I Know What I Did This Easter

This has been a really relaxing and fun Easter - having shed the need to attend church camps this year, I took time off with about ten other friends to take a relaxing holiday in a farm retreat.

It was a very reclusive place in the middle of nowhere, and, like seriously, I mean in the middle of nowhere. It was off a gravel road in a town where the population was like, twenty (including sheep).

I actually got quite lost getting there, driving around aimlessly like the guy in that scary movie who picks up the crazed hitchiker with a hook for a hand in the middle of nowhere country. (Coming soon to a cinema near you - I Know What You Did Last Easter)

*cue scary movie music*

*cue crazed Easter rabbits with bandannas and machine guns*

But I finally found the place - it had a very nice English cottage feel about it with a modern twist - surrounded by farmland, four bedrooms with at least three layers of bedding in each bed, fireplaces - but with a plasma TV, a metal kitchenette, dishwasher, the works - it was like being in a city apartment but in a country setting.





During the first night, there was an outdoor balcony where we had our BBQ dinner on, and a flock of cockatoos and galahs perched themselves on the branches of a nearby weathered tree, their silhouettes clearly defined as the sun set around us. It was quite an experience being there, so far removed from the hustle and bustle of the city.



There was also quite a beautiful lake nearby with lilies and ducks - we would kayak ourselves along the lake, and it was a true picture of tranquility - a place where time forgot, where silence was dominant, disrupted only by the gentle bleating of sheep and the sound of our oars piercing the lake.



We spent a lot of time inside the house - we had brought enough food to last us the four days, and we took a lot of time doing absolutely nothing - sitting around reading books, playing the piano or guitar, doing sudoku or crossword puzzles, watching TV or lounging in the spa.

And then night would come and then we would play different things like Texas Hold 'Em or Pictionary or Actionary (Charades using Pictionary words... easy, you say? Let's see you act out the word lettuce) or trivia questions (my Malaysian friends reading this will be going like what?? It's just a cultural thing here man... they take their trivia pretty seriously round these parts!)

All in all it was an invigorating experience, although I'm not sure how much invigorating I needed since I only had a week's work done since returning from my holiday in Malaysia!

I'm lucky, I know, but on the two hour drive home, deep down I knew that there was still a part of me that still hadn't gotten over my trip back to Malaysia yet.

Another aeroplane,
Another sunny place,
I'm lucky, I know,
But I want to go home,
I've got to go home.
- Michael Buble, Home.

From the Rising of the Sun(day School)

Taken at Wedding # 1:

Bukit Bintang Boys' School Sunday School Graduating Class of 1992

Let me explain the picture above: When I was growing up we used to attend a Sunday School, which is a Christian school for kids. On ...urm, Sundays (my descriptive creative writing skills know no bounds!).

Sunday School holds a special place in my heart because it was there that I accepted Jesus as my saviour as a boy of seven. Our Sunday school was held in the Bukit Bintang Boys' Secondary School, and week in, week out, we would learn about Jesus in a fun way.

I remember there was a year when we were given gold nuggets (ie. little rocks sprayed with gold paint) every time we memorised a Bible verse or completed our homework from the previous week. We would hoard these little gold rocks in cloth pouches, then have the opportunity to exchange them for gifts at the end of the year.

Foolishly, I ate all my gold nuggets.

(The first few were really hard on the teeth, so I resorted to sucking the gold paint off the remaining ones).

Okay, no, I actually exchanged my gold nuggets for a pencilbox at the end of the year.

(And then I ate the pencilbox).

Anyways, back to the picture. We would take yearly photos of each class in Sunday school, and the photo above is of my Sunday school friends trying to recapture one of the year's photo where we were all standing in the very same poses.

As you can see, I look like I'm still trying to pass out the gold nuggets I ate all those years ago.

Here we are, twenty years removed from the innocence of yesteryears, having moved on from crayons and gold nuggets to careers and mortgages. I'm glad that a part of us remembers the children that we once were.

Two Weeks' Notice

March 8 2008

March 8 was one of the most momentous days of my return home this time, for my friends and my nation.

Two weddings:

Wedding #1:

The Sunday School graduating batch of 1992, which I belong to, have had a secret pact where everyone would get married by 2008.

I must have been sick at home the day they made that pact.

Haha! So maybe there wasn't a pact, but a respectable amount of them have taken the plunge (why isn't there a nicer way of phrasing marriage - why make it sound like a fall to your death?) this year and last year. Come end of this year, it looks like I'll be the only one remaining from our batch to not have tied the knot (there we go again - where does the knot go? Around each other's necks?)

I was torn between two weddings, and I think I chose correctly - I attended my close friend's church wedding but went for another friend's wedding dinner.

The church wedding of my close friend was a simple and yet truly beautiful affair. The church was decorated in pink and lavender, and candles were lit along the backdrop.

The highlight of the day was when my friend surprised his bride by serenading her on the piano, and what a voice he had! You know how sometimes when a person sings, you stop all that you're doing and listen simply because you're in awe? His voice was angelic and stunned us into silence, every heartfelt note piercing the audience. There was a collective sigh when he finished, and the hall erupted in applause.

The bride had tears in her eyes and rushed up to hug him, which was a little guarded, I thought. That performance warranted a full blown kiss. (With tongue. Okay, church tongue. Haha!)

Later, at lunch, I managed to catch up with the bridesmaid, who was an old friend from my high school. It must have been ten years since we've seen each other and it was really good catching up. It is a rule that the bridesmaid is not allowed to outshine the bride, but let's just say she came pretty close.

Wedding # 2:

I attended the other friend's wedding dinner, taking the longest possible route to get there (as always!) because we thought it was in USJ. We were lost and worryingly low on petrol and finally found the place, only to be told that the person before us had taken the last parking spot!

But thankfully, although we were late, Malaysian timing dictates that the wedded couple walks in half an hour late, and so we were actually just on time!

It was a nice place for a wedding dinner, and the food was pretty good, and the company was fun as well. I was surprised to see many old friends there, so there was a lot of 'summarise the past ten years in five minutes' kind of moments.

The bride, who was my friend, was dressed in a light green haltertop evening dress (correct me if I'm wrong. I don't know a chiffon (that's a cake, right?) from a blouse from a tube top!) which we all agreed looked immaculate on her. Better than the green dress on Keira Knightley in Atonement, in my humble opinion.

There was an unfortunate distraction that night, though, and it was because it was the day that Malaysia decided.

An Election (Marilah mari, pergi mengundi...)

Our eyes were glued to some television sets in the restaurant which were showing the results of the national elections held earlier that morning.

People on my table were receiving updates by sms, and it was quite a shake up for my nation.

Five states had fallen to the opposition was the news that was going around, which was confirmed by the newspapers the next day.

Being a political neutral, I must say that this elections showed democracy in action and indicated the groundswell from a disgruntled rakyat. It was the best outcome, I felt - the coalition remained in power with enough check from a larger sized Opposition this time.

I do not know what this will augur for my tanahair, and only time will tell of the wisdom of our decisions.

May God watch over our country and give wisdom to her leaders.

Hujan Emas Di Negeri Orang

"Hujan emas di negeri orang, hujan batu di negeri sendiri, lebih baik di negeri sendiri"

Malay Proverb

Translation: It may rain gold in someone else's country, and be hailing stones back in your own country, and yet it is best to be back in your own country.

Two weeks. Fourteen days. Three hundred and thirty six eventful hours.

Travelling home has always been a tug at the heart for me. Overseas we may be grown adults chasing careers and pursuing dreams that were promised to keep us happy. Yet our identities are locked over the seas, nestled in our little hometown, or the little taman where we grew up.

Two weddings. One election. Catching up with the many friends who keep the memory of who I am in the stories that we share together. Laughing so hard your sides start to ache. Spending quality time with Mum and Grace and meeting up with extended relatives. Sharing dinner with women who are simultaneously breathtakingly beautiful and fun.

There are two threads that hold Malaysia together: the people and the food. And it is the beauty of the tapestry that is woven with these threads which makes it hard for me to leave the country each time.

Sometimes people get the idea that we are the lucky ones, overseas, living the good life. Sometimes they're right. But deep down we know who the really lucky ones are.

A Spy Is Bourne

I have been watching the Bourne trilogy series and Matt Damon is one heck of a cool customer.

I have been trying to sort out my PR application here in Malaysia and as I enter the embassy and see all the security cameras and the guards, the inner spy in me tried to surface. I was suddenly walking a bit more gingerly, my shoulders squared, my eyes darting around the place as if I were on an important mission.

But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that here are the

Top 10 Reasons Why I Can’t Be A Secret Agent

10) Two seconds after entering a building, Jason Bourne knows all the exits from the building, notices that the waiter is left handed, and knows that there are exactly 42 customers at the moment.

Two seconds after I enter a building, I bang my face against the glass door.

9) Jason Bourne is fluent in English, Spanish, French, Russian and German.

I struggle to find the Malay word for ‘banana’.

8) Jason Bourne can sleep with whichever woman he wants to.

I can sleep with whichever woman… who’ll let me. Right now, including all those whom I have offered large amounts of money to, that figure is a respectable, urm, zero.

7) Jason Bourne can run for flat out for seven miles without breaking a sweat.

I get tired trying to work out how many kilometers is seven miles.

6) Jason Bourne can never be caught while driving. Never. He will find the shortest route to a place, drive through crowded streets and somehow manage to cause all those chasing him to crash into large vehicles.

I pick my nose lazily while being stuck in a traffic jam when trying to take a shortcut. Again.

5) Jason Bourne has hundreds of thousands of dollars in different currencies in a Zurich bank account with a 20 digit account number.

I have a porcelain piggy bank. His name is Herbert.

4) In the hands of Jason Bourne, even a humble pen is a dangerous weapon.

In my hands, even a humble pen is the perfect back scratcher for those hard-to-reach spots.

3) Jason Bourne throws tens of thousand of dollars around as he asks favours from various strangers.

I ask a beggar for change from my fifty cent donation.

2) Jason Bourne barely flinches as he kills a person in cold blood.

Pretty rainbows make me cry.

1) Jason Bourne is being traced by the US secret service with satellites and CCTV and top secret personnel all over the world.

The secret service will never find me. That’s because I’m not on Facebook.

Take that, Matt Damon.

The Smell Of Rain

With little warning, the assault begins. The first kamikaze drops scatter in suicide formation across the cracked pavement in front of his house, paving the way for the rest of the raindrops to follow.

And what an assault it is!

He stands transfixed behind the grilled door of his home, safe from the tempestuous monsoon raging on the outside. The rain is pelting down, and it is so heavy that at times it seems like it is just white sheets of water travelling from the right side of his sight to the left. The balcony above the driveway collects the water and sends ripples of a cascading waterfall down the windscreen of Mum's car.

And then there is the lightning. Tree splitting lightning. The kind of lightning that kills modems. It is not some event in the distant horizon, this is the kind of lightning that flashes metres away from you. The sudden bright incandesence of light purple that causes you to blink in reflex and your body to reel away in terror.

And then follows the thunder. The crackle followed by bass voice of God rumbling above, sometimes threatening, other times outwardly screaming. The earth shudders with each note.

He leans forward against the grills, resting his mouth on his arms and he thinks about how rare these things are in Melbourne. There are only the occasional thunderstorms there, but here, here there is a daily reminder that we are not the ones in charge.

The Charge of the Light Brigade

He closes his eyes and remembers two children a lifetime ago, his older brother and him. He must have been four at the time and his brother, six. Decked out in striped T-shirts and green shorts. Toy machine guns in their little hands (with tiny stickers on each side).

The weather was similar to the one today - violent, complete with the flashbang of lightning and the booming cannons of thunder. But they were fearless little soldiers, fighting against this unseen angry enemy outside. Their fort was the wooden door that once stood about a metre away from the grilled door. And they would time themselves - charging out when there was a lull and then they would scream their little lungs out and press the triggers, their toy guns responding with a mechanical rat-a-tat-a-tat.

And then the enemy would respond - in God like fashion, its booming laughter mocking the pitiful sounds of their machine guns. Their little hearts would race, and they would beat a hasty retreat behind the closed door, and, slumped against the safety of the door, their little mouths would laugh out of sheer relief, that they have lived to fight another day.

Subuh 2

The clock on the taxi read 7.00 am. The rain is unrelenting outside, and he needs to make a decision as he rapidly approaches home. Not wanting to stand outside in the rain, finding out if Mum actually left the front gates open, the taxi drives past his house and to the nearby shops.

He is drenched as he runs with his luggage across the puddle strewn road leading to the shops. There is the curious looks of the customers and shopowners, bemused at the sight of the young man disrupting their normal morning, pulling his suitcase into an empty seat.

He orders a bowl of pan mee and the stall owner half smiles a look of familiarity and bemusement.

He looks at the uncleared table before him, and smiles as he sees the remnants of the half boiled eggshells sitting in an empty teacup. His mind is still coming to terms with the fact that he is not in Australia. The shop is brightly lit with rows upon rows of fluorescent light boucing off the newly tiled walls and floor.

There is a stallowner, replete in a dark green jersey with upturned collar, spiked hair and thick rimmed glasses belying his youth. He watches as the stallowner lights three long incense sticks and kneels before an altar of a Chinese god and mumbles a prayer, probably for wealth and protection.

He is happy to see that some traditions have not been lost in this modern day and age.

The shopowner sits regally at a crescent desk in the corner, with rows of cigarettes in glassed shelves behind her. She is barking orders to the foreign women scuttling around cleaning tables and taking drinks orders from the customers.

He can see she has the double standards of someone in charge - she is rough when dealing with her workers but almost gentle when dealing with customers. "Is there a phone around?" he enquires as she comes to collect money at his table. She looks at him and asks gruffly, "There is one down the street. Who you calling?"

"Just here."

"Handphone ah?"

"No," he is quick to protest " Just a landline."

She leaves him and returns with a mobile phone. " I have pressed the 03. You just key in the rest lah."

He is taken aback by the kindness of strangers, and rings home. Mum picks up, she has been waiting for his call (how could he have ever doubted her?) and he tells her where he is. He passes the phone back to the shopowner, still pleasantly surprised.

The rain continues to pour on the outside, and it is cold, but he soon forgets it as the steaming bowl of flour noodles is brought before him. He alternates between the bowl of pan mee and his hot cup of Milo.

Mum suddenly arrives with an umbrella, and it is obvious from her wet hair that the umbrella didn't do any good. He smiles and they order a few more things to the table, and as they talk and wait for the rain to subside, his mind finally acknowledges that he is home.

Subuh

The airplane travels slowly along the runway, ultimately parking itself at the docking bay.

There is rain outside the tiny window to his left -

A voice crackles lazily over the intercom:

"There is a slight drizzle at the moment"

"To all visitors, we would like to bid you selamat datang or welcome to Malaysia"

"And to all Malaysians coming home," continues the familiar drawl of the captain, -and this is the line that warms his heart- "we would like to wish you selamat pulang ke tanah air."

He quickly makes his way past immigration, picks up his luggage and shoots through the customs department. He walks through the transparent double doors home, and there is a spattering of people at this early hour, waiting for their loved ones, but mostly, there are the illegal taxi drivers plying their trade.

He takes the 28 minute train ride home. As he whizzes past the hauntingly quiet highways lit with the orange glow of the overhead guard-of-honour of streetlamps, he closes his eyes and imagines himself coasting along those empty roads.

The initial drizzle soon becomes a full blown storm, the skies railing at nothing in particular, washing the face of the city in preparation of another day.

He soon arrives at the Central Train Station and follows the sleepy crowd up the escalators and onto the platforms. After wandering around a bit, he finds the taxi stand and chooses the wrong taxi company to take him home.

He sits in a taxi big enough to hold five people when a normal cab would have done. He is RM 25 lighter for the mistake. He smiles slightly at how easily he was duped, in his own hometown, no less, and remembers why he doesn't travel that often.