived at the correct answer. 

After that, mathematics seemed to become easier and easier until I was rewarded with credit five for it in the Lower Certificate of Education.   (Lower Certificate of Education was the exam that students in form three had to pass so that they could continue their studies in form four.  If not, they had to ‘retain’, that is they had to study in form three again and sit for the same examination at the end of that year.  Worse came  to worst, they had to enroll in a private school and study in form three again before sitting for LCE at the end of the year.)

            Looking back, now I realize that not all things that looked difficult initially, is indeed difficult.  It may seem so at first, but as we grow more matured, our intelligence do help us a lot.  As a friend says, “Things are difficult to you if you do not know them, but once you do, everything is easy.”

My School Days (Part Two)

(The article below is the second excerpt of "I Still Remember"that appeared on SMK Tengku Mahkota's school magazine.  I regret that Part Two appears first before Part One.  Enjoy reading maa...)

     Part One of 'My School Days' was my first experience attending school in Standard One.  In the second part of the article, I related about the first problem that I encountered as a Standard One fearful school boy at Primary Ismail School Two. Muar in the sixties.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         

            That was the first day of school.  During that time, there were no nurseries or ‘Tadika’ or ‘Taski’ or Tadika Perpaduan’; therefore, we only started learning alphabets and numbers in Standard One.  One interesting thing was, we learned everything in English except Bahasa Malaysia (at that time it was called ‘National Language’), totally contrast to what my brother and sister did at the Malay school.  We learnt to say “Please teacher may I go out?” and so on.

            At school, everything went well until I started to get a wrong answer for my arithmetic sums.  Disappointed to see a cross made by the teacher on the page, I slashed the wrong answer with my pencil, again and again, making a black patch on it. 

After that, things seemed to go wrong with mathematics.  I found it difficult to understand the lessons taught.  The teacher seemed to go very fast with their lessons but timidity got the better of me; I did not have the courage to ask any questions.  I squirmed every time the Math teacher came.  I hated every homework given by him, felt very relieved whenever he was absent, hoped he would be absent again the next day.  And then, when I saw that he came the next day, I felt so disappointed I could have killed myself.

There was one day when Mr Gurnam Singh, the Headmaster himself came to our class.  He instructed all of us to stand up and recite the multiplication table.  The whole class recited in chorus.  Slowly he moved towards me and stopped in front of me.  Being a small boy, my eye level was only at his huge stomach.  I dared not look up as I was nervous.  My palms started to be clammy, my limbs were numb, cool sweat trickled down my spine.  Why he didn’t he walk off?  Why did he stop in front of me?  And stood right there?  A string of questions raced in my mind.  I had to relieve myself of my sufferings.  I had to see why he stood in front of me for ages.  Slowly I looked up at his face.  Wah! Blood drained away from my face.  My heart beat very fastHe was looking down at me!  Frowning!  He looked serious!  He was looking at my lips, to see whether I was reciting the correct table.  I stammered.  I couldn’t remember whether I was reciting the correct table or not.  My mind was blank.  Then he walked away.  I heaved a sigh of relief.  My God!  What an experience.

Could this be the Mr Gurnam Singh that I was telling the readers?  I'm not sure (he looks so young) as I found this picture on the internet.  Besides, it seems to me that all singhs look alike.  Sorry about that.  To Mr Singh, if you happen to read this article, I have always respected you and still do.

The problem changed from bad to worse.  As I could not pass mathematics in every every test, I began to hate the subject.  I envied my friends who always got good grades in every test and exam.  The marks in their report cards were always written in blue while those in mine were stained with red. 

I remember a friend of mine who faced the same problem.  He was so eager to present to his parents a report card where the marks were written beautifully in blue.  On one test, he happened to be absent for Math.  He thought that he would pass all the test without the subject that he hated.  Lo and behold! Suddenly he failed another subject.  How frustrated he was!  To make himself happy, he rubbed off the red mark and changed it with a blue one.  His father didn't find out the fraud, but his class teacher did.  The rest is history.

     How can I make myself pass my tests? I began to lose hope, did not know what to do.  I left it to destiny to decide.  

My School Days (Part One)

(The article below is an excerpt of an article which I wrote that appeared on SPEKTRUM 24th Edition, 2010, a magazine produced by SMK Tengku Mahkota Muar.  Immediately I made up my mind to post this piece of writing on this blog since it would save me some effort in updating it.  The item, bearing the same title "I Still Remember" made up of almost 1800 words.  Although it only filled one page of the magazine, I think it is too long to be posted on this site which, for that reason, I decided to break it up into a few parts.  The one below is, of course, Part One.  Enjoy reading.)

            In the sixties, some schools used the Malay language as a medium of instruction while others used English.  National schools such as ‘Sekolah Kebangsaan Bakri Batu 5’ used the Malay language; which means at that school, every subject was taught in Malay except the English language.  On the other hand, at ‘Sekolah Ismail Dua’, every subject was taught in English apart from Bahasa Malaysia and ‘Agama Islam’.

This is not Sek. Keb. Bakri Batu 5 in the 60s, but there was a resemblance

Being the third child in the family, I had an elder sister and an elder brother, both of them studied at a ‘Sekolah Kebangsaan’ (Dad referred to it as a ‘Malay school’) half a mile away from our home.  They walked to and from school each day with a lot of their friends.  Since they learnt everything except the English Language in Malay, I used to hear my elder brother reading loudly at home.  I thought to myself, when the time came for me to go to school, I would also be like him, reciting printed words at the top of my voice.

I still remember that day when I was lying in my father’s lap (I was quite small at that time) one late afternoon.  My mother was at the kitchen preparing dinner for the family.  Though still very young, I was already able to talk and understand some dialogues around me.

            “Do you want to go to a Malay school or an English school?” Dad asked me.

            I didn’t understand what he meant.  Since English school was mentioned last, straight away I answered “English!” without thinking.

            Consequently, Dad registered me at an English school when I was seven.  He took me to Ismail School Two in town (now Sekolah Ismail Dua) on his Vespa scooter and left me at the mercy of the teachers.  The class teacher (after that I learnt her name was Mrs. Chong) brought me to a classroom, “Standard One Suloh” where about forty boys were sitting behind oversized desks.  Mrs. Chong made me sit on a chair.  I looked around the classroom and saw two of my cousins also sitting in the same room.  We waved at each other, relieved to find someone whom we knew.

            Then there was a loud rang.  It was recess time.  Mrs. Chong made us line up two by two.  “Small boys in front, big boys behind”, she barked.  When she was satisfied with the line, we marched towards the canteen. 

On the way to the canteen, we passed two blocks of classroom buildings.  When we got near the canteen, sweet aroma met my nostrils, making me hungry.  Probably other boys in the group also felt the same.  I saw a lot of big boys; Malays, Chinese and Indians busy buying food and drinks.  Looking around, I saw piles and piles of food on a long and high counter, as high as my chin.  There were fried bananas, curry puffs, “kuih bom”, fried noodles, rambutans and a lot of other foods which I could not remember.   Apart from fried noodles, the kuihs cost five cents per piece.  In case some of the readers do not understand “kuih bom”, it was a kind of cake made from banana mixed with flour and shaped into a small ball, as big as a boy’s fist.  Nowadays, this type of ‘kuih’ is only as big as a child’s fist; more or less thirty sen per piece. 

A school premis in the 60s. 

I approached a big pan on which a mountain of fried bananas were placed and took one.  Actually, one piece of banana was sliced at one end.  Then another sliced banana was attached to it, dipped in flour mixture and fried.  The price was five cents.  Dad gave me ten cents that morning.  After eating the warm, soft and sweet fried banana, I drank a plastic glass of cool sweet drink, also costing me five cents.

            When it was time to go home, once more we were made to line up two by two.  Outside the school gate, I saw Dad waiting for me on his scooter.  Ahh, soon I would be home!   

Becoming A Form Six Student (Part Two)

The Private School where I registered as a form six student offered two medium of form six; Malay and English classes.  I decided to enroll in the English class as I had started with English since Standard One.

This dilapidated building could be once the private school where I enrolled as a student.

     Everything went well at first.  I enjoyed the lessons given by young and energetic teachers.  But it didn't shine until evening.  One day, a teacher was absent.  Then another one.  Then, another.  Later, we found out that these younger teachers were university students teaching part-time during their semester break.  They quit from teaching as they had to go back to campus for a new semester, deserting us like stray chickens.  We had to wait for another bunch of teachers to lead us the way to university.

This is another one.

     Time dragged slowly.  We waited for weeks, then months, for new teachers to come, but in vain.  We were left far behind in our lessons by the Malay class.  Eventually, the Headmaster came to see us.  We knew he had come to offer us a solution to our problem.

     "Students, the school is not able to find teachers for the English class.  It's already September.  You are free to make a choice.  If you join the Malay class, we won't charge you any fee until the end of the year.  If you want to choose another school, we can't stop you."  After that statement, the Headmaster left.  We were stunned and quiet for a few seconds, sad and at the same time, angry.

     Reluctantly, I entered the Malay class, worried as I, with a few other students from the English class was left far behind in our lessons, apart from having to familiarise ourselves with malay terms that we would find in our lessons.  Life had to continue.  As a student, I couldn't concentrate on the lessons.  I didn't quite remember the results of my End-of-year examination.  I wanted to get out of that place and my prayers were answered.  Hence, the end-of-year school holidays was the last school holiday for me at the school as I did not come back the next year.  How would my Sijil Tinggi Persekolahan examination be?

Kenang Daku Dalam Doamu (Forget Me Not)

    (I met this draft when I was browsing the dashboard.  I feel it's a waste of effort if I did not post it.  So, here it is.  I did not edit it again.  May be I will, some day)

     When I was small, I could not listen to the radio as my Dad's only antique radio was out of order.  However, that did not prevent me from listening to songs as most of my neighbours possessed a radio each.  Since at that time most of them owned transistor radios which when the volume was raised to maximum was very loud.  The sound reached my eager ears.  Through their radios I learned to listen to songs.  But I was brought up in the country where all of the villagers were malays, therefore the radio which was called 'Radio Malaysia' only broadcast malay songs.  One of the songs that I used to hear was 'Kenang Daku Dalam Doamu' (Forget Me Not).  In this song, the singer pleads to his beloved who has gone for good, not to forget him.  I didn't pay much attention to this song when it was aired on radio, but one day, after hearing it being sung by a cousin, it brought back sweet memories to me.  It reminded me of the good time when I was a kid.

               *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *      
    
      Dad's house where I was staying was situated along Jalan Bakri, the road leading to Johor Bahru, the capital of Johore State in Malaysia.  On its left was Mak Andak's (my auntie) house, on the left Mak Usu's (also my auntie; my mother's younger sister) house.   Behind Dad's house was Mak Itam's (another auntie; my mother's elder sister) house.  Since Mak Itam's house was about 150 metres behind Dad's, there was ample space for us small boys and girls to do our activities.  Another place that sometimes we gathered to do our activities was on the left of Mak Itam's house.
    

Becoming a Form Six Student (Part One)

The Pre University students had just ended their 'Academic Village for 2011'.  They commended the initiative by saying that the activities strengthened their skills towards facing their STPM examination which is only more or less a month away.  Before this, Form Six students had their gathering outside the school premise but due to tight budget, the venue had changed.  Whatever happened, the objectives of immersing them with activities to keep the momentum seemed to achieve its target.
     However, I did not intend to write about what the students had undergone in the 'village'.  I only want to share with the readers my experience being a pre university students after the MCE (Malaysia Certificate of Education) results came out.
     In the seventies, form three students who failed in their LCE (Lower Certificate of Education) was not permitted to continue their studies in form four.  Similarly, form five students who failed MCE had to take the examination again if they wanted to go to form six.  Those who got grade three couldn't register for form six in a government school, but they can study in a private school if they wanted to sit for HSC (High School Certificate).

This is a copy of my Certificate.  The results are not bad, it was not good to secure me a place in the government school.

     Due  to these criteria, I couldn't get a place in the government school to enroll in a form six class but I did not have to sit for MCE again and I didn't want to.  So, the best choice for me was to register in one of the only two private schools in Muar that offered form six courses.
     Physically, the school of my choice was quite a small one.  Offering forms three and five Malay and English classes in not so big two wooden buildings that were connected with a wooden a bridge caused the premis to be packed.  All classes could not fit into the two buildings at one time.  Therefore, we the form students had to have our classes in the afternoon.
     Studying in the afternoon was not a big problem for me as I had experienced doing so when I was at primary school and in forms one and two.  Furthermore, I accepted that as a blessing as I could start earning my own income since my father had allowed me to start tapping rubber at his one-acre rubber plantation.
One more interesting thing was, my father allowed me to ride his scooter to school, something that was very rare that occurred in our village.  This was so because at that time, out of  fifty families, only four villagers owned scooters (my father was one of them), none owned any car and the rest only owned bicycles.  A large number of primary school pupils walked to the primary school nearest their kampungs 'Sekolah Kebangsaan Bakri Batu 5 Muar'.  A lot of them started riding their bicycles to school only when they enrolled in secondary schools in the town five miles away.  Due to this reason, I felt a sense of satisfaction when I saw my friends wave to me when we met on the road; I on my way to school and they cycling home from school.
     But something happened while I was at form that made me decide to drop out of school.

This picture is my view of the once private school where I studied.  Now, the school was there no more.  The place had been turned into a futsal court

Prayer Room

      As a muslim, one of our duties is to say our prayers five times a day regardless of the situation we are in, as long as we are still conscious.  May be we feel unhealthy, we still have to say our prayers.  We are unable to get up from bed, we still have to say our prayers.  If you cannot stand while performing them, sit up, or sit down.  If you cannot sit, lie down.

     In the Malay version of my posting dated Monday, June 13, 2011,  I wrote about my surprise at finding that the prayer room that I had used a few minutes before was not the type of prayer rooms found in my home country.  In Malaysia, we call these prayer rooms 'surau' (the malay word which means a place where muslims perform their prayers five times a day.)  When I, or any other muslim traveller wants to perform our prayer at a RnR (an accronym for 'Rehat Dan Rawat' or stop to rest) on our journey along the PLUS highway, there is always a surau for us.  Non-muslim travellers do not go there or, if they happen to go, they do not perform their prayers in this place.  After seeing the prayer room in Changi Airport, I have opened my eyes wider.  Now, a prayer room in Malaysia may not serve the same function as a prayer room in Singapore, or probably many other countries around the globe.

Part of a praying room situated at the north-south highway

     Before writing about my experience at Changi Airport, let me explain about the 'prayers' I used to see Chinese people performing when I was small.  In the good old days, I used to see Chinese people waving a handful of burning sticks (now I know they joss sticks) in front of their shophouses while citing or mumbling something that I couldn't hear.  Soon they finished their prayers and put those still lit sticks (they produced a kind of typical smell, mind you) into a piece of container. 

Joss sticks

      Now let us go back to my experience at Changi Airport.  After performing my Maghrib and Isya' prayers in the praying room at the airport, I waited for my son who was still doing his duties.  While waiting, I looked around and soon my eyes fell on the noticeboard by the door of the room.  On it was written "Multi-Religion Prayer Room  1.  Passenger of any religion may use this room to pray or meditate..."  What I read surprised me because I realised that a prayer room in Singapore means a room where travellers of all faiths can use it either to perform their prayers or meditate.  I don't mind sharing the room with other travellers if they, who happen to be non-muslims meditate while I was performing my prayers.  However, I don't know whether I would feel comfortable when my Chinese co travellers acted out their prayers like what I have described above since the incense coming out from the stick would make my nostrils suffer and as a result, I would not be able to concentrate on what I was doing.

The notice board

   
     In addition, a place where muslims pray must not only be clean, it also should be cleaned according to the procedures required  in Islam.  This requirement is too abstract to be described, therefore I choose not to illustrate it in this limited space.  What I would like to suggest to fellow muslims is, probably we can bring along our praying mat where ever we go, and pray on that mat when the need arises.  Is that okay, dear brothers and sister?  Tarra for now.  Salam alaik!

A Mother's Love

     (Before writing this article, I would like to thank Tn. Hj Hassny for commenting on my posting.  I didn't realize that when I posted the malay version, it was already 'Mother's Day'.  Therefore, Hj Hassny's pledge is very relevant.  While our parents are still by our side, always face them, look at them (God Al Mighty has promised us, and He said is always true).  Talk to them nicely.  Treat them nicely, shower them with tender care and love, just like we treat our children.

     Just like looking at the quran and Ka'aba, we Insya Allah get 'pahala' just for looking at our parents.  What if we 'look after' our parents with gentle care and love?  Insya Allah we get a lot more if we are sincere.  Some people say, 'if we look at our parents' picture, we still get 'pahala'.  Wallahu a'lam bissawaab.

     Recently I was listening to radio Malaysia 'Klasik Nasional' while driving back to Muar from Segamat.  the Disk Jockey at that time was Hamami Yusof.  A few listeners called the radio and recited some poems praising their mothers.  (It was 'Mother's Day', remember?).  Some of the callers were emotional; in fact, a few were sobbing when talking about their mothers. But what attracted my attention most was a call from a mother.

     This unfortunate mother was very sad as her daughter (whose name she claimed as Norafikah bte Omar but called her by her nickname 'Adik') had left home without any news.  She only said

     "I'm going away, don't look for me.  I won't come back, although if you d*e!"

     The caller promised that if her 'Adik' came back,

     "I would embrace her tight, passionately.  I miss her and long to look at her face before I closed my eyes for good"

     Dear 'Adik', return to you momma before it's too late.  Forgive and forget.  Bury the spade.  Don't regret.!

Nasi Ambeng

     'Nasi Ambeng' and chicken rice, two delicacies which are quite popular among Malaysians, were brought into the lives of Malaysians by the Javanese and chinese respectively.  Nasi ambeng [^m beng] consists of white rice prepared with chicken currv or chicken cooked in soy sauce, vegetables, fried noodles, some salted fish, fried coconut flesh, and so on.  Everything is put on a round tray which has been laid with fresh banana leaves, and served to guests, four people to a  tray.  Although only four people are assigned to one tray of nasi ambeng, it can be eaten by more than that number.  Therefore, guests are given plastic bags in which they can put the 'berkat' (food from the pan that they have secured in plastic bags) to bring home for their wives and children.  During the good old days, plastic bags were not issued as they were not produced yet.  Instead, hosts prepared old newspaper and banana leaves so that guests could use them to wrap and pack the food.  After that, they used strings made from banana bark to tie the pack since plastic string were not invented.

Nasi ambeng or Ambeng Rice.  Notice the banana leaf?

    Usually guests are invited to feast at dinner time.  In those difficult olden days, most of the villagers in my area only had a bicycle each with which they used as a form of transportation. Therefore, they put the packed 'nasi ambeng' on the handlebars of their bicycles, or sometimes tied it on the carriers of their bicycles using a bicycle tube. 

'Berkat' or food that guests brought home on the handlebar

Their houses were quite far apart from each other, their roads were bicycle paths under rubber trees.  Going back to their homes, they cycled their bicycles on the gloomy paths under the rubber trees, sometimes using their bicycle lamps to show the way, but most of the time, using their instincts.  Sometimes they ran over rubber tree roots that protruded on the ground, causing them to fall and the 'berkat' scattered on the ground.  Pity to their children and wives!

Riding a bicycle under rubber trees.  This picture was taken in the day.  How would the situation be if it was taken at night?

Condolences

Thursday, October 14, 2010

Condolences

    I am saddened to read about the accident that happened on the PLUS highway near the Simpang Ampat Tol Plaza.  Long ago, vehicle accidents did not take so many lives.  Victims were 'slightly injured', 'badly injured', some 'died on the spot' (I did not make any inquiries, only based on my childhood experiences as a 'kampung boy').  Now it seems more people died in road accidents.  

     I remember when I was small, an uncle of mine commented about a car which appeared to be moving very fast.  "At least he is doing 60 (60 miles per hour)," he said.  It dawned on me that cars were not moving as fast then as they are nowadays.  Of course at that time there were no highways in Malaysia.  We only saw highways on TV; CHiPs (California Highway Patrol) starred by Larry Wilcox and Erik Estrada in the 70s.  Our winding roads and the heavy traffic prevented drivers from speeding.  On lonely roads, I did not know.  At least I thought so.   The speed limit was 30mph (30 miles per hour) in urban areas.

     Nowadays, the speed on the PLUS highway is 110 kph.  Based on my experience, if I were to heed the speed limit while travelling along the highway, I would only be able to overtake heavy lorries, small motor cycles and cars moving slower than 110.  However, a lot of cars would be overtaking my vehicle, sometimes a string of them.  It shows that breaking the speed limit is nothing to be worried about to most drivers, regardless of their ages and gender.  In fact, driving a Honda Civic at the speed of 140 kph along the highway doesn't make me feel worried about the circumstances that I would have to face if anything bad happens.  I feel so safe behind the wheel, I don't hear the sound of the wind.  The car is so stable.  No wonder if an accident happens, the impact is so great.

     Therefore, I think drivers should abide by the traffic rules.  Do not overspeed.  Care about other people's lives if you don't give a damn about yours.

(Err... what do you say Laili?  Thank you for monitoring my blog.  May Allah protect you and give you a leeway in performing your Haj.  Ameen)

Posted by Borhan Mohamed Dali at 6:50 PM 0 comments Links to this post

Water Closet ,, Toilet, Outhouse

Water Closet ,, Toilet, Outhouse

     See the picture above?  The caption underneath reads:
"Can you guess what are they doing?
If not I can explain, though the thing is really shocking. The story is that this Russian girl has dropped her cell phone into… into this hole that they use in villages as a toilet (it has no drain or sewer system - just a hole and all the people drop there), probably you have seen such system at least once in your life. So she dropped her cell phone occasionally and it got right inside this thing. She got a choice - to forget it or to try to get it from there. She has chosen the latter and…."

     I was browsing the net to find a picture of an old village toilet in Malaysia because I wanted to relate one with my experience as a small boy, when I underwent my practicum, and when I started my service as a government servant.  However, the few pictures that I found (one of them is what you see above) caught my eyes.


     That reminds me of the 'toilet' I used when I started my service as a government servant in a remote area in Pahang, Malaysia.  There was no electricity and pipe water.  So what I saw and used was acceptable.  To make a toilet, or an outhouse, a hole around three or four feet deep was dug at the back of a house.  A stone slab with a hole in the middle was then put on top.  After that, a wooden cubicle was built.  He presto! The 'toilet' was ready.  While staying at one of the houses for three years before being transferred to another place, that was the kind of toilet that I used.   Usually, I used that thing before going to the river. (I bathed in the river, mind you).  I covered my head with a towel, leaving only my eyes to see where I was going.  Entered, 'dropped', quickly walked out, straight to the river.  Fortunately, I did not share the outhouse with anybody else, so, although it was not so 'fragrant', it was only mine.

     Another 'toilet' that I used when doing my practicum was a little bit different.  The toilet was situated at the corner of the house compound.  More or less the same as the one that I had described in my August posting 'Sakit Perut Waktu Tarawih (1)'.  The only difference was a pail or bucket was placed under the hole so that that thing could drop there.  Every morning, a old man would take the bucket, scrapped the content into his big bucket, and put it back under toilet.  I would wait until I could not stand the urge anymore.  Then, covering my nose with a towel and taking a deep breath, I quickly rushed in, dropped the 'bomb', and rushed out to wash.  Hah... (relieved)

      Nowadays, I doubt it if the same scenario can still be seen in Malaysia.  In remote areas, perhaps?

When It Rains

      That Friday it rained at all places.  On Saturday it still rained.  Today (Sunday January 30, 2011) it still drizzled.  The village headman was worried.  If rain continued, surely he would have to send the flood victims to a refugee camp.  He was away but had directed his secretary to make his rounds at intervals and update him with the latest development.  It was reported that the water level at Parit Mohamad had risen, but was still below the danger zone.

Black sky.  Sometimes it rains, at other times, it doesn't.

Rain, rain, go away...

      My daughter, Husna, prepared lunch which consisted of lobster cooked in coconut milk, fried cabbage and fried fish.  The tummy is always hungry when it rains.  Therefore, having lunch when it rains is always interesting and enjoyable. 

Lobster cooked with coconut milk...

Fried cabbage...

   

    When it rained, Dad stayed home as he could not go to tap rubber.  Mum and sister prepared lunch early.  Once, they prepared white rice with 'meranti leaves'  (a kind of vegetable that was abundant in the countryside) cooked with coconut milk topped up with fried soy cakes dipped in hot ketchup.  They set the food near the doorway facing the neighbour's house.  Then the whole family sat down to a delicious lunch in the cold rainy afternoon.  That was the good old days.
   

  

Tauhu goreng sambal kicap

Sometimes it rained suddenly while we, the children were enjoying our games in our village, we scampered back to the safety of our own homes.  Sometimes, the rain got too heavy which soon resulted in the whole village soaked in flood which was not too deep.  Only around the ankles.  When that happened, we would go out and waded in the water, enjoying the feeling of the current around our toes and heels.

    

Enjoying ourselves in the flood

You also want  to enjoy the flood?

     Sometimes we couldn't manage to reach home before the rain, therefore we sheltered under somebody's house (wooden houses were built on stilts; quite high which enabled us to stand under them for shelter against the rain.  To kill the boredom, we would look for lizards in between the wooden stilts.  Sometimes we found them and killed them.  Sometimes we would find centipedes which these we too, would kill.

     Sometimes, we found a lot of interesting things under the houses.  We found hairpins, combs, belts, coins.       

    

Coin

     Those were the good old days.  Now, it has been a long time since we were caught in flood.

Wrong Entry (Part Two)

In "Wrong Entry (Part One)" I wrote about my carelessness in entering a girl's toilet.  Was I found out? By whom?  Was it by a lecturer?  Was I excused for my mistake?  The following paragraphs will tell all.

      Just then I heard the sound of the stole of shoes on the tiled floors in a steady rhythm that seemed to me that the owner knew of my presence and was determined to find me out bring and bring me to the authority for violating human rights; a man in a ladies' toilet!  I felt my heart beat fast.  If a lady lecturer fond me in side a girl's toilet, that would be the end of me.  I pricked my ears to listen.  The sound of the footsteps moved towards the far end of the toilet, paused for a moment, then retreated back towards the door, passing the cubicle I was in.  I could see a pair of shoes for a moment, as it passed.  A pair of black leather high-heeled shoes.  Madam Sarimah?  No, she didn't wear that kind.  I thought I had seen them recently.  Whose were they?  Aah... it just escaped my confused memory.  They say if you want to remember something, it just slipped out.

     I held my breath as my heart beat furiously.  It seemed a whole day when I heard the sound of the footsteps moving out of the restroom and diead away.  I heaved a sigh of relief.  Quickly I washed myself and stepped out of the cubicle.

     "Hah...!" a stiffled cry behind me made me jump out of my skin.  I turned to face the source of the sound.  There was Quratul Aini, my coursemate who had come out from behind the door she was hiding, grinning  while her right fist was clenced, the index finger pointing at me.

     "What were you doing in a gir's toilet?" she asked, still wearing the mischievous grin.  So, it was not the lecturer.

     "I didn't realize it.  It was emergency," I answered, begging for sympathy.

     "I saw you entering as I was coming out from the lecture room just now,.  Lucky for you nobody else saw you," she added laughingly as she re entered the restroom.

     *        *        *        *        *        *

     At another time, while at a girls' school in the town of Batu Pahat, I felt the need to ease myself.  I asked my friends around about the toilet but they were not sure.

     "May be over that side, near the office," one of them suggested, pointing to a block of building.

     Hurriedly, I went and sure, it was a toilet but I couldn't see any sign to show that it was a male toilet.  I couldn't wait.  Hastily I stepped in, a pungent smell sprang into my nostrils.  I looked into the first compartment.  There was neither a small water container nor a rubber hose.  The second compartment.  Disgusting.  Dirty, eee...  Black substance in the toilet bowl.  (How could anybody put his head in the toilet bowl?  But that was another story).  The third boot.  Ah, quite clean, there was a rubber hose attached to the tap.  I entered quickly and closed the door.  The latch had broken.  Didn't matter.  I would not take long.  Besides, I could easily hold it if somebody tried the door.  I had no time to find another one.

     While hard at it, I heard the sound of somebody entering the lavatory.  The person mumbled something in a husky voice, but I knew that it was a female's.  I tried to picture the person; burly, quite dark, having an oblong face, wearing short hair like a boy's, rough...  Now only I recalled.  It was a girls' school.  This toilet was a girl's toilet!

     I could hear the lass moving to the first toilet, the sound of the door being thrust open.  Then, the second toilet, the door pushed open hard.

     "Eee... disgusting..." she scolded with a loud voice.

     Surely the next would be the one I was in.  I held the door shut with all my might using one hand while squatting above the toilet bowl so that the girl would not be able to open it from outside, all the time praying secretly.

     Luck was on my side.  That teenager gave a hard push on the door.  It opened a little but closed again quickly under the weight of my strong arm.  She didn't give a second try, but proceeded to the next boot, then went out.  After that, everything was silent again.

     Quickly I cleaned myself and sneaked out carefully so that nobody would nobody could see me coming out of that horrorful room, yet had made me comfortable again.

Wrong Entry (Part One)

Monday, January 24, 2011

Wrong Entry (Part One)

     Sometimes we happened to do things that we were not supposed to do without realizing it until it was too late to back off .  Consequently, we had to face the circumstances, sometimes they favoured us, at other times we had to face the music.  Then, we would smile whenever we reminisced it.  This was what I faced when I was  pursuing my first degree.

     At the university where I studied, the faculty block was a four-storey building with two restrooms built in at every level, one for the ladies and the other for the gentlemen.  These rooms were situated at the far north and the far south of the building.  The restrooms for the gentlemen and ladies at every level were situated alternately.  If the ladies' was placed at the north on level one, the gents' would be at the south.  Then, at level 2, the gents' would be at the north, and the ladies' would be at the south.  And so on.  We, the students, used to wander from one room to another for our lectures, which made the situation a more complicated.  Therefore, the nearest restroom to our lecture room would be the ladies' at one time and the gents' at another.  For that reason, a man who wanted to use the restroom needed to make sure he did not enter the girl's toilet and vice versa.

     There was once when, while in the middle of a lecture, I suddenly felt the urge to ease myself.  I thought I could hold it until lecture was over, so I stayed put, but the inclination to pee became greater and greater.   I puffed and grunted, cold sweat trickled down my spine, my palms became clammy.  In the end, I could stand it no more.  Eventually I got up and walked briskly to the lavatory nearby, meeting no one along the way.

     I entered the clean lavatory.  In front of me were two rows of toilets, obviously had recently been cleaned.  I got into the first one and started to ease myself.  While hard at it, my eyes devoured the graffiti that filled the door.  It was clear that the students not only satisfied their physical needs in the toilet, but also their sexual emotions on the toilet doors and walls with obscene graphics and scribblings.  I read the dialogues one after another enjoying the message that came out of it.  

     Suddenly, I sensed that something was wrong.  The dialogues were written by females, I was very sure.  I began to wonder whether I had entered the wrong lavatory.  If I had, there would be a big row if I was found out.  Every body would poke their fingers at me.  My lecturers; Madam Sarimah Yusof, Madam Rosila Manap, Dr. (cute) Azizah our course moderator, Dr. Najib.  Tch, tch, tch...

     Just then I heard the sound of the sole of shoes on the tiled floors in a steady rhythm that seemed  to me that the owner knew of my presence and was determined to find me out bring me to the authority for violating human rights; a man in a ladies' toilet!  I felt my heart beat fast.  Oh God, what should I do?

Posted by Borhan Mohamed Dali at 1:01 AM

Beano And Dandy

Saturday, January 15, 2011

Beano & Dandy

     Hi!  One of the reading materials that interest teenagers like me is comic books.  However, as a kampung boy, I got to know about it quite late, that was in Form One, when I studied at High School Muar.  It was because I started to see them at bookshops when I rode my bicycle through the town center on my way to school. 

     Some of us readers in Malaysia who were educated in schools using Malay as their medium of instruction may not get any idea what Beano & Dandy is.  However, those who were from English schools may knnow that they are comic newspapers.  Those were some of the comic newspapers that I cam a across when I started to cycle my way to and from school every day since from one at High School Muar.

     Flashback - I, with some of my friends used to cycle n the mornings to a religion school in Muar, "Sekolah Agama Dumpar Rendah Pagi".  After school at 11.00 a.m., we changed into our secondary school uniforms and shared our food which we had brought from home at lunch.  While waiting for the afternoon session at High School Muar to start, I would go to an Indian book store in town to look at the comincs that were hung at the shop.  They were 'Beano', 'Dandy', 'Beezer', Biffo', 'Topper', 'Mad' and a lot of other comics that I cannot remember.  

     I thought I could flip through the pages of those comic newspapers dangling on a string in the shop, but the shopkeeper wouldn't let me read them there, so I had to buy them for thirty-five cents (35 cents) which was quite expensive at that time, as I only got twenty cents for pocket money every day.  Came to think of it, I would only buy them once or twice a week.  So, I saved up some of my pocket money to buy them twice a week and read them alone.  I couldn't share the cost with my siblings, because they were not interested in reading an english comic, as they were educated in a malay school.

     How I got attracted to these comics, I was, and still am not sure.  But attracted to them, I was.

     I found the comics humorous.  The humour in both comics was basic – the fun stemmed from the idiosyncratic and often larger than the life characters allowed readers to relate to and sympathise with them, and also laugh at the ridiculous scrapes they got into.  All characters were interesting: Desperate Dan, Korky the cat, Dennis the Menace, Minnie the Minx, Bash Street Kids, Roger the Dodger, I enjoyed reading them all, I stored the comic papers away carefully as if they were something very precious, with the intention of salvaging them some day and read them again.  But after so many years, I can't find them any more.  I have lost my precious treasure, so cheap but so valuable. What can I do?

Posted by Borhan Mohamed Dali at 9:05 PM