Valuing friendship above feud

In early 1981, I was studying for my GCE A-levels at Aston College in Wrexham, North Wales in the UK. I cannot recall how many Malaysian students were enrolled there at the time, but if I was to make an estimate, I would say upwards of 40 persons.

Wrexham is not a big town. Prior to arriving in the United Kingdom, I've never heard of the place before. I vaguely knew that Wales is a separate country within the UK but it totally surprised me that the Welsh speak and write in an entirely different language. I lived in Wrexham for about a year and have pleasant memories of my stay there. The slight regret that I have is in not making an attempt to understand a bit more of Welsh.

Aston College no longer exists, having been merged with a few other colleges in North Wales and later upgraded to a university in 2008. A search on Google Maps indicates that my former A-level college is now known as Wrexham Glyndwr University. I also tried to search for the house that I stayed in the final term of my studies but since I could not remember the street name, the search was fruitless. What I can recall was that it was quite a walking distance away from the college, perhaps around 30 minutes at leisurely pace.

The house was an end unit of a row of a 2-storey terrace block, probably built in the 1960s. Although an old building (even at that time), the house was adequately renovated to serve as student accommodation. Each floor had been separated so as to make two different units (which they refer to as a flat). Each flat had central heating, a small kitchen and a bathroom. I stayed at the top unit with my coursemate named Yaacub Mohamed whom I know from our MRSM Kuantan days. The ground floor unit was rented by a friend name Khairil Faizi who previously studied at MRSM Seremban. I cannot remember who Khairil's housemate was.

Anyway, what triggered this post was memory of an event that was posted by a mutual friend of Khairil and me on his Facebook page. This mutual friend is Sofian Abdul Rahman or better known as Boe, who also formerly studied at MRSM Seremban. Boe was doing his A-levels at London at the time and had come to Wrexham to visit his friends. He slept over at Khairil's flat. Late one evening I went downstairs to see that Khairil and Boe were deeply concentrating in a game of Scrabble. As I watched them play, I noted that the scores were close. Towards the end of the game, Boe played a high-scoring word that would've made him the winner. Khairil vehemently protested that there was no such word. Boe laughingly said there is. The argument went back and forth and got a bit heated. Boe then looked at me and said, 'Tak percaya tanya Fadhil.'

At that time, my vocabulary was still weak and I could not give Boe the confirmation he was seeking. But I had a thick dictionary upstairs in my room so I offered to run up and check. Boe gave a surprising response. No need, he said... I concede that there is no such word. Which meant he lost the game. At that young age, I witnessed a true example of how to gracefully concede so as not to upset the feelings of your bro.

When I related this memory to Khairil recently (as a comment on Boe's Facebook post), he replied that Boe is that sort of friend. He values friendship above feud.

I still recall the word that Boe tried to play because I later checked and found that it is valid. I'm pretty certain neither of them remembers that. Maybe one day I'll tell them...

Me and housemate Yaacub. Wrexham 1981

Getting a haircut is essential

Today 13 April 2020 marks the 27th day that Malaysia has been in lockdown. The restriction would have ended tomorrow on the 28th day (1st extension from the original 14 days). However, the government has decided that it is necessary to impose a second extension for another 14 days to fight this Covid-19 outbreak. The MCO will now be in force until 28 April 2020, for now at least.

In making the announcement on this so-called third phase of the movement restriction, the Ministry of International Trade & Industry (MITI) declared that a number of businesses would be allowed to operate, joining the other essential services previously mentioned in the first order. Among these are barbers and hair salons, although with the proviso of doing haircuts only. This little bit of news caused wide surprise amongst many. The Penang state government decided not to follow the federal government's move. Social media was rife with comments questioning the wisdom of uplifting the restriction for getting haircuts. The association for barbers and hairdressers came out with statements that they would see out the MCO. Even the Health Ministry requested the move to be reconsidered.

Hmmm.... one ministry requesting another ministry in the public domain. There is a disconnect somewhere.

Anyway, if I'm given the choice between cutting my hair or cutting the grass in the compound of my house, I would choose the latter. Because :

1. The grasscutter can do his work without the need to be in close contact with me.

2. A compound where the grass is neatly trimmed and free of weeds and 'kemuncup' is soothing to the eyes and calming to the nerves.

3. Sporting a long (but stylish) hairstyle is not alien to me.

Take care friends. Stay safe. Grit your teeth and wait for the sunshine.

With batchmate Rommel Abu Hassan, somewhere in the UK in early 1980s

Tempat jatuh lagi dikenang...

We made a short trip to Kuantan the previous weekend. The main purpose was to fulfil an invitation by a former teacher to attend the wedding reception of his son. As always, we took the opportunity to visit other places as well. It was a packed weekend of activities but truly a memorable one.

I am not going to write about the whole trip but just an initial short post. A visit to Kuantan would almost always mean a stop at my former school, Maktab Rendah Sains Mara Kuantan. Although I spent only two years there, it was my first experience of boarding school. A lot happened in those two years. The many friendships that began there have seen the test of time and most relationships have grown stronger till this day.

It has been 40 years since I completed my secondary education at MRSM Kuantan. The students there today call me `Pakcik', which is actually nice to hear. The school has evolved too, although at one time, MARA had plans to re-locate it or shut it down but the dedicated effort of some alumni managed to make the authorities change their mind.

I believe the school still produce quality graduates with respectable attitudes. I am proud to have been a product of this school and I hope they are equally proud of their former students too.

This signage structure had been erected for some time now but it took me a while to realise that "MRSMKU' has two meanings

At the main entrance signage wall. The motto on the school badge is not the original one as coined by a former student

Footnote : My first post on MRSM Kuantan was in August 2008 - An east coast education

The last race has been run...

The final race for the Formula 1 Malaysian Grand Prix at Sepang International Circuit was run last Sunday. The race was won by Dutch driver Max Verstappen for the Red Bull Racing team.

I watched the full race on television, which was something I have not done for a few years now because my interest in F1 racing has waned. However, I thought that it would be nice to view this so-called finale just for the memory. As it turned out, Max won his second victory in F1 on the day after his 20th birthday. That was something of a feat. At that age, I still had not possessed a driving license. Of course, that's not a reasonable comparison. Max comes from a racing family. He started driving go-karts when he was just four and a half years old.

Max is trained by his father, Jos Verstappen who was a Formula One driver himself. Jos was relatively unsuccessful in the sport, having achieved only two podium finishes (3rd place in the Hungarian and Belgian GPs in 1994) in a total of 107 races. His drive for success did not diminish and he turned to mentoring his son to achieve what he had not managed to do. That takes some dedication.

I have not actually watched a live GP race at Sepang before. The tickets are too expensive for me. Furthermore, I think there is more knowledge to be gained by watching the race on TV where the informative commentaries tell you plenty more than you get by sitting in the grandstand and looking at speeding cars running around in circles. But that's just me.

Nonetheless, I can tell you that I have been to the Sepang Circuit once. It was at the official opening ceremony of the race track on 9 March 1999. A friend of mine who worked with Malaysia Airlines had managed to get some free passes from his friend at Malaysia Airports Berhad (who at that time, was the owner of the project). The ceremony was held in the evening, around 9pm if memory serves me right. Having said that, I can't remember much else of the event except for the final fireworks at the end. It was quite an impressive display, as fireworks shows are meant to be. I was seated in a reserved area of the grandstand together with some employees of MAB.

As the fireworks sputtered the final flashes of lights, I overheard an MAB staff next to me wistfully mutter, 'There goes our bonus for this year. Up in smoke..."

With the final F1 race run after 18 years, let's see what becomes of the Sepang Circuit from now on. Let's hope that the whole investment does not go up in smoke.

The sticker pass that's still stuck to my car's windshield to this day

Formerly broad, not long

The 2015 Athletics World Championship in Beijing has just ended two days ago. For the week that the sports event was in progress, I was mostly in front of the television, engrossed in watching the live transmission from China.

I am hardly a sportsman myself. The only games that I seriously play are football and badminton. However, I did have a minor involvement in athletics while in school. I ran the 400 metres. For this, the tiny achievement I managed to accomplish was a 3rd-place finish in the boys 400m relay. Among the 4 boys in our team, which really was the weakest team in the competition, I had the fastest individual time. Our coach, following the conventional thinking of the time, placed me to run the anchor leg. As we were getting ready at the start line, my teammate who was our 2nd fastest runner (and slated to run the 3rd leg), told me his plan on how we could possibly win something out of the race.

He said that he intends to run flat out fast from the moment he gets the baton and hope that his stamina will hold until he cross the finish line. He suggested that we switch positions, the idea being that I could hopefully catch up on some lost ground while running the 3rd leg. Leaving it to the last leg would be too late, he said. At the spur of the moment, I agreed. We switched places just as the starter was about to call for the 1st leg runners to take their mark. (Of course, technically this is against the rules, but what the heck... this was just a school sports meet held some thirty years ago.)

The race started and as expected, our first two runners could not match the other teams. By the time I received the baton, we were in 4th (last) position. I had some distance to catch up to the 3rd-placed guy. This I did while nearing the bend at the 300m mark and finally managed to overtake him as we entered the home straight. When I passed the baton to our last runner, he sped off as if he was sprinting the short distances. As I watch him run, I was worried he would lose his steam and be overtaken. But true to his word, he held on just enough to maintain the 3rd-placing and secure the team a bronze medal which we never expected to be within our grasp.

No doubt, we did not win the gold but it was a race I remember to this day because of a friend's very quick thinking on strategy. Which is why I love to watch track and field events on TV, especially the relays. The final event at Beijing on Sunday was fittingly enough, the Men's 400m relay. It was an enthralling race won by the American team despite some thrilling running by the Jamaicans.

Ok then... let's end this post with some track & field trivia.

Did you know that the long jump event in athletics was originally called the broad jump? In 1967 it was renamed to long jump because the term `broad' was considered as derogatory to women. Ooops...

The long jetty at Teluk Sengat in Kota Tinggi. Pic not relevant at all to story :-)

Godown sand

A godown is the name given to a warehouse or large store but this name is only in popular use in south and eastern Asia. Don't use this word if you are in the west, otherwise the people there would think you want to head somewhere.

Apparently the word godown comes direct from the Malay translation of `gudang'. I had always thought it was the other way round.

Okay, back to the title... godown sand does not make sense but a sand godown does, i.e. a place where sand is stored. Only that it wouldn't be the correct translation of the Malay place-name which is the subject of today's post. Pasir Gudang is a township to the east of Johor Bahru city and is where my present workplace is. It is a large housing and industrial area first developed by Johor Corporation in the early 1980s. My first stint working in Pasir Gudang was in 1990 where I was part of the engineering department which undertook the construction works. My present employment is not related to my earlier job, which I left in November 1991.

On most mornings before clocking in at the office, I would stop by a nearby restaurant for breakfast. A few days ago, as I was holding a mug of nescafe tarik and looking for a seat, I spotted a familiar face sitting alone at a table. This person also saw me and a few silent moments passed as both of us try to recall who the other person is. He was the one who spoke first.

"Encik Fadhil ke?" he asks.

"Betul," I nodded. "Alias kan? Ingat lagi kamu kat aku ye."

He smiled, we shook hands and he offered me to sit with him at the same table. Alias Shahdan was an excavator operator who worked in the same the department as I did, more than 20 years ago. He worked under a separate section and did not directly report to me, so I was surprised that he still recognizes me. And he was polite enough to still address me as 'Encik' although I have long ceased being his superior. Alias is now retired, of course. We chatted a bit about the old times... when Pasir Gudang was still a barren and dusty place but busily growing like a restless child eager to become an adult.

There were perhaps 50 to 60 machine operators and workshop crew working with our department then but I can recall Alias by name because he was one of the more dedicated and hardworking ones. A soft-spoken man with no disciplinary issues.

Before I left Pasir Gudang in 1991, one the last projects I handled was the construction of an indoor stadium. It was still at the initial design stage at the time but the top bosses wanted to hold a ground-breaking ceremony so that the Menteri Besar would have a reason to come to Pasir Gudang. My colleagues and I discussed on what manner the actual ground-breaking event is going to be. We decided that the MB shall sit on a Caterpillar backhoe, work a few of the levers to move the bucket and symbolically dig a hole in the ground. Of course, you can't expect the MB to actually know how to operate a backhoe so we had to have one of our operators to be his guide. The choice of who this operator should be was obvious... it has to be Alias bin Shahdan. And so, the man was informed of his upcoming important task and he accepted the news with hardly a complaint. Over the next few days, he took the extra effort to have his machine cleaned up and applied the standard yellow colour touch-up paint. When the day came for the actual ceremony, the backhoe looked like it just came out of the showroom.

The Menteri Besar of Johor at that time was Tan Sri Muhyiddin Yassin. When the MB finished reading his officiating speech, Alias accompanied him to the backhoe parked some metres away and invited him to sit in the cab. With the MB seated comfortably, Alias crouched alongside the VIP and coolly showed him how to work the hydraulic levers. The bucket made a small arc, dug a bit of the earth and the ceremony was done. Alias had his pictures in the newspapers the next day.

I departed from Pasir Gudang shortly after that and so did not see the stadium being constructed. Even upon completion I have never actually set foot inside it. Yesterday afternoon after work, I took a drive to the stadium just to view it from the outside.

When it was first completed, the indoor stadium was simply named Stadium Perbadanan, to reflect the fact that is was built by Perbadanan Johor, the state development and investment body. It has since been renamed Stadium Perbandaran Pasir Gudang, after the state civil service took over the administration of the local authority now known as Majlis Perbandaran Pasir Gudang.

Stadium Perbandaran

A signboard that is proof the stadium originally had a different name

Early withdrawal will lose interest

I think I'll write about an interest subject today... yes, that's right, an `interest' rather than `interesting' subject. Although I do hope the post may turn out interesting for readers in the end.

But first, I have to go back in time a little bit. It was the winter of 1983 and I was in the final year of my engineering degree. One of the toughest subjects in that degree course is Structural Mechanics, not one of my stronger suits. The professor who taught us that subject is Dr. Neil Taylor, a brilliant and aggressive man who's quite unlike any of the other lecturers in our faculty.

Dr. Taylor is slim and tall, sports long hair to his shoulders and keeps a beard and moustache. He normally wears a white shirt with a narrow tie but with collar unbuttoned. Over this he dons a black leather jacket. In fact, he looks more like a rock star than a university professor. His classes are never boring. He speaks in a loud, clear voice and at great speed. You'll never fall asleep during his lecture... or perhaps you dare not fall asleep. He'll pick a bored face among his students in a second and start shooting questions about the subject at hand, just to make sure we all understand what he's talking about. I was always afraid to be caught by him because, as I said, I'm not terribly good at Structures.

He would start his lecture by first talking at length about a particular topic. After that, he would scribble out his notes, longhand, on the blackboard. His notes are copious and he writes like he speaks... at great speed. When he runs out of writing space on the blackboard, he returns back to the earlier section and starts rubbing them out. Sometimes, those of us slow writers would need to hold out our hand and shout, `Whoa! Sir..', and he pauses for a while to give us time to catch up.

It is during such pauses that Dr. Taylor would usually tell a story or share bits of trivia that has got nothing to do with engineering. It can be something about music, movies, sports or current affairs... practically anything. And such interesting stories too... which sort of put the slow-writing students in a dilemma. Do you stop writing to listen to the stories and risk not copying down the complete notes... or do you continue to scribble furiously before he starts cleaning the blackboard and you miss the story being told?

I liked listening to his stories so I trained myself to be speed-writer.

One day, after filling the blackboard with his sprawling handwriting, he paused for a while to allow us some time to finish copying... and then starts to share another trivia.

`Do you know why most of the big time bankers are Jews?' he asks. None of us answer... so he begins telling the story about Christians being forbidden to be involved in usury and that the Jews may not charge usury among their own kind but can do so to others. He said that money-lending first started out as one of the least respected professions and strangely enough today, it is the money-lenders who control most of the world's economy.

`I bet you didn't know that, did you?' he mocks us. `Heck, does anybody even know what usury means?!'

`Yeah,' I immediately quipped. `Interest...'

`Who said that?' Dr Taylor looks around at his students, his eyes wide in disbelief. I sheepishly put up my hand halfway.

`Right, you are!' he said. And with that, he turned around, erased the blackboard and resumed writing his notes.

When the class was over, Dr. Taylor heads out of the room but when he reaches the door, he turns back and walks to where I was sitting. He bends down to my eye level and nodded to me to say, `Usury... that's good.'

From then on, I could no longer remain low-profile in Dr. Taylor's class. But the good thing was that my grades in Structures improved...

There is no chemistry between us

Before readers get any wrong ideas, let me clarify that, no, I don't have any relationship problems. This post is a story about what happened a long time ago when I was in secondary school.

What reminded me of this story was a post around two weeks ago in fellow blogger Dr Sam's blog about his experiences when conducting experiments at school that later spurred his ambition to become a scientist. I dropped a comment in that post by telling about an incident I went through in Science class. I decided that I may as well share the story in this blog with some extension and correction.

The year was 1979 and I was in Form Five. Our Chemistry class was taught by a teacher whose name is Mr Wong Seng Kuang. I wasn't that particularly good in Chemistry. I seem to have a weakness in remembering chemical formulae and how many protons or electrons there are in the atom of any particular element. I have always preferred Biology because I find it interesting and easy to memorise facts about living things.

Mr Wong is a Sarawakian and speaks with a peculiar tone. Sometimes we find it hard to understand what he says. He has difficulty in pronouncing my name properly and every time he calls out to me, the girls in class would giggle. Despite this situation, I liked his Chemistry class and paid attention. In the end, when the MCE exam results came out, I scored better grades in Chemistry than Biology.

One day, Mr Wong gave the class an assignment. We were each asked to select a chemical compound but not let any of our other classmates know of our choice. We were then to exchange our compounds and carry out experiments on the sample given to us to determine what it is. Examples of such tests include lighting a bit of the stuff over the bunsen burner and see the colour of its flame, or checking its pH value to see if it is acid or alkali.

The next day, when we returned to class, all the girls were ready with their samples but I was the only guy out of 16 boys in the class who prepared a test specimen. Talk about being the odd one out. Either the rest of the guys misheard Mr Wong's instruction or simply did not like the subject of Chemistry as much as I did. Mr Wong was real displeased but he decided to proceed with the experiments with those of us who had come prepared.

There were nine girls in my class, and with me being the odd boy out, it made an even ten. Mr Wong drew lots and I ended up being paired with Yana, who is one of the prettiest girls in the class. I don't think I had ever spoken a word to her before that day. Come to think of it, I hardly spoke to most of my girl classmates those days (yeah, right! I hear you say).

Anyway, Yana and I exchanged samples and we proceed with our experiment. The compound that Yana gave me was a grainy white powder that looks very similar to common salt. I carried out the first test and confirmed that it was a type of chloride. It then crossed my mind that I should maybe skip the next proper step and just taste the stuff.... and so I did. Heck, it nearly burned my tongue! Definitely not common salt.

I quickly took a large gargle of water from the sink and spat it out. I wasn't sure if my lab partner had noticed it but if she did, she didn't ask me about it. And I was too embarrassed to tell her.

It was only towards the end of the year when I finally owned up by writing in her autograph book about it. I'm not sure if she found it silly or funny, or perhaps both.

And so nowadays, when it comes to testing chemical substances, I never take anymore shortcuts...

Soporific...

A few days ago, I was about to go out on some errands when I was distracted by something being shown on TV. The television was on the HBO channel and was playing a movie called `Wit'. The scene was a hospital examination room and the patient, played by Emma Thompson, was narrating something in a lovely English accent. I ended up watching the movie right to the end and forgot all about my errands.

Vivian Bearing is a professor of English literature who has just been diagnosed of ovarian cancer. She is about to undergo an experimental aggresive chemotherapy treatment and the movie shows her struggles throughout the process. A large part of the film shows Bearing in monologue... and it clearly demonstrates the strength and acting skill of Thompson in handling the character.

Towards the middle of the movie, there is this scene in flashback where Bearing recalls the exact moment when she knew that words would be her life's work. She was reading a Beatrix Potter book titled `The Tale of The Flopsy Bunnies' when she comes across a new word that she does not know the meaning of. Say it in bits, says her father. So-por-i-fic.

It means something that tends or has the the effect to cause sleep. Like certain drugs and medication... or boring conversation... or a heavy meal on a warm afternoon.

The movie is almost pure dialogue with no action scene whatsoever... and I loved it. Indeed, it would ironically have the same soporific effect on viewers who prefer the action-flick movie genre.

Soporific... what a wonderful new word I learned this week. It brings to memory of a time that really fits the description of this word. The year was 1979... and I was in Form 5 of boarding school. The Science subjects are all taught in the laboratory classroom where three long workbenches face the front blackboard. There were 25 students in our class consisting of 9 girls and 16 boys. By tradition, the girls would sit at the frontmost workbench while the boys take up the remaining two rows.

When it came to Physics class, the boys would make it a point to come early because everyone wants to sit in the back row, even if it means squeezing for space. At times, there would be up to 12 guys seated at the back... meaning that only 4 would sit in the middle row. Glaringly obvious and disproportionate. The reason for this is that Physics class is real boring and it is quite a challenge to remain awake. Presumably, sitting as far away from the teacher as possible would make it less likely for him to spot us dozing off during his lecture.

I could not be bothered to rush for a back row seat so most of the time I am one of the minority who sits in the middle row. To stop myself from falling asleep, I began to sharpen my skill in doodling. My Form 5 Physics notebook probably has more creative drawings than formulas or calculations. It still puzzles me sometimes how I ended up doing engineering.

Soporific... lovely word.

A dedication to all my teachers

I have previously noted the joy I experienced when re-connecting with old friends on Facebook. Many of these long-lost friends are those I knew during my days at boarding school in Kuantan. Most of them I have not met since we left school in 1979. We were 17-years old then, and now, some of us are making the effort to meet up again to strengthen the bond in friendship first cemented 31 years ago.

On three different occasions over the past three months or so, I met up with my MRSM Kuantan friends over dinner or tea, in what we call mini-gatherings or reunions. The most recent of these was held last Saturday at a friend's restaurant in Shah Alam. Twenty-three of the MCE'79 batch turned up, made up of 7 ladies and 16 guys. Also present was our English teacher Mr Peter Ng and our librarian Puan Faizah.

I had first thought to post a story about the friends I met during those gatherings but upon meeting Mr Peter again last week, I decided it is time I write something about my teachers, in particular, the ones who taught me English at MRSM.

We have a peculiar, if somewhat unique way of addressing our English teachers. In normal convention, when we call someone by their name, the `Mr' would be attached to the surname, and not the firstname. For instance, we would address Tom Jones as Mr Jones (and not Mr Tom). But not at MRSM Kuantan... our English teachers like Peter Ng, Stephen Ambrose, Michael Tan and Kamini Devi are addressed as Mr Peter, Mr Stephen, Mr Michael and Miss Kamini. This way, we feel closer to our teachers because we reduce the air of formality while still maintaining a measure of respect. It may not be technically correct but I agree with it wholeheartedly.

Mr Peter once headed the English Department at MRSM Kuantan. When we re-connected on Facebook, I was quite surprised that he took the time to read this blog of mine. I was doubly pleased when he said that he liked what he read... what can be more encouraging than getting praise from your old English teacher?

The other English teacher who I remember particularly well is Miss Kamini... because of her height. At six-foot plus, she was easily the tallest lady teacher we had in the whole of MRSM Kuantan. It's a pity I do not have a photograph of her because my memories of how she look is starting to fade away. A few friends have uploaded old photos of our time at school and some are pics of us with our teachers, but so far, there isn't one that includes Miss Kamini.

Apart from the academic side of teaching, the teachers at MRSM were also our homeroom advisors. A homeroom is a smaller group of students from different classes... a sort of small family of brothers and sisters with the advisor acting like a parent or big brother / big sister. That is why we feel very close to our teachers... and we know that some of our teachers are very close to us too. This can be clearly seen from the keen participation of our former teachers in many of the reunion events held by the various batches. Photographs of these gatherings are published in the FB profiles of friends and from these I can recall my cikgu-cikgu from yesteryears :- Cikgu Ramli (1st Principal), Cikgu Sharif (2nd Principal), Cikgu Idham (Geografi), Cikgu Fadhil Onn (Geografi), Cikgu Zamri (Chemistry), Ustaz Yusof (Pendidikan Agama), Cikgu Rahim (Physics) and of course, Cikgu Peter. There are certainly many more of my former teachers... some I am told, have already departed. My al-Fatihah and prayers untuk cikgu-cikgu yang telah pergi.

How do we do justice to the valuable knowledge and guidance that our teachers have imparted on us? My answer to this is, by trying to be the best person that we can be. This does not mean that we have to be successful professionals or rich entrepreneurs but simply being an honest and dedicated individual who pass on the noble values we have learned to our children and fellow human beings. The measure of this is when our old teacher whom we have not met for more than 30 years, comes to us and say, `I'm proud of you all!'. That, to me, is saying a lot.

Happy Teacher's Day to all my teachers, wherever you may be. You are the best teachers there are because you teach from your hearts and not merely from the books. I thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Teacher's Day greetings too are due to my K79 friends who have taken up this noble profession : Suzyanna Mokhtar, Zulika Abdullah, Siti Zaleha Md Said, Fauziah Abdul Ghani, Rohana Mustapha, Dr Adriana Ismail, Dr Khairanum Subari and Prof Shahrin Mohd. My apologies if I may have missed out anybody.
 

 Then : The English Department staff at MRSM Kuantan, late 70s. Mr Peter on leftmost of the group. Pic borrowed from K79 friend Norila Yahya's FB album.

 Now :  Mr Peter (left) with one of his students, Norhisham Kassim, an airline pilot with MAS.

A blast from the past

I hope readers would pardon me for indulging in a bit of nostalgia. Around this time thirty years ago, I boarded an aeroplane for the first time in my life, to fly to the land of our colonial masters. I am inspired to write about old times after seeing the photo album that my pal Badique (see previous post) created in his Facebook profile. The album is a collection of scanned photographs of his post-MRSM days while studying in the United Kingdom. I am in some of those photos.

It was sometime in December 1979 that I first met this friend of mine. I had arrived at MRSM Seremban to attend an orientation program being held by Mara for students selected to study in England. I arrived alone and didn't know anybody at Seremban. I wasn't sure who else from my school were selected. It was quite a hectic period because we had only just sat for our MCE exams the previous month and hardly had time to enjoy the break. Mara contacted the selected students by way of telegram. Back then, only the rich had telephones at home. Internet or emails were non-existent yet.

I was trudging up the slope to the entrance gate of MRSM Seremban when a guy in front of me looked back and asked where I come from.

`Dari Johor Bahru,' I replied. I was actually staying in Singapore at the time but I wanted to avoid explaining things too much.

`Sekolah mana dulu?' he continued to ask.

MRSM Kuantan, was my reply.

`Aku sekolah kat sini dulu,' he gestured to the place we were heading to. `Meh kita daftar sama... kalau nasib baik mungkin boleh dapat bilik lama aku.'

And thus was the beginning of my friendship with Badique, an ex-MRSM Seremban student. I can't remember how many students attended the orientation but it was quite a sizeable number. We were to be sent to a number of colleges in the UK in early January to do A-levels. It so happened that Badique and I were to be sent to the same college in London.

After the orientation, all of us had to make haste and carry out errands. We had to apply for our international passports, convert money to traveler's cheques and pound sterling, buy thick sweaters and jackets to face the cold English winter etc, etc, etc. In the midst of doing all these, we need to find the time to say good-bye to family and relatives.

The process of applying for an international passport those days is a bit more complicated than today. Among the requirements is for your application to be endorsed by someone of standing in your community, namely your penghulu kampung (village headman), your wakil rakyat (Member of Parliament), or a high-ranking officer in the civil service. Being a resident of Singapore, I did not know any penghulu or MP or civil service officer. I could ask for the help of relatives in JB but I was already in Kuala Lumpur at the time... no time to go back. Luckily, I had a cousin in KL who knew certain top people. He took me to meet the then Parliamentary Secretary of the Federal Territories Ministry, a certain Haji Abdullah Bin Haji Ahmad Badawi, whose office was located within PKNS Building at Jalan Raja Laut. Abang Man, my cousin, simply addressed the officer as Che Lah, and politely asked for his help to endorse my passport application. Che Lah looked at me and asked where I was going. I told him, to the UK for further studies. He reminded me to study hard and make sure I come back and help serve the nation.

My first international passport. Photo of a young man not yet eighteen.

The first UK student visa with date of arrival at Heathrow Airport

Our group of London-bound students left Malaysia to arrive smack in the freezing UK winter on 11 January 1980. I believe there were around 30 of us in the flight, consisting of students who intend to study Accountancy, Pharmacy and Engineering. Upon touching down at Heathrow, we were first taken to the Mara Hostel at Leinster Square in the Bayswater area of London. After a briefing and a short rest, we were divided into groups based on the college where Mara had enrolled us.

Thirteen of us, including Badique and myself, were sent to a college in Greenwich called the Centre for Business Studies or CBS for short. It was the first time Mara is sending students there, hence we were sort of guinea pigs to find out if the college is good enough. CBS is a private college that takes mainly overseas students who want to pursue diplomas in business studies, banking and stuff like that. GCE A-level classes form a small part of their curriculum.

The overseas students were overwhelmingly Africans... prompting us to remark that the place is `penuh dengan gagak'. It was not a good place to study, at least not for A-levels. I didn't learn very much while I was there. I was practically enjoying myself most of the time. We would spend most weekends exploring London. The West End, Oxford Street, Trafalgar Square and Hyde Park are among our favourite haunts. Not that the allowance Mara gave us was lavish but we had to teach ourselves how to spend wisely. To save money, cooking at home is a must. I can still remember buying cow's liver (the cheapest meat available) with such regularity that the halal-butcher would instantly know what I want the moment I step into his shop. London is an expensive city... then and now.

With college-mate Adzim, feeding pigeons at Trafalgar Square. Still to rediscover this friend since separating after A-levels.

We reported to Mara of the poor quality of teaching staff at the college and requested that we be transferred elsewhere. At the end of six months, Mara took us out of the place and registered us at Aston College in Wrexham, North Wales for our second year of A-levels. Aston College had been a favourite institution for placement of Malaysian students for many years.

The autumn of 1980 saw the group of 13 young men being sent to a place where the people speak an entirely different language. We joined our fellow Malaysian friends who had been there much earlier and add to an already sizeable Malay student population in Wrexham.

After a game of football in Wrexham. Can't remember most of the guys now. Yours truly is at the back row in the blue and black striped shirt. Badique is to my left.

Life in the small town of Wrexham is certainly very much different from the city of London but interesting in its own kind of way. But I'll leave these stories to tell for another day.

A young boy's initiative

This post is somewhat an extension of the previous entry. It is a story about my eldest son, not quite about what he said that caught me off-guard but rather, what he did. It happened many years ago when he was still in Year 1 of primary school.

When it was time for Along to start primary school, we enrolled him at Sekolah Kebangsaan Taman Sri Amar, which is located in a neighbouring area across a trunk road from where we stay. There is another school within our neighbourhood that is nearer but we chose to send him to the other school because some of the teachers there are our family friends.

On his first day, I sent him to school in my car. Year 1 students are in the afternoon session and we arrived with plenty of time to spare. The school compound was understandably rowdy with nervous young children and anxious parents facing the start of a new experience. The sound of crying kids and voices of cajoling moms could be heard here and there. My son was as cool as a cucumber… no tears or tantrums from him.

After the students had entered their classrooms, I left the school to return to my office. Later in the evening, I went back to the school to fetch my son. How was his day, I asked. Oh okay… made some new friends, he replied. Not a talkative type, this eldest son of mine.

The next day, I took an early lunch break to go home, fetch my son and send him to school. This time, I just dropped him at the gate because he already knows how to get around. I returned to the office and got busy with work. I was tied down in a meeting and realised a bit too late that I need to fetch my son after school. I rushed out of the office and headed for the school, which is actually not really that far away. Thankfully traffic was not that heavy.

As I reached the last turn of the road about a few hundred metres to the school, I noticed a small schoolboy in the distance, walking on the roadside towards my direction. Poor boy… I thought, to be walking home alone. Why aren’t his parents fetching him or arranged for a school bus?

As I got closer to the boy, I was hit by a bolt of shock. Goodness me, the walking schoolboy is my own son!

I slowed down the car and then stopped when I reached him. I opened the passenger door and my son climbed in. It took me a few moments to recover from the surprise… before I managed to calmly ask him, `Along nak pergi mana jalan kaki ni?’

He simply replied, `Along nak balik rumah la. Habis tu, lama Along tunggu Abah… tak sampai-sampai.’

My next question,`Along tahu ke jalan nak balik rumah?’

`Tahu… ikut jalan yang Abah drive masa hantar tadi,’ he answered confidently.

I was momentarily at a loss for words. The route from my house to the school follows a roundabout way because of a 6-lane trunk road that separates the two areas. The driving distance is almost 3km but a route on foot (if you so wish) is half of that. If I had not crossed paths with my son, he would’ve walked 3 kilometres along unfamiliar roads. The thought of him having to cross the busy trunk road gave me the shudders.

I wasn’t sure what I felt at that time but I guess overall, it must have been a huge sense of relief. I was not angry with my son because it was actually my fault for not giving him instructions on what to do in case I was late. He had taken the initiative to find his way home… the least I can do is to give him credit for that.

As my son settled himself in the car seat as if nothing has happened, I drove towards the school and parked by the roadside in front of the gate. We both got out and I held his hand as we walked back into the school compound towards the canteen. The compound was largely quiet by then… only a few children left waiting for whoever or whatever to take them home.

We reached the canteen and sat side by side on a bench. I then carefully spoke to the him, `Esok atau lusa, kalau Abah lambat datang nak amik Along… jangan pegi mana-mana ye… Along tunggu kat kantin ni, sampai Abah datang, okay?’

`Okay,’ he said.

We walked back to the car and headed home but not before stopping at a coffee shop for a drink. I guess the drink was more for me to reflect on the situation rather than anything else. I ordered Nescafe for myself and ice-cream for my son. I silently watch the young man eat his ice-cream and wonder how a 7-year old boy can be brave enough to make such a decision. I was never that brave when I was his age.

The following day, I made sure I left the office in time to reach school before the kids get out. To test if he understands my instruction, I purposely parked the car some distance away and out of sight. When the classes were let out, I spotted my son among the hundreds of other children. He had a look at the gate where all the other parents were waiting. When he couldn’t see me, he walked back to the canteen and waited there. I stood by a little while longer, just to make sure.

It has been thirteen years now since that incident. Along is now into his third year at a university in Jordan. In that time, he has already made two trips (with friends) to the holy land in Mecca to perform umrah and one trip (alone) to London to visit his uncle (my youngest brother) during winter break.

May the Almighty always watch over you, my son.

A noisy celebration

If you live in a Malay kampung like I do, you would have definitely felt (or rather, heard) the celebratory atmosphere in welcoming the Hari Raya. I am talking about children (and sometimes adults too) who light up fireworks and firecrackers after the breaking of fast.

Every night you can hear the whizzes, pops, bangs and booms of various types of firecrackers. Some of these things give such loud explosive noises that even set off car alarms. It surprises me sometimes that Malays can be playing more fireworks than Chinese. Mengalahkan orang Tionghua sambut tahun baru.

Call me a spoilsport, but I don't really approve this main mercun activity. I don't mind the sparklers but the noisy ones are a pain in the butt. At least, there is an underlying cultural reason when our Chinese friends light up firecrackers. For us Malays, what reason is there... except just for pure fun? Every year during Ramadan, I would wait for news of the first fireworks casualty. More often than not, it would be a young boy from a kampung on the east coast. Stories of missing fingers and burnt hands, mostly.

The selling of firecrackers is supposed to be illegal but I see a few vendors openly trade their stuff at the Ramadan bazaars. The array is quite mind-boggling and come in fancy names and sizes. They sell Thunder Cap rockets, Dragon Eggs, Super Pop, Mini grenades, Starburst, Flying spinners and whatever else have you.

I have never bought any for my children but that did not stop my youngest son from buying them on his own. Last year, he set aside some of his pocket money to secretly buy some firecrackers from his friends. He brought the firecrackers along when we balik kampung at my in-laws home in Mersing. Since there would be other cousins who would be playing the firecrackers, it would be difficult for me to object.

One afternoon, on the third day of hari raya I think, he came into the house to ask my sister-in-law for some minyak gamat (ointment) to apply on a cut on his palm. He told his mother that he got the cut from a fall while playing at the rear compund of the house. I wasn't shown the injury directly but looking at it from distance, I suspected my son was not telling the truth. But I did not press the matter because there were many other relatives around.

The next day, his wound did not get any better and overall he looked a bit feverish. My wife started to worry and wanted me to bring my son to the hospital. I asked my son what really happened. At first he stuck to his story of getting the cut from a fall but then, one of the younger cousins spilled the beans by telling that my son got hurt when a firecracker exploded in his hand before he could throw it away.

I grilled my son on this and he broke down in tears, admitting his fault. I was angry with him, not because he got injured but because he lied. As punishment, I confiscated the rest of his fireworks stock and withheld his raya angpow.

My wife and I then took him to the hospital for treatment. The Hospital Assistant who did the dressing, asked my son how big the firecracker that exploded was. My son replied that it was the size of a small marble.

In jest, the HA responded, `Alaa... kecik aje tu. Lain kali main yang besar terus. Biar power habis!'

We've got talent

At the awards ceremony of the 22nd Malaysian Film Festival held last Saturday, the late Yasmin Ahmad won the prize for Best Director for her movie Talentime. This posthumous award is the final recognition that the local film industry can bestow to a talented individual who has given joy to many people who watched her movies and TV adverts over the years.

Through her work, Yasmin had long ago been a propagator of racial understanding in Malaysia, even way before the PM’s marketing people came up with the concept of 1Malaysia. This latest movie of hers is no different. It has a multi-racial cast but handles a seemingly simple theme. We may be different in skin tones but our aspirations are the same. I wonder now, when another talent such as she, will surface from among us Malaysians.

This subject of creative talent reminds me of the first time I had to perform on stage. I was a teenager studying at MRSM Kuantan. Life at boarding school was fun. In addition to the normal academic studies, everyday was filled events and activities of all kinds. Being teenagers, we were up to the usual mischief as teenagers are wont to do. But apart from the normal diversions, we were a creative and resourceful lot.

On nights prior to school days, it was compulsory for us to attend `prep’ sessions. But on Friday and Saturday nights, we were free to do what we like. To fill up the time on such weekend evenings, we would organize concerts, stage performances or plays. On alternate weekends, the school’s Movie Club would screen movies. The concerts would normally run along a theme, usually performances from all the classes of a particular year (or batch, as we like to call ourselves). Each class would perform two or three songs and the music is played live. There is always a few guys in each class who can play the guitars, keyboard and drums because music was also taught in our school. Once the roster for musical concerts was completed, we would go on to dramas and stage plays.

Main Hall of present day MRSM Kuantan where all the performances are held

All the events were handled and executed by students with minimal input from the teachers. It covers all aspects including stage decoration, lighting, sound effects, costumes and even the emcee. This was how we nurtured the talent among us in non-academic fields.

I am hopeless at playing musical instruments but I can sing fairly well and apparently, can act quite a bit too. So when it was time for our class to prepare for a performance, I was conveniently selected to take the lead or hero’s role in a musical drama. The heroine’s role was played by classmate Norhayati Shaharuddin, one of the prettiest lass in school at the time… so kira okay la tu :-)

Try as I might, I cannot recall what the storyline of our musical was about… but it must have something to do with a love story because I can clearly remember the song I sang that night. It was the A. Halim song called Kisah Dan Tauladan. Fans of 1960s Malay Pop Yeh Yeh will know this one in an instant. Nowadays, when I come across this song at any karaoke session, it will always bring back the memory of my stage performance.



Youtube video credit to malin7597

Yati, the heroine, also sang a song… but I can’t remember what it was. If I do get a chance to meet up with her again sometime, I think I’ll ask her. I’m sure she’ll remember the fun times that we had when we were teens. Kadang-kadang terasa macam kelakar pulak…

The last item of our performance was a group song by all the cast. Yours truly is the skinny guy on the right

That was about my only participation in acting. MARA then sent me overseas to study something else. Good thing too… because I doubt I can cari makan based on my acting skills alone.

Finger lickin' delicious

Headnote : My reference to a particular animal in this post is not intended to offend any persons or that animal.

Talking about the UK in the previous post brought back some memories of life as a student in a far away land. We sure did a lot of dumb things back then but hey, it's all part of the learning process. You can call us naive or, to use a current Malay word, poyo.

In the 1980s, a lot of Malaysian students were sent to the UK for further studies because it was still relatively cheap. The monetary exchange rate was less than half of today's rate. The students who scored good results in the MCE/SPM exams were offered scholarships. Year after year, hundreds of wide-eyed boys and girls, most of whom never set foot outside Malaysia, were packed off onto airplanes to land at Heathrow Airport in London.

We were barely 17-years old at the time and almost every one of us had to face the culture shock. We were about to enter adulthood in an unfamiliar country with nobody to guide us except ourselves. We had to learn how to manage our money, cook our own meals, pay bills, make new friends, take care of our health, suppress the feeling of homesickness while at the same time, not forget the main objective of being there, and that is to study. For Muslim students, even eating can become a problem. At some of the towns, getting halal meat was not easy. We were also warned to read the ingredients label of most basic foodstuff such bread and biscuits. I hadn't known what lard was until I lived in the UK.

Most coped with the situation fair enough but there were a few who get swept away by the currents of change. Hanyut is the Malay term for it.

While living away from parents has its difficulties, the freedom from supervision and control is very exciting. It is the time for adventure and opportunities. No adult to tell us not to do this or not to do that. It is the time to rebel, if that happens to be your fancy. For the boys, keeping long hair is the `in' thing. Sporting short and neatly-trimmed hair is simply not cool. From the photos of overseas students that I now see in local newspapers during Hari Raya time, the situation is still the same I guess.

With the absence of parental control, the behavioural standard of us boys vary a great deal. The very pious amongst us are strict and reserved. They also do the good deed of reminding friends and fellow countrymen to obey the rules and not go astray. Then there's the middle-of-the-road guys who take things easy. There were also, of course, the other extreme of guys with the couldn't-care-less attitude.

Perhaps to illustrate the varying degrees, I use the example of food. The pious group will always ensure that the food they eat is 100% halal. Meat products like chicken or beef must come from animals slaughtered according to Muslim rites. Some of the guys in the easy-going group have no qualms about eating non-halal chicken, beef or mutton. The don't-care-about-it guys never bother to read the labels for the doubtful ingredients although they will avoid eating pork or the other porcine products.

You may observe that the not-too-good Malay men can be caught committing all the sins you care to name except one. They would steal, drink liquor, gamble away their money and sleep around... but even the worst-behaved among them would stop short of eating pork, at least not knowingly. Such is the cultural taboo since very young.

But once in a while, there comes along certain individuals who break convention. And this now leads me to the story that I want to tell...

My second year of A-levels was spent at the small town of Wrexham in North Wales. There were around 40 Malaysian students at the time, quite a sizeable number. There were no halal meat shops in Wrexham and we had to buy our chicken, beef and mutton from the largest nearby city, Liverpool which was more than an hour's train ride away. Because of this distance, we cannot be eating meat as often as we like.

When I first arrived at Wrexham in the autumn of 1980, there was a shortage of available accommodation. For the first few months, I had to share a small flat with 6 other Malaysian students. Our flat is located next door to a Chinese Takeaway shop. For those unfamiliar, the Chinese Takeaway is a food outlet that can be found almost anywhere in Britian, even in small towns. It sells a variety of Chinese dishes listed in a numbered menu displayed at the front of the shop. You place your order at the counter, wait for a few minutes while your order is being cooked and then packed for you to take home. If you have a copy of the menu at home, you can also call the shop and simply quote the number on the menu if you find the name of the dish difficult to pronounce. You then walk in, say 20 minutes later, to pick up the package. Very convenient.

Being next door to such an outlet meant that it was convenient for us too. Sometimes we were lazy to cook and the takeaway food was cheap. So we simply ordered. Our dish of choice was egg fried rice. Yes, I know what some of you are thinking... halal ke? Did I not mention something about naivety in the early part of this post? I did check with the cook that the fried rice contained only eggs and no meat and that only vegetable oil was used. Lame excuse, I know... but that's the way it was.

From a simple egg fried rice dish, some of my housemates later progressed to ordering dishes with chicken or beef. Then they got bolder by ordering weird-sounding dishes as long as it does not contain pork.

One evening, I got home from class just in time to see my roomate finish eating his takeaway dinner sitting in the living room in front of the TV. He had finished munching on some meat on a thin bone and was tastily licking the juices off his fingers. The following is what I recall of my conversation with him... it was in Malay and I'm not putting up the English translation because the impact would be lost. We'll identify this friend of mine as `F'.

Me : Engkau makan apa tu?

F : BBQ spare ribs. First time aku order dari kedai sebelah.

Me (looking puzzled) : Engkau tahu tak spare ribs tu daging apa?

F (slightly surprised) : Eh... bukan daging lembu ke?

Me : Engkau tak tanya?

F : Kalau bukan lembu, daging apa?

Me : Babi.

F : Eh... tak lah!

At this point, another housemate by the name of Gabriel, an Iban from Sarawak, walked into the room.

Me : Kalau kau tak caya, kau tanya Gabe.

F : Gabe, BBQ spare ribs daging apa?

Gabe : Wei... itu daging babi la brader.

A short moment of silence.

F : Nak buat macamana... dah termakan.

Me : So, apa rasanya BBQ spare ribs yang kau makan tu?

F (grinning) : Heheheh.... sedaaaap!

Adeh, hampeh betul kawan aku seorang ni.

Speaking the Queen's English

Here's another post on the English language but this in a less serious note. But before I tell my story, a bit of background on the land of tea and biscuits, our former colonial masters, the United Kingdom.

The United Kingdom is a nation made up of four distinct and culturally different countries; England, Wales, Scotland and Northern Ireland. Politically, they are one nation but not quite a federation like Malaysia or the United States. They do however, have the advantage of sending four separate teams to qualify for the football World Cup. Their full and proper name is The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. Quite a mouthful, right?

All the people of the UK speak English of course, but with distinctive accents. If you have lived in the UK for some time, it is not terribly difficult to distinguish them. I did my A-levels at a college in Wales and am therefore familiar with the Welsh accent. The Welsh, in fact, do have their own written and spoken language but I can hardly speak a word, despite having lived there for almost a year. It is a language that makes miserly use of vowels and for a foreigner like me, even reading a sentence is next to impossible. Might as well have been Greek.

Of the three non-native English countries, the Scottish accent is perhaps the most difficult to comprehend. I won't even attempt to describe it. If you are a Man United fan and have seen Sir Alex Ferguson's interviews on TV, you'll know what I mean. I'll give you full marks if you can fully catch what he says in the first instance.

Okay... now back to the story that I wish to tell.

In 1993, or thereabouts, I was working in a consulting engineering firm carrying out a project in Johor Bahru. Our site management team included two very experienced British expatriates. Jim Payne, our Project Manager, is an Englishman while the other Brit is a Scotsman named David Morgan. Mr. Morgan was our Senior Project Engineer who was primarily in-charge of site construction matters. He's a real hands-on guy with a no-nonsense approach.

Mr. Payne on the other hand, is a cool and composed gentleman not prone to any temperamental outbursts. He has worked in many countries before settling for a final project in Malaysia. I reported directly to Jim and assisted him in the project management tasks, especially in liasion with local counterparts. I learned some of my report-writing skills from this kind man.

One particular afternoon, Jim and I were in the office discussing about work when David stomped in with a pissed-off look on his face, grumbling loudly about something.

Jim calmly said, `What's the matter, David? Why don't you tell us what's wrong?'

David immediately went into a tirade about bloody this and bloody that and bloody everything else, mumbling and grumbling all the way. This went on for a few minutes and included some choice words that I rather not repeat here.

At the end of David's outburst, Jim turned to me with a puzzled look on his face and asked, `What did David just say?'

I couldn't stop myself from grinning! I sort of caught the gist of David's rant and proceeded to explain to Jim in plain and clear English. Apparently, David was unhappy with the work of one of our sub-contractors and had instructed him to rectify the work. The sub-contractor didn't think he had done anything wrong and had argued back. They ended up quarrelling with each other when neither party wanted to give in.

At the end of my explanation to Jim, I looked at David for confirmation, `Am I right, David?'

`Bloody right!', was his terse response. Heheheh...

`No problems, David,' I said. `I'll settle this matter for you.'

In all honesty, my sub-contractor probably got into an argument with Mr. Morgan because he couldn't understand half of what was said. If even Jim can't make sense of what David said, what more a local Class F chap?

So there's my story of an Englishman who had to ask a Malay guy what a Scotsman was saying. True story, I kid you not.