The Ice-man (Ipoh, Malaysia)

lightly revised Sept23

The ice in the saucers at the base of the teh tariks was rather a mystery in these eateries here. In the 5-6 earlier Malaysian towns, it had not been encountered. Cooled the teh just nice, presumably, according to the local tastes. 

There was an ice merchant a couple streets from the hotel. Out front a Malay was  working with an electric power-saw on a little tower of blocks, pushing his blade in at shallow forty-five degree incisions across the face. On delivery to restaurants, hotels and eateries, like the corner place on Jalan Dato Onn Jaafar & Naina Mohamed, the block could be broken into smaller, more manageable pieces. 

Behind the young Malay the older Chinaman carted materials one way and another. This Chinaman was now the sole ice-merchant in Ipoh, the worker informed. Made plenty and paid his staff little, we joked. 

Behind the Chinaman smirked, unprotesting. 

In one of the tourist brochures showing the architectural highlights of Ipoh Old Town, an ornate pile featured had been built early last century by a prominent ice merchant. Despite refrigeration and aircon, in the tropics ice was still silver, if not gold. (The price of tin collapsing in the eighties had greatly reduced the industry that had created all the towns in the centre of the peninsular.)

The Malay was a kampung lad. They had lived in an atap covered hut, shared among a score of extended family. Durian trees, palms, bananas, vegetable garden, herbs and spices, and chooks. Tigers may well have roared from the jungle behind—more than one repot from persons only a few years older than this fellow had borne witness to that. 

The family compound shone in this chap like in so many of his community.

This was the opportunity to relate Uncle Niko's early trading in ice from up in another village, on the other side of the world. 

The chap had heard of Europe, of course. Europe was a hazy, cloudy concept for this man on the other side of the world. 

Up in the caves high above the European village—this other kampung—there was ice to be hacked from the walls and floor even in the height of summer. Two baskets either side of the donkey were loaded up high, covered with straw and sack-cloth. 

Once fully loaded, young Nikola, eldest son of the family, was inserted between. 

Three in the morning, descending slowly and guiding the beast. By six they would reach Hotel Boka, down on the water. 

Cool, refreshing drinks for the guests at the hotel, the tourists. Ice would keep the catch of the day fresh, just like in Malaysia. 

Young Nikola may have been 5-6 years old. The young street urchins here made close counterparts. 

In later years Uncle Niko told war tales of mountain crossings with the great Montenegrin hero Sava Kovacevic, starry-eyed Nikola high in his horse's saddle and Sava beside him on his donkey, fighting the Fascist invader.

            The Malay listened patiently. Not everything was lost on the Malay. Even the boss, continuing to hang back behind, seemed to have taken it in. Story-telling on his time. Not to worry. 

            Ang moh white fellows were not common on the streets of Ipoh. These went to the islands or Cameron Highlands for other sights & entertainments. If they stopped in town it was to ask for directions. 

Ang moh is red hair in Cantonese, used for the Dutch and English overlords. Mat salleh the Malay equivalent. 

Attempting to get either to see the difference between olive and true porcelain was not possible on these streets. One certainly did not want to be blamed for others' crimes. (We had more than enough our own.)