Being useful, relevant and productive during Covid

 By Lim Siang Jin

DURING the early days of the pandemic, there was a lot of confusion and, like many others displaced from their routines, I was disoriented. To keep myself rooted in reality, I decided I should do things that are useful, relevant and productive. But what? These are motherhood ideas that meant nothing without any translation into actual practices. I began to get my bearings after a month or two, so during the Covid years I did three things, apart from keeping myself physically and mentally fit:

• Completion of editorial projects. With the large amounts of free time I had, I decided to complete the following:
• WPS Beacon Issue No 2: For our first issue, we had more than 30 pieces. By the start of 2020, we only had a handful for the second issue. I decided to add a series on the games we played as children to bulk up the issue 
• Being brave and angry – IOCU 1982-83: Articles published by the Regional Office for the Asia-Pacific of the International Organisation of Consumers Union (IOCU). Due to the  probability of being sued for libel (we were critical of transnationals like Nestle and Ciba-Geigy), I have decided not to publish these material but keep them in my private records. 
• “Four cheers for the backroom”: An article detailing four out of the ordinary events related to The Edge production team (to be published later)

• Covid-19 and beyond: There was a dearth of reliable information on Covid-19 in the early months. I thought if I could collate and disseminate material from reliable sources, I would be able to assist friends and other professionals in journalism, academia and think tanks in their work. I recalled that in 1982-83, when I was with IOCU, we published a monthly news digest called Consumer Currents. These days, with the internet, a “CC” would take a very different form. Every entry of the Covid-19 and beyond website has (a) labels to facilitate search (b) a brief excerpt of the story with its source and a link to it and (c) date and place of origin. I approached Seng Sun and Guan Khim to help out initially but it was impossible to co-ordinate so we gave up after a few weeks. I carried on alone. Eventually, the project from March 2020 to November 2021 garnered a collection of over 1,900 pieces. I am quite proud especially to collect most of the pieces from writers like:
• Amar Singh
• Arundhati Roy
• Pulitzer Prize winner Ed Yong
• Jeyakumar Devaraj
• Jomo Kwame Sundaram
• P Gunasegaram
• Tomas Pueyo

Also labelled were journals like BMJ, The Lancet and the New England Journal of Medicine. An array of topics was included, like misinformation, neoliberalism, equitable access and vaccination implementation. Please click on the names or terms to view the collections.

• Restart my art: I managed to start painting seriously again in 2020 after a break of 30 years. This year I held a solo exhibition at APW in Bangsar from Oct 21-30. Read here (The Edge) and here (The Malay Mail). Articles were also carried in theSun, New Straits Times, Mashable and Says. I am very thankful to my many media friends for their support. For the project, I also started a website, www.limsiangjin.art.

Bickering Over Durian, June 2022, acrylic, ink and pencil on paper, 30in H x 22.3in W

A friend indeed: Vincent Lim Ewe Tee, 1953-2022

By Lim Siang Jin

EWE TEE was my class monitor in Standard IC, Westlands Primary School, in 1960. We got on quite well and have been very good friends ever since. He lived a few roads from my home so it was very convenient to meet and play. And play we did! Like all other innocent and curious youngsters our age.

At his place, No 19 Birch Road, I remember going up to his room to spend time; it opened to a small verandah facing Gurney Drive. The bungalow was on the land where the 24-storey Sunrise@Gurney stands. Aunty, his mum, was a caring soul. She made sure I had enough to eat and drink while we played. I also remember his soft-spoken dad with a very kind face. He would drop me back home once in a while in their light-coloured car, probably a Hillman Minx. Uncle unfortunately passed away when we were at a tender age.

The Gurney Drive beach front in the 1930s.
Source: Aliran

The centre of activities, from 1964 onwards, was our area —  at the junction-enclave of Gurney Drive and Cantonment Road. Ewe Tee was part of our “gang” there. About 20-strong, we engaged in various formal games — badminton, football, rounders, table tennis, etc, many adapted to the environment we found ourselves. We also followed the annual calendar of state-wide youth activities involving marbles, kites, tops and cards. 

Numerically, we were big enough to play chiak bak, mata chat and kham bak chieu – so they became part of our repertoire of activities, many a time with creative variations, like hide-and-seek in the dark of the night (read more about these games here). And I would never forget how we stood under the scorching sun at the mouth of the big drain that ran the length of Cantonment Road — to catch measly catfish and chwee chiam (mini swordfish). The four acres we had access to, plus the beachfront, was a haven for children growing up. 

Ewe Tee was a good story teller too. Two of them remain etched in my memory. The first was his 1963 description of how he and his tent-mates probably encountered the lantern lady at Jubilee Camp, replete with details like a light moving outside their tent and raincoat dripping with red liquid the next day. My guess is that it was one of the scout masters making sure the boys remained in their tents! The second, in 1965, was an animated account of the second encounter between Cassius Clay (aka Muhammad Ali) and Sonny Liston, where the latter was KOed in the first round with a controversial “phantom punch”. The former had used a secretly-learnt karate chop, Ewe Tee insisted.

Ewe Tee, a school prefect at Westlands Primary School in 1965, was seated next to the form
teacher, Mr Teoh Chye Teik. For the caption and more photos of that year, click here 

In 2018, I asked if he remembered them. He chuckled and said no. Such are the strange ways our memories work.

I remember there was some healthy rivalry between us too. In 1965, both of us were appointed scout patrol leaders. We had to name our patrols after animals. I decided on the cobra saying it was versatile with a strong ability to protect itself, and attack if necessary. After some thought, Ewe Tee decided on the mongoose, telling me it was deft enough to defeat the cobra. I refused to believe that then, however in later years I found out that the mongoose indeed won up to 80 per cent of its encounters with the snake. 

Come Job Week, we would go jobbing together, going door-to-door to do odd jobs and collect money for the scouting movement. Focussed on the vicinity of Birch Road and places near the school, we learnt a fair bit about the places and its people — from the scrooge who squeezed the most out of his or her one dollar to the generous who gave us two and hot drinks to boot, and sent us off without lifting a finger.

Our friendship extended into Free School. Every school day in 1967-68, we would go to school together with Ooi Teong Siew and Ooi Peng Huat. Driven by Ah Eu, the family driver, every journey was filled with hilarity, usually derived from harmless pranks and disturbing girls along the way.

From the WPS Camaraderie page, 23 Feb 2018:
Farewell lunch for Ewe Tee (left) at Oriental
Pavilion Restaurant, Jaya 33, Petaling Jaya.
Click here for more

We lost touch for a number of years after PFS and caught up again in the late 1980s when he moved back to Penang with his lovely wife Kym. At the time, he was running a personal tour guide business and their son, Matthew, was born in our home state. In 1997, they moved back to England. After that we stayed in touch close enough for me and my family to visit his home in north London in the early 2000s.

He was very proud of and loved his family deeply. He spoke highly of his wife Kym, a Londoner who teaches children with special needs. Ewe Tee once said I could learn a thing or two from her if I ever wanted to do anything in the area. I was then exploring the possibility of coaching people to care for the aged. Matthew, their son, did very well in his studies scoring first class honours in mechanical engineering from the University of Nottingham and is now working in consulting for a technology company in London. It was very clear from our conversations that he was the apple of his eye. 

In the last 15 years or so, Ewe Tee would come back frequently to visit his mum, sisters Dawn and Grace, and close relatives. We caught up each time he came back and our friendship deepened further. 

During my last visit to London in 2018, knowing I would be alone, he meticulously advised me about the Oyster Card, places to avoid (“because you might get mugged”), the London Tube app, etc. I had wished to visit Kings Place, office of The Guardian newspaper, so he, Kym and I decided to meet there. After that we took a double decker down to Soho where we visited Liberty London and had dinner at The Real Greek. The day before I left, he came to Central London again and we spent many hours talking at a pub in Queensway. All these made my trip so much more memorable.

At the Real Greek restaurant, Soho, London, in April 2018, with Kym and Matthew

That was not to be the last time I met him. In late 2019, his mother passed away in Subang Jaya. He and Kym came back. Seng Oo and I, among others, met them at the funeral. Little did I know then it would be the last time I saw him in person.

During the Covid outbreak we spoke now and then, dwelling mainly on subject matters we agreed on and avoiding areas of contention — our political views had diverged over the years but that, we felt, should not come in the way of our friendship. My last series of contact with him was in end-August 2022, a week before his diagnosis. We shared our new-found interests. In the summer, the first in three years that was not snarled by Covid, he took a liking to lawn-bowling and had engaged in it many times a week, making new friends. On my part, I told him about my upcoming art exhibition, hoping he would be able to make it back in time. He mentioned he was looking forward to coming back to see his sisters in November-December 2022 after three long years.

That he would fall sick and pass away in three short months came as a complete shock to me. RIP Ewe Tee. We will miss you.

Joan Baez and William’s tour de force at 22

Unique story on the back page of
The Malay Mail, Oct 19, 1979

By Lim Siang Jin

ONE DAY in October 1979, something unheard of happened at The Malay Mail. The back page lead, always the domain of sport, was stripped. In its place was a story, “GLORY B! This was something”. It was a memorable day for most of us at the production desk, seeing our irrepressible editor, Chua Huck Cheng, make another innovative and inspiring move.

As for the writer, the person who put this “critique” together, he lived one of the wildest dreams any young reporter could have. William de Cruz was 22 when Joan Baez came to town for her only concert in Southeast Asia. Dubbed the Lady with the Flowers, she had become world renowned and, around that particular time, she was also campaigning for the “boat people”, refugees from Kampuchea. What made chasing this story even more dramatic was that Baez had only one night in Kuala Lumpur in her ultra-tight schedule; she was due to fly off to Anambas Islands (Indonesia) the next morning at 8am.

Like many other enthusiastic professionals, William was there at the get-go, attending a press conference at the Subang International Airport, connecting well with Baez and making himself conspicuously known — so much so that at their next contact, at the backstage right after the concert, she gave him a peck on the cheek and a bunch of flowers. That would have been a heaven-sent for an ordinary fan. But it was not nearly quite adequate for a journalist sensing a gigantic scoop looming before him.

Joan Baez: “Disarming feminine charisma”
Source: Wikimedia Commons, 1973

Getting to the story proved to be a bit tricky though. After some niceties at the backstage, all requests for an interview were turned down, albeit politely. There would not be a post-concert party either. The principal rep of the organisers, Jack D’Silva of the Red Cross, even quipped “with tongue in both cheeks” that he would be going to a girlie joint.

Baez was then packed off into a car which headed away for her hotel. William’s deep desire for a scoop, however, couldn’t be satiated. He told me recently: “About an hour later, the journalist in me couldn’t rest. I happened to know at which hotel she was staying. I went there [The KL Regent], walked up to the reception with the flowers Baez had given me. I handed them over to the concierge, and said: ‘Please give these to Joan Baez. I know she’s staying here’.”

William then took a seat in some far off corner. It was late at night and the lobby was relatively empty. With him were Helen Heng and Sheila Natarajan, our colleagues at The Mail who had gone for the concert with him. Ardent professionals themselves, they realised this was William’s moment to relish and remember, and left all the initiative to him. 

Soon after, the scheme started to play out. “I watched the concierge, flowers in hand, take the lift, which only stopped at one floor, and came back to ground level. After a respectable wait, the three of us caught the lift, as discreetly as possible, and I hit the button for the floor the concierge got off at.”

At the floor, they headed for the only suite and rapped on the door. Anne, one of Baez’s assistants, opened it and William said: “If Joan Baez is staying here, please tell her the guy who sent up the flowers is at her door.” Anne excused herself and went back in.

“When the door opened again, there she was — Joan Baez herself,” said an excited William. He recounted that she greeted him like an Indian would, palms held together at her chest, followed by “Come in, Sahib”. Scanning the room, they could see that Baez was having her midnight supper of eggs Benedict and a glass of wine. Jack D’Silva was there too, sipping on a scotch. “I knew it would be you,” he remarked, to which William retorted: “Pretty exclusive girlie joint.”

They were let in for a two-minute chat but it stretched to many more, thanks also to Baez’s kind heartedness and obvious recognition of William’s sincerity, perseverance and knowledge of music — he is a musician and songwriter himself schooled in the respected tradition of buskers and gig performers of the 1960s. The full write-up of the interview, including references to Dylan, her campaign for refugees, etc, can be read here.

I was at the desk at 4.30am when an exhausted William submitted the story to Huck Cheng. Along with me and other colleagues, our editor had also attended Baez’s solo concert at Dewan Universiti Canselor. As the early hours wore on, I sensed something special was being done to the story. I cannot remember who was tasked with subbing it, however, at the paste-up floor, I saw the unusual headline on the back page.

William deserved this very special treatment. He enriched and contextualised our experience of the night and made it so much more meaningful. The words he wrote speak for themselves: 

Hers [Baez’s] was not the long ways of the Streets of London, or the cries of Anak or even the grandiose hopes of Bringing In The Ship — hers was the voice of a generation gone by; one that had thrived on the essence of the Bob Dylans, the Pete Seegers, the Woody Guthries… Four and twenty ears ago, they had only their guitars. Today, she still sticks to hers while others have found an easier way out. 

Particularly, that was the feeling she radiated last night — in her simple midnight blue embroidered caftan, her 75-year-old Martin guitar, a pocketful of songs written so long ago they still apply today, and a disarming feminine charisma that brimmed with character and humanity. 

Bit by bit, the person in Baez kept creeping out — the mother, the lover, the sensitive, the forlorn, the human — and the songs spoke for her. As she sang The Weary Mothers Of The World Shall Rest, one felt almost palpably the experiences of the war-torn and the dislocated. It was powerful idiom delivered with the fondness of the feeling of care. But even for them she had her own ray of hope: “We may never be the poor, for no one owns us anymore...” 

And, yes, she had her less-than-reverential remembrance of Dylan in her rendition of his Love Is Just A Four-Letter Word — complete with her instantly recognisable mimicry of the slur and scraggly diction of the one-time high priest of youth.

Not one song escaped the injection of the message she wanted to put across — not The Beatles' Yesterday, not The Night That Drove Old Dixie Down, not Diamonds And Rust. They all had the Baez interpretation, the Baez cause — sung as if they were meant to be sung that way. No one noticed the greying hair; no one noticed the overpowering voice; no one noticed the absence of a back-up group. It was, simply Joan Chandos Baez, 38, singing her cause.

William enthused that the concert, which 3,000 attended, rivalled “the most mammoth of rock happenings… even if not in number, diminishing the electric parodies of the Today Era with the simplicity of yesterday's flower revolution.” Read his story in full here.

The making of GLORY B!, the story, was a special act in the play of Malaysian entertainment journalism, an interplay among its three protagonists: a passionate and driven writer, an open-minded editor who gave the story what it deserved notwithstanding the age and lack of seniority of the author and, most of all, a star brimming with warmth who, amidst “her unbelievably tight time schedule”, opened her heart to a near stranger.

                                                                 ****

1. William and I have been great friends since 1980-81, when I was seconded to head the entertainment desk of The Malay Mail while the section editor went on long leave. He and the other team members, like Aishah Ali and Lim Kim Bee, persuaded me to do a weekly series on veteran musicians in Malaysia. It ran for about two months and covered, among others, Frankie Cheah, Ahmad Nawab, Alfonso Soliano, Ooi Eow Jin, DJ Dave and Saloma. It was a memorable exercise, especially for me because I got to know the stories behind these music greats.
2. From then until now, there have been many milestones in his life. The following are two major ones: 
• Becoming the founding president of Global Bersih, leading and co-ordinating its activities from Sydney with a deeply-committed group of Malaysians from the diaspora. William gave me a short account at first but decided to expand it to give a better picture of “The Road to Global Bersih”.  It is certainly a story that needs telling. Read here. 
• 
  Writing Love is the Pill, “the biggest story of my life”, after his encounter with cancer. William’s experience with the disease was nothing short of dramatic, as can be read in his introduction to the blog-book or “blook”. Called “Gifts are for giving”, his comments to lend context to his project can be read here. He had been thinking about writing this “book of thanksgiving” for some time after his recovery. It was during an outing to Kuala Selangor with me and another friend in early 2019 that he finally made a firm commitment to do it. Our pictures from that trip are carried here.

• Lim Siang Jin is one of three people who manage this WPS blogsite. Read more about him here.

Straits Echo

THIS IS quite a well-known picture, a three-storey building that once housed the venerated Straits Echo Press newspaper. I have no idea when the newspaper located its operations here but very long ago, it used to operate from a shophouse in Beach Street. In the 1960s, I do remember seeing the building at this spot – the corner of Penang Road and Dato Koyah Road – but never in my wildest dreams then could I foresee that one day in the 1970s, I would have this newspaper as my first employer, albeit only for a short six-month stint.

I said venerated because where the Press was concerned, this English language daily was the pride of Penang. Often, it carried news that the more national-level The Straits Times, with its headquarters in Singapore, was unable to report first-hand. Before the Second World War, The Straits Times occasionally had to rely on re-printing news that had earlier appeared in the Straits Echo. Thus in a way, the latter, despite its regional coverage, was seen as an ultimate source of authority for news about Penang.

Like The Straits Times, the Straits Echo newspaper was a broadsheet which was a large format and somewhat unwieldy to hold. To keep up with the times, but more to challenge The Star newspaper which hit the streets in 1971, the Straits Echo transformed into a tabloid in the 1970s. With it came a new name, The National Echo, and blue was adopted as its colour for the masthead in contrast to The Star’s red. The competition with The Star was keen and at one stage, an evening edition – the so-called street edition – of the newspaper was introduced so that readers could read that day’s news on the same day. Later, The National Echo opened an office in Kuala Lumpur and shifted its centre of operations there. Unfortunately, it could not compete with the likes of New Straits Times, The Malay Mail and The Star, and The National Echo folded in 1986.

When I worked there in the 1970s, the newspaper was owned by someone named KK Liew. The editor was a Eurasian named Wilson de Souza while the senior editors were Cheah Cheong Lin and Sunny Tan. The chief reporter was a very loud man named G Ratnam. Among my peers were people like Kee Thuan Chye, Ung Mah Pheng, Ong Thean Seang and Ooi Kee Beng. The last named is now the Executive Director of Penang Institute.

© Quah Seng Sun

Updates and add-ons:

Lim Siang Jin: 

• My great grandfather, Lim Cheng How, used to manage the company that owned the Straits Echo. This is from my grandfather’s memoirs: “Attached to the Criterion Press, Ltd, former proprietors of the Straits Echo, the premises of which were at Nos 226 and 228 Beach Street, presumably as an assistant, my father rose to the appointment of manager with, I believe, a salary of $100/- pm which was then considered excellent pay having regard to the fact that the cost of living was cheap”.
• In the mid-1980s, the late Soo Ewe Jin (later one of the Deputy Executive Editors of The Star)  and I were approached to come up with a plan to revive The National Echo, perhaps take it back to Penang and focus on news from the north again. We were both working for ISIS Malaysia then. Both from Penang, we were quite excited about the project, however, nothing came out of it.

‘Cartoon cards’ or ang kong ngah pai

THE “CARTOON CARDS” or ang kong ngah pai that we played came in perforated sheets (bigger than A4), designed to allow us to tear them into small ones. We ended up with about 20 cards, roughly 2in by 2.5in in size, from each big piece. On one side are reprints of full-colour cartoons and illustrations, probably of Japanese origin. On the other, one-colour graphics.

Such cards were part of the seasonal games in Penang. I suspect now all these could have been orchestrated by importers and distributors – invisible hands. Otherwise how could these seasons have happened with such regularity, widespread distribution of their appendices.

As far as I can remember, there were three ways we played such cards:

• Shooting the head and tail like marbles (read here). In this version, we switched the marbles for cards.
• High-five: This was between two players, each holding a card on the palm. They performed a high-five and allowed the cards to drop. If the cards landed with similar sides (full-colour or one-colour) facing up, it was a draw. If they landed differently, both cards would go to the person with the full-coloured side facing up.
• Currency: In school we were not allowed to gamble, especially with cash. However, seemingly innocuous games like opening books to add up their numbers, tossing coins to guess heads or tails, etc, were indeed gambling, as were the tontin games peddled by street vendors. In some of these we used cards to bet. We didn’t wager with cash so it was okay, I suppose.

© Lim Siang Jin

Chneow au! Kite flying, fighting and chasing

THE WEATHER in Penang in the 1960s was predictable, unlike today. The dry and windy season stretched from year-end through Chinese New Year and slightly beyond. The Westlands School grounds would be parched while some gardens with bougainvillea were at their most colourful. On the streets and in open areas, droves of children would be flying kites, many of them engaging in dogfights with others in the vicinity – depending on the size of their kites and the lengths of their strings, that could be a neighbourhood away. Occasionally shouts of chneow au! (literally “snatch” or “seize” the kite) would send troops of youngsters, even adults, running after one that was floating listlessly downwards. The person who grabbed the string first got to keep the kite.

I chanced upon a chat of 2005 on kite-fighting in the PenangTalk forum. The first guy, “Free Spirit”, very much in favour of reviving kite fighting, said:

Yes, it would be good to bring back the paper-type kites and kite fighting. I was very much a part of that generation in the 1950s and 1960s when kite fighting was at its peak. Different people then had their own recipes for making the glass-coated strings (some of the more exotic ingredients included egg white). Of course, I had my own way of making those strings. 

Invariably, we would use the Griffin brand No 10 string, imported from England. It had just the right thickness and strength for this type of kites. I don't know if this brand and type is still available.

One of the major problems which led to the demise of this highly entertaining sport during that time, was that children and even adults chased vigorously after these kites once their strings were cut. These led to road accidents and even fights. Another problem was that people flew these kites indiscriminately, even by the roadside, thereby posing a danger to passing traffic, particularly cyclists and motorcyclists [Editor’s note: The strings would descend across streets and, when they were 4ft to 6ft above ground, they cut anyone who zoomed past.] 

I think Penangites should bring back this unique form of kites and kite-fighting, found only in this region, both for the enjoyment of the locals and also to attract tourists. The tourism board could organise kite-fighting competitions. With proper controls, like appropriate areas for flying, etc, the dangers mentioned above could be eliminated. 

The other person, “Razor Sharp”, replied:

Thanks for reminding me about the Griffin No 10 [strings] and egg white coating with ground glass from burnt-out bulbs! Those strings, wound on Milo tins, had to be handled very carefully with leather gloves (or garden gloves, even newspaper, whichever was available).

Razor Sharp also talked about “experiments” to weigh down the tail [more later]. As traffic was light and he played in the suburbs or padi fields, he did not, as far as he could remember, meet with road accidents. But he could remember “bruises from falls during chases or from the trees!”. Yes, it was a very serious sport with unwritten but widely-accepted rules and all. The links, unfortunately, have disappeared after the PenangTalk forum became the “new” PenangTalk recently.

I was not allowed to play with kites in school, however, in my area, at the junction of Cantonment Road and Gurney Drive, there were three or four clusters of boys who were heavily involved in the sport. I am sure, given the size of the WPS field, there must have been many kite enthusiasts in the area. In this story, I would like to recount my experience in a few areas with inputs from friends especially Ooi Kar Keat.

Kite designs

See larger image attached at the end of the story

The kites that most of us played with were all variations of the diamond kite with the following parts: (1) spine or tua koot made of bamboo (2) cross-bar also of bamboo (3) bridle, bridle-point and line using Griffin No 10 white string (chap ho snuah in Hokkien) that came in small wooden reels (4) cover made of rice paper and (5) tail(s) to stabilise the kite.

• Tua au (literally the “big kite”) was the best for kite-fighting because of its strength and manoeuvrability. Its direction of flight, especially of a tailless one, could be changed very frequently because when the line is laxed (when we ulor the line), it twisted and turned a lot. However, when it pointed in a certain direction, usually in a split second, and we pulled back (or angkat) the line, it would move very swiftly in a straight line for a distance – thereby allowing us to attack other kites. Its size and strength also made it possible to fly it a few hundred feet up, such that dramatic kite-fights can be watched from afar.
• Au kecik or au kniah (literally the “small kite”) was more for younger children, the novice or an elder to teach children. Although it had all the components of bigger diamond kite, it was small (slightly bigger than 1ft square) and had few reinforcements. The rice paper was gummed to the tua koot and the four corners are held together and reinforced only with paper. Many people, to lend stability and for aesthetic reasons, added tails to it – strips of newspaper, rice paper, even crepe. Despite its fragility, it was used for kite fights too, at lower levels. The string used to fly it was lighter too — Griffin No 4.
• Au ikan (fish-shaped kite). This kite was difficult to make and therefore not common. Its tail-end curled outwards and shaping the bamboo for the correct curve was a task. Two little tails were frequently added to the curved ends for stability.
• Au katak (frog-shaped kite). This design used the most material with an added inverse cross-bar at the bottom and more string to hold it together. This kite could easily be spotted because, apart being relatively uncommon, it would stand out against others in terms of shape and movement. From what I can remember, it was a bit “temperamental”, refusing to stay steady even as we pulled the line back.
• Au kangkang. Duduk kangkang in Bahasa Malaysia referred to being seated with wide-open legs. The name of the kite, with its split bottom, was derived from this term. A knot was made at the end of the split to prevent the bamboo from breaking further.

Making kites

See larger image attached at the end of the story

The easiest way to get a kite was to buy one; they were available in large numbers during the kite season from the chai tiam mah (grocery shops) or other roadside kedai runcit. However, one of my neighbour’s uncles guided us on how to make one. The following are some of the steps:

• Shaving the bamboo: Split dried bamboo into sticks slightly over 1cm wide and shave them down to about 0.5cm thick. The bamboo should be of the green variety found, e.g. along the river in Ayer Itam.
• Balancing the cross-bar: Make the cross-bar from a piece of bamboo with a node in the middle. Shave both sides and bend to see if they curved evenly on both sides. Tie a thread to the node and hold the stick up to see if it balances – if the weight on both sides are roughly equal.
• Fixing the frame: Tie the spine and the cross bar together using some sort of lashing knot with the Griffin No 10 cotton line. Face the smooth side of the bamboo (1) upwards for the cross-bar and (2) inwards, against the cover, for the spine. Make notches at both ends of the spine and cross-bar and, using the same string, shape the frame by bending the cross-bar and tying both ends to the spine.
• Using rice paper as cover: Use rice paper as cover for the kites. Cut the paper to an inch bigger than the frame. Use tapioca starch (or chneow) to glue its edges to the kite by folding against the string along the perimeter. Place some glue on the spine too to stick the paper to it. Rice paper could be bought quite freely then. The best place was probably the Sia Boey area but I cannot recall.

Making glass-covered strings

See larger image attached at the end of the story

Glass-covered kite lines, wound nicely around Milo or Ovaltine tins so they make angular patterns, could be bought at the kedai runcit all over. Their quality was poor. Desperate to get better ones, we made our own – usually under the bright sun.

• Choosing the line: In our days, the most favoured brand of cotton line for kite-flying in general and kite-fighting in particular was the Griffin brand size 10 cotton string that came in wooden reels suited for use on the Singer Sewing Machine. It was strong (able to handle all the rough handling of a seasoned kite-fighter), absorbent (able to allow glue to sink in and fine glass to stick on) and flexible (able to be pulled back, released and wound back at great speed without knotting up too much). Imported from England, it was also widely available.
• Pounding the glass: It was common knowledge that only glass from light bulbs (incandescent as well as fluorescent) should be used. It made sense because being very thin and hard, we need not have to pound too much to make the powder consistently fine. Apart from glass, we used some cheap crystal; we could feel its cutting edge on the finger but never tested it against anyone.
• Cooking the gum: Many secret ingredients, like egg white, have been touted as an adhesive for the pounded glass. The most common was goo phoey kar (gelatin made from boiling down skin and ligaments of animals specifically cattle). It came in pieces (not powdered). We would cook them in tins until they dissolved to the consistency of a syrup. The glass powder was then added along with some powdered dye.
• Coating the string: The process of coating the line would start by, first, identifying a few points to allow the line to hang while it dried. It could be two badminton posts. Or a combination of a tree trunk, a telephone post and a swing. One end of the line, still in its original reel, was tied to one post and the reel was allowed to drop to the ground. The “coater” then, carrying the tin of cooled glue along in one hand (say, left), dipped the right hand in and collected a handful of the mushy liquid and residue. Grasping the line tightly with right hand, he would walk back – allowing the mixture to stick to the line as it was released from the reel. This is continued from point to point non-stop until the whole line was coated. For example, if two badminton posts were used, a person would have to walk up and down and around the posts about 15 times for a 100-yard line. Care was taken not to coat too much. Or to allow specks of glass residue on the line. It could, like a knot, give your opponent a slicing point on the line.
• Drying: Lines were dried in the sun and wound properly on a tin so that they could be released quickly in a fight. In reality, once the line was released, there was not much time to wind it back. It was just allowed to fall to the ground carefully so that in the process of pulling back and releasing, it did not get entangled.

Rules of play

See larger image attached at the end of the story

Despite the apparent chaos in the sky and on the ground where chaotic hordes would chase after fallen kites, there were a number of rules governing the game:

• Cut as near the kite as possible: While the overall objective of the competitors was to cut the line of the opponent, the loss inflicted should be just the kite and as little of the line as possible. Opponents therefore would try to cut the line as near the kite as possible. Cutting lines at very low points have resulted in fights. They were also a bonanza for the kite catchers; some wrongly-cut lines could be long enough to be used to fly other kites, albeit the smaller ones.
• First one to grab the line gets the kite: The overall purpose of the active and eager spectator-snatchers was to grab the kite that had fallen. It was easy to spot these kites; they drift listlessly and people on the ground would anticipate where they would land. If the places were thought to be near enough, there would be a rush towards them. Boys (the majority of kite flyers were males) would climb over fences, take other short cuts and run across streets, many a time endangering themselves and others. The basic rule in our area was this: The first one to grab the line gets the kite. Beyond that, there would be a multitude of areas of contention:

1. Some people would grab the line higher, nearer the kite, even after a line had been caught. Quarrels and fights would ensue. The clearest sign of victory was someone running away with a kite in tow and his friends surrounding and running with him to protect him from other groups.
2. Sometimes, the kite would be caught in trees or on lamp posts. The ensuing struggles to get them often resulted in falls, cuts and bruises. In such a case, the person who got to the kite would claim it.
3. Unsporting boys, especially when their groups were large enough to fend off others, after failing to get the line, would grab the kites and destroyed them. The pandemonium that ensued would be settled by gangland principles of the survival of the strongest.

Kite-fighting tactics

See larger image attached at the end of the story

While there were rules governing the game, the tactics within play itself were the most interesting, replete with a set of terms based on the Nyonya-Baba Hokkien language of Penang.

• Lambong the kite or khee au: The first step was to ensure the kite was hoisted or launched. Some people ran with the kite in tow and allowed the wind to catch. Many a time, the competitor would have an assistant who took the kite about 40ft to 50ft away, held it properly against the wind and shouted out to his mate to pull. This was called lambong (derived from lampung or float in Malay?) or khee au (raise the kite).
• Balance: A second or two after lambong, we would know if our kites were balanced. If it constantly swung to one side, it had to be rebalanced by inserting rice paper as a counter balance.
• Angkat, ulor and jinam: Angkat meant pull the line. When you did that, the kite would move in the direction the head was pointed. When the kite was pointed down and you angkat, the kite would dive or jinam. Ulor (hulur in Bahasa) was a term used to describe letting the line go and letting the wind pull the kite away.
• Positioning and directing: The fighting kite was never still. It always moved left and right, faced upward or downward, etc. The flyer had to be very attentive to all its movements. In the split second that the kite was pointed towards a desired direction, say at 45 degrees, he had to pull, sometimes pulled very hard or angkat kuat for the kite to head that direction. Kites without tails were very responsive, even to slight tugs.
• Aggressive or not: When you were out for a fight, when you flew close to their line, your combatants would recognise you quickly. They might evade or counter-attack quickly. Those who evaded fights were probably people out to have fun with their children or mates, and they were usually let off. For the mutually aggressive pairs, interesting dogfights of attacks, counter attacks and tactical retreats would ensue.
• Cutting another line in two ways: The line of an opponent could be cut, as far as I know, in two ways. When we felt that both lines had touched, we could: (1) Angkat kuat or pull back vigorously to slice the opponent’s line. This was usually done when your line was below your opponent’s (2) Ulor quickly at the moment of contact, let the wind pull the line and slice your opponent’s. This was when your line was above, and your opponent was coming at you from below. 
• Role of the assistant: The assistant played a big part in these duels. He would advise his partner what to do, watch out for other parties that would make a sneak attack and, most important of all, made sure the line did not get entangled.

© Lim Siang Jin. Written with inputs from Ooi Kar Keat

Marbles or buah guli

EVERY YEAR, usually on Good Friday, a crowd gathers at the carpark of the Greyhound Inn, Tinsley Green in West Sussex for the World Marbles Championship. The game had been played in the county for centuries; the tourney in its present form started in 1932. Bearing striking resemblance with what some of us did as kids, the competition is like this:

• The game: Forty nine marbles are placed in a ring. Players get a point for each marble their tolley — a shooting marble — knocks out of the ring. The first team to reach 25 points wins.
• Nose drop: At the start of the game, players perform a “nose drop” i.e. drop their tolleys from their noses to a line drawn in the sand. The player whose tolley lands nearest the line goes first.
• Knuckling down: When they position their hands for shooting, knuckles must rest on the concrete ring.
• Fudging: It is a foul to move your hand forward when shooting. This is called “fudging”.
• Cabbaging: This is another foul – shooting from an incorrect spot.

In 2019, German side “1st MC Erzgebirge” won the World Marbles Championship beating former champions Black Dog Boozers by 39 – 0 in the one sided final. Watch the Youtube video here. Read also here and here.

Marbles: Tiny spheres of fun and innovation

Variations of the game existed in India (read here), Singapore (read here) and Malaysia (read here), no doubt via the colonial influences.

During our school days, the English game did not resonate with us. We played another instead. It went like this:

• Players would wager equal numbers of marbles each. For example, if there were five players and the wager was five, there would be a total of 25 in the pool.
• These 25 marbles would be arranged in a straight line. One end was the head and the other, the tail.
• Play started when each player threw his lunggu (“tolley” in the English game) using the lined marbles as the starting point. The one who threw the furthest got to take first aim at the row of marbles.
• The object of the game was to hit as near the head as possible. If the first person hit the head, he claimed the entire row. Assuming the head was on the left, if he hit the middle, he took all to the left of the one he hit.
• One of the tactics of the game was to place the lunggu near the line so that if most people missed you still had a sizeable remainder to win. To give themselves a 100% chance, the lunggu would be placed next to the head.

Some gems of the game

• The lunggu (or “tolley”) was a prized possession. It was rated for its accuracy. Some people would pay a fair bit (I cannot remember how much) to get hold of a good one.
• The spin: Sometimes, in order to get the lunggu to hit the line, you could not throw in a straight line. Some people spun the lunggu. Others used the incline of the ground to curve the roll, much like putting a golf ball.
• Team play: It was not unusual for us to play in a team of two or three. The team would invest together and place all their marbles in a common “bank” to draw from at every game. The tactics were straightforward: At every play, they would have players with their lunggu at different positions to arrive at the best outcome – usually one very far, the second in the middle and the last near the head of the line.
• Phak chniaw! This means “rob” or “snatch” in Hokkien. In school, just before the bell rang to signal the end of recess, a few boys, usually the more naughty seniors, would gather near the line of marbles. When the bell rang, they would scream phak chniaw! and grabbed whatever they could get. This was robbery, however, for some reason, we accepted it as part of the game.

© Lim Siang Jin

Game of “tiak”

The carrom middle finger & thumb style used in “tiak”.
Read more from the source of this picture here

UNABLE to gamble with money, we used pain to wager. The game went like this. Open a book to a page and add up the individual numbers that made up the page number (subtract 10 if the total exceeds 10 — only a very thick book would give numbers adding up to more than 20). Page 219 got you “2”, page 134 got you “8” and so on. The winner in this case was the guy on page 134 and he got to “tiak” the guy with 219 the difference i.e. six times.

“Tiak” meant using a finger to hit the finger of another at the bones called “proximal phalanges” — similar to the way we hit a Carrom chip (when the middle finger is held back by the thumb and released with great force). Hit repeatedly on the same spot, the finger would bruise and turn blue-black.

Anyway, it was all for fun. Whenever pain became unbearable, we just dropped out of the game.

© Lim Siang Jin

Spider fighting

Thiania bhamoensis: Wiki Commons by
Victor Khoo. Source here

AS A SPECIES, we are deeply fascinated with other animals. We watch them obsessively in the zoo, in the wild and on TV. We domesticate and use them as labour and for food. We treat many as pets. We are inspired by them, often writing eloquently about their various characteristics – especially those of birds. Read here. Strangely, maybe because of this fascination, we also like to watch them fight. As kids, we were most familiar with those involving fish and spiders; probably because they were small and we could not empathise with the pain they went through.

The spider species that we caught and used to fight was Thiania bhamoensis (literally means “From Bhamo”, referring to Bhamo, a city in northern Burma). This is how they are described in Wikipedia:

These spiders build a silken retreat by binding a pair of green leaves together, where they rest, moult and lay their eggs, which is unusual for a jumping spider. Making a single rivet to attach the leaves takes about half an hour. About four to ten rivets are arranged in a roughly elliptical manner. These nests are built by both sexes and juveniles. Although T. bhamoensis can be found on many kinds of plants, it most often chooses Crinum asiaticum (spider lily)… 

Because two males will readily fight each other, either in a natural setting, or if put together, they are commonly known as “fighting spider” in South-east Asia.

Three spheres of activities 

Logo of the spider maintenance kit in Singapore

Those actively involved in spider fighting took part in roughly three spheres of activities:

• Catching: Tiger lilies were not the most common spider habitat for us. The hibiscus shrubs and leafy hedges were our favourite hunting grounds. Armed with small metal cigarette boxes (“Camel” or “555” brands, for example), we would look for leaves stuck together. Once found, we opened them slightly to peep and see (1) if there was a spider inside and (2) if it were male or female. Only males fought vigorously and we could tell by their bigger size and darker, more vibrant colours. Usually, the females were left alone. If it was a male, we would clasp the two leaves with the cigarette box and pull them away. Our hauls were sorted out only later, in the comfort of the home, where the spiders had fewer avenues of escape.
• Maintenance: Fighting spiders were kept in match boxes or paper cigarette boxes in which were placed a leaf or two. A drop of water was added every now and then and, for food, we had to catch baby spiders (they are cannibals) or just feed them insects like ants and flies – preferably live. Sometimes, a female would be introduced into the box – for companionship or as prey for food. A Singaporean company has made a kit, complete with instructions, for spider maintenance. Read here. 
• Fighting: When two male spiders were placed on a flat surface and they spotted each other, they postured a lot. Usually a fight would ensue. Most fights, as far as I know, did not take too long. The loser usually conceded quickly and ran off, often back to the hand or finger of the owner. There are videos of them fighting for up to 6-7 minutes. Watch here. 

Like most other pastimes, spider fighting had a season too, in the ever moving cycle of events in the childhood calendar.

© Lim Siang Jin

Gasing, tops or phak kan lock

Gasing: Still available in the market. Unlike places like
Taiwan, it is no longer widely played in Malaysia anymore

IF YOU HAD become a scientist, especially an engineer, you would have encountered angular acceleration, momentum and velocity, and gyroscopic effect, and reminisce about the younger days when we played with tops or gasing. Read here. For the rest of us, it was just a fine game with a rather crude name, if you were Hokkien: Phak kan lock are words, taken singly, have been parts of many vulgarities.

Our games, with all its variations, bore striking similarities with one in India call “bambaram” which was popular until the 1990s. Watch here. A Wikipedia entry describes how the game was played (read here), however, I have edited using the video above as a reference and some recollections of our own experience:

• Drawing a circle: Preceding the game, a small circle about 4ft diameter was drawn on relatively hard ground which allowed tops to spin well.
• Toss, spin and lift to define the first “prisoner”: The game started with a quick competition: On the word “go”, all players would wind their tops, toss and spin them on the ground, before lifting them with the rope and catching them. The last one to complete the process became the “prisoner”. He had to put his top at the centre of circle for others to aim at and hit. There was a trick to winning this competition: Wind the rope as little as possible – even halfway – and do just enough to complete the task.
• Whacking the “prisoner”: The next phase started when players took aim at and tried to hit the “prisoner”. The aims were to (1) break (gunna in Karnataka slang) the top and (2) drive it out.
• More and more “prisoners”: Each time a person took aim and tossed, his top must continue to spin until he was able to lift it to his hands – either with the rope or by easing it from the ground. Anyone who failed became a “prisoner” too.
• Escape: When a “prisoner” top was hit, and it moved outside the circle, it was deemed to have escaped. To qualify as being “outside”, the point of the top must rest outside circle and not touch the line at all.

There were many variations to the game and, many a time, the rules could be changed on the spot by the groups playing.

Parts and the making of a top

The top was made up of the following parts:

• The wooden part, made up of the crown at the top, shoulder and body, was made from meranti or kayu jambu batu. The former, softer and more easily broken, cost about 30 sen each (1960s). The latter, very durable, were double the price or more. Given the smoothness and evenness of the surfaces of the tops, they were made using a lathe. Watch here (a video from Mexico).
• The tip or point was made from a 3-inch iron nail.
• Rope with a button (an aerated water bottle cap, in our case) fixed at one end and knotted at the other.

Skills needed to play the game

• Underhand toss: In this toss, the player jerked his arm outward quickly (like a ten-pin bowler) and released the top. It was considered a bit feminine by the boys – much like underhand serve of volleyball or the underhand bowl of softball.
• Tophand toss: For this, the top was raised above the head, somewhat like what a cricket bowler did, and chucked groundwards in a quick but controlled manner.
• Spin and lift: After a top was spun, a must-have skill was to lift it while it was spinning with the rope placed around it. Most people just caught hold of the top. Some skilful ones, could lift the top and let it continue to spin on the palm.
• Coaxing a spinning top onto the palm: When the top was spinning on the ground, one could coax it onto the palm, and while it still spun, used it to knock other tops.
• Low jingki: There was a move called the jingki in which we tossed-spun the top forward and downward, and pulled it back while it was spinning in the air — and then let it land spinning on our palm.
• High jingki: There was another version which in which we tossed-spun the top forward and upward. Can be seen in the Bambaram video.
• Repairs and maintenance: Our 30-sen investments needed repairs once in a while – like sanding down chipped wood, straightening and replacing the points (nails), etc. After the purchase of a new one, however, we needed to season the wood with oil (usually Singer Sewing Machine oil). This was to prevent it from chipping easily.

Masters of the game

• Top spinning continues to be taken very seriously in Taiwan. View here some of the masters in action.

© Lim Siang Jin

Thart thien choo or capteh

Thien choo that is available locally: Made in China

The Malays call it capteh; Penang Hokkiens, thart thien choo.  I have only recently discovered it is a very old game and is still being played seriously in many countries. In 2003, when Vietnam hosted the SEA Games, for example, it was one of the official competitive sports. A blogger on traditional pastimes has given a detailed description of the game going back over 2,500 years (read here):

The earliest reference to a game of kicking a feathered object dates back to the 5th century BC in China. Later known as ti jian zu or “kick little shuttlecock”, the game was used to train military men. Shaolin monks in Henan during the Tang Dynasty were also known to have practised the game to strengthen their martial arts skills. It remained popular for about two millennia, from the Han (206 BC-200) until after the Sui and Tang dynasties. During the Song Dynasty (960-1278), chien tsu (jianqiu) meaning “arrow” became the game’s more popular name. The name is still used to refer to the “shuttlecock” used in badminton.

The writer also places the game in the modern context where it continues to have a big following:

In Vietnam, the game is known as da cau. In the 2003 SEA Games held in Vietnam, capteh was included as a competitive sport. Internationally, the game is also known as shuttlecock kicking. Featherball Associations in Europe, USA and Turkey also show how international the game has become. In Singapore and Malaysia, the game is known as capteh. The name is thought to be either Malay or Hokkien in origin. Variants of the name include chapteh, chaptek and chatek. The game is still very much alive in Singapore. As recently as March 2009, a capteh competition was organised in Singapore.[Some 16 countries have their own versions of the game with their respective names, as shown in a table in the story.]

 The following are some videos that give an idea of what’s happening now in the world of capteh:

• A group of boys at SMK Cheras Perdana, Hulu Langat, Selangor, having an informal game of capteh. Quite skilful, I might add. View here. 
• Singapore’s “oldest” player at 84 (2017). Inspiring. View here. 
• One version of the game: Kick and add up the number of times. The first person to reach 100 wins. View here. 

How we played it

Capteh, as I recall, was not very popular among us although it was part of the games-children-play annual calendar of Penang. Like the versions above, we tried to outplay each other by seeing who could maintain it in the air as long as possible. The problem was that it took a lot of skills to do that. Moreover, it was an informal game with no tournament that would put aspiring players on the ladder to some level of fame or measure of achievement. In the school setting, we used to string rubber bands across the corridor and played an improvised sepak raga.

Frangipani: An unforgettable experience with the capteh was the use of the frangipani flower as a substitute. If we bunched, say, 15, together, and tied them with a rubber band at the pedicil (the part that connects to a stem, I think), they form a fluffy kicking toy. Upon further use, they turned brown and pliable and, surprisingly durable. Some of us used the top of the forefoot to kick while others used the arch – sepak raga style.

© Lim Siang Jin

Mata chat, chiak bak and kham bak chieu

Kham bak chieu or hide-and-seek.
Adapted from Wikihow graphics

THE LARGE field at Westlands Primary gave us a lot of options for play. Football was the official favourite; then there were those for the masses – games that needed few or no equipment, or delineated space, and all could join in. I am referring to mata chat, chiak bak and kham bak chieu (or hide-and-seek).

Mata chat

In mata chat (cops and robbers) we had two teams that were picked via a ritual using two 14-syllable Hokkien rhymes. The selection process started with forming a circle. A leader would start to chant “chui lo chui lo, chui peng peng, chui chui chiak pah cho lang peng” (to select a mata or cop although the peng meant soldier). He would begin the first syllable by pointing to someone and moved to next person with each consecutive term. Somewhat like musical chairs, the person who ended up with the 14th syllable (say, peng) became the cop. To pick a chat or robber, we recited “chui lo chui lo, chui chat chat, chui chui chiak pah cho lang chat”. This would go on until two teams were selected.

There was little correlation between these rhymes, well-known for their fun, frivolity and humour, and the game itself. Roughly translated, the sayings ended with “whoever has eaten a full meal became a cop or a robber”. I had forgotten all about them until I was reminded by Kay Liang and Ong Seng Huat.

Each team had a set of objectives:

• The mata had a station where they kept all the chat they had caught. Their aim was to chase and catch as many robbers as possible and keep them at the station — it could be by a wall or at a porch for cars. In our case, the wall of the secondary school workshop facing the field served us well; it was strategic and provided some shade from the afternoon sun.
• The chat, on the other hand, aimed to avoid being caught. They also tried to rescue their comrades from the station. A mere touch of hands by a free team mate allowed any captured chat to run off.

Shirts could be torn in this game where the end-game (with cops capturing all the robbers) was seldom ever reached because of the short time we had during breaks or before and after school.

Chiak bak (literally “consume meat” or, more generally, “inflict pain on the flesh”)

This sado-masochistic game, which could involve groups of 20 to 30, needed only a tennis ball – hard enough to inflict pain but not terribly harmful if we did not hit sensitive parts of the body like our eyes. The objective was straightforward: When you got the ball in your hands, re-direct it at another, to hit him as hard as possible.

The game started with a boy throwing the ball into the air, to be caught by another who would then try to hit someone else. Once you caught the ball, you cannot chase after others with it. One of the most dangerous situations was to find yourself right next to person who had caught the ball. You could try to wrestle the ball from him or curl up like a ball [sic] on the ground and take a hit.

Kar Keat remembers a tactic in which a group would pakat (make a pact): “It was used normally by a small group to bully others. They would form a pact prior to the start. In the game, they would fan out among the crowd of players. When one member got the ball, he would toss it to a partner who was in close proximity to another to cause maximum damage. Many a time they targeted people they wanted to bully.”

On rainy days, when the grounds were moist and muddy, the tennis ball soaked a lot of moisture, resulting in 3-4in mud marks on our white school shirts. It was a sure way of getting a scathing response from our parents when we got home.

Kham bak chieu

The basic kham bak chieu (literally “closed eyes” or, in English, hide-and-seek) was simple. One person closed his or her eyes leaning against a spot on a wall or tree, and counted — sometimes in multiples of five (5, 10, 15 and so on) to, say, 100. In the meantime, the others, which could number more than 10, went into hiding. Upon finishing counting, the “seeker” went around to look for the “hiders”. The moment anyone was spotted, there would be a race back to the counting position. In this way, groups of winners or losers were separated out. Finally, one of the losers would be chosen to be the next seeker. The selection process could involve lalalilatampong or one-two som! (these will be the subject of another story).

Another name of the game was ah chi lok. If I recall correctly, there was a slight variation in the version we played in our community; it involved a chase where the seeker had to chase and grab hold of a hider to pick the next person to seek. Like other traditional games, we could vary the rules as we we went along so it was not unusual to find differences among groups of players.

At home, we had the night-time variation that scared the seekers out of their wits. There were two instances that I remember very well: (1) Under the camouflage of darkness, some of the hiders would gang up and rush to the counting station in a group and left the seeker aghast at the mob rushing out (2) A darkish friend of mine, wearing dark shorts, decided to remove his white T-shirt. It was almost impossible to spot him until he was 20ft away, by which time it was too late for the seeker, caught off guard and shocked, to race back.

© Lim Siang Jin

Hiking, Job Week and a bit of history: Scouting at WPS (1963-65) Part 3

HIKING WAS a very common activity for Scouts: We are thankful for photos of them. Westlands Primary is lucky that one of its scoutmasters, Mr Hwang Hong Shi, saw it fit to take and organise them in albums (above).

During our time at Westlands, the scoutmasters, Mr John Low Thean Hock and Mr Vellasamy, were not as adventurous as Mr Hwang Hong Shi and Mr Thomas Khor who took a group of 12 Scouts on a trek to Taiping and Maxwell Hill and back. Read here. Truth be told, our parents would not have given us permission to go on such a journey – not mine, anyway. Nevertheless, we had a few small adventures.

Hiking up Bukit Cendana: One morning in 1965 about 20 of us gathered at Mr Vellasamy’s home along Waterfall Road (if I am not mistaken) and headed for the Moongate. It was my first hill hike. On the way up the trail forked. Mr Vellasamy, in full Scout gear too, guided us up one path (the right); the left would have taken us up to Penang Hill. Read details here. Atop the hill was a dilapidated bungalow overlooking Tanjung Tokong, Pulau Tikus and the city. We stopped there for a small picnic. The building has, apparently, been burnt down. There are a few pictures of it, taken in the 1970s by Rob Dickinson, in this post here.

The view was breathtaking — the huge cluster of houses below set against the sea without obtrusive high-rises and the abundant greens; they made us very proud of Penang. We thought we had trekked through virgin forests but it was not true. The British had cleared much of Penang’s hills for the planting of spices in the 19th century. There were warnings of environmental degradation and their ill-effects (like climate change!) from as early as 1848. Read here.

Picture taken in 1930s or 1940s showing large patches of Bukit Cendana that had been stripped of vegetation. Source: anilnetto.com. Read his story here

Using the Mount Erskine route to reach here, we passed
through Pulau Tikus, Gottlieb Road and the cemetery.
Photo by Liu Ruxia on Flickr 

Journeying to Choong Lye Hock Road: After getting the Tenderfoot badge, we took some of the tests for Second Class. It involved a “journey”. A few of us decided to walk from the school to Mr Low’s house. It required us, among others, to draw maps, provide landmarks, name the roads and give directions. This is one of the reasons I cannot forget his address. Regretfully, the map book that I drew with meticulous detail is gone.

Job Week: Every Job Week, I would classify the people I do “jobs” for into three groups (a) donors (b) socialisers and (c) people who want serious work done. I would approach my grandfather, parents, uncles, etc, to donate on my Job Card before heading off to other homes. The uncles and aunties who wanted to socialise would invite us in for tea and biscuits after doing a token job like cleaning the wheels of their car or polishing shoes.

Mr John Low (right) with Mr Cheng Hin at the 2003 gathering

of Old Frees (1970-72), Bukit Jambul Country Club on 2nd 

February. We invited him because he taught many of us. 

Mr Low has passed on. When I went to fetch him that day, he 

talked about preparing to hike up Mount Kinabalu: “Once a

Scout, always a Scout,” as people say

The people I dreaded most were those who wanted serious work done. One old lady got us to weed an entire garden. While the space was small, just a patch in front of a linked house, the weeds were thick and there were numerous garden furniture (a swing and large stands for potted plants) that we had to crawl under. It was back breaking but, sportingly, we completed the job and was amply rewarded with a very grateful smile and one dollar to be shared among the two of us.

The general “Burmah” (including Salween, Tavoy, Irrawaddy and Mandalay roads) and “Birch Road” areas were our favourites because they comprised linked houses. The distance between the houses was much shorter and, if there were dogs, we could spot them quickly. The bungalows were probably more lucrative; however, the jobs could be more extensive and they probably had bigger dogs hidden away where we could not see. My friends and I generally avoided them – unless it was the home of a relative or friend.

There does not seem to be a coordinated effort to have Minggu Kerja for Scouts in Malaysia. It is still going strong in neighbouring Singapore which has the same Scouting roots as us. Read here.

Scouting in Penang: Some snippets

• The first Malaysian Scout Jamboree was held in Penang in 1966. According to a story in the Persatuan Pengakap Malaysia, Pulau Pinang website: “Jubilee Camp, the then campsite of the Local Boy Scouts Association, was transformed into the Jamboree Village with nearly 3,000 inhabitants of various colour, class and creed, adhering to the tenets of the Scout Law, which incidentally was the Law of this camp... Eleven countries, including Malaysia participated; 2,328 scouts from Nationalist China, Great Britain, India, South Korea, Laos, Nepal, New Zealand, Philippines, Singapore, Thailand and Malaysia took part. The Chairman of Organising Committee and Camp Chief was Wong Pow Nee; it was declared open by the Yang di-Pertuan Agong, the Sultan of Trengganu.” Read the story here.
• Claims made at the jamboree that scouting in Malaya was founded in Penang in 1908 via an experimental troop with the YMCA are apparently not true. According to Wan Meng Hao, co-author of Scouting In Singapore 1910-2000, “the photo of that 1908 scout troop was taken at Fort Canning, Singapore. Goh Guan Ho was working and living in Singapore in 1908. He had yet to relocate to Penang”.
• In 1934, Lord Baden-Powell and Lady Olave Baden-Powell made a visit to Penang, Kuala Kangsar, Ipoh and Kuala Lumpur. In Kuala Lumpur on 25th Nov, the 77-year-old Chief Scout was quoted as saying to 30-odd Scouters: “You chaps won't get a chance to see me again. Let me shake hands with you.” He went on to have a word with all of them individually. The group was struck by his informality. It was indeed his first and only visit to Malaya. He retired from public Scouting in 1937 and died in Kenya in 1941. Read more here, here (The Straits Times, Nov 26, 1934) and here.

Scouting continues to be a strong movement in the country. According to a census taken in 2010 by the World Organisation of the Scout Movement, there were 48,394 members then. I purchased recently a translation of the book, Scouting for Boys, by Robert Baden-Powell. It gave me goose bumps to know what we read about scouting in the 1960s are still being read today but in Bahasa Malaysia. The 233-page translated book, Ilmu Pengakap bagi Budak-budak (shown above) sells for only RM13.90!

Aerial photo of the 1966 First Malaysian Scout Jamboree at Jubilee Camp. Source: Persatuan Pengakap Malaysia, Pulau Pinang. Read the story here.

This is the third of three parts:

• Part 1: Building character and skills in uniform. Read here
• Part 2: Camping and cooking. Read here

– Lim Siang Jin