tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75376982024-03-13T19:21:23.429+08:00The Madness of MokcikNabMotives, movements and melodrama in the life of a thirty something mum.mokciknabhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08584597008363811773noreply@blogger.comBlogger266125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7537698.post-1150777715625104842020-03-03T09:58:00.000+08:002020-03-03T09:58:45.459+08:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
In my mother's house I am a caged tiger. I pace the the length of rooms, dreaming of escape, reeled in by the umbilical chord of obligation, fueled by piety.<br />
<br />
She builds a house filled with rules and anxiety. I pace the rooms, gingerly.<br />
<br />
She arranges her world in a certain way and we must all fit in, elbows bent, feet cramped, contorted to make her happy. And yet I strain to hear the sound of her laughing, for she takes it all too seriously, her desperate quest for a joy that I know not, that she knows not. The joy escapes her clutch, and I am bewildered to help her. Here is a woman who does not take things in her stride. We all drink the poison together.<br />
<br />
I try on her shoes. They are too small. She's petite, I am tall.<br />
<br />
My mother wants me to be her child. I need the space to be her daughter.</div>
mokciknabhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08584597008363811773noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7537698.post-76644712214990145622008-10-15T12:52:00.001+08:002008-10-15T12:52:09.816+08:00Curious Couplets<span xmlns=''><p><span style='font-family:Georgia; font-size:12pt'>Next week, I'm looking to do a good job as an emcee at the sumptuous wedding reception for the daughter of a major industrialist. The groom is European, so the proceedings will be conducted in three languages. I found several old pantuns to match the occasion, and had taken the liberty to translate them into English for the benefit of guests who do not speak Malay. Hopefully, I did them justice.<br /></span></p><p><br /> </p><p><span style='font-family:Georgia; font-size:12pt'><em>Tinggi bukit gilang gemilang<br /></em></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Georgia; font-size:12pt'><em>Air laut tenang-tenangan<br /></em></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Georgia; font-size:12pt'><em>Budi sedikit tidak kan hilang<br /></em></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Georgia; font-size:12pt'><em>Itu menjadi kenang-kenangan</em><br /> </span></p><p><br /> </p><p><span style='font-family:Georgia; font-size:12pt'>Lo behold the shining hill<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Georgia; font-size:12pt'>Blue calm waters lap the shore<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Georgia; font-size:12pt'>Time shall not fade your goodwill<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Georgia; font-size:12pt'>It'll be treasured forevermore<br /></span></p><p><br /> </p><p><span style='font-family:Georgia; font-size:12pt'><em>Buah langsat di tepi busut<br /></em></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Georgia; font-size:12pt'><em>Mari diletak di dalam peti<br /></em></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Georgia; font-size:12pt'><em>Besar hajat kami menjemput<br /></em></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Georgia; font-size:12pt'><em>Besar niat di dalam hati<br /></em></span></p><p><br /> </p><p><span style='font-family:Georgia; font-size:12pt'>Beside the anthill the langsats lay<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Georgia; font-size:12pt'>The fruits then placed inside a coffer<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Georgia; font-size:12pt'>With this invite we hope to say<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Georgia; font-size:12pt'>What's in our hearts we'd like to offer<br /></span></p><p><br /> </p><p><span style='font-family:Georgia; font-size:12pt'><em>Dua tiga kucing berlari <br /></em></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Georgia; font-size:12pt'><em>Mana kan sama si kucing belang<br /></em></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Georgia; font-size:12pt'><em>Dua tiga boleh ku cari<br /></em></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Georgia; font-size:12pt'><em>Mana kan sama tuan seorang.<br /></em></span></p><p><br /> </p><p><span style='font-family:Georgia; font-size:12pt'>In two and threes the cats may race<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Georgia; font-size:12pt'>But none can peer the calico kitten<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Georgia; font-size:12pt'>There could be many whom I may chase<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Georgia; font-size:12pt'>By only you my heart is smitten<br /></span></p><p><br /> </p><p><span style='font-family:Georgia; font-size:12pt'><em>Dari mana punai melayang <br /></em></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Georgia; font-size:12pt'><em>Dari sawah turun ke kali <br /></em></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Georgia; font-size:12pt'><em>Dari mana datangnya sayang <br /></em></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Georgia; font-size:12pt'><em>Dari mata turun ke hati<br /></em></span></p><p><br /> </p><p><span style='font-family:Georgia; font-size:12pt'>From whence flies the dove<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Georgia; font-size:12pt'>From the fields and down the brook<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Georgia; font-size:12pt'>From whence flows the love<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Georgia; font-size:12pt'>To the heart from just one look<br /></span></p><p><br /> </p><p><span style='font-family:Georgia; font-size:12pt'><em>Dari mana hendak ke mana<br /></em></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Georgia; font-size:12pt'><em>Tinggi rumput dari padi<br /></em></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Georgia; font-size:12pt'><em>Tahun mana bulan mana<br /></em></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Georgia; font-size:12pt'><em>Hendak kita berjumpa lagi<br /></em></span></p><p><br /> </p><p><span style='font-family:Georgia; font-size:12pt'>Tell me where you go from here<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Georgia; font-size:12pt'>The grass grows taller than the padi grain<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Georgia; font-size:12pt'>Tell me the month, tell me the year<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Georgia; font-size:12pt'>When you and I shall meet again<br /></span></p><p><br /> </p><p><br /> </p><p><span style='font-family:Georgia; font-size:12pt'><br /> </span> </p></span>mokciknabhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08584597008363811773noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7537698.post-66198236150566246642008-09-25T09:49:00.005+08:002008-09-25T14:27:20.742+08:00In Search of The Idyllic Aidil FitriMy children are the only ones in their class who would not be doing the <span style="font-style: italic;">balik kampung</span> trip this year. As a matter of fact, the kids have spent every single Raya right here in the Klang Valley, save for the two Syawals that we were in Jakarta, when we spent Eid celebrations freeloading at people's houses before returning home to dip our fat bellies in the pool.<br /><br />It's always the same thing every year. On Eid morning, we'd do the usual rushed tango: wake up bleary eyed from one long night of cooking, haul the kids out of bed, get them dressed and stuff them into the car so that we'd have enough time to catch Eid prayers at the mosque in Kelana Jaya. Then we'd have breakfast with my parents at my mom's house, do the usual salam-salam and bit of photo-taking, then drive to Tanah Perkuburan Jalan Ampang to recite the <span style="font-style: italic;">Yaasin</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">ziarah</span> the graves of my deceased parents-in-law, before ending up at my sister in-law's house in Setapak. By the time we get to her house, it'd be almost three or four in the afternoon, and the kids would have wilted, done in by the heat and their stifling festive clothes. Saiffuddin would be drenched in sweat and would fall asleep clad only in his Baju Melayu pants. For the past eighteen years, that's Eid for me: a mad dash across town and the pronounced smell of my husband's armpits.<br /><br />I'd complain that there's no fun celebrating Raya in the city, but Saiffuddin would shame me and put my grouses in perspective. It's a religious event, he'd say, and the only things that matter are the Eid prayers and forgiveness from your parents. Your parents live in the city, he'd remind me, so what to do?<br /><br />To me, these are mere technicalities. I could always transport my parents to any suitable rural location.<br /><br />My husband, KL-born and bred, do not have memories of celebrating Hari Raya in the <span style="font-style: italic;">kampung</span>. <span style="font-style: italic;"></span>When he was small, he had only one surviving grandparent who lived in Malacca town and even then, he hardly knew her. Those pastoral Raya commercials showing old people rushing out of stilt homes to greet their grandchildren do not resonate with him. His tenuous link to any semblance of Malay heartland is his small clutch of relatives in Jalan Khatib Koyan, which is like, right there in the shadows of KLCC. He has been deprived of the true-blue Malaysian Raya experience, and has unfairly passed on this dysfunction to my children.<br /><br />My poor children. If only I could give them the Hari Raya that I had as a child in Terengganu, so that they, too could do the stuff that my killjoy puritan husband might dismiss as <span style="font-style: italic;">bid'aah</span>.<br /><br />Celebrations would begin as early as Malam Tujuh Likur (the twenty-seventh night of Ramadhan) when my grandmother's house in Merang would be ablaze with the light of kerosene lamps set atop her fence posts. I remember going round the village with my sisters and our friends with Chinese lanterns in hand on Malam Tujuh Likur, just as one would during Moon Cake Festival. I don't know if this was a real tradition, or just an excuse for us kids to roam at night.<br /><br />On the eve of Aidil Fitri, we'd have one final iftar at my grandmother's house, with coconut juice and Terengganu delicacies like <span style="font-style: italic;">nekbat</span> or <span style="font-style: italic;">ikang golek</span>. After Maghrib prayers my father would light firecrackers and sparklers, and the acrid smell of sulfur will mingle with the aroma of my grandmother's <span style="font-style: italic;">nasi minyok hujang panah</span>, cooking on the wooden stove in her kitchen. When my grandfather was still alive, he would bring us to town during the day to buy the firecrackers from vendors along the five-foot way outside Kedai Payang, and I would always pick the <span style="font-style: italic;">mercung ayang 'telor</span>, chicken-shaped squibs that would produce egg-like sparks when fired.<br /><br />On Eid morning, we'd be in our Raya clothes, bright baju kurungs sewn by my mother, and if my grandmother was in a good mood, she'd loan us her jewelery. The table would be laden with <span style="font-style: italic;">nasi minyok, kurma daging, ayam masak merah</span> and my grandmother's signature jelly of frothy egg-white, green and pink, that she would have prepared in the dead of night to avoid others from discovering her recipe. There would always be <span style="font-style: italic;">ketupat daun palas</span> and sweet <span style="font-style: italic;">tapai pulut</span> wrapped in the leaves of the <span style="font-style: italic;">jambu laut</span> tree, and fizzy orange drinks in dainty gold-rimmed glasses.<br /><br />We would also celebrate Eid at my maternal grandparents' house in Besut, about 40 minutes away from Merang. The journey itself was a joy, a drive through brush land, across rivers with brackish brown water, and along white beaches edging the brilliant blue sea. My mother has a large family and during Hari Raya, the ample house in Alor Lintang will be filled with the sounds of grandchildren running across the wooden floors, and younger siblings playfully arguing with each other. My favorite auntie, Che' Nor would have stayed up all night to complete the blouse she wore that day. My uncles would indulge us by giving away a generous sum of duit raya, which my cousins would stick in their songkoks. Then it would be time to take the Raya photograph, and we would all line up on the steps of the house and pose as my father snapped pictures for posterity.<br /><br />At night, the children would light up more fire-crackers, and fall asleep on kapok-filled mattresses laid out on the floor in the front of the house.<br /><br />I miss visiting relatives with my parents during Hari Raya, and I fear my ties with them will soon fade because I can't remember them any longer, or I don't know the children of those who have passed away. I love going to the home of my mother's uncle, Tok Su Wae Su, and admire his wood carvings. He'd bring us to his workshop, or he'd show us what he's been working on-- an intricately cut <span style="font-style: italic;">wayang kulit</span> figurine, the <span style="font-style: italic;">awan larat </span>of a door frame, a sumptuous wooden cabinet. I used to play with his grandchildren during school-holidays and we used to catch fish and hunt for <span style="font-style: italic;">kemunting </span>together, but sadly, I can no longer recall their names or faces.<br /><br />We call Tok Su's wife Do Mek or "younger mother", and each time we visit them my uncle will always joke that we're seeing a door-mat. Of course, Do Mek was anything but.<br /><br />On some occasions, we would visit my grandmother's relatives in Kota Bharu and rural Kelantan. One of her uncles lived in a house fringed by rubber trees, and I remember walking up to the place in the dappled sunlight as the fruits popped overhead.<br /><br />I know less of my father's relatives, save for a garrulous grand-uncle who lives in a house perpetually in construction. He is a repository of memories and even though I keep reminding myself that I should write it all down, I never got round to it. Despite his age, he is still amazingly healthy, and I wish I could go home to Terengganu this Hari Raya and speak to him again.<br /><br />Alas, this is not to be.<br /><br />My wet blanket husband insists that we spend it here, at a time when even rats abandon the city. Ah, he would say as we drive through deserted streets, it's good to have Kuala Lumpur to yourself again. That's his idea of Aidil Fitri: the lack of traffic.<br /><br />This year, I have a mind to go back to bed after Eid prayers. My mother is celebrating Raya with my sister in Seattle, and my father will be with my stepmother and Mimi this time around, which is fair, because he had spent most Eid mornings with us in Kelana Jaya. With the absence of my mother as anchor, all my other siblings will be taking off to their in-laws in Melaka and Perak. I had planned to make <span style="font-style: italic;">nasi dagang</span> again this year, but the lack of <span style="font-style: italic;">kemeriahan</span> has deflated my enthusiasm for any cooking.<br /><br />Next year, my sister Elisa might be back in Malaysia for Aidil-Fitri, after years of celebrating the occasion in dry Arab Saudi. Reading her <a href="http://elisataufik.blogspot.com/2008/09/ramadhan-in-trengganu.html">post</a>, I sense her nostalgia for the Ramadhan and Syawal of our childhood, so I'm hoping to conspire with her to steam roll our husbands into taking us home in the Hegira year of 1430.mokciknabhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08584597008363811773noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7537698.post-77643036443660562732008-09-16T09:14:00.002+08:002008-09-16T10:40:29.810+08:00Elida and AlliterationYou may have noticed that I often repeat the first consonant of consecutive words in my writing: I can't help it, I do it subconsciously. We imbibe alliteration as children--indeed, it's a useful tool for learning the alphabet, just ask Dr Seuss and his Zizzer-Zazzer Zuzz--so I suppose I never grew out of the delight of reading a well-structured alliterative verse.<br /><br />However, alliteration is not always as simple as ABC, and in literature what qualifies as alliteration can include assonance and consonance, or similar sounds repeated to a meter. It's complicated to explain, I don't have a degree in English, but I know what I like.<br /><br />At the top of my list of favorite books with clever turns of alliterative verse must be Nabokov's Lolita, which opens with:<br /><blockquote>Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta.<br /></blockquote>And then to describe his final moments with his first paramour, the lovely Annabel:<br /><br /><blockquote>I was on my knees, and on the point of possessing my darling, when two bearded bathers, the old man of the sea and his brother, came out of the sea with exclamations of ribald encouragement, and four months later she died of typhus in Corfu.<br /></blockquote>If I could choose to be bestowed with the talents of a dead author, Nabokov is the name.<br /><br />One more example, and then I promise my next post will not have an alliterative title. I found this on the internet, from a poem by William Blake called 'The Tiger asks Blake for A Bedtime Story", which I suppose is his little joke on his most famous work. I love this line:<br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:Comic Sans MS;font-size:+1;color:#000099;" ></span><blockquote>Soon I saw my health decline,<br />And I knew the fault was mine,<br />Only William Blake can tell,<br />Tales to make a tiger well.<br /></blockquote>Now I should get up and go, 'cos my husband calls me so.mokciknabhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08584597008363811773noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7537698.post-6404936258916083142008-09-13T05:37:00.002+08:002008-09-13T05:48:11.402+08:00The Madness of MalaysiaThese arrests trouble me deeply. There have been ominous signs, but I was still praying that there would still be some sanity and humanity left in the powers that be.<br /><br />Whatever happens, remember this: protect your neighbors, no matter that they are Malay, Chinese, Indian or Murut.<br /><br />We have a scar that is almost forty years old that they won't let us forget. Let's not wound ourselves any further.mokciknabhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08584597008363811773noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7537698.post-7944746039459943362008-09-10T10:55:00.005+08:002008-09-10T14:42:04.192+08:00Maid in a MuddleMy life has begun to assume some kind of normalcy now that boxes occupy only a few corners of my house. Things are still missing, and we still need to fish the odd spatula or undergarment from sealed cartons, but at least I can walk from my front door to the kitchen without having to clamber across cargo. My kids are adjusting to school and my husband has settled into a 9 to 5 routine. I'm halfway between housewife and Saiffuddin's girl friday--and not getting paid for either role--but I'm not complaining just yet. The one thing I miss more than money is my wife, Ti.<br /><br />For some reason, it is taking longer than usual for Ti to sort out her working permit, and her absence is making my life miserable. I find myself whispering her name whenever I see piles of laundry. We desperately needed a temporary maid, and when Mba Wati was offered to us, we jumped the gun and gratefully said yes.<br /><br />We knew this woman could not replace the uber-efficient Ti, but we thought we could rely on her to keep the house in order. We had no idea.<br /><br />Mba Wati is a frail woman who claims she's forty and hails from East Java. I had my doubts about her age, because she later tells me that she's post-menopausal, and has grandchildren. She does not understand Javanese, and worse, has a poor grasp of Bahasa Indonesia as well. I also found that she's woefully illiterate. She cannot read labels: she used ironing liquid in the washing machine, Johnson & Johnson Peach Baby Bath to wash the dishes, and stored the girls' toothpaste in the refrigerator (because it had pictures of strawberries and mint). I spent days rummaging through my kitchen cabinet looking for two boxes of kuah pecal, and finally found them among my books--she had no idea they were not reading material. She only eats fried tofu and soybean cakes, and therefore does not know how to cook anything else. She was a planter back in her boondocks, and one morning I found my lawn completely devoid of weed, as well as of grass.<br /><br />Worst of all, she can't keep house. My home works on a fragile system of storage, and with Ti, everything is in its proper place, and she knows exactly where every little item would be. Mba Wati on the other hand, probably did not own cupboards in her own house. Aiysha has lost countless textbooks and writing books, only to discover them at the back of the kitchen, together with the pile to be recycled. The woman stores clothes arbitrarily, even though we have tallboys and armoires designated for them. We'd find clothes stuffed into bookshelves and underneath the TV cabinet, if we could find them at all. We keep wearing the same outfit, because the rest of our clothes are in some hitherto undiscovered hiding place, or worse, out there in a mound at a jumble sale.<br /><br />Saiffuddin and the kids agree that Mba Wati probably didn't turn up on the day God doled out common sense, but I have since discovered that you should never discount the possibility of learning something from even the dullest of dolts.<br /><br />My husband is in the planning stages of setting up a jatropha plantation, because his company would later be refining and producing biofuel. As he was not trained in agriculture, he had begun to search and devour any jatropha-related information he could get his hands on. He attended a course on it, he scoured the internet, he bought books. While he could academically expound on the virtues and theories of jatropha planting, he had never ever seen the jatropha tree. Recently, we brought Mba Wati along to an agriculture show, where she correctly identified the plant, told us the best way to grow it and recounted its medicinal properties. We brought home jatropha stakes and seeds, and Mba Wati happily planted them. Saiffuddin said she did everything that was prescribed in his books and was greatly impressed.<br /><br />Our clothes and books are still missing, and we still have to look for toiletry in the fridge, but the jatropha trees are now sprouting leaves.mokciknabhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08584597008363811773noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7537698.post-61776906553541210652008-09-10T10:36:00.002+08:002008-09-10T10:55:18.254+08:00Al-Fatihah: Tan Sri A.Samad IsmailHe will be greatly missed. Especially at a time when courage is a rare commodity.mokciknabhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08584597008363811773noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7537698.post-30449586160444335092008-07-24T18:28:00.003+08:002008-07-24T20:25:30.752+08:00Rubbish, refugeComing home had been more traumatic than I expected, partly because I was in denial about leaving Jakarta in the first place. I had refused to acknowledge that I will no longer be living in that maddening city, even when the immigration officers at Soekarno-Hatta stamped the finality of the move on my passport. I still pretended that my address was still Menteng, that is, until the movers arrived.<br /><br />Reality sank in pretty quickly, and dug her nails in for good measure, just in case I didn't notice. The large bench that sat in an airy spot in my previous house, now dominate the miniscule living room in my (real) home. My two meter dining table is cramped into our dark eating area, jostling for space with a carved wooden sideboard and matching arm chairs. I can almost hear my furniture sniff and turn up their noses. "We left Menteng for this?", said the joglo mirror to the TV cabinet.<br /><br />My small, two-storey link house -- where I rightfully belong in the social stratum, I must add -- now resembles the cargo hold of a kapal bawang. Boxes are piled to the ceiling in the kitchen and occupy any available space elsewhere. Books, clothes, linens, pillows, lamps, all demand for place in my sorry tongkang pecah. My first impulse is to get a blow torch and start over. Preferably, in Bandung.<br /><br />Malaysia is home, but in the current circumstances, it is by no means a refuge. (Let's not even go into the surreal political scenes, I refuse to read the papers). There is no running away from mess, in every single aspect of my life at the moment. Apart from the obvious chaos in my abode, I also have to cope with my kids adjusting to the peculiarly regimented schooling system, made worse by teachers who think my children have had an inferior education just because they went to an Indonesian school. One teacher had the gall to ask if I understood English, even when I was conversing to her in the very language.<br /><br />My wife, Ti (whose name is surely short for Sanity) is still sorting out her work papers and a mother who is very reluctant to let her leave. There is no Ibu Ika to fall back on, or Mas Darno to drive me around, no Pak Tono to open the gates for us or water the garden (what garden?) I have to get used to carrying keys again, and actually getting out of the car to buy newspaper or fried bananas. We don't have a pool in our backyard, we have a septic tank and an overgrown pokok kari. In the old house, I can lie in bed and through the open doors, gaze upon a graceful frangipani tree. In this neighborhood, I'd be lucky if I don't catch my hairy neighbor undressing.<br /><br />This is turning out to be an unbelievably whiny post. Goodness, my years in Jakarta have made me soft and not a little bratty. Well, time to square the shoulders, draw a deep breath and dive into the clutter. God help me if, among the junk, I find a working lighter.mokciknabhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08584597008363811773noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7537698.post-84962604767958141282008-06-24T11:35:00.002+08:002008-06-24T11:49:09.810+08:00DebrisIt's terrible to see the kind of junk I have accumulated in just a couple of years: questionable clothes bought on a whim, unopened jars of fat-loss cream, lipsticks the wrong color, scrunchies that no longer scrunch, handbags with missing handles, vitamins and miracle cures greying away in bottles, toothless combs pasted with pastilles and tangled hair, lonely earrings, pinless pins, namecards for people I can't recall, receipts and unclaimed receipts, bits and pieces and things that amount to a lot and amount to nothing.<br /><br />A life of flotsam and jetsam. I'm being washed back to shore, but my ship's sailed away.mokciknabhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08584597008363811773noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7537698.post-22742220342135075122008-06-19T10:49:00.003+08:002008-06-19T11:02:27.837+08:00Urinating on UtilityIn Indonesia, utility companies don't send you bills unless you request it, and you have to take the initiative to find out how much you owe them and pay the amount at the bank. Such muddlers that we are, we sometimes forget to pay on time. So far the utility company would just send us a notice to pay and we'd settle the bill, and all is well.<br /><br />Yesterday though, the man who sent us the warning notice asked for money, and threatened to cut off supply if we didn't cough up. I was too sick to deal with him, so I called my husband home. When Saiffuddin arrived, the man had doubled his original asking price. (He had other friends with him, and he was being thoughtful). My husband told him he'd comply, and asked him to wait for a moment.<br /><br />He went inside the house, took the right amount of rupiah notes, peed on the money, and carefully fanned them dry. He then handed the money to the utility guy, while making sure that the guy grabbed the urinated end.<br /><br />Needless to say, Saiffuddin was happy for the rest of the day.mokciknabhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08584597008363811773noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7537698.post-46737478628823846042008-06-18T17:15:00.002+08:002008-06-18T17:28:04.842+08:00It's been so long......that I actually forgot my blog address.<br /><br />Blogging is therapy, and I guess in the last couple of months (or maybe more), I just didn't need fixing.<br /><br />There were plenty of whingeing, politics-wise, in other, more important blogs so I didn't need to add noise to the chorus.<br /><br />And I didn't feel like navel-gazing or telling people what I ate for lunch.<br /><br />So why resume where I left off?<br /><br />Because I'm leaving Jakarta at the end of the month, and it's heartbreaking.<br /><br />Because I quit work and have nothing to do all day except lie around in my pyjamas and trawl through whingeing political blogs and news aggregators.<br /><br />Because I feel that I should try flexing my writing muscles again, after more than a year correcting other people's grammar and trying to make sense of Indonesian news reporting.<br /><br />Let's see how long this will last.mokciknabhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08584597008363811773noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7537698.post-39732061234644957672007-11-15T08:09:00.000+08:002007-11-15T14:09:05.895+08:00Note to Shopper (That's you, Yam)Dear Yam,<br />This should have been posted sooner, but as usual lah kan, my blog got ignored and I didn't read your reply. I hope you have not left for Jakarta.<br /><br />If you have only one day to shop, you should spend it at ITC Kuningan/Mall Ambassador (it's two connecting buildings). If there's time, you can hop over to nearby Tanah Abang.<br /><br />At Mall Ambassador, on the ground floor you can find a good selection of factory-outlet quality children's clothes (in my opinion, they offer better choices than Bandung) and there is a smattering of reject shops for adults, too. There are a couple of shops selling interesting shoes, and of course the ubiquitous fake handbags, on other floors. You should also check out the bookshop on the first floor, for some Indonesian literature and inspiring Islamic books.<br /><br />You must visit Arnessio (they have three outlets) on the ground floor of ITC Kuningan for very affordable cotton shirts and tunics.<br /><br />There are several shops selling ethnic stuff on the second floor. I like Pernak Pernik, which sells handmade ceramic bric-n-brac (which is what "pernak-pernik" means). On the fourth floor right across one of the escalators is a shop selling woven bags, at a reasonable price.<br /><br />ITC Kuningan also has shops selling the usual batik and telekung, so you can save time and forgo your Tanah Abang trip. However, prices here are slightly more expensive, but not that much if you're good at pulling a bargain. There are also shops selling pretty kebayas. These are cheaper than at department stores, and of better quality than Tanah Abang. Buy the cotton ones. There's a shop on the ground floor at ITC Kuningan which stocks a good selection.<br /><br />If you're kaya, though, you should drop by Pasaraya Grande for the full-on Indonesian craft experience. If you're staying near Kemang, check out also Chic Mart, a quaint two-storey shop crammed with unique jewellery (cheap!) and home furnishing (not so cheap). Chic Mart is on Jalan Kemang Raya, right in front of Al-Hidayah Mosque. Have lunch at Pawon Solo or Payon, if you're in the neighborhood.<br /><br />If you're really, really kaya you should also visit Alun Alun Indonesia at Grand Indonesia. This is the Indonesian equivalent of Aseana. The songket, ikats and batiks on display are to die-for but if you look at the price pun boleh mati juga. Having said that, the kains on display are heirloom quality works of art, and if I had a few million rupiah to spare, I'd invest in some.mokciknabhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08584597008363811773noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7537698.post-9329869768625341902007-11-02T08:36:00.000+08:002007-11-02T13:49:13.745+08:00My Life is So Boring and I Have No OpinionSo I'm posting an itinerary.<br /><br /><strong>Saturday 1 December 2007<br /></strong>18.30<br />Arrive at Jl Sutan Syahrir<br />Welcome Dinner<br /><br />20.00<br />Jakarta City Drive-About<br />Nightcap at Bakoel Koffie<br /><br /><strong>Sunday 2 December<br /></strong>06.00<br />Travel to <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bandung">Bandung</a><br /><br />08.30<br />Pasar Minggu Lapangan Gaziboe<br />A Sunday country fair selling all sorts of stuff, from crudely-made Barbie furniture to glittery clothes and BB guns<br /><br />11.00<br />Lunch at <a href="http://www.pbase.com/oslen/kampung_daun">Kampung Daun </a><br /><br />13.00<br />Check in at Bumi Asih<br /><br />15.00<br /><a href="http://www.angklung-udjo.co.id/">Saung Angklung Udjo, Padasuka</a><br /><br />18.00<br />Dinner at Bakmi Rainbow<br />This is not even a proper eatery, just a couple of chairs and tables thrown together in front of a factory outlet, but the noodles are home-made and good for cold Bandung nights.<br /><br /><strong>Monday 3 December<br /></strong>07.00<br /><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tangkuban_Perahu">Tangkuban Perahu</a><br /><br />11.00<br />Shopping - Rumah Mode<br /><br />12.30<br />Lunch at Bumbu Desa<br /><br />13.30<br />Return to hotel<br /><br />15.00<br />Additional shopping – Jalan Riau<br /><br />18.00<br /><a href="http://bandungraya.blogspot.com/2006/09/bandung-milk-center-bmc.html">Dinner at Bandoengsche Melk Centrale</a><br /><br /><br /><strong>Tuesday 4 December<br /></strong>10.00<br /><a href="http://www.selasarsunaryo.com/modules/home/">Selasar Sunaryo</a><br />Coffee<br /><br />12.30<br />Check-out from hotel<br /><br />13.30<br />Lunch at Bloemen<br /><br />15.00<br />Back to Jakarta<br /><br /><strong>Wednesday 5 December</strong><br />09.00<br /><a href="http://www.museumnasional.org/">National Museum</a><br /><br />11.30<br /><a href="http://www.wisatanet.com/templete/index.php?wil=1&id=000000000000240">Textile Museum</a><br /><br />13.00<br />Lunch at home<br /><br />18.30<br />Dinner at Warung Kopi, Alun Alun Indonesia<br />Indonesian film at Blitz<br /><br /><strong>Thursday 6 December<br /></strong>10.00<br />Furniture Jaunt - Ciputat<br /><br />13.00<br />Lunch at Payon<br /><br />14.00<br />Furniture Jaunt - Kemang Timur<br /><br />16.30<br />Pool time<br /><br />18.00<br />Dinner at Bakmi Gajah Mada<br /><br /><strong>Friday 7 December<br /></strong>10.00<br />Shopping - ITC Cempaka Mas<br /><br />13.00<br />Lunch at home<br /><br />14.00<br />Shopping – <a href="http://www.kedaungdinnerware.com/">Kedaung</a><br /><br />18.30<br />Dinner at Lara Jonggrang<br /><br /><strong>Saturday 8 December</strong><br />05.00<br />Bursa Kue Pasar Senen<br /><br />15.00<br /><a href="http://www.bogor.indo.net.id/kri/">Bogor Botanical Gardens</a><br /><br />18.00<br />Dinner at <a href="http://www.dedaunancafe.com/">Café Dedaunan</a><br /><br /><strong>Sunday 9 December<br /></strong>08.00<br />Pasar Pagi Lama, Kota<br /><br />09.30<br />Taman Fatahillah<br />Museum Jakarta<br />Museum Wayang<br /><br />13.00<br />Lunch at Rumah Makan Sederhana<br /><br />14.30<br />Rest<br /><br />16.00<br />Jaunt of Useless Things<br />Cikini Train Station<br />Jl. Surabaya Flea Market<br /><br /><strong>Monday 10 December<br /></strong>07.00<br />Spa at Salon Geugis<br /><br />15.00<br />Transfer to airportmokciknabhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08584597008363811773noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7537698.post-90902591562431284962007-10-23T15:42:00.000+08:002007-10-23T16:33:07.999+08:00I celeng youThis post is dedicated to my father, who enjoys finding out the origins of Terengganu words. The following are actually, verbatim, from a dictionary:<br /><br />gocoh - to box, to thump, scuffle<br />gohong - hole, cave, den<br />celeng - money box<br />colek - to take a little of, to nudge a little<br /><br />Sounds familiar enough if you're from Terengganu or Kelantan, yes? Amazingly this was taken from the Kamus Lengkap Indonesia-Inggeris.<br /><br />This started out when I was talking to Dr Rohani, who is the wife of the MSD chief in Indonesia. She's from Seberang Takir and I remarked that I found many Indonesian words similar to Terengganuspeak. She agreed wholeheartedly, and pointed out how Indonesians call 'making noise' geger, which is an utterly East Coast expression. Iseng-iseng (just on a lark), I went through Adam's dictionary and found so many words that my grandmother would have used in her conversation.<br /><br />Words like:<br /><br />ganyah - to scrub<br />pongah - conceited<br />gerai - sitting platform (as opposed to the Malay 'gerai', which means stall)<br />karih- to stir<br />katik - small or dwarf<br />geluk - drinking-bowl<br />congkong - to squat<br />cobek - to tear away (usually associated with food)<br /><br />And then, there's 'kedaung' and 'lepang', both of which are trees, the former I guess is really green and the latter, bitter. A 'celeng' is actually a small boar, which is probably why Terengganu people call the piggy bank after it.<br /><br />Indonesians always use "ngga usah" for don't, similar to the Terengganu "dok soh". We also use "takmboh", when we refuse something. The dictionary says 'emboh' means to like, or to have a mind to, which makes sense, because "tak emboh" would mean exactly the opposite.<br /><br />Saiffuddin thinks it is time I get off my butt and find out exactly the link between Indonesia and the East Coast. My ancestry, songket, gamelan and pempek (their version of kerepok lekor) have given us a rough outline, but I am dying to fill in the blanks. Anyone want to help? Nok ke takmboh?mokciknabhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08584597008363811773noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7537698.post-53072755839283560462007-10-23T14:11:00.000+08:002007-10-23T15:25:01.519+08:00Just for the fun of it, I think I will blog todayThis rare opportunity to blog was brought to you by the fact that:<br />a) I am sick with flu and did not go to work today<br />b) I could therefore get hold of this PC before three screaming kids maim each other for it; and<br />c) the internet service provider actually provided internet, and not just 15 bits of connection<br /><br />Ah well, too bad no one's going to read this.<br /><br />Hmm. For a moment there I thought, since no one's going to read this I might as well record for posterity (and for scientific research) what my husband and I did in bed last night; but I cancelled that because:<br /><br />a) my father regularly looks me up because he's such a dear; and<br />b) this post would consist of only a few sentences, which would read as thus:<br /><br /><blockquote>We were both in bed, lying down, naked. Saiffuddin read Kompas and cut out<br />a tender announcement for power barges in Sumatera. I played 'Extreme Snake' on<br />my phone. When I 'sudah mati', we turned off the lights and went to sleep.<br />The end.<br /><br /></blockquote>I have to pretend my life is more exciting than that. Tch.<br /><br />So, anyway. Here's a brief update on the past two months -- sort of. I went to work as usual, and edit, edit, edited all the copies for this media tracking outfit that has so kindly given me a part-time job. The I go home and help my kids with homework. If I have no patience I do the homework myself, so that I can quickly get some sleep.<br /><br />Ramadan came, and we spent most of our time at Mesjid Agung Sunda Kelapa, where nightly, Adam, Saiffuddin and even the visiting Firhad would lose their sendal jepit (selipar). Tarawih was a pleasure this year, we had an imam from Arab Saudi who read the Quran with conviction and emotion; and most of the doa's were translated so we understood the gravity of the prayer. Towards the end of Ramadan, we had what I call "Tearjerker Terawihs", because the imam would be sobbing through his extended doa qunut during the last rakaat of witr, and because we were told beforehand the meaning of the qunut, the makmums would be crying, too.<br /><br />The jemaat at Mesjid Sunda Kelapa in Menteng is a truly mixed lot, but all are also truly welcome. There would be the low-income populous who would travel from miles away to arrive before Asr, and enjoy the free iftar the mosque would provide for about 700 people every day. Then, there are the Menteng denizens, who come to mosque in their gorgeous telekungs and their Fendis and Hermes, and you can see one or two fiddling on their Blackberries during tazkirah. The Vice-President, who lives right next door, is a regular makmum, and a usual target for donations. After the earthquake in Padang, the mosque collected funds to rebuild the destroyed mosques in the affected areas. Some donated Rp40 million without batting an eyelid. The Wakil President gave more than Rp100 million of his own money.<br /><br />The night before Lebaran we helped Wisma Malaysia cook for hundreds of students who beraya away from home, some for the first time. (Most could not go home because they had just arrived and had to wait for their visa to clear). I learnt to cook kuah kacang, for the first time. On Lebaran morning, we solat Idul-Fitri at the embassy. I brought kerepok lekor which my husband and I made ourselves, and I was scolded because there wasn't enough to go (several) round. In the evening, we went to Kebon Jeruk, to celebrate with my friends Lindy and Winky, and their family, who are like our de-facto relatives here. Ibu Savitri ("No, you must call me Mummy") cooked 92 kilos of rendang and an array of Minang and Batavian delicacies and desserts. At the end of the evening, she played the piano and called everyone to sing, which everyone thought was the cue to leave.<br /><br />The most beautiful woman at the gathering was a septuagenarian, who was tall and elegant and had perfect skin. I was kinda flirting with her, which wasn't terribly religious of me.<br /><br />Saiffuddin and I later hosted our own Raya gathering at our house, but only for small groups of people because our house can't accomodate crowds and we had only ten dinner plates and most of the drinking tumblers were broken. I had Chris, Hera and Riri from work bring along their spouses, and I cooked nasi kerabu, which they suprisingly enjoyed. I also cooked pasta with scampi because I didn't know if Riri's husband David, who is from New York, would eat the nasi kerabu, because the dish calls for petai and budu. Turns out he was the one who ate with the most gusto. Never underestimate a Jewish boy from Jersey, that's what I say. <br /><br />Minal aidin wal faidzin. Better late than never.mokciknabhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08584597008363811773noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7537698.post-50992372929581663362007-08-09T15:48:00.000+08:002007-08-09T17:13:35.232+08:00Peed on by peddlersSometime last week, my husband was (well, he still is) having problems with his company's Indonesian partner. The state-owned firm had reneged on their promises countless times and had been shall we say, rather dishonest.<br /><br />The problem with my husband is he mulls over these things and it spoils his day. I suspect he likes being mad and edgy. On our daily walk one morning, he was going on and on about how these people can't be trusted. I absolutely disagree but I can't be bothered to get into an argument with <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Saiffuddin</span> at 6.30 am, so I pretended to listen while I fantasized about a five bedroom home with a big yard in Bandung (my instant zen, though fantasizing about Eric <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Bana</span> works, too)<br /><br />Unfortunately, my husband can't stand being mad all on his own, and would do everything he can so that I would have a rotten time along with him. So I had to leave my sumptuous fantasy house (which by then already had a huge <span style="font-style: italic;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">pendopo</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span>and a guest pavilion nestled among huge acacia trees) and was drawn into the fray.<br /><br />"Any Indonesian businessman will cheat you given the opportunity", he announced.<br />"No, you can't work like that", I retorted, "you have to have faith. Not everyone is dishonest. This bad chi will get you nowhere".<br /><br />It just so happened that a bread seller passed by us, pushing his <span style="font-style: italic;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">gerobak</span>. My husband dug into his pockets.<br /><br />"Let's have an experiment", he said, " Let's give this <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">roti</span> man some money and ask him to send the bread to our house. We'll see if he runs away with the dough or if he'd deliver."<br /><br />Now, this is not a very wise thing to do, because (sigh) most small-time peddlers and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">bajaj</span> men and fishmongers in Jakarta <span style="font-style: italic;">will </span>cheat you given the opportunity. We have had to pay ridiculous amounts for short <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">bajaj</span> rides because their owners never seem to have any change. I have bought two kilos of <span style="font-style: italic;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">ikan</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span><span style="font-style: italic;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">kembung</span> only to discover at home that half of the fish were actually <span style="font-style: italic;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">selayang</span>. Nevertheless, I agreed, because I was sure the man wouldn't cheat us for just six thousand rupiah (about RM2.50) and he goes around our neighborhood every day, so he knows that he's bound to meet us one time or another. Besides it might shut my husband up for a while.<br /><br />So we hailed the bread man and told him to send the bread to our address. The bread guy appeared a little confused with our instructions, and did look as though he thought we were stupid to entrust him with money. We left him, and continued with our walk.<br /><br />"He'd deliver", I said. "We'll see", answered <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Saiffuddin</span>.<br /><br />Halfway through our walk, I had to pee and we took a detour back to the house. Maybe The God of Petty Quarrels loves <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Saiffuddin</span> on that day, because just as we left the house to resume our jaunt, the bread man came to our street. He was behind us, and we saw that he went past our house and <span style="font-style: italic;">did not </span>deliver the bread. I wanted to turn back but <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Saiffuddin</span> didn't let me. Seemingly, the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">roti</span> man didn't know that we knew he was there, and pushed his <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">gerobak</span> very slowly, afraid to overtake. He didn't even sound that <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">roti</span>-horn, which identifies self-respecting <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">roti</span>-men every where. (Well, in Asia at least).<br /><br />"Damn", I swore. (I didn't really say damn, but I censor my blog, you see). "He wasn't going to deliver the bread".<br />I wasn't sure if I was mad at the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">roti</span> man or at my husband for being so smugly right. As the bread guy was going to turn a corner, in a bid to make a quick escape, we suddenly called out to him.<br /><br />"<span style="font-style: italic;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">Sono</span>! (Over there!) The house is over there", my husband pointed out. The man looked surprised, like a boy caught stealing.<br /><br />We left him on the corner and continued on our walk, with <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">Saiffuddin</span> proclaiming how he is never wrong about people every step of the way. I sulked and pouted and asked him if he's happy now that he's managed to ruin my day. When we got home, I really expected to see the bread on our table, but there was no such luck. I mused about how patently stupid the bread man could be -- he ran away with six thousand rupiah and now has to sneak around his tour of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">Menteng</span> because he'd certainly want to avoid us now. Over breakfast, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">Saiffuddin</span> gave me another long lecture about the virtues of being a difficult and negative bastard.<br /><br />When it was time to send the kids to school, I went to open the gates, and there, hanging from the spikes, was the bread, wrapped in a plastic bag. I had no idea what went on inside the bread-man's mind that produced that stab of conscience, and I really didn't care. What mattered was, on that day, I could throw the bread into <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">Saiffuddin's</span> lap and declared that I won the argument.mokciknabhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08584597008363811773noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7537698.post-50878941333031481442007-08-09T15:23:00.000+08:002007-08-09T15:46:16.573+08:00Jakarta RocksFor about two seconds, <a href="http://www.detiknews.com/index.php/detik.read/tahun/2007/bulan/08/tgl/09/time/001232/idnews/814974/idkanal/10">a few minutes</a> after midnight.<br /><br />Except for Ibu Ika, the gardener's wife, everyone in the household slept through it. Apparently it was violent enough to displace some of the water in our pool, and had sent many Jakartans into a state of panic; but maybe those were just Adang* supporters.<br /><br />I should be very, very glad that the quake caused only a small ripple in the city, but when I first heard the news I was really hoping I could have an excuse to skip work. <br /><br />*<span style="font-size:85%;">Jakarta's gubernatorial election actually received bigger coverage than the earthquake. Fauzi Bowo won the election, defeating former Deputy Police Chief Adang Daradjaatun. </span>mokciknabhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08584597008363811773noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7537698.post-37863116901855051352007-06-15T15:54:00.000+08:002007-06-15T16:02:42.286+08:00Dawnforehead to chin<br />cheeks to chest<br />grey light seeps into sight<br />breath, words, heartbeat<br />regret that ticking clock is an enemy<br />but the hum of living winsmokciknabhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08584597008363811773noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7537698.post-71202615333820162192007-06-14T13:46:00.000+08:002007-06-14T16:43:59.712+08:00Baidura Ahmad! Tell Me if You're Coming OverGoogle "Baidura Ahmad", and you will be able to read a few samples of my friend's fine writing skills, on subjects ranging from trendy grannies and Balinese massage to Islamic banking and reform of international financial architecture.<br /><br />I got to know Baidura when we were both business reporters (okay, maybe she deserves to be called "journalist"), covering AGMs, signing ceremonies and economic meets. She was working for a very respectable (then) business broadsheet (then) and I was the token editor at the economic desk of a TV station. It just so happened that we'd always be sent on the same assignments abroad, and I grew to like Baidura's unforgiving humour and sense of adventure. (By unforgiving humour I mean we laugh and bitch about other people a lot). While most fellow journalists and camera crew would opt to go shopping when visiting a foreign country, Baidura and I would visit art museums and quirky restaurants and flea-markets. Oh, we love flea-markets and dusty op-shops! At the right price, we have no qualms lugging bulky purchases all around town. On one cold day in Auckland we hauled luggage and Salvation Army finds from bus to ferry to airport.<br /><br />There is one thing I never spoke about to Baidura and since this happened a long time ago, I suppose the matter has lost some of its offensiveness (and mortal shame) and I can finally tender my apologies. Baidura and I were in New York in late August, 2001, and we were put up at the New York Palace Hotel, which was across St. Patrick's Church and a few skips away from Rockefeller Center. We shared a well-appointed bedroom and I think the first night we were there we went out to eat at a Jewish vegetarian restaurant and I had a heavenly dish of fresh pasta with broccoli and cream. Back in the room, my tummy reminded me why the meal was a bad idea. We just got off a very, very long flight and I hadn't done the No.2 in two days (I'm not sure what No.2 is, but what I mean is the <span style="font-style: italic;">besar</span> one). I was pregnant at the time (it didn't work out, eventually) and pregnant women, especially pregnant women who've just eaten broccoli, can get extremely windy. Baidura settled into her bed, pulled up the plush cover and we chatted while we watched TV; or at least according to my feeble mind, this is how it went.<br /><br />I can't remember what it was that we spoke about, but uncharitably, my colon decided to emit at that point one of those nasty, silent farts that I can only unimaginatively describe as stinky-poo.<br /><br />I was aghast, but Baidura completely ignored it. There was no way she could not have noticed, because it was the kind of flatulence you needed an iron lung for, but she didn't give anything away. She may have crinkled her nose a little, but she didn't go like : "Elida, did you fart?" or the more appropriate, "Ya Rabbi, busuknya kentut! Bau macam telur tembelang campur air paya!", which would have been perfect for the occasion. No, Baidura was extremely polite and suffered in silence.<br /><br />I should really have said sorry, but I was too embarrassed to bring up the subject, and besides the damage was done. So I ran into the sumptuous marble bathroom to finish venting off my bum in there. When I re-emerged, pretending not to be gasping for air, I settled back into bed and we continued chatting, as if nothing had happened.<br /><br />By that incident, I measured Baidura as a good friend. I have no idea if she blabbed about Elida farting to other people later ( I would have!) but I, err never got a whiff of it.<br /><br />We had a good time in New York, even though there wasn't enough time to see everything we would have liked to see. In between listening to stockbrokers explain the virtues of dollar denominated bonds, we went to the Guggenheim, took pictures of the Naked Cowboy, went to Sunday flea markets at the Village, and caught a Broadway show. Despite the legendary New York brusqueness, we met only nice people and on the flight home, I even made friends with a spiritual house-painter from Queens who asked me a lot about Islam. Two weeks later that sunny picture we had of New York was completely destroyed. Baidura must have been glad that it was only my butt that detonated throughout our stay.<br /><br />Last week, Baidura called to say she'll be making a business trip to Jakarta and she'd come earlier to stay over at my place. I am notorious for losing phone numbers and emails so I don't know how to contact her (and I can't remember which central bank-related institution she works for now, hence the googling effort) . Thankfully she reads the drivel I write in this blog, so if she's reading this right now, I'd like to say : I'm sorry I farted in 2001 and please email me at mokciknab@gmail.com if your travel plans are confirmed! There's lots of musty, old shops crammed with furniture and stuff that we can rummage through together.mokciknabhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08584597008363811773noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7537698.post-28229622854069543812007-06-11T16:57:00.000+08:002007-06-11T17:57:33.243+08:00Welcome to My GubukA few years ago, I travelled with a fellow newscaster, she's tres chic and is very, very particular about her appearance. I don't say this with disdain, because I accept people as they are and I happen to like her very much even though I don't understand her extreme (extreme to me, that is) pre-occupation with perception. Anyway, it just so happens that during the trip we bought more items than could fit into our lugagge. I solved the problem by buying a cheap and huge utility bag from the market to place the excess baggage. Because I was thoughtful, I bought the same bag for her. She cringed. And refused the bag. Because presumably it looked cheap and so obviously bought at the market, and she didn't want to be seen fishing it from the luggage carousel. No matter. We're still friends.<br /><br />One of my sisters would understand this pre-occupation, because if we'd ever go shopping at One Utama and we'd happen to buy stuff from Reject Shop, I'd have to be the one carrying the bags. Or else we'd quickly buy something from a more expensive place, say Salabianca next door, so that we could stuff the offensive Reject Shop purchases into the more fashionably acceptable paper carriers. In this way, we would have totally cancelled out any savings we could hope to achieve by shopping at Reject Shop in the first place. Now that my sister has children, she probably has less concerns of this sort, and truth be told it's been ages since I last shopped with her, anyway.<br /><br />Why are we so ashamed to be seen as poor? We judge others and we judge ourselves according to the money made, despite other intangible achievements or qualities. This point was underscored recently, when I visited Cikgu Ana, this lovely lady who teaches my daughters the Qur'an and all other things that a mother is supposed to teach.<br /><br />My children have always been blessed with wonderful people to nurture them, to fill the huge gaps left behind by their mom. One of them is Ana, who is about 27 years old, a kindergarten teacher and a graduate student in Islamic studies. She comes to our house three times a week, is fiercely dedicated to educating Aiysha and Aliya and is a thousand times more patient than I am. She is indulgent towards my daughters and teaches the obstinate Aliya to recite the Iqra' while the girl lies on her lap. She is exemplary in so many ways, diligent, wise and kind.<br /><br />Ana lives alone with her mother in Mampang-Prapatan. A few weeks ago, her mother fell sick and could not move. At that time, the kids were having their exams and Ana felt she was duty-bound to come and tutor my children. She was tearful and worried. We told her to go home. Then we heard that the mother's condition took a turn for the worse, but the old lady refused hospitalization. Ti decided to visit Ana at her home, and I felt that I should do the same. When Ana heard that I was coming, she was aghast, ashamed that I would see the squalor she lived in. In the end she relented and I finally saw her house.<br /><br />It wasn't a house. It was a small room where the door was the only opening, and her mother slept on an old mattress on the floor. They had a small fridge and an old wooden cabinet where they kept books and mementoes, and those plastic drawers to keep clothes. It was indeed squalor. Ana kept apologizing about her circumstances, while her sick mother profusely thanked us for coming. I wanted to cry because I felt she didn't deserve to live in such dire straits. She kept saying, oh, this must be the first time you were in a house so poor, and I kept saying no, no it's not true, I come from a poor family too. She said I lied, and it <span style="font-style: italic;">was</span> a lie, because no matter how poor my relatives were, and there were many poor people in Terengganu, no one was this destitute.<br /><br />But while I am deeply saddened by Ana's living conditions, it does not in any way lower my estimation of her. Finally I told her that in my mind she is much, much nobler than me, much nobler than most people I know, because she is a teacher and she used her knoweldge to teach my children and the children of others, while I can't even recite the Qur'an with proper tajweed. She went quiet for a while, and then she thanked me for my words, and didn't say anything more about her house.mokciknabhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08584597008363811773noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7537698.post-26848022899154044792007-05-31T16:06:00.000+08:002007-05-31T16:46:21.354+08:00Need idea for school food fairMy kids are having an end of the year bash in school, which includes the whole school staging a Mary Poppins musical (Aisyha's in the chorus, Adam plays the pianica, and Aliya will dance). Julie Andrews and magical flying nannies notwithstanding, this is Asia, and any school event in Asia must have food on the side. I have to fill a form to say what I'd be bringing, and my kids want something that is distinctly Malaysian. Could you please, please help me and suggest something?<br /><br />Forgive this Mokciknab yang banyak songeh, but there are a few things to consider:<br /><ul><li>It's finger food or a dish that can be easily eaten without a table</li><li>It's relatively cheap </li><li>It's simple enough for someone yang tak reti masak</li><li>It doesn't require an oven (although I'd be willing to buy an oven Butterfly if the idea's brilliant)</li><li>and finally, it must appeal to children between ages 6 to 12. </li></ul><br />We're boring people; and we've only come up with a few thoughts :<br /><ul><li>roti canai</li><li>roti jala</li><li>karipap; or </li><li>(Aiysha's idea) bronok<br /></li></ul>I could serve the roti canai or roti jala with sweet condensed milk, or I can relent to my daughters and fill the karipap with spinach and cheese instead of meat and potatoes, and I could pretend I didn't hear the plea for bronok, but I'm sure out there in the blogosphere some kind Martha Stewart doppelganger will come up with a recipe more inspiring than our dismal choices.<br /><br />Can yah? Please? You won't win anything, but you will have my children's deepest gratitude. And a free tour guide next time you come to Jakarta.mokciknabhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08584597008363811773noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7537698.post-13755691011241898822007-05-31T08:02:00.000+08:002007-05-31T16:47:51.711+08:00Death in ThreeThree of my neighbour's children were warded for dengue and then the middle one, a seven year old boy, died the third day he was in hospital.<br /><br />His parents held a service for him at home. That evening, I sat in my front garden, saw the streams of people, imagined the streams of tears. From across the street, above the din of traffic, I heard the ceremony of sorrow. A priest telling the parents to seek strength. A little girl speaking of a dear cousin and why he will be missed. A woman singing a lullaby to the dead child.<br />"Sleep", she sang. "Sleep, my dear and rest in peace".mokciknabhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08584597008363811773noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7537698.post-63903739407448500182007-05-20T10:22:00.000+08:002007-05-20T12:31:04.396+08:00Psychedelic RainbowIt's safe to say that even the most casual radio listener in Malaysia and Indonesia would have heard of Nidji. The band had a string of hits, starting with "Sudah", "Bila Aku Jatuh Cinta", and then the stay-in-you-head-till-you-shoot-your-own-brains-off "Hapus Aku". I loved the song so much I played it over and over that it reduced my daughter Aiysha to tears. Literally. When we first came to Indonesia there was no escaping the tune : it was blaring in every shopping hall, on the radio, out of homes, and from the mouths of children playing in the streets.<br /><br />The band must have made the same pact with the devil that signed up Led Zeppelin, because it is now enjoying the same ubiquity with "Heaven", the song used for the "Heroes" promo in Asia.<br /><br />Me, lamb to the slaughter, love the song to bits.<br /><br />Since moving to Jakarta, it had always been my aim to watch the band perform live, but understandably such an objective had to take a back-seat to much loftier ideals like acquiring furniture and oh yeah, sending my kids to school. Also, I have seen them on live TV shows and had always thought they sounded better in the studio.<br /><br />I was wrong. So wrong. Last night, shrugging off fears that we would be the only makcik and pakcik in a crowd of youngsters, Saiffuddin and I went to the A-Mild Rising Stars concert. The show was the culmination of a nationwide search for the best bands in Indonesia; and apart from featuring the finalists, it also had a running order of performances that read like a playlist for I-Radio (or Hot FM, if you're in Malaysia).<br /><br />Ungu, Samsons and Naff were billed as stars of the concert, but I was there for Nidji; as well as Steven and the Coconut Treez, a raggae band so feel-good I actually bothered to buy their CD. The pokok kelapa band was very good and by far, delivered the best vocal performance in a night marred by poor technical facilities. Andra and the Backbones, a part-time gig for Dewa guitarist Andra, was excellent as well, but I only knew one of their songs.<br /><br />Nidji was in a class of their own. Giring, with his afro hair, tight pants and white shoes, was totally convincing as a frontman. The moment he pranced down the runway and broke into "Disco Lazy Time" (whatever that means), the crowd was eating out of his hands. Coldplay comparisons evaporate at this point - Chris Martin would never have jumped about with such abandon. Nidji's performance was a rush to the head, helped by the band's frenetic pace and Giring's ease with the audience : we were constantly on our feet, screaming out words. They played only three other songs : "Heaven", "Manusia Sempurna" and last but certainly not least, the massive "Hapus Aku", which was performed at twice its speed and had every one believe this was a pogo party.<br /><br />By the way, we were not the only makcik and pakcik at the show. Many real mak haji's in sparkly tudungs and and pak haji's in ketayaps were also in attendance, and they rocked! Amazing Indonesia.<br /><br />For more information on Nidji, go <a href="http://nidji.blogspot.com/">here.</a>mokciknabhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08584597008363811773noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7537698.post-66287920297437095942007-05-19T12:03:00.000+08:002007-05-19T12:24:54.521+08:00Gumuxs!<a href="http://forum.cari.com.my/viewthread.php?tid=236995&extra=page%3D7&page=1">This</a> is probably amusing only to my family, but it does reflect on how information can get corrupted along the way. For example;<br /><ul><li>My father has six children, not two</li><li>My sister Dalia never went out with a Caucasian</li><li>To call Motorola a "factory in Sungai Way" is probably an over-simplification</li><li>I am not a politician</li><li>My brother-in law never worked in any hospital in Kinrara</li><li>My mother's name is Saudah</li><li>and my husband does not drive a Kenari. The person who drives the Kenari will be mortified to know that people think I am married to him because he'd had to give up corsets and high heels. </li></ul>The stuff about calling Firhad "hensem" and "mamat cool" and describing me as fat are all judgment calls, so can't complain. Dalam hati boleh lah.<br /><br />P.S Just in case you think I was googling myself : I stumbled upon the thread because I looked up my brother's name. He's producing a reality dance show and I wanted to know if he's getting good reviews for the show. Generally okay lah.mokciknabhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08584597008363811773noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7537698.post-9292749176244222612007-05-13T20:22:00.000+08:002007-05-13T22:40:03.362+08:00Martyr Mater. NotMotherhood is a crown that doesn't sit well on me, and if I am totally, totally honest with myself, I know I don't deserve to celebrate today. Of course, I get it anyway -- the scrumptious breakfast of Lamingtons and sandwiches; the homemade card with pink hearts and handwritten "I love you mommy" (and a smiley, thin me holding a tulip, scrawled out with magic marker), the day out shopping, the hugs and chocolate at the end of the day. Everyone in my family is indulgent towards me today.<br /><br />But here's the truth : they're indulgent towards me <span style="font-style: italic;">every </span>day. Of the five of us, I am the most rottenly spoilt. My husband lets me get away with it; my kids let me get away with it.<br /><br />Mother's day should be reserved for those who wouldn't otherwise get a break. Those women, paragons of motherhood who wake up at five to make breakfast, get their children ready for school, help them with their homework and sleep at their elbows when they're sick. The moms who would rush home after work to make dinner, who'd sew buttons, bake cakes. The apple-pie kind of moms, self-sacrificing, martyrs.<br /><br />I'm not one of those. I'll ignore a child if I'm sleepy or if I have a good book to read. I'll tell them to come back later, and we're usually good with that arrangement. I rarely feed my kids, I don't know how to plait their hair and if we happen to be in a shower togther, it's more likely that I'd be the one getting a shampoo treatment.<br /><br />The one who deserves to get the mother's day card, truth be told, is my maid, Ti. She does all the matryring and sacrificing. Her every waking hour is to serve the children; and the kids are more afraid of her than they are of me. (I'm a means of breaking Kak Ti's rules) For my children, she will postpone rest, marriage, her own happiness. It is solely to this unflinching devotion that I, the mommy, owe my afternoon naps and literary sojourns.<br /><br />But I do other things, I really do! I read with my kids, I help them with their stories, I invent jokes, I download songs, I draw, I dance, I do voices. For all intents and purposes I'm the fun parent -- I bring them out and buy them things and lie on bed with them while they spin yarns about jumbuks and dancing princesses. I don't renege on promises and I don't lie (unless it's about sex, and even then not always) If I cook it's always a special event. I let them drink capuccino. I let them play with my makeup. I let them tell me I'm fat. On a hot day I'll push a fully clothed Adam into the pool. I talk to them about politics, poverty and providence. I never insult their intelligence and even though my kids tell me I should be more responsible or that I should learn to drive, I think we have mutual respect.<br /><br />Still, once in a while a little voice will tell me that this is all wrong and that a few years' down the road I shall see the effects of such casual parenting. For the moment though, my children are happy, well adjusted people with a mind of their own and that's good enough for me.<br /><br />Yes, yes, I know. The question should be : is it good enough for <span style="font-style: italic;">them</span>? Fortunately, my children have a dependable, diligent Daddy who'll be able to square things off in the long run. Just today he practiced soccer with Adam and Aiysha, helped them with revisions, dressed Aiysha's wounds and fed her medicine, and because Kak Ti is away, he also cleaned the house and did the dishes. Tonight when he sleeps, I should see if heaven is under <span style="font-style: italic;">his</span> feet.mokciknabhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08584597008363811773noreply@blogger.com0