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

Served Me Right!

Thursday, January 13, 2011

Serves Me Right!

     Mom passed away peacefully in December 2007 while Dad followed nine months later; 12th September 2008.  Since then the ten of us (our late parents' children, of course) only met a few times per month at Dad's house in Bakri.

     When we met, usually starting from Friday night, we filled up the time recalling our fine memories with Mom and Dad, working together cleaning the house, the compound, pruning the wild thickets, cooking and having our meals together, so on and so forth.  The air was always cheerful, in fact, noisy, but always interesting.  In fact, all of us cherished the time we spent together and it never failed to tighten the bond between us.

We spent the time together eating... (one day after wedding)

  When it was time to go, usually on Sunday evenings, one family after another pulled their cars out from the house compound.  Then the house was quiet again, deserted.

The house was quiet again, deserted

     But time is not always on our side.  Sometimes we had other commitments which we needed to do that took away our precious time which was supposed to be spent with our dear siblings.  That was what happened to me recently.

     During the weekend, I had to go somewhere else while my siblings gathered at Dad's house as usual.

     "Never mind," I thought, "I can go there tomorrow," I pacified myself.

     The next morning, I had to go to Air Hitam to attend a function.  Then in the afternoon I went 'rewang' at Cikgu Romli's house where I saw Apar, Kak Long, Bang Ngah and Kak Ngah.  I decided to go to Dad's house after rewang and meet them.

     After rewang, I came home to have a rest.for a while before going.  Lay down a while.  Tiredness took the better of me.  Zzz...

     *     *     *

     When I woke up, it was already 6.15 p.m.  My God!  I quickly rushed to Dad's house.  Unfortunately, I was late.  There was nobody at the house.  They had left!
    

     sombre

     I walked slowly around the house.  Everything was still.  The light at the side of the house was bright in the cool evening.  The door of the store at the back of the house was open.  There were signs that it was being tidied and the task had not been completed yet.  I closed the door and went back home.

Sombre...

     "So early?  You said you wanted to meet your siblings?" my wife asked.

     "They're gone.  I was late."

     That was the same feeling that I felt when I was at Bukit Serok way back from 1979 to 1981.  I was teaching at Sekolah Kebangsaan Bukit Serok, a national primary school where most of the pupils were aborigines while the rest were children of estate workers who were Javanese and malays.  It was runned by JHEOA, a department that concerned the welfare of the aborigines in Malaysia.  What is the relationship of my sorrows with the JHEOA?

     Well, From time to time they would come to the village to deal with certain matters.  When they did, they would put up the night at my house, making it cheerful, noisy and entertaining.  We would chat away at night until the wee hours, cracking jokes and enjoying the company of each other.  Sometimes we would reminisce out own experiences so that others could share the enjoyment, and so on.  There was once when Rahman, the driver was still lying down asleep in my house while it was already light and  others were already up and calling him and making such a noise in their attempt to wake him up which he didn't budge.  Then finally, he woke up, looking very relieved.  It was an odd thing to see, and we were surprised.

     "Why so early?  It's only nine," Mustapha quipped.

     "I heard you.  I heard everything you said.  And I tried to get up.  But something big, black and hurry was sitting on my chest, pinning me down.  I tried to call you, but my voice couldn't come out."  Rahman answered.

     "Then, what'd you do?"

     "I read a few verses, then that thing disappeared."

     "My God.  Luckily I didn't experience the same thing all this while," I answered him.

     Well, that's that.

     Then, after a few days, they would go back to headquarters, leaving me alone and lonely, longing for them to come back.


     Another sad feeling was when I had to leave the entertaining environment at Dad's house on Sundays to go back to my quarters at Bukit Serok.  When I reached the quarters, I would sit on a bench on the verandah and look towards the school field, at the end of which was the school building with the mountain at the background.  On the right was the Keratong River.

This school is like the school that I used to teach in when I first started my service.

 The place was empty.  The only companion at that time was the transistor radio.  The disc jockey, Azmi Rais Noor was hosting the programme 'Nostalgia'.  Although I had just got back from my 'kampung', I felt a pang of loss.  I yearn to go back home to mama...

Posted by Borhan Mohamed Dali at 6:07 PM

Who Is She?

Wednesday, December 1, 2010

Who Is She?

     The first time I met her, she was twelve years old.  Wearing a scouts uniform, she was walking alone along the gravel path under the cool canopy of rubber trees, obviously homeward from school.  She stepped aside to let us pass, little did she know that we were heading towards her house under a hill which was by that time, already not far away.

     The second time I met her was as soon as I became her brother-in-law, nine months after the first meeting.  After that I didn't count how many times I encountered with her, because it was not important.  Currently she is married to a teacher with three darling angels, the second who two weeks before this article was written got 5A's in an important exam.  Now, the encounter is still not important but I recall just because I wanted to write something about her.  You may wonder why and who.  Why?  Because I want to express my appreciation to her for monitoring my blog.  Who?  Guess...

     Recently, she got the chance to read my postings, and appreciated it.  Me too. I would like to thank her for reading my blog.  I hope she will not stop here.  As what I wrote in my posting on November 27, she, like other readers, boost my spirit to write and share my fond memories with the world when I got to know that my stories are read.  Who is she?

Posted by Borhan Mohamed Dali at 10:01 AM

First Day In School (Part Two)

Saturday, October 30, 2010

First Day In School (Part Two)

      Then the Chinese teacher asked us to walk.  Where did she want to take us?

     We walked along the concrete floor with a roof at the top, passing by a few blocks of classrooms.  Not long after that, I smelled the sweet aroma of foods.I looked at the source of the sweet smell.  A lot of boys were were gathered inside a building where the walls were only half-covered.  We were led into this building.  There were rows of marbled tables and benches, each occupied by a few boys noisily enjoying their foods.  Suddenly I felt very hungry.  Seeing the line of Standard One students marching in led by a teacher, the bigger boys stepped aside to make way for us.  We stopped at a long table which was a high as my shoulder, also made of marble.  On top of this long table were piles of foods stacked on trays.  There were curry puffs, fried bananas, 'jempt-jemput pisang' (a kind of cake made of stashed bananas and fried), a lot more food that I have escaped my memory.

     At this end of the counter was a big transparent water container with many plastic glasses of various colours around it.  A chinese man was busy filling the small cups with orange from the container and putting them on the counter.  Soon small hands snatched the cups and shillings worth five sen were put on a plate.  The same happened to the cakes.    Pupils tried to outrun each other in buying their preferred cakes.

     At the far end of the bench were piles of fried noodles on small plates, the golden yellow noodle plus some green vegetables and red chillies on it looked very welcoming.  School children took a plate each, ten sen shillings changed hands.  The scenario at that end triggered my appetite.  I seldom got the chance to eat noodles.  I almost forgot how it tasted.  Maybe it's delicious...

     I fumbled the ten sen in my trouser pocket that I got from dad that morning.  If I bought a plate of fried noodles, what could I drink?  The noodle's hot, I was sure.  I would need a cup.  Therefore, I had to forget the noodles.  At least for now.  If I couldn't get fried noodles, fried bananas was also delicious.

     Little by little, I inched my way towards the tray of fried bananas on the counter, my right hand in front of me.  Eventually I managed to grab a big piece.  I showed my ten sen shilling to the attendant, he took it and returned to me a five sen shilling, together with a small piece of old chinese newspaper to wrap my fried banana with.  Smiling triumphantly, I made my way towards the drink section.

     I devoured my treasure at the marbled table.  That was the most satisfying meal which I had.  Probably that was the first time I experienced buying my own food.  The fried banana was superb!  Not too sweet, just nice.  The glass of orange juice was also nice.

     It seemed like I had been in school for ages.  Err... when could I go back?

Posted by Borhan Mohamed Dali at 8:19 PM

First Day In School (Part One)

Sunday, October 24, 2010

First Day In School (Part One)

     In the 60s.  I was so small, only past my 'toddler' period.  As I was lying in dad's lap watching mom seated on the wooden floor near the steps going down into the kitchen, feeding little sister with mashed rice mixed with a little sugar.  From time to time she would let the baby suck her wet fingers which she had dipped into a bowl of plain water.

     Moving his lap up and down, dad asked, "Which school would you like to go, malay or english?"

     Without thinking, I answered, "English!"

     That was it.  After I was six years old, dad brought me on his Vespa scooter to a school in town, about six miles away from our dear house.  The school was 'Ismail School Two'.  The school was very big, the buildings very tall, the top part seemed as if staring down at me, ready to devour me.  I became a little frightened and uncomfortable.  That made me keep as close to dad as possible while we made our way among the crowd.  I looked around.  All were new faces, there was not even one face that looked familiar to me.

     When the registration was over, I was placed in a big room 'Standard One Suloh' with some boys.  I scanned their faces one by one.  There were some malay boys just like me, some fair chinese boys who had small eyes, a few Indians, a European (later I learned that his name was Michael George) and a tall, fair boy with long hair kept in a piece of white cloth shaped into an 'apple' on top of his head which later I got to know that this was a sikh or 'Mister Singh'.  A Chinese lady teacher wearing chinese clothes (cheongsam) was seated at a table bigger than ours, busy writing something.  We looked at each other silently and waited.  So long...

     Soon, a bell started to ring; a long ringing sound coming from outside the classroom, deafening me.  The lady teacher asked all of us to stand.  "Small boys in front, big boys at the back, two by two", she said.  I could not comprehend what she said, likewise the rest of the boys.  Therefore she had to arrange all of us to line two by two, by dragging the small boys towards the front of the line and the big ones to the back. 

     "Hold your partners' hands", she barked her orders.  I looked around me, but could not find dad.  Where was he?

     Then the chinese teacher instructed us to walk.  Where would he bring us to?

Posted by Borhan Mohamed Dali at 7:58 AM

Looking After Dear Little Sister

Thursday, October 21, 2010

Looking After Dear Little Sister

     I still remember during my childhood days, when my parents wanted to go to school (to teach, not to learn), they would bring me and my little sister to granny's house so that she could look after us while they were away.  On the way to granny's house, dad walked fast holding sis in his strong arms as well as holding a basketful of napkins and other things. I had to also walk fast and sometimes almost ran so that I could catch up with him.

     Several of my cousins stayed together with their family at granny's house, two of them being twins named Kaka and Nana (the children of Pak Usu Ali and Mak Usu Ruminah).  With these two little boys, I played all afternoon. Sometimes an old woman (Wak Ngadinah her name; if I am not mistaken) came selling some 'kuih' (traditional malay cakes).  She had no basket to load her 'kuih' into, instead she bundled them in a piece of batik sarung which she hung one end around her neck and the other loosely by her side.  Usually, granny would call her and she would sit on the top most part of granny's wooden steps and open her bundle.  We would see assorted 'kuihs' like, curry puffs, fried bananas, 'kuih bom' (made of banana mixed with flour), 'kasturi' and many which have escaped my memory.  Granny Jameela would buy some, and we would get some to satisfy our crave.  They were delicious, sweet, still warm and fragrant.

     At other times, Granny Jameela would peel some pomelos (see picture above) which she plucked from a tree just beside the house and give us.  They were sweet, but a little bitter.

     At that time, Granny Jameela's house was surrounded by her children's houses, Wak Aim's, Mak Itam's, Mak Ngah's, Bang Long Katup's and a little bit further, Wak Ong's.   In the evening, Pak Usu Ali would come back from school, riding a scooter known as Lambretta.  He would stop after he passed a small bridge which linked his house to the road. Tthen, he would wobble slowly home while some of his nephews and nieces cling onto his motorcycle merrily and noisily.  His motorcycle was a bit weird, I reckon, because its headlight was not built on the handle so as to enable it to shine right if the rider swerved towards that direction.  Instead, it was built in on the front part of the body (see picture), so it still shone straight although the rider turned right or left, just like a car's.

Then, Wak Aim dismantled his house and rebuilt it on another piece of land not far from there (presently the place where his youngest daughter, Rafeah's house is now standing).  A few years after that, granny's house was taken down and rebuilt next to dad's house.  Then Mak Itam followed suit, leaving Mak Ngah, Bang Long Katup alone, apart from Wak Ong who lived a little bit further.  After Bang Long joined the felda scheme in Kota Tinggi, Mak Ngah went to stay with Bang Nal in Kuala Lumpur and her house was sold to Wak Lajim.  The place became barren of any houses and deserted.

     A few years back, Zamzam built a house at more or less the old area and stayed there, then Bang Hamid built his at the end of last year.  Now there are two houses at that place, and it looks cheerful again.

Gondoruwo (English Version)

Gondoruwo (English Version)

     In the earlier part of my postings in this blog, my father's house, like other houses in Kampung Batu 6 Bakri, was lighted by paraffin lamps, or sometimes gasoline lamps at night.  Those were the days when I was still so small.  I remember when I was in primary school, suddenly I found that there was a chinese man in the house, fitting electric wires all over the house.  Later, our house, like almost all other houses in the village was lighted up with electric bulbs at night.  We were very happy.  Our house looked different once dusk fall.

     Then once in a while, there was no electricity.  When this happened, our old paraffin lamp would come into view, giving its service once more.  Then, mother would lie down beside the dear old lamp, followed by her children, me included.  Some would sit on the wooden floor, eager to listen to any story that would come out of her mouth.  Yes!  Sometimes she would tell stories about her experiences when she was small, after she got married with father and stayed in Tanjong Pagar, Singapore, folk tales etc.  One of the stories that I remember now was 'Gondoruwo'.  Strangely, I remember hearing it from my father, not Mom.

     Gondoruwo is the name of a 'ghost' in the Malay (or rather Javanese; I am not sure) folk tales.  Then I enjoyed listening to Dad, but I didn't care whether the story was true or not.  Now I got to know that there was a horror film produced in Indonesia that used 'Gondoruwo' as its title, directed by Ratno Timoer with he himself as the leading actor with Farida Pasha as the heroine.

     According to Dad, "Gondoruwo' liked to play with his eyes.  If it happened that you met face to face with a gondoruwo, just follow whatever it said.  If you resist, you are lucky if you could see the sun the next day.

     "Once upon a time, there was a hut at the edge of the forest.  (Those days, there were so few houses and the forests were vast, of course, since there were not so many people as today).  A couple stayed in the house, the wife's name was Halimah and the husband, Halim.  One day, Halim told Halimah.  "I am going away tomorrow, dear.  Close and lock all doors and windows while I was away."

     "Don't worry, dear," Halimah answered.

     That night, Halimah heard a husky voice calling.

     "Halimah!  Halimah!  Open the door."

     "Come ini, Master," she said as she opened the door.  A ghost (gondoruwo) appeared and sat by the door.

     "Halimah, Halimah, I want to eat sugar cane," gondoruwo said in a big, gruff voice.

     "Go ahead, Master," Halimah answered.  (I am not sure where that monster got the sugarcane.)

     After he had finished eating, he said, "Halimah, Halimah, I want to play with my eyes."

     "Carry on, Master,"  Halimah answered.  So he played with his eyes.  He rolled his red eyes left and right, left and right.

     Then he said again, "Halimah, Halimah, I want to go home."

     "You're welcome, Master," answered Halimah.

     After he disappeared into the night, Halimah closed and locked the door.

     The next day, Halimah related what had happened to her husband.

     "Nonsense!  Gondoruwo is not that kind.  It would have killed you if it were him.," Halim retorted.

     "Alright!  If you're doubtful, you'll stay home tonight.  I'll go to Mom's,"  Halimah started to get angry.

     "I'll prove you wrong!"

     At dusk, after locking all doors and windows, Halim sat waiting for the said 'gondoruwo'.  He was confident that the creature wasn't what his wife had wanted him to believe and he would prove that she was wrong.

     Suddenly he heard a husky voice calling.  "Halimah, Halimah. Open the door."  Halim's face turned white as a sheet.  He froze.  The gruff voice called out again.  "Halimah! Halimah! Open the door," this time it was louder.  Halim became more frightened.  With his heart beating very fast, he sprinted into the bedroom, locking the door behind him.  He leaned on the door, shaking from head to foot.  The monster's loud voice called again, very near Halim, as if it was just behind the wooden wall of the house.  The urgent tone indicated that 'gondoruwo' had started get angry.

     "HALIMAH!  HALIMAH!  OPEN THE DOOR!"  Halim began to feel weak in the knees.  He crawled towards the mattress and wrapped himself with it, hoping 'gondoruwo' would not find him.

     Then, there was a loud bang.  Halim almost wet himself.  He couldn't do anything apart from keeping very still.

*     *     *

     When Halimah came home the next day, she saw that the house door was broken.  She called out to her husband but received no answer.  Halimah climbed into her house and found that everything was haywire.  Her 'kekabu' mattress was scratched to pieces.  'Kekabu' strewn all over the place.  Her husband was amongst the 'kekabu', without the head, hands and legs.

     "I told you so," she whispered softly.

Posted by Borhan Mohamed Dali at 6:11 PM

Bathing In The Small Canal (Part Two)

Bathing In The Small Canal (Part Two)

    (This article was originally in the malay version of 'Borhan Dulu-Dulu')  In‘Bathing In The Small Canal Part 1, I wrote about a big drain at the edge of our village that, apart from fulfilling the villagers needs in cleaning themselves and their clothes, also helped making our childhood lives interesting.  One may think that parents did not mind their children enjoying their time in the water. 

Some of you might think that my parents allowed us (my brother and I) to enjoy  ourselves in the canal.  No, they didn’t.  They warned us not to go and bathe, and would scold us whenever they learned that we had bathed in the river.  Their trained eyes could detect what we had done when they looked at our ruffled hair and dusty skin.  I knew I was wrong when I broke the rules.  I tried to heed to their advice but sometimes the temptation to go and bathe was too great to resist when my friends invited us to join them. How could I avoid them?  

            I remember one day, Dad gave us (my brother Bang Ngah and I) a tight scolding because we did not do as instructed but spent most of the evening bathing in the canal.

At that time, most of the villagers used firewood to cook.  Only one or two wealthy ones used kerosene.  Our family, being one of the poorer ones that made up the majority of the caste in the village, used firewood.  Due to that, whenever rubber trees were felled to make way for replanting, many of us would come with our parangs and saws to cut off branches and trunks and store them at our houses.

One day, Dad instructed us to cut off as much firewood as possible and bring it home.  He couldn’t do it together with us as he and Mom had to attend a wedding.  Obediently, we started our work, but not for long.  At the slightest provocation from our friends, we put away our parangs and sprinted towards the canal.  We also put away Dad’s instructions and advice, we played and played until we were tired.  Then, when the sun started to set, we quickly went back to the felled trees to resume our task.  But Dad and Mom were already there.

‘Where have you been?’ Dad asked quietly, his sparkling eyes piercing our timid hearts.  I could sense thunderstorm brewing.

There you are.  We, miserable kids who turned naughty got what we deserved.  Served us right!

 

Posted by Borhan Mohamed Dali at 12:07 AM

Bathing In the Small Canal (Part One)

      This article was originally posted on the Malay version of 'Borhan Al Bakri'.  (It is already 16th Syawal.  I don't intend to write anything else about my hari raya experiences.  I have prepared somethng that I recalled when performing my duty a few weeks back.  I think the time is ripe for me to publish this experience.  It comes in two parts.)

    

Before I was born, pipe water was not a common sight among the villagers.  Most of them drank rainwater which they collected using very big tubs (tempayan) that they placed under the rooftops, and washed their clothes using drain water.  (The drain was not what we now see, carrying dirty liquids from houses and factories into big drains.  The drain at that time, did not bring dirty black liquids form houses and so on.  In fact, the water in the drain was crystal clear, the bed was sand, one could see fishes swimming in it).  We used to call it “parit” but the word ‘drain’ doesn’t seem the right word to use.  Therefore, I prefer to call it a canal.

A small canal, but this is not where I bathed

At the end of Kampung Batu 6 Bakri towards the west, there was a “parit”; a big drain or small canal.  This canal served to release water collected in a tin mine further up during rainy season.  The water bed was made up of sand, providing firm ground for those who wanted to stand in it.  As the water looked clean and crystal clear, people who stayed nearby used this canal to bathe and do their washing.  There were Wak Jom, Mak Ngah Esah, Tok Chik on this side, and Pak Aji on the other side.  According to Bang Ngah my elder brother, sometimes Kak Long (my elder sister) went to the canal bringing some soiled clothes to wash.  But I never saw her doing that, most probably I was too small to notice it.

 There were a few platforms built along its bank, some on this side and the others on the other side.  People such as Wak Jom and Tok Chik used this platform when they were doing their washing in the canal. 

At normal times, the water level was between waist and chest deep.  Boys of my age used to play in the drain; swimming from this side to the other side, splashing water at each other and sometimes wrestled in the water.  When the water was quite deep after heavy rain, or when the drain had been deepened, some of the bolder boys who could swim well performed somersault by diving from the branch of a tree into the water.  This they did by climbing a rubber tree nearby the canal.  They then crawled on a branch which grew in the direction of the canal.  From there, they jumped and swam towards either this side or the other side.  The boldest ones twirled twice in the air before making a great splash as they reached the water.

Posted by Borhan Mohamed Dali at 5:16 PM