My Paternal Grandfather - A Rubber 'Towkay'

In my last posting, I talked about my father and his motivational talks. Unlike him, his father - my grandfather that is - was quite well-to-do. He was said to have been born in the year 1901. He died in 1990 at the age of 90. My paternal grandfather owned many rubber smallholdings. He had many people - including my father and an uncle - tapping rubber for him. I have fond memories of him.

Once a month back then, a pot-bellied man would arrive at my grandfather's house where he and his workers gathered. The potbellied man would then weighed in the rubber sheets. Once the weighing process was over, he handed over monies to my grandfather and took away the rubber sheets. Now, my 'important' role started immediately after the pot-bellied man left. My grandfather would call me to his seat and asked me to 'calculate' the sales and the amount due to his workers. I would tear off a few sheets from my exercise book and start writing. He would orally mention the amount of rubbers sold and the unit price and I had to tell him the sales amount. For every worker, I had to also calculate the gross amount and the net amount after deductions of advances that my grandfather made to each of them. Only then the workers would get their respective due.

One interesting thing to note is that, I didn't actually produce those figures. My grandfather had actually known the answer beforehand. My role, which I discovered later, was only to confirm his calculations. When I say his calculations I don't mean that my grandfather was literate. His was purely mental mathematics...! Usually when I told him an answer from my calculations, he would say either.."uhh umm yes!" or "would you re-calculate it?" The latter response happened when my answer didn't tally with his (mental) calculation. In all cases, his were proven correct as he would say yes after my second or third time tries.

In olden days, the rubber weight was measured in terms of kati and pikul (catties and piculs). Sixteen tahils made one catty and 100 catties made one picul.

Time, Dinner and Motivational Talk - My Father's Contribution

Time is money or time is golden etc. Those are some wisdom from wise people a.k.a. the consultants. Well, the biggest influence upon me regarding time is my father. My late father was a person who cannot wait for long in any appointment and he was also a person who did not allow people to wait for him. No! he was not a somebody. He was just an ordinary folk who has little formal education. But he was fierce, as far as I am concerned.

In the 1960's, as I have mentioned earlier, we live in a kampung house with no electricity. The arrangement was simple then. My father was the sole provider for the family and my mother managed the home. Dinner was after maghrib. After dinner, my father insists that I sit up for at least five minutes rather than lying down or in any other position. His usual reason for that was to allow for the "nasi" to "jatuh ke perut" meaning to allow for the food to "settle down". One good thing was that my father kept the time by referring to his old wristwatch - a Seiko or a Titoni (I cannot properly remember exactly). And when the five minutes is up, he will utter, "dah" and only then would I be allowed to do other things.

Whenever my father calls for me, he expects me to be in front of him immediately. And he expects me to wait for him rather he me whenever we went out for work, visiting relatives etc. This informal "training" in being speedy, punctual and protocols stick with me to the present day and this habits caused frictions between me and my colleagues most of the time.

When it comes to dinner, we always had it together. We didn't have plenty of food to eat but it was just enough for everyone. During dinner we were not allowed to talk a lot nor aloud, and not to take "big" portions. We were told to take it in small portions but we could do it in many times rather than grab the biggest slices into our plates. We were not allowed to burp loudly until the last person had finished his/her meal. Most of the times, we were encouraged to finish our dinner at the same time.

Sometimes, father would say during dinner: "makan cepat sikit, ayah nak membaca" . We knew that there was some issues he wanted to 'share' with us or to put it bluntly he wanted to give us a tongue-lashing. And I would be thinking during the meals what wrongs did I commit for the past few days.

Now, the "membaca" part was not nice but was orderly in a sense. My father would mention the incidence that makes him angry and he would gave us his analysis of the incidence and warn us not to do such wrongs. Usually we sat down silently during the "membaca" time. Don't get it wrong, my father did not "baca" (read) any text. "Membaca" was the euphemism for telling-off session. One good thing from my father's "membaca" session is he never put us down, rather he would gave reasons and justifications for his "larangans" (the don'ts). But "membaca" sessions are not our favourite part of our life.

Come to think of it, the "membaca" sessions, our imposed-by-father dinner etiquette and time-protocols that shaped my life are the best things that contribute to my success later in my life. My father never mix scoldings with meal-times. I consider his "membaca" sessions as the present-day motivational talks except that his was more of a sermon as we rarely question his exhortations.

Time, Dinner and Motivational Talks - three things that shape my life! courtesy of my beloved father. He did it without formal training in parenting.

Ilir or Gi Kualer (Going to Town)

In my last posting, I talked about the Terengganu River around which my life after school revolves. Nowadays, we go to town or in some cases downtown as frequently as we please. It was nto so in the old days!

Kuala Terengganu was 'recognised' as our State Capital but I seldom went there. Money was extremely scarce therefor shopping was unheard off when I was a small boy. However, once in a while or rather in a blue moon, my parents 'offered' us a chance to go to town. And going to town in the old days was by passenger boats; not by buses or taxis. The term used for 'going to town' was 'ilir' (pronounced as 'e-lay') meaning going downstream or "gi kwaler' (meaning going to the river mouth - that's where the State Capital was and is located anyway).

Such an offer of tagging along our parents to town - due to its rarity - creates extra excitement in us. The preparation - mentally - starts the evening before the day of the journey. We usually go to town on Saturdays. I - or we - would take our bath at the community well in the evening before the day of the journey. I would show my best behaviour the whole day lest the punishment for any mischief includes a canceled offer of gi kwaler!

After dinner, Mom would take decently-looking shirts and pantaloon! (Youngsters can guess what this means). Usually there was no choice anyway as I would only have a pair of "new" clothes for this purpose. Mom would iron the clothes, folded them and put them near the centre pillar in our house.

I would go to bed early and most of the time, I would dream about the trip to town. I was not sure if I did grin in my sleep. And yes - your guess is as good as mine - I would wake up very early the next morning. I would take early morning bath at the community well. The extremely cold water from the well was worth the suffering considering the joy of gi kwaler! I would get dressed very fast and my father would comb my hair using the popular hair cream at that time - Brylcreem in plastic packets! Shirt was tucked-in. No shoes but I wear slippers.

At sunrise we walked to the river and waited for the right passenger boat. When the boat was within sight, mom would wave the handkerchief and the boat would came to the pengkalan (base or jetty). We boarded the boat and it moved on picking up other passengers along the way.

The boats use diesel engines similar to the ones used for the steamrollers at that time. They are slow but steady. I enjoyed watching the valve-holders - ladies please ask your friends what are these - moving rhythmically up and down - while the boat moved along the river. I usually fell asleep about half-way to the destination due to the journey's monotony.

The trip to town took about half-a-day. At about noon, we took our trip back home. The same monotony repeats itself. One thing that i wonder at that time was how did the boatman know who disembarks at which pengkalan. The fare for the journey was 20 sen one-way. Children traveling with adults pay no fare.

Once we reach home, usually we savoured the kuehs that were bought in town usually ketupat, badak (almost similar to keria) etc. And the best part of going to town was telling your friends about it in my next outing in the River. Their gaping mouth while listening to my narration of the journey gave me great pleasures. And the next trip to town may not be coming in the enxt six or seven months. And during the monsoon, there was no gi kwaler as no boat would travel in the swollen Terengganu River.

Sungai (the River)

Our kampung is located near the Terengganu River (Sungai Terengganu). Although my family house was not actually on the river bank, the river was part of my growing up life. In my last posting, I described our connection to the grandfather's well which never went dry even during droughts. But that didn't prevent me and my siblings and cousins from enjoying ourselves in the River.

Schools ended at 12.30 pm back then and tuition classes were unheard of at that time. We had to attend quranic classes after school. By 2.30 pm, we were really free to do whatever we please, so to speak. Usually we went looking for nyior muda (young coconuts) or jambu butir banyak (guava) in the belukar (bushes) or padangs (open fields). One of the cousins was a good tree-climber ( I can't climb, you know) and he was duly given the "honour" of plucking the coconuts. Everyone including me can get up the guava trees anyway. After savouring the young coconut flesh or the guavas, we usually proceeded to the River.

We spent usually the whole afternoon in the River. Some played Tarzan, swinging from the tree on the back and got into the water after a few swings. We swam and play to (read: toll with silent l's) a kind of hide-and-seek equivalent. Those who can swim play this. In my case, I usually get pinched or ear-twisting treatment from my mother whenever I got home late in the evening.

Initially I couldn't swim. Neither did my siblings and cousins. We learned swimming by using nyior komeng (fleshless coconuts which float when in the water). We held the to our chest and splashed our legs in the water. If there was no nyior komeng around, we wear our sarong and tied the bottom into knot between our legs. Then we beat the water until the tied sarong became like a ballon around our waists. If we decided to act lazy we just paddled with ur hands and we looked like swans in the lake. Or we could be horizontal - looked like ants - and use our hands to swim. That was how we learned how to swim. After sometime we could do away with the nyior komeng or the sarong. That's when our freedom in the water began!

Life was fun back then. Nowadays I dare not dip into the River for the fear of crocodiles and uneven river bed due to sand-mining. My swims are limited to occasional splash in hotels' kolam renang!

Note: My wife and I can swim but none of our children can!

Mandi (taking baths, take a swim, wash oneself etc)

Mandi, a simple Malay word which can take many meanings in English, depending on how one does it. Our kampung is located next to the Terengganu river. Our family house is not really on the river bank. It was about 400m away. Although there was flood every year back then when the Terengganu river burst its bank during the monsoon, our house were spared as it was on higher ground. I am not going to talk about the flood or the monsoon this time, although the Monsoon Cup is about three days' away. How did we take our baths back then in the 1950's & 1960's?

All my paternal grandfather's children build their houses around his. There was no piped water supply back then. But my grandfather dug a well near his 'big' house. The well had concrete walls, unlike the open-pit-type used by others. Our routine was that every evening, just before dusk (maghrib time), all of us - my parents and siblings, cousins, uncles and aunts - congregate near the well. There were two timbas (water buckets each attached to a rope) for the well. Families take turns to draw the water from the well and take their baths. Soaps were optional and even one who had soaps used them sparingly and irregularly. While two families were having their baths - mandi di perigi - the others chit chatted on a gerai - wooden platform built about one-a-half foot above ground. Going by the speed, most likely the last few families managed to take their baths well after dark.

In the morning at about 8.00 - 10.00 am, the womenfolk use the well for washing the clothes - a laundromat perhaps hehhee - while gossiping - I presume as I never use the well at that time. Morning baths were done very early at about 6.30 am. And our mid-day mandi were in a different location - talk about that in my later postings.

The well was about 70m from our family house. It passed - back then - my grandfather's banana orchard. I dreaded using the small footpath from the house to and from the well each morning and after dusk as the footpath was unlit and footwear was optional at that time. There were shrubs on each side of the footpath, even on the banana orchard side.

I dreaded too to having to go to the well after all the families had taken their baths, something that I had to do once in a while. I fear the tiger(s), snake(s) and other nocturnal animals or beings. Once I had to take my bath at 8 pm. And I was not in my siblings good book at that time. As soon as I reached the well area, I heard the sound of the timba being used. "Thank God, at least there is someone for company", I muttered to myself. I realised that that was not the case. I threw my sarong onto the gerai and quickly reached for one timba. There was no one there. I knew that one of the many spirits was trying to have fun on me. I was thinking of aborting the mandi but my fear of my father was stronger. So I made quick 'showers' from a few bucketfuls of water from the well, grabbed the sarong from the gerai and ran post-haste back home. Well, the dripping waters and the wet-sarong draping my shivering body provided ample proof to my father that I had indeed taken my bath!

Footnote: the family well had good and clear water supply year-long and it was never dry even during droughts. Unfortunately, after my grandfather's death my sister (mis)uses it as the sewage tank for her imposing house!

Our Family House

Our family house back then (in the 1950's and 1960's) was a bit more comfortable than that of the neighbours'. My grandfather has many rubber smallholdings and he has many workers tapping the rubber trees. One can safely say that he is "the" rich man in my kampung.

The house was on stilts but they (the stilts) were hardwood. Its roof was made of brick-clay. It has no ceiling so it's airy and properly ventilated. Typical of the Malay house at that time, other than the normal doors, it also has one "pintu maling" (that's the way the word was pronounced) and one full door which leads to no staircase. Now, for the latter, it was the favourite place for my father to take his nap. I suppose the cool breeze provides comfort for his siesta.

"Pintu maling" on the other hand was more like a window. I don't know its function or purpose but usually my mother used to look out of the "pintu" when she was free from the household chores and sometimes throw our food for the chicken through it. One interesting point is, is the word "maling" has the same meaning with the Indonesian one which means "a thief". If it is, then the said "pintu" is named allegorically as presumably the "inlet" for the "malings". How sensitive are the Malays of old to the "needs" of their friends - thieves included.

Outside the house there was the "lambor", a platform of about 10'x20' before the "tangga" (stairs). In the case of our house, the stairs were actually a few platforms narrower than the "lambor" built at descending order in terms of their heights so that we can go up or down easily.

The outhouse was - well as the word implies - outside the house and located at a 'safe" distance. That was the tricky part for me and my siblings when our belly were not properly emptied before sunsets. With only the "pelita" in our hands, and with the night breezes threaten to extinguish the flickering "pelita" flame, the journey to and from the outhouse was - to us kids - so to speak challenging. All the stories about ghosts and their ghoulish relations do not help either. And this was where siblings came handy, provided one is in their good books.

Contrary to my (and our) present-day houses, our family house was never locked although the door was usually kept closed if no one was around. Come to think of it, with the "pintu maling" available, why was the need to lock the (main) doors, right?

Hari Raya Haji

Tomorrow is our Hari Raya Haji. It is the Aiduladha which later spelt as - presumably more correctly - 'iduladhha. Malay Muslims in Malaysia usually slaughter cattles for the Feast of Sacrifice. I don't have many interesting memories regarding 'Idul-Adhha but one particular thing stands out i. e. I can't bear to witness the act of slaughtering the animals. I understand that sacrificing animals is a religious sanction and they are slaughtered humanely but the soft part of my personality can't see the actual slaughter.

One afternoon, during my days as a small boy in my kampung, I saw a crowd at a small open space in the vast green padang. As soon as I reached the crowd I saw a cow being slaughtered. I saw its blood oozes out of its severed veins (at its neck area) and it makes scary-sounding sound as it is on its death throes. Suddenly I feel "seram-sejuk" but I manage to run away fromt he crowd and rest on the verandah of my uncle's house nearby. Since then I avoid being near places where animals are slaughtered. I can't bear the scene. This puts me in a spot, as we are supposed to - although not obligatory - witness the slaughter. Other than that, Hari Raya Korban is fine with me except that at my age now, I have to be extra careful with my intake of red meat, beef and seafood. And mind you, Hari Raya Haji is a bit uncomfortable for me in dietary terms. And tomorrow and for the three days after, I have many, many invitations to Hari Raya Haji kenduris!

SELAMAT HARI RAYA HAJI1 KORBAN BAYRAM!