They called me John ‘Two-Hits-With-One-Stone’ Cheong

An old memory came to me today when Mei and I went cycling in Balik Pulau. After 2 months of being cooped up in our flat, it was great to be once again in that semi-rural part of Penang, cycling past padi fields, rivers and swathes of mangrove, breathing in unpolluted air as the birds swooped around us and the hills framed our view in verdant green.

We’d done a very short ride, easing our long-idle muscles back into cyclic effort. After just under 6 kilometres, we returned to where we’d parked and began to pack the bikes back into the back of the car. 

We were in the shade of a few large trees, in a little clearing where a lady usually runs a small drinks stall. The roofless structure from whence she dispensed coconut water and canned drinks belied her true standing in the area - in fact she was the owner of the 14 acres of padi fields on either side of the lane that ran past this little stall. She had horses which she said she had no time to take care of so she had a friend care for them. And every year or so the stall would become deserted when she took off to spend 3-4 months with her family in Australia.

Today the stall was indeed deserted. The Movement Control Order had probably forced its closure. The clearing, though, was a convenient place to park.

On one side of the road, the fields had been planted with fresh padi and a number of workers were busy spraying pesticide. On the other side of the road was Sungai Burung, a narrow canal that lent its name to this area, then more fields. These had not yet been sowed but would soon be, if the tractors churning up the soil in the distance were any indication.

Opening the boot of the car, I spied one of my catapults tucked into a side pocket. I have two - the other lies disassembled at home. An effort to use car inner tubes had failed. Modern tubes are of a synthetic material that does not have the elasticity of rubber.

This catapult, though, was bought complete with sturdy square-section rubber lengths that seemed to do the trick. On an impulse, I took it out and looking down, realised there was gravel aplenty beneath our feet. Picked up a roundish stone, stood on the edge of the road to have a go. Mei wandered over to have a look. I pointed to a piece of wood floating along with the current, took aim, and smacked it loud and hard with a perfect shot.

“Wah…’ said Mei.

…….

Late 70s. Port Dickson. I must have been 13 or 14. We were on holiday with some of our extended family including my good buddy in those days, my cousin Winston, who is a year younger. That seaside town was a favourite school-holiday destination for our families when we were young. The waters were clear then, and the beaches clean. We snorkelled, fished, built sand castles or wandered around picking up shells. We got sunburnt and we gathered memories to last years.

Both Winston and I were pretty good shots with our home-made catapults. The ammunition we used were flung hard and fast when the wound-up force of stretched lorry-inner-tubes was released. 

These tubes were carefully cut to a consistent width and length, bound by rubber bands to a leather pouch on one end and the smooth wooden Y of the catapult on the other. When newly assembled, the rubber required great strength to stretch but with repeated pulls they became more pliant. 

Winston and I were walking along the beach, picking up rounded pebbles and letting fly at all sorts of targets. For some reason our aim that day had been less than perfect. Unbeknownst to us though, our peregrinations had attracted the attention of some kampung boys who were trailing us, each also armed with a catapult. 

Winston and I chatted as we walked, and shot at things rather aimlessly. At one point, I spied the empty shell of a small crab just a few feet from me. I took aim and let fly, only to see my stone bury itself in the sand 6 inches from its target.

As I chastised myself quietly ‘useless…’ a stone whizzed past me at knee height. It smacked right into the crab shell I’d just missed.

Winston and I whirled around and that was the first we saw of the kampung boys, 3 or 4 of them, roughly our age or younger. They wandered over and silently issued a challenge by picking up a stone and placing it on a small rocky outcropping on the edge of the water about 15 feet away. 

Still wordlessly we accepted the challenge. Winston went first, his pebble missing by a foot or so. The boys went in turn and all missed, some by not very much. My turn came…

I missed.

Then I looked down and at my feet was a discarded packet drink carton. To this day I have no idea why I picked it up, walked to the rocks and placed it behind the stone, a further 3 feet back.

The others took turns at the new target and everyone missed. Then came my turn. I picked up a brown pebble, burnished round and smooth by the waves. Placed it in the leather pouch, pulled back on that until the rubber was taut with restrained force. Using the right fork of the Y as a guide, I aimed for a few seconds, breathed out steadied my arms then let go…

The pebble flew fast and straight into the first target, smacking that stone aside then ploughing right on into the drink packet 3 feet further behind, sending that flying off the rock and into the sand below.

For a moment, no one said a thing then I muttered a quiet ‘Yes!’ followed a moment later by the whooping of the kampung boys. They crowded around us and were suddenly all smiles and laughter. 

The eldest boy said to me ‘Nak ikut kita? Pergi buru tupai…’ ‘Join us? Let’s hunt squirrels…’ so off we went, suddenly the best of friends. 

We didn’t spot any squirrels and eventually Winston and I took our leave. Waved goodby at the boys and headed back to our holiday chalet, still flushed with our little victory. ‘Not bad lah - two hits with one stone…’

We came back from PD that trip each with a huge back of nice round pebbles. At some point thousands of years in the future, some geologist will wonder why that part of PJ is littered with stones that once rested on the bottom of the sea a hundred miles away.

…….

The stones in Sungai Burung probably didn’t come from the sea. They are not round enough and I didn’t hit anything else besides that piece of wood.

Day 11 Oct 25 PD - Morib Part 1

Distance: 80.55 km
Max Speed: 41.0 km/h
Average while moving: 17.5 km/h

Ah, I have so many memories of PD...

I fell in love for the first time in PD, at the tender and innocent age of 10. She was destined to be one of Malaysia's most famous models, but of course we didn't know it then. And our relationship lasted all of... oh, two days until it was time to go back to PJ again.

And then there were the family school-holiday trips to PD, a few of them at an old bungalow by the sea, Sandytide, and a few at the National Union of Banking Employees centre further up the coast. Those were fun times with my cousins and I seem to remember that tracking sand in or getting wet and dirty was never a problem with our parents then.

A few years on, in my early teens, I recall roaming the beaches with my cousin, two of us armed with our home made catapults. One day some kampung kids who were similarly armed trailed us then set up two targets as a challenge. Everyone failed to hit them with their first shots. Then I took aim and shot both the tin and the small rock behind it with the one shot and suddenly the kampung kids were swarming around us and inviting us to go with them to hunt some squirrels and so on. It made me feel pretty damn good...

Half a decade later, at the end of Lower 6, a large number of us attended the annual 6th Form Leadership Training Course at the De La Salle Brothers' Bungalow in PD. The bungalow is still there today and every time I go past, I remember that week that built up some lifelong relationships.

Here we are in 2007 and here I am on a slow bicycle ride past all these places. And building up two more clear memories of PD...

The first is of the Legend Water Chalets. It would certainly not have been my first choice but for the comedy of errors which saw me avoid or miss some very nice places, much more in keeping with the spirit of the ride, and instead cycling blindly on until I ran out of choices.

I must say that after a week and a half in the saddle, the comfort was most enticing and tempting. When I swung the door to the chalet open I had a moment of confusion. The first thing I saw ahead of me was a black marble vanity standing on a stone tile floor. On this floor was inset a 3 ft square sheet of glass which gave a view of the sea directly below. To my right was a sunken shower area with a nice, large overhead shower head and beyond that was a triangular bath tub sitting on a black marble pedestal.

I thought I'd somehow ended up renting a bathroom for the night...

A slight pause and then I saw the doorway ahead of me, which led into the bedroom and a small balcony beyond. The wall between the tub and the bedroom had windows with very stylish wooden venetian blinds letting light through.

Relieved I had a bed to sleep on for the night, not just a bathtub, I pushed the bike in, unloaded it and explored a little further.

The bedroom was very nicely lit, and the queen size bed with a very firm mattress was certainly a far cry from the Batu Pahat Rest house. It looked and felt so goooooooood.... The whole atmosphere was a pampering, comforting one. The only thing missing was my wife... sob sob... well, maybe on another trip.
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Day 10 Oct 24 Pantai Kemunting - Port Dickson

Distance: 65.58 km
Average while moving: 16.3 km/h
Max speed: 38.6 km/h

An early morning start and it gave me an altogether different perspective of Pantai Kemunting. The fisherman were out and setting off. The strong winds of the last two days had been whipping up the waves so hard they had stayed on shore but this morning brought altogether calmer seas and they were setting off just as I was.

I rode through the quiet kampung. Where yesterday evening there were people zipping about on their bikes and scooters, and people milling about or fishing or sipping their teas and coffees at the stalls, this morning most of the kampung was still in darkness. As I rode, I could hear the insects chirping in the bushes and gardens, the occasional cockerel crowing and the muted rumble of waves on the shore to my left.

Much of the early riding was quite easy. I stopped near Tanjung Agas for breakfast. The terrain had been relatively flat and I was glad I'd stuck to the coast road. Just after the little place I had breakfast in was the Sungai Linggi, the river between Melaka and Negri Sembilan. I had crossed another state line and felt some measure of accomplishment.

The road thereon was flat for some distance then started to climb as I got nearer Tanjung Tuan. I found the turnoff to Tanjung Tuan and swung left onto the road by the army camp. The road sloped upwards and was lush and green on either side. After a short distance, I zipped down a hill and up the other side but quickly stopped when I realised there was a very steep hill immediately after. At this stage, I was a trifle weary and extremely practical. I doubted I'd make it up the other side and opted instead to turn around and head into PD instead.

Which I did. PD, as I rediscovered, has hills on either end and although I'd avoided the very steep Tanjung Tuan ones, I had to deal with the many that lead into town. I rode past a few big hotels, preferring a modest establishment. I saw a few possibilities, but decided to get further towards town, thinking it would be good to be able to observe the life of the town itself.

The last great hill was a long, fast ride into the town area and before I knew it, I had passed everything. No options except a typical town hotel was available at this end so I decided to turn around and head back again. As I did so, the whole episode began to take on the air of a comedy of errors - a drizzle started up, then turned increasingly heavy so I quickly turned in at a set of shops and decided to treat myself to a nice hot Teh-O and some lunch.

For the second major meal in a row, I had a Maggi Mee Goreng and although different from the scrumptious one at Pantai Kemunting the night before, this one was just as tasty. I don't care how much money Maggi makes, they deserve every cent. And I don't care how much money the stallholders make from frying up a packet of instant noodles - they too deserve every cent!

Once the rain abated, the comedy began anew. I turned back as planned, got about 2 km back and realised the hill I'd zipped down was really a very long climb back up so I turned around once again and decided to try my luck on the other side of town.

As I cycled along, my hopes were raised by a sign that announced the Glory Beach Resort. Now, Glory make good, decent biscuits, don't they?... It sounded like a nice small place. And there was even a sign for something else called the Legend Water Chalets. Hmmmm... promising indeed...

I cycled for mile after mile... quite some way out of town, and after a wrong turn that brought me to the refinery and the village that services it, I finally got onto the correct road, cycled about a kilometre down it... and found out the Glory Beach Resort was a humongous development with about 2000 rooms, a conference hall, 4000 slave workers pulling erect a statue of Ra the sun God... you get the idea. Appalled I muttered 'no way!' and carried on, a sliver of hope still remaining that Legend would turn out to be a nice rustic establishment over the sea.

I rolled into what seemed to be the Four Seasons. But I wasn't going anywhere else. This was it. I was whacked and I was staying here, regardless. The glass doors opened and a uniformed door man asked 'Can I help you, Sir?'

If there's one thing I do not expect in PD, it's to be called 'Sir'. Trying to look and sound as cool as possible, I said evenly, 'I think I would like a room' to which the doorman replied 'Certainly, Sir' and opened the door for me.

Acting as if a grimy bicycle was as natural a conveyance as a Mercedes or BMW, and a sweaty body in shorts and a sports shirt as natural as one dressed in a shirt, tailored pants and tie, I got off the bike, turned to the doorman and said 'Please keep an eye on my bike - it's important to me' to which he replied he would. Sir.

Inside, the service was just as polite and deferential so I found myself a willing fly to the spider's web of profit. I found myself agreeing to rent a room a few moments before I even realised I had no idea how much rooms cost here.

As things turned out, I rented a chalet for RM 280, and as I used my MasterCard, I enjoyed a 20% discount on top of that.

I rode the bike where they directed me, and found my chalet, opened the door and stepped into a world as removed from Ismah Beach Resort as was possible.

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