Dating? 1970s-style

People fall in love everyday. Youngsters date; matured persons date too. Married people also do not like to be left out. Arranging a date is a breeze nowadays, what with the cellphones and social media. How did people in 1970s go for a date? It takes days to arrange for a date. It takes longer if the only available medium of communication is the postal service.

I didn't date during my schooldays. In fact I was a very shy 'boy'. My palms sweat whenever a girl - beautiful or otherwise - comes near. That doesn't mean I have no one asking for a date, mind you. And one can arrange a date and send a proxy instead when the time comes. There is no shortage of people willing to be a proxy for such an assignment.

Our English teacher, a Ms P***** one day asks each of us to write a letter to an unknown 'friend' in another school. She asks us to write to 'Dear Friend,...' and specifically instructed us to introduce ourselves to the yet-to-be-known friend. She collected the letters in the next English class and put them in a big envelop. The envelop was addressed to a class in SMAA, Kuantan, Pahang. My palms have yet to sweat at that time.

After ten days, Ms. P brings along a big envelop to the class, opens it and starts distributing the replies. I get a reply from a Ms. *** who mentions in her reply that she is from Pulau Duyung but lives in Kuantan and studying at SMAA. Ms P asks us to reply to our new-found friends. I duly did. More replies came.

To cut the long story short, Ms. *** asks me to wait for her at the Kuala Terengganu bus station on a certain day and time during the next school holiday as she plans to visit her grandma in Pulau Duyung. She describes in the letter her shape and size, hair-style and the colour and type of dress including the pants she would be wearing. She also provides a plan that says she would, after disembarking from the bus, walk to the nearest terminal column and wait for me there. The password was also given. It is very tough to meet in those days since we have no way of communicating while on our way.

My heart stops a moment. My palms start to sweat. Two classmates observe my apprehensiveness and ask what 's wrong. Again, to cut the long story short, both of them agree to be my proxy. MFA and ZH were very happy and look forward to the date so arranged. I provided them all the agreed details including the password.

When school reopens after the mid-year break, both MFA and ZH told me they were upset for not being able to meet up with the date. They waited the whole day at the bus station and till the last bus from Kuantan on that day. No one fitting the description provided in the letters disembark from the many buses from Kuantan. It was a letdown to both my proxies.

The girl err the friend I mean writes back later apologising profusely for having to abort the trip back to Kuala Terengganu due some unavoidable reasons. I stop corresponding with her soon after; not out of frustration over the missed date but due to my shyness. Furthermore, Ms. P no longer asks about the progress of our friendship. So there is no reason to proceed.

I pity my proxies but deep inside I consider at that time I was saved from some difficult situation. No Women No Cry, as the title of a Boney M song says. That's dating 1970s-style with proxies....

Leadership Quality from CowHerding

There was a furore recently about a national beef project, which was said to be not achieving its set target. The media was abuzz with allegations of misuse etc. Growing up in a traditional village in 1960s, cows were part of my life. Our family house was built on stilts and our cows were penned under the house. The 'aroma' of cow dung was surely unbearable to townsfolk but we didn't bat an eyelid over that.

When I was 12 (in standard six), my father 'instructed' me to take care of a cow. And my 6-year old brother its calf. My father's instruction was very simple. By 6 pm when the cows should be home i. e. under our house, their respective bellies should be full. If not my brother and i were in for some kind of punishment.

Every morning, come rain or shine, my brother and I wakes up at six and lead our cows to the grazing area about half-a-kilometer from our home. The area was in fact a large tract of land with thick secondary jungle. We have to lead our cows silently in the darkness of early morning to the grazing area and 'anchor' them there. The morning was too dark, there was not a single human around at that time except my brother and I and our two cows walking silently. We trudged the riverbank and after a short distance turned a bit upland where we should leave our cows to graze. My brother and I didn't make any conversation other than occasional words of enquiry about something durign our early morning trips there. Stories of tiger sightings and python crossing were always in our minds but we had no choice other than to carry out father's instruction. After school we went for the Qur'an reciting classes at the quranic teacher's home. After the quranic class we went to the river for our afternoon revelry. For me and my brother, a brief check on our cows' bellies determine the available time for our sojourn in the river. If the cows were almost full, my brother and I can spend longer time in the river. If not, we have to tend to the cows first by ensuring them have enough grasses before dusk.

Despite our preoccupation with playing my brother and I never get any punishment from father. We always ensure our cows were full by the time for them to be brought home. Cows being cows, sometimes they scooted off to neighbouring plots of planted area and savoured the vegetables. Facing the angry owners whose plants were devoured by our cows is not easy. And there is no recourse to our father as we would surely eb punished for such carelessness.

The task of herding the cows teaches us good things about life. Firstly, indirectly we were given a common mission: to tend to our cows and ensure their growth. Secondly, we learn how to be patient in adversaries and persevere in our tasks. Controlling our cows on our way home imbue in us the art of treading on critical grounds. The lessons gained from the task of raising our cows came in handy in my career later in my life.I am not sure if I should recommend cowherding as a training ground for kids nowadays but politicians should learn a thing or two about tending to cows in their career.

Mat and Mek Sallehs in my Kampong

Ronald Reagan was the 40th President of the United States (1981–1989), the 33rd Governor of California (1967–1975) and, prior to that, a radio, film and television actor.  No, I am not 'talking' about American politics. Rather his name reminds me of another Regan, that of Daniel and Helen Regan (I am not sure of the actual spelling of the couple's name).  The couple lived in my kampong in the 1960s. They rented a wooden house near the school.  The house belongs to my friend's family.  Everyday, Daniel and Helen Regan cycle around our kampong and meet with the village folks. They interview people especially old folks mostly on their (the villagers') health and other worldly concerns.  My paternal grandfather was interviewed once.  Both Daniel and Helen speak good Malay. However I wonder how they could understand our thick Terengganu dialect which has words that are totally different from that of the standard Malay.

Idyllic village in Terengganu

To us Deng (for Dan) and Heleng (Helen) Regan were friendly Mat Sallehs living harmlessly in our quiet and isolated village. There was no restaurant then in our village and we used to hear them pounding teh chillis or belacans in the 'lesung batu'.  I had no idea then the reason for their being among us.  However, later on I discovered that Deng and Heleng were actually the Peace Corps voluteers.  to the uninitiated the Peace Corps is an American volunteer programme run by the United States Government, as well as a government agency of the same name. The mission of the Peace Corps includes three goals: providing technical assistance, helping people outside the United States to understand US culture, and helping Americans to understand the cultures of other countries. Generally, the work is related to social and economic development. Each program participant (aka Peace Corps Volunteer) is an American citizen, typically with a college degree, who works abroad for a period of 24 months after three months of training. Volunteers work with governments, schools, non-profit organizations, non-government organizations, and entrepreneurs in education, hunger, business, information technology, agriculture, and the environment.

How many of us, Malaysians and/or Moslems, nowadays are willing to undergo a life of a volunteer?

Secretary, Stenographer or PA?

When I started working in a government institution in 1985, there were three types of personnel assisting a boss: a stenographer, a secretary or a PA (not the insurance type). Most of them are ladies. I used to invigilate their exams too on behalf of the authorities.

Well I was a PA too once: to my father. In 1970s the only distant mode of communications was through letters. In my kampung Mr Postman comes only once-a-week on his trusted BSA red motorbike. He delivers letters, accept letters for posting from the villagers and selling the stamps too. My father used to communicate with my maternal grandmother who lived in Dungun - about 80km away and I was always asked to draft letters to my grandmother.

Usually my father gives 'notice' about the job during dinner. He would tell me that we have a letter to send to Grandma. After the meal, I would take a pencil and two or three sheets torn out of my exercise book. He would say - in our dialect - what he wanted to tell Grandma. I then wrote down in standard Malay his words, as speedily as I could so as not to miss any of his main points. After he finished saying his message, he asked me to read whatever that I have written. If he is satisfied that all that he wanted to say were in the letter, he would sign it. If he felt something was not right, he'd tell me where to put in more words or to expunge any. After signing the letter, my father would put it in an envelop - light blue in colour in those days - and seal it with a gum. A stamp has be bought from Mr. Postman, during his next visit to our kampung, who also collected the letter after the stamp was affixed on the envelop using...yes...saliva.

My father's letters to grandma were either in jawi or rumi depending on his mood. This task of drafting and writing my father's letters to grandma, I did since I was in standard two - believe it or not. And we used pencil as pen was too expensive at that time.

So was I my father's secretary, stenographer or PA? Whatever it is, this task provides me with more or less good writing skills which is useful in my later life!

Is It a Flute? No it is just a Recorder!

I entered secondary school in 1972 fresh from my kampung and was in shock of living in a hostel where there was electricity. In addition to having to learn every subject in English, my class have to learn music. Music, you say? yes, Music. Our teacher was Mrs Dass. She was nice and enthusiastic but I was not. To say that I was not musically inclined is not really accurate. I did 'crooned' one or two lines from famous songs but that was limited to a few songs and just to satisfy my own ego.

The music class starts before the afternoon session, so we have to come to school earlier than the others. Mrs Dass tried very hard to teach us the subject. I can only remember the "okteb" (=octave) and of course the do-re-mi-fa-so-la-ti-do-do-ti-la-so-fa-mi-re-do regimen. Our theme song was Suar Sueir Kemuning and the instrument was the recorder. I don't want to say much. Suffice for me to say that my small forced venture into learning music failed miserably.

Hysteria

There was a piece of news in local newspapers last week about mass hysteria among new trainees at the IKBN (National Skills Training Institute for Youths) , Kemasik, Terengganu. It was attributed to the presence of ghostly spirits on the new campus, which was built on a piece of hitherto vacant and 'unoccupied' land! I wonder why the spirits allow the contractors to build the imposing complex but seems not to tolerate the presence of youthful souls on it. Perhaps the young trainees give out high decibels of noise than the contractors' cranes and drilling machines and for that the spirits just cannot stand the youths' high spirits.

I too was once afflicted by the so-called 'hysteria'. I was thirteen at that time and lived in the hostel. I came from a very poor family in the village and to be transplanted among the sons of the well-to-do really unsettled me. To add to that pressure, my parents were divorced about a year before. Having no one to turn to at that tender age, I didn't have the safety valve to let go the pent-up feelings and emotions.

One night, out of the blue I like out a loud cry...to the surprise of my dormmates. I cried and spoke loudly about things and people. I couldn't control the situation. Words came out of my mouths and I kicked at my bed's the upper deck. A fairly big dormmate sat on that but I seem to have so much energy.

This bout of hysteria was followed by a few more in the subsequent months. It was very embarrasing to me. My already low self-esteem went lower and later I became withdrawn. I feel ashamed of my incontrollable bits of hysteria. My fits of hysteria lasted for about a year. After that I was 'cured'! However the emotional scar remains for quite a long time since.

I don't know the state of the IKBN, Kemasik's trainees when they were afflicted by the mass hysteria. I came to know later that bomohs (traditional medicine men) were called in to pacify the disturbed spirits .

Hysteria! it's not hysterics!

One-Man Show Reporter!

Many people read newspapers but how many knows how it feels to be a reporter? Sometimes I wonder how do reporters remember their subjects' words and later able to write lengthy news from the conversations.

Well, I got an experience of being a 'reporter' once in my early years working in a local institution of higher learning. The chance came by accident. Our institution's sole reporter cum editor for our newsletter resigned abruptly to join an advertising company, which I guessed at that time paid him too well for him to refuse. I was working with the institution for about nine months when one day I got an instruction to move to the Vice-Chancellor's office. I was given less than a week to move to the new posting.

On the day I reported to the Vice-Chancellor, after some niceties, he told me in one short sentence that I had to produce the newsletter, by hook or by crook, within ten days as there was an event during which a royalty was to be conferred an honorary degree. A staff was assigned to show me my new workplace, which was a small and dark room in the basement. When I went in I saw papers and photos strewn all over the room.

But what are the steps to 'produce' (or is it publish?) a newsletter. After enquiring from the sole photographer at the PRO and a few staff at the institution's publication department, I started by gathering the news items. The next day I was summoned to the press conference by a few scientists on their 'invention' (?) of a serious disease test kit. There I was standing among the mainstream print and electronic media writing notes on whatever were told or said by the scientists. I felt ecstatic to rub shoulders with reporters and to talk to them.

After that I type the news and whatever articles that are to be published. I also drafted the editorial piece for the big boss to check and approve. The typed materials are then sent to the Publication Department for typesetting. After three days, the typeset pieces were given to me. My next task was then doing doing the layout. This is where the 'cut-and-paste' process happens. I would cut the typesetted materials and try to lay them out according to the spaces (or columns) of the dummy pages.

Once all the materials were arranged according to what I feel was a good page layout, I apply the glue to them and paste them onto the pages. I then send the dummy pages to the Publication Department agian for making a 'printed' page layout. I have to checked the layout once and once i give my clearance, the Department staff shoot the pages making them camera-ready copies. I aslo mark the location of photos on the dummy pages and choose the appropriate photos.

After that the printing were done bu the Department and the printed newsletter were sent to the PRO for distribution. You can imagine my feeling of joy when I see my hard work comes out and there is also the joy of having my name printed as the newsletter "Editor"!

After three-and-a-half months, when they moved me to another department when a proper editor/reporter was appinted. It was a good experience despite the job was a one-man-show. And to add colour to my short stint as a news(letter) reporter, I had inadvertently - in one issue - put the photo of our PR Officer full-faceportarit-size on the same page with the group photo of our ViceChancellor and his officers. I insert the PR Officer's photo just to fill up the vacant spot due to insufficient length of the written news. The PR Officer's photo was large and very prominent on the page while the Vice-Chancellor's was very small in a group! Imagine the tongue-lashing I got from whoe else - the PR Officer!

Hey I was a reporter once and I was an editor too! I was a one-man-show reporter!