Remembering Tan Boon Lin

Today would have been the 98th birthday of my old headmaster, Tan Boon Lin. Instead, we marked his passing just five days earlier on the seventh of September. His was a life that spanned almost a century of change. Born in 1927, he came of age during the turmoil of the Second World War, finished his schooling at the Penang Free School where he had been both a Boy Scout and Senior Prefect between 1939 and 1947, and then returned to the same institution as a teacher from 1951 to 1955 and later in 1963 as the headmaster. His appointment made history: he was the first Asian to hold that position, guiding the school until 1968. From there, his career rose steadily through promotion after promotion until retirement, after which he spent a short period at Tunku Abdul Rahman College before finally stepping away from public life. That, in essence, was Tan Boon Lin: remembered above all as the Free School’s first Asian headmaster, but also as a man who left a lasting imprint on generations who passed through its gates.

My first real encounter with him came in 1966, the year I entered Form One at the Penang Free School. At that time, we were confined to the afternoon session under the watch of an Afternoon Supervisor, so direct contact with the headmaster was rare. Still, there were moments when his presence was felt to remind even the youngest boys who held the reins of authority in the school. Things changed a year later when Form Two was moved to the morning. Mondays meant School Assembly in the Pinhorn Hall, and that was when Tan Boon Lin became a more familiar figure. 

One can imagine almost 1,500 students packed into the hall, the Prefects trying to keep order while a steady murmur filled the space as schoolmates chattered away. Out on the corridor, a Prefect stood watch for the headmaster’s approach. At the first sight of him, a signal was sent, the bell rang and the murmur dissolved into silence immediately. Such was the discipline. Then came the unmistakable clip-clop of his shoes along the floor, each step drawing nearer until he appeared at the doorway and walked down the aisle. Decades later, that same clip-clop sound found its way into one of the videos on Penang Free School which Siang Jin and I worked on together. It was our quiet tribute to Tan Boon Lin, a simple gesture of respect for the man whose presence had once commanded the School.

When he was eventually transferred out from the Free School, that was the last I saw of him. For decades he slipped into the background of memory, until the end of 2011 when his name surfaced again in my life. That October, I had taken on the task of co-editing The Old Frees’ Association commemorative book, FIDELIS. Among the contributions was a piece by Lim Chang Moh, who had interviewed our former headmaster for the book. A few months later, in April 2012, not long after the book was launched, I made my way to his home in Petaling Jaya to present him with a copy. It was the first time I had set eyes on my old headmaster since 1968. Naturally, he didn’t recognise me (because I wasn't outstanding in school at all) but he received me with the warmth of an old friend. I’ve found this to be true of teachers and headmasters: even if the faces of their former students blur with time, the joy of reconnecting never fades. The gratitude flows both ways. We are thankful for the paths they opened for us, and they in turn take quiet pride in seeing how we have carried on.

As the Free School’s Bicentenary drew near in 2016 and I was tasked with producing another book, I found myself turning once more to my old headmaster for information. By then he was in the midst of finalising his autobiography, which included a chapter devoted to the three phases of his life at the school: student, teacher and headmaster. His daughter, Gaik Cheng, kindly shared a copy of that chapter with me on the condition that I use it only as background and not reproduce it verbatim. Later that year, on the evening of the 21st of October, he returned to the school for the Bicentenary dinner. It was a grand occasion, with former headmasters called on stage to be honoured, but it was his name that was announced first, to step forward and be introduced to the Raja of Perlis, Tuanku Sirajuddin Jamalullail, before receiving a copy of Let the Aisles Proclaim.

When The Old Frees’ Association reached its own 100th anniversary in 2023, I found myself once again with the privilege of writing a commemorative book—this time simply titled CENTENARY. Months later, in March 2024, I visited my headmaster at his Petaling Jaya home to present him with a copy. He had prepared for the meeting. On the table before him were his well-kept but bookmarked copies of FIDELIS and Let the Aisles Proclaim. When I placed CENTENARY alongside them, his face lit up. Another book on The Old Frees' Association, another chapter in the story of the Penang Free School. By then he was very frail, already 97, and I was careful not to linger too long. After an hour or so of gentle conversation, I took my leave, never imagining it would be the last time I saw him.

But the story didn’t end there. There was a coda. In 2024, his autobiography was ready to see the light of day. One day I received a call from Gaik Cheng. Could I lend a hand with some coordination with the printers in Penang? How could I ever refuse? So I went down to Areca Books, looked over the proofs, checked for stray details that might need correction—small things, but enough to feel I had a part in the process. It turned out to be a privilege, a first-hand glimpse of On Making a Difference before it reached the public. The book was officially launched at The Old Frees’ Association annual dinner on 21 October 2024, a fitting tribute to the man whose life had been so bound up with the Free School.

And now, with his passing, the circle feels complete. From the headmaster I first glimpsed as a nervous Form One boy in the Pinhorn Hall, to the dignified elder statesman I visited in his twilight years, Tan Boon Lin remained a steady presence in the long story of the Penang Free School. I count myself fortunate to have crossed paths with him more than once, not only as his student but later as a chronicler of the school and The Old Frees’ Association. He lived long enough to see his own autobiography published, to place his voice alongside the history he had helped to shape. For us, his former students, that will always be his gift: the reminder that a life devoted to teaching and guiding others truly makes a difference. Rest in peace, Headmaster. Fortis atque Fidelis.

 

Malaysia chess festival

By this time tomorrow, I’ll be at KL Gateway Mall with my chess friends from The Old Frees’ Association, ready to take part in the 20th Malaysia Chess Festival in its present format. We're playing in the Merdeka team rapid chess event, now in its 42nd year. Wish us luck!

The Malaysia Chess Festival stretches over nine days. It begins on the 12th with the SMS Deen Merdeka open rapid team championship, the Dato’ Tan Chin Nam Merdeka junior (under-12) team championship and the Merdeka blitz chess championship. On the 13th comes the Dato’ Tan Chin Nam age-group chess championships. From the 15th to the 21st, the spotlight shifts to the marquee events: the Dato’ Arthur Tan Malaysia open championship, the Daniel Yong memorial Malaysia chess challenge and the Dato’ Tan Chin Nam seniors open chess championship. On the 16th, the Dato’ Tan Chin Nam Malaysia Day age-group chess championships take place and finally, the Festival draws to a close on the 21st with the Festival blitz chess championship. Without doubt, this is a crowded calendar, but that is exactly what a chess festival should be: a celebration of the game, with events for all ages, gender, levels and walks of life.

This year’s festival marks a departure from tradition. Since 2003, the event had always been held at Cititel MidValley or the adjoining Megamall. But this time the organisers missed the chance to block the dates early, and the hotel had already taken other bookings. That left them scrambling for alternatives, and KL Gateway Mall became the choice. Whether its facilities can match what Cititel once offered is something we’ll soon find out.

For those of us coming from out of town, the convenience of staying and eating at Cititel is no longer there. Instead, we’ve booked Airbnb apartments above KL Gateway Mall. It means that come Saturday morning, instead of heading down to the hotel restaurant for a familiar breakfast, we’ll have to venture out to find food before settling into our games.

Two decades is a long time for any event to run, and I can’t help wondering if the organisers might be thinking of calling it a day. Since its inception in 2003, the festival has enjoyed strong support from IGB Berhad, thanks largely to the late Dato’ Tan Chin Nam. But since his passing in 2018, that commitment hasn’t felt as steadfast. I’ve been told that sponsorship now comes with more conditions attached and less to offer in return, which has inevitably made the festival less attractive in the region.

Whether the organisers have the energy and resources to stage a 21st edition remains to be seen. Perhaps this will be the last hurrah. But if you ask me, I hope it isn’t. Twenty years may be a natural point to pause, but it would be a pity to see the Malaysia Chess Festival end just yet.

Tan Boon Lin, 1927-2025

 Sad to hear of the demise of Tan Boon Lin, my first Headmaster in secondary school. He was the first Asian appointed as Headmaster of Penang Free School from 1963 to 1968. I shall pay a tribute to him in my blog this Friday.

Kyoto 2024, Day 5

Continuing with the documentation of our holiday in Japan last year, the 17th of November marked our fifth day in Kyoto. The day before, we had gone up Mt Hiei and been rewarded with sweeping views and a riot of autumn colours. After such an excursion, we thought it best to slow down a little. With our holiday beginning to wind down, we decided to move around the city itself and take it easy.

That morning we woke later than usual, and after a simple breakfast we set out. Our first destination was Tō-ji Temple, a UNESCO World Heritage site not far from Kyoto Station. It was already past noon when we arrived. By mid-November, one never knows quite what to expect with the autumn foliage. Some years the colours arrive early, other years late. In 2024, the colours were only beginning to show during our visit. So we were a bit lucky to see some splashes of red and yellow among the temple trees.

Walking through the precincts, we were struck first by the spacious layout. Wide gravel paths criss-crossed the grounds, bordered by ancient wooden halls and a carefully tended garden. The Japanese garden was a particular delight: a reflective pond edged with stones, maples bending gracefully over the water, and raked gravel sections that seemed to invite quiet contemplation. At the centre of it all rose the temple’s most famous landmark, the five-storey pagoda. At 55 metres, it is the tallest wooden pagoda in Japan, rebuilt in 1644 after earlier versions were destroyed by fire. Its dark timbers and sweeping eaves rose elegantly into the sky, a sight so iconic that it has come to serve as a symbol of Kyoto itself.

Tō-ji, or “East Temple,” has been part of the city’s story for more than 12 centuries. Founded in 796, just two years after Kyoto was established as the imperial capital of Heian-kyō, it originally formed a pair with Sai-ji, the “West Temple,” which no longer survives. The Japanese Buddhist monk, Kūkai, better known as Kōbō Daishi, made the temple a centre of learning and worship, and to this day Tō-ji remains one of the Shingon school of Buddhism's principal sites.

One of the halls was hosting an exhibition of Japanese paintings and drawings. It was a serene contrast to the bustling world outside. The works on display were elegant and understated, filled with motifs so central to Japanese art: pine trees, cranes, waves, and mountains. Even without fully grasping the artistic techniques, it was impossible not to admire the balance and clarity of the compositions.

The buildings themselves were architectural wonders. Their great wooden beams and rafters interlocked with astonishing precision. I found myself wondering whether nails were used at all. Later, I learned that much of traditional Japanese temple architecture relied on intricate joinery, with slots, grooves and interlocking joints holding everything in place. 

We spent about two hours wandering through Tō-ji, never in a hurry, simply taking in the gardens, the halls and the pagoda that towered above it all. Hunger eventually nudged us back towards the city streets. A small udon restaurant caught our eye, and although I have always preferred ramen, I decided to give it a try. The bowl was hearty and satisfying, proving that perhaps Japanese food really does taste best in its own country. Still, it was a curious experience as we found ourselves the only customers in the restaurant the whole time. Maybe it was already past the usual lunch hour, leaving us with a strangely quiet dining room.

After lunch we boarded a bus bound for Gion. I was checking directions on my phone when I realised too late that we had missed our stop. The bus sped away into unfamiliar streets until we hurriedly pressed the button to get off. Yet the mistake turned into a small gift: we found ourselves walking through parts of Kyoto that we would not normally have seen. Eventually we caught the right bus and resumed our journey to Gion.

This time the contrast was complete. The bus was packed, shoulder to shoulder, so crowded that we were squeezed in like sardines. Perhaps it was because it was a Sunday; tourists mingled with locals, everyone heading into the historic district for the weekend. It was almost a relief to step down into the streets of Kashiwayachō, where the atmosphere was lively but no longer overwhelming.

There we found a small shop selling onigiri. We bought a few and quickly realised just how good they were: plump, perfectly seasoned and among the best we had ever tasted. We enjoyed them so much that we decided to buy extra for the next day’s breakfast.

Dinner that evening was simple. We stumbled across a nondescript stand-up noodle diner run by an elderly husband-and-wife team. There were no chairs, only a counter where customers stood, slurped their noodles and left. It was unpretentious, stripped of ceremony, but that was its charm. The noodles were hot, the broth comforting and the couple moved with the efficiency of long habit. We ate quickly, paid and stepped out into the Kyoto night. Another small memory added itself to the tapestry of our holiday.

India, Nepal next

After months of waiting and wondering, I finally hear that the Nandaka Vihara meditation society in Bukit Mertajam has decided to go ahead with a pilgrimage tour to India and Nepal this coming November and December. It’s something that’s been hanging in the air since that first exploratory trip we made to Nepal last June. The handful of us who went returned with our hearts stirred and our imaginations alight. We told stories of standing at Lumbini's Mayadevi temple where the Buddha was born, of visiting Kapilavastu where he spent his childhood and youth, and of walking through the Mahavana forest where he once preached to hundreds of thousands of beings. These were not just casual tourist stops but places alive with memory and meaning.

It was no surprise then that the feeling among the rest of the regular visitors to the Nandaka Vihara grew stronger: they too must go, they too must see these places for themselves. The request to the Nandaka committee became something of a gentle chorus. Persuasive at first, then heartfelt, and finally irresistible. And now, at long last, the wish has taken form. The pilgrimage is happening.

This time, though, the itinerary stretches beyond Nepal. It sweeps into India, touching the very milestones of the Buddha’s life. At Kushinagar, we shall gather at the site of the Buddha’s parinibbana, the serene reminder of impermanence and release. At Rajgir, we’ll walk where the first Buddhist council convened to safeguard the teachings. Bodhgaya will surely be the highlight: to sit under the Bodhi tree, but not the original tree, to connect with the enlightenment that changed the world. Then there is Varanasi, where the Buddha gave his very first sermon. Each of these sites promises not only history but a chance for reflection and inspiration.

The rest of the journey will be a mixture of city-hopping, visits to temples and shrines, and long hours on the road. Covering so much ground in just 16 days will not be easy. There will be stretches of bus rides that test everyone’s patience endurance. It won’t just be buses: to save time, the group will fly from Kathmandu down to Lumbini, sparing themselves what would otherwise be a long, bone-wearying ride. Later in the trip, there’s the added adventure of a train ride from Varanasi to Agra.

The weather will play its part too. In November and December, the summer heat will have long gone, and the monsoon rains would be over. Days should be mild, sometimes even cool, especially in the mornings and evenings. As it can get surprisingly chilly once the sun goes down, jackets and shawls will come in handy. I'm hoping for clear skies, especially in Nepal where I hope to see the snow-capped peaks of the Himalayas in the distance.

Still, for all the planning, schedules and travel logistics, the real meaning of the trip lies in what we hope to bring home within us. Some may be looking for a sense of closeness to the Buddha’s life, walking where he once walked. Others may seek inspiration for their practice, to sit quietly at Bodhgaya and renew their commitment to the path. And for many, it will simply be the shared experience of travelling together, enduring the discomforts together and collecting life-long memories. I have to admit that I'm in the third category.

And just before the journey draws to a close, there will be one final stop in Agra. Here, we shall wonder at the splendour of the Taj Mahal, one of the world’s most celebrated testaments to love and loss. The white marble mausoleum gleaming in the winter light will stand in striking contrast to the brick ruins and sacred groves we visited earlier. It is not a religious site in the Buddhist sense, yet its grandeur will still leave an impression. In its own way, the Taj Mahal shall remind us that beauty and impermanence, devotion and grief, exist in all human experience.

 

Those silent mobile calls

Last week, I wrote here about the fake Facebook friend requests that land in our notifications with regularity. This week it’s the turn of another petty irritation. This one arrives not through social media but through the good old-fashioned telephone call: the kind that rings once, we pick up and immediately it is gone.

At first, I wondered if these were some exotic new scam, like the so-called “one ring” tricks that tempt you into dialling back premium numbers. But actually, these are more mundane, if no less irritating. They come from robocallers and autodialers. Sometimes, dropped calls from busy call centres. The real culprit, though, is usually a machine pushing through numbers at industrial scale.

It is a familiar pattern. Our phone rings, we answer, a silence from the other end, and then click, gone. A dead line. That silence is a machine quietly registering our number as live so that we confirm ourselves as targets for the next wave of nuisance calls.

How did they get our numbers in the first place? I suspect through the endless breaches of telco and online government databases, or some website portal with leaky security. Our details get spilled into an underground marketplace of the Internet. Once a number escapes into that underground marketplace, it never escapes. It gets copied, repackaged and resold. Other times, the fault lies with “legitimate” data brokers, who scoop up information whenever we sign up for something trivial, in exchange for their free gifts. A common ploy nowadays which I counter with fictitious numbers and email addresses. Then there’s brute force autodialers that simply spin through every possible number in a given sequence until someone answers. 

And finally, spoofing. The number flashing on the mobile screen may look local or familiar, but it is fake. The sensible course of action is not to call back. Don’t feel obliged to answer unknown numbers. Block nuisance calls when we can, which I've begun to do lately. None of this will make the problem go away but at least it helps to know the game the scammers are playing.

If there’s any consolation, it’s that silence is still the best reply. Don't even say hello. After all, why waste words on a machine that doesn’t listen? At least with phones, unlike with people, we can block the number with a single tap and move on with our lives.

Talk-cock lunch

Saw See and I missed the last talk-cock gathering of ex-BHLBank cronies in June because we were away on a semi-pilgrimage holiday in Nepal. So when word came that the latest lunch session would be held this month, I made sure to keep our calendar clear. After all, how often do we really meet in person? Whatsapp and other social media may keep us connected, but nothing replaces face-to-face banter and the warmth of old friendships.

Let me be clear, these talk-cock sessions among us former Ban Hin Lee Bank staff have nothing to do with any large-scale reunions aimed at drawing in the masses. Far from it. We are simply a bunch of old colleagues from the mainland who enjoy catching up, though lately we’ve been joined by a small group of islanders as well. I suppose the fact that they are willing to cross the Penang Bridge says something about the lack of such opportunities on the island. For now, we mainlanders seem to be the ones keeping the BHLB flame alive. Hopefully, others will take the cue and start their own little circles too. The more, the merrier, in my opinion.

So, coming back to yesterday’s session, the turnout of 16 was heartening. Our surprise guest was Loo Ee, and it was a joy to see him back on his feet after a minor stroke had left his lower limbs a little weak. His mind, though, remains sharp, and he recognised everyone at the table.

Moments like these remind me why we keep showing up. It isn’t for anything grand, but for the simple comfort of old friends and familiar stories. As long as we can still sit around a table, trade jokes and laugh at ourselves, the BHLB spirit will carry on. And we're already looking forward to the next one. Two months from now, maybe?

The Gang of 16 comprised (standing, left to right) Swee Phew, Soo Chin, Fook Chin, Pak Chun, Hock Seng, Seong Lye, Soon Huat, Chong Chia, Yuen Chee, Khye Wye and I, and (seated, left to right) Heng Boo, Kay Liang, Loo Ee, Seak Chin and Saw See

Tiam sim (aka dimsum)

This morning as I broke open a twa pau to show its juicy contents to friends on my Whatsapp chat group, I thought back to the tiam sim I used to enjoy in Penang during my youth.  The Chinese characters for this delectable cuisine is 點心. In Mandarin, it is called diǎn xīn; in Cantonese, dim sam, from which we derive the English dim sum, but in Penang, with Hokkien spoken at home, we always called it tiam sim. Same Chinese characters, same meaning, but a different voice. It’s one of those charming quirks of Penang speech. Cantonese words and food names slip into the Hokkien we speak until they felt like ours. So while Cantonese teahouse culture gave the world dim sum, in Penang the term tiam sim is rooted firmly in my own place and memory. 

Tiam sim has always carried with it more than just the taste of food. It is a story of culture, travel and companionship that began centuries ago in southern China. Tiam sim literally means “to touch the heart,” and that name alone gives a clue to its original purpose. It was never meant to be a full meal but rather a light refreshment, something to accompany a pot of tea.

The practice first took root along the old Silk Road during the Song Dynasty. Traders and travellers, weary from their journeys, would pause at roadside teahouses scattered across Guangdong. At first, these places offered only tea to soothe the body. Over time, teahouse owners added small snacks of steamed buns, pastries and little bites to fortify the traveller without weighing them down. That modest addition slowly became a tradition: tea paired with small bites that touched both heart and stomach.

Cantonese chefs refined this into an art form over the centuries. What began as a few snacks grew into an entire repertoire—siew mai, char siew pau, egg tarts, spring rolls—steamed, fried or baked, carefully fitted into bamboo baskets. The teahouses themselves transformed from roadside stops into lively social halls. Families and friends gathered not just for tea, but for the experience: table chatter, porcelain cups, steaming baskets arriving on the table. This became known as yum cha, “to drink tea,” but everyone knew it meant sharing our time and food.

When I was growing up in Seang Tek Road during the 1960s, my first memories of this food culture came from the Seng Kee Restaurant on Dato’ Kramat Road, not more than a hundred metres from my home. In the mornings, Seng Kee came alive with a bustling tiam sim trade. People crowded in for steaming trays of dumplings, buns and savoury rice dishes before heading off to work. By late afternoon the restaurant shifted to popular noodle dishes like sar hor fun or yee mee, but mornings were always tiam sim.

Tho Yuen Restaurant down Campbell Street had a more refined reputation. It was one of the grand old Cantonese restaurants of Penang, its tiam sim considered more traditional and authentic. The Tai Tong Restaurant in Cintra Street was different again, known for its lively atmosphere and slightly more modern approach. Where Tho Yuen leaned towards refinement, Tai Tong was brash, busy and always full. In comparison, Seng Kee sat somewhere between the two: less formal than Tho Yuen, not as boisterous as Tai Tong, but with a character all its own.

For all its closeness to home, I don’t recall eating in with my father more than five times in my youth. On those rare occasions, we would order dumplings such as char siew pau, bak pau or the very large twa pau. Alongside these were other favourites like lor mai kai, siew mai and kau chee, all washed down with steaming hot Chinese tea poured into porcelain cups. More often, my routine was to pop in early in the morning and buy takeaway before school. The twa pau in particular was a hefty, filling bun packed with chunky chicken and pork, a slice of lap cheong, a Chinese mushroom, a quarter of a hardboiled egg and generous thin slices of jicama cut into half-inch squares. It was a meal in itself, so solid that one bun could keep me going until recess.

There was also the curious case of kau chee siew mai. As a tiam sim item, it is probably non-existent but a muddling of names between the siew mai and the kau chee, two different types of dumplings. The siew mai are the open-faced steamed dumplings, filled with ground pork and sometimes prawns, and topped with crab roe although nowadays this is replaced by a dot of edible red dye. They are cylindrical shaped with exposed filling at the top. The kau chee are crescent-shaped, fully enclosed steamed dumplings with various fillings such as pork, prawns, cabbage, chives, etc. Whenever kau chee siew mai was ordered, what appeared before us were two separate steaming bamboo baskets of siew mai and kau chee. 

And then there was a small quirk of dining habits in those days. When served a twa pau, many people wouldn’t actually eat the fluffy dough. Instead, they would split it open with chopsticks, carefully pick out the filling of pork, chicken and savoury gravy, and leave the thick white skin untouched. To them, the bread was heavy and bland, a burden to the stomach. The taste and the pleasure lay in the meat, and the pau skin was treated like nothing more than a wrapper to be discarded.

Seng Kee’s morning tiam sim was less about indulgence than about routine, comfort and memory. The taste of a twa pau with its rich mix of meats, mushroom and egg; the smell of tea brewing in chipped porcelain cups; the sight of bamboo baskets stacked high on metal trolleys—all of it stitched itself into the fabric of daily life.

The tradition, of course, is not exclusively Penang's. As Chinese communities moved abroad from mainland China, the tiam sim morsels travelled with them. Hong Kong, especially during the colonial years, embraced the tradition and it became a global tiam sim epicentre, and from there it spread further to Chinatowns in San Francisco, London, Sydney, Kuala Lumpur. Each place adapted slightly but held fast to its roots.

Today, tiam sim remains as food wrapped in memory and ritual. It is the sight of trolleys weaving between tables, steam rising from baskets, the tapping of fingers accompanying the pouring of tea. The spirit of community keeps the tiam sim tradition alive. From ancient teahouses along the Silk Road to Seng Kee in Penang, to modern venues across the globe, the tiam sim stays true to its name: it touches the heart.

And even now, whenever I bite into a twa pau or a mouthful of kau chee siew mai, that memory of mornings at Seng Kee comes rushing back. Memories of fresh steam, warm dough, early morning light. It is in those small, delicious moments that I find home, no matter where I am.

It's all in the planning!

My old blog, It’s All In the Planning, is gone forever. I let it lapse on the 19th of last month. For years, I had toyed with shutting it down, yet each time the renewal reminder arrived, I gave in and paid the fee out of habit and sentiment. But there comes a point when even old projects deserve their rest.

It’s All In the Planning was my second attempt at blogging. The real beginning was with ssquah.wordpress.com, which I started in 2007 when The Star temporarily ended my chess column in February that year. That initial WordPress blog, suggested to me by a co-worker at JonStreet.com when I voiced my frustration to him, was my way of filling the sudden void. I needed a release for my creative energy and found it in the blog. My first personal digital space for self expression. Unfortunately, WordPress in its infinite wisdom decided one day that I had violated something or other, and suspended it without warning.

Frustrated but unwilling to stop, I moved on to a local hosting provider and set up It’s All In the Planning. I even reproduced most of my earlier writings there so little was lost. That’s the blog that lasted the longest, consisting of more than a thousand stories and presumably reaching almost a million words, and in a sense became my enduring online home.

When I finally ignored the automated emails asking me to renew the domain, letting it slip away on the 19th of July, it felt like closing the door on a chapter that ran for well over a decade. But then, traffic had dwindled to almost nothing, and I hadn’t written anything new there for years. The site had become a shadow of its former self, and the 1,534 stories had become old and dated, with some made irrelevant by changing circumstances. Nevertheless, I took to archiving them all, so there was no risk of losing my output. What remained was only a domain name and my own stubborn attachment to the past.

Now, anyone visiting the site would be greeted only by the finality of an error page: a simple punctuation mark at the end of a long sentence. An end to one of my efforts. Impermanence to the core.

Anyhow, my writing has never really stopped, has it? It's only the ground that shifted. What I once poured into It’s All In the Planning has long since found continuity here on this present blog, Anything Goes, which I'm sure will remain visible as long as Google exists. The voice there is the same as the voice here, only tempered by time and filled with more reflection as I grow older. Those first two blogs may be gone, but the act of writing carries on. One chapter closes, another continues.

Fake facebook friend requests

How much can Facebook be trusted nowadays? On a regular basis, I keep receiving friend requests from people I already know to have a Facebook account. When I dig deeper into these requests, I find that they come from newly created accounts with either very few friends or none at all, and with timelines that are completely empty. Should I be careful with accepting such requests? Absolutely.

In fact, these are classic warning signs of fake profiles, and there are plenty of risks if we are to accept them blindly. Scammers and spammers set up these ghost accounts precisely to gain access to our personal information. Once “accept” is clicked, they can peek into whatever we’ve set to “Friends only”: photos, contact details, snippets of our lives that we wouldn’t ordinarily share with strangers. That information is enough to be exploited. Sometimes for phishing purposes, sometimes for identity theft.

The danger doesn’t stop there. A fake “friend” can start messaging us with links, often dressed up as something harmless or even urgent. If we're not careful, we might end up with malware lodged in our devices, malware that quietly siphon away our data. There’s also the trick of impersonation: scammers pretending to be someone we know, sending messages to our real friends asking for money or sensitive information.

This isn’t just theory either. Several years ago, it happened to my wife. One day, I received a Facebook friend request under her name. I was puzzled: why on earth would she be opening a second account when she barely touched the first one? I asked her, and she flatly denied it. Then I showed her the request, and her reaction said it all: she hadn’t created the account. The giveaway was the profile picture. It was one of hers, but the choice of image was questionable. Controversial, even. That was the moment we both realised she had been impersonated. I immediately told her to lodge a complaint with Facebook, and eventually, that bogus account was taken down.

Cases like this are textbook examples of account cloning, where a scammer copies a name and a photo and then tries to worm their way into your circle of friends. Once accepted, they can start spreading their scams under the guise of someone you trust.

Over time, I’ve learnt to look out for red flags. A profile with very few friends and no posts is the most obvious. But there are subtler signs too, such as the account might be brand new with hardly any history, the profile picture suspiciously generic or lifted from elsewhere on the internet, or the page lacking the sort of personal touches a genuine account would naturally have, like school, workplace or location. very few mutual friends is another telling giveaway. And on the rare occasion the profile does have posts, they often read as oddly repetitive or littered with strange links.

So what to do? The simplest answer is to ignore the request. I don’t give a fake account even the faintest toehold into my social circle. If I’m certain it’s bogus, I alert the friend that has been impersonated. If there are mutual friends listed, I check with them directly, outside of Facebook if possible, before telling them to unfriend the account fast although it may already be too late to prevent any data loss.

For me, the lesson is clear: vigilance is the only safeguard. The Facebook of today is not the same platform it was in the past. It’s more crowded, more complicated and more riddled with traps. It's unfortunate, but one careless click can open a door I’d rather keep shut.

Kota Kinabalu

On the way down from Kinabalu Park, we pulled over briefly at Kampong Sinalapak where a row of roadside stalls stood ready to tempt travellers with their grilled meats. I had read earlier that their specialty was wild boar, a must-try if one ever passed through this way. Unfortunately, when we asked, the vendors told us that the boar meat wouldn’t be ready for at least another half an hour. As we didn’t have the luxury of waiting, we settled instead for their regular pork grilled over open flames. Perhaps it was the cut, or the way it was cooked, but the meat struck me as rather tough and chewy. It didn’t impress me and I wouldn’t be rushing back for it.

From there, the road brought us down into Kota Kinabalu, the bustling coastal city that in colonial days was known as Jesselton. The old name dated back to the British North Borneo Company, which had built up the town around its railway and trading port. Much of Jesselton was destroyed during the Second World War, and when the town rose again from the ruins, it eventually took on a new identity. In 1967, two years after the formation of Malaysia, Jesselton was officially renamed Kota Kinabalu, a name meant to reflect both the local heritage and the looming presence of Mount Kinabalu itself. 

Before checking into our Airbnb lodging, we made a quick detour to the FMM Sabah branch where Saw See wanted to say hello to the branch manager, an old acquaintance from her previous working days. The stop didn’t take long, and soon enough we were on our way to our accommodation in Tanjong Aru. The difference between this place and the cramped quarters we had endured in Kundasang was night and day. Spacious, airy and comfortable: everything one could want after a few days in the mountains.

That evening, we went looking for dinner, and a sudden craving pulled me in the direction of a Filipino restaurant. It had been more than 30 years since I last tasted Filipino food. My thoughts went back to Manila in 1992, when I had visited the Chess Olympiad and first discovered adobong baboi and lechon. I still remember how those dishes struck me back then. Adobo with its unmistakable sour tang from vinegar, earthy and comforting at the same time; lechon with its crisp skin that cracked under the bite and tender meat beneath. They were simple yet unforgetable meals.

Sitting now in Kota Kinabalu, those memories resurfaced. It’s funny how food can do that: how a flavour can unlock not just taste but time itself. I ordered the adobo and lechon again, half-curious whether they would match the flavours etched into my memory. They didn’t, not exactly, but that hardly mattered. The important thing was the recollection, the way each mouthful reconnected me back to Manila, finding comfort in its food.

This time, I also ventured into something unfamiliar: sisig. Later, when I mentioned it to a Filipino chess friend, Rico Mascarinas, he told me that sisig had grown into one of the most popular dishes in the Philippines. Back in the early 1990s, he said, you’d have to go to Manila to find it. Now, it was everywhere. To me, it was an intriguing dish, full of texture and zest, sizzling away with a fresh egg waiting to be mixed into the meat. Alongside it came pumpkin and prawns cooked in coconut milk. Altogether, it was a dinner that stirred memory, satisfied craving and left me with a renewed respect for Filipino cooking.

The next day was unhurried, a rare thing for us when travelling. We spent it leisurely in Kota Kinabalu without any particular agenda. A local café beckoned us with tuaran mee and Kuching laksa on the menu, both of which were welcome reminders of Sabah and Sarawak’s culinary diversity. Afterwards, we strolled along a shady, tree-lined Gaya Street, dipping in and out of shops, browsing without any intention of buying. 

My daughter pointed out the nearby now-closed Maybank branch which, oddly enough, had once become something of a tourist attraction. Apparently, a year earlier, the place had gone viral on Chinese social media and busloads of tourists turned up to have their photos taken in front of the bank. I shook my head in bewilderment. Why such things go viral, I will never understand. A bank is a bank, after all.

Later in the afternoon, we headed for the Shangri-La Resort in Tanjong Aru to catch the famous sunset. When we arrived, the seafront was already full with people, most of them tourists from China, jostling for the best views and selfies. It struck me as a pity that a high-end establishment such as the Shangri-La had to endure the kind of crowd that seemed out of step with its usual standards of elegance and exclusivity. Still, I must admit the sunset lived up to its reputation. The sky unfolded in magnificent colours—fiery oranges melting into purples and pinks—until the last rays slipped beneath the horizon. Dinner that night was another indulgence: seafood, fresh and plentiful, with crabs taking centre stage.

Our last day in Sabah brought us back once more to Gaya Street, this time for the Sunday morning market which locals had told us about. Perhaps my expectations were set too high, because the reality didn’t impress at all. To me, it felt more like an everyday pasar malam, but in the morning. Stalls upon stalls of the usual fruits, vegetables, trinkets, clothes and snacks. Pleasant enough, but nothing to write home about. We strolled into the October Coffee House where finally, I found my most exquisite cup of hot latte in Sabah, unlike the watery stuff that's commonly passed off as coffee. With all that done, we hurried back to pack, checked out of our Airbnb and made our way to the airport. A quick flight later, and it was Kuala Lumpur in our sights again.

Kundasang

Today’s the last day of our holiday in Sabah. We came with our daughter and her friend, spending two nights up in Kundasang and another two back in Kota Kinabalu. It’s been 17 years since we last came, and this trip really takes us back to 2008 when we climbed Mount Kinabalu. That adventure’s far behind us now. There's no way we can repeat it anymore. If only we were 17 years younger, things would be different.

Anyway, we arrived last Wednesday on an AirAsia flight from Kuala Lumpur. The flight was delayed by about 90 minutes but in hindsight, that wasn’t such a bad thing. By the time we landed, the heavy rain had eased off into a light drizzle, so it actually worked out. Lunchtime too, so we headed to a shop called Fatt Kee for their famous fish head noodles. After that came the long drive to Kundasang. At an elevation of almost 1,900m (6,200 ft), it is the highest settlement in Malaysia. It was already dark when we checked into our Airbnb homestay – a little place called Tiny House.

Befitting its name, it really was tiny and compact: just about 12 feet by 16 feet, with a small ground-floor bedroom that felt more like an 8x8 box, and an equally small bathroom. My daughter and her friend had the loft space, which was bigger but the steep staircase put me off. So, Saw See and I stayed put downstairs. The dining area was outside the house, and we had to deal with three curious cats that kept hopping onto our laps, eyeing our food. One even overturned the rubbish bin to get at the bones. In the end, I weighed down the lid with a heavy stool to stop this nonsense.

The next morning, Mount Kinabalu was completely hidden by thick mist and clouds. But we made up for it by checking out Anooh Coffee nearby – a cosy café with good coffee and views of the surrounding hills. Later, we visited the Kundasang War Memorial, which was beautifully kept and quite moving, especially the gardens built in memory of the soldiers. From there, it was on to the Desa Dairy Farm, with its “New Zealand” scenery of rolling green pastures and grazing cows – and of course, the fresh milk and ice cream everyone comes for. By late afternoon, we wandered through the open-air market in Kundasang, browsing local vegetables, fruits and flowers. The place was lively, with the usual friendly chatter from stall owners.

The following morning, I stepped outside and finally got my reward. Mount Kinabalu stood there in full glory, the sky clear and blue, with wisps of mist circling the summit. Even Laban Rata was clearly seen. It was a surreal sight, and it instantly brought back memories of my very first visit to Kinabalu Park with schoolmates back in 2006. I joked to my daughter that the mountain was calling me again – but sadly, climbing it now is out of the question.

Still, we did spend about two hours inside Kinabalu Park before the long drive back to Kota Kinabalu. Had lunch there and took a short stroll along the Silau Silau trail. Not quite the same as climbing to the top, but it was enough to bring back a flood of memories.

A marginal setback

We have had good news coming our way regarding Malaysia’s first grandmaster, Yeoh Li Tian, that it was easy to forget that Poh Yu Tian was also chasing a grandmaster norm at the same time, but in Europe. For the whole of July, he had been playing in Spain and Switzerland before heading to Hungary. The last time I wrote about him, the 16-year-old Poh had just finished the Biel Masters Open tournament in a very creditable sixth place.

Going into Budapest, the boy had reason to believe this could be a significant step forward. His performance at Biel had been solid, leaving him with more than just rating points. He had momentum, his games had been sharp, his calculations clear and the idea of securing a first GM norm felt within reach.

That kind of progress changes perspective. On the way from Biel to Budapest, it would have been natural for his thoughts to wander towards the numbers: what score he needed, how important a strong start could be. Confidence suggests readiness, but it also makes the stakes feel higher.

The first round in Budapest went well. Yu Tian defeated GM Miklos Galyas, a result that seemed to confirm his Biel form was no fluke. His play was assured, the positions handled with care. It was the kind of beginning one hoped for when chasing a norm.

Round Two brought a draw against IM Anto Cristiano Manish. A steady, reasonable result that didn’t shift momentum too much but kept him on track. By my estimate, he could only afford to drop two points from the nine rounds and here, the draw meant half-a-point gone. In a long tournament, these half-points, especially against slightly lower-rated opposition, are part of the rhythm. 

Round Three was the first real challenge. Facing GM Fodor Tamas Jr, Poh suffered a loss. Against a higher-rated opponent, such setbacks are part of the landscape. Yet even so, it’s a reminder that the margin for error will grow slimmer with every round. Here, he could only afford to drop one more half-point.

Then came Round Four. FM Ajay Santhosh Parvathareddy, more than 200 rating points lower. In a norm run, this is the game Yu Tian was expected to win. Yet, sometimes, even when everything seems in place, things don’t go as planned. One small misjudgment led to another, and before long, the scoreboard showed a loss. By then, having expended 2½ points, the possibility of achieving the grandmaster norm had already slipped beyond reach. One-third of the way across the globe, my friends and I felt his pain,

Coming off Biel, Yu Tian must have carried a sense of readiness, a belief that he could meet the challenge of this field. That confidence took a hit, replaced by the need to reassess and find footing again. It’s part of the journey many face in these high-stakes moments.

He managed to steady himself in the rounds that followed but I sensed the lack of spark needed to change the tournament’s course. Draws against WGM Josefine Safarli, IM Bence Daniel Pribelszky and IM Gia Huy Banh kept him in the event, but the grandmaster norm was already out of reach. On paper, these results weren’t failures, but for a player chasing a very specific goal, the loss of each half-point felt like a reminder of what was slipping away.

By the last two rounds, freed from the pressure of chasing a norm, Yu Tian seemed to find a bit more ease in his play. In Round Eight, he converted a clean win against Jan Golecki. The final round brought a solid draw with GM Sahaj Grover. It was a professional and steady finish to a tournament that began with promise and ended with a quiet acceptance that a GM norm was not easy even in a tournament such as this SixDays in Budapest.

If there is a lesson in this, it should be about how players deal with the mental journey. How to keep the emotions of one difficult loss, especially against a lower-rated opponent, in check before the next game is played. At the same time, every opponent deserves respect, no matter their rating. A lapse in focus against any competitor can undo days of effort.

Poh Yu Tian should take heart that this was a necessary chapter on his path toward a grandmaster norm. Progress is rarely plain sailing. More often, it is marked by bursts of confidence, moments of difficulty, setbacks and recovery. The important thing is to ensure that the setbacks do not derail the journey entirely, and that the next opportunity can be met with fresh determination.