Miri people had an aversion to the Dutch. No longer the case now, I think. When I was young, we conveniently used the word “Holland” or 荷蘭 (read HO-LAN)to embrace the whole complex spectrum of negative connotations from simply bad, silly, lousy to obnoxious, evil, sneaky, shady, dishonest,………The word just rolled off my tongue.

If you made a slight mistake, you would be told off, sooo Ho-Lan. Did you just come back from Ho-LAN? Why were you talking cuckoo? A ladle that broke into halves and dropped into the soup terrain was a Made in Ho-LAN ladle. Lost your majong session? You had Ho-Lan kaki. Tyres punctured in the middle of nowhere? Ho-Lan lah! You’d feel instantly more relaxed and calmer, like having sculled a bottle of cold Heineken!

Forceful, effective and to the point. It cut like a Japanese Hocho sushi knife. Overtaken by a speeding 4wd on the Miri-Lutong road? Who else? The Ho-Lan Poh (荷蘭婆）。Blamed Holland for everything, anything that could go wrong and had gone wrong under the sun, and you were brought back immediately to your harmonised Zen state! Not a micro ounce of hatred in it. Easy to apply. Use it because of its versatility and clarity for optimal results.

I had a business supplier, Bill Van Dijk. I knew he is Dutch because his surname consists of the traditional Dutch word “van”. To show how much I knew about his country, I told him about something I learned in primary school. The little Dutch boy who plugged his finger in the hole of a dyke to stop the leaking, therefore, saved his nation. He said, ” I am that boy!”

Typical Ho-Lan fibs!

Then he showed me his severed index finger. Only a remaining stump!

BEHOLD!

He said he left the other half in the hole!

Yeah, Very funny! But so HO-LAN!

I was having breakfast in the cruise ship Viking Jupiter. An Indonesian waiter served me.

“I hate the Dutch! They colonised us for 300 years and still no apologies!!”

Whoa whoa whoa, such strong negative emotion! It could be his ancestors who were enslaved, ground to dust, worked to death so the Dutch could build their castles and palaces, statues and monuments which still attract millions of tourists every year. Their art and cultural wealth were funded in part by proceeds of slavery.

“Yah, they are very Ho-LAN!”

He echoed, “yes, very very Ho-LAN!!”

Ho-Lan is undoubtedly the magic international word. The Indonesian waiter laughed so much! You see, the word Ho-Lan can dissolve animosity as well.

So much has been said about how warm and intimate our relationships are with Holland. I am now standing on the cobblestones of Amsterdam!

Disclaimer: This article is by no means racist. It is truth, and nothing but the truth! Any one who finds it unpalatable, my apologies!

Indonesian slaves of Dutch colonisation

In the 50s, weddings in the village could be as simple and basic as pegging a piece of red cloth across the top of the front door and let the ends draped on the sides. The family with some savings could have a more elaborate wedding, minus a lot of pompous ceremonies that you may have seen in chinese movies.

The first wedding I went to, I was 4 years old or so.

The wedding of Small-bull, (阿牛仔）a nickname that had nothing to do with masculinity but playfulness. When he turned adult, the name Small-bull stuck.

The family was so called relatives of my pohpoh. Mum said it was a sweet potato vine relationship. No blood connection. Only that they were the Wong, and pohpoh was also a Wong. All Hakka, but from different villages in china. The encounter in Miri gave them a fated attachment. A funny saying in English to ridicule the Chinese: two wongs do not make a right. In this case the two Wongs became adopted relatives. I called her grand Aunty, Giu Poh舅婆。

When Small-bull reached marriageable age, matchmakers dropped in with a stack of black and white photos of young girls. The name, date of birth in lunar calendar all written at the back of the photo. There was a trend in Miri to source young girls from Kuching. The grass is greener on the other side. No doubt, they were fairer and had every attribute that a future mother-in-law looked for. Simple rule of thumb: Round pancake face with flat nose brought fortune to husband; busty, and big hips were good stocks for child bearing. High cheek bones brought misfortune to husband. Small hips meant barren like a desert.

Once a successful match was decided, an auspicious date was chosen. Giu Poh started rearing chickens and ducklings, just in time for the pending feast.

Small-bull went to Kuching to fetch the bride-to-be to Miri. The absence of the bride’s parents showed how poor people were during that era.

The wedding banquet was to be held downstairs on the dirt ground. Giu poh had a house on high stilts, amble height to work below.

Housewives were responsible for the cooking. Each assigned a task. The men were to set up temporary stoves, get the woks and pots with lots of firewoods ready. The next task was to set up tables and sitting benches. Linking wires from coconut tree to coconut tree for lighting. Small-bull worked in Shell, drove a kaki green truck. He borrowed a generator from work. The rest were from the Hakka association. This was one way of being frugal.

I was the only kid among the adults. As unwelcomed as the whirring flies. When standing around and watching men assembling heavy stoves, loading and unloading tables and benches, I was in their way.

So I turned to the food preparation bench, the women “hiyah, hiyah” impatiently at me. Seemed completely handicapped until I saw a fly. I immediately made myself useful by “hiyah, hiyah” the flies away. I was recruited into the working bees, “go shoo the flies”.

One thing that struck me was the making of spring rolls. They used a lace fat from pork belly for the wrapper instead tofu skin. It made my mouth water so I kept extra vigilance. No fly zone, I made sure!

Then, we heard a loud commotion upstairs. Giu poh was crying and scolding at the same time. The village women tried to pacify her by every one talking at the same speed at the same time. Good drama was not to be missed. I ran upstairs as fast as my feet could carry me.

So the complaint was that Small-bull went to the bedroom where the bride was resting for a wee bit longer than appropriate. As soon as Giu poh found out, she could not take it. In between sobs and scolding, she was talking about ending her life by jumping into the garden well! What a drama queen!

“If you don’t want your face, I still want to keep mine! Cuddling your wife in broad day light? I am ashamed of you! Where do I put my face in front of your ancestors? Now I got you a wife, you forget about your dear mother?” She wailed.

It was a storm in a teacup!

On such a day, Giu poh’s emotions were mixed and vulnerable. Such a smorgasbord of feelings was hard for her to compartmentalise. Proud to have a grown up son; Happy to have a new member in the family, an extra pair of helping hands; yet the fear of losing a son to another woman; a sense of foreboding loss. Excited that this woman would bring grandchildren to carry on the surname. Worried that she would turn into a bitch who peed on her head and took over her throne.

When Small-bull appeared from the bedroom, he said: Ma, i am just having a little rest. Did you know what time I started this morning?

His answer was like adding fuel to fire. Giu poh started howling: you heartless soulless good for nothing! when you fell into the well at four years old, I should have let you drown. You ungrateful piss!

At that moment, the bride-to-be appeared on the side of Small-bull. Her eyes were red, trying hard to hold back her sobs and dropped to her knees. Giu poh immediately melted like butter on a hot pan. And someone in the crowd said: scatter off, every one. None of anyone’s business. This is not an opera!

I would like to talk a little about the Shell truck. They were painted in WWII army green. All metal. Heavy like a tank and seemed almost bulletproof. From far, you saw it as a small green dot. In split seconds, it becomes a huge machine right next to me, thundering roar like a jumbo taking off, rocking the earth, splitting the sky into halves. It lifted up my skirt and forced me into the Marilyn Monroe famous skirt pose.

At 6, I walked to school like other children. It was common to find the carcass of long python, over 10 feet, run over by the Shell trucks the night before, with tyre marks on its body, vital organs exposed, bathing in its own blood. It took up the whole width of the bitumen road. So gruesome! Until now, I am terrified of snakes.

My ears were alert to the approaching trucks from far. Before one sped pass me, I would quickly move to a less exposed position by stepping away from the bitumen road onto the weeds. Covering my ears with two fingers and clutching my skirt tightly between my thighs.

The weeds, mimosas, the biological name, or just shy plants, spread like thick cushion with round purple cotton ball flowers. In the early morning, the soft leaves collected a lot of overnight dew before the midday sun evaporation. They were very prickly, tumbling ground covers that reached my knees. After the truck was gone, I emerged from the weeds with entirely wet shoes and itchy feet.

Small-bull brought two big tanks (recycled petrol tanks that still held the remnant smell of petroleum) of tap water from his work. The water was channelled by hose for the purpose of cleaning the food.

By the time the party lights were set up, the feast was already well behind schedule. The evening sky had turned into night sky. The mozzies replaced the flies. I volunteered nothing. I was starving.

I was most concerned about the placement of the spring rolls. I moved them to the edge of the table, within my easy reach. And I tagged the seat in front of it by putting my bum on it before any one else. Being a four year-old, the edge of the table was just under my eyeballs. I couldn’t see the other dishes. While mum was engaging in conversations with other village wives, I was easily forgotten. She didn’t pick any food for me, nor served me a bowl of soup.

I was entirely on my own! That meant the whole plate of spring roll was mine, and mine only. You see, the spring rolls were completely camouflaged in the shadow of other dishes. Out of sight, out of mind. The guests had forgotten about it. Then mum suddenly uttered the most unnecessary insensitive words: Aiyah! Are you going to finish the spring rolls all by yourself?

Then I heard different voices: yeah, where are the spring rolls? Forgot about them! The spring rolls immediately were removed to another spot.

Burrrrp! I rubbed my tummy. I was full up to my eyeballs!

A year or so later, we were invited to Giu Poh’s house for a baby shower. Her new born grandson was one month old. Giu Poh wore a perpetual smile, from ear to ear.

I noticed the number of wall clocks in their sitting room. They nearly took up all the wall space. They were wedding gifts for Small-bull. Chinese names were written calligraphy style with red auspicious ink on the glass surface of the clocks. Every clock somehow had its own mind. They chimed milli-seconds apart, creating an ensemble effect.

This feast had one dish missing, the spring rolls!

One morning while having breakfast, I told mum I dreamt of Yin’s mum. Yin was my childhood friend. In the dream, she wore the old colourful loose satin cheung sum with sleeves long enough to conceal her hands. (For the dead, the hands should not be exposed or the dead will be a beggar the next life)

With a strange gait, she seemed to walk on her heels. I was standing near pohpoh’s kitchen window looking down at her. In my dream I was asking why was she in my pohpoh’s compound wearing a theatrical outfit. I knew her as a kind woman who minded her own business, never gossipy.

My mum’s reaction was so irrational. She almost wanted to chew my head off.

Early early morning, （七早八早， 天未光）face not washed, hair not combed, talk all nonsense! your mouth so filthy! （嘴真衰） Can you talk about your dream after noon？

I was like: what? Can’t even have a daughter and mother talk without being spat at? I am not talking to you about anything anymore any time for a hundred years! You happy now! Such a lunatic!

And off I went to school. I was about 13 years old.

When I came back from school, mum wasn’t home. The neighbour said your mum went to so-and-so funeral. So-and so was Yin’s mum in my dream from the night before. She hanged herself. Was my dream a coincidence? Was it my qi working in some shadowy zone? Was she trying to connect with me through a dark passage from the fifth dimension? The more I thought about it, the more spooky it became. I almost freaked out!

Hakka people’s interpretation of dreams can be compiled into a big volume like the Oxford dictionary. But one was never to infringe the steel rule: Good dream, bad dream, talk in the afternoon. Else, bad dream will realise. Good dream remains a dream.

Mum said never doubt ancestry wisdom and voice.

The dress I saw in the dream was a shroud （壽衣）worn by deceased people. And only dead souls walk on heels. I knew the deceased was my pohpoh’s neighbour. She had 5 children , 2 grown boys and 3 girls. The younger two were my primary school classmates. They had different surnames. As a kid, different surnames or same surname were as natural as sun rise, sun set. It was never a conundrum for me to solve.

The youngest one, Yin, from her window that overlooked my pohpoh’ guava tree would call out to me while I played with my cousin. She would wave too. I was an easily bored child and I didn’t like being bored. Mum thought I had thorns growing out of my bum. I just couldn’t sit still. Before I warm up the seat, I would be some where! Every molecule in my body was of high voltage.

With cousin, we mostly dug worms, collect lalang leaves for cushioning young seedlings from sunburnt. At the same time we picked biling, a wild vegetable or played feather cock. As soon as I saw Yin popping her head out of her window, I would give cousin the cold shower and run across to play with Yin. My cousin’s face immediately would be shrouded in dark clouds.

Yin was a good imaginative, stimulating playmate. More fun than cousin. We played fairy tales from books, Cinderella, Snow White and the seven dwarfs. She always wanted to be the princess, so annoying, which left me be the prince and the wicked step mother and the dwarfs, or the king. We made the characters with rolled up cardboard and drew the faces on. Scraps of colourful cellophane lolly wrappers became dresses for the little mannequins. We made up our own lines for dialogue and animations. The castle was a metal divider from the ice cube tray salvaged from a rubbish pile. Any scraps, be it paper, cardboard, metal wire were used for props.

At first, we played on the floor of her sitting room. Her eldest sister using the excuse of sweeping the floor, booted us out. We found the veranda was the next good spot for our stage, even though her dog was a bother. He gave us licks on our ears every now and then. Then when one of the brothers came back from work, he growled at us. It was his cool spot where he listened to the radio from the sitting room. So we kept shifting until we reached an oasis, an enclave among the pineapple plants.

No one bothered us. Yippee! Yin’s younger sister was a foul mouthed helicopter. She was one year my senior. She circulated around and propelled above us, and ‘ slut, slut, slut…..” . I believed she so wanted to join us, but we would only acquiesce if she rinsed her mouth and stopped calling us SLUT!

During colonial time, farm land was free for taking. Erect four poles in four corners; surround the poles with chicken wire fencing; build a simple house on stilts in the middle; sow your seeds; rear some chickens for eggs; keep a guard dog whose bark resonates loudly; adopt a cat to catch mice that nibble the mesh of the food pantry to get at the salted fish. Then open a front gate and finally build a little bridge to cross the big drain to the main road. You are set for a comfortable, stolid life. As quick as god’s creation of the garden of Eden, in one day. The stronger and fitter the man of the house, a wider fence, and therefore a bigger piece of land.

The condition for this freebie was every inch of land, except where the house stood, had to be cultivated. So for the excess land, farmers avoided the labour intensive vegetable farms by growing orchards, e.g. Pineapples, custard apples, guava, etc.

The pineapple plants have sharp thorny blades. We simply cleared the blades, lined with a hard cardboard, and resumed our acting careers!

Yin was a skinny pale child with two big eyes. Hospitalised in TB ward for many months. That was how she got all these books about prince and princesses, donated by visiting nuns. She shared the books with me only, which boosted my childhood imagination. In our primary school days, there wasn’t a thing called a library.

My mum was very against me playing with Yin in case I caught the unfriendly TB. She warned me, if she coughed, turn your face away or cover your nose. I didn’t have the heart to do that.

Her mum had a 6 inch long scar marked diagonally on her right chin. Like a centipede in deep sleep. Mum said she had a ex marital affair with a man who later became her second husband. The aggrieved first husband chased her down the footpath and butchered her face with an axe, then killed himself while the three elder children were looking with horror! The youngest child was merely one year old. Then I understood why Yin’s step siblings were so cold and mean to her. Because I played with Yin, I was black listed.

“You two sluts, sweet potatoes are ready!”

And we answered, “right away!”

Yin’s mum in fact was the nicest woman I have ever met. Unlike my pohpoh and mum who were used to belittling first, judgment second, before arriving at the main point. Their sarcasm can be in any order, and sometimes it may include spanking!

I remember fondly Yin’s mum’s steamed sweet potato, purplish in the centre. Once I watched her making salted vegetables. She jokingly asked if I was interested to learn. I was only a curious kid. To learn? Not really! Mum would not even let me step into the kitchen because the kitchen floor could be too oily for me.

But she was so nice, so I politely answered yes. I squatted down next to her. Like talking to an old friend, she told me she picked the choy sum before they were about to flower. Discarded the roots, and arranged the vegetables like cards on the dirt to dry for days. Once limpy, she wrang each one tightly and pressed them into her earthen urn, layer by layer. Sprinkled salt once a layer was done. Repeated the process until the choy sum filled up to the top. Then she put a flat stone as a weight on top to make sure the top layer didn’t form mould, and then a piece of cloth , last came the lid. She said to make sure it was air tight, that would stop the salted veg turn mouldy. Once mouldy, they rot and became inedible. I noticed she didn’t discard the wilted yellow leaves. She said they were fine. You could eat them.

No one had given me time and patience like her. I was a repellent to everyone else. I remember once pohpoh gave me an errand: go fetch a few nails for me!

I ran to the shelf. From the jar I carefully picked three same length same size nails. So triumphant, mission accomplished. Pohpoh was not impressed: I asked you to fetch a few nails, not three! Where is your brain? Your head only good for growing hair!

I retorted: a few means three! I learned at school.

Pohpoh: tsk tsk tsk! That few words will make you a headmistress?

Did you hear what she said? “a FEW words”. That meant I only knew three miserly words!

She should be a prominent barrister. What a pity she was illiterate!

In that era, children were to be seen, not heard; or neither seen nor heard.

Mum told me Yin’s father passed away not long ago and his spirit came to Yin’s mum, and that was why she took her own life. Put it romantically, this is a Romeo and Juliet replay.

I have made pickled salted vegetables numerous times. That is how she will be remembered by me!

I do miss Yin and wonder where and how is she now.

I often mentioned about my cousin sister. Today I am going to talk about her eldest sister. I only knew her nickname, Jerkhead. I will call her big cousin from here on. She must be at least 7 years my senior.

Obviously she wasn’t a smart girl to be called such a belittling name. At puberty, she had the mentality of a 5-year old, but the body of a grown woman. Her dumbness was never a concern nor a worry for the family. After all she was a girl, a worthless girl. Hakka people never valued girls. Rearing up a daughter was a waste of resources.

She would be someone’s wife one day. The younger they married away, the better. There was no expectation of her to be a doctor, lawyer or teacher. The Hakka people have a very sexist saying: a woman’s urine can never shoot 3 feet high.

That year I was studying in high school, form three. About 14 years old. Pohpoh had an urgent message from mum’s sister who lived in Marudi . Big cousin was pregnant, near full term, by the look.

She was under constant torturing interrogation and beating by my hot-tempered uncle. Who? When? Where? How many times? Why? Especially how did you hide it so well? She was tight lipped all along.

When she gave no clue, my uncle was furious! @&$#%*!! To avoid the possibility of a dire situation escalating into a crime scene, my auntie quickly sent message to Pohpoh. Big cousin had to leave the small town, Marudi and take shelter with Pohpoh. Pohpoh was given an impossible mission. Find a husband for her! As long as the man was not deaf, dumb and crippled. Age: as long as not dying.

I listened with my ears sticking up like two big antennae, holding my breath most of the time.

Pohpoh and mum’s conversation:

WHO? Big cousin never left home one foot. She helped with house work, fed the pigs and chickens and worked in the field. The only possible suspect was the neighbour, a middle aged man. He was only a fence away. He had a wife and children. So? What was stopping him from committing adultery.

On both sides of the fence were the two families’ citrus orchards. Uncle examined the fence, too high to climb over. He checked the lower side. No cutting of wire to sneak through, no dug holes to burrow through.

Even though I was 14, I wanted to laugh at such naivety. When there is a desire for woman just over the fence, the man didn’t have to climb mountains, walk on water, eat the poisoned apple like Adam. You don’t even need to be Spider-Man or Batman. It was a piece of cake for the man. When pohpoh and mum were talking, there was no gap in between to interrupt. This sounded like “catch me if you can” detective story.

Yeah, you couldn’t just lean over the fence and casually ask: so-and-so, did you screw my daughter? Is that you who planted a seed in her tummy? She is pregnant now and due soon? Can you do something? Just answer yes or no. Nothing to do with you? You sure? Oh so sorry to ask. But if you know who, please let me know. No, I don’t want to speak to the culprit. I want to break his skull!

Imagine the news would spread like wild fire! Hush! It happened inside the four walls and it stayed within the four walls! This was scandalous. It brought shame to the family and the ancestry.

WHERE: where else? But the Orange orchard, the most likely place. Under the citrus trees. In broad daylight, the orchard was shady. You could hardly see through the foliage unless you take a walk inside. No one would put a foot inside unless it was the picking season, or the once-a-year clear and feed time. A replica garden of Eden where temptation lurks for making babies.

My uncle was furious. $&@#%*!! He wanted to torch the whole orchard down.

WHEN: they reckoned mid day, too hot to work in the field, while every one was napping. When did the pregnancy start? Hard to say. She was a plump girl, the baby bump was only noticeable lately.

WHY: many theories. 1, she was physically mature even though she had a child-like brain. You can’t make an omelette without breaking the egg. It takes two to tango. 2, she was sexually assaulted.

HOW OFTEN: how long is a piece of string?

I had not seen my big cousin since the last visit when I was about 6 years old. So she must be 21 then. I remember vaguely she was a big girl, I mean, size wise. Very busty. Didn’t talk much.

Before her arrival, Pohpoh set into top gear the very next day. She went to market and broke the news to all her contacts. She has a granddaughter looking for a husband. The half truth!

The next day, she returned to the market, and received news that a widower was interested. Imagine, the word of mouth was faster than Facebook or instagram!

The third day, she met up with the widower who was in his mid forties. Being a pepper farmer in the hilly side of Miri, he looked at least 10 years older. He had a daughter and a son, both teenagers. He didn’t mind the unborn baby. All he needed was someone to cook, wash, and look after his two school aged children. He didn’t ask for a photo. His offer was 999 for dowry, COD! (Cash on delivery, and 999 means forever!)

Done deal!

Mum thought $999 sounded too good to be true. It probably was. Did you ask what exactly is 999? It can be $99.90, or $9.99. My mum’s placing of one decimal point was like a roar of thunder and a spark of lightning in a bright sunny day!

Pohpoh being a shrewd bargainer, was quiet for a long time. Her head was clouded and foggy, and overjoyed by the easy catch! Hit the iron while it is hot! A yes immediately sealed the deal!

To save her own dented ego, she stubbornly insisted it was $999! She argued that no one would give $9.99. How could you even think that?!

Anyway the money was for her granddaughter. Same family same pocket.

From that day on, Pohpoh dug out her savings from all nooks and corners of the trunks, in between cranny of wall board, old cigarettes tin, up her sleeves, under her belt. All her savings! She practically robbed herself blind.

I was surprised Pohpoh had so much money, $1000, which reinforced a Hakka saying: A frugal Hakka can turn stones into gold bars! I wouldn’t say it has the same powerful meaning as god turning water into wine. But it sure makes me a proud Hakka.

She went to town everyday to shop for a gold chain, gold bracelet, gold this and gold that. Until the cash register rang an alarming $900 plus! Hold your horses, PohPoh! It is your granddaughter getting married, not you! You are spending money like there is no tomorrow! Leave some petty cash in the kitty please. We still need money to have a dress tailored, new shoes, a hair perm, a pair of scissors, an abacus. Hakka customs. Scissors symbolise sharpness, which has the same sound as profit (利） abacus 算盤means good budgeting.

We asked for a sample of big cousin’s dress. The new dress was deliberately made looser. And I, yes little me, chose the pink coloured material.

And the bride finally arrived, alone. The next day she was whisked away in a relative’s car to the groom’s house, situated at the back of the hill（大山背）I pinned a pink frangipani bouquet on her hair. It was a very hot morning. On the way, I saw a few stray dogs and a barefoot farmer with a straw hat carrying a hoe on his shoulder. We had to stop and ask for directions a few times on the way. Do you know so-and-so’s house?

When we reached the house, the two teenagers came out of the house, all smiles. All I remember was the kitchen cum dining room had a low roof. Due to poor ventilation, the entire roof was charred by the soot from the firewood stove. There was only a little window looking out to the pepper plantation.

The groom had an honest face, very tanned. The children were shy, but couldn’t hide their happiness meeting their new stepmom. Pohpoh and mum felt this was a good match, very relieved. My cousin and I kept complaining about the heat and thirst until we were offered some tea. Then the wedding reception began. Being simple and poor, he served a simple but symbolic dish. A sweet long noodle soup with a hard boiled egg dyed red. I detest sweet soup! It was a great effort from me to finish the bowl of soup, without fuss.

Then it was time to leave. Pohpoh got her dowry money in a red packet. She opened it in the car. It was $99.90. We were all quiet! I bet she knew about the amount. The hard noisy coins in the red packet would have given everything away. Big cousin was married off, or got rid of, like that!

All along, my auntie didn’t get involved whatsoever. No blessings, money, message, no nothing! This daughter was totally flushed away and banished.

First the good news: it was a baby girl!

Then the bad news: the baby died, squashed to death at night by her mother in deep slumberland.

No one felt much about the death of the baby as if it was a very natural way to go. No suspicion nor conspiracy theories.

My Pohpoh’s winter celebration week caused a bit of ripples to the normally tranquil life. Like ants before the rain falls, scurrying fast to gather food and filing into their tunnel of maze. The lunar month calendar dog-eared for this particular day approaching nearer and nearer. I started counting the number of sleeps away. There was a quiet happy kind of excitement and anticipation.

As a kid, I couldn’t wait to grow taller so I didn’t have to tiptoe to get a better view. I wished adults would pay due attention when I spoke to them instead of shooing me away like flies; impatiently waiting for my first hair perm. A promise from mum that was more certain bounce like an empty cheque. And prayed that every day was a new year!

Pohpoh would discuss with mum how many katies of glutinous rice to stock up. A small market research was conducted. Which grocery shop sold the freshest glutinous rice; Which were the unscrupulous stores that mixed last year’s old stock with new arrivals. Which store to avoid after she spotted one maggot crawling among the rice; which store’s weighing scale was highly questionable in terms of accuracy.

After the research came the bargaining ordeal. If Pohpoh was to live in today’s world, she undoubtedly should be a top CEO of some multinational conglomerates.

After she knocked down the price, she would as swift as a professional street pick pocket throw a few more grains of rice into the bag as she was about to pay. To take money out of her wallet was like pulling her tooth with no anaesthetic. Her excruciating pain ricocheted to the shop owner who must have a bulletproof stomach. She had a uncontrollable reflex of suddenly snatch the money from the owner’s hand and recounted it again. Rubbing the banknotes so hard in the hope of one will peel into two, three, or four. After the whole transaction was finalised, she would still carry on complaining the rice was not as good as previous year’s quality, blah blah, blah.

The shopkeeper gave her a nickname : long breath woman （長氣婆 ) which was mild and too polite by my standard. If I were the shop owner, her photo would be hung at my shop front with a message: CUSTOMER FROM HELL!! this patron is forever banned from entering our shop!

She soaked the glutinous rice overnight. Put it in a coarse linen bag which was once used to transport flour from Australia. Those linen bags were strong and durable. Some people turned it into kids’ underwear and shorts.

Dripped dry in the linen bag, she lugged it all the way, about 30 minutes walk after the bus ride, to a good “same village in China” person 同鄉人who owned a millstone.

I was told the patriarch of this family made a trip back to China and hauled these heavy stones back to Miri due to gastronomic homesickness. As a result they monopolised the tofu business in Miri. The day before winter solstice festival, 冬至， villagers would bring eggs and farm product in exchange for the use of their millstone.

First come first serve. I followed grandma, left early in the morning and arrived home about dusk.

The millstone was the size of a round table that could sit 6 adults. Consisted of two thick layers of stone. Top grinding one had a handle for moving it around. The bottom one was stationery. The rice and water was fed into a hole of the top grinder.

As you push the handle round and round, the grinder would make a loud rumbling sound against the stone underneath. The liquid starch flowed into a spout and collected into a bucket.

The millstone was housed in an extension from the main house, bigger than three classroom size. One of the daughter-in-laws looked after boiling of the tofu starch豆漿。 Once the boiling was done, the tofu was left to cool. Once cooled off, the top layer was scooped out with a stick to hang dry. That became the tofu stick腐竹。

There was a long bench for pressing the curd into solid tofu. The curd was poured into a wooden rectangular mould. Then covered with linen cloth, weights were laid on top to press the excess water away. That became the soft tofu. Longer overnight pressing produced the tofu豆乾 of harder, firmer texture.

It must be the one and only mini cottage industry in Miri operated totally non-mechanical and non-electrical. Just human hands doing manual work. The place was so rustic there was no walls except a roof and concrete floor.

The patriarch had many sons, therefore, many daughters-in-law, the working bees. Their faces were sweaty and hair oily. And yet happy. No bickering and bitching around.

That must be the ideal life a woman could ever hope for in the 1950s. To marry into a big family, live in a two storey house, never a shortage of money. Frugal but settled. Every Chinese New Year, gifts of gold chains and bracelets were equally distributed to all daughter-in-laws from the matriarch.

There was always someone in confinement, someone just out of confinement, someone was going to drop the baby anytime, and someone two to three months pregnant.

Babies were crawling on the floor, bottoms bared. Some sitting or grinding in their fresh faeces, which would be devoured by the dogs in seconds. One baby boy with long mucus hanging down his nose sat happily splashing in his own urine puddle and giggled. The mucus did a peek-a-boo trick while he inhaled and exhaled. You see it now! You don’t! You see it now. You don’t!

The toddlers with filthy hands and feet were either suckling their mothers, or pulling the whiskers of the cats and the tails of the dogs. Whether they knocked over and cried, no one seemed to make a big deal of it. Besides pitter patter footprints of infants on the filthy floor, there were the endless whirring and buzzing of flies. The dogs sniffing on the ground for more infants’ faeces; the cats licking their own nuts.

One young mother simply bared one breast as a free flow milk dispensing machine. So many babies to feed, her nipple was never a minute free. The women were so busy that they obviously didn’t have time to look after their hair which formed tangled knots sticking out in all directions.

There was one respectable looking woman whom you could tell was older than the rest. She was the number one son’s wife. This hierarchy won her a lighter chore. She was responsible to bring tofu to the market to sell. As she was older, obviously no suckling babies, she dressed respectfully. She was stern, serious and hardly laughed.

We arrived home at dusk. Pohpoh and mum would start preparing Niengao年糕。 The sweet damp flour would be filled up in round shallow tins recycled from previous year. Lined with bamboo leaves and steamed for hours until the sugar caramelised. The Niengao became solidified and set with a rich golden colour. Once it cooled down completely, it could last for months. Slice it thickly, coat with beaten eggs and shallow fry. Pohpoh said this was the perfect food for toothless grannies.

Then she left a little portion of the wet flour for tang yuan for the winter solstice festival on the following day.

Only Hakka people make savoury tangyuan soup. But that particular year, Pohpoh and mum must be out of their minds. They came out with a rotten idea: let’s make the sweet ginger type. As soon as I heard ginger, I stamped my feet and complained: no no no hot ginger! I want the savoury type.

I had been dreaming about this dish for so long. It was hard to accept the last minute change track which would cause a disastrous derailing! Mum said we never had sweet one. We should try this year!

Why don’t you cook a savoury one just for me? I pleaded.

Too much work! How many pairs of hands do you think I have?

I was in the middle of rolling the tangyuan balls in my palms, half in white and half in pink. I immediately felt a lump stuck in my throat. I ran down the stairs, tears flooded my eyes. I headed straight for my favourite guava tree, my sanctuary. I could hear my mum saying: let her suffer hunger! She won’t die.

I didn’t know how long I was up the tree thinking of desertion and cruelty. I felt like an orphan. I wiped my tears with my skirt, sniffed back mucus from my nose. Thought a bit more, cried again, sniffed more mucus.

They knew very well three things that made me burst into tears: ginger, chilli and bitter gourd! They were mean, mean, mean! I started staging a scene: how to run away from home, to a place where they could never find me; Disappear from their lives forever like a trail of smoke!

If I leave home, would they miss me? Look for me? then I heard Pohpoh’s voice coming from the kitchen: come back and eat or starve yourself to death!

OH NO!

Followed by my cousin’s voice: they made the savoury one.

OH, YES!

I jumped down from the branch, ran and sped up to the kitchen, my breathing so uneven. On the dining table, was a bowl of steamy tangyuan, white and pink balls, in a rich broth with chicken gizzards, liver, intestines, chicken blood curd, and one chicken claw piled into a pyramid, topped with chopped coriander, releasing a plume of steam, waiting for me. I couldn’t help but smiled.

I looked at my Pohpoh, mum, and cousin. I promised I would never leave any one of you!