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 My already low self-esteem went lower and later I became withdrawn.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?