Archive for November, 2006

My father continues his memories of life under the Japanese during World War Two, when he was a young boy of about six.

He writes:

Lessons consisted exclusively of learning the language and the script - not the one that uses the Chinese characters. There was no Japanese literature or war propaganda in the lessons. Soon there was not much to teach us and a lot of the periods were spent in singing some popular Japanese songs.

After the British surrendered my Father had to get rid of his tin hat and gas mask with which he was issued when he was drafted or joined the medical service of the British Army. As a doctor the Japanese issued him some petrol and so he was able to use his car which had a red cross pasted in the front wind-screen and the back. This would ease him in passing through the check points that were erected on most cross-roads.

One matter caused me a great deal of anxiety and that was the radio. The Japanese had made it known that if anyone was found with a radio he was liable to have his head chopped off. So for a few mornings I would wake up with cold sweat worrying that Mother had not got rid of our radio. Eventually she did by dumping it into a deep mining pool. She could not have done it herself and must have needed someone to help her and it is a wonder that whoever he was he did not squeal to the Japanese about it.

The only time I came across some Japanese soldiers was when a few of them came round to the vicinity of our house. They were intent on catching some chickens and they asked me to help them to round-up the chickens; we didn’t catch any. I wondered if that amounted to collaborating with them! By the third year of school I was quite fluent in writing and speaking Japanese but I soon forgot all of it after the return of the British. Being young I did not know what happened to the production of rubber and tin and how trade was conducted. What we know was the scarcity of food. We had also dug vegetable plots at the back of the house and planted the easily grown vegetables but it was not enough to be self-sufficient.

As the Allies fought back and in the last months of the Occupation we could see the B-29’s dropping bombs over the airfield, the Central Railway Workshop and unexpectedly the National Museum. The places bombed were quite far from where we lived so we did not suffer any collateral damage as it would be called now. Some people watched and cheered but a lot were still apprehensive because the Japanese had not surrendered yet.

Finally the Japanese surrendered and the occupation was over. I did not witness the ceremony of the signing of the surrender which was conducted in the school hall of the Victoria Institutions, the school I attended in later years.

Written by Guest Blogger: Ooi Boon-Leong

Photo: thanks to indianaradios.com

memmlya

On Tuesday, I posted a link to Hanzi Smatter, the site dedicated to the misuse of Chinese characters in Western culture, highlighting tattoos that don’t say quite what the owner thinks they say.

The counterpoint site is Engrish.com which highlights oddball uses of English - mainly from Japan, where it’s trendy to use Western words as part of a design pattern. Go see for yourself at http://www.engrish.com.

My favourite is this funky use of the lovely-shaped word “Dank” to sell bread ….

Photo: from Engrish.com

So, you’ve got your contract with a publisher and you’re working hard on your re-writes. And you’re being paid - yippee, you’re a professional writer now!

And, finally, you get to plan the dust jacket of your book. Of course, you’ve been planning it probably from the time you started writing the book - or maybe even before. Or perhaps from the moment you decided to be a writer. What writer - or would-be writer - hasn’t stood in a bookshop and imagened their book there on the shelves, their own name beaming out from the best cover design ever in the whole world?

And this is exactly the reason why all new writers arriving at this point in their careers will need to navigate with caution. All your blood, sweat and tears and hopes and ambitions for your beloved book, your baby, will be tied up in the dust jacket. After all, for the first time, you are handing control over to other people - it will be these other people who will dress your baby and present it to the public. It is an alarming moment for Mommie Dearest.

My sense of it is that publishers don’t really want a bug-eyed, frothing, hysterical mother on their hands trying to tell them how her baby should be dressed and presented to the world. For this reason, they are hesitant to let their first-time authors authors go anywhere near the design process.

In my podcast conversation with Lucy Luck, the UK literary agent, I described the negotiations over the dust jacket for my first novel “The Flame Tree”. I was not too happy with the first design for the cover - it was staid and dull, I felt. I spoke to my agent, who agreed that it was too un-thrilling for a thriller. On her advice, I played it cool and let her handle the discussions. She was able to negotiate a re-design. This time, I got the chance to talk to the illustrator and give him my take on what elements the cover could show. I was also invited to watch the photo shoot - “watch” being the operative word: I was careful not to do the whole fussy, interfering mother thing. The result was a brilliant cover that captured the essence of the novel.*

In contrast, I heard the story of a first-time author who was unhappy with the cover design of his book - it had a “Boy’s Own” feel to it, signalling the action/ adventure genre of his novel. Unfortunately, in his mind, he had written great literature and he had expected a cover to denote that gravitas. He had a row with his editor that lasted for weeks - against the advice of his agent, who shared the same view as his editor - and worst of all, he completely lost his cool. The publishers retained the “Boy’s Own” style cover and subsequently, rejected his next three manuscripts. Now, it may be that those later manuscripts lacked merit in their own right. But, in my mind, I don’t think the tantrum over the first dust jacket helped.

Would you have a head to head row with your colleagues or boss in your day job, complete with the chest pushing and going red in the face? Not the greatest career move if you did, I’d suggest. So, too, with navigating your way through the business of being a professional, published author. It can be very difficult especially as one’s life and soul can be bound up in one’s literary baby. So, if you’ve managed to get this far on a bit of luck and a lot of talent, do leave Mommie Dearest at home….

* This first edition of the book is now out of print. “The Flame Tree” is now in its second edition.

You know how some Westerners go East and get themselves a funky tattoo in Chinese or Japanese characters - or maybe they just go to another Westerner who’s offering the service out of their tattoo parlour just off the Brighton seafront. How do they know that the symbol their getting says “love and happiness” and not “beef and broccoli”? They don’t.

Hanzi Smatter is a blog dedicated to the misuse of Chinese characters in Western culture. There are pics of tattoos with the corrected character alongside and stories from the tattoo-ing trenches.

Visit Hanzi Smatter at http://www.hanzismatter.com/

So if you are thinking of getting a funky Eastern tattoo, take along a Chinese-literate friend! (In this case, not me - I no speakee or readee Chinese.)

Photo: from the Hanzi Smatter site.

This video is in Japanese but you don’t need to understand the language to watch the domino chain they’ve made out of their household items. There’s a long-ish bit at the beginning in the bedroom but stick with it and watch the domino chain go out the door and then the real fun begins!

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Following on from my father’s post last Friday about his boyhood experiences of the Japanese occupation of Malaya during the Second World War, the story continues with an account of life at Japanese school.

The family hid deep in a rubber estate when the Japanese troops swept through the country. Now, a few years on, life has settled into a new routine under the occupation.

My father writes:

In our family there was my Mother, my maternal Grandmother, the four of us and a servant who has since become very close to the family. Father was away with his first family which will be explained later. The servant’s name was Ah Hoe but we children called her Ah Hoe Cheh (AHC) - the “Cheh” means sister a term the children of the house used for these young girls who came from China to work in the various households in Malaya. She came to work for us soon after her arrival from China until she retired. She had shared the privations and happy times of the family, and never grumbled about her work and was and is an excellent cook. As I write this she is 82 years old and she now lives in Hong Kong with her niece in well deserved retirement. Very unusually she was literate in Chinese and as children we listened to the Chinese folk tales and ghost stories that she would tell us and stories from some of the Chinese classics which every Chinese knows. She even recited from a book the prayers for Kuan Yin (the Goddess of Mercy) before the latter’s image in the household altar and lighted joss sticks twice a day before the household Gods. (Mother was busy helping my Father in the clinic and we children would not know how to attend to these devotions.) As Mother was thus away she looked after us, fed and clothed us and did the household chores as well.

Almost all of these girls who had come over had sworn that they would not marry and very few broke this oath. A dozen or so of them would group together to rent a floor on top of a shophouse in town where they would go for a rest on the occasions they could get away from their work. There were no fixed off days. Most of them would use letter writers who wrote in Chinese to send letters back to their homes. They would send money and it was done this way: they would give some person who has a trusted reputation the money meant for the family and the agent of this trusted person in China would give the equivalent to the family. I have never heard any of them being cheated.

For food the adults’ staple was boiled sweet potatoes, boiled tapioca or tapioca flour made into pancakes and occasionally rice porridge boiled with sweet potatoes. For us children we had rice porridge boiled with sweet potatoes. We became quite experts on the quality of sweet potatoes; they came in various colours: orange, yellow and purple. The purple ones were rare but they were usually the sweetest. In the early days of the Occupation we would slaughter the chicken and ducks because soon there would not be enough food to feed them. So for a short while we had good food.

I cannot remember the exact age but it must have been about 6 that I was enrolled in a Japanese school. It was a Japanese school in that it taught us the Japanese language, arithmetic and drawing. There were about 40 Chinese boys in a class and the form master was also a Chinese. There were other teachers who were Indians, a Sikh (the locals) and a Japanese woman. I later found out that the locals had been teachers in English schools before the coming of the Japanese. They must have taken a crash course in Japanese to teach Japanese. Later on after the Occupation they went back to teach in English schools. The Japanese lady was in her early thirties and she wore skirts and blouses and taught us singing. She was a quiet and dignified person and quite pretty and there was no trace of any arrogance.

The whole school would assemble every morning in the school field in orderly lines and the Japanese flag was raised. The whole school sang the Japanese national anthem and a teacher more fit then the others climbed on to a table tennis table and led the whole school in free hand exercise for about 15 minutes after which the boys marched back to their classes and the day’s lessons began. In a visit to Tokyo a few years ago I could see some Japanese doing the same exercise as we did, standing in front of their shophouses.

There was a gardening period twice a week. During this period the boys were expected to and did plant sweet potatoes, tapioca and vegetables. The plants did not bear much fruit. (But strangely when the British came back we also had gardening periods in the English schools.) The teachers’ salary was supplemented by sweet potatoes, yams and noodles given periodically. AHC would send me to school on her bicycle with me seated on the back seat. When two more of my brothers went to school she would take all three of us with one sitting on the cross bar in front and two of us on the seat at the back.

Written by Guest Blogger: Ooi Boon-Leong

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*This photo and others illustrating my father’s posts are taken from the internet and not from our family albums.

memmlya

This post continues my series on potato recipes, inspired by the International Association for Potatoes and Onions as a Main Dish.

Years ago, my favourite restaurant used to be Nineteen at 19 Mossop Street where I used to go with my then-boyfriend Jean-Paul (not his real name). It was just off Sloane Avenue and seemed THE place to be as young would-be yuppies back in ’80s London. There were lots of dashing young men in button-down shirts and ties with willowy young women in Hermes scarves and Alice bands - it was a subset of ’80s youth culture: preppy style as interpreted via Oxbridge. The restaurant seems to have burnt down. Jean-Paul is now a leading commercial law QC at chambers in Inner Temple with a family of his own and as you know, I’ve become somewhat more arty, boho and alternative in my lifestyle choices.

Anyway, Nineteen did a great Potatoes Dauphinoise dish, which is essentially potatoes and onions - but not as a main dish. I’ve been adapting it incrementally over the years and it’s most recent incarnation in my kitchen (this weekend, in fact) turned out as follows:

1. In a medium-deep dish (deep enough for 3-4 layers of sliced potatoes) lay down a layer of sliced potatoes - 2 each per person is about right.

2. Then spread a layer of sliced onions (full or half rings; red onions add great colour) and chopped garlic.

3. Sprinkle with salt, pepper and dried herbs (rosemary or thyme or sage or mixed herbs or herbs de provence or whatever of your choice) and dot small knobs of butter around.

4. Repeat 1, 2 and 3 until the dish is almost full to the brim.

5. Add the final layer of sliced potatoes on top. Repeat 3.

6. Add a small pot of cream (single is fine, double is extra yummy and if you’re watching your weight, skimmed milk will just about do)

7. Drizzle olive oil evenly over the whole lot.

8. Bake in medium oven for an hour.

You should have crispy, golden brown potatoes on the top and succulent, flavourful soft potatoes underneath saturated with a delicious flavour of herbs and cream and onions. I think, technically, you’re meant to add grated cheese on top - which would be very yummy, too - but I don’t.

You could eat this dish as a main meal on its own, I suppose, but for the truly gourmand experience I’d recommend having it with grilled steak…

Photo: thanks to the b bc

I was telling Angie the other evening about a call and answer game I learnt at primary school in Malaysia. It was an English school (as opposed to a national Malaysian school) where there were many ex-pat kids from the UK, Continental Europe and the US. We would sit in a circle and each have a number. We would clap and click our fingers in rhythm, calling and answering:

~ Who stole the cookie from the cookie jar?

~ No. 4 stole the cookie from the cookie jar.

~ Who me?

~ Yes, you.

~ Couldn’t be.

~ Then who?

~ No. 1 stole the cookie from the cookie jar.

Angie cried that they played a similar game in South Africa. But the back story had a different, much more saucy twist:

~ Who stole the kisses from the girl next door?

Isn’t it weird how the exact same game can be reinvented on different continents? I want to know who made this chant up - and who changed it for the different countries. It’s the same curiosity that makes me want to know who makes up playground rhymes and games - and how they get made up - and also why some catch on and last for generations and some don’t get picked up at all.

Is the version I learnt the version without physical intimacy specially tailored for Asia? (In Malaysia, you can get arrested for public demonstrations of affection). Or is the version in South Africa liberalised for that particular society? Are there other versions? What do they say? I would love for someone to share their views.

Here is something high-brow on Film Mondays, for a change.

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This film won an Academy Award in 1993.

“Joan Gratz invented the animation technique known as clay painting. Working directly under the camera with colored oil based clay, she created a richly textured surface of seamlessly flowing images.” (Source: Laika)

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Earlier this year, I got to know local film-maker and impresario David Grey and wanted to explore what it takes to make films in these days of digital technology. He encouraged me to make a little film - a very little film, I must emphasise. So over several days, I shot some footage around my South London suburb and he talked me through the editing process.

The result is a 1m 30sec film called “Versailles in my Front Garden”, a meditative piece sharing my observations of the very British obsession with the front garden.

I thought no more of it.

David has just told me that the film will be having its world premiere at the Ritzy Cinema in Brixton, London on 09 November as part of a programme showcasing the films produced and supported by his two production companies Silver City Film and Village Film during the last year. The other films on the programme are, in my view, real films of merit and I am flattered - and still a bit stunned - that he considers my film worth including.

If I can master the technology, I will try and upload and stream a copy of “Versailles” onto Fusion View for your amusement.

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You can find out more about Silver City Film at www.silvercityfilms.co.uk and Village Film at www.village-film.co.uk