“We believe that food tastes much better when it’s in direct contact with our hands,” said Pansy. “Our chi flows from our fingers into the food and vice-versa to make it a meaningful experience.”
George, who was brought up to use forks, spoons and chopsticks bravely decided to eat kampong style. But he was all thumbs, not having done this before. Rice grains rained into his lap as they sat on the floor, the assam pedas gravy formed rivulets down his arm. The two women tried not to laugh.
“It’s not as easy as it looks,” he said as if surprised. “There must be some kind of technique to do it as gracefully as you are doing it.”
“Indians like to roll the rice into their palms,” Kim Guek informed him. “But Malays and Peranakans only use the finger-tips to eat. The palms should remain unsoiled.”
A finger-bowl of water with an orchid floating on its surface had been provided for George. He washed his hand again to retry without getting his palm soiled. He improved a little.
George followed Pansy’s instructions to retrieve the gong-gong flesh which slipped out from its corkscrew shell easily. He swathed it in sambal belachan and put it in his mouth to chew. It caused him to gasp in shock. The sting was intense! He coughed in huge spurts. Pansy had to rush for more water in case he keeled over. She could no longer contain herself, and she laughed with such abundance that George found it impossible to take offence, though he was sure he was going to choke to death. Kim Guek smiled.
“It’s the chilli padi. They are tiny but powerful…”
“Wow, that’s serious! I definitely get the experience. It is more than poetic!” George said in a rasping voice. “I’ll get better. I promise. I just need more training.”
“So that’s why when we say that someone is macham chilli padi, we mean they might be small but they are powerful!” Pansy said between bouts of laughter.
“Have a handful of rice with the Teochew salted fish,” Kim Guek said. “It is not spicy. The boiled rice will ease the burn and soothe your palate. For some reason, water usually makes it worse.”
“Now you tell me…” he said, making his tone jocular, though his eyes were watering. It was his baptism of spices to Peranakan cuisine.
Chapter 6
Kim Guek invited George back for the kampong’s annual boat race. This was a fun event for all the inhabitants of the coastal kampongs on the mainland as well as those from the outlying islands. Although it was not a well-known fact, Singapore had more than seventy small islands, dotted around in its waters. Some were merely coral reefs; others were rocky atolls and some were dense with jungle. Many of the orang selat and orang laut clans lived on the various islands which had graphic names like Pulau Hantu, Pulau Belakang Mati, Pulau Ubin, Pulau Tekong, Pulau Chawan, Pulau Seking, Pulau Tembaku, Pulau Kodok, and many more, their Malay names having been derived or arisen from a feature, shape, content or history of the said island. Ghosts, dead bodies, tobacco, skippers and frog-shaped granite were the origins of some. People on the islands lived a simple, rustic life in peaceful contentment, not hankering for the bright lights and consumerism of the city.
The race was in a perahu kolek, a small, wooden, native sailing craft used on rivers and the shallower seas, as it had no keel, it could not navigate in more violent seas. The perahu or boat was narrow, normally about six to ten feet long, sometimes navigated with oars and sometimes with a rectangular sail, for transporting passengers or light goods to and from the mainland. For the race, oars were traditionally used.
Pak Abdul, descended from the orang laut, was in his element, delighted to see so many sailing boats taking part. He was getting too old to race anymore, and was made judge of the competition. He was well into his eighties, but the chiselled features of his seafaring ancestors were still evident in his jaw and face. Though there was no real use for a headman or penghulu these days, he still commanded respect.
“Macham tempo nenek moyang. Like in the times of my ancestors,” he beamed.
It was a day bright with sunshine, the sky as blue as could be in these parts but obscured by white fluffy clouds. The boats were lined up on the shore. Able-bodied young men in their sarongs, their smooth chests bare, burnt deep brown by the sun, stood by their boats, waiting for the start signal with eager anticipation. All the villagers, including Kim Guek, George and Pansy stood watching.
“This is absolutely marvellous,” George said. “I’ve never seen anything like this before. What fantastic community spirit! And to think I live only on the other side of the river!”
On the shore, the villagers had set up their market stalls and were selling homemade snacks and meals, like curry puffs, nasi goreng, mee goreng etc. It was a festive day, villagers from elsewhere visiting, bringing their own homemade crafts and delicacies to sell.
Pak Abdul blew into a large conch shell to start the race.
The sailors pushed the perahu out onto the water. Because the boats were keel-less and bobbed on the surface of the water, it required great skill to get into them, especially since the waves did not allow them to stay still for very long. The trick was to put one hand on the starboard side and another hand on the port side to steady the boat, before leaping into it. But just as each man was attempting to do so, the wind picked up and a big wave washed inland. Several men were separated from their boats, which meant they had to scramble and swim towards their craft whilst others made a head start. The onlookers laughed, shouting encouragement.
Supporters cheered and children ran along the shore in joyous abandon. The muscles of the sailors bulged
