SS Quah's Anything Goes

The Malaysian Chess Festival at Twenty-One

2026-07-07T10:12:11.217+08:00

Yesterday, my story on the Malaysian Chess Festival appeared on the ChessBase India website. It was only the second time I had written for this highly respected chess news portal. Interestingly, the first was almost exactly a year ago, when I had the pleasure of writing about Yeoh Li Tian's historic achievement in becoming Malaysia's first chess grandmaster.

This time, I decided to write about the Malaysian Chess Festival, which will be celebrating its 21st edition this year. Something of a coming of age for an event that first began in 2004. Since then, it has been held unfailingly every year except during the Covid-19 pandemic, when the 2020 and 2021 editions had to be cancelled.

I did notice that ChessBase India had edited my article somewhat, which is, of course, perfectly understandable. Editors have their own constraints and house style. Their version can be read here, and I hope it reaches far and wide, encouraging more players to enter this year's Dato' Arthur Tan Malaysia Open Chess Championship.

But for those interested, I'd also like to reproduce below my original version.

The Malaysian Chess Festival at Twenty-One

By Quah Seng Sun (former chess columnist of The Star, 1980-2012)
Come every August and September, the regional chess spotlight falls on Malaysia. That is when players from around the country and overseas converge on Kuala Lumpur for what has become one of the region's best-loved annual gatherings, the Malaysian Chess Festival.
This year marks the 21st Malaysian Chess Festival, which will be held from 28th August to 6th September 2026 at KL Gateway Mall in Kuala Lumpur. Over ten days, the venue will once again be transformed into a bustle of activity as players of all ages and abilities battle over the chessboard, renewing friendships while creating new memories.
It is remarkable how much the festival has grown. When it was first launched in 2004, it was a much smaller affair comprising just three tournaments: the Merdeka Team Chess Championship, the Malaysian Open Chess Championship and the Malaysian Chess Challenge. The latter was created with a simple but thoughtful idea in mind. Not everyone felt ready to test themselves against grandmasters and international masters in the Open. Players with more modest FIDE ratings were therefore given the option of competing in the Chess Challenge, where the opposition would be more evenly matched while still providing a serious tournament experience.
Those were also difficult days for the festival's founder, the late Dato' Tan Chin Nam. He was still coming to terms with the tragic loss of his youngest son, Arthur Tan Boon Shih. Rather than allowing grief to overwhelm him, Dato' Tan channelled it into something positive through a game that had long been close to his heart. Arthur himself had developed a genuine love of chess from a young age. On two or three occasions in the mid to late 1970s, I happened to bump into him quietly playing chess in Kuala Lumpur. He was never one to seek attention, but it was obvious he genuinely loved the game.
From those early planning sessions emerged the concept of the Malaysian Chess Festival. One of Dato' Tan's first decisions was to incorporate the already well-established Merdeka Team Chess Championship into the new festival. This tournament had begun in 1981 and was then entering its 25th edition. It was an inspired move. Players could begin the festival with two days of fast-paced team chess before settling into the longer and more demanding classical time controls of the Malaysian Open or the Malaysian Chess Challenge. It proved to be a winning formula.
Since then, there has been no looking back. The programme has steadily expanded to cater for virtually every section of the chess community. Various junior age-group championships, both individual and team, were introduced to encourage young players. Senior events were added. Blitz championships became traditional curtain-raisers and finales. Over the years, the Malaysian Chess Festival has grown into a celebration of chess in almost every form.
This year's programme is among the most comprehensive yet:

SMS Deen Merdeka Open Rapid Team Chess Championship (28th-29th August) — the 44th edition of Malaysia's longest-running team chess event;
Dato' Tan Chin Nam Merdeka Under-12 Team Championship (28th-29th August);
Merdeka Blitz Championship (29th August);
Dato' Tan Chin Nam Age-Group Championship for Under-6, Under-8, Under-10, Under-12, Under-14 and Under-16 players (30th August);
21st Dato' Arthur Tan Merdeka Open Chess Championship (31st August-6th September);
Daniel Yong Chen-I Memorial Merdeka Chess Challenge (31st August-6th September);
Dato' Tan Chin Nam Seniors Open Championship (31st August-6th September);
Dato' Tan Chin Nam Merdeka Day Age-Group Championship (4th September); and
Festival Blitz Championship (6th September).

While every event has its own attraction, the undisputed centrepiece remains the Dato' Arthur Tan Merdeka Open Chess Championship (previously known as the Dato’ Arthur Tan Malaysian Open Chess Championship). Over the past two decades, it has established a reputation as one of Asia's finest proving grounds for emerging talent. Long before many players became household names in international chess, they were already testing themselves across the boards in Kuala Lumpur.
The list is extraordinary. Future world-class stars such as Wang Hao (China), Le Quang Liem (Vietnam), Wesley So (the Philippines, later the United States), Alireza Firouzja (originally from Iran but now representing France), Dommaraju Gukesh (India) and Nodirbek Abdusattorov (Uzbekistan) all played in the Malaysian Open while they were still teenagers or pre-teens. A very young Gukesh played in three editions of the Malaysian Open from 2015 to 2017. Today, they are recognised among the world's elite, several having risen into the FIDE Top 20 and even the Top 10. Gukesh went on to become World Champion, while So and Firouzja both reached World No. 2 and Abdusattorov World No. 4.
Many others have similarly passed through Kuala Lumpur on their journey to international prominence, including Yu Yangyi (China), Li Chao (China), Ni Hua (China), Parimarjan Negi (India) and Lu Shanglei (China).
The women's list is equally distinguished. Current Women's World Champion Ju Wenjun (China) and former women’s champions Xu Yuhua (China) and Tan Zhongyi (China) have competed here, as has former World No. 2 Koneru Humpy (India) and current World No. 2 Lei Tingjie (China). Other recognised names include Dinara Saduakassova (Kazakhstan) and Mary Ann Gomes (India) who have appeared in the FIDE Women's Top 100.
Perhaps that is the Malaysian Chess Festival's greatest achievement. It has never tried to be merely another tournament. Instead, it has become a meeting place where schoolchildren play alongside senior citizens, ambitious juniors test themselves against seasoned professionals, and tomorrow's stars often appear long before the rest of the world notices them.
Although Dato' Tan Chin Nam passed away in 2018, his vision lives on. Every year his name continues to be associated with several events within the festival, a fitting tribute to Malaysian chess's greatest benefactor. The festival itself also honours the memories of Arthur Tan Boon Shih and Daniel Yong Chen-I, ensuring that their contributions to Malaysian chess are never forgotten.
For anyone who enjoys competitive chess, whether as a serious title aspirant or simply as someone looking for a well-organised tournament in a friendly atmosphere, the Malaysian Chess Festival remains one of the highlights of the regional chess calendar.
Entries are now open. Players wishing to participate may contact Tournament Director IA Abdul Hamid Majid at aham@pc.jaring.asia for further information, or register directly at http://register-datchesscentre.com
If the past twenty years are any indication, this year's festival promises another memorable chapter in one of the enduring success stories of Malaysian chess.

Healthcare and batik

2026-07-07T06:15:00.000+08:00

Have I let the cat out of the bag? Apparently, I have. In my last posting about this year's durian glut, I casually mentioned that we had been in Kuala Lumpur. Well, the secret's out now. Yes, we spent a few days there last week, mainly to chill with our daughter and enjoy a short change of scenery.

One of our first stops was GHHS Healthcare, where we had booked ourselves in for
a Tuina massage. As it turned out, they surprised me with a complimentary session on their Yunohana Hokutolite stone bed. I had tried this before. You simply lie on a stone bed while letting a gentle warmth seep into the body. Whether it works wonders or not, I'll leave to those better qualified to judge, but I certainly came away feeling relaxed. Together with the massage, we spent a very pleasant couple of hours there before heading off in search of durian at Seri Kembangan. That, of course, turned into another successful expedition.

But if I'm being honest, the healthcare visit wasn't really the main reason we went to Kuala Lumpur. The real reason was batik.

The men in batik, from left to right: myself, R Subramaniam, Abdul
Rahman Ahmad, Chan Swee Loon, Hu Yu Kwang, Tan Bian Huat
and Christi Hon

My first brush with batik actually goes all the way back to 1978. I had been selected to represent Malaysia on an official chess delegation to China, and before we left, the Malaysian Chess Federation had batik shirts specially made for the team. It was a thoughtful gesture, and naturally we wore them throughout the tour.

One or two years later, the Penang Chess Association also thought that batik was a pretty good idea when our team travelled to Hong Kong for the Asian Cities Team Chess Championship. I was issued with a batik shirt again but after returning home from that trip, I don't think I ever wore it again. To me, the colour was simply too loud and, dare I say it, rather hideous. At that stage of my life, batik just wasn't something I could imagine myself wearing all the time.

And also from left to right, the Penang chess team in Hongkong:
Lam Leong Yew, Goh Yoon Wah, Jimmy Liew, myself and
Eric Cheah

Over the next few decades, I owned one batik shirt for official functions whenever the dress code called for it, but the shirt rarely saw the light of day. Batik was something I wore because circumstances required it, not because I particularly wanted to.

That attitude began to change only two or three years ago when we became involved in the activities of SAMENTA, the Small and Medium Enterprises Association. Their functions often encouraged members to wear batik for uniformity, and before long we found ourselves acquiring a few shirts that were much more tasteful than those I remembered from years gone by. The designs were subtler, the colours more restrained, and I found myself wearing them with increasing frequency.

Then came our trip to Indonesia which changed everything. Seeing batik in Jogjakarta, where it is not merely clothing but part of the country's cultural heritage, gave me an entirely new appreciation of the craft. We visited batik shops, watched artisans at work and came home with several pieces. Suddenly I found myself noticing the patterns, the colours and the remarkable variety of designs. What had once seemed little more than formal attire had become something I genuinely admired. We came home with pieces that we thought would surely satisfy us for quite some time.

Well, we were wrong. The more we looked at them, the more we wanted to see what else was available. It's rather like discovering a new genre of music or a favourite author. One purchase somehow leads to another. So while we were in Kuala Lumpur, we decided to continue the hunt.

Our search took us first to Central Market, where batik has long been one of the attractions. We wandered in and out of the boutiques, taking our time to admire the colours, motifs and different styles. From there we strolled around the Petaling Street area, popping into shops whenever something caught our eye. We even made our way to Publika in our search.

The SAMENTA people in batik

Not every shop yielded a treasure, of course. Some designs were lovely but beyond what we were prepared to spend. More often, others simply didn't appeal to us. But that's part of the fun. Half the enjoyment lies in the browsing, comparing and occasionally stumbling upon something that seems to speak to you. In the end, our efforts weren't in vain. We found something that pleased both our eyes and our wallets, which is always a satisfying combination.

I have a feeling this won't be the end of our batik adventure. Once you've begun to appreciate the artistry behind the patterns and the craftsmanship that goes into making them, it's difficult not to look a little more closely whenever you pass a batik shop. Who knows? We may well be wandering into yet another boutique, telling ourselves we're "just looking". I've learnt by now that those are probably the two most dangerous words a batik enthusiast can utter.

P.S. I should also mention that the SAMENTA batik shirts we wear for official functions were specially tailored at the Penang Batik Factory in Teluk Bahang. It's well worth a visit. Besides the showroom, visitors can watch the craftsmen at work and even try their hand at making their own batik prints in a hands-on demonstration section. It gives visitors a much better appreciation of the skill and patience that go into every piece. I also like the fact that Penang Batik Factory continues to use traditional cotton rather than silk or synthetic fabrics. Somehow, cotton just feels more authentic in our tropical climate. Maybe my appreciation of batik didn't begin in Jogjakarta after all. Indonesia deepened it, but Penang has been keeping the tradition alive all these years, right on our own doorstep.

Durian glut

2026-07-06T06:25:00.000+08:00

This is durian season. It has been going on for about a month now and, from what I can see, we're in the middle of a real glut. Not just in Penang, but in Kuala Lumpur and many other places as well. Prices have dropped to levels I haven't seen in quite a while. Musang King, for instance, has been selling for around RM15 a kilogram. That's really, really cheap. Even Black Thorn, nowadays the premium variety, has come down to about RM35 to RM40 a kilogram.

When the season first got underway a little over a month ago, The Old Frees' Association announced its annual durian outing to Balik Pulau. Unfortunately, I had to give it a miss as my brother-in-law and his family were returning from Singapore for a visit. Under circumstances like that, family comes first. No question about it.

Still, that didn't mean we had to forego our durian. Since they were here, I decided to take them to Junjong, a little town near the Penang-Kedah border. Balik Pulau may be the island's best-known durian destination, but Junjong is a close second. Technically it's in Kedah rather than Penang, but that's really splitting hairs. Good durian don't pay much attention to state boundaries.

We wandered from around before settling on seven durian for RM210: one Musang King, three Black Thorn, one Green Skin and two other varieties whose names have completely slipped my mind. The important thing was that they all tasted wonderful.

A few days later we found ourselves in Kuala Lumpur, where I suggested to our daughter that we should go for a durian session. This time we stopped at Seri Kembangan and came away with three durian - a Musang King, a Black Thorn and a D101 - all for RM110. Again, a bargain considering what these varieties usually fetch outside the peak season.

Since returning home, we've somehow managed to fit in a few more rounds. One day it was a plastic container of the D22 variety for RM20. On another occasion, while offering lunch dana at Nandaka Vihara, there were durian among the offerings afterwards, so naturally we weren't going to let them go to waste.

All things considered, despite missing the OFA durian trip, I really can't complain. One way or another, there have been plenty of opportunities to indulge in the king of fruits during what must surely be one of the best seasons in recent years. And the season isn't over yet. It usually runs into August, so I suspect there are still a few more durian feasts waiting before this year's glut finally comes to an end.

Prambanan's Hindu past

2026-06-28T06:37:00.000+08:00

The last significant heritage site our group visited in Jogjakarta was the Prambanan Temple compounds. We arrived there in the afternoon of our second and final full day, just when the Central Javanese sun seemed determined to test our endurance. After the misty disappointment of Mount Merapi earlier that morning, we found ourselves at the opposite extreme. The heat radiating from the stone pathways was intense and the occasional shadows cast by the soaring temple towers became our brief moments of relief as we wandered through the grounds.

By then, most of us were visibly tired. Although nearby Candi Sewu is regarded as one of the finest Buddhist temple complexes in Indonesia, time and energy were no longer on our side. We reluctantly gave it a miss and concentrated our attention on the main Prambanan temple complex which is also known as the Candi Rara Jonggrang. That was perhaps the one regret of the day.

After spending so much time among the serene Buddhist monuments of Mendut, Pawon and Borobudur, arriving at Prambanan felt like stepping into a different chapter of Java's past. If Borobudur is a vast stone mandala inviting contemplation, Prambanan reaches skywards with dramatic confidence. Its tall, slender towers seem almost weightless despite being carved from thousands of blocks of volcanic stone.

Built during the ninth century under the Hindu Sanjaya dynasty, Prambanan is the largest Hindu temple complex in Indonesia and one of the grandest in South-east Asia. The central compound of the Candi Roro Jonggrang is dedicated to the Trimurti of Shiva the Destroyer, Vishnu the Preserver and Brahma the Creator. The towering Shiva temple rises nearly 50 metres above the plain.

What absorbed me most were the relief carvings. Running along the galleries are exquisitely detailed panels illustrating the ancient Indian epic known as the Ramayana. Stone dancers, warriors, princes, celestial beings and mythical creatures emerge from the walls with remarkable vitality. Even after more than a thousand years, the carvings retain an elegance and movement that make them feel almost alive.

Elsewhere, one encounters finely carved kalpavriksha or wish-fulfilling trees, lions seated within niches and graceful apsaras. The craftsmanship is extraordinary. Each panel seems to invite visitors to slow down, linger and notice the details.

Yet Prambanan's history has been far from tranquil. For reasons that remain uncertain, the temples were gradually abandoned after political power shifted from Central Java in the 10th century. Earthquakes and volcanic eruptions took their toll and over time the complex fell into ruin, its stones scattered and reclaimed by vegetation. It was only rediscovered by Dutch travellers in the 17th century and systematic restoration began from 1918.

Even in recent times, the work of preservation has continued. The devastating Jogjakarta earthquake of 2006 damaged many structures within the complex, including Candi Sewu, forcing parts of the site to close temporarily while conservation experts assessed the damage and undertook repairs.

Through the decades, Indonesia has remained determined to preserve these monuments despite the enormous challenges involved. Restoring ancient stone structures in an earthquake-prone region is neither simple nor inexpensive. It requires patience, expertise and international cooperation. In recent years, India has pledged assistance in the conservation of Prambanan, recognising the shared cultural heritage that links the two countries across centuries of maritime exchange and civilisation.

Borobudur and Prambanan are reminders that Indonesia's history is diverse. Long before Islam became the faith of the majority, the archipelago was home to powerful Hindu and Buddhist kingdoms whose influence extended across South-east Asia. Modern Indonesia does not shy away from this inheritance. Instead, it embraces it as part of the nation's story. I sensed this in the care devoted to these sites, in the pride of the local guides and in the willingness to invest in their preservation. These monuments are not treated as awkward reminders of an earlier age. They are celebrated as symbols of cultural continuity and national identity.

That, I think, is something worth reflecting upon. There are countries, including our own Malaysia, where ancient Hindu and Buddhist heritage can sometimes be overlooked or regarded as belonging to someone else's past. Yet history does not cease to be ours simply because later generations embraced different faiths or identities. We do not have to feel embarrassed about the many facets of our heritage. We can acknowledge them honestly and face them squarely, recognising that they have all contributed to shaping who we are today. Indonesia, by contrast, seems comfortable acknowledging that history is not a single thread but a tapestry woven from many traditions.

As we trod wearily through the afternoon heat, I could not help but marvel at how remarkable these towers still stand at all. They have endured earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, political change and centuries of abandonment. And perhaps that is what makes places like Prambanan and Borobudur so compelling. Despite civilisations evolving, beliefs changing and societies moving in new directions, the past need not be erased to make room for the present. It can simply be remembered, respected and carried forward.

Ronnie's 27-0 score

2026-06-27T21:26:50.203+08:00

Old Free FIDE Master Dr Ronnie Lim, the Malaysian National Chess Champion in 2001, scored a clean sweep of 27 games at the first simultaneous chess exhibition organised by the Chess Section of The Old Frees' Association today. His opponents comprised OFA members, their children and grandchildren, as well as members of the Penang Free School chess team.

Before play began, I had the privilege of saying a few words as chief arbiter. I welcomed the participants and expressed the hope that they would make full use of the occasion. A simultaneous exhibition is not really about trying to beat the master, although if someone does manage it, we'll probably be hearing about it for years to come. The real value lies in watching how a strong player thinks, learning from the experience and, above all, enjoying the game.

I also thanked those who had made the afternoon possible. The idea had come from OFA Secretary Han Boon, and among the senior chess members our response was simply, "Why not?" With the help of Han Boon and fellow Chess Section members Tay Aik, Terry and Anthony, the idea gradually took shape. Hopefully, this will be the first of many such activities.

It also gave me the opportunity to say a little about the history of chess within The Old Frees' Association. Our involvement goes back to around 1991 or 1992, when I managed to assemble a team of eight Old Frees to compete in the Penang Chess League. That modest beginning eventually grew into more than three decades of regular participation in team tournaments around the state and in the annual Merdeka Team Chess Championship in Kuala Lumpur.

Over the years, more and more Old Frees became involved, not just as players but also as organisers and arbiters. Today, we have at least 30 members who have contributed to chess at state, national and even international level. Among them are state champions, national champions, FIDE Masters and three accredited International Arbiters. At one point during my introduction, I acknowledged fellow International Arbiter Tan Kai Ming, who was present with his grandson, one of Ronnie's challengers that afternoon.

Introducing Ronnie himself was perhaps the easiest part. I've known him since the mid-1990s when he was still a schoolboy at Penang Free School, representing the school in the Penang Chess League. Even then, it was obvious that he possessed exceptional talent. By that stage he had already been playing for several years, having taken up chess while still in primary school, and before long he was winning age-group championships around the country.

I briefly ran through some of his achievements: Malaysian National Champion in 2001, multiple national age-group champion, MSSM Under-12 champion, ASEAN Under-18 bronze medallist, SEA Games bronze medallist, two-time Penang Closed Champion, Royal Selangor Open champion, FIDE Master with a peak rating of 2349 and, away from the chessboard, a consultant radiologist by profession.

The simultaneous exhibition eventually stretched over three hours and 40 minutes. At the start, everything happened at breakneck speed. Ronnie moved briskly from board to board, making his opening moves almost without breaking stride, while his challengers scrambled to keep up. But as the middlegames began to develop and complications arose on virtually every board, his pace inevitably slowed.

After about an hour and a half, only five games had been decided. The remaining boards were still full of life, with players hanging on stubbornly and trying to find ways to make life difficult for the master. Gradually, however, experience began to tell. One after another, Ronnie's opponents were forced to resign.

As the number of games dwindled, the pace picked up again. During the final hour, only five or six boards remained in play, allowing Ronnie to devote much more time to each position. The last player standing was Chan Kah Poh, whose steady, solid game proved surprisingly difficult to crack. As is customary in simultaneous exhibitions, once only a single game remained, a chess clock was introduced so that the contest could proceed under normal tournament conditions. In the end, Ronnie's greater experience prevailed, bringing an end to what had been an absorbing afternoon of chess.

Afterwards, Ronnie admitted that about four or five players had given him genuine problems before he gradually gained the upper hand. What surprised me even more was when he quietly confided that this had been the very first simultaneous exhibition of his life. Considering how effortlessly he had moved from board to board, calmly keeping track of 27 games at once, I would never have guessed it. Having defeated all 27 challengers at his first attempt, he could hardly have asked for a better introduction to this unique form of chess.

There was a completely unexpected moment that made the day especially memorable for me. When I invited Ronnie to say a few words before the exhibition started, he looked across at me and remarked that he had first become interested in chess after reading my newspaper chess columns when he was in Standard Four. I must confess that caught me completely by surprise. One never really knows whether one's writing has influenced anyone. To hear that it had played a small part in inspiring someone who would later become one of Malaysia's strongest players was deeply gratifying.

Watching Ronnie move calmly from board to board while children, parents and grandparents all concentrated over their games, I couldn't help thinking that this was exactly the sort of activity the Association should be organising more often. Chess has a wonderful way of bringing generations together. Judging by the smiles around the hall, I suspect this first simultaneous exhibition won't be our last.

Disappointing Merapi

2026-06-24T06:36:00.000+08:00

In the morning of our second full day in Jogjakarta, we visited Mount Merapi. Our expectations were simple: to see one of Indonesia’s most famous volcanoes in full view. Instead, what we got was a wall of off-white mist that swallowed everything beyond a few metres. The mountain was there somewhere, I was sure of it, but it remained invisible, as though it had decided not to perform that day. I must admit, something of a letdown.

In a way, that experience captures what many visitors discover about Merapi. It is a name that carries weight as one of the most active volcanoes in Indonesia, often spoken of with awe, but the actual encounter can feel rather over-hyped.

Part of this comes down to how the visit is usually arranged. We went with the so-called “lava tours” from Kaliurang, the standard way of experiencing the area. On paper, it sounded like an adventurous off-road journey through a raw volcanic landscape. In reality, it felt more like a convoy of jeeps following the same route, stopping at the same places, with visitors taking the same photographs from the same angles.

There is the preserved house buried in ash, now a small museum of frozen domestic life. There is the so-called Alien Rock, a boulder hurled down by the 2010 eruption and said to resemble a face. I looked and looked, but there was nothing to stir my imagination. And there is the bunker that once served as shelter during eruptions but now a memorial to those who perished when lava overwhelmed it. Each stop has its own story, but taken together the experience can feel rather mechanical.

Yet Merapi is more than a tourist attraction. For the Javanese, it is a living presence with a guardian spirit, once embodied by Mbah Maridjan, the mountain’s spiritual custodian who died during the 2010 eruption. It also forms part of Jogjakarta’s sacred axis, balanced against the Indian Ocean to the south, known locally as the Southern Sea and personified in folklore by Nyai Roro Kidul. Annual offerings acknowledge Merapi’s dual nature as both destroyer and giver of life.

Visibility is Merapi’s greatest unpredictability. Cloud cover gathers quickly and by mid-morning the summit is often swallowed by a featureless white veil. Unless one arrives at an unusually clear hour, the iconic smoking peak remains more imagined than seen. Standing there before that pale emptiness, I began to wonder if the mountain was not refusing to reveal itself at all, but simply telling us that nature does not operate according to our expectations.

Unlike the lush, cinematic volcanoes one sometimes imagines in Indonesia, Merapi’s surroundings are shaped by its own violence. The terrain is ash-grey, broken rock and sand. Material is repeatedly thrown out over time and never quite softened back into the landscape. There is a bleakness and starkness to it all, far from any postcard vision of tropical grandeur. I was told that in some areas, sand-mining continues along the slopes.

In the end, perhaps the mountain is not so much over-rated as it is misunderstood. I arrived hoping to see a famous volcano in all its splendour and left having seen little more than mist and ash-grey slopes. Yet the stories surrounding the mountain, its place in Javanese culture and the respect it continues to command among local people suggest that Merapi is best understood through belief and imagination rather than sight alone.

SG Lim's run for cancer

2026-06-22T16:45:53.533+08:00

There was a huge charity event at Penang Free School yesterday and, much as I would have liked to be there, I had to give it a regrettable miss. Not through any lack of interest, but because several weeks earlier, long before details of the event had been finalised, my brother-in-law from Singapore had already arranged to return home with his family for a visit. Family took priority as rare reunions, like this particular one, are not something I can postpone lightly.

Still, I followed developments from afar because this was no ordinary event. It marked the conclusion of Old Free Lim Shyang Guey's remarkable Run for Gold journey, which was a 2,200-kilometre run (actual distance covered was 2,390 kilometres) across Peninsular Malaysia to raise awareness and funds for children battling cancer.

Better known now as SG Lim, the Class of 1975 (Form Five) alumnus began his journey on the 28th of March from the National Cancer Society Malaysia's Home of Hope in Penang. Over the next 86 days, he ran north to Perlis, crossed to Kelantan, travelled down the east coast to Johor and then turned north again along the west coast before returning home to Penang.

The final stage took him on an 82-kilometre route around the island, passing through Teluk Bahang, Balik Pulau, Batu Maung, Jelutong and George Town before he crossed the finish line at his alma mater, Penang Free School, one day before his 67th birthday.

There was something fitting about that ending. The journey had begun in Penang and it ended where another journey had started many years earlier at the school that helped shape him.

More than 150 teachers and present pupils of the school were among the several hundreds gathered to welcome him home, alongside family members, former schoolmates, supporters, volunteers and well-wishers that included Penang Chief Minister Chow Kon Yeow and Penang Island City Council Mayor Rajendran P Anthony. Standing before the crowd at the finish line, SG Lim looked skyward and spoke words that had carried him through the entire journey. "Firstly, my darling, we made it."

The tribute was to his late wife, Goh Joo Lee, who passed away from gallbladder cancer in August 2024 at the age of 63. The couple had once dreamed of travelling around Peninsular Malaysia together on foot after retirement. After losing her, Lim transformed that shared dream into a mission with a different purpose.

"We had wanted to walk around Malaysia together, every state," he said. "But I did not get to do it with my wife. She was there all along with me. Yes, we made it."

At its heart, Run for Gold was never really about running. The name itself comes from the gold ribbon, the international symbol of childhood cancer awareness. As Lim explained, "It's for the children. Children with cancer. That's why it's Run for Gold. I am running for the children. I don't need any more gold."

Along the way, he covered between 25 and 35 kilometres a day, staying mostly in homestays and shared accommodation, meeting families affected by cancer and listening to their stories. The journey also formed part of the torch relay for Relay for Life Malaysia 2026 which carried a message of hope and solidarity from community to community.

The campaign had initially aimed to raise RM600,000 for the National Cancer Society Malaysia. By the time he crossed the finish line, donations had already exceeded RM775,000, with funds earmarked for childhood cancer support services, including the Home of Hope programme, psychosocial care and survivorship initiatives.

Penang Chief Minister Chow Kon Yeow, who welcomed SG Lim home at Penang Free School and announced a further RM50,000 contribution from the state government, perhaps summed up the significance of the occasion best.

"SG Lim's 2,200km Run for Gold journey across Peninsular Malaysia is far more than an extraordinary feat of endurance; it is a powerful story of love, resilience and hope. Every step he took carried a message of encouragement for children battling cancer and their families, inspiring Malaysians from all walks of life to come together for a meaningful cause."

The Chief Minister also spoke movingly of the personal sacrifice behind the journey. "Dedicated to the memory of his late wife, Joo Lee, SG Lim transformed grief into hope, raising more than RM700,000 for the National Cancer Society Malaysia and proving that one person can make a profound difference."

What SG Lim accomplished over those 86 days was not measured simply in kilometres covered or funds raised. It was measured in something less tangible but perhaps more important: one person's determination and compassion that brought people together.

As Old Frees, we often speak about the values our school tries to instil: service, perseverance and concern for others. SG Lim embodied all of these qualities. In recognition of his remarkable achievement and service to the community, he was presented with Life Memberships of the The Old Frees' Association and the Old Frees' Association Kuala Lumpur & Selangor.

And there is something more. While grief has a way of turning people inward, here was a man who chose to transform personal loss into an act of generosity that will help children and families facing challenges far greater than his own.

Karajan's Beethoven

2026-06-21T16:05:16.606+08:00

I felt like listening to a bit of classical music today and pulled an old Deutsche Grammophon LP from the shelf: Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5, recorded in 1977 by the Berlin Philharmonic under the baton of Herbert von Karajan.

As the music began, I was immediately struck by the clarity and ferocity of the performance. Those famous opening four notes seemed to leap from the speakers with such force that I instinctively stepped back across the room, just to take in the full weight and flavour of the sound.

This LP formed part of Karajan's second complete Beethoven cycle for Deutsche Grammophon. By then, he had spent much of his career returning to these symphonies, revisiting them as recording technology evolved and as his own interpretations deepened with age and experience.

Karajan's association with Deutsche Grammophon, which lasted more than four decades until his death in 1989, remains one of the most influential partnerships in the history of recorded classical music. He saw the recording studio not merely as a place to document performances but as an instrument in its own right, working closely with engineers to shape every aspect of the final sound.

The sleeve itself is unmistakably Deutsche Grammophon: the familiar yellow banner across the top with a typography that reflected the label's sense of elegance and consistency.

Musically, this recording is all about control and momentum. Karajan's earlier 1963 account of Beethoven's Fifth has a certain warmth and lyricism, but the 1977 version feels leaner, more urgent and more dramatic. Recorded in the Berlin Philharmonie, it captures what many listeners describe as the "Karajan sound": smooth, rich and powerful, with individual instruments blending into a single orchestral voice. Some critics have argued that this sacrifices a degree of transparency for sheer beauty, but there is no denying its impact.

Karajan was also an enthusiastic advocate of new technology. He embraced digital recording early and later worked with Sony and Deutsche Grammophon in promoting the compact disc, famously declaring: "All else is gaslight."

Perhaps his lifelong engagement with Beethoven says more about him than anything else. He recorded the complete symphonies three times for Deutsche Grammophon. First was in 1963, again in the late 1970s and finally in the early digital era of the 1980s. Few conductors have left such an extensive recorded legacy of a single composer.

By the time of his death, Karajan had sold an estimated 100 to 200 million records worldwide, a figure that remains extraordinary in the world of classical music.

The Borobudur story

2026-06-19T12:03:28.722+08:00

Before I move on, perhaps I should say something more about Borobudur. I happened to pick up a brochure at the entrance into the archaeological park and I must say that it turned out quite informative. I thought of reproducing it verbatim here but the language was rather stilted and, at times, simply wrong. So the next best solution was to have a go at rewriting it myself. It proved to be a surprisingly refreshing exercise and I learnt quite a few new things along the way.

Most visitors arrive at Borobudur expecting to see a grand ancient monument. I certainly did. Yet the more I read about it, the more I realised that Borobudur is not merely a temple in the conventional sense. It is, in fact, a vast three-dimensional representation of Buddhist thought carved in stone.

Seen from ground level, Borobudur appears as a massive stepped pyramid crowned by stupas. Viewed from above, however, its true design becomes apparent. The entire monument is laid out in the form of a giant mandala, a sacred diagram found in both Buddhist and Hindu traditions. At its simplest, a mandala consists of a square with four gateways surrounding a circular centre. It is meant to represent the universe and the spiritual journey from the outer world towards inner awakening.

Borobudur expresses this journey through three ascending realms of Buddhist cosmology: Kamadhatu, Rupadhatu and Arupadhatu.

The lowest level, known as Kamadhatu, represents the world of desire. It symbolises the realm in which human beings remain bound by attachment, craving and worldly concerns. Much of this section lies hidden beneath an encasing base added during the temple's construction, although some of the concealed relief panels have since been uncovered and documented.

Above this lies Rupadhatu, the world of form. Here, desire has been overcome, but attachment to the physical world remains. It is within these galleries that visitors encounter the remarkable narrative reliefs for which Borobudur is so famous.

At the summit is Arupadhatu, the formless realm associated with enlightenment and ultimate liberation. The square terraces below give way to three circular terraces lined with perforated stupas, creating a striking sense of openness and simplicity. The symbolism is clear enough even for a casual visitor: as one ascends, distractions fall away.

The reliefs of Borobudur deserve special mention. Among the most important is the Lalitavistara, a series of carved panels recounting the life of the historical Buddha.

The story begins with the birth of Prince Siddhartha in Lumbini, in present-day Nepal. It follows his privileged upbringing, his marriage to Princess Gopā, better known in the Theravāda tradition as Yasodharā. and the profound encounters that changed the course of his life: old age, sickness, death and the sight of a wandering ascetic. These experiences prompted him to leave the palace in search of a deeper understanding of human suffering.

The panels continue through his years of study and ascetic practice, culminating in his enlightenment beneath the Bodhi tree at Bodh Gaya and his transformation into Gautama Buddha.

As I walked through the galleries, I found myself wondering how pilgrims more than a thousand years ago would have experienced these stories. For many of them, these carvings were not simply decorative art. They were sacred teachings in stone.

The Buddha statues themselves carry layers of meaning. There are 504 Buddha statues throughout the monument, with 432 of them placed in niches along the Rupadhatu galleries. Each displays a particular hand gesture, or mudra, symbolising different aspects of Buddhist teaching.

I confess that, at the time, I admired the statues more for their serenity than their symbolism. Only later did I learn that the mudras vary according to their position on the monument, corresponding to different Dhyani Buddhas and cardinal directions.

Borobudur's story did not end with the decline of the Sailendra dynasty. Between the 12th and 14th centuries, the monument was gradually abandoned as political power shifted across Java. Why this happened remains uncertain, although volcanic activity may have played a part.

For centuries, Borobudur lay hidden beneath layers of volcanic ash, vegetation and jungle growth. Although local communities never entirely forgot its existence, it was Sir Stamford Raffles, then British Lieutenant-Governor of Java, who brought the site to wider attention in 1814.

The first efforts to clear the monument began soon afterwards. Over the following decades, scholars documented its reliefs and attempted to understand its history.

One significant discovery came in 1885 when hidden reliefs at the base of the temple were uncovered. Some of these carvings contained instructions for the stone carvers in Sanskrit. The distinctive style of the script helped scholars date Borobudur to the middle of the ninth century, during the reign of the Sailendra dynasty.

Large-scale restoration work followed in the early 20th century under the Dutch engineer, Theodor van Erp. Yet it soon became apparent that deeper structural problems remained. Water infiltration and erosion continued to threaten the monument.

The most ambitious restoration project began in 1968 under UNESCO's guidance. Over the next 15 years, specialists from around the world dismantled and rebuilt large sections of the temple, installing modern drainage systems and developing methods to protect the stone from biological decay.

Their efforts ensured that Borobudur would survive for future generations and, in 1991, the monument was inscribed as a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

One final detail from the brochure caught my attention. Among Borobudur's relief panels are ten depictions of ancient seafaring vessels. In 1982, an English researcher named Philip Beale studied these carvings and became convinced that they represented ships used along the ancient maritime trade routes linking Indonesia with Africa.

His fascination eventually led to the construction of a replica vessel based on the reliefs. The reconstructed ship later sailed across the Indian Ocean, retracing what is now known as the Cinnamon Route. Quite remarkable that a monument so often associated with stillness and meditation also preserves evidence of long-distance trade, exploration and cultural exchange.

Perhaps that is one of Borobudur's enduring appeal. Information is revealed layer by layer. At first glance, it is a magnificent monument. Spend a little more time with it and it becomes a book of stone, a map of the Buddhist cosmos, a record of ancient maritime connections and a testament to humanity's determination to preserve its heritage. No wonder people keep returning to it, not just to admire its beauty but to discover something new each time.

Mendut, Pawon and Borobudur

2026-06-18T06:47:00.000+08:00

After our four days in Jakarta, our group from Nandaka Vihara flew to Jogjakarta for the next leg of our journey. Travel day aside, we had two full days to explore this historic city in Central Java and for all of us, there was little doubt about our first priority. We had come to visit the great Buddhist monuments of the region.

Our itinerary for the first full day followed a sequence that pilgrims have observed for centuries. Early in the morning, we made our way to the monastery at Mendut Temple. After lunch, we stopped at the smaller Pawon Temple before ending the afternoon at the magnificent Borobudur.

At the time, I thought of them simply as three separate places of interest located within convenient driving distance of one another. Only later did I realise that they were never meant to be experienced in isolation.

Although commonly associated with Jogjakarta, all three monuments are actually located in neighbouring Magelang Regency. Built during the eighth and ninth centuries under th
e Sailendra dynasty, they form a single sacred complex aligned along an almost perfectly straight east-west axis.

Mendut stands at the eastern end, Pawon in the middle and Borobudur at the western end. Archaeologists believe that the temples were once linked by a ceremonial avenue, suggesting that pilgrims in ancient times would have walked the entire route as one continuous spiritual journey rather than visiting each site separately.

In fact, this remains very much a living tradition today. Every year during Waisak, thousands of monks and devotees gather at Mendut before proceeding on foot through Pawon and finally arriving at Borobudur. A solemn procession that preserves a ritual pathway that has endured for well over a thousand years.

Our first stop that morning was the quiet Buddhist monastery beside Mendut Temple. Shaded by mature trees and set back from the main road, the monastery grounds had a peaceful, unhurried atmosphere. Prayer halls, monks' quarters and landscaped gardens were spread across the compound.

One feature that caught my attention was a gilded ceremonial chariot. From what I gathered, it is associated with the annual Waisak celebrations, when sacred objects including the blessed water and Dharma flame are carried in procession from Mendut to Borobudur. Standing there and appreciating the chariot from all angles, I imagined the thousands of monks and devotees who make that solemn four-kilometre pilgrimage each year.

Compared with Borobudur, Mendut Temple itself is modest in size, but stepping inside its dim interior was a surprisingly moving experience. There, seated within the sanctuary, are three magnificent stone figures: the Buddha Vairocana in the centre, flanked by the bodhisattvas Avalokiteshvara on the left and Vajrapani on the right. Unlike the stupas of Borobudur, these statues remain intact and protected behind wooden hoardings. One could easily imagine ancient pilgrims beginning their spiritual journey here, setting aside worldly concerns before moving onwards.

After lunch, we continued to Pawon Temple. Personally, I found Pawon the least interesting of the three sites. That is perhaps inevitable when it is sandwiched between Mendut's serene interior and the overwhelming grandeur of Borobudur. Pawon is small and compact, and our visit there was brief.

Yet its modest scale belies its importance. Pawon was the midpoint of the sacred journey. It was a place of transition and purification before pilgrims approached Borobudur. The temple's relief carvings include the Kalpataru, the mythical Tree of Life, on three sides of the temple.

After a brief stop for luwak coffee at a nearby shop, mainly to escape the midday sun, we proceeded to Borobudur. No amount of photographs or videos can quite prepare one for the experience of seeing it in person for the first time. Rising far in the distance with trees lining both sides of the wide boulevard, Borobudur possesses a majesty that is difficult to describe.

It is often called a temple, but it is really something much more ambitious: a three-dimensional mandala in stone. Pilgrims traditionally ascend it in a clockwise direction, moving through successive levels that symbolise the journey from the world of desire to the realm of enlightenment.

Yet Borobudur is not only a monument of stone and history. Local villagers still speak of Gunadharma, the legendary sage said to have designed the monument, whose reclining form is believed to be etched into the contours of the nearby Menoreh Hills. Others say Borobudur was built to balance the volatile spirit of Mount Merapi. These stories tell of Borobudur's place in archaeology textbooks and UNESCO descriptions, and also in the imagination where myth and devotion overlap.

Constructed during the eighth and ninth centuries by the Sailendra dynasty, Borobudur remains the world's largest Buddhist monument. Spread across six square terraces and three circular platforms are 2,672 relief panels, 72 perforated stupas and a total of 504 Buddha statues. Of these, 432 are placed in niches along the square terraces while another 72 sit within the bell-shaped stupas of the upper levels.

At the summit stands the great central stupa. Unlike the smaller perforated stupas, this largest stupa is empty. For many scholars, that emptiness is entirely deliberate, symbolising śūnyatā, the Buddhist concept of ultimate emptiness or the formless nature of enlightenment itself.

Yet there is a mystery associated with this central stupa. During restoration work in the early 20th century, archaeologists discovered a seated Buddha statue buried nearby. Today known as the "Unfinished Buddha", it is now displayed nearby within the Borobudur grounds.

The statue earned its name because parts of it appear incomplete. Sections of the head, hands and robes were left only partially carved. Some researchers suggested that it was rejected because of imperfections in the workmanship. Rather than destroy a flawed image, the builders may simply have concealed it within the central stupa. Others believe the incompleteness was intentional and carried symbolic meaning, while some scholars question whether the statue ever belonged inside the stupa at all. To this day, no one knows for certain.

While descending from the terraces, my mind went back to the smaller temples we had visited earlier in the day. Suddenly, the sequence made sense. Mendut, Pawon and Borobudur are not three separate destinations competing for attention. They are three chapters of the same story. Mendut represents preparation. Pawon symbolises purification. Borobudur marks the culmination of the journey towards awakening. Perhaps that is why the ancient builders placed them along a single line. The physical journey mirrors an inner one.

Whether one walks the path as a pilgrim, a student of history or simply a curious traveller, I felt impressed by the vision of the Sailendra rulers who created this landscape so long ago. Maybe that's the real wonder of the Borobudur trail. Not that these temples have survived the centuries, but that they still invite us to reflect on ourselves.

A Jakarta experience

2026-06-17T12:34:43.251+08:00

For four days in Jakarta, our little group from the Nandaka Vihara Meditation Society found ourselves spending much of our time at Gedung BWE in the Mozia precinct of BSD City, a planned township in Tangerang within the wider Greater Jakarta region.

BSD City is one of those modern satellite townships that seem to stretch endlessly into the horizon, with neatly laid-out roads, residential clusters, shopping centres and office buildings. Gedung BWE itself is a multipurpose venue that has become an important gathering place for Buddhist activities in the Jakarta area. The initials BWE stand for Bodhicitta Wahana Edukasi, an organisation involved in Buddhist education and community work.

Over the years, the venue has hosted meditation retreats, Dhamma talks, relic veneration ceremonies and large-scale Waisak celebrations. Its spacious hall is well suited for bringing together monks, lay devotees and volunteers from different traditions and organisatio
ns. This year's four-day Waisak celebration from 29th May to 01 June was jointly organised by Yayasan Hadaya Vatthu, PATVDH Beji (Yayasan Meditasi Hutan Pandangan Terang), Yayasan Bodhinanda Pekanbaru, Yayasan Dhamma Sukha Dhamma and Yayasan Sundarabhūmi.

Although the district surrounding the Gedung BWE offered no shortage of cafés, shopping centres and other modern conveniences, we never really had the opportunity to venture there during our stay. Our time revolved almost entirely around the programme itself. shuttling from our hotel in North Jakarta to the Gedung BWE, and subsequently returning at the end of each day's programme. Still, we did get to see a little of Jakarta when we were not required at the venue, thanks to Epi, our volunteer guide.

At some point, I surrendered myself entirely to the ladies in our group who wanted to go shopping. So we found ourselves stopping at several neighbourhood markets to pick up things like packed groundnuts and buah emping, which we Penangites would recognise as buah binjai. My wife and I had arrived with two half-empty suitcases. By the time we left Jakarta, both were filled to the brim. Fortunately, everything was bulky rather than heavy, and we managed to stay within the airline's weight limits.

Our journeys took us through various parts of North and West Jakarta, offering fleeting glimpses of everyday life in this vast metropolis. One evening, we were taken to the Chandra building for dinner. The place was buzzing with activity. Finding seats was an adventure and we ended up sharing tables with complete strangers. We wandered off to order different dishes before returning with their selections to be shared among the group, all while a karaoke competition unfolded on the stage nearby. It was lively, informal and wonderfully communal, the sort of atmosphere that seems to bring people together with little fuss.

On another occasion, as we drove through the city, our vehicle passed a roundabout adorned with temporary Waisak decorations. There stood two large Buddha statues alongside an Aśoka pillar. It was a striking sight, and I could not help thinking that such a public display would be almost impossible to imagine back home in Malaysia. For a brief moment, amid the traffic and bustle of Jakarta, the city seemed to pause and acknowledge the significance of the occasion.

We also drove through Jakarta's historic district, the Kota Tua Jakarta, the old colonial quarter once known as Batavia. Compared with Jakarta's gleaming shopping malls, Kota Tua feels basic, slower, grittier and more textured. The malls represent modern Jakarta: air-conditioned, polished and driven by consumption. Kota Tua, by contrast, preserves traces of the city's past, with its Dutch-era buildings, museums and cafés. It may not possess the commercial energy of Jakarta's mega malls, but it offers something increasingly rare in large cities, which is a sense of place and historical continuity.

Food, naturally, was another highlight. One memorable meal was at Pagi Sore, where we enjoyed a delicious spread of Indonesian dishes. Quite unexpectedly, I spotted an Old Free friend seated at another table. He looked familiar, though I was not entirely certain it was him. Rather than interrupt his meal, I discreetly took a photograph and sent it to him. A short while later, we were catching up in the restaurant.

Another memorable occasion was a farewell lunch hosted by our Indonesian Buddhist friends at the Angke Heritage Restaurant before we left for Jogjakarta. Angke is well known for its Hakka cuisine, but what impressed us immediately was the setting. We had arrived early and, for a while, had the whole place to ourselves.

The restaurant exuded a wonderfully tranquil atmosphere. Traditional Chinese architectural elements were woven throughout the grounds with moon gates, courtyards, pavilions set over water and landscaped gardens. It was a delight for photographers and diners alike.

Two nights earlier, we had been treated to dinner at Da Fa Chinese Seafood Restaurant. The dishes were not all that different from any Chinese seafood meals we enjoy in Penang, which perhaps explains why we tucked into them with such enthusiasm.

There was also a lunch dāna during the Waisak programme itself at a restaurant known as Lembur Kuring, where we sampled Sundanese and Javanese dishes with their distinctive inland flavours.

We visited Aloha Pasir Putih PIK 2, a modern waterfront lifestyle destination designed around a tropical beach theme. The place is often described as "the Hawaii of Jakarta", complete with palm trees, surfboard displays and large Polynesian-inspired statues. Its centrepiece is an artificial white-sand beach overlooking the coast.

The concept is clearly aimed at city dwellers looking for a short escape from Jakarta's relentless pace. Families strolled along the promenade, children played in the sand and groups of friends gathered at the many cafés and restaurants lining the waterfront. It was all very photogenic and unapologetically designed for the social media age.

The day before we departed for Jogjakarta, Bhante Dhammasubho joined us on a sightseeing tour that included a stop at Jakarta Cathedral. Officially known as the Cathedral of Our Lady of the Assumption, it is one of Indonesia's most important Catholic churches. Completed in 1901 in a neo-Gothic style, the cathedral stands directly opposite the Istiqlal Mosque, Southeast Asia's largest mosque. The juxtaposition of these two great houses of worship has become a symbol of Indonesia's commitment to religious harmony. In recent years, the two sites have even been physically linked by a pedestrian tunnel known as the "Tunnel of Friendship".

What struck me about those few days in Jakarta was the contrast between the modern city and the spiritual gathering we had come to attend. We spent time within the peaceful confines of Gedung BWE, surrounded by chanting, meditation and Dhamma talks. Yet just beyond its walls stretched one of the world's largest urban regions, with its endless roads, shopping centres and constant movement. Perhaps that was what made the experience so interesting. Amidst the speed and scale of Greater Jakarta, thousands of people had gathered quietly and purposefully to celebrate the Buddha's teachings. And for four days, we were fortunate enough to be part of it.

The original Chipmunk music

2026-06-16T06:43:00.000+08:00

I must have been seven, eight or perhaps nine years old when my father brought home these two Chipmunks records from Wing Hing Records, his friend's shop along Campbell Street. At that age, few things gave me more happiness than listening to David Seville and the Chipmunks. I played those LPs over and over again until I practically knew every song by heart.

For a few years, they were constant companions. Then I grew older and gradually moved on to other kinds of music. The records went back into their sleeves, placed in a cupboard and left untouched for decades. Until recently.

Something stirred in me and I went looking for them again. When I finally played them again and heard those familiar high-pitched voices, I felt an unexpected lump in my throat. In an instant, I was transported back to a time when I had not even yet reached the age of ten. Wonderful how music can do that. A song lasts only a few minutes, yet somehow it can unlock entire rooms of memory that have remained closed for half a century. What more a whole hour's worth from Let's All Sing with the Chipmunks and Sing Again with the Chipmunks.

As a child, I never questioned who the Chipmunks were. They simply existed. After all, children do not worry about such details. Alvin, Simon and Theodore were mischievous little creatures who sang funny songs, while the long-suffering David Seville tried to keep them in line. Only much later did I learn that neither the Chipmunks nor David Seville actually existed. The entire concept was the creation of one remarkably inventive man: Ross Bagdasarian Sr.

Bagdasarian was a first-generation Armenian-American from California. Early in his career, record executives felt that his surname was too long and too ethnic for show business. During the Second World War, he served as a control tower operator with the US Army Air Forces and spent some time stationed in Seville, Spain. The city made such an impression on him that he adopted "David Seville" as his stage name.

Before the Chipmunks came along, he had already established himself as a songwriter. In 1951, he had collaborated to write the quirky song Come On-a My House. After spending months trying to persuade someone to record it, he finally found success when Rosemary Clooney turned it into a number one hit.

Yet success in the music business can be fleeting. By late 1957, despite his earlier triumph, Bagdasarian was facing financial difficulties. Supporting a wife and three young children, he reportedly had only about US$200 left. Instead of spending the money on household expenses, he took a gamble. He bought a dual-speed tape recorder and began experimenting with tape speeds at home. He discovered that by recording his voice slowly at a lower pitch and then playing it back at normal speed, he could create an entirely new sound: bright, squeaky and unlike anything listeners had heard before.

His first experiment was Witch Doctor, released in early 1958. The famous refrain, Oo-ee, oo-ah-ah, ting-tang, walla-walla, bing-bang, became an instant sensation, selling more than a million copies and helping to rescue Liberty Records from financial trouble. Asked to come up with a follow-up, Bagdasarian expanded the idea into three animated chipmunks. Their names were playful nods to the executives at Liberty Records: Alvin after company president Al Bennett, Simon after co-founder Simon Waronker and Theodore after recording engineer Ted Keep.

Creating their voices was a feat in the days before digital technology. Bagdasarian recorded every character himself; four separate vocal tracks for Alvin, Simon, Theodore and Dave Seville while matching the timing manually with extraordinary precision. The result was The Chipmunk Song (Christmas Don't Be Late), released in late 1958. It became a runaway success and won three awards including Best Engineered Record (Non-Classical) at the inaugural Grammy Awards in 1959.

A string of hit records followed, including Alvin's Harmonica and Ragtime Cowboy Joe. Soon came the first full-length albums: Let's All Sing with the Chipmunks pressed on red vinyl in 1959 and Sing Again with the Chipmunks the following year. Those were the very records, with their 24 songs, that eventually found their way into my childhood home in Penang.

But of course, the songs were only part of the story. Beneath the squeaky voices was something far more personal: my father's love of his child in bringing those records home, the excitement of discovering new music as a child and the simple happiness of sitting beside the gramophone with nothing else demanding my attention. The Chipmunks may have been fictional, but the memories they created were very real. And after all these years, they still have the power to make me smile.

Staircase danger

2026-06-09T09:11:21.982+08:00

A recent unfortunate incident brought back a memory that I had not thought about for quite some time. Four years ago, I had a close call falling down. I was standing on a collapsible ladder, only on the first step, when the whole thing suddenly slid backwards. It happened so quickly that there was no time to react. Fortunately, as the steps shot away beneath me, I fell sideways onto my right rather than backwards. The only injury was a bruise on my thigh. Over the next few days it grew impressively black and blue, spreading much further than I would have imagined, before gradually fading away and healing completely. At the time, I regarded it as an unpleasant but ultimately minor incident. After all, nothing was broken and life went on as normal.

Recently, however, I learnt of a far more tragic accident involving someone I was acquainted with. He fell down the staircase at his home and never recovered from the injuries. The news affected me more than I expected. Perhaps it was because the circumstances sounded so ordinary. Stairs are among the most familiar features of any house. We climb them and descend them every day without giving them a second thought. Yet a staircase can become dangerous when something goes wrong.

As we grow older, we become more vulnerable. When we are young, a fall often results in embarrassment, a few bruises and perhaps a story to tell later. Age changes everything. Bones become more fragile. Reflexes slow down. Balance is no longer quite what it once was. A fall that a younger person might shrug off can become a life-changing event for an older adult.

Medical studies have shown that the direction of a fall can make a tremendous difference. Falling backwards is often especially dangerous because there is little opportunity to protect oneself. A person may strike the back of the head, neck or spine with considerable force. Falling forwards is not necessarily safer. The instinctive attempt to break the fall can result in fractured wrists, broken shoulders or facial injuries.

Then there is the question of height. One might assume that only a tumble from the top of a staircase is dangerous, but even a fall from the bottom few steps can have devastating consequences. A sideways landing can fracture a hip. For many elderly people, a broken hip becomes the beginning of a long and difficult decline involving surgery, rehabilitation and a loss of mobility.

What is particularly sobering is that the danger does not end with the initial injury. A serious fall can trigger a chain of consequences. Reduced mobility leads to muscle loss. Confidence disappears. Some people become fearful of moving about independently lest they fall again. Ironically, that reduced activity can weaken the body further and increase the likelihood of another fall.

As I thought about my acquaintance's passing, I found myself thinking not only about the fragility of the human body but also about how Buddhism approaches impermanence. We often associate impermanence with grand events: aging, illness and death. Yet there's also impermanence in the smallest moments. A misplaced step. A stumble from uneven floors of even one millimetre apart. A momentary loss of balance. An ordinary staircase climbed a thousand times before without incident.

We tend to imagine that major changes in life arrive with warning signs and dramatic announcements. More often, they arrive unexpectedly. One moment everything is normal. The next, circumstances have changed completely.

When I look back on my own accident, I realise how fortunate I was. Had I fallen differently, the outcome might have been very different. It was a reminder, one that I perhaps did not fully appreciate at the time, that we should never take safety for granted. These days when I climb a staircase, I find myself paying more attention. When I step onto a ladder, I ask someone to hold it. Not out of fear, but out of respect for the simple fact that our bodies are not indestructible. The older we become, the more we learn that life often hangs on small things: a secure handrail, a dry floor, a firm footing and perhaps a little good fortune. The loss of my acquaintance is a sad reminder of that truth. May he rest in peace.

Chan Ah Seng

2026-06-08T10:21:05.564+08:00

One of life's sobering moments comes when one attends the wake of someone one has known, however intermittently, over the years. Yesterday evening, I attended the wake of Dr Chan Ah Seng, a highly respected Obstetrician and Gynaecologist from Bagan Specialist Centre. Last Tuesday, he suffered a tragic accident at home and was rushed to the very hospital where he had spent much of his professional life caring for others. Sadly, the injuries proved too severe and he passed away on Saturday without regaining consciousness.

My wife and I first got to know him in 1990 when Saw See was expecting our son. Throughout the pregnancy, we consulted him regularly and in May 1991 he safely delivered a healthy baby boy into our lives. After that, as often happens, we lost touch. More than three decades passed before we met him again in March last year.

The years had changed all of us, of course, but he was instantly recognisable. By then he had become a volunteer at Nandaka Vihara Meditation Centre, offering free medical consultations once a month. It seemed entirely in character for a man who had spent his career helping people.

Last night's wake was attended by many from the medical fraternity as well as his former schoolmates from Sultan Abdul Hamid College. Listening to the conversations and seeing the steady stream of visitors, one could sense the regard in which he was held.

It was also there that I learnt something I had never known before. Dr Chan was the same age as me, though a few months older. Somehow that made his passing feel even more poignant. When someone of one's own generation departs so suddenly, it serves as a reminder of the Buddhist teaching that all conditioned things are impermanent. We may understand the principle well enough, but occasions like this bring it home in a very personal way. As life unfolds, all we can do is cherish the moment and the people we meet along the way.

Buah salak

2026-06-06T16:37:27.591+08:00

One of the unexpected pleasures of my recent trip to Jakarta and Jogjakarta was renewing my acquaintance with the salak fruit, better known to many as snake fruit because of its distinctive scaly skin.

Every morning at the hotel breakfast table, there would be a small tray of salak placed among the other fruits. There were usually only five or six fruits at a time and they tended to disappear almost as soon as the hotel staff brought them out. Before long, the group from Nandaka Vihara had developed quite an appetite for them. A few of our friends had never seen the fruit before and approached it with some caution at first. The skin looked unusual, almost reptilian, and certainly not like anything one would normally associate with a sweet fruit. But once they learnt how to peel it, many quickly became converts.

In fact, salak became so popular among our group that whenever the tray was emptied, all we had to do was ask. The hotel staff would smile and bring out another batch specially for us. By the end of the trip, some of our first-time salak eaters had become quite addicted to the fruit and looked forward to seeing it each morning.

We generally encountered two varieties. One had a dark mahogany maroon skin while the other was a lighter coppery brown. Both shared the same characteristic scales that give the fruit its snake-like appearance. Freshly harvested salak can also be surprisingly prickly. The skin is covered with tiny hard projections that can give an unsuspecting finger a little jab. Nothing serious, but enough to remind you to handle the fruit with some respect.

Inside, however, lies the reward. The cream-coloured flesh comes in segments rather like large garlic cloves. The texture is quite unlike most tropical fruits. It is not juicy like a rambutan or mangosteen. Instead, it is firm and crisp, almost like biting into a very dense apple or pear. The ones we encountered were consistently sweet and pleasant to eat, which perhaps explains why several members of our group became rather fond of them.

Salak is native to Indonesia but also grown in Malaysia. It is a thorny palm and the fruit grows in clusters at the base of the plant, surrounded by its natural prickly armour, and making harvesting a somewhat careful exercise. Indonesia produces many varieties, among them the Salak Pondoh from the Jogjakarta region, which is a variety prized for its sweetness even before it is fully ripe.

The more I ate it, the more I wondered why salak never became as internationally famous as durian, rambutan or mangosteen. Perhaps its appearance works against it. The rough scaly skin is hardly inviting at first glance. Yet those willing to look beyond the exterior discover a fruit that is both distinctive and enjoyable.

I also learnt that the fruit continues to attract scientific interest. Researchers have studied the seeds for various useful compounds, including oils and antioxidants. In parts of Indonesia, the seeds have even been roasted and ground to produce a coffee substitute. It seems that almost every part of the fruit has found a use somewhere.

For me, though, the strongest memory remains those breakfasts in Indonesia. A plate of salak sitting quietly among the other fruits. Friends reaching for one, then another. Curious first-timers becoming enthusiastic converts. Travel is often remembered through such simple experiences and for our Nandaka Vihara group, salak turned out to be one of the pleasant discoveries of the journey.

Maxwell Road

2026-06-04T06:10:00.000+08:00

Ever since I wrote about old Gladstone Road several days ago, I have been thinking that perhaps a story about the schools, cinemas and amusement parks that disappeared during the KOMTAR redevelopment would also be in order. Many of them were located along Maxwell Road, another old street that vanished during the same redevelopment period. But roads alone do not make up a city. What truly gives life to an urban neighbourhood are the people, the schools where children studied, the cinemas where families gathered at night and the amusement parks where crowds drifted through beneath bright lights and loud music. Much of that old social landscape disappeared along with the roads.

When the KOMTAR project was launched in the 1970s, it was presented as a vision of modernisation for George Town. Large sections of the roughly triangular-shaped district, bordered by Prangin Road, McNair Street, Magazine Road and Penang Road, were cleared to make way for the massive 27-axre complex. Hundreds of buildings disappeared in the process. For many people today, especially younger Penangites, it is difficult to fathom just how densely packed and lively that part of town once was.

Along Maxwell Road and the nearby streets stood rows of traditional pre-war shophouses facing the old Prangin Canal. Many housed long-established Chinese family businesses such as metalsmiths hammering away in narrow workshops, bicycle and tyre shops, provision stores stacked with sacks of rice and dried goods, herbal medicine halls with drawers of roots and herbs, coffee shops and small trading companies dealing in everything from household utensils to joss paper offerings. Opposite these shophouses were compact roadside stalls selling inexpensive local goods and daily necessities to workers, students and shoppers passing through the area. Cobblers too were a common sight, quietly repairing worn shoes for customers seated nearby waiting patiently for the work to be completed.

The district was also one of George Town’s busiest transport hubs. Along Maxwell Road stood the old bus terminals and stopping points for the Lim Seng Seng green buses, the blue Hin Company buses and the familiar buses of the Penang Yellow Bus Company that connected the city to the suburbs. There was even a public toilet built on a pedestrian bridge across the canal, and one could not help wondering whether the waste went straight into the murky water below or was somehow channelled elsewhere for disposal. The entire area constantly moved with people: office workers, market traders, schoolchildren, cinema patrons and bus passengers all crossing paths from morning until late into the night. For a brief period from 1980 to 1983, I too became part of that daily flow of commuters, waiting along Maxwell Road for a green bus that would take me home to Ayer Itam.

Among the losses were four well-known cinemas that had once formed part of George Town’s busy entertainment circuit. There was the Capitol Theatre along Maxwell Road, built on land originally occupied by the Windsor Theatre. Nearby stood the Paramount Theatre and the Royal Theatre, both especially remembered for screening Hindi and Tamil films and attracting large Indian audiences from across Penang. Somewhere around where Komtar Walk is today, crowds once queued outside these cinemas. Then there was the Eastern Theatre, another familiar single-screen cinema that disappeared during the early redevelopment phase.

In those days, cinemas were not simply places to watch films. They were social gathering points. Young couples went there on dates, families planned weekend outings around them, and workers escaping the day’s heat found refuge inside the cool darkness of the theatre halls. Before television became dominant, these cinemas formed part of everyday urban life.

Several schools also vanished during the redevelopment. One of the most historically significant was Chung Hwa Confucian Primary School at Maxwell Road, among the oldest Chinese schools in the country. Its old premises served generations of students before the final batches left in 1979. The school later moved to Ayer Itam and split into Chung Hwa Confucian A and B.

Li Teik School also stood within the redevelopment zone. Interestingly, its Maxwell Road premises had once belonged to the old Anglo-Chinese School long before ACS moved to Ayer Itam Road in 1929. Li Teik inherited that educational space and carried on serving the local community until relocation became unavoidable. The school eventually shifted to Macallum Street Ghaut.

Then there was Tong Sian Primary School along Gladstone Road itself. Unlike the larger brick school compounds, Tong Sian functioned from converted pre-war shophouses in the crowded heart of the old neighbourhood. One can only imagine what school life must have been like there, surrounded by metalsmith shops, traders, food stalls and the nearby Sia Boey market. When Gladstone Road disappeared, the school too had to move, eventually settling at Dato Kramat Road where it remains today.

And somewhere amidst all this stood the old Great World Amusement Park. Older Penangites still remember it as one of the lively entertainment spaces of central George Town. There were games, food stalls, music and crowds wandering about in the evenings. Nearby too was the Fun & Frolic Park, another amusement area that formed part of the same nightlife landscape around Prangin and Magazine Roads. These places belonged to an era before shopping malls and multiplexes, when entertainment was more open-air, communal and slightly rough around the edges.

The redevelopment that produced KOMTAR undoubtedly changed George Town forever. From the planners’ perspective, it was meant to modernise the city and prepare it for the future. But in doing so, an older urban world disappeared. Roads vanished. Schools relocated. Cinemas closed. Amusement parks faded away. A neighbourhood that once remained active day and night gradually gave way to concrete plazas, office towers and wide traffic systems.

Today, when people walk through KOMTAR, Prangin Mall or Komtar Walk, very few would realise how much life once occupied the same ground. Beneath the modern structures lies an older layer of George Town memory, one filled with schoolchildren, cinema queues, market traders and the sounds of amusement parks glowing into the Penang night.

Austrian music: two poles apart

2026-06-01T06:37:00.000+08:00

Some time ago, while browsing through a stack of records in my collection, I realised that I had two albums that, in their own very different ways, captured something of the musical spirit of Austria. One came from the Alpine folk tradition, the other from one of the world’s most famous choirs. Listening to them back to back was almost like taking a short musical journey through that country.

The first record was a Polydor LP, issued in 1973 to celebrate the 25th anniversary of the Austrian folk group Die Lustigen Arlberger, with the title 25 Jahre Volkstumsgruppe Die Lustigen Arlberger. Since the album commemorated 25 years in 1973, it meant that the group was founded in 1949.

The Arlberg region lies in the Tyrol, and the group came from the well-known mountain resort of St Anton am Arlberg. In those days, visitors to the area would often attend what was called a Tiroler Abend, or Tyrolean Evening, which was a lively programme of folk music, yodelling and traditional dances performed for both tourists and locals. Groups like Die Lustigen Arlberger were at the heart of this tradition.

For many years the ensemble was led by the colourful musician Sepp Staffler who was not only a skilled yodeller but also known for playing the unusual instrument called the "singing saw". Under his leadership the group became a regular presence in the region’s folk entertainment scene.

Their music reflected the unmistakable Alpine folk style. Instruments such as the zither, dulcimer, clarinet, harmonica, accordion, and even the occasional xylophone contributed to the lively arrangements. Some members of the ensemble were also well-known specialists on these instruments, including zither and dulcimer players Werner Nußbaumer and Margit Raffl Staffler.

The anniversary LP functioned almost like a sampler of their repertoire. Among the pieces were Ein Jodlergruss, which opened the record with a cheerful yodel greeting; Salzkammergut-Plattler, a traditional dance tune associated with thigh-slapping; and Kirchtag in St. Anton, which evoked the atmosphere of a festive church fair in the mountains.

One particularly eye-catching item was Zirkus Renz, a dazzling showpiece that featured rapid-fire passages on the xylophone. It is the sort of virtuoso novelty number that audiences always enjoyed at folk concerts. Another track was the Dengel-Lied, a song that grew out of everyday rural life.

The LP was issued as part of Polydor’s Austria Gold series which aimed to preserve and promote traditional Austrian music. One can almost picture a mountain inn with wooden tables and a cheerful gathering of singers and dancers after a long day in the Alps.

The second Austrian record in my collection came from a very different musical world: an album titled Austria Revisited, recorded by the famous Vienna Boys' Choir and issued by Capitol Records as part of its Capitol of the World series.

Released around 1958 or 1959, the album was clearly intended for international audiences. Capitol had the clever idea of presenting music from different countries almost like musical travel postcards to give listeners a taste of distant cultures through recorded sound.

The Vienna Boys’ Choir is known in German as the Wiener Sängerknaben and they are the perfect ambassador for Austrian music. With a history dating back centuries, the choir had already built a worldwide reputation for its pure, disciplined sound.

During the period when this album was recorded, the choir was typically conducted by musicians such as Helmuth Froschauer or Xaver Meyer. Under their direction the ensemble toured extensively and was widely admired for the clear, almost crystalline quality of the boys’ voices.

The programme on Austria Revisited mixed classical pieces with traditional songs. Naturally, the music of Johann Strauss II appeared prominently. The album opened with the famous waltz An der schönen blauen Donau, better known in English as The Blue Danube, followed by the lively Sängerlust-Polka. Later in the programme came another Strauss favourite, G’schichten aus dem Wienerwald (Tales from the Vienna Woods).

Alongside these orchestral classics were several folk-influenced items, including the Erzherzog Johann-Jodler which linked the choir’s repertoire to the same Alpine traditions celebrated by Die Lustigen Arlberger.

The album also included gentle choral pieces such as Johannes Brahms’s lullaby Guten Abend, gut’ Nacht, as well as sacred music by Johann Sebastian Bach. The result was a programme that moved gracefully between the concert hall, the church and the countryside.

When one listens to these two records together, an interesting contrast emerges. The Vienna Boys’ Choir represented the polished musical culture of Vienna: refined, disciplined and steeped in centuries of tradition. On the other hand, Die Lustigen Arlberger embodied the more rustic side of Austrian life, with its yodels, folk dances and cheerful village celebrations.

Yet both recordings shared a common thread. Each reflected a different facet of Austria’s musical identity: the elegance of its classical heritage and the earthy vitality of its Alpine folk traditions.

For a music enthusiast, that combination made for a rather satisfying discovery. Two albums, separated by style and audience, but together offering a small window into the sounds of a remarkable musical nation. After listening to them, I found myself thinking that perhaps one day I should finally visit Austria and experience some of this musical culture first-hand.

Wesak in Jakarta

2026-05-31T15:37:32.677+08:00

I'm now in Jakarta with my wife and friends from Nandaka Vihara in Bukit Mertajam to celebrate Wesak Day. We arrived on Friday and today marks our third day at the Gedung BWE in Tangerang, one of the metropolitan regions within Greater Jakarta.

It was quite an exhilarating experience witnessing this sacred Buddhist celebration in one of the world's most populous urban centres. More than 40 monks from across Indonesia have gathered here, although a handful, including Nandaka Vihara's chief abbot, Ven Dhammasubho, were specially invited for the occasion. As the most senior monk among those assembled, he has been accorded special reverence and had the honour of leading the procession of Buddha relics into the hall on Friday.

Yes, Buddha relics from Nandaka Vihara were brought here on loan for this special celebration. Together with relics brought by the other monks from their respective monasteries, it made for the largest collection of Buddha relics I have ever seen in one place. Definitely, I felt the closeness to the Enlightened One.

The four-day ceremony itself was jointly organised by several Indonesian Buddhist
foundations, including Hadaya Vatthu, PATVDH Beji (Yayasan Meditasi Hutan Pandangan Terang), Yayasan Bodhinanda Pekanbaru, Yayasan Dhamma Sukha Dhamma and Yayasan Sundarabhūmi (Sundarabhūmi Hermitage). It was quite something to see such a wide collaboration coming together in one place, with each group contributing in its own way to the running of the programme, but I understand that this is quite a common practice there.

Over the past few days, I have also been struck by the large presence of many teenagers and young adults who served as volunteers throughout the event. They were everywhere, quietly guiding visitors, managing the flow of people, helping with logistics and doing it all with a level of discipline and sincerity that was quite impressive to observe. There was a certain calmness and dedication in the way they carried themselves, and it added an unexpected layer of warmth to the entire gathering.

There were several differences between the way Wesak is observed here and the practices back home in Penang. The daily puja sessions involve much longer periods of chanting, followed by extended meditation. What fascinated me most was the Buddhānussati chant based on the Nine Qualities of the Buddha, which lasted almost a full hour and rounded off the evening puja on Wesak eve.

It was certainly fascinating to hear the qualities recited in such a loud and energetic manner for the first time, each one being repeated 108 times in rapid succession. But, to be perfectly frank, it became a little tedious to my untrained ears, especially after having sat through nearly three hours of the programme beforehand. Still, it was all part of experiencing a different Buddhist tradition and gaining a deeper appreciation of how the Dhamma is practised in other places.

Happy Wesak, everyone!

Fantastic cultural initiative

2026-05-29T06:58:00.000+08:00

Penang has taken what may well be its most meaningful cultural preservation step since the UNESCO recognition of George Town’s heritage zone in 2008 by officially gazetting 50 heritage items covering historical sites, cultural traditions and some of the state’s most beloved local food.

State tourism and creative economy committee chairman Wong Hon Wai described the move as a major milestone in protecting and sustaining Penang’s cultural heritage. Under the Penang State Heritage Enactment 2011, the state has now gazetted 15 heritage sites, seven intangible cultural heritage elements and 28 heritage food items.

What struck me most was the fact that although the enactment was passed back in 2011, no official state-level cultural heritage gazettement had actually taken place over the past 15 years. This year, however, the Penang government finally turned legislation into concrete action by formally recognising these cultural treasures and laying down a stronger institutional foundation for their preservation.

Among the heritage sites gazetted are Fort Cornwallis, Kapitan Keling Mosque, Penang Free School, St George’s Church, Penang State Museum building, Acheen Street Malay Mosque and Leong San Tong Khoo Kongsi. On the mainland, the gazetted sites include the Cherok Tok Kun Inscription Stone, the Guar Kepah Archaeological Site and Leng Eng Seah Association. There should be many more to add into this list later but this can be considered a good start for the moment.

The intangible cultural heritage list includes nasi kandar culture, kopitiam culture, the Thaipusam and Chingay processions, the St Anne’s feast in Bukit Mertajam and the Penang Tanjong dialect.

As for food, some of Penang’s most iconic dishes have now been formally recognised as heritage items, including asam laksa, char koay teow, nasi kandar, chendol, roti chanai, putu mayam and pasembor. (See the full list below.)

To me, this is about far more than tourism or branding. It is about memory, identity and continuity. Penang’s multicultural heritage did not emerge overnight. It was shaped slowly over generations by different communities, faiths and traditions living side by side and influencing one another.

I also appreciated Wong’s point that cultural heritage can act as a bridge for national unity. When people see their languages, celebrations, food traditions and places of worship respected and protected, it deepens mutual understanding and strengthens the sense that these shared histories matter.

There is also the wider international dimension. Some of these intangible heritage elements could eventually be nominated for UNESCO recognition, allowing Penang’s cultural treasures to gain wider appreciation on the global stage. More importantly, formal recognition helps establish and protect historical and cultural ownership more clearly at a time when regional food cultures are increasingly commercialised and occasionally appropriated by neighbouring countries as part of their own national identity. Penang, perhaps more than most places, has reason to be sensitive about such matters.

In the end, preserving heritage is not about being possessive. It is about acknowledging origins, respecting authenticity and ensuring that future generations still know where these traditions came from and why they mattered.

------------------------

The full list of Penang's heritage food items gazetted by the Penang government: char koay kak, kerabu bihun, hokkien mee, mee jawa, mee sotong, mee udang, nasi kandar, roti benggali, pasembor, oh chien, air batu campur (ABC), ais kepal, chapati, chendol, char koay teow, kari kapitan, keema, asam laksa, martabak, masalodeh, mee goreng mamak, muruku, penderam, putu mayam, roti chanai, teh tarik, tosai and yong tau foo.

Fast delivery

2026-05-27T09:56:17.877+08:00

I continue to be impressed by iHerb’s delivery service. Perhaps it is because customers are obliged to pay a slightly higher fee to use their recommended courier companies for international deliveries, but whatever the reason, the system seems to work remarkably well.

When I made my latest purchase on the 20th of May, I became a little uneasy after not receiving any shipment notification until the 23rd. Three days for iHerb to pack the items and prepare them for dispatch! In the past, I had noticed that orders were usually processed by the next business day, so this delay caught my attention. Since I was due to go out of town on Friday, I started wondering whether the package would arrive in time.

But the moment the parcel was picked up by the courier company, everything moved at great speed. Tracking updates began appearing smoothly as the package travelled from one transit point to another, and yesterday the delivery truck finally arrived at my doorstep. From courier pick-up to final delivery, the whole journey took only five days.

That, more than anything else, probably explains why I continue to regard iHerb’s delivery system rather highly.

Gladstone Road

2026-05-25T09:48:00.000+08:00

Gladstone Road was one of the roads that disappeared during the massive urban redevelopment that created KOMTAR in the 1970s and early 1980s. The road once ran straight from the Magazine Circus towards Carnarvon Circus, cutting across an area that later became part of the KOMTAR complex.

The road was named after William Ewart Gladstone, the famous British Liberal politician who served four terms as Prime Minister of Britain between 1868 and 1894. He was one of the dominant political figures of Victorian Britain and was known for administrative reforms and parliamentary politics.

Historically, Gladstone Road emerged during the period when George Town was expanding southwards beyond the old Prangin Canal in the late 19th century. At that time, the areas across the canal were gradually transformed from attap-house settlements into rows of brick shop houses and more organised urban streets.

A 1914 map of George Town

Gladstone Road was also associated with Penang’s old tram system. In the early decades of the 20th century, tram tracks ran through this part of George Town and older Chin
ese residents even referred to parts of the area as Hoay Chiah Lor in Penang Hokkien. Penang once had one of the earliest tram systems in Malaya. The lines connected Weld Quay in George Town with areas such as Ayer Itam and the Waterfall Gardens, intersecting at what would later become Goh Par Teng or the Magazine Circus in the busy commercial heart of town.

1969 - one of the last times that Gladstone Road
appeared on a map of George Town

By the mid-20th century, Gladstone Road had become part of the busy commercial and transport district around Prangin Road, Penang Road and Magazine Circus. Older Penangites would remember the area for its shops, businesses and proximity to the old Prangin Road bus terminal. I remember eating at a compact open-air hawker centre right smack where Gladstone Road and Magazine Road converged at the Magazine Circus.

Then came the KOMTAR redevelopment project in the 1970s. The plans might have been futuristic, looking forward to modernising George Town for the future, the next 50 to a hundred years, but large sections of the old neighbourhood around Prangin had to make way for this ambitious urban renewal plan. Gladstone Road was effectively erased from the map during this redevelopment, along with Carnarvon Circus and many adjoining pre-war buildings.

George Town paid a very heavy price for this modernisation drive. To make way for KOMTAR, hundreds of old buildings disappeared. Historical records mention that 769 homes, 304 shops, four cinemas, three schools, an amusement park, even a fire station and post office were demolished. Because the project was planted directly in the heart of George Town, entire streetscapes and long-familiar landmarks vanished almost overnight.

Today, no trace of Gladstone Road survives except for maps like these. Its disappearance is part of a much larger story involving the transformation of old George Town during the KOMTAR era, when entire streetscapes, canals, bus terminals and neighbourhoods gave way to modern concrete redevelopment. For many older Penangites, roads like Gladstone Road survive mainly through memory rather than geography.

Pirated discovery

2026-05-23T06:20:00.000+08:00

Over the years, I’ve accumulated what many people would probably describe as a fairly decent record collection. Once in a while, someone would look at the shelves and immediately call me a record collector. I understand why, but somehow I’ve never been comfortable with that label.

The term record collector often gives the impression of someone chasing rarity for the sake of ownership. First pressings sealed in plastic, catalogue numbers carefully ticked off, records stored away more as trophies than as music. Of course, there is nothing wrong with that, but that has never really been my relationship with records. I own records because I want to listen to them.

Some albums I return to repeatedly. Others may sit quietly for months before suddenly matching a certain mood or memory. For me, the enjoyment comes not just from possessing the LP but from cleaning the surfaces, lowering the stylus onto the groove, hearing the slight pops and crackles before the music begins, and allowing the sound to fill my listening space. The records are tied to moments in life, to particular periods of youth, to old discoveries and rediscoveries.

So I suppose music enthusiast would describe me better than record collector. The records themselves are only part of the story. The real connection is with the music, the voices, the performances, and sometimes even the memories attached to them.

And speaking of records, I must admit that among my shelves are also a small number of pirate LPs from the 1960s and 1970s. In those days, pirated records were everywhere, mainly sold in the pasar malam. Sometimes, I'd see them stacked in a quiet corner of non-descript record shops, not displayed openly. These shop owners had a knack of recognising prospective customers, or maybe their regular clientele. Anyway, music copyright enforcement was practically non-existent in those days and for many ordinary listeners pirate record purchases were often the only affordable way to hear certain albums. Interestingly enough, some of those pirate pressings actually sounded surprisingly good.

Among my pirate LP collection is a copy of Frances Yip’s Discovery, recently acquired from my cousin. It simply turned up among a batch of old LPs he gave me, and I only realised what it was when I started going through the stack at home. I was in two minds whether to play it or not. How would the sound quality be? How close would it be to the original pressing? Would it be worth keeping? In the end, there was only one way to find out.

The original album, Discovery, was released in the early 1970s and tied to her work with Cathay Pacific at the time. It was conceived almost like a musical travel record, moving across different Asian countries through song. In its official form, it was very much a product of that era when Asian pop was beginning to find its own identity while still drawing heavily from traditional melodies and Western arrangements.

But as I mentioned earlier, my copy is a pirate pressing. Like many of those records from the 1960s and 1970s, it carries its own story. The cover is slightly off in colour and the printing not quite sharp. Where the EMI label would have been, there is instead a rather nondescript catalogue marking. Still, the sound itself is surprisingly decent. That alone says something about how these unofficial pressings were not always crude copies. Some were made with enough care that the music survived quite well.

The content itself is what makes the album interesting. It moves through a series of songs representing different parts of Asia, from Arirang in Korea to Bengawan Solo in Indonesia, from Dahil Sa Iyo in the Philippines to Rasa Sayang Eh much closer to home. There is a clear travel narrative running through the record, as though each track is a postcard from a different place. Frances Yip’s voice sits neatly above these arrangements, smooth and unforced, carrying that slightly cosmopolitan tone she was known for in the 1970s.

There is something ironic about a record designed as a kind of official musical tour of Asia ending up reproduced unofficially and circulating through markets and second-hand shops across the region. But that, in a way, was also part of the musical landscape then. Music travelled in many forms, not all of them official, and listeners simply followed wherever it arrived.

It is an album that reflects a particular moment in time when Asian pop was still forming its identity, when travel and cultural exchange were beginning to shape popular music, and when even pirate records became part of how that music was heard and remembered.

Pagar Tras

2026-05-21T06:48:00.000+08:00

In February last year, I had attended a workshop on the history and heritage of Pagar Tras organised by the Centre for Global Archaeological Research at Universiti Sains Malaysia. As part of the programme, the participants were taken on a field trip to visit the ruins of the abandoned Sacred Heart Catholic Church, once a spiritual centre of the old Pagar Tras community, as well as the Catholic church in Kulim where many of the salvaged artefacts eventually found a new home.

I still remember walking through the remains of the old church site. There was a quietness about the place that photographs alone could never quite capture. One could sense that this had once been a living community with its own rhythms, prayers and gatherings.

Fast forward to the present, and about a week ago I received a message from USM informing me that my copy of History and Heritage of Pagar Tras was ready for collection. Naturally, I wasted little time getting hold of it. After reading through the book over several sittings, I came away impressed by the amount of information packed into its 124 pages.

Written by Stephen Chia, Francis Chen and Clement Liang, the book pieces together the story of Pagar Tras. It traces how French missionaries arrived in the 19th century to spread Catholicism among the local Chinese community, and how the Sacred Heart Church gradually became the focal point of village life.

The story also reflects the upheavals that shaped Malaya during the mid-20th century. Following the Japanese Occupation and later during the Malayan Emergency, the Pagar Tras community was forcibly relocated to the new villages on the mainland. Once the villagers left, the old church was effectively abandoned, and nature slowly reclaimed the site.

Reading the book brought back memories of that field trip last year. What at first ap
peared to be little more than old ruins in the jungle gradually took on a deeper meaning. Behind the broken walls and silence was the story of an uprooted community and a forgotten chapter of local history that could easily have disappeared altogether if nobody bothers to document it.

Open distrust

2026-05-19T06:02:00.000+08:00

There was something almost surreal about the recent reports coming out of Beijing during Donald Trump’s visit to China. According to multiple accounts, members of the American delegation were openly seen throwing away everything given to them by their Chinese hosts before boarding Air Force One to go back to the United States. Gifts, badges, souvenir pins, invitation cards and even temporary burner phones were reportedly dumped into bins near the aircraft stairs in full public view.

It sounded less like diplomacy and more like a scene from a Cold War spy thriller. Apparently the instruction was that absolutely nothing originating from China was to be brought onto the aircraft because of cybersecurity and surveillance fears. American intelligence agencies have long suspected that electronic devices, souvenirs or even ordinary-looking items could potentially be used for tracking or data collection. So the delegation travelled with temporary phones, avoided personal electronics and discarded everything afterwards.

I suppose none of this is surprising. Great powers have always spied on one another. Trump himself more or less admitted it when he casually remarked that America spies on China too. That was probably the most honest thing said during the whole visit.

Still, there was something symbolic about the public nature of the disposal. Diplomatic visits are normally wrapped in smiles, handshakes and carefully staged photographs. Mistrust may exist behind the scenes, but both sides usually try to keep appearances intact. This time, however, the distrust became visible for everyone to see. One moment there were banquets and ceremonial greetings. The next moment, gifts were being tossed into bins before boarding the plane home.

I wonder how the Chinese hosts must have felt watching that happen. Publicly, they remained polite and restrained, calling the visit historic and avoiding any official protest. But I suspect the message was fully understood. At the same time, China itself would probably do the same too, but perhaps with more discretion. The modern world has become deeply suspicious beneath all its diplomatic language. Nations trade with one another, smile for cameras and speak of cooperation, yet quietly assume they are also being watched, monitored and hacked.

Maybe that is the real story here. The world’s two biggest powers can sit across the same table smiling warmly while trusting each other so little. In another era, such behaviour might have caused outrage. Today, many people simply shrugged and said: of course they did. A reflection, perhaps, of the times we live in.

Quiet tragedy

2026-05-17T06:24:00.083+08:00

So there I was with this Bakat TV 1971 record in my hand. Until that first moment when I placed the record on the turntable, I was mainly interested in listening only to Bryan Jeremiah sing Love Knot in My Lariat and Rajadin Wan Mat's My Funny Valentine, two songs which had impressed me those 55 years ago. But when the stylus reached the fourth track on Side Two, I stopped in my tracks. Hearing Feather in My Pocket today was like hearing it for the very first time in 1971. Michael Tan’s lone voice, accompanied by his guitar, carried a plaintive honesty that cut through everything else on the album.

The song was quiet. Just a voice and a guitar, nothing more. The stark simplicity allowed the words to stand on their own. Nothing to hide behind, no orchestral sweep to distract the listener. It sounded like someone thinking aloud, perhaps while travelling, perhaps in a moment of solitude.

There's this image of the feather in the pocket. It felt like a small reminder of home or direction. Even when the lyrics spoke of not knowing when home would come, there was still that feather to be carried along for comfort. Hope tucked away in a pocket.

The folk imagery, though not something we grew up with locally, reinforced the mood of the song. Malaysia does not experience the four seasons, so references to autumn skies, white winters and fields of wheat turning brown felt slightly out of place to us. Still, the pictures suggested movement and transition, a sense of time passing and life changing. There was weariness in the line about concrete stretching endlessly. The overall tone remained reflective and gently wistful.

Then there was the solo guitar being finger-picked. Clarity in every note. Everything felt intimate, like a private living room performance that gave the song space to breathe and leaving the listener with a thoughtful silence at the end.

And who was this 20-year-old Michael Tan? Not only was he a talented performer from the Bakat TV stage, but also a University of Malaya graduate in English, He hailed from Malacca and had honed his singing and guitar skills while still at the Malacca High School. After the loss of both parents, grief weighed heavily on him. He struggled to cope and eventually turned to substance abuse, a path that led to a tragic and untimely end at 41.

Knowing all that inevitably changed how I heard the song. The themes of wandering, distance and longing...all felt more appreciated. The feather in the pocket seemed less like a poetic device and more like a quiet emblem of someone searching for steadiness in a life that later became unsettled. It was a gentle song, but it now felt like part of a larger story. One of promise, talent and eventual loss. In the end, it is hard not to see it as a quiet tragedy.