Well, it's the end of another year and all I can say is "Thank God for that"!
It's such a pity really because 2007 started so promisingly. I began the year with a determined resolution NOT to make any New Year's resolutions, because I know I would break them before the end of January. So I can say with all confidence that I have done brilliantly on the resolution front, because I didn't make any in the first place!
The year 2007 was great and dandy right up until about June when my wife's cancer diagnosis threw a Stage Two spanner in the works of our normal lives. As I speak, in case you're asking, Annie is just about to start her radiotherapy. She is still a bit zonked from her chemo, but she is a bit better than she was before....
The second half of this year has been something of a bummer, to be honest. In fact, overall, the best thing that has happened to me in 2007 is that I have started blogging, and getting my writing muscles in shape for the book of short stories I am planning. Unfortunately, my physical muscles remain atrophied and jelly-like, which means I should this year make at least one resolution, to do something about my hideous waistline!
Now we have reached the end of it all, then, I thought I would try to put a line under the past, and think about the future, which is usually a good idea, psychologically. And because all the newspapers and web sites are full of people making predictions for 2008, I thought I would jump on the bandwagon, and provide a few predictions of my own for the coming year.
So, gentle readers, here are Prof. Madder's Totally Safe Predictions for 2008 - see 'em here before you see 'em somewhere else!
1. A lot of people will die in 2008, and a lot of people will be born too.
2. In 2008, some people will make a lot more money than they did in 2007, while unfortunately others will not be so lucky.
3. Sometime in early February, there will be a lot of firecrackers going off in Kuching and other parts of Malaysia.
4. By the end of the year, there will be a new President of the United States. And it will not be George Bush.
5. The President of Russia will, in 2008, be of Slavic extraction.
6. It will be very hot in most parts of Australia, South East Asia and India.
7. Computers will mostly run on electricity.
8. The Moon in the night sky will change its shape slightly every day.
9. The Pope will be a Catholic.
10. The price of petrol will go up in Malaysia.
The beauty of these predictions is that they are almost certain to come true, so I cannot be accused of talking crap come the start of 2009!!
So, here is my New Year wish, which is the same as the one I sent round to all my friends via SMS, so sorry for any duplicates:
Here's to the blood of your health,
Here's to the health of your blood;
If your blood isn't healthy,
Your health must be bloody,
So here's to your bloody good health!!
I hope my readers (all three of them!) have a wonderful 2008 and that your lives will continue to be so much more fulfilling and meaningful, just because it'll no longer be 2007!
Cheers!!!
Monday, 31 December 2007
Friday, 28 December 2007
Final Thots from Tawau
Well, folks, it's my last full day here in Tawau, Sabah, before returning to the hustle and bustle of Kuching. What can I say by way of an epilogue to my short little holiday in this short little town?
Maybe I should say some more about Tawau itself, and Sabah in particular. Well, the state of Sabah is situated to the North of Sarawak and is very roughly shaped like a dog's face in profile. That's not to say anything disparaging about the place, because it is actually quite lovely and scenic.
When you fly over Sabah, particularly between Kota Kinabalu and Tawau, you immediately see the difference between Sabah and Sarawak. Sarawak is a vast field of green encrusted by smoky mountains, and shot through with seemingly endless tea-coloured rivers that curl around and around each other like a nervous system shaped like an Iban tatoo. Sabah, on the other hand, has all these things but most of the green is taken up by agricultural land, particularly acres and acres of regimented oil palm trees.
Sabah has always been far more of a plantation state than Sarawak, where agriculture is far more mixed. Perhaps as a result, Sabah is somewhat less developed than Sarawak, which probably explains some of Tawau's quirks mentioned in previous posts.
But in Kota Kinabalu - KK - the state capital, things are rather more civilised. KK is a bustling, tourist friendly city situated gorgeously close to the South China Sea. When you come in to land at the airport, you will have the blue, blue ocean on one side and the shining city, airport and lush hills on the other.
I remember humming the tune to the 1970s TV series Hawaii Five-O when I first landed at KK. It still has some of the aspects of an Oceanic paradise like Hawaii - heartbreaking beaches, hot, tropical sun, great places to eat and drink and some superb shopping areas. You can take boats to visit islands in the sun and go snorkeling and wind-surfing and parascending and all those things I wish I could do but don't because I'm a coward!
I could say a lot about KK - perhaps I'll save it for a later post...
Now, Tawau, well that's a different story. Surrounded on three sides by mountains and palm oil plantations and on another side by the sea, Tawau is basically a seaside town which has grown up, become fairly prosperous, but cannot get any bigger because the roads are too narrow.
On the sea front there is a fishing port where the daily catches coming in fresh every day make Tawau one of the best places to eat seafood in the whole of Malaysia. It's worth going there just for the seafood alone. Ignore the overcrowded roads and marketplaces, the heat, the dust and all the negative things people say about Tawau. Just focus on the fish. It'll blow your mind, and leave your wallet fairly intact too!
In terms of shopping - there's not much really for the tourists apart from the Philippine Market, situated next to a mosque and a stone's throw from the Marco Polo Hotel. This market is the place to get some of Sabah's famous cultured pearls and crystal ware, though I would advise you take a local guide who can haggle for you.
Another tourist favourite to be found at the Philippine Market is sea-shell products - bead curtains, table decorations etc all covered in sea-shells from the Philippines. And of course Indonesian wooden craft goods (which are truly stunning) as well as gold, Islamic craft items and plenty of local textiles and clothing.
Tawau is a meeting place for many different cultures and is often referred to as the immigrant capital of Malaysia. It is true that immigrants from many other places have made their home in Tawau - Buginese, Bajaus from the Philippines, Cocos Islanders, Timorese, Indonesians, as well as the more native-born Chinese and Malays. Not all of these people are here legally, and the government regularly deports large numbers through the port (Indonesia and the Philippines are just across the Sulu Sea from Tawau). But despite these crackdowns, Tawau remains a racially diverse cultural mongrel of a place, situated as it is at the lower jaw of the dog-shape that defines Sabah.
Tawau is also the place where my wife's family have their home, and I am grateful to them for the opportunity to visit this place. Most mat sallehs usually come to Tawau only for the diving and snorkelling, and the pearls. Well, this mat salleh already has a lovely pearl in the form of his Sabahan wife! So, he has come to Tawau to see his dear wife's family, and have a much-needed rest from the madness of an academic's life in the tropics.
Maybe I should say some more about Tawau itself, and Sabah in particular. Well, the state of Sabah is situated to the North of Sarawak and is very roughly shaped like a dog's face in profile. That's not to say anything disparaging about the place, because it is actually quite lovely and scenic.
When you fly over Sabah, particularly between Kota Kinabalu and Tawau, you immediately see the difference between Sabah and Sarawak. Sarawak is a vast field of green encrusted by smoky mountains, and shot through with seemingly endless tea-coloured rivers that curl around and around each other like a nervous system shaped like an Iban tatoo. Sabah, on the other hand, has all these things but most of the green is taken up by agricultural land, particularly acres and acres of regimented oil palm trees.
Sabah has always been far more of a plantation state than Sarawak, where agriculture is far more mixed. Perhaps as a result, Sabah is somewhat less developed than Sarawak, which probably explains some of Tawau's quirks mentioned in previous posts.
But in Kota Kinabalu - KK - the state capital, things are rather more civilised. KK is a bustling, tourist friendly city situated gorgeously close to the South China Sea. When you come in to land at the airport, you will have the blue, blue ocean on one side and the shining city, airport and lush hills on the other.
I remember humming the tune to the 1970s TV series Hawaii Five-O when I first landed at KK. It still has some of the aspects of an Oceanic paradise like Hawaii - heartbreaking beaches, hot, tropical sun, great places to eat and drink and some superb shopping areas. You can take boats to visit islands in the sun and go snorkeling and wind-surfing and parascending and all those things I wish I could do but don't because I'm a coward!
I could say a lot about KK - perhaps I'll save it for a later post...
Now, Tawau, well that's a different story. Surrounded on three sides by mountains and palm oil plantations and on another side by the sea, Tawau is basically a seaside town which has grown up, become fairly prosperous, but cannot get any bigger because the roads are too narrow.
On the sea front there is a fishing port where the daily catches coming in fresh every day make Tawau one of the best places to eat seafood in the whole of Malaysia. It's worth going there just for the seafood alone. Ignore the overcrowded roads and marketplaces, the heat, the dust and all the negative things people say about Tawau. Just focus on the fish. It'll blow your mind, and leave your wallet fairly intact too!
In terms of shopping - there's not much really for the tourists apart from the Philippine Market, situated next to a mosque and a stone's throw from the Marco Polo Hotel. This market is the place to get some of Sabah's famous cultured pearls and crystal ware, though I would advise you take a local guide who can haggle for you.
Another tourist favourite to be found at the Philippine Market is sea-shell products - bead curtains, table decorations etc all covered in sea-shells from the Philippines. And of course Indonesian wooden craft goods (which are truly stunning) as well as gold, Islamic craft items and plenty of local textiles and clothing.
Tawau is a meeting place for many different cultures and is often referred to as the immigrant capital of Malaysia. It is true that immigrants from many other places have made their home in Tawau - Buginese, Bajaus from the Philippines, Cocos Islanders, Timorese, Indonesians, as well as the more native-born Chinese and Malays. Not all of these people are here legally, and the government regularly deports large numbers through the port (Indonesia and the Philippines are just across the Sulu Sea from Tawau). But despite these crackdowns, Tawau remains a racially diverse cultural mongrel of a place, situated as it is at the lower jaw of the dog-shape that defines Sabah.
Tawau is also the place where my wife's family have their home, and I am grateful to them for the opportunity to visit this place. Most mat sallehs usually come to Tawau only for the diving and snorkelling, and the pearls. Well, this mat salleh already has a lovely pearl in the form of his Sabahan wife! So, he has come to Tawau to see his dear wife's family, and have a much-needed rest from the madness of an academic's life in the tropics.
Wednesday, 26 December 2007
Happy Landings....
When I first came to Tawau, Sabah in 2000 to see my wife’s family, it was quite an unforgettable experience. In those days, Tawau International Airport was situated very close to the town, with squatter smallholdings at one end, and a huge mosque with its sprawling graveyard at the other. Now my advice to Malaysia Airports Sdn. Bhd. is this: Never build an airport with a graveyard at the end of the runway! You might give the pilot the wrong idea!!!
Of course, the authorities had no choice – they had to put up with what they had available. I daresay the airport dated back to the 1950s or even earlier, and it looked like the sort of place where Allied (and perhaps Japanese!) warplanes may have landed during World War Two.
This element of danger and adventure could be experienced to the full each and every time one landed at the old Tawau airport, especially if one was flying in a Boeing 737. You see, the thing about the old airport in Tawau was this: the runway was perfectly fine for handling turboprop planes like Fokker F50s and De Havilland Twin Otters. That’s because these aircraft had relatively short take-off and landing runs.
But the Boeing 737, that’s another matter entirely. The runway was just a little bit short of the ideal length for a 737 to take off and land with assured safety. I think the technical term for this in the Air Force is something like “barely within the safety margins”. So what this meant was that landing at the old Tawau airport was quite a ride. If you approached from the North, you had a small mountain to one side of the aircraft, a residential tower block on the other (where, ironically, we were staying!) and a runway ahead of you that wasn’t quite long enough. Or maybe only just long enough.
So, after a final approach that took you just a few metres over the rooftops of some houses, you touch down. Now remember I said that the runway was rather short. So the pilots, who must have had arm muscles like Olympian gods, would pull back so hard on the brakes that your back pressed into your seat, threatening to crash backwards into the row behind.
During this nerve-wracking gravitational pull, all kinds of things flash through your mind, like “I wonder if my life insurance policy is up to date?” or “I hope I’m wearing clean underwear” or “when is this bastard going to stop?” And then, just as violently as it began, the horror ends, and the plane stops, and everyone on the plane is thrown forward into the seat in front like cabbages.
And this was considered a perfectly safe landing.
It is amazing that there has been only one accident at Tawau Airport, as far as I know. There was a fatal crash at the old airport back in the early 1990s, involving a Fokker F50 that ran out of runway when trying to land. But that wasn't a Boeing 737, so it was well within the safety margins... Tell that to the poor victims.
Nowadays, of course, these romantic, heady days of travel in the Far East are no more, and the government has sensibly built a swanky new modern airport about thirty minutes' drive outside the town. The new airport can take 737s with no heart stopping take-offs or landings. I daresay that it can take even bigger planes but I haven’t seen anything bigger than an Airbus A320 so far.
But somehow it’s not the same. The old airport now stands fallow and empty, its only users being Malaysian Air Force helicopters, and radio-controlled car enthusiasts. The old runway which was not quite long enough, or perhaps just long enough, has grown over into a grassy expanse, nothing now but a landing strip of memories.
Of course, the authorities had no choice – they had to put up with what they had available. I daresay the airport dated back to the 1950s or even earlier, and it looked like the sort of place where Allied (and perhaps Japanese!) warplanes may have landed during World War Two.
This element of danger and adventure could be experienced to the full each and every time one landed at the old Tawau airport, especially if one was flying in a Boeing 737. You see, the thing about the old airport in Tawau was this: the runway was perfectly fine for handling turboprop planes like Fokker F50s and De Havilland Twin Otters. That’s because these aircraft had relatively short take-off and landing runs.
But the Boeing 737, that’s another matter entirely. The runway was just a little bit short of the ideal length for a 737 to take off and land with assured safety. I think the technical term for this in the Air Force is something like “barely within the safety margins”. So what this meant was that landing at the old Tawau airport was quite a ride. If you approached from the North, you had a small mountain to one side of the aircraft, a residential tower block on the other (where, ironically, we were staying!) and a runway ahead of you that wasn’t quite long enough. Or maybe only just long enough.
So, after a final approach that took you just a few metres over the rooftops of some houses, you touch down. Now remember I said that the runway was rather short. So the pilots, who must have had arm muscles like Olympian gods, would pull back so hard on the brakes that your back pressed into your seat, threatening to crash backwards into the row behind.
During this nerve-wracking gravitational pull, all kinds of things flash through your mind, like “I wonder if my life insurance policy is up to date?” or “I hope I’m wearing clean underwear” or “when is this bastard going to stop?” And then, just as violently as it began, the horror ends, and the plane stops, and everyone on the plane is thrown forward into the seat in front like cabbages.
And this was considered a perfectly safe landing.
It is amazing that there has been only one accident at Tawau Airport, as far as I know. There was a fatal crash at the old airport back in the early 1990s, involving a Fokker F50 that ran out of runway when trying to land. But that wasn't a Boeing 737, so it was well within the safety margins... Tell that to the poor victims.
Nowadays, of course, these romantic, heady days of travel in the Far East are no more, and the government has sensibly built a swanky new modern airport about thirty minutes' drive outside the town. The new airport can take 737s with no heart stopping take-offs or landings. I daresay that it can take even bigger planes but I haven’t seen anything bigger than an Airbus A320 so far.
But somehow it’s not the same. The old airport now stands fallow and empty, its only users being Malaysian Air Force helicopters, and radio-controlled car enthusiasts. The old runway which was not quite long enough, or perhaps just long enough, has grown over into a grassy expanse, nothing now but a landing strip of memories.
Friday, 21 December 2007
Driving a Borrowed Car in Tawau...
Whenever James Bond visits a new place, he never seems to have any trouble with transport.
He either hires the latest Ford Mondeo from Avis at the airport, or slips silently into a sleek Aston Martin provided by Q Branch, or, if he is really lucky, he gets a lift in an open top Ferrari driven by a half-naked girl who he later sleeps with or kills because she’s an enemy agent.
But look what happened to me when I went to Tawau last week with my dear wife, for some much needed RnR. Waiting in the blistering sauna that is the Kota Kinabalu International Airport, Annie got a call from her sister Anita to the effect that a cousin had lent us the use of a Pajero four wheel drive for the week, and that it will be waiting for us at Tawau airport. This was great news, and even though I had never driven such a beast before, I psyched myself up for an interesting and rewarding drive to our house.
Well, to cut a long story short, we arrived at Tawau and managed to get the keys to our Pajero. It was parked in the airport car park and turned out to be a nice white colour, albeit rather old and battered-looking.
Trying to open the thing was the first challenge. I am used to those keys with a little button that you press that goes ‘beep’ to open the car. But this one had a bunch of ordinary metal, bog-standard keys from the 1970s. As two of them were longer than the others, I reasoned that one of them would open the door. I was right, although I couldn’t open the door because for some reason, the key only turned when my wife did it.
Our next task was to get the bags into the back of the car. The rear door would not open – we tried every key on the bunch, my wife constantly warning me not to turn the key too much or I might break it and me swearing bitterly because it was hot, I was sweating and I was supposed to be on holiday not struggling to open a bloody car with a faulty lock...
We gave up on the rear door and managed to open the side doors and with great dexterity threw our bags into the back over the rear seats, after realising that putting them on the rear seat would stop me from moving the driver’s seat back.
So, with our luggage safely stowed, we proceeded to try the ignition. First of all it didn’t work but eventually, we managed to bring it to coughing, rumbling life. The loud ticking sound told me straight away that the car ran on diesel.
My wife kept telling me to make sure I understood all of the controls before we started off but I had to get into the bloody car first. Annie had no trouble because she is so much smaller than I am but I discovered to my horror and irritation that even when I moved the driver’s seat back as far as I could, I had about a millimetre of room between the steering wheel and my gut. But I squeezed in, closed the door and managed to adjust the mirrors, feeling like an overweight astronaut. The pedals were just too close to the seat, but I thought I would be able to use them, with effort and a few yoga exercises....
I then tried the gears and they all seemed to work like any other car. So I put her into reverse, pumped the gas, brought up the clutch, released the hand brake, and....we weren’t moving. God, what had I done? Annie was being helpful as usual, telling me I was in the wrong gear, even though I wasn’t. The problem seemed to be the biting point. I had to put more power on the accelerator, and release the clutch earlier. When I did this, we slowly slid backwards.
When I had straightened the car up to leave the car park, I made an annoying and potentially dangerous discovery. There was a big plastic sunshield across the top of the windscreen and it was obscuring my forward vision. I could only drive the car safely by bending my head down like a tortoise to look through the windscreen.
Well, to cut another story short, I managed to get us out of the airport compound and onto the expressway leading to Tawau, without killing anyone. The journey was Ok-ish, though I had to be constantly reminded by the wife to slow down, because it was a very fast road full of bends and steep rises and falls and I had never driven on it before. I also found out that the passenger side wing mirror kept moving, leading my wife to stick her hand out of the window from time to time to adjust it to my frantic directions. Also, the steering was a bit slippery, forcing me to be extra careful when changing lanes.
Eventually we entered Tawau town, and I learned that the stopping distance on a Pajero is much greater than on a Matrix, and nearly ran into the back of another car. But, with lots of vigorous encouragement and prayers from Annie, we finally managed to pull up into the drive of our house.
I slid down from the cab like a survivor in one of those air crash movies, just thankful to be alive. My right leg and my neck and shoulders were killing me, because of the cramped driving conditions and the windshield. Annie, on the other hand, was too busy hugging her mum and sister to notice, bless her.
He either hires the latest Ford Mondeo from Avis at the airport, or slips silently into a sleek Aston Martin provided by Q Branch, or, if he is really lucky, he gets a lift in an open top Ferrari driven by a half-naked girl who he later sleeps with or kills because she’s an enemy agent.
But look what happened to me when I went to Tawau last week with my dear wife, for some much needed RnR. Waiting in the blistering sauna that is the Kota Kinabalu International Airport, Annie got a call from her sister Anita to the effect that a cousin had lent us the use of a Pajero four wheel drive for the week, and that it will be waiting for us at Tawau airport. This was great news, and even though I had never driven such a beast before, I psyched myself up for an interesting and rewarding drive to our house.
Well, to cut a long story short, we arrived at Tawau and managed to get the keys to our Pajero. It was parked in the airport car park and turned out to be a nice white colour, albeit rather old and battered-looking.
Trying to open the thing was the first challenge. I am used to those keys with a little button that you press that goes ‘beep’ to open the car. But this one had a bunch of ordinary metal, bog-standard keys from the 1970s. As two of them were longer than the others, I reasoned that one of them would open the door. I was right, although I couldn’t open the door because for some reason, the key only turned when my wife did it.
Our next task was to get the bags into the back of the car. The rear door would not open – we tried every key on the bunch, my wife constantly warning me not to turn the key too much or I might break it and me swearing bitterly because it was hot, I was sweating and I was supposed to be on holiday not struggling to open a bloody car with a faulty lock...
We gave up on the rear door and managed to open the side doors and with great dexterity threw our bags into the back over the rear seats, after realising that putting them on the rear seat would stop me from moving the driver’s seat back.
So, with our luggage safely stowed, we proceeded to try the ignition. First of all it didn’t work but eventually, we managed to bring it to coughing, rumbling life. The loud ticking sound told me straight away that the car ran on diesel.
My wife kept telling me to make sure I understood all of the controls before we started off but I had to get into the bloody car first. Annie had no trouble because she is so much smaller than I am but I discovered to my horror and irritation that even when I moved the driver’s seat back as far as I could, I had about a millimetre of room between the steering wheel and my gut. But I squeezed in, closed the door and managed to adjust the mirrors, feeling like an overweight astronaut. The pedals were just too close to the seat, but I thought I would be able to use them, with effort and a few yoga exercises....
I then tried the gears and they all seemed to work like any other car. So I put her into reverse, pumped the gas, brought up the clutch, released the hand brake, and....we weren’t moving. God, what had I done? Annie was being helpful as usual, telling me I was in the wrong gear, even though I wasn’t. The problem seemed to be the biting point. I had to put more power on the accelerator, and release the clutch earlier. When I did this, we slowly slid backwards.
When I had straightened the car up to leave the car park, I made an annoying and potentially dangerous discovery. There was a big plastic sunshield across the top of the windscreen and it was obscuring my forward vision. I could only drive the car safely by bending my head down like a tortoise to look through the windscreen.
Well, to cut another story short, I managed to get us out of the airport compound and onto the expressway leading to Tawau, without killing anyone. The journey was Ok-ish, though I had to be constantly reminded by the wife to slow down, because it was a very fast road full of bends and steep rises and falls and I had never driven on it before. I also found out that the passenger side wing mirror kept moving, leading my wife to stick her hand out of the window from time to time to adjust it to my frantic directions. Also, the steering was a bit slippery, forcing me to be extra careful when changing lanes.
Eventually we entered Tawau town, and I learned that the stopping distance on a Pajero is much greater than on a Matrix, and nearly ran into the back of another car. But, with lots of vigorous encouragement and prayers from Annie, we finally managed to pull up into the drive of our house.
I slid down from the cab like a survivor in one of those air crash movies, just thankful to be alive. My right leg and my neck and shoulders were killing me, because of the cramped driving conditions and the windshield. Annie, on the other hand, was too busy hugging her mum and sister to notice, bless her.
Thoughts from a Rain-Bound Cybercafe
Sitting here in this rather jolly but slightly warm cybercafe in Tawau, Sabah, I am attempting to write my blog in a thunderstorm. Well, I suppose it had to happen some time.
They say that thunderstorms and Internet connections do not mix and I just had a practical demonstration. Suddenly, completely without warning, there was an almighty crash and bang that sounded like the gods had thrown a titanic thunderbolt right into the street outside.
Of course, all the Internet connections in the place went dead, which was a good thing as I had just sent off my latest article to the publishers by Yahoo, and was about to go to my blog page. While the net connection is settling down, I will write this post in Word and post it later.
This is what happens when we rely too much on technology. You might be asking yourselves: "go on you old skinflint, why not invest in a wireless laptop when you go on holiday?" Well I agree with this, but you see I have heard so much about bluejacking and wireless eavesdropping lately that I have my doubts. Bluejacking is where someone else sends illicit files to you when you are using a wireless bluetooth connection. Wireless eavesdropping is the same thing, only people can use your wireless connection without your permission, if their PC is within your wireless footprint.
So you can be innocently using a wireless connection in Starbucks, or at home, and some other bugger may be using your service to connect to porno sites or to some terrorist web site.
So, I am forced to use cybercafes while I am away from base because my house in Tawau has no Internet connection. Yet. So here I am. It’s glutting down with rain outside and I’m basically twiddling my thumbs waiting for my sister in law and her daughter who have gone to the cinema to see some film about chipmunks. Each to their own.
Tawau is an old town that has rapidly outgrown its skin and is starting to burst at the seams. As a result, using a car in Tawau is a bit like using toenail clippers to mow a football field. Short journeys take on epic Oddyssean proportions, because firstly there are too many cars, and secondly most of those who drive them are raving bloody lunatics. Don’t get me started on that old chestnut or else I’ll need my pills!!
So, compared to Tawau, Kuching is a model road safety town! I mean, Tawau hardly has any traffic lights, and most of its roads are narrow, built for the 1950s yet choked with modern 4-wheel drive jeeps. So after I finish at this cybercafe, we will be driving home, which is a 10 minute journey that will take almost an hour.
Thank God I’m not driving, but that’s another story....
They say that thunderstorms and Internet connections do not mix and I just had a practical demonstration. Suddenly, completely without warning, there was an almighty crash and bang that sounded like the gods had thrown a titanic thunderbolt right into the street outside.
Of course, all the Internet connections in the place went dead, which was a good thing as I had just sent off my latest article to the publishers by Yahoo, and was about to go to my blog page. While the net connection is settling down, I will write this post in Word and post it later.
This is what happens when we rely too much on technology. You might be asking yourselves: "go on you old skinflint, why not invest in a wireless laptop when you go on holiday?" Well I agree with this, but you see I have heard so much about bluejacking and wireless eavesdropping lately that I have my doubts. Bluejacking is where someone else sends illicit files to you when you are using a wireless bluetooth connection. Wireless eavesdropping is the same thing, only people can use your wireless connection without your permission, if their PC is within your wireless footprint.
So you can be innocently using a wireless connection in Starbucks, or at home, and some other bugger may be using your service to connect to porno sites or to some terrorist web site.
So, I am forced to use cybercafes while I am away from base because my house in Tawau has no Internet connection. Yet. So here I am. It’s glutting down with rain outside and I’m basically twiddling my thumbs waiting for my sister in law and her daughter who have gone to the cinema to see some film about chipmunks. Each to their own.
Tawau is an old town that has rapidly outgrown its skin and is starting to burst at the seams. As a result, using a car in Tawau is a bit like using toenail clippers to mow a football field. Short journeys take on epic Oddyssean proportions, because firstly there are too many cars, and secondly most of those who drive them are raving bloody lunatics. Don’t get me started on that old chestnut or else I’ll need my pills!!
So, compared to Tawau, Kuching is a model road safety town! I mean, Tawau hardly has any traffic lights, and most of its roads are narrow, built for the 1950s yet choked with modern 4-wheel drive jeeps. So after I finish at this cybercafe, we will be driving home, which is a 10 minute journey that will take almost an hour.
Thank God I’m not driving, but that’s another story....
Monday, 17 December 2007
A Tale of Two Weddings, Part Two
In my last post, I gave you fifty percent of the story of how I became a married man. Well, as promised, here is the other half.
After the Islamic wedding ceremony in Lancaster, we all trundled down the M6 motorway to my home town, Reading. There were absolutely no coca-cola cans tied to the rear bumper of my battered Nissan Sunny, nor were there any "Just Married" notices plastered on my bonnet or anywhere else for that matter!
When we got back to Reading, my new wife, my mum and I set in motion the well-planned military operation which is the British Wedding. There were cakes to order, invitations to send, clothes and hair to get ready, and hotels and restaurants to book. Basically, lots of fuss and faffle. Now, I know my mother was now in charge of events, but I absolutely insisted that my "British" wedding be a simple affair. No bridesmaids or pages or maids of honour all decked out in co-ordinated little suits and fancy dresses with silly frills and corsages. No huge marquee wedding reception with deafening disco and people getting pissed out of their brains and acting silly like you usually see at weddings in the UK. And definitely no stag night.
Stag nights are a sign of the decay of civilisation, in my opinion. They have come to signal all that I deplore about so-called British ‘culture’ and I was having nothing of them. So instead of spending a dreadful evening getting drunk with a bunch of so-called friends who would probably tie me up naked to a lamp-post and covered in red paint ‘just for a laugh’, I was determined to have a much more peaceful and civilised final night of ‘freedom’. In any case, I didn’t have enough male friends to make a decent stag night!!
The plan of attack in the end was simple, just as I like it. There was to be a civil service in Reading Registry Office, followed by a reception lunch at a very nice hotel near our house who threw in a room and breakfast for our wedding night for free. After the reception, there was to be a nice family gathering at my parents’ house.
So, the big day came. As per tradition, Annie and I were not supposed to see each other until the day of the wedding, so when I went for my pre-wedding (non-alcoholic) drinkies with my friends the night before the ceremony, I had to pretend that Annie was not around. This was odd, seeing as we were already married, as far as Annie was concerned anyway.
So, after meeting my mates Mick and Jon (the Best Man) for a drink in the bar of the hotel where the reception was to be, I went home and mentally prepared myself for the next day’s trial.
The day of the wedding was a cold December day but luckily there was no snow. The house was a blur of activity and eventually, I made my way with my best man to the registry office, stopping on the way to puke my guts out with fear. Fortunately, my nice hired suit wasn’t affected. We arrived at the registry office ahead of Annie, who was being driven in a fancy Mercedes driven by a neighbour and accompanied by my parents. When she arrived, I could see that Annie was gorgeous, wearing a golden lacy creation that she had brought over from Malaysia, her hair done up with flowers and a lovely floral corsage in her hand. Even though I wanted a simple wedding, I wanted my wife to look a million dollars. And she did!
Well, as soon as all the guests, friends and family had arrived, we all trundled into a big room that looked a bit like a magistrate’s court, where we were asked to repeat the civil vows. After that, we had to go into a small anteroom to sign the register. When we were alone, Annie scolded me for ignoring her the night before and I had to explain the bit about us not being supposed to communicate before the wedding. She still brings that one up to this day, bless her!
So, after the regulation photos, our procession made its slow way to the hotel, where we had an excellent lunch and of course, no alcohol for me! And after that, home for a brief rest followed by the best party I have ever had – my friends, friends of the family, extended family members and of course Annie and Simon, husband and wife for the second time in a week.
The only sad thing was that none of Annie’s relatives could be there, but at least we managed to phone Malaysia to inform them that we were now married. The wonderful day was finished off by Annie and I being whisked off to the hotel for our wedding night, which was the icing on the cake. I now felt truly married, and was loving it.
Although our marriage has lasted this nine years, not everything from that wonderful day was happy. All of the friends who were there at the wedding are gone now – I lost touch with most of them when I left the UK. I regret that more than I can express here. Also, a week after our wedding, Annie had to leave me and go back to Malaysia to start her teaching duties in Kuching, while I went back to Lancaster to finish off my PhD. Despite visiting Malaysia three times that year, I still felt as if a part of me was missing. I never want to go through that again.
And one final sad postscript was the death of my grandmother, who died just 6 months after my wedding, at the age of 92. At least she lived to see me finally hitched, and I know she loved Annie, despite being a bit jealous at first.
So that is the Tale of Two Weddings, gentle readers. May I wish you all a blessed Hari Raya Haji and a very Merry Christmas. And if you are getting married at this time of the year, wherever you are, may the blessings of Prof. Madder be with you!
After the Islamic wedding ceremony in Lancaster, we all trundled down the M6 motorway to my home town, Reading. There were absolutely no coca-cola cans tied to the rear bumper of my battered Nissan Sunny, nor were there any "Just Married" notices plastered on my bonnet or anywhere else for that matter!
When we got back to Reading, my new wife, my mum and I set in motion the well-planned military operation which is the British Wedding. There were cakes to order, invitations to send, clothes and hair to get ready, and hotels and restaurants to book. Basically, lots of fuss and faffle. Now, I know my mother was now in charge of events, but I absolutely insisted that my "British" wedding be a simple affair. No bridesmaids or pages or maids of honour all decked out in co-ordinated little suits and fancy dresses with silly frills and corsages. No huge marquee wedding reception with deafening disco and people getting pissed out of their brains and acting silly like you usually see at weddings in the UK. And definitely no stag night.
Stag nights are a sign of the decay of civilisation, in my opinion. They have come to signal all that I deplore about so-called British ‘culture’ and I was having nothing of them. So instead of spending a dreadful evening getting drunk with a bunch of so-called friends who would probably tie me up naked to a lamp-post and covered in red paint ‘just for a laugh’, I was determined to have a much more peaceful and civilised final night of ‘freedom’. In any case, I didn’t have enough male friends to make a decent stag night!!
The plan of attack in the end was simple, just as I like it. There was to be a civil service in Reading Registry Office, followed by a reception lunch at a very nice hotel near our house who threw in a room and breakfast for our wedding night for free. After the reception, there was to be a nice family gathering at my parents’ house.
So, the big day came. As per tradition, Annie and I were not supposed to see each other until the day of the wedding, so when I went for my pre-wedding (non-alcoholic) drinkies with my friends the night before the ceremony, I had to pretend that Annie was not around. This was odd, seeing as we were already married, as far as Annie was concerned anyway.
So, after meeting my mates Mick and Jon (the Best Man) for a drink in the bar of the hotel where the reception was to be, I went home and mentally prepared myself for the next day’s trial.
The day of the wedding was a cold December day but luckily there was no snow. The house was a blur of activity and eventually, I made my way with my best man to the registry office, stopping on the way to puke my guts out with fear. Fortunately, my nice hired suit wasn’t affected. We arrived at the registry office ahead of Annie, who was being driven in a fancy Mercedes driven by a neighbour and accompanied by my parents. When she arrived, I could see that Annie was gorgeous, wearing a golden lacy creation that she had brought over from Malaysia, her hair done up with flowers and a lovely floral corsage in her hand. Even though I wanted a simple wedding, I wanted my wife to look a million dollars. And she did!
Well, as soon as all the guests, friends and family had arrived, we all trundled into a big room that looked a bit like a magistrate’s court, where we were asked to repeat the civil vows. After that, we had to go into a small anteroom to sign the register. When we were alone, Annie scolded me for ignoring her the night before and I had to explain the bit about us not being supposed to communicate before the wedding. She still brings that one up to this day, bless her!
So, after the regulation photos, our procession made its slow way to the hotel, where we had an excellent lunch and of course, no alcohol for me! And after that, home for a brief rest followed by the best party I have ever had – my friends, friends of the family, extended family members and of course Annie and Simon, husband and wife for the second time in a week.
The only sad thing was that none of Annie’s relatives could be there, but at least we managed to phone Malaysia to inform them that we were now married. The wonderful day was finished off by Annie and I being whisked off to the hotel for our wedding night, which was the icing on the cake. I now felt truly married, and was loving it.
Although our marriage has lasted this nine years, not everything from that wonderful day was happy. All of the friends who were there at the wedding are gone now – I lost touch with most of them when I left the UK. I regret that more than I can express here. Also, a week after our wedding, Annie had to leave me and go back to Malaysia to start her teaching duties in Kuching, while I went back to Lancaster to finish off my PhD. Despite visiting Malaysia three times that year, I still felt as if a part of me was missing. I never want to go through that again.
And one final sad postscript was the death of my grandmother, who died just 6 months after my wedding, at the age of 92. At least she lived to see me finally hitched, and I know she loved Annie, despite being a bit jealous at first.
So that is the Tale of Two Weddings, gentle readers. May I wish you all a blessed Hari Raya Haji and a very Merry Christmas. And if you are getting married at this time of the year, wherever you are, may the blessings of Prof. Madder be with you!
Wednesday, 12 December 2007
A Tale of Two Weddings, Part One
Yesterday was our ninth Wedding Anniversary. Amazing to think of it, but the last nine years have rushed by like a blissful, sometimes hectic roller coaster.
We celebrated our "ninth birthday" with a visit to the Kuching Hilton, to sample their excellent buffet. I haven’t been in the place for at least three years, and was shocked to see how crowded with newness the hotel is now. A lot of the old lobby is gone, especially the water feature in the middle where I once took pictures of my Mum and Dad. Also, the coffee bar on the lobby level has now been completely transformed and the piano player removed. Another innovation was that half of the lobby has become a brightly lit jewellery shop, complete shining diamonds and a security guard armed with the regulation pump action shotgun which probably isn’t loaded.
But that’s not what we went there for, and we glided downstairs to the Riverfront Cafe past bright Christmas decor and a giant gingerbread Santa’s Grotto where the sushi bar used to be.
The interesting thing about our anniversary is that in fact, we have two wedding anniversaries. This is because we had two wedding ceremonies. This is quite a story, which I don’t mind sharing with you, seeing as it’s Christmas.
We met each other in the UK at Lancaster University, when I was finishing off my Doctoral studies and Annie was doing her Bachelors in TESL (Teaching English as a Foreign Language). To cut a long story short, we got married twice, once in a Muslim ceremony and once in a Civil service as British law required. Because I married a Muslim, especially one from Malaysia, I had to become a Muslim myself. I might write about this in a future post. But suffice it to say that I had to get married in the local mosque in Lancaster, which was a pretty mind-blowing experience.
The particular mosque where my married life began was the same place where I was officially welcomed into Islam a couple of months previously. And this mosque was predominantly Pakistani, and they do things differently compared to the Malays, even though they follow the same religion.
It went like this. On the appointed day, 11th December 1998, I made my way to the Masjid An Nur (Mosque of Light) in Lancaster, and performed the evening prayer with a large group of bearded, be-robed Pakistanis and a few Englishmen who had converted like me. I felt extremely awkward and alone and unsure if I was doing the right thing, or if I was doing something wrong.
I never forget one particular mosque member who helped me to learn some of the basics of Islam – we will call him Kassim. He was a tall, turbaned and bearded man who owned the best curry house in Lancaster. I don’t want to sound politically incorrect, but he was the spitting image of Osama bin Laden, although of course I wouldn’t have known who he was then. He was a peaceful, smiling and knowledgeable man who spoke excellent English and was an expert in mobile phones.
Anyway, after the prayers, all the men in the mosque sat in a circle and I didn’t know what to say. I was dressed rather incongruously in a white baju Melayu (long Malay shirt worn outside the trousers, and a songok (Malay pillbox hat) decorated with a little jewel. I probably felt that looked very Islamic at the time!
The Pakistani way of performing a marriage ceremony as I have said is very different from the Malay way of doing it. In a Malay ceremony, the bride and groom are together while the rites are pronounced by the cleric. Usually, all the close relatives, men and women, are seated nearby. However, the Pakistanis in Lancaster separated the bride from the groom, which made me feel somewhat nervous and apprehensive. My wife was waiting in a friend’s house a few blocks away from the mosque, with my mum, my Malay friend (representing Annie’s family) and my old landlady Josie in attendance. A pair of Muslim clerics went to the house and asked the bride-to-be three times whether she wanted to accept the groom as her future husband. When she agreed, the clerics went back to the mosque to present the answer to the Imam, the leader of the prayers.
So after a considerable time waiting in the mosque, chatting to Kassim and generally looking at the pattern on the carpet and counting the number of tiles on the ceiling, I was relieved to see the two clerics enter, and pass a piece of paper to the Imam. Then the real ceremony began. The Imam took my hand firmly in his, and asked me to repeat after him everything that he said.
Only it was all in Arabic!
Never mind, I tried my best to repeat his excellent Arabic words, all verses from the Holy Qur’an, making only a couple of mistakes along the way. Then, after a few verses uttered by the Imam (which I didn’t have to repeat thankfully!), he told me that I was now married. Just like that!
Something of an anticlimax, especially as there was no bride to kiss, but there you are!
After giving a gift of sweets to all the men in the mosque and shaking everyone’s hands and receiving plenty of blessings, I then went to claim my new wife. I remember one of the older men, a very dark and salubrious old gentleman, saying to me before I left: “congratulations. Now you can go to a hotel!”.
After a short walk up the road with my Sudanese friend Salah, I was reunited with my new bride, resplendent in a magnificent blue baju kebaya, looking as if she had been crying, and very nervous because she missed me. I performed the ceremony of placing the wedding ring on her finger and we all made our way to dinner at the restaurant owned by Kassim, which was a converted Church and made the best curries and Indian food that side of Bombay! Later on, I went back to the mosque to collect my Islamic wedding certificate, which was elaborately printed in English and Arabic. The evening ended with a family gathering at another hotel, then home to bed. The next day, we were to drive back down to my home town for the second wedding ceremony, which I will talk about in the next post....
Saturday, 8 December 2007
The Customer is Always Right, Right?
I have never really understood why customer service seems to be a challenge for some eating establishments here in Kuching.
I mean, I was under the impression, correct me if I am wrong, that the customer is always right. Right? Well, in some cases, wrong. Let me give you a little example from a recent bad experience.
As you have probably worked out by now, my family and I like to go to the Kuching International Airport sometimes to treat ourselves to a nice bite to eat. Now there are two places we have frequented at the airport - one is a branch of a well-known fast-food chain whose name starts with the letter K, and the other is a famous coffee outlet whose name starts with S and rhymes with 'Tarbucks'.
Just a week ago, I experienced just what customer service means in the fast-food joint at the airport. Now don't get me wrong - up to that point, there had been no problems with the staff, who have always been friendly, if a little robotic. You know the routine:
Fast food staffer: Good eveningsir, havinhere or takaway?
Me: Having here, yes. I'll have two sets number three, original, one burger meal, one set cheesy wodges, one regular fries, four regular pepsi...
Fast food staffer (after a lot of clicking and whirring of the cogs): OK, I repeedurorder, two set nummer three..............
and it goes on. Eventually, we get our food and sit down.
But last week, it all went wrong. When we sat down to start eating, we noticed that the girl behind the counter hadn't given us many tissues. Seeing as there were five of us, and we only had three tissues, this was a serious logistical problem. So, my dear wife asked one of the staff girls if we could have some more tissues.
And that's when it all went pear-shaped!
The girl returned, and slapped down a theatrically large wad of tissues onto our table, then walked off. I mean the wad of tissues was about as thick as a paperback copy of Lord of the Rings, and to my mind signified sarcasm and annoyance on the part of the girl. Annie picked up on that right away, and proceeded to go ballistic.
She called the girl back and threw the tissues back at her, screaming in indignation. With my son and I following behind, my poor missus then proceeded to the Manager's office, where she complained to the manager about the bad customer service she had received. The girl who had delivered the tissues, obviously in shock, disappeared round the corner, and after a few more stern words from my wife, and some calming down from my son and I, we brought this ugly encounter to a close, with apologies all round.
But the damage is done. My wife, being on chemotherapy as she is, sometimes gets a bit sensitive, and the rotten attitude of this serving girl set my wife off. Also, as Annie pointed out to me later on, it's also a matter of how you are dressed. Sometimes, if you are dressed simply, as my wife was that night, you get less respect from shop staff in Malaysia.
The serving girl had no way of knowing it I suppose, but my wife was only wearing a simple track top and slacks because she easily feels cold as a result of her condition. Maybe she should have been wearing a full baju kebaya with gold-laced tudung and bloody matching shoes and bag!
So the Kuching Airport branch of that famous fast food chain whose name starts with the letter K has been added to the list of eating places that will be permanently boycotted by Prof. Madder and his family, forever and ever until the sun turns into a red giant and dies.
The coffee joint whose name starts with the letter S, on the other hand, is the diametric opposite in terms of customer service. Every time you go there, you are greeted by a genuine smile by well-dressed staff who seem to be really nice young people. One of them is a former student of mine, who always likes to practice her English on me. I feel that going to this place is a genuine pleasure, and you are treated as someone special, even though you are probably the ten thousandth person they have talked to that day.
The staff of that coffee place know that every customer who enters a restaurant or cafe is special. They are more valuable than gold, and as precious as air and water. Their patronage pays the wages of all the staff who work there. The livelihood of the restaurant owner or manager depends on whether or not these customers come into their shops, and pay out their hard earned cash to sample the food or drink on offer.
So, eating place owners of Kuching and Malaysia, remember that you should respect your customers, regardless of what they look like, or how they are dressed. If they have money in their hands, hunger in their bellies and thirst in their throats, then they should be cherished like precious gems.
Malaysia, being a country of so many different eating places and food stalls, offers customers plenty of alternative choices, and they will take those choices if what you offer them is not up to the mark. And that includes customer service.
So I will only patronise the coffee bar whose name starts with S from now on, whenever I go for something to eat or drink at the airport. The extra cost is worth it, because their staff have never been rude to me or my family. They have what it takes to provide excellent service to their customers.
Now I'm sounding like one of those business books!!
I mean, I was under the impression, correct me if I am wrong, that the customer is always right. Right? Well, in some cases, wrong. Let me give you a little example from a recent bad experience.
As you have probably worked out by now, my family and I like to go to the Kuching International Airport sometimes to treat ourselves to a nice bite to eat. Now there are two places we have frequented at the airport - one is a branch of a well-known fast-food chain whose name starts with the letter K, and the other is a famous coffee outlet whose name starts with S and rhymes with 'Tarbucks'.
Just a week ago, I experienced just what customer service means in the fast-food joint at the airport. Now don't get me wrong - up to that point, there had been no problems with the staff, who have always been friendly, if a little robotic. You know the routine:
Fast food staffer: Good eveningsir, havinhere or takaway?
Me: Having here, yes. I'll have two sets number three, original, one burger meal, one set cheesy wodges, one regular fries, four regular pepsi...
Fast food staffer (after a lot of clicking and whirring of the cogs): OK, I repeedurorder, two set nummer three..............
and it goes on. Eventually, we get our food and sit down.
But last week, it all went wrong. When we sat down to start eating, we noticed that the girl behind the counter hadn't given us many tissues. Seeing as there were five of us, and we only had three tissues, this was a serious logistical problem. So, my dear wife asked one of the staff girls if we could have some more tissues.
And that's when it all went pear-shaped!
The girl returned, and slapped down a theatrically large wad of tissues onto our table, then walked off. I mean the wad of tissues was about as thick as a paperback copy of Lord of the Rings, and to my mind signified sarcasm and annoyance on the part of the girl. Annie picked up on that right away, and proceeded to go ballistic.
She called the girl back and threw the tissues back at her, screaming in indignation. With my son and I following behind, my poor missus then proceeded to the Manager's office, where she complained to the manager about the bad customer service she had received. The girl who had delivered the tissues, obviously in shock, disappeared round the corner, and after a few more stern words from my wife, and some calming down from my son and I, we brought this ugly encounter to a close, with apologies all round.
But the damage is done. My wife, being on chemotherapy as she is, sometimes gets a bit sensitive, and the rotten attitude of this serving girl set my wife off. Also, as Annie pointed out to me later on, it's also a matter of how you are dressed. Sometimes, if you are dressed simply, as my wife was that night, you get less respect from shop staff in Malaysia.
The serving girl had no way of knowing it I suppose, but my wife was only wearing a simple track top and slacks because she easily feels cold as a result of her condition. Maybe she should have been wearing a full baju kebaya with gold-laced tudung and bloody matching shoes and bag!
So the Kuching Airport branch of that famous fast food chain whose name starts with the letter K has been added to the list of eating places that will be permanently boycotted by Prof. Madder and his family, forever and ever until the sun turns into a red giant and dies.
The coffee joint whose name starts with the letter S, on the other hand, is the diametric opposite in terms of customer service. Every time you go there, you are greeted by a genuine smile by well-dressed staff who seem to be really nice young people. One of them is a former student of mine, who always likes to practice her English on me. I feel that going to this place is a genuine pleasure, and you are treated as someone special, even though you are probably the ten thousandth person they have talked to that day.
The staff of that coffee place know that every customer who enters a restaurant or cafe is special. They are more valuable than gold, and as precious as air and water. Their patronage pays the wages of all the staff who work there. The livelihood of the restaurant owner or manager depends on whether or not these customers come into their shops, and pay out their hard earned cash to sample the food or drink on offer.
So, eating place owners of Kuching and Malaysia, remember that you should respect your customers, regardless of what they look like, or how they are dressed. If they have money in their hands, hunger in their bellies and thirst in their throats, then they should be cherished like precious gems.
Malaysia, being a country of so many different eating places and food stalls, offers customers plenty of alternative choices, and they will take those choices if what you offer them is not up to the mark. And that includes customer service.
So I will only patronise the coffee bar whose name starts with S from now on, whenever I go for something to eat or drink at the airport. The extra cost is worth it, because their staff have never been rude to me or my family. They have what it takes to provide excellent service to their customers.
Now I'm sounding like one of those business books!!
Friday, 7 December 2007
Chemotherapy Diary #4: Cycle Four
Well, this is the last one, but I'm not sure whether to feel relieved or anxious.
Annie's final shot of chemotherapy poisons was delivered on Wednesday. Not much to report really, except this time there was a much longer wait, caused it seemed by the shortage of nurses who could locate the veins with the intravenous needle!!
So, Annie came out after over three hours feeling as sick as a parrot. And wouldn't you? We took her straight home and as I write she is still having the vomits and feeling weak.
She has one more hurdle to go in her cancer treatment - radiotherapy. Now, I have no idea what radiotherapy involves, but apparently they aim some sort of radiation source at the place where the cancer tumour originally was and they zap it with radiation. Don't know how long or how much, but some people I have spoken to say there will be some blistering of the skin.
Sounds pretty scary, in the light of some highly disturbing reports I read recently from France, where the government is investigating a number of cases of radiation overdose that go back over twenty years. Some patients died because they were given too much radiation, and others are still suffering great pain to this day.
As you can imagine, I hope to God that they don't microwave my wife's mammary too much. The thought turns me cold! Or hot, as the case may be...
Just to let you know, Prof. Madder and his darling wife will be taking a holiday from 15th to 29th December. As we are going to a place without an internet connection, it is most probable that I will not be able to provide you with the usual morsels of delight that you have been accustomed to. Don't worry, after 29th, normal service will be resumed as soon as possible. In any case, there are still 7 days to go before I go away, so I'm going to cram as much in before the end of the year as I can!
Don't get too excited now!!
Annie's final shot of chemotherapy poisons was delivered on Wednesday. Not much to report really, except this time there was a much longer wait, caused it seemed by the shortage of nurses who could locate the veins with the intravenous needle!!
So, Annie came out after over three hours feeling as sick as a parrot. And wouldn't you? We took her straight home and as I write she is still having the vomits and feeling weak.
She has one more hurdle to go in her cancer treatment - radiotherapy. Now, I have no idea what radiotherapy involves, but apparently they aim some sort of radiation source at the place where the cancer tumour originally was and they zap it with radiation. Don't know how long or how much, but some people I have spoken to say there will be some blistering of the skin.
Sounds pretty scary, in the light of some highly disturbing reports I read recently from France, where the government is investigating a number of cases of radiation overdose that go back over twenty years. Some patients died because they were given too much radiation, and others are still suffering great pain to this day.
As you can imagine, I hope to God that they don't microwave my wife's mammary too much. The thought turns me cold! Or hot, as the case may be...
Just to let you know, Prof. Madder and his darling wife will be taking a holiday from 15th to 29th December. As we are going to a place without an internet connection, it is most probable that I will not be able to provide you with the usual morsels of delight that you have been accustomed to. Don't worry, after 29th, normal service will be resumed as soon as possible. In any case, there are still 7 days to go before I go away, so I'm going to cram as much in before the end of the year as I can!
Don't get too excited now!!
Monday, 3 December 2007
Snow Joke...
There are two industries that must be doing a roaring trade at this time of the year. The first is whoever it is that makes that fake rubbery snow that shopkeepers spray onto their shop windows to make it look like it’s snowing. I’m pretty sure the makers of this stuff don’t sell any of it during the rest of the year then suddenly BOOM! It’s going faster than pieces of cake that have had heat applied to them! And all because people want to make Tropical Malaysia look like a Winter Wonderland.
The other highly lucrative business at this time of year is the cotton wool industry. Yes, cotton wool – just imagine, how many tons of cotton wool every year at this time are diverted from their true calling in the cosmetics and healthcare sectors to be used to make snowylooking window displays, tree decorations and fake beards?
And why is all this fake snow being produced? 'Cos it’s CHRISTMAS!!!
Now, I love Christmas and have many happy memories of it from my own childhood back home even though I’m no longer an official Christian. But try as I might, I cannot get my mind around Christmas in a tropical country. It just doesn’t compute. I have been programmed all my life to associate the Season of Goodwill with winter – big coats, woolly hats, snowy landscapes, snowmen, sleigh rides in the snow: snow, snow snow!! Definitely not tropical heat and monsoon rains...
So when I see all this faux snow and winter kitsch being created all over town, I can’t help feeling somewhat bemused by it all. It’s just another cultural juxtaposition that doesn’t really have the right to exist in this context.
There are so many examples of this kind of weird juxtaposition in this new, globalising Malaysia. Like transplanting Valentines Day to Malaysia every year. Very Asian Values. Or what about this: Muslim ladies wearing baseball caps over their tudungs and Western style blazers over their baju kurungs at formal meetings. I have seen this, honest! Or finally, the huge numbers of Malaysian women (and some men!) dying their hair orange (mistakenly called blonde!) to look Western, or something. And I thought they had got their independence from foreign rule in 1957!!
Moving focus a bit to another Asian country that has been polluted by Western influence, I remember reading some time ago about what happened when a department store in Japan decided to have its first ever Christmas window display. The result was a schizophrenic and highly offensive tableau that featured a Santa Claus crucified on a cross!! Talk about mixed messages!! I expect they did not repeat that cultural snafu the following year!
So, ladies and gentlemen, as an outsider looking in, I can’t help but feeling somewhat jaded when Western influence disguised as fashionable cultural practice becomes an established part of the local scene here in Malaysia. I have in fact coined a term for this phenomenon – ‘cultureference’, or cultural interference. It’s not that I’m against influences from other cultures – they are perfectly natural should be encouraged, when they bring positive outcomes.
But I have seen what Christmas has become in my own culture – a glorified excuse for spending money that you haven’t got on presents that people don’t need. Christmas in the UK has become an orgiastic, booze-fuelled homage to excess and frivolity where the true meaning of Christmas – good will and caring for others less fortunate than yourselves - has become blurred and illegible like a scribbled message on a wall after a rain storm.
I just hope and pray that this is not the future of Christmas here in Malaysia. I hope that Malaysia’s traditional values of family, religiosity and common sense will hold back this swelling tsunami of cultureference.
So, I would like to wish a Merry Christmas and a decidedly jolly New Year to all my Christian friends.
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