A Kid-Friendly Getaway in Malacca

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

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?

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

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')

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