Nostalgia : Bidor

My car cruises at a comfortable travelling pace, passing by a row of pre-war shophouses in a sleepy semi-town area. Those shops entice me, with each of them having their own great history to tell. I love old shophouses. I'd give just about anything to spend a quiet night in one of them, looking out at the moonless sky, while the dim glow of the yellowish light bulb is the only source of light in the room. Barely moderate, but just enough to my own perfection. I like it that way. Someone slides in a cassette of the greatest romantic songs from the 60s, interrupting my train of thought, and immediately the unmistakable voice of Paul Anka comes out, belting out the love piece, Venus. And as his dreamy voice croons on, so does my car, with each passing second nearer to our destination.

The sun, peeking slyly from behind the clouds ever so occasionally, plays tricks on my eyes, conjuring up the greatest mix of landscapes by producing shadows of great mountains to eclipse my car or to cast the cotton-white clouds' shadows upon the flatlands. Paul Anka's song, still playing at this point, seems to be the perfect soundtrack for all this majestic beauty. I see the peaks of the hills and mountains alike in the distance, surrounded by lush invitating flora. I was only ten at that time, but I promised to scale them once I'm much older and having the chance to do so.

Soon, after another half an hour or so of travel time, we stop by the next town for a short break. At a glance, to me it looks just like any other quiet small town filled with pure nostalgia, but to my father it's different; he knows every town in Perak well. I reach for the door's handles, and upon opening it, a whole new world beckons me. The smell of the country air, the sound of the running river nearby. These are some of the things in life you realise that money won't be able to buy once it goes away forever.

Gently, my father takes me by the hand and tells me of the wonderful history of how the town started as a small Chinese settlement community during the early turn of the twentieth century. And I watched, with all the amazement a ten year-old could ever offer, my eyes following the antics of the shopkeepers and roadside traders while they milled with their daily routines. We then head for the same Chinese coffee shop housed in those ubiquitous pre-war shoplots that is the trademark of small, sleepy towns of Malaysia, with my mum and brother in tow. Each year as we make our journey up North, we never fail to stop by the shop and savour the char-siew paus, reputed to be quite famous, or so to me it seems.

One thing about these typical coffee shop houses which have such a special place in my heart is due to the surrounding environment and all that there is that I have grown to love from an early age. The off-white marble table tops, the sturdy wooden chairs, and the good old way of serving hot coffee in those millet-brown china cups complete with a plasticky orange stirring spoon.

And then, after a hearty meal of traditionally-brewed teh tarik and nescafe peng, it was time to hit the road once more and complete the last leg of the journey. This time however, the scenery takes an abrupt change from wide open spaces to heavily-wooded road paths, mostly rubber trees which would sometimes grow so tall they practically block out some of the sunlight at certain areas. Randomly, there would be a wooden Malay house situated in the middle of the rubber plantation. During this time I still remember I always kept myself busy looking out for Chinese and Malay women selling guavas, for it would mean that we were on the brink of reaching the outskirts of my beloved Bidor hometown itself.

But of course, along all old Malaysian roads, there are roadside plaques planted a click apart from each other that would ultimately indicate precisely how much further more one was from his or her intended destination. Numero uno would always be the much sought-after digit. Just try to picture it - a lonely road with some wild grass growing at the side, while in the background looms the distant green hill and beyond it, a blue sky dotted with clouds. Finally numero uno does come, and upon passing the Goodyear service building, we are officially in the borders of Bidor. The sight of the town famous for its chicken biscuits and egg-yolk crackers is a welcome sight indeed.

My father carefully negotiates the car along the familiar bend of the road, descends up the slight of a hill and steers right upon reaching the first junction. It is but a small junction, but yet deep in my heart I know this very same road leading right up to the housegates of my grandmother (now long passed on) holds much delightful precious memories. Her dog, a brown mongrel barks enthusiastically, knowing we were back for the Chinese New Year reunion dinner just like we did every year. And as always, my grandmother is ready to welcome her son back and to coo over her young little grandchildren.

I miss my grandmother.

After nearly a year or so of not seeing each other, no doubt there is a lot of catching up to do with my three cousins. We do exactly that, but the part whereby we all rush to the outside and soak up all the fun comes later - we still have another two more cousins awaiting. In time, it is their turn to arrive at the gates, and thus so the circle of cousinhood is complete. We waste no time to explore the vast fields, no-man's-lands, and every nook and cranny of Bidor, running off into the direction of the evening sun.

At this point, the camera will pan in a steady motion upwards. Above me, the same cotton-white clouds drift lazily along their charted courses in the blue sky, with the stillness of the quiet nostalgic town of Bidor occasionally punctuated with the laughter and giggles of six young children heading off for another adventure, possibly the nearby river creek or hiking across the grassy plains, glad for the day's blessings and wishing the best for tomorrow.

It's been ages since I last made a trip back, but everytime I look back upon this, a smile is etched on my face as I recall back the memories of Bidor.