Borneo Blues: A Mat Salo Perspective

Smiling For Dalilah (Scenes from Kg. Labuhan Dagang)

2010-07-19T21:34:00.013+08:00

I DON'T HAVE much to say here 'cept good-bye, Dalilah...

For a kick-off, don't you think it's a strange coincidence that my last posting was EXACTLY a year ago? July 19, 2009? Yes, that's when we lost Bang Captain...

A-ny-ways...

Hey, my missus was a bit upset when you became the second woman (besides her that is) to sit in my low-slung, mid-life-crisis coupe... heh heh. No other woman (yet) besides you and her has had that honor, che-wah...

Anyway, she was cool bout it later. Really. Hey, it's THE Raden Galoh after all!

Today, she saw you an hour after you drew your last breath this morning, dear, And when the nurses and the ladies went out of that curtained partition around your bed, I too went in and drew the curtains around so we could have our privacy and say my piece to you.

You look so lovely with your full head of hair, D. So serene. No, I did not shed a tear for you D because I was actually happy for you. It's time you were released, dear...

Me? No regrets for you laa, D. You've led a heck of a life, didn't you?

You will be sorely missed by all whose lives were once touched by you. That's a given, D.

You've gone and left us bereft, and in mourning.

Gone, yes gone. But I do not doubt that you will ever be forgotten, my dear Dalilah.

Love and Peace.

-Mat Salo

Bereaved father (right)

Bereaved mother

Good Bye, 'Bang Captain

2009-07-19T21:29:00.007+08:00

Mat Salo said...: Bang Cap... Salam Takziah.. Alfatehah..

Your beloved mum passed on at the same age as my nenek last year.

Salam.; 16 July 2009 22:01:00 MYT

Bang Captain, a main who does not mince his words nor suffer fools gladly enables "comment moderation" on his blog. This was to deter anonymous hacks and fools.

His beloved mother passed on barely four days ago and I posted my condolences about three days later - or more precisely, only three days ago.

Two days later (the 17th - or maybe even as late as yesterday, the 18th?) he had approved our comments to appear in the cybersphere. My only solace, therefore, was he had read my very last comment to him, along with Pak Zawi's and others.

Who's to know The Maker was to take him away too? Barely five days after his beloved mother who had brought him into this world?

Many may not know this but it was I who "introduced" him to the blogging fraternity. He had approached me first, not because I was a blogger of any repute, but because I was "family". Furthermore, we also shared the same alma mater.

In the 50s he lived right behind my late grandmothers house in Seremban, which meant that my uncles were his playmates. My mum, the eldest, was a good ten years older so he called her Kak Zah. I had just broken the news to my mum, long distance from a rig in the mangrove swamps of Samarinda, Indonesia, where she will convey the sad news to his childhood playmates - my two surviving uncles.

These photos were taken sometime in early 2007 when I brought Bang Captain to meet the heavyweights for the first time . He has since become great friends with these bloggers,and a regular fixture at their gatherings, where I, unfortunately continue to languish in crocodile-infested river estuaries.

I have no doubt he will be sorely missed by these bloggers, as will his family and friends.

And so will I.

Many thanks to Elviza, Pak Zawi and others who had alerted me of Arwah's passing. Al-Fatehah.

N.B.

I am rehashing one of my earlier posts because of the comment he posted. Skip the story if you like and head directly to his comment. My grandmother too had passed on about a year ago.

The Matriarch, The Nude and The Chicken Coop

The year was ‘69 and I was in my first year of school.

With the day drawing to a close, Nenek’s high-pitched shrieks can be heard permeating the soggy evening air - summoning me for my evening bath at the well. In the days before electricity found its way into our kampong, the path to the well could very well be perilous you can imagine. It got dark very quickly too, because the sun seemed to set a lot earlier in the kampong. But a likelier explanation would be the abundance of tall trees quickly blocking the sun’s rays, and thus with an irrational jealous pang I wondered (no, I'm sure) whether kids in the city would still be out playing.

I sat on the stoop of out in front, defiant and ignoring Nenek's calls, the cement feeling like a block of ice under my buttocks; the stone made cold from sun's fading warmth.

In that melancholic evening, I believed I felt the first stirrings of emotions that I can ever remember. It was feelings of hate and of rejection all rolled into one – the exaggerated version for seven year olds.

The reason for my slow-burning resentment was my being exiled from my parents. Father worked in an estate faraway where the only primary schooling available was for the children of estate laborers (read: Tamil). In the highly gentrified environment of post-colonial plantations, no conductor or mandor worth his salt would be caught dead having their children in a vernacular school, especially a Tamil one. But given a choice, I wouldn’t have minded being in an impoverished Tamil school. At least I would be in the bosom of my beloved parents.

My grandparents were the kindest of people, just like most grandparents the world over. Their efforts to cheer me by spoiling me didn’t often lift the veil of sadness that hung over like a monsoon cloud. And spoiled me they did, because Atuk catered to (almost) every whim of their first grandchild. He even got me a dog once, but that story will have to wait. Strangely I hear they weren’t always kind to their own offspring – I remember Mother telling me a story once when uncle broke his arm after falling from a rambutan tree—an additional beating was in store for him when Atuk came home from work. To drive the lesson home, I suppose.

That very same uncle, who was an overdue bachelor at the time of my incarceration was entrusted to keep me in line, and he took on the sacred covenant from my parents with utmost religious zeal. And trust me, he had quite a few sticks rather than carrots in his bag of tricks to enable him to carry the job. Sorta like George (Bush).

For failing to memorize to multiplication tables, an apt punishment for one was where I would have to spend moments of sheer terror in the chicken coop. The sheer terror factor was ratcheted manifold if the sentencing was conducted after sunset. Not one to go down without a fight, I was often dragged kicking and screaming into the hen house. And only to be released when either Atuk or Nenek happened to chance upon the scene. Uncle’s intentions were good no doubt, but what if there was a thirty-foot long python lying there in wait?

The chicken coop had its place in history somewhere further down the line and became (to me at least), one of the most celebrated but unknown chicken coops in existence. How so? Let me explain. Late into adulthood I discovered that my grandparents at various times before I came into being had hosted ‘foster’ children in their government quarters in Seremban. Atuk’s job as a chief clerk in the old colonial administration allowed them a modest wooden house across the famed King George the Fifth School, popularly known by its acronym KGV.

These weren’t real foster children you see, but kids of distant relatives and acquaintances from remote villages who were sent (boys usually) to my grandparents house because of its proximity to the premier British institution. One of the ‘foster’ children – this shocked me really – went on to become one the most celebrated and highest paid painters in Bolehsia. In ’98 one of his Pago Pago Series oils went under the hammer for a record 40,250 Singapore dollars at a Christie’s Singapore auction. Ohmigosh!

Just before leaving for Europe in the 60’s to live the bohemian life as an artist, Latif Mohideen gave three of his paintings to Atuk and Nenek as a token of gratitude. One was an 'impressionist', the one I recalled hanging high above the grandfather clock and was the first thing you see upon entering the threshold of our kampong house. Alas it graced our living room but for the briefest of time. Later, Nenek came to realize that it was a rather convoluted surrealist version of a nude with a huge single breast and an outsized areola. Latif must've painted this during the phase when and Picasso and Dali were considered de rigueur.

Of course, this didn’t fit well with nenek’s image as an Ustaza who taught the Koran at the village Madrasah, so one fine afternoon she got Atuk to take it down. And there it stayed in the shed at the back of the house, forever to remain anonymous to people with fat wallets who attend Christie’s and Sotheby’s auctions, and also to scholars in fine arts departments at universities the world over.

The Matriach, 2003. © matsalo

Years passed and with Atuk’s demise in the very early 90s, nenek had no choice but to shuttle between my one surviving uncle and a Chinese daughter-in-law (Yes, that uncle has since passed on - Al Fatihah) in Seremban. On occasions she would stay with Mother too. With no one to care for the creaking boards and peeling paint, the house became more and more decrepit, as unloved homes are wont to do.

It was only a decade or so ago that I decided to enquire about the painting. You don’t how much I’ve regretted my tardiness since. Nenek is still alive but is somewhat senile, and once, in between bouts of lucidity, she let it slip to her favorite grandson (that’s me) - that Atuk had used the painting (yes, "breast/areola") to patch the roof of the chicken coop.

I don't blame Atuk at all for his lack of aesthetic acumen - because who was to know what the future holds? Atuk had also once also traded his Rolex (it had cost him seven-hundred in 60s Bolehsian ringgits) for a dinghy digital watch to a backpacker who passed through the village. Please remember that this happened in the 70s and digital watches with blinking LEDs with faux gold bracelets were a novelty, if not expensive. That's the sort of person Atuk was - bless his soul - always ready to oblige.

I’m still in the hunt for the other two paintings though, one of which was a typical scene of village women toiling in paddy fields at harvest time. For the life of me, I can’t quite remember what the other one was.

Further inquiries revealed that none of my uncles knew where the paintings went. Nor Mother. Nor anybody else. Even Latif Mohideen has fled the scene. Hmmm . . . I shall need to pay a visit to the village house soon - but the dilapidated doors and windows have remained shuttered since - what ? - two, three years ago?

Somehow I have this burning need to fulfill my quest, just to give it some closure, if nothing else. Maybe I should give it a rest. But maybe I should start looking at the cow shed, because the chicken coop has long been gone and the chickens have since been converted to human protein or quite possibly devoured by that thirty-foot python or its progeny.

Years ago I paid the village idiot some money to dismantle the chicken coop and burn that sorry piece of eyesore (and of bad memories) to make the grounds presentable for a Hari Raya Eid celebration - the photos you see in the story. Deep, deep down, my brain strongly rejects any possibility that the Nude could have already turned to carbon. I'm sure some good sense must have prevailed, but we're talking about the village idiot here, who is known only by his nickname Berok (Malay for Monkey) for his climbing prowess and proclivity in collecting coconuts from trees. Perhaps, and most very likely, that the idiot here is me.

Whoa - there could be a gross total of somewhere between 100 and 200 thousand Bolehsia dollars out there sitting among the rafters and junk of my childhood home.

But who am I kidding?

Note comments by Arwah and the first of Kickdefella's comments.

=======================================================================

Comments:

The Ancient Mariner said...: I remember Latif Mohideen. As a schoolboy he had painted the murals in the KGV school hall. I wonder if it is still there, could be worth a lot of money now.

I also remember your grandparents and they were very kind to me when I was the neighborhood kid a couple of doors away.; Wednesday, March 14, 2007 4:34:00 PM


Sheih said...: I love reading this. I know this is my first comment here, but when I read about your missed rendezvous with you Pa, I felt really sad.

This piece which I read today remind me to a lot of think. Perhaps its time for me to leave KL.

London in June ... and a treat by AG

2009-07-10T00:04:00.025+08:00

It turned out I wasn't the only one feted by Awang Goneng. Pak Zawi was already there days earlier terrorizing AG's wallet and relieving our confounded host of his Great British Pounds.

Yes, that AG, the famous anok Tengganung, master wordsmith of both English and Malay (albeit of the Tengganung Kite kind), an all around great guy and a thirty-five year veteran of living on English cod and salmon. Apa? Ikang tongkol tok cukup sedap ke?

Awang Goneng, for some reason or other, had decided that Mat Salo was worth his time. My own boss at work once said behind my back, 'That Mat Salo . . .he ain't worth killin'. For AG's selfless random act of kindness . . . I thank him from the bottom of my heart. Thank you, Sir!

Surreptitious e-mails were sent, (again, Pak Zawi had a hand in this), and a note by Kak Teh in this blog soon found me walking to Whiteleys in Queensway where AG would lie in wait at a bookstore (where else?) on the first floor.

Interestingly, according to AG, Whiteleys is one of the oldest department stores in London, which makes it one of the oldest department stores in the world in my book. As I trudged my tired limbs upstairs - I had been cycling for some days - I happened to pass Lillian Too's Feng Shui shop. It was shut and looked to be out of business. Now, don't you think the Queen of Feng Shui would have known better and sited her store at a more, shall we say, auspicious place? What hope then, for mere Feng Shui deficient mortals like us?

Anyway, the reason he asked to meet there was so we could have lunch at Malaysia Hall, which happened to be around the corner. Now that was a revelation to me because the last time I looked Malaysia Hall was someplace else. But that was twenty years ago. I didn't know it had moved since.

I was a bachelor then, traveling from Malaysia to Aberdeen to attend a week long seminar. The circumstances surrounding my presence at the old Malaysia Hall two decades back was harrowing to say the least. I was there to meet an ex and her newfangled main squeeze, to get - what today people would refer to - as "closure".

I'm not making this up. At the time I hadn't really planned to see her at all. Why should I? After all she had dumped me in a terrifying "Dear Mat" letter some time soon after hitting UK shores. And over a year had elapsed since her posting that "Dear Mat" letter and my sudden, unexpected visit . Anyway she was not in London but in some city up north, hundreds of miles away. But Brother Fate, and its sister Miss Coincidence are about to rear their ugly heads.

Clawing my way from the Banks of the Clyde to Malaysia I decided to stop in cold windy London for the night. Having nothing to do I decided to call a mutual friend, a girl who went to boarding school with the ex, she giggling excitedly over the phone, 'Eh Mat, know what? Your ex is in town with her boyfriend lah. She's on her way over, let's all go to Malaysia hall for dinner tonight - you know where, right? See you there!'

Hah. She's in town! How about that? In a fair, just and perfect world it would have been cause for celebration. But the world isn't round or fair or just. It's horribly flat, square, with sharp serrated edges. No. This can't be happening. But there you go. Brother Fate, Miss Coincidence . . . how do you do?

Now that friend probably doesn't understand the intricacies or nuances of messy break-ups, especially long-distance ones. Perhaps she hadn't experienced any. Or was privy to my fantasies involving throttling and wringing necks. Anyway, those thoughts had long passed and converted to . . . what, I don't know.

To say that the reunion was "awkward" was an understatement. A meeting of ex-es can never or will ever be described as "joyous". Reigning in flat out murderous impulses would be closer to the mark. As I stood there outside the former Malaysia Hall, one hand in my jacket to keep that London chill out, lighting cigarette after cigarette, passed an old VW Golf. Or was it the Rabbit? I wondered (belatedly) if I shouldn't just abandon this meet altogether, for it really served no purpose at all. Except perhaps, to tear old wounds.

In the rusting blue VW was our mutual friend driving, carrying inside what once held my dreams, hopes and object of er, lust. And not forgetting too beside her, hands on thigh probably, was The Guy who helped take those whimsical notions away.

It took a while for them to show up at the entrance, and it wasn't for lack of a parking space. Perhaps they needed to huddle down, figure things out at this rather unexpected entrance by Mat Salo, stage left, blindsiding them. To them perhaps, I was some kind of monster, a jilted raving maniac of some kind, bent on retribution. And they may be right. Anyway it was the girls who appeared first and true to Mat Salo's form, pretended like there was nothing ever between 'em, just a meeting of some old flames, er, friends. The Guy, they said, would join us "in a bit".

"In a bit", huh? Now how about that kiddo? Got cold feet?

Eventually Adonis, God's version of the perfect male form, came hurriedly in from the cold like a surreal scene from a Peter Lorre movie; scarf flailing, eyes shifting, looking nervous. Being the older and more mature guy, a cool and calculated Mat Salo turned up the charm (until the knob could go no further or else the potentiometer valves would blow) and set about putting The Guy at ease, joining him for cigarettes while the girls go inside to order food . . . and to gossip perhaps at the scene about to unravel outside?

'Fraid not, he's not the Adonis.

Sorry to disappoint but there was no scene "about to unravel" outside. We'll me and The Guy won't ever be buddies, that's for sure, but at least there was a semblance of civility. The art of conceding defeat, being a gentleman, that sort of thing, part of being a man in a woman's world.

For the life of me I don't remember his name or what happened to him eventually but I do know that the ex, after getting her Bar and a stint at LSE, went home, met a Mat Saleh bloke and eventually became an American. Perhaps it's fitting that I eventually met the woman of my (real, rational and practical) dreams, married her and became an Indonesian. That's a joke, by the way.

Bloody hell, and I thought we were supposed to be talking about AG here . . . and how did my post get mixed up with trips down memory lane?

AG and MSD's deputy director, on his left.

Some photos of me and my boy below, occasionally finding ourselves lost. Real men, they say, don't ever ask for directions. Not ever. They just blow 200 quid on some gadget called Garmin, and still can't find their bloody way home.

Seriously, part of the fun of travel is getting lost. But don't tell that to the spouse who pre-approved the Garmin purchase at John Bloody Lewis, eh?

Lives In The Balance: Party Time!

2009-05-29T02:03:00.017+08:00

In my previous post, Pak Aa Gym's story took place the day after. This is about what transpired the night before. In my book it's called redemption, to find a balance between light and dark, the bad and the good.

Saturday night was spent at a very happening Jakarta nightspot called SHY Rooftop on Jl. Kemang Raya. Kemang is a bit like Bangsar at night; where the city's young and beautiful upper-class crowd get to look and be looked at.

Housed on the fifth floor of a very futuristic glass building, SHY has an open area balcony where one can gaze at Jakarta's sprawling skyline while nursing a none-shariah-compliant concoction.

I went there with a friend (whose sex I shall not divulge for fear of repercussions and incrimination) who insisted, "Bang, this is where the artistes bareng (hang out)". And I was not disappointed...

The ambiance was first class, the decor smart and cozy. In Malaysia it would be the size of an average pub housed in a shop lot. There were perhaps thirty to fifty patrons in all, coming and going.

The music? Mostly acoustic guitars with only the bass being amplified, no drums, just bongos and tambourines to the accompaniment of vocals so sweet it will bring tears to your eyes.

SHY being a musician's joint, the band played everything from Jason Mraz to Sting to Bob Marley. Aaah...

The crowd? If I told you I got to dance with Maia would you believe me? I'll let the pictures tell the story.

I even get to jam my Canon Ixus 850iS right in her face.

Ah, drool over, because everything is about balance, right?

Roy Marten's son, Gading, inadvertently shared a table with me. Apparently he's following in his Dad's footsteps, making a name as actor. I couldn't tell him from Adam until my friend whispered in my ear who that guy across the table was.

Maia Estianty? Everyone knows Maia,the hottest woman in showbiz. She's currently undergoing a very public divorce with mogul Ahmad Dhani, fighting a bitter battle over their three children Al, El and Dul. The kids are also musicians in a band called Lucky Laki, managed by the male parent, who at present has custody. Not a day goes by here in Indonesia where one isn't bombarded by news of Maia and Ahmad Dhani's woes spelt out in gritty detail... I really wanted to ask her how she handled the pressure of it all, but it wasn't a good time. I felt that she wanted to be left alone and I could respect that. Hey, being the subject of gossip and slander by tens of millions, day in day out, must be terrible. Ever since that Ahmad Dhani took up with Mulan, Maia's duet partner in Ratu...

Lives In The Balance: Good Works Vs Bad

2009-05-28T21:53:00.004+08:00

I have always held firm to the belief that we must have some balance in our lives; some sort of yin and yang in equal measure. To do some bad and to do some good, because to see the worst in human nature will make us appreciate the nicer parts of humanity. And I don't mean women's bodies...

I'm sure many of you will disagree but that's just me; seeing bad in good and good in bad. And I'm always grateful to be able to tell one from the other.

Because... how else would I find myself in what once was the largest prostitution area in the whole of South East Asia last Sunday afternoon?

I said, was. Remember the tense, please, was.

It's in north Jakarta, past Tanjung Priok, at a place called Kramat Tunggak.

What once housed close to 4000 rooms in 277 buildings employing hundreds of germos (pimps) is now the Jakarta Islamic Center. I dare not even speculate how many PSK's (Pekerja Seks Komersial) this bustling area once had. Ten, twenty thousand? More?

Anyway, all that was demolished in 1999 and early in the millennium the Jakarta Islamic Center had replaced all that had once brought misery and ecstasy in equal doses.

But don't take my word for it. Go here to Mualaf Center Online for a background on Kramat Tunggak.

So you ask, what the hell was I doing there?

I went there on a self-induced mission to visit a friend who once worked as a radio operator on my rig in Kalimantan.

Pak Aa Gym, fiftyish and obese, suffered a stroke about a year ago in his kost (rented room) in Balikpapan. Workers like Pak Aa Gym don't get to go home during time off like I do because their point-of-hire is in Balikpapan. They see their families perhaps once or twice a year, usually over Lebaran Idul Fitri, and of course, paying out of their own kantong celana. They just don't make enough. Their schedules are usually "two-one" - two weeks on and one off, and it was on one of those "offs" that his neighbor noticed that he had not emerged from his kost for two days running.

So he had suffered a stroke, alone in his kost, with no one giving a damn.

He was hospitalized for a while and when he was able to walk, his kin came to take him home to Jakarta. He had, by then, lost his faculties to speak.

So I promised myself that if I ever spend a day or two in Jakarta, I would hunt him down and pay my dues to a fellow comrade.

But finding him was no easy feat. I had to ask around until I found another offshore worker called Sugeng who could get me his address. So I kept that battered piece of paper with some crude references to Bekas Tempat Prostituisi Terbesar and finally, there I was.

I kept the meter running on the taxi (no need to expound on my getting lost in the maze of Tanjung Priok - the taxi driver had never been there either) which eventually made me poorer by almost RM 150.00 (yes, it's that far). After asking around I found the "Ibu RT" (some sort of neighborhood leader) who finally led me to Pak Aa Gym.

There was no one home except Pak Aa Gym, dressed in a white T-shirt and sarong with a metal cane by his side. He had lost perhaps fifty pounds. He registered surprised, and a pitying 'huummm, huummm' escaped his throat. He grabbed my waist and cried. And so did I.

And so I had come to fulfill my vow.

What struck me was what "Ibu RT" said to me as she left me outside his gate, "Pak, you're the only friend from his workplace that visited".

In reply, I said, "Alah...but my house is just on the way, Bu...", shrugging it off.

She had no idea that my house is in another country.

"Rainbow Warrior" aka Laskar Pelangi

2009-05-20T01:37:00.010+08:00

Best movie I've seen in a long while, folks. And that includes all the Hollywood ones.

An adaptation from Andrea Hirata's novel, the first of the tetralogy, this movie broke all box office records in super-populous Indonesia.

You'd think with rampant ciplaking and DVD bajakan going on, people won't flock to the big screen any more. But they still do. Especially when a real good movie comes along, they still line the velvety ropes, don't they? Great movies are best savored on the big screen, as God had intended them to be. Not on your plasticky grey China-made 21 incher in the old 4:3 format.

Even President Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono was not spared by the movie's impact. He forced his whole cabinet to watch at a legislative sitting - just so his reps can truly appreciate the failings of Indonesia's public school system.

All this was almost a year ago.

Hmmm.

And it still hasn't hit the big screens at our glitzy cineplexes in 1-Utama or Mid-Valley either.

Poor culture-starved folks in Malaysia can only settle for generic (and forgettable) horror fare like Setan Budeg.

A gross injustice has been perpetrated here, man. I almost feel compelled to write to Cathay and TGV, the main movie distributors in Bolehland, and ask - Why?

I live and work in Indonesia - each time I come home to Malaysia I open the movie listings page with trepidation - and disappointment.

Notchetyet, lah.

It's been so long that even the official DVD has hit the shelves here in Indonesia. I've been raving about it to my family so much that I already bought some to bring home. Just to feed their curious anticipation too.

The DVDs are in my laptop bag right this moment and coming home to a private screening at my cluttered living room on my 32" CRT TV soon. Belum ada Plasma laa bang...

Cinematography? - Top Rate.

Acting Cast / Ensemble? - Brilliant. Cut Mini Theo is beautifully cut out for her role as the early seventies Ibu Muslimah. Supporting casts include stellar Indo thespians like Ikranagara, Tora Sudiro, Jajang C. Noer, and Alex Komang. But the kiddie actors, as in Slumdog, is what this movie is all about. Folks, you're going to shed plenty of tears. Don't say I didn't warn you!

The actors had to undergo intensive training in Bahasa Melayu to perform their roles convincingly. And after watching it you can almost believe that you are watching a Melayu movie. A "Melayu" movie that became the best-selling ever movie in Indonesia, that is. Imagine that, watching a an "Indonesian" movie - arguably the best ever - in Malay?

According to Cut in an interview, she had "begged" director Riri Reza and producer Mira Lesmana for the role of Ibu Muslimah. Riri was impressed that Cut was able to impart a certain sadness even while smiling, a required trait that landed her the poignant role.

The set direction was flawless. As a child growing up in the 60s and early 70s, Belitung was similar to rural Malaysia as I had remembered it. The producers certainly took great pains to create scenes for this period piece. Great for nostalgia buffs.

Is this the best Indonesian movie I've ever seen?

Yes. Me thinks it deserves and Oscar for Best Foreign Film.

I'm hoping the Malaysian Cathay or TGV distributors will come to their senses and bring it in for release.

Just don't borrow the DVD from me, though. It has already been booked months in advance!

And please don't buy the pirated copy. Besides, it's haram to do so.The original DVD will probably find its way to Malaysia eventually. Better yet, and I'm sure good sense will prevail, Laskar will hit our cineplexes soon.

Better see it on the big screen lah!

N.B.

I was prompted to write this after being inspired by Alina Abdullah's take in her "ranting chanting" blog.

Reshmonu's HARAPAN CD - Buy it!

2009-04-11T22:13:00.015+08:00

If you have tuned in to our local stations when you make that daily grind to the office you most probably have heard Oh Anok Anok right? Yeah, that's the one, the catchy Kelantanese-inspired anthem. (Click for the MTV youtube video)

That's by Reshmonu and the lyrics are by my beloved, multi-talented sister, Pacha.

His first full-length Malay album has just made it to market, folks, with Pacha penning most of the lyrics. Pacha had also written his award winning 2004 hit Cintaku Pergi.

HARAPAN is up for 5 nominations for the upcoming A.I.M. (Anugerah Industri Muzik) Awards 2009 in May for Best Pop Album, Best Engineered Album, Best Music Video, Best Male Vocal Performance for 'Sayu' and 'Doa Untuk Dia'.

To order the CD, please go here. It comes with a nice denim CD "sock" by Key Ng.

If nothing else, proceeds from my sister's royalties will go towards me taking you guys out for teh tarik, eh?

Hiresh's lovely wife and son with Pacha.

Hiresh with my sister at the opening night of her first solo. In the background is my niece N and partly hidden by Resh's mic is A, niece of both Kak Ton's and Nuraina's.

Excerpt from Resh's Facebook:

Subject: My Album ‘HARAPAN’ earns 5 nominations for the A.I.M (Anugerah Industri Muzik) 2009

Hey there thought I’d share the good news.My latest full length malay album titled ‘Harapan’ just earned me 5 nominations for the upcoming A.I.M awards happening May 2nd. The nominations are for the following categories :

1. Best Engineered Album
2. Best Music Video - ‘Oh Anok – Anok’ the MTV
3. Best Male Vocal performance in a song ‘Doa Untuk Dia’
4. Best Male Vocal performance in a song ‘Sayu’
5. Best Pop Album

I ‘m overwhelmed at the fact that this first malay album of mine has earned a place among a majority malay music industry. I am humbled that it has earned its recognition among my fellow musical comrades…my only hope now is that ‘Harapan’ reaches you… my supporters! (available exclusively @ www.rrecords.net

) Would love to extend my sincere gratitude to everyone involved directly or indirectly in the production of ‘HARAPAN’.

BTW: With regards to the release of my next English album…mmmm???? All I can say is somethin’s cookin in my music kitchen!!!! (hint:- Soulfull Funky House music in session!).

--------------------

More (Yawn) Bike Stories

2009-04-09T10:09:00.003+08:00

My boy turned 8 yesterday, and he also came out 3rd in his term exams, so what did I do to reward him amidst this raging recession and BN's recent humiliating loss? (Is this Perak's and Kedah's "gift" to the newly-crowned First Lady?)

I bought him a scaled-down replica of former world champion Thomas Frischknecht's race machine: A Scott Scale JR 20.

The "20" means twenty inch wheels when adult-sized bikes are 24 inch. So it's a kid's bike. But a serious kid's bike armed with Revo Shifters, front and rear derailleurs,front fork with 55mm travel, the whole works.

Come visit my other blog for more of this insanely inane, stupendously mundane and lame ho-hum stuff.

On Cloud Nine Pt. 2 - "V009" actually made 9th!!!

2009-04-05T00:25:00.002+08:00

That's right, folks. I was "upgraded" to 9th!

Damn the organizers, or praise 'em, rather? - because the official race classification came in almost a week later!

Slackers.

This is something akin to what happened to Jarno Trulli in the opening F1 season on the same day as my race. Lewis Hamilton was eventually disqualified from his third placing and Trulli bumped up to third from fourth.

Apparently legendary Pat "Pig Pen" Brunsdon (V012) and "Ironman" supremo Wan Shahidan (V019) had jumped the gun. In Pat's and Wan Shahidan's case, there were so gung ho on starting (a bit like being kiasu laa) that they started off at the first flag-off in the Open Class.

They were supposed to start off with us, about 10 minutes after the Open flag-off. It was a bit chaotic I suppose since there are hundreds of us jammed on that small lane waiting for the Pajero to lead us on a rolling start. The Pajero had some dudes in the rear holding a huge Selangor flag ready to "drop it". So these two decided to trail the Open pack I guess, thinking the Vet class race was going to be on a slightly different and shorter route. In Pat's case the marshalls made him go on the longer Open Class route (see note above), Buy why Wan Shahidan was positioned 18th I wouldn't know. He must have committed a bigger sin like failing to pass a checkpoint (shortcut?) or something when he actually had the fastest time.

In any event I'm a happy puppy.

Like everything else in life, we should play by the rules and hope to "get lucky" sometimes.

On Cloud Nine

2009-03-29T20:36:00.014+08:00

My smile says it all...

Folks, today I surprised even myself. The presence of expat Pat "Pig Pen" Brundson, Gary Choong of CycleWorx Singapore, Farizul, and some hard core athletes like Wan Shahidan did not deter me one bit. Back in '06 Gary made top 50 in the International Tour of Thailand (ITT) and will make some piss in their pants. And he made Top 50 IN THE OPEN CATEGORY, not some piss-ant "Veteran Class" shit. I was only nine places behind number one (Wan N). And seven places behind Gary. Yeee-haaa!

You heard that right, folks! Mat Salo with race number "V009" made tenth place. I was shocked. Which means I smoked some of 'em rider-athletes-cum-super-heroes that were once featured in newspapers...

After crossing the finishing line in almost two hours (there's one portion where you had to push up the bike up a 45-60 degree slope for 1 km, with no way to ride it, what with 200+ cyclists bottle necking the single-track - that's why it took so long) the marshalls at the finishing line said I came in tenth. I couldn't believe it so I grabbed the list to be sure.

Too bad there's no prizes for coming in tenth but knowing that I smoked some of 'em super-established guys?

It is indeed sweet, folks.

After crossing a small stream halfway through the race the whole bottom lip of my clipless shoes' got snagged. I had to look for some 'tali rafia' to hold it in place. If it had stayed intact - could I have been on the podium? Excuses, excuses...

Pre-Race: Leaving the house at 7.00 a.m.

Pre-Race in Sg. Buluh... all suited up.

My 15-year old first-born in the Open Class. He "DNF'd" at the last checkpoint due to a broken chain...

Pre-Race: Marshalls zooming past on their motocross bikes while I don my gloves and say a little prayer...

Me and Le Tua's pro Lim Yew Meng who came in second in the Open Class. Of course Yew Meng's in the same team with Indonesia's Number 1 and 2 rider Samai Amari and Tonton Susanto - participants in the recent LeTour DeLangkawi.

Strollin', Strollin' ...past the finish line...

Main sponsor's tent: Ng Joo Ngan's son- imcyclist.com

A Man In Mid-Life

2009-03-26T13:57:00.007+08:00

Mat Salo in (poor) post training form, March 26, 2009. T minus 3 days to Race Day this weekend.

I guess like all men hitting the "magic 50" they start to do something "crazy" - and I'm certainly no exception to the rule.

Some take on mistresses or an extra wife, some will purchase a low-slung two-seater sports coupe, or a Mark Levinson (yes, Kim Catrall's hubby) hi-fi, or a big plasma TV. I wonder if going to umroh or haj is a consequence of mid-life too?

Back in '04 - GP Speda Race Series - note the "boghoi" factor

Me? As soon as I came back from Indonesia I decided to do something that I had not done since 2004: enter a goddamned MTB race. Back in '04 when I was not quite 45 I managed to complete 100 k on a road-bike. But that was five years and tens of thousands of sticks of cigarettes ago.

And I've also piled on the pounds, in case you haven't noticed.

Mean, but not-so-lean-nor-trim in '04

So this weekend I'll be competing in the men's "veteran" class (45 and above, of course) but for old-timers like us who couldn't get it up more than once a single night, the course is only over 15 km when normal UCI sanctioned cross-country MTB races would be at least 24 km or 4 laps on an average 6 km loop.

So why am I doing it? I don't really know dudes and dudettes.

Perhaps like all men in mid-life, we all start "losing it"?

Wish me luck this Sunday the 29th, eh?

If you're keen, it's near the old leprosy hospital in Sg. Buloh. Go here for directions.)

Brand New Shimano XT "clipless" installed at Joo Ngan yesterday.

Transferring "clipless" cleats from new to old shoes...

LDTL Stage 5 - The Curve to Genting (Mat Salo's favorite sport!)

2009-02-13T21:29:00.007+08:00

This is my third live LDTL event, the previous two a couple of years back. I'm not often home in Malaysia so I was lucky as hell that Stage 5 today started at my front door - literally!

The Petaling Jaya to Genting Stage kicked-off right between Ikano Power Center and The Curve, in front of co-sponsor's VW Malaysia's spiffy showroom to be exact. So all I did was to get on my hand-made Santa Cruz Superlight, a full-suspension mountain bike with my trusty D300 and 18-200 VR II lens slung across my shoulder, my pack of Dunhill's and headed off to The Curve to witness the start.

Did I tell you back in '04, at almost 45 years of age, I borrowed a RM 10,000 road bike and entered a UCI-sanctioned 100 km race in Perak? I finished fourth in my age category, barely missing the podium. But I was at least an hour behind the leader's though! I think there's hardly a sport greater than cycling, imagine day-in day-out going flat out for hundreds of kilometers a day until the end of the tour. The Tour De France, of course is the greatest of all - covering 3000 km in three weeks. How can anyone possibly do it? Doping? Naaah...

Yesterday's Malacca to Bangi Stage Winner - young upstart Samai of Indonesia who clocked an average of 42.08 km/hr for the 221 km run - that's faster than most non-rempits's kapcai I gather.

Wishing Anuar Manan of Team Malaysia well...

Lim Yew Meng and Indonesia's Samai, pros for Le Tua Cycling Team

Stretch 'em, dudes...

Samai acknowledging the crowd when called to the podium to "encore" yesterday's performance with teammate Jeremy Yates of New Zealand.

One of my all-time favorite Iranian cyclists - Ghader Misbani. He's done this since the inception, always posting impressive results.

Le Tua's Razif Salleh, nursing some stitches and abrasions from recent crashes.

Don't look let the "toy boy" look fool you. This Jap is a serious contender!

And they're off!

South African's Nolan Hoffman, yesterday's Malacca to Bangi Green Jersey holder checkin' out his rear...

Yanks Euser and Duggan of Team Garmin Slipstream (in blue, flanked by Team China) discussing whether they can ever be the next Lance Armstrong.

Made a new friend today, canine lover, TheStar's columnist, wheelchair activist, and get this - merangkap MBPJ councillor Anthony T who came as a VIP guest.

Anthony T demonstrating to me the workings of MBPJ's "mobility van". Thanks, bro'.

Columbian Jose Rodolfo Serpa Perez, today's eventual Genting's conquistador!

Wells of Eyes

2009-01-17T20:26:00.010+08:00

WELL HAVE YOU EVER, in that moment of intense intimacy, whether sexual or otherwise, peered into that black liquid inkiness and looked, really looked—into a person’s soul? And there you are, spent, deep inside her that you swear as you stared in the unfathomable darkness, a glimpse, a connection so intense, a feeling you might have felt in a church, mosque or synagogue however incongruous that may be. Then you wonder why you had never experienced anything like it before, thinking you’ve already seen it all on the conjugal bed you shared with your long suffering but dutiful spouse.

Well I have, and it’s something I am not proud to tell you either, but tell you I must.

As a traveling salesman (shoes are my trade) I’ve had my fair share of women; I am merely stating a fact. Most of these encounters were forgettable, ably aided and abetted by knowledgeable taxi drivers, hotel doormen in a quest for commissions and barmen. Sometimes you might even bump into your quarry at the lobby bar, their eyes expectant looking, furtively making you out. Cheap as you are, you rejoice at being able to cut out the middleman.

And you may very well ask, why do we do what we do? Beats me, but I think it’s a question of release and opportunity. And I would be hard pressed to remember her name a week later, if it was her name at all. And even if she gave me her number afterwards, I would never call her again. Like I said, it’s for release; I didn’t say I was looking for a wife was I?

That was, until I met her. Or rather, I had looked into her soul.

For the purposes of my story, let’s call her Lita.

The women I’ve had, chiefly, were what you might call ‘desperadoes’; divorcees and waitresses and office girls out to make something on the side, or simply looking for a thrill. The sleeve on one of my favorite albums by Steely Dan says, “Can’t Buy a Thrill”, and I dispute that strongly because one certainly can. These women are usually of the older and mature variety, and are not full-time hookers, oh no, not my cup of tea. Besides, the potential for disease is incalculable. There are high-rent ones of course and can usually be found in the Yellow Pages under “Escorts”, spick and span and probably comes with a certificate but on my shoestring budget? Sorry, I hadn’t intended that as a pun.

That was, until Lita came along.

She was something else; a rough, unpolished diamond, heaven-sent in the archetypal Adam and Eve fashion save for one thing: I’m no Adam, not by any stretch of the imagination. For starters she was young; barely out of her teens when she was ‘introduced’ to me by the hotel bartender one fine balmy evening. I was in town to visit our dealers with an express mission to find out why our new range of rubber thongs or ‘jap slaps’ weren’t quite flying off the shelves.

And there I was, balding, with a heavy paunch, embarrassing man-boobs and should I add, thirty years her senior, nursing a beer. The lithe creature appeared in a lady dress that accentuated her cleavage; long flowing locks carelessly caressing her shoulders . . . and legs. Oh legs. And the exquisite calves dragging the eyes to meander down to her gloriously petit ankles . . . dainty feet clad in fashionable black Italian pumps (or faux Italian anyway) –my personal Lolita for the night. I felt like I had scored the lottery, she was that gorgeous. But her eyes I noticed, –were sad and forlorn.

Never in a thousand million years, as I counted my lucky stars and took a long sensual swig of my beer, would ever such a beautiful creature look at me. Let alone once, let alone twice, and God forbid, let alone fall for me.

She moved towards me, hesitant, which is understandable, in light of my age and my bearing. I was dressed in casuals, dark pants with my Arnold Palmer golf shirt hanging over my gut. I gestured her to the stool next to me, and more than once I could net help thinking that she just wanted to get this over and done with. Believe me; sometimes they are no different than any other service personnel.

But I was in the mood for more alcohol, to deaden the pain and make it easier to live with myself afterwards perhaps? I asked her what she wanted and said she wasn’t particular. On cue, the bartender recommended her a lady drink, Baileys I think it was, something that looked like milk-white coffee.

Now I may be crude and crass, but I’ve always believed you should treat people the way you want to be treated. If I feel her aversion to me is too strong I would not force her, no matter what her vocation. As a salesman I can respect a seller’s right of refusal. Then perhaps at closing time after paying the tab, instead of walking to the elevators to the heavens above I would take her to the doorman and order a taxi. Then I would quietly slip her some notes and thank her for her time. Inadvertently their eyes would light up at this point; glad she wasn’t forced to the evening’s supposedly eventual conclusion. If I’m lucky I might even get a peck on the cheek, amidst her mumblings of apologies.

So I sat there with these thoughts in my head; that the night might come up empty, when the sweet young thing old enough to be my daughter slipped her soft hands in mine. I thought I even detected a faint hint of a lovers’ squeeze. What’s this? I glanced over –and was that a faint smile painting her luscious lips too?

So we ordered some more rounds, she too perhaps to deaden the pain and make it easier to live with herself afterwards. I can’t even remember what we talked about but I sensed some heat in our intertwined fingers beginning to simmer, frozen hearts ready to thaw. I should be so lucky, I guess.

More than once as we whispered our version of small talk, our lips would brush, accompanied by a gentle squeezing of fingers. It was like being struck with 1000 volts of current. I mean, is this for real? Can one find love with a teenage hooker? I was still sober enough to tell myself that I’ve only just met the girl, and she was only doing it for the money.

I shall not indulge you with details, but suffice to say, that night was a revelation. I felt truly liberated, the shackles that used to bore love down blessedly removed. I finally felt I had a communion with someone on a plane I never knew existed. The feeling was, and I do not say this lightly or sacrilegiously, bordered on the religious. She was hungry for me as I her. Every fantasy, every fetish I had in my perverted mid-life brain she indulged. When after all is said and done, she did not roll over (and this was a first) and gently laid her head on my chest, basking in the afterglow. And then we would sleep spoon fashion. And right before the breaking of dawn, when male pheromones (even 50-year old ones) are wont to rage, her lips would seek and tease my member. Then we would start all over again.

And when we would erupt, face to face, her lips locked on mine, her eyes would engagingly remain open: begging me to stare in the wells of her eyes, for our souls to cross the divide.

So I broke my cardinal rule about not meeting a trick more than once. In fact, we met plenty of times after that. In a rare moment she confessed that I was her first John (yeah, right, say what you may – it’s true), and she did it because her mother was in the hospital and her only other sibling was about to start school. But what she hadn’t counted on (nor I, not in a thousand million years) was our powerful communion, however ridiculous that may sound.

Fortunately I was been blessed with rather sound plumbing thank God, although looks can be deceiving (don’t-judge-a-book-by-its-cover and all that) and I will bring to my grave that when we were together, Lita had never faked it. Which also puts into question the so called wonder drug that purportedly treats ED: you don’t need Viagra; you just need a yielding Lolita-type, that’s all.

On the professional side I was reprimanded by HQ on why I kept visiting that same town again and again when the sales figures there didn’t warrant my undue attention. But how could I explain to the Area Manager that I had looked –looked–into a person’s soul?

But like all half-baked stories the affair ended badly (at least for me it was) about a year and a half later. I remember it clearly because it was not long after we celebrated her twentieth and I had bought her a rather daring slip, something with lace and frills. We didn’t really meet that often, once in a blue month, sometimes twice, and of late surprisingly these liaisons were initiated by her.

One rainy evening I checked into the hotel, on my own account, hugely anticipating our meeting of souls when I called and found that her mobile number no longer worked. The computer generated female voice gently admonishing: we’re sorry, the number you had called is no longer in service. This I take to mean that either something bad had happened to her, or, the end of the world as I know it. Because she had come to her senses and decided to move on. In all likelihood, and I’m not averse to kidding myself, it was probably the latter. All fantastic things must come to a crashing end; it was, as they say, par for the course for me.

But it didn’t really quite end that night when it should and then I had literally drowned myself in a sorrow of liquid amber. The bartender was apologetic, because even he, after a few calls, had failed to trace her.

Thinking it was over; I vainly tried keeping her out of my mind. But one does not fall out of love so easily I don’t think.

But some months later, out of the blue, she called, on a different number. She apologized citing reasons that might have even been absurd, but with my heart aching and racing and the embers starting to kindle, reason fell out the window. So we agreed to meet and consume our hunger. Or so, I had thought.

For the second time she stood me up, without a word, or nary an apology. After waiting for a reasonable and appropriate length of time, I tried her new number but that number had also ceased to exist, when hours earlier the breathless SMS she sent still burned in my phone’s inbox: RHW darling I wil brg the bday lingerie u gave im yrs tonite 2 do as u pls. Much muaaach! (RH was the pet name she gave me, and please don’t laugh: Red Hot Wanger). I shall not bore you with tales of my sorrow and how the bartender had helped me drown in it that night. This time it was with something much stronger: Scotch, and make it a double, please. That was how Mr. JW became my choice of poison ever since. I also liked its motto: Keep on Walking.

So I let the episode pass, which was the wise thing to do but I “kept on walking”, which probably wasn’t.

It was a year or so later I found myself in the same hotel where I was to introduce a brand new range of sneakers to our dealers the following day. I walked in with an exaggerated bounce, tipping the doormen who held on to my suitcase, hoping to give the right impression of delight and confidence; tools of the sales trade I say.

It was already late in the evening as I stood at the reception, the hour when dusk had finally settled and vestiges of scarlet had finally disappeared into the cool black sky.

I can safely say I had forgotten her by then, or tried not to think about her at all. At my age, I should have already learned to let bygones be bygones. Instead of going up to my room I decided to walk to the side where the lounge was, perhaps to get an early start in dulling my senses.

As I was about to cross the threshold, the arch that leads into the lounge, something made me stop, a presence, a scent. I could feel her, even if I was deaf and blind I would have known it was her.

She was at the bar, a bald and stout older gentlemen sat by her side, her exposed knee and his bulbous jeans almost touching. I stood there like a deer in headlights. Unless they turned, they could not see me because I was looking at the back of their heads. They bartender stood looking at me, no, imploring me and I knew I must turn and walk away. But I stood there immobile and helpless. Animated in their conversation, she leaned close to him as her hands silkily disappeared into his lap. That was when I felt a breathless stab of jealously hit me, and more fool me, this feeling I had not felt perhaps a quarter of a century ago when I was courting my wife when a dear friend took her to the floor, at my insistence (I don’t dance) and she put her arms around his broad shoulders. A friendly gesture required by dance protocol that’s all.

Dazed, I left quickly, got to the room and took a quick and cold shower. As the water sprayed over my head, I hung my head and wept. But I could not stand myself for acting like that and after watching the 8 o’ clock news, I set the onset of self-pity aside, dressed and headed downstairs to the bar bracing myself come what may.

The lovey-dovey couple had already left, and I refused to speculate where.

The bartender pursed his lips looking up at me with something akin to pity. I smiled my bravado smile, with a shrug and a playful gesture of my palms held open, to show that what is past is past and gone forever.

For a moment we were both lost for words. It has been a year after all. Ever the professional, he turned and grabbed the The Black Label behind him, readying my poison. Presently he said, ‘double, sir?’

‘As always… always,’ I said.

I’ll be damned but didn’t my voice start to falter?

He put the glass on the counter and I averted my eyes, feigning indifference, in case they should show defeat, or worse, tears.

‘Err, company tonight, sir?’

‘Not tonight’, I said (and my heart almost screamed: perhaps never you fool!), a half-smile on my lips, parched from the countless years of cigarette abuse, certain in my belief that I will never peer into anyone’s soul, or into the wells of anyone’s eyes, ever again.

============

Note: This is my attempt at a short story written in the first person and a passive voice. It was inspired by my daughter’s eyes, a two-year old with wells of eyes so black, looking up at me, sometimes accusingly: Papa I know you’ve been bad, but I love you anyway. Ah, to know such sweet unconditional love.

I wrote this in just a few short hours in the driller’s doghouse, on a rig in the Straits of Makassar, Indonesia, where 250 or so poor souls had perished in a ferry accident in these waters, barely days earlier.

The character in the story is someone I typically meet in lobby bars during my travels.

Regretfully the character in the story is not me, but should you insist, then as a writer, I would have done my job.

Thank you for reading.

The Best Seat in the House

2008-12-09T02:14:00.022+08:00

I'VE GOT A CONFESSION TO MAKE: I MUST BE MAD. Music mad. While disaster spirals all around us, all I could think of was the concert. Thanks to my brother in law Adrian who was assisting the FoH (Front of House) sound engineer I had the best seat in the house, sitting behind Donal Hodgson (the brilliant Grammy-winning recording engineer who engineered and mixed Sting's latest effort), Sunil (in charge of the mixing board) and Kumar who ran the lighting.

I am proud to say that both Sunil and Kumar are Malaysians; Sting and Hodgson were impressed by their reputation and decided to use their services. Sunil’s day job is technical director for Media Prima’s 8TV but he confesses to make more ‘on the side’. The other Malaysian in the team, Andrew Warren, co-owner of the sound and lighting outfit, along with Jay Neil, both of whom I had the pleasure of meeting.

Actually I had known Andrew far longer. A few years ago when I lived in Bandar Sri Damansara (where his offices are located) I sort of barged in his office to chat. I've been known to do this sort of thing for no reason. Actually I saw crates of Meyer sound equipment (hi-end sound reinforcement gear for concerts, and I profess to know a bit about studio gear) being carted off a small truck into his office. I was intrigued so I walked in and accosted the guy. Yeah, just like that. In the course of our conversation it turned out I had also known his father Tony Warren (during my 'pub-crawling' days) who was -and still is - a popular entertainer in the Klang Valley pub circuit. He says dad still performs occasionally at the Selangor Club.

Being of the curious sort I satrted pelting him with questions: how did you get into this line of work? Both he and Jay are graduates of SAE (School of Audio Engineering) and were among the first employees of Petronas Philharmonic. Being pioneer Stage & Production Managers with the spare-no-expense oil giant has its benefits: they were sent to London's famous Abbey Road studios for additional training. Abbey Road is where the The Beatles recorded their classics, in case you didn't know. After six years in Petronas they decided to hang their boots and form a company. And the rest, don't you just hate this cliche? - is history.

Their roster of satisfied customers reads like a Who’s Who of contemporary music: Diana Krall, Yellow Jackets, The Chieftains, Freddy Cole, Lady Smith Black Mambazo, Michael Jackson, Ricky Martin, Scorpions, Michael Learns to Rock, Deep Purple and now the former schoolteacher Gordon Sumner aka Sting. Not to mention local Media Prima sponsored events and even taxpayer-sponsored excesses like Citrawana of which I’m not certain if the rakyat ever got their moneys’ worth. But I’m not going into that that .

But that night, the day before Muslims celebrated Eid actually, was indeed special. To my untrained and damaged ears (from spending too much time on a drilling rigs) Sting's tenor soared beautifully, and the backing 8-member Stile Anticos choir was simply exquisite. The human voice couldn't impossibly be better. Why I say this is because Sting and The Stile Anticos are superb musicians. In this day and age of desktop recordings and digital studios most of what you hear on CDs (Britney Spears, Kanye West etc), especially the vocals, would have gone through a sound plug-in in the recording phase called Auto Tune. It automatically correct pitches in instrument or voice. Not with these incredibly trained musicians, no sir. There were no other instruments to clutter the mix so it was mostly human voices to the accompaniment of the lutes and arch lutes of Edin Karamazov and Sting.

Ah, the 'lutes. Indescribably resonant; every harmonic scrape of Sting's and Edin's fingers against the fretboard was clearly heard in the mix. The lute, by the way is closely related to the Arabic oud, and is also related our humble gambus. Adrian pointed me the mix console showing an -11 dB range ... Whoa, what superb dynamics! Every breath, every rasp from Sting's soulful tenor rang clear. But KL Convention Center's Plenary Hall probably played a part too with its excellent hall acoustics, that's probably why this venue was chosen over, say, Putra World Trade Center.

Maximum seating is around 2,000 for the hall but I think the crowd was less than half of that. Most of your secondary school concerts probably had more people attending. Sting isn't doing this for money; he had just finished a year-long Police reunion world tour that grossed almost half a billion dollars in revenue. I was at the Police concert last February where I saw Sting, Stewart Copeland and a fit 65-year old Andy Summers jumping around like teenage hooligans, playing to packed and enthusiastic audience of 10,000 at the Singapore Indoor Stadium. So that's twice I saw Sting play live this year. I'm embarrassed to say that the ticket costs there ran into four figures when converted into our money. But for music mad people like me it was worth it. Or so, I deluded myself into believing.

For the most part I’m reviewing the sound, not the music itself because my vocabulary is sorely lacking when it comes to accurately describe subtleties and nuances of classical 16^th century music. The album, Songs from the Labyrinth was written by John Dowland, an English court musician in the late 1500’s. It was pointed out to Sting twenty years ago by guitarist Dominic Miller (his regular guitarist on his solo albums) who even commissioned a lute to be made for Sting as gift. Sarajevo-born Edin Karamazov, considered one of the world’s greatest exponents of the instrument prodded him further into re-discovering Dowland, whom Karamazov described as “the best songwriter and lyricist in the English language”. And that got Sting hooked.

The lyrics are indeed beautiful, and all songs we hear today can be traced to Dowland. It’s very contemplative and melancholy and deals with pain, loss and alienation. Sounds familiar? What’s true 500 years ago still rings true today.

I suspect many in the crowd were disappointed, especially if they came to listen to Sting play ‘Roxanne’. For the encore he did make a small concession and played a very stirring acapella version of ‘Fields of Gold’ and ‘Message in a Bottle’, accompanied only by the choir and lute. When he strummed the first few bars of Fields, all of a sudden the clapping became more enthusiastic. I shook my head in disgust; not because I don’t like these songs but this isn't the forum for it. It appeared that he wanted to appease the ‘Oh-Sting-playing-tonight-just-let’s-go’ crowd coming to hear him play ‘Englishman in New York’. But I don’t blame him; he’s an entertainer after all.

For many who came to enjoy classical music (me included) was duly rewarded. And no million-dollar hi-fi system can ever replicate the superb dynamics of a live acoustic set. Best of all the sound and lighting engineered by Malaysians for one of the best artiste in the world.

And to Andrew, Sunil, Kumar and Jay, you guys make me swell with pride. And thanks for the best seat in the house, guys.

From Left: My brother-in-law Adrian, Sunil and Kumar

(photos taken with my son's cheap compact Minolta)

Note: During the sound check earlier in the afternoon Sting came down to their mixing console to listen in. All three confessed to being tongue-tied and star-struck. Who wouldn't?

I conveniently stole Sunil & Kumar's Sound Engineering, Lighting Design & Stage Notes from their console which was given by Sting earlier. Interesting to note what Sting likes to have in the dressing room.

Blog Bash - A Bit Player's Perspective

2008-11-30T00:10:00.014+08:00

MAT SALO, Tokasid, Shah Cakapjer, Kerp and Dato' Jaffar had some months earlier decided on an end of year blog bash, a bash to end all bashes - a tit for tat response to last week's wildly successful Indonesian Pesta Blogger, an event spearheaded by their information minister and sanctioned by its government. Fuuyooo. Since bloggers in Bolehland are vilified scum (as decreed by Syed Albar, Razak Baginda & Co) so a private initiative was deemed necessary. We do not believe, in the near-term at least, the Malaysian government care to sanction such an inane gathering of unlike-minded individuals...

But what do we care? The point is to gather a diverse group of losers, has beens, washouts and sprinkle it with a dash of winners and wannabes and see what comes out of the mix.

Also, it was to coincide with Chegu Kata Tak Nak's visit to KL to grade exam papers, or so we were erroneously told. It turned out he was here to audition for the inaugural Bloggers Idol...

The upshot was some bloggers finally came out of the woodwork, and truth be told, some were sorely disappointed that their heroes and heroines turned out to be, well, - your boringly average Mat and Minahs.

The men are mostly thick in the middle and sometimes thick in the head, with receding hairlines, graying and are notoriously poor dressers to boot. Take Mat Salo. He came in a tee shirt which Lady Elviza promptly commented, 'as one size too small'. This was deliberate on Mat Salo's part you see, a rather sly attempt to accentuate his biceps but unfortunately had the unintended effect of emphasizing his belly. That man needs a stylist, yessir. Yeah like a fish needs a bicycle. If you really must know, MS has never owned a comb nor uses deodorant. The bar soap (always industrial strength Dettol) when he showers also doubles as shampoo. Furthermore he has a distaste for underwear (the local variant known as spender), and considers Lynnard Skynnard's Free Bird as the greatest rock ballad of all time, surpassing Led Zep's Stairway even.

But the women? Oh the women! They were all beautiful, just as God had intended them to be. Especially Raden Galoh, who 'escaped' from the cancer ward this morning just to be with us. She looked so radiant and happy, showing us it's certainly possible to stare death in the face, and with her strong unwavering faith, still come out smiling. She still has a long way to go but for our sakes dear God, we need her around just to show us mere mortals what life and love is all about.

And Acciaccatura too. Her strength lies beyond our human scope to comprehend. So is Pi Bani, whose selfless devotion to helping people with HIV/AIDS is legendary.

Tok Mummy, Nuraina Samad, Wanshana, Jeejah Mantra, Fauziah Ismail, Galadriel,Nurbaiti and celebrity lawyer-blogger Elviza were all present to give us the much need glamor, glitz and sex appeal.

But I haven't made an exception to the men have I? There are, of course, always exceptions.

Former High Court jude Dato' Syed Ahmad Idid was among the first to arrive. He is not a blogger but a guest of our fellow conspirator Dato' Jaffar Lamri. Unfortunately DJ himself could not attend due to an urgent family matter so unfortunately too for the learned judge, he was forced to have ME instead as his Host from Hell: listening to my stupid jokes while I blew smoke in his face.

For those of you with short memories (and for some, shorter ahem) Dato' Syed is the Last Malaysian Hero. He was a High Court judge from 1990-1996 when he made the startling allegation of corruption involving twelve of his fellows in the judiciary. This was about ten years ago during the reign of CJ Tun Mohd Eusoff Chin and Tan Sri Mohtar Abdullah. Not forgetting too the CEO of the Land at the time was Tun Che Det. The 'flying letter' episode had caused him to be investigated instead, forcing his resignation and losing his pension in the process. That's why it is so important that we get our lawmakers to pass our own Whistleblower Act.

Ten years down the road the good judge was still subjected to another degrading ordeal: listening to Mat Salo's 'oilfield thrash' stories and inhaling second-hand smoke from his endless Dunhills. My apologies Dato', for being a such lousy host. I understand Your Honor frowns upon judges to mingle with riff raff like me. But for you to bear such indignities in silence speaks volumes of the man you are, Sir. Thank you.

Of course the other exception was our guest of honor Chegu Kata Tak Nak. To me he looks even better in real life that tweaks in my Nikon settings could never do justice. Well, some people just have it. And this good chegu has it in spades.

Even Dato' A. Kadir Jasin showed up and slapped some fifties in my grubby hands. It's for the pot, you see. Thanks for coming, Dato' AKJ. And I do envy your waistline, Sir!

Other notable attendees (ALL were notable, mind you): Mute Audio, Al-Husseyn, Pak Idrus, Pokku, Bunga Telur Ballyshoes and not forgetting (arguably) the best (living) Malay writer (on Malaysian shores) in the English language: Mat Bangkai.

Finally, PAS Central Committee and Shah Alam Member of Parliament YB Khalid Samad (Yes, Minister Sharir Samad is his brother, believe it or not) came by. In the picture you can see Chegu KTN and him having a go.

As soon as the crowd faded off, A Voice showed up to dish some dirt up on our next generation of Ultra Malay National Organization leaders. Thanks for coming bro'.

Hope you like the photos. They were in-camera shots, hand-held in available light without the benefit of flash. Apologies to the ladies if the wide angled lens err, just made you go 'wide'. Yeah right, blame the equipment, never the photographer.

N.B.

I have also deliberately not attached names to the faces in the hopes that you'd be able to tell anyway. (Truth is, I'm just a fat, lazy slob.)

Pacha's First Solo

2008-11-16T23:11:00.009+08:00

VIP Guest: P.104's London-born Kelana Kaya MP Gwo-Burne at Pacha's solo ...

Some inspired guests : My niece (left) and her best friend. Hmm, isn't that Nuraina's niece?

Pacha, The Artist.

Bali Meranti's real life lesson in Art Appreciation ...

IT IS THE LIFELONG DREAM, THE RECOGNITION, THE CULMINATION of any artist to host their first solo. What more if the artist in question found her calling very late in life; she was in her late twenties before she picked up that first brush to canvas.

That artist is my sister, Pacha. And the exhibition's titled "Pomegranate and 1000 Birds".

Entirely self-taught, she bagged Bank Negara's second prize for her Imperfect But Beautiful in 2004 that won her a silver trophy and an RM8000 cash prize.

She is married to Adrian Edris of Ahmad Izham Omar's Monkeybone label, who manages artistes like Faizal Tahir, Suki, Norayu Damit and Shila. Adrian's also currently involved in 8TV's One In A Million and Kami -The Gig. They have a daughter, Bali Meranti.

Please do come and visit the Gallery. The Exhibition will run until December 12.

For more stories and pictures, please come visit my other blog.

The Roughneck, A Blue Collar Mid-Week Weekly

2008-10-29T21:23:00.012+08:00

To make my blogging more regular, and not to piss off the throngs, hordes and masses (I wish) that come here only to be affirmed, yeah, he's too dumb too make views on politics, world affairs or high-finance.

So I decided on sort of a weekly opinion pieces to break that myth and hold forth about things that matter to me, me and me. It's important that I satisfy my lust first, before I make you cu- err, happy.

It's my free-wheelin' 'n easy take about the depraved, depressed and dangerous times we live in today.

Barack Hussein

The Roughneck wants this dude to win. Conventional Wisdom (CW) says it will happen. But recently, political pundits and pundeks (to hedge their bets in case the unholy McCain - Palin emerge triumphant) thinks what we're seeing is The Bradley Effect: Barack leads the polls early, and at the very last moment, lose.

And it doesn't make sense.

Why? Because we're humans. Some whiteys are even convinced B.Hussein is Muslim. Whites and Melayus (especially) are at the very core, racist. They tell the pollsters or the public one thing (so their neighbors or whomever will think them as enlightened beings) but in the secrecy of the ballot booth (or closed door UMNO sessions) they'll eventually break down and go for The God-Divined Plan. It's manifest destiny: Only whites, of the superior Aryan race, are fit to lead. Just like the Melayus - but only Melayus from UMNO. And better yet, UMNO Melayus of Indian, Arab or Javanese extraction. Melayus from PKR, PRS, DAP and GERAKAN are now the new Uncle Toms; oftentimes branded Chinese arse-lickers, sell-outs and traitors. I should know, I'm one of 'em.

So if you think Obama is going to win, think again. Think of the majority race there in the Unidos Estadas. Think of the times you say one thing but deep in your heart, you mean just the opposite.

But I hope to dear God I'm wrong.

McCain-Palin (The Unholy)

I just a read a damning expose on McCain in The Rolling Stone. Apparently this Vietnam POW was no hero. When shot down over Hanoi lake, instead of just stating his name and rank, he blabbered to his captors that he was the son of a Navy Admiral to get preferential treatment, an offence which should've got him court martialled. But he's J. McCain III, progeny of 4-star Generals. The story littered with McCain having to drop his father's and grandfather's name on many occasions just to scrape through the Navy. He admitted as much, and was quoted as saying, 'My POW experiences make me a good sell'.

To me, he's just an opportunist of the highest order.

Palin? Palaat lah. Forget the 150,000 dollar wardrobe. The scathing diatribe by Bridget Bardot is what did me. Palin is a disservice to both women and animals. I agree.

The Economy

Stocks? Fuhgeddaboudit. The Roughneck, being un-schooled in the white-collar ways, was persuaded (some say, conned) by his Finance Department this past June to plonk down 10 percent of his hard-earned monthly salary - each and every month in condemned perpetuity - into purchasing company stock at a special employee price of 15 percent less prevailing market rate on June 31st. At the time it was over US 100.00 a share - about US 85.00. Five miserable months later it hovered around US 40.00 a share. That's half its value gone in a space of a quarter.

Nowadays, I don't even bother to look.

Smart, eh?

The real smart thing to do is to buy the shares NOW on the open market, sort of hedging or as a cut-loss measure. But I'm not real smart am I? - on top of being a coward when it comes to high-stakes finance.

But I'm a blue collar roughneck, so I am truly deserving of this folly. But you - with your fancy finance, MBA and accounting degrees - what's your excuse?

Actually I was lucky for a while, right around after the '00 dot-com bust. There was an ex-employee of my company, a University Malaya Physics graduate of the late 70s who went on to do an MBA at Yale and worked on Wall Street before striking out on his own in Milwaukee. I believe he has now traded his red passport for a blue one. So I trusted his brokerage and analysts, gambling (the right word, seen in today's light) up to six-figures of my kids future college fund to play the US market. And play them he did. At one time I held shares in, um, let me see . . . Microsoft, Apple, Tommy Hillfiger, Harley-Davidson, Viacom (MTV, Nickleodeon) - all good. Also, Harrahs and Anheuser-Busch (Budweiser, Sea World) - all bad. Owning shares in the world's largest casino operator and the world's largest brewer is definitely confirming my place where Satan reigns when all I had before had was merely a reservation. Hell, I never even liked Buds. Took me years to divest and samak (perform ablution) on the money. But I suspect I still got one leg in hell already. But hey, I've never been on my high horse, have I?

Indonesia's Pesta Blogger (Blogger's Festival) - November 22

October 27th was Indonesia's National Bloggers Day, an event sanctioned by its government and headed by Muhammad Nuh, Minister of Communication and Information, no less.

The Jakarta Post, in article yesterday, mentioned Ong Hock Chuan as 'Indonesia's top-three' - along with Enda Nasution (dubbed the "Father" of Indonesian Bloggers) and Budi Putra.

Whoa Ong... congrats, bro.

And bye the bye, in an SMS from Rocky The Bru, Jeff Ooi, the blogger (not the MP from Jelutong, at least not in that spirit I don't think) will represent Malaysia for the Pesta Blogger event come November 22.

The Roughneck has mixed feelings about this. His country, Malaysia, will never hold bloggers in such esteem. In fact, bloggers there are held with such contempt and revulsion; looked down with distaste and disdain, fit only to be persecuted and incarcerated like that Raja Petra fler.

In Indonesia, they're feted and celebrated.

Self-styled arbiters of Malaysian morals like its Home Affairs Minister Syed Hamid, whose late father the Lion of UMNO Syed Jaffar, a Hadhrami Arab-Indonesian who migrated into then Tanah Melayu at the ripe age of 30 - knows something we don't?

No Country for Old Men

2008-10-09T17:24:00.013+08:00

Geezer # 1

Geezer #2 and #3 (sorry, didn't catch your blog, G3)

REGRETTABLY THIS ISN'T A MOVIE REVIEW starring Tommy Lee Jones or Josh Brolin or even directed by Ethal or Joel Coen.

Instead, it stars two old geezers. And directed by me, Mat Salo.

They're tough sons of bitches too, I might add.

I bumped into them this morning, something I hadn't expected to happen in a minor fender-bender-kind-of-way. Come on, would you rather bump into these old geezers . . . or some purty young thang with endless legs that will put a bounce to your step and a twinkle in your eye? Not too mention a longing, a stirring, in the --uh, never mind. Furthermore, the distinct possibility of these old timers having lost their marbles cannot be overlooked. But let's be fair: Chances are it's probably as strong the prosecution's case against Anwar or RPK. They haven't lost everything I don't think, oh no, not by a long shot. Least of all is their balls. Because they still talk about sex the way my seven-year old boy talks about video games.

One goes by the name of Zorro, and the other is Din Merican, who calls himself a 'once-reluctant blogger' who has re-muslimmed himself 'the Malaysian DJ blogger', whatever that means. He ain't an 'Merican in case you're wondering because his MyKad says he's as Malaysian as you and me. And to prove it he pulled his wallet out for my scrutiny. That's how bonkers he might appear to some.

Officially he is PKR's version of UMNO's Shabery Cheek, minus the drool trailing the sides of the cheek. His detractors might claim that if Anwar pulls it off, this is the man who might be Malaysia's next Information Minister. But let's not get ahead of ourselves. He needs to get elected or gets appointed senator first. All he and Zorro was guilty off this morning was to pounce on me, with no warrant or anything before proceeding to 'torture' me with Nescafe tarik and chapati in front of Club Shabas...

Now sitting with these geriatric gentlemen got me thinking. What the hell are they doing? Shouldn't they be outside a kindergarten or primary school waiting to pick their grandchildren up or something?

Instead, these geezers took it upon themselves to declare 'war' against the establishment; righting wrongs and fighting injustices in the Malaysian political and civil arena. Plus being an icon and the object of womens fantasies helps. A female lawyer-blogger with a hot bod (you know who you are) once let a hot lovers breath brush my ear, 'We need these old timers to fight for us lah. We can't do it because we have everything to lose. ISA is not cool, okay? We got our kids to think about . . . for them their children already grown-up. They got nothing to lose.'

Coming from a 'hot bod' --lawyer I mean, her logic is hard to refute. But I disagree: there's always something to lose. Mind bending orgasms is one. But why has it got to be so? Why can't normal, clear and level-headed citizens be vocal too? Oh, OK, I get it. I.S.A., cat food and all that.

Think of your little ones and your rice bowl first, right? And the all time number one favorite: What good can one do if one is behind bars or rotting in Kamunting?

I think my friend Sheih Kickdefella has probably heard the same arguments but chose to do what's right. And yes, some pro-UMNO bloggers have accused both him and RPK as 'blogger whores' hired for the sole purpose of bringing down Mr. Rosmah at all cost. Maybe so but you know it ain't so? (Or Bob Dylan would sing: it's all true . . . everything you heard?)

But damn, whether passionately having a discourse about KJ or Mukhriz, or explaining to me the various convoluted conspiracy-tinged 'Get Anwar' or 'Get RPK' schemes, these senior citizens are apt to break into song, usually simultaneously, something even a self-proclaimed amateur musicologist like me find alarming. The tune? It's called 'When The Swallows Come Back to Capistrano'. Before I wrote this post up I was forced to google the song and discovered that:

A) It was a hit by The Ink Spots back in 1940 and went up as high # 4 in that years' hit parade charts,

and,

B) 27 years later the same song was covered by Pat Boone who took it to # 80. I suppose this must be the version they were singing; and that version was in '67, folks. Remember, these are old geezers we're dealing with here.

Let me reproduce the lyrics and tell me what you read into it. Because I don't have a freakin' clue.

When The Swallows Come Back to Capistrano

Words & Music by Leon Rene
Recorded by The Ink Spots, 1940 (#4*)


D9   A7  D             D7     D6    D9   G9    G   G/F#  E7
When the swallows come back to Cap - is - tra - no,

A    Em7  D               B7              E7  Edim  A7
That's the day you promised to come back to me;

D9   A7  D               D7        D6    D9   G9    G   Gm
When you whispered, "Farewell" in Cap - is - tra - no,

A   Em7  D  B7              E7   D9  E7  A7  D  Gm  D
Twas the day    the swallows flew out to the sea.


Bridge:

D7       G       Em7   A7   D
All the mission bells will ring

A7    Edim  Gdim  D    C#7
The chapel choir will sing

F#7              Bm    Bm7/E
The happiness you'll bring

E7        Cdim  E7  A7
Will live in my mem - o - ry


D9   A7  D             D7      D6    D9   G9    G   Gm
When the swallows come back to Cap - is - tra - no,

A     Em7  D  B7              E7    A7     Gdim    D
That's the day    I pray that you'll   come back to me

(courtesy of the The Guitar Guy)

Tell me, have they lost their marbles? Or are we the ones that have lost ours, letting these geezers fight the good fight for us while we fear for our next paycheck?

You tell me.

No country for old men? Maybe it is.

These old geezers may have lost their marbles, but at least they're working hard to reclaim them via their consequences-be-damned blogs.

And for that they deserve our utmost respect.

Me and Geezer #1. Who forced me to don his PKR themed Timberland jacket for the photo opp. Does he strike you as someone who has lost his marbles?

*This post is also dedicated to the other tough sons of bitches like Chegu Nazir, Hantu Laut, Ancient Mariner, Bang Bakaq and Pak Zawi . I implore you to check them out in case you haven't. How old is 'old', you ask. Going by Soi Lek's performance, oldies are goodies. His bedroom skills can put men half his age to shame. But for our purposes, let's just say 50. Because that's when the usually start making E.P.F. withdrawals and look forward to playing with their grandkids. But instead, whacking errant politicians, stupid policy-makers and misguided civil servants have become their raison d'etre.

Them I Will Forget / But YOU I'll Remember Always

2008-10-08T08:16:00.007+08:00

Them I Will Forget / But YOU I'll Remember Always...

(Some scenes on a Tuesday morning)

Haris, worrying incessantly about RPK's spirit, in Red.

Some words of comfort

Check out the vest (Geriatric Model: B.Khoo)

Single Malters and friends

The Stalwart

Title for the blog is something I stole from Bob Dylan's Workingman's Blues 2. I've been spinning it on my 8 -Gig Ipod or in my car 24/7 - and my spouse isn't amused.

She'd rather have Rain.

I can't help myself, it's that good. And it gets better as I understand the lyrics . Dylan's latest album, Modern Times, which Workingman is Track # 6 -- is a gem. I urge you to get it because the lyrics and melodies reflect EXACTLY of our very own, very Malaysian, 'Modern Times'.

Check out the opening verses of Workingman: (excerpts)

There's an evenin' haze settling over town

Starlight by edge of the creek

The buyin' power of the proletariat's gone down

Money's getting shallow and weak

Well, the place I love best is a sweet memory

It's a new path that we trod

The say low wages are reality

If we want to compete abroad...

After the economic implications of the opening verses, Dylan alludes to politics, and for some reason I can imagine RPK echoing these ...

Well the burned my barn,

and they stole my horse

I can't save a dime

I got to be careful, I don't want to be forced

Into a life of continual crime

I can see for myself that the sun is sinking

How I wish you were here to see

Tell me now, am I wrong in thinking

That you have forgotten me?

No, Pete, because...

Them I Will Forget

But You I'll Remember Always ...

Cruel and Unusual Punishment

2008-10-02T12:00:00.006+08:00

poster by mob1900.

To all my loyal friends and readers out there: As you bask in the glory of this Eid with your loved ones, please spare a moment to think about what RPK and his family is going through.

Yesterday, his wife and daughter went to visit him in Kamunting and was only allowed to see him in his cubical when other ISA detainees were allowed to spend those precious moments in the courtyard.

That's what I call cruel and unusual punishment.

For what, I do not know. Same reason I do not understand the reasons when Datuk Noraini was quoted as saying 'Theresa should insaf' (about her 7-day detention).

Repent? Rehabilitate? For what?

Maybe, I'm just stupid for not seeing things the way Syed Hamid or Datuk Noraini sees them.

If so, then there are plenty of other stupid Malaysians like me then.

Well... will someone please enlighten me ?

If not, just free the man or charge him in open court.

Hang In There, Sheih!

2008-09-18T06:04:00.006+08:00

UPDATE: (Saturday, 20 September 2008)

Common sense has prevailed. Both Theresa and Sheih has been released.
God Bless Them.

====================================================

Our hearts and prayers are with you. Your sorrow becomes our sorrow too. Please be strong and patient. Insya Allah he will come home soon...

Poster by mob1900

You've Got A Friend

In a pensive mood ...

Band O' Bloggers

With DAP MP for Jelutong

Sandwiches ain't the only thing you're gonna get from Zorro!

With PKR MP from Wangsa Maju

With Blogger Numero Uno

With PKR Selangor Exco member

I.S.A. : REVOKE, NOT INVOKE!

2008-09-13T23:59:00.011+08:00

That's right, dude, give 'em the finger!

Dear Leader,

I'm sick and tired of this. I'm embarrassed, ashamed AND OUTRAGED that you have chosen to in-VOKE rather than re-VOKE the I.S.A. !

I'm sick, sick, sick . . . sickened to the core!

Believe it when WE DON'T WANT IDIOTS RUNNING AND RUINING THIS COUNTRY NO MORE!!!

Free RPK! Free Teresa! FREE THEM RIGHT NOW!

Why use the ISA? Or are you just looking for a convenient scapegoat? Something to thwart and detract the public? If you got proof, please just charge them in open court. Don't hide behind this sorry excuse!

And lastly, please DON'T INSULT THE INTELLIGENCE of us ordinary Malaysians. Doesn't it occur to you that Malaysia is a democratic country and we citizens are masters of our own fate?

Posters by mob1900. Mansuhkan ISA badge by Mr. Smith.
--Thanks, guys.

Selamat Tinggal Pak Samad

2008-09-05T07:34:00.005+08:00

I DON"T KNOW THE MAN. Know-off him? - sure. Never had the pleasure to meet the great Pak A Samad Ismail. Tan Sri. But some of his children, I've met, and proud to call them friends. Children are a man's greatest assets they say, and in this respect they didn't disappoint. One of whom is exactly my age, a boy whom I ran into when we ran through the same circles once, and the other two sisters I met through the local blogging fraternity. I believe a younger sister was a classmate of my own sister too. My condolences to each of you.

A certain sadness washed over me when I first heard the news. When I think of him, I think of his conviction, his bravery. His incarceration: the first time by the British, from 1951 to 1953. A founding member of Singapore's PAP with his then coalition partner, Lee Kuan Yew.

If he hadn't had a falling out with LKY, or the pull of journalism too strong (he left for KL in '59 to head Berita Harian, and later NST), he might have been, at the very least, LKY's second-in-command. Who's to know?

Many years on, his adopted country Malaysia also chose to incarcerate him, sans trial. That's why the I.S.A. is an abomination. An affront to civilized society, an affront to our Maker. All you have to do is look at the gentle soul called Pak Samad - merengkok in that hell hole for seven - SEVEN!- ('76-'81) bloody years and you know deep in your skin-and-bones that the I.S.A. isn't - wasn't - never-ever-gonna-be - right.

All in all he spent almost a whole decade behind prison walls, forcibly separated from his beloved family; from his children who were small at the time. No, this isn't quite so true. It's the I.S.A. after all, where the rules are arbitrary. He could, I suppose, have cut a deal, cop out, admit (falsely), sign-whatever - but he knew better. It must've pained him to see the family suffer . . . because frail as some might think he was, Pak Samad had bags of steely resolve. He put conviction and belief above all else. A testament to his strength.

Thank you for showing us the true meaning of patriotism, and what it means to love our country.

Selamat tinggal Pak Samad.

Al- Fatehah...

Celebrating H.U.T. - Dirgahayu R.I. ke 63

2008-08-17T11:13:00.013+08:00

DARKENED RAINCLOUDS LOOMED Sunday morning over the vast dreary swamps of Kalimantan Timur where a rig called Yani was temporarily shut down.

Led by Liaison Officer Captain (Mariner) A. Mannan of the Indonesian navy, the crew assembled on the heli-deck to commemorate 'HUT' (pronounced 'hoot'), Indonesia's 63rd birthday, or - Hari Ulang Tahun - as they liked to call it.

Mat Salo ,being the sole Malaysian on board, was given the unenviable position of guest of honor, worthy of a Du-Bes (duta besar).

We quickly got the outdoor part over before the heavens opened (portend of things to come?), commencing to the galley below for a Lucky Draw; the door prizes donated by our respective companies.

By the way, I 'won' a rice-cooker. Now what in heaven's name shall I do with it?

Adjourning to galley below. . .

Drawing Straws for The Lucky Draw

A jubilant crew member - "I won a TV set!"

The Captain & I

Come visit my Other Blog

2008-08-12T12:05:00.008+08:00

To all my enduring visitors here, please come visit my other blog too. Got a new post up today. The other blog is more family-oriented, suitable for all audiences where I hope to keep the unsavory stuff (like politics) out.

See you there!

Bakaq is freed; but systematic intimidation of the Rakyat remains

2008-08-09T18:54:00.007+08:00

Case of Systematic Intimidation?

I WAS MORE THAN HAPPY to hear of Bakaq Penarik Beca's release when I received his SMS shortly past midnight on my ship here in the swampy dregs of East Kalimantan. He was detained for forty hours to be investigated under Malaysia's Sedition Act, primarily for defacing the police's crest in a posting in his blog; removing the "Muhammad" and " Allah" and replacing it with a "C4" and dollar sign respectively. The tiger element in the center of the crest too was replaced with a "howling dog" graphic. Some people might find it tasteless and I can understand how policemen would react with horror, but how would it would incite the Rakyat into hating the government is beyond me. I thought the Rakyat already hated the BN-led government? That's why BN was "trounced" in the last polls? Am I missing something here?

So ... Bakaq was only stating the obvious.

He has apologized, according to Bro Rocky for his "stupid mistake" in the "cut-and-paste" graphic but stands by the story in the posting. In his SMS to me, he laments that police had confiscated his PC and modem. And why the modem I couldn't fathom --unless it's another form of intimidation? Hey Polis, why throw out the baby out with the bath water? Sounds baby-ish to me, is it not?

One way to dishearten the Rakyat is to limit their movement (road-blocks) and freedom of expression (blogger harrasment)...

But I suspect, along with indiscriminate policing (read: harassment) like the all-too-common road blocks, is a symptom of a wider malaise that is ailing our society these days: systematic intimidation. And of course it designed to do one thing: to break the will of the Rakyat. One way to dishearten the Rakyat is to limit their movement (road blocks) and freedom of expression (blogger harassment). Keeping them in a perpetual state of despair. To what end? Furthermore, is it not mere coincidence that Bakaq's detention happened exactly WITHIN TWENTY-FOUR HOURS of DSAI being formally charged in the latest installment of SO.DO.ME. Part II? Not that Bakaq has anything to do with DSAI, of course.

The mainstream media's BN-sympathetic press reports carrying Foreign Minister Rais Yatim's statement to "monitor bloggers and form a watchdog council" isn't helping either. My guess is this was Yatim's knee-jerk response to popular blogger Bro Kickdefella's suggestion to fly the flag "upside down" as a show of disagreement in the way the country is run. And go to Unker Bernard's, the ex-priest-turned teacher-turned-Zorro for a second opinion too.

In short, the BN-led government is displaying a classic response to being under siege. And when they're under siege, they resort to time-tested dirty tricks like intimidating the Rakyat --and to go hard after anyone remotely identified as "anti-government".

Well, I got news for you, Pak Lah, so you better wake up. What with the constant road blocks harassing the Rakyat and unnecessarily lightening their wallets burning precious petrol --ordinary folk struggling with the effects of runaway inflation --and your blatant "Get Anwar" campaign along with indiscriminate targeting of conscientious bloggers like Bakaq, or kickdefella or RPK, the Rakyat are getting sick and fed-up and -surprise? - getting more anti-government these days? Well, just go down to the warongs and mamak stalls to see what I mean. The Rakyat, along with scores of members of your own party, cabinet and BN coalition partners wants you to concentrate on bringing the economy back on track instead of this SODOM and going-after-bloggers rubbish.

So Pak Lah, notice is served. The moment you abuse the government apparatus to go after conscientious citizens your days are numbered.

And when you fall --and you will surely fall, make sure you got a thick mattress below.

And I assure you, the mattress, is not for sleeping.

N.B.

I appeal to all clear and level-headed Malaysians to head over to Benar's site and sign the Memorandum on Media Freedom Petition. It will be handed over to national leaders on 31 August and to state leaders on 16 September. Thanks for the heads-up, Michelle.

Also head on to Harris Ibrahim's People's Parliament on how to save our judiciary.

And the brave young lady likes to remind you, 'the power is in your hands.'

Because it really is. So do it.

Pak Lah apologises to SBY, IGP Musa writes an apology to Donald, and Donald says sorry to ME?

2008-07-21T00:04:00.009+08:00

I AM NOT PULLING anybody's leg here. He really did say sorry to me, Mat Salo.

A year ago, Pak Lah, as was widely reported in the Indonesian media, had personally telephoned Indonesia's president Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono to convey his deepest regrets. Not to be outdone, IGP Musa Hassan too had written a letter of apology that was delivered to Donald at his Jakarta hospital bed via Malaysia's very own ambassador. And Donald, in turn, had actually said "sorry" in an SMS to me yesterday, the 19th of July.

Well, apologizing for not being able to meet for a private interview, that is.

To refresh your memory, a year ago Pak Donald was beaten senseless by Royal Malaysian policemen outside his hotel in Nilai, Negri Sembilan, an incident that provoked outrage and threatened to derail Malaysia's and Indonesia's "fragile" bilateral relations. Pak Donald had been attending a Karate event as a Ketua Wasit (chief referee), and was out minding his own business when he was unceremoniously dragged away to be shown Malaysia's special brand of hospitality that ended with him in a hospital emergency ward. Courtesy of the Royal Malaysian Police of course, currently once again being brought to scrutiny: Altantunya, Anwar, girl-raped-in USJ police station, Gemas. Ge-mas? Isn't that in Negri Sembilan too? Well, the State Police Chief was quoted as saying that in no way was transferring the alleged corrupt cops meant that there were "guilty". Yeah, sure.

Was Donald mistaken for an illegal alien? Who knows? I'm not even certain if the perpetrators were ever brought to book; or were they just given a slap on the wrist? Or a nudge and a wink to for "teaching an Indon a lesson"? A subtle thumbs-up? After all, blowing up tourists with deadly C4 explosives is not beyond them.

A few days ago I had overnighted at East Kalimantan's premier hotel in Balikpapan during the busy PON week. PON is Indo short-speak for Pekan Olahraga Nasional, Indonesia's national sports meet for regencies and provinces that is held once every four years, with the Indonesia's richest kabupaten (province) of Kaltim hosting this year's event. It is a bit like Malaysia's SUKMA.

The staff at the hotel there are my eyes and ears; having stayed there often and enjoying their graciousness, friendliness and uh, okay, the delectable staffs' uniform. One of the very pretty PR managers, a Miss Novi, with her impeccable calves shielded only by lacy black silk stockings, had whispered in my ear that that karate referee who was beaten up the Royal Malaysian Police is staying at the hotel too.

With that juicy piece of information delivered by an even juicier conduit, I repaired to to my suite (yes, suite -- I was upgraded during the busy PON week where all the city's hotels were running at 110 percent occupancy) only to abuse the mini-bar. Suitably quenched and inspired, I took a piece of the expensive hotel stationary paper and proceeded to write Donald a letter. Along with my own regrets delivered in terrible Bahasa Indonesia, I signed off with a request for a meeting. I put in my local Indonesian mobile number together with my room number in case he decided to take up on the offer. After having licked the enveloped and sealing it, I took the elevator to the lobby to meet again with Novi, where I unabashedly told her (after gaining the confidence that only a mini-bar's contents can provide) that she has the most lovely legs and the only reason I hang around in the lobby is to cuci mata. And so on, ad nauseam.

For almost two days I sat stewing until it was time for me to leave. Over breakfast on my final day I finally saw my prey. While nonchalantly heading past his table to fill my bowl with Mee Soto, I noticed that the scar above his right temple was still visible. He was sitting in the No Smoking section with some heavy types, whom I presumed also to be national karate referees. That spoiled my chance of walking over and extending a hand; if he was alone, sure, but with these heavies? Who's to say if they too want to extend me the same level of "hospitality" that Donald was shown in Nilai a year ago?

I needn't have worried; he had read my letter after all. Because a few days later he sent me this SMS, which I quote verbatim:

Selamat malam pak Ahmad. Membaca surat bapak, sy ucapkan terima kasih banyak atas simpatinya terhadap di zoliminya saya saat bertugas sbg wasit di * some text missing * Nilai Seremban. Saya minta maaf selama bertugas sbg Ketua wasit PON di Balikpapan tdk sempat jumpa bapak krn setiap selesai tugas pkl 20, kami hrs meeti *some text missing *ng utk evaluasi kinerja para wasit. Sejak kemarin sampai besok sy sdg rakernas interen perguruan karate sy & tgl 23-27 juli ini saya pimpin refreshing & * some text missing * tanding karate di Kalbar. Sekali lagi mohon maaf tdk dapat jumpa bapak di balikpapan. My Best Regards, Donald PLK

Note that he had extended his "regrets" for not being able to meet me. In his message I felt he showed no animosity to me or to the other 25 million or so Malaysians. Not sure how he still feels about the RMP goons who bashed him though. And why didn't he pursue a claim in the civil courts?

I think he has put this behind him and moved on. I think I shall move on too and delete the poster "Justice for Donald" out of my blog. I don't know if "justice" has been served for Donald or not, nor the perpetrators who had "welcomed" him by beating him to within-an-inch, but inside I feel good. You know, for doing my infinitesimally small part. But raiding the contents of that mini-bar earlier had certainly made me feel better. Not to mention, hornier.

And Miss Novi? Mmm...

I think I'll leave her alone. For now.

A Kid-Friendly Getaway in Malacca

2008-06-27T11:17:00.009+08:00

THE SCHOOL HOLIDAYS were in full swing when I was home the last time. Trawling the 'net for some suitable mini-vacation breaks, we became intrigued by the ads for the new Holiday Inn Malacca. Particularly their "Kiddie Suite" - a large bedroom with king-sized bed and a kiddie partitioned area with double decker beds .

When my kids saw this on the computer screen, the six-year-old immediately broke into a jig. I knew this was it. The thing was, the six-year-old boy and his fourteen-year adolescent brother shares a bedroom, and more than once they had nudged and winked for a double decker. This would certainly free up much needed space. But the problem for the 'decker is the ceiling fan. It is not only impractical but dangerous. Unless one's home comes with a twenty-foot ceiling of course.

So now they get to live their fantasy!

Could be a bit of an anti-climax for couples seeking intimacy. Why? The partition has a break near the ceiling so the kids can sneak their head through to check on wayward parents!

Of course, a Malacca getaway would be incomplete without a seafood feast. Who better than Doc Tokasid and family to share it with?

Thanks for the hospitality, Doc!

N.B.

The Malacca Holiday Inn sits behind Mahkota Parade, thus almost all major attractions are within walking distance. Oh, don't forget to visit the excellent Asam Pedas restaurant by the shophouses in front.

Caveat - the Kiddie Suites are NOT sea-facing unfortunately...

Your Last Goodbye, And A Grandson Who Deserves Hell

2008-05-20T07:39:00.013+08:00

2003© matsalo.com

Hajjah Khamsiah Bte Haji Ariffin ( Bte Darmataksiah, mother) b.1916, d.2008 -today

Sometime before dawn broke today, in a nursing home in the leafy confines of Section 16, Petaling Jaya, an underpaid and overworked Filipino male nurse working the night shift noticed something unusual.

The old Malay lady at the bed closest to the wall had not stirred. Although bed-ridden and immobile, she was 'an early riser', often speaking to herself, cataract glazed eyes blinking at the fluorescent lamp overhead.

But not today.

This harried male nurse, Nelson, perhaps shedding a tear from having to care for this lady during her dying days; having fed her through the feeding tube, had bathed her and moved her limbs every so often lest she gets bed-sores. He then sets in motion events that would culminate in a phone call a quarter of an hour later, across the seas to the grandson who had put her there in the nursing home.

The grandson, her first, her most beloved, the one she cared for in the early years of his life, right until his second year of school. That impudent boy, often forcing his grandmother to walk in the dark to the well at the back of the village house, to bring him bath water which she must first boil in a huge blackened pot underneath a crackling fire. The boy simply must have hot water to bathe. If he remembers correctly, it took at least three trips to the well as the zinc pail was rather small. The boy refused to bathe at the well, even with his grandfather present. Because he was afraid of walking in the dark, or of slithering creatures that might cross his path, or of the freezing water. Because being the only grandson he was used to being the center of the universe.

And what the insolent boy wanted, the insolent boy always got.

Now the boy has grown into a man; a man full of guilt, full of impotence at his inability to care for his maternal grandma. In 2004 when his grandma was staying at his mother's house, grandma slipped in the bathroom and broke her hip. She was hospitalized, and from that day on everything quickly deteriorated. After recovering sufficiently enough, she was brought home again to his mother's house. He tried hiring live-in maids (illegally procured in Kampung Pandan) but none could bear the heavy responsibility of a total invalid, often leaving within days of arriving.

His own mother at the time was approaching seventy and a decision, however unpleasant, needs to be made. He did not want to burden his already aging mother to care for an invalid. The only thing to do was seek professional care. And that was how the grandson had 'sentenced' his very own grandmother, the one who had selflessly bathed, clothed and fed him for the first eight years of his life, to a nursing home a few houses away from Anwar Ibrahim's PKR headquarters in leafy Section 16, Petaling Jaya.

But that insolent boy who grew up to be an insolent middle-aged man, whatever his faults, still had a rational mind - if one could charitably call it that - an ability to still feel something.

Because each time he drives past the nursing home, his hands never fails to bang on the steering wheel - and he can't help but think:

"You're going to hell for this boy, and you know it."

That's why nothing fazes him anymore. He resigns himself to circumstance, accepting fate, feeling hell is something he deserves.

Hell.

He doesn't have to go so far, oh no. Hell has already visited him today. When he received the phone call barely three hours ago, he knew then that he was never going to see his sweet grandma again. Even if he had managed to get off the ship now, the soonest he could get to Kuala Lumpur is tonight. It will be too damn late. The remains would be sent from Section 16, to UH probably, before being sent in a van to Seremban for a quick burial after zohor today.

Yes, Muslims go for the quick burial thing; something he strongly disagrees with, for it does not fit in with his selfish needs. And the thought probably will seal his fate in the afterlife. He laments; why can't Muslims have a wake, like the Chinese who for a few days could parade the embalmed body? At least time enough for her beloved first grandchild, the one she fondly calls Abang, the one who had shackled her to a bed in a nursing home, in leafy Section 16 at that- to come home from overseas so he can lay eyes on her for the very last time?

2004© matsalo.com

The last photograph was taken in 2004, on Hari Raya Haji Idul Adha, a month before she fell in her daughter's bathroom, broke her hip and quickly began to lose her faculties.The boy is her great-grandson, her beloved grandson's second son. The one working overseas. The one who had not bothered to carry her to her final resting place. Or pour dirt in the well of her grave, nor sprinkle her flowers.

For those so inclined, the grandson had also blogged about her once, and you can read it here.

Mayhem in May?

2008-05-08T18:40:00.011+08:00

BAD THINGS HAPPEN IN THE MONTHS OF MAY? But don’t just buta-buta and swallow this lock, stock and barrel. Perhaps it’s all just a bad coincidence? For a Muslim it might unnecessarily cause you to teeter on the brink of being shirik – (commit apostasy).

Don't say I didn't warn you.

Almost four decades back in 1969, a newly-cobbled Malaysia had almost came undone, a nascent nation descending into inter-ethnic chaos. Every adult born before 1965 will remember that day. I know I did, because it was the year I started school.

Twenty years later came May of 1998. Millions of Asians –Thais, Malaysians, Filipinos and Indonesians reeled from the aftermath of a financial tsunami that had landed their shores the year before. Tun M brazenly claimed it was the work of Soros the Jew. The worse to bear the brunt of it was Indonesia. Over 1300 of their citizens (need I say of Chinese descent?) were killed during the ensuing riots . Over 1300 dead my friends. That’s ten times the casualties that Malaysia experienced in 1969. But of course, you say, Indonesia has ten times the population. But to me the ratio is about the same, per capita wise.

Apart from the 1338 victims (official figures) that perished in Indonesia, thousands more, women particularly, suffered brutal sexual assault and rape. And millions of dollars worth of properties were damaged through arson and looting.

Personally for me too, May of 1998 was a very bad month. I lost faith altogether in my ability to cari makan digging holes in my own back yard. So I tendered my resignation; foregoing future EPF proceeds to parlay my fearsome digging skills in somebody else's back yard. And that was how I found myself in Jakarta a month later; laying witness to burnt houses and looted mom-and-pop stores; remnants of havoc that descended Jakarta barely weeks prior.

Okay-lah. Instead of wallowing in the past, let’s cut to the present: May of 2008.

Unless one’s head is so far buried up his or her ass, everyone knows a calamity had befallen Burma. First, the news said it was 10,000. Of course, hard news is hard to come by from that reclusive dictatorship. Yesterday’s paper said the death toll had reached 22,000. I think you and I know the death toll is going to be a lot higher. Why? Because permission is needed first before we send aid. And while all this diplomatic ping-ponging is going on between U.N. - ASEAN and The RanGOON Regime, more and more people are going to die of associated health related problems. Or simply die of starvation and bad drinking water.

That’s why, God Bless them, there’s NGO’s like Mercy Malaysia . But is it really comforting to hear of Datuk Jemilah Mahmood’s two officers, carrying a grand total of 50 kilos of medicine? Heck, that’s about the combined weight of my family’s luggage when we travel. Now before you point an accusing finger, yes, I had done my very small part.

Besides Mercy, I am also heartened to hear of Dijaya Corporation Berhad donating RM 300, 000.00. Even Indonesia, mired in its own internal strife and troubles has pledged USD 1, 000, ooo. As I write, two TNI’s Hercules aircraft are already loaded with humanitarian aid supplies and ready for take-off pending clearance from those Ruthless Goons in RanGOON.

But that's not going to be enough, is it.

And what is Malaysia doing about it?* Do I hear our Defense Minister pledging relief?

Oh, that’s right. He’s got other things on his mind. But let’s not talk about him shall we? Because as someone dear to us found out the hard way: Talking about him or his half can certainly be hazardous to one's well being.

So . . . let’s talk about what goes on in the minds of the internet-enabled Malaysian adult population today.

The Jailing of Pete aka RPK.

Yes, RPK, the bald, bespectacled crusader who refuses to post bail, opting prison over freedom on a point of principle. Already someone has accused him of showboating.

RPK has garnered more press and internet hits than stories of the impending humanitarian disaster up north.

So I'm not going to bore you. I too am outraged that RPK lays languishing in a Sungai Buloh jail, refusing food, refusing to see even his wife. He chose jail over bail; fancying himself a human ticking 'time bomb' ready to 'detonate' come early October. Boy oh boy, aren't we all just dying to know what goes on in that noggin of his...

And he's got us ordinary folks eating out if his hands. We are held spellbound at his sheer heroics and one may wonder; is that coming from the Welsh side --or the Bugis ? It may be worth pointing out that the so-called aggrieved party is also of Bugis descent. But has our Premier-in-Waiting shown any heroics lately? Take a good close look at recent photos of him in the mainstream media. What comes to mind? How does he look to you?

I think you have already answered the question.

I just want to put things in perspective in this Mayhem Month of May, that’s all.

Notate Bene

But some good things do happen in May, too. In 2006, after fourteen years of ups and downs (depends on who you talk to) my wife and I were finally blessed with a girl. She turns two next week and I’m just dying to hear her call me Papa. Sadly, Papa is away in some internet-enabled godforsaken swamp, somewhere in Borneo.

Happy Birthday, my Princess. Bad things happen May? No, of course not, And I hadn't meant you, Princess. You are the exception to everything including this stupid article. In fact you're the best thing that's ever happened to me. And your mother too. And I love you so, so very much.

*Two nights ago I clinked chilled glasses with Captain G---, Commander of RMN's Newport class tank landing ship, the K.D. 1505 Sri Indera Pura. Built by the US Navy in the early seventies (ex-LST 1192 USS Spartanburg County), the amphibious assault craft berthed in Balikpapan while en route from Auckland to Lumut. Captain G--- commands some 300 officers and enlisted men (and women --including two tudung-clad recruits). Over some amber colored liquids I said to him: If I were the Defense Minister, I'd be sending this ship to Burma immediately after docking in Lumut. It would be the right thing to do. Send aid. He just looked at me, eyes pleading. He's been sailing for two months already. He needs to bring this ship back to port. I know what it's like. So I bought him another round.

After causing untold grief to Iraqis in 1991's Operation Desert Storm, the United States Navy had decommissioned this warship before selling it to RMN. Yes, this ship certainly has blood on its hands. As taxpayers who 'bought' the ship, I too am guilty of aiding and abetting, and have blood on my hands. But what about you?

[This just came in: Pete has met his wife and agreed to post bail.]

22 hours: Surabaya - Part I

2008-04-27T16:22:00.014+08:00

HE SAUNTERED IN A BIT TOO QUICKLY through the entrance of the five-star Hyatt hotel when the lone security guard held up a hand. It was already late. He was tired from a day of chasing helicopters, taxis and airplanes, taxis and more taxis and he was desperate to unwind. The usually smart doormen in long red coats had gone home. Only the lone security guard in starched police blues remained.

His eyes scanned the cavernous lobby, and save for night manager behind the reception the place looked empty. He looked at his Swiss chronometer, the mechanical hands telling him it is 11 o’clock. He quickly emptied his pockets – a tattered Burberry wallet bulging with a million rupiahs, a box of Dunhills, Cricket lighter, a cheap Nokia mobile and some loose change on the tray before passing through the airport-type metal detector.

Collecting his belongings he nodded at the night manager and proceeded to turn right, cocking his head to hear the faint strains of a live band playing Owner of a lonely heart.

“Not bad . . . band sounds alright”, he muttered, and looked forward to having a drink to relax after a hectic day of traveling with the usual accompanying highs and lows. Mostly lows. He was on ‘low’ now. Like most ‘cover bands’ he had experienced in hotel pubs and discos across Asia, he would certainly welcome the distraction of the skimpy outfits the female singers afforded. With the thought, his steps quickly gathered purpose.

“Shit”, he cursed. He had forgotten to bring his Canon compact camera along, which he normally carries. After all it was small enough to carry in his jeans pocket. He had left it in the drawer of the hotel, some fifteen minutes away by bechak further up along Jalan Ahmad Basuki, the main downtown thoroughfare in Surabaya. The reason he went to the Hyatt was purely logistical – it being the closest five-star hotel –with a presumably decent live band.

“What the hell, it’s a long shot anyway…” he said, and entered the threshold of the hotel’s bar…

The Backstory

The events as the story unfolds to our anti-hero Mat Salo happened mostly on March the 12^th and spilling over to March the 13^th.

Ever the intrepid schemer and opportunist, he held strictly to the adage: You only live once. The other thing he was mostly likely to tell people is to work hard and play hard. And yeah, playing hard meant the wine, women and song bit -- mostly song.

Just a day earlier he was marooned on a drilling rig in the oilfields of eastern Borneo, chasing the ever-shrinking-once-almighty buck when a section of the well he was drilling finished. It was March the 11^th.

Seditious thoughts came to him, if I catch a chopper to Balikpapan tomorrow, I just might make the afternoon flight to Surabaya, see the show, fly back on the 13^th and be back by the 14^th.

All in all he planned to disappear for a total of seventy-two hours, hopping over from Balikpapan, Borneo, to Surabaya, Indonesia’s second largest city in East Java. Jawa Timur is often times described as the heart of Indonesia, home to the founders of Indonesia Bung Karno and Pak Harto, along with that venerable institution PT HM SAMPOERNA, makers of the wildly popular clove cigarettes. When most major cities in the world only have a meager street or two of 'red-light ', Surabaya boasts a whole unique district -'Dolly' - dedicated strictly to the pleasures of the flesh.

He looked forward to visiting this interesting city.

And why not do it? Why not, indeed, he thought. The trouble is, his employer mustn’t know. If he fails to be back on the rig at the appointed time, the drilling operations for the next phase would be seriously jeopardized. The company would certainly be facing a heavy lawsuit for work suspension. . .

Buy hey, you only live once right?

Against his better judgment, he went ahead. So our anti-hero booked himself on the first helicopter to Balikpapan’s Sepinggan International. Luckily for him the main domestic flight terminal was across the tarmac but he needed money to finance the day’s unlikely and potentially disastrous activities. Exiting the chopper, he made sure his fellow passengers would make no mention of his whereabouts; swearing them to secrecy with promises of ‘I owe you’ and ‘drinks-on-me-next-time?’

As far as his boss was concerned, Mat Salo was safely ensconced on the rig.

He grabbed a taxi and headed to the nearest ATM –that would be the BCA Bank – where in two separate transactions he was richer by three million rupiahs, quickly doubling back to the airport to purchase the Balikpapan – Surabaya on Lion Air. The 12:50 flight had two seats left. Ah, it’s gonna be my lucky day.

But once in Surabaya, he still needed tickets to see the ToTo, which was reputedly to be the last time this legendary band was going to tour the world. If our bumbling anti-hero gets there only to find the tickets sold-out? He'd rather not ponder the negatives.

And he insisted on not leaving a paper trail too, therefore any transactions involving the internet, charge or credit cards were a no-no. Everything would be cash. This, our anti-hero thought, harks back to his passion for John Le Carre’s and Robert Ludlum’s protagonists. No trail. Hopefully not even DNA.

The Lion Air 727 touched down precisely at 13:50 local East Javanese time. In his window seat he watches for the first time the pavilion of Juanda International, gateway to Surabaya, gliding by. He moves the hands of his Swiss mechanical back by one hour. Plenty of time, he mused.

On rushing out of the tarmac and into the air-conditioned arrivals he quickly looks for the KAHA counter, carrying only small duffel bag slung across his shoulder. Why bother? He only planned to be in the city for something like twenty-two hours, so like all good characters in spy novels he travels light.

The KAHA counter is where one buys a voucher at a usually good rate for any of the major hotels in town. The waifish jilbab-ed doe-eyed beauty recommended a nice three-star close to where he planned to go. She had also emphasized, while giving him a sly once-over, that the rate includes breakfast for two and a king sized bed.

Half-embarrassed he winks at her and light-heartedly tries a small joke.

“Can’t you see I’m alone here Mbak?”

“Well, Pak”, again that coy smile against a teeth so white and lips so pink with gloss – “one never knows, right?” The lips close deliciously and the eyes twinkle and move coquettishly away.

The ubiquitous Blue Bird taxis lined the arrivals terminal. The 70,000 rupiah voucher he purchased at the counter would take him anywhere in the city center. The sopir obligingly lowered the passenger window so he could enjoy the first drag of the Dunhill’s post-flight.

Friends who had been to Surabaya (he does have his clandestine contacts) had warned of the infamous macet - traffic jam – so he factored in one hour to get to the city center, even if it’s only twenty-five or so kilometers away. Surabaya, after all, is one of the largest cities in the world.

He arrives at the hotel, pleased to know that a large mall was nearby and the concert venue was also close. In the room he perused the Yellow Pages and called Disc Tarra, a chain of the largest CD/DVD stores in Indonesia. He called the one at the mall adjacent to the hotel. The pleasant sales guy said he ran out of tickets – perhaps Bapak would like to try the venue itself?

It turned out the taxi ride to the Empire Palace – a gaudy Roman styled building was only ten minutes away.

He was impressed right away; flags with the band’s image fluttering in orderly rows near at the car park, his heart drumming and hoping the tickets would still be available. Apparently the venue could only seat a thousand.

Beads of sweat lined his forehead while he stood in line, relieved that the most expensive ‘VVIP’ tickets were still available. Alas, after handing over the 350,000 rupiahs (about 35 US dollars), he was not given a ticket, but a receipt.

What? A receipt, in lieu of a ticket?

“What the…” he began. But the clerk at the counter patiently explained the recent spate of counterfeit tickets at concert venues had made this necessary. The tickets would be exchanged later, at the gates, before the start of the show.

No show

And a few hours later, at the Empire Palace, along with scores of other disgruntled patrons, Mat Salo had ‘invaded’ the empty stage, demanding answers. But the promoters were nowhere to be seen and riot police had arrived to secure order. But there was nothing he could do but cut his losses. Understandably, he was bitterly disappointed.

The band’s equipment – the word was, had gotten ‘stuck’ at customs in Jakarta. The concert was now forced to be postponed the following night.

But he has no chance at all to stay the extra day. If he stays, he’ll lose his job.

So, it had been pointless after all: a lesson in frivolity and stupidity.

He hung around a while, looking like a zombie and figuring what to do next before deciding on a leisurely bechak ride back to the hotel.

And that was how, a few hours later he found himself at the bar of the Hyatt.

He didn't know it then, but his luck was about to change.

To be continued . . .

Mather Lover (To the tune of 'Easy Lover')

2008-04-01T23:21:00.009+08:00

I cannot believe how I spent April Fool's today: rubbing shoulders with rabid die-hard 'Mather Lovers'.

I mean no disrespect to The Old Man, but 'Mather' is two syllables instead of three and it reminds me of the 1984 Phil Collins / Phillip Baileys hit, 'Easy Lover'.

Easy lover

She'll get a hold on you believe it

Like no other

Before you know it you'll be on your knees

She's an easy lover

She'll take your heart but you wont feel it

She's like no other

And I'm just trying to make you see . . .

Which was how I roped in a classmate of mine Kojak to 'kidnap' a certain Ahmedinovich Kerpov for a function held at a small hotel in Pee Jay involving UmNo wanna-bees, has-beens, also-rans, sore losers -- and A Great New Hope in the form of a very bald but impressive down-to-earth MP from Jerlun.

On arrival we found the entrance to the hotel already blocked, the car park bursting with late model Beemers, Mercys, Pajeros and a smattering of Wiras. OK, I lied. Some Kancils and Myvii's too. Most of them had the ubiquitous 'BN', 'UmNO', or 'Ansara' stickers on their windows - often sporting all three. For Race, God, and - lest we forget, also for You, Malaysia.

No worries. As AK is a person with limited abilities (I prefer this term over 'disability' since it brings all sorts of weird connotations), he conveniently whipped out a DISABLED sticker which I quickly slapped on my front windshield. The security guard was too-easily convinced by this slick piece of chicanery, what with the shiny yellow wheelchair displayed prominently in the back seat. Thus we were able to squeeze our ride near the lobby between Mather's Beemer and his recently elected son's Porsche Cayenne....

Since I brought my cam on this auspicious April Fool's day, I'll let the pictures do the talking.

AK (sitting) with a fan . . . and being mobbed (below)

To AK's left is Mat Salo's trusty sidekick, Kojak (in black), on secondment to AK for bodyguard duties. Whitney Houston not in picture.

Took me a while to realize who the lady in the electric blue dress was. When she took the mike to speak, she started her speech thus, "Saya tak suka cakap dibelakang dan saya juga tak suka main belakang"... I ain't kidding. She actually said that.

An altercation spearheaded by the people-friendly BN Gerak Gempur Youth. Some have also likened them to thugs. I dunno, you be the judge.They actually chased and assaulted a speaker from the floor for daring to suggest that DSAI be brought back into the fold... much to the horror of onlookers below . . . (the altercation I mean, not DSAI being brought back in - gotcha!)

Watch YouTube video of 'altercation' here: (Now don't you just luuurvvve UmNO?) Thanks, Pak Bubbles. Speaking one's mind in UmNO can certainly be hzardous to your health. I betcha the guy's gonna run cryin' to KeADILan. Bravo gangsters...

The Panel Beaters

What's with the Nehru suit, Tun? But you do look good in them I must admit.

A Very Skeptical Yang Mulia?

The Old Man leaving the scene of the crime after inciting a near revolt ... well, that's what it sounded like. Prodding present members to dare speak up and demand PL's resignation and other subversive innuendos . . . No wonder UmNO's Mat 'Prestation' Tyson (brought back from the living dead) had put 'blanket ban' for UmNO members from attending this heretical hearing.

© 2007-2008 mAtSaLo iMaGeS

Agents of Change

2008-03-09T12:36:00.014+08:00

I'm ashamed of myself.

Why? Just because I couldn't be a part of history - my vain, shallow self kept wallowing in self-pity. . .

I'm here in Indonesia, chasing the ever-shrinking once-almighty buck when I should be back home . . . so I can also wear that smug look . . . Is that a sneer or a gloat? Go on, feel free. Savor it.

Why - the "horses" I backed - save Chegubard - all won. Chegubard did win though - at least after the initial count, by a few hundred votes I had heard. But suddenly after a recount, his reviled opponent S-I-L emerged victorious with an even bigger margin! How can that be?

Ne'er mind, chegubard. You'll live to fight another day.

Then my ego started to kick-in: Hey, maybe with my blogging articles and stuff I did, maybe I managed to sway around some voters to The Other Side. But don't flatter your self, kiddo. Who am I kidding? The "Agents of Change" did it. Not me. I was just a bystander of no consequence.

These pictures of the notorious Agents were taken in 2007 by your truly, when bloggers were still monkeys. Now some of the monkeys have gone on to become YB's. Hmmm, monkeys and YB's . . . I admit they do rhyme.

Glad also to report I am re-affirmed in my faith now. Although ashamed that I was not able to contribute by physically being present at the booth, I did make some long-distance calls to persuade perhaps a recalcitrant family member or two. Also made some ineffectual transfers by Maybank2U and PayPal via the internet to help the volunteers buy a case of Spritzers or something. Can't say I did anything significant. Mostly I'm proud my fellow Malaysians have chosen the irrevocable path. It's like deflowering a virgin: Once you "paku" -err, I meant pangkah - there's just no turning back.

Congrats Eli, Congrats Jeff, Congrats Nurul Izzah, Fong, Siva, Husam, all you Goliath slayers out there ... Congrats. . . But most of all -Congrats to The People of Malaysia!

Because of you now I'm able to hold my head up high again.

I present you . . . The Agents of Change.

These are people who have contributed to the betterment of Malaysia, one way or another (alright, mainly via blogs) and rightfully deserve the accolades!

BN Wins But (Disgruntled) Rakyat Pays for Victory Do

2008-03-02T13:32:00.010+08:00

BN Wins, two thirds majority - still - but the margins of victory are thinner this time. This is expected. Some PKR / DAP candidates became giant-killers; the opposition having made many in-roads in the face of a lackluster economy paired with an equally lackluster PM. . .

This,my left-of-center self says, is good.

I should be happy, right?

But no, something else is bothering me.

How would you feel if I tell you that THE PEOPLE is paying for the upcoming BN's "victory" celebrations? Yes, you heard right.

Even though you voted opposition, you may not like it if your taxpayer ringgits is going to something you might not agree to. It's like taking out money from your own pocket and giving it to your "enemy" to enjoy. A quintessential Manglish phrase comes to mind: where can? Sure can-lah, because when it comes to your money BN gets carte blanche.

How so?

Well, a few posts back I mentioned a ToTo concert that will take stage at the Perdana Lakeview East in Putrajaya on March 15. This has nothing - I repeat - nothing to do with the upcoming BN victory celebrations that involves your money. This is just a part of Toto's Far East Tour.

Then sometime later I was shocked to hear another concert, this time a mega one, scheduled on the very same day. Great balls-of-fire timing. The concert, dubbed K.L. International Sunburst Festival (what the hell is "Sunburst" anyway?) will feature 26 foreign and local acts. Funkadelic Parliament's (not ours, silly) George Clinton, John Legend, Incubus, Incognito, The Roots (with Ahmir ?uestlove Thompson), Raul Midon, Gigi and Tompi headlining the "international" part while Search, Pop Shuvit, Love Me Butch, Meet Uncle Hussain, Joe Flizzow are among the local performers.

Well, fine and dandy by me because I couldn't go to both concerts (nor the voting booth for that matter) since I will be away in a neighboring country foraging for food and menggarayangi ABG's (go ahead, look it up). Doing what Malaysians fondly call cari makan.

So what, you say. Being a music fanatic, I clicked on the organizer's website only to learn that it's helmed by children of the late former Selangor MB, Tan Sri Ahmad Razali. A few google clicks later I became deeply fascinated by the delectable Gol and Gincu star, Nur Fazura, currently embroiled in an ugly court case over a cat-fight in a bar with Geraldine Wong, the ex-wife of Datuk Seri Effendi Norwawi's son, Ezra. Whoa . . . lifestyles of the rich-but-not-so-famous. And what were they fighting about? About stealing boyfriends. And the boyfriend in question is none other than Razman Ahmad Razali, MD of Pineapple Concerts, the company organizing the "Sunburst" event. Ha!

So, the children of the late Selangor MB are into concert / event / promotion business. No harm in that. And they ARE politically well-connected. No harm in that, too. Of course Mr. Harm is never far away: In court, Nur Fazura, claimed that Geraldine tore her sleeveless black-and-gold top, dislodging her bra . . . and in the process and exposing her . . . (Damn those lucky patrons at Bar Luna in Jalan Kia Peng). With Geraldine counter-claiming Fazura had hit her with a shoe. Manohlo Blahniks or Princess? Hmmm.

But then I started doing the math and it began to trouble me. I contacted a friend - let's call him AD - a veteran in Malaysia's A & R and concert promotion business.

OK, Incubus and John Legend costs at the very least something like US350,000.00 a pop. I say very least because that was the figure reported in an interview with Razlan Ahmad Razali (Mr. Sharmine Farouk), the elder brother and honcho numero uno of Pineapple. So that's US700,000.00. (Razlan claims Pineapple paid US500,000.00 to bring in Lionel Ritchie for the F1 weekend concert last year --but don't ask how much they had to pay him to come to dinner at Mokhzani Mahathir's house (Zulhasnan Rafique and glamorous Mrs. in attendance) or George Benson and Al Jarreau to play at Pak Lah's private function in Putrajaya.

Then add Ahmir's ?uestlove's "The Roots", George Clinton, UK's Incognito and Raul Midon into the mix --not forgetting Indo supergroup Gigi featuring Dewa Budjana and Armand Maulana, and singer Tompi --and you can bet the whole artists' tab would be closer to 2 million US or perhaps more. 2 million US works out to be at least 6.6 million RM's, no?

So where's the problem?

The problem lies, my esteemed voters, is how in the hell are the promoters going to make money?

Well, my inside source says, at RM200.00 a ticket and assuming 10,000 people show up, that works out to only RM 2,000,000.00. OK-lah, let's be generous and assume 20,000 - that's 4 million - you're still short of the 2 million to break even. Don't forget, ToTo too is playing across town that very same night!

So if you were the organizer, would you go to such lengths to lose money?

Of course not.

Then my inside source, AD, whispered, "Abang, the event is already paid for laa . . . by the government, but don't quote me. The organizers only organize but take no risks . . . [the money is] from the budget to promote Malaysia. . . flower festival, Tourism Malaysia and all that --taxpayer's money lah!"

The budget, according to AD, is reputedly to be around RM80 million a year for these "promotional purposes".

Actually promoting Malaysia is a good thing, but to finance a BN victory celebration?

And coming out of the people's pocket?

Adds AD, "Bang, the best part is they [the organizers] make their money anyway because the government pays them up front so they can already do their mark up. . . logistics, event fees, etcetera".

And here comes the killer. "Ada lagi best ni 'Bang . . .they also get to keep the gate receipts!".

"So the monies from the sales of the tickets they also sapu?" I asked. Stupid question, of course.

"Yup".

As much as a lover of music and a concert fanatic (I paid close to a thousand singies to watch Sting & Co play with the reunited Police at Singapore's Indoor Stadium last month), this bloody "Sunburst" thing stinks to the fourth floor!

I seethed, "This is outrageous, man! A sheer waste of public funds! Let me get this straight, you mean to tell me that not only are my tax dollars being used for BN's victory celebrations BUT also making some young punk rich in the process?" I also meant to add, so they can go gallivanting with all these cun-cun artistes? But that last sentence was just the vain, jealous Mat Salo speaking.

"Yup."

Bloody hell, this must be a good business, eh? BN wins, artiste wins , the promoter wins but the poor rakyat loses.

No wonder Datuk Siti Nurhaliza is campaigning hard for Khairy.

The concert is a done deal. They can't back out. My advice is, boycott the damn thing, Ahmir ?uestlove or no Ahmir ?uestlove. Better yet, go to Putrajaya and see ToTo. Or you can go south on polling day to L-KY Jelly's Repubic and catch Lee Ritenuor and Friends - Patrice Rushen(keyboards), Yellowjackets' Will Kennedy (drums) and Melvin Davis (bass) . Seriously.

Also, how the hell can they cook something like this at the last minute? Is there some fourth-floorer who goes, "Hey, we still got 10, 20 mill left in the peruntukan, can you guys organize a mega concert? This will be after the election. . . sure to make money and good for the country's image lah."

So that's how it is in Malaysia. The outcome is a done deal.

The rakyat, sadly, will continue to pay for the next five years.

Hats in The Ring

2008-02-24T16:48:00.009+08:00

Alright. I've been meaning to blog about other things but unfortunately even thousands of kilometers away in the open sea overlooking Makassar Straits, I can't help but be swept up by the tidal waves breaking over the political landscape in Malaysia.

I was pleasantly surprised to hear that some bloggers, notably Elizabeth Wong and Jeff Ooi are joining the fray. Of course it takes money to make any decent headway, especially versus GOLIATH, so please lighten your wallets --or click on Maybank2U and do what's right. See Jeff's take on "donation" in his blog and I implore you to do your part, folks.

Eli holds a special place in my political heart for her work with SUARAM and HAKAM. I've also had the pleasure of meeting her once and let's put it this way: I'm smitten! Not only that --she will be standing in my constituency of N37 Bukit Lanjan, Selangor. I posted a comment in her blog today that I was sorry that I can't vote for her, because self-proclaimed IT-savvy Malaysia has no "e-vote" system, and come polling day yours truly will be on a floating barge in the Straits of Makassar.

No matter, I'll do what I can, Eli.

Pictures of other candidates and prominent Malaysian bloggers below were captured through Mat Salo's lens. I knew these pictures sitting in my hard drive would come in handy one day, heh.

The folks that appear in the photos below I endorse 100% --not because they were once gracious enough to pose for me, but because they struck my conscience HARD.

Now go give these folks a hand!

Eli Wong and a friend from The Last Frontier

The Screenshot Man captured!

Former Two Term Bukit Bintang MP YB Wee and fellow Kelantanese friend.
The former YB will contest the Wangsa Maju parliamentary seat

A Note on the last photo. The man with the pipe is an Unmasked Zorro. The book in his hand found its way to a certain Chegu KTN in Penang, bearing our well wishes and autographs. Man in Blue is going for the Jelutong seat under the DAP banner.

The Muhibbah Tag

2008-02-17T12:06:00.010+08:00

This post is long overdue, and apologies to Chegu Naz for my belligerence and my 'slack-ness' in contributing my not-so-worthwhile thoughts to this much abused term.

I say much-abused because when someone mentions 'Muhibbah' the only thing that comes to mind is a quaint halal restaurant serving superb Chinese dishes nestled in the leafy suburb of Taman Tun, Kuala Lumpur.

I don't believe in this Muhibbah business because it's shallow. If you believe in God or even if you're a Darwinian it is a fact that your genes and mine are compatible. That's why a virile Cinapek from Kampong Cina Tring Ganu can mate with a Kikuyu tribe lass in Kenya and still cause the sperm and egg to fuse into a zygote. Why? Because we are all 100 percent genetically compatible. There is no difference at all except for some superficial skin and facial features.

Otherwise deep inside we're all the same. So it is an affront to God to say that we're different and we need to bridge this so-called divide between the races.

We're all one race. The Human Race. Period.

And I don't want to bore you about my best friend being a Cinapek (it is, actually) because since I was small I never grew out of that phase where skin color color was a factor in choosing mates to play rounders with or climb trees. In this I am lucky. I never had elder who said, "Eh, don't go into their house, ada anjing". Maybe because my grandfather who brought me up in a kampung with three mongrel dogs in the compound had something to do with it.

One of my joyous early primary school memory was this: One fine day we bundled these yelping canines into the backseat of my Atuk's Morris Minor to take to the orchard for kebun duties. The durian season was in full swing. And coming home later only to incur the wrath of my Ustazah grandmother who swore that she will never step in the car for fear of defiling herself. After that she never got in the car at all to be taken by Atuk for her Madrasah duties (she taught the Koran at a small mosque nearby). From then on she walked the two kilometers or so, and never did she step into the Morris Minor again.

So somehow the love of dogs and my early upbringing caused me to look beyond skin. Eventually I was given a lab retriever (the best there is when it comes to family dogs) with the shiniest orange coat you ever saw. It was given to me by an Estate Manager who had to leave Malaysia in a hurry and I was the lucky recipient. Not only was it a pure breed but it was also properly trained. His name was Johnny. He knew not to step into the house and where to do his business. Of course he understood commands like Sit, Roll, Fetch or Shake Hands, Johnny. The saddest day of my life was when he died of poisoning. I believed some disgruntled neighbor gave him an egg laced with the bad stuff. The neighbors in the kampong were all Malay. And this is where I admit to you that I lied (sort of) in the first few paragraphs of this posts. I am a racist. Yes, but directed against my own. From then on I view all Malays with suspicion. With Chinese or Indians I have no quarrels at all, no Sir.

Here I will relate two recent episodes in my life to illustrate my animosities towards my own kind.

Some time back my wife and and I were caught up in a traffic jam in the back lane of a major shopping area in Batu Road road. We were already late and naturally I was upset so I got out of the car and walked a few cars up to a white gleaming Pajero whose door was open. Out in front was the middle-aged Malay driver arguing with a pot-bellied Indian man with red bloodshot eyes and helmet on his head, the straps flapping, arms flailing. I also noticed an Indian girl of about five cowering by her father's Kapcai. There was no real accident, only perhaps one of the two had not given way thus giving way to name calling and fist waving until they both decide to stop their vehicles to cause this unnecessary jam.

As I surveyed the situation I instinctively 'knew' the Malay driver must have been at fault. So I got to the Indian and drew him aside amidst a slew of 'Malayu kurang ajar' and 'celaka punya Malayu' under his breath. I also thought I smelled a whiff of something . . . so the situation could get get uglier. The Malay stood there looking smug with the righteous look of someone born with a golden spade in his Bumi mouth.

I pulled out my Dunhill and offered the Indian one. I knew I had to defuse this fast. As I lighted his cigarette, he said, "Damn that Malayu driver, just because he has a big car he can do what he like and cut this way and that without looking. My daughter almost fell off."

"Aiyaa aner... relax laa. Forget about that stupid Malay. He think only he pay road tax ah? We motorcyclist also pay. Now go. But I sure give him also some shit don't worry. So next time he will think twice."

The Indian man picked up his daughter and left. The Malay driver was already in the driver's seat while I glared and mouthed 'stupid Malayu'. Again he gave me the same condescending look like he gave the Indian.

I felt good but not for the right reasons. I was able to do this because the Indian guy had assumed that I was Chinese. Now this is the closest thing to muhibbah for me since someone had looked at me but saw no color, or a wrong one.

And then not too long after something else happened at a parking lot near my house. The car park in the big hypermarket was full so cars had to circle my many times to find an empty lot. There is a protocol to these that some people care to break.

I was in my car with my mother, blinkers on while patiently waiting for a car to leave. As soon as the car exited, out of nowhere a Proton Wira swerved violently from the opposing side (wrong way as the lanes are marked one way) into the empty lot. What-tha-ff...

I honked and the passenger side opened to reveal a middle-aged Malay man. So I got out of the car and said in my colloquial Malayu, "Hoi! tak nampak kaa saya signal? Saya sudaa lamaa tunggu".

And I thought that was that but instead of apologizing (I saw a tudunged woman through the rear window in the driver's seat --the wife? First or Second?) he grew boorish and claimed he didn't see my signal at all. Which was an outright lie as my turn signals were still blinking. This was getting too much so I came nearer to the man. He menacingly jabbed a condescending Bumi finger and now I knew why.

He said, "Lu ingat lu samseng kah? Nanti saya panggil polis!" (Are you a gangster? I'll call the police!).

Now I'm really losing it (to the tune of KFC's 'Im Lovin' It').

The guy thought I was a Chinese in my shorts, blue Asadi slippers and slanty-chinky eyes. So that's why he thinks he can run roughshod over me.

So I fought back. I shouted, "Kurang ajaa . . . bodoh punya Malayu! Lu bagus reverse. . . SIKARANG!" (Uncouth stupid Malay, reverse the car . . . NOW!)

With that he meekly got in, backed out and I got my space.

About two hours later I found myself summoned to a nearby police station for questioning. Apparently he did good on his threat and called the police while I did my shopping. So when I returned to my car there was already a policemen waiting to lead me to his boss, an ASP XXX at the station. But I knew there was no harm done as there were no physical contact or damage to property. Only harsh words were exchanged.

At the station, me and the ASP eventually had a good laugh. Ironically ASP XXX was Chinese. But the ASP needed to meet me and be sure before he tore the report the idiot wrote up. Of course that coward had already left thinking of his sweet success in making my life miserable.

And what was the laugh about? ASP XXX laid out the report for me to read.

"Seorang lelaki yang berseluar pendek, di percayai keterunun Cina . . ."

The Chinese ASP said he thought we Malays had gone crazy. The guy's report stated that I called him a stupid Malay and that he was in fear of me as a gangster or Chinese triad member out to do him harm. Is this Pakcik's racist paranoia for real or what?

ASP XXX shook his head and said, "That crazy old man said you are Chinese gangster. You called him a stupid Malay. What's wrong with you all?"

And thus ends my contribution to the Muhibbah tag.

Clash of The Axes

2008-01-30T15:33:00.000+08:00

Bought the Star today, as usual, for my morning dose of entertainment.

It's hard not to be entertained these days when you have the 'Three Tuns" - Eusoff, Dzaiddin and Fairuz --all vying to better what Larry, Curly and Moe had to offer.

And then there's the other suspects like Lingam Park and 'Starry-Starry-Nite' Tan. The latter claimed there's no point in suing anybody for defamation. He sued against the late M.G.G. Pillai (may God rests his soul) and was awarded ten million ringgits but got not a single sen from the kain pelekat wielding Columbia-trained journalist. Padan muka. Had to fork out RM 1.5 million to Messrs. Lingam Park & Co in legal fees some more. Padan lagi muka. Damn right, Vince, BAAAAD business decision. Should have left the late Sang Kancil alone.

But what really piqued my interest lay a few pages ahead.

Entertainment aside, and about Tun D "hating" his former boss Tun E --ho hum--what's new? -- there is a more serious and pressing concern that ails the state of the "real entertainment" industry, in particular live acts this coming March 15. Is this before or after BN's landslide win and Khairy's first foray into the Parliament of Whores? Who cares?

The real issue here for music fanatics is WHO to see on March 15.

Toto performs on March 15 night, and today The Star reported that Pineapple Concerts, helmed by Razman Tan Sri Ahmad Razali, has another mega-concert on that date. The 12-hour music-fest is dubbed "Sunburst KL International Music Festival". Read the report here:

My, this is gonna pose a problem. This, in my opinion is a bigger cause for headache since UMNO's Team A / Team B faction.

R & B's phenomena John Legend, British acid jazz proponents Incognito, hard rock's Incubus and George Clinton's Funkadelic are all set to appear on four specially constructed stages at the Polo Pavillion, Bukit Kiara Equestrian Resort.

Local acts to include Search, Pop Shuvit, Estranged, One Buck Short and Joe Flizzow amongst others. All fine acts for sure but I'm not going to lose sleep over these.

From across the pond the organizers are bringing in Tompi and --this is why there's going to be a clash-- GiGi!

Damn! *Dewa Budjana is gonna be pissed too. Or maybe he thinks he can finish his set early and then hop over to Cyberjaya to catch Steve Lukather!?

So which is it, you lucky BN sods (assuming of course, BN has won by a landslide and this concert is to "thank" the rakyat?) --Dewa or Steve?

*For those who are a bit ignorant when it comes to Asia's guitar 'Gods', Dewa Budjana is probably the best in what Asia has to offer. In 2005, Peter Erskine (2007 Grammy Winner) the jazz drummer for Weather Report, Diana Krall, Elvis Costello, Burt Bacharach, Rickie Lee Jones etc. produced Dewa Budjana's "Home" a solo jazz album with top L.A. session players like Dave Carpenter to excellent critical reviews. GiGi is his cari makan band.

Sweet Child O' The 60's

2008-01-19T08:56:00.000+08:00

SOME THINGS EVEN A DEPRAVED AND DEPRIVED SWAMP MAN can't have...

I know there's so many things out there that everyone takes for granted (like KJ's ascension to premiership before turning forty is one and Ling Gump's ASSertion that yeah, that guy looks and sounds like me BUT -- is the other) because they're not in some gawd-infested swamp . . .

It's about a concert by one of the greatest bands ever to grace the planet. And it's happening right here in Cyberjaya, Bolehsaja and in two other cities in Indonesia this coming March.

Here's your chance to catch 'em, folks.

Unfortunately I have to give this a pass but hoping against hope to catch 'em in Surabaya if I can ciluk from the rig that is, but I doubt that --just as as much as I doubt Ling Gump was just tagging along. And the good Tun just happened to bump into him at the airport?

For us Sweet Child O' The Sixties I'm sure there are takers out there. I know Doc TA, Shah Cakapje and a host of other "Sixties Children" will appreciate the chance.

Go to the promoter's website here:

Leland Sklar apparently is replacing Mike Porcaro because the latter has gone on MC or something. David Paich is away in China preparing the theme song for Beijing '08. David is the vocals and songwriter behind Rosanna, Africa etc and has also won an Emmy in '74 for his work on the Ironside theme.

Here's something I lifted off the net about Lee Sklar:

". . . His very recognizable bass playing style, along with his beard, have been heard on hits by Phil Collins, Billy Cobham, Rod Stewart, Linda Ronstadt, James Taylor, Hall & Oates, Jackson Browne, Tommy Bolin, David Bowie, Ray Charles, BB King, The Doors, Peter Frampton, Aaron Neville, Lyle Lovett, to name just a few."

And then there's Greg Phillinganes on keyboards. Greg's fingerwork can be heard on anything from Stevie Wonder (who discovered him more than three decades back) to Eric Clapton, Christina Aguilera, BabyFace, George Benson, Michael Jackson (played on all the songs on Thriller --even Billy Jean), Bee Gees, Carpenters, Dionne Warwick, Paul Simon, Earl Klugh, Chaka Khan, Anita Baker.....Gawd the list is too long! To me, his greatest feat is playing on all of Stevie Wonder's Songs In The Key of Life (1976) especially that lurrrvely Isn't She Lovely? Hal-la-maaak...

Curious, their website listed only three cities in their South East Asian stops; bypassing Thailand, Hong Kong and Singapore even. Now we know those countries got no taste laa...

The rest of their multi-city dates are in Japan and Australia.

Anybody been to Perdana Lakeview East? Is it an open-air venue? And what about the acoustics? Lucky not Stadium Negara, berdegung...

12 - Mar - 2008 Wednesday Surabaya Shangri-la Indonesia
14 - Mar - 2008 Friday Bandung Sabuga Convention Hall Indonesia
15 - Mar - 2008 Saturday Kuala Lumpor Perdana Lakeview East, Cyberjaya

So how? Ada nak gii ker?

If you post a comment and for you Toto fans out there tell me your favorite song. Tough, but mine's "Rosanna" I think. My hair (what's left anyway) stands on end everytime Jeff Porcaro's shuffle beat kicks in at the tune's intro...

N.B. In line with Ling Gump's and other recent sea-change ethical code of conduct in Bolehsaja's blogosphere, the images above were of course lifted sans permission. Whaddya expect?

Arok of Java: A Mat Salo Book Review

2008-01-07T16:38:00.000+08:00

Arok of Java: A Book Review

Ananta Pramoedya Toer (Translated by Max Lane)

ISBN: 978-981-05-8045-2

I ADMIT OF MY IGNORANCE. Before coming to Indonesia I had only barely heard of Ananta Pramoedya Toer. He has since left us but his legacy lives on in his many books.

It was not only my loss but hundreds of millions Indonesians too since his works were banned during Suharto’s era, thus consigning his works to obscurity. Ananta had apparently written many more but most of his material were reportedly confiscated and burned.

His famed Buru Tetralogy (This Earth of Mankind, Child of All Nations, Footsteps and House of Glass –all available in Penguin Books) and Arok of Java (originally titled Arok and Dedes) was “written” during his incarceration on Buru Island between 1965 and 1980. Suharto had stationeries banned for his special prisoner and Ananta was forced to “write” the book in his head, telling and refining the story to fellow inmates. It was only after his release that he was finally able to pen his voluminous tome. His masterpieces impressed the Nobel committee enough to consider him a nominee.

To keep things in perspective, Bumi Manusia (This Earth of Mankind) was the first of Buru Tetralogy, and should be read first. Max Lane, the translator for the book was again responsible for Arok of Java, which was only recently completed and published for the first time.

Lane’s earlier translation of Bumi brought instant fame to Ananta. Lane was then a diplomat, an Australian attaché in Jakarta of the early Eighties. Due to the recognition of Ananta’s works, Lane had inadvertently invited the wrath of the Indonesian government. Lane was expelled from Indonesia becoming a persona non-grata right until Suharto's fall. Bumi was subsequently forced off the shelves, becoming one of the great tragedies of modern literature.

Set in the 13^th century Arok of Java is a novel of “early Indonesia” where Hindu Gods and Goddesses reigned. This was before Islam descended on the archipelago and told of our hero Arok of the Sudra caste, who through scholarship became a Ksatria and finally a Brahmin. Many have likened Arok to Robin Hood but it is only a superficial connection. In that era, descendants of great King Erlangga sat in Kediri and the outlying areas were controlled by appointed ‘Governors’ who had to pay tribute to the King.

The Governor of Tumapel, a vile villainous character was installed and brought back slavery that was earlier abolished by Erlangga. The Governor was of the Sudra caste who worshipped Lord Vishnu. The Brahmins, who are worshippers of Lord Siva, had lost all their influence and were confined to their temples. The subtext was the past two centuries, the Brahmins had become outcasts and no longer relevant. The precocious Arok who mastered Sanskrit at an early age grew to become a warrior; a scholar-bandit and rebel –his destiny to bring the Brahmins back to glory.

Arok had then started a campaign of resistance. He robbed the tribute coaches en route to Kediri amassing the wealth to free the peoples of slavery and suppression. The Governor was perplexed as to the hit and run losses; bringing displeasure to the King. The King was angry at the formers inability to bring order; especially when the Kingdom’s treasury was compromised.

The final straw was when the Governor, a lowly-Sudra himself who by chicanery and deceit became all-powerful, kidnapped the beautiful Dedes, a Brahmani, to make her his consort. His obsession with Dedes was his final undoing and provided the stage for Arok’s entrance.

A blurb from the book’s jacket reads: “As the rebellion spreads, it is Arok himself whom the rulers employ to suppress it . . . Thus emerges one of the epic political conspiracies of Javanese history.”

Arok is an epic saga much in the great traditions of Ramayana and Mahabharata. My only problem was in the book’s editing. There were some errors in spelling that distracted the reader. By contrast, The Buru Tetralogy, published by Penguin, was exquisitely edited. This is but a minor speck in this vast canvas of Anata’s beautiful narration.

A must read; but only after your appetite had been appropriately whetted by the brilliant This Earth of Mankind.

384 pages, excluding Introductions, Acknowledgments and Glossaries.

First published in 2007.

Edited by: Tan Chee Leng

Illustrations by: Mohamad Yusof

Horizon Books, Singapore. www.horizonbooks.com.sg

The Game of Tag

2008-01-07T16:16:00.000+08:00

Captain Jafflam had tagged me and my response is long overdue. This one is about three personal episodes and lessons learned from 2007. Here they are in no order of importance:

Try to be a good sport when it comes to tagging. Resolution: Try to be a good sport by obliging.
Was a dumb-ass asshole for the period ending 31 December, 2007 and the years prior. Resolution: Try to be a lesser asshole and be forgiving of my failings, of which I have tons.
Wasn't a central character in Mat Salo's movie called Being There. Resolution: Hope to be around more often. Or at least make the effort.
Ha, got plenty I tell ya. The last one is to emulate all my favorite bloggers out there. You only have to look at my Blogroll to see who. I'll start by doing an Elviza. Look out for a book review in my next post folks!