Taiping: Yinn's Patisserie and others

1

He Changed the History of This Place, and Here I Am Having Tea in His House

Walk into this restaurant and the framed documents on the wall pull you in before the pastries do.

At first glance they look like vintage décor, but a closer look shows otherwise. They are reproductions of the 1874 Pangkor Treaty and the Larut mining settlement — two papers that once reshaped Perak, Taiping, and eventually the entire Malay Peninsula.

They are here for a reason.

This 1884 Straits Eclectic townhouse used to belong to Kapitan Chung Keng Quee, the man whose signature sits on those very documents. The man who met British officers, Malay chiefs, and Chinese leaders in these same rooms. The man who tried to hold a fractured mining district together when the world around him was cracking open.

To understand why these papers matter, you have to imagine Taiping in the nineteenth century.

Larut then was fabulously rich in tin, and equally rich in trouble.

Malay royalty fought over the throne. Chinese miners split into Hai San and Ghee Hin factions and turned the mines into battlegrounds. Siamese influence loomed from the north, Acehnese raiders from the sea. Every side wanted a piece of the tin trade, and the place burned like an overheated boiler.

The British stepped in when they had to. Trade in the Straits Settlements depended on stable tin exports, and chaos was bad for business. So they arrived as “mediators” and left with a treaty that installed the Resident System — nominal respect for the Sultan, real power in British hands.

The framed document on the left shows how the mining boundaries were redrawn; the one on the right lays out the agreement that pulled Perak out of conflict and into a new political order.

Once, these words were written to end a war. Now, in a pastry shop, they quietly explain how this town became what it is.

And then there is Chung Keng Quee himself.

A miner turned community leader, a negotiator, a builder. He brought in steam pumps, improved mining methods, funded schools, temples, and cemeteries, and patched together a social order when no one else could.

He lived at the intersection of ambition and survival — not a hero, not a villain, but someone who understood what it meant to keep a place running while forces larger than him rearranged the map.

Today, his house is Yinn’s Pâtisserie.

The documents still hang where history left them, reminding you that the peace and comfort we take for granted were not handed down casually. They came from compromises, conflicts, and decisions made by people who once walked across these same tiles.

It’s five in the afternoon.

I’m sitting under his old roof with a slice of cake that carries a whisper of durian and a mug of chamomile tea. The street outside is calm. The past hums softly from the wall. And here I am, sharing a quiet moment with a man who changed the course of this region — simply by having tea in his house.

他改變了這地區的歷史，而我卻在他家喝茶

走進這家餐廳，牆上那兩幅鑲框的文件比櫃檯裡的蛋糕更醒目。一般人或許以為只是復古裝飾，但稍微靠近一看，字裡行間寫著的卻是1874年《邦咯條約（Pangkor Treaty）》與拉律礦區和解契約。這些文件，不是單純的歷史碎片，它們曾決定太平、霹靂，甚至整個馬來半島的走向。

餐廳掛這些文件不是隨性。因為這棟1884年的老屋，當年就是海山公司領袖──鄭景貴（Kapitan Chung Keng Quee）的家。那位在條約上簽名的人，曾在這裡接待英國官員、馬來貴族、華人領袖，試圖把一個混亂到極點的礦區重新縫合起來。

要理解牆上的文件，得先回到當年的情景。

十九世紀的拉律（Larut），錫礦豐富得驚人。同時也亂得驚人。

馬來王位紛爭拖著走，華人礦工分屬海山與義興幫派，為了水道、運輸路線、礦租權打得昏天黑地；暹羅勢力、亞齊海盜也來半路攪局。太平簡直像一口快被蒸乾的鍋，哪裡都有火星。

英國人原本不想介入，但錫礦攸關海峽殖民地商業，局勢拖下去只會更亂。他們從調停開始，最後在邦咯島外的英艦上簽下條約，建立駐紮官制度，表面尊重蘇丹，實質卻把治理權掌握在自己手裡。

牆上左邊那幅，就是礦區邊界的正式劃定；右邊那幅，則記錄英國如何藉條約收攏權力，讓太平從戰場走向地圖上的「有秩序」。

這些文字當年寫下時，是為了止戰；百多年後掛在甜品店的牆上，卻成了靜靜講述太平前世今生的導覽員。

而這房子的主人鄭景貴，正站在另一段更貼近餐廳訪客的故事裡。他既領導海山，也出資修路、建校、興義山，引進蒸汽抽水機改善採礦，又常被請去協調各方糾紛。他不只是幫派領袖，也是當地真正的「城市工程師」。太平能從泥濘礦場慢慢長成城市，他的影子無處不在。

所以，如今來到這裡喝茶的人，其實是在他的屋簷下輕輕坐著。

外頭的喧囂已是另一個世代，而牆上的文件提醒你，這棟屋子曾處在風暴中心。

午後五點，我手邊是一塊微微帶著榴槤氣息的蛋糕，旁邊是一杯洋甘菊飲料。

歷史在牆上安靜地呼吸，而我就在這位改變太平命運的人的家裡，以最平常的方式──吃蛋糕、喝茶──和一段百年往事並肩而坐。

2

It Isn’t Just a Story from the Past — It’s the Blueprint of How This Place Still Works

Sitting in that old townhouse, looking at those two framed documents, it becomes harder to treat them as relics. The longer you stare, the more they feel like quiet instructions for understanding the present.

Most people think the colonial era is long gone, sealed in schoolbooks and museums. Yet the Pangkor Treaty didn’t simply end when the signatures dried. Its consequences kept unfolding, decade after decade, until they became the skeleton of the world we now live in.

The first thing it shaped was the way power is organized.

The Resident System introduced after the treaty shifted authority away from hereditary rulers and towards a formal administrative structure. That logic — clear lines of responsibility, bureaucratic oversight, power held by officers rather than lineage — became the foundation of how the states are governed today. Modern ministries, state-level decision-making, the rhythm of policy and paperwork: all of it echoes that shift.

The second thing it shaped was the geography of development.

British concerns were simple: where can tin move, and how fast? Railways, roads, and port routes grew outward from the mining districts like spokes from a wheel. Taiping grew because the mines needed it. So did Ipoh, Kuala Lumpur, and the tin towns of Perak and Selangor. Even today, the prosperity maps aren’t far from the routes the British surveyed for ore.

The third thing it shaped was the way communities coexist.

The treaty era fixed certain roles into place.

Chinese communities pushed the mining economy; Indian migrants filled the emerging administrative and infrastructure needs; Malay society held cultural and land-based authority.

That balance — sometimes delicate, sometimes tense — eventually evolved into the multiracial framework that defines Malaysia today. The languages you hear on the street, the mix of food on one table, the way neighbourhoods overlap rather than blend, all trace their roots back to decisions made in those years.

So the treaty isn’t over.

It’s embedded — in institutions, in urban patterns, in how people negotiate space with one another. It’s still humming beneath the surface.

By the time I finish the last bite of cake, I realise that some histories don’t need dates or footnotes.

They sit across from you in silence, reminding you where “today” really came from.

它不只是一段往事，而是今天生活方式的雛形

坐在這老屋裡，看著那兩張條約影印本，越想越覺得它們並不是被玻璃框住的歷史。它們的影子，一直跟著我們走到今天。

許多人以為，殖民時代早已遠去，邦咯條約不過是課本上的一行字。但只要靜下來想，就會發現這件事塑造了三個直到現在還在運作的現實。

第一個，是行政的框架。

條約後建立的駐紮官制度，把傳統王權變成象徵性的存在，也把管理方式改成由專責官員掌控。這種模式後來成為各州的行政模樣。今天的政府部門、州層級的運作邏輯、權責劃分，其實都有當年的影子。你會發現許多制度不是本地自然長出來，而是被引導、被形塑。

第二個，是城市的分布。

英國當年關心的不是哪一條河最美，而是哪裡能運出最多錫礦。於是鐵道、道路、港口開始從礦區延伸出去。太平原本只是礦工聚集地，條約後快速發展。與此同時，吉隆坡、怡保、檳城等地也因同樣理由被拉上地圖。今天城市的繁華與冷清，多少都還在沿著那條殖民時代畫出的經濟脈絡走。

第三個，是多族群共同生活的方式。

條約之後，英國把不同社群的責任、位置、權力界線固定下來。

華人主礦業，印度人進入基層行政與基礎建設，馬來社群維持土地與文化的核心地位。這套安排一直延伸到獨立後，逐漸演變成今天的多元結構。你現在走在任何一條街上，看到的語言、吃到的料理、聽到的口音，都是那段歷史柔化後的版本。

換句話說，邦咯條約不是在十九世紀結束，它一直在二十一世紀的日常裡悄悄運作。

只要你用心看，就會察覺它在制度裡、城市裡、習慣裡，還在說話。

所以，吃到最後一口蛋糕的時候，我忽然想明白一件事。

有些歷史不需要翻書，不需要年代，不需要專家解讀。它就在你面前，用最安靜的方式提醒你，現在是從哪裡來的。

3

Sun Yat-sen once passed through what was then the very first railway station in Malaysia.

Knowing that adds a subtle weight to the platform. At first glance the place feels ordinary quiet walls, white pillars, a gently curved roof filtering the light across the tiled floor. Nothing dramatic. Yet Taiping’s station has always been more than a backdrop. It was the beginning of an entire railway story.

In the late nineteenth century, tin shaped the destiny of Perak. Moving ore from the mines inland to the coast required something dependable, so in 1885 the first railway in Malaya was built: a short line from Taiping to Port Weld. The original station was a modest timber structure with a simple platform. Steam engines pulled wagons loaded with tin toward the harbour, linking a small town to a wider world.

That first station later made way for a school, and in the early twentieth century a new station rose at today’s Jalan Stesen. Over time it expanded, lived through the colonial years, the postwar period, and the rise of the motorcar. Eventually, the twenty-first century brought electrification and a double-track upgrade. The new Taiping Station opened in 2014 all clean lines and calm efficiency while the old station quietly shifted into the role of a historical marker.

Walk into the old building and it is not difficult to imagine what once filled the air. Timber walls, long benches, the station master’s office, the clatter of cargo being moved, and the afternoon wind rolling down from the hills. This was where goods, news, and people first converged. The Taiping line was short, but it carried the rhythm of an entire town.

Today electric trains glide into the new platforms with barely a sound. The space is bright, open, and brisk with commuters. A little distance away, the old station holds its ground. Its roofline looks like something lifted from an old photograph not trying to impress, not trying to be remembered, simply staying.

Stand between the two stations and you feel a quiet continuity. Once this place sent tin toward the coast and travellers toward unfamiliar destinations. Now it sends students, office workers, and families on their daily routes. The purpose has changed; the impulse to set out has not.

History doesn’t always announce itself.

Sometimes it lingers in a corner of a railway station, waiting for someone to notice the way time settled there.

孫中山先生，也曾經來過這一個馬來西亞的第一個火車站。

提到這一點，月台忽然多了一層歷史的厚度。眼前是安靜的站體，白牆、柱子、緩緩壓下來的弧形屋頂，光線落在地面上，像什麼都沒發生過。但太平的火車站從來不是只有一個風景，它是整段鐵路故事的開始。

十九世紀後半，霹靂州的錫礦帶動了整個地區。礦砂要出口，就需要一條能把內陸連到海口的穩定通道。於是 1885 年，馬來亞第一條鐵路誕生：太平通往 Port Weld 的短短十多公里。那時候的火車站是木造的，簡單卻實用，蒸汽機車沿著軌道把錫礦往海港送，也把整座城市帶到更大的世界裡。

第一代火車站後來被改建成學校，第二代站房則在二十世紀初落腳在今天的 Jalan Stesen。站體一步步擴大，經歷了殖民時期、戰後重建、汽車時代的興起，最後在二十一世紀面對電氣化雙軌工程。2014 年，新太平火車站啟用，方便、乾淨、線條俐落，而舊站被保留下來，像時間放在一旁的註腳。

走進舊站時，不難想像以前的光景。單層木牆、長椅、站長室、手搖號誌，還有午後從山邊吹下來的風。這裡曾經是貨物與消息最先匯集的地方，人們在此等車、卸貨、談生意、奔波生活。太平的鐵路並不長，但它承接的是城市的節奏與重量。

到了今天，電動列車安靜進站，新的月台空曠明亮，乘客走得匆匆卻毫不慌亂。舊站隔著一段距離佇立，屋簷線條像老照片裡的背景，沒有多作聲音，也沒有試著吸引誰。在快、慢之間，它完成了自己的角色。

站在兩代車站之間，你會感到一種奇妙的連續性。這裡曾經把錫礦送往海口，也曾是旅人跨城的起點；如今依然是許多人日常的通道。年代更替，功能變動，但「從這裡出發」這件事，一直沒變。

歷史不是刻在牆上才叫歷史。

有時候，它就在一座火車站的轉角裡，用最安靜的方式留了下來。

4

The Grab driver said it in passing, the way someone mentions where they grew up without trying to impress you.

“I studied at St. George’s Institution.”

We were moving along Station Road, and the building appeared before he finished the sentence. You don’t have to search for beauty here; the school presents itself plainly. A long, pale façade. Three and a half stories of evenly spaced windows. A front porch that leans forward just enough to give the building a sense of breath. And above it all, a clean, upward line forming the central gable, topped with a quiet cross.

St. George’s Institution has been part of Taiping since 1915, built by the Brothers who came down from Penang. It has been through eras that changed its purpose more than once. A school before the war, a commanded space during it, a school again after. Floors were repurposed, rooms shifted, coats of paint came and went — but the bones of the building never lost their posture. In a town that moves at its own measured pace, lasting a century isn’t luck; it’s temperament.

The driver kept talking, eyes still on the road. He told me how he used to walk in from Barrack Road, and how the moment he saw the gable from a distance, his mind would settle. After school, he and his friends streamed out toward Cross Street, past the little shops and stalls that marked their younger days. The way he said it, you could hear that these weren’t stories — they were the coordinates of a life formed in that neighbourhood.

The area outside the car window shifted as we drove: government buildings, the museum, King Edward VII just down the way. A whole district built of old structures, each with its own role, and St. George’s standing among them like the backbone. Remove it, and the rhythm of the street would fall apart.

He added, almost as an afterthought, “The teachers… they kept you in line. But they kept you steady too.”

No complaint in the voice. If anything, a small gratitude. The school’s way of shaping someone wasn’t loud or ornamental. It pushed when needed, held when needed, and the result stayed with you longer than you realised at the time.

The car rolled past the gate. The white walls caught the late morning light, bright without trying. And in that moment, you understood why a grown man, driving a car through Taiping, would still mention his school so simply. It wasn’t nostalgia. It was recognising that he had once grown up in a place that taught him how to stand properly in the world.

Grab 司機忽然說：「我以前念 聖喬治中學（St. George’s Institution）。」

語氣平平，卻像把一枚舊校徽輕輕推到桌面上。車子貼著 Station Road（Station Road）往前走，遠遠就能看見那棟白牆的正面。

聖喬治中學（St. George’s Institution）不是那種要從角度找美的建築，它是直接把自己站好給你看。乳白色外牆乾淨，三層半樓高，長窗一格一格排得端正；中央門廊微微向前，像主樓的一個呼吸；山牆的線條往上收得俐落，頂端的十字架穩穩落在天際線上。車子還沒開到門口，你已知道這棟樓不靠花樣吃飯。

1915 年創校，由修會從檳城一路帶過來。戰前是一種樣子，戰時被佔用成了另一種，戰後又慢慢收回原本的節奏。教室用途換過幾輪，牆上的氣味也換過幾代學生，但主樓的骨架沒變。能在太平這種節奏不急的城市撐上百年，靠的不是運氣，而是一種不慌不忙的沉著。

司機一邊看前方路口，一邊說以前從 Barrack Road（Barrack Road）那邊走進來，遠遠看到山牆，就知道自己要收心了。放學後往 Cross Street 跑，茶室、文具店、路邊攤，那些聲音和味道陪著他成長。你聽得出來，那不是回憶，是一種「走過的人才懂」的背景。

路旁的景物一直換：政府辦公樓、博物館、另一所百年老校 King Edward VII，像一段排版良好的老街，而聖喬治中學正好立在其中，把整個區塊穩住。有它在，太平的這一角就不會散。

司機說：「以前的老師，盯得很準。」語氣帶笑，沒有怨，倒像是想起被扶住的一瞬。這裡的教養方式不靠口號，也不靠裝飾，是把學生往前推、推得剛剛好。時間一久，人自然知道哪些該挺，哪些該收。

車子滑過校門時，白牆在陽光下亮得安靜。你會明白為什麼有人多年後仍會在司機座上報上自己的母校。這不是為了懷舊，而是因為在這條路上長大的日子，讓他成為一個走得端正的人。

5

The La Salle Brothers — formally known as the Institute of the Brothers of the Christian Schools — are one of the most influential teaching orders in the world, especially across Asia. Their presence shaped entire generations in Malaysia, Singapore, Hong Kong, the Philippines, and beyond. Here’s a clear, grounded overview.

Who Are the La Salle Brothers

They are a Catholic religious congregation founded in France in the late 1600s by Saint John Baptist de La Salle.

What made them unusual from the beginning was their mission:

to provide structured, disciplined, dignified education to ordinary children — not just the elite.

This philosophy eventually spread far outside Europe.

What They Are Known For

1. Schools that run on order and steadiness

La Salle schools often feel quietly firm.

Not harsh, not militaristic — but clearly organised.

Lines, timetables, routines, formations, assemblies… all parts of the culture.

2. Teaching as a vocation, not a profession

The Brothers take vows. They don’t marry, they don’t chase careers.

Their entire life is built around teaching and building schools.

This gives their institutions a certain consistency — fewer swings, fewer fashions.

3. Emphasis on character

La Salle education always had a simple centre:

“Make the boy into a person who can stand on his own.”

They care about study, of course, but they care equally about reliability, responsibility, and a sense of duty.

You can see this echoed in the comment from the Grab driver:

“The teachers kept you in line. And kept you steady.”

That is very La Salle.

La Salle in Southeast Asia

Malaysia and Singapore

They arrived in the late 19th and early 20th century.

Some of the most respected schools in the region were La Salle foundations:

• St. George’s Institution（Taiping） — 1915
• St. Xavier’s Institution（Penang）
• St. Michael’s Institution（Ipoh）
• St. Joseph’s Institution（Singapore）
• St. Patrick’s School（Singapore）

These schools were known for discipline, English-medium education, debating traditions, sports culture, and teachers who were very… precise.

Hong Kong

The La Salle name is almost an institution by itself:

• La Salle College
• La Salle Primary School

Generations of judges, doctors, civil servants, and artists came out of these two campuses.

Philippines

The De La Salle schools form a major university network and are among the most prestigious in the country.

The Brothers Today

Their numbers have declined — fewer men choose this vocation now — but their schools continue, often run by lay teachers following the same principles.

What remains consistent are the traits people remember:

• firmness without cruelty
• guidance without noise
• a sense of order
• a belief that even ordinary kids deserve structure and dignity

Ask alumni from Taiping、Ipoh、Penang、Hong Kong、Singapore — the stories differ, the accents differ, but the vibes are similar.

修會的名字很多人聽過，真正懂的人卻不多。

所謂的「修會學校」，其實大多指的就是這群人—— De La Salle 修士。

他們的起點在十七世紀末的法國。那時候的教育是特權，平民孩子能識字已經算幸運。De La Salle 創立的初心很簡單：

讀書不是特權，是一個孩子應該有的起跑點。

於是修士們開始自己開學校、自己教書、自己帶隊。他們不做神父、不主持彌撒，整個人生就圍繞一件事：教人。

你看到的聖喬治、聖米高、聖依納爵、聖若瑟、聖柏德烈……馬來西亞、香港、新加坡、菲律賓，一整圈東南亞許多重要的舊校，背後都能找到這群修士的影子。

他們的風格，很難用一句話概括。

不是嚴，也不是鬆，而是一種「線拉得剛剛好」的方式。

早自習要準時，隊要排直，講話要有分寸。

該推的時候會推你一把，該穩的時候會讓你站好。

很多畢業生長大後回頭看，才發現自己身上那種「做事不能太隨便」的氣質，就是從這些細小的習慣裡慢慢養出來的。

在太平、檳城、怡保、甚至香港旺角、九龍塘，許多人一提起自己的母校，神情都有一點微妙的相似。不是懷舊，而是帶著一點安靜的自豪。因為他們知道，那些修士教的，從來不只是一篇課文，而是一種站得直、走得穩的方式。

如今修士人數比以前少了，教室多由平信徒老師接手，但「那一套」依然留著——規矩理得清楚，學生養得踏實。

這種養法不花俏，卻最能在一個人心裡留下痕跡。

如果說一所學校的氣質能傳三代，那多半就是這些修會學校。

簡單、耐用，不必宣傳。

走過的人一眼就認得。