Kampong Spirit

by Josephine Chia

  Despite his earlier retort, my father lifted me up and helped me stretch out my arm so that I could reach out to wet my hand under the falling water. It was rare to share moments of tenderness with my father or have such close physical contact with him, so my experience was intense. It was a treasure that I saved as a golden nugget of memory. Things like my mother’s kerosang or sireh box could be preserved as heirlooms but the best heirlooms I saved were memories of my family.

  “These statues all look so angmoh,” Mak said. “Their features are not Asian at all. The fountain must have been built by someone English.”

  “You’re so perceptive. You make observations like no one I know.”

  My father was in an amorous mood. Otherwise he would not have complimented my mother. I had never heard him say anything complimentary to her before. The perfume from the flowers in her hair must be going to his head. Or maybe her sexy see-through kebaya had something to do with it. Suddenly Mak became all coy, smiling and lowering her head.

  “The person who built it was Scottish. Scots. Whatever,” he continued. “His name was Andrew Handyside. He was born in Edinburgh in Scotland. He was famous for making ornate bridges, railway stations, market halls and fountains all over the world. This fountain was made in Derby, England, at his Duke Street Iron Foundry. It was initially installed at Fullerton Square in 1882 but was moved here in 1925.”

  Other people standing near the fountain heard my father speak and they turned to look at him, their faces reflecting that they were impressed by his wealth of knowledge. They turned back to examine the fountain with new eyes.

  “You’re so clever,” my mother whispered, returning his compliment. They were definitely in the mood that day. “I don’t know how you can know and remember all these things. Working at William Jacks has been good for you.”

  William Jacks was an English general merchant company that sold things like weighing scales. The company had its premises in Bukit Timah. My father was their bill-collector. But I was not interested in my parents’ conversation. I was too preoccupied running round the fountain and playing with the water to see them exchange knowing glances. They must have been pleased to have uninterrupted moments to themselves as I busied myself with the fountain and skipping up and down the park. I was no longer tormented by my tight shoes, I was so happy.

  “Are you hungry yet?” Ah Tetia asked.

  “Ya-lah!” I cried out enthusiastically.

  Talk of food always had the power to capture my attention. I was already having such a wonderful day and to have something to eat as well would crown the day. We traversed the length of Queen Elizabeth Walk, the breeze ruffling my hair. Cautiously, my parents let me stand between the stone balustrades to look down at the waves lapping against the sea-wall. I felt a huge unnamed yearning when I saw the sea spread out in ripples before me, the horizon a distance away, the fluffy clouds in the late afternoon sky. I would have loved to know where in the world the waves had been. The smell of salt in the air lifted my spirit.

  So too did the smell of satay roasting outdoors on their burning charcoal beds.

  “This is Satay Club,” my father announced when we got to Beach Road. “Well, it’s not actually a club but the hawkers are all satay sellers and they group here, so it’s like a club.”

  Rows and rows of Malay men squatted beside their stalls, roasting the wooden skewers of marinated mutton, beef and chicken over burning coals. Some roasted the intestines of cows as well, called babat in Malay. The hawkers had come from afar, from the many kampongs, carrying their wooden stalls on sturdy rattan poles so their bare brown arms were sinewy and muscled. Like Ah Seng, they even carried low stools for their customers to sit on. The aroma of the satay was mouth-watering. Each time a satay-man spread oil on the satay, there was a lively eruption of orange and blue flames. As the brush he used to oil the satay was made from sheaves of pandan-leaves tied together, its contact with the raw flames scorched the leaves and sent the delicious fragrance of aromatic screw pine leaves into the air. He fanned the flames with his palm-fan, making the flames grow larger, dancing wildly.

  “Let’s sit here,” my father said, drawing a low stool for Mak to sit on.

  He acted very gentlemanly that day. My father ordered lavishly. He was giving my mother and me a specially good treat. I was in my element, dipping the barbecued satay and squares of ketupat, rice-cakes, in the spicy, crunchy peanut sauce. I did not care that we were sitting by the roadside, the fumes from the buses and cars mingling with the smoke from the fire, the sound of their engines loud in our ears. I was strangely unperturbed that a few yards away the rats were poking their heads out of the monsoon drain, taking their chances by scuttling amongst peoples’ feet to steal a morsel or two. As the day darkened, the flames from the barbecue pits seemed to roar with more gusto, their bright colours brightening up the evening.

  That night my feet were red and sore and they throbbed. But I was so exhausted from the day’s activities that as soon as my head touched the pillow, I started to drift off. I was vaguely aware that in the darkness, my father had made his way into my mother’s bed.

  My mother woke me up on March 18 with the traditional Peranakan birthday snack of sweetened mee sua with a boiled egg in it. She had got up early to prepare it. As I took the first mouthful, I nearly spat it out as it was so sickly-sweet.

  “You have to eat it all if you want to have a better life!” Mak said. “The sugar is to bring sweetness and good fortune. Hopefully our circumstances will change and your future will be brighter and never again will you have to live in the conditions we have here. The boiled egg is a symbol of fertility so that you will have children to take care of you in your old age. The long strands of noodles are for your long life.”

  Who would dare to thwart the God of Good Fortune when put like that? So I forced myself to eat the gooey mee sua. Then Mak gave me an ang-pow, a red packet with some money in it, the red colour symbolising good luck, and the money for prosperity. There was 80 cents in it, the number eight being another Chinese lucky symbol. Eighty cents was a lot of money for me. It could buy me eight bowls of Ah Seng’s mee tng. Not that I’d spend it all on one thing.

  “Can I use it to buy myself a ribbon, Mak?”

  “Okay. Don’t spend more than ten cents though.”

  So off I went to our village shops; some of them were just wooden lean-tos. Mak Boyan selling her delicious bee-hoon and Ikan bakar, Samy with his ice-ball, Ah Sim with her boiling cauldron of turtle eggs, which we ate by sucking it out through a hole punched into its end. Kakar at the corner was an Indian shop which sold a plethora of interesting things. The moment one entered the shop, one could smell the fragrant spices piled up in gunny sacks. He sold rice, lentils and other cooking ingredients as well as useful household items like brooms and batteries. Kakar’s shop was like an Aladdin’s cave. I knew he also sold wheels of brightly coloured ribbons.

  “It’s my birthday and I have 10 cents to buy a ribbon,” I announced to Kakar proudly, showing him the money in my palm.

  “How old are you today then?”

  “Five,” I said, trying to sound grown-up.

  “What a lucky girl you are. Which colour would you like?”

  He reached out and brought down the box of ribbons for me to select. There was a whole rainbow of colours and it was so difficult for me to choose. Finally I chose yellow.

  “Normally for ten cents, I give you ribbon in twelve inches,” Kakar said in the way Indians talked. “But since it’s your birthday, I will give you extra.”

  I was so delighted that I skipped all the way home. I would have recalled that day with joy if not for the disaster that followed.

  Several of the villagers were going to the All-Party Merdeka Rally at the Old Kallang Airport. People were keen to attend to find out how their lives could be improved. Ah Gu came for my father and they left together with Samad, Abu’s father and our neighbour Gopal. A six-member British Parliamentary delegation from London had a
rrived and the rally was organised to show the British that Singapore wanted independence; merdeka in Malay. Twenty five thousand people attended the rally. These were mostly men.

  We heard all about it when our villagers came home. Several were injured, some maimed. Wives and mothers, including Mak, rushed out of homes to greet them, and found them hobbling, their faces bruised, arms bloody.

  “What happened?” Everybody asked at once.

  “There were thousands of people...” Samad said.

  “Yes, pushing and shoving,” said Ah Gu.

  “Carrying placards and banners that asked for merdeka,” Ah Tetia said.

  “Then Chief Minister David Marshall invited us to go on the stage to raise our arms and shout merdeka. We thought it was a good idea so we went up,” said Gopal. “There were so many people jostling up there with us on the stage. Then there was a creaking sound, the stage moved and then collapsed. People were piled on top of each other, squashed like sardines...”

  “It was chaos after that...” Samad said.

  “Luckily we got out alive,” Ah Tetia said.

  “Luckily the Chief Minister was not hurt either. He was whisked away by security men...” said Ah Gu

  “Was anyone killed?” The villagers asked.

  “We don’t know. We just tried to escape.” Gopal said. “There were ambulances, fire-engines and police.”

  The Straits Times reported the next day that fifty people, including twenty policemen, were seriously injured. Sadly the incident did not help Chief Minister David Marshall’s reputation with the visiting British Members of Parliament (MPs). They doubted the Marshall government’s ability to control internal security. Disillusioned that he had failed in his attempt to get self-government, David Marshall resigned and Lim Yew Hock succeeded him as Chief Minister on June 8. It was now up to. Lim Yew Hock to sound the clarion call of hope for the people.

  “Ah Gu and I are going to the opening of the new Merdeka Bridge. It’s not any old bridge but is a symbol of our country’s aspiration for independence. Would you believe that the word merdeka was actually suggested by an angmoh, Mr Francis Thomas, who used to be a teacher at Saint Andrew’s School but is now Minister of Communications and Works? The ceremony will be on August 18. Do you want to come?” Ah Tetia asked my mother. “It’s an important occasion for Singapore. The new bridge is constructed over the Kallang Basin to link the two stretches of the new Nicoll Highway so that we can get from the City to the East Coast more easily.”

  Mak was pregnant again. It was a regular situation for her every other year. But this time, it was the consequence of the March birthday treat. The baby was due in December. She accommodated her growing belly by letting out her sarong.

  “I’m already five months now. Better not.” Mak said.

  “I’ll take Ah Phine. There’s bound to be fireworks and other displays. She’ll love it.”

  I was so glad he took me. The bridge was magnificent. It was 2,000 feet long and 65 feet wide. Thousands of people turned up to celebrate. My father carried me to squeeze past the huge crowd. It was late afternoon, so the sun was not too strong and the shadows from the Casuarina trees with their fine needles were already falling upon us. The pageant would end at sunset, just in time for the fireworks display. Ah Tetia lifted me onto his shoulders so that I could see. It was another of our intimate moments for me to treasure.

  At the entrance to the bridge stood a tall monolith with two lions back to back against it. The stone lion, designed by Italian artist Rodolfo Nolli, was named the ‘Merdeka Lion’. We did not have independence yet but it was named in the hope and anticipation of independence. Everyone felt a strong sense of joy and pride. There was a promise of hope in the air – that one day, we would truly be free to rule our own country. It was the first stirrings of a feeling that would grow into a cohesive force that would form our future nation. All the ethnic communities contributed something for the major event. The Chinese staged their usual dragon dance and fired thousands of fire-crackers, their exploding sound like a stampede of cows’ hooves; their splintered paper raining down over our heads in a shower of red. The Malays, dressed in traditional outfits, presented a koleh procession, rowing their narrow boats or koleh across Kallang Basin. But the most memorable for me was the Indian community’s contribution. They had chartered a small aircraft whose engine droned as it flew over the river mouth. The small plane swooped over the newly inaugurated Merdeka Bridge and then in a breathtaking display, the people in the plane threw out rose petals which spiralled downwards like confetti all over the bridge and all over us. It was truly spectacular.

  TYRANNY COMES IN many shapes, colours and forms. The tyrant controls and wreaks terror amongst those he tyrannises. Its might could force people to cower, or it could rouse the community spirit and make people stick together and fight in self defence. For a few weeks, our village had been clutched by fear – a tyrant slid amongst us, killing those in his wake; and no one could catch him. Fortunately, so far he had not attempted to kill any humans. But the history of behaviour of his kind had taught us that his proclivity could change.

  Beyond our kampong – clusters of wooden huts with thatched attap-roofs that were arranged around a maze of narrow lorongs or passageways – lay wide fields of wild grass called lallang. The stiff, tall grass, some taller than a child’s height, had razor-sharp edges and could nick your bare flesh, drawing blood.

  And yet those same fields could be inviting, swaying languorously in the breeze, as if waving to adults and calling children to venture into them. The area held a kind of allure for those who were adventurous. It was a place for catching fish and eels, even frogs, which the Chinese called Chwee Kway, Water Chicken, and loved to eat. The grassland was also a playground for the fertile imagination, where heroes and pirates brandished their swords. The Malay kids pretended to be Hang Tuah or Hang Jebat or cowboys and Red Indians, leaping over wetlands populated with blood sucking leeches, fashioning arrows from the spine of coconut leaves and bullets from cuts of thick vines. Some folks said that this was where fairies and ghosts like the pontianak hide. The mood of the place could change with the weather, sombre and frightening when dark, delightful when sunny. Butterflies flitted back and forth, creepers of morning glory with their purple bell-shaped flowers festooned across shrubs and trees, giving the grassland an aura of pastoral bliss.

  What was more important to the villagers was that the grassland was an Aladdin’s cave of food. For those with an expert eye, food could be found in its undergrowth and vegetation, in its ditches and ponds. The assam or tarmarind trees grew there, their brown pods hanging down invitingly. Many of our local dishes used tamarind as a sauce or base, so the pods never stayed long on the tree. Children swam in the pond for fun, or to catch fish and eels. One of the plants that grew there in wild abundance was a root vegetable, tapioca, or ubi kayu in Malay. My mother, Mak, like many of the villagers, had devised many recipes from its tuber and its leaves. Peranakans were reputed to have the knack of creating exotic dishes from the most ordinary of ingredients. And my mother was a Peranakan cook par excellence.

  During the days when we hungered for something more than boiled rice with soya sauce, she would send my elder brothers into the grassland in search of tapioca.

  “Go carefully,” she would say to them. “Beware of the snakes, huh. Pick what you can. We will make lemak with the tapioca leaves. Make sure you pluck the younger shoots because the older leaves will be too fibrous to chew.”

  Mak’s lemak was made with rich freshly squeezed coconut milk, ground chillies, onions, lemon grass, buah keras or candlenuts and the fragrant limau perut or lime leaves. It was a soupy kind of dish and the tapioca leaves were boiled in the spicy soup. When my father, Ah Tetia, got his Christmas bonus from the English firm where he worked, we might have the luxury of fresh prawns to add to the lemak. The prawns would give the gravy that special sweetness which fresh seafood had the capacity to do. We never took for granted the food that we had
the good luck to eat.

  Though hidden from common view, the lallang grassland had a thriving population of wild rodents, salamanders, frogs and snakes. Nesting birds also made the lallang their home and their refuge. Though they might be a source of food for some people, Mak would never permit us to kill a bird for that purpose.

  “They herald the sun with their birdsong, and bring joy,” she said.

  When desperate, we might steal their eggs, but we would not slaughter them for meat. For I too knew the joy my mother spoke of. My heart swelled with happiness if I beheld the sight of a wild bird, a white egret with its long beak, patiently waiting to catch a fish, the kingfisher flaunting its shimmering bright colours in flight, or a long-tailed lime-parrot winging its way back and forth amongst the trees. My mother was a very special lady indeed and for a simple kampong woman she seemed to sprout all kinds of thoughtful sayings. I saved them like precious heirlooms, locked safely in my heart.

  Rural folks still owned the uncanny knowledge of sourcing food and medicine from nature. They knew which plants, seed or bark to eat and to use for medicine. Except for the disgusting cod-liver oil which Ah Tetia made us take each morning, all our medicines came from nature. Our village bomoh or medicine man, Pak Hassan, called the wilderness his pharmacy. He was a natural homeopath. My mother too had his unique gift. Both of them worked from their intuition and sometimes they would discuss the best folk remedy for this or that ailment. A neighbour came to her once with his foot almost severed from its ankle and she bound it with crushed dokong anak, a herb she found in the fields.

  “You’ll go to prison one of these days,” my father warned her. “You might kill someone with one of your concoctions. You’ve no education and no learning. Don’t act like a doctor.”

  But amongst the plethora of goodness that lay in the grassland, our tyrant lay in wait. Camouflaged. Hiding. It was the python, a snake indigenous to the tropics. No one had seen him yet but the evidence of his presence lay in his wake, clusters of feathers left behind by chickens and ducks he had swallowed, a track of dried leaves and dirt pushed aside as he slithered past; lallang and undergrowth flattened out by his weight.