I was the eldest child in the family, and because my brother—only a year younger—was weak and easily tired, I was always the one my father brought along on his quarterly trips to Selangor. Those trips felt like secret adventures. Dad would rent an old jeep for the five-day assignment, and we would stay in whatever cheap hotel was closest to my grandfather’s tin mine and rubber plantation.
The journeys were long and punishing. The roads were rough, throwing my small body up and down on the seat, but I forced myself to stay steady. No vomiting, no complaints—I wanted Dad to be proud. Sometimes I would close my eyes, pretending to sleep, trying to ignore the ache in my back or the smell of dust rolling through the open windows.
Every day started long before dawn—sometimes as early as four in the morning. The back of the jeep was open, nothing but darkness behind us, and I used to imagine glowing tiger eyes watching from the trees. Dad said the rubber tappers had to finish their work before sunrise or the rubber milk would spoil, but I dreaded those plantation visits. The place felt lifeless to me—shadowy rows of trees, sticky air, and clouds of insects biting at my legs. There was nothing for a child to enjoy there.
The tin mine, though—that was different. I loved it. The head worker would grin and hand me a bag full of colorful stones. “Gifts,” he called them. Dad would laugh and say they were unpolished, worthless gems, but to me they were treasures. I could stand for hours watching the washing process, water swirling away clay and dirt, revealing flashes of color. The rest of the mining steps are blurry now, but the feeling of wonder remains.
Evenings were my favorite. After work, Dad would drive us to visit his uncle—the man who had hidden my father during the war. The house always smelled of the sea. Without fail, he would treat us to a feast: giant prawns, lobster, fresh fish, dishes spread across the table like a celebration of survival and family. I would watch Dad’s face soften, his shoulders relax. For a little while, he wasn’t a tired man carrying too much responsibility—he looked like someone safe, someone being cared for.
In the end, the work grew too heavy, the responsibilities too much, and my grandfather eventually sold the tin mine and plantation. But the memories stayed. I can still picture the shimmering “cat’s eye” stones rolling in my small hands, the early-morning darkness, the rumble of the jeep. Even now, I still keep the tin mine’s structural map and Dad’s carefully written operation notes—fragile pieces of a world that shaped my childhood.
