A Jakarta experience

For four days in Jakarta, our little group from the Nandaka Vihara Meditation Society found ourselves spending most of our time at Gedung BWE in the Mozia precinct of BSD City, a planned township in Tangerang within the wider Greater Jakarta region.

BSD City is one of those modern satellite townships that seem to stretch endlessly into the horizon, with neatly laid-out roads, residential clusters, shopping centres and office buildings. Gedung BWE itself is a multipurpose venue that has become an important gathering place for Buddhist activities in the Jakarta area. The initials BWE stand for Bodhicitta Wahana Edukasi, an organisation involved in Buddhist education and community work.

Over the years, the venue has hosted meditation retreats, Dhamma talks, relic veneration ceremonies and large-scale Waisak celebrations. Its spacious hall is well suited for bringing together monks, lay devotees and volunteers from different traditions and organisatio
ns. This year's four-day Waisak celebration from 29th May to 01 June was jointly organised by Yayasan Hadaya Vatthu, PATVDH Beji (Yayasan Meditasi Hutan Pandangan Terang), Yayasan Bodhinanda Pekanbaru, Yayasan Dhamma Sukha Dhamma and Yayasan Sundarabhūmi.

Although the surrounding district offered no shortage of cafés, shopping centres and other modern conveniences, we hardly ventured out during our stay. Most of our time revolved around the programme itself. Still, we did get to see a little of Jakarta.

At some point, I surrendered myself entirely to the ladies in our group who wanted to go shopping. So we found ourselves stopping at several neighbourhood markets to pick up things like packed groundnuts and buah emping, which we Penangites would recognise as buah binjai. My wife and I had arrived with two half-empty suitcases. By the time we left Jakarta, both were filled to the brim. Fortunately, everything was bulky rather than heavy, and we managed to stay within the airline's weight limits. 

Our journeys took us through various parts of North and West Jakarta, offering fleeting glimpses of everyday life in this vast metropolis. One evening, we were taken to the Chandra building for dinner. The place was buzzing with activity. Finding seats was an adventure and we ended up sharing tables with complete strangers. We wandered off to order different dishes before returning with their selections to be shared among the group, all while a karaoke competition unfolded on the stage nearby. It was lively, informal and wonderfully communal, the sort of atmosphere that seems to bring people together with little fuss.

On another occasion, as we drove through the city, our vehicle passed a roundabout adorned with temporary Waisak decorations. There stood two large Buddha statues alongside an Aśoka pillar. It was a striking sight, and I could not help thinking that such a public display would be almost impossible to imagine back home in Malaysia. For a brief moment, amid the traffic and bustle of Jakarta, the city seemed to pause and acknowledge the significance of the occasion. 

We also drove through Jakarta's historic district, the Kota Tua Jakarta, the old colonial quarter once known as Batavia. Compared with Jakarta's gleaming shopping malls, Kota Tua feels basic, slower, grittier and more textured. The malls represent modern Jakarta: air-conditioned, polished and driven by consumption. Kota Tua, by contrast, preserves traces of the city's past, with its Dutch-era buildings, museums and cafés. It may not possess the commercial energy of Jakarta's mega malls, but it offers something increasingly rare in large cities, which is a sense of place and historical continuity.

Food, naturally, was another highlight. One memorable meal was at Pagi Sore, where we enjoyed a delicious spread of Indonesian dishes. Quite unexpectedly, I spotted an Old Free friend seated at another table. He looked familiar, though I was not entirely certain it was him. Rather than interrupt his meal, I discreetly took a photograph and sent it to him. A short while later, we were catching up in the restaurant.

Another memorable occasion was a farewell lunch hosted by our Indonesian Buddhist friends at the Angke Heritage Restaurant before we left for Jogjakarta. Angke is well known for its Hakka cuisine, but what impressed us immediately was the setting. We had arrived early and, for a while, had the whole place to ourselves.

The restaurant exuded a wonderfully tranquil atmosphere. Traditional Chinese architectural elements were woven throughout the grounds with moon gates, courtyards, pavilions set over water and landscaped gardens. It was a delight for photographers and diners alike.

Two nights earlier, we had been treated to dinner at Da Fa Chinese Seafood Restaurant. The dishes were not all that different from any Chinese seafood meals we enjoy in Penang, which perhaps explains why we tucked into them with such enthusiasm.

There was also a lunch dāna during the Waisak programme itself at a restaurant known as Lembur Kuring, where we sampled Sundanese and Javanese dishes with their distinctive inland flavours.

We visited Aloha Pasir Putih PIK 2, a modern waterfront lifestyle destination designed around a tropical beach theme. The place is often described as "the Hawaii of Jakarta", complete with palm trees, surfboard displays and large Polynesian-inspired statues. Its centrepiece is an artificial white-sand beach overlooking the coast.

The concept is clearly aimed at city dwellers looking for a short escape from Jakarta's relentless pace. Families strolled along the promenade, children played in the sand and groups of friends gathered at the many cafés and restaurants lining the waterfront. It was all very photogenic and unapologetically designed for the social media age.

The day before we departed for Jogjakarta, Bhante Dhammasubho joined us on a sightseeing tour that included a stop at Jakarta Cathedral. Officially known as the Cathedral of Our Lady of the Assumption, it is one of Indonesia's most important Catholic churches. Completed in 1901 in a neo-Gothic style, the cathedral stands directly opposite the Istiqlal Mosque, Southeast Asia's largest mosque. The juxtaposition of these two great houses of worship has become a symbol of Indonesia's commitment to religious harmony. In recent years, the two sites have even been physically linked by a pedestrian tunnel known as the "Tunnel of Friendship".

What struck me about those few days in Jakarta was the contrast between the modern city and the spiritual gathering we had come to attend. We spent time within the peaceful confines of Gedung BWE, surrounded by chanting, meditation and Dhamma talks. Yet just beyond its walls stretched one of the world's largest urban regions, with its endless roads, shopping centres and constant movement. Perhaps that was what made the experience so interesting. Amidst the speed and scale of Greater Jakarta, thousands of people had gathered quietly and purposefully to celebrate the Buddha's teachings. And for four days, we were fortunate enough to be part of it.

The original Chipmunk music

I must have been seven, eight or perhaps nine years old when my father brought home these two Chipmunks records from Wing Hing Records, his friend's shop along Campbell Street. At that age, few things gave me more happiness than listening to David Seville and the Chipmunks. I played those LPs over and over again until I practically knew every song by heart.

For a few years, they were constant companions. Then I grew older and gradually moved on to other kinds of music. The records went back into their sleeves, placed in a cupboard and left untouched for decades. Until recently.

Something stirred in me and I went looking for them again. When I finally played them again and heard those familiar high-pitched voices, I felt an unexpected lump in my throat. In an instant, I was transported back to a time when I had not even yet reached the age of ten. Wonderful how music can do that. A song lasts only a few minutes, yet somehow it can unlock entire rooms of memory that have remained closed for half a century. What more a whole hour's worth from Let's All Sing with the Chipmunks and Sing Again with the Chipmunks.

As a child, I never questioned who the Chipmunks were. They simply existed. After all, children do not worry about such details. Alvin, Simon and Theodore were mischievous little creatures who sang funny songs, while the long-suffering David Seville tried to keep them in line. Only much later did I learn that neither the Chipmunks nor David Seville actually existed. The entire concept was the creation of one remarkably inventive man: Ross Bagdasarian Sr.

Bagdasarian was a first-generation Armenian-American from California. Early in his career, record executives felt that his surname was too long and too ethnic for show business. During the Second World War, he served as a control tower operator with the US Army Air Forces and spent some time stationed in Seville, Spain. The city made such an impression on him that he adopted "David Seville" as his stage name.

Before the Chipmunks came along, he had already established himself as a songwriter. In 1951, he had collaborated to write the quirky song Come On-a My House. After spending months trying to persuade someone to record it, he finally found success when Rosemary Clooney turned it into a number one hit.

Yet success in the music business can be fleeting. By late 1957, despite his earlier triumph, Bagdasarian was facing financial difficulties. Supporting a wife and three young children, he reportedly had only about US$200 left. Instead of spending the money on household expenses, he took a gamble. He bought a dual-speed tape recorder and began experimenting with tape speeds at home. He discovered that by recording his voice slowly at a lower pitch and then playing it back at normal speed, he could create an entirely new sound: bright, squeaky and unlike anything listeners had heard before.

His first experiment was Witch Doctor, released in early 1958. The famous refrain, Oo-ee, oo-ah-ah, ting-tang, walla-walla, bing-bang, became an instant sensation, selling more than a million copies and helping to rescue Liberty Records from financial trouble. Asked to come up with a follow-up, Bagdasarian expanded the idea into three animated chipmunks. Their names were playful nods to the executives at Liberty Records: Alvin after company president Al Bennett, Simon after co-founder Simon Waronker and Theodore after recording engineer Ted Keep.

Creating their voices was a feat in the days before digital technology. Bagdasarian recorded every character himself; four separate vocal tracks for Alvin, Simon, Theodore and Dave Seville while matching the timing manually with extraordinary precision. The result was The Chipmunk Song (Christmas Don't Be Late), released in late 1958. It became a runaway success and won three awards including Best Engineered Record (Non-Classical) at the inaugural Grammy Awards in 1959.

A string of hit records followed, including Alvin's Harmonica and Ragtime Cowboy Joe. Soon came the first full-length albums: Let's All Sing with the Chipmunks pressed on red vinyl in 1959 and Sing Again with the Chipmunks the following year. Those were the very records, with their 24 songs, that eventually found their way into my childhood home in Penang.

But of course, the songs were only part of the story. Beneath the squeaky voices was something far more personal: my father's love of his child in bringing those records home, the excitement of discovering new music as a child and the simple happiness of sitting beside the gramophone with nothing else demanding my attention. The Chipmunks may have been fictional, but the memories they created were very real. And after all these years, they still have the power to make me smile.

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.

Buah salak

One of the unexpected pleasures of my recent trip to Jakarta and Jogjakarta was renewing my acquaintance with the salak fruit, better known to many as snake fruit because of its distinctive scaly skin.

Every morning at the hotel breakfast table, there would be a small tray of salak placed among the other fruits. There were usually only five or six fruits at a time and they tended to disappear almost as soon as the hotel staff brought them out. Before long, the group from Nandaka Vihara had developed quite an appetite for them. A few of our friends had never seen the fruit before and approached it with some caution at first. The skin looked unusual, almost reptilian, and certainly not like anything one would normally associate with a sweet fruit. But once they learnt how to peel it, many quickly became converts.

In fact, salak became so popular among our group that whenever the tray was emptied, all we had to do was ask. The hotel staff would smile and bring out another batch specially for us. By the end of the trip, some of our first-time salak eaters had become quite addicted to the fruit and looked forward to seeing it each morning.

We generally encountered two varieties. One had a dark mahogany maroon skin while the other was a lighter coppery brown. Both shared the same characteristic scales that give the fruit its snake-like appearance. Freshly harvested salak can also be surprisingly prickly. The skin is covered with tiny hard projections that can give an unsuspecting finger a little jab. Nothing serious, but enough to remind you to handle the fruit with some respect.

Inside, however, lies the reward. The cream-coloured flesh comes in segments rather like large garlic cloves. The texture is quite unlike most tropical fruits. It is not juicy like a rambutan or mangosteen. Instead, it is firm and crisp, almost like biting into a very dense apple or pear. The ones we encountered were consistently sweet and pleasant to eat, which perhaps explains why several members of our group became rather fond of them.

Salak is native to Indonesia but also grown in Malaysia. It is a thorny palm and the fruit grows in clusters at the base of the plant, surrounded by its natural prickly armour, and making harvesting a somewhat careful exercise. Indonesia produces many varieties, among them the Salak Pondoh from the Jogjakarta region, which is a variety prized for its sweetness even before it is fully ripe.

The more I ate it, the more I wondered why salak never became as internationally famous as durian, rambutan or mangosteen. Perhaps its appearance works against it. The rough scaly skin is hardly inviting at first glance. Yet those willing to look beyond the exterior discover a fruit that is both distinctive and enjoyable.

I also learnt that the fruit continues to attract scientific interest. Researchers have studied the seeds for various useful compounds, including oils and antioxidants. In parts of Indonesia, the seeds have even been roasted and ground to produce a coffee substitute. It seems that almost every part of the fruit has found a use somewhere.

For me, though, the strongest memory remains those breakfasts in Indonesia. A plate of salak sitting quietly among the other fruits. Friends reaching for one, then another. Curious first-timers becoming enthusiastic converts. Travel is often remembered through such simple experiences and for our Nandaka Vihara group, salak turned out to be one of the pleasant discoveries of the journey.

Maxwell Road

Ever since I wrote about old Gladstone Road several days ago, I have been thinking that perhaps a story about the schools, cinemas and amusement parks that disappeared during the KOMTAR redevelopment would also be in order. Many of them were located along Maxwell Road, another old street that vanished during the same redevelopment period. But roads alone do not make up a city. What truly gives life to an urban neighbourhood are the people, the schools where children studied, the cinemas where families gathered at night and the amusement parks where crowds drifted through beneath bright lights and loud music. Much of that old social landscape disappeared along with the roads.

When the KOMTAR project was launched in the 1970s, it was presented as a vision of modernisation for George Town. Large sections of the roughly triangular-shaped district, bordered by Prangin Road, McNair Street, Magazine Road and Penang Road, were cleared to make way for the massive 27-axre complex. Hundreds of buildings disappeared in the process. For many people today, especially younger Penangites, it is difficult to fathom just how densely packed and lively that part of town once was.

Along Maxwell Road and the nearby streets stood rows of traditional pre-war shophouses facing the old Prangin Canal. Many housed long-established Chinese family businesses such as metalsmiths hammering away in narrow workshops, bicycle and tyre shops, provision stores stacked with sacks of rice and dried goods, herbal medicine halls with drawers of roots and herbs, coffee shops and small trading companies dealing in everything from household utensils to joss paper offerings. Opposite these shophouses were compact roadside stalls selling inexpensive local goods and daily necessities to workers, students and shoppers passing through the area. Cobblers too were a common sight, quietly repairing worn shoes for customers seated nearby waiting patiently for the work to be completed.

The district was also one of George Town’s busiest transport hubs. Along Maxwell Road stood the old bus terminals and stopping points for the Lim Seng Seng green buses, the blue Hin Company buses and the familiar buses of the Penang Yellow Bus Company that connected the city to the suburbs. There was even a public toilet built on a pedestrian bridge across the canal, and one could not help wondering whether the waste went straight into the murky water below or was somehow channelled elsewhere for disposal. The entire area constantly moved with people: office workers, market traders, schoolchildren, cinema patrons and bus passengers all crossing paths from morning until late into the night. For a brief period from 1980 to 1983, I too became part of that daily flow of commuters, waiting along Maxwell Road for a green bus that would take me home to Ayer Itam.

Among the losses were four well-known cinemas that had once formed part of George Town’s busy entertainment circuit. There was the Capitol Theatre along Maxwell Road, built on land originally occupied by the Windsor Theatre. Nearby stood the Paramount Theatre and the Royal Theatre, both especially remembered for screening Hindi and Tamil films and attracting large Indian audiences from across Penang. Somewhere around where Komtar Walk is today, crowds once queued outside these cinemas. Then there was the Eastern Theatre, another familiar single-screen cinema that disappeared during the early redevelopment phase.

In those days, cinemas were not simply places to watch films. They were social gathering points. Young couples went there on dates, families planned weekend outings around them, and workers escaping the day’s heat found refuge inside the cool darkness of the theatre halls. Before television became dominant, these cinemas formed part of everyday urban life.

Several schools also vanished during the redevelopment. One of the most historically significant was Chung Hwa Confucian Primary School at Maxwell Road, among the oldest Chinese schools in the country. Its old premises served generations of students before the final batches left in 1979. The school later moved to Ayer Itam and split into Chung Hwa Confucian A and B.

Li Teik School also stood within the redevelopment zone. Interestingly, its Maxwell Road premises had once belonged to the old Anglo-Chinese School long before ACS moved to Ayer Itam Road in 1929. Li Teik inherited that educational space and carried on serving the local community until relocation became unavoidable. The school eventually shifted to Macallum Street Ghaut.

Then there was Tong Sian Primary School along Gladstone Road itself. Unlike the larger brick school compounds, Tong Sian functioned from converted pre-war shophouses in the crowded heart of the old neighbourhood. One can only imagine what school life must have been like there, surrounded by metalsmith shops, traders, food stalls and the nearby Sia Boey market. When Gladstone Road disappeared, the school too had to move, eventually settling at Dato Kramat Road where it remains today.

And somewhere amidst all this stood the old Great World Amusement Park. Older Penangites still remember it as one of the lively entertainment spaces of central George Town. There were games, food stalls, music and crowds wandering about in the evenings. Nearby too was the Fun & Frolic Park, another amusement area that formed part of the same nightlife landscape around Prangin and Magazine Roads. These places belonged to an era before shopping malls and multiplexes, when entertainment was more open-air, communal and slightly rough around the edges.

The redevelopment that produced KOMTAR undoubtedly changed George Town forever. From the planners’ perspective, it was meant to modernise the city and prepare it for the future. But in doing so, an older urban world disappeared. Roads vanished. Schools relocated. Cinemas closed. Amusement parks faded away. A neighbourhood that once remained active day and night gradually gave way to concrete plazas, office towers and wide traffic systems.

Today, when people walk through KOMTAR, Prangin Mall or Komtar Walk, very few would realise how much life once occupied the same ground. Beneath the modern structures lies an older layer of George Town memory, one filled with schoolchildren, cinema queues, market traders and the sounds of amusement parks glowing into the Penang night.

Austrian music: two poles apart

Some time ago, while browsing through a stack of records in my collection, I realised that I had two albums that, in their own very different ways, captured something of the musical spirit of Austria. One came from the Alpine folk tradition, the other from one of the world’s most famous choirs. Listening to them back to back was almost like taking a short musical journey through that country.

The first record was a Polydor LP, issued in 1973 to celebrate the 25th anniversary of the Austrian folk group Die Lustigen Arlberger, with the title 25 Jahre Volkstumsgruppe Die Lustigen Arlberger. Since the album commemorated 25 years in 1973, it meant that the group was founded in 1949.

The Arlberg region lies in the Tyrol, and the group came from the well-known mountain resort of St Anton am Arlberg. In those days, visitors to the area would often attend what was called a Tiroler Abend, or Tyrolean Evening, which was a lively programme of folk music, yodelling and traditional dances performed for both tourists and locals. Groups like Die Lustigen Arlberger were at the heart of this tradition.

For many years the ensemble was led by the colourful musician Sepp Staffler who was not only a skilled yodeller but also known for playing the unusual instrument called the "singing saw". Under his leadership the group became a regular presence in the region’s folk entertainment scene.

Their music reflected the unmistakable Alpine folk style. Instruments such as the zither, dulcimer, clarinet, harmonica, accordion, and even the occasional xylophone contributed to the lively arrangements. Some members of the ensemble were also well-known specialists on these instruments, including zither and dulcimer players Werner Nußbaumer and Margit Raffl Staffler.

The anniversary LP functioned almost like a sampler of their repertoire. Among the pieces were Ein Jodlergruss, which opened the record with a cheerful yodel greeting; Salzkammergut-Plattler, a traditional dance tune associated with thigh-slapping; and Kirchtag in St. Anton, which evoked the atmosphere of a festive church fair in the mountains.

One particularly eye-catching item was Zirkus Renz, a dazzling showpiece that featured rapid-fire passages on the xylophone. It is the sort of virtuoso novelty number that audiences always enjoyed at folk concerts. Another track was the Dengel-Lied, a song that grew out of everyday rural life.

The LP was issued as part of Polydor’s Austria Gold series which aimed to preserve and promote traditional Austrian music. One can almost picture a mountain inn with wooden tables and a cheerful gathering of singers and dancers after a long day in the Alps.

The second Austrian record in my collection came from a very different musical world: an album titled Austria Revisited, recorded by the famous Vienna Boys' Choir and issued by Capitol Records as part of its Capitol of the World series. 

Released around 1958 or 1959, the album was clearly intended for international audiences. Capitol had the clever idea of presenting music from different countries almost like musical travel postcards to give listeners a taste of distant cultures through recorded sound.

The Vienna Boys’ Choir is known in German as the Wiener Sängerknaben and they are the perfect ambassador for Austrian music. With a history dating back centuries, the choir had already built a worldwide reputation for its pure, disciplined sound.

During the period when this album was recorded, the choir was typically conducted by musicians such as Helmuth Froschauer or Xaver Meyer. Under their direction the ensemble toured extensively and was widely admired for the clear, almost crystalline quality of the boys’ voices.

The programme on Austria Revisited mixed classical pieces with traditional songs. Naturally, the music of Johann Strauss II appeared prominently. The album opened with the famous waltz An der schönen blauen Donau, better known in English as The Blue Danube, followed by the lively Sängerlust-Polka. Later in the programme came another Strauss favourite, G’schichten aus dem Wienerwald (Tales from the Vienna Woods).

Alongside these orchestral classics were several folk-influenced items, including the Erzherzog Johann-Jodler which linked the choir’s repertoire to the same Alpine traditions celebrated by Die Lustigen Arlberger.

The album also included gentle choral pieces such as Johannes Brahms’s lullaby Guten Abend, gut’ Nacht, as well as sacred music by Johann Sebastian Bach. The result was a programme that moved gracefully between the concert hall, the church and the countryside.

When one listens to these two records together, an interesting contrast emerges. The Vienna Boys’ Choir represented the polished musical culture of Vienna: refined, disciplined and steeped in centuries of tradition. On the other hand, Die Lustigen Arlberger embodied the more rustic side of Austrian life, with its yodels, folk dances and cheerful village celebrations.

Yet both recordings shared a common thread. Each reflected a different facet of Austria’s musical identity: the elegance of its classical heritage and the earthy vitality of its Alpine folk traditions.

For a music enthusiast, that combination made for a rather satisfying discovery. Two albums, separated by style and audience, but together offering a small window into the sounds of a remarkable musical nation. After listening to them, I found myself thinking that perhaps one day I should finally visit Austria and experience some of this musical culture first-hand.

Wesak in Jakarta

I'm now in Jakarta with my wife and friends from Nandaka Vihara in Bukit Mertajam to celebrate Wesak Day. We arrived on Friday and today marks our third day at the Gedung BWE in Tangerang, one of the metropolitan regions within Greater Jakarta. 

It was quite an exhilarating experience witnessing this sacred Buddhist celebration in one of the world's most populous urban centres. More than 40 monks from across Indonesia have gathered here, although a handful, including Nandaka Vihara's chief abbot, Ven Dhammasubho, were specially invited for the occasion. As the most senior monk among those assembled, he has been accorded special reverence and had the honour of leading the procession of Buddha relics into the hall on Friday.

Yes, Buddha relics from Nandaka Vihara were brought here on loan for this special celebration. Together with relics brought by the other monks from their respective monasteries, it made for the largest collection of Buddha relics I have ever seen in one place. Definitely, I felt the closeness to the Enlightened One. 

The four-day ceremony itself was jointly organised by several Indonesian Buddhist
foundations, including Hadaya Vatthu, PATVDH Beji (Yayasan Meditasi Hutan Pandangan Terang), Yayasan Bodhinanda Pekanbaru, Yayasan Dhamma Sukha Dhamma and Yayasan Sundarabhūmi (Sundarabhūmi Hermitage). It was quite something to see such a wide collaboration coming together in one place, with each group contributing in its own way to the running of the programme, but I understand that this is quite a common practice there.

Over the past few days, I have also been struck by the large presence of many teenagers and young adults who served as volunteers throughout the event. They were everywhere, quietly guiding visitors, managing the flow of people, helping with logistics and doing it all with a level of discipline and sincerity that was quite impressive to observe. There was a certain calmness and dedication in the way they carried themselves, and it added an unexpected layer of warmth to the entire gathering.

There were several differences between the way Wesak is observed here and the practices back home in Penang. The daily puja sessions involve much longer periods of chanting, followed by extended meditation. What fascinated me most was the Buddhānussati chant based on the Nine Qualities of the Buddha, which lasted almost a full hour and rounded off the evening puja on Wesak eve.

It was certainly fascinating to hear the qualities recited in such a loud and energetic manner for the first time, each one being repeated 108 times in rapid succession. But, to be perfectly frank, it became a little tedious to my untrained ears, especially after having sat through nearly three hours of the programme beforehand. Still, it was all part of experiencing a different Buddhist tradition and gaining a deeper appreciation of how the Dhamma is practised in other places.

Happy Wesak, everyone!

Fantastic cultural initiative

Penang has taken what may well be its most meaningful cultural preservation step since the UNESCO recognition of George Town’s heritage zone in 2008 by officially gazetting 50 heritage items covering historical sites, cultural traditions and some of the state’s most beloved local food.

State tourism and creative economy committee chairman Wong Hon Wai described the move as a major milestone in protecting and sustaining Penang’s cultural heritage. Under the Penang State Heritage Enactment 2011, the state has now gazetted 15 heritage sites, seven intangible cultural heritage elements and 28 heritage food items.

What struck me most was the fact that although the enactment was passed back in 2011, no official state-level cultural heritage gazettement had actually taken place over the past 15 years. This year, however, the Penang government finally turned legislation into concrete action by formally recognising these cultural treasures and laying down a stronger institutional foundation for their preservation.

Among the heritage sites gazetted are Fort Cornwallis, Kapitan Keling Mosque, Penang Free School, St George’s Church, Penang State Museum building, Acheen Street Malay Mosque and Leong San Tong Khoo Kongsi. On the mainland, the gazetted sites include the Cherok Tok Kun Inscription Stone, the Guar Kepah Archaeological Site and Leng Eng Seah Association. There should be many more to add into this list later but this can be considered a good start for the moment.

The intangible cultural heritage list includes nasi kandar culture, kopitiam culture, the Thaipusam and Chingay processions, the St Anne’s feast in Bukit Mertajam and the Penang Tanjong dialect.

As for food, some of Penang’s most iconic dishes have now been formally recognised as heritage items, including asam laksa, char koay teow, nasi kandar, chendol, roti chanai, putu mayam and pasembor. (See the full list below.)

To me, this is about far more than tourism or branding. It is about memory, identity and continuity. Penang’s multicultural heritage did not emerge overnight. It was shaped slowly over generations by different communities, faiths and traditions living side by side and influencing one another.

I also appreciated Wong’s point that cultural heritage can act as a bridge for national unity. When people see their languages, celebrations, food traditions and places of worship respected and protected, it deepens mutual understanding and strengthens the sense that these shared histories matter.

There is also the wider international dimension. Some of these intangible heritage elements could eventually be nominated for UNESCO recognition, allowing Penang’s cultural treasures to gain wider appreciation on the global stage. More importantly, formal recognition helps establish and protect historical and cultural ownership more clearly at a time when regional food cultures are increasingly commercialised and occasionally appropriated by neighbouring countries as part of their own national identity. Penang, perhaps more than most places, has reason to be sensitive about such matters.

In the end, preserving heritage is not about being possessive. It is about acknowledging origins, respecting authenticity and ensuring that future generations still know where these traditions came from and why they mattered.

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The full list of Penang's heritage food items gazetted by the Penang government: char koay kak, kerabu bihun, hokkien mee, mee jawa, mee sotong, mee udang, nasi kandar, roti benggali, pasembor, oh chien, air batu campur (ABC), ais kepal, chapati, chendol, char koay teow, kari kapitan, keema, asam laksa, martabak, masalodeh, mee goreng mamak, muruku, penderam, putu mayam, roti chanai, teh tarik, tosai and yong tau foo.

Fast delivery

I continue to be impressed by iHerb’s delivery service. Perhaps it is because customers are obliged to pay a slightly higher fee to use their recommended courier companies for international deliveries, but whatever the reason, the system seems to work remarkably well.

When I made my latest purchase on the 20th of May, I became a little uneasy after not receiving any shipment notification until the 23rd. Three days for iHerb to pack the items and prepare them for dispatch! In the past, I had noticed that orders were usually processed by the next business day, so this delay caught my attention. Since I was due to go out of town on Friday, I started wondering whether the package would arrive in time.

But the moment the parcel was picked up by the courier company, everything moved at great speed. Tracking updates began appearing smoothly as the package travelled from one transit point to another, and yesterday the delivery truck finally arrived at my doorstep. From courier pick-up to final delivery, the whole journey took only five days.

That, more than anything else, probably explains why I continue to regard iHerb’s delivery system rather highly.

Gladstone Road

Gladstone Road was one of the roads that disappeared during the massive urban redevelopment that created KOMTAR in the 1970s and early 1980s. The road once ran straight from the Magazine Circus towards Carnarvon Circus, cutting across an area that later became part of the KOMTAR complex.

The road was named after William Ewart Gladstone, the famous British Liberal politician who served four terms as Prime Minister of Britain between 1868 and 1894. He was one of the dominant political figures of Victorian Britain and was known for administrative reforms and parliamentary politics.

Historically, Gladstone Road emerged during the period when George Town was expanding southwards beyond the old Prangin Canal in the late 19th century. At that time, the areas across the canal were gradually transformed from attap-house settlements into rows of brick shop houses and more organised urban streets.

A 1914 map of George Town

Gladstone Road was also associated with Penang’s old tram system. In the early decades of the 20th century, tram tracks ran through this part of George Town and older Chin
ese residents even referred to parts of the area as Hoay Chiah Lor in Penang Hokkien. Penang once had one of the earliest tram systems in Malaya. The lines connected Weld Quay in George Town with areas such as Ayer Itam and the Waterfall Gardens, intersecting at what would later become Goh Par Teng or the Magazine Circus in the busy commercial heart of town. 

1969 - one of the last times that Gladstone Road
appeared on a map of George Town

By the mid-20th century, Gladstone Road had become part of the busy commercial and transport district around Prangin Road, Penang Road and Magazine Circus. Older Penangites would remember the area for its shops, businesses and proximity to the old Prangin Road bus terminal. I remember eating at a compact open-air hawker centre right smack where Gladstone Road and Magazine Road converged at the Magazine Circus.

Then came the KOMTAR redevelopment project in the 1970s. The plans might have been futuristic, looking forward to modernising George Town for the future, the next 50 to a hundred years, but large sections of the old neighbourhood around Prangin had to make way for this ambitious urban renewal plan. Gladstone Road was effectively erased from the map during this redevelopment, along with Carnarvon Circus and many adjoining pre-war buildings.

George Town paid a very heavy price for this modernisation drive. To make way for KOMTAR, hundreds of old buildings disappeared. Historical records mention that 769 homes, 304 shops, four cinemas, three schools, an amusement park, even a fire station and post office were demolished. Because the project was planted directly in the heart of George Town, entire streetscapes and long-familiar landmarks vanished almost overnight.

Today, no trace of Gladstone Road survives except for maps like these. Its disappearance is part of a much larger story involving the transformation of old George Town during the KOMTAR era, when entire streetscapes, canals, bus terminals and neighbourhoods gave way to modern concrete redevelopment. For many older Penangites, roads like Gladstone Road survive mainly through memory rather than geography.

Pirated discovery

Over the years, I’ve accumulated what many people would probably describe as a fairly decent record collection. Once in a while, someone would look at the shelves and immediately call me a record collector. I understand why, but somehow I’ve never been comfortable with that label.

The term record collector often gives the impression of someone chasing rarity for the sake of ownership. First pressings sealed in plastic, catalogue numbers carefully ticked off, records stored away more as trophies than as music. Of course, there is nothing wrong with that, but that has never really been my relationship with records. I own records because I want to listen to them.

Some albums I return to repeatedly. Others may sit quietly for months before suddenly matching a certain mood or memory. For me, the enjoyment comes not just from possessing the LP but from cleaning the surfaces, lowering the stylus onto the groove, hearing the slight pops and crackles before the music begins, and allowing the sound to fill my listening space. The records are tied to moments in life, to particular periods of youth, to old discoveries and rediscoveries.

So I suppose music enthusiast would describe me better than record collector. The records themselves are only part of the story. The real connection is with the music, the voices, the performances, and sometimes even the memories attached to them.

And speaking of records, I must admit that among my shelves are also a small number of pirate LPs from the 1960s and 1970s. In those days, pirated records were everywhere, mainly sold in the pasar malam. Sometimes, I'd see them stacked in a quiet corner of non-descript record shops, not displayed openly. These shop owners had a knack of recognising prospective customers, or maybe their regular clientele. Anyway, music copyright enforcement was practically non-existent in those days and for many ordinary listeners pirate record purchases were often the only affordable way to hear certain albums. Interestingly enough, some of those pirate pressings actually sounded surprisingly good.

Among my pirate LP collection is a copy of Frances Yip’s Discovery, recently acquired from my cousin. It simply turned up among a batch of old LPs he gave me, and I only realised what it was when I started going through the stack at home. I was in two minds whether to play it or not. How would the sound quality be? How close would it be to the original pressing? Would it be worth keeping? In the end, there was only one way to find out.

The original album, Discovery, was released in the early 1970s and tied to her work with Cathay Pacific at the time. It was conceived almost like a musical travel record, moving across different Asian countries through song. In its official form, it was very much a product of that era when Asian pop was beginning to find its own identity while still drawing heavily from traditional melodies and Western arrangements.

But as I mentioned earlier, my copy is a pirate pressing. Like many of those records from the 1960s and 1970s, it carries its own story. The cover is slightly off in colour and the printing not quite sharp. Where the EMI label would have been, there is instead a rather nondescript catalogue marking. Still, the sound itself is surprisingly decent. That alone says something about how these unofficial pressings were not always crude copies. Some were made with enough care that the music survived quite well.

The content itself is what makes the album interesting. It moves through a series of songs representing different parts of Asia, from Arirang in Korea to Bengawan Solo in Indonesia, from Dahil Sa Iyo in the Philippines to Rasa Sayang Eh much closer to home. There is a clear travel narrative running through the record, as though each track is a postcard from a different place. Frances Yip’s voice sits neatly above these arrangements, smooth and unforced, carrying that slightly cosmopolitan tone she was known for in the 1970s.

There is something ironic about a record designed as a kind of official musical tour of Asia ending up reproduced unofficially and circulating through markets and second-hand shops across the region. But that, in a way, was also part of the musical landscape then. Music travelled in many forms, not all of them official, and listeners simply followed wherever it arrived.

It is an album that reflects a particular moment in time when Asian pop was still forming its identity, when travel and cultural exchange were beginning to shape popular music, and when even pirate records became part of how that music was heard and remembered.