Immeasurable Sympathy

New words: Endogenous, Exogenous, Diegetic, Harangue, Pantheism.

This week on A Stray World:

• 1300 Penang Taxis Strike, Public Stunned by Non-news

Earlier this week, the Penang Federation of Taxi Drivers Association (PFTDA) went on a short lived strike to protest against what they deemed to be unfair harassment from the big men in big suits.

About 1300 cab drivers from the PFTDA showed undying loyalty to the manifestation of the phenomenon which will forever live on as "The Totally Meaningless & Forgettable Day without Penang Cabs". This brotherly loyalty can still be observed today in the taxi driver's staunch stance against taxi metres.

Unfortunately, their efforts and undying love for one another has been in vain, for the majority of the public have completely ignored this event.

"These stupid people and their stupid rules!" Ah Rod bellows, proud cab driver and member of the Taxi Association of Penang Against the Meter (Tax-AssPAiM). "We don't want your stupid rules saying we have use meters and where proper uniforms."

"I own this ruby-red jewel of god," he says, pointing towards a recently repainted Proton Saga. A much celebrated antique model from 1990. "It is my right to wear what I want and to charge as I please for this is MY CAR!"

"Now what do the public know about our plight? Here we are eking out a living by driving you to your destinations in our cars and you have the gall to tell us how we should ask you to pay up and what we should wear?"

"After suffering for so long, we finally organized a strike to tell everyone we won't take this anymore. YOU CAN'T TELL ME WHAT TO DO!"

"And what do the public do? They have the bloody nerve to take the bus or carpool to work! We had to end our strike after one day because the public would not support us."

Among the reasons sited for the lack of public support were the absolute non-commitment of commuters to take an unpaid leave to share drinks with taxi drivers at nasi lemak stalls, and ungrateful media reporters who have forgotten the numerous times cab drivers have been asked to "Follow that car!".

A city official though, begs to differ.

"This shows the people are undeniably apathetic towards taxi drivers in Penang," states Encik Some Sudu In. "If they were dependent upon taxis for daily commute, we wouldn't be seeing the great rise in the number of personal transport. And more tellingly, we would have received hundreds of thousands of emails other than spam calling us insensitive pigs for harming the innocent, ever client friendly taxi driver."

These are what some had to say about the strike:

MT, student: "My neighbour is a taxi driver. I don't like him. So I keyed his car while he was on strike."

Veronica, tourist: "I only trust Bali taxis. So I made my boss buy me a car while I was on holiday."

Kim, office clerk: "I usually avoid taxis for no other reason other then my intense dislike of them."

Wong, retired: "I have nothing to do, so sometimes I go into a cab and pretend I am a tourist out to kill someone. The cab drivers will always drop me of halfway without demanding pay. I must admit, one day without blowing their minds is quite intolerable and I hope they don't do it again.

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Now playing: SNoW - NightmaRe (final mix)
via FoxyTunes

Sphere of Nadir

New words: Plamp, Gewgaw, Gimcrack, Pareo, Bandeau.

This week on, A Stray World,

• Malaysians inspired by Iraqi win, plans to commit acts of terror.

This month has seen its fair share of Malaysian sportsmen achieving their fair share of worldly recognition. From Nicol David and her recent double win in less than two weeks, to the abysmal performance of the Malaysian football squad, to the little known Ibrahim bin Amir who progressed to the finals of the Asian 9-Ball tour.

In all the clamour for ratings and attention, it is very apparent that the Malaysian football team wishes to draw as little attention to itself as possible. That will soon change if a group of patriotic students get their way.

"We are going to blow up Parliament," said the spokeswoman for the Death for Football Soccer Club. Clad in a full length burqa and face veil, she juggles what looks like a packet of plastic explosives wrapped in newspaper clippings of fan mail to the Malaysian football team.

"So unambitious," said the man to her right, identified as a nobody insurance salesman. "I am going to destroy Bukit Jalil Stadium. That's sure to make an impact."

You are probably wondering why these mediocre examples of successful Malaysians are planning acts of terror.

"We are great supporters of the Malaysian football team. All my life, I have been a supporter of Penang. I have never watched an English Premiership match and I have never donned the colours of any foreign football club t-shirt," said the burqa clad spokeswoman. "So it was a gut wrenching experience watching our national squad fall to pieces during the Asian Cup. But the good news was, Iraq won the damn tournament!"

"That gave us ideas. Since the Malaysian government is totally useless in building a proper football team, we, the people of Malaysia, will take up arms, like the Iraqis, to build our own brand of tough-as-nails, never-say-die football players."

"We have everything planned out. First, we will destroy or attempt to destroy every single prominent building or structure in Malaysia. Then, suicide bombers will blow themselves up every day at densely populated areas."

"Then, we will plant explosives in the fields of every single stadium in every state. Hopefully, this will result in the dismemberment of the entire football management which will result in extreme chaos that will, with the grace of god, plunge the country into a pseudo-nuclear holocaust."

"Our talented football players will then, have no choice but to pack their bags and ply their trade in other countries like Indonesia, Vietnam, and Thailand. I am sure they will be treated with the minimal respect and dignity United Nations certified asylum seekers expect in this country."

"While we continue our patriotic acts of terror in the Peninsula, our foreign based football players will have garnered enough skill and experienced enough hardship to finally unite as a team for regular training sessions under a foreign coach in Thailand."

"By then, whether they like it or not, they will become the shining beacon of a civil-war torn country. Their every action will be heavily scrutinized, and every win punctuated by deadly gunfire into the heavens."

"Then, they will go on to win the World Cup, which will unite the entire country under the banner of peace through sports."

"Hopefully, I will be able to shed tears of joy when we finally win the coveted trophy four years after we begin our campaign of patriotic destruction."
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Now playing: LAST ALLIANCE - Shissou
via FoxyTunes

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.”

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.

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.

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 7^th 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.”

The Simple

New words: Callow, graven, atheromatous, vituperative, recidivist, omerta, boondocks, avuncular, pastiche.

This week on A Stray World:

• Little to none women reps, because they don't care what men say,
• Refugees celebrate World Refugee Day, thoughts and comments.

First Issue
Women, Family and Community Development Minister Datuk Seri Shahrizat Abdul Jalil noted the record low numbers of women involved in politics.

For the record, it's:

• 9.6% of Parliament;

• 25% of Dewan Negara;

• 6.9% of state assemblies;

• 12.5% of local authorities; and

• 7.6% of board members of Bursa listed companies.

Proactive steps have been suggested to increase their numbers, but first, we must identify the reason behind the lack of boobs on the board.

Interviews with Mrs Dama, a housewife, suggests it has to do with the men.

“They are callow idiots,” she begins with vicious tenacity. “I have thirteen children and what does my god-damn husband do? He goes and ***** another woman.”

But surely this has nothing to do with Parliament.

“Let me set the record straight,” Mrs Dama said. “I have to handled thirteen bawling children at home with no support from the ******* **** in his ******* *** smoking his ******* weed. Now you are asking me if I want to talk to another hundred or so men trapped in a windowless room without soap operas and television so I can at least pretend I am listening? I think not.”

“What my mother is trying to say is the men in there are just pieces of meat to her,” interjects Susi, the eldest daughter. “You see, my dad treats my mum like the sex toy she was expected to be. So you must understand her less than tolerant attitude towards the MPs who can conjure up classical sexist jokes on the spot in front of the national body of governance.”

The interview was terminated prematurely because the half-naked father who had just woken up was demanding beef stew for lunch. Needless to say, I left before the wife slaughtered the family cow.

Is this true? Do women avoid managerial positions because to them, men are just pieces of meat? They are not worth the time of effort?

“Look, we can't have women leaders because they are distracting,” said KG, a Parliamentarian. “Those bouncing balls in sacks are just too enticing, they make me forget what I am going to say. Every time someone raises an issue and a woman MP responds, I can do nothing else but try and picture her naked. Can you really blame us for making sexist jokes? We are healthy, adult males.”

However, leaders of the nation are expected to be more... mature, about the situation. Surely the old men in power are... 'steadier' than the average Malaysian man.

“We are not 'steady',” KG responded. “Look, there is a reason why UMNO, MCA, MIC and the rest of the gang have women divisions. It's to get them working for us, but never us working for them. We don't have to see them, we don't have to hear them. But we get to joke about them and during the annual party conventions, hit on them. This arrangement also virtually ensures the next president of any party, and subsequently, the Prime Minister, will be a man.”

“Proper women are like toilet seats,” he concludes. “They should learn to support us and take our crap. Not make their own crap.”

Second Issue
At an unknown moment in time during this week, some people celebrated World Refugee Day. Because our former intrepid reporter, Ahn Ser Mi, died from bird flu during an interview with the H5N1 virus, we have replaced her with Ahn Ser Yu, her sister.

This week, Ahn Ser Yu interviews a bunch of KL kids regarding the aforementioned celebration.

Ahn Ser Yu: World Refugee Day. Your thoughts?

Kid 1: What kind of holiday is that?

Ahn: It's not a holiday. At least, not holiday celebrated here in Malaysia.

Kid 2: I know what it's about. It's about people who are refugees. That like, some kind of deviant teaching.

Ahn: Not at all. They don't exactly welcome the refugee status.

Kid 1: So they have been forced into it! Why hasn't anyone called the police?

Kid 2: Don't worry, I have them on speed dial (dials a number on his mobile phone).

Ahn: When I say refugees, I mean people who have ran away from oppressive governments or some other situation that has forced them to leave their homes behind. Like the Karens from Myanmar.

Kid 1: Are you serious? They couldn't spread their deviant teachings in their homes. So they came here to do the devils bidding instead.

Ahn: You aren't listening.

Kid 2: Hey don't worry. I just got off the phone. Apparently the Malaysian government doesn't support the refugees who enter this country although it's a UN thing. In fact, we actively seek to extradite them.

Kid 1: Yeah. That's cool.

Ahn: Kids. I was born into a family of refugees.

Under mysterious circumstances, both KL kids were found dead in a drain a few days after the interview. Ahn Ser Yu claims she was eating beef stew at the time of the incident.

Politically correct profanity:

Instead of “shit storm”,try the more gentile “stinking rain”.

Of Herbs Squenched

This week, a special report on the Medicinal Plant Discovery Award competition.

Your humble servant, this faceless writer of numerous English articles has performed what could easily be described as the unthinkable. Like an American doughnut seller frying char koay teow. Not since the Chinese story telling competition in Primary 3 have I willingly participated in a project that required me to speak perfect, lucid, fluent, perfect, grammatical-error-free, Chinese.

Throughout most of this year, I have been spending a significant amount of my time preparing reports for the said competition. The objective: to build a health product or medicine from any local plant. The limitations placed upon us were that it be an original product, and its mode of application, external.

You may imagine that would be a humongous undertaking. To do what the gigantic pharmaceutical industry does every day every day with the nonchalance of a hungry lumberjack in the forest. We, with an exhaustive supply of research papers, decided to use the guava by sifting through dozens of wide-ranging reports before a cursory description of paste made from the said fruit caught our eye.

Before anyone accuses us of plagiarism, allow me to point out the original report amounted to nothing more than the boiling of fruit juice with the cellulose remnants of the fruit until it attained a gel-like consistency. We took our cue from the slightly exaggerated description of the guava's medicinal properties.

As with any organic substance, heat easily denatures the biological substances within the guava. That was one among many flaws we pointed out in the report which incidentally, didn't provide any empirical data on the effectiveness of the guava derived product as a medical cream.

Countless hours were spent perfecting the processes involved. It began with an ambitious bid to imitate the cream-like substance from the report which inspired us. Unfortunately, we had no expert help in the matter so we pretty much threw various (expensive) substances together with the haphazardness of rats among a hundred different French cheeses. The Internet, gave various details on the steps we needed to take to create a guava cream; and as detailed as the instructions were, we failed to create the light, creamy lotion we hoped to obtain.

This was where Occam's Razor came into play. Instead of creating a terrific product from complex instruction and expensive chemicals in a high school lab with equipment older than the family car; we simplified our steps and curtailed our ambitious pursuits to focus on creating a respectably effective product from high school lab equipment older than the Pentium Celeron.

The product was quickly derived and the report sent between nerve-wrecking exams, concerned parents, worried teachers, and relatively horrible exam results on my part. Not long after the entire melodrama of the first season, the networks renewed our series and we found ourselves in Kuala Lumpur for the finals.

I cursed my bad luck when the call came in telling us we needed to do the entire presentation of our project in Chinese, if we wanted to win. After risking my life by staying up till the wee hours of the morning to get myself stung by Aedes mosquitoes, testing the products on the bumps produced, compiling the English report, and designing the English presentation (which had to be presented using PowerPoint), I didn't find the Chinese language request foisted upon us with the brazen rudeness of Simon Cowell in a gay and lesbian convention singing “You Will Never Walk Alone” as their drunk induced theme very pleasing at all.

After all the public railings (by public, I meant me) against the organizers, the entire presentation was translated and given a face-lift while I attempted to give a credible delivery in a language I have good reason to avoid like a prostitute dressed as a drunken clown.

My team was awfully patient with me. Embarrassment. Supreme, unsurpassed embarrassment is the perfect phrase describing my initial attempts. Finally, on the day we should all be departing for Kuala Lumpur, the teacher and my partners finally teamed up to give me three-to-one voice coaching lessons. The entire morning was not wasted as I finally hit my stride.

I took on the lecturing parlance of a China Central Television (CCTV) and Phoenix TV talk show host. Trust me, it's less embarrassing to to talk like a pretentious, loud oaf than stutter around my materials enough to get me nominated for the Chinese version of Forest Gump.

Friday was a blur of motion, sights, sounds, touch and smell as we rumbled towards KL on one of many commercial buses plying the North-South expressway. Evening traffic jams, taxis and LRTs phased in and out of existence until the final foot powered travel to the First Business Inn. This block of glass and stone, as with many other hotels with ostentatious names, failed to reflect the “First” title bestowed upon it.

It was a two-a-room arrangement in a three by three by three box with lighting that would be as illuminating as Edison's first light bulb. The showers were confusing in their lack of instructions which resulted in two consecutive cold showers at dusk and dawn. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner though not gastronomical art by any lengths of imagination, were delicious and generously served. Considering the entire affair was fully paid for by the event organizers, is was absolutely perfect.

The luck of the draw placed both teams from my school in consecutive order, right before morning tea. Needless to say, we spent all of Friday night and Saturday morning rehearsing our presentation. Nervous wreck wouldn't be the words to describe my state of mind. Silent resignation would be more apt. As with all pessimists, I became more fluent in my part of the presentation the less I thought of my chances of winning.

And by the damnation of fate, somehow I managed to pull it off.

Saturday morning was thereafter irrelevant, and the evening was spent roaming Times Square with my project members. One of whom unexpectedly, turned out to be an avid collector of soft drink bottles and cans. Yes, such a hobby does exist. And according to the animated proprietor of the speciality Coca-Cola store, there are only two such stores in all of Malaysia. And he was the proud owner of both.

Rain poured with the exact intensity of the storms back home in Penang. But somehow, they seem louder in KL. Scientifically speaking, it's probably because of the abundance of concrete, zinc, and aluminium taking the blunt of the raindrops. I prefer to think of it as karma-inspired drumming by the forces of nature.

The evening faded with the heavy rain, and dusk led to the hall of some primary school large enough to fit a aboriginal settlement. There, we feasted among thousands of others upon generous portions of food, water, tea, herbal drinks, herbal vodka, herbal biscuits and herbal sweets. The fact it was organised by the same people behind the Medicinal Plant Discovery Award competition meant the event was peppered with various vendors endorsing diverse products seemingly built out of bizarre uncommon fruit and plant parts. But who would complain when highly competitive vendors despatch overly-friendly ladies in shorts tiny enough to double as underwear.

The results came in. And we, incredulously, won third place. Our juniors won second. Of course, I was probably the only one who felt the essential feelings of disbelief that lend me my personality. I felt our product wasn't really that good. However, the others could not be any happier, which makes me happy for them.

Saturday was driven out of the drains with the pressure of the nights cold to hot shower. Then, a night of celebration by staying up all night with the juniors who had invited some female company. Needless to say, I stayed out of their conversation to concentrated on the go puzzles I have yet to finish even after one year.

The company turned in sometime after 3.00 a.m. Breakfasted at 8, then launched ourselves to Penang. A four hour journey home that was eventful by the artfully carved mountains we passed as we headed North on the expressway. The journey has ended, and we have won something. I suppose I should be satisfied.

Bird & Beats

New words: Monomania, Feckless, Uppity, Bastinado.

This week on A Stray World:

• Bahasa Melayu becomes Bahasa Malaysia, Group Urges Government to Stick to Bahasa;
• Bird Flu Hits Selangor, Deciding to Skip Penang for Health Reasons;
• Dear Prime Minister.

Issue 1
After careful deliberation between a cup of kopi-O and Milo ais, the Man has decided to rename Bahasa Melayu to Bahasa Malaysia, which in a twist, is actually a reinstatement of its former name, which in itself was a rebranding of the original name, which incidentally came from the same language that spawned Bahasa Indonesia.

Confused? Don't be, because for a nominal fee, you can now join the elite group of citizens comprising 99% of the population (the statistics have to right, because they come from uninformed guesses) who don't know anything about it.

“For years I have been calling it Bahasa, because saying the full six syllables reminds me of the devil, and my boss is hell, in the literal sense” says Mr. D, a witchdoctor currently teaching metaphysics at Universiti Sains Malaysia (USM). “Do you know that all of my students refer to it as Bahasa as well? I don't rally see why I should start uttering the full title.”

“Yeah, I agree,” says Faz, a metaphysics student who sells herbal remedies in USM. “Malaysia and Melayu are both three syllable words. They are a mouthful to pronounce. Just look at the Australians. They call themselves Aussies because it's so much easier on the tongue.”

“I did some maths,” a bespectacled young lady enthusiastically chips in.

“It takes one extra second to say Malaysia or Melayu and three more seconds to write it down on our exam sheets. If we have to write on average 30 Bahasa Malaysia in each exams, we will have wasted 90 seconds per exam. Multiply this by 4 and we have wasted 360 seconds. We spend at least twelve studying before coming to university. That's 4320 seconds of our lives gone down the drain. And I haven't even factored in the times we spent writing the extra words in our essays and practice sheets.”

“Now do you see the REAL PROBLEM?” quips Mr D. “That is why we will take this opportunity to announce the foundation of a new NGO. We call ourselves the No-Ma-No-Me, the No Malaysia No Melayu.”

“Our agenda is to get the official policy makers to use only, and exclusively, the term "Bahasa" as the official reference to the most spoken language in Malaysia,” says Faz.

When queried on how this would benefit the nation, they responded: “The reduction in the writing of this long winded but commonly used term will reduce the risk of carpal tunnel syndrome, especially in the writing of an essay of the national language, by two hours.”

“Besides, it aids nation building by allowing the Malays and non-Malays to stake their claim on the language equally because of the apparent neutrality of the word” adds Mr D.

Who knows, maybe one day we too will remove the “Eng” from “English” because of the need to place our stake on that language as well.

Issue 2
Bird flu has struck Malaysia, killing an indefinite number of chickens in Sungai Buluh, Selangor. However, one is puzzled as to how this disease managed to slip through the Northern States without leaving a large number of dead birds behind.

A Stray World now presents an exclusive interview with a genetic expression of the H5N1 virus who calls him/herself Alex.

Field correspondent Ahn-Ser-Mi reports.

Ahn: Good morning Alex?
Alex: ...
Ahn: Um, so why did you skip the Northern States to go straight for Selangor?
Alex: Me... Alex.
Ahn: Yes we have established that, Alex. Why did you decide on Selangor first?
Alex: No... You Alex, me Jesse.
Ahn: (Ahem!) Okay. If you insist, you can call me Alex and I will call you Jesse.
Alex: No, no, no! Me Alex. You Jesse. You Charlie.
Ahn: (Ahem) Sorry I have to blow my nose.
Alex: This Petri dish too small for all of us. I leave. No, I leave! I leave as well! Leave! Leave!Leave!
Ahn: Somebody help! I think I am dying.

Interview suspended due to death of reporter:

Ahn-Ser-Mi (2006 – 2007)

Issue 3
A hearty congratulations to Prime Minister Abdullah Ahmad Badawi for his marriage to Jeanne Abdullah. No cynicisms or ironies attached. I am genuinely happy for you.

Alternative Profanity: Instead of “asshole”, try “proximal chasm”.

Shroud Indiscriminate

New Phrase:
Shit, the sea is cool. (Attributed to a visiting friend who enjoys roaming the watery kingdom of Queensbay, Penang)

This week on A Stray World, we explore culture.

It is a feeling of great anxiety. As if the mind is being ravaged by tonnes of pop-idols and Hollywood remakes. Great goblins of trash espousing the benefits of fame and fortune, arrogance and vanity like a cup of oily, overpriced Columbian coffee served in a Starbucks kiosk.

Yet this is the nature of society as we know it. The Muslims of this country are partially correct about the detrimental influence of the Western nations. The effects have been immediate and far-reaching. An entire generation scarred by the repetitiveness of reality singing contests and pretentious fairytale courtships.

However, one need not blame the West for every deterioration of our national consciousness. We can start by blaming ourselves.

Malaysia is a country rich in heritage and blah, blah, blah. A string of clichés and connectors repeated so often it has attained the same level of effectiveness in expression as the winner of the second Malaysian Idol.

How much do we actually know about our country anyway? First, we should ask ourselves, do we really love our country?

I do love my country. I love the land, I love the people. But I detest the law and its enforcers.

In this regard, I point to the first settlers of this country, the Orang Asli. Specifically, of Peninsular Malaysia.

How many of them can you name? This group of individuals lassoed into the “others” category in the National Registration Department form.

Negrito, Penan, Jahai, Batek are among the strange and wonderful names that have persisted through the ravages of time. As much as I enjoy learning about these people, it always saddens me when I realise there will always be something missing. Like a misplaced earplug when Paris Hilton is playing on the radio.

These people with their own unique language, music, food and culture are being slowly and steadily assimilated into mainstream society. Where women are victimised and children are raped with the frequency of Hollywood making a sub-par sequel to a blockbuster cult classic.

To quote an example of this blatant disregard for our own cultural heritage, just remember the Kelantan government has an active “loyalty points” programme where a Muslim who marries an aboriginal (and the subsequent conversion to Islam) gets RM10,000.

Another example is the rather vacuous excuse of religious purity, invoked for the immediate and future dispersal of any showroom piece of the ghosts and ghouls and otherworldly legends pervading this land of many peoples and faces.

To paraphrase, what sick bastards wouldn't want to see a ghost trapped in a bottle?

It is with great pain that I realise most of my acquaintances flatly refuse to learn anything and experience anything that they are unfamiliar with. Though I can be accused of being prejudiced in this manner, I can flatly state that my prejudices come from direct experience. I have come to detest modern Hollywood movies because of their emphasis on special-effects and explosions, with little regard to the story at hand.

This is a conviction arising from the rebellion of the mind after the umpteenth outing to the cinema to accompany my buddies to watch yet another hyped up million-dollar budget film. I don't mind wasting my time and money for my friends, I just don't like to repeat the process.

It is not the desire to be different that I say what I say and do what I do. It is a desire to learn about humanity. In a sense, to study myself. Though admittedly, it is also a rebellion against sex-induced rap/pop songs awashing the landscape like a plague of Manchester United fans after winning the Premiership.

Variety is a gift to the mundane. And I do welcome the fact that my acquaintances have varied tastes. However, what I never welcome is to close ones mind and heart. Though I try not to judge anyone else but myself, it is terribly hard to do so. Particularly when I know what the flaw is.

Empathy is something we can all learn to pick up. And for the average Malaysian out there who is content to listen to only one side of the story, to make judgements preceding the evidence, I can only hope the damage they will inflict will be limited to themselves. Unfortunately, that is not the case, due to the relative scale of this syphilis-like affliction.

“Read less, watch more TV,” House.

So I see the sharp jagged, serrated mountains of the Andes; and scale the vast deserts of Morocco; and I found myself flying into the oceans and inhaled the blue-blood of the Earth. I find that all entrancing. Wonderful. Achieving an euphoric state incomparable to anything else I have ever experienced. I could do this in person, but TV is cheaper.

After something like this, how can anyone even consider cuddling up in an air-conditioned room devoid of anything but the mechanical precision of modern man pervading every facet of the white bland walls.

On Sunday, I was witness to an event which I regretted paying for. A thousand Chinese orchestra students simultaneously playing to an audience of ordinary folks.

The event was to begin at 2000 hours. It began at 2010, when the VIPs turned up.

When the night was suppose to be about the music of Chinese culture became a brazen political landfill of campaign speeches by our VIPs. At last, the instruments began to hum to the beat of the conductor more than an hour after the designated time.

The lack of harmony was obvious to anyone with an ear for music. The beats were erratic and some sections of the medleys became entire mudflats of dirt and debris. When the organisers awarded themselves the Malaysian Book of Records for the most number of musicians in a performing band, I had to exit to the toilets before the mediocrity and absurdity of the entire event liquefied my mind and damned my soul.

Is this what our culture has become? A series of Crazy Frog ringtones? Where insane acts of blatant disregard for culture and decency have become our culture? Where we choose to selectively blame the West for our forsaking of our culture, yet ignore the fact that Western culture actually encourages their people to discover and learn about others.

Rap didn't just come about. Its roots can be traced back to Ghanaian music. It was a profound form of poetry and art that has since evolved into the superficial land of music videos filled with guns, girls and gyrations. Yet this is American culture. More sex. More booze. More fun.

What about us? What about our culture? What of our music? What of our people?

It's a wonder that it is the work of foreigners who seek to protect our culture. While we busily scramble to remove every trace of it.

Alternative profanity for the week:
Try the more feminine "cow dung" instead of "bull shit".

Cold and Wet

New words: Fillip, Caulk, Gunwale, Apercu, Callisthenics.

This week on A Stray World:

• What men think women want men to think what women should wear;
• What Parliament Thinks of Members of Parliament;
• Substitute Profanity of the Week.

Issue 1
We come back to the alleged issue of discrimination once more, against the fairer sex. This topic has been explored before, but then, I did it from an egalitarian socialist point of view.

Now, for the benefit of macho men out there who think women should be seen (preferably covered with black window curtains), I bring you: Mr. Makan Kaki.

"Women are naturally modest. And besides, we are Asian. We shouldn't be pressured to follow the corrupt Westerners with their short-stringed bikinis and low cut tops," opines Mr. Makan Kaki, a fictional representation of the Malaysian macho man.

"But sir," I said, "Don't Orang Asli women whose ancestors have lived on this land for many generations wear almost nothing but loincloths and beads? Surely that's an Asian culture."

"They must have inherited it from the West," retorts the red-faced Mr. Makan Kaki, "They are immigrants from the Burmese region of Asia. Any map will show that region lies to the West of Malaysia."

"And besides. Those women know their place in society now after the Malays emigrated en-mass into the Malay Peninsular from Sumatera," continues our affable friend. "Back then, these women had equal rights as men in inheritance, power, knowledge, respect and social status as men. They even had the right to walk about half-naked and reject suitors! What kind of sick society was that?"

"Luckily, the new immigrants brought with them paternal rights and they instilled those values into those women."

"But sir," I began with good reason, "By 'instilling their value' as you say, they began pillaging the villages, killing the men, raping the women, and capturing women and children to be used as sex slaves. This trading of humans didn't come to an end until the British came to power."

"They knew nothing about us! They destroyed our culture!" he spluttered. "They removed our Sultans from power and tried to give equal rights to every one with their Malayan Union nonsense. If it weren't for the rise of national consciousness, who knows what our nation would be like today?"

"But didn't the Malays did the same thing when they established Melaka and subsequently proceeded to invade Orang Asli territory? Didn't they 'destroy culture' as well?"

"Oh don't be so high and mighty. You Chinese did it too when you came here with your opium," snapped Makan Kaki. with increasing ferocity "At least we gave them religion."

"I admit, my ancestors did unsavoury things as well," said I "By the way, your point also brings up something interesting as well... You just acknowledged your immigrant status as well. Besides the fact the Orang Asli had a belief system of their own as well which the Malays tried to wash away with Islam after the raping and enslaving."

At this point in the interview. I found myself with a royal keris stuck 12 centimetres deep into my abdomen. Needless to say, I died a horrible death.

Issue 2
What do you mean I didn't die?!? Don't you know how much I was looking forward to it?

Anyway, our next session begins with Parliament.

"So Parliament, what do you think of our elected representatives?" I questioned the august building.

"Their are smart MPs and polite MPs.
Stupid MPs and rude MPs.
There are greedy MPs and generous MPs.
There are hard-working MPs and lazy MPs.
There is a disabled MP and able-bodied MPs.
There are women and there are children MPs.
But at the end of the day,
The elected representatives,
are your MPs."

Issue 3

Beginning this week, I will start giving suggestions for popular profanity.

Today, I feature the rather mild: "Holy shit!"

Instead of "Holy shit!", try "Ecclesiastical excrement!"

That all for the end of the week.

As the Jahai say: The spirits are are listening. The Earth is listening. The people are listening. Be well.

Hard Knocks

Swale, Trellis, Arbour, Riposte, Peripatetic, Battue, Creel, Pekoe, Deke, Mastic, Chancre, Calcifuges, Fetid, Nadir, Alarum, Tipple, Atavistic.

This week's edition of A Stray World features:

• The buildings of Malaysia

The inherent architecture of a country is a mirror of public consciousness.

As the majestically decadent structures of Paris represent her people's obsession with the luxuries of life over the plights of the impoverished, stark contrasts are seen with the single-story circular buildings of old Beijing streets emphasising family unity over outward opulence.

What then can be said about the buildings of Malaysia, which admittedly, can't boast much in terms of history, as most of the historical buildings are in the process of being torn down, if not in severe disrepair?

It is by choice, by the dictation of the voice of greed that our seniors in power have chosen to build over the old with supposedly modern infrastructures of development. As we compete with our enemies, imagined or otherwise, to build the tallest towers as a symbol of class and culture, it would do to take note that in Italy, the arguable centre of fashion and lifestyle, some cities have enacted rules forbidding buildings to grow beyond a certain height.

Enactments in place before the advent of skyscrapers!

Does modernization hold the chains of hope for this land, or will it be the anchor that pulls us all into a quagmire of cultural monotony?

In little less than one month, no less than four reports have been filed on our pride and joy, the modern buildings of governance, of breaking under the weight of time.

Barely a decade into service and cracks have broken through the ceilings, burst pipes have flooded entire floors, and red-faced ministers have spluttered out blame on anyone but themselves.

Apparently, maintenance of the structures is one of the reasons, though correctly pointed out, not the chief reason. Which begs the question, what form of government would employ lazy monkeys to staple water pipes into administrative buildings?

It is an open secret government contracts are given to bumiputera contractors simply for being bumiputeras. When that happens every single day, every month, for every year since the NEP, you can't blame these people for shucking the responsibility for the job.

After all, if you possess the distinct advantage of living on the sale of personal responsibility, wouldn't you be tempted too?

The government has taken note too, seeing from their press statements in Malay entrepreneur development forums and whatnots.

Not surprisingly, nothing has been implemented so far to fix the broken sprocket. Policies have to take the racial factor into account. While an egalitarian solution is definitely preferable, election results won't reflect the satisfaction derived from strong, long-lasting structures of governance.

It is with sad reflection that old wooden kampung houses in rural areas have outlasted modern plastic and PVC.

Why is that the case? Perhaps the only satisfying answer lies with the builder.

At the end of the day, we are left with nothing more than the hope that these buildings will outlast their creators, to serve a future generation as well as they are serving the present one.

I(m)jok(ing)

Ethology, Antiphonal, Polyamory, Kinesics, Divigate, Tangentially, Sinecure, Halcyon, Rapacious.

This week on A Stray World, we explore, by-elections!

The bane of humanity, governance.

Where there are people, there exists hierarchy. The only difference is the form of hierarchy. In this instance, it is known as democracy, though kakistocracy does come to mind.

Through a fortunate series of events known as 'hitsuzen' we have enjoyed the staging of two by-elections within the span of two months.

First the Batu Talam by-election.

Let's see. Citizens deprived of a great leader. Check.
A multi-racial contractual party contests again. Check.
A Chinese majority opposition party that is multi-racial in principle. Check.

Looks like a clear cut victory for the good guys then. After all, they came in promising lots and lots of goodies and swag, stuff you would never receive if you voted for the DAP.

Watching TV3's Berita Utama, all I heard were good things about the Barisan Nasional while the reporters painted the opposition as inept simpletons out to "raise issues for votes".

To quote Datuk Fictional: "Don't vote for the opposition. The rakyat knows only the BN can bring developement to the people. We have so many component parties representing all the various races led by the very capable UMNO."

"The only thing the opposition knows how to do well, and very well they do so, is to raise issues in Parliament, Now what use is that to the government to raise issues in Parliament? They should kow-tow to us for even allowing them to speak in our godly presence."

"Once again, I say, vote for the mega-super-party BN. Because your constituency will only receive funds for developement if you vote for us."

Well, that was what he said telepathically.

Truth be told, my trust in all forms of media has been reduced to "edit" status, where my mind does its own reconstruction of events portrayed, sans the patriotic messages.

Every moment in time The Star reports on the sanctity of the Barisan Nasional, I flip the page. I would not have done that if they gave a balanced account of the opposition parties at the same time.

Prime example: Kelantan.

I was surprised by a sudden article on the Islamic state by The Star a few months back. The state government actually gives land rights to the non-Malays. Couple this with my own National Service experience, where those opposed to my views of a fair-and-square policy were not opposed, if not downright supported by my Kelantanes friend there, I can safely conclude Kelantan is more Malaysian (in terms of equal rights) than the BN can ever be.

To Ijok, and the same issues are being played about.

What's interesting this time is the amount of goodies promised by the government. Sudden unveiling of grand development projects and promises to fix long damaged public amenities come to fore, provided the people vote for the ruling coalition.

And there you have it.

A supreme ruling party with no suitable challenger steam-rolling and browbeating every one else into rakyat-layered kaya. I see little reason to register as a voter, since the only choice I have is the only choice given.

Defiance/Compliance

Bivouac, Middlemarch, Shindy, Fatalist, Enid, Mauser, Mien, Escudo, Ordinal.

As the general Malaysian blogosphere knows, a few Malaysian politicians age twenty something and above has been throwing about choice words regarding the Malaysian blog community.

A quick recap:

Politician A claimed most bloggers were unemployed women and blah blah blah.

Politician B called for the registration of all Malaysian bloggers.

Politician C, and D, and E, and F, and G... ad infinitum, agree with one or the other.

There is a common consensus among the politicians (in power) that the views of people who are considered 'extremist' or 'a threat to social harmony' expressing opinions that offer nothing more than a drop of oil into the ocean that is the Internet, should be printed and shredded to strips of paper noodles.

Since we all know the government is all about social harmony, besides being a bunch of people who take our money whether we like them or not, it is relatively inevitable the Barisan Nasional govenment will start a nationwide drive to register bloggers in Malaysia.

How will they carry out this form of intellectual suppression?

I can only guess it will start with a voluntary program at the beginning of the year, where Malaysian bloggers will be invited to add their names to a growing database for a Malaysian Book of Records entry, because the only other motivation involves money and free food, which would be contrary to the government's healthy lifestyle drive.

The devious plot thus carried out, the government will then release statistical figures manipulated so it would seem Malaysia is the number one country in blogs per hundred citizens.

Very soon, there will remain only a hardcore group of bloggers hosting their puny sites of resistance on American servers with the paranoia of Fox Mulder and Gregory House.

They will form an online cult dedicated to the preaching of Freedom of Speech and Freedom of Expression. Twin gods considered illegal by the National Fatwa Council, who will issue a verdict: "We condemn any online activity of any kind involved in the spread of lies, slander, and inconvenient truths which most people are smart enough to distinguish anyway."

"This is a further expansion to the trading of stocks online, which is completely unacceptable although it is not much different from trading stock in the Bursa Saham."

"Haram. Absolutely 150,000,000% haram."

Here then is a brief guide to all bloggers out there who will one day, meet expensively dressed government officers with gold laptops at your doorstep asking for your DNA sample:

1. If they ask you if you are a blogger, answer 'yes' if you are female and 'no' if you are male. This will appeal to their logic and hopefully, result in a less violent treatment of your anus once you are safely hidden behind concrete walls.
2. If you are given a form to fill, add as many details as possible. If your name is a continuous strings of 'son of', make sure you add the names of your grandfather, great-grandfather, great-great-grandfather... for at least two hundred generations. If you are asked to fill in your address, fill in your work address, your parent's address, your girlfriend's/boyfriend's/partner's/mistresses'/married-sex-partner's/ex-wives' address, the Prime Minister's residence, your Parliamentary representative, and your home address.
   The logic behind this is the known fact that government bureaucracy will result in the most detailed forms being filed under the "We will look at them after a decade cabinet".
3. Don't have children. They might want to become the government servants wearing expensive Armani suits paid for by grumpy taxpayers.

I am really looking forward to the government clamping down on us bloggers, really I am! Just to see how badly their screw up taxpayer money this time.

Note to Self

Colonnade, Bower, Mestizo, Paucity, Commode, Leitmotif, Awl, Ingle, Hooch.

"Where have the jokes gone?" You may ask. "Where is the vindictive appraisal of society and its misgivings? Where is the honest reflection and where are the bloody fake news?"

A while back, I responded to what I deemed unnecessary demand on the part of my friend to return to a more personalised version of a blog when I began experimenting with fake news - with a parody entry of myself using profanity not usually heard in this continent in the entry otherwise known as I, Rewarp.

After all, this was my, MY, part of the world that I was devastatingly proud to call my own. To write as I please and to hell with what others thought. I refused to cater to the whims of my audience and to write for my own pleasure.

The irony was, my audience began enjoying and even welcomed my new direction. Eventually, I fell into my own proverbial trap, eventually writing what I thought would please the readers.

People grow and change, and I eventually grew tired of the fake news medium, finding that little change regardless of my work, however funny or thoughtful. The year barely begun when Innocence blew away the pretensions that shrouded my consciousness. I begun to look at the world in a different manner.

I began to analyse the way I interacted with the world at large. How the simple slip of a few chosen words like "I will be a celibate for life" influences the nature of interaction between individuals.

I realised, the further I distanced myself from life, the more of it I saw.
I belonged to the world, I helplessly beheld in awe.
If I ever held it in disdain,
I only need to remember, it was here before.

I began to prune my philosophy and thoughts accordingly. For a very long time, I observed I didn't need gods to protect and guide me, and thought the same rule must apply to everyone else. I concede defeat in this opinion.

I don't need gods, but most of humanity does. After all, human punishment only goes so far, and is subject to the caprice of human laws and lawyers. There is no legal respite after death, as the ideal soul finds sanctuary in the heavens while lawyers go to hell. A sin is no wrong, it is damnation.


In lieu of this development in my hideously limited mental capacity, I found myself hoping gods do exist. And then, an epiphany!

Humans are Gods.

We have created life.

What is life?

1. Living things need to take in energy
2. Living things get rid of waste
3. Living things grow and develop
4. Living things respond to their environment
5. Living things reproduce and pass their traits onto their offspring
6. Over time, living things evolve (change slowly) in response to their environment

Consider the computer. This is the universe we conceived with the fundamental building blocs of 1's and 0's. We write software for this universe, populating it with nebulae and stars. We give this universe fundamental laws which can never be broken, unless we rewrite the laws.

Then the programs grow, not just in number, but in variety. They consume energy, more and more of it with every passing generation. If you plugged in an Apple 2 into any household socket today, it would most likely explode in a shower of melting plastic and glass.

They changed beyond recognition, leaving behind the detritus of obsolete parts. They became specialised.

So far in this retelling of computing history, humans still input the changes, like gods with malleable dough, we write our aemaeth on the clay to create artificial life to serve us. But arguably, this A.I., as we continue to call it, has fulfilled all six criteria for life, just in a form we may not comprehend.

Consider the computer virus. Unlike the Pakistan Brain, today's viruses can perform multiple tasks simultaneously, besides performing numerous acts of vandalism and theft.

Their coding is now so advance, they actively make choices to preserve themselves. Some even change and add strings of code from the machines they infect to become stronger, tougher, more resilient.

Is this a manifestation of life?

"No, God forbid!" You may argue.

Though if you think about it, isn't that how you live? By following the rules enshrined in tablets, scriptures or books defining the do's and don'ts.

And like me, even if you don't, those same rules contain punishment, retribution for those who defy the fundamental laws. Abnormalities which will eventually spiral out of control, just like the Muslim extremists.

Disturbing isn't it, to consider we may be Gods without realising it,
Then to see, we may be nothing more than creatures made to service feet.

Toss and Roll

Himbo

This week on A Stray World:

• Trip to USM.

Trip to USM
For the sake of a medicinal-herbal-traditional plant competition, I earned a trip to Universiti Sains Malaysia last Friday, no mean feat in itself, until you add the skipping four-and-a-half periods of classes, meeting the people who run the place and a free meal from the teacher in charge of our group.

In truth, this was my first visit to USM, if not my first visit to a university of any nature in Malaysia.

For starters, the land in which the seeds of campus USM sprouted on is HUGE. The terrain of gently inclining hills and steep drops made driving a rather dangerous affair, which means the recent order forbidding everyone affiliated with USM from driving within campus except PhD scholars and lecturers perfectly reasonable, considering the above average speed my teacher was eliciting from her Perodua.

Initial impressions of a capable, respectable institution were supported by a swimming pool close to the entrance while further down the narrow road, a homely, glass-walled building for the alumni greeted us modestly among the randomly sprinkled buildings of research.

Further down, I realised USM's architecture wasn't old as in colonial-charm old, but blocky apartments which would fit into any cuboidal box with nary a space in between if someone invented a shrink ray. If the oversized three alphabets representing the university weren't emblazoned onto the grass overlooking the road, the streets choked with parked cars and coldly technical signboards would fool any would-be-visitor into thinking he had just stumbled into Putrajaya on a weekday.

Finding a spot close to the Chemistry department, we entered the rather cramped first floor smelling of government hospital - a rather distinct cologne if one has ever set foot in a public health institute.

USM Fact No. 1: USM prefers to employ Malays.

Tudung wearing Malays, beard growing Malays, you get the picture. Frankly, the breakdown of the various races in USM I saw that day was greatly skewed from the breakdown of the nation's races by population. While I have no problem with qualified personnel, nobody is naive enough to believe the 'others' aren't qualified to hold administrative positions in USM or any public university in Malaysia for the matter.

Thankfully, USM at least took great measures in employing the best Malays. The administrative charts upon the walls of the Pharmaceutical department revealed an almost disturbing tendency to hire Malays who have graduated with honours from United Kingdom institutions of higher learning; along with the odd foreigner and obligatory 'others'. Though this measure is to be greatly admired, it still means our own local institutions aren't producing individuals who are brainy enough to lead the very universities they studied in.

USM Fact No. 2:Dean's List Students are predominantly Chinese

As much as the politicians who play the racial card claim a 'great Malay rising', the truth is, they are falling further and further behind. The floodgates have been forced open with iron bars for them while the 'others' had to slip by between the ruined walls yet a quick glance of the best of USM revealed only two Malays out of thirty or so Chinese names.

Kudos to USM for revealing the papers to the public, granted, a very limited public. If these numbers were ever published on national newspapers, we would see UMNO and PAS leaders joining hands and waving the keris all the way into campus to oust more Chinese descended scholars.

USM Fact No 3:USM lecturers are qualified

Repeating the same point, USM does employ capable lecturers, even though they be mostly Malay.

There were two professors who took their time to explain the various concepts and ethics (ETHICS!) regarding our medicinal plant project. At least some of the government sponsored Malays have not disappointed our taxpayers.

Both professors were gaily helpful, pointing out flaws in our project as well as lab work we might wish to consider. This was the next best thing to meeting the professor-in-charge of medicinal plants, who was ironically, not available because he was attending a medicinal plant and herbal remedies expo in Kuala Lumpur.

In conclusion, USM is not the place one would wish to study in, unless one enjoys blatant discrimination, and being forced to admit the people hired through discrimination are highly qualified, every single day.