A fair-weather friend

JANUARY often evokes the memory of an old, irksome friend. Perhaps it’s the relentless rain that does it. I remember how my mates and I would brave the downpours, playing football drenched to the skin, until goosebumps crept up our arms and our teeth chattered from the chill. There’s an unmistakable nostalgia in those dreary days, a complicated mix of discomfort and camaraderie that makes January unforgettable.

We call that irksome friend Angin though we knew his proper name, Robby. It had been several years since he went to The Other Side, but the very name still conjures up memories of frustration wrapped in a thin veneer of tolerance.

To call him a “fickle friend” is to elevate his unreliability to an art form. It’s akin to calling a seven-vehicle highway pileup a minor mishap.

But I digress. The point of this tale is to illuminate how someone so thoroughly undependable can worm their way into your life, much like a recurring cold sore – persistent, annoying, and impossible to ignore.

Angin and I were schoolmates in the early 1960s. I was a boy of modest aspirations – mostly involving fishing, climbing trees, and playing too long in the mountain stream that flowed past our remote village in Serian District, about forty miles from Kuching.

I had a small gang of similarly inclined friends. We thought ourselves magnanimous and charitable, even, and in our youthful naïveté, we allowed Angin into our circle. You see, we didn’t want to be unkind, no matter how much his behaviour tested our patience.

Even back then, Angin’s reputation preceded him like an ill wind heralding a storm. He was unreliable and inconsistent. But we were young, optimistic, and too stupid to know better.

“He’s not that bad,” we told ourselves. “Everyone deserves a chance.” Spoiler alert: he was, in fact, that bad.

Take, for example, our Great Fishing Fiasco of 1962. It was a Saturday, and our group of ten planned an epic fishing trip — the kind of adventure that would become the stuff of village legend. Angin, ever the opportunist, volunteered to bring the bait.

“No problem,” he declared with unearned confidence. “The soil behind my house is teeming with earthworms. I’ll bring enough for everyone.”

Now, for boys like us, that was a golden promise. Digging for earthworms was a chore that we had all done with some regularity, but which we didn’t relish, ranking just below doing homework and just above eating bitter vegetables.

So, when Angin offered to take on this grim task, we were thrilled. We even praised his generosity, a decision we would come to regret.

The day of the fishing trip arrived, and with it came… no Angin. Not a single worm. Not even a note of apology. We were left standing there, poles in hand, like fishermen without fish – or, more accurately, fishermen without bait.

Fortunately, one of the lads knew a secret worm-rich spot, and within ten minutes, we were sorted. But that wasn’t the point. The point was that Angin had failed us, as we all knew deep down he would.

It wasn’t the first time, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. Looking back, I’m almost impressed by his consistency in being inconsistent.

Angin was slightly older than us, though not necessarily wiser. Before joining our little band of misfits, he’d been part of another group – boys his own age. Naturally, they’d kicked him out.

Apparently, even their patience had limits, and Angin had crossed them all. They didn’t have a fancy term for his behaviour, but years later, I learned the phrase “fair-weather friend”, and it fit Angin like a bespoke suit.

For the uninitiated, a fair-weather friend is someone who’s only around when the sun is shining – figuratively speaking, of course. They’re there for the fun, the good times, and the free food, but the moment things get tough, they disappear faster than a politician’s promise after an election. Angin embodied this concept so perfectly that he could have been its poster child.

In 1966, I thought I’d finally escaped him. I left our village to attend a boarding school miles away, and Angin, having failed his exams years earlier, was left behind. I won’t lie – it was a relief. No more last-minute cancellations, no more broken promises, no more Angin. Or so I thought.

But life, as it often does, had other plans. Two years later, in 1968, I found myself in a school band. We were a ragtag group of teenagers who fancied ourselves the next Beatles, though in hindsight, we were just pretenders. Still, we were often invited to perform at school events, weddings, and the occasional party and we weren’t half bad.

The fees were paltry, but still, even after deducting instrument rentals and transport costs, the take-home money was always like a minor windfall for us poor kids.

One fateful day, we were invited to perform at a private gathering in my village. It was a big deal – a chance to show off our musical prowess to the home crowd. Little did we know, lurking in the shadows, like a bad smell that refuses to dissipate, was none other than Angin.

He crashed the party, of course, and somehow managed to charm the host. Before we knew it, he was on stage, pestering us to let him sing.

Now, I’ll give credit where it’s due: Angin wasn’t a terrible singer. In fact, he was decent enough that we reluctantly agreed to back him up.

To our surprise, the audience loved it. Angin basked in their applause like a cat in a sunbeam, and for a brief moment, we thought, “Maybe he’s not so bad after all.”

Ah, the folly of youth.

Fast forward to the following year. We were once again invited to perform for the same host, and this time, Angin’s involvement was preordained.

Two weeks before the event, a list of songs was delivered to me by someone from the village. The host, it seemed, had five favourite songs that Angin was to perform.

We practised diligently, determined not to disappoint. Due to the distance, Angin couldn’t rehearse with us. But we were prepared for that. What we weren’t prepared for was what happened next.

The day of the event arrived, and with it came … no Angin. Again. Not a word, not a whisper, not even a poorly worded excuse through a messenger. We were left scrambling, short five songs and fuming with frustration.

By now, we should have expected it. After all, this was classic Angin. The fair-weather friend had struck again, leaving us to pick up the pieces of his broken promises.

Thankfully, we had a songbook on hand, and with some quick thinking, we managed to cobble together a setlist. The audience never knew the difference, but we did. And as we packed up our instruments that night, I made a silent vow: never again would I rely on Angin for anything, ever.

Of course, life has a way of making us eat our words. Angin would pop in and out of my life over the years, like a recurring character in a soap opera. Each time, I’d foolishly hope that he’d changed, that maybe, just maybe, he’d grown up. And each time, he’d prove me wrong in spectacular fashion.

Looking back now, I can’t help but marvel at Angin’s unerring consistency. For someone so inherently unreliable, he possessed a peculiar talent for being reliably so.

It’s almost impressive, though not in a way that inspires admiration – more in the maddening way one might grudgingly respect a particularly persistent fly.

I suppose, in hindsight, Angin did leave me with one lasting lesson: never place your trust in a fair-weather friend.

Of course, that was easier said than done. The promise I made to myself – to guard my heart against those who flitted in and out of my life as it suited them – was anything but straightforward.

It took years of effort to build that resolve, to finally reach a point where I could say “no” to him with calm finality. No anger, no drama, no desire to make him an enemy – just a quiet, firm boundary. It was a slow and wearisome process, made harder by my own nature.

As one well-meaning friend once pointed out, “You know exactly what kind of person he is, but you can’t help being yourself – overly accommodating to a fault.”

When I asked that same friend what he would have done in my position, he didn’t hesitate. “Me? I’d have told him to get lost and do something profoundly unholy to himself,” he declared unapologetically.

So here’s to Angin, the quintessential fair-weather friend. May his legacy stand as a cautionary tale, and may we all strive to be a little less fickle. After all, one Angin in a lifetime is more than enough.

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“Friends show their love in times of trouble.” – Euripides

Euripides (480-406 BC) was an important ancient Greek playwright, considered one of the great tragedians of classical Athens, alongside Aeschylus and Sophocles. He is known for having written about 90 plays, of which 18 or 19 have survived in complete form and thrived through the centuries. His works often explored complex characters and themes, focusing on the human psyche, moral dilemmas, and social issues. His plays frequently depicted powerful women and challenged traditional gender roles, making his work ahead of its time. His treatment of characters changed theatre forever, writing of their inner lives and putting ordinary people in extraordinary circumstances.

DISCLAIMER:

The views expressed here are those of the writer and do not necessarily represent the views of the Sarawak Tribune. The writer can be reached at www.hayhenlin@gmail.com