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.        

       

  

       

Dari Silangit Ke Kuala Namu: Beberapa Catatan Kenangan

Saya berkunjung ke Indonesia lagi. Kali ini ke Medan dan Danau Toba, dari 1 hingga 5 Januari 2020. Seperti selalunya, saya melancung secara berkumpulan. Kali ini seramai sebelas orang, termasuk isteri dan beberapa orang adik ipar bersama suami mereka. Mereka ni sering mengembara bersama saya, mungkin kerana saya tidak mengenakan apa-apa service charge, duit parking dan tips sebagaimana travel agent terkemuka seperti Batuta, Zahafiz, Zuhud, Madaniah dan lain-lain travel agent dengan nama Arab. Itinerari saya juga amat flexible. Tiada had untuk berhenti rehat dan mereka boleh saja ke toilet bila-bila dan di mana-mana tanpa ditanya sebabnya.   

Paling akhir saya ke Indonesia ialah pada bulan September lepas, bila saya bersama isteri, anak dan adik ipar berkunjung ke Jakarta. Sebelum itu saya bersama isteri, anak dan cucu ke Bali (bulan  Januari 2019). Dan sebelum itu saya bersama isteri, anak dan beberapa orang adik ipar ke Padang dan Bukit Tinggi (April 2018) dan Jogjakarta (December 2017). Dalam masa dua tahun saja saya ke Indonesia sebanyak lima kali. Yang anihnya saya sudah enam tahun tidak pulang ke Kelantan, daerah kelahiran saya. Kalau emak saya masih ada tentu dia akan mengepek.

Sebenarnya saya pernah ke Medan dan Danau Toba - kira-kira hampir 30 tahun yang lalu. Saya masih ingat anak saya bermain kecapi dia atas feri dan kami terpijak tahi kuda di pasar buah Berastagi, semuanya in flashbacks. Tentunya Medan telah banyak berubah dalam jangka masa yang begitu  panjang, dan ini membuatkan saya sangat teruja dan tidak sabar untuk melihat kembali. Tapi apa yang pasti, saya juga telah banyak berubah. 30 tahun dulu saya mempunyai dua orang anak dan seorang isteri, kini saya mempunyai empat orang anak, lima orang cucu dan seorang isteri. Isteri saya yang dulunya tegap dan mantap, kini amat gusar bila melihat anak tangga. Bahkan bila terfikir anak tangga pun dia mula bimbang dan tidak lena tidur. Dia lebih gembira bila melihat lift dan Instagram.

Ini merupakan kali kedua saya menulis blog dalam Bahasa Melayu.  Kali ini terasa lebih selesa dan mudah walaupun masih terdapat sedikit kejanggalan di segi pilihan kata dan susunan ayat. Maaf ya.  Tetapi adik-adik ipar saya tentunya akan memuji tulisan saya ini dengan kata-kata yang memberansangkan seperti "Terbaik, Paklong", "Luar Biasa " (sticker), "Catet Dulu" (sticker), LOL dan sebagainya. Mereka ni memang cekap dan berfikiran jauh ke depan. Mereka tau banyak lagi tempat-tempat lain yang akan dilawati nanti.

Saya berjanji tidak akan menulis atau menceritakan setiap pergerakan dan aksi kesebelasan kami selama lima hari di Sumatera Utara (Medan dan Danau Toba terletak di Sumatera Utara. Ottawa di Canada, bukan Jepun). Ia akan memakan masa yang lama untuk ditulis dan tentunya boleh menyebabkan stress bila dibaca. Bayangkan sebelas orang dan sebelas citarasa. Saya akan hanya membuat catatan tentang beberapa pengalaman, peristiwa atau tempat yang menarik, unik dan inspiring yang kami lalui.

1. Silangit

Hari ini merupakan hari pertama tahun 2020. Saya tidak pasti samada hari ini negara kita telahpun melangkah sebagai sebuah negara maju seperti yang telah sekian lama dicanangkan. Maju atau tidak, kami akan tetap ke Medan dan Danau Toba seperti yang telah kami rencanakan sejak bulan Oktober. Bahang yang meluap-luap sejak dua minggu lepas terus memuncak bila saja kami dipanggil untuk memasuki pesawat dengan ucapan maharaja lawak "Happy Journey".

Kami menaiki penerbangan AK 411 jam 11.35 terus ke Danau Toba melalui Airport Silangit yang terletak di pinggir selatan Danau Toba. Kami nanti akan pulang melalui Medan. Ini berbeza dari perjalanan kami 30 tahun dulu di mana kami datang dan pulang melalui Medan.

Datang melalui Silangit dan pulang melalui Medan adalah idea saya semata-mata tanpa mengetahui selok-beloknya. Selepas mendarat baru saya tau rupanya airport Silangit berisiko tinggi kerana runwaynya yang singkat, lapisan awan yang tebal dan paras awan yang rendah  sering membuat pendaratan menjadi cemas, lewat atau terus tergendala. Ada penerbangan yang terpaksa berpatah balik ke KL.

Nasib baik pendaratan kami tidak mengalami sebarang kerumitan, bahkan kami tiba sepuluh minit lebih awal. Saya bimbang juga sebab suami adik ipar saya yang ikut serta dalam rombongan ini disyaki mengidap komplikasi aviophobia, seperti legenda bolasepak Belanda dan Arsenal, Dennis Bergkamp, yang digelar "The Non-Flying Dutchman". Saya tidak dapat bayangkan reaksinya jika pesawat bergegar atau mengalami masalah untuk mendarat. Atau mungkinkah dengan doa suami adik ipar (biras saya) maka penerbangan kami sangat lancar dan selesa? Sesungguhnya Allah yang Maha Berkuasa dan Maha Mengetahui. Tenang ya, bang hahaha.

Seperti yang dijangka airport Silangit tidak mempunyai jet bridge, jadi kami terpaksa menuruni tangga dan berjalan ke terminal. Keluar saja dari pesawat saya terasa udara bukit yang nyaman dan sejuk menyirami muka saya. Pada masa yang sama, saya terdengar tulang lutut isteri saya bergesel.

Dari jauh kelihatan bangunan terminal amat sederhana dan ianya tidak beroperasi sepenuhnya kerana kerja-kerja pembesaran. Kami diarahkan untuk menuju ke satu khemah putih di hujung terminal. Dari jauh ia kelihatan seakan-akan khemah di majlis perkahwinan di Malaysia. Rupanya inilah kawasan imigresen, dan kami terus ikut  beratur. Barisannya agak panjang dan terkeluar dari khemah dan bergerak amat perlahan. Nasib baik ada live band menyambut kami dengan memainkan muzik tradisional Batak di sebelah pintu masuk khemah. Kesemua adik-adik ipar  saya dan suami mereka (biras saya) nampaknya sangat terhibur dengan muzik ini, ada yang mengangguk-ngangguk mengikut rentak dan iramanya.

Urusan imigresen selesai setelah hampir setengah jam. Tidaklah begitu teruk sebenarnya berbanding dengan jemaah haji Malaysia yang pernah menunggu di pintu imigresen di Jeddah selama dua hari. Kami keluar dari khemah dan disambut oleh supir dan guide kami, Pak Arifin atau Ari. Beliau nampak gembira sebab kami selamat sampai di Silangit tepat pada waktunya dan tidak berpatah balik ke Kampung Pandan.

2. Tomok dan Ambarita

Orang Kelantan tentu akan bertanya "Ggapo nih?"

Tomok dan Ambarita adalah nama dua buah penempatan dan pusat kebudayaan suku Batak yang terletak di Pulau Samosir di tengah-tengah Danau Toba. Banyak lagi tempat lain sebenarnya, tapi feri yang kami sewa hanya singgah di sini. Selain dari rumah tradisional Batak di Ambarita, tidak banyak bahan atau bangunan kebudayaan yang kami temui. Tomok pula padat dengan pelancung yang menyusuri lorong-lorong kecil mencari cenderamata bertulis Horas dan I Love Samosir.

Jujur saya nyatakan, tiada yang menarik atau inspiring di Tomok dan Ambarita. Mungkin kerana kami tidak meneroka Pulau Samosir sepenuhnya. Pelancung dari Eropah dan Australia biasanya menyewa notorsikal untuk mengelilingi pulau beberapa hari untuk melihat suasana dan lifestyle suku Batak dengan lebih dekat. Ada yang terus menetap dan membuka chalet. Pelancung Melayu lebih gemar berlegar di sekitar kawasan jeti saja.

Apa pun, menaiki feri dari pekan Parapat merentasi Danau Toba bersama saudara mara terdekat merupakan pengalaman yang sukar dilupakan. Memang kami sering bertemu di pusat kami di Kg Pandan, setiap kali dengan segala jenis makanan terhidang. Tapi kali ini kami berkumpul secara santai tanpa sebarang makanan berdekatan. Inikah yang dikatakan berbual kosong? Ternyata lebih tumpuan dan ketenangan bila tiada makanan.  Hanya kesebelasan kami saja penumpang dalam feri ini, jadi tiada batasan untuk bercerita, berbuat bising atau berulang alik ke toilet. Pemandangan di sekeliling tasik juga mengasyikkan sehingga aviophobia pun hilang lenyap dan tenggelam ke dasar danau. Hahaha, tenang bang.

3. OYO 1440 New Sejarah

Dari Parapat menuju ke Medan, kami singgah bermalam di Berastagi. Inilah nama hotel tempat kami menginap. Jangan tanya saya apakah sejarah di sebalik nama ni. Yang saya tau nama OYO kini sudah sinonim dengan rangkaian hotel budget di Malaysia dan Indonesia. Kami tiba di Berastagi lewat senja. Tidak ada reception office di hotel ini dan kami hanya didaftarkan dan diberi kunci oleh penjaga hotel di tanah lapang di depan hotel sambil berdiri sahaja.

Biliknya sangat basic, dengan TV flatscreen sebesar tablet Samsung saya, tanpa aircond kerana suhu di Berastagi memang sedia sejuk. Adik-adik ipar saya melonjak gembira bila diberi password untuk wifi. Wifi di sini ternyata lebih baik dari wifi di USJ. Walaupun hotel ini sederhana saja, lokasinya berdekatan dengan deretan warung-warung yang menjual berbagai makanan untuk makan malam. Sukar untuk memilih kerana semuanya nampak menyelerakan setelah hampir lima jam kami terperangkap dalam macet (traffic jam) yang lumayan. Salah seorang suami adik ipar saya memilih kerang rebus saja. Saya pasti beliau sudah keletihan dan hilang selera makan. Beliau makan tiga pinggan kerang.

Pulang ke hotel setelah makan malam, saya bergegas ke bilik air untuk mandi. Bila saya buka shower,  saya lantas melompat ke belakang bila saja badan dijirus air. Dinginnya sampai ke tulang dan buah pinggang. Rupanya sistem air panas bilik saya telah rosak. Saya dan isteri terpaksa tunda program mandi di Berastagi ke esok pagi.

Keesokan harinya sewaktu kami semua berjalan keluar dari kawasan hotel, terlihat beberapa papantanda terpampang dengan ucapan takziah atau balasungkawa. Salah seorang penduduk berdekatan hotel telah meninggal dunia. Suami adik ipar bongsu saya terus mencelah "Patut lah semalam ada bau kemenyan". Saya tidak berbau apa-apa pun semalam.  Mungkin bau badan saya mengatasi bau kemenyan.

4.  Pajak Ikan

Tiada pajak dan tiada ikan di sini. Pajak Ikan adalah nama pusat atau pasar grosir (wholesale) dan eceran (retail) berbagai jenis bahan kain dan baju di belakang hotel kami di kota Medan. Konsepnya hampir sama dengan Tanah Abang di Jakarta, Pasar Baru di Bandung atau Pasar Kelewer di Solo, cuma lebih kecil. Hotel kami di Medan (Kama Hotel) terletak di kawasan Medan lama. Ianya lebih kurang dua puluh kali lebih baik dari hotel OYO di Berastagi.

Kami berada di Medan selama tiga hari dan dua malam. Adik-adik ipar saya berulang alik ke Pajak Ikan dari setengah jam selepas check-in sehingga lah setengah jam sebelum kami berangkat pulang. Sebenarnya saya ada juga pergi ke Pajak Ikan, cuma sekali dua sahaja, itu pun hanya untuk mencari kain pelikat Gajah Duduk.

Pasar ini keadaannya samalah dengan pasar kain lain di Indonesia. Kita kena banyak berdialog dalam acara tawar menawar.  Saya suka berkomunikasi dengan orang Indonesia tempatan kerana mereka sangat articulate dengan bahasa yang tersusun dan kuat pula sense of humournya. Di salah sebuah kedai yang saya singgah, saya bertanya dengan pembantu di situ "Di sini ada Gajah Duduk, Pak?". Pembantu itu terus menjawab sambil tersenyum " Pasti ada. Itu Pak" dia menuding ke arah seorang perempuan yang sedang duduk di bangku menunggu cinta. Perempuan itu senyum tersipu-sipu. Kejam sungguh jenakanya hahaha.

5. Nikmatnya Santapan, Sejuta Kesan

Ini bukannya tajuk puisi penyair terkenal Indonesia Chairil Anwar. "Nikmatnya Santapan, Sejuta Kesan" adalah tagline atau slogan Restoran Garuda. Tuan-tuan tentunya sudah biasa dengan tagline atau slogan KFC "Finger Lickin' Good". Bagi saya makanan KFC adalah biasa saja,  dan tidaklah selazat slogannya. Tapi Garuda berbeza.

Sejak hari pertama lagi kami hanya makan Nasi Minang atau Nasi Padang. Hari pertama kami makan dua kali, lunch di Silangit, dinner di Balige, hari kedua lunch di Parapat. Hari ketiga kami berjalan 500 metre dari Kama Hotel di Medan ke Restoran Garuda, yang amat terkenal di seluruh dunia dengan menu Nasi Minang. Kami makan secara hidang, dan kami hampir hilang kawalan bila melihat tidak kurang dari dua puluh hidangan yang berbeza rupa parasnya. Kami tidak makan kesemuanya. Ternyata sajian di sini lebih enak dan segar berbanding dengan sajian di restoran-restoran sebelum ini.

Saya perhatikan adik-adik ipar saya tidak banyak bercakap dengan suami-suami mereka semasa makan, mungkin mereka ingin menumpukan seluruh perhatian, jiwa raga dan hati nurani mereka terhadap juadah yang kini pasrah di depan mereka. Selepas makan, meja kami kelihatan seperti medan perang, penuh dengan ikan dan ayam yang tertewas.

Selepas makan kami terus ke cashier untuk membayar. Billnya berjumlah: 1,109,020 Rupiah. Ini kali pertama saya membayar lunch yang berjumlah sejuta. Terasa seakan Jho Low berbelanja di Hollywood. Saya teringat slogan Garuda "Nikmatnya Santapan, Sejuta Kesan".  Tepat sekali, memang sejuta kesannya.

6. Bolu Meranti dan Soto Medan Sinar Pagi

Bolu adalah Baulu, bukan Bola atau Bulu. Bolu Meranti merupakan ole-ole yang sangat terkenal di Medan.  Pelancung Malaysia pasti akan membeli Bolu Meranti untuk di bawa pulang dan diberi sebagai cenderahati dengan ingatan tulus ikhlas kepada ahli keluarga, kawan rapat, besan dan sebagainya.

Bolu Meranti ni rupa dan rasanyanya seperti swissroll, tetapi lebih lazat, legit dan asli. Saya dan isteri sempat mengikut seorang adik ipar saya ke kedai Bolu Meranti, dan saya terpegun dengan apa yang saya saksikan. Kedainya penuh sesak dan queuenya panjang hingga terkeluar sejauh 20 metre. Queue sebegitu panjang hanya untuk membeli swissroll? Apakah ilmu dan strategy pemilik kedai sehingga begini sekali sambutannya? Kalau  di Malaysia, sudah pasti kedai yang sebegini maju akan dituduh menggunakan bomoh atau minyak babi atau dipunyai oleh anggota Dap.

Selepas Bolu Meranti kami ke Warong Sinar Pagi yang masyhur dengan Soto Medan. Seperti Bolu Meranti, warung ini juga sesak dengan pelanggan. Kami terus  masuk dan bernasib baik kerana ada pelanggan yang baru mengosongkan meja. Saya bukanlah pakar soto, tapi bagi saya rasa Soto Medan ini biasa saja, paling kuat pun 6 dari 10.

Namun apa yang menakjubkan di warung Soto Sinar Pagi ini ialah servicenya yang sangat pantas. Jauh lebih pantas dari kedai mamak di Malaysia. Belum pun sempat kami duduk dan bernafas seperti biasa, hidangan soto kami telah terhidang dan sedia untuk di makan. Kami hanya mengambil masa selama 15 minit untuk masuk, makan, dan keluar. Saya rasa Tony Fernandes pun akan kagum dengan turnaround yang ternyata  lebih cepat dari AirAsia.

7. Kuala Namu atau Kualanamu.

Kuala Namu adalah lokasi dan sekaligus nama airport utama Medan. Ia terletak sejam dari pusat bandar Medan, di daerah Deli Serdang yang majoriti penduduknya bangsa Melayu, bukan lagi suku Batak seperti di Samosir dan Berastagi. Bahasanya hampir sama dengan Bahasa Melayu di Malaysia  tapi berbeza dengan Bahasa Melayu di Kelantan. Semasa di bangku sekolah dulu saya pernah membaca novel pujangga terkemuka Hamka bertajuk "Merantau ke Deli". Saya sudah lupa langsung jalan ceritanya, mungkin tentang seorang pemuda yang merantau ke Deli (hahaha). Hari ini saya berada di Deli.

Masa check in, kami tenang saja. Tidak ribut-ribut, kelam-kabut dan bertungkus lumus menimbang , mengira dan mengatur beg untuk mengelak excess seperti selalunya (Jogja, Shenzhen, Delhi dll).  Kali ini kami menaiki penerbangan Malaysia Airlines, dengan luggage allowance seberat 30 kg seorang. Jika digabung, kami ada sejumlah 330 kg. Ini tentunya mencukupi untuk kami kami check in bukan sahaja kain pelikat Gajah Duduk, tetapi juga  gajah.

Dalam pesawat, saya lihat adik-adik ipar saya semuanya duduk dengan syahdu sekali dengan suami mereka. Cepat mereka memilih seat, setangkas warung soto  Sinar Pagi. Perjalanan cuma satu jam, tapi cukuplah rasanya untuk mereka ber"happy journey". 

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Jika tuan-tuan suka blog di atas, tuan-tuan boleh membaca blog lawatan kami ke Padang, India dan lain-lain.

           



                             


     

             

Faliq's Long Call

                             

                             The first thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers (Shakespeare, Henry VI)

I went to Faliq's Long Call last week and came away inspired. The event, held in a real and physical courtroom before a real and physical judge, was solemn, serious but stylish. It was my first time in a courtroom, so I dared not move or touch my wife for fear of being cited for contempt and assault. One can never be sure.  

How I wish every other profession in Malaysia, especially the critical ones like  teachers, doctors, auditors, and even money changers, had something similar for their respective fraternities. Ceremonies or rituals like this should remind them at every turn of their obligation to stay straight and true to the sanctity of their profession and fellowship, and never to run off the rails, if you know what I mean. But there's still no guarantee, of course, because nothing can come in the way of a mind bent on flouting for big bucks or sheer fun. The Bar Council is still grappling with hundreds of unresolved complaints of lawyer dishonesty and misconducts. Every profession has its share of black sheep.

I remember during my schooldays we had induction ceremonies for the Prefects and the Boy Scouts. While the Prefects oath-taking was a straight and soulless affair, the Boy Scouts  jamboree would be a dusk-to-dawn blowout complete with boisterous sing-alongs, tribal dances and bonfires. I'm sure some non-government organisations, like the Ku Klux Klan, Moscow Mafia and our very own Mamak Gang, have similar rites of passage, maybe slightly grisly, with bits of blood here and there, to drive home the tone and temper of their business. In times of trouble these rough guys often seek the help of lawyers to navigate the ever complex legal and justice system. Gangsters and lawyers coming together for a common cause? Why not.   

Back to Faliq and his so-called Long Call. What's a Long Call to begin with? This moniker was new to me until two weeks ago when Faliq's mom spoke about it with a pinch of pride. I suppose it's just another name for the famous "Call to the Bar". But why did the legal eagles change the name? Probably because of the endless lawyer jokes and jibes.

No other trades have been the subject of more jibes and jokes than the lawyers. Some of these jokes are, admittedly, unfair. The one about an attorney badgering a witness about an autopsy is downright unkind. If "lawyers" alone is fertile enough for the joke makers and midnight comics, imagine "lawyers" and "bar" in the same breath. Anyway, "Call to the Bar" harks back to the British imperial days, and now that our judges have dumped all wigs and kilts for good,  Long Call is the right call.

So there he was, Faliq, sitting fourth in a row of fifteen new lawyers, all looking sharp in a bright, colourful combination of .... black and white. These good-looking guys had just completed their nine-month mandatory training or tutelage called chambering (probably alluding to torture chamber ha ha), at various legal houses. This training is the equivalent of housemanship for the doctors or hard labour for political detainees. Chambering or housemanship or what, these interns all had to slog away 23 hours a day.

Looking at them now, I could almost feel their deep and sweet burst of pride, relief and freedom. One look and I know they're all looking forward to some sleep. But before that they've to gather here today to be "admitted as advocates and solicitors to the High Court of Malaya". I hope I got it right because I'm just parroting what was proclaimed by the master of ceremony.  But I can confirm it was "Malaya", not Malaysia. Does this mean Faliq is allowed to ply his trade in Kota Bharu, but not in, say, Lahad Datu? I've to check with him on this and will let you know.

The session started sharp as scheduled, at 9 am. The presiding judge was Dato' Nordin Hassan, a KL High Court judge, a youngish and pleasant-looking Yang Arif, completely the opposite of the mental image I'd formed on the way to the court this morning. My wife swore she'd seen him on Astro talking to Neelofa. Watching too much TV can be harmful.
 
Finally it was Faliq's turn. My heart skipped a beat when his name was called. He'd have to come forward and stand up for his parents, the judge and all in attendance to see. What a heart-soaring moment, something to savour and treasure for a long time. I could still picture him screaming and scampering with  Aida (my daughter, his cousin) 20 years ago. Man, how time flies.

The drill was elaborate, and even strange for a layperson like me. It started with a senior practising lawyer stepping forward to propose Faliq for admission to the High Court. For this purpose, Faliq was referred to as a "Petitioner", and the senior lawyer a "Mover".  The Mover would then officially greet Faliq's parents and proceed with a rundown on Faliq's credentials, background and achievements.

By tradition, the parents had to stand up for the introduction, which  I supposed wasn't a problem for this healthy and romantic couple who were used to hours of standing and watering their plants together back home. They were beaming and basking in the glory of witnessing their son on the cusp of a new journey. 

The Mover ended his part with a formal proposal for admission and the judge consented, without any objection from the AG office, the Bar Council and, I supposed, the audience. Finally a more senior lawyer (called a Master, for some reason) was invited by the Mover to hang a ceremonial robe or gown on Faliq. With that, Faliq was officially admitted to the High Court of Malaya as an advocate and solicitor. No cheering or whistling or high-fives, of course.

What does all this exactly mean? It means Faliq is now a full-blown lawyer and he may go to any court to argue before any judge in Malaya, wherever or whatever Malaya is. 

If you follow court cases you'd appreciate the indispensable role of lawyers on both sides of the bench. I love most the sight of lawyers coming out of the courtroom all pumped up like a sure winner when piles of evidence are stacked against their clients. Watching LA Law and Shark, my only conclusion is that lawyers are all clever, confident and highly paid. They lead a glamorous life, dress to kill, and work non-stop with plenty of shouting and swearing and scandals in between. Lawyers, of course, can be hilarious, slapstick and over the top (Jim Carrey in "Liar, Liar"). I think Faliq's parents are in for something much more exciting than weeding and watering plants.

My own personal experience with lawyers is limited to the purchase of my house thirty years ago. We spoke for exactly five minutes and I'd to pay RM 18,000. I'm not sure whether this is good or bad. Maybe it's good that I don't need lawyers because it can only mean that I've not been accused of money laundering. But it also means that I'm not rich and successful enough, because rich and successful people normally keep a long list of lawyers to speak for them.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not implying that rich and successful people commit crimes or anything like that. They're just too busy with whatever they're doing and they've so little time left. So they need lawyers to speak to tax people, Sarawak Report, Malaysiakini etc. Donald Trump, for example, retains hundreds of white lawyers to stave off his sex accusers. Dato Seri Najib retains a team of six or seven lawyers to handle all those criminal charges. His lead lawyer in turn hires another six or seven lawyers to handle his own money laundering case. This lawyer hiring another lawyer is unique to the legal industry. You won't find a plumber hiring another plumber to do plumbing for him.

Sorry for digressing. It's hard to concentrate when you're over 50. I'm 66.

Now back to our new advocate and solicitor of the High Court of Malaya. But, before that,  let's not bother with Shakespeare. He's dull, and dead. Probably doped, too. Lawyers rock and rule. It's hard to find a more versatile, literate, diverse and determined group of professionals than the lawyers. Mahatma Gandhi, Barack Obama, Syed Saddiq, Azwan Ali, Siti Kasim, to name but a few. They're out there, breaking new grounds and making a difference. And now Faliq. 

I'm all bullish and upbeat because I can really feel Faliq's potential and promise. He can be what he wants to be. I'm not saying this because I'm related to his parents and all the good food that suddenly appeared whenever I dropped by. I've a prima facie evidence to support my proposition. Faliq was part of the UiTM Team that represented Malaysia in a world moot court competition in Washington last year. I'm not sure what this competition is all about, but I know it's not a singing competition.  The team didn't win, but he's accomplished what most aspiring lawyers can only dream of. 

Faliq has just started and I don't know what his long-term plans and goals are. Is he going to be a famous trial lawyer? Is he going to get married next year? Will his gorgeous parents continue to water their award-winning garden? It's early days, and he's not forthcoming. But I'm pitching him for AG when Tommy finally calls it quits in 2050. 

England At Random

I just came back from England yesterday, 17 April, my second trip in eight months. No, I don't have a house in London.

My last trip was in late September last year, to settle my daughter Aida at University of Bristol for her postgraduate study. This time it was Bristol again, just to see her and make sure she was alright although her mother had been video-calling her every evening and every morning to find out whether she was alright. She's alright.

This trip was different from my previous trips to England or anywhere in the world (meaning mostly Indonesia). We didn't really plan or prepare anything, although we brought along a sackful of Brahims for Aida's upcoming fasting month. No itinerary or maps or Travelodge bookings, nothing. We firmed up the travel date only about five days before. The idea was to see Aida in Bristol during Easter holidays. That's all.

For those who've never heard of Bristol, allow me educate you. Bristol is officially UK's Most Artistic City for 2018. It's also Europe's Trendiest City for 2017. I hope that helps, but I'm uneasy about these rankings simply because they're unscientific. They keep changing every year for no apparent reason. Condè Nest rated Paris the prettiest city in the world in 2017 but Tokyo in 2018. What could've happened to Paris in one single year? Bubonic plague? If you think that's dubious, Doha was placed second in 2017. Doha and the whole tyrannous state of Qatar is glorified sand and stones and thousands of helpless migrant workers risking their lives building ugly World Cup sites. If you can buy the World Cup, a high place in a travel magazine is half a pittance.

Back to Bristol, I'm not sure what's the agreed definition of Artistic and which part of the city is Trendy, because the city ranks in the top ten most expensive in UK to live and breathe in. Aida's in-campus rent sets her back RM 850 a week or RM 3400 a month. Hotels are steep and scarce here but we'd  found a way out. We'd decided that Aida's 300 sq ft room should have enough space, air and sunshine for me and Aida's mother to hole up and breathe normally in the trendy  city.
 
A random trip like this allows me to create, improvise and operate by instincts, just like MacGyver. Incidentally there was a job fair in the Royal Lancaster in London, about two hours from Bristol. After a short deliberation, we thought (or I decided) maybe Aida should attend this job fair and, who knew, one or two prospective employers might fall for her.

This so-called job fair turned out to be a tame, all-Malaysian affair. It was organized by the UK and Eire Student Council specifically for Malaysian companies. Mah Sing and Top Glove were there, probably looking for Mandarin-speaking UK graduates with good UEC. Some weren't companies in a stricter sense, I mean, people like Khazanah, EPF, KWAP. This dark and windowless quasi-cartel is famous for covert investments in Mongolia, Umno and other scams. They were half a world away in London recruiting unsuspecting Malaysian students in UK while 500,000 unemployed graduates back home were competing with Banglas. I wondered which PH minister had approved this outing.

After the job fair, we did a quick round of the British Museum, one of the world's largest and finest. I'd not been to any museum since that scandalous ghost exhibition at Muzium Negara in late 90's. But I thought we had so much time to burn, why not go to a museum and feel civilized.  We knew it would be impossible to see the complete collection of eight million works in this museum. So our plan was to cover the Egyptian mummies and the Islamic artifacts, possibly in under one hour.

Believe it or not, this famous museum charges no fee. You could, in theory, visit it everyday, the whole day, the whole year, for whatever reason. If you feel generous, you may donate. There's a big box with a bold "Please Donate" at the entrance to attack your senses, but it's donation, so it's optional.  I still can't rationalize this counter-commerce. Is it guilty conscience? I mean, all those mummies and King Tuts and Rameses were never British subjects or products. I suppose Marks and Spencer can charge top prices for their merchandise made in Cambodian sweat shops, but the British museum can't possibly charge anything for something that don't really belong to them. Just one of my sardonic theories. Just ignore if you don't agree.

We were in two minds about going back to Bristol and breathing in Aida's room. After all of five minutes of hard thinking, we decided to go somewhere. We were torn between Liverpool and Brighton. Virgin Trains ticket to Liverpool had suddenly shot up to £70. Branston and his virgins had really been tracking my smartphone with their cookies. Brighton was cheaper, and nearer.

So it's Brighton, an hour and £10 away from London. Brighton was decidedly a charming seaside town and we had no regrets coming here. We put up at a guest house run by two Peruvian brothers, Leo and Miguel. When I mentioned Lima and Maccu Picchu, they jumped in unison and said something in Spanish to each other. Later I found out that they'd been in Brighton for more than twenty years and nobody here knew where or what Peru actually was. For three days, they'd greet me zealously and call me Che Guevara. 

I first heard about Brighton in early 70s when hundreds of Malaysian students (including a couple of classmates) flocked to its college or polytechnic to study engineering. Every other guy who went to Britain, went to Brighton. At the height of this Brighton binge, TNB even found it expedient to rent a hostel exclusively for its students, a much welcome relief to those who wanted speak Kelantanese full time.  I met one of them this morning at our neighbourhood mosque. He was all pumped up at the mere mention of Brighton and wasted no time with his personal ideas and virtues about Brighton beach and its famed nudist strip. What? Three days and two nights in Brighton, nobody told me about this place. Bloody, useless Peruvians!

We took a train to London Victoria Station before heading back to Bristol by bus. It was nice to be back "home". University of Bristol was still closed for Easter holidays, and the campus in spring was very quiet and joyful with pink and purple flowers blooming and bursting against the sedate sky and archaic architecture. The cost of living was high here, but there was so much quality of life. Tap water was perfectly potable and clearer than Spritzer.

There was plenty of time to reflect on Aida's journey, our journey, to Bristol. And to think that artistic and trendy Bristol wasn't actually our first choice. All along we'd been gunning for Glasgow, lured probably by its laid-back persona, unhurried charm and fishy tales of lakes with big snakes. Imagine taking a bus from London Heathrow to Glasgow then back to London then back to Glasgow then back to London Heathrow, eight hours each way. We could've died of either brain thrombosis or pure boredom. My late mother always reminded me that God knows what we don't know. She didn't know that I knew that.

After a week, my body system had finally and completely adjusted to UK daytime. We had only three more days, and I began to dread the thought of going back to Malaysia. Honestly I'd nothing against Lim Guan Eng. It's just that my body system is a very old, odd and slow body system and it would need at least two weeks to recover its circadian rhythm. In the meantime I'd have to suffer sleepless nights and have to watch endless Astro reruns of old Malay movies, with Hamid Gurkha, A R Badul and all. These guys are very talented and funny, but I really want to sleep.

The flight back was surprisingly punctual. I've read about extortionate parking fees at Heathrow for both cars and aircraft. That could be the motivation. Food on economy was technically Brahims in disguise. Our bags were half-full, so there was enough space for two packs of Sainsbury's multi-seed and Vogel's Linseed bread to bring back home for breakfast. This  was about the only thing I'd planned for.

 

   

             










   

           

Manchester City's Treble And Tribulation

Manchester City are English Premier League (EPL)'s Champions once again. Second time in two years. Back to back. Two in a row. Two on the trot.  Twice on the bounce.  Or any which way you want to call it. Supporters of Liverpool, Manchester United and seventeen other teams in EPL can deny and cry all they want.

If you think winning successive EPL titles is remarkable, wait. City also won the FA Cup and the League Cup. With a clean sweep of all three domestic trophies in a single season, City have achieved what the football industry calls a Treble, for lack of a more creative or cryptic term, like Eagle, Boogey, Buaya and Betting used in Golf. Had City won four trophies it would've been a Quadruple, one more would be Quintuple, and so on.

For the record City did actually win another trophy called the FA Community Shield early in the season, but this one is of so little consequence that nobody bothers. So to all intents and purposes, City have won three trophies. I'm fine with that.

British journalists may have differed on Brexit but they've all agreed that EPL is now the toughest and most competitive league in the world simply because all teams must play on Boxing Day. Some have to play three games in three days, in high winds and deep snow. On any day, any team could beat any team and any manager could lose his job (even Jose). The world-famous franchise and twenty-time champions Manchester United completed their campaign a dismal sixth after losing their last game at home to Cardiff, the third worst team in EPL.

EPL has been organized in such a way that it's unthinkable for any team to sustain peak performance throughout and win all three domestic trophies in one season. This is why City's treble triumph is extraordinary, unprecedented and so sensational. In a less competitive league, a Treble or Double Treble or Treble Double isn't uncommon. For some context and perspective, JDT aka TMJ did a Treble Treble, winning three trophies every year for three successive years. That's nothing to shout, of course, because  Liga Super is so lopsided with meek make-weights like Felda United and Melaka Melaka offering only token competition. I'm sorry if you're still confused by this Double and Treble thing. It's difficult, I know, so let's just move on.

For us City's staunch and steadfast followers, this latest success is a measure of how far we've come. It's a just reward for sticking with the team through thick and thin, an accomplishment in itself on the  back of City's legendary penchant for doing the simplest of things in the most complicated way. Exactly twenty years ago to the month City beat unfashionable Gillingham in a pulsating playoff at Wembley, bundling in two freak goals in the last four minutes of injury time. What we'd won wasn't a title or anything, but a promotion from the Third Division to the Second Division. I celebrated the momentous occasion by taking my two baffled sons to McDonald's for an all-you-can-eat outing.

What's behind City's growing supremacy and ascendancy? Pep Guardiola, the manager. No disputes here. This guy is clever. Give him a Nobel Prize for Physics, and an honorary knighthood for changing the boring face of English football and adding billions of pounds to the UK economy. He'd barnstormed EPL last season with  his brand of breathless football, and City romped home with an all-time record of 100 points, 32 wins, and  106 goals. This season City's football was even better because rival teams like Liverpool had all wised up to City's playbook and were all primed to stop the show.

As suspected all along, British media response to City's extraordinary feat has been (relatively) measured and hesitant. Instead of feting City's unprecedented treble, the biased and bent media chose to celebrate Liverpool's unprecedented runners-up tally of 97 points. An NGO was hurriedly founded by misguided fans to petition the FA for a trophy or something to be handed to Liverpool, or maybe share the title with Manchester City. Somebody said stupidity is free.

According to these lazy football writers, City's domestic treble is not a "proper" treble. A proper treble is defined as a treble won by Manchester United or Liverpool.  Even Arsenal Invincibles of 2004, with only one trophy, a paltry 90 points and a diving Robert Pires, were rated better than City's three titles or 100 points, defying all rules of reason. And, of course, those sneaky innuendos and allusion to "bought" titles and treble with 100 billion pounds shelled out on players with dirty money from the oppressive regime in Dubai. Dubai! Not only lazy, but also illiterate.

Look no further than the Guardian's David Squires' caricature for a feel of the on-going anti-city campaign and Liverpool bias:

This is supposed to be a cut-out and keep portrait of departing City's legend Vincent Company (City's captain). Vincent Company is the one standing and looking on in the background. The mop hairdo is Mohammad Salah, Liverpool's striker and diver.

If you think that City's three-trophy euphoria ended with a boisterous victory parade in Manchester streets, and Liverpool promising yet again that next year will be their year, and football writers migrating to Champions League Final in Madrid for the chance to praise and elevate Liverpool, think again. The impact of City's triumph over Liverpool is actually far reaching, even beyond the fringe of football.

Remember Theresa May's raving and rolling in the parliament after Liverpool's back-from-the-dead performance against Barcelona, likening it to her brave Brexit package? All's well and bullish in the Conservative government. The Liverpool-loving Conservative deal-makers and Labour rabble-rousers were in the heat of hammering out a Brexit breakthrough all night when City beat Brighton. All hell just broke loose. Nobody could think straight and agree on anything anymore. Seeing no more future now that Liverpool had failed to win the EPL for the 27th time, Theresa May took the only way out and resigned.

I'll be watching the Champions League Final between Liverpool and Spurs tomorrow morning. You'd not disagree with me that it should've been City v Somebody. Liverpool look good and lucky again but I'm praying for an upset.  Come on you Spurs.


           

An Affair To Remember

My affair with India began in the mid 60's, deep in my dormitory days. Life without smartphones and Facebook was tough. Physics and Chemistry classes were stressful, what with teachers talking mostly to themselves. What did we do for rest and respite? For some of us, watching Hindi movies and listening to Hindi songs.

It's strange for a country of one billion creative and enterprising people, the music industry was dominated by only three  names: Mohammed Rafi, Kishore Kumar and Lata Mangeshkar. We could match songs and singers as early as the first note. The movie industry was more vibrant, but everybody in my school wanted to marry either Sharmila Tagore or Saira Banu. I remember a  friend who memorized 20 Hindi songs, quite a feat without YouTube. Ask him on the periodic table and he'd stumble every time.

I'm not ashamed to admit that I keep a playlist of twenty-five old Hindi songs in my Samsung, with my favourite, Main Gaoon Tum So Jao (from hit film Brahmachari), right at the top. Just a tap away if ever need a nudge of nostalgia.

I went to India early this month and didn't come back.

Well, we did come back. But for two weeks after, we were suffering from flights of flashbacks. We just couldn't stop replaying and reliving the terrific times in Delhi, Agra and Jaipur, Indias's famed Golden Triangle.

With me on this trip were the usual suspects: wife, a fine-looking brother-in-law, his loving wife, and three active sisters-in-law. Seven of us. Another active sister-in-law pulled out a day before we booked our flights, citing work commitment. I've lived long enough, so it was easy to see that she'd actually succumbed to second thoughts.

Since we didn't use travel agent, we'd to apply Indian visa on line on our own. It was expensive (RM 350 apiece) and complicated. We'd to provide our mothers' names for no reason and we'd to repeat all over whenever it crashed. All seven of us were digitally blind, so I'd to get my busy son to do all seven visas in between his day job. It was so tiresome that he kept asking why I didn't go to Korea instead. We booked hotels and transport and drew our own itinerary. Fun and flexible, this is our normal way of travelling. Except that India isn't normal.

I'd my own qualms and questions about India. The rampant India jokes and horror stories spread by friends and bloggers were scary and deeply depressing: water, toilet, food, air, people, traffic, scams,  snakes, you name it. Going by these rumours alone, the only conclusion I could draw was: if I go to India, I'd die. I didn't want to die in India.

But the lure and  temptation was great and hard to resist. Those Hindi movies and Hindi songs and Kajol, India can't be all bad. So I'd to rely on my instincts. My sisters-in-law, like all sisters-in-law of this world, had no instincts of their own. They wanted to share my instincts.

I thought it was one of my best decisions to go ahead. If Bossku could pull it off, we could pull it off. India is incredible beyond my wildest imagination. The colour and texture are gorgeous to the last pixel. Its sights and sounds (and smell, don't forget) are dazzling.  The people are diverse, friendly and fun. We came back and kept casting back.

The names Delhi, Agra, Jaipur and Rajasthan would conjure up the unmistakable images of mad Maharajahs, British viceroys and Moghul emperors. They're no longer with us, but their vestiges are still standing for us to savour and wonder. Magnificent forts, palaces, mausoleums and monuments are strewn all over the place, a testament to human endeavours and excesses.

Unlike my previous travel tales, I'm not going to write a lot. I'm going to post pictures instead, with captions and commentaries that might persuade you to include India in your bucket list, if it's not already there.

Now let's roll:

New Delhi's Indira Gandhi International Airport was surprisingly tidy, orderly and quiet (this is already India, remember). The only hitch was the passport clearance where we 'd to stand up facing the  immigration guys, all of them were Indians (this is India, hey). We'd to get all our ten fingers scanned and stored in Indian cloud. The machine was so slow that it took 15 minutes to read all ten fingers. Where were all those Bangalore IT champions when we needed them? 

Nuts drive me nuts. I've lost lots of teeth due to nut-chomping. Do you know the best place in the world for nuts? Kim Yong market in Hatyai. My pulse raced at the sight of this hawker peddling bright, colourful nuts outside the Gandhi Memorial. It's a kind of Indian snack called Bhelpuri, a concoction or rojak of nuts, dhal, tomato, lime juice and water. Water!  I circled the cart four or five times trying to decide whether to buy or not to buy. This was my first morning in India, and I saw the word DIARRHEA hanging high. No. 
         

Haha this is highly hilarious. This cute auntie was attempting the old, boring "touch-the-tip trick" on the Qutb Minar, and the result was a total disaster. Looks more like a clumsy classical Indian dance move frozen in time. Who's to blame for this flop? The husband, if you asked me.

Now you see how the true and tried professional aces it. You could feel the flair and artistry. If not for the slight underexposure, National Geographic would've scored this shot 5 star. I'm not sure whose camera was used, but I suspect my brother-in-law's antique Galaxy S2.

Humayun's  Tomb, New Delhi. I'd no slightest idea what this 16th century world heritage site was all about until I was right inside. Apparently it's a mausoleum or memorial or monument or whatever for the Mughal Emperor Humayun,  the great-great grandfather of Shah Jahan, and this elaborate structure was a forerunner to the ultimate structure, Taj Mahal. It was built by his grieving first wife named Bega Begum (real name).  You can Google if you're interested in the other wives and why they weren't grieving.

Our hotel in New Delhi. It was a Bed and Breakfast run by two Kashmiri Muslim brothers in an upscale locality called Green Park in south Delhi. Don't be motivated by that "Upscale" bit. It's all comparative. This was still very much part of Delhi and India, same air and water. But the place was comfortable enough with good water filtration system so that we can wash and brush our teeth with confidence. Breakfast? What breakfast?

Masjid Jame' New Delhi was a sad state of affairs. Located in Old Delhi, this massive Mughal mosque can accommodate up to 30,000 people at one time, and only one time in a year (Idil Fitr). It looked rundown, like nothing had been done since 1650.

A bird's eye view of Old Delhi and old couple from Masjid Jame'. I don't know what bird, must be quite dead by now. Joke aside, Old Delhi is chaotic, crowded and noisy and we'd to navigate our way  around on death-defying rickshaws. I'd never seen so many Indians in my entire life (This is India, stupid). In hindsight we should've spent at least one night in this Old Delhi area for an authentic India experience. 

Amber Fort, Jaipur, was a riot of red clay and sandstone. The morning crowd was thick, half of them were traders and touts hawking local bric-a-brac to the other half, tourists like us. Price typically started at 3,000 rupees before settling at 300 after brutal haggling. This Hrithik Roshan dead ringer was supposed to scam and rip this auntie off with his beads and bags and bangles. But this clever auntie, a  seriously low-cost traveller,  turned the table, and I quickly shot this lovefest. From his telltale smile, you'd guess he wasn't all that excited. She'll turn 60 next year.

This is the Taj Mahal in Agra. You know it. One of the most photographed and painted building in the world. The sight literally stopped me on my tracks. I'd seen the picture countless times, but nothing compares to the real thing. So pure, so perfect, such a joy. No words are enough. It's unbelievable that men could achieve this.   

There's no better place to renew your vows and commitment, and reboot that long-lost fire, passion and drive. This senior couple were doing just that. How long will it last, you ask? I guess it would be business as usual as soon as they're back home. But at least they tried.
               

Let's do a Di. This young auntie did her best to reprise the Lady Di at Taj Mahal iconic pose. She'd prepared well for this, shelling out all of RM 35 for that red jacket at a bundle in Balakong. She certainly needs to perk her poise and composure to close in on the late Lady. Try harder.   

We bumped into this group of seven free-spirited Malay girls in Jaipur. Nothing peculiar about them except that they'd never met each other before this trip. They were Facebok friends who met for the first time at KLIA boarding gate. Apparently this is a growing trend among young, shoe-string travellers who'd travel in groups to minimize cost. Being cost conscious myself and tired of travelling with sisters-in-law, I wouldn't really mind joining this group on their next trip. But when one of them asked me "Pakcik dah berapa hari kat sini?" I just dropped the idea and decided that I'd better off travelling with sisters-in-law.

The long hours of riding the four-wheel drive up the Amber Fort, haggling with hawkers, avoiding the touts and converting tens of thousands of rupees was taking its toll on our physical and mental shape and state. My knees were creaking.  One of us mentioned vertigo, another complained about ringing in her ears, and, of course, headaches and migraines running through this family for the past ten generations and next ten generations. But the moment our transport dropped us all at this shop, lo and behold, all the illnesses disappeared like magic, gone for good.

Prices were ridiculously cheap. But we'd bought only 75 kg of luggage for our return trip on extortionate Air Asia. So I'd to keep reminding them not to buy the whole shop.   

Hawa Mahal, Palace of Winds, the famous pink-painted landmark in the heart of Jaipur, the Pink City. Splendid architecture, cool air and beautiful people, Jaipur was a real delight. You must visit.

One of the little pleasures of travelling for me was reading street signs. Well, not exactly street signs, but all the notices, warnings, wordings and signs at airports, hotels, monuments, shops, toilets, just about anywhere. China is notorious for mangling the English language. Its quirky and hilarious English notices and signs are now a tourist attraction and part of its GDP.

Travelling through Delhi, Agra and Jaipur, it's hard to find even one English blunder. The explanatory notes on the Moon Gate at Amber Fort above are straight and simple, with no spelling errors. The Gandhi Memorial on the right showcased the life stories of the late champion of humanity in poignant black and white images. Reading the accompanying texts and footnotes was an exhilarating exercise. Articulate, expressive and eloquent, it's English in its full glory. Kudos, India.

I'm not sure whether security or employment was the major issue at Indian airports, but I was stopped seven times by seven different people at seven different points at Jaipur Airport,  from the terminal door all the way to the aircraft door. My boarding pass was checked and chopped seven times, and I could barely figure out my seat number. So I was glad and relieved to finally reach my seat, although I still kept my boarding pass handy and ready just in case. This is India, you'll never now.

And then there's this street music to refresh and remind us of the amazing India experience. I was overcome by the music the very first time I saw and heard it from our tuk-tuk on the way to  Johari Market in Jaipur. One of my sisters-in-law somehow had the instinct to record  the procession. I'm used to lush studio orchestra music by the likes of Shankar Jaikishan or R D Burman in Hindi movies. This live music by Ashok brass band maybe rough at the edges, but it's sweet and pleasing. And it's free. Listen and enjoy.