Eighty

My father turned eighty last Friday. He has been many things for me but most of all he was my childhood Guru. Howard Leo Nonis was a high-school teacher. It was his chosen career, but more than just teaching from text-books within a school environment, my father believed that in order to truly learn – practical knowledge was essential. And he was right, somehow things always become validated when I had physically seen it, smelled it, and touched it.

When we were kids, my brother and I looked forward to our school holidays because dad would take us ‘up country’ to Malaysia. On these trips he always included a learning experience. For instance, he would endeavor to take us to the source of a river when we were up in the highlands – where the temperatue was cool and clean air would fill our lungs. Sitting with our feet in the cold, sparkling running water, dad would tell us the route the stream was going to take to become a great river that would bring life to all the people and their farms or rice-paddy fields along the way. Then on another holiday, he would bring us to the mouth of that very same river, in a totally different state and again we would endeavour to put our feet in the water and witness how much pollution that same water had sadly been forced to amass along the way.

While driving along the undulating and winding roads lined with rubber trees that stood tall in straight rows, I remember sitting with my chin resting on the rubber seal of the car window. With the windscreen wound all the way down and my long hair flying everywhere - knotty and wild, I would watch the Tamil rubber tappers. These people had become very real to me; for dad had once stopped by the side of the road and asked them to show us how they tapped the rubber. This gave us a chance to see for ourselves how the bark of the tree was sliced to allow the latex to slide down into those little cups. Dad had asked the rubber tapper in Malay where he lived and if he had children. He pointed out his home – it was literally within the rubber estate and he told us he had 4 children. Dad being dad of course, kept talking and asking questions – how old were the kids, where did the kids go to school?

At other times my father showed us how coconut and palm trees were harvested, and all the bi-products that came from them. We would watch with fascination as the local Malay women made rope out of coconut fiber while we sipped though paper straws (yes, in the 60's and 70's straws were made out of paper) cool coconut water from freshly plucked and cut coconuts. Then there were the tin mines and the stories of drownings that used to happen when children ignored the danger signs and went swimming in the water that would accumulate within.

We have sat in hot springs and run along slopes of tea plantations; we have gone swimming in the then crystal clear seas and screamed with a mixture of fear and delight as bats flew above us in caves. We have had excursions through the many states of Malaysia into the various kampongs (villages) and we have experienced their language, dress, customs and worship. We learnt how different they were regionally, within the one country. I did not realise it then, but through this, dad was teaching us what we now call the modern concept of open learning.

I remember when we were old enough to understand, he took us into the red-light district in Singapore. He parked his car outside one of the many brothels that lined the street and we sat there for a long time, watching. Male customers would arrive and the bargaining would begin, before they would disappear upstairs with one of the girls hanging onto their arm. I saw first hand how the girls had to behave in order to be chosen - despite how belittling it must have been for them. It was a valuable lesson that taught me never to judge a person's choices. I was filled with compassion for these girls and the web that many of them were trapped in.

My father was also a great writer of letters. He was always, always writing to someone. I used to think it was so lovely that he kept in touch that way. I can still see his letter pads, his pens and recall clearly his cursive writing style. I had a habit of literally sitting on the floor by him, caught in my own fantasy world, but still completely aware of what he was doing because I would insist on reading each page as he finished it – which he patiently always let me do. Until today, even though I communicate mostly though email, I still send hand written notes every now and then.

Dad also taught me how to change a tyre, how to wire an electrical plug, how to behave in a temple and a mosque, as well as in a church. He opened my world by giving me the greatest gift of all … the love of reading, and the empowerment that came from finding out for myself through reading and hands-on research.

I have developed into the person I am today, because my Guru showed me where to begin.