Across the Causeway II

Courtesy: johor48.rssing.com

      

     


     Stops Along the Tracks

It was around midnight

When the train groaned to a halt

At Kluang Station

Written in bold black

On a stark white board 

Rows of yellow wooden benches

Matched the wooden offices

Next to the ticket booth

Was a Chinese coffee shop

With its round, marble table tops

And curved wooden chairs

The kopitiams was run by Hainanese operators

Who served thick white loaves, steamed or toasted 

Generously splattered with Planta margarine

And thick layers of golden kaya spread

Half-boiled eggs splashed with dark soya sauce

And strong, black coffee in chipped porcelain cups

It seemed like yesterday

When we got off here

To spend our school holidays

In Kahang, about 40 miles away

We arrived at the tiny hut

In the middle of the paddy field

Which was ripe for harvesting

Pa had cleared the land and planted the grain

With help from his adopted sons

Razali, a mualaf, and a couple more young men

With unusual Javanese names which slipped my mind

Jobless youths whom Pa had befriended

While at Outram 
Or the tea shop at Central

 

The simple, country life was a new experience

We woke up to the sounds of birds chirping

The sight of golden paddy fields was refreshing

A splash of cold water from the pump

Boiled tapioca and sweet potatoes for breakfast

Boiled rice for lunch, withulam and fish from the parit

Narrow waterways in between the paddy plots

The boys brought home sepat, keli and haruan

Which Mak cleaned with lots of tamarind

And boiled with santan in earthen pots

Or fried and grilled them with tumeric
Dipped in soy sauce with cut chillis and garlics

Sometimes after our morning meal

Razali took us up the trail

Which led to the winding river 

As we passed the bamboo thickets

We took a deep breath

At the top of the rickety stairs

The clear water which flowed below

Lured us to brave the steep descent

To the jetty by the deep end

Where Razali left his rakit

A flat bamboo raft

Tied firmly with vines

Which ferried us across to the shallow, sandy bank

There we waded and splashed

Ma had our laundry washed

And Razali swam after small items

Swept away by the currents

We couldn't believe our eyes

When we spotted a snake with its ornaments

In a hollowed cavern
On the opposite bank

And heard a tiger's distant roar

Which made us quickly leave that shore

The kampong folks were full of tales

Of Sang Kelembai, the Fierce Ogre

Who felled the tall trees with both his arms

And Bunians, the sprites and nymphs

With their hidden communities

While on a walking tour one evening

The local guide pointed to a grass clearing
He whispered: 

“This is the site of the Bunian hamlet

They’re just like humans

But they inhabit a different dimension”

As if to welcome us

A sweet fragrant filled the air

“Be careful not to walk alone  

There had been cases of young men

Taken by the Bunians”

These creatures, it seemed

Had lured loners and simpletons

To be wedded to their women

Which sounded like the infatuation

Between Titania and Nick Bottom

Not long after our adventure in Kahang

We heard from Razali that the paddy project had bombed

They failed to harvest the ripened stalks before they wilted

And were out of funds to pay the workers' wages

When Pa returned home depressed

We were careful not to ruffle his feathers

It was the middle of the night

When suddenly everyone stirred

As the train approached the interchange

At Gemas, Negri Sembilan

Unlike Kluang and other smaller stations

Gemas had another set of railway tracks
Which branched off to the East Coast states -
Pahang, Terengganu and Kelantan

And passengers bound for those destinations

Got off and boarded another set of wagons

The stop was longer than at other stations

Indeed it was a chance to stretch our legs

Sip hot coffee or drop in at the public toilets

Since very few ventured beyond our seats
To reach the dining car and stinky WCs

During such long stops

Food peddlers got on board

To sell curry puffs, nuts and sweetened drinks

Ma made up her mind
We should refresh ourselves

And refuel at the kopitiam

With a clean Good Morning towel

Rinsed at the nearby sink

She scrubbed our faces of oil and grime

And ordered warm steamed buns

With cups of hot Ovaltine

My new belted dress

With its short, puffed sleeves

Was not exactly travel friendly

But Ma thought our friends and family

Should remember us at our most trendy

As the youngest

I was doted upon

Much to Mal's chagrin

Who revelled in horror stories

About me being a Changeling

And about Ma keeping a toyol

A chubby imp who stole money when he was told

And a pelesit, an evil spirit unleashed to wreak revenge

To be passed on to the last offspring

Gemas, 1:30AM, December 1965

It was more than an hour since the train chugged its way from Kluang Station.  Although it was in the middle of night, there was a sense of excitement as it approached the interchange at Gemas, Negri Sembilan.  Unlike Kluang and other minor stations, Gemas had tracks that led to the East Coast.  Passengers heading for Pahang, Terengganu and Kelantan would disembark and board another set of coaches.  The stop was longer than at other stations, so most people would disembark to stretch their legs, sip some coffee or go to the washroom.  The dining coach was at the end of winding coaches and the train washrooms usually stank, so passengers would dine in or ease themselves only as a last resort.  For those who chose to stay put on their seats, there would be vendors who boarded the coaches to sell samosas, curry puffs, some other Malay kuihs and bottled drinks. 

Mak took out a thin Good Morning face towel, dampened it in the sink at the kopitiam and wiped the layer of oil and grime from my face.  She fed me with a warm steamed red bean pau and hot Ovaltine.  I felt stuffy in my new brown, plaid cotton dress with its high, round collar and short, tight sleeves but I kept quiet since all our loose pyjamas were in the big baggage on the top rack above our heads.  Being the youngest child, I was the apple of her eyes. 

Mak doted on me to the chagrin of Kak Aida, who loved to scare me with stories about me being adopted and that Mak kept a toyol (a cherubic devil that steals at the owner’s behest) that she would pass on to the youngest offspring upon her demise.  She must have been upset with the presence of three younger siblings after seven years of blissful childhood in Bukit Tinggi, Sumatra, where she was born at the end of World War II, and Ipoh, where Bapak had a printing press which was confiscated for printing anti-colonial publications.  Those were times of plenty for my parents and the two older children.  Bapak and his partners were said to roll 50 ringgit notes as cigarettes whenever they painted the town red.  There were cabarets in Ipoh where they could listen to musical quartets and pay for the dancing girls.  Photos of them in Bukit Tinggi and Ipoh had Bapak well turned out in dark pantaloon, light long-sleeve shirt, a broad tie, a white smart jacket, dark sunglasses and dark hair thickly gelled with Brylcreem.  Mak looked demure in her Javanese batik sarong from Pekalongan, embroidered kebaya of ‘kasa rubiah’ and a transparent shawl over her Indonesian-style bun.  Abang Hatta was usually in neatly-pressed short-sleeve shirt and short Oxford trousers while Kak Aida looked pretty in floral print dresses, patent leather shoes and attractive hair accessories. 

It was painful then to compare those photos with the ones at Kebun Ubi, where they and the infant Jamal looked forlornly into the camera dressed in drab attire and set against a ramshackle outhouse.  When Ra’ayat Trading folded, the family moved back to Singapore where they lived with Ustaz Jalal’s family in Geylang Serai, a haphazard traditional settlement unlike the more organised Kampong Melayu Kaki Bukit.  By the time Yat and I were born, we had moved to different rented units until Ustaz Jalal, Siddi’s former student and Bapak’s adopted father, was kind and generous enough to allow us to live in his house at 38 Jalan Damai.               

My thoughts flew to the veranda and the broad stone stairway, where we would put on our shoes before we leave for school in the early or late mornings, depending on the session we were in.  My school uniform was a saffron orange, knee-length starched linen skirt with broad pleats that accentuated my rounded belly and exposed my blemished legs for everyone’s scrutiny.  The transparent short-sleeved shirt made me feel so conscious of my budding top that I always had plain or ribbed chemise on underneath.  On Mondays, I had to put on an ugly orange tie for the weekly assemblies that made me feel more like a tomboy since Mak had my hair cropped short to prevent me from contracting lice from scruffy class mates.  My name must have been registered late for me to be admitted to the last class – 1F - and some of my class mates from the squatter areas were generally unkempt.  But I made good grades and was promoted to 2C and 3A.  It didn’t help though that Yat was tall, slim, fair, with soft wavy hair that complemented her dimpled cheeks.  I felt like a Gollywog next to Shirley Temple, especially when my siblings and relatives started calling me ‘Budak Muka Lipas’ (Cockroach Face Kid), 'Kaki Tiang Jamban' (Toilet Post Legs) or teased me with taunts of:

Betty, Betty bom-bom,

Malam-malam curi jagong,

Mata-mata tangkap,

Masuk rumah pasong”

(Betty, Betty bom-bom,

She stole corns at night,

The cops caught her,

Put her in the lock-up)

Yat attended the primary school at Jalan Eunos, which was closer to our home than Telok Kurau, and her school uniform was more flattering too – a dark green pleated pinafore with a belt which created a slimmer silhouette.  To make matters worse, Mak would buy bulky boys’ laced-up shoes for me and dainty, streamline girls’ shoes for her.   

Since her school was closer to home, she got to ride on an orange van driven by a prune-faced Javanese man.  I had to wait for Mak, Abang Hatta or Jamal to take me to school either by trishaw, bicycle or by bus.  Since I never attended kindergarten, Mak waited at the canteen with other protective parents to accompany me and other timid pupils during recess.  It took me many months to wean off Mak’s warm bosom and adjust to regimented school life.  Luckily I had gentle and kind teachers in the shapes of Miss Suppiah and Miss Tan, who were very patient and understanding.  Mrs O’Hara, the principal, was just the opposite - strict and merciless.  She would shoo off the parents waiting at the canteen to go home:

“Balik, balik!  Apa tunggu lagi di sini?”  (Go home!  What are you all waiting for here?)

In my second year, Abang Hatta would give me a ride on the bar of his Raleigh bicycle taking the short cut through the bumpy, back road crossing the shanty homes and pig farms in Chai Chee.  In my third year, I had to take the bus either with Jamal or on my own and walked the extra mile from the junction of Jalan Eunos and Geylang Road to reach my school.  I was often late and Jamal had to accompany me to explain to my class teacher and walk back to his school near Still Road.  We never figured out why Bapak enrolled him in a Malay school when all four of us attended English schools.  Never mind that Abang Hatta had to sit three times for his Senior Cambridge or that Kak Aida dropped out from school when she ran away from her grandparents’ house in Klang. 

Although Kamal was protective of me as his little sister, his relationship with Yat was competitive.  Yat had always been resourceful, looking for coins that fell in through the cracks between the planks in the living room to rest on the supporting planks outside.  When she had gathered enough to buy Wall’s or Magnolia’s stick ice cream - not the cheap ‘ais krim potong’ (wafer ice cream bar) from Sun Sun - she would show off and allowed us just one lick.  One hot afternoon, when Jamal tried to get a bite off her tangy orange ice cream, she pulled it away and, before we knew it, fell into the small drain that ran around the house and hit her shoulder blade on the jagged outer rim.  Jamal turned pale and ran off to hide while I alerted Mak, who got Abang Hatta to call the ambulance.  Yat was warded for a few days and when she was discharged, she had to wear a sling until her fractured shoulder blade mend completely.