Leaving USJ - Part 2

Bukit Jelutong is my new home. 

After all the dandy talk of  Paris, culture and character? I know it's anticlimactic and uninspiring in so many ways. But, yes, I've left USJ and  moved on to Bukit Jelutong.  Sorry to let you down.  Maybe I should've moved to Arau. Or Alai.

For those who're not good in geography or in anything, let me enlighten. Bukit Jelutong is about ten km straight line from USJ. Both are actually part of the overbuilt Petaling District. The district is so congested that the land office had to be relocated from Subang Jaya to somewhere closer to Tanjong Malim. Both USJ and Bukit Jelutong are connected to Elite (a toll road, not a credit card). Moving from USJ to Bukit Jelutong feels like moving from USJ to USJ.

Well, maybe not. My new pastures are a lot greener with verdant parks, lush bushes, shades, rolling hills, hillsides, waterways, monkeys and the occasional porcine. USJ is flatter than Florida, with white-washed buildings and strange-looking structures. Bukit Jelutong is roughly one-third the size of USJ, but it's more spacious with more air but less traffic and zero traffic lights. I can tell you life is fuller without traffic lights. 

Even to the untrained eye, it's clear that Bukit Jelutong isn't a model of multiculturalism. It's not the proverbial melting pot like USJ, where the commercial centre is called Taipan, which is Cantonese parlance for a businessman or a snake, or both. Bukit Jelutong is more of a Malay hotbed, if I'm honest. No, it's not the centre of Ketuanan Melayu. All I'm saying is that the population is predominantly Malay. It's pure demographics and statistics, nothing racist or malicious. Come here and you'll instantly see and sense it. All around are Malay eateries, Malay dentists, Malay preschools, Malay petrol station, Mydin. And there's only one bank here, a Malay bank. And many roundabouts. Not Malay roundabouts, just roundabouts. 

There are more roundabouts here than there are Chinese and Indians combined. I'm exaggerating, for effect. What's in here that has drawn in the hard-thinking Malays in droves? Hard to tell without a deep study. My guess is that they've all fallen for Teratak, Jendela and all the emotional names. You don't have to believe this, of course.

Sorry if you're progressive-type and all this Malay and Chinese stuff bothers you. I can promise you that I'm not Russian or right-wing. My purpose all along is to provide all of you with facts and good science. You've to believe this.

I'm no stranger to Bukit Jelutong. My eldest lives here, and many friends, including those from Petronas days, campus and even schooldays. My one-time boss Datuk Anuar had moved here from Subang Jaya. He's from Trengganu, but don't let this fool you because he's modern and English educated, and he's a serious thinker with a foresight. I don't know exactly his reason for migrating to Bukit Jelutong. Was he expecting a climate crisis in the next ten years? Or another water cut in the next ten days? 

Another Petronas connection, Faris, lives in Jelutong Heights, a neighbourhood famous for its hostile security guards. This youngish and flamboyant granddaddy dashes around in an alfresco sports car. I don't know whether he belongs to any of the numerous Javanese clans in Bandar Penggaram, his hometown.  Maybe I should ask him, and let you know. Not that it's important or urgent, but it's nice to be on top of things.

The Sultan of Selangor is also a resident here, at least technically. I've not seen his house in the flesh but it's safe to assume that it's palatial, and prettier than my sub-sale property. Anyway, we're not friends, I mean, he doesn't know me or any of  my sons. But if Bukit Jelutong is good for him, then it's good for me.

The cool and articulate Hj Nawi was a schoolmate at Tiger Lane, my old school. So was Awang Adek, now Dato, or maybe Dato Seri, I'm not sure, but he sure looks bouncy and cheery, the way he's been since Form One. Both were busy-looking prefects those heady days, and all the dawn raids and stake-outs on smokers dens were quite a spectacle, if I remember well.  I suspect words about Hj Nawi's past had travelled far and wide and his neighbours at Lagenda did the right thing by electing him to head the Security Committee, something like a Prefect, if you like.  Now he's busy again. 

And, of course, my old buddy Rahman Kasim, one of the pioneers here. He's Dato Rahman now and rightly so, I mean, for all his selfless service to the nation and undivided loyalty to his great home state. He was once a Shell hotshot and we spoke almost every day on some joint-projects with million-ringgit cashflows. These were all real, physical projects, please. After all these years he's lost none of his disarming charm and public persona - sharp dressing, swaggering stride and heaps of humour. Talk to him and you'll come away inspired not only by his useful ideas but also by the history of his great home state (not Kelantan).

A friend cautioned me that Bukit Jelutong is a "have-have" neighbourhood. I'm not familiar with this language, but I think it's something related to money or pitih. "It's out of your league, and a B40 retiree like you have to find your way around" He rubbed it in. I took all this philosophically because I wasn't sure what this really entailed, until I'd to navigate one of the roundabouts.

I was right inside the roundabout and I swear it's 100% my right of way when a Countryman just cut in from 9 o'clock at a Formula 1 speed.  He blared rudely and I'd no choice but to stop for my dear life. I'm old enough, but I don't want to die at a roundabout. Maybe this is what my friend meant by "you've to find your way around". 

I think I'm not the only resident with this near-death experience. Recently I overheard somebody trolling the notorious Lagenda circular just outside the mosque, the scene of daily traffic chaos and close-shaves. It's easy to single out underage Youtube drivers and their liberal-leaning parents for brunt of the blame. But with GrabFood riders and Ninja vans joining the fray, things are less clearcut.

If you want to know, there's a grand total of sixteen large-size and mid-size roundabouts in Bukit Jelutong as at this morning. This headcount excludes the numerous baby-size, sexy-shape ones scattered all over to test the cardiac condition of unsuspecting outsiders. 

You'd agree with me that roundabouts are a revered relic from the defunct British Empire. They are elegant as a theory, because they smooth out the traffic flow and propagate the delicate art of mutual respect and kindness. That was before the arrival of the Countryman. 

It's all too easy for anyone to see the disproportionate concentration of the Countryman and other upscale and flashy nameplates in this part of the world. I can almost feel and smell them as they crowd out my rural Myvi wherever and whenever I try to park. I love free market and my heart leapt the first time I saw the whole range outside the Bukit Jelutong mosque, all reverse-parked and ready to race out. These devices are bought not to stop at the roundabouts.

It's quieter and calmer around my new home, with trees and grass and open spaces, young and good-looking neighbours with good-looking cars and cats. I can breathe easier here all day long any day. There are 30 houses on our cul-de-sac, and we have nine doctors and one medical student. Only HKL has more doctors. I can run and I can  walk days on end with no risk of running over a drunk driver. I don't see pubs or dance clubs or Uncle Don's here. Not even one movie theatre.         

What I can see is laundries and more laundries, and cyclists, and cyclists in the laundries. Most are open 24 hours, which makes me wonder who actually does laundry at 3 am. Maybe the cyclists. Or maybe the laundry owners live in Tanjong Malim and they can't afford the Guthrie tolls. Anyway laundries can only be a good thing because people don't get drunk in a laundry. It's hard to find a place more sober and clear-headed than Bukit Jelutong. 

But does it have anything that amounts to culture and history? No. Not here and not in USJ. Both are new developments born out of depleting oil palm and cheap housing loan. For some perspective, I was born and bred in a fertile surrounding, rich in culture, history and industry. During my childhood days, the boys would run about and hang out at our local mosque, the mighty Masjid Kampong Laut (grainy pic below). The mosque, right on the banks of Kelantan river, was 400 years old. Man, that's some history.

The old, quaint Kampong Laut was laid back and understated. Nothing was urgent because there's no government contracts. The state government those days was, well, straight and honest to goodness, and cronies were a long way off even as a concept, so people were left to fend for themselves. Work and lots of things were left to the enterprising womenfolk. They bought, they sold, they produced and they kept the cash. The Chinese suppliers fondly addressed these entrepreneurs as "Mek". These Meks were actually smarter than the Chinese.

Men were always there to listen and motivate their hard-working wives, apart from doing what they did best - nothing. But, really, everyone was up to something. Without cellphones in the way, people were continuously and creatively engaged. No TV, no problem, because they could invent and improvise. They gave the world Wayang Kulit, Makyong, Wau Bulan, Dikir Barat and other forms of artistic expressions. There was plenty of culture to savour.

Well, I'm not suggesting that Bukit Jelutong should have weekly Wayang Kulit, or we should all move enmasse to Kampong Laut for a piece of history. I'm just musing while motivating my talented wife who's bent on reviving our aging Semangkok and wrought iron brought from USJ. She's happy to do just about anything as long as I'm sticking around and sticking to my promise to forget Arau, or Alai, for good.

My house is only 500 metres from the Bukit Jelutong Mosque, an intense and imposing piece of art (the mosque, not my house). Come here at dusk. The stunning and soul-stirring sight will attack your conscience until you'll feel guilty for not stepping in.

This mosque is 390 years younger than Masjid Kampong Laut, but it's ten times bigger and colder inside. This is more than enough mosque. I don't need to travel back to Kampong Laut or 400 years.  If I could just hang around this place and roll back my childhood years, it might just be all the history and culture I actually need.   

Now how to end this piece.   

A few days after we'd moved in we'd to call Pak Rudi, an Indonesian handyman, to fix our toilets and drill the wall for my wife to hang her art pieces. I barely knew him, but he certainly looked more competent than our prime minister. I was on the phone with my sister at the other end, talking loudly in our mother tongue. Rudi overheard and he spun around:

"Abang dari Kelantan ya". 

"Ahh, mana kamu tau?" my wife almost fell off the chair, totally wrong-footed by the Indonesian's clever piece of deduction.

 "Ah, ramai di sini, Kak" 

             

Leaving USJ - Part 1

After twenty-seven years, I finally decided to leave USJ  

No, it didn't take me twenty-seven years to decide to leave USJ. All I'm saying is that after twenty-seven years living in USJ, I decided to leave. I don't know whether I should wait another three years to make it thirty, which is a nicer number. It's not an easy decision either way. The process was long, painful and unscientific. I wish there was an apps or something to help me through. 

It all started from an idea I'd been mulling with myself since the day I retired way back in 2009. Why do I have to continue living around KL when I no longer work and walk and pay tax in KL? I could, as a concept, move along and relocate to Arau or Alai (Melaka, if you've never heard). When I first floated the idea loudly, my wife blamed my sugar spikes.

Just last week, six months after we'd left, Sarah asked me, maybe for the third time, why we'd to leave USJ. Sarah is not my wife, she's my youngest, and she's away in college. Sarah is in college, not my wife. Sorry to confuse you so early.

I still can't conjure up even half a reason for leaving. I've tried the old reliable like "There's only me and your mom (my wife, yes), while our knees are coming apart and we can't walk up the stairs without losing half of oxygen", which is not entirely fictitious. All of the above are fairly accurate. Just the two of us, we need only one room and one toilet. In fact, we need only one room if we could use a neighbour's toilet. It's difficult to convince your kids these days unless they see it on Shopee.

Anyway, leaving a place you grew up with can be fragile and fraught with remorse and hindsights. People leave a place for many reasons. They'd normally move to a bigger house, which makes perfect sense because a Malaysian household needs at least six toilets. A friend moved to a smart dual-key duplex around his office for a life free of tolls, traffic jams and flash floods. Some people with some sociopathic malignancies may even want to move out to a locality with no Kelantanese or Kelantanese-speaking neighbours.   

But, seriously, this is not the best of times to move and migrate, however compelling is the reason. You can't even breathe, let alone think and decide. Covid is rampaging and changing its variant every other week while our government is flailing and also changing its variant every other week. The only logical option amid this whole mayhem is to isolate and isolate productively. Long retired and hitting seventy, I should busy myself with contemplating and soul searching instead of looking for transporters to move my twenty over years' worth of junk. 

Six months on, most of the old furniture and fixtures are still strewn about our new house, looking for the right corner or new owner. My two boys didn't even pretend to look enthusiastic when offered free with transport thrown in. There's a thirty-year gap between us. I'm stuck with Semangkok and wrought iron while they're embracing dressing down and minimalism, which is actually watching Netflix. They'd drive all the way to Ikea to buy what remotely looks like a sofa because they actually want to buy meatballs.

I'm all strung up and I'm leaving everything to my wife to sort things out. She's many years younger and, thank God, she has no coronary complaints. God has also gifted her with a unique talent for hanging pictures, mirrors, lanterns, bells etc, if you can call that talent or unique. But I still have make myself useful by taking care of the household logistics like switching off the lights and waiting for Grabfood. 

Am I sad to leave USJ? Yes, if I'm honest. And I'm taking along with me some gorgeous memories. I'm serious. Most people think it's not possible to be emotionally interrupted if you part ways with people or places because you're still digitally wired to each other. Wrong. There's plenty of affection and memory lingering long after I left USJ. Agreed USJ is a routine and uncomplicated place. It has nothing to offer in the way of culture, character, history or winery. The stand-out architecture here is an LRT station. You can find a stadium but not museum. Leaving USJ is not like leaving Paris (Unfair comparison, but you get the idea). 

But believe me, USJ had its moments. Like what? Like when my wife delivered our first daughter Aida in 1995 after waiting for ten years. And when my two sons got married and became faithful husbands (These people didn't wait for ten years). And when my first grandchild Diana was born in 2012 and I started sleeping with a grandmother. And when my (late) parents came over to brighten up our monochrome home. Despite all the geriatric challenges, they looked happy and upbeat every morning, and it rubbed off on us. They were quite impressed with our automatic gate.

And how can we forget the lush and bright-red bougainvillea just outside our fence which had over the years become a landmark until Waze took over. My wife planted it as our contribution to a sustainable ecosystem. It bloomed all year round and distracted every passer-by from the more spectacular uncut grass and the ugly peeling paintwork. Chef Wan featured it in his video and you can listen to him gushing and drooling at the sight of our bougainvillea (I leave it to your imagination). This cranky cook is crueler than Cowell and it took our humble plant to break him. 

And many more memories, if you'd just believe me.

But nobody should come out of USJ without the glorious memory of the world-famous USJ water cuts. I'm not sure how the system works, but the supply to USJ 1 all the way to USJ 27 will stop completely even when the contamination is somewhere in Johor. No less than ten agencies with tell-tale names like Span, Syabas, Splash, Lemas are involved in the straight-forward task of supplying plain water. It's almost impossible to nail the culprit.        

We moved into USJ 2 in 1994 when the township was just breaking ground. I really thought the name USJ was only a contractor's code for a construction site, and the name would be changed later to something more imaginative and poetic like Puncak Alam, Jebat Derhaka etc. My two sons were in primary school. Now their daughters are in primary school. McD and Mydin were still a long way off, and life was joyless without these celebrated institutions. Neighbours mostly triple-locked their homes so I couldn't just walk in without two weeks's notice. No, they were all fine, tax-paying citizens but break-ins were rampant so about everyone were up in arms, quite literally.

USJ just kept expanding, relentlessly and eventually transforming the whole place into a massive traffic gridlock. The Federal Highway jam started right at my gate. On a clear day, it would take me one full hour of anxiety to reach the Petronas Twin Towers and another hour to calm down before the boss called and started the whole cycle again. 

Carbon footprint wasn't yet in fashion, so Sime UEP just kept on building until they breached the Puchong border where squatters were also building their new houses and new Umno branches. I thought  they were really making lots of money. I mean Sime UEP, not the squatters. But let's not be too philosophical about this. People need homes and shelter to become productive and useful. 

Anyway USJ has really come good, from a sleepy sanctuary to a vibrant city in a record time of thirty years. It took London 2,000 years to become a city. USJ is now officially a City, with its own mayor,  new colour and new song as a cover for upcoming tax hikes. I'm sure that's the purpose all along. For me this city status racket doesn't add and motivate all that much. I can't see what all the fuss is about when odd and joke places like Kuala Trengganu and its glorified keropok lekor is also a city.

I'm sure Sarah and Aida are still unhappy to have to leave their friends and their schools and Sunway Pyramid. I know most of their friends by name, Aleesa, Alia, Aina, Aisya and other uneventful names. They had this undernourished look, and the way they dressed up and their twisting English, I knew they'd just jumped out of Instagram. 

Five or six of them would crush into a Myvi and when they passed me they'd all wave and  frantically scream "hi uncle" and I'd to wave back, also frantically, to avoid being thought as deaf or dead. Thank you, girls, for making my day. When I was their age I'd hardly talk to people of my age, let alone wave and scream like that.  

Leaving the people you've known for twenty-seven years comes with a sense of loss and sadness.  Our neighbours are all generous, upstanding people who'd invited my family to their kenduris or receptions and I'll remember their good food for a long time. One of them passed away just a few weeks after I'd left. He was a constant gardener and I can still picture him in his garden weeding or watering or doing something I'd never done in my life. He knew I was leaving but it never struck me that he'd also be leaving us. It's life at its fullest fragility. 

And, of course, the fellow old timers and late bloomers I met at Al Mu'minun, and most days we'd stay on for lively prostate updates and aimless banter. Often the discourse would veer into the familiar theme and territory, you know, the well-founded idea rooted in the Quran and practised by our Prophet. But with this crowd, it's all talk and no walk. Nobody took the plunge, if you know what I mean. 

And my great teacher Hj Tahib. I can still recall him wandering around looking for students and roping me in probably because I looked lost and uneducated. We were late and slow learners but he encouraged us all the way with an aircond classroom at his house, complete with coffee, kuih and all the kind words after each session. In my book people like this will go straight to heaven. We lasted two years, which is a long time in this industry.

And, before I forget, Hj Salleh, my morning-walk partner. He's from Tawau, but what a guy. He travelled widely and even visited Tel Aviv but still speaks with touches of Tawau tongue. We hit it off  the day we first met more than 10 years ago. I like his way of seeing the lighter side of things,  even the nasty ones. He once tried to correct his wife's Quran reading, and his wife snapped "Awak bukan Ustaz". I tried my best to mitigate the impact by suggesting that all wives are like that, I mean, no wife would believe that her  husband is an ustaz. He seemed happy enough with that.

On a typical morning, we'd walk the same route and talk on the subject of urology for two hours and 10 km. We'd meet again the next typical morning and repeat the route and subject. Our combined age is about 140 years. Let me know if you're inspired.    

So long, boys. Good luck and just go for it. Don't forget Wajibul Ghunnah, mandatory dengung dua harakat, no more, no less.