A shot in the arm

I had been dilly-dallying for years, but finally decided to go for my pneumonia jab yesterday. I first became aware of the pneumonia vaccine during the Covid-19 pandemic. At the time, I was encouraging my friends to get their annual influenza jabs. While the flu vaccine doesn't protect against Covid-19 itself, I felt that keeping the body's defences up against one infectious disease couldn't be a bad thing when dealing with another.

That's when one of my friends brought up the pneumonia vaccine, pointing out that it was just as important, especially for older people. He reminded me that pneumonia is one of the leading causes of hospitalisation among senior citizens and can be particularly dangerous for those with chronic conditions such as diabetes, heart disease and lung disease. Although the vaccine doesn't prevent every case of pneumonia, it greatly reduces the risk of severe illness and serious complications.

It certainly sounded like something worth having. Unfortunately, the price at the time was rather steep, so I shelved the idea. As often happens, one year became two, and before I knew it, several years had slipped by. Then about a week ago, something just clicked. I realised I had procrastinated long enough. We insure our homes, service our cars and go for regular medical check-ups, yet we sometimes hesitate over a vaccination that could help keep us out of hospital. The older we get, the less sense it makes to keep putting these things off.

So yesterday, Saw See and I, together with two other friends, kept appointments with a doctor friend who had kindly arranged for our vaccinations at cost price. I won't mention who he is or where we had the injections, just to respect everyone's privacy.

The vaccine we received was Prevnar 20, one of the newer pneumococcal vaccines that protects against 20 strains of the bacteria responsible for pneumonia and other serious infections. Unlike the influenza vaccine, which needs to be taken every year, this is generally a one-off vaccination for most older adults.

The whole thing was over in a matter of minutes. Just a tiny prick in the arm and a much lighter wallet, but also the comforting feeling that I'd finally crossed another important item off my health checklist. Come to think of it, the hardest part wasn't the injection at all. It was taking so many years to make up my mind.

No title attached, thank you

I'm not one to chase state honours because I've never been a businessman or corporate leader, nor have I ever felt the need for the weight of a state or federal title behind my name. But if an award comes my way in recognition of my contributions to society, I certainly wouldn't turn it down. One thing is for sure, though: I would think twice before accepting any award that comes with a title. I still prefer to stay low-key and out of the limelight.

Last Monday, I attended an investiture ceremony at Dewan Sri Pinang to receive the Darjah Johan Negeri (DJN) from the Penang Governor, Ramli Ngah Talib, on the occasion of his official 85th birthday.

It wasn't my first state award. The last time I stepped into Dewan Sri Pinang for this purpose was in 2021, when I received the Pingat Kelakuan Terpuji (PKT) for 2020, the ceremony having been postponed because of the Covid-19 pandemic. And because of the pandemic, I never got to receive the award personally from the then Penang Governor, Haji Abdul Rahman bin Haji Abbas. But still, I had to dress up to the nines just to collect the medal. Before that, I have to turn the clock back to 1995, when I was awarded the Pingat Jasa Kebaktian (PJK).

Three medals under my belt. I think that's enough, lah. I'm happy, I'm contented, and I'm certainly not looking for any more.

There was another reason why receiving the award from Ramli made the occasion a little more special. Many people probably don't realise that he was the President of the Malaysian Chess Federation from 2007 to 2016. As I stepped forward to receive the medal, there was only time for a brief congratulatory handshake. I quickly told him, "This award is for Penang chess."

Whether those few words registered with him amid the hundreds of recipients that day, I really don't know.

Later that evening, however, there was an unexpected sequel. At the state dinner, as Ramli made his way along the red carpet greeting the guests, he shook my hand once again. This time, I simply reminded him with a single word: "Chess."

Before he could respond, his wife, Raja Noora Ashikin Raja Abdullah, who was walking just behind him, immediately looked at me and said, "He was in Norway." She was referring to the 2014 Chess Olympiad in Tromsø, held during Ramli's tenure as President of the Malaysian Chess Federation.

I found it fascinating that, completely off the cuff, she could instantly make the connection and recall that particular event. It was a fleeting exchange lasting only a few seconds, but it left a lasting impression on me.

As a postscript, I want to mention some other people who received titles and medals during these four days of the investiture.

• Apart from me from the Wu Lien-Teh Society, there were also Clement Liang Chow Ming and Ong Siou Woon who received their PKT and PJK respectively. I thank the President, Anwar Fazal, for putting forth my application and the Secretary, Dr Hor Chee Peng, for the patience to prepare all the paperwork.
• Then from The Old Frees' Association, other than me, Albert Moh See Eng was conferred the DGPN, Kannan Srinivasaraghavan received the PKT and Lim Wee Seong the PJK.
• Finally from the Penang Chess Association, the recipient other than myself was Chong Kean Foong. There was also a Lee Ewe Ghee, but the one I know said that this wasn't him.

Durian glut

This is durian season. It has been going on for about a month now and, from what I can see, we're in the middle of a real glut. Not just in Penang, but in Kuala Lumpur and many other places as well. Prices have dropped to levels I haven't seen in quite a while. Musang King, for instance, has been selling for around RM15 a kilogram. That's really, really cheap. Even Black Thorn, nowadays the premium variety, has come down to about RM35 to RM40 a kilogram.

When the season first got underway a little over a month ago, The Old Frees' Association announced its annual durian outing to Balik Pulau. Unfortunately, I had to give it a miss as my brother-in-law and his family were returning from Singapore for a visit. Under circumstances like that, family comes first. No question about it.

Still, that didn't mean we had to forego our durian. Since they were here, I decided to take them to Junjong, a little town near the Penang-Kedah border. Balik Pulau may be the island's best-known durian destination, but Junjong is a close second. Technically it's in Kedah rather than Penang, but that's really splitting hairs. Good durian don't pay much attention to state boundaries.

We wandered from around before settling on seven durian for RM210: one Musang King, three Black Thorn, one Green Skin and two other varieties whose names have completely slipped my mind. The important thing was that they all tasted wonderful.

A few days later we found ourselves in Kuala Lumpur, where I suggested to our daughter that we should go for a durian session. This time we stopped at Seri Kembangan and came away with three durian - a Musang King, a Black Thorn and a D101 - all for RM110. Again, a bargain considering what these varieties usually fetch outside the peak season.

Since returning home, we've somehow managed to fit in a few more rounds. One day it was a plastic container of the D22 variety for RM20. On another occasion, while offering lunch dana at Nandaka Vihara, there were durian among the offerings afterwards, so naturally we weren't going to let them go to waste. 

All things considered, despite missing the OFA durian trip, I really can't complain. One way or another, there have been plenty of opportunities to indulge in the king of fruits during what must surely be one of the best seasons in recent years. And the season isn't over yet. It usually runs into August, so I suspect there are still a few more durian feasts waiting before this year's glut finally comes to an end.

SG Lim's run for cancer

There was a huge charity event at Penang Free School yesterday and, much as I would have liked to be there, I had to give it a regrettable miss. Not through any lack of interest, but because several weeks earlier, long before details of the event had been finalised, my brother-in-law from Singapore had already arranged to return home with his family for a visit. Family took priority as rare reunions, like this particular one, are not something I can postpone lightly.

Still, I followed developments from afar because this was no ordinary event. It marked the conclusion of Old Free Lim Shyang Guey's remarkable Run for Gold journey, which was a 2,200-kilometre run (actual distance covered was 2,390 kilometres) across Peninsular Malaysia to raise awareness and funds for children battling cancer.

Better known now as SG Lim, the Class of 1975 (Form Five) alumnus began his journey on the 28th of March from the National Cancer Society Malaysia's Home of Hope in Penang. Over the next 86 days, he ran north to Perlis, crossed to Kelantan, travelled down the east coast to Johor and then turned north again along the west coast before returning home to Penang.

The final stage took him on an 82-kilometre route around the island, passing through Teluk Bahang, Balik Pulau, Batu Maung, Jelutong and George Town before he crossed the finish line at his alma mater, Penang Free School, one day before his 67th birthday.

There was something fitting about that ending. The journey had begun in Penang and it ended where another journey had started many years earlier at the school that helped shape him.

More than 150 teachers and present pupils of the school were among the several hundreds gathered to welcome him home, alongside family members, former schoolmates, supporters, volunteers and well-wishers that included Penang Chief Minister Chow Kon Yeow and Penang Island City Council Mayor Rajendran P Anthony. Standing before the crowd at the finish line, SG Lim looked skyward and spoke words that had carried him through the entire journey. "Firstly, my darling, we made it." 

The tribute was to his late wife, Goh Joo Lee, who passed away from gallbladder cancer in August 2024 at the age of 63. The couple had once dreamed of travelling around Peninsular Malaysia together on foot after retirement. After losing her, Lim transformed that shared dream into a mission with a different purpose.

"We had wanted to walk around Malaysia together, every state," he said. "But I did not get to do it with my wife. She was there all along with me. Yes, we made it."

At its heart, Run for Gold was never really about running. The name itself comes from the gold ribbon, the international symbol of childhood cancer awareness. As Lim explained, "It's for the children. Children with cancer. That's why it's Run for Gold. I am running for the children. I don't need any more gold." 

Along the way, he covered between 25 and 35 kilometres a day, staying mostly in homestays and shared accommodation, meeting families affected by cancer and listening to their stories. The journey also formed part of the torch relay for Relay for Life Malaysia 2026 which carried a message of hope and solidarity from community to community.

The campaign had initially aimed to raise RM600,000 for the National Cancer Society Malaysia. By the time he crossed the finish line, donations had already exceeded RM775,000, with funds earmarked for childhood cancer support services, including the Home of Hope programme, psychosocial care and survivorship initiatives.

Penang Chief Minister Chow Kon Yeow, who welcomed SG Lim home at Penang Free School and announced a further RM50,000 contribution from the state government, perhaps summed up the significance of the occasion best.

"SG Lim's 2,200km Run for Gold journey across Peninsular Malaysia is far more than an extraordinary feat of endurance; it is a powerful story of love, resilience and hope. Every step he took carried a message of encouragement for children battling cancer and their families, inspiring Malaysians from all walks of life to come together for a meaningful cause."

The Chief Minister also spoke movingly of the personal sacrifice behind the journey. "Dedicated to the memory of his late wife, Joo Lee, SG Lim transformed grief into hope, raising more than RM700,000 for the National Cancer Society Malaysia and proving that one person can make a profound difference."

What SG Lim accomplished over those 86 days was not measured simply in kilometres covered or funds raised. It was measured in something less tangible but perhaps more important: one person's determination and compassion that brought people together.

As Old Frees, we often speak about the values our school tries to instil: service, perseverance and concern for others. SG Lim embodied all of these qualities. In recognition of his remarkable achievement and service to the community, he was presented with Life Memberships of the The Old Frees' Association and the Old Frees' Association Kuala Lumpur & Selangor.

And there is something more. While grief has a way of turning people inward, here was a man who chose to transform personal loss into an act of generosity that will help children and families facing challenges far greater than his own.

Staircase danger

A recent unfortunate incident brought back a memory that I had not thought about for quite some time. Four years ago, I had a close call falling down. I was standing on a collapsible ladder, only on the first step, when the whole thing suddenly slid backwards. It happened so quickly that there was no time to react. Fortunately, as the steps shot away beneath me, I fell sideways onto my right rather than backwards. The only injury was a bruise on my thigh. Over the next few days it grew impressively black and blue, spreading much further than I would have imagined, before gradually fading away and healing completely. At the time, I regarded it as an unpleasant but ultimately minor incident. After all, nothing was broken and life went on as normal.

Recently, however, I learnt of a far more tragic accident involving someone I was acquainted with. He fell down the staircase at his home and never recovered from the injuries. The news affected me more than I expected. Perhaps it was because the circumstances sounded so ordinary. Stairs are among the most familiar features of any house. We climb them and descend them every day without giving them a second thought. Yet a staircase can become dangerous when something goes wrong.

As we grow older, we become more vulnerable. When we are young, a fall often results in embarrassment, a few bruises and perhaps a story to tell later. Age changes everything. Bones become more fragile. Reflexes slow down. Balance is no longer quite what it once was. A fall that a younger person might shrug off can become a life-changing event for an older adult.

Medical studies have shown that the direction of a fall can make a tremendous difference. Falling backwards is often especially dangerous because there is little opportunity to protect oneself. A person may strike the back of the head, neck or spine with considerable force. Falling forwards is not necessarily safer. The instinctive attempt to break the fall can result in fractured wrists, broken shoulders or facial injuries.

Then there is the question of height. One might assume that only a tumble from the top of a staircase is dangerous, but even a fall from the bottom few steps can have devastating consequences. A sideways landing can fracture a hip. For many elderly people, a broken hip becomes the beginning of a long and difficult decline involving surgery, rehabilitation and a loss of mobility.

What is particularly sobering is that the danger does not end with the initial injury. A serious fall can trigger a chain of consequences. Reduced mobility leads to muscle loss. Confidence disappears. Some people become fearful of moving about independently lest they fall again. Ironically, that reduced activity can weaken the body further and increase the likelihood of another fall.

As I thought about my acquaintance's passing, I found myself thinking not only about the fragility of the human body but also about how Buddhism approaches impermanence. We often associate impermanence with grand events: aging, illness and death. Yet there's also impermanence in the smallest moments. A misplaced step. A stumble from uneven floors of even one millimetre apart. A momentary loss of balance. An ordinary staircase climbed a thousand times before without incident.

We tend to imagine that major changes in life arrive with warning signs and dramatic announcements. More often, they arrive unexpectedly. One moment everything is normal. The next, circumstances have changed completely.

When I look back on my own accident, I realise how fortunate I was. Had I fallen differently, the outcome might have been very different. It was a reminder, one that I perhaps did not fully appreciate at the time, that we should never take safety for granted. These days when I climb a staircase, I find myself paying more attention. When I step onto a ladder, I ask someone to hold it. Not out of fear, but out of respect for the simple fact that our bodies are not indestructible. The older we become, the more we learn that life often hangs on small things: a secure handrail, a dry floor, a firm footing and perhaps a little good fortune. The loss of my acquaintance is a sad reminder of that truth. May he rest in peace.

Chan Ah Seng

One of life's sobering moments comes when one attends the wake of someone one has known, however intermittently, over the years. Yesterday evening, I attended the wake of Dr Chan Ah Seng, a highly respected Obstetrician and Gynaecologist from Bagan Specialist Centre. Last Tuesday, he suffered a tragic accident at home and was rushed to the very hospital where he had spent much of his professional life caring for others. Sadly, the injuries proved too severe and he passed away on Saturday without regaining consciousness.

My wife and I first got to know him in 1990 when Saw See was expecting our son. Throughout the pregnancy, we consulted him regularly and in May 1991 he safely delivered a healthy baby boy into our lives. After that, as often happens, we lost touch. More than three decades passed before we met him again in March last year.

The years had changed all of us, of course, but he was instantly recognisable. By then he had become a volunteer at Nandaka Vihara Meditation Centre, offering free medical consultations once a month. It seemed entirely in character for a man who had spent his career helping people.

Last night's wake was attended by many from the medical fraternity as well as his former schoolmates from Sultan Abdul Hamid College. Listening to the conversations and seeing the steady stream of visitors, one could sense the regard in which he was held.

It was also there that I learnt something I had never known before. Dr Chan was the same age as me, though a few months older. Somehow that made his passing feel even more poignant. When someone of one's own generation departs so suddenly, it serves as a reminder of the Buddhist teaching that all conditioned things are impermanent. We may understand the principle well enough, but occasions like this bring it home in a very personal way. As life unfolds, all we can do is cherish the moment and the people we meet along the way.

Open distrust

There was something almost surreal about the recent reports coming out of Beijing during Donald Trump’s visit to China. According to multiple accounts, members of the American delegation were openly seen throwing away everything given to them by their Chinese hosts before boarding Air Force One to go back to the United States. Gifts, badges, souvenir pins, invitation cards and even temporary burner phones were reportedly dumped into bins near the aircraft stairs in full public view.

It sounded less like diplomacy and more like a scene from a Cold War spy thriller. Apparently the instruction was that absolutely nothing originating from China was to be brought onto the aircraft because of cybersecurity and surveillance fears. American intelligence agencies have long suspected that electronic devices, souvenirs or even ordinary-looking items could potentially be used for tracking or data collection. So the delegation travelled with temporary phones, avoided personal electronics and discarded everything afterwards.

I suppose none of this is surprising. Great powers have always spied on one another. Trump himself more or less admitted it when he casually remarked that America spies on China too. That was probably the most honest thing said during the whole visit.

Still, there was something symbolic about the public nature of the disposal. Diplomatic visits are normally wrapped in smiles, handshakes and carefully staged photographs. Mistrust may exist behind the scenes, but both sides usually try to keep appearances intact. This time, however, the distrust became visible for everyone to see. One moment there were banquets and ceremonial greetings. The next moment, gifts were being tossed into bins before boarding the plane home.

I wonder how the Chinese hosts must have felt watching that happen. Publicly, they remained polite and restrained, calling the visit historic and avoiding any official protest. But I suspect the message was fully understood. At the same time, China itself would probably do the same too, but perhaps with more discretion. The modern world has become deeply suspicious beneath all its diplomatic language. Nations trade with one another, smile for cameras and speak of cooperation, yet quietly assume they are also being watched, monitored and hacked.

Maybe that is the real story here. The world’s two biggest powers can sit across the same table smiling warmly while trusting each other so little. In another era, such behaviour might have caused outrage. Today, many people simply shrugged and said: of course they did. A reflection, perhaps, of the times we live in.

Second coming

During those 10 days away from the blog, I also noticed something else at home. The Tacoma tree outside the house had flowered again, and this time it seemed even more enthusiastic than before. 

I had already thought that this year’s earlier peak in early March was unusually generous, but there appears to have been a second coming.

Earlier this month, I saw the tree covered in flowers, almost like a canopy overhead. Then after a heavy downpour on the night of the sixth of May, I woke up to find the drain outlet completely choked with fallen blossoms. No doubt it was a colourful sight, but it was not very practical for drainage.

Still, as I have mentioned more than once, I do not really mind the sweeping. When I look at the bigger picture, the tree gives me something far more valuable in the afternoons: cool shade and a quiet patch of comfort. A little extra sweeping seems a fair exchange.

Scam calls

There are times when I become a little lazy and disconnect myself from the rest of the world. This happened to be one of those times. Almost 10 days without updating my blog. But actually, there's another way to look at it. It's time well spent away from the computer to do other stuff. So much so that it becomes a chore to eventually get back into the everyday grind.

I was jolted back into the present by a series of calls on my mobile phone a few days ago. The first came in at 11.55am, and an installed app flagged it as an unknown number. I glanced at the screen, saw that it carried a +65 country code from Singapore, and let it ring until it disconnected automatically. Hardly a second later, another unknown call came through, also with a +65 code. Then a third and a fourth, in quick succession. As if that wasn’t enough, immediately the next two were shown as calls from Kazakhstan. Of course, none of them were answered. I simply let each one time out. And finally, about an hour later, a seventh call appeared, once again from a Singapore number.

It didn’t take much thinking to realise that this was probably nothing more than a burst of computer-generated spam calls. The pattern was too clinical. When calls arrive so quickly one after another from different country codes, it usually suggests some automated system at work, which no human can replicate: random dialling, number spoofing or machines simply testing which numbers are active. In today’s world, our phones seem to attract attention the way an open window attracts burglars. Once a number is identified as live, it can find its way into other lists. If no one answers, the system just moves on and tries again later. That might explain why the last Singapore call came after some time. 

There is also a small caution I’ve come to keep in mind over the years. Answering unknown calls is not always harmless. In some cases, the other end may not just be a person, but an automated system recording voices, responses, even simple “hello” confirmations. These recordings can sometimes be used to feed further spam systems or to create patterns that mark a number as active and responsive. It may sound a bit far-fetched, but in the world of persistent spam and scam operations, even minimal interaction can sometimes be enough to invite more of the same.

As for my response, I don’t think I was wrong. There was no message, no familiar name, no reason to engage. Letting the calls ring out felt like the most sensible thing to do. In fact, answering might have been the bigger mistake, since it would have confirmed that the number was active. Sometimes silence is the best form of defence. There is no obligation to pick up every call that appears on the screen.

The lesson here is probably a simple one. Unknown international calls that arrive in clusters deserve caution, not panic. Let them ring. If it is genuine, the caller will leave a voicemail or try another channel. If not, the system will eventually move on.

So the episode served as a small reminder that even in my moments of quiet withdrawal from the world, the world has a way of tapping on my shoulder. One can choose whether to answer or ignore. And this time, I was quite happy to let it ring.

UPDATE: After I posted this on facebook, someone in Singapore happened to see it and took the trouble to report the numbers to the relevant authorities there as suspected scam calls. That was unexpected, but very much appreciated. It is reassuring to know that people do still take these things seriously and are willing to act on them, even when they are not directly affected. For that, I am quite thankful.

No respite

Aiyah....just when I was not expecting it, the Tacoma tree outside the house has decided to flower profusely again. It will be another seven to 10 days of sweeping the porch and the road outside to clear off the fallen flowers....

Cataract routine

It’s been almost two weeks since the cataract operation on my left eye. I’ve already gone back twice for follow-up sessions with the surgeon and, according to him, everything is progressing well. So far, I haven’t experienced any of the warning signs he mentioned earlier, no pain, no discharge, nothing out of the ordinary, so that in itself is already something to be thankful for. There’s one more follow-up scheduled towards the end of next month, just to make sure everything continues on track.

So how do I feel with this artificial lens sitting inside the eye? From the very first day, the difference was quite striking. Vision suddenly became very bright and very clear. Almost too clear, if that makes sense. The best way I can describe it is with the Penang Hokkien expression, Cheng Beng. It's the same term used for this time of the year when we Chinese make our way to the cemeteries to spring clean the graves of our ancestors and especially, to remember and fulfil our duties to those that came before us. Cheng and Beng, clear and bright. That same sense of clarity in the air, as if everything has been washed clean. That’s exactly how things look now. Colours appear more vivid, whites look whiter and there’s a certain crispness to everything that I don’t remember having for quite some time.

But of course, it’s not all perfectly balanced yet. The left eye is now long-sighted, while the right eye is still short-sighted. So when I look at something, the left eye sees it sharp and clear, while the right eye comes in slightly behind, blurred and struggling to catch up. It’s a strange sensation, like the two eyes are not quite in agreement with each other. At times I find myself unconsciously favouring the left eye, letting it take the lead.

I suppose this is part of the adjustment period. The brain probably needs time to sort things out and decide how to combine the two different images into something workable. For now, I just carry on as usual, reading, moving about, letting the eyes and the mind slowly get used to this new arrangement. How long that will take, I really don’t know. But at least for now, things are heading in the right direction, and that’s good enough for me. 

Of course, there are all the little routines that now come with it. Whenever I’m outdoors in the daytime, I have to wear sunglasses. “Protect your eyes from the ultraviolet light,” the surgeon warned. For how long, I asked. “As long as necessary,” he said. I suppose that means quite indefinitely.

At night, I have to put on an eye shield before going to bed. It’s quite a ritual, sticking it on with surgical tape. For afternoon naps, it’s much simpler, just the sunglasses will do. Both are really there to stop me from accidentally touching or rubbing the eye when I’m not fully aware of what I’m doing.

Then there are the eye drops. Three different types, several times a day. And this, not counting my glaucoma eyedrops too! By now I’ve more or less settled into the routine. Life goes on. I’ve even resumed driving, although with the difference in vision between the two eyes, I do have to be more careful and alert. Night driving I’ve not attempted yet, leaving that to my wife for the time being.

On the hygiene side, showering is not a problem, although I’ve avoided shampooing my hair these past two weeks. Instead, I give the scalp a good wipe with a damp cloth. Surprisingly refreshing. The eyelid too gets a daily clean with damp cotton puffs, just to remove any accumulated dirt. But that’s as far as I go when it comes to getting water near the eye.

As for food, the surgeon more or less dismissed any need for restrictions. But my wife, after listening to various well-meaning friends, has taken a different view. So for now, anything involving prawns, shrimp, hehbee or belachan is off the menu. Pantang for three weeks, she decided. Thus, no Hokkien mee, no char koay teow. She is the "She Who Must Be Obeyed", as the character Rumpole in Rumpole of the Bailey would say of his wife. Woe is me.

As a postscript, perhaps I should say that inevitably, in the longer term, I shall need another operation on the right eye to balance up my vision. That is something for another day. For now, I’ll just let things settle and take it as it comes.

#chengbeng

Butterworth's PPC complex

A few days ago, I made a passing reference to the Penang Port Commission Complex (PPC Complex) in Butterworth when writing about the 1988 ferry terminal tragedy. I used to pass through that building regularly on my way to work from about 1980 to 2000. Not quite every day, but often enough. Slightly more than 20 years of ferry commuting. So yes, I knew the place quite well. Here’s what I remember.

Not many people think about it now, but the old PPC Complex didn’t just fade away quietly. It went out in a blaze, literally. On 20 May 2001, at about five o'clock in the morning, a fire broke out in the building which most people simply called the Butterworth bus terminal. The fire started on the upper floors where the Parkson Ria Department Store and Tops were located. It was a major one which took the firefighters nearly 12 hours to bring it fully under control, only around five in the evening.

By then the damage was severe. The top floor, including parts of the roof, was badly gutted. The rest of the building was no longer usable. Not long after that, the whole structure was demolished. Today, Penang Sentral stands on the same spot.

The building itself went back to the mid-1970s. It was completed in 1976 at a cost of about RM3.5 million, which in those days was not small money. It was considered quite modern then. The ground floor housed a 24-bay bus terminal, along with a police post, ticket counters and taxi stands. And once you came down the staircases, taxi drivers and bus touts would be calling out, each trying to pull you towards their taxis or ticket counters.

The first floor was where the small retail shops and food stalls were located. That was where people hung around, especially in the 1980s and 1990s. Nothing fanciful here. Just everyday things, cheap food and a place to wait for connecting buses. Up on the top floor was the shopping area. Emporium Holdings was one of the early tenants before Parkson Ria came in later. At one time there was even a small cinema.

This Parkson Ria outlet, in particular, was one of the places on the mainland to shop in the 1990s. I remember once being there with the whole family when my son, probably three or four years old at the time, decided to play hide and seek among the clothes racks. One moment he was there, the next moment he was gone. With all those unverified stories going around then about children being abducted, we were alarmed and started searching frantically, calling out his name. He remained quiet and then suddenly, out he popped from between the racks, grinning away. For that little stunt, his reward was a quick smack on his bottom.

The PPC Complex wasn’t just a building. For many people it was part of daily life. Students passed through it on their way to school. Workers used it every day, taking buses and ferries across to the island. On the odd occasion, I would be there too, waiting for a bus back to Seberang Jaya when my car wasn’t available. It was also a convenient meeting point, the sort of place where people would say, “wait for me at the bus terminal,” and everyone knew exactly where that meant. And then there were those who went there to lepak, simply not knowing what to do with their time. People lingering, watching the world go by, making the place feel alive. And the occasional students playing truant, trying to blend into the crowd, though not always successfully.

The complex was linked to the Butterworth railway station by a long covered overhead walkway, maybe a hundred or two hundred metres. Somewhere along that stretch, a branch veered off to the ferry terminal. That was where foot passengers bought their tickets, passed through the turnstile and waited for the next ferry. I remember always having a book with me, thanks to my British Council Library membership. Waiting time was reading time, whether in the terminal or on the ferry itself. And it was that very ferry terminal that collapsed in 1988.

After the fire and demolition, the area went quiet. Buses and taxis were forced to operate from somewhere else close enough. Then, years later, something new rose in its place. Penang Sentral, opened at the end of 2018. Clean, modern, efficient. Everything the old complex was not.

But for those of us who remember, the old PPC Complex was never just a bus terminal. It was a meeting point, a waiting place, part of the rhythm of daily life. A bit chaotic, a bit worn, but very much alive in its time. Now, like so many things in Butterworth, it lives on only in memory.

#penangportcommission #ppc #butterworth 

Butterworth ferry terminal tragedy 1988

A few days ago, while I was just beginning my recuperation after the cataract operation, a story appeared in The Star newspaper revisiting the Butterworth ferry terminal tragedy of 1988. I’ll reproduce that story at the end of this posting, but first I want to say this: I was there when the terminal platform collapsed. This is my story too. My experience, my memory.

Almost 40 years have passed since that day. July has always been the time when the St Anne’s Church in Bukit Mertajam holds its annual novena, culminating in the Feast of St Anne, usually observed on the weekend closest to the 26th of July, with the candlelight procession drawing the biggest crowds. Every year the festival draws huge crowds from all over Malaysia and even from neighbouring countries. Not just Catholics, but people of other faiths as well, though perhaps not so much the Protestants or Muslims. In those days, many still crossed over from the island to the mainland by ferry, on foot or with their cars and motorcycles, even though the Penang Bridge was already there.

In 1988, also around July, there was another major event taking place. The committee of the Kong Hock Keong temple had announced that a once-in-60-years procession of Kuan Imm, the Goddess of Mercy, would take place on Penang island. That alone was enough to stir the imagination of the Chinese community. A rare chance to see the Kuan Imm images from this and other temples taken out and paraded through the streets of George Town.

Unlike the St Anne’s Feast, where people made a beeline for the church itself, the Kuan Imm procession would have people lining the streets to watch the floats go by. Since Kong Hock Keong was located right in the heart of George Town, long before UNESCO heritage status came into the picture, the ferry remained the natural way for people from the mainland to cross over.

At that time I was working in Ban Hin Lee Bank. I was living in Seberang Jaya then, newly married to Saw See, and my daily routine was simple enough. I would drive to Pantai Road in Butterworth, park the car in the compound of a private house, walk through the Penang Port Commission Complex to the Sultan Abdul Halim ferry terminal, cross over to the Raja Tun Uda terminal on the island, and then walk the last stretch to the bank in Beach Street.

A few days before 31 July 1988, I suggested to my father and my father-in-law that we should go together to watch the procession. Everyone agreed. So on that Sunday, we drove to Butterworth, I parked in my usual spot at the old couple’s house, and we made our way to the ferry terminal.

We thought it would be easy enough to cross over, but we were wrong. There were already several hundreds of people there, and more were arriving all the time. Add to that those returning from St Anne’s Church, and you were probably looking at a few thousand people packed into the terminal building.

The four of us edged forward slowly with the crowd. The ferry service was still running, but between ferries the whole mass would stop and wait. Then when boarding was announced, those at the back would surge forward. At the front of the enclosed terminal, the pressure built up on the steel structure and the wooden flooring.

Somewhere in that slow, relentless push, my father became separated from me. I could see him ahead, but the distance between us kept widening. But my father-in-law was still beside me. By about 4.30pm, we had cleared the ticket turnstile. We thought we might finally be able to board the next ferry. Spirits lifted a little. My father-in-law and Saw See next to me, my father perhaps ten feet ahead. Kuan Imm procession, here we come.

Then came a tremendous vibration followed immediately with a loud whoosh.

At first I thought it was a jet flying low overhead. The sound was something like that. And then, in an instant, everything changed. One moment we were enclosed within the terminal structure, the next moment we were staring at open sky. The roof had given way. Hardly 20 feet away, the platform in front of us had collapsed, taking with it everyone standing there.

Panic broke out immediately. The crowd surged backwards. We three had no choice but to move with it. But where was my father? I couldn’t see him anymore. Was he on that section that gave way? There was no way to know.

We were pushed all the way back towards the Penang Port Commssion Complex. Nobody could go forward, only back. Somehow the three of us made our way out of the building. But I knew I had to go back and look for my father.

As I tried to push against the flow, I suddenly saw him. He was staggering unsteadily towards me, holding on to his cane. He was alright though. Shaken, but alright. I gave him a hug, more out of relief than anything else, and we made our way back to the car. Not long after that, we all drove home in silence.

The incident happened on a Sunday. The next day, Monday, it was back to work for many people. But how were we to cross over to the island when the terminal had collapsed? I didn’t know what to expect, but to my relief, the ferry service was still operating. The damaged terminal was cordoned off, and foot passengers were diverted to the vehicular ferries. For the next few weeks, until the authorities sorted things out, the lower deck of those ferries was opened to foot passengers. There were no benches, so we stood all the way from Butterworth to George Town and back again every day.

In the end, although the debris was cleared and investigations concluded, that old terminal, built in 1956, was never used again. The vehicular terminal was modified instead to handle both vehicular and foot passengers.

It still feels a bit unreal. One moment we were just four people trying to catch a ferry to see a procession, the next moment we were part of something far bigger and far more serious. Time has moved on, the old terminal is gone, and life has carried on. But memories like this stay with us, surfacing when we least expect it.

This past Chinese New Year, for instance, my daughter was talking to her old schoolmate when the topic of the tragedy was raised. They were only one-year-old when it happened. Later, she mentioned it to me in passing and I could see the look on her face when she realised just how close her grandfathers and parents had come to being caught in it.

So when I came across this recent article in The Star, it brought everything back in a way I hadn’t quite anticipated. I reproduce it here for the record.

Revisiting the 1988 Butterworth jetty tragedy
Story by ANGELIN YEOH, 18 March 2026

THE year was 1988, and The Star reporter Paul Gabriel found himself at the district hospital in Butterworth, Penang. It was past 10pm on a Sunday and he had set himself a crucial task.

Paul needed to get into the morgue. Five hours earlier, Paul had arrived at the Pengkalan Sultan Abdul Halim jetty where a wooden platform collapsed under the weight of a crowd estimated at around 10,000 people.

The crowd was due to the Buddhist Guan Yin (Goddess of Mercy) festival taking place in George Town on the island, with the annual St Anne’s Feast being celebrated in Bukit Mertajam on the mainland on the same day. The Guan Yin procession was touted as a once-in-60-years event, with tourists coming from as far as Hong Kong, Taiwan and Singapore.

Paul remembered the chaos that followed the collapse of the jetty platform - sirens blaring, helicopters hovering overhead and blood-stained ambulances rushing the injured to hospital.

For a reporter, the most important detail is to uncover and be accurate with the number of casualties – a figure that will let readers understand the full scale of the tragedy.

“It was getting late into the evening and the police were not ready with the full casualty list. I wanted to go the extra mile to get as close a figure as I could,” he said.

Paul was 25 and was a year into his stint as The Star’s Butterworth correspondent. He was familiar with the district hospital grounds as he had covered VIP visits and interviewed victims involved in other incidents.

But stepping into the morgue was new territory for him. He approached a security guard with a story that he was looking for a missing relative.

“I said I was concerned for a relative who had gone to the jetty. I pleaded with him to let me in just for a while,” he recalled.

It took some time for Paul to convince the unsuspecting guard to let him in.

Eventually, he was granted access and went in alone. Then in the dimly-lit morgue, Paul saw black body bags and began counting, notebook and pen in hand.

“I took it that the large bags were that of adults and the small ones that of children,” Paul said, adding that as nervous as he was, he tried to keep calm to get the counting over with as fast as he could.

“I was purely in reporter mode. My thoughts were focused on covering the news and getting the facts as best as I could.”

Paul said he was done in about 10 minutes and left the morgue with the grim task of reporting to his editor that 31 people had died.

Later, police confirmed that there were 32 casualties with more than 400 injured.

The story didn’t end there as Paul said there was more work to be done to interview survivors and ferry officials. Ultimately, how did things go wrong and who was responsible?

He knocked on the door of then-Penang Port Commission (PPC) chairman Datuk Seri Syed Mohamad Aidid Syed Murtaza's office seeking answers.

“I asked him point-blank what he was going to do.... how much of a responsibility he would take.”

Paul remembered how Syed Mohamad Aidid looked him in the eyes to say: “I will not quit. I am not going to run away from this tragedy. I will stay and put things right. That is my commitment.”

Ironically, the PPC chairman was among those who narrowly escaped death, being just five metres away from the crashing platform and metal beams.

Paul said covering the tragedy was one of the biggest stories of his career, one that had also taken him to shootouts and a tour bus hijacking during his time in Butterworth which was notorious for crime back then.

He had no regrets about counting body bags in the morgue. "There was no time to ponder. It was a challenge I had to rise to. Back then, there was no Internet or social media. Everyone was waiting for the news. People would wake up and grab The Star  first thing in the morning! We had to be the best in delivering the news.

"As a child, Paul had fond memories of the ferries in Penang. He looked forward to being in the vehicular deck as his father drove the family across to the mainland.

“The sea breeze, the seabirds and yes, I think we also saw dolphins from afar!”

But now, whenever he returns to Penang and passes the Butterworth jetty on the mainland, memories of that fateful day 38 years ago come flooding back.

"The scene of the jetty platform collapse and bodies lying on the road is still etched in my mind," he said.

**On Sept 21, 1989, a 200-page report of a Royal Commission of Inquiry set up up to investigate the mishap found the PPC to be negligent. It said the ferry manager ought to have known the limitations of the upper deck, and that the duty of anticipating the passenger load lay squarely with operations which had figures from previous festivals.

The report concluded that overloading of passengers in the waiting area of the terminal caused the platform to collapse, and that the PPC’s operations department had pleaded ignorance on the maximum number of passengers allowed there.

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