A Tiger Lane Tribute: Abd Hamid Shafie (1953 - 2020)

It was 19 minutes past midnight when the phone chimed. My heart skipped one beat and sank. He was no longer with us. I could feel myself drifting back and forth in darkness, struggling in vain to get my head around this loss. There was no way out of the stifling sense of despair and disbelief.

Abdul Hamid Shafie was a classmate and a very close friend. Both of us were part of a gang of 73 fine-looking boys from all corners of the country who checked into our great school at the old Tiger Lane in Ipoh in January 1966. We travelled all the way to converge and begin what would turn out to be one incredible, life-shaping adventure.  

From my home in the remote corner of Kelantan, it took me 30 hours of slow train ride to reach Ipoh. It's well worth it.  Life at Tiger Lane was no bed of roses, if I'm honest.  A boarding school those days wasn't a wellness resort like it is now. We were left to learn little life skills and fend for ourselves. But it was also an opportunity to forge a lifelong friendship and fraternity. At the end of it all, we'd come out stronger, and ready to beat the world.

I remember food was free and generous, five times a day, but the quality was erratic. Fine cuisine one day, tropical hardwood the next. But it was still good value compared with what we used to get at home.  Beggars can't be choosers. 

The internet was a long, long way off. The only semblance of entertainment was the free weekly movies, mostly the slow early-sixties Jack Palance that did little to suppress the stress. But once in a while we got to watch some real action when the horny prefects muscled in with spot checks and dawn raids to nab luckless smokers and nocturnal transients. It was quite a spectacle.

Late 60's were the dawn of counterculture and flower power. Days hardly passed without images of students somewhere protesting or high on something. In the thick of all modern temptations, it was easy to feel deprived and grow disillusioned with the Periodic Table, Calculus and other ancient inventions.

But we were good and rode the momentum, never losing sight of the hallowed mission and purpose. We'd turn to sports, debates and bell-bottoms for solace and diversion. Some of us fell in love with books and studied really hard, days and nights, ran endless experiments in the labs, asked lots of curious questions, and finally got themselves good enough grades to fly to Brighton or somewhere very far to study hard again. And, of course, some of us who played hard and won trophies and broke all kinds of records just for fun. Hamid and I, we were neither.

Well, we weren't born to love classes and books. We were deeply inspired by "Leisure", a Georgian poem we'd learned by heart. "What is this life if, full of care...".  Nothing was urgent. We went through the motions and lived in the moment, so to speak. We were just happy to get by and, along the way, build some ideas and interests for a lifetime friendship.

It was in Form One that Hamid and I hit it off. I'm not sure what really pulled us to each other. He was from Selangor and didn't understand one Kelantanese word. He loved Maths while I loved nasi lemak. He was relatively well-heeled (his father drove a Ford Capri), so it was good to be his friend, if you know what I mean. The only hint of mutuality was our lean body mass and low centre of gravity, which might explain why we could never break into our school's all-conquering Rugby team.

He bunked in Black House, less than 50 metres from Blue House, my hostel. Inter-house travel was quick and easy. I could simply jumped off the window and ran over in less than one minute. So any time was a good time to make a courtesy call, or convene a serious meeting with him to plot next weekend's Ipoh outing, whether it was going to be Haathi Mere Saathi for the third time or latest kung-fu flick.

There was a small field right at the end of our hostel blocks where we'd meet in the afternoon with the other boys to test and show off our football skills. He wasn't exactly George Best, but had he been more serious, he could've carved out an exciting career with Selangor football. 

Instead he elected to commit his body and soul to Cricket, a sedentary sport normally played from early morning right to dinner time over two or three straight days. He played for school, which wasn't saying all that much in the way of skill and artistry, because most who played cricket played cricket for school.

After six glorious years, we parted ways. I stayed on for two years of Form Six, a new lease of life liberated from the tyranny of Physics and Chemistry. I'd to read "Sejarah Melayu" and I'd to memorize the mouthful names of all Malay/Indon warriors and I almost went mad. In hindsight I should've stayed on for another eight years and came out of the school with a PhD.

Hamid chose to go to ITM to do accounting. With Tiger Lane experience, ITM was a walk in the park. He later aced his ACCA to become a professional, public, certified, chartered accountant, which simply means he's an accountant. Only then I realized that he was quite clever. 

He landed a job even before his final exams. Market for accountants was scorching hot those days. There were only four or five Malay accountants at the time. The way I see it, an accountant is highly prized and paid but the work is generally painstaking and unexciting, I mean, if you compare it with, say, a criminal lawyer, or even criminals. I might be wrong.  

If you want to know, his daughter is also an accountant. So is his son-in-law.  You can only guess their dinner discussion -  depreciation, double declining balance and all the dire stuff.  When ribbed, he'd respond with standard riposte "I didn't force her to be an accountant. It's her choice". Of course, it's her choice. 

If you think Cricket and accounting are dull and dry, wait. He also played Golf. And Bowling. But let me be categorical here. Hamid wasn't dull and predictable. Never. At least not in the 55 years we've known each other.  He was lots of fun with plenty of people skills and persona to charm and disarm even sociopaths. Football, Cricket and Bowling are team sports, and a dull boy couldn't have fit in so well. 

His sense of humour was infectious. Cliche, you'd say. Everybody claims to have a huge sense of humour. But Hamid wasn't everybody. He was an accountant who played Cricket, remember? Really, he loved good jokes and bad jokes and had plenty to share around - office jokes, Golf jokes, Headmaster jokes, Sekolah Izzuddin jokes, you name it. We kept a couple of Tiger Lane jokes just between us because only two of us could relate. The one about "do you hear voices" was a peach. Brilliant, Mid, I'll keep it forever.

Still I was stunned to see him belting out a tune at his daughter's wedding a few years ago. It wasn't a joke but it felt like a joke. My wife stopped dead on her tracks and asked me just to be sure. I forgot the song, but it was him alright. There was very little talent on offer, but you'd have to admire his swagger.

       

He'd been unwell for some time, so I visited him on 3 June 2020, together with Azlan and Ahmad Darus, our Tiger Lane classmates. It was a happy occasion as we'd not seen each other since February this year. Our monthly Staroba usrah had been suspended by the new government, so there was very little opportunity to catch up. Even when we did finally meet, we could see only half of each other's face. 

He was jovial as we talked and joked like we always did whenever the Tiger Lane gang met for the past 55 years. His youngish looks and schoolboy smile belied his 67 years. On the way out we  stopped again at the gate for a brief banter before finally breaking up, one of Tiger Lane's notorious traditions. 

He passed away on 10 July.

     

I could write and fill up pages after pages in celebration of his life and legacy, but I'd still fall short. I'll treasure his simple gift of friendship, and remember him for what he was. Warm, sincere, generous, uncomplicated. He'd always be a lovely and loving husband, father, father-in-law, grand-father, and accountant, remember. And a  champion and a beacon that will continue to inspire and shine on his family and friends.

Thank you for everything, Mid.

Footnote:    
I've promised myself not go over the top with this tribute. I hope I've not. Just one more thing before I move on. It's a personal footnote, or maybe an afterthought, something that hit me early this morning while watching Manchester City, the team I've been following with plenty of passion since Tiger Lane days. Watching City's brand of flamboyant football is one of  the few worldly pleasures I'm still keeping to stay sane and sensible in the face of my daughters' made-in-Korea madness.

It was Hamid who introduced me to English football in 1968. The whole concept was new to me, I mean, from where I came it was forever Kelantan vs Trengganu. But he walked me through, with names and numbers and Shoot Magazine, all so convincing that I just bought into it. He was a Manchester United fan. "Hang follow la Manchester City" He urged me. I've never looked back since.

                      

    

We'd just beaten Brazil (Hamid, standing far Right) 

We didn't win anything. Medals were all fake (Hamid far Right).  

These guys didn't look too happy playing cricket (Hamid, 5th)

 Ipoh Station. Just happy without school uniforms (Hamid, 4th)

Hamid (far Right) With Tn Hj Ahmad Dahan(Ex HM, centre)

The Parlance of the Pandemic

This is no time to be old.

I'm on the sharp end of the pandemic, living dangerously every day to fight another day. The writings can't be starker. I'm easy pickings for the virus. I've to wash my hands one hundred times. And I can't touch my nose.

Suddenly staying home is so sexy. Like quantum physics, staying home is easy in theory. How do you fight the void and tedium? There's no English football, or any football, anywhere. But I still have to pay Astro in full and on time. And what do I get in return? Cynical reruns of old Star Wars and Die Hard franchises. Even in these difficult times there's no let-up in monopolist's penchant for extortion.  

I can't travel anywhere. I can no longer run in the evening. Running outside now is riskier than rock climbing. You'll be hit with RM 1000 or you'll be hit by a drunk driver, or both. So I'm mostly static now. Man, soon I'll be fat with fat.

A kind friend urged me to pick up guitar-playing, a low-energy pastime. According to him, in two weeks I should be able to play Evil Ways. My mother had rightly cautioned me against any artistic pursuit. The way I wailed, she knew I had neither talent nor patience. I think I'll stay with crosswords.

So what's left for an old man all at sea with a 60-year old full-time wife. Not much if I'm honest. The situation is still delicate and uncertain. The virus is still lurking. This so-called Restricted Movement is Wuhan Lockdown in all but name It could go on for many more months, or even years if you were gloomy enough. But I've full faith in hard-working scientists and medical researchers. I look up to these people simply because I failed my Form Five Chemistry. Pretty soon a cure or a vaccine or a new diet will be discovered and this pandemic would go the way of Typhoid, Mumps, Dodos etc. 

Once the dust has settled and we're all clear, we'd all look back "fondly" on the pandemic period. Vivid images and memories of face masks, PPEs, long lines, road blocks, GrabFood, Covid statistics,  Nepalese with thermometer guns, Ismail Sabri, Ismail Sabri's shirts etc would stream back, even with a nudge of nostalgia. And, don't forget, the new jargon and phrases that come with the virus. No sensible person would wish for a crisis and catastrophe, but when it comes, it'll invariably bring along its own glossary of wacky words and phrases.

During the infamous 13 May riots, the buzzword was "Curfew". This was 1969, so stop laughing. I was digging deep in a boarding school at Tiger Lane, in Ipoh.  We were locked in, or was it locked up?  Social media and foodpanda were a long, long way off, so news and food flew in at the speed of steamship -  tardy and patchy. I heard KL was burning, and Ipoh town could be next. Good thing food was available at our dining hall and on the table at every mealtime. It was food only in concept, but it was available. So we survived.

In the thick of all this confusion, I learned the word "Curfew”. Agreed it’s not as glitzy as present day's "Big Data" or "Asymptomatic", but quite a milestone for me. I'd come all the way from Kelantan with a paltry English vocabulary. Those days Kelantan was drug-free and peace-loving and people moved and married as they liked.  So the word and context of “Curfew” wasn't that easy for me to imagine.

Remember the MH 370 tragedy in 2014? At the height of the search and rescue maneuvers, I learned the word "Ping". Nothing elegant, but it's new to me. It's not related to any of the 153 Chinese passengers. "Ping" is satellite signal, and it's countable. One "Ping", two "Pings", a dozen "Pings", as many as you'd like to count.

So what would be the stand-out words and phrases during this pandemic? Too many to tally, if you asked me. The Corona crisis bearing hard on us now is a whole new ballgame, a black swan of sorts.  So the lexicon is understandably long, diverse and colourful. Some are scientific and impossible to understand, you know, terms like R0, Intubation, Mak Cik Kiah. There are straightforward ones like Lockdown, Swab, Tabligh Cluster, which need very little explanation. The lengthy and mouthful phrases have been strategically reduced to harmless-looking initials (PKP, PKPB, PKPP, WFH) to lull us into thinking that it's not a Lockdown. While the rest are catchy or rhyming expressions like Flattening the Curve, New Normal, Lives vs Livelihoods. "Curfew" is decidedly old-school and out-of-date.

With plenty of time on my hands, I've been poring over, reflecting and mentally rating these words. You've to believe this. I've whittled down the long list to seven for you and ranked them on a scale of 1 and 10, where 10 is "Good" and 1 is "Not Good". The rating is based on impact, sustainability and all-round ability to delight and inspire in challenging times.

Let me remind you, I did the rating. And the way I rated it, it's either 10 (Good) or 1 (Not Good), nothing between, so I've to be firm and bloody-minded.  It's unscientific, unconventional and biased because I’m skewed by my tastes, my experience, my mood, my wife. Let's begin:

New Normal (1) This phrase is show-offish, clichéd, overused, overrated and utterly uninspiring.

When our PM triumphantly declared that “we’ll be living with the new normal in the coming months or even years.....” he went at length and took pains to expound this new-found notion with layman examples. Well, the intent is noble enough. His manner and body language reinforced his belief that he’d firmly hit the nail on the head with the fancy phrase.

I don’t know who wrote the script, but I’m sure he was underestimating us. There’s nothing new about New Normal. It‘s a tired phrase used over and over again for the past twenty years, maybe longer. Hordes of economists and similar dismal scientists have been bandying about this catch-all cover to mitigate their failures.

It was New Normal after 9/11, it was New Normal after 2008 sub-prime meltdown, it was New Normal after the Russian mob bought Chelsea in 2003, it was New Normal after PH took over. After PH imploded, it was New Old Normal.

If the idea is to rally and inspire, recycling a tired phrase won’t cut through. It could even backfire. The term now carries with it an uncanny sense of surrender and submission. Try something fresh. Like what? Like one-off  RM 10,000 for every honest and hard-working retiree like me. 

Front-liners (10) In this dark and dangerous chapter, this simple term shines through and captures our imagination. It’s more figurative than literal. But it conveys its intent with depth, style and precision. The word rightly forces us to view this whole pandemic as a collective battle, with some of us choosing to fight right in-front and head-on.

Somehow this term has its flip side. For every good front-liner, there’s a bad front-liner lurking. These literal front-liners queue up at Tesco one full hour before opening. Their sole function in life and death is to empty the store shelves and stock up their kitchens with two lifetimes' continuous supply.

Highly driven and biologically bent, they get a lot of psychological satisfaction from the mundane act of depriving others. I can’t compete with this tribe, so they win every time. My breakfast has always been an all-bread affair. I had to go gluten-free for two weeks until Gardenia finally ramped up production.   

Back-door Government (1)  What? I understand your concern. This catch-line isn't in any way related to or brought on by the virus. It only had the misfortune of appearing right on the cusp of the outbreak, so it qualifies and sneaks into my list. Argue if you must but, remember,  this is my list.

To be fair, this whatever-you-want-call-it government is managing this pandemic superbly, even better than the front-door variants in the US and Europe. So don't get me wrong. I'm not saying that this government is a Back-door Government or a Back-door Government is "not good". That's still being debated by another forum with no conclusion forthcoming.

What I mean here is simply that Back-door Government, as a terminology and its etymology, is "not good". It's up there with the likes of Banana Republic, Basket Case, Kangaroo Court. In short, it's inelegant, ugly and disheartening. That's all.

If at all we need to name it, use other name or phrase. Maybe something French like Tour de force or Hors d'oeuvres. I know French is difficult to pronounce without appearing uneducated and corrupt, but that's exactly the intent.

Self-isolate (1) This is one of the hundreds of pandemic protocols, initially for those who’d just returned from overseas, including Sarawak. These returnees were asked to “self-isolate” for at least fourteen days. I can understand the fourteen days bit, but what's upsetting was the way this mild-mannered and pedestrian word or phrase has taken on a life of its own and grown in stature.

Today it's fashionable to self-isolate. Tom Hanks self-isolates. Idris Elba self-isolates. Prince Charles  rather happily self-isolates with the Duchess. Boris Johnson initially self-isolated, but was later treated and possibly ventilated and even rebranded.

Even our own embattled PM had to self-isolate. In theory he should've been holing up alone in an aircond room somewhere. It's a dandy time for him to relax, reflect and write poems, away from breakneck politics. But with no drone to track his movements, he could've conceivably walked over to Speedmart or Mydin to buy groceries and meet with his scientists to plot his way forward.  With recent revelation of conspiracy conversations, maybe it's safer to meet in supermarkets than  in Putrajaya.

Social Distancing (10) Highly original, imaginative and joyful phrase to come out of this pandemic. At first glance you might mistake it for "Social Dancing", which is what it looks like in practice: a choreography of people lining up at equal intervals, each nodding and jabbing at their mobile phone. This phrase is  so elegant and poetic that I’m drooling with delight.    

Not only that. Its Malay version “Penjarakan Sosial” is equally exquisite. The first time it hit me, I’d to pause and think. Then it all made sense. The phrase is so likeable and impactful that almost everyone seems to understand, agree and just comply without complaint.

If there's one positive outcome of this pandemic, it's "Social Distancing". My young daughter's daily commute to her office requires a one-hour LRT each way. She'd come back every evening joyless and worn out from trying to keep a decent, odour-free distance form the next person. With "Social Distancing" she comes back home full and fresh with enough energy left to think,  talk, eat etc. Make "Social Distancing" a law now, please.      

Do you notice a tinge of oxymoron in “Social Distancing”? There’s a slight contradiction in “Social” and “Distancing”, adding to its charm like the proverbial icing o the cake.

Stay at Home (1) I'm not saying "Stay At Home" is not good per se.  Everyone knows "Stay At Home" is good, except, maybe, Donald Trump. "Stay At Home" is not good only because "Stay Home" is better. Why say "Stay at Home" when "Stay Home" can do the job.

"Stay Home" is crisp, faster, more dramatic, not to mention more economical (two letters less). If you write it ten times, you'd save twenty letters. That's a lot of money if you're CEO of a GLC. It looks even more forceful and expressive when paired as "Stay Safe, Stay Home".

You'd accuse me of being petty and pedantic, I know. 

Gig Economy (10) I've saved the best for last. This is an absolute beauty, a winner and a top, top drawer. As an Economics student, I was forced to learn hundreds of technical terminologies, and the likes of Big Mac Index, Sweezy's Kink and Creative Destruction,  are truly delightful. But  Gig Economy is so scandalously clever and edgy. It takes my breath away.

The name isn't derived from the word "gigolo", sorry to disappoint you, but a gigolo is pretty much part of Gig Economy. It dates back to to the early jazz musicians performing and paid on per gig basis.

The idea isn't new, but the name is new. Whoever coined it must be highly literate, probably a Rhodes Scholar or a Chicago economist, and certainly not a Malaysian politician. A Malaysian politician would've gone for something as dispiritingly unimaginative as Najibomics.

In Malaysia, Gig Economy has long been the domain of Ah Longs, get-rich-quick scammers and heartless maid traffickers. Highly independent and flexible, these players operate underground, pay zero income tax and enjoy free medical services at all government hospitals, just like you and me. They're still around and prospering with the pandemic. Only you don't see them.

With the relentless growth of e-hailing and online retailing, Gig Economy has snowballed like nobody's business. The way it's operated now, it's nobody's business. With the mainstream economy tailspinning in the wake of the pandemic, Gig Economy has stepped in to fill in the blank.

The new crop of Gig players are 100% legit and very visible. You see them in action, cutting in and out of the traffic and running the red lights at will just to deliver your goods or food in record time. The government has just announced a RM 75 million stimulus to support and encourage these people. Be afraid.

    

Crossing Country of Cruyff

Have you ever been to Amsterdam? How about Brussels?

I dropped by Amsterdam and Brussels last February, on the way to Bristol for daughter's graduation. It was actually my second time to Amsterdam. I passed through the city  way back in 1999 on a brief business trip to Rotterdam. It's so brief and so business that I hardly remember anything.

It's different this time: three nights in Amsterdam and two nights in Brussels. The winter was cold and I was old, so I came away with a sense of triumph. But, seriously, what an incredible expedition. Planes, trains, trams, buses, boats, we took them all. Amsterdam and Brussels were lovely, lively and  so young and clean, with lots of character.

Character is, of course, a loaded and unscientific construct. A random travel blog would invariably fete and flatter a city like Bangkok, typifying it as the quintessential Asian city that exudes charisma and character. I've been to Bangkok a few times and I'd struggle to guess which part of the city the writer actually saw. She's probably lived all her life in sleepy Oslo. (Travel writers are 90% female).

I've not been travelling all that much, due mostly to time constraints. And travel is never cheap. The cost has been increasing since Marco Polo brought back fake silk from China. I've not been to Eastern Europe, Scandinavia, South America and Africa (except Cape Town). And Russia. That's more than 150 countries combined.

But, of course, some countries, like Moldova or Mali, are completely pointless. No economic man would want to visit Moldova or Mali any time soon. So the countries you'd really want to seriously see before you die shouldn't be more than fifty. I still have some way to go.

So my benchmark for a pretty place is far from gold standard, and may differ starkly from that of Chef Wan who's been travelling widely while cooking or cooking widely while travelling. I like Tuscany and its dreamy landscape. And nearby Venice, how to forget. The good chef may not agree with me, but he doesn't agree with everybody.

But let's get back to this business of Amsterdam and Brussels.       

Some Introduction

I'm writing this part with my sister-in-law in mind. She thinks Ottawa is in Japan.

So I'd like to educate her before going full-steam ahead with this piece, so that she can read with some foretaste and perspective. You may want to skip this if you've been to any part of Europe. Australia is not in Europe. Australia is in Australia.

The Netherlands is a mouthful name for a country. A Malaysian traveller will always say "Last month I went to Amsterdam", although he went to Amsterdam, Rotterdam, Maastricht and Giethoorn. Some people would get around this discomfort by saying Holland. But Holland is only one of the several parts of the Netherlands.

Of course, you could say Dutch, which is easier and faster, but Dutch is not the country. It's the  nationality or language (the Dutch speak Dutch), adjective (Dutch lady),  adverb (let's go Dutch), verb (she dutches him, a misspelling for she ditches him), or proverb (seperti  Dutch minta tanah). 

To cut this palaver short, only a reasonably literate person would say "Last month I went to the Netherlands" when he means the country. No choice here. You can't take the easy way out by saying "Last month I went to Portugal". Portugal is a different country.   

Belgium and Brussels are easier to handle. Belgium is the country, to the north of the Netherlands.  The people and the adjective are Belgian, like Belgian waffles. There are no illegal Belgians in the Netherlands and vice versa.

Amsterdam, and the Netherlands, will always remind me of Johan Cruyff, one of the four finest footballers on earth ever. Maradona, Messi, Pele, Cruyff, in that order. He played more than 200 times for Ajax Amsterdam and was voted world's best footballer three times. His football philosophy and vision has had a huge influence on latter-day leading lights like Pep Guardiola. Cruyff's oft-quoted wisdom "Before I make a mistake, I don't make that mistake" is so elegant that I suspect he was also a part-time poet.

Amsterdam is about ten times more famous than Brussels. 

KL - London Heathrow 12 Feb 2020

The morning flight was half-full or half-empty, depending on your attitude. The novel coronavirus outbreak was beginning to hurt the travel industry. On board everybody was glancing suspiciously around. This wasn't the best of times to travel. I wasn't sure how bad this new disease was shaping out to be, but the three of us (me, wife and daughter Aida) just took the risk. We'd been looking forward to Aidas's graduation since the day she was born. A wayward virus wouldn't be enough to deter us, we decided, leaving ourselves in God's hands.

The 14-hour flight was uneventful. I suddenly discovered that I could no longer enjoy movies or music. Perhaps I'm just too old. The new clutch of actors and singers are just difficult to like. Charles Bronson had long been dead, and Blackmore had gone bonkers for no reason. Why can't the airlines allow us to use our own earphones instead of their dirty and Daiso-quality headphones?

So it was real music to my ears when the Airbus shook as it hit the Heathrow tarmac. Outside was 8°C, but I was ready with three layers of shirts, or four actually.

London St Pancras - Amsterdam 13 Feb 2020 

After a night layover in Hounslow, we were ready to invade Amsterdam.

The peak-hour Piccadilly line from Hounslow  to St Pancras International was bursting with peak- hour crowd. From St Pancras we'd be taking the mid-morning Eurostar for a 4 hr joyride to Amsterdam, passing under the English Channel into France and Belgium before hitting Amsterdam at about 4 afternoon.

This was a totally new experience and we were all pumped up. I could only quietly wish all my grandchildren were here with us, running up and down the platform.

St Pancras International has been consistently voted the best railway station in Europe. No wonder. It  was an exquisite piece of architecture, a far cry from our hare-brained KL Central with Le Cucur selling nasi lemak at RM 14.50 a pop.

But Eurostar was a bit of a letdown. I'd expected the coach to be spacious and well-liveried with modern interior design, pastel colours and so on. But, no. It's all straight stuff, 90 seats per coach, reasonable legroom, better than the Piccadilly. But for £35 a ticket, I thought this one-way trip was good value.

We booked three seats of two two-seater  seats facing each other with a table in the middle. I'd really hoped the fourth seat would be left empty and the three of us could have all the privacy to mop up  our breakfast leftovers and Kettle chips. But it was full-house, somebody had taken the fourth seat. We'd no choice but to make friend with him, provide him food etc, I mean, he could well be an orphan or homeless, who knew.

His name was Binyamin, and he was an Iranian Muslim from Cardiff. In a way it was good to have him around because, you know, my wife and I, we'd be talking about the same stuff to each other for the last 35 years, so maybe it was time to talk to somebody else about something else.

We hit it off right away and I could see that he was gregarious type. He talked in clear English about his mother Fatima, about Iranians, and his dog. He'd been to lots of places, and his one travel tip: Don't go to Tbilisi, Georgia. The locals never said thank you and  the immigration even asked him whether he had a nose-job. We promised him we'd never get a nose-job or go to Tbilisi.   

We posted a picture of us brimming proudly with our new-found friend on our family WhatsApp. My son quickly responded: "Scammer".

At about 4.30 our train finally pulled into Amsterdam Centraal (Central) Station. Amsterdam! The Netherlands!

Binyamin waved us goodbye before disappearing into a thick throng of commuters. We'd been to lots of places and had our share of  unpleasant encounters. He's definitely not one of them.

Amsterdam is in the Netherlands, remember? All signs at the station were in Dutch. We'd to run around to find a ticket booth to buy train tickets to Haarlem. The Dutch were generally tall and rangy, about a foot taller than an average Kelantanese. Most could speak English very well with delightful Dutch accent. Talking to them, I'd to literally look skywards. We finally found a ticket booth and bought train tickets to Haarlem.

But why and what's Haarlem?

Haarlem 13 February 2020 

Well, Haarlem is a small town just outside Amsterdam, about 15-minute out by train. Harlem the borough of New York City was named after this Haarlem, probably as a logical extension of New Amsterdam, the former name of New York City. I hope this isn't too complicated.   

I'd decided to have Haarlem as our base camp to explore Amsterdam and the nearby countryside. Tourist hotels in downtown Amsterdam were mostly medieval structures and relics rebuilt after World War II. Most rooms were only slightly bigger than a flight deck, and you've to share the toilets with students and backpackers who wash their clothes and themselves on annual basis.

All Amsterdam city hotels claimed to be within fifty metres of the notorious Red Light District. And each hotel came with a caution that stairs were dark, narrow and steep and hotel wouldn't responsible for injuries, next-door noise, deaths etc. Aida's mom wouldn't survive these hotels.

Our hotel, New Amsterdam Hotel, in Haarlem was quiet and spacious with modern fixtures and organic soap. Our room, at ground level and about fifty metres from Haarlem rail station, was clearly knee-friendly. At only RM 1200 for three nights, it was real value compared to anything similar in Amsterdam. Every room was named after somebody famous. Ours was Malcolm X. I'm all for it as long as it's not Donald Trump. 

Amsterdam 14 February 2020
        

Our plan was to spend one whole day today (Friday) seeing Amsterdam, and only Amsterdam. The next day we would explore the region and the smaller rural towns like Zaanse Schans, Edam, Volendam, Marken and, if time and weather permit, Biljmer.  Ambitious itinerary but doable even at my age.

For this purpose, we bought  two-day Amsterdam and Region tickets at Haarlem Station. The tickets, €28  (RM 130) each, would allow us to travel in Amsterdam and the region on  train, tram, underground, bus and ferry as many times as we'd like for 48 hours. It was expensive, but cheaper than single-trip tickets.   

We took a morning train from Haarlem to Amsterdam Central Station, mingling with daily Dutch commuters. It was only a fifteen-minute ride, but long enough for the idle mind to get curious. The Dutch people impressed me as a serious and well-behaved lot, as compared to, say, Italians who were louder and easier. Italians are smaller-sized but better-looking.

On this train you'd hardly hear any loud conversation or phone calls and other silly stuff you'd experience on the Piccadilly line. The (tall) lady in the next seat  looked tense and bothered. Could she be a remote descendant of the Dutch sailors who attacked and took Malacca in 1647? Was she having an attack of conscience looking at us? Before I could conclude,  the train came to a full stop.  

Coming out of Amsterdam Central, it was hard not to marvel at the sight of Amsterdam in full wintry glory. The canal buildings were uniquely expressive with sleek architecture and tilting posture. It  was all the more remarkable when I realized that we were actually six feet below sea level, and had it not been for the clever set of canals cutting and criss-crossing the city, we'd have drowned.

If you're not Dutch, you're not much! How to argue with that. Smart and skilled people, these Dutch, turning a natural backwater into a European busy gateway, crossroads and commercial trading station. Natural resources are scarce but the country is home to global consumer mega-brands like Shell, Philips, ING, Unilever and Heineken.

Amsterdam is now an undisputed tourist heaven. The brand name is so strong that unsuspecting people from just about everywhere descend on the city just because it's Amsterdam. But, to be fair, there was plenty on offer. The canals, the flowers in April, cheese in loud varieties, Rembrandt, museums, museums and more museums everywhere.  I forgot to mention Red Light District, sorry.

The first thing for us to do now was to find the boat terminal for our canal cruise. We'd bought the tickets online, €12 apiece. We finally found our boat bobbing on the canal and we  immediately boarded it and, in the true Kelantan spirit, grabbed the best seats. A busload of Chinese tourists came in later to fill up the boat. Not from Wuhan, please God.

I thought the canal cruise was well worth it, the guide was funny. He covered both the modern and historical parts of Amsterdam, including a splendid view of Anne Frank house, now a museum. Aida told me we'd  need to book six months ahead to see it. I'm 67 and live on daily basis. 

The streets and alleys were choked with people and more people, seemingly oblivious of the near-freezing temperature and biting breeze. I had a Pagoda singlet, an old office shirt, a cotton sweater and a heavy windbreaker on, plus a Manchester City muffler strangling my neck, but my whole body was shaking every time I stopped moving. We unfroze by moving aimlessly and finally found ourselves in the famous Dam Square where all the aimless people finally ended at. A magician or somebody was performing for free, but I was so cold that I missed all the tricks.

Aida wanted to look up something and we took a tram out of city centre to an Amsterdam neighbourhood, about four or five stops away. I wasn't sure what was she up to because I didn't see  anything moving here. It was like a dead part of Amsterdam. Dutch is not an easy language and some words are long. A long word is actually a sentence or can even be a conversation. Aida might've mistaken one conversation for another conversation.

The bus and tram stops here didn't have big and bold signs like Abdullah Hukum, Taipan etc so we missed our stop and had to get off at another one further up. We stumbled on  a mosque (Al Fateh Mosque) and I could see people almost running in for Friday prayer. I went in and joined the crowd for a high-spirited khutbah - in Turkish. We missed our stop, but found a mosque for Friday prayer.  What a pleasant turn of events. You can get philosophical over things like this.  

It was about 4 afternoon when we finally hobbled into our hotel in Haarlem. After a short rest, I went out with Aida to see Haarlem. Aida's mom decided to stay put, saving her tired knees for tomorrow.

As expected, Haarlem was a pretty, typical Dutch town with its own canals, courtyards, markets, and tall Dutch people riding undersized bicycles. Bicycle was the main transport here, and everywhere in the country. Cycling was an obsession, with its own lane, parking, laws, culture, dating site, radio stations etc. I heard the Dutch Prime Minister also cycled to office. So there's no real competition to be a PM here.

On the way back, we stopped at one Albert Heighn supermarket to buy bread and strawberry jam for breakfast. I'm a bread pundit, so just one look and I knew. The Dutch were seriously hopeless bread makers.

Outside Amsterdam 15 February 2020

With Amsterdam done, we'd be travelling out today to explore the countryside outside Amsterdam. Our main destination was Zaanse Schans, and the object of desire was its famous windmills.

But we forgot Cruyff catch-line, and made a mistake.

Instead of heading straight to Zaanse Schans, we digressed into Beverwijk Bazaar and wasted two precious hours. On paper it was the biggest market in the whole country. In reality it was the biggest scam in the whole world. The stuff were mostly Chinese, and the traders were Arabs and Africans playing loud music. Don't come here if you ever visit Amsterdam. Go to Jalan Pasar instead. If you don't know where Jalan Pasar is, just stay home and be safe.

It was past noon when we finally saw the windmills and the wooden green houses of Zaanse Schans. The windmills were moving very slowly and they certainly looked much bigger in real life. Certainly bigger than the ones on Milkmaid and Dutch Lady packs. Honestly I didn't know whether these structures still had any useful function, other than bringing in tourist money. The windmills were part of a small recreated Dutch village, complete with small houses, small shops, small artisan workshops, small museum, all fully functional. How did the tall Dutchmen cope and breathe within these small spaces, I wondered.

The rustic feel and atmosphere of the village was enough to keep us hanging about for a while. It was late afternoon and we still had Edam, Volendam and Marken to do. And Biljmer. Travel writers had all raved about these little towns (picturesque, quaint, cheese), so I thought it might be useful to check out and confirm the hype.

There was only road connection in this corner of the country so we'd to find the right bus. Dutch buses were super efficient and comfortable, but lack the daredevil speed and urgency of our Rapid buses, which should be handy now that we'd very little daylight left. Visiting all four towns now looked impossible.

For the first time we were clueless and short of ideas. It was time to improvise, so we just took a bus to Edam and hoped for the best. Edam was purportedly famous for a unique variety of cheese called Edam. We're not cheese freaks (I'd prefer budu). We just wanted to see the town and buy some souvenirs. It was a pleasant trip with scenic countryside and a glimpse of Dutch "rural" life along the way.

Dutch houses were mostly straightforward and functional structures, with sharp, triangular roof and walls painted in a monochromic combination of green and green. This was inexplicably at odds with the rich, vibrant colour and creativity of the Dutch artists and impressionists.

Edam bus terminal way outside the town centre, on a no man's land. There was nothing at the bus terminal except buses and bus drivers.  No special cheese, no canals, no tall Dutch people. We were unhappy, to say the least, and took another bus back to Amsterdam Central. And then a train to Haarlem.

There's a direct bus from Haarlem station to Biljmer, the location of the Johan Cruyff ArenA, the home of Ajax Amsterdam.  It's part of my wish list, but it's an hour away, and it's almost dark and dark clouds were gathering ominously. We were not going to make a mistake.

On the way back to hotel, I kept repeating A Samad Said's poetic lines "segala yang dihasrat, tapi tak didapat, adalah nikmat, yang paling padat". I felt better.

Amsterdam to Brussels 16 February 2020 

Today we'd be crossing Cruyff's country into Belgium.

After three days of hopping on and off the train, we're beginning to like Haarlem station. Only now we could appreciate its elaborate architecture and the rugged beauty. The high semi-circular roof on top of the solid prewar steel structure was uncannily similar to that of St Pancras. 

We boarded a train here on this sedate Sunday morning for the last time. We'd get off at Amsterdam Central and transfer to another train for our onward journey to Brussels. It took us almost three hours by Intercity train to Brussels, a distance of about 200 km. It stopped at many stations to load and unload passengers. And bicycles.

From the train we could see that the Netherlands was flatter than pancake. No mountains, no hills, sparse vegetation, so much water. Cycling here should be effortless, and much easier than in Malaysia with all those rainforests, rivers, toll booths and road bullies blocking the way.

Brussels Central station was pleasantly fast and easy. We were out and up on the main street in less than ten minutes. Lugging our bags towards our hotel just a stone-throw away, we'd to navigate through large crowds of mostly young people moving about and talking in either French or Dutch or German. This had to be the centre of Brussels, and Hotel Agora Grand Place was smack in the centre of the centre of Brussels.

Our room was at the topmost (third) floor. This small hotel had no lift, which was technically equivalent to a mid-Richter earthquake hitting us. This building was built well before Isaac Newton founded calculus, so the stairs were all steep, narrow and winding. The good receptionist quickly calculated my age and my wife's age and offered to carry all our bags up to our room.

The room was well-appointed with generous space for our bags and Brahims. As we stepped in, my wife's knees collapsed. 

Brussels 17 February 2020

Only this morning we realized that, if not for the sharp stairs, our room would be just perfect. It overlooked the beautiful Agora Square where tourists and locals alike gathered and did nothing. From the room we had a clear view of a band of street musicians (probably Roma) performing before an appreciative passing audience.

We'd hardly recovered from the Beverwijk blunder, and we were already planning for another market outing in the morning. But this time the intent was to actually explore the heart and breadth of Brussels, and the market was just a side-track. Since this was going to be 100% on foot and knees, Aida's mom quite rightly decided to stay back and rest her knees and maybe watch the gypsies. I went out with Aida and let her handle Googlemaps and my job was to get upset whenever she missed a turn.

We found the market after half an hour of easy walk. Morolles Market was a small, open air affair with a genuine market feel, easy pace, and cash only. I finally settled for three dinner plates (physical plates, not KFC), quite rare pieces in the sense that they were made in England. I was happy with the purchase and would remember this place.

We retraced our way back, but not straight to hotel. We veered out to see some nice old buildings, monuments, statues, parks and open spaces around Parc de Bruxelles (Brussels Park?).  Unlike flat and watery Amsterdam, Brussels was hilly and winding. We climbed to the highest point for a vantage view of the city.  I can promise you Brussels is breathtaking and stylish. It's a pity that Amsterdam is much more famous. It's all marketing and branding, believe me. Brussels badly needs  a marketing campaign.

We were back at the hotel and found the gypsies performing before a large crowd at the square. Aida's mom was happy with the plates and unhappy that I'd not bought the complete set. Good thing she wasn't fully fit. 

After a one-hour breather, we all went down the wicked stairs and out to see the literally hundreds of shops and eateries around our hotel. Every other shop here was a chocolate shop manned by well-dressed woman. Looking around, I  noticed that the people here were so young, and wondered how could they be so rich and happy making only chocolates and waffles.

Aida bought a few packs of chocolates for office mates. I saw a Carrefour and went in to buy two bottles of Italian-made strawberry jam, part of my travel ritual. On the way back, we strayed into a small Pakistani joint selling halal burgers and chicken biryani. You can guess what happened.   

Less than five minutes away, right behind our hotel, is the iconic Grand Place. It's Grand Place (French), not Grand Palace (English), although it looked like a grand palace. This World Heritage Site and the most famous sight in Belgium was technically a big square hemmed all sides by intricately designed and decorated buildings, similar in concept to a piazza in an Italian city. We went there twice and it was dazzling at night with the lights changing their tones.

Brussels to Bristol 18 February 2020

This afternoon we'd be flying out of Brussels to Bristol for Aida's graduation tomorrow.

We took a train from Brussels Central to Brussels Airport with ample time for our 4.50 flight on Brussels Airlines to Bristol. It was a direct, one-hour flight from Brussels to Bristol. I'd taken the risk and booked these flights last November at only €29 each. It would've cost us €250 if we bought last week. I'd never felt so clever.

Brussels Airport wasn't too big, but certainly more spacious and easier to navigate (than KLIA) without wretched aerotrain, duty free shops and illegal immigrants. A big prayer room at the third floor was a pleasant surprise.

At the check-in counter I discovered that we would be flying on Cityjet, a third-party airline operating flights to Bristol on behalf of Brussels Airlines. I learned later that this arrangement is called wet leasing, another fancy airline jargon, in addition to the extortionate ones like excess luggage, flight delays, missed connection and non-refundable.

Our worst fear was flight cancellation because storms with sexy names had been battering UK for the past few weeks. So I was happy to see the Cityjet contraption, a smallish 90-seater Bombardier, parked way off apron. We'd to walk alfresco to board it, quite similar to Silangit Airport at Lake Toba, except that this airport was in Belgium, not Indonesia.      

Nothing remarkable about the flight except that the English pilot and crew spoke very good English. We landed at Bristol at about 5 pm, gaining one full hour due to time difference. It was drizzling when we grabbed a Grab car, and reached our hotel after one hour. We were so happy to see Bristol again, even in wet winter evening like this.

Bristol to Heathrow to KL 19 February 2020

Aida's graduation at University of Bristol ran with typical English efficiency and finished at 12.30. We left Bristol, probably for the last time, on a National Express bus for Heathrow. Bye, Bristol. 

Flight MH001 to KL was right on time. It was another round of 14-hour flight, movies with bad actors, and dirty headphones. But I'd plenty of time to cast my mind back and reflect.

It's been a joyful journey although I didn't go to Red Light District hahaha. Travelling through the Netherlands and Belgium, it's hard not to be inspired. The cities and people are gorgeous and vibrant. These two countries combined are smaller than Sarawak and their only tangible resource is sea water. They've no right to be so rich and productive. My impression is that their people are clever and talented, and everybody creates and produces something useful. We have forests and fresh water and oil, but everybody complains everyday.

My only gripe is that both Amsterdam and Brussels are too white, you know what I mean, unlike the more cosmopolitan London or even Bristol. There's always this tinge of uneasiness when you're more conspicuous than sore thumbs. Unforgettable experience nonetheless, and a reminder that we can't have the Piccadilly line every time.

So my idea of travelling is buying bread? Hahaha. Amsterdam has more than 140 museums and I didn't visit a single one. I went to the British Museum last year and didn't come away exactly more enlightened. My joy of travelling is mostly sight-seeing, and I do just that: seeing sights, at my own pace. I can get high just looking at local people, buildings, bridges, rivers, trees, trains, towns, villages,  universities, road signs, shops, markets, apple pies, fruits, toilets. I could go on.

Where would I go next? Nothing comes to mind yet, but one place I won't be going to is Tbilisi.
        

   










     


    



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Aida's Graduation Day

Today is Aida's graduation day.

I've been looking forward to this day since September 2018 when she came to England to study at University of Bristol. No, it's way earlier. I've been looking forward to this day since 22 December 1995, the day she  was born. I quietly prayed that God would bless her with strength, patience and humility to learn, achieve and give.

Three of us, Aida, her mom and I, are right here now in breezy Bristol. Spring is around the corner but now it's winter. Winter is what winter does. It breaks and bites. I can't breathe in 22°C,  it's 8°C  now, maybe colder. But I wouldn't want to miss this day for the world.

The graduation ceremony will begin at 10.30, in the Great Hall of Wills Memorial Building. This iconic and heritage face of the city and University of Bristol is an easy choice for today's auspicious gathering. The lavish architecture and rich ornamentation is a celebration in itself and a fitting homage to the energy and ambition of the graduating students.

This is my second time attending a graduation in England. My first was in 2017, when Aida's eldest brother surprised all his friends by actually graduating from Imperial College. Hosted at the world-famous Royal Albert Hall, the event was packed with  pomp and pageantry. I can still describe it in fine detail today.

Aida is already in the hall, leaving us standing in line outside Wills Memorial, eager and all fired up with anticipation, together with other families from far and wide and China who are also eager and fired up with anticipation. I've no idea how much longer we have to stand and wait in this treacherous weather before we're allowed into the building. I'm deeply worried. If this wait-in-wet goes on for another half an hour, my wife's arthritic knees will cave in and collapse.

Looking around, I'm beginning to question our sartorial selection. Unlike Malay weddings, this English occasion has no dress code, leaving me all at sea as to what not to wear. I was toying with the violent and offbeat idea of a baju melayu ensemble when it dawned on me that this is winter. After some serious contemplation, I finally settled for a pedestrian choice: my old, overused blazer (circa 1995), without a tie, but with my prized songkok bought at Tanah Abang.

Aida's mom, who'd been planning for this day the day after Aida was born, was all regal and resplendent in her Rizalman number. Ha ha ha,  actually it's a dark baju kurung tailored by Miran, our neighbour. Like Rizalman, Miran is a bachelor, in case you're interested. The crowd may easily mistake us for an Indonesian or Indian couple. I'm fine with that as long as I can get into the building now, please, I'm shaking all over.

The elderly British couple behind us, calculating my height and deciding that I was neither British nor half-British, broke the ice, enquiring where we're actually from. Ah, Malaysia ! I noticed the soft gasp of excitement. Clearly they've already had some idea of where, and what, is Malaysia. We should all thank Jho Low for this. Maybe it's pure public relations but the cute couple confessed of their desire to see Malaysia in the flesh one day. I can see that they're well into their 80's, so this conceptual "one day" had better be real soon, something like next week maybe. The sharp-dressed husband graduated from Cambridge 50 years ago and their daughter is graduating today, a PhD in something. They're here with their son-in-law and three-year old grand daughter.

Thank God, the line is finally moving now, but very slowly. Stepping into the building I can feel gusts of warm air sweeping over. Now I can breathe. We've to climb up the stairs into the Great Hall. What a splendid atmosphere, with the fine-looking audience, stage, sound and lighting all conspiring to heighten the sense of the occasion. We're seated next to the British family, and I can see the grand mother having a rough time with her grand daughter. I didn't  know we could bring grand daughters in here. We have five back home.

The ceremony is a simple and straightforward affair, but steeped in tradition. It begins with a slow procession of the university vice-chancellor and his officials in  ancient garbs and gowns and caps, heaving on their shoulders what look like swords and spears, with moody, disturbing music urging them on. I can see Aida out in front, seated together with other graduands, in her black and scarlet academic gown, but without the customary black cap or mortar board. I don't know why this old university has decided to do away with mortar boards.

I had a mortar board when I graduated from UKM forty years ago.  It was a standard graduation accessory, like exhaust pipe on a car (I can't think of a better analogy). It was also standard during my time for male university students to sport very long hair and heavy bell-bottoms. Hilarious, if you ask me now. Unlike University of Bristol, UKM's student population was 100% local, with 90% Malay and 90% of the Malay students were from Kelantan. Nobody complained.

At that time there were only four universities in Malaysia, now four hundred.  My parents came all the way from Kelantan (ha,ha) to my graduation, against my advice not to bother. Bangi was technically virgin jungle. Any university graduation was a national event, like Merdeka Day, Deepavali etc, and Radio Malaysia would air the event live, complete with a  commentator. When my name was announced, everyone in the country knew I graduated on that day. I didn't win any prize but my parents were happy enough to see me all dressed up,  complete with a mortar board.

This morning about 500 students will be conferred degrees in all sorts of studies by University of Bristol. They came from all over the world but only half are here today to receive in person. They're lining up now, waiting for their turn. One after another went up the stage to receive their degrees, and the audience diligently applauded each and every one.  Man, I'd never felt so civilized.

I'd to catch my breath when Aida's name (and my name) was called. She stepped forward and bent slightly to receive her MSc in Marketing degree from the Vice Chancellor. She came down the stage, smiled in our direction, and retreated to her seat. That's it. If all this were to happen in KL, her mom would've screamed her name, and she and the Vice Chancellor would've waved back and joined us and hugged. Malaysia is more fun, actually.

The ceremony ended with a reverse procession and an even more brooding music. Why can't they play Black Magic Woman for a change, I wonder. It's all over in about two hours. The ceremony ran like clockwork, no glitch, no gaffe, inch perfect. Oh, before I forget, the witty closing speech by that cardiologist had the audience in stitches. It was so clever and original that I felt sorry for some of you back home who'd to listen to budget speech by Lim Guan Eng.

We bumped into the British couple in the foyer outside the hall. Now it's time for jokes and parting pleasantries, you know, congratulations and well wishes and goodbyes. I invited them to Malaysia and again they gasped (ha ha ha). The grandmother touched my wife's dark lace and whispered quick compliments. I couldn't quite make out the exact words but my wife (also a grandmother) looked flustered and was lost for words. Her knees suddenly felt so much better.

This has been a truly momentous and joyous occasion for us. Aida will surely remember this for a long, long time. This is the sweet culmination and just reward for her patience and perseverance since the very first day she stepped into her undergraduate class. She's cried in despair and she's jumped with joy, I've really lost count. We can't thank God, family, friends (and Mara) enough for this gift. 

BA (Hons) First Class and MSc with Distinction. Not bad at all. 

         

 

A Hypochondriac

Polls and surveys across the US and the UK have consistently found that doctors are among the most trusted people in the world, along with scientists, nurses, teachers and Siti Nurhaliza.

During my childhood years, there were only three Malay doctors in Kota Bharu, or probably in the whole great state of Kelantan. For some reason, I still remember their names: Dr Ezani, Dr Khalil and Dr Aziz. I'm not sure of the spelling, but these guys were rightly respected and revered. Their words were cast in stone. Of the lot, Dr Ezani stood out for his athletically good looks. My late mother only wanted to see Dr Ezani, citing his "good medicine".

I wish I'd more friends who're doctors. With advancing age and without any medical insurance, I really need good and free medical advice on anything that's physically and mentally dragging me. Free here means impartial and unbiased, not that free, although I don't mind that, too.

I can now count only four Tiger Lane classmates who'd gone on to become doctors. Dr Norsham had left us, Dr Basir had left his practice for real estate business (he's richer than all his classmates combined), Dr Abd Rahman is a retired gynaecologist and Dr Awal is an active ENT specialist. Wait, there's one more, a senior in my dorm, Dr Fadzil, a debonair psychiatrist who's left his clinic to play golf full-time (you've to believe this). A gynaecologist, for my purpose, is no more useful than my next-door neighbour.  So technically I'm left with only Dr Awal, and that only if I've nose and ear issues.

In fact I went to see him early last year at his clinic at a KPJ Hospital. He jumped out of his chair and we hugged. We talked about Mrs Foo, everybody's favourite teacher (you know the reason), who'd loudly complain every time Awal came late to class.

Finally he'd a good look at my ear and found nothing that I should worry about. (It's alright now).  After offsetting a couple of nasi lemak I bought him forty-five years ago, the bill came to exactly zero. Fine gesture, but what's more important for me is his objective opinion and prognosis. No medication and no open-heart surgery required. Would another doctor reach the same conclusion?  

I know there're hundreds of so-called specialists in the government hospitals to handle the whole range of modern-day maladies. But it's never easy to see them. You've to pretend that you're down with some terminal disease, your end is near, you're an orphan etc. Even that you've to wait. I'd to wait for six months to see my dream urologist at Hospital Serdang. When I saw him, he got me to pee into a clever bowl that can measure my pee speed and trajectory. My speed was equivalent to that of a second-hand Viva. 

Such is the state of our medical system, purportedly the best in the world. If only we knew which world. We've to wait six months to measure our pee speed and prostate size, while the politicians are fighting and feuding days on end to decide whether a 72-year-old man is qualified to replace a 95-year old man. Bloody hell, any man is qualified to replace a 95-year old man.

I really wish my campus mate Hafiz were a doctor. He's a homeopath. I know it rhymes with sociopath, but he's not like that. He's just a homeopathy hobbyist, lobbyist and part-time practitioner. He's always available on short notice if you need free advice on herbs, ketum, opium, grass and similar stuff. Deeply philosophical, he views death as a happy occasion all of us should look forward to. I'm fine with that, but he also has this idea that I'm a hypochondriac.

He has a bone to pick, of course. I'm not a big fan of alternative medicine and he knows it. To me, tongkat ali, durian belanda, daun betik, primrose petang and other poetic plants are all scams. We remained good friends.

I'm firmly with Dr Amalina, a Cambridge-trained doctor who's aggressively advocating against suspect supplements and malicious medicine. You know these stuff, they're all over prime-time Astro, preying on the poor and the less lucky, who in turn would blame Lim Guan Eng for everything.

I don't know whether Dr Amalina still holds the world record of 45 A in SPM. But I can clearly see that she has loads of style and looks fresher than the beleaguered Health Minister, whose intellectual banter with his party boss recently was telecast live over 500 countries. Come on, PM, make Dr Amalina our Health Minister today. Do this one thing, backdoor and all will be forgiven.

To be fair to my friend Hafiz, I do get easily disturbed and worked up at the slightest feeling and sign of sickness. Maybe it's a talent passed down by my dear mother so that I'll never forget her. (I'll never forget her). A slight pain while pissing or a blacker than black stool is enough for me to get theatrical. I'll be jumpy, restless, and angry with Pep Guardiola and everybody. I can't wait to get to the bottom of the mystery. This, incidentally, brings forth the issue I'm having with doctors, the most trusted people in the world.

Last September I was unwell. I felt warm. Warm, not worm. I know we're born warm-blooded and all that, but this was abnormally, excessively warm. Warm not in the metaphorical sense of being warm and welcoming and friendly with all races, transgenders and Israel. It's real, literal, physical warmth. It's like heat coming out of my biological being. I sweated profusely when I talked and didn't talk. Buckets of fluids were pouring out when I jogged. It was sweaty and feverish one day, normal and nifty the next day. I consulted Hafiz the homeo, he said I was a hypochondriac.

At the height of this heat and sweat attack, I'd sleepless nights. I'd stay awake and had to watch bad  sports like cricket, Norwich vs Brighton etc. After five weeks, I went to see a GP at a nearby clinic and poured my heart out. She did what all doctors in this part of the world would do: test for dengue fever.  It was positive, I'd just had the dreaded denggi. I was so happy, not so much because I'd survived, but because I now knew what's wrong with my whole ragged system.

After two weeks it came back. No, not Norwich vs Brighton. It's the heat wave. The very same heat and sweat symptoms. I called Hafiz for some wisdom. He said I was a hypochondriac.

My wife who'd been a bystander all this while came on with her piece of mind, insinuating that it was all my hormone wreaking havoc. "It's something like menopause or whatever you want to call it". In all our forty years of marriage,  she'd never sounded this serious and informed. We went to see the GP again, and she (GP, not wife) recommended that I see a physician.

I immediately ruled out government hospitals. This looked serious and I should'n wait six months. I didn't know any physician personally. Dr Awal was strictly ear and nose. Dr Fadzil? No, I was sick, not mad. So I'd to search the  private hospitals. I was spoiled for choice: KPJ, Pantai, SimeDarby, Gleneagles, Tawakkal, Prince Court, Pusrawi, Assunta, Columbia, you name it.

Choosing a hospital now is more complex than buying a smartphone. You've to evaluate the price, understand the product, read reviews, and compare across the brand names. Prince Court sounds exciting and extortionate, Tawakkal is, well, Tabligh, Assunta reminds me of Mother Teresa. I ruled out all three, and went for one of the rest (I won't name it, sorry).

I'd to wait only one week to see the specialist of my choice. He had 30 years experience, including a postgrad training in the UK. I calculated that if he worked 200 days a year, and saw 10 different patients a day, he'd have seen 60,000 patients before I stepped into his office. This guy was on top of his game.

I reckoned that by just looking at my tongue or my eyes, he could deduce in fine detail about my food intakes, my sleep habits, my hormone balance (ha,ha). In short, he'd confirm once and for all that I was genuinely sick and not a hypochondriac (take that, homeo). This should be over in a jiffy, 15 minutes max.

But, no. He didn't look at my tongue. After listening to my story, he subjected me to a rigmarole of chest X-Ray, ECG, ultrasound and blood test. He'd decide on the next steps once he'd seen the test results. The following week we sat down again and ran through the results. He stopped at one particular reading and declared that I was down with typhoid.

Typhoid? In 2019?  I last heard of typhoid in 1961 when half of Kelantan was flooded. I knew lately some migrant workers were spreading defunct diseases, but I just couldn't believe I had typhoid.  It seemed so surreal, far-fetched, even comical. But the doctor stood by his diagnosis. And I'd to be admitted for a course of intravenous antibiotics. Minimum five days!

I stood my ground. Firstly, I wanted a second opinion. Secondly, five days at this commercial hospital would cost me a bomb. Antibiotics treatment is not a hip replacement, nothing complicated. Any government hospital would gladly do it for free with meal. I could use the money for another trip to Italy. So I flatly  refused admission.

I guessed the doctor, with 60,000 patients behind him, was familiar with my species. He understood and made no attempt to discourage me. After all, it was my typhoid, not his.

I went to Ampang Hospital Emergency the next day with my typhoid referral. I'm naming the hospital so that you don't have to guess whether it was Tampin or Tumpat. The guy who received me wasn't too happy. Maybe it was his SOP to look angry at any private hospital deserter. After a one-hour wait, my number was called.

I stepped into the doctor's room and what I saw almost stopped me on my tracks. It was a young medical officer with spiky and oily hair, and tight pants that fell off his waist. He waved me into my seat. I eagerly handed over my test results and showed him the typhoid part. He took my temperature, my blood pressure and coolly concluded "Ini bukan typhoid, Pakcik". "If I had my blood tests today, I  might have the same results" he added with a tinge of insult. This punk was a godsend.

After another round of X-Ray, ECG, and blood test, and I was back with the doctor. He went through the results on his PC, leaving me breathless. "Confirmed no typhoid, Pakcik, sorry". He returned to me the private hospital test results "Ambil balik. Mesti mahal ni" (His exact words). The tone was somewhere between cynical and sarcastic, but I was happy.

I found just enough time to "grill" him about his hometown, education etc , just to make sure that he'd not been taking lessons from Apps or YouTube. He was totally bona fide, graduating from UKM medical faculty in 2015. Only four years experience, including 2 years as slave houseman.

I'm proud to declare that I'm also a UKM graduate. I'd been very indifferent about the quality of local universities, until I met this young doctor. I now think UKM is better than Berkeley.

So that's that.

Sorry for the cliche, but my faith in doctors has been shaken. Has conscience finally succumbed to commerce? Or has medical science become inexact that what is typhoid to one doctor is not typhoid to another? Or is this nothing more than a rare and blatant case of professional howler? You don't have to answer this.

I'd nothing but respect, admiration and partiality towards modern, mainstream medicine. But in the wake of this unhappy episode, maybe it's now time to try the papaya leaf !

I've turned a corner and I'm feeling good now. No more heat and sweat.  It's great to be a normal person again after a tumultuous time.  I'm writing this with the big question mark still hovering: what exactly have I been down with? If it's not typhoid, then what?   

Maybe I'll never get to know. And no, I'm not going to ask my homeo friend, because I already know his answer: I'm a hypochondriac.