Keep errant park visitors in check

AN expatriate had a nasty experience when he chided a local for riding a motorcycle at Lake Titiwangsa recently. The expatriate must have thought he was going to be beaten up. My wife and I had just arrived at one of the three wooden bridges at the popular park when we witnessed the incident.

The expatriate was enjoying the view of the lake on the bridge with his daughter, who was about 5 years old, when their attention was disrupted by the sound of a motorcycle.

A motorcyclist and his female companion were about to cross the wooden bridge on their motorcycle when the expatriate stopped him and told him that he should not ride in the park.

The local man, in his 50s, stopped his motorcycle and appeared furious.

Fearing that the motorcyclist might not understand English or could have mistaken the advice for an insult, I translated what the expatriate guy had said.

Instead of apologising for riding his motorcycle in an area meant for pedestrian traffic, the motorcyclist gave the expatriate and I a stern look before angrily turning the throttle of his motorcycle and speeding off.

When the motorcyclist was out of earshot, the expatriate told me that the man must have been angry because a “Mat Salleh” had told him off.

I assured him that he did the right thing. It was quite common, I said, for some people not to be remorseful after an act of transgression.

In fact, it takes a lot of guts to criticise a wrongdoing, sometimes even at the risk of life and limb if one’s good intent is not taken too kindly.

Just a day earlier, I told off a group of youths who were lighting up a stove for an open-air barbecue by the lake. For my trouble, I was told to mind my own business and one even retorted that I don’t own the park.

A few weeks ago, an ice-cream seller didn’t look too happy because I told him not to ride his motorcycle on the jogging path.

From his accent, he didn’t even sound Malaysian when he barked that I should not stop him “cari makan".

It beats reason why some people behave as if they own public property by virtue of their birth.

Visit Lake Titiwangsa on Saturday and Sunday evenings and you will get my drift. Motorists park their cars on any vacant strip of tar without regard for the inconvenience caused to others. Motorcyclists and ice-cream sellers whiz down jogging paths or park their vehicles on road shoulders, frequently obstructing the pedestrian’s right of way.

City Hall has spent a good sum of money to beautify and provide Lake Titiwangsa (and other public parks) with various amenities to offer city folk a respite from the city’s hustle and bustle.

Why the costly investment is not matched by vigilance and strict enforcement of park regulations is a question only the local authority can answer.

Park wardens on horsebacks or bicycles or even on foot can do wonders to keep errant park visitors in check. Closed circuit television cameras (CCTVs) can also deter uncivic behaviour.

Tonight, as city folk converge at Lake Titiwangsa and other parks in the city to celebrate the country’s 53rd year of Independence, let’s hope that we can all shout Merdeka with the pride that we have also freed ourselves from the indifference we now have for the right of others and our common property.

In tune with popular marching songs

ONE of the best marching tunes I love is the one from the movie Bridge Over River Kwai.

The tune was highly popular in the 1970s and was frequently heard over the airwaves. I did not get to watch the movie until much later in my childhood but it was a tune every boy (and girl) who knew how to hum or whistle could repeat with the same tempo and ease.

The tune was also the standard march past music played over and over during sports days and other athletic meets.

Another popular marching song was When The Saints Go Marching In.

The song was adopted by one of my rival schools when their team met mine at soccer, hockey and basketball meets those days.

Their cheerleaders would sing on top of their voices as their players strolled into the courts and even when their team lost to ours, they still held their heads up high, without doubt inspired by the tempo of the song, as they walked out of the courts.

For several years in the 1970s, Radio Malaysia broadcast a 30-minute Lagu-lagu March segment in the morning, right after Negaraku was played at 6am. I switched on my Silver transistor radio as soon as I woke up at 5.30am for school those days.

As I changed into my school uniform and got down to a breakfast of either a few pieces of "biskut askar" (tasteless hard biscuits for soldiers, they say) dipped in Ovaltine or treat myself to a bowl of hot two-minute noodles, the songs never failed to put me in high spirits.

I cannot recall the names of most of the songs, save for the more popular ones, but I remember I never got tired of listening to them.

The marching songs followed me from home to school each morning, moving from my home radio to an orange coloured pocket transistor radio I won from a lucky draw at the Batu Road Supermarket.

The portable radio fitted nicely into my shirt pocket but to listen to the marching tunes while I cycled, I had to use a hands free kit which earpiece looked like a miniature hair dryer attached to a unwieldy cord that was bent on getting entangled.

Reception wasn't clear most of the times but I had heard some of the songs so many times that it was enough for me to hum the missing parts as I left for school at 6.20am.

The last 10 minutes of Lagu-Lagu March was my companion as I pedalled my way through the dimly-lit main road from Gombak to the Setapak High School in Air Panas.

On those cold mornings, I remember, the foreign marching tunes were sometimes spaced with our local patriotic songs and one I especially loved was Malaysia Berjaya.

In August, if I am not mistaken, you could hear Malaysia Berjaya more than once a day over the radio. There was something about that song that never failed to keep me in high spirits each time I hear it.

I wonder how many of today's generation share the same enthusiasm about marching songs or Malaysia Berjaya.

I don't frequently hear them on the radio when I send my children to school these days - I could be tuning into the wrong stations.

I recently heard Muhibbah being played aloud at a supermarket.

Curious, I asked a local teenager beside me if he knew what song it was.

Confidently he nodded and declared that it was an oldie.

I didn't know whether to feel amused or embarrassed for asking. I said it was Muhibbah and added that when he goes home, he should ask his parents about other patriotic songs that used to rule the airwaves.

When they do tell him, I hope they will also tell him what those lyrics meant in eight days when we celebrate Merdeka.

Hell hath no taste for sexy singers

SOMEONE asked me why the Chinese burn so many paper effigies for the netherworld.

No one knows, I said. But my elders say it's one way of keeping the inhabitants there happy so that they will leave mortals in peace and only come around once a year on the seventh month of the Chinese Lunar calendar, during the Hungry Ghosts Festival.

On the fifteenth day, when the festival is at its grandest, tribute is made to the King of Hades with even more offerings.

This year, said a friend from Penang, the King of Hades (known to the Hokkiens as Phor Tor Kong or the Tai Su Yeah deity) has decreed that no scantily clad singers be allowed as part of the celebration, at least not in George Town.

The Phor Tor organising committees in Klang Valley had better pay heed to the warning if they want to invoke the deity's blessings before the festival ends on Sept 7.

Songs and performances at Chinese religious festivals held at temples are not new.

They were introduced in the '70s to arrest the waning interest in temple celebrations among the younger generation.

Back then, a couple of nights of Chinese opera were usually part of the celebration.

Even at its most modest level, there would be at least three nights of operas or puppet theatres. Sometimes the shows are extended another night or two, courtesy of those who had benefited financially from the resident deity's patronage.

Showtime started at sunset and choice places were taken on a first-come, first-served basis.

You had to bring your own chairs and stools, of course. Folk tales that featured special effects such as acrobatics and fire-stunts often left little standing space even before the curtains were raised.

Although the crowd comprised mostly the elderly, all-time favourites like Madam White Snake, Journey To The West, and the Tale Of Mu-lien The Filial Monk also attracted the young.

The premiere show was reserved for the deities, and in Phor Tor celebrations, for wandering spirits known to the Hokkiens as Hoh Hnia Tee (or "good brothers").

To insist on watching the premiere during a Phor Tor celebration was to invite trouble. Tales were told aplenty of those who were possessed or had fallen sick after they offended the spirits.

The second day of the opera was for humans. An hour of songs usually preceded the show. In Hokkien villages, singers engaged from bars and nightclubs would belt out Mandarin oldies like Mei Lan Mei Lan Wo Ai Ni (Mei Lan I Love You) and the Hokkien evergreen Siau Lian Siau Chua Boh (The Young Are Dying To Get Married). Back then, the singers rarely performed in sexy costumes.

Those days, it was considered disrespectful to the deities if one came to a temple improperly attired. For women devotees, the limbs had to be properly covered. To wear a mini skirt would invite stares and possibly the scorn of temple elders.

Today, when people are no longer ashame of their lack of respect for places of worship, anything goes -- including performances by singers who make up for their lack in vocal talent by entertaining the crowd in their skimpy costumes.

It is not difficult to understand why even the King of Hades is not amused, for each time such mischief gets into the limelight, it must be one hell of an embarrassment for him.

No place is safe, actually

LAST week, two boys on a motorcycle tried to snatch my wife's gold chain. We were jogging through a residential area near Danau Kota - a route which we considered to be safe. The wide pedestrian walk provided safety for joggers from passing vehicles but we did not expect to meet snatch thieves.

I wanted to go on a run that day but my wife said she would rather walk because of the evening heat.

She asked me to run and wait for her at a designated spot ahead. We had done this many times. Since there was still daylight and good pedestrian traffic, I was not worried.

However, after running several hundred metres, I felt uneasy and doubled back. At a bend, I saw her walking towards me.

I felt relieved but when I came within hearing distance, my wife told me that two youths on a motorcycle had just tried to snatch the gold chain I gave her 15 years ago.

She said she was about to cross a junction between a side road and the main road when the snatch thieves rode up to her from the side road.

The pillion rider grabbed my wife's chain but she held onto it. The chain snapped and the thieves fled empty handed.

Although my wife screamed to alert those around her, no one from the nearby houses or burger stall came to her aid. I said I was not surprised. In fact, I would be amazed if any of the people who heard her came to her rescue. These days, Good Samaritans are rare.

This was the second time my wife had encountered snatch thieves. The first was 12 years ago.

I had been delayed returning home from work one evening and she had to take our daughters, then aged 7 and 10, for a haircut. As she and the children were walking to the hairdresser, two snatch thieves came from behind her on a motorcycle and grabbed her handbag.

My wife refused to let go of the bag. The pillion rider tried to kick my youngest daughter. Fearing for my daughter's safety, my wife let go of the handbag and the snatch thieves rode off. Shopkeepers who saw the incident did not lend a hand, nor did the passersby.

When my wife told me about it, I said she should have thought of her safety first. Give the thieves what they want but stay calm and note down details such as their motorcycle model and registration plate number. Although the plates are often fakes, the information could be useful to the police.

In last week's incident, my wife failed to note down the motorcycle's number. I don't blame her. Who could remain calm when taken by surprise? Although we notified the police at a station which was just a five-minute walk from where the incident occurred, I doubt they can do much.

I was relieved that my wife was not hurt but I am angry because the snatch theft occurred in a neighbourhood that I thought was safe. The thieves got away but can their luck last forever? I hope they get what they deserve one day.

When people tell me crime is on the rise in the city, I used to tell them to move to the suburbs. Now, I am not so sure anymore.

Mystified by high-end coffee joints

RAIN sidetracked my wife and I from our regular jogging track and led us to a row of boutique eateries at a block of condominiums which opened for occupancy about a year ago in our neighbourhood. Each time we passed by the area on our way home, we wondered what attracted the crowd to the eateries there. That evening, the weather gave us the excuse to find out.

We picked the outlet that was most crowded — a high-end coffee shop. There were hardly any seats left when we arrived, save for a table at a far corner of the common five-foot way that had been claimed by the kopitiam. As soon as we were seated, a waitress brought us the menu.

Since we had already cooked dinner, I ordered two cups of black coffee and a couple of toasts and passed the order form back to the waitress.

Just as we were about to enjoy the old world charm of the kopitiam, the waitress arrived with our food. I was about to heap praises on her fast service when she passed me the bill. Two cups of coffee and two small slices of toasts came up to RM14.95, inclusive of tax.

I complained about the bill to my wife. She said the prices were more or less the same at most modern kopitiam. I had to consider the cost of the free Wi-Fi, fine furniture, courteous staff and other overheads, she added. I was lucky I did not order other food as well. Otherwise we would have had to cut back on our expenses for the following week to make up for our indulgence.

When we were done and I paid the bill, I dared not ask the cashier to keep the change after giving him RM15 - I did not want him to think I was insulting him, so I took the five sen change.

I left the shop no wiser as to why, despite the pricey food, the crowd continues to throng the kopitiam and several others like it each evening. If their food was not much different from the many that I had seen, then it must be the free Wi-Fi and decor that did the trick, I told my wife.

But these are the places where young people hang out these days, said my wife, except for the poorer ones who hang out at the stairways of shopping complexes. Another interesting point was that the foreign coffee chains, which used to monopolise the cafe business, are now being given a run for their money by hyped-up local coffee shops — an old business which everyone thought would not survive past the millennium.

In the old days, only retirees and the jobless hang out at the coffeeshops to engage in idle chat or a game of mahjong. You could order a cup of coffee for much less and would not look out of place if you stayed till sun down. The owner might even allow you to catch forty winks while you were there if you did not drool and dirty his marble tabletops.

Today, the younger crowd has taken over the seats at modern coffeeshops. They are not just watching the world go by on their laptops but doing so over cups of brew that could, in regular doses, not only hurt their health but also their pockets as well.

Judging by the prices at these designer eateries and their increasing popularity in the city, one can only guess that many of their younger customers are from the high-income bracket or were born with silver spoons in their mouths. Otherwise, it will be quite scary to think where these big spenders will end up a decade from now if they are not earning enough to meet their daily needs today.

Learning to ride bicycles was a rite of passage

LEARNED to cycle quite late in my childhood when I was about 11. Most families in our village owned at least one bicycle. Well-to-do families owned more. Even their kids had expensive and smaller bicycles.

That year, one of the richer neighbours bought a Chopper bicycle for their youngest son who was my age. The Chopper had a five-speed gear lever that you could push back and forth. It had a long cushioned seat with a backrest.

The boy, of course, showed off his bicycle to the rest of us. One day, he offered to let us ride it around the village if we paid him five sen each. I did not have the money but an older boy who did, took up the offer.

When he returned from his ride around the village, we were shocked to see that he was not cycling. He was pushing the bicycle instead.

The Chopper's handlebar was bent, its front mudguard was twisted and the chain had fallen off. Its owner was aghast when he saw what had happened to his pride and joy. The older boy explained that he had crashed while trying to avoid hitting a fowl.

Instead of sympathising with the rider whose knees and elbows were bleeding, the owner of the Chopper demanded a 20-sen compensation or he would bring the matter up with his parents. Reluctantly, the older boy paid him. In those days, stuff on loan came with a tacit agreement -- if it was damaged or lost, you had to pay for it unless the owner refused compensation.

When I saw what happened, I was glad I did not have money that day. I would have caused greater damage to the Chopper because I did not know how to ride a bicycle at the time.

I realised that I had to learn and, to do so, I had to own a bicycle. From that day onwards, I would frequently stop by a bicycle shop near where we lived to ask the owner whether he had any old bicycles for sale.

One day, tired of my persistence, he told me to look at an old bicycle in his storeroom. It was a Norton. Its frames were rusted and the tyres were bald. The chain guard was missing and the cogwheels were covered in grime. But, it was good enough for me. The owner asked for RM15 for it. I told him I did not have the money but if he could keep it for a few days, I would buy it.

In not days but the weeks that followed, I went fund raising. I gathered and sold used beer bottles.

In those days, soy sauce factories paid nine sen for a large Guinness or Anchor bottle and four sen for half-sized ones. When I had enough money, I went back to the shop and bought the bicycle.

Perhaps out of pity, the owner also helped me to fix the bicycle. He allowed me to use his tools and taught me to use kerosene to remove the grime. I learned how to remove the links of the lengthened chain and even patch up a punctured tyre using a piece of cut tubing and rubber cement.

Learning how to cycle was one of the rites of passage children those days had to go through before they left primary school. No matter how many times we fell and bruised our limbs (and pride), we got back up and tried again. We cycled everywhere.

Back then motorists were kinder to cyclists. Although today cycling has been elevated to a healthy pursuit, there are few places in the city where you can ride safely. Even the parks do not have proper cycling tracks and most of the time, cyclists risk their lives riding along busy roads.

Can't we do something about the canteen?

AN errant canteen operator at a school I know will not have his contract extended next year for repeatedly flouting the food preparation and hygiene guidelines set by the school board.

For the past year and a half, the school's canteen committee has been lenient on and accommodating to the operator, who gave various excuses.

Repeated advice to improve has fallen on deaf ears. When a dead lizard in the sambal of a student's meal came to the attention of the principal, the school board decided not to renew the contract when it ends this year.

Cases of school canteens not serving nutritious food are not new. Those whose food handling hygiene is suspect often go undetected until mass food poisoning makes the news. Go around the city schools and do a surprise check if you want to see the mockery that some canteen operators are making of the guidelines set by the authorities.

From what I gather, schools monitor their own canteens' cleanliness through a committee comprising teachers and students.

Because the school board does not have the power to fire, even if the canteen operator is caught red-handed flouting health and food preparation regulations, the school boards can only advise them and perhaps notify the Education Ministry for further action.

Maybe the process of awarding of contracts to canteen operators should be tightened. At present, the Education Ministry calls for tenders for canteen operations. Maybe it is time the schools and their PTAs be allowed to do so, at least in city schools. After all, who understands the students' needs better than their teachers and parents?

At one school I know, the canteen operator often cites the lack of profitability as an excuse for the monotonous menu and unpalatable food he serves. It is an open secret that some school canteen operators have more than one contract, with each canteen run by a proxy under a different company name. It is not too difficult to know how much profit a canteen operator makes, if you ask me, what more those that serve food of substandard quality.

But why should our children pay the price for the actions of unscrupulous canteen operators who give scant attention to food preparation and quality?

Aren't there canteen inspectors to conduct surprise checks to weed out unhygienic practices and make sure that the guidelines and conditions for the awarding of contracts are adhered to -- and to penalise those found guilty, or even blacklist and bar them from future contract applications?

Canteen operation is not a gold mine, a former operator tells me.

It comes with a heavy responsibility. One cannot operate a canteen business blinded by profit, although the captive market allows one to take advantage of the situation quite unnoticed.

Our children spend one-third of their 11 years of education at school. When they are hungry or thirsty, the canteen is their first venue of choice.

And if the canteen operator cannot even provide clean premises and palatable, affordable food, we should do something about it.

Missing the fruit trees of the good old days

WHERE have our fruit trees gone? Do you remember the red "jambu air" (rose apple) that was so sour that you could only eat it dipped in thick soya sauce and "cili padi"?

How about the green ones, so crunchy and sweet that you had to watch out for worms within its cottony pith?

Maybe you remember the red and white "jambu batu" (guavas) that used to grow along the roads and whose leaves were home to the best fighting spiders.

No, they are not the same ones you find at fruit stalls today. I am not talking about the giant ones but the smaller variety that are harder to bite into unless ripe. The fruits ripen on the trees if they are not plucked and they attract flocks of birds and other fruit eaters.

There were quite a number of "rambai" trees, too, in Jalan Sentul in the 1970s. There were a few "bacang" trees as well, until a road-widening project got rid of them. In the mornings, when you passed by the area, you could see freshly dropped fruits waiting to be picked.

Did you know that people did not pluck "bacang" those days? You collected them after they dropped from the tree because the fruits are considered sweeter once the tree is ready to give them to you.

There were other trees, too, including "buah sentul", "kuini", mangosteen, "ciku" and even wild durians. If you knew how to climb trees, you just helped yourself to their bounty. But if you couldn't, there was always something that you could use as a boomerang. And if the fruits were out of reach using either methods, you left them on the trees for the animals.

A friend with whom I shared some "emping belinjau" (a type of cracker) recently said that the nut from which the snack was made could only be found in Indonesia. I said we also had some in Kuala Terengganu back in the '70s. We called them "buah sakok", not "belinjau".

The tree had a cone-shaped foliage, waxy leaves, and bore fruits in small bunches. The fruits changed from green to yellow-orange as they matured, and to wine-red when ripe, after which they fell.

Locals collected the fallen fruits, stripped off the skin and fried the nuts in a "kuali" of sand over a slow fire.

Once cooked, the shells could easily be removed and the nuts eaten. They leave a bitter aftertaste and were popular snacks before potato chips were here. The nuts can also be flattened with a pestle, dried and deep-fried in oil to make tasty crackers.

During my recent trip there, my wish to show my friend the "belinjau" nut and the "buah keranji" (the velvety tamarind which has been immortalised in a "pantun") was dashed.

The fruit sellers at the Pasar Kedai Payang did not have any. One chap who was selling apples and oranges told me that both "tok peseng doh", which in local lingo loosely means the fruits were no longer fashionable. I hope he was joking.

Many of our indigenous fruit trees have disappeared, some because of development, others likely because people did not know how to enjoy them. I now wonder how the animals whose diet comprises the fruits that have disappeared are coping.

The morning roll-calls of the bulbuls and magpies that I used to wake up to are fading away.

One day last week, the lone tree shrew that used to scuttle across the wall of my condo at 7.45am each day to feed at the rubbish dump across the road did not appear. The next day I saw a flock of crows feeding on a carcass of a small furry animal.

I hope it was not the tree shrew's remains.

My sleepy but safe and clean hometown

AT the risk of being accused of bragging about my hometown, yes, I still think that Kuala Terengganu is one of the cleanest towns in the country. You should visit it one of these days to see it for yourself — as my family and I did with a family friend.

I would not have noticed the cleanliness had my wife not pointed it out to me. Throughout our four-day stay, we saw council sweepers at work at many times of the day and even late into the night, in areas including the town square Dataran Shahbandar, the parks and alleys. Their presence must have made litterbugs feel guilty.

I did not see any warning signs against littering. You know, those that say you will be fined RM500 if you are found guilty of littering. One sign I do remember seeing was at a traffic light junction leading into town. It read: “Tak rasa bersalah ke…? Buang sampah dari kenderaan anda ?” (Don’t you feel guilty throwing rubbish from your vehicles?).

Judging from the cleanliness at the junction, the gentle reminder must have stopped many motorists from throwing out tissues, sweet wrappers and such from their vehicles.

But cleanliness is not the only thing Kuala Terengganu can take pride in. Along Jalan Kampung China, my friend was surprised to see cast-iron drain covers still in use. If those were in Subang Jaya or Jinjang, he mused, they would not have lasted 24 hours before ending up in a junkyard in Puchong or Kepong.

I also noticed that the fire hydrants along the heritage row in Kampung Cina were mounted with solar-powered LED lights.

The flashing lights came on at dusk so that in the event of fire, the hydrants could easily be spotted from a distance. That many of the blinkers were still attached to the hydrants and in working condition could only mean that vandalism was not rampant in the coastal town.

The trees, lamp posts and traffic lights, too, were spared from buntings and banners advertising ubat kuat bank lelong or announcing a kenduri kahwin The walls of buildings we saw were free of graffiti or bills and in most cases, it only took a “Stick No Bill” sign to keep the walls clean.
Perhaps people in Kuala Terengganu are more law-abiding than city folk, my wife said. Yes, and literate, I added.

Although the town is still very much a sleepy hollow by nightfall, Dataran Shahbandar was a hive of activity.

A bazaar and a fun fair held in conjunction with the World Cup was the centre of attention. Late into the night, scores of locals and tourists were out enjoying the breeze or watching a live soccer match being screened on a giant TV screen.

The streets were pleasant to walk during the day, and safe even late into the night. One could enjoy a stroll without worrying about being mugged.
I also noticed that there were more council enforcement officers checking on expired parking meters than policemen doing their patrols on foot or bikes.

The only time I saw the men in blue was one evening when a road block was set up at a corner of town to nab those driving recklessly on the narrow one-way streets.

And if the lack of visible police presence can be interpreted as a sign of safety and low crime rate, then Kuala Terengganu has definitely got one over Kuala Lumpur.

To scrap or not to scrap?

THE possibility of the Ujian Pencapian Sekolah Rendah (UPSR) and Penilaian Menengah Rendah (PMR) being abolished as part of a review of the school examination system puts me in a jam.
My wife said it was a good idea.

I said it was not.

She said with the two exams out of the way, children would be less pressured.

They only had to deal with the Sijil Pelajaran Malaysia at the end of Form Five.

At the risk of having my daily budu withdrawn from the dinner table, I argued that it could lead to a decline in the standard of education compared with our neighbours'.

Without a good system to ensure that after 11 years of education, our children knew as much as or more than those in, say, Singapore, we could lose our competitive edge internationally.

But my wife said the pressure on children as young as 11 was bad. Instead of becoming intelligent all-rounders, some had become bookworms who interacted better through Facebook than in person.

Competition is healthy, I said. The best way to measure academic excellence is to benchmark it against the public examinations we are planning to scrap.

Competition only becomes unhealthy when parents start to demand that their children get not only straight As but also full marks every time.

Some parents even resort to emotional blackmail, reminding their children to study hard because they had given up life's pleasures for the children to study in a good school.

Unreasonable ones even decide what career paths their children should choose, not realising that the choice is not what the child wants but a second chance to realise their own failed dreams through their children.

Most city parents take public examinations too seriously.

Look at tuition centre ads.

Their claim to fame is usually the number of top scorers they churn out.

Textbook publishers and authors, too, make good money from reference books. Check out the UPSR, PMR or STPM guides in the market at the start of a school year.

Even compilations of past year questions sell like hot cakes.

Not long ago, assessment tests were introduced to PMR and SPM students. Known as Ujian Intervensi (intervention test) and Ujian Diagnostik (diagnostic), these were held before the trials to identify the weakness of students in certain subjects and improve on them before they sat for the finals.

Over the years, these too have become a race for As.

Although the papers were set by the state Education Department, schools were not monitored nor required to hold the tests at the same time, one teacher told me.

Students pressured to do well by their parents resorted to exchanging test papers with their peers in other schools where the tests were held much earlier.

Unscrupulous teachers who had seen the papers earlier were known to discuss the questions at the tuition centres where they taught part-time.

As a result of the accurate "spot" questions, the tuition centres gained reputation for helping improve students' scores.

I told my wife that UPSR and PMR may be scrapped, provided educators came up with something that would not lead to the very situation we want to avoid.

If schools were allowed to self-assess their students in their own way, could they be objective and free from interference?

And who monitors the schools so that the academic abilities of the students they produce are of high standard?

Maybe we should ask our children if they think it is such a great idea that these exams be scrapped.

The arcane art of telling fakes from originals

IF you are looking for jerseys of your favourite soccer team now playing at the World Cup in South Africa, wait until late July if you want to get them real cheap. By that time, they will go a-begging, an expert bargain hunter told me.

Two weeks ago, jerseys were in season as I found out at the Uptown all-night market near my home. They had replaced Crocs shoes in popularity.


There was a shopping frenzy at the most crowded stall. The RM10 price tag of the jerseys in the bin must have been the cause for the enthusiasm.

One chap there says the soccer jerseys in vogue now come from the north. Prices range from RM10 to RM30 each, depending on the design and material. Of course, if you can afford it, it is better to get an original, failing which what traders call a "replica" or "AAA-grade" jersey will have to suffice. Triple-A grades are given to product samples for which new materials or designs are created by the original manufacturer to test the waters but in the case of jerseys at the pasar malam, your guess is as good as mine.


Apart from the price, some people say it is pretty difficult to tell the AAAs from the originals, although those in the know will tell you otherwise. One giveaway is the quality of the fabric used. In an original, it should feel silky and cool to the touch, and usually does not leave a crease when crumpled. The stitches should be uniform and equally spaced from the seams, and always done in an unbroken stream.


The best evidence yet is the badge. It should be embroidered and not printed. The symbols must be clear and correctly placed, and the letters legible. If they are not, it would probably be unwise for you to pay through your nose for the jersey. But I was stumped by the AAA jersey I was shown. It appeared to be genuine, right down to the collar label that says "Made in England".

One trader priced his AAA at RM65 a piece but said he would be happy to give a RM10 discount if I was really interested. He claimed that the AAAs he sold were just as good as the originals and no one would notice the difference, especially if other clothing worn measured up.

I was reminded of an accountant friend who needed a gold watch to match his expensive tuxedo when attending a black-tie function. He borrowed a "Rolex" from his brother's Petaling Street collection. My friend laughed when he related to me that someone prominent he met at the function actually complimented him on his good taste.

But what happened to the nasi lemak lady I heard about years ago was not so pleasant. She had a penchant for wearing gold bangles and one day the glitter attracted the attention of robbers.

Moments after the robbery, just as the woman was feeling a great sense of relief that all the jewellery she lost were fakes, the thugs returned and gave her a slap. They told her that if she could not afford gold, she should not wear fakes. I had a good laugh when neighbours related the incident to me.

As for the jerseys, I think they will look odd on me because I do not play soccer and am not the fan of any club. An Eagle Pagoda T-shirt will suffice for now. At least I can be sure that it is an original.

Dumplings bring back memories of days gone by

AT one time, if you were a Chinese woman but did not know how to wrap a chang (Hokkien for glutinous rice dumplings), you risked being ridiculed for it was one of the skills that women were expected to acquire by the time they were of marrying age - along with the ability to make nienko (sticky glutinous rice cakes) and prepare tongyuen (sweet rice dumplings).

Before raffia strings came about, a mangrove reed called kiam chow was used to tie the dumplings. The reeds and bamboo leaves used to wrap the dumplings had to be soaked overnight to make them supple before they could be used.

Folding the bamboo leaves to wrap the dumplings is an art even origami experts would not dare to belittle. Two or three bamboo leaves are first overlapped and folded by crossing the ends to form a cone into which the glutinous rice and fillings are placed.

Then the protruding section of the leaves is folded down neatly to cover the fillings to form a pyramid.


The strand of reed is whipped twice around the girth of the pyramid, tightened just enough and secured with an overhand knot or two.

Tying the reed is just as tough. If it is pulled too hard, it will snap. Wrapped too tight and the dumplings may not cook, or worse, they may burst at the seams when the glutinous rice expands.

Even the boiling process is a lesson in patience. It is usually done over a slow wood fire to ensure that the dumplings do not split.


Of course, you may laugh when I tell you that in those days dumplings were only available during the Dragonboat Festival.

To ask for one before the fifth day of the fifth Chinese lunar month would raise eyebrows among those brought up in tradition-steeped families.

Elders would not be shy to tick you off and tell you that only those who were eager to depart their earthly existence would desire to eat a chang earlier than its intended time. There was a time and season for all things.

Preparatory work for the dumpling festival usually started as early as a month before the celebration, with the sourcing of bamboo leaves. They had to be plucked green, wiped clean and dried in the shade for a day or two before being stored for use.

Although imported bamboo leaves were sold, we did not buy them if we could find them in the wild, along the foothills of the now-forgotten Mimaland and even as far as Genting Highlands. Only mature leaves were plucked because they could stand hours of boiling without splitting.

A wedge-like knife tied to one end of a long bamboo pole is used to nudge the leaves off the stem.

You were not allowed to fell the entire bamboo stalk to strip the leaves. This was to ensure that the bamboo would still be there for the following year's festival.

Today, dumplings are available all year round. Commercialisation has taken the bite off custom and tradition.

Visit a hawker centre any day and chances are you will find many types of dumplings being sold.

And if you wish to learn how to make some before the Dragonboat Festival on Wednesday, you will probably find just as many videos on YouTube to teach you as well.

Need for Wikipedia-like database on local herbal remedies

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.