I had to think, as I had not been asked such a question before. I did not want to simply give a glib answer. How tragic that in this modern day and age, we still have such a disease, one that led to sufferers being shunned and ostracised by society. No wonder they needed to live in an enclosed village. Here I was, so indulgent in my own sorrow over a small matter, and yet there were people living who had real challenges in life.
“Yes, Sister, I will do it.”
Before I left for my new assignment, I received an offer from the orthodontist I had been assisting since my graduation. Next to the Extraction Department at the Dental Clinic was a small room that was used for Orthodontia. Dr S treated mostly children, putting braces on their teeth to coerce them into proper shape. He was not a tall man but had a big heart.
“I can straighten your teeth for you to help adjust your overbite,” Dr S said. “I know you have difficulty eating noodles with that condition. It can’t be done after you pass 21. But it won’t be an easy process. It’s easier when you are a child and your teeth are not so strongly rooted in your mouth. You might experience some pain.”
I could not believe the gift he was presenting me with! What a wonderful man to suggest it, and he was doing it for free as well. I felt so lucky to have taken this route, to be in the dental line. This would not have happened otherwise.
My life must be picking up. The good apples had landed on my side of the fence.
Chinese New Year of the Water Rat began on Tuesday, 15 February 1972. Since 1970, when a partial ban had been imposed on fireworks, firecrackers could be let off only at designated areas. But some people defied this ban and when the police tried to intervene, they were attacked. Immediately there was a clamp-down on fireworks for the remaining days of Chinese New Year. A move began to ban the firing of firecrackers totally and by August, it became law.
“See! See!” Ah Gu, our pessimistic neighbour, exclaimed. “Gar’ment don’t allow firecrackers, right? So bad luck lah! All the Feng Shui masters are mumbling that the lack of the sound of firecrackers at Chinese New Year is not good Feng Shui. Sure got bad luck to come.”
For once, Ah Gu was spot on, though he wouldn’t know it till November.
Then we had trouble from Malaysia. Their government wanted Singapore to pay $70 million as “goodwill compensation” if we retained the acronym MSA for our national carrier. When we were part of Malaysia, our joint national carrier was called MSA. After our separation, we called our national carrier Mercury Singapore Airlines, retaining the original acronym, whilst they called theirs Malaysian Airline System, or MAS. The latter was a good Feng Shui acronym for them as mas is the short-form for emas, gold in Malay. And of course, the symbolism of gold in Asian beliefs is that it is synonymous with good luck.
Yet, Malaysia felt the need to extract the payment from Singapore. The sum they were demanding was hefty and would diminish our coffers. Instead of giving in to them, our airline chairman, J. Y. M. Pillay and his team came up with a new name and thus new acronym, Singapore International Airlines, or SIA. The new logo was that of a stylised bird which symbolised flight, in a rich yellow against a midnight-blue background. French couture designer Pierre Balmain was nominated to design the uniform. He was shrewd enough to design his own pattern of batik that was ethnic and traditional yet sleek and modern. The colour of the sky was represented in the deep blue of the fabric. He adapted the local sarong kebaya into a simple but elegant outfit that would be stylish yet comfortable for the air stewardesses to work in.
So it was that the Singapore Girl was born.
Elsewhere in the world too there was bad luck, so it could not just be attributed to the non-firing of firecrackers. Perhaps the energies of the Water Rat ruling the year had something to do with it instead. We received the tragic news via our TV. On 13 October, a chartered flight had crashed into the Andes mountain range in Argentina, South America. The small aeroplane was carrying some Rugby players from Montevideo, Uruguay, as they were to play a match in Santiago, Chile. There were 45 people on board. Whilst crossing the mountains, the weather worsened, making visibility poor. The aeroplane hit one of the peaks of the Andes at around 13,800 feet followed by another, before crashing into the thick snow. Only 27 people survived, many with injuries like broken arms and legs. The medical doctor travelling with them died. The survivors had to cope with the relentless snowy conditions and high altitude, miles away from any town, completely cut off and isolated.
We followed their fate daily on the news. Search parties from the countries involved were called off after eight days. The fact that the plane was white in colour made it impossible to detect in the snow-covered mountains. The survivors then suffered an avalanche, which claimed another eight lives. The remaining 16 were not found till 2 months later, in December. It was then that we heard about their struggle to stay alive and their horrific story. They were miles up in the Andes. They did not have any source of food in the snow-clad mountains. To get water to drink, they had to laboriously melt snow whenever the sun shone. They were all Roman Catholics but the last survivors confessed to eating the bodies of their comrades when they ran out of food. The news caused a sensation around the world. Recriminations were slung at them.
“It’s easy to judge when you’re not in their situation,” Mak said when I explained to her what had happened. “We never know what we are capable of until we are tested.”
People continued to debate the morality of the issue for months. It was the topic of conversation, not just in offices and high courts but in hawker centres and waiting rooms. What would you do if you were struggling to stay alive in extremely difficult conditions, and the only thing that could keep you alive was your deceased friend’s body?
Our own disaster took place on 21 November.
Fire engulfed Robinsons Department Store at Raffles Place, the smoke billowing black as it rose above the business district. The flames licked the roof even of the building next door to it, the Overseas Union Bank. The conflagration could be seen from afar. The Stock Exchange at Clifford House nearby had to stop trading for the day. We were given the terrible news and the details throughout the week. Nine people died, eight of whom were burnt in the lift. What a horrible way to die. They had tried to escape the fire in the store but met their end in the lift instead. But the saddest of it all was that one of the victims was a young salesgirl who was pregnant.
On the morning of the fateful day, a short circuit had occurred. The store’s security and inhouse fire-fighting squad started evacuating the people. Unknown to them, eight people were trapped in the lift, which had stopped functioning. The professional fire brigade arrived in good time, but the pressure in the two fire hydrants they used was too low to combat the blaze. They resorted to pumping water out from the Singapore River. Meanwhile, fanned by the breeze from the sea off Collyer Quay, the fire grew in intensity. The delay in fighting the fire had cost lives. We were all horrified. How they must have all struggled frantically to get out of the lift as it heated up. I could not get rid of the image of the unborn child in the young woman’s womb—it haunted me for years.
“Suay, suay, suay! Tell you, suay what!” Ah Gu said with a grim face. “Gar’ment should not have stopped all the luck that comes from firing firecrackers at Chinese New Year!”
“Hey, Ah Gu,” Uncle Krishnan tried to pacify him, taking over my father’s task in previous years. “Cannot say like that one. The short circuit could have happened any time. Even if we were allowed to fire firecrackers for Chinese New Year.”
“Ya, but your people don’t believe in Feng Shui!” Ah Gu rebutted. “Ours do!”
Singapore’s First Chingay
(1973)
PERHAPS, the Prime Minister had heard the murmurs circulating. Much of the Chinese population was attributing the country’s disasters in 1972 to the bad luck brought about by the lack of sound and noise due to the banning of firecrackers during Chinese New Year. Though the Prime Minister could have dismissed such talk as merely superstition and i
gnored the situation entirely, he didn’t. He was not insensitive. After all, Prime Minister Lee was himself a Peranakan Chinese and was raised in a Peranakan home. He would be aware of tradition and would have been brought up with the notion that noise drove away evil spirits. His own mother was a renowned Peranakan cook whose book, Mrs Lee’s Cookbook, was a bestseller in Singapore. But he had to shoulder the responsibility of a nation, and could not reinstate the firing of firecrackers when so many properties had been burnt, and so many people had been injured or had died on account of it. Instead, he came up with a plan to bring back all the pomp and gaiety that had been associated with Chinese New Year. He would expand the tong tong chir sound and make it into a longer event, which would have all the right sounds, noise and music.
Thus, Singapore had its first Chingay for Chinese New Year 1973, to welcome in the Lunar Year of The Water Ox.
“Chingay”. The Hokkien word was fairly representative of the Mandarin words, “Zhuang Yi”, which refers to the art of costume and masquerade. The two Chinese characters, “ching” and “gay” are in Min Nan dialect which includes Teochew and Hokkien, and meant the art of decorating or making up. Chingay originated in China as a street procession in honour of Chinese deities, and specifically of the Goddess of Mercy, Kuan Yin.
The first Chingay procession in our part of the world was in 1905 in George Town, Penang, which transformed it from a religious procession to a street parade of good cheer, similar to the world-famous riotous Rio Carnival, with bursts of colour, floats, music, song and dance. Penang was the first in our region to hold a competition for the best decorated float. Although Johor Bahru had a similar street procession, theirs remained strictly religious and was called You Shen or Parade of the Deities.
Prime Minister Lee must have thought that such a parade would compensate for the lack of noise due to the firecracker ban. It would be free for everyone to enjoy, including the non-Chinese. As the Prime Minister was also the Chairman of the PA, it was appropriate for him to expedite the programme for February to welcome in the new Lunar Year. For its first Chingay, the PA teamed up with the Singapore National Pugilistic Federation so that there could be a greater variety of performances, from martial arts, dancers to stilt-walkers.
“You heard or not? Singapore’s going to have its first Chingay procession!” Ah Gu said with uncharacteristic joy. “It will be on 4 February lah. The parade will start from Jalan Besar and will move along to Outram Park.”
“Chingay? What is Chingay?” Karim asked.
“Oh, that’s good,” Mak said. “Very positive lah. Must go to shake off this cloak of sadness that surrounds our village.”
But there was no one to look after Robert, so Mak could not come with us. It would be too challenging to carry Robert in a crowd, though he would have enjoyed the sounds and music. Although he was not large, he was quite gangly and heavy. Mak was getting older and more fragile. She had problems trying to give him a bath, so Third Elder Brother and I often helped her, conveying Robert to the communal bathroom. Someone had to hold him whilst the other soaped and washed his wasted body. For one so bereft, he was such a bundle of joy, giggling when the soap was lathered all over his emaciated body. You remember some people because they were kind or good, and some who were miserable all the time. In the case of Robert, every time I think of him, I recall his laughter and smiles.
Jalan Besar was only a few bus stops away from Potong Pasir, so it was relatively easy for us to get there. Karim and Uncle Krishnan and his family came along with Third Elder Brother and his new girlfriend, plus my two younger sisters. How Third Elder Brother had managed to hook a girl from the posh Bukit Timah residential area was a mystery to us. It must be his caring ways and charm. But Sister-In-Law-To-Be was a lovely girl and did not put on any airs. Our resident goatherd, Sivalingam, who had sacrificed his goat for the villagers to trap the roaming python years ago also decided to join us. He was despondent and felt he needed cheering up.
“What I do when village gone?” he asked no one in particular. “Where my goats go? No can move to HDB, right?”
His entire livelihood was at stake. At his mature age, what could he do to earn a new kind of living? How would he cope with being cooped up in a small, concrete flat instead of sleeping semi-outdoors outside his wooden corral for his goats, on a roped charpoy? Like him, our pig farmers further inside the village, whom we called Lai Par, also lamented about their fate. So too did our cowherds. The transition to a new way of life was going to take a toll on some people. Somehow, all of us felt at a deeper level that this was probably our last outing together, before our village was dismantled. What a difference in the size of our group compared to when we all went to our first National Day Parade after independence. If she was here, Fatima would have come with us. I missed her. I had written letter after letter since she left, but there had been no reply. Yet that was not totally unexpected.
The parade was held at 4pm so that it would not be too hot for us, or the participants. Umbrellas of rain trees threw long shadows where we had some shade. The performers had quite a few miles to walk, from the Jalan Besar Stadium all the way to Bras Basah Road, then on to Outram Park. Those who would be sitting on the floats, created from lorries, were in comfort, but the others were on foot.
People of all races lined the street. We could hear questions:
“What’s this Chingay?”
“Mean what, huh?”
I wished Pak Osman was here. He would know how to explain and put people at ease. He would have loved the razzmatazz of it all. Unlike the more formal formations of the National Day Parade which showcased the might of our nation, this parade was all about fun and gaiety, though it did showcase our Chinese culture. The lion dancers came out in full colourful regalia, accompanied by cheerful cymbals and drums. We loved the tong tong chir, and we clapped and gyrated to the beat. We craned our necks and stared in utter amazement as the faux-giant stilt walkers in their ancient China silk costumes strode right past us on their thin and tall legs. Wu Shu masters, clad in traditional pugilistic outfits, displayed their art and prowess in elegantly executed movements. I imagined them, agile, like the Kung Fu masters of ancient China, who leapt across temple roofs and mountains. They were followed by the various dance troupes, in ornate colours, prancing to jolly, uplifting music. Tourists stopped to take photographs. Perhaps one day the route might be changed to the more touristy district of Orchard Road, but for this first Chingay, it was created for our own people.
“What a relief from the drab silence of last year’s Chinese New Year,” I said.
As the shadows lengthened and the sun drew back, the sky turned crimson and gold. That was when the floats appeared, decorated in bright hues and lighted up with a myriad of coloured bulbs, with pretty girls and costumed figures waving from the platforms. We all waved back happily. Everyone was smiling. We were the first to watch the first Chingay! It was a moment in history. Every other Chingay after this, we could proudly say we watched the very first. It was a huge success. Okay, we still didn’t have firecrackers on our doorsteps, but considering the expense of lives, we could forgo having the sounds. This Chingay was better than nothing. It really made us feel less bad about the lack of firecrackers!
I was so sorry that Mak couldn’t see it. She always seemed to draw the short straw.
Two things happened in May which put an end to a way of life.
First, the renowned Kampong Potong Pasir fish ponds were filled up. Second, my teenage crush and idol, singer, actor, musician and director, P. Ramlee, died.
I had to admit that I could not have foreseen that the fish ponds would be filled. I was glad that Pak Osman did not have to witness this. It would have broken his heart as it did mine. The ponds were picturesque, and besides providing fish as food, gave pleasure to the villagers. We swam in them, caught our own fish and eels, and sometimes went boating on them, just as at Alkaff Gardens. When the beautiful lakes at Alkaff were filled up, I had been devastated. That had
been a bit of rural Singapore that had historical significance, in an era when we produced and filmed our own Malay films, with our own local actors and directors. Now our Malay film industry was practically dead. A place of exquisite beauty had been uprooted and demolished. Did the authorities want to transform our whole island into a concrete jungle? Couldn’t they have left our fishing ponds as part of the rustic scene when they designed the future HDB estate? Surely it would have made more sense to incorporate the history of Kampong Potong Pasir into the landscape of the new HDB tower blocks of Potong Pasir, using the ponds as recreational facilities for the estate? But it appeared that every acre of land was precious, so our ponds had to go.
The owners of the fishing ponds had already removed the fish before they left.
Gigantic pumps arrived to pump out the water. The watercress, water hyacinths and kangkong were ripped apart, and they perished. If we had time-sequence photography, we could show how the banks of the pond dipped into muddy ravines as the water receded and was being drained. The elongated tubular pumps sucked out the liquid with a slurping sound, as if it was sucking out the ponds’ marrow in the same way that someone would eat the Malay delicacy called tulang. Eventually the bottom of the ponds was revealed, stony with some debris and caked with mud. Some forsaken fish were left quivering and flapping on the pond bed. Like them, our village was dying a slow death. We stood at the edge and looked down with dejection into the vast caverns. Our world, as we knew it, was crumbling around us. For months, clouds of dust hovered around the space that used to be our ponds. The sounds of the diggers and excavators were the death knell that pained us. Our village was mutating even whilst we were living in it. It was an unsettling time. The lorries came with mountains of gravel and earth, excavated from our surrounding hills; forests were being denuded.
The landscape of Singapore was rapidly changing. The end of the kampong era was nigh. All across our island, kampongs were slowly being cleared in stages, and residents moved to spanking clean HDB flats. There was a major plan to reclaim the East and West Coasts to build Changi Airport, and the kampongs on the coastline with houses on stilts had to be destroyed. It was so sad. Our legendary Sang Nila Utama had landed on the East Coast when he had traversed the sea from Indonesia to come to Temasek, and where he purportedly saw the lion that gave Temasek its new name, Singa Pura—Lion City. Should there not be a plaque to commemorate the historical place where he had stepped ashore? After all, we have a statue of Sir Stamford Raffles on the spot where he first landed. Why not the same for Sang Nila Utama?
Goodbye My Kampong Page 13