The Madness of MokcikNab

Curious Couplets

2008-10-15T12:52:00.001+08:00

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.

Tinggi bukit gilang gemilang

Air laut tenang-tenangan

Budi sedikit tidak kan hilang

Itu menjadi kenang-kenangan

Lo behold the shining hill

Blue calm waters lap the shore

Time shall not fade your goodwill

It'll be treasured forevermore

Buah langsat di tepi busut

Mari diletak di dalam peti

Besar hajat kami menjemput

Besar niat di dalam hati

Beside the anthill the langsats lay

The fruits then placed inside a coffer

With this invite we hope to say

What's in our hearts we'd like to offer

Dua tiga kucing berlari

Mana kan sama si kucing belang

Dua tiga boleh ku cari

Mana kan sama tuan seorang.

In two and threes the cats may race

But none can peer the calico kitten

There could be many whom I may chase

By only you my heart is smitten

Dari mana punai melayang

Dari sawah turun ke kali

Dari mana datangnya sayang

Dari mata turun ke hati

From whence flies the dove

From the fields and down the brook

From whence flows the love

To the heart from just one look

Dari mana hendak ke mana

Tinggi rumput dari padi

Tahun mana bulan mana

Hendak kita berjumpa lagi

Tell me where you go from here

The grass grows taller than the padi grain

Tell me the month, tell me the year

When you and I shall meet again

In Search of The Idyllic Aidil Fitri

2008-09-25T09:49:00.005+08:00

My children are the only ones in their class who would not be doing the balik kampung 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.

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 Yaasin and ziarah 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.

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?

To me, these are mere technicalities. I could always transport my parents to any suitable rural location.

My husband, KL-born and bred, do not have memories of celebrating Hari Raya in the kampung. 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.

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 bid'aah.

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.

On the eve of Aidil Fitri, we'd have one final iftar at my grandmother's house, with coconut juice and Terengganu delicacies like nekbat or ikang golek. 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 nasi minyok hujang panah, 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 mercung ayang 'telor, chicken-shaped squibs that would produce egg-like sparks when fired.

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 nasi minyok, kurma daging, ayam masak merah 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 ketupat daun palas and sweet tapai pulut wrapped in the leaves of the jambu laut tree, and fizzy orange drinks in dainty gold-rimmed glasses.

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.

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.

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 wayang kulit figurine, the awan larat 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 kemunting together, but sadly, I can no longer recall their names or faces.

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.

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.

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.

Alas, this is not to be.

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.

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 nasi dagang again this year, but the lack of kemeriahan has deflated my enthusiasm for any cooking.

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 post, 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.

Elida and Alliteration

2008-09-16T09:14:00.002+08:00

You 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.

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.

At the top of my list of favorite books with clever turns of alliterative verse must be Nabokov's Lolita, which opens with:

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.

And then to describe his final moments with his first paramour, the lovely Annabel:

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.

If I could choose to be bestowed with the talents of a dead author, Nabokov is the name.

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:

Soon I saw my health decline,
And I knew the fault was mine,
Only William Blake can tell,
Tales to make a tiger well.

Now I should get up and go, 'cos my husband calls me so.

The Madness of Malaysia

2008-09-13T05:37:00.002+08:00

These 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.

Whatever happens, remember this: protect your neighbors, no matter that they are Malay, Chinese, Indian or Murut.

We have a scar that is almost forty years old that they won't let us forget. Let's not wound ourselves any further.

Maid in a Muddle

2008-09-10T10:55:00.005+08:00

My 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Al-Fatihah: Tan Sri A.Samad Ismail

2008-09-10T10:36:00.002+08:00

He will be greatly missed. Especially at a time when courage is a rare commodity.

Rubbish, refuge

2008-07-24T18:28:00.003+08:00

Coming 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Debris

2008-06-24T11:35:00.002+08:00

It'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.

A life of flotsam and jetsam. I'm being washed back to shore, but my ship's sailed away.

Urinating on Utility

2008-06-19T10:49:00.003+08:00

In 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.

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.

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.

Needless to say, Saiffuddin was happy for the rest of the day.

It's been so long...

2008-06-18T17:15:00.002+08:00

...that I actually forgot my blog address.

Blogging is therapy, and I guess in the last couple of months (or maybe more), I just didn't need fixing.

There were plenty of whingeing, politics-wise, in other, more important blogs so I didn't need to add noise to the chorus.

And I didn't feel like navel-gazing or telling people what I ate for lunch.

So why resume where I left off?

Because I'm leaving Jakarta at the end of the month, and it's heartbreaking.

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.

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.

Let's see how long this will last.

Note to Shopper (That's you, Yam)

2007-11-15T08:09:00.000+08:00

Dear Yam,
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.

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.

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.

You must visit Arnessio (they have three outlets) on the ground floor of ITC Kuningan for very affordable cotton shirts and tunics.

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.

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.

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.

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.

My Life is So Boring and I Have No Opinion

2007-11-02T08:36:00.000+08:00

So I'm posting an itinerary.

Saturday 1 December 2007
18.30
Arrive at Jl Sutan Syahrir
Welcome Dinner

20.00
Jakarta City Drive-About
Nightcap at Bakoel Koffie

Sunday 2 December
06.00
Travel to Bandung

08.30
Pasar Minggu Lapangan Gaziboe
A Sunday country fair selling all sorts of stuff, from crudely-made Barbie furniture to glittery clothes and BB guns

11.00
Lunch at Kampung Daun

13.00
Check in at Bumi Asih

15.00
Saung Angklung Udjo, Padasuka

18.00
Dinner at Bakmi Rainbow
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.

Monday 3 December
07.00
Tangkuban Perahu

11.00
Shopping - Rumah Mode

12.30
Lunch at Bumbu Desa

13.30
Return to hotel

15.00
Additional shopping – Jalan Riau

18.00
Dinner at Bandoengsche Melk Centrale

Tuesday 4 December
10.00
Selasar Sunaryo
Coffee

12.30
Check-out from hotel

13.30
Lunch at Bloemen

15.00
Back to Jakarta

Wednesday 5 December
09.00
National Museum

11.30
Textile Museum

13.00
Lunch at home

18.30
Dinner at Warung Kopi, Alun Alun Indonesia
Indonesian film at Blitz

Thursday 6 December
10.00
Furniture Jaunt - Ciputat

13.00
Lunch at Payon

14.00
Furniture Jaunt - Kemang Timur

16.30
Pool time

18.00
Dinner at Bakmi Gajah Mada

Friday 7 December
10.00
Shopping - ITC Cempaka Mas

13.00
Lunch at home

14.00
Shopping – Kedaung

18.30
Dinner at Lara Jonggrang

Saturday 8 December
05.00
Bursa Kue Pasar Senen

15.00
Bogor Botanical Gardens

18.00
Dinner at Café Dedaunan

Sunday 9 December
08.00
Pasar Pagi Lama, Kota

09.30
Taman Fatahillah
Museum Jakarta
Museum Wayang

13.00
Lunch at Rumah Makan Sederhana

14.30
Rest

16.00
Jaunt of Useless Things
Cikini Train Station
Jl. Surabaya Flea Market

Monday 10 December
07.00
Spa at Salon Geugis

15.00
Transfer to airport

I celeng you

2007-10-23T15:42:00.000+08:00

This post is dedicated to my father, who enjoys finding out the origins of Terengganu words. The following are actually, verbatim, from a dictionary:

gocoh - to box, to thump, scuffle
gohong - hole, cave, den
celeng - money box
colek - to take a little of, to nudge a little

Sounds familiar enough if you're from Terengganu or Kelantan, yes? Amazingly this was taken from the Kamus Lengkap Indonesia-Inggeris.

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.

Words like:

ganyah - to scrub
pongah - conceited
gerai - sitting platform (as opposed to the Malay 'gerai', which means stall)
karih- to stir
katik - small or dwarf
geluk - drinking-bowl
congkong - to squat
cobek - to tear away (usually associated with food)

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.

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.

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?

Just for the fun of it, I think I will blog today

2007-10-23T14:11:00.000+08:00

This rare opportunity to blog was brought to you by the fact that:
a) I am sick with flu and did not go to work today
b) I could therefore get hold of this PC before three screaming kids maim each other for it; and
c) the internet service provider actually provided internet, and not just 15 bits of connection

Ah well, too bad no one's going to read this.

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:

a) my father regularly looks me up because he's such a dear; and
b) this post would consist of only a few sentences, which would read as thus:

We were both in bed, lying down, naked. Saiffuddin read Kompas and cut out
a tender announcement for power barges in Sumatera. I played 'Extreme Snake' on
my phone. When I 'sudah mati', we turned off the lights and went to sleep.
The end.

I have to pretend my life is more exciting than that. Tch.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Minal aidin wal faidzin. Better late than never.

Peed on by peddlers

2007-08-09T15:48:00.000+08:00

Sometime 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.

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 Saiffuddin 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 Bana works, too)

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 pendopo and a guest pavilion nestled among huge acacia trees) and was drawn into the fray.

"Any Indonesian businessman will cheat you given the opportunity", he announced.
"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".

It just so happened that a bread seller passed by us, pushing his gerobak. My husband dug into his pockets.

"Let's have an experiment", he said, " Let's give this roti 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."

Now, this is not a very wise thing to do, because (sigh) most small-time peddlers and bajaj men and fishmongers in Jakarta will cheat you given the opportunity. We have had to pay ridiculous amounts for short bajaj rides because their owners never seem to have any change. I have bought two kilos of ikan kembung only to discover at home that half of the fish were actually selayang. 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.

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.

"He'd deliver", I said. "We'll see", answered Saiffuddin.

Halfway through our walk, I had to pee and we took a detour back to the house. Maybe The God of Petty Quarrels loves Saiffuddin 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 did not deliver the bread. I wanted to turn back but Saiffuddin didn't let me. Seemingly, the roti man didn't know that we knew he was there, and pushed his gerobak very slowly, afraid to overtake. He didn't even sound that roti-horn, which identifies self-respecting roti-men every where. (Well, in Asia at least).

"Damn", I swore. (I didn't really say damn, but I censor my blog, you see). "He wasn't going to deliver the bread".
I wasn't sure if I was mad at the roti 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.

"Sono! (Over there!) The house is over there", my husband pointed out. The man looked surprised, like a boy caught stealing.

We left him on the corner and continued on our walk, with Saiffuddin 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 Menteng because he'd certainly want to avoid us now. Over breakfast, Saiffuddin gave me another long lecture about the virtues of being a difficult and negative bastard.

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 Saiffuddin's lap and declared that I won the argument.

Jakarta Rocks

2007-08-09T15:23:00.000+08:00

For about two seconds, a few minutes after midnight.

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.

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.

*Jakarta's gubernatorial election actually received bigger coverage than the earthquake. Fauzi Bowo won the election, defeating former Deputy Police Chief Adang Daradjaatun.

Dawn

2007-06-15T15:54:00.000+08:00

forehead to chin
cheeks to chest
grey light seeps into sight
breath, words, heartbeat
regret that ticking clock is an enemy
but the hum of living wins

Baidura Ahmad! Tell Me if You're Coming Over

2007-06-14T13:46:00.000+08:00

Google "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.

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.

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 besar 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Welcome to My Gubuk

2007-06-11T16:57:00.000+08:00

A 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 was a lie, because no matter how poor my relatives were, and there were many poor people in Terengganu, no one was this destitute.

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.

Need idea for school food fair

2007-05-31T16:06:00.000+08:00

My 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?

Forgive this Mokciknab yang banyak songeh, but there are a few things to consider:

It's finger food or a dish that can be easily eaten without a table
It's relatively cheap
It's simple enough for someone yang tak reti masak
It doesn't require an oven (although I'd be willing to buy an oven Butterfly if the idea's brilliant)
and finally, it must appeal to children between ages 6 to 12.

We're boring people; and we've only come up with a few thoughts :

roti canai
roti jala
karipap; or
(Aiysha's idea) bronok

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.

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.

Death in Three

2007-05-31T08:02:00.000+08:00

Three 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.

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.
"Sleep", she sang. "Sleep, my dear and rest in peace".

Psychedelic Rainbow

2007-05-20T10:22:00.000+08:00

It'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.

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.

Me, lamb to the slaughter, love the song to bits.

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.

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).

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.

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.

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.

For more information on Nidji, go here.

Gumuxs!

2007-05-19T12:03:00.000+08:00

This is probably amusing only to my family, but it does reflect on how information can get corrupted along the way. For example;

My father has six children, not two
My sister Dalia never went out with a Caucasian
To call Motorola a "factory in Sungai Way" is probably an over-simplification
I am not a politician
My brother-in law never worked in any hospital in Kinrara
My mother's name is Saudah
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.

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.

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.

Martyr Mater. Not

2007-05-13T20:22:00.000+08:00

Motherhood 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.

But here's the truth : they're indulgent towards me every 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Yes, yes, I know. The question should be : is it good enough for them? 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 his feet.

Pidgin Holes

2007-05-06T19:40:00.000+08:00

This post started out as a comment to my father's complaint about the declining standard of English among Malaysians, but it got too long so I decided to put it on my own blog.

We were discussing the same thing this afternoon during lunch at Iza's house. Her sister in law, who lectures English to corporate clients, told us that some teachers in small towns admitted that they teach English in Bahasa Malaysia. They said they had to, or else the students will simply nganga.

Now, contrast this with my husband's experience. Saiffuddin went to Sekolah Rendah Jalan Batu, an old school smack dab in Jalan Raja Laut, in the early 70's. He tells me he was taught Bahasa Malaysia in English. "This", his teacher used to say, "is a sendikata". More often though, the teacher used to say, "You bloody fool!"

We have indeed come a long way. To call someone a bloody fool now would seem almost antiseptic.

You know what's the sad bit about the declining standard of English? That there is no corresponding rise in the standard of Bahasa Malaysia. People who are busy arguing about whether the education system should make English or Bahasa Malaysia the priority should call a truce and take one big reality check. Apart from the academia, no one cares about the argument. No one cares about language, in the first place.

Malaysians just want functional words, and aren't bothered about style and grace in speech or writing. We think a thesaurus is a type of prehistoric reptile and an idiom is a cretin who decides to keep his mouth shut in the last minute. We're happy to be languishing in our linguistic realm, with phrases like "blom", "sume", "citer", "punyer", "hepi", "amik" and even "mesia" floating about in our alphabet soup. One needs vocabulary just large enough to send text messages. If you can type "x" instead of " tidak" or "bukan" or "tidak mahu", then why shouldn't you?

Here's my theory : we're bad at languages because words are tools of expressions and Malaysians simply don't need to express themselves. We're told there's no need. Teachers tell us there's no need. Ministers tell us there's no need. The media tells us there is no need. All the thinking has been done for us and we should just be good human resources and obedient voters. That's why pidgin words will suffice. (In voting especially, an "x" is enough. Or Afundi).

Who'd have the opportunity to use a word like "mancanegara" in a text message or an email? It's shorter to type "obersea".

But let's just say Malaysians are seized by this urge to tell others what they think, and the thoughts are not just about what they did today or their favourite TV star or gossip about the neighbours. Let's just say they want to express complex thoughts about their beliefs, their hopes, their fears, their anger. One would need more words, no? One would need to find the exact phrase to put one's point across. And one would need to read in order to find material to back one's argument. Suddenly language becomes a weapon, the mightier than the sword.

It's not too late to start in that direction and getting there is simpler than we think. Easy steps, like requiring kids to show and tell. Encouraging them to ask questions, give opinions.

Or blog.

Jadi dokter, apa yang harus saya lakukan sekarang?

2007-05-05T00:38:00.000+08:00

You scored as Either. You brain is neither specifically male, nor female in the way you perceive your surroundings. As bad as this may sound to some, it can easily mean that you are capable of combining both gender aspects to your advantage. Rather than being genderless you are possibly able think freely. This does not mean that you are bisexual or androgynous or indecisive, but it might.

Either

86%

Female

82%

Male

57%

Neither

21%

Should you be MALE or FEMALE?*
created with QuizFarm.com

"Humanity is part of nature and that is exactly the problem"

2007-05-04T08:02:00.000+08:00

Philip Gourevitch, editor of The Paris Review, quoted verbatim from an interview with Boston Globe :

One of my complaints with contemporary fiction, and even some journalism, is that it's never as colorful as life; it's timid by comparison to the strangeness of the world. We're living in a really outlandish time. You can barely pick up the paper without being surprised. There are wild things every week. We have enormously interesting villains in public life and in daily life. We have enormously interesting failures, huge dramatic events. And then you pick up fiction, and it's about the inability to have a romance.

The book I am currently reading, a book written by Mr Gourevitch, is called We Wish To Inform You That Tomorrow We Will Be Killed with Our Families. It is about murder, deceit, political aggrandizement, heart-stopping escapes, Lake Victoria, pygmies, cheese sandwich, machetes. Needless to say, it is not contemporary fiction.

It is the book my husband disdainfully described as the one "that kept me from getting screwed"; and by "screwed" he did mean copulation. I'd probably finish the book in a few hours, and after I'm done reeling from the sheer horror and stupidity plaguing the human race, perhaps I shall tell you about it.

Boy Briefs

2007-04-21T05:30:00.000+08:00

Let me tell you what's up with my son Adam, a long-standing character in this blog. Those who know him might be surprised to see how much he has grown in a year. He does not have a proclivity for rude songs anymore, or any interest in collecting frogs from drains after rain. He would fake his own death if you hugged or kissed him in public. He lost weight, lots of weight.

His most treasured possession is something that might be described as "mercurial vaporapor, with superior 4mm contact foam for best grip in wet and dry conditions featuring Grip3 technology". In other words, a pair of really good, really gummy, goalkeeper gloves.

Football is becoming an obsession. He keeps for his school and at the moment the team is ranked second in its division, coming from behind after beating the top eleven in a surprising win. Last week, they trashed their opponents 10-0. This morning is his last match. If the team wins, they might win the division. The league, featuring international and national plus schools in Jakarta, is serious business. Some of the coaches have premier league club experience. Or else, F@ndi Ahmad. Several weeks ago some of the players were sent down to Singapore for studio interviews with Nokia Football Crazy on ESPN. Updates on matches are reported on javakini, the unofficial expat rag.

You can keep track of Adam's school team, PSKD M@ndiri, on jakartafootball.com. Pak Sofi and Pak Bismarck, who coach and supervise the team, are ordinary teachers whose main aim is to let everyone play and feel worthy. The fact that they have progressed so well is a much welcomed bonus.

Adam trains once a week, plays indoor soccer on Mondays and practices goalkeeping at home almost daily, with Kak Ti being the designated striker. Saiffuddin and I spend Saturday mornings with cups of coffee and raisin muffins on the sidelines, going through the drama of losses and wins. (Also, I look at other mum's handbags because some of them tote such divine stuff while I contend with my RM65 canvas carry-all, bought at WH in 2002)

To my utter dissapointment Adam throws his support behind M@nchester United. He worships Van der Sar.

Soccer also led him to his first double date. (Don't gasp, you aunties. I can see Che Teh covering her mouth). Two weeks ago, on Easter weekend, Adam and his team-mate Melvin brought two other girls, also soccer players for the school, to watch Bean on Holiday at the notoriously overpriced EX. There were no chaperones, everyone paid for themselves, went home on time and apparently had a racuously enjoyable afternoon.

Adam vehemently denied it was a date. Needless to say, I ribbed him about N@nis, the tall defender he brought out, but the teasing was half-hearted and just for one day. After that, I let him be.

He's a big boy now, I'd have to admit -- with some pride and not a small amount of bittersweet sadness.

Words and Broken Bones

2007-04-19T23:14:00.000+08:00

Much to my husband's exasperation and dismay, today I read three books at once : the prodigious Moby Dick by Herman Melville, The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver, and Simon Winchester's The Professor and the Madman : A Tale of Murder, Insanity and the Making of the Oxford English Dictionary. The last I finished within the day, starting at seven in the morning when the book was graciously loaned to me by my friend, Mbak Lela and devoured to the last page while I stayed in bed, sustained by coffee-chocolate Tim Tams; and Gordon Sumner and lutenist Edin Karamazov playing out Songs from the Labyrinth.

It rained in the afternoon and into the early evening. Saiffuddin tried to lure me into conversation, was ignored and so tried other, more basic methods.

The fact that he succeeded was the yardstick by which I judged this book. It was good, but not compelling enough to make one refuse sex.

I liked Mr Winchester's writing style, so witty that it did not bore me through his descriptions of the laborious process of producing a dictionary, yet still elegantly Anglophile that my husband feigned a British accent when he read a paragraph. It is a curious tale, well told beyond any doubt and lovingly so, but I didn't think it lived up to the gushing edict that it is "the linguistic detective story of the decade". Still, it was fascinating enough to keep me reading, even after the aforementioned interlude. It offered nuggets of trivia about the language and the people who presided over it and I was intent on knowing the denouement of such a sad man as W.C Minor (and let's just pretend my husband didn't make jokes about his name) and his diligent friend, the editor of the OED, Sir James Murray. It does make me think about the dictionary differently, about how painstakingly it must have been put together and how flippantly people like me sometimes take the reference for granted. (It also makes me think of my friend Sofwan, who in his early career at Dewan Bahasa, worked on the English-Bahasa Malaysia dictionary with the aunt of a certain delicately beautiful newscaster)

But most of all it made my husband -- a man of numbers, mathematical assumptions and no talent for spelling -- so happy to crow that he is right : English words, he said, do drive men insane.

How Long, Now?

2007-02-12T21:12:00.001+08:00

How many of you out there still obsess over music, with the same intensity as you did in school? I’m surprised I haven’t gotten over it – I thought that by now I’d be settled in sanity and would count crotchet as my hobby or I’d be making cute dining chair covers in my spare time.

Not that that’s any indication of being able to kick the music habit, as far as my Vedder-devotee sister can tell.

Here is my current madness -- I know it's been on the shelf for a bit now, but I still like it. It's better than the more recent Window in the Skies, and no matter what Big Country fans may say, it is better than the Skids original. I’ve memorised the lyrics, got the song both live and recorded, and downloaded the video from youtube. I’m going to look for the guitar tabs now, and make my husband play the chords while I yell the words from my porch.

Until my kids tell me to shut up, of course.

A Post Post

2007-02-12T17:41:00.001+08:00

Heavy clouds have cleared away, and the house have survived. We didn't have electricity for a while (my neighbour was wrong -- they did shut us down), and the phones weren't working for a while, but we're okay. During the worst of raining, we had only about 3 inches of water -- that's just a puddle compared to the rest of the city. Our greatest emergency was getting in and out of the car without soiling our shoes. We missed a couple of days of school, we couldn't access the internet, but hey, there was never a time when we were hungry or sick or stranded in water.

The same can't be said about the thousands of people still living underneath flyovers.

It's the most futile, wretched thing : to be sorry for the displaced many and to be able to help no more than a few. My friend Mbak Lela, a Jakarta Post veteran, spent her bonus on food and medicine and with her husband, she went round to as many shelters as she can to distribute the rations. We're one of the most miskin Malaysians in Jakarta, we didn't have a lot of money to spare, so we did the best that we could : help just one posko banjir at a nearby kampung which needed some baby formula. I think it helped alleviate our guilt, more than it lessened their burden.

My husband told me a story he heard on the radio, at the peak of severe flooding. Schools were closed, roads were submerged in water, and according to Mbak Putri (half of my favourite morning talk-show - Mbak Putri and Mas Rafiq), the rich tante-tante's of South Jakarta had nowhere to go. So what do they do? The tante's and their children inundate supermarkets and buy everything in sight, just in case the flooding gets worse. Now, Mbak Putri said, while she was enjoying the sight of pretty tai-tais ruining their hairdo's in the throes of panic buying, she noticed two women, very plainly dressed, buying lots and lots of blankets. She asked those ladies what the purchase was for. Oh,we just wanted to give these to the poor people who are suffering from cold in the flood shelters, they said. They paid for the blankets and bundled them into a bajaj and left. In the meantime, observed Mbak Putri, our over-cautious consumers waited for supirs underneath porches, with trolleys laden with food.

Ya, tapi tak tahu juga kan? Maybe the food was bought for people like Juriyanto and Mardani, in the flood-stricken, poverty-stricken Kramat Jati. Their eleven month old baby, Satrio, fell sick after they took refuge at a shelter. Preliminary medical treatment didn't help, and last Thursday, before they could bring him to a hospital, the baby breathed his last.

Jebol

2007-02-04T16:26:00.000+08:00

Bang Yos, the Governor of Jakarta, has requested for the Manggarai floodgates to be released. Pak Didik, the TV3 correspondent in Jakarta said the last time they allowed that to happen, water reached Monas and the Presidential Palace, both further inland from Manggarai than us.

My neighbour though, is confident nothing will ever happen to Menteng. She's lived here for more than 30 years, she said, and the worst flooding was just knee-deep. "And they'll never cut off the electricity", she assured," Megawati lives at the back, and Suharto lives across the street. Nggak mungkin loh!"

I think people in Pompeii said the same thing about Vesuvius.

Still, we can't help but worry when we drove down our street to Cikini and saw that the small bridge near Jalan Surabaya is now a gushing stream. Children were swimming in the streets, yes, in the streets, in the rapid tea-coloured water. We're watching that closely, because Jalan Surabaya is a mere five minute walk from the house.

School called to say its closed tomorrow. My kids rejoiced. They're loving this disaster.

About 40 Malaysian students from Trisakti are putting up at Wisma Malaysia, in Jalan Cokroaminoto, which is about 15 minutes from our house. When we visited them this afternoon, we saw they had the standard Malaysian emergency food : sardines and rice for lunch. Kak Ros and Abang Elias, who run the place, look exhausted and they're quickly running low on supplies. Most supermarkets are out of food and drinking water, and they can't immediately replenish. The weary Kak Ros said for now, there's only eggs and potatoes left in the pantry, and it looks like that's the menu for dinner. So Saiffuddin, the kids and I are making a huge pot of stew and bubur pulut hitam and sending them over. We tried to get other Malaysians to help, but apart from my friend Iza, who has promised gulai telor for tomorrow, others are rather reluctant because they're worried about their own families, too. I'm a little, teeeny weeny bit dissapointed, but I can understand their concern. There's no telling how long this will last. Besides, most of them are in South Jakarta, and there's no guarantee they can safely get through. We live the closest, so we're the ones who should help.

Saiffuddin and I wish we can also do something about the thousands of Jakartans who are stranded without food, water and medicine, and who are sitting ducks because more rain is expected tonight and they can't leave. Some families are now sleeping on railway tracks and toll roads. So far twenty people have died because of the cold, electrocution or rapid currents. There's so much to be done, but because Jakarta is so huge and so densely populated, coordination of relief efforts is no easy task. Saiffuddin and I are planning to check out Palang Merah Indonesia tomorrow to see if they need volunteers. We're already feeling guilty because we sat on our hands, which could have very well been put to better use.

A River Runs Through It

2007-02-03T23:41:00.000+08:00

It's nearly eleven at night, and the whole family is up, wide awake. The house is usually asleep by nine, but not tonight. In about 15 minutes, the River Ciliwung, already swollen with rainwater from drenched Bogor and Puncak highlands, is expected to overflow its banks. We live about one kilometre away from Ciliwung.

Saiffuddin and I are relying on the assumption that whoever is running Jakarta will probably do all that is humanly possible to keep the floods from inundating Menteng, where we live. Just a few minutes away are the houses of the Vice President, two past Presidents, the American Ambassador, and the owner of two TV stations. We live in a modest single storey, right in front of Kali Grissek, and we can't exactly say we're rich, but we're banking that the old-moneyed people of Menteng will get the usual preferential treatment, even from Mother Nature, even if it means the Governor of Jakarta would have to send down thousand of troops, all armed with ceboks to scoop out the offending water.

We also think that we'd be okay because look, you simply cannot allow floods to happen to Barrack Obama's former school, SD Menteng Satu in Jalan Besuki. That's like hallowed ground now.

Jakarta's mayhem began Thursday evening, when the skies poured open and kept on pouring. By Friday morning, the main byways slowly became waterways. Flashfloods halted traffic, several main buildings were swamped, and some offices and schools were closed or allowed their students and workers leave early. Trisakti and Tarumanagara, both respectable universities, were in worst hit West Jakarta, and a radio DJ joked that these two can now re-print their brochures and add that they now have waterfront colleges. Rain didn't subside until the afternoon, by which time some places were engulfed in almost three metres of water. Telephone lines were down, and did not improve since. The main road to the airport was inaccessible to cars, and desperate travellers, some of whom were businessmen in coat and tie, jumped on the backs of dumptrucks to catch their flight. Thousands, thousands of people climbed up to their roofs and waited for help. While most did -- thanks to the fact that this year is election year and political parties are eager to be remembered -- a handful did not. The news today said an old woman and a four year old died of hypothermia, because they could not get treatment in time. Four others died of electrocution. Four young boys were swept away.

We watched the news unfold with some fascination, because I have never been in a flood as big as this, even though as a child I lived in Terengganu, where banjir is a yearly occurrence. We gawked at the gushing rivers and canals like accident spectators. We saw people wade through hip-high water in the middle of the Jalan Sudirman business district and hop on wooden carts or gerobaks to get through. We watched as TV reporters tried their best to outdo each other in their standuppers. Each one simply must report while standing in the torrential flood, and it can't be chicken-feed knee-deep water, no. One young man had water up to his neck and could barely keep his microphone from getting short-circuited. Another was clinging to a rubber boat, emphatically telling viewers that his feet can no longer touch the bottom.

Everyone had a story. Like how one man had to sleep at the office because all roads leading home was underwater. Or my friend, who had to spend the night in her submerged car because her husband left her, presumably to look for help, and couldn't return. She said the worst thing was the fact that she really, really needed to pee.

This afternoon, the weather was threateningly gloomy, but it didn't rain and we thought the worst was over. Not likely. As I write this, water from upstream Bogor and Puncak is rushing down to sea and Jakarta is in its way. We heard that the Manggarai water-lock, which is in the next suburb, will be released, so that the torrid Ciliwung River can do as it pleases. Some inner-city neighbourhoods are already in four metres of water tonight, and the snaky Ciliwung is expected to overflow by 6 metres. Suddenly the prospect of being hit by floods seems actually possible, and no army with ceboks can impede the water. In the very least, we're expecting for electricity to be cut off, should surrounding suburbs get overwhelmed.

Saiffuddin, previously stoic, decided we should stock up on supplies. So off we went this evening to the nearest supermarket, where others apparently had the same idea. People were pushing out trolleys with boxes and boxes of instant noodles and gallons of water. Batteries and torchlights and nylon tents flew off the shelves. We had to fight for the last two packs of candles with a man who had frantic eyes. He won.

A docent once told me that if you look out the main balcony of Museum Sejarah Jakarta, the former Batavian stadhuys, you would realise that the Dutch colonialists tried to build Jakarta in the image of Amsterdam. This city, too, is built mostly below sea level, with canals criss-crossing the metropolitan. That it is prone to floods is a given, but Jakartans will tell you that the worst ones happen every five years. The last catastrophe occurred in 2002.

We're only at the start of the wet season, said the weatherman. Wait till the end February, he said when the rains will really come. I’m going to persuade Saiffuddin to buy a perahu. In the meantime, he’s sleeping with all our passports in his pocket.

All Gloves Are Off?

2007-01-22T16:36:00.000+08:00

You know, now that the floodgates are open, my children are drawing up papers to sue me for portraying them as insolent brats in this blog. And since I have also published the lyrics to their rude songs, they're now demanding royalty. And my husband wants to get paid for having his likeness plastered on the masthead. Thank God my grandmother has passed on, or else she'd hang me for copyright infringement. (Her name was Zainab)

Hang in there, Jeff and Rocky. The question of whether it was fair comment or defamation is not going to be nearly as important as fair trial or sham.

Many, many people will be judged; and not all of them will be sitting in court. I do hope they realise what they're testing.

Just for You, Rotidua

2006-12-26T17:23:00.000+08:00

Rotidua (or at least half of the Roti) is my favourite sister in law, since I, uh only have one brother. She tagged me a couple of weeks ago, but I am kinda malas with tags because I hate answering questions, as a general rule. It's those years of being a reporter, you see. But since she's my favourite sister in law and all, plus she's currently managing our finances back in Malaysia, I am obliged to fulfill her wishes. You should always be nice to anyone who sends you money. So, here it is :

THE MOKCIKNAB 101 (cringe, cringe)
-----------------------------------------

THREE NAMES YOU GO BY:

Eli - if you're allowed to call me this, it means we're related and you were born before 1960
Jap - if you know me by this name, please sign a Non-Disclosure Agreement.
Mak Engku - generally hollered at me by News Editors, camera crew, audiomen, makeup artists and drivers. Those days.

THREE SCREEN NAMES YOU HAVE HAD:

Tengku Elida Bustaman
Mokciknab, the occasional blogger
Monica Bellucci (if you look closely at any of her films, you'd soon realise that Tengku Elida Bustaman and Monica Bellucci are actually, one and the same. That is why you'll never see both of them onscreen, at the same time)

THREE PHYSICAL THINGS YOU DON'T LIKE ABOUT YOURSELF:

This 80's fringe that I have right now, the result of boredom and a pair of orange scissors
Dry skin
Not Brazilian Waxed. No courage.

THREE PARTS OF YOUR HERITAGE:

According to the internet, I'm from Lingga. We always thought we're just from Terengganu.
My paternal grandmother was half Javanese.
My mother, who was born in Pasir Mas, Kelantan, still has relatives in Pattani.

THREE THINGS THAT SCARE YOU:

Things related to accounting and finance, particularly my own finance
Jakarta being overwhelmed by water (and gasp! this is already happening in parts)
Snakes

THREE OF YOUR EVERYDAY ESSENTIALS:

The Five Solat
Kunyit asem twice daily, from the jamu woman
Breakfast, which consists of Tan Ek Tjoan old-style "Roti Istimewa", with chocolate peanut butter; coffee, made from freshly ground beans bought at Pasar Rumput; and Saiffuddin at my elbow, reading me articles from Kompas or Republika.

THREE OF YOUR MOST TREASURED POSSESIONS:

You only own what you won't lose in a shipwreck, but I'm not going to sea anytime soon, so :

People, namely my family and friends
My engagement ring, which was made by my late father in law
My furniture, wherever they may be

And of course, my books, too but I don't seem to take care of them as well as I should

THREE THINGS YOU ARE WEARING RIGHT NOW:

Lacy blue Rampage undies (Rp 5,000 at Rainbow, Bandung)
Some ethnic skirt (RM 50 at Giant Kelana Jaya)
A cheerful disposition

THREE OF YOUR FAVOURITE BANDS OR MUSICAL ARTISTS:

Oh, so many!

The usual suspects : Queen, U2, Dire Straits, The Cure, Pink Floyd, The Killers, The Ramones, The Clash
Some others : Rufus Wainwright, Chet Baker, Stan Getz, The Dave Brubeck Quartet, Miss Ella Fitzgerald, Smithereens, Cold Chisel, XTC
Indons : Ada Band, Dewa, Padi, Marcel (but not really for his songs)

THREE OF YOUR FAVOURITE SONGS:

Aiyah, cannot three lah. If I had a playlist right now, this is what it would look like :

Lullabye of Birdland - Ella Fitzgerald
Desafinado - Stan Getz et al
Take Five - Dave Brubeck Quartet
Le Coeur Jameaux - Concrete Blonde
Cigarettes - The Smithereens
Sunday Girl - Blondie
Sheena is a Punk Rocker - The Ramones
Peter Frampton - Do You feel Like We Do
Pretty Girl - Eric Clapton (Saiffuddin tells me this is my song, heh)
Wish You Were Here - Pink Floyd
Friday on My Mind - Gary Moore
Eton Rifles - The Jam
Total Control - The Motels
Bullet The Blue Sky - U2
Private Investigations - Dire Straits

dan banyak, banyak lagi. You come to my house lor and listen.

THREE THINGS YOU WISH YOU HAVE BUT WHICH YOU DO NOT HAVE RIGHT NOW:

A job
A three storey terrace facing Fawkner Park, in Melbourne
Iman yang sempurna

THREE THINGS YOU WANT IN A RELATIONSHIP:

Takeshi Kaneshiro
Hugh Jackman in an orange towel
Freddie Ljunberg in absolutely nothing

but according to Saiffuddin, the three things I should want in a relationship are :

sex in the morning
sex in the afternoon
sex in the evening

THREE PHYSICAL THINGS ABOUT THE OPPOSITE SEX THAT APPEAL TO YOU:

Saiffuddin, only taller
Saiffuddin, only with more money
Saiffuddin, only with more teeth

THREE OF YOUR FAVOURITE HOBBIES:

I'm so ordinary : books, film, music, subjecting husband to torture

THREE THINGS YOU WANT TO DO BADLY RIGHT NOW:

Go to Jalan Cokroaminoto for steaming hot putu bambu and klepon. So good on a rainy day!
See my friends at SSO because I miss them so.
Convince my husband to shave his head (Adam tells me the exact term for it is "boxy", ie "botak-sexy")

THREE PLACES YOU WANT TO GO ON VACATION:

Merang, Terengganu (the refuge of my childhood days)
Kyoto, Japan (because I didn't get to see everything the last time)
The Wali Songo Route my friend Iza and I are planning : Jakarta-Cirebon-Kudus-Pekalongan-Solo

THREE KIDS' NAMES YOU LIKE:

Adam
Aiysha
Aliya

THREE THINGS YOU WANT TO DO BEFORE YOU DIE:
Other than complete my faith as a Muslim, I would want to

learn to drive, preferably in a small and expensive Mercedes
simplify my complicated toilet routine
own every single Monty Python episode and film, and of Fawlty Towers, too if possible

And I'd also want to the usual things lah : inherit large tracts of land, earn lots of money, control my bowels, learn the mysteries of the cistern, et cetera et cetra.

THREE WAYS THAT YOU ARE STEREOTYPICALLY A WOMAN, WIFE AND MOTHER:

I think my children's every shortcoming is due to my fault
My husband gets to worship me every morning; but
I'd rather have furniture than have sex

Hopefully, no one will try to figure me out just by reading this post. I'm not going to tag anyone, can or not?

50 Wishes

2006-12-22T07:52:00.000+08:00

This is post number 37 in Nizam Bashir's excellent blog project, 50 Posts to Independence, which I had followed ever since I read Najah's Post No. 39. (Her blog has links to other posts). I was mortified when my father, who wrote post number 38, tagged me, because I can't think of anything clever to say, really, that won't be accused by others as so much pie in the sky. After ruminating and stewing in thought for about a week, I decided : why bother with being clever, just state your mind, no matter how feeble it may be. I think I have at least earned that kind of independence.

When Malaysia, the contitutional monarchy, turns half a century, I shall, like so many godmothers, bestow upon it 50 wishes. Godmothers are allowed to do whatever they like in Malaysia, since the country is run by fairies. So, here we go :

Any person in parliamentary, executive or judicial office shall swear to truly respect The Federal Constitution of Malaysia, so that the phrase "Keluhuran Perlembagaan" becomes not a meaningless sentence on the back of exercise books.
All freedoms, rights and priveleges guaranteed to the Malaysian citizen under the Articles of the Constitution can be practiced in absolute terms.
Any person wishing to qualify for parliamentary, executive or judiciary office shall be God fearing (any God), morally upright, and kind to their spouses, children and animals.
Any person wishing to qualify for parliamentary, executive or judiciary office must have read any of the following at least once : Ibn Khaldun's Muqaddimah, Gunnar Myrdal's Asian Drama and Harper Lee's To Kill A Mockingbird.
Voters shall add more titles to said compulsory reading list and shall demand book reports.
Any person wishing to qualify for parliamentary, executive or state office must know how to read. The ability to read meters will not be considered an advantage.
The Prime Minister and Deputy Prime Minister of the country shall be decided by popular vote, and not chosen by a handful of priveleged Ketua Bahagians.
All political parties will open its membership to Malaysians of any ethnicity.
There shall no longer be Party Whips, and any member of parliament can be allowed to vote on a Bill according to his or her own conscience and sense of duty to the rakyat.
Anyone proclaiming to be a Party Whip shall be stripped, dressed in leather, and given a public caning with a feather duster.
The original intention of Dasar Ekonomi Baru, namely the eradication of poverty regardless of ethnicity, shall be miraculously implemented without any slimy businessman-politician occuring, nor will it involve name-calling, quotas or GLC's.
All slimy businessmen-politicians shall be deported to Batam, with only one (1) monthly pass to "A1 Nagoya Karaoke" in Bengkong town.
All assets of slimy-businessmen politicians, if found to have been obtained through questionable means, shall be liquefied and deposited into the "Tabung Kemasyarakatan Senyum Kambing", or TKSK.
Funds in TKSK shall be used to benefit retired teachers, people who can't afford their own homes, and estate workers who are still paid daily wages.
Daily wages will be made illegal unless you're a fashion model or starring in a sinetron.
No Malaysian shall ever, ever be without a home.
People who have lived in Malaysia for donkey years, have had children here, and have no intention of leaving for the so-called "mother country", should be given citizenship if their heart so desires.
Malaysians who are Muslims will live up to their duty as God's vicegerents; they shall embody the peace and universality that is Islam; and they shall do so with grace and wisdom, and through exemplary character; not through rules and regulations, not through sermons of fire and brimstone, and certainly not through confrontation. (This was ammended. I can't believe I had not put this one earlier, since it's the most important wish of all)
Any person holding public office shall annually declare their assets and the assets of their immediate families; and do so while hooked to a polygraph, and these declarations shall be published in newspapers.
All keris in Malaysia shall remain sheathed, until two-headed aliens from Jupiter invade the country.
Using the keris for political posturing of any sort shall be deemed a gross disrespect to the centuries-old history of the keris in the Nusantara; and the offence will be punishable by two years of apprenticeship in the workshop of Ki Empu Djeno Harumbrodjo in Sleman, Jogjakarta.
No place of worship can be demolished except by its own congregation. Full stop.
Malaysians shall not have their intelligence insulted by the media. Full stop. Exclamation point.
Any person with any political leaning can acquire any number of newspaper or TV stations in the country, provided the said person does not receive any funding from overseas.
Women who wear tank tops and women who wear hijab shall be friends and respect each other's choices. (Okay, I concede that through the magic of female intelligence, this is already happening)
No man or woman shall judge another woman's religious beliefs, educational level, place of employment, ability to speak English, marital status and sense of humour merely by her attire.
I really don't care if a man gets judged or not.
All Malaysian women shall be deemed gorgeous regardless of her complexion, boob size, weight and whether or not she looks like Amber Chia.
All Malaysian husbands shall be required by law to serve their wives breakfast on Sunday mornings.
No Malaysian shall be ridiculed for his or her religious fervour, or be considered a conservative, backward-thinking, stick-in-the-mud mullah just because he or she decides to adhere to the tenets of his or her religion.
All conservative, stick-in-the-mud mullahs shall mull before they speak, and think of more clever, palatable ways to state their opinions, and shall understand that some people don't mind going to hell and there's nothing one can do about it.
Any Malaysian wishing to compete in Akademi Fantasia, or wishing to be any sort of pop-culture icon with any clout to influence the young, shall first prove he or she obtained Grade 1 in SPM, in the very least.
All Malaysians shall have the right to free education up to his or her First Degree.
Conversational Cantonese or Hakka (depending on the prevailing dialect in the area) and Tamil, with transliteration, shall be taught in all primary and secondary schools.
The syllabus for History shall be expanded to include history beyond Parameswara. Students shall be made to understand that Indian and Chinese influence in Malaysian culture did not start with Hang Li Po or coolies from South India; and that these two civilizations had been closely linked to our lands back in the days of Fu-Lo-An and Langkasuka.
It will be compulsory for all schools to be, at the same time, places of gaining knowledge and having fun.
Headmasters or headmistresses who fail to make learning fun will be rounded up to participate in a play where every character shall wear a tight kebaya regardless of gender.
Said play will be performed at the MCOBA Annual Dinner.
Bahasa Malaysia tidak lagi dianggap sebagai bahasa formal, tetapi digunakan sehari-hari dengan penuh bangga oleh setiap rakyat, kerana Bahasa Malaysia saat itu dirasakan lingua franca Bangsa Malaysia setulus-tulusnya. Bahasa Malaysia akan wujud dengan kosakata yang majmuk, mencerminkan jiwarasa Malaysia yang pelbagai budaya, ditutur dengan mudah, dan bergaul dengan slanga tanpa segan dengan peraturan-peraturan menara gading. Nah, ini lah Bahasa yang akan hidup dan mekar, bukan Bahasa yang jadi laungan sang politikus, bukan Bahasa yang gentar dengan kesejagatan dan peredaran masa.
Malaysians who file their tax assesments early shall receive IKEA vouchers worth RM500.
No one should refer to the Malaysian Peninsular as "Malaysia" when talking to a person from Sabah or Sarawak.
Internet connection shall be made fast and free. Okaylah, maybe cannot free. But certainly we can do better than 100 Mbps.
No blogger shall ever be intimidated by the government, except when his blog clearly contravenes a criminal law. See Wish No 2.
The Malaysian government shall set up its own One Child One Laptop foundation, with our own locally produced Children's Machine.
All Malaysian children shall remain colour blind and be allowed to play with each other and not worry if the other boy's hand has touched pork.
Under a statute hereby known as "Akta Perlindungan Karya-Karya A. Samad Said", after August, 2007, there shall be no new theatre production in which the protagonist is a perempuan joget or a post-war prostitute.
The money gained from the elimination of petrol subsidies will be used to subsidise the publication and import of books, as well as the building of accessible libraries.
Municipal councillors who put up gargantuan brinjals or periuk kera's or gasings at roundabouts or intersections will be incarcerated and forced to memorize the entire Reader's Digest Family Treasury of Great Painters and Great Paintings (1965)
There shall be no more incidence of rape, domestic violence or sexual harrasment in the country.
My daughter Aiysha, who shall have the benefit of Indonesian education, the global wisdom of Disney Channel and Roald Dahl, and then taught by her parents to be fair-minded, fearless, intelligent, and socially responsible, but most of all telegenic; shall be the Prime Minister of Malaysia in the year 2025. And she will not be the first, nor the last female premier.

My father had wanted me to tag my sister Elisa but I will have to demur, I'm afraid. I am dead against nepotism if it's not going to make me any money. Also, I want to add a dash of credibility and glamour to this post, therefore the person I am tagging next is The Mr Jeff Ooi. Sorry to ruin your holiday, Jeff!

We Can't Spell, But We Can Headbutt

2006-12-10T18:48:00.000+08:00

Friday night, one Logitech webcam, Windows Moviemaker, and two boys adamant on staying up.

Andrew, our neighbour from Malaysia, came for a weekend sleep-over; though sleep was never part of it. See, here.

2006-12-04T11:56:00.000+08:00

Yesterday morning, Saiffuddin and I drove to Jalan Cik Ditiro to buy fried sukun, and as we were parking our car, out came a naked man from behind Hero Supermarket. He was about 50 years old and casually walked around in absolutely nothing and looked quite happy doing it. I made Saiffuddin drive another round because I didn't want to buy fried sukun while looking at someone's bushy pubic hair.

He later walked around Menteng, joyfully naked, and my jamu woman later remarked that people enjoying a morning meal at Taman Suropati thought it was quite distasteful of him to spoil their breakfast that way.

Please Confirm Itinerary

2006-12-01T17:02:00.000+08:00

Hello, the one who is concerned. If you have time to read this blog, it means you can't be that busy. I'm pasting the itinerary here because I am too lazy to blog about what is really happening, and since I would have to write a lot in this itinerary anyway, it might as well qualify as a post.

Okaylah, cannot be so lazy mah. Must feed the hungry blog monster. Here is what I have been doing :
Saiffuddin and I went to see the Jakarta Jazz Festival, or "Jazz in the Park", last Friday, and were greeted on arrival by a huge billboard featuring the Jakarta governor playing an instrument (oh, I forget which. It was some percussion). Alas, I failed to bump into Ahmad Dhani even though apparently, he was there on the same evening I was. Well, perhaps it was not the best time to look out for rock musicians. The festival had about 9 stages where various acts were presented, including of course the requisite "bule" performers. I'd say it was a missed note samba, some were good, some were lounge music masquearading as jazz. The "bule" stuff were awful -- they were mostly cover bands, and everything was covered, from Nina Simone to Julie Andrews. Bleaghh.

But worth the price of admission were the the hard-boiled Indonesian jazzmen. Kiboud Maulana and his band, as well as the chanteuse Coco York were phenomenal. Kiboud Maulana looks like your Uncle Chong the retired accountant, and his band members look equally ledger-like (okay, the drummer looks like he was an LLN technician back when it was called LLN), but they can really, really play. Kiboud Maulana had a guitar that was on fire. He didn't move much, in fact he wears the same expression as Uncle Chong when Uncle Chong waters the garden, but believe me, Kiboud's guitar was on fire. Coco York had a voice that was a caramel latte with cigarretes; and she had more soul than the entire park put together. My only regret was when she offered to sing Corcovado, the crowd seemed not to know the song, so she sang a blues number instead.

After Uncle Chong, we went over to watch Tompi, but we had to stand way at the back, as understandably, legions of his fans had already occupied all of the seats. Tompi and his Groovology put up a slick show, but it wasn't a display of musical vitrtuoso, which you would expect at a jazz concert. I guess his mistake was inviting Indon pianist non-pareil, Idang Rasjidi to join him on stage and play impromptu at the beginning of the show, because after that, everyone else sounded mediocre. Tompi himself, however, wasn't dissapointing, although I had hoped he would do the Nanggroe Acheh song that evening. Maybe he wanted to keep things safe.

We went from venue to venue after that, because I had this urge to hear some horns and there was none to be found. Most acts were guitar and keyboard, and therefore mostly funk. Not all were bad, but I won't be rushing out to buy their albums. I was adamant to get my ticket's worth, and I didn't want to pay the extra hundred rupiah to watch Salena Jones in the main hall, unless Salena Jones decides she'd play the alto sax. Finally, just before we were about to give up and head home, Saiffuddin and I dipped our heads into the smoky Impro Stage, and there was Canizzaro and Mus Mujiono, who looks like Brian May if Brian May had too much tempe. Oh, they were smokin'. It wasn't long before you got lost in every breath that came out of their sinous brass instruments, every heartbeat the drum made, every wail of the guitar. I didn't know most of the compositions, but it did seem as though they made them up as they went along, which is what jazz is all about. Oh, I did know one song, the Mus Mujiono hit that he sang that night : Arti Kehidupan. It had a catchy refrain, which went : Engkau bukan yang pertama, tapi pasti yang terakhir, di cintamu, ku temui arti hidupku. So nice.

Perhaps Friday wasn't a good night to sample the best that JakJazz had to offer, but I only had one night off from being mommy. I would have wanted to see Luluk Purwianto and her violin, and I would have wanted to hear the Big Band and the Latina combos that would have probably rocked everyone later on. Also, I am not as knowledgeable about Indonesian jazz as I would have liked, which might have helped me in my selection of acts. But all in all, Saiffuddin and I enjoyed ourselves and we would be searching for more gigs featuring these magnificent Indonesian jazz musicians.

One thing I liked about the festival was that it wasn't an exclusivist affair. Everyone was welcome : there were the young enthusiasts, dressed in black, with their pretty girlfriends, the young-in-the-80's jazz crowd, and then there were also the lovely Indonesian tante-tante's, sitting there in the dark with their handfans and their pearls, or bedecked in colourful tudung, holding hands with their batik-shirted husband. No matter what they call jazz -- and everyone has a right to listen to what they like and call it good -- everyone had a good time. I like.

But next time, more brass!

I know I'm supposed to write down someone's holiday itinerary, but I got carried away with my review, so next post yah?

16 years

2006-11-17T09:06:00.000+08:00

Happy Birthday to my Sister in Seattle! She's doing remarkably well in her new role as a mother, and even she must have been surprised at herself, at how much she has come to cherish being a parent.

I never forget my sister's birthday because 16 years ago, on this day, I had chicken pox, for the first time in my life. It started a few days before, and my whole body was covered in pustules and calamine, I had high fever and I couldn't bathe, and all I wanted to do was lie down naked and sleep underneath the fan and tie up my hands so that I won't scratch.

You must agree, a day like that would have been a very bad time for a wedding reception.

But the guests were already invited, and I did marry someone the day before, so a lot of people stood to be dissapointed had I been absent. (Have you ever heard of a bride who would ponteng her own wedding?)There was to be an ice carving (a big thing in those days), a Tengku Mahkota, and M. Rajoli reciting doa. How can we possibly call it off?

So I put on my wedding dress, put on lots of make-up, went to Taman Tun to find someone who'd dare do my hair (I don't know how to do hair), covered my face with a veil, took several deep breaths and walked into the reception hall with the my tuxedo'ed Saiffuddin. In a pattern that was to be repeated later in my married life, I neglected to shower, I wore absolutely nothing underneath my gown, and had relied entirely on the Love of God to get me through. Tengku Mahkota, who sat next to me during dinner, asked if my chicken pox was contagious, and I smile and said yes. He slinked away and didn't talk to me for the rest of the evening. Fortunately, he let us keep his wedding gift, or else we wouldn't have had a TV.

We didn't have pictures, save for a few blurry ones in which I hammed it up for the camera and every one looked like they had a good time, and in which my sister Dalia totally outshined the bride in a tight green number. Afterwards Saiffuddin brought me to a clinic in SS2, and the doctor gave me herpes medicine which totally worked, and when we went home, my husband rubbed calamine all over my poor body, on what should have been our wedding night.

Every year, during our anniversary, my husband tells me he would marry me again, and that he promises to give me another wedding, but since he wants a beach setting where we'd have a ceremony on the edge of the lapping ocean at sunset, and we'd be in bikini and small thongs, I don't think it'll happen any time soon.

Twenty years would be a good milestone to celebrate with a big do, yes? With plastic surgery, I think I'd be able to manage the thongs.

Even Better Than The Real Thing

2006-11-15T12:30:00.000+08:00

Gosh, now I seem to be the Agony Aunt of Shopping :P I will try to answer your queries in time, but first let me respond to this one :

Wow mokcik! One of my colleagues got an original LV bag for RM200 only! But sadly she forgot the name of the mall coz she said there so many...Got any ideas which mall might have designer goods (apparently reject ones)?
alix | Homepage | 11.14.06 - 12:41 am |

Dear Alix,
Sadly, it is extremely difficult to get your hands on an LV reject because LVMH will burn defective items at the factory, and their factories are usually in Spain or France. You cannot buy an LV bag at bargain price either, because they are never, ever on sale. So, unless the bag in question was second hand or stolen, it is quite likely that your friend had bought a knock-off LV for about Rp 500,000 -- not a pretty price even for a good fake. However, if you love her, please don't tell her this. Just let her bask in her happiness, because nothing can duplicate the joy of buying a handbag. (Except the joy of buying shoes)

(Gentlemen, do not attempt to argue out the virtues of sex vs shopping. It will be futile)

The takeaway lesson is this : unless you can honestly say you bought your LV at Galeries Lafayette (and even that didn't stop one snooty airline passenger from accusing my sister's -- well, actually, my father's -- carryall as being less than genuine), people will know you're toting a fake. Best to just forget about the damn monograms, already.

Happily though, it is possible to buy genuine overruns or slightly faulty handbags in Bandung, which is about 2 hours from Jakarta. You can try The Summit, at the corner of Jalan Riau and Jalan Banda; or Rumah Mode in Jalan Setiabudi. Still, be very diligent when purchasing because some factory outlets tend to mix the knock-offs with the real thing. My sister Dolly, and I have found a few gems in Bandung and the bags have lived up to wear and scrutiny, so far. Even if you can't find a handbag, a visit to Bandung will not be a loss. It is the Indonesian mecca of bargain hunting, and deserves its own post later.

Another way to own a designer item on the cheap is to buy them pre-loved. However, these are usually sold in private homes and I'm working on an invitation. Will update bila berjaya.

If you don't mind buying counterfeit, though, you should visit ITC Mangga Dua, a huge, labyrinthine mall in North Jakarta. I have to warn you though, that shopping in Mangga Dua is not for the fainthearted. If you do go, despite the warning, try to arrive early as there is much to see, and shops typically close at 5 pm. Ask for the best replicas as the bags are graded by workmanship, and the top-of-the line fakes (haha, I know how ridiculous that sounds) are called Kawai Satu. (The next grades are called Kawai Dua, Kawai Tiga and so on). Some Kawai Satu handbags are so well-made, apparently, that even the trained eye cannot tell the difference.

The paradox of buying a fake handbag though, is this : no matter how genuine looking the bag is, you won't be able to carry it off unless you can actually afford to buy a real one. (Hence, Mangga Dua on a weekday morning is usually packed with trendy tai-tai's who ought to be spending money at Senayan City). So even when buying fake, stick to brands that people would believe you're able to save-up for, or those of which you can lie and say you or your sister bought at a sale in Macy's or Bloomingdale's (A1gner, Co@ch, T0d's or D0nn@ K@r@n are good bets) If you want to buy a really large fake Hermes Birkin, better get that rich boyfriend first.

But look, owning a look-at-me flashy handbag will not considerably improve your life, despite the initial rush. I have learnt my lesson, and now prefer to skip the whole fake designer bag thing altogether, and search for interesting no-name items, like a nice, sturdy wicker tote with gingham lining that you can wear with white capris and flat beribboned shoes; or you can pair with kitten heels and a pleated skirt. This is a look you can wear forever, thanks to the enduring memory of Audrey Hepburn. I have based my entire wardrobe on just a single, black and white film, and like Holly Golightly, am still waiting for that trinket contained within a small box of robin egg's blue. (Loud, loud Ahem! 16th November is tomorrow)

Still on the subject of fakes, I found that nothing can make you feel inadequate quite like a well-formed transvestite. I saw her by the roadside, when Saiffuddin and I were on our way home from South Jakarta, late last night. We live in Menteng, and the infamous Taman Lawang is on its fringes. As we were turning into Jalan Cimahi, from the notorious Jalan Laturharhari, there she was, brown and stately, and wearing a few flaps of cloth to just barely avoid total nudity. The moss green dress, if you can call it a dress, was just a band across her midriff, and two wide ribbons dropping lengthwise from the shoulders. It was a metaphor of an outfit : an intersection of materials for sexual convergence, an outfit for waiting at corners. You could see the length of her legs and the sides of her firm butt in that dress, and as our car went past, her skirt flapped in the wind.

She was Brazilian waxed. And she must have had a good surgeon.

Indonesian drag-queens, when the mix is right, can be graciously beautiful. There was one who looked exactly like our gorgeous colleague, Azizah, stationed at the traffic lights in Cempaka Mas. Clad in a pink lace kebaya, she'd go from car to car, singing while shaking a tambourine, hoping the motorists will toss her five hundred or a thousand rupiahs in return. There are other kinds, of course. Like the one who is obviously a Javanese man in a muumuu, with blonde hair and lipstick, smoking while waiting for customers in the dark of trees on Laturharhari. It is possible that by day, he drives a bajaj.

We have a friend who manages a group of female impersonators, and I have seen what they look like in the harsh sunlight. They are still jaw-droppingly good-looking. They have slim hips, narrow waists, endless legs and posteriors on which you can organise miniature ski-jumps for orang kenit. They have flawless skin and soft, shiny hair. Everything is re-constructed and cajoled into place, and made perfect. When I look at a lovely girl, I think : tak apa lah, kita pun pernah cantik. When I look at a lovely pondan I think : I have never looked that sexy; and I don't think I ever will.

I wish one of them really goodlooking mak nyahs would write a book and spill the beans on how they manage to look scorching all the time.

Men make the best looking women. It's true! Thank God some still prefer the genuine product, despite the extra pouch and handles.

Elly Enquiry

2006-11-08T15:03:00.000+08:00

hi!
i'm going to jakarta this saturday to get some wedding stuff for my sis...am wondering if you know any good place there to get special souvenirs for the groom's family members?

your kind feedback is truly appreciated

TENGKIU!!
elly | 11.07.06 - 2:42 am | #

Dear Elly,
Unfortunately, I haven't been doing a lot of shopping lately and can't really offer suggestions that is beyond run-of-the-mill. I am going to assume you want the cheap stuff, because no one in their right mind will ever ask me advice about buying say, Lalique crystal. So here goes :

Pusat Grosir Batik Cempaka Mas
ITC Mega Grosir Cempaka Mas
Lantai 3, Plaza Barat, Blok D

Most people buy batik in Tanah Abang, which you can also do (Kompleks Mega Grosir Tanah Abang), but I like this place because the batik here is of better quality and there is a wider range you can choose from. Prices are reasonable, but do shop around before you settle on something because the price for similar items might differ wildly from shop to shop. Always bargain for 40 percent less than the asking price. You may buy silk batik sets (kain dan selendang) for the ladies for Rp 120 thousand (about RM50) and buy the gentlemen short sleeved cotton batik shirts for Rp 50 thousand (about RM20). Some shops also sell home items, like table cloth and cushion covers.

If you have taken the trouble to go all the way to Cempaka Mas, I suggest you spend time to also browse around this huge, huge mall where you can buy telekung, sejadah, beaded shoes, fake handbags, bedlinens, cheap toys, a wedding dress, and the cheapest hangers in the whole of Jakarta. Now, you may not want to give away hangers as a present, but if you're a diligent shopper, there's no telling what you may find at ITC Cempaka Mas. It is easy to be overwhelmed by this place, so try to visit on a weekday morning when there are less shoppers. If you get carried away, don't worry, you will be able to perform solat at a masjid in the complex compund.

And don't forget to make a small donation to the resident drag queens, whom you will undoubtedly meet at the traffic lights, on your way home.

Kedaung
Gedung Tedja Buana, Jl. Menteng Raya No.29,
Ground floor, Central Jakarta
Phone : (021) 390-5277/76
Fax : (021) 390-5278
(Call to find out the location of other outlets)

Bored housewives in Jakarta visit Kedaung like we Malaysians visit IKEA. Kedaung Group makes and sells dinner sets, glass tumblers, scented candles, coffee machines, pots and pans, cookie jars, cookie tins, silverware, Queen Anne, enamel roasters, brass fondue thingies, napkins, white porcelain measuring cups with the measure inside not outside, dainty coffee mugs with pretty pink roses, and anything else you might need to successfully entertain in your home. You may see their range of products on their website. (Click on "products", and click also on "domestic", where they have more products). Their prices are very, very reasonable. So reasonable, in fact, that I have pledged to pay homage to this shrine of graceful living at least once a month. (This is made easier as I have not one, but two Kedaung outlets within a one mile radius from my house).

I like their batik porcelain -- traditional batik design printed on coffee cups, mugs and dessert plates, which might make an interesting buah tangan. However, I would buy their Street Children Care range, which feature mugs and dessert plates printed with paintings of children at play. Each purchase goes towards charity, and would help thousands of kids who currently work as pengamen (beggars and street musicians) in the city, to get some kind of education and daily nutrition.

Kedaung has several outlets throughout Jakarta, but I go to the one in Jalan Raden Saleh and this one in Menteng Raya. There is also a tiny Kedaung shop in Kemang that seems to be perpetually on sale.

ITC Kuningan / Mal Ambassador
Jalan Prof Dr Satrio (if by taxi say Jl Casablanca)

When spending money in Jakarta, it is best to visit only malls that has ITC or WTC or Mega Grosir in their names because this would almost guarantee a crazy shopping experience : a mindboggling array of small shops, accessible only through tiny corridors, cacophony, and a crowd of about a million people. (I'm not joking about the million). The most accessible of these are probably ITC Kuningan and Mal Ambassador, two buildings connected by walkway, where there are retailers selling almost any kind of everything except your parents. There are several stores here selling "pernak pernik" : arts and crafts, knick knacks and stuff, but I can't say where they are exactly.

I visit ITC Kuningan about once a week, because I do my grocery shopping at the Carrefour downstairs, but to be honest, I usually enter this place with blinders on because it is so evil and seductive. I swear as I walk past the tunics and the handbags and the shoes and the bracelets on sale, they whisper to the money in my purse. Like, come out, come out, where ever you are. So, sadly I cannot provide you with a definitive guide on where to go, all I can say is just go.

Pasar Festival
Jalan HR Rasuna Said

Pasar Festival is a small shopping complex and seems to cater mainly for university students who frequent the nearby gelanggang olahraga and swimming pool. There is only one level of shopping and the place is rarely crowded. There are about three or four retailers here selling homeware, like lamps, vases, wooden boxes and the like. There is one shop selling scented candles, aromatherapy oils and handpacked lulur, which may also make lovely gifts. On Friday evenings, at about 5.30 pm there is a free jazz performance at the Food Court, and you may also want to pop into a bookstore here which sells old magazines and second hand books.

Pasaraya Grande
Jl. Iskandarsyah II/2 Blok M, Jakarta 12160 Indonesia
Phone. 62-21-7260170 Fax. 62-21-7250582

If all efforts fail and you just can't find that something special, visit Pasaraya Grande, where you can find all the souvenirs of Indonesia under one roof. It is a tourist trap and the prices are fixed, so tak dapek nak menolong. They have good stuff though, and you may end up buying a very nice baju for yourself. Pasaraya has a website.

Tempat tempat yang sunat dikunjungi :

Uluwatu Handmade Balinese Lace
Metro, Pondok Indah Mall and Metro, Plaza Senayan

If money is no object, or you want to impress the groom's family, take a look at what's in store at Uluwatu. Their white cotton lace kebayas are a perennial, and I own three! I love them to bits, and you can wear them traditional with all sorts of kain batik, or you can wear them dressy with black pants and onyx jewellery, or you can pair them with blue jeans. The girls (okay, old girls) in my family wore these kebayas during my sister's wedding. Uluwatu also sells linens and other accessories. Check out their lingerie, too. Has mileage, proven. Uluwatu's website is here.

Jalan Kemang Timur

Jalan Kemang Timur is a long street that is filled with furniture stores, and some of these also sell suitable gifts. I can't guarantee you will find them all affordable, but you may be pleasantly surprised. If you're staying in Jakarta for more than three days, do make time for Jalan Kemang Timur. I'm certain at the end of the visit you'd be calculating freight costs.

Jalan Surabaya, Menteng

If you're going to be in Jalan Raden Saleh or Menteng Raya for the Kedaung shopping trip, swing by Jalan Surabaya on your way back to the hotel. Jalan Surabaya is located next to a really smelly longkang, but if you're a collector, you may find the stuff they sell rather fascinating. Not all of them are genuine antiques, so it is best to always look skeptical and ask for a lower price. There are crystal chandeliers, outdated survey equipment, brassware, musical equipments, old vinyls and all the stuff your grandparents used to own. My father swears by this place.

Stasiun Kereta Api Cikini
Jalan Cikini Raya, Menteng

My friend Iza and I are bakul-mad people and the kolong beneath Cikini Train Station is one of our most favourite places in the world. There are baskets and woven boxes and racks and trays of every imaginable kind. You may want to have a look, as some of the boxes make elegant hantaran cases to give the groom. Stasiun Cikini is within walking distance of Jalan Surabaya, but if you don't like traffic, dust and smelly longkangs, it is better to drive. (Or hop on an orange bajaj. Ask the bajaj man how much before getting on. Argue if he says more than Rp5,000)

Tempat tempat yang hukumnya diharuskan :

Plaza Senayan, Senayan City, Sudirman Place, Plaza Indonesia, Pondok Indah Mall, Cilandak Town Square. (the last two are in the far south, macet lagi)

Go here only for the possibility of bumping into Adjie Masaid or Darius or that cute Evan.

All Together, Now

2006-11-03T12:45:00.000+08:00

You know I'm depressed when I post three times in a day. To the tune of Teddy Bear's Picnic, here is Elliot from Open Season :

Once there was a magical elf who lived in a rainbow tree
He lived downstairs from a flatulent dwarf who constantly had to pee
One day the elf could take no more
So he went to bang on the rude dwarf's door
And what do you know, they suddenly both were marrrrried.

More dialogue here.

2006-11-03T09:20:00.000+08:00

The Fates have conspired. She sees the fork in the road, and she knows from there on, it's a solitary journey. They must separate, for they're distinct creatures who burn the brightest on their own, but cursed to love the other.

Ada Seekor Binatang Yang Jahat

2006-11-03T08:49:00.000+08:00

Ha ha. I just got to know that the profit for some work that we have been doing for the past six months, just went up in smoke. Or to be exact, deposited into some shark's account. Who took the money out of our paycheck, himself. As a pay out. Makan suap, to call a spade a spade. And now the whole project is a terrible loss. Essentially, we worked our asses off, for fecking free.

This time, we should seriously consider action. Report. We don't need him to get the next job, in fact if he is still around for the next job, we might as well slit our own throats, right now. Save ourselves the trouble later on.

Was there a prior arrangement? We were not privy to it, and we've always stood our ground against corruption in any form -- money, favours, women. We have never played. We're poor, but we sleep soundly.

He is in an awfully big corporation. The biggest in the country. And he is small. Easily disposed.

It would be like flicking fleas off a water buffalo's back. One swish of the tail. You kan Taurus?

(Ketam dengan kalajengking boleh tolong gigit. Singa betina keluar memburu)

(By no means am I implying my friend is a water buffalo. He's a minotaur)

Dendang Perantau

2006-10-29T21:28:00.000+08:00

Minal Aidin wal Faidzin, albeit belatedly. How did you celebrate Eid this year? My family and I found ourselves away from home this Hari Raya, and we had a frugal festival that somewhat resembled Aidil Fitri, Alhamdulillah.

My wife, Kak Ti left for her hometown of Sragen in Central Java, on the weekend before Eid, and the kids and I let her go somewhat reluctantly. We didn't panic until it was time to do laundry. This is her first Hari Raya with her family in seven years, and we can't begrudge her this trip, because we realise this is more important to her than knowing where our panties are.

Two days before Hari Raya (or hari minus dua, as the news people here call it) the kids and I made kueh raya -- kuih siput, chocolate oat thingies and kueh batik. They were edible. I don't expect you'd want pictures or recipes.

Saiffuddin, always Indian when it comes to food, wanted to make beryani for Hari Raya. So during the weekend, we went to Shalimar, this tiny shop in Passer Baroe, for ingredients. Shalimar is the only place in the entire Jakarta-Bogor-Tangerang-Bekasi area where you can buy real curry powder and pappadoms, and if it is closed we would be reduced to eating cheese sandwiches on the first of Syawal. When we got there, the shop assistants were busy clearing shelves, we hadn't realised it was Deepavali. We managed to grab what we need, pay the grumpy cashier and leave just before they locked their doors.

Passer Baroe, or New Market, was built late in the 1800's and it is essentially a street mall and is somewhat reminiscent of Jalan Masjid India. It is famous for fabric, curtains and shoes, but in Ramadhan, there were also fireworks openly on sale. Fireworks are illegal in Malaysia, and previously I had always bought mine at the office, from enterprising cameramen who sold their wares from the boot of their cars in the basement carpark. Now, in Jakarta, we could buy what we please, so naturally my husband and Adam bought the largest, most phallic rockets they could find. (We forgot the camera during this trip, so no pictures, sorry. Just imagine a large, pointy thing in red and yellow, with parachutes)

On the eve of Eid, we found that Jakartans welcome the festival by going round town and making a racket, just like it's New Year. You can see families of five riding on motorcycles, while girls and boys sat on top of buses and lorries and sang songs and banged on drums and shouted out the takbir and shot handheld firecrackers, until the small hours of the morning. It was charming in the beginning, but not so when you can't get any sleep.

When we say the eve of Eid, we mean the eve of the day officially recognized as Hari Raya by the government. In Indonesia, groups of people started celebrating Hari Raya two days before, and the Muhamadiyyah followers, which included a couple of Cabinet Ministers, declared Hari Raya on Monday and had their prayers earlier. But of course, we celebrated Eid on Tuesday, because we officially declared Tuesday freeloading day.

On Hari Raya, we went to the Malaysian Embassy for prayers, seeking the silatturahmi of other Malaysians, as well as the erm, free food. The beryani remained a plan. Mokciknab, who is not at all Martha or Nigella or even Mokciknab of the Agar-Agar Magic, had other people's nasi impit and satay and roti bom on the morn of Syawal. There was a twinge of guilt, but this was quickly washed down with sirap ais and plain laziness.

Following prayers and meals, we had wanted to go home, and jump into the pool, because it was such a right thing to do after freeloading. But a call from Nandar, Adam's tuition teacher, set our heads straight. Nandar, who is a student at the Arab Saudi School in Jakarta, could not afford to go home to Pekan Baru. Tickets to anywhere during Raya is ten times more expensive than usual, no exaggeration. Nandar was spending the first day of Hari Raya alone in his rented room and the twenty year old sounded miserable. So we invited him over, and the afternoon was spent cooking the beryani, with chicken curry and roti canai.

After dinner and Isya' prayers, it was time to try out the gargantuan fireworks that we bought. Problem was, Jakarta is one of the most densely populated cities in Asia, and it would have been impossible for us to light up one of them CBM's without setting our neighbour's roof on fire. (And our neighbour is the District Chief of Police) We thought, maybe we can launch the fireworks in the largest open space in the city - the park around Monas, a soaring national monument otherwise known as Sukarno's last erection. When we got to the park, Saiffuddin was worried if we could actually shoot fireworks there, because no one else were; and because we're law abiding Malaysians, we asked the park ranger if we could. He said we can only light up the small ones, and certainly not the hunge dongs we were totting. Dissapointed, we were resigned to keep the rockets unlaunched, and go home, when the park lights were suddenly turned off. It was closing time. It was pitch dark. In a corner of the park, we could hear and see : fireworks. The others had waited for closing time to fire their weapons.

Encouraged, Nandar and Saiffuddin set up the artillery and brought fire to the fuse. The rocket shot up about fifty feet into the air, threw off a greenish glow, before releasing a paper parachute, which is usually ash by the time it hit the ground. I am so tempted to make stupid jokes about size and performance at this point, but I won't. Other people had obviously better stuff. One person was putting up a display that was like a mini version of what you'd get at KLCC. My kids were ecstatic.

We had fired several rockets when I saw the headlights of a park ranger's motorcycle coming towards us. I called out to Saiffuddin to cease and desist. Nandar put all the remaining fireworks in his knapsack, and we slowly walked back to the car, a long walk made harder because we can't really see. After stumbling over some people making out on the sidewalk, we made the turn that would take us to the park gate. Then from the corner, came a patrol car, and the officer was announcing something through a haler. "Act like a normal family!", said Aliya and we shuffled our feet and looked down. Getting caught with explosives would be sticky, since we're Malaysians and we can't prove we don't know Nordin Mat Top. Nandar, with his seluar senteng and tartan shirt and goatee, looks every inch Jemaah Islamiyah, and he has a Saudi scholarship some more. The patrol car slowed down and turned our way, and Saiffuddin suggested throwing away the fireworks like you would ecstacy. But the car moved on, perhaps because we did look like a normal family, and we reached the gate without incident.

We then sent Nandar home and that is the end of our adventure, on the first day of Eid, our first Hari Raya in Jakarta.

(There are pictures to this post, but I can't seem to upload. Maybe later, yes?)

For Nord

2006-09-28T16:01:00.000+08:00

Nord, I think you are really an Angel who has come to remind me to fulfill my promise of performing the solat duha on a regular basis. In case you're a real human being, though, you may learn about the solat here.

From islamawareness.net :
Abu Dharr (May Allah be pleased with him) reported: The Prophet (PBUH) said, "In the morning, charity is due on every joint bone of the body of everyone of you. Every utterance of Allah's Glorification (i.e., saying Subhan Allah) is an act of charity, and every utterance of His Praise (i.e., saying Al-hamdu lillah) is an act of charity and every utterance of declaration of His Greatness (i.e., saying La ilaha illAllah) is an act of charity; and enjoining M`aruf (good) is an act of charity, and forbidding Munkar (evil) is an act of charity, and two Rak`ah Duha prayers which one performs in the forenoon is equal to all this (in reward).''[Muslim].

Commentary: "Charity is due from every joint bone" means that when a person gets up in the morning, it is obligatory for him to thank Allah for having every joint of his intact. Therefore, one must praise and glorify Allah. Since a single invocation of the words mentioned in this Hadith is equivalent to one Sadaqah, one must say these words for 360 times - a number which equals the number of joints in man's body. Moreover, to enjoin someone to do what is good and dissuade somebody from vice constitutes Sadaqah. However, if one performs two Rak`ah of Duha prayer, it will serve for Sadaqah for all the joints of the body. Thus, this Hadith highlights the merits and importance of Duha prayer. We also learn from this Hadith that Sadaqah is not restricted to spending money alone but also has a vast meaning and covers all forms of virtues mentioned here.

Hope it helps!

Perfidia

2006-09-27T10:59:00.000+08:00

House Second Season, Episode #6, somewhere near the end :

Cameron: I fell in love with my husband's best friend. Near the end I was at the hospital every day, and Joe would come by after work*. We'd go for walks and try to talk each other through it. We kind of clung on to each other.

Wilson: My wife wasn't dying, she wasn't even sick. Everything was fine. I met someone who... made me feel... funny. Good. And I didn't want to let that feeling go.
[long silent pause] What happened to you, how can anyone go through that alone?
You can't control your emotions

Cameron: No. Just your actions

Wilson: You didn't do it, did you? You didn't sleep with him

Cameron: I couldn't have lived with myself

Wilson: [smiling] You'd be surprised what you can live with [walks out of the office]

Saiffuddin has been coming home late because of crucial pre-award meetings with a major client**. Last night, he missed iftar and tarawikh entirely. Adam got worried.

"Mum, is Daddy, you know, having an affair?", he asked.
"Hmmmm", I said, liking where this conversation is going, "what do you think?"
"I don't know. Why don't you ask him?", he offered
"If he is having an affair, he will never admit it, Adam", I explained, eyes twinkling.
"Well," Adam said sagely, holding up a finger to make his point," it depends on how he says No. If it's a short, quick No, then it means Yes. If it's a long No, with a screwed up face, then it's a No".

Oh, if it were only that simple.

I'm writing this because lately, infidelity seems to have been the flavour of the week. There is that on-going plot in House where he's trying to seduce Stacy to stray. Here in Jakarta, the raging question on everyone's mind seems to be if this rock-star has recently married his wife's band-mate (an incredible betrayal that I somehow believe is untrue). And last week, I saw Oprah speak to seven cheating husbands about their affairs. Selingkuh is a topic that has followed me all the way from Malaysia. And it's such a dark, fascinating subject, no?

Since I used to work at a TV station, you can bet your hiney that I had more than one friend who was involved in forbidden flings. Our presenters were so (in)famous for their extracurricular activities that one female dentist was moved to berate her newscaster patient :

"Pasal apa newscaster TV Teeeega ni, suka sangat curi laki orang?", she apparently asked.
"Doktor", said my pretty friend patiently,"Doktor tunjuk kat saya gambar laki Doktor, jadi senanglah next time, saya tahu yang mana satu laki Doktor dan saya takkan curi dia".

She was a bitchy dentist who overcharged and totally deserved it.

My point is, when it is your friend (or more cuttingly, if it is you) who is having the affair, things are never quite black and white, or demarcated into completely right or wrong. Affairs are wrong; and here you get a long pause, not a full stop. Because there is always a thousand buts after the word "wrong" to justify the illicit actions. And when you know enough "other women", and to a lesser degree, "other men", you tend to look at the problem from both sides. An affair is part weakness, and part very bad timing.

The Oprah episode was interesting because it totally obliterated the belief that husbands stray because they can't keep their dicks in check. You know the theory --the male basic instinct is to spread their seeds far and wide, ergo the propensity to do it with as many women as possible. I think it gives women comfort to presume this, mainly because mindless fornicating doesn't involve anything deeper than uh, fornicating parts. But the guys who were suicidal enough to appear on Oprah revealed that men are more complicated than previously thought. Those who blubberingly admittted to long, drawn out affairs said they were looking for happiness and a sense of place, that someone cared for them. Goodness, just like women? Now, if only we can get the algorithm right and ensure that all these men looking for joy and the all these women looking for bliss are the ones married to each other. Seriously now, what are the chances?

It's not to say some of those cheatin' hearts do not beat in the bodies of complete jerks. A considerable part of Jakarta's economy seem to depend on them. I have had long conversations with supirs and hotel waitresses here who tell me countless stories of perfidy. (Actually, Saiffuddin's a gossip too, but he can use the husband-wife privelege thing as a defence to his big mouth.) Almost every faithless husband alone in the city will end up unfaithful. (Faithless women apparently go shopping, unless Adjie Masaid is on the menu.) You know the annoying Malay saying about how no hungry cat will refuse fish? Well, apparently there's plenty to catch here. Every kind, any price. Sure, it's about mind-bending sex on the surface of it. But the sad truth is boys, you too, are doing it because you're deeply unhappy.

It could be anything that these men imagine they can't get at home, and they can get from prostitutes without the hassle of a relationship : understanding, respect, control, mommy. But it's a pathetic kind of happiness because like any drug, the esctacy is fleeting : brief and illusory. And in a country like this, it could also be very, very expensive. I have heard stories of blackmail and black magic.

To be fair, women are not innocents when it comes to selingkuh, either. But so far, Hollywood has convinced us that when a woman cheats on her husband it is a full-blown romantic affair with lush scenery, sweeping score, and usually Ralph Fiennes. (or Robert Redford) Somehow a cheating woman is not as despicable, and the poor cuckolded husband is often the one at fault. (For example, he could be gay.) Sensitive storyline aside, I'll have to agree that an adulteress is as blameworthy as that drunken guy shoving rupiahs down the panties of a gyrating dangdut stripper.

Why can't we be happy with what we have? I guess because marriage, too is sometimes part weakness and part very bad timing.

Last weekend, my dorm-mate from uni, Iza and her husband, Zaky, dropped by our house. I was so happy to find out they were here. They took so much trouble to look for Saiffuddin's number, to the extent of bothering the client conducting the pre-award meetings, and though it was embarrasing to my husband, I was so touched by the persistence. Iza and Zaky were college sweethearts, and I have always known one as being the pair for the other. They were obviously still besotted, I saw that Zaky couldn't help touching Iza's arm when he speaks, and I thought it was so sweet. Zaky and Iza were lucky -- they found their soulmate, and everything -- timing, family, etc etc, were in their favour. Simple boy meets girl story, lived happily ever after, had three children and so on and so forth.

But it occured to me, what happens when boy meets the wrong girl at the right time, and then the right girl at the wrong time? Some people have had their souls rent asunder. I've often wondered if Saiffuddin and I weren't married to each other, how frustrating it would be if we did eventually meet.

Gosh, I'd probably have an affair with him.

*Cameron is a janda. She was 21 when her husband of six months died of thyroid cancer. House is really a cleverly disguised soap and that's why I love it.
**For those of you hearing warning bells, rest assured that I know Saiffuddin is really at the meeting. Unless he is having an affair with five engineers, including a stocky guy predisposed to rugby shirts, and a middle aged man named Bosco (who is the nicest of the lot, I must say)

Fun with Groceries

2006-09-21T17:59:00.000+08:00

Went grocery shopping this morning, and found some desserts my friends may like. We're having these for iftar this Ramadhan.

2006-09-20T15:26:00.000+08:00

This is our second week in Jakarta, my second week as a full time housewife. I've gotten into some sort of routine :

0540 : Solat subuh
0550 : Walk around the neighbourhood with Saiffuddin, gawk at the achingly beautiful houses full of old money
0650 : Buy Kompas from a midget (really, a midget! I'll take his picture later. He's a nice midget)
0655 : Buy bakwan goreng/tauhu sumedang/pisgor/sukun from a corner jajan guy.
0700 : Have breakfast with Saiffuddin and yell for the kids to have breakfast, too since they would invariably be slumped in front of the TV or computer.
0730 : Join the kids and slump in front of the TV, until Saiffuddin yells : "Mummy! What am I going to wear?", and then get up to pick out a nice shirt and tie for the man, who appears to have been able to dress himself just fine when I was not here.
0745 : Lie on bed with Saiffuddin while he smokes and listen to him complain about work, and the fact that they don't sell Salem cigarettes here.
0800 : Kiss Saiffuddin goodbye, and then stand on the kerb with the kids in pyjamas and shout "Bye-Bye Daddy!!!!" at the top of our voices. (Our house is in front of a main road)
0810 : Watch TV to catch up on Indon celebrity gossip, or read the papers, while the kids swim. Sometimes swim, too.
0900 : Take a nap
0945 : Take a warm shower, which includes hair treatment and avocado lulur (a jar of lulur is just 4,ooo rupiah -- less than 2 ringgit). This shower, however is optional. It may be delayed until 2 o'clock in the afternoon.
1030 : Go grocery shopping at ITC Kuningan. Gawk at gorgeous togs but do not buy because all money has gone into furniture, baked beans and cereal.
1200 : Reach home, and cook lunch (That is, if there is no demonstration that day. The trip home from Jalan Casablanca to Sultan Syahrir can take anywhere from 10 minutes to one and a half hours)
1300 : Shower and solat zuhur
1330 : Eat lunch with the kids, and help them with homework. Arbitrate arguments.
1430 : Check email and contemplate blogging, if I can wrestle the laptop away from small hands surfing through Barbie and Strawberry Shortcake and WinxClub, or big hands surfing through addictinggame.com and youtube (to watch wrestling highlights)
1530 : Solat Asar. Cook stuff for tea and dinner, while the kids sit through tuition.
1630 : Serve tea to tuition teachers and the kids. If there is no tuition that day, the kids and I take a walk to nearby Taman Suropati and gawk at the tanks in front of the Vice President's house.
1730 : Take a shower and solat maghrib. Set table for dinner.
1800 : Wait for Saiffuddin to come home. Have dinner.
1900 : The kids get daddy time.
2000 : Walk to Starbucks with Saiffuddin and over double shot espresso, triple shot Americano and cigarettes, listen to him complain about work some more
2100 : Solat Isya', and then the whole house goes to bed. Okay, so maybe Saiffuddin and I would sneak out to the pool and the front garden once in a while.

That's about it. My exciting day. I suppose I can get used to it.

I think.

Two things bother me though, and they are major. One, I don't get to earn my own money and not having money in Bargain Land is like being a eunuch at Playboy Mansion. Two, I am terribly bored. When Saiffuddin comes home in the evening, I cringe listening to the things I tell him about (Like, the girls get kentut breaks during tuition and I can see the both of them rushing out to the porch and tungging bontot.)At SSO I get my daily dose of drama, and I'm always working on exciting new projects, but here, all the way out here and far from Kelana Square, the most exciting endeavour is buying baskets from Pasar Cikini, and getting a discount from the bajaj man. My highlight of the day is waiting for the jamu woman to come by.

I suppose sooner or later, I'll get Elida back. I have a job writing for Anjung Seri and other publications, and that would give me some moolah, hopefully. But for me to be really, really at home, mak perlukan kawan-kawan pondan.

Masya Allah.

Mokciknab Mahu Meubel

2006-09-14T11:16:00.001+08:00

My house, which I think is the smallest house on Jalan Sutan Syahrir, has three and a half baths - one cavernous one in the room at the back, with aquamarine tiles and a large corner tub, a rather dreary one somewhere in the middle of a dark passage, a small cute one in the front bedroom, and a powder room just off the living area. For some reason, the powder room gets the most usage. My maid and the kids take showers in this miniscule space, using the spray thingy by the toilet, and in the process sending soapy water seeping into the living room.

The point must be, we are not used to having a lot of space. (The other point must be, we're peasants)

The house is modest, but still larger than our two-storey link in Damansara Kim. My youngest daughter Aliya has been amusing herself by walking around the outside of house - she'd exit through our bedroom's small porch, and then she'd walk in through the kitchen door, which is on the other side of the building, at all times of the day, even at night. Meanwhile, Adam and Aiysha live permanently in the water, climbing out of the pool only to eat and pee. Oh, and Saiffuddin and I have also tried the pool. Yes.

We're happy with the house -- it's just the right size and it has character. But, it doesn't have our character just yet. The only furniture we have right now are spring beds, a teak dining table with two long benches (which I love), and a blue folding chair we got from Carrefour, on which Adam placed the laptop. The TV sits on two polystyrene foam blocks which came with the packaging. The wicker furniture which we bought in Kemang months ago would only arrive next week. (The shop owner told us her factory was hit by earthquake, and though it is entirely possible she sold our set to another customer, I'm giving her the benefit of the doubt). Just as I predicted, our clothes are still in boxes and in luggage, and it's impossible to find anything. I have been wearing the same bra since the day I arrived because I have no idea where all my undergarments are.

So it's obvious we need to buy stuff, like storage and places to sit. Yesterday, my dear friend Lindy became the first visitor to our house, and horrified by our lack of furniture, sent us two sets of her used sofa and chairs. Within an hour of her leaving, a small pickup rolled into our driveway, a feat considering Jakarta traffic. We put the upholstered three-seater and club chairs in the living room so that the kids don't have to lie on the cold floor while watching Spongebob, and the rattan set we put on the terrace, so that my husband has a place to sit in the evening, while he smokes and complains about work. It'll do for the moment, but soon, soon I'll need to visit Klender and Pondok Bambu and Ciputat for the stuff I'd want for keeps.

With a highly exhaustible bank account, admittedly it'll be a challenge. But shopping is a sport, and this is one event I intend to start very quickly. So if you don't hear from me in the next couple of days, you know I'd be in some small, dark shop, breathing in sawdust, sweating in the humid Jakarta weather, haggling over prices. Oh, and I'd be loving it.

And Let Your Arrow Fly

2006-09-06T12:13:00.000+08:00

Not so long ago, when we were both safely ensconced in our marriage, and too fat to run away with someone else, I asked Saiffuddin why he loved me. Wives are typically neurotic and insecure, and this is the sort of question that would surface once every few months, one that the poor husband cannot escape, no matter how long he has been married.

I had rattled off the reasons why I loved him -- because he was a man of faith, because he's a great father to the kids, because he makes perfect three quarter boiled eggs, because he's funny, because he has a dimple in his right (left?) cheek, because he can do advanced calculus and can explain me the theory of thermodynamics, because I like him in a pair of bikes et cetera et cetera. The list was long, and at the end of it, I looked at him and asked what made him stay.

"So, why do you love me?"
"Because you're you", he said simply,"Because you're Elida".
"Nothing specific?", I asked, dissapointed he didn't say it's because I have nice hair or I smell good or I look delicious in the morning.
"No. I have absolutely no idea why I love you", he pleaded, "it won't be called madness if I were able to explain it."

And that, you have to agree, was a very, very good answer.

Over the past few weeks, though, we have ignored this wisdom and it has been our Great Attempt at the office to try and dissect and deconstruct this delirium called Love, and identify its many forms. The mistake is thinking that you can analyse something that defies logic, and then make plans around it.

Of course you'd want to make plans. If you're about to jump off a cliff you'd want to know that you won't break your neck. But listen, when it comes to this damnable love thing, there is no guarantee you won't get hurt. The only way to ensure you walk away unscathed is to walk away. Forget about the whole thing altogether and lose your self in whatever else you think is a good substitute - work, meanness, celibacy, food.

And the catch is, you will find out there is never a good substitute.

So it's a choice : be safe but lonely, or be madly in love despite the fear that you'd be badly bruised some time in the future. But it's the fear that quickens the heart, no?

And who knows, maybe in the end, you won't get badly bruised after all. I've never expected much from Saiffuddin and I was fully prepared for injury, but look, it's been almost twenty years.

So just let go, and we'll see where it goes.

Your resident psychoanalyst will be leaving the country Sunday 10th of September. I'll leave a number for emergencies (Emergencies is like when you're about to kill yourself. When you can't contain yourself because he bought you teh tarik ais and you simply must call me up at 11 pm to tell me, that does not qualify as an emergency).

But other than that, you're on your own, kids. You'll be missed, my insane friends.

Since We're Not There to Wish You In Person

2006-09-05T17:37:00.000+08:00

Happy Birthday to my sister, Mrs Taufik hyphenate Vedder.

Honestly I can't remember how old you are, because it doesn't matter anyway. I wouldn't want others to remember my age. I think you're, letseeeeee, erm 28? Abang Ichai, the kids and I hope you continue to be who you are : the fun mom, and the one who does the right thing. Hope you had a fantabulous day celebrating with Taufik, Ilham, Ihsan, Anis and Izani!

Click here for our pengganti diri wish.

Maaf, Gue Kangen

2006-09-02T11:47:00.001+08:00

A few nights ago, as we were getting to sleep, Aiysha declared that my husband's eyelashes must be bald by now.
"Why is that, sayang?", I asked, as she slipped her legs underneath the covers.
"All of us miss him so much", she yawned, "he would have lost all of his eyelashes*"
Perhaps so, perhaps so.

The weather is getting to all of us, I think. Blazing days and sweltering nights will do you in, sooner or later, especially if you're not quite right in the first place. Suhaimi is in the throes of some fever he doesn't want us to cure, and he's been neglecting to shower again. Papa Khalid has his catatonic outbursts, often manifesting itself in gyrating hips and arms stretched skyward. Rizal, well, he's quietly enjoying his madness. I think he's the only one getting what he wants. Damn Rizal.

I'm getting used to not having Saiffuddin around, and this is a pretty terrifying thought. It's almost Ramadhan again, and that means he has been living in Jakarta for nearly a year now. A year since there was any real relationship subsisting -- just snatches of visits, long distance phone calls, emails and skype. And promises. It's a relationship subsisting on promises. I'm a man waiting for a train, long overdue.

I crave the normalcy. My life is boring, but I want it back, the things that I do every day. I crave waking up in my own house, with the familiar warm brown arm heavy across my belly. Watching my husband brush his teeth or take a shower (the man never bothers closing the door) Arguing over the headlines. Going for walks and arguing some more. Stealing kisses.

Being a ma'mum. Looking at the soles of his feet for that brief instance before I prostrate.

Ah well. The only way to get through this is to believe there will be a good ending. That train will come. By God, the kids and I will just camp out on the platform until it does.

______________________________________________________
PS. There is a soundtrack to this post. You can find it here, my shrine to sadness. Visit only if you're in a similar situation or if pre-menstrual. (There may be a problem playing the entire playlist from the site. Try downloading)

* There is a Malay belief that if you have an eyelash dropping off, it means someone is missing you. It could also mean you're using cheap mascara.

Terima Kasih Daun Keladi

2006-08-21T16:03:00.000+08:00

Thank you for all the wishes and doa's -- Alhamdulillah, I am truly grateful to be 38, happy to make it this far with all the Blessings that has sustained me. A special thank you to my dad and sisters, who either called or haloscanned. ( Note the conspicuous absence of my brother, who was too caught up in the new Emirates stadium to care about anything else, I guess)

The only way I celebrate is by eating. I'd like to celebrate by spending money on possessions, but I don't have enough money to generate any decent magnitude of joy, so food is the next best thing.

What's that? Yes, I am aware that sex is usually free.

Let's see, my birthday was on Sunday and by way of celebration I had laksam, pulut kuning with rendang ayam, spaghetti scampi, pizza alaNapoli, gelati, the requisite afogato, and then Kemaman coffee, and some rather dissapointing kerepok lekor. Saiffuddin was most helpful and not even once mentioned the word "kurus". (He was extra nice the whole day, even though I took the liberty to only shower at 4 pm, that is, after watching "The Wedding Date" on Star Movies. At the Curve, he embarassed me by constantly sniffing my hair, although it's possible that he was just trying to ascertain that I actually did mandi)

Today, the orgy continued : Suhaimi and Papa Khalid organized a party of sorts at the office : tons of nasi lemak, mee goreng, sambal sardin, sotong masak hitam and yum yum serawa durian! Thank you so much Che Mi and Papa Khalid! Never mind that you promised me a stripper yang keluar dari kek, considering that today is Isra' Mi'raj, a naked man coming out of confectionery is most inappropriate.

P/S Thank you Che' Kam, for buying me a book, and a hardcover one at that. That was very thoughtful of you and it's sweet that you took two hours to consider a title that I would like. Hurray for sisterhood. We should try for the contest now.

2006-08-12T12:26:00.000+08:00

When I feel as though I've drank eight cups of coffee and is on the verge of crying all the time, it means it's time for my husband to come home. Quickly.

Bad Mommy!

2006-08-08T14:45:00.000+08:00

Generally, Adam, who is 11 and Aiysha, who's 8, think I'm hopeless as a mother. This is mainly due to the fact that I can't drive, and all the cool moms (Che Teh, Che Ngah and Che Na) do. Further evidence of this opinion was amply demonstrated throughout the weekend :

I.
My mother built a pergola over her balcony upstairs, just off the sitting area. Last Saturday night, bored with Akademi Fantasia, I decided to lie down on the floor of the balcony and stare through the fragrant tongkin vines, at the bright moon and the stars (since stars were sadly lacking on the show). My sister Dolly was flabbergasted to see me spread-eagled on the tiles.

"Adam!", she cried, "what is your mummy doing?"

"Oh", Adam shot me a glance, "Her life is a wreck. She's waiting for the storm to come so that lightning can strike her".

II.
My husband was home for the weekend, and naturally the kids were all over him (because he's the better parent). To make matters worse, I wasn't well, and was in bed most of the time, actually sleeping. One morning, they decided to let me sleep in, while everyone else had breakfast. When I woke up and realized no invited me for this communal meal, I was terribly annoyed and came downstairs whining and whimpering (This, is in fact, my normal state when my husband is around)

"Why did you have breakfast without me?", I moaned to Saiffuddin.
"I thought you might want to rest some more, darling", he explained patiently.
"You didn't want me to be here for breakfast", I pouted.
Aiysha came from the fridge bearing milk.
"Mummy, you're here now", she declared,"get over it already and eat!".
My husband folded his arms and grinned. I get absolutely no support, I tell you.

III.
We've spent hours at the Curve and was at the point of leaving when we passed by Pretty Fit. I was about to make this detour when Adam grabs me by the arm and steered me in the direction of the escalator.

"Stay away!", he commanded, "Stay away from the light!"
"Must. Go. To. Shoe. Shop!", I croaked
"No, that wasn't a shoe shop", he said, "You're hallucinating".
"Then what was it?"
"It was a shop selling erm, men's underwear".
So we got to the bottom of the stairs and went home.

Nothing Here, Honest

2006-08-03T13:52:00.001+08:00

Dear Mr Special Branch Officer Sir,
How are you today, tuan? I hope you had good nasi lemak or roti canai with kuah dal for breakfast. I am so sorry that you have to spend time monitoring us now. It must be so tedious to go through every blog and read every post, when the time could be better spent eating good nasi lemak or roti canai with kuah dal. So Tuan Mr Special Branch Officer Sir, let me just save you some trouble and tell you straight away that my blog is not worth going through, because I don't write anything clever or make smart political comments or complain about the government or things like that. After all, what do you expect? I am just a has-been newscaster who didn't do well for herself by marrying a Minister or a Sultan (My husband was a persistent problem)

Oh, are you still reading, tuan? Tuan, I know this really good nasi lemak place near my house in Damansara Kim. That's only half an hour from Bukit Aman. But since you're here anyway, perhaps we can get acquainted, and you can see how harmless I am. In fact, you might even think : this woman is so hopelessly boring I am recommending that no one take a look at her blog ever again. So, here are some random things you ought to know about me :

I am 38 years old and I still don't have a driving licence. In fact, I am terrified of driving.

I am really bad at keeping money. I don't own a single property. If I die today my entire bequest would consist of jeans, shoes, handbags, books, home plan magazines and some lovely furniture.

I can't bake.

If I miss solat I get a massive headache. It's true! Some people get instant retribution, I guess.

There are at least five people I don't get along with that I still go kissy kissy when I meet them.
(No, it's not you lah)

Secretly, I am very vain but I can't admit to that because I'm not pretty enough to be vain. (And that, in itself, is such a self absorbed thing to say)

I hate peas.

In school, I played drums in the school brass band. I wore a red short skirt and white boots.

I have never, ever called my husband by his name. He was introduced to me as "Tengku" and I wasn't about to call him that. "Saiffuddin" was too long, and "Din" didn't suit him.

Sometimes I brush my teeth only once a day. Sometimes after every meal. But always before sex.

The secret to my excellent chili is prunes. The secret to my excellent salsa is sambal belacan. The secret to my excellent chicken curry is Brahim's.

and lastly,

The thought that my doctor, people in Tan Sri Hassan Marican's office, and the GM of the Perdana Leadership Foundation read this blog is more frightening than being under SB surveillance.

Have a nice day, Mr Special Branch Officer Tuan Sir! May your day be filled with roti canai, nasi lemak and a clear conscience :)

This Is What It'll Be Like

2006-07-27T14:50:00.000+08:00

Hi, how are you. Today it rained in the morning and I was feeling really lazy. I love rain because it makes the day really cool and hazy and I feel like I'm in a foreign country. I fussed about my hair because I think it's not blonde enough for my husband. He loves me, you see and I love him. Sayaaaang sangat. Kiss kiss muah muah. My kids are wonderful and I have a wonderful life and yesterday I went to an IKEA sale, and my sister bought four white wicker chairs and then we had coffee and hotdogs with lots of relish. After that we went home. Oh I have a wonderful life, did I say that? It's a wonderful life because I had a government scholarship and my husband had a big oil corporation scholarship and we're all one big happy Malaysian family and this weekend we're going to Port Dickson. Oh and I had great sex last night because as I said, I have a wondrously happy and wonderful life and I have no complaints at all. And I had rice and fish for lunch.

Dah muntah ke belum?

If blogging comes under the purview of the Printing Presses and Publications Act, this is the only kind of useless drivel you'd be able to read from Malaysian bloggers. I mean, you might as well read the papers. (Aha!)

Is this a rational fear? Would a couple of admittedly obstinate bloggers with a flair for writing be able to influence the minds and thoughts of all Malaysians? Here's a newsflash : these bloggers don't form the opinions of the many; they reflect them. These bloggers, they're preaching to the choir, to use a quaint phrase spouted by a gracious blogger I met the other day. We read AKJ or Rocky or Jeff because we want to know that we're not alone in thinking such and such. These blogs merely put current affairs into perspective, and verbalise our worries into comprehensive, organized thoughts.

If the powers that be should fear bloggers, then here's something else they should think about : what exactly is fueling the popularity of these sites? The blogs are just symptoms, the disease runs deeper. People would be saying, okay, tak boleh baca tak apa, we'll just be discussing our misgivings over teh tarik, unless one day the mamak shop, too faces the bane of bans.

Of course, I am mad. Wouldn't you be mad if someone assumes you're brainless and incapable of making your own judgment? It's not as if I'm not aware of the personal biases of these bloggers. It's not as if I don't read the Op-Eds in the mainstream papers or watch the news on regular TV. It may come as a surprise, but sometimes I agree with the Chief Editors and sometimes I think the bloggers cross the line. But for God's sake, let me make that call. Let's all grow up, for once. The last time I checked, assesments and preferences are still within an adult's personal jurisdiction. It's my right to believe what I believe --- they have to do the convincing. It's too bad if you're not doing a good job at convincing. It's too bad if there's a perception problem because you're not the underdog, seemingly on the side of the oppressed. (I should think a simple solution to that problem is to actually be on the side of the oppressed)

I have to mention though, that I agree there are tons of websites and forums on the internet that seek to divide rather than conquer problems. I'd rather not read sites that call Malays pigs and the Chinese kafirs. They do exist, yes they do, just as the people calling Malays pigs and Chinese kafirs do exist. It's sad and sickening that after so many years we're still not one nation and the mistrust still lingers. But bans and laws will not solve the impasse, not by a mile. Engagement and education will. Looking at the problem straight in the eye and admitting we have a problem, will. Whitewashing the whole issue and not letting people know, that has to be the worst thing to do.

I know, I know, I shouldn't be up in arms about it because it's not as if I write anything controversial in my blog pun. If there's anyone who should be pressing charges, it'd be my long-suffering husband, he's the only one victimized. My writing won't amount to squat at the ballot boxes.

Ah, the ballot boxes. The ballot boxes.

You know, I'd be writing from Jakarta soon. I wonder if the Printing Presses and Publications Act would apply to me there?

Back Soon. Nak Kaler Rambut Dulu

2006-07-18T18:25:00.000+08:00

Yes, yes I hear yah. I haven't updated for nearly a month. Blogging is only irresistable when I have lots of work to do. When I actually have free time on my hands I'd rather go to the mall. Teruk, kan?

You see, we came back from Tronoh, all spent and happy; and to stretch that post-coital metaphor, all we want to do now is turn over and go to sleep. You can find out what we've been up to in the past few weeks at Suhaimi's blog. He's uploaded all the pictures there, it's rather pointless for me to do the same on mine. (It takes ages)

Now, no fat comments are allowed. Anybody even mentioning the word "gebebab" will get their FHM subscription anonymously cancelled, y'hear?

I promise I'll blog soon. In the meantime, Suhaimi and Papa Khalid and I are visiting Richard the Hairdresser. Uncharacteristically. I'm colouring my hair. Ni lah jadi bila dah penat. I don't think it has anything to do with my ovaries.

Instructions for Bumping Into Elida

2006-06-28T17:58:00.000+08:00

Most of us live in the Klang Valley, right? A huge number of us probably spend an inordinate amount of time at that triumvirate of Damansara, Sri Hartamas and Bandar Utama. My kids and I certainly do. Like the man in those Daia ads, I am cursed to be recognizable. So, if like Nefertiti (hello, darling) you happen to bump into me, or someone you suspect is me, don't sureptitiously point me out to your husband, or whoever your shopping companion may be, like most people do. Don' t go :

"Eh", (in hushed tones still audible to me) "Tengku Elida Bustaman!"
"Bukan lah!"
"Ye lah"
"Ye ke? Kat luar tak lah nampak tembam sangat"

The next time, please say hello and introduce yourself. I would really like to meet you, (especially if you're female) but you have the advantage of knowing what I look like. Well, some may know, anyway -- I shan't be presumptous and think I'm Siti Nurhaliza. Sadly, I only know very few bloggers apart from those who are related to me, and those firebrand ones I used to work with, or for.

It would really make my day if, while waiting to weigh in my vegetables, someone would smile at me and say : "Hi Mokciknab! I'm (insert name here)". Mokciknab is the secret code - I'd know straight away you're a blogger, or a blogreader. The truth is, whenever I go to Ikano or the Curve or Giant, I'd always wonder who, among the crowd, are the people I've met in the blogosphere.

Of course, don't ever do this to me :

"You broke my heart!" said a complete stranger to my friend a few days ago.
"Why?", he asked, befuddled.
"Dulu dalam TV you hemsem, sekarang sudah gemuk."

It's enough to make you homicidal.

Pergi Mandi!

2006-06-28T10:01:00.000+08:00

Let me own up to this disgusting habit : for the past week, I have neglected to shower before coming to work. That's right, I turn up at the office dengan tak mandi.

The thing is, I'm now staying with my mum, and because her house is not far from the office, I walk to work. I need the exercise anyway.

So I thought, nemain lah, just slap on something, bring along my clothes, go walk, then mandi once I get to the office. After all, Suhaimi showers at the office all time (if at all) , and we certainly have all the peripherals -- towels, two kinds of liquid soap, bath sponge thingy, a kain pelekat to change into, an array of moisturizers for every part of your body, and like, three tubes of toothpaste, some of which has calcified into stone. I thought it sounds like a plan.

The problem is, though, once I get into the office, I get sucked in by the PC, and the bath time is invariably delayed. The next thing I know, it's 2 oclock in the afternoon. In the beginning, I did mandi before I prayed zuhur, which if you know me, is just before Asar. The last two days, I went ahead and performed my solat without taking a bath. My body doesn't touch water until about 7.30, when I come home and need to solat Maghrib. I go down to lunch and meet people in the cotton pullover I slept in, with my hair a rat's nest, and my face oily and unwashed. It's a marvel people still speak to me. I blame it all on Suhaimi, who endorses this kind of behaviour, mainly because he does it, too.

So this morning, I decided to put a stop to all this. I had a good lather, wore decent, pressed clothes and began my jaunt, looking like an employable human being instead of someone who slept on pavements. As I crossed the road in front of my mother's house, a driver put his head out of his window and flashed me that gatal smile. At the next block, another two checked me out. As I climbed up the pedestrian bridge in front of my office, a guy waiting for the lights to change winked appreciatively, and probably looked up my skirt (thankfully, I wore nice undies). And just before I reached my building, men in a passing lorry made that annoying kissy sound that Malaysian neanderthals take to mean : hello, I think you're cute.

Now, I'm not exactly Elena Santarelli (you google her, God knows Saiffuddin did), I'm 38 and look 38, I have three children and look like I've had three children. My dressing is fairly makcik : a generic long skirt bought in Giant and a long-sleeved peasant blouse from Pasar Malam Taman Tun. If he weren't married to me, my own husband probably won't notice me in a crowd of people. So, all this attention because I took a shower? It occured to me that perhaps any woman walking down the street would get the same treatment, if she bothers taking bath.

That made me think : there is an edge to being ugly. When I was unkempt and unbathed, I was invisible -- I could just do what I was doing without being bothered. It's like what some animals do in nature, yes? I mean, I can be like the skunk or the warthog or the South African burrowing bullfrog, right? That decides it then. For my own safety and protection, tomorrow I shall once again neglect personal hygiene.

It's not like my husband's around, pun. He's in Jakarta, busy googling and oogling Miss Santarelli.

Notice of Apology

2006-06-23T12:56:00.000+08:00

I really want to talk to you, but I can't.

There's so many things happening, and since I'm a hopeless procastinator, most of those things are happening at the last nervous minute.

But, here are some quick despatches, just so you know I'm always thinking of you, all err, nine or ten of you. I found out that I had more readers than I imagined, which makes my lazy blogging even more unforgiveable, kan?

Hello to people reading from the Perdana Leadership Foundation -- I am surprised, though pleasantly so. Shouldn't you be visiting other, more cerebral websites? I guess Mokciknab is a nice rest, the antonym to intellectual.

I really want to write about the Global Peace Forum I attended with my father and Kamarul on Wednesday, but that needs a lot of calm and a lot of spare time. Right now I have to figure out al-Farabi.

This job of condensing and translating centuries of Islamic thought and scholarship is back-breaking, (partly on account of poor ergonomics and bad posture) but I'm not hating it at all. When most of Europe was still in the Dark, the Islamic intellectual empire burnt with brilliance. Centures ahead of its time, Muslim scholars expounded on techniques of surgery and invented surgical instruments, advanced the concept of free trade and open markets, outlined the role of government, theorised on the rhythms of history and society, founded the rudiments of trigonometry, named the stars and calculated the distance of planets.

And then today in the papers, I read that a parent lodged a complaint that a Bahasa Melayu teacher insulted Mawi's fiancee in an exam question. Oh, how far have we come? And more pertinently, what happened on the way down?

I have decided that from now on, when people ask if I have hero, I'd say it's the Andalusian doctor El-Zahrawi, because he invented enema. (It's only one of his minor achievements, since he also wrote a 30 volume medical encyclopedia)

I am currently having lunch -- fibre pills, three kinds of fruit (watermelon, papayas and cantaloupe), coffee and then a smallish bar of hazelnut chocolate. For breakfast I had briyani. I think I'm on a diet, but it would seem these things that I eat - they'd cancel each other out.

Curiously, it is not possible to go to bed one night and wake up as the Pussycat Dolls.

I am still wondering how on earth Pet managed to convince Tun Dr Mahathir to be his guest this Saturday. What strange alliances are afoot?

My children are growing up wild. Aiysha broke the glass sliding door upstairs in my mother's house because she wanted to vent her anger. Adam is on a kedai mamak big plasma screen World Cup addiction, abetted by my equally addicted brother in law (and he's a surgeon! woe betide the patient under his knife the next morning) Aliya, well, she can just be herself and cause enough trouble. Countless vases and ornaments have gone to heaven. They blew up my laptop adaptor, while skyping cousins in Saudi Arabia. And there are worse behaviour I am too ashamed to mention. These children seriously need a father. And I seriously think this is divine punishment.

My husband is coming home today, briefly, just to tie up a tender. I think he is a clinically certified workaholic who can no longer grasp the concept of family and human relationships. I am going to lie to him and say I have my period.

Don't File "Maggie Q" Under "Tuban Project"

2006-06-08T13:57:00.000+08:00

I am typing this in my husband's office in Setiabudi. It is my second day in Jakarta, a trip that is long overdue, postponed by my rather busy schedule, and also by the fact that Saiffuddin has been making frequent trips home. We're finally settling the rent on the Menteng house, and the crucial school enrolment for the kids. I was hoping there is furniture hunting somewhere in the itinerary, but I guess not. This whole transfer thing is an exercise in brinksmanship -- my kids, together with my mother, (hopefully) my father, my sister and her family will be coming over to stay at my house by the end of the month, and there is a good chance they'd be sleeping on the floor.

These are mundane problems, housekeeping stuff, really. I want to write about something else, and I'll have to type quickly before my husband comes out of this meeting he is currently in.

It started out like this : I found that my husband has a picture of me as his desktop background. In it, I am sitting on a petarakna, or a royal wedding dais, wearing a purple baju pahang, with my husband's school samping, and draped across my shoulders is my favourite kain panjang sembilan -- a silk limar in burgundy. It was taken by Papa Khalid, and I emailed this photo, along with a few others, to my husband, in the hope that he would use it exactly the way he is using it now.

Of course, we never think husbands can ever get things right. I complain that among the photographs I sent, he had to choose the one that made me look fat.

"No, no", Saiffuddin insisted, "this is the prettiest one".

I purse my lips in disagreement.

"Okay then, pick the one you like, and use that on my desktop", he said, and then quickly left to attend a meeting.

Listen, there are few things worse than leaving your wife all on her own at your desk. Unless you're sure, unless you are ---, oh, unless nothing, because believe me, all wives will manage to find something incriminating. For example, a few years ago, I was amused to discover that my husband had a whole stack of Malay magazines in his drawer, because they all contained pictures of this particular Sabahan actress. Major kantoi. My husband couldn't live that down for years. Why, I still give him that smirk every time Fred Flinstone calls out to his wife.

Well, anyway, on this sunny Wednesday morning, I was using his notebook to find an agreeable photograph of myself. The problem was, I couldn't locate the file in which he stored the pictures I sent. I couldn't very well call him out of a meeting on such a frivolous errand, could I? So I used the Search button. And there, among snapshots of our children and construction equipment, were several that I didn't count on.

There was one that had a topless Maggie Q frolicking on the beach. Several pages from what seems to be a Pirelli's calendar. And Rachel Stevens in undergarments.

The first thing that came to my mind was, oh thank God, my husband's not gay.

Then after a while I thought, Rachel Stevens? How plebeian. Every pom and his jug of bitter want Rachel Stevens. Now, I'm trying to think how many times he's watched S Club 7 in Miami with the kids.

Should I get my panties in a knot just because Saiffuddin appreciates the female anatomy? I have one or two straight friends (yes, I do), and I know they'd gawk at a good-looking woman, too, especially one with no clothes on, and it all seems pretty harmless to me. (Dosa tanggung sendiri la) I have a Haji friend who'd bug me to buy him FHM once a year, just for the Sexiest Woman list, but he's a nice guy all the same. Besides, the pictures Saiffuddin kept were sexy, but they weren't lewd. I mean, it'd be far worse if there was fisting or a large dog involved.

And this is hardly a guy thing, let's admit that at least. I'm not entirely blameless. I have a whole file called "Gambar Masjid" in MyPictures, a file filled not with images of mosques but of Freddie Ljunberg in tiny underpants, Hugh Jackman in a short towel, Brad Pitt in nothing at all, Raoul Bova lounging in water, and the entire French rugby team, sans jersey bleu.

The difference, though, is that I tell my husband about my collection of stamps. I'm a little mad that Saifuddin, on the other hand, decided to keep it a secret, and took pains to save the jpegs under a project tender. I tell because my pictures meant nothing. Why did he hide? Did it all mean something? Did he wish I was blonde and small and thin? Oh, I can really work up a temper if I think of all the possibilities.

The secret to a long term relationship, though, is to know the difference between what to worry and what to ignore. We've been together for almost twenty years (it's twenty next year) and I probably gave more trouble than Saiffuddin. So far, he hasn't applied to join PESUCUR*, although I hear the first requirement of membership is to say it doesn't exist, just like Fight Club. On the whole, my husband has been very, very nice to me, and this indiscretion is a small blip on an otherwise excellent marital record.

But I can't help being pissed.

Saiffuddin has a cough and comes out of the conference room looking for expectorant. As casually as I could, I remarked that I'm surprised he likes Rachel Stevens. Just for a brief second he looked like a deer caught in headlights.

"So you found them. Are you mad?"
"Yes", I smiled.
"I'm so sorry, " he tells me. "It's a guy thing. It's because you're not here. They remind me of you"

That last bit was obviously a lie, but could be instructional to husbands caught in a jam, because it almost works.

The most important thing is, he conceded guilt. Lovely, lovely. I'll get to use this as leverage for a few months at least. Already he's being extraordinarily obliging, and today I get to eat lunch at a restaurant and not by the roadside jajan, as is usual. At the moment, he's waiting for me to finish this sentence, so that he can bring me to ITC Ambassador. Ah, I'd probably get those furniture after all, don't you think?

*PESUCUR is the acronym for Persatuan Suami Curang, a loose grouping of itinerant husbands in Saiffuddin's batch (from itu sekolah, lah). Like Opus Dei, no member will publicly admit his association, for fear that his life, (or other things) would be unceremoniously shortened.

The Rose Myrtle

2006-06-02T12:24:00.000+08:00

Alah kesiannya orang Teganung yang tak tahu apa itu buah kemunting. Here is a description from botanist Lam Peng Sam, published in New Straits Times :

A BEAUTIFUL and useful plant by any standard, the Rhodomyrtus tomentosa or the Rose Myrtle (known as the Kemunting in Malay) is a popular shrub, even growing wild in open ground and easily recognisable. Almost all parts of the plant are densely downy; they have a cover of greyish velvety hairs. Native to Malaysia, it adds colour and interest to the landscape, and birds love to feed on the sweet, juicy fruits.

Its leaves are ovate and leathery, about 4-6cm long, with three longitudinal veins running from the tips to the base of the leaves. The flowers are rose to deep pink or lilac and are axillary: 3cm wide with pink stamens and downy on the outside, like the foliage.

Berries form after the flowers have set. The fruits are very sweet and juicy and attract even children. They have a pleasant taste and are good for jams.

The plant has local medicinal value. A concoction of the roots and leaves are drunk as a remedy for diarrhoea and stomach ache.

Now let me tell you why I have a kemunting bush in my front yard.

When my sisters and I were children, we would spend our school holidays commuting between two grandmothers : one who lived in Merang and the other who lived in Besut, both of which are in the Terengganu countryside.

Merang is a village by the sea, and there we'd spend our days swimming, beach combing and occasionally fishing in the nearby rice fields. When it gets too hot to do anything, we'd take long baths in my grandmother's bathroom, which shouldn't be called that, because there isn't a room, but an open-air enclosure underneath a large jambu air tree, with a telaga in the centre, and all sorts of water pump contraptions around it. Then we'd lie down in our wet kain 'sahang, or old sarong, on an adjoining jemorang or veranda and look up at the light coming through the spaces between the leaves of the jambu tree. We're hardly expected to do any sort of work in Merang, mainly because my grandmother was a super-efficient housekeeper, and also because she was sure we'd break something. Together with my sisters and our friends, we'd be out gallivanting among the kampung houses and coconut groves, poking at belimbing and mango trees and running away from monitor lizards, and then we'd come home when we're sure there was lunch.

Both my grandmothers were strict, but we only feared the one in Besut, because she doesn't flinch when pinching grandchildren. Unlike Mokciknab in Merang, whose identifying feature is her ability to nag, my Besut grandmother is a quiet disciplinarian, a trait which made her even more terrifying. She would hardly lose her temper, but she'd make it clear we were walking on eggs. In her house we knew never to laze around. We'll have recite the Quran every morning and then feed the goats and sweep the leaves from her backyard. Then she'd send us on errands to buy kerosene or a kati of biscuits or a box of mosquito coil, and as our reward we'll get assam masin or Yumbo with the change.

Sometimes, she'd let us follow her to the mosque at dawn, after which we buy breakfast, either nasi kerabu or nasi berlauk, or nasi kapit with sambal ikan. In the late afternoon, if it doesn't rain, we'll walk to a nearby pasar for kueh, like tepung boko, or fried bananas. If the weather's bad, we'd stay at home and boil sweet potatoes or tapioca or ubi keling, and eat them with tea while listening to the sound of the rain pelting down the roof.

If it's a clear day, and if my uncle, Ayah Sa is done with his batik painting, a much loved activity is to hunt for buah kemunting. Around my grandmother's house there was still scrubland, where lallang and kemunting and tenggek burung and marigolds grow wild, and where tiny streams of dark cool water run deep into the brambles. We'd spend hours in the bushes, collecting the deep purple berries and eating them on the spot. Ayah Sa is a terrible prankster. Once he went ahead of us and smeared booger over the ripe berries in our path, and watched in delight as my sister Dolly picked and ate them.

Today there are no remnants of the pokok kemunting around my grandmother's house, the streams have dried up, and the small sandy paths have all but dissapeared. In its place there are terrace houses and schools and a huge traffic junction. My grandmother passed away a long time ago, and her house has since lost its soul. I planted the kemunting bush in my yard as a memento to the time I spent with her, and to the childhood I wished could linger.

Eggless, Butterless Chocolate Cake

2006-05-26T13:47:00.000+08:00

Ingredients :
About two cups of flour
Two eggs
Lots of milo
Lots of milk
Lots of Froot Loops, Coco Pops and Cap'n Crunch Peanut Butter Cereal

Method :
First, make sure your mum is not at home. Mommies thwart progress. However, you should enlist your brother and sister for help because the more, the messier.

Next, use all the eggs and butter you have in the kitchen to make blueberry muffins; or what you think are blueberry muffins, since you're not using any blueberries at all but the buah kemunting you pick from the front yard. The muffins reportedly turn out yummy, so you and your siblings savour every crumb. So happy with the results, your brother think it's a good idea to make another batch for your mummy, which everyone agrees upon.

Of course, at this point, you realise there's no more butter and only two eggs. But you think you can wing it anyway, and everything will turn out just fine. You grab a mixing bowl, and bung in two cups of flour (don't bother with the sifting). Next, add the two eggs, and combine using a table spoon. The mixture will be all lumpy, so pour in some milk to get it going. Add spoonfuls of milo to the bowl. There is no metric equivalent to "spoonfuls", sorry, so you're just going to have to go with your gut feel. Usually it's about right when your maid starts screaming.

Pour the cake mixture into a round pie dish and bake in a microwave for about half an hour. It has to be a microwave because you can't work a gas oven. When the cake sets, ask your maid to take it out for you to decorate, which is the whole point of cake baking. Sprinkle the top with all the cereal, and dust some icing sugar, and voila! a most unique and colourful chocolate cake. When your mum comes home later that evening, she will think it's as heavy as a rock and tastes like heveafil, but she would also tell you it's the prettiest, most delicious cake in the world, and that you're the best cook ever.

Of Java Jive and Muslim Merits

2006-05-11T09:39:00.000+08:00

Hello, all seven of you who still read my blog : let me apologise for being increasingly erratic and horridly un-interesting in my posts.

The whole SSO family is distracted by two main clients -- a government linked VC who is desirous of re-branding and heightened visibility; and a university who, in launching their new mosque, wants us to set up an exhibition on the Muslim heritage of excellence. So you see, we actually have to do work, and work has considerably limited the time spent on things we'd rather do, namely blogging, eating and psycho-analysis; which we sometimes undertake all in one go.

Work, as well as Adam and Aiysha's impending exams, also mean that I'll have to forgo my fortnightly trip to Jakarta. My husband has repeatedly said he wished I could come over despite these responsibilities, which just goes to show that all his strictness with the kids is just a sham, because he'd sooner put sex above all other interests. Of course I miss Saiffuddin, too, but I am surprised to find that I also miss Jakarta, the city of inconvenience.

I mean, I actually yearn to be in the folds of that dusty, noisy, supremely un-navigable place. Every time I get back to KL I thank God, and I thank British imperialists and Malay conglomerates who made a bunch of money out of infrastructure, because I live in a town with wide roads, less people and a better sense of town planning. (Let's not discuss the merits of Singapore at this point) And just like Singapore, KL is swish and modern with all bells and whistles, but it is increasingly losing its soul. Jakarta, on the other hand, is a city whose heart is alive and wildly beating.

Life is hard for most people in Jakarta, and our driver once said that "Jakarta itu lebih kejam dari ibu tiri". But this adversity has made Jakarta denizens such resolute and resourceful people. In Mampang-Prapatan, where people jostle for space with huge drains and wooden factories, you see that most houses still bear the dignity and pride of its owners. Even though their abodes are roughly the size of our low cost flats, and the only front yard is a three feet opening, homes are kept meticulously clean, and usually adorned, either with plants or carvings. (Admittedly, sanitation elsewhere leaves much to be desired lah)

People living here go to work in cramped, cranky buses or mikrolets, or they'll take the rusty bajajs or post-war bimo's, or if they're in a hurry, they'll take ojeks, which means a pillion ride on a kapcai. But I often see them well-dressed for work -- women usually have coordinated shoes and handbags and I hardly see a man without a tie and a tucked in shirt. (With the exception of my husband, who dresses worse than his clerks) Despite the impossible traffic, most drivers are polite and understanding, and this is the absolute truth : I have yet to hear any commuter fling a swear word at anyone on the road.

Of course, there's the shopping, where every mall is a Sungei Wang ten times over. I once bought like, four sets of brand-name lingerie (and by that I mean with garters and stockings and the works) for under fifty ringgit at ITC Ambassador. One simple rule when going bargain hunting in Jakarta - if it says "ITC" (that's eee-tay-say in Indonspeak) in front, leave your husband in the car and go in with lots of money. You'll need every single rupiah, and a husband exhorting moderation and common sense, will just be a nuisance.

But if you ask me the things that I miss the most in Jakarta -- I'd say it's their arts and music; and their food. Oh I miss their food : nasi timbel with lots of ulam and fried sambal terasi, keredok, the sinful es teler, which includes pieces of avocado and buah kabung swimming in sweet coconut milk, and anything from Monami, a cake shop selling traditional kuehs and other pastries. A juice counter near my husband's office makes the best avocado shake in the world : ripe buttery slices of avocado blended in milk and palm sugar, absolutely heavenly and does no justice to your hips. God, I even miss simple things like fried bakwan, which is essentially fried cekodok, but there's the bakwan sold by a nice-looking mas back in Senen which has just the right amount of carrots and taugeh and dried shrimp. Besides, he has a smile for every one and packs his confection in home-made paper bags.

For arts and culture and music, Jakarta is nonpareil, at least when compared to Malaysia or Singapore. For someone who loves the prevalently popular Indo-pop, Jakarta radio is mother-lode. My dial hovers between I-Radio, Radio Kayumanis, Muslim FM, Female Radio and Hardrock FM Jakarta. You can hear live music for free, at food courts in any mall, although my favourites are at Pasar Festival, where on Friday evenings you can hear Ireng Maulana and Friends entertain you with jazz while you negotiate your ayam khalasan; and centre court in Atrium Plaza, where they hold school-band competitions on weekends. Once I was impressed by a band of sixteen year olds who gave a punk twist to the theme song from Crayon Sinchan. And they were cute, too. But the best example of free music in Jakarta must have been the day Dewa 19 promoted the release of their Republik Cinta album by playing in the street, on the back of a moving trailer ala the Beatles and U2, bringing traffic to a virtual standstill on the main arteries of Gatot Subroto and Sudirman. Now that's an album launch.

But if you like, there are endless places where you can pay to listen, but I haven't tried those yet -- I'd like to visit Planet Hollywood and Score! in Cilandak Town Square, and a jazz club in Aston Semanggi the next time I go. And I'd probably also check out a small open air place in Kemang, which gives new bands space to perform every Wednesday, although personally I hate Kemang.

There are concerts almost every weekend, some of them cheap and massive, like the ones they hold in Ancol beach, where people like Slank and Radja and Searius and Cokelat perform, but you go only at the risk of getting your head introduced to the broken end of an empty bottle. Or you can go to the respectable ones at Balai Sarbini, Erasmus Huis or JCC, which has seen the likes of people like Bob James and Lee Ritenour. The last notable concert, which I missed, was of the Tiga Diva -- a powerhouse performance combining Kris Dayanti, TT DJ and Ruth Sahanaya. They have the hugely anticipated Java Jazz Festival every year, and they have the Jakarta International Film Festival. And occasionaly, they come up with gems like a concert of drummers from different bands coming together, or the one which I desperately wanted to watch : Bass Heroes, a bareng fest of 13 bassists, including Thomas from Gigi, Rindran from Padi and Adam from Sheila on Seven.

And then, there's Taman Ismail Marzuki, which is like a one-stop centre for arts and culture : a cinema, a makan place and a performing hall all in one location.

The last time I was in Jakarta, I went to Taman Ismail Marzuki to see Calonarang, a dance theatre, which combined elements of Java and Bali dances, namely the bedaya and the legong. The performance was a testimony to the friendship between two doyennes -- Retno Maruti and Bulantrisna Djelantik, who combined the principles of two different dances to tell the story of Calonarang, and it was nothing like I've seen before. I felt like I was standing before a vast civilization, some of which formed the seat of my own culture, and I knew so little of its vastness.

And I suppose this is where my fascination with Jakarta, and Indonesia as a whole begins : it holds so much knowledge, so many clues about the my own origins, like it is the source from which springs my stream of consciousness. I see myself in the faces of so many people, and I am sometimes surprised by how so many of my husband's colleagues who correctly guess at my ancestry in Indragiri. Everyone already assumes my husband's Acehnese heritage, you can't miss the dark complexion, the broad forehead, the aquiline nose and the quick temper. I see elements of Terengganu words in the Indonesian language, and I am delighted by the similarity in food -- they too, have pulut lepa and temosa ikan, and keropok they call pempek, although the recipe is much watered down. This is where the art of songket weaving originates, before those skills are brought to our peninsular by Sumatran princesses who marry into the royal house of Terengganu (hence, the touch of Indragiri in me) So much of what we are, was born there.

There, lie stories about Bukit Si-guntang, and Demang Lebar Daun and Tun Sri Lanang, and Melayu-Jambi and Melayu Riau, and Paramesvara and Sri Tri Buana. Across the straits there is the romance of ancient kingdoms like Mataram-Demak and Majapahit, and epics like Loro Jonggrang or even Diponegoro. I am going to drown in the sea of antiquity, and I can't wait to explore every cave.

Post Script : There are many things that does annoy me in Jakarta, as there are things that I cherish about KL, or particularly PJ. Foremost among these is the availability of internet -- here there's wireless connection virtually every where. You still have to pay for the web at a Starbucks in Jakarta, and even then the connection is achingly slow. So hurray for Malaysia.

I Don't Appreciate Getting Scolded Through A Blog, But Hey, I Won't Kill The Messenger

2006-05-06T23:51:00.000+08:00

You've heard me before : my husband 's company is being painfully slow in disbursing the funds necessary for the whole family to move to Jakarta. At the moment, my stubborn-and trying-to-prove-a-point husband lives in what Indonesians call a "paviliun", a ground level flatlet, in a borrough that makes Kerinchi Dalam look positively like Park Avenue. Among his neighbours are two goats and a cow, the first things he sees in the morning when he goes out for his daily walk. In his route he will pass by ramshackle houses no bigger than my bedroom, wooden sundry shops and a kilang tempe that still uses chopped branches as fuel.

(Before anyone thinks the company he works for is being unnecessarily cruel, let me say that my husband could move in to Hilton if he wanted to; and is in fact doing so next week, presumably after having made the point)

Saiffuddin came back to KL during the Labour Day weekend, and for the first time, we see some positive steps being taken. Before this all enquiries had been met with the stock answer : "Err, tak tahu lah". My husband's immediate superior and usual saviour is in Sudan and hasn't seen his own wife for months; and noting that he is in an obviously worse boat, we thought it unfair to go running to him. We had sent some HR guy in the company invoices, like months ago, and apparently he never opened them. Thankfully, the guy's boss is way more responsible, and we're grateful that he has pushed things along.

The kids and I are anxious to join Saiffuddin in Jakarta, that goes without saying. I'm sick of being a single mother, and my children, particularly the youngest, miss him acutely. But worse than having to deal with our emotional well-being, is having to work within the ambit of uncertainty. We have a calling visa that we haven't picked up from the Indonesian Embassy because we're not sure of our departure date. Aiysha's classmates and teachers had to rescind their farewell cards -- I had planned for the children to stop their schooling in Malaysia after the first term exams, but now it looks like they'll have to sit for the second as well. My friends at work are tentative about including me in their plans because no one knows how long I can stick around. And now it would seem I have inconvenienced two sisters, and annoyed my mum.

My mother has been travelling halfway across the world, and then some, since mid-March. She spent more than a month attending to my youngest sister who had her first child in Seattle, came home for about five days, and then took two flights and a road-trip to Al-Khobar, where another sister just gave birth for the fourth time. In the meantime, the only sister left, the one still living in my mother's house, has just completed renovating her own home, and is in the middle of decorating madness. In a stroke of brilliant timing, my sister and her husband decided not to continue their maid's permit, although with good reason, since the girl has been dating a slightly off-kilter divorced neighbour, and lying through her teeth all the while.

My sister is a lovely girl, I love her to bits; she is one of those people who truly has a big heart, but she was never meant to do domestic work. That's why I made sure she married a surgeon. In an earlier life, she is used to waking up no earlier than eleven, and now maid-less, she has to launder her own clothes, keep the house clean and pick after her own baby. It doesn't help that she holds a job that is panic personified -- that of a an assignment editor hyphenate producer for a prime time news bulletin. (Why this TV station should put those two posts in one person is beyond me; and should be a rant reserved for another entry).

The problem, though, is this : before my mother left for Al-Khobar, I asked her if the kids and I could stay in her house for two weeks in May because we had promised to rent out our own home to my two staff, Shazwan and Ian, whose apartment lease ended in April. We had thought that by early May my husband would have sorted the children's schooling in Jakarta, and that we'd be able to move to our Menteng abode by the middle of the month. I had thought by then I would have sent a notice to Cikgu Latifah that the children will no longer be at school here. But I was wrong, there is no such certainty. And as it so happens, Shazwan had the foresight to have their lease extended. So there was no longer a need for me to tumpang at my mother's.

I had not realised my mother and sister had relied so much on me moving, a request which somehow had morphed into a promise according to my mom, and now I'm a bad Muslim for not keeping my word. My mother worries about this sister incessantly, and to be honest I'm a little miffed because now I feel that my mother had only agreed to me moving in more out of concern for my sister than charity for my family.

I am truly sorry she's having a bad time, but the upshot is this : if I move to my mom's house, my children will have a harder time going to school, and Saiffuddin is absolutely adamant that they still go until we're sure about the transfer to Jakarta. It will mean Adam might not be able to attend co-curricular activities, or he might have to stay back if he insists on attending. Admittedly, my not having a driving licence is part of the problem, but that could be worked out by other means. The move will be an upheaval for my children -- no more friends, no more football matches in the evening, no more noisy bus rides. Worse, there's no telling how long we'll have to menumpang -- it could be two weeks or two months. I'd rather do the waiting in my own living room, but if my mother insists and Elisa once again nags me about getting nagged, I might have to bundle the kids over, despite any protest from Saiffuddin. And I'll do it before Mother's Day.

But in the meantime, I've thought of a fair compromise; and to sesiapa berkenaan I hope my mom will feel relieved to hear it : I'll tell my sister she can drop her baby and laundry at my house on her way to work, and that she can borrow Kak Ti every Saturday to clean the house. Oh, we'll do the ironing too, if she wants. But beyond that I am sure she is capable of holding her own.

I'm so sorry to be so selfish, and I'm really selfish for my kids -- strangely they like living in their own house. Is it bad that I'm more concerned about an eleven year old, an eight year old and a six year old, rather than worry about a thirty year old, who has said herself she can take care of everything?

Cop Out Entry : Sweet, Sweet Sin

2006-05-05T00:46:00.000+08:00

This is one of my favourite songs -- it's a little dated, but I still wait for it to come on the radio whenever I go down to Jakarta. The words are so honest, I think. I also think a few of my friends would find them so apt.

It's funny, don't you think? No matter how old we are, no matter how pragmatic, sensible, or callous we think we've become along the way, given the right combination of love (or infatuation) and bewitching individual, we're achingly juvenile. Then we do things like post song lyrics on our blog. That is, if we can't write poetry.

Enjoy.

DOSA TERMANIS -- TERE

Ku lupakan semua aturan
Ku hilangkan suara yang berbisik
Yang selalu menyuruhku
Untuk tinggalkan kamu
Hanya hati yang ku andalkan
Dan ku coba melawan arus
Namun saat bersamamu
Masalahku hilang terbang melayang

Kau adalah kesalahan yang terindah
Hingga
buatku marah
tapi juga menikmati
Kau adalah dosa termanis yang menggodaku
Saat ku butuh
rasakan sedikit cinta

Kembalilah kau padanya
Hanya itu jalan satu-satunya
Karena semakin lama
Ku inginkan lebih

You can listen to this song (and quite a few other Indon hits) here. Ownernya lucu juga sih!

My Hot Friend

2006-04-19T15:59:00.000+08:00

Tell me what you think of these pictures of my hot friend, who obviously had a successful makeover. The wonder of fake eyelashes, I tell you. Aiyah, how to do that smouldering look, ah? I so jealous one.

Welcome to the World, Izani

2006-04-17T14:48:00.000+08:00

My sister Elisa now has four children. Four!

Congratulations to a brave mommy. I salute you for wanting more children than the statistically standard three, and I have no doubt the new addition will get as much love and fun as the rest of his siblings.

Sorry Murrow, We're Burrowed in Too Deep

2006-04-17T13:22:00.000+08:00

Where'd all the good people go?
I've been changin' channels
I don't see them on the tv shows
Where'd all the good people go?
We got heaps and heaps of what we sow
Jack Johnson, Good People

I was drawn to watch Good Night, Good Luck mainly for two things. First, instead of Edward R. Murrow, Good Night, Good Luck reminds me of a substitute newsreader who used the same phrase to end his newscast, but because he didn't have quite the same standing or panache, it ended up sounding like he was hoping the viewer would get laid afterwards. The second thing is George Clooney. I'm miserably jaundiced when it comes to pretty faces. I didn't think he could write or direct and wanted the film to prove me wrong.

So what did I think? I thought the film was a little patchy, and that a lot of reel time was perhaps wasted on incidental plots and a fat lady singing jazz, although Dianne Reeves did sing beautifully and I am now going to look for the soundtrack. However, Clooney's in-your-face message more than made up for his slight lack of craft. I wish he had made this film a little bit further up in his auteur career, when the direction and storyline could have been tighter, and he could have better conveyed the sense of persecution and stifle of the McCarthy era. But I realise he must have wanted to do this film now, at this time, when the moral of the story couldn't have had a greater significance.

The story started out with Murrow giving a speech at the Radio Television News Directors Association Convention in Chicago, in the autumn of 1958.

It is my desire, if not my duty, to try to talk to you journeymen
with some candor about what is happening to radio and television.
And if what I say is irresponsible, I alone am responsible
for the saying of it
Our history will be what we make of it.
And if there are any historians about fifty or a hundred years from now
and there should be preserved the kinescopes of one week
of all three networks
they will there find recorded in black and white, and in color
evidence of decadence,escapism
and insulation from the realities of the world in which we live
We are currently wealthy, fat,comfortable, and complacent
We have a built-in allergy to unpleasant or disturbing information
Our mass media reflect this

The speech in the film is a distillation of the actual keynote address, which you can read in full here, and which has even more quotes to justify the current disenchantment my friends and I feel about television in general. Like for example :

I am frightened by the imbalance, the constant striving to reach the largest possible audience for everything; by the absence of a sustained study of the state of the nation. Heywood Broun once said, "No body politic is healthy until it begins to itch." I would like television to produce some itching pills rather than this endless outpouring of tranquilizers. It can be done. Maybe it won't be, but it could. Let us not shoot the wrong piano player. Do not be deluded into believing that the titular heads of the networks control what appears on their networks. They all have better taste.

Or this :

To those who say people wouldn't look; they wouldn't be interested; they're too complacent, indifferent and insulated, I can only reply: There is, in one reporter's opinion, considerable evidence against that contention. But even if they are right, what have they got to lose? Because if they are right, and this instrument is good for nothing but to entertain, amuse and insulate, then the tube is flickering now and we will soon see that the whole struggle is lost.

This instrument can teach, it can illuminate; yes, and it can even inspire. But it can do so only to the extent that humans are determined to use it to those ends. Otherwise it is merely wires and lights in a box. There is a great and perhaps decisive battle to be fought against ignorance, intolerance and indifference. This weapon of television could be useful.

Stonewall Jackson, who knew something about the use of weapons, is reported to have said, "When war comes, you must draw the sword and throw away the scabbard." The trouble with television is that it is rusting in the scabbard during a battle for survival.

Unfortunately, we can only take comfort in knowing that we're not unreasonable to think something is not right.

I'm afraid things have gone so much worse since 1958, that the damage is perhaps irreversible. In the very same speech, Murrow lamented that television and radio have "grown up as an incompatible combination of showbusiness, advertising and news". Here and now, there is political patronage and personal ambition thrown into the molotov cocktail. The media has world domination; and all of us born after Baird cannot escape it.

George Clooney, whose father Nick was a TV anchor and radio host, must have wanted Good Night, Good Luck to be a kind of roadsign to steer us back in the right direction. Unfortunately, I think the people who wanted viewers to go on this trippy detour knew exactly what they were doing. To them, there was no mistake.

=======================================
Here's a test. Do you like the above piece or do you like my next question :

Of all these TV doctors and interns, who would you rather sleep with :

A. Dr Gregory House

B. Dr Derek Shepherd

C. J.D

D. Warrick Brown (okay, he's in forensics, not medicine, but hey, he can play doctor with me)

and for a bit of irony,

E. Dr Douglas Ross

You were actually considering the answers, weren't you? See? I rest my case.

2006-04-16T21:42:00.000+08:00

At different, different times of the day, but mostly at night, I would imagine what you might be doing, at this precise moment when I am here, far away.

I imagine you cross-legged on the floor, your back against the edge of bed, hunched over the Quran. If I close my eyes, I can hear your voice as you recite the Words and meanings, I can hear your voice, the gentle timbre.

Or you would be sitting with the guitar across your lap, plucking not out of sheer talent but fierce determination, slowly, tentatively, each note squeezed out one by one. It would sound jarring, but I would only be looking at your fingers, gliding across the strings.

It is sad to think of you eating lonely meals, in an empty house, in a foreign land. I wonder if at the end of another solitary evening, you would sigh and think of us as you turn off the lights, or if you'd turn off the lights at all. You've always been resolute, but now when you call I can hear desolation chipping away at determination, like drips of water upon a rock. I've always been the one weak-spirited, hysterical and expecting the worst, but this time even I can't afford not to keep my chin up, put my faith in optimism. It's the only way to get through.

Update on Updates

2006-04-12T21:40:00.000+08:00

Hello, how you've been?

Been sick for the past week, been to Jakarta and back.

Not too good at all. Forgive me for the prolonged absence.

I spent six days with Saiffuddin, six precious days agonizing whether the rest of the family would be joining him in Jakarta at all. His HR Manager says he doesn't know. My husband's furious. They haven't sent him money, can't tell when they will. We parted tearful, ambivalent about what we should do next.

Aiysha is mad at me because I told her we'd be going by the middle of the month and the whole class made her a farewell card. Including her class teacher. Now she's mortified to go to school.

Adam on the other hand, couldn't be happier.

Because I had chicken pox on my wedding day, I am forever cursed to ensure other people's receptions are perfect. Last Friday, Papa Khalid and I were the emcees at one such affair -- it featured about thirty thousand ringgit worth of flowers and high-end royalty. We pulled it off through pantuns and cough medicine, and then had nasi lemak at Kak Limah's.

I had a massive sore throat throughout the weekend, while my two girls plied me with get well cards and cups of cold water in which they dunked tea bags. They were good nurses. Every half hour they'd peer into my face to see if I'm awake. "Are you well now, mummy?", they kept asking, because a sick mummy means no outings for little nurses.

We went out eventually, on Tuesday -- and you can see the pictures here.

So that's about it. Hope you had a better time than me!

Eaves Drops

2006-04-12T17:51:00.000+08:00

Drops of Skype :

[1:04:25 PM] Elida says:
what did you have for dinner last nite?
i'm not stopping you from having lunch, am i?

[1:05:19 PM] Saiffuddin says:
I had Papa Ron's Pizza.
You are and I am hungry
Very hungry
but because I just love you it's ok

[1:06:20 PM] Elida says:
i love you, too darling
you want to go makan or not

[1:06:47 PM] Saiffuddin says:
Want
I go eat first ok

[1:07:00 PM] Elida says:
sue just called me from the airport. he just arrived from ho chi minh.
i'll talk to you later.

[A little later]
[1:44:34 PM] Saiffuddin says:
Are you still there

[1:46:14 PM] Elida says:
yeap

[1:48:07 PM] Saiffuddin says:
Well what did Che Mi say about Vietnam

[1:48:32 PM] Elida says:
tak sampai lagi. tadi masa call i tu baru je landing

[1:49:10 PM] Saiffuddin says:
I have a bit of a kembung. May be Papa Ron's Pizza doesn't quite agree with me.
Been swallowing carbon pills
Hello are you watching Oprah again.
If you are I am going away
five
four
three
two
one
half

[1:51:34 PM] Elida says :
i'm not going away.
i was going to tell you about the documentary i watched last night [Muhamad, Legacy of a Prophet] and wanted to find a website about it
daaaaaddddaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
;(

[1:52:04 PM] Saiffuddin says:
Well didn't you say it was a rabbi show

[1:52:05 PM] Elida says:
jangan lah lari

[1:52:30 PM] Saiffuddin says:
Tunggu lama sangat

[1:52:38 PM] Elida says:
it wasn't a rabbi show. well, they did have rabbis in it. one or two and one professor from the hebrew union college
[Actually the fact that it did feature Jewish respondents and touched on the relationship between Jews and Muslims during the Prophet's time, made it very interesting. But that's another post]

[1:53:40 PM] Elida says:
by the way, r**** wants me to go with suhaimi to tronoh next week
r**** kata kat suhaimi, "bawak bini katak"
sounds terrible when it's written down
i'm no longer a person. i'm always "bini katak"
[katak is my husband's nickname in school]

[1:55:04 PM] Saiffuddin says:
Pasal dia tak nak orang gossip dia dengan Suhaimi

[2:01:17 PM] Saiffuddin says:
Kost not too bad, private
[Due to some cash-flow bungling, my husband was forced to move out of the apartment. Despite his company's assurances that in the interim he could stay at The Hilton, he apparently decided to sulk and slum it out, to prove a point. Men are weird]

[2:01:49 PM] Elida says:
private ka. the units are cramped together mah

[2:03:34 PM] Saiffuddin says:
Kitchen is ok too. There is a small back way completely walled up

[2:04:04 PM] Elida says:
backway completely walled up? yes um!
very nice! does it has access to a hose?

[2:04:40 PM] Saiffuddin says:
and what do u want with a hose

[2:04:50 PM] Elida says:
whatever YOU want

[2:05:11 PM] Saiffuddin says:
What can I do with it? Pray tell

[2:05:12 PM] Elida says:
oh, i can think a lot of things you can do with a hose

[2:05:26 PM] Saiffuddin says:
Do tell
[so i did tell, and he did agree]

[2:06:37 PM] Saiffuddin says:
I'll see to the logistics

[2:06:43 PM] Elida says:
there you go. practical things you can do with garden equipment
and we can do this at middday
while other people are hanging up their washing
now i miss you terribly

[2:26:00 PM] Saiffuddin says:
I miss you, too. You and the kids.
Yesterday it rained heavily. Some cars got pinned under trees.
3 people died
It's raining still
Not as heavy as yesterday

[2:28:07 PM] Elida says:
life is cheap ain't it in jakarta

[2:28:18 PM] Saiffuddin says:
I have meeting till late tonight
[His bosses are arriving from KL later in the evening. Apart from some heavy duty discussions, my husband's intending to raise the delicate issue of the cash-flow bungling]
So I don't think I can call u till late.

[2:29:26 PM] Elida says:
no worries. call after 11. want to watch grey's anatomy

[2:29:45 PM] Saiffuddin says:
Yeah, yeah you got cable
Me no got
I need my TV, I need my TV
It's driving me up the wall watching TV with bad signal

[2:32:11 PM] Elida says:
okay. read a book. pick up a culinary skill. write a blog
call it the i miss my wife and kids blog
[we then talk about when i should visit him next, and we calculate my ovulation cycle]

[3:21:09 PM] Saiffuddin says:
I'll wait for you.

[3:26:56 PM]Elida says:
by the way, bury your dreams about queen -- i knew mark burnett productions won't have the guts (or folly) to be that ambitious : check out http://rockstar.msn.com/
and do you know that american idol is doing queeeeeeen today?
oh i cringe to think what they would sound like
massacre i tell you, how dare they
[As it turned out, not a single contestant did justice to the memory of Freddie Mercury]

[3:36:07 PM] Saiffuddin says:
I can't seem to get to MSN. Pray tell who it is.
Never mind, who is Supernova?
Isn't Supernova what happens to stars when they die

[3:36:27 PM] Elida says:
hahahahahahahaha so apt!!!

[3:36:59 PM] Saiffuddin says:
Which one is Supernova

[3:37:25 PM] Elida says:
it is a new group formed by tommy lee from motley crue, jason newsted from metallica and gilby clarke from guns and roses. so you see, the biggest star is tommy lee. so now they need a lead singer
boooooooring

[3:38:08 PM] Saiffuddin says:
Oh. So it's got no songs la
Nobody knows them la

[3:38:28 PM] Elida says:
no it'll just feature a naked pammie twiddling her nipples at dave navarro i think

[3:38:57 PM] Saiffuddin says:
A bunch of good for nothing drunks la

[3:38:59 PM] Elida says:
that's it lah. boring

[3:39:24 PM] Saiffuddin says:
Boring
Well it's a try. maybe it'd be good too.

[3:39:43 PM] Elida says:
if pamela lee actually does appear topless

[3:39:57 PM] Saiffuddin says:
And do what

[3:40:05 PM] Elida says:
i dont know. just stand there
what would you like pamela lee to do?
(that's a trick question, by the way)

[3:43:27 PM] Saiffuddin says:
Any Asians through the try out's?

[3:43:53 PM] Elida says:
i dont know. they havent finished auditioning yet. i think the audition's in hong kong next

[3:44:31 PM] Saiffuddin says:
There has to be a token Asian
Malaysia you can forget it

[3:45:13 PM] Elida :
who knows. i can always hope
actually armand maulana did get into the semis for inxs, what?

[3:46:06 PM] Saiffuddin says:
His Jawa looks got him kicked out

[3:47:07 PM] Saiffuddin says:
Maybe Indonesian version nanti Rockstar D'Lloyd pulak
Hari tu dah jumpa kombo kat supermarket yang main lagu D'Lloyd

[5:18:38 PM] Elida says:
oh you just love little pokey stuff like that

anyways got the rundown from suhaimi about vietnam
looks good -- they're signing us on, insya Allah end of may
but the malaysian company may have trouble with capital (what's new?)
***** is interested in putting in money for the venture though.
so suhaimi has seduced *****'s rep.
ada scene pakai towel terbelah
DONT ASK

[don't ask. seriously]

Rum Tobacco and Lucky Strikes

2006-03-29T20:58:00.000+08:00

For the past few days, I've been cleaning out my house, getting ready to move on : closure in a physical sense. We've accumulated some serious junk in the past ten or eleven years living in that house, seperating the valuable from the useless is such a tedious process. It also doesn't help that so many small things remind me of some big adventure, and everytime I come across these beacons of memories, I will stop, caress them in my hands and reminisce.

I have a hard time going through drawers. I found the hideous orange watch my husband and kids gave for my birthday. I found an old to-do list, that was apparently written before a New York trip : immediately after "research bond market interest in power companies" was "buy enema", with exclamation marks and double underscore. I found lonely earrings, packets of stuff that could be mistaken for vape-mat but are not vape-mat, foreign money, heartfelt thank you notes, small envelopes of medicine, old payslips, obgyn appointment cards for each pregnancy, hastily written addresses and telephone numbers.

And then, tucked within a lace mirror case I bought in Brugges, I found this picture :

It must have been taken in the early seventies, and I'm sad to see it marred by tear and dog-ear. That's me, the girl with the frown. The lanky man with me is my grandfather, I call him Bah, even though my father calls him that, too. I've always thought Bah had more than a passing resemblance to James Coburn.

Bah was my favourite grandparent. Alas, he was also the first one to go.

As I grow older, I search for things that remind me of Bah. For example, Old Malay songs, because he used to play them on his violin. A vivid memory was a melayu asli jamming session at our house, Bah played the violin, accompanied by some members of Kombo RTM Pantai Timur, while Pok Itam, the guy who owned a stall nearby, crooned old favourites. We didn't have to attend PPAG concerts to learn about traditional music -- we get to hear them, live, weekened evenings in our living room.

I also remembered the first time I ate chili corn carne -- cowboy food, he told me. It was late in the evening and Bah roused a friend in Batu Rakit to fire up his restaurant kitchen to make him some. Because my grandmother (the eponymous Mokciknab) absolutely did not eat meat, I remembered eating it surreptitiously, and my grandfather had a grin and glint in his eyes as he ladled each spoon. My grandmother's nagging about him was always about food. Once a fisherman friend gave him a large ikan parang as a gift, and ikan parang were his favourite, but it was then dusk, and my grandmother had already prepared dinner. I remember having to be the one meekly handing over the fish to my grandmother, who immediately launched into a tirade. My grandfather, he would never complain -- he only had that grin and that glint in his eye.

He had a gold tooth. He had a glint in his smile, too. Oh, he was always smiling. And his extraordinary grey eyes would be smiling, too.

I always hoped one of my children would inherit his grey eyes, but no one did. I hoped they would inherit his musical gift, or his fine penmanship, or his skills with the rifle, or his talents at bandminton, but none has displayed any such hint. Exasperated, I made my husband smoke a pipe, so that I could smell the same rum tobacco on his shirt.

But I found, no one could replace Bah. Gentlemen just aren't bred that way anymore.

By Gum!

2006-03-28T15:10:00.000+08:00

Tons of apologies for those in tears over all these mommy blogs -- what to do? Mommies need an outlet to neutralize all the crap they have to undergo daily. (Sometimes the crap is like, real crap)

Unlike successful businessmen, or high flying corporate types who can pop into Bar Savanh for a de-stressing drink and some eyeful; or mosey on to whatever secret lair successful people go to nowadays to get their daily rub, society has yet to create similar facilities for mommies. But here, in cyberspace, there is blogging, a sort of communal therapy with other mommies, with no cover charge, no watered down alcohol and thankfully, no poledancing. Okay, maybe we get a visit by the occassional unfortunate bloghopping non-mommy, (oh, you poor dear) but you know, we always make sure no one gets hurt.

So, until The Partriarchs devise a way for mommies to get off work at 6 pm so that they can go somewhere to see a Patrick Dempsey lookalike gyrate in jeans, we will continue blogging. And talk endlessly about our children, whine about our husbands and enquire about our gynaecological problems. So sorry.

Well, anyway, moving on : I wasn't going to say anything about this piece of news, because you know my blog is a mommy blog and all, but I had those bad urges, the ones you get from working in a newsroom, and no, I'm not talking about holding in your pee because of a looming deadline. My raison d'etre for putting up this little snippet is to make you, dear reader, attain clarity. Understanding. Submission to the truth. The same purpose in life that imbues all good news editors in the country.

And just like any good news editor, I'm going to stick to my plan of not saying anything meaningful, and just let you read the story yourself, which I have kindly reproduced here, just in case you used that particular page to wrap used diapers, ie the aforementioned crap :

(from The Star, 28 March 2006)
Suhakam never meant to have teeth

At The Dewan Rakyat

THE Human Rights Commission (Suhakam) was never meant to have any “teeth”, Minister in the Prime Minister’s Department Datuk Seri Nazri Aziz told the Dewan Rakyat.

Its role, he said, was to promote human rights in the country and not to enforce such rights.

“The Government has never suggested that Suhakam be given any teeth,” he said in reply to Teresa Kok (DAP – Seputeh).

Kok had asked if the commission should get more power and role so that it would not be a powerless government agency.

Nazri said it would be up to the relevant authority to take action on any of Suhakam’s recommendations on human rights infringements.

So we're clear about that, ya? All those in disagreement, direct your petitions to, to, to

(ummmm)
(hmmmmm)
(haiyoh)

Oh what the hell, this is worth a shot :

Please now send all your petitions, habeas corpus applications, pleas for equitable and constitutional relief, or any other matter relating to fundamental liberties; to the Lancre Witches, in um, Lancre. They're the original mommies and don't even take Commission.

I'll Never Win Mother of the Year

2006-03-23T16:35:00.000+08:00

My sister wrote a nice piece about the effects of television, or cartoons, to be specific, on her children. Folks, what she has done with Ilham, Ihsan and Anis is the right thing to do. I'm afraid I hadn't had the same kind of luck with my kids. I confess, when they talk about overweight children getting their brains fried on TV and having eyes like they're on a nicotine fix : they were talking about my kids.

My kids are definitely learning the wrong things, or the right things, if you consider being a funny voice-over artist an illustrious career. For example, they are absolutely nuts about Camp Lazlo : which features the adventures of beanscouts Lazlo, a free-spirited but misguided monkey, Raj, a neurotic elephant, and Clam, a quirky, albino, pygmy rhino (who knew these animals existed?) Over and over again, I'll get to hear my kids enact a scene from Camp Lazlo, the one used as a promo for the series. I can't really remember much of it, but in the end it goes :

"Wata-wata-wata-wata, do you have any waaaaataaa?"
"Sparkling or Non-Carbonated?"
"Uh, sparkling would be fine."

And then all three would be all over the floor, in hysterics.

The week before it is the "I want to buy a hamburger" bit from Pink Panther -- Aiysha gets to be the English instructor, Adam is Inspector Clouseau, and Aliya the laughtrack.

It's funny how they can remember whole chunks of dialogues from cartoons or films but can't seem to recall the difference between a wakil rakyat and a penghulu in Kajian Tempatan. But who'd blame them? The subject matter is terribly boring -- and their exam paper looks like one of those tests you have to sit through if you're a government servant. Now, if only they can make an imaginary blue blob, or a smug octopus, or the Grim Reaper teach Kajian Tempatan. (If you're a parent, you'd recognize each one)

Ten or fifteen years from now, I wonder what kind of adults they would grow up to be, considering the warped sense of humour and distorted worldview they absorb from Cartoon Network and Nickelodeon.

Already, Adam and Aiysha have a pronounced mistrust for grown-ups in authority, especially those who use grown-up powers in ways they perceive are oppressive towards children. It also doesn't help that their father feeds their minds with all sorts of ideals about rights and human dignity, and warnings about the wickedness of government. Adam once likened school to a kind of gulag, where students are slaves who work non-stop in a mine, where teachers are the black-masked slave drivers with whips, and where the headmistress is the supremo evil mastermind, laughing manically while everyone else does her bidding.

Sometimes, I am that evil grown-up, in which case they'd be quick to point it out, but I hardly ever back down from my decisions, and my kids would usually accept them if I have a good rationale. Or give them a good deal. The thing is, back in my time, my mother won't even bother reasoning things out or negotiating -- discipline is discipline, my word is law and that's it. Now, I have to earn that kind of respect. It usually comes from knowing the name of that blue blob, or the difference between Electronic Arts and Ubisoft, or the characters in Madonna's English Roses. Their father, on the other hand, is always treated with deference, because he can assemble mechanical things, has the ability to do Math and has a proper job. Having an abrupt temper, apparently, also helps.

The flip side to all this is my children have developed self-empowerment, although I'm not sure it is entirely the result of those brash characters they see on TV, or the fact that I'm not of drill-master quality. My children are not afraid to voice out their opinions, even when they're contrary to others, especially when they're contrary to mine. If I say something that hurts their feelings or belittles them (and I do this mostly in jest or unintentionally), they have no qualms telling me exactly how they feel. Adam has recently imposed a "no-touchy" injunction against me, because he's sick of getting his cheeks pinched and his butt slapped. (I still do as I please) On one hand, I want to nurture that kind of confidence, on the other, it makes it hard for me to reinforce my role as someone they should listen to. Maybe I should try a spot of abrupt temper.

I envy mothers who are able to shape and mould their children exactly the way they want them to be. I have no one to blame really, I know I haven't put in the requisite time and effort it takes to be a good mother, and I don't possess the iron-handed diligence to pull it off. Faced with the prospect of say, going through multiplication tables, or putting up a mock comedy night, I'd always choose the latter. What can I do? I hate multiplication tables. Discipline? It would seem that I need that medicine more desperately than my children.

And so, the idiot box has been, on many occassions, the de-facto parent. It's worse now that my husband is in Jakarta and not here to provide the balancing factor. This week Adam and Aiysha have exams, and I've limited their TV viewing time. I found that the influence of slapstick and weird humour can transcend even an empty screen.

Last night, for dinner we had steamed broccoli with macaroni, cheese and sausages (saute a little garlic and chopped onions in some butter, add sliced sausages, fry till crisp, then add to pre-cooked mac and cheese). To entertain their youngest sister, Adam and Aiysha decided to hold a farting competition. Broccoli and sausages, by the way, are perfect for the production of good quality flatulence, and the two just went on and on, while making the appropriate faces to accompany the cacophony. I pulled my nightie over my head and dialled my husband in Jakarta.

"Look, I truly think we raised them wrong", I told him. I can't remember what Saiffuddin said, maybe it was don't worry or poor Mommy or something to that effect, but I know he was laughing. No one, I tell you, no one takes me seriously as a mother.

Well, what do I expect? My plan for raising kids is to live on a wing and a prayer : make-it-up-as-we-go-along and lots of faith in doa's.

As well as Marks and Sparks tea-rose room spray.

Hit First, Ask Questions Later

2006-03-20T01:23:00.000+08:00

Some things make you wonder why you pay income tax.

This is what happened to our friend, Ms Way-Too-Groovy-for-Her-Husband (or Ms WagBun for brevity, but let's not argue about the technicalities of abbreviation).

This morning Ms WagBun dropped off her daughter at school, one of those old ones in the middle of the city. As she was about to return to her car, she was attacked by a snatch thief, who wanted her handphone. A struggle ensued, the phone dropped to the ground, and the assailant took flight. Fortunately for Ms WagBun, other parents chased after the man, and he was finally apprehended by the school guard. Now this is where the fun starts.

If this happened to you, you'd call the police, right? Who else would you call? Surely, the good men and women who vowed to serve and protect the public from all evil. After all, you've seen them do exactly that on Gerak Khas and Maria-Mariana or whatever else that has Erra Fazira and AC Mizal in it. We're not asking for Detective Mac Taylor.

So, of course Ms WagBun called the police.

And the police told her they can't do anything.

Because they said the guy didn't actually get away with the goods. So like, no crime was committed. I'm quite willing to dispute that, but I left my Penal Code at home.

Why, people get to stay in that nifty resort in Kamunting just for thinking about another form of government. But in this incident, where the basic ingredients of culpability -- mens rea (guilty mind or intent, not male butt) and actus reus (actual wrongdoing) -- are evident in broad daylight, in front of maybe half a dozen witnesses, the police say they can't do anything? Can't do? Not willing to do? Who knows what's the difference anymore?

The police assured Ms WagBun that they will step up their rondaan's around schools, and not just LRT stations (because so far, that's where most snatch thefts occur, they said). Obviously, increased police presence will prevent known criminals from committing a felon, much better than say, locking up them scoundrels in the first place. (Insert argument about crowded jails, low pay for the Force, the politics of incarceration, rehabilitative vs punitive, Krusty Krab vs Chumbucket or whatever, here)

So anyway, here was Ms WagBun, shaken and stirred at her daughter's school so early in the morning, with one guilty snatch thief (okay, aspiring snatch thief) on her hands. What was she supposed to do with this guy, now that he's caught redhanded? She insisted on making a police report, and the police officer on the other end (if you're with me, they're talking on the phone, remember) said she can come round to the police station, with the security guard and the snatch thief. Haha. She's going to drive to a police station, in her car, with two strange men, one of whom just tried to rob her.

Well, okay, let's just play along. Her car is somewhere at the back of the school, and the security guard offered to drive it up front, so that they can all go to the police station for a nice chat and a spot of tea, perhaps. In the meantime, the thief is supposed to be in the custody of the other guards. But since all good things must come to an end, the guy managed to escape, and the other guards couldn't contain the interloper. Ms WagBun called back the police, hoping one of their Gerak Khas kereta ronda would be able to nab the man, but the good officer said :

"Kalau dah lari, tak leh nak buat apa lah"

You know, in Jakarta, if a snatch thief is caught, he will be at the mercy of the crowd, who would invariably beat him to a pulp, and the scene is then replayed on the evening news in all its graphic glory. But we think we're more civilized than that, don't we?

Sleep is a Strange Country

2006-03-18T04:38:00.000+08:00

It is almost four a.m in Jakarta. An hour ago I was roused by the realisation that I have been struggling, in my sleep, to recite every single Quranic ayat and doa that I know, and that's an abysmally short list.

In this dream I had, I am the subject in some kind of initiation ceremony. There were flowers of every colour, and there was an old woman, tall, dark, erect, her hair up in a chignon, her body wrapped in brown batik, shoulders bare. She's teaching me to chant things I couldn't remember, and I was trying with every shred of faith I had in me, to resist. I recalled at one point, having my arms outstretched in front of me, and the woman took my hands, willing my fingers to go this way and that, gamelan postures, and she instructed me to hold my stance because she was about to transfer to me, well, something.

Something vague, it seems the whole ritual is an ancient, incense-filled download. I was given a kain panjang sembilan, of a miring pattern, and somehow the cloth became a coil from which I was trying to escape. I'm aware of being outdoors, in fact, in some dusty street, and I didn't wait for the ceremony to end, because I was running away, flinging the kain panjang about me, and in my path was a hag, her hair unkempt and grey and she was blind, because there was a film of milk over her pupils. She was laughing at my attempts, but I gathered my strength, I turned a corner, with all of God's Words that I could muster in one breath.

At this instance, I woke up, burrowed my face into the bulwark that was my husband's back. He tells me to recite Ayat-ul Kursi, and to go back to sleep. I told him to close the windows and draw the curtains, which he did, but then he had to get up to take a leak and I hid under the covers, just in case, in the meantime, something came leaping from the corners. I recited the Kursi, the Three Quls, tried to slip into slumber with the Salawat on my lips.

But the moment I sank into the subconscious, the dream continued, the ramrod woman still waits, and she now had with her a large brown bull, and there was a pubescent girl astride the brute, dressed in an elaborate costume of blue, green and silver, and in her hair was a headress of white blossoms. Her painted face was solemn, like she was anxious that I would dissapoint. I am determined to; for I commanded my eyes to open. I stared at the ceiling, whined to my husband that I couldn't sleep, and because he loves me he didn't reproach me or anything but instead told me about his dream, which he says is a good one. I worry a little that it might involve Susanna Hoffs from The Bangles but thankfully, it did not.

"The other night", he tells me,"I dreamt the both of us performed the Hajj. Tonight, I dreamt we were going for our Umrah".

I am ashamed I couldn't dream up something as holy.

"The whole trip", Saiffuddin said cheerfully, " was organised by Papa Khalid".

I told him that it was entirely possible because I had spoken to Papa Khalid about the very same thing.

"Anyway", my husband continued, "We were all at the airport, getting ready to leave, and we had our luggage about us, but Abang Polis had to change his clothes right there at Departures because he was wearing a T-shirt and a shimmy-shimmy skirt, and it was all getting a bit kecoh because he was opening his bags to look for a jubah".

I blinked once or twice, and then asked, "Was he wearing heels from Princess?"

My husband yawned and said he didn't see. I tried to close my eyes, but the woman was still in my head and I didn't have the heart to bother Saiffuddin for the third time, as he was already gently snoring. So I got up, and decided to stay up, and blog about this, and watch the remnants of a match in which Manchester City triumphs over Aston Villa, while trying to ignore the sounds of shifting furniture from the apartment upstairs.

Who would be moving sofas and beds and sidetables so early in the morning?

Aiysha is Eight

2006-03-18T04:21:00.000+08:00

My daughter Aiysha was the most difficult to deliver. I had resolved not to use an epidural, and I hadn't expected the pain to be so excruciating. The nurses kept shoving me an oxygen mask while the agony surged like waves; I was wishing it would end but not quite ready to let go. Then Dr Idris tells me the baby was lying the wrong way, and he had to go in and turn her right, up or down I can't remember. The corrective procedure was torturous, I thought he was twisting off the bottom half of my body. But in the end, Aiysha came safely into the world; much to the chagrin of some boys in Standard Two, who must prefer that she never came round to kick their butts or call them Squeaky Mouse.

Yaaaay! My Webmaster Sudah Beranak

2006-03-13T12:52:00.000+08:00

Hurray! Alhamdulillah, my webmaster and Nizam has successfully comissioned little baby Alif, on the 10th of March. As usual, I was the last to know. What sms? What email? I didn't check any of those, heh.

Weird isn't it that he was born on the same day as my husband? Saiffuddin and I were married on her birthday. They must be on some kind of cosmic collission. She's his favourite anyway. (There has been occassions when he said yes to her requests, when I knew he'd say no to me)

Can't wait to see pictures!

Can't wait for the next baby!

Eh, it just occured to me that Alif also shares the same birhtday as Jeff Ament. Although not the Great Eddie, still it ought to make the mother pretty pleased.

Mr Pro Bono

2006-03-11T12:52:00.000+08:00

So he's been called Man of the Year for all the poverty eradicating work that he's done. And you younger kids probably think of him as some kind of bleeding heart activist who sometimes sings in a band. Oprah loves him, and with that comes the endorsement of all housewives around the world.

And then one weekend morning, you catch this on MTV, and remembered, the man used to be a rock star.

A quarter of a century ago, on weekend mornings you'd be holed up in your room, pretending to do your homework but reading your mom's Judith Krantz, and listening to this, this amazing voice : hurt, angry and pleading. After a while the fatuous novel is overtaken by his words, and you begin to believe that there ought to be a better world out there, just like the man said. His outrage is now your outrage. How can people kill other people? Why isn't there respect? Why can't two hearts beat as one? How long must we sing this song? But, if he had the face of, say, Christopher Cross, would you have listened to him as readily?

This morning, watching the black and white clip, all grainy and suggestive, I remembered how beautiful he used to be, before the wraparound glasses and the silly hats. Saiffuddin put two cushions at the sides of my face, as I watched this -- they're blinkers, he said, so that I can concentrate. Oh, he was just jealous.

This is by no means U2's best song. It's just that I thought Bono looked so good in this.

2006-03-10T14:49:00.000+08:00

Your Birthdate: March 10

Independent and dominant, you tend to be the alpha dog in most situations.
You're very confident, and hardly anything ever shakes you.
Mundane tasks tend to drain you - you prefer to be making great plans.
You are quite original. When people don't "get" you, it bothers you a lot.

Your strength: Your ability to gain respect

Your weakness: Caring too much what others think

Your power color: Orange-red

What Does Your Birth Date Mean?

Or it could be this one :

You possess great creative potential and charisma and enhance your appearance by selecting the finest attire to make an impression on others. (Utter hogwash! Absolutely, absolutely untrue-- mokciknab) A born leader, people look up to you, but take care not to abuse the positions of respect and authority that will be invested in you (Too late!)

Who would think that you have such a deeply soul searching nature - but you do - and it is precisely that inner vision that will be the basis for some of your greatest achievements.

Health issues relating to yourself or family members may also be a catalyst for spiritual growth at different times of your life. You are highly sensitive, compassionate and love romance in all its forms.(Okaylaaah, kasi chan -- so I'd say this part is rather accurate)

Today's Highlight in History:

On March 10, 1876, the first successful voice transmission over Alexander Graham Bell's telephone took place in Boston as his assistant heard Bell say, "Mr. Watson, come here. I want you." Who knew that more than a thousand years later, phone companies are still telling you the same thing.

On the 10th of March, 1964, Saiffuddin was born.

My late mother in-law told me he was sickly, and was hospitalised several times for asthma. Once, I saw a picture of him as a baby. He was a plump child, and not at all as dark as he is now.

I can't believe I am now married to a middle-aged man.

Oh, lookee! Other people born on the 10th of March

Sharon Stone, Chuck Norris (you mean in a parallel universe my husband could be starring in an action flick slated for an AXN repeat?), James Herriot (yes, I could picture him as a country vet, or a writer of animal stories) Jeff Ament (really? Then why does he prefer Creed?) Carrie Underwood (so maybe in a parallel universe he'd be able to sing in key) Edie Brickell (Oh, I love her) and finally, Prince Edward, who is born on exactly the same day as Saiffuddin, but seems to have a worse case of male pattern baldness.

Still, I wish someone had warned me that one day, I'd wake up and realize that I just had sex with a 42 year old.

Happy Birthday, Sayang! You don't look half bad for middle aged.

Fast Fiction : The Coffee Mate

2006-03-05T13:36:00.000+08:00

"Do I really want to betray my husband?", was Hilda's unspoken question, for she knew it has come to the point when she must ask herself that. The man, who sat across the small table, sat with his back against the sun, and was ablaze with light : thick black hair now caught in glints of amber, eyes brown and brilliant against pale skin. Hilda found herself looking at his hands, and realized that she would only look at a man's hands when she's imagining what they might do to her.

This month, Hilda and the brilliant man have met almost daily, almost too eagerly. Today, as always, they were having coffee in one of those French style cafes that had tables and chairs set outside, even though in this city the average temperature is 34 degrees all year. But it was getting late, and the day's scorching heat had almost dissipated along with the afternoon. As people on the precipice of a deep, dark abyss, they spoke of mundane things, a pretend project that has not yet a firm deadline, an emotional alibi for Hilda. He spoke too, of his dreams, his childhood, his wife and kids. Hilda has no idea why a man proposing an affair would always speak of his family, as though it is a prior apology for what he is about to do. Hilda mentioned her husband and daughter only in passing, as if the limited divulgence might spare them pain.

"This urge to cheat on your husband", Hilda's confidante said recently, " is like a nasty itch. And the only way to get rid of an itch is to scratch and scratch until it bleeds".

"Either that", the woman pointed out, "or find a way to keep your hands awfully busy"

Should she put her nails to skin? The man with his back to the sun drank his coffee and Hilda saw a tiny drop of brown cling to the edge of his mouth. She's on a slippery slope, the slippery slope of being on the wrong side of forty five, and though people tell her she still has her youth and beauty, it does not diminish the fact that she feels old. This man, he's still in the prime of thirty, and he has told Hilda he found her utterly fascinating.

Hilda thought fleetingly of her husband. That Misha is in love with her is a given, but he loves her unflinchingly, loves her for all that she is, loves her for all her faults. For one last time, she craved a man who craved her because he knew of only her good side, the Hilda she wanted to present to the world as Hilda.

A waitress came by and asked if they wanted a refill, or perhaps some cake. The man ordered a decaf, and a brownie, which he suggested they share. When the chocolate squares arrived, he dragged his chair closer, close enough for their knees to touch, closer than they have ever been before. For the first time, Hilda could smell the coffee on his breath, the gel in his hair, the faint fragrant of a citrus aftershave beneath his neatly pressed shirt. He smells meticulously clean, like the inside of a laundry, and she had visions of him carefully folding her clothes as they slowly undressed to make love.

On Misha, there's always a whiff of sweat and cigarettes; and the railings of their brass bed are always strewn with far-flung dresses and things. It would be odd to be with such an immaculate man, when he's supposed to make you feel dirty, Hilda mused.

For a while, they ate their brownie in silence, and then suddenly, the dreaded announcement, the phrase which has since launched a thousand clandestine friendships. "My wife is away this week," he almost stammered. "Would you like to go out somewhere, tonight? I have some time. "

"Out, somewhere? That sounds pretty vague," Hilda laughed. She set down her fork and studied his unlined, well-scrubbed, back-lit face. Does he look earnest, or was there fear in what she might eventually say?

"Naim," she brought her cup to her lips, wrapping it in her fingers. "Do you really, really want me", she asked, "to go out with you?"

"Absolutely", he smiled. "Of course, " he said, for emphasis. She saw his eyelids flutter, just briefly, like the wings of a dying butterfly.

It was a strange time to think about it, but at that point Hilda understood why she no longer has a penchant for impulse buying -- the many times she saw something she liked, she ended up putting it back on the shelves and walking out of the store. "I didn't need it", she tells her perplexed friends, or "It didn't look good on me", was her excuse, or "The thing didn't like me", she finally pleaded. The curse of old age, Hilda thought, is having clarity and confidence.

And so Hilda gazed at this man, Naim, who sat next to her at the cramped table, who still looked beautiful in the setting sun, and who was wiping the rim of his glasses with a napkin. She could walk away anytime, she thought, and as it happens, Hilda felt a violent need to go shopping. Right now. At this precise moment. It cannot possibly wait.

____________________________________________________

This is really a writing exercise, and after several readings, the whole thing is starting to sound like crap. (Ha ha). This is inspired by a partly true story, though I need to emphasise that Hilda isn't at all Elida. Generally, I can't ever write fiction if it's based on me. The real Hilda is still at the same junction and unable to make a decision, poor girl. My husband thinks I ought to write a version that is closer to the truth, because the truth is really stranger than fiction, in this case. I think he's right, so if you enjoyed this (despite its wholesome crappiness), do look out for the next installment.

Between Nigella and Salmonella

2006-02-23T17:21:00.000+08:00

This is inspired by my sister's post. She might feel guilty for letting her kids eat instant noodles out of a trough, but listen, she's a better mother than I would ever be. Well, the idea was to improve on that once I get to Jakarta, but reading Elisa's entry made me realise that there is going to be a shortfall between my romantic notions of June Cleaver proportions and what would actually take place in the Saiffuddin household. Here are some scenarios that would probably have my husband vigorously nodding his head :

Plan
As a stay-at-home mum, I'll make sure the kids get a wholesome breakfast, with an extra dose of hugs and kisses before I bundle them off to school

Execution
They'd be lining up by my bedside at 7.30 as I rummage through my purse for their lunch money, still half asleep

Plan
To compensate for all the years that I have put career before kids, my children will now have my undivided attention

Execution
Will you please shut up because I'm watching American Idol.

Plan
To reflect my eclectic style and good taste, my house will be decorated in what I'll call Asian shabby chic : Jepara furniture, home-sewn batik cushions in pink and orange, flea market chandeliers, lots of orchids

Execution
Three months on, we'd still be fishing out clothes and crockery from crates and boxes.

Plan
Every day, I will master a new recipe

Execution
Every day, we will try a new take-out.

Plan
Since his office is just 5 minutes away, my husband will come home for lunch, which I will cook, of course.

Execution
Since his office is just 5 minutes away, I'd go and see him for lunch -- if I manage to get out of bed, of course.

Plan
With all that time on my hands, I will write my first novel

Execution
With all that time on my hands, I will go shopping

Plan
I'll really take care of myself : daily exercise, weekly lulur and hair treatments, milk bath every fortnight

Execution
There will be days when I'll forget to shower

Plan
I'll finally manage my household, and re-emerge as Bree Van der Kamp

Execution
Nothing works without Kak Ti.

Cravings

2006-02-23T16:11:00.000+08:00

Sorry Limewire, my new favourite website is this. Now, if only we can have a local server with local applications doing the same thing. Looks like a job for Super SS.

Oh, why do I love Rufus Wainwright so much? This one's for my new young friend, Ali Mc Graw. And of course, you too lah!

cigarettes and chocolate milk
these are just a couple of my cravings
everything it seems i like's a little bit stronger
a little bit thicker
a little bit harmful for me

if i should buy jellybeans
have to eat them all in just one sitting
everything it seems i like's a little bit sweeter
a little bit fatter
a little bit harmful for me

and then there's those other things
which for several reasons we won't mention
everything about them is a little bit stranger
a little bit harder
a little bit deadly

it isn't very smart
tends to make one part so broken-hearted

sitting here remembering me
always been a shoe made for the city
go ahead, accuse me of just singing about places
with scrappy boys faces
have general run of the town
playing with prodigal songs
takes a lot of sentimental valiums
can't expect the world to be your raggedy andy
while running on empty
you little old doll with a frown

you got to keep in the game
maintaining mystique while facing forward
i suggest a reading of 'a lesson in tightropes'
or 'surfing your high hopes' or 'adios kansas'

it isn't very smart
tends to make one part so broken-hearted

still there's not a show on my back
holes or a friendly intervention
i'm just a little bit heiress, a little bit irish
a little bit tower of pisa whenever i see you
so please be kind if i'm a mess
cigarettes and chocolate milk

Lost In Transition

2006-02-20T17:14:00.000+08:00

Coming next month : changes.

The company we have built (rather weakly, much like the second pig) will no longer exist as we know it. Suhaimi, Kamarul and I could go on, for the eternal optimists that we all are, the big break seems always just around the corner. And because we're not ambitious, the small breaks have always seen us through. But opportunities, and threats, have caused us to take a momentary retreat. Lily remarked that the company is not winding up, but merely cryogenically frozen, although my husband did say that for you to be cryogenically frozen, first you'll need to die, and second, you'd have to put your faith in technology. Which is pretty much right.

Nonetheless, I think we're going off to do better things : Suhaimi has been picked for a plum position at a telco; and he's dragging Kamarul along. Although my husband thinks I'm the one getting the worst deal -- I get to be a housewife in Jakarta, ho hum -- I'm looking forward to a fresh start. My husband and I have found a modest 1940's cottage in the leafy suburb of Menteng, and I have gleefully drafted a furniture wish-list for every room. The plan is to be a stay-at-home mum for a while, maybe write a little, or go back to school, or sell nasi lemak, or sell 3G content, who knows? Sooner or later the kids would test the limits of my parenting skills (which is not considerable) and I would need to finance my shopping habit (which is considerable); so I don't think "a while" will last very long.

In the meantime, the whole company is in a place that's in between. We haven't done anything productive for weeks, just lolling about trawling the Net, forgetting to pay bills, forgetting to bathe even. We don't come to work until it's almost noon, because we tell ourselves there's a hantu in the office. Everyday, we think of an excuse for an excursion -- cuci mata in Sri Hartamas, chowing down at Pinang Masak in Bukit Tunku, getting lost in Borders or Kinokuniya, or indulging in nasi lemak at Kak Limah's in Chow Kit. It's almost like we want to postpone the inevitable.

But it is The End, at least for this part of our story, and I will miss all this tremendously. At the close of the Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, Clementine turns to Joel, at what must have been the saddest point in the film :

Clementine : This is it, Joel. It's going to be gone soon.
Joel : I know.
Clementine : : What do we do?
Joel : Enjoy it.

And that's exactly what we're doing.

Four to the Floor

2006-02-17T12:39:00.000+08:00

Haiyaaah, tagged again. Never could hope that my list would be as funny as my sister in law's or as urbane as her husband's, but here goes :

Four Jobs I've Had
At age 16, Stringer for RTM
DJ at a respectable ballroom dancing hang-out. On good nights you'd have seen me and Sheila do the mambo!
Business Editor, Newscaster, Senior Producer
Sex Goddess (I still have this job)

Four Movies I Can Watch Over and Over
(you mean apart from The English Patient and To Kill a Mockingbird, kan?)
The Shawshank Redemption
Janji Joni
Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind
Prelude to a Kiss (I love this small movie!)

There are lots of movies that I'd probably like to see again, but probably won't, because they're painful to watch, like the The Usual Suspects or Farewell to My Concubine. Or PGL (You know I'm kidding, right?)

Small diversion : My husband and I saw Realita Cinta dan Rock and Roll, the other day -- an aimless Indonesian film which is nevertheless dripping with homoerotic subtext and very comel boys, apart from a really hot (and chainsmoking) Nadine Chandrawinata. Recommended if you like young men in tight jeans and no T shirt. (I used to like, sigh)

Four Places I Have Lived
Teacher's Quarters at Sekolah Tengku Ampuan Intan, Kuala Berang, Terengganu
Kuantan (sigh)
294, Essex Street, Footscray, Melbourne
Apparently, the very cruisy Senen in Jakarta

Four TV Shows I Love to Watch
In Mesia :
CSI, but only Vegas and New York.
The Jeff Corwin Experience
Anything with Jamie Oliver in it
and right now, my current pedestrian obsession : Amrikan Idol!!

Ya, I love Mythbusters, too but I forget what day it's on. (It was yesterday, right? It clashes with Amrikan Idol, la dude).

In Indonesia
Dorce -- Dorce is Indonesia's answer to Oprah -- except that she's louder, has a predilection for dangdut dancing, swishy clothes and high heels, and is, I have to mention, a guy.
Ceriwis -- an afternoon talkshow that is so funny you forgive them for blatantly shoving products.
Ajang Boy Band -- an ongoing contest where a group of young men sing and dance to an audience of screaming girls and gets judged by three errr, slightly older women. Is that a female fantasy or what? Oh yeah, could be a gay fantasy, too.
MTV Indonesia

Four Places I have Been on Vacation (and would like to return to)
Wonderful, nostalgic Melbourne
Wonderful, nostalgic Merang
Kyoto, Japan
Cedar Rapids, Iowa or New York, New York (either way, I could get shot)

Four of My Favourite Dishes
My mother's Nasi Dagang
My Linguine Puttanesca (tapi malangnya, I don't get to eat this very often. Malas)
My kids' Churros
Buah Bung or any other kueh bought at daybreak at the traditional Pasar Maras, while in your pyjamas.

(Actually I also love my late mother in law's peerless Asam Pedas, but I can never taste that ever again no matter how hard I try to reproduce the dish)

Four Websites I Visit Daily
The Blogs of friends and family
Islam Online
parasindonesia.com
and at the moment : TelevisonWithoutPity (told ya I'm pedestrian)

Four Places I'd Rather Be Right Now
In Terengganu with my family; doing Terengganu things, speaking Terengganu and eating Terengganu things.
Idtje Spa, getting worked on by three women
12A, Jalan Sutan Syahrir, Menteng, Jakarta (my new home, yaay!)
On My Husband

I'm not tagging anyone, so leceh lah. And you get so dissapointed when they don't actually compile a list. But you know, I'd really like to see my Dad's answers, if he has the time.

What Did St Valentine Die For?

2006-02-14T14:11:00.000+08:00

That foxy lady from the Black Eyed Peas was right : where is the love? When you read the papers in the morning, or when you watch TV at night, don't you wish you lived in simpler times? Sometimes, I think the world can't be saved anymore -- everything you see is a sleight of hand designed to hide something rotten. All you can do is add your voice to the cry, and fall back and just manage whatever is within your power to manage. By God, hearts are burning. I just wonder, are all those angry people we see on the news, genuinely fighting for Islam, or were they paid to march and shout and burn just for the cameras? Do all the white people vehemently claiming their stake to freedom of speech really believe it exists, or where they, too, paid to provoke? Who knows, anymore? This chaos, this widening schism between Muslims and the rest of the world clearly benefits someone; and I honestly doubt it has anything to do with religion or faith or the Universal Declaration of Human Rights.

Selamat Hali Cinta

2006-02-14T11:41:00.000+08:00

Thank you Miss Stickinsect, for sending me that lovely, lovely sms with the hearts and stuff. Bless you, for that was the only valentine I received this year. I hope Mr Mooze will treat you extra special tonight, whatever that may connote.

If you ask me, I would tell you that 14th February is nothing more than a day when florists and gift shops and under-lit, expensive restaurants can make enough money to offset their otherwise slow business for the rest of the year. It's a ploy, people, a clever ploy to get women and gay men to pressure their significant others into equating the magnitude of love with the magnitude of spending.

Having said that, I would still sulk if I don't get anything. Of course, are you kidding? Don't you love me, anymore? My husband sent me an email yesterday, which I reproduce here in part :

It's Valentine's day tomorrow. I saw over the weekend
on V channel what not to buy for Valentine's. No.1 no
skimpy lacy bedtime clothes, no toiletries, no kitchen
equipment  no clothes/dresses. Basically no fun for me
and no practical items. They only tell you what not to
buy. Basically it leaves only pets, chocolates, flowers,
car, and jewelery (is that how you spell it).

Digital compas and GPS navigational equipment is still
ok.

Let's just ignore the fact that he can't spell for a moment, and focus on the substance of the paragraph. My husband's gift buying history has been a series of hits and misses. Once he bought me a lovely ikat shawl in taupe, black and gold, which I greatly treasure; another time he bought me a bulky and orange nike watch, which I promptly lost. So what do you suppose he will get me this time?

For all it's worth, Happy Valentine's Day, to all you dewy eyed lovebirds out there, Vacancy sign notwithstanding. My husband, and the navigational equipment, will only arrive next week.

2006-02-09T13:15:00.000+08:00

There's a good looking Italian man in my husband's office building in Jakarta, and I often see him enjoying a cigarette, near the elevator vestibule, in the afternoons. He is a lanky gentleman, with pale blue eyes and dark wavy hair that's a little too long to be called conservative. It's totally not PC, but I have a thing for certain men who can make cigarette smoking look absolutely sensuous. It's the fingers and the lips and the blowing, I guess.

My husband teases me about the Italian man everytime we bump into him, even though I explain I am simply a forward party for my gay friends. It's a lie, of course, but I honestly have no interest in the Latino beyond just looking from a safe distance. I'm quite happy with Saiffuddin, who can look Aryan on good days, and luckily, he looks gorgeous smoking a cigarette, too. (Which is probably where I developed the penchant, in the first place)

Yesterday was my last day in the city; and at lunchtime, as we were waiting for the lifts, the Italian man was in close enough proximity for him to see us. My husband whispered that this was my chance, go on, go speak to him and I was going, don't be ridiculous and would you please shut up. Saiffuddin was grinning like mad and giving the guy a sideway glance; like this was a scene where a girl and her best friend bumps into a heart-throb. Unfortunately, the guy noticed, and he noticed my husband grinning, and misread the signals. He had a half smile, and gave Saiffuddin what I thought was The Look, and I had forgotten, in this day and age, how quickly signals can be bounced off and returned. He glanced at my husband again, as we stepped into the lift, as though waiting for the code to be deciphered and answered. I was terribly amused.

I'm here in Kuala Lumpur now. I hope, back in Jakarta, my husband hasn't developed a fishing hobby and has found someone to go angling with.

The Lost Years

2006-01-25T16:14:00.000+08:00

is a term commonly used to refer to the years between a turtle's hatching and its return to coastal waters as a juvenile. Although there have been sightings of hatchling-sized turtles adrift in sargassum and other sea grasses, no one has yet discovered where the majority of newly hatched turtles spend their childhood. It is not even known how long this period lasts, although estimates range from three to seven years. --- excerpt from www.turtles.org

A fledgling business is often like a tiny turtle, I think. Left out there, floating in the wide open sea, nibbling at any passing seaweed, it hopes to survive the elements long enough to build its strength, and one day return to its natal beach. Of course, many turtles never make it, because they simply die, or worse, they get eaten by sharks. Oh, there are lots of sharks in the wide open sea -- sharks that look friendly and helpful enough in the beginning and then, just at the right moment, when the tiny little baby turtle thinks its safe and sound and protected, the shark turns around, a Nosferatu who bares its row of sharp teeth, and -- oops, no more turtle.

But if they can outwit the sharks, turtles last a long time, don't they? For hundreds of years, no? We're hoping to be resilient that way. Even if it means the three of us, in this business, in this family of friends, have to take different lonely paths for a while. Only for a while. It makes me sad to think about it, all the same.

I think Saiffuddin's right. Its time for me to muster the courage to sit down and write : critics, rejection, and grammar be damned. It's time to stop running away from that.

Call Me

2006-01-17T19:13:00.000+08:00

Over the weekend, I had a Small Medical Emergency, prompted perhaps by stress or too much walking around. Like all Small Medical Emergencies, it was an unexpected Small Medical Emergency, because I didn't know I had a medical condition in the first place. Things worked out in the end, that is to say, I took care of the emergency, averted a hospital stay, and the doctor prescribed me little more than advice to lie down and rest. That I didn't do, but I guess I'll only pay for that later, bila dah tua-tua.

The Small Medical Emergency is not what I want to tell you about; because as you may notice, I'd like to keep its details rather private. What I'm happy about is the upshot of the Small Medical Emergency. Two good things came out of it : one, my husband had a dramatic excuse to come home earlier than scheduled, and two, I bought myself a new phone, which the guilt-ridden husband has said he will pay for.

The phone was chosen more for looks than practicality : it's a black RAZR V3 : sexy but fiddly, although I hear in a woman those are not exactly bad things. I actually prefer my old and fat A 760, to be honest. The RAZR, of course is not top of the line anymore, since it has been supplanted by the SLVR as the Motorola of Choice (Personally, I want the ROKR, but since in Malaysia, you can't buy songs from iTunes anyway, it's rather superflous. Might as well just get a Nano and a phone) Still, in certain circles, it may yet have some mileage in eksyen factor -- like, you can confidently whip it out in the LRT, and imagine some jealous side-stares. Of course, you can't get the same effect in classier places, like Pasar Besar Taman Tun, for example, where the shopping ladies will just take one look at your RAZR, sniff, and continue sms-ing the grandchildren on their Vertu's. I don't know of any classier place, because, well, I ride the LRT.

Having bought a nice new phone, I then proceeded to fill it up with downloads. Even though I am perhaps not the demographic my service provider was aiming for, I nevertheless, spent a small wad of money on caller tunes (and worse, did this on GPRS). Here's the list on my jukebox (and here you can guess my age) :

Close to Me -- The Cure
Friday I'm in Love -- The Cure
Stay (Faraway, so Close) -- U2
Desafinado - Stan Getz
All These Things That I Have Done - The Killers

I am so happy about having caller tunes that I pathetically, call myself up just to hear the changing songs. Or I send provocative messages to people so that they'll call me up and then the first thing I ask them when they do is : tadi lagu apa you dengar? My mother noticed it, although sadly, she incorrectly identified Joao Gilberto as an Italian man singing an Italian song, which is a marvel, really, considering that in the first ten years of her marriage, my father must have played every single record with the name Stan Getz, Gilberto (Joao and Astrud) or Charlie Byrd on it, and she ought to know every bossanova number just by the first bar.

But I ramble on. What I'm really, really ecstatic about is that my husband's coming home; and he has a watertight excuse to do so. I'm blogging now to while away the time, before I take the trip to KLIA, and meet my baby.

Frowns

2006-01-14T13:23:00.000+08:00

My dearest Sayang,
How are you today? It seems pointless, doesn't it, to send you an email when we call each other, like twenty times a day. It's pointless, really, since none of these -- neither words nor phone conversations - can remedy your absence. Nothing is a balm. I think I am officially sad and miserable.

Has it only been 14 days? Each day seems to add to my anguish. My resolve to cope well this time, is quickly dissolving. By next week, I'll be reduced to a sobbing mess.

Has it been easier for you? You seem cheerful enough on the phone,which you know, is exasperating. Why can't you sound as wretched as me? All right, I concede - calling twenty times a day may be proof that you do miss me, too -- but I'm not very good with identifying action with meaning. Tell me, for God's sakes. It will be worth the courage, I promise.

I've been sleeping with the radio on, and the other night, awoke to what I thought was the sound of your voice singing to Phil Collins' mawkish song, and you sang badly, as usual. Of course, you weren't here, the warmth that I thought was you was only Aiysha's posterior. I fell asleep with big, fat tears rolling down into my ears. It doesn't matter. I can't really sleep anyway. The four poster is strewn with children, books and magazines, and I let them amuse me, even if only half-heartedly.

Can't wait till next Friday, I'll be counting every hour. I know it'll be brief, but I'd rather see you for a short while than not see you at all. We'll do something nice that weekend, yes? Apart from that.

People reading this post : do accept my apologies. What's a blog if not indulgent, self-centred dirge? It's the only space where I'm allowed to wallow in cheesy, Light n' Easy sadness. To be honest, I'm not all that miserable, all the time. It's just nice to pile-on the drama for Saiffuddin, to elicit guilt, and hopefully gifts. I need a new handphone, anyway.

I have found that when my husband's away, I am able to better enjoy the other people in my life, particularly my children and my small coterie of friends. I can spend time listening to my children's stories and their numerous opinions; adjudicate their squabbles, and engage in general silliness like singing into the laptop and playing it back at twice the speed. I genuinely like Adam, Aiysha and Aliya, I'd like them even if they were not my own children, and even though they think I'm hopeless at parenting.

With Saiffuddin away, I have time to go on an all day eat-fest with Suhaimi and Papa Khalid : yesterday we had three (three!) plates of mussels baked in butter, nachos, chocolate dipped bananas, marshmallow s'mores, salmon in lemon sauce, basboussa, satay, rojak ayam and mutton curry. By all means, the fun wasn't limited to food : accounts of leather-shoes fetishists, prosthetic legs and a Confessional fantasy -- all of which shall not be repeated even under extreme duress -- ensured I had a belly ache from too much eating and laughing.

But don't tell my husband I'm even remotely enjoying myself, because I'm only remotely enjoying myself. At the back of my mind, there's always the knowledge that he's not home. My playlist at work is getting annoyingly sappy -- all songs of longing and heartbreak : Dear Friends by Queen, Cigarettes by Smithereens, Cannonball by Damien Rice, Les Coeurs Jumeaux by Concrete Blonde, In the Wee Small Hours by Sting and Chris Botti, good old fashioned Nat King Cole singing about cigarettes with lipstick traces and a tinkling piano in the next apartment, and plenty of Rufus Wainwright. I can feel gray matter slowly turning into gooey matter. I need Rancid and the Clash to set things right. I'm watching chick-flicks, for God's sakes! Last night I saw The Wedding Date -- the one where Debra Messing hires a male escort, to survive her sister's wedding. It's not very good escapism -- it just makes me miss Saiffuddin acutely, but you know, the sight of Dermot Mulroney's bare butt does alleviate the pain somewhat.

Perhaps I should rent Troy, next. Surely a naked Brad Pitt would be an excellent palliative.

A Comparative Study of Early 19th Century English Literature vis-a-vis Contemporary Cultural Arts in India.

2006-01-11T11:22:00.000+08:00

Oh, who am I kidding. You won't find any such treatise in my blog. It was never meant to be clever. Rightly, I should be mulling the ammendment to Article 121A of the Constitution or the un-Islamic Islamic Family Law or the sorry state of government, but then it won't be much fun, would it? I'd have to do research and invoke names like Suffian Hashim and Ahmad Ibrahim and Hickling; and that sounds too much like tutorial to be enjoyable writing. I certainly can tell you, at length, my strong opinion on these issues, but it'd be best over a cup of coffee (or Chinese tea and dim sum, depending on your budget)

What of the deceptive title, then? Now that I'm left to my own devices in order to amuse myself (that sentence may seem like euphemism for "buying a vibrator", but it is not), I have since used the time I would have otherwise spent gazing up my husband's chin, to read. I've been reading, like seven books at one go : Confessions of an Economic Hitman by John Perkins, The Roaring 90's by Stiglitz, a Jane Austen Omnibus (Sense and Sensibility, Emma and Northanger Abbey), Adam's Lemony Snickets about some saw-mill adventure, that famous book about geishas I borrowed from my sister, Elfriede Jelinek's The Piano Teacher and Muhammad by Karen Armstrong. Sadly, it is an abortive attempt at appearing intellectual, for the only books I actually finished were the EHM guilt-trip, Memoirs of a Geisha and the exploits of them Baudelaire orphans; and by far the orphans' story had been the most enjoyable. Of the rest, the only book I'm likely to read in entirety, is the one by Miss Armstrong.

I didn't finish the Omnibus because I have never been a big fan of Jane Austen as literature. But as work on celluloid I probably would have watched everything the British Film Commission could throw at me. So as compensation for not finishing the book, last Sunday, for the first time ever, I went to watch a movie on my own. Nobody else wanted to see Pride and Prejudice; or was too embarrased to admit it to their husbands. I bought a single ticket, and sat in the last row, next to a couple who must have thought it was a funny date movie. They were insanely annoying. The boyfriend kept making comments, like "haaa, tu lah, tadi dia tak nak" or " hahahaha, kelakar aaa", as though they were watching Gila-Gila Pengantin or films of that ilk.

If I weren't too busy being snobbish, I would have realised that wouldn't be too far off the mark. Storylines in the romance genre hasn't really changed that much since Austen or Bronte. In fact, I thought, Pride and Prejudice could have very well been set in present day Bollywood. I felt I was qualified to make that comparison because just the previous morning, in a bid to delay bathtime, I had sat through Barsaat (Bobby Deol, Priyanka Chopra, Bipasha Basu, now on Channel 21) for an entire 3 hours. Not taking a shower until noon must have accounted for something.

Let's see the similarities between a typical Austen protagonist and the circumstances befalling a glamorous Hindi heroine. Both would be temporarily prevented from realising true love because (a) they konon-kononnya hate the man in question, tapi sebenarnya nak (you see me lapsing into the Malay boyfriend mode here) (b) their families are of different rank and the union is dihalang oleh keluarga and (c) various misunderstandings and social situations would prevent them from confessing their desires. Of course everything will be revealed in the end, and the heroine will be swept off by the man, who is inevitably, always rich and good looking, if not a little moody. The whole story would usually be supported by these characters : the doting father, the responsible sister, the helpful but gossipy aunt/neighbour/orang gaji, the aloof martriarch, and of course, the prettier, richer, more urbane girlfriend that the hero would otherwise have to marry. In between there will be lots of sumptous dresses in yards and yards of muslin (or organza as the case may be), plenty of song and dance, sweeping cinematic shots of landscape, getting caught in bad weather and crying at trees.

Now tell me that Austen was not the original Hindustani screenplay. I can definitely imagine Keira Knightley in a saree, doing the Banghra instead of a Quadrille.

Post Script : Thanks, Dusyum for pointing out Bride and Prejudice, the Austen meets Bollywood film by Gurinder Chadha, who incidentally, also directed Bend it Like Beckham, the film in which we first meet Miss Knightley. (Unless you count Star Wars) . One reviewer actually preferred this film over Pride and Prejudice, suggesting that he would have enjoyed it more if Elizabeth Bennet had actually worn a purple saree.

Good Moaning

2006-01-06T16:33:00.000+08:00

How does it feel like, one week into the new year? I have been nursing a cold and a headache ever since I turned blonde in a public display. You people who weren't there at the Curve when I told you to go; and are now trawling the net for a picture of that occasion, lupakanlah, you won't find any. I made sure nobody brought a camera. It wasn't something worth wasting digital space over.

But becoming a blonde, even for 3 hours, must have been such a traumatic experience that my body hasn't forgiven me until today. No, I did not attend any New Year's Eve party, unless you count watching fireworks from a small window in the hotel hallway, in your pyjamas, as something of a celebration. My kids had more fun than me -- together with Kamarul's daughter and my maid,Ti, they joined the partying crowd in front of Ikano, as everyone ooh-ed and aah-ed over the pyrotechnics, and then danced to Reshmonu after. Mummy the party pooper popped a couple of flu pills and was fast asleep by half past twelve.

So now I'm sick, and grumpy, and wishing Saiffuddin wasn't so far away. Yesterday, I confess, I visited airasia.com. Return tickets to Jakarta cost less than 500 ringgit. Oh, the temptation.

Try To Have a Good One, This Time

2005-12-30T16:06:00.000+08:00

Excerpts from In Memoriam, by Lord Tennyson

Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.
Ring out the grief that saps the mind
For those that here we see no more;
Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.
Ring out a slowly dying cause,
And ancient forms of party strife;
Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.
Ring out the want, the care, the sin,
The faithless coldness of the times;
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes
But ring the fuller minstrel in.
Ring out false pride in place and blood,
The civic slander and the spite;
Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.
Ring out old shapes of foul disease;
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.

It seems too much to ask for, perhaps? If all of us agree to do the right thing, maybe Tennyson's words will ring true, this year.

In the meantime, come usher in 2006 with us at the Curve. We promise it will be indulgent madness. Suhaimi will sing and I'm not too sure what I'm supposed to do. Nevertheless, I will take it as an opportunity to fulfill my New Year resolution : in 2006 I want to be Gwen Stefani. In fact, I have already bought a 30 ringgit blonde wig at Mangga Dua to help me achieve this, even though my husband thinks it makes me look as though I have a penis between my legs. That is to say, he thinks I look like a drag queen. Oh who cares, I bet lots of drag queens look like Mrs Gavin Rossdale.

If you're reading this anywhere indoors, stop right now. Get into your car, onto your bike, hop into a cab, run, do whatever, for you must be at the Curve on the 31st of December, 2005. It's your last chance to see us make a fool of ourselves, this year.

Happy 2006, people! May you have 365 days of blessings.

What Have I Done?

2005-12-23T13:25:00.000+08:00

Never, ever make a decision at the start of your ovulation cycle. Especially after you've had a good dose of caffeine and is facing the prospect of not seeing your husband for a long time.

Saiffuddin left for Jakarta, yersterday, back to what is for all intents and purposes, his current domicile. I sent him off at the airport, and while we were waiting for his flight, I took out 600 ringgit and bought myself a ticket. It's scheduled for tomorrow. After the purchase, Saiffuddin and I sat at the obversation deck, watching the day turn into night, munching on chocolates, mulling my recklessness. I felt enormously guilty.

"Why didn't you stop me?", I scolded.
"Why should I?", he grinned.

Now I have to face the terrible task of telling my children, my mother and most of all, Suhaimi. I think I'm going to chicken out and let them read it in this blog. I'll be back before New Year's Eve, I promise! See ya's!

Things We Will Miss

2005-12-21T06:46:00.000+08:00

Haha, so much for posting regularly.

Today is our last day in Jakarta : my three children, Ti, my maid, my husband and I will be on a KL bound flight at 11.20 am Waktu Indonesia Barat, thus ending our month long vacation here. Well, except that my husband never had a day-off, so it wasn't much of a holiday for me. I didn't manage to buy even one fake handbag.

It is now 6 am, and the city is already awake. It looks like a clear day, as I glance out from my apartment window. My husband has made a temporary home in Allson Residence, which by all appearances seems to be run by Sunway. It is a comfortable three bedroom, and the building has verdant gardens, manicured sorroundings and a lush tropical pool, but the only catch is that it contravenes the basic rule of real estate : location. Allson Residence is in Senen, the Batavian equivalent of Chow Kit. Next to our apartment is a shopping mall called Atrium, which holds the dubious honour of being the first building to be bombed in Jakarta.

So the view I get when I look out the window, is Pasar Senen, one of the biggest wet markets in Jakarta. It's also a Bursa Kue Subuh, where sellers of traditional cakes and delicacies from all over the city get their supply. Apart from that, a huge section is reserved for onderdil, or auto spare parts. The whole place is fringed by wooden kiosks selling boots, shoes, leather jackets, shirts and pants, all sourced from other people's clotheslines and front doors. Yes, I mean it's stolen. Needless to say, I have never ventured into Pasar Senen, even though I am told it has the cheapest telekungs, batik, beaded blouses and comforters in Jakarta.

The roads sorrounding Pasar Senen is clogged with buses, motorcycles, cars, orange three- wheeled vehicles called bajajs, and their version of the mini-bus - mikrolets, which is really just a small van cramped with passengers. Pasar Senen never sleeps, and it will not allow others near it to do so, either. So Pasar Senen tops my list of things I will miss in Jakarta, for the sheer fact that it refuses to be ignored. I am so tempted to venture into its dark innards, but I'm a lily-livered shopper. Anyway, here are the other reasons :

Batak Free Radio
One of the small wooden shops in Pasar Senen sells pirated music. 24-7, the shop will advertise its content, at full volume. During the day, the music is not so audible, but at night, I can clearly hear their playlist : Christmas carols in Batak, lengthy ethnic percussion stuff, plaintive Minang ballads, the requisite dangdut, Bob Marley and the Wailers, but most of all Batak Top 40. As a concession perhaps, from midnight till this morning, we got Ebiet G Ade.

#1908, Allson Residence
The apartment came with nice, warm wooden furniture and mint green walls, but it is a little boring. The signature Mokciknab decorating trick is to buy lots of little cushions, useless mengkuang baskets, and as much orchids as you can afford. I think my sisters will agree that the place looks a lot more like me, now.

Stuff You Eat/Drink that You Can't Get in Malaysia
-A drink called You.C1000 Health Drink. It's the most delicious way to get your vitamins.
-Avocado juice with chocolate sauce.
-Susu Chap Junjung condensed milk in a squeegee bottle, but with added chocolate. The cheapest fudge you can find.
-Nasi Timbel. A peasant's lunch - rice with fried tauhu, tempe and fresh ulam, with sambal on the side. If you can afford it, you can add fried chicken.
-Instant Swiss Roll Mix called Tepung Kek Pondan. It is not a misspelling of Pandan. It's the name of the manufacturer.
-What you call pondan, they call wadam's or wariya's, shorthand for wanita-adam or wanita-pria. Starting at about 5.30 in the evening, these glamorous creatures will wait at traffic lights and serenade you as your car stops for the light to change. It is polite to thank them with at least 1,ooo Rupiah. I can't see why they shouldn't be included under the heading Stuff You Eat/Drink.

My Sopir, Pak Rifai
I suspect Pak Rifai is a little on the effeminate side. He has a penchant for cooking and likes to accompany me shopping, and gives me advice on tudung, flowers and furniture. He has three sons, all of them studying to be chefs, currently doing their training in Dubai and KL. The youngest son, whom he is particularly proud of, was the winner of last year's Abang dan Nona Jakarta, the city's most celebrated pageant. I will miss having someone a little on the effeminate side driving me around.

Real News
Journalists and editors who don't pull their punches. Newscasters who ask straight questions and unflinching in their quest for answers. In the media here, there is a constant pursuit for truth, or at least, a constant battle against bullshit. The complaint you get from the taxi driver is the same polemic you'll read in the papers and and hear on TV. In general, I don't have to wade through propaganda and decipher spin, to know what's really happening. Now it's back to everthing's-coming-up-roses Malaysia. Sigh.

I'll post pictures soon. Right now my kids are up, and my husband is nagging me to take a bath. See you in KL!