When the day had quietened down, the evening soiree on the beach began.
Just like the sunrise, the tropical sunset was swift, no twilight to prolong the day. Shadows fell rapidly, like a blanket thrown over the eye-of-the-day, matahari, the Malay word for the sun. In the soft evening, the village was transformed into a fairyland of candles, carbide and kerosene lamps. Pak Abdul ordered a small charcoal and log campfire to be built, so that it would bring in more light, and provide warmth for those who found the evening sea breeze chilly. Villagers from the islands mingled with villagers from the mainland, many locals providing the visitors with floor space for beds or cloth-tents for the night so that they did not have to traverse the dark sea in their sampans to go home.
People sat on straw mats or empty fruit crates placed on the sand, encircling the fire. Some of the children were given the task of gathering driftwood to feed the fire. Inevitably, the children competed to see who could gather the most.
“Hey, look who’s here!” some villagers said as a man berthed his small sampan, then stepped out of it lithely. “Welcome! Good to see you here!”
“It’s Abang Hamsur,” Pansy whispered to George. “He lives on the kelong.”
The kelong was an offshore fishing trap on stilts out at sea, which had a small hut that served as living quarters. The long line of upright poles on either side of the hut, interspersed with a kerosene lamp, was designed to draw the fish into the nets. Hamsur was a muscular and deeply tanned man.
“He’s not old enough to be a hermit. Maybe in his thirties?” George said.
“The rumour is that he was jilted in love, so he spends most of his time alone on that kelong. He takes his load of catch up the Singapore River to sell to wholesalers, buys his provisions, then returns. He hasn’t much of a social life, except on a day and evening like today,” Pansy explained.
When Hamsur smiled, it was dazzling. He helped the children to turn buckets, pails and empty kerosene tins upside down to use for percussion, and showed them how to slap bare hands in rhythm on their bases. When Pak Abdul began his story about how his ancestors had come to this part of the island, the drummers switched to using their fingers, to tap lightly on the makeshift drums. The rhythmic music, the sound of the waves, and Pak Abdul’s lone but strong voice created an atmosphere of enchantment.
George was mesmerised. It was free and easy; people could tell stories, recite a pantun, or sing. Yusoff plucked his guitar and everyone sang ‘Bengawan Solo’, their voices rising over the sound of the waves. To George’s surprise, Maniam the cowherd, now in his chequered sarong, got up to dance around the fire, arms raised in the air, head swivelling his neck in the way of Indian folk dancing, as the others clapped in rhythm. Lalitha, an Indian girl with bells around her ankles got up to join him, though she was more graceful, moving her feet so that the bells jingled in merry abundance. Several villagers joined them.
The older folk nodded approvingly, whispering amongst themselves, when they saw Hamsur approach Khatijah, Ismail’s widow, and invited her to dance. At first they thought she was going to refuse, but then Khatijah stood up, brushed down her baju kurong and started doing the ronggeng with him, a Malay and Peranakan folk dance that allowed the couple to exchange glances, but did not include their bodies touching. Everyone clapped. They were happy to see her smile again.
“I’m repeating myself, but I have never encountered such community spirit,” George said. “People on my street hardly know or speak to each other!”
“It’s called gotong royong—community spirit. People living in kampongs can rise above their daily hardship and deprivations,” Kim Guek said. “We don’t focus on what we don’t have. We focus on what we do have. The crucial thing is to learn to live in the spirit of joy.”
“Ya-ya,” Pak Abdul said. “Money cannot buy joy. You have to express it from your heart, be in touch with nature. Be in touch with your soul. Sadly, our way of life cannot be sustained and will soon vanish.”
“Don’t say that,” said George. “We can keep the kampong spirit alive.”
“People want progress,” Pak Abdul said in a subdued voice, as if he was clairvoyant. “To most, progress means better living conditions, better facilities. The city will encroach on our doorstep and rural folks will become modern city dwellers, concerned with themselves rather than with the community.”
“Pansy, sing a song, sing a song,” the children chorused.
George looked at her in encouragement.
“Okay, everyone join in, as you all know this pantun,” Pansy said, stepping into the circle of light. “After I recite the first line, everyone must clap and say, Rat-A-Tat-Tat. Second line, Rat-A-Tat-Tat. Then again after the fourth
