THE VILLAGE BULLY

For reasons knowbody knew Din was known as the village hooligan – a ruffian and a tough guy. He was the sameseng kampong – a leader of sort to a gang of hoodlums. Parents warned their children not to associate themselves with him or his gang.

But Father had a different opinion and termed him or his friends as 'merely' harmless village bullies.

He had a well build physique and was tall and handsome. It was no secret that some women folk loved his flamboyant lifestyle as he had the persona of the popular film star Sharif Dol of Singapore Jalan Ampas Film Studio fame of that period. Yes, he was the Sharif Dol of my village, secretly adored by the ladies and loudly detest by the men folks.

We were of different age level then. He was a grownup while I was still a junior. I knew him as he used to frequent the only grocery store in our neighbourhood managed by the proprietor’s new wife.

Later there was this hush-hush news on the birth of a baby girl out of wedlock in our village. The identity of the mother was put under wrap, and the baby girl was immediately offered for adoption. Little was known who fathered the baby girl, while some believed the village Sharif Dol was the culprit.

Soon after the baby girl was adopted and became the pride of a childless couple.

Rumours had it that our Sharif Dol had absconded to a faraway place for sensitive reasons only known and discussed amongst a few village elders. Also was the reason on the sudden closure of the only grocery store in our neighbourhood, and the proprietor’s young wife gone missing. Some had it that the couple had marital problems. They were divorced. The wife returned to her parents in a faraway village. It was also rumoured that she eloped with Sharif Dol.

Whatsoever those sordid affairs were eventually forgotten and buried with times and so were Sharif Dol and his gang of hoodlums.

*****

The sudden demised of my eldest cousin Yong Kalsom on the 2^nd Muharram came as a shock to me. She was a 75 years old and an all times hardcore poor. (A piece on her life struggles was posted on this blog March last year as part of my PRU13 postings.)

Only a couple of days ago I remembered and missed her.

As the funeral was to be after Zohor prayer, I braved the wet weather and drove the 200km route back to my ancestral village Tanjung Bayan to pay my last respect. I was received on arrival by her adopted daughter and her husband.

Villages, neighbours, as well close relatives were at her funeral. Except for some close nieces and nephews, I hardly knew most of the attendees.

I admitted that I had been for some 40 years now, living apart from my ancestral village and seldom returned. And as I reminiscence the good old days brought up as a Kampung Boy, I recognised a familiar figure walking with a limp entering the compound, from the main road not too far distant away. Somehow I recognized that familiar face as our once renowned Sharif Dol. I couldn’t believe my eyes, as the lonely figure hobbled towards where I was sitting almost unnoticed by those present. Eagerly I approached him. We exchange greetings and shook hand. Rightly, he was Din the once flamboyant Shariff Dol of Kampung Tanjung Bayan.

I remember it was sometimes in the late fifties I last saw him. He may not remember nor recognised me, but it was him alright.

Later he sat by himself underneath the house, cutting a lonely figure as a frail old man. At times his eyes half closed and his lips trembles. While some others paid their last respect and leaved, he waited till the end of the funeral rites and joined the imam for the Jenazah Prayer.

****

Later that evening while driving back to Petaling Jaya, the chance of meeting long lost relatives and some kampong folks and also Din the village Shariff Dol of the late fifties at Yong Kalsom funeral brought back fond memories growing up as a Kampong Boy in the Malay Settlement. Some loose fragments of past memories concurred vividly in my mind as I tried to piece in my mental picture frames the proper ‘continuity’ on the changing events that were long forgotten.

I was flabbergasted on the dramatic ‘rought cut’ that my wild mind finally assembled, connecting some of those happenings to the timely adoption of my adopted niece.

Hopefully I was not influenced by the miss conception and wished Hajar was duly informed and had met her true biological parents whoever they maybe. Wallahualam.

As for now she and her family need to collect the pieces ( if any ) and go on with their lives.

Alfatihah for Yong Kalsom.

The Angler From Tanah Deli

They moved in to their makeshif squatter home by the river bank almost at the same time as our family moving in to our new Rumah Kotai at Parit 26 Baruh, Kampung Tanjung Bayan. His wife was a very kind and diminutive old lady. We called her Mak Itam. I used to see her frail figure busying herself amidst some bushes plucking herbs for her ‘nasi ulam’ – (a mixture of rice with some concocted herbs). Maybe because of her dark complexion, we nicknamed her Mak Itam, or maybe for reasons that we were not properly introduced when the family moved in to our area, none of us knew her real maden name. But whatever it was they were our first neighbor.

Mak Itam was around 40 years old, 10 years younger than her husband Pak Abu. Mother claimed that she was of the same age as Mak Itam. But to most Mother looked very much younger, maybe because she had a fair complexion. But Father and Pak Abu look like they are of the same age.

And like Father, Pak Abu may have wasted his youth engaged in hard labours. Like Father, he was skinny to the bone, thin haired, with sunken eyes. I presumed he got married to Mak Itam when he was in his early teen. According to Father the couple originated from Deli, Sumatra. They were part of the great migration from Riau Sumatra to our shores some years ago. So were our ancestors, Father used to remind us.

According to Father, they were the landless. All the time they had been vigrants living in makeshif squatter homes in ‘no man lands’ by the bank of Bernam River. According to Father he knew Pak Abu years before the Japanese Occupation periods (1941-1945). They also had, on a couple of occasions joined force scavenging sunken ships. Most were cargo ships drowned by torpedoes of the warring parties of WWII between The Japanese and The Allied Forces at The Straits Of Melacca.

He built his squatter home by the water edge. It looked more like a makeshift dwelling than a permanent abode. It was built out of ‘langadai or mata buaya’ woods found in abundance in the mangrove swamps. ‘Nipa’ leaves used for roofs and walls. The floor area no bigger than a badminton court, with an attached small kitchen shed. The interior was almost empty except for a couple of rolled up mat and mosquito nets for sleeping purposes. There was no proper wardrobe. Clothes were hanging on the hooks by the pillars. It was more like a temporary dwelling for fugitive on the run than a family’s permanent abode. They could only afford the very bare minimum. The were simpleton. Although poor they looked contented. They mind their own business, kind to their neighbors and nice to people around them.

It was rare to see a hardcore poor like them in and around the Malay Settlement. At least Father had his Rumah Kotai to house his family. Unlike Pak Abu, Father could take pride of himself as being a part of The Malay Settlement. Father also owned a small holding, a plot of coconut land he could claim his own. Among the Malay Community, Father was considered to be in the bracket of the haves, in the category of the affordable villagers. That was the way the British Malaya Administration Government categorized all resident of the Malay Settlement then. They were land owners - small holders. As for Pak Abu, he was the landless and considered by most as vagrant. He had no place in the Malay Settlement. His livelihood was only fishing at the swelling estuary of Sungai Bernam.

Something unique about this couple interest me till present day. Pak Abu was a seasoned angler, and Mak Itam was good in preparing ‘nasi ulam’. Pak Abu prowess skill angling for ‘ikan SIAKAP,’ was widely known amongst his peers. Most of his good catch of SIAKAP always sought after by Chinese Tawkeys in town offering good prize. His catch could be a few SIAKAP for each monthly season. But that satisfied him, and he would never look for other job option to supplement his income. During off season he would spend his days repairing his ‘perahu’ ( boat ), or moving about the Malay Settlement looking for the right bamboo for his fishing rod.

According to Pak Abu a good bamboo rod would be 15 to 21 feet in length, with each having more than 21 segments. The best would be an old and stunted bamboo stalk with ant nest at its upper branch. It was a feat finding the right type of bamboo for the fishing rod. The size must be around 1 inch diameter at the base and having the required length. Pak Abu would pay any prize for the right bamboo stalks, but normally he got them for free.

Then the arduous routine of shaping and bending the fishing rod by heating them on a slow fire. A special hook is shaped manually out of discard metal. The line was of copper wire, carefully prepared by wrapping with cotton rags, soaked in a mixture of coconut oil and heated over hot fire, for more flexible and durable. That was what we were told. The fishing gear known to the local as ‘UNJUN’ and the angling term in Malay ‘MENUNJUN’ – i.e to throw in the ‘live bait’ of young shrimps into the water to lure expensive SIAKAP ( A type of Carp ). It was a tedious and non economic venture, for no ordinary angler could haul in a big SIAKAP, however hard one tried. None had the skill and patience except Pak Abu. Father tried a few times but failed for he lacks the zeal.
According to Father, Pak Abu's special skill was he knew the habitat of SIAKAP and the way to lure them. Ikan SIAKAP known to be voracious breeds. SIAKAP greedily bite the lure and in respond the angler snatch the rod to hook the fish. Then the ‘tug of war’. The bigger the fish, the arduous the task of landing them. Pak Abu had the skill and experiences even for the biggest catch hooked. He would tire the fish for sometime by not giving in to the strong pull of the ferocious SIAKAP. Later he would let off his UNJUN to be dragged into the deep of the midstream. He would follow the drifting UNJUN for some distant. Sooner he would haul the tired SIAKAP into his ‘sampan, a very good catch and a lucky day for Pak Abu.

And at the change of the tide, with the stronger breeze from The Melaka Straits, Pak Abu would set sail to town to sell his catch to a ready Chinese buyer.

Mak Itam could tell whether Pak Abu had a good catch just by scanning the horizon during the change of tide each evening. A full sail on a strong breeze, meaning a sustainable income for the day. Otherwise Pak Abu would drift back home with the rising tide, along the way checking his fish traps anchored somewhere along the river bank.

Mak Itam as a dutiful housewife would make ready her usual nasi ulam. With or without Pak Abu’s catch of the day, she had dutifully prepared dinner for her fisherman husband. She would also extend some of her ‘nasi ulam’ to the neighbours.

Although the family lived by the day, they were generous and Allah bestowed His kindness to them. They were our good neighbors for years. He was Father’s bosom colleague, and the two very much valued their lasting friendships. They used to laments their long lost bygone history while each tried to define their original ancestral roots of Riau Malay descends. Often I heard them humming the tune of Lagu Kuala Deli together. At time I could see them in somber mood and their eyes red in tears - a phatetic sight for me at that young age, but for reasons I could not fanthom.
Now that they were all gone, I still vividly remember their caring relationship. They were meant for each other. They shared their happiness and sorrows together. They were like blood brothers, bonded by ancestral history and traditions.

Were they of the same Klan? Were they the genuine enthusiastic settlers sailing across The Straits of Melacca looking for greener pastures, or band of refugees escaping the wretch of the colonial Dutch?

That’s the untold historical events yet to be researched.

THE RURAL POOR

Life was simple in the Fifties. At least for my Kampong folks from The Malay Settlement, for by virtue of our Malay descends as ‘the native son of the soil’ (kaum Bumiputra) we were categorized as Tuan Tanah/Land Owner - ‘Small Holders’ as against the vast Estate Plantations owned by European Planters. Most accepted it as honorable standings, that the British Colonial had positioned residents of The Malay Settlement as among the ‘well off’’ well above the ‘have not’ – the poor, the ‘landless’ or laborers in some Rubber Estates or Tin Mines.

Thus it was stated in my school record Father’s profession was that of a Land Owner or Tuan Tanah – a Small Holder, though I knew very well he was not. I remember our early dwelling was on an ancestral plot less than half an acre in size, known among the family circle as Tanah 2 Baris situated at Parit No 23 (Baruh). The plot consisting of two rows of coconut palms, left by his parents to be shared with his other 5 siblings. When his sibling sisters grew up the plot was too congested for their families housing needs. Father opted out. He moved our dwelling to a rented plot ¾ miles away at Parit 25 (Tengah).

It was on this rented plot that Father started his retail business, by means of ‘barter-trade’. Those days’ provision goods were exchanged with agricultural produce, as real cash was hard to come by. A lucky day’s cash sale saw only a couple of Ringgit turnover. Instead, we had loads of coconuts and other agricultural produce in his makeshift store next to father’s shop house. Later Father positioned his business as a local copra producer. He afforded himself with a Coconut Kiln taking advantage of the abundant supply of coconuts from The Malay Settlement.

His business was good and a couple of years later he enrolled me for English Medium Education in town. By now he could afford the monthly M$2.50 school fees plus other hefty consolidated and book fees. Time was hard then. It was easier to attend Malay School for free then going to town for English Education, expensive by local standard. You are lucky having an extra pair of school uniform on the first month of school, as there were other fees payments taking precedent. Nevertheless, Father has made his decision and the family must support.

I remember at times Father pawned Mother’s only jewelry for my school expenses with the promise he would redeemed them soonest. Mother did not mind the arrangement as long as Father fulfilled his promise. Mother reminded Father, that pair of gold bangles was her only prized possession left to her by her late mother. The only occasion she worn them was during her wedding ceremony with Father. Since then the jewelry was in some secret closet for safekeeping. Mother agreed, pawning them as collateral for my school expenses was a worthy cause, and through out my school days that pair of jewelry was my parent’s only valuable collateral for cash.

I owed them my heartfelt gratitude for their efforts and sacrifices.

(As time passed, I lost tract on that pair of Mother’s gold bangles. I presumed that after father’s death at the prime age of 52 in 1960, the pair of gold bangle was still lying in the pawnshop in town waiting to be redeemed. And no way Mother could redeemed it. Or on the night thieves burgled our house a few month’s after Father’s death stole all valuables including that pair of bangles. I believed the former. )

Now at 67 some 48 years after Father’s death, and as I enjoyed the luxurious view of the effluent Lembah Klang from my Penthouse Office at Cosmopolitan Square, Damansara Perdana, I realized how much things have changed for me. I am no more a village lad but an urbanized person, living in the comfort of a developed society. Gone are my simple rural livings in The Malay Settlement with Father, Mother and five siblings. Time passed by and I very much missed them. Had not for Father’s vision on my sound education and Mother’s sacrifices all along, I will not be what I am today. I would be growing up in the Malay Reserve Land, a dropout surviving with whatever odd jobs availed, like most of my other colleagues deprived of proper education. Most, to this day are still living on meager income. Some are in the bracket of hardcore poor living on the same plots left behind by their ancestors.

Sadly after 50 years of Merdeka and self-ruled my descendents in The Malay Settlement, the once acclaimed Tuan Tanah/Land Owner by the Colonial Master, are but a bunch of hardcore poor. Merdeka means nothing to them. It has not changed much improvement to their livelyhood. The existing infrastructure was no better than those left behind by the colonial master, some 50 years ago. And so are their life stories, that of a never-ending tales of hardships for ‘the son of the soil.’ – kaum bumiputra.

Until present time, I feel no stranger meeting them as I travelled the 30km stretch of coconut plantations covering the length of the Malay Settlement. Nothing changes, except some rundown buildings and some old coconut palms swaying in the evening breeze of Selat Melaka. Some occupants are still around, though most of their elders had passed away. We still remember each other’s first name, that of their siblings and the name of their parents and grand parents. Nothing changed much. Their (Rumah Kotai) ancestral homes like mine once the landmark of each family plot, still remained but lack luster, ruined with times and not fit for living. Others left unattended, and a few like Father’s Rumah Kotai, rented out for cheap.

The Malay Reserve Settlement itself was in dire state. After Merdeka as the demand for copra slacks, most moved out making their livings elsewhere. Those who remain in The Malay Reserve heartland opted to other means of livelihood by becoming odd laborers or inshore fishermen….or unemployed poor. Alas, to this day they are the still left outs and the hardcore rural poor.

The Unfortunate Few

I must admit autism was unknown to most until the end of last year when The United Nation’s 62nd General Assembly designated 2nd April as WORLD AUTISM AWARENESS DAY.

April has always been a special month for me. The 1st week of April used to be a busy week for me. Firstly, I would always be cautious on the emergence of 1st April worring someone would send me on fool's errand as the 1st of April is April Fool's Day. We in RTM observed the 1st April as the birthdate of Radio Malaya estblished on 1.4.1946 (later known as Radio Malaysia and RTM-Radio Television Malaysia) my place of work for some 30 odd years; starting as a Radio Broadcasting Assistant in 1966, till my mandatory retirement date on my 55th birthday - the 4th April 1996 as RTM Managing Director.  Therefore I have reasons to note all the daily happenings of most of the 1st week of April each year as important events in my dairy.
So for this Ist week April blog posting, I like to dedicate my thought to my special childhood autistic buddy - in conjunction with the 1st WORLD AUTISM AWARENESS DAY.
We spend most of our childhood together in Kampung Tanjung Bayan. He was a year older and we were bosom friend. The last time I met him was during my Aidiladha Korban & Open House Celebrations at Surau Kampung Parit 25 Baruh, Tanjung Bayan, December last year.
Our early acquaintence was in 1953. I was 12 years old, and a new intake to the Govt.English School, while he attended the neighbouring Malay School in Hutan Melintang. We became buddies. My family home was in Parit 25 Tengah where father operated his Provision Shop on a rented lot belonging to Haji Ibrahim his uncle. A single mother brought up Basiran. They lived in a small hut, downstream at Parit 25 Baruh. His mother Makcik Saerah a woman of not so many words. She and her son Basiran always mind their own business and keep to themselves. The family did not go well with some kampong folks. Basiran and her mother were easily labeled as 'mereng' - insane. I believed then, if autism is not hereditary then Makcik Saerah maybe facing a traumatic life, being a single mother living in poverty. Wallahualam.
According to father, Haji Ibrahim inherited a big portion of their late parent’s property leaving Makcik Saerah a small lot enought for her depilated dwelling – a small hut only fit for 2. It was during December School Term holiday Basiran came to stay at his uncle’s place. He was forced to spend the term holidays clearing Haji Ibrahim coconut plantation next to my father’s rented plot. As a 12 year old, I could understand that Basiran could not effort the heavy duty clearing the undergrowth single-handed. It was a Man’s job, as the undergrowth was of thick 'lalangs' dotted with 'pokok kelubuk' to the height of more than 10 feet. Haji Ibrahim explained that was a way to train his nephew to be the breadwinner of the family and a responsible person. Father believed otherwise. Haji Ibrahim, forced Basiran to do the job for free. Father was not happy with the situation, but could not do anything, as Haji Ibrahim claimed that is was a family matter.
One fine afternoon Basiran showed his tantrum and ran Amok. Armed with a parang (a long knife) and instead of clearing the undergrowth he cut down most of his uncle’s newly planted banana palms to the amazement of the kampong folks. Haji Ibrahim was furious. He claimed Basiran inherited his madness from his mother Makcik Saerah. Unfazed Basiran threatened to hurt his uncle, claiming Haji Ibrahim robbed his mother’s share of their inherited properties. Haji Ibrahim got the scare of his life. Luckly though the incidents happened on the eve of his uncle pilgrimage to Mekkah, and with Haji Ibrahim being away in Saudi Arabia for a long time, the incident was eventually forgotten. However the  local folks believed Basiran and his mother Makcik Saerah, were a couple of lunatic.

But say what you may, I saw nothing wrong with them. I used to visit them in their rundowned hut. For as far as I can remember Basiran a loveble lad. He was always heedful and vigilant. Never were we disturbed by school bullies or the small town ruffians as he did not take heed to all their touts abd advances. As such I felt safe to be around him; although locals believed him as being 'sewel' - a lunatic and a dangerous person.
More so my parents did not mind I befrended him.

Basiran had the tendency of inappropriate behaviors. He seemed to be living in a world of his own. He used to talk alone and sometimes he would laughs and giggles inapproriately or talks over and over about the same thing. He likes to stare into emptiness and unusual eye contact during conversation. Because of his strange behaviors his school teachers choose to isolate him from his other classmates. But he never complained the segregation.

Basiran loved to meddle and modify mechanical stuffs. Once he invited me to his house and proudly displayed his attempt to repair his mother's alarm clock. He had so far dismantled a few old time pieces, arranging and rearranging the various components in rows, looking for the right part to fit his mother's alarm clock. On other instances he would perched himself on a high branch, delivering a long and winded speech to the wildness. Those unassuming behaviors of his make people believed him to be 'sewel' - a lunatic.

After Standard 5 he dropped out of school while most of his classmates continued their schooling to Standard 6. There after we seldom meet, but we were still buddies. I like him because of his gantle nature. Except on the day he showed his tantrum at his uncle's coconut plantation, never ever I saw Basiran being rough to others. Still most of the kampung folks believed him 'sewel' or 'sasau' - insane. They distant themselves from him believing that like most lunatics Basiran and his mother Makcik Saerah were bewitched and possessed by unknown prowling spirits.

Avoid them, for they would be at their worst especially during the full moon, local elders used to remind everybody.

-

Then, there was this man - Pak Din, a distant neighbor who was also lebeled by the villages as 'sasau' - a lunatic like Basiran. He was an ex SC (Special Constable). He was discharged from active service for reason nobody knew. He had bloodshot eyes and unassumedly like to stares at people from afar. He was a loaner, being abandoned by his families and friends. He moved to our kampung and lived in a makeshift hut on a vacent plot a kilometer away from my house. He was considered poor by the kampung standard. The locals believed that Pak Din scavenged coconuts from the monsoon drains and sell them in town. But Pak Din always claimed his right to those coconuts, and argued that he had prior business dealings with the owners. The kampung folks did not believed him. They lebeled Pak Din as a cheat and 'orang gila' - a madman.

During good times Pak Din would cart off a big load of coconuts on his bacycle to town.He seemed to be doing a good business selling those coconuts to prospectors in town.The kampung folks ardently accused him stealing those coconuts; but none brave enough to confront him. Pak Din always like to show off his 'pisau belati' - a sharp knife to scare them. They were afraid Pak Din might lost his senses and attacked them.
So most afternoon I used to watch Pak Din passing infront of my house going to town with a full load of coconuts. I almost believed that he stole those coconuts, had not Basiran cautioned me that Pak Din actually bought those coconuts from kampung lads on a fixed rate of 5 cents each and resold them in town for more. Basiran added, if at all there were complain of coconut thefts by village elders the culprits were their very own growing up cigarette puffing children, not Pak Din. Pak Din was a small time coconut dealer operating from his small hut by the monsoon drain. In jest Basiran told me, those lads would steal their parent's coconuts, threw them into the monsoon drain and cautioned Pak Din about the delivery. Pak Din would wait for those coconuts floating downstream and salvage them. Basiran also claimed that most of those impurated parents knew about their growing up kid's antics, but out of self pride they choose to put the blame on Pak Din. For those reasons Pak Din used to stare them from afar to scare them off.

Basiran was right. Pak Din was not a thief. Later with my father's permission I collected a few coconuts from our plantation and sold them to Pak Din. The money was for my weekly allowance and monthly school fees, as father was bedridden for cometime due to cronic ilness. As father's plantation was just across the monsoon drain where Pak Din lived, I only need to file the coconuts next to the monsoon drain for Pak Din to collect later. From then on, me and Pak Din had a good business dealings.

I believed then, like Basiran and his mother Makcik Saerah, Pak Din was no nuts or a lunatic. They were loaners and for some reasons living in their own world. They were not bewitched or possessed by spirits. They were suffering from something beyond our means to fathom.

Basiran admitted that he was always scared of Pak Din. He always avoid being in contact with the old man. One day misfortune struck the two. It was late evening, both were cycling from opposite direction on a village narrow track to town. Basiran was running errand to town while Pak Din was cycling back home. It was getting dark. Both Pak Din and Basiran collided midway. Basiran was thrown to the left bush while Pak Din landed in a drain on the right. According to Basiran he got the fright of his life as he knew that it was Pak Din he colided with. He could hear Pak Din's groaning from the depth of the drain, as he crawled out. To Basiran surprise Pak Din quickly grabbed his bicycles and sped off. And so did Basiran. Each was scared of the other.

-

I was right to believe that Basiran was not a lunatic right from the start. I used to ponder, what he was suffering from. Only now I understand that Basiran was an autistic.

Autism is a lifelong complex neurobiological disorder which affects millions of people world over. It blocked the ability to comunicate and inhibits emotional and social development right from childhood. Autism among others, has the symptoms of inapproriate laughing, behaving in a standoff manner, apparent insensitivity to pain, extreme crying tantrums, unusual eye contacts and uneven motor skill.
And recalling my long association with Basiran, almost all those symptoms befitted him well. Often an autistic adult ends up in the welfare system. Most of them would be warded in a lunatic asylum. Luckly for Basiran, he never was. He grew up, got married and is happily living with his family in our village.

For the first time, after a long absent, I accidently bumped into him in Kampung Tanjung Bayan a couple of years back. He was riding on his modified motorcycle. Knowing that it was him, I called aloud his name. He stopped for a second, looked around and then quickly sped off. Later in jest he told me, he tought I was a JPJ (Road Transport Department) officer wanting to inspect his newly modified motorcycle.

Since then we met almost every year during Aidil Adha and Open House Celebrations at Surau Parit 25 Baruh. Basiran has been an active member of the Surau Comittee, and has always been ever willing to give his helping hands for a good cause.

I am really happy for him.

YONG KALSOM

Legacy Of A Hardcore Poor

I will be 67 next week. My eldest first cousin Yong Kalsom who is 6 years older than me, would be 73 this year. As she is my only surviving elder, I like to dedicate this posting on her state of affairs as a hardcore poor all her life.

By chance I stumble into her last weekend at my nephew’s wedding reception, a week after PRU12 (Malaysian 12th General Election). The upturned unpreceded big swing of BN votes to the oppositions for Federal Parliament and to some state Legislative Assemblies was still the talk of the town. Hence throughout the wedding ceremony, local politics ruled the day.

In jest I asked Yong Kalsom how she feel on the outcome of PRU12, to which she hesitantly responded. "Nak kata apa?" (What am I to say.) Her answer was simple. “Macam tuu juga.” (Like always).

My next question was more provocative.

“Did you cast your vote?”

She nodded rigorously. Her gazing eyes caught me for a few moments. Then she gave me her usual grin. The sweet smile from this petite lady that I longed for. That sisterly smiling of hers rekindles fond memories of my yesteryears. As time remembers, she had been giving me those passionate smiles every time we were together. She was a person of not so many words but had always been mindful on others. I know her too well for that. We were closed since childhood, although most of our adult lives, we grew up apart. Her home has always been at our ancestral village Kampung Tanjung Bayan; unlike myself, after college education, I had been living around the country; firstly in Trengganu, then moved to Kuala Lumpur, later transferred to Penang, and on a special call of duty for a 2 year assignment to Sabah, then back in Kuala Lumpur and settled down in Petaling Jaya, Selangor.

“Whom did you vote for?”(Undi siapa?) This time I was more demanding. My inner feelings questioned my authority doing so.

Yong Kalsom was alert to respond. “I vote for the same party symbol as before.” (Saya undi parti yang sama macam dulu).

And again she gave me that passionate smile of hers. I was agitated to press for more definite answer from her, only my conscience stalled me briefly. Repeatedly I asked myself: “Why am I doing this?”

“Before it was the Perahu Layar now the Dacing.” (Dulu Kapal Layar sekarang Dacing). She honestly explained. I could see her eyes sparkles with pride. I was lost for words. She was honest all through.

For the record: Since Merdeka the constituents had returned the same party: UMNO -PERIKATAN later UMNO-BN. The Election Logo of PERIKATAN then was Perahu Layar ( a traditional Malay Boat with sail), later the logo changed to Dacing ( a Scale ) after PERIKATAN known as BN-Barisan Nasional.)

“But this time your party has lost the election. The constituency is now under the opposition,” I teased her in jest. ‘Dammed you, sucker!!’ I condemned myself.

Again she gave me the same passionate smiles. Then her lips moved. She uttered something I could not really grasp due to my tone deafness. But I could read her lips clearly. It sounds like: “Macam tuu juga” (Like always).

I remember a couple of years ago when I visited her in our ancestral village, she proudly announced that she had successfully installed a pipe water supply to her dilapidated dwelling. She was so proud of the new facility; for she need not cycled some kilometers away for a supply of fresh drinking water or make do with available rain water collected.

Long before Merdeka the Malay Settlement was provided by The British Colonial with a (free) public water supply. After Merdeka; only the affordable villages living along the pipelines were given the option to install the facilities to their homes. By ‘Kampong Standard’: having pipe water supply to one’s home, is considered a luxury living. So it was a long wait for Yong Kalsom to afford the available facility and enjoy the luxury.

The 50 years wait was never too late for her. Unfazed, the following year she affords herself with the supply of electricity. I presumed the long wait had fullfilled a lifetime achievement for her, as both electricity and water supply lines run along the trunk road less than 100 meters from her home.

Yong Kalthum has been a hardcore poor all her life. She had no formal education, neither any working skill. She lived by the day doing casual labour. I remember she had a hard childhood brought up by her mother Auntie Uda, a single parent. She and her younger sister were child labourers. They used to tag along with their mother venturing out of our village as far as 30 to 50 kilometers away to Sungai Manik, Labu Kubung in Perak or Sungai Besar or Sungai Leman in Selangor looking for seasonal odd jobs, planting or harvesting padi. They were not paid in cash, only given free foods and accommodations plus a few gantang of rice for each to take home after a complete harvest. That was the norms then, people usually engaged in odd labours in exchange for foods. At other times the family would tend their ¼ acre TOL agriculture land planting vegetables.

I vividly remember, way back in the sixties the family would attended to my father’s Rumah Salai Kelapa ( Coconut Kiln ) before dawn each morning for a couple of week each month during coconut harvesting seasons. My father was a small time coconut harvester, running his own Coconut Kiln producing copra. Each was paid a daily wage of around 20 to 40 cents, depending on the amount of dried copra each managed to separate from the coconut shells. It was a couple of hour’s job from dawn to daybreak. The rest of the day would be tending to their vegetable plot or doing other odd jobs in the Malay Settlement. I really adored them.

To this day, and some fifty years into Merdeka, after 2 marriages with no children ( except for an adopted daughter, now married and living in the same village ) after 3 deaths (her mother, younger sister and 2nd husband) and after successfully performing the Hajj in Mekkah, Yong Kalsom never fail doing her daily round in the Malay Settlement on her rickety bicycle looking for odd jobs. And at 70 years plus, she is still at it to support herself, as a hardcore poor.

What a life she has gone through and a pathetic tale to post in this blog. But that is what it is. Believe it or not: the legacy of hardcore poor still exists in our so-called affluent nation.

“Are you being looked after by the Welfare Department?” the final question suddenly popped out from my mouth.

She looked confused.

“Adake terima wang kebajikan dari Kerajaan?” I rephrased my question.

She shook her head vigorously.

“Tak mandang.” ( ‘Never’ as in local dialect )

“Orang politik ta’pernah tanya ke?” I provoked her.

Diligently, she shook her head.

“Kenapa?” (Why?) I demanded for an answer.

“They said I was never a party member.” (Kata mereka saya bukan ahli parti.)

I was flabbergasted. Poor Yong Kalsom. How can they do this to her?

Politik aside; someone need to rectify her state of affairs. She maybe one of the many village hardcore poors unattended to. One only need to go around and ask.

The incumbent BN palimentarian or the new Opposition State Government please take note.

A Black Friday For The Skipper

It was supposed to be the D-day for CheOm. We all believed so. He was challenged to a street fight by a silat exponent from Kampung Seberang and to everyone’s surprise he willingly accepted the challenge. His action soon became the focal point of discussion in The Malay Reserve Land. Close family members reasoned with him on his course of action, to which he strongly admitted that his credibility was at stake and he should not retreat. He explained what really transpired between him and his abuser that he resorted to the course of action. Although most of his close associates and the kampong folks willfully adored him for his bravely, but at the same time they also despised him for his astounding act.

They labeled him as a thickheaded bloke unmindful of the consequences. The fight could turn ugly, and he could be seriously injured or being killed.

Father was upset right on the onset, worried a tragedy would be felled the family. Father most regretted CheOm’s stance to confront a silat exponent for the street fight. Father knew too well that Che’Om was not a fighter, as what most people thought he was. He was just a boaster, a showoff, like to brag on himself. Above all he was a harmless and a loving individual.

Father promised the family that he would at the utmost try to negate the untoward incident by whatever means he could. Mother was worried at the course of action father would undertake, for mother knew too well father’s obstinacy. Mother pleaded that father should not get involved with other people’s business. But father think otherwise. CheOm was a close relative, as well his childhood buddy. In times of troubles CheOm needed all the support from those around him, especially from his relatives and close friends. To that father thought he was duty bound to help whatever he could. The Bugis decent has been known to protect each other in time of needs.

Father reasoned; that person was an outsider. He was arrogant. His horrendous bullying act was most despicable. That type of character had no right to be in our midst. According to father, the challenged fight was only the beginning (the tip of the iceberg). He believed that there was an agenda to it. According to father, there was this well known Maha Guru from Jawa Tegah, Indonesia responsible for the security and the safety of most in Kampung Seberang during the height of the bloody Bintang Tiga rule. He had since returned back to his homeland, leaving a vacuum in the silat hierichy of Kampung Seberang. A Maha Guru was a man of honor, commanded a supreme position and respected by various communities. After he left, the title aspired most of his protégé. The aspirants competing for the honor created splinter group among them. Some resort to bullying tactics to garner new followers, while others indulged using force spreading their influences to the neighboring communities. Father knew, CheOm’s challenger, was one of the aspirants from Kampong Seberang. He was looking for a scrape goat targeting new influence from the Malay Reserve Land.

To most CheOm was a goodhearted person. He was one of the kinds that easily befriended anyone, despite the different in age or status. As he was a generous contributor he was elected as the patron of our village Silat Group. The recognition landed him into trouble.

To begin with, the news of the newly formed Silat Group in our village had reached Kampung Seberang. It gave ideas to this particular silat aspirant. He came to town to harass the new silat leader. He found CheOm.

One fine afternoon while CheOm was having coffee at Pakcik Harun’s Coffee Shop by the pier, this person, for unknown reason insulted him and challenged him to a fight. In jest CheOm told him off, saying that he would only accept a challenge to a fight for a reason. To that the person resigned, but still hang around the Coffee Shop.

CheOm was delighted on the recourse. He called for a round of Kopi O, and started to brag about his skill in shining his leather shoes, using his secret portion of lime mixed with Kiwi Shoe Polish and his own saliva. Jokingly he claimed that his pair of shoes would have a lasting shine, and could at any time be used as a mirror. With that he raised his feet high for others to view, at the same time offering his drinking colleagues to use it as a mirror. However his act was short lived. Unfazed his adversary took the opportunity again to challenge him for a second time. He kicked CheOm’s feet and vigorously stepped on his shining shoes. CheOm quick to retort that it was a childish act. If the so called silat exponent wanted a fight, he should be brave enough to step on his songkok instead. To this the man grabbed CheOm’s songkok and threw it to the ground.

“I dare you, step on it,” CheOm dared the man. “I will if you don’t fight me,” replied the man, for he knew that CheOm was no match for him, but winning the fight meant a lot for his influence in the Malay Reserved Land.

CheOm accepted the challenge.

The time was fixed for the showdown – the following Friday afternoon. The venue was at Kedai Luar by the pier at an open space near the bus stand. The news spread like wild fire. Supporters from the Malay Reserve Land turn out in droves. Never the local mosque overflowed for the day’s Friday noon prayer. Father forbid me to go to town that afternoon. He had me confined to the house under close supervision of mother and my elder sister. Father convinced mother that our kampong folks would be ready to support CheOm, if the fight went out of hand. Secretly I saw father, took along his ‘tumbuk lada’ a small dagger used to be carried in person those days for personal safety. We all respected father’s decision and prayed that no untoward incident be felled him.

So that was what it was.

To our delight, father came back late that night unhurt. Actually there was no fight. After a verbal face-off both parties decided to settled their grouses on the advice of the local OCS ( Officer Incharge Of Police Station). The feud ended with a ‘Majlis Berdamai’ over nasi kunyit and coffee at Harun’s Coffee Shop.

Although the onlookers and supporters from both sides were not happy on the onset as they missed an interesting bout, they were also scared of the police actions as warned earlier by Sargent Mat Dom.

The tide was low for the last boat trip to Kampung Seberang that evening. Nabun the skipper was impatiently waiting at the end of the jetty to ferry those supporters from across river.

And while all the disappointed supporters were walking down the jetty ‘gangway’ into the boat, in jest Nabun poke fun at them by saying:“Masa datang tadi semua garang macam harimau. Masa balik semua tunduk macam pengecut.” (On arrival all looked fierce like tigers, now all lame like losers.)

Nabun’s comment offended one of the over zealous supporter. He gave a hard punch on Nabun’s chest. Nabun staggered and dropped some 30 feet down the jetty. He was stuck into the muddy river bed. Nabun had to be hauled up by using a long rope to the amusement all those along the pier.

It was a black Friday for Nabun the skipper.

The BERNAM RIVER

The Ferocious Croc & The Swelling Bernam

The nearest route from our house to Hutan Melintang town was through a narrow costal bush trail bypass, no bigger than ‘lorong babi hutan’ as termed by the locals. The distant was less than a kilometer, compared to a 4-kilometer track through the normal kampong road. The braves would readily opted using the coastal bypass, for a quick journey to town. At times one could be confronted by real wild boars darting out from the secondary jungle, or hear the cry of distant wild beasts especially in the very early morning or during dust. Other obstacles were, when crossing the narrow bridges spanning over the two river estuaries. During high tides the loose flatforms swayed with the currents, impassible to the less experienced. Each bridge, with an average of 50 meters in length, having 3 connecting flatforms supported by pillars.

Except for the area where the two bridges were, the whole estuaries almost covered with thick undergrowth foliage twigs locally known as ‘pokok jeruju’ right to the water edge. The upper banks were covered with overgrown giant plants, such as ‘pokok Berembang’, tall creepers and ‘pokok Gorah’. The estuaries looked deep, with dark murky water, believed by the locals as fertile breeding ground for river lobsters ( udang galah). For whatever it was, as far as I can remember, no local fishermen or enthusiast anglers would dare to venture in, as the dark murky water was also believed to be the habitat of ferocious crocodiles.

I always had this eerie feeling of being snap by one of that scaled monster croc, each time I took the river crossings. I had reason to be so. There was this instant, while on our way to school on one fine morning, we saw a baby croc lying idle on one of the bridge loose flatforms half submerged by the high tide.

It was a relief, when a family later known as Pak Mat Tikus (because his body posture apt a bewildered mice crouching, while surveying the area for stray cats before darting out from its hideout to the open ) built his family home by the river bank next to one of the estuaries.

We nicknamed Pak Mat’s eldest son Abang Darus as Tarzan, after a renowned comic and film (jungle adventure) character of writer Edgar Rice Burroughs. As Abang Darus spend most of his time brought up in the swampy jungle, he fits the title of the Jungle Boy well. We also found out that his prowess stunt was jumping from high treetops to the swelling river or at times swinging from one tree branch to another. He was also a good swimmer, having the physique and posture of the jungle hero akin Johnny Weissmuller or Gordon Scott of MGM's Tarzan fame, although Abang Darus did not possessed the fair skin color of both the famed Hollywood stars. Abang Darus had dark skin complexion with thick lips, more like Kunta Kinte, of the famed Hollywood TV series of the nineties.

One fine morning a tragedy struck the family. As was related by Abang Darus, while bathing with his young brother in the swelling tide of Bernam River, a ferocious crocodile snapped the boy and took him underwater. The news broke out like wild fire. Before noon, the area swamped with neighbors, relatives, friends and sympathizers. Poor Abang Darus, all day he fervently stood unfazed by the water edge ready to plunge in and rescue his brother from the crocodile’s jaw. However, after overnight vigil, no crocodile was seen around, nor do they found his brother’s bloated body anywhere nearby.

Later a Pawang Buaya or Shaman was called. This Pawang Buaya claimed to have the magical power to communicate with the ‘Buaya Keramat’ that controlled the Bernam River, for the justification on the killing. It was also claimed that the ‘Buaya Keramat’ would assembled all the ‘buayas’ to condemn the wrong doings. The culprit ‘buaya’ would be punished and ordered to crawl up the riverbank and surrender. The family would take their revenge and kill the crocodile.

We were curious on the outcome, although most believed; there was no way saving the victim, nor do the culprit ‘buaya’ would surrender itself to Abang Darus and his family. However, the daily vigil continued.

A couple of days later someone claimed sighting the crocodile on some distant bank of Berman River with the boy’s body still stuck to it’s jaw. To this, the Pawang Buaya readily announced that the spirit of the ‘Buaya Keramat’ had communicated to him, ordering him to lock the jaws of the defiant crocodile, to which he immediately did.

After a few weeks of waiting there was still no discovery of the missing boy, nor do a crocodile crawling up the riverbank surrendering itself. Therefore, when the school terms began a couple of weeks later, we had to abandon our vigil, and concentrate with our studies.

Soon than expected, life in the Malay Reservation was back to normal again.
-----------
Till the present day I am still in the doubt as to whether Abang Darus’s young brother was really snapped by a marauding crocodile believed by all or that the boy was suck in by strong swelling under-current of Bernam River during high tide, while Abang Darus was busy positioning himself on a high branch of 'pokok Berembang, for his Tarzan stunt.

Wallahualam.

The 9th & The 10th Zulhijjah 1428

Eid Adha this year was on the 20th December 2007 on a wet monsoon season. Some states in Peninsular Malaysia; was underwater, besieged by weeks of heavy downpour and floodings - the worst being in Kelantan,Pahang,Johore and Kedah. Thousands (20,0000 +) spending their Eid Adha in Relief Centers. Most rural peasants had lost their live stocks, while others, their possessions.

Alhamdullillah my village Tanjong Bayan was not effected by flood, maybe because the Imperial British Malaya Administration before Malayan Independence had successfully grid the Malay Reserve Lands with proper irrigation system. Although now the monsoon drains are very much neglected and far from good meantenance, I remember Kampung Tanjung Bayan never at any time experience flooding.
However to the Malaysian Muslim al large, the wet season: heavy rain and the floods did not dempened their spirit of Aidil Adha. Undauntedly they braved the downpours and the floods in their ritual homeward or 'balik kampong' exodus.

I was one of them. This year was my 3rd Eid Adha at my kampung.

So in anticipation of flash floods and heavy downpour along the 200 km+ ‘balik kampung’ trip on the eve of Eid Adha, I changed route, instead choose the Expressway to the north rather than the usual coastal road via Kelang, Tanjung Karang and Sabak Bernam. Unfortunately, the highway traffic too was heavy since morning. At certain point vehicles travelled at ‘snail speed’. Lucky though there was no heavy downpour along the way.

I prayed hard for the safe journey. Thank Allah for His blessings. I safely reached my destination on time.

My plan was to be with the kampong folks for the Maghrib prayer, reciting the Hari Raya Takbir; followed after Isha Prayer with the reciting Surah Yassin and Tahlil and a Kenduri Kesyukuran - feasting. This was the 3rd year in a row my family and the village folks organized the event.

The congregation began on the eve of AidilAdha on the 19th. through special Eid Adha Prayer & Reception, 'Ibadah Korban', and luncheon feasting on the 20th Dec.07. It was drizzling as I reached Mardarsah Ahmadiah Parit 25 Baruh a few minutes before the azan Maghrib. I was met on arrival by the Imam Haji Jumari ( a childhood friend ) and soon the whole ‘jemaah’ joined in. I was enthralled on the big turnout. Additional prayer area was prepared to house the big congregation. The evening event lasted till 11.00 pm.

The special Eid Adha prayer, followed by Eid Adha 'open house brunch', Ibadah Korban and luncheon on the next day saw a bigger turnout, including some Indonesia foreign workers from the nearby factories, and some of my home coming relatives.It was a job well executed. We slaughtered 3 cattle. The kampong folks, young and old helped to cut the meat, equally weight and wrapped to be distributed to the poor and needy peasants as far as the adjacent villages and squatter areas. It was a team output. Each member played their role well and without fuss, true to the ‘gotong ruyong’ - togetherness spirits still alive and well practiced in rural villages till the present day.The event was symbolically a novel cause, worth repeating.

Insyaalah.

****
“ Those who (in charity) spend off their goods by night and by day, in secret and in public, have their reward with their Lord: on them shall be no fear, nor shall they grieve.”
Surah Al-Bukarah, ayat 274.