When the Island Sank (Jerejak Journal – 2006)

 

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When the Island Sank (Jerejak Journal – 2006)

There was a time I worked at the Jerejak Resort and Spa, a place that once dreamed of grandeur but seemed constantly on the verge of collapse, both physically and spiritually. The island itself felt heavy with debts, as though the weight of unpaid bills could drag it into the sea.

On May 16, 2006, the Tenaga Nasional man came around again—this time to cut the power. The resort owed RM26,000 in electricity bills, including backdated charges. The man delivering the news always seemed to relish the task, lording his authority like he was God Almighty. I could have given him a piece of my mind, but doing so might have jeopardized both my position and what little stability the place had left.

The new Resort Manager was beginning to show his true colors, and I had my doubts about his ability to steer the ship. His talent seemed more suited for handling numbers than people, and the atmosphere at work reflected it—fractured, aimless, disconnected. It felt less like a 4-star resort and more like a poorly run liquor store.

Still, I held my tongue. At my age, options were limited. I had tried to go it alone as an artist before, with little success. Selling my work had always eluded me. But I kept drawing, kept hoping that "one day" would come—that fabled day when my art would lift me out of the rut I was stuck in.

Working at the ferry terminal gave me the gift of time. Between ferry runs, I read and sketched with the sea and island as my companions. The rhythm of the tide was more dependable than management. My helper, a Nepali I called Lil Bahadur (though that wasn’t his real name), was devoted, hardworking, and obsessed with the 4D lottery. He won RM500 twice and treated it like divine luck. The security guard was mostly asleep in his booth, but harmless once you learned his ways.

That job, difficult as it was, kept me and my children afloat. Considering the life I’ve led—the places I’ve seen, the things I’ve lived through—it was enough. For the time being, I abided.

Then came June 24. The Penang Bridge Marathon closed the roads that morning, and I found myself stranded. I ended up at my auntie's in Brown Gardens, ate roti canai, and sipped Nescafé from Restoran Farouk on the corner of Patani Road. That roadside river—the one that never had a name—was still the black, putrid trickle of my childhood. Nothing could survive in it but the most hardened of God’s creations. Its stench was eternal, unchanging, and familiar.

I read The Constant Gardener by John Le Carré as I waited for the roads to reopen. His words stirred something in me, reigniting the activist buried beneath fatigue and fatherhood. But I was no longer the young man with a cause and a backpack. My children’s futures were still tangled in immigration paperwork and schooling. My own dreams had narrowed into silent wishes—of one last journey, one final entry to write in some far-off place.

I’ve never been a good father, not by conventional standards. I never built a nest. I never gathered moss. Just scattered pages, fading sketches, and fragile hopes.

But as the Prophet once said: Do not dwell on what should or should not have been.

So I waited. And when the road opened, I went back to the Jerejak Jetty, hoping no one would reprimand me for being late. Hoping the island hadn’t sunk yet.

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