As a teenager, I think going to the tailor is a sure sign that you have grown up, joining the ranks of adults.
Unless, of course, if your family was wealthy and your clothes were mintly tailored every Chinese New Year. A friend lived that...clothes tailored since he was three. He has a photo of himself in a tiny waist coat looking very much the Little Master he was called by his two amahs.
That was until his father's business took a dive and he had to wear hand-me-downs. He suddenly realised that clothes could last! And in his case, they did. His father's business took a while to recover. But although he was economically challenged, he did not buy clothes off the rack. He'd always found those ill-fitting, he said; and continued to have them tailored whenever he could afford it.
I suggested if it was all in his mind this need to tailor. He smiled and said maybe.
I then told him that although I had my clothes tailored once, they didn't fit. It was during my student days at Pre-U college. It was the beginning of the new school year and the school thought they could do the students a favour by hiring a tailor and have the uniforms made en masse, just to help the students save some money. It was after all a mission school and saving money a desired virtue. Besides, the students' families might appreciate the gesture. Maybe there were a number of needy students in our school that year!
I decided to sign up. For me it was just a matter of convenience. No need to go to a tailor and afterwards having to pick up the clothes there myself. Everything would be done at school. I also needn't worry if my uniform would be of the right shade of school color. Nobody had ever heard of the Pantone color-coding system at the time yet, let alone SCOTDIC the one for textiles.
Surprisingly, even though it was a centralized effort, our school uniforms took longer than usual to finish and deliver. Were there too many orders?
In any case, on the day itself, I was very excited. I couldn't wait to wear my uniform and begin life at the new school. Pre-U sounded exciting and vastly different from secondary schooling. The Pre-U kids I've seen were more like young adults than pimple-challenged pubescent kids in shorts. I couldn't wait to be part of their cohort!
Finally, the Day of the Uniforms arrived. My classmates were just as excited as I was. My new classmate Long was also eager. He came from a kampung in Nee Soon (Yishun) and never had his clothes tailored.
But alas, to the disappointment of everyone, the uniforms came back very poorly made. How bad? Well, the inside seams of the pants didn't match for one. They were impossible to align when ironing (that's two!). The seamline would always be different each time and end up being crooked!
For someone who grew up with NPCC and smart uniforms, such awkward pants were rather off-putting. How could I wear these, I wondered?
I made a report to the school. It turned out that I was not the only one. The school was inundated with similar complaints and getting flak. The girls too were affected and had skirts with A-lines that were anything but. One classmate kept pulling at hers. The situation was so comical that we could only laugh. How can a tailor get such basics so very wrong? It was not as if they had to work with a difficult material such as silk! I mean all they had to do was sew straight, right?
We all wondered who made those clothes. It turned out to be a professional tailor. Really? We were all incredulous. We suspected that the shop subbed them out to other less-able contractors. Maybe the pants were sewn by two blind midgets taking one pant leg each. Sigh....
As with young adults, the reasons came fast and thick as did the inevitable jokes. Someone suggested that were our school uniform a sarong, things might turn out better. No sewing required. And we could change into our PE gear real quick without having to go to the changing room. At sports meets, we would have a flag to wave about, etc, etc. We could use the sarong to snap at each other. My classmates were not very book smart, but heck, their heads were always full of crazy ideas.
So, even though we might have become young adults, our thinking then was still very teenager!
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I looked at myself in the mirror in my new school uniform. A young man in ill-fitting clothes stared back. The shirt was tight at the shoulders making him look hunched. The backside looked out of shape. The lower left leg seam was crooked.
I wished the mirror to be a trick mirror but it wasn't!
I presented myself to my sister who laughed out loud immediately. "Yau mo gau cho ah!" she exclaimed in our dialect Cantonese. "That's really messed up! You better go get it changed!" She was still laughing as she exited the room.
And so the next day, I took my school uniforms (three sets) back to school. It turned out that we had to liaise with the tailor ourselves. And as the queue was long, I decided to live with it. After all, it was only for a short two-year course, barring me failing and having to repeat. After college I would be called up for National Service and can say goodbye to school. No more school uniforms for me!
During NS, no one complained about mismatched seams and strange hemlines; we strangely fitted into our clothes rather well. Perhaps the "botak" haircut took away more than just hair. It also took away our critical nature. We all just blended in like apples in a barrel. And no one wanted to be labelled a Complaint King in that first three months. You could get "blanket partied".
And since school was mostly a half-day affair, our time spent in that lousy uniform would be minimal. Besides, I was involved in a few school activities that required me to change out of my school uniform, so, I really can't be bothered with it at all.
A consolation was that my school uniform was not the worst. Fellow classmate Ding's school pants were all poofed up at the crotch making it seem as if he had a small pillow tucked in there. It looked as if there was no difference whether he worn his back or front. Yet others had ill-fitting pocket openings that had extended openings like some bovine's inverted vagina. Good luck with keeping a wallet in there!
Man oh man, how could a tailor (or a bunch tailors) get their orders so very very wrong???
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My first tailoring experience was at a tailor shop named Brazil in Bukit Timah Shopping Centre. I used to school around that area and when I served my NS in SAFTI, Jurong later on, that place opposite Beauty World became a journey mid-point back-and-to camp. So naturally, I would hang out there for coffee and to do some window shopping. I remember spending quite a bit of time at a ground floor electronics shop that also dealt with hi-fi.
A few years earlier back in secondary school, BTSC was already our regular hangout place. We used to go to a nearby sch for Technical Studies. Even though encumbered with our T-squares and drawing boards, we still hung out at BTSC. We watched Jackie Chan's Drunken Master there when the cinema at the top floor was still active. There was also the rather "atas" (expensive) The Ship restaurant for business meals and first dates!
The reason I had to tailor my clothes at Brazil was that I needed a suit for my Officer Cadet School graduation. I also needed something for a farewell party so I added an additional pair of pants to the order. For that private function I was expected to bring a date so there was incentive for me to look better than usual. And I did want to impress my date!
The pants turned out very well. They felt like a second skin and was in a color that I really liked - a kind of water green with barely visible threads of brown, gold and green to make the fabric look interesting up close.
The suit was similarly very well done. It was in a nice grey-blue material with inlaid threads of black. Oh my! My very first suit! I guess most guys would remember their first suit... whether it was made for work, a wedding or even a funeral. Especially if the latter's their own.
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Back in the 80s, I had a neighbourhood family friend who was a tailor. He and his fellow tailor brother ran a shop nearby. It was around that time that I realised the profession was going the way of the Dodo. He (the elder brother) knew it too and started leasing out part of his shop for other business. My mom was the first to take up that space to sell her small jade and silver jewelry pieces.
It was then that we had more conversations with him and come to realise that departmental store ready-to-wear clothing was killing both his business and profession.
How to save it? we asked. But the older brother was resigned to his fate and started to trade in stocks and shares - a booming profession at the time.
In the end, trading in stocks became so addictive that the elder brother decided to sell off his shop to concentrate on that. The younger brother also stopped making clothes to help out at a nearby hawker center.
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You know, I thought my tailoring misadventure ended at Pre-U college, but no. When I started work as an adult, I needed work pants. At one time, the trend was to make three pairs for $100. Not a bad promo, I had thought then. The first set I got made was at a stall in the hawker centre opposite the ferry terminal (beside the old World Trade Centre). The pants turned out excellent and I took pleasure in wearing them for many years. I also liked the jean-style pockets in front, not something one could find easily off the rack; and this old man tailor did make them very well!
Many years on, with pants worn down to bare threads, I decided to revisit the same tailoring promo idea and went to a stall in Marsiling that charged only $88 for three pairs! Instead of being more expensive as time passed, tailoring new pants got cheaper!
It must be the competitive nature of the business that drove prices down. Or the downward spiral of material cost, no thanks to China or India dumping their surplus textile products on their neighbouring trade partners. Either way, we got to enjoy good cloth at pretty low expense.
And so from good cloth were those $88 pants made.
At that price they were even better than the ready-to-wear pants sold at John's Little or Chinese Emporium. In retrospect, maybe I shouldn't have gone to Marsiling (near my home) to make those pants. The guy seemed rather nervous and did fumble with the measuring tape. He also seemed shy measuring my crotch area. Was it that intimidating? I wondered mischieviously. In the end, his wife took over the measuring task. No, she wasn't young and she wasn't taken in by my good looks and prominent crotch bump. She just couldn't tahan her hubby.
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When I did eventually collect the pants, two of the them had major mistakes. One pant leg was shorter than the other.
I checked my own legs, they were not at fault at all. Nope, they were very much in the manner I was born with. Same length albeit a little bow-legged. (Was I a cowboy in my past life?)
I highlighted the error to the tailor guy trying to be as gentle as possible so his ego would not be hurt. He was, after all, older. But instead of apologising, he tried to make up an excuse for the mistakes.
What excuse could he possibly give, I wondered, jaws dropping and eyes opened wide in an "Are you serious?" look.
"Wear already no problem," he said, in Mandarin and matter-of-factly.
What??? Wear already no problem?!
I wanted to tell him that I was no magician who pulls optical illusions on unsuspecting folks walking by.
If a pirate had a wooden leg, HE HAD A WOODEN LEG!
The gall of him to tell me to just go with it. Wah piang! Wah lau eh! was echoing through my numbed mind.
I steeled him an eye. "Ah chek (old man), what are you going to do about this?"
The man was utterly lost for words and a solution. He could only stare at the handicapped pantleg perhaps willing it to grow a few inches longer. Honestly, I couldn't tell if he was sorry, mulling or thinking.
Finally I said: "Come, I teach you."
"You have to hemp here at the leg end. Unfold it and you will get back roughly two inches. To replace the hemp, just fold the edge less. Alter the other side to match too."
In my mind the solution was pretty obvious. I had learnt to sew in primary school (all part of the regular Art lessons) and was a designer of sorts.
But the tailor guy looked at me as if I was speaking Yiddish.
I was starting to get angry. Look man, here I am trying to fix your mistake. Could you be a bit more contrite, and maybe also a little bright?
At that point the wife came out of the shop. I explained to her again what happened. She looked at her husband and then at the pants, anger rising. I proceeded to explain to her what could be done.
"Ok, I know what to do," she said, giving her husband a really chilly look that asked "Am i seriously married to you?"
The following week I collected the pants. They were altered and they fitted. What a relief!
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The tailoring shops I first knew as a kid were the ones at Peninsular Hotel where a visiting family friend and her family always stayed. There, the tailors were those who were often called upon by visiting tourists or dignitaries for a cheap but good suit. Pretty much the same as what was happening in Hong Kong then in the 60s and 70s.
In the 80s and up till now, it was Thailand and their tailors' magical skill with silk (and sometimes batik) that pulled fans over.
As a kid growing up in Geylang, my aunty's first BF was the son of a tailor whose shop was along the main road. He would always turn up for a date dressed in what looked like expensive and immaculate duds. His shiny pants always made an impression - the kind successful pop stars wore. His shirts were no slouch either. All in all, he came across as quite the happening dude. And he drove a Mini then, another in-fashion statement.
But surprisingly, my aunt, who was pretty in her own way, did not go further with him, Instead, she picked a rather dour fellow to be her future husband. Maybe his strong chin had something to do with it. Or that she, despite being a quick wit and motormouth, was actually quite conservative at heart.
My best memory of her BF family's tailor shop was the sign above their shop. It was very iconic and made in a style of that era. It featured a model's head and letters painted on zinc sheet and mounted on a backboard made of long wood strips.
Beside the shop was a small home-factory sewing hats and bags out of plastic drinking straws. The (sun) hats were actually quite prickly to wear. You don't see these kind of products anymore, just as we have stopped making door curtains out of rolled up calendar strips as well.
But today, we continue to go to a tailor for that one-of-a-kind outfit. Nothing fits better than a tailored piece. Girls should know what with their tailored Coming Of Age gowns. And I am glad that some tailors have up their ante with fashionable designs and interesting materials.
I don't like calling a good tailor a tailor. It's like calling a good hairstylist a barber. No disrespect to barbers out there, but a hairstylist has a greater degree of styling and professional skill. A couturier? A dressmaker? A clothier?
In the news recently, someone designed a bullet-proof and stab-proof suit. Incredible, no? A skill is a skill is a skill. It all depends upon how one applies it. And cooks and chefs best illustrate that as well as artists and sculptors in the interior design space.
Next story: A Life of Jeans
Having reached the summit of KT Kinabalu, we couldn't linger about long. Our guide told us that there would be others coming up. I think we eventually stayed there for just an hour - enough time for the sun to fully rise and reset the day. The date was May 1st. The last part of the climb was indeed laborious, what with the altitude affected breathing at the last stretch. (It surprised me even, that every 10m required deep gulps of air!)
But we all made it. Our guide said we were very lucky to not meet rain, which was often. This time, everything was dry and pat.
Just as we were finished talking, full daylight arisen. We could finally see everything around (and below) us.
There was still that floating layer of cottony clouds but now it seem less frothy and more settled. In parts where the clouds parted, we could see towns and padi fields and ribbons of road connecting them.
Looking down from that great height, I thought how wonderful it would be if one could parasail or glide from the summit. In fact, some people did do just that at the time. How fantastic the feeling must have been!
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As usual, as with any trip, the return journey was faster than the forward one. I was amazed at the short time we took to descend Mt Kinabalu. In fact, it was so eerily fast that I wondered why we took as long as we did going up.
With a skip and a hop, we were soon back down to those service roads that meandered from the Ranger HQ. I'm not kidding; it really seemed that fast! (Like some 2.5 hrs?)
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For me, the quick descent brought on a fever. It must have been the change in weather between altitudes. The usual fit me was surprised but there was little I could do than to bear and grin it. It was a bad fever but given my history with flash fevers, it would go away after 24 hrs. But in the meanwhile, my body would be wracked with pain! That's the trade-off I had to bear with.
I remember bunking over at the Ranger HQ for the evening before heading back down to town. I was really in bad shape and moaned about it, alarming my climbing mates with my distress. I had to tell them that I wasn't dying and that I would feel better afterwards!
And as expected, I did feel better the next day, but I was still not well enough to join them for the Tree Canopy Climb. Instead, I went and soaked myself in the next door hotspring bath. There was nothing natural about the bath though. It was just a handful of tiled rectangle bathtubs set in a row and served by some taps that channeled water from an underground spring. But (unlike the local Sembawang hotspring water) the H2O here in Sabah did smell of sulphur. At least that should do some wonders for my fever-wracked, tired body!
The baths were really old-school and reminded me of those found in homes in the 60s. They were rectangular in shape and had those familiar light green tiles. My neighbour who lived downstairs in Geylang had one. But theirs was larger and waist high. And the workers would scoop water out from it to bathe or into basins to wash things with. The whole affair at the hotspring was thus rather nostalgic.
As the water was hot, I did not soak for long. When the other guys appeared from their canopy walk, we all washed up and took the transport back to town.
As it was near sunset, our guide brought us to Tanjung Aru beach to walkabout a bit. It was an excellent idea as the sunset there was great. Better still was the big expanse of beach acessible during low tide. It seemed that one could explore the mudflats for two kilometres or more!
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The next morning, the Fourth Day of our trip began. It's when we would start our land adventure proper. The first thing on the agenda was River Rafting. Our adventure tour guide arrived and met us at our budget hotel in town.
For breakfast, he brought us to eat "kon lo meen" or dry, non-soupy noodles - a popular way of eating noodles in Sarawak and Sabah. It was quite similar to our own wanton noodles except the noodles were more wheaty in color, curlier and "QQ", i.e. springy - best to be eaten with minced meat actually,
The noodle shop was situated in a long, raised wooden shophouse with verandah and zinc roof. A short flight of wooden steps led up to it. It looked like a throwback to those shophouses we would find in our own little Chinese villages in Singapore back in the 60s and 70s. I absolutely love such buildings. I dunno; such architectures speak very well to my psyche (that and wooden rooms that jut out from walls supported by struts). I sometimes wonder whether my past lives have anything to do with it!
After breakfast, we drove to the railway station that would bring us to our designated angry river. It was supposed to be a Cat 4 one, a waterway that foamed and would toss unsuspecting tourists into water if they were not careful!
Along the way, we stopped at roadside stalls that sold 'todi' - a moonshine made from fermented coconut juice. It was alcoholic that tasted sour - not exactly pleasant!
After this, bad news. The way to the fast river was blocked by a landslide. The train could not get us through. We stood at the simple railway platform feeling rather deflated. We were all rather looking forward to a river rafting ride. None of us had done it before.
Our guide, sensing our disappointment, decided to bring us to another river. But he said it wouldn't be a Cat 4 angry one, more like a Cat 2 or 3. We all jumped at the chance as we were already imagining wet heroics.
But the river turned out to be as calm as my fish tank back home. Dang!
No matter, we went gamely along and raised our arms in mock danger each time the raft slipped past rocks and into an eddy pool. Haha...what losers we were that day!
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The next day was much better. We spent it on an offshore island called Pulau Sapi. It wasn't a big island but the waters were very clear and the sand white.
We swam and ate water melons. I liked going to islands to relax and would rank this as one of the most enjoyable and relaxing. Richard and his wife dug for clams to eat, which I felt was rather cute.
But really, what more could one ask after scaling a mountain and then relaxing by a beach with pristine waters? I think all of us felt recharged afterwards.
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On our last day, before we left Sabah, we visited the National Museum. At the time, it was hopelessly short on exhibits. That made me appreciate our own museums even more and got me thinking about museum Renewal, Upkeep and Upgrade. Not easy if a country doesn't make it a priority or treat museums as serious tourists destinations.
The one thing we all enjoyed at the museum were the longhouse exhibits outside. They reminded me of the one I visited as a child when I was three years old and living, at the time, in Kuching.
There was the central cooking place in the longhouse. The rattan weaved carry baskets; and the gourd water containers.
That night, before we flew back to Singapore in the morning, we all visited the one and only shopping centre in town. We all sat on the front steps eating ice cream. That was the last take-away picture we took.
And rightly so, a very happy and satisfied group of climbers and travellers.
If there's one regret about the trip, it was the missed chance of seeing a real Rafflesia flower in full bloom. Yes, that giant of a Stink Plant.
Oh well. Better to leave Sabah on a high 'ice cream note' than with the smell of dead rotten flesh!
So all in all, our trip to Kota Kinabalu, Sabah, achieved a few things:
1) We visited Signal Hill Observatory;
2) Jumped on a few suspension bridges;
3) Ate Kon Lo Meen;
4) Reached the summit of Mt Kinabalu;
5) Did the Canopy Walk;
6) Soaked in a hot spring;
7) Watched a beautiful sunset at Tanjung Aru;
8) Tried river rafting;
9) Went to a pristine island for snorkelling;
10) Visited the National Museum.
Yes, I would definitely go there again. And thank you Richard and Peck Hong for doing such a wonderful job organising this!
Next story: Tailor Made
The next day after our arrival, we woke up early and had breakfast at the hotel. It was a simple affair.
Our tour guide then arrived to show us the city.
He was of medium built, strong and very tanned. He seemed to be in his 30s and was a local. Dressed in a safari suit, he looked every bit the outdoors guy as well as businessman!
Our guide Jack was friendly and spoke good English.
He brought us first to Signal Hill Observatory, probably the most famous landmark in Kota Kinabalu. It was a lookout point that gave us a bird's eye view of the city.
Afterwards, Jack brought us to various places that had suspension bridges. It was fun. And there were many of them all seeming to span across mangrove swamps or green colored rivers. Most of the bridges were made of steel cables and laid with wooden planks.
At some bridges, we struck fun poses and took pictures. These suspension bridges reminded me of the ones Indiana Jones would inevitably run to escape across one, chased no less by bloodthirsty natives waving machetes.
In the evening, we had dinner along a food street and retired for the night - all ready to begin our ascent of Mt Kinabalua or Mt K for short.
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Early the next day, we made our way to the base of the mountain to start the climb.
But first, like everybody else, we had to register ourselves at Park HQ - a large wooden building with a patio deck built at the back for campers to make last-minute preparations.
We also met our guide for the climb, a skinny and seasoned-looking chap. It was mandatory to climb with a guide. Once we settled the administrative stuff, we adjourned to the patio to redistribute items in our backpacks (like food and cold weather gear) so they could easily be accessed when needed.
Richard kept a bunch of bananas in a plastic bag tied to his backpack. He would later feed us that along the way, which caused our group to be named the Banana Group of 8. (Oh, by the way, bananas are a great fruit to bring along when outdoors. It provides energy and allows one to pass motion (i.e. shit) more easily even if dehydrated.)
After some mutual body checking and making sure our shoelaces were firmly tied, we then set off. Not far off was a metal swing gate. Once you pass that, you are well and truly on your way to climb Mt K.
The initial part of the journey was not too difficult. It was like climbing our own Bukit Timah Hill. The paths were narrow but easy to follow. We also crossed a few service roads going up the mountain.
The morning was bright but not too sunny. The wonderful weather put us all in a good mood. There were two couples in our group. The other four were all singles. I buddied up with Dave Wong, who was a reserved but cheerful chap who smiled easily. My friend Cecilia partnered with Jee Yong, who was much older than the rest of us but just as enthusiastic. I decided to look out for her, just in case.
The lot of us were not alone that morning. As we climbed, we met others going up or coming down. Those coming down were also full of spirit and did not look at all tired. That made me think the climb up the peak was easy, which was encouraging! But unbeknownst to me, there were many levels to this National Park. You could climb sections of it in high heels if you prefer.
At 1900m the paths became a bit more natural, lined with bramble or veined with protruding tree roots. Climbing became a little more countryside-like. The paths were in surprisingly good condition and made climbing easy. Perhaps the Park authorities had some sort of maintenance regime in place.
Along the way, we caught up with a large group of geriatric old men from Japan making their way up. They looked about in their 70s and all had walking or hiking sticks with them. On their foreheads, oddly enough, a kind of miner's headlamp. I would later learn (to my chagrin) what they were for. Though the group was bent with age, they looked a familial and determined bunch. I wondered if they had climbed elsewhere together before. That would have been nice, wouldn't it? For a bunch of old friends to still travel and explore together!
Travelling with this group of old folks were women porters. They were not young nor old but middle-aged. They rather impressed me with their strength and industry. The loads they carried were not light. And not carried with modern equipment too. These women porters used a kind of traditional, large pointy-ended rattan basket to carry their stuff. No backstraps but a simple rattan-fibre band across the forehead - the kind you see on Iban tribal folks in nearby Sarawak.
The pointed bottom of the basket helped it stand quickly on the ground or be leaned easily against a tree. I remember these baskets coming in a set of three and were all made from rattan. The large pointy bottom one was for larger goods; the smaller cylindrical ones were employed like backpacks. Growing up, my family kept one. It was twice the size of a quiver. It was bought from Sarawak during a year's stay there when I was very young.
Over the subsequent years, we often used that round rattan basket as a carrier for a ground mat whenever we went to the beach.
In Asia or Africa, tribal folks seem to like carrying things with their heads. The neck does have powerful muscles and can carry seriously large and heavy objects (such as a large bundle of laundry, for example)
Beyond 4500ft, the weather around the mountain forest palpably cooled. The paths also widened into 2m ones, both landscaped and large-stepped. The steps were reinforced by short stakes to prevent damage and soil erosion. The many visitors to Mt K every year probably necessitated that sort of measure. From this cooler height, the flora and fauna of the place also changed. There were signs pointing to scenic diversions such as a mossy forest, a stinky Rafflesia plant, a waterfall, a cave, etc.
Naturally, we stopped at the crossroads to decide where to go or who to do and see what. Cecilia and I decided to visit the Mossy Forest.
A good decision it turned out to be. The place was truly enchanted!
It was filled with morning mist that gave the place a heavenly or surreal look. One could walk in and disappear from sight!
Cecilia and I took the chance to snap some beautiful photos.
Derrick and his girlfriend Jean went off to see the waterfall. I wanted to see the Rafflesia plant but changed my mind. Choosing the Mossy Forest over the Rafflesia was like choosing Beauty over Stink - not that difficult a choice. It is well known that the giant Rafflesia flower (some 2m tall) gives off an odour like rotten fish or a dead corpse. I had smelt a dead corpse up close before and the memory was still fresh. Nope, maybe I could see a Rafflesia plant at a city botanical garden later. But the only Rafflesia plant I ever saw later was one sculpted out of concrete. The dimensions and color were all correct but there wasn't any foul smell. But why name`such a stinker of a plant after Raffles? Was he that obnoxious?
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From an open spot near the path to the waterfall, we could see the summit. It looked like a collection of giant stones piled next to one another. Sabah is called Land Below The Wind and the wind had certainly swept the top of Mt K clean of vegetation. To be fair, much of South-east Asia sits on a bedrock of hard stone with millennia-old forests carpeting its surface. Sabah with its Mt K was no different.
Looking at the peak, the guide pointed out its prominent features. "That's the Rabbit Ears," he said.
I didn't need any further explanation; I had seen that silhouette many times on tee-shirts and mugs.
After our visits to the side-tracked attractions at the crossroads, we continued with our climb.
At 9000ft the weather turned noticeably cooler. It was like being in Cameron Highlands or any place that had outdoor air-conditioning. We also reached the first rest point, which was a large flat rock area dotted with a few dormitory buildings.
We entered a spacious one for some hot cocoa and a chance to rest our weary limbs.
Looking at the accommodations, we wondered if we would rest there for the night. But our guide informed us that our rest station was still some 2000ft further up. The reason was so we could climb the remaining distance of 1500ft to the summit to catch the sun rise. It had all been timed to perfection! But that meant starting our climb at 3.00am!
We all wondered about that, i.e. climbing in the dark but our guide assured us that with the moon out, the journey would not be difficult at all.
That settled, we looked around the spacious kitchen for a table to sit at. There were already a few people there and we took the opportunity to rest and chat a bit.
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The climb to our hut at 13,000ft was rather uneventful. Sad to say, nothing much interesting happened. We reached the place at roughly 2.30pm after threading through some narrow paths that were surrounded by bushes and shrub. It was no different from climbing Marsiling Hill back home before it got all 'parked' up. And after a climb and turn, there stood the small zinc roof hut we were looking for. It looked only slightly larger than an outhouse toilet from first impression.
Yes, the hut was small but it contained a couple of double-decker beds and a foldable table so commonly found in Asian homes. Well, I guess it was sparse because it was meant to be just a way-station. On the other side of the zinc wall was another hut. So essentially we had one hut for the gents, the other for the ladies. The name of the hut was Waras.
After choosing our bunk beds, we emptied out our packs to make lunch. Richard, our leader, finally told us what he was cooking up special: Nasi Lemak. We saw the remaining fingers of the bananas we had lugged all the way up from the base HQ and was glad it was not more of that stuff.
Richard then took out a small gas stove and cooked away. Soon the irresistible smell of fried ikan bilis filled the air. Man, after privations along the way, we all swore that was the best food ever. Period. The sweet sambal belachan chilli was authentic, so you could imagine how rapturous we were feeling!
What Richard had done told me two things: 1. Do not scrimp on enjoying food even when on an adventure such as this. 2. Learn to cook.
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At the Waras hut, there were bathing facilities. But none of us were inclined to clean ourselves as the weather was very chilly and no water-heater. Who in their right mind would wash up?
In any case, most of us have cleaned up at the hostel facilities earlier on; and the climb up to this hut was not tiring at all.
After our lunch (cum dinner) we sat outside the hut to chat, to while away some time. I took the opportunity to know my buddy Dave a little bit better and discovered that we were both interested in the game of soccer. He was really a nice, friendly albeit soft-spoken chap!
Before light faded, I took the opportunity to take a picture of myself outside the hut. I certainly stood out in my yellow and white ensemble, resembling some Swiss hiker in knee-length pants!
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At 2.45am in the dark of night, the guide came to look for us. We had all set our alarms and so was already waiting to start the climb with him.
Fortunately for us, the moon was out. The sky, though cloudy, didn't look too brownish like it was going to rain. We thanked our lucky stars (there were many stars out that night and visible!) and plodded on, not sure what we would face in the semi-darkness ahead of us. But soon our eyes adjusted to the night and we could all move along quite nicely without the need for torchlight.
The route up the summit began easily enough. I only remember a difficult stretch when we had to hug some boulders to go round, holding on to a length of anchored rope. Other than that, the spaces slowly opened up as the landscape became more slate-like and stony. Mt Kinabalu, like most of Southeast Asia, sat on a giant slab of rock.
At one point, we overtook the group of geriatric folks we met earlier. Annoyingly, they were still wearing the miner torchlights on their foreheads, this time lighted and glaring. The lights blinded us and took away our night sight.
However, I practiced a trick I learnt long ago. When faced with a bright light, don't close both eyes, just close one. In this way, the other eye is not affected and can still see in the dark. It is a very useful trick to use when driving along dark highways.
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Near dawn, my bowels started to act up. It was a habit that returned after National Service, i.e, to clear my bowels every start of the day. By then we were straggling a bit as the air up there had thinned out a lot. Every 10m became a mighty struggle and we would pant very hard.
As the toilet beckoned, I couldn't wait and so went to the side to take a quick crap. That side turned out to be a sheer drop of a few hundred meters over the ledge!
Even in the half light, I could see several planes of jagged rock sticking out like bloody knives ready to slice anybody up.
I took a step back in slight alarm and checked for wind speed. I wouldn't want a gust of wind to toss me over and be sliced like carrot on a mincer.
In any case, I was worried about being missed and quickly took my crap. Thanks to the bananas, it all came out rather nicely. I even gave myself some seconds to moon the world. Not everybody can often claim to have done that at 14000ft above sea-level. Man, it felt good!
Crap done, I rejoined the group. Although I was quick about it, the guide noticed I had gone missing and gave me a gentle stern reminder for straying. I felt a bit stupid but was glad to have seen the other side of the mountain. Apparently there were folks who preferred to climb the hard way from that direction. Folks from the military, and folks, I presumed, to be a bit thick in the head to even attempt that!
By the time we all struggled to the summit, the first rays of the sun peeked through the clouds. It was all timed to perfection! Even the summit was suitably small and narrow, giving us the impression of having reached the pinnacle of a mountain. As we sat down, our guide removed a tin container from a rock cover and took out a log book. We all signed in and was proud of the moment.
The sun continued to rise, sending out golden rays of light that skimmed over that a layer of cottony clouds. We were so high we were above the clouds! It was like being on the outside of a jet plane for once. And with the shadow of the mountain on it, the clouds did look like ground, albeit soft and willowy like being on a bed of marshmallows.
On the other side from whence we came, the ground sloped for about 300m and rose to another high point known as Low's Peak. Because the summit was devoid of vegetation and just slates of granite, the place did indeed look like some desolate valley in some sci-fi film (or nurb space on a curved gravity well). I took a lovely picture of David and his girlfriend Jean who really stood out in her red jacket in all that grey. The photo captured them well, arms raised in jubilation. We all felt like that. The climb up Mt K was not difficult, only long.
That picture remains one of my favourites from the many places I've traveled to since.
Story continues with Mt Kinabalu 3
The photo above is one of the best I have ever taken. It juxtaposes a speck of red against a sea of dull rock making the subject stand out like that little girl in the movie Schindler's List (which debuted a year later). It also captures well the joy we all felt reaching that high summit.
I had not intended to climb Mt Kinabalu at all that year. I was a committee member of the Recreational Club where I worked. I met some outgoing types there. A friend of a friend knew someone who was planning a trip and looking for like-minded kakis.
I did not know anything about Kota Kinbalu/Sabah at the time, only that it was some sort of timber port and that things there were rather expensive - even more so than Singapore. That timber bit I'd learnt while working as a student-labourer in a timber yard in Kranji one school holiday. The cost-of-living aspect I had learnt from a family friend who lived in Miri/Sarawak. Like my family, they were also into the ship repair business and traveled often to Sabah. Okay, in retrospect perhaps I did know something about Sabah after all. But of its cities and people, not much.
That friend of a friend who rang me up was Cecilia. She was working in TCE Audio at the time. TCE was the French Thomson Consumer Electronics company and its audio plant in Toa Payoh North at the time was making cassette recorders and hi-fi equipment. It's the same building now occupied by Singapore Press Holdings.
Besides making social visits to friends at the factory's R&D department, I played tennis with some blokes there as well. My two partners were very good hard hitters whose powerful ground strokes could literally burst balls. I sometimes wondered why they were not representing Singapore at major tournaments.
That tennis court at the back of the factory was not the best location to play the game. As it was located next to a busy road (Braddell). Balls would fly over the fence and be eaten up by the heavy traffic there.
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Cecilia's kakis were not from Thomson. Most of them were from NTUC Income. It turned out that there would be eight of us going, led by a guy named by Richard, a late 20- or early 30-something. His wife Peck Hong would join in as well. Both - looking like a well-settled married couple - did not seem the most gung-ho of outdoor types (they were rather fair). I guess they were both looking to rekindle some kind of adventure spirit they once had back in their school days. They were certainly experienced going about it.
I liked them as they were rather emotionally mature types. Richard did become our de facto head and helped plan the trip and logistics. His wife Peck Hong assisted.
I don't remember being asked to help out much in the prep-work except to cough up money for the airfare and accomodation. Everything was well taken care of and Richard also promised a surprise during the trip.
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Like everybody else, I did my own preparation for the climb. At the time, the highest mountains I ever climbed were those in South Taiwan during my National Service and the occasional Mt Ophir in Segamat, Malaysia. But Mt Kinabalu was a different proposition altogether as it was way higher. The air would thin out at the summit and that could make us suffer from some kind of altitude-related sickness.
It could also be very cold!
Well, I knew it wouldn't be snow-cold so I decided to bring just one winter jacket, the soft nylon/cotton-filled type from Taiwan that was popular with SAF soldier-boys at the time. They were cheap and easily bought from those army surplus stores above the Golden Mile Food Center (better known as Beach Road Hawker Centre).
For the other clothes, I decided to buy some cheap ones from a factory outlet and then leave them behind in Sabah. There was an excellent outlet at Rochor Centre that sold so-called "factory rejects". The clothes ranged from $2 to $10 only. A GF used to buy me nice jumpers from that store when I was an Engineering student freezing in over-air-conditioned lecture theatres. Going back there brought back strong memories with this pretty and leggy girl.
That factory outlet sold a variety of clothes. They were made of cotton as well as wool and many were actually defect-free (with the label cut off as usual). I decided to pick out a few for light cold weather. The summit would be cold but snowless. And the stay at the top (we were told) would be short. Hence there was no need to be over-zealous with extreme winterwear.
Before heading home, I popped over to the shoe store next door to pick up a pair of high-top hiking shoes. They would protect my ankles from the granite rocks I was told were plenty near the summit. The shoes I eventually bought were cheap but good ones from China. (They eventually lasted me many years! Old, reliable Chinese manufacturing methods still evident obviously!)
For a backpack, I used a tall yellow nylon one with a frame. It was something I had used when I climbed Mt Ophir nine years back. It was a good decision as it really helped to preserve my posture and prevent backaches from carrying a heavy load. It came with a waist strap that kept everything snuggly fit and tight. I could jump and hop without jangling the backpack about.
Because of the way I climbed, Cecilia and the rest would later nickname me Mountain Goat.
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To fly to Sabah's capital Kota Kinabalu on the cheap (I think it cost us each about $400 both ways), we took our flight from Senai airport in Johor, Malaysia instead of from our very own at Changi. However, that meant crossing the Causeway at Woodlands. Thankfully, there was an express coach lane and we passed Johor Customs after only a short delay. We didn't even have to disembark from the bus!
At Sennai, we boarded a small MAS Boeing plane from the tarmac and were soon on our way. That way of boarding reminded me of my first plane trip back in the '60s. I was just 3+ years old then. Airports at the time did not have aerobridges; they used either push cart stair-ladders or motorised ones mounted on a truck. It was all very Casablanca movie-like in terms of nostalgia.
I don't remember the flight to KK taking very long - probably about 1.5hrs. I think all of us were kind of nervous as none of us had climbed a mountain that high before. We were all newbies and did not know what to expect.
After landing, we took cabs to our accomodation in the city, which was a budget hotel called Hotel Asia. As it was late, we decided to just settle in and head out for breakfast early the next morning, which was a Monday. Yup, we all took four days off with the Labour Day holiday (May 1st) sandwiched in the middle.
That would be the day we reach the summit. How sweet! I just hope we wouldn't labour much getting there! But it would prove prophetic.
Story continues with Mt Kinabalu 2
In the last four years since the release of Ip Man the movie starring Donnie Yen, there has been a slew of Ip Man biopics. There's even an inane one called I Love Wing Chun produced jointly by HK and Malaysian investors. It was so bad one critic said it made previously bad films look good. The only saving grace, according to him, were the hilarious but bad subtitles.
Nevertheless, all Wing Chun movies remind me of my own kungfu past. I did not take up anything fancy... just karate-do.
I don't remember exactly why I took up the sport. It was probably my dad's idea so I could beef up a little. As a kid, I was skinny and light as a feather (not bone-heavy at all). Kungfu or any form of martial arts, my parents felt, would give me better 'chi' and a certain gravitas. If not, at least quicker reflexes.
I was skeptical I would ever become a good fighter as my wrists were skinny and looked weak. But I played badminton well with them.
However, I also often imagined breaking my wrists like chopsticks if I should ever block a blow. Just as I would never be able to spar with my bare hands the way Jackie Chan does in his kungfu films with that wooden sparring dummy with the arm spindles.
Another reason for taking up martial arts could be that it was a new thing then. Community centres back in the '70s encouraged it. I still remember the green forms I took from a CC admin counter to fill up. That CC was at the corner of Blk 18, Marsiling Lane - a simple louvre-windowed hall with a small office inside, unlike the country club setups of today. We neighbourhood boys would hang out at this only CC to play carom, ping pong and watch communal TV, especially during the weekends when school was out.
At the time, martial arts was considered a weapon and all practitioners had to register with some government agency. How efficient (or kiasu) they must be to even want to monitor folks with such deadly skills! I mean a karate chop can break a man's neck, right?
We kids grew up with a lot of kungfu movies in the 60s and 70s and would secretly wish to acquire some if not all those skills. Well, actually one main skill in particular.
It was the "heng-gong" (Cantonese) or lightness skill.
In Chinese mythology, this skill is about leaping up imposing cliffs or chasing each other over rooftops and tree-tops like in that Lee Ang movie, Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. And why that one scene in Stephen Chow's Kung Fu Hustle movie is so poignant for me. The one with the small boy wanting to buy a secret kungfu manual from a faux beggar monk. It is so true to our own boyhood dreams that it touched a nostalgic nerve afterwards.
Further more, there was also that familiar Cantonese orchestra tune that accompanied most celestial-themed kungfu movies in the 60s, movies such as yu loy sun jeong or The Heavenly Palm Technique.
We (in any case, I) had learnt - mostly through movies or stories heard over Rediffusion - that to achieve henggong, one must practice qi or internal strength - the kind of breathing exercises that taichi made popular. In addition, one must lead a pure and virtuous life so as to be clean in both spirit and body. Apparently, being a vegan helps.
In kungfu movies, you seldom see a fat-ass person leap tall buildings and cliffs. They often ride a horse or donkey. Or be all pedestrian and go about on foot. So, are kungfu and that lightness skill only for the lithe and agile?
Well, I did eat my fair share of veggies to achieve henggong. But my mom's pork-rib-lotus-root-black-bean soup was most times too irresistable. I kind of became a "gao yoke wo seong" or Dog Meat Monk. A less than pious worshipper!
So I tried to be virtuous in spirit as much as possible. The thing which made that difficult was a girl in secondary school who kept pulling my hormones this way and that like a chick magnet. At one time my qi actually went south, telling me it is possible to have a member of my body go hard as bamboo. Well, almost. It went away as quickly as it came - unless the girl in question was still around. Then my "hardness kungfu" lasted a little while longer, much to my embarrassment. Instead of henggong. I had mustered up teenage hormones!
In any case I tried my darnest in the breathing exercises. At one stage, I thought I had succeeded, somewhat able to leap onto a chair. A solid teak table was next. Then a boulder. We had quite a few of those along Marsiling Drive where I had spent my teenage years, and where the first roadside bus terminus was in that new housing estate. The terminus was next to some remainder rubber trees whose seeds we would pick up and rub on concrete floors to make pain on someone's arm! Try it. It works everytime!
It was only when I started my karate-do classes that I realised that qigong was not necessary. In karate or karate-do (a sort of combination of karate and taekwondo), a good stance is more important. You will need that stability to execute a punch, connect a kick and withdraw a limb in quick time. When you throw a kick, it is better to be quick. Getting your foot or leg caught by an opponent is a major no-no. You can get your knee busted or your family jewels pummelled!
So, one has to be solid and not fall over easily. I mean what good is a martial arts exponent if he is an easy pushover literally? Not good, I would imagine.
Karate-do and most other Japanese martial arts were considered 'hard' back then. Only aikido was thought of as 'soft' with its many limb twists and bends. I found it at times ridiculous! Should I ask my opponent to stand still?
I saw most aikido practitioners as sadists. They liked to bend and twist an opponent's fingers and wrists to submission. A female cousin of mine went to learn. She came back soon after with a sprained wrist. After that it was a twisted ankle. My aunty expressed serious concern (i.e. nagged) and my cousin decided to give up after that. What's the point of injuring yourself learning?
But I found aikido to be like judo with a bit of edge.
I remember this one story that circulated as true back then. A story about a aikido master who managed to singlehandedly dispatch 10 gangsters in a backalley. I dunno. Was the story made-up to popularise the martial art?
Come to think of it, moves in aikido are very similar to those in Wing Chun. You know, those quick action punches and blocks made popular by Ip Man. But unlike Wing Chun (which is more defensive) aikido could leave someone very badly hurt.
During my youth, aikido was new and favoured by the ladies as it was considered a soft martial art. There are simple moves to disable an assailant, moves such as pinching of the thumb, striking the nerve points, backheeling the crotch, high-heeling and backstabbing the top of the foot.
After I picked up karate-do, I started reading up on judo too.
I liked the way the judo fellas could roll on a concrete floor without getting hurt, so I taught myself that. It took some courage to translate a book paragraph of action into actual practice, i.e. throwing oneself on the floor. You have to tuck in your chin and then roll forward with a somewhat stiffened and arched arm. I remember I got it right the very first time. But it took courage to launch yourself on a hard concrete floor. It's against instinct!
That judo book was a small slim one with a pink-purple outline on its cover. It was part of a self-defense series. I had bought it from a neighbourhood bookstore in the estate where I lived.
In school, I found schoolmate SK (a neighbour and scout) a kindred spirit. We would spar behind the boys' toilet just outside where the scout den was. We stopped after a while as we would really hurt each other. And SK was a year older and more muscular. I was in many ways not suitably matched. But the experience taught me that fighting is really a scary and lethal experience. And I guess why kungfu masters always tell their charges that it is better to 'ren' - tolerate - walk away from a fight than engage in one. It is just too easy to kill someone with a well-aimed punch or kick. There's no undo button like in some video game.
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A pal of mine in secondary school was Peter. He had a shocking head of auburn hair and was rather fair/pinkish. In any case, he and Henry from Mandai were the two tallest chaps of our school cohort. (Peter also introduced me to Vitalis, a hairstyling lotion vital to keeping his stubborn hair in place!)
I don't precisely remember how Peter and I ended up learning Karate-do together - we probably had a discussion and signed up. Our lessons started at the old YMCA premises along Stevens Road near the old Equatorial Hotel. Back then, it was just a large Chinese bungalow with an open front courtyard.
Donning our karate gi (training robes), we soon learnt why Karate-do was different from the organic Karate. We used our legs more as in Taekwondo - why I supposed the name has a 'do' in it. How did it come about? Probably someone got kicked in the balls and went "doh!" like Homer Simpson, heheh.
During our first few classes, if we thought we were going to learn killer moves soon, that wistful thinking was soon lasi to rest. We spent the better part of the morning - 8.00am to 9.30am - just doing warm-up exercises.
Those warm-up exercises were not simple at all. In fact they were downright tiring and excruciating. It was like being tortured during NS BMT bayonet lesson time. Peter and I wanted to give up after the very first session.
Imagine this: One particular exercise required us to sit with the soles of our feet touching and then the knees pressed down to touch the floor. It was the Lotus Position without crossing the legs. Sounds reasonable, but wait. I discovered that I couldn't do this exercise at all.
My knees would hover a few inches above ground like opposing magnets. Our instructor Steven was not amused and thought he could simply press my knees down, which he did. Imagine the pain!
"Ow, ow, ow!" was my instant reply, tears forming involuntarily in the eyes. I felt as if someone was deliberately trying to break my hip and adjoining sinews.
Our instructor Steven was a nice but tough-looking Chinese chap. He was in his early 40s. Like any karate practitioner worth his salt, he had fearsome misshapened kunckles from trying to punch-break one too many wooden board and brick.
But Steven, despite his age, was very nimble. Besides being able to do what I couldn't, he could even do a full leg-split. It left us kids all in awe and wonderment. How could a man his age do what we youngsters could not?
That inspired me to put in more effort into learning Karate-do, which was weird now that I think about it. Being able to do the full-split was not the killer move I had signed up to learn, right? Isn't that for dancers? Folks in girly tights and tutus?
Was I supposed to laugh maniacally at my enemies and go: "Let me kill you with my double split, BWAHAHAHA!" I was certainly no action-man like Van Damm!
In any case, the warm-ups also consisted of much stretching and one-leg kicking. The latter was the worst exercise of the lot. It consisted of standing on one leg and snap-kicking out with the other (like kicking out at someone's groin). We would do many repetitions. As a result cramps set in in either leg. What a crappy way to learn a martial art was what Peter and I thought.
The other tiring warm-up exercise was the double punch. A quick succession with the left and right fists.
At the time, I tired easily as I was very skinny. I had little muscle and no fat at all. But I had good endurance (which is bad). Peter was better built but not by much. He was tall and ungainly and would soon tire out too (at least I had some benefit from my school team badminton training!)
Then there were the more complicated moves like stepping forward and kicking and punching. And then the return to the 'ready' position fists upturned, elbows tucked in.
For a while after we joined the Karate-do class, Peter and I wondered if we would learn real self-defence moves. We got disillusioned with all those punishing warm-up exercises.
Then one day, out of the blue, we were taught a block-grab-and-thrust move. Wow, now we are talking! The move our instructor Steven taught was a block and grab technique to pull an assailant forward so as to destabilise and then punch him again. Wow, a complex kungfu move finally!
From then on, we learnt more, even using our knees to block and side-swipe an attack. That's the essence of karate-do: Start with defence and then attack.
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In any martial art, using the legs is very effective. It is only common sense coz legs got better reach. It is something preached and encouraged by the late Bruce Lee himself, why his Jeet Kune Do is quite similar to karate-do but only faster and even deadlier.
JKD's counter-moves are lightning fast and meant to hurt pressure sensitive points on our bodies and limbs. I now wonder if "jeet" is the Cantonese word for 'merciless'.
Our karate-do instructor Steven actually told us the leg-to-fist action ratio should be 70-30. When we fight, we are supposed to use 70% leg action. I think taekwondo is the same but with less arm action, why I liked karate-do more.
Haha, I think Wing Chun is the opposite: 30-70 ratio. After all, it is a martial art form that evolved from women fighting - all that cat-paw slapping and hair-pulling sort. Alamak, where got kick? (*pun intended, haha).
From single blocks and counter punches, our karate-do lessons progressed on to doing sets or kata. These were movements performed in ordered patterns, just like in Line Dancing actually!
The kata was more performance than actual sparring. There was single-person kata and a four-person kata that started with four practitioners with their backs to each other.
I still remember one such kata set-peice. Four would start in the middle of the mat, kick and punch to the four corners and then return to their original positions.
Besides grade promotion, katas were used and judged at competitions then and perhaps even now. The most aggressive and synchronised set-piece would win. Because I was skinny and had a smiley face, it was hard to convince the judges that I was serious about my art. At each grading session I would worry if I would ever pass a grade. There was no fun in repeating a class. It felt like being retained in school. Rather dumb.
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Like all beginners, Peter and I started off with a White belt. After a few months, we graduated to Yellow. The next color was Red, then Green, Blue and then Purple. We were learning Brown Belt when we eventually stopped. That was the stage before the awe-inspiring Black Belt. In many instances I was double-promoted and would skip some colors. Peter was the same. But we both stopped at Brown. It had taken us four years to earn all those color belts.
For a while, I kept all my karate-do stuff in my mother's carved "loong" (Cantonese for wooden chest). I later gave them all away. No point in keeping white stuff that turned spotty and yellow over time.
Note: In karate and karate-do, practitioners do not stop at Black Belt. They would move on to achieving "dans", i.e. 1st Dan, 2nd Dan, etc. At each level of dan, there would be a weapon to learn. Weapons like the double sword (sai), stool-leg (tonfa), red spear, nunchukas, etc. One time, instructor Steven went for his dan upgrade. He came back to class with a black eye. He was using a nunchuka weapon then. We wondered if he hit himself or got hurt sparring.
Actually, Peter and I would have carried on learning karate-do if we were allowed to exit the Kids' group and join the Adults. But we were deemd too young. The Adult group started at age 18.
At 16, we were physically the biggest kids in the group (Peter was even taller). There was no one else to spar with but ourselves.
As friends, Peter and I disliked fighting or sparring with one another. The sessions often left a bad feeling afterwards no matter what, why we asked to switch to the Adult section. But it was not meant to be.
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From Stevens Road, the YMCA moved premise to Prince Edward Road in the Tanjong Pagar area... to where the old Singapore Polytechnic used to be. For me, this new location was madness to travel to as I was still staying up at Singapore's North, right next to JB! Every Sunday morning I had to wake up super early to make that long bus commute. It was very tiring and extremely hard on the backside. I still remember Trans Island bus service 180 that took me from one end of Singapore to the next, cutting through the North-South divide of the island. That journey was so long that 'chong' (boils) would develop on my backside from sitting down too long on those impermeable vinyl bus seats.
At times I would meet up with Peter along Thomson Road (his home at Lakeview) just to change the routine and give my backside a break!
So, in a way I was glad that Peter and I couldn't continue with those karate-do lessons. I could once again sleep in on a Sunday morning!
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You might ask how I benefited from all these karate-do and judo (book) lessons?
Well, for one thing, I thought I could skip Taekwondo classes during National Service. But no. Like the rest, I had to go through the same darn PT routine.
I know I learned discipline doing the karate-do katas. Ok, it was no diferent from learning drill during secondary school NPCC but martial arts and self-defence in general are just that: It gave me the skills to protect myself in instances of unarmed combat. I especially liked the knife disabling moves that that little Judo book taught me. I learned not to be afraid of close-quarter combat, like what happens in Wing Chun sparring.
There were also other quick disabling moves I learned, stuff that were so simple even a skinny girl could execute them. Life-saving moves such as squeezing of the thumb (bending at the joints to hurt); stamping the foot with shoe heels; a quick chop to the throat, etc.
The best move for a girl when a guy holds you in a bear hug? Cup your hands and slam them onto his ears. That will cause a minor concussion. Or dig your nails into his eyes. Hey, it could be your life at stake so fight like a caged animal and use whatever necessary means at your disposal!
And unlike in the movies, once your assailant is down, beat the hell out of him until he is unable to get up. Don't give a chance. Go for the groin, nose, throat, knees, etc. Any place that is sensitive to hurt. Side of the head. Look around for a weapon. Don't be passive.
Other things I learned in that Judo book? Use your keys like claws (by sticking them between your fingers). Or swing your trusty handbag. If yours has a metal hinge, the better it will hurt your assailant. And did you know that someone recently launched an Apple iPhone case with a built-in pepper spray? But that kind of chemical defence can work against you, so just clench your fists and throw a punch!
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In the end, even though I did not learn "heng gong" (levitation skill), I learned quite a bit about martial arts. And I managed to teach some self-defence moves to my five sisters. So, all in all, the effort was not a total waste even if the travel and journey to that YMCA dojo was tough. My backside did develop minor boils a few times on those long journeys. I had to use "pak york go" (Nixoderm cream) to cure each time. Nix cream was very effective indeed!
And I really liked that trick of rolling on the concrete floor and not hurting myself. It is actually what stuntmen do when they fall out of cars, leap from a high floor to land, etc, etc.
Yup, I cycle a lot. I imagine using that same technique should I get knocked to the floor of the road and rolling away to safety. Well, at least I got something up my sleeve, heheh.
Next story: Mt Kinabalu 1
I was having lunch with my old pal Jane the other day when she pointed out with her chopsticks a lady seated two tables away.
"Look at her," she said, sounding a little agitated. "I simply dislike women like that."
"What's wrong?" I responded, tilting my head and trying to swallow food at the same time. In that awkward angle, I saw who Jane was referring to: a lady in her 30s dressed in a light-colored pantsuit. She had wavy shoulder-length hair and was decent looking. She was eating a bowl of noodles. From the looks of it, a mee-pok ta or Asian flat noodles in non-soup version. Kan (Mandarin) or 'dry', that is.
"Look closely. Observe how she eats," instructed Jane.
As I turned to look again, the pantsuit lady was about to pick up some noodles with her chopsticks. She did it rather coquetishly, weighing them first in the air and then putting some into her mouth. I noticed something odd the way she did it, but, I was busy trying not to choke on my own food. In my subconscious, a red light went off. The Pantsuit Lady didn't have to do what she did as she was eating dry noodles and not soup.
Jane went on. "See! See! How she is chewing on them now!" she said, more annoyed than excited.
I looked again. True enough, there was something unusual about the way that Pantsuit Lady was consuming her noodles.
Amazingly, it seemed as if she was giving someone a BJ, which is short for "blow job". Technically, it is called a fellatio. My amused grin grew into a huge silly one at the funny scene unfolding before me. In all my years of eating out, I've not seen a woman eat her noodles quite like that. She could well be pleasuring her husband or boyfriend.
The Pantsuit Lady angled her head, kept her loose hair back with one free hand at the neck, and then proceeded to cup her mouth over the noodles.
'Cup over' is the operative phrase here. Whereas you and I would lean in and at the same time shaft the noodles into our mouths, this Pantsuit Lady didn't. She simply held her noodles up and with her chopsticks level, put her lipsticked mouth over it. Very unusual. It was as if some imaginary person was holding the chopsticks for her instead. -Holding it just out of reach.
Seeing this unusual display I was beginning to wonder if this Pantsuit Lady was of another nationality. I had watched the Jap movie Tanpopo before and had seen folks in that country eat their noodles with gusto and in their own peculiar way. But it was in no way the same as how this Pantsuit Lady was imbibing hers. She looked and sounded local.
As she ate, taking one mouthful after another, a ball of food would form in her cheek. Unlike a normal person, she didn't fill her mouth with noodles. She simply took a small ball of it, chew, swallow and then another. If you looked at her cheek, you would see: ball, no ball, ball. It really reminded me of that common BJ joke bitchy girls make against one another - the one with that shoved fist and tongue against the cheek to simulate BJ action - an example of which you could see in the Wayan brothers' movie, White Chicks.
Amazingly, the Pantsuit Lady ate her noodles without break, i.e. she did not bite off the noodles and then chew on them. She merely cupped her head/mouth over that column of noodles and ate and chewed until the whole thing was finished. Incredible!
Can you imagine the action? Woman lifts up noodles, presses her hair back, angles her head, puts mouth over the noodles, suck in a ball, chew, swallow, suck in another ball of noodle, chew, swallow... until the rest of the noodles on her chopsticks are gone and slurped up. All the time her chopsticks remained AT THE SAME LEVEL.
It was incredible to witness. What a feat! And, WHO WOULD EAT NOODLES LIKE THAT???
Being a technical person, I noted all that down mentally. I wasn't sure, but the information could be useful somehow. It was all rather intriguing. You know how we engineers are, or if you have watched enough shows about animals in the wild, you'll understand the need to note all sorts of creature behavior and then later recall their eccentric displays in lurid details. More or less what I am doing here.
Now, guys who have taken head from a lady with long hair would recognise that signature move with the pressing back of the hair and angling of the head. You won't want all that strandly bits of hair to get in the way of a good fellatio.
That action is actually very considerate and lady-like. A man would be so lucky to have such a gracious lady give him head. With such a lady, you'd clean your dick first, lie back and not dare lay a hand on her head as to appear uncouth. A lady like that deserves respect. Because, what she is offering you is a privilege, not a lustful deed. Kind of "up there" like geisha service. (Not that I've had the pleasure of a geisha before and that they all engage in this kind of 'Geylang' activity!)
Jane wasn't so kind.
"See, she's eating like she's giving someone a BJ," she said, voicing the obvious, and still sounding annoyed and a little disgusted.
"And look, her bowl is not even centred in front of her."
I looked again and could see that Jane was right. The Pantsuit Lady was eating her bowl of noodles with it placed to one side. Kind of strange since she did not have another dish in front of her to pick at.
"Is that why she is cocking her head slightly," I asked, intending the pun. Jane was too livid to notice my feeble effort. I wondered why she was getting all worked up, so I asked her.
"So why are you being so upset with her?"
Jane looked at me as if I should have understood. "What?" I said, rather defensively AND too quickly.
"Show-off," Jane replied.
"Huh?" I was scratching my head. "A show-off?"
"It's no different from a girl wearing a low-cut blouse to show off her breasts." I was reminded then that Jane had modest breasts. She caught me staring at her chest and raised a fist in mock anger. She flared her cute eyes too. I pretended to shy away in defeat and jokingly laughed at her feelings of inadequacy.
"Look," I said. "Maybe that woman over there has been eating like that her whole damn life. Perhaps since the time of kok-kok noodles, you know." Haha, another pun.
Jane got it this time.
"Haha, fun-nee (*sacasm). Someone should tell her to stop. It's embarrassing." Saying that, she sulked.
I found Jane's response strange. Jane was usually confident about herself. She had above-average looks, abilities, etc. - quite the liberal sort, actually. So why was she acting funny and letting a total stranger affect her in such a manner. I mean, why bother?
I could make out that the Pantsuit Lady was rather tall and on the womanly side. Jane was slim and rather girlish. Is that the reason? And Jane was perhaps a decade older than the Pantsuit Lady. Female jealousy and cattiness?
Women. Is it true that they all react the same when a better-looking or better-dressed woman walks into the room? That scratchy claws will all come out?
"Look, would you feel better if I tell you I knew a colleague once who ate funny too? She did not like gravy on her rice and drinks only piping hot soup. She ate only with a fork, except when having soup. She claimed it helped her to think while she masticated and picked at her food. She later confessed that it was a habit left over from eating salads too often."
Masticate. I was quite pleased to have used that word.
Jane shot me a look, a look that accused me of siding with a stranger. But it soon passed.
"Hah! Still no excuse to be eating this weird," she said, her gaze again returning to the Pantsuit Lady. "And who would eat holding chopsticks like that as if in suspended animation?"
Then Jane suddenly exclaimed and gesticulated with her chopsticks again. "Look! Look!" This time, her aim was directed slightly off to the right at the older lady opposite the Pantsuit Lady. She appeared to be the lady's mom. They had the same facial features, cheek bones and even hair type.
The older lady was picking up her noodles and weighing them in the air before tucking them in. Chopsticks level, same BJ motion with the noodles. Daughter and mother act.
Jane and I turned to look at one another other and burst out laughing, almost tipping over the tall sugarcane drinks in front of us! A most unforgettable lunch it turned out to be!
Next story: A Brown Belt Affair
More humour here: The Singapore Little India Riot
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