When I was a kid our family home sat on a hill slope
overlooking my mother’s paddy fields. An unbroken stretch of jungle—where langsat, tarap, bambangan and sour sop
trees flourished—surrounded the wooden house. Our nearest neighbours were not even
within shouting distance. Those were the days when we kids could yell at the
top of our voices and no one was near enough to be annoyed with our antics.
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| Paddy fields in my kampung |
How times have changed! These days I live in the suburb in a
little house standing in a tiny lot surrounded not by trees but by thousands of
similar houses. They are so near to each other, these houses, that I’m sure the
neighbours could hear me when I brush my teeth or drop a spoon. I’m also certain
the neighbours in several houses around ours could hear Mr. Hubby when he
sneezes because no one does it more passionately than him. I hear the next door
neighbour when he flushes his toilet or when his cleaver goes chop-chop-chop on
his chopping board.
The neighbour on the other side is a stressed stay-at-home
mum with no help to take care of the kids or do the chores. I can imagine how
tiring her day must be because she also seems to have mysophobia—an abnormal
fear of dirt. She does loads of washing every single day; frequently spreads
the kids’ pillows and bolsters and soft toys on the concrete floor under the
hot sun; scrubs and then hangs to dry their school bags every weekend. And she
once handed a huge garbage bag to Mr. Hubby, saying: “For your rubbish. You
have a lot of rubbish.” The lady doesn’t mince her words!
Perhaps you remember, some blog posts ago, that I mentioned
Mr. Hubby collects lots of stuff. They have, naturally, overflowed to the back
porch where the cockroaches turn them into an amusement park. He has added two
live chickens to his collection but you didn’t hear this from me! I’d be too
embarrassed to show you a photo of our porch. And I’ve warned visitors to be
careful when they go exploring in the back because they might just get lost.
We have interesting neighbours at the back, one sounds—we
only hear him—like someone confined to
his bed and he has to rely on a young boy to do things for him. Early in the
morning, before the sun is up he’d yell for this boy: “Oopp! Oopp!” Dottie says
that the gangnam style thing has come to our little corner.
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| The neighbour's palm tree |
I’ve already mentioned about another neighbour in this blog,
the one who chopped down that giant palm tree and ruined our fence. But she’s a
good sort. She takes in stray cats and is very generous with her seeds and
flowering creepers. The birds visit her forest of a garden and I’m conveniently
provided with subjects to photograph.
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| A pretty sunbird rests on the neighbour's hibiscus |
A house farther down our row used to be occupied by an
interesting couple—they liked throwing pots and pans and plates when they were
mad at each other. One night their screams and shouts were accompanied by
sounds of breaking crockery and palms meeting flesh. I was sure they were
trying to kill each other so I called 999 and pleaded for the police to ‘please
come before somebody dies’! Three groups of mata-mata
arrived almost at the same time. Apparently, there had been two other callers
(besides me) asking the police to intervene before somebody was seriously
injured! Had the police arrived a little later, our lorong would probably have been mentioned in the dailies and we,
the neighbours, could have been accused of apathy.
One of the houses across the road is occupied by a couple
who occasionally provide some relief to our humdrum, unenviable, boring days by
indulging us with some form of diversion. Husband is fond of shouting at Wife
and accusing her of not-nice things. Early one morning, at the time when normal
people were just getting up, there was a short exchange of angry words coming
from this particular house. Soon, thick, black smoke was snaking out from one
upstairs window! Fire! My heart skipped a beat—the fire could spread to the other
houses. Then the front door burst open and bare-footed Husband dressed in
shorts and little else rushed out to the next house. A hurried blahblahblah
took place and he ran back to his house hugging a fire extinguisher. He was
lucky to be able to put out the fire. Several days later, a partly burnt
queen-sized mattress lay forlornly outside his gate waiting to be carted away
by the garbage men. If mattresses could talk, can you imagine what stories that
mattress could tell?
We have other neighbours who provide the occasional cause
for excitement: Mr. Busybody, the Baker, the Vegetable Seller etc. but I’d
rather forgo the excitement for a tiny place of my own—something like my
childhood home—surrounded by trees and bushes, a place where birds and animals
come to visit. A small but comfortable tree house would be perfect!
O give me a home where the buffaloes roam…
