MY colleague's son came down with a bad throat infection recently. Mouth ulcers caused the boy so much pain that he couldn't even swallow his saliva. Worried about the likelihood of dehydration should this continue, my colleague asked if I knew of a home remedy that could help. I know of a number of herbs, I said, but they might not be suitable for the boy. I suggested that she seek a doctor's advice.
When I was young, my grandmother used what the Terengganu Hokkien call ban tay gim whenever anybody had a sore throat. I don't know what the herb is called in English. I have scoured the web for pictures of the herb but have yet to find any.
A Malay friend suggested that it might be the pegaga Cina, a smaller species of the common pegaga (pennywort) used for ulam. He could be right, since the leaves of the herb look like the pegaga but are much smaller. The largest is about the size of a one sen coin at most. When crushed, the leaves give off a fruity fragrance similar to that of the jambu air (water apple). The herb can be found in the foothills and along streams. You can grow it in pots but you have to keep it in the shade and water it well.
For sore throat, several handfuls of the entire plant are needed. They are pounded into pulp and the juice is squeezed by hand. Wild tualang honey is added and the concoction is drunk immediately. It stings a little as it goes down the throat, but if it works, the soreness will be gone in a matter of hours.
When my family moved to Kuala Lumpur in the 1970s, we had the good fortune of living next door to a herbalist who had a shop in Lebuh Ampang.
The elderly lady taught me quite a bit about medicinal herbs, including a local herb used traditionally for sore throat relief. It was known as snake grass among the Hokkien. The herb is planted around the home not only to keep snakes away, as it is commonly believed, but also as a cure for sore throat and other ailments caused by excessive heat in the body.
Two or three mature leaves are collected and infused in hot water. The infusion is drunk warm and if you can get it past your throat without throwing up, chances are relief will come soon after. Usually those who find the remedy a bitter pill to swallow will soon learn to take better care of their health so as not to chance getting another sore throat. They will also understand why the Malays call it hempedu bumi or "gall of the earth".
In the old days, families living in the villages used many plants as herbal home remedies.
Most have been forgotten not only because sugar-coated pills are widely available and easier to swallow, but partly because of the fear of side effects modern medicine has instilled in us.
I wish there were a database in cyberspace on local herbs, set up along the lines of Wikipedia and updated by anyone who has expert knowledge of them.
This collective knowledge shared in the public domain would provide an insight into the diversity of our medical flora and hopefully inspire research on herbal remedies.
Monday, June 7, 2010
Monday, May 31, 2010
It's costly to tell others where to eat cheap, tasty food
A FRIEND with whom I shared the discovery of a place where local oysters were going for a song, jokingly told me not to write about it.
He said I could do the oyster collectors a favour and put a better roof on their dilapidated huts, but I would be depriving people like him of cheap local oysters -- an indulgence that would cost an arm and a leg at city hotels.
My friend reminded me of the tale of the mee udang stall a food writer discovered in a coastal town in Perak.
She wrote about it and subsequently, a TV station did a documentary on the place. A year later, when she visited it again, she could hardly find a place to sit. When she finally got to the menu, prices had almost doubled. The quality, however, was not as she remembered it.
Much to her amusement, the number of "original" mee udang operators had also increased. She wondered if she had any part in spoiling the market for locals now that vehicles with yellow plates were robbing locals of parking spaces there.
Some years ago, I visited a noodle shop on the outskirts of Port Dickson after reading about it on the Internet.
The humble mum-and-pop operation beneath a fig tree was then known among locals for its handmade noodles, and the prices were in keeping with the general economy of the small town.
Years later, when I returned to the same spot, the operators had moved across the street. The stall was now a fully air-conditioned restaurant and it was packed with customers. I had to station myself by a table of diners to grab a seat for my family when the group got up to leave.
The waitress who came to take our orders was not only well-dressed, she was also well-versed in salesmanship and persistently recommended other dishes she claimed to be famous, supporting her claims by pointing to the clippings of stories which appeared in newspapers and magazines plastered on the walls. I had to oblige or risk looking like a cheapskate if I only ordered the noodles for which the place was famous.
When we left, I whispered to my wife that the noodle had lost its original taste. She said my taste buds could have been be fooled by the nostalgia of eating under the tree. Food always tasted better as we remembered it, she said.
However, she did not argue when I pointed out that the price had gone up in tandem with the decor, ambience and number of waitresses there.
In a few weeks, I'll be hoping my favourite coffee shop in Chukai, Terengganu, still serves that lip-smacking kopi peng (iced black coffee) and roti paong (Terengganu's famous home baked bread).
The shop was a wooden shack when I took my wife there 19 years ago. Seven years ago, it occupied a spanking new building and the crowd was spilling onto the road.
This time, I will be introducing the coffee shop to a friend who found it on a food blog.
A wise person said that the discovery of a new dish might do more for human happiness than the discovery of a new star.
For the moment, I think I would be happy not to share with everyone where they can get fresh local oysters for RM2 each.
No, I am not worried about their prices going up - I just don't want to be responsible for sending the local species to extinction should the pen prove to be mightier than the fork.
He said I could do the oyster collectors a favour and put a better roof on their dilapidated huts, but I would be depriving people like him of cheap local oysters -- an indulgence that would cost an arm and a leg at city hotels.
My friend reminded me of the tale of the mee udang stall a food writer discovered in a coastal town in Perak.
She wrote about it and subsequently, a TV station did a documentary on the place. A year later, when she visited it again, she could hardly find a place to sit. When she finally got to the menu, prices had almost doubled. The quality, however, was not as she remembered it.
Much to her amusement, the number of "original" mee udang operators had also increased. She wondered if she had any part in spoiling the market for locals now that vehicles with yellow plates were robbing locals of parking spaces there.
Some years ago, I visited a noodle shop on the outskirts of Port Dickson after reading about it on the Internet.
The humble mum-and-pop operation beneath a fig tree was then known among locals for its handmade noodles, and the prices were in keeping with the general economy of the small town.
Years later, when I returned to the same spot, the operators had moved across the street. The stall was now a fully air-conditioned restaurant and it was packed with customers. I had to station myself by a table of diners to grab a seat for my family when the group got up to leave.
The waitress who came to take our orders was not only well-dressed, she was also well-versed in salesmanship and persistently recommended other dishes she claimed to be famous, supporting her claims by pointing to the clippings of stories which appeared in newspapers and magazines plastered on the walls. I had to oblige or risk looking like a cheapskate if I only ordered the noodles for which the place was famous.
When we left, I whispered to my wife that the noodle had lost its original taste. She said my taste buds could have been be fooled by the nostalgia of eating under the tree. Food always tasted better as we remembered it, she said.
However, she did not argue when I pointed out that the price had gone up in tandem with the decor, ambience and number of waitresses there.
In a few weeks, I'll be hoping my favourite coffee shop in Chukai, Terengganu, still serves that lip-smacking kopi peng (iced black coffee) and roti paong (Terengganu's famous home baked bread).
The shop was a wooden shack when I took my wife there 19 years ago. Seven years ago, it occupied a spanking new building and the crowd was spilling onto the road.
This time, I will be introducing the coffee shop to a friend who found it on a food blog.
A wise person said that the discovery of a new dish might do more for human happiness than the discovery of a new star.
For the moment, I think I would be happy not to share with everyone where they can get fresh local oysters for RM2 each.
No, I am not worried about their prices going up - I just don't want to be responsible for sending the local species to extinction should the pen prove to be mightier than the fork.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Don't ignore wisdom of builders of yore
HOW are you coping with the warm and humid nights these days?
Friends of mine who live on the upper floors of condo blocks were glad it rained over the past few evenings.
One chap, who stays on the top floor, confessed that he managed to get a good night's sleep because his air conditioner was on from dusk to dawn.
Of course, he also mentioned the nightmare that comes with his monthly electricity bill.
I suppose, if you are living in the city, air conditioner use is unavoidable. You need them just as much as you need your satellite television or Internet access.
On warm nights, I miss the cool comfort of the timber houses I grew up in when my family stayed in Kuala Terengganu in the 1970s.
Our house was built on cengal stilts and roofed with atap bata -- quarter-inch thick pentagon-shaped tiles made of sun-baked or fired clay.
Atap bata was preferable to atap nipah (palm frond roofing) because it needed less maintenance, was cleaner and did not harbour pests such as centipedes, scorpions and poisonous spiders. And, it kept the house cool most of the time.
But houses, in those days, did not depend entirely on clay-tile roofing to stay cool. Our house stood on stilts which kept it high above floodwaters during the monsoon season.
The raised construction also made the house airy and gave us a kolong (Malay term for the area beneath the house). It could be used as a garage, tool shed or drying area when it rained continuously.
The stilts were not planted into the ground but sat on foot-high granite blocks.
The builders did that to prevent moisture from weakening the hardwood and fend off termite attacks. White ant trails on granite could be spotted easily and removed.
The smaller houses in our village were also easy to move. It only took 50 or so adults to move house, literally.
If you have slept on mengkuang mats in a raised timber house, you would agree there is little need for air conditioners.
Cold air seeping through the timber floorboards is enough to get you to slumber land quickly, save for nights when rude awakenings came in the form of mosquitoes.
A friend who lived in a colonial-style brick house told me that the bricks kept his house as cool as a cave during the day. At night, the walls lost the heat built up during the day just as fast because the house had plenty of air vents.
The kitchen was airy and well-lit because its walls were made of vented bricks that provided ventilation and allowed natural light to come in.
Studying some of the features of old houses and buildings, one can't help but wonder if the builders of yesteryear knew their jobs better. If building technology was the yardstick, they certainly couldn't have been more skilled. Nor, did they have access to better materials.
Workplaces and homes may be more technologically equipped today but it usually doesn't take much more than switching off the electricity to leave us hot under the collar.
Perhaps we can look to the construction work of builders in the past and learn something from them, such as utilitarian commonsense.
Friends of mine who live on the upper floors of condo blocks were glad it rained over the past few evenings.
One chap, who stays on the top floor, confessed that he managed to get a good night's sleep because his air conditioner was on from dusk to dawn.
Of course, he also mentioned the nightmare that comes with his monthly electricity bill.
I suppose, if you are living in the city, air conditioner use is unavoidable. You need them just as much as you need your satellite television or Internet access.
On warm nights, I miss the cool comfort of the timber houses I grew up in when my family stayed in Kuala Terengganu in the 1970s.
Our house was built on cengal stilts and roofed with atap bata -- quarter-inch thick pentagon-shaped tiles made of sun-baked or fired clay.
Atap bata was preferable to atap nipah (palm frond roofing) because it needed less maintenance, was cleaner and did not harbour pests such as centipedes, scorpions and poisonous spiders. And, it kept the house cool most of the time.
But houses, in those days, did not depend entirely on clay-tile roofing to stay cool. Our house stood on stilts which kept it high above floodwaters during the monsoon season.
The raised construction also made the house airy and gave us a kolong (Malay term for the area beneath the house). It could be used as a garage, tool shed or drying area when it rained continuously.
The stilts were not planted into the ground but sat on foot-high granite blocks.
The builders did that to prevent moisture from weakening the hardwood and fend off termite attacks. White ant trails on granite could be spotted easily and removed.
The smaller houses in our village were also easy to move. It only took 50 or so adults to move house, literally.
If you have slept on mengkuang mats in a raised timber house, you would agree there is little need for air conditioners.
Cold air seeping through the timber floorboards is enough to get you to slumber land quickly, save for nights when rude awakenings came in the form of mosquitoes.
A friend who lived in a colonial-style brick house told me that the bricks kept his house as cool as a cave during the day. At night, the walls lost the heat built up during the day just as fast because the house had plenty of air vents.
The kitchen was airy and well-lit because its walls were made of vented bricks that provided ventilation and allowed natural light to come in.
Studying some of the features of old houses and buildings, one can't help but wonder if the builders of yesteryear knew their jobs better. If building technology was the yardstick, they certainly couldn't have been more skilled. Nor, did they have access to better materials.
Workplaces and homes may be more technologically equipped today but it usually doesn't take much more than switching off the electricity to leave us hot under the collar.
Perhaps we can look to the construction work of builders in the past and learn something from them, such as utilitarian commonsense.
Monday, May 17, 2010
Like heritage buildings, old trees need protection, too
THE maker of concrete products next to our condo killed the neighbourhood banyan tree recently. The tree, which had provided shade to his workers when he first started business was removed to create more space for him to sun the concrete slabs, V-drains and culverts he was churning out.
I first noticed the tree that stood a stone's throw away on the western side of our condo when we first moved in more than a decade ago.
No one knew when the tree was planted. Some said it was there as long as they could remember. It could be over 20 years old then, judging from the circumference of the trunk being about 10 men's arms' length.
The tree was listing towards our condo at the time.
A few residents suggested that the tree be removed, lest it was uprooted during a thunderstorm and damaged our common property.
Fortunately, no one took the suggestion seriously.
The tree must have heard them, for in the years that followed, the air roots that hung closest to the ground on the listing side planted themselves and turned into small trunks.
Eventually they joined the main trunk, propped up the foliage, and made the tree even sturdier.
But the old banyan was no match for the tree cutters and within a few weeks, all evidence of its existence was gone.
A crane was used to haul the tree cutters up to the treetop. Armed with chainsaws, they cut their way down. And when they reached the trunk and the chainsaws failed, they doused the living trunk with petrol and burned it from the top.
Finally when the tree was no longer there, some residents began to mourn their loss -- not of the tree, ironically, but of the shade its foliage provided in the afternoons for their cars.
One man asked me if it was legal to cut a tree of that size. I said I didn't know.
A friend living in Australia who wanted to build a medical complex in Brisbane a couple of years ago could not do so because of an old tree on his land. The building plan involved trimming part of the tree's surface roots. The authorities refused to approve the plan until the tree was relocated. Unharmed.
My friend spent thousands of dollars to get a specialist to dig up the old tree and move it to a safe location.
Only after the site inspector was satisfied that the tree was growing again was the plan approved. I wonder if our local authorities would do the same.
Last year, when Jalan Genting Kelang and Jalan Gombak were widened, rows of angsana trees were cut.
These trees were planted more than a decade ago during a beautification plan.
Now that the road widening is almost done, I wonder when the new trees will be planted -- and if the planners have thought about giving enough space to the trees so that when they need to widen the roads again in 10 years, they will be spared.
Old-timers would remember the giant raintrees of Jalan Ampang back in the 70s or the flame of the forest (or Semarak Api) trees along Jalan Gurney and some parts of Sentul.
How many of them are still around today? I wonder where the city's oldest tree is today.
I know that the rubber trees that once lined Jalan Ampang are now gone -- save for a couple along Jalan Hulu Kelang that were probably spared because the city's tour guides needed them for their "rubber plantation" tour to show how rubber is tapped.
Heritage Acts protect old buildings from being demolished but do we have laws that keep old trees from being destroyed?
And if there is any such law, perhaps it should be enforced.
Unlike losing old buildings, when we lose an old tree, we lose more than just our heritage.
I first noticed the tree that stood a stone's throw away on the western side of our condo when we first moved in more than a decade ago.
No one knew when the tree was planted. Some said it was there as long as they could remember. It could be over 20 years old then, judging from the circumference of the trunk being about 10 men's arms' length.
The tree was listing towards our condo at the time.
A few residents suggested that the tree be removed, lest it was uprooted during a thunderstorm and damaged our common property.
Fortunately, no one took the suggestion seriously.
The tree must have heard them, for in the years that followed, the air roots that hung closest to the ground on the listing side planted themselves and turned into small trunks.
Eventually they joined the main trunk, propped up the foliage, and made the tree even sturdier.
But the old banyan was no match for the tree cutters and within a few weeks, all evidence of its existence was gone.
A crane was used to haul the tree cutters up to the treetop. Armed with chainsaws, they cut their way down. And when they reached the trunk and the chainsaws failed, they doused the living trunk with petrol and burned it from the top.
Finally when the tree was no longer there, some residents began to mourn their loss -- not of the tree, ironically, but of the shade its foliage provided in the afternoons for their cars.
One man asked me if it was legal to cut a tree of that size. I said I didn't know.
A friend living in Australia who wanted to build a medical complex in Brisbane a couple of years ago could not do so because of an old tree on his land. The building plan involved trimming part of the tree's surface roots. The authorities refused to approve the plan until the tree was relocated. Unharmed.
My friend spent thousands of dollars to get a specialist to dig up the old tree and move it to a safe location.
Only after the site inspector was satisfied that the tree was growing again was the plan approved. I wonder if our local authorities would do the same.
Last year, when Jalan Genting Kelang and Jalan Gombak were widened, rows of angsana trees were cut.
These trees were planted more than a decade ago during a beautification plan.
Now that the road widening is almost done, I wonder when the new trees will be planted -- and if the planners have thought about giving enough space to the trees so that when they need to widen the roads again in 10 years, they will be spared.
Old-timers would remember the giant raintrees of Jalan Ampang back in the 70s or the flame of the forest (or Semarak Api) trees along Jalan Gurney and some parts of Sentul.
How many of them are still around today? I wonder where the city's oldest tree is today.
I know that the rubber trees that once lined Jalan Ampang are now gone -- save for a couple along Jalan Hulu Kelang that were probably spared because the city's tour guides needed them for their "rubber plantation" tour to show how rubber is tapped.
Heritage Acts protect old buildings from being demolished but do we have laws that keep old trees from being destroyed?
And if there is any such law, perhaps it should be enforced.
Unlike losing old buildings, when we lose an old tree, we lose more than just our heritage.
Monday, May 10, 2010
Life of ease and convenience in the urban jungle
JUST as we were about to step into a restaurant in Malacca for dinner recently, a flock of low-flying swiftlets across the road caught my attention. Some flew only inches off the ground, unafraid of the traffic.
My daughters were curious to know why the birds were behaving that way. The birds were feeding, I said. And if we were lucky, we would soon find out what they had eaten.
In the restaurant, I requested a table away from the fluorescent lamps. When the peanuts and tea came, the "visitors" I was expecting also arrived. Some patrons who were seated beneath the lamps had their dinner interrupted by flying insects, which eventually found their way to our table.
"Kalkatu," I told my children. "That's what winged termites are known as in Malay."
In the villages where I grew up, the sight of swiftlets, mynahs or bulbuls in a feeding frenzy often marked the presence of the winged termites. Several of the insects would be circling kerosene lamps at dusk, indicating that more were nearby. Neighbours would quickly alert each other of the insects' presence and everyone would get a basin of water, light a candle and plant it in the middle of the basin.
As soon as the house lights were put out, the insects would be drawn to the flame of the solitary candle over the basin of water. Some would crash into the flame but most would land in the water. Once we were sure that all were gone, the water filled with the insects would be emptied far away from the house so that the survivors would not find their way back and build their nests near our homes.
My wife asked why the termites took to the skies. I said that according to my elders, this was because their nest was under threat and they were looking for a new home. This usually meant that rain was coming, or worse, a flood. The insects were looking for safer ground.
Perhaps that was why the Hokkien call them chooi bang, loosely translated to mean "water mosquitoes" as they marked the coming of rain.
In the old days, people developed survival skills by observing natural phenomena.
When the lalang fields started to flower or when the pegaga (Indian pennywort) that usually flourished along riverbanks started to die, village folk I grew up with knew that we would be in for a long dry spell when sore throats and other heat-related ailments would be the norm.
Lalang roots would be dug out, dried and brewed as herbal tea for the hot days ahead. My Malay neighbours would keep the sireh (betel) vine well watered and alive so that their leaves could be used to treat the nosebleeds that frequently came with the heat.
In wells, a puyu (Malaysian perch) or a haruan (snakehead) would be reared as an indicator that the water was safe for drinking -- death of the fish would spell danger.
Today, we don't have to go through such hassles just to get by in life. We no longer need the skills needed by our forefathers.
The push button convenience around us allows us to deal with most of life's daily challenges. And the only thing we need to get by in the urban jungle, it would appear, are our credit cards and mobile phones.
My daughters were curious to know why the birds were behaving that way. The birds were feeding, I said. And if we were lucky, we would soon find out what they had eaten.
In the restaurant, I requested a table away from the fluorescent lamps. When the peanuts and tea came, the "visitors" I was expecting also arrived. Some patrons who were seated beneath the lamps had their dinner interrupted by flying insects, which eventually found their way to our table.
"Kalkatu," I told my children. "That's what winged termites are known as in Malay."
In the villages where I grew up, the sight of swiftlets, mynahs or bulbuls in a feeding frenzy often marked the presence of the winged termites. Several of the insects would be circling kerosene lamps at dusk, indicating that more were nearby. Neighbours would quickly alert each other of the insects' presence and everyone would get a basin of water, light a candle and plant it in the middle of the basin.
As soon as the house lights were put out, the insects would be drawn to the flame of the solitary candle over the basin of water. Some would crash into the flame but most would land in the water. Once we were sure that all were gone, the water filled with the insects would be emptied far away from the house so that the survivors would not find their way back and build their nests near our homes.
My wife asked why the termites took to the skies. I said that according to my elders, this was because their nest was under threat and they were looking for a new home. This usually meant that rain was coming, or worse, a flood. The insects were looking for safer ground.
Perhaps that was why the Hokkien call them chooi bang, loosely translated to mean "water mosquitoes" as they marked the coming of rain.
In the old days, people developed survival skills by observing natural phenomena.
When the lalang fields started to flower or when the pegaga (Indian pennywort) that usually flourished along riverbanks started to die, village folk I grew up with knew that we would be in for a long dry spell when sore throats and other heat-related ailments would be the norm.
Lalang roots would be dug out, dried and brewed as herbal tea for the hot days ahead. My Malay neighbours would keep the sireh (betel) vine well watered and alive so that their leaves could be used to treat the nosebleeds that frequently came with the heat.
In wells, a puyu (Malaysian perch) or a haruan (snakehead) would be reared as an indicator that the water was safe for drinking -- death of the fish would spell danger.
Today, we don't have to go through such hassles just to get by in life. We no longer need the skills needed by our forefathers.
The push button convenience around us allows us to deal with most of life's daily challenges. And the only thing we need to get by in the urban jungle, it would appear, are our credit cards and mobile phones.
Monday, May 3, 2010
Have lockers in schools so kids can store their books
SO, the experts have identified a relationship between heavy schoolbags and the spinal deformity known as scoliosis.
Common sense should have alerted us to what heavy schoolbags can do to young spines.
Sixteen years ago when my eldest daughter started Year One, I remembered how heavy her bag was.
Fortunately, the headmaster had seen the problem coming much earlier than most of us parents did and instructed his students to leave their textbooks in the drawers of their desks at the end of the school day.
Despite that, I still wanted to buy a bag with wheels for my daughter. But she said no.
She had seen how clumsy such bags were when drawn along uneven pavements. On rainy days, the bags got wet, and the books, too.
The retractable handle not only added more weight, it also hurt the back when the bag was slung over the shoulders.
Back then, I had often told my wife the way to resolve the problem of heavy bags was for education to go paperless.
At a time when netbooks and e-readers were unheard of and laptops were still heavy both in weight and price, e-learning seemed so attractive an alternative. But my wife was skeptical -- not everyone was computer-literate back then, and fewer still could afford laptops, she said.
Today, with netbooks getting cheaper and more powerful, and e-reader prices set for a dive, we are still far away from taking the load off our children's bags.
Although with current technology, we can compress encyclopaedias into thumbdrives, we could still be light years away from being able to remove textbooks from our children's educational staple.
To do so will take a lot of work. The formats of school textbooks would have to be rewritten and made more suitable for use within portable computers.
Schools would need to have basic facilities including more plug points to allow students to recharge the batteries of their computers as they use them in class.
And that's not including figuring out what to do with the textbook publishers once education goes paperless.
Terengganu pioneered e-learning when it gave out laptops to Year Five students over a year ago. I wonder how successful that project has been, and if it can be replicated for city schools as well.
After all, it would be a shame for city folk to boast of access to the latest amenities when our kids still lug heavy bags to schools daily.
Right now, the faster alternative would be to build lockers for students to store their textbooks. It may cost a bit but it is the best short-term solution.
After all, it makes little sense to produce a nation of bright sparks with bad backs.
The only problem with having lockers at school would be funding.
Are parents ready to shoulder the financial burden of paying for the lockers and maintaining them if the schools do not have the financial means to do so?
As it is, even collecting PTA fees from some parents is difficult.
Common sense should have alerted us to what heavy schoolbags can do to young spines.
Sixteen years ago when my eldest daughter started Year One, I remembered how heavy her bag was.
Fortunately, the headmaster had seen the problem coming much earlier than most of us parents did and instructed his students to leave their textbooks in the drawers of their desks at the end of the school day.
Despite that, I still wanted to buy a bag with wheels for my daughter. But she said no.
She had seen how clumsy such bags were when drawn along uneven pavements. On rainy days, the bags got wet, and the books, too.
The retractable handle not only added more weight, it also hurt the back when the bag was slung over the shoulders.
Back then, I had often told my wife the way to resolve the problem of heavy bags was for education to go paperless.
At a time when netbooks and e-readers were unheard of and laptops were still heavy both in weight and price, e-learning seemed so attractive an alternative. But my wife was skeptical -- not everyone was computer-literate back then, and fewer still could afford laptops, she said.
Today, with netbooks getting cheaper and more powerful, and e-reader prices set for a dive, we are still far away from taking the load off our children's bags.
Although with current technology, we can compress encyclopaedias into thumbdrives, we could still be light years away from being able to remove textbooks from our children's educational staple.
To do so will take a lot of work. The formats of school textbooks would have to be rewritten and made more suitable for use within portable computers.
Schools would need to have basic facilities including more plug points to allow students to recharge the batteries of their computers as they use them in class.
And that's not including figuring out what to do with the textbook publishers once education goes paperless.
Terengganu pioneered e-learning when it gave out laptops to Year Five students over a year ago. I wonder how successful that project has been, and if it can be replicated for city schools as well.
After all, it would be a shame for city folk to boast of access to the latest amenities when our kids still lug heavy bags to schools daily.
Right now, the faster alternative would be to build lockers for students to store their textbooks. It may cost a bit but it is the best short-term solution.
After all, it makes little sense to produce a nation of bright sparks with bad backs.
The only problem with having lockers at school would be funding.
Are parents ready to shoulder the financial burden of paying for the lockers and maintaining them if the schools do not have the financial means to do so?
As it is, even collecting PTA fees from some parents is difficult.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Dealing with mosquitoes in the old days
BACK in the days when mosquitoes were less deadly and dengue or chikungunya were unheard of, there were many ways of dealing with the insect. One of my favourites was to use a medium-sized plate, coat it with a thin layer of coconut oil, and swipe it at a flying mosquito. Nine times out of 10, the flying terror would be caught on the plate.
Just after sunset, as we sat around the serambi (verandah) of the house, one of us would be armed with the sticky plate and get ready for the mosquitoes that had the habit of swarming above our heads.
A few well-timed swipes would yield teaspoonfuls of dead mosquitoes. And when the plate was full, or the oil no longer sticky, we just washed it and coat it with a new film of oil and get ready for the next round.
Of course, this was not the only way we dealt with mosquitoes.
Most houses in the kampung we lived in were built on stilts. Just before the sunset, we would drop embers into dried sabut (coconut husks) to smoke out the mosquitoes.
From afar, it would appear that someone had let off a smoke bomb, just like today's fogging operations, but less choking, I think.
During rainy seasons, when the mosquitoes were too many or when they were more stubborn than usual, we would drop dried chillies into the smouldering husks to add zing to the smoke. And it never failed to drive the mosquitoes from underneath the house.
Some of our neighbours would also burn garden refuse in the evenings.
Today's environmental activists may frown on this practice but in those days, the open burning was a well-accepted prelude to a good night's sleep as the refuse smouldered through the night and kept the mosquitoes away, or so many of us thought.
Those who could afford mosquito nets would string them up over their beds. Additionally, mosquito coils would also be lit.
On some windy months, we often hear tales of houses being razed in fires that were believed to have started from mosquito nets that got caught on a burning mosquito coil.
We also had ways to deal with the mosquito bites; we would spread a glob of kapur (edible lime) that you use in the batter for making crunchy pisang goreng (fried banana fritters) over the swelling.
Before Mopiko and Tiger Balm became vogue, every household that knew how to deal with the bites had kapur stored in recycled Brylcreem or Hazeline Snow bottles tucked away behind the doors or under the bed.
The lime not only soothed the skin but also reduced the swelling.
The only discomfort lime balm users had to endure was the embarrassing white spots all over their limbs.
Today, such "home remedies" are considered primitive.
I am sure your neighbours would report you for open burning even if it is garden refuse that you are trying to get rid of.
I doubt you'd know where to buy edible lime these days since chewing sireh (betel leaves) is no longer in vogue.
You would probably laugh if you see me use kapur on my skin for mosquito bites.
And you would also not hesitate to use the latest aerosol spray you see on television or switch on the electric mosquito repellent with little thought to whether they are any safer than what we used in the old days.
Just after sunset, as we sat around the serambi (verandah) of the house, one of us would be armed with the sticky plate and get ready for the mosquitoes that had the habit of swarming above our heads.
A few well-timed swipes would yield teaspoonfuls of dead mosquitoes. And when the plate was full, or the oil no longer sticky, we just washed it and coat it with a new film of oil and get ready for the next round.
Of course, this was not the only way we dealt with mosquitoes.
Most houses in the kampung we lived in were built on stilts. Just before the sunset, we would drop embers into dried sabut (coconut husks) to smoke out the mosquitoes.
From afar, it would appear that someone had let off a smoke bomb, just like today's fogging operations, but less choking, I think.
During rainy seasons, when the mosquitoes were too many or when they were more stubborn than usual, we would drop dried chillies into the smouldering husks to add zing to the smoke. And it never failed to drive the mosquitoes from underneath the house.
Some of our neighbours would also burn garden refuse in the evenings.
Today's environmental activists may frown on this practice but in those days, the open burning was a well-accepted prelude to a good night's sleep as the refuse smouldered through the night and kept the mosquitoes away, or so many of us thought.
Those who could afford mosquito nets would string them up over their beds. Additionally, mosquito coils would also be lit.
On some windy months, we often hear tales of houses being razed in fires that were believed to have started from mosquito nets that got caught on a burning mosquito coil.
We also had ways to deal with the mosquito bites; we would spread a glob of kapur (edible lime) that you use in the batter for making crunchy pisang goreng (fried banana fritters) over the swelling.
Before Mopiko and Tiger Balm became vogue, every household that knew how to deal with the bites had kapur stored in recycled Brylcreem or Hazeline Snow bottles tucked away behind the doors or under the bed.
The lime not only soothed the skin but also reduced the swelling.
The only discomfort lime balm users had to endure was the embarrassing white spots all over their limbs.
Today, such "home remedies" are considered primitive.
I am sure your neighbours would report you for open burning even if it is garden refuse that you are trying to get rid of.
I doubt you'd know where to buy edible lime these days since chewing sireh (betel leaves) is no longer in vogue.
You would probably laugh if you see me use kapur on my skin for mosquito bites.
And you would also not hesitate to use the latest aerosol spray you see on television or switch on the electric mosquito repellent with little thought to whether they are any safer than what we used in the old days.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Migrant workers' ability to endure hardship source of inspiration
WHENEVER negativity swamps me, I look at the migrant workers I meet daily and look for inspiration in their lives.
Last week, I found yet another. The Myanmar helper who worked at the noodle stall I regularly go to is now his own boss.
His former boss told me that he had taken over a chicken rice stall at the food court next door.
"You don't keep them long," said the noodle seller, with discernible disdain.
"Once they have learnt the tools of the trade, they will leave.
"They are not loyal. And don't expect them to be grateful, too.
"Let's see if he thinks it is easy to be his own boss."
I was amused by his reaction, although it was unexpected. I recall how the chap was treated when he arrived at the stall two years ago.
Hardly able to speak or understand the local lingo, he was frequently the brunt of his employer's foul-mouthed tirade when orders got mixed up or were missed.
But each time, the chap would take the profanities raining down on him with a grin. Perhaps because he did not understand the meaning of the words.
I used to see him taking his lunch late in the afternoon when the crowd had petered out. Each meal was identically monotonous -- a heap of white rice soaked in curry gravy and a small plate of vegetables.
Despite the simplicity of each meal, he would enthusiastically tuck into it with the appetite of a man who had not eaten for days, as if grateful to have something to eat.
And as soon as he had finished eating, instead of engaging in idle chat with his peers, he would be back at the noodle stall busying himself with what needed to be done and was expected of him.
Seeing him work, one sensed an air of diligence and usefulness about him. Perhaps it was this that his former employer missed.
We meet migrant workers like the Myanmar stall helper every day. We see them in restaurants, at petrol stations and supermarkets. They serve us, sweep the floors, or mind the children. They do the more mundane jobs we once did, which we are now fortunate enough to pay someone else to do.
Some of them are here to earn an honest living; some try to make a fast buck and take advantage of our generosity.
Whatever it is, they all come in search of a better life or to escape the nightmare in their own land.
Many return to their countries years later with little more than the shirts on their backs.
Others build their dreams here instead, making do with whatever opportunity they can find and work hard at it.
Each time they serve my family and me at the hawker centres and restaurants, I would say "thank you". And I make my children do the same, not just for courtesy but to remind us how much better off we are in many ways.
We have no doubt achieved a higher standard of living, to be waited upon and served, but I also wonder if we have not lost something precious along the way - like the ability to endure hardship, the persistence to plod on not knowing if we will succeed, and the resilience to start all over again if we fail. And of course, we should learn to count our blessings that we need not, like them, leave our homes and loved ones and travel to another country to make our dreams come true.
Last week, I found yet another. The Myanmar helper who worked at the noodle stall I regularly go to is now his own boss.
His former boss told me that he had taken over a chicken rice stall at the food court next door.
"You don't keep them long," said the noodle seller, with discernible disdain.
"Once they have learnt the tools of the trade, they will leave.
"They are not loyal. And don't expect them to be grateful, too.
"Let's see if he thinks it is easy to be his own boss."
I was amused by his reaction, although it was unexpected. I recall how the chap was treated when he arrived at the stall two years ago.
Hardly able to speak or understand the local lingo, he was frequently the brunt of his employer's foul-mouthed tirade when orders got mixed up or were missed.
But each time, the chap would take the profanities raining down on him with a grin. Perhaps because he did not understand the meaning of the words.
I used to see him taking his lunch late in the afternoon when the crowd had petered out. Each meal was identically monotonous -- a heap of white rice soaked in curry gravy and a small plate of vegetables.
Despite the simplicity of each meal, he would enthusiastically tuck into it with the appetite of a man who had not eaten for days, as if grateful to have something to eat.
And as soon as he had finished eating, instead of engaging in idle chat with his peers, he would be back at the noodle stall busying himself with what needed to be done and was expected of him.
Seeing him work, one sensed an air of diligence and usefulness about him. Perhaps it was this that his former employer missed.
We meet migrant workers like the Myanmar stall helper every day. We see them in restaurants, at petrol stations and supermarkets. They serve us, sweep the floors, or mind the children. They do the more mundane jobs we once did, which we are now fortunate enough to pay someone else to do.
Some of them are here to earn an honest living; some try to make a fast buck and take advantage of our generosity.
Whatever it is, they all come in search of a better life or to escape the nightmare in their own land.
Many return to their countries years later with little more than the shirts on their backs.
Others build their dreams here instead, making do with whatever opportunity they can find and work hard at it.
Each time they serve my family and me at the hawker centres and restaurants, I would say "thank you". And I make my children do the same, not just for courtesy but to remind us how much better off we are in many ways.
We have no doubt achieved a higher standard of living, to be waited upon and served, but I also wonder if we have not lost something precious along the way - like the ability to endure hardship, the persistence to plod on not knowing if we will succeed, and the resilience to start all over again if we fail. And of course, we should learn to count our blessings that we need not, like them, leave our homes and loved ones and travel to another country to make our dreams come true.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Pandan leaves worked like magic
A COUPLE of weeks back, I bought 4kg of gerut-gerut fish (barred javel in) at RM16 per kg at the pasar malam in Taman Melawati. It was a bargain as the flesh of the fish tasted as good as the red snapper although they are not related.
For those who had been fooled by fishmongers, into thinking that the fish was a cousin of the red snapper, RM20 per kg would be appear to be a bargain compared to the red snapper’s price of over RM25 per kg.
But since I knew that the gerut-gerut was not related to the red snapper, the fishmonger had to make do with the price I offered him.
On theway home, I suggested to my wife that half of the fish be cooked in gulai kesum — clear spicy soup with generous helpings of kesum (smartweed) leaves and kangkung (water convolvulus) — and the remainder be frozen for another day’s cooking.
My wife was surprised by how well the dish turned out. I told her it was to be expected as fresh fish can be prepared in any style. Only week-long frozen ones are deepfried till they are crispy and dosed with tomyam sauce so that the gullible would think they are fresh.
The next day, while thinking about how to cook the frozen half of the fish, I was hit by an overpowering stench as I opened my car door. It smelt like a pasar borong the day after trading. The bony fins of the fish must have punctured the two plastic bags they were wrapped in the previous night and spilled the juices onto the carpet.
For the next 24 hours, all I had in mind was how to get rid of the smell so that my colleagues would not think that I was working part-time as a fishmonger.
First, I bought the fabric deodoriser that I saw on TV and emptied half a bottle onto the car’s carpet. Then I placed a Japanese carbon deodoriser on the dashboard. If both was as effective as advertised they should remove the dead fish smell by the following day.
Next morning, my hope of catching a refreshing whiff wa s dashed. The stink was worse than ever. Then I remembered the bottle of French perfume I got for my wife years ago. She had only used it once because, according to her, it was too strong.
I sprayed 12 shots of the perfume (which I shall not name, out of professional courtesy) onto the carpet. If it worked, then it would be worth more than the RM495 I paid for that bulbous purple bottle of perfume years ago.
But the same stink greeted me the next day. If anything, my car smelt like a toilet, not like that eau de toilette. Then I recalled how I had used p an da n (screwpine) leaves to remove a tempoyak-like (fermented durian) smell frommy car a few years ago after agreeing to transport durians to a friend’s home.
I bought half a kilogramme of pandan leaves, spread them all over the carpet and parked my car under the hot sun for a full day and repeated it the next day. The pan - dan leaves worked their magic.
After 48 hours, the dead fish smell was gone. The pandan fragrance lingered for several days. Someone I gave a lift to saidmy car smelled nice. I wonder why no one has come up with a pandan fragrance and sell it as air fresheners. It may not be wise to smell like a cookie but I think most people would not mind their car smelling like bengka (a pandan-flavoured baked cake) instead of a bangkai (carcass).
For those who had been fooled by fishmongers, into thinking that the fish was a cousin of the red snapper, RM20 per kg would be appear to be a bargain compared to the red snapper’s price of over RM25 per kg.
But since I knew that the gerut-gerut was not related to the red snapper, the fishmonger had to make do with the price I offered him.
On theway home, I suggested to my wife that half of the fish be cooked in gulai kesum — clear spicy soup with generous helpings of kesum (smartweed) leaves and kangkung (water convolvulus) — and the remainder be frozen for another day’s cooking.
My wife was surprised by how well the dish turned out. I told her it was to be expected as fresh fish can be prepared in any style. Only week-long frozen ones are deepfried till they are crispy and dosed with tomyam sauce so that the gullible would think they are fresh.
The next day, while thinking about how to cook the frozen half of the fish, I was hit by an overpowering stench as I opened my car door. It smelt like a pasar borong the day after trading. The bony fins of the fish must have punctured the two plastic bags they were wrapped in the previous night and spilled the juices onto the carpet.
For the next 24 hours, all I had in mind was how to get rid of the smell so that my colleagues would not think that I was working part-time as a fishmonger.
First, I bought the fabric deodoriser that I saw on TV and emptied half a bottle onto the car’s carpet. Then I placed a Japanese carbon deodoriser on the dashboard. If both was as effective as advertised they should remove the dead fish smell by the following day.
Next morning, my hope of catching a refreshing whiff wa s dashed. The stink was worse than ever. Then I remembered the bottle of French perfume I got for my wife years ago. She had only used it once because, according to her, it was too strong.
I sprayed 12 shots of the perfume (which I shall not name, out of professional courtesy) onto the carpet. If it worked, then it would be worth more than the RM495 I paid for that bulbous purple bottle of perfume years ago.
But the same stink greeted me the next day. If anything, my car smelt like a toilet, not like that eau de toilette. Then I recalled how I had used p an da n (screwpine) leaves to remove a tempoyak-like (fermented durian) smell frommy car a few years ago after agreeing to transport durians to a friend’s home.
I bought half a kilogramme of pandan leaves, spread them all over the carpet and parked my car under the hot sun for a full day and repeated it the next day. The pan - dan leaves worked their magic.
After 48 hours, the dead fish smell was gone. The pandan fragrance lingered for several days. Someone I gave a lift to saidmy car smelled nice. I wonder why no one has come up with a pandan fragrance and sell it as air fresheners. It may not be wise to smell like a cookie but I think most people would not mind their car smelling like bengka (a pandan-flavoured baked cake) instead of a bangkai (carcass).
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Illegal food hawkers a bane to restaurants
I HAD just finished dinner at one of the restaurants at a newly opened business area in Wangsa Maju when the owner dropped by my table for a chat.
What started as an enquiry about his food quality trailed off to a 15-minute discussion about illegal traders that have sprouted down his street and how their presence was beginning to bother him and other shop owners.
I said I was surprised he should have minded since I have always thought that any business would welcome a little competition.
The food business could certainly do with variety.
Any food haven worth its name should be one that has almost everything within walking distance and I have not seen one that failed because of variety, yet.
Those that offer the best prices, tastiest fare and the fastest and around-the-clock service have always done well.
I said to the restaurant operator that he should not worry about his competitors but concentrate on his cooking and on keeping his prices reasonable instead. He replied that I had misunderstood him. He had no problem with competition with those operating legitimately in the area.
The ones he was concerned about were those that appeared at sunset, operating on road islands, pavements, alleys and car parks from makeshift stalls. He explained that while he had to contend with the taxes, business licences, and stiff rental, the highly mobile roadside traders operate on very low investments, save for makeshift stalls, bins to transport water for their cooking, tables and chairs, and a portable generator to light up their trading areas.
He added that some traders who encroached onto parking lots to be near popular restaurants were not only depriving visitors of parking space but were also obstructing the traffic. Traffic woes aside, he also questioned the hygiene level at these stalls.
His complaints were nothing new. Visit any new booming business areas and you will find a familiar sight -- makeshift stalls of all shapes and sizes coming up to tap into the growing traffic.
Fewer in the city centre but common in the outskirts, these traders start small but eventually grow in numbers until they become a permanent feature. And in their wake, they leave a host of problems behind including litter, leftovers, rats and traffic obstruction.
When local councils are forced to move these trading colonies because they have become unmanageable and have turned into eyesores instead of sight for sore eyes, the issue becomes an emotional tussle.
The authorities have to tread a fine line between their responsibilities to ratepayers and compassion towards the little man-in-the-street trying to eke out a living.
And when the tug-of-war begins, it doesn't take much guessing on who will end up looking like the bad guy.
What started as an enquiry about his food quality trailed off to a 15-minute discussion about illegal traders that have sprouted down his street and how their presence was beginning to bother him and other shop owners.
I said I was surprised he should have minded since I have always thought that any business would welcome a little competition.
The food business could certainly do with variety.
Any food haven worth its name should be one that has almost everything within walking distance and I have not seen one that failed because of variety, yet.
Those that offer the best prices, tastiest fare and the fastest and around-the-clock service have always done well.
I said to the restaurant operator that he should not worry about his competitors but concentrate on his cooking and on keeping his prices reasonable instead. He replied that I had misunderstood him. He had no problem with competition with those operating legitimately in the area.
The ones he was concerned about were those that appeared at sunset, operating on road islands, pavements, alleys and car parks from makeshift stalls. He explained that while he had to contend with the taxes, business licences, and stiff rental, the highly mobile roadside traders operate on very low investments, save for makeshift stalls, bins to transport water for their cooking, tables and chairs, and a portable generator to light up their trading areas.
He added that some traders who encroached onto parking lots to be near popular restaurants were not only depriving visitors of parking space but were also obstructing the traffic. Traffic woes aside, he also questioned the hygiene level at these stalls.
His complaints were nothing new. Visit any new booming business areas and you will find a familiar sight -- makeshift stalls of all shapes and sizes coming up to tap into the growing traffic.
Fewer in the city centre but common in the outskirts, these traders start small but eventually grow in numbers until they become a permanent feature. And in their wake, they leave a host of problems behind including litter, leftovers, rats and traffic obstruction.
When local councils are forced to move these trading colonies because they have become unmanageable and have turned into eyesores instead of sight for sore eyes, the issue becomes an emotional tussle.
The authorities have to tread a fine line between their responsibilities to ratepayers and compassion towards the little man-in-the-street trying to eke out a living.
And when the tug-of-war begins, it doesn't take much guessing on who will end up looking like the bad guy.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
A fine kettle that was put out to pasture
LAST week, when my house's mains tripped each time I powered up my electric kettle, I knew it was time to get a new one. Never mind if it was only a week past its one-year warranty. The last one I had, also of the same brand, lasted 13 months.
When I took it back to the shop, the salesman told me water had gone into the switch where the cord was plugged into the kettle. To get it repaired, I would have to pay as the warranty period had expired. Since the cost would be about half the price of a new kettle, he advised me to get a new one instead.
With two kettles breaking down just past their warranty periods, I was beginning to have doubts on the quality of the brand.
What about the Japanese brand that produce a wide range of kitchen appliances?, I asked. The man laughed and said the company was now into home entertainment products and no longer produced kettles. Just pick any one, he urged. The only differences would be in the aesthetics and how much electricity each would consume. There would not be much diferrence in terms of durability.
I remember the brass kettle we had when I was a kid. It lasted years before water started to leak from the joint between the spout and the body. We fixed that by stuffing a few grains of cooked rice into the pinhole and rubbing soot into it. It was then left to dry.
When we next used it, the combination of heat, moisture and soot turned the rice into a plug that sealed the joint. The kettle served us for another decade.
Of course, back then it was a long wait for the water to boil over the firewood stove. Starting a fire on moist firewood in the morning was an exercise in patience, too. Cleaning the kettle was also a dirty experience. You scrubbed it with wet ash to remove soot from the body and by the time you were done, you would think twice before calling the kettle black.
To remove stubborn soot -- stains made worse by cooking oil drips -- wet river sand could do the job but the shine would only last two days at most if you used a firewood stove, and twice that period if you used a dapur arang (charcoal stove).
When my father brought home an electric kettle of a British make one day in the '80s, we retired Old Brassy. We could now do other things while the water was coming to a boil. We did not have to keep feeding firewood into the stove or fanning the flame so that the water would boil faster.
With the electric kettle came the electric iron, the electric rice cooker and the gas stove.
In those days, modern appliances were a luxury. Expensive by the day's standards but the products were also made to last. Usually you did not have to buy new ones unless they were beyond repair. There were also many repair shops back then.
Today, salvaging faulty household appliances is a different kettle of fish. Unless you are able to do it yourself, you would think twice about sending damaged ones for repair. Not only is it cheaper to get a replacement, you would be lucky to find a repair shop that will do the job without overcharging you.
Technology has brought with it the conveniences of living but the economies of scale have also made some things so cheap that you can afford to use and discard them like paper tissues. It makes you wonder if that has not contributed to your wasteful ways at times.
When I took it back to the shop, the salesman told me water had gone into the switch where the cord was plugged into the kettle. To get it repaired, I would have to pay as the warranty period had expired. Since the cost would be about half the price of a new kettle, he advised me to get a new one instead.
With two kettles breaking down just past their warranty periods, I was beginning to have doubts on the quality of the brand.
What about the Japanese brand that produce a wide range of kitchen appliances?, I asked. The man laughed and said the company was now into home entertainment products and no longer produced kettles. Just pick any one, he urged. The only differences would be in the aesthetics and how much electricity each would consume. There would not be much diferrence in terms of durability.
I remember the brass kettle we had when I was a kid. It lasted years before water started to leak from the joint between the spout and the body. We fixed that by stuffing a few grains of cooked rice into the pinhole and rubbing soot into it. It was then left to dry.
When we next used it, the combination of heat, moisture and soot turned the rice into a plug that sealed the joint. The kettle served us for another decade.
Of course, back then it was a long wait for the water to boil over the firewood stove. Starting a fire on moist firewood in the morning was an exercise in patience, too. Cleaning the kettle was also a dirty experience. You scrubbed it with wet ash to remove soot from the body and by the time you were done, you would think twice before calling the kettle black.
To remove stubborn soot -- stains made worse by cooking oil drips -- wet river sand could do the job but the shine would only last two days at most if you used a firewood stove, and twice that period if you used a dapur arang (charcoal stove).
When my father brought home an electric kettle of a British make one day in the '80s, we retired Old Brassy. We could now do other things while the water was coming to a boil. We did not have to keep feeding firewood into the stove or fanning the flame so that the water would boil faster.
With the electric kettle came the electric iron, the electric rice cooker and the gas stove.
In those days, modern appliances were a luxury. Expensive by the day's standards but the products were also made to last. Usually you did not have to buy new ones unless they were beyond repair. There were also many repair shops back then.
Today, salvaging faulty household appliances is a different kettle of fish. Unless you are able to do it yourself, you would think twice about sending damaged ones for repair. Not only is it cheaper to get a replacement, you would be lucky to find a repair shop that will do the job without overcharging you.
Technology has brought with it the conveniences of living but the economies of scale have also made some things so cheap that you can afford to use and discard them like paper tissues. It makes you wonder if that has not contributed to your wasteful ways at times.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Fee defaulters make living in high-rise condo a nightmare
HOW do you get errant condominium owners to settle their maintenance fees and charges? A friend who was living in a medium-cost condominium in Kepong asked me this at dinner the other night. The condominium's management committee, of which he is a member, had been grappling with the issue for years. Because of insufficient funds to manage the high-rise, everything is falling apart.
The lifts frequently broke down and garbage not collected regularly. Last week, the security company quit and two foreigners who could barely understand Bahasa Malaysia or English were engaged to man the gates as a stopgap measure.
The problems that he was facing are nothing new, I said. They were as old as the Strata Title Act introduced in 1985 to spell out the roles and responsibilities of property owners and the managers for the proper management of a stratified property.
Even after the Building and Common Property (Maintenance and Management) Act 2007 was gazetted and the Commissioner of Buildings (COB) established to adjudicate recovery procedures against errant property owners, problems related to non-payment of maintenance fees and charges continue to plague highrise owners.
New high-rises do better. Some developers make property buyers pay maintenance fees and charges up to a year in advance to stave off problems years down the road. But the older premises continue to suffer because a vicious circle has developed. Insufficient fee collection leads to poor service which in turn causes more residents to stop paying until maintenance comes to a halt and everyone suffers.
Right now, building managers employ various means to collect debts. A common one is to bar defaulters from driving into and parking their cars in the compound by not renewing their electronic entry cards until payment is made. Another method is to cut the water supply to defaulters' homes. Although the legality of the latter is questionable, some swear it is quite effective in recovering bad debts.
The best bet, I told my friend, is to turn to the COB for help. Under the law, defaulters can be fined RM5,000 upon conviction and RM50 daily until payment is made. If an errant property owner has owed the maintenance fees for over six months, the COB can issue a warrant of attachment on his apartment. If he still refuses to pay up within a given time, the assets within his property can be auctioned. And in the case of a badly managed property, the COB can also appoint a professional property manager to take over from the errant management committee.
My friend said that it was easier said than done and wondered if the COB had the means -- logistically -- to deal with his problem swiftly and effectively given the fact that more buildings are coming up in the city, and along with them, new problems are surfacing each day.
He was also sceptical that the management committee -- which comprised resident volunteers -- would want to take it to the COB for fear of retaliation. As much as they hate bad debts, they fear bad hats more. Threats to life and limb are real, he said.
He could move, I said, into a landed property where there would be no fee payment issues. Or pray for the culprits to mend their ways, or move out. Until that happens, he has to live with the deterioration that is fast setting in and turning his condominium block into a slum. The choice is his, really.
The lifts frequently broke down and garbage not collected regularly. Last week, the security company quit and two foreigners who could barely understand Bahasa Malaysia or English were engaged to man the gates as a stopgap measure.
The problems that he was facing are nothing new, I said. They were as old as the Strata Title Act introduced in 1985 to spell out the roles and responsibilities of property owners and the managers for the proper management of a stratified property.
Even after the Building and Common Property (Maintenance and Management) Act 2007 was gazetted and the Commissioner of Buildings (COB) established to adjudicate recovery procedures against errant property owners, problems related to non-payment of maintenance fees and charges continue to plague highrise owners.
New high-rises do better. Some developers make property buyers pay maintenance fees and charges up to a year in advance to stave off problems years down the road. But the older premises continue to suffer because a vicious circle has developed. Insufficient fee collection leads to poor service which in turn causes more residents to stop paying until maintenance comes to a halt and everyone suffers.
Right now, building managers employ various means to collect debts. A common one is to bar defaulters from driving into and parking their cars in the compound by not renewing their electronic entry cards until payment is made. Another method is to cut the water supply to defaulters' homes. Although the legality of the latter is questionable, some swear it is quite effective in recovering bad debts.
The best bet, I told my friend, is to turn to the COB for help. Under the law, defaulters can be fined RM5,000 upon conviction and RM50 daily until payment is made. If an errant property owner has owed the maintenance fees for over six months, the COB can issue a warrant of attachment on his apartment. If he still refuses to pay up within a given time, the assets within his property can be auctioned. And in the case of a badly managed property, the COB can also appoint a professional property manager to take over from the errant management committee.
My friend said that it was easier said than done and wondered if the COB had the means -- logistically -- to deal with his problem swiftly and effectively given the fact that more buildings are coming up in the city, and along with them, new problems are surfacing each day.
He was also sceptical that the management committee -- which comprised resident volunteers -- would want to take it to the COB for fear of retaliation. As much as they hate bad debts, they fear bad hats more. Threats to life and limb are real, he said.
He could move, I said, into a landed property where there would be no fee payment issues. Or pray for the culprits to mend their ways, or move out. Until that happens, he has to live with the deterioration that is fast setting in and turning his condominium block into a slum. The choice is his, really.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Getting more than you bargain for at cheap sales
JUST before the Chinese New Year, I decided to update my wardrobe.
A sale was held at one of the shopping complexes near my house and I decided to check it out.
I had always wanted checked short-sleeved shirts of a particular brand because of the ruggedness associated with it but the prices were always out of reach.
Since I was not willing to pay through my nose, I had to drool every time I saw a new shirt being promoted.
When I saw the shirts that I had been dreaming of were only priced at RM19 instead of RM90 at the sale, I was overjoyed.
I reasoned that at that price, I could not even buy a piece of kain pelikat to make one shirt. So I bought a dozen.
After the first wash, the seams of some broke loose and I had to double stitch them.
Then the threads that held the buttons together started to give way. I had to stitch them by hand.
Thankfully, my sewing skills were still intact and I could still thread a needle.
My only worry now is whether the fabric will hold. Old stock? Rejects? Your guess is as good as mine.
It's not about shirts alone, watch out for the shoes, too. When they offer huge discounts on branded ones, be careful.
Unless you know your shoes well, watch your step even if they fit -- or you will be stopped in your tracks in months to come just like what happened to my wife a couple of years ago when she bought a pair during a shoe sale at a hotel in town.
We were so taken in by the supermarket crowd rummaging through the upmarket brands that we joined in as well.
When the salesgirl found my wife a pair she liked among the mound of odd-sized ones, I was so thankful.
When I was told that it only costs a quarter of its RM500 price tag, I was so happy I could kiss her feet.
But in less than three months of wearing it, my wife found that the left sole had cracked.
Even the cobbler was not sure how to fix it.
Later, when I asked another shoe salesgirl why soles gave way like my wife's pair did, she said because the shoes were near the end of its product life when we bought it.
The bargain we got turned out to be the price we paid for, being taken in by the cheap sale pitch.
Retailing is not what it seems and the price tags you see may not reflect what the products are worth.
Only sound reasoning and experience will help, but with marketing science staying one step ahead all the time, you don't have much of a chance to get away with a bargain if the marketers can help it. There is always a price to pay.
Ever wonder why you find checkout counters selling stuff like sweets and other small fast-moving goods that you often buy but could do without?
Or have you asked why some supermarkets place the more pricey products at eye level while the cheaper ones are displayed at knee-height?
Go figure that one out.
A sale was held at one of the shopping complexes near my house and I decided to check it out.
I had always wanted checked short-sleeved shirts of a particular brand because of the ruggedness associated with it but the prices were always out of reach.
Since I was not willing to pay through my nose, I had to drool every time I saw a new shirt being promoted.
When I saw the shirts that I had been dreaming of were only priced at RM19 instead of RM90 at the sale, I was overjoyed.
I reasoned that at that price, I could not even buy a piece of kain pelikat to make one shirt. So I bought a dozen.
After the first wash, the seams of some broke loose and I had to double stitch them.
Then the threads that held the buttons together started to give way. I had to stitch them by hand.
Thankfully, my sewing skills were still intact and I could still thread a needle.
My only worry now is whether the fabric will hold. Old stock? Rejects? Your guess is as good as mine.
It's not about shirts alone, watch out for the shoes, too. When they offer huge discounts on branded ones, be careful.
Unless you know your shoes well, watch your step even if they fit -- or you will be stopped in your tracks in months to come just like what happened to my wife a couple of years ago when she bought a pair during a shoe sale at a hotel in town.
We were so taken in by the supermarket crowd rummaging through the upmarket brands that we joined in as well.
When the salesgirl found my wife a pair she liked among the mound of odd-sized ones, I was so thankful.
When I was told that it only costs a quarter of its RM500 price tag, I was so happy I could kiss her feet.
But in less than three months of wearing it, my wife found that the left sole had cracked.
Even the cobbler was not sure how to fix it.
Later, when I asked another shoe salesgirl why soles gave way like my wife's pair did, she said because the shoes were near the end of its product life when we bought it.
The bargain we got turned out to be the price we paid for, being taken in by the cheap sale pitch.
Retailing is not what it seems and the price tags you see may not reflect what the products are worth.
Only sound reasoning and experience will help, but with marketing science staying one step ahead all the time, you don't have much of a chance to get away with a bargain if the marketers can help it. There is always a price to pay.
Ever wonder why you find checkout counters selling stuff like sweets and other small fast-moving goods that you often buy but could do without?
Or have you asked why some supermarkets place the more pricey products at eye level while the cheaper ones are displayed at knee-height?
Go figure that one out.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Trees have to be maintained for motorists' safety
LAST Thursday marked the anniversary of my father's death 15 years ago.
My father died while travelling in Jalan Tun Razak when a thick branch of the yellow flame tree, one of the fast-growing trees planted in a bid to quickly beautify the city years earlier, fell on the car he was in during heavy rain.
The impact crushed the roof of the passenger's seat of the Datsun 120Y where my father was seated and killed him instantly. My brother and mother, who were seated in the back, were also injured. Ironically, the incident happened a stone's throw away from the Kuala Lumpur Hospital. They were returning from Johor after visiting my sister. The car was driven by my father's close friend and long-time trucking buddy Lee, who was not injured.
I was told that when they arrived in Kuala Lumpur, it was pouring and the rain got worse when they were in Jalan Tun Razak. As there was no place to seek shelter and being an experienced driver, Lee decided to keep to the left lane to avoid posing a danger to the other vehicles. However, his decision proved to be one which he would regret for years to come. Although my family and I had put the incident behind us, come March each year when the hot spell brings on violent thunderstorms in the afternoons, I avoid driving in the rain and tell others to do the same. If I was caught in a storm, I would instinctively plot a path where there were few trees, doing so with calculated risk that the roads would not be jammed. Even when traffic was smooth, I would still switch my attention between the road and the swaying tree branches overhead.
I worry especially for those driving along certain stretches of Jalan Mahameru, Jalan Tuanku Abdul Rahman and several other roads in the city where the Angsana trees planted a decade ago have grown tall and have a thick foliage. I keep my fingers crossed that their branches will not snap from the sheer weight of their rain-drenched leaves and land on some unfortunate motorist trapped in the jam.
Each year, around this time when rain is a welcome respite from the hot spell, I pray that the contractors tasked with maintaining the city's greenery had done their job diligently and not like what one reader who wrote to this paper last Monday had claimed. According to the reader, the roots of a tree had allegedly been cut so that the pavement around its base could be levelled. The tree had toppled and crashed onto a car. Thankfully, no one was hurt in the incident. Otherwise, there could be a family out there who would be grieving as mine did on March 4, 1995, with City Hall's public liability insurers claiming it was an act of God that caused my father's death.
My father died while travelling in Jalan Tun Razak when a thick branch of the yellow flame tree, one of the fast-growing trees planted in a bid to quickly beautify the city years earlier, fell on the car he was in during heavy rain.
The impact crushed the roof of the passenger's seat of the Datsun 120Y where my father was seated and killed him instantly. My brother and mother, who were seated in the back, were also injured. Ironically, the incident happened a stone's throw away from the Kuala Lumpur Hospital. They were returning from Johor after visiting my sister. The car was driven by my father's close friend and long-time trucking buddy Lee, who was not injured.
I was told that when they arrived in Kuala Lumpur, it was pouring and the rain got worse when they were in Jalan Tun Razak. As there was no place to seek shelter and being an experienced driver, Lee decided to keep to the left lane to avoid posing a danger to the other vehicles. However, his decision proved to be one which he would regret for years to come. Although my family and I had put the incident behind us, come March each year when the hot spell brings on violent thunderstorms in the afternoons, I avoid driving in the rain and tell others to do the same. If I was caught in a storm, I would instinctively plot a path where there were few trees, doing so with calculated risk that the roads would not be jammed. Even when traffic was smooth, I would still switch my attention between the road and the swaying tree branches overhead.
I worry especially for those driving along certain stretches of Jalan Mahameru, Jalan Tuanku Abdul Rahman and several other roads in the city where the Angsana trees planted a decade ago have grown tall and have a thick foliage. I keep my fingers crossed that their branches will not snap from the sheer weight of their rain-drenched leaves and land on some unfortunate motorist trapped in the jam.
Each year, around this time when rain is a welcome respite from the hot spell, I pray that the contractors tasked with maintaining the city's greenery had done their job diligently and not like what one reader who wrote to this paper last Monday had claimed. According to the reader, the roots of a tree had allegedly been cut so that the pavement around its base could be levelled. The tree had toppled and crashed onto a car. Thankfully, no one was hurt in the incident. Otherwise, there could be a family out there who would be grieving as mine did on March 4, 1995, with City Hall's public liability insurers claiming it was an act of God that caused my father's death.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
What does it take to stop taxi drivers overcharging?
HAVE some of Kuala Lumpur's taxi drivers become festive robbers?
That was the impression two taxi drivers gave my wife and children last week when they decided to take a trip to Suria KLCC from Wangsa Maju.
One wanted to charge RM20 to go to KLCC while another, hailed outside KLCC, wanted double the amount for the return trip.
Neither wanted to use the meter and one scolded my wife for not agreeing to his request since it was Chinese New Year.
Fortunately for the unscrupulous taxi drivers, my wife and children did not take down their vehicle registration numbers.
When cab fares were revised not long ago, one thought the daylight robbery would stop.
Apparently, it hasn't. And it may take a while if the behaviour of the two drivers is any indication.
Perhaps it's a festive thing -- like how the kuih seller raises the price of ang koo (turtle-shaped dumplings) by 10 sen each or the fishmonger charging RM10 more for each kilogramme of prawns.
Those who provide a service seem to think it is alright to raise prices, knowing that they will get away with it because of high demand during the festive period.
In my wife's case, she decided not to use the taxis and waited for buses instead although it took her and the children two station changes.
They also had to walk some distance under the blazing sun.
But there is never a shortage of victims for the two rogue taxi drivers. Some of their victims, like tourists visiting KL for the first time, could be caught unawares.
Sometimes, even locals unfamiliar with other alternatives are forced to put up with it.
What will it take to rid the city of these unscrupulous taxi drivers?
Short of noting their vehicle registration numbers and reporting them to the Commercial Vehicle Licensing Board -- a process that not many are keen to undertake because of the potential disappointment it presents if the complaints department cannot be reached -- is there a more sensible way to discourage taxi drivers from overcharging?
Recently, I saw a number of stickers on some taxis which stated: "This is a metered taxi. Haggling is prohibited. Request for your receipt".
I hope this is a sign of good things to come and not just lip service so that when you flag down a taxi, you need not do so with a silent prayer that the cabbie who acknowledges your wave is not out to "rob" you.
Back in the early 1990s, courtesy campaigns were held to educate KL's taxi drivers in good driving habits and the importance of courtesy and honesty.
We can see today how far we have succeeded. Sure, those driving old Peugeots and Datsuns do not roam the streets anymore and most vehicles are air-conditioned now. But the bad habits of some taxi drivers still linger.
I have met enough city taxi drivers to know of their hardships in making ends meet daily. It's a constant struggle which depends on luck, traffic conditions and passengers.
High rental, fuel costs and bad jams can cause them to end the day with a pittance to take home.
However, despite their daily struggle, there are taxi drivers who manage to earn an honest living without having to resort to overcharging. So, if they can do it, why can't the others?
These honest cabbies certainly do not deserve having their reputation ruined by the black sheep in their midst.
That was the impression two taxi drivers gave my wife and children last week when they decided to take a trip to Suria KLCC from Wangsa Maju.
One wanted to charge RM20 to go to KLCC while another, hailed outside KLCC, wanted double the amount for the return trip.
Neither wanted to use the meter and one scolded my wife for not agreeing to his request since it was Chinese New Year.
Fortunately for the unscrupulous taxi drivers, my wife and children did not take down their vehicle registration numbers.
When cab fares were revised not long ago, one thought the daylight robbery would stop.
Apparently, it hasn't. And it may take a while if the behaviour of the two drivers is any indication.
Perhaps it's a festive thing -- like how the kuih seller raises the price of ang koo (turtle-shaped dumplings) by 10 sen each or the fishmonger charging RM10 more for each kilogramme of prawns.
Those who provide a service seem to think it is alright to raise prices, knowing that they will get away with it because of high demand during the festive period.
In my wife's case, she decided not to use the taxis and waited for buses instead although it took her and the children two station changes.
They also had to walk some distance under the blazing sun.
But there is never a shortage of victims for the two rogue taxi drivers. Some of their victims, like tourists visiting KL for the first time, could be caught unawares.
Sometimes, even locals unfamiliar with other alternatives are forced to put up with it.
What will it take to rid the city of these unscrupulous taxi drivers?
Short of noting their vehicle registration numbers and reporting them to the Commercial Vehicle Licensing Board -- a process that not many are keen to undertake because of the potential disappointment it presents if the complaints department cannot be reached -- is there a more sensible way to discourage taxi drivers from overcharging?
Recently, I saw a number of stickers on some taxis which stated: "This is a metered taxi. Haggling is prohibited. Request for your receipt".
I hope this is a sign of good things to come and not just lip service so that when you flag down a taxi, you need not do so with a silent prayer that the cabbie who acknowledges your wave is not out to "rob" you.
Back in the early 1990s, courtesy campaigns were held to educate KL's taxi drivers in good driving habits and the importance of courtesy and honesty.
We can see today how far we have succeeded. Sure, those driving old Peugeots and Datsuns do not roam the streets anymore and most vehicles are air-conditioned now. But the bad habits of some taxi drivers still linger.
I have met enough city taxi drivers to know of their hardships in making ends meet daily. It's a constant struggle which depends on luck, traffic conditions and passengers.
High rental, fuel costs and bad jams can cause them to end the day with a pittance to take home.
However, despite their daily struggle, there are taxi drivers who manage to earn an honest living without having to resort to overcharging. So, if they can do it, why can't the others?
These honest cabbies certainly do not deserve having their reputation ruined by the black sheep in their midst.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Be diligent and make an effort to avert misfortunes
SO, how was your luck in the first week of the Year of the Tiger? Those who know how to read the stars tell me that the Year of the Golden Tiger, which some said dawned on Feb 4, would be one of mixed fortunes, depending on whether your zodiac sign is on the list of the big cat's prey species.
You could, by now, be reaping all that heaven owes you or you could be taking evasive measures to lessen the bad luck in store, keeping your fingers crossed that the stars will be kinder this year.
A friend was not too happy after a fortuneteller told him that this would be a trying year since he was born in the year of the monkey.
He had visited the fortuneteller to see if he had any marriage luck, only to be told otherwise.
Not only would this year be one of missed fortunes, but also misfortune for him if he was not careful.
However, he was advised not to worry as the effects of the ominous stars could be countered by wearing a special jade unicorn sold at the shop.
Since purchasing one would have meant tightening his belt for the next six months, he delayed the purchase.
But when he stepped on a cat's droppings on New Year's Day, he thought it could be a warning of the bad things to come and wondered if he should get the jade unicorn just in case.
I told him a glass look-alike found at some RM5 shops might just do the trick for a lot less although I warned him against wearing the object around his neck lest it attracts more than just laughter but snatch thieves as well.
I then shared the story of a poor chap living not far from our home many years ago. Just before a particular New Year, he had gone to see a fortuneteller to find out if his luck would change for the better.
The fortuneteller had told him that he would have fared better years earlier if not for the inauspicious location of the front door of his house.
He was advised to add another window to the house so that the winds of prosperity that had been passing him by could be directed within instead. So, a window was hastily built, just in time for the New Year celebration.
On the morning of the New Year, the neighbours were awakened by a commotion outside the house.
Instead of finding a pot of gold at his doorsteps, the poor man found that his new window was ajar.
His wife, who had not yet got used to the presence of the new window, had forgotten to lock it the night before. Someone had entered the house through it and made off with what little valuables they had.
I told my friend not to be too influenced by the readings for there is no misfortune that cannot be overcome with diligence and effort. Even the best fortunetellers have been proven wrong.
I reminded him of the year when the Indian Ocean tsunami struck and how those who had predicted in January that it would be a year of prosperity and free of major calamities were proven wrong on Boxing Day.
You could, by now, be reaping all that heaven owes you or you could be taking evasive measures to lessen the bad luck in store, keeping your fingers crossed that the stars will be kinder this year.
A friend was not too happy after a fortuneteller told him that this would be a trying year since he was born in the year of the monkey.
He had visited the fortuneteller to see if he had any marriage luck, only to be told otherwise.
Not only would this year be one of missed fortunes, but also misfortune for him if he was not careful.
However, he was advised not to worry as the effects of the ominous stars could be countered by wearing a special jade unicorn sold at the shop.
Since purchasing one would have meant tightening his belt for the next six months, he delayed the purchase.
But when he stepped on a cat's droppings on New Year's Day, he thought it could be a warning of the bad things to come and wondered if he should get the jade unicorn just in case.
I told him a glass look-alike found at some RM5 shops might just do the trick for a lot less although I warned him against wearing the object around his neck lest it attracts more than just laughter but snatch thieves as well.
I then shared the story of a poor chap living not far from our home many years ago. Just before a particular New Year, he had gone to see a fortuneteller to find out if his luck would change for the better.
The fortuneteller had told him that he would have fared better years earlier if not for the inauspicious location of the front door of his house.
He was advised to add another window to the house so that the winds of prosperity that had been passing him by could be directed within instead. So, a window was hastily built, just in time for the New Year celebration.
On the morning of the New Year, the neighbours were awakened by a commotion outside the house.
Instead of finding a pot of gold at his doorsteps, the poor man found that his new window was ajar.
His wife, who had not yet got used to the presence of the new window, had forgotten to lock it the night before. Someone had entered the house through it and made off with what little valuables they had.
I told my friend not to be too influenced by the readings for there is no misfortune that cannot be overcome with diligence and effort. Even the best fortunetellers have been proven wrong.
I reminded him of the year when the Indian Ocean tsunami struck and how those who had predicted in January that it would be a year of prosperity and free of major calamities were proven wrong on Boxing Day.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Households paying a high price for festive glitter
LAST week, when I visited my regular fishmonger in Taman Melawati and asked if he had local "bawal tambak" or giant white pomfret, ("tow tai cheong" in Cantonese), he said he did not sell them this year.
Even if I had wanted those from Thailand, he could not supply me with any.
The price of the fish had touched RM100 per kilogramme in the last two weeks of January and it would be crazy to eat it, he said.
I asked about the price not because I wanted to buy the fish but just to get a feel of how high the prices can be during the run-up to the Chinese New Year.
Each year, I wondered why people fussed over this fish.
One year, it cost so much that people were calling for the price to be capped.
It hit RM128 per kilogramme, if I was not mistaken, and that was the price if you buy it at the fish landing jetty in Sungai Besar.
Having eaten most types of fish from local waters, "bawal tambak" is just another fish to me.
White or black, the only value I attach to it is its freshness. If it is straight from the sea to the "kuali" (wok), then white or black is just fine.
But if it has been kept in the fridge for a week, then I would rather not have it grace my dinner table unless deep-fried or cooked in tomyam sauce so its state of freshness does not insult the tastebuds.
But when the price of "bawal tambak" peaks like that of roses on Valentine's Day, I wonder why everyone wants a bite - even those who could ill afford it. But it is not just about pomfrets.
The prices of giant sea prawns, waxed duck and mushrooms from China, barbecued meat, and limes, too, have risen.
Did you notice that the dragon lime, (a longer variety known as "loong kat" in Cantonese) has replaced the kumquat or common lime in importance in recent years?
Marketing hype and wordplay have put a ridiculous seasonal demand on this "prosperity" plant where the fruits fall faster than its post-festive prices.
This week, a pot of dragon lime plant, which is slightly more than a metre tall, is likely to cost the same as two weeks' supply of groceries for a small family as the buying craze hits the home stretch.
Soothsayers and traders will swear that it is auspicious to have pots bursting with dragon limes to bring an avalanche of good fortune to your doorsteps.
But of course, they never tell you that they are usually the ones who will reap the prosperity first.
This year, with the Chinese New Year Day falling on Feb 14, a stalk of rose will probably cost more than a bouquet of peonies at the florists although restaurant owners could stand to make less this year in Valentine's Day wedding dinners since most people would be away during the long break.
I could be wrong.
The Year of the Tiger could prove prosperous to restaurant operators and they could be laughing all the way to the bank instead.
It's no joke to be caught up in the buying frenzy during festivals.
Festive songs have a way of putting you in an extra generous mood to lavish yourself with luxuries you would normally not give a second thought to.
Sometimes you could dig too deep into your pockets just to keep up with Ah Fatt next door and find out too late that you have to tighten your belt twice as much once the festive glitter is all gone.
LAST week, when I visited my regular fishmonger in Taman Melawati and asked if he had local "bawal tambak" or giant white pomfret, ("tow tai cheong" in Cantonese), he said he did not sell them this year.
Even if I had wanted those from Thailand, he could not supply me with any.
The price of the fish had touched RM100 per kilogramme in the last two weeks of January and it would be crazy to eat it, he said.
I asked about the price not because I wanted to buy the fish but just to get a feel of how high the prices can be during the run-up to the Chinese New Year.
Each year, I wondered why people fussed over this fish.
One year, it cost so much that people were calling for the price to be capped.
It hit RM128 per kilogramme, if I was not mistaken, and that was the price if you buy it at the fish landing jetty in Sungai Besar.
Having eaten most types of fish from local waters, "bawal tambak" is just another fish to me.
White or black, the only value I attach to it is its freshness. If it is straight from the sea to the "kuali" (wok), then white or black is just fine.
But if it has been kept in the fridge for a week, then I would rather not have it grace my dinner table unless deep-fried or cooked in tomyam sauce so its state of freshness does not insult the tastebuds.
But when the price of "bawal tambak" peaks like that of roses on Valentine's Day, I wonder why everyone wants a bite - even those who could ill afford it. But it is not just about pomfrets.
The prices of giant sea prawns, waxed duck and mushrooms from China, barbecued meat, and limes, too, have risen.
Did you notice that the dragon lime, (a longer variety known as "loong kat" in Cantonese) has replaced the kumquat or common lime in importance in recent years?
Marketing hype and wordplay have put a ridiculous seasonal demand on this "prosperity" plant where the fruits fall faster than its post-festive prices.
This week, a pot of dragon lime plant, which is slightly more than a metre tall, is likely to cost the same as two weeks' supply of groceries for a small family as the buying craze hits the home stretch.
Soothsayers and traders will swear that it is auspicious to have pots bursting with dragon limes to bring an avalanche of good fortune to your doorsteps.
But of course, they never tell you that they are usually the ones who will reap the prosperity first.
This year, with the Chinese New Year Day falling on Feb 14, a stalk of rose will probably cost more than a bouquet of peonies at the florists although restaurant owners could stand to make less this year in Valentine's Day wedding dinners since most people would be away during the long break.
I could be wrong.
The Year of the Tiger could prove prosperous to restaurant operators and they could be laughing all the way to the bank instead.
It's no joke to be caught up in the buying frenzy during festivals.
Festive songs have a way of putting you in an extra generous mood to lavish yourself with luxuries you would normally not give a second thought to.
Sometimes you could dig too deep into your pockets just to keep up with Ah Fatt next door and find out too late that you have to tighten your belt twice as much once the festive glitter is all gone.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Ain't too far off from being world-class city
IN 2000, while announcing the City Day celebrations, the then mayor Tan Sri Kamaruzzaman Shariff expressed his wish to see Kuala Lumpur become a world-class city.
He envisioned a city with international business and commercial networking, excellent telecommunications and transport system, high quality of living and which was a tourism hotspot.
Ten years down the line, I don't think we are very far off the mark. We cannot beat our chests and declare KL to be a world-class business hub yet but, judging by the number of foreign brands based here today, our efforts have not been in vain.
We do have a good telecommunications system even though we are not entirely hooked up via high speed broadband. But we can boast of having enough access points to say we are globally connected at least. Even some of our hawker stalls offer free Wi-Fi, if we want proof that we are modern enough. And, as for being a tourist centre, any non-Malaysians reading this and cannot associate the Twin Towers with Kuala Lumpur is best advised to do something else.
In terms of transport we are spoilt for choice, although some of us prefer our own two- or four-wheelers. But the big cars you see choking the streets should give you an idea of how much the standard of living has improved. Now we only need to work on improving the quality.
Only a few small things stand in the way of our being truly world-class. If we can get rid of the litterbugs, it would be slightly easier to see the path to get there, for instance. Even the river looked cleaner last week. Maybe more of us have finally learned to love our river and not because the modern garbage booms are doing a better job upstream.
We can't do anything about the muddy look. Then again, if the water is crystal clear, our tour guides might have a tough time explaining to tourists how the city got its name. Flash floods are hovering like dark clouds over the horizon but we can rest assured that the Smart Tunnel will come to our rescue if there are major floods.
The expressways get us in and out of the city in a flash although we sometimes find the exits choked with traffic and wonder if there is a double meaning to the word "toll". But I guess peak-hour jams are unavoidable unless our traffic dispersal system can be made smarter and traffic policemen need not risk their life and limb daily. One wonders if imposing a premium on vehicular traffic entering the city might do the trick.
We can take pride in the greenery around us as long as they are trees and not moss on abandoned buildings.
And, as for the few recreational parks that we do have, it would help if we do not mess them up with noisy garden parties and haphazardly parked cars, or leave a trail of rubbish to mark our picnic spots or use the trees to hold billboards.
It would appear that we may take a while to be world-class but, fingers crossed, we just might get there. And faster too if we seriously consider turning this into a fine city like the one across the Causeway. Otherwise, the only "worldly" features we can talk about are the foreign labour colonies found in Kota Raya, Chow Kit, Batu Road and Petaling Street.
He envisioned a city with international business and commercial networking, excellent telecommunications and transport system, high quality of living and which was a tourism hotspot.
Ten years down the line, I don't think we are very far off the mark. We cannot beat our chests and declare KL to be a world-class business hub yet but, judging by the number of foreign brands based here today, our efforts have not been in vain.
We do have a good telecommunications system even though we are not entirely hooked up via high speed broadband. But we can boast of having enough access points to say we are globally connected at least. Even some of our hawker stalls offer free Wi-Fi, if we want proof that we are modern enough. And, as for being a tourist centre, any non-Malaysians reading this and cannot associate the Twin Towers with Kuala Lumpur is best advised to do something else.
In terms of transport we are spoilt for choice, although some of us prefer our own two- or four-wheelers. But the big cars you see choking the streets should give you an idea of how much the standard of living has improved. Now we only need to work on improving the quality.
Only a few small things stand in the way of our being truly world-class. If we can get rid of the litterbugs, it would be slightly easier to see the path to get there, for instance. Even the river looked cleaner last week. Maybe more of us have finally learned to love our river and not because the modern garbage booms are doing a better job upstream.
We can't do anything about the muddy look. Then again, if the water is crystal clear, our tour guides might have a tough time explaining to tourists how the city got its name. Flash floods are hovering like dark clouds over the horizon but we can rest assured that the Smart Tunnel will come to our rescue if there are major floods.
The expressways get us in and out of the city in a flash although we sometimes find the exits choked with traffic and wonder if there is a double meaning to the word "toll". But I guess peak-hour jams are unavoidable unless our traffic dispersal system can be made smarter and traffic policemen need not risk their life and limb daily. One wonders if imposing a premium on vehicular traffic entering the city might do the trick.
We can take pride in the greenery around us as long as they are trees and not moss on abandoned buildings.
And, as for the few recreational parks that we do have, it would help if we do not mess them up with noisy garden parties and haphazardly parked cars, or leave a trail of rubbish to mark our picnic spots or use the trees to hold billboards.
It would appear that we may take a while to be world-class but, fingers crossed, we just might get there. And faster too if we seriously consider turning this into a fine city like the one across the Causeway. Otherwise, the only "worldly" features we can talk about are the foreign labour colonies found in Kota Raya, Chow Kit, Batu Road and Petaling Street.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Modern healthcare is big business today
MY friend's 1-year-old son was recently warded at one of the finest hospitals in the city for an unexplained recurring fever. She and her husband sent their first-born to the private medical centre in the middle of the night when the fever refused to subside even after the child had been sponged with cold water.
Less than an hour after arriving at the hospital, the child was warded. Although he had responded well to medication, he was kept under observation for a couple of days.
My friend was provided with a bed in the single room ward so that she could be with her son. Food could be ordered at the touch of a button and delivered to the room if she wished.
When her son was discharged, everything proceeded just as efficiently. All her husband had to do was to sign the acknowledgement papers and fill in a customer service satisfaction form in the discharge lounge.
The only cause for concern, she said, was the medical bill which amounted to slightly over RM2,000.
Confiding in me later, my friend said she was relieved that her son was attended to promptly and had the best medical care. She was also thankful for the medical insurance coverage provided by her husband's company.
Healthcare had changed so much since the '70s. Back then, almost everyone depended on the Klinik Kesihatan which charged 50 sen a visit.
Dental checks were free and students dread the twice yearly visits by the Klinik Pergigian vans. Teams of "bidan kerajaan" (government midwives) on bicycles visiting mothers who had just given birth in the kampung were also a common sight.
There were few private clinics in those days. To live near one was a comforting thought; to be able to visit one, a luxury.
But then, as I remember it, most of us were tough. Seasonal bouts of flu, sore throat, and conjunctivitis were promptly dealt with using concoctions of garden herbs such as "hempedu bumi" (chiretta), snake grass (chuar chow in Hokkien), "pegaga" (pennywort), and the likes.
Today, we are blessed with more private clinics than government dispensaries.
In some areas, they even outnumber fast-food outlets and had longer queues. I don't know if more babies are delivered at the general hospital than in private medical centres but I know that the standard of healthcare has been so good that some people actually dread having to go to smaller towns where the lone clinic closes sharp at sunset.
I have stopped marvelling at the medical breakthroughs I read or see on television these days. Although I am thankful that modern medicine has advanced by leaps and bounds, I wonder sometimes if it has actually leapt out of reach of those with shallower pockets.
Modern healthcare is big business today. Private hospitals have shed their white coat syndrome and are beginning to feel like hotels. Their earnings could well be a major contributor to the economy if healthcare tourism takes off in a big way.
Thankfully, there are still government hospitals and clinics to cater to the poor and those who do not have medical insurance.
Even the latter is not cheap these days, especially for those who have just retired and had not been protected by one.
Less than an hour after arriving at the hospital, the child was warded. Although he had responded well to medication, he was kept under observation for a couple of days.
My friend was provided with a bed in the single room ward so that she could be with her son. Food could be ordered at the touch of a button and delivered to the room if she wished.
When her son was discharged, everything proceeded just as efficiently. All her husband had to do was to sign the acknowledgement papers and fill in a customer service satisfaction form in the discharge lounge.
The only cause for concern, she said, was the medical bill which amounted to slightly over RM2,000.
Confiding in me later, my friend said she was relieved that her son was attended to promptly and had the best medical care. She was also thankful for the medical insurance coverage provided by her husband's company.
Healthcare had changed so much since the '70s. Back then, almost everyone depended on the Klinik Kesihatan which charged 50 sen a visit.
Dental checks were free and students dread the twice yearly visits by the Klinik Pergigian vans. Teams of "bidan kerajaan" (government midwives) on bicycles visiting mothers who had just given birth in the kampung were also a common sight.
There were few private clinics in those days. To live near one was a comforting thought; to be able to visit one, a luxury.
But then, as I remember it, most of us were tough. Seasonal bouts of flu, sore throat, and conjunctivitis were promptly dealt with using concoctions of garden herbs such as "hempedu bumi" (chiretta), snake grass (chuar chow in Hokkien), "pegaga" (pennywort), and the likes.
Today, we are blessed with more private clinics than government dispensaries.
In some areas, they even outnumber fast-food outlets and had longer queues. I don't know if more babies are delivered at the general hospital than in private medical centres but I know that the standard of healthcare has been so good that some people actually dread having to go to smaller towns where the lone clinic closes sharp at sunset.
I have stopped marvelling at the medical breakthroughs I read or see on television these days. Although I am thankful that modern medicine has advanced by leaps and bounds, I wonder sometimes if it has actually leapt out of reach of those with shallower pockets.
Modern healthcare is big business today. Private hospitals have shed their white coat syndrome and are beginning to feel like hotels. Their earnings could well be a major contributor to the economy if healthcare tourism takes off in a big way.
Thankfully, there are still government hospitals and clinics to cater to the poor and those who do not have medical insurance.
Even the latter is not cheap these days, especially for those who have just retired and had not been protected by one.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Put abandoned buildings to clever use
RESIDENTS of low-cost flats in Bandar Bukit Sentosa 3 and Bandar Bukit Beruntung can hopefully sleep easy now that a RM15.6 million budget has been allocated by the prime minister to repair the broken roofs and improve the condition of their homes.
The story, which appeared several weeks ago, reminded me of the house-buying frenzy of the '90s that gave birth to these two townships. It was a time when city folk, frustrated by the daily gridlock to and from work, looked beyond the city's bright lights to settle down.
At the time, Bukit Beruntung, Bukit Sentosa, and several others nearby, came into being as developers saw them as viable satellite townships akin to Petaling Jaya in the early '70s.
The marketing hype that painted a rosy future for these townships as the "second PJ" churned up a buying frenzy that blinded purchasers to advertising fluff -- that the real PJ of the '70s was less than 20km away from Kuala Lumpur. The "second" PJ, on the other hand, was almost three times further, not to mention that the highway serving the latter would be later tolled, and toll charges, like fuel prices, would rise.
Many also forgot that the future of PJ was well charted during its formative years, supported by various economic activities in and around the Batu Tiga Industrial estate and Old Klang Road.
The townships of the north, however, did not have such advantages. Rawang of the '90s did not have the industrial might of Batu Tiga in the '70s which had formed a strong foundation for PJ.
Unlike PJ, the new townships were not located along the route to a port -- or an airport -- to tap the economic spillovers from regular traffic.
Today, one can only sympathise with the dwellers of Bukit Beruntung and Bukit Sentosa -- and the lesser heard Bandar Baru Sungai Buaya and Lembah Beringin. Although these places are now a far cry from the cowboy towns they used to be, some still bear grim reminders of the past.
But as the Malay adage goes, "Berat mata memandang, berat lagi bahu yang memikul" (the load being heavier for the bearer than it appears), one cannot possibly fathom the frustrations and sufferings of the owners who were caught in the situation. One can only marvel at the brave ones who dared to call the urban outbacks home.
Often when I take a detour off the highway to visit friends staying at Bukit Beruntung and Bukit Sentosa, I wondered if the abandoned sections of these townships could be revived and put to some economic use since water and electricity supply have been available for more than a decade.
I recall watching a documentary back in the late '80s on how some Taiwanese turned a block of unoccupied building into a hydroponic farm and fishery to grow vegetables and rear fish for food and the aquarium.
What started out as a means to overcome land shortage by creative re-use of an abandoned property gave birth to an entirely new economic activity and sustenance for the inhabitants.
Could the same not be done for Bukit Beruntung, Bukit Sentosa and their neighbours?
It would certainly require more than entrepreneurial gumption to make it work, but isn't it better than leaving the buildings unoccupied and at the mercy of vermin and vagrants?
The story, which appeared several weeks ago, reminded me of the house-buying frenzy of the '90s that gave birth to these two townships. It was a time when city folk, frustrated by the daily gridlock to and from work, looked beyond the city's bright lights to settle down.
At the time, Bukit Beruntung, Bukit Sentosa, and several others nearby, came into being as developers saw them as viable satellite townships akin to Petaling Jaya in the early '70s.
The marketing hype that painted a rosy future for these townships as the "second PJ" churned up a buying frenzy that blinded purchasers to advertising fluff -- that the real PJ of the '70s was less than 20km away from Kuala Lumpur. The "second" PJ, on the other hand, was almost three times further, not to mention that the highway serving the latter would be later tolled, and toll charges, like fuel prices, would rise.
Many also forgot that the future of PJ was well charted during its formative years, supported by various economic activities in and around the Batu Tiga Industrial estate and Old Klang Road.
The townships of the north, however, did not have such advantages. Rawang of the '90s did not have the industrial might of Batu Tiga in the '70s which had formed a strong foundation for PJ.
Unlike PJ, the new townships were not located along the route to a port -- or an airport -- to tap the economic spillovers from regular traffic.
Today, one can only sympathise with the dwellers of Bukit Beruntung and Bukit Sentosa -- and the lesser heard Bandar Baru Sungai Buaya and Lembah Beringin. Although these places are now a far cry from the cowboy towns they used to be, some still bear grim reminders of the past.
But as the Malay adage goes, "Berat mata memandang, berat lagi bahu yang memikul" (the load being heavier for the bearer than it appears), one cannot possibly fathom the frustrations and sufferings of the owners who were caught in the situation. One can only marvel at the brave ones who dared to call the urban outbacks home.
Often when I take a detour off the highway to visit friends staying at Bukit Beruntung and Bukit Sentosa, I wondered if the abandoned sections of these townships could be revived and put to some economic use since water and electricity supply have been available for more than a decade.
I recall watching a documentary back in the late '80s on how some Taiwanese turned a block of unoccupied building into a hydroponic farm and fishery to grow vegetables and rear fish for food and the aquarium.
What started out as a means to overcome land shortage by creative re-use of an abandoned property gave birth to an entirely new economic activity and sustenance for the inhabitants.
Could the same not be done for Bukit Beruntung, Bukit Sentosa and their neighbours?
It would certainly require more than entrepreneurial gumption to make it work, but isn't it better than leaving the buildings unoccupied and at the mercy of vermin and vagrants?
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