Sunday, July 29, 2007

Tainted Redemption

New Words: Corral, Codger, Nacreous, Gusset, Univoltiine, Edaphic, Fasciculation.

This week on A Stray World...


It wasn't even a particularly interesting subject, but the school people brought in some people from the SPCA. Little fluffy balls of cuteness interspersed with pictures of diseased dogs with cigarette burns.

I was drawn to a crowd of my fellow classmates, around a blown-up picture of a cat with its intestines leaking from its tummy. Its eyes, stretched to thin lines of pain. Though I felt something like horror, I wanted to take a closer look, and pushed myself further into the crowd.

Through collective exclamations of disgust and laughter, I picked out Fry's voice, a nickname he earned from his slick, greasy way with people.

For some unknown reason, he waded through the crowd and shoved me in the chest, saying I was too young for this. He was barely two months my senior!

I was angry, and justifiably so. Why should I stand in a corner when everyone else was tracing the length of the intestine with their oily fingers?

More students were filing into the cramped hall, and our class had to leave. Filled with rage, I ran all the way back to class, or wanted too, but was once again stopped by Fry.

I can only speculate it was for his own amusement, but he had leapt onto my bicycle parked outside the classroom of my little brother. He gestured at me with a mischievous grin.

Rage unlike any other poured forth into my 10-year-old body, imbuing me with the strength to grab the bully by the throat before he could even raise his hands. Everything happened in slow motion, and I was rendered into an impartial observer, while my body acted on its own accord. Dancing to the pulsating melodies of hormones and unbridled emotion.

I pushed him into the glass windows, and the glass cracked. “Not like Jackie Chan.” I remember thinking. The bicycle fell under him and I stumbled.

The element of surprise though, was gone. And Fry, larger and taller than me, effortlessly shoved me onto the ground.

When my back hit the ground, it felt as if someone had shone a high-intensity light-bulb into my face while I was dreaming. Momentarily stunned and fearful.

Knowing what Fry would do, no longer as angry, but nearly as frightened, I kick my fallen bicycle and some part of it caught his oncoming foot. He stumbled and fell.

I got up, ready to run, or fight. But Fry didn't get up.

Cautiously, I moved over to the the red pool growing from the steady drips coming from the bicycle's handlebars.

Someone grabbed me from behind, strong hands wrapped around my body, locking my arms to my side. It was Black Man, my favourite teacher in the entire school. His face was grim, and his eyes looked not at his captor, but at the three or four teachers gathered around Fry.

I heard the words “hospital”, “dead”, and “eye”. Three words that built into a mountain of ice squeezed into a lead weight that now resided in my stomach.

I wanted to say “Sorry”. I couldn't.

Black Man picked me up like a helium balloon and we went to the principal's office.

Again, I wanted to say sorry, but another voice took over. It screamed and yelled my innocence.

“He started it teacher!”

“He sat on my bike!”

“Teacher, he wouldn't let me look at the pictures!”

They ring hollow now.

10 was too young an age for me to understand mandatory death. I asked my father on the way to court what mandatory meant. He didn't reply. Instead, he started reading aloud an Enid Blyton storybook. My mother, who sat beside me, looked out of the police van's window thoughtfully. Her hands rubbing my back in loving, concentric circles.

It was not deliberate, but unintentionally, they were telling me I would be alone.

That was twelve years ago. Then, I could barely reach the keyhole of my cell. Now, I can touch the black ceiling of my cramped prison quarters.

Apart from the prison wardens who sometimes double as my teachers, my parents were my only visitors, and nearly my only correspondence.

I once received a letter from Fry's mother. She cursed me and wished me dead. The words described the many levels of hell I would visit for taking away her son. One of them was to be killed the same way I had killed Fry, with the pointed handlebars of my bike jammed into the right eye. But repeated, again and again, for 100 years.

When I showed that letter to my parents when they visited me in prison, they asked the prison wardens to screen all letters (except theirs) addressed to me. And that was how I lost my childhood friends; at least, the remaining ones who had not taken to heart my former teachers' description of me being a naughty, bad boy.

I was still 10 years old then.

I can't really say I am a changed man. Perhaps I am. Because I am incapable of becoming angry at anyone anymore. No. Maybe it's because I am afraid of becoming angry.

Every night except for a few dreamless nights, I would find myself facing Fry, outside my little brother's classroom, with that mischievous grin.

And every night, I would say sorry, and walk away to another sunless morning. Knowing he would be back tomorrow night.

I want to die. But Mr Raj, my prison mentor, said I had to live. To live so I may do good and be forgiven by the gods.

When my shadow finally left the sprawling fortress of silence after twelve, I find myself not living to be pardoned by the gods, but hoping for the late reply from Fry's mother to my letter, sent when I was 10-years-old:

“I am sorry I killed Fry. Please forgive me, I want to go home.”

Monday, July 23, 2007

World Music Festival 2007

New Words: Mediumism, Aspidistra

A bit late, but this week on A Stray World, a very special weekend report.

Friday
I have never before had the opportunity to witness first-hand, world music. For years, I have had to be content with listening to remixed tribal music, African chants, and other healthy examples of culture rape on television. The most authentic world music Astro can manage are squeeze into Discovery Channel and the National Geographic Channel.

For example, Mongolian throat singers on Discovery Travel and Living,

But on Friday, I finally got my big break. The musicians were coming to Penang. From the fiddlers of Portland, Oregan, to the talking drums of Burkina Faso, they all came for one big all night party! To spread the music and show everyone that commercially manufactured factory idols are not the only dominant voice of sound today.

I was there by more or less 1800 hours, Quarry Gardens. It didn't take long to find the prime seats, a row of raised rubble held into a rectangular train by cement had an opening in the middle; right smack in between the two stages. As it was being held in an outdoor park, with all the inanities of Malaysian caprice, good seats were hard to come by; so it was rather surprising that no one else had filled those seats.

There were very few people around, which made me wonder whether reports of the four thousand sold tickets were merely rumours to generate hype for Visit Malaysia 2007. The sudden light drizzle drove those thoughts away, as umbrellas mushroomed from the fields.

There I stayed, watching time shoot past the scheduled opening act, which would not come until 1930 hours. One hour late.

I wouldn't patronise them by saying it was worth the wait and wetness. However, there was much one could find charming about Darsa, the East Malaysian aborigines with their unique dulcets, screams, and bird calls accompanied by traditional instruments that brought one closer to the forest and sea that they called home.

Then, before the appreciative applause died down, strange deep husky voices reverberated throughout the field. There they were, on Stage 2! The unexpected appearance of throat-singers from Tuva! The printing mistakes in the schedules were soon forgotten as the four throat-singers began their strange, alien song. Closing my eyes, I could see their voices were telling of the land of yellow grass plains, that would melt away into snow, white and warm. Then plunge into a ravine, walls of rushing water on both sides cascading into a wide river that began nowhere and ended nowhere.

I considered that my ticket price redeemed.

More goodies were to come, the energetic Solomon Island pan-pipers had arrived. They dance and played gigantic bamboo panpipes. With pulsating drums, spirited dancing, and enthusiastic singing, they started to snip loose the threads of inhibition holding the crowd from joining the festivities.

The catchy fast paced music and driven performance soon had the crowd on their feet. And with a dozen half naked dudes on stage strutting their muscular legs and tone biceps, the more party-ready portions of the audience soon made their way up front to participate in some tribal dancing.

The momentum was however, cut short by the next performance, Malay Drums. While it was an admirable performance, with an impressive demonstration of circular breathing by the serunai maestro, it was a bit of a let-down, as the crowd was quite prepared to do some much needed square-dancing to forget the drizzle that was fast becoming a storm.

Americans to the rescue! Hailing from Portland, Oregan, (now on Stage 1)the Foghorn Stringband! A mixture of Midwest, Appalachian mountain music and Bluegrass, their quick fiddling, typical spirited playing soon got the party started. Shedding all inhibitions, everyone started dancing in the rain. Everyone but those who had good seats, like me.

It didn't matter that the Americans used up a lot more time than was necessary (at close to 40 minutes), the crowd were lapping up every moment, constantly asking for more. The repetitive tunes were little to no difference from one tune to the other was however, getting on my nerves.

With a final slash of the violin, we finally left America for Italy. They kept saying Palermo, so I will hazard the Tammorra Special were from that said province on Italy as well. They kick-started the event with two HUMUNGOUS tambourines; each almost as large as the Italians playing them. I have developed quite a liking for Italian music, so it wasn't with great effort that I found myself clapping to the music.

Meanwhile, the crowd of dance addicts had made their way to Stage 2.

Unexpectedly, one of the Italians came forward with a single tambourine – a normal sized one – and began playing a TAMBOURINE SOLO! The way his hands danced around the instrument elevated the folk music status of the membranous device to the epitome of musical godhood. He made the tambourine look, and sound, cool!

Too bad they had to cut short their performance. But it was getting rather late. I can only find fault with the organizers who had started the event one hour late. The logic was understandable. Malaysians, known for inveterate procrastination, would only arrive some hours later than what was decided.

True enough, Quarry gardens was soon choke full of bipeds, some time around 2100 hours.

That didn't matter anymore, the final denouement was at hand. From Burkina Faso – Farafina!

Two gigantic xylophones that weren't xylophones, talking drums, and an assortment of other exotic instruments began to cry their ecstatic beats with melodious violence. Two of the six members, a man who did most of the speaking and singing, and a woman, playing African instruments and dancing with the frenzy of a hurricane played to the crowd.

It was a mad rush to midnight, and whatever reservations I had about missing The Melancholy of Haruhi Suzumiya were soon overpowered by a group of black girls screaming Africa behind me.

Soon, all too soon. It was over. The end of a great party, sans disco music.

Sunday, July 15, 2007

Power to the People

New Words: Lexeme, Ersatz, Discombobulate, Gutty, Moxie, Inveterate, Orgiastic, Abnegation, Opprobrium, Trollop.

This week on A Stray World,

I, Rewarp, offer you, the reader, the once in a lifetime opportunity to change the course of my life for the foreseeable two years.

I have recently come into a small fortune of RM500.00 and would love to spend it on something worthwhile. Unfortunately, I have problems deciding the next course of action, so I leave it to you, the reader to decide what I should do with the money.

Here are some possibilities I have considered:
  • Donate half the cash to the SPCA, throw the rest into the bank;
  • Increase my investment in the Malaysian stock market (I'm too young to invest directly, so I do it through proxy);
  • Purchase Wagner;
  • Purchase Schubert;
  • Purchase Gunslinger Girl DVD and manga;
  • Get a book to learn the Japanese language;
  • Save all my cash in the bank.
  • Purchase Battlestar Galactica DVD.
There is absolutely no guarantee I will follow your suggestions. But due to the nature of my mind, your ultimate suggestion will remain burnt into my prefrontal cortex every time I think of the RM500.00.

Until then,
Peace be upon you.

Friday, July 06, 2007

The Science Fair

As I have promised, here is a personal account on the "Karnival Pendidikan Sains dan Teknologi", the Penang state level science fair.

My team participated in the Science / Mathematics category with our product: Guava derived anti-allergen.

And now, a day-by-day account of the 4-day event.

Day 1
So here I am, at my first science fair, as a participant.

Okay, it's a lie. If you read the Medicinal Plants Discovery Award (MPDA) entry, you can safely presume this to be my second science fair as a participant. The difference this time? There are more competitors from almost every renowned and wannabe-renown school in Penang.

Unlike the closed door MPDA competition, the JPN Science Fair was conducted in a large hall packed full of the participating schools, their products, and scientific stuff from Petroscience (ergo, brain teasers and other cool stuff. The most impressive being the gigantic gyroscope for a human victim).

Unlike the almost American Idol-like presentation for the MPDA, we were allowed to do our presentations in our native habitat, informally and in English. The judges would skulk from one stall to another, patiently hearing the participants out before skewing them with sharpened spears of interrogative questioning, aiming their violent weapons at the weakest link of the armour.

Thankfully, I thrive under pressure. Nothing gets my blood pumping, my heart racing, and my brain juices boiling, bubbling, and bursting like a group of adults with hard-hitting questions. Yes, all those episodes of House, Xplay, and Anthony Bourdain were finally paying off.

The day started off with us packing all our lab equipment into a school bus. There were only 10 of us and they booked a school bus. Not since the last few days before the SPM have I had so much leg-room to share with my fellow students.

That's the only prominent part of the trip so to spare you the burden of reading my descriptions of the hazy oceans, I will dive into the science fair itself.

There wasn't really much good I can say about our fellow competitors, then again, there is not much good I can say about our product either. But boiling used cooking oil until it becomes sap? (Are you serious?) Statistical data on the SPM results for Mathematics? (My brain just dissolved from incredulity)

There were a few exceptions. But the only one I can truly say was impressive enough to warrant an award was the team from Penang Free School that made paint (as in Nippon, ICI kind of paint) from milk.

Anyway, the judges swung by sometime close to 1200hrs and we proceeded to give a five minute dissertation on why we should win first prize. The judges then challenged our application with questions about the accuracy of our data, the active compounds within our product, and a dozen other questions which were as easily shot down as giant alien mosquitoes with machine guns.

After that ordeal, we did nothing more but await the thronging visitors who would occasionally chance upon our booth. Then, we took turns explaining how our product was created, its reason of existence, and why it will not attain enlightenment.

Just before leaving, some people holding a certain cultured-milk-drink laminated logo swung by our stall to hear us out, while placing the said laminated paper right smack in the middle of our stall. Blatant advertisement aside, I expect to see some form of royalty if they decide to use the picture for promotional purposes.

The final denouement. The chief judge came by our stall and asked us to give our product's presentation once more. Except, it had to be done by one person within three minutes, using a voice recorder. Whether or not it was within three minutes I will never know, but this anomaly in human behaviour means only one thing...

We may be competing for the top prize!

Day 2
The day began differently. Instead of heading to school, I travelled over to my teacher's apartment block. I met up with two of my juniors who were also participating in the science fair in the engineering category.

The teacher swung by in her multi-purpose-vehicle and off we went to Institut Latihan Perindustrian Kepala Batas.

Wait, have we forgotten something? Damn! My two lab partners!

No, we aren't that forgetful. They had to sit for a paid-for mathematics assessment test. So off I went alone across the haze strewn landscape, where the sky and the sea merged into a single amorphous cloud of indistinguishable white.

Fickleness in choosing our parking gave us a few laughs as we passed the scouts who were out under the cloudy sun directing traffic.

Stepping into the hall, I quickly went about the task of re-establishing our base. Construction of the filtration and distillation apparatus was completed in a heartbeat, and before I could even set my roots into a quiet spot to browse through the latest issue of Nipponia, two middle-aged ladies came by and made inquiries.

Not soon after I have attended to them, explaining the various processes and uses involved in our experiments, more people shuffled by to listen. Very soon, I found myself in an unrelenting marathon session of talks about antihistamine and steam distillation, guava and quercetin, and anything else that was relevant to the project.

It was hot, humid, and cramped. I was soon soaked all over until two Malay ladies who had come by to ask about our product flapped their booklets at me in a futile attempt to decrease my core body temperature. I was sweating so profusely, a primary school student said I was melting to a friend. Believe me, this could have been the funniest thing to happen all morning.

Somewhere in between, a Malay lady strode towards me and asked for my teacher and lab partners. While I would have sincerely wished to say my lab partners had lost their way and were now in Kuala Lumpur, I forgot the Malay words for some reason and therefore told the truth; they were going to be late but were on the way.

Anyway, the lady wanted me to pass on a message to my teacher advisor, which I did through my pet pigeon, Nokia 1100. She couldn't hear me over the loud noise blaring over the speakers, and strained her poor bleeding legs back to our stall. I passed the message and she asked whether the lady had talked to the other school teachers. I replied in the negative.

Conclusion 1: We were going to receive at least, a consolation prize.

Some time later, she came back, and broke the news. Against all the odds of racism and favouritism, we won... First Place. Well, first in our category anyway.

My initial response, continue my presentation to a bunch of primary school kids on our project. In fact, the steady amount of visitors to our stall prevented me from relaying the message of our victory to my partners who were rushing over from the island.

Not long after my partners turned up, the judges came by and gave us possibly the most beautifully ugly laminated pink paper with the number “1” printed in bold. This we proudly stuck onto the retort stand holding a filter funnel.

Somewhere in between the excitement, I decided to pay an impromptu visit to Chung Ling High School Butterworth. They had fashioned a rubbish bin that used a light sensor to control a sliding lid. Sound familiar? Well, rubbish bins that automatically open their maws to swallow our gunk have been making their sinister appearance on silver screens worldwide since the advent of sci-fi films.

Not that I am demeaning them. The design was quite ingenious. The concept simple. Like an iPod Shuffle with only the “Play” button attached. And the circuitry combining a permanent magnet with a electromagnet to control the sliding lid was inspired. They thoroughly deserved their category's first place.

That is, if you actually took the time to look at what the other "engineers" came up with. A cylinder that digs holes? Haven't they been to a golf course, or at least watch one being built on tv?

Since the Butterworth boys gave us the tour of their project, it was only natural for us to invite them over to view our project. Just as I was getting into my stride explaining the uses of our product, our teacher advisor literally dragged me and another member of my team far, far away from our booth – leaving our team leader to continue the explanation.

She then proceeded to give me an LSD (Little Stupid Dream) induced berating about my apparent attempts to sabotage our chances of winning the overall prize. When I tried to explain the importance of treating your competitors as friends, she got into her 100-tonne truck of stubborn resolve and drowned me out by accusations of “not enjoying the pleasures of life” and threats upon my person if I somehow screw her chances of ever leading an overall champion winning team, by inviting our fellow finalists to view our product.

The rather painful tugging on my sleeves by the sudden vice-like grip of my teacher advisor only made the situation more hilarious than dangerous.

I admit, it would be nice to win. But seeing as I have lost countless times in countless competitions, I tend to treat victory exactly like defeat. With the lingering fact of legal racism practised in this country, I would rather eat my own vomit than thank the event organisers sincerely from the bottom of my heart for winning something.

So what does that leave me with? New friends and new lessons.

And although I was stuck in the same car, I got my chance to have a good laugh at my teacher advisor when she took a wrong turn on the highway home – heading to Kuala Lumpur instead of Penang.

Day 3
To school first. We have a presentation to perform.
Then, by car to the fair.
Haze, still there.
At the fair , we talked and talked,
Until my voice grated like chalk.
The end.

Day 4
Finally, it will be finished, over, and done with.

We arrived early for a change, and by bus too. It was the day one of us would receive a championship shield, and we wouldn't want to offend the organisers with our tardiness.

A few schools still sent teams to the fair, although most of the stalls were no longer manned, as it was the last day of the event. Even though we didn't need to, I gave talks on the scientific aspects of our product to students who swung by our stall.

They came all the way from somewhere far, far away. It would be a pity if they left with nothing.

About half-an-hour after we arrived at the hall, I was ushered away from our stall into the auditorium located a hundred metres away. There, we witnessed and experience first-hand the extreme efficiency of the event organisers in carrying out their duties.

We were first seated to the side. Then asked to vacate our seats. After we were placed at another row of seats to the middle-front, we were once more chased away by the man armed with poor-planning to another row somewhere to the side.

I would love to continue the story here, but we were asked once more to vacate our seats.

Then, once all the schools were gathered into the auditorium, we were given the honour of kick-starting the final round of presentations. Boy, it sure feels good to finally do a live presentation in English!

A round of applause later, and we were back in our seats, taking pot-shots at the other teams presenting their products. Among them, an apparent “Geneva competitor” with their innovative Nobel-prize winning product, the “Integrated Recycling Rubbish Bin”, which was nothing more than six multi-coloured hexagonal wooded bins nailed together.

Remember that article in The Star a few months ago that reported on the wasteful spending by certain universities? Those geniuses who send send their Nobel-prize hopefuls to scientific competitions in Geneva? Where the number of Malaysian participants make up the largest single group of entries from one nation?

Anyway, the apparent “innovators” came on stage to show us all pictures of them making the coffins... sorry, I mean Integrated Recycling Rubbish Bin, in the school workshop. The two boys, who barely exceeded the height of the chair they sat upon before being summoned on stage had participated in the fair by showing everyone the glorious letters of approval they had received from various Malaysian institutions of higher learning.

Let's see. If two boys small enough to play Hobbit #25 & Hobbit #26 can win approvals from their peers for creating a more inefficient waste collection system, and given first prize at some Malaysian inventions competition in Kuala Lumpur, I really don't want to know what their fellow competitors did to lose.

So, after the two boys finished their unnecessarily long presentation, they began showing us the glorious pieces of paper awarded to them for their “innovation”.

Funnily enough, it didn't end right there. The chief judge of the science fair, Dr Fong came onto stage after them to heap what seemed like high praise on the two Geneva bound boys. However, if one read between the odd pauses between the praises, one could almost hear the poisonous sarcasm leaking from the fine suit of professionalism that held Dr Fong back. He went on to ask all participants to emulate the two boys in commercialising their product, and then went on and on about how godlike the two were.

More speeches and a toilet run later, the painful “cenderahati istimewa” process began. Try as I may, I can't imagine M.I.T. giving prises to competition organisers, judges, and sponsors for doing their job.

After what seemed like an eternity of self praise, the actual prize giving ceremony was carried out in due fashion. But alas! Another flaw.

I am all for encouraging our children to go forth and (add suitable action here). However, to award prizes for coming in at 7th place?

This was after all, a multi-category science fair, and it was the last day. One would expect the prize giving ceremony to be a quick, dignified affair. Not an example of the Malaysian mentality – the tendency to award mediocrity.

Long story short, we lost the overall prize shoot-out. Chung Ling Butterworth trumped us with a dustbin that has the magical ability to open its lid automatically when it senses changes in light intensity.

Meaning?

A product which applies the basic principles of an airport glass door defeated an alternative source of anti-allergen.

What can I say?

On CSI: Crime Scene Investigation, Gil Grissom once said to a bemused Catherine Willows: “Bugs always win.” In science fairs, Grissom would be the bespectacled kid among ant farms; while Willows would be the kid with the volcano.

Oh well... Here in Malaysia, “Stuff that makes us lazier win.”