Kampong Spirit by Josephine Chia

Kampong Spirit by Josephine Chia

Author:Josephine Chia
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9789814435253
Publisher: Marshall Cavendish


It was a great moment, the beginning of a new era and the first sprouting of our country’s new identity.

IN OUR KAMPONG, we lived and worked together as one large, friendly community, but at the same time we celebrated our ethnic diversity. Malay, Chinese, Peranakans, Indians and Eurasians lived next door to each other without rancour, our doors open to each other. The common language that united us was Malay, so that everyone could communicate with each other. Several English families lived at Atas Bukit, or ‘Top-Of-Hill’, the hill above our village, in their ‘black and white’ houses. But they were not part of our community; they neither ventured into the kampong nor were they seen outdoors often. Occasionally when they had their garden parties, my friends, Parvathi, Fatima, and I, attracted by the English music and songs and the prospect of good food, would scramble up the hill to get a closer look.

Atas Bukit was our treasure-trove for fruits and food. There were mango, rambutan and chikku trees in the English people’s gardens. When in season, the pendulous branches, laden with fruit, would hang over the garden fence, where they were easy to pick. When the acid in your stomach grinds your insides due to lack of food, high morals fly out of the window.

The English looked incongruous in our environment, deathly pale in our strong sunlight, as if they had just emerged from spending years in dark underground caves. In Malay we call them Orang Putih, White People, but in Hokkien and Teochew, we call them, Angmoh, Red-Haired. We can only guess why. But unkind and disparaging people used the term Angmoh Kwee, meaning Red-Haired Devils. Their women wore large-brimmed hats and pretty dresses, their men wore cream linen jackets. We skulked round corners and hid behind lamp posts and trees as we did not want to be discovered.

“They think we’re vagabonds and thieves,” our parents drummed into our heads. “So don’t disgrace yourself by being seen!”

“Hello! Welcome! Glad you could make it,” a man said in his rich voice.

“Darling! How wonderful to see you,” a lady replied.

I loved the English accent, the way the words rolled on the tongues of the English people. The rhythm of their language was delightful. Not like the way we spoke English here. RP it was called. Received Pronunciation. Or BBC English. Their men had such deep voices. I spied one who could be my next heart-throb, once my crush over P. Ramlee was over. He was very tall, had blondish hair, with forelocks which swept down over his forehead.

But my priority at that moment was food. Our eyes feasted on the long table resplendent with all kinds of nice things to eat, large turkeys, meat joints, sausages and pies. There were also European fruits like apples, pears and oranges – the kind of fruits you would find on the shelves in Cold Storage, a special supermarket on Orchard Road, catering to the angmohs. One of the ladies in our village, Fauziah, who worked there as a shelf-stacker, said that there was cool air-conditioning in the supermarket.



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