The Madness of MokcikNab

Rubbish, refuge

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

Coming home had been more traumatic than I expected, partly because I was in denial about leaving Jakarta in the first place. I had refused to acknowledge that I will no longer be living in that maddening city, even when the immigration officers at Soekarno-Hatta stamped the finality of the move on my passport. I still pretended that my address was still Menteng, that is, until the movers arrived.

Reality sank in pretty quickly, and dug her nails in for good measure, just in case I didn't notice. The large bench that sat in an airy spot in my previous house, now dominate the miniscule living room in my (real) home. My two meter dining table is cramped into our dark eating area, jostling for space with a carved wooden sideboard and matching arm chairs. I can almost hear my furniture sniff and turn up their noses. "We left Menteng for this?", said the joglo mirror to the TV cabinet.

My small, two-storey link house -- where I rightfully belong in the social stratum, I must add -- now resembles the cargo hold of a kapal bawang. Boxes are piled to the ceiling in the kitchen and occupy any available space elsewhere. Books, clothes, linens, pillows, lamps, all demand for place in my sorry tongkang pecah. My first impulse is to get a blow torch and start over. Preferably, in Bandung.

Malaysia is home, but in the current circumstances, it is by no means a refuge. (Let's not even go into the surreal political scenes, I refuse to read the papers). There is no running away from mess, in every single aspect of my life at the moment. Apart from the obvious chaos in my abode, I also have to cope with my kids adjusting to the peculiarly regimented schooling system, made worse by teachers who think my children have had an inferior education just because they went to an Indonesian school. One teacher had the gall to ask if I understood English, even when I was conversing to her in the very language.

My wife, Ti (whose name is surely short for Sanity) is still sorting out her work papers and a mother who is very reluctant to let her leave. There is no Ibu Ika to fall back on, or Mas Darno to drive me around, no Pak Tono to open the gates for us or water the garden (what garden?) I have to get used to carrying keys again, and actually getting out of the car to buy newspaper or fried bananas. We don't have a pool in our backyard, we have a septic tank and an overgrown pokok kari. In the old house, I can lie in bed and through the open doors, gaze upon a graceful frangipani tree. In this neighborhood, I'd be lucky if I don't catch my hairy neighbor undressing.

This is turning out to be an unbelievably whiny post. Goodness, my years in Jakarta have made me soft and not a little bratty. Well, time to square the shoulders, draw a deep breath and dive into the clutter. God help me if, among the junk, I find a working lighter.

Debris

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

It's terrible to see the kind of junk I have accumulated in just a couple of years: questionable clothes bought on a whim, unopened jars of fat-loss cream, lipsticks the wrong color, scrunchies that no longer scrunch, handbags with missing handles, vitamins and miracle cures greying away in bottles, toothless combs pasted with pastilles and tangled hair, lonely earrings, pinless pins, namecards for people I can't recall, receipts and unclaimed receipts, bits and pieces and things that amount to a lot and amount to nothing.

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

Urinating on Utility

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

In Indonesia, utility companies don't send you bills unless you request it, and you have to take the initiative to find out how much you owe them and pay the amount at the bank. Such muddlers that we are, we sometimes forget to pay on time. So far the utility company would just send us a notice to pay and we'd settle the bill, and all is well.

Yesterday though, the man who sent us the warning notice asked for money, and threatened to cut off supply if we didn't cough up. I was too sick to deal with him, so I called my husband home. When Saiffuddin arrived, the man had doubled his original asking price. (He had other friends with him, and he was being thoughtful). My husband told him he'd comply, and asked him to wait for a moment.

He went inside the house, took the right amount of rupiah notes, peed on the money, and carefully fanned them dry. He then handed the money to the utility guy, while making sure that the guy grabbed the urinated end.

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

It's been so long...

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

...that I actually forgot my blog address.

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

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

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

So why resume where I left off?

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

Because I quit work and have nothing to do all day except lie around in my pyjamas and trawl through whingeing political blogs and news aggregators.

Because I feel that I should try flexing my writing muscles again, after more than a year correcting other people's grammar and trying to make sense of Indonesian news reporting.

Let's see how long this will last.

Note to Shopper (That's you, Yam)

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

Dear Yam,
This should have been posted sooner, but as usual lah kan, my blog got ignored and I didn't read your reply. I hope you have not left for Jakarta.

If you have only one day to shop, you should spend it at ITC Kuningan/Mall Ambassador (it's two connecting buildings). If there's time, you can hop over to nearby Tanah Abang.

At Mall Ambassador, on the ground floor you can find a good selection of factory-outlet quality children's clothes (in my opinion, they offer better choices than Bandung) and there is a smattering of reject shops for adults, too. There are a couple of shops selling interesting shoes, and of course the ubiquitous fake handbags, on other floors. You should also check out the bookshop on the first floor, for some Indonesian literature and inspiring Islamic books.

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

There are several shops selling ethnic stuff on the second floor. I like Pernak Pernik, which sells handmade ceramic bric-n-brac (which is what "pernak-pernik" means). On the fourth floor right across one of the escalators is a shop selling woven bags, at a reasonable price.

ITC Kuningan also has shops selling the usual batik and telekung, so you can save time and forgo your Tanah Abang trip. However, prices here are slightly more expensive, but not that much if you're good at pulling a bargain. There are also shops selling pretty kebayas. These are cheaper than at department stores, and of better quality than Tanah Abang. Buy the cotton ones. There's a shop on the ground floor at ITC Kuningan which stocks a good selection.

If you're kaya, though, you should drop by Pasaraya Grande for the full-on Indonesian craft experience. If you're staying near Kemang, check out also Chic Mart, a quaint two-storey shop crammed with unique jewellery (cheap!) and home furnishing (not so cheap). Chic Mart is on Jalan Kemang Raya, right in front of Al-Hidayah Mosque. Have lunch at Pawon Solo or Payon, if you're in the neighborhood.

If you're really, really kaya you should also visit Alun Alun Indonesia at Grand Indonesia. This is the Indonesian equivalent of Aseana. The songket, ikats and batiks on display are to die-for but if you look at the price pun boleh mati juga. Having said that, the kains on display are heirloom quality works of art, and if I had a few million rupiah to spare, I'd invest in some.

My Life is So Boring and I Have No Opinion

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

So I'm posting an itinerary.

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

20.00
Jakarta City Drive-About
Nightcap at Bakoel Koffie

Sunday 2 December
06.00
Travel to Bandung

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

11.00
Lunch at Kampung Daun

13.00
Check in at Bumi Asih

15.00
Saung Angklung Udjo, Padasuka

18.00
Dinner at Bakmi Rainbow
This is not even a proper eatery, just a couple of chairs and tables thrown together in front of a factory outlet, but the noodles are home-made and good for cold Bandung nights.

Monday 3 December
07.00
Tangkuban Perahu

11.00
Shopping - Rumah Mode

12.30
Lunch at Bumbu Desa

13.30
Return to hotel

15.00
Additional shopping – Jalan Riau

18.00
Dinner at Bandoengsche Melk Centrale

Tuesday 4 December
10.00
Selasar Sunaryo
Coffee

12.30
Check-out from hotel

13.30
Lunch at Bloemen

15.00
Back to Jakarta

Wednesday 5 December
09.00
National Museum

11.30
Textile Museum

13.00
Lunch at home

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

Thursday 6 December
10.00
Furniture Jaunt - Ciputat

13.00
Lunch at Payon

14.00
Furniture Jaunt - Kemang Timur

16.30
Pool time

18.00
Dinner at Bakmi Gajah Mada

Friday 7 December
10.00
Shopping - ITC Cempaka Mas

13.00
Lunch at home

14.00
Shopping – Kedaung

18.30
Dinner at Lara Jonggrang

Saturday 8 December
05.00
Bursa Kue Pasar Senen

15.00
Bogor Botanical Gardens

18.00
Dinner at Café Dedaunan

Sunday 9 December
08.00
Pasar Pagi Lama, Kota

09.30
Taman Fatahillah
Museum Jakarta
Museum Wayang

13.00
Lunch at Rumah Makan Sederhana

14.30
Rest

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

Monday 10 December
07.00
Spa at Salon Geugis

15.00
Transfer to airport

I celeng you

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

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

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

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

This started out when I was talking to Dr Rohani, who is the wife of the MSD chief in Indonesia. She's from Seberang Takir and I remarked that I found many Indonesian words similar to Terengganuspeak. She agreed wholeheartedly, and pointed out how Indonesians call 'making noise' geger, which is an utterly East Coast expression. Iseng-iseng (just on a lark), I went through Adam's dictionary and found so many words that my grandmother would have used in her conversation.

Words like:

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

And then, there's 'kedaung' and 'lepang', both of which are trees, the former I guess is really green and the latter, bitter. A 'celeng' is actually a small boar, which is probably why Terengganu people call the piggy bank after it.

Indonesians always use "ngga usah" for don't, similar to the Terengganu "dok soh". We also use "takmboh", when we refuse something. The dictionary says 'emboh' means to like, or to have a mind to, which makes sense, because "tak emboh" would mean exactly the opposite.

Saiffuddin thinks it is time I get off my butt and find out exactly the link between Indonesia and the East Coast. My ancestry, songket, gamelan and pempek (their version of kerepok lekor) have given us a rough outline, but I am dying to fill in the blanks. Anyone want to help? Nok ke takmboh?

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

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

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

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

Hmm. For a moment there I thought, since no one's going to read this I might as well record for posterity (and for scientific research) what my husband and I did in bed last night; but I cancelled that because:

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

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

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

So, anyway. Here's a brief update on the past two months -- sort of. I went to work as usual, and edit, edit, edited all the copies for this media tracking outfit that has so kindly given me a part-time job. The I go home and help my kids with homework. If I have no patience I do the homework myself, so that I can quickly get some sleep.

Ramadan came, and we spent most of our time at Mesjid Agung Sunda Kelapa, where nightly, Adam, Saiffuddin and even the visiting Firhad would lose their sendal jepit (selipar). Tarawih was a pleasure this year, we had an imam from Arab Saudi who read the Quran with conviction and emotion; and most of the doa's were translated so we understood the gravity of the prayer. Towards the end of Ramadan, we had what I call "Tearjerker Terawihs", because the imam would be sobbing through his extended doa qunut during the last rakaat of witr, and because we were told beforehand the meaning of the qunut, the makmums would be crying, too.

The jemaat at Mesjid Sunda Kelapa in Menteng is a truly mixed lot, but all are also truly welcome. There would be the low-income populous who would travel from miles away to arrive before Asr, and enjoy the free iftar the mosque would provide for about 700 people every day. Then, there are the Menteng denizens, who come to mosque in their gorgeous telekungs and their Fendis and Hermes, and you can see one or two fiddling on their Blackberries during tazkirah. The Vice-President, who lives right next door, is a regular makmum, and a usual target for donations. After the earthquake in Padang, the mosque collected funds to rebuild the destroyed mosques in the affected areas. Some donated Rp40 million without batting an eyelid. The Wakil President gave more than Rp100 million of his own money.

The night before Lebaran we helped Wisma Malaysia cook for hundreds of students who beraya away from home, some for the first time. (Most could not go home because they had just arrived and had to wait for their visa to clear). I learnt to cook kuah kacang, for the first time. On Lebaran morning, we solat Idul-Fitri at the embassy. I brought kerepok lekor which my husband and I made ourselves, and I was scolded because there wasn't enough to go (several) round. In the evening, we went to Kebon Jeruk, to celebrate with my friends Lindy and Winky, and their family, who are like our de-facto relatives here. Ibu Savitri ("No, you must call me Mummy") cooked 92 kilos of rendang and an array of Minang and Batavian delicacies and desserts. At the end of the evening, she played the piano and called everyone to sing, which everyone thought was the cue to leave.

The most beautiful woman at the gathering was a septuagenarian, who was tall and elegant and had perfect skin. I was kinda flirting with her, which wasn't terribly religious of me.

Saiffuddin and I later hosted our own Raya gathering at our house, but only for small groups of people because our house can't accomodate crowds and we had only ten dinner plates and most of the drinking tumblers were broken. I had Chris, Hera and Riri from work bring along their spouses, and I cooked nasi kerabu, which they suprisingly enjoyed. I also cooked pasta with scampi because I didn't know if Riri's husband David, who is from New York, would eat the nasi kerabu, because the dish calls for petai and budu. Turns out he was the one who ate with the most gusto. Never underestimate a Jewish boy from Jersey, that's what I say.

Minal aidin wal faidzin. Better late than never.

Peed on by peddlers

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

Sometime last week, my husband was (well, he still is) having problems with his company's Indonesian partner. The state-owned firm had reneged on their promises countless times and had been shall we say, rather dishonest.

The problem with my husband is he mulls over these things and it spoils his day. I suspect he likes being mad and edgy. On our daily walk one morning, he was going on and on about how these people can't be trusted. I absolutely disagree but I can't be bothered to get into an argument with Saiffuddin at 6.30 am, so I pretended to listen while I fantasized about a five bedroom home with a big yard in Bandung (my instant zen, though fantasizing about Eric Bana works, too)

Unfortunately, my husband can't stand being mad all on his own, and would do everything he can so that I would have a rotten time along with him. So I had to leave my sumptuous fantasy house (which by then already had a huge pendopo and a guest pavilion nestled among huge acacia trees) and was drawn into the fray.

"Any Indonesian businessman will cheat you given the opportunity", he announced.
"No, you can't work like that", I retorted, "you have to have faith. Not everyone is dishonest. This bad chi will get you nowhere".

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

"Let's have an experiment", he said, " Let's give this roti man some money and ask him to send the bread to our house. We'll see if he runs away with the dough or if he'd deliver."

Now, this is not a very wise thing to do, because (sigh) most small-time peddlers and bajaj men and fishmongers in Jakarta will cheat you given the opportunity. We have had to pay ridiculous amounts for short bajaj rides because their owners never seem to have any change. I have bought two kilos of ikan kembung only to discover at home that half of the fish were actually selayang. Nevertheless, I agreed, because I was sure the man wouldn't cheat us for just six thousand rupiah (about RM2.50) and he goes around our neighborhood every day, so he knows that he's bound to meet us one time or another. Besides it might shut my husband up for a while.

So we hailed the bread man and told him to send the bread to our address. The bread guy appeared a little confused with our instructions, and did look as though he thought we were stupid to entrust him with money. We left him, and continued with our walk.

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

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

"Damn", I swore. (I didn't really say damn, but I censor my blog, you see). "He wasn't going to deliver the bread".
I wasn't sure if I was mad at the roti man or at my husband for being so smugly right. As the bread guy was going to turn a corner, in a bid to make a quick escape, we suddenly called out to him.

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

We left him on the corner and continued on our walk, with Saiffuddin proclaiming how he is never wrong about people every step of the way. I sulked and pouted and asked him if he's happy now that he's managed to ruin my day. When we got home, I really expected to see the bread on our table, but there was no such luck. I mused about how patently stupid the bread man could be -- he ran away with six thousand rupiah and now has to sneak around his tour of Menteng because he'd certainly want to avoid us now. Over breakfast, Saiffuddin gave me another long lecture about the virtues of being a difficult and negative bastard.

When it was time to send the kids to school, I went to open the gates, and there, hanging from the spikes, was the bread, wrapped in a plastic bag. I had no idea what went on inside the bread-man's mind that produced that stab of conscience, and I really didn't care. What mattered was, on that day, I could throw the bread into Saiffuddin's lap and declared that I won the argument.

Jakarta Rocks

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

For about two seconds, a few minutes after midnight.

Except for Ibu Ika, the gardener's wife, everyone in the household slept through it. Apparently it was violent enough to displace some of the water in our pool, and had sent many Jakartans into a state of panic; but maybe those were just Adang* supporters.

I should be very, very glad that the quake caused only a small ripple in the city, but when I first heard the news I was really hoping I could have an excuse to skip work.

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

Dawn

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

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

Baidura Ahmad! Tell Me if You're Coming Over

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

Google "Baidura Ahmad", and you will be able to read a few samples of my friend's fine writing skills, on subjects ranging from trendy grannies and Balinese massage to Islamic banking and reform of international financial architecture.

I got to know Baidura when we were both business reporters (okay, maybe she deserves to be called "journalist"), covering AGMs, signing ceremonies and economic meets. She was working for a very respectable (then) business broadsheet (then) and I was the token editor at the economic desk of a TV station. It just so happened that we'd always be sent on the same assignments abroad, and I grew to like Baidura's unforgiving humour and sense of adventure. (By unforgiving humour I mean we laugh and bitch about other people a lot). While most fellow journalists and camera crew would opt to go shopping when visiting a foreign country, Baidura and I would visit art museums and quirky restaurants and flea-markets. Oh, we love flea-markets and dusty op-shops! At the right price, we have no qualms lugging bulky purchases all around town. On one cold day in Auckland we hauled luggage and Salvation Army finds from bus to ferry to airport.

There is one thing I never spoke about to Baidura and since this happened a long time ago, I suppose the matter has lost some of its offensiveness (and mortal shame) and I can finally tender my apologies. Baidura and I were in New York in late August, 2001, and we were put up at the New York Palace Hotel, which was across St. Patrick's Church and a few skips away from Rockefeller Center. We shared a well-appointed bedroom and I think the first night we were there we went out to eat at a Jewish vegetarian restaurant and I had a heavenly dish of fresh pasta with broccoli and cream. Back in the room, my tummy reminded me why the meal was a bad idea. We just got off a very, very long flight and I hadn't done the No.2 in two days (I'm not sure what No.2 is, but what I mean is the besar one). I was pregnant at the time (it didn't work out, eventually) and pregnant women, especially pregnant women who've just eaten broccoli, can get extremely windy. Baidura settled into her bed, pulled up the plush cover and we chatted while we watched TV; or at least according to my feeble mind, this is how it went.

I can't remember what it was that we spoke about, but uncharitably, my colon decided to emit at that point one of those nasty, silent farts that I can only unimaginatively describe as stinky-poo.

I was aghast, but Baidura completely ignored it. There was no way she could not have noticed, because it was the kind of flatulence you needed an iron lung for, but she didn't give anything away. She may have crinkled her nose a little, but she didn't go like : "Elida, did you fart?" or the more appropriate, "Ya Rabbi, busuknya kentut! Bau macam telur tembelang campur air paya!", which would have been perfect for the occasion. No, Baidura was extremely polite and suffered in silence.

I should really have said sorry, but I was too embarrassed to bring up the subject, and besides the damage was done. So I ran into the sumptuous marble bathroom to finish venting off my bum in there. When I re-emerged, pretending not to be gasping for air, I settled back into bed and we continued chatting, as if nothing had happened.

By that incident, I measured Baidura as a good friend. I have no idea if she blabbed about Elida farting to other people later ( I would have!) but I, err never got a whiff of it.

We had a good time in New York, even though there wasn't enough time to see everything we would have liked to see. In between listening to stockbrokers explain the virtues of dollar denominated bonds, we went to the Guggenheim, took pictures of the Naked Cowboy, went to Sunday flea markets at the Village, and caught a Broadway show. Despite the legendary New York brusqueness, we met only nice people and on the flight home, I even made friends with a spiritual house-painter from Queens who asked me a lot about Islam. Two weeks later that sunny picture we had of New York was completely destroyed. Baidura must have been glad that it was only my butt that detonated throughout our stay.

Last week, Baidura called to say she'll be making a business trip to Jakarta and she'd come earlier to stay over at my place. I am notorious for losing phone numbers and emails so I don't know how to contact her (and I can't remember which central bank-related institution she works for now, hence the googling effort) . Thankfully she reads the drivel I write in this blog, so if she's reading this right now, I'd like to say : I'm sorry I farted in 2001 and please email me at mokciknab@gmail.com if your travel plans are confirmed! There's lots of musty, old shops crammed with furniture and stuff that we can rummage through together.

Welcome to My Gubuk

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

A few years ago, I travelled with a fellow newscaster, she's tres chic and is very, very particular about her appearance. I don't say this with disdain, because I accept people as they are and I happen to like her very much even though I don't understand her extreme (extreme to me, that is) pre-occupation with perception. Anyway, it just so happens that during the trip we bought more items than could fit into our lugagge. I solved the problem by buying a cheap and huge utility bag from the market to place the excess baggage. Because I was thoughtful, I bought the same bag for her. She cringed. And refused the bag. Because presumably it looked cheap and so obviously bought at the market, and she didn't want to be seen fishing it from the luggage carousel. No matter. We're still friends.

One of my sisters would understand this pre-occupation, because if we'd ever go shopping at One Utama and we'd happen to buy stuff from Reject Shop, I'd have to be the one carrying the bags. Or else we'd quickly buy something from a more expensive place, say Salabianca next door, so that we could stuff the offensive Reject Shop purchases into the more fashionably acceptable paper carriers. In this way, we would have totally cancelled out any savings we could hope to achieve by shopping at Reject Shop in the first place. Now that my sister has children, she probably has less concerns of this sort, and truth be told it's been ages since I last shopped with her, anyway.

Why are we so ashamed to be seen as poor? We judge others and we judge ourselves according to the money made, despite other intangible achievements or qualities. This point was underscored recently, when I visited Cikgu Ana, this lovely lady who teaches my daughters the Qur'an and all other things that a mother is supposed to teach.

My children have always been blessed with wonderful people to nurture them, to fill the huge gaps left behind by their mom. One of them is Ana, who is about 27 years old, a kindergarten teacher and a graduate student in Islamic studies. She comes to our house three times a week, is fiercely dedicated to educating Aiysha and Aliya and is a thousand times more patient than I am. She is indulgent towards my daughters and teaches the obstinate Aliya to recite the Iqra' while the girl lies on her lap. She is exemplary in so many ways, diligent, wise and kind.

Ana lives alone with her mother in Mampang-Prapatan. A few weeks ago, her mother fell sick and could not move. At that time, the kids were having their exams and Ana felt she was duty-bound to come and tutor my children. She was tearful and worried. We told her to go home. Then we heard that the mother's condition took a turn for the worse, but the old lady refused hospitalization. Ti decided to visit Ana at her home, and I felt that I should do the same. When Ana heard that I was coming, she was aghast, ashamed that I would see the squalor she lived in. In the end she relented and I finally saw her house.

It wasn't a house. It was a small room where the door was the only opening, and her mother slept on an old mattress on the floor. They had a small fridge and an old wooden cabinet where they kept books and mementoes, and those plastic drawers to keep clothes. It was indeed squalor. Ana kept apologizing about her circumstances, while her sick mother profusely thanked us for coming. I wanted to cry because I felt she didn't deserve to live in such dire straits. She kept saying, oh, this must be the first time you were in a house so poor, and I kept saying no, no it's not true, I come from a poor family too. She said I lied, and it was a lie, because no matter how poor my relatives were, and there were many poor people in Terengganu, no one was this destitute.

But while I am deeply saddened by Ana's living conditions, it does not in any way lower my estimation of her. Finally I told her that in my mind she is much, much nobler than me, much nobler than most people I know, because she is a teacher and she used her knoweldge to teach my children and the children of others, while I can't even recite the Qur'an with proper tajweed. She went quiet for a while, and then she thanked me for my words, and didn't say anything more about her house.

Need idea for school food fair

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

My kids are having an end of the year bash in school, which includes the whole school staging a Mary Poppins musical (Aisyha's in the chorus, Adam plays the pianica, and Aliya will dance). Julie Andrews and magical flying nannies notwithstanding, this is Asia, and any school event in Asia must have food on the side. I have to fill a form to say what I'd be bringing, and my kids want something that is distinctly Malaysian. Could you please, please help me and suggest something?

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

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

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

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

I could serve the roti canai or roti jala with sweet condensed milk, or I can relent to my daughters and fill the karipap with spinach and cheese instead of meat and potatoes, and I could pretend I didn't hear the plea for bronok, but I'm sure out there in the blogosphere some kind Martha Stewart doppelganger will come up with a recipe more inspiring than our dismal choices.

Can yah? Please? You won't win anything, but you will have my children's deepest gratitude. And a free tour guide next time you come to Jakarta.

Death in Three

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

Three of my neighbour's children were warded for dengue and then the middle one, a seven year old boy, died the third day he was in hospital.

His parents held a service for him at home. That evening, I sat in my front garden, saw the streams of people, imagined the streams of tears. From across the street, above the din of traffic, I heard the ceremony of sorrow. A priest telling the parents to seek strength. A little girl speaking of a dear cousin and why he will be missed. A woman singing a lullaby to the dead child.
"Sleep", she sang. "Sleep, my dear and rest in peace".

Psychedelic Rainbow

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

It's safe to say that even the most casual radio listener in Malaysia and Indonesia would have heard of Nidji. The band had a string of hits, starting with "Sudah", "Bila Aku Jatuh Cinta", and then the stay-in-you-head-till-you-shoot-your-own-brains-off "Hapus Aku". I loved the song so much I played it over and over that it reduced my daughter Aiysha to tears. Literally. When we first came to Indonesia there was no escaping the tune : it was blaring in every shopping hall, on the radio, out of homes, and from the mouths of children playing in the streets.

The band must have made the same pact with the devil that signed up Led Zeppelin, because it is now enjoying the same ubiquity with "Heaven", the song used for the "Heroes" promo in Asia.

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

Since moving to Jakarta, it had always been my aim to watch the band perform live, but understandably such an objective had to take a back-seat to much loftier ideals like acquiring furniture and oh yeah, sending my kids to school. Also, I have seen them on live TV shows and had always thought they sounded better in the studio.

I was wrong. So wrong. Last night, shrugging off fears that we would be the only makcik and pakcik in a crowd of youngsters, Saiffuddin and I went to the A-Mild Rising Stars concert. The show was the culmination of a nationwide search for the best bands in Indonesia; and apart from featuring the finalists, it also had a running order of performances that read like a playlist for I-Radio (or Hot FM, if you're in Malaysia).

Ungu, Samsons and Naff were billed as stars of the concert, but I was there for Nidji; as well as Steven and the Coconut Treez, a raggae band so feel-good I actually bothered to buy their CD. The pokok kelapa band was very good and by far, delivered the best vocal performance in a night marred by poor technical facilities. Andra and the Backbones, a part-time gig for Dewa guitarist Andra, was excellent as well, but I only knew one of their songs.

Nidji was in a class of their own. Giring, with his afro hair, tight pants and white shoes, was totally convincing as a frontman. The moment he pranced down the runway and broke into "Disco Lazy Time" (whatever that means), the crowd was eating out of his hands. Coldplay comparisons evaporate at this point - Chris Martin would never have jumped about with such abandon. Nidji's performance was a rush to the head, helped by the band's frenetic pace and Giring's ease with the audience : we were constantly on our feet, screaming out words. They played only three other songs : "Heaven", "Manusia Sempurna" and last but certainly not least, the massive "Hapus Aku", which was performed at twice its speed and had every one believe this was a pogo party.

By the way, we were not the only makcik and pakcik at the show. Many real mak haji's in sparkly tudungs and and pak haji's in ketayaps were also in attendance, and they rocked! Amazing Indonesia.

For more information on Nidji, go here.

Gumuxs!

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

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

My father has six children, not two
My sister Dalia never went out with a Caucasian
To call Motorola a "factory in Sungai Way" is probably an over-simplification
I am not a politician
My brother-in law never worked in any hospital in Kinrara
My mother's name is Saudah
and my husband does not drive a Kenari. The person who drives the Kenari will be mortified to know that people think I am married to him because he'd had to give up corsets and high heels.

The stuff about calling Firhad "hensem" and "mamat cool" and describing me as fat are all judgment calls, so can't complain. Dalam hati boleh lah.

P.S Just in case you think I was googling myself : I stumbled upon the thread because I looked up my brother's name. He's producing a reality dance show and I wanted to know if he's getting good reviews for the show. Generally okay lah.

Martyr Mater. Not

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

Motherhood is a crown that doesn't sit well on me, and if I am totally, totally honest with myself, I know I don't deserve to celebrate today. Of course, I get it anyway -- the scrumptious breakfast of Lamingtons and sandwiches; the homemade card with pink hearts and handwritten "I love you mommy" (and a smiley, thin me holding a tulip, scrawled out with magic marker), the day out shopping, the hugs and chocolate at the end of the day. Everyone in my family is indulgent towards me today.

But here's the truth : they're indulgent towards me every day. Of the five of us, I am the most rottenly spoilt. My husband lets me get away with it; my kids let me get away with it.

Mother's day should be reserved for those who wouldn't otherwise get a break. Those women, paragons of motherhood who wake up at five to make breakfast, get their children ready for school, help them with their homework and sleep at their elbows when they're sick. The moms who would rush home after work to make dinner, who'd sew buttons, bake cakes. The apple-pie kind of moms, self-sacrificing, martyrs.

I'm not one of those. I'll ignore a child if I'm sleepy or if I have a good book to read. I'll tell them to come back later, and we're usually good with that arrangement. I rarely feed my kids, I don't know how to plait their hair and if we happen to be in a shower togther, it's more likely that I'd be the one getting a shampoo treatment.

The one who deserves to get the mother's day card, truth be told, is my maid, Ti. She does all the matryring and sacrificing. Her every waking hour is to serve the children; and the kids are more afraid of her than they are of me. (I'm a means of breaking Kak Ti's rules) For my children, she will postpone rest, marriage, her own happiness. It is solely to this unflinching devotion that I, the mommy, owe my afternoon naps and literary sojourns.

But I do other things, I really do! I read with my kids, I help them with their stories, I invent jokes, I download songs, I draw, I dance, I do voices. For all intents and purposes I'm the fun parent -- I bring them out and buy them things and lie on bed with them while they spin yarns about jumbuks and dancing princesses. I don't renege on promises and I don't lie (unless it's about sex, and even then not always) If I cook it's always a special event. I let them drink capuccino. I let them play with my makeup. I let them tell me I'm fat. On a hot day I'll push a fully clothed Adam into the pool. I talk to them about politics, poverty and providence. I never insult their intelligence and even though my kids tell me I should be more responsible or that I should learn to drive, I think we have mutual respect.

Still, once in a while a little voice will tell me that this is all wrong and that a few years' down the road I shall see the effects of such casual parenting. For the moment though, my children are happy, well adjusted people with a mind of their own and that's good enough for me.

Yes, yes, I know. The question should be : is it good enough for them? Fortunately, my children have a dependable, diligent Daddy who'll be able to square things off in the long run. Just today he practiced soccer with Adam and Aiysha, helped them with revisions, dressed Aiysha's wounds and fed her medicine, and because Kak Ti is away, he also cleaned the house and did the dishes. Tonight when he sleeps, I should see if heaven is under his feet.

Pidgin Holes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or blog.

Jadi dokter, apa yang harus saya lakukan sekarang?

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

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

Either

86%

Female

82%

Male

57%

Neither

21%

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Boy Briefs

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Words and Broken Bones

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

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

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

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

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

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

How Long, Now?

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

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

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

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

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

A Post Post

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

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

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

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

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

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