IT'S fascinating how a faded photograph can unlock a flood of memories. This particular one is of my family — a rarity where we're all together and something we hardly do anymore. Family photos were the bane of my life. I hated to stay still and look straight at the camera, waiting for the flash to blind me.
But this photograph was different. It demanded no forced poses and I think its yellowing image captured our characters quite well. I can't recall who took this photo, but I suspect it was the caretaker of the home we stayed in for just one night in Port Dickson.
My stern father stands proudly with a pipe perched in his mouth. I don't think he liked smoking that pipe all that much because it would lie discarded not long after. My mother stands next to him, flashing her trademark wide smile.
There's Thilaga (our gentle family help and mum's god-daughter) holding on to my youngest sister, Sheela, who clearly wasn't in the mood for photographs that muggy morning. Sheela was at such a young age that she hadn't yet become a part of any specific memories that might annoy or amuse. She was still the adorable baby of the family.
Sunitha's next to them. She was many things to me — arch-enemy, tattle-tale (a role that often landed me and my eldest sister in trouble) and fun playmate until our inevitable squabbles. She was called cilipadi for a reason.
That's me in a red T-shirt, seated next to my eldest sister Vimi. We shared a bedroom growing up and you could always tell which side of the room belonged to me.
I used to sneak over to her side and read her storybooks. She hated lending them to me because they'd get all dog-eared and stained by the time I was through with them.
This was our holiday photo, of course. A trip to Port Dickson, about an hour's journey from Klang, was considered a treat back then. Just a glimpse of the glistening aquamarine sea was enough to send us into a tizzy.
SEASIDE TOWN
Mention Port Dickson and most Malaysians would immediately know of this ultimate holiday destination of the 1980s and the 1990s. What's not to love about this little seaside town? Port Dickson was accessible, a veritable attraction of beach fun, sunny picnics and turquoise seas.
We've been to Port Dickson a few times and we never got tired of our holidays there. I remember the sticky beach sand between my toes, my father joining us in the ocean, bobbing up and down with the rhythm of the waves, my black swimsuit with white trims and my skin burnt dark under the blazing sun.
But the town's own memories stretch long and deep.
Once known by the evocative names Tanjung, Alang and Arang, Port Dickson's story is a captivating journey from a sleepy settlement to a bustling port, and, finally, a sought-after beach resort. The discovery of tin ore in Lukut during the 1820s ushered in a wave of Chinese migrants, sparking a transformation.
Sir John Frederick Dickson, the secretary of the Federated Malay States, saw the town's potential and transformed it into a pivotal seaport for the British, facilitating the lucrative trade of spices, tea and silk, besides tin ore. Named in Dickson's honour, the town flourished, becoming a linchpin in the colonial economy with a railway-linked harbour.
As the tin boom faded, so did Port Dickson, until its beautiful beaches attracted tourists and investors in the 1990s, transforming it into a popular beach resort.
Yet, this growth strained its natural allure, posing challenges of sustainability amidst development. Waters turned brown, beaches grew filthy and tourists stopped coming.
Yet, this wasn't the final chapter. A united front of local hotels, government bodies and the municipal council dedicated themselves to the town's revival. Their efforts paid off; beaches were rejuvenated and the ocean slowly turned aquamarine again.
UNUSUAL HOLIDAY
But much like the ebbs and flows of Port Dickson's colourful past, our family has had its share of less-than-ideal holidays. This photograph serves as a testament to one of those times.
It was dad's friend who urged him to stay at this "holiday" home, and my excited father promptly packed his family, floaties, swimsuits and all into his red Mazda 323 and brought us here.
However, the moment we stepped into the house, greeted by a musty smell of disuse and an unmistakable air of abandonment, it dawned on us that this was going to be our shortest holiday ever.
The beach outside wasn't the same sandy beach with aquamarine waters — just a lot of flotsam and jetsam washed up on the beach. Like the house, it didn't look inviting.
If you look even closely, you'd see that none of us looked as though we slept well. Dad's unshaven, my mum's smile looks strained, Sheela's fretting while the rest of us look, well, slightly disappointed. And yes, the old caretaker had plenty of stories to tell about the house.
"It's haunted," the uncle said and my mum glared at dad.
We hadn't slept a wink at all. The air was filled with scuttling sounds and the shadows of things fluttering in the rafters. Sheela cried all night while the three of us older sisters clung in a tight embrace, past quarrels momentarily forgotten. There were no ghosts, plenty of bats, irate parents, an exhausted family help and terrified children in the house that night.
Dad's bloodshot eyes and clenched jaw made me sad. The idea of a free holiday home appealed to him. Now he had to scramble for a cheap hotel nearby. After one night in the budget hotel, our journey home was enveloped in silence, our floaties and swimsuits still packed away, unused.
Dad had always taken us for holidays until he couldn't afford to. Could this have been the last holiday we took as a family? Perhaps. That's what makes this photograph so bittersweet.
I miss our holidays.
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