SS Quah's Anything Goes

Disappointing Merapi

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Tue, 23 Jun 2026 22:36:00 +0000

In the morning of our second full day in Jogjakarta, we visited Mount Merapi. Our expectations were simple: to see one of Indonesia’s most famous volcanoes in full view. Instead, what we got was a wall of off-white mist that swallowed everything beyond a few metres. The mountain was there somewhere, I was sure of it, but it remained invisible, as though it had decided not to perform that day. I must admit, something of a letdown.

In a way, that experience captures what many visitors discover about Merapi. It is a name that carries weight as one of the most active volcanoes in Indonesia, often spoken of with awe, but the actual encounter can feel rather over-hyped.

Part of this comes down to how the visit is usually arranged. We went with the so-called “lava tours” from Kaliurang, the standard way of experiencing the area. On paper, it sounded like an adventurous off-road journey through a raw volcanic landscape. In reality, it felt more like a convoy of jeeps following the same route, stopping at the same places, with visitors taking the same photographs from the same angles.

There is the preserved house buried in ash, now a small museum of frozen domestic life. There is the so-called Alien Rock, a boulder hurled down by the 2010 eruption and said to resemble a face. I looked and looked, but there was nothing to stir my imagination. And there is the bunker that once served as shelter during eruptions but now a memorial to those who perished when lava overwhelmed it. Each stop has its own story, but taken together the experience can feel rather mechanical.

Yet Merapi is more than a tourist attraction. For the Javanese, it is a living presence with a guardian spirit, once embodied by Mbah Maridjan, the mountain’s spiritual custodian who died during the 2010 eruption. It also forms part of Jogjakarta’s sacred axis, balanced against the Indian Ocean to the south, known locally as the Southern Sea and personified in folklore by Nyai Roro Kidul. Annual offerings acknowledge Merapi’s dual nature as both destroyer and giver of life.

Visibility is Merapi’s greatest unpredictability. Cloud cover gathers quickly and by mid-morning the summit is often swallowed by a featureless white veil. Unless one arrives at an unusually clear hour, the iconic smoking peak remains more imagined than seen. Standing there before that pale emptiness, I began to wonder if the mountain was not refusing to reveal itself at all, but simply telling us that nature does not operate according to our expectations.

Unlike the lush, cinematic volcanoes one sometimes imagines in Indonesia, Merapi’s surroundings are shaped by its own violence. The terrain is ash-grey, broken rock and sand. Material is repeatedly thrown out over time and never quite softened back into the landscape. There is a bleakness and starkness to it all, far from any postcard vision of tropical grandeur. I was told that in some areas, sand-mining continues along the slopes.

In the end, perhaps the mountain is not so much over-rated as it is misunderstood. I arrived hoping to see a famous volcano in all its splendour and left having seen little more than mist and ash-grey slopes. Yet the stories surrounding the mountain, its place in Javanese culture and the respect it continues to command among local people suggest that Merapi is best understood through belief and imagination rather than sight alone.

SG Lim's run for cancer

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Mon, 22 Jun 2026 08:45:53 +0000

There was a huge charity event at Penang Free School yesterday and, much as I would have liked to be there, I had to give it a regrettable miss. Not through any lack of interest, but because several weeks earlier, long before details of the event had been finalised, my brother-in-law from Singapore had already arranged to return home with his family for a visit. Family took priority as rare reunions, like this particular one, are not something I can postpone lightly.

Still, I followed developments from afar because this was no ordinary event. It marked the conclusion of Old Free Lim Shyang Guey's remarkable Run for Gold journey, which was a 2,200-kilometre run (actual distance covered was 2,390 kilometres) across Peninsular Malaysia to raise awareness and funds for children battling cancer.

Better known now as SG Lim, the Class of 1975 (Form Five) alumnus began his journey on the 28th of March from the National Cancer Society Malaysia's Home of Hope in Penang. Over the next 86 days, he ran north to Perlis, crossed to Kelantan, travelled down the east coast to Johor and then turned north again along the west coast before returning home to Penang.

The final stage took him on an 82-kilometre route around the island, passing through Teluk Bahang, Balik Pulau, Batu Maung, Jelutong and George Town before he crossed the finish line at his alma mater, Penang Free School, one day before his 67th birthday.

There was something fitting about that ending. The journey had begun in Penang and it ended where another journey had started many years earlier at the school that helped shape him.

More than 150 teachers and present pupils of the school were among the several hundreds gathered to welcome him home, alongside family members, former schoolmates, supporters, volunteers and well-wishers that included Penang Chief Minister Chow Kon Yeow and Penang Island City Council Mayor Rajendran P Anthony. Standing before the crowd at the finish line, SG Lim looked skyward and spoke words that had carried him through the entire journey. "Firstly, my darling, we made it."

The tribute was to his late wife, Goh Joo Lee, who passed away from gallbladder cancer in August 2024 at the age of 63. The couple had once dreamed of travelling around Peninsular Malaysia together on foot after retirement. After losing her, Lim transformed that shared dream into a mission with a different purpose.

"We had wanted to walk around Malaysia together, every state," he said. "But I did not get to do it with my wife. She was there all along with me. Yes, we made it."

At its heart, Run for Gold was never really about running. The name itself comes from the gold ribbon, the international symbol of childhood cancer awareness. As Lim explained, "It's for the children. Children with cancer. That's why it's Run for Gold. I am running for the children. I don't need any more gold."

Along the way, he covered between 25 and 35 kilometres a day, staying mostly in homestays and shared accommodation, meeting families affected by cancer and listening to their stories. The journey also formed part of the torch relay for Relay for Life Malaysia 2026 which carried a message of hope and solidarity from community to community.

The campaign had initially aimed to raise RM600,000 for the National Cancer Society Malaysia. By the time he crossed the finish line, donations had already exceeded RM775,000, with funds earmarked for childhood cancer support services, including the Home of Hope programme, psychosocial care and survivorship initiatives.

Penang Chief Minister Chow Kon Yeow, who welcomed SG Lim home at Penang Free School and announced a further RM50,000 contribution from the state government, perhaps summed up the significance of the occasion best.

"SG Lim's 2,200km Run for Gold journey across Peninsular Malaysia is far more than an extraordinary feat of endurance; it is a powerful story of love, resilience and hope. Every step he took carried a message of encouragement for children battling cancer and their families, inspiring Malaysians from all walks of life to come together for a meaningful cause."

The Chief Minister also spoke movingly of the personal sacrifice behind the journey. "Dedicated to the memory of his late wife, Joo Lee, SG Lim transformed grief into hope, raising more than RM700,000 for the National Cancer Society Malaysia and proving that one person can make a profound difference."

What SG Lim accomplished over those 86 days was not measured simply in kilometres covered or funds raised. It was measured in something less tangible but perhaps more important: one person's determination and compassion that brought people together.

As Old Frees, we often speak about the values our school tries to instil: service, perseverance and concern for others. SG Lim embodied all of these qualities. In recognition of his remarkable achievement and service to the community, he was presented with Life Memberships of the The Old Frees' Association and the Old Frees' Association Kuala Lumpur & Selangor.

And there is something more. While grief has a way of turning people inward, here was a man who chose to transform personal loss into an act of generosity that will help children and families facing challenges far greater than his own.

Karajan's Beethoven

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Sun, 21 Jun 2026 08:05:16 +0000

I felt like listening to a bit of classical music today and pulled an old Deutsche Grammophon LP from the shelf: Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5, recorded in 1977 by the Berlin Philharmonic under the baton of Herbert von Karajan.

As the music began, I was immediately struck by the clarity and ferocity of the performance. Those famous opening four notes seemed to leap from the speakers with such force that I instinctively stepped back across the room, just to take in the full weight and flavour of the sound.

This LP formed part of Karajan's second complete Beethoven cycle for Deutsche Grammophon. By then, he had spent much of his career returning to these symphonies, revisiting them as recording technology evolved and as his own interpretations deepened with age and experience.

Karajan's association with Deutsche Grammophon, which lasted more than four decades until his death in 1989, remains one of the most influential partnerships in the history of recorded classical music. He saw the recording studio not merely as a place to document performances but as an instrument in its own right, working closely with engineers to shape every aspect of the final sound.

The sleeve itself is unmistakably Deutsche Grammophon: the familiar yellow banner across the top with a typography that reflected the label's sense of elegance and consistency.

Musically, this recording is all about control and momentum. Karajan's earlier 1963 account of Beethoven's Fifth has a certain warmth and lyricism, but the 1977 version feels leaner, more urgent and more dramatic. Recorded in the Berlin Philharmonie, it captures what many listeners describe as the "Karajan sound": smooth, rich and powerful, with individual instruments blending into a single orchestral voice. Some critics have argued that this sacrifices a degree of transparency for sheer beauty, but there is no denying its impact.

Karajan was also an enthusiastic advocate of new technology. He embraced digital recording early and later worked with Sony and Deutsche Grammophon in promoting the compact disc, famously declaring: "All else is gaslight."

Perhaps his lifelong engagement with Beethoven says more about him than anything else. He recorded the complete symphonies three times for Deutsche Grammophon. First was in 1963, again in the late 1970s and finally in the early digital era of the 1980s. Few conductors have left such an extensive recorded legacy of a single composer.

By the time of his death, Karajan had sold an estimated 100 to 200 million records worldwide, a figure that remains extraordinary in the world of classical music.

The Borobudur story

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Fri, 19 Jun 2026 04:03:28 +0000

Before I move on, perhaps I should say something more about Borobudur. I happened to pick up a brochure at the entrance into the archaeological park and I must say that it turned out quite informative. I thought of reproducing it verbatim here but the language was rather stilted and, at times, simply wrong. So the next best solution was to have a go at rewriting it myself. It proved to be a surprisingly refreshing exercise and I learnt quite a few new things along the way.

Most visitors arrive at Borobudur expecting to see a grand ancient monument. I certainly did. Yet the more I read about it, the more I realised that Borobudur is not merely a temple in the conventional sense. It is, in fact, a vast three-dimensional representation of Buddhist thought carved in stone.

Seen from ground level, Borobudur appears as a massive stepped pyramid crowned by stupas. Viewed from above, however, its true design becomes apparent. The entire monument is laid out in the form of a giant mandala, a sacred diagram found in both Buddhist and Hindu traditions. At its simplest, a mandala consists of a square with four gateways surrounding a circular centre. It is meant to represent the universe and the spiritual journey from the outer world towards inner awakening.

Borobudur expresses this journey through three ascending realms of Buddhist cosmology: Kamadhatu, Rupadhatu and Arupadhatu.

The lowest level, known as Kamadhatu, represents the world of desire. It symbolises the realm in which human beings remain bound by attachment, craving and worldly concerns. Much of this section lies hidden beneath an encasing base added during the temple's construction, although some of the concealed relief panels have since been uncovered and documented.

Above this lies Rupadhatu, the world of form. Here, desire has been overcome, but attachment to the physical world remains. It is within these galleries that visitors encounter the remarkable narrative reliefs for which Borobudur is so famous.

At the summit is Arupadhatu, the formless realm associated with enlightenment and ultimate liberation. The square terraces below give way to three circular terraces lined with perforated stupas, creating a striking sense of openness and simplicity. The symbolism is clear enough even for a casual visitor: as one ascends, distractions fall away.

The reliefs of Borobudur deserve special mention. Among the most important is the Lalitavistara, a series of carved panels recounting the life of the historical Buddha.

The story begins with the birth of Prince Siddhartha in Lumbini, in present-day Nepal. It follows his privileged upbringing, his marriage to Princess Gopā, better known in the Theravāda tradition as Yasodharā. and the profound encounters that changed the course of his life: old age, sickness, death and the sight of a wandering ascetic. These experiences prompted him to leave the palace in search of a deeper understanding of human suffering.

The panels continue through his years of study and ascetic practice, culminating in his enlightenment beneath the Bodhi tree at Bodh Gaya and his transformation into Gautama Buddha.

As I walked through the galleries, I found myself wondering how pilgrims more than a thousand years ago would have experienced these stories. For many of them, these carvings were not simply decorative art. They were sacred teachings in stone.

The Buddha statues themselves carry layers of meaning. There are 504 Buddha statues throughout the monument, with 432 of them placed in niches along the Rupadhatu galleries. Each displays a particular hand gesture, or mudra, symbolising different aspects of Buddhist teaching.

I confess that, at the time, I admired the statues more for their serenity than their symbolism. Only later did I learn that the mudras vary according to their position on the monument, corresponding to different Dhyani Buddhas and cardinal directions.

Borobudur's story did not end with the decline of the Sailendra dynasty. Between the 12th and 14th centuries, the monument was gradually abandoned as political power shifted across Java. Why this happened remains uncertain, although volcanic activity may have played a part.

For centuries, Borobudur lay hidden beneath layers of volcanic ash, vegetation and jungle growth. Although local communities never entirely forgot its existence, it was Sir Stamford Raffles, then British Lieutenant-Governor of Java, who brought the site to wider attention in 1814.

The first efforts to clear the monument began soon afterwards. Over the following decades, scholars documented its reliefs and attempted to understand its history.

One significant discovery came in 1885 when hidden reliefs at the base of the temple were uncovered. Some of these carvings contained instructions for the stone carvers in Sanskrit. The distinctive style of the script helped scholars date Borobudur to the middle of the ninth century, during the reign of the Sailendra dynasty.

Large-scale restoration work followed in the early 20th century under the Dutch engineer, Theodor van Erp. Yet it soon became apparent that deeper structural problems remained. Water infiltration and erosion continued to threaten the monument.

The most ambitious restoration project began in 1968 under UNESCO's guidance. Over the next 15 years, specialists from around the world dismantled and rebuilt large sections of the temple, installing modern drainage systems and developing methods to protect the stone from biological decay.

Their efforts ensured that Borobudur would survive for future generations and, in 1991, the monument was inscribed as a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

One final detail from the brochure caught my attention. Among Borobudur's relief panels are ten depictions of ancient seafaring vessels. In 1982, an English researcher named Philip Beale studied these carvings and became convinced that they represented ships used along the ancient maritime trade routes linking Indonesia with Africa.

His fascination eventually led to the construction of a replica vessel based on the reliefs. The reconstructed ship later sailed across the Indian Ocean, retracing what is now known as the Cinnamon Route. Quite remarkable that a monument so often associated with stillness and meditation also preserves evidence of long-distance trade, exploration and cultural exchange.

Perhaps that is one of Borobudur's enduring appeal. Information is revealed layer by layer. At first glance, it is a magnificent monument. Spend a little more time with it and it becomes a book of stone, a map of the Buddhist cosmos, a record of ancient maritime connections and a testament to humanity's determination to preserve its heritage. No wonder people keep returning to it, not just to admire its beauty but to discover something new each time.

Mendut, Pawon and Borobudur

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Wed, 17 Jun 2026 22:47:00 +0000

After our four days in Jakarta, our group from Nandaka Vihara flew to Jogjakarta for the next leg of our journey. Travel day aside, we had two full days to explore this historic city in Central Java and for all of us, there was little doubt about our first priority. We had come to visit the great Buddhist monuments of the region.

Our itinerary for the first full day followed a sequence that pilgrims have observed for centuries. Early in the morning, we made our way to the monastery at Mendut Temple. After lunch, we stopped at the smaller Pawon Temple before ending the afternoon at the magnificent Borobudur.

At the time, I thought of them simply as three separate places of interest located within convenient driving distance of one another. Only later did I realise that they were never meant to be experienced in isolation.

Although commonly associated with Jogjakarta, all three monuments are actually located in neighbouring Magelang Regency. Built during the eighth and ninth centuries under th
e Sailendra dynasty, they form a single sacred complex aligned along an almost perfectly straight east-west axis.

Mendut stands at the eastern end, Pawon in the middle and Borobudur at the western end. Archaeologists believe that the temples were once linked by a ceremonial avenue, suggesting that pilgrims in ancient times would have walked the entire route as one continuous spiritual journey rather than visiting each site separately.

In fact, this remains very much a living tradition today. Every year during Waisak, thousands of monks and devotees gather at Mendut before proceeding on foot through Pawon and finally arriving at Borobudur. A solemn procession that preserves a ritual pathway that has endured for well over a thousand years.

Our first stop that morning was the quiet Buddhist monastery beside Mendut Temple. Shaded by mature trees and set back from the main road, the monastery grounds had a peaceful, unhurried atmosphere. Prayer halls, monks' quarters and landscaped gardens were spread across the compound.

One feature that caught my attention was a gilded ceremonial chariot. From what I gathered, it is associated with the annual Waisak celebrations, when sacred objects including the blessed water and Dharma flame are carried in procession from Mendut to Borobudur. Standing there and appreciating the chariot from all angles, I imagined the thousands of monks and devotees who make that solemn four-kilometre pilgrimage each year.

Compared with Borobudur, Mendut Temple itself is modest in size, but stepping inside its dim interior was a surprisingly moving experience. There, seated within the sanctuary, are three magnificent stone figures: the Buddha Vairocana in the centre, flanked by the bodhisattvas Avalokiteshvara on the left and Vajrapani on the right. Unlike the stupas of Borobudur, these statues remain intact and protected behind wooden hoardings. One could easily imagine ancient pilgrims beginning their spiritual journey here, setting aside worldly concerns before moving onwards.

After lunch, we continued to Pawon Temple. Personally, I found Pawon the least interesting of the three sites. That is perhaps inevitable when it is sandwiched between Mendut's serene interior and the overwhelming grandeur of Borobudur. Pawon is small and compact, and our visit there was brief.

Yet its modest scale belies its importance. Pawon was the midpoint of the sacred journey. It was a place of transition and purification before pilgrims approached Borobudur. The temple's relief carvings include the Kalpataru, the mythical Tree of Life, on three sides of the temple.

After a brief stop for luwak coffee at a nearby shop, mainly to escape the midday sun, we proceeded to Borobudur. No amount of photographs or videos can quite prepare one for the experience of seeing it in person for the first time. Rising far in the distance with trees lining both sides of the wide boulevard, Borobudur possesses a majesty that is difficult to describe.

It is often called a temple, but it is really something much more ambitious: a three-dimensional mandala in stone. Pilgrims traditionally ascend it in a clockwise direction, moving through successive levels that symbolise the journey from the world of desire to the realm of enlightenment.

Yet Borobudur is not only a monument of stone and history. Local villagers still speak of Gunadharma, the legendary sage said to have designed the monument, whose reclining form is believed to be etched into the contours of the nearby Menoreh Hills. Others say Borobudur was built to balance the volatile spirit of Mount Merapi. These stories tell of Borobudur's place in archaeology textbooks and UNESCO descriptions, and also in the imagination where myth and devotion overlap.

Constructed during the eighth and ninth centuries by the Sailendra dynasty, Borobudur remains the world's largest Buddhist monument. Spread across six square terraces and three circular platforms are 2,672 relief panels, 72 perforated stupas and a total of 504 Buddha statues. Of these, 432 are placed in niches along the square terraces while another 72 sit within the bell-shaped stupas of the upper levels.

At the summit stands the great central stupa. Unlike the smaller perforated stupas, this largest stupa is empty. For many scholars, that emptiness is entirely deliberate, symbolising śūnyatā, the Buddhist concept of ultimate emptiness or the formless nature of enlightenment itself.

Yet there is a mystery associated with this central stupa. During restoration work in the early 20th century, archaeologists discovered a seated Buddha statue buried nearby. Today known as the "Unfinished Buddha", it is now displayed nearby within the Borobudur grounds.

The statue earned its name because parts of it appear incomplete. Sections of the head, hands and robes were left only partially carved. Some researchers suggested that it was rejected because of imperfections in the workmanship. Rather than destroy a flawed image, the builders may simply have concealed it within the central stupa. Others believe the incompleteness was intentional and carried symbolic meaning, while some scholars question whether the statue ever belonged inside the stupa at all. To this day, no one knows for certain.

While descending from the terraces, my mind went back to the smaller temples we had visited earlier in the day. Suddenly, the sequence made sense. Mendut, Pawon and Borobudur are not three separate destinations competing for attention. They are three chapters of the same story. Mendut represents preparation. Pawon symbolises purification. Borobudur marks the culmination of the journey towards awakening. Perhaps that is why the ancient builders placed them along a single line. The physical journey mirrors an inner one.

Whether one walks the path as a pilgrim, a student of history or simply a curious traveller, I felt impressed by the vision of the Sailendra rulers who created this landscape so long ago. Maybe that's the real wonder of the Borobudur trail. Not that these temples have survived the centuries, but that they still invite us to reflect on ourselves.

A Jakarta experience

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Wed, 17 Jun 2026 04:34:43 +0000

For four days in Jakarta, our little group from the Nandaka Vihara Meditation Society found ourselves spending much of our time at Gedung BWE in the Mozia precinct of BSD City, a planned township in Tangerang within the wider Greater Jakarta region.

BSD City is one of those modern satellite townships that seem to stretch endlessly into the horizon, with neatly laid-out roads, residential clusters, shopping centres and office buildings. Gedung BWE itself is a multipurpose venue that has become an important gathering place for Buddhist activities in the Jakarta area. The initials BWE stand for Bodhicitta Wahana Edukasi, an organisation involved in Buddhist education and community work.

Over the years, the venue has hosted meditation retreats, Dhamma talks, relic veneration ceremonies and large-scale Waisak celebrations. Its spacious hall is well suited for bringing together monks, lay devotees and volunteers from different traditions and organisatio
ns. This year's four-day Waisak celebration from 29th May to 01 June was jointly organised by Yayasan Hadaya Vatthu, PATVDH Beji (Yayasan Meditasi Hutan Pandangan Terang), Yayasan Bodhinanda Pekanbaru, Yayasan Dhamma Sukha Dhamma and Yayasan Sundarabhūmi.

Although the district surrounding the Gedung BWE offered no shortage of cafés, shopping centres and other modern conveniences, we never really had the opportunity to venture there during our stay. Our time revolved almost entirely around the programme itself. shuttling from our hotel in North Jakarta to the Gedung BWE, and subsequently returning at the end of each day's programme. Still, we did get to see a little of Jakarta when we were not required at the venue, thanks to Epi, our volunteer guide.

At some point, I surrendered myself entirely to the ladies in our group who wanted to go shopping. So we found ourselves stopping at several neighbourhood markets to pick up things like packed groundnuts and buah emping, which we Penangites would recognise as buah binjai. My wife and I had arrived with two half-empty suitcases. By the time we left Jakarta, both were filled to the brim. Fortunately, everything was bulky rather than heavy, and we managed to stay within the airline's weight limits.

Our journeys took us through various parts of North and West Jakarta, offering fleeting glimpses of everyday life in this vast metropolis. One evening, we were taken to the Chandra building for dinner. The place was buzzing with activity. Finding seats was an adventure and we ended up sharing tables with complete strangers. We wandered off to order different dishes before returning with their selections to be shared among the group, all while a karaoke competition unfolded on the stage nearby. It was lively, informal and wonderfully communal, the sort of atmosphere that seems to bring people together with little fuss.

On another occasion, as we drove through the city, our vehicle passed a roundabout adorned with temporary Waisak decorations. There stood two large Buddha statues alongside an Aśoka pillar. It was a striking sight, and I could not help thinking that such a public display would be almost impossible to imagine back home in Malaysia. For a brief moment, amid the traffic and bustle of Jakarta, the city seemed to pause and acknowledge the significance of the occasion.

We also drove through Jakarta's historic district, the Kota Tua Jakarta, the old colonial quarter once known as Batavia. Compared with Jakarta's gleaming shopping malls, Kota Tua feels basic, slower, grittier and more textured. The malls represent modern Jakarta: air-conditioned, polished and driven by consumption. Kota Tua, by contrast, preserves traces of the city's past, with its Dutch-era buildings, museums and cafés. It may not possess the commercial energy of Jakarta's mega malls, but it offers something increasingly rare in large cities, which is a sense of place and historical continuity.

Food, naturally, was another highlight. One memorable meal was at Pagi Sore, where we enjoyed a delicious spread of Indonesian dishes. Quite unexpectedly, I spotted an Old Free friend seated at another table. He looked familiar, though I was not entirely certain it was him. Rather than interrupt his meal, I discreetly took a photograph and sent it to him. A short while later, we were catching up in the restaurant.

Another memorable occasion was a farewell lunch hosted by our Indonesian Buddhist friends at the Angke Heritage Restaurant before we left for Jogjakarta. Angke is well known for its Hakka cuisine, but what impressed us immediately was the setting. We had arrived early and, for a while, had the whole place to ourselves.

The restaurant exuded a wonderfully tranquil atmosphere. Traditional Chinese architectural elements were woven throughout the grounds with moon gates, courtyards, pavilions set over water and landscaped gardens. It was a delight for photographers and diners alike.

Two nights earlier, we had been treated to dinner at Da Fa Chinese Seafood Restaurant. The dishes were not all that different from any Chinese seafood meals we enjoy in Penang, which perhaps explains why we tucked into them with such enthusiasm.

There was also a lunch dāna during the Waisak programme itself at a restaurant known as Lembur Kuring, where we sampled Sundanese and Javanese dishes with their distinctive inland flavours.

We visited Aloha Pasir Putih PIK 2, a modern waterfront lifestyle destination designed around a tropical beach theme. The place is often described as "the Hawaii of Jakarta", complete with palm trees, surfboard displays and large Polynesian-inspired statues. Its centrepiece is an artificial white-sand beach overlooking the coast.

The concept is clearly aimed at city dwellers looking for a short escape from Jakarta's relentless pace. Families strolled along the promenade, children played in the sand and groups of friends gathered at the many cafés and restaurants lining the waterfront. It was all very photogenic and unapologetically designed for the social media age.

The day before we departed for Jogjakarta, Bhante Dhammasubho joined us on a sightseeing tour that included a stop at Jakarta Cathedral. Officially known as the Cathedral of Our Lady of the Assumption, it is one of Indonesia's most important Catholic churches. Completed in 1901 in a neo-Gothic style, the cathedral stands directly opposite the Istiqlal Mosque, Southeast Asia's largest mosque. The juxtaposition of these two great houses of worship has become a symbol of Indonesia's commitment to religious harmony. In recent years, the two sites have even been physically linked by a pedestrian tunnel known as the "Tunnel of Friendship".

What struck me about those few days in Jakarta was the contrast between the modern city and the spiritual gathering we had come to attend. We spent time within the peaceful confines of Gedung BWE, surrounded by chanting, meditation and Dhamma talks. Yet just beyond its walls stretched one of the world's largest urban regions, with its endless roads, shopping centres and constant movement. Perhaps that was what made the experience so interesting. Amidst the speed and scale of Greater Jakarta, thousands of people had gathered quietly and purposefully to celebrate the Buddha's teachings. And for four days, we were fortunate enough to be part of it.

The original Chipmunk music

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Mon, 15 Jun 2026 22:43:00 +0000

I must have been seven, eight or perhaps nine years old when my father brought home these two Chipmunks records from Wing Hing Records, his friend's shop along Campbell Street. At that age, few things gave me more happiness than listening to David Seville and the Chipmunks. I played those LPs over and over again until I practically knew every song by heart.

For a few years, they were constant companions. Then I grew older and gradually moved on to other kinds of music. The records went back into their sleeves, placed in a cupboard and left untouched for decades. Until recently.

Something stirred in me and I went looking for them again. When I finally played them again and heard those familiar high-pitched voices, I felt an unexpected lump in my throat. In an instant, I was transported back to a time when I had not even yet reached the age of ten. Wonderful how music can do that. A song lasts only a few minutes, yet somehow it can unlock entire rooms of memory that have remained closed for half a century. What more a whole hour's worth from Let's All Sing with the Chipmunks and Sing Again with the Chipmunks.

As a child, I never questioned who the Chipmunks were. They simply existed. After all, children do not worry about such details. Alvin, Simon and Theodore were mischievous little creatures who sang funny songs, while the long-suffering David Seville tried to keep them in line. Only much later did I learn that neither the Chipmunks nor David Seville actually existed. The entire concept was the creation of one remarkably inventive man: Ross Bagdasarian Sr.

Bagdasarian was a first-generation Armenian-American from California. Early in his career, record executives felt that his surname was too long and too ethnic for show business. During the Second World War, he served as a control tower operator with the US Army Air Forces and spent some time stationed in Seville, Spain. The city made such an impression on him that he adopted "David Seville" as his stage name.

Before the Chipmunks came along, he had already established himself as a songwriter. In 1951, he had collaborated to write the quirky song Come On-a My House. After spending months trying to persuade someone to record it, he finally found success when Rosemary Clooney turned it into a number one hit.

Yet success in the music business can be fleeting. By late 1957, despite his earlier triumph, Bagdasarian was facing financial difficulties. Supporting a wife and three young children, he reportedly had only about US$200 left. Instead of spending the money on household expenses, he took a gamble. He bought a dual-speed tape recorder and began experimenting with tape speeds at home. He discovered that by recording his voice slowly at a lower pitch and then playing it back at normal speed, he could create an entirely new sound: bright, squeaky and unlike anything listeners had heard before.

His first experiment was Witch Doctor, released in early 1958. The famous refrain, Oo-ee, oo-ah-ah, ting-tang, walla-walla, bing-bang, became an instant sensation, selling more than a million copies and helping to rescue Liberty Records from financial trouble. Asked to come up with a follow-up, Bagdasarian expanded the idea into three animated chipmunks. Their names were playful nods to the executives at Liberty Records: Alvin after company president Al Bennett, Simon after co-founder Simon Waronker and Theodore after recording engineer Ted Keep.

Creating their voices was a feat in the days before digital technology. Bagdasarian recorded every character himself; four separate vocal tracks for Alvin, Simon, Theodore and Dave Seville while matching the timing manually with extraordinary precision. The result was The Chipmunk Song (Christmas Don't Be Late), released in late 1958. It became a runaway success and won three awards including Best Engineered Record (Non-Classical) at the inaugural Grammy Awards in 1959.

A string of hit records followed, including Alvin's Harmonica and Ragtime Cowboy Joe. Soon came the first full-length albums: Let's All Sing with the Chipmunks pressed on red vinyl in 1959 and Sing Again with the Chipmunks the following year. Those were the very records, with their 24 songs, that eventually found their way into my childhood home in Penang.

But of course, the songs were only part of the story. Beneath the squeaky voices was something far more personal: my father's love of his child in bringing those records home, the excitement of discovering new music as a child and the simple happiness of sitting beside the gramophone with nothing else demanding my attention. The Chipmunks may have been fictional, but the memories they created were very real. And after all these years, they still have the power to make me smile.

Staircase danger

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Tue, 09 Jun 2026 01:11:21 +0000

A recent unfortunate incident brought back a memory that I had not thought about for quite some time. Four years ago, I had a close call falling down. I was standing on a collapsible ladder, only on the first step, when the whole thing suddenly slid backwards. It happened so quickly that there was no time to react. Fortunately, as the steps shot away beneath me, I fell sideways onto my right rather than backwards. The only injury was a bruise on my thigh. Over the next few days it grew impressively black and blue, spreading much further than I would have imagined, before gradually fading away and healing completely. At the time, I regarded it as an unpleasant but ultimately minor incident. After all, nothing was broken and life went on as normal.

Recently, however, I learnt of a far more tragic accident involving someone I was acquainted with. He fell down the staircase at his home and never recovered from the injuries. The news affected me more than I expected. Perhaps it was because the circumstances sounded so ordinary. Stairs are among the most familiar features of any house. We climb them and descend them every day without giving them a second thought. Yet a staircase can become dangerous when something goes wrong.

As we grow older, we become more vulnerable. When we are young, a fall often results in embarrassment, a few bruises and perhaps a story to tell later. Age changes everything. Bones become more fragile. Reflexes slow down. Balance is no longer quite what it once was. A fall that a younger person might shrug off can become a life-changing event for an older adult.

Medical studies have shown that the direction of a fall can make a tremendous difference. Falling backwards is often especially dangerous because there is little opportunity to protect oneself. A person may strike the back of the head, neck or spine with considerable force. Falling forwards is not necessarily safer. The instinctive attempt to break the fall can result in fractured wrists, broken shoulders or facial injuries.

Then there is the question of height. One might assume that only a tumble from the top of a staircase is dangerous, but even a fall from the bottom few steps can have devastating consequences. A sideways landing can fracture a hip. For many elderly people, a broken hip becomes the beginning of a long and difficult decline involving surgery, rehabilitation and a loss of mobility.

What is particularly sobering is that the danger does not end with the initial injury. A serious fall can trigger a chain of consequences. Reduced mobility leads to muscle loss. Confidence disappears. Some people become fearful of moving about independently lest they fall again. Ironically, that reduced activity can weaken the body further and increase the likelihood of another fall.

As I thought about my acquaintance's passing, I found myself thinking not only about the fragility of the human body but also about how Buddhism approaches impermanence. We often associate impermanence with grand events: aging, illness and death. Yet there's also impermanence in the smallest moments. A misplaced step. A stumble from uneven floors of even one millimetre apart. A momentary loss of balance. An ordinary staircase climbed a thousand times before without incident.

We tend to imagine that major changes in life arrive with warning signs and dramatic announcements. More often, they arrive unexpectedly. One moment everything is normal. The next, circumstances have changed completely.

When I look back on my own accident, I realise how fortunate I was. Had I fallen differently, the outcome might have been very different. It was a reminder, one that I perhaps did not fully appreciate at the time, that we should never take safety for granted. These days when I climb a staircase, I find myself paying more attention. When I step onto a ladder, I ask someone to hold it. Not out of fear, but out of respect for the simple fact that our bodies are not indestructible. The older we become, the more we learn that life often hangs on small things: a secure handrail, a dry floor, a firm footing and perhaps a little good fortune. The loss of my acquaintance is a sad reminder of that truth. May he rest in peace.

Chan Ah Seng

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Mon, 08 Jun 2026 02:21:05 +0000

One of life's sobering moments comes when one attends the wake of someone one has known, however intermittently, over the years. Yesterday evening, I attended the wake of Dr Chan Ah Seng, a highly respected Obstetrician and Gynaecologist from Bagan Specialist Centre. Last Tuesday, he suffered a tragic accident at home and was rushed to the very hospital where he had spent much of his professional life caring for others. Sadly, the injuries proved too severe and he passed away on Saturday without regaining consciousness.

My wife and I first got to know him in 1990 when Saw See was expecting our son. Throughout the pregnancy, we consulted him regularly and in May 1991 he safely delivered a healthy baby boy into our lives. After that, as often happens, we lost touch. More than three decades passed before we met him again in March last year.

The years had changed all of us, of course, but he was instantly recognisable. By then he had become a volunteer at Nandaka Vihara Meditation Centre, offering free medical consultations once a month. It seemed entirely in character for a man who had spent his career helping people.

Last night's wake was attended by many from the medical fraternity as well as his former schoolmates from Sultan Abdul Hamid College. Listening to the conversations and seeing the steady stream of visitors, one could sense the regard in which he was held.

It was also there that I learnt something I had never known before. Dr Chan was the same age as me, though a few months older. Somehow that made his passing feel even more poignant. When someone of one's own generation departs so suddenly, it serves as a reminder of the Buddhist teaching that all conditioned things are impermanent. We may understand the principle well enough, but occasions like this bring it home in a very personal way. As life unfolds, all we can do is cherish the moment and the people we meet along the way.

Buah salak

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Sat, 06 Jun 2026 08:37:27 +0000

One of the unexpected pleasures of my recent trip to Jakarta and Jogjakarta was renewing my acquaintance with the salak fruit, better known to many as snake fruit because of its distinctive scaly skin.

Every morning at the hotel breakfast table, there would be a small tray of salak placed among the other fruits. There were usually only five or six fruits at a time and they tended to disappear almost as soon as the hotel staff brought them out. Before long, the group from Nandaka Vihara had developed quite an appetite for them. A few of our friends had never seen the fruit before and approached it with some caution at first. The skin looked unusual, almost reptilian, and certainly not like anything one would normally associate with a sweet fruit. But once they learnt how to peel it, many quickly became converts.

In fact, salak became so popular among our group that whenever the tray was emptied, all we had to do was ask. The hotel staff would smile and bring out another batch specially for us. By the end of the trip, some of our first-time salak eaters had become quite addicted to the fruit and looked forward to seeing it each morning.

We generally encountered two varieties. One had a dark mahogany maroon skin while the other was a lighter coppery brown. Both shared the same characteristic scales that give the fruit its snake-like appearance. Freshly harvested salak can also be surprisingly prickly. The skin is covered with tiny hard projections that can give an unsuspecting finger a little jab. Nothing serious, but enough to remind you to handle the fruit with some respect.

Inside, however, lies the reward. The cream-coloured flesh comes in segments rather like large garlic cloves. The texture is quite unlike most tropical fruits. It is not juicy like a rambutan or mangosteen. Instead, it is firm and crisp, almost like biting into a very dense apple or pear. The ones we encountered were consistently sweet and pleasant to eat, which perhaps explains why several members of our group became rather fond of them.

Salak is native to Indonesia but also grown in Malaysia. It is a thorny palm and the fruit grows in clusters at the base of the plant, surrounded by its natural prickly armour, and making harvesting a somewhat careful exercise. Indonesia produces many varieties, among them the Salak Pondoh from the Jogjakarta region, which is a variety prized for its sweetness even before it is fully ripe.

The more I ate it, the more I wondered why salak never became as internationally famous as durian, rambutan or mangosteen. Perhaps its appearance works against it. The rough scaly skin is hardly inviting at first glance. Yet those willing to look beyond the exterior discover a fruit that is both distinctive and enjoyable.

I also learnt that the fruit continues to attract scientific interest. Researchers have studied the seeds for various useful compounds, including oils and antioxidants. In parts of Indonesia, the seeds have even been roasted and ground to produce a coffee substitute. It seems that almost every part of the fruit has found a use somewhere.

For me, though, the strongest memory remains those breakfasts in Indonesia. A plate of salak sitting quietly among the other fruits. Friends reaching for one, then another. Curious first-timers becoming enthusiastic converts. Travel is often remembered through such simple experiences and for our Nandaka Vihara group, salak turned out to be one of the pleasant discoveries of the journey.

Maxwell Road

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Wed, 03 Jun 2026 22:10:00 +0000

Ever since I wrote about old Gladstone Road several days ago, I have been thinking that perhaps a story about the schools, cinemas and amusement parks that disappeared during the KOMTAR redevelopment would also be in order. Many of them were located along Maxwell Road, another old street that vanished during the same redevelopment period. But roads alone do not make up a city. What truly gives life to an urban neighbourhood are the people, the schools where children studied, the cinemas where families gathered at night and the amusement parks where crowds drifted through beneath bright lights and loud music. Much of that old social landscape disappeared along with the roads.

When the KOMTAR project was launched in the 1970s, it was presented as a vision of modernisation for George Town. Large sections of the roughly triangular-shaped district, bordered by Prangin Road, McNair Street, Magazine Road and Penang Road, were cleared to make way for the massive 27-axre complex. Hundreds of buildings disappeared in the process. For many people today, especially younger Penangites, it is difficult to fathom just how densely packed and lively that part of town once was.

Along Maxwell Road and the nearby streets stood rows of traditional pre-war shophouses facing the old Prangin Canal. Many housed long-established Chinese family businesses such as metalsmiths hammering away in narrow workshops, bicycle and tyre shops, provision stores stacked with sacks of rice and dried goods, herbal medicine halls with drawers of roots and herbs, coffee shops and small trading companies dealing in everything from household utensils to joss paper offerings. Opposite these shophouses were compact roadside stalls selling inexpensive local goods and daily necessities to workers, students and shoppers passing through the area. Cobblers too were a common sight, quietly repairing worn shoes for customers seated nearby waiting patiently for the work to be completed.

The district was also one of George Town’s busiest transport hubs. Along Maxwell Road stood the old bus terminals and stopping points for the Lim Seng Seng green buses, the blue Hin Company buses and the familiar buses of the Penang Yellow Bus Company that connected the city to the suburbs. There was even a public toilet built on a pedestrian bridge across the canal, and one could not help wondering whether the waste went straight into the murky water below or was somehow channelled elsewhere for disposal. The entire area constantly moved with people: office workers, market traders, schoolchildren, cinema patrons and bus passengers all crossing paths from morning until late into the night. For a brief period from 1980 to 1983, I too became part of that daily flow of commuters, waiting along Maxwell Road for a green bus that would take me home to Ayer Itam.

Among the losses were four well-known cinemas that had once formed part of George Town’s busy entertainment circuit. There was the Capitol Theatre along Maxwell Road, built on land originally occupied by the Windsor Theatre. Nearby stood the Paramount Theatre and the Royal Theatre, both especially remembered for screening Hindi and Tamil films and attracting large Indian audiences from across Penang. Somewhere around where Komtar Walk is today, crowds once queued outside these cinemas. Then there was the Eastern Theatre, another familiar single-screen cinema that disappeared during the early redevelopment phase.

In those days, cinemas were not simply places to watch films. They were social gathering points. Young couples went there on dates, families planned weekend outings around them, and workers escaping the day’s heat found refuge inside the cool darkness of the theatre halls. Before television became dominant, these cinemas formed part of everyday urban life.

Several schools also vanished during the redevelopment. One of the most historically significant was Chung Hwa Confucian Primary School at Maxwell Road, among the oldest Chinese schools in the country. Its old premises served generations of students before the final batches left in 1979. The school later moved to Ayer Itam and split into Chung Hwa Confucian A and B.

Li Teik School also stood within the redevelopment zone. Interestingly, its Maxwell Road premises had once belonged to the old Anglo-Chinese School long before ACS moved to Ayer Itam Road in 1929. Li Teik inherited that educational space and carried on serving the local community until relocation became unavoidable. The school eventually shifted to Macallum Street Ghaut.

Then there was Tong Sian Primary School along Gladstone Road itself. Unlike the larger brick school compounds, Tong Sian functioned from converted pre-war shophouses in the crowded heart of the old neighbourhood. One can only imagine what school life must have been like there, surrounded by metalsmith shops, traders, food stalls and the nearby Sia Boey market. When Gladstone Road disappeared, the school too had to move, eventually settling at Dato Kramat Road where it remains today.

And somewhere amidst all this stood the old Great World Amusement Park. Older Penangites still remember it as one of the lively entertainment spaces of central George Town. There were games, food stalls, music and crowds wandering about in the evenings. Nearby too was the Fun & Frolic Park, another amusement area that formed part of the same nightlife landscape around Prangin and Magazine Roads. These places belonged to an era before shopping malls and multiplexes, when entertainment was more open-air, communal and slightly rough around the edges.

The redevelopment that produced KOMTAR undoubtedly changed George Town forever. From the planners’ perspective, it was meant to modernise the city and prepare it for the future. But in doing so, an older urban world disappeared. Roads vanished. Schools relocated. Cinemas closed. Amusement parks faded away. A neighbourhood that once remained active day and night gradually gave way to concrete plazas, office towers and wide traffic systems.

Today, when people walk through KOMTAR, Prangin Mall or Komtar Walk, very few would realise how much life once occupied the same ground. Beneath the modern structures lies an older layer of George Town memory, one filled with schoolchildren, cinema queues, market traders and the sounds of amusement parks glowing into the Penang night.

Austrian music: two poles apart

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Sun, 31 May 2026 22:37:00 +0000

Some time ago, while browsing through a stack of records in my collection, I realised that I had two albums that, in their own very different ways, captured something of the musical spirit of Austria. One came from the Alpine folk tradition, the other from one of the world’s most famous choirs. Listening to them back to back was almost like taking a short musical journey through that country.

The first record was a Polydor LP, issued in 1973 to celebrate the 25th anniversary of the Austrian folk group Die Lustigen Arlberger, with the title 25 Jahre Volkstumsgruppe Die Lustigen Arlberger. Since the album commemorated 25 years in 1973, it meant that the group was founded in 1949.

The Arlberg region lies in the Tyrol, and the group came from the well-known mountain resort of St Anton am Arlberg. In those days, visitors to the area would often attend what was called a Tiroler Abend, or Tyrolean Evening, which was a lively programme of folk music, yodelling and traditional dances performed for both tourists and locals. Groups like Die Lustigen Arlberger were at the heart of this tradition.

For many years the ensemble was led by the colourful musician Sepp Staffler who was not only a skilled yodeller but also known for playing the unusual instrument called the "singing saw". Under his leadership the group became a regular presence in the region’s folk entertainment scene.

Their music reflected the unmistakable Alpine folk style. Instruments such as the zither, dulcimer, clarinet, harmonica, accordion, and even the occasional xylophone contributed to the lively arrangements. Some members of the ensemble were also well-known specialists on these instruments, including zither and dulcimer players Werner Nußbaumer and Margit Raffl Staffler.

The anniversary LP functioned almost like a sampler of their repertoire. Among the pieces were Ein Jodlergruss, which opened the record with a cheerful yodel greeting; Salzkammergut-Plattler, a traditional dance tune associated with thigh-slapping; and Kirchtag in St. Anton, which evoked the atmosphere of a festive church fair in the mountains.

One particularly eye-catching item was Zirkus Renz, a dazzling showpiece that featured rapid-fire passages on the xylophone. It is the sort of virtuoso novelty number that audiences always enjoyed at folk concerts. Another track was the Dengel-Lied, a song that grew out of everyday rural life.

The LP was issued as part of Polydor’s Austria Gold series which aimed to preserve and promote traditional Austrian music. One can almost picture a mountain inn with wooden tables and a cheerful gathering of singers and dancers after a long day in the Alps.

The second Austrian record in my collection came from a very different musical world: an album titled Austria Revisited, recorded by the famous Vienna Boys' Choir and issued by Capitol Records as part of its Capitol of the World series.

Released around 1958 or 1959, the album was clearly intended for international audiences. Capitol had the clever idea of presenting music from different countries almost like musical travel postcards to give listeners a taste of distant cultures through recorded sound.

The Vienna Boys’ Choir is known in German as the Wiener Sängerknaben and they are the perfect ambassador for Austrian music. With a history dating back centuries, the choir had already built a worldwide reputation for its pure, disciplined sound.

During the period when this album was recorded, the choir was typically conducted by musicians such as Helmuth Froschauer or Xaver Meyer. Under their direction the ensemble toured extensively and was widely admired for the clear, almost crystalline quality of the boys’ voices.

The programme on Austria Revisited mixed classical pieces with traditional songs. Naturally, the music of Johann Strauss II appeared prominently. The album opened with the famous waltz An der schönen blauen Donau, better known in English as The Blue Danube, followed by the lively Sängerlust-Polka. Later in the programme came another Strauss favourite, G’schichten aus dem Wienerwald (Tales from the Vienna Woods).

Alongside these orchestral classics were several folk-influenced items, including the Erzherzog Johann-Jodler which linked the choir’s repertoire to the same Alpine traditions celebrated by Die Lustigen Arlberger.

The album also included gentle choral pieces such as Johannes Brahms’s lullaby Guten Abend, gut’ Nacht, as well as sacred music by Johann Sebastian Bach. The result was a programme that moved gracefully between the concert hall, the church and the countryside.

When one listens to these two records together, an interesting contrast emerges. The Vienna Boys’ Choir represented the polished musical culture of Vienna: refined, disciplined and steeped in centuries of tradition. On the other hand, Die Lustigen Arlberger embodied the more rustic side of Austrian life, with its yodels, folk dances and cheerful village celebrations.

Yet both recordings shared a common thread. Each reflected a different facet of Austria’s musical identity: the elegance of its classical heritage and the earthy vitality of its Alpine folk traditions.

For a music enthusiast, that combination made for a rather satisfying discovery. Two albums, separated by style and audience, but together offering a small window into the sounds of a remarkable musical nation. After listening to them, I found myself thinking that perhaps one day I should finally visit Austria and experience some of this musical culture first-hand.

Wesak in Jakarta

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Sun, 31 May 2026 07:37:32 +0000

I'm now in Jakarta with my wife and friends from Nandaka Vihara in Bukit Mertajam to celebrate Wesak Day. We arrived on Friday and today marks our third day at the Gedung BWE in Tangerang, one of the metropolitan regions within Greater Jakarta.

It was quite an exhilarating experience witnessing this sacred Buddhist celebration in one of the world's most populous urban centres. More than 40 monks from across Indonesia have gathered here, although a handful, including Nandaka Vihara's chief abbot, Ven Dhammasubho, were specially invited for the occasion. As the most senior monk among those assembled, he has been accorded special reverence and had the honour of leading the procession of Buddha relics into the hall on Friday.

Yes, Buddha relics from Nandaka Vihara were brought here on loan for this special celebration. Together with relics brought by the other monks from their respective monasteries, it made for the largest collection of Buddha relics I have ever seen in one place. Definitely, I felt the closeness to the Enlightened One.

The four-day ceremony itself was jointly organised by several Indonesian Buddhist
foundations, including Hadaya Vatthu, PATVDH Beji (Yayasan Meditasi Hutan Pandangan Terang), Yayasan Bodhinanda Pekanbaru, Yayasan Dhamma Sukha Dhamma and Yayasan Sundarabhūmi (Sundarabhūmi Hermitage). It was quite something to see such a wide collaboration coming together in one place, with each group contributing in its own way to the running of the programme, but I understand that this is quite a common practice there.

Over the past few days, I have also been struck by the large presence of many teenagers and young adults who served as volunteers throughout the event. They were everywhere, quietly guiding visitors, managing the flow of people, helping with logistics and doing it all with a level of discipline and sincerity that was quite impressive to observe. There was a certain calmness and dedication in the way they carried themselves, and it added an unexpected layer of warmth to the entire gathering.

There were several differences between the way Wesak is observed here and the practices back home in Penang. The daily puja sessions involve much longer periods of chanting, followed by extended meditation. What fascinated me most was the Buddhānussati chant based on the Nine Qualities of the Buddha, which lasted almost a full hour and rounded off the evening puja on Wesak eve.

It was certainly fascinating to hear the qualities recited in such a loud and energetic manner for the first time, each one being repeated 108 times in rapid succession. But, to be perfectly frank, it became a little tedious to my untrained ears, especially after having sat through nearly three hours of the programme beforehand. Still, it was all part of experiencing a different Buddhist tradition and gaining a deeper appreciation of how the Dhamma is practised in other places.

Happy Wesak, everyone!

Fantastic cultural initiative

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Thu, 28 May 2026 22:58:00 +0000

Penang has taken what may well be its most meaningful cultural preservation step since the UNESCO recognition of George Town’s heritage zone in 2008 by officially gazetting 50 heritage items covering historical sites, cultural traditions and some of the state’s most beloved local food.

State tourism and creative economy committee chairman Wong Hon Wai described the move as a major milestone in protecting and sustaining Penang’s cultural heritage. Under the Penang State Heritage Enactment 2011, the state has now gazetted 15 heritage sites, seven intangible cultural heritage elements and 28 heritage food items.

What struck me most was the fact that although the enactment was passed back in 2011, no official state-level cultural heritage gazettement had actually taken place over the past 15 years. This year, however, the Penang government finally turned legislation into concrete action by formally recognising these cultural treasures and laying down a stronger institutional foundation for their preservation.

Among the heritage sites gazetted are Fort Cornwallis, Kapitan Keling Mosque, Penang Free School, St George’s Church, Penang State Museum building, Acheen Street Malay Mosque and Leong San Tong Khoo Kongsi. On the mainland, the gazetted sites include the Cherok Tok Kun Inscription Stone, the Guar Kepah Archaeological Site and Leng Eng Seah Association. There should be many more to add into this list later but this can be considered a good start for the moment.

The intangible cultural heritage list includes nasi kandar culture, kopitiam culture, the Thaipusam and Chingay processions, the St Anne’s feast in Bukit Mertajam and the Penang Tanjong dialect.

As for food, some of Penang’s most iconic dishes have now been formally recognised as heritage items, including asam laksa, char koay teow, nasi kandar, chendol, roti chanai, putu mayam and pasembor. (See the full list below.)

To me, this is about far more than tourism or branding. It is about memory, identity and continuity. Penang’s multicultural heritage did not emerge overnight. It was shaped slowly over generations by different communities, faiths and traditions living side by side and influencing one another.

I also appreciated Wong’s point that cultural heritage can act as a bridge for national unity. When people see their languages, celebrations, food traditions and places of worship respected and protected, it deepens mutual understanding and strengthens the sense that these shared histories matter.

There is also the wider international dimension. Some of these intangible heritage elements could eventually be nominated for UNESCO recognition, allowing Penang’s cultural treasures to gain wider appreciation on the global stage. More importantly, formal recognition helps establish and protect historical and cultural ownership more clearly at a time when regional food cultures are increasingly commercialised and occasionally appropriated by neighbouring countries as part of their own national identity. Penang, perhaps more than most places, has reason to be sensitive about such matters.

In the end, preserving heritage is not about being possessive. It is about acknowledging origins, respecting authenticity and ensuring that future generations still know where these traditions came from and why they mattered.

------------------------

The full list of Penang's heritage food items gazetted by the Penang government: char koay kak, kerabu bihun, hokkien mee, mee jawa, mee sotong, mee udang, nasi kandar, roti benggali, pasembor, oh chien, air batu campur (ABC), ais kepal, chapati, chendol, char koay teow, kari kapitan, keema, asam laksa, martabak, masalodeh, mee goreng mamak, muruku, penderam, putu mayam, roti chanai, teh tarik, tosai and yong tau foo.

Fast delivery

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Wed, 27 May 2026 01:56:17 +0000

I continue to be impressed by iHerb’s delivery service. Perhaps it is because customers are obliged to pay a slightly higher fee to use their recommended courier companies for international deliveries, but whatever the reason, the system seems to work remarkably well.

When I made my latest purchase on the 20th of May, I became a little uneasy after not receiving any shipment notification until the 23rd. Three days for iHerb to pack the items and prepare them for dispatch! In the past, I had noticed that orders were usually processed by the next business day, so this delay caught my attention. Since I was due to go out of town on Friday, I started wondering whether the package would arrive in time.

But the moment the parcel was picked up by the courier company, everything moved at great speed. Tracking updates began appearing smoothly as the package travelled from one transit point to another, and yesterday the delivery truck finally arrived at my doorstep. From courier pick-up to final delivery, the whole journey took only five days.

That, more than anything else, probably explains why I continue to regard iHerb’s delivery system rather highly.

Gladstone Road

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Mon, 25 May 2026 01:48:00 +0000

Gladstone Road was one of the roads that disappeared during the massive urban redevelopment that created KOMTAR in the 1970s and early 1980s. The road once ran straight from the Magazine Circus towards Carnarvon Circus, cutting across an area that later became part of the KOMTAR complex.

The road was named after William Ewart Gladstone, the famous British Liberal politician who served four terms as Prime Minister of Britain between 1868 and 1894. He was one of the dominant political figures of Victorian Britain and was known for administrative reforms and parliamentary politics.

Historically, Gladstone Road emerged during the period when George Town was expanding southwards beyond the old Prangin Canal in the late 19th century. At that time, the areas across the canal were gradually transformed from attap-house settlements into rows of brick shop houses and more organised urban streets.

A 1914 map of George Town

Gladstone Road was also associated with Penang’s old tram system. In the early decades of the 20th century, tram tracks ran through this part of George Town and older Chin
ese residents even referred to parts of the area as Hoay Chiah Lor in Penang Hokkien. Penang once had one of the earliest tram systems in Malaya. The lines connected Weld Quay in George Town with areas such as Ayer Itam and the Waterfall Gardens, intersecting at what would later become Goh Par Teng or the Magazine Circus in the busy commercial heart of town.

1969 - one of the last times that Gladstone Road
appeared on a map of George Town

By the mid-20th century, Gladstone Road had become part of the busy commercial and transport district around Prangin Road, Penang Road and Magazine Circus. Older Penangites would remember the area for its shops, businesses and proximity to the old Prangin Road bus terminal. I remember eating at a compact open-air hawker centre right smack where Gladstone Road and Magazine Road converged at the Magazine Circus.

Then came the KOMTAR redevelopment project in the 1970s. The plans might have been futuristic, looking forward to modernising George Town for the future, the next 50 to a hundred years, but large sections of the old neighbourhood around Prangin had to make way for this ambitious urban renewal plan. Gladstone Road was effectively erased from the map during this redevelopment, along with Carnarvon Circus and many adjoining pre-war buildings.

George Town paid a very heavy price for this modernisation drive. To make way for KOMTAR, hundreds of old buildings disappeared. Historical records mention that 769 homes, 304 shops, four cinemas, three schools, an amusement park, even a fire station and post office were demolished. Because the project was planted directly in the heart of George Town, entire streetscapes and long-familiar landmarks vanished almost overnight.

Today, no trace of Gladstone Road survives except for maps like these. Its disappearance is part of a much larger story involving the transformation of old George Town during the KOMTAR era, when entire streetscapes, canals, bus terminals and neighbourhoods gave way to modern concrete redevelopment. For many older Penangites, roads like Gladstone Road survive mainly through memory rather than geography.

Pirated discovery

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Fri, 22 May 2026 22:20:00 +0000

Over the years, I’ve accumulated what many people would probably describe as a fairly decent record collection. Once in a while, someone would look at the shelves and immediately call me a record collector. I understand why, but somehow I’ve never been comfortable with that label.

The term record collector often gives the impression of someone chasing rarity for the sake of ownership. First pressings sealed in plastic, catalogue numbers carefully ticked off, records stored away more as trophies than as music. Of course, there is nothing wrong with that, but that has never really been my relationship with records. I own records because I want to listen to them.

Some albums I return to repeatedly. Others may sit quietly for months before suddenly matching a certain mood or memory. For me, the enjoyment comes not just from possessing the LP but from cleaning the surfaces, lowering the stylus onto the groove, hearing the slight pops and crackles before the music begins, and allowing the sound to fill my listening space. The records are tied to moments in life, to particular periods of youth, to old discoveries and rediscoveries.

So I suppose music enthusiast would describe me better than record collector. The records themselves are only part of the story. The real connection is with the music, the voices, the performances, and sometimes even the memories attached to them.

And speaking of records, I must admit that among my shelves are also a small number of pirate LPs from the 1960s and 1970s. In those days, pirated records were everywhere, mainly sold in the pasar malam. Sometimes, I'd see them stacked in a quiet corner of non-descript record shops, not displayed openly. These shop owners had a knack of recognising prospective customers, or maybe their regular clientele. Anyway, music copyright enforcement was practically non-existent in those days and for many ordinary listeners pirate record purchases were often the only affordable way to hear certain albums. Interestingly enough, some of those pirate pressings actually sounded surprisingly good.

Among my pirate LP collection is a copy of Frances Yip’s Discovery, recently acquired from my cousin. It simply turned up among a batch of old LPs he gave me, and I only realised what it was when I started going through the stack at home. I was in two minds whether to play it or not. How would the sound quality be? How close would it be to the original pressing? Would it be worth keeping? In the end, there was only one way to find out.

The original album, Discovery, was released in the early 1970s and tied to her work with Cathay Pacific at the time. It was conceived almost like a musical travel record, moving across different Asian countries through song. In its official form, it was very much a product of that era when Asian pop was beginning to find its own identity while still drawing heavily from traditional melodies and Western arrangements.

But as I mentioned earlier, my copy is a pirate pressing. Like many of those records from the 1960s and 1970s, it carries its own story. The cover is slightly off in colour and the printing not quite sharp. Where the EMI label would have been, there is instead a rather nondescript catalogue marking. Still, the sound itself is surprisingly decent. That alone says something about how these unofficial pressings were not always crude copies. Some were made with enough care that the music survived quite well.

The content itself is what makes the album interesting. It moves through a series of songs representing different parts of Asia, from Arirang in Korea to Bengawan Solo in Indonesia, from Dahil Sa Iyo in the Philippines to Rasa Sayang Eh much closer to home. There is a clear travel narrative running through the record, as though each track is a postcard from a different place. Frances Yip’s voice sits neatly above these arrangements, smooth and unforced, carrying that slightly cosmopolitan tone she was known for in the 1970s.

There is something ironic about a record designed as a kind of official musical tour of Asia ending up reproduced unofficially and circulating through markets and second-hand shops across the region. But that, in a way, was also part of the musical landscape then. Music travelled in many forms, not all of them official, and listeners simply followed wherever it arrived.

It is an album that reflects a particular moment in time when Asian pop was still forming its identity, when travel and cultural exchange were beginning to shape popular music, and when even pirate records became part of how that music was heard and remembered.

Pagar Tras

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Wed, 20 May 2026 22:48:00 +0000

In February last year, I had attended a workshop on the history and heritage of Pagar Tras organised by the Centre for Global Archaeological Research at Universiti Sains Malaysia. As part of the programme, the participants were taken on a field trip to visit the ruins of the abandoned Sacred Heart Catholic Church, once a spiritual centre of the old Pagar Tras community, as well as the Catholic church in Kulim where many of the salvaged artefacts eventually found a new home.

I still remember walking through the remains of the old church site. There was a quietness about the place that photographs alone could never quite capture. One could sense that this had once been a living community with its own rhythms, prayers and gatherings.

Fast forward to the present, and about a week ago I received a message from USM informing me that my copy of History and Heritage of Pagar Tras was ready for collection. Naturally, I wasted little time getting hold of it. After reading through the book over several sittings, I came away impressed by the amount of information packed into its 124 pages.

Written by Stephen Chia, Francis Chen and Clement Liang, the book pieces together the story of Pagar Tras. It traces how French missionaries arrived in the 19th century to spread Catholicism among the local Chinese community, and how the Sacred Heart Church gradually became the focal point of village life.

The story also reflects the upheavals that shaped Malaya during the mid-20th century. Following the Japanese Occupation and later during the Malayan Emergency, the Pagar Tras community was forcibly relocated to the new villages on the mainland. Once the villagers left, the old church was effectively abandoned, and nature slowly reclaimed the site.

Reading the book brought back memories of that field trip last year. What at first ap
peared to be little more than old ruins in the jungle gradually took on a deeper meaning. Behind the broken walls and silence was the story of an uprooted community and a forgotten chapter of local history that could easily have disappeared altogether if nobody bothers to document it.

Open distrust

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Mon, 18 May 2026 22:02:00 +0000

There was something almost surreal about the recent reports coming out of Beijing during Donald Trump’s visit to China. According to multiple accounts, members of the American delegation were openly seen throwing away everything given to them by their Chinese hosts before boarding Air Force One to go back to the United States. Gifts, badges, souvenir pins, invitation cards and even temporary burner phones were reportedly dumped into bins near the aircraft stairs in full public view.

It sounded less like diplomacy and more like a scene from a Cold War spy thriller. Apparently the instruction was that absolutely nothing originating from China was to be brought onto the aircraft because of cybersecurity and surveillance fears. American intelligence agencies have long suspected that electronic devices, souvenirs or even ordinary-looking items could potentially be used for tracking or data collection. So the delegation travelled with temporary phones, avoided personal electronics and discarded everything afterwards.

I suppose none of this is surprising. Great powers have always spied on one another. Trump himself more or less admitted it when he casually remarked that America spies on China too. That was probably the most honest thing said during the whole visit.

Still, there was something symbolic about the public nature of the disposal. Diplomatic visits are normally wrapped in smiles, handshakes and carefully staged photographs. Mistrust may exist behind the scenes, but both sides usually try to keep appearances intact. This time, however, the distrust became visible for everyone to see. One moment there were banquets and ceremonial greetings. The next moment, gifts were being tossed into bins before boarding the plane home.

I wonder how the Chinese hosts must have felt watching that happen. Publicly, they remained polite and restrained, calling the visit historic and avoiding any official protest. But I suspect the message was fully understood. At the same time, China itself would probably do the same too, but perhaps with more discretion. The modern world has become deeply suspicious beneath all its diplomatic language. Nations trade with one another, smile for cameras and speak of cooperation, yet quietly assume they are also being watched, monitored and hacked.

Maybe that is the real story here. The world’s two biggest powers can sit across the same table smiling warmly while trusting each other so little. In another era, such behaviour might have caused outrage. Today, many people simply shrugged and said: of course they did. A reflection, perhaps, of the times we live in.

Quiet tragedy

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Sat, 16 May 2026 22:24:00 +0000

So there I was with this Bakat TV 1971 record in my hand. Until that first moment when I placed the record on the turntable, I was mainly interested in listening only to Bryan Jeremiah sing Love Knot in My Lariat and Rajadin Wan Mat's My Funny Valentine, two songs which had impressed me those 55 years ago. But when the stylus reached the fourth track on Side Two, I stopped in my tracks. Hearing Feather in My Pocket today was like hearing it for the very first time in 1971. Michael Tan’s lone voice, accompanied by his guitar, carried a plaintive honesty that cut through everything else on the album.

The song was quiet. Just a voice and a guitar, nothing more. The stark simplicity allowed the words to stand on their own. Nothing to hide behind, no orchestral sweep to distract the listener. It sounded like someone thinking aloud, perhaps while travelling, perhaps in a moment of solitude.

There's this image of the feather in the pocket. It felt like a small reminder of home or direction. Even when the lyrics spoke of not knowing when home would come, there was still that feather to be carried along for comfort. Hope tucked away in a pocket.

The folk imagery, though not something we grew up with locally, reinforced the mood of the song. Malaysia does not experience the four seasons, so references to autumn skies, white winters and fields of wheat turning brown felt slightly out of place to us. Still, the pictures suggested movement and transition, a sense of time passing and life changing. There was weariness in the line about concrete stretching endlessly. The overall tone remained reflective and gently wistful.

Then there was the solo guitar being finger-picked. Clarity in every note. Everything felt intimate, like a private living room performance that gave the song space to breathe and leaving the listener with a thoughtful silence at the end.

And who was this 20-year-old Michael Tan? Not only was he a talented performer from the Bakat TV stage, but also a University of Malaya graduate in English, He hailed from Malacca and had honed his singing and guitar skills while still at the Malacca High School. After the loss of both parents, grief weighed heavily on him. He struggled to cope and eventually turned to substance abuse, a path that led to a tragic and untimely end at 41.

Knowing all that inevitably changed how I heard the song. The themes of wandering, distance and longing...all felt more appreciated. The feather in the pocket seemed less like a poetic device and more like a quiet emblem of someone searching for steadiness in a life that later became unsettled. It was a gentle song, but it now felt like part of a larger story. One of promise, talent and eventual loss. In the end, it is hard not to see it as a quiet tragedy.

Bakat TV 1971

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Thu, 14 May 2026 22:51:00 +0000

During my recent slow stretch away from the blog, I found myself revisiting something from the early 1970s that came back to me quite unexpectedly: the Bakat TV 1971 talent show. What made it more meaningful was that I had actually watched the programme when it was telecast live. I was in Lower Six at the time, and I still remember how the next day Bakat TV became the talking point in the whole school. Everyone had something to say about the performances. It left quite an impression on me, even then.

So I was genuinely surprised to find this record recently among a stack given to me by one of my cousins from Petaling Jaya. It was not something I was actively searching for, but there it was, and it was very much welcomed. Thanks, Eng Chye! In fact, I had noticed in the past that a second-hand vendor in KOMTAR was selling the same record at what I thought was a rather exorbitant price. At the time, I had simply looked at it and moved on. Now, having a copy in my own hands felt different.

The album was produced by Radio Televisyen Malaysia (RTM). Bakat TV itself was one of those early televised talent competitions designed to discover new performers across the country, long before the era of modern talent shows. In those days, television felt more communal. When a programme aired live, the whole country seemed to be watching together.

The 1971 record captured finalists and selected performers, backed by the RTM Orchestra under Johari Salleh. It was quite something to think that a national broadcaster made the effort to preserve a talent show in this way. There was a seriousness about culture and broadcasting then, and perhaps a sense that these moments deserved to be documented properly.

Playing the record brought back good memories of my Lower Six days almost immediately. I could picture classmates discussing the performances and debating the results the next morning in school. In those days, a programme like Bakat TV could become the talk of the whole school overnight. Some of the names on the album went on to establish themselves in Malaysian entertainment, and hearing those early recordings again felt like stepping briefly back into that period of youth.

Bakat TV 1971 was more than just another record. It captured a time when television, live performance and recorded music came together. Finding the record unexpectedly among a stack of old LPs made the rediscovery even more meaningful.

Second coming

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Wed, 13 May 2026 22:39:00 +0000

During those 10 days away from the blog, I also noticed something else at home. The Tacoma tree outside the house had flowered again, and this time it seemed even more enthusiastic than before.

I had already thought that this year’s earlier peak in early March was unusually generous, but there appears to have been a second coming.

Earlier this month, I saw the tree covered in flowers, almost like a canopy overhead. Then after a heavy downpour on the night of the sixth of May, I woke up to find the drain outlet completely choked with fallen blossoms. No doubt it was a colourful sight, but it was not very practical for drainage.

Still, as I have mentioned more than once, I do not really mind the sweeping. When I look at the bigger picture, the tree gives me something far more valuable in the afternoons: cool shade and a quiet patch of comfort. A little extra sweeping seems a fair exchange.

Scam calls

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Tue, 12 May 2026 22:07:00 +0000

There are times when I become a little lazy and disconnect myself from the rest of the world. This happened to be one of those times. Almost 10 days without updating my blog. But actually, there's another way to look at it. It's time well spent away from the computer to do other stuff. So much so that it becomes a chore to eventually get back into the everyday grind.

I was jolted back into the present by a series of calls on my mobile phone a few days ago. The first came in at 11.55am, and an installed app flagged it as an unknown number. I glanced at the screen, saw that it carried a +65 country code from Singapore, and let it ring until it disconnected automatically. Hardly a second later, another unknown call came through, also with a +65 code. Then a third and a fourth, in quick succession. As if that wasn’t enough, immediately the next two were shown as calls from Kazakhstan. Of course, none of them were answered. I simply let each one time out. And finally, about an hour later, a seventh call appeared, once again from a Singapore number.

It didn’t take much thinking to realise that this was probably nothing more than a burst of computer-generated spam calls. The pattern was too clinical. When calls arrive so quickly one after another from different country codes, it usually suggests some automated system at work, which no human can replicate: random dialling, number spoofing or machines simply testing which numbers are active. In today’s world, our phones seem to attract attention the way an open window attracts burglars. Once a number is identified as live, it can find its way into other lists. If no one answers, the system just moves on and tries again later. That might explain why the last Singapore call came after some time.

There is also a small caution I’ve come to keep in mind over the years. Answering unknown calls is not always harmless. In some cases, the other end may not just be a person, but an automated system recording voices, responses, even simple “hello” confirmations. These recordings can sometimes be used to feed further spam systems or to create patterns that mark a number as active and responsive. It may sound a bit far-fetched, but in the world of persistent spam and scam operations, even minimal interaction can sometimes be enough to invite more of the same.

As for my response, I don’t think I was wrong. There was no message, no familiar name, no reason to engage. Letting the calls ring out felt like the most sensible thing to do. In fact, answering might have been the bigger mistake, since it would have confirmed that the number was active. Sometimes silence is the best form of defence. There is no obligation to pick up every call that appears on the screen.

The lesson here is probably a simple one. Unknown international calls that arrive in clusters deserve caution, not panic. Let them ring. If it is genuine, the caller will leave a voicemail or try another channel. If not, the system will eventually move on.

So the episode served as a small reminder that even in my moments of quiet withdrawal from the world, the world has a way of tapping on my shoulder. One can choose whether to answer or ignore. And this time, I was quite happy to let it ring.

UPDATE: After I posted this on facebook, someone in Singapore happened to see it and took the trouble to report the numbers to the relevant authorities there as suspected scam calls. That was unexpected, but very much appreciated. It is reassuring to know that people do still take these things seriously and are willing to act on them, even when they are not directly affected. For that, I am quite thankful.

Rail memories

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Sun, 03 May 2026 22:47:00 +0000

I came across two old photographs of the Butterworth railway station platform that were taken before the railway service was upgraded and electrified. They had that slightly lazy, unhurried look and I found myself lingering over them longer than I expected. It brought back some vivid memories of the nights when I used to catch the train from that very platform.

In the 1970s when I was still living on the island and needed to travel to-and-from Kuala Lumpur, this was part of the routine. I would buy my ticket earlier from Howe Cheang Dispensary along Penang Road, then made my way across by ferry to Butterworth. From the terminal, it was a short walk to the station, perhaps a hundred metres or so, where rail passengers would wait for the collapsible grille gate to open. A railway staff member would check the tickets and let us through.

Train services were sparse in those days. From what I remember, there were maybe two, at most three, a day: a morning train, a night train and occasionally a railbus service in the afternoon. Because there were so few services, the morning and night trains were long, easily 15 or 20 carriages by my estimation, and pulled by a diesel engine. Walking from one end to the other could feel like a journey in itself.

Travel was not quite as convenient as it is now. Luggage didn’t come with wheels, so every bag was carried by hand, often over quite a distance just to find the coach. The night mail offered second-class sleeping berths, but third-class passengers had to make do with upright seats. These were unnumbered, taken on a first-come, first-served basis. Tickets were often oversold, and during the run-up to national holidays, it could turn into a scramble. Those who were late, or simply unlucky, ended up sitting or trying to sleep along the passageways, or at the space, called vestibules, I believe, at either end of the carriage, right by the open exits.

Between 1973 and 1976, when I was studying in Kuala Lumpur, these journeys became a regular part of life. I still remember one trip just before Chinese New Year when I had no choice but to settle into the vestibule. As it turned out, I was sharing that cramped space with a woman who, to my surprise, was also an Old Free but a year my junior. We struck up a conversation, and what could have been a long, uncomfortable 10-hour ride passed rather more easily than expected.

Every now and then, I would opt for something different: the newspaper vans. In those days, freshly printed newspapers from Kuala Lumpur were sent north and south overnight in vans, and for a small fee, anyone could hitch a ride. We would gather at a designated spot in the city, usually around two o'clock in the morning and waited for the vans to arrive. There would be a few others like me, and we would climb into the back, settling ourselves on stacks of newspapers.

The vans would head north, stopping along the way to drop off bundles, each stop briefly interrupting whatever sleep we managed. Looking back, it sounded rather precarious, but at the time, none of that mattered or even crossed our minds. There were no worries about accidents, no thoughts about insurance or safety. It was simply a cheaper way to travel, and more than that, it felt like an adventure. Those, indeed, were the days....

ADDENDUM: How can I leave these rail memories without mentioning one other thing that shaped those journeys? The single track. Before electrification, there was only one line running north to south, shared by everything, passenger trains and goods trains alike. It meant that timing was never entirely in our own hands.

The Ipoh railway station was the key point. That was where the northbound and southbound trains had to meet and pass. Although Ipoh sat roughly halfway between Butterworth and Kuala Lumpur, the stretch southwards was actually longer, so the train from Butterworth would almost always be the one waiting. And waiting it did. Delays were part of the system, and it wasn’t unusual to be at the Ipoh station for an hour or more while everyone waited for the other train to arrive.

On a journey that already took close to nine hours, that stop could feel longer than it really was, especially at night if sleep didn’t come easily. You lay there in the second-class berth, half-aware of the stillness, wondering what time you would finally reach Kuala Lumpur, or back in Butterworth. If it was the return journey, there was always that worry at the back of the mind whether I’d make it home at a reasonable hour, perhaps even catch the family by surprise. There was a certain kind of boredom in that semi-darkness. And just when the mind had drifted far enough for sleep to take over, there would sometimes be that sudden, unmistakable jerk of the carriage, the whistle unheard, as the train eased back into motion. But more often, it was quiet and smooth, the movement returning almost unnoticed, and it was the unsteady rhythm of the carriage, the soft clacking of wheels on the rails, that told me the journey had resumed.

It was a long chain of small uncertainties, and yet that was simply how travel was in those days. Looking back now, what I remember most is that mixture of anxiety and anticipation, the slow approach towards home after being away for weeks or months, and the sense that every delay, every pause along the way, only made the arrival feel that much more satisfying.

Story of a tyrant

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Sun, 03 May 2026 03:40:00 +0000

I’ve noticed over the years that films critics dismiss can sometimes be received quite differently by ordinary audiences. That thought came to mind after I finished Michael, the latest biopic that’s been drawing audiences worldwide. It hasn't exactly been warmly received by critics who think they know best, but I found the film engaging, not least because of the music. At the same time, what lingered most wasn’t just the songs or the spectacle, but the shadow of a father hanging over the entire story.

A big part of why the film worked was Jaafar Jackson. Playing his uncle, Michael Jackson, couldn’t have been easy, but he carried it off with real conviction. It was not just the look or the voice, it was the movement. The moonwalk, the toe balancing, the whole physical language was there. But what made it more than imitation was the way he showed Michael reacting to pressure, especially from his father.

That brings me to Colman Domingo as Joe Jackson. The film leant into the idea of Joe as a tyrannical figure, someone who governed through fear, control and an unyielding belief that greatness must be forced into existence. Domingo played him with a tight, contained menace, and I can well believe he’ll be in the running for Best Supporting Actor when awards season comes around.

What gave the film its backbone was that relationship. Everything seemed to flow from it. Joe drove the boys relentlessly, convinced he was pulling them out of a life that would otherwise swallow them. And in a way, he was right. But the cost was written all over Michael. The film kept returning to that tension, not in big dramatic bursts but in small moments. A look, a hesitation, a silence. Even at the height of his fame, Michael was still trying to step out from under his father’s grip. When Michael finally began to assert himself, it didn’t feel like triumph so much as release. Even then, his father's shadow did not quite disappear immediately. It was a slow and uneasy separation.

Around that central thread, the film played the hits, and they did their job. The familiar songs lifted the energy whenever they came in, and like that other big biopic, Bohemian Rhapsody, this was something that would really benefit from being heard on a big screen. The sound fills the space in a way that a smaller setup just can’t quite match.

But there were gaps. The other Jackson siblings, especially the sisters, felt pushed into the background. And the film noticeably sidestepped the more troubling controversies that followed Michael later in life. I could feel a certain smoothing over, a decision to keep the story within safer boundaries.

Even so, taken on its own terms, I found it more absorbing than I expected. It may not tell the whole story, but it told one part of it clearly enough: the making of a superstar under the hand of a father who believed that love meant control, and that success justified the cost. And by the end, that’s the part that lingered.