A Reunion Of Fine English Speakers

Ah, reunions. Such sweet sorrow.
 

A reunion of campus classmates recently was a low-key, lovely affair. Ripples of all those years ago came flooding back, and old, long-lost friends were finally reunited. I love reunions, and this one didn't disappoint. Thirty-five of us with a combined age of at least 2000 years, some I'd not met or even heard about since I left campus in early 1979. Man, thirty seven years, can you believe it? I'd to pinch and punch myself.

We first met and hit it off as young undergrads way back in 1975. Or was it 1875? It's such a long time ago. On good days we'd crash the lecture halls and stagger out all dazed and doped trying to make sense of all the fuzzy economic thoughts and theories. You know, sexy stuff like laissez-faire, Malthusian model and Sweezy's curves. People call Economics the dismal science probably for this reason.

But it's hard to figure who's who now. Time really has a way of catching up, and the ravages left in its wake are all too clear. The Afro-hair is now zero-hair. Macho whiskers are but grey patches. Waistlines have all but disappeared. But who cares. We're now all here and together. Weight and shape can wait. 

Admittedly we're a group in a hurry now that we're on the last lap. But there's plenty of imagination left. We named our group MF 101, a cheeky homage to our alma mater. This offbeat moniker is actually the subject code for the basic English course all of us had to pass in the first semester. It's close to our heart. Why? Because if we failed MF, we didn't graduate. That's why.

Days of Daisies And Freshies                                                

There's plenty of precious MF memories to go around. The English teachers assured us that if we got through MF we would be able to read and speak English better than any Welshman. Not too many of us were actually inspired by the smooth talk. We had a seizure every time we stepped into MF classes, you know, singular and plural, nouns and pronouns, gender and gander. You can imagine the trial and trauma of switching from Kelantanese to English. I often overheard my two roommates drilling each other with graceful lines like "That is my shirt. That Shirt is mine". University can  be a humbling experience.
                                                             
My first day at the makeshift campus at Jalan Pantai Baru was a non-event. The old Sri Jaya bus dropped me off at the crowded bus stand. The bus ride from KL Foch Avenue cost 30 sen but it was so slow it felt longer than forever. The campus was crawling with seniors waiting to pounce on the helpless freshies but I just strode by with an air of defiance. I strongly felt that student orientation was the last relic of the defunct British empire.

The next day there was a half-page coverage of UKM student orientation in Utusan Malaysia, with pictures, interviews and all. Those days political scandals and slanders weren't yet a sport, so registration of new university students was big news.

My campus transition was smooth, no culture shocks to speak of. With eight years of hostel life behind me, I knew exactly what not to expect. But I certainly loved the new-found freedom of expression. We could now go to classes in bell-bottoms. Or we could choose to stay back and sleep. We could smoke just about anywhere and anytime. We could grow long and ugly hair and beard just to make a statement (pictured below, gorgeous).

My  first class was Maths or Statistics or something. The hall was full because it was a core subject like the dreaded MF. I could feel a whiff of sweet air as female students floated in and took their seats. I was stunned but quickly recovered. After so many years in all-boys school, I'd almost forgotten that girls also went to schools and universities. I sat very far back but I could still see the lecturer. He weighed no less than 200 lbs and sported a loud and flashy shirt. I later learned that he'd graduated from University of Hawaii.

Ladies And Hippies                                                    

After a few weeks, things began to unravel. I was familiar with Form Six Economics, and I thought it was all straightforward supply and demand. No, it wasn't. As we delved deeper, some subjects simply turned nasty, with all sorts of curves and kinks. It was absolute mayhem when the lecturers threw in strange Malay terms in the mix. Just imagine, Kelok, Anjal, Kelok Tak Anjal, Kos Melepas, Kos Sut, Terakru, Kerbeda, Lompang, Merembak, Komputa. Yes, these were all  Malay words accepted even  in the court of law. Komputa was so cute.
                                                   
I thought the girls were really smarter and sharper than most of us in bell-bottoms, I mean, the way they articulated and expressed their ideas. So impressive. They were, like, forever in the library. Maybe even now, who knows.  I'd scraped through my form six with only two lowly principals. So the prospect of pitting myself against these clever divas was really intimidating. I thought coming here might've been a big mistake.

And the lecturers, well, they were all young and such good-looking people, brimming with boundless energy, mostly graduates of some foreign universities. They had, how should I say it, their unique ways of coping with geniuses like us. I can readily recall a few standouts.

One was a Harvard hippie and closet socialist who let us mark and grade our own exam. And there was this overzealous La Trobe lady who vented all her anger with the world by failing more than half of the class. And the Otago easy-goer who allowed us to "discuss" during exams. The maverick MBAs from Cornell and UCLA business schools tried their best to remind us that they were from Cornell and UCLA, and not from Hawaii. The Komputa class sold out every time because the teacher was model of the year.

Where there's a will, there's a way, so to speak. Our assignments all looked conveniently similar because we somehow "had the same ideas and philosophies". By then the lecturers had all wised up to our repertoire of tricks, but they'd just look the other way. Thank you, teachers.
                                                                
Bangi Band Of Brothers

Things happened thick and fast from the third year on, after we'd migrated en masse to our spanking new campus nestling along Bangi hill-slopes. Bangi was nothing more than a jungle clearing. The nearest town was Kajang, which was actually a bigger jungle clearing. But you could hardly see the town because it was shrouded in heavy smoke spewed out by the satay industry. I had a room all to myself, overlooking virgin .......... jungle. You could write plenty of poetry if you had enough talent.

We were done with the basics, so for the final two years we were allowed to major or specialize. No, it's not Ear, Nose and Throat or Kidney kind of specialization.  Economics, dismal as it was, has its own sub-sets. We could now actually choose what not to study. I immediately avoided Statistics. A few of us, for some unknown reason, chose Accounting. As a field of study, Accounting is exciting in the way that Kidney is exciting. A close friend had the foresight to plump for subjects without any numbers, like Rural Development or Land Reform or Asian Drama. He found his true calling and went on to become a ranking administrator at the Ministry of Rural Development.  

Despite the early jitters, I prevailed and did enough to graduate. So did everybody else. I'm not sure now how many of us altogether in our class, 100 or maybe slightly more. Nobody that I knew dropped out. Everybody passed MF 101. Hooray ! We're all, technically, English speakers.  

It sounds so cliched and corny, but, really, I made a lot of friends along the way. I can give you their full names if you're interested and I can promise you'd instantly fall for their cool charisma. It was fun learning together and about each other. For example, a friend came from Kg Bok Bok, which I never knew existed.

Seriously, I can't imagine toiling away on my own without good friends to spread around the stress. Good thing that we were about even academically, I mean, no one could strut around boasting a CGPA of 3.85, not even the library-loving ladies. If you got a D, it wasn't a disaster because there would be like-minded friends who also "scored" a D, or worse. So nobody had any reason to break down or go mad.

It was blithe and bliss all the way to March or April 1979, or was it February, when we graduated. Sorry I'm too old to remember the month. We received our degrees in a glittering convocation ceremony carried live by Radio Malaysia. The whole class, garbed in heavy gowns, lined up to receive our scrolls.  When my name was called, the whole country and Prime Minister knew I graduated that day.

It had been a life-changing experience. Four glorious years just flew. After graduation, we parted and left campus. A good friend returned to sweet home Kelantan and didn't get to speak English ever again.
                                                                    
Yesterday Once More

Ah, yes, our reunion. Sorry. So here we were again, back together after.... how many years? Really? The venue (Hotel UiTM Shah Alam) and the setting were minimalist. No red carpet, no Birkin bags, nothing over the top. The guy who organised this should score himself an A. The food and mood were good, and we were all fired up. Some of us were breathless with anticipation.

We broke for a moment of quiet contemplation while our competent kiyai read a moving tribute and doa. A number of friends and lecturers were no longer with us, including my first-year room-mate, a second-year house-mate, and a lecturer (and good friend) who wrote a glowing recommendation for my postgraduate application. I knew he'd struggled to find the right words to flatter an average achiever. I can never thank him enough. (I was accepted. It's not University of Hawaii).

What a memorable and heart-warming evening, a fitting celebration and testament to our lasting friendship. We were way past our peak, we know, but at heart we were pretty much those young freshies of 40 years ago. The air was seething with nostalgia as old campus jokes were retold, and refreshed with new grandfather-and-his-very-young-second-wife tales.

It was easy enough to lose yourself in the thick of the excitement and commotion, leaving a grandmother nail-biting at home. We could go on reliving and reminiscing right into the small hours, but there was no way of catching up on all the lost years. Everybody agreed that we should meet again, and it had to sooner rather than later.  A group in a hurry, remember?

Just one more thing, before I forget. We found out during this reunion that half of us could speak Javanese!

  




          

The Not-Very-Curious Case of Starving Students And The Very Curious Case Of A Billion Donation

Sorry for the lavish and longish title, but, really, our university students are starving.

A recent survey of 25,632 students in six public universities revealed that more than half are actually living on RM 5 a day, while three-quarters have been in situations where they're too broke to eat.

The very next morning, the Ministry of Higher Education dismissed these survey results as nonsense. 

A "Freemeals" program at UKM recently saw all 100 free food packs gone in 600 seconds. A similar program at UPM produced similar results, only faster. Another "Freemeals" variety called "Suspended Meals"  is ongoing at UPM.

In the wake of widespread outcry, the voluntary groups who organised these free-food programs were harassed by the universities. They were hauled up and quizzed and questioned. Apparently the authorities weren't too happy because the name "Suspended Meals" meals sounded like suspender meals.

"No students will go hungry on my watch", declared the Minister of Higher Education on 10 January. Brave words. "On my watch"! Wow. This guy sounds like President Donald Trump. Our ministers are all masters of the atmospherics. You could almost feel the hot air and the hollow ring. He forayed further by suggesting that students should seek part-time jobs. Like what? Housemaids? Uber grabber?

Another minister, this time a blue blood, rejected offhand the whole notion as sensationalism and theatrics. According to him, nobody's starving in this great country, not even the homeless. Hard to believe that a minister for youths can be so out of touch with the youths. Maybe he's still busy consoling last year's SEA Games female gymnasts.

If these ministers don't already know, students go to universities and colleges to do one and only one simple job: study. That's why they're called students, and not surgeons. If they have to study AND work at the same time, we have a problem. Just imagine a surgeon who has to cook while doing a coronary bypass. Or a chef doing a coronary bypass while cooking. Either way, the food wouldn't turn out good. I can't find a better analogy, but you get my point.

The public are again divided on this.

Why I said again? Because people are already divided. We're already divided over the RM 2.6 billion donation. We're literally, figuratively, badly beaten, shaken, broken. It's like a big fat hole, with those who believe on one side and those who don't believe on the other side.

Going by the social media dynamics and statistics, the ratio of believers to disbelievers is roughly 1 to 99.  Loudly lopsided, I know. But don't be discouraged by that 1%.  If you understand mathematics, 1% of 30 million population is actually 300,000, including some newborns and Nepalese. This is one hell lot of people, equivalent to the entire population of Kuala Terengganu. Imagine the whole boring people of Kuala Terengganu believe that an Arab has donated RM2.6 billion, while the rest of the country don't.

In my 60 over years, we're never this divided. 300,000 people believe, 29,700,000 people don't believe.

On this case of starving students, we're again split into believers and disbelievers. The line is less clear though. Those who believe that students are starving are mostly those who don't believe that there's an Arab somewhere throwing away RM 2.6 billion, while those who doubt students are starving are mostly those who believe in mad Arabs.

Believers are naturally sympathetic and very angry. They felt that the government had wasted loads of money on floating submarines, illegal speed traps and Mongolia mines, starving the students of funds in the process. They also believed that the RM 2.6 billion from mad Arab or dead Arab could've been mobilised to feed the students for the next 100 years.

While the doubters or disbelievers came down hard on the students themselves, levelling the blame squarely on the students for their financial profligacy, you know, things like iPhones, prepaids, Starbucks, girl friends and so on.

If you asked me, I think there's a strong and valid case of hungry students. Even if you didn't ask me, I still think there's a strong case.  A couple of old classmates with children in public universities are grappling with the classic opportunity cost dilemma: anak vs mamak. More money for anak means less for mamak. With cruel cutbacks on Mara and PTPTN handouts, the parents have to fill the void. We'd never know whether the students would starve without their parents' financial lifeline. No parents would run a trial to find out.

I went to UKM for my degree way back in 1975. A local bank fell for my charisma and handed me a handsome scholarship of RM 2400 a year. I won't shame and name this unfortunate bank. The government scholarship was about  RM 2000.  I thought could live like a king. 

After one semester, I discovered that I was actually a king on a shoestring. At the time, a full-blown breakfast cost under RM 2.00. No smart or stupid phones to make you go mad. Water was free from water cooler. We used payphones and public transport. We ate pretty much what the prehistoric men ate. But still there were days when we'd to dig deep and dip below United Nation's recommended daily dietary intake. I stayed off campus, ten or maybe fifteen of us in one house. Yes, we pioneered this communal concept, not the Banglas. It's a basic and spartan lifestyle. Lifestyle, yeah. At the end of every day, I only had enough left to fight another day.

So I'm the least surprised that some students are hungry now. Education is mentally and financially draining, even in the heavily subsidised public universities. Private colleges are even more intimidating. Premium brands like Sunway, Taylor's, Nottingham, Monash etc charge upwards of RM 90,000 for a 4-year degree. QS recently ranked our private tertiary education the fifth most expensive in the world (cost relative to income). Father PTPTN will never give you enough to cover your fees, let alone your feed. If you go to these colleges, you'd die of starvation.

Thing is, university life is not supposed to be a walk in the park, at least not for most of us. Occasionally missing meals is no big deal.  It's par for the course during my time and more so now with GST in full flight and Ringgit in freefall. Plain roti canai is RM1.60 a pop now and you've to compete with the cash-rich Bangladeshis and Indonesians.

So I'm not sure why the ministers or the universities or just about anybody would've to be up in arms and deny this. Just accept this as part of education. It preps the students up for later life. I know you can pinpoint a lot of ugly things to Umno, but starving students isn't Umno's doing. The grand old party has done a lot of good, building 20 public universities in the country, with another five new ones if they win big-time in 2018. It's unfair to expect them to feed the students as well.

Hungry students are pretty much everywhere, in India, in Mongolia, in Malaysia, and  even in richer countries like the US.

Which reminds me of the inspiring story of Indra K Nooyi, the CEO of PepsiCo. She's championing the "performance for a purpose" management mantra, which espouses responsible business. Pepsi now has less calories than Coke. She left Tamil Nadu for Yale to do her MBA in 1978, and, in her own words, "I thought I'd died and gone to heaven. I was totally, completely broke. I'd no money to buy clothes". She worked on campus on minimum wage and probably survived because she's a vegetarian.

She's quite rich now, of course, and has been generously giving back to her university. Yale is just happy to reciprocate her generosity with a Classroom and a Deanship named after her (Nooyi Classroom, Nooyi Dean). "My gift to Yale pales in comparison to the gift that Yale gave me". Such humility. I'm sure there are fewer hungry students in Yale now because of her gift. She gave again early this month, her biggest so far. No numbers were disclosed, but it's thought to be between 20 to 30 million. US Dollars!

It would be nice if our own ex-starving students who make good take a leaf out of Indra Nooyi's playbook and give back to their universities. They may start with RM2 and work all the way up to RM 20 million.

I must admit that, with depleting retained earnings and a girl deep in college and another very soon, I can't afford much. Maybe Ahmad Maslan, a fellow UKM alumnus, can. I don't think he was starving when he did his MBA at UKM. No hungry students would graduate with 3.85 CGPA. I'm sure he's fairly rich, I mean, he's a deputy minister with three or four jobs, and Umno, don't forget. If he wanted to, he could start his own legacy in UKM with Ahmad Maslan Suspender Meals!

Believe me, there's hardly a cause greater and godlier than giving. Donate to your alma mater. Don't donate to your prime minister.   

      

Masalah Ayam: The Problem With Our Education System

The above is an actual, and cruel, PT3 exam question. Now pit your thinking skills against Form Three students. The students were given ten minutes.

Like my opening gambit? Stay with me. We're into some serious business.

My youngest Sarah came home today all happy and jolly. Why not? Her SPM is finally and truly over, with the final paper (Biology) put to bed. She'll never ever have to read, study and think again for the rest of her life. Well, not really. But it surely feels that way.

How the sadists at the Ministry of Education had found it necessary to spread the nine subjects over 28 days of exam is beyond belief. I mean, she's taking the normal Science and Maths stuff, no special papers like Art History or Basic Wahabbi. Twenty-eight days!

All I need is three more days to go completely mad.

It's been a nervy and edgy two, three months for me. I wish I could help Sarah along in some substantive way, like showing her the finer points of Physics. That's out of question, you know why. I've never felt so helpless. All I could do was to find her tuition teachers, provide her with enough food, and buy her the much needed stationery without asking silly questions, like why buy stapler every week?

Actually I'd also bought her a brand new iPhone early last year in return for a promise that she'd study hard and devote all her waking hours to SPM. She studied very hard and devoted all her waking hours to SPM from January all the way to February - two months.

Now that SPM is safely behind her, she can now devote all her waking and sleeping and eating hours to Korean TV.

Roughly 98% of our education system is SPM. (100%, according to DAP). So, sitting for SPM is a do-or-die mission for .....the parents! Like it or not, SPM results are the gold standard in this country. If your child doesn't get 9 A+, you're a failure as a breathing and warm-blooded person. You can't walk into Mydin, you can't make police report. As for the children, they'd be just fine, happily getting by and living with whatever they've "accomplished". They've already got their iPhone, remember?
     

Because of SPM, our secondary education system has been badly broken up into two classes of schools: the daily schools for normal students and Sekolah Berasrama Penuh (SBP) for paranormal students. The SBP is further split into SBP and MRSM. You'd know an SBP by its feelgood nameplates like Sehebat, Semashur, or Integomb (gomb rhymes with bomb). Each SBP is given RM100 million a year to do whatever it fancies. Students get a seven-meal plan complete with vitamin supplements and dental floss.  

The truth is, these elitist schools have turned into slow slaughter houses. They're totally driven and doped by SPM. Teachers would see off the two-year syllabus in two months and then start on something out of US Navy Seal: practising past-year questions. For days on end they'd pore over hundreds of thousands of past questions dating all the way back to Isaac Newton. Performance is measured through weekly trial exams and weekly GPA. This business model works like clockwork as most students actually ace the exam with 9 or 10 or even 28 A+, thanks to those past-years questions and spot questions (not to mention, ahem, leaked questions).   

The daily schools are the underclass. They are pretty much left to fend for themselves. With 90 students packed in one class, the teachers take one full year to memorize each student's name and IQ level. Every other month the school would hold a jogathon or poetry reading to raise funds for new toilet doors. A typical daily school set-up consists of an overweight headmistress, 35 lady teachers and one good-looking ustaz. A typical daily school gets a straight A student once in 100 years.
       

That's our secondary education system in a nutshell, a simple two-caste structure, as close you can get to academic apartheid. Never in the history of humankind have the less gifted been so deliberately marginalised.
  
Oh, I almost forgot the tertiary education, I mean the universities, colleges, university colleges and college colleges, which provide a wide range of diploma and degree programs, some useful, like Medicine, some less useful, like Law. Like its secondary brethren, this supposedly higher education system comes in two flavours: public and private.

The public universities are founded and financed by the government and run by Umno. Leading this lot is Universiti Malaysia Pahang, known the world over now for its cutting-edge spiritual engineering and its flagship anti-hysteria kits. For some unknown reason, 90% of students in  public universities are Malays and female. UiTM has the biggest Malay population (105%), more than Sheffield University's Malay population (60%). Half of all public university students are Kelantanese who speak only Kelantanese. This disproves the long-standing notion that public university students speak only Malay.

Private universities and colleges, on the other hand,  are run like normal Chinese businesses with one noble objective: to make profit. English and Cantonese are widely spoken here. They typically charge extortionate fees for tuition, registration and air-conditioning. The fees hit the roof for joint-degrees with branded universities like Oxford (Brookes). A good example of a private college is Segi College Subang Jaya where 90% of its student population are Chinese and Nigerian nationals on tourist visas. They attend classes once in six months and you know them by their short shorts and half-shirts.

                                                             II

Based on the latest statistics, we have now 100,000 unemployed graduates waiting and vaping, half with CGPA of 3.85, half speak half-English like Wayne Rooney, but all vote PKR. To solve this problem, the government is "importing" 1.5 million loyal Bangladeshis to vote BN.

More damning statistics emerged recently when the deputy dean of Melaka Manipal Medical College alleged that 1000 medical graduates and housemen had quit because of poor English. Undead deans and dons like this are partly the reason why our universities are floundering in global rankings. Manipal is a glorified nursing school. Don't listen. Medical English isn't Shakespeare. Finish the antibiotics, drink a lot of water, your sugar level is 39. That's about  it.  
    
Our education system was recently ranked 50th in the world, lower than Kazakhstan but higher than South Sudan. Malaysia is also 50th on a corruption index. A coincidence, if you asked me. To be fair, there have been plenty of churns and chops over the years to trade up our education system. A new policy or program would normally coincide with a new minister and end invariably with a wasted expenditure of RM1.2 billion.

Remember English for Science and Maths? Cluster schools, familiar? Now the Ministry is purring about the DLP or Dual Language Program and HIP or Highly Immersive Program (HIP). Last month the deputy education minister P Kamalanathan went further, talking about SHITE or Sharing Hot Indian Teachers for English. As the name suggests, the project will involve recruitment of well-trained Indian English teachers from India to improve our English standard. We do have our own Indian English teachers, of course, problem is they're from Gombak, not from India.  Go ahead and guess how much this SHITE will cost.

But nothing fires up my imagination more than KBAT. It stands for Kemahiran Berfikir Aras Tinggi, an unimaginative name for an unimaginative idea. Well, the objective here is to encourage students to think rather than memorise log table or watch Kardashians. (Never mind the teachers). How does the Ministry go about doing this? By asking students trick questions like Masalah Ayam above. Hahaha.

My niece Hana with A* in A-Level Maths and Physics is still trying to solve this problem after two months. It requires trial and error which, in turn, requires time and divine intervention. Students might get locked into this one moronic question for two hours and easily forget that there are 49 other moronic questions to solve.

SPM Add Maths last week was littered with killer Kbats. One top Chinese student in KL didn't sit for Paper 2. He took his own life immediately after Paper 1. This is tragic, sad and absolutely unnecessary. Our PM extended his condolences and quite rightly pontificated that exam isn't everything. Agreed 100%,  it's "hard work" that decides success and wealth in later years, not SPM results. I think PM and all his ministers should make their SPM results public to prove this important point.   

                                                            III

With education standard drifting about and the government turning and twisting with all kinds of tricks to stem the slide, teachers are bearing the bulk of the brunt. Their workload has been piling on - an average teacher now is busier than a hypothetical hard-working cabinet minister. As a result teachers are forever confused and disillusioned. It's only a matter of time before they start asking for ministers' plum benefits (car, smartphone, talking nonsense etc).

Good teachers are a God's gift. But I don't think we're overly blessed. Malays in particular are born inarticulate and untalented and clumsy. Our Indonesian maids can speak far better than us. So teaching becomes a burden, a bother, and never second nature. Teachers are well prepared for pitch battles, but way short on the softer skills and the craft to motivate students away from Instagram. Ask any teacher their idea of teaching, the answer is unequivocal: thankless and tiring. A teacher today  has to eat one whole chicken to replace the calories lost through a half-day of teaching. 

So where does this leave us? Well, how about teachers taking dancing and dressing lessons to perk up posture and poise? Or theatre and taranum classes to sharpen vocals and speaking skills? Our teachers have to shape up fast. Bollywood teachers are coming.

The solution to Masalah Ayam, if you're interested:

8 chicks @ RM5  = RM 40
11 chicks @ RM3 = RM 33
81 chicks @ 3 chicks for RM1 =RM 27

Total: 100 chicks for RM 100. 

Polis Evo

Last week I bucked the trend. I watched a movie at a movie theatre! It was a Malay movie with a thoughtless title: Polis Evo.

The last time I watched any movie at any theatre was in 1984, when I was a student in upstate New York. That movie was the original slasher "The Texas Chainsaw Massacre". I couldn't enjoy the movie. A lady seated right behind me screamed every time the freak with the chainsaw came on.

Don't get me wrong. I like movies. I even have my own list of "movies to see before you die", which I can show you if you're interested. Just ask. The first movie I watched at a theatre was a P Ramlee comedy flick "Madu Tiga" in 1964. It was truly a magical experience for me. Big screen, big crowd, big sound, in complete darkness. And P Ramlee, man, what a genius. When I came out, I just couldn't find my way in broad daylight and almost fell over. My elder sister had to steady me.

I watched a lot of movies during my hostel days at Tiger Lane. The school showed one movie a week, every Friday, free. Half of the films starred Jack Palance. He wasn't exactly a pretty sight, but he was 100 times more popular than our head boy. Whenever we had a new guy operate the projector, the jerk would, against all odds, start with the last reel and give away the whole plot. In my eight years there, I must have watched at least 300 movies. But if I rope in the movies I watched with friends in Ipoh town, I could've easily racked up 400 in total, including the epic Haathi Mere Saathi (twice). I'm not sure what's the industry standard, but 400 seems a lot.

Now back to Polis Evo. Even with complimentary passes in hand, I was initially quite reluctant, and even offended by the mere suggestion. It's a 32-year old record, remember? If I went ahead, I'd have to start all over again and I can only equal this record in 2047, when I'm 94. And what if I got found out by my Whats App groupies? These zealots have been posting all sorts of scriptures urging old and unsuspecting classmates to contemplate and repent and abandon all worldly pleasures. Watching Polis Evo is hardly a way forward.

But it's common curiosity that finally won the day. The film had been heavily marketed on all Astro channels and Rapid buses. The box-office collections had broken the RM10 million mental barrier in just two weeks. It's a lot of money, even at the current exchange rate. Some half-brain punks on H Live were raving with a rating of 11 out of 10. It's a Van Persie moment, and the curious little boy inside had to make the call. I finally relented. So there I was with wife and my two girls Aida and Sarah at GSC Summit USJ. The theatre, or Cineplex, nowadays is actually very small, much smaller than the old Lido cinema in Kota Bharu where I watched Madu Tiga and even smaller than the Tiger Lane school hall where I watched Jack Palance.

Polis Evo is technically not a Malay movie. At least not the one I watched. Half of the dialogue was in Terengganu tongue, the other half in deep Kelantanese. It had been bandied about as an action-comedy, with a tired formula that borrows heavily from Lethal Weapon, Bad Boys or even Rush Hour franchises. It fell flat. It flopped real hard. It's a waste of time and unworthy of any serious review or rating.

The premise and plot were outrageous and insulting all at the same time. Cliched and corny at every turn, with non-existent sub-plots to speak of. The movie was set and actually shot in Kuala Terengganu, and how's that for a mindless non-starter. Kuala Terengganu? Can you believe it? Tripadvisor has rated Kuala Terengganu way behind Puchong as a destination for tourists or retirees. In real life nothing actually wants to happen in Kuala Terengganu. And now suddenly car chases, shootings, explosions, meth labs, drug running, hostages. What can be more implausible and improbable than this? It even showed Pasar Payang so that nobody would mistake it for some place else.

As to why Malay films have sunk to such depths of desperation is beyond me. It's about time we round up David Teo and everybody who talks like him and frame them for undermining our economy and our prime minister. DAP won't mind. 

The performance of the lead cast was patchy and contrived even by my pathetically generous standard for Malay films. Give me Ahmad Yatim any day. The problem with all pelakon Melayu is that they try too hard and it shows. They come across as dysfunctional, farcical and altogether ineffectual. In Polis Evo the characters who really delivered were the bad guys who looked and spoke Kelantanese to the core.

Terengganu diction is dark and twisted and is never easy on the ear, but why let a non-Terengganu cast mangle it further? All of which begs the question as to why weren't real and able Terengganu persons used? Nobody (except Zizang) is good enough in the whole state of Terengganu Darul Iman? My daughter-in-law is from Manir and I think she's talented enough to walk into that sister part (Normally I'm owed a big dinner for saying something like this).   

All this has left me with only one viable verdict: that how hard Zizang tries to market his home state, Terengganu just doesn't have it.

Like most bad movies, Polis Evo did have its bright moments. Two actually, both in Kelantanese. One, the part when Zizan pulled off an elaborate clownish routine, and the baddest of the baddies wasted no time in cautioning him "Bo la buak bodo nyoh, takuk jjadi bodo sungguh". Brilliant. Zizan would be wise to take that seriously. Two, when the same guy took Zizan's sister as hostage and he warned Zizan "Aku keno ambik adik mu buak koletero (Collateral)". Koletero! Hahaha. Sounds like cholesterol.

Any of you reading this, there's still time to change your mind. Don't fall for the hype and vibes. Better never than late.

    

                           

Thai Story

                                           
                                                    

 

On 17 August, Bangkok was once again rocked by bomb blasts. Whatever was the idea behind this barbaric act, collateral damage was grim: 20 dead, 125 injured.

Apparently explosives were planted at a shrine in Erawan, a popular tourist area in the heart of Bangkok. Violence and strife have been breaking out with almost predictable regularity in Thailand. But Bangkok continues to lure more tourists than Paris does, thanks to its go-go girls.

Normally I'd react to news of Bangkok bombs with an air of detachment or resignation. But not this time.

I'm very familiar with Erawan area. During my final years in Petronas, I made regular trips to Bangkok, about every other month. Petronas had founded a company (Petronas something Ltd) to look after its 200 service stations in Thailand. My last trip was in June 2009 for a meeting with Thai Oil, our local supplier. Whenever I'd to be in Bangkok for meetings, I'd put up at Hyatt in Erawan area. In fact the official name of the hotel was Grand Hyatt Erawan (pic above, glass broken).  The shrine was right outside the hotel.

So when I heard the news and watched the sad footage, my heart sank. I've to thank God that nothing like this happened when I was there. I've lost count of how many times I walked past the temple on my way to Chit Lom Sky Train station or nearby Central World Plaza. There's a couple of shops just across with a fine collection of Thai silk. I'd to navigate my way through the temple throng whenever I'd to get Thai silk for dear wife. I'd go back and forth at least three times as part of my bargaining strategy.

I always remember my sweet stays at Hyatt Erawan. It wasn't the very best hotel in Bangkok because no wayward English writer had ever slept here, but still it was lush and luxurious, with all the facilities you need and didn't need, available 24 hours. Its breakfast was a gastronomic galore. I'd spent more than an hour every morning trying out every variety of bread.   

I still remember the night I couldn't sack out and went down for a round on the treadmill and was shocked to discover that the gymn was full. I thought I'd be alone. It's three in the morning.

Petronas finally quit the Thailand market as good sense reigned. Good money was chasing bad money. We were technically subsidising the Thai motorists while half of Kelantanese households were coping without running water. With so much cash pile to burn, Petronas had developed this habit of going on misguided safaris here and there only to come out licking its wounds. Nobody got rapped for these ego trips, of course, as Petronas ruled with unfettered impunity. The generous dividends and taxes repatriated into government coffers had clearly gone all the way. Malaysians are a forgiving lot.

Even today I'm still in touch with a couple of Thai friends I worked with in Bangkok - Mukhdawan and Pipop. (One was a lady. Guess). These people were quietly convinced they knew the market better, and KL staff should only come to Bangkok to visit crocodile farms. Whenever we met we'd sit down and argue and have dinner by the Chao Phraya. And then we'd argue again. Man, I how I miss the good times.

It was the height of the Red Shirt/Yellow Shirt standoff in Bangkok. I took the opportunity to hit Pipop and Mukhdawan whenever the Red and Yellow shirts took to the streets of Bangkok to face each other down. I'm not sure what colour these two guys were. But I was less than subtle with my digs and jibes. I'd message:

"Khun Mukhdawan, hahaha Yellow and Red on the streets again? Hope you're OK. Stay safe now".

Mukhdawan would reply with a short "Thanks. Don't come to Bangkok now".

On 31 August (last month), one day after Bersih 4, I received a message from Mukhdawan:

"How are you, man? Hope you are OK. Stay safe now"


                                                                 Thai Story 2

I was in Hat Yai recently to attend a nephew's wedding in nearby Songkhla. For those who still think Ottawa is the capital of Japan, allow me to enlighten. Songkhla is about 30 km from Hat Yai, and Songkhla or Singgora (its Malay moniker) is the name of both the Thai town and the province bordering Kedah and pseudo-state Perlis.

Songkhla and Kedah were once a single Malay kingdom with an Indian name and a Thai ruler. It only became a firm Thai province after a 1900 treaty where the British gave up slow Songkhla in exchange for the more colourful Kelantan. Revisionists have surfaced recently with claims that the British were drunk at the time: it should've been the other way round.

Anyway, Hat Yai is bigger and livelier than Kota Bharu and Alor Star combined, with its own international airport and floating market (not as big as the one in Bangkok, but it floats). I couldn't help but notice the city now crawling with Malaysians who'd come in busloads to escape Malaysian monotony and paranoia.

Now back to my nephew Azri. He's my elder sister's son, one of her nine children. Nine. His bride, who goes by username Fern (I can't recall her longer name offhand), is a Thai.  She was born into a Thai Muslim family who still live in Songkhla and speak, well, Thai (Hahaha, sorry. What do you expect?). Azri and Fern both work in Petronas. More than 50% of Petronas staff now are married to each other or one another or whatever and, at this rate, it should hit 100% by 2019. Azri was 33 or 34 and Fern was so fair and so much prettier than Azri. It's certainly worth the wait.

Weddings as an event have long ceased to motivate me due to their lack of imagination and creativity. I'd try to avoid mostly the laboured Saturday evening weddings, you know, the staple part where they bring on grainy clips on bride's and groom's early years and a scripted banter on how they, for some unknown reason, met and liked. What passes for speeches are mostly delirium in disguise. All this while Manchester City is bullying and bamboozling Chelsea on Astro.

But I've been looking forward to this wedding since it was announced early this year. It's already exciting and imaginative because it's in Songkhla, and not, say, Gombak.  So I flew all the way with wife and Aida and Sarah to Hat Yai. For a bit of romance, we decided to stay in Hat Yai and commute with the locals by mini bus to Songkhla for the two-day do. The short rides were pleasant and the fare (RM3.60 per person) was so affordable even with the  ringgit as it was (you choose the word).

The akad nikah on the first day got a little complicated because I'd to wear complete baju melayu, with sampin, socks and all. (Me and wife both had peach numbers. In hindsight, it wasn't a bad idea, I mean, we actually looked hot even at a combined age of 120 years. Hey). Otherwise it was a straight-forward affair, starting with a moving Quran recital, and it was all over in under an hour. Azri and Fern were proclaimed husband and wife. Just what they'd asked for.  

And the wedding the next day, I didn't quite get half of it, I mean the Thai half. A real pity because I actually took a one-semester Thai language class during campus days and got an honest A. All I could muster now was one word "mai". But I could feel the energy and atmosphere. Unmistakably festive and upbeat. The noise level was a notch higher but really nothing not to like. Thai people are decidedly a happy and expressive lot.

Both sets of parents watched and wept. Nothing was said between them. I guess joy and jubilation needs no language.

Finally the proverbial moment of truth. Speech by Azri's father. Haha. He swaggered up the stage with Mourinho's nonchalance and sprang the tactical masterstroke - the speech was in Thai. I wasn't prepared for something like this. And I thought this part alone was value for the good money I'd given Tony to come here. I didn't understand it one bit, but what the hell. It was brave, creative, inspired. I could hear Fern's crowd cheering on. He must've nailed it.

Thai language is fun. My Thai teacher cautioned us that a Thai word may vary in meaning with its tones. One note higher, it could mean the opposite. The word "klai" means far and near in different tones! "Kai" means chicken. One note lower, it's egg. You don't speak the language, you sing it. "Mai mai mai mai mai" spoken in five different tones would roughly translate as "new wood doesn't burn, does it?"

The flight back was brisk, but long enough for me to reflect on how well things had panned out. The wedding was nothing short of memorable, something to look back on fondly later. Songkhla was still part of Thailand. And Azri's father had hit the right notes and nuances when he actually said, in Thai, that Azri and Fern are "new" husband and wife. Not "wooden" husband and wife ! Hahaha.......

My best wishes to Azri and Fern.

   
                                                                    

You Remember You Strong

On 28 July this year our PM announced the appointment of a new Deputy Prime Minister. I'm not interested in your vile comments, so don't bother. Dato Seri Dr Ahmad Zahid Hamidi, the new Deputy Prime Minister, is no stranger to Malaysian political folklore, rising fast and furious through party ranks. Umno now has three million members, so a party member's chance of becoming a Deputy Prime Minister is as good as seeing Elvis busking at Sogo. Dr Ahmad Zahid is a wily politician with a typical chequered career, ups and downs and outs and ups. I guess it's all ups from now on.

Your cynical inner self might question why we need a Deputy Prime Minister. Some countries, like Singapore, have two deputy prime ministers. I don't know exactly what  a deputy prime minister does, let alone two. Everybody in UK thinks PM David Cameron's deputy is Brendan Rogers, including David Cameron himself. I'm sure Dr Ahmad Zahid knows what to do as Deputy Prime Minister. Even if he doesn't, he can quickly fall back on his day job as Minister of Home Affairs, a job he's performed so well so far. Penang and Pandamaran are now virtually free of part-time gangsters, big-time gangsters and Dato gangsters.

Everywhere in the world a home affairs minister is a powerful, intimidating, and even shadowy, figure because they're in charge of public safety and internal security. They control (figuratively) the police, immigration and prisons. If police and prisons don't scare you, nothing will. You'd know you have an effective home affairs minister if you feel safe at home and you don't run red lights and you stop bullying lady drivers.

But why call it Home Affairs? Maybe to differentiate it from Foreign Affairs and other affairs that take place away from home (office, Starbucks etc). They also call it Home Affairs Minister in Zimbabwe. So we must be on the right track. In North Korea two ministries are responsible for home affairs: Ministry of State Security and Ministry of People's Security. Ministry of State Security takes care of prisons, while Ministry of People's Security also takes care of prisons. Prisons are biggest business and GDP generator in North Korea.

Now back to our new Deputy Prime Minister. I've never met or spoken to Dr Ahmad Zahid in person but he impressed me as crowd pleasing and easygoing when I saw a footage of him on a big bike wearing a big smile. My wife thinks he's good-looking, you know, that lush crop of real hair, sharp dress and all. She's using me as the benchmark, so the standard is pretty low.

I've nothing but respect and admiration for what he has accomplished in and outside of politics. Like I said, it's not easy to become a minister anywhere in the world, let alone a Deputy Prime Minister. Bung Mokhtar has been a noisy MP for more than 20 and everybody expects him to remain a noisy MP for another 20 years. Neelofa is rich and famous but she'll never get to be a Deputy Prime Minister by selling lots of stuff online. Dr Ahmad Zahid also holds a bona fide PhD from a bona fide university. holder. It's not easy to find a Deputy Prime Minister with a bona fide PhD these days.

Dr Ahmad Zahid and I were both born in the early part of 1953. Nothing special about that because thousands of people were born in 1953. I was born in Kelantan and he in Jogjakarta. He speaks fluent Javanese, if that means anything. Admittedly there's nothing special about being born in 1953. Millions of people were born 1953, including our Prime Minister and Cyndi Lauper. It's ok if you don't know Cyndi Lauper. It's also ok if you don't know anything. 

But Dr Ahmad Zahid and I also share something else. We both attended schools at the old Tiger Lane in Ipoh. His school, Sekolah Izzuddin Shah (Sisi), was just across the road, within a shouting distance (quite literally) from my school (Sekolah Tuanku Abdul Rahman (Star). Since we're born in the same year, it's safe to conclude that we're around Tiger Lane at about the same time, the hippie years of 1966 - 1971.

I'm not sure why, but it's like some kind of law that schools in the same neighbourhood must hate each others' guts. Harvard steals MIT's Nobel prize winners, and vice versa. For years St John's has been insinuating that VI is a glorified mental institution. There's no love lost between my school and Sekolah Izzuddin. The resentment ran deep for three reasons:

1. Both schools were fully residential, all-boys schools. So the students were a deprived and deranged lot. We're all accidents waiting to happen.

2. Sekolah Izzuddin was a state-run religious school, whereas my school was a federal-funded English-medium school and, of course, less than religious. They learned Arabic while we played Rugby and Cricket.

3. My school was physically about one hundred times bigger with lots of buildings and fields and gardens. Not to mention wacko wardens and cooks running around non-stop.

That "English medium and bigger buildings" bit was actually irrelevant because we're completely different types of schools, with dissimilar inputs and end-products. But the big heads among us took this as a subtle sign of superiority and a green light to run down our neighbour.

The rare black and white aerial photo above clearly shows how our school Star overwhelmed our neighbour Sisi. My school had eight hostel blocks, with two (Yellow House and White House) at the far end and closest to Izzuddin. Incidentally these blocks housed more than their fair share of those elements that our gay prefects had, quite rightly, downgraded as basket-case. These guys needed only half a reason to fly off the handle, so to speak. In the late afternoons they'd mill about the fence to trade insults with their opposite number across the road. I can't recall all the gibes and taunts, but the one that stands out until today was "Oi, dok baca Yasin ka?" I suppose that verbal pile-driver packed enough cerebral power to leave the other side with no options but to bay for our blood.  

It had to be sooner rather than later. Both sets of students, as a routine, would descend on Ipoh town (now city, for some reason) on weekends and our paths simply had to cross because Ipoh at the time was smaller than modern-day Subang Jaya. We'd to share the same bus. You can imagine the tension and anticipation boiling up whenever the two groups converged at the bus station. There's plenty of provocative stares and eyeballing. If I'm honest, the Izzuddin guys always had the upper hand and we're, well, cowed. They're on average bigger and had reached puberty earlier. Our dining hall wasn't Ritz Carlton, so we didn't grow and develop quite the way we should have.

Admittedly we're only good and strong in numbers and well behind the fence. Outside the school the Yellow House cowboys walked like choir boys.

I myself had an encounter of the fourth kind at the bus station. It was one fine Saturday in 1971. It's half a century ago, so I can't recall the month. Four of us were at the bus station listening and humming along the Hindi hit "Tum Bin Jaon Kahan" blaring loudly out of the jukebox. We were feigning a brave front  in clear view of a watching Izzuddin clan at the far end. They read our ruse and threateningly gestured for one of us to join their table for a heart-to-heart talk. We sent over the biggest guy in our group to at least establish some physical parity. I forgot what actually transpired but our go-to guy kept his cool. He was back with us after about ten minutes with a "last warning" from the Sisi mob. 

To this day we're not sure what was the last warning for. None of us was from Yellow House and we'd never offended them in any specific way. It was a Hindi song we were playing, not an Arabic song. Our group were technically harmless and peace loving. We went to Ipoh town to seek solace by watching Chinese and Hindi movies. We never talked to their girl friends as far as I can remember.  In fact we never talked to any girl since we bid farewell to our moms in January 1966.

To be fair the altercations had never escalated into all-out skirmishes or hand-to-hand combats. Deep down, we'd so much in common: Melayu, Islam, Kampong, and broke as hell. Nevertheless making fun of Izzuddin guys continued to be the most popular sport (after rugby).

One cruel joke making the rounds was an unfortunate event involving one of our boys. Walking all alone, he was pulled over by the Izzuddin crowd in Ipoh town and verbally warned, in English, "You remember you strong?". 

Our guy was stumped and he took all the time he needed to regain himself and to make sense of it all. You remember you strong? "Awak ingat awak kuat!". Hahahaha. In Malay context and culture, it wasn't a casual question. It's a clear and severe warning. In no time, "you remember you strong?" became our battle cry. It soon developed into a potent weapon for us to cull any of our own trying to show off, rerun old jokes etc. This precious line has been repeated a thousand times in our lively group exchanges to this very day.

Well I thought nothing of this "You remember you are strong?" episode beyond its comical and nostalgic element until Dr Ahmad Zahid was appointed Deputy Prime Minister. I don't have any proof whether he had any part in the bus station showdown or whether he was solely or severally responsible for coining the paranormal poser "you remember you strong?" I don't think he was complicit in any way for two reasons. One, he was foreign born. Two, he was more of  a bookworm or a softie who loved classes and exams. He's has a PhD, remember?

For us, boys from the big, English-medium school, it's time for some reflection and serious soul searching. Leaders lurk anywhere, shaped and made in the humblest of surroundings. Like it or not, an Izzuddin alumnus is now the Deputy Prime Minister and Home Affairs Minister. So eat your heart out, boys.

Dr Ahmad Zahid is effectively the most powerful person in the whole country now. He can haul up anybody he sees as a threat to national security. See the pic above. He's making a point or perhaps reminding us or even issuing a last warning. I'll never know what he's saying. Could it be "You remember you strong?" Who knew.            

   

          

   

A Free Guide To Frugal Travel

In March this year I went to Italy together with five family members for 9 days and 8 nights, swinging through seven lovely cities: Rome, Siena, Lucca, Pisa, San Gimignano, Florence and Venice. It cost each of us RM 3500.

Welcome to frugal travel.  Or affordable travel. Or clever travel. Whatever.

No trick. It's all in: flight, food, sleep, bus, train, boat, car, insurance. Everything except museums. No, we didn't fly Afghan Air. We flew on Etihad, voted best airlines last year.

Frugal travel is a psychological triumph over the financial trials of travelling. Not to mention the physical pleasure of defeating the tyranny of the travel industry. It felt like you'd just beaten up a road bully at their own game. 

Not only that. Your travel is more fulfilling and relaxing and liberating because you're in total control. No bus waiting at 6 am sharp to ferry you to the next country. No need to hold that pee for two hours just because you don't want your travel buddies to know the state of your prostate. No stops at extortionate souvenir shops owned by a younger brother of the bus driver.

You can stop anytime anywhere, change your itinerary, avoid towns with difficult names like Cocking (England) or Pussy (France), stop at fruit stalls to buy peaches and pomegranates, or look out for pretty mosques in unlikely places. The freedom, flexibility and possibility are endless.

Frugal travel is frugal only in strict accounting sense. The value and experience is anything but frugal. It's more inspiring and enduring than any of the mom-and-pop tours pitched by Poto Travel or Parlo Travel. We slept in a rustic farmhouse deep in timeless Tuscany for three nights. We walked on the Normandy beach where the Allied Forces had landed on D-Day to storm the Germans (It's so surreal that you could almost hear the gunfire). No local travel agent can offer you such experience.

As a retiree with loads of time to kill, I've been travelling quite a bit, not as broadly as Bourdain, but enough to learn a few tricks, which I want to pass on to you for free. I know it's hard to believe anything free these days, but who can blame you. With GST now in full swing, Ringgit free falling and billions in ghost accounts, you've lost all hopes.

This guide is conceived on the premise that you're a typical economic person, meaning: 1. You're not Donald Trump, and 2. You want to travel anywhere for free.

My top travel tips:

1. Travel Off-Season
 

Don't travel during school holidays. Flights are scarce, prices are steep and passengers are noisy. Summer travel is nice for its high dose of daylight, but you've to compete head on with the thick-pocket Japanese and Swedish vacationers. With ringgit rate now higher than your CGPA, you'll lose easily. So go in Spring or Fall.  Don't worry about kids skipping school. They can miss one week of  classes and will still grow up to be gynaecologists. Or politicians.

2. Tailor Your Tour

Celebrate your personal tastes. Don't heed the herd. Our country is teeming with travel agencies (400 as at this morning) offering a wide range of tour gimmicks preying on lazy retirees. These packages come with hilarious names like Sonata Korea, Nostalgia Norway and Romantika Hanoi. Don't fall for any of these. Hanoi is communist.

A friend recently splurged RM10,000 on a tour of the Balkan states. Unless it's part of your annual money laundering, spending ten grand for the privilege of seeing Albania is hard to explain.

The better option is to draw your own tour. Buy a la carte instead of package. Shop for the cheapest flights, hotels and rental cars, dream up your itinerary, personalise your destinations and routes, load up your food supply,  choose your travel companions, and so on. All on your own. More fun this way.


3. Buy Tickets At Least 6 Years Ahead 

Six months ahead. But it sure feels like six years.  For Italy, we bought nine months ahead, at RM2057. For Paris in 2012, we bought 15 months ahead (RM 1500) on AirAsia, and it's so long that my younger son got bored and decided to get married in the meantime. For London in 2010, it's one full year ahead (RM1200), also AirAsia. For Melbourne in 2011 it's six months ahead  (RM430), you guess which airline.

There's a real risk, of course, because of the long lead time. You can easily develop early Alzheimer's and forget your flight dates. Ridiculous tickets normally come with ridiculous conditions. For example, our Rome tickets allow full refunds only in the event of the ticket-holder's death. But it wasn't clear who'll actually get the refund. Wife? Son? Penang government? 

But there can be unforeseen upsides. We're booked on low-cost AirAsia flight to Paris in 2012 but travelled on high-cost Malaysia Airlines after AirAsia discontinued Paris. So we had 30kg luggage, fine dining, Malay ghost movies and 63-year old stewardesses, all at no extra fees.   

4. Buy Tickets Online.

You know this. You've to stay up all night during AirAsia "free seats" stampede, but it's fun when you finally clinched Bandung for RM106. Online booking is the best option. Early this year Garuda offered RM1300 on its booking site for  KL-Amsterdam.  From Amsterdam you can easily find your way to The Hague, if you know what and where The Hague is.

There's a number of independent search engines for price comparison. I like Skyscanner. Just be careful though: the lowest price may not be the best. A RM 950 flight from KL to London on Chinese Eastern Airlines looks like a bicentennial bargain until you realize that it has 23 stop-overs and it takes about two weeks to land in London.

Some travel agents do offer cheap flights during Matta Fair. I'm not sure whether it's part of their compliance with the Sedition Law and why should I care. We bucked the trend and bought our Rome tickets from Sedunia Travel.

Otherwise my first choice is AirAsia. Its business statement is "Let's bankrupt other airlines", so it has to be brutally cheap to live up to that promise. Its booking process is mazy with all sorts of tricks and traps to fleece you. Stay cool and take your time, you can game it. Don't get overly emotional over luggage fees. Travel light, 7 kg max. Use Crocs shoes, Crocs jeans, and Crocs underwear, they've zero weight. Studies have shown that you can  wear a pair of  boxer shorts for 10 straight days without irritating your bowel.

5. Plan Your Itinerary.

No brainer. Itinerary is hard to plan and spell, but a well-thought one will stretch your travel value. Study, read and think your itinerary as if you're sitting for your Biology test. Tripadvisor is a good start. Read travel guides like Michelin, Rough Guides and Fodor's. Buy 2006 editions at Book Excess for RM5. Places like Rome or London don't change every year. In fact they've not changed much since William The Conqueror.
  
If you think reading isn't fashionable, you always have short cuts: use travel agents' itineraries as a guide. Then customize around it. Delete da Vinci Museum, add Juventus Stadium. I'd recommend itineraries from "holiday specialists" like Cosmos or Globus. Don't use itineraries from Umrah or Istanbul champions like Triways or Andalusia. They're good only if you're Malay, female and 60 years old with a body mass of 100 kg.

6. Don't Travel Alone.

Unless you're travelling on Petronas expense account or you're meeting a billionaire Nigerian prince, don't travel alone.  No fun. Travel in numbers. But the party shouldn't be too big. At train stations you can't correctly count beyond six. Group travel is cheaper because you can spread your spending. Take along your family and friends. For even more fun, pay for all their tickets ha ha. 

7. Drive. But Don't Drive In Colombia.


If you want to see more of a country nothing beats driving. Unless it's Colombia. If you're already in Colombia, don't drive. Come back.

Driving allows you to see more what you want to see, at your own pace. It's ideal for big, open countries like the US, Canada, Australia, UK, France, Spain and Italy where tourist attractions are spread all around. Car hires in these countries, especially Spain, are relatively affordable. With a car, you can even stay outside the big cities, where hotels are cheaper, bigger and quieter. You can drive into cities or take a train. You can start, stop and snack any time you choose. And that pee.

It's normal to harbour apprehensions about driving in strange places. Left-hand driving, funny road signs, funny traffic police, no-driving zones, flat tyres etc. It just shows that you're a normal, sensible person. But I can promise you'll overcome these unfounded fears after ten minutes of driving. If you can drive in Malaysia, you can drive in California. 

You don't need a car if your extensive 10-day itinerary consists of only one city, say, Ottawa. (Why would anyone want to be in Ottawa for 10 days isn't part of this discussion). If you plan to see the countryside, Viking villages, remote castles, active volcanoes, alien landing sites or even shady factory outlets, it's best to hire a car. Buses or trains, if available, are slow and late.

My standard MO is always to rent a car at the airport, eg London, and then drive out and away to see all the major tourist treasures and traps (Scotland, Lake District, Stoke City stadium etc) and return to London to recover for one or two days. We did the same for France and Italy. The best car rental site is Auto Europe for both price and variety. I always hire an automatic car because my poor eye-brain-leg coordination. Go for manuals, they're are at least 30% cheaper.
 
8. Forget Waze, Buy a GPS

You need a GPS to drive. Buy a GPS navigator. I bought a 5" Garmin.  Buy, don't rent with your car. Long term, GPS is a lot cheaper because you can use it more than 1000 times. Just update the maps, free at illegal sites. You know all these sites.

Don't use internet just to operate your phone's GPS or Waze. You might end up in Tg Malim instead of Milan. Joke. Actually internet roaming will cost you your arm. And your leg.

9. Don't Sleep Among Backpackers.

Don't cut corners with your sleep. Say NO to youth hostels or sweaty backpackers dorms with shared toilets, kitchen and oxygen even if they're free. Rent apartments with stoves and freezers. They're cheaper than hotels if you book online early through AirBNB or Tripadvisor or even Booking.com. Book at least three months ahead. If it's six of you, book six beds, not five. You want to sleep and snore comfortably, not on top of each other.

10. Ferry Your Food

This is life and death because we Malaysians must eat, 24 hours. Take along plenty of forage. 15 kg should be enough to keep a family of five on the same metabolic rate. You'll be surprised at the variety of fast foodstuffs now available, even instant nasi lemak, nasi goreng and, believe this, lontong. Buy at Speedmart or Mydin. Don't waste time preparing full-blown fusions like masak lemak cili api ikan keli salai with cheese or nasi dagang ikan salmon. Curry, soup or tomyam are faster than 10 minutes.

You'll somehow stumble upon a lot of Malaysian or Malay or even Kelantanese restaurants overseas. Don't bother. They're mostly expensive, with unique styrofoam taste. Eat Kelantanese food only in Kelantan.   

11. Shopping Is Unnecessary

Unless you're looking for some authentic local products as showpieces to provoke your neighbours, like Samurai swords (made in Taiwan) or Persian rugs (which are actually Belgian). 

Factory outlets are generally ok if you've a thing about 1949 fashion. All the sales assistants at these outlets can speak Chinese and Japanese. They also speak only to Chinese and Japanese. If you're Kelantanese, you've to guess the prices and sizes and the exit.

Chocolates are always cheaper and tastier anywhere outside Malaysia and are worth buying for giveaways. Big supermarkets like Carrefour outside Paris or Sainsbury's near London are the best place to buy chocolates. Don't buy at KLIA duty free on your way home. The chocs are ok but all your money goes to Umno.

A Word of Caution: Taking It  To Extremes

Don't overdo. A friend (former classmate) recently travelled to Europe, USA and Canada for three months. Apart from flights, he spent very little, if at all, on anything else. He slept on park benches, on rail tracks and in igloos, and cleaned himself once in four days in communal baths, lakes, glaciers etc. He ate beetroot and rented bicycles to move around. He's about my age (meaning old), but he runs marathons 14 times a year. He takes the whole "travelling on a shoestring" notion to a new level.  Most of us won't last two days. This isn't frugal travel. This is Man vs Wild. Don't do it.