Sixty five year-old Mansur Darus was flanked by his children and neighbours when I met him at the flood evacuation centre in Jitra. Blind since infancy, the part-time busker musician was calm and collected despite the chaos surrounding him: children screaming in discomfort, womenfolk chatting with each other on mats in classrooms, elderly people trying to catch a few winks in the afternoon.
Of course he was calm, after all he'd been through. Imagine being trapped in your house while your village was flooded in soulder-length water. Mansur was home alone with his wife, Umi Kalsom Nikman, 60, who is also blind, when the water rose. Thankfully neighbours heard the couple's shouts for help and brought them to the relief centre.
Two male neighbours braved the strong currents with the couple on their backs, while holding on to rope which civil defence men had tied between Mansur's house and a boat.
"I've experienced floods before but not like this one. The water was so high and the current was so fast," said Mansur who was accompanied by his wife, two daughters, and their children at the Sultan Ahmad Tajuddin primary school.
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As the state was experiencing its worst flood in 30 years, its chief minister (known locally as 'Menteri Besar') who had been on sick leave for five months decided to resign.
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That morning I went to Jalan Gunung Keriang and surveyed the damage brought by the flood. In some parts the water was waist-length. There were 'Kancil' minicars trying to get through those waters. Fortunately I was in a four-wheel drive, safe from the possibility of being trapped in the orange-brown water.
At night, the streets along Titi Gajah, Anak Bukit, Pantai Johor and Pumpong were like ghost towns. It was pitch black darkness. The electricity was cut off when water reached knee-length. It was just a week ago that the road was its usual busy lively, brightly-lit self. Now people were setting up tents along the dual carriageway road, keeping an eye on their belongings, and watching helplessly as their homes and crops were filled with water.
These people would cook their own meals in their tents. The typical scenario is that several families join together and run a single tent, cooking and preparing the place for sleep.
In Kampung Titi Gajah, the men decided to stay behind to "keep guard" on their houses while the women and children stayed at relief centres.
Outside one tent, on a white waste bin were written the words "Kami Mau Air" (We want water). In another tent, a middle aged farmer would tell us: "I think you should highlight the fact that we don't have enough food. The authorities should send some rice and oil to us."
Meanwhile in Stadium Sultan Abdul Halim, over 1,000 evacuees are enjoying their lunch of rice, dhal curry and beef. Depending on who you talk to, some would say the food is good. One man who was just visiting relatives there says the rice was undercooked. In the stadium the scene was similar to the primary school. Old folks, women, children sleeping, eating. As we approached one elderly couple to talk, a younger relative comes over and invites the elderly husband to stay with her at her house.
"He hates crowds," said the relative. Apparently. The man's expression was tensed and stressed.
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That same day I went to the stadium, we got a call from a boss in headquarters saying that our chief minister was resigning. "It's confirmed," my colleague told me. "We have to go to his house."
Under normal circumstances that would be no problem. But because of the flood, getting there meant getting a car which was not parked at the office. The office was sealed off as water flooded both entrance roads, knee-deep. That meant no Kelisas, which unfortunately was what I drove.
And since our colleagues were away using the four-wheel drive, that meant I had to walk out in the waters to get another car.
So there we were, my colleague and I, walking in the half metre deep waters. She, in her boots. Me, in my sandals and trackpants. She smartly remembered to carry proper shoes to meet the chief minister. Me, well, fuck it. I'll just used my slippers. The chief minister would understand. It's freaking flooding, man. We never met the resigning minister though. Only got as far as his front gate. He wasn't at home. But by then heard the news. The state would never be the same again. And maybelah, I don't know yet, I too would not be the same either.
"We are never gonna forget this," my colleague said as we waded through the water to get to her car that afternoon. I certainly never would.
Of course he was calm, after all he'd been through. Imagine being trapped in your house while your village was flooded in soulder-length water. Mansur was home alone with his wife, Umi Kalsom Nikman, 60, who is also blind, when the water rose. Thankfully neighbours heard the couple's shouts for help and brought them to the relief centre.
Two male neighbours braved the strong currents with the couple on their backs, while holding on to rope which civil defence men had tied between Mansur's house and a boat.
"I've experienced floods before but not like this one. The water was so high and the current was so fast," said Mansur who was accompanied by his wife, two daughters, and their children at the Sultan Ahmad Tajuddin primary school.
***********************
As the state was experiencing its worst flood in 30 years, its chief minister (known locally as 'Menteri Besar') who had been on sick leave for five months decided to resign.
***********************
That morning I went to Jalan Gunung Keriang and surveyed the damage brought by the flood. In some parts the water was waist-length. There were 'Kancil' minicars trying to get through those waters. Fortunately I was in a four-wheel drive, safe from the possibility of being trapped in the orange-brown water.
At night, the streets along Titi Gajah, Anak Bukit, Pantai Johor and Pumpong were like ghost towns. It was pitch black darkness. The electricity was cut off when water reached knee-length. It was just a week ago that the road was its usual busy lively, brightly-lit self. Now people were setting up tents along the dual carriageway road, keeping an eye on their belongings, and watching helplessly as their homes and crops were filled with water.
These people would cook their own meals in their tents. The typical scenario is that several families join together and run a single tent, cooking and preparing the place for sleep.
In Kampung Titi Gajah, the men decided to stay behind to "keep guard" on their houses while the women and children stayed at relief centres.
Outside one tent, on a white waste bin were written the words "Kami Mau Air" (We want water). In another tent, a middle aged farmer would tell us: "I think you should highlight the fact that we don't have enough food. The authorities should send some rice and oil to us."
Meanwhile in Stadium Sultan Abdul Halim, over 1,000 evacuees are enjoying their lunch of rice, dhal curry and beef. Depending on who you talk to, some would say the food is good. One man who was just visiting relatives there says the rice was undercooked. In the stadium the scene was similar to the primary school. Old folks, women, children sleeping, eating. As we approached one elderly couple to talk, a younger relative comes over and invites the elderly husband to stay with her at her house.
"He hates crowds," said the relative. Apparently. The man's expression was tensed and stressed.
***************
That same day I went to the stadium, we got a call from a boss in headquarters saying that our chief minister was resigning. "It's confirmed," my colleague told me. "We have to go to his house."
Under normal circumstances that would be no problem. But because of the flood, getting there meant getting a car which was not parked at the office. The office was sealed off as water flooded both entrance roads, knee-deep. That meant no Kelisas, which unfortunately was what I drove.
And since our colleagues were away using the four-wheel drive, that meant I had to walk out in the waters to get another car.
So there we were, my colleague and I, walking in the half metre deep waters. She, in her boots. Me, in my sandals and trackpants. She smartly remembered to carry proper shoes to meet the chief minister. Me, well, fuck it. I'll just used my slippers. The chief minister would understand. It's freaking flooding, man. We never met the resigning minister though. Only got as far as his front gate. He wasn't at home. But by then heard the news. The state would never be the same again. And maybelah, I don't know yet, I too would not be the same either.
"We are never gonna forget this," my colleague said as we waded through the water to get to her car that afternoon. I certainly never would.
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