Shots & Scribbles

Turn on any tap in Amah's house, and you would be rewarded with cold Maxwell Hills water flowing forth in chilly abundance. The water was particularly cold in the early morning, and if there were to be an overcast or rainy afternoon, one could expect a very chilly bath in the evening.  

The streams flowing down from Maxwell Hills provided opportunities for recreation as well as for hydration and hygiene purposes. Aunty Lia and Uncles Tom, Igni and Eng Chai took us to various streams for picnics, wading/swimming, playing with the rocks and water, and catching small fish.  

In places, the streams opened up into broad, shallow pools with sand lined bottoms that felt silky to the feet,  with walls of rough rock and boulders at either end.  One of these was in the middle of a Chinese Cemetery.  I recall our being taken there only once, and while the pool was a dream to play in, my sleep was plagued by  nightmares that very night.  

We made many trips to the Burmese pool which was close to the Lake Gardens.  Getting there involved walking into a jungle path at one end of the war memorial cemetery with its sad white crosses in neat regimented rows, crossing a wooden bridge (where once we encountered a boy selling packets of nasi lemak which we purchased and thoroughly enjoyed), walking a bit uphill, and then stepping off the path, to be greeted by a sight of a wide, large pool with huge, flat granite rocks at the upper end, sloping downward, with a person-sized channel etched through the middle, through which water rushed and pushed with great impatience any object in its path.   This channel made a perfect, natural water slide.  One lowered one's self into it, let go, and enjoyed the thrill of being swooshed down the rock and dunked into the surprisingly deep, freezing water.   

More than once, we visited the Burmese pool armed with facemasks and snorkel.  The water was as clear as it was cold, and what was amazing was that there were fish living there.  How they got there was a mystery.  They would have had to make their way up many little waterfalls, jump over boulders  and avoid getting swept back downstream by strong currents.  The presence of the little fish was clearly the result of a miracle.  Uncle Igni taught us a trick at the pool;  when the facemask became all misted up, we simply plucked leaves from the trees growing at the stream's edge, crushed them and smeared the mushy mess against the inside glass surface.  Rinsed and replaced on our heads, the masks were clear and streak free.  

There were smaller streams flowing beside the Coronation swimming pool, where the water was calm, flowing languidly, and the trees' thick foliage overhead ensured that the water was mostly covered in shade.  The sand in this part of the stream was fine and very pleasant to walk in, while the rocks felt rough and solid and made excellent building material for dams, fortresses and castles.  With little turbulence in the water, the Water Striders were happy to zip back and forth at high speed, seemingly friction free, hunting for food and avoiding the rocks and water we threw at them in the hopes of making them sink.  We never succeeded, despite using some very large rocks that created gigantic splashes.  

This house features significantly in my childhood memories, across two decades, so what I recall is a mash up of not just the physical aspects, but the time dimension as well.  Perhaps the fishtank was by the side of the house for only a tiny fraction of the 20 year timespan.  When was the garage made of black tar sheets draped over a wood frame, at the left end of where you see the tyre tracks in the drawing dismantled?  When was Uncle Paul's old motorcycle leaning against the absent garage sent to an unknown fate? Did my getting electrocuted by the christmas tree lights really happen, and if so, through which hand did the throbbing current enter my body?    

The objective existence or accuracy or specific coordinates, date/time stamps, colors/smells/feels simply do not matter. There is no question of truth or fiction, real or imaginary.  All that exists are stories, and sometimes these stories are given a little boost of life by a re-telling here, a faded black and white photo there, a drawing made with uncertain hands and the crowdsourced recollections of many.  

There was a large, self contained record player/radio set against the right wall of the living room, as one entered the front door of the old Taiping house.

I don't recall listening to the radio much, though the large dials and ivory white buttons made irresistible playthings.

What I found most fascinating about the set was that one could stack a few records on a metal rod, and the record player would automatically release the next record from the upper part of the rod help up by a small metal blade (similar to what one finds on umbrellas) after it had played the record already on the platter.  The automatic playing setup was completely mechanical, and added a extra dimension to the thrill provided by the music emanating from the vinyl records.  

Most of the records were kept a small wooden cabinet standing to the right of the large bookcase, and I do recall that Aunty Lia kept some in a mothball scented cupboard in her bedroom.  There were full sized 33rpm and small 45rpm disks mostly. It was always hilarious when a record was played at the wrong speed but it was always disapproved of.  I think there was a fear that playing at the wrong speed would damage the player, needle or records somehow.  

Two 33rpm disks are still very clear in my mind.  One was a Matt Monroe album, which we were told belonged to Aunty Mo.  The other was "David Seville and the Chipmunks" . Three 45rpm disks come to mind:  Bobby Vee singing "More than I can say" and an Instrumental record by the Billy Vaughn orchestra playing "Wheels" on side A, and "Orange Blossom Special" on side B.  And an unknown male singer performing a comical "Mustapha" song.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rJ6-mOwKqkI

There were only a few 78rpm disks in the collection, and I can still see in my mind a cover featuring a man (named Zachary) holding a violin, and a modern German train in the background, and the words TEE (which as a pure guess could stand for Trans Europe Express?).  It was a Polydor record.  

Burnfoot Terrace comprised rows of single storey terrace houses, with small lanes between them, providing shortcuts, drainage and backdoor access.  But most of these lanes were uneven with gravel and pipes and thick patches of weeds, tall grass and lallang.  Little daytime moths and grasshopper nymphs flourished here because humans did not often go by, nor did the stray cats and dogs.  To such areas and empty plots of state land, grass cutters were sent around 3-4 times per year.  When the land was clear enough, the grass cutters would use a scythe on a long wood pole, swinging it in a ellipse pattern, and pulling it towards the left as the blade made contact with the tall grass.  The men would sweat profusely under hats meant to protect them from the bright, hot sun, while all around their feet, beetles, crickets, moths and grasshoppers would scurry around in a frenzy, upset that the grasses they had called home for all of their short lives till then now lay flat on the ground.  The men paid no attention to the insects, swinging their scythes in continuous loops as they walked towards sections of uncut grass, unaware of the upset they had caused.  

There would always be a group of mynah birds congregating to feast on the suddenly displaced insects.  You could see them swooping in, pecking happily at their flying and hopping prey, and being careful to avoid the swinging blade of the grass cutter.

One of the little creatures (3-4cm in length) in the tall grasses that I used to see a lot of had the legs and abdomen of a grasshopper, but a head that was long and pointed.  They were not difficult to catch with one's bare hands, but as their bodies were soft, we had to hold them gently so as not to squash them and get green grasshopper blood on our fingers.  We named them “gobstoppers”, a word we had seen in British weekly comics, since these creatures, like the word, bore a resemblance to, but were obviously, not quite true grasshoppers.  Thanks to Google, I now know that creature's proper name:  Cone Headed Katydid.  

During the 60s and 70s, it was common to see grown men with nets on long poles disturbing the grass in football fields and patches of empty land.  They were catching little crickets, grasshoppers and katydids to feed to their pet fish and birds, or out to make some income by selling the insects to aquarium and bird shops.  

In the early 70s, the TV Series "Kung Fu" starring David Carradine was broadcast on TV Singapore. There was never enough fighting to satisfy us, but we watched every episode anyway.  In the flashback scenes showing a young Kwai Chang Caine living and studying in the Shaolin Monastery, we were tickled everytime one of the masters called him "Grasshopper".  

But the grasscutter connection to the Kung Fu series actually makes sense when you think about how the cutters move forward and sideways while swinging their lethal scythes as weapons against the flexible blades of lallang and tall weeds.  Think also of the jumping insects, flying through the air using the power of their legs, deftly avoiding the scythes, human feet and eager bird beaks.  

This section of dialog is featured in the Wikipedia entry for "Kung Fu":

Master Po: Close your eyes. What do you hear? Young Caine: I hear the water, I hear the birds. Po: Do you hear your own heartbeat? Caine: No. Po: Do you hear the grasshopper which is at your feet? Caine: Old man, how is it that you hear these things? Po: Young man, how is it that you do not?

In my mind, I can easily hear the sounds of the poles whooshing through the air, the scythe blades slicing into and scooping up the lallang and weeds, and the flapping noises of the mynahs excitedly snapping at their insect snacks. How could I not?  

The Wikipedia entry for Taiping mentions that it is the wettest town in Peninsular Malaysia, which explains the many thunder storms we got to enjoy while on holiday there.  The town’s source of water is the streams coming down from the hills, and there never seemed to be a time when the many lakes in the lake gardens faced a drop in water level.  

The town experienced a population boom when tin was discovered there in the 19th century, and battles between the Chinese secret societies that mined the tin were frequent and distressing enough to the British colonial leadership that intervention became necessary. When tin is mined, small lakes are left behind, and a collection of these lakes became the Taiping Lake Gardens.  North and East of the lake gardens, the jungle was lush, and many broad and shallow streams were readily accessible from roads or jungle paths.  These streams were an absolutely joy to play in, with sandy bottoms that felt pleasant to bare feet, and an endless supply of rocks with which to build walls and dams.  There were many insects that skimmed rapidly on the surface of the water.  We called them “water boatmen”, and it was impossible to sink them no matter how much water we poured in their direction.  

This forested area had the dubious reputation of being home to many pontianak, female vampire-like spirits who took pleasure in scaring men when they weren’t killing people for their diet of human blood. There was no question in our minds that these beings really existed and roamed the area.  We had heard enough stories, expertly related by authoritative sources, to be convinced.

The town itself had an easy going, laid back feel to it. Crossing the road was never a problem because traffic was very light.  There was a small clock tower next to the main market in the centre of town, and just a short stroll away, in the small side streets that ran perpendicular to the main roads, there were many hawker carts selling delicious meals and desserts.  I have marked out the approximate location of what I believe to be the best chendol ever. Unfortunately, the indian man who sold that chendol in small bowls from his push-cart stall passed away many years ago. At night these stalls were lit by kerosene pressure lamps that made a loud hissing sounds, and were incredibly bright considering that they simply used small cloth netting filaments as "bulbs”. Just remembering what it was like to be sitting on a wooden stool on the roadside, savoring a bowl of steaming hot fishball noodle soup in the light of a kerosene pressure lamp while winged ants circled frantically in the cool night air following a heavy downpour, makes my heart tremble with joy.    

During the monsoon season, which coincided with the year end school holidays when we visited Taiping, bright sunny mornings would give way to dark grey masses of cloud rising towards us from over the hills by early afternoon.  The first rain drops would be huge, hitting the baked roads, soil and zinc rooftops with force, driving the characteristic smell of rain into our nostrils and creating a din that was like someone throwing thousands of guli-guli (marbles) into metal basins.  

There would be a scramble to bring in the clothes that had been drying out on the line.  By now, our arms and backs would have felt the chill of the large rain drops, and the clothing we gathered would feel warm and smell so comforting, and as we threw the clothes in a pile in the back room next to the kitchen, we would be so tempted to dive into the clothes and luxuriate there. The back room was dark because the windows were made of solid pieces of wood with no glass panels, and little light came through the door because the thick dark clouds blocked out the sun.

Emerging from the back room to the familiar smell of the lit charcoal stoves in the kitchen, we would walk carefully along the slippery concrete passage to get back to the main house, passing the pails and basins set out to harvest the rainwater for washing clothes the next day.  On rare occasions, the nearby river would burst its banks and we would take refuge on the raised wood floor in Amah's room.  The storm would usually be over by evening, when we would head out to the wet road, breathing in the incredibly fresh air and then cycling across all the puddles we could find.  Thinking back now, I realise the puddles must have been contaminated with water buffalo droppings, so splashing the water around was probably not the most hygienic of play activities. 

There was a spot midway on the south facing side of Amah's house, where water drained down from the roof into a small depression in the soil, just two feet across. The bottom of this depression was lined with smooth pebbles and shells that were brought home from past trips to the beach, so the water that collected here was clear and cool, and delightful to stand in.

I have a very vivid memory of one particular stormy sunday afternoon when we watched a horror film screened on TV.  This film, "Attack of the Crab Monsters" somehow upset me greatly because the giant mutated crabs could speak with the voices of humans they had eaten.  The crafty crabs used their victim's voices to lure more victims to them, and in the end, only two of the humans on the island survived.  I remember walking out into the cool evening after the movie ended to calm myself by looking around at how wet and peaceful everything was and how quiet and blue the hills seemed.

There were three places in the Lake Gardens we HAD to visit during a trip back to Taiping during school holidays, and Aunty Lia was always happy to oblige.  

One was a pair of large concrete slides - wide enough for a child to roll down sideways.  The sliding surface was a very smooth, light green colored cement layer.  There was a small hill behind the slides, and I don't recall what was up that hill - perhaps the government rest house?  While hunting for photo references, I learnt that the playground of which the slides were a part was built for the children of Taiping by New Zealand soldiers stationed there during the Melaya Darurat (Malayan Emergency - British Colonialists vs Communist Party of Malaya).  Construction was completed in 1961, just in time for my arrival into the world on what was literally a dark and stormy night, in the hospital on the other side of town.

The other spot was just nearby - a set of shallow ponds crammed full of lotus plants.  The flowers and leaves stood tall on stalks, facing the sun while the rhizomes lay buried in the cool mud below.  The ponds had a constant supply of fresh water flowing in from the hills, and there was an outlet for water to drain into the larger lakes. This outlet was shallow and rough, making it a perfect place for us kids to safely stand, to feel the exhilarating rush of water sliding past our feet.  Lotus plants produce beautiful flowers that are delightful to contemplate (hence its significance in Eastern Spirituality), and they also provide ingredients for the kitchen.  The seed pods are harvested and sold in bunches in the wet market.  The green pulpy pod body is pulled apart to release the seeds which protrude from the flat part of what looks like a shower head.  A layer of green skin needs to be peeled off to expose the yellowish edible part of the seed which we would eat raw as a snack, or cook in chinese herbal soups.  The beans were also used as a paste, in fillings for Pau (steamed buns) and MoonCakes (eaten during the 8th lunar month). The rhizomes we purchased from market stalls cane covered in fine grey-brown mud.  The sausage shaped rhizomes were first skinned and then sliced up into discs with ready made holes in them.  The slices taste lovely when eaten raw (it's somewhat like water chestnut), and are otherwise stir fried with vegetables, or boiled with pork bone for soup. Even the leaves are used in the kitchen, in the preparation of Lo Mai Gai, where glutinous rice, with dried prawn, dried mushroom and pork or chicken are wrapped in lotus leaves and steamed. The leaves provide a distinctive frangrance to the dish.  

The third spot is where a pair of snakes were made of painted rocks from the Maxwell Hill streams. In my current adult incarnation, I fail to see how we could have been so fascinated with walking up and down the backs of the snakes, balancing carefully lest our feet touch the ground and the snakes consume us whole.  But enthralled we were, and back and forth we walked, staying alive and happy with yet another outing to the Lake Gardens.

Loyang Giant Mudskippers were found in abundance among the Mangrove trees lining Sungei Loyang which flowed into the Johor Straits.  Mudskippers were a common sight elsewhere - but these were very small fish, no more than 4cm in length.  These Loyang fish were easily 16cm long, swimming in the brakish water or crawling/flopping along the muddy river bank. I discovered these ugly but fascinating fish when cycling in the loyang area behind the airbase's apron, just before and during the time the bulldozers arrived to clear the land for a new Industrial Estate.      

Between home and Changi Village, Upper Changi Road ran past army camps and the Changi Air base.  At one point, there was an aircraft crossing where barriers would be lowered to stop traffic so that military aircraft could make their way between apron and runway. All road traffic came to a halt, but we did not mind. For our patience, we received leisurely, close up views of many different types of aircraft operated by the RAF, RAAF, USAF and RSAF: Hunters, Skyvans, Marchettis, Skyhawks, Hercules, DC3s, Jet Provost/Strikemasters were common, but on rare occasions, we would catch sight of a British Vulcan, Lightning or Javelin, or an American Constellation, Intruder or Phantom.  

Changi Village - two rows of old single storey wooden shop houses with zinc roofs lining the main road, a bus terminus, street market and bumboat jetty. The shops catered to the servicemen and families from the nearby airbase - tailors, newsagents, antique shops, restaurants....  I especially remember a second-hand bookshop where we purchased a large number of Peanuts paperbacks, and a newsagent from which we bought comics and magazines. We made a habit of buying Valiant and Shoot on a weekly basis, and I started collecting American comics with my first copy of DC's "Phantom Stranger" from there. Our bicycles were purchased from from the very friendly man who ran the village's only bicycle shop.  These bicycles led to wonderful outings of exploration, and we had endless fun dismantling, cleaning and customizing them.  Across the road from the newsagent was the A1 bakery, from which we bought raisin buns and apple pie.  When Changi Village was torn down to make way for blocks of HDB flats, the bakery moved to Chai Chee estate and we lost touch with them. There was a Roti Prata shop next to the bakery, and I found a serviceman's photo of it while browsing the web for old pictures of the village.

Behind that row of shophouses, along a small road leading to the jetty and a footpath bridge that spanned Sungei (river) Changi, were market stall holders, with pushcarts or canvas sheets on which they placed their wares.  During the weekends when we first visited the Changi house to clean it up before moving in, we bought lunch from the market, and I especially remember a very tasty sugar cane juice that came with it.

Part of the main road nearer the end of the village was used as a bus terminus, and it was fascinating to watch the bus drivers expertly reverse their large and long vehicles into what seemed like narrow spaces in comparison. The buses that went past our home in Toh Crescent (#1 and #2) ended and began their journeys here.  Bus #3, which travelled along the beach via Nicoll Drive and Tanah Merah Besar road, also ended its journey here.

Upper Changi in the 70s was a wonderful place and time to be a boy exploring on his trusty bicycle.  

From crab and mudskipper rich mangrove swamps to coconut plantations. From neatly organised British army bases to Changi village with its interesting shops that catered to ANZUK servicemen and its street market and the river where one could catch bumboats to the nearby islands. From runways that served military aircraft to kampongs by the sea. From longkangs with clean running water teeming with colorful guppies to empty, narrow roads lined with tall lallang, and later, huge tracts of cleared land on which industrial estates and new roads would be built.