A Break In The Balkans (Part 1)

We'll be landing in Sarajevo shortly, just me and my wife, you've to believe this. Ten in the evening now, and full three hours behind schedule. It's high summer with long days in the Balkans, but it was already dark outside the bouncing aircraft, except for some lazy streaks of lightning. I've weathered longer delays before. But this one is a little scary.

Our Wizz Air flight had actually departed right on time, which was 15 minutes late. My eldest had driven us from his Gillingham home to Luton Airport with enough time for him and his mom to perform the farewell routine for all of one hour. They could actually do all this online and save time. The scene was the exact rerun of what had happened just five days ago when we met him at Heathrow.

He was just happy that we'd made good on our promise to visit him and attend his graduation at Durham on 3 July. What a joyous occasion that day in Durham. Waiting and watching the procession from the pews among the colourful congregation of parents and children in the half-lit 1000 year old Durham Cathedral was truly once-in-a-lifetime experience. I'd not trade this moment for anything. Everyone in attendance including my two granddaughters and their Labubu, were all eyes and ears and on our best ever behaviour inside. Once it was all over, we staggered out and all hell broke loose.

We surprised ourselves by coming here well-prepared - me in green Batik shirt and black songkok, and wife in what looked like green baju kurung. My daughter-in-law Azalia also had something that looked like green baju kurung, although she wore it better than her mother-in-law, being a lot younger, structurally sturdier and all that. It's just my random opinion, I mean, me and wife can always go back and argue later. But for now I must thank God for keeping me around long enough to be part of this pomp and circumstance.

Believe it or not, it's his fourth graduation, fifth if you include that kindergarten farce. We attended each and every one of them, starting with Northwestern in July 2006, where Obama (yes, that Obama) kicked off with an inspirational commencement speech. He was still a junior senator, but the fire was unmistakable.

Oh, I mustn't forget to thank Jafni (real name) and his wife Suhaima for hosting a sumptuous dinner at his home in Durham. Suhaima's kuih lopes were nothing short of spectacular,  truly top-notch stuff, more authentic than the variety we normally bought at Kg Pandan. By her own admission, she liked to cook and try out new food ideas. And Jafni's many friends would drop by and just hang around, long enough for her to transform these ideas into some real food. Clever guys.

Jafni and my eldest were classmates at MRSM, and he's here in Durham finishing his PhD. We knew him quite well because he 'd occasionally turn up at our old house in USJ to link up with my eldest and other heavy-looking classmates for some serious merrymaking. My wife still knows all their names. While this MRSM mob were all nice and polite, I'd never for once thought that any of them would want to do a PhD.  

So it was all well and good until 5 July when we'd to part ways. We'd to leave him and Azalia and their two lovely girls (and their Labubu, don't forget), and moved on with our plan. He wasn't exactly enthusiastic about our onward itinerary, which looked like a car chase from a Bond flick. Bosnia, Croatia, Montenegro and Naples. Naples!

I can understand his jitters. Me and wife, our combined age in 2025 is around 138 years. We're not really in the pink of health, so to speak. I'm carrying two blocked arteries that require daily statins. An orthopedic specialist had a five-minute look at my wife's knees and recommended a complete knee replacement if she wants to lead a normal life. It took me less than five minutes to decide not to replace any part of her.     

And now we'd be romping across the Balkans, just the two of us, all on our own. A Bosnia travel advisory issued by US State Department reads "exercise increased caution due to terrorism, crime and land mines". That's pretty rich coming from a country ruled by Donald Trump. I dismissed it outright.

I've done a fair bit of travelling since retirement, but it's always been in the safe company of my two daughters, Aida and Sarah. They're good with all the Apps and GrabFood. But their geography and sense of places requires substantive side reading, I mean, they can't tell you exactly where Gdansk or Genk is.  

But they bring the much-needed energy and vitality, and the way they move from one cafe to another cafe is truly inspiring. We'd almost covered the good half of Europe together, leaving only the Balkan and the Baltic states in the bucket.

Then it happened. Sarah got married, and Aida six months later, leaving me out to dry. 

Just a few months ago we were stalking in Stockholm and now they were somebody's wives. With marriage, come new plans, different priorities and mother-in-law. How to start a gas stove? How to correctly fold men's pants? Can I hug my father-in-law? Can I hug my father-in-law in public? With all these woes and worries, Bosnia had to wait.

So it was only me and wife now on this flight to Sarajevo. Did we feel lonely? You bet. Were we scared? Not technically scared, only a hint of helplessness now that we'd nobody to blame if things go rogue. I could picture them both looking out for us from their seats across the aisle, giggling at their mom snoring away hardly ten minutes into the flight.

It's hard to do anything useful in a short flight like this. I brought along my old Sennheiser, but the time I'd take to untangle the wires and line up Uji Rashid (3 hours) is longer than the flight (2 hours). So no point. Somehow it was still long enough for the crew to wheel in with piles of duty-free leftover Lancomes. Nobody fell for this. Perfumes and low-cost flight in one breath is an oxymoron, if you ask me.

The pilot came over the PA to remind the crew to prepare for descent. Sarajevo! Wish you were here, girls. The plane shook and rattled its way down into the thick clouds before nosing up sharply to abort the landing. My stomach sank. 

The pilot came on again to report that he'd to divert to Belgrade due to thunderstorms. Things could get complicated if we'd to disembark because I'd need a visa to enter Serbia.  I'd lump Serbia in the dark half of Europe, up there with Romania, Belarus, Georgia. The spectre of Slobodan and Srebrenica was enough to send shivers. As it turned out, I was overthinking, you know, like Pep and his endless line-ups. After a short refuelling stop, we flew off again when it was all clear at Sarajevo. 

We finally landed at Sarajevo and stepped out to gusts of fresh Balkan winds. The airport didn't surprise me. The terminal was slightly more modern than the old Subang airport. But immigration and baggage were very fast, and in no time we were outside. Now, where's he? 

But there he was, our prebooked driver, waiting to whisk us away in his Skoda. I must tell you girls, this guy's young, tall, fair and smooth with sharp jaw and thin whiskers. Why can't our Grab drivers dress and smell like this, I wondered. We talked throughout, and the way he calmly fielded my barrage of questions, he'd better be a college graduate. I forgot his name, a Muslim name. But his good looks easily reminds me of the great Edin Dzeko, my one-time favourite footballer. 

It was already eleven when we finally pulled into Mula Mustafa Street to find our apartment. Edin Dzeko was kind enough to help us with our bags, up the stairs right to the door. He made sure that everything was in order before he left. We shook hands long enough for me to slip in the biggest tip in history.  

We were just happy that our Balkans break started well. Sarajevo was safer than Seremban. Only once did I see a police car, yes, a Skoda. The city was clean and quiet without skyscrapers and massive malls to intimidate you. Its old town, called Bascarsija, was a lively and diverse cobblestoned quarter with charming cafes and gift shops, all overrun with summer tourists. We spent almost two hours here. Mosques were everywhere, less than 100 metres apart. You should hear Azan breaking at every solat time. It was pitchy and out of tune, but it's azan alright.  

I went for Maghrib at the Ali Pasha Mosque just behind our apartment. Small but imposing with heavy Turkish influence, it was built in 1550, about 200 years before Masjid Kg Laut, the oldest in Malaysia, according to AI.      

I'm an architectural idiot, so I'm not sure what to make of this Sarajevo mosque style. I'd come across some pretentious parlance like Classical, Baroque, Gothic, Neo-Gothic. I'm happy with "old", or maybe "Ottoman" just to sound more educated. Almost everything here is Ottoman, anyway. Ottoman this, Ottoman that. The Ottomans have been largely blamed for all of Europe's major miseries, including Manchester United. 

We tried a kebab-like lunch at a cafe in the old town. It was tender and juicy but more on the bland and dull side compared to, say, ikan bekak or gulai serati. Unfair comparison, but you'll get the idea. 

After two nights in Sarajevo, we hopped on a bus for our next leg - to Mostar - in the Herzegovina part of Bosnia-Herzegovina, a pretty and poetic name for a country with a brutal history. My only regret so far is not snagging a collectible FC Sarajevo shirt on sale (about RM75) at the FC Sarajevo Shop on the way back from the mosque. I didn't bring along my purse and passport on the advice of my wife. You'd struggle to find a more suspicious mind than my wife. To her, everybody else is a probable pickpocket. 

It's another two nights in Mostar before we moved along to Dubrovnik in Croatia, about four hours by bus. Part of our Dubrovnik day-out was crossing over to Montenegro to see Kotor, another historic town. My initial plan was to drive from Dubrovnik to Kotor, but I'd to scrap it after reading about bottlenecks at the border checkpoint. My eldest in Gillingham celebrated this change of plans with a bucket of halal KFC with his two girls.

We joined a bus tour instead. For RM250 each, it's affordable, fuss-free and no meals. It came with a guide, who talked non-stop with standard jokes like a person from Montenegro is not a Dutch, but a Montenegrin (Actually I made up this joke). Not everybody can be a tour guide. You'd need the right skills and strong knees, not to mention a healthy body mass index. I've not seen a tour guide heavier than 75 kg. Our guide came from North Macedonia, if you know where it is. Her weight was about right, but my wife didn't quite agree with her fashion sense.     

This time around I've decided to skip the details and technicalities of the places we visited. If you're still interested, you can ask ChatGPT. Maybe one thing. Dubrovnik is bloody expensive. What you get in Sarajevo, you've to pay twice in Dubrovnik. An Uber ride from our hotel to the bus station set us back 14.40 Euro or RM 70 for a distance of about one km. To think that this is all legal and proper, with receipt and thank you from Uber, I could only wish I'd been scammed.   

For sheer beauty, I thought Sarajevo was just average by the high European standards, although its old quarter was delightful. Maybe I've to venture outside and brave the land mines (hahaha). I'd rate it five out of ten, nothing like Prague or Budapest (both easy nine). But Mostar, Dubrovnik and Kotor are all brilliant and stunning pieces of work, a fitting homage to human creativity, persistence and industry. All the rage and reputation are totally deserved, and you can't help but wonder why are these places so gorgeous and good-looking while we're left with botched jobs like Batu Pahat or Kemaman.     

Of the lot, I think Mostar deserves a shoutout for its timeless beauty. Perching precariously on craggy cliffs along a river, majestic Mostar is a city in abeyance. It's been there for more than 500 years, and for 500 years it's been feigning with the impression that it's about to crash and collapse at any moment. I've no doubt it'll survive another 500 years. 

The main draw in Mostar was, of course, that iconic and romantic old bridge, known locally as Stari Most (meaning, well, Old Bridge). Built by, hold your breath, the Ottomans, in 1500s, the bridge was destroyed by the Croats in 1993 and rebuilt in 2004 (not by the Croats).

So technically this old bridge wasn't old. Neither was it complicated. I'm not very good at Physics (and many other subjects), but I could tell that it wouldn't be too difficult to build, destroy and build again and destroy it again. I've seen impossible steel or glass bridges in China spanning two or three mountains for no reason. This epic Mostar bridge was a devilishly simple arch stone bridge across a gorge, but it was steeped in history and folklore. From a distance, I'd all the the luxury of time to appreciate and admire its sublime beauty. And I even took an extra time to decide whether it was concave or convex. It's concave, in case you're unsure.

There was so much joy in merging with the endless crowds and gasping at every turn. Each and every little souvenir shop lining up the narrow and treacherously teetering alleys was a treasure in itself. The sales guys were all pleasant and friendly, some went overboard, screaming "Malaysia, Malaysia" as we passed. My wife wanted to buy just about everything she touched. I reminded her of her knees and our depleting supply of Celebrex. It was uphill, but I just had to try everything to stem the frenzy.

There's one shop that showcased bridge replicas made of stones from the original bridge. I enquired in jest whether she had new stock coming in the next few days. She took it well and just laughed it off. It's not too expensive, so we bought one and just prayed that it's an authentic Ottoman piece. You can scroll all the way up and see for yourself.    

Both Dubrovnik and Kotor are globally glorified for their medieval walled towns. You'll be instantly bowled over by the exquisite engineering and architecture on display. Uncannily similar in style and character, they're separated by just 100 km of breathtaking coastal route that literally laps the blue waters of the Adriatic sea. Our bus took this route and I must tell you girls the sight was simply unbelievable.  

Exploring these two ancient towns, you've to walk the walls and choke the narrow and mazy alleys together with throngs of other like-minded tourists. The vibe and atmosphere was quite similar although Kotor was more compact and rowdy. Signages were scarce, so it's easy to get lost and some vertigo.  But I can promise you'll easily find your way out. The trick is to tag along any Chinese tour group. They don't stay long in a place that doesn't sell LV bags. 

I was impressed with how clean and well-kept these cities were. For 1000 years these city dwellers have managed to keep all their homes and plumbing functioning while my cousins in Kelantan are still waiting for clean water. Still it's difficult to appreciate this insular idea of a walled city with one massive gate. You need to farm and fish to live, and socialize with other towns to bring in potential investments. Sorry for making this small talk.  I'm forever an economics student, so things like this don't just go away.

I'm done with the Balkans part. Sorry if it's all disjointed and disorganized and you've found it difficult to read without feeling depressed. I still hope it's piqued enough curiosity for you to rush out and book your flight to Sarajevo. A number of travel agents are targeting unsuspecting Malay retirees and housewives with offers of Balkans tours where you get to visit seven or nine countries in ten days. Don't do this. On the 11th day, you'll be tired, or dead tired, or dead. It's impossible to enjoy nine countries in ten days. Marco Polo took three years to travel from Venice to Hangzhou.

I've uploaded some photos of me and wife at various places. Most were taken by my wife and some by kind strangers who were all excited to help good-looking people like us. 

If you like this, there's a Part 2. It's mostly on our last leg - Naples, Italy. I'm still writing it and will publish it here if I can finish it.  

Dandy Day In Durham 

 Off To Sarajevo

Old Man In Old Town 

Mostar Old Bridge 

Malaysian Old Lady  

Mostar (old) Mosque

Finally Found Our Way Out of Kotor 

Is this Dubrovnik or Kotor? They All Looked The Same

Another Day, Another Pretty Town

 Swinging In Sweden With The Girls (2024)

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My First Flight

I wrote this as a small favour to a friend, Captain Mohd Kamil Abu Bakar. He's an airline pilot and former Malaysia Airlines Director of Flight Operations or DFO. I'm not sure what a DFO does daily but I can imagine the scale and urgency of his job with more than 1000 pilots under his watch, not to mention all the stewardesses.

Retired and rich, Kamil now loves to read and write. He'd read, write, read, write, write, in that order. Poke him with one question, he'll hit back with rolls of response. A manic writer, he's published six books in the past four years, just one book shy of the world record held by Stephen King. Only he doesn't write about manic subjects, you know, poltergeists, psychics, graveyards, cars, maids.

His books are collections of true stories from his flying years and his action-packed schooldays. He's a proud Old Putra or OP, meaning he went to RMC and came out in one complete piece. A top student, he was selected to do medicine. But he opted for pilot training, figuring that it would take him two years to get a flying certificate but 22 years for a medical degree. A no-brainer.

Now for more good news. He's embarking on his seventh book. Tentatively titled "Aviation Stories", it's another anthology of aviation stories, what else. All are edge-of-your-seat stuff, he assured me. I did marketing research as a student many years ago and I still closely follow branding and packaging trends. You won't sell many books with  technical titles like that. It's like naming your pet cat "pet" or "cat". "The Pilot Who Sold A 380 To A Monk" will sell better. But it's him and his book, so I wouldn't want to interfere.

It was all prim and proper until he got me involved. He wanted me to contribute a story. I was dumbfounded, I mean, he has hundreds of better-looking friends or families he could turn to. Anything on aviation, he said, from a non-airman perspective. I delayed and dithered for weeks to find anything inspiring to tell people. Finally I hit a spark of genius and decided to write a story around my first flight.

Apparently Kamil had engaged his brother to edit his book. My piece had to go through this bro, no exception.  The last time I had my work edited was way back in Form Five when Mr Tan, my English teacher, corrected my English. He used a cheap red pen to violently delete the word "dilapidated" and he warned me to never ever show off again. This minor trauma would live on through the later years, keeping me religiously on the side of the straight and safe English.

Kamil sent me the edited version and I wasn't too pleased. This editor brother had to be one of those old-school Fowler's grammar geeks. I thought my original version was sharper and faster. I'd written " in 1979, only MAS flew to Kota Kinabalu". It was edited as "in 1979, only MAS operated flights to Kota Kinabalu". I told Kamil I was writing a story, not a product manual.

Anyway, here's the unedited and slightly expanded version of " My First Flight". 

The first time I flew was in June 1979. That was 45 years ago. No, I'm not a pilot. I flew as a full-paying and full-fare passenger. 

I was two months into my gig as a Trainee Executive with Petronas when my manager thought I was already good enough to tag along on a business trip to Kota Kinabalu. There'd been only one practical way to travel to Sabah - by air. In 1979, only Malaysian Airline System  (MAS) flew to Kota Kinabalu.

Since it was an official trip, my flight and accommodation were all organized by the company. There was a ticketing section or something whose only job was to book flights and hotels for staff. It was a thankless job because staff were all talented and dynamic and they changed dates and directions for fun. You'd to be nice to the ticketing people or you'd end up in a dodgy hotel with a Chinese name.

I was writing a project proposal when an office boy in blue uniform popped in out of the blue to hand my flight ticket. I dropped my pen and project, and quickly grabbed it. I'd never seen a flight ticket all my life. It was actually a few pieces of printed paper hastily stapled together. 

The first name on the ticket was my father's name, so I thought it was a mistake. The office boy had disappeared in a flash, leaving me helpless. (It's his job to appear and quickly disappear like that).

The day before my first flight, I was edgy and all over, probably more nervous than a pilot on his maiden flight. I can't recall the flight number, but it was slated for departure at 12.30 in the afternoon. I woke up at 4 in the morning to shower and get dressed. The little commotion was enough to stir up my two room-mates. "Hang nak mampoih ka?" They mumbled in their half-sleep.

The old Subang Airport was an uncomplicated, frills-free and fully functional two-storey structure. There wasn't much architecture and character to speak of. The airport was pretty much what it was - an airport. It was busier than a wet market, with throngs of people milling around, laughing and loud. An important minister and party leader was leaving for some place, and that explained the merrymaking.

At the check-in counter, a fine-looking lady smiled and I was only 26 with nice shoes, hairdo and all. Tearing away the first piece of my ticket, she asked for my seating preference. No, not window or aisle. It was smoking or non-smoking, you've to believe this. Those were the free-wheeling days, when anybody could fly and fry. It was easy to fall for the fallacy of the cool and manly Marlboro Man. I'd come to my senses a few years later and quit cold turkey. 

Oh, the lady issued the boarding pass and I was good to go. 

While waiting at the boarding area, I could see the flight crew making their way well ahead of all of us. Somehow they seemed to walk faster and they also talked faster but in loud whisper. I supposed they'd been trained not only to look eager and competent but also to keep their secrets.

Two of them, in white short sleeves with stripes and colours, had to be the pilot and co-pilot. Pilots are not allowed to fear heights for the same reason plumbers can't be scared of shower heads. I guess it's quite alright if pilots are scared of plumbers. Sorry for this silly banter. The point is, I wasn't that good with heights and this being my first flight, I wished the pilots were bringing along a flight counselor or psychologist to trick passengers like me into believing that flying is fun.

Apparently you don't have to be big and strong to be a pilot. After all it's pilot, not pirate. The two guys were only slightly taller and heavier than me. I don't know whether a pilot's job is actuallly more challenging than driving a manual car on the Federal Highway.  At least the pilots have the comfort of real or trained co-pilots. We only have our wives, generally untrained and unreal, to navigate us through. No wonder pilots are calmer and they rarely swear, if ever.

But, according to another pilot friend, Capt Haniff (ex-Malaysia Airlines and another OP), it's also critical for a pilot to have soft skills like communication and good eye contact to keep his crew consistently happy and motivated. "I must take good care of my crew" he insisted. "Yes, why not" I just played along. He accused me of lacking empathy.

Deep in my schooldays, we'd be whiling away watching cheap matinees and reading fast-paced paperbacks in between cruel Chemistry classes. I'd be fantasizing about playing crazy characters, from a gunslinging lawman in the Wild West to a wise-cracking New York private eye, all the way down to a drunk Shaolin master. But never a pilot.

Don't get me wrong. I know all about pilots earning insane money, and they get to marry the stewardess, fly to exotic places, eat caviar, and lots of other good stuff (They'd deny this outright if you asked). It's just that most of us were brought up to believe that we should all study hard and long to become a doctor who would later work even harder and longer as a houseman, only to get bullied and paid a pittance. 

Of course, doctors can grow to be specialists or sub-specialists and earn even bigger bucks doing colonoscopies, bariatrics, talk therapies and other strange procedures. But they don't get to marry stewardesses. My one-time dorm-mate, Dr Fadzil Man, has progressed from a serious psychiatrist/casual golfer to become a serious golfer/casual psychiatrist with a holiday home in Sapporo. He's married to a doctor. Sorry to drag you into this, Pakdokter, but I've to prove my theory. 

Finally it was our turn to board, and the aircraft was parked somewhere off the gates. There were a few on the tarmac and they all looked the same. We'd to walk a bit, and for the first time in my life I came face to face with a jet plane. It was a Boeing 737, fairly intimidating, and  bigger than what I had in mind.

I was half-way up the ladder when something struck and almost stopped me in my tracks. The deep red and white MAS livery with the stylized image of the wau bulan in a circle was uncanny and evocative, enough to make me homesick. The whitish sky that turned into a riot of competing colours and the sweet music buzzing out of the airborne kites.

My daydream was soon broken by the crew who greeted me with soft " selamat datang". The cabin was surprisingly spacious with a whiff of sweet scent, a far cry from my shared, sweaty rented room in Bangsar Park. The colour and decor was pleasing, nothing aggressive, just the right amount. I finally found my seat, aisle and smack in the smoking section. After about fifteen minutes, we were pushed back for the take-off, and now the moment of truth. 

My boss, a seasoned traveller, could easily read my tell-tale maneuvers. The strong grip on the armrest during the take-off was a stupid give-away. In a show of political finesse, he enquired whether I'd been flying very often. I was used to trick questions, so there was no point in pussyfooting. No, boss, this is my first flight. 

Feigning a surprise, he nodded and smiled, probably happy at the real prospect of my immortalizing him as the person who took me on my first flight. He quit Petronas a few months later to join Umno and politics full-time. With all the skills and a Master's degree, he rose through the ranks in no time to become a two-time MP and party go-to guy. It was decidedly more exciting than calculating discounted cashflows for Petronas projects. 

I managed to catch the name of the pilot when he came on through the onboard PA to update us on the altitude, clouds, outside temperature. These bits of info weren't particularly helpful, but the pilot sounded very awake and upbeat, so I was more than happy. At the time I had two Tiger Lane dorm-mates who were MAS pilots, Capt Sany Johan and Capt Najib Abdullah. I knew these people too well, so I was thankful that it wasn't either of them. Hahaha. Sorry Sany if you happen to read this. (Najib passed away two years ago). 

Lunch wasn't too bad although the portion was well below the nutritional benchmark for an average Kelantanese. Soon I was in for another round of nerves when it was time to land. One of the crew, maybe a senior stewardess, came on air to announce in a clear, impeccable English, and slightly slanted Bahasa Melayu. "Tuan-tuan" became "Cuan-cuan". 

After dipping through the clouds with a brief shakes and rattle, we finally touched the runway with another series of jolts and jumps. Kota Kinabalu Airport in 1979 wasn't a pretty sight, but who'd care. I was safely back on planet earth and that should mean more than anything. 

I'd fly a few more times to Sabah and Sarawak, and, before I knew it, I was beginning to enjoy flying. My small issue with heights was somewhat resolved by choosing only aisle seats. You'd miss the view and grandeur from the window, but watching people running to the toilet can be equally spectacular. 

My one-year trainee time just flew by. I stayed on long enough to be part of the company that had grown to become the country's undisputed champion in so many ways.  I'm biased, of course. Over the 30 years, I've had my fair share of travelling, both on official business and on my own with wife and kids. The apple fell far enough from the tree, as none of the kids had flight frights.

Well into my 70's now, I still fly every now and then to whet my wanderlust and suspicious mind. Travelling excites and inspires from the moment I hit the booking button to the time I hit the panic button at the sight of  my credit card balance. 

Air travel has truly come a long way since the days of the smoking section. Today there's a lot more to engage, anticipate and experience when you fly. A simple surprise lurks at every turn. Stuck at Changi and there's a dreamlike waterfall soothe away your long delay. Step into Istanbul Airport and you'd mistake it for a wedding hall (pic below). That's before you hit the city.

So what hasn't changed? The Pilots.  They still look and feel the same.  White short sleeves and matching black shoes aren't exactly high fashion, but that's how they set themselves apart.  How I wish one day they could come to work in cosy Batik and Hoka, like Petronas staff.

Remember the ticketing section? They've closed up shop for good.

I've flown to Manila and Malaga, and I've flown from Chicago to Buffalo. But I'll always remember my flight to Kota Kinabalu in June 1979. 

Note:

Kamil tracked himself all the way down to June 1979. He was already a pilot. But there's no twist to the tale. The pilot who flew me to Kota Kinabalu wasn't him.

 

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)