The Sounds of the Battle Drums, mid '64

Courtesy of www.theartwolf.com

Though our wooden house was the one that was drab

On a row of charming stage houses built on posts

But my seven year old heart leapt

When I sighted its facade

From the window of the dusty bus

As it descended down the hill

And when it stopped in front of the house

Where they shot box-office Malay films

I alighted and crossed the busy main road

And turned into the dirt lane on the right

No 38 Peace Street was the third

Its ground was just as bald

Save for the hibiscus hedge

And the tall guava tree on its left

Yet the red concrete steps

Led to the wooden bench

Perched on the narrow veranda

A favourite hang-out to sight passing vendors

As I took off my shoes and socks and washed my feet

With water ladled from the ceramic vessel

The familiar scent of the calamansi wafted

And the sight of the lush, green hill

And its cool, natural spring

Soothed my smarting eyes

And cleared them of prickly sand

I sat at the top of the stairs

And watched the neighbourhood boys

Pushing and shoving and scooping

The spouting water to quench their thirst

A just reward for a friendly football match

After they left

It was so quiet

No one was about

That I just gawked

At the passing bullock cart

No sibling to hitch a ride with on its back

And prompted the cow herder to halt

And chase us with a crooked stick

Just yesterday

We were shaken by a tussle

Between Yat and Mal

Over a taste of her popsicle

Bought from the Sun Sun Ice Cream vendor

With coins retrieved between the floors

A sudden jerk caught her off balanced

She had to be taken to the hospital by ambulance

A hairline crack on her shoulder bone

And a fracture on the elbow joint

Hence Mal was missing in action

Though he had been a rescuer once

On that fateful evening last rainy season

When I slipped and fell into the swollen drain

Its swift currents had me almost drowned

But after I showered and changed

Into a Sam Foo top and pants

I caught a glimpse of the lead actor on his scooter

That cured me of my trauma and set my heart aflutter

On that hushed afternoon

I looked out for Alias and his Ma’s epok-epok

Fried dumplings filled with spicy bean sprouts

Or Mamak the travelling porridge vendor

Balancing two rows of rattan baskets

Filled with tiffins of beans, barley and tuber gruels

On the wooden staff resting on his shoulders

My tummy growled

When I heard the ‘toot, toot’ sound

Of the Bhai Roti’s horn

An invitation to check out his treasure chest

Crammed with all sorts of sweet and savoury breads

The best was the steamed white loaf with thick blobs of kaya spread

But that was nothing like Aunt Mahani’s flying saucer hot baps

Which I helped to sell around the village to earn coins in my pockets

My eyes trailed as his bicycle turned the bend towards the barren knoll

That served as the boundary between the Foot Hills and the Pig Farm

A favourite location for fighting scenes in Malay epic films

Also the setting of the battle drums during the recent turmoil

And the site of the Ruling Party Amity Corps’ camps

To ensure the rival groups laid down their arms

It was like a blood stain on the island’s bleached history

But the turning point for the Malay community’s destiny

From the Silat aficionados’ surge against the agent provocateurs’ taunts

To the raging torrent among the ranks of the Maulid procession

To the state of emergency declared after the fatal clashes, deaths and detentions

To the extended periods of curfew filled with conflicts and doubts

And the final fall-out which led to the departure of intellectuals and patriots  

Courtesy of www.galleryhip.com

The Snake Charmer, Loktang, Pekji and Weil Weil

The Circus, Ice Skating Shows and Musicals

Were not within our family budget in the '60s

But there were many free entertainment options
Which Ma had lined up for us 

There was the Snake Charmer, and his Apprentice

Beckoning us to the roots of the Banyan Tree

On Beach Road’s grassy banks

With the sound of his wind instrument

And the contents of his wicker baskets

Under the cool shade

His assistant uncovered the lid

And a cobra uncoiled itself
And danced to the tune of the flute   

A couple more slithered on the turf

As people reached for their pockets
When the coins had piled up

The reptiles were kept

A new act unravelled

The magician transformed into an Oracle

And his aide was blindfolded

As he responded to questions

From the astounded audience

When the boy finally fainted

We knew it was time to be disbanded

Ma’s idea of punishment for misconduct
Was to send us to watch the Lok-tang

As she got into a trance

By the forked road next to our fence

Dressed in light blue tunic and pants

The medium was hired to chase demons

Lurking behind the willow strands

She summoned Guan Dong with a swish, swish of her Guan Blade

She dazzled the crowd with her Spiked Ball Mallet

And took our breaths away with a ‘Sealing of Mouth’ ritual

Where she used long, brass needles to poke a hole in her face

And sealed it by sliding hot, burning coal iron on her cheeks!

When the Wayang Pekji set up stage

On the vacant lot next to the Central cinema

We would be tossing and turning in our beds

Or searching for the rojak man in our pyjamas

Lured by the vigorous slicing of cucumber, pineapple and turnip

Tossed and drenched in shrimp paste and peanut bits

In a yellow glazed bowl

Each handful scooped into a banana leaf boat

With a toothpick anchored at its stern

We elbowed our way among the throng of sweaty spectators

And tuned out the opera actors’ piercing notes

Along with their sharp movements, costumes and make-up

If there was still money in our pockets

We would head for the ‘tikam tikam’ to try our luck

A peanut flake biscuit in a cellophane wrap

Which was ripped apart to reveal a card

Which said "Try again", so better to trudge back to bed!

If Ma saw no signs of repentance after the Lok-tang encounter
She would not hesitate to send us to watch the Kavadi carriers
With bow-shaped wooden contraptions on their shoulders
Hooks and spikes poked and pulled the skins on their bodies and faces
As they dedicated their vows to their god Murugan
The devotees meandered on the streets in a trance
They chanted 'Weil, weil' on this day of Thaipusam
With friends and family members who cheered and sang
To the fast beats of the loud music and drums 

* Rojak - Spicy fruit salad
** Tikam-tikam - A game of chance

Anak Merdeka, ‘57

Outram Jail, circa 1950s

Kandang Kerbau Hospital, circa 1950s

I was the baby of the family

There were Pa, Ma, Mal, Yat and me

I was born on the eve of Independence

At this maternity hospital called the Oxen Pen

Along with the birth of a new nation

Made up of the FMS and the Straits Settlements

After four and a half centuries of foreign domination

When Ma was heavy with me

Pa was incarcerated into the Penitentiary

Framed for supplying fire arms to the Radical Lefties

That shook the sensibilities of my grandfather, the Selangor Mufti

Who arrived in Singapore in his maroon Mercedes

Driven by his private chauffeur, my third Ami 

Siddi’s presence lent credence to his eldest son’s defence

And swayed the court verdict to a prison sentence    

Ma worked her bones to feed and shelter her family

And buy Pa his pack of Players when she visited him monthly

Her loyalty to her husband was admirable

In spite of her brothers and sisters’ disapproval

They were all the support system that she had

Her mother had died of miscarriage when she was eight

And her father expired when she was a young bride

When I turned six

Pa was released

He moved us from the one-bedroom barrack next to the cinema Central

To his godfather’s two-bedroom house in the village at the Foot Hills

But there was no decent job for a sworn enemy

And he can’t feed his family with fervent pleas

So across the border, and into the interior, he set off with his buddies

To clear acres of land and grow some paddy

When the field of grains turned golden

It was the start of the harvesting season

Pa took us to visit

And witness what all the months of toil had yielded   

Alas, he ran out of funds to pay the villagers

Whom he hired as daily harvesters

When they refused to show up for work

Pa and his buddies could only watch

As tracts and tracts of paddy stalks began to rot

Anak Merdeka - Independence Child

FMS - Federated Malay States

Mufti - Grand Cleric

Ami - Paternal Uncle 

Siddi - Paternal Grandfather

Paddy - Rice Grains

Our Little Flash House on Saint's Hill

Off Grid House

    After a month of holding our breaths

    In a small rented unit at the rear of a stage house
By the brook in the valley
Which served as a natural boundary
To the school football field.
Up on the hill yonder

Ma found a trusty builder  

Who constructed a one bedroom structure
A hundred metres from the gurgling stream

Which flowed from the abandoned tin mine
On a TOL* patch of land

The builders pulled the weeds and levelled the earth with bags of sand

Then they marked the sections – the family area, the only bedroom, the narrow kitchen and the ‘sky roof’ bathroom

And poured sacks of cement

Mixed them with water and spread as floor

Next they assembled and erected the wooden frames, posts and walls

And finally, a silver zinc roof as its crown

Voila, we have our very own little ‘flash’ house in a wink!

When clean water gushed from the pump

Ma bought a huge porcelain water pot

With a fierce dragon

Draped around its circumference

We carried plastic tubs and pails

To wash our grubby faces and limbs

As the sun set

We got ready for supper and bed

Ma lit the wicks of the kerosene lamps which brightened the living room

And cast long shadows into the bedroom and beyond

When dawn broke

Ma warned us of the slippery moulds near the old well

In the common backyard

Mid way to the wooden steps down the slope

To the ‘tiny hut’ over the clear water of the rushing stream 

Where crafty shrimps hid behind huge boulders  

And dodged our hand-held flimsy nets

While we ignored the quarrels from the Bawean** barracks across the bank

Along with the mutterings from the Nyonya*** ‘dulang’ washers, head-bowed and covered with layers of rough cloths and straw hats  

We got to know our new neighbours

They were from different states -

Kak Ani, Abang Man and their son Din hailed from Betel Nut Island,

Kak Shimah, husband and sons moved west from Turtle Beach,

Pak Hekam sailed from the Land Below the Wind,

And Mak Fauzi ferried from across the Straits.

On most mornings, we would hear the ‘knock, knock’ on our front door

Followed by a hearty call “O, Bet!”

From Din, Kak Ani’s toddler,

With a pacifier in his mouth and a ‘stinky pillow’ in his arm

Mid mornings, Ma and Mak Fauzi would chat for hours

About safe hair dyes, Minangkabau dishes and the Japanese Occupation

Pak Hekam made sure nobody slips and falls

By cleaning the mildew from around the well

And we would all rush to the rescue

Kak Shimah’s husband

Whenever he struggled with his seizures.

Then came the fierce monsoon season

And the brutal tropical storm which brought our walls down

T’was sad to leave our little flash house on the hill

Plus the neighbours’ idiosyncrasies

For the cold flat

By the industrial zone of Section 13

* TOL - Temporary Occupational Licence
** Bawean - an ethnic group from an island about 150 km from Surabaya, off the coast of Java
*** Nyonya - a broad term used to refer to Chinese women

Link: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/14820856-building-our-house

Across the Causeway

Farewell Shot With the Clan 

I remember

It was December ‘65
School holidays

Ma sprang a surprise:

“Siddi said it’s best we shift to KL”

What seemed like a few short days

She threw most of our stuff into some suitcases

And when the Fateful Day came

Yat and I put on our new stripe dresses with the Peter Pan collars

And pulled on the bright, white socks tucked into the brown Mary Janes

“Don’t forget the white hankies and zipped shiny purses for purchases”

When Ma heard the ‘Beep, beep’ sound of the horn

And sighted the taxi without the permit   

With its engine running

And emitting smoke

On the dusty road

She said,

“Hurry up, girls, we don’t have the red carpet and the Rolls Royce at our disposal”

No sooner than the doors were slammed

It raced to the FMS Railway Station at the Cape of Fence

Sending us and our baggage flying for defence

Neighbours and uncles and aunties and cousins and friends

Were already there to say

Selamat Jalan!

Keretapi Tanah Melayu (KTM)

I tagged along

As Mal and Yat paced the platform

Trying to catch the sight of the Station Master in uniform

On the side of the grimy red engine

Were written the words Senandong Malam

The Rhythm of the Night was the night train's name
Which will transport us to our destination

As we passed by the shells of the cream and dark brown coaches

We thought of dust-covered vanilla ice cream blocks on thick chocolate wafers

No doubt thrown on the tracks by the grumpy Sun Sun Ice Cream Seller

The restaurant car was deep in the belly of the train

With shiny long tables and metal benches

And cooks-waiters in white aprons behind steel counters.

At the last few carriages, the writing Muatan Busuk Segera had us baffled

What indeed were these Perishables

That must be instantly loaded

At the tail of the iron centipede

Before they rot and stank and caused a stampede?

Soon the first ‘phritt’ was heard

T’was time to trace our steps back

We kissed our uncles’ and aunts’ hands

Hugged our cousins and friends

By the second ‘phriitt, phriitt’

We had to get our feet on the three short steps

Unless Ma let us pull some stunts

We daren’t jump on rolling wagons!

Our eyes in tears

Our cheeks wet

We jammed the stairs

Our bodies jerked

As the train made a sudden start

When the third ‘phriiittt, phriiittt, phriiittt!!!’

Trilled from the Station Master’s whistle

And his tiny, green flag was unfurled. 

We leant on the thin rubber padding 
With blood red vinyl covering

What passed as benches

On third class coaches

Our arms rested on the open window ledge

The glass was heavy and thick  

And the steel shutters slid down

Like guillotines!

The yellow lights were kind

But the ‘whrrr, whrrr, whrrr’ of the small ceiling fans

Kept yanking our eyelids up

Dozing off was really hard

When so many were milling about

And the ‘clacketty, clack, clacketty, clack’ as the ticket collector made his rounds

Punching holes into thick paper stubs

    Making sure no free riders were aboard

Link:            http://www.brianfloca.com/Locomotive.html