tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82072156406533580232024-03-04T20:55:01.898-08:00TokPehebulanbiruhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12179756159406247914noreply@blogger.comBlogger15125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8207215640653358023.post-72115845675419225492020-05-04T01:12:00.001-07:002020-05-07T21:31:10.246-07:00A Hypochondriac<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Various polls and surveys across the US and the UK have consistently found that doctors are among the most trusted people in the world, along with scientists, nurses, teachers and Siti Nurhaliza.</div>
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During my childhood years, there were only three Malay doctors in Kota Bharu, or probably in the whole great state of Kelantan. For some reason, I still remember their names: Dr Ezani, Dr Khalil and Dr Aziz. I'm not sure of the spelling, but these guys were rightly respected and revered. Their words were cast in stone. Of the lot, Dr Ezani stood out for his athletically good looks. My late mother only wanted to see Dr Ezani, citing his "good medicine".</div>
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I wish I'd more friends who're doctors. With my advancing age and without any medical insurance, I really need good and free medical advice on anything that's physically and mentally dragging me. Free here means impartial and unbiased, not that free, although I don't mind that, too.</div>
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I can now count only four Tiger Lane classmates who'd gone on to become doctors. Dr Norsham had left us, Dr Basir had left his practice for real estate business (he's richer than all his classmates combined), Dr Abd Rahman is a gynaecologist and Dr Awal is an ENT specialist. Wait, there's one more, a senior in my dorm, Dr Fadzil, a debonair psychiatrist who's left his clinic to play golf full-time (you've to believe this). A gynaecologist is, for my purpose, no more useful than my Chinese neighbour. So technically I'm left with only Dr Awal, and that if I need any advice on ear and nose.</div>
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In fact I went to see him early last year at his clinic at one of the KPJ Hospitals. He jumped out of his chair and we hugged. We talked about Mrs Foo, everybody's favourite teacher (you know the reason), who'd loudly complain every time Awal came late to class.</div>
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Finally he'd a good look at my ear and found nothing that I should worry about. (It's alright now). After offsetting a couple of nasi lemak I bought him forty-five years ago, the bill came to exactly zero. Fine gesture, but what's more important for me is his objective opinion and prognosis. No medication and no open-heart surgery required. Would another doctor reach the same conclusion? </div>
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I know there are hundreds of doctors and specialists in the government hospitals to handle the whole range of modern-day maladies. But it's never easy to see them. You've to pretend that you're down with some terminal disease, your end is near, you're an orphan etc. Even that you've to wait. I'd to wait for six months to see my dream urologist at Hospital Serdang. When I saw him, he got me to pee into a clever bowl that can measure my peeing speed and trajectory. My speed was equivalent to that of a second-hand Viva. </div>
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Such is the state of our medical system, purportedly the best in the world. If only we knew which world. We've to wait six months to measure our peeing speed and prostate size, while the politicians are fighting and feuding days on end to decide whether a 72-year-old man is qualified to replace a 95-year old man. Bloody hell, any man is qualified to replace a 95-year old man.</div>
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I really wish my campus mate Hafiz were a doctor. He's a homeopath. I know it rhymes with sociopath, but he's not like that. He's just a homeopathy hobbyist, lobbyist and part-time practitioner. He's always available if you need free advice on herbs, ketum, opium, grass and similar stuff. Deeply philosophical, he views death as a happy occasion everybody should look forward to. I'm fine with that, but he also has this idea that I'm a hypochondriac.</div>
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He has a bone to pick, of course. I'm not a big fan of alternative medicine and he knows it. To me, tongkat ali, durian belanda, daun betik, primrose petang and other poetic plants are all scams. He wasn't too happy with my stand but we remain good friends.<br />
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I'm firmly with Dr Amalina, a Cambridge-trained doctor who's aggressively advocating against suspect supplements and malicious medicine. You know these stuff, they're all over prime-time Astro, preying on the poor and the luckless who in turn blame Lim Guan Eng for losing their money.<br />
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I don't know whether Dr Amalina still holds the world record of 45 A in SPM. But I can clearly see that she has loads of style and looks fresher than the beleaguered Health Minister, whose banter with his party boss recently was telecast live over 500 countries. Come on, PM, make Dr Amalina our Health Minister today. Do this one thing, backdoor and all will be forgiven.</div>
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To be fair to my friend Hafiz, I do get easily disturbed and worked up at the slightest feeling and sign of sickness. Maybe it's a talent passed down by my dear mother so that I'll never forget her. (I'll never forget her). A slight pain while pissing or a blacker than black stool is enough for me to get theatrical. I'll be jumpy, restless and angry with Pep Guardiola and everybody. I can't wait to get to the bottom of the mystery. This, incidentally, brings forth the issue I'm having with doctors, the most trusted people in the world.</div>
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Last September I was unwell. I felt warm. Warm, not worm. I know we're born warm-blooded and all that, but this was abnormally, excessively warm. Warm not in the metaphorical sense of being warm and welcoming and friendly with all races, transgenders and Israel. It's real, literal, physical warmth. It's like heat coming out of my biological being. I sweated profusely when I talked and didn't talk. Buckets of fluids were pouring out when I jogged. It was sweaty and feverish one day, normal and nifty the next day. I consulted Hafiz the homeo, he said I was a hypochondriac.</div>
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At the height of this heat and sweat attack, I'd sleepless nights. I'd stay awake and had to watch bad sports like cricket, Norwich vs Brighton etc. After five weeks, I went to see a GP at a nearby clinic and told her my story. She did what all doctors in this part of the world would do: test for dengue fever. It was positive, I'd just had the dreaded dengue. I was so happy, not so much because I'd survived, but because I now knew what's wrong with my whole ragged system.</div>
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After two weeks it came back. No, not Norwich vs Brighton. It's the heat wave. The very same heat and sweat symptoms. I called Hafiz for some wisdom. He said I was a hypochondriac.</div>
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My wife who'd been a bystander all this while came on with her piece of mind, insinuating that it was all my hormone wreaking havoc. "It's something like menopause or whatever you want to call it". In all our forty years of marriage, she'd never sounded this serious and informed. We went to see the GP again, and she (GP, not wife) recommended that I see a physician.</div>
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I immediately ruled out government hospitals. This looked serious and I should'n wait six months. I didn't know any physician personally. Dr Awal was strictly ear and nose. Dr Fadzil? No, I was sick, not mad. So I'd to search the private hospitals. I was spoiled for choice: KPJ, Pantai, SimeDarby, Gleneagles, Tawakkal, Prince Court, Pusrawi, Assunta, Columbia, you name it.</div>
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Choosing a hospital now is more complex than buying a smartphone. You've to evaluate the price, understand the product, read reviews, and compare across the brand names. Prince Court sounds exciting and extortionate, Tawakkal is, well, Tabligh, Assunta reminds me of Mother Teresa. I ruled out all three, and went for one of the rest (I won't name it, sorry).</div>
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I'd to wait only one week to see the specialist of my choice. He had 30 years experience, including a postgrad training in the UK. I calculated that if he worked 200 days a year, and saw 10 different patients a day, he'd have seen 60,000 patients before I stepped into his office. This guy was on top of his game, so to speak.</div>
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I reckoned that by just looking at my tongue or my eyes, he could deduce in fine detail about my food intakes, my sleep habits, my hormone balance (ha,ha). In short, he'd confirm once and for all that I was genuinely sick and not a hypochondriac (take that, homeo). This should be over in a jiffy, 15 minutes max.</div>
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Not really. He didn't look at my tongue. After listening to my story, he subjected me to a rigmarole of chest X-Ray, ECG, ultrasound and blood test. He'd decide on the next steps once he'd seen the test results. The following week we sat down again and ran through the results. He stopped at one particular reading and declared that I was down with typhoid.</div>
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Typhoid? In 2019? I last heard of typhoid in 1961 when half of Kelantan was under flood water. I knew some migrant workers were spreading defunct diseases, but I just couldn't believe I had typhoid. It seemed so surreal, far-fetched, even comical. But the doctor stood by his diagnosis. And I'd to be admitted for a course of intravenous antibiotics. Minimum five days!</div>
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I stood my ground. Firstly, I wanted a second opinion. Secondly, five days at this commercial hospital would cost me a bomb. Antibiotics treatment is not a hip replacement, nothing complicated. Any government hospital would gladly do it for free with meal. I could use the money for another trip to Italy. So I flatly refused admission.</div>
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I guessed the doctor, who'd seen 60,000 patients before me, was familiar with my species. He understood and made no attempt to discourage me. After all, it was my typhoid, not his.</div>
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I went to Ampang Hospital Emergency the next day with my typhoid referral. I'm naming the hospital so that you don't have to guess whether it was Tampin or Tumpat. The guy who received me wasn't too happy. Maybe it was his SOP to look angry at any private hospital deserter. After a one-hour wait, my number was called.</div>
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I stepped into the doctor's room and what I saw almost stopped me on my tracks. It was a young medical officer with spiky and oily hair, and tight pants that fell off his waist. He waved me into my seat. I eagerly handed over my test results and showed him the typhoid part. He took my temperature, my blood pressure and coolly concluded "Ini bukan typhoid, Pakcik". "If I had my blood tests today, I might have the same results" he added with a tinge of insult. This punk was a godsend.</div>
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After another round of X-Ray, ECG, and blood test, and I was back with the doctor. He went through the results on his PC, leaving me breathless. "Confirmed no typhoid, Pakcik, sorry". He returned to me the private hospital test results "Ambil balik ni. Mesti mahal ni" (His exact words). The tone was somewhere between cynical and sarcastic, but I was happy.<br />
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I found just enough time to "grill" him about his hometown, education etc just to make sure that he'd not been taking lessons from Apps or YouTube. He was totally bona fide, graduating from UKM medical faculty in 2015. Only four years experience, including 2 years as slave houseman.</div>
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I'm proud to declare that I'm also a UKM graduate. I'd been very indifferent about the quality of local universities, until I met this young doctor. I now think UKM is better than Berkeley.</div>
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So that's that.</div>
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Sorry for the cliche, but my faith in doctors has been shaken. Has conscience finally succumbed to commerce? Or has medical science become inexact that what is typhoid to one doctor is not typhoid to another? Or is this nothing more than a rare and blatant case of professional howler? You don't have to answer this.<br />
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I'd nothing but respect, admiration and partiality towards modern, mainstream medicine. But in the wake of this unhappy episode, maybe it's now time to try the papaya leaf !</div>
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I've turned a corner and I'm feeling good now. No more heat and sweat. It's great to be a normal person again after a tumultuous time. I'm writing this with the big question mark still hovering: what exactly have I been down with? If it's not typhoid, then what? </div>
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Maybe I'll never get to know. And I'm not going to ask my homeo friend, because I already know his answer: I'm a hypochondriac. </div>
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bulanbiruhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12179756159406247914noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8207215640653358023.post-67016206051209407562018-05-25T20:33:00.002-07:002018-05-25T20:33:08.922-07:00Puisi Padang<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFewobctCji8gGkvswoFqMbOQM_f-bj8nyB8e4IY4SFh2mzhaV9OpOLZxJvnC56GeAtLmqLJERaPln050atTjI05cGwo8ApqSd8iJd0b1f7IGf1h5YCXo8avpKPt6n_5q7wbLi5b3s63fS/s1600/vintage_1963_book__novel__tenggelamnya_kapal_van_der_wijck_by_hamka_1520944227_25780fcc.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="640" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFewobctCji8gGkvswoFqMbOQM_f-bj8nyB8e4IY4SFh2mzhaV9OpOLZxJvnC56GeAtLmqLJERaPln050atTjI05cGwo8ApqSd8iJd0b1f7IGf1h5YCXo8avpKPt6n_5q7wbLi5b3s63fS/s320/vintage_1963_book__novel__tenggelamnya_kapal_van_der_wijck_by_hamka_1520944227_25780fcc.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Saya sekali lagi berlibur ke Indonesia, kali ini Padang dan Bukit Tinggi, Sumatera Barat. Sekali lagi? Ya, sekali lagi sebab saya baru saja melawat Jogjakarta, pada akhir tahun lepas. Belum pun sampai enam bulan.<br />
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Saya suka melihat Indonesia. Negerinya besar dan berbagai. Kos kembara sangat berpatutan, makanannya sedap, bahasa pun hampir sama, dan tukaran Ringgit yang lumayan membuat kita terasa seperti seorang jutawan. Bila berbicara dengan orang Indonesia, kita akan terpegun dengan nada dan lenggok bahasanya yang sangat halus dan kemas. Setiap orang Indonesia boleh menjadi ahli politik. Saya pernah ke rumah sahabat karib yang mempunyai seorang bibik dari Surabaya, saya dapati bibik itu jauh lebih bagus kawalan bahasanya berbanding dengan sahabat saya. </div>
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Sebenarnya ini kali pertama saya menulis blog dalam bahasa ibunda. Mungkin bukan bahasa ibunda pun. Bahasa ibunda saya ialah bahasa Kelantan, bahasa yang paling romantis di dunia. Bahasa Melayu adalah bahasa kedua saya. Mungkin tuan-tuan sudah terasa kejanggalan cara saya menulis, kerana salah atau kurang tepat di segi nahu dan sebagainya. Tapi selagi tuan-tuan boleh memahami apa yang saya ingin sampaikan, saya rasa saya sudah berjaya menulis dengan baik.</div>
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Saya selalu menulis dalam English. Bukan bermakna English saya bagus sangat dan tentunya bukan saya mahu mendewa-dewakan bahasa asing. Cuma English lebih kaya perbendaharaan katanya. Terdapat 170,000 perkataan English dalam Oxford English Dictionary. Untuk mencarut sahaja terdapat berbagai perkataan, rangkaikata dan peribahasa yang boleh saya pilih dengan impaknya yang berlainan juga. Mengikut guru bahasa Melayu saya dulu, perkataan Melayu yang asal cuma tiga: besi, padi, dan babi. Tetapi ada guru lain yang kata empat: besi, padi, babi, ubi. Bagaimana mungkin saya menulis dengan tiga atau empat perkataan? Hahaha. </div>
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Bila saya mula menulis tadi pun saya termangu buat seketika. Apa harus saya panggil atau bahasakan diri saya? Saya, aku, ana? "Saya" agak formal dan terasa seperti di bangku sekolah. "Aku" pula lebih personal dan mungkin agak puitis, mungkin kasar juga. "Ana" bahasa Arab, nanti saya dikecam sebagai wahabbi. Kalau English lebih mudah, "I" saja sudah mencukupi. Untuk lebih selamat, saya guna "saya". Lagipun saya sudah lebih 35 tahun menggunakan "saya" bila berhubung dengan isteri, di waktu siang dan juga malam. </div>
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Berbalik kepada Indonesia. Saya ke Padang dan Bukit Tinggi selama empat hari pada bulan lepas (April). Saya bukan berseorangan, tetapi bersama enambelas ahli keluarga - isteri, anak, adik-adik ipar, dan anak-anak saudara. Agak letih juga saya kerana empat orang adik ipar perempuan dewasa yang ikut sama boleh tiba-tiba saja hilang entah kemana. Kemudian mereka akan muncul kembali sebaik saja supir menaiki bas. Mungkin mereka ni ada deria keenam atau ilmu ghaib yang boleh membaca pergerakan pak supir tu. Lawatan ini merupakan pengalaman yang penuh aksi (action-packed) dan tidak mudah saya lupakan.</div>
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Kali in saya tidak akan menulis dan menceritakan perihal tempat-tempat yang kami lawati di Padang dan Bukit Tinggi. Tuan-tuan boleh baca dalam blog-blog lain atau Wikipedia atau mendengar terus dari kawan-kawan yang telah ke sana atau tuan- tuan boleh saja menonton sinetron. Saya cuma ingin meluahkan apa yang saya rasakan dan fikirkan semasa berada di sana, dalam tulisan yang berbentuk prosa dan juga puisi. Mungkin tuan-tuan tidak meminati sastera sebab sewaktu bersekolah dulu tuan-tuan berada di kelas sains tulin, tuan-tuan bolehlah memilih untuk tidak terus membaca blog ini. Tak apa-apa. Saya tenang saja.</div>
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Nama Padang sangat bermakna dan penuh nostalgia buat saya. Saya tidak pernah bercinta dengan orang Padang. Saya bercinta dengan orang Kg Pandan hahaha. Padang akan mengembalikan masa lampau saya. Masa saya bersekolah di darjah lima dan enam (tahun-tahun 60an) saya sangat meminati buku-buku Indonesia, terutamanya novel-novel yang ditulis oleh penulis-penulis agung Indonesia, antaranya ialah Hamka, Marah Rusli, Sutan Takdir Alisjahbana, Abdul Moeis dan Mochtar Lubis. Mungkin nama-nama ni asing bagi tuan-tuan, seperti juga nama menteri-menteri kabinet Pakatan Harapan yang baru dilantik baru-baru ini.</div>
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Yang paling menyentuh perasaan ialah novel Tenggelamnya Kapal van der Wijck oleh Hamka dan Siti Nurbaya oleh Marah Rusli. Saya baca novel-novel epik ini berkali-kali. Hamka dilahirkan di Bukit Tinggi dan Marah Rusli di Padang. Tidak hairanlah novel-novel ini bertemakan cinta dan pergeseran di antara adat atau tradisi Minangkabau dengan pemikiran moden dan progresif di daerah Padang dan Bukit Tinggi. Watak-watak utama seperti Siti Nurbaya, Datuk Maringgih, Hayati dan Zainuddin masih saya kenang sampai hari ini. Jalan ceritanya mungkin mudah dan klise, tetapi olahan, plot dan bahasanya sangat mengasyikkan. Anak-anak perempuan saya yang sudahpun tercandu dengan drama dan pop Korea yang panas, cerita klasik Indonesia sebegini mungkin hambar dan membosankan. Mereka ni memang tidak meminati novel-novel Melayu. Mereka lebih meminati Instagram.<br />
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Kami menyewa bas 25-bangku yang sangat selesa untuk sepanjang tempoh kembara kami. Perjalanan dari Padang ke Bukit Tinggi agak mencabar kerana jalannya yang sempit, mendaki dan berliku. Tetapi pemandangannya sungguh memukau. Pemandu pelancung kami (namanya Pak Unchu) tidak henti-henti menghiburkan kami dengan rentetan lawak jenaka. Kalau dia tidak berjenaka dia akan memainkan lagu evergreen Minang "Ayam Den Lapeh" berkali-kali. Dia kata ayam dalam lagu tu sebenarnya bukan ayam, tetapi simbolik atau metafora. Ayam tu mungkin cewek, cowok, isteri, suami atau apa saja yang boleh terlepas. Saya dah lebih 40 tahun dengar lagu ni, bagi saya ayam tetap ayam. Apa pun, saya rasa Pak Unchu mesti kemaskinikan sedikit lawak jenaka dengan bahan-bahan yang baru sebab banyak lawaknya saya sudah dengar semasa saya masih bujang dulu. Kini saya telahpun mempunyai tiga orang cucu. Jangan marah Pak ya. Tenang saja.<br />
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Kami tempuhi bukit, lurah, tasik, sungai, air terjun, kebun buah dan puncak gunung. Adik ipar lelaki saya yang sangat mencintai alam dan pokok-pokok terus jatuh cinta dengan daerah ini. Di sepanjang jalan terdapat sangat banyak masjid, surau, dan sekolah ugama, sesuai sekali dengan daerah yang dibangun dengan pegangan ugama yang sangat kuat. Saya dapat bayangkan Hayati dan Zainudin, watak utama dalam Tenggelamnya kapal van der Wijck, juga pernah melalui jalan ini, walaupun mereka cuma dari khayalan Buya (Ayahanda) Hamka.<br />
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Saya sangat terpikat dengan nama-nama bandar dan perkampunagn di sini: Padang Panjang, Pagar Ruyung, Batu Sangkar, Tanah Datar, Puncak Lawang, Lembah Anai, Paya Kumbuh dan banyak lagi. Kami makan di rumah makan Lamun Ombak. Nama-nama gabungan dan bersajak begini lebih sejuk dan segar berbanding dengan nama-nama tempat di Malaysia yang kering dan kaku, seperti Gombak, Gebeng, USJ, dan restoran Kak Wok. Ternyata orang di daerah Minagkabau ini memang seniman semulajadi yang kreatif dan sukakan ciri-ciri estetika (Betul ke bahasa Melayu saya ni? Bunyinya seperti iklan ubat pemutih muka hahaha).<br />
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Seperti yang dijanjikan saya tidak akan bercerita tentang tempat-tempat yang kami lawati, kecuali dua tempat, iaitu Rumah Gadang Istana Basa Pagar Ruyung dan Tasik Meninjau. Istana Pagar Ruyung yang terletak di bandar kecil Batu Sangkar ini wajib dilawati jika ke Bukit Tinggi. Inilah istana peninggalan kerajaan Minangkabau Pagar Ruyung yang telah lama terhapus di Sumatera Barat. Mengikut sejarah, kerajaan Negeri Sembilan hari ini juga berasal dari Pagar Ruyung, termasuklah adat dan loghatnya. Maaf, itu saja yang saya tahu. Kalau tuan-tuan ingin tahu lebih lanjut, boleh hubungi Pak Unchu. Tuan-tuan boleh minta koleksi lawak jenakanya sekali. Hahaha.<br />
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Saya rasa siapa saja arkitek dan penggemar senibina yang melihat Istana Pagar Ruyung ini pasti akan tertawan dengan keindahan, kegagahan dan kehalusan seninya. Keanggunannya bukan terletak pada rekabentuk luarannya sahaja, tetapi juga pada makna yang tersirat di setiap bahagian atau elemen istana ini: tingkap, kamar, bumbung, tirai dan sebagainya. Sebenarnya istana yang saya lihat itu bukanlah istana ysng asal, tetapi istana yang dibina semula dengan rekabentuk asal pada tahun 2008 . Istana yang asal telah dipanah petir dan terbakar hangus kesemuanya.<br />
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Tempat kedua ialah Tasik Meninjau. Kami singgah di sini dalam perjalanan pulang dari Bukit Tinggi ke Padang. Panorama tasik ini dari Puncak Lawang sangat menakjubkan. Di daerah inilah juga tempat kelahiran Alamarhum Hamka, dan saya terasa seolah-olah beliau ada bersama-sama kami hari itu. Udaranya sejuk, persekitarannya amat tenang dan bersih, jauh dari keributan kota. Fahamlah saya kenapa Buya Hamka sangat versatile, kreatif dan expressive. Beliau dibesarkan dalam persekitarannya yang amat subur dan merangsangkan. Beliau adalah pelajar, pengajar, penulis, ulama, pendakwah dan pemimpin agung yang disanjung bukan saja di Indonesia tetapi juga di Malaysia. Tafsir Al Quran Hamka masih menjadi bahan rujukan sehingga hari ini.<br />
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Perjalanan dari Tasik Meninjau ke Padang mengambil masa hampir empat jam merentasi Banjaran Bukit Barisan yang sangat scenic. Fikiran saya masih di awang-awangan, berlegar di sekitar manusia berjiwa besar, Buya Hamka. Saya rasa terpanggil, bahkan tercabar, untuk turut menulis dan menjadi kreatif seperti beliau. Semasa saya di sekolah menengah saya pernah juga menulis puisi, semua berbentuk lantang, sosialis dan marah-marah. Mungkin sekarang masanya untuk menghidupkan kembali api yang terpadam selama hampir 50 tahun.<br />
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Saya bergegas membuka Samsung Note saya dan mula melakar puisi tentang perjalanan dan pengalaman singkat saya di Bukit Tinggi. Ahli keluarga yang lain leka menonton DVD filem "Tenggelamnya Kapal van der Wijck", diselangi oleh Pak Unchu dengan cerita dan jenaka dan disambut dengan hilai ketawa adik-adik ipar saya. Tetapi saya sebenarnya tidak mendengar apa-apa kerana dihanyutkan oleh cita-cita dan semangat baru yang meluap-luap untuk menulis dan berkarya. Hahaha<br />
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Hampir tiga jam saya memikir, memilih, mencari dan menggapai ilham. Saya menulis, memadam dan menulis lagi untuk dijadikan satu rangkaian puisi yang saya yakin tidak akan mengecewakan Hamka jika beliau membacanya. Inilah hasilnya, puisi saya tulis di daerah kelahiran Almarhum: </div>
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Puisi Padang 1<br />
<br />
Apakah yang kucari<br />
di antara batu dan bukit ini<br />
lurah pecah dan liku seribu<br />
kebun subur dan air dingin<br />
tasik luas dan sungai deras.<br />
<br />
Kususuri daerah lama ini<br />
mengimbau lipatan sejarah<br />
melihat pustaka silam<br />
merungkai hasrat yang tersimpan<br />
bukit tinggi padang panjang<br />
pagar ruyung batu sangkar<br />
seri menanti datuk tampin<br />
kuala pilah kampung pandan.<br />
<br />
Melewati rumah gadang<br />
dan istana gagah<br />
terhenti di tengah langkah<br />
terdetik di puncak hati.<br />
bagaimana akan aku maknakan<br />
beratus isyarat dan aturan ini<br />
bumbung tirus dan anjung lurus<br />
tiang tegap tapi miring<br />
tingkap lebar menyambut angin<br />
tirai tujuh dan ruang sembilan<br />
kamar sempit mengurung perawan.<br />
<br />
Rapuh hidup ini<br />
kuat dan kuasa hanya<br />
singkat dan sementara<br />
akhirnya kalah, rebah dan sepi<br />
dilanda arus waktu<br />
dan kudrat alam.<br />
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Baca sekali lagi rangkap terakhir. Ianya tercetus dari keinsafan diri bila melihat footage Istana Pagar Ruyung yang terbakar dan mengenang keruntuhan kerajaan Minangkabau setelah sekian lama berkuasa. Jujur saya katakan sewaktu menulis terlintas juga di fikiran saya tentang kerajaan Melayu di Malaysia yang sekian lama berkuasa. Saya tulis puisi ini pada 24 April. Pada malam 9 Mei, dua minggu kemudian, kerajaan Malaysia tewas, lantas hilang semua kuasanya.<br />
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Saya rasa saya tidak mengecewakan Almarhum Hamka.<br />
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Kami tiba di kota Padang waktu senja. Padang adalah daerah Siti Nurbaya, watak utama dalam novel Marah Rusli. Namanya telah menjadi seakan lagenda di sini, dan telahpun diabadikan. Sebuah jambatan panjang di muara sungai kini diberi nama Jambatan Siti Nurbaya. Kami lewati jambatan ini sebelum ke hotel. Tergamam juga saya melihat jambatan ini, dan sempat saya coretkan satu lagi puisi yang akan saya sempurnakan bila balik ke Malaysia nanti.<br />
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Cerita Siti Nurbaya berkisar kepada cinta di antara Siti Nurbaya dan Samsul Bahri, namun tidak kesampaian bila Siti Nurbaya dikahwinkan dengan seorang tua yang kaya bernama Datuk Maringgih sebagai menebus hutang ayahnya. Siti Nurbaya kemudian dibunuh oleh Datuk Meringgih. Samsul Bahri amat kecewa dan ingin membunuh dirinya sendiri tetapi tidak berjaya. Saya telah gambarkan karya sastera epik ini dalam bentuk puisi:<br />
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Puisi Padang II<br />
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Kulalaui jambatan panjang di muara<br />
antara kelam dan bening malam<br />
seakan tersentuh selendangmu, nurbaya<br />
samar, jauh namun pasti<br />
seperti kautau aku akan ke sini.<br />
<br />
Cerita lara<br />
dan cinta yang meronta<br />
tidak akan terhenti<br />
walau sekurun lagi.<br />
<br />
Dengan apakah harus kubandingkan<br />
pengorbanan yang sebegini<br />
hati yang terlerai<br />
rindu yang meruntun<br />
kasih yang dipinggir<br />
oleh jiwa yang dipaksa menyerah.<br />
<br />
Biar kuakhiri saja hayatku ini<br />
selamat tinggal segalanya<br />
dunia yang sekejam ini<br />
bukan tempat buatku lagi.<br />
<br />
Tuhanku<br />
apakah yang kulakukan ini<br />
menafikan rencana dan urusan mu?<br />
berikan aku keluasan<br />
untuk diam, berfikir dan mencari<br />
jalan pulang<br />
dari kegelapan ini.<br />
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Subang Jaya<br />
3 May 2018.<br />
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bulanbiruhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12179756159406247914noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8207215640653358023.post-31249047559241463852018-05-24T07:32:00.002-07:002018-05-24T07:32:07.560-07:00A Royal Tour Of England: Imperial College, Royal Albert Hall, Crystal Palace, And Raja Petra. <div style="text-align: justify;">
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I was travelling in England the whole first week of May. On paper it was a gallant end of spring. But on the ground, it was brutal winter. The temperature was tolerable single digits, but the wind wreaked vengeance. The weathermen were blaming an Arctic blow-over or Carbon Effect or Corbyn Effect or something scientific. The wind could well be from North Korea. But who wants to offend Supreme Leader these days?</div>
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Our tour troop had grown bigger since my last trip here in March 2010 with the addition of three grand daughters and two daughters-in-law. Time just flew. Those who were loudly complaining about our PM's wife's long luggage on her trip to Turkey last year should see ours. Strollers, car seats, car seat boosters, Peppa Pigs, you name it. If not for the airline industry's extortionate luggage rules, my two boys would've brought along their washing machines.<br />
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I've promised myself to depart from my usual verbose and alliterative writing style, at least for this entry. Readers nowadays are readers but in name. They don't read Wuthering Heights. All they do all day is reading half-English messages and watching anything that jumps off the phone screen. So I'll write less and have more pictures instead. If you think that's not exactly a change in writing style, it's fine with me. But let's start.<br />
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1. Imperial College London<br />
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Of all the famous and familiar sights in London, why this sad structure? We came here to attend my eldest boy's graduation here, that's why. For some unknown reason he'd found enough energy and intrigue to study while working and pandering to his bosses. And even managed to graduate.<br />
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The first time I heard of Imperial College was in early 1990's. I had lots of Tiger Lane classmates who left for England after Form Five in early 70's. But all of them went to Brighton. Well, not all. But almost all. It's hard not to confuse Brighton with Britain and Briton. Just remember this: Britons live in Britain, Malays study in Brighton. Repeat this jingle ten times and you'll get this minor mess off your head.<br />
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I'd thought Imperial College was an A Level College like the one near Tg Malim. Only quite recently I discovered that it's a full-blown and no-nonsense university with students at all levels except A Level. Its engineering school is purported to be among the world's top and toughest, up there with MIT and Caltech, with half of the students speaking only in numbers and Chinese.<br />
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Physically there was nothing to wonder and marvel here. No period landmark or architectural masterwork. The buildings were mostly of contemporary design, huddled tightly with hardly enough space in between for the creative mind to stand, stare, write poems etc. The male toilet can take only five normal-size students at any one time. What came to mind was the sprawling UPM and UTP campuses with lakes and trees and professors and cows roaming freely. To be fair Imperial sits on a princely piece of real estate and, please, don't compare it with Balakong or Tronoh.<br />
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Imperial also has a graduate business school as its cash cow preying on unsuspecting corporate warriors seeking the elevated Imperial brand. In truth, the business program here is only slightly more complicated than the one at UPM. But who wants to go to Serdang? My eldest was graduating from from the business school. You guessed it, I know.<br />
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Before I forget, Imperial College is in the South Kensington area, in the heart of London, close to Royal Albert Hall, Natural History Museum and Harrods. Imperial College is an unofficial supporter of Fulham Football Club. Yes, this is funny.<br />
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2. Royal Albert Hall<br />
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Somehow lots of Malays are familiar with this hall, made famous by our legendary singer-actor-lawyer, the late Sudirman. He performed and won the Asian Music Awards here in 1989. Siti Nurhaliza went one better with a solo concert here in 2005 amidst controversies, like why was it not held at the more iconic Panggung Aniversari in KL Lake Gardens.<br />
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Don't ask me how people get to hold concerts at Albert Hall. I'm equally curious. Do they get invited or vetted by the Queen? Do they have to pay a rental? Who pays? The husband? And how much? How old is the husband? Where are they going to get the audience? Ferried all the way from Pahang? Or Brighton?<br />
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My eldest's graduation ceremony was held at Albert Hall. What a place to receive your degree. You need no other motivation to attend. It bothered me somehow that Imperial College called it "Graduation" ceremony, while back in Malaysia we were stuck with "Convocation" or, worse,"Konvokesyen". So where did we get this word "Convocation" from? Shakespeare? As a full-time retiree, I get to worry about urgent things like this.<br />
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It was a glittering and glitzy occasion, colourful and steeped in tradition, complete with a string ensemble. The oval and opulent hall was filled to the brim, and the atmosphere just blew me away. The pace and timing were pitch perfect, no hitches or glitches, nothing over the top, just right. And, of course, the music. I almost choked when my name was called (hahaha).<br />
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I'll remember this one for a long time.<br />
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3. Peak District<br />
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Not Peek District. This is a highland area and a national park bordering Manchester and Derby known for its scenic lakes, streams, farms, villages, sheep (scenic sheep?). We spent a good half-day traipsing round the area, savouring the splendid landscape and gorgeous geography. It's an exhilarating experience, which is really a pity because most Malaysians would rather visit the nearby Old Trafford and waste good money on Pogba shirts.<br />
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Peak District might not be as famous as Lake District, but equally enjoyable. No romantic poets and writers have chosen to live and die here though. The closest I could think of would probably be RPK, the refugee blogger now mired down in Manchester. Read his prolific tales of trysts and machinations and you'll understand why he's a romantic writer.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjPDiTRzV_g89m5oevI9af7tfy0vY1UJlbhe4ZB_Bl9SDs5ipHO8vgJJNgLrJT7aL_ZQlY3pnHtEYziy7CYdlbehLB3jgvKEWtezyTg0q7v9hNxvm88KGnl5HfMsRki5uia22KlJndOFqr/s1600/18986462_1634870773199222_1588748989_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjPDiTRzV_g89m5oevI9af7tfy0vY1UJlbhe4ZB_Bl9SDs5ipHO8vgJJNgLrJT7aL_ZQlY3pnHtEYziy7CYdlbehLB3jgvKEWtezyTg0q7v9hNxvm88KGnl5HfMsRki5uia22KlJndOFqr/s400/18986462_1634870773199222_1588748989_o.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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4. Manchester City FC<br />
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The 50 year-old dream came true. I finally got to watch Manchester City in the flesh at the Etihad, right before my very eyes. I'd been having these visions ever since I followed the team in 1969. The feeling was simply unbelievable, shouting and swearing with 55,000 City freaks, watching David Silva waltzing and Yaya Toure bursting out, just twenty feet away.<br />
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But there was a downside to all this. Every time Aguero had the ball in the box with only half-decent chance of a goal, the whole stadium would stand up and cheer on. While this spontaneous act ramped up the atmosphere, it totally blocked my view since I'm physically challenged (political for short). Anyway, City ran out 5-0 winners against a hapless Crystal Palace. I completely missed the first four goals.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQIKnqHgM6kCXuduSgbGZPBekfFDIM05bF6O2y_RYcL2lKhHOesfljPMerNV64OC2y9p2tqC2dwtoGaO8VWmR1Ut-vsdXm7RXOezPQLge4U34gECVrjK28jVtBvmRgoSti1NYjiFWJLOxN/s1600/18985277_1634870073199292_1208224009_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQIKnqHgM6kCXuduSgbGZPBekfFDIM05bF6O2y_RYcL2lKhHOesfljPMerNV64OC2y9p2tqC2dwtoGaO8VWmR1Ut-vsdXm7RXOezPQLge4U34gECVrjK28jVtBvmRgoSti1NYjiFWJLOxN/s400/18985277_1634870073199292_1208224009_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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5. Hotel New Inn, Gloucester.<br />
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Gloucester was our last stop before our return flight to KL. Nothing special about this town, except that it was a medieval city only two hours away from Heathrow Terminal 4. It's cheaper and more convenient to stop here than going back to London (with all our bags and Peppa Pigs, remember?). It was Sunday and the town was deserted and it took us some time to find our hotel, the New Inn, although it was smack in the town centre.<br />
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The New Inn Hotel wasn't new. It was built in 1450. Just like Gloucester, there was nothing extraordinary about the hotel, except for a footnote in Wikipedia "The New Inn is supposedly haunted with at least one unexplained event captured on CCTV in 2010". It was too late to change our plans.<br />
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Stepping into the hotel you'd notice the intricate 500-year old timber and masonry. The toilet came with modern soap and flushing system. It took us some time to really settle in. We hardly talked.<br />
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Nothing happened. Sorry. <br />
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6. Breathless Bread<br />
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What's more boring than bread? I love bread, and England is a bread heaven. Walk into any supermarket you'll see one big section with bread brands and varieties in full cry, from Allison's rustic white to Hovis wholemeal and all the way to Worburton's superseed. I had to catch my breath. And it's bloody cheap. A 600 gm of high quality multi-seed variety sells for only 79 p (RM 4.30). A plain white is RM 7.90 at Isetan KLCC Sun Moulin bakery. Gardenia or Massimo is RM 2.50 for 400gm of mind-fogging gluten and yeast. <br />
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I bought plenty of bread and enjoyed every slice. Fabulous stuff. As to why it's so much cheaper in England, I don't have a ready explanation. Maybe the market there is bigger, while I am the only bread market in Malaysia.<br />
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7. Ah, Malaysia Airlines </div>
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I flew Malaysia Airlines this time. I'd not flown long-haul on Malaysia Airlines for almost twenty years. Air Asia or some Arab airlines were always 50% cheaper. This was also my first flight on the A380. It was certainly big, with more space and air to breath, but nothing beyond my expectation. <br />
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With plenty of empty seats, it was hard not to notice the flight attendants (male and female). They all had the real knack of appearing busy at all times. Those in the idle oil and gas industry can learn a thing or two from these guys. But I must say that they were a bit of a let-down. I mean, the aircraft was all fresh and spanking, but the attendants looked older than Gloucester. A couple of them even had reading glasses. I thought it was an exception and I should be seeing something different and more inspiring on the return flight. It was different set, but from the same period.<br />
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I suspect these people were highly-paid holdovers from the platonic Malaysia-Singapore Airlines. They were nice and pleasant enough, but I'm sure there are eager and younger ones among the 120,000 Malaysia Airline staff with more energy and better eyesight to take over the job.<br />
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Sorry for this Trumpesque turn, but I'm sure most of you are with me on this.<br />
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8. A Final Word<br />
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It's been a brief and productive family outing, a mishmash of business, fun and ghosts. I guess my three granddaughters also enjoyed it. They didn't complain about the cold wintry air. They didn't complain about anything. Either their benchmark was low or their tolerance threshold was high. Maybe both, who knew. I'm not sure what they think of Peak District.<br />
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England is easy. The locals drive on the left and speak good English or good Indian, unlike the Italians who drive on the right and speak only loud Italian. And food is friendly. Manchester has more halal restaurants than Subang Jaya on per Muslim basis. What immediately comes to mind is an old and intrepid friend named Yusof Hashim. He travels only to strange and difficult places, like Antarctica, Patagonia and Atlas Mountains, where locals don't drive. He's 70 now. I'm not sure how he copes. I don't think there's a halal restaurant in Antarctica.<br />
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Did I promise you plenty of pictures? Here's two more, shot in York. Spreading out on the steps like that, what a clever improvisation. <br />
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bulanbiruhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12179756159406247914noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8207215640653358023.post-90362854816215059852018-05-24T07:26:00.001-07:002018-05-24T07:26:10.283-07:00Our Time. Our City<br />
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Manchester City have just won the English Premier League (EPL), without kicking a ball.<br />
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No surprise this time around. It's been coming for months. The contest had been reduced to a one-horse procession, a formality, a fait accompli. Adrift and out of sight, title challengers Manchester United, Liverpool, Chelsea and Spurs had all thrown in the sponge two months ago. Football writers are moving on to the plight of Jamaican migrants.<br />
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Everybody had resigned to the inevitable, but in this flat fashion. Smart money was on some semblance of romance, with City wrapping it up last week in their match against Manchester United at City's Etihad Stadium. That would've been a painful end to MU's challenge, and a rare chance for City to rub it in before their own fans. But City, with a rich history of big-time me botches, fluffed it after leading 2-0. Watching Pogba and MU supporters celebrating wasn't easy for me.<br />
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The plot somehow thickened and took an ironic twist. MU inexplicably lost the next game at home to rock-bottom West Brom, leaving themselves with exactly zero chance of catching City. After gleefully denying City the title at the Etihad, MU tamely conceded it to City at Old Trafford, before their own fans. It's not the most spectacular way of winning any title. But we'll take it all the same.<br />
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Oh, the season hasn't really ended. With five more weeks and five more games to go, and City could conceivably field their Women's Team for the academic kick-abouts. But no, we'll go all out to break all English football records still standing: Most points, margin, goals, goal difference, passes, possession, you name it. In many ways, it's going to be a surreal season for City.<br />
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I'm just happy to be a champion. I don't play for Manchester City, of course. I've been following Manchester City football team since 1968, when I was in Form Two at Tiger Lane, and never looked back. That was exactly 50 years ago. The first 40 years has been a tumultous rollercoaster ride, ups and downs, mostly downs, and out in the old Third Division for a year. A football writer called City of the old a "comedic shambles". If you're looking for a single proof of my strong faith and fortitude, look no further.</div>
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To support City, your heart must have extra veins and valves. Every year we were promised a new dawn, only to find ourselves battling relegation and watching Manchester United taking the title. The team was consistently inconsistent, suffering from what City faithfuls called Citytis or Cititis. The classic sympton of this unique malaise is the uncanny ability to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory.<br />
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A new dawn finally broke. In 2007, out of nowhere, City was bought over by the ex-Thai Prime Minister Thaksin Shinawatra. I didn't know what was his motivation. I mean, there were nineteen other teams in EPL and many more in Spain. He could well be a victim of a scam. We, City fans, just had no time for much philosophical pondering. We embraced our saviour, showering him with affection, calling him Frank (after Frank Sinatra, the mafia crooner), while nervously waiting for his next step. Football folklore was littered with wicked and wayward owners, and this guy was an exile and highly wanted in his country. So we'd to exercise a maximum of restraint and common sense.<br />
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Frank's next move was bold and stunning - by City's standards. He signed the former England coach Sven-Goran Eriksson to replace manager Stuart Pearce, who was a border-line psychotic. In no time Eriksson brought in new players, including two Brazilian internationals, Elano and Geovanni. The long-suffering City fanatics took to the streets celebrating a forthcoming EPL crown. When the season ended, MU were the champions.<br />
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The next year, Frank sold City to an Abu Dhabi investment group, pocketing a tidy profit. I'm not sure what was behind all this, but Frank certainly wasn't a victim of a scam. I initially thought that the Arabs were out shopping in London, and buying City was an afterthought. We, City fans, had to pinch ourselves for the second time when we found out that the new owner, one Sheikh Mansour, was 20 times richer than Frank was. With a family fortune of USD 1 trillion, he could, hypothetically at least, buy the whole EPL and let City win every year.<br />
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As it turned out, the new owner was serious and single-minded in his ambition to turn City into a global brand, whatever it means. The name Coca Cola was even mentioned. It was a flight of fancy, of course. Who'd want to drink Manchester City?<br />
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The serious Sheikh quickly made a statement by prising the much sought-after Robinho from Real Madrid for a new British record transfer fee. Some City die-hards tracked Robinho's flights to Manchester, minute by minute, until he landed at the airport. More marquee names were added later, players like Sergio Aguero, David Silva, Yaya Toure, Carlos Tevez and, for some reason, Mario Balotelli. The good-looking manager, Mark Hughes, was later replaced by an even sharper-looking one named Roberto Mancini. The sight of suave Mancini in Zegna jacket fielding questions with full Italian swagger and bits of English was enough to prompt Arsene Wenger, the French economic scholar and part-time manager of Arsenal, into City-sniping with his elegant theory of "financial doping". </div>
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Four years later (in 2012) City were EPL Champions, clinching it in a dramatic last game with a last-gasp Aguero goal. That killer kick was made all the sweeter by the sight of MU players celebrating, thinking that they'd bagged another EPL title. It broke the hearts of MU worldwide fans, all 6 billion of them, if you believe their statistics.<br />
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I've watched that Aguero video more than 120 times now. That serene scene of Alex Ferguson and MU players slumping in collective disbelief was priceless.<br />
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The euphoria of that incredible triumph didn't completely sink in. The very next season City meekly handed the title to....... MU (I thought you didn't know). Well, that's that.<br />
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After three seasons, Mancini and his Zegna was replaced by Manuel Pellegrini, a Chilean engineer with a heavy hair-do. Pellegrini was a picture of composure and he spoke English in full. Unlike some other managers, he never clashed with reporters or fellow managers or referees or ball boys. He led City to another EPL title in 2015, clinching it in the very last game, this time leaving Liverpool supporters, mostly Malaysian Indians, all sick and suicidal. In a show of restraint and chivalry, Pellegrini didn't jump and jig (unlike other managers).<br />
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I loved Pellegrini's easy and understated ways, and I was sad when City let him go just like that (like what?). In a press conference in early 2016 he calmly announced his impending departure and his full support for his successor, Pep Guardiola, purportedly the best coach on planet earth and the purveyor of pass-it-to-death football. An EPL manager backing his own replacement? That's Pellegrini for you. This won't happen again, not in a thousand years.<br />
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Now back to this brilliant season. I didn't in the least expect City to reach these dizzying heights so soon, especially after last season's hesistant performance, even with Pep's arrival. To be fair, third place in his first season wasn't a bad campaign. But the lazy media and detractors pointed out that City had already spent more than USD 1.5 billion on players, whereas MU, Liverpool and Chelsea didn't spend one cent!<br />
<br />
Before the season started, fans of rival teams were already bandying about a new football phenomenon: Fraudiola. To them, Pep is fake. Their argument rests on the popular mythology that EPL is tougher than La Liga and Bundesliga combined, so Pep must fail in England. I could imagine the weight of expectation on Pep and his players when the season kicks in. My feeling is that the critics won't get off his back until he wins EPL and Bundesliga and La Liga all in the same season.<br />
<br />
Pep's response was stunning and seismic. He bought more players! He, he. Well, he did spend USD 250 million on new, younger players like Leroy Sane and Gabriel Jesus. Of course, MU, Liverpool and Chelsea, according to their partisan pixies, didn't buy a single player. Lukaku, Salah and Morata were all coming through their youth academies.<br />
<br />
But, seriously, Pep has reimagined and reinvented English football. He should be cited and knighted for this. Now I know why people dubbed him the "ultimate solution". His idea of a football match is a 100% share of possession by one team - his team. I've been seriously watching English football for more than 50 years now, and I've not seen anything close to the way City is playing now. Exquisite, expressive, extravagant football.<br />
<br />
At times I was left breathless by the way City players shuffled and shifted the ball around, leaving the opponents headless. There's so much guile and craft. Leroy Sane, is he real? The matches against Newcastle and Swansea ended with stats showing City with 81% possession. Not exactly 100%, if you want to argue.<br />
<br />
I'm writing this at the risk of offending my opposite numbers, I mean people I know who, for some unknown reason, are still stuck with MU (Hamid, Moru), Liverpool (Yuzer), Arsenal (Puzi), Spurs (Mad Darus), Chelsea (Azlan) and, you've to believe this, Southampton (Said. Just because he went to University of Southampton). They were one-time classmates at Tiger Lane. We're now all retired and redundant.<br />
<br />
So, guys, sorry if you're not too happy with what I've written. It's my time and my turn. Live with it until the new season starts in August. But, hold on, what if City's cakewalk this season is only a warm-up act? And there'll be a new dawn next season, a <i>real</i> new<i> </i>dawn. And another new dawn the year after, and so forth. I mean, what if City are just starting up and will get better and better, more and more formidable? Scary theory. Arsene has just announced that he's leaving Arsenal. There's no better time.<br />
<br />
I think you all have to wait a little longer.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhogjeJGEzSpXdnTj8tj2fTfnruvi7q0U__CgVH8m4qOnE3S8_Spa1hJENS7KHd1lBZv0yWsvcgLcn7LKlf8wVe-_neX1u1FPlasLWt_kR2xGXBtG7Ei5rdYKpziaKSz-9A_gSaJA0N4ngO/s1600/mcfc+pic+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="1024" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhogjeJGEzSpXdnTj8tj2fTfnruvi7q0U__CgVH8m4qOnE3S8_Spa1hJENS7KHd1lBZv0yWsvcgLcn7LKlf8wVe-_neX1u1FPlasLWt_kR2xGXBtG7Ei5rdYKpziaKSz-9A_gSaJA0N4ngO/s640/mcfc+pic+2.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Pep Guardiola: The Ultimate Solution</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Updates</b><br />
<br />
EPL season ended yesterday, 13 May. City set new EPL records for Most Points (100), Away Points (50), Wins ( 32), Successive Wins (18), Successive Away Wins (11), Goals (106), Goal Difference (+79), Points Ahead of Second Placed Team (19).<br />
<br />
There are more. Most passes (28, 242), Most Passes in a single game (975), Highest Ball Possession in a single game: 82.95%.<br />
<br />
There's no accounting for positive football (attacking) and negative football (bus parking) football. If there's one, City would've easily been first (attacking) and last (bus). Pep has been voted the best manager. And he would've been the best-dressed manager, hands down.<br />
<br />
With all those mind-blowing statistics, some football fans and football writers have insisted that the Arsenal team of 2003/04, the so-called Invincibles, are the best EPL team ever. These people are deep in denial and delusion. I can feel their pain.<br />
<br />
Oh, Manchester United were runners-up, Spurs (3rd), and Liverpool (4th). Arsenal? 6th.<br />
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</div>
</div>
bulanbiruhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12179756159406247914noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8207215640653358023.post-87375326497500255322016-10-28T23:46:00.001-07:002018-05-04T21:02:13.983-07:00Inspired By Isymam: A Talaqqi Story<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Six years after I'd retired, I received two academic certificates.</div>
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One conferred by Masjid Sultan Salahudin Abdul Aziz Shah in Shah Alam for completing its one-year Talaqqi/Tajwid Course. The other one for attending a four-month Tajwid class at Rehal Islamic Studies Centre.</div>
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No, no, these are not fake PhD's. Hahaha.</div>
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The Shah Alam certificate was a sheer beauty. It's inscribed 100% in Jawi calligraphy, including my name. When was the last time I'd my name written in Jawi? Standard Six, 1965. That long ago. So I'll keep this certificate for the rest of my natural life, for both its intrinsic and extrinsic value.</div>
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Everybody knows the blue-hue Masjid Sultan Abdul Aziz Shah. But not many have heard of Rehal. It's a small, privately-run Talaqqi centre in Kota Damansara. The owner and teacher-in-chief is one Dr Surur Shihabudin, a two-time PhD who also lectures at UIA. Dr Surur has written a widely read text entitled "Ilmu Tajwid" (pink hard cover, 342 pages). The book is about, hold your breath, Tajwid. What do you expect?</div>
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Religious gurus are never known for marketing craft and guile. Their books all look drab and dreary. And the titles leave very little to imagination. They should take a leaf out of literary frauds with funky titles like Blue Ocean or Freakonomics that have sold millions. "Talk Tajwid And Get A Second Wife In Two Weeks" would have been a runaway bestseller. Anyway I'd been using Dr Surur's "Ilmu Tajwid" for some time now and I've to admit that I was motivated to attend the course on the weight of this book and its author. Nothing beats the horse's mouth.<br />
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Frankly I'm proud to receive these certificates, even at the tender age of 62. I've lost count of all the certificates I'd received for all kinds of courses I attended when I was with Petronas. Lateral Thinking, High-Impact Speaking, Finance For Finance Haters, Business Leadership, 7 Habits, 5 Asses, you name it. But none really compares with these two humble certificates.<br />
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I'm writing this not to show off my religious fixation and credentials. I'm in fact exposing my failure and frailty. Children as young as six now learn the Quran and know all the finer points of Tajwid. At my age, I'm supposed to teach.</div>
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So what's the point? In short, I want to share my late-life learning joys and trials. And if I can get one more person to just <i>think</i> about learning Tajwid, I'd consider this blog entry a major triumph.<br />
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Tajwid is, admittedly, a very dry subject matter. Think theoretical Physics. Or Cost Accounting. It's highly technical and more potent than sleeping pills. Some of the charts and pictographs used are suspiciously similar to the periodic table. You can't compare Tajwid with, say, Sirah, where you get to learn and turned on by our Prophet's love life with wife Aisyah, or marvel at the bravery of Khalid Al Walid and awe at the exploits of my favourite all-conquering warrior-archer-wanderer Saad Abi Waqqas.</div>
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One of my friends knows an awful lot about Syiah and Wahabbi, which, I think, are both juicier than Tajwid. He can expound on Nikah Mutaah, or temporary marriage, in the way that E Channel explains the premise behind the much-celebrated gender migration from Bruce to Caitlyn.<br />
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When I completed early Quran reading classes in standard six, I thought I'd mastered Quran reading. Mom could just pick any page and I'd read it aloud. I grew up with this mistaken belief that Tajwid was just an option, something for those who want to win the international Quran reading competition. So it was left on the back burner for fifty years. When I began to learn Tajwid, I rudely discovered that, for fifty years, I hadn't been reading the Quran the right way. I'd been reading the Quran not in Arabic, but in Kelantanese.<br />
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How did I "discover" Tajwid? It wasn't exactly Fleming and penicillin, but it was similarly fortuitous. Or serendipitous, if you don't mind. The story is screenplay stuff and wrote itself.<br />
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It was in 2002 when about 20 of us, close classmates who went to Tiger Lane in 1966, descended for a reunion and Iftar. We had a brief tazkirah, where, by default, the most qualified of us led the session. He reminded us of the intrigues and intricacies of Quran reading, and, to prove his point, he picked out Isymam, a Tajwid rule applied at Ayat 11 Surah Yusuf. We've to purse (muncung) our lips when we recite ta'- man-n-na. Man, this is something, I thought. I'd been missing lots of fun !</div>
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From then on, I began to sniff around for basic Tajwid books. "For my son" I told the bookseller. He'd heard this routine before, so he just nodded. Reading the books was uphill. Tolstoy's two-volume War and Peace was easier and faster.<br />
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I finally retired in 2009, but it wasn't until two years later that I began to make some inroads by attending formal and informal Tajwid classes, including our monthly Tiger Lane usrah sessions led by, yes, the Isymam Imam. Every lesson was a sobering self-discovery.<br />
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I found out that learning at my age is extremely challenging for three reasons. One, I'd lost most of my thinking skills (not a lot to begin with). So it took me longer than forever to get the hang of the strange concepts and to memorize new names. Two, I was among the oldest, if not the oldest, in class. My Shah Alam and Rehal classmates were mostly half my age, mentally sharper and, worst, they all had more hair. Three, most Tajwid teachers had very little talent in the complex art of teaching. The Rehal program, in particular, was stressful not only because the classroom felt like a Cambodian sweatshop but also because the teacher (Dr Surur) used a teaching technique made popular by the Japanese army during their brief occupation of the old Malaya. He didn't believe in soft sell. He'd drill and grill, regardless of your age. If you're the sensitive sort, you'd drop out and become a "syahid" before the third week.</div>
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But after the initial scares and jitters, I began to enjoy the Tajwid classes. Even Dr Surur's hard-hitting military style didn't scare me. With age advantage, I could ask any question I like, like why huruf "Dhod" is Rokhowah and not Syiddah? I always believe everything has its soft and sweet side. In a class of 20 students, you'll listen to 20 different ways of reading. High notes, low notes, poor pitch, terrible tone. I can tell you it's more fun than Akademi Fantasia audition.</div>
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We learned from our teachers and from each other, driven by one common and singular ambition: to read the Quran the way our beloved Prophet read it 1400 years ago. What's not to like?<br />
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The test of Tajwid is not in the terms and theories, but in putting it to practice. The proof of the pudding is in the eating, remember? Not the prettiest of parallels, but you get my point. Mastering the Makhraj, Mad and the stuff is only the starting point. It's how I apply it when I get down to actually doing it. It was mentally and physically draining, tougher than treadmill. But once I get in the groove, it's hard to stop. You could even get high. Try the graceful Surah Maryam, and you'd soon find yourself doped and drowned in the rhyming verses. Reading the Quran would never be the same.</div>
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So I've mastered Tajwid. No, no, no. Not even close. Never. There's still a lot left to learn. Dr Surur kept reminding us "Bergurulah walaupun kita seorang guru". It's not possible to unlearn and relearn 50 years of work in six short years. The trick is to train. Serena Williams has won 23 Grand Slams and she still trains with a coach, six hours a day. Now you're excited.<br />
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I'll never be a champion. But I'll keep on learning: twisting and turning my tongue, tweaking my speed and breath, and even trying out a new tune. The divine virtues and rewards of reading the Quran are never in question. But I can promise you one immediate payoff when you read the Quran the right way: your wife loves you a lot more. </div>
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bulanbiruhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12179756159406247914noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8207215640653358023.post-24539930371897076262016-09-04T19:53:00.001-07:002016-09-08T12:19:32.999-07:00Sojourn In Shenzhen<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitUhJUxoqz96Ss1qTTGoIqUb_2KsTFwK3EqDi4DIE_0nxPrZMIbzz17GtioBUI2jy7ZsBEJwWibWfhhEPgdBSWMSp82CKhmWwtLjIjolH5CP9p0Q2HFuDXSPVJoGCLpQ3RtvTw2lDAV99r/s1600/IMG_1597.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitUhJUxoqz96Ss1qTTGoIqUb_2KsTFwK3EqDi4DIE_0nxPrZMIbzz17GtioBUI2jy7ZsBEJwWibWfhhEPgdBSWMSp82CKhmWwtLjIjolH5CP9p0Q2HFuDXSPVJoGCLpQ3RtvTw2lDAV99r/s320/IMG_1597.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
The landing was faultless. But the moment I stepped into the airport and looked around, my stomach dropped. Everyone here except us was a Chinese. I'd nothing against the Chinese as a people or a concept, it's just that I'd never seen so many Chinese in my entire life. My wife sensed my abeyance and pressed my shoulder. "Come on, this is China. Not Italy". I knew, but, I mean, all these Chinese and so many. "China, Chinese la" She reasoned out. This line of logic left me with almost nothing to argue.<br />
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Last month I was in Shenzhen and nearby Guangzhou. Nearby was actually 150 km away. These two cities are now China's boom towns, growing at breakneck rates, and home to 23 million people, all Chinese (What do you expect? 23 million Italians?).<br />
<br />
It's hard to find another place more sanguine than Shenzhen. And so devoid of character and charisma. If
you love museums, castles and art houses, don't go down to Shenzhen. Go to
Leuven. Or Leiden. Nobody here has time for
contemplation. Culture and theatre are a waste of space. This is the soulless motherland of finance, factories and fakes feeding off world's rapacious greed and relentless consumption. Only 50 years ago the mantra was fish, farm and fight for the country. Now? Let's make more money.<br />
<br />
I was part of a
touring party of 17 fine-looking people, all my family members, including wife and daughter Aida. The youngest was nephew Umar,
10 years old. We'd been travelling around together quite a bit to whet the wanderlust. Well, not to Las Vegas or Las Palmas, but mostly the more affordable local and regional hotspots. This time we broke our long-held tradition of self-styled backpacking and bespoke itinerary by taking a guided tour. Backpacking with a guide? Now that's embarrassing. Why? Because this is China, that's why.<br />
<br />
In case
you've forgotten, China is officially a communist state, you know,
Marxist-Leninist, Mao Zedong, Falun Gong, Gang of Four, Shaolin Temple, and all the
scary stuff. We heard that government officials in China are summarily
shot even for petty crimes like corruption. So quite naturally, we were worried. Who knew, we could get jail term in China for laughing or reading. We'd to agree with Ronald Reagan's pearl of wisdom: Why take
chances?<br />
<br />
Our Chinese tour guide, named Felix, could speak English and a smattering of Malay. He was a native Shenzhenian or Shenzhenese or simply Chinese and very proud of his city. According to him, the average age of the Shenzhen population was only 31 years. I knew I was the oldest person in my group. Now I was also the oldest person in the whole city of Shenzhen. I quickly told wife that she was technically the second oldest person in Shenzhen. She dismissed it offhand, accusing me of conspiracy, hangover, late-life lapses and so on. All too familiar.<br />
<br />
After five days and four nights in Shenzhen and Guangzhou, we came away
mixed. Well, no place in the world has all pluses. Not even Paris. And certainly not Ottawa. (One of my brothers-in-law still thinks Ottawa is in Japan). You'd always end up with a bone or two to pick. So there's this nagging and uneasy feeling that
we might not have seen and done enough. Or, in Obama's language, we weren't getting the biggest bang for the buck. Guangzhou especially deserves more time. The
jury is still out, so to speak and I hate this phrase. We've to
really sit back and think hard before passing a verdict.<br />
<br />
In the meantime, I've put together some
takeaways from our tour, if you're interested. If you're not, then just scroll ahead for some Android-quality photos. This list is strictly my
opinion. The 10-year old nephew may have other ideas. PM him if you
want to know. <br />
<br />
1. A Guided Tour Is A Time-Waster.<br />
<br />
A
guided tour of any part of China requires that you visit a number of
state-sponsored "craft or cultural centres". The Shenzhen jade factory
that we were taken to had the uncanny feel and atmosphere of Hotel
California. Yes, that part "You can check out any time you like, but you
can never leave..." and the searing guitar licks. Lucky thing a
sister-in-law bought something. That probably was enough to save us and
let us live to fight another day. Hahaha.<br />
<br />
What's worse than one jade factory? Two jade factories. We'd to visit another jade
factory, in Guangzhou. Same bloody scripts and tricks. But this time
around we were all prepared to fight back, communist or not. It all
ended peacefully though, with nobody buying anything. <br />
<br />
Then
there was this Chinese herbal medicine centre or clinic in Guangzhou,
where they had a professor from Beijing touch our hands and size up our
state of health. Apparently everybody seemed to be down with at least one chronic
condition. A sister-in-law seemed to be critically short of oxygen. Hahaha,
thanks prof, finally we knew why she was what she was. But no worry, because the kind
professor, as expected, would prescribe the necessary (and expensive)
concoction. I know a scam when I see one.<br />
<br />
We'd easily wasted precious eight
hours on these state tours, which we could have easily spent exploring Guangzhou's Muslim quarter, fruit markets, the subway, and the old city with its narrow alleys and quaint shops. Both Shenzhen and Guangzhou were safer than Subang Jaya and taxi drivers eat and live by their meters. We would survive on our own.<br />
<br />
Felix the tour guide was a part-time
bait-and-switch artist. He was so good at his trade that he managed
to lure us into buying bags of nuts, Longchamp purses, and watches from
him. <br />
<br />
Hwang He, the Chinese River of Sorrow, shall be
my witness as I promised myself to never ever again take guided tours
and go near tour guides.<br />
<br />
2. Muslim Meals Are Marvellous<br />
<br />
Chinese Halal food or Halal Chinese food? Doesn't matter. Heaps
of horror stories about this. Bland, tasteless, sticky and so on. Don't
listen. The food was glorious and out of this world. It was vegetable based, with superb soy and only touches of
meat and fish. Very healthful. My weight and pulse rate fell after two days.<br />
<br />
3. Fakes Are Fine <br />
<br />
Shenzhen
and Guangzhou are full of fake stuff, with miles of malls plying the
bogus high styles. I'm all for this counterfeiting and bootlegging. I think for far too long the
much celebrated European haute couture are getting away with exploiting unsuspecting
Asians through clever marketing and subtle branding. Those designer
labels are never worth their extortionate prices. They are the real
fakes, not the fakes. A fat girl flagging a 100,000 dollar Hermes bag is
still a fat girl. <br />
<br />
Louhu Mall near Shenzheng railway
station was a five-storey affair choked with fakes and knock-offs. The
action here was thick and fast. The goods were excellent value, at less
than 5% of the "real" thing. The Chinese "designers" have really come a long
way. The stitching and sewing was splendid and it'd tough to separate the
wheat from the chaff. If your friends can still tell it's not Chanel,
you're the problem. Not the bag.<br />
<br />
Bargaining here was more intense than watching Lee Chong Wei. Price of anything starts at 850 Yuan (RM 500). You
must poke back with only 50 Yuan and then watch the sales girl feigning (or actually going into) fits or short comatose. You must hold your ground and walk away. She'd bolt after you and this fast furious sequence should last for ten minutes before you and the girl finally settle for 100 Yuan, a discount of 80%. The process takes plenty of
energy. But well worth it. You get a fake bag and lose 400 calories of real fat. What's not to love. <br />
<br />
4. The Magnificent Mosque Of Saad Abi Waqqas<br />
<br />
The
name alone conjures up the mystique. You simply have to see this old
mosque in Guangzhou, a shoo-in in traveller's bucket list. The blatant collision of Arabic and Chinese architecture, set
among lush gardens, will just blow you away. The dark red panels and
pillars were bold, defiant but delightful.<br />
<br />
Saad was
Nabi Muhammad's close companion and relative, warrior, archer, traveller
and diplomat extraordinaire, all in one. He purportedly travelled all
the way to China with his kabilah in the 7th century to propagate the
Islamic faith, 700 years before Marco Polo and his gay brothers. <br />
<br />
Climbing up the steps, I hesitated. I was overcome by the poignant thought of the old mosque of Kg Laut, where I grew up. It's not as old, but the warmth and welcome were strikingly similar. I could still picture the mosque standing triumphantly where it was 50 years ago, just like this very mosque in Guangzhou.<br />
<br />
5. Beijing Street, Dongmen Market, Baima Wholesale Market, Mangrove Park (or Whatever).<br />
<br />
A standard tour will happily drop you off at these (in)famous places. These
are duds and dreadful and should be officially certified as state
tourist traps. My lawn is bigger than the Mangrove Park, and more birds.
Skip if you can. That jade racket was more fun. Go to Sungai Wang
instead, when you come back.<br />
<br />
6. Finally, Oh My English!<br />
<br />
The
Chinese love the English language. They've a long way to go. But,
believe me, pretty soon they'll speak English better than our public
university graduates. Notices and signs everywhere carry the English
translations. The intention is noble enough, but you'll almost always end up
bemused and amused. You've probably read and heard loads of cruel jokes about
this. I can confirm they are all real, not a joke. Here's a selection. Enjoy !
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> Saad Abi Waqqas Was Here</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Oldest Couple In Shenzhen</td></tr>
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<br />
<br />
<br />bulanbiruhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12179756159406247914noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8207215640653358023.post-55930035878176078452016-02-13T20:36:00.001-08:002016-09-04T19:54:27.636-07:00The Not-Very-Curious Case of Starving Students And The Very Curious Case of A Billion Donation<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiztlYMu-CHc7zoare0drVWHWDACdfN9J9uSEXqdT6lrYkLJq5MRstlNz14jIYpawHtUn6jI56bLpdoTG2VdlJVLUt05kkr07NaJ0q3CCc-StD8XznqmG1Auk2ahplAD2MzAbA27pbrog6y/s1600/12626092_1116258025060502_842346510_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiztlYMu-CHc7zoare0drVWHWDACdfN9J9uSEXqdT6lrYkLJq5MRstlNz14jIYpawHtUn6jI56bLpdoTG2VdlJVLUt05kkr07NaJ0q3CCc-StD8XznqmG1Auk2ahplAD2MzAbA27pbrog6y/s400/12626092_1116258025060502_842346510_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Sorry for the lavish and longish title, but, really, our university students are starving.<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
A
recent survey of 25,632 students in six public universities revealed
that more than half are actually living on RM 5 a day, while
three-quarters have been in situations where they're too broke to eat.<br />
<br />
The very next morning, the Ministry of Higher Education dismissed these survey results as nonsense. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
A
"Freemeals" program at UKM recently saw all 100 free food packs gone in
600 seconds. A similar program at UPM produced similar results, only
faster. Another "Freemeals" variety called "Suspended Meals" is ongoing
at UPM.<br />
<br />
In the wake of widespread outcry, the
voluntary groups who organised these free-food programs were harassed by
the universities. They were hauled up and quizzed and questioned.
Apparently the authorities weren't too happy with the name "Suspender
Meals". </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
"No
students will go hungry on my watch", declared the Minister of Higher
Education on 10 January. Brave words. "On my watch"! Wow. This guy
sounds like President Donald Trump. Our ministers are all masters of the
atmospherics. You could almost feel the hot air and the hollow ring. He
forayed further by suggesting that students should seek part-time jobs.
Like what? Housemaids? Uber grabber?<br />
<br />
Another minister,
this time a blue blood, rejected offhand the whole notion as
sensationalism and theatrics. According to him, nobody's starving in
this great country, not even the homeless. Hard to believe that a
minister for youths can be so out of touch with the youths. Maybe he's
still busy consoling last year's SEA Games female gymnasts.<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
If
these ministers don't already know, students go to universities and
colleges to do one and only one simple job: study. That's why they're called
students, and not pump attendants, or surgeons. If they have to study AND work at the same time, we
have a problem. Just imagine a surgeon who has to cook while doing a coronary bypass. Or a chef doing a bypass while cooking. Either way, the food wouldn't turn out good. I can't find a better analogy, but I think you get my point.<br />
<br />
The public are <i>again</i> divided on this.<br />
<br />
Why I said <i>again</i>?
Because people are already divided. We're already divided over the RM
2.6 billion donation. We're literally, figuratively, badly beaten,
shaken, broken. It's like a big fat hole, with those who believe on one
side and those who don't on the other side.<br />
<br />
Going by
the social media dynamics and statistics, the ratio of believers to
disbelievers is roughly 1 to 99. Loudly lopsided, I know. But don't be
discouraged by that 1%. If you understand mathematics, 1% of 30 million
population is actually 300,000, including some newborns and Nepalese.
This is one hell lot of people, equivalent to the entire population of
Kuala Terengganu. Imagine, the whole boring people of Kuala Terengganu
believe that an Arab has donated RM2.6 billion, while the rest of the
country don't. In my 60 over years, we're never this divided. <br />
<br />
On
this case of starving students, we're again split into believers and
disbelievers. The line is less clear though. Those who believe that
students are starving are mostly those who don't believe that there's an
Arab somewhere throwing away RM 2.6 billion, while those who doubt
students are starving are mostly those who believe in mad Arabs. <br />
<br />
Believers
are naturally sympathetic and very angry. They felt that the government
had wasted loads of money on floating submarines, illegal speed traps
and Mongolia mines, starving the students of funds. They also believed
that RM 2.6 billion, mad Arab or dead Arab, could've been mobilised to
feed the students for the next 100 years.<br />
<br />
While the
doubters or disbelievers came down hard on the students themselves,
levelling the blame squarely on the students for their financial
profligacy, you know, things like iPhones, prepaids, Starbucks, girl
friends and so on.<br />
<br />
If you asked me, I think there's a
strong and valid case of hungry students. Even if you didn't ask me, I
still think there's a strong case. A couple of old classmates with
children in public universities are grappling with the classic
opportunity cost dilemma: anak vs mamak. More money for anak means less
for mamak. With cruel cutbacks on Mara and Ptptn handouts, the parents
have to fill the void. We'd never know whether the students would starve
without their parents' financial lifeline. No parents would run a trial
to find out. <br />
<br />
I went to UKM for my degree way back in
1975. A local bank fell for my charisma and handed me a handsome
scholarship of RM 2400 a year. I won't shame and name this unfortunate
bank. The government scholarship was about RM 2000. I thought could
live like a king. <br />
<br />
After one semester, I discovered
that I was actually a king on a shoestring. At the time, a full-blown
breakfast cost under RM 2.00. No smart or stupid phones to make you go
mad. Water was free from water cooler. We used payphones and public
transport. We ate pretty much what the prehistoric men ate. But still
there were days when we'd to dig deep and dip below United Nation's
recommended daily dietary intake. I stayed off campus, ten or maybe
fifteen of us in one house. Yes, we pioneered this communal concept, not
the Banglas. It's a basic and spartan lifestyle. Lifestyle, yeah. At
the end of every day, I only had enough left to fight another day.<br />
<br />
So
I'm the least surprised that some students are hungry now. Education is
mentally and financially draining, even in the heavily subsidised
public universities. Private colleges are even more intimidating.
Premium brands like Sunway, Taylor's, Nottingham, Monash etc charge
upwards of RM 90,000 for a 4-year degree. QS recently ranked our private
tertiary education the fifth most expensive in the world (cost relative
to income). Father PTPTN will never give you enough to cover your fees,
let alone your feed. If you go to these colleges, you'd die of
starvation. <br />
<br />
Thing is, university life is not supposed
to be a walk in the park, at least not for most of us. Occasionally
missing meals is no big deal. It's par for the course during my time
and more so now with GST in full flight and Ringgit in freefall. Plain
roti canai is RM1.60 a pop now and you've to compete with the cash-rich
Bangladeshis and Indonesians. <br />
<br />
So I'm not sure why the
ministers or the universities or just about anybody would've to be up in
arms and deny this. Just accept this as part of education. It preps the
students up for later life. I know you can pinpoint a lot of ugly
things to Umno, but starving students isn't Umno's doing. The grand old
party has done a lot of good, building 20 public universities in the
country, with another five new ones if they win in 2018. It's unfair to
expect them to feed the students as well. <br />
<br />
Hungry students are pretty much everywhere, in India, in Mongolia, in Malaysia, and even in richer countries like the US.<br />
<br />
Which
reminds me of the inspiring story of Indra K Nooyi, the
current CEO of PepsiCo. She's championing the "performance for a
purpose" management mantra, which espouses responsible business. Pepsi
now has less calories than Coke. She left Tamil Nadu for Yale to do her
MBA in 1978, and, in her own words, "I thought I'd died and gone to
heaven. I was totally, completely broke. I'd no money to buy clothes".
She worked on campus on minimum wage and probably survived because she's
a vegetarian.<br />
<br />
She's quite rich now, of course, and has
been generously giving back to her university. Yale is just happy to
reciprocate her generosity with a Classroom and a Deanship named after
her (Nooyi Classroom, Nooyi Dean). "My gift to Yale pales in comparison
to the gift that Yale gave me". Such humility. I'm sure there are fewer
hungry students in Yale now because of her gift. She gave again early
this month, her biggest so far. No numbers were disclosed, but it's
thought to be between 20 to 30 million. US Dollars!<br />
<br />
It
would be nice if our own ex-starving students who make good take a leaf
out of Indra Nooyi's playbook and give back to their universities. They
may start with RM2 and work all the way up to RM 20 million.<br />
<br />
I
must admit that, with depleting retained earnings and a girl deep in
college and another very soon, I can't afford much. Maybe Ahmad Maslan, a
fellow UKM alumnus, can. I don't think he was starving when he did his
MBA at UKM. No hungry students would graduate with 3.85 CGPA. I'm sure
he's fairly rich, I mean, he's a deputy minister with three or four
jobs, and Umno, don't forget. If he wanted to, he could start his own
legacy in UKM with Ahmad Maslan Suspender Meals! <br />
<br />
Believe
me, there's hardly a cause greater and godlier than giving. Donate to
your alma mater. Don't donate to your prime minister. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
bulanbiruhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12179756159406247914noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8207215640653358023.post-58111697507565316632015-12-03T20:33:00.000-08:002016-01-10T06:11:36.331-08:00Masalah Ayam: The Problem With Our Education System<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM2vq_Pv6qHgR4XIGiR3TuT2QYpjt3ArURJd7oNO4Xa6Zh-64FnGC3_aYBWuPo1cefxexSqYcKQP3s65ZLFag7wFdDYdMqfdbqCjfTTeTSnwupNT8aylktvBYyImEV8hVaUCuo8O8mj3Ev/s1600/12309138_1082886551730983_126825748_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM2vq_Pv6qHgR4XIGiR3TuT2QYpjt3ArURJd7oNO4Xa6Zh-64FnGC3_aYBWuPo1cefxexSqYcKQP3s65ZLFag7wFdDYdMqfdbqCjfTTeTSnwupNT8aylktvBYyImEV8hVaUCuo8O8mj3Ev/s400/12309138_1082886551730983_126825748_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Like my opening gambit? Stay with me. We're into some serious business.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
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!<br />
<br />
All I need is three more days to go completely mad.<br />
<br />
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?<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Now that SPM is safely behind her, she can now devote all her waking and sleeping and eating hours to Korean TV. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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?<br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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. <br />
<br />
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).<br />
<br />
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.<br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
II<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
III <br />
<br />
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).<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br /></div>
<br />
The solution to Masalah Ayam, if you're interested:<br />
<br />
8 chicks @ RM5 = RM 40<br />
11 chicks @ RM3 = RM 33<br />
81 chicks @ 3 chicks for RM1 =RM 27 <br />
<br />
Total: 100 chicks for RM 100. <br />
<br />
<br />bulanbiruhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12179756159406247914noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8207215640653358023.post-87293467033784116572015-10-07T21:31:00.001-07:002015-11-02T18:01:32.968-08:00Polis Evo<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
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</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0ONVGlNagWxv0mYp9eQ7h7apJlPRI9dwnGodkm07KtnIoeXVAHb6UsB_4pFMwW25bHEay5-TGSH65c2Av_L-uX1APH-SiI4kWgkrmcanP_lh2l2TqqhcNFIqlm5rXM7wso1PHd8dsRjQ/s1600/61443431204_PolisEvo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0ONVGlNagWxv0mYp9eQ7h7apJlPRI9dwnGodkm07KtnIoeXVAHb6UsB_4pFMwW25bHEay5-TGSH65c2Av_L-uX1APH-SiI4kWgkrmcanP_lh2l2TqqhcNFIqlm5rXM7wso1PHd8dsRjQ/s400/61443431204_PolisEvo.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Polis Evo is technically <i>not</i> 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.<br />
<br />
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 <i>wants</i> 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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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). <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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.</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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</div>
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</div>
bulanbiruhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12179756159406247914noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8207215640653358023.post-85973153267229764882015-10-05T09:35:00.002-07:002015-10-12T06:50:04.815-07:00Thai Story 2 <b> </b><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjYKERDgUHysd1k0gRDIxmxlGDel9pwPl4fGekBsKCqObac9whKsJimw-4JipJMSAPhEvdL7NmQ_dE7GWkHPTjkWLl6cw4f-6_DoZ823E4FmLQdwyqLcBa1WH6NF2sqbLklJb5ktu5tRM/s1600/11998518_1055449987807973_1325274399_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjYKERDgUHysd1k0gRDIxmxlGDel9pwPl4fGekBsKCqObac9whKsJimw-4JipJMSAPhEvdL7NmQ_dE7GWkHPTjkWLl6cw4f-6_DoZ823E4FmLQdwyqLcBa1WH6NF2sqbLklJb5ktu5tRM/s400/11998518_1055449987807973_1325274399_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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.</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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).</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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. <br />
<br />
Both sets of parents watched and wept. Nothing was said between them. I guess joy and jubilation needs no language.</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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?"</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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.......<br />
<br />
My best wishes to Azri and Fern. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
<br />bulanbiruhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12179756159406247914noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8207215640653358023.post-3609173077901111142015-09-30T20:43:00.000-07:002015-10-05T09:35:11.851-07:00Thai Story 1<div style="text-align: justify;">
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</div>
<br />
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. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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.<br />
<br />
Normally I'd react to news of Bangkok bombs with an air of detachment or resignation. But not this time.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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:<br />
<br />
"Khun Mukhdawan, hahaha Yellow and Red on the streets again? Hope you're OK. Stay safe now".<br />
<br />
Mukhdawan would reply with a short "Thanks. Don't come to Bangkok now".<br />
<br />
On 31 August (last month), one day after Bersih 4, I received a message from Mukhdawan:<br />
<br />
"How are you, man? Hope you are OK. Stay safe now"<br />
<br />
<br />
<b> </b><br />
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bulanbiruhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12179756159406247914noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8207215640653358023.post-21219287004016922422015-08-08T17:54:00.000-07:002017-08-01T07:07:36.308-07:00You Remember You Strong<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfFE58hQUl3RDf-_lCDXh6v5mblUTNN5s9FuB-ZYnSw_7CHJTSUOYeHk-HvMUedyidMy_jao9ch-6HyCZpoL5BgkoQFVTCW2tcDveasYq1zVxywIXmPrDMqlZpRlT94VIZByuRJfmtxpwV/s1600/zahid-hamidi-angry-440x320.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfFE58hQUl3RDf-_lCDXh6v5mblUTNN5s9FuB-ZYnSw_7CHJTSUOYeHk-HvMUedyidMy_jao9ch-6HyCZpoL5BgkoQFVTCW2tcDveasYq1zVxywIXmPrDMqlZpRlT94VIZByuRJfmtxpwV/s400/zahid-hamidi-angry-440x320.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Some countries, like Singapore, have two deputy prime ministers. Honestly I don't know <i>exactly </i>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.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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.<br />
<br />
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.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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:<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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.<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
Dr Ahmad Zahid is effectively the most powerful person in the whole country now. He can haul up anybody <i>he</i>
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?" </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
bulanbiruhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12179756159406247914noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8207215640653358023.post-40792649024877722262015-06-14T01:13:00.000-07:002016-04-21T22:02:28.807-07:00A Clever Girl<div style="text-align: justify;">
Today I met a very clever girl.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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.<br />
<br />
She was 18 or 19. I'm past 60. I just thought she wouldn't mind talking to a man this old.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
So I kicked off with something standard and superfluous:</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Old Man: You're a student here?</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Clever Girl: Yeah. I'm a student here.<br />
<br />
Old Man: Where're you from?<br />
<br />
Clever Girl: Puchong<br />
<br />
Old Man (Totally unimpressed with Puchong): Puchong. OK. Dulu sekolah kat Puchong?<br />
<br />
Clever Girl (Smiling): Aahaa <br />
<br />
Old man: Ada sekolah kat Puchong ya (Saja nak bully).<br />
<br />
Clever Girl: Hahaha, ada, ada.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Old Man: What're you doing here? Business Studies? (In my mind, private colleges only teach Business)</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Clever Girl: No, I'm doing my A Levels. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Old Man: That's good. JPA, Mara scholar?</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Clever Girl: No. Petronas (Ha ha, now this is getting serious)</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Old Man : Where are you going after your A Levels?</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Clever Girl: Chemical Engineering in Toronto. (Toronto, Tronoh? Toronto, ok)</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Old Man: Wow. You must've done very well in your SPM. Straight A's?</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Clever Girl (Smiling): Well, mmmmm, ok la</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Old Man: How many? Nine?</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Clever Girl : Eleven. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Old man (Stunned, Shocked): Eleven A's?</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Clever Girl: Yes. Erhmmmm ..... Eleven A+</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Old Man (Catching his breath): Eleven A Plus? You're so clever.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Clever Girl (Laughed): Alhamdulillah.</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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?</div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
bulanbiruhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12179756159406247914noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8207215640653358023.post-64296882379779310072015-06-04T08:51:00.000-07:002015-08-22T21:39:54.877-07:00Dio, RIP<div style="text-align: justify;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKFEfRu6FtFjRkq6w-wo7FrPPsi3wfFDNgcE_CafdWHtdfXTnMW-XJxGc00wd8ZCQExD2RshSqxn8hIov5mMBcXOvBJ3UCKOCSQUz5CHoKA6KXGXX4yyhfdlb6LiZLk94bfJSbsshBMBrg/s1600/Dio.gif" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKFEfRu6FtFjRkq6w-wo7FrPPsi3wfFDNgcE_CafdWHtdfXTnMW-XJxGc00wd8ZCQExD2RshSqxn8hIov5mMBcXOvBJ3UCKOCSQUz5CHoKA6KXGXX4yyhfdlb6LiZLk94bfJSbsshBMBrg/s400/Dio.gif" width="266" /></a></div>
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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!<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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! </div>
bulanbiruhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12179756159406247914noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8207215640653358023.post-7755207409221856052015-06-04T08:36:00.000-07:002015-09-05T09:22:57.312-07:00The Joys Of GST And Fig Farming<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFKJ951z58_3S52JzQicE2oSP8Mh8iOkjJPoV2Z1g8FwxMgnAewcVk2eUrmb7heri7yK5XqoU3rxLcWvoVbTeKXoe_db8_sMIhtlkcIZAcxzM4p7jJ86M20prEdjL6FPfuToiqICq4a92_/s1600/1430490535-malaysians-protest-against-goods-and-services-tax-gst-in-capital-_7486172.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFKJ951z58_3S52JzQicE2oSP8Mh8iOkjJPoV2Z1g8FwxMgnAewcVk2eUrmb7heri7yK5XqoU3rxLcWvoVbTeKXoe_db8_sMIhtlkcIZAcxzM4p7jJ86M20prEdjL6FPfuToiqICq4a92_/s320/1430490535-malaysians-protest-against-goods-and-services-tax-gst-in-capital-_7486172.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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:</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>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?</b> </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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.</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>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. </b></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Is this a question or an answer? I'm not going to answer an answer. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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. </div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim3SsKQSeFHzRYMAY0IUc2ucDfI3weGXh5tR6YVefRQQbeLSPJu2PFm74oW2Ih1qowBCvLhPSLoESrDGYZvqd3XTBK-kRlcTjVvarX_y1KgqX3WTbCyg1lh0wZOwKETbuc7wquv6U9h8ZA/s1600/1430490537-malaysians-protest-against-goods-and-services-tax-gst-in-capital-_7486174.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim3SsKQSeFHzRYMAY0IUc2ucDfI3weGXh5tR6YVefRQQbeLSPJu2PFm74oW2Ih1qowBCvLhPSLoESrDGYZvqd3XTBK-kRlcTjVvarX_y1KgqX3WTbCyg1lh0wZOwKETbuc7wquv6U9h8ZA/s400/1430490537-malaysians-protest-against-goods-and-services-tax-gst-in-capital-_7486174.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>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</b>?</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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%.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>4. Are Malaysia and Canada the only major economies with GST now?</b> </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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.</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
5. <b>GST is fair, progressive and gentle. Why Malaysians are against it?</b></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
It's in the genes. People don't like to pay more. Actually people don't like to pay.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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%? </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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?</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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.</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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. </div>
<br />
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<br />
<b>6. Every consumer is technically poorer because of GST. But who's hardest hit?</b><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Let me remind you one more time that GST isn't a Barisan Nasional's idea.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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).<b> </b></div>
<br />
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<br />
<b>7. Since GST won't go away because BN will rule for as long as there's daylight, how do we cope? </b><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Time to call forth your creative instincts.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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.</div>
<br />
<b>8. A friend said you've to change your lifestyle to cope with GST. Does this make sense? </b><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Nothing
gets more overrated and glorified than "lifestyle"? What's a lifestyle?
Playing golf 23 hours a day? Is watering figs a lifestyle?</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Did I get the country name right? </div>
<br />
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