And he's off!

Updated version: I had blogged earlier about my friend John who planned to ride from the southernmost to the northernmost part of peninsula Malaysia in a journey to uncover his place in his nation and his nation in him. Well, he left this afternoon and you can follow his progress in his own blog.

The southernmost tip of Malaysia is Tanjung Piai, a National Park that has visitor friendly boardwalks criss-crossing parts of the 526 hectares of coastal mangrove swamps and canals.

A Ramsar certified site, Tanjung Piai is also the southernmost tip of the Asian continental land mass.

We headed out to Tanjung Piai at mid-morning and reached there just before noon. John, Mei and I decided to play tourists for a while and we walked along the boardwalk marveling at the swamp and the rich animal and plant life it sustained.

We finally reached the southernmost point, a stark, soulless jetty with concrete floor, bizarre sayings nailed onto the railings, and ...

... a globe that looks like it has seen better days in a 3rd rate amusement park. John, though, seemed transfixed by it, perhaps plotting his next trip?

After a lacklustre lunch in Kukup at a seafood restaurant designed to relieve unsuspecting Singaporeans of their dollars, we headed back to Tanjung Piai for the real business of the day... The Journey.

First off, getting the gear out of the car. "Hmmm, I seemed to be missing something?"

After much moving things about...

... out comes the frame and the bags.

Take out the second wheel...

... and make sure there is enough air in it...

... before securing it to the frame.

Tyre pressure check for the back wheel.

And make sure all the bags are secured properly.

Now it's time to put on the right gear, starting with shoes.

Load the bags at the back...

... making sure they are balanced.

Put on the funny little thingamajig they call a bicycle helmet...

... and some mean gloves....

before taking a swig of holy water, blessed by the patron saint of cyclists, St. Wheely.

Give the ol' gal a good, long hug. Notice how I cleverly focused on the background, rendering the tender moment in soft focus, something I totally intended to do when releasing the shutter of my idiot-proof camera.

Then it's time to climb on board, test the gadgets and go for a quick spin.

All set, the man flashes his trademark cheeky grin...

... and he's off. Good luck, John. Be safe.

Char Kuay Teow for stroke charity!!!

Last month, on September 9 to be exact, some family and friends got together to man a stall at a fundraising carnival for the National Stroke Association of Malaysia (Nasam). For the past few years now, the team has put together a food stall selling mainly char kuay teow (fried kuay teow noodles, for you non-Malaysians out there). The stall is almost always a hit – the aroma of one of Malaysia's favourite street foods being fried fresh to order draws a long queue.

This year, apart from char kuay teow, the team decided to add pasta to the menu. The two woks used for frying and the pots used for cooking the spaghetti and keeping the sauce warm, were all laid out in a line, oodles of noodles being conjured up under the tropical sun. (To help move the pasta, we recruited an American lady, from Wisconsin, to cajole passers-by. No, it wasn't Wisconsin cheese she was adding; just cheddar!)

But back to the char kuay teow. The set up was pretty basic - a cook and a helper manning a wok surrounded by ingredients, neatly laid out.

The star of any char kuay teow is of course the see hum (cockles, bottom right), freshly removed from their shells the night before by a team resembling Santa's elves in December. Apart from oil and soy sauce, other ingredients include sliced fish cake, peeled prawns, chili paste and garlic...

... not forgetting also the "green" ingredients, chives and tau geh (bean sprouts).

We had many helpers taking orders, preparing and replenishing the ingredients (like eggs), and taking shifts over the wok. All in all, we sold out the 200+ plates we aimed to fry, and the carnival in total raked in some MYR 100,000.

Now, some of you might find it a little ironical (or you might be just plain ol' horrified) at the idea of serving char kuay teow at an event aimed to raise funds for the rehabilitation of stroke victims. After all, char kuay teow is one of the most cholesterol-laden indulgences around (which makes it so yummmeee!).

However, we are in good company. When Dr. Mahathir Mohammad, our ex-Prime Minister, was able to take solid foods after his recent heart operation, he asked for his first meal, the equally artery-busting roti canai and subsequently char kuay teow. His daughter, Marina, had to explain rather sheepishly in her blog that the roti and char kuay teow her Dad was consuming were hospital-cooked version that passed the inspection of eagle-eyed nutritionists!

Certainly, the team at Nasam made sure we controlled the amount of the "bad stuff" in our char kuay teow (oil being the chief culprit), but I am sure it was far more delectable than any hospital food out there!

Goodbye, Ah Huay

Our family cat, Ah Huay, died last Friday. She was a little under two years' old. She wandered off as usual in the morning to walk around the neighbourhood, and was hit by a vehicle. We only found out on Saturday, when a neighbour told us.

Ah Huay was a spunky little girl. She thought and behaved like a dog... not unusual since she had five older canine siblings. She meowed loudly everywhere she went, announcing her presence in no uncertain terms. We would often find her at our feet, looking for a tummy rub, and meowing if three seconds had passed and she hadn't gotten one.

One of her favourite perches was on top of the car bonnet, looking into the house. She had a panoramic view of all that went on in her kingdom.

When she wasn't sleeping blissfully on Dad's chair, stretched out like a, well, cat, she would find any number of chairs in the house, hang out and observe what was going on. The kitchen was always a hive of activity.

One day, as I was attempting to make the classic Hokkien noodle dish mee hoon kuay from scratch, Ah Huay sat across watching eagle-eyed, not very impressed with my technique on the dough. She wasn't far wrong... I sucked.

Goodbye Ah Huay, we will miss you.

Fighting for Burma

Sitting on the steps leading to Wheeler Hall, waiting for our Political Science class to begin, Min Zin started telling me the story of how he had spent most of his teenaged years on the run from the Burmese junta. From age 14 onwards, he had hidden in temples and underneath floor boards in the homes of sympathetic villagers, keeping still for hours on end, afraid not only for his own personal safety, but for the fate of his protectors, who had nothing much to begin with, but were putting all that they had at stake for a belief.

He was a student who turned to activism and journalism (The Irrawaddy) when his world came crashing down with the arrest of his older siblings in the 1988 crackdown on Burmese university undergrads. He was already in his late 20s when we spent nine months trudging from lecture hall to lecture hall in 2001/02. Yet, being older and having had his formal education prematurely halted had not dimmed his desire for learning.

Since then, Min Zin's story has become fairly well known. He continues to work as a journalist for Radio Free Asia, and when I see the shocking images of monks and ordinary Burmese being gunned down by soldiers, I think of Min Zin feverishly trying to get the story out to a world already weary of war, destruction and killing.

Picture credit: Copyright USIP

Going crabbin'

A scene from one of the many small wooden bridges on Pulau Ketam.

One of our favourite excursions is a day trip to a fishing island just off Port Klang, about 40 km west of Kuala Lumpur. Pulau Ketam, or Crab Island, is home to a community that has lived off the sea for over a hundred years, and continues to do so. Life seems slower and one catches a glimpse of 1950s Malaysia as one strolls through the homes built on stilts.

According to an “official” website, a “long time ago” Pulau Ketam was a deserted island full of mangrove swamps, before three fishermen, who went crabbing on the island, found the day-long journey back to the mainland too taxing, and built homes on the island, sometime in the mid-19th century.

Thankfully, nowadays it only takes about 30 minutes to get there from the mainland jetty, using a speedboat (above). This is a long craft usually packed with locals bringing provisions from or catch to the mainland. The bustle inside the enclosed boat is heightened by the Mandarin or Hokkien karaoke blaring away from the front. Plonk yourself on the wrong seat – under an aircon vent – and you’ll be blasted with an Arctic chill. Both the karaoke volume and the air-conditioning seemed stuck on Maximum!

On a trip to Pulau Ketam in the 1990s, the journey to the island took well over an hour, on an open wooden boat that chugged along serenely. We could then sit on benches at the back, hang out with the pilot, or perch ourselves at the bow, feeling the breeze on our faces and taking in the picturesque sea and mangrove swamp views. This time, we were cooped inside, and could only look out through small round windows that were either frosted, scratched or dirty. The price of progress! Thankfully, once the boat slowed down and was hopping from jetty to jetty along the island, the boatmen opened the doors, and claustrophobic locals and eager tourists crammed the small openings to breathe in fresh air or to take pictures.

The houses on Pulau Ketam are built close together, and are connected by a warren of raised, narrow wooden (and, increasingly, cement) paths, on which pedestrians, bicycles and motorbikes jostle for space. The population is mainly Chinese Malaysians, although there are a growing number of Indonesians working alongside the local fishermen.

Right off the jetty is the main town, with its administrative offices, market, food stalls, homestays, tourist offices and places of worship (above, the Hock Leng Keng temple). The social life of the Chinese inhabitants revolve around the temples, and in this tightly knit community, the temples sit cheek by jowl (below) with the congregation they serve.

At the time of our visit, the temple folks were busily preparing for a big Hungry Ghost celebration. It wasn’t just the two-legged creatures who were enjoying the whole fuss – the temple’s resident tortoises were in on the act as well…

However, it is the eight-legged delicacy, which gives its name to the island, that is often the highlight of any trip to Pulau Ketam. One cannot wander by the restaurants without being drawn to a colourful pail containing freshly caught crabs.

Before...

... and after! Yummmmmm.

Our meal for the four of us that day, at the restaurant just next to the jetty, also included…

… bamboo clams (above), home-made fish ball soup (below; we had two orders!!) stir-fried kangkong (water spinach), and curried large prawns.

The ceiling fans and ice-cold beer kept us cool as we ate our lunch on the large restaurant verandah. The meal finished, we sat back and took in the panoramic vista.

Another of Ketam’s well-known products is dried shrimp, small in size but packing a wallop in flavours, and a favourite of Malaysian cooks. All the stores in the town sell them (below right)…

… but if one is more adventurous, one can walk through the village and stop by any fisherman’s home and buy it off him. However, on that particular day, there were no dried shrimp in view, and we walked a fair bit before finally spotting some laid out and baking under the sun. See the many decks below jutting out from the homes? They’re all usually filled with sun-tanning shrimp, but on that day, only one deck was golden hued.

We walked towards the deck for a closer look.

A lady came out from the nearby house and explained to us that the fishermen were not having much success catching shrimp those past few weeks. (Was it because of the Hungry Ghost month, we silently thought?)

She grumbled something about the unpredictably of depending on the sea for one’s livelihood, while giving us a quick socio-historical slice of the island community. As for the shrimp, well, her husband was having better luck than most; he and his crew had left that morning at around 2 am and had returned just after lunch. They had cleaned and cooked the shrimp and had just laid them out in the sun, so that day’s catch was not quite ready for the market yet.

Instead, she arranged to have her neighbour’s previous day’s catch brought out and, without much persuasion, we took a good chunk home. It doesn’t get fresher than this!