<<< budu boy >>>

hilmihamzah.com

2008-05-10T03:00:00.000+08:00

Dear valued readers,

Cekmi has finally found his budu root. Don't worry, he did not change anything. He just returned to his real self.

Kindly visit his new domain at hilmihamzah.com

Have a good day!

Battle of a Petite Man

2008-05-04T17:11:00.008+08:00

Cekmi is 31 going 32
but people
thought
that

HE IS 21 GOING 22

As a petite (and cute) man
Cekmi is blessed
with an honour
of being

A YOUNG-LOOKING MAN

This natural gift
comes to him
effortlessly
because

HE IS ONE LUCKY MAN

For example….

Cekmi is always mistaken
as a college student
so he always gets
a student price

At Tanjung Golden Village
At Delima Restaurant
At Aquaria KLCC
At BB Hair Salon

ISN’T IT HEAVAN?

But many people
brought him
troubles
like

“No, only a lecturer is allowed to enter!”
- A security guard at the college entrance
“Abang tahun akhir ke?”
- A first-year student on the orientation day
“This interview is only for a lecturer.”
- An HR officer in a university
“Don’t come in if you don’t have money.”
- A cab driver who is afraid of student-looking Cekmi

FOR GOD’S SAKE

Are these compliments?
Are these blessings in disguise?
Are these subtle kinds of insults?
Are these clever forms of disrespect?

CEKMI IS CONFUSED

Maybe Cekmi should try
to be bigger
to be fatter
to be older

CEKMI SHOULD JUST GROW OLD

Or maybe Cekmi should be amused
by people’s double-standardness
by people’s hypocrisy
by people’s ignorance

Who are fooled by
physical looks
more than
books

Who are trapped by
uniformity
more than
diversity

ISN’T IT FUNNY?

Cekmi should be himself
because deep inside
he is still a boy
A Budu Boy

KAN?

Lost in JB

2008-04-30T00:08:00.070+08:00

It’s difficult to classify or rank places in Johor Bahru as the ‘most interesting’ or the ‘most boring’ because our judgments can sometimes be very misleading – a deadly boring place for the locals here could be relatively amusing for me. So let me just tell you this.

Royal Abu Bakar Museum

Isn’t there a better place to learn about a place than a museum? So folks, whether you like it or not, visit a museum, especially this one, which is unique in its own grand way.

It was not easy walking and searching for the museum’s entrance. When I asked a local makcik for direction, she said, “Don’t know-lah adik. Never been there.” Well, that was very much expected from a local, wasn’t it? I don’t want to go through this anymore.

So I just walked daringly through a seemingly grand entrance into a seemingly grand blue-and-white building. I was not sure whether I was at the correct place because I could not see a living soul. Has everyone lost interest in museum?

I bought a ticket (for a non-local price!) and was ushered to the Grand Palace. Established in 1864, this incredible building was originally a palace which was then turned into a museum in 1982. This transformed the museum into a more interesting entity that houses a lot of royal secrets and juicy stories. The luxurious exterior and elaborate items exhibited in the museum make it more outstanding compared to any other museums in Malaysia. Who wouldn’t be captivated by its royal regalia, exquisite guest area, majestic throne room, costly treasure room and gigantic banquet hall? I must say that the whole concoction of displays is mind-blowing.

Reading the history of Johorean royals, I was so delighted to scrutinize the background of the current Sultanah of Johor cum UTM’s Chancellor, D.Y.M.M Baginda Sultanah Zanariah binti Almarhum Tunku Ahmad. Wait a minute, of all places, she is from Pasir Mas, Kelantan! Haha.

Kebun Bunga

I have just finished watching korean drama Stairway to Heavan and discovering this magnificent garden made me think that I was on a stairway to Heavan, just like in the drama. Oh yes, this garden is so enormous and beautiful. Overlooking the Strait of Johore, the garden’s sprawling landscape was superbly manicured and maintained. The gardeners must have worked hard day and night.

Located within the compound of the Grand Palace and extended over an area as big as the size of five football fields, this super garden once served for the royals. I could walk leisurely like a King along palm-lined driveways and enjoy the dense vegetation surrounding the garden. To experience some luxuries of past royalties is such a privilege for me.

The various concepts shown inside the garden still stun me. Who would expect to find a Japanese house and a Chinese gateway inside the garden? And there is even a rest house in the middle of the garden that reminds me of the place where Julia Robert suddenly kisses her best friend in My Best Friend’s Wedding. Hehe.

Japanese house

Chinese gateway

My Best Friend's Wedding

Except for elderly joggers and Chinese newly-wed couples who immortalize the garden’s beauty through their professional photographers, I guess the rest of the locals here do not prefer to have afternoon strolls in the garden because it is just too big and remote for them that can just make them tired. Thanks to the hilly setting of the garden which makes it covered and hidden from the public, this place is perfect for my personal retreat and getaway.

Hutan Bandar

I always want to be near a lake. So having found seven lakes in Hutan Bandar was an unexpected bonus. But, wait – forest in the city? You gotta be kidding.

Hmm, covered 32 hectares, this recreational ‘forested’ park is indeed lying within the city. I thought JB folks make the most of this park, just like what Taman Tasik Titiwangsa does to KL folks. But, I could see that many parts of parks are hardly utilised. Perhaps, the park’s location is too remote and hidden from public view, just like Kebun Bunga.

This park definitely passes all the basic requirements for an excellent park, including an excellent example for poor maintenance and sheer negligence. I have never seen lakes that are so green and ‘natural’. If this was the proud concept of naturalness promoted by the management, I would surrender my case.

Except for the impressive Selera d Hutan restaurant, I found many public walkways are thickly blanketed with dry weeds and crispy sticks. There were times when I felt like I was really walking in the real forest, which made me wonder whether the management has ever visited this park or not. Most of the public areas appear worn out and aging that, depending on how you look at it, could possibly add the ‘natural charm’ of the park. I can say that the whole park seems to reflect its tired management and weary city folks.

Despite its ugly sides, I still love this place because it sends an important green message to the public and the responsible authorities. But please, can someone rebrand this park immediately under a brand new Iskandar Malaysia? Sayang, this so-called recreational park has all what it takes to be called a recreational park, but with continuous neglect, it might as well one day be turned into a cemetery park.

Royal Mausoleum

Talking about cemetery, I had a rare opportunity to have a brief glimpse at the Royal Mausoleum, which is the final resting place for Johor Royalties including Sultan Abu Bakar, the father of modern Johor.

I was awed by the highly-organised tombstones that evoked some serene feelings from me. The neighboring dense woods looked mysteriously peaceful. I was nervous because, besides the resting souls, there were no living souls around. Have people lost interest in this great monument?

Looking afar from the window of my car, I could see the grand mausoleum’s aesthetical architecture that weirdly pleased me with its poignant design. I felt sad. Since I was still alone, I moved on immediately to my next destination – a place with real souls.

Johor Zoo

Hooray. Now I could enjoy active souls in the zoo. But wait a second – are animals just the same everywhere? What makes the animals in Johor zoo different compared to other zoos? Will I find here a magic elephant that could fly? Or a tiger that speaks? Hmm. My friends kept asking me these ‘intelligent’ questions when I told them that I would visit a zoo in JB. Sorry folks, I didn’t have the right answers for those questions. I guess I just have to visit a zoo because it is just a routine for any curious tourists to visit a zoo. So there I was, in Johor Zoo, hoping to find a talking monkey.

Of course the animals here are all the same. You are right my dear friends. However, I should highlight a place here that caught my attention. No, not a talking animal. It is a field where a few ostriches play and breed. There was a lifted pathway that crosses through the field. I just enjoyed walking on this walkway, looking at school kids playing cheerfully with the ostriches. Ehem, there was also a couple. Anyway, this experience was enough to satisfy my hunger for a new discovery, even though I couldn’t find a flying elephant.

Stulang Laut Beach

People in KL usually drive all the way to Port Dickson to enjoy beach activities, but people in JB can just suffer a few minutes’ drive to Stulang Laut Beach for a family picnic. However, just like Hutan Bandar, it is sad to see that the beach is not well taken care of. I found it amusing to see people swimming desperately in the rubbish-filled sea.

There was even an uncomfortable 'scent' around the beach. I looked around and noticed a hidden drain that brought unwanted sewage from, I guess, the city. What a subtle and easy way to appreciate the beauty. Oh, from here, I could see Senoko Power Station standing boldly across the Strait of Johore on mainland Singapore. I suppose this should supply the power for Stulang Laut Beach, adding more appeal that conceals the ugly side of the desperate beach.

Lido Beach

Finally, I have come to my favourite spot in JB. Stretched for 7 kilometres, I could view Lido Beach by driving through Jalan Abu Bakar and Jalan Tun Dr. Ismail. Whenever I want to go to downtown JB, I purposely choose these roads so that I could be inspired by the miracle of Lido Beach.

I just love driving along Lido Beach because there are so many pleasant things to see besides the beach itself. I could catch a glimpse of the orangish Dataran Bandaraya, the classic Hospital Besar Tun Aminah, the great Abu Bakar Mosque, and of course, the Grand Palace. Having seen these altogether while driving is like a climax of the day that gives me everlasting energy to spend the rest of the already tiring day.

There are so many places that I have yet to venture like Sultan Ibrahim Building, Taman Merdeka, Bukit Serene Palace, The Zon and many others. But, I have already felt more Johorean than a Johorean himself.

I think I am lost.

A Baby’s World

2008-04-20T20:51:00.010+08:00

I am exploring Johor Bharu with sheer passion and constant thrill. Each discovery adds to my babyish joy, just like a cute baby boy who gets excited by things that he may come in contact with, oblivious of possible hazards that he may be exposed to. However, I am saddened with the attitude of some locals here who do not seem to appreciate my enthusiasm. It’s sickening listening to their degrading remarks of their own city.

Cekmi, JB is nothing.
Cekmi, KL is better-lah.
Cekmi, you’ll get bored soon.
Cekmi, are you kidding me?
Cekmi, hahaha.

Hmmm, is JB that bad?

I don’t know whether they are just being humble or they are just stating some plain truths about JB. But their belittling comments about JB are downright irritating and offensive. I am not defending JB because I do not know anything about JB, but can’t they just be a bit more supportive for a newcomer like me? I don’t think JB is as great as New York or Paris, but can’t they just be more appreciative for their own so-called boring city? While I think that, based on my humble discovery for a few weeks here, JB is a vibrant city to work and live, they always insist otherwise.

Well, that’s exactly their problem – they don’t speak highly of their own city which, for God’s sake, is a city on its own, just like KL. They are so unlike some Kelantanese who still speak proudly and fondly of their home state, despite lesser development back in Kelantan compared to a highly-developed KL. And Kota Bharu, despite being declared as Bandaraya Islam, is not even close to a city status, unlike JB which is a highly urbanized city like KL. But I have never heard people calling Kota Bharu a boring place, because Kota Bharu is always special in its own way.

I think what’s lacking among some people in JB is their identity. They don’t possess some concrete items to hold on to, like a common dialect among Kelantanese. Plus, being so close to a much more developed Singapore, I have a wild speculation that some people in Johor are always seeing JB as of lesser importance compared to Singapore. And this makes them more intimidated and belittled.

One more thing, for me, it is not KL-like or Singapore-like development that matters, but how we appreciate things as they are, be it brand-new or worn-out, small or grand, KL or not KL. What happens to some people here could happen to all of us. It is the attitude that grows out of complacency and stagnancy. We could have already been trapped in our own little world and our own comfort zone and our own deadly routines that we are no longer able to see bigger pictures anymore. We are so trapped in one hollow perspective.

I think we all should get out of our little zones in order to see things differently. And that’s precisely what’s happening to me. As I have gotten out of my comfort zone in KL, I am now gaining a whole new perspective of my new life. As a new comer and an avid explorer, I have a nonconforming perspective of JB. I don’t know how long this would last, but I am afraid, after some time, I might be doomed into the minds of typical locals, who are slowly losing some zest and passion of things around them. I hope it will not happen to me very soon.

I remember a scene from the movie Dead Poet Society when an English teacher asked his students to stand on their desks as a reminder to look at the world in a different way. I wish I could always stand higher and higher than a classroom desk so that I will always see a wider world than my views in it.

Having said this, I would prefer not to have a trapped-minded local as a guide for my exploration. They appear lacking some required spirit of a true explorer. I will not be discouraged by their aloof behaviour because I want to continue being inspired by my own little discovery. Of course, I want to experience my new world with my very own eyes of a baby. Baby Cekmi.

Filling in an Empty Cup

2008-04-14T10:32:00.012+08:00

I have successfully moved from KL to JB and I am currently taking a great deal of laborious efforts to fulfill my newly-found life with beautiful R&B songs and delicious cheese cakes. But before that actually happens, I had to undergo several painful procedures of moving out and moving in. One proven fact for many, moving to a new place can be deadly nerve-cracking.

Packing

Firstly, packing demands a delirious attention to tiring details. The following statistics on the number of Cekmi’s packed boxes might possibly prove this point.

Office: 4
Wardrobe: 5
Study room: 4
Bedroom: 4
Kitchen: 9
Bathroom: 2
Living Hall: 4
Miscellaneous: 1

Total number of boxes: 33

Yes, you read it right – 33 boxes. It was like asking Superman to lift the whole house.

Packing is a truly strenuous affair. It requires a major spring cleaning that could shock you with unexpected findings. Packing indeed amused me with the discovery of unwanted paraphernalia – mountains of old movie tickets, packs of lovey-dovey greeting cards, broken collections of cute little tokens of remembrance, crumpled sets of fancy paper bags – all hidden comfortably around inaccessibly covered space. I threw them all into a giant waste plastic bag.

After 24 hours of packing, I managed to compartmentalize all the household bits and pieces into 33 boxes. With the assistance of two professional men, I uploaded them on a two-tonne lorry which would carry them directly to JB.

It took me 4 hours of skilled driving to reach my new house in Taman Universiti. But it took 11 hours for the slow lorry to reach there. It was almost midnight – the neighbours might probably be sleeping soundly on their beds, but the men managed to unload the boxes quietly and effectively without anyone around the neighbourhood screaming madly at us, thanks to my organised numbering system of packaging. To unpack the boxes in the middle of the night was not a good idea. So, I spent my first night in my new house sleeping among those gigantic 33 boxes.

Unpacking

Mess was all around and I was all alone. It was maddening and suffocating. I did not know where to start.

Patience.

This word kept my sanity in check during the mind-boggling tasks of unpacking. At times, I felt like giving up and kept questioning myself on why I had to do all these crazy tasks alone, or why I had to move out in the first perspective. Thanks to wise Cekmi, I managed to get things in perspective again. Thinking very hard out of the box, I pushed myself diligently to get things out of the 33 boxes. I did it single-mindedly, motivating myself by visualizing a complete sweet home in JB, picturing myself having a good life here, happily watching good Korean dramas, cheerfully sipping a good cup of Nescafe, savouring my independence and emancipation.

One basic challenge that tested my patience was dealing with difficult people to handle few basic things in the house – reinstalling Astro, resetting up air-conditioner, changing the uncivilized toilet door, putting power sockets in two rooms, rebuilding the flood-prone parking lot, and fixing streamix. However, my landlord has been particularly helpful when it comes to fine tuning the house. He is like Mr. Muscle who would come to my rescue when I need a correct detergent.

After days of clogged energy and sweat, I finally completed the house with five specialized sections – living hall, kitchen, bedroom, wardrobe and study room. With this swift accomplishment, I finally laid a comfortable foundation called home. I could have taken things slowly and easily, but I always have this speedy over-heated passion for a speedy completion. I just couldn’t stop getting things done and ready quickly so that I can immediately start focusing on other important things in my professional life.

Having to go through these drills made me sickly thrilled but I was viciously satisfied once the tasks were triumphed. This major task of moving has drained my energy that, to certain extent, I felt like a mentally-challenged person released from a mental asylum. Having to cope with difficult situations required a little extra amount of persistence and composure. Keeping this attitude in balance proved worthwhile for me because after each fulfilled task, I strangely felt like a newly-born man, being supplied with a new Superman power that kept me flying and flying.

It has been two weeks and I am happy with what I have done to my new private domain. But the cup is still half-full. I have a lot more to fill in.

Farewell Fair

2008-03-28T19:00:00.032+08:00

Farewell gatherings may imply two things.

One – people love you so much they can’t bear letting you go.
Two – people hate you so much they can’t wait letting you go.

I don’t know what urged my students to throw such gatherings for me, but let these pictures speak their thousand words.

It’s makan time!

Calories, calories

Slow down, please

Haha, smiling gluttons

Yes, the foods were goooood

Peace for food makers

It isn’t enough, is it?

Show time! Sing it…

Barney & Friend’s TV show

Oh, there’s a break for azan!

Creative coral speaking

Yes, English crossword puzzles!

Get ready for more shows…

Joget Kelantan?

No! I can’t dance!

Cekmi at his most awkward moment

The paparazzis and mamarazzis

Sing with me!

No, that was not my birthday cake

It’s a bye-bye cake

Oh, you are most welcome

I love blueberry!

My princesses

Give me the money!

Ayoyo…

That’s macho, dude

I love you too

Help, I am sandwiched!

So good looking, ek?

The organisers

Happy faces

Mamee smile

Purplish match

Ehem ehem

Thanks for the lovely frame

We’ll meet again, InsyaAllah

Wish you guys the same!

My beloved and behated students,

Thanks a lot for loving and hating me so much!

Leaving and Living

2008-03-18T22:34:00.010+08:00

Having tendered my resignation and living in KL during a temporary period of a two-month notice have brought about a lot of unexpected sentiments. Knowing that leaving is certain has also invited so many suffocating thoughts. I am now living in the middle of a major turnaround in my life. As I am getting ready to cross a new road and embark on a new adventurous journey, all things suddenly fall thunderously into a bigger, scary picture. Strong emotions and melancholy are reluctantly enveloped towards current attachment and future detachment – what’s left behind and what’s coming next. This happens almost dreamlikely, as if I had just been given some kind of power of a prophetic vision.

After having received the offer from Universiti Teknologi Malaysia, I have been having a surreal life. The doors of opportunities seem wide open and begin to gain their amazing momentum. While waiting nervously to start my new career at UTM, surprising news keeps coming my way, which seems too good to be true. While job-hunters are struggling to get into employment, I am spoilt with choices. After getting a place in UTM, I had to reject three rare offers of interviews from Universiti Malaysia Terengganu, Universiti Malaysia Pahang and International Islamic University Malaysia. Plus, I also had to turn down a lucrative offer of employment from Swinburne University. I can’t believe that I did this. When you stop chasing the shadow, they will be chasing back towards you, won’t they?

One thing for sure, getting into a public university has been my utmost aim. So, when it came to me all at once, knocking my complacent door of life, it took me days to realise that I was going to be reborn and reprogrammed into a totally whole new paradigm. However, having to leave KL for good and starting a new life in JB is hard to swallow. It has been mind-boggling to get things into their correct perspectives. The mental turmoil and emotional upheaval seem to be dominant that keep irking my waking hours.

Of course, I grabbed this opportunity greedily and wholeheartedly without even looking back. But it was hard not look back. I have been spending half of my life in Klang Valley. Moving away from my family at the of 16, I took pride in being independent and began building my self-sufficient livelihood in Klang, Lembah Pantai, Petaling Jaya, Sunway, Setapak, Wangsa Maju, Setiawangsa and Gombak. All these places have special parts in my memory since they have witnessed my painstaking fight towards manhood. The experiences gained and the friends met can never be traded lightly. But to achieve things, something must be sacrificed – I have to leave them behind.

Realizing this overwhelming fact, all my petty day-to-day activities appear so animated that hold some significance in their own ways. I am now seeing them with refreshing perspectives. Getting to college is now pleasurable, as if I have never been to my college. Looking at my students’ faces fills me with deep satisfaction, as if I have never seen them before. Gossiping with my colleagues is such a joy, as if I have never backbitten before. Having dinner with friends feels so alive, as if I have never dined with them before. Even driving through traffic-congested roads in KL is enjoyable, as if I have never driven through these crazy roads before.

Mundane and simple moments have never looked so extraordinary. Having single-mindedly pursued and achieved my personal dreams, I somehow feel that I have marginalized and overlooked so many valuable things in my life. I think I have not been kind and appreciative enough towards them. This fact saddens me. It is difficult to bid farewell to the good things around me. Frankly, I don’t really look forward to the idea of farewell gatherings, which I think I don’t deserve such an honour from the people whose kindnesses have always exceeded my unbecoming behaviours.

I am moving further away from my family and friends – from east coast to west coast and now to south coast. I will definitely miss them terribly. When I couldn’t sleep at nights, feeling insecured and frightened to leave behind all the comforts and familiarities here, I will try to blanket my disturbed mind by visualising the golden opportunities lying ahead of me, ready to be lived and realised. I will be thrilled pondering upon the promising chances of teaching matured university students, befriending wise professors, starting doctorate studies abroad, and living a more rewarding professional life. At this point, the overwhelmingly positive prospect of living in Johor Bahru seems so alluring and welcoming that I couldn’t wait to move and leave immediately. I will tell myself that my time has certainly come. My painful leaving is absolutely going to be reimbursed by my future prosperous living.

Bearing this in my mind, I am prepared to leave and live again.

The Power of X

2008-03-04T18:50:00.021+08:00

X. X. X.

The ‘X’es are everywhere, at every corner and public spot your eyes can possibly reach. No, they do not promote single X-rated pornography or the sequel of X-Files movies. Those banners and posters are meant to trigger your political senses to exercise your precious muscles to write the correct symbol during this upcoming General Election. On a ballot paper, an X symbolizes correct agreement and compromise. Well, I am so not politically opinionated, but shouldn’t they change the symbol to a TICK? I suppose, a tick means ‘YES, CORRECT!’ and an X means ‘NO, NOT CORRECT!” - correct?

As a child, when I looked at those political posters, I always thought that an X written next to a party’s logo meant ‘please don’t vote for another party’ or ‘please write an X to the opponent party’. Silly me. So, when I cast my vote for the first time, I found it weird to write an X next to my chosen party. Wasn’t it supposed to be a tick? Can I put a tick there? Hah? Spoilt vote? Thanks for telling me, Dad.

When I was a little boy, I remember joining the election campaign to woo the voters in my kampong. It was early in the morning of the Election Day. I was riding a bicycle cheerfully, going round and round into people’s houses. The old men and women were excited and ready for the battle. The catchy jingle of ‘Marilah mari, kita mengundi’ was heard almost non-stop through all the mainstream electronic media. The parties’ strong supporters kept exchanging words, jeering and cheering at each other. Name-calling seemed pertinent and excusable. There was a serious war between the Greens and the Blues. I was naïve and clueless of what was happening. But the whole pandemonium looked thrilling for me, as if I was in some kind of a circus carnival where stupid-looking clowns were using their utmost communicative skills to amuse the eager-looking passers-by.

“This is how you do it,” said a religious-looking man to a fragile lady, illustrating her on how to write an X in the correct box. He continued, “Do not ever write an X on another box, nanti masuk neraka (you will go to Hell!)”
“No, no, no. I am very old. Nak masuk syurga (I want to go to Heavan),” said the lady, looking so relaxed and proud.

Being one of the critical 300,000 Kelantanese outstation voters in Klang Valley, I am sure that my tiny hands are gigantically influential for the future path of my home state. With free transportation and all those hoping smiles from desperate faces, my existence must be one of the most sought-after in the universe. Hey people, I am not sure whether I am eligible to go to Heavan, but I am sure that I am eligible enough to go to the polling station this Saturday on my own, without any prince-like escort from those macho body guards or swaying little ladies of yours.

Oh, hello, I am pretty sure that I am NOT one of the phantom voters from Hell. My vote will definitely go straight to the Holy Ballot Box which will actually (and hopefully spiritually) determine the Heavanness or Hellishness of Kelantan for the next four or five years. Because my X matters and is powerful, correct? Not correct? Ah, whatever. Just X it, don’t tick it. And you will be part of this critically-debated power of democracy.

Happy ‘X’ing guys!

Korang Memang Lembu!

2008-02-25T22:35:00.009+08:00

My students forgot to submit their assignments again. I didn’t understand. I thought, at this age, they should have been more responsible and more concerned with their marks. Sorry? How many sorries do you have in store for me? When you are sorry, mean it! You should really really really mean it by, of course, not repeating the same mistake again and again and again. You see, this seems like the thousandth time my naughty students are doing this to me. I am not an angel, okay. I can’t be that patient anymore. This is too much, guys. I am so disappointed and upset with your grotesque attitude.

Korang memang lembu!

“Manusia di pegang pada janjinya,
Lembu di pegang pada talinya.”

Correct me if the saying is wrongly structured. Right, you can call me old-fashioned and rigid and difficult, but I always believe in this saying. I firmly believe that, if you want to be a human being, you should act like one, by holding tight to your promises, by not breaking them, no matter what calamities you might face in your challenging lives – a traffic jam, a computer virus, a cruel break-up, a sick grandmother, a burnt house, etcetra etcetra. You should expect all these unexpected events and do your best to keep your promises. That’s what makes a human being a human being, not a cow. Lembu.

But wait a minute, there might be cows out there that are intelligent and humane enough to make promises to their owners like “Oh my dear owner, you can sacrifice me for Hari Raya Korban, but please wait until I am 55 years old when I retire, I promise” or “Oh my dear owner, please wait until my 20th son is born, then you can slaughter me to death, I promise.”

But wait a minute, I might have been over-reacting and acting irrationally over this issue. My students could have been innocent. They are just doing what human beings are good at doing – breaking promises.

A woman eats her favorite cheese cake, breaking her promise to observe her dietary program.
A friend backstabs his best friend to get promoted, breaking his promise to protect the valued friendship.
A married couple gets divorced, breaking their promises to live and die together.
A son is too busy making money, breaking his promises to love and care for his weak parents.
An employer does not pay enough for his employees, breaking his promise to cater for the employees’ welfare.
A policeman sells a confiscated car to a rich VIP, breaking his promise to keep the amanah image of local authorities.
A lawyer fixes the court judges, breaking his promise to uphold the sanctity of legal system.
A Muslim forgets to pray and pay zakat, forgetting his promise to obey His rules and regulations.

Aha, haven’t we all heard enough of, urm, politicians who make beautiful promises to the rakyat during elections and keep breaking them whenever they are indulged into their luxurious lives as Yang Berbahagia?

The BIG question is: Haven’t we all broken our promises? Hmm, maybe we are all also a bunch of lembus.

My Amazing Race

2008-02-20T12:01:00.017+08:00

You have made it, Collin and Adrian!

Well done!

As the champion of the second Amazing Race Asia, they are truly my heroes. Their excellent performances were of high quality and simply amazing. Despite Adrian’s hearing disabilities, this was not an issue that could deter their determination to succeed and to beat the ever-cocky Philipino boys. That was, from the-disabled-versus-the-able perspective, really symbolically historic.

As I am still weeping over their triumph, I can closely look at my life now, which has been into such an amazing race on its own.

My Amazing Job-hunting Race.

Really, there have been a tremendous amount of roadblocks and detours along this race. I have embarked on a rough race – I have run, stumbled, crouched, crawled, and run again, enduring all the required pain to complete the finishing line. It all started after my graduation in mid-2007. Equipped with a painfully-sought academic qualification and six years of teaching experience, I was ready to start the race against public and private universities around Malaysia.

Here I come!

However, there was one big problem. I didn’t have, er, a resume. Unbelievable, wasn’t it? Do you guys revise your resume regularly? Not me. Being a senior and having worked comfortably for more than six years, I didn’t remember where I kept my resume. It was so ironic for a Business Communication lecturer, who teaches students on how to write a resume, not to have one. Hehe.

So with great energy and deep enthusiasm, I created a newly updated resume with polished details and sent it to almost all public and private universities in Malaysia. As I was waiting for the first call of interview, I was shaking and nervous and scared. Just imagine, after being so complacent for six years, you will have to be evaluated and assessed again. It is not easy to be taken down to the root again after you have established and enjoyed certain status-quo.

The ‘proceedings’ had finally come. I was called for several interviews.

ONE

My inaugural interview was at Universiti Putra Malaysia in late November 2007. Three senior ladies conducted the session. They looked daunting, but strangely enough, I was more than relaxed to answer their questions. I was later deemed overqualified since the position offered was only a contract language teacher, which would not suit my master’s degree. However, I convinced them that I was ready for the ‘downgrade’ because I just wanted to teach in a university even though I had to outdo my own qualification. I was desperate, wasn’t I?

TWO

The second interview followed a week after the first interview. I drove my car all the way to Universiti Teknologi Malaysia, Skudai, Johor and took an emergency leave. There were four candidates and I was the only male candidate. That would me my winning point, I thought, considering the gender quota. Haha. And this really boosted my confidence to win them over. In the interview room, there were three vulnerable interviewers who were about to be ‘swallowed’ by my actions. They asked me to conduct a mock teaching and I did this as professionally and hilariously as possible. It was a real fun because all of the interviewers really acted like ‘crazy students’. In the end, they said that I was too energetic. I think it was a compliment.

THREE

2008 started extremely well for me. Universiti Putra Malaysia called me again in the middle of January for a second interview. This time around, I had to sit before the Vice Chancellor, which scared me to death. After waiting for more than one hour, I was ushered into a gloomy and cold-looking room and seated in front of the top three management officers in UPM. They asked me several general questions which, quite unexpectedly, were far easier than what I had anticipated. It took only five minutes. The last comment from the Vice Chancellor was, “Oh Hilmi, I have a lot of friends in Pasir Mas too.” I just smiled. I learnt later that the Vice Chancellor is a Kelantanese.

FOUR

At the end of January, I received a letter from Universiti Teknologi Malaysia, offering me a second interview. This was the toughest interview of all. As it was a group interview, I was put together with other four candidates. The interview room was tense as I was continuously inundated with threatening questions from six members of the Office of Deputy Vice Chancellor, including the Deputy Vice Chancellor herself. Yes, the Deputy VC was a lady, an iron lady who knew how to put some real ‘actions’ during the interview. Her presence was deadly intimidating. She was like a hungry lion that could eat you raw and alive. Overall, it was quite a humiliating experience for me. I was terribly shaking and even considered to call it a quit.

FIVE

My fifth interview came from the International Islamic University Malaysia, my very own university. The date of this interview clashed with the previous interview at UTM, which I thought was an ironic coincidence. I wanted to cancel this interview because, if I were to make a choice, I would prefer UTM over IIUM (what a traitor!). However, the sweet officer in IIUM managed to reschedule my interview session and postponed it a day after my interview in UTM. Reaching IIUM early in the morning, I was tired since I had just gone through a battle with a hungry lion in UTM. Fortunately, the IIUM interview went so easily. Of course, the interviewers were my beloved ex-lecturers. Haha.

SIX

The race continued when Swinburne University (Kuching Branch) called me for a tele-interview. This interview was conducted barely a day after my interview in IIUM. Yes, I had three interviews in three days, in a row! Having these three interviews consecutively really wore me out. However, the tele-interview session with Swinburne University proved something worthwhile. I had never been interviewed on the telephone and I am still bewildered over the integrity of this type of interview which does not take visible body languages into account. So this interview must be very unique. All the three interviewers were Aussies who posed challenging questions to me. I was breathless for 40 minutes. It was quite surprising because most of the question were about my research. I had never known that a private university could be so much interested in research. At this point, I thought, working in Sarawak looked somewhat rewarding too.

SEVEN

The most recent interview that I was supposed to attend to was at Universiti Malaysia Terengganu. It is a newly-established university. So, getting a position there is surely promising since I could be one of the pioneers. But, due to some inevitable reasons, I rejected the offer.

Haha, isn’t tiring listening to my interview ramblings? I am tired too. Sometimes I just wish that I don’t have to go through this painful process. Life during these mind-boggling interviews was precarious. I was gripped with insecurity and uncertainties. My fate lay in so many unseen hands in various registrars’ offices in different universities. I was clueless, just like Helen Keller. I might not be blind and deaf like her, but at this moment, I was like being surrounded by a dense fog near the sea, not being able to see and hear what was coming. I could barely hear the sounds of faraway ships, but they sounded so distant and I was not sure which direction they were heading to. They might not possibly see me because I was hidden in that dense fog.

Until one afternoon, I sensed the approaching ship, when I saw a letter on my desk. I opened it and read:

TAWARAN JAWATAN PENSYARAH
UNIVERSITI TEKNOLOGI MALAYSIA

Holy Bitchy Mok

2008-01-12T17:45:00.000+08:00

Introducing Mok – the living legend of bitchiness.

At 70, Mok is still strong and energetic. She lives alone in a house next to my family’s house. It is the gracious gift from her children who do not want to live with her. Even her many grandchildren are reluctant to stay near her sight. But that’s not a problem for Mok, because Mok is very rich. To accompany her at night, she pays Mok Nik Jaroh (an old friend of hers) RM5 per hour. Hmm, that’s RM1200 per month, considering that Mok Nik Jaroh spends 8 hours every night with lonely Mok.

But there is one little problem – she is extremely senile. She keeps her money everywhere in the house and she doesn’t remember where she puts them. During Hari Raya, kids like to visit her because, if they get lucky, Mok will give them RM50, which she mistakenly thought as RM2. God Bless Mok, say the kids.

So what makes her a living legend? Her powerful tongue.

Everybody in the kampong knows that she likes to mind everybody’s businesses. Just right after her return from Mekah, she couldn’t wait to catch up the latest gossips – whose wives just got divorced by the husbands, or whose husbands just got beaten by the wives. Adding to this naturally-acquired skill, she likes to pass glaring remarks for my family members behind everybody’s backs. Eh, why your sister so clumsy? Hey, I think your brother is so stupid. Isk, how can your father drive Toyota only? Hey, why your sister study in Egypt when she becomes ustazah only? Alahai Cekmi, why he want to be a lousy teacher like his father?

That's Mok.

Of all these poor victims, the person who suffered the most was Ma, my late mother, who befell under Moks’ powerful regime for many painful years. For many years of Ma’s life, Ma always became the subject of Mok’s nastiness. Being bullied mentally, Ma was tolerant with Mok’s meanness. I remember Ma’s cool and patient face whenever Mok said unpleasant things to her. She just smiled. She indeed sacrificed a great deal to please Mok’s crazy demands, which included taking care of Mok’s paralysed mother for many months.

However, nothing seemed to satisfy Mok’s hunger for sweet brutality, as if Ma was her biggest enemy. Mok sometimes said the meanest things to Ma in front of close relatives and friends during Hari Raya gatherings. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the chance to ask Ma about what actually caused the bickering relationship between her and Mok. I am not sure whether Mok had asked for Ma’s forgiveness before Ma left this world for good, but I am sure Ma has forgiven all of Mok’s various sins.

Did I hate Mok? Nah. How could I? No matter how much I detest the holy bitchy Mok, she will be forever stuck in my family, because she’s in my blood – she’s my auntie, my father’s one-and-only sister.

For all Ma’s sufferings, I wish Mok a good life in Heavan. Opss, not yet, she’s still around.

What, Putu Halba?

2008-01-06T18:50:00.000+08:00

“Mi, do you want Putu Halba?” she asked me.
“What? Putu Halba?”
My Ummi looked at me in disbelief. She probably thought that her step-son was a lying asshole, a Kelantanese who had forgotten his own root, who didn’t even know the existence of some fine Kelantanese delicacies. But I was saying the truth – I really didn’t know what the hell putu halba was.

Back at my house, I saw my family members savouring over something in the kitchen. I was curious and asked, “Hey, what are you having there?”
My Ummi looked at me with a smile and said, “Putu Halba lah.”

I took a bite, hoping that its taste would not be terribly awful. I put it in my mouth. After a few bites, I stopped. Oh my God, that warming sensation, that sweet taste, that rich flavour – they were irresistible! Putu Halba impressed me that I couldn’t even move a muscle. I finally said, “How I could not taste this before? It’s heavan, Ummi!”

Before leaving to KL, I wanted to taste the newly-discovered Putu Halba again. As it was very late in the afternoon, most of the stalls selling Putu Halba were out of stock. I was frustrated, but I didn’t just give up. I kept looking and looking around Pasir Mas town until I spotted a stall selling Putu Halba. Phew.

“Makcik, give me 5 putu halba now!” I said impatiently.
“I am sorry, all these are reserved for the other customers.”
“What!?” I was getting more impatient. This is critical, I thought.
“Please Makcik, don’t do this to me. I am leaving KL tonight and I really need to have it now!” The other customers were looking at me, probably wondering if I was sick of a terminal illness who was going to die any moment if didn’t eat Putu Halba.
"Please Makcik, just give me one only! Please. Just one,” I begged her further. The Makcik seller looked at me strangely and said, “All right, all right. Take this one. This is for free. My sedekah.”

Hooray! My plea was successful – I swallowed my one and only Putu Halba, extremely happily.

I might be heads over heels with the enticing menus at fine western restaurants, but deep in my heart, I am still a typical Kelantanese who is desperate for sweet, intoxicating, traditional food, like Putu Halba.

My Wo

2007-11-23T10:34:00.000+08:00

What naturally triggers your mind when you think of your childhood? I remember Sungai Durian and my beloved Wo.

This was where my Wo - my mother’s mother, my grandmother - used to spend her last remaining years of solitary life. Don’t be so surprised, because for Wo, this was a perfect station for a final ride to an after-life destination. And for her, it was a right terminal for a soul-searching retreat and a religious haven.

This was also where I spent most of my childhood weekends with my family. Oh yes, of all places in the world, my parents chose this seemingly shattered place to rejuvenate my brothers’ and sisters’ lost spirits, and most important, to strengthen our family ties.

Today, Sungai Durian is one of the oldest pondok institutions in Kelantan that still stands tall against the mainstream system of modern education. As a young boy, I used to be so excited to be here, not because I wanted to be part of the pondok community, but because there was a river nearby where I could join the other religious pondok men and women for a free public bath. A swim in a river – isn’t it an exciting thing to do as a kampong boy? Haha.

Together, all of my family members would enjoy this natural lagoon, oblivious of the possible existence of wild crocodiles along the river bank, and unashamedly overjoyed by the flow of the muddy water. It was at this very place that my whole family would always gather without any personal conflicts or resentment. We were a proud Hamzah family. We were then one family. One big happy family.

Looking at this place, we might think of poverty, underdevelopment, and third-world hell. Right, these would be the politically correct terms to describe Sungai Durian. But hey, who needs all the material richness in the world when all the people here need is a modest, stoic way of life to attain a passing grade for Heavan? Poverty can be richly defined in a very lucrative perspective, can't it?

With Wo’s presence, there was no need for modern luxuries.

There was no electricity, but Wo’s warmth provided the light for us.
There was no TV, but Wo’s stories kept us filled with exciting imaginations.
There was no cooking gadget, but Wo’s wisdom gave us enough food for the soul.
There was no shower room, but Wo’s gentleness showered us with everlasting comfort.
There was no concern for hygiene, but Wo’s kindnesses cleansed and moisturized our spirits.

Sungai Durian might be seen as one of the typical poor sections in Kelantan, but for me, it is so rich with fond memories of Wo.

May Wo rest in peace.

Stong

2007-11-13T13:51:00.000+08:00

This is the highest waterfall in Southeast Asia.

Er, do you know where it is?

Oh please, don’t tell me that you know it because, argh, it would be a great shame and a total embarrassment on me. Of all places, this amazing waterfall has long stood right under my nose. Thanks to my classic ignorance. Yes, I never knew about its existence until recently when one of my Kelantanese friends talked about Mount Stong. I was like, What? What? Stong? Oh my dear Cekmi, fuck you, sorry for the language. It is in our beloved state - Kelantan!

Let me bore you with a little bit hard info.

This one-of-a-kind wonder is located in Mount Stong National Park. With a height of 1433 metres, Mount Stong is one of the highest peaks in Kelantan. Remotely situated at the Dabong Forest Reserve, its flora and fauna are still untouched by the mainstream development (well, politically speaking, ehem, Kelantan is always underdeveloped).

Okay, all the nature freaks, listen very carefully. Mount Stong is claimed to be one of the most famous eco-tourism spots in Malaysia. There are seven waterfalls in this area. Seven, my dear. Seven. Jelawang Waterfall (yes, the one in the pictures here) is 303 metres above sea level, and ladies and gentlemen, that makes it the highest waterfall in Southeast Asia!

Wow, doesn’t it impress you?

One more fact: Those nature lovers can view the spectacular sunrise from the Amazing Peak of this Mount Stong. Isn’t it something? What else do you guys want? Take a good look at that natural pond above. Isn’t it irresistible? Who doesn’t want to feel this fresh and cool resource freely provided by the Mother Nature?

But hey, too bad, this place lacks promotion and publicity. I wonder if the Kelantanese themselves know about this place and appreciate it. I hope that the famous project of East Coast Economic Region will commercialize and put Mount Stong in its right place among the major tourist spots in Malaysia.

As an ex-linguistics student, I had a wild speculation over the origin of the name ‘Mount Stong’. It goes like this: a white man who got lost in Dabong found a high waterfall with huge rocks and stones. When he finally met a local man, he asked him: “What’s the name of that waterfall! Yes, the one with huge stones!”
“Gapo dio? (what is it?)” asked the local man.
“Stone! Stone!”
“Oh, Stong. Stong”

Haha.

Nutty English

2007-11-09T17:55:00.000+08:00

We'll begin with box, and the plural is boxes;
But the plural of ox should be oxen, not oxes.
Then one fowl is goose, but two are called geese,
Yet the plural of moose should never be meese.

You may find a lone mouse or a whole lot of mice,
But the plural of house is houses, not hice.
If the plural of man is always called men,
When couldn't the plural of pan be called pen?

The cow in the plural may be cows or kine,
But the plural of vow is vows, not vine.
And I speak of a foot, and you show me your feet,
But I give a boot--would a pair be called beet?

If one is a tooth and a whole set are teeth,
Why shouldn't the plural of booth be called beeth?
If the singular is this and plural is these,
Why shouldn't the plural of kiss be called kese?

Then one may be that, and three may be those,
Yet the plural of hat would never be hose;
We speak of a brother, and also of brethren,
But though we say mother, we never say methren.

The masculine pronouns are he, his and him,
But imagine the feminine: she, shis and shim!
So our English, I think you will all agree,
Is the trickiest language you ever did see.

I take it you already know
Of tough and bough and cough and dough?
Others may stumble, but not you
On hiccough, thorough, slough, and through?

Well done! And now you wish, perhaps
To learn of less familiar traps?
Beware of heard, a dreadful word
That looks like beard and sounds like bird.

And dead; it's said like bed, not bead;
For goodness' sake, don't call it deed!
Watch out for meat and great and threat.
(They rhyme with suite and straight and debt.)

A moth is not a moth in mother,
Nor both in bother, broth in brother.
And here is not a match for there.
And dear and fear for bear and pear.

And then there's close and rose and lose--
Just look them up--and goose and choose.
And cork and work and card and ward,
And font and front and word and sword.

And do and go, then thwart and cart.
Come, come, I've hardly made a start.
A dreadful language? Why, man alive,
I'd learned to talk it when I was five,

And yet to write it, the more I tried,
I hadn't learned it at fifty-five!

Green Day

2007-10-29T11:32:00.000+08:00

Cekmi: Hi guys. Welcome to Green Club.
Lily: Please show your support for our club. Like this.

Cekmi: Wo wo wo…what are you doing?
Lily: I am showing you a green punch.

Cekmi: And this is a green kick for you.
Lily: Tolong!

Support Our Green Causes.

Mek

2007-10-24T12:49:00.000+08:00

Mek is a mother

A mother
who raised
her son
who pains
his mother
who sacrificed for
her son
who saddens
his mother
who cries for
her son
who forgets
his mother
who always thinks of
her son
who easily lets go of
his mother
who patiently waits for
her son

Each and every Hari Raya
For five consecutive years

So please come back my dear friend
Mek is waiting for you

30 Reasons Why Hari Raya Is No Longer Selamat

2007-10-09T11:07:00.000+08:00

Pre-Raya

1. Kids become ‘smarter’ in face-burning and finger-cutting.
2. It is the high time for the elegant biar-papa-asal-bergaya trend.
3. “Fuyyo! Sales lah bang!” a hysterical wife said to the tired husband.
4. Buying baju raya is a standard operating procedure for joy in the world.
5. Jalan TAR and Masjid India belong to shopaholics and spendthrifts.
6. Offices are decorated so dazzlingly like Santa Claus is coming.
7. Even Anuar Zain knows how to sing a bad cover version of lagu raya.
8. Jalan raya is a short-cut highway to meet God in heavan or hell.
9. Balik kampung journey pains your ass in the middle of congested traffic.
10. Mat rempiks are experimenting new raya stunts in the deserted city.

During Raya

11. Fashion disaster is at every corner of kampong, graveyard and mosques.
12. “Eh, is that last year’s curtain?” an observant makcik is giggling.
13. Kids are cursing at the grownups who give them only RM1 for duit raya.
14. Veer-Zaara on TV2 is more appealing than meeting long-lost relatives.
15. The more the number of horribly same-taste biskut raya, the merrier.
16. “Maaf Zahir Batin,” says a wrongdoer and forgets about it immediately.
17. Famous artists are singing tirelessly on TV like there is nothing else to do.
18. Pil Chi Kit Teck Aun is a best-selling cure for compulsive eaters.
19. Hedonistic activities take a new level after a month of self-control.
20. Concerned aunties are asking the singles: “Bila kau nak kawin?”

Post-Raya

21. Kids are counting their profits to buy more terrorist-related devices.
22. Parents are asking for their share of duit raya from their rich children.
23. Baju Melayu is kept nicely in the locker until the next Hari Raya Haji.
24. “Will I see my grandchildren again?” kampong old folks are sobering.
25. Rumah terbuka is mushrooming and filled with biskut raya leftovers.
26. People are persistently indulged with excessive foods and drinks.
27. A worried man asks a Courts Mammoth officer: “What installment?”
28. OPS SIKAP XIV will definitely be launched again next year.
29. Going back to a pathetic office life is like going back to hell holes.
30. A government officer is lamenting: “Lambatnya nak masuk gaji baru!”

Oh, belum raya lagi ke? Okay, Selamat Hari Raya.

Selamat, selamat. InsyaAllah.

Letter, Caution

2007-10-05T11:08:00.000+08:00

This is the letter written by Derek for me in Bangkok (please bear with his unique command of Malay language).

***********************

To: Hilmy

Tak tahu nak kata apa lagi…
Perasaan sedih kat terhadap seorg sahabat yg baik yg akhirnya menjadi keadaan begini. Seorang yg terpelajar. Walaupun setinggi manapun tidak berguna jika pemikirannya pentingkan sendiri, tak tahu menjaga perasaaan org lain…
Kesimpulan satu perkataan je “sensitive”.

Buat pengetahuan anda saya tak pernah jumpa kawan spt kamu. Kawan saya pun ramai. Saya juga seorg yg terpelajar walau setidak sepandai you dlm akademi. “Tepuk dada Tanya selera.”

Saya rasa selama yg saya buat ini saya memang telah menjadi seorg sahabat yg ikhlas. You rasa saya ambik hangin rambut yg i buat untuk you? Kesedihan rupanya.

Ok. Enjoy your vacation here.

All the best,
Derek…

Thai Boy’s Diary: The Quintessence of Charms

2007-10-01T11:33:00.001+08:00

On the seventh day of my backpacking trip, I was alone again, without Derek or Lily next to me. But it was fine. I was determined to create another great day in Bangkok all by myself. That day, I would go to the grandest place in Bangkok – the Grand Palace, the magnificent royal compound which mesmerized me more than anything I had visually seen on earth.

When I reached there at 11.00 am, I was informed that the palace would be open after 1.30 pm. I was approached by a tuk tuk boy named Bo. He said that he would bring me to some interesting places in Bangkok for only 500 Baht (RM5). I agreed since I had nothing to do until the palace would open at 1.30am.

Tuktuk’s Fugitive

Bo was only 23 years old. He came from a poor family in southern Thailand and migrated to Bangkok looking for a better life. For a young man working as a tuk tuk driver in a tough city, he looked pretty innocent and pitiful. But he was an excellent driver who knew all the tricks and twists of Bangkok streets. Despite the dangers I was exposed to on the roads, I felt safe in his tuk tuk.

He brought me to a holy place called Wat Phra Phiren. The monk in the temple told me that I came on the lucky day since there was a special religious ceremony being held there. I had no idea what he was talking about.

Bo then took me to the Gems Export that displayed all sorts of gem stones. He told me that it was the last day for a grand sale and that I should buy something for my sisters or my mother. When I got there, I was not interested at all and immediately got out of the shop. Bo was not very happy and talked to me in his broken English.

“I bring you to another jewel shop,” he said.
“No, Bo. Bring me back to the Grand Palace.”
“No, I bring you to another jewel shop.”
“No, Bo.”

O.. o.. I smelled trouble.

He looked at me and said, “Can you help me?”
“What?” I asked worriedly.
“I want you to go to this jewel shop and look around for 20 minutes. It is okay if you don’t want to buy. If you buy something, I will get two free coupons for gasoline from the shop, if you don’t buy anything, I will get only one coupon. Can you help me?”

I was confused and scared. What do I do? Should I help him? Why should I help him? Why? Oh my god, I suddenly realized that my whole life totally depended on him now. If he was not happy with me, he could easily kidnap and sell me to a go-go club tauke. No, I didn’t want that to happen.

“Okay Bo, I will help you, but I want you to take me to the Grand Palace right after that. Deal?” I said.
“Okay.”
“I am helping you now, Bo. Happy?”
“Okay.” He was smiling.

Later I was brought to a jewelry store - Chin Jewelry Co., Ltd.

I took exactly 20 minutes to be inside the store, pretending to be interested in the jewelries. But nothing caught my attention me because I was not a jewel lover. When I left the store without anything, I knew the promoters were cursing me in Thai. Who cares?

I got into the tuk tuk again and Bo was happy with his one free coupon for gasoline. I felt sorry for his pathetic condition of life, but at the same time, I admired his courage to look for money through some normal efforts, not through simple acts of begging or showing his naked body at a go-go bar stage.

I reached the Grand Palace at 1.30 am. I gave Bo 800 Bath, an extra of 300 Bath for his patience and efforts for the past two and a half hours.

May God Bless you, Bo.

********

Later that day, as I was looking at the map of Bangkok, I noticed a small note of warning:

Warning! Beware of taxi or tuk tuk drivers offering ride to discount jewelry stores or entertainment venues. You may risk buying fake goods or other forms of deceptions. Firmly decline when approached and report any such incidents to the Thai Tourist Police Telephone Number 1155.

Er, had I just been cheated? or had I just been lucky?

********

The Flamboyant Palace

I spent three full hours in the Grand Palace, gazing deeply into its grand tapestry. What an immense beauty! I had been looking at these structures in magazines, books and postcards, but there was nothing compared to what I saw with my own eyes. The Grand Palace was one of the most unbelievable wonders I had ever seen in my life.

Phra Siratana Chedi

Phra Mondop

The Temple of Emerald Buddha

Looking at these temples made the other temples I had seen before look physically trivial. Of all temples here, there was one that moved me the most – The Temple of Emerald Buddha. This was the only temple where visitors were allowed to enter and admire the elaborate beauty hidden inside the hall.

Shoes taken off, I went inside the hall and found everybody was sitting down on the floor. I went to a corner and sat down, just like the rest. Most of the tourists were silently looking and admiring the intricate carvings of the temple and various statues and idols scattered inside the praying hall. Some were offering their silent prayers. Everybody was quiet. Things were still. I had a weird feeling mounting inside and wanting to be unleashed. There was some sort of peace crawling and settling inside me. The whole environment was too queerly peaceful I thought I was in a dream. Out of a sudden, I could feel the tears on my cheek. Am I crying? Am I really crying? Why should I be crying? In the middle of a Buddhist temple? Of all holy places, why here? Should I be crying in front of Ka’abah in Makkah?

I had no answer for those questions. I just cried. And cried confusingly.

Dinner with Friends

That night, I had a dinner date at a restaurant at Silom Road with Thierry, the Frenchman I met at the Lumphini Park the previous day. While I was waiting for a train, a fair-looking guy came to me. Oh, not again.

“Excuse me, is this the train to Silom station?” he asked me.
“Yes,” I answered. He smiled at me, giving me that curious look. Oh no, don’t give me that look, I am not a money boy.

On the train, he asked me whether I was familiar with Bangkok. “No, I am from Malaysia,” I said.
“Oh, I am from Malaysia too!” he said excitedly, smiling at me again. He continued, “I thought you were a Thai boy.”
“I knew it, as expected.”

We laughed and began talking about stuffs in Bangkok. His name was Sham, and he was also a backpacker. I told him about my recent experiences in the Grand Palace. He listened attentively to all the details I narrated. I was relieved that I finally found someone on that day to talk to. Someone from Malaysia, oh, what a fortunate coincidence, again.

When we reached Silom station, I invited him to join the dinner and he agreed. I met Thierry at the Noodi, a noodle restaurant near Soi 2. I was extremely delighted to have both of them during the dinner. We chatted like good old friends. Sham was such a swift talker and Thierry just listened and when it was his turn, he charmed me with his big ideas about life.

“Thailand is such a beautiful country. That’s why I chose to stay here,” Thierry said.
“Don’t you miss your families and childhood friends, Thierry?” Sham asked.
“Yes, I do. But it is just something that I have to do. There are things you wouldn’t understand and couldn’t explain until you experience them by yourself.”

Sham and I were quiet, digesting Thierry’s words. I was amused by his thoughts. I then interrupted, “Er.. can I just experience my noodle first and try to understand its flavours?”

It was my last evening in Bangkok, and it was a dazzle, since it was filled with beautiful memories of people I had recently known as strangers who turned up to be unexpectedly fast angels.

Check it: Chatuckak

Before I departed home, there was one last thing that I had to accomplish – to see Chatuchak Market. This is a must-visit place for bargain-hunters looking for almost anything under the sun, and this is a shopping heaven which is probably the world’s largest open-air, weekend flea market.

I wanted to explore everything that day, but with a 14-kg luggage on my back, I had to find a temporary place to store it before my back ached and before I fell on the street that somebody had to call for an ambulance to carry me to the airport. I didn’t want that to happen, so I went to a tourist centre and asked for help.

“Excuse me,” I approached a lady sat at the counter, “can I leave my luggage here?”
“No, we don’t do that anymore.”
“Why?”
“There was an explosion in a tourist’s luggage recently.”
“A bomb? Oh gosh. Hey, I am sure there is no bomb in my bag. You can check it if you want to, haha,” I said cheerfully and laughed over the matter. She was not laughing. I waited for her answer. Then I showed her my most pitiful look and started begging, “Please miss… please… just for a while. I am from Malaysia. Please…”
“Malaysia?” She looked surprised and said, “All right, you may leave your bag here.”
I was so pleased, put my luggage and stormed out immediately, since I had only a couple of hours before my flight departure to Kuala Lumpur.

Generally, this place was very much the same with Rantau Panjang’s tax-free market in Kelantan. The only difference was that it was a lot larger, I meant LAAAARGER, both in sizes and choices. The shops were extremely organized and streamlined according to their nature of businesses. At the end, I managed to enter a few shops only, perhaps 20% of the whole market. Most of the shops I went to were fancy shops filled with attractive souvenirs and trendy clothes. But the most interesting part of the market was its second-hand books. I was terribly spoilt with overwhelming options. And I had never been in such a concentrated place filled with all sorts of appealing books.

I wish I could have more time to explore the whole market, but I was running out of time. Before I got into a taxi to Suvarnabhumi Airpot, I promised myself that I would come back here again and spare one whole day or two for shopping alone. I will.

Wonderful Feelings

This was my, er, second experience being on a plane after my first domestic flight from KL to Kelantan years ago, haha. Internationally, this was my first one, haha.

At the passport check-point, the Thai officer refused to let me in because of the way I looked.

“It is really me. Look at me!” I was impatient.
“No, this person in your passport is not you.”
“It is me-lah, bahalol. When I took that picture, my hair was short and I was a bit plump. But now, I have longer hair and a bit skinner. People change, right? Look at me closely!”
He looked at me again, scrutinizing every inch of my face. He suddenly laughed and said, “Yes, yes, yes, it is really you, haha.”

I was mad and offensive at his not-so-hilarious remark. He asked me to sign a paper and I took his pen on the counter. I tried to write something but there was no ink. He looked at me and said, “Hey boy, that is not a pen. That is my walkie-talkie!”
So scared and nervous, I was not aware that I had been holding an antenna of a walkie-talkie, not a pen. Embarrassed, I said: “Sorry, you walkie-talkie looks so cute.”

We both burst out laughing.

I came back home with a wonderful feeling. No, wonderful feelings.

Thai Boy’s Diary: Fighting Against All Odds

2007-09-25T11:17:00.000+08:00

My journey continued to Bangkok, the city of Eastern Angels – bad and good.

It cost me 12 hours riding on a VIP bus. However, I was bemused most of the time with the services offered by a chubby-yet-friendly ‘stewardess’. During the bus ride, I was offered with seemingly endless foods and drinks. There was a time when all the passengers were asked to get off the bus and ushered to a restaurant. Briefing was done by the same ‘stewardess’ but I couldn’t understand a word because she spoke in Thai. It turned out that, from my rough observation, the passengers were reminded about their discipline and punctuality. For approximately 15 minutes, all the passengers were seated in well-decorated tables and chairs, served with delicious Thai foods, and hurried into the bus immediately. All these were carried out in an amazingly well-coordinated timekeeping manner, which I had never seen before in any long-distant journey on a bus.

Amazing people. Amazing rule. How did they do that?

Hello Bangkok

The bus stopped at the Southern Routes Bus Terminal. Derek and I took a taxi to the nearest MRT station. If you asked about my first impression of Bangkok, I would say that it was a just normal crowded city with a lot of back-street concepts of urban lifestyles. Most parts of the city looked worn-out with a thick amount of electric wires or cables hanging hazardously on people’s heads, as if they were about to fall and entangle people’s bodies and kill them with the excessive voltage. Nonetheless, I was baffled most by the Rama VIII Bridge that resembled our own Penang Bridge, and the Democracy Monuments which reminded me of Dataran Al-Quran in Kota Bharu.

The taxi driver dropped us at the Hua Lamphong station, near the Bangkok Railway Station. I took a glimpse at the station and was taken aback by the grand size of its waiting hall and the church-like design of its roofs. I got into the MRT which was typically packed. I learnt later that the MRT, plus the BTS Skytrain, covered only half of Bangkok, which shocked me because I thought they traveled throughout the city, just like Singapore. But, in a way, it was good since I had a chance to travel through real and dangerous streets in Bangkok using more adventurous transportations like tuk tuks or taxis. And taxis here are a lot cheaper and easily hailed with no double charge after midnight. One thing for sure, I wouldn’t face the trouble of getting a taxi here, unlike Singapore.

Derek and I stopped at Silom station and settled in Sapphirtel Inn at Soi Silom 22/1, Silom Road. Silom Road is said to be equivalent to the Wall Street in the USA, a business district filled with trendy restaurants and shops all around. So, I didn’t waste my time resting in the comfortable inn, as I excitedly rushed to explore the lively streets. I chose to walk and use the map – yes, the map – this was my sole guidance, my bible. With that map with me all the time, getting around Bangkok streets was not that bad, not as daunting as my friends had reminded me about the delirious city. Every time I got confused with the streets, I would not be easily panicky and anxiously ask the Thais around who hardly spoke in English. Instead, I would stay calm and just look at the map and be contented with it. I would normally find my own way back to the desired places. Alhamdulillah, with this strategy and principle, I had never physically gotten lost in Bangkok.

The Good Erawan

That first day in Bangkok, Derek and I walked together along Ratchadamri Road and we passed Lumphini Park, which looked stunning in the afternoon setting. Being head-over-heels in love with lakes, I couldn’t wait to explore the park.

“Let’s talk a walk around the park,” I said. “It looks beautiful”
“It is just a lake,” Derek said, giving me his boring look.
“I really want to go there, Derek.”
“Is there a toilet here?” he said, looking around for a clue. “I need to go to the toilet.”
I was impatient. Our communication was at its critically low point.

Soon after that, we passed Erawan Shrine which is dedicated to the Hindu God, Phra Phrom. It is a must-visit shrine for all devotees including Buddhists, who came regularly here asking for luck and other favors. As a Buddhist, Derek took this opportunity to pray.

I hoped that one of Derek’s prayers was to put our relationship in a better shape. But he must have violated some of the prayer rules because the condition between us deteriorated in the following hours. But before it happened, both of us managed to get a superior glance at two superior malls in Bangkok – Siam Paragon and Emporium. I decided not to dig into the malls since shopping was not one of my motives. We strolled lazily along Sukhumvit Road and Ratchadaphisek Road when I found another lake, Benjakiti Park.

Not wanting to miss another beauty of a lake garden, I quickly marched through the lake while Derek followed behind me. He looked tired and said seriously, “I want to take a rest first. You can walk alone. I will catch you later. You walk so slow, I think I can catch you.”

So I walked, slowly.

The Eruption of Patpong

Patpong near Surawong Road was a place filled with exciting pandemonium and chaos. This was Bangkok’s main night entertainment district which was popular for its vibrant night bazaar. Surrounded by alluring discotheques and go-go bars, it was matter a choice for a wandering soul to seek for pleasures. “SEX DVD” signs were everywhere; the chatty businessmen were aggressive, pulling you forcefully to their bars. “Five minutes only!” they would say, persuading you so sweetly to unleash your wild imagination, making you feel defenseless. The shirts sold at the bazaar were printed with all sorts of amusingly provocative remarks ranging from “Sorry girls, I am gay” and “I am horny”. The women were throwing some sort of rubber that resembled the objects you don’t want to know. They were all ready with calculators, ready for body-language bargain, and insults would be granted if you refused to buy. “I don’t want your thank-you, I want your money. Fuck you!” I scurried away from the shop, shocked and scared.

It was a bizarre kaleidoscope.

It was at this very same place that Derek and I came to a solution regarding our frustrating relationship – we finally agreed to ‘break up’. After a series of explosive cat-and-dog fights, we decided to go on traveling on our own ways, putting an end to all the troubles and miseries I had been putting up with him for the past five days. The time-bomb finally erupted.

“I would never travel with you again,” he said.
“Of course,” I answered, determined and confident.

Happily Alone

The following day, I left Derek in the hotel room and roamed around the city with a new and fresh perspective. Walking alone in the Bangkok city, I felt so thankful for making it so far, even though there was no one to accompany me. I texted my friends in Malaysia and received a lot of mixed responses:

“You will survive, don’t worry. Just enjoy yourself ok.”
“I know you will do well.”
“Go visit the palace, temples, saunas, massage, Patpong, Khao San Road, Chatuchak. I am sure alone is better as what I have experienced. But take extra care.”
“There are just so many experiences in Bangkok. We experience what we want and willing to experience.”
“You are in Bangkok - the city of eastern angels. You’d be inspired.”
“Put the problem aside and enjoy the holidays ahead of you!”

With all this support and inspiration in mind, I pulled myself together and started all over again. Indeed, I was about to discover the places that I had wanted to go.

Lumphini Charms

I was overjoyed to be walking along the park after my request was denied by Derek the previous day. I truly enjoyed the scenery, the smell and the peace that the lake offered. As I was cruising, I was approached by a middle-aged white man who came from the opposite side.

“Hello there.” He said, smiling.
“Hi,” I answered shakily. He looked at me directly and asked, “Are you alone?”
“Er, yes.”
“Mind if I join you?”
“Okay. But I am not a money boy, okay.” We both laughed.

After some time, we became good friends and talked a lot about serious issues and life experiences. He is a Frenchman who migrated to Bangkok and has been living there for two years. It found it unbelievable for a man from a developed country to migrate to such an unlikely favourable place like Bangkok.

“There is something here that you cannot find in Paris – the humane aspect,” he said, so wisely I didn’t believe that I had been talking to a wise stranger in a strange place after being dumped by my own travel-mate.

However, the true saviour for my solitary day was not that French guy. It was Lily.

Lily: The Pretty Saviour

Yes, Lily also happened to be in Bangkok. It was such a dramatic coincidence. We both came to Thailand separately to celebrate our own same-date birthdays, but with the twist of fate and luck, we finally met in the city of Bangkok, right after I met Thierry at Lumphini Park. I didn’t how it happened, but God seemed to listen to my prayer and sent Lily to save my life there.

Her presence truly made my day. Together, Lily and I traveled giddily along Chao Phraya River using the tourist boat. The journey along the river was breathtaking. From Sathorn Pier to Phra Arthit Pier, we were profoundly fascinated by the mesmerizing sights of Temple of Dawn, Wichaiya Prasit Fortress, Santa Cruz Church and Memorial Bridge.

From Ratchawong Pier, we got out of the boat and walked merrily to Yaowarat Road where another world of merriment awaited us. Located in Chinatown, walking along Yaowarat Road was tiring yet fun. It was a bustling trading district for all kinds of products, prominently jewelries and all that. Lily couldn’t get her composed when looking at the wild assortments of cute little things along the endless streets. Each time she found an interesting shop, she would pull my shirt forcefully and moaned over it.

“Cekmi, comelnya.”
“Cekmi, cutenya.”
“Cekmi, iiii….”
“Cekmi, uuu…”

It was annoying but it was, at the same time, pleasant. Her wailing made my heart melt with warmth and joy.

Soon, we found ourselves in the middle of Pharurat Road. It was a shopping district famous for its low-priced clothes and textiles where retailers were mostly locals of Indian ancestry. Then, we passed a famous wholesale flower market called Pak Klong Tarad. The smell of flowers filled up our noses, as we were rushing to get the last boat to the Central Pier.

After an exhausting walk, we realized that we shopped nothing since we had been preoccupied with talking and laughing and sightseeing and joking and kidding and giggling and sobbing, that when we reached at the end of the road with empty hands, nothing mattered as long as we were together, bringing home full hands of unforgettable memories in such exotic places in Bangkok.

But wait, our journey did not end there. After dusk, we headed to Siam Paragon to celebrate our birthdays together. It was a belated celebration, but it was my first official celebration with a cake that I bought myself. Pathetic, wasn’t it? Well, it was not a fancy 5-tier cake, but a normal doughnut-size cake.

Birthday Boy

Birthday Girl

Truly, the day I spent with Lily in Bangkok was one of the most unforgettable days in my life.

********

Later that night, I went back to the hotel and found that Derek and all his belongingness were gone. There was a letter left for me at the reception counter. It was from Derek. I read it and felt numb. I was too preoccupied with Lily that Derek’s issues seemed irrelevant.

Thai Boy’s Diary: The Rewards of Agony

2007-09-20T13:34:00.000+08:00

Patong Beach: Forbidden Beauty

I had previously imagined that my 12-midnight birthday countdowns would be graced by the moon-lit beach, accompanied by the rhythmic sounds of sea waves, and bedazzled by the sparkling glitters of shooting stars, with someone special I would call a true companion. To my utter disappointment, my anticipation was swallowed by the vicious weather from the Mother Land. It was raining and windy that I could practically see the tidal waves gigantically sweeping the Patong Beach so cruelly that people were scampering in panic, being alert of the possible warning that there might another tsunami in the making. With a heavy heart, I cancelled my beach celebration. My birthday’s eve was then filled up with the random discoveries of hustles and bustles around the Patong Beach.

Really, I had never thought that Patong Beach was so big that it was like a big town itself. It was so busy with alluring activities people seemed to forget that there was actually a beach nearby. Frankly, I was so against this particular idea of holidaying – having a vacation in Phuket means to spend my precious time by the sandy beach and to have a lot of beach activities, not to linger around the busy and noisy town. But I was left with no option – the beach was beautiful but it was forbidden, so Derek and I started to cruise through the dazzling roads around the beach. Oh yeah, Derek was still in the house and I was starving to death at that time I could eat a horse.

“I need some energy,” I told Derek, almost begging. “Let’s eat something,”
“Why do you want to eat?” asked Derek. I was perplexed and innocently said, “I am hungry.”
“Why?
“Why? I am hungry-lah. I want to eat!”
“Why?”
“Goddammit!”

Derek’s insensitivity was somehow intolerable. I rushed into a nearby Thai restaurant and ordered anything on the menu to be stored into my hungry stomach and satisfy my physical needs. Derek followed behind and sat beside me, saying nothing. When I was full, my anger finally subsided and began talking to Derek. I reasoned that we shouldn’t act like immature kids, not especially on my birthday’s eve. I forced myself to be more patient and, after some time, we were friends again on a seemingly obligatory vacation since we had already been on the island, walking together on a fragile leaf, about to fall at any possible moments which would definitely mess up my vacation which was supposed to be filled with merries, not worries.

Afterward, we cruised into some major roads filled with a lot eye-catching bars and discotheques along Bang La Road and Rath-U-Thit Road. At 12 midnight, Derek and I were enjoying our little drinks outside a bar. I received the first official oral birthday wish from Derek who seemed to be the only one I knew at that particular moment on a foreign land. Thanks Derek. The SMSes then kept coming and I was busy replying them that I ignored the inviting sights inside the bar - some attractive big shows by some attractive people in Phuket. Derek looked at my wild SMSing behavior and said: “Whoa, you so rich, ar? You replied all the SMS.” Goddammmit. Can you leave me alone? This is my proud moment and you are talking about the cost?

Not long after that, Derek seemed lost into the jiggles and wiggles of the deafening music, savouring his animalistic movements, making me smile with ecstasy. We were both having our good times, at least for tonight. Another life had just begun. Happy Birthday Cekmi. You have no idea what you are about to find out soon.

Free Riders

The following day, I woke up late, smiling at my new age with dignity. Last night was great. I wanted to make it even greater that day. I wanted to explore the whole island and do it adventurously. How did it do it? I rented a motorbike.

Phuket’s Mat Rempit hehe

I was driving the motorbike while Derek was sitting behind me most of the time, giving me an excuse that he couldn’t drive the bike because he did not bring his driving license. Okay Derek.

So, with a frail hope in mind that the rented motorbike wouldn’t explode, we went through the entangled streets around the Patong Town. As were passing one street, I noticed that there was a torn-apart bar surrounded by curious onlookers. The authorities were everywhere. I was shocked to realize later that there had been a blast the previous night, that there might have been a terrorist activity around the town. The word bomb flashed into my mind repeatedly. This thought scared me and, hey, I was so lucky I was not in that bar last night. Otherwise, someone would have a mati-katak experience in Phuket.

However, I was not discouraged by the blast. Very soon, Derek and I went through the dangerous slopes and riding through the dangerous lows and ups of the island beyond the Patong Beach. We stopped at few interesting places like Karon Beach, Wat Chalong, Kata Beach, Rawai Beach and Phromthep Cape. There were times when I got lost that I ended up in the middle of Phuket Town and I suddenly stumbled into an unexpected discovery - Phuket Rajabhat University. To find a higher learning institution in the middle of a holiday paradise was really surprising.

For me, it was fun to get lost because I could see and learn so many things in a positively unforeseen manner, but Derek looked unhappy because he thought I was a careless driver. I had to make a lot of emergency stops in the middle of dangerous highways, looking for directions from the map. But, Derek suggested that I should ask the people around instead of depending solely on the map. Alright Derek. To satisfy him, I stopped the motorbike near a restaurant and expected him to ask the people in the restaurant for a direction. But he refused and demanded me to do the damn thing. He wanted to be comfortably seated right there on the motorbike, expecting me to do all the leading tasks. Fine Derek.

While we were cruising through the island, there was an awe-inspiring place that really tested my imagination – Kata View Point. From this point, I was sumptuously feasted by a breathtaking view of Phuket beaches and bays. Gazing at this panoramic sight deeply evoked my emotion, making me feel truly blessed to be there on my birthday. I was high with the visual pleasures that nothing would hinder towards my search for happiness, until Derek interrupted and asked for my favour.

“Can you take my picture?” he said. I took his expensive digital camera and snapped his best shot. But, as usual, he was unhappy with it and said that he looked ugly with that shot done by me, that his hair looked terrible, that his smile looked crooked, and he would ask me to do it again. The process repeated for a few times until he looked at himself in the digital photo and said, “Hmm… okay-lah.” And I would be so irritated with his behavior and said almost sarcastically: “Do you want to take the picture of the beautiful island or the picture of your beautiful self?” He would ignore my comment and kept admiring at his own gorgeousness from the picture and bragged about how he had successfully maintained his youthfulness at the age of 30 and he would then talk about his concern about his fading years of being a macho hunk. I felt sorry for his low self-esteem who seemed to be worried and obsessed about his external looks rather than admiring the spectacular views around him.

On the way back to Patong Beach, we stopped at a market that sold and displayed a lot of haphazard-looking foods and vibrant clothes. I tried a delicious roasted banana, yummy. I enjoyed the cacophony of the market that it reminded me of Wakaf Che Yeh bazaar in Kota Bharu, Kelantan. It was such an enchanting sight where I could observe the real myriads and colours among the beautiful people of Phuket.

Before returning to our hotel, I told Derek that I really wanted to swim at the Patong Beach. I tried to convince him that going to Phuket without even exploring the sea was useless. But Derek forbade me, telling me almost dismissively that the beach was dirty and potentially dangerous. I was adamant. I didn’t care about the dirt and the danger because I just wanted to feel the breeze and warmth of the Phuket bays. What use would it be after traveling so far and seeing the whole island but you couldn’t even play around the beach? If that’s the case, I would rather go to local beaches like an old Port Dickson or a sickening Tanjung Bidara, where I would be easily allowed to cruise through the sea, even though they are not as famous as Patong Beach.

In the end, Derek gave in me to my request. I decided not to swim though because it looked daunting. So I was just strolling along the sea, alone, while Derek was waiting for me on a bench nearby. As I was walking alone there, I was pondering upon my recent life which seemed blank without almost anyone to share my happiness with. I might be too independent that I wouldn’t open up myself to anyone, that no one would even consider me as their company, not even Derek who was supposed to be there for me, but he wasn’t. It was a lonely walk that symbolized my life as a single birthday boy, at 31.

Gimme a Break!

It was our last night in Phuket and Derek requested me to go to the same bar again that we went to the previous night. He had been so engrossed with the wild excitements of Phuket nightlife. I thought I had enough of it. But I might consider, I said to Derek who seemed so hopeful. But I was too tired of driving the motorbike and cruising the island the whole day, while he was sitting there conveniently behind me, that all I wanted at that time was a good night’s sleep. Not to disappoint his libido whims, I asked him to allow me to sleep for a few minutes to regain my energy.

However, after some time, I couldn’t get up. I weakly told him that I was too exhausted I couldn’t possibly follow him and I hoped that he would understand my condition. He didn’t say a word. I was half sleeping when I saw Derek with his stoned face, and all his body languages saying: “Wake up Cekmi, you moron sonofabitch!” Of course he did not say that, but I could feel his anger. It was not my intention to spoil his anticipation for another wild ride in a bar, but I was just too tired. In the end, I gave in to his body language demands.

“Okay, let’s do it Derek. Let’s party tonight. I just pretend that I am tired. Just kidding, haha...” I told him lightheartedly, hoping that it would cheer things up. But he looked at me sulkily and said, “You are so selfish, Cekmi. How could you be so insensitive towards my feelings?” I was confused. So now, am I the one who is selfish? How about my feelings? Shouldn’t you be more sensitive with my physical condition and be less selfish? Oh my, I did not want to prolong this newly popped-up issue, so we headed quickly to the bar and had fun, just like he wanted. I spent the whole night looking at his happy face and overjoyed behaviour in the bar. Despite the fact that I was pushing my body over the limit, in an odd way, I was happy for him.

Leaving and Surviving

No swimming please…

On the last morning in Phuket, I managed to get a final good glimpse of the Patong Beach and spend the last few hours there, alone again, while Derek was still dozing off on his comfortable bed, gaining his energy back after a wild night. It was still raining and freezing, but I just walked along the soggy beach, soaked and drenched, still wishing hard for a last-minute swim into the sea. But it was to no avail – the beach was too wild and wavy. It had been three exhausting days in Phuket, where I had been struggling between Derek’s catastrophic behaviours and Phuket’s forbidden beauty. If this condition persisted, I was not sure whether I would be able to continue traveling. I didn’t know whether I could make it in Bangkok.

With this tiring issue in mind, I packed my luggage and headed to the Phuket Town to get a bus ticket to Bangkok. I clutched a 14-kilogram bag and had difficulties carrying it that Derek gave another annoying comment about my luggage, questioning about the motive of my excessive luggage. I said it was problem, that I would never ask him to carry my giant luggage.

The bus would depart at 6 pm, so we had plenty of time to waste together in the town, and I had a number of hours to cherish or to suffer with. We toured around the town and I took a lot of pictures for him while he kept complaining about his ugly-looking hair and tired complexion. I acted as if Derek was not there and tried to focus and admire the old charms of the town. We were still walking together, only we were now strangers, not friends anymore. Somehow, I did not know him anymore. It was such a pathetic situation. It was supposed to be the time when I should be sharing my marvelous thoughts about the travel with someone, but he just walked past me, expressionless, leaving behind the wonderful classics of the town, uncommented and unappreciated. He might be thinking that Phuket Town was nothing compared to London. Poor Cekmi, he had never been to Europe and look at him now, admiring over the old rocks and worn-out buildings that are useless and worthless.

While cruising around the town, I spotted a Chinese noodle restaurant and wanted to supply my energy there. Derek refused to go in since he was doubtful about its halalness. It was funny since I was the one who was supposed to be concerned about this matter, but I was impatient with his hesitance and indecisiveness that I marched towards the restaurant without his approval. I reasoned later that we had already been in a complicated backbacking situation that we couldn’t afford to be choosy and critical about food choices. As long as I did not eat pork, I assured him.

We were finally on the bus to Bangkok and I was praying very hard that Bangkok would have something better in store for Derek and me, that it would put our already strained relationship at ease.

Hello Bangkok! Here I come.

Thai Boy’s Diary

2007-09-17T10:55:00.000+08:00

Sawadekaap!

Hello. I am a Thai boy, haha, shut up Cekmi, you are not babyish enough to be considered as a boy, but heck, it was so funny because almost everyone in Thailand thought that I was a Thai boy and, to a horribly ironic extent, a money boy! Haha. I am a 31-year-old money boy. Anyone? Haha.

Oh my God, my birthday’s 8-day backpacking adventure to Thailand recently was really haunting. I was overwhelmed by the bizarre experiences and findings in Thailand that when I came back to Malaysia, I was dawned with a totally fresh perspective about life and friendship. Despite my huge fights with my Chinese travel-mate, Derek, which finally left me alone in the middle of Bangkok city, it hardly affected my free spirit to continue exploring the beautiful land and to have more fun with each and every discovery I made. In fact, I found greater pleasure when doing it alone, and truthfully, my solitary exploration provided me with broader perspectives about so many little things that I wouldn’t possibly grasp when Derek was around. So let’s not focus on these unattractive fights because that’s another story altogether. But Derek has unfortunately become part of my story lines, so be it. To tell you about my adventure in Thailand, I have to tell you these hideous facts.

Had Yai: The Assault and Insult

My first stop in Thailand was Had Yai, the commercial centre of Southern Thailand and a popular weekend destination for visitors from Malaysia. It is located 1300 kilometres from Bangkok and about 50 kilometres from Pedang Besar on the Malaysian border. After 9 hours of midnight bus ride from KL, I reached there early in the morning, only to be assaulted by travel agents who rudely pushed me around to get into their dusty tuktuks. I gave in to their forceful demand which later infuriated Derek since, according to him, I shouldn’t have followed the agents so easily. He was right because I was too gullible when it comes to traveling and I could be loosely tricked. It was my second overseas trip and, conversely, Derek had been traveling to so many foreign countries, including some of the major European cities, so he must have experienced a lot of things that were still alien to me. Having realised this, I wanted him to guide me. Well, this was my first mistake.

At this point, Derek and I had to make an important decision whether we should stay overnight in Had Yai or proceed to Phuket at once. I explained to him that we shouldn’t waste spending our night in Had Yai which, judging from my first impression, failed to turn me on and so I suggested that we should go to Phuket right away on that very morning. I looked at Derek for approval, but he looked untroubled and, to my shock, let me make the decision by my own since, according to his wisdom, “You have done the research and you should know what’s happening here better than me.” I was quite disturbed with his playing-safe response since we were travel-mates and we should work like a team and therefore make mutual decisions together. For me, both of us should be responsible in all situations that we were about to endure. In addition, he was not supposed to blame me if things went wrong since we were backpacking, not on some kind of well-planned tours, so there would be a lot random decisions to be made. But surprisingly, he blamed me for not planning our travel well and consequently put me in a very difficult situation.

“You are the lecturer, but your level is here,” he said, showing me his right hand below his stomach. I was so offended by his judgmental attitude and brutal honesty that I directly told him that his remark was terribly insulting that he shouldn’t attack on my profession since it had nothing to do with traveling to Thailand. I started to smell trouble.

At last, we bought the bus ticket to Phuket at 8.30am, spent only few hours in Had Yai, decided not to explore the potentially terrorized city, only tasted its battered bus terminal that looked abandoned for years. After exchanging ringgit Malaysia to Thailand Baht, which was far more expensive than we had thought, we quickly got into the bus, leaving behind shattered Had Yai with bitter memories of assault and insult.

Sucking Journey

The 10-hour daylight journey to Phuket was tiresome, but I entertained myself by admiring the greeneries proudly lining along the road and being amused by the constant sounds of bus screeches and human cries and all that, ignoring the endless complaints from Derek who repeatedly bragged like an old broken machine, saying that he would rather be on a much more comfortable MAS flight from KLIA to Phuket International Airport rather than riding a bumpy bus that painfully swelled his smooth ass. I smiled and pitied for his physical and emotional depression, and started to think that he is such a spoilt, pampered rich boy who does not possess the right spirit of backpackership that takes great pleasures out of haphazardness and inconvenience. Such a nuisance, so I thought. But I reminded myself that I had to be stronger and bear with this possible trouble-maker since he could be part of the challenges that I had to face while traveling, hoping that it would add to my future excitements. I prayed that I was right.

After being on a long 500-kilometre ride, we reached Phuket Town around 6pm. It was drizzling. Oh no, another bad decision of mine – I came at a wrong season. Derek must be mad again. I looked around the bus terminal for a transport to Patong Beach, the very place where I would spend my birthday’s eve that night.

“Don’t follow any agent!” Derek suddenly reminded me. Thanks Derek, now you are the decision-maker. We ended up riding a tuktuk which I found thrilling since I could feel the breeze of the island while I mesmerized myself with the beautiful sights along the journey, a typical Cekmi. While I was regaling myself with newly-found beauty of Phuket, Derek interrupted: “You know the hotel we are going to check-in, right?” I nodded, expressionless. It was such an irritating interrogation, knowing that this was my first time there, so how could I possibly be expert about everything on the island? Yes, I did conduct my so-called thorough research about Phuket, but I might not know all about the details, and when I was on the island, I preferred to explore it and challenged myself with the unknown. The fact that he totally depended on me and possibly blamed me for all wrong things was absurdly unacceptable and fucking annoying.

Phuket Dream

Keeping away the torment from Derek, I was still able to get over-ecstatic with the dangerously-constructed hilly roads and disorganized composition of Phuket that I found it almost pathetic for not being able to share these beautifully old charms immediately with anyone who could appreciate my queer sensitivity and poetic romanticism. I couldn’t share it with Derek who seemed to think that Paris was more elegant than Phuket Island.

I tried to recall some facts about Phuket: It is located in the Andaman Sea, 885 kilometres from Bangkok, the “Pearl of the South”, Thailand’s largest island covering some 810 square km with tropical vegetation, long sandy beaches, limestone cliffs and forested hills that make Phuket a magnificent holiday resort.

Wow! Here I am, on one and only Phuket Island, on my birthday’s eve! What an exotic destination to grace my new age with, to commemorate my mother’s suffering 31 years ago, to look back at my life and be proud of it, and to look forward at my future life, and be able to say, there I was, on the Phuket Island, alive at 31, thanks mommy, ya be da be doo…

I cried happily in silence, looking at Derek for a hint of slight understanding, but he was sad-looking, probably sulking over the fact that he was riding a primitive transport, not a posh taxi with a good-looking chauffeur in Barcelona.

My pre-matured, disoriented happiness was suspended when I finally arrived in Patong Beach and checked-in at the hotel called Chong-ko. For the following three days and two nights, I would be celebrating my 31st birthday in Phuket. With Derek.

Fast & Faster

2007-09-13T21:25:00.000+08:00

We have to fast
And we have to be fast
A lot faster and faster
So fast fast fast Cekmi

Fast in materializing your dreams

Fast in making yourself happy

Fast in doing things you want

Fast in preparing for Lebaran

So happy fasting guys.

Happy Birthday, Cekmi!

2007-09-05T09:37:00.000+08:00

Phew!
You are alive.
Single.
Steady.
Thank God.

Lotsa Love.
Bangkok, Thailand

31 and Merdeka

2007-08-30T10:43:00.000+08:00

I am turning 31
I am liberating
I am Merdeka

Cigarettes
Credit cards
Calories and fats
University hassles

Merdeka, Merdeka, Merdeka
Oh yeah
Oh yeah
Oh yeah

Enjoy your freedom
Not for 50 years
Not for Malaysia
But forever
But for you and me

Merdeka, Malaysia
Malaysia, Merdeka
Cekmi, Merdeka?

I am, at 31
Oh yeah

(p/s – So patriotic, I’ll be away to Thailand for a week, celebrating my independence and another aging year haha)

Hot Pot for the Soul

2007-08-27T10:29:00.000+08:00

On a hot hot night, I had a jalan-jalan cari makan adventure with my housemate, Aye. We stopped by a Thai restaurant near the Danau Kota Uptown, Setapak. It was nearly midnight, so I wanted to order something light. There was a thing that caught my eyes.

Yee Mee Hot Pot.

That is really tempting, I thought. Well, I am not really a Hot Pot person, but what the heck, why shouldn’t I just allow myself to taste something else besides nasi lemak or nasi kerabu or nasi dagang and all that? Sure this hot pot wouldn’t harm me, would it? So, I ordered one Yee Mee Hot Pot. While waiting for the pot, I recalled one of my reading classes where I informed my students about the history of hot pot, where it evolved in the early 20th century among coolies whose back-breaking labor involved tugging riverboats upstream against the strong current of the Yangtze River. Underpaid and overworked, these coolies could afford little for meals and often gathered around a fire and a common pot, into which they dipped any food they could get their hands on. This was how hot pot started. For me, this sounded like how Muslims’ Asyura began during the times of critical hunger and emergency when these poor muslims gathered all sort of foods and lumped them together into a big pot and produce a culinary masterpiece called Asyura. Hmm.

Back to hot pot business, I couldn’t help smiling when I remembered my students’ daunting expressions when I told them about the bizarre choice of edibles at any traditional hot pot which include calf’s liver, pig’s brain and cow’s throat. It is delicious, I said jokingly, and they would moan and groan, erk, uwek, yuck, disgusting. I went on telling them about one extraordinary fact of China – the hotter the weather is, the more people here like to eat the hottest food imaginable, and they believe that if they want to stay cool, they have to get hot!

What an eccentric principle of living.

Oh, my Yee Mee Hot Pot was now ready in front of me. It looked so yummy, and I couldn’t wait to have it, but after few minutes of deliberate attempts, I couldn’t stand the heat – it was too darn hot! So I gave up and asked Aye to finish it. Take it, it is too hot, I don’t need this kind of hotness on a hot night, so you can enjoy this hot pot because I think you are very hot, I said to Aye. He ate it religiously until I realised that he had in his mouth all the things that I wanted – prawns, meets, fish balls, chicken, and all the edibles that I longed to have, and I couldn’t see them before because they were hidden right under the hot Yee Mee! If only I had been a little more patient and stronger, I could have savoured all those things. I felt like telling Aye, Stop it! Stop it! Goddammit. Give it back to me! It is my damn hot pot. I paid for it. But of course I didn’t say these because everything had just gone, glowing right into the famous hallway of my housemate’s stomach.

After some time, I smiled at myself because this Yee Mee Hot Pot experience taught me a very important lesson - it was not about the hot pot, it was more than that. I have always known the fact that hot pot is definitely hot and potentially detrimental, so I have to expect this tricky fact beforehand and be ready for all the possible consequences, and if I am tough and resilient enough to bear with all these pressures and challenges, I will be surprisingly rewarded with unexpected things towards the end of the trials and tribulations, because no matter how hot the hot pot is, it is worthwhile.

So is life.

And proud of it.

2007-08-21T13:23:00.000+08:00

How do I handle stubborn and persistent latecomers in my class? I reward them with a crown. Like this.

I AM A LATECOMING KING.
And proud of it.

I AM A LATECOMING QUEEN.
And proud of it.

Fun, isn’t it? Yes, it is an effective lesson on punctuality. So, if you want to experience these rare privileges of being glamourous and elite, you may come late to my class and it will definitely be my great pleasure and honour to crown you with these highly-acclaimed titles.

And you’ll be proud of it. Thank you.

14th of August 2007

2007-08-14T23:27:00.001+08:00

14th of August 2007 is a seemingly normal day for most normal human beings, unless it is the day they are luckily born or luckily get married or unluckily break up with their life partners, but 14th of August 2007 is a truly lucky and special day for me as I celebrate today in my own ecstatic ways, as there is nothing wrong with that since I deserve this celebration, because I have been patiently waiting for this specific moment for nearly four years, struggling and aching with endless detours and irresistible cocktails that have annoyingly delayed the strenuous work for such a painfully long long long long and long period. Phew.

And today is my graduation day.

Hehe. My cute little niece is cutely smiling.

So, what am I supposed to feel on the day I graduated from a university?

Significantly hooray.

Indeed, it has been one of the most thrilling days in my life that put me into an indescribable state of mind and emotion, and things have been running unbelievably smoothly, as if God has been tired of me after putting me into such beautiful hardship that He decided to have a little mercy on my poor life by turning 14th of August 2007 into the lightest and easiest day in my whole life.

The Senate was satisfied and awarded me with a master’s degree of TESL.
The thesis was endorsed and awarded an EXCELLENT grade.
The Cumulative Grade Points Average was finalized at 3.566.
The academic status was changed from ACTIVE to GRADUATED.
The clearance processes were completed within half an hour.
The finance officers happily signed the approval for release of certificate.
The security men nodded their heads and refused to withhold the transcript.
The librarians checked the records and gave an okay remark.
The residential representatives offered no more hassles.
The receptionist at Postgraduate Centre was unusually helpful.
The letter of completion was processed in just a split second.
The full academic transcript was finally released.

Just like that. So ironically easy.

And all these happened just in a single day. Today. So please remember this date – 14th of August 2007 – it was Cekmi’s Independence, Light and Easy Day.

Merdeka.

Hehe. My cute big nephew is cutely smiling too.

Queer Eyes

2007-08-10T12:46:00.000+08:00

The spacious arena,
leaving him in a coliseum
The inspiring lanterns,
giving him the comfort of five-star hotel
The modern TV cum hi fi,
craving him for their worldly pleasure
The attached rest room,
inviting him to royal giveaways
The all-white study table,
bringing him the long-lost innocence
The dome-like windows,
presenting him a miraculous getaway

Oh yes!
That stunning view from the windows
The mother-nature sight he wants to dine
Things he always envisions in mind
Things brought by endless time
Ignored by humankind

He can see now
The wind smoothly dancing
The birds merrily chirping
The trees gently swaying
The leaves happily falling
The grass smilingly resting

A marvelous grace of unspeakable beauty
Cekmi’s new room with heavenly vista
A miracle of idyllic windows

Queer eyes for a straight room

Kelantanese Way

2007-08-07T12:56:00.000+08:00

When I got onto a public bus at the Kota Bharu bus station recently, I did something immoral – I did not pay the bus fare.

Ha hah!

Excuse me, I was not a psychopath who looked for a mischievous way for a free ride, but there was no driver or a bus conductor on the bus asking for the fare. So I just took a seat and was then happy to see that the other passengers who came after me seemed not to be bothered about their bus tickets as well. Oh, someone might probably come later and ask for the ticket, so I thought.

When the bus driver finally came, he just got into his seat and sped off without even asking for the tickets from me or the other indifferent passengers. There was no bus conductor as well. What was happening? Should I just run to the bus driver and pay? Was there a hidden machine to pay for the fare? Did I miss something here? I dared not ask the passengers because I did not want to sound like a foolish Kelantanese who did not even know how to pay a bus fare in his own beloved state. As I was riding the bus, I was worried the whole time, wondering if I had committed a serious crime, if I had breached a newly-upgraded payment system in Kelantan, or whether I would be sent to a jail sooner for not paying a bus fare and for being an irresponsible and ignorant citizen of Malaysia.

When the bus reached the Pasir Mas bus station, I rushed to the bus driver.

“How much?” I asked him worriedly.
“Oh, where from?”
“Kota Bharu.”
“Tigo amah (RM1.50).”

I gave him the money and, surprisingly, he seemed unconcerned. When I reached home, I narrated the whole details to my little sister.

“How come the bus driver didn’t ask for the bus fare?” I whined angrily. “What kind of system is this? In Singapore, you would never get on the bus if you don’t pay the fare first. You’ll be caught if you don’t, I suppose. And Singaporean public transport, like MRT, is so first-class. I don’t understand Kelantan. So inefficient, so third world!”

My sister seemed oblivious with my wicked comments, and she looked so undisturbed, just like the bus driver. She gave me that strange smile and said: “Well, who needs a Singaporean system in Kelantan? The bus drivers here should have known all his passengers personally. And the passengers also should have known their responsibilities when riding on a bus. Everybody knows each other here, Cekmi. There is trust and love on the air. So, there is no need to trace for those who pay or do not pay the bus fare. This is an Islamic state. There is nothing to worry about. This is how it works here. This is Kelantan, not Singapore.”

My little sister might have a point.

Usrah ke?

2007-08-02T14:35:00.000+08:00

When it comes to handling usrah, I am always equipped with the unthinkable bit of knowledge which, in some gratifying ways, provides some ingenious leeway for my utter ignorance over the subject matter. This is one of them.

Okay students, today’s topic is Soul Purification. Eh, have I started this class with Al-Fatihah? Oh, I have? Thanks Huda, whoa, you look so pretty today with that famous Wardina-style tudung and glittering baju kurung that people only wear when they go to a wedding, hmmm, are you going for a date after this? Hah, why you smile smile like that, Amran? You are going with her, ke? Astaghfirullah, this is Friday lah, hissh hissh hissh. Okay okay, let’s talk about our usrah today. Wait wait, haa… here comes another VIP who is fashionably late to class. Give him a big round of applause. Clap clap clap. Yes, welcome to my class dear VIP, you can kindly proceed to you seat and be comfortably seated on your comfy leathered chair there, and congratulations on your classic lateness because you’ve successfully got my attention and these girls’ attention. I know you are desperately looking for attention and craving for love, and that’s why you purposely came late today, right Nabil? Good boy.

Okay people, let’s start now. What is it, Noraini? You wanna go to the toilet? Why you wanna go to the toilet at the beginning of my class? You can go to the toilet before my class, can’t you? Cannot tahan? Go go go to the toilet and what Abdullah? No no no, you cannot say things like that to her. Naughty lah you ni. You want to go to a toilet too, Hazwan? Okay, make sure you read the sign properly before entering the toilet ha ha. Okay okay, this is usrah, not English class. I should be talking like a respectable Ustaz. What Fatimah? These old newspaper? Wait, I will tell you very soon. Patient patient patient. Sabar itu separuh daripada iman. Ha ha.

Now, I will put you into 5 groups. I will start counting you now, one, two, three, what Sharifah? You want to choose your own group members? Hak elah, why you people ah, always like to be among your own kind only? So complacent and racist. Okay, choose choose choose. Now now. Only five or four students in a group. Yes, like that. Faster. Faster. Why you slow? Aggressive lah sikit.

Now, see these old newspapers? I want you guys to build the tallest and strongest building using these newspapers only, yes, only these. Use your wild imagination and creativity to build one building. I don’t care how it will look like as long as it is a building, not a durian or a kueh. Any question? No Husna, no, you cannot use other things besides these newspapers. I have brought enough newspapers and I think they are enough for five groups. Yes Faisal, yes, you can build any type of building, KLCC, KL Tower, Menara Maybank, Tabung Haji, anything. But make sure, people, your buildings must be tall and strong. The group that builds the strongest and tallest building will be the winner. Any other questions? Yes Mashitah, toilet? Haiyoyo, go go go. Okay, you may start now. How long? Hmm, 15 minutes, not enough? Okay okay okay, 30 minutes. Now, come and grab these newspapers. Now!

And the winner for today’s paper-building competition is…

Harry Porter's Building!

Well done people. I am so proud of you guys. So brilliant and talented. You can pass for an excellent architect. Yes, I know, this is not an architecture class. No, I am not teaching you to be an architect, Hanafi. Thanks for your concern. You see, I notice that some of you tend to concentrate and build the main body or the top of the buildings first. At the end, you were panicked because you did not know how to put them in balance on the floor. Some buildings could easily fall if I just touch or blow. Why did this thing happen? No no no Halim, not because they are made of stupid old newspapers. No. Thank you for your answer, but it was not really accurate. I tell you what, this thing happened because you forgot to build the base first, I mean, you forgot to build a strong foundation which could strongly hold the body of your buildings, understood?

You see guys, life is also like that. If you do not have a strong foundation within yourself, whatever you build and have in your life, your top-notch career, your gigantic house, your excellent Ph.D, your expensive car, all will collapse and be deemed meaningless if you forget to cater for the humane aspect within yourselves. If you purify your soul first and concentrate on this matter before doing any other worldly things, you’ll have a solid base in this life and you can stand tall like this Harry Porter's building, and in the end, you can be successful in your life and you can easily menuju puncak and gemilang cahaya and all that, like those instant stars did in Akademi Fantasia.

Cekmi.
Yes, Aizat.
Are you teaching usrah or what?

Uniquely Singapore 2

2007-07-30T10:40:00.000+08:00

When I was in Singapore, I almost forgot that I used to be a diet freak. The foods were marvelous and top-notch, and halal! I swallowed almost everything before me as if I had never been served with good foods. It was a vacation after all. For the record, I had nasi beriani ayam consecutively at three different restaurants. Besides, Nasi Padang was out-of-the-world delicious. Not to forget the superb ais kacang durian. To find this halal stuff in seemingly haram sects of the city was obnoxiously exhilarating.

I went to some unique places and tried to look for its definition of uniqueness. Arab Street had such inviting sights that enlightened the Malay part of me. Clarke Quay was amazingly hip and high with all sorts of excitements and wildness that pleased the searching soul for libido-fulfillment. Siloso Beach in Sentosa Island was fun but I found the beach artificial, unnatural and weird. It was more like a swimming pool where the water was a bit salty and muddy. Orchard Road shocked me with its grand line of Shopping Malls. But of all these places, there were two places worth highlighted since they successfully grabbed my utmost attention and wild imagination. More importantly, they truly make Singapore a unique country.

Chinatown

My travel-mate, Amar, and I settled in Chinatown for our accommodation. It was a budget backpacker’s inn which cost $18 per bed. It was more or less a hostel, which thrilled me since I had the chance to meet the other backpackers who savored the rainbows of Singapore. The owner, Ms. Sooi was so friendly and hospitable she didn’t mind if I used her washing machine for laundry. Just buy a soap from me which cost only 80 cent, she said. She was so helpful I wondered whether she got a secret plan to sell me to an agency catered for male prostitutes. But the hostel was so clean, safe and modern. The door itself was secured by a password which was regularly updated, and there was even a CCTV inside the room! Whoa, I was so impressed. Even a budgeted inn has a CCTV in Singapore. What a fine country.

There was a pub on the ground floor, just below the hostel. It belonged to Mr. Sooi as well. Amar and I had a wild conspiracy theory over this, that Mr. Sooi could be the middle-woman or something like that because there were few girls coming in and out of the rooms in the middle of the night. And there was a handsome-looking girl working for her. I took the liberty to wander around the pub when there was no customer. Erotic pictures mostly adoring nude women were hung everywhere. Rainbow flags were seen in many parts of the pub. Curious, I asked the handsome girl about the significance of the flags.

Gay Pride, she said.

Hmm.

Ironically, the backpacker’s inn and the pub were located at Mosque Street. What a weird way to name a street in Chinatown because I couldn’t see any sign of a mosque in the town, except there was a Hindu temple towards the end of this street. Isn’t it again a bizarre blend?

A Hindu temple. A Gay Pub. At Mosque Street. In Chinatown.

But the most unique part of the town was its night market, where a concoction of wordly materials was laid to appease the senses of its passers-by who had enough dollars in the wallet. I could find here such an appealing cacophony which cultural and ethnic sight of China thrilled me with deep admiration for its splendid colours, sounds and smells. The splendor that I enjoyed here was probably reflected on my face when most of the taukes here spoke to me in Chinese.

“No, I am not Chinese. I am Siamese from Malaysia,” I told the Chinese auntie jokingly.
“Oh, why are you wearing that Chinese talisman around your neck?”
“This? Oh, I am a dragon. 1976. I can protect myself using this, can’t I?”

The auntie was smiling. She knew that, based on Chinese horoscope, I am a confidant director, a strong ally and a determined leader. For her friendliness, I bought from her a red shirt with a Chinese character meaning prosperity. One green Yin and Yang gemstone with a red lace caught my attention and I bought this too. My father would be shocked to death if he saw me wearing these unreligious materials. But the auntie foretold me even more that as a dragon, I could be a tough negotiator, a lover of romance, a pleasant storyteller, a holder of values, a sentimental with soft heart, and a supportive friend with vibrant personality. Wow. This cultural interpretation for me couldn’t be more tempting and alluring I felt more Chinese than the Chinese themselves.

The night around the town was quiet and safe. Amar and I could just sit and chitchat after midnight on a bench at Mosque Street without feeling guilty or arrested. I couldn’t imagine if we were doing this at Petaling Street or Jalan TAR in KL after midnight. Well, we could be easily slaughtered into pieces and worthy of the following morning’s breaking news headlines. But there we were, in Chinatown, merrily lazing around after midnight, wondering how in the name of heavan we could be so safe and protected in the Chinese area.

As I was trying to write a sign on the bench, something like “Cekmi and Amar were here”, I was hesitant and suddenly terrified of the possibilities of the existence of pre-crime department in Singaporean security system, just like that one in Minority Report. I didn’t want to be arrested for the crime I was about to commit, so I cancelled my mischievous plan. See? Even a newcomer like me knew how to behave in Singapore. I think this ingrained sense of you-are-being-watched-and-judged fear could be the fundamental for safer environment around the country. And I could feel this in Chinatown, and that makes this town really one of a kind.

Little India

The sight in Little India was, for me, the most awe-inspiring and unforgettable. The images of the mass with the same look and expression flocking and hurrying and rushing in massive groups all over the place kept haunting me. While Amar was walking fast and complaining about the possible danger that I was exposed to, I was busy downloading the incredible smells and sounds around me with such pleasure and joy. I just couldn’t believe that Singapore has reserved such an amazingly concentrated cultural place like this, the ‘ghetto’ that I had never imagined to exist and to be part of giant and concrete Singapore. This particular sight of Singapore was totally unexpected and this made me even more excited I could happily scream at people around me telling them that what a blessing to be part of this oddity and mirage.

“Come on, walk faster Cekmi! Terhegeh-hegeh.” Amar was getting more impatient with my incomprehensible elation. I smiled even more. I followed him into the Mustafa Centre. This shopping mall reminded me of Mydin Wholesale Store in KL. But it was richer and bigger in taste. The crowd inside was wild and crazy too. But I took pleasure in experiencing this culturally enriching circumstance which was less appreciated by many these days.

After shopping, we were out on the street again, and things became more hostile and disoriented. If you ask me why I still give this place a credit, I would say that I was just amused by the haphazardness and disharmony this place seemed to celebrate. Look, just take look at the way these people moved. They moved as if there was a war coming, that a nuclear bomb had just been dropped. If TV3 has been so proud of generating the chaos in its Jom Heboh campaigns, this place was 10 times heboh than those carnivals. At times, I felt like I was in the middle of public riots. Rubbish was freely disposed. Cars kept honking at each other. Things seemed to flutter in all directions. Is this really Singapore, I kept asking myself.

As I kept torturing my senses, I saw giant advertisements written in Tamil or Urdu, I was not sure. There were also posters of Hollywood celebrities hung with pride on many buildings. At that moment, I wished I could bump into Shah Rukh Khan or pretty Aishwarya Rai, but they were definitely not to be seen in this area, or else they would be more pandemonium, and killing and bombing and all that. But the whole atmosphere was superbly Indian. It was as if I was in the Big India. Oh, no wonder this place was called Little India. But this Little India was definitely not so little compared to our own Jalan Masjid India in KL. Aha, Jalan Masjid India – how I always cherish myself being there, enjoying myself, walking along the street while humming the songs from Dil To Pagal Hai or Mohabbatein. So, this obsession with Jalan Masjid India could well explain my hallucination with Little India in Singapore.

Oh my God, how I love Chinatown and Little India. The Hundred Secret Senses of them. The Colourful Cultures of them. It was truly a wonderful feeling.

And these make Singapore truly unique.

Thanks Kak Lun for your kindnesses ;-)

Jakpa’s Melancholy

2007-07-23T12:28:00.000+08:00

Ain’t I gorgeous? Ha ha.

Hello there, dear bloggers. My name is Jakpa.

J-A-K-P-A.

I can’t believe that I spelled that for you, considering that I am actually illiterate, ha ha. Yes, that’s the Kelantanese term of endearment for my real name, Ja’far. I am 40 years old, and that’s quite contradictorily old for a cute-looking man like me, huh? Ha ha. Don’t worry. I may look physically-deficient, but I won’t bite you, InsyaAllah. Well, maybe I would if you call me orang gila, ha ha, because I am not at all like the person you might think of, judging from the way I look like, because I am just mentally challenged in certain ways. So, don’t ever call me orang gila, or something like that, ok? Ha ha.

Oh yes, right now, my home address is Kampung Binjal, Kangkong, 17000 Pasir Mas, Kelantan. Hmm, sounds familiar to you guys? Of course, it is Cekmi’s hometown. And here I am, talking to you in Cekmi’s blog using English language, as if I am a master’s degree holder in TESL, ha ha. Maybe I am as intellectually sound as Cekmi, or maybe Cekmi himself is mentally challenged who likes to impersonate other people, crazy people like me, ha ha. But, isn’t it good, to be able to use a high-powered tool of technology and to talk through a dynamic medium using a language of dignity and to communicate with educated people like you? Yes, you out there. And please don’t worry, I won’t bite you, ha ha.

Thank you for still listening to my rumblings even though you can easily bloghop to other people’s more attractive blogs. I know, most people despise me back in my own kampong because they treat me like orang gila, ops, sorry for the language, I mean they treat me so because I am a mentally-challenged person, yes, that’s the least of politically-correct term used by modern and polite city men these days. But I don’t mind to be referred to as a crazy man because it is easy and simple and conforms to uncomplicated laymen’s colloquial way of saying things in my kampong. And thank you Cekmi, for the time and space given here. I am so blessed with this opportunity, ha ha.

Aha, you might be still laughing over my haphazard look – that chicken-style hairdo, greasy facial complexion which has not been cleansed for days, red eyes which could be dangerously infectious, big nose, broken teeth with that sweet American smile, over-sized t-shirt given by a kind person who knows how to put me in style, worn-out trousers, stupid Japanese sandal, and there I was, posing weirdly like a little Hobbit ready to serve the Lord of the Ring, ha ha. You can still laugh, because I can enlighten your already-tired intelligence with my musings here.

You see, there are many other people out there in Pasir Mas who are like me, roaming around the town and village, entertaining people with our geniuses, telling them things they like to hear, making them happy out of our mentally-retarded personas. As for me, I would love to go to Cekmi’s house, meeting his father who would talk to me nicely, asking me how fine I am, and I would say that I am a bit starving, and I would look at Cekmi’s ever-friendly mother who would then offer me with all sorts of foods and drinks I could sleep the whole day with all the joy and love in the world. Once in a blue moon, I would see Cekmi’s presence in the house and I would ask him about his successful life in KL, but he would just smile and wouldn’t say much, and I perfectly understand that because I am not a master’s degree holder in TESL, ha ha.

I am thankful because I still have my parents around. They love me so much, and this is proven when they refused to send me to a place, a sort of concentration camp, where the likes of me would be there, where I wouldn’t have my own freedom to walk freely around kampong with my fashionable hairdo anymore, ha ha, where I wouldn’t have the comfort of visiting the friendly people in my kampong anymore, giving me foods and drinks all the time I could sleep the whole day, not giving a shit for the whole goddam thing, ha ha. Sorry for my poor language.

I think my parents understand me better than any other creatures in this world. For that, I am so richly blessed to have them as my parents who are proud of having me as their own son who couldn’t possibly be as normal as any other people’s sons, who brush their teeth and smile that American smile, go to a university, get a decent degree, marry a beautiful wife, rear dozens of kids, settle in a big house, drive the latest model of car and go to Tanjong Golden Village at KLCC on Sunday watching Harry Potter’s latest installment, ha ha. But my parents still love me even though I am not able to do all these so-called normal things, because I know I am also “normal” in certain ways and I am capable to do a lot more than those “normal” citizens in the world. And I know my parents love me for who I am, because I am a normal child of God.

I don’t know. I like to laugh and laugh and laugh, ha ha. This life is so amusing and funny. And you can laugh at me endlessly, because it is hard to hurt people already laughing and beyond you, ha ha.

Uniquely Singapore

2007-07-17T14:26:00.000+08:00

I found these tidbits in Singapore:

A rat was running merrily at the back of Mosque Street
A cab driver refused to take a passenger unless you had their number
A graffiti was found on a building in Bugis Street
A lake could be seen while riding MRT
A beggar was roaming freely in Orchard Road
A nasi padang restaurant was located just the opposite of Bak Kut Teh.

So maybe I had to reconsider these hypothetical ‘myths’ about Singapore:

The streets are heavenly clean
The public transportation is customer-friendly
The city is vandalism-free
The city is a concrete jungle
The citizens are financially well taken care of
The halal restaurants are wiped out

Isn’t Singapore unique? Truly, my first trip to Singapore was uniquely unbelievable.

Please Let Me In

My first attempt to visit Singapore was not welcome by a glamorous red carpet. In fact, I had to go through two unexpected detours.

First, the bus I was riding was stranded for few hours in the middle of the night in the middle of PLUS highway, which could be possibly near to an old abandoned cemetery. I tried not look back as suggested by Jangan Pandang Belakang director, and I was lucky, the Jeepers Creepers were not after us.

Second, I was detained by an immigration officer in Woodlands, who claimed that there were some suspicious items in my luggage. It turned out to be Jimi’s pirated CDs. Oh Gosh, how could I not expect it? But I could not blame Jimi since both of us were unaware of the fact that I could be severely punished by Singaporean authorities over the possession of pirated materials.

“Are you Malaysian?” asked the lady officer at the checking point.
“Yes,” I answered shakily.
The lady smiled and asked me to leave.

Phew.

But I was left in trauma afterwards, realizing the possibilities that I could have been a prison-mate with international drug-traffickers in highly-efficient Singaporean jail right after, yes, my very first attempt to cross the international border using my passport for the first time, ever. For God’s sake, I could have been probed further into the FBI room but I was darn lucky because the officer in-charge was a lady who probably understood that Malaysians are synonymous with piracy, and probably considering that I looked so innocent who just wanted to enjoy his overseas trip for the first time, ever, so she just let me go. But I couldn’t help imagining that the lady might have secretly slipped a sophisticated tracking device into my luggage so she could easily follow me wherever I went, but I told myself that it was only my stupid imagination. Oh my, why couldn’t Singaporean immigration be as casual as Malaysian immigration that did not even bother to check my passport in Johor Bharu. Okay, stop worrying Cekmi. Stay focused. Look, you are about to experience another country besides Malaysia. Look, it is Singapore, really!

Let’s ride the train!

I remember my first contact with the idea of Singapore was way back in Kelantan when I was small when my mother told me that a lot of strong young men in my kampong went to Singapore to find a decent work. When they came back, they were so rich they could easily retire with a big house and a pretty wife and lots of children. Wow, Singapore must have been a paradise.

Indeed, I could experience the heavenly sights and sounds the moment I boarded the MRT after the hassle in immigration, which I tried very hard to ignore the fact I could be imprisoned for 25 years. Most of the people in the train looked so prosperous and Chinese when they looked at me I had this inferior feeling over my topsy-turvy country, that I could practically read their minds that informed each other in the train, Hey, look at that funny-looking guy with that stupid-looking rebonded hair, he must be a Malaysian who works so hard in KL but pity him, this is his first overseas trip, while we Singaporeans are more advanced than his country even though this year we are not celebrating 50 years of nationhood, but here we are in the best MRT in the world, while that 50-year-old KL has only complaining LRT users who are forced to be suffocated under the dark tunnel when it breaks down that drives them mad over the galore the Malaysian government has contributed to the nation after 50 years of nationhood. Oh, we are so glad we are Singaporeans.

When I looked outside the train, the apartments looked so modern and orderly I refused to recall the sickening images of squatter residence one could easily spot when riding a train in KL. As I was thinking of the short LRT in KL, I was suddenly amazed by the unexpected sights of greeneries and reservoirs located so naturally there in the midst of fast-moving modernity in little Singapore. How could a tiny and metal Singapore maintain those natures?

Oh, talking about modernity, I couldn’t be more impressed with the on-the-clock efficiency and convenience of its train system. The movement around the country has never been so easy that one could practically move to any place with such ease and style. It was overwhelming at first, but after some time, I enjoyed getting my coin back from the pay machine. And I wondered again how on earth the Singaporeans could be so civilized and crime-free. I was looking for some answers when I noticed the bulging CCTV cameras located almost everywhere in the MRT station. While paying the train fare at Bugis station, I actually counted the number of cameras there. One.. two.. three.. hmm…

Eleven CCTVs altogether, at the counter, alone!

Isn’t just one adequate? Well, we are dealing with Singaporeans who are supposed to possess high civic awareness, or could it be the other way around, that these Singaporeans lack this civic sense that forced the government to spend more money to install and inculcate the judging power of CCTV over its nation? And with that bulging design of camera that points right to my face, I got the message so clearly and forcefully, yes, I am looking at you Cekmi, and I know you have that mineral water inside your green bag, so don’t ever think about drinking it in the train, or else…. Oh my, this thought scared me out of my wits. I know, these cameras were supposed to make the civilians feel safer, but it might as well show that there was no trust between the authorities and the public, and crimes were successfully inhibited with those powerful devices, and in the end, Singapore is a ‘fine’ country, and this, I suppose, could be one of the secret recipes of Singaporean first-class civilization. Geniusly done.

No wonder those men who mentally mocked me in the MRT were so proud of being Singaporeans.

Ah.

My Lily

2007-07-12T12:54:00.000+08:00

Have you played ever Uno – Winnie the Pooh? Lily and I learned how to play it by ourselves at McDonald’s.

“Let’s read the instructions together!” she told me cheekily. I always liked the way she smiled. So adorable.
“You show me, and I will beat you,” I challenged her.
“Oh, you can never beat me Cekmi, I always win…”
“We’ll see.”

So we started playing, exploring the rules like naughty kids in the kindergarten, throwing cards childishly, laughing heartily at our stupid mistakes, oblivious of the curious onlookers around us in the restaurants eating their happy meals, and soon things became more serious when we both knew the tricks of the game. I won the first two rounds. She won the third and fourth. I won again. She didn’t give up. Gosh! At the end – 6-5. She won.

The result

Lily the Uno Winner!

Lily enjoyed her ‘trophy’ later on – Sundae ice cream! We were both happy after having our happy meals during happy hours in a happy mood playing a happy game with a happy ending after a happy outing. Happy ever after.

But this entry is not about Uno. It is about Lily. And you might have been troubled with this question.

Who the hell is Lily?

Blossoming Lily

Isn’t she adorable?

I met her two years ago during a post-graduate meeting in the university. She was my junior in the class. Since the very beginning, I knew there was something about her character that was irresistibly pulling me to a mild ecstasy – she was petite, charming, sweet and spoilt. And I found one significant fact - we shared the same birthday!

Wow. What a good omen.

This could be a new beginning for something. So I helped her get a place in my college as an English lecturer. She was then not only my beautiful classmate but also my pretty colleague. I always liked her professionally and personally, but our so-called relationship was not that sweet.

Things were a bit hectic between us.

When we were classmates in Semantics class, we had a heart-wrenching problem. We were asked by our lecturer, Dr. Subra, to be partners for a class project but I was reluctant. I asked for another student to be my partner, but Dr. Subra demanded that Lily and I should be ‘a couple’ since we were both working at the same college. As a matter of fact, I just found out about the true colours of Lily’s professional personality – she was at times careless and couldn’t be bothered with her tasks. This character opposed my organised and meticulous traits and this made me quite uncomfortable working with her.

When I scolded her one day over the phone for not being punctual for a presentation in our class, she was crying and whimpering and telling me that I should not treat her that way, because there had never been anyone in her life who would dare to raise their voice at her. Well, sorry Lily, it doesn’t work for me. Who cares? I don’t care. You mess up with me and you are going to pay the price, I said harshly. Soon enough, I privately went to see Dr. Subra, and told him that I wanted to disengage my partnership with Lily. He was gentle and didn’t say a word, but in the class, he commented a lot about our strained relationship and attempted a lot of unbelievable tricks to put Lily and me together again as a team, telling us that we shouldn’t ‘break up’ and we were perfect together. He acted just like an old lady matchmaker from China.

“You two should talk to each other. Take my money and go to Victoria Station and sort things out between you guys,” said Dr. Subra, smiling like a father who understood perfectly about his son’s love affairs. The other classmates were grinning, probably thinking that we were both stupid couple who did not know how to handle our own love and study affairs. I finally gave in to his advice, out of sympathy for Lily because she would not get any marks for the project since the major part of it had been completed by me. So we did our assignments together and at last passed the subject with flying colours (Lily had always been Dr. Subra’s favourite, by the way).

In the college, I was not really satisfied with her performance and attitude. She was late, sloppy and out of control. It irritated me to see such a charming-looking girl who has a right aptitude but with a bad attitude. But after some time and through years of experience and training, I could see that Lily is changing and showing me her improvements. I see her now with a different perspective. She has proven to me that I had been wrong all this while thinking that she was just another dumb blonde who knew nothing about attitude and hard work. She is now a grown lady. In fact, I found her sexier when she was just promoted as a Course Coordinator for Advanced English. These intellectual properties are, for me, more arousing than her physical looks. It seems that I have just met her even though she has been all around me for two years in the office. This new side of her brings a complicated fondness in me towards her. After all, I have always liked her all these years. One of my friends said that she is so perfect for me she could be a perfect bride in a sequel of My Best Friend’s Wedding.

Taking a risk, I asked her out a few times recently. The most recent outing was rather successful. I found her company almost pleasurable and self-fulfilling. Playing Uno together, we were just like sick teen couple who had just found each other in the internet. Maybe she is meant for me. Maybe she is not. I don’t have the guts and the right balls to reveal to her about my current feelings. Maybe it is too late.

Because her Thai boyfriend has already won this game.

Hurry Up Cekmi!

2007-07-05T12:59:00.000+08:00

Hurry up
Time is moving too fast
You are aging and poorly cast
30 years have unkindly passed
Have you accomplished your tasks?

Hurry up
You have another 30 years to waste
Let go of the petty things you chase
Focus on matters you should grace
You must speed up you slow pace

Hurry up
Your friends are aging too
They will not wait for you
So ask them “How do you do?”
Before your body is turning blue

Hurry up
You don’t have much time
You cannot follow your rhyme
Because you are like committing the crime
When you die you will be nobody’s prime

Hurry up
Stop smoking but keep swimming
Get your degree and get moving
Buy a house or a girl’s blessing
Get a life and stop rumbling

Hurry up
Stop dreaming
Please start packing
Keep yourself running
The world is leaving and dying

Hurry up
It is urgent and critical
Forget the whimsical
Live with the practical
Life can’t be that magical

So hurry up Cekmi!

Something is eating my mind.

2007-06-29T16:21:00.000+08:00

My mind has been into a constant ride of turmoil and confusion these days.

“U told me u coming la, lupa ke?” Kak Lun texted me when I wondered how she had known that I would be coming to Singapore.

Hmm.

I forgot to take my Maybank card from the auto teller machine. Not once, but twice in a month.

Hmm. Hmm.

I forgot to collect a student’s exam answer script in the examination venue. That’s Cekmi who was once a meticulous manager for examination department.

Hmm. Hmm. Hmm.

This unforgiving absent-mindedness makes me doubt of my own judgment. But this self-doubt nevertheless has benefited others who are wicked enough to play around with my messed-up brain. My students, for example, like to take advantage of my fragile mind by not returning their homework since they know perfectly that I would totally forget about their homework the minute I come to the following class, chitchatting happily with them like a stupid clown until I feel that something is holding back inside my tired mind, that there are some vague clouds and shadows at the back of my fatigue mind, until a good student would spoil the class’ happy hours by pitying my poor condition and telling the truth, and I would say, “You naughty kids! Why didn’t you tell me you have homework to submit?” But it has always been too late. Who wants to submit an incomplete homework to an old forgetful lecturer? Maybe they are not at fault since I apparently have lost my wits to deal with their rather heartwarming cruelty.

With my housemate, Aye, I have to be extra careful when breaking some shocking news or telling him some hot stories I encounter in the college or while driving back home, because I am afraid that I have already broken the news few days before or that I have already narrated the details of the hot stories few hours earlier. Likewise, I am too afraid to ask him about his recent trip to Ipoh, because he might say it again: “I told you lah before!” And this would put me in a perplexing wonder of self-pity, deep embarrassment and severe helplessness which make me pray hard that I wouldn’t end up acting like a lunatic Dato’ Rahim Razali in Cinta, or a romantic empty-headed Drew Barrymore in 50 First Dates.

What really happened to me? There must some feasible explanations for this detrimental state of my mental health. Looking at the gigantic waterfall streaming down to nowhere in Hulu Yam last Sunday has inspired me with a lot of wild guesses and theories about my dangerous mind falling down to obscurity.

Let’s start with seven.

One. Have I overloaded my mind with unnecessary stuff lately? I don’t think I have watched too much pornography that spins my mind with all the erotic XXX scenes and all that.

Two. Thesis? Could it be that my acute obsession with thesis writing has possibly erased the good part of my short-term memory?

Three. Is it due to my decision to quit smoking? Does it have to do with the resistance against nicotine that my mental system has secretly declared war with me, the pathetic decision-maker who is weak enough to remember where he parks his car in KLCC?

Four. Could it be due to my dietary system? Maybe I have not been eating well for the past few months that my mind started to retaliate. I was reading the Star last Sunday and was shocked to learn from a research finding that eating disorder could cause unusual moodiness, depression, confusion and forgetfulness. Well, these symptoms could almost define my psychological and physiological beings these days. But I refuse to admit this theory since I am sure I have eaten well despite my intense precaution with the amount of food intake. Or maybe I should eat more fats to fatten the mental capacity and space. Yes, maybe I need more space. Maybe another 200 gigabyte.

Five. Am I just too old to remember and relocate things at its right place? Everything seems to slip away. I am scared of thinking of the possibilities of mental diseases or something. But I am pretty sure that I am not as elderly and nyanyuk as my auntie in Kelantan who always forgets where she puts her money while it is always right there inside her classic bra and she also always gives duit raya to the same boy again and again until the boy is able to buy a real gun on his own that he will probably use later to threaten my auntie in case she gains back her memory and asks him back all the money she has lost.

Six. Has someone put me into a psychoanalytic treatment like what happened to Jim Carey and Kate Winslet in Eternal Sunshine of Spotless Mind? I don’t know.

Seven. Jimi has a theory. He said that I hardly listen to people and I am not that caring about what people say and feel. Maybe this mental delusion is the price that I have to pay for being negligent and insensitive towards other people’s life affairs.

But all these hypotheses fail to convince me with enough conviction. I hope my meeting with Kak Lun this weekend will inspire me one or two reasonable answers for Cekmi’s chronic and deadly condition of an important part of sanity called mind.

What’s eating my mind?

The Hell of Administration

2007-06-26T18:57:00.000+08:00

People call me Mr. Hellaluya Pit. Yes, I am an angel from Hell.

As a matter of fact, I am unofficially assigned by the Hell Ministry to be Cekmi’s guardian angel in the world. And what the hell have these people on earth been doing to Cekmi? As a respected guardian, I have to protect his well-beings on earth. Otherwise, I could easily send those troublemakers to Hell. By the way, do you guys know that Cekmi’s real name sounds like Hell Me? Funny, isn’t it? Be careful, because he could Hell You any time he wants.

The Bull-shitty World Management

“The formula for achieving success is simple: you should treat all disasters as if they were trivialities, but never treat a triviality as if it were a disaster” - Quentin Crisp

Thank you for the food-for-the-soul tip, Mr Crisp. But you can go to Hell. I can tell that Cekmi doubts your words, because he wonders how he would sleep at night with such trivialities that got him on his nerves. You should have some mercy over his shitty life because he has recently encountered a lot of administrative bullshits that have driven him crazy that people around him would easily notice his strange behaviours by curiously asking annoying varieties of are-you-okay questions or why-you-so-stressed-out inquiries. You don’t understand what I am talking about, do you? That’s because I live in Hell and I am using a hellish language.

Okay now, let’s take a deeper look at his pathetic worldly administration stories, both at his university and his college, which have indeed put his life in a great glorious shit these days. You are lucky to see him alive with that skeletal body he thought he was so good-looking but I don’t think so because I think he looks so sick and damned. People in hell are a lot healthier and fatter. Okay okay okay, you snoopy bloggers who can’t resist the smell of good stories, these are the damned stories.

The Damnation of the International Irate University

He went to his university recently to check on his postgraduate status. So he entered excitedly like a fairy into the office of Post-graduate Studies. A moment later, the fairy flew away, because he found out the most shocking revelation in his life. The dumb-looking man at the counter told him aloofly:

“Brother, you have been dismissed from the university.”

Pause.

I don’t have to tell you how he reacted, because you can guess already how a drama queen like Cekmi would react in such a dramatic moment. But I am going to tell you anyway.

Play.

Cekmi was downright traumatized the world seemed to stop for a while. The feelings were so heavy things seemed to move in a slow motion like some kinda action movie. He looked at the sloppy I-don’t-care-how-you-feel-right-now man at the counter, and he felt like saying all the vulgar words he learnt in life before smashing the head of that son-of-a-bitch at the counter with the biggest hammer in the world and slicing out his brain like what Sylar did in Heroes, but thanks to the imaginary lawless world, Cekmi wouldn’t say nor do those things because it was a real lawful world and he would only say all those imaginary words and do all those imaginary actions in his blog later. All he could mutter was a faint “What? Dismissed?”

After few revealing seconds, Cekmi laughed madly at the bastard decision the university had decided for him, because how could it not be funny when he was a nerd who had religiously followed all the rules and regulations of the university, and he had been right there around the university almost everyday, and he had submitted the thesis for approval, and he had brought all the best out of him to graduate, and everything had seemed so right and perfect, when suddenly a bloody man at the counter told him that he was dismissed? Cow shit.

The nutty people in the office later told Cekmi that he missed to fill in one form. Of all the reasons in the world, he was kicked out of the prestigious university because he forgot to fill in a form. A form. Ahah. Thanks. But, how in the name of Heavan would he know which form to fill or when to fill them or how to fill them when the forms are so overwhelming in number, and there is no clear instruction, like a checklist or something, to guide or ease the complicated procedures, and there is no one reminding him over the possibilities of his ignorance and dismissal through whatsoever channels of communication? Buffalo shit.

After few days, Cekmi was again an ACTIVE student. At last they did their damn job.

The Nightmare of the International Irritating College

Back at his workplace, the disaster was almost synonymous with Cekmi. He left the administration in his college a year ago. He felt that he was so lucky and happy for leaving all the nonsensical stuff generated by the never-ending madness in the college management. But the management has never left him alone. As long as he is paid by the college, he would be forever stuck in the worst nightmare.

The most recent nightmare Cekmi was forced to face was to be the Director for another students’ intake. Since the very beginning, he felt sick and annoyed with the no-bonus syndrome spread in the college.

“If you don’t do this, no bonus!” those people with high power keep reminding him. So they thought this performance-based bonus is the key factor for all the human productivity in the college. Well, they might be right. Being a private cost-conscious college, it demands all the lecturers to be multitasking so that it will be cost-effective. With a low incentive, or maybe free refreshments on Fridays and the bonus in mind, the lecturers are expected to be ready for any unexpected assignments which could cost their teaching quality and reward them with a bonus or two. On the other hand, by looking at the high drop-out rate among lecturers, the management might be wrong. Oh, who wants the bonus when they have to sacrifice a lot of their nights and weekends for administrative tasks that could have been possibly handled by specialized administrators, provided the management is ready to hire them?

Plus, who wants the bonus if those poor lecturers are treated like beggars, putting them into constant no-bonus threat, pressurizing them into high-profile interviews to qualify them for a single bonus? In the end, the whole motivation for workforce in the college seems to be bonus-oriented. What happens to the I-want-to-help-the-nation-and-Ummah drive? What the hell is happening? Might as well the college is renamed the BONUS College.

Believe Or Not, U Suck.

Whatever the motive is, Cekmi was one of the victims. But he was no longer a bonus-driven gadget. So he carried out his job so involuntarily and with so much hatred and irritation. Why should he do something that could not contribute to his teaching profession? Experience? Bonus? But he could not complain. No bonus. And this no-bonus ridiculousness was at its peak when he met the HR manager.

“Since I came to work last Sunday for student intake and fulfilled six hours, I want to apply for one unrecorded leave,” said Cekmi stiffly.
“Was that the first time you worked on Sunday?”
“Does it matter?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. You have to work for two Sundays to claim for one unrecorded leave.”
And that answer put Cekmi in a rage, as he said: “And since when did you create this policy? Yesterday?”
“I thought everybody knows about this.”
“No, I don’t know. Show me the black and white memo!”
The HR moment was silent. Cekmi continued, “Look. I don’t mind about not getting a leave, but I don’t want to be the only victim of this so-called reasonable reimbursement. So I demand you to circulate a new notice and let everybody know about this fancy policy of yours.”
“Please Cekmi, don’t get angry at me. I am just new around here and I take orders from someone else too.”
“No, you should learn how to do your job properly and you should know how to decide on your own, and for God’s sake, you are the Manager, not some kinda stupid school children!”

Cekmi’s application has never been approved.

So tell me, is administration in the whole world just another bullshit in disguise? Do all worldly administrations have to be so cruel to their people? Are citizens of the world too busy minding how much they would get at the end of the month they forget to deliver their decent service to others? Administration is supposed to ease people’s affairs, but heck, maybe I should send all these people to Hell and let them suffer the worst administration affairs in their afterlife, waiting for Lord’s decision on the Judgment Day.

But on the other hand, Cekmi should slow down a bit. Maybe he should treat those disasters as trivialities. Maybe he should know that it is not the end of the world, unless I decide to send him to Hell very soon.

This is Mr. Hellaluya Pit. Out.

Passport to Life

2007-06-22T11:27:00.001+08:00

“Dream” By Mohamed Osman

Cekmi and His Silly Passport Dream

The day I would be getting my passport was the day I felt so significantly liberated, because I would be finally released from a prison (not that I hated my country so much, I loved it), and I thought a passport was not just a travel document issued by a national government that identified the passport holder as a national of the issuing country, and a passport was not just another piece of document produced by the country’s immigration office, because with a decent passport, I would be civilly granted the holy pass to cross the holy port, giving me the vast opportunities in life, to see the wonders of the world, to become part of the concoction of the human race, to make the experiences shown on Travel-and-Living channel look possible, and to make me a proud citizen of the world.

And all these privileges come to life after thirty years of my small-scale life.

Can you believe that? What a shame. My friends have been doing it long long long time ago, traveling and all that jazz. Thinking that I had never been out of the Peninsular Malaysia for more than thirty years made me feel so uncivilized and uncultured, for my sister had been to Cairo when she was 19, for Adle had been to the Great Wall of China after he graduated from the university, and Taufik had been to the UK after his SPM, and all of them had that passport, but me. Goddamit. Now that I was so old and passportless, this revelation suffocated me for I was afraid of the dread possibility that, what if I would never get the chance to see the world, or what if I would never get to see the globe, would I die passportlessly?

Fuckin’ no.

Gimme That Damn Passport

So I took a leave and woke up very early that very morning, getting to the Wangsa Maju Immigration Office as early as 7.30 a.m., only to be greeted by a short and plump lady at the parking lot, asking me peevishly “Got a passport-sized photo young man?” I told her off for I got my own photos already, readily-prepared weeks ago. But this lady wouldn’t give up easily I could practically kick her ass.

“Can I see you photos young man? The immigrations officers are very strict. They can reject your photos, you know? Can I see?” Okay you blood sucker, take a fuckin’ look at my photos, I am sure they are very clear and shiny you could see your own fat ass in them.

I got rid of the busybody lady, bye bye. As I was walking to the immigration office, I felt like I was a foreigner in my own country. The office is located at Wisma Rampai, the old building that scared me to death. It was so third-worldly I thought I was in an Indian movie surrounded by angry gangsters with parangs in their sweaty hands and all that. The awfully-designed building looked so frighteningly worn out and abandoned. The whole place looked so cruel, which was probably due to the everyday brutal immigration affairs. Photo shops were lining up, and there they were, the worm ladies, just like the lady whom I just met, who worked for these shops, roaming wildly like cheap third-class whores around the areas in the parking lots and all the spaces they could fit their fat asses in, looking for potential customers who were stupid enough not to prepare their passport-sized photos before coming here and were thereafter doomed into the big asshole ladies.

When I reached the office entrance, there were six well-mannered civilians lining up. I joined the queue. The office would be open in 30 minutes. I waited patiently, thinking of the documents needed for the passport application. A copy of I.C. Checked. A copy of Birth Certificate. Checked. Three passport-sized photos. Checked. Fuck those ugly photo ladies. An application form. Checked. Phew! I hope the process wouldn’t take a day. My friend assured me the other day that I would get the passport by afternoon. I was hoping that I would not go through another administrative bullshit, when a Chinese man joined the queue behind me.

“Get a passport?” he said, smiling at me.
“Yes, first time.”
“Wei, did you download that application form?”
“Yes. Why? Cannot ar?”
“Cannnnoooooot! You see, they want only one-page form. See. You got two pages. They will reject. I also download. I really not satisfied, why they provide the form online when the form is useless. I complained oredi. Shit.”
I was a bit distracted with this latest information, and asked, “So what to do now?”
“Get a new original form from that lady. There!”

He pointed to a lady, the same asshole lady I met a few minutes ago! I felt so mad, rushed toward the fucked-up lady, asking her about the application form. She said, “If you want me to write for you, two ringgit! You can get the form inside the office too. One ringgit.” Goddammit. I paid two ringgit to the kicking-ass lady, not letting her to write for me. I joined the queue again, grumbling to the Chinese man: “Why did she take two ringgit for a single piece of form and, for god’s sake, for a writing service!? Hello! As if I cannot write.” The Chinese man smiled.

The office opened exactly at 8.00 p.m. I got my lucky number.

Citizen of the World

1007.

It was my lucky James-Bond number again! I was not sure whether it was a pure coincidence or my consecutive lucky fate. This is exactly my staff number in the college and this was also exactly the once-upon-a-time winning number for a lucky draw contest and this was exactly exactly the wait-for-your-turn number I got in the EPF office recently. What a good omen. Indeed it was. I was really lucky that day. The immigration processes ran smoothly I couldn’t believe that I finally got my much-anticipated passport within only 30 minutes. Fantabulous. The officers were unbelievably friendlier than I had thought they would be, unlike those foolish ladies working like hell in the administrative hell in UIA. The lady officers in the immigration office were so surprisingly hospitable and charming. They even asked me the none-of-your-business questions: which part of Kelantan I was born; where I wanted to go after getting the passport; did you know I was born in Kelantan too? Fine, at least they didn’t hassle me with the thesis details, which if they did, they would be definitely damned like those makan-gaji-buta ladies in UIA.

Paid RM300 plus RM2 for a maroon passport cover, I held my 32-page passport with pride and prejudice. Why does a citizen of the world need an artificial passport when he is born with a natural passport to be part of the world? Oh, what in the name of heavan was I babbling about, when I desperately needed right now was a physical passport with 32 pages that last for five years, given that I would not go around the globe in 80 days and use up all the pages, which would drag me here again and apply for a new three-hundred-ringgit passport, since renewal is no longer allowed.

And there I was again in the immigration office at 8.30 a.m. on the 22nd of June 2007, holding a Malaysian passport smilingly. A passport. The passport. Cekmi’s passport. It was extremely thrilling to repeat the word. Passport. Hey, look at me world! Miss World! Mawi World! Star World! World Trade Centre! World Health Organisation! I just got myself a passport! Yo yo… Listen to this mantra:

“These are to request and require in the name of the Supreme Head of Malaysia all those whom it may concern to allow the bearer to pass freely without let or hindrance, and to afford the bearer such assistance and protection as may be necessary.”

Welcome to the world Cekmi.

Footnotes: 10 Passport Trivias

Do you know that…

1. A passport came to existence to support the concept of a nation-state system propagated after the First World War, thus ending the Islamic Ummah of Ottoman Empire where a passport was previously irrelevant for a Muslim who was by Islamic law a World Citizen (I learnt this from my history professor at the university, which information is not acknowledged in the Wikipedia, the internet free encyclopedia)

2. The term ‘passport’ does not originate from sea ports, but from medieval documents required to pass through the gate (‘porte’) of city walls.

3. Biometric passports were first introduced in 1998 in Malaysia, not in the USA nor in the UK (Malaysia truly Asia!).

4. Hong Kong and Macau have their own passports, separate from the People’s Republic of China.

5. Malaysia does not accept Israeli passports, except with written permission from the Malaysian government (interesting, huh?).

6. Many Muslim countries do accept Israeli passports including Bahrain, Egypt, Jordan, Mauritania, Morocco, Tunisia, Indonesia, Turkey, and former Soviet republics with Muslim majority: Azerbaijan, Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan, Turkmenistan and Uzbekistan (Kelantan?).

7. Many countries allow travel without passport, including the citizens of the Gulf Cooperation Council countries (Kuwait, United Arab Emirates, Qatar, Oman, Bahrain, and Saudi Arabia)

8. The pope in the Vatican is always given the privilege of ‘Passport No.1’, which is reissued with the same number for every successive pontiff.

9. The British monarch does not have a passport because British passports are issued in the monarch’s name.

10. Wesley Snipes was detained at Johannesburg International Airport for allegedly trying to pass through the airport with a fake South African passport.

Language Anxiety

2007-06-15T10:34:00.000+08:00

Alhamdulillah. Despite all the administrative bullshit in the university (which I will deal later), I managed to submit my thesis for formatting and binding. Soon enough, I will be a proud holder of a master’s degree in Teaching of English as a Second Language.

Let me show you today some of the findings of my research. The dissertation centres on language anxiety, one of the deep-rooted issues in second language acquisition.

Yes, it is the question of how anxious you are when learning English. Like this.

Haha. So much for the fear.

Okay, one of the research questions was to investigate the potential sources of language anxiety. To do this, I selected 20 first-year Malay students of my own college, whom I approached and interviewed individually. The responses were unforgettably overwhelming.

The interview session, I suppose, was one of the most interesting and enjoyable stages in my research, due to the fact that I managed to get the voluntary responses from the ‘lucky’ students. They were in fact more than willing to share their feelings and anxieties quite openly. And they didn’t mind me snapping their pictures after the interviews. How ‘anonymous’! Look at some of these cheerful faces:

Oh, they were holding their tokens of appreciation that I gave after the interviews – e.g. lollipops! They were not really expensive, but I suppose, lollipops symbolize love and warmth, that hopefully could ease their level of anxieties. And of course, they are cute, aren't they?

Now, back to the findings. I found out that personal and interpersonal anxieties were the most common sources of anxiety cited by the students, making up 70% of the responses. These sources include, among others:

Fear of negative social evaluation
Fear of failure
Perceived proficiency
Communication apprehension
Competitiveness

Clueless? All right then. To see these fear factors more clearly, let us explore into one of those exclusive interviews. (The following interview was conducted in Malay and loosely translated into English).

Date : March 6, 2007
Time : 2.00 – 2.15 p.m.
Venue : International Islamic College, Kuala Lumpur

R: Researcher
S: Student

R: Are you afraid of learning English language?
S: Yes. I am really afraid.
R: Why?
S: I am afraid that what I say will be misunderstood by others.
R: How does it happen?
S: Whenever the lecturer asks me to present in class, I will feel so nervous. I don’t know how to organise my ideas in English.
R: Are you afraid that you do not understand what other people say in English?
S: Not really. I just feel nervous when I want to speak.
R: Have you avoided a situation that requires you to use English?
S: Yes. I used to skip English classes. I just pretend that I am sick. Whenever I see my English lecturer, I will avoid her. I am scared that I couldn’t answer her questions in English. I am really scared.
R: Is your English very poor?
S: Yes. Very poor. My lecturer said that my English is okay. But I think it is very poor. I am not confident when using English.
R: Are you afraid of being laughed at?
S: Yes. I will feel so embarrassed. I always wonder why my lecturer does not ask other smarter students. I am so scared when my lecturer asks me something in class.
R: Do you like learning environment where there is no one to judge you?
S: No. I want to learn English. But I don’t like being humiliated in class. Sometimes, the teacher makes me feel that I am always at fault.
R: Do you like learning English with your friends?
S: Yes, I do. There will be lots of ideas. I don’t mind studying with them.
R: Is there any competition among you and your friends?
S: Sometimes, we compare our results. When I get low marks, I feel so down. In last mid-term exam, I thought I could get higher marks, but I didn’t score. All my efforts seemed useless.
R: Does it worry you when you are asked to read aloud in class?
S: Yes. When my lecturer asks me to read aloud, I am worried that I will make mistakes in pronunciation. People will laugh at me when I make mistakes.
R: Are you afraid of your final exam grades?
S: Yes. Everything must be answered in English. I am so poor in grammar. I am not sure how to write. I just could not accept the fact that I am still weak in English.
R: Does it worry you that the class is conducted in English?
S: Yes. I am so afraid to respond to my lecturer.
R: Have you ever thought of failure?
S: Yes. In fact, I am thinking about it all the time. I am so scared that I will fail this paper. I couldn’t accept this failure. I don’t feel like doing it again. I used to cry thinking about this.
R: Is learning English very important for you?
S: Yes. It is important for my future employment.
R: Are you afraid of making mistakes in English?
S: Yes. I am afraid of making mistakes in English. I am not supposed to make mistakes. It is not right. For me, I must be correct all the time. Otherwise, people will laugh at me.
R: How do see your progress in your English class?
S: I think my English level remains the same. It has not improved at all. I am not satisfied with this. I am so disappointed with my marks.
R: Are you close with your lecturer?
S: Yes. I always ask her in class. She recognizes me by name. She always asks me to read aloud. My friends usually laugh at me, but she understands my problem. She never laughs at my mistakes. She is so sporting.
R: Is she important in your learning?
S: Yes, very much. She can correct my mistakes and teach me more about grammar. It can be embarrassing sometimes, but it is okay because I can learn something. If I study alone, I would never know if I make any error.
R: Does anxiety affect your language learning?
S: Yes.
R: What do you do to reduce this anxiety?
S: During an oral presentation, for example, I just pretend that there is no one in the class. I want to see only my lecturer’s face. If someone asks me a question, I imagine that the question comes from my lecturer’s mouth.
R: Do your parents support your studies?
S: Yes. They encourage me to study harder especially English course. I used to learn English with my brothers and sisters.
R: What can the college do to improve this situation?
S: There should be a campaign that can motivate students to speak English more confidently.
R: What else should you do?
S: I should read more and try to speak English with my friends.

** interview ends **

Now tell me honestly dear readers, are you afraid of English language? Come and be one of my subjects.

Comedy of Stupidity - Revisited

2007-06-11T15:36:00.000+08:00

I wrote this story two years ago. Reading it again makes me look even stupider.

____________________________________________

My car broke down last week. That was the first time in two years. It happened when I was in a hurry to the college in the morning, when I realized that I was a stupid driver who knew nothing about a car, not wanting to learn more about the “soul” of a car, stupidly waiting for the bad moment to come and panickedly react. Well, I am always that way.

So, I ended investing my money to ever sucking taxi drivers for two days to my workplace, which cost me nearly RM60. Too much for a stupid error. But, my stupidity worsened when I wanted to send my car for repair. I just didn’t know how. Did my car need to be towed? Whom to call? What to do? Where to send? A lot of ignorant questions which could have been avoided had I been more equipped with proper knowledge and a little intelligence. So I sought assistance from my friend.

“How do I send my car to a mechanic?”
“Just call Sahabat EON lah and they tow your car for free,” said my friend with a look of boredom on his face. I was thinking: Sahabat EON?
“Errr… I don’t think I am one of their sahabats.”
“What insurance do you have?”
I was hesitant and answered unconfidently, “Kurnia Insurans.”
“Then call them!”
“Errrr…ok.”
“Look.. like this lah. I heard Kurnia Insurans is not good. Why don’t you just call EON and ask them to tow your car. I think they can accept instant membership.”
“Mmmm… okay, I’ll do that.”

So, I surfed through the Internet, got their number and called. Sadly, the response was unexpectedly disappointing.

“Sorry sir, we cannot do that, and there’s no such thing as instant membership,” explained the serious operator.
“Why?”
“You have to fill up a form first, only then we can tow your car for free.”
“Can I get it done today?”
“No, it takes three weeks.”

Mama mia.

Disappointed, I hung up. And I just realized that there was one more obstacle: my car was registered using my sister’s name. So, I thought (thought!) I could not use my name and had to go through other troublesome processes to get my sister’s details in order to fill up a form. So, I was considering a quick action: just call any mechanics on earth! So they came to my apartment, checked my car, and found out there was a problem with a relay of the fuel pump (whatsoever!). Luckily, my car needed not to be towed. The cost: RM185.

I was so relieved my car was then startable. On the following day, I was walking toward my car when I realized that there was a strange sticker at the back of my car. It stated:

SAHABAT EON
Toll Free : 1-800-188-999

p.s. Moral of the story – Jangan Tak Pandang Belakang (Look at your back).

Cekmi Smoking?

2007-06-07T14:41:00.000+08:00

Yes, good question.

Those who know me professionally will drop their jaws if they see me unconcernedly taking out my favourite Marlboro pack and confidently smoking during a social outing. Well, with that oh-so-innocent-and-naïve look, baik and skema type, belah-tepi hair, ulat buku guy, melancholic freak, who on earth would possibly expect that Cekmi was, for God’s sake, a smoker?

Oh dear readers. Here ye this truth – when I decided to call it off on May 9, 2007, I had been smoking for 12 years. Yes, let me spell it for you.

T-W-E-L-V-E.

And thank God – I am now officially a FREE, happy non-smoker. So it is true, freedom is not about being totally free to do whatever you want, but about being able to restrain yourself from doing something undeserving. With this, I have never felt so liberated. That enslavement had cost me such a terrible plight that almost took my soul and spirit. And yes, this is the emancipation of Cekmi. hehe.

So why did I smoke in the first place?

Hmm. Another good cepu emas question. Before I answer it, let’s take a look at these facts.
1. About half of Malaysian men smoke.
2. Every day, about 50 teenagers below the age of 18 start smoking.
3. Studies show about 30% of adolescent boys smoke.
4. Smoking rates are highest in rural Kelantan and lowest in urban Penang and Sarawak.
(Source: http://www.quitspeed.com/)

Okay, these findings could well explain about my initial exploration into the smoking dreamland. But, here is the actual story of my smoking life.

The Beginning

It began when I was 18 years old. Sweet 18. As a fresh SPM leaver, it was a high time for inquisitive experimentations and fun-searching. It was the moment when I started to visualize the pleasure of smoking. It had nothing to do with peer pressure. As a matter of fact, no one influenced me. I was alone at home when the hazardous smoke started to colonize my bodily territories. To make it worse, I stole my auntie’s cigarettes. Ah, what a haram start.

Ohok! Ohok! Ohok!

Clichéd start. My body knew that it was poisonous so it rejected the smoke pretty harshly. But smoking was good. Goooooood. I agree that, ever since then, I smoked to fit in with the social settings – my ever stylish smoking friends. However, those cigarettes possessed more mystical power than any other paranormal devices – they were nostalgically addictive. For all the money, time and energy wasted, I kept on smoking because I felt good most of the time. Whenever I smoked, it was like going back to a beautiful unfounded place. Of course, I would never find this unfounded place because, if I had gotten closer to it, I would have possibly died of a critical lung cancer.

My point here, the way I see it now, smoking is more than just putting those damned cigarettes and sucking the delusional smoke. There are some queer reasons for many people to keep filling in their bodies with tar, nicotine and carbon monoxide. There are multi-layered explanations for the progress of this Marlboro Country.

In Kelantan, it is quintessentially political. I still remember that when I was young, I used to see this bizarre cacophony during a general election.

“Nah, take these three cartons of Dunhill’s. Khijo bbena deh! (work harder okay!),” my father, a branch leader, said to a group of young and old men working dutifully for him at night at one of the party's headquarters.
The tired men scampered into the maroon boxes, smoked religiously, smiled and said to my father: “Thank you Ustaz. Allahu akbar!”

Yes, for many people, smoking is part of smart strategies to attain a place in a society. My cousin, who was a genius mathematics teacher, was not a smoker, but he had to pretend that he was one of them. I knew his little secret – he drew a little puff into his mouth and exhaled immediately, without inhaling the smoke into his lung. He was playing it safe. While trying very hard to establish the accepted image that he was part of the smoking community, he managed to protect his health. Although he possibly knew that smoking was haram, he couldn’t simply say to those villagers the much desired: “Stop smoking, you stupid folks! It is fucking haram!” Oh, no no no. That would be politically incorrect. So he ended up protecting the classic act – smoking involuntarily and safely. How brilliant!

Gaya. Mutu. Keunggulan.

The Ending

I tried to quit smoking few times, but it was to no avail. At times, I felt lost. Was it nicotine? Maybe. Then, I decided to stop smoking again 29 days ago. No one influenced me - I made the decision by myself ( just like when I decided to explore into the wonders of smoke 12 years ago). I was extremely determined this time around. I kept saying to myself that I was really going to make it real. Apparently, as a practising Muslim, I have to obey to what had been declared by the respected Ulama – Smoking is Haram (unlawful) in Islam. Nonetheless, this was not the chief reason for my decision to quit smoking.

I was thinking, if I could get rid of those tempting foods in my dietary struggle, why couldn’t I just resist the harmless stick of cigarettes? And I am aging. So, why should I keep damaging my body? It is the time to shift the paradigm. It is enough. Enough is enough. It is time to say to those cigarettes: “No! Been there! Done that! Thank you and Good Night babe!”

There’s another eerie justification. I refuse to die so early. Dawned with realization, I have lately been so conscious of my future life, as if I have just been given new eyes and a new perspective of life. And I don’t want to miss the opportunities to see the world when life is about to begin.

Whatever the reasons, there could never be anyone on this earth who would agree that smoking is good for health. Those who agree are either bored to death or working for the tobacco companies, taking other people’s lives all the way to the bank.

So, why do people keep smoking? Because they are living in denial. Death? No way, they won’t get me.

Good dog.

Tak Nak Lah.

2007-06-04T14:43:00.000+08:00

I have four stories for you.

I

It was past midnight. X has been driving a car non-stop from KL to Kelantan. And he has been smoking non-stop from KL to Kelantan.
“Why are you smoking buddy?” his non-smoker friend asked him.
“It keeps me awake. I feel good.”
“But why? Aren’t you afraid of death?”
“Do you see that heavy-loaded truck?”
“Yes?”
“I could hit that truck if I don’t smoke.”
“Okay, I understand. Keep smoking.”
“And we could as well die if the driver of that truck decides to bang into us. And that would send both of us into the seventh heavan.”
“Point taken. Smoking does not kill. The truck does.”

Both of them have survived that long night.
The non-smoker, has.
The smoker too, hASS.

II

The Tobacco Man is counting his profits.

Well well well, I could make a lot of money in 30 years, the Tobacco Man says.

Can I have a deal with you, death?

III

Larissa Putnam is an ex-smoker. She is thankful to Eric:

“If I would have known how easy it was to quit smoking, I would have done it years ago. It is unbelievable how brainwashed I was during all these years. You have to try it to believe it - I'm so glad I did. Thanks a lot Eric, and congratulations!”

Eric Eraly is the author of Easy to Quit Smoking Method. Take a careful listen at his conspiracy theory:

“The main reason people fail to quit smoking (and why it took almost 23 years of smoking for me to learn this) is that from the time we were little children we have been lied to, and literally programmed by the powerful tobacco and pharmaceutical industries as well as the media to believe that we are heavily addicted and cannot quit. Between having you keep smoking, and, keep quitting, they have a vested interest in keeping you as a dying, sorry I mean paying, customer.”

IV

Yahoo Messenger chat between two desperate creatures.

Akumasihsunti: Are you smoking?
Jantanpower: Why? You don’t like smokers, ke?
Akumasihsunti: No, I like them. Well, I ‘smoke’ too. You know…
Jantanpower: You naughty bitch!
Akumasihsunti: Hehe. I think smokers are very sexy.
Jantanpower: Really?
Akumasihsunti: Oh yes. You must smell great. Especially kissing.
Jantanpower: Rileks lah beb… (Just relax, darling)
Akumasihsunti: Hihi... Er, can I ask you something, cik abang?
Jantanpower: What is it, cik adik?
Akumasihsunti: Is smoking haram?
Jantanpower: Is sex haram?
Akumasihsunti: LOL.

P.S. I quit smoking 27 days ago.

Kampar, Jimi & Cekmi II

2007-05-30T14:16:00.000+08:00

Although it is not as worldly-sophisticated as KL, Kampar is so special, for me. I just need to remember Kampar to make me smile and sigh with relief. But, what is so extraordinary about this place that glues my attention, that seduces my imagination over and over, that continuously allures me to come back again? I don’t have the definite answers. Maybe a brief glimpse into the past would give some clues.

Precious Gold

Situated in Kinta Valley, the word Kampar was derived from the Cantonese word kam pao, which means Precious Gold (Linguistically, it almost resembles my hometown, Pasir Mas – the Golden Sand). This 110-year-old town was once a famous tin mining place. While Jimi and I are humming our favourite songs in his car, I remember looking curiously at those abandoned mines, which could be commercialized into magnificent lakes, spread along the outskirts of Kampar.

The majority of the town’s population is of Chinese descent, which explains the gigantic graveyard located nearby the town. From the Bandar Baru Kampar, one could see the green hills where hundreds, or maybe thousands, of tombs are lining up. The extension of the cemetery is in progress. And this particular sight captures my attention. It is really creepy that when I think of Kampar, I always remember this breathtaking, widely-spread Chinese cemetery serenely located on the vast slope of hills (what a weird perspective, huh?). It was so beautifully-organised that I funnily refused to accept the fact that it was actually a resting place where the great-great Chinese ancestors were peacefully treasured. It was a sight of a perfect heavan, unlike Muslim cemetery located nearby, which triggers the scary images of Pontianak Harum Sundal Malam or Waris Jari Hantu. (Oh, what a blasphemous thought, Cekmi!)

And who says Kampar is underdeveloped? With the establishment of a new campus of University Tunku Abdul Rahman, Kampar is surely progressing very rapidly. This is evident in the swift development in its Bandar Baru where a starred Grand Kampar Hotel is proudly located. When I discovered this hotel, I had to readjust my mind-setting about Kampar. I simply couldn’t fathom its very existence, until I remember that this town is moving into a new direction of development. When Komuter, another transportation project, is completed very soon, I could easily vanish myself from KL to Kampar, where the station is situated just at the back of Jimi’s house. Pretty strategic, huh?

Looking at these positive physical changes, I have even considered Kampar as one of the potential places for me to settle down. What’s more, this town used to be the residence of famous figures - Datin Paduka Seri Endon Mahmood, late wife of Pak Lah, Eric Moo, a Taiwan-based singer, and Mark Chang, the founder of Jobstreet.com. Well, I could be the next proud resident of Kampar – Dato’ Cekmi, the founder of Kamparia Megamall. hehe.

But what are the real reasons for my preference towards Kampar as compared to other more happening towns in Malaysia?

One thing for sure, Jimi is surviving there, alive and happy. And I would always look forward to seeing Jimi, because meeting him would mean allowing some eccentric ways to accomplish my on-going cravings for peace and happiness, which I couldn’t possibly attain in a cruel KL, which is frustratingly void of love and care. And Jimi is such a guru of life. Meeting him in person is like expanding the contents of the SMSes that have been continuously exchanged between us for years.

With this in mind, Kampar has become the dreamland in my selfish journey for self-rediscovery and inspiration. It is undoubtedly a sanctuary for my grieving soul and torn spirit. It completes me. And it will always be. Because this is my American Dream.

Kampar Dream.

Kampar, Jimi & Cekmi

2007-05-28T14:16:00.000+08:00

“Can I just pop up to your house for two days? Just wanna spend some time with you – chitchat, watch great movies, or to the very least, just share the silence,” I texted Jimi recently. When I finally went there, Jimi and I did exactly what I had in mind. Chitchat. Movies. Silence.

But, Jimi has a lot more in store for me. He surprises me in many delightful ways. Because he is the 7-eleven of entertainment paraphernalia.

Jimi: The Guru of Life

1. Movie Guardian

I always desire to watch those astounding movies thoroughly reviewed by Jimi in his blog. His collections are utterly amazing. Sitting excitedly in his bedroom, I will be honoured and thrilled to select some of the great movies and watch them consecutively. While I am watching the movies attentively and struggling to understand them, Jimi is again absorbing the details of the movies as if it was the first time that he watched them. His appreciation of the philosophy of movies always awes me. I wish I could interpret, learn and be inspired by the movies as saintly as Jimi could.

2. God of Retro

Getting a royal access to his godly collections of music, from the 1980s up to the nines, makes me one of the luckiest men on earth. You won’t believe me until you experience it with your own senses what he’s got in store. I don’t even know that those songs ever exist. After getting hundreds of free songs of all times, what else do I need to heal my soul? And listening to these songs in Jimi’s car is one way to appreciate the moments of togetherness. Ah, I am on the cloud nine.

3. Books! Books! Books!

Jimi is an avid reader, just like me. We would go to a calm place – waterfall, beaches, etc, - and read our own books silently. We don’t need to talk much to understand that we both enjoy each others’ company, even in deepest silence! In any moment, we could be drowning into deepest imagination and intelligence. Don’t be scared readers. We are still humans. Freak humans. Ha ha.

And with all these in mind, I had accumulated tones of everlasting and fond memories of Kampar, the very place where Jimi and his dearest family reside. The truth is, ever since Jimi and I found our separate ways after graduation, I have been to his house regularly that I have lost count already. And my friends would not stop teasing me on my exclusive choice of vacation. They are usually very curious about my personal retreat.

“Why did you spend your holidays in Kampar? You should go back to Pasir Mas, your own hometown!”
“Come on Cekmi, Kampar is nothing. No disco. No life. KL is more fun!”
“Were you having an affair in Kampar?”
“Kampar? Why on earth, Cekmi?”

Yes, why Kampar?

Not Bad.

2007-05-22T16:03:00.000+08:00

SEMESTER 1

Mr. Know-All said: “Be very strict toward students.”

Okay.

So I began to publicly ask
about my students’ mischievous acts
Thinking that I would discipline
these so-called lack-of-attention students
That I could show my care and steadfastness

Faiz was late
“Why are you late Faiz?”
“Er, overslept lah Sir.”
Few questions followed
I was annoyed

Siti Yusnaniza was absent the day before
“Siti Yusnaniza?”
“Yes!”
“Where were you yesterday?”
“Er, balik kampong lah Sir.”
Few questions followed
I was irritated

They were both miserably unhappy
“Strict sangatlah Sir ni…”

Hah!

I was an old-fashioned teacher
painfully acting like an old sick grandfather

At the end of the semester
They were finally barred
from sitting for final examination
I just had to do my dirty job
I felt numb

Very bad.

SEMESTER 2

Mrs. Know-All said: “Be more student-oriented.”

Fine.

So I began to publicly disregard
my students’ not-so-well-behaved acts
Thinking that these so-called matured students
could discipline themselves
That I could show my trust and easygoingness

Irwan was more fashionably late
I just continued my teaching
No questions asked
I was not annoyed

Fariza was more trendily absent the day before
“Fariza?”
“Yes!”
I just put a zero in her attendance
No questions asked
I was not irritated

They were both gleefully happy
“Sir ni lenient lah…”

Hah!

I was a modern teacher
merrily acting like a brainless clown

Not bad.

At the end of the semester
They were inevitably barred
from sitting for final examination
I just had to do my dirtier job
I felt number

Later
When I asked Irwan and Fariza
about their not-so-good-looking attendance
They both answered: “Sir tak pernah tanya pun!”

Not bad. But very bad.

What would The Know-Alls say in SEMESTER 3?

Strolling for a Scroll

2007-05-16T15:55:00.000+08:00

It is not easy to graduate with flying colours, is it?

When I started my master’s degree program on a part-time basis in November 2003, I had not anticipated that the journey would be a long and tough one. It indeed required high self-motivation, self-discipline and personal sacrifice to master the art of juggling between excessive workload in the office and the demanding nature of the master’s study. First and foremost, I had to release some of the administrative positions in the college in order to concentrate on my studies (so long to all the privileges and luxuries I had previously enjoyed). Second, I had to lower my status as a post-graduate student by attending, not one but, six under-graduate classes. Since my first degree was in Political Science, I had to complete these under-graduate subjects as a basic requirement to qualify me for a current program in TESL. It was a weird environment, learning together with those freshmen, and going through all the hassles as a sophomore (luckily they hardly noticed my humble existence, thanks to my boyish character).

The field of the study was my own choice, not my family’s nor brother’s (Thank God!). It was fun at the beginning. In fact, learning how to teach English as a second language and, at the same time, teaching English to my students at the college were extremely exciting. Learning was so rewarding that I managed to score a flat CGPA of 4.000 during the first semester of my post-graduate studies. I had never been so proud of myself. What a way to start!

Completing undergraduate subjects was easy, especially Phonetics and Phonology, my favorite subject. It was my pleasure sitting together with those eager and creative students. At times, I was intellectually amused that they learned those subjects at their early age. Seeing these language students learning literature made me even more jealous since I never had a chance to learn it formally during my fresh days (I once vowed to myself to register for a literature course one day).

After passing these under-graduate subjects, I had to complete ten master subjects, the real post-graduate subjects. It was a completely new direction for me since I was not an English graduate. Despite all the troubles, learning English at a higher level was academically and linguistically fulfilling. The lecturers and classmates were fun and helpful. We were like a family. I looked forward to going to afternoon classes. It was thrilling to find myself teaching English in the morning and learning English in the afternoon. What a bizarre combination! And I managed to complete all the subjects and coursework rather gracefully in 2005, with a final CGPA of 3.566. Alhamdulillah.

But that’s not all. Here comes the hardest part of my study – the thesis writing,

As a matter of fact, I could have avoided writing a thesis had I opted to a Comprehensive Examination. However, based on various professors’ (and my brother’s!) professional recommendations, I chose a tougher option - writing. They strongly claimed that research writing would prove that I was a true academician who would secure a first-class place in a university. Luckily, it seemed fit to my life plan. Therefore, I followed their advice, not knowing what price that I had to pay afterwards. Because the subsequent consequences were almost unbearable.

To begin with, thesis writing has cost me a lot of physical and mental energy. I was slowly drained by the powerful force it demanded from me. Frankly, it took me one year and a half just to complete a research proposal. The final draft sent to my supervisor was the eighth draft! Yes, my supervisor has been tediously fussy. She meticulously checked into every single detail of the proposal. But in some aspects, she was not that demanding actually. Knowing that I was working, she let me do my research work independently. Most of the time, I took my own sweet time finishing the thesis only later to realize that time had flown so rapidly. There were times when I couldn’t discipline myself anymore. Studying sometimes seemed like a big burden that I wished I didn’t start it at all in the first place. I was lost in the middle of urban enjoyment and metropolitan disillusions.

I experienced a terrible angst when I was at the university’s 22nd Convocation Ceremony last year. When I saw my own classmates graduating with honours, I felt a strong pang of envy and panic, and I saw myself leaping to a complete doom. It was supposed to be my graduation day too, I was telling myself repetitiously. What happened to me? I should be there too, walking on the stage, receiving scroll, receiving feel-good greetings from family and friends. But there I was, strolling lazily on the walks of disaster, stranded among the academic fools. Truly, I was damn jealous of those graduates, that I felt like I could take out a gun, pull a trigger and kill them randomly. Like a giant slap onto my face, it was dawned to me that I had to do something for my abandoned study.

I thereafter became more determined to take my study more seriously when thinking of those stuffs that I had dreamed of, that I would potentially achieve after getting my master’s degree – better career, better monetary returns, better life! I am even considering to join my brother’s university in Sabah (Things are ironically good between my brother and I recently). Alternatively, I would join any public university, get a decent academic position with a better pay, get a good bondage agreement, and apply for a fulltime Ph.D program overseas. I would not do it on a part-time basis anymore because it has been so tiring and sickening. I didn’t want to be in the hell anymore (hell me!).

So, with this determination, I gained my composure again, locked myself up, sacrificing most the weekends putting together all the puzzles and mysteries of my thesis, putting aside all the administrative fuss in the college, and casting away all the candy invitations from friends. I just wanted to make sure that I would be one of the graduates in the next 23rd Convocation Ceremony. This year. Truly, I had promised to myself that I would make it this time around, that I would not slip again.

And things looked a little brighter recently. I have proudly completed the thesis and submitted it to a second reader for final evaluation.
“Am I on the right track, Professor?” I asked my supervisor.
“Don’t worry Cekmi, you’ll complete your thesis in eight weeks’ time. And of course, you’ll graduate this August!”

Wow. My supervisor sounded so optimistic. I wish her words would come true. Thinking of this possibility made me feel so jubilated. After such a long painful time, I could now envision myself receiving the scroll.

And I could imagine my friends lining up after the convocation, proudly waiting to say the much-awaited mantra:

“Congratulations on your graduation Cekmi!”

...and the success continues...

2007-05-13T16:39:00.000+08:00

Ladies and gentlemen,
Announcing the glorious arrival of the graduands…

Yes! It was the college’s third convocation ceremony.

As an exhausted assistant director (who was previously forced to be the director but later happily demoted), I was so excited, not to see the smooth co-ordination of the event, but to see the happy faces of my beloved students on their graduation day. It was the time to redeem and rejoice the victory with precious friends, proud parents, and gleaming lecturers. It was the much-awaited moment for many. It was the celebration of life!

Indeed, it was. Especially for Shazlee, our cancer survivor. Well done, buddy! You have made it to the finishing line. What’s the cliché line? Yes, I am so proud of you. And of course, with the publicity in the media, you are now a proud icon of survival, just like Lance Armstrong. Yes.

With Shazlee

Shazlee, with your courage, you deserved the honour to be the first graduand of your program to be conferred by YAM Tengku Panglima Diraja Selangor. With this success, you can always be the first in every daring attempt you are about to embark in your near future. Don’t stop running, okay.

Cekmi's Angels

With Wadud, Best Student in Co-Curriculum

With Fadhlihana, Best Overall Student

With Best Man for YAM

With Best Flower Girls, hehe

To all organising committees,
Well done! You worked extremely hard to ensure the success of this auspicious event. For all the hassles, headaches, inconveniences and embarrassments those endless tasks have painfully accumulated, let them be gracefully redeemed in the akhirat (since we did this in the spirit of fi sabi lillah, right?). Maybe the college could hire, and pay, those professional event managers to run the future convocation so that things are professionaly done, not amateurishly managed by some ambitiously inexperienced lecturers.

To all graduands of IIC,
Congratulations for having successfully accomplished one of the many significant tasks in your lives. The journey didn’t end there. Truly, life has just begun.

And I am still running and struggling for my own graduation this year!

Strolling for a scroll

Cekmi, Famous?

2007-05-08T09:28:00.000+08:00

End-of-Semester Examination
Semester 2, 2006/2007

Subject: Certificate English 1
Code: CEL1141

Section 1
Paragraph Writing
(20 marks)

Instruction to students:

Write a paragraph of about 150 words on a) or b) below. Your paragraph SHOULD NOT EXCEED the 150-word limit. Anything above 150 words will not be considered for marking. Write your paragraph in the space provided.

a) A Famous Person I Wish to Meet

OR

b) An Island I want to Visit

A Famous Person I Wish to Meet

A famous person I wish to Meet is my lecturer, I called his name is “Cik Mi”. He is my English lecturer. He is a Famous Person in My college. I have Three reason why I wish to meet him. first of three reason is caring. He is caring. for example When I did’t come to his class, he meet me and tell what is my problems, asks and gives some advice how to settle them. Secondly, he is Responsibility, such as When I don’t understand about one topics or question, he always gives me the introduction how to understand and finish the work. And Lastly, he is funny. for enstance, When the class feel boring, he can make jokes, gives “teka-teki”, singing, dancing, and others how to make a funny class. When the class feel funny We can studying with happy. As conslution, I want to says “Thank you very much” for my lecturer. Because he always gives advice, reminds me, thanks for everything. You is best lecturer and forgive me, if i make u angry or anything what did’t you like. May God bless you. Take care and Respect!

_________________________________________

p/s I did not mark this writing. One of my colleagues did. The student got 16 out of 20 marks.

My Soul Mate

2007-05-04T20:30:00.000+08:00

My dear soul mate,

Do you still remember the many beautiful things we shared?

The intimacy (we were spiritually close that people mechanically took us as lovers)

The care (you gave me a wonderful Whitney Houston's 'You Were Loved' card)

The silliness (the cinema was nearly on fire before we watched 'Anastasia')

The oddity (we studied in a park only the lovesick couples would hang out)

The enthusiasm (we were crazy for Amy Tan's idiosyncrasies)

The passion (we watched movies consecutively at the same cinema on the same day)

The respect (you don't mind my budu taste for Siti Nurhaliza)

The pettiness (we listened to Disney's soundtracks babyishly)

The resemblance (we both wanted to be perfect when dubbing Celine Dion songs)

The happiness (we listened to hopelessly romantic songs while climbing the Cameron Highland)

The willingness (you agreed to further our master studies together)

The forgiveness (you forgave me when I deferred the studies we were supposed to take)

The support (you SMSed me endlessly to get me going to a new sanctuary)

The togetherness (we spent hours at Burger King's drinking a glass of coke and chatting childishly)

The miracle (we speak the language only the Grobanites would fully comprehend)

The confidentiality (we both faithfully keep each others' love tales)

The determination (we learned how to turn our own bitter love stories into a sweet coffee)

The inspiration (You bloggised me and brought me into a wildly enchanting paradise)

The connection (we listen to what we don't say and we feel the things between us rather oddly)

The sadness (we were sad at times only the two of us only knew that we were)

The thoughtfulness (we took a different path in life but we took a little of each other everywhere)

The hope (we keep hoping to be finally together in an unfounded place)

These 22 colouful abstract nouns are my definition of a true soul mate. Do they fit yours?

Walk Through Life

2007-04-27T09:29:00.000+08:00

We all walk through life differently

Some walk quickly
Through a dangerous Chow Kit Road
Afraid of the pickpockets
“Get lost, fuck you!!”

Some walk slowly
Through a high-class Bangsar Village
Admiring the latest brand of perfumes
“Ooo..waaa….credit card?”

Some might get very lucky
Finding some posh means to move faster
Riding a Mercedes on a tolled PLUS highway
Or flying high above the sky
On a cheap-but-worth-it Air Asia
Reaching the destination elegantly
Gratefully finishing the end line
“I did it! Thanks to my life insurance policy.”

But not everyone walks so leisurely
Along that glittering Bintang Walk
Watching the fancy coffee houses
Or on that long red carpet
Receiving Anugerah Industri Muzik award
“Hey! Look at me!”

Because many have gotten lost
Wandering miserably
Struggling their ways
Sometimes crawling
Sometimes stumbling
On a stony path

Those who endure
Will find courage to go on
Not letting the snatch thieves
Steal their hope and faith
Snatch their way
Make them fall again
Leap into that dark hole again

While we walk
Many are still looking back
Regretting their dark history
Lamenting on what they have left behind
Not ready to let go of the past
“Why must my girlfriend cheat on me?”

Many others are lured with the present
Absorbing every detail of self-indulgence
Enjoying the discotheque of life
Forgetting what lies ahead
“Will Dafi champion the Akademi Fantasia?”

Many are advancing too much forward
Taking for granted what surrounds them
Trying to erase their past
Living for the uncertain future
“I want to change the world!”

But they say
We all should live with the present
Learn from the past
Get ready for the future
And walk through life more elegantly

But Cekmi says
No matter what happens
We all should keep walking
Because along the way
We will find what values for us
The friends we meet
The children we breed
The generation we keep

But don’t walk too fast
Too eager to finish the line
Because we might be sorry
For what we have abandoned
The chances we forget to grab

But don’t walk too slowly
For we might miss the flight of life
Since the schedule is always on time
There might be no money-back guarantee
Only the fittest will survive

So walk through life more smartly
Because life might reward you with a Nobel Prize
While it pains you with a government tax
Because life is one big lottery
For you to win or lose

P.S. Once again, happy birthday walkthrulife!
May we all walk through life with more pride and joy.

From Balok With Love

2007-04-23T14:21:00.000+08:00

The euphoria was on the air again.

It has been an end-of-semester tradition. My extra-curricular activities with business communication students always tickle me emotionally, and tire me physically, of course. It started with Genting Highland blast last year. I was practically ‘high’ on the land with my newly-assigned term of endearments – Seman! How carefree it was, laughing and giddying hedonistically with a wild bunch of students. Then, it was inevitably followed by an unforgettable ‘catastrophe’ in Port Dickson. It was absolutely out-of-the-hell fun. This time around, the end-of-semester gathering was celebrated in an enchanting beach called, er, Balok.

Never heard of it? Don’t worry, because you have not missed a thing.

There is nothing unusual about the place. I just realized its very existence the moment I arrived there. Located around 15 kilometers from Kuantan, Pahang, the beach is a typical east-coast type – extremely wavy, seaweeds adrift everywhere, not-so-nice-looking brownish sand (and not to mention the notorious keep-our-beach-clean campaign). We didn’t have a single chance to swim into the beach because, as we were warned by the locals, of the possible dangers of tidal waves. But I didn’t care about all of these shortfalls. Because I was half-sponsored by a Datuk’s daughter!

Jeng jeng jeng.

It was Friday afternoon when eleven of us arrived at the Makmur Bus Station in Kuantan. We were soon picked up by three posh cars driven by three gentlemen. I wondered where they came from.

“So which masjid are we going to perform our Jumaat prayer?” I asked the stern-looking driver.
“There is no masjid around here.”
“There isn’t? How come?”
“No,” he answered rather unconcernedly. “We have to go out of the town, and by looking at the traffic condition now, I don’t think we can make it.”
I was silent. By the way, I could still perform Solat Jama’ since I was considered a traveler. But I wondered whether he was a traveler too.
“So, which one of you is anak Datuk?” he asked us out of a sudden.
We looked at each other. I was clueless, totally had no idea what he was talking about.

Later that evening, I learnt that one of my female students is the daughter of a successful Chinese businessman in KL, which happens to be a Datuk. It really took me by surprise because she was so humbly presentable in the classroom – her style didn’t match at all with her high-profile parents. I was also informed afterward that most of the expenses for food and accommodation were sponsored by the kind Datuk. It was so pleasantly surprising.

We stayed at the De Rhu Beach Resort (owned by a LKPP Pahang State). The resort was located rather remotely in the middle of a kampung area. It overlooked a very enchanting view. For a few momentary visions of absolute clarity, I thought I was at the ‘Garden of Eden’. It surely compensated the ugly-looking beach.

There were two rooms for us, with two single beds each – one room for seven girls (I wondered how they arranged themselves to sleep that night) and another one for four boys (I was one of them, apparently). Yes, it was surely uncomfortable, but what the heck, it is not every night that I would go through this trouble. So, I just went through the night rather involuntarily but also happily.

It was of course a good night sleep because we slept at four o’clock in the morning!

Twelve hours before that, we were having a lot of water-based activities in the resort’s biggest swimming pool (our so-called beach activities!). I nearly sprained my legs since I was too excited chasing the ball in the pool. The grand dinner that night was a barbecue by the dark beach. We were so lucky because there were so many helpful hands from Datuk-related people who took care of so many details of the vacation. This included the Datuk’s wife who suddenly appeared during the barbecue session, complaining and grumbling everything we did (Gee… a typical Datin!). We survived the hassle when she left.

After midnight, we were gathered quite illegally in the lobby. The resort was locked after 12 midnight and guests were strictly prohibited to go out for security reasons (I was not sure what the security guards were doing). It was our only time together, and we didn’t want to end the night so early. If we had gone to sleep early that night, what would be the difference between a vacation and a hostel life? So after sweet-talking to one of the guards, we sneaked out and gathered by the beach under a clear moonlight reflecting beautifully on the surface of the sea. It was a charming setting for lovers. To realize that I was not with anyone called a perfect lover, but with a group of young-blood students, I sighed contentedly, smiling submissively.

It was the night of confession. We exchanged stories – I told them some of the inspiring stories of mine, hoping to enlighten their souls. It was as if the bridge between us had been torn apart. We talked and talked, and stopped for a while when we saw some kind of lights coming out of the nearby bush, being aware of the possibilities of supernatural distractions (or simply getting caught by religious authorities!). But nothing happened. The talks went on and on until the last exciting part when we played “dare of truth” game. Those who opted for “dare” had to perform daring actions like climbing a tree or rolling on the sand. Thanks to logical reasons, nobody chose to do that.

When it came to my turn, I chose “truth”. Eddy was ready to let go of the bomb.
“Sir, are you metrosexual?”
“Er, depending on how you see it.”
He laughed rather creepily and said: “I respect lah you, Sir.”

We all smiled knowingly. In fact, the broad smile lasted on our faces when we woke up late the following morning, checked out at 12 p.m., and departed to KL at 3 p.m. Before I left, they surprised me with two nicely-framed photos, which showcase the memories of our togetherness. Out of so many material choices, they chose memory. It was a perfect gift. And this Balok trip would not easily slip out of my fragile mind.

To Sheila, Natrah, Rin, Liza, Shikin, Azie, Ina, Eddy, Ijan and Wazir – You are my angels!

My Next-Top-Model Housemate

2007-04-18T17:23:00.000+08:00

It is an unexpected coincidence. I was not particularly close to him. He has been Jimi’s best friend in Ipoh. And now, my best friend’s best friend is my housemate. Jimi also told me once that he didn’t expect that his two best friends would be housemates (Pretty twist, isn’t it?).

He came to KL just five moths ago to work in one of the government’s offices. It was his first job in KL after working for five years in Ipoh. When I cordially invited him to be my housemate, he complained a lot about the third-world conditions of my house. Fine, I was not really desperate for a housemate, I consoled myself repeatedly. Well, he could easily choose to stay with his ever-loud friends in KL in a much more metropolitan housing area. But at the end, he chose me, simply because I was the total opposite of him. Yes, he is extremely loud (talking about professional legal officer), while I prefer to be quiet and boring when my students are not around. Our characters are so much different, yet we have been good housemates with amazing chemistry. People with good sense would never expect that we would sit comfortably together on the sofa in the house.

“With you Cekmi, life is more peaceful”, he said. I didn’t quite get it at first. But later on, I understood what was going on. With a reserved person like me, he could complete the house with his loudness effortlessly, which I welcome very much. With his intense charisma, my house has never been so loud, thunderous and cheerful. He completes my solitary life. To illustrate, singing is his forte. With his high-pitched singing in the toilet every now and then, he surely sends a merry message to the mundane neighbourhood and, not to forget, my ever-talkative landlord nearby.

And he likes America’s next-top model. I certainly can’t beat his cat-walking (Ah, two crazy professionals!)

Coming from a caterer family, he likes to cook. Whenever he cooks, he cooks like a pro – with rich varieties of dishes, side dishes and extra side dishes. And he would complain, “Cekmi, why you eat so little?” I will smile and add a little, regretting it later.

We like to buy things in bulks, where at the end, we have to throw them into a wastebin quite regrettably – rotten eggs, decayed fruits, overly-dried vegetables, liquidated ice-cream, etc. I guess his big taste explains these bulky choices of groceries in the house.

He used to complain about my hectic urban lifestyle – going out with friends every night, shopping endlessly and all that. For him, life after work is found at home, accompanied lazily by TV and foods. “I don’t want to make new friends, I just want to maintain what I have now,” he said. Well, he is a conventional old-school Ipoh boy while I am a vibrant new-school KL boy. Don’t worry, he would eventually change his mind later and would not miss his mum too much (influential Cekmi, hahaha)

Most importantly, we managed to compromise on so many things - mostly little things.

One, Tuesday night is my night. He is not, in any circumstances, supposed to be any nearer to the TV remote control. Because my favourite TV shows are on the air – Betty Ugly and Desperate Housewives. But there was a time when he asked me out for dinner on Tuesday night. Not wanting to disappoint him, I voluntarily accompanied him. Only when he suddenly realized later on that it was Tuesday night that he terribly apologized for his fault. Well, I didn’t really mind missing those shows. What is more important than being a good companion to a good friend? And being accompanied in return? (Ah, idealist Cekmi)

Two, there is only one parking space in front of the house, where one of us has to park quite a distance and has to lose a few calories by walking around 20 feet to the front door. As petty as it may seem, I do not want this thing to be an issue. So, we happily take turns parking our cars on predetermined days. Isn’t life full of beautiful compromises, dear readers?

Oh, we share almost the same birthday (I am just two day’s younger than him). Our birthday celebrations this year will definitely be the grandest of all, or at least grander than IIC’s grand dinner!

I really love his presence because he continuously brings comfort and warm to the house and, of course, to my heart, which makes me wonder sometimes – what I would do without him.

p/s This entry (which is the hundredth!) has been proudly pre-endorsed by my charming housemate.

A Flicker of Hope

2007-04-16T11:09:00.000+08:00

“The soul yearns to fly home
On the wings of love
To the world of ideas
Because it longs to be freed
From the chains of the body…”

Plato

Barely four months of breathing
The foetus wanted to leave
Ummi had to let him go
So soon

Since her womb couldn’t bear it
The baby has departed
Flying up there
So soon

This physical limitation
Has discontinued a life
Took away a hope
So soon

The ride of love is tried
But not to worry
Heavan he goes
So soon

The heartbeat has already stopped
How easy life is taken away
This hope flickers away
So soon

So long, my little brother…

Runaway Dream

2007-04-12T13:11:00.000+08:00

It is happening this Sunday
He will be on the runaway
The success is on its way
Come what may

So you better scream
Because it is his dream
He is claiming the cream
Getting the best of the gleam

Struggling for some time
Things will be so fine
You’ll say: "It's mine!"
You’ll shine

Masculine Icon, yes do not miss
Get a handphone, and note this
Type PLM 11, sure it is
Send to 32321, get a kiss

Good luck my dear friend, Adel!

So You Think You Are Glemer

2007-04-09T10:59:00.000+08:00

It was seriously funny. I acted like I was the King of the Night, but the truth is, I was not even close to it. Of course, it was politically incorrect for me to act like one.

I was at the College’s very first Grand Dinner (after five years!) when I was outwitted by my own colleague. Apparently, the organizer was outrageously advanced by choosing the most daring theme on earth for an Islamic institution – Glamour and Fusion (Daa…).

It was highly anticipated that everybody would be busy making appointments with established designers, hoping to look glamorously fused when walking on the red carpet, or when receiving an award for the King and Queen of the Night. But the pathetic fact was, almost everyone was awfully fused. They were still helplessly stuck with the dogma of stigma of a traditional dinner code. The result was a total fiasco of fashion disaster – a boring combination of batiks and black trousers for male guests, and a tiring mixture of shawls and modern baju kurung for female invitees. I think they hardly put ample efforts to adhere to the theme (Well, what can you expect from a religious college?). Having said this, I had to say that the organizer was dreaming in fantasy.

Superstitiously ambitious.

I was not really excited with the dinner. When I was asked by the director of the program to be the MC, I refused, not wanting to really master the ceremony, or else I would definitely conquer all the prestigious awards especially the most-twisted King of the Night. As I was selfishly busy with my own study life, I didn’t want to sex up my mind with other unnecessary things, besides my thesis writing. I wanted to remain in my comfort zone. On top of that, I just wanted to take pleasure in walking freely on the red carpet, getting the attention, and simply enjoying the foods (The foods were not really up to my expectation, by the way). That’s all. So I objected their request rather impolitely.

I started looking for the attire the night before the grand dinner. I went to all over my friends’ houses in the middle of the night, searching for the right style to match with the required theme. Finally, I ended up putting on a Justin-Timberlake-like style (the jealous guests, who dressed like Mak Mahs and Pak Abus, called me Justin Terbalik).

Dear organizer, I might not be Islamically presentable, but at least, I did my best part to follow your wishful whims and fancies. So be it. Okay, so I got a Loyalty Award to recognize my five years of tireless service in the college. Thanks a lot. For all those hardship of pioneering struggle I have faced, nevertheless, I just wish a better material return. Okay okay okay, I shouldn’t ask what the college can give for me, but what I can give to the college. JFK. Understood. All right. Got it!

Oh, when the King of the Night was announced, I was dumbfounded. I didn’t even consider the winner as my competitor. My wishful limelight was stolen. Only then I realized that I was not in the position to win because I was forced to be a last minute judge for the dress, even though I refused rather rudely because I wanted to win. They were so politically smart. And one more thing! The winner apparently was the director of the program (so he was the Almighty). Wait wait wait, don’t jump into a wild conclusion, you naughty readers!

So you think you are the King of the Night?

So who is the real king?

With the gorgeous Queen of the Night

I never said I was unhappy or disappointed. I was just amused and perplexed with the mind-boggling incredulity on how the organizer defined Glamour and Fusion, and how they came up with the final decision. To the future organizer, here is my humble piece of advice – the future grand dinner should have no theme at all. So I wouldn’t have to try very hard. Or alternatively, you can easily opt to an office theme, so it would be easy for everyone to go to the dinner right after their office hours.

Despite its notoriety, this night I remember.

Ipoh Mali

2007-03-27T13:57:00.000+08:00

After a few futile attempts
I finally got what I have been craving for

Ipoh White Coffee

Going to Ipoh has always been fun
Mission fulfilled.

The One With A Happy Ending

2007-03-16T15:23:00.000+08:00

The second semester has just ended. No longer waking up at the wee hours as early as 5.45 a.m. everyday, 30 minutes’ cold shower, 30 minutes’ dreaming in front of the mirror, 20 minutes’ lonely driving, and 60 minutes’ waiting for the eyes to have the shape of an energetic happy lecturer. And at 8, the happiest clown is transformed, ready to sail his English class through the liveliest journey ever. Well, those things ended a week ago. No more pretending. No more make-believe stories. I don’t know what to feel now. Happy? Maybe.

This semester, my students waited until the last class to please me.

“Sir, can we form a big circle among all of us?” asked Yati, the monitor of the class. I was perplexed, and answered with a fall-rise tone, “Okay...” What the hell these students are up to? Are they going to throw a surprise party? No way, I don’t think they know how to appreciate their lecturers, let alone giving gifts. (Well, don’t get me wrong, dear readers. I am not expecting them, but I would be very honored if they do). For three years, none of my imaginary things ever happened. Knowing the attitude of my students, the college would go on fire if they conduct a surprise party for their lecturer.

“Sir,” Yati began the seemingly prepared speech, “we are here to thank you for teaching us. We like your teaching style, so funny and happy-go-lucky. We are so happy to have you as our English lecturer.” What on earth do these people know about happy teaching?

Kamal raised and said code-switchingly, “On behalf of the boys, we would like to apologise and minta ampun because we all selalu datang lambat kelas and tak hantar assignment on time. But you are very kind Sir, tak pernah marah pun.” Opss…!

Yati raised and took out something from her bag. “We have something for you sir.” I was stunned and whispered, “What is this?” Yati smiled. She handed me three boxes of beautiful gifts. And everybody started to exchange their gifts. A photography session followed. It was perfect. I have never felt so blessed to be a lecturer.

Later, when they asked me to speak, I was strangely nervous. But I managed to get myself composed and this is my farewell speech: “Guys, I have never expected that you are gonna do this to me. I mean, the last time I experienced this was ten years ago, when I was a student like you, organizing a farewell party for my lecturer. I thought my students here would never do the things that I used to do. But, today I am proven wrong. I am so overwhelmed. Thanks a lot. You are so nice.”

“You know what, let me tell you a secret. I never get angry with you guys because I am not your grandfather to nag you all the time. I am not that old okay. I am your friend here, and I like Simple Plan also, like you all do. Well, why should I be bothered that you come late. You are grownups. And I want to treat you as adults. It’s you class. And it’s your marks that matter. I am not the one who is going to pass or fail. You know the rule, and you are the one who will bear the consequences, not me. So, I am not bothered, but guys, listen, my silence doesn’t mean that I agree. I am not a malay wannabe bride who is supposed to be silent to agree to get married. Now, I must tell you again, what you did was obviously wrong, and again, you are the one who is going to change that attitude, not me.”

“However, what matters most to me in this class is that you are happy. Whatever you do here, assignments, homework, or whatsoever, do it happily. This is my principle, my simple plan. Be happy! Shut up all the worries. Learning English ought to be enjoyable. There is no point that you come here everyday at 8 o’clock, wake up early everyday, but then, you are not happy. Life is too short. We are not going to meet here everyday. Sooner or later, we will say good bye, like today. We are not sure whether we will meet again in the future. So, be happy while we are still here, together.”

I am not sure whether I really meant the things that I said. But, I am pretty sure that that was one of the rare occasions which have the Bollywood-style endings, a happy ending.

(This post was originally published by cekmi at dannyhussainy.blogspot.com on April 5, 2005)

This Is My House

2007-03-13T11:09:00.000+08:00

Wanna know where I live?

Come on. Follow me.

Now, you gotta go through this death alley.

This way please. Yes, go down there.

Wowwo..! You gotta be very very careful, darling.

This road is dangerously shallow, steep and bumpy. When you drive a big car like that, be extremely watchful, because this third-world looking passage is potentially capable to scratch the bottom of your expensive, lowered car like this. Slow down please, slow down, yes.

You know what, friend. Poor Jimi. He is always unluckily victimized by this road’s poor condition. To avoid this, everybody has to get out of his car to reduce the car weight, so the car wouldn’t hit the bumpy road. Funny, right? My housemate also has the same problem, always slowing down his car at a nail’s pace when driving through this car-unfriendly alley. But, not for a professional driver like me. I would just drive effortlessly and zoom like a professional F1 driver. Fast and efficient. Not a single scratch.

Okay alhamdulillah. You are now down past the chilling alley. Congratulations! Your car is safe. You can park your car here. No, don’t look back at that alley. Hmm, pretty scary, isn’t it?

Look! That’s my rented house.

No, no. Not that bungalow on the high land. For God’s sake, that’s my landlord’s house (I will tell you about my kind landlord in a short while, be patient). There. My house is that single storey house. Let’s get a better view.

See? There are six units of these look-alike landed lot properties. Mine is one of them. Let’s get closer. Talk a walk with me. Come on.

Keep moving. Hmm. No one is around. It is always like this. Quiet. My house is located there, there, there. That side. Yes, with a tired-looking sofa in front of it. Cool, ek?

There you go. Taraa….! This is where I live. What do you think? Kampung house? Of course, it is. Sorry to disappoint you. I am not staying in a posh condominium. Honestly, I am tired of high-rise buildings. After those tiring years of staying far above the gravity, I finally decided to go back to traditions, by choosing a kampung residence, like this. Yes, I have been living here happily for 20 months (For the record, this is my tenth rented house, if I am not mistaken lah. Lost count already).

After staying here for quite some time, I can claim that this is the best living area I have ever been in my life. It is perfectly harmonious for a melancholic bachelor like me. When I looked at this house for the first time, I was thinking of a remote resort. Quiet. Peaceful. Safely isolated. (You can hear the roosters crowing at odd hours, knowing how the urban man lives).

So, I have lived in the house mostly alone. I truly enjoy the beauty of loneliness. But, I did and do have a housemate. Two different housemates actually. The first one was an Indonesian friend, who stayed here for only three months and moved out when he decided to settle down (No, I did not kick him out. Don’t believe the rumours, my dear). The second housemate is a good Ipoh friend, who has been with me for three months. Yes, he is currently my housemate. No, he is not in the house now. He is out-station. Always busy (I will talk about my next-top-model housemate later, okay?).

All right. Now, let’s talk about the surrounding of this house. The neighbours are mostly families, who sleep at 10.30 p.m. every night (so, you can imagine the stillness of my beautiful nights here). They are diplomatically friendly, although I hardly communicate with them. Well, maybe a little chit-chat and gossip once in a blue moon. But, they are very nice people. Oh, that’s Kak Nor. There. See? She gave me that smile again. She always gives me that strange look whenever I smile at her. I don’t know. Shhh. I have a feeling that she might think that I am flirting with her. Excuse me friend, I am not into someone’s desperate housewives, okay.

My landlord? Yes. She is unbelievably friendly and helpful. A typical Kelantanese woman. Busy-like look. Busybody. I like her a lot, not because we are from the same root, but for other non-racial reasons. Her whole family has migrated to KL and lived happily ever after in that English-style bungalow at the back of my house. Their house is so close to mine I could easily eavesdrop on their conversations from my kitchen (I always wonder whether they do the same too). Interestingly, she refuses to speak to me in Kelantan. Instead, she prefers to speak in a standard KL language, although her Kelantanese budu accent can be easily noticed. Well, she got style, man. One thing about her that I like most is that she takes care of the welfare of her tenants, and you can get better “perks” when you know how to talk to her in a subtle way.

Let me tell you a story. There was a time during a raining season. The ground areas around my house became so muddy that they caused inconvenience for the tenants, especially me who had to stare grimly at my newly-washed car and newly-polished shoes being always covered in soil and mud. So, to fight for my rights as a lawful tenant, I went to see this Lord of the Land.

“Excuse me mak cik,” I started with a smile. Gaining my composure and confidence, I continued, “We have a little problem down there.”
“What is it, son?” she asked me quite motherly.
“Well mak cik, apparently, it is raining season right now. And the whole area is now covered with dirt and lopak.”
“Really? Okay, I will see into that later.” See? Can you see it now? It is in front of your eyes! I said this to her in my private thoughts.
“Mak cik,” I whispered to her, “my friends always come over to my house. They always say: “Aren’ t your landlord taking care of your welfare?”. I was shocked mak cik. Really. I was embarrassed actually with my friends’ comments. Because, I know my landlord is not like that. She is a very kind woman, who knows how to take care of her tenants’ welfare.”
She was strangely quiet. I immediately excused myself and left.

Few hours later, I found this all over the place in front of my house. See this.

Ops, sorry my sweetheart. You have been standing there so patiently for a long time listening to my stories, and I haven’t even invited you into my pondok. I am very sorry. I am a poor host, I know. Come on, come on. Get inside. Take off your shoes first, of course. Silakan masuk.

Tafaddhol mashkuro.

Yes, he did it!

2007-03-08T18:09:00.000+08:00

Remember Shazlee?

He has fought it
He has conquered it
He has strong-willed it
And yes, he finally did it

Look at him now…
What an incredible brat
What crazy naughtiness
What a couldn’t-be-bothered man

Amazing bravery
Miraculous turn-out
Unbelievable courage
Inspiring life-time achievement

Look at his outrageous act
Here he came to me out of a sudden
Smiling nonchalantly
As if nothing has happened

How many people could do this
Having this rare chance
Being at a live-or-die stage
Going through two chemotherapy
Coming back alive
Telling people how indescribable
How unspeakable the pain was

Cherished this story should be
Remembered this man should be
Learnt this experience should be
Awarded this courage should be

Because he is a cancer survivor
And he really IS

The Antonym of Dying

Opss, he did it again!

2007-03-06T09:34:00.000+08:00

After my mother’s passing away
This ride has been a roller-coaster
And my father has been lonely
Just like his old Toyota

It was a classic type of loneliness
Longing for companionship
Companion? Not to worry
He finally got it here

This menopause-like Toyota is smiling
Finding a womanly Fiat partner
They are a perfect combination of love
Don’t you think so?

The ride of love never dies
Maybe it stops for a few moments
Searching for better views
Hoping for better rewards

Indeed, the reward is coming
On its way to our family
Long after 19 years
It is happening again

This recent development
It is unbelievably pleasant
It will bring our family closer
As we are growing bigger

This big surprise came to me yesterday
“Your mother is hospitalized,” said my father
“What happened father?” I was worried
My father just laughed

I was perplexed
“Don’t worry son,” assured my father
I was waiting for his next answer nervously
He finally said: “Your Ummi is having a baby.”

Opss.. my father did it again!

My SHORT Tale

2007-03-02T12:21:00.000+08:00

I am short.

Physically.

With only five-feet-and-three-inch tall, I am always subject to various situations of belittlement, embarrassment, and to certain extent, humiliation.

I still keep my application form for the position of a MAS steward
I keep refusing my friend's invitation to a modeling agency
I hate being in the middle of the standing crowd during any concerts at KLCC
I don't ask my students to stand up when answering my questions
I avoid being paired with any giraffe-like guys for class presentations
I don't usually walk side by side with my six-feet-tall friends

Adding to these insults and ridicules, I am always doomed to various unpleasant real-life associations.

Shortcomings are not welcome in any college projects
Shortsightedness is the sign of much dreaded aging
Shortcut scheme to rich and success is a disaster
Short-circuit is the curse for all KLians

Okay tall people, you can have a laugh now. I know, laughter is the best medicine. So keep laughing. Ha Ha Ha. Hi Hi Hi. Hu Hu Hu. Are you done? Okay now, short people, I have loads of good news for you. Take a look at these facts.

The SMSers use all sorts of short forms to save their fingers
The similes are used by bloggers to shortly show their feelings
The people's names are shortened as terms of endearments
The telegram is composed of as shortest sentences as possible
The shortcut road is used by smart drivers to minimise the hassles
The effective minutes of the meetings must be concise and short
The short-listed candidates for an interview are a lucky bunch
The shorthand is an essential skill for students and reporters

Moreover, in Malay cultures, the fact that someone is short can be a blessing.

The marriage will last longer if short men marry tall ladies
The kancil, in Malay classic bed-time stories, was intelligent and short
The old Malay folks used to say, "kecil-kecil cili padi..."

Besides, many successful individuals are mostly from the short community.

The linguistic lecturer I adore so much was very brilliant, and short too
The CEO of my company is very transparent, and short too
The Japanese are very genius, and short too
The hobbit who got that ring was cute, and short too
The America's Most Gorgeous Male Model is very handsome, and short too
(maybe their shortnesses make them strive more to compensate their shortcomings, uk?)

Linguistically, the English language is very happy to permit all sorts of amusing short forms.

WHO, CALL, ME, etc. - the products of acronyms
Enthuse, televise, liaise etc. - the products of backformations
Brunch, smog, motel, etc. - the products of blends
Math, bike, fax, etc. - the products of abbreviations
Burp, buzz, hiss, etc. - the products of onomatopoeia
(it is funny to realize that the terms 'abbreviations' and 'onomatopoeia' are two such long words for their short counterparts, isn't it?)

So, all the shorties around the world, being short is not that bad, uh?

*the roundest applause*

Thank you.

From a short lecturer.

(This post was originally published by cekmi at dannyhussainy.blogspot.com on March 7, 2005)

Freshman?

2007-02-27T13:28:00.000+08:00

Really? Thank you students. I know that.

My Mr-Know-All Brother: Episode 2

2007-02-23T11:44:00.000+08:00

*****

THE YEAR WAS 1988. I remember it vividly. On that tragic night, I was playing in front of the house with my good friends. We were burning something and playfully giggling when he walked past us with his gangster-like friends.

“What are you playing with? Stop it!” he said rather fiercely. I looked at him with disgust. Out of a sudden, before I wanted to say a word, he slapped me right on my face. I was utterly in shock, tongue-tied, standing like a worn-out statue. Then, he took out his cigarette and wanted to light it using the fire that I had just made on the ground. While he was squatting and reaching the fire, I was thinking of teaching him a lesson. This is the moment, I thought. And with out-of-nowhere force, I concentrated my newly-found power and imagined pushing him into the fire and burn him to death!

Push him! Push him! Push him! Hurry up! Hurry up! The unknown evil voice kept telling me. And to my surprise, I actually did it!

PUSH!!...

For a moment, I was terribly aghast with my unexpectedly outrageous action. The sudden thought of becoming a murderer and being sentenced to death shook all my senses. But of course, he was smarter than I was. He survived. He managed to escape the fire. He stood up furiously, looking at me more monstrously. I saw him firmly swinging his right hand and, with all his might, slapped me even harder on my face.

SLAP!!...

It was two times harder that the first slap. I was helplessly sprawling on the ground. He left nonchalantly without a word. I was left with bruise, physically and emotionally. That is not the end, I was thinking. Something had to be done. Justice had to be delievered. I was adamant for a smarter, killing-me-softly revenge.

That same night, I was strategizing very hard for my next actions. I couldn’t possibly sit and watch this injustice being dumped on me like a person with no free will. I knew I could not use physical means or verbal communication since I would be likely defenseless. So, I decided to opt for subtlety by hurting him indirectly, psychologically, not physically. So, this was what I did.

In the middle of the night, while everyone was sleeping in the house, I sneaked into my brother’s room and opened his drawer. Mischievously, I took all his important documents – student’s matric card, identification card, driving license, wallets, etc. I quickly went out of the house and set them on fire! Yes! I burned them all! All of them! Every single piece was reduced into ashes. It was like my emotional burden had been lifted to unknown pleasure.

I finally did what I had always wanted to do. Revenge. Sweet revenge. The next morning, while my brother and the whole family were worried to death and frantically looking for his missing documents, I was smiling cruelly. Maliciously satisfied. He deserved it. Ha ha ha.

*****

BEFORE GOING BACK TO SABAH, my brother wanted to have a farewell dinner with me as well as my little sister studying in a university in KL. I liked the idea of it, knowing that my little sister would neutralize my cold treatment towards my brother. She is always close to my brother, unlike me. I chose a fine restaurant in Greenwood, Gombak. It was a cozy restaurant, a perfect place for a family gathering. Only this one was not so perfect. Okay, I promised to myself that I would do my best to be a bit nicer towards my brother this time around.

During dinner, my sister brought a lot of sensitive topics I would never ask my brother if we were alone. He started to reminisce the past, talking about his bitter experiences when my late mother was temporarily divorced when he was around three years old. For one rare moment, I looked at him with tender, imagining those hardship and struggle he had shared with my late mother. Then, he talked about those bad things he did to the family members.

“Some people forget when they do bad things for others, but I won’t,” he confessed quite apologetically. I wondered whether he still remembered the night when he slapped me.
He looked at me and asked, “Do you remember when I, er…, slapped you?”
I felt my heart pounding very fast. It sounded like a panting animal. I didn’t believe with what I had just heard. After 18 years! Yes, after 18 years, he brought the part that I always remember. Remember? No, I do not remember it. I “cherish” it for as long as I live.
“Of course I remember,” I finally answered, trying very hard to sound casual and indifferent.
He looked at me right into my eyes and said the words I long wanted to hear: “I am sorry.”

I was shocked and confused. Should I tell him that I burnt all his documents that very night? Oh shit, no! I didn’t want to look stupider this time. I shouldn’t be sorry now. He still deserved it. For my broken and miserable childhood, let it remain my top secret, unless he is now reading this public writing, which I do mind at all.

Because, for the first time, I finally felt that I had won over my biological brother.

My Mr-Know-All Brother: Episode 1

2007-02-21T09:02:00.000+08:00

MY BROTHER HAD A VISIT to KL recently and stayed over at my house. For the record, he is a respected lecturer in a university in Sabah. Being the first in the family, he always tries to set supposedly-excellent examples for his little brothers and sisters. For my parents, he is their all-in-the-world pride and priceless asset. At the age of 37, he is a successful man who seems to lead a perfectly-blended life, personally and professionally. We all should be proud of him, my mother used to say. Look at those nicely framed convocation photos! Isn’t he the most genius of all? Yes mother, I couldn’t agree more. But, look, there is one big problem – I despise him. Indeed. The bitter truth is, I have never been close with him and have never felt comfortable whenever he is around. So, when he unexpectedly decided to stay over at my house last week, I was flabbergasted.

After I picked him up at KLIA, the nightmarish episodes started. I felt terrible because I was a little unwelcoming towards him. During our car ride home, he began talking about stuffs I hardly wanted to listen to – things that always make me look intellectually-challenged (or stupid, if you prefer to label it that way). His subtle, diplomatic way of discourse is like an invisible germ which never shows true faces but in the end contaminates human’s life with great victory. And I hated so much when he did that again that night. It was excruciatingly irritating and annoying.

With my brother, I am always an ignorant person who knows nothing about life, who has a lot of unsettled issues, whose self-esteem is at the lowest rank. With him, I am a poor little boy again. And there lies another problem: I have been forever clueless on how to react or go about dealing with his subtle meanness. I guess it all started during my childhood. For all I know, my bother and I shared an ugly past.

*****

WHEN I WAS IN SCHOOL, I used to look at him with contempt. His underestimation towards my capabilities in many basic things infuriated me the most. I was mentally bullied when he called me with an unacceptable term. We have never been close since them. We were two different worlds. For example, he was an outdoor boy who loved sports, who hanged out with various gangs in the kampong, and who got along easily with most of the kampong people. Conversely, I was an indoor boy who loved staying at home, who preferred to get stuck in my own world and who chose to ignore kampong people around me. So, he was very popular among those people, while I was considered “abnormal”, a social criminal, since I behaved rather eccentrically and was not at all like him, or them.

What made it worse, my parents used to compare me with my brother (so did all the busy-body relatives and makciks). I had always hated to be compared and contrasted with him. Being immature and childish, I started to detest him as well as all the general society in my kampong. I had never felt brotherly loved by him. Practically speaking, I could say that I never had a brother who protected me with love and care. Apparently, things were pretty horrible back then.

When I was offered to enroll a boarding school in Selangor, he laughed disrespectfully, telling my family members that I had been a naïve, indoor, kampong boy who had never been exposed to a modern city. I was terribly offended and hurt. He treated me as if I had no idea at all how the world worked. Yes, he is always been Mr. Right, Mr. Know-All.

*****

AFTER PICKING HIM UP IN LCCT, we stopped by at a restaurant for a drink. For the record again, that was our first “intimate” meeting after ages. I had no idea why he wanted to stay over at my place. He could have booked a five-star hotel and be luxuriously served. Why should he bother my life now when he never bothered it all before? Okay, maybe he wanted to reconcile. Maybe he had realized that he had done a lot of nasty things to me and thereafter attempted to compensate. Maybe. But it was hard to reset the hard feelings that had long been bred inside me. I was like a boiled egg which was hard inside but always looked fragile externally. It was obvious. When he talked that night, I chose not to listen neither interrupt him. I was silent most of the time, pretending to be attentive, while my head was spinning, thinking of ways to hasten the time and called it a good night.

Oh yes, he had a lot of philosophical ideas to boast around. While I loved small talks, he talked about those out-of-the-box things – politics, statistics, science, education, world issues, bla bla bla. Okay, fine. I had no objection for philosophers. But he should learn some manners on how to communicate the ideas more gracefully. Like Socrates, who was the cleverest person in Athens, but claimed that he knew nothing. Socrates was so idealistically stylish and gentlemanly, wasn’t he? Unlike my brother. To my brother, as well as those who claim they practically know everything, listen to this wise statement: Wisest is he who knows that he does not know.

Okay, back to my so-called philosopher brother. Whenever he asked me a question, I naturally would give a minimal answer.
“What do you teach for usrah in the college?” he asked me.
“Social issues,” I answered proudly.
“Everybody can teach usrah, even clerks also can. It is how you handle the people that matters most.”
What does he know about usrah?

Yes, he did it again, attacking my answer sarcastically and boasting about what he could do better. This reminded what he did to Jimi, not so long ago.
“What is your CGPA now?” asked my brother.
“Three something,” Jimi answered rather proudly.
“Only three?”
Poor Jimi.

To add the insult, my brother also somehow offended my housemate when they were having a small talk during one morning.
“Are you leaving for work now?” said my brother.
“Yes, I have to leave very early to avoid traffic jam,” answered my housemate.
“7 o’clock is not that early.”
Poor my housemate.

What’s wrong with my brother? Or should the question be: what’s wrong with me? I always wonder. After having realized his professorially-dominant, sickly-judgmental attitude, I usually shut my mouth up. This I know perfectly, because if I say a word, I am just making a fool out of myself again, and getting mentally hurt by him over and over again. Deep inside, I always scream, wanting to slash him with the sharpest knife or shoot him with the most sophisticated CIA weapon right into his head.

Oh yes, come to think of it, I did take revenge against him once. It happened when I was 12 years old.

(To be continued)

Where is the LOVE?

2007-02-15T10:26:00.000+08:00

What makes me inspired?

2007-02-12T13:11:00.000+08:00

(Picture: Courtesy of Jimi)

Here is the top-ten list of the little solitary things that never fail to lift me up spiritually:

1. Listening to Il Divo’s or Josh Groban’s dying sonata in the car during sleepy morning-rides to college or sleepless late-night rides to nowhere.

2. Waking up early on Sunday mornings (which is quite unearthly for other normal eight-to-five office slaves who take revenge on Sunday mornings, right?).

3. Reading a page or two of my expiring novel during “erotic” bedtime hours (I digest and enjoy every single page of a novel, so it normally takes a century for me to finish one).

4. Going to Pasar Keramat, having breakfast, eating the best roti bom in town, swallowing the best nasi berlauk in the universe, reading The Star in the middle of deafening noise, walking through the ever busy market, buying nothing.

5. Riding past Titiwangsa Lake Garden every time I am in the middle of a busy KL (just a glimpse of it will definitely stimulate the sense of encouragement I need).

6. Doing stuffs with a lake-garden view – walking, jogging, reading, completing thesis, or lazily daydreaming, for as long as I want, until I have to force myself to say this aloud: For God’ sake, please get bored Cekmi!

7. Watching watched-already musical movies, like inspiring Evita or classical The Phantom of Opera, and this includes musically-enchanting Hindustan movies, like tear-jerking Kal Ho Na Ho or classically-mesmerising Kuch Kuch Hota Hai.

8. Driving past the nostalgic places I used to live and cherish, such as Sunway or Section 17 in Petaling Jaya, or Jalan Genting Kelang in downtown KL, even if I have to go through a deadly congested traffic.

9. Sitting down by the glass window on the second floor of Mac Donald’s in Bangsar, reading books or just staring blankly at the happy faces of children laughing merrily with their loved ones (pathetic?).

10. Going to a Chinese night market in Cheras every Friday night, dressing almost like them, looking for legally-questionable audio CDs, eating famous Uncle Bob’s halal fried chicken, and most of the time, roaming aimlessly (my demure sister used to detest my multi-cultural taste).

And there are many other little things that continuously provide the crucial zest I badly need in life. Oh, you have no idea what the heaven these things have done to my confidence (aha, stealing Jennifer Hudson’s line).

So ladies and gentlemen, if you feel like your doomed personal life is driving you crazy, that you are going to be helplessly sucked up by the office insanity, that professional life seems endlessly threatening, that love life makes you even more pathetic than a famous Bridget Jones, that dreams seem impossible, just look around you and ask yourself:

What makes me inspired?

Oooo… what a shit, er i mean, shirt!

2007-02-09T13:24:00.000+08:00

So business-oriented, the t-shirt makers went all out, desperately campaigning for human rights, hoping for more profits from newly-liberated customers.

So globally-spirited, the t-shirt sellers were secretly promoting an eye-catching idea, anticipating for more monetary support and more spiritual development.

Or may be these people were just as ignorant as those happy-go-lucky monkeys shouting for no-banana campaign.

Oh, I found that shirt, with a stupid joke, at the very least likely place on earth - a duty-free shop in Rantau Panjang, Kelantan.

Budu Tales

2007-02-06T14:53:00.000+08:00

The which-state-you-come-from question has always been my nightmare. I used to lie about my state of origin. The correct and honest answer might bring a lot of unpleasant issues, at least for me. People always mistakenly (and blindly) associate a person’s state of origin with some kind of expected attitudes and behaviours, which are very discriminatory. Such generalizations always make me uncomfortable, since I am certainly not like what people always predict from these stupid formulations and deductive reasonings. This is one of them:

Kelantanese love budu.
Kamal is a Kelantanese.
Therefore, Kamal loves budu.

Such an oversimplification makes me sick. That is why I tend to lie when people ask about my origin. I will finally tell them the truth after some time, when I am sure that they know my personality that they will not misjudge me anymore. However, this conflict remains so, though not so badly like it used to be. A breaking-ice session during BTN programme could well illustrate this.

“Where are you from?” asked the trainer. Afraid to be found out later that I had lied, I honestly answered, “Pasir Mas, Kelantan.”
“O… Kelate.” What a stupid remark! I hate this. I am not typical okay!
He looked rather skeptical. I had known already that the following comment would come out.
“You don’t look like one.” Bingo! I struggled to answer smartly so that I might not be misunderstood. My respond was: “Well, I have been living in KL since I was 15.”
“So, that’s why you don’t speak and behave like a Kelantanese”
“Yeah, maybe.” What the heck. That was none of your business.
“Tell me, why do Kelantanese people are so obsessed with PAS?” There you are! …another tricky question to probe my political stand. I was caught again in a dilemma, not politically, but more about my self-perception which differs from many typical Kelantanese.

Well, to tell you the truth, it once almost killed my profession as a lecturer. I was previously asked the same question during an interview for a job confirmation in my workplace. The interviewer provoked me with the same subject matter, and my answer was:

“PAS is culturally good.”

The answer was absolutely honest and innocently academic, and had nothing to do with my personal political stand. Yet, the result of the interview was disastrous - my probation was extended to three more months! It was utterly ridiculous and stupid. I did not, to the very least, expect that I would be ‘punished’ for a political reason (perhaps, social reason might be acceptable). But, the truth is, my probationary extension might make people think that, drawing from a funny conclusion, I was a politically dangerous person! (If only my ‘satanic’ friends knew this!). It was cruelly amusing, knowing that I am not at all that type of person ( Yes, you can simpan malaikat 44!).

Well, I am not interested at all in politics, despite the fact that my first degree was in this area. Matter-of-factly, my answer was simply a situational answer. The interviewee asked me a question, and I answered it so academically and naively, not knowing that I was actually trapped by my own honesty. Fortunately, three months later, after thorough ‘investigation’ done by the top management, I was declared politically ‘clean’ and happily confirmed. Of course, they could not possibly find any records showing that I was politically involved when I was in the university. Stupid fools.

That was really an ironic experience. Truthfully, I hardly consider myself as a Kelantanese patriot. I used to detest Kelantanese people. My Kelantanese friends even labeled me as a Kelantan Murtad! Okay. I did not mind at all being humiliated like that. Humiliation? I cannot ascertain this feeling. I might be arrogant and like kacang lupakan kulit. On the contrary, the Kelantanese colleagues of mine have somewhat accepted this reality of my being ‘betrayal’ of my own country (quite ironically, they even speak to me in a normal KL ‘language’).

Or perhaps, the following essay, done when I took a pre-requisite subject Error and Contrastive Analysis in the university, might explain my complex peculiarity towards Kelantanese people.

* * *
Question:

Try to think of some areas of your affective or cognitive self in which you feel some prejudice towards member of another culture or even a subculture (such as people from different parts of your own country). What are the deeply-seated causes of that prejudice? Should you overcome that prejudice? How might a person go about eradicating such negative attitudes?

Answer:

I am a Kelantan-born man.

Being apart from my family and my hometown for twelve years, I have developed this self-inflicted sense of alienation towards my very own culture - Kelantanese culture. This so-called prejudice towards my own people started, most probably, when I enrolled into a highly-appraised boarding school in 1992. That was my most critical moment when I had to leave my beloved family and undergo unexpected experiences in a place where everything was totally new and strange for me.

Culture shock – that was what happened to me then. I was terribly astonished by the new cultures directly exposed to me in both school and hostel life. Many things happened that made me more bewildered, confused and, most of the time, scared. I started to critically analyze my Kelantanese friends’ prejudicial behaviours towards other schoolmates from different states in Malaysia. Asabiyah, or an extreme he-is-not-from-our-state feeling – that is the right word that I can use to describe them. I detested their narrow-mindedness and chauvinism towards other cultures.

When I entered a pre-university matriculation centre in 1994, I had developed a vast social network – most of them were people from various states, and very few of them were Kelantanese. I had developed within myself a strong loathe towards my own culture that everything about myself - my personality, physical appearances, social preferences, etc. – was no longer Kelantanese in nature. So, I brought within myself a strange prejudicial feeling which is, some of my friends considered as, absurd and discriminatory. Should I overcome this prejudice?

The question deeply triggered me that I started to refresh my past and figure out the positive reasons for my ‘Yes’ answer. Such prejudice should and can be overcome simply because it got me nowhere. If I were to retain the feeling, would I prove to my people that I am smarter than they are? Would I defeat my own people and culture? I don’t think so. That is something ridiculous, destructive and negative! So, how do I go about eradicating such negative attitudes?

First and foremost, all these conflicts must be brought into the open. I must confront myself first and make me believe that I love and am proud of my own people and cultures. Such love should be channeled in positive and constructive ways. Then, I must face the reality that my origin is not ideal that imperfections are supposed to be harmonized, not rebelled negatively. Differences should be synchronized and brought into an agreeable pattern that would satisfy and bring together all parties cooperatively. Staying away or escapism is not the solution to put the situation in order. It will only make things worse and more unbearable.

The next thing that I must do is to ‘return’ to my own people and cultures- emotionally and socially. I must start developing social contacts with them and avoid classifying them as ‘racists’. As Malay saying goes tak kenal maka tak cinta, so I should know my people better so that I can judge them in a better and fairer way. All the similarities should be appreciated and the differences, if any, must be accepted in an optimistic tone. Perhaps, an open talk among Malays from different states should be held to clarify many deeply-rooted questions regarding such taboo issues as social prejudice, status quo, etc. Besides, to a higher political level, the government should pass a new law, or amend the existing policy, if any, to ‘abolish’ the geographical borders within Malaysia that separate states and their people into somewhat different entities.

No matter what the solutions are, the situation would remain the same if the society refuses to accept changes imposed upon themselves. Most importantly, the society, particularly my people, must realize that they are, after all, human beings and human beings must socialize together so that the world is a better place to live, not to suffer.

(This post was originally, and outrageously, published by cekmi at dannyhussainy.blogspot.com on January 5, 2005)

sandWISH

2007-01-30T10:53:00.000+08:00

I was walking past the students' food stalls two days ago when I spotted a very interesting sign:

SANDWISH

Are you selling sand that can wish?
A wish made of sand?
Wishing sand?
Okay give me one sandwish
O my sandwish...
I wish I were 19 (so that I can be a stupid teen auditioning for Akademi Fantasia)

Suddenly I came back to reality
Disappointed, I saw the sandwiSH turned out to be a dull sandwiCH

I was perplexed and going nuts. How amusing the seemingly petty error in spelling could be, that it could fool my perception, that it has driven me crazy. Perhaps, the possible answers might be more insane. And these are my students' oral responses when asked about few simple things.

Me: Where are you studying?
Students: colleSH
Me: What is the antonym for 'poor'?
Students: riSH

So what on earth is the letter 'G' doing in 'colleGe'?
So what on earth is the letter 'C' doing in 'riCh'?

Perhaps, the pronunciation error breeds the spelling error in 'sandwiSh'.

So people, waTCH out our mouths and tongues when we want to MEAN things (so that we don't mean the things that we don't want to mean).

Television that we waSH
And clothes that we waTCH?

Thieves that we caSH
And money that we caTCH?

Potatoes that we maTCH
And pictures that we maSH?

A girl who goes to biTCH
And a sex maniac who goes for a beaCH?

Or hoping to be a wiSH
so that you can grant a wiTCH?

Poor me

I am an EngliTCH teaSHer
(and I am crazy for a sandwiSH now...)

(This post was originally published by cekmi at dannyhussainy@blogspot.com on February 21, 2005)

Sleep My Baby...

2007-01-25T09:06:00.000+08:00

This orang bandar knows how to treat an orang utan in a loving manner. And the primitively-lucky orang utan seems to be gratefully abashed by the orang bandar’s weirdly-civilized gestures. So much for a new home and a new hope.

A new home for daydreamers
A new hope for LRT operators

Gentle reminder: Find a better spot to release your after-work exhaustion during LRT ride, because Cekmi might catch you red-handed.

Free Spirit: Revisited

2007-01-22T16:02:00.000+08:00

I had an unforgettable moment with a good friend of mine.

During a motivational camp held in Ramadan, when everybody was having their berbuka puasa at a mosque, we sneaked out. It was his stupid idea. We had already bought our own food and planned to break our fast somewhere else, where there was nobody around.

"How about right there?" he pointed to a table for two by the lake. From there, we could look at a picturesque view of the lake.
"That's perfect," I agreed.
"Hope nobody is swimming!" He was so brave and childish.
With a naughty smile, I followed him. We broke our fasting, chatted and laughed gleefully. It sounds simple, but it lasts on my mind. Because it was an unforgettable evening for me.

When I remember this, I always put myself out of the scene, trying to look at it from an angel's point of view, putting myself in the middle of the lake, flying and looking at the two spoilt teenagers. In my mind, the whole scene was like a hallmark drama, so heartwarming and beautiful. The sun was peacefully setting down. The clouds were truly amazing. The kaleidoscopic reflection on the surface of the lake was the most beautiful of all. It was the reflection of free spirit. I guess, this is the very reason why I am crazy about lakes these days. A free-spirit reason.

The truth is, I really admire my friend’s free spirit. At our secondary school, he was so determined to live his life differently, accepting the fact that he was actually different. Everybody in the school knew that he was different. At this time, I wasn't that close to him, afraid that I would be labeled the same, and also afraid that I would be subjected to ridicule and humiliation among brainless students, just like he had been through. However, he wasn't bothered at all until everybody was looking at each others' disbelieving faces when he actually got a place in a local university. He was a hero then.

It was at the university that I tried to get to know him better. I was not afraid of the juicy, scandalous speculation anymore because, at this stage, I thought everybody should be very open-minded and matured enough to accept a friend like him. I knew our friendship was pure. He was a great friend who taught me lots of great things about life. He was my guru of life at that time. He was my inspiration. I learnt how to free my spirit. I learnt how to listen to my heart. I tried and tried and tried.

But in the end, I wasn't and couldn't be as free as he was and could. There were things that I just couldn't do. I still believed that there were limitations on how free someone could possibly be, but he didn't care. He was ready for any challenges and consequences. Nothing could stop his free spirit. It was his agonizing past experience that taught him to be this way. Despite the many heroic things he did at the university, he studied real hard and managed to graduate one year earlier than me. I admired his hard work.

After graduation, his fate was not that bad. Only he couldn't stick to a single job. Every time I met him, he would give me a new card: Assistant Manager of this, Assistant Manager of that... wow! His carefree passion in life was definitely admirable. However, this endless passion also almost killed him. Disappointed with his frustrating love life, he once gulped dozens of pills, admitted to a hospital, and survived his suicidal attempt. His spirit was so free he couldn't stop it from flying unnecessarily. What's worse, he was even fired by his company then. Yet, his free spirit again took a faster beat when he started his own company. He was on the verge of a big, bold, adventurous journey that any typical fresh graduates wouldn't ever dare to embark on. With strong determination, he got an investor's 80K in his hand to start off his daring endeavor. Oh my God.

Lately, I have been ignoring him, thanks to my busy life. I am so sorry that I haven't been a good friend to him. But he always tries to keep in touch with me. When he called me a month ago, it was heart-breaking. He informed me that his business was booming.

"I am opening a new branch near KLCC", he confidently said.
"Congrat! That's cool man."
"Okay lah..."
"Err.. friend, how's your personal life?" I tried to sound like a trustworthy confidante.
He was thinking before saying, "I'm leaving everything soon."
I was utterly shocked. "What do you mean - everything!?"
I could slightly hear him sobbing. For a few seconds, there was an awkward silence.
"Hey, what happened?" I was impatient and worried. I was not ready for bad news because I had my final exam paper on the following day. He was still silent. And I had an uneasy feeling mounting inside, ready to explode. I knew it - what he was about to say would be the last thing that I could ever imagine in my mind. And I didn't want to hear that. Because it was going to haunt my life forever. But he was going to break free his strongest spirit.

He finally said it: "I am HIV-positive."

(This post was originally published by cekmi at dannyhussainy.blogspot.com on April 27, 2005.)

Cekmi, Twisted

2007-01-18T14:35:00.000+08:00

Cekmi is going to travel
To a road less traveled
He is going to unravel
The world less unraveled

For he has no idea
What he is about to see
The steep mountains
The dangerous oceans
The deadly current
The suffocating space
The intoxicating hours
The bewildering tangle

Will he possibly handle the commotion?
Will he be able to accommodate the chaos?
Will he be strong enough to face the pain?
Will he ever be the cream of success?

He needs all the strength in the world
He needs a manly mind
He needs all the lucks
To face the hideous consequences
To tackle the mad catastrophe
To swallow the bitterness

But he will certainly take them all heroically
Turning them all into self-rewarding tests
Because he will be the Coffee Bean
Melting sweetly with aromatic charms
Bringing the best out of him
Making things deliciously happen
Turning everyone amazed
"Oh, what a great coffee we've got here!"
"Yes, he can do it!"

Because for the upcoming auspicious event
For the college’s third convocation ceremony
Cekmi is the Chosen One

He is the determinant Director!

Let Me Compaire & Contrust!

2007-01-15T16:51:00.000+08:00

“Making errors while learning English is okay, as long as you learn from your errors.”

That is what I shall tell my students when they regularly make, what they call as, stupid mistakes when speaking or writing in English. It is okay students, I will kindly comfort and motivate them. Errors are inevitably natural. Second language learners are bound to commit many “irresistible” errors. Besides, I constantly remind them with this so-called Cekmi’s happy-learning philosophy: “Don’t be embarrassed, students. Enjoy your errors. Make jokes with them. Laugh at them. Come on, it won’t harm you. It is healthy. Don’t be so serious, baby. Smile. Yes. Like me now. Hmmm. Remember, laughter is the best medicine, right? Okay, except when you are asthmatic.”

Har. Har. Har.

Yes indeed. I always laugh at my students’ errors, well of course warmheartedly, not contemptuously. Their errors have never failed to be the ongoing source of fun, enjoyment and amusement for me as a language teacher. For me, this is one of the “blessings” being a never-get-angry academician – to laugh. Of course, they do entertain me and always put a big gentle smile on my already-cute face, especially when I mark their essays. Usually, people around me will show their are-you-crazy looks when they see me chuckling alone while marking students’ essays.

To illustrate, take a friendly look at these spelling errors in their essay writing, and be ready to be intellectually marveled by their feel-good ridiculousness and eye-catching creativity.

You can guest who the guess is.
You look familir.
I like that restourant.
He is my freind.
They put too much mayonist.
I don’t like that arrangment.
I like riding a bysickle.
The children were tourched.
They are very famouse.
KFC has its own masscord.
They advitise it on TV.
The submittion of our assingment is today.
Sunddenly, I heard a cry.
The wheather changes everyday.
It is becouse of him.
You must be carefull, exspecially on road.
I fell sleeppy.
I want to by that henfon.
They want to atrack children.
I want to prepair for exam.
This is the conclution.
I recomand this food.
The food is very cheep.
They appretiate their customers.
There are tree causes of smoking.
Goverment should take some percaution.
The car goes trought the tunnel.
Students like to realize tenssion.
I saw you went I when to KL.
The traffic light dit not opporate.
Your corporation is highly epriciated.
It happend asspecially on road.
I leave in Gombak.
The bodi is not stabil.
I was thingking of that girl.
It was very dengeres.
I want to compaire and construst two celebrities.
The road is craudate.
It was flood sesson.
I like chiken.
This is the verhical.
There are varius types of cars.
You must cheak you car.
Last but not list, road system.
We always selebrate our anibesary.
Nice to meat you.
I don’t no.
I am week in grammer.
You must imporve your Inglish.

Did I hear someone laughing?

The Antonym of Dying

2007-01-12T14:57:00.000+08:00

Shazlee was my ex-student
20-year-old brat
Smart rugby player
Carefree photographer
Funny “IT Manager”

He must be wildly terrified
Live?
Die?
Two classic options
Two natural standard operating procedures

Life is too short
A predictable cliché, isn’t it?
But not for him
Who is struggling for a longer life
Who is hoping for a longer future

I can hardly imagine
How would he go through such pain?
What if life is really too short?
Why did it happen to a young man?
Where have the angels been?
When did God decide it to happen?
I am disturbed

Be stronger Shazlee
Pain?
Suffer?
I am scared too

But do believe in miracles Shazlee
Faith?
Survive?
I am terrified too

We plan
God plans
But He plans better

You will make it through
For there will be a new meaningful life
Waiting for you
InsyaAllah

Fight them Shazlee
It is your self-belief, courage and perseverance
That will conquer those cancers
Not the chemotherapy

Be the Antonym of Dying

(True) Colours of Malay-sia

2007-01-10T11:50:00.000+08:00

I was intellectually amused when I discovered this famous eatery in Ipoh. My friends called it Vegas – quite an ambitious name for a humble-looking restaurant.

Yes, apparently it looks like a Chinese restaurant. But wait a minute, it is so unlike a typical Chinese restaurant in KL. For, quite interestingly, you can see a Malay Pakcik wearing kopiah casually selling cucur udang inside the restaurant while listening to his MP3 player. You can notice the questionable objects and signs behind him, can’t you? There were also some Indians happily selling Indian cuisines, while a Chinese vendor was cooking some hard-to-name Chinese foods. Don’t be too surprised because you can also easily spot a seasoned Indian customer skillfully using chopsticks while enjoying his noodles, another religious Malay Pakcik biting a chicken tandoori religiously, and a Nyonya eating nasi lemak nonchalantly. What a perplexing setting, wasn’t it? Well, at least for an unfortunate KL resident like me, it was a new inspiring picture of society that I could hardly find in the capital city of Malaysia itself, despite being so physically multiracial.

Oh, I was more patriotically aroused when I discovered another interesting restaurant called Fang Hiang. No, it is not in Ipoh, but unexpectedly located in Tanah Merah, Kelantan – the very place near to my very own hometown!

A malay spouse was very busy selling Nasi Berlauk – my ever favourite dish – in front of the restaurant. Malay folks were flocking around the stall waiting patiently for their order. I was having my nasi-berlauk-ayam breakfast when I realized all the Chinese characters and symbols casually hung all over the place inside the restaurant. A Malay-girl waitress took the order, while a Chinese makcik were busily ushering her hungry-looking customers into her restaurant, talking in Kelantanse dialect! A Malay family was enjoying their meals, sharing the table with another Chinese couple. One old Chinese man was reading Sinar Harian – recently-published Malay newspapers for Kelantan and Terengganu. What an unorthodox way for a Chinese veteran to enjoy his lazy morning!

These two restaurants located at two different places strike the most obvious resemblance – they both show the true colors of Malaysia, I mean, some parts of Malaysia. While I was feeling excruciatingly uncomfortable with the unusual labyrinth in these restaurants, all these people were comfortably seated in the restaurants, probably not having the slightest worry of their cultural and religious differences. Oh come on, don’t talk about halal-or-haram issue here. Please people, don’t give me that suspicious look, okay. I would rather view this scenario from an out-of-the-box perspective. For me, these are true Malaysians whose spirits are rarely found in Kuala Lumpur, the city where the government always claims as a multiracial melting pot. Nonetheless, the prevalent reality in KL was quite far from being Malaysian in nature.

Well KL elites, before you claim that you are Malaysian-spirited, or as patriotic as what is being tirelessly commercialized through TV advertisements during Deepa-Raya or GongXi-Raya seasons, take a good look at those typical Malay and Chinese restaurants in KL. Trust me, you would be disappointed as you would find it difficult to look for the suppossedly cultural blend in those restaurants (okay, except for the mushrooming 24-hour mamak restaurants).

When a friend of mine from Sabah came to KL recently, he was a little upset.
“I was surprised when the owner of that restaurant asked me to leave his restaurant,” he complained.
“What happened?” I said.
“He said that I was in a Chinese restaurant.”
“Okay.”
“Yes Cekmi. I don’t understand. Why is it there are no Malays in that restaurant?” He paused for a while, thinking for the answer for his own question. He then continued, “You know what Cekmi. In Sabah, you will see all kinds of people eating in Chinese restaurants. No harm. All people there are the same. You don’t mark that fella as a Chinese, or a Malay, or an Indian. We are all considered Malaysians. No difference.”
I smiled.

Attention tourists, if you would like to see the true colors of Malaysia, do visit the outer circles of Malaysia – Perak, Kelantan and Sabah - and do enjoy the beautiful kaleidoscopic atmosphere and the warmth of unprejudiced Malaysians. That’s the spirit of our 50-year old Malaysia.

Go Go Go, Visit Malaysia 2007!