That was gotong royong, community cooperation. Kampong spirit at its best.
Pansy could see the bright curved rim of the sun at the edge of the sea. Then suddenly, as if it had been catapulted, the ball of orange did not hesitate or stop, but instead leapt swiftly into the sky. Her breath caught, as it always did when the sun rose upwards with such purposeful strides, throwing out streamers of red, orange and yellow light in its path. She could weep for the sheer beauty of it. Pansy mumbled the words that William Wordsworth had composed on Westminster Bridge when he saw the sunrise with his sister, Dorothy:
Earth has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty.
What a brilliant, sensitive man he must have been, to have been so moved by nature that he could capture its essence and convey it to others in verse. Pansy felt that she would have been the poorer without having known Wordsworth’s poetry.
“One day I shall visit the Lake District,” she vowed.
On her last day of school, after she had passed her Senior Cambridge Certificate, Sister Catherine had called her into the office. It was their last, private farewell. Pansy already felt the loss even before it happened. Pansy knew she would long for Sister Catherine, her articulate voice, gentle words and impeccable manners. Even seeing Sister in her usual white habit and cowl made Pansy’s heart turn over. Sister was sitting in the study when she walked in. She smiled, her cheeks creasing as she got up to hand Pansy a book. Despite her age, Sister Catherine still towered over her. Pansy reached out eagerly and saw that it was a leather-bound edition of The Complete Poetical Works of William Wordsworth.
“Wow!” Pansy exclaimed. “A really old book! By William Wordsworth!”
She could smell the reddish leather: the pages were yellowed with age, its golden edges worn from frequent handling. On the fly-page was a dedication scrawled in faint ink:
To my darling Isabelle
the light of my life, Dad
“That was my name before I took vows. Now, I’m returning to England to retire,” Sister Catherine had said. “Teaching you has been one of my greatest joys. The light in your eyes when you recite the poems is an absolute treasure! Your love of Wordsworth reminds me of the richness of his words and rakes up memories of the beauty of England. I’ve got to see my homeland one more time before I die. But I wanted to give this to you. I know you will value it. I’m aware that you adored your father as I did mine. He gave me this volume. It was he who taught me how to appreciate poetry, how to see a World in a Grain of Sand…”
“And a Heaven in a Wild Flower. Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand, and Eternity in an hour. William Blake, ‘Auguries of Innocence’,” Pansy continued.
“That’s why you’re my star pupil!” Sister Catherine said as she clapped her hands, her rheumy blue eyes lighting up, her face folding into myriads of fine lines.
“How can anyone not want to learn poetry, Sister? It makes my heart soar so!” Pansy said. “Even when you live in the most abject circumstances, poetry can lift you out of them. Even if everything is taken away from me, I still have poetry, I can live. And it’s you, Sister, who has given me the precious gift of appreciating it. Whenever I think of poetry, I will think of you…”
“Sadly,” Sister Catherine shared, “people think that poetry and literature are vacuous subjects. That it’s more important to learn mathematics, engineering and all the sciences. Of course it’s good to be pragmatic and scientific but it’s as important to feed the human spirit. It doesn’t matter which country the artistic work originates from. There’s a universal truth in it. Literature is not just about a particular place like England, it’s about the place within us that we can’t easily reach. An inspired work of art takes us there. A painting, a good piece of music, or a poet’s and author’s words become a vehicle for us to make that inner journey.”
Sister Catherine had opened new worlds to her and Pansy admired her for having left the comfort of her own culture and world to provide service to others. She arrived, a fresh-faced young woman, full of devotion and zeal, giving everything of herself without asking for any rewards. She was like the palm tree, rendering and yielding precious aspects of herself without any expectation. Without the generosity of The Mission, Pansy would have been like many of the kampong children, uneducated and with no opportunity to break out of her straitened circumstances.
“Sister Catherine, I shall miss you,” Pansy said, hugging her, as tears streamed down her face. “You’re the best teacher. Ever! I will treasure your gift as I treasure my life.”
Sister Catherine had settled in a convent for retired nuns not far from the village of Chawton in Hampshire, one of the places where the eighteenth century novelist, Jane Austen, had lived. Pansy was excited every time a flimsy aerogramme with its borders of blue and red arrived from England, the stamp bearing the head of King George. Sister Catherine had a way with words that was so uplifting, describing the countryside and seasons to her.
The oak tree is my favourite tree. It’s majestic, very much like the proud banyan tree in Singapore. I love seeing a solitary oak standing in a sprawling green field, its trunk strong and solid, its branches spread out wide, set against a broad open sky. Its leaf is quite different from other leaves, and is considered a symbol of strength and endurance. That’s why the National Trust, an organisation that preserves the countryside and heritage buildings of Great Britain, has used the leaf as its symbol and logo. Tell your mother that the ancient Druids believed that the oak tree has strong healing powers, that the Rowan has protective energies…
Pansy had raced to the Raffles Library in the colonial building on Stamford Road. The library was Pansy’s heaven, thousands of books at her disposal for free when she could ill afford to buy any. She flipped through Encyclopaedia Britannica to check out what an oak and a Rowan looked like, why the oak leaf was so different. There was a picture of an oak with its nut or fruit, called an acorn. The leaves are more elongated than other leaves and have serrated edges and are arranged in spirals. It was a shame that she could not take the encyclopaedia out of the library to show her mother what an oak leaf looked like. Kim Guek loved Pansy reading and translating to her, and looking through picture books. For Pansy, the oak leaf became the symbol of Britain. Sister Catherine’s letters were Pansy’s first real and direct contact with England.
Now that she was out of school, waiting for the result of her application to be a nurse, Pansy helped her mother with their market stall. Kim Guek sold jamu potions, bunga rampay and her famed nasi ulam, a cold rice dish that makes use of raw or blanched vegetables, herbs and spices—healthy yet delicious. Fortunately, Kim Guek had these alternative means of supporting herself. The villagers knew that without Hock Chye’s daily haul of fish, Kim Guek’s income had been depleted, so Pak Abdul had suggested to Pansy in Malay, “You’re a clever girl what. Why don’t you give tuition to the village children lah? Teach them ABC. So many of them can’t afford real schooling. At least you can teach them to speak simple English. I’m sure the parents can afford three dollars a month or they can pay in kind. Then at least they will get a chance to get jobs as peons, waiters, salesgirls…”
“Boleh! Boleh! Can! Can!” Pansy had replied enthusiastically.
Pansy had toyed with the idea of being a teacher, but the healing propensity that she inherited from her mother would make her a natural nurse. Pansy debated between being a general nurse or a midwife. After all, she had attended several birthing sessions along with Kim Guek, and watched as her mother calmed the screaming woman, agog when the baby slid out in a watery and bloody trail. It seemed such a gift to help bring new life into the world. But if she became a When a general nurse, she would be exposed to a variety of medical conditions that would be helpful in her work as an herbalist or homeopath.
The villagers helped Pansy to gather empty fruit crates and placed them under the shade of the banyan trees to act as
desks and chairs, and there she began her lessons, on the sandy beach, the vast sea serving as backdrop, the constant moving tide as background music. She tried to make the learning fun for her pupils, so she taught verbs and nouns through nursery rhymes and songs. She was hoping too that the English rhythm would induce her young charges to want to learn proper poems. The Malays, like the Peranakans, had a natural ear for poetry as they often recited pantuns and sang folk songs in the evening in their yards, at their communal gatherings. The children turned up for the makeshift school bare-bodied and in homemade drawstring shorts. They shouted in heavily accented English:
Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall
All the King’s horses
And all the King’s men
Couldn’t put Humpty Dumpty back together again.
Pansy wondered if she should change the words “all the King’s men” to “all the Queen’s men” in June 1953 when Queen Elizabeth would mount the throne. The children’s cheerful chorus skidded over the waves; they dramatised ‘Who has seen the wind?’ and skipped to:
Father, Mother, I am sick
Call for the doctor quick, quick, quick!
Every month, each parent would pay Pansy in cash or its equivalent in cooked food, fresh fish, hen eggs, cakes, fruits like durians, mangoes, rambutans and mangosteens, herbs or flowers.
Even before Hock Chye had died, Kim Guek was already selling her jamu potions and treating the village folk. People came to her to ask to cure a persistent migraine, fevers, colds, stomach ache, backache, period pains, and other common maladies. Some more optimistic love-struck youth would even come to her for love potions. She had also acted as the bidan or midwife, delivering babies and helping women to regain their figures after giving birth, by massaging their abdomens with her herbs and bindings. And yet Kim Quek had never been to school, never been trained medically. Her skills were intuitively assimilated. Besides her numerous roles she had also sold the fish Hock Chye caught, sometimes preparing, salting and sun-drying the ikan sepat and ikan kurau to make into the delicacy ikan masin, dried salt fish, that locals liked to eat with plain rice or porridge. Many of the other villagers too preserved surplus fish in this way after the menfolk hauled in good catches. They scaled the fish and dried them in the sun, on the field of wooden racks at the front of the houses in the sandy yards, or hung them from wooden poles. Since Kim Guek was Teochew Peranakan, she also used the Teochew method of salting and steaming the fish as soon as they were brought in, to retain its freshness. Ikan selar or mackerels and small shrimps called geragok were particularly good for this method, and when fried for eating, they released a unique and distinctive flavour.
Their seaside villages were famed for their salted fish, especially the Teochew variety; and Kampong Tepi Laut was particularly well known for Kim Guek’s bunga rampay and nasi ulam. This was going to be a special week. The country was in a celebratory mood, all geared up to celebrate the coronation of Queen Elizabeth II. Festivities in the country were starting on 30 May and ending on 6 June, though she was to be crowned on Tuesday, 2 June. There was some anti-colonial feeling after the war, but a celebration was a celebration. It was not every day that one got to experience a coronation, even if it was from a distance. The rigours of city life hardly intruded on their village, especially since Kampong Tepi Laut was one of the hidden villages. It hardly ever saw an ang moh in their midst. If the villagers wanted the excitement of the coronation, they would have to travel into town. There was going to be a huge outdoor parade at the Padang, padang meaning ‘field’ in Malay, a designated stretch of turf, in front of City Hall and the government offices on the day; parties would be held across the island. Pansy wanted to go. But how? Young women were not permitted to venture out unchaperoned. She wished she was a boy.
So the villagers anticipated a surge of shoppers for their fresh produce. Especially the rich Peranakan matriarchs and tau kay neos, with amahs trailing. But the village’s delicacies were only for those who were prepared to walk or cycle the rest of the way, as Koh Sek Lim Road ended in potholes even before it reached the coastal kampongs, sparing the villagers intrusion from casual visitors and nosy tourists. That was why people called their villages, the ‘hidden villages’, hidden by vast acres of farmland and the two rivers Sungei Bedok and Sungei Ketapang. The kampongs were more easily accessible via the sea than by land.
On Sunday, motorcars started from town in the early morning, trundling along the coastal thoroughfare, East Coast Road, which afforded an expansive view of seaside bungalows on raised concrete pillars, palm trees, sandy beaches and sea. This road went through Katong, the enclave of the Peranakans and Eurasians, past Siglap Road with its sea-wall and small cluster of attap houses, before it became Upper East Coast Road. At the very end of Upper East Coast Road was a very sharp left turn which led traffic into unpaved Bedok Road. This was Bedok Corner, its spot marked by a massive banyan tree. The tree had a magnificent crown of leaves and sea figs, its firm aerial roots seeming to prop up the whole tree. Cascading from its branches were thick long vines, which children loved to swing from, pretending they were being Johnny Weismuller’s Tarzan. The banyan tree looked across the road to Kampong Bedok, with its food stalls and curved beach of white sand called Long Beach, the anglicised translation of the Malay words pasir panjang, as the Western stretch of beach had already taken this Malay name. Beyond the village, right on the coast was a holiday bungalow, the Bedok Rest House, two pillboxes near it reminding them of the attempt of the British forces to thwart a Japanese invasion by sea but which never took place thus rendering the pillboxes obsolete. Young lovers away from their chaperones tended to sneak inside the pillboxes for a quick kiss or fondle.
It was here at Bedok Corner that several of the motorcars from town stopped for petrol, or for passengers to stretch their legs or have a snack and meal, before they made their final assault on the hidden villages on the coast. From here on, the road was unpaved, after which they had to tackle the mud-packed jalan if they wished to get to the seaside villages.
“Let’s take a break and have curry puff and teh tarik,” said one.
People from town mostly spoke English, not commonly heard in the kampongs.
“I like the bandung drink…”
“Oh, I must have the ju her eng chai,” another said. “It’s the best in Singapore! The cuttlefish and vegetables are truly fresh.”
“Mutton soup for me…”
Kampong Tepi Laut was only across the other side from Kampong Bedok, and the two were within sight of each other. But the Bedok River separated them, and except for a footbridge, there was no vehicular bridge at this juncture. So the Mini Coopers, Fords, Austin Cambridges and Triumphs had to drive further along Bedok Road till they arrived at an intersection. Instead of going straight towards Kampong Simpang Bedok, they had to turn right onto Changi Road. The posh cars grumbled and groaned as they crossed Sungei Bedok on the bumpy wooden bridge, sending their passengers up towards the cars’ roof, or sideways and forwards. The sound the crossing generated was like the regular beat of drums, in keeping with the word “bedok”, which was supposed to be an ancient native drum that had given the area its name. Adults complained incessantly, worried that their cars’ suspension would be damaged by the rough-hewn logs. But the children thought it was a game and squealed with delight. From there, the cars took another right to roll along the mud-packed Koh Sek Lim Road, pass a quarry lake and banyan trees before they could come close to the village shores.
Holidaymakers tended to restrict themselves to the vicinity of Bedok Rest House at Kampong Bedok, or the Municipal Holiday Bungalows at Kampong Mata Ikan at Changi, because they were more accessible by road. Both Kampong Padang Terbakar and Kampong Tepi Laut were inaccessible to motorised vehicles; the only modes of transport were bicycles, tricycles, trishaws, and bullock carts. Their obscurity created an aura of mystery around them. Besides the fishing industry, the surroundings of these villages were c
ultivated farmlands, mostly owned by Teochew entrepreneurs and farmers, who grew maize, chye sim, pak choy, kai lan and beansprouts. Nearby was a tofu-making cottage industry factory. Fermented soya released a distinctive smell when it wafted into the air. The farmlands also reeked of raw manure when the sun blazed for long periods, swarms of flies hovering and buzzing around. Luckily, the kampong houses by the coast had the luxury of the sea breeze to fan away the odour from the fields. The town people or townies, called orang bandar by the kampong folk, had to brave all these. Hence, their trip to the hidden villages was considered a major excursion and was likened to an adventure.
“Orang bandar sudah datang!” The kids, who acted as lookouts, announced the town people’s arrival in Malay. These enterprising children got paid three cents for their task. They would also offer their services to the customers, to help carry their shopping baskets or to find them a fruit-crate stool to sit on, to rest their weary feet or to clean their shoes, which had accumulated a thick coating of muck by the time they arrived at the village.
Maniam, the Indian cowherd, offered his bullock cart as transport for those who did not wish to walk the entire way. The Peranakan matrons in their baju panjang and finery looked quite a sight, clutching their wicker baskets, their feet dangling from bullock carts—especially if the cart was laden with hay or manure!
“Amboi! Wangi sekali! What fragrance!” they would mutter caustically as they used their large red handkerchiefs that were usually slung over their shoulders to wipe off sireh juice to fan their faces, eyes rolling upwards.
The villagers hurried to get their stalls ready, and a hive of activity ensued. The Teochew farmers harvested the vegetables from their fields. The Indians decanted fresh cow and goat milk into clean but unsterilized bottles. The Malay fishermen berthed their sampans on the beach so that they could sell fish directly from them or from their stalls. Others set up trays of cakes or kueh-kueh. An enterprising teenager, Hassim, planned a lesson on kampong games for the town kids. Kim Guek laid out her jamu potions, cooled the boiled rice for her nasi ulam and sliced the healing herbs thinly—torch ginger, daun kesum, kaduk and limau perut, turmeric, lemon grass. She dry-toasted the finely grated coconut to make the kerisik in an iron cast kwali, bringing out its delicious aroma, then cooled it, and added this to the herbal rice salad.
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