A bite of class

On normal days, my lunch will cost something less than a red hued note. If I'm lucky enough, I can even walk away with a fed tummy thanks to a green slip. For Fridays however, I tend to over-indulge myself. There will be a main course, a drink and one dessert, a combination that easily sets me back with one big satisfying (and yet, discreet) burp and the lone RM50 flying to the till. I may get some change in return but the purse somehow then loses its shine.

 

So there I was, dipping my breaded fish fillet and chips into the tartar sauce at one of my favourite cafes. It's a far cry from my usual marinara spaghetti, a choice that was compelled by an innocent question by the shop owner. When he said 'Leng lui, are you ordering the same thing this week too?, I had to prove him wrong. All bets are off as my eyes scanned the menu and my mind shrieking 'No Marinara!' before the finger points at Fish & Chips. It took the whole 3 scoops of chocolate ice-cream with whipped cream and chocolate sauce later to convince me that Marinara can wait another week.

Still recovering from the throes of despair, I did what a reasonable person is expected to do nowadays - surfed the net using iPhone.  And boy, that's the second mistake I did. What greeted me, and I simply had the itch to click on it, was the headline screaming 'A meal at the most expensive restaurant in the world costs US$600!' From a person who thought RM50 for lunch was already grand, I now know my station in life. It's a far, far, far cry from those who can spend RM1800 for a fleeting culinary masterpiece.

While I've had the privilege of visiting those three cities, I've to admit with much regret that I never once had the opportunity to dine in either Kitcho in Kyoto (listed as the number 1 most expensive restaurant. At US$600 per person, it is reverently described as the high temple of 'kaiseki'. Although my vocabulary doesn't go beyond 'Set Lunch/Dinner Deals' and the likes, kaiseki is a style of traditional Japanese cuisine consisting of a series of small, intricate dishes), Le Meurice in Paris (number 2 on the list. At US$509 per person, one is allowed to be transported back to the pomp & splendour  of Louis & Marie Antoinette. Well, at least before the Dauphin and the Dauphine had their unceremonious date with Madame Guillotine in 1793) and Masa in New York (at US$450 per person, it is number 3 on the must-go places when one dates in the Big Apple). How's that for a bite of class?

Anyway, I don't think I'll ever step foot on their hallowed grounds. Unless who knows, they decide to run a kitchen soup for weary travellers. Till that day arrives on my doorstep, the nearest I've ever been to these food temples are the Michelin starred restaurants in Singapore's Marina Bay Sands. It's not to say I've actually eaten their delectable morsels but rather, just having enough courage to pause by their restaurant entrance and take a quick look at the menus. Such courage was easily defeated by the sight of their prices for the entrees and completely evaporated at how much I need to pay for their mains. As a customary practice, I'll move on to either the nearby food court or Krazy Burgers, places where the Singapore dollars will not hurt me more than it should.

To top my misery, I've just realised I'm booked for three consecutive weekend wedding dinners in December. If there's a fourth or more invite, I've to set my priorities right. Need to worry about how much is the ongoing rate for wedding ang paos than a meal prepared by a Michelin starred chef!

 

 

 

The Dark World - A sort of review

I managed to catch 'Thor The Dark World' in Midvalley last Friday midnight. Having rushed straight from the airport thanks to a delayed flight, there was no tingling anticipation of watching the long haired sledgehammer-wielding demigod fight an army of dark elves from Svarthalfheim. Instead, I was tired and rather sleepy. It didn't help that the first thing that came to my mind when we found our seats was that I can sleep for the next two hours. That didn't happen, not when I was flanked by sisters who are ardent fans of Marvel comic-based movies. While one sister is watching the movie for the second time, the other could hardly contain her excitement that the sequel is finally here. Just as the movie was about to start, I casually asked 'So, what was Thor 1 all about?' The darkened hall spared me from their incredulous stares.  

 

It turned out that I didn't need much explanation. For a two hour tutorial, I think I understood the whole semester's syllabus. There was Thor, there was his ever present sledgehammer. Throw in a slightly broader Sir Anthony Hopkins, a Rene Russo that can pass off as a mortal version of Liv Tyler's Arwen, some dark elves who looked like they've just escaped from a recent Halloween shindig and impressive (but expected) computer graphics for us to gape at. As for Natalie Portman, I'm always at crossroads when she's involved. I think she's a good actress but what spooked me when she was the Black Swan was somehow missing from Thor. That's regrettable, especially when she had the all-powerful Aether running through her veins.  

 

And then, there was Loki. I never thought a villain could look this good. It could be his jet-black tresses which honestly speaking, left me confused. Beyond the cinema hall, I have never thought men with long hair as appealing. Not when my current hair cut is shorter than theirs. If it's not the hair, I must have been mesmerized by his eyes. No doubt, he was incarcerated in a cell for most parts of the movie but how was it that I (and come on, so would you if you've watched the movie) felt his contemptuous affection for Thor with a slight raise of the eyebrows? Or the measure of his grief when told that their mother was killed? I even felt sorry for Malekith when Loki's steely stare accompanied his words that nobody will understand his rage. Coincidentally, there was a speck of dust in my eyes when I thought Loki had died. Well, let's not deliberate on this point further. Anyway, the best part would be Loki's lines. I'm unsure whether I should thank the scriptwriter or the actor. Either way, they definitely delivered me some much needed sanity boost from the doldrums of everything Thor.         

 

After an onslaught of Marvel movies these past few years (you name it, I've watched it all. Whether I actually remembered the plot is of course, secondary), I thought it's finally time for a breather. You know, to get back to the time of simple movies - boy meets girl, fall in love, face major crisis along the way and still live happily ever after - without having buildings blasted to pieces every 5 seconds or weird looking creatures spewing even weirder sounding languages. I almost got that relief when the credits started to roll, and that's when I saw a bluish-green Benicio Del Toro. 

 

All he said was 'Four more stones to be recovered'. That's when I know I'm doomed for yet another round of Thor. But wait a second, did I just see Odin transforming into Loki??? With the heaviest of heart, I know I've a task to complete. I have no choice. The saga continues.    

 

 

 

Gunning it right

Malaysia's crime watch is yet again stained by the tragic passing of JAIP's Ahmad Rafli Abdul Malek. From a nation that reads about shooting fatalities in other parts of the world, we have become somewhat accustomed to a drastic change of mindset. Malaysians are now being subjected to violent crimes as constant as the daily weather update. While we're less affected by typhoons and superstorms, every Malaysian on the street is now an unwilling participant in an invisible game of Russian roulette. It doesn't matter if one is in the comfort of his house or being driven to grab breakfast or finding solace in a temple or merely waiting for the traffic light to turn green. Once you're chosen, your last living memory could probably be staring at the wrong end of the gun. Not everyone will be lucky.

 

Nevertheless, I'm gravely disturbed by calls for religious enforcement officers to be equipped with guns. While the late Ahmad Rafli may have lost his life, his death should not be the key to unlock Pandora's box. Without disrespecting anyone, a gun is not simply a toy one buys from Toys 'R' Us or to be distributed around like candies during Halloween. A gun is made of steel, as cold as the heart of one who decides to kill. Religious enforcement officers are mortals, susceptible to lapses in judgment and reason just as we all are. And how exactly will these religious enforcement officers be trained to shoot? I doubt the guns are purely for ornamental purposes. Even with our properly trained cops (let's give them the benefit of doubt, shall we?), we have come to accept that guns (and since we're at it, even patrol cars) can mysteriously vanish in many ways. It's only a matter of flipping the coin between the sewerage system or the sea, unless of course, we're entertained by another absurd reason in due time. Add on a high number of security guards running around with fake MyKads (and as we've read recently, some will go to murderous extent to ensure the money remains with them), we'll have our own version of the Hunger Games! Only one good thing can come out of this - me being spared from forking out a good RM15 just to watch Jennifer Lawrence being hunted down.  

 

But seriously, what will the next reaction be? Ordinary Malaysians marching and chanting 'We want guns! We want guns! We want guns!'? If that becomes a reality, we might as well call in Clint Eastwood and turn this country into a sprawling shooting site for 'The Good, The Bad & The Ugly'. No pun intended, by the way. It's amazing to consider that while Great Uncle Sam is grappling to tighten their citizens' access to firearms following episodes of indiscriminate shootings, we're possibly heading towards the other end. 

 

A knee-jerk reaction without a clear mind is the last thing we should do in this instance. Look at the bigger picture and ask ourselves how the shooters got their hands on these weapons. If they were smuggled into the country, were our officers sleeping on the job? If they were, shouldn't they be transferred elsewhere or demoted? If the weapons were originally reported as missing or lost, shouldn't the officer in charge be held responsible? If the weapons were registered to private individuals, shouldn't the owner be tracked down and dragged to Court? If a Minister or even the country's top cop gives a mind-boggling answer as to where the weapons might end up, shouldn't they be accountable too?

 

We need to gun those questions right before more arms are released on the streets. I'm not an English football fan but I'll prefer watching the Gunners in action than worrying over who will be gunned down next. 

 

*My thoughts and condolences to Ahmad Rafli's family on their loss. Al-Fatihah. 

 

 

 

Recollections from a crazy journey

*This entry would have met a silent end had I chosen to delete my draft folder in its entirety. It eventually survived, just because I felt it's necessary to remind me of the journey I never thought was possible.

 

“You must be crazy!”

Those four words was the automatic reaction from family members and close friends. Nothing else was said but judging by their horrified expressions, the apocalypse could very well be knocking on our doors. It was either that or I was doomed to meet a tragic end in a Hitchcock thriller. And all I did was to announce my month-long solo backpacking trip across the United Kingdom and Europe!

To them, I was probably a marble short for wanting to travel alone. Well, I may be petite but my marbles are definitely intact. So much so that when an uncle remarked that I was still too young and I will be bored out of my wits for not having a travel companion, I offered my thoughts. At 29 years of age (this is not an attempt to hide my current age. I know I've turned 30 since then), my peers are already having school-going kids. If they’re old enough to have children, surely I’m old enough to choose my flight of freedom. As for travel companions, there are those whose existence is no better than an overweight baggage that comes with high tax and serves absolutely no purpose. I’d rather take my chances in striking up conversations with the locals, even if I’ve to resort to violent hand gestures and comic facial expressions.

When 28 March 2013 came, I was one of the many passengers waiting to board Malaysia Airlines flight MH 004 bound for London Heathrow. With a backpack half my size as hand-carry, I was extremely grateful that my economy-class seat was on the A380’s Upper Deck. Having seen the long queue of fellow economy class passengers on the Lower Deck, I imagined myself as somewhat a celebrity (although what I wore could hardly be described as ‘airport fashion’) leisurely sauntering to my seat. Well, that daydream quickly vanished when I saw what it meant to be in the A380’s First and Business Classes. If I thought my seat’s legroom was enviable, it was incomparable to what the privileged few will enjoy as they dine using fine china in ample comfort, thousands of feet above sea level. In the meantime, I should just feel thankful that the seat next to mine was empty (for the time being, at least!).

The neighbour did turn up and just as I silently hoped he was a dashing young man, traces of greying hair along a receding hairline silently removed my hope. While not a smile or “hello!” was exchanged, our hands did find themselves briefly clasped together when the plane was rocked by air turbulence. That moment of solidarity was quickly replaced by the occasional battle of wills over the center armrest! A Hollywood flight romance was clearly not on the cards.

My adventure started the moment I landed in London Heathrow. The initial euphoria of being back in London was dampened when I realized that I had placed my return flight ticket in my checked-in luggage! Seeing that many fellow passengers were holding their passports and unused flight tickets in their hands, stories of strict British immigration officers deporting suspicious travellers came to mind! As I inched my way closer to the immigration counter, sweat began trickling down my spine (it could be my nervousness. It could also be that wearing a winter jacket in a heated area was not such a good idea). While the British officer was scrutinizing my passport, I began to mentally recite a list of reasons as to why I should not board the next plane back to Kuala Lumpur. If necessary, I was also prepared to squeeze those tears out (no handy feat, considering I had no onions with me!). For all the mental exhaustion I was subjected to, it came as a surprise when the British officer merely looked at me and asked, “Girl, are you travelling alone in the United Kingdom?”. My ‘yes’ seemed to have left him very amused that no mention was made about when I will return to Malaysia. I guessed he has not seen enough pint-sized Asian female travellers with courage (or craziness, depending on one’s point of view) to actually travel alone.

I was not only travelling alone, I was a traveller on an extremely tight budget and schedule. Having wrangled invitations to spend my nights abroad with kind friends, a major bulk of my fund was already spent on securing cheap train and domestic flight tickets for advance travels in United Kingdom and Europe. Left with little spending money and even lesser contingency fund (I brought those plastic cards along but will try to resist them, as long as possible), I’ve to be wise in choosing my battles. With a Nottingham-bound train to catch the next morning from Paddington, I chose to spend my first London night in Heathrow Airport itself! I saved a couple of British pounds and became what Tom Hanks was in ‘The Terminal’. Indeed, that night taught me a few lessons. First, the airport is not a hotel. The metal seats are no replacement for our comfortable beds (some were desperate, they slept on the floors). Second, when I actually managed to secure a padded bench next to the Belgium Airline check-in counter, there will always be someone else who wants it too. I had to leave my warm refuge (together with my luggage in tow) to answer nature’s call at midnight (and everybody knows, the cold weather only helps to increase the urge to pee!). I was gone only for a matter of seconds and a man was now sleeping comfortably in my place. Not to be defeated in this game, I steeled my bottoms on the metal seats across his bench and waited. After what seemed to be an eternity (it was one hour, but hey, try braving the winter chills yourself and see whether you can keep track of time!), he finally got up and left. I did a happy jig and rushed to reclaim my throne. Was blessed with a couple of sleeping hours before Heathrow came alive with cleaning machines zooming past and I woke up to see a steady stream of Belgium Airlines’ passengers queuing.       

The drawn itinerary was packed, featuring cities like Nottingham, Edinburgh, Glasgow and Durham for my first week. The next stop was Cambridge for some scholar-ish escapade. Although I could never rely on my intelligence to be a Cambridge student, having a friend who actually studies there was a plus point. Even when the colleges were closed for mid-term examinations, I was allowed to walk on the hallowed grounds of King’s, Trinity and St. John’s. Despite being awestruck by the colleges’ scholastic history, the sight of their many signboards demanding visitors to ‘Keep Off the Grass!’ only gave me the perpetual itch to run on their precious green grass! Needless to say, I did not attempt such risky action out of respect to my friend (and fear of the military-styled porters). Realising my super huge sacrifice, my friend took me out for a morning of punting. As the guide regaled us with facts and myths of the famed university, I spotted many others who came, saw the dastardly signboards and unlike me, chose to conquer the grass by running all over it! At that moment, I could only sigh and lamented “If only I did it…”.

I then moved on to Cardiff and was the happiest when my train finally arrived at Cardiff’s Central Station.  It was a homecoming to visit familiar places and old family friends. I came thinking I would immediately recognize the city I last visited 15 years ago. What I didn’t expect was how much Cardiff had developed beyond the train station’s compound. Some of the old landmarks had been replaced by modern shopping outlets and roads which used to have heavy vehicle presence are now pedestrian-access only. Just as I was feeling overwhelmed, that was when I saw the quaint ‘Hayes Snack Island’ tuck shop in front of St. David’s Hall. It was where my family and I used to have our morning breakfast and tea in the late 90’s. Undoubtedly, the old faces that manned the counter would have been long gone but luckily, their sandwiches and yes, the occasional whiff from the nearby underground restroom remained true as I remembered them! Even the walk to my friend’s house on Redmond Road was nostalgic as it was just a street away from where my family used to live. As I pulled my trusty luggage along the cobbled pathway, I passed the much-loved Queen Street and pretended that my family was waiting for my return to Bedford Street. By now, I think I must sound crazy but I guess it can’t be helped.

Not all was gloom and doom though. I met up with Dad’s old family friends and had a nice day out with them at the famed ‘Big Pit’ in Blanaevon. For a day, I was a Welsh coal miner, complete with the head protector and the weighty oxygen tank. From going down to the underground shaft to walking along long winding tunnels (at times, in pitch darkness), the experience left me humbled at the difficulty these men had to undergo for a living. We ended our lovely meeting with a nice dinner at a gorgeous family run tavern somewhere in the Vale of Glamorgan. The next day, I went to explore Cardiff Bay and again, I was so taken aback by the development that had taken place. While I visited the Welsh Parliament (known as the Senedd), I was asked by the Welsh guide as to why someone from Malaysia would go all the way to visit Cardiff (he must have assumed that it was my first trip to Wales). I honestly answered that “when I came here years ago, it was an instant first love for a smitten teenager. But now that I’ve returned as an adult, I felt sad that so many changes had taken place until I’m no longer linked to the past”. 

With these mixed emotions, I left for London for a four night stay. There was nothing extraordinary to tell about my days in London, except that it coincided with Baroness Thatcher’s funeral. Even then, I chose to avoid central London on the funeral day and opted for a day at Windsor Castle and Eton College. My nights were all at Shaftesbury Avenue where I found myself in different theatres each night for different West End performances. To tell more about London would just be to repeat paragraphs out of a well sought tourist guide book.

But I’ve to share my adventure upon leaving London’s St. Pancras International on the Brussels-bound Eurostar. Having known that I will reach Brussels’ train station at 10 p.m. and catching the ICE train for Berlin at 6.30 a.m. the next day, I planned to repeat the Heathrow episode i.e. spend the night at the train station in order to save a couple of Euros. What I didn’t expect (and may this be a lesson for any of you who are planning to do the same!) was that Heathrow is nowhere near to what Brussels had to offer. By comparison, Heathrow is a five-star hotel whereas Brussels is, well, a refugee centre after a great war (purely based on my imagination. Not that I’ve experienced or observed the effects of refugees escaping a great war). The minute I alighted from the Eurostar, I was slapped by the extremely chilly winds. I walked around the station, hoping to find a spot that was spared from the dreadful wind. There was none, save for dark corners which I was not brave enough to explore. As I mulled over my (lack of) options in the station’s main hall, a lady came to sit nearby. Judging that she could be spoken to, I smiled and cautiously asked “Mademoiselle, parlez vous Anglais?” (Madame, can you speak English?). Luckily, she said yes and I asked whether there was any waiting area in the station for travellers to spend the night. She shook her head. When I told her that I’ve to stay at the station for the night, she exclaimed “Goodness, you can’t do that! The station is not safe for tourists.”. She left soon after and I moved to another part of the station. For the next 8 hours, I came to realize what she meant. Chilly wintery nights in Brussels meant that the station is a heaven for local drunkards and homeless people. There were of course, other fatigued travellers who were just wearied of me as I was of them. A station guard came with his huge Alsatian and started to chase off the drunkards and homeless people as the station is closed from 12 a.m. onwards (the stubborn men would return each time, if only to catch minutes of sleep). I was spared only because I showed him my Berlin-bound train ticket and said I have nowhere else to go.  He was very kind, advising me to take care of my belongings and be very careful after the station reopens at 4 a.m. Perhaps he felt sorry for me as he would continuously make his rounds around my seating area. Even with the security guard, I couldn’t afford to sleep or even go to the toilet. Once I’ve strapped my luggage to the metal seats, I began writing in my journal for time to pass. When I got bored, I did what I think scared the drunkards and homeless men around me. I practiced my dance steps, oblivious to eyes that peeked from slumber and saw a crazy Asian girl dancing cha-cha-cha alone in the open! I survived the night and was only thankful when my train to Berlin finally made its arrival. 

Berlin offered me other forms of adventure. I climbed up Berlin’s Victory Column in Tiergarten, all 285 steps, when I was so sure that I could drop dead with every step I take. Needless to say, the feeling when I completed the climb was one of exhilaration! The view of Berlin was well-worth every creak of my lower limbs. Unfortunately, the same can’t be said about my kind host. He climbed with me until the top, not saying a word about his fear of heights until I asked him to go nearer to the railings for a photo! He looked as if he could pass out there and then. My only regret was not taking a shot of him at that moment. It would have been a good snapshot for collection. Thanks to his recommendation, I even took a guided bike tour of Berlin and in those 4 tiring hours, I saw more than remnants of the Berlin Wall as a tourist would usually do.  I actually felt like one of the Berliners zooming in and out of the streets, passing and stopping in front of tourist haunts (Bradenburger Tor, Holocaust Memorial and Topography of Terror remain as favourites), honking our way to warn unsuspecting pedestrians and catching our breath by their famous Reichstag. My stay in Berlin was made complete when I purchased my own original (kid size!) German football jersey. I didn’t have time to get the name ‘Klose’ sewn at the back but who am I to complain?  

My last stop was Paris. And just as the words of ABBA’s ‘Our Last Summer’, I spent my time walking along the River Seine with few glances at the majestic Tour de Eiffel and munching croissants that only the French can make. By this time, I was sad that my trip was coming to an end. Obviously there are always lists of things to do, places to visit, people to meet before hitting the bucket and still, I never thought the things I did or experienced during my travels were even possible in my lifetime. In this memorable journey of my youth, I travelled between 6 countries, moved from one place to another using trains, buses and flights that departed on time like a fine tuned clock (at times, leaving me flustered as I had to navigate flights of stairs with my monster of a luggage), mustered enough courage to converse with the locals in deeply accented English, Welsh, German and French and as you’ve read earlier, received many wonderful memories in return.

I bid adieu to this brief respite from life as I caught the Rossy bus to Charles de Gaulle Airport on 26 April 2013. And with even better seats onboard Malaysia Airlines flight MH 021, I was heading home with one realization. I may have had a crazy journey but this travel had enriched me in so many ways. And if I may add to Lao Tzu’s wisdom that the journey of a lifetime begins with a single step, I don’t mind repeating that step, again and again.

*I've been warned that a travelogue is incomplete without photos. Am still trying to find courage to sift through the photos fit for public consumption without perpetually going 'OMG. What was I thinking?!*

Prisoner of birth

Whenever I had to fill out official forms in Malaysia, there will always be that mandatory 'race' column. With one seemingly insignificant tick in the right box, I proclaimed my right to all and sundry that I'm a Malay Bumiputera. To me, it was just a nod to my (majority) ancestry. I've never been ashamed to admit I'm a Bumi, that is, until I discovered days ago that my birth right reduces me to a blood-sucking leech who will steal if left unaided.

 

This discovery is not without personal ramifications. Whatever doubts I had in the past conveniently find its way back to the surface. First on the list is the strength of my qualifications. Had I studied abroad, whatever grades I achieved will be solely mine to trumpet or to whimper. If I was an Ivy League university student and obtained a commendable 2:1, it's an acknowledgement that my brains are still working. If I settled for a second-rate university and failed, it's  then obvious that I'm not exactly an intelligent being. So, how should I judge myself as a Bumi who read law from University of Malaya? Did I earn that degree because I had a somewhat functioning brain? Did I pass because I took time to attend the lectures and tutorials? Perhaps. But then again, it could be simply because I'm a Bumi. I may not have the brains but lucky enough to be part of this exclusive majority group which God decreed as one that is protected from womb to tomb. A species that has no survival skills in this modern economy rat race unless it is lent a helping hand by other races. And the same species that think it's their God-given right to order others to leave whenever things don't come their way.

 

 

Some may feel that being born a Bumi is skipping down a path of sweet smelling roses. Well, take a closer look while you sniff and don't be shocked by the hidden thorns. They will prick you when it's most unexpected and the hurt is yours to bear alone. One thorn I came across was during my university days. As a law undergraduate, I was part of the faculty's moot team from Year 2 right up to my final year. Along with my team mates, we would slog in the moot room over the presented hypothetical issues and sacrificed our holidays whenever there is a moot competition around the corner. As my team mates were all non-Bumis & I am usually mistaken as a Chinese, we were constantly plagued by concerns that the team may suffer in the hands of narrow minded judges for visible lack of Bumis. Despite teams' anonymity in such meets, it was inevitable that the universities were easily identifiable by the composition of races. We had no choice but to seek out potential Bumi mooters to join the team. By doing this, we ultimately encouraged unwilling participation from one who's born in the right race and abandoned those who are keen but of a different category. I may have chosen to be a mooter on my own accord but was I selected because I was a Bumi? Maybe. I may have been a relatively successful mooter but did I win because of my heritage? Possibly. Till the end, the amount of certificates and trophies received is somewhat marred by that nagging doubt.

 

 

The working world proved nothing different. Save for one, my former colleagues were all non-Bumis. While I had nothing but good camaraderie and professional relationships with most of them, the question I'm always asked about during family meets would be this. Why are you working in a Chinese firm? Don't you want to work for the Government? These questions bugged me to no end. It was then that I realised the questions were not as important as the reason behind it. What they're admitting by asking was that because I'm a Bumi, I could not survive the rigours of working in private practice. Because I'm a Bumi, I'm expected to sway my hips to the slow rhythm and one race mindset that continue to pervade the civil service. And when I accepted my current job in an opposition-run state government, my action is viewed by certain quarters as no better than an act of treachery against my race. Nothing is said about my qualifications because honestly, does that even matter in the first place? If I join the right government, I'm doing what's right by them, abandon all personal dreams and become a Bumi warrior. But when I joined another government, it's all about me being used to promote hidden agendas. Whoever said it was easy to be a prisoner of birth?

 

 

So yes, be warned that I will steal if you don't come to my rescue. I don't need to explain but to just admit. I'm lazy and stupid. I can't stand on my own two feet unless the national agenda continues to give me handouts and benefits.  And when I give birth to more little Napoleon beggars, I know what to answer if my children should one day ask why this country is still in the backwaters. Because others have run away to countries which promote equal-opportunity jobs, operate on merit and protect everyone who deserves to be protected. We had to stay behind as Bumis and continue preserving our inherent rights in honour of 'Negaraku, Tanah tumpahnya darahku'. Because frankly, we can't survive anywhere else.        

 

Being smart, without the phone

To what extent is our dependence on smartphones?

 

It's probably the same value as the oxygen we breathe, if not more.

 

I was on board a flight back to Penang last night. From where I was sitting, the picturesque island dotted with flickering lights framed by a pitch-black background was beyond words. For that brief moment, I was filled with both wonder and humility at being alive and blessed with sight. A slight drop in the air pressure, however, reminded me that the plane was getting ready to land. I peeled my eyes from the window and as I switched on the reading light, I saw at least three fellow passengers who were not bothered by the aerial view or the pilot's announcement that we're about to land. Their world revolves around their smartphones, even when we're descending from thousands of feet in the air.

 

While I silently recite prayers for a safe landing (I don't quite fancy my end to be part of a metal wreckage. There's a big difference between resting in peace or in pieces!), the girl sitting in front of me was busy posting up comments on her Facebook wall. While she travels on a budget airline, she must have done so in a bid to hide her status as one of the most socially active persons on Earth. It is highly possible that the world may just come to a complete halt and the riders of Apocalypse will run amok if we don't know where she is and what she's doing at that exact second. She may be thinking that she's doing humanity a favour by updating her status and posting comments at the expense of other passengers' safety. So what if a plane full of passengers meet their premature end thanks to her? It should be of little concern that our epitaphs will read, 'Here lies beloved son/daughter/child of so and so. A life cut short by people obsessed with smartphones.' On the other hand, her epitaph will probably read as 'Stay connected. I've checked in to the other side'.

 

Across the aisle, a middle-aged lady was jabbing her phone screen furiously. With freshly painted nails, she seemed hell-bent that her message(s) must reach the intended recipient(s) that very minute. Judging by her speed and intensity in typing out the messages, we could only imagine the importance of such messages. She could very well be a high-powered Wall Street broker or a nation's president, where one sms from her dictates global financial catastrophe or grave security concerns. I very much regretted the missed opportunity of reading her messages. If I'm to meet my maker earlier than scheduled just because one lady couldn't stop fiddling with her phone, I think I deserve to know whether it's over her 'I'm landing soon. Get the car ready' or 'Urgent meeting. FYA' message. Either way, I doubt she'll have time to type her farewell message if our number's up. But if she does manage to do so amidst a chorus of screams, this will be it - 'Going to die soon. Life's too short for instant messages.'

 

A male teenager two seats away from me was blissfully oblivious that death doesn't only affect the old. But then again, that knowledge may not be important at all. He's evidently an ardent gamer boy who treats his phone as a lifeline  Lights were continuously flashing against his face as he tried to outwit the game and move to the next level. His complimentary slice of cake and water remained untouched, his concentration solely on the game. He seemed to be travelling alone and as family members will usually wait for the arrival of their loved ones, he may have someone waiting for him too. Yet, family members will also have to wait around whenever there's a plane crash. Instead of embracing their loved ones in the brightly lit arrival hall, relatives will face the gory task of identifying the remains on some cold hard slabs. While his game is his world, he forgets that each passenger on an ill-fated flight is also someone's world. You can re-set a game but you can never return a life taken.

 

There's only a sense of relief that the plane landed without any mishap. Still, I couldn't shake off the feeling that any flight could be one's last, especially when irresponsible people get on board. It's a silly question but seriously, can't you be smart without the phone?

 

  

Out and about, discovering Penang

Friend and sister flew in, within hours, on Saturday midnight and Sunday morning, for a short jaunt in Penang. While they may not be related by blood, these two Sagittarians are definitely bonded by their cosmic ties. So similar are they that both forgot to bring their bathing towels! And while I'd like to think that my house can double up as a BnB, it did provide a 'bummer!' moment when I realised that I only had a spare towel. Obviously, one of them had to settle for something else as a towel and I think now's the opportune time (and reason) to get an extra one (or two) towels.

 

But fun we did have. We picked up my sister from Bayan Lepas in the early hours of Sunday morning. As the arrival hall was packed with freshly minted Hajs and Hajjahs, it was not difficult to spot a young female traveller with prominent Oriental features lugging a big wheeler around. Minutes later, we were already cruising our way to Jalan Penang for a hearty dose of Nasi Kandar. A heavy breakfast/brunch/lunch at 9.30 a.m. The rest of Georgetown may not be stirred awake at this time but for the Nasi Kandar faithfuls, their pilgrimage knows no boundaries. There was already a long queue for a plate of those Nasi laden with an overload of gravy and whatnots.

 

Sya will definitely remember this Nasi Kandar outing for one reason. She had what could only be described as a 'Nasi Kandar Accident', a streak of gravy on her otherwise white spotless blouse. The same one that was just lovingly being ironed in the morning before we left to pick up Syazwina. If that happened to me, I would have lost my mind and wail over the death of my blouse. Sya merely took it in her stride. We headed home to store the bags, took a few minutes to check out the list of 'places to go and things to do' and headed out back again.

 

The quest for the day was to hunt for Penang street arts, caricatures and paintings on buildings that could be both glaringly obvious and mysteriously hidden. Either way, it seemed to be a very fun thing to do, even for locals. Well, fun was thinking about it, not when we found ourselves literally under the scorching sun! Only two pieces of art were spotted before it was decided that a break was sorely needed. That's how we found ourselves, with sweat-trickled backs, at Lebuh Tamil's 'Ais Tingkap'. Syazwina and I ended up sharing an Ais Tingkap, a sweet syrup drink with a slice of coconut flesh. I wasn't really taken by it but hey, I will now know what is 'Ais Tingkap' whenever I hear about it.

 

A quick hop to Chowrasta was next on the list. Bought bags of pickled preservatives and was about to continue with the art hunting session when Sya proclaimed the death of her sandals. Could be God's way of sparing us from further heat as we quickly made our way to Gurney Paragon. And yes, the mall is not a place for young or novice drivers. The ride up to the multi-storey parking (we finally found a spot at Level 7A) was rather scary, having to drive the car along sharp bends and protruding pillars. Anyway, new sandals were eventually purchased, we almost got a taste of some funky looking desserts (I guess they are pretzels, like those of Aunty Anne's) and ended with some desserts at Ben's. I've to say this though. The trip to Ben's was merely because I wanted to eat in the old St. Jo's building and soak in the distinct colonial feeling.

 

It was raining cats and dogs when we left Gurney Paragon. The drive along Gurney Drive in that weather brings to mind a scene from the Korean movie, Haeundae. Was scary and the fear was not lessened by the sight of trees swaying from side to side. But we managed to return home, freshened up and waited for GC to pick up for dinner. Now, the biggest treat of the day has to be the dinner venue. The whole jam heading to Batu Ferringhi was worth it when we stepped into Ferringhi's Garden. Set against a secluded garden with a rustic décor, the mouth-watering dishes that came with affordable price tags were only marred by the slow service. Other than that, I have to mightily recommend this place for anyone who wants to enjoy the company of loved ones.

 

Once the mandatory photographing session ended, we made our way to the Hard Rock Hotel. Sya got her Hard Rock purchases and I discovered how lovely the toilets were. Struck by a sudden (and violent) bout of diarrhoea, I flushed everything out from the system while listening to some old rock tunes. The 40 minutes ride from Batu Ferringhi to our place in Ayer Itam became a monumental feat. I had to will my stomach and bowel to remain calm at every bend and red traffic lights! Luckily no untoward accident happened and we reached home safely past 10.30 p.m.

 

While I'm at work now, the two Sagittarians are making their rounds around the city area. I wonder how many photo shots will they take.