Drawn From memory

Readers of both Growing Up in Trengganu and A Map of Trengganu will have noticed a pen drawing of the author atop his bio-data. It was drawn by my good friend Lat (Datuk Mohd Nor Khalid) from memory, and the last time I saw him before he drew that must have been years upon donkey's ears ago.

There is this line that I always pull when Lat and I are together. We're both writing a book together where Datuk Lat will be doing the text and I'll be drawing the pictures. In reality the joke is on me for the Datuk is not only a widely read man and an able writer but also a very amusing raconteur.

We had a reunion last Monday and then on Tuesday. The Monday meeting also brought Cheryl Dorall, respected fellow journalist, former Malay Mail columnist and distinguished former editor of the Sunday Star. They, my mate Kak Teh and myself made the former New Straits Times old timers' combo at the Holiday Villa in Londra. We were also joined by Mohamad Jefri, Holiday Villa's manager.

The picture above shows how successful Datuk Lat was when drawing from memory. Thank you, Sir!

The Good Ship Hari raya

Ramadan sails away ever so swiftly, even before the nekbat's gone dry in the cupboard of neglect and the hasidöh pulls out in slippery tendons of rope, and we are up to our eyeballs in bubor lambok with its limp tendrils of pucuk paku and the sprinkling of budu.

We are now going a-sailing, the seafaring people on the shore of Ujung Tanjong in Kuala Trengganu for it has always been in us, wind blasted souls encrusted with salt to the core, brine and brackish water in the Pantai Teluk with skeletons of abandoned boats that came back and could take the journey no more to Senggora; ikang belukang and tiny crabs peering out from the mud, pincer-waving to one and all.

We have made this frame from thin bamboo, stolen probably from the bamboo hedge of the Sekölöh Paya Bunga, glossy paper from Indian shops, red and green and blue, and streamers entwined from crepe paper and gaps in the ship patched up - so as not to strain the budget - with old copies of the Straits Times and Utusan Melayu.

They call it tujuh likor, a word that has long vanished from our everyday tongue. What is likor? And why seven of them in this lengthening month of puasa? It is time for ships standing in the front yard of our houses and bamboo cannons blasting away carbide fumes and deafening the cries of mothers and excited children and the voice of Pök Lèh from the surau.

Ramadan has been a-sailing so quickly but never too quickly for a child. The night is flickering with lights and shadows and paraffin and whiffs of carbide in the air. Rushed is the iftar, rushed is the prayers of children of prayerful people for this is the night of the beginning of the month of Shawwal.

The day after this is Hari Raya, oh the day after that perhaps, it all depends on the moon in the sky but oh joy is the night and food on plates, and ketupat and kuah kacang and beleda, the dry, sugar-coated coloured jewels.

Would Hari Raya come every day, would all those past Rayas that have gone lost in the mists of years, would they all come back now, for now is the time for forgiving, for visits to past people all lying in the solace of their earthly beds marked with stones, time for children everywhere to feel a little rich, for a while.

Dear Readers: Selamat Hari Raya. I have been away on a ship and have just come back to shore.

Raya image courtesy of Ethnic Minority Liberal Democrats.

Letter From America

This very kind letter arrived from America -

Dear and esteemed Awang Goneng,

I am hopeful that you are blessed with good health as much as you have blessed your readers with your prose.

I have not written in a while, but learned you had published your second book a while ago. I purchased it "A Map of Trengganu" and wanted to express my deepest thanks to you. I began the reading and within a few pages already knew that this latest work would bring me moments of happiness as well as melancholy, because as conscious beings, the past will always bring happiness as well as sadness. Sadness in the way that one yearns to relive or go back to a time of innocence as well as a time of remembrance of days past, memories of loved ones who have past one's way - it is the circle of life, so to say. But, I was totally surprised to see your thanks to me about the incense burner! I felt that I was now part of your book and it made me so appreciative of life and sharing with others, like you have shared with your readers.

I hope that God blesses you with a long and healthy life so that I can "selfishly" live from your future works; you are so gifted with words and your story is so transitive, it crosses over into all walks of life. Reading your stories allows me to relive mine. I hope you do well in what ever you do. You are an incredible soul.

Sincerely,
Louis Crespo
New York

Thank you, Sir, may God bless you too. A Map of Trengganu is still available from online retailers and from Foyles in London and good bookshops in Malaysia and Singapore. Or from the Pizzaman at large in Malaysia: SMS, 019-3199788 (Karim); email, akarimomarATyahoo.com

Every Day Rainy Beats

In Kuala Trengganu the monsoon sings a tune that rattles on corrugated roofs that lulls cats to sleep. Fishermen home from the sea for a long snooze on the veranda, awaiting the wife's return with tapioca and stuff. But stuff is for the night, it's the ubi that now lifts the spirit, hissing out warm air in clouds as root turns translucent white. Tapioca and shaved coconut with salt from the sea now roaring mad, once the fisherman's ground, now his dread. Sounds of distant thunder beneath clouds rolling dark. Pedicab pushers sitting under tarpaulins rat-a-tatting with sudden drops, window panes shielding the constant patter, travellers curled in trishaws, sitting behind waterproof sheets, listening to rubber dipping into bumps in the road, sprays of rain squelching beneath lorry tires, and the chatter of rain-soaked trishawman drenched beneath his hat. The patter and the squelch and the bumps and the drones; the jabber and the damp. In a milieu of patter and beats. These are everyday parts, assembled in rhythm and sounds...

Budök budök mmaing wa
Atah jambatang
Lang kangök, lang kangök
dok terbang

Anök-anök dok nnöcak
Ssèmbak rötang
Jatoh ddebök, jatoh ddebök
ddalang lökang

Cik Mbong makang kerepok
ikang tambang
cicöh cuka, cicöh cuka
Awang Hitang

Cik Kalèh göhék tèksi
Ddalang hujang
Lapu lik-lak, lapu lik-lak
Ddalang pikirang

Ddölöh Hasang mamöh daging
Kena tulang
Ggögèh gigi, ggögèh gigi
Dök setarang

Kucing bapök masok dapor
Bahang ikang
Pacör-kecing, pacör kecing
Ddalang ppayang.

Illustration: Fly by Kite by Jayme McGowan. With thanks

Stamping Around the World

Father collected stamps. He put them in a leather valise,

and that was his album. He kept his entire collection in there, stamps still stuck to shreds of envelope paper, used stamps with glueless backs, waiting to be assigned to country pages in an album that he never bought, clusters of mint stamps still clinging to neighbours by their perforated edges, and commemorative envelopes, Queen Elizabeth's coronation, Merdeka day, and some other dates that I don't now remember.

He wasn't a serious collector like his neighbour Wang Nawang, who lived three houses away from us, in the same row that looked into the market, but further down to the shore. Wang Nawang stuck his stamps with hinges, in pages of an album that probably bore the Stanley Gibbons insignia. We often saw him sit by his window, looking into his stamp collection, in a cloak of sweet smoke emanating from his pipe tobacco. There he sat, pondering over Monaco triangles, and Ifni birds with smug and quizzical looks perched on long necks, and exotic goats and native people. Where in the world is Ifni now?

Looking into Father's bag of philately I found the name S.A.Latif,

stamped in blue ink on the back of an envelope that came from Durban, Natal, in South Africa. Latif must have swapped many stamps with Father as he had many Suid-Afrika issues in his bag, but Father had postcards too from lands that stood beyond the further reaches of my imagination, and a medal issued during the coronation of Queen Elizabth II in 1953, and here and there were delightful snippets of life in San Marino and Nyasaland and Ruanda-Urundi, thumb-nailed into postage stamps that carried in them more than a faint glimmer of sunshine in a foreign country. Ruanda-Urundi, a land with people I imagined to be constantly dancing in unfettered joy, what calamity touched it much, much later.

But for all those sounds conjured in vivid mental pictures and the alliterative lure of foreign lands,Father's interest was basically local. His bag was filled with Federated Malay State issues, tigers confined in serrated edges, aroused from jungle slumber; FMS stamps with the BMA overprint, and Trengganu stamps with overprints of Japanese characters and the occupying power's own issues showing a farmer ploughing the Malayan land as rays of the Japanese sun shone behind his field.
When I too started to collect stamps, I wrote to S.A.Latif in Natal asking if he was ready for further swaps, but Father must have given more than he had pages in his album. “Please do not send me any more stamps as I have more than I need from Malaya,” he wrote back, but he also very kindly enclosed some South Africa stamps, and then I heard form him no more. My collection expanded very slowly with occasional replenishments from Father's promiscuous pile, but occasionally I bought stamps from a dealer named Lee Cheng Puan in Duku Road, Singapore. Lee sent us stamps in little booklets from which we picked and then we sent back the rest with cash for the purchase that amounted to no more than a few dollars.

Emboldened by that

I looked to further shores and found one as I was scouring through TitBits, a magazine that Father occasionally brought home from the Chee Seek store in Kampung China. There were snippets in there of human interest stories, laughter from my favourite cartoonist Clew, Charles Atlas in his leopard skin underwear urging you not to have sand kicked in your eyes by beach bullies. And then, in one corner, were the good people from the London company of Broadway Approvals.

Broadway said they sent stamps out on approval, so I wrote to them, and – to my surprise - they did: in a little booklet came Ifni and Monaco and San Marino and Helvetica and more places you could hurry to by turning the pages. They were all sent for your approval, for you to take your pick, and to send back whatever you didn't want to Broadway Approvals plus a postal order for your purchase. I took what I wanted and sold the rest to my classmates, and the whole collection, as I recall, cost $15.00 which was probably about £1 15s 3d in old money.

The world spun on a different axis in those days when trust was truly global. Which trader would think it wise now to send a collection of stamps halfway around the world to a child in primary school? I found a Broadway Approvals advertisement recently that was almost similar to the one I saw in TitBits and was touched by this tagline in their copy, “But please tell your parents you are answering this advertisement.”

Broadway Approvals, I have a confession to make after all these years: my parents didn't know.

----------------------
*I have done further research into Broadway Approvals. They were in South London, at 50 Denmark Hill. In 1956 they brought the Micromodel Company, a company credited with the origination of cut-out models of historic buildings and castles. The man behind Broadway Approvals was George Santo. Thank you Mr Santo!

Chinese New Year

To all my Chinese readers, a very happy new year from me and from Pök Téng and Mat Spröng too.

Selamat Tahong Baru!




[Image courtesy of http://1800sunstar.com]

A Book In A Quiet Corner

It has been almost a year now since we launched A Map of Trengganu at RA Fine Arts in a place called Solaris Hartamas.The band Diwangga Sakti played, Andre Goh sang, Jimmy Choo wowed shoe lovers, old friends and new inter-mingled, my sister baked cakes for us - old kuihs and new - and a really, really wonderful time was had by all.

Now the book is still selling well and I want to thank you all.

Yesterday I saw that Foyles of London had a few copies still on their shelves. So if you happen to be in London and would like to read about Trengganu (er, you would like to read that sentence again?) do make your way to Charing Cross. Even if the books are no longer there you'll still enjoy Foyles which, at one time, was the most famous bookshop in the world. Marks & Co (more widely known as 84 Charing Cross Road) made it to the stage, but Foyles fought the war and was both loved and hated for its eccentricities. But it is much better now.

In the second half of my secondary school years, in a school called Victoria Institution (yes, you heard it right, I was once in an institution), our English teacher told us about Foyles, what a big place it was and how he'd spent his days there reading books he couldn't afford to buy. Foyles was - and still is - like that; it leaves you alone amid its chaos and it holds no grudge for your taking your fill of its bibliopolity.

I used to spend hours in its occult and philosophy wing wondering about Aleister Crowley, reading about Greeks in a barrel and many other things too weird and wonderful.

In leaner days the building that housed the wing was sold to Waterstones, and then Waterstones grew slimmer and the shop across the road is now taken over by people who divide its ground floor between respectability and semi-pornography, and its basement entirely for the serious study of the scatological.

It warms the cockles of my heart of course to know that today, the Foyles that gave comfort to my English teacher in his hours of need, that gave me things to read on dozy afternoons, that is visited by many of the great and good of this metropolis, also stocks A Map of Trengganu.

So, if you're tired of London, as Dr Johnson meant to say, do take yourself there and buy the book, or just read it if you please, and place a discreet bookmark in it for you to return to another day.