The Many Faces of Nathan

Nathan Turns 2

Nathan celebrated his 2nd birthday with his Ku Po whose birthday is a day earlier.

Guest of Honour who distributed the Christmas gifts was none other than the birthday boy.

For Po Po.

Sam Q, it's yours!

Aunti Jun, this is for you!

Paul Q, this' yours!

What about me?

All mine!

The Delusion of Little Hong Kong ?

Sandakan is one of the towns I seldom visit, perhaps because I have hardly had any projects there. So, when my lady engineer invited us to attend her pre-wedding banquet in Sandakan, we decided to take the opportunity to make it a driving tour.

Over the years, Sandakan has made notable progress in terms of infrastructure. With the Chief Minister himself serving as the state assemblyman for Sungai Sibuga, an area just next to Sandakan, it is evident that he has invested significant effort in developing this region. His long-term vision is to transform Sandakan into the education hub of Sabah.

Yet, it was a little disheartening to see that Sandakan, once affectionately known as “Little Hong Kong,” is gradually losing that identity. The rapid influx of new communities of different ethnicities has changed the town’s character considerably. When we went in search of a traditional Chinese coffee shop for our afternoon tea, it proved to be quite a challenge. Eventually, we managed to find one tucked away in a row of old shophouses on the hillside - the original Sandakan town. To our surprise, all the shop assistants were non-Chinese, and even the owner appeared to be of mixed heritage. (Not meant as a complaint - just an observation of how much the town has changed.) Around the seafront area, almost all the shops are now run by non-Chinese. Taking a stroll there, one might almost feel transported to Kelantan or Terengganu!

Thankfully, our stay was made especially pleasant by checking into Sandakan’s latest landmark hotel - the Four Points by Sheraton. It was indeed a fine choice, offering both comfort and class. The view from the 24th floor was nothing short of spectacular, a perfect vantage point to take in the evolving face of Sandakan.

We also made time to explore some of Sandakan’s well-known tourist attractions. Our first stop was the famous Agnes Keith House, a beautifully restored colonial residence perched strategically on a hilltop with sweeping views over Sandakan town and the bay.

Agnes Keith, an American author who lived in Sabah with her husband during the 1930s and 40s, is remembered not only for her evocative writings but also for giving Sabah its enduring identity as the “Land Below the Wind” - a phrase she popularized in her book of the same title. Today, the house stands as a museum, offering visitors a glimpse into the life of colonial-era expatriates while also honoring the woman whose words helped put Sabah on the literary and cultural map.

Walking toward the Agnes Keith's old house

Agnes Keith's Old House.

View of Sandakan From Agnes Keith's Old House

Just next to Agnes Keith’s old house stands a former government quarters that has been converted into the English Tea House & Restaurant. True to its colonial setting, the restaurant exudes a nostalgic old-world charm and sweeping views of the Sandakan coastline. We couldn’t resist trying their classic English scones - and they did not disappoint. Freshly baked, warm, and served with cream and jam, they made for a delightful afternoon treat, perfectly complementing the serene ambiance.

We also visited the Sandakan War Memorial, a solemn site dedicated to the memory of the thousands of Allied prisoners of war, particularly Australians, who perished during the infamous Sandakan Death Marches in World War II. To this day, many Australians still return year after year to pay tribute to their fallen heroes, keeping alive the bond of remembrance across generations.

The memorial is not only a place of mourning but also a powerful reminder of the resilience of the human spirit and the heavy price of conflict. It deserves to be preserved in perpetuity - not only as a tribute to those who suffered and died here, but also as a lasting reminder of the atrocities of war and the importance of striving for peace.

On our way back to KK, we made a brief stop by the roadside to revisit a project we had once undertaken - the design and supervision of the remedial system for several collapsed slopes along the highway. Standing there after so many years, it was gratifying to see the system still holding up well, performing exactly as intended even after nearly eight years. There’s a quiet satisfaction in witnessing the lasting impact of one’s work, especially when it continues to serve the community safely and effectively.

Chapter 2: Bedtime Story - A Story I Never Forget

In the 1950s and 1960s, it was rare for residential homes to be connected to the electricity grid by utility company. My village house, along with the neighbouring homes - despite being just 2Km from the town centre - had no access to electricity. Power was limited to shop-houses in the town, a few government quarters nearby and some institutional buildings.

At night, we relied on kerosene lanterns, kerosene lamps and candles for lighting.

A typical kerosene lantern and a typical kerosene lamp.

On regular weekdays, we had dinner fairly early, usually around 6.00pm to 6.30pm, just before darkness set in. Once it turned dark, my mother would light the kerosene lantern so we could complete our homework and helped with household chores. My father typically returned just after 7.00pm, having already eaten at his workplace. By 7.30pm to 8.00pm at the latest, we would be done with our homework and ready for bed. 

Occasionally, the three older boys - myself included - would pester our mother for a bedtime story. She was a gifted storyteller, and although some stories were repeated, we never tired of listening to her. Of all the stories she told us, one remains itched in my memory - vivid and unforgettable. She said it had been passed down to her by her father, who had come to North Borneo (now called Sabah) as a young working man.

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The Scholar and The Centipede

A long, long time ago in China, people lived in deep poverty. For a poor boy hoping to escape the cycle of hardship, there was only one path: passing the imperial civil service examination. Those who passed - especially the top scorer or Zhuang Yuan - would be guaranteed a position as a governor or a high-ranking official.

There was once a poor scholar who lived in a remote farming village. He studied diligently for years and eventually decided to travel to the city to sit for the examination. The journey from his village to the examination centre was long and treacherous, winding through jungle trails that were barely visible and seldom used.

To reach the city in time, he had to set out several days in advance. Along the way, he walked for miles, often without seeing any soul. Occasionally, he would rest in rundown hut or shed - simple shelters built long ago by kind-hearted travelers.

One afternoon, while making his way along the trail, he noticed a large centipede trapped beneath a fallen tree branch. It had clearly been struggling for quite some time, trying in vain to free itself. The scholar moved by compassion, gently lifted the branch and released the centipede. But the creature was injured and was unable to crawl. Without hesitation, the scholar took out a small container he was carrying - one with holes poked in for ventilation - and carefully placed the centipede inside. He added a few breadcrumbs for food and decided to care for it until it recovered, planning to set it free once it regained strength.

After about two days, the scholar noticed that the centipede had regained its strength. He decided it was time to set it free. Just as he was about to do so, he suddenly spotted an enormous snake - as thick as a steel bucket, according to my mother - slithering rapidly toward him. 

Panicked, he quickly gathered his belongings, including the container holding the centipede, and ran as fast as he could. The snake was gaining on him, and just as it seemed it would catch up, he spotted a small hut in a distance. He dashed inside and quickly bolted the door behind him. It was the only way to avoid being swallowed whole.

Inside the hut, he waited, hoping the snake would lose interest and slither away. But to his horror, he soon realized the snake wasn't leaving. Instead, it began coiling itself around the hut, cutting off all light and sealing every gap in the wooden walls. Darkness closed in, and the air inside grew stifling. Before long, the scholar was drenched in sweat, gasping for breath. He was on the verge of suffocation.

In that desperate moment, he remembered the centipede. With his last ounce of strength, he opened the container and released it in the dark. "I am going to die," he whispered, "but you are small enough, may be you can find a gap and escape. Go!" Then, he collapsed, preparing himself for the end. 

But just as he was slipping into unconsciousness, a faint light began to seep through the cracks in the walls. Cool air returned, and he took a deep, life-saving breath. Then he heard sounds of a violent struggle outside the hut - hissing, thrashing, and scuffling. Eventually, everything fell silent. 

Once he recovered enough strength, he slowly opened the door and stepped outside. What he saw broke his heart.

The giant snake lay dead, and clinging to its throat was the lifeless body of the centipede. In a final act of bravery, the centipede had bitten down on the snake's neck and refused to let go. The snake had rolled and twisted violently in an attempt to shake it off, crushing the centipede in the process. But the centipede never released its grip - and in doing so, saved the scholar's life. 

Overwhelmed with sorrow and gratitude, the scholar gently placed the centipede's body back into the container. He dug a small grave and buried it with care. Before continuing his journey, he knelt and bowed three time to honour the sacrifice of his tiny friend.

The scholar eventually reached the examination centre. He sat for the imperial examination - and passed. In time, he was appointed a government official and served with diligence and integrity, never forgetting the selfless act that had saved his life.

After the story ended, there was a deep, lingering silence among us. We felt a profound sense of loss and awe. Then, as always, came the gentle command that signaled the end of the evening: "That's the end of the story. Time for bed!".

Though simple, the story left a lasting impression. Its lesson - that kindness returned, even at the cost of one's own life, is the highest form of gratitude - is something that has stayed with me ever since.

Post addition (18 May 2020): A video which I received does show that a centipede is able to kill a snake!

Chapter 1: Nicknames

When Serene first suggested the idea of writing about our childhood memories, the first thing that came to mind was the gang of playmates I used to spend time with during the 1950s and 1960s in our village.

Photo with courtesy from prweek.com

In those days, parents loved coming up with all kinds of nicknames for their children. I remember a family in the village whose eldest son was called "Lap Chong" - which mean sausage in the Chinese language. The two youngest boys in the five-sibling household were affectionately known as "Ah Tong" and "Ah Yam", meaning sugar and salt.

In another family, the youngest daughter was nicknamed "Ah Nee" which means Ant. Yet another family gave their three eldest boys the nicknames of "So Chai", "Chu Chai" and "Kel Chai" which translate to crazy kid, little piglet and little puppy. In a different household, the eldest son was called "Dongkui", the name of a Chinese medicinal herb.

Back then, many adults believed that children were susceptible to "disturbance" from ghosts or spirits, which could lead to frequent illness or accidents. One way to ward off these forces, they believe was to give children "non-human" names - those of animals, objects or everyday items - so that spirits wouldn't recognize them as human and would simply pass them by. However, not all children received such nicknames. The healthier ones or those who rarely experienced accidents, were often addressed by their given names or pleasant-sounding nicknames. 

As I grew older, I began to find this belief rather illogical - Could ghosts and spirits really be so foolish as to rely only on hearing and not on sight?

Of course, not all nicknames were born of superstition. Some were given out of affection and love. Occasionally, children were even offered a few options and allowed to choose the one they like best. Others, however were given nicknames purely for fun - or even mockery. Among my primary school classmates, I had friends nicknamed "Suitong" (water container), "Hamchenpiang" (Chinese deep-fried pancake), "Ma Tel" (horse head) and "Benfook" (flying fox). The list goes on.

In my own family, the eldest boy was given a nickname, though it was later changed during his teenage years on the advice of a medicine man as a way to cure his recurring illness. The second was called by his given name. As for me, I was given a nickname that, much later in life, I realized sounded very similar to one of my uncles' nickname - the only difference was in the pitch. My mother told me she gave me that name because I liked the sound of it as a baby. 

On a related note, I'm the only one among six siblings whose birth certificate carries a two-character given name, rather than the more typical three-character name. Although my parents never confirmed it, I always suspected they were expecting a girl for their third child and didn't prepare a boy's name. As a result, my name was something of an afterthought - and I've to live with an alias ever since!

As a teenager, I came to view nicknames - especially those felt dehumanizing - with discomfort. I was determined to shed mine. Eventually, I stopped responding whenever someone used it, which led to a severe confrontation with my mother. After that painful episode, I was no longer called by my nickname. From that point on, I made a vow never to give my own children any nickname that might feel demeaning or objectifying.

Still, the tradition of using affectionate nicknames continues. You'll hear children lovingly called "Boyboy", "TaiTai", "Didi", "Ah Paul, "Ah Sam" and many more.

Nicknames live on - sometimes whimsical, sometimes loving, sometimes strange - always a reflection of the time, culture and people behind them.