Rantau Panjang-Sungai Golok: The house by the paddy field

Rantau  Panjang-Sungai Golok: The house by the 

paddy field

By Wan Chwee Seng

It stood, solitary, isolated and different.

While the others in the neighbourhood stood in clusters with wooden stilts and palm-thatched roofs, the wooden bungalow was raised on concrete stilts and sported an asbestos roof.

The wooden bungalow house

A tangle of greenery with towering trees, their moss-wrapped branches festooned with vines, enclosed the back of the house. To the left, close to the house, was a well ringed with a low brick wall and beyond it, across a ground thickly carpeted with dried foliage, was an outhouse. With flimsy plank walls and a zinc roof, the outhouse stood solitary under a gnarled rubber tree with bare branches

The front of the house overlooked a paddy field: a patchwork of verdant vegetation during the planting season and a sea of billowy gold at harvest time. An irrigation canal, a rivulet of gurgling water, flowed along the edge of the field and one corner of the field was framed by a clump of bamboo with willowy plumes that swayed gently in the breeze.

The lush paddy field

"Oh, What a lovely view!”, the few visitors who made brief 
stopover exclaimed ecstatically as they gazed at the picturesque vista.

However, the residents of the house, teachers from the nearby Rantau Panjang English School and others from the Malay school in Gual Periok, knew that appearance can often be deceptive. 

Although the house was fairly big, it was sparsely furnished: the hall was bare while each of the two rooms was equipped with simple wooden beds and a small writing table.  It was the early 1960s and Rantau Panjang was still without electricity and most of the houses had no running water.

During the day, to while away the hours, we  played scrabble, outdoor games, or got together for a sing- along session.

A Sing-Along session. From Lto R.
The writer, Lim, Hassan and Kwok

 We even had our own staff hockey and soccer teams and we used to participate in friendly games with the other schools in the state. I remember there was a year when we won the teachers ’six-a-side soccer competition organised by the state’s NUTP. I was told that when our team representative went up the stage to collect the prizes there was a big applause accompanied with shouts of ‘steady Sungai Golok’.  

As soon as the last shadow melted into dusk, the oil lamps were readied for the night. We read and did our work in the pale, flickering glow of the oil lamps.  Without a radio in the house to entertain us, we sat in the tranquility of the night and listened to nature’s orchestrated music: the incessant chirps of the myriad insects and the deep belching of frogs from the nearby paddy fields.

At the first light of dawn the relaying calls of the roosters stirred us from our slumber. With eyes still heavy with sleep, we made our way to the nearby well.

I remember on the first day we moved into the house, Lim and Kwok, both city boys, went to the well for a bath. As there were only two pails available at the well I let them have the pleasure of testing the water, while I waited upstairs. From my room I could hear a dull thud as a pail hit the water and this was followed by more  thuds, but there was no sound of cascading water. Curious, I peered through an open window. Sweat was streaming from both their faces, but their bodies were still dry. I watched and smiled as I saw them throwing the pails forcefully into the water. The pails landed with a loud thud, but when they drew up the pails all they had to show for their effort was a tiny puddle of water at the bottom of the pails. I decided it was time to  show them the ropes.

“That’s not the right way to draw water,” I called out, as I approached them.

Taking a pail from one of them, I said,

“This is how you draw water.”

“First you lower the pail slowly with the rope until it touches the surface of the water. Then give the rope a gentle tug, to allow the rim of the pail to break the surface of the water and let the water trickle into the pail. When the pail is filled to the brim, slowly draw it up.”

After a few failed attempts, they managed to master the technique. I left them to enjoy their bath. From my room I could hear the sounds of cascading water and boisterous laughter and I knew both of them were having a splashing time.

Sometimes our bath would be interrupted by the crackle of twigs and dried foliage, as monitor lizards, some the size of a small crocodile, emerged from the dense undergrowth and headed towards the house. We tried to scare them off, but they were oblivious to our shouts and would waddle languidly across the ground, eyeing us menacingly through heavy-lidded eyes.

A monitor lizard eyeing us through heavy-lidded eyes

However, the moment we bent to pick up a stone or even before one of our colleagues could string his bow to test his archery skill they could sense the imminent danger and would scurry and vanish into the dense undergrowth.

There were nights when our stomachs would groan and rumble, not because of hunger but due to a more urgent call.

I remember vividly one late night when I began to pace the floor while I thought about the isolated and deserted outhouse that was sited about fifty metres from the house. At the unearthly hour the half-remembered lesson on Shakespeare of my schooldays suddenly came to mind:

“To go, or not to go, that’s the question.”

Then as goose pimples began to ripple up my arms and beads of cold perspiration appeared on my forehead I knew ‘you got to go when you got to go’.

Taking a small oil lamp from the table I stepped into the darkness outside. Only the crunch of leaves underfoot could be heard, as I trod gingerly towards the outhouse. A faint rustle among the shadowed shrubs made me pause momentarily, as I thought about the monitor lizards lurking in the deep shadow. Were they lurking in the shadows to exact their revenge?

I heaved a sigh of relief when I reached the safety of the outhouse. However, enclosed within the constricted space, the oil lamp began to throw long ghostly shadows on the wooden walls while outside the night wind began to knife through the chinks of the flimsy walls. Overhead, as finger-like twigs clawed at the roof, it conjured  image of a white figure perching on the low branch.

The outhouse under a gnarled rubber tree

To the right side of the house was a vacant patch of land with a narrow dirt track that led to the town’s unpaved road. During the dry season, the ground was a grey mass interlaced with cracks that made it appear like a faulty jigsaw puzzle. However, during the monsoon period the ground would be transformed into a slippery morass. As our slippered feet squashed the squishy ground, we kept a wary eye on the ankle-high grass as we knew leeches were waiting to suck our blood..  

Attracted by the smell of warm human blood, the tiny, black creatures would converge from every directions, stretching and arching their elastic bodies with amazing speed, as they advanced towards us. It was not unusual to find them clinging to our legs and arms long before we reached the house. We were told that peeling them forcefully would leave a lingering itchiness, so we let them have their fill.  Engorged with blood they looked like soaked black beans and fully satiated would drop quietly to the ground.

Today, years on, as I rest in the comfort of a bedroom with an attached bathroom, I let my mind drifts to that distant days when we stayed at the house  by the paddy field. Although, we had to face deprivations and tribulations then,  the experiences have taught me to appreciate and be grateful for the little things we tend to take for granted.





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Rantau Panjang-Sungai Golok: Bittersweet moments of reminiscence

Rantau Panjang - Sungai Golok: Bittersweet moments of reminiscence

Story and illustration by Wan Chwee Seng

As soon as dusk set in, we heard it, and our spirits sank. The distant blare of a horn was followed by a growing rumble, the screeching of brakes and a stuttering hiss. The familiar sound  heralded the arrival of a train _the last train of the day to  Rantau Panjang, Kelantan. 

At the railway station
L to R: The writer, Lim, Kwok

Pak Duk's coffee shop where eight of us teachers stayed in the early 1960s was located strategically at one end of the town. The town's railway station was within sight, however, a clump of trees and a makeshift stall obscured it from our view. From the first floor corridor we watched forlornly as the train chugged past below us, rattled the old iron bridge, before heading northward towards the Thai border town of Sungai Golok.

The bridge to Sungai Golok
L to R: Kahar, Kwok, the writer, Syed, Hassan

  “Ah! The last train to Gun Hill,*” a long sigh of resignation rose from within the dark recess of a room.

 The town folks and the neighbouring villagers  relied mainly on the train for their transport, as the town was  inaccessible by road. During the day,  pedestrians and cyclists could cross over to the Thai border town of Sungai Golok by using the narrow walkways that flanked the tracks of the  railway bridge.  A small immigration post, manned by an officer, stood at the Rantau Panjang’s end of the bridge. Local residents who were mostly familiar  to the officers  could move freely across the bridge, but visitors were required to present their border passes or passports.

The Sungai Golok River which acted as a natural boundary between the two towns also provided  a convenient and expedient way of accessing both towns . Although it was illegal to cross the river by boats, shallow  boats could be seen plying daily between the two towns. During long dry spell the river snaked sluggishly between exposed sandbars and it was even possible to wade in its ankle-deep water to the opposite bank. However, during the monsoon season, the river, is a raging torrent that is treacherous for small boats but allows larger boats to navigate its waters.            
As soon as the immigration post closed, and dusk began to slip into night, shadowy figures could be seen creeping stealthily and silently, like nocturnal predators, along the bank of the river. The border police had begun their nightly task of preventing illegal crossings  and  curbing   smuggling activities.
 One  night  a local temporary teacher appeared unexpectedly at my doorstep.
“Do you like to see something interesting?” he asked.
Interesting?  What could I expect to see in a ’cowboy town’ with just a single stretch of unpaved road still lit by oil lamps.  I had my doubt, but curiosity got the better of me and I found myself following doggedly behind his silent footsteps. We crept along a side lane of a  double-storeyed wooden house, hugging its side and keeping to the dark shadows. Except for the sound of our soft footfalls, a strange silence pervaded the place. The    sandy ground beneath our feet and the murky shape of houses on wooden stilts that loomed before us, suggested that we were heading toward the river. We were creeping cautiously from stilt to stilt when the sound of low conversations and the muffled  cry of a baby drifted from above us. Had we been spotted? We paused, ears straining in the silence.  Sensing there was no unusual activity to indicate our presence had been exposed, we crept quietly to the next stilt and stood in its shadow.
“Look,” my friend said in a barely audible voice.

The murky outline of a boat

I peered in the indicated direction. On the opposite bank of the river, a wavering, incandescent glow lit the darkness of the place. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I noticed  the murky outline of a fairly large boat. A dark figure  standing on a gangplank was holding a burning torch over his head. Further down the narrow road another figure held another torch which partially illuminated the road leading to the boat.
 In the yellow glow a cyclist could be seen pedalling hurriedly with a gunny sack strapped to his bicycle’s rear carrier.  The moment he reached the gangplank, the sack seemed to vanish into thin air, as unseen hands plucked it from the carrier. As soon as he retreated the way he had come another cyclist appeared bearing another sack and immediately behind him came another cyclist. I watched in disbelief and with a twinge of apprehension at the endless procession which resembled a column of ants bearing food to their nest.
Suddenly, I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder and my friend motioned me to follow him. We retraced our steps and as soon as we were  back in the safety of the house, I asked him,
“Where are the border police?”
“Oh, coincidentally they were all engaged in some kind of jungle-training exercise,” he replied with a faint smile.
"And where are they taking all those goods," I asked.
"Ah, just across the river to one of the warehouses," he replied casually, as if it was common knowledge,
The next morning I woke up to the sound of another rumble. Unlike the depressing rumble of the evening, the morning rumble helped  lift our spirits as our link with the outside world had been reconnected.  From high above the corridor we watched the  early morning commuters_ women balancing baskets of vegetables on their heads, elderly men lugging bundles of fruits, pupils with engorged school bags _streaming down the road leading to the town.  Meanwhile, across the road, in a makeshift stall,  able-bodied young men drank and smoke as they idled away the morning or perhaps enjoying their well-earned rest. In Pak Dok’s coffee shop,  other customers were engaged in animated conversations with no mention of the night’s incident.
There was a sudden blare of horns as a train from Golok  pulled into the town’s railway station. Young boys hugging brown paper packets filled with rice could be seen scrambling down the slow- moving train. On board the train while custom officers checked for contraband and taxed the petty traders other kids would scurry from coach to coach to evade the custom officers.  Later, I learned about  a boy who in an attempt to evade the custom officers had  tried to scramble onto the roof of a moving train, but somehow slipped and fell into the river.
The sight and pathetic story left me wondering if poverty had driven these kids to resort to such  risky undertaking.   I thought of Ghazali,  a pupil who used to help us  sweep our rooms and was happy and grateful for the few sen that we paid him. His lunch, I noticed, was usually  plain white rice with a pinch of sambal and a piece of dried fish. I  also remembered a pupil who was often late or absent from class after a night's heavy downpour. When I reprimanded and questioned him he would remain silent  with downcast eyes. Then one morning a pupil approached me and asked me not to scold  him. 
"Why?" I inquired, an edge of irritation creeping into my voice 
 "Sir, whenever it rains at night he has to keep awake the whole night as the  roof leaks and he has to collect the rain water in a pail to keep it from drenching his sleeping place."
For these poor boys  the little they saved from the cheaper 'imported' rice, perhaps, went a long way in elevating the family's financial burden.

One sultry morning, as I gazed down from the bedroom’s window at the grocery store directly across the road, I watched with interest as a   kid steadily poured rice from a brown packet into a gunny sack. Another kid appeared and followed the same ritual. Then it dawned on me that not all the smuggled rice was  meant for domestic consumption. The poor kids were  smidgens in a larger scheme of things. While  they and their families had to eke out a living others enjoyed luxurious lifestyle from ill-gotten gains.  
  
Forty-seven years have lapsed since I left Rantau Panjang for my hometown, Melaka.
"There's now a plane service to Kota Baru," I told my wife, Siew Leng, as I read the advertisement in the morning papers.
"Why don't we fly to Kota Baru and take a train ride to Rantau Panjang?" my wife suggested, perhaps remembering those days when  as a Staff Nurse  she used to cycle along the dirt track that ran along the side of the railway lines that led to the outlying villages of Lubok Setol and Gual Periok where she had to assist with the deliveries and make home visits.

Siew Leng at the Rantau Panjang health clinic's quarters

Then early this year I received a phone call from  Ojang, who was  my ex-student in Rantau Panjang English School. He  inquired if my wife and I were free to join him and his family at The Grand Continental Hotel in Melaka. It was a happy and emotional meeting for all of us. He informed  us Rantau Panjang was no longer the 'cowboy town' we used to know as rapid development had taken place in and around the town.

Rantau Panjang town in the early sixties

Present day Rantau Panjang town
Photo courtesy of Lt. Col.(Rtd.) Ojang Abdul Rahman

Pak Duk's coffee shop in 2010
Photo courtesy of Lt. Col.(Rtd.) Ojang Abdul Rahman

 We inquired about the train service from Pasir Mas to Rantau Panjang and learned with a tinge of sadness  that the service had already been terminated. 
 Where railway tracks used to run and a railway station once stood,  now well- paved roads and new brick buildings  stand in their places and  the rumble  of the old steam locomotives with their long lonesome calls have been replaced by the drones of cars and roar of motorcycles.
 All that remain of those distant past are the forgotten dreams, recurring nightmares and the  bittersweet memories of  an ex- resident of Rantau Panjang.

* Last train to Gun Hill: A 1959 movie starring Kirk Douglas and Anthony Quinn



Listen to Al Grant sings " Memories are made of this"

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The lamplighter of Rantau Panjang

The Star
Lifestyle 15th September 2010

Story and illustration by



Wan Chwee Seng


The generosity of Rantau Panjang's villagers can evoke a lifetime of gratitude.



NIGHT crept stealthily with silent feet from beyond the surrounding countryside and suddenly the remote town became enshrouded in its dark mantle. Void of electricity, the town’s darkness appeared more intense and sinister.
In the dimming light of dusk, the lone figure of a lamplighter astride his rickety bicycle, kerosene can strapped to the carrier of his bicycle and a short ladder slung across one shoulder, could be seen moving from post to post to light the oil lamps that lined the deserted road. It looked like a scene from a Dickension novel. But this was not the Victorian era. This was Rantau Panjang, Kelantan, in the early 1960s.

I vividly recalled that morning in 1961 when I first arrived in Rantau Panjang. As the steam locomotive rolled and hissed to a halt at the town’s railway station, a waving hand caught my eyes.
The headmaster, Encik Salleh, who had waited patiently on the open platform, greeted me warmly and ushered me into a waiting trishaw while my luggage which consisted of a single battered bag was bundled into another. While the trishaws negotiated the laterite road furrowed by trishaw wheels and pitted with rain-filled potholes, I took in my surroundings.

A trishaw navigatng the furrowed road

Rantau Panjangg town in the 1960s

All I could see was a narrow road flanked by double-storey wooden shophouses with rusty corrugated iron roofs. Not a car was in sight as the town was only accessible by rail. Overhead, rain-bearing monsoon clouds were grudgingly giving way to the morning sunlight.


I felt a little apprehensive at the unfamiliar sight and the gloomy weather only added to my anxiety. It was only two weeks since I had left the cold winter of Kirkby College and the brightly-lit city of Liverpool and now found myself transported into the humid and unfamiliar town of Rantau Panjang.

With Pua in front of the school mural which we painted

The trishaws came to a stop at a nearby coffee shop and Encik Salleh introduced me to four elderly men seated round a marble-topped coffee table. They welcomed me to Rantau Panjang and wished me a safe and pleasant stay.
A few days later, I had a drink in the same coffee shop. At the next table, a few customers were talking in cautious tones. I strained my ears to catch the dialogue that was passing back and forth.
“Hey! I heard that the policeman who just reported for duty here was nicked on the back of the head by a kapak kecil.”
“Huh! Just a warning,” came an unsolicited reply from somewhere behind me.
The crisp voice sent a shudder of relief as I recalled my earlier meeting with the four seemingly innocent-looking men. I remembered what Encik Salleh told me as soon as we had stepped out of the coffee shop.
“You know the four men you have just met? They are the leaders of the kapak kecil gang of Rantau Panjang. You don’t have to worry about your safety now. Enjoy your stay here.”
The note of optimism in those words provided some comfort and nourishment to my flagging spirits.
However, on dark and lonely nights as shadowy figures strolled by with sarung hitched shoulder-high, I sometimes wonder what lay hidden beneath the folds of the sarung and lingering doubts made me look occasionally over my shoulders at the lurking shadows.
Encik Salleh had made prior arrangement with Ah Kong, the proprietor of a coffee shop, to provide me with temporary accommodation.
“You can stay here as long as you like,” the affable Ah Kong and his ever-smiling wife assured me. The couple not only provided me with accommodation, but treated me as a member of the family. I remember the special meal they prepared for me when I was taken ill and the Chinese New Year I spent with the family when I was not able to make it back home.
One evening, Phua, the only teacher in the school besides the headmaster and his wife, invited me to be his housemate as he had rented a fairly large house near the school. Not wanting to inconvenient Ah Kong and his family any longer, I agreed to join him. Late one evening, lugging my bag, we headed for the double-storey wooden house which stood stately among a cluster of low palm-thatched huts.
The moment I stepped into the house, I was in for a surprise. Not a single piece of furniture was in sight. There was only a mengkuang mat on the bare wooden floor, while a gas lamp hanging from a rafter provided the only light.
That night, while Phua snored away in one corner of the room, I gazed out of the window. Across the river, the night sky of the Siamese town of Sungai Golok was aglow with electric light and the night air carried the sirenic strains of “ramvong” music. Immediately below me, the dull yellow glow of oil lamps flickered from within dark wooden houses, while from the nearby countryside came the rhythmic throbbing of ceremonial drums.
As I took in the sight and listened to the poignant melody of the monsoon rain drumming incessantly on the window panes, a feeling of nostalgia stirred within me and I yearned for the company of loved ones and college friends.
Was I destined to finish my five years’ contract in this dismal place? Could I go through with it? With doubts still lingering in my mind, I felt into a deep slumber.
Dawn, the next day, brought another surprise. The need to answer the call of nature made me search frantically for the toilet.
“Where ... where is the toilet?’ I asked Phua, as waves of goose pimples rippled up my arms.
“There’s a floating one at the edge of the river. You can ...”
I did not wait for further explanation. I made the 200-metre dash for the nearby school’s toilet.
Fortunately, the arrival of two trained teachers, Kwok and Lim, who had come to replace Phua, brought an abrupt end to my stay in the “stately” house.
As we could not find a suitable house to rent, our new headmaster, Encik Mohd Zain, offered us the use of one of the vacant classrooms. So one evening, with broom in hand, we swept the floor, wiped the windows and dusted the desks. The metal desks were arranged closely to form a bed. A mengkuang mat was spread on top of

With the headmaster En. Mohd Zain and the Standard VI pupils

them and a piece of cloth laid on top to hide the unsightly table legs from prying eyes. That night and on subsequent nights, we slept on the cold metal desks and rested our weary heads on inflatable pillows.
One evening, the headmaster paid us an unexpected visit.
“I think all of you can shift into the headmaster’s house,” he said.
“Where are you going?” someone inquired.
“ Well, I have decided to commute daily from my own house in Pasir Mas. You know, I am rather scared of the light that I used to see floating from one end of the school field to the house.”
The familiar, mischievous smile crossed his lips.

The headmaster’s solitary house stood at one corner of the field. The house faced the field, its back covered with a tangled mass of vegetation, while its bedroom window overlooked a Muslim cemetery.
The house, however, had running water and was among the few houses in town which had recently been supplied with electricity. With those facilities and not wanting to show that we were easily intimidated by his attempt to strike fear into us, we accepted his offer.
But fear finally did get the better of me. It happened just after the term break. I had returned from Malacca a day before school reopened, and had expected Lim and Kwok to be at the house. They were nowhere in sight.
As the last train pulled in and rolled out of the station with no sign of them, a feeling of despair set in. I knew I had to spend the night all alone in the house. The story the headmaster told us about the ephemeral light added to my apprehension.
Darkness soon cloaked the place. I switched on all the lights I could find. Then I heard it. It was just a faint click ... a click somewhere in the dark recesses of the house. Then the whole house was plunged into total darkness. Who had switched off all the lights? With pounding heart, I groped about in the darkness to locate the switch. Then I recalled the headmaster‘s reminder.
“Don’t forget about the light. Don’t switch on all the lights at once.”
It suddenly dawned on me that the blackout was perhaps due to overloading, as the house was allocated only a limited supply of electricity.
Somehow I managed to switch off some of the lights and locate the trip button. That night as I lay awake and listened to the mournful sound of the monsoon wind that wafted from across the nearby cemetery, my mind started to conjure images of a ephemeral light that was moving closer and closer towards the house.
I must have drifted off to sleep for I was awakened the next morning by the sound of pounding on the front door. In a stupor I staggered to the door and was happy to find Kwok and Lim standing at the front door and happier still to note that their feet were firmly planted on solid ground.

With Lim and Kwok at the railway station

One evening the headmaster burst excitedly into the house“Hey guys, you have to move out of the house for a few days,” he announced.
“Why?” I inquired.
“The Deputy Prime Minister will be here to campaign in the coming election and he is going to occupy this house.”
We were unperturbed by the sudden announcement as we had decided to shift to a bigger house to accommodate four other teachers from the nearby school in Gual Periok who had decided to join us.
With their arrival and the arrival of some new teachers, our days were now filled with fun and activities. The local folks, too, often invited us to share meals with their families. Whether it was a sumptuous spread or simple fare, we were deeply touched by their warmth and sincerity.

One of the houses where we stayed

The years started to roll and tumble and Ifound that my five years’ stay in Rantau Panjang had come to an end.
On a December morning in 1965, lugging the same suitcase, I walked along the still unpaved road flanked by the same row of wooden houses, to the town’s small railway station.
The oil lamps, however, had been replaced by electric lights. The sight rekindled memories of the lamplighter who used to light the oil lamps. Just as he had helped to brighten up the gloom and darkness of the town, the many people I had come to know had helped to brighten up my life in my hour of darkness.
When I reached the edge of the town, I glanced back and bade a silent farewell to all those kind and generous folks. Perhaps, I had not expressed my gratitude in so many words then, but in my heart I knew I would be eternally grateful to them.


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Rantau Panjang-Sungai Golok: Memories of a Small Town

The Star

Lifestyle

Memories of a small town
Story and illustration by WAN CHWEE SENG

Back in the 1960s, Rantau Panjang in Kelantan was only accessible by rail. But life in this remote town has its moments too.

RANTAU PANJANG January 1962: It was the beginning of another new year, with new resolutions. At the start of each school year, the teachers would be issued with new record books. The moment we received the books we would savour the feel of the crisp, smooth papers between our fingers and take in the freshness of new paper.
Having been rejuvenated after the long school break, we silently pledged to tackle the laborious task of writing lesson plans and notes with a renewed sense of purpose and vigour. Rulers were brought out from unlikely places and old pencils sharpened to a point. Margins were drawn to measured precision; lesson plans and notes were written in minute details and in our best handwriting.
Night would find us peering and squinting at the writings under the pale and flickering light of oil lamps, for electricity had yet to make its appearance in this far-flung corner of the country. However, like the wicks of the oil lamps which grew shorter with each passing day, our writings too decreased in length. The flourish of the handwritings became mere scrawls and by year-end, most of the record books displayed blank pages. Barring the shortcomings, we carried on our work diligently and the class lessons proceeded smoothly.
The town of Rantau Panjang had little to offer in terms of entertainment, except for the occasional performance of dikir barat and wayang kulit by visiting troupes. So much of our time was occupied in playing games, coaching the pupils and providing extra classes on certain weekends.
We received few visitors, as the town was only accessible by rail. The few who braved the long and uncomfortable journey usually made a brief stopover before proceeding to the border town of Sungai Golok. Newspapers and mail, too, arrived in the late afternoon, and often on the last train.
Every evening when the last train pulled into the station, slowly rolled out and vanished into the gathering darkness, an eerie gloom descended upon the place. We felt as if our only physical link with the outside world had been severed. We were gripped by a deepening sense of despair, a feeling of being forgotten and forsaken.
One morning, the headmaster burst excitedly into my classroom and asked me to see him in his office. I wondered about the cause of the excitement. The moment I stepped into his office, he said: “Wan, I want you to collect all the teachers’ record books.”
“Why?” I inquired, puzzled by the sudden decision.
“The inspectors of schools are going to visit the school,” said the headmaster.
“But, we have not written for some time,” I said.
Seeing the look of concern on my face, he said: “Don’t worry, lah. Just collect the books.”
The teachers were duly informed of the headmaster’s instruction. The record books were quickly hunted and retrieved from their hidden “archives”. The fine dust that had blanketed the covers was quickly brushed off and the books were stacked high on the headmaster’s table.
We waited, and waited for the anticipated visit. The appointed day came and went. Yet, there was no sign of the inspectors. Our wait was in vain. Then one day the headmaster informed us that the inspectors of schools would not be coming. Somehow they had missed the obscure town of Rantau Panjang and landed in the brightly-lit Siamese town of Sungai Golok, either by accident or design.
Sometime later, I happened to be in the headmaster’s office and noticed the pile of record books was no longer in sight. I casually asked him: “HM, how were you going to explain to the inspectors had they asked you about the record books?”
A slight smile played on his lips.
“Easy lah, I would tell them there was a big flood and all the record books were swept away.”
During my five years in Rantau Panjang, there was neither any official visits from the inspectors of schools nor any major flood. However, a year after I left Rantau Panjang for Malacca, I was informed that the town of Rantau Panjang and the neighbouring villages were hit by a major flood. Water rose shoulder-high; houses and property were damaged, and belongings were swept away by the floodwater. I presumed any evidence of the uncompleted record books too would have been swept away by the floodwaters.
Conscience eventually had the last laugh. The lingering guilt of uncompleted record books still comes to haunt me in my dreams.

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