The secret brook

There was a place at the lower reaches of Penang Hill - Bukit Bendera in Bahasa (Malay) - where a mountain stream of clean, cool and crystal clear water coursed its way through Hye Keat Estate in the village of Ayer Itam. Its water was refreshingly sweet - yes, many of us had drunk gratefully from it on many hot days.

Its whereabouts was so secluded that even when one caught a glimpse of this brook one wouldn’t even realise it was a wonderful and near magical mountain stream.

If one travelled up the hill by the funicular railway, one would cross over a large drain-like canal approximately halfway between Bottom Station and the station for the Chinese Temple of the Heavenly Jade Emperor.

That was the brook, channelled from its source - a cave going deep into the heart of the hill - via a man-made course until it reached the Hye Keat Estate River, one of the tributaries of the Ayer Itam River. Thus one would merely see from the rail coach a drain-like structure between two bricked and very steep embankments, but there would be no mistaking the pristine quality of the water that rushed down the uncovered aqueduct.

That’s the subtle demeanor of the brook’s presence, appearing as a large drain, a sluice-way or at best an open aqueduct. That kept its existence relatively unknown in those early years when Penang’s natural environment wasn’t yet raped and ravished by poor political management.

But from its passage under the railway, it was only a short distance before the brook reached the foot of the hill to cascade as a lovely waterfall into a shallow pool, as the beginning of the lowland river.

The pool was equally enchanting and a popular picnic location. But the waterfall and its formidable-looking jungle surroundings discouraged picnickers from venturing upstream of the picnic spot.

Thus the brook was in those days a secret that only the initiated and the truly curious would ever discover.

Returning to the brook before it crossed the railway, one noted that its water sprang forth from a cave, to flow down the steep incline of the hill over a series of stone-brick steps within the aqueduct, about two metres across from one walled embankment to the other.

Why the steps were in place, no one knew, though we were aware that they were built during British colonial days. Because of the steep slope of the hill, they were probably easier to construct as steps rather than as a typical canal or drain, and no doubt to better facilitate its maintenance.

If one were to lie down in the brook at the bottom of those steps and looked upwards the aqueduct with one’s eye level at as near the bottom step's level as possible, one would see a wondrous sight, that of the water tumbling in orderly yet bubbling fashion down the hundreds of steps. It was even more magical when sunlight reflected back from the water as twinkling dancing lights.

As the water giggled gently and flirtatiously down each step, its merry bubbling gave birth to invigorating sprays of cool mist. Sometimes, when we were lucky, we saw lovely mini rainbows arching themselves from the brook. Yes, there was gold at each end of those rainbows – the gold of caught sunbeams.

The murmuring music of the bubbling stream was a soothing bonus to our youthful ears – many were the times we snoozed off to its sweet lullaby.

The surroundings were the cool tropical forest of the hill, rich in all sorts of exotic flora, like the carnivorous pitcher plants, known affectionately by Penangites as monkey cups – many believed, and perhaps still do, that the delightful simians which inhabited the forests of the hills quenched their thirst from the vessels of the plants.

pitcher plant (nepenthes) or monkey cup

Two years after we discovered the brook, someone built a shrine to Lord Ganesha next to the entrance of the source-cave. The shrine consisted of a simple cement floor, with its overhead shelter provided by large hanging rocks. On the cement floor the divine icon sat sagely on a raised stone dais. It was obviously a very private endeavour as the only pilgrims were the few who erected the shrine.

Lord Ganesha

My mates and I often made full use of its two-by-two-metre wide cement floor to rest, at times sharing with Lord Ganesha the offerings of bananas and sweets. He didn’t seem to mind, seeing that he continued to smile at us.

Once I daringly tried from the votive offering, a beeda (paan, or sireh in Bahasa), a betel leaf wrap filled with areca nut shaving, lime paste and spices such as cloves, cardoman, etc.

beeda or paan or sireh

My mates thought I was fantastic, being able to tolerate the sharp acidic taste, though I suspect their admiration was more for my ability to squirt a jet of red-blood beeda juice accurately at a nominated target, usually a poor unsuspecting insect. But years later I found out that the areca nut had carcinogenic properties and indentified as a major cause of oral cancer, gulp!

A couple of us even stayed overnight there. Naturally we made full use of the candles and oil lamps in the shrine. Lord Ganesha was privy to many of our secret childhood conversations, where we confided to each other our ambitions, frustrations, happiness, likes and dislikes, etc. Naturally we trusted Lord Ganesha’s understanding for confidentiality. And I suspect too, He loved, and has blessed and looked after us all these years.

Yes, my friends and I would delight in sneaking away from home after school to refresh ourselves at this place, that the locals called lao chooi, which in Penang Hokkien means ‘flowing water’. But in our minds, and then with our limited command of the English language, we saw the very essence and spirit of that wondrous place as ‘running water’, our very secret brook.

Yes, it was our secret paradise, a hideout away from the presence of parents and adults where we could cool ourselves from the hot humid tropical heat, and to bathe in the mountain spring, soak in the silent aura of the magnificent forest all around us, yarn about all sorts of things, dream stuff that kids dreamed of, and maybe steal a puff or two of that forbidden adult item called a cigarette.

Sometimes we even did the unexpected, like - gasp - studying. The solitude and congenial atmosphere of the shrine supported my frantic boning up, usually on the eve of an exam. I did wonder what Lord Ganesha would have thought of me perusing the New Testament at His shrine - wakakaka.

‘Running water’ remained in our hearts all these years, and whenever our select group met, we would recollect and reminisce those innocent, simple and wonderful days. Hence I dedicate this post of personal memories, to my childhood friends with whom I once shared our private Shangrila.

Alas, ‘running water’ is but no more, as you would have noted from my use of the past tense in my writing above.

In my last visit to Ayer Itam several years ago, I saw to my utter shock that the aqueduct was as dry as the river which it fed. I heard something to the effect that the development of a new housing estate or an industry had diverted the water for its construction or commercial needs.

This might explain why Ayer Itam river, once so bountiful with fishes, turtles, eels, shrimps and even (I heard) river otters, is now a huge unsightly drain with isolated puddles of stagnant brackish water, good only for mosquito breeding.

Kid you not, I did shed a tear or two for our lost paradise. The environmental tragedy is all the more reason why ‘running water’ must live, at least in our memories, if not in nature.

‘Running water’ would also be an apt description of life’s journey – at its start, not unlike our youth, it rushed pell-mell forward, excited and eager with sweet innocence, but as it trekked its riverine way like we have done through the years, it accumulated debris just as we gathered experience, without the option of selecting only the pleasant and avoiding the nasty – sweet and sour would come together, as would yang and yin.

Each step or year takes us further from the original naivety towards the muddier banks of adult reality and responsibility.

But even as we move further and further from our youthful innocence, we yearn more and more for it, but like running water, there's no turning back. That’s the unfortunate reality and paradox of life.

Related: Damn those dams