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Remains of the day: a childhood paradise being chewed up by progress

I was back in the old kampung on Penang island recently for my grandson's 'aqiqah' prayers, a religious rite many Muslims choose to make for their young. My son was holding it for his son. I was just there for the ride. It's been a good ride, too. At an age fast approaching what many call the 'seven series', I have finally been blessed with a grandchild, born, of all days, on Malaysia Day last year, who bears a name that'll put some pressure on which way his moral compass will point. So much pressure! Back in the good old bad old days, the only expectations that kids faced was that we should survive into our teens so we could be married off quickly, to then become grandparents in our 40s, before dying in our 50s. As simple as such expectations were, quite a number of us didn't make it past childhood. We all had stories of relatives who lay in those small graves at the local cemetery. Life was nasty, brutish, and short. As my kids would say, I exaggerate much. We weren't born into a war zone, although there were fears wars could come a-visiting from Vietnam, which wasn't that far away. There were hardly any natural disasters, and the politics of the time, while not short of charlatans and crooks, was quite mild. Tough as life was, most of us felt things would get better. We didn't think of growing up to become a prime minister: we were happy enough to get a job that came with a pension. My mother's only expectation for me was I'd get a salaried job, so I didn't have to toil the land or the sea as did most of my peers and elders. The track to Pantai Ah Sen My grandson is too young to listen to my tales, especially the tall ones. But he will, and any time I can kidnap him from his parents and the other grandparents, he's going to have to listen to them, and I don't care how much I have to bribe him for it. On this trip he got to tour the hills and beaches around my kampung following the famous hill tracks to Pantai Esen, which more and more outsiders are now getting to know. It's actually Pantai Ah Sen, named after the old guy who used to live there, but I seem to be the only one who cares about this. A view of Pantai Esen on the southeast coast of Penang island, with Pulau Rimau in the background, and an artificial island being built to the right. (Cmglee/Wikipedia pic) The track is now easier than it was years ago, widened now to accommodate the recreational ATVs – infernal machines that spew fumes and make enough noise to wake up the long-departed Ah Sen. That's not good news if you're one of those who's been taking the track, either being carried by your parents or on your own two feet, since the 1950s. There goes the neighbourhood – although most of the nutmeg trees Ah Sen planted are still standing. Visitors walk by without even knowing or caring that they are nutmeg trees. Of course I care: I've been 'plucking' nutmegs off these trees (without permission) since I was yay high, and I'm too old to change my ways. I'm sure Ah Sen wouldn't mind. But Ah Sen must be turning in his grave if he could see what else is happening now. A 2,300-acre (930 hectare) artificial island is coming up off Pantai Esen in Permatang Damar Laut, Penang. (HundenvonPenang/Wikipedia pic) In the shadow of a man-made island Just off the shores of our kampung is a huge reclamation project to create the largest artificial island in Malaysia. They're busy day and night, with all the attendant light and noises. This island will fill up the entire bay in front of my kampung. It's not an extension of our coastline, it's a stand-alone piece of real estate with its own roads and rail transit, and its own postcodes, and presumably also 'seaview' posh bungalows, while all of our kampung, bungalows or not, will just get to stare at their back sides. And smell the raw sewage, which now flows out into the sea with nowhere else to go, stinking up the beaches. Given the enormous scale of the reclamation, that problem will just get even worse as time goes by. The beach, now dirty and stinky, used to be where I used to sneak away to do boy things, like swim and fish and ride sampans, or just lie about watching ships enter Penang port through the south channel. Occasionally we'd even get turtle eggs, which wasn't a very big deal back then. Tearing down a kampung Some houses are being taken down to make way for new roads to service this new island. My old kampung house is unaffected – so far. But we hear that the whole row of houses in front of ours will be cleared up for new roads, too. Hooray for raw sewage and traffic noises soon. Anyway, the little grandson is being indoctrinated into being a kampung boy with whatever bits of kampung we've left – which isn't much. Further programming will be activated when he can walk: he'll feel the dirt and get to know the trees and the rivers and seas and the fresh air. Said punishment will continue until he accepts his lot that, twice removed as he is, he's still a kampung boy. The family in front of our house, descendants of the old Chinese man who made salted eggs there, have been neighbours for 50 years. Whether they'll continue to be our neighbours will depend on whether their address has been deleted and replaced with roads on some traffic master plan. If that happens, I'd probably have to go further to buy fresh salted eggs from them, because I haven't come across anything that tastes as good. Another neighbour runs a coffee factory, which appears to be safe, meaning my supply of kampung-style freshly-roasted ground coffee is not under threat – for now. I met many childhood friends. They've all retired, from fishing or farming or some salaried jobs somewhere. Many of their houses have sprouted numerous extensions, as children and grandchildren came back to share their lot amid the sky-rocketing property prices of Penang. Influx of newcomers Because of that, and because of the many newcomers who migrated to the island for jobs at the many factories and businesses near the Penang airport, my kampung appears more and more crowded by the day. The days of having our own 'bungalows' with 50 to 100 meters of separation from each other are long gone. Soon, not even the rich people who'd be buying the seaview properties on the reclaimed island would know how it feels to live amid swaying coconut trees while the sea roars just yonder. My grandson is not likely to know, either. By the time he's all grown up, everything will just be concrete and glass and tarmac, even if he could afford those seaview bungalows. I'm of course trying hard to believe that being one of three generations of men to walk the hills together will mean a lot to him, when in reality it means a lot only to me and perhaps to my son who was also born there. Anyway, Penang being Penang, my eldest daughter and I put on an undisclosed but substantial number of kilogrammes from some serious eating, while complaining non-stop about the decline in the quality of the food and the inclined slope of food prices. But that's a Penang tradition. We were already complaining decades ago about the quality and the prices, before the age of influencers and foodies, when the beaches were clean and turtles landed regularly. But we're also less shy about how much weight we put on for our gluttony. Today, that's none of your business! Go to Penang with your own children and grandchildren and spin your own tales. Soon there'll be nobody else left alive to call you out for your exaggerations. The views expressed are those of the writer and do not necessarily reflect those of FMT.