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From a humble stall at a busy corner in the heart of Kuala Lumpur, fruit seller Adnan Lee expanded it to the MBG chain of 13 clean and friendly outlets in the Klang Valley. DEBRA CHONG discovers how this enterprising 34-year-old former art student took charge of a family business and scripted a success story. KUALA LUMPUR, April 1 – The two young ladies walked up quickly to the counter. After a moment's consideration, they made their decision and signalled their choices to the attentive shop assistant. Money was exchanged and each received their two bags of freshly-cut fruits, which they dug into instantly. Preity and Yogesh both work at the Mid Valley Megamall. Every day without fail, they head over to MBG on the lower ground floor of The Gardens for dessert following a light lunch. They love the variety of fruits openly displayed in neat stacks. And even though there are other places nearby where they can buy cut fruit at a slightly cheaper price, they don't mind paying extra for the quality and for the service. "The fruits look fresher here," said Preity. "It looks cleaner, more hygienic," said Yogesh. "Besides, the staff here have learnt to tell our taste – the first time we bought fruits from them, they were less than ripe; we complained to them about it the next day and now they know to only give us ripe fruits." MBG, or MBG Fruits Sdn Bhd, to give it its full name, is a local enterprise initiated by Adnan Lee, a third-generation fruit retailer in Kuala Lumpur. He promises fresh fruits "sweet as sugar" and he delivers. He gets his supply of fresh fruits from the wholesaler's at Pasar Rakyat, off Jalan Imbi, as well as direct from the local farmers. The family business, started by Adnan's paternal grandfather, has its origins in the Pasar Imbi wet market that used to be where |
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By Debra Chong Follow this link to see more photos. KUALA LUMPUR, April 12 — Every morning between 9.30 and 11, some 30 men on motorcycles gather in front of a furniture shop in Old Klang Road. They alight from their two-wheeled metal horses to load up on an assortment of breads, buns and other sweet and savoury baked goods and snacks. They are affectionately known as the "Rotimen". Or in English, "Breadmen". However, the English translation fails to capture the quintessential cultural flavour of the neighbourhood bread delivery men, a familiar sight in towns all over the country. Abdulla Batcha Mohamed Gani, 45, is one such man. Originally from India, he now holds a red identity card that marks him as a permanent resident. He has been delivering bread to Malaysian homes twice a day on his trusty two wheels for the past 10 years — 6 in Ipoh, the last 4 in the Klang Valley. |
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By Debra Chong
The call of the rings
Television as a medium of entertainment arrived on our shores rather late, sometime in the 1970s, I believe. Back then, you needed to pay for a licence to own a television set. Shocking, isn't it? But if you think about it, it's not very much different from forking out for a satellite decoder today. In those early days, few could afford the hefty rate. So, for entertainment, they pretty much relied on staged performances that travelled from town to town – wayang kulit, bangsawan theatre, Chinese opera and the circus. The latter especially drew large crowds, thousands upon thousands of whole families, from granddad to babe, would queue up just to enter the Big Top and watch the ringmaster crack his whip to make lions jump, elephants dance and chickens sing. This continued well into the 1980s and in some parts of the country, the 1990s. But television gained strength and soon people could just watch the whole circus parade on their TV and for free (they wisely did away with the licence thing in the end). The hoo-ha over live circus performances soon dwindled as the people became more enamoured with catching the action from behind a flat screen in the comforts of home. But the circus never died, it just changed form. And this time, it's pulling in people by their nose. The trail leads to two shops, mainly. One is called Big Apple; the other J.Co. Die-hard fans sing praises of their softness, the amazing fluffiness below that deceptive crisp, sweet crust, the melt-in-the-mouth moment that oozes its way, all the way, down to the tippy toes and sends the doughnut devotee into a sugary orgasm of pleasure. All this over oil-fried rings of yeasted dough. |
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By Debra Chong
THE other day, I was treated to lunch at The Daily Grind, a new gourmet burger diner. It had taken over from the charming little Vietnamese restaurant, Du Viet, on the lower ground floor of Bangsar Village I. The menu looked promising. Much was proclaimed to be “homemade”, including the ketchup and chilli sauces. But I had eyes only for the much-touted Foie Gras Burger. The vision of a thick slab of goose liver, slightly charred on the outside, bursting with goopy creaminess inside, sizzled its way across my brain. I salivated. The burger was a whopper. Two lightly-toasted burger buns, the top nicely encrusted with sesame seeds, barely held on to an obscenely fat, one inch thick round patty that juiced most satisfactorily as the knife slid into it. But what's this? |
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 VIENTIANE, Laos — Connie Speight has swayed on elephant-back through unforgiving jungle and has adopted nine of the high-maintenance beasts. At 83, the retired American teacher is back in this Southeast Asian country to help save what remains of the once mighty herds.
Once so famous for its herds that it was called Prathet Lane Xane, or Land of a Million Elephants, Laos is thought to have only 700 left in the wild. ''Lots of people in Asia tell you how elephants are their proud national heritage,'' Speight says. ''But I tell them, 'It was your heritage, and what are you doing to bring it back?' Often precious little.'' Elephants in Laos are better off than in most of the 12 other nations that are home to the animals. The country has extensive forest cover and a sparse population. But like elsewhere, it is a race against time. Poachers, dam builders, loggers and farmers are taking a deadly toll on the endangered species. ''The situation will become very dramatic in about 10 years if nothing changes,'' says Sebastien Duffillot, co-founder of France-based ElefantAsia. At their current rate of decline, Laos' wild elephants could be extinct within 50 years, he warns. |
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LONGYEARBYEN, Norway — One disconcerting thing about sightseeing on these frozen Arctic islands at the edge of the polar ice pack: the biggest tourist attractions might be returning your stare. And to them, you're a potential meal.
There are an estimated 4,000-5,000 polar bears on or around Svalbard, an Arctic archipelago as far north as you can fly on a commercial flight. At about 78 degrees north latitude, it is less than 1,000km from the North Pole.
Polar bears are so elusive that British researcher Tony van Eyken, a two-year resident of Spitsbergen, the largest island, cited a local joke: ''You can either carry a rifle or a camera, because if you have a camera, you'll never see a bear.''
Later, apparently worried, he sent an SMS warning that polar bears should not be taken lightly. ''Don't seriously encourage anyone to carry only a camera and not a gun,'' he wrote.
Tourists and residents venturing outside Longyearbyen, the main settlement of 2,000 people, are urged to carry rifles. The bears can weigh 465kg, fear nothing and, though they prefer seals, see anything that moves as food. A bear last killed a human here in 1995, local officials said, and they do sometimes approach or enter town.
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