The shipmaker of Endau

The finished painting of the shipyard in Endau. Inset: Starting to put paint to paper.

While checking out the fishermen's wharves in Endau, a small fishing town about 150km south of Kuantan , Pahang, I stumbled upon a shipyard in Jalan Dato Mohd Ali that specialises in repair of local fishing boats. Being fond of marine vessels, I went right in uninvited to capture the scenery that I was familiar with while growing up near in Kuala Terengganu. 

Luckily for me, the owner of Cahaya Empat Slipway Sdn Bhd, Law Ah Wah, who is in his 70s, did not mind my intrusion. I explained to him that I wanted to paint one of the fishing boats that was undergoing repair and he agreed.

There were several fishing boats that were undergoing maintenance work that day. Under a shade at one end of the shipyard, a timber fishing vessel was being built. The boat that I intended to paint had undergone repairs and maintenance for some time and would be launched in a week. Another boat had just arrived and waiting to hauled onto land.

The shipyard uses several diesel-powered winches to tow the vessels onto a trailer which sits on a rail track before being hauled onto land. Once the boat is landed, it is cleaned and dried before the hull is stripped and checked for rotting parts and those that needed replacement.

For timber bottomed boats, planks of hardwood are usually joined side-by-side using a strong adhesive-sealant called damar. A type of fabric thread is inserted into the gaps between the joints before damar is applied. This is to not only strengthen joints but also make them waterproof. Once the joints are cured and smoothed, the hull is painted, and the vessel launched into the sea to continue its seafaring duties.

 

Potting around at the kiln in Ipoh

MY ARTIST friend Phang Chew who lives in Ipoh took me to this old pottery kiln in Jalan Kuala Kangsar to paint the scenery there. Ah Fatt, the partner-owner of the Xin Fa Pottery, is his friend. I decided to grab the opportunity to visit the place because I had never been to a pottery before. Phang, who is an accomplished outdoor painter well-known in Ipoh, has sold many pieces of the scenery he painted here.

My sketch of the old kiln's smokestack.

Located along Batu 2-1/2 Jalan Kuala Kangsar, just 100 metres off the  main road, Xin Fa Pottery is over 60 years old and has several kilns of various sizes producing many types of clay pots. 

According to Ah Fatt, there were quite a number of such factories two or three decades ago in the area. Dwindling business and development have caused many to move out. His factory now produces pots for the local market (including artistic clay sculptures) as well as for export.

A Schmincke Field Box in one hand and the leg becomes my easel.

Although the owner was a little busy to take me through the entire process of pot making, he did allow us to go into the main wood-fired dragon kiln which had yet to resume operation. The dragon kiln is a Chinese invention that dates back thousands of years. We had to be careful as the kiln’s ceiling is not very high and the years of firing have caused the glass-sharp stalagtite-like protrusions to form. We were told to lower our heads or risk getting a nasty cut.

Sifu Phang Chew in his element.

Phang, his wife and I ended up painting the scenery of an abandoned kiln located beside a dilapidated storehouse at a shady corner of the factory’s compound. I found much challenge in recording the various types of foliage around this old structure and came up with a watercolour sketch for good measure. My friend Phang and his wife drew on larger sheets of paper and within an hour, they had completed their masterpieces

Trees' company in Sungai Lembing

 The trees were planted by the early settlers in the town,
 providing shade for the people along the main street.

LIKE SENTINELS of time, a row of old trees stand watch over the quaint town of Sungai Lembing  from the road island in the middle the main street. According to a friend, the trees were planted by the early settlers in the town which once had the longest pit tin mine in the world. This tree is just a stone’s throw away from the Sungai Lembing food court. 

A local who watched as I painted this tree explained that the present tree was in fact a Strangler Fig, a type of parasitic tree, which took over its host after having “strangled” it. Only a few of the original giant trees remain. They are believed to have been planted in the early 1800s.

The museum is located at the hill top at the far end of this padang.

At the far end of the town of Sungai Lembing, where the last of the giant trees provide a shady respite for townsfolk, lies the town’s padang. It is here that the schools nearby and townsfolk hold their activities. From here, one can see the Sungai Lembing’s main tourist attraction, the Sungai Lembing Museum, perched on the hilltop.

I painted this custodian of Sungai Lembing’s rich past in in the evening, just after the rain, using line and wash technique from the northern side of the padang.

Something old from Sungai Lembing

This is what that remains of its only petrol kiosk. It is a grim reminder of
the town's glorious past. Today, petrol is sold in bottles of 1,5L in sundry shops.

Did you know that Sungai Lembing did not have its town petrol station? It used to, more than 15 years ago, I was told. Not anymore. If you are visiting it, you had better make sure you have enough petrol or fill up your tank at the nearest petrol station 28km away, just after the East Coast Highway exit. Otherwise, you may have to flag down a passing motorcyclist and get him to buy you petrol should you run out of fuel.

According to a local there used to be a petrol station operator here until his business was killed by the lack of demand and the annual floods that inundate the former tin mining town. This is my painting of the petrol pump which pumped its last more than 15 years ago. I painted the relic seated along the corridor of one of the old shop houses lining the main street. Townsfolk who mostly rode motorcycles buy their petrol from sundry shops at RM4 per 1.5-litre bottle.

Someone tried to steal this pillar post box but was prevented by the villagers. Today, this relic takes
its rightful place by the Sungai Lembing market (at right).

Another relic of Sungai Lembing is the Victorian pillar post box, which townsfolk said is still in use. This post box is just a stone’s throw away from the wet market. According to locals, it was put in place ago during the town’s glory days when the tin industry flourished. However, the locals continue to care for this relic till this day. According to a local who approached me while I was painting, someone had tried to remove the pillar box some years ago because of its heritage value. Fortunately, the townsfolk intervened and prevented the relic from ending up in an antique lover's collection. 

Parit Jawa fishing enclave

My sketch of an old restaurant complex, now left to the elements. 

This is one of my favourite fishing enclaves on the southern coast of the peninsula. It lies about 13km from Muar town. Parit Jawa is increasingly known as a seafood haven, especially Asam Pedas which locals claim is better than Malacca’s.

I loved this coastal fishing village for its serenity. At high tide during certain times of the year, the water level at the jetty reaches almost the road level. Life here is all about fishing and the hive of activity for locals is the morning wet market at the entrance to Parit Jawa village. Just before you enter Parit Jawa village, you will come across a canal, which gives the town its name, I am told.

If you are into asam pedas and try the outlets at the hawker centre for a no-frills locally-popular asam pedas. Prices are reasonable depending on the fish you pick such as kembong (horse mackeral), siakap (seabass), red snapper (ang choe) and mayong (a species of sea catfish).  Of course, if you want to indulge in variety, the many restaurants near the jetty there will be able to handle your voracious appetite. Be prepared to wait and pay slightly more though.

I sketched this picture of an old run-down building on the other bank of the estuary. I was told that it was formerly a restaurant complex but has since been abandoned. There are many fishermen’s huts and a concrete jetty built out to sea. From the jetty, you can catch sight of Lesser Adjutant storks foraging for meal along the mudflat flanking the estuary at low tide. 

A Lesser Adjutant stork foraging for food at low tide.

Enriching encounter with an old can collector

LAST Sunday evening, while waiting for my wife to finish her grocery shopping at Pasaraya Ong Tai Kim in Gombak, I decided to quench my thirst with a cold can of soft drink along the corridors.

As I was sipping my drink and staring at the surrounding area which looked more like a foreign land populated mostly by people from the African continent, an old Ah Pek standing not far away caught my attention.

The old man, who appeared to be in his 70s, was wearing a yellowed Eagle-Pagoda T-shirt, knee-length trousers, and a pair of dirty rubber slippers. He was holding onto a crumpled Sogo plastic bag as it contained his prized possessions. And he was keeping an eye on me.

At first, I thought he was a beggar. Just a day earlier at a hawker centre nearby, one had approached my wife and I while we were having lunch.

My wife had given him a ringgit. I had seen the beggar before in several places in the Klang Valley over the years. He was a lanky elderly man, about 70 years old, with no apparent disablement but who was hobbling around with a sawn-off broomstick in one hand and a plastic cup in the other. The few times I spotted the beggar, he was going from table to table, wearing a forlorn look.

He doesn’t speak much but would instead shake the plastic cup containing loose change to attract the attention of his target, and when he succeeded, he would bow several times in a woeful manner. If they ignored him, he would waste little time but quickly moved to the next table.

After my wife had given the beggar money, I had told my wife to be frugal with her generosity, especially towards beggars.

Her generosity could encourage the beggar to continue with his ways, or worse, motivate other people with similar intentions to do the same. For the little we knew, I said, the man could have belonged to a syndicate of beggars we read about now and then.

The old man with the plastic bag at Pasaraya Ong Tai Kim looked as old as the beggar we met.  For a moment I thought he would approach me for money and when he walked towards me, I almost applauded myself for being able to read his move.

However, when he asked politely if he could have the aluminium can once I had completed my drink, I silently apologised for jumping to conclusions.

“Sure, why not?” I said as I handed the man the empty yellow can. He thanked me as he took the can, promptly dropped onto the ground and crushed it with his right foot, before putting it into his plastic bag which contained other crushed cans.

“Good price in aluminium scrap?” I asked.

The old man looked at me, smiled, and replied with a nod.

“Better than newspaper and used cardboard,” he replied in local Hokkien.

“They are easier to carry and worth more in weight. Besides, you can’t find cardboards these days. They all belong to foreigners working at the shops.”

In the past, he said, he only needed to scour the alleys in the mornings to collect discarded paper cartons left behind the shops. These days, the foreigners working at the shops kept them for themselves and sold them to the scrapyard, he said.

“But people still throw away aluminium cans,” the old man continued. “At least I can still get 50 or 60 pieces a day if I go out early in the morning and later in the evening.

“I get more when I go to the parks. It’s not much, but sometimes, if I am lucky, I will also find a used car battery or two at the tyre shops for me to sell.”

I asked him if he had a home, a family, or any children. The old man nodded and said that he lived with his daughter-in-law and a grandson who would be going to school soon.

His son, he said with some reluctance, had left the family two years ago to go to Cambodia in search of greener pastures.

“He sends home some money now and then,” the old chap replied. “But they are just enough for his wife and kid. They need it more than me. Besides I am still healthy and I can still work and pay for my own meals daily.”

When I said he could apply for government assistance, my good intent was met with a cynical smile.

“Do you really think the government has enough money to give away some more?” the old man asked, shook his head, and left without another word.

As I made my way home, I told my wife about the elderly can collector. In the past, whenever I saw old people rummaging through rubbish piles, I used to wonder if it was a reflection of the deteriorating filial piety in our society or was it that life was getting so hard that the elderly have to stay alive by scavenging for discards.

Perhaps it was just an eccentricity that came with old age that could be dismissed with a sigh as being part of life.

Comparing the old man with the beggar we ran into earlier, I realised that the former chose to live with dignity.

To me he is leading a more purposeful life than some people his age, especially those who had been blessed with good fortune and station in life but continue to waste the remaining daylight of their twilight years on petty matters and creating unhappiness around them.

Faith in filial piety restored

WHEN I spotted a photograph of my thirty-something-year-old friend “dating” a ninety-something-year-old man on social media, I was curious.

Reading the caption “Paktoh-ing (Cantonese for going on a date) with grandpa”, my curiosity was satisfied and I was inspired. It turned out that she was taking her grandfather out for a treat at one of the posh restaurants near where she lived.

It was a rare sight, at least in the city these days.

Young people nowadays are simply too busy to spend time with their aged parents, let alone take their grandparents out.

It was heart-warming to see my friend’s photograph of her outing with her grandfather — an expression of filial piety, a virtue perhaps as rare as chivalry is in modern times.

Upon asking, my friend said that she had been taking her grandfather, 97, out whenever she could. Be it a stroll in the park, a treat at the restaurants or simply window-shopping, it was something she did quite regularly.

She was working in Europe and had returned to Malaysia for a long holiday to simply spend as much time as she could with her grandfather.

“When we were kids, my grandparents took care of my younger sister and I, as well as our cousins.

“My parents had just started out in life and they both had to work. The only time my sister and I saw our parents was in the evenings when they came to have dinner at my grandparents’ home,” she said.

“It wasn’t until I was 11 years old that my sister and I moved back to stay with our parents. Even so, we still went to our grandparents’ to have lunch after school daily.”

When I praised her for her efforts, she said she did not think much of it because she had always been very close to her grandparents.

I told her it was not easy to care for the elderly. It takes a lot of patience, understanding, and love. She replied that she did it because she found it to be a privilege to do so.

“People cheer when a baby learns to walk. But nobody takes notice when a ninety-year-old guy wakes up every day and takes the trouble to continue living with cheerfulness.

“People are willing to walk with their kids in spring but why not with the elderly in their twilight years?

“Most of us regard filial piety as taking care of one’s aged parents. But these days, people live longer. So, shouldn’t filial piety be extended to taking care of our grandparents as well?”

Talking to her, my faith in the younger generation being filial was strengthened.

Many years ago, my wife and I lived two doors away from an elderly man who lived with his son and daughter-in-law.

His only son was a successful business man and his daughter-in-law was a housewife who had the luxury of giving up her career to spend her time in leisure. Their three daughters too, were well known in the neighbourhood as they had the privilege of studying in top schools where they were top students.

My wife and I were used to seeing the neighbours bringing the old man food at different times of the day. But we didn’t pay much attention to it until one of the food bearers told us the truth.

Apparently the old man was not allowed to cook at home by his daughter-in-law. If there was any cooking to be done, she would do it. Otherwise, she would buy street food for him.

However, on many occasions when his daughter-in-law was out of the house, to fetch her children back home from school or had an appointment outside, the old man had to wait until she came home to cook before he could have a proper meal.

It was during such times that these kindly neighbours would be the 70-something-year-old man’s saviour.

Sometimes, they brought him rice. At other times, some kuih or tidbits. Just so that he could eat something while he waited for his daughter-in-law to come home.

I once had a conversation with the old man when he walked by my house to have a smoke because he was not allowed to smoke in the vicinity of his own home.

In that brief encounter, our topic of conversation veered to that of my children. He advised me to bring my children up well and teach them to be respectful to their elders, not just give them academic education alone.

“You have to also instill filial piety in your children or you will not have not done your job well as a parent,” he said as he went on to share with me the woes of his life.

He said he regretted not instilling filial piety in his son after the death of his wife. He also blamed himself of having spent too much time trying to make ends meet that he neglected the basic things he should have taught his son.

He felt that because he neglected his duties, he was paying the price for his ignorance.

Consoling himself, he said at least he was luckier than some people as he still had a home to go back to and was not chased out of the house to sleep in the streets or spend his days in a nursing home.

When I asked him about his three grandchildren, with whom he was staying, the old man’s tears welled up in his eyes, I recall clearly.

He said they could not tolerate his presence, sometimes treating him like he did not exist and were often rude to him. I asked him if their parents did not scold them for being rude to him, the old man just shook his head.

“When as parents, they do not treat their parents well, how will their children learn to treat their grandparents any better?” .

Several weeks after having that conversation, news came that the old man had died in his sleep.

His funeral was a lavish affair and those who did not know of the old man’s inner sufferings remarked to me that he had lived a good life, obviously measured by the material success of his children and grandchildren.

I wanted to tell one of them the truth but decided not to. Lessons such as this was meant to be learned, often the hard way.

These days, whenever I see parents showering their kids with the material things in life, I offer a silent prayer that the children will grow up to remember and repay their parents’ deeds with the same generosity when the latter are in their twilight years. Otherwise, all their parents’ life-long efforts would have been in vain, wouldn’t it?

Batu Gajah's twin sentinels

This sketch was done by the roadside, the main thoroughfare in March this year. See the black car? It was posing to be a very dangerous partner. 

I came across a pair of wooden houses in Jalan Pusing, Batu Gajah, Perak, as I was driving into town. The duo stood by the main road and were built on raised ground. Like sentinels of time left alone by development, they reminded me of those I have stepped into in Kuala Terengganu back in the 1960s.

These houses are well-ventilated because they were made of timber and had raised floors. During the day, the grilles allow air to move freely. Sunshades were also part of the building to keep strong morning sun out. The roof, if I am not mistaken, comprised asbestos-cement sheets, which also made these houses cooler during the day.

To prevent dampness from seeping into the timber stilts which were used to hold up the house, they were placed on cement block footings. This ingenious building method allows the house owner to detect any intrusion by termites and prevent water seepage which would eventually cause the stilts to rot. In some such houses, the airy space beneath the house is used for hanging clothes during rainy weather. Cars and bikes are also parked within. If you notice, this one had a small storage or garage built beside it.  

There are not many such similar structures around the country and I have not seen one like these two for many years. As such I decided to stop and do a sketch of one of the houses. I did not do a full painting because of the location from where I was seated. It was just at the side of the road that was the main thoroughfare. The cars being driven into Batu Gajah town were not slowing down and from where I sat, it would be difficult for them to spot me as they made the approach.

Just as I was about to finish the sketch, a local drove his Proton right into the tiny space by the road in front of where I was seated. Luckily his wife spotted me and asked him to reverse so as not to obstruct my view. I decided to finish the sketch quickly and get out because the car was dangerously perching on the side of the road and inviting an accident.

Curious story of gratitude

I WAS at my in-laws’ home in Malacca recently when the house phone rang. The caller wanted to speak with my father-in-law who was then taking a bath. When I asked the man if he would like to call back, he requested that I take a message instead. With a pen and paper in hand, I told him to begin.

To my surprise, he rattled off with a list of sundry goods. Thinking he was mistaken, I explained that my father-in-law had stopped operating his sundry shop more than five years ago. The caller said he knew that but added he had been ordering provisions from him all these years.

Not knowing what was pre-agreed between the caller and my father-in-law, I took the order.

When my father-in-law was done with his bath, I told him about the phone call and promptly passed him the slip of paper containing a list of several household items the caller wanted. Curious, I asked him about the caller.

My father in law said that the man was a long-time customer who lived 12km away. He had been ordering his monthly provisions despite knowing my father-in-law had ceased his business. When I asked my father-in-law why he continued to fulfil the man’s orders, he told me this story.

My father-in-law got to know this customer forty years ago when he was starting out in the sundry business. At that time, the man was a trishaw pedaller and the sole breadwinner of a family of seven.

He used to pedal his trishaw all the way from his home to my father-in-law’s shop every month to shop for his household needs. Sometimes he had cash at hand to pay for the provisions. Other times, my father-in-law gave him the goods on credit.

When he took groceries on credit, he would settle the payment within a month or two. Sometimes, he took six months, but he never reneged on his debt.

Years later, when his kids grew up and found their own jobs, the combined household income improved, allowing the man to move out of his dilapidated wooden shack into a brick house and lead a better life.

However, he still continued to make the monthly trip to my father-in-law’s shop. Sometimes he would come to the shop with his wife on his motorcycle. Other times, he would place an order through phone. My father-in-law would then deliver the goods. The arrangement has continued till this day.

I asked my father-in-law “wouldn’t it be easier to ask your long-time customer to just shop at one of the big hypermarkets in his area?

“The costs incurred from buying and delivering the goods are hardly worth the meagre profits you make.”

With a laugh, my father-in-law said that he would continue to deliver his last customer’s orders until the latter stopped ordering. He reasoned that it would keep him occupied now, since he was free. But more importantly, he said, he owed this man a debt of gratitude.

“This man bought from me at a time when I needed his business,” my father-in-law explained.

“He could have chose to buy his provisions from other sundry shops in the area, yet, he did not. Instead he would cycle all the way from his home to our shop.

“When I first stopped my business, it was he who bought whatever stock I had left. I thought he would stop once all leftover goods were sold but he didn’t.

“He continued to order from me till this day and I will continue to deliver to him as long as I am able to and as long as he wants to order.”

I was glad I answered the phone call from my father-in-law’s last customer that afternoon. If I had not, like many of his neighbours, I would have missed out on the wisdom in what appeared to be a 75-year-old man’s folly.

These days, how many of us remember to be thankful for the little things we have, let alone show gratitude for the events and people who led us to this station of life?

 At a glance, what my father-in-law did was honourable but unprofitable. But the wisdom in it was definitely a much needed lesson on loyalty.

Air of serenity at Perak Tong

I painted this scene using a single Chinese brush. How the painting turned out
 was quite amazing (see inset). I used the texture of the paper to produce the misty-like effect. 

The Perak Tong Chinese Temple is located along Jalan Kuala Kangsar, about six kilometres north of Ipoh and it is among the most picturesque places of worship for the Chinese and a tourist attraction that has drawn people from afar. During the first and fifteenth day of the lunar month and on major festivals, the temple teems with devotees.

Surrounded by lush greenery, it has a well-kept yard which includes a pool and several pergolas for visitors to rest and enjoy the scenery. The best time to be here to enjoy the tranquil atmosphere is in the morning when the shadow from the tall limestone hill is cast onto the yard. During the afternoons, the casuarina trees dotting the yard also provide a cool respite.

I painted the façade of the cave temple complex and tried to capture the softness of the greenery using wet-on-wet technique. As I was painting, several monkeys descended from the hills and got closer to me. Fortunately, one of the temple sweepers who were around shouted out at the primate and drove it back into the trees.

I was told that the monkeys here were as mischievous as those in Batu Caves in Selangor. No sooner than he has spoken, another yell was heard from the other side of the temple ground. Apparently a monkey had made off with a Tupperware containing food which was carelessly left in a visitor’s motorcycle basket.

 

There is a lake in front of the temple complex which I will leave to paint another day. m

Muar's old world charm

The decades old Hua Nam cafe is still a popular haunt for locals. 

Some years back, when I first visited Muar on the way back from Singapore to Malacca, if I am not mistaken, this was the first premises I stopped at. We were famished that afternoon and seeing an uncrowded café with ample parking space in the street was a sight for sore eyes. Since then, whenever my wife and I are in Muar, this will be one of the first food outlets we would stop here for coffee. 

This building, established in 1917, is located at the intersection of Jalan Yahya and Jalan Meriam. I was attracted by the old features of this building, and even more fascinated with the two colours used on the same building – light blue at left and pink at right.

Pork innards soup and laksa (top right) are the specialities of hawkers operating in Hua Nam Cafe

A local told me the reason for the different colour was because Muar’s buildings had been thematically painted to differentiate their location according to the streets. However, the building painters must have been stumped by the location of Hua Nam Café must which lies smack in the corner of the two roads and they decided to make it easy by painting the same building in two colours to differentiate the two streets flanking the façade.

Located within Hua Nam Café are a laksa stall and a mixed-meat or “chichap” (non-halal) rice seller. Although the café serves toast and eggs with coffee, we noticed that the laksa stall is highly popular both with seat-in as well as takeaway customers. Priced at RM4 a bowl, the noodles (a choice of rice vermicelli or yellow noodles, of half of each) come in a very fragrant curry gravy. I can’t say if it is the affordability or the lipsmacking goodness of the laksa that is drawing a steady stream of customers. Service is also very fast.

I sketched and painted this building from across the street, seated on a folding chair at the five-foot way of a shop. The outlet was closed during Chinese New Year so I could complete this piece without hindering pedestrian traffic. 

This building in pink is another striking attraction that lends old world charm to Muar.

Although there was heavy cloud cover that morning, I decided to paint a strong shadow in the foreground to add interest to the perspective. The clouds were painted with basic primaries, with a tint of warm colours, and some patches of cobalt blue to depict cloud-holes to show the upper layer of blue skies frequently seen during Chinese New Year.

Acts of Kindness

TWO weeks into the implementation of the Goods and Services Tax (GST), I am surprised that my wantan mee seller had not increased his prices. A bowl of wantan mee with several pieces of barbecued meat and a small bowl of soup with wantans, are still priced RM4 at his stall in my neighbourhood in Setapak.

Earlier this year, when I spoke to the noodle seller about the GST and how prices would be increased, he said he would try to absorb the costs as he best could. He has kept his promise.

It must have been a tough decision, I thought, since every stall owner in that small coffeeshop they were operating in had raised their prices due to GST.

Even the coffeeshop owner has raised his prices twice — once just after Chinese New Year and now, after the GST’s implementation. A small cup of milk tea now costs RM1.60, instead of RM1.20 last December. A cup of Nescafe now costs RM2.10. It used to be RM1.50. I am not sure these will remain till year’s end.

I have known this noodle seller from afar since his mother’s time. She had been selling wantan mee at the wet market nearby then. I had also known her to be a kind and generous lady. At the time, the current noodle seller was only a teenager who helped his mother at the stall.

Back then, his mother charged RM1.50 for a bowl of noodles. It was the cheapest in the area during the 1990s, I think. I recalled having asked her if she could make enough to cover her daily expenses with what she had earned. She replied that if she was frugal, she probably could.

“Sometimes when doing business, it should not be for profits alone,” she had told me.

“One must also be guided by one’s conscience.” She then added that she could not raise her prices any higher because most of her customers comprised the poor who were also trying to make ends meet.

Apparently this woman’s charitable nature had also been inherited by this son who had been selling noodles for over two decades now. Whenever I am at his noodle stall, I feel thankful that there are people like him.

I am sure those whose purse strings had to be tightened in these difficult times are also just as grateful for that bowl of noodles at old prices.

It would be very simplistic to reason that he is keeping prices low as a means to attract more customers. But having observed him deal with his customers over the years, I sensed a deeper conviction — of his concern for the welfare of others.

It would be very tempting to raise prices when everyone had raised theirs, I’m sure.

He reminded me of a food deliverer at the college where my daughters were studying years ago in Pahang.

Although the college had a canteen, the canteen operators sold dishes that were mostly spicy and meaty.

Some of the students who were not accustomed to spicy food, and a few were vegetarians, sometimes had to go for days on bread. As the nearest town was about 15km away and there were no public transport out, these students had very little choice.

However, this food deliverer, I learnt, would take orders from the students by phone and ride his motorcycle all the way to deliver the meals each evening.

For a packed meal priced at only RM3.50, his presence was god-sent to the students. I doubt the man’s 15km journey was worth it if he less than 10 orders, but on numerous occasions, I was told, he delivered even if it was less.

At a chance meeting, I once asked if the profit he made from his trips was worth his time and fuel. He replied that if he did not do it, the students would face hardship or the possibility of even go hungry.

“If they have good food,” he had said, “they can study better and their parents will worry less.”

Sometimes, in the haste in pursuing our daily needs, we miss noticing the simple acts of kindness that often make life little bearable for others.

When we do come across one— if scepticism did not cloud our judgement first — the rare opportunity warms our hearts and remind us of how easy it is to be charitable.

We do not need to be exceedingly wealthy nor be endowed with a position of power. Sometimes, by just doing what little we can to benefit those around us also counts as an act of philanthropy.

Twilight journey

The last of the remaining ferry service along Sungai Sepang near Bukit Pelandok.

It is the last remaining privately operated ferry service plying the towns of Bukit Pelandok in Negri Sembilan and Sungai Pelek in Selangor, on the otherside of the Sepang River. There used to be two operators but one closed down due to poor demand.

Now the lone operator services residents from the two neighbouring States using a single riverboat, operating from a terminal near Kampung India in Bukit Pelandok. The riverboat is powetred by a 15-HP outboard engine, piloted by the third-generation member of the family-owned business. There is a spare outboard motor on standby in case of a breakdown. There are no deck chairs as the crossing takes less than five minutes. Life jackets and life preservers are available.

The ferry service begins at 6.35am and ends at 7.25pm daily. Passengers are xharged 50sen per trip for an adult, and 30 sen per child. To bring motorcycles onboard, you pay an additional 50sen. For bicycles, it is 30sen per vehicle.

The ferry service begins at 6.35am and ends at 7.25pm daily

To get to the terminal from Bukit Pelandok side, drive straigt until you reach the Bukit Pelandok Tamil school, adjacent to a Hindu Temple. About 300m from the school on the straight, you will come to an X-junction where a green timber sundry shop is visible on your right. The road beside this shop will lead you straight to the jetty, about 1.3km away.

The ferry making a turn at the Sepang side.

The University of Hard Knocks may not be a bad place

READING the success story of 57-year-old Madenjit Singh in this portal last week was inspiring.

Madenjit, who founded SOLS 24/7 (or Science of Life Studies 24/7), an NGO that offers a free two-year boarding and educational programme providing life skills for disadvantaged youths, has been shortlisted as one of the 10 finalists for the Global Teacher Prize in Dubai on March 16.

Not only has he overcome the initial setbacks in early life, including having allegedly failed his Malaysian Certificate of Education (MCE) twice, but also has moved on to innovate teaching methodologies to benefit some 15,000 disadvantaged students in 185 schools in five countries.

If he wins the Global Teacher Prize, he will be the first Malaysian to earn that international recognition and be a motivation to educators to follow in his footsteps.

Those who were studying in secondary schools in the 1970s would remember with dread the fifth year at school, for that was the year of reckoning for many of us.

It was the year for MCE (or the Malaysian Certificate of Education) which later became the Sijil Pelajaran Malaysia at the turn of that decade.

It marked the final chapter of the 11 years of one’s school education and unless one passed the MCE, and later the Higher School Certificate (HSC), there was no short-cut to get to the university for higher education.

At a time when higher education options were few or were not within easy reach, and overseas education only reserved for those with deep pockets, those who considered themselves “average students” would pray hard as they tried to cram in as much as their brains allowed to pass the MCE.

Good revision books were few and the best ones, like those published by Preston, although expensive, were snapped up like hot cakes even at the start of the fifth year at school.

Only those who paid attention in class right from the start of Fourth Form and did their homework as assigned stood a chance at the MCE. Co-curriculum was never considered important, except sports and it was only for those who knew that they wanted to make a living as sportsmen or women.

The rest, who treated Form Four as “Honeymoon Year” would eventually pay the price at the start of Form Five.

By the time the trial exams were held, the wheat would have been separated from the chaff. Those who knew they were not going to do well to get past the Fifth Form hurdle would switch to their Plan Bs.

Some teachers were also not too kind to those whose passion was not books. I knew of instances when some of my school mates were told the fact that if they failed their MCE, it would be the end.

They would have to go get menial jobs and earn mediocre pay. Although the emotional threats were done in good faith, it did little to ease the tension and mounting guilt many were already shouldering.

Fortunately for me and my classmates, we had very good teachers. One of them, I recall, while giving us last minute advice in the run-up to the MCE, said that we should do what we could and leave the rest to fate.

Not the best advice today but it sounded most logical at the time. Burning midnight oil to make up for neglected time that should have been spent on revision was rarely effective.

“Even if you did not get into sixth form or a university,” she had said, “it is not the end of the world. You can always take up a course and work your way up from there.”

She also opened our eyes to the various options such as taking up courses. Those days, private colleges like Goon’s and Stamford’s were among the famous ones offering accountancy and banking courses while the Federal Institute of Technology and Institut Teknologi Jaya offered engineering and architecture programmes.

Our teacher also spoke of the professional examinations by foreign trade bodies for which one could sit for locally and get accreditation from. If we were hardworking enough to take up the challenge, said the teacher, such professional qualifications would put us on par with university graduates, if not higher, when applying for a job later.

While most of us wanted to score a strings of As, that talk made many of us realise that for all the lessons we missed and the homework we skipped, we would eventually pay the price. So a handful of us did what we could and tried not to fail in any subject so that we could at least get a full certificate.

And as soon as the MCE results were released in March, a new beginning stared at us in the face. Like we had already known, an elite few passed with flying colours — some were even offered places in local varsities. Those who did not make it and who opted to go overseas had PA-MA scholarship, funded by their parents.

However, a small group of my friends, instead of looking for colleges, looked for jobs instead. They figured that by trying to earn a living first, they would be killing two birds with one stone — they would be able to keep themselves financially afloat as they decided what they really wanted to do in life.

Years later, when we met in an informal reunion again, the group who had taken the path less travelled had arrived at admirable levels of success in their lives. One who went to work for the stock broking house had become a successful stock trader.

Another who went to work for his uncle at a construction site now heads a prominent engineering firm. The fellow who joined a petroleum surveying company as a stock-taker ended up as a partner in a quantity surveying firm. One chap who joined a signage company as a shop assistant is today a prominent artist.

Some of my friends worked during the day and studied at night to gain whatever accreditation they needed in the pursuit of their goals. Others learned all the skills and tools required in their trade on-the-job and beat the path to their own chosen career successfully. The latter, I noted, were more streetwise and mature in their outlook.

Looking back at all of them today, there is little difference in the lives of those who had gone to varsities and those who did not if wealth and quality of life are the benchmark for comparison.

Paper qualification was as important at the time as it is today, but only as a key to open doors. Those who were deprived of higher education, either due to the lack of money or opportunity, have proven to me that they could get through life and achieve a reasonable amount of success through honesty, hard work, diligence and persistence.

They treated the working life as an open-university, one which many self-made millionaires called the University of Hard Knocks and where Life dishes its lessons unreservedly to those keen to learn and strong in spirit. The only fees you pay are an insatiable appetite for knowledge, desire to learn, humility to accept guidance, and penchant for hard work.

And I believe if you can cultivate all those qualities as well as an open mind to succeed, chances are that you will find opportunities knocking at your door. Even if they do not, you will have built enough courage, initiative and determination to go looking for them to make a success of your life.