Tembor

No, that's not an English word. It is not even a Standard Malay word. Skodeng was a Terengganu word but it becomes one due to its popular usage. Tembor means to break out from an area. It also means just running away. During our schooldays, tembor refers to an illegal act of leaving the class, school compound or hostel without permission. I was an extremely good boy during my schooldays. Never had any brush up with any rules or regulations. I was a very obedient hostellite too. Air Tenang Jangan Disangka Tiada Buaya - do not underestimate a calm water as harmless - and I did once sneak out of our hostel at night on the suggestion of my friends M and ZG. We were all good hostellites.

Our hostel was located near the seashore and the school fence did not last long. it got rusted and fell down not long after it was erected. We quietly treading near the perimeter fence and then when the coast was clear jumped out onto the concrete wave-breaker near the beach. We walked on the wave-breaker towards the Istana which was next to our school compound. It was not really dark as the moon was high in the sky.

After about five minutes we reached the Istana wall. M climbed up first followed by ZG. I was last and had the difficulty of going over the high wall. As soon as we were in fact into the Istana compound, M climbed up a coconut tree and brought down a few coconuts. ZG took out a knife that he brought along and de-husk them. We had coconut drink that night in the Istana compound even if it was only at the periphery. After finishing a few coconuts, we climbed out of the Istana compound and slowly walked back to our hostel. We quietly sneaked back into our respective dormitories and went to sleep. There was no ill-intention in doing that but the feeling of an accomplished 'conquest' gives us the satisfaction from tembor. We feel we taste success in the form of breaking out of our hostel unnoticed and breaking into the Istana compound also unnoticed. I am not sure what would have happened if we were caught doing that! Our faces would have appeared in the next day's newspapers and obviously the canes of our school and our fathers would land on our buttocks. Tembor hostel yes but I never tembor kelas during my schooldays! Did you?

Dating? 1970s-style

People fall in love everyday. Youngsters date; matured persons date too. Married people also do not like to be left out. Arranging a date is a breeze nowadays, what with the cellphones and social media. How did people in 1970s go for a date? It takes days to arrange for a date. It takes longer if the only available medium of communication is the postal service.

I didn't date during my schooldays. In fact I was a very shy 'boy'. My palms sweat whenever a girl - beautiful or otherwise - comes near. That doesn't mean I have no one asking for a date, mind you. And one can arrange a date and send a proxy instead when the time comes. There is no shortage of people willing to be a proxy for such an assignment.

Our English teacher, a Ms P***** one day asks each of us to write a letter to an unknown 'friend' in another school. She asks us to write to 'Dear Friend,...' and specifically instructed us to introduce ourselves to the yet-to-be-known friend. She collected the letters in the next English class and put them in a big envelop. The envelop was addressed to a class in SMAA, Kuantan, Pahang. My palms have yet to sweat at that time.

After ten days, Ms. P brings along a big envelop to the class, opens it and starts distributing the replies. I get a reply from a Ms. *** who mentions in her reply that she is from Pulau Duyung but lives in Kuantan and studying at SMAA. Ms P asks us to reply to our new-found friends. I duly did. More replies came.

To cut the long story short, Ms. *** asks me to wait for her at the Kuala Terengganu bus station on a certain day and time during the next school holiday as she plans to visit her grandma in Pulau Duyung. She describes in the letter her shape and size, hair-style and the colour and type of dress including the pants she would be wearing. She also provides a plan that says she would, after disembarking from the bus, walk to the nearest terminal column and wait for me there. The password was also given. It is very tough to meet in those days since we have no way of communicating while on our way.

My heart stops a moment. My palms start to sweat. Two classmates observe my apprehensiveness and ask what 's wrong. Again, to cut the long story short, both of them agree to be my proxy. MFA and ZH were very happy and look forward to the date so arranged. I provided them all the agreed details including the password.

When school reopens after the mid-year break, both MFA and ZH told me they were upset for not being able to meet up with the date. They waited the whole day at the bus station and till the last bus from Kuantan on that day. No one fitting the description provided in the letters disembark from the many buses from Kuantan. It was a letdown to both my proxies.

The girl err the friend I mean writes back later apologising profusely for having to abort the trip back to Kuala Terengganu due some unavoidable reasons. I stop corresponding with her soon after; not out of frustration over the missed date but due to my shyness. Furthermore, Ms. P no longer asks about the progress of our friendship. So there is no reason to proceed.

I pity my proxies but deep inside I consider at that time I was saved from some difficult situation. No Women No Cry, as the title of a Boney M song says. That's dating 1970s-style with proxies....

Leadership Quality from CowHerding

There was a furore recently about a national beef project, which was said to be not achieving its set target. The media was abuzz with allegations of misuse etc. Growing up in a traditional village in 1960s, cows were part of my life. Our family house was built on stilts and our cows were penned under the house. The 'aroma' of cow dung was surely unbearable to townsfolk but we didn't bat an eyelid over that.

When I was 12 (in standard six), my father 'instructed' me to take care of a cow. And my 6-year old brother its calf. My father's instruction was very simple. By 6 pm when the cows should be home i. e. under our house, their respective bellies should be full. If not my brother and i were in for some kind of punishment.

Every morning, come rain or shine, my brother and I wakes up at six and lead our cows to the grazing area about half-a-kilometer from our home. The area was in fact a large tract of land with thick secondary jungle. We have to lead our cows silently in the darkness of early morning to the grazing area and 'anchor' them there. The morning was too dark, there was not a single human around at that time except my brother and I and our two cows walking silently. We trudged the riverbank and after a short distance turned a bit upland where we should leave our cows to graze. My brother and I didn't make any conversation other than occasional words of enquiry about something durign our early morning trips there. Stories of tiger sightings and python crossing were always in our minds but we had no choice other than to carry out father's instruction. After school we went for the Qur'an reciting classes at the quranic teacher's home. After the quranic class we went to the river for our afternoon revelry. For me and my brother, a brief check on our cows' bellies determine the available time for our sojourn in the river. If the cows were almost full, my brother and I can spend longer time in the river. If not, we have to tend to the cows first by ensuring them have enough grasses before dusk.

Despite our preoccupation with playing my brother and I never get any punishment from father. We always ensure our cows were full by the time for them to be brought home. Cows being cows, sometimes they scooted off to neighbouring plots of planted area and savoured the vegetables. Facing the angry owners whose plants were devoured by our cows is not easy. And there is no recourse to our father as we would surely eb punished for such carelessness.

The task of herding the cows teaches us good things about life. Firstly, indirectly we were given a common mission: to tend to our cows and ensure their growth. Secondly, we learn how to be patient in adversaries and persevere in our tasks. Controlling our cows on our way home imbue in us the art of treading on critical grounds. The lessons gained from the task of raising our cows came in handy in my career later in my life.I am not sure if I should recommend cowherding as a training ground for kids nowadays but politicians should learn a thing or two about tending to cows in their career.

Mat and Mek Sallehs in my Kampong

Ronald Reagan was the 40th President of the United States (1981–1989), the 33rd Governor of California (1967–1975) and, prior to that, a radio, film and television actor.  No, I am not 'talking' about American politics. Rather his name reminds me of another Regan, that of Daniel and Helen Regan (I am not sure of the actual spelling of the couple's name).  The couple lived in my kampong in the 1960s. They rented a wooden house near the school.  The house belongs to my friend's family.  Everyday, Daniel and Helen Regan cycle around our kampong and meet with the village folks. They interview people especially old folks mostly on their (the villagers') health and other worldly concerns.  My paternal grandfather was interviewed once.  Both Daniel and Helen speak good Malay. However I wonder how they could understand our thick Terengganu dialect which has words that are totally different from that of the standard Malay.

Idyllic village in Terengganu

To us Deng (for Dan) and Heleng (Helen) Regan were friendly Mat Sallehs living harmlessly in our quiet and isolated village. There was no restaurant then in our village and we used to hear them pounding teh chillis or belacans in the 'lesung batu'.  I had no idea then the reason for their being among us.  However, later on I discovered that Deng and Heleng were actually the Peace Corps voluteers.  to the uninitiated the Peace Corps is an American volunteer programme run by the United States Government, as well as a government agency of the same name. The mission of the Peace Corps includes three goals: providing technical assistance, helping people outside the United States to understand US culture, and helping Americans to understand the cultures of other countries. Generally, the work is related to social and economic development. Each program participant (aka Peace Corps Volunteer) is an American citizen, typically with a college degree, who works abroad for a period of 24 months after three months of training. Volunteers work with governments, schools, non-profit organizations, non-government organizations, and entrepreneurs in education, hunger, business, information technology, agriculture, and the environment.

How many of us, Malaysians and/or Moslems, nowadays are willing to undergo a life of a volunteer?

Secretary, Stenographer or PA?

When I started working in a government institution in 1985, there were three types of personnel assisting a boss: a stenographer, a secretary or a PA (not the insurance type). Most of them are ladies. I used to invigilate their exams too on behalf of the authorities.

Well I was a PA too once: to my father. In 1970s the only distant mode of communications was through letters. In my kampung Mr Postman comes only once-a-week on his trusted BSA red motorbike. He delivers letters, accept letters for posting from the villagers and selling the stamps too. My father used to communicate with my maternal grandmother who lived in Dungun - about 80km away and I was always asked to draft letters to my grandmother.

Usually my father gives 'notice' about the job during dinner. He would tell me that we have a letter to send to Grandma. After the meal, I would take a pencil and two or three sheets torn out of my exercise book. He would say - in our dialect - what he wanted to tell Grandma. I then wrote down in standard Malay his words, as speedily as I could so as not to miss any of his main points. After he finished saying his message, he asked me to read whatever that I have written. If he is satisfied that all that he wanted to say were in the letter, he would sign it. If he felt something was not right, he'd tell me where to put in more words or to expunge any. After signing the letter, my father would put it in an envelop - light blue in colour in those days - and seal it with a gum. A stamp has be bought from Mr. Postman, during his next visit to our kampung, who also collected the letter after the stamp was affixed on the envelop using...yes...saliva.

My father's letters to grandma were either in jawi or rumi depending on his mood. This task of drafting and writing my father's letters to grandma, I did since I was in standard two - believe it or not. And we used pencil as pen was too expensive at that time.

So was I my father's secretary, stenographer or PA? Whatever it is, this task provides me with more or less good writing skills which is useful in my later life!

Is It a Flute? No it is just a Recorder!

I entered secondary school in 1972 fresh from my kampung and was in shock of living in a hostel where there was electricity. In addition to having to learn every subject in English, my class have to learn music. Music, you say? yes, Music. Our teacher was Mrs Dass. She was nice and enthusiastic but I was not. To say that I was not musically inclined is not really accurate. I did 'crooned' one or two lines from famous songs but that was limited to a few songs and just to satisfy my own ego.

The music class starts before the afternoon session, so we have to come to school earlier than the others. Mrs Dass tried very hard to teach us the subject. I can only remember the "okteb" (=octave) and of course the do-re-mi-fa-so-la-ti-do-do-ti-la-so-fa-mi-re-do regimen. Our theme song was Suar Sueir Kemuning and the instrument was the recorder. I don't want to say much. Suffice for me to say that my small forced venture into learning music failed miserably.

Hysteria

There was a piece of news in local newspapers last week about mass hysteria among new trainees at the IKBN (National Skills Training Institute for Youths) , Kemasik, Terengganu. It was attributed to the presence of ghostly spirits on the new campus, which was built on a piece of hitherto vacant and 'unoccupied' land! I wonder why the spirits allow the contractors to build the imposing complex but seems not to tolerate the presence of youthful souls on it. Perhaps the young trainees give out high decibels of noise than the contractors' cranes and drilling machines and for that the spirits just cannot stand the youths' high spirits.

I too was once afflicted by the so-called 'hysteria'. I was thirteen at that time and lived in the hostel. I came from a very poor family in the village and to be transplanted among the sons of the well-to-do really unsettled me. To add to that pressure, my parents were divorced about a year before. Having no one to turn to at that tender age, I didn't have the safety valve to let go the pent-up feelings and emotions.

One night, out of the blue I like out a loud cry...to the surprise of my dormmates. I cried and spoke loudly about things and people. I couldn't control the situation. Words came out of my mouths and I kicked at my bed's the upper deck. A fairly big dormmate sat on that but I seem to have so much energy.

This bout of hysteria was followed by a few more in the subsequent months. It was very embarrasing to me. My already low self-esteem went lower and later I became withdrawn. I feel ashamed of my incontrollable bits of hysteria. My fits of hysteria lasted for about a year. After that I was 'cured'! However the emotional scar remains for quite a long time since.

I don't know the state of the IKBN, Kemasik's trainees when they were afflicted by the mass hysteria. I came to know later that bomohs (traditional medicine men) were called in to pacify the disturbed spirits .

Hysteria! it's not hysterics!

One-Man Show Reporter!

Many people read newspapers but how many knows how it feels to be a reporter? Sometimes I wonder how do reporters remember their subjects' words and later able to write lengthy news from the conversations.

Well, I got an experience of being a 'reporter' once in my early years working in a local institution of higher learning. The chance came by accident. Our institution's sole reporter cum editor for our newsletter resigned abruptly to join an advertising company, which I guessed at that time paid him too well for him to refuse. I was working with the institution for about nine months when one day I got an instruction to move to the Vice-Chancellor's office. I was given less than a week to move to the new posting.

On the day I reported to the Vice-Chancellor, after some niceties, he told me in one short sentence that I had to produce the newsletter, by hook or by crook, within ten days as there was an event during which a royalty was to be conferred an honorary degree. A staff was assigned to show me my new workplace, which was a small and dark room in the basement. When I went in I saw papers and photos strewn all over the room.

But what are the steps to 'produce' (or is it publish?) a newsletter. After enquiring from the sole photographer at the PRO and a few staff at the institution's publication department, I started by gathering the news items. The next day I was summoned to the press conference by a few scientists on their 'invention' (?) of a serious disease test kit. There I was standing among the mainstream print and electronic media writing notes on whatever were told or said by the scientists. I felt ecstatic to rub shoulders with reporters and to talk to them.

After that I type the news and whatever articles that are to be published. I also drafted the editorial piece for the big boss to check and approve. The typed materials are then sent to the Publication Department for typesetting. After three days, the typeset pieces were given to me. My next task was then doing doing the layout. This is where the 'cut-and-paste' process happens. I would cut the typesetted materials and try to lay them out according to the spaces (or columns) of the dummy pages.

Once all the materials were arranged according to what I feel was a good page layout, I apply the glue to them and paste them onto the pages. I then send the dummy pages to the Publication Department agian for making a 'printed' page layout. I have to checked the layout once and once i give my clearance, the Department staff shoot the pages making them camera-ready copies. I aslo mark the location of photos on the dummy pages and choose the appropriate photos.

After that the printing were done bu the Department and the printed newsletter were sent to the PRO for distribution. You can imagine my feeling of joy when I see my hard work comes out and there is also the joy of having my name printed as the newsletter "Editor"!

After three-and-a-half months, when they moved me to another department when a proper editor/reporter was appinted. It was a good experience despite the job was a one-man-show. And to add colour to my short stint as a news(letter) reporter, I had inadvertently - in one issue - put the photo of our PR Officer full-faceportarit-size on the same page with the group photo of our ViceChancellor and his officers. I insert the PR Officer's photo just to fill up the vacant spot due to insufficient length of the written news. The PR Officer's photo was large and very prominent on the page while the Vice-Chancellor's was very small in a group! Imagine the tongue-lashing I got from whoe else - the PR Officer!

Hey I was a reporter once and I was an editor too! I was a one-man-show reporter!

A Helpless Player in a Hopeless Football Team

I am no sports fan. Neither do I play any games. Ohh that is not exactly accurate. I did play football once in a while in my younger days but that was limited to afternoon games with friends or occasional unavoidable appearances such as in an inter-subsidiary tournament in my Company. Most of the times, the subsidiary companies that I work in have bookworms or nerds as its staff and in order to assemble a complete team they have not much choice but to include me too.

Once, I had just joined a subsidiary of a big conglomerate that had also just been established to start a new project. Before long the Conglomerate organises a soccer (pardon me for the change of terminology) tournament. After adding two expatriate consultants - one from Chicago the other from Jakarta - who have no choice but to agree to join the team, we were short of one player. And I had to join the newly assembled team.

Our team has the most number of 'intellectuals and intelligent' players - programmers, legal executive, PhD-holders and not to mention mathematicians. We had a few organising meetings on how to take part in the tournament. With a small sum of money allocated by the Finance Department of our fledgling company, we bought a soccer ball and just enough jerseys for our players. We had three practices in the evenings before the tournament day. On the competition day, while waiting for our team to be called in we did some practices on the side. Not long after, a member of our team accidentally kicked the ball a bit too had and in the wrong direction. We watched with mouths agape as it went flying high onto the street outside the venue. A lady staff went to look for it but she came back empty-handed.

When our team entered the field for our first match, we get the loudest roar from the spectators. I guess it (the roar) was not for our prowess on the field but the manner our team play which was in total contrast from that of other teams'. The ball seemed reluctant to move into our opponents' side of the field. Our goalkeeper was extremely busy trying to catch or keep the balls from getting into our net. More than half of our team members - yours truly included - end up running after the elusive ball instead of getting a chance of kicking it, since we had to take off our glasses lest they get broken during the play.

The results was a forgone conclusion! Our goalposts were too wide for our goalkeeper to control and the balls seemed to keep coming into the direction of our net. We played only one match and lost. To add insult to injury, we lost the ball before we lost the match. I was just a helpless player in our company's hopeless football team! One-sided or not, my kaki bangku status remains unchanged since then, quite an impresive record in term of consistency!

Colourfully Dressed Pilgrims

There are millions of Moslems from many countries in the World go on pilgrimage a. k. a. the Haj every year. They come by various means and most pilgrims come in groups. It is interesting to observe the way the pilgrims dress while in the Holy Land. Other than the mandatory ihram for some haj rituals, the pilgrims are free to dress as they like as long as they conform to the 'aurat requirements.

Looking at the way the pilgrims dress is a lesson in geography...yes geography. Malaysian pilgrims usually dress in baju Melayu or arabic robes or a type of bajus. Indonesians dress in batik (Indonesian type) plus some accessories such as the shawl. And a triangular scarf adorns one's shoulder with the name of the province he comes from printed on it.

The pilgrims from the Indian sub-continent's dress is as you usually see on tv or print media. The Turks wear coats.

The Africans' dress is colourful. The Nigerians dress needs a lot of cloths. The Sudanese's dress is the simple Arab's robes. Those from Burkina Faso, Ivory Coast and nearby countries include the respective country's map on the jubah/djellaba. It is also interesting to read the names of those countries in French while on the way to and from the Grand Mosque.

If only some conferences can be organised during the Haj season during which people from various countries can get to know each other, the pilgrimage can become a good event to promote harmony, unity and understanding among people of tghe World.

Prime Minister, Teacher or Cabbie?

When my class teacher asked me in 1970 ( I was in Standard Five then) about what I wanted to be when I grow up, I list down Prime Minister, Teacher and Cab Driver - in that order - on the blue card. I thought Prime Minister is a "jawatan yang bagus" and glamorous as people crowd around him whenever he goes. The second profession was in the list perhaps due to the presence of teachers around me at that time. My teachers were all good, kind and excellent persons around my small village in the 1960's and 1970's before electricity and television came in 1978. But the Cab Driver? My father was the first person in my small village then to obtain a driving license from the RIMV - Registrar and Inspector of Motor Vehicles, the precursor to the present JPJ - and he, despite his meagre income, bought a car for a few years. The car, a Ford Prefect was used as a taxi albeit unlicensed one. I used to accompany him in his daily work of transporting people to and back from Kuala Terengganu town. Sometimes some people charter us to Kota Bharu, Kelantan.

By the way, I do not join politics when I grow up and therefore Prime Ministership is out of question. Despite being on the road quite frequently with my unlicensed cab driver father I cannot drive a car until in my late 20s. The Teacher? well I almost become one. After the SPM (O'level equivalent), I went to Form Six. The pressure of not having money - a. k. a. being poor - led me to look for work instead of furthering my study. The opportunity came in early 1979 when there was an advertisement for trainee teachers in local newspapers. I naturally applied - the advertised starting salary was RM585.00 per month, quite a handsome amount at that time.

After the HSC results came out in early 1980, I got a place at the Sultan Abdul Halim Teachers College (MPSAH) in Sungai Petani, Kedah. I went there and started the training until one day my father called the College office telling - my father's words are all instructions you know - me to report for admission into Universiti Malaya urgently. Apparently, the University sent a telegram to my home address requesting me to urgently report for admission. In those days, whenever one receives a telegram the message is treated as something that requires urgent and serious response.

I have signed the agreement to become a teacher and to run away prematurely may cause severe financial implications that is beyond my ability to sort out. Nonetheless, it was unthinkable for me to go against my father's words (read: instruction).

One night, about three days after my father's telephone call, a friend accompanied me through a small opening in the College's perimeter fence and then made our way to the Sungai Petani bus station for a journey to Kuala Lumpur. With big bags and what nots it was scary at times lest my running away was discovered.

Had I got cold feet at that time, I would have been a teacher within two years after that. whatever it is, in the end, not a single option in the blue card materialises. I wonder what my class teacher would say if he is still alive today. Prime Minister, Teacher or Cabbie? Tick none!

"Dad Has Gone To The Airport!"

How would one feel if a high flyer suddenly crash-lands? I was a high-flyer once...due to my hard work. My boss frequently mentions my name to other staff whenever he feels I deserve such compliments. No, I have no intention of bragging about my successes in this posting. Instead it is about my burst ego from an embarrassing mistake.

My boss, the CEO of a statutory body plans to participate in a conference in Malta! As usual I was asked to plan for his journey and execute it. He really wants to go to Malta. In those days, flights are booked through travel agents. The agent recommends the best itinerary, first through the (fixed-line) telephone, then the facs.

I was extremely happy when the travel agent confirmed the flight schedules. it was supposed to depart the international airport at 0620 on such and such date. I heard it 'clearly' over the telephone. I duly told the boss. He said OK! when the facs came, the flight was 'written' as departing at 0620.

All the booking documentation went smoothly. In short the flight was properly booked, fully paid and I started to make the necessary preparation. I had to prepare the written guide to my boss for his travel including the information on currency, weather, temperature, places of interests, the nearest Malaysian embbasy or hig commission etc.

The evening before the flight departure, I collected the boss' baggage, flight tickets - yes tickets - and passports from his house and put them in the boot of my car. I woke up at 3.30 am on the morning of the scheduled flight, take a shower, dress myself and by 4.00 am I was on the way to the Airport. I reached the Airport at 4.45 am. Strangely there was no crowd there. All the counters were closed. I told a passing worker there that I wanted to check-in my boss for the flight to Malta.

About five minutes came a staff from the airline and he took the flight tickets for check-in.

"Encik, flight ni dah lepas!"

"Dah lepas? Ni baru pukul 5 pagi!"

"This flight left just after midnight. The departure time was 0020 not 0620 as Encik has just said! "

I stared at the ticket in great disbelief! How come 0620 becomes 0020?

I hurried to the nearest public telephone and dial my boss' home. After like an eternity, a young boy's voice groggily answered.

"Can I can speak to Dato'......?"

"I'm sorry, Dad's gone to the Airport!"

I put down the phone and as I turned around there walked in my boss and his wife! I felt like the whole world has collapsed on me then!

I was embarrassed, disappointed, dejected and my high-flying career crash-landed! Have you ever been in that situation in your life?

Broken Family

People lament the high rate of divorces among married people nowadays. I am not sure if the relative rate of divorces is higher now than in the past. Divorce is a way out for married couples who have difficulties in living together peacefully. While this is true for the couples, their children suffer a lot from their parents' divorces.

I was 12 when my parents split. My siblings and I returned from school one day only to find the house was quiet and there was nothing to eat. We could not find our parents. By the end of the day, we discovered that Father had sent mother to our maternal grandmother's house in Dungun about 80km away.

My initial feeling upon discovering our parents' apparent split was of a great relief, not that I hate my mother but I hate their frequent disagreements and quarrels. I felt that finally we would have 'peace' in the house.

As time went by, we experienced a lot of psychological discomfort from the split. Members of our extended family started taking sides on any issue. We stayed with our father instead of sticking with mother. The reasons for this were that Father insisted that he would raise us and that Mother was "poorer" than Father. The absence of Mother meant that most household chores had to be done by us ourselves. Decisions have to be made by us - all primary schoolchildren - on anything in our daily life. Father worked away from home and when he came back he was too exhausted to do the tasks that were previously done by Mother.

Father remarried soon after and our stepmother was a wonderful lady. But the tension in our extended family did not abate since the split even until later years.

The stress on our family was too much for us to cope. Father vented his anger on my sister until one day she ran away from home. I went to secondary school and stayed in a hostel and for about a year I was afflicted by hysteria. These events caused me and my siblings to grow up on our own without much guidance and filial emotional support. These shaped our emotional outlook in later years that most of the time led to difficulties in interpersonal relations.

For married couples who have problems that may lead to divorces, think about the negative impact that it cause on their children before they walk-out on their marriage. The emotional scars remain for the rest of their children's life.

Tribute to a Model Father

Father's Day was celebrated last week by most people. Glowing tributes were written by grateful children whose life were shaped by their respective fathers. I too cannot afford to ignore my own father's positive deeds that greatly help shape my comfortable life. I am the only one among my siblings who underwent strict upbringing by my father during my younger days. He insisted that I study every night, be punctual in every activity, 'forced' me to rear a cow - this help shape my skills in managing resources - when I was in standard six etc. He visited me at the hostel in town in my secondary years once-a-month. I can still 'see' now his heavily-perspired face at the hostel gate enquiring about my welfare and at the end of the visit he gave me a ringgit - yes a ringgit! - for my whatever I need. He then cycled back home for about 25km away from my hostel. He cycled for 50km just to see me at the hostel. Nowadays I went to my sons' hostels in my 2.5 MPV!

My father changed jobs a number of times. His last 'position' was that of a general helper at a used car outlet owned by an Ipoh-born Chinese boss. His last drawn salary was about RM700.00 per month. With that three-figure salary he saw me through university, bought me a motorcycle, feed us, paid for my brother's driving license etc.

My father passed away three years ago. He left about RM78,000.00 in his Tabung Haji account and four pieces of lands when he died. It is a small amount for others but having seen my father struggling from his younger days until late in life, I was surprised to see that amount that he left for us. What this means is just that my father keeps 'giving' me money even when he is no longer around. A small piece of rubber land gives me about RM100.00 nett per month, courtesy of my late father.

In life and in death, my father provides for me....! There's no way I could re-pay the services of my father other than praying for his well-being in the hereafter! Happy Father's Day...I wish all children appreciate their respective father's deeds and love!

Cap Ayam

In one of my recent postings, I talked about the word skodeng, which comes about from the word scout den. There is another word or rather a phrase or a term that originated from my alma mater i. e. cap ayam!

Cap ayam means something too ordinary (koman, from the word common!) bordering on mediocrity. If someone says you are cap ayam he means you are mediocre, incapable of performing up to a certain standard. But why ayam? Everybody takes chicken nowadays, and very few young people take fish. There is nothing fishy here. On the contrary, cap ayam that leads to this phrase was - and I believe still is - a brand of sardine or canned mackerel. It was the better canned mackerel during my schooldays than a few others.

During my schooldays in my teens, sardin cap ayam were served to hostellites who didn't take chicken or other cooked fish. Usually a table was reserved for this susbstitute menu for those picky eaters. The members of the table changes according to the main menu served each day.

In later years, friends joke that one is considered (members or consumers) of cap ayam if he is different from the mainstream and too ordinary in life - and later on in work and any other sphere of life! Recently the term "cap ayam" appeared in a Malay daily hinting at similar non-performance of the Nation's sports team!

Cap Ayam, a good brand but leads to a not-to-be-proud-of meaning!

'Til Death Do Us Part

‘Til death do us part!’ that famous marriage vow uttered by married couples. Some people do not like to talk about deaths in their daily life. Death usually brings sad moments to most of us. However, I have a peculiar habit or hobby i. e. reading the obituaries. Obituary comes from the Medieval Latin word, obituarius meaning death. Obituary is a notice of the death of a person, often with a biographical sketch, as in a newspaper.

During my secondary school days (in the 1970s), I spent 90 minutes each day reading the English daily supplied to our hostel. I read the newspaper literally from cover-to-cover and in the process I too read the obituaries!

What can one get from reading the obituaries? A lot. First I learned how to draft an obituary (sort of an advertisement or a notice) in the right and proper format. As the event “covered’ in an obituary involves people at their sad moments care has to be taken in the choice of words and phrases.

The most common phrase in an obituary is that such-and-such is said to have “passed away peacefully…” and then he/she is “leaving behind…” and here my interests lie.

Firstly, I like reading the list of those left behind by the deceased’s’: spouse(s), children, grandchildren and so on. Some list everyone with their full titles and relationships. Others include their present or past employment/position and great cities they worked in.

As Malaysia is a multi-cultural country, I find it enjoyable to read families that have more than one ethnic groups in them, of course through inter-marriage. It is good to see the list of a deceased’s descendants comprising of Moslems and Non-Moslems, Malays and Non-Malaysia, Europeans as well Asians. Through obituaries you can see good values arising from these multiple-ethnic families who build their life based on harmony and peaceful coexistence. I am sure it is not easy for a son or a daughter to marry outside their ethnic group in the first place and to see them survive until the death of their parents means a lot at this time of our overly-conscious of our ethnic origin as fanned by politicians of all colours! Next time you read the newspapers please do not forget to also read obituaries, my friend. There is a lot to gain from that habit.

Be Careful With Your Words!

Every Moslem pilgrim is reminded time and again by anecdotes of the hajis experiencing embarrassing phenomena - in some cases for all to see - while in the Holy Land. In most cases the anecdotes or true stories depict 'retributions' from the Almighty to the sinful mortals while they are in the Holy Land. There are even books written on this. I don't know how many Moslems who have skeletons in their respective closets choose to forestall their once-in-a-lifetime journey for fear of embarrassing incidences that may befall them for their sins.

Me? Like any other fellow pilgrims we were told to watch our words lest they become du'as that may be answered immediately. Lo and behold if your not so pure thoughts that pass through your mind while looking at something 'weird' or 'strange' suddenly being 'classified' as du'a and are answered by the Almighty. I find this a bit unsettled, as it seems Allah the Omni-Knowing is dumb or cannot differentiate the wishes from the mere thoughts of his creatures.

Anyway, that's not for me to answer. I had that kind of experience too. You see the African pilgrims sense of dress is a bit off-the-mark. And from their appearance, it is as if they do not keep their physical cleanliness and hygiene up to an acceptable standard. Once I was praying in the Grand Mosque and an African was in the row in front of me. His feet didn't look clean. Adding to that was that he put his slippers - yes the wet selipar jepun - next to his feet on the gleaming marbles of the Grand Mosque floor. Wish I was not praying near him! went my thought. I winced at the sight of his feet. After the compulsory prayer the African performed the auxiliary one. So did I but I had to move up half-a-row and ouch I had to soon after that perform my prostration with my face right on the spot where the African's selipar jepun was 'parked' a few minutes before that and my left eye can see the scaly and flaky skin of his right foot next to my face.

Be careful with one's words while in the Holy Land! but to me this was not a matter of God being ignorant or vengeful. It was more of keeping your inner sense pure while there and here too!

Till Death Do Us Part!

That's the vow taken by mostly Christian or Western brides and bridegrooms when they tie the nuptial knots. Since I first started reading English newspapers, I became fascinated by the obituary columns. Obituary comes from the Latin word obit meaning death. An obituary is a notice of the death of a person, often with a biographical sketch, as in a newspaper.

A normal obituary in a Malaysian English newspaper include the photo of the deceased with the title, well, Obituary or for a Moslem al-fatihah. Below it there is usually a portrait of the deceased. Then come the announcement saying that the deceased passes away peacefully at such and such time. The part that interests me most is the list after the phrase ...leaving behind:-!

Some people just mention a short list of names, while others leave a full list of full names with the titles and awards mentioned. Still a few add the names of their offsprings' worthy employers or professions in the list. What is of main interest to me is to decipher the type of families of the deceaseds. Some left behind a myriad of descendants of the same race, while quite a number have descendants marrying into other races. I find it interesting to read the list of persons left behind by someone that contains names from various races. Some have Malays, Chinese or Indians, Norwegians, German in their family. More so their descendants are sometimes of different religions. Then I would try to match the names of their grandchidren's names with their respective children. This is easy if say a Chinese leaves behind mostly daughters or if there are mat sallehs or Moslem

Second Entree anyone?

Things you do not know about may cause unnecessary embarrassment to anyone who is not careful enough in any situation. I was once accompanying my boss - a Dato' and later Tan Sri - on an official trip to New Zealand a few years back. It was my first trip there and my overseas trips were not that many and not very frequent in my career.

We were entertained to a dinner by the host at a posh restaurant on our first evening there. After we were seated, waitresses came to our table with the menus. One waitress attended to each guest. Everyone were busy making orders to their respective waitress-in-attendance, yours truly not exempted too. I didn't know much about the type of food on the menu shown to me for the simple reason that I was and am just a kampung lad and secondly all were in French!

Before the waitress assigned to me went off, she showed something to me on the menu and asked if I would like to have it also in my order. My unthinkable "yes" came out before she finished her suggestion.

The entree came...everyone started savouring the mouth-watering small things in our respective plates. After everyone had finished, the waitresses collected the plates back. Next minute came only on small plate to our table, with small object in it. It was only for me...also an entree! I was the most junior member of the delegation. Imagine everyone had to do nothing for the next five minutes - the longest in my life - trying very hard to 'finish' a small portion of the 'food' before they served the main course next! No one made any comment, but the look on my boss's face clearly indicated his displeasure. But boss, how would I know that 'my' waitress suggested me an additional entree, and no one else ordered two entrees!

Imagine yourself in my shoes at that time! Be careful when one is a in strange situation. Better follow the crowd to be safe especially on something one knows very little about. Ohh that little piece of easily-spilled something on my small plate on a nice table in a posh restaurant in Auckland, New Zealand!

Skodeng?

Do you know the origin of the word in the title of today's posting? Skodeng means "the act of peeping (toms)". If you look up the Kamus Dewan a few years back you did not find the word in it. I am not sure if it is in now.

Believe it or not the word orginates from my school, the Sultan Sulaiman Secondary School, Kuala Terengganu. The school was, and is situated between the Kuala Terengganu-Kuantan federal trunk road and the South China Sea shore. The Boys Hostel was at the back, literally next to shore. The Girls Hostel meanwhile was further to front near the said trunk road. Very few boys had a chance of going near the Girls Hostel for the simple reason that the classes are on the far side of the school area. The nearest classroom block, during my schooldays, to the Girls' Hostel was block C, a new block then. Then the word "near" was perhaps inaccurate. Nowhere any boy could get a glimpse of the girl hostellites in their hostel from Block C - the so-called nearest building to it - even during our nightly preps hours.

But then there was - I am not sure if it is still there nowadays - a small building between Block C and the Girls' Hostel but slightly closer to the Hostel. It was the 'Scout Den'. Scouts used the small building to carry out their activities during the day and once in a while they had campfire there.

A few naughty boys from the Hostel used that small block as the hiding place to watch the girls in their hostels at night. I was and am doubtful if they were able to catch a good glimpse of the girls unless they brought along binoculars. It was a common phrase among us boys at that time that to "go to (the) Scout Den' means to take a peep at the girls gostellites. If you know how the Terengganuans contrite the Standard Malay words, the "scout den" (pronounced: skaoqdeng) the word eventually becomes skodeng to mean "peeping (toms)". Horh, mung gi skaoqdeng (skodeng) ker tu?" [Ah hah you went peeping?].

I was surprised to read in national Malay newspaper some months back that the word skodeng has been accepted as a standard Malay word. Perhaps I should check the Kamus Dewan now!

Talking About Firsts

Nobody remembers the no.2! People don't appreciate the second this or the second that. Everyone knows the highest mountain in the world but who can tell me the second highest?

I get my first 'car' after seven years working in a local institution of higher learning. It was not exactly a 'car' or a sedan but rather a small mini-van. It was so basic that it had no third row seats, no air conditioning. It was a 1000 cc minivan. It was far from elegant.

Like the first love I treasure my first car a lot. Despite its small-ness, my family and I went to almost every nook and corner of Selangor in it. From Sabak Bernam to Dengkil up to Batang Kali, Bukit Jugra and so on. It also had a chance of appearing in one of Dato' Yusoff Haslam's Gerak Khas series on tv. No...no neither my minivan nor I was paid for the appearance. It was not involved in any high or low speed chase either. Its three minutes of fame was due to the street fighting scenes were shot near my office car park. And my little automobile was in the background. My children who were still small at that time were yelling when my minivan appeared on screen...oblivious to the tv cops running after a few crooks! My first car! it was small but it 'pernah keluar tv tau!"

Jumping the Queue

We always hear from the media that our Hajis i. e. pilgrims are the most-disciplined among the Moslems performing the Haj and that we Malaysian Moslems pose little problem to the Saudi authorities.

Are we so? Yes to a certain extend. I happened to be in a group comprising mostly people from the land development schemes. Initially I welcome their company as they are very friendly, easy-going and not aloof at all. Everywhere we go fellow pilgrims always enquire about us and make friendly chats.

It is well-said that Malaysians are well-fed or put it in another way we are so well-endowed with food. So there is no reason for a Malaysian to fight for food.

My experience in the Holy Land with a sizeable number of hajis seemed to demolish that myths. My first shock came when I witnessed a mad rush for food at the hotel's cafe. There was definitely no queue...before your hand can reach a spoon - yes a spoon at the buffet table - other hands - females and males - swarmed the area and by the time the crowd went away I couldn't get a spoon for my soup. Instead there were spilt liquids all over the table.

The second embarassing time was during meal times. A pilgrim was entitled to a packet food each. Again there were no queues! And the hajis and hajjahs who succeeded in getting the food packets were seen carrying five to ten packets each. And before long, many pilgrims were left without the allotted food packets. Very embarrasing to the hotel workers. At one stage, an announcement has to be made to the effect that the pilgrims were urged not to take 'extra' food packets!

That's the other side of Malaysians that I didn't realised existed.

Long Time No see

I was surprised when a friend mentions that I have not made any new posting after January 25th or so. I can be considered as a very disciplined person but unfortunately this good trait of mine does not extend to updating my blogs. Thousand apologies for that. Insha Allah I shall try to resume my postings from today.

Hajj: Old Habits Die Hard

it is always being stressed by the ustazs(=trainers) that one must 'settle' all debts and change one's repulsive habits before going for Haj. An example given is that if one 'accidentally' caused the death of another due to traffic accident has to pay blood money for it. And it is always mentioned that one has to be extra pious before departing for the Holy Land.

During the "Kursus Perdana Haji' just a couple of weeks before my departure, I noticed many would-be Hajis took two or three food rations for himself causing the shortage of food packages. Several would-be Hajis couldn't get their ration. Now if one deliberately taking food belonging to others, depriving others of their entitlement what use is them going for Haj?

In Medina and Mecca hotels, the Hajis and Hajjahs lost all inhibitions when it comes to collecting food packages. And the habit of jumping the queues at any service counters shows the ugly side of Malaysians and Moslems!

Old habits die hard, even among those chosen to be the Guests of Allah!

Haj Course

Immediately after getting the notification from Tabung Haji that I was selected to perform the Haj in 2010, I knew I have to go for the courses organised by them. This simple routine is not so confortable for me. The reason for my 'uneasiness' is that I am a shy person and I do not like people to know that I was going for Haj. I prefer to take my spiritual journey private for the fear of being a 'village celebrity'.

For that I choose a mosque at which the course was first introduced and luckily it was very far from my house. In my first session, I saw no one whom I know at the course. I was happy. Attending a course can be an experience as everyone who goes there always asks questions such as: "(are you) going this year?', "going with wife?", and the irritating (at least to me) "going by muasasah or package?". Of course my wife and I have to choose the muassasah terms as it is cheap. For the uninitiated, "package" means going for the haj using private (Tabung Haji also has this mode) travel agents. It costs more, ranging from RM18,000.00 to RM60,000.00 per head.

Once the inquisitive person next to you gets your answer he/she starts telling you about the virtues of going via the 'package'. Worse still if he/she has performed the Haj before. He/she will rattle off tonnes of information to you about Mecca etc. I had gone for an umra (minor haj) years before but I never mention the fact to my numerous questioner....

Haji!

Last October (October 17, 2010) to be exact my wife and I went to the Holy Land for our haj - a once-a-life-time journey ordained for those who are able, financially and physically. It was a spiritually rewarding journey. Talking about haj, I feel proud as I was able - thank God - to perform the haj, finally. My father did his haj before his demise. So did my grandfather. My grandfather first went for haj in 1953 via steamship. I was not yet born then but I was told the return journey took six months. And my grandparents had to bring along everything except the house for the journey including the lesung batu.

My grandfather went for haj twice. The 1953 journey was with my grandmother, who passed away in 1957, before I was born. He remarried and eventually he and my step-grandmother went for haj too.

My father also went for haj more than once. I don't think I could do that, the reason being financial and my physical weakness.

I shall try to make postings on my haj very soon.