Masalah Ayam: The Problem With Our Education System

The above is an actual, and cruel, PT3 exam question. Now pit your thinking skills against Form Three students. The students were given ten minutes.

Like my opening gambit? Stay with me. We're into some serious business.

My youngest Sarah came home today all happy and jolly. Why not? Her SPM is finally and truly over, with the final paper (Biology) put to bed. She'll never ever have to read, study and think again for the rest of her life. Well, not really. But it surely feels that way.

How the sadists at the Ministry of Education had found it necessary to spread the nine subjects over 28 days of exam is beyond belief. I mean, she's taking the normal Science and Maths stuff, no special papers like Art History or Basic Wahabbi. Twenty-eight days!

All I need is three more days to go completely mad.

It's been a nervy and edgy two, three months for me. I wish I could help Sarah along in some substantive way, like showing her the finer points of Physics. That's out of question, you know why. I've never felt so helpless. All I could do was to find her tuition teachers, provide her with enough food, and buy her the much needed stationery without asking silly questions, like why buy stapler every week?

Actually I'd also bought her a brand new iPhone early last year in return for a promise that she'd study hard and devote all her waking hours to SPM. She studied very hard and devoted all her waking hours to SPM from January all the way to February - two months.

Now that SPM is safely behind her, she can now devote all her waking and sleeping and eating hours to Korean TV.

Roughly 98% of our education system is SPM. (100%, according to DAP). So, sitting for SPM is a do-or-die mission for .....the parents! Like it or not, SPM results are the gold standard in this country. If your child doesn't get 9 A+, you're a failure as a breathing and warm-blooded person. You can't walk into Mydin, you can't make police report. As for the children, they'd be just fine, happily getting by and living with whatever they've "accomplished". They've already got their iPhone, remember?
     

Because of SPM, our secondary education system has been badly broken up into two classes of schools: the daily schools for normal students and Sekolah Berasrama Penuh (SBP) for paranormal students. The SBP is further split into SBP and MRSM. You'd know an SBP by its feelgood nameplates like Sehebat, Semashur, or Integomb (gomb rhymes with bomb). Each SBP is given RM100 million a year to do whatever it fancies. Students get a seven-meal plan complete with vitamin supplements and dental floss.  

The truth is, these elitist schools have now turned into slow slaughter houses. They're totally driven and doped by SPM. Teachers would see off the two-year syllabus in two months and then start on something out of US Navy Seal: practising past-year questions. For days on end they'd pore over hundreds of thousands of questions dating all the way back to Isaac Newton. Students' performance is measured through weekly trial exams and weekly GPA. This business model works like clockwork as most students actually ace the exam with 9 or 10 or even 28 A+, thanks to those past-years questions and spot questions (not to mention, ahem, leaked questions).

The daily schools are the underclass. They are pretty much left to fend for themselves. With 90 students packed in one class, the teachers take one full year to memorize each student's name and IQ level. Every other month the school would hold a jogathon or poetry reading to raise funds for new toilet doors. A typical daily school set-up consists of an overweight headmistress, 35 lady teachers and one good-looking ustaz. A typical daily school gets a straight A student once in 100 years.
       

That's our secondary education system in a nutshell, a simple two-caste structure, as close you can get to academic apartheid. Never in the history of humankind have the less gifted been so deliberately marginalised.
  
Oh, I almost forgot the tertiary education, I mean the universities, colleges, university colleges and college colleges, which provide a wide range of diploma and degree programs, some useful, like Medicine, some less useful, like Law. Like its secondary brethren, this supposedly higher education system comes in two varieties: public and private.

The public universities are founded and financed by the government and run by Umno. Leading this lot is Universiti Malaysia Pahang, known the world over now for its cutting-edge spiritual engineering and its flagship anti-hysteria kits. For some unknown reason, 90% of students in  public universities are Malays and female. UiTM has the biggest Malay population (105%), more than Sheffield University's Malay population (60%). Half of all public university students are Kelantanese who speak only Kelantanese. The long-standing notion that public university students speak only Malay is inaccurate.

Private universities and colleges, on the other hand,  are run like normal Chinese businesses with one noble objective: to make profit. English and Cantonese are spoken widely here. They typically charge extortionate fees for tuition, registration and air-conditioning. The fees hit the roof for joint-degrees with branded universities like Oxford (Brookes). A good example of a private college is Segi College Subang Jaya where 90% of its student population are Chinese and Nigerian nationals on tourist visas. They attend classes once in six months and you know them by their short shorts and half-shirts.

                                                             II

Based on the latest statistics, we have now 100,000 unemployed graduates waiting and vaping, half with CGPA of 3.85, half speak half-English like Wayne Rooney, but all vote PKR. To solve this problem, the government is "importing" 1.5 million loyal Bangladeshis to vote BN.

More damning statistics emerged recently when the deputy dean of Melaka Manipal Medical College alleged that 1000 medical graduates and housemen had quit because of poor English. Undead deans and dons like this are partly the reason why our universities are floundering in global rankings. Manipal is a glorified nursing school. Don't listen. Medical English isn't Shakespeare. Finish the antibiotics, drink a lot of water, your sugar level is 39. That's about  it.  
    
Our education system was recently ranked 50th in the world, lower than Kazakhstan but higher than South Sudan. Malaysia is also 50th on a corruption index. A coincidence, if you asked me. To be fair, there have been plenty of churns and chops over the years to trade up our education system. A new policy or program would normally coincide with a new minister and end invariably with a wasted expenditure of RM1.2 billion.

Remember English for Science and Maths? Cluster schools, familiar? Now the Ministry is purring about the DLP or Dual Language Program and HIP or Highly Immersive Program (HIP). Last month the deputy education minister P Kamalanathan went further, talking about SHITE or Sharing Hot Indian Teachers for English. As the name suggests, the project will involve recruitment of well-trained Indian English teachers from India to improve our English standard. We do have our own Indian English teachers, of course, problem is they're from Gombak, not from India.  Go ahead and guess how much this SHITE will cost.

But nothing fires up my imagination more than KBAT. It stands for Kemahiran Berfikir Aras Tinggi, an unimaginative name for an unimaginative idea. Well, the objective here is to encourage students to think rather than memorise log table or watch Kardashians. (Never mind the teachers). How does the Ministry go about doing this? By asking students trick questions like Masalah Ayam above. Hahaha.

My niece Hana with A* in A-Level Maths and Physics is still trying to solve this problem after two months. It requires trial and error which, in turn, requires time and divine intervention. Students might get locked into this one moronic question for two hours and easily forget that there are 49 other moronic questions to solve.

SPM Add Maths last week was littered with killer Kbats. One top Chinese student in KL didn't sit for Paper 2. He took his own life immediately after Paper 1. This is tragic, sad and absolutely unnecessary. Our PM extended his condolences and quite rightly pontificated that exam is not everything. Agreed 100%,  it's "hard work" that decides our success and wealth in later life, not SPM results. I think PM and all his ministers should make their SPM results public to prove this important point.   

                                                            III

With education standard drifting about and the government turning and twisting with all kinds of tricks to stem the slide, teachers are bearing the bulk of the brunt. Their workload has been piling on - an average teacher now is busier than a hypothetical  hard-working cabinet minister. As a result teachers are forever confused and disillusioned. It's only a matter of time before they'd start asking for ministers' plum benefits (car, smartphone, talking nonsense etc).

Good teachers are a God's gift. But I don't think we're overly blessed. Malays in particular are born inarticulate and untalented and clumsy. Our Indonesian maids can speak far better than us. So teaching becomes a burden, a bother, and never second nature. Teachers are well prepared for pitched battles, but way short on the softer skills and the craft to motivate students away from Instagram. Ask any teacher their idea of teaching, the answer is unequivocal: thankless and tiring. A teacher today  has to eat one whole chicken to replace the calories lost through a half-day of teaching. 

So where does this leave us? Well, how about teachers taking dancing and dressing lessons to perk up posture and poise? Or theatre and taranum classes to sharpen vocals and speaking skills? Our teachers have to shape up fast. Bollywood teachers are coming.

The solution to Masalah Ayam, if you're interested:

8 chicks @ RM5  = RM 40
11 chicks @ RM3 = RM 33
81 chicks @ 3 chicks for RM1 =RM 27

Total: 100 chicks for RM 100. 

Polis Evo

Last week I bucked the trend. I watched a movie at a movie theatre! It was a Malay movie with a thoughtless title: Polis Evo.

The last time I watched any movie at any theatre was in 1984, when I was a student in New York. That movie was the original slasher "The Texas Chainsaw Massacre". I couldn't enjoy the movie. A lady seated right behind me screamed every time the freak with the chainsaw came on.

Don't get me wrong. I like movies. I even have my own list of "movies to see before you die", which I can show you if you're interested. Just ask. The first movie I watched at a theatre was a P Ramlee comedy flick "Madu Tiga" in 1964. It was truly a magical experience for me. Big screen, big crowd, big sound, in complete darkness. And P Ramlee was a genius. When I came out, I just couldn't find my way in broad daylight and almost fell over. My elder sister had to steady me.

I watched a lot of movies during my hostel days at Tiger Lane. The school showed one movie a week, every Friday,  free. Half of the films starred Jack Palance. He wasn't exactly a pretty sight, but he was 100 times more popular than our head boy. Sometimes we had a new guy operate the projector and the jerk would somehow contrive to start with the end part and give away the whole plot. In my eight years there, I must have watched at least 300 movies. But if I rope in the movies I watched with friends in Ipoh town, I could've easily racked up 400 in total, including the epic Haathi Mere Saathi (twice). I'm not sure what's the industry standard, but 400 seems a lot.

Now back to Polis Evo. Even with complimentary tickets in hand, I was initially quite reluctant, and even offended by the mere suggestion. It's a 32-year old record, remember? If I went ahead, I'd have to start all over again and I can only equal this record in 2047, when I'm 94. And what if I got found out by my Whats App groupies? These zealots have been posting all kinds of scriptures urging old and unsuspecting classmates to contemplate and repent and abandon all worldly pleasures. Watching Polis Evo is hardly the way forward.

But it's common curiosity that finally won the day. The film had been heavily marketed on all Astro channels and Rapid buses. The box-office collections had broken the RM10 million mental barrier in just two weeks. It's a lot of money, even at the current exchange rate. Some half-brain punks on H Live were raving with a rating of 11 out of 10. It's a Van Persie moment, and the curious little boy inside had to make the call. I finally relented. So there I was with wife, Aida and Sarah at GSC Summit USJ. The theatre, or Cineplex, nowadays is actually very small, much smaller than the old Lido cinema in Kota Bharu where I watched Madu Tiga.

Polis Evo is technically not a Malay movie. At least not the one that I watched. Half of the dialogue was in Trengganu tongue, the other half in deep Kelantanese. It had been bandied about as an action-comedy, with a tired formula that borrows heavily from Lethal Weapon, Bad Boys or even Rush Hour franchises. It fell flat. It was a waste of time and it's unworthy of any serious review and rating.

The premise and plot were outrageous and insulting all at the same time. Cliched and corny at every turn, with non-existent sub-plots to speak of. The movie was set and actually shot in Kuala Terengganu, and how's that for a mindless non-starter. Kuala Terengganu? Can you believe it? Tripadvisor has rated Kuala Terengganu way behind Gombak as a destination for tourists or for anybody. In real life nothing actually wants to happen in Kuala Terengganu. And now suddenly car chases, shootings, explosions, meth labs, drug running, hostages. What can be more implausible and improbable than this? It even showed Pasar Payang so that nobody would mistake it for some place else.

The performance of the entire cast was patchy and promptly forgettable, even by my pathetically low standard for Malay films. Give me Ahmad Yatim any day. The problem with all pelakon Melayu is that they try too hard and it shows. They come across as dysfunctional, farcical and altogether ineffectual. In Polis Evo the characters who really delivered were the bad guys who spoke and looked Kelantanese to the core.

Terengganu diction is dark and twisted and is never easy on the ear, but why let a non-Terengganu cast mangle it further? All of which begs the question as to why weren't real and able Terengganu persons used? In the whole of Terengganu Darul Iman, nobody except Zizang is good enough? My daughter-in-law is from Manir and I think she's pretty enough to walk into that sister part (Normally I'm owed a big dinner for saying something like this).   

All this has left me with only one viable verdict: that how hard Zizang tries to market his home state, Terengganu just doesn't have it.

Like most bad movies, Polis Evo did have its bright moments. Two actually, both in Kelantanese. One, the part when the baddest of the baddies counseled Zizan for pretending to be a fool, "Bo la buak bodo nyoh, takuk jjadi bodo sungguh". That's brilliant. Zizan would be wise to take this seriously. Two, when the same guy took Zizan's sister as hostage and he warned Zizan "Aku keno ambik adik mu buak koletero (Collateral)". Koletero! Hahaha. Sounds like cholesterol.

Any of you reading this, there's still time to change your mind. Don't fall for the hype and vibes. Better never than late.

    

                           

Thai Story 2

                             

I was in Hat Yai recently to attend a nephew's wedding in nearby Songkhla. For those who still think Ottawa is the capital of Japan, allow me to enlighten. Songkhla is about 30 km from Hat Yai, and Songkhla or Singgora (its Malay moniker) is the name of both the Thai town and the province bordering Kedah and pseudo-state Perlis.

Songkhla and Kedah were once a single Malay kingdom with an Indian name and a Thai ruler. It only became a firm Thai province after a 1900 treaty where the British gave up slow Songkhla in exchange for the more colourful Kelantan. Revisionists have surfaced recently with claims that the British were drunk at the time: it should've been the other way round.

Anyway, Hat Yai is bigger and livelier than Kota Bharu and Alor Star combined, with its own international airport and floating market (not as big as the one in Bangkok, but it floats). I couldn't help but notice the city now crawling with Malaysians who'd come in busloads to escape Malaysian monotony and paranoia.

Now back to my nephew Azri. He's my elder sister's son, one of her nine children. Nine. His bride, who goes by username Fern (I can't recall her longer name offhand), is a Thai.  She was born into a Thai Muslim family who still live in Songkhla and speak, well, Thai (Hahaha, sorry. What do you expect?). Azri and Fern both work in Petronas. More than 50% of Petronas staff now are married to each other or one another or whatever and, at this rate, it should hit 100% by 2019. Azri was 33 or 34 and Fern was so fair and so much prettier than Azri. It's certainly worth the wait.

Weddings as an event have long ceased to motivate me due to their lack of imagination and creativity. I'd try to avoid mostly the laboured Saturday evening weddings, you know, the staple part where they bring on grainy clips on bride's and groom's early years and a scripted banter on how they, for some unknown reason, met and liked. What passes for speeches are mostly delirium in disguise. All this while Manchester City is bullying and bamboozling Chelsea on Astro.

But I've been looking forward to this wedding since it was announced early this year. It's already exciting and imaginative because it's in Songkhla, and not, say, Gombak.  So I flew all the way with wife and Aida and Sarah to Hat Yai. For a bit of romance, we decided to stay in Hat Yai and commute with the locals by mini bus to Songkhla for the two-day do. The short rides were pleasant and the fare (RM3.60 per person) was so affordable even with the  ringgit as it was (you choose the word).

The akad nikah on the first day got a little complicated because I'd to wear complete baju melayu, with sampin, socks and all. (Me and wife both had peach numbers. In hindsight, it wasn't a bad idea, I mean, we actually looked hot even at a combined age of 120 years. Hey). Otherwise it was a straight-forward affair, starting with a short and moving Quran recital, and it was all over in under an hour. Azri and Fern were proclaimed husband and wife. Just what they'd asked for.  

And the wedding the next day, I didn't quite get half of it, I mean the Thai half. A real pity because I actually took a one-semester Thai language class during campus days and got an honest A. All I could muster now was one word "mai". But I could feel the energy and atmosphere. Unmistakably festive and upbeat. The noise level was a notch higher but really nothing not to like. Thai people are decidedly a happy and expressive lot.

Both sets of parents watched and wept. Nothing was said between them. I guess joy and jubilation needs no language.

Finally the proverbial moment of truth. Speech by Azri's father. Haha. He swaggered up the stage with Mourinho's nonchalance and sprang the tactical masterstroke - the speech was in Thai. I wasn't quite prepared for anything like this. And I thought this part alone was value for the good money I'd given Tony to come here. I didn't understand it one bit, but what the hell. It was brave, creative, inspired. I could hear Fern's crowd cheering on. He must've nailed it.

Thai language is fun. My Thai teacher cautioned us that a Thai word may vary in meaning with its tones. One note higher, it could mean the exact opposite. The word "klai" means far and near in different tones! "Kai" means chicken. One note lower, it's egg. You don't speak the language, you sing it. "Mai mai mai mai mai" spoken in five different tones would roughly translate as "new wood doesn't burn, does it?"

The flight back was brisk, but long enough for me to reflect on how well things had panned out. The wedding was nothing short of memorable, something to look back on fondly later. Songkhla was still part of Thailand. And Azri's father had hit the right notes and nuances when he actually said, in Thai, that Azri and Fern are "new" husband and wife. Not "wooden" husband and wife ! Hahaha.......

My best wishes to Azri and Fern.

Thai Story 1

                                                                                                              

                                                                  

On 17 August, Bangkok was once again rocked by bomb blasts. Whatever was the idea behind this barbaric act, collateral damage was grim: 20 dead, 125 injured.

Apparently explosives were planted at a shrine in Erawan, a popular tourist area in the heart of Bangkok. Violence and strife have been breaking out with almost predictable regularity in Thailand. But Bangkok continues to lure more tourists than Paris does, thanks to its go-go girls.

Normally I'd react to news of Bangkok bombs with an air of detachment or resignation. But not this time.

I'm very familiar with Erawan area. During my final years in Petronas, I made regular trips to Bangkok, about every other month. Petronas had founded a company (Petronas something Ltd) to look after its 200 service stations in Thailand. My last trip was in June 2009 for a meeting with Thai Oil, our local supplier. Whenever I'd to be in Bangkok for meetings, I'd put up at Hyatt in Erawan area. In fact the official name of the hotel was Grand Hyatt Erawan (pic above, glass broken).  The shrine was right outside the hotel.

So when I heard the news and watched the sad footage, my heart sank. I've to thank God that nothing like this happened when I was there. I've lost count of how many times I walked past the temple on my way to Chit Lom Sky Train station or nearby Central World Plaza. There's a couple of shops just across with a fine collection of Thai silk. I'd to navigate my way through the temple throng whenever I'd to get Thai silk for dear wife. I'd go back and forth at least three times as part of my bargaining strategy.

I always remember my sweet stays at Hyatt Erawan. It wasn't the very best hotel in Bangkok because no wayward English writer had ever slept here, but still it was lush and luxurious, with all the facilities you need and didn't need, available 24 hours. Its breakfast was a gastronomic galore. I'd spent more than an hour every morning trying out every variety of bread.   

I still remember the night I couldn't sack out and went down for a round on the treadmill and was shocked to discover that the gymn was full. I thought I'd be alone. It's three in the morning.

Petronas finally quit the Thailand market as good sense reigned. Good money was chasing bad money. We were technically subsidising the Thai motorists while half of Kelantanese households were coping without running water. With so much cash pile to burn, Petronas had developed this habit of going on misguided safaris here and there only to come out licking its wounds. Nobody got rapped for these ego trips, of course, as Petronas ruled with unfettered impunity. The generous dividends and taxes repatriated into government coffers had clearly gone all the way. Malaysians are a forgiving lot.

Even today I'm still in touch with a couple of Thai friends I worked with in Bangkok - Mukhdawan and Pipop. (One was a lady. Guess). These people were quietly convinced they knew the market better, and KL staff should only come to Bangkok to visit crocodile farms. Whenever we met we'd sit down and argue and have dinner by the Chao Phraya. And then we'd argue again. Man, I how I miss the good times.

It was the height of the Red Shirt/Yellow Shirt standoff in Bangkok. I took the opportunity to hit Pipop and Mukhdawan whenever the Red and Yellow shirts took to the streets of Bangkok to face each other down. I'm not sure what colour these two guys were. But I was less than subtle with my digs and jibes. I'd message:

"Khun Mukhdawan, hahaha Yellow and Red on the streets again? Hope you're OK. Stay safe now".

Mukhdawan would reply with a short "Thanks. Don't come to Bangkok now".

On 31 August (last month), one day after Bersih 4, I received a message from Mukhdawan:

"How are you, man? Hope you are OK. Stay safe now"

   
                                                                    

You Remember You Strong

On 28 July this year our PM announced the appointment of his new deputy. I'm not interested in your comments, so don't bother. Dato Seri Dr Ahmad Zahid Hamidi, the new Deputy Prime Minister, is no stranger. He's a seasoned politician with a chequered career, you know, ups and downs, highlands and lowlands. I guess it's all ups from now on. 

Some countries, like Singapore, have two deputy prime ministers. Honestly I don't know exactly what a deputy prime minister does, let alone two. Everybody in UK now thinks PM David Cameron's deputy is Brendan Rogers, including David Cameron himsef. I'm sure Dr Ahmad Zahid knows what to do as Deputy Prime Minister. Even if he doesn't, he can quickly fall back on his day job as Minister of Home Affairs, a job he's performed so well so far. Penang and Pandamaran are now virtually free of gangsters.

Everywhere in the world a home affairs minister is powerful because they're in charge of public safety and internal security. They control (figuratively) the police, immigration and prisons. If police and prisons don't scare you, nothing will. You'd know you have an effective home affairs minister if you feel safe at home and you don't run red lights or you don't bully lady drivers on the road.

But why call it Home Affairs? Maybe to differentiate it from Foreign Affairs and other affairs away from home (office, Starbucks etc). They also call it Home Affairs Minister in Zimbabwe. So we must be on the right track. In North Korea two ministries are responsible for home affairs: Ministry of State Security and Ministry of People's Security. They're both responsible for the only viable business in the country: prisons.

Now back to our new Deputy Prime Minister. I've never met or spoken to Dr Ahmad Zahid but he impressed me as crowd pleasing and easygoing when I saw a footage of him on a big bike wearing a big smile. My wife thinks he's good-looking, you know, that fertile crop of real hair, sharp dress and all. She's using me as the benchmark, so the standard is pretty low.

I've nothing but respect and admiration for what he'd achieved. It's not easy to become a minister, let alone a Deputy Prime Minister. You can be rich by starting an on line business but you still can't be a Deputy Prime Minister. I'm just proud to say that we were both born in the early part of 1953. Nothing special about that because millions of people were born in 1953, including our PM, Hulk Hogan and Cyndi Lauper. But Dr Ahmad Zahid and I share something else. We both attended schools in Tiger Lane in Ipoh. His school, Sekolah Izzuddin Shah, was just across the road, within a shouting distance (quite literally) from my school. Since we were born in the same year, it's safe to conclude that we were around Tiger Lane at about the same time, the hippie years of 1966 - 1971.

I'm not sure why, but it's like some kind of law that schools in the same neighbourhood must hate each others' guts. Harvard steals MIT's Nobel prize winners, and vice versa. For years St John's has been insinuating that VI is a glorified mental institution. There's no love lost between my school and Sekolah Izzuddin. The resentment ran deep for three reasons:

1. Both schools were fully residential all-boys schools. So the students were a deprived and deranged lot. We were all accidents waiting to happen.

2. Sekolah Izzuddin was a state-run religious school, whereas my school was a federal-funded English-medium school and, of course, less than religious. They learned Arabic while we played rugby and cricket. 

3. My school was about one hundred times bigger in area with lots of buildings and fields and gardens. Not to mention those wardens and cooks and prefects running around.

That "English medium and bigger buildings" bit was actually irrelevant and immaterial because we're completely different types of schools, with dissimilar inputs and end-products. But the big heads among us took this as a subtle sign of superiority and a green light to run down our neighbour.

My school had eight hostel blocks, with two (Yellow House and White House) at the far end and closest to Sekolah Izzuddin. Incidentally these blocks housed more than their fair share of those elements that our (gay) prefects had, quite rightly, regraded as basket-case. These guys needed only half a reason to fly off the handle, so to speak. In the late afternoons they'd mill about the fence to trade insults with their opposite number across the road. I can't recall all the gibes and taunts, but the one that stands out until today was "Oi, dok baca Yasin ka?" I suppose that verbal pile-driver packed enough cerebral power to leave the other side with no options but to bay for our blood.  

It had to be sooner rather than later. Both sets of students would descend on Ipoh town (now city, for some reason) on weekends and unfortunately our paths had to cross because Ipoh then was smaller than KLCC now. We'd to share the same bus. You can imagine the tension and anticipation building up whenever the two groups converged at the bus station. There's plenty of provocative stares and eyeballing. If I'm honest, the Izzuddin guys always had the upper hand and we were, well, cowed. They're on average bigger and had reached puberty earlier. Our dining hall wasn't Ritz Carlton, so we didn't grow and develop quite the way we should have.

Admittedly we're only good and strong in numbers and behind the fence. Outside the school the Yellow House cowboys walked like Yellow House choir boys. I myself had an encounter of the fourth kind at the bus station. A guy in our group was picked out to join the Izzuddin table for a heart-to-heart talk. Our rep was cool enough not to rattle and crumble. He's back with us soon enough, with a "last warning" from the Izzuddin mafioso. Until today we can't quite figure out a warning for what.

To be fair the altercations had never escalated into all-out skirmishes or hand-to-hand combats. Deep down, we'd so much in common: Melayu, Islam, Kampung, and broke as hell. Nevertheless making fun of Izzuddin guys continued to be the most popular sport after rugby.

One cruel joke making the rounds was about one of our guys who was pulled over by the Izzuddin crowd and verbally warned, in English, "You remember you strong?". Our guy was stumped and he took all the time he needed to regain and to make sense of it. You remember you strong? "Awak ingat awak kuat!". Hahahaha. In Malay context and civilization, it wasn't a casual question. It's a clear and severe warning. In no time, "you remember you strong?" became our battle cry. And  a potent weapon to cull any of our own trying to show off, rerun old jokes etc. This precious line has become an urban legend, repeated a thousand times right to this day in our lively group exchanges.

Well I thought nothing of this "You remember you are strong" episode beyond its nostalgic element until Dr Ahmad Zahid was appointed Deputy Prime Minister. I don't have any proof of whether he had any part in the bus station showdown or whether he was actually the one who coined the paranormal poser "you remember you strong?". I don't think he was involved in any way. Most likely he was a softie in bell-bottoms and part of scholarly set who loved classes and exams. He is the first Deputy Prime Minister with a PhD.

For us, boys from the big, English-medium school, it's time for some reflection and serious soul searching. Leaders lurk anywhere, shaped and made in the humblest of surroundings. Like it or not, an Izzuddin hotshot is now the Home Affairs Minister and Deputy Prime Minister. Eat your heart out, boys.   

Dr Ahmad Zahid is effectively the most powerful person in the whole country now. He can haul up anybody he sees as a real or even notional threat to our national security. See the pic above. He's making a point or perhaps reminding us or even issuing a last warning. I'll never know what he was saying. It could well be "You remember you strong?"            

   

          

   

A Clever Girl

Today  I met a very clever girl.

I was waiting for Aida at KDU when I caught a Malay girl sitting alone, waiting for somebody or something. She was fidgeting, like most modern girls do.

She was 18 or 19. I'm past 60.  I just thought she wouldn't mind talking to a man this old.

So I kicked off with something standard and superfluous:

Old Man: You're a student here?

Clever Girl: Yeah. I'm a student here.

Old Man: Where're you from?

Clever Girl: Puchong

Old Man (Totally unimpressed with Puchong):  Puchong. OK. Dulu sekolah kat Puchong?

Clever Girl (Smiling): Aahaa

Old man: Ada sekolah kat Puchong ya (Saja nak bully).

Clever Girl: Hahaha, ada, ada.

Old Man: What're you doing here? Business Studies? (In my mind, private colleges only teach Business)

Clever Girl: No, I'm doing my A Levels.

Old Man: That's good. JPA, Mara scholar?

Clever Girl: No. Petronas  (Ha ha, now this is getting serious)

Old Man : Where are you going after your A Levels?

Clever Girl: Chemical Engineering in Toronto. (Toronto, Tronoh? Toronto, ok)

Old Man: Wow. You must've done very well in your SPM. Straight A's?

Clever Girl (Smiling): Well, mmmmm, ok la

Old Man:  How many? Nine?

Clever Girl : Eleven.

Old man (Stunned, Shocked): Eleven A's?

Clever Girl: Yes. Erhmmmm ..... Eleven A+

Old Man (Catching his breath): Eleven A Plus? You're so clever.

Clever Girl (Laughed): Alhamdulillah.

My concept of clever is rather prosaic. Anybody who does better than my form five Add Maths and Chemistry grades is clever. This Puchong punk has racked up A+ in Add Maths and Chemistry, and nine other subjects. Should I hate her?

   

Dio, RIP

Chances are you've heard of Ronnie James Dio and you don't like him. Or you've never heard of him. No, no, he's not a US past president. That would be Ronald Reagan. Dio was a metal rock firebrand; a champion and a leading light in a rock music genre that's been variously labelled as medieval, classical, doom, trash, suicidal, dragon, gothic, demonic, you name it.

One look at some of his song titles and album covers and you know why: the devil you know, live evil, the temple of the king, kill the king, voodoo, killing the dragon, dream evil, heaven and hell. With Dio, it's kill, kill, kill. He died yesterday (Sunday) morning, 16 May 2010, succumbing to stomach cancer, at 67. Tributes from fellow doomers are still pouring in.

It's inevitable that Dio and his dark offerings have had an unfair share of bashings and brickbats. Much of what has been levelled at Dio by the mindless music critics is nothing more than misguided diatribes. There's plenty of clarity, consistency and understated artistry in his musical direction. Unlike some of his metal brethren, he remained faithful to his roots till the end.

His brand of beautiful noise won't please your average neighbours, but there's a steadfast and unwavering niche and cult following that would mourn his passing. I'm not ashamed to admit that I listen to Dio. I mean his music, not his satanic verses.

My first Dio experience was way back in 1975, in the deep, dark days of college and classes. Ritchie Blackmore, Deep Purple's vagabond frontman, had split to form a new act called Rainbow, and he roped in Dio to provide the vocals. You should listen to him screaming, wailing and rousing above Blackmore's catchy licks, with speed and muscle far beyond his meagre body mass.  'The temple of the king' stormed the Malaysian music scene with its melodic and mellifluous strains that remained iconic until today. But my favourite was the more obscure and innocuous 'Self Portrait', with Dio powering forth ".....Hey, hey, hey, there's only the devil to pay". Pure and sheer Dio!

Over the years my music taste has wandered a bit, mellowing and ageing towards the mainstream crowd (Boz Scaggs, Ahmad Jais haha), probably the brunt of pandering to bosses of diverse leadership genres, from the easy-listening type to the head-banging variety. Dio and his vocals had since migrated to Black Sabbath and later to solo acts and lesser-known collaborations. But it's doom and devil all the way. No mellowing, no middling for Dio. Before his death, he'd been busy with live gigs, fronting a brand new metal lineup. He named it 'Heaven and Hell'. Well, we wouldn't have expected him to name it the Singing Nuns.

My plan was to end my tribute here, but a casual reading of a Dio trivia left me pondering life's little quirks. He had actually studied pharmacy in early 60's. Good thing that he didn't graduate. Imagine your hypertension medications dispensed by a devil-worshipper. Dio actually did his pharmacy stint at a university in Buffalo, New York. Nothing macabre about this except that I went to the same university twenty years later. We're both Buffalo alumni!

The Joys Of GST And Fig Farming

 

We're already into the second month of GST. The debate is still raging on with no signs of letting up. A day hardly passes without a pundit propagating new GST ideas or a stand-up trading GST jokes.

I can no longer sit on the sidelines and look on. It's time to weigh in with some thoughts and theories. So here we are, eight burning questions:

1. Recently Washington Post, Hindustan Times and WSJ proclaimed Malaysia the world's corruption champion, ahead of Indonesia. Does GST have anything to do with this?

What? No. GST and corruption are, semantically at least, as different as chalk and cheese. You don't have to be corrupt to have GST. And you don't have to have GST to be corrupt. Of course, you could be more corrupt if you had GST. And you could have more GST if you're more corrupt. If you run a nonparametric polynomial regression, you'd find that corruption and GST are statistically independent with a very low or even negative correlation coefficient. We're just starting on and you're already impressed with me.

GST isn't new and not created by Barisan Nasional as alleged by many conspiracy convicts. In fact its origins preceded the famous Daeng Chelak and his four Bugis brothers. GST as a concept dates back to the Ming or maybe Qing Dynasty in China, more than 2000 years ago, when King Ming or King Qing reigned and floated the novel idea of taxing his subjects' opium consumption to stem widespread addiction and finance the construction of the Great Wall. However this idea was rejected by all 1220 imperial eunuchs. It never took off until only 10 years ago when China introduced GST to support its addiction to LV bags and high-speed trains. There's already plan to increase GST to 25% to feed its addiction to GST.

In the case of China, more state officials were caught and shot for corruption in the period before GST, proof enough that GST and corruption are either unrelated or unfriended. I'm not suggesting that Malaysia use China as a model for anything. The use of guns and live bullets is certainly harsh.

2. Bersih, Perkasa, Gasak, Tibai, Tembak and other well-meaning NGOs have all accused the government of not allowing enough time for the businesses and the consumers to understand and prepare for GST. 

Is this a question or an answer? I'm not going to answer an answer. 

Let me repeat, GST isn't the brainchild of Barisan Nasional. First, you need brain to come up with brainchild. Second, although Malaysia is late in the GST arms race, the idea isn't exactly new. It's been on the back-burner since 1962, when our country wasn't under Barisan Nasional and Datok Senu was minister for something. There's no, or maybe less, corruption at the time because all projects were given to either JKR or LLN. None of the projects cost more than RM1 million and only one project was delayed longer than one day.

Since then, GST was deferred on the eve of every election. From 2000 to 2014 it's postponed every six  months (i.e 28 times). From January to March 2015 we had a GST dry run where Jaya Grocer was allowed to increase the prices. The idea was to allow both supermarkets and consumers to get the feel of GST. When GST kicked in on 1 April, supermarkets increased prices again based on actual GST (6%) and consumers weren't supposed to even look surprised.

Even with so much GST education and burning-in, most people are still confounded and dumbfounded (or just dumb). With no way out, they've started calling GST and hard-working ministers all sorts of nasty names to register their displeasure. This is unfair and ungrateful. Since this blog has been officially certified expletives-free, I won't get drawn into naming the nasty names for now. There's already an app and a video game you can install for free.

3. We're also aware that out of 6 million Chinese and non-Chinese registered businesses in Malaysia now,  94% pay only road tax. Can anybody conceivably escape GST?

GST is a tax on your consumption, not a tax on your legal, or illegal, income. You can only avoid GST if you're an anorexic, or a breatharian living on cosmic microfood. For the rest of us, the non-anorexic, GST is as sure as Subang Jaya traffic jams. You've to pay GST even if you scored all A in your college final year.

Before I forget, not all products or produce or services attract GST. Some products are so ugly and repulsive that they don't attract GST. As of this morning, 1767 products are either GST-exempt or zero rated, mostly vegetable and rare metals listed on the periodic table. Cooked or canned kangkong is deemed attractive, and attracts the 6%.

A smart consumer eats only raw rice and raw ice. He lives and breathes around the 1767 products, whose prices had actually been increased 100% well before GST. Clever is as clever does, so to speak.

4. Are Malaysia and Canada the only major economies with GST now?  

You're innumerate. And Canada, hahaha, you're funny. The number of countries in the world today is 200 or 202, depending on whether you recognize Palestine and Perlis as independent countries. 160 have imposed some kind of consumption tax under various names and guises. These countries include some that were already cruel even before GST, like Zimbabwe and Singapore. North Korea has deferred its GST until its population consume something.

Most countries have increased GST rates over the years to keep up with Norway. This was made possible by either changing the government or changing the population or both. Some countries that can't change their government or population, change the name from GST to VAT, then back to GST.

5. GST is fair, progressive and gentle. Why Malaysians are against it?

It's in the genes. People don't like to pay more. Actually people don't like to pay.

I'm not sure who's the pr consultant engaged by the government. Maybe the same guys who helped the Tourism Malaysia promote our country as a distress destination. There's been a lot of confusion, due mainly to miscommunication and conflicting statements. Like, the government announced that GST is good for the people. But 1767 products and services are GST-free. If it's good, then why so many goods are without GST? And why is GST only 6%, and not, say, 96%?

GST is Physics. You just don't understand. I bought a variety of spices (rempah) at Giant recently and was surprised to discover that rempah kari daging is GST-free, but rempah gulai nasi dagang has GST. It's only seven sen but you're still confused and up in arms. Is this a subtle attempt to derail hudud?

As we're all about to resign to an all-round price spikes, Ahmad Maslan dropped yet another bombshell when he declared that 329 products are cheaper with GST. When pressed for names of the products, he rambled on with veiled threats like how his mother could read Quran and so on. The ploy worked because nobody harried him further. Until the next day.

To be fair, car prices did come down. The cheapest Mercedes C-Class is now RM488,888. Before GST it's RM688,868. A hefty reduction of about RM 200K. Things is, I still can't afford it. Mercedes-mad Malay cronies are generally happy that the price hasn't only dropped but also retained all but one number 8.  

The timing of GST introduction couldn't be worse. April is a bad month for anything. And for GST, every month is a bad month, so April is doubly bad. All kinds of incoherent and impossible mumbo-jumbo seemed to bunch in in April, you know, things like government debt, government jet, crooked bridge, J Lo, Mongolian maid, and even the sultan or prince of Turkmenistan. Blame other countries if you must, but make sure it's the right country.

6. Every consumer is technically poorer because of GST. But who's hardest hit?

Let me remind you one more time that GST isn't a Barisan Nasional's idea.

The population pile hardest hit by GST are the unemployed, which include the retirees, which include me. Among the retirees, the hardest hit are those living off EPF savings, which again include, you guess again, me. Among the EPF-dependant retirees, the hardest hit are those who eat yoghurt, which again include, hahaha, me. In short, in the whole country, I'm the worst hit.

There's no mitigation for the ranks of retirees that I'm unfortunately part of. No recourse or remedy to moderate the impact. Those on government pension might get a hike if Cuepacs conmen managed to muscle in with yet another 100% salary increase plus automatic upgrading to Jusa C for all government employees, otherwise known as government servants. Don't fall for this slick "servant" misnomer. It's nothing more than a misdirection to get all of us to pity and defend this crowd. If you go to Immigration Department to legalise your illegal maid (or yourself), you'd know who's actually "servant" (hint: it's not your maid). 

7. Since GST won't go away because BN will rule for as long as there's daylight, how do we cope? 

Time to call forth your creative instincts.

Universiti Malaysia Pahang responded to GST by inventing an anti-hysteria kit. At RM8750 a set, it's devilishly cheap. This ghost-busting gear is fully portable like portable toilets used by Bangkok motorists. You can take it with you on supermarket rounds and should be handy when you see the new grocery prices. Incidentally UMP is also planning to penetrate the Bangkok motorists market, betting on the multi-tasking potential of the kits.

A couple of old but intrepid classmates responded by going into fig farming. Fig, not pig. But the way it's turned out, they might've been better off going the other way. I don't know the real economics of fig gigs, but it's nowhere near ketum or qat. But, seriously, I think this sad act of denial and deviation is emotional rather commercial. A fig tree is typically small and monotonous with little decorative or therapeutic value. It bears an average of two small fruits every ten or eleven years. You can easily get GST-free fresh or dried Lebanese figs at Mydin for RM 32 a kilo while making friends with the Nepalese cashiers.

But, of course, the joy of picking your own figs is without compare. Plus, fig trees have no history of violent reactions to your temper or pressure or abnormal sexual energy. So you're in complete control. 

I'm slowly adjusting to GST, which inevitably involves some unpleasant cultural changes. For example, I don't buy yoghurt now. Price of Marigold yoghurt was RM1.39 before 1MDB stashed the cash in Cayman Islands. It's RM1.95 now.  I'm not sure which mathematical model those people used to calculate GST and adjust the price. I don't have fig trees to vent my anger on, so I just stopped slurping yoghurt. I read somewhere that one gram of yoghurt breeds five billion friendly bacteria cultures that keep us healthy. Since I don't eat yoghurt, I now have only 1.5 billion cultures hanging around in my system. I'm less healthy and less cultured. I no longer listen to classical music, look at paintings, play the violin, attend operas. All in all, I'm less happy.

8. A friend said you've to change your lifestyle to cope with GST. Does this make sense?

Nothing gets more overrated and glorified than "lifestyle"? What's a lifestyle? Playing golf 23 hours a day?  Is watering figs a lifestyle?

I always tell my old classmates that I'm leading an action-packed lifestyle because I watch Tanyalah Ustaz early morning and run early evening. And read Arsene Wenger's football philosophy in between.  But whatever your lifestyle ideas are, it's worth revisiting your so-called interests, hobbies or plain habits now that GST is lurking at every turn. For starters, get rid of your pets. Talking to cats or dogs or fig trees won't change anything, certainly not your CGPA. Pets and vets are never GST-friendly.

Next for the axe is Astro. If you take out live EPL games,  Astro is TV2 in all but name. Why spend RM150 plus GST a month just to watch live football and lion-chasing-antelope reruns? Drive to kedai mamak. The screen is bigger and crowds livelier. The only downside of this high-life is that you might get high after watching Chelsea playing with 10 defenders, and run the risk of crashing into stray and free-running Myvis.

Just to sustain my hectic lifesyle, I'm taking glucosamine for my creaking knees and rosuvastatin (Crestor) to beat my cholesterol. Glucosamine is GST-free but not Crestor. I still can't figure out why. My knees are more important than my heart? I know the price increase is only RM8, but with this whole psychology and dynamic, and the tragic thought of Ahmad Maslan sardonically pocketing my money, how can I possibly go on with my life, or lifestyle.

I'm now mulling the next step: dump Crestor and buy a generic substitute, which is 50% cheaper. I'd be contributing less to Krygyzstan economy. I hope this generic statin isn't a placebo or a Nigerian hoax and is as good as Crestor. Otherwise, I might end up with the ultimate change of  lifestyle. You know what.

Did I get the country name right?