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Early Sunday morning, just a few hours after wolfing down the best nasi kerabu that I had in a long while ( good tumis, fried fish in batter and free-flowing budu ), I , against my better judgment, ignored tired mind and creaking body to stay up and watch the live broadcast of the Olympics Women’s Volley Ball Final. It was worth staying up for. It was an exciting, nail-biting final. Volleyball worthy of the Olympics. The Chinese won but not because they were the better players. The Russian girls were equally good. Maybe it was the difference in the style of the coaches. The Russian coach, Nikolai Karpol was shown on tv many times angrily berating and shouting at his charges. He stopped short of slapping his players like what a few Korean coaches did. The Chinese coach on the other hand was more forgiving and softer in his delivery. Fatherly, in fact. Many fathers suffer from Karpol Funnel Syndrome. Impatient and angry. Like Karpol, most fathers want their kids to do their best all the time. Some want their kids to be like them. Some don’t want the kids to be like them. Some wants the kids to do better. Some do not have the foggiest what their kids want to be. But they shouted anyway. Karpol stopped shouting after the final set was over and the gold lost. He instead consoled each sobbing Russian player like a good coach should. The players know that all the gruffness, the shouting and the berating were just part of the coach and his coaching ways. Evidently they played better after getting shouted at. Karpol shouted a lot at the sidelines but the players ignored him. He had to call for numerous time-outs to shout at closer range to get attention. Unlike coaches, fathers don’t go through certification or training courses. They should. Nobody taught fathers how to be good fathers. Most of the time, it was the children that were taught to respect and tolerate their father as much as they can. Bad fathers don’t get any presents on Fathers Day. Going by the posters and banners sprung all over odd places, there are plenty of Kursus Perkahwinan (Marriage Courses). It is about time someone organizes courses for practicing fathers. Some helpless kids somewhere would appreciate it very much. Except of course the maniacal and inconsiderate drivers tearing down our roads. They are still looking for their father.
“If music be the food of love, play on. Order pizza later.” I am not going to talk about music today. Or love. Maybe I will dwell a bit on pizza. Pizza has been around a long long time ago. More than 2,000 years. It is expected to last a few more centuries. Hooray for pizza. The same thing cannot be said for some traditional Terengganu delights. These food or kuih were not well known enough to spawn ersatz imposters outside Terengganu like nasi dagang or keropok lekor. I have been offered nasi dagang with identity crisis. The rice is Kelantanese (reddish, the Terengganu version is pristine white) while the gulai (gravy) is ikan tongkol (tuna), Terengganu style. Kelantan nasi dagang usually uses chicken. I have also loosen a few teeth trying to chew imitation kerepok lekor made with starch instead of sago mandatory in the original. I am talking about other offerings found around the time I still have the teeth and the appetite to enjoy them. Stuffs that are extinct. Gone with the cooks that made them. Stuff like rojok kateh. Rojok kateh is tendons and other small bits of fatty stringy parts of the cow swimming in vinegar and chilli-based soup sold as olden days junk food. Too bad you can’t find it now. Another rare junk food is rojok seto. Seto rhymes with the English “store” and shouldn’t be confused with sentul (botanical name: sandorium koetjape). The seto fruit is what non-East Coast people would call kundang (botanical name : Bouea macrophylla) – grape size green fruit with a purple seed. This small fruit are sour and eating it on its own would make you pucker too much. So the fruits, after removing the seed are halved or quartered (depending on the mood of the cook) and boiled in a gravy of nisan (coconut sugar) and other ingredients including chilli. I am salivating at the memory. Another favourite of mine was bronok. Bronok has the consistency of a lazy jelly fish and it is made from sago. Good bronok would be purplish ( I never asked why) and rolled in a liberal amount of grated coconut. It is not a particularly pretty dish but nice to eat and quite filling. Then there was sagong. Sagong is a powdery junk food made of flattened rice and sugar and sold in a long narrow tube of old newspaper. There are coloured paper tassels pasted on top. There is only one way to consume sagong. If they were marketed today, you would see this instructions on the tube: SAGONG MOK NOH: 1. Hold tube upright, tassels on top. 2.Tear top of paper carefully. Stow tassels for later amusements. 3. Tilt head as far back as you can. 4. Open mouth as wide as possible. 5. Pour content into mouth. WARNING: Choking possible. 6. Repeat as necessary until tube is empty.
In the interest of the future generation’s culinary experience, I would appeal to my readers ( all 15 of them) to send me recipes of long lost Terengganu food including but not limited to hasidah, asang gupal, kayu keramat, cukelat nisan, etc etc.
Any of you guys watched the Olympics? I watch the live feeds on Astro whenever I can. Good for insomniacs like me. Nice to see the various Greek costumes at the medal presentations but got a little lost with some of the events. Events like synchronized diving. They give medals for that? And gymnastics should be in a circus not in sports.
I was a bit sad that Malaysia didn’t get any medals so far. Disappointed too because neighbours like Thailand could win one. Wow. That was one strong lady. I could get multiple hernia just carrying a bag of rice.
Now that we are not doing so well in badminton, I was wondering whether Malaysians should compete more in other sports where size is not crucial to winning. The way we are built, we can never hope to win gold in events like rugby, women shot putt or sumo wrestling. We should look at other sports where we have a fighting chance (when our athletes have the fighting spirit that is). Look at Beach Volley Ball. We have people tall enough for that. And skinny enough to look good in bikinis or whatever they call them. We have enough beaches. No need to build new ones. Just get the players and train them to bang balls. Of course there are other drastic and unconventional measures that can be taken to make our athletes go faster, higher and stronger. Women runners should be running with purse snatchers or serial rapists after them. Those with more money can have IRB men instead. Those with no money can have mother-in-laws chasing them. Their choice. Gold medals and cash incentives didn’t work. Neither did honour for the country. It is time we try something else.
When I watched Phelps the swimming champion, I remembered this story. You can’t stop me if you have heard it before: Once upon a time a very rich man invited all the young men in town for a party by the poolside. He announced to all that whoever can swim from one end of the pool to the other will be granted whatever he wishes. All the men took off their trousers and moved to the edge of the pool. “But,” the rich man added, “there is a couple of hungry crocodiles inside and they haven’t been fed for a week!” All the men stepped back from the edge of the pool and put their trousers back. Suddenly there was a splash. One man swam furiously to the other end of the pool. He could have beaten Phelps. The crowd clapped and cheered as the young man clambered to safe ground. “Well done young man! “ The rich man said. “Now what do you want? A million ringgit?” The young man shook his head. “You want to marry my daughter?” Again the young man shook his head. “What do you want then? Tell me?” “I just want the idiot who pushed me into the pool!”
When I was growing up in Kuala Terengganu in the 50s, there was no TV. There were movies though. Free open air movies or at the only two cinema halls in town, Capitol and Sultana. Cathay and Rex came along much later. Cinema halls then blared out songs from records to attract patrons. Sultana didn’t seem to have a very big collection. Every time I go near that place, I hear Dean Martin’s “That’s Amore”. Year after year. Sultana showed stuffs like serials (we call them “Chapters”) of G-Men and Captain Marvel while Capitol had P.Ramlee films and other stuffs handled by Shaw Brothers. They also screened Hindustani films which were popular then as they are now. It was noted that every time a Hindustani film was on, somebody’s eggs (or even chicken) got stolen. If ever there was a graph showing incidences of stolen eggs/chickens, you can be sure that somehow it will coincide with whatever Hindustani film was in town. I didn’t steal any eggs or chickens but I did dig up some coke bottles to pay for tickets. At that time, a 3rd class seat was 25 sen. An empty coke bottle could be redeemed for 5 sen. My uncle liked to line up the path to his house with coke bottles. He buried them in a neat row bottoms up. Whenever a Tarzan or a Bomba (Johnny Sheffield) movie was on, my cousins and I would liberate 5 bottles each. The path would be gap-toothed for a while. much like my mouth is now but we replaced the bottles now and then. Having money for the ticket did not guarantee that you get a seat. Buying the ticket was like being at the bottom of a very packed sardine can and just as smelly. People piling on top of one another like an untidy tangled human pyramid. Something like an animated Abu Gharieb. Everyone shouting and fighting to push handful of change into the small hole of the ticket window. Queues were unheard of. Unless you are very tough, fit and able to hold your breath for a long time, you better not try to buy tickets. It got so bad that they later built a cage enclosing ticket booth to keep people from climbing on each other. My classmates and I later found a way to solve that pesky problem. We got an inside man. A big, tough-looking, gold-toothed character named Minggu. Minggu (never PAK Minggu or else he would knuckle your head) was the “doorkeeper/usher” for 2nd class. Before a show we would look for him and tell him how many there are in our party. He would nod and waited for us at the door and illuminated our seats with his flashlight. Somewhere in the middle of the show Minggu would show up muttering softly and repeatedly “Sapa pegang amanoh ha?” (Who is the trustee?) The guy entrusted with collecting the ticket money (usually Shawati’s dad) would pass the coins along the seats to him. He would jingle and weigh the coins and if there weren’t enough he would ask “Guane tak cukuk ni haaah?” (How come not enough?) We would then stare angrily at the guilty ones in the dark while they fished coins out of their pockets and passed them on to Minggu. Satisfied, Minggu would then let us watch the rest of the movie in peace. At least until the blood-sucking bugs lurking in the seats started to bite.
Apparently, some songs that I heard a long long time ago have been rereleased with updated titles to keep up with the current age (and condition) of their original audience. You young people might not get the humour of some of these but that is ok:
Herman’s Hermits - “Mrs. Brown, You’ve Got A Lovely Walker” The Bee Gees - “How Can You Mend A Broken Hip” The Temptations - “Papa’s Got a Kidney Stone” Nancy Sinatra - “These Boots Aren’t Made for Bunions” The Beatles - “I Get By With A Little Help From Pampers” Marvin Gaye - “I Heard It Through The Grape Nuts” The Rolling Stones - “You Can’t Always Pee When You Want” Paul Simon - “Fifty Ways To Lose Your Liver” Roberta Flack - “The First Time Ever I Forgot Your Face” ABBA - “Denture Queen” Leo Sayer - “You Make Me Feel Like Napping” Commodores - “Once, Twice, Three Times To The Bathroom” Bobby Darin - “Splish, Splash, I Was Havin’ A Flash” Johnny Nash - “I Can’t See Clearly Now” Procol Harum - “A Whiter Shade of Hair”
Now, can anyone give a similar list of local songs?
The Only Time I Will See 50 Again Will Be On A Road Sign
In the Survival Tips book that I got, it was written that psychological problems will greatly affect your chances of survival. The psychological problems are Anxiety, Depression and Stress. These are the problems that I am suffering on my 60th birthday of which I may or may not survive. I am anxious because my USE BY DATE is fast approaching and I am nowhere near the state of readiness expected of me. Sometimes I feel that my Haji membership would be withdrawn anytime together with a Show Cause letter. It is not because I have committed grievous sins, God forbids, but little things like doing zohor at 4pm (yes Eli, you got that from me) which my tasauf friends frowned upon. Of course there are those impure thoughts. Thoughts like where I want to shove the traffic lights up the motorcyclists anatomy whenever they habitually and blatantly ignore traffic rules. I am also anxious over other things that I should do but haven’t. They are not really goals like what my eldest daughter listed in her blog. No more scoring goals for me. I am on injury time and being benched. And of course I am deeply depressed that I am forever broke. I have lived a great part of my life with a total disdain and disregard of money. I guessed you can afford to disregard money only when you have enough of it. Now I found out that whether you are rich or poor, it is always nice to have money. Got me wondering. Maybe the paths I chose made a difference. Would I be richer (or even just rich) if I had not left my Pre-U class just because my dad told me I was given a post in the Terengganu Civil Service? That post was given to the Sultan’s son who gave it up a few months after. Would it be different if I had accepted Dr. Klassik’s offer to do Masters in Southern Illinois University? I didn’t even have to study much. They promised to interview me and I would only study what I don’t already know. I did not get a scholarship from my department. Neither did another colleague of mine. He resigned, went on to England got himself a Marketing degree and came back a much sought after corporate man. I didn’t even want to consider resigning, get a MARA scholarship/loan and probably teach at ITM then. I wasn’t prepared to get out of my Comfort Zone. Would things be different had I learn to kiss asses instead of telling my bosses to kiss mine? (CAUTION: Kissing hairy asses would get dandruff on your face). Hind sights are terrible aren’t they? You can’t do anything with them to change things. Dato’ Maznah once told me that there are always 3 of us in every person. The person you think you are, the person others see you as and the person that you can be. I met Dato’ Maznah too late. As for the stress, I am on edge now pounded by the pressure in pursuit of doing better. I am usually as calm as water in an old tempayan (hey, I have mellowed). This is simply because I am ignorant of things that I should be wary of. Stuffs like Business Plans, P&L Projections etc. I am not that ignorant now and the things I know stress me to no end. I stand on my toes longer than any Bolshoi ballerinas and the throbbing veins in my temple are beginning to look like varicose veins on a fat pregnant lady. I am stressed by the crumpled cigarette in the Anti–Smoking Ad. Firhad must take note. That crumpled cigarette is bad visual. Who wants a crumpled cigarette? Of course “Tak Nak” (Don’t want). My children, things are not so clear. I saw my own father as a stern man and I didn’t really talk to him until I was in my late teen. But I know he loved me. I love all of you too no matter what you wrote or will write in your blogs or anywhere else. I will try my best not to be an unconscious old man (orang tua tak sedar diri) and make you disown me. But I am fully aware of the refrain of the old song: Kasih ibu membawa ke syorga, kasih ayahnda, semasa ada…..(Mother’s love up till she’s in Heaven, father’s love, when he is around).
Forgive my rambling. I am 60 today. Old age has its privileges.
Kuantan has a special place in my heart. Kuantan has the best roti canai (its sorta pancake) that I ever tasted. It was so popular that Hassan, the maker and owner can afford a preowned Mercedes 280 and a superbike. I call Hassan CC (Chief Clerk) because he is always in smart white shirt, even when making his roti canai and he wears glasses. The secret of Hassan’s masterpiece is he uses margarine instead of ghee or other oil. He also cooked the roti canai on demand. It will come out crisp and it really melts in your mouth. You eat it with his special curry – dhall with dissolved chicken and an optional sambal. It was also in Kuantan that I learned how to fly the ultralights – motorized gliders. Noisy and fun. The Ultralight Club of Kuala Trengganu landed in the field near the Kuantan Stadium and the owner of most of the planes was a relative. One of the pilots took me up and I was hooked. My 2nd daughter Elisa also went up and she enjoyed it very much. I suspected that this was the day she wanted to take up aeronautical engineering. Anyway, my relative was persuaded to leave a couple of planes in Pekan where the Regent of Pahang had two ultralights. A flight school was started and we used the Polo grounds as our runaway. Since flights were usually started early in the morning, my relative and I had to sleep over in the Regent’s Palace. After my first solo flight, my relative brought the plane back to Kuala Terengganu and the Regent’s planes were moved to the air force base next to the Kuantan Airport. I gave up ultralights and also the club that I helped to set up “UP” (for Ultralight Pahang). I got involved in another club when I was in Kuantan. I was roped in to head the Pahang Adventurers Club. We held courses on how to climb Gunung Tahan and we had kayak expeditions from Temerloh down to the Pekan river mouth. One day Bakar, the association secretary and me had to set up a camp for members somewhere on the other side of Telok Chempedak. Bakar decided to load all the equipment plus my ABU fishing rod & reel and a couple of watermelons into a small dinghy. We discovered, much to my dismay that we had too much equipment and not much of a boat. Bakar announced that there was no room for me. I had to climb the hills and meet him at the campsite. I set off on my climb and after stepping on some thorns, realized that I left my shoes in the boat. The boat was by then bobbing precariously out of shouting distance. So, I gingerly carried on traversing the hills barefooted, cursing the fallen mengkuang leaves with their nasty thorns and made my way through the jungle. Telok Chempedak is lovely on the beach but ugly on the hills. I got to the campsite, another jungle by the beach and found Bakar wet. Most of the equipment were laid out to dry. The boat capsized and Bakar found time to rescue the watermelon but not my fishing gear. I had a bad fever after that which lasted 3 days. I missed Kuantan. Things would have been better if I stayed there forever. But then, someone told me its not the place that makes a man but it’s the man that makes the place. Drat. I can’t even make my own breakfast.
My good chat friend Santosh uses nicknames related to jackass. His nicks are Jackassteroid, Jackassphyxiation and Jackasstheripper. Invariably, he is usually called jackass. I called him Jack or bhai meaning "brother". He called me that too or he called me Malay. Jack is a very good graphic artist. He comes from Chennai but is plying his trade in an ad agency in Muscat, Oman. Jack is one of those Indians that does not sound like Peter Sellers in "The Party". Jack has an impeccable English accent. He sounds more at home in Picadilly than in Pondicherry. Jack was invited to visit this blog. He did but couldn't understand most of the posts and the whole point of blogs. What is the point? What's the message? Brendan Behan, an Irish author & playwright who wrote Borstal Boy, Have Your Hour And Hold Another etc. was once asked what was the message in his book/play. He replied "What message? Do you think I am a bloody postman?" This was echoed recently by a famous Malaysian film director. There are no messages in my blog. Don't go looking or you will be grossly disappointed. My posts are mostly random ramblings of things that happened around me past and present. Once in a while I might write about factual things but that would be far in between. Mostly my blog is just a cathartic release of constipated concentrations. I don't even have drafts. I have wind now and then, but thats another smelly story. Farting forte. To be good, writings must have numerous drafts. Mr. Ogilvy, one of the founders of Ogilvy & Mathers, the famous ad agency wrote in one of his books that a good copy must have more than 10 drafts. Well, I am not writing ad copies for haemorhoid cream or breast perkers. I am just putting my ramblings to words. What I think is what you get, warts and all. E & OE. Errors and omissions expected. Typos and mistakes are part of my life, so why should my blog be an exception? And Jack, there is no point at all in blogs. But its fun. Its more fun if your postings got read and readers leave comments. That would be a bonus. But then , you cant have everything can you?
Today is my eldest daughter’s birthday. I still remember the day she was born. Her mom had to spend hours in the delivery room waiting for her to come out. Besides the muslim Yugoslav doctor who delivered her, there were other people in the delivery room: The mom’s father and a relative who was among other things, a bomoh. I was kept outside cooling my heels outside the ward, smoking countless cigarettes. The No SMOKING IN HOSPITAL COMPOUND rule wasn’t heard of then. I was naturally anxious because much much earlier, we lost a son in Pasir Putih. Kak Long was a relatively happy baby and doted on by all the relatives. Mok insisted that she stays with her in Merang. We didn’t agree of course and Mok, very disappointed, had to get somebody else’s daughter to adopt. We got a scare when a pediatrician in the Yayasan Selangor building (now a condo in front of University Hospital) examined our eldest daughter and told us that she got murmur in her heart. But that came to pass and Kak Long grew up normally. Kak Long attended a chinese kindergarten near our house in Section 17 and when we moved to Kuala Terengganu she started primary school in Sultan Sulaiman Primary School. Her front teeth fell of shortly after. It's unfortunate that this free blog can't upload pictures or else I would have put up a pic of Kak Long , gap-toothed, in her primary school pinafore. Kak Long cut her teeth in broadcasting while she was still in school. She got to feed some english programs to Kuala Terengganu while we were in Kuantan. She was a club dj for a short while later. Lest I get soppy and embarass my eldest daughter with more nostalgic nonsense, I better stop now. Happy Birthday, sayang. I love you. P.S. It was'nt Mama who dropped the title from your birth certificate. Mama wouldnt do such a thing. It was me. I got momentary attacks of republicanism then, maybe. Somehow Bah got to know about it and asked me if I was ashamed of him because he was poor. I wasn't ashamed of my father and I will never be. So I put the title back in. And you will never look or behave like Mok. You are more like Tok Minoh, Mok's mother and my Nek. Physically and emotionally. Someone totally unrelated to us told me that Nek was a refugee from warring Kemboja (long before Sihanouk) and she was a princess to boot. I didnt pursue this matter because I dont want to find out that I could be related to any of the Khmer Rouge people.
This is in response to my son's comment. He requested some stories about my band, ATMASARI. The band's name is a combination of all the members name. I was told that atmasari means "essence of the soul" in Javanese. My own father was in a (unplugged) band called "Rindu Malam" when he was in Terengganu and he was in Suara Muda band when he was in Kota Bharu. We (the band) were born in the Pop Yeh Yeh era. We were not very good. Whatever technical expertise lacking were made up by our enthusiasm and extreme optimism. We always thought we will get better soon enough. We got our instruments courtesy of Mr. Foo from Central Book Store in Kota Bharu. He also owned Hotel Prince and Hotel Murni I think. One of his nephews was my classmate in Sultan Ismail College, Kota Bharu. Mr. Foo also got us a portable Honda generator. We played at weddings in villages all over Ulu Terengganu hoping to get enough money to pay the installments for the instruments. Most of the time we were either paid in kind (usually freshly milled rice, durians, miscellaneous fruits or gallons of petrol for the generator.) We played songs by the Shadows, The Ventures, Pop Yeh Yeh songs and some Hindustani songs ( usually sung by Subian). Once we had a gig in Jerangau. They built a proper stage and all. One man was pushed by his peers to come close to the stage and made a request. The conversation went like this: Fan : Cikgu! ( Teacher!) Me: Ya? Fan: Boleh main lagu se ke dok? Can you play us a song? Me: Lagu apa? What song? Fan:Lagu Cek Ripin Me: (Searching dark recesses of his memory) Cek Ripin? Lagu apa tu? Acu nyanyi sikit.. Fan: (Humming loudly) De de de deeeeeeeeee Me: (Recognizing the song) Ahhhhhh... Cherry Pink Apple Blossom White! Boleh , boleh....
Another time, pop stars from Singapore came down to Kuala Berang Town Hall for a show. They forgot to bring their band along and we were persuaded to be sessionists. Everything went well until M.Ishak wanted to sing "Proud Mary". He went onstage, picked up the mic and waited for the music. The music didnt come. The band waited for the lead guitar (me) and I had a brain fart and forgot how the intro go. Another singer rushed behind the curtain directly behind the lead guitarist and whispered loudly "Deng deng, dengdeng deng deng " and I promptly belted out the intro on my Hofner. We were later paid, grudgingly.
The band broke up after I joined Radio TV Malaysia. My red Hofner guitar ended up in Mok's bathroom in Merang where it was subsequently stolen. I now have a Yamaha acoustic guitar which I still play badly.
I just got this in my email 20 minutes ago. Names not mentioned to protect the guilty. I thought I would share it with you (unabridged and unedited):
HOME REMEDIES: 1. If you are choking on an ice cube, don't panic. Simply pour a cup of boiling water down your throat and presto! The blockage will be almost instantly removed.
2. Clumsy? Avoid cutting yourself while slicing vegetables by getting someone else to hold them while you chop away.
3. Avoid arguments with the Mrs. about lifting the toilet seat by simply using the sink.
4. High blood pressure sufferers: simply cut yourself and bleed for awhile, thus reducing the pressure in your veins.
5. A mouse trap, placed on top of your alarm clock, will prevent you from rolling over and going back to sleep when you hit the snooze button.
6. If you have a bad cough, take a large dose of laxatives, then you will be afraid to cough.
7. Have a bad tooth ache? Hit your thumb with a hammer, then you will forget about the tooth ache..
AND..... Sometimes we just need to remember what The Rules of Life really are:
You need only two tools: WD-40 and duct tape. If it doesn't move and it should, use WD-40. If it moves and shouldn't, use the duct tape.
Everyone seems normal until you get to know them.
If you woke up breathing, congratulations! ---You have another chance! And finally... Be really good to your family and friends. You never know when you are going to need them to empty your bedpan.
I migrated from IRC to Yahoo chat about a year ago. The first chat group I went to was Community & Culture. I didnt get cultured but I did meet some nice people from all parts of the world. Like in the real world, this online community had its quota of bigots and ignorami (plural for ignoramus, isnt it?) I met one executive from Los Angeles who was under the impression that Muslims worship the moon and the stars simply because mosques have the moon and the stars on them. I told him that the Notre Dame in Paris has gargoyles and other representations and I didnt think those church goers worship gargoyles. In order to make chatting more pleasant, I made a private, by invitation only, room and filled it with people that I enjoy chatting with. Those that got closer to me, as close as the Net would allow, felt comfortable enough to ask questions about Islam in order to understand a bit more. A few asked me questions which I could not answer satisfactorily. You must remember that I took a while to memorise qunut for the Dawn Prayer and I finished the Holy Quran too early to remember all its contents. The other subject frequently asked was Malaysian food. Describing what I had for breakfast was easy enough. Rice boiled in coconut milk and garnished with curried and/or fried anchovies, slices of cucumbers, fried peanuts and a quarter boiled egg. They could not comprehend why the boiled egg had to be quartered. I am hopeless at explaining the Economics of nasi lemak Retailing.
Yesterday I paid my respect to the ex-President of Persatuan Veteran RTM. He succumbed to complications from lung cancer (I don't remember him smoking ) and kidney problems. Funerals remind you that your own days are numbered. There were many RTM staff, past and present and a sizeable group from The Ministry of Home Affairs where the deceased worked after retiring from Radio TV Malaysia. One of the people from the Censor Board was my senior in Language Institute. He suggested that I apply to be one of the censors. I laughed it off. I watched too many films when I was working in TV and the idea of putting on a tie again and rushing to office before 8 am does not appeal to me. Some of us did not follow the remains to the burial ground. We instead went to the nearest MPPJ warong for some teh tarik/Nescafe tarik . Two things were proved there: 1. Old people can be creative 2. Good things not cheap, cheap things not good not necessarily true. Our Ustaz N became hard of hearing. Some say (without malice) he got to be near-deaf after having 4 wives. Anyway, Ustaz N spent a lot of money on hearing aids.None solved his problem completely. He found a solution to his hearing problem by using a 100 ringgit Walkman and an external microphone. He put the Walkman on REC mode and PAUSE the tape. Now he listens good and in STEREO ( couldnt determine if it is also in DOLBY). The Walkman, with the external microphone duct taped firmly on top, is forever in Ustaz N's shirt pocket. We have to learn to talk to his pocket though.
I would never abuse drugs or knowingly use any mind-altering stuff. My mind is already strange enough as it is. Somehow, I unwittingly took a puff of marijuana long before it became fashionable and I would like to share my experience. It was in the late '60s and I was teaching in Kuala Berang. I have a band or kugiran as it was called then. I was the lead guitarist. We practised in the school hall, usually at night when pupils (and non-musical teachers) were not around. One night a few of our teacher friends came to listen to us practise. We were playing Tok Mat's favourite song "Rindu Lukisan" although, at that time, I was blissfully unaware of that fact. Playing guitar requires the use of both hands and I wasn't able to smoke. So it was with much appreciation that I took a puff of the cigarette proffered by our non-playing friend. The cigarette looked like a Lucky but didnt taste like one. But I didnt think much about it. The next thing I know was the puff exploded somewhere in my chest and I saw my drummer, Adnan on the roof. He was drumming upside down or was I playing lead upside down. Anyway, I was told later that we all didn't even miss a note. I felt funny. I must have looked funny too because the non-playing friend volunteered to take me home immediately. The hall and my place of residence then (one of the teachers quarters) were separated by a barbed wire fence and a small ditch. There was a plank for us to cross the ditch. The plank was no more than 3 feet long. That night, the plank felt like 30 feet long when I was crossing it. After what felt like endless hours, I reached home and my bed. By then my thoughts sounded very loud and I told my wife to take down everything that was said. She told me the next day, she didnt hear anything. The next day, in school, I was like a zombie. The headmaster, after not getting any responses to his questions, surmised that all was not well with his young Senior Assistant and grudgingly told me to take the day off. It took me another day for the effect to wear off and I came to the conclusion that marijuana wasn't for me no matter what the hippies said. I also think that my subsequent brain damage was due to that particular episode.
This blog carries a government Health Warning : This Blog Might Be Dangerous To Your Mental Health. I have inherited from my children the blogging bug and the mutation might be more malignant. It might not be coherent at times but thats the beauty of blogs. I am not expected to make sense (just like in real life). The title is in Malay. Loosely translated, it means "Under The Thingamajig That They Dry Salted Fish On". I will expect one of my smart, vocabularily-endowed progeny to supply me the word soon. Pending that auspicious day, just let me enlighten you on what a rang is. A rang is like a giant table built on the beach. It is very common in fishing villages on the East Coast of Malaysia. There are many legs usually made of bamboo or small tree trunks whose diameter would be nearer to the girth of medium-sized bamboo. 3 inches? 5 inches? For conversions go to the nearest imam . The "tabletop" has girders where square trays made of woven bamboo are placed. The fish to be sun-dried are placed on these trays. The table is high enough to prevent marauding cats from jumping up and filching the fish. It is also high enough for children to walk under and play, away from the blazing sun. Adults too, would crawl under and have naps or their rokok daun (leaf cigarettes) if they have blocked nose or do not mind the smell of salted fish sunbathing above them. Now, naps sometimes give dreams and so does rokok daun . Depending on what tobacco you use, smoking rokok daun will make you melancholic, nostalgic, pensive and combined with the aroma of drying salted fish, sometimes a bit sick. Unlike the salted fish, which are usually arranged neatly in rows, my ramblings will not have any semblence of order. That is not a warning, but a promise. So read at your own peril.
