Goodbye My Kampong

by Josephine Chia

  “Ah Phine ah,” Mak said on one of our trips, “now that you’re earning money, I don’t have to worry so much about the New Year expenses. Maybe we can even afford to buy the cloth to make new clothes.”

  Indeed, my siblings and I had, in some years, been the cause of some snickering in the village. Mak always tried to put up new curtains for Chinese New Year. It was tradition to buy new things and wear new clothes for Chinese New Year, to bring in new luck. She was a whizz on the Singer sewing machine and sewed all our curtains and our clothes, including my sisters’ and my panties, as we could not afford store-bought ones. She loved floral prints for the curtains because she said they made her feel that our humble attap hut was a garden. As money was limited, more often than not, instead of buying the fabric from the High Street shops, which were more expensive, she would buy a bolt from the vendors at Sungei Road. This market was called Thieves’ Market or Robinsons Petang, Afternoon Robinsons, to parody the posh department store where we could not afford to shop. The vendors lining their stalls along the Rochor River, which gave the place its Malay name, got their wares from secondhand dealers, or surplus production goods manufacturers. In some lean years, when Mak did not have enough cash to buy fabric for our clothes, she took down the previous year’s curtains to make our clothes out of them. The reasoning was that as the clothes were newly sewn, they could be considered new, thus fulfilling the Chinese New Year obligation. What it meant was that all of us siblings would be dressed in exactly the same fabric. Even Third Elder Brother’s shirt was made out of the floral fabric!

  “If there’s some money left over, can I please buy panties from Metro?” I asked.

  It had been such an old desire and dream of mine. Metro was the department store on High Street in town. I was 19 and I had never owned a pair of store-bought knickers. Though Mak was a good seamstress, sewing panties was an art she did not quite refine, so that my sisters and I ended up with badly fitted knickers which rucked up between our legs or over-exposed our groins.

  “Metro too expensive,” Mak said, with a frown. “We’ll go to the Chinese Emporium to get you a pair lah.”

  I was so excited! Store-bought panties! It was not the moon landing but it would be a mini-historic moment for me!

  Two enterprising Teochew brothers came from Swatow; Lim Tow Seng in 1935, and later his younger brother, Lim Tow Yong, in 1940. They created Emporium Holdings and their niche department stores catered to the middle and low income population. In fact, their first flagship store was opposite Robinsons Department Store, where the majority of the populace could not afford to shop. Whether this was an intentional strategy or not was unclear. The brothers bought their goods, like singlets, undergarments, clothes, as well as basic necessities like pillows, bedsheets, blankets and towels from China, and sold them in what they named their Chinese Emporium. The popular, thin Good Morning towel, with the eponymous words in English and Chinese characters, was one of the products they imported. With a stroke of brilliance, Lim Tow Yong sited three of his department stores in the three Worlds of entertainment, Gay World, New World and Great World as that was where the ordinary folks would go for their leisure activities. Very rapidly, they became a huge success. The Emporiums also sold Chinese dry goods like dried mushrooms, herbs and bird’s nest, and canned items, like tinned abalone, luncheon meat, longans and lychees. It was the first time that ordinary locals could buy such luxury items.

  Mak chose to take my sisters and me to the Chinese Emporium at Orchard Road with its entrance via Claymore Hill, walking distance from Lido Cinema, whilst Third Elder Brother looked after Robert. How an uneducated, illiterate woman could find her way about still puzzled me. After all, she could not read road or directional signs. I had wondered about that even as a small child, when I was about seven and she was dragging me from school to school to get me admitted in mid-term. My father had not approved of me getting an education since he said it would poison my mind. So, it was up to Mak to fund my schooling and to find a school for me. How on earth did a non-English speaking, illiterate woman manage to discuss my prospects with school principals? And yet she succeeded. I considered my mother a quiet heroine.

  The Chinese Emporium store was located at the back of the International Building on Orchard Road, which was a two-way street at this point in time. We had to climb the slight slope of a hill and were pleasantly surprised when we stepped inside, as it was air-conditioned! The air was so cool, sliding over our skin luxuriously. This was our first delight. The second was to see the huge plethora of things, piled high in baskets and bins, on the floor and on counters. Everything had large Chinese characters written on them which I could not read, as I had failed Chinese miserably and had been transferred to a Malay class in Primary One. We felt we were in China, with the cool air, and leather and fur coats on display. Mak cautioned us that we didn’t have a lot of money, so we could look but not buy. But we were already happy enough with the experience of being there. We did not have very high expectations.

  “Since it’s New Year, maybe we can buy one can of abalone…”

  “What does abalone taste like?” I asked.

  I could see that my question took Mak back to her halcyon days in Malacca, when her businessman father could afford to buy abalone regularly. She had that faraway look in her eyes momentarily. I admired her enormously. It is easier for a poor person to cope with becoming rich than for a wealthy person to cope with becoming poor. Yet Mak had remained regal, uncomplaining, and was always positive and smiling.

  She never let on to our neighbours that she once had servants and that her only task in life had been to show them how to cook whilst she embroidered beaded Peranakan kasut manet or slippers, or played the piano and violin.

  “It has a distinct taste and texture,” she said wistfully. “You will love it when I make soup with it.”

  Mak took us to the section where undergarments were sold, and I marvelled at the range and style of panties. I fingered the fabric and nearly swooned at its nylon softness. But each panty cost from $1.50 to $5! Considering that I only received $50 for the whole month after surrendering to Mak my whole pay packet, $1.50 was an extravagance. Lunch would cost about $1.50. I must not spend too much as I hoped to buy Mak the oven for the next Chinese New Year.

  “Go on,” Mak said, guessing what I was thinking. “Treat yourself. You deserve it. I can always make lunch for you to take to work if you are short. Look, there’s a set of three here for five dollars.”

  And so I splurged on my first store-bought panties for Chinese New Year of the Metal Dog! I would never forget that auspicious year. I don’t think it is necessary for me to describe in graphic detail how I felt when I first slipped into my new store-bought panties. Suffice it to say, I would always cherish that new experience.

  Anyone who had lived through that period wouldn’t forget that particular Chinese New Year. No one could foresee what was to come.

  The Chinese New Year wasn’t just another date on the calendar for my siblings and me. It was a season for rejoicing, as we would get to eat what we could not afford to eat all year. There were special dishes like itek tim, a soup made with salted vegetables and fresh duck. Or ayam buah keluak, chicken in a spicy sauce made from a special nut. Meat was a rarity in our household. At the most, the whole family might feast on a tin of luncheon meat or a can of Irish stew. It is interesting how one’s childhood foods later became one’s comfort foods. In later years, even when I could afford to buy fresh meat, my mind craved for canned luncheon meat or Irish stew. So, part of the joy of the Chinese New Year was the anticipatory promise of being able to satisfy our palate with special New Year food. I couldn’t imagine what it must be like for wealthy people who could eat what they wanted all year round. How would their New Year be special?

  Our house was soon filled with the fragrance of baking. We sat on the cement floor whilst Mak stoked the burning charcoals. She was in her element. I had never seen her so happy as when she was cooking and making
kueh. The heat filled our kitchen but in a pleasant, flavourful way, the delicious smells wafting in the air. When the grated pineapple was being stirred with the pandan and gula melaka over the hot stove for her kueh tart, the fragrance was exquisite. After this tasty mixture had thickened and cooled, we spooned it into small pastry cases. Then I helped Mak to crimp its edges to make the tarts look pretty. I helped pinch leaf patterns onto the rich coconut milk biscuits or kueh bangkit too.

  Despite our poverty, my mother did not cut corners when she made her kueh. She would make all of us prepare the paper tubes she needed for her sesagun. In the old days, she would sell each tube of sesagun for five cents. My elder brothers had to peddle her wares for her. The tube was a slimmer version of the paper cones that the kachang putih men used to fill their roasted nuts. To create the tube, we used a chopstick and old newspaper, leaving an opening which we would seal, once it was filled with the sesagun. Then we decorated each paper tube with thin strips of coloured crepe paper and twirled it up the tube like the lights on a barber’s pole. Peranakans had developed the art of cutting paper patterns out of crepe paper, called kertair merah, or red paper. This was done by folding a piece of red paper again and again so that when you cut it with scissors, the underfolds all picked up the pattern. It had to be done artfully, so as not to sever the folds. It was this kertair merah strip that was pasted onto the paper tubes, transforming old newspaper into a festive decoration. Children and adults loved to eat the sesagun by tossing their heads back and tipping the sesagun into their mouths. More often than not, the fine mix caught in one’s throat and made one cough. But that was part of the thrill.

  Not many people could make sesagun well. Very few people know the technique these days. Mak would grate fresh coconut kernel manually till it was very fine. Then she would dry-fry it in a kwali with rice flour and sugar, to create a crisp, granulated mix. It had to be stirred continuously. A proper, cast-iron kwali was needed to make this perfect, as it roasted the coconut and rice flour and crystallised the sugar without burning the ingredients.

  Her kueh baolu was just as legendary. We would take turns to hand-whisk the egg and flour batter, to introduce as much air as possible before it was poured into the greased, round mould that had several depressed shapes like a fish, flower or shell. Then the lid was closed till the batter was cooked. Oh, the fragrance when the baking was taking place! I could die for that delicious smell. And the taste! The baolu would simply melt in your mouth!

  We had to be doubly dexterous when making the kueh belanda, a crispy crepe that was named after our Dutch ancestors. The word “belanda” meant Dutch. But instead of leaving the crepe flat, once it was cooked and removed from its flat mould, we would have to quickly roll the crepe in our palm while it was still hot. Once the crepe cooled, it would retain the cigar shape. Folklore had it that in the days when it was impossible to meet members of the opposite sex freely, young women used to slip strips of paper into the cigar-roll, with messages for their sweetheart. That is why the kueh’s popular name is “love letters”. It was said that the modern fortune cookies were derived from this idea. We always ended up with reddened palms after making the kueh.

  “When you cook with love and joy, you transmit that to those who eat your food,” Mak said. “Never underestimate the power of the chi vibrations. When you eat food cooked by grumpy, miserable people, the food will turn sour in your stomach.”

  What my mother said became my mantra for life. I sing cheerfully when I cook.

  After the kueh-kueh were baked and stored in biscuit tins, it was time to spring-clean the house and to prepare for the reunion dinner. I lugged the heavy baskets as Mak went round Tekka, Joo Chiat and Geylang Serai markets to buy her ingredients as New Year approached. On the stove, she boiled the duck in salted mustard leaves or kiam chye for our New Year’s special, itek tim, eaten with a generous dollop of spicy sambal belachan. It would always remain a special dish for me, the memory of it linking back to my mother. She also made a second soup, bakwan kepiting, a meatball with crab and bamboo shoot soup, which she was going to enhance with slices of abalone for my first taste.

  Then I helped her to grind the spices on the granite batu giling for her ayam buah keluak. The heavy granite slab sat on the ground, so one had to kneel or squat to be able to handle the granite rolling pin. There was an art to crushing the fresh onions, garlic, chillies, lemon grass, candlenuts and other ingredients before rolling the pin on them. If one was not careful, bits of the chillies or spices could fly into one’s eyes or all over the place. A few drops of water were added to aid in the rolling process, and all the spices were pressed and rolled continuously till they combined into a smooth paste. When Mak fried this in hot oil, the aroma was absolutely heavenly, creating bursts of saliva in my mouth!

  Before we sat for dinner for our reunion dinner, Mak sent me and my sisters round our village with small plates of the various kueh for our neighbours. We were met with warm greetings and exclamations of joy.

  “Nonya make the best kueh!” our neighbours complimented Mak’s skill.

  “I love her kueh tart,” Fatima said, popping one into her mouth straightaway.

  “Oii!” her mother slapped her hand. “Leave for others also!”

  Each neighbour placed a spoonful of loose, white sugar on one of the empty plates after they had emptied them, and then returned them to us.

  “Why did they do this?” I asked Mak afterwards.

  “It’s the Chinese custom to give an ang pow when we receive the other races’ New Year’s cake offerings,” explained my mother. “But for the other races, they give us sugar as a symbol for us to have sweetness in our lives.”

  By the time we finished our rounds, we had a full jar of sugar!

  “Sin Chia Ju Hee!” we said in Teochew to Mak when we presented our pair of Mandarin oranges to Mak on Chinese New Year morning with a genuflection. In Baba Malay, this is called a soja. The oranges represented gold.

  “Tang, Tang Ju Hee,” Mak responded by presenting us with an ang pow, a red packet with some cash inside, to represent prosperity.

  The Chinese New Year had begun.

  The sound of firecrackers and fireworks going off punctuated every single day and night of the New Year celebrations. It was all going well, as it did every other year. Companies and businesses would make it a point to burn more firecrackers in greater lengths than their rivals. These became known as Cracker Wars. The prolonged explosions and splintered red were proof of their success and superiority. In some places, you could see small hillocks of splintered red paper. The only thing that swept it was the outdoor breeze, which shovelled up the small bits of paper and dropped them back down like crimson snowflakes. As the firecrackers burst, they emitted a pungent smell of gunpowder that gave the Chinese New Year celebration its distinctive smell. Even householders developed this sense of rivalry and the need to prove their wealth. They competed by firing more fireworks than their neighbours. At some point, the competition became intense and the firing became more reckless, shooting in through open windows and doors.

  And worse, into people and faces. Some naughty boys would put one firecracker or more on the ground, light them, then cover them with an inverted, empty milk can, and run as far away as possible. When the firecrackers exploded, they would send the milk can up into the air like a rocket! The trouble was that the milk can’s missile-trajectory could not be controlled and that could lead to injuries and dire consequences.

  On 21 February, Chap Goh Meh, when it was the last opportunity to fire the firecrackers, the Cracker Wars intensified on Aljunied Road, not far from Kampong Potong Pasir, and also on MacKenzie Road and North Bridge Road. No one wanted to be the first to reduce their firing. Originally a joyful activity, it had metamorphosed into a display of conceit and ego, endangering lives as the firecrackers and fireworks were fired without due caution and care, flying into houses and properties. One person in Aljunied landed his lighted firecracker into a nest of firecrackers, wh
ich caused an explosion and a fire. In all, there were 29 incidents of reckless firing. In three neighbourhoods, a total of eight shops caught fire and burned down, injuring seventy people. Six people died.

  Prime Minister Lee said it was a useless waste of lives and properties.

  The government decided to ban the indiscriminate firing of firecrackers and fireworks in the future. By March, the new law had come in, that anyone intending to let off any fireworks must apply for a special permit and they could let the fireworks off only at specific places designated for that purpose. Some non-Chinese agreed with the ban, as sometimes, their lives had been endangered by reckless firing of the fireworks. Careless people had shot firework rockets into other people’s houses, frightening little children and burning attap roofs. Over the years, people had been hurt, maimed or blinded by errant fireworks.

  Though the Chinese sympathised with the tragedy that had occurred, and understood the government’s caution, many did not take kindly to the prohibition of a cultural tradition that had been practiced for hundreds of years. Moving the location of the firing of fireworks away from homes and business premises defeated the purpose of firing them in the first place. There began some murmurs of rebellion from disgruntled citizens. The majority of us were simply sad. We had loved and relished all the pomp and glory of firecrackers and fireworks. From then on, Chinese New Year celebrations in Singapore would never be the same again.

  It was timely that in July, Prime Minister Lee helped change the mood, and made the nation proud. Britain had conferred on him an honorary Order of the Companions of Honour, United Kingdom, for his role in diplomacy and outstanding achievement within the Commonwealth. He had helped set up the Association of Southeast Asian Nations (ASEAN) in 1967. This year, he had hosted the Commonwealth Heads of Government meeting, where he acted as a peacemaker between various African states and Britain. UK’s plan to sell arms to South Africa had created a furore with other African states. Founded in 1917 by King George V as a reward for outstanding achievements, the Order of the Companions of Honour was an order of the Commonwealth realms. Recipients of this one-class order were entitled to use the post-nominal letters "CH". Mr Lee and his wife travelled to Britain for his investiture by Queen Elizabeth II at Buckingham Palace. Prime Minister Lee said in his speech afterwards that Singapore valued its ties with Britain and he hoped that Britain would continue to preserve the association.