23. How to...Ttekèng

If, by your twentieth birthday you still haven't had a good ttekèng with your next door neighbour or your closest mate or the man who sells you bread, then your weltanschauung needs to be looked at. Ttekèng is an active, transitive verb, meaning that if things do go out of hand, someone’s going to be badly hit, normally on the kèng which is widely believed to be the origin of the word. Kèng is the jawbone that rises to prominence on each side of the cheek when your voice rises to a high pitch and your eyes assume a fixed, glazed look accompanied by hands rising akimbo and your vocabulary picking out choice words from the back of your head, mostly ones pertaining to genealogy, reproduction, kinship and organs hidden in the body's nether parts.

From the ensuing noises and wild hand gestures you will have gathered that ttekèng or, sometimes, nnekèng, is another step up from the mere bbalöh. Bbalöh may be high in decibels and gruff, but it is ttekèng that makes the bones rise. It is easy to see from here how some firm advocates of ttekèng are known as kerah kèng or people whose jaw-bones are hard.

To ttekèng well you must learn to choose right. Never, for instance, take a person taller, higher, mightier, louder than you as your ttekèng mate. Never ttekèng when you're already otherwise afflicted, say by a sore throat, and never in a butcher's shop where knives are rampant and the sight of blood will make yours — and your opponent’s — rise. And never, never ttekèng with a man named Mamat Ppala Kerah or people with monikers that sound like that.

The subject matter is unimportant once a disagreement grows loud, a fierce look helps to keep opponent and spectators at bay, while two rising, prominent jawbones will warn your opponent (and passers by) that you're a seasoned expert. A jovial man and a scholar to boot by the name of Sheikh Zain who used to live by the Masjid Putih kept argumentative folk at bay by giving his potential adversary his famous put-down, "Sokok mung sais berapa?"* But as we're not all as adept as the Sheikh and as loud as the guroh** and just as there are so many folk out there who do not know that we are always right, then we must sometimes gird our loins and show our kèng and the most prominent of our jugular veins or the urat merèh in our neck.

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* "What’s the size of your hat?" [i.e. "Your brain’s just not big enough, mate!"]
** Thunder

See also:
20. How to...Bbalöh

Mat Spröng Kelecak Barak II

Döh nök Asör döh baru napök payang dok belambong atah ömbök.

Habih gègèr orang pata bila perahu payang masok. Muséng buka kuala ning orang kata ada ikang banyök: ikang layor dudok belèkör ddalang pètök perahu, ikang butir nangka, anök nnècèk; ikang kembong, tambang beluru, ikang tenggiri tu dök söh nök katalah, besör betih dok ggölèk ssama ikang aye, ikang cerming hidop lagi dok gelepör gguling galök. Sebakol ikang tambang hök Wang Mamat buat kerepok, sebakol lagi untuk Jènak dok tunggu nök ssiang ttepi telaga Sura Tok Syeikh. Orang pata keluör habih gi beratang tèngök.

Budök-budök kaki hhanya jembe ke perahu derah-derah, ada yang bawök supék, ada yang bawök timba repéh. Kerja ccuri ikang ni mèmang döh jjadi adat budök-budök pasör, dapak lima nang èkör gi jual dapak pitis samah wak belanja beli rökök. Pah tu baru Tok Peraih sandör basika ppohong nyiör, kilah kaing gi pilih ikang nök wak naik ppasör: Ttanjong atau Keda Payang; gi Lladang ddepang sekölöh satu bahagiang, pah tu ke Cabang Tiga pong bawök jugök.

Mat Sprong tèngök sereme ning dari jauh, mata dia dök kkellik. Tangang dia belang cukél gigi lepah makang belebak sutér kkeda Mök Nöh; pah tu basoh denge kopi öh pahik llepang nök wak hilang ngattok sebak malang tadi dia dök léh tidor jugök, ppala dia mmusing, hidung tupak, kaki dia kadang-kadang ssètök kkarong sapa takdök aröh nök buak. Ppala dia dok ddenyuk lagi tapi dia buléh ök.

Hari Munöh dök balik derumoh dia paka baju kurong warna samör denge kaing batik Wang Ddölöh hök mök dia beli masa dia pah Föng Tiga di sekölöh nnengöh. Lijöh mök dia suroh dia gi beli nyiör sebutir ppasör sebab nök wak ikang sarök hari Isnèng minggu lepah. Lijöh tunggu di kukorang sapa ggarék dia dök balik jugök; dia ingak Munöh singgöh derumöh Ki dia di Nèsang Pak, tapi bila Lijöh gi tanya takdök jugök di nung dia pong mula göbör perok.

“Ba’pe yang mung dök beritahu aku hari tu jugök?” Mat tanya Lijöh masa makang roti cana kkeda Pök Löh hari dia jjupe Mat di wakah.

“Aku ingak dia dök lah hilang lesak sapa lama ggining,” jawak Lijöh sambil nnangih sèk-sèk sapa nök nniték air mata ddalang kuöh kari Malabari Pök Löh. “Lagi pong, bukang senang nök cari mung le ning, Mak.”

Mat nnengung sebetör dok ingat kata Lijöh. Ppala dia mula ddenyuk.

Tepak payang ujong Tanjong tu jauh dari rumöh Lijöh, tapi ppata ning macang-macang orang mari nök nnusuk dari masa’alöh. Dia tèngök dari jauh ke tepak orang gelibuk ttepi perahu payang takdök pulök baju samor, takdök pulök…Ppala Mat berhenti mmikir, dia tenung sapa jauh, pah tu keluör perkataang ddalang ppala dia…anök Lijöh.

“Anök Lijöh,” Mat kata ssorang dia, mata dia tundok ppasir, tèngök ketang kecik dok körèk lubang ttepi pelepöh sagu hök hanyut dari darak. Dia tèngök kkasut dia, döklah kkilak sangat döh tapi mölèk lagi, dia urut kaki seluör kaing kaki hök dia potong kkeda Lam Seng Tèlor* dulu masa dia banyök pitih.

Masa Mat Sprong ada kes, dia paka jjuruh mölèk, baju kemèja, seluör panjang denge kasut kulit. Dia tèngök ddalang kömik mata gelak di Amerika paka töpi, kadang-kadang denge cerming mata hitang, dia rasa mölèk sunggoh tapi dia döklah ikut sapa ggitu nati orang kata pulök dia ning göng ccapor ddö’öh. Tapi bila kena hari, dia rajing jugök paka sökök gi semejid sebab orang bawök macang-macang cerita lepah semayang hari Jema’at.


“Aku ning mata-mata gelak,” kata Mat, ccakak ssörang. “Dulu aku buléh jadi posmèng, jadi puléh, jadi orang kelauk, tapi aku pilih nök jadi mmata-gelak sebak negeri Teganung ning kena maju macang Niu Yök.” Mat nnengung, ngilling ppala dia sekejak.

“Aku ning mata gelak,” dia kata lagi. “Kalu aku dök dapak cari Munöh tu saja sangaklah aku ning!”

Mata dia nnengung jauh, Mat wak keluör sapu tangang, cak Pyramid hök dia dapat masa gi majlis orang nniköh; dia kesak mata dia, gamok oh masok habok. Bunga rapa ada lagi bbau serebök; dia sèng hingus dia jatoh ttanöh.

[Ssambong Lagi...To Be Continued]

------------------------
* Tailor

Previous Episode:
The Return of Mat Sprong.

Mang Friday

Pök Mang arrived on his bicycle on Friday afternoon, in the lull after Jumaat prayers, after the tumult of Bangsawan Di Udara had faded from the afternoon and the sea was blowing a soporiferous wind in the air. He snipped in his oldy worldy style, mouth babbling as if he was reciting a quiet mantra, a little crook stuck out from a finger grip of his scissors.

Sometimes, when he felt the need, he’d tell us about the virtue of keeping still because, he said, just the week before he’d accidentally snipped the edge of a little boy’s ear. When he did, he always admonished with a smile, perhaps because Father was there keeping watch on this whole affair. The blanket he wrapped around us smelt of old hair and dead talcum powder and some fragrant concoction that came in a blistery bottle. He had a little round tin from which he pulled a furry disk that dabbed a rose scented dust on the back of our neck before he applied the cut-throat razor that he’d stropped on a piece of leather.

Our front gate had two doors of corrugated iron in a timber frame that wore metal brackets on each side: into this each night Father inserted a timber bar to keep trespassers outside our doors. The bar was standing upright on the right side of the frame now, music lilting through the opening between the doors, the Friday afternoon qawalli sung by our Tamil shopkeeper Yahya, voice quivering as his fingers tickled out mournful tunes from the ivory of his harmonium, seasoned as it had been by the salt and spray from the sea air on the S.S.Rajula.. We sat in the shadow of the leaf-canopied pergola of the tikam seladang [stdspk. kesidang; Vallaris glabra] that gave occasional whiffs of their overpowering smell.

Pök Mang dusted our neck with fragrant powder as he pulled the sheet off our shoulders and shook out surplus hair. One by one he picked up his paraphernalia of work, his bottle of cologne, his plastic bottle that sprayed our neck and our hair with cold water, clipper and scissors and cut throat razor, and the leather strap that he packed into a battered leather bag that sat in the back of his bicycle.

When Pök Mang retired we never saw him again, but his son Cik Omar opened a barber’s shop across the road from the azan sounds of the Surau Besar and the banter and the billiard tables of Kelab Pantai. And the smell that came wafting into our nostrils wasn’t from the tikam seladang but from the home factory of Cik Muda, Kuala Trengganu’s famous satay maker.

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Bangsawan Di Udara - Radio opera performed then by the Tijah Din Bangsawan group.

The Return of Mat Spröng

Mat Spröng Kelecak Barak - I

Ddalang pasir putih bila pagi döh mula panah ddering ada buöh rengah, ada daung luroh, ada tapök kaki Mat Spröng jjalang pergi ke aröh wakaf. Anging pata masih lembut, lalat pèng dok hurong tong sampöh bbunying macang orang dok tarék selampit. Anging kecang lauk tiup kaing Mat Spröng sapa ssèlök napök lutut, dia nök reböh tapi dang ggatong ttiang wakaf.

Malang tadi atah gerai kosong Mök Cöh semalamang dia dök tidor sebab kucing dok kkarak atas atap zéng; lepah tu anjing pulök bising bbangör dok göngöng tulang ttepi pasör, pah tu bila döh nök ceröh orang darak pulök dok bising bbangör punggöh barang ppasör — buöh salök, buöh ngekkèr, buöh peröh, ubi török; ikang belara, peta jerok....

Ppala Mat Spröng tadi rasa huyong sikik bila dia berhenti ddepang keda Pök Löh dok ssandör ttiang letrik. Le ning hidong dia pulök rasa tupat, badang dia rasa seriar macang demang baru nök keböh. Dia sèng hingus, keluör jjèle, dia lèsèk ttiang wakaf.

“Guanelah budök-budök le ning,” dia belèbèr ssörang, keruk muka masang ccatung sebab dök léh nök kata döh. “Nyior kömèng pong habih nye bahang sapa takdök sutér hharang!”

Kalu kena hari-hari baik tentu budök-budök tu kena maki hamung denge ccarok, tapi pagi tu badang Mat rasa dök rök, ppala dia rasa pening, lidöh rasa kurang pasèh, anging pata dok ulèk dia sapa mata rasa berat. Dia letök ppale ddebing atas semutar kaing lepah barat hök orang Kelatang beri dia masa dia tulong cari basika Tok Peraih hök budök-budök pasör susuk belakang sasök. Dalang dua tiga minit je dia jenere keröh-keröh, sahok menyahok denge kambing nerok hök dok ddembèk bbawöh pohong bbaru ujong pasir ddepang rumöh Alias Sökök.

Matahari naik segalöh, cöndöng sikik ke belöh barat. Ppala Mat Spröng keresök bila ssètök dengör suara orang jjerik. Kaki dia jjetak macang nök tembör lari, tangang dia paut semutar hök belèkör atah lata wakaf, terus dia kesat peloh, badang dia panah-sejok, panah-sejok. Ikut hati dia macang nök tembör lari selalu, tapi wakaf ni hök jenis ada pagör, di pitu ada tuböh sorang ppuang dok ddiri ccegak.

“Guane mu ning Mak, sapa dök gi semayang bang hari Jema’ak!”

Mula-mula Mat nök serengèng balah, tapi bila mata dia ceröh balik dia napök perempuang badang pejal dok tengöh tarik napah ccungak-ccungak, lengöh jjalang ddalang panah ddering matahari Tanjong, bbawöh kaing tudung batik napök rambut dia jerebèk macang dök dang sikat masa dia keluör rumöh. Tangang dia ppegang ttiang wakaf, mulut dia bök-bèk, bök-bèk dok tuju ke Mat, masa tu dia dok tengöh geliak.

“Mung nin macang ayang bapök, tidor ikut dang je Mak!”

“Aku silak langköh takdi ning,” bbisik Mat ddalang hati, mata dia dök kerlik dok tengök ppitu wakaf. Bila hingus nnèleh dia sapu denge jari, terus dia lap llata wakaf.

“Nök gi semayang guane kaing aku carék,” jawab Mat bila ppuang tu diang sekejap.

“Aku pong dök sedak tuboh sikik hari ning,” dia tamböh lagi bila mata ppuang tu cerlöng dia bulat.

“Mung jangang buat pe’el mung Mak, mung kena tulong aku cari Munöh,” ppuang itu kata lagi, mata bulat dia mula jjadi lembut.

Mat Spröng mula ggerök, dia kebèr kaing dia, buang pasir pata, lepas tu baru dia kilah sapa kaki seluör pèndèk dia sama tinggi dengang tepi kaing batik, bbawöh sikik pada lutut.

“Ba’pe pulök denge Munöh mung tu Lijöh?” tanya Mat.

Lijöh dok ssandör ttiang sutoh wakaf, ppaut tepat Mat ggatong takdi masa hidong dia beringus lepah dari dari bunyi bising orang darat, nök dok ssaje ppetang Jema’at. Muka Lijöh mula jjebèk, tiang tu berasa ddènè ccapo belengas; dia sapu tangang dia ke mulok, nök tutop sebab takmboh jjerik ddepang Mat.

“Mak,” dia berhenti tiba-tiba. “Air laut masing hari ning, aku rasa sapa lekak ttiang wakaf. Ning alamak dök baik gamök öh.”

Dada dia sebök, air mata nnèleh atas bedök sejok ppipi dia — Mat napök mata meröh Munöh, bukang bèkèng tapi mata orang hök takdök aröh nök buat. Hati dia lembut: ssiang pada Lijöh, ssiang pada Munöh. Bila hati Mat lembut perot dia mula cceruk:

“Lijöh, mung pinjang aku pitih samah, aku bbau roti cana kkeda Pök Löh tu sedak pulök.”

Lijöh jjeling ke Mat, badang dia dök ggerök. Mata dia meröh mmerang buöh mminja masök, bukang lagi meröh pucak orang nök nnagih.

“Jöh,” kata Mat. Döh lama benör dia dök paka nama pèndèk ggitu. “Jöh, mung jangang bimbang, mari kita makang dulu, pah tu kita ccakak.”

[Ssambong lagi — To be continued.]

Z is for Zilch

Now that the house of greed is falling around our ears and the thrust of globalised free market capitalism has been somewhat blunted, I suppose I can now talk about the people without provoking a howl of protest from our misadventure capitalists. I once grieved about the loss of the old Malaysia Hall in London and was told by a government minister that I was being sentimental. Being sentimental means that I have to live to see a new shrunk Malaysia Hall in a building that is hardly fit for purpose, in a less salubrious part of the capital, where the Great Hall calls for a redefinition of the word ‘great’ and serious questions have to be asked about the real cost of the place. Meanwhile, what’s happening to ‘old’ Malaysia Hall can be an interesting subject for a book.‘Development’ has been much-bandied in a world where globalisation’s hidden meaning is distinct from the ‘truth’ that we read in the press, or that we hear from their advocate fat cats. This is the globalisation of thought, profits, markets and greed. But now that their libertarian free market has crashed and the bottom has fallen out of their moneybags, maybe it’s time to talk once again in old fashioned terms: we need to look after the welfare of our people before we look at the global markets because people are the parts that make our society tick. Time now for us to expect ‘development’ plans to be inclusive, for the governments to be caring, and for the welfare of the people to be the first business of the state. For long enough now in what has been the free market world urged on by the captains of globalisation, in a planet where bankers go bonkers with their conjuring tricks (see sub-primes for a start, then proceed to derivatives), the ‘p’ for ‘people’ has been pushed down in their alphabet of priorities, right down to somewhere near ‘z’ for ‘zero’ or ‘zilch’.

I am encouraged to see comments by Naz and Awang and SSS61 and al-Manar in my last blog. I thank too those who have sent me emails to express much the same thought: that they are fed up of being shunted aside by greed. As SSS61 puts it, people in the area should be part of the ‘development’ and not shunted to the sticks. It is sad to hear the cries of those who have been pushed from areas where they are no longer needed but which they and their families have kept alive for so long.

There’s enough money in Kuala Trengganu for community building and housing (and by this I don't mean glitzy condominiums and Dubai-style hubris) if it isn’t squandered on glitzy projects and Krazy Cups, to line deep pockets and stuffed into the bags of those who have to bribe for votes. A people-centred development requires vision and imagination, welfarism and people-oriented town planning; so that our city will be what it always has been, a vibrant, people-rich civitas, a living community rather than a dead place of offices, banks and shops.

See also:
The Unbearable Lightness of Udang Baring.
Just Any Old Street.

Just Any Old Street

Just any old street in any old town ravaged by the best of our New Brutalist architects. Somehow I’d much prefer the aroma of fish coming ashore and krills rotting in the sun, and coconut fronds sussurating in the breeze that’s swept in across the Broads — well, not quite — but the blue expanse of water looked good enough to drink in a shell of the coconut.

Only this is left to remind us of the old Tanjung Ngabbang (Mengabang) of Pök Mat the amok (Pök Mat Ngammök), whose descendants used to live exactly a mile from the old Clock Tower roundabout in Kedai Payang. We knew this because the stairs leading up to their house stood almost in line with the stela that had on it the number ‘1’. This is bucolic old Tanjong Ngabbang flanked by the hard edged box of the post-modern. An arrow [on the signboard, extreme right] points to a spot hidden between the leaves and the Brutalist where Old Ngabbang still probably lives, “KEROPOK LEKOR M. CHIK ANI” (Auntie Ani’s fishy thingamabob) it says, while two men whisper intimately in the shed:I have a thing about Brutalist architects for their thinking that things — their things — are more important than the place. For this we just have to look around us. Have you ever wondered why there are tall flats (oh alright, condominiums) jutting out in their unspeakable awfulness from our once green hillsides? Why do the LRT stations in Kuala Lumpur hide the beauty of the Masjid Jamek on the point where two rivers meet? Why is a stupid hotel blocking the view of the river where the taxi stand used to be in the bend of Jalan Banggol in Kuala Trengganu? The list is endless: this green and little land of ours appears to be one long Brutalist Fest.

Oh all right then, the country has to develop, money spent, jobs created, egos burnished, and then we must keep pace (with what? I shall leave here for you a blank space ). But now dear brothers and sisters, there is such a thing as art: just look at those carved woods in those old houses, the payang boats that our fishermen pushed out to sea, the old Istana Kolam that some idiots have now demolished. With that art comes heritage beyond price. So sad then to see the old historic Kampung Datuk (of old Datuk Amar) demolished to make way for an ersatz piece of Turkish delight cooked up in someone’s kitchen of kitsch. So sad to see the old Masjid Sultan in Chendering pulled down by barbarians who simply gave away the fine carvings that were probably the last to be seen intact in an old house. So sad that old Tanjong Mengabang could not have benefitted from a more imaginative development (ah, perish the word) that could have given long time residents due respect, where low rise buildings would not have blocked out the sea, trees and krills and the breeze coming in from Sambas.

But where do you develop? Take an old well, for instance, the old well of Surau Haji Mat Kerinchi or Surau Besar or Surau Tok Sheikh Kadir of Tanjong. Ten thousand new blocks can rise in a year but an old well is so unique because, well, if you lose that you’ll not have another like it. Why can’t old wells (old trees, old houses, old landmarks) be born again in a new place? Why do they have to be demolished and then remembered again in old pictures? There’s dignity in the old that stands above the brashness of youth.

Take a look at Tanjong Mengabang now and weep:
But what about the people...To be continued.

Thanks:
Aji Dol for the photos. [Double click on pics to enlarge.]

The Unbearable Lightness of Udang Baring

At any time of day as you took the bend in the road in Tanjong Ngabbang (stdspeak. ‘Mengabang’), you’d have been overcome by a pong of something dead, something rotten. This experience brought a smile on the trishaw puller’s face, made the housewife pull her sarong head-cover over her nose, and made schoolchildren look at each other accusingly, like someone was concealing a fart in his pristine white school shorts.

It was the unmistakable smell of belacang of Tanjong Nggabang.

Tanjong Ngabbang was the land that time forgot, between Tanjong Batu Satu and Ladang of the buöh ppisang. I shall have to describe buöh ppisang as it is now an extinct fruit, as it deflected the sunlight from its yellow, velvety skin, as it dangled from the tall branches, among the broad green leaves of the pohong ppisang (the ppisang tree). Some African tribes, I am told, have thirty or so words to describe the colour green, but for this one, in Trengganuspeak we have only one, ija kkilat, leaves gelaming in the sunlight, with glossier green than when they are hanging in the shade, in the quiet of an afternoon around the Sekölöh Arab (Arabic School).I know the pong of Ngabbang and the sweetness of the buöh ppisang because I arrived on my kid’s bicycle in the compound of the school most afternoons, my white long trousers and matching shirt, and mangled songkok hat still reeking of the dead udang baring that was the veil of odour in the road that I had to cycle through in Ngabbang. It was the smell of the dead udang baring of Ngabbang. Udang baring was probably krill, little shrimps that were almost transparent in the water, hauled up by the ton and mixed with salt, vast quantities of coarse crystals from the sea, and then pounded and pounded and pounded to make belacang. Then the paste was scooped out and shaped into flat cakes, and dried in the sun of the Trengganu noontime. For belacang to be mature and ripe you needed not just any sun, but the red hot head-cracking sun that was the Trengganu panah ddering when fishermen who were ashore had repaired to the shade, and housewives were out to hang their dripping wet batik sarongs and their husband’s baju melayu top and their kaing ssahang on the line.

Commercial belacang was made like wine, the raw krills dumped into a mengkuang-lined hole in the ground, sea-salt and well-water added to the right consistency. And then a hefty man (the husband or the heaviest man in the village) jumped into the mush and then — footlose and fancy free — he did his foot-pounding dance with the udang. I think Mother had issues with this mode of production and ordered our belacang only from a man called Pök Löh Böng whose wife, a follower of the Schumacher school even before Schumacher was born, took small to be beautiful and pounded her belacang only in her mortar stone.

I write this with a lump in my throat, but that is probably my memory of the stone of the buöh ppisang that had to be swallowed whole once it was bitten out of its soft, velvety skin that was a-gleaming in the sun. My classes at the Sekoloh Arab ended at around 5 o’clock, and then, when all was quiet excpet for the occasional yelps from the nearby hostel of the Arabs, my friend and I would climb into the tall tree to the branches nearest to its dangling fruits. Buöh ppisang was about the length of an adult finger, its girth probably no more than two fingers laid side by side, and you could see its inner stones bulging out on the surface of the skin, two or three in an average fruit.

We ate until it was nearly dark, and then I’d cycle home, belly full of stones, and hurrying past the gloaming that was coming down in the bend at Tanjong Ngabbang, with its aroma wafting through the coconut trees that were waving frantically in the coastal wind, and the udang baring, away from the sea and among the salt, and rotting in the water of the wells of our Mengabang.