Anatomy Of A Chinese Wedding

"Oi, can you please say something nicer or not leh?"

The voice of the zhi mui (literally: 'fellow sister', actually 'she-devil') rings out across the gates and into the streets. It is the morning of the wedding, and the bridegroom is finding his way to his bride a little more difficult than he had hoped.

The zhi muis are one or more female friends of the bride employed for the sole purpose for making the passage of the bridegroom as arduous as possible before he can reach the ultimate reward that is his blushing bride, normally hidden from view in a bedroom, adorned in her wedding gown.

The groom has his heng tais ('fellow brothers') with him, who will help him defeat the evil zhi muis and end up rescuing his bride.

The groom normally has to perform a series of tasks to satisfy the zhi muis. This can involve something innocuous, like singing a love song loud enough for the bride to hear, or professing his love for her in a romantic way. (Most Asian males will falter at this early stage!)

The tasks may range from the physical (doing fifty push-ups, piggybacking your groomsmen while promising your wife you will carry her throughout life in the same manner) to the downright lewd (your groomsmen have to eat bananas dangling from your waist area! What is that supposed to signify?). Some are more creative, like my piu je's (cousin sister's) wedding a few years ago.

The zhi muis had gotten a napkin, and had ten people (guys included!) to plant lip-sticked kisses onto the napkin. The groom, in order to pass through the door ('koh mun') had to guess which lipstick print belonged to his bride-to-be, and had to pay ten dollars for every wrong guess. Let's just say he was thankful there was only ten lipstick prints to choose from.

The koh mun exercise can sometimes be an extortion effort as well, as the sisters will demand a certain amount of money (as is the Chinese way) of auspicious value ($888 dollars, $99 dollars, $388 dollars and so forth).

Some of the other activities carry some meaning, like I remember, as one of the groomsmen, being served a platter with sweets, raw chilli, lemon slices and bittergourd, each signifying sweetness, spiciness, sourness and bitterness. These signified the emotions of any marriage, and it symbolised that the groom was ready to share life's platter with the bride, through any season(ing).

Finally, when the poor groom has been tortured to the point of leaving his bride (hahaha!), the zhi muis will finally relent, and allow him through, taking his first of many happy steps to the door that opens into the room where his bride sits demurely, waiting for him.

*********************************

'Let me in! Let me in! I have waited too long for this moment, battled too hard to see you, and I can't wait for you to finally be my wife! Won't you please let me in, and not frustrate me, when all that matters to me is within reach, just the distance of a shout away; when all that stands between me and my happiness are these horrible friends of yours! Let me in!'

In My Life 2: The Love of CHK

Eleven years of primary and secondary school. A total of about five hundred weeks of my life spent in classrooms, Mondays to Fridays, with Saturdays being taken up by extra-curricular activities.

I cannot speak about school without speaking about something that was just as daily a routine as school was - the school bus.



Ah, the school bus. Long, ripe yellow vehicles with the words BAS SEKOLAH emblazoned in black on its side sitting between two bold lines. With a belly full of schoolchildren being eaten and regurgitated in the early mornings and late afternoons (if you were in the morning stream) or in the early afternoons and late evenings (if you were in the afternoon stream). Offensive drivers, and equally offensive fumes of thick black smoke belching from its exhaust pipes.

An unlikely setting for romance, if you will. But there she was.

I don't even know her name, to be honest. All I know was that she was the second last person to be picked up on the bus route while I was always the last. Which means that every morning at six thirty a.m., I get to trundle up the metallic stairs to the bus and stand next to the classiest girl in the bus on my way to school.

Beauty and the Beast

To be honest, I was anything but charming. In fact, I was the bus bozo. To start with, I was a fat kid growing up. Seriously. My light blue prefect shirt would always threaten to pop at the buttons. The six buttons tracking from my neck to my waist would always pucker from being stretched by the little giant it was trying to contain. I looked like I ate other smaller children for breakfast.

Add to the fact that I was clumsy, and that my bag was huge (I was the prototype kiasu student (nerd) - I carried all my exercise books and the A and B workbooks, even though the A workbooks were completed in the first semester and never used again).

I looked like a fat tortoise. If the bus driver made any sharp turns, my bag would sometimes be so heavy it would pull me to the ground.

(Falling on your behind always impresses the women.)

She was something else completely, her mixed parentage had gifted her with sweet brown skin, she had eyes that you could swim in, and she was poised and elegant and rarely spoke. Almost like a gazelle, if you will. Her speaking was done by her two sisters - the snotty obnoxious older sibling, and the snottier obnoxious-er younger sibling.

I would often be so nervous around the girl that I was convinced was the love of my twelve year old life, that I would be drenched in sweat on some days just standing near her (when her sisters didn't get in the way).

(Sweating always impresses the women.)

I spent countless mornings cursing my awkwardness as I got off the bus, squandering another chance to have said hi to her.

Rebel Without A Clue

Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Puberty happened along the way, and this clumsy, ugly duckling suddenly transformed into a clumsy, ugly swan. Hahaha!

I made a fresh start as I began my high school years, and redefined my persona as the unwitting bus heartthrob, for two years at least. It was no fault of my own - let's just say puberty was kind (initially) and made me a presentable fourteen year old. Add to the fact that I surrounded myself with an aura of cool mysteriousness, and the girls were going crazy.

We would often stop for bus changes, and instead of joining the crowd of boys and girls buying junk food or playing around with each other, I would often sit alone on the bus somewhere near the back. I would often look out the window, my arm at an angle supporting my head, as I looked faraway and deep in thought.

The truth is, my deepest thoughts were "I think I will die if a girl comes up to me and starts a conversation now!"(Way to go, all boys' school product!) so I appeared aloof and distant to ward off interest. This plan, however, backfired, and I found myself attracting the interests of giggling girls my age.

She never giggled. She was too classy for that. But I could tell she noticed me, and wanted to come and say hi. But neither of us were brave enough.

It was the last day of Form Two, and the bus route dictates that she was the last person to get off the bus before me. I was pretending to be deep in thought again, but out of the corner of my eye I could see her, as she stood by the stairs, waiting to alight. She turned to look at me, one last long lingering look, carrying with it the regrets of words unspoken.

The bus stopped and she thanked the Mr. Wong, the bus driver as she got off. With that, she was gone, and I never had really saw her again on the bus after that, when we started morning streams the next year.

I just wished that I had asked her for a name, at least.

- And even though, the moment passed me by, I still can't turn away -
Name, Goo Goo Dolls

Love Languages

Love Language No. 5: Physical Touch

I thought I would wrap up these series on the love languages by touching (pun badly intended) on the last love language - physical touch.

Physical touch has always been shown to be an essential part of not only our communication of love, but to our whole survival, no less. (That's why Asian kids are a dying breed. Haha!)

There were these less-than-humane tests performed during the World War, where babies were separated into two rooms. Both groups were fed, changed and looked after equally, but one room were given cuddles at regular intervals while there was strictly no touching of the babies in the other room apart from administering the routine care.

The babies that were held and cuddled thrived while the untouched babies basically withered and sadly, died eventually despite being well nutritioned. Such is the importance of the human touch.

Physical touch is not (always) spelt S-E-X (how many Google hits will find this site now!?) or E-A-R-T-W-I-S-T-I-N-G. Something as simple as a hug, a chaste kiss on the cheeks in some cultures, a cuddle, the holding of hands, a pat on the back - all these are ways of saying "I love you" without needing words.

The Anti-Free Hugs Experience

In the Asian cultures, especially the Oriental ones, the hug is a foreign experience among the adults. Children may get it in bucketloads, but two Chinese adults hugging each other must either be a) under the influence of some intoxicating substance (ie. alcohol, love) or b) on a Chinese game show.

I remember a particularly painful fourteen year old experience when I was performing on stage for Teacher's Day. It was a poorly received rendition of Ace of Base's I Saw the Sign and goodness knows how it showed gratitude to our dear teachers, but a few friends did the honour of being our "fans" and coming up on stage with flowers (read: weeds) and giving us hugs.

Now I would have relished hugs from screaming female fans, but one is not afforded that kind of luxury in an all boys school. To add insult to an already injurious performance, the following Monday, our afternoon supervisor teacher decided to highlight our performance as a wonderful segue into the sins of Western society and all this unhealthy all-touching, all-hugging culture. Hahaha!

(I can look back at it and laugh now. There is still some residual pain and embarrassment, but nothing two Panadols and some alcohol won't fix!)

The "Real" Hug

I think that the first person to introduce me to the hug was M, a good friend from my high school days. M went to a church where hugs flowed as easily as "hellos" and through the initial awkwardness and repeated process, I finally incorporated the hug into my love language.

I had a conversation with another friend, JM, who brought up the issue of the "real" hug. She was complaining about the "half-hug" or the half-hearted hug between awkward acquaintances. The distance between the bodies would be obvious, the timing shorter than an eyeblink, each person pulling away as soon as they enter the hug - and she feels that it is worse than no contact at all.

She relishes the real hugs - the tight, warm, lingering hugs that say "I really missed you" or "I'm not ready to let you leave" among friends.

Granted, I understand that touching can be viewed as taboo by some, and hugging is not really second nature to Malaysians, especially among the Chinese community, where the handshake is as much touchies as you will get. Just makes you wonder how if hugging was so unnatural to us, whether or not physical intimacy would be even more awkward!

But as with any other love language, this love language of touch - the hugs, the kisses, keeping your hand on someone's shoulder as you talk to them, the brushing of hands - can be learnt. I am testimony to that, and it has now become an essential part of my love language, especially among my family and close friends.

So come on, give me a hug. A real one.

Tujuh Pagi (Seven In the Morning)

Sitting here along the equatorial line, the sun gets up at the same time every morning in Malaysia and retires to bed at the same time without fail, day in, day out.

At six a.m. the city stirs from its slumber, but it is only at about seven a.m. that my little Taman is in full bloom.

I walk out from my gate and I am greeted by the faint light of day, the light weak as a power-saving light bulb warming up. The trees form an overhanging guard of honour and the sounds of the morning are already evident – the smooth swish of traffic and the noisy motorcycles in the foreground, while the industrious crickets sit in the background and play their symphony. There is the random repeated call of birds as well, hidden from sight but with voices as familiar as those of old friends.



I walk a little further and I decide to take a little detour away from the breakfast places into our local playground. This playground houses many of my early memories, and has been beautified through the years to the immaculate state that it is in now. There are fences around the tennis courts and the soccer field, the swings and childproof floors of the play area are new, the pathway is paved and the grass is kept neat.

Even as I approached the playground, I could see all the uncles and aunties strolling past me in their morning uniforms – the collared white T-shirts, the tracksuits in various shades of blue, the sneakers, and the prevalent face towels around the shoulders, making them look like they were wearing semi cut-off superhero capes from the front.

I was a bit taken aback by the hive of activity this place was at seven in the morning. There were at least four distinct tai chi groups here this morning, the largest one congregating around the gravel tennis courts.

It was an amazing sight – at least a hundred people of various ages looking like slow-motion puppets on a string being pulled by some invisible master, their hands and legs synchronized in a simultaneous dance to the hypnotic droning blaring from the radio – Fu, Chi. Fu, Chi. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

Along the footpaths encircling the park, there were people in various stages of motion, those who stood still to shoot the breeze with old friends, some older ones taking a leisurely stroll, others brisk walking and the occasional jogger. I saw one gentleman who had obviously suffered a stroke in the past, who still persisted with a walking stick around the park, his gait curious as a three legged creature.

There were parents playing badminton with their children, perpetuating Malaysia’s favourite sport, while some teenagers had taken to the basketball court to shoot some hoops.



It is seven in the morning, and the restless citizens of my little taman care not for the luxury of sleeping in.

Makan!

Everyone who reads this blog (and my previous one) knows that I am what Alain de Botton describes as a "word-painter". I try my best to capture a situation or an emotion just with words, both due to neccesity in the past (ie. the lack of a camera) and my love for words.

But since getting my camera, I have had the privilege of supplementing and, indeed, replacing those words when they seem inadequate. And some things you just need photos for:


From left top corner (clockwise): Succulent Sweet and Sour Chilli Crab, Fried Glass Noodles, amazing Lai Yau Ha(Milk Oil Prawns?), the perfect blend of flavours in Teochew-style Steamed Fish.


Mother Gluttony, Sister Gluttony and Brother Gluttony: One Happy Family At Home

There is this beautiful restaurant in Klang called the Coconut Farm Restaurant which our family has been going to for years. It is a thirty five minute drive away, past two tolls costing us an additional RM 4.20 both ways, and almost impossible to find - but the food is so good that we keep going back time after time!

We usually order the same things, and the food is always of a good standard, fluctuating between "This is good stuff!" and "Damn! That's amazing!". Yesterday it was pretty much It's-so-good-there's-a-swear-word-for-it-but-I-can't-publish-it-because-kids-might-be-reading-my-blog.

The crab was fleshy and the sauce it sat in was just the right blend of sour, sweet and spicy. Soak that up with steamed man taus and each mouthful is just heavenly!

The Lai Yau Ha was really good as well. Prawns, with their backs open from being deep fried in this delicious coconut-cereal mix, their skins crackly as you bite into them, their heads juicy if you choose to suck out the goody essence!

The glass noodles were pretty good as well, though I think we should have eaten it hot when they first brought it to our table, instead of waiting for the other dishes.

But the ultimate dish was the Chiew Chow style steamed fish - a perfect blend of tastes and colours - a little salty, a little bit sweet, with the saliva-inducing zest of vinegar to give it its wonderful sour taste. And if the fish is fresh (and it was really fresh yesterday), then you have the perfect appetite stimulant when added to your bowl of steaming rice.

And that is why Malaysia is a food paradise, dear readers.

(Disclaimer: The author will not be held responsible for any drool-related damage to your keyboards as a result of reading this entry.)

Anak Sudah Kembali

I have officially used up my "sit next to a pretty girl on the plane" points. If I behave myself for the next five years, I might chalk up enough points to sit two seats away from one. Haha!

It was an uneventful flight back home, spent alternating between deep slumber and airplane meals. I got to watch "Wanted" on the Entertainment system, and I must say that I was suitably impressed by the special effects in this over-the-top movie. But my sister made a really interesting point later - Morgan Freeman has starred in one too many films where he is the good-guy-who-turns-out-to-be-the-bad-guy-who-is-actually-the-good-guy-why-oh-why-are-your-roles-so-complicated-Mr.-Freeman.

I got off the plane and waited for my luggage. Mum had insisted that I bring home cherries and mangoes from Australia. The mangoes were mostly intact, but Doreen, could you please inform Li that he was right. We shall enjoy cherry sauce instead. Haha!

Twenty eight minutes on the ERL and a warm feeling rose up in my heart again as I saw my homeland rouse from its sleep. The morning sun was just warming up, unable to muster enough energy to drive away the mist that hung around lazily along the meticulously arranged palm trees and the haphazard undergrowth. The ERL took me past condominiums and little makeshift squatter homes, giving way to the city. I sighed with recognition when it sped past Mid Valley Megamall, all its cracks evident in the light of day, yet still the shopping mall of choice.

I feel loved by my family most when...

I half expected to take the taxi home from KL Sentral, and I was not relishing the prospect, what with my box of mangoes in tow. However, as I was crossing the ticketing machines in the exit lanes, a familiar complaining voice rang from the front "Hoi, never see us ah?". My little sister and Mum were walking towards me, and if it were not for the box of mangoes in one hand and my suitcase in the other, I would have ran towards them and squeezed the life out of them!

A quick deposit of the suitcases at home, and then it was off to church.

Of (Almost) Newlyweds and Newborns

It was a good time in church, and I got to catch up with most of my Sunday School friends here. I have specifically come back to visit one couple who were getting married, both of them in my Bukit Bintang Sunday School class since I was a little boy of seven.

But what really made me feel my age was when another friend from Sunday School, who married just last year, was celebrating the birth of his firstborn son some four days ago. You could hear the joy in his voice of this new experience as a first time father, describing the messy birthing experience at the Assunta Hospital, and also how the wife was going through a period of confinement right now.

In Malaysia, in the Chinese community, there are confinement ladies who look after the mother for a period of time after delivery. These ladies are paid handsomely for their experience in looking after both mother and child, brewing herbal remedies and dealing with the aches and pains of the recovery process.

It was wonderful hearing him describe all these things, as both Western medicine brought his baby to the world and Eastern traditions cared for mother and child after the birthing process. This magical swirl of science and mysticism, of best practise and traditional values, firmly reminded me once more that I was home.

Balik Rumah

At the start of this week, there were four nights to be completed in the Emergency Department prior to flying back to Malaysia.

Sometimes I think of work like jogging - the start is usually not too bad, and then you start to tire somewhere in the middle, and your spirits are flagging and your feet are begging you to stop. But for some of us, there is a resilience stronger than our lactic acids - our minds, which tells us to push on through the pain, to keep those arms and legs swinging despite their tiring. And we are rewarded with the final corner, the end line in sight, and a second wind comes to push us through victoriously past the finish line.

It has been a busy and testing four nights, two of which we operated with three doctors when there were meant to be four on. The department on Thursday night/Friday morning was almost as full in the night as it was in the daytime, which is saying a lot.

But by the grace of God the sun broke on the dawn of Friday morning, and the end line was in sight. It was still a hard final few hours, but the second wind came, and we managed to plow through past the ticker tape, hands raised victoriously, as we came to a stop, stooping over to catch our breaths and rest our weary muscles, our skins glistening with perspiration.

And the ultimate reward tonight of being able to sit in the Tullamarine International Airport, journal in one hand, whiling the time away observing other people leaving and returning, allowing the content sigh of one word to escape my lips.

Home.

The Gift Of Rain

Tan Twan Eng's The Gift Of Rain.

The words Malaysian, Chinese and author do not normally go side by side without a snide remark accompanying it. Having grown up with Malay literature and English literature, I know the beauty and immense depth in our sastera Melayu, but English literature had always been a borrowed experience, as we read the Wordsworths and the Shakespeares and the Steinbecks.

I have spent the last month reading through Tan Twan Eng's The Gift Of Rain, however, and here is finally someone to redeem that phrase. I met the book with a little skepticism initially, I must admit, despite it being longlisted for the Man Booker Prize 2008.

But just a few pages in, and the flowing deliberate narrative and eloquent description of a pre-war Malaya transports you back into the shoes of the main character, Philip Hutton, who is a product of his English father's second marriage to his Chinese mother. This division of himself is further accentuated as he befriends and follows the tutelage of a Japanese sensei, and is left to make some very hard decisions during the Japanese invasion of Malaya.

Told with great care and empathy, this book is all the more personal to me because of its settings in my tanahair, and reminds us of the atrocities perpetrated not so long ago, already forgiven with the passing of a generation.

Tan Twan Eng writes like how I would like to write, and this sprawling saga definitely earns its place among the best of the books this year. An important read for all Malaysians, I think!

Flying In The Face of Winning

I remember when I was a little boy, and my Singh friend, N, told me once how a tiny cockroach had decided to set up nest in his nine year old ear. He had to be brought to a clinic where the doctor poured some paraffin into his ear and then removed the offending creature with a pair of tweezers.

Little did I know that the way my stupid nine year old brain put that inconsequential piece of information into the "Important" folder instead of the Recycle Bin would one day come back to help me.

Not one, but two patients walked in the other day complaining that they had felt an insect crawl into their ear and they were fairly distressed because they could still hear the insects flying about in their ear.

(Bzzz... bzzz... bzzz.... gottogetthroughgottogetthroughgottogetthroughwhat'sthiswalldoinghere gottogetoutgottoget outwheretheheckamiwheretheheckamiohgoshohgosho bzzz...bzzz...bzzz...)

Today's recipe:

Insect Tartare

1. Lay the patient on the side, with the offending ear facing you.

2. Take a bottle of castor oil and pour it into the ear till it brims.

3. Position your light towards the ear and attempt to visualise the insect, failing which an otoscope may be of value.

4. Through the mess of blood and oil, once you have visualised the offending insect, you are now read to begin extraction.

5. Use a pair of tweezers/forceps and aim approximately at the angle where the insect was. After a few blind catches, you should be able to extract the insect. Check that the whole insect is intact.

You are now ready to enjoy your insect tartare. Serves 1.

Something about this really bugs me, y'know?

It was Melbourne Cup Day as well, and the nurses were going around collecting two dollars from everyone in the department. I hesitated for about five seconds before throwing my lot in, joining in the festivities. I reached into the box and drew out my alloted horse. Number 10. Viewed. It was two dollars I knew that I would never see again.

I was working in the doctors' area when the group of people that had gathered around the TV set in the tea room started streaming out after the main race in the Melbourne Cup. How'd it go? I asked one of the nurses. "Ten, twelve, four," she quoted the numbers of the trifecta.

"What?!" I said. My horse had won. By a nose, as replays would show it. "Drinks are on you!" smiled another nurse.

That completed an awesome day at work!

He works hard for his money. So hard for his money.

Random Memories: Fourteen Years Old

He remembers the World Cup Fever that had taken the host nation, the United States, by storm. A nation crazed about baseball and basketball had succumbed to the charms of the world game, if only for a few weeks.

World Cup fever spread through the world, and made its way into my humble school - as evidenced by the bleary eyes from the early morning wakes to watch the matches half a world away, and by the excited discussions along the school corridors, and also by kids taking to the school field with a reinvigorated, if brief, interest in the beautiful game.

But nothing said that World Cup was here more than the bookies. Little entrepreneurs emerged from the woodwork, taking bets from their classmates and friends; having done their research, they were often the victors, and occasionally the victims.

One such businesskid, however, did the foolhardy thing of keeping an account ledger which he was busily filling up in our Kemahiran Hidup (Living Skills) classes. We did learn about accounts in our KH classes, but he was doing it while a teacher was teaching us about electronics. He got found out, his ledger confiscated, and the repercussions were huge.

Let's just say the teachers cracked down hard on the bookies, and it finally worked its way down to every single student who had gambled on this World Cup. Alliances were lost in the blind panic that swept over every guilty boy, and threats were made to tattle out the students who would not volunteer themselves in an admission of guilt. If they were going down, they were going to drag every single guilty one down with them.

I made the grand total bet of fifty cents. On a game which I won. The winnings which I never collected! But in a school with moral standards way beyond the other school's of our time, the principle was that I still gambled.

We learnt our lessons that World Cup - we earned a minimum of two strokes each and an additional two week period of community service for the leaders of the school - the prefects and librarians who had failed to set a good example. The school toilet and stairs were cleaner places for our indiscretions.

I think although it was a painful period in our lives, a lot of us have come off better from having been discplined at school. These were formative years, and lessons that would save us grief many years down the line had to be learnt.

Even if it meant getting on your knees and scrubbing the stairs with your toothbrush as your teachers walked past, throwing sympathetic smiles at a punishment that many parents protested as being too severe.

Ora Et Labora. Work and Pray, my dear alma mater!

A United Nation

In most movies, the President of the United States is often projected as a true leader - eloquent, courageous and, above all, inspirational. Memorable "presidents" and presidential speeches have included Michael Douglas in The American President, Morgan Freeman in Deep Impact, and, especially this inspirational (if slightly schmaltzy) speech from Bill Pullman in Independence Day. I remember the tears welling up in my eyes as I heard the authority in his voice and the hope he tried to instill in a people about to face certain annihilation. I have had friends who stood up in the cinemas and clapped at the end of this speech. In Malaysia, no less!

Few real American presidents in recent memory, unfortunately, have managed to inspire the same kind of hope, courage and confidence in real life. Not the saxophone-playing, intern-chasing Bill Clinton, not George Bush (Senior or Dubble-yeah) and not Richard Nixon. Few have been able to match the simplicity and simultaneous depth of Lincoln's Gettysburg address.

Everyone, however, will remember where they were the day Barack Obama became the nation's first African-American president. TV reports were filled with eyes of African Americans brimming with bittersweet tears who never thought they would see this day come. Not in my lifetime.

From the days of the end of the slavery, a full century later, America has finally matured enough to look beyond race and elect a President worthy of that title.

Hear his honesty, embrace his hope and humility, and feel that choking sensation well up in your throat as the chorus of "Yes, we can" rises up from a people - impoverished of hope and devoid of security - to the man who they believe will lead them out, from the darkness, and into the light.

The Drive Home

I decided to try a new route home from work the other night.

In the year that I've been working at this hospital, I have always taken the same road home - the same road that carries me past suburban houses and petrol stations, the journey interrupted by traffic lights changing their minds ever so often. I am never alone on these trips, often competing with the hustle and bustle of rush hour, and, even in the most solitary nights, another car will often turn up to keep me company.

This new route starts off on a highway and then tapers off into the crowded Sydney Road - a mess of tram lines, jaywalking pedestrians and turning cars flanked by exotic Middle Eastern and Indian shops.

The part I like best is the highway bit, as it reminds me a bit of home. The eternal roads with long stretches of blind darkness dispersed only by the force of my headlights. Everyone from Frank Sinatra to the Phantom of the Opera, the Goo Goo Dolls and Boyz II Men, crowded into my USB transmitter, each one in turn escaping to keep me company, filling my car with our duets.

I get a glimpse of home, and by God's grace I will be home soon.

Random Memories: Ten Years Old

The things that we remember most as children in the Cheok family were the trips that we took interstate. It would often be school holidays, and Dad, despite his disability, would get us into the modified Proton Saga and take us to Penang or Ipoh to see our relatives and have a holiday.

We would often bring along tapes to play in the car - we had a boxful of cassettes given by a thoughtful church member to our family (that's how we came to know the Beatles, Nana Moskouri and Frank Sinatra) and one year we had ABBA's Gold hits to accompany us (take a chance take a chance take a cha-cha-chance If you change your MIND, I'm the first in LINE, Honey can't you SEE, take a chance on ME...take a chance take a chance take a cha-cha-chance) on our family trip.

I remember the early days, before the days of highways and toll plazas, when you had to use the trunk roads to get interstate. These were often two tiny lanes with traffic coming in both directions, separated only by the perforated invisible wall formed by the intermittent white stripes on the road.

It was not uncommon to see families stopping by the side of the bigger roads (three, maybe four lanes), their children clambering to the grassy knolls with the uneasy waddle of someone with a full bladder near to the point of explosion. The more modest ones had both their front and back car doors open, forming a makeshift urinal as they answered Mother Nature's call on Mother Earth.

These trunk roads often traversed small towns, whose economies were booming due to the weary travellers taking a break at their restaurants, stopping for food and to brave their toilets. These toilets were often grimy and stunk with years of unwash and neglect, repulsive to a point where it would only be used by the most desperate of people, which the travellers often were. These were the times that I was glad I was a boy, as there was no way I would even dream of approximating my skin to the toilet bowls.

I remember it was only my brother and myself in the early years, and we would play games to keep ourselves entertained in the long rides, when the songs ceased to be fun to sing along to anymore.

(I spy... with my two little eyes, something beginning with the letterrrr.... 'L'
*looks around wildly while his brother tries to follow his gaze*
'Land?' "No."
'Lamp post?' "Nope."
'Lorries?' "NOPE!"
'I give up!!!' "LIGHT!!! cackle cackle" *avoids the playful punches his brother throws at him*)

Our little sister finally joined us as a family, singing along to the songs and trying to outwit us in our childish games. And during lulls in our journey, she would rest her tired little head on our laps, dreaming five year old dreams while we stared outside the car window, watching the world go by at a hundred kilometres an hour.