The Great Flood

The East Coast of Peninsula Malaysia has always been forced to almost a standstill during the monsoon season which spans from the month of  November to the month of March. 

During these months many economic activites along the coast have to be abandoned and the people will resort to other means of livelihood until the season is over.  Fishermen will mend their boats and nets whereas restaurants or other smaller outlets will remove their furniture or fixtures to prevent them from being blown off by the strong monsoon winds. There is totally no tourist who dare visit the beaches here during the heavy rains because of the montrosity of the floods.


When my father was working in the Maran jungle, he had heard about the floods and Maran was not spared.  Before the onset of the bad weather, my father had to make specific preparations.  First he had to make sure there would be zero activity if there was any untoward announcement from the meteorological station or any warning from the Forest Rangers.  He had anticipated stoppage of work in the jungle in November for an indefinite period until the next year but what he did not anticipate was that the scale of destruction of the said natural disaster..  


The second thing he had to do in the beginning of the year , long before they encountered the floods, was to build a high watch tower.  This was necessary because of the danger of forest fires.  Someone had to be stationed at the tower to watch out for rising smoke and to sound the alarm.  He had put Old Uncle Phang there, a friend of my grandfather whom he trusted for his no nonsensical attitude. I remember my father telling me about the strict fire safety precautions at the camp.


The building of the watch tower had my father extremely stressed.  The workers had  been deliberately not obeying orders.  My father had instructed higher pillars and a stronger foundation but they were trying to do otherwise.  They saw no reason why he had to build such a strong structure when after the contract they were going to abandon the place.  Finally after my father's insistence and under his close supervision, the structure was finished and it looked sturdy and grand.  My father heard some of them making fun of it but he still thought he was very right in doing his way.
The month of November was really depressing for my father.  He was calculating his losses.  Food supplies at the camp ran low and he had to ask my mother for some money to help out.  Some of the workers had families to feed and they needed to be paid promptly every week. This was the beggining of many bad things to happen.  It had been drizzling for days.  The workers had to build a fire to dry the clothes.  They had to be careful and always be on the alert.  My father's temper was bad and the workers were scolded really bad. It was no wonder they tried to put him down when they had the chance.  One evening a worker came rushing back to camp with bad news.  The forest ranger sent news that they had better leave camp for the rivers nearby were overdlowing the banks and the villages were already flooded.  The waters was rising but while they were busy moving the expensive equipment up the tower and some to higher places they did not notice the strength of the current. 
Suddenly the flood waters rose almost a foot in less than a minute.  Every one at camp left the ground and climbed up the watch tower.  They could see the Land Rover being carried away by the strong current.


The bicycles, motorbikes, pots, kuali, kettle, plates and cups were all gone but no human is put into danger.  The water was rising and rising , and this put every one up in the watch in much uneasiness.  They could see now only the roof of the workers' quarters and very soon, even the roof was submerged.  At that time they could feel vibrations on the watch tower and they had never felt death so close.   The workers asked my father if the watch tower could hold.on.  They did not want to die without biding their families goodbye. Some of the younger workers were almost crying.  'If you had built this watch tower the way you wanted, you would have long disappeared into the water and gone into the South China Sea!'
Didn't you realise why I had insisted on building a strong one? I don't know too, how bad the floods here are. The Forest Rangers told me that the water can rise as high as a house and if it is so, don't you think the force of the water will be very great? Damn it! Why were we told so late about the broken river banks?

Up to a certain point the water level never rose again.  Every one was relieved because after the maximum height, the water started receding instead.  Silent prayers  were said.  It took almost three full days for the water to subside to a safe level for people to be moving around again.  Rescuers came in motorboats and slowly the whole camp was vacated.  It took another two days before everybody were able to reach their homes. The brush with death story was on the lips of the villagers when the workers related about how their lives were saved by the watch tower.

• 

A Logger's Story

Monkey meat is thought to be an aphrodisiac and much favoured by many Chinese men especially those in Hong Kong and Southern China. A proof of its effectiveness was evidenced in the curing of whooping cough amongst some of the children belonging to my father's workers. It occurred to a few loggers who had followed my father to work in the Maran jungle that there was a huge population of a certain specie up in the trees that they were cutting down, so one morning a group of them decided to catch them using an ingenious plan they had devised.
My father had advised them against capturing the monkeys, but somewhat briefly , as he did not want them to think he was dead against their traditional favourite lest he might offend the whole group of Southerners. There was an uneasy feeling with regards to these animals that my father had felt that morning but he did not reveal it after considering the amount of eagerness these men had that fateful morning.

As one of the men were cutting down a huge tree laden with the chattering animals ,who might be calling out to their clans about the impending danger, the other men, about half a dozen of them, laid in wait for the tree to topple.  Finally when the notch was done and the giant tree was creaking in weakness, some of the men moved  towards the falling trunk.  Unfortunately one of them went too far ahead while trying to cast a net over the squealing animals that he was hit on the back by one of the smaller branches of the monstrous tree. That impact was fatal and it had broken his neck. His friend who was behind him saw what had happened and thinking that he had merely fallen without any unbecoming danger, he went forward to hold him up.  To his shock, he saw that his friend was limp as a cloth and his eyes that were still opened were lifeless.  He shouted to the rest but they were too busy with their catch to hear him.  It was only after some time when they caught a glimpse of his crying face that they realised something dreadful had happened.

  My father was informed and very quickly my father drove his Land Rover to the site.  A few men carried the lifeless body onto the truck and my father drove as quickly as he could to the nearest hospital.  Nothing could be done, the doctors said.  He had broken his spinal cord and he had died immediately.
After getting the death certificate, my father had to make a police report.  He felt responsible, at least it was how the police sounded.  It was a bad day; nobody felt like eating anything.  Damn those monkeys! Someone was heard cursing that, but those monkey catchers were still unwilling to let go of the captive animals that seemed to be gibbering curses in the makeshift cage.

My father announced that they broke camp for a few days and instructed some elderly ones to stay  behind to keep watch over things. He would not trust the younger ones for they would be too busy with gambling and drinking to know what was going on. My father and a few of the dead man's friends went back to their hometown to attend the funeral.  By that time the deceased had been brought home by the hospital ambulance.  At the funeral my father and the group of men he brought along with were scolded by the widow of the dead man.  After they had paid their respects, they all went home with a heavy heart. Can they be blamed for what was fateful?

A week had passed and the horrible incident was almost forgotten due to the labourious work in the jungle that was even harder to tolerate than the guilt of causing a friend's death.  One of the men volunteered to kill the three monkeys in captive to make a meal out of them.That evening the whole camp of men, young and old, were smacking their lips and enjoying the delicacy that one of the men had prepared.  It was monkey meat cooked with brandy!

The Elephants Came

After the night at the chilli farm, there was a hot topic being transpired among everybody in the family except myself. It was something to do with the night at the chilli farm and I did not understand what they were all talking about at first. What...what do you mean?  I asked, suspecting something must have happened while  I was sleeping like a log. What elephants? I pestered, but nobody wanted to heed my inquisitiveness. After many attempts and my doggedness in pursuing knowledge of the secret story, I managed eventually to 'dig it out' from my mother.
Incidentally, during that night, a group of elephants had come so close to the hut that we were put into extreme danger.  It was fortunate that nobody had raised any alarm, otherwise we would not have survived the night.  In a way, it was a lucky thing that I was asleep or else I would have cried or made too much noise. Those were wild elephants and they had come out of the jungle in search of food.  The banana trees must have been their target.  According to my father, it was a large herd of them because they had produced a lot of noise and rumblings.  It was indeed a narrow escape, because if they were in a rage, they might resort to tearing down the hut and stamping us to death.
I complained about not being informed.  My brother chided me for treating the whole matter lightly. Do you know we could have been killed? Do you know how fearful it was to have a herd of real wild elephants roaming freely just behind your house?

My Stories: The Chilli Farm

My Stories: The Chilli Farm: The chilli farm that my father once possessed was a place of enchantment. Besides its undulating terrain of newly cleared land with burnt t...

The Chilli Farm

The chilli farm that my father once possessed was a place of enchantment. Besides its undulating terrain of newly cleared land with burnt tree trunks and their equally charred stumps scattered all over the hills, there was a fairly large pond very visible to any visitor to the farm.  It commanded one's attention as it was located in the valley amidst a very different landscape from itself.  Its brackish water did not look appealing but the dozens of white ducks that waddled up and down, sometimes flying across the water could not deter one from not stopping and observing the activity over there.  A closer look at the ducks' territory would bring much delight because one might even chance to see some eggs on the wet and rather muddy banks of the pond.  However, it would not be possible to have such a view in the hot afternoon as these ducks would have gone into a shelter, away from the heat.

There was a hut that was built further up one of the hills and it was a quaint little house.  It was mainly made of wood and its roof was of palm leaves. There was no tap water supply, so we could not cook there.  We had to bring drinking water,  bread and packed homecooked food whenever we went there.  I remember my family of six stayed a night there.  All of us went and I remember very well how much I complained about having to squeeze in the back seat of the car with my other siblings.  When it was evening, before dusk, we had to quickly wash up using the water from a well.  The water was not as clean as we had hoped to be and my father explained that it was due to the geology of that area. The granite layer ran too deep and they had to dig a lot into the ground to get cleaner water. It would be an almost impossible feat when the only tool available was a 'changkul'. To solve the problem, my mother had brought along a muslin cloth(part of an old mosquito net) to filter the somewhat cloudy water and the filtrate was quite satisfying, probably the result of the double layering that my mother insisted on.
After washing up, while my siblings and I were having dinner, my father had the kerosene lamp ready.   That was our only source of light that night. Unfortunately,we had to jump up to bed early because the lamp was not working too well and it had a low flickering flame which had us all very depressed. 

It was hard to fall asleep in total darkness and in extreme quietness.  There was totally no sound from the duck population , and that amazed me a lot as they were quacking and quacking earlier on in the day. All I heard was the shrill sound of the cicadas and occasionally, the eerie sound of the wind blowing through some banana plants behind the hut.  I blinked my eyes hard to look at my sister who was very quiet. I was sure she had fallen fast asleep due to fatigue after the hard day's work harvesting the ripen red chillies.
The harvesting job involved a lot of walking and climbing the slopes of the hills.  Occasionally, she had to climb over the huge logs that were in the way. My brothers were quiet and not talking to each other; the result of a fight that afternoon.  My parents were talking to each other in the dark and I could soon hear the snoring sound of my father, indicating his tiredness after toiling in the hot sun.

When I woke up the next morning, I realised that everybody was ready to go home.   I was surprised that it was already ten in the morning, and still in a daze, my elder brothers told me to get into the car before I had time to wash up.  My second elder brother shoved me a piece of bread and told me to eat up.  He called me a 'sleepy pig' and it made me so mad that I threw the bread at him.  I supposed it was the usual 'getting from the wrong side of the bed' condition on my part that made me do that.  I started crying when I realised that was the only piece left and I had to go hungry when the piece of bread was soiled. My stomach was growling in hunger and I truly regretted my action that morning.
I cried and cried,  hoping that my father would do something but there was no shop in sight for about twenty miles. 

Finally we were out in the main road but every time I saw a shop or stall, I hoped my father would stop to get something for me to eat but he told me to be patient because it would not be long before we reached home.  It was an agony indeed to be hungry and I learnt not to throw food.  I guessed my father wanted to teach me a lesson.  I have learnt my lesson very well that day..

My Stories: The Struggling Farmer

My Stories: The Struggling Farmer: During the early 1960s, there weren't as many kinds of businesses or jobs to be engaged in in this part of the world.  In the small tow...

The Struggling Farmer

During the early 1960s, there weren't as many kinds of businesses or jobs to be engaged in in this part of the world.  In the small town that I grew up , the people were mainly farmers, either involved in livestock rearing or in vegetable or commercial crop cultivation.
My father was a very enterprising man.  He would go all out to secure whatever small agricultural projects available in the small growing town.  He had a few friends who had businesses in town and they would the first ones to receive any news of available projects.  Often he would be offered to be a partner because of his experience in working in the rubber estates owned by the British then. His expertise would be the ability to get a workforce of strong and hardy men to toil in the farms or to work under harsh conditions in the virgin jungles as loggers.  Being the head of these groups of men and having to work in another town often, it had at one time widened the gap between myself and my father.  I remember when I was about nine years old, I was quite afraid of him.  There was one occasion I was almost frightened to tears when his loud voice thundered in the living room as he explained his situation to a group of men who came in the middle of the night to claim their wages. It was scary as I heard the men's angry voices from my bedroom. Before these men left finally, they threatened that they were going to come with axes and 'parangs' on the first day of Chinese New Year if  my father could get the  money to pay them. I could see my mother's worried face as she laid on the bed with me.
Strangely, when I woke up the next morning, I did not see any sadness on both of my parents' face.
I kept on asking my mother about the noisy men the night before but my mother refused to say anything at all.  Why are my parents not reacting to the situation?  I saw them happily preparing for the Chinese New Year which was a few days away.  However, my brother and I were reminded to watch our mouths and be on a good behaviour,otherwise we would be disappointed to see what was going to be in our 'red packets'.
When I grew older, I realised that my parents were actually regretful that such disturbing matters were brought to the knowledge of their children and they did not want us to be unhappy as  the festive celebration was just around the corner.
As for the problem that was looming over my father's head that Chinese New Year,  they had it settled by pawning some of my mother's gold jewellery to get the cash to pay the workers.  It was a problem that had arisen due to a delay on the part of the government authority but the workers would not believe it.
When I was a child, I never considered myself as poor nor rich.  It just never occurred to me that there were these categories of people.  There were not that many things (clothes, fast foods, toys etc) to buy and consequently not much comparison or competition  as such.  Perhaps the adults had, in terms of money earning opportunities.  I remembered my father's comments about his own career; he seemed to be quite happy and  he considered himself lucky to have met a few kind people who had attributed to his improved lifestyle.  He had progressed from someone who had to rent a room for his family to someone who owned a few houses and tens of acres of  agricultural land.
My father related to me of how he used to grow chillies, watermelons, pumpkins and tapioca while waiting for the rubber seedlings to grow big enough to be transplanted. I was taught never to waste time sitting around and wait for money to drop from the sky.  Venture out, go and find something to do, open your mouth to ask, be humble, and yes, humility is the virtue he had always reminded me about.  Be not afraid to give, because in giving, you will find that you will be blessed.  He went on to elaborate but I had been naughty, so I could not remember what examples he had mentioned.
The one thing I remember is, as a child, I was extremely proud and happy to go on the farm trips, either to the chilli farm or any of the other farms.  I used to enjoy the wind blowing on my face as I gazed across the huge farms of chiili trees, watermelon or pumpkin creepers or swaying tapioca trees. I remembered running free in the vast land and I could see the wide blue sky with the clouds fleeting away blown by the strong wind of the day.  Birds, of more than one specie appearing suddenly and flying away as I walked around in the farm, to which I had apologised for disturbing their peace and explained that I wasn't aware at all that they were there.  I remember I just loved being able to look far away and sometimes I wondered what was beyond the 'impossible to reach' horizon.  My poor little feet became tired after the attempt to reach that mysterios line where the land touches the sky.
Now I am in my adulthood, and with my parents long gone, I realise that there were too many words of love and appreciation for them unexpressed.  Even so, I am not sad, because it was the same with them with respect to their parents....too many words left unsaid  and it will be the same with my children.  One day when I am gone, they will also have too many words left unsaid.  No regrets, my dear children.  Parents don't need you to tell them....they will know and after all, they do not expect anything in return at all.That is how parents love us. Always giving, never taking.  You can't beat them in this.