Two ponds from my childhood

I often feel a tinge of sadness when I pass by the Kelana Jaya lakes today. My experiences growing up with fishing and fish-rearing are inevitably tied to that intimate cluster of ex-mining ponds beside the Damansara Puchong Highway. Today, indiscriminate overfishing and worse, lousy waste planning, have turned the once clear, thriving waters into foul, algae-thickened wastewater pools.

Looking back, there was no better, more conveniently located, place for my father to teach his sons the ropes of fishing basics than the clean, gravel-bottomed lakes that were a short 10 minute drive from our house in Taman Megah. There were so many different fish species and so many different locations in the various ponds that the possibilities of techniques and places to try them were endless.

The earliest memories I recall are those of two ponds amongst the 6 or 7 in that area; the first is the brown-stained pond next to the Kelana Jaya swimming complex and the next is where today’s Kelana Esplanade is (which back then was the backdrop for the now-defunct Kelana Seafood Restaurant). At the former, we often caught small Ikan Hantu (the highly prized Soon Hock or Marble Goby) and I had fun ‘worm-fishing’ for the smaller sand-gobies that would chase down a worm in packs in the shallows. These sand-gobies were no bigger than the worm itself and once the greediest of the lot had stuffed his mouth with the worm’s wriggling tail, I would lift him clean out of the water; his face too full and greedy to let go of the juicy morsel.

Or course, the most interesting catch was the golf club we hauled up out of the water once. Besides the swimming complex, the pond was also adjacent to the driving range, and I figure someone must have had a very bad day indeed.

The Kelana Seafood pond was the place of mythical lore for us. My father fed us the story (which he himself heard from someone else…so the story goes) that years before, the pond had been the site of a growing number of wind-surfing enthusiasts. These were mostly expats who found that the large lake size and windy conditions were perfect for indulging their hobby in Malaysia. Apparently the Toman in the lake didn’t think too much of sharing the lake with them and gave one of them a toothy tattoo on the ankle. That spelt the end of the windsurfing activities. Of course, we were always on the lookout for the distant middle-of-the-pond roll of a mat salleh-chewing Toman whenever we fished there.

It was here too that we were able to see the effect introduced species could have on aquatic populations. Besides the ubiquitous Tilapia and featherbacks, there was a sizable population of what we called Apollo Perch; discus-looking cichlids that came in both black and orange varieties. These were pretty aquarium fish with their banded bodies and scribble-patterned faces and so we had quite a few swimming in our aquarium at any one time.

Along the way, a leaner, more ferocious cichlid which we called Kerapu (for its striking body pattens that somewhat resemble the seawater grouper) was introduced and slowly but surely we saw less and less of the Apollos until one day we stopped catching them altogether. I saw this same pattern many years later in the Subang lake systems when the Peacock Bass was introduced there, but this time it was the Kerapu that were edged out.

My father recycled the top and bottom styrofoam packaging of our new household refrigerator (or some other kitchen appliance) into squarish aquariums, one each for my brother and I. I was proud that mine had a good mix of Apollos, guppies, gobies, fake fighting fish, barbs and even a slimy albino catfish which was bought from the roadside stall in SS2’s night market. I made sure there was a good supply of tufted water weeds and constructed a small cave out of rocks from which the catfish would swirl in and out.

Besides the actual experience of fishing the ponds themselves, I guess the chance of having constructed at that young age a microcosm of their rich aquatic diversity, is what makes me thankful that I was there when Kelana Jaya’s lakes were as they once were.

My global event

Lausanne 2010 in Cape Town, which kicked off yesterday night, is my global event for the year. In the midst of a year defined more or less by the bounded locality of events revolving in and around the decision to get started on my PhD in UM, this one overseas event is one that I’ve been waiting for.

Ever since reading about the first Lausanne which happened in the 70’s, I’ve been struck by the quality of the effort that Christians in that initial congress put into defining the relationship between evangelism and social work. Exiting FES with the Social Work Exposure and Equipping Program (SWEEP) also left me with some firsthand experience of social concern and a whole host of social worker’s thoughts on what works or doesn’t, what the Bible has to say about the value of choice and dignity and other stuff revolving around the underprivileged amongst us. (Peter Young…that tall, shuffling, old man with his coarse, raspy, meandering voice and his stinging indictment on materialism in the church at the expense of so many!)

I read that the 2nd Lausanne in Manila was somewhat tepid and not much came out of it, but I’m hoping that this 3rd one in Africa with a truly global planning board will shed some biblical light on the latest issues arising in the context of world evangelisation.

The board of course is completely different from the original committee (well…Billy Graham and John Stott are still alive…but give ’em a break guys!) but Lindsay Brown, the former IFES general secretary is heading it and he’s got years of experience in reading the signs of the times as student ministry is always a pretty forward-looking enterprise (looking at what is and trusting God to shape students for what is ahead).

Being the first Lausanne in the e-era, there are the prerequisite homepage and blogsite along with papers on various conversation topics, prayer lists and a list of “global partner” sites where local venues host activities. Malaysia’s partner is listed but no activities are mentioned (cheh).

Hopefully I can put in a few minutes everyday for prayer and reading.

Stormclouds

the grey layered sky
gradated upwards like
an infinite, ever-rising
block of shale

glimpses of dawn:
the struts and beams
on which angry rainclouds
hang and crawl into space

amidst the sullenness
i see two dancing
inches of black
tossed by the wind

erratic and random
but for entangled flightpaths
tracing one another
chopping at wingtips

perspective pins
everything flat
the illusion of only two axes
in the grey morning sky

real estate

My grandmother’s house was recently sold
For less than a hundred grand I was told
Ipoh’s the kind of place
That says right to my face
Memories aren’t worth their weight in gold.

As I was passing

I saw something a while ago. There were two foreign workers assigned to trim the bushes that line the road leading up to MidValley from the Federal Highway. One of them was trying hard to brush some kind of something off the collar of the other one, who was also frantically brushing his hair. Must have been bees or kerengga.

It was just a short moment before my car whizzed past. Any earlier and they would have been two foreign workers trimming trees, but at that point they were two kids who had mischievously thrown a rock at a nest of bees or red ants and learnt the hard way that the tiniest creatures pack the worst bites. Brothers in swarms.

DAY 1 Home is where the road is

I had thrown the packet of Heong Peah into the top of my rucksack rather absentmindedly: more as a way of getting rid of the ever-growing food store accumulating at home than as emergency rations. Now as the four of us threw down our bags from tired frustration at being lost in the jungle, the sweet crunchy pastry was what we chewed on hungrily before we backtracked on our quest to locate the waterfall and campsite known as Lubuk Kawah.

WA’s GPS, a whole lot of topographical guesswork, plus a stubbornness to tramp somewhat aimlessly on abandoned logging tracks was why the GPS screen in front of us had two points, one marked “Lubuk Kawah” and another that informed us very,very precisely how wrong we were currently positioned in distance and elevation. Don’t you love technology telling you not just that you’re wrong but exactly how wrong. Our wayward journey was thankfully halted when we came to the site of a massive landslide that covered the path like a giant foot on an ant trail.

Making a heong peah-fueled U-turn, we located the spot where we were supposed to have crossed the river. The rain however had swollen the river heavily and we decided to pitch our tents instead of risking a crossing in the fading light. We hacked our camp grounds out of the grass and shrub on the crest of a hill and in the middle of the logging track. The ground was rocky and tent pegs had to be weighted down with rocks as there was no way to drive them into the shallow soil. Yet, it was better than the muddy ground nearer to the river.

Our dinner menu read barbeque and the mutton and potatoes were soon roasting over a wood fire which my brother and sister fanned. It brought to mind our first camping trip with WA years ago and how we had reduced our lovingly marinated barbeque chicken to crunchy black wafers with the mistaken belief that anything foil-wrapped cannot get burnt.

The mutton was much better fare this time round, and we washed it all down with 2 parts milo and one part coffee, sipped out of rectangular, soot-blackened mess tins. There was a mild lingering lamb aftertaste in the milo as lamb-plate mess tin transformed instantly into milo-cup mess tin. Ah, the magic of camping.

Thereafter, a short trek to the river with the dishes in one hand, our toiletries in the other and our torchlights between our teeth. Rivers and camping are always governed by two rules: First, if upstream, be considerate of the poor fella brushing his teeth downstream. Do to others what you want them to do to you. Or in this case, don’t do. Secondly, do everything in proper sequence. And it’s not only sequential; it has to be logical. For us this meant the dishes first, followed by a short body dip and scrub, toothbrushing and finally collecting water to boil for drinking.

Now, for the logic part. Logically the water is cleanest when we first come to the river; before anyone has stirred the water. But then the pot hasn’t been washed yet, so it can’t be used to store water without the dishes being done. At which point, the pot comes in handy as a hold-all for the just-washed utensils. You can’t put them on the dirty floor. Then, of course since you’re already scrubbing and washing, why not yourself. A brief “I aaamm CONAN/ this is SPaARrRTA/ AAARRGGGhhh!!” (basically, anything to pump you up for the freezing water) and you plunge in, then scrub feverishly with soap and shampoo. After which, you brush your teeth as you won’t want to make another trip to the river in the dark to do so. Before heading up, you remember you need water for boiling so you transfer most of the utensils into the smaller mess tins/ hands and fill the pot up from where the water flows fastest (to reduce chances of soap and toothpaste contamination).With everything in hand, so its time to head back up to camp. Logic.

We noticed the water was receding and we were quite hopeful for the next day’s crossing. Lubuk Kawah was near, we could feel it!

Home visit

The first shelf you made stands alone,
A quiet reminder of the hammering
You gave to wood as a woodworker once-
A still life of your normal world in
Which you were just a man, no more.
Outside the woodshed, I pause at the door,
Catch the sunlight’s shadow on the crooked
Signboard which was your very first project.
It seems so old now, and your gouged letters
Are dust-caked, but overall still intact.
You spelt your father’s name with a wrong stroke.
The place where he cut the correction took
Some steady maneuvering of an almost-permanent
Spelling error. But no matter,
No stranger walking by now knows that you
Were once a worker and not receiver
Of cutting edge, of pounding hammer.
Or that a father’s name wrongly-written
Was corrected by a Father’s commitment
That the lesson be that a man’s faults
Can be redeemed at a cost.
Indeed, I am not lost.

Ez Chap 1-2 (but not till 3 i think)

“Son of man, I have made thee a watchman unto the house of Israel: therefore hear the word at my mouth, and give them warning from me.”

Ezekiel 3:17

In preparing the prophet Ezekiel for the task,
Came from God,  gifts, or he wouldn’t last.
The grand opening: a vision of His glory,
All wings and heads, creatures of majesty,
Might and light, wrapped in one movement,
Rolling outwards, parting the heavens.
Downwards he fell, the prophet lay low
Till the Spirit did raise him to show
The Holy likeness of God Himself upon throne,
Speaking forth words in distinct, divine tone,
“Son of man. Watchman. Spokesman to Jerusalem-
YOUR TIME IS UP! Yes, tell them.
But let it be known they are like mules
Stubborn, unbending, unafraid of their dues”
Next was a treat for the mouth, but not the eyes-
A scroll on which every line was a cursed cry.
But sweet it was in the prophet’s mouth-
How strange, that the worst words brought forth
Could satiate his stomach, fuel the man
To curse future people of unpromised land.
Seven days then for him to beat his chest,
To feel the heaviest, draining unrest.
For which man when called to such a call
Can merrily sing “O Lord I give you all”
Come another vision by the Kebar riverbank
And the dreaded task was now at hand.
With double vision, scroll-food, and the Spirit within
Ezekiel would now suffer greatly for Jerusalem’s sin.

Taiping War Memorial

In a quiet garden off the Lake Gardens of Taiping town is the Taiping War Memorial. In neat rows upon a well-kept lawn are brown concrete stones, each inscribed with more or less the name, the rank and regiment and the date of death of a soldier who died on Malaysian soil during WW2. Quite a few have an epitaph written- some simple, some poetic, but all poignant. Individually, in front of each stone are small shrubs which vary from stone to stone, drawing focus to each of the lives commemorated here, even to the many inscribed “An Unknown Soldier- Known Unto God”. Collectively, the stones whisper of a sacredness of a battle fought against a common evil, uniting men from places as faraway as England, Pakistan, Holland and India. En Nie said she would like to read a book here, but I’m not so sure.

Amidst a pattering rain, Brian, En Nie and I walked amongst those rows on a Sunday afternoon after early-morning church and breakfast at Bismillah Roti Canai. Strolling those gravestones changes ones mood to something more sombre and pensive. Though none of us said it, the switch away from lame jokes and banter to the squishy plodding along the rows and silent pauses to read the short inscriptions was enough for the conversation to revolve around life, death, purpose and meaning. We were reminded of an activity that Christians are often urged to do- to write their own epitaph and thereby distill what is most essential to us in life. Beyond “Being a good Christian” and “To live life to the fullest”, the specificity of real sons and husbands and fathers dying young and yet fondly treasured by real parents and wives and daughters makes one ask “So what have I really done so far at 26?”

Brian managed to single out a soldier who had died on the date I was born. “P._, Driver”. It had to be more than coincidence, he proffered, that the dates should be so similar. I gave him a “Yeah…right” when Brian suggested my destiny was to be a driver. Honestly though, I read with small eagerness the inscribed epitaph, in some mystical hope that perhaps those words would be especially significant for me.

“THY PURPOSE LORD
WE CANNOT SEE”

With the dual purpose of continuing our pilgrimage around the rows and to look for a stone with Brian’s birthday on it (that he too may receive a revelation!), we continued our survey of the stones and talked about the strange melancholy inscription on P._’s stone.

“His family must have felt so cheated and unfulfilled at losing their son”, we suggested.

We tried hard to pick out hope or some other virtue.

“Perhaps they had surrendered to God, despite the painful loss”, we said.

All in all, we felt that that stone was an anomaly of confusion and unanswered questions in a field of noble purpose and chivalrous obedience. Brian motioned that my life was going to be like that- all confusion and struggles, an unanswered question mark, with only the feeble trust that God knew what He was doing as a small consolation. Which only strengthened my resolve to look for a stone with his birthday that he too may receive a “revelation”.

After a good 15 minutes of repeating “Thy purpose Lord, we cannot see” and deconstructing why and what it meant, and the ensuing discussion about life’s purpose and meaning from the angle of mortality and sacrifice, En Nie joined us and we hurried her over to get her opinion. As we stood staring at the inscription at the base of the stone, I saw that underneath the brown mud splattered under the two lines was another line of words. Scooping some water out of a rain puddle, I hurriedly washed off the mud.

“BUT ALL IS WELL”

I could have kicked Brian at that moment, but the serenity of the place discourages violence.

How I got my pot

Rapid KL had just launched their brand-new red-white buses and the old grey-blue Intrakota buses were on their tired way out. School holidays were coming. I was sitting in one of the new buses with Kok Onn. Sometime in between bus stops, we decided to go camping and got my brother to join us. Monday, bus ride. Thursday packing. Friday, camping. I remember we needed a pot. So I took one from the storeroom. An old, unused one. Sitting on the shelf. Out of reach unless you used a ladder. I thought it was retired and unwanted, fine for the rough and tumble of camping.

The pot was light blue because of the enamel coating, with a dark blue rim and a semicircular wire handle. Looks like the kind of pot a grandmother would use to boil soup. Especially the spicy Chinese New Year “Leftovers Soup” with all the pickled vege and chicken and duck leftovers. The kind of soup that sits in old, cobwebbed kitchens and bubbles slowly for hours. That kind of soup. That kind of pot.

Before we  went to the campsite, we stopped outside the stall at the rocky swimming pool. The lady at the stall asked us how many days. Three, we said.  That’s very little baggage for three days, are you sure? she said.

If, somehow, it were the now me then, I would answer “That’s a very interesting observation. Hmmm…maybe we should see if we should get some extra supplies to supplant everything we forgot. Which is almost everything”.

But I was the then me then. So I said we’ll manage. She looked at our little blue pot. Wow that’s a nice pot she said. In Cantonese: “Leng Pou”. She was practically singing the praises of that old enamel pot. She said we should be careful with it, because it would chip easily. She was surprised our parents had let us use it. It was worth something. It was valuable. And why were we bringing it camping? Into the jungle?

Why our short exchange had such a profound effect on me is hard to say. I guess that’s the power of authority. Maybe because she knew utensils well, she could say with certainty which ones were valuable or not. Before that, the pot would look kinda at home if it sat there in the mud, or half buried in the leaf litter. Perhaps if it were chipped a bit, I wouldn’t mind. But now, it had an aura all of its own. A light blue haze seemed to frame it from the dull brown and mottled green of the forest background. Yes, if you close your eyes, you too can hear the shimmering music that accompanies such visions. Or is that the Hallelujah chorus?

My boss in FES often refers to herself as a cracked pot. Perhaps in reference to the fable of the cracked pot that watered the flowers along the path. Perhaps an allusion to her quirky sense of humour, hence “crack pot”. Who knows? But I think after long years in God’s service, she knows the truth more than many others that we are used by God despite our ourselves. Despite us being too young, too old, retired, not useful, sinful, arrogant, angry, insolent. God, like the lady, names us as useful and valuable even unto His purposes. Just when we find it hard to see that in ourselves. Just when we think we are no different from the mud and debris. I’m finding that more and more each day, both the sense of unworthiness and yet the grace from Him to be part of His plan.

Anyway, we left Our Lady of the Light Blue Enamel Pot to sell the rest of her nasi lemak and headed off on our trip. I might as well have been carrying a Ming vase into the jungle with me. We were lazy alright at that camp, but there was always a sideways glance in the pot’s direction, just to be sure. It rained terribly one night, and we huddled inside the dripping tent, with one sleeping bag between the three of us, miserable until we finally fell asleep. In the morning, I peeked out into the wetness to be sure the light blue pot had not run off in the rain.

By mid-morning of the third day, we decided enough was enough. There’s a maximum number of hours you can possibly sleep in three days. And we had reached that point. Hmm, probably the day before actually, but we always transcend our abilities. We packed up. Or stuffed everything back into our bags. Means the same at that camp. I hugged the pot in my arms and we trekked out to catch the bus back to Pudu and from there to catch the LRT back home. I put the pot back safely in its shelf and soon after bought a cheapo aluminum pot that could be dented and scratched and thrown about. Sometimes a pot should be a pot.

And that is how I got my pot.