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Thursday, July 28, 2011

Lessons learnt from childhood escapades

Wednesday July 27, 2011
Lessons learnt from childhood escapades

IT was the faraway look that caught my attention. I noticed the eyes had swept past the group of kids poring over a laptop and come to rest on the sun-drenched lawn.
“Chin, why don’t you tell us something about your childhood days?” I asked.
Startled by my unexpected question, a bemused smile played at the corner of his lips.
“Aaah, in my day we wouldn’t be indoors on such a beautiful, sunny day,” he replied with a long sigh, as if trying to recapture some distant cherished memories.The story teller

My brother-in-law Chin, nicknamed “Ketat” because of his fondness for tight-fitting shorts, grew up in the small village of Simpang Empat in Alor Gajah, Malacca. The double-storey wooden house where he lived stood amidst rubber and coconut trees.Chin's childhood home at Simpang Empat

In the absence of television, the computer and other forms of modern entertainment, he
and his friends spent most of their time roaming the neighbourhood, brimming with mischievous schemes.
However, it was not always playtime for Ketat. During the school holidays, he had to help his parents pick coconuts. Even as a teenager he could climb about 10 trees on a single day.
During one school break, he was about to reach the top of a towering coconut tree when he felt a sudden tightening grip on one thigh. Cramp! The word shot through his mind.

He could neither climb up nor down. There was only one option.
Strapping his arms around the trunk, he glided non-stop to the base of the tree. When he reached the ground, he felt an excruciating pain between his thighs. The parts that had come in close contact with the trunk had suffered varying degrees of abrasion. For the rest of the holidays, his movements were restricted to waddling with bended knees.
One sunny morning a group of teenage kampung friends with fishing nets and pails in hand appeared at his doorstep.
“Ketat, where do you think you’re going with that broken arm of yours?”
“Nowhere, Nya. Just going to watch my friends catch fish.”
Despite the cast on his arm, he followed his friends as they headed towards a nearby paddy field. The boys quickly bailed out the water in the field and were soon groping and grabbing at the fish thrashing wildly in the muddy shallows.Fish thrashing in the shallows

Not wanting to miss the fun Ketat joined his friends. When they finally emerged from the shallows, he noticed his plaster cast was coated with a thick layer of mud. In the excitement of the moment, he had forgotten entirely about the cast.
On reaching home he slipped behind the house and spent the rest of the day scrubbing and washing the cast with soap and water, and picking out the mud that had lodged between it and his arm.
A stone’s throw from his house, an old couple lived in a hut nestled amongst a variety of fruit trees. Beside the hut stood a stately mango tree which, when in season, was laden with luscious mangoes.
The sight of the fruits was enough to make Ketat drool. One morning he approached the old lady and asked: “Mak cik, may I have some of those mangoes?”
“No!” came the curt reply.
The next day, he approached her again. “Mak cik, can I buy those mangoes?”
“NO!” The answer was loud and clear. With downcast eyes Ketat slunk home and resolved to teach her a lesson.
The sound of a stick whistling through the air could be heard late one evening. The old lady heard the rustling of leaves and the dull thud of falling fruits. As she hobbled to the door she caught sight of a slight figure disappearing into the deepening twilight.
Ketat was soon sinking his teeth into the succulent mangoes.
The next morning as he and Samah passed the old lady’s orchard he related the previous evening’s incident to his friend.
“Serves her right!” Samah said, as he tried to justify his friend’s action.
They then stopped to gaze longingly at the irresistible clusters of langsat that clung to the boughs of the trees. A plan was hatched.
The boys eyeing clusters of langsat in an orchard

On a moonless night two figures could be seen making their way towards the orchard. Ketat followed a few metres behind as Samah led the way. Suddenly, he lost sight of Samah in the deep gloom.
The indistinct outline of the trunk of a langsat tree loomed before him and he quickly made his ascent. With hand outstretched, he began groping blindly at the dark void above him. His fingertip grazed something smooth. Langsat? He made a quick grab at the fruit. Above him a sharp shrill pierced the silence of the night.
“Ouch! Eh, itu buah aku lah.” (Eh, that’s my fruit). Ketat released his grip with a faint chuckle. Samah had been comfortably ensconced on the upper branch of the tree when he made the fruitless grab.
Suppressing their laughter, they scrambled down and slowly headed home. Samah had to pause occasionally to ease the discomfort in his sarung. The night escapade had come to an abrupt end.
Days later, they inhaled deeply as the fragrance of durian wafted across the morning air. “Harvest time” had arrived for the boys.
Ketat took out the gunny sacks they had stashed away in the tool shed the previous year. Keeping to the shadows he headed for the orchard, where Samah was waiting.
But for the pale flickering light of a kerosene lamp in the old couple’s hut and the crackle and crunch of twigs and dried leaves, all was dark and quiet. The boys began to circle the durian trees.
Whenever they felt a gentle tug, they would pull in their sack to check if a durian had been entangled in the netting. That night they were rewarded with four durians.A 'harvest' of durians

Another dark night found the boys back in the orchard. They had just begun their nocturnal activity when they heard a shout coming from the couple’s house. Had they been spotted? They paused to listen. Then they heard the unmistakable scream for help.
When the boys rushed into the hut they saw the mak cik sobbing and struggling to lift an old man from the kitchen floor. They helped her carry the unconscious man up the few steps into the living area.
As Ketat looked around him, he noticed the tattered furniture and loose floorboards. Then he recalled the mak cik’s harsh demeanour and their exploits. Had they been depriving the poor couple of their only source of income?
As she mumbled her gratitude, the boys saw the pain and sadness in her eyes. Riddled with guilt they decided to end their childish pranks.
Although they walked home empty-handed that night they were not disappointed, for their little act of kindness had given them a great sense of fulfilment. They had set out to harvest durians but, instead, went home with a harvest of valuable lessons for life.

Tuesday, July 5, 2011

Lessons for life

The Star Lifestyle
Monday June 30, 2008

Lessons for life 
By Wan Chwee Seng

Life’s first experiences offer lessons that stand us in good stead in later years.

“WALK faster, freshies! This is England, not Malaya!” The raucous shouts reverberated across the dark, narrow corridor that led to the recreation hall. Disorientated and shivering from the bitterly cold English winter, we huddled together and jostled past the seemingly endless lines of “Our most honourable senior sirs and ladies”.
I remember that cold December morning in 1958, when 120 excited and high-spirited young Malayans landed in London airport on a BOAC Jet-Prop Britannia.

BOAC Jet-Prop Britannia

For most, if not all, it was our first trip overseas, our first plane ride and our first experience of snow. We boarded a waiting coach and made the long night journey to Kirkby Teachers’ Training College, on the outskirts of Liverpool, which would be our home for the next two years.

Malayan Teachers' Training College, Kirkby, Liverpool

As we pushed past the lines of shouting seniors, I felt like a sheep being led to the slaughter-house. Soon I found myself in the brightly-lit recreation hall and I sensed more trouble. Through the corner of my eyes, I saw other seniors prowling round the hall like vultures that were about to pounce on some unsuspecting prey.
I tried to slip away to a secluded corner of the room. Then above the muffled shouts from outside the hall, a feminine voice close to my ears drawled: “Freshiee! Where’re you going? Sit here.” I soon found myself sandwiched between two charming girls.
“Freshie, did you study Malayan history in Form V?”
“Er, yes,” I replied hesitatingly.
“Tell us what you know about the Treaty of Pangkor.”
I must have done reasonably well as I was told to report to them the next day.
Ensconced on the sofa between two ladies, I was about to relax when a dark figure loomed over me. I looked up. A huge, bearded senior glared down at me with steely eyes.
“Come here, freshie!” a voice boomed above the din. A crooked index finger beckoned me.
“Can’t you see he’s engaged,” a voice snapped back.
The figure stalked away. A smile flitted at the corner of his lips.
I heaved a sigh of relief. It was a welcome reprieve. Lunch was another welcome break. As we dug into the white rice and Sputnik curry (hard-boiled eggs cooked in curry), the morning incidents were soon forgotten. The clock in the dining hall was ticking extra fast and it was time again to report at the recreation hall. With our heads lowered and eyes fixed on the floor, we tried to sneak past the seniors who were pacing the corridor.
“Freshie!” a voice barked. A junior bolt upright.
“Where are your manners?”
“Er, er ? Good ... good morning, my ... my most honourable senior sir,” he stammered.
“Your ribbon is withering, freshie! Make sure you water and iron it.” A slight smile played on his lips.
“Zip that smile freshie!” Two firmly pressed fingers glided across clamped lips as the owner tried to suppress a dimpled smile.
We finally made it to the recreation hall. The moment we stepped into the hall, all eyes gravitated towards our direction. Above the blare of television could be heard a cacophony of voices.
“Let us hear you croak, freshie!”
A quavering voice belted out a song which was clearly out of tune.
“Do you know how to go on a bombing raid, freshie?” A senior was soon giving a detailed explanation on the proper use of the toilet.
In one corner of the hall, a loquacious senior was busy telling jokes to a group of solemn-faced juniors who were the butt of his jokes.
“Hey! Listen to this. This freshie boarded a double-decker bus to Liverpool. He clambered excitedly to the top deck. He was about to take his seat when he noticed the bus was moving without a driver. He ran down screaming with fright.”
There were many more jokes that day and each was followed by boisterous laughter from the seniors, while the juniors joined in with forced laughter.
One morning a senior approached me and inquired whether I had been to Liverpool.
“No,” I replied.
“Follow me then. I’ll show you around.”
A group of juniors was soon following doggedly behind his confident steps. Our ungloved hands were numb from the cold. As we made our way to the nearby bus stop, he pointed to us the makeshift night stall where we could buy fish and chips or spring rolls for our supper, and the pub at the corner where we could join the locals for a pint or two.

One of the pubs outside Kirkby College

Through the thick, low-hanging fog, we could make out the indistinct outline of an approaching bus. We peered intently through the fog to make a mental note of the bus number. Was it 922 or 92? We were not sure. The number was fogged and our vision blurred.
The bus screeched to a halt at the bus stop. We quickly clambered on board and were soon on our way to the small town of Blackbull. Our senior showed us the bank where we could withdraw our monthly allowance of £10 (about RM80 then).

We popped into a grocery store where a smiling face behind the counter greeted us with, “Hello luv. What can I do for you, luv?” They were words which would soon become familiar to our ears.

Kirkby Store

The next day, I had a fever and landed in Sick Bay. There were many juniors to keep me company. Gradually they were discharged and I was all alone.
As I rested on the bed and gazed at the spotlessly white ceiling, I had plenty of time to reflect on the Orientation. I realised that the taunts, jokes and embarrassing activities we had to endure at the hands of our seniors were all done in good faith. They were meant to teach us social skills and etiquettes, and inculcate in us the norms and values of society. All would prove invaluable during our two years’ stay in England and stand us in good stead in our later years.
That night as I lay awake in bed and listened to the wintry wind howling outside, a desire to be among my newly-found friends stirred within me.
I woke up the next morning to find a transistor radio and a bottle of orange juice at the bedside table. I knew they were placed there out of care and kindness.
One morning I was awakened by the sound of approaching footsteps and Sister’s cheery voice called out: “Wakey, wakey. It’s time to leave.”
As I stepped out into the sunlight, I was greeted by a shower of snowflakes. The air was filled with a strange silence.
I looked around me. Not a soul in sight. The students were already in their classes. The Orientation had ended, but my journey had just begun.

Fifty years later, a group of silver-haired men with thick dark glasses, men with receding hairlines, and women with fine lines etched on their faces, are sitting around a table in the comfort of a coffee lounge.
They are reminiscing about the exploits of their youths with child-like exuberance. They are oblivious to the customers at the next table who listened with amused smiles on their young faces. They smile knowingly.

MTTC Kirkby closed down after its last intake (1960-1961).
Readers who want to know what became of the College can view the below interesting and informative video, courtesy of Datuk Zainal Arshad.


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