The Day I Saw Obama

It's a cloudless Friday afternoon, 16 June 2006, when I saw Obama, in Evanston, outside Chicago. He didn't notice me, of course, but there he was, in the flesh, walking a mere 20 metres out on his way up the stage at Ryan Field to address graduates and parents at Northwestern University's 148th commencement. My eldest was in the graduating Class of 2006. As fate would have it, my camera ran out of batteries, so I couldn't snap anything to prove this to you.

Obama needs no batteries because he's a born orator. He speaks from the heart. And he must've picked up some skills during his early schooldays in Jakarta, where almost everyone speaks and double-speaks. His speech was short and straight, but it's hard not to be inspired:

"Challenge yourself. Take some risks in your life. Focusing your life solely on making a buck shows a poverty of ambition. It asks too little of yourself. And it will leave you unfullfilled" 

A pretty aphorism and a handsome excuse for driving a preve and not a porsche. Man, this guy is smooth. I'd barely heard of Barack Obama then, but I was already impressed.  He'd just been elected a US senator with some 65% vote. What struck me wasn't so much the "challenge yourself" mantra. I'd heard it repeated to death in all my thirty years at Petronas. It's the "poverty of ambition" and "asks too little of yourself" bit that I fell for. Not its substance, but the elegance. Pure Chicago and massively original. A lot fresher than the dreaded and Balotelli-ugly "deliverables" and "stretch targets".

True to his every word, Obama went on to become US President, not once, but twice, earning a miserly $400K a year. This is, let's face it, the ultimate "walk the talk". He'd have earned more than that had he joined Petronas and become a vice president. But that would leave him unfulfilled.

Now back to my eldest. As a graduating student, he's seated close to the stage and had a plum view of Obama, but I wasn't sure whether he's listening to him at all. He's probably too busy pinching himself just to be doubly sure that this graduation gig wasn't a dream or another Nigerian hoax. The ghost of the past four years was still looming large. Northwestern, decidedly, isn't Universiti Malaysia Kelantan.

Obama didn't join Petronas, you know that. But my eldest did,  if you want to know.

My Makkah Miracles

It's two years ago this month that we were in Makkah to perform the haj. It's a journey like no other. A time for conscience and contemplation. And a late, late honeymoon. The memory lingers as the idle mind succumbs to flashbacks. Two years on, the heady scenes and sounds are still stirring the senses. Everyone came back with tales of miracle moments. I'll tell you my six:

1. Poetry Meets Poetry.

Ya Allah, jadikanlah cahaya pada hatiku,
cahaya pada lidahku,
cahaya pada telingaku,
cahaya pada mataku,
cahaya dari belakangku,
cahaya dari hadapanku,
cahaya dari atasku,
cahaya dari bawahku.
Ya Allah, kurniakanlah kepadaku cahaya.

No, it's not a puisi mistik from Latiff Mohidin. It's a beautiful doa recited (in Arabic) as we approached Masjidil Haram. My first sight of the grand mosque froze me on my tracks. How could you not be consumed by this iconic celebration of Islam. The symmetrical grey lines, monochromic mosaic walls and rhyming motifs collided and colluded to render an aura of understated majesty and grandeur. The mosque is the ultimate poetry.

2. The Lady and the Lullaby

Sai'e seems second fiddle to the depth and intensity of tawaf. It was supposed to be a short, straight walk-trot of about 400 m, back and forth, six times, in a covered and climate-controlled pathway. Routine enough until things took a poignant turn as the mind conjured up visions of the lady and her infant, stricken with untold panic and fear, flailing back and forth, wailing for water in the scorching sands. Divine trials break the realm of reason. One of the doas for the Sai'e circuits brought pangs of nostalgia. The first time I heard these obscure lines was about 50 years ago. Mother used to serenade it to lull little brother to sleep. I could almost catch her flawless pitch chorusing as I recited the doa. So overcome, I broke down.

3. Rapping at Arafah

Wukuf was truly climactic, and the midday khutbah was its cusp. The sweeping scene of millions in white ihram flecking the barren Arafah landscape took my breath away. Nothing was more humbling as chiefs and chauffeurs mustered on equal terms. No paychecks and perks here, only faith, penance and surrender. The second half of the khutbah sent me into raptures as the adzan came on. The khutbah and the adzan overlapped in an Eminemesque rap as the mind slipped into half-trance, losing myself deep in the moment.


angin panas di luar khemah
menolak kita ke pinggir ingatan
lalu membakar dosa kita
maka kita pun terpegun
dan menatap dengan diam
( From award-winning "Wukuf" by Wan A Rafar, 1983)

4. Mudzalifah and  Million Lights.

It was lepak time. And why not. From Arafah to Mina after Wukuf, it's a mandatory break (Mabit) at the plains of Mudzalifah after sundown at least for one heart-beat long. Off season, Mudzalifah was a flat wasteland with no visible vegetation, no sheds, no rain, not a thing. Imagine the epic transformation from zero to three million souls converging enmasse in half-darkness for the pause. Lights flickered for miles and miles out, as far as the eyes could take. Sheer pleasure and spectacle. Thanks to Arab efficiency, one heart-beat was actually four hours.

5. The Long March: Mina to Makkah

We chose to walk back from Mina to Makkah after we're done with the devil. It's cool, temperate climate as we joined other like-minded devil-bashers and quickly melted into a motley, cosmopolitan crowd marching toward Makkah. The long flowing line of pilgrims literally linked Mina with Makkah, reprising  the physical and emotional "ordeal" of the early haj travellers without the combustion engines to ferry them around. Inspired and emboldened, we hit Makkah in no time and valiantly pressed on with tawaf and saie to complete our haj. We logged almost 20 km that day. No pain, all gain, we rewarded ourselves with a hefty briyani.

6. The Sheikh Sang


It was Subuh prayer on 20 November. The imam's rendition gave me goosebumps. What a way to vocalize God's verses: with power and pace. I'd heard the bluesy Al Sudais and Al Juhany, but this guy was different. He rocked! I wished he'd just go on and on as he sweetly muscled his way, shifting the tune and lifting the tone to drive the message home. He came on again for Subuh the next day with a moving recitation of the familiar Surah Al Munafiqun. And again for Maghrib on 27 November. Back home I googled him: Sheikh Khalid Al Ghamdi, one of the younger Makkah imams. Listen to his delivery of Surah Ale Imran on 24 July 2011 on YouTube. Add him to your listless playlists.

A Grandfather Like Me

I became a grandfather recently, joining an exalted circle of senior celebrities like D Maradona (football star), M Jagger (rock star) and M Yuzer (an old friend featured in a TV toothpaste commercial). My son and daughter-in-law were blessed with a baby girl on 6 October. A pretty and precious bundle of joy, and I can’t wait for her first smile. By convention, my son should be a proud father of a baby girl. I'm not sure whether I'm allowed to be a proud grandfather of a baby girl. But I'm happy enough about this paternal progression. The new arrival will ramp up the clatter and clutter level in an otherwise humless and humdrum household. She may cry and crank anytime she likes if she can promise me now that she won’t support Manchester United.

A retiree with a grandchild or two in tow is now industry standard. And why not, Indonesian maids are now rarer than rhodium, and even if they’re available, they’d work only five days a week, eight hours a day (which is actually two hours if you exclude telpon and sinetron). Take it or leave it, says the evil agent aka people trafficker. For young families caught in this cruelty, retiree-grandfathers are a godsend. They’re technically unemployed simply because growing old isn’t considered substantive work. They’re lazy and unskilled, yes, but they cost less than nothing and require no visa, so there’s plenty of value for no money. I read somewhere that a retiree can keep his mind sharp and chic by memorizing poems, solving cryptic crosswords and, better still, playing sudoku. Sudoku? Give me the baby, now.

I’m actually lagging behind most of my Tiger Lane classmates, who’re already walking and talking with their grandchildren. It's impossible to follow everyone's sexual habits, but I won't be surprised if there are altogether now 400 children and grandchildren from the two 1966 classes. Azlan has two or three grandchildren now. Ibrahim three or more. Cikgu Ya a dozen, as of last week. Zaki, somehow, has none but still stands a fair chance if he gets married today and work on it immediately. I can still recall our classrooms and dorms and debates and the sick bay and Mr Sarjit Singh but I can’t quite recall anybody even vaguely talking about children, let alone grandchildren. Why? One elegant but unscientific theory points to the daily (and nightly) proximity to same-sex classmates and dormmates causing a complete loss interest in reproduction. A simpler (still unscientific) theory is that we're just too exhausted to think about anything after navigating the mighty meals prepared by our award-winning masterchef in the dining hall. Whatever the reason, here we’re now: grandfather, and loving all of it.

I’m not sure what unique skills are required of a grandfather other than sleeping with a grandmother. A good friend congratulated me, adding a word of caution, bold upper-case: don’t use your diapers for the baby. Now I can understand why Brutus killed his friend Julius Caesar. As with my progeny, I always wonder which part, or how much, of my architecture will be passed down to my granddaughter. I guess not much, if any. She already has two parents to take after. Anyway it's neither urgent nor important for her to share any part of my human biology (let's not discuss the inhuman part here). I can’t solve a simple quadratic equation to begin with. I can't play the violin or even cricket. High cholesterol is not a talent. Neither is writing crap like this. So it's in everybody's best interest that the baby keeps only the minimum of my genetic footprint.

She's hardly a month old and I'm already nervous. Well, not nervous the way you're nervous about your sugar spike and memory mess. Actually I'm just pondering her way forward. Growing up in a country with the world's worst taxi drivers won't be a cakewalk. Not to mention snatch thieves, multi-level scammers, illegal students, Kelantan football supporters. I had job offers before completing my final-year (economics, not obstetrics). She'll have to compete with 200,000 or more unemployed graduates for job interviews. Job interviews, not jobs. It’s only fair to ask some serious questions here and now. Like, will she be able to buy a basic house at RM 5 million in 2040? Will she be clever enough to graduate from one of the 100 local international medical schools in 2036 but ending up telemarketing at Citibank? Will PM finally announce the next general election date by the time she goes to school in 2019? These are trick questions. Do not attempt.

A baby is a God's gift and will. My dear mother always reminds me that God knows what we don't know. My fears are unfounded and disturbing drivel contrived out of a flagging mind. There’s no excuse for this alarmist and Malthusian tone. In 2019 Malaysia will start as a fully developed and civilized country, free of cronies, junkies and tuition fees. My granddaughter will do just fine. She’ll shine and flourish and go to Princeton or Brown. With none of her grandfather's cognitive complexities, she might even play the violin.    

The Sad Bed

Death is sad. Even when it's of someone you hardly know. I was rudely reminded of this today, Thursday, 20 September 2012.

My old man had been recuperating in the geriatric ward at the University Malaya Medical Centre for the past ten days. Until today the medical staff, otherwise known as doctors and nurses, hadn't been very forthcoming or specific about what he's down with. Doctors are all Shakespeares with serious handwriting issues. All they could provide me was the old reliable "he's old and has lots of phlegm and needs complete rest". Hardly ground-breaking stuff. I could easily see that even without the benefit of six brutal years at medical schools. He's officially 88, but I guessed he's at least 90, or 92, who really knew. At this late age, it's his business to have plenty of phlegm.

Yesterday a young houseman came in and proudly announced that he (my father, not the doctor) would be discharged early next week. It's as explicit as I could get out of the medical profession. I thought economics was the only dismal science.

Don't get me wrong. There's every reason to admire these doctors for their high energy, deep passion and virtuous subculture. In these dark days of corrupt contracts and paranormal politics, they're the shining lights who'd go out of their way to sustain the fragile life of a 90 year-old, whatever it takes. You can never pay them enough.
 

Visiting my sick senior was high on my daily to-do list. It's easy for a retiree, all I'd to do was cut back on the English Premier League and do away with Arsene Wenger. You'll never know whether you've seen or done enough for your folks when they're healthy and you're sinking into the corporate mire. So visiting him now looked like a productive way of fighting back this attack of conscience. Problem was, he's so weak and wispy that it's hard to tell whether he knew it's me. Or whether he'd mistaken me for a male nurse. Well, he might not know me, but I still knew him, if that's any good.

A geriatric ward is exactly what Disneyland isn't. Thick, restrained, unhappy. But there's as much to experience, learn and take away. What's on offer isn't so much the trials of the sick but the quirks of those by the bedside. I made it a point to roam the ward like a busy school prefect, exchanging notes and sick stories with fellow caregivers. Technically I might not be a geriatric, not yet. But I didn't really feel out of place here. The common denominator here is stroke. Every other patient here is struck by a stroke. Not a pretty sight, but so inspiring that my way forward now is a strict monastic diet of alpine water and dragon fruits.

Next to my father's bed was an 81 year-old Chinese lady. She had daughters and sons, but a daughter-in-law was actually looking after her here. I wasn't really sure what's going on, but this heart-of-gold should be rich soon. There's one lady who's so driven and fired up that she took care of not just her stroke-stricken mom but also other patients around her. Must be a former oil and gas CEO with a leadership hangover.

Three beds away, a youngish 73-year old lady named Zaiton was recovering from, you guess, a stroke. I'd never seen any of her family members by her bedside, not while I was around, but there's a maid from Manila to keep her company. When my sister and I dropped by yesterday, the friendly Filipina told us that the patient was good enough to be discharged tomorrow (today). My compulsively curious sister fired away no less than 100 questions about the patient and the maid, and I'd to pull her away before she could move on to the next patient with another 100 questions. Anyway we're happy for Zaiton and the maid and wished them well.

My sister and I came in today and were about to settle down when the maid grabbed my sister. Zaiton had passed away half an hour ago! Stunned, we rushed to her bed. Her remains were still there, a hospital-issue light green cloth tightly wrapped around her, all alone. To think that she's supposed to be discharged today, man, what's sadder than this?

My sister took out her Surah Yaseen and her sweet pitch broke the silence. I tapped the iQuran app on my industrial-size Galaxy Note and read quietly (so glad I bought this android). Not really sure what else we could do, we just stood by until a sharp-dressed man, probably her son, came in about an hour later to claim her. He signed some papers and left, without a word and another look at her mother.

I was tossing and turning at 2 am. That bed ..........

 

From Russia With Love

I woke up this morning only to discover that my blog had just sneaked past 10,000 pageviews, after more than two years in cyberspace. I'm not sure whether to celebrate, or turn celibate realizing that Lim Kit Siang and Tun Dr Mahathir hit this number in a single evening with a single, sexed-up post. Of course they manage this feat by corrupt means and machinations, manipulating their firebrand fame and fake positions to run down each other and everybody else in between. It's all hyping and branding and very little, if any, substantive ideas and insights on offer. Think Manchester United and 650 million phantom followers. To be honest I rarely read their blogs but I can safely guess what they always write. Mostly pontificating and self-glorifying tyrant's tantrums. If you're an intellectual swimmer, steer clear of their blogs.

Read my blog instead. Hahaha. Joke.

Recently I found out that somebody had translated one of my posts into Russian. At least I thought it's Russian. Or was it Hebrew? They looked the same to an untrained eye. Although my eyesight is poor, my eyes are very well-trained, with all those training programs (and meals) I was forced to attend in my 30 years with Petronas. I can tell cyrillic numbers and characters when I see them. No mistake here. Russian, 100%.

But why? Why would anyone want to translate it into Russian, of all languages. Why not Swahili, for example? Bad example. Why not Arabic or Aramaic? That's better. And who? I've an Indonesian follower (after intense campaigning and cajoling), but no Russian or half-Russian. Is this a fit and proper translation? I mean, Is it contextual? Or just lateral and literal like "jangan bersetubuh merata-rata dengan saya" (You know the English version)?

I was plain excited and, for the first time since City beat the living daylights out of United, I was very pleased with myself. Who wouldn't, I mean, my work had been translated into Russian, and it's now in the same league as Russian-translated classics like Hamlet, Madame Bovary and Blue Ocean Strategy. You're a loser, Kit Siang. I started seeing strange things: Pussy Riot reading my blog, Roman Abramovich mulling a buy-over of my blog as part of his billion-dollar oil acquisitions, Russian mafias deciphering my blog for secret messages. My euphoric bubble was rudely crushed when Aida told me that Google and all 100,000 Apple apps can now translate any language into any language (except, maybe, Kelantanese) with half a click. No big deal, she added, with a chuckle.


In case you're interested, here's the Russian version of my post. The English title is "In Praise Of Poetry/What Is This Life". Laugh.  

      

Live Longer, Don't Live In USJ 2

It's now official.  USJ 2 in Subang Jaya, where I'm writing this, is a crime hotbed. After a series of laborious labs and other cutting-edge methodologies, the Government Transformation Program (GTP) team and McKinsey or whatever have finally nailed down the 50 most crime-ridden areas in the country. USJ 2 is in. So is USJ 3, 4, 5 all the way to 21.  I've not seen the full list, but I won't be the least surprised if USJ 2 is in the top 3, only marginally safer than Plentong in Johor Baru. Subang Jaya/USJ area has one of  the highest, if not the highest, boom gates density in the country and Nepalese-speaking guards per capita outside Nepal. In fact the scientific term "boom gate" was coined by a  late ( and probably lazy) Subang Jaya resident who thought the explosive word could scare off aspiring burglars.

Why they took this long to confirm what I'd long suspected is beyond me. But to be fair to the GTP/McKinsey crowd, I just happen to have an extensive experience in police-work: I watched every episode of Monk (eight seasons) and black-and-white Columbo (seven seasons), both painfully slow and deranged detectives. Plus I used to work on a clever Petronas project in Indonesia, where you could score a quick win by correctly guessing that the person you met was anti-Petronas. So my nose and hunch are sharper now.

I've a rich personal experience with crime and police. At least crime and police in USJ. My friendly neighbour down the street just had his house broken in early this month. Every one of our friendly neighbours without rottweilers has had some break-in or near break-in experience. They all live to fight another day but the trauma lives on. Ah, that's not my personal experience, it's my neighbours' experience. Did you say that? Wait, my house was broken in twice in two years (and, for good measure, one near break-in in between). We lost watches, laptops, fake bangles, and, worst of all, all sense of security. All of the little remaining faith in the police vanished in less than sixty seconds. We'd to wall up a beautiful English-countryside window, and our fresh air intake now is only half of the Euro clean-air level. How's that for personal experience? We went to the police, nothing came out. No updates, nothing and next to nothing. The construction colonies nearby were left undisturbed. Probably the police were busy with the GTP, compiling, sifting and selecting the crime statistics in Putrajaya. It's not easy to choose which statistics to use. Just my hunch.

Well, for a change, I've some selective police statistics, if you're interested. These damning numbers aren't new because they've been bandied about by PKR. Apparently the Special Branch had produced 382,000 reports of political activities and 351,000 security checks (total 733,000), meaning 4% of adult Malaysian legal citizens have been investigated. So assuming that you're adult and legal (just because you can read this), your odds of being investigated for some reason (eg terrorism) or other (eg maids abuse) are better than those of Liverpool winning the English Premier League this season. Scared? Go ahead.

Ha, ha, we're not done. Records also showed that the Criminal Investigation Department opened 212,000 files on crime. 733,000 reports on political activities, and only 212,000 reports on crime? No wonder. Despite all this gross disproportion, the GTP/McKinsey lab rats proudly claimed that overall crime in 2011 had declined 11.1%. Really? 11.1 and not 11.11? There's plenty of scientific or medical terms for this condition: delusion, denial, deception, fabrication, factitious, fictitious, panic, crap, bollocks. Even if, and it's a big if, the numbers were true, the quality vs quantity conundrum will kick in. What has gone down? Shoplifting? Trafficking of Malayan tapirs? I know for sure maid abuses have gone down drastically because Malaysian families were desperately running out of maids to abuse. What's important to you and me is, do we feel safer now than we did, say, five or ten years ago? Instead of secret labs, why not run an open, transparent poll using only one simple question: Do you feel safe now? My hunch: it'll be a hung 50:50. That is, 50% will respond "definitely not", and the remaining 50% will respond "definitely not, stupid !".

We're still not done. As part of its crime-fighting proposal, the GTP/McKinsey labs have proudly published a police station league table and, you've to believe this, a car park league table. If you're a retiree and already a fan of Manchester United of the English Football League, you can now be a fan of Palekbang Police Station and Empire Gallery car park. You can follow your portfolio and test your blood pressure by watching the three league tables change every week. Retiring is never tiring.


The labs also found out that "most cars were stolen on the streets, at home and from public parking places...". Really? The government spent RM100 million or more so that these GTP geniuses could uncover and pinpoint these three 'not-so-obvious' car-theft areas? My youngest (smiling above) could've told me as much without thinking. 99.9 % of cars are parked at these three places. So what're we left with? Only three safe places to park your cars: Petronas service stations, Tanjung Golden Village and GTP labs. Police stations? Well,....

Note: For indemnity purposes, I'd like to state that McKinsey above means McKinsey or BCG or Bain or Bane or any consultancy singly or jointly advising the GTP team.              

  

Who's Writing This Stuff

Manchester City are the English football champions!

It’s history now, but one worthy of reliving for its sheer drama, sensation and spectacle. It’s never quite sunk in: Aguero stabbed the ball home, plunging the proverbial knife into a million or more United hearts. One US ESPN commentator simply lost all control and restraint to let out a massive orgasmic scream: “Who is writing this stuff?!”. Raptorous cries of disbelief amid scenes of chaos and confusion sharply captured the seemingly scripted, bollywoodesque final flourish of what had been a season on steroid. Two goals at the death had cruelly snuffed out the flicker of somebody’s title number twenty. If City had to win the title, this had to be the only way.  

You don't have to guess. I'm a lifelong City follower, and I make no apologies about this. So it's an irony of sorts that City's epic triumph means it's my turn to eat crow and humble pie. In a recent scathing post, I recklessly wrote off City's title chances when its run was in senseless tailspin, with six more games to go. In hindsight, it’s a misadventure that's more misguided than the Malaysian submarines. I was sleep-walking, all broken and semi-psychotic after that loss to Swansea. I'd been to Wales once and long enough to dismiss Welsh culture of one-vowel-in-ten-letter words as a non-starter. So you can understand why losing to a Welsh backwater hadn't been that easy to live with.

Even for the most deluded of City fans, the reversal from eight points adrift to eight-goal ahead was beyond belief, and Aguero's last-gasp masterstroke was paranormal activity. I watched that goal, I don't know, 20, 30 times, and it got better every time. So other-worldly. It's a fleeting piece of poesy the way badboy Balotelli flicks and Aguero jinks, measures, strikes and buries all of 44 years of misery.

Misery? Never. City aren't United or York for a reason. They haven't won the league for more than 40 years, but if you follow this crowd, there's plenty of obsessive-compulsive pleasures on offer. Not to mention false dawns. Was it poet laureate A Samad Said who said setiap yang dihasrat tapi tak dapat, itulah nikmat yang paling padat, or something like that? I know life’s easier if you took the cut-and-dried route and declared yourself a fair-weather fan of United or Liverpool, just like the meek and me-too classmates at the old Tiger Lane, but what's the point? There's no fun in winning every time or nineteen times. Winning every 40 years is fine, and fun. I'll take this one.

United lovers and United-loving media, bitter to the bone, were out in force, falling all over with outlandish excuses and theories and grapes to cushion the blow and rub all the gloss off City's title. QPR surrender monkeys, goal difference, 19-3, Abu Dhabi, Pippa Middleton, you name it. Truth is, the title is won over 38 games, and United have had their unfair and disproportionate ride on luck and 10-man opponents all season. Look hard at Fletcher's goal against City at Old Trafford. Pure, sure luck. It's 0-6. Anyway, spare a thought for these sad detractors. How could they ever reconcile and get over the pain of one hand jealously holding on to the crown right into the last breath of the season.  Only for City to snatch it away.

I know what you're thinking. This moment of glory will stay. If City make it a habit to win the title every 40 years, I'll be either hundred or history when City take the next one. Either way, it'll be all fine, because the poet is right.   

Welcome to Malaysia, Guys.

 

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While we're at this, Forbes has recently floated a new number for the United fanbase: 659 million, more than double the previous 330 million. Here's a Yahoo! reader's thought on this:

"659 million fans?? Really? Approximately one in ten of the world's population? Whose misguided sad little moronic brain came out with this figure? I might have accepted 65.9 million......."

This straight-thinking guy, name Erik B, is from Concord, New Hampshire, USA, and I don't think he's a City supporter. Should we agree with him?
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Champions rejoiced. Me and Mike Summerbee, the City/England legend with the EPL Champions Trophy. We're both happy that City are English League Champions and Kelantan are Malaysian Super League Champions

       

A Picture of Paris

We 're at No 19

It's Paris this time. We're in the City of Lights from 6 to 12 June this year. Why go to Paris? Is this a silly question? 16 million people went to Paris last year, ask all of them to be sure. We'd drawn up a whirlwind itinerary with an ambitious 1000 km road trip out of Paris, just to experience the fringes of France. Since it wasn't going to be Paris as usual, we're a little uneasy initially. The French speak, well, French. And they drive on the right side of the road, which is the wrong side in Malaysia. While we could quickly pick up some useful French at Carrefour,  it's impossible to learn to drive on the right (wrong) side in Subang Jaya. With all the reckless drivers and police road blocks, it's actually impossible to drive even on the left (right) side. Confused, sorry. With hundreds of books and movies and jokes already on France, French and Paris, I'd understand if you question the wisdom writing about Paris.  

 

Paris when I was young

Paris: My Early Years

Just to be clear, I wasn't born in Paris. Or near Paris. It's just that I first heard of Paris in the early sixties, 64, or maybe 66, when Kota Bharu was dubbed Paris of the East. I'm serious. Kota Bharu, Paris of the East! I'm still not sure who started it, but he must have been long (and quite rightly) gone by now, taking the misplaced moniker with him. In those days without internet and android, plenty were left to imagination. So my first (mental) picture of Paris was a heady riverine town teeming with women selling their wares, and men just loafing and lazing about. I grew up with this idea until I learned geography and the teacher showed me, for the first time, a picture of Paris. From the grainy, black-and-white footage it's impossible to pinpoint any similarity that could vindicate the lavish comparison. So I promised myself that one day I must see Paris and settle this important issue, once and for all.

Cheap. But you've to pay for luggage, seat, water, air, pilot

Dream Deal

In the good old days of one malaised airline system, going to Paris was looked down as highbrow, extravagant and downright snobbish. You went to Paris for only two reasons: one, you're rich (and corrupt), and two, you're rich (and corrupt). But thanks to Air Asia and its new business model, Paris now is more affordable than Lahad Datu. With one caveat: you've to book at least 50 months ahead. That's what we did. We booked 15 months ahead (not 50, but close enough). Eight of us for less than RM1500 per pax. I hate the word  pax due to its vague origin and fraud undertone, but the price was real. I can promise you if you book on Malaysia Airlines today for a flight to Lahad Datu on 16 June (return 24 June), you've to shell out RM1934, yes, per pax. On top of that,  you've to find one good reason to go to Lahad Datu, and for that long.

I thought it's a good deal even with potential show-stoppers like dengue pandemic (everybody), full-blown arthritis (my wife) or plain old age (me). The wait was admittedly very long. It's so long that my second boy decided to get married in the meantime. And Tan Sri Tony had all the luxury to think, rethink, rerethink and finally decide to discontinue the Paris route, and bought Queens Park Rangers. We're understandbly and visibly and mentally shaken because we'd already memorized three French survival phrases: "Good day" (Bonjour), "Thank you " (Merci) and "Can we get a discount" (Can we get a discount?). But it turned out to be a sliver of good fortune, and an already good deal became a better deal when Air Asia rebooked us on Malaysia Airlines, with peanuts and Malay horror movies thrown in at no additional cost, per pax (damn it).

What? Only eight passports?

Flying To France (5 June 2012, Tuesday)

The wait's finally over and we're fit enough to fly to France. France? My sister or brother-in-law will jump. Yes, Paris is not a country. It's a city in France, just like Ottawa in Japan. Despite all the relentless reruns of Killer Crocodiles on National Geographic and killer judges in Masterchef, geography skills are now at an all-time low. Why learn geography when you have GPS, and Instagram? Why learn anything at all?

It's a 13-hour, midnight flight from KLIA to Charles De Gaulle Airport. I was bunched smack in the middle of the middle rows with wife, my two girls Aida and Sarah, my two boys Asrif and Fadli and their wives Azalia and Siti Sarah. It's my first trip with daughters-in-law and I'm not sure what to make of this new business model. I guess they're just delighted being a few feet away from their in-laws for 13 hours straight! Ha ha ha. Anyway, we landed at 6.30 morning local time and CDG was surprisingly fast. We're cleared before 7.00 and all set to invade France, home of haute couture, cafe culture and 400 cheeses!

We smiled because we're hungry

Handsome Honfleur (6 June 2012, Wednesday)

We had six days and the plan was to spend only the last three days in Paris. We rented two cars at CDG (Citroen C4 and Peugeot 207, both hybrid), and spun out of Paris towards Normandy. With onboard GPS, my Google routes were of little use. The first stop-over was Honfleur, an idyllic and breathtakingly beautiful harbour town, with unmistakable French charm and character. It's our first flavour of France. We'd yet to taste the cheese, but we're already impressed.

Still looking for the Germans

D-Day at D Day Beaches (6 June 2012, Wednesday)

For movie and history buffs and the few remaining geography holdouts, a visit to D-Day Beaches in Normandy is de rigueur. We never realised it until we're well on the way that 6 June (today) was D Day in 1944. It's a pleasant surprise, even for accidental tourists. We reached Arromanches, the D Day ground zero, and practically gate-crashed into a loud parade and pageantry to mark the 68th D-Day anniversary. You could view the tell-tale leftovers of the Allied offensive, and it's hard not to feel and share the all-round festive and evocative mood with the marching veterans. It's even harder to explain to Aida and Sarah the meaning of all this fuss and commotion while they're busy with Instagram. It's drizzling when we headed out for another famous D-Day site: Omaha Beach and American Military Memorial (recall the stirring opening scenes of Saving Private Ryan). The beach was open, but the memorial had just closed for the day. We're not exactly gutted as it's already past midnight in KL. After five hours of chomping on chips and chocs, Sarah was screaming for some real food.

It's clear that Etap is not Hyatt

Hotel Etap Bayeux (7 June 2012, Thursday)

It's summer, and days broke at 3.00 am in Normandy. Hotel Etap was a minimalist's delight (means cheap) but pleasant enough with Ikea feel, free wifi, flatscreen in French and toilet half my size. It's just outside an ancient city named Bayeux, about 300 km from Paris. A heavy downpour washed out our plan to see Bayeux and its world-famous tapestry in the morning.  

Everybody in this village was hiding from us!

Saint-Ceneri-de-Gerei (7 June, Thursday)

From Bayeux/Normandy to the Loire Valley, we took an off-road, cutting through quiet and quaint villages and small towns with no people, no cars and no hurry. Only bliss and glory. What a wondrous drive. What naturally came to mind was Subang Jaya and its motley mix of woman schoolbus drivers, Nepalese security and Nigerian faux students I'd to navigate on daily basis on the way to the grocery. Finally we reached this exotically-named village by a river, officially certified as one of Les Plus Beaux Villages de France. You guess. Apparently this place had been inhabited since the 8th century. It's hard to argue with that after just one look at the walls, roofs and windows. The famous 300-year old mosque in my birthplace Kg Laut is avant-garde compared with anything in this village.

Romancing the stone?

Chenonceau Chateau (7 June, Thursday)

We're deep in the Loire, a region straddling the Loire River, famed for its fifteen castles and freak-out fees. But why did the French build their castles here instead of Paris? Must be herd instinct or money laundering or both. Whatever the reason, the conventional wisdom was that it's a shame not to visit any or all of them. None of us was a castle connoisseur, so we chose the one at Chenonceaux. With its imposing tower, stone bridge, standard moats, expansive gardens and cramped kitchen cum torture chamber, Chenonceau was delicate and graceful enough. But I still came out questioning why people love seeing castles (and why I kept typing cattle instead of castle). I mean with all the sordid stuff like murders, torture, forced labour that took place. I'd been to a castle only once before: Leeds Castle in England in 1993, some twenty years ago. If I were to have a castle KPI, it would read something like "visit another castle in 2032".

Sorry, this moral thought on Chenonceau, or castles in general, is mine alone, and in no way reflects my daughters-in-law's views.You may call them directly if you want to know their opinions.

On the way to a showdown with Count Dracula

Amboise and Leonardo da Vinci (7-8 June, Thursday-Friday)

Amboise was a pretty place with its own, hold your breath, castle. To appreciate its beauty, and the castle, one must view it from across the Loire River. The great inventor Leonardo da Vinci died in Amboise. I guessed if Amboise was good for a genius, then it's good enough for us. So we checked in at a Hotel Chaptal, right in the city centre, close to a small Carrefour shop, where a 1.5 litre bottle of Evian or Volvic could be had for 0.60 Euro (RM2.40). Mineral water was about the only cheap stuff in France. And cheese.

 This couple is older than the castle

Without that Laumiere, this could pass for Puchong.

Evening in Paris, Etap La Villette, 19th Arrondissment (8 June, Friday)

It's evening when we finally hit Paris. Ah, An Evening in Paris, Sharmila Tagore, dekho, dekho, dekho, dekho! Our base camp was Etap Hotel in la Villette neighbourhood in Paris 19th district. A good location actually, with CDG only 20 km away, a Franprix grocery (and cheap Evian) just next door, and halal Turkish joints with loud music all around. With the nearest Metro station (Laumiere) only 50 metres away, we're actually no more than 20 minutes away from Eiffel Tower, Louvre, and Arc de Triomphe.

Where's my goat cheese?

Latin Quarter ( 9 June, Saturday)

Latin Quarter, not Latin Quartet. Purportedly the coolest of all tourist hotspots in Paris. Latin used to be the language of choice. Now it's all languages except Latin. We started quite early (meaning at 10) to catch the morning market at rue Mouffetard, at the end of Latin Quarter. It's a typical street market with vendors selling fresh fruits, fish, pastry, antiques, collectibles. And cheese. Lots of cheese, all shapes, flavours and origins. A cheesemaker named Andre pulled me aside and embarked on a five-generation family history of his specialty. I just played along and even sampled one of his masterpieces. It's as goat as it got. We stopped by Paris Grand Mosque, but it's closed. We moved on, passing the imposing Pantheon, staid Sorbonne, chaotic cafes, cafe chaos, and finally found a bench at the lush Luxembourg garden to settle down. The golden apples from Mouffetard market were sweet and crunchy.  A big, colourful crowd here, as expected. Honestly I couldn't quite see the lure of Luxembourg. It's vast and free, fair enough, but that's about all. Maybe it's different in fall or spring.  But for sheer variety and topography, our Lake Garden can hold its own.

What? You mean, no  roti canai?

Shakespeare and Notre Dame (9 June , Saturday)

From Luxembourg Garden, it's an easy stroll to Notre Dame, the iconic cathedral and an enduring Paris landmark. On the way, we dropped into Shakespeare and Company, a fabled and much revered bookseller and publisher (Don't ask me why). With their own literary pantheon and leading lights, why're the French still banging the Bard? You could sense and technically scent the offbeat culture with the artsy and literati set crowding and sweating it out in this rundown and shabby shop. Even with my sparse French, I could lip-read two Sorbonne students arguing heatedly on who'd actually coined the trick line "I think, therefore I am". (Not Michel Platini. He's way too short for such complex thinking).

Notre Dame was an architectural tour de force. I'm sure its overwhelming presence, intricate design and ostentatious facade had deeply inspired and driven many artists, photographers and story tellers, but it remains very much a minimalist's bad dream. No entrance fee here, probably the reason for the endless queue to get inside. But after a dose of dark castle yesterday, we're in no mood for more ghosts.

The biggest bookstore in Paris

Found my toilet. It's called Cartier here.

A Princely Pee on Champs-Elysees (9 June, Saturday)

We parted after Notre Dame. I was left with wife, Aida, Sarah and three Paris maps.  Asrif and Azalia were still jostling with the hippies at Shakespeare and Company.  Fadli and Siti were probably rushing through all one hundred museums in Paris. We took the Metro from Les Halles exiting right before Arc de Triomphe, another Paris landmark, where Champs-Elysees begins. Champs-Elysees just blew away everything before it. It's an oversize, tree-lined thoroughfare littered with all the famous upscale and luxury brands and cafes crawling with Qataris. There's a long queue of excitable Chinese and Japanese waiting to get into the Louis Vuitton flagship store, reminding me of a similar long queue at a rojak stall at SS15 in Subang Jaya. A mamak and a French, but same marketing ploy.

My 59-year old bladder was hitting the tipping point and I'd to find the toilets. One of the things I loved about Paris was its abundant public toilets, mostly clean and free, some with English-speaking attendants. But none in sight on Champs-Elysees. After a bit of frantic Harrison Ford-style running around, I finally I found one. Good news: it's open. Bad news: I'd to pay 2 Euro per pee or poop (RM 8). Good news: It's cheaper than any LV bag. Well, this is the country that gave us the term laissez-faire. Willing buyer, willing seller. It's probably my most expensive pee ever.

Shhhhh. That guy on the bench is Datuk Shake

Flop market

Puces St Ouen  (10 June, Sunday)

Don't come here. It's the biggest flea market in Paris and our biggest flop in Paris. It's overrun with West African traders, probably illegal, selling fake China-made shirts and shoes. If you had to go to a street market, don't go to Paris. Go to Shah Alam Stadium on Sunday morning, or better still, to Kota Bharu for its bundle outlets and night market at Wakaf Che Yeh.

Actually I can jump higher if I see Katy Perry

Eiffel Tower (10 June, Sunday)

Finally the inevitable: we came face to face with the face of Paris, La Tour Eiffel. From afar you'd easily fall for its stylish and symmetrical lines, but as you close in, you'd mistake it for a mass of unfinished steelwork. Built 120 years ago, Eiffel Tower is both an eternal engineering triumph and a powerful cultural statement, not to mention a lucrative financial statement from ticket sales. As a way of expressing our own artistic and cultural instincts, we had a small picnic on the bank of the Seine, just across the Eiffel Tower. Nothing grand, just an Algerian grilled chicken (bought at St Ouen), potato chips, chocolate and, of course, mineral water. Fadli and Siti were safely with us. We're not sure where Asrif and Azalia were, but I'd bet my last Euro that they're at the bloody Shakespeare and Company again.

Showing off our culture

 

Walking the Quai, Eiffel to Louvre (10 June, Sunday)


We lost Fadli and Siti among the thick crowd and long lines at the foot of the Eiffel. They're off to secretly finish their 100-museum tour. So we decided (actually I decided) to walk to the Louvre, the home of Mona Lisa. From the map, it looked like a leisurely 1 km walk along the panoramic quai (footpath along the left bank) of the Seine. Clearly my eyes were failing. It's actually 3.9 km, and my old Timberland broke. But it's well worth it. Paris is best enjoyed on foot, and true enough. The right-bank view from the quai was simply stunning, with rows of period buildings, monuments, galleries, boulevards, monuments again, trees and gardens, arch bridges and VSB (very slow boats, got you). It's Paris on song. Would I be passing this way again?

It's already late when we reached the Louvre. Along the way it's a feast for the eyes, with picture-perfect Pont Alexandre III bridge, laid-back Tuileries Garden and elegant Place de la Concorde the standouts. I counted no less than five museums in between, and we even sneaked into one of them (named Petit Palais), just for the hell of it. I can tell you now that it had lots and lots of old stuff (it's a museum, what do you expect?). And, before I forget, it had ultra-modern toilets.

River, boats, men doing nothing. This must be Kota Bharu.

Done 2 km. 2 km to go. Give me Additional Maths, please

Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves (10 June , Sunday)

Paris is a city for perennial lovers, and occasional pickpockets. We knew this well. The Metro station near Louvre was terribly crowded with people rushing out after viewing live Mona Lisa (painting), and discovering that Da Vinci Code was part of a football betting ring. As the train pulled in, we moved on with the crowd, and a group of two young boys and two girls suddenly appeared. They squeezed and hustled us in. In the thick of things, wife suddenly realised that one of them was dipping into her handbag. She started, and the thieves quickly got off. Nothing was taken, maybe nothing worth taking. As the train was speeding away, I had a good look at the boys: sharp dress, black hair, pink face with a permanent smirk. Somehow we're not too upset. "We'll live" I assured Aida and Sarah. We'd had two break-ins and two MCA-DAP debates in two years, pickpockets didn't scare us.

Waiting for  gypsies?

The Annick Goutal Girl at Galeries Lafayette (11 June, Monday).      

Ah, it's just me and wife in Paris. Everybody else was off to Disney. With a combined age of over 110 years, we're definitely too old for Disney. Well, we're too old for anything. So, today's free and easy for us, but locking up in Etap wasn't an option.  Lucky thing we'd something in common: I'm crazy about Manchester City, the most famous football champions, and she's crazy about Annick Goutal, an almost-famous French perfume. (See, we're both crazy). You can get Annick Goutal any day at Pavilion or KLCC, problem is there's no way of knowing whether it's a girl or a boy at the counter, if you know what I mean. Let's get Annick Goutal in Paris then, and the sure place was Galeries Lafayette, the doyenne of all department stores.

After yesterday's mayhem on Metro, wife's now all game for the gypsies: she'd stuffed her bag with tons of toilet rolls and panty liners. It's a 20-minute Metro from our Laumiere station to Chausee d'Antin La Fayette, the station for both Galeries Lafayette and its competitor-from-hell Printemps. It's a smooth, gypsy-free ride. Galeries Lafayette was big. I mean big, like three five-floor blocks of it. Stepping in, we're instantly overcome by the opulent and ornate atmosphere. Further inside, this sense of grandeur was somewhat sullied by the sight of long lines of horny Chinese at LV and Longchamps boutiques. Same rojak trick here. After a short swing, we found Annick Goutal, and immediately got down to business, chatting away with the girl at the counter. Yes, a girl, we're sure of this. And very pretty, too, mixed French Vietnamese, named Marianne, pronounced Maghian, with soft g. How about that.  She's planning to visit Vietnam and might stop over in Malaysia or Singapore. We wrote our home address and phone so that she woudn't waste money on shady hotels in Pudu area. (No gimmick, we're sincere). And the perfume, it's cheaper than Pavilion, so we'd no reason not to buy. Wrapping up our purchase, she quietly pulled out another 100 ml bottle, packed it all together, and pressed it into our hands. Her gift. We simply ran out of words.

Empty streets sans mat rempits,  just like Subang Jaya at 2 am. 

In Praise of Paris (11 June, Monday)                    
  
The rues (streets) connecting Galeries Lafayette, Opera, place de la Madeleine and place Vendome is a traveler's delight, even for a pathological currency converter like us. Ambling along, we're swamped by an eclectic array of expressive buildings, structures, monuments. The lovely boutiques and crowded cafes and, of course, the French and Parisians going about their business. And no skyscrapers or twin towers to intimidate you. So rich, so vibrant, so cultured, it's hard to believe that DSK was born and brought up here. We're just happy to hang about, savouring the splendid sights and scenes panning out before us, and drawing some sense of perspective at every turn. Paris, decidedly, is not Kota Bharu of the West.

We can confirm now that hunchback was a hoax

Without lalang, our garden back home would look like this

Au Revoir (12 June, Tuesday)

Aida, Sarah, Asrif, Azalia, Fadli and Siti were still buzzing with Disneyland. It cost them an arm and a leg, but what the hell. It's time to leave Paris and conclude this journey of romance and love (ha ha ha). We knew we'd not seen all of Paris. I'd yet to see the other 99 museums. We left Etap at 8.00 and reached CDG with plenty of time for our MH 021 flight at 12.30. There's still one final bit of business just before flying off: I bought a 360 gm fromage de France. French cheese.

Sarah shouting: Ayah, are we walking back to Subang Jaya?

Our bags are 50% lighter without sambal ikan bilis

 All Set For Next Trip..........Lahad Datu

 

      



  

   






    

The City Sinks: Why Manchester City Will Finish Second Or Worse

Manchester City won't be champions. They might even finish third. I'm bucking my own trend by being ahead of myself this time. The English Premier League is six matches away from conclusion and I'm not only writing off City for the title, I'm also offering reasons and some hard truths. Even for a team living with false dawns, City's tailspin at the tail end calls for hindsights. You want to know why a team that had been scoring with abandon have suddenly abandoned scoring. And how's it possible for a team badly bashed in Basel and Bilbao to rack up impossible points in England. I think I can get away with these five reasons:

1. Fergie and Fourteen Friends: It's obvious that Man Utd is the reason why City failed so spectacularly. But that's not my point. It's the 14 teams outside the top six. Watch teams like West Brom and Wolves "stand up" to Man Utd by giving away only four goals and all three points. Watch them play against City and suddenly it's three points between life and afterlife. There's a certain pleasure in beating City. David Moyes claimed it's his sweetest moment. Swansea is still in denial and disbelief. Stoke celebrated a draw.

2. Vincent Kompany: Almost all EPL team managers agreed that he's the best defender in the EPL, if not Europe. But he missed a dozen league and cup games with injuries and red cards. City crashed out of Carling Cup, FA Cup and Europa crap in his absence. And that run-wrecking loss to Swansea. What's so great about having the best defender on earth if you can't play him?

3. The FA and Foy: A bit of history here. The English Football Association as an institution was founded and organised for the sole purpose of making Manchester United the champions. So the whole machinery, manpower and apparatus, including fixtures, officials and cup draws, must be mobilised toward achieving this noble objective. If City were allowed even half of Man Utd's preprogrammed luck or Foy's favour, City would have won the title by 10 points. Points, not goals. City's only slice of fortune was that last-minute penalty against Spurs. Man Utd played against ten men, I don't know, eight, nine, ten times?  I've lost count. But don't worry, once the title is all safe and sewn up by Man Utd, the FA and the referees will even things up. No retrospective action against Balotelli, the FA just announced. More to come. Just wait.

4. Roberto Mancini. Or rather, Roberto Mancini's language skills. His command of the language is built around a vast vocabulary of one word: IMPORTANT. "It's important that we win the next game". "It's important that we win the next 11 games". "It's important that I punch Balotelli everyday". How can he pass on his Serie A (anti) football ideas to his players? And motivate, counsel, blame them? It's impossible to know what's not important. I heard it's a communication breakdown when Kolarov replaced Nasri against Arsenal (Mancini had actually asked David Platt himself to replace Nasri). Lately his English has developed such sophistication that Sir Alex often mistakes it for mind games.

5. Michel Platini: Definitely had a hand in this, only we're not sure how.

6. Balotelli: No. Don't believe all the media mayhem. He's only as guilty as Joe Hart. The only genuine talent in City squad, he's cleverer than Cleverly everyday. Watch his goal at Blackburn again. And those penalty chops. Convenient smoke and mirrors for Mancini's missteps. Keep him.

Mindless Miscellany (No 10)

2012 has been a pathetically slow year. We're into the third month, nothing has moved, and there's a 2011 feel all-round. Most of what's being passed as burning issues now are actually holdovers from the past year: Greek tragedy, next election, more black money handouts, next election, cattle battle, next election, maids wait, Maharaja Lawak. Even Whitney Houston feels like Michael Jackson. But to the curious and industrious mind, there's plenty to feast on if you care to flick behind the calm exterior.

1. Hang Tuah Hoax

"There's no Hang Tuah" declared a professor emeritus and spartacus, fuelling a firestorm of protests from legions of legend lovers. This guy is the last word in Malaysian history, so he should know. "Show me the proof" he challenged further, emboldened perhaps by the absence of any Hang Tuah apps on Android. I've a deep and emotional Hang Tuah experience. My form six Bahasa Melayu text book was Hikayat Hang Tuah. Heavy and humdrum like any Stephen King, it's crawling with purported Malay words like sendal, kalakian, arakian, bolak. Problem was, my Bahasa Melayu grade and university entrance would rest on my mastery of this subject. While reading this tome as it was was bad enough, I'd to also read into his character and charisma and form an opinion or two about his leadership style. Well, I thought he's all screwed up or worse. I didn't do too well in the paper, not with an opinion like that. In hindsight, I should've studied low-temperature physics, no opinions. Now, do I agree with the professor? I'd be his grand witness if he got sued or anything. Distractions and delusions like Hang Tuah are the reason behind the steady stream of Malay horror movies and head-banging Astro lawak serials.

2. Mongoose, Civet and Submarine

Old stuff, but you're probably still on the floor laughing. It's as mindless as it gets. The Ministry of Defence posted its official "Dress Code" on its website and had to take it down shortly after a roaring and rolling review by the public. The English translation was so fraught with flubs that it's hard to choose the stand-outs. I like the one on "cekak musang", where it's translated as "tight civet". Further down, you'll discover that it's also translated as, hold your breath, "mongoose fight". Until today I still can't still figure out why there're two versions of the same translation. I mean tight civet is bad enough, why offer an option. My guess is that this very ministry that's given us the submarines isn't sure which animal is right for musang: civet or mongoose. They should consult National Geographic on the right animal, and the right submarine, too. I'm not sure who and how the ministry decided on the translation, and I don't think the minister (a PhD, no less) was involved. This maybe an extremely bad case, but it's certainly not an isolated one. If you're free, visit the websites of some of our local universities. Yes, universities. Read the English version.

3. Ranking Rankling

Another year, another ranking. This one from QS Quacquarelli Symonds Ltd, the same quacks who gave us the dubious World Best University Rankings. But this time it's a ranking of best cities for studies. No, not best cities to be studied on (Malacca wins this hands-down), but best cities to study in. In short, it's best cities for students. Paris is top. KL is 44th. I was surprised initially because this doesn't quite add up. None of our 100 local universities are anywhere near the top 100, and now KL is 44th. What gives? But slowly reason dawns. The ranking is based not just on university reputation, but also other measures like quality of life, affordability and job prospects. What immediately comes to mind is those Nigerians, Iranians, Colombians and Chinese nationals with student visas. And the daily footage of raids and arrests of foreign GROs, drug mules, black money scammers and even ATM machine busters. Now it makes perfect sense. KL has been grossly underrated actually. It should be top, not pedestrian Paris.

4. Boa Business

Competition took a wicked turn in Malacca recently with web postings of people being attacked and even swallowed by huge snakes at a supermarket in Cheng, 4 km from our historical city. Apparently the supermarket had been ridiculously reducing its prices to attract customers, prompting its rival or rivals to hit back hard with the scare tactic. It worked, because the supermarket suffered a 30% reduction in traffic. Postings disappeared when the owner lodged police reports and released its official clarification (and unofficial hitmen). I've never seen anything like this in my forty years tracking business trends and innovations. Harvard should write a case study on this. We've seen Blue Ocean, ambush marketing, cricket match fixings, ponzis, Kardashians, but this serpent strategy has no parallels. But this is Malacca, the city of static monorail, submarine museum and a chief minister who thinks like a box.

5. Sexed Tax

The Minister in charge of the Economic Transformation Program recently declared his support for the plain-sounding but evil-spreading Goods and Services Tax (GST). "We've 28 million people but only one million pay tax" he reasoned. Is that why we need a GST? To tax more people, even retirees, like me? Lots of clever talk lately on GST, mostly from the consultants and accountants, who scent potential blood for their flagging business. But when it comes from the blues-loving ETP champion, I'm seething. One million pay what tax? Income tax? How about 5% service tax on SMS and everything else? Stamp duties? Tax, duty, levy, penalty and extortion on non-Protons? 150% import duty on reconds? The problem with fiscal regimes like GST, VAT and NFC is that it's a dope in disguise. You'll get high on it. I've not seen a GST reduced anywhere, anytime in my life. Even rich and friendly Singapore has ramped up its GST from 3% to 7%. Zimbabwe is planning to abolish its 1000% GST and replace it with death penalty. GST is so fiendishly easy to tweak that it can sex you up for the merest of reasons. More money for uncivil civil servants? Raise GST. More submarines? Raise GST. More GST? Raise GST.


6. Liverpool vs Malaysia


The recent football Carling Cup Final between the English bluebloods and Welsh hunter-gatherers turned out to be a duel of equals after all. Liverpool prevailed by the slimmest possible margin after a lottery of spot kicks. Nothing to shout aloud, but a win is a win, bragged an insufferable Liverpool lover. With Cardiff players sporting "Malaysia" strip, I was rooting for Cardiff. I'd been fantasizing about a QPR and Cardiff final, just for the thrill of watching "Malaysia" against "Malaysia". Did you notice "Genting" on Aston Villa shirts, and "Air Asia" on the Referees' sleeves? Malaysia is making a statement in English football. But not for long. Unlike the Air Asia business model, football franchise is high-cost and long-haul. Ego trip and personal folly aside, there's very little economic sense in chancing your arm with make-believe like Cardiff or QPR. Dump QPR and cut your losses, Tony. Buy Kelantan football team. They're better than Barcelona. Low cost, high passion, sellout crowd.