You Remember You Strong (Edisi Madani)

 

On 2 December 2022, the PM of the self-styled unity government, otherwise known as PMX, announced the appointment of Dato Seri Ahmad Zahid Hamidi as his Deputy Prime Minister. He then proceeded to announce the appointment of another Deputy Prime Minister. My daughter shrieked. She'd been rooting for Syed Saddiq.   

For the first time ever we've to live with two DPMs. Your cynical inner self will immediately question the necessity for two DPMs. For some countries, having two or many DPMs is a national sport. Singapore has two, one Chinese and another Chinese. China now has four DPMs, all Chinese. Cambodia has ten. I don't know exactly what  one DPM does, let alone 10. To me, if anybody needs a deputy it has to be the GrabFood rider. They're forever in need of somebody to hold and read those Google maps and messages so that they can concentrate on traffic lights and lady drivers.

I won't talk about the other DPM but Ahmad Zahid is already a living legend and an icon of sorts in our fast Malaysian political folklore. No discussions of Malaysian politics are complete without his name in the mix. His wily politics and high-octane strategy are proof enough that much of the celebrated Sun Tzu wisdom of flanking and flummoxing your enemies is all but glorified garbage. Ahmad Zahid wins his war by changing his enemies.

This is Ahmad Zahid's repeat gig as DPM, you already know this. He was made DPM for the first time in July 2015, at the height of the 1MDB blowout. It was a straightforward appointment, replacing the then DPM who'd been nosing about for clues on a mysterious Mongolian mine, at the time when anything related to Mongolia was a national taboo.

His ascent to the second most powerful person in Malaysia for the second time was nothing short of stunning. He'd swaggered into PRU tails up but scraped through with tail well between his legs. His coalition secured only 30 seats, probably enough to govern a mini democracy like Fiji. They needed another 82 seats to form an unstable government. With the cruel anti-hopping law in force, the only way out is to bring in seats from Sulu or somewhere. 

If that's not miserable enough, he's also facing 47 criminal charges for CBT, corruption and money laundering, with possible lengthy jail terms if he's ever found guilty. Sorry, I can't recall offhand what those charges are. All I can tell you is that they're all pretty serious with lots of cash, cheques and credit cards criss-crossing. His ex-boss and our ex-PM otherwise known as Bossku is now in jail for similar-sounding offences.  

But with some clever maneuver and a slice of luck, he rode out the legal road-blocks and the deafening catcalls to quit. He won his Bagan Datuk stronghold, beating a rank outsider by only 348 votes. This was, by any measure, a moral loss,  but the new PM otherwise known as PMX thought the numbers 348 and 47 were lucky enough for Ahmad Zahid to be his deputy. He's not in jail, PMX explained. And that was that. 

His exploits and impacts in and outside politics are worthy of our utmost respect and admiration. With a bona fide doctorate from UPM (nothing less), he has all the flexibility to use the prestigious title Dr without having to work in any hospital. It's not easy to become a DPM to begin with. Bung Mokhtar has been a boisterous MP for 20 over years  and he's not even close to a deputy minister. For 50 years Tengku Razaleigh has been all things except a DPM. Siti Nurhaliza is clever and popular but she's bought a house in Dubai. Messi wants to play until he's 50.  It's alright if you don't find these examples highly illustrative or inspiring.  But I've other examples if you're interested.        

I've nothing against Ahmad Zahid and why should I. I've never met or spoken to him in person or in spirit, but he's impressed me as crowd-pleasing and easygoing. There's a footage of him on a big bike grinning and waving jovially at his fans and fellow big bikers (all Malay). Somehow my wife thought he's good-looking, you know, that lush crop of real hair, sharp dress and all. She'd had me as her benchmark for some time now, so the standard was pretty low.

Ahmad Zahid and I were both born in early 1953. I was born in Kelantan and he in Bagan Datuk (or Bagan Datoh, at the time). Some people, including Ahmad Zahid himself, alleged that he was actually born in Ponorogo, Indonesia. But he's talented and I'm not. I mean, he speaks fluent Javanese and Malay, a fair amount of English and Arabic, and a smattering of broken Chinese he uses to woo unsuspecting Chinese voters. There's a widely circulated video of him practising alternative medicine to treat somebody, presumably an Umno supporter, down with something. I don't know whether the sick Umno man has fully recovered and I'm in no way suggesting that Umno members can be cured by alternative medicine.

Now back to 1953. Admittedly there's nothing special about being born in 1953, or any year for that matter. Millions of people were born in 1953, including our ex-PM Najib (now in jail, remember?). Hulk Hogan and Tony Blair were born in 1953. It's alright if you know Hulk Hogan but not Tony Blair.  

But Ahmad Zahid and I also share something else. We both attended schools at the old Tiger Lane in Ipoh. His school, Sekolah Izzuddin Shah Ipoh (Sisi), was just across the road, within a shouting distance (quite literally) from my school - Sekolah Tuanku Abdul Rahman (Star). Since we were born in the same year, it's safe to conclude that we were 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 other's guts. There's no love lost between my school and Sekolah Izzuddin. The resentment ran deep, I think, for three reasons:

1. My school and Sekolah Izzuddin were fully-residential and all-boys schools. So the students were a deprived and deranged lot. We were all accidents waiting to happen.

2. Sekolah Izzuddin was a state-run religious school, whereas my school was a federal-funded English-medium school. They learned Arabic and loved Takraw and Silat Cekak while we were into Rugby and Cricket. By inference, Izzuddin students were religious and we were, well, you know.

3. My school was physically about one hundred times bigger with lots of buildings and fields and trees. Not to mention wardens and cooks and prefects running around all-day pretending to be useful.

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

The rare black and white aerial photo above clearly shows how our school (the area inside the white polygon) overwhelmed our neighbour Sekolah Izzuddin (the small area marked 3). My school had eight hostel blocks, with two (Yellow House and White House) at the far end and closest to Sekolah Izzuddin. Incidentally these blocks housed more than their fair share of those elements that our busy 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 barbs and taunts, but the one that stands out until today was "Oi, dok baca kitab ka?" I suppose that verbal missile packed enough plutonium to leave the Sisi boys with no options but to bay for our blood.  

It had to be sooner rather than later. Both sets of students 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 only half the size of modern-day Gombak. We'd no choice but to share the same bus and bus driver. On the way, the bus would often stop to pick up girls from Sekolah Menengah Ugama Raja Perempuan Ta'ayah. Their brown uniforms were drab and moody but sexy enough to stir up the Izzudin boys. Even the Chinese bus driver could see that these girls actually had their eyes firmly set on the Yellow House crooks at the back.  

You can imagine the tension and emotion boiling up whenever the two groups converged at the bus station at Jalan Yang Kalsom, right in front of the now global phenomenon Restoran Nasi Ganja. There's plenty of provocative stares and eyeballing. If I'm honest, the Izzuddin guys always had the upper hand and we, the English-medium students, were constantly cowed. They looked good all day with broader shoulders and sharper ears probably because their cooks and caterers were more imaginative. Officially we had six-time-a-day meal plan but on most days we'd to contend with what tasted like tropical hardwood.  

Admittedly we were only good and strong in numbers and when we were well behind the fence. Outside the school the Yellow House cowboys walked and cowered like Tambun choir boys.

I myself had a memorable close encounter at the bus station. It was one fine Saturday in 1971. It's half a century ago, so I can't recall which month. Four of us (Hamid, Gohing, Bain, me) were at the bus station listening and humming along. The Hindustan hit "Tum Bin Jaon Kahan" was blaring loudly off the jukebox for the tenth time. We were feigning a brave front  in clear view of an Izzuddin mob at the far end. They read our ruse and threateningly gestured us to join their table for a heart-to-heart talk. Gohing volunteered and crossed over to the other side. He was back with us after about ten minutes with a "last warning" message from the Izzùddin chief. We quickly finished our ais kacang and jumped into our bus and were just happy to see the driver.

(Our gang of four bravely stood the test of time until Hamid, and then Bain, passed away a few years back. I can tell you getting over this loss wasn't easy).   

And to this day I'm still at a loss as to what was that "last warning" for. None of us were from Yellow House. We were a shy and peace-loving lot and we'd never offended the Izzuddin crowd in any specific way. It was a Hindustan song, not an Arabic song. We'd never talked or walked with any Ta'ayah girl if I remember well. In fact we'd never talked to any girl since we left home 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, Budak Kampung, and broke as hell. Nevertheless making fun of Izzuddin school and Izzuddin boys continued to be the most popular sport in our school after rugby.

One cruel joke making the rounds was an Izzuddin-related misfortune befalling one of our boys. Walking all alone in Ipoh town, he was pulled over by an Izzuddin party and verbally warned, in broad daylight and in firm English language, "You remember you strong?". 

"It's like the whole world came crashing on me" he recalled. Shocked, shaken and brutally outnumbered, he just moved along, almost half-running and fearing for his life. Once out of sight, he paused to catch his breath and sit down to decipher the cryptic question. You remember you strong? "Awak ingat awak kuat!". 

In the Malay context and culture, this wasn't a casual question. It's a clear and severe warning. In no time, the Ipoh incident and "you remember you strong?" spread through our school corridors and classrooms and the high councils, and passed down to the later generations. The precious line has been retold and repeated a thousand times in our old boys exchanges to this very day.

Well I thought nothing of this "You remember you strong?" episode beyond its nudges of nostalgia until Ahmad Zahid was appointed our DPM. It's hard to tell whether he had any part in the bus station showdown or whether he was in any way responsible for coining the paranormal poser "you remember you strong?"

But with a bit of common sense I can conclude that he wasn't complicit in any way. He has a PhD, remember? So at Izzuddin he had to be the dull and serious and studious type, possibly a bookworm. He'd find classes, books, tajwid, exams and ustazahs all highly fascinating, and  he'd only venture beyond the school gates to buy more books. Picking a fight with the Yellow House boys was neither urgent nor important.

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 unlikeliest of places and under the sternest of circumstances. Like it or not, an Izzuddin alumnus is now the DPM or a DPM. Should anything happen to our new PM otherwise known as PMX, Ahmad Zahid is the best-placed to take over and become PMXI. He might even decide to close down our school for fun.

You'd recall that a few years ago he spoke on the Blue Ocean Strategy at the UN General Assembly, completely in English. Some people were unhappy with the way he pronounced  "ocean", but why should he care. What's more important and urgent is that he's ready to take on the world. And, boys from the big, English-medium school, eat your heart out. 

Today he's stronger than ever. His position as party president can't be contested until it can be contested, possibly in 2079 or even later. His rivals have all been purged and put out to pasture, leaving him to rule the party with fellow bookworms. The Izzuddin old boy will remain our  DPM for as long as he wants. Unless, of course, he goes to jail. If he goes to jail, PMX can no longer invoke the excuse "he's not in jail" because he's in jail.  

See the colour photo of Ahmad Zahid in full flight above. He was making a point or something, perhaps issuing a "last warning" to his rivals before he got rid of them. I'm not sure what exactly was he was saying and gesturing. Could it just be "You remember you strong?"  

   

          

   

Leaving USJ - Part 2

Bukit Jelutong is my new home. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now how to end this piece.   

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

"Abang dari Kelantan ya". 

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

 "Ah, ramai di sini, Kak" 

             

Leaving USJ - Part 1

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

             

 

 

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

       

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

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

He passed away on 10 July.

     

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

Thank you for everything, Mid.

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

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

                      

    

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

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

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

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

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

The Parlance of the Pandemic

This is no time to be old.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    

Crossing Country of Cruyff

Have you ever been to Amsterdam? How about Brussels?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Some Introduction

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Amsterdam is about ten times more famous than Brussels. 

KL - London Heathrow 12 Feb 2020

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

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

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

London St Pancras - Amsterdam 13 Feb 2020 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But why and what's Haarlem?

Haarlem 13 February 2020 

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

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

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

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

Amsterdam 14 February 2020
        

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Outside Amsterdam 15 February 2020

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Amsterdam to Brussels 16 February 2020 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Brussels 17 February 2020

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Brussels to Bristol 18 February 2020

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bristol to Heathrow to KL 19 February 2020

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

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

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

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

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

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

   










     


    



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