Lingering memories of train journeys

IN a few minutes, the 1235 from Paddington will leave for Paignton, and that is somewhere in the south west of England. I was supposed to be on the 10.35 but as fate would have it, I missed it, not because I was late in purchasing the ticket, but because I was too early.

I had bought the tickets a day earlier as I didn't want the hassle of queuing up. But Mr Murphy had to be right, as always. If things want to go wrong, it will go wrong, even the best laid plans.

The tickets I bought from the machine was apparently valid only for one day and I was turned back at the ticket barrier to join the long queue of backpackers and families with children escaping London to enjoy the last few days of summer.

I have always loved train journeys as they give me the luxury of being with myself and my thoughts.

I am now on the First Great Western train, one of Britain's national train networks. It is fascinating to watch the English countryside whiz past my window. This being a weekend, people are enjoying barbecues with their friends out in the back garden. The English, they do love their gardens: Neatly trimmed hedges with beautiful flower beds and hanging baskets in a riot of summer colours.

The suburbs soon make way for vast green fields - cows grazing and sheep looking like small cotton balls, dot the vast fields now turning brown after quite a harsh summer. I note that some of the cows are sitting down. It will rain, says my husband, if cows sit down. And true enough, rain starts pelting on the windows as we criss-cross along the British countryside.

 

Being a creature of habit, I never leave the station without two - not one - mushroom parcels and a cup of piping hot coffee from Delice de France. And after drowning my sorrows of losing the price of one train ticket, in what inevitably became cold coffee, I allow my thoughts to turn to Mak.

Mak too loved train journeys. When we were young, train journeys during school holidays were a treat. We'd talk about nothing else in school about the impending adventure from Yan to Johor Baru.

We used to take train journeys from Alor Setar to Johor where Kak and Abang were stationed. An announcement of a train journey was welcomed with sighs of relief as it meant not the usual trips to Penang or Pantai Merdeka.

From the first whisper of the holiday plans, we spent sleepless nights, too excited to do anything else. And Mak would start packing things she'd bring to her firstborn who had followed her husband to what could only be considered as the furthest point south from where we were in Kedah. There would be food and things she thought her eldest daughter was going without. Mothers are like that. Now I understand.

But most importantly, I remember how she'd wake up in the morning and prepare food for us that would last us through the long journey from north to the south of the peninsula. There'd be rice and chicken dishes carefully packed in tiffin carriers and drinks in flasks and towel-wrapped containers. Boiled eggs were almost mandatory - we never left on long journeys without boiled eggs.

I remember most the early morning drive from Yan to Alor Setar where we'd patiently wait for the train and then the short ride to Bukit Mertajam. Now, this is the bit which I could never forget. Whether this part of my memory had been exaggerated by time gone by, I don't know. But I remember the rush - bags, tiffin carriers and more bags up the overhead bridge to the waiting southward bound train. It seemed to me than that the train would only stop for five minutes and no more!

Then the search for seats. By then most coaches would be full of tired soldiers on home leave, other families also going on holidays, screaming babies in sarong hammocks suspended from the ceiling of the train... it was chaotic.

The highlight of the train journey must be the stop in Ipoh when we were stirred from our sleep by sales pitches of food vendors plying up and down the platform skillfully balancing their food stuff on their heads.

Never mind the food Mak had painfully prepared for us, buying from the vendors was more exciting.

As we pull into Pewsey, a small village in Wiltshire with its small quaint station, I remember the train journeys criss-crossing Europe to as far as Budapest, journeys along the beautiful Rhine with chateaux and castles dotting the mesmerising landscapes that usually brings me back again to those childhood days reading about princesses in captivities and charming princes coming to their rescue.

Oh well, the train has stopped and so has the rain. But beautiful memories of train journeys linger on.

Those article first appeared in my column in NST here.

Travails of a Cyber Backpacker

More pictures here: Nona in Rajasthan

The 1233 for Luton left from the spanking new St Pancras International where I took the Eurostar to Paris a few weeks ago. It is a sort of extension right at the end of the building and I had to dodge people with bags and trolleys as I was going against the flow to catch my train. I wasn’t fussy about where I sat as it wasn’t going to be a long journey and I reckoned that the half an hour journey would take me through a few more chapters of Preeta Samarasan’s “Evening Is the Whole Day”. I really wanted to know the goings on in the big house in Kingfisher Lane after Chellam’s unceremonious departure.

The seats on the First Capital Connect were quite comfortable, and minutes after it pulled out of the platform, we buried our heads in our reading materials. The young teenager opposite me was devouring the pictures in Heat magazine while the gentleman on my right concentrated on The Reluctant Fundamentalist.

It took awhile for me to realise that I was staring for a good five minutes on page 44 with not a word sinking in. My mind was making its own journey and so I looked out of the window to see how the suburbs of London was being treated in the last few days of summer. Hedges were already neatly trimmed and shrubs cut in preparation for autumn, but there were a few optimists with their BBQ sets still outside their conservatories, hoping for one more sunny day to return.

According to the BBC weather forecast, we were in for a long wet and windy spell and true enough rain began pelting on the windows and I was thankful when we disappeared under a tunnel.

As we emerged from the tunnel, I blinked a few times. Right before me were clusters of huts with zinc roofs dotting fields that looked barren and dry with nothing to offer skinny cows and even skinnier goats roaming aimlessly in search of food and water. Pot bellied children clung on to their mothers’ faded sarees, as they walked gracefully balancing pots of water precariously on their heads. A few turned to wave at us without spilling a drop of water.

I turned to look at my travelling companions to see whether they were witnessing what I was witnessing. The girl with the Heat magazine was no longer there but in her seat was a fat woman trying to calm her baby by suffocating him with her ample breast. The gentleman with The Reluctant Fundamentalist too had disappeared and next to me was a skinny old man in his dhoti snoring loudly and plainly oblivious to both screaming child and ample breast. In fact the whole carriage was a scene of pandemonium. There were fans whirring from the ceiling of the carriage and there were people, sitting on the floor, being trampled on by a couple of cross dressers in their bright coloured sarees, making their way to the next coach. They ignored hurls of insults and lewd jokes, pulling their tongues out from chilli bright lips, which served to excite their teasers even more.

Looking out of the window again, slums with dilapidated houses in various stages of neglect and repair whizzed past and billboards displaying the latest that Bollywood can offer had the handsome Shahrukh Khan staring unsmiling at me. And as if on cue, a melodious and haunting sound of the sittar pierced the midday air, followed by the beat of the tabla, prompting the passengers on the floor, the cross dressers with their tongue sticking out, and the fat lady with baby at her breast to jump on their feet and break into one of the most syncronised Bollywood dance I ever saw.

Even the snore of skinny man next to me sounded melodious and he suddenly opened his eyes and broke into a Mohamad Rafii number.

I would have joined in the fun if not for the announcement that the train was approaching Luton and a reminder for us to take all our belongings. Like a dream rudely interrupted, coach C of the First Capital Connect returned to its normal albeit boring calmness as it pulled into Luton station.

I stepped onto the platform into wet and soggy Luton, annoyed that my dream of India was interrupted. I put it down to the puasa as well as the many sms’es and reports that I received from Nona about her train journeys since arriving in Mumbai. After a subtitleless Bollywood movie in Mumbai, she and her cousin took a train to Ahmadabad, before going to Udaipur where, hot on her heels was a very enthusiastic young man with chat up lines, that will make you roll on the floor laughing.

Example of chat up lines :

Did it hurt you when you fell from heaven?

Which country is suffering now that you are not there?

(And I thought the best dialogues come from India!!)

Anyway, Nona and my niece and friend are having a wonderful time in India. Right now they are in the picturesque mountain resort of Manali, after a 15 hour car ride from Delhi. A punctured tyre, stops for mutter paneer to break their fast, they arrived in pitch dark Manali at about midnight.

“Its like Geneva, mama,” she gushed on the phone to me from the balcony of her hostel when morning unveiled Manali’s beauty with the snowcapped Himalayas in the background.

That is indeed a stark contrast to the experience camping in the heat of the Thar Desert of Jaisalmer, where they started their first day of Ramadan. If I could expel the nagging feeling, I think waking up for sahur, in the early morning before the sun rose in the Thar Desert, being served with boiled eggs by two male guides, has a romantic touch befitting any Bollywood movie.

Well, her journey had taken me on my own journey of India via google and blogs published on travels in India. I made the same train rides from Mumbai to Ahmadabab to Udaipur, where among the ruins of a palace she was surrounded by locals who touched and stared at her. Sleeping in the trains during the nights seemed to be the norm, a cheap way of travelling without having to stay in hostels. From Jaipur they left for Jaisalmer in the soaring heat that I could almost feel from cold and wet London. I prayed for their safe journey to Agra where they feasted their eyes on the Taj Mahal before moving yet again to Delhi.

I caught up with them in time at a travel agent where they booked a car and a driver that had taken them to Manali, then to Shimla and back to Delhi.

The next few days will see them making the tracks to Sikkim in the west and then a two day train ride to Bangalore. After that, I think, I should be able to rest (my fingers) after crisscrossing the Indian continent, thanks to Google.

Other train journeys:
Manchester Musings
Tales From The Tracks
On the 1302 from Kings Cross with Tunku Halim
Training My Thoughts
As I Was Munching Muruku
A Malay Experience in Roman Exeter
Train of Thoughts
A Story Untold

Manchester Musings

For once, I was half an hour early and that afforded me some time to buy not one but two mushroom croissants and hot steaming tea for the more than 3-hr journey to Manchester Piccadilly. The 0731 was still not ready for boarding and the early morning passengers all stood around, craning their necks looking at the departure board, waiting for the platform number.

The fare to Manchester Piccadilly was £62.00 a hefty sum that burnt a hole in my pocket. Even while most of London was still stirring in their sleep, I had already parted company with £16 for a minicab ride to the station. London is expensive, I kept telling myself.

I found a comfortable seat with only a Nigerian woman and her newborn in her sling sitting at the next table. Hubby had suggested I brought along my new laptop anyway in case I needed to finish some work and I readily agreed. By the end of the journey, I had finished about 10 games of Spider Solitaire – won four and lost six! Damn!

It seems a little strange that I had been in UK all these years and yet my journeys to Manchester only started about last year.

After the loss of the first game, I remembered the first was a visit to a friend’s house. Her mother-in-law had passed away after just a few days’ visit. Then there was the trip with my sayang mama. We stayed at a posh hotel and we were treated to Manchester Utd Vs Inter Milan. It was a very educational trip, football-wise, making my third trip, a lot easier when I watched Manchester United vs Blackburn Rovers.

But most of the time, as the train snaked its way through the British Midlands, I found my mind meandering back to the late eighties, for that was the first time that I had actually come face to face with him. It was the summer of 87, but summer in Vienna was like spring in London. And my heart was racing at the thought of meeting him in the city that inspired The Third Man, the city which evokes thoughts of the Vienna Boys Choir, grand museums, concerts and long street names such as Mariahilferstrasse.

I remember the hurried walk with one child in a pushchair and the other walking two steps at a time trying to catch up with mama who wanted to work and be a mama at the same time. My husband had called to say the man was ready to meet me and hubby would take over the children while I went to the conference room to do the interview. It wasn’t a good first meeting. He was not well and his answers were monosyllables. Rumours had it that he was nursing a flu and the good doctor was prescribed roti canai.

I was so nervous that I forgot to check the level on my tape recorder and my fumbling with the machine that the BBC provided me for the assignment left him quite unimpressed. You usually know from his facial expressions that he wasn’t impressed and after years of following him around, I can safely say, that was one unimpressed look.

One week in Vienna and the Malaysian contingent were already wilting from missing rice. And Pak Non found a restaurant – Rasa Sayang that not only served rice but also sambal tumis and kicap. He very kindly made reservations for all of us on the last day of the two-week conference so that we could all eat to our hearts’ desire. For that we were grateful.

One winter, it was in Paris. According to schedule he was to have only a 20- minute meeting with Jacque Chiraq at Élysée Palace. While he was having a tet-e-tet with the president, the temperature outside had plummeted and we stood in sub zero temperatures, our legs frozen to the ground. He emerged 40 minutes later and was driven to his hotel room where he was to brief us about his meeting. But true to form, when we finally defrosted our tongue and asked him questions, he said: Why can’t you all wait for me in Norwich tomorrow? (for that was where we were to meet him the next day). And how do you answer that?

One warm summer it was Budapest. And Budapest in summer is beautiful, with its enchanting architecture that tells stories of its rich culture and its embittered history, and gypsies playing their violins as you walk along the riverbanks running parallel to the Danube. It would have been more beautiful had it not been for work, at the end of which, he looked at the troop of hacks, looking more like fallen soldiers and asked the obvious: Aren’t you all tired of following the PM around?

Only one of us dared answer. Someone from the back of the room said: Kalau PM tak penat kami tak boleh penat, he lied.

But most of the time it would be London and once or twice in Cambridge or Oxford. Once it was during the rumoured fatal fall from riding in Argentina, and then when he was interviewed by Al-Jazeera in London, which was quite funny, actually, watching him being made up and powdered.

But yesterday, we met up again in Manchester; clued up as ever, very much focussed and very much missed. And very much Tun M.

The Somali minicab driver who had taken me to the station earlier, took me home and was very impressed that I met the man. “Ooh, you are very lucky. Everyone in my country knows him and would love to meet him”

Tales from the tracks

The 1510 from Euston to Coventry was already packed by the time I heaved myself up the coach next to the buffet bar. As the Virgin train eased out of the station, I found a seat with a table to continue work which was interrupted when I got the news. It was not by the window. But it didn’t matter as my mind was too preoccupied with a thousand and one things for me to enjoy the English countryside zooming past. Cluttered in my mind were looming deadlines, piling up laundry, hungry cats, interviews to be transcribed which alternated with splashes of green fields, quaint English villages and landscapes still undecided whether it was winter or spring.

But even as we were passing through the backyards of Milton Keynes, I still couldn’t concentrate on the work staring back at me from the screen. My mind strayed to what awaited me at the end of the journey. I’ve made many a train journey through the lengths and breadths of Britain and beyond, not knowing what was in store at the end of the line. Sometimes what would start off as exciting and promising would fall flat, with nothing to show for at the end of the day.

Take the trip to Dover for example; Dover with its promise of fresh sea air and the imposing White Cliffs, the friendly greetings from the doves circling above hooting ships. And most of all the promise of that swim, the marathon swim that was supposed to put Malaysia on the map of channel swimmers and prove to the world that Malaysia certainly Boleh. It wasn’t one or two trips but several thanks to choppy sea, bad weather and no ‘window’ for our channel swimmer Malik Mydin, now a Datuk, of course. Suffice to say, by the time he finally and literally took the plunge, I was very familiar with the route from Charing Cross to Dover Priory.

Sometimes we’d get an sms saying , yes the swim was definitely on and that got our adrinalin pumping and we’d jump on the train only to be told halfway there that the swim was aborted as the wind was too strong, the waves too high etcetera, etcetera.

So, we’d roam the small seaside town of Dover. The residents had never seen so many flag waving Malaysians. Shouts of Malaysia Boleh echoed across the channel.

When it did happen, it was at about 2am on the 2nd of August I think and I remember the walk at about 1 am from the hotel to the beach. What a sight! It was like Pied Piper leading the trail to a waiting boat, which then took him to a certain point where he was to do his swim. We had to take another route by car and walked down a very steep slope to the beach to await Malik’s boat. We were greeted by millions of sandflies everytime we lit up the camera. It was dark and eerie and the group of perhaps 10 of us stood shivering trying to fend off the sandflies. Suddenly from afar we saw lights appearing in the darkness that was the English Channel. Three boats appeared, one of them carrying our swimmer. We or I certainly, shivered again, this time not so much because of the cold but because of the excitement. Malik climbed down into the water and with a hoot, hoot, hoot, he was off, the cheer of Malaysia Boleh ringing in his ears. We stood there watching his head bobbing in and out of the water until we could see no more. What a moment.

And yes, the next day I was back again, waiting by the beach to await his return. He did it in 17 hours something. I was supposed to be in the boat accompanying him and I even had my sea sickness pills, but somehow I was needed on land rather than being sick all over in the boat.
I can still picture Malik as he appeared from the boat that took him back to Dover. He looked like a battered boxer, but a champion nevertheless.

Now how did I get this far when I wanted to talk about my train rides?

On another train that took me to Southend on Sea, I felt the knots in my tummy that wouldn’t go away. It was an anxiety that started a day before when I met and instantly took into my heart two lovely boys – Muhammad and Ahmad. I had never seen conjoined twins before, never mind played toy cars with them . But that was what we did during our first meeting. They were adorable, so together yet so different in personalities.

It must have been from Liverpool street that we took the train to Southend-on-sea, the town that boasts the longest pleasure pier in the world. But pleasure was the last thing that we had in mind.

Muhammad and Ahmad who came to London for the operation were being taken to Riyadh after receiving a generous offer for an operation to separate them free of charge. The brothers had greeted us with their mischievous grin, racing up and down the lawn in a sort of wheeled walker. They were full of life, whizzing about, enjoying each other’s company, not realising that within a few days they were going to be separated. They had to learn to live apart as individuals. And I worried for them for it was no small task.

Well, from what I hear, they have done well. And I am happy for them and their parents.

I have written about one happy train journey here and many more. I’d love to write about the train ride from London to Budapest and the ones in Germany that took us along the beautiful and quaint villages along the River Rhine

But for now, suffice to say, the trip to Coventry came and went, leaving me with a certain feeling of restlessness.

On the 1302 from King's Cross with Tunku Halim

Perhaps I was not meant to take the 1258 from King’s Cross. The mini cab driver had foolishly taken the wrong lane and the turning into the busy station at that time of the day was choc-a-bloc! But as fate would have it the 1302 was standing on Platform 8 ready to go. I huffed and puffed lugging two bags in search of a quiet seat by the window, far away from other passengers. The rush meant I didnt have time to get that much needed latte from Starbuck and when the train pulled away from the platform, I allowed my mind to wander off to
44 Cemetery Road.

Yes, Malaysia’s prince of darkness is back with a new book.

Cemeteries, if I may state the obvious, are fertile grounds for imaginative minds. I have not read 44 Cemetery Road as I have yet to get one sent to me from home but I do know what it feels like walking along cemetery roads.

The title of Tunku Halim’s new book brought to mind the early morning walks with Mak to the mosque for subuh prayers. The Jerai, protective and majestic in the daytime, posed a more sinister feature hovering over us in the dark before the break of dawn. From a distance, clusters of women in white telekungs seemed to be floating towards the mosque as the call for prayer broke the early morning silence. The smell of the cempaka flowers pervaded the cool morning air but the sweetness of the smell usually gave me the shivers. We used to call the flowers that fell scattered on the final resting place of the residents of the cemetery adjacent to the mosque, bunga kubur.

Entering the compound, Mak would remind us to give salam to the residents of the cemetery: “Assalamualaikum Ya ahli kubur”, I would hurriedly mutter without looking left or right and I’d clutch Mak’s arm even tighter. I’d imagine eyes looking at me from every corner, I’d hear all kinds of shrieks and screams and laughter coming from graves with their tilting headstones. I’d remember tales of restless souls wandering the nights and returning at dawn, stories about ghosts of women who died during childbirth said to be residing on big trees bordering the compound. These were stories we children would exchange with each other in hushed tones during the day, and these were stories that’d keep us awake during the nights.

Anyway, I am sure 44 Cemetery Road has plenty to offer to keep us awake during the night but to get a taste of Tunku Halim’s treatment of horror stories, I fished out his other book “The Woman Who Grew Horns & Other Works” from my bag. The stories kept me company on the 1302 from King’s Cross.

There are many stories to choose from but as someone who did a paper on “The Monstrous Feminine in South East Asian Cinemas” I opted for ‘Night of the Pontianak’ for I was certain the monstrous feminine is lurking in there somewhere.

As the First Capital Connect whizzed past the English countryside, I found myself engrossed in the story with rich Malaysian flavour. Tunku, although residing in Australia, proved to be a true Malaysian; detailing food and the art of eating food as only Malaysians know how, in most of his stories. The setting here is a Kampung Pandan stall, in another its the Coffee Bean, Jalan P Ramlee.

The harmless banter between three friends, one woman and two men, was light and easy – like starters and appetisers before the main meal. The beginning chugged along well to the speed of the First Capital Connect – no hurry, no fuss. And in fact by the time we reached Hornsey, everything was still hunkydory with the three old friends. By the time we reached Alexander Palace, the narrator was still nursing hopes of a romance with his former uni mate. But this being a horror story, things had to take a sinister turn and as if on cue the First Capital Connect began to gain speed in rythm with my heartbeat.

“My heart pounded like bleeding fist in my head. The car skidded and swerved as I raced down the hill and I nearly got killed as it almost ploughed into the jungle.............”

And at this point I jumped.

“Ticket please, madam” said the First Capital Connect conductor. Phew! Never do that again, I said as I handed him my ticket before returning to the book to find out what happened to the narrator and his friend. Believe me, it wasn't a pleasant sight – and yes, the monstrous feminine was there. Just as the train went into the tunnel between Gordon Hill and Crews Hill she made her appearance.

Training My Thoughts

With robotic movements of the Stepford Wives, I joined other early morning commuters, hands clutching steaming hot take-away coffees, newspapers under armpits, to board the 0830 to Norwich. Unlike other days, today I had ample time to find a comfortable seat by the window to take in, for the last time (at least for now) the wonderful English countryside from the warm comforts of my window. Aaaah, the early birds get to choose – so many empty seats, with tables facing outward bound, where you can see where you are going or backwards, cos you can see where you’ve been.

I chose one in the middle carriage as it’ll be near the exit of my intended station and prayed that no one sat next to, in front of or adjacent to me. I was in no mood for small talk. And proceeded to bury myself in the morning papers.

Aaaah, what is the world coming to these days.... “Sex Slaves Gang Jailed” screamed the headlines in the free morning paper – the Metro. “Sex slaves sold at Gatwick” – revealed another headline. Young girls as old as 15 and sixteen are being lured from Lithuania with all sorts of promises of fun, excitement and probably the line that London streets are paved with gold.

So, so sad, I thought as the train pulled out of Liverpool Street Station. I hope the four caught will rot in jail...but I bet there are many more, perhaps in hiding, perhaps still running their despicable trade under a different guise! The door from the adjoining carriage opened and a couple sort of rushed in – the girl, a young lass of perhaps 16 looked around for seats and I prayed she’d give the empty seat next to me a miss. The gentleman behind her – no, I wouldnt call him that – he had this roguish look about him – somehow, he didn’t fit in with the early morning commuter crowd. Not like those I was accustomed to seeing these last few mornings, a bit dodgy, I thought, as I returned to the news that I was reading.

“We were promised that we will have a fun time at Halloween,” one girl was quoted as saying, “but as soon as we got here, our passports were taken and we were sold to brothels and pimps. And.....” I didn’t get to finish reading the sentence as I felt my space being invaded...by the young girl who had hundreds of other empty seats to choose but took the one next to me. But there was something about her. Her vulnerability, as she looked around wide eyed, timid even. No – scared is the word.

And...what about the rogue I saw behind her? I thought they were together but there was a certain hesitancy before he took the seat three rows away, facing us, his eyes never leaving the girl, I thought.

As the girl plumped herself beside me, I caught a whiff of her perfume. Hmmm, a bit too early for perfumes as expensive as this, I thought and I became suddenly self conscious of the scent that was coming from me. Its the minyak gamat balm that I had lavishly rubbed on my hands to ease the old joints in the winter cold. Instinctively, I pulled out my gloves and put them on.

But the strong whiff of gamat balm was still getting to my head though it worked wonders on my joints.

The young girl, still under the scrutiny of the rogue, which I now assumed was Lithuanian – from the Baltic region, anyway, was applying her bright red lipstick to those bee stung lips. The guy in pin striped suit adjacent to us looked up from his laptop and I thought - that’s not a look, its a leer, an ogle! And did he just licked his lips, those very lips that he kissed his wife goodbye with???? How dare he!

Aha!!!! I get it now! My eyes were darting from rogue man to young bee stung lip girl to randy pandy in pin stripes! I know why she sat next to me...she felt safe. May be she missed her momma back in Lithuania ( or perhaps her grandmomma!) and my motherly instincts took the better of me and I stared back hard at rogue man. I have read about things like this before. They ply the morning train to whatever destinations and pick up clients along the way. The pickings from the likes of pin stripe suit man could more than double the highly priced peak time return ticket to Norwich. Hmmm...

My heart was pounding. My coffee went cold and my almond croissant untouched. Having done her lips, young Lithuanian girl, for that was what I was sure she was, slowly lifted one shapely leg and crossed another shapely one, revealing her fish net tights underneath the knee-high leather boots. Gosh, they do get well paid in this business, I thought, making a mental calculation of the miserable hourly rate that I got plying this same route every day for the past two weeks!

From the corner of my eyes, without making it too obvious, I looked into her small mirror as she did her eyelashes, her red moist lips parting as she did so. Pinstriped suited guy had by now forgotten why he switched on his lap top and I swear he was drooling.

Rogue guy looked around uneasily and returned his beady eyes to Marlena – yes, that must be her name. Marlena – or it could be Veronica – names you see on small cards posted on telephone booths around London. He looked more than interested as Marlena or Veronica or whatever flicked her shoulder length hair back revealing long slender neck. I gasped! What was thatttttttttt? What have they done to the poor girl! A big blue, purplish bruise! Oh, how she must have suffered! She must have fought back. The reports did say they were threatened with beatings should they retaliate.

My head was racing and I knew I must act fast. I must save this young girl from anymore dirty paws that’s waiting to maul her. And wipe that lecherous look from your face, pin stripe baldy and go back to your wife and children!

Then suddenly – “Ting Tong! The next destination is Chelmsford. Please ensure that you take all your luggage with you. This train will now stop at Chelmsford”.

Marlena slung her handbag over her shoulders, walked past rogue man and was soon out of my sight even before I could put on my Superwoman cape. Rogue man stood up and walked behind her...aha! At the platform, Marlena flew into the arms of a forty something old woman screaming.......”Mummy! I missed you” and rogue man – (or was he?) sauntered up the overhead bridge and disappeared.

I went back to the newspapers, sipped my cold coffee and made a mental note, never again to use gamat balm. It does things to your tired brain.

As I was munching muruku

I sat on the 0815 going towards East Anglia, feeling very much like Michelin’s grandma trying to feel my feet under those layers and layers of socks. I had rolly-pollied down the platform just minutes before the train pulled away and plonked myself, quite breathlessly, on the seat and I swear I must have bounced up and down a few times much to the amusement of prim proper lady sitting in front of me, trying to concentrate on her John Grisham.

When I had peeled off my coat and jumpers and whatnots and piled them neatly like freshly made laundry on the empty seat next to me, I proceeded to take in the English countryside whizzing past.
The once yellow fields of rapeseeds are now bare, succumbing to the harsh winter that is intruding into autumn like an unwanted guest. The farmer’s cottage looked so calm and peaceful – the only hint of life being the soft, willowing smoke coming out of the chimney. Oh, how I envy the farmer’s wife cuddling up to the farmer under their feather-filled duvet, warmed by the crackling fire from their fireplace.

And how I envy the sheep their thick coat of wool as they stood still, dotting the bare field, as if they are glued by blue tacs to the ground. Oh, how I envy.....stop it, stop it , stop it! I told myself as I furiously munched my muruku, grinding them to a paste and downing them with strong starbucks latte that I had bought at the station.

Alas, at this ungodly hours of the morning, as the temperature dipped further and further, self pity was also fast setting in, especially when thoughts of what I was doing in good old sunny Malaya three weeks ago flashed by like those unsolicited Tourism slide show . Oh what am I doing here? It is cold and wet and gloomy!

“Yes, what are you doing there?” “How long more are you going to be there? “ “When are you all planning to come back and work here?” “ Do you plan to queue up with other OAPs (Age Old Pensioners) for your pensions at the post office?”

Those are the harsh, no nonsence, mind probing questions from friends that came like flashbacks...questions I don’t have answers to. I swear prim proper lady peered from behind her Gucci framed glasses, taking her attention away from Grisham momentarily. Had I been talking out loud to myself? Am I going crazy? I smiled sheepishly and continued munching my muruku courtesy of friend from good old Malaya.

Next month (and I thought I had stopped counting) it’ll be 26 years away from good old Malaya – the Malaya where I can wear my colourful kaftan up and down the streets and eat roti bakar with generous dollops of planta margerine and even more generous spread of kaya, at any time of the day or night. So, it has been 26 years of cold wet and glomy winter and I still can’t get used to sitting on cold toilet seats in the morning, without it giving me a jump start. Twenty six years and I still yearn for mee goreng mamak that never failed to bring tears to my eyes and make me rush to the toilet in five minutes flat – yet I keep on yearning, especially on a cold, gloomy day like this. When the train pulled in at a small station, I half expected a food vendor to come rushing to the window with nasi lemak and beehoon goreng and even kacang kuda rebus. Prim proper lady looked up unamused as if she could read my mind. Dream on, she seemed to say, raising one well plucked eyebrow before turning back to Grisham.

As the train left the platform, it seemed to be going through a wad of cotton wool. Gone were the leafless trees and the bare fields and I was feeling a tad claustrophobic. It was fog! Even prim proper lady seemed a bit ill at ease by this change in scenery. She muttered something under her breath that betrayed her breed and background. I only knew this after watching many repeats of To The Manor Born.


Self pity was rushing in at full speed and I overdosed myself with more muruku as if that would help, but it only brought back memories of that brief but fun evening at a deepavali open house eating chapati and curry to the sound of Selamat Hari Raya by a sittar player. This can only happen in good old Malaya.


The fog lifted but it failed to leave my mind. It was still foggy and muddled up – my mind, that is. Someone cleverly mentioned my life as one being cradled on two cultures. It has made it more muddled, that’s what it has done. And what have I done in my 26 years here? It stocktaking time!


Anyway, the scenery outside the window was becoming more interesting. The little lanes snaking into the woods were white against the dark gloomy background. It was like strokes of white chalk on a painting. The ground was frozen! Even the streams running alongside the tracks were frozen. Luckily I had my layers and layers of jumpers and shawls! Then, like wads of cotton wool, they drifted down gently settling on tree tops and roof tops turning it into fairyland at Christmas time. And as I stepped off the 0815 from King’s Cross, I felt the first snow drop of the season, on my nose.

A Malay Experience in Roman Exeter

I was so unprepared for Exeter in a way that Exeter was for me. Usually, I’d read available materials on the place of my destination to familiarise myself with any particular attractions the place has to offer. But this time, it was right at the last minute that I saw on the map, where Exeter really is. And as you can see from the postcard, an afternoon after the three-day conference could hardly do justice to a place with plenty to offer.

The journey
The train journey was uneventful. It was packed with holiday makers heading for the seaside on the south west coast of England as it was a long weekend break. A beautiful day with promises of more sunshine over the weekend. Outside the window, whizzing past us were carpets of bright yellow rapeseed fields surrounding clusters of quaint villages and secluded farm houses with neat patchwork of greeneries. Flocks of sheep looked like balls of cotton dotting the green canvas with cattles grazing not too far away. While travelling, I am often reminded of what my husband once told me: If the cattles are sitting down, it’ll surely rain. Well, some were and some were up and about. I supposed they were still undecided about the weather. Once in a while when the tracks ran parallel to the motorway, I caught sight of a few Eddie Stobbards and was reminded of the game I used to play with the children while we drove around the countryside; that is to see who gets to chart the most Eddie Stobbard lorries along the way.

Less than an hour before reaching Exeter, a vision from a distance caught my eyes. A large white horse, carved on the hillside. Its the Westbury Horse, the oldest of eight in the region. This 182’ high piece of art had been restored several times since the original was carved out in honour of King Alfred’s victory over the Danes in 878.

Exeter somehow reminded me of Dover, another seaside town. The fresh smell of the sea from the English Channel, the doves flying above, the hilly slopes. At the station, my friend Ida and I met up with other friends and my Professor from our University and together we made our way to the hotel, before the registration at Crossmead Conference centre.

The Crossmead Conference Centre was simply breathtaking - formerly a Victorian Merchant's house, it stands within four acres of beautifully landscaped grounds. It is considered the "jewel in the crown" of the University's venues. Sadly, Exeter University will lose this centre very soon.
It was here that we met up with other participants who had come from as far as Malaysia, Indonesia, Germany, Hawaii and Australia. The 22nd conference of the Association of Southeast Asian Studies (UK) kickstarted with several cultural performances to whet our appetites.





The conference
The conference had brought together experts in various fields of the Malay studies as well as PhD students who presented part of their research papers for discussion.
Participants from the Malay manuscripts Panel
I was especially delighted to have the company of Dr Russell Jones, an expert on watermarks and the Malay and Islamic world. A former MCS officer, Dr Jones worked in Malaya in 1953 as an immigration officer and came back to study Malay at SOAS. His paper on the use of the Arabic tashdid in Malay script will definitely help me a lot in my transliteration of the syair that I am currently working on.

Another interesting hightlight of the three day conference was the paper presented by Dr Uli Kozok of Hawaii University who reported on his discovery of the oldest known Malay manuscript in southern Sumatera. Before this discovery, the oldest known Malay letters are said to be from the Sultan of Ternate, written in 1520 and now kept in Lisbon. This fourteenth century manuscript is said to belong to a clan which received the manuscript 700 years ago from the Maharaja of Dhamasraya.
I managed to do a bit of panel hopping (a change from bloghopping) and found some interesting papers being presented by other panels – such as those concerning sexuality. Interesting to see the similarities in themes between Vietnamese poems and Malay syairs. The Vietnamese Ca Dao – a genre of Vietnamese folk poetry consists a lot of poems about the fate of women. Here’s a few lines to ponder on:

When a man becomes rich, he can have 5 wives and 7 mistresses,
If a woman becomes rich, she just keeps her chastity and
Prays for her husband after his death…

Hmmm.....

It was especially nice that I got to meet some old friends as well – those from the BBC days and now they have the Dr already attached to their names, each specialising in their areas of expertise. Dr Annabel Gallop, an expert on Malay manuscripts, is the Head of the Indonesian and Malay Collection at the British Library and very much the force behind my returning to university. Dr Janet Cochrane is now research fellow at Leeds Metropolitan University. I certainly have a lot of catching up to do.

After the goodbyes at lunchtime, we headed off to the Exeter Quay, with its old buildings and warehouses dating back to Charles 11. Pubs, cafes and antique shops lined the cobbled road along the canal. It was here that much damage was inflicted on my wallet as I succumbed to several collections of old plates and and a tea set.
According to the leaflets that was given to us at the hotel, Exeter Quay was once an international port thriving through mainly in export of woolen cloth, but by 13th century sea craft could no longer reach Exeter by river, so a canal was constructed around 1563. This canal linked the city to the estuary again and the port trade began to prosper once more.

Then, of course you cant miss the Exeter Roman & Medieval City Wall. It runs around the the city centre. And huffing and puffing up a path leading up the wall I was afforded a bird’s eyeview of Exeter. The walls were built by the Roman legions in the 2nd century and work continued through the Dark Ages. It is really interesting to see how history is preserved in other countries. Even some old buildings right in the modern city centre blended in well with the new buildings.


The cathedral and Mol’s Coffee House


Part of the ancient Roman wall

With feet aching and hands weighed down by last minute shopping at the Quayside, we decided to have just a look at the cathedral before heading off to catch the 1700 to London. But as fate would have it, one of the participants at the conference, PhD student Rushdan who lives right in the middle of the city centre, invited us to have tea. If you must know, we have not had rice for three whole days. Even if he had not pointed out to us his house, my nose would have led us there, following the smell of ayam masak lemak and crispy fried fish. Rushdan’s wife had prepared a feast for later that night inviting other Malaysian students there. We were offered an alas perut which we (in true Malay style)politely refused, once , twice, but readily accepted after the third offer. Suffice to say, it was a very Malay experience that we had in the ancient Roman city of Exeter.

Train of Thoughts

There’s something about travelling by train that I find fascinating and exciting. But before you could flick through Freud and link my fascination to you know what, I’d be halfway to my destination – Exeter, the Cathedral City, where among the ruins and remnants left by the Romans, I’ll surrender myself to the enchantment and beauty of Malay syairs and hikayats as presented by scholars of Malay studies from around the world. But that is just by the by and the subject of another blog, surely.

Right now, I am so looking forward to another train journey that will take me to a part of England I have never been before – Devon. A whole three hours from London Paddington! Enough time for some revision in preparation for my exam soon. But I will so enjoy the view of the English countryside whizzing past the window.

Eversince I was small, train journeys, usually during the start of school holidays, were something that I looked forward to. We’d visit my eldest sister who was then based in Johore, a far distant land near that oh so modern city of Singapore! From the small town of Yen, with its beautiful backdrop of Gunung Jerai, a train journey took a good whole day and a bit.

There’d be a buzz of excitement in the neighbourhood over our impending journey and Mak would prepare days ahead, packing and repacking clothes and foodstuff for daughter number one in that far distant land. There’d be food, lots of food, of course for that long journey. Out came the treasured and colourful Tupperware containers for the nasi lemak and sambal tumis ikan bilis, lots and lots of fried chicken, and of course boiled eggs. With flasks of coffee and tea, and iced water in tumblers, there’d be enough to feed the whole coach.

We’d be too excited to sleep and by the time we dozed off, it’d be time to wake up and make that early morning journey by hired taxi to Alor Setar where we’d catch the morning train. Relatives from far and near would gather at the station to say goodbye.

I will always remember the rush. Always rush, rush, rush to get the best seats, or any seat at all near the window. Sometimes, by the time the train from Padang Besar, I think, reached Alor Star, we’d have to make our way past baby swings suspended from the ceiling, bags of foodstuff and crates of fruits and sometimes passengers squatting on the floor. We'd dodge riffles of soldiers just out from the jungle, sleeping off their exhaustion and perhaps dreaming about the long awaited reunion with their families.

Mak would always warn us not to wear white or any light coloured garments – and we soon understood why. Usually by the end of the journey, even our faces would be blackened from the soot.

Our first stop was Bukit Mertajam where we had to change train. Passengers from the southbound train usually had to rush across the overhead bridge lugging their suitcases, crates and food bags to catch the connecting train, which usually only stopped for what must be only 10 minutes.

Another highlight of the journey must surely be that stop in Ipoh, a big station with its army of food vendors shouting out their goods – each in their own unique sing song way. Inspite of the nasi lemak and fried chicken that Mak made, we’d always give in to the famous kueh pows with its chicken curry fillings.

The combination of the heat in the stuffy coach, the food, plus the chug, chug, chugging monotonous rhythm of the engine soon lulled us to sleep, only to be awakened by more sing song food vendors plying their trade along the platforms, some even jumping expertly on and off the train with their baskets placed precariously on their heads.

During one of my numerous trips home, I have had the pleasure to try the Senandong Malam and gosh, the gush of memories that came flooding back. One that surely remained until now is the look on Mak’s face when she realised that underneath her baju kurung, she still had a towel tied around her waist! I can’t remember whether she had her sarong on as well or not.



Here, I almost always have a ritual before embarking on a train ride. Among the musts in the list of things to buy atthe station are mushroom croissants and coffee, a big packet of minstrels, a notebook and a book to read.



Train journeys through Europe must certainly be the most beautiful, exhilarating experience. Given the chance, my husband would say no to the plane and would opt for the train anytime. Thus once we found ourselves on the Eurorail train from London to Budhapest, going through some of the most beautiful cities in Europe, such as Cologne, Vienna and Munich. We swore we’d make this journey again.

And once, courtesy of the German government, we were treated to a train journey from one city to another and the view from the window, as the train snaked its way along the Rhine, was just breathtaking. Old castles and historic abodes of what must be German Barons, dotted the highlands giving an air of mystery and charm while yatchs and ships sailed lazily along the deep blue mesmerising Rhine.

Holland holds yet another sort of charm for me. Travelling from The Hague to Rotterdam, for example, one can’t help but be fascinated by the creativity and talents of what I would call pop art – the miles and miles of colourful and beautiful graffities on embankments and walls along the Dutch railway lines. I just wonder about the message behind these writings. I wonder too about the artists themselves who took the risks to freely exhibit their talent at such dangerous places.



Now I wonder what awaits me along the way to the ancient Roman city?

A Story Untold

I had taken the train from Waterloo to Sevenoaks numerous times and almost always looked forward to being in a quiet corner of the coach enjoying my book or simply catching up with sleep or entertaining dreams in between hectic schedules - oblivious to the picturesque English countryside whizzing past the window. But this time it was different. The ride to the British stockbroker’s belt on that summer afternoon of 2001, held a somewhat different meaning, a certain promise. I felt like a schoolgirl straight out of Enid Blyton’s Secret Seven series on a kind of adventure – a mission even.

The mushroom croissant that I religiously bought from Deli France at the station before my weekly trips remained untouched. The malteasers unopened. I had not progressed a line from Patricia Cornwell’s latest book. I was that excited.

It all began with a simple letter and an accompanying cheque written out in the name of the person I was to meet.

“Three o’clock at the station car park - I think I will recognise you,” he said over the phone, his voice betrayed a middle class upbringing, polished in what must have been some of the top British public schools. In my mind’s eyes, he must be in his fifties. Not more than that.

The station car park was not unfamiliar territory as I used to catch a taxi there to my usual destination every Wednesday afternoon. This time it was a rendevous with someone I had never met before to make a quick exchange before catching the train back to London.

I had recognised him instantly and he, me. I was ready to make the exchange but he seemed to want to talk and I allowed myself to be driven to a nearby hotel – a cosy little place where, over tea, he began his story about how he acquired a piece of our history.

Peter Cox was twelve when he was summoned on an errand to a retired admiral’s house. That was in 1948. The old admiral handed over two boxes; one to go to a jumble sale and the other – to go straight to the bin.

Jutting out of the box that was meant for the bin was a yellow scroll and in the yellow scroll, a piece of paper which looked like a letter but to the twelve year old, it was written in a strange script. Cox's curiosity took the better of him and he decided to keep the scroll instead of throwing it away.

In 1954, when he was doing his apprenticeship in Oxford, he suddenly remembered the strange manuscript that remained in his possesion all these while. He decided to take it to a centre where he knew some Asians worked. But they couldn’t help him. However, his supervisor, Professor Sir Wilfred Le Gros Clarke, soon to make his name in exposing the Piltdown forgery, saw the document and instantly thought that his friend – a J Innes Miller – might just know the contents of the letter.

And indeed he did. J Innes Miller was the British Advisor in Perak from 1947 – 1948. He read the manuscript and then transcribed the document in perfect Malay.

There in my hand, on that summer afternoon of 2001, in the leafy suburb of Sevenoaks, was a letter written in 1875 to Sir Andrew Clarke, the Governor of the Straits Settlements. It was a farewell letter from the leaders of the Malay, Chinese and Indian communities in Johore, to Sir Andrew before he left for his posting in India.

It was the same Sir Andrew Clarke who signed the Pangkor Treaty in 1874, the first to implement the new British policy of Protection in the Malay States and the founder of the Residential System.

Admittedly, its not as elaborate and beautiful as some of the Malay letters that I have seen in the posssession of The British Library, for example those letters from Raffles to our Sultans or the letters from our Sultans to the colonial masters. Nevertheless, its a piece of history - our history.

"It was hanging on my wall for a long time and my wife kept nagging me to take it down," he said.

"But I thought I must return it to where it will be appreciated," he added, taking the cheque as payment for the document.

Cox also handed over the yellow silk cloth in which the document was kept. If my memory serves me right, while doing work on old Malay letters, I was told that we do not have any in our possession. There are about six or seven at the Royal Asiatic Society. And now I was about to bring back the scroll and that piece of history back to where it belongs.