Chapter 4: The Pulutan Connection - Part 2

As a young boy growing up in the 1950s and 1960s, the greatest excitement in visiting my grandmother's farmhouse was the stream that ran beside it. It was a magical place, full of adventure and wonder, and easily the highlight of every trip.

Back then, travelling from my old house at Harrington Road (now renamed Jalan Istana) to Pulutan felt as time-consuming as flying from KK to KL today. A couple of days before we left, my mother would make a trip to the town to buy some items - small treats for the cousins, dry food supplies and perhaps a few pieces of fabric for my grandmother or aunt to sew new garments.

The day before our departure, my mother would go through her checklist to ensure nothing was left behind - gifts, daily change of clothes, toiletries like toothbrushes and combs. One of the most important item was the baby sling - a simple sarong used as a wrap carrier for my younger brother, who was just over a year old at the time. Unlike the wide varieties of stylish and ergonomic baby carriers available to mothers today, our version was basic but practical. A baby stroller was completely out of question - it was a luxury far beyond our means.

Despite the long journey and all the preparation, the excitement of visiting the farmhouse and playing by the stream made every effort worthwhile. The memories remain some of the most cherished from my childhood.

Sarong as baby wrap carrier.

The trip usually began at 10 in the morning. We would walk about 2Km from our house to the town's bus station, each of us carrying our assigned items. From there, we boarded a bus heading toward Menggatal or Tuaran. As was the routine, the bus would stop at a road junction just short of Menggatal town, where we disembarked and continued on foot.

The final leg of the journey was a 2.7Km trek along a graveled road. Most of the time, we walked the entire way. On rare occasions, we were lucky enough to catch a pirate taxi - an unlicensed vehicle that operated along the route. 

During dry season, we had to endure clouds of dust kicked up by passing vehicles. Yet, despite the heat, dust, and long walk, our excitement never waned. The anticipation of spending time at my grandmother's house made every step worth it.

By the time we finally arrived at my grandmother's house, it was usually well past lunchtime - often around 2pm. But we never stopped to rest. Without wasting a moment, we rushed straight to what we had been dreaming about the entire journey: jumping into the stream. 

We would spend hours splashing, swimming, and playing in the cool water, completely lost in the joy of it all. It usually took repeated shouting - or the threat of rotan caning - to get us to return to the house, and even then, we did so reluctantly.

Just like in the charming illustrations of cartoonist Lat, children growing up in kampongs near rivers or streams all seemed to share this simple yet unforgettable joy!

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The stream that once gave us so much cherished memories has changed significantly over the years. Its flow has diminished greatly, a quiet casualty of progress and development. Perhaps this is the price we pay for modernity!