I SCREAMED frantically at the frightening sight of the reptile on the grass. It was as black as night. “Ssss... snake!”
I was only 5, and my mother had arrived to pick me up from the Assunta Kindergarten in Kuantan, Pahang.
In a soothing voice, my mother said: “Just let it be...”
Sensing my confusion, she explained that the snake would simply go back into the bushes where it came from.
That explanation only rattled me further. There were so many bushes in my hometown in Kuantan, so by that logic alone, there must be snakes everywhere.
And I hated it.
“It’s like we’re living in a jungle and I don’t like it,” I said.
My mother then handed me a packet of snacks to shut me up, but that didn’t quell my resentment against nature.
In the end, she simply said: “Trees are good, they’re part of nature. We shouldn’t destroy them. Otherwise, you would have to start sharing the house with snakes since they don’t have their own homes any more.”
That finally shut me up.
The eye-opening chat with my mum, my first-ever lesson about the importance of protecting the environment, was one of the fondest memories I had growing up.
From Mondays to Fridays, it was our routine that my mother would pick me up from school at noon, so we could both head to a grocery shop that she operated then, at Kuantan’s famous Teluk Chempedak beach.
I grew up helping her stack up goods in her shop. I would also take the role of a cashier from time to time, with the help of a calculator, of course.
Back then, Teluk Chempedak was idyllic, beautiful and peaceful.
I loved going there. It reminded me of one of those pretty beaches you saw on television in the 1990s — just a huge, open space for children to play.
It was a hive of activity and the atmosphere was jovial, with people selling food and drinks and families getting together for a relaxing time.
My brothers and I usually played fetch on the beach.
Occasionally, they would grab my hands and swing me around so that I felt like flying.
When we were manning the shop, we would even call visitors who were in their cars to drop by for food or drinks. It was all in good fun and no one gave us any weird looks.
All this fun and revelry was possible then, because visitors were allowed to park in front of the shops in Teluk Chempedak.
Because of this, every day felt like a carnival.
Then one day, it was not allowed any more. We were told that the authorities did this to better manage the beach as slow traffic flow could pose a problem during peak holiday periods.
Those who grew up in Kuantan and had been to Teluk
Chempedak before the changes were made would say that things were different after that.
Cleaner and more organised, sure, but with the “chaos” gone, so was the unbridled fun of the carnival-like atmosphere.
One thing that remained constant was the food... and there were a lot of different tastes and flavours to choose from!
This is another thing about Kuantan that is unrivalled anywhere else in the whole world.
Nasi minyak, nasi dagang, nasi himpit serunding, laksam... and these are just for breakfast!
Basically, if you can think of any great Malaysian breakfast from other states, you can find them in Kuantan and the taste would blow your mind.
On Saturdays, my father would take me out for breakfast before he went to work.
Our regular stop would be Parvati Restaurant, which made the best thosai I’ve ever had.
From there, we would make our way to his office in Jalan Teluk Sisek.
After an hour or two of being patient this whole time, I would finally cave in and bug my father to get me sweets and snacks from a small grocery shop downstairs.
The store specialises in candies and I am happy to note that it is still there today.
And my father’s words of advice ensured its survival: “Always go to small convenience stores and help them with their businesses.”
As a child known for asking too many questions, the next word that came out of my mouth was “Why?”
For the next few minutes, my dad had to indulge his little daughter’s naive questions about capitalism. Bless him for his patience in answering each one of them!
At noon (some sectors worked half day on Saturdays back then), we would go home.
I remembered looking forward to a huge spread that my mum would have prepared for us that day — her ayam masak kicap, lemak labu, briyani and chapati were to die for.
In the late afternoon, we would all go out for the famous Mustafa Cendol in Taman Selamat. I am usually a big eater, but I hardly ever finished my food.
I don’t blame my parents when they wanted to share the cendol and rojak with me.
And that’s how I earned my next moral lesson: “Never waste food. Whatever you have on your plate, you better finish it,” my dad would say.
“We’ll stay at this restaurant until you’ve finished your food,” he added, accompanying the advice with historical and often heartbreaking anecdotes.
“Do you know how hard life was during our time?
“During the Japanese occupation, we only had ubi kayu (cassava) to eat,” my father would lament (it was only 20 years later that I found out that he made up the “experiences” as he was born in 1946, a year after the Japanese occupation on Malaya).
“Did you know the rice will cry at night after you throw them out?” my mother would say.
For a 5-year-old, such mental images were enough to leave a lasting impact. It was one of life’s lessons that I picked up early in life, together with environmental awareness and some understanding of capitalism.
Of course, the culinary aspect was a gem too.
Imagine tasting the heavenly flavours of gulai tempoyak at a young age. It’s true what they said: “Once you’ve had tempoyak, you will never go back.”
Or maybe that was just me.