Visiting my Mother’s Hometown in Ipoh, Malaysia
Ever since the pandemic started, my family’s yearly tradition of visiting Malaysia during the Lunar New Year period had been disrupted.
That means that this year was the first time I had gone back to Malaysia to visit in three years, and there’s a lot that I’ve missed.
My mother was from Ipoh, but more specifically, Batu Gajah, a region located within it. In Malay, ‘Batu’ means stone, and ‘Gajah’ means elephant. This explanation is always endearing to me, as my mother repeats it to me yearly, as if I had somehow forgotten from the previous year.
Decades ago, she had moved from her rural kampung (village in Malay) to Singapore, a bustling city devoid of the comforts of a small town. As I return each year, I become more aware of how difficult it must have been to adapt to that change.
Ipoh is much, much larger than Singapore, with much less going on.
I’ve always felt a little stifled in Singapore. ‘A concrete jungle’ is the right way to put it. Towering, blocky buildings that hide my view of the sky, and roads made of cement line my feet.
But in Malaysia, I witness the sky unfold before me, with little blocking my vision. Dirt covers my shoes, which, oddly enough, is a nice change.
The sky is filled with things that carry nostalgia — telecommunication cables, hanging lanterns, and fern-like trees. Such sights are rare in Singapore.
What I love about being in a small town, like Batu Gajah, is the close-knit community. Everyone knows everyone — that’s just how it works.
During my trip, my uncle brought me to a local ‘restaurant’. Restaurant isn’t the best way to put it — it’s more of a roadside eatery. The place had no name, no placard to declare: “Welcome to our establishment!”
We walked into the hole-in-the-wall place and took our seats. The kitchen was connected to the dining area, where people dining could just walk right in.
My grandmother started conversing with the chef in Cantonese. Turns out, she had known him for over thirty years! They were once co-workers at a local restaurant.
There was no menu, we just told the chef what dishes we would like, and he adjusted it according to the ingredients he had. It was a surreal experience.
Another instance of this was when I greeted my grandfather’s neighbour, who was a hairdresser. When I was younger, I would visit her every year to get my hair cut in her home, which had a salon installed into it.
She would charge small amounts to cut my hair. When I met her again, we reminisced about the times when I would come over, while my parents were busy, to do my hair.
From the hairdresser to the chef at a random eatery, my family was connected to everyone in town in some form or another. It is such a small, cozy community.
In a kampung like Batu Gajah, life moves slowly. Sipping a hot cup of Teh (tea) or Kopi (coffee) is mandatory every morning. While lounging on a chair and chatting with friends and family, of course. No one there is rushing to work in the mornings with a Starbucks in hand.
During my stay there, I constantly went on strolls and took naps. I imagine this is how cats live every day.
Also, I love the lack of regulations when it came to everything. Traffic rules? You can forget about them. Crossing the street meant walking across a road with cars zooming by and praying.
Living in Singapore, where gum and fireworks are banned, having complete access to them in Malaysia is like being a kid in a candy shop.
We played with packs and packs of fireworks that my uncle bought for us, and it was heaps of fun. And, I still have leftovers from when I cleaned out the gum section of that one convenience store.
What never fails to disappoint me is the food. I dream of the food in Ipoh, especially my grandfather’s cooking.
Soups would be simmered overnight in metal cauldrons. A pool of prawns would be coated in a mysterious, sweet red sauce.
For me, food also represents family. In Chinese culture, dinner tables are meant to be round, as they represent unity and togetherness. At my grandfather’s home, tables are always round, and we gather there to enjoy the food together as a family.
Lok-lok is another form of communal eating. It is a hotpot style of cooking, where meat and vegetables are skewered on a stick and held in boiling soup before eating.
Every year, my grandfather orders a local lok-lok truck, which serves everything, soup and all. He would invite as many relatives as he could, and we would all gather around the truck, holding skewers in boiling soup.
We would eat and talk, then eat some more. This tradition is what I look forward to every year.
Travelling to Batu Gajah for all of the above was amazing. But what made the trip truly special was meeting up with my close relatives whom I hadn’t seen in years.
Seeing my great-aunt this year, it hit me that time was passing quicker than I had expected. It wasn’t just the extra missing teeth, or the wrinkly smile.
Her age betrayed her with a slight grimace as she supported herself against an armrest to sit down. The slow walk as she braces herself due to her bad back.
I saw that her body was deteriorating. Even though we spoke as if no time had passed at all, her body showed signs of otherwise. I had to internalise that the people close to me would fade away, and I wouldn’t be there every step of the way.
But strangely, the sight of my grandmother and my great-aunt chattering away, like two school girls talking about this and that, muted my worries. It seemed like just yesterday that they were young and carefree.
I realised that the most important part of coming back to visit is to reunite my family with its roots in Batu Gajah. These visits are limited and precious, and I hope to cherish every single one of them.
