Good Bye, 'Bang Captain

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.

Blog Bash - A Bit Player's Perspective

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.)

No Country for Old Men

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

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

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!

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

©2007-2008 mAtsalo iMages

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

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

photo © 2007-2008 matsalo.com

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.