Sg Buloh

The new day came upon the slumbering flock of bodies; the dim light along with the sounds of a gently stirring city sifted in through the misted glass and fell on the cool tile floor. The door creaked and a girl slipped quietly through the sliver into the room, but the fragrance of her freshly washed hair began to fill the space, and the others slowly began to stretch and squirm on their beddings of cardboard and flannel.

She put away her bottle of shampoo and towel, and grabbed her Bible and comb. Stepping outside, she stretched her wrist towards a ray of amber street light coming through the window and checked her watch. 06:05. There's some time before the morning run yet, but today she felt compelled to spend some more time in prayer and reflection, before they visit the lepers' village at Sungai Buloh. She hears a dulled fart from the boys' room, but everyone was too asleep to tease. She turned to a few sections in the Bible mentioning the dreaded skin disease, which she had marked out the day before. She meditated on the verses describing them, trying to imagine the curse it would have been before modern medicine came about. The isolation. The ostracism. The terror. The hopelessness. Watching your numb digits and lesions, observing them flake away slowly over the months, as if it were not yours. Feeling your existence drop off in scales, as you wander around trying to gather yourself with the other dust-piles of society, and sweep yourselves under a rug. Her comb snagged her damp hair.

The morning exercises came and went rather swiftly, for there was quite a bit to organise before leaving. The boys and girls gathered in the secondary church hall for the Dawn Meeting - a half-hour session of worship in the posture of kneeling in a circle before God. Feet grew numb and ankles popped, but the drowsy youth waited in disciplined contemplation. The background music of the piano stopped, and the pianist took a chair and joined the others. The monotone hum of the air-conditioner augmented a purposeful silence, and stillness.

The boys and girls were given a brief of the morning chores as they gnawed their toast and sipped milo. Despite the flurry of activity afterwards, it wasn't until an hour before noon that every single one has packed their necessary items for the 4 day trip. The overcast day was welcome as they trooped out from the church compounds towards the train station.

The hubbub died down as the train came to a stop at Sg Buloh. A quick glance around stirred conversation back up as the excited voices mused the derelict state of some abandoned buildings in the distance. The crew shuffled through the dirty row of little shops with tattered awnings congesting the pavement. A few curious shop keepers fixed their gaze on the bypassers. The young people tried their best to ignore their ogling and cigarette smoke as the facilitators shepherded them along. The cigarettes were like fuses, and the shopkeepers ominous looking as bombs - one wonders if they intended to dare someone into buying their goods.

The group moved along for a while and eventually walked past an old building entitled Dewan Orang Ramai (Hall of all the people) in angular, aged iron. The front had large studs for ventilation and the corrugated metal sheets bore years of staining from lichen and mould. Just then a van drove up behind the contingent, and out hopped some more facilitators. After some pointing around, they got back in and lead everyone onto a narrow road, which eventually came to an old wooden building.

The Gospel Hall of Sungai Buloh had a surprisingly untangled front yard given its forlorn building, for a very large tree sheltered the area. The cheery crowd appeared unphased by the abandoned look and proceeded to move supplies from the van to the porch. The doors were opened to reveal a filthy, dusty interior; the blue walls had long been blended with a thick layer of light grey dust. Yet, the youths only seemed to become all the more excited about the adventure of spending the next few days in an old building. A boy climbed up the large tree and looked around, settling his gaze on the old church building. It looked so old, it almost folded him into its story merely by his laying eyes upon it. He smiled and stayed there awhile.

Spring cleaning in a tropical climate is usually easy to enjoy. The layers of dust sat only on simple concrete floors as the year-round warmth does not encourage carpeting in most buildings. The side doors of the old church were opened and the dust was flushed with water from one side and swept out the other while dry brooms, feather dusters, rags, cobweb brushes and besom sweeps bothered the filth off the walls and higher surfaces to the brackish swirls below. A boy was told off for his overenthusiastic scrubbing which threw grey water onto the powdery blue walls, staining them. A small crowd gathered in the lawn to poke an abandoned ant's nest which had fallen off a branch. The side yards had their weeds slashed down, an activity punctuated by squeals and screams as centipedes and small lizards were uncovered.

The cleaning went by quickly, and a satisfied bunch sat around outside feeding gratefully whilst the interior was left to dry. Before nightfall they would be able to lay their straw mats to sleep on. The warm breeze moved constantly through the side doors, carrying the moisture out swiftly. Their hard work would reward them in a good rest that night, ready to meet the locals tomorrow.

In the morning, the boys and girls went for some morning stretches and a run around the village, while most of the facilitators prepared a simple breakfast. The runners took in the features of the small town - a small market shelter, a playground, plant nurseries, potteries, graveyards, farms. They were all oddly small, almost toyish. It seemed to reflect a very small population, despite the leprosarium being the second largest in the world!

While lunch was being prepared by the camp facilitators, each group of young campers were tasked with mapping out the village as best as they can, from the church down the road to the plant nurseries, along the row of shops until they see the local wet market, and then following the loop back to the church past the local graveyard. The streets were quickly filled with the flurrying youngsters as they decided upon noteworthy landmarks and suitable decorations and store names to put on the map. There was debate regarding proportions and directions, slightly overenthusiastic greetings to and from locals, gasps at gaggles of geese and ducks, theories of how the old scale at the wet market shed worked, and thoughtful imagination of local life years ago.

Along the streets of the residentials were worn chalets, simple, small, and plain. They were ones for sharing between singles, and ones for married couples. There were hindu temples, churches, and mosques. The graveyard had plain headstones, with simple carvings, often stating the religion of the deceased. The nursery had saplings and rows of large overturned clay planting pots lining its front. The terracotta was still dark from the damp of the morning dew, but the sunlight was quickly drying it.

The cool morning air was still and rejuvenating; the quiet simplicity a strange harmony seemingly anyone can disappear into - no presence feels poignant here, a walking person is not assumed to have any particular purpose. You walked to be in the scene, and from a scene to another, your existence was enough, but it didn't have to be you. It was also just fine that it was you.

Few people appreciated the simple cold showers before the hospital visit. Holy comb-girl combed her hair again, she has waited a year to meet with her old friend at the hospital - an elderly woman who has endured a fingerless loneliness for many years, who speaks slowly and in simple words. Yet the measured mouthfuls were surprisingly adorned with words of gratitude, stutters punctuated by chortles somewhere between a cackle and bubbly wheezes. Carefully unbitter, tastefully unhard. The rare disease with scaling skin, but a rarer specimen capable of the unscaling of the heart, despite dealt a dry and barren hand.

At the hospital the boys and the girls were given a brief introduction to the history of the village, and the photographs of times past - and the stories of residents. It captured glimpses of happiness and togetherness, of surprising contentment and happiness, in a period where lepers were the cursed and the damned, and treated with shocking indignity. Not all residents shared such happiness here though, some married couples bore children who were taken away from them, only to have the children grow up to refuse to meet their flesh and blood.

The residents were mostly happy today - many looked forward to meeting the fresh young strangers, who were curious to hear their stories. They also looked forward to the handshakes, the shoulder pats, the hugs - the sacrement of physical touch, the blessing of flesh on flesh. And the will and soul-desire behind the skin, simply to connect, no longer barred by fear of leprosy, assured by modern medicine. Many transactions happened that afternoon, and both parties were receiving and profiting - but if you traced it carefully it all truly comes out of the bank of years of hidden and quiet suffering.

Many boys and girls were edified and happy that day. It was a wholesome experience overall, and a reflective activity, without much sacrifice, really.

Not holy comb-girl though. She walked in the late light of the afternoon by the overgrown field of weeds, and listens to a chaffinch twittering on a leafless tree. She gazed at the unmoving grass in the still and humid afternoon air, where the strewn blades engulfed the tombstones, and she wondered if measured-mouth lady passed with someone holding her fingerless hand, and whether she felt truly loved as she thought about her life, as people close to dying do. Whether her weather-worn, damascus-steel character held the same simple, strong, measured thoughts and words as the pages of her life trickled to paragraphs, sentences.

Words.

The offspring of the mind that goes about the world. Were they nurtured in a warm loving environment, and brought up with sensible disciplines? Parented by a resilient mind and a strong heart? Baptised by fire?

Holy comb-girl roamed aimlessly along the edge of the graveyard, she did not know where the grave was. She will find out tomorrow, after she has slept on a warm, tropical concrete floor that felt cold, and measured out some words to say in front of it.