“Dio tengoh dakap bini dio,” said Ummi carefully through the external microphone. The recording was successful after a few hilarious attempts. “Maybe you should change the sentence,” she said, still suppressing her laughter. I thought it was a simple sentence in Kelantan, but when I tried to look at it from Ummi’s perspective, she might be right. The meaning was a little offensive for a wife like her – “He is hugging his wife.”

After a few hours of intensive protruding and delightful poking, I finally ended my first preliminary fieldwork experiment in Kelantan. Ummi, of all people in Kelantan, became my very first participant. I thought it would be easier for me to handle my own step-mum. It was supposed to be a full-length recording session, but I had to cut it short because Ummi kept correcting my well-prepared materials.

“We don’t say it like that in Kelantan!” she commented one of the Kelantan words with solemn authority. It didn’t occur to me I could be wrong when I constructed those sentences in Melbourne. But now, it is apparent that my Kelantan dialect is not original enough. In the end, Ummi became my language consultant, instead of a subject that I could manipulate.

In the middle of this panicked moment, I thought of Janet. This mini experiment was her idea.

“Perhaps you can get some data while you are away in Kelantan for two weeks,” she said before I left for Malaysia last week. I said okay and she immediately leant me a sophisticated digital recorder with 24 bit/48 kHz super sound quality. Being a technical fool, I studied the recorder’s manual with curiosity just a few hours before the flight. The operation might look simple, but it turned out to be a total chaos when I handled it for the first time with Ummi. Ummi’s “interference” made matters worse and more complicated. I tried to enjoy the whole experiment, though the materials were so semantically awkward in so many ways.

Anyway, I thanked Ummi for her input. My Ayoh look at me and said, “Tak dok khijo laen nyoh!” Like I’ve got nothing else to do. He had no idea that the recording was part of my PhD project. Don’t worry Ayoh, I’ll show you one day that our beautiful dialect can change the world.

These are the latest CDs created by Jimi for me. One is titled Serenity, a collection of English songs, and the other one is Nurani, a collection of spiritual songs by leading Nasyidians in Malaysia. I was pleasantly surprised when he gave me the CDs before he went back to Kampar this morning. He just knew how to affect me spiritually, as he always does. Even during my short stay in Kelantan for two weeks, he just knew how to move me deeply by driving all the way from Kampar with his Suri to my hometown in Pasir Mas.

As I listened to some inspiring tracks from Bernard Lachance, I recalled all the great songs from Jimi’s collections that have become a significant part of my musical world. He introduced me to a lot of amazing worlds through sweet rhythms and unforgettable melodies. He is so responsible for my love affairs with so many genres of music especially Korean songs. I know for sure that this latest addition will live and breathe through me wherever I go.

Thank you for the music, Jimi. Our songs might be gone one day, but our music of friendship will always stay.

“Sorry awe, we don’t have Woh Gomok,” said the old makcik when I asked for one of the listed-kuehs that I wanted to taste in Kelantan. She said Woh Gomok (Buah Gomak in other states) always comes with Ladu, which is hardly delivered these days. By the way, I liked the way she called me – Awe – a common term of endearment for a son. It’s from a Malay word Awang, which is probably equivalent to Mate in Australia.

So I walked along Keda Mundok near Pasir Mas Bus Station and kept looking for Woh Gomok. As I was roaming in the middle of cacophony at the market, I was marveled by all sorts of human sounds. I made a mental note of all the initial geminates that I could capture from their conversations – nnise, ttupak, ppalo, bbaso, ggapo, llati, mmelo, dduri, kkeda, jjawi, ccace, ssale, nnggila. These are the key sounds for my acoustic experiments and I heard them first-hand here! It was very thrilling, as if I had just heard them for the first time.

Then I spotted it.

“How much, mokcik?” I asked eagerly.

“Tigo amah!”

It’s three amah per packet (RM 1.50/AUD 0.50). With that, I finally found one of the best and oldest traditional cuisine in Malaysia -  Woh Gomok.

But the humiliation did not end there. I was severely embarrassed when a flight attendant asked me to move from my randomly-selected seat. I had no idea that a seat was assigned for each Air Asia passenger these days. The management had apparently changed the rule and I was unaware of that. Thanks to this incident, I felt restless throughout the whole journey of 4000 kilometres. And the man sitting next to me was not smiling too. He must feel sorry for me. I wondered whether Air Asia was promoting a new version of MH – Malaysian Hostility.

But right now, I’m not feeling hostile anymore. I’m feeling nostalgic and melancholic. It is the same feeling that I used to have those days during my regular bus trips from KL to Kelantan. Right now, I’m just thinking of meeting my parents and the exciting prospect of my two-week stay in Kelantan. As I’m waiting calmly at the gate P12 here, I recall all the good and bad things I saw in Melbourne for the past 8 months. Just a few months ago, when a summer break had just begun, I was a happy boy in Melbourne, still exploring and enjoying the endless life of the city. I was so certain with my decision – I would only go back to Malaysia in August 2010 when I would start doing a three-month fieldwork there.

So I was happy to stay in Melbourne during the summer recess. I wished well with a broad smile to Donna before she left for Malaysia. I accompanied Sarfraz’s big homecoming shopping with excitement before he left for Pakistan. I bade farewell to Felix with a sheer joy before he left for Singapore. I happily said goodbyes to all my friends who left me in Melbourne and went back to their beloved hometowns for a good summer holiday. I was so confident that I could survive the break in Melbourne by indulging myself in my work. My idea of a good break was to spend a few days in Sydney. I thought that would serve as a reward for all my hard work and H1 achievements. But I was wrong. I was wrong. I was so wrong. 

As a new semester began and all my friends came back to begin a new chapter in their studies, I felt something was missing. While I was so occupied getting all the materials ready for my acoustic experiment, I felt something was holding me back. I woke up in the middle of the night, feeling panicked and worried. When I told Felix about my sudden delusion, he said that I was homesick. Homesick? I dismissed that idea. “Nonsense, Felix!” I blundered with disgust. I was too proud to admit it. But the same recurring dreams came to me night after night and I knew that Felix might be right, that I was really experiencing a terrible homesickness.

I always thought I could handle my own emotions until August this year, but it was just unbearable. The thought of seeing my family members made me suffocated. Things started to look unnatural and abnormal. I needed to refresh my perspective and made sense of what I was doing in Melbourne. So, amidst confusion and bewilderment, I made a decision and broke my own smart plans. I finally followed my heart. I booked a flight home.

And it was indeed a crazy last-minute decision. A new semester has just begun and I was in the middle of important preparation for my lab experiment. While other students had just said goodbye to their parents, I would be doing the opposite. Two weeks only, Hilmi, two weeks only, I kept telling myself. I hated to admit that I was extremely homesick. When I broke the news to my Ayoh, he was just confused. 

“Why? Will you be here for your work?” he said.

“No, Ayoh,” I said. “I just wanted to go back. I just wanted to be home again.”

I said that upfront with brutal honesty. Really. I had no other reasons when I frantically searched for the next available Air Asia flights. I just wanted to see my parents. Just that.

“Is everything alright, Hilmi?” Janet asked me when I told her that I had to reschedule the meeting.

“Of course, Janet. I just need a good break in Kelantan.”

“Oh, dear Hilmi. Don’t you worry. We’ll take care of everything here for you…”

I was speechless again by Janet’s motherly gestures. Her understanding and kindness amazed and scared me again.

“Oh my God… finally!” Felix shouted at me when I broke the news.

“I know,” I said, feeling defeated and childish. “I should’ve done this long ago. I should’ve followed your advice.”

Felix had been right all along. And Donna was more than happy too. She reminded me to eat as many Pisang Goreng as possible.

“Don’t forget to eat nasi kerabu and nasi dagang!” she said excitedly.

“Yeah, and I’ll eat Ramli Burger for you too!”

Sarfraz looked at us with a smile and said, “Hilmi, just tell me whenever you need me to accompany you to buy some gifts for your parents.”

“I’ll let you know, Sarfraz. But I won’t be like you – Muslim Santa Claus!”

Yeah, I didn’t shop till I dropped like Sarfraz. But I made sure each gift was wrapped with love.

When Mark finally sent me to the Melbourne Airport, he said, “You deserve this break, Hilmi. You worked hard during the summer holidays.”

Yes, I deserve all the best things in Kelantan for the next two weeks. I want to drive my Proton (I can’t believe that I have not driven a car for the past 8 months!). I want to eat as much as possible. I want to be normal again. Of course, I enjoyed my “normal” times in Melbourne, but there’s always a limit to normal happiness. Sometimes you just need abnormality to appreciate the normality, or vice versa. In my case, I just need to rekindle with my original root. That’s all.

So here I come, Kelantan. Get ready. A Budu Boy is flying home with love. Home.

The coolness of Melbourne air

Fails to ease the twisted heartstring

Like those yellowish autumn leaves

Fluttering weakly towards the earth

Weeping silently on the slope of Bali Park

What does this heart say?

The 3 o’clock chilly morning air

Pierces sharply into my tired body and soul

Like the eerie sound of those jet fountains

Crying melodiously in their invisible world

Falling helplessly to the Einstein’s gravity

What does this heart say?

The long longing for those moments

Suffocates the air inside my little lungs

Like the golden dust from Swanston Street

Dancing into my room through the moonlight

Whispering the voices of unspoken revelations

What does this heart say, Ma?

I don’t understand a thing

I couldn’t see it’s there before

I can’t see it’s happening now

I can’t see it will be there soon

But I’m coming home, Ma

I’m coming home

I’m coming home

Malaya

A big 1949 American movie romancing the World War II

Hati Malaya

A Shuhaimi Baba film depicting the strong will of pre-independent souls

The Malaya

A contemporary restaurant offering the best laksa to Sydnesiders

British Malaya

A precious entity producing a world-class tin and rubber

Malayan Union

A controversial colony beheading the Heads of 11 states

Federation of Malaya

A crucial symbol restoring the proud and prejudicial Rulers

States of Malaya

A breathing Singaporean law giving a credit to its neigbours

HMS Malaya

A Queen Elizabeth class battleship fighting for heroic titles

Oxana Malaya

A feral child dancing and singing happily in a dog’s world

Malaya in the Philippines

A significant Tagalog word meaning “free” and “freedom”

Malaya in Tibetan Buddhist

A secret garden bridging eternally to the Garden of Eden

Malaya

A great word calling for a greater thought

My Old Beautiful Malaya

This book is a total headache. It is clearly meant for an advanced phonetic student, not for an innocent layman like me. But I pretended that I was a true phonetician. Janet even told me that I must read it as a preparation for my acoustic experiments. So, with blind guts and absurd confidence, I personally ordered it from the Melbourne University Bookshop. One week later, it was specially delivered to my doorstep with my name correctly spelled and printed on the price tag at the back of the book. I was over the moon and feeling special. But the worst was yet to come.

Written by Keith Johnson, a Professor of Linguistics at Ohio State University, this book is not at all like a lovey-dovey novel that I can take to the toilet and read it with pleasure during private hours. After a few first brave attempts, I reminded myself not to read Acoustic & Auditory Phonetics before sleeping because I might end up having a sleepless night again, thinking of all those grandiloquent, pompous, high-sounding, technical jargons I’ve never heard before.

Yes, reading this book was a torture. It seemed like forever to finish just one page. How would I do it for the next 182 pages? The intellectual challenge was real and threatening. But I kept moving on and moving on. Each time I completed a chapter, I celebrated my little achievement by listening to my favorite song and reminded myself that life was not all about getting a PhD. When I came back to reading, I felt refreshed, not because I understood a thing, but because I was ready to fall into another intellectual amusement again. I was certain that I would soon understand and appreciate whatever rubbish I was reading. It was like traveling in a big and noisy city – I have to get lost first in order to see the perfect picture of the city. All I need is patience and passion.

So how did I keep my patience and passion while reading a technical book like this? I used a lot of tiny yellow stickers. Each time I found a new disturbing terminology, I would write it down on a sticker, peel it off and nicely stick it on the corresponding page of the book. It was not just a mere reference telling me that I should come back to it in the future and read it again for better clarity. More importantly, it served as a happy reminder that I was an acoustic nut dreaming and trying hard to be like an old phonetic professor. I was so motivated and excited playing with this silly-or-not-silly game that I ended up with 37 stickers! What a childish and bizarre technique. But it’s enough to keep me focused, happy and sane.

It’s the toughest book I’ve ever read in my life, but I like the challenge. I am still a learning fool.

“Modern society is too quick to judge people on their appearances. There is not much you can do about it. It is the way they think. It is the way they are. But maybe this could teach them a lesson, or set an example,” says Susan Boyle.

Indeed, Susan Boyle has every right to say each and every single word she says because her existence has taken the world by the biggest storm. Millions of people around the globe are listening to her now. They must have agreed with her. She can’t be wrong. She can’t just be an over-rated, unmarried old lady trying to be like Elaine Page.

I was, like everyone on that unforgettable night of 11 April 2009, a bit cynical when I looked at her for the first time. Physical looks can truly contaminate our judgements. Susan Boyle has proven just the opposite, that dreams are possible, no matter how unconventional it might look like to the common eyes.

And it is such a privilege for me to own this incredible piece of music from one of the most inspiring figures in the world at the moment. Her renditions are heartbreaking. She is the epitome of all angelic voices I have heard before, the voices that have connected me to the colourful unfounded world out there. I couldn’t help imagining Celine Dion, Josh Groban, Il Divo or Gita Gutawa singing with her in each of the songs.

Being a dreamer myself, how could I not be blown away by these overpowering gospels? The WILD HORSES that represent the cruel world. That life is worth living when I DREAMED A DREAM. That YOU’LL SEE someday you can reach your dream. That it is worth being A DAYDREAM BELIEVER and struggling to REACH UP TO THE MOUNTAIN. That I should always know that I AM WHO I WAS BORN TO BE. That I’ll make myself PROUD someday. And that it’s not THE END OF THE WORLD if I fall.

Such godly words. No wonder the virgin Susan Boyle is treated like a female “prophet” by the tired global society these days who all need a milky way to success. Susan Boyle is more than just a middle-age underdog turning to a roaring tigress. She represents the dreams of everyone out there who have yet to fulfill theirs.

So people, go and get your dream. Even if you’ve never been kissed.

It is quite a cute, whitish, typical Aussie set of mortar and pestle, isn’t it? For only 7 dollars, I finally owned something that I never cared before. As I was grinding this mixture of ginger and garlic for the next daring attempt in my kitchen, I remembered the traditional alu and lesung made of stone in Binjal. The last time I checked, my family still used the same broken alu and the same worn-out lesung for so many years (my Ayoh should think of getting new ones for my Ummi as a Valentine’s gift). When I was a kid, I used to listen to the familiar melody of grinding sounds from the kitchen while Ayoh and I were sitting comfortably on the couch in the living room, complaining about our growling stomachs and waiting to be served. Raised in a typical Kelantanese family, I was expected NOT to go near the kitchen while foods were being prepared. Here was a simple rule of thumb in my household – leave all the grinding mess to the women. The men? Just sit back, relax and eat.

Yep, there were some unwritten rules that a pampered boy like me learnt back home – kitchen was only for girls, for women, for sisters, for housewives, for mothers, for grandmothers, for the dainty Eves to serve the hungry Adams. It was a NO NO NO place for boys, brothers, fathers, grandfathers or great-great grandfathers. Unfair? Well, at least my Ma never complained about that. She would just condone to my spoilt attitude while nagging over my sisters for being so fat and lazy and not trying hard enough to help her out in the kitchen. I adored my Ma for treating me like I was the hungriest animal in the world. My Ayoh? I would never imagine my father doing that cooking stuff in the kitchen. It’s almost a sinful thought! After Ma passed away and before Ummi came into the picture, he was just helpless and clueless in the kitchen. Come to think of it now, my Ayoh and I were alike in this respect – we were the Kings of the house.

So here is my confession – my family never taught me how to cook. Never. For the record, I had never been a kitchen-friendly person until I was about 28. It was high time when I realized that I had no one to listen to my demanding stomach. I was dumbstruck to acknowledge how stupid I had been when it came to cooking. It hit me real hard to admit that, for the previous 27 years, I had been a lazy dumb-ass who only knew how to walk lazily to the kitchen when dinner was ready, swallow the food like a starved lion, burp a little and leave the kitchen immediately. I began to wonder how on earth my Ma came out with those wonderful dishes all those years. I started to appreciate the arts of cooking. So I taught myself with some little things that had always done their wonders to my growing tummy. Turmeric. Lemongrass. Cinnamon. Stuff like that.

I remember feeling so ashamed of myself when my sister patiently taught me how to fry an egg or how to mince an onion or how to clean a fish in a decent way. I cursed myself when I realized that I didn’t even know how to handle a rice cooker though I had been feeding billions of rice into my mouth for as long as I could remember. I was angry, frustrated and dejected when some of my single friends invited me for dinner and told me that they prepared all the sophisticated foods by themselves. But my intelligence was utterly insulted when I first learnt how to use alu and lesung. I was like, excuse me, can we just a blender? “No, Mie,” my sister said. “The taste is not the same. It’s not authentic and honest anymore.” So I followed my sister’s advice and started to love the authenticity and honesty that a mortal and a pestle could bring.

My worst lesung experience happened when I invited my dear blogsahabats for lunch at my rented house in Gombak. I said to them, “You’ll love my Ayam Gulai Darat!” It was actually my first attempt to cook such a thing in my life. So I grabbed a bunch of dried chillies and muster my energy to grind them beautifully, trying hard to be authentic. My hands were achingly hot after one hour of a tumbuk session. I could feel the tears dancing in the corner of my eyes. I cursed myself again. Be honest Hilmi, I told myself. When lunch was ready, I proudly presented the so-called Ayam Gulai Darat to my blogsahabats. I knew something was terribly wrong when everyone was asking for water. Oh my God. It was extremely hot and spicy! But my blogsahabats were too kind and thanked me for the “lovely” treat. Maybe I was not honest enough. But I swore to God that I would not try a complicated Kelantanese cuisine again until I really knew what I was doing. My cooking skill at that time, if there was any, was just pathetic.

So here I am in Melbourne, starting a new love affair with cooking again. Most of the time, I will be singled out by my own ignorance and thrilled by whatever outcome of my own cowboy recipe. It is a new and exciting domestic pastime that fills up my PhD chaos with some culinary dignity. It’s a such a delight to see what sort of damage that my clumsy hands could do in the kitchen. I enjoy trying out some new western recipes I learn from TV or the internet. But what thrills me the most is to see the ugly results of some Kelantanese recipes I recently learnt from my sister. Please don’t blame me. I am just a naive Melbourne boy who is trying very very hard to revive my childhood – my lesung childhood.

Hello there! My name is Daniel Hamzah. But that’s not my real name. I was previously known as COMET. I was born on February 4, 2010 at K-Mart Department Store, Richmond, Australia. So you see, I am only a baby. 6 days old. But I can talk like a grown man. That’s because I’m special. Look at me there, sitting like a tough man on the grass at the Princess Park. I’m a cute, red, little Aussie baby, ain’t I? Haha. Oh yes, I am a bicycle. In my owner’s manual, you can find my model number – 42490. I was described as a 66cm-men bicycle. And if you are wondering how I was assembled recently, you can download a full instruction manual from this link.

Please don’t tell me you’re surprised. My Master, Cekmi, is a crazy old boy. He has this weird habit of naming his stuff with some funny names. Remember Siti Norkiah Norman, Miss Cekia & Mr. Ceklet? Yep, he’s a psychotic, delusional man who likes to impersonate dead objects and speak on their behalf. Creepy, huh? Adding to this madness, he also likes to refer to himself as a third person in his own blog. And right now, here we go again. Cekmi is rambling through me – a talking bike.

Alright. So, Cekmi wants to call me Daniel. Hmm, I thought my original name is cute enough. It rhymes with Cekmi, right? Comet. Cekmi. Comet. Cekmi. Isn’t that something? Haha. But I think Cekmi wanted to honour me with something more stylish. Something more humanely. Something that reminds him of his beautiful past life. I heard that my name reminds him of someone called Danny Hussainy. Does that ring a bell to you? Please let me know in the comment box. I don’t know who the hell he was in the past, but I’m sure he must be an important legacy for Cekmi. But honestly, I’m quite flattered to have Cekmi’s family name next to mine. I’m sure his Ayoh in Kelantan will be proud of me. Of course, I’m Cekmi’s long-lost little brother in Melbourne, so to speak.

Anyway, you guys should know that I’m not an expensive thing. I’m just Comet, a relatively simple and modest brand for a mountain bike. My other rich friends displayed elegantly at a fancy professional bike shop can cost up to a few thousand dollars. Quality and tough brands, says the glossy brochure. I was only a cheap bike assembled at a cheap store. But I’m not intimidated. Rest assured, I’ve got everything that a beginner cyclist needs. With a light weight alloy frame, a quick release seat, alloy rims, a dual suspension, an 18-speed twist shift, linear pull brakes, I’m specially designed for the amateurish Cekmi. And I know, in Cekmi’s eyes, I’m not just a bike. I represent his free soul, wild imagination and childish curiosity. If I’m dead after a year or two, I’m sure Cekmi will dedicate a bench for me at the Royal Botanic Gardens.

By the way, I remember Cekmi’s first ride with me last week. When I saw him for the first time, I was a bit worried. Can this petite boy ride with me safely around Melbourne? Frankly speaking, he looked unfit and weak. And indeed, he made a very bad first impression on me. He took a big risk when he took me to the Melbourne streets. He almost gave up during his first ride from Richmond to his place in Carlton. It’s only 4 kilometres, but it felt like 40 kilometres to him. “This is so damn tiring, Daniel!” he said that aloud to me when he stopped again and dragged me along the Victoria Street. Breathing so hard, he looked at the other experienced bike-riders passing him like a fast train – the tough young men and the strong old women – and I could sense a serious embarrassment from his red sweaty face. Poor Cekmi, he underestimated bike-riding in Melbourne. He thought all the bike paths are flat and easy. But he was so wrong. His first bike-riding experience in Melbourne didn’t turn out to be as Manly as he had ambitiously thought.

But knowing Cekmi, I know he would be just as stubborn as he has always been. He is not the type who could easily say, “That’s it!” He would not be discouraged by his first pathetic attempt at bike-riding. I know, both of us will have a superb, healthy, wonderful time together soon. Don’t worry my dear Master, I’ll be your good little brother in Melbourne. Muah!

“Well done, Hilmi. You have done a splendid job!” said Janet today. I keep receiving positive words from her these days that, sometimes, I have a feeling that she must have been extensively trained by a strict drama coach to say that corny line for an ambitious PhD candidate like me. Having proven that I have progressed well in my studies, she should be the next contender for the Best Actress in 2010’s Academy Awards. But today, I knew she was not lying. She must have meant it because today’s meeting was not a joke. It was a PhD Advisory Committee meeting. The aim was simple – to review what kind of shit I have done for the past six months.

Yup, it’s been six months since the first time I set foot on this campus. Six months of theoretical ramblings. Six months of floating ideas. Six months of mind-boggling reading. Six months of big words.  Six months of philosophical rubbish.

“Oh, you have no idea how well-prepared Hilmi has been for his confirmation, John!” Janet said to Professor John Hajek, the Chair of the Committee. Janet flattered me with a lot more over-the-top praises while Celia nodded in agreement. John, an Oxford alumnus and an expert himself in Phonetics and Phonology, was quite impressed. Janet even suggested that John should be part of the supervisory team since he did some internationally-acclaimed works in geminates of Romanic languages, the similar works that I am currently doing. John smiled and said, “Yes! Why not?”

So, with that simple answer, I now officially belong to THREE Supervisors! No, I’m not complaining. I’m actually thrilled to have John as part of my PhD circles because I had always admired his excellent work in geminates. In fact, he was the person whom I requested to be my supervisor six months ago before Janet came into the picture. But he recommended Janet’s expertise for some professional reasons. And now, I have John to complete the family photo, sitting right next to my two lovely mothers. He could be my long-lost father in Melbourne. No, no, no… John is too young to be a father to me. Maybe I should call him a Geminate Brother.

“Well, how would you get Kelantan speakers in Melbourne for your experiments?” asked John.

“Oh, the Kelantanese are all around the world.” I answered confidently. “I’m sure they are hiding  somewhere around Melbourne!”

John looked at me with suspicion. He had no idea what I talked about and I really had no idea what I talked about. But I think I nailed it well because the meeting ended with a genuine smile on everybody’s faces. I just couldn’t wait to start the experiments. The research ethics application has already been approved. As the research plan starts to materialize, I’m getting more nervous. It feels surreal to begin a real laboratory work. For the next six months, I will concentrate on my preliminary data and the preparation for confirmation. It will be six months of practical works. Six months of physical and mental labour. Six months of acoustic fun.

And I’m so ready to begin to work hard and play even harder!

If there’s one edible thing in Malaysia that I can name as Cekmi’s Most Thought-About Object, that would definitely be Pisang Goreng. Having some sizzling hot Pisang Goreng over a hot cup of sweet tea every afternoon is a perfect ritual for me for so many years. In Binjal, the crispy Kak Ani’s Pisang Goreng is still the best. For only RM1, the entire family can enjoy the heavenly taste of Kak Ani’s secret recipe. But in KL, Pisang Goreng is a luxury. I still couldn’t fathom why I couldn’t get more than three pieces of Pisang Goreng for RM1 at Jalan TAR’s Pasar Malam. I’m lucky in JB because there are many excellent stalls near Taman Universiti’s Pasar Awam that sell small-sized, jelly-like, delicious, cheap Pisang Goreng. But I still don’t understand why the Johoreans have to dip them with ketchup-like sauce. It just doesn’t work for me. And here in Melbourne, I had deprived myself from the holy Pisang Goreng for six months until I saw it again last week at Old Town Kopitiam Mamak at QV Square. Yeah, it does look tasty with its rich presentation, but for the record, it is the worst Pisang Goreng I have ever tasted in my life. But, considering that it exists in Melbourne, I should withhold my complaint. I just have to swallow it with a cheeky smile for the good old time’s sake.

I just love Goreng Pisang. Ops, Pisang Goreng lah

Did you know that Melbourne is one of the world’s most ‘bike-able’ city with its 2000 kilometres of comprehensive bike trail network? Don’t worry if you didn’t, because I didn’t. This book truly surprises me with a lot wonderful tales of biking experiences in Melbourne. To begin with, there’s a Capital City Trail in Central Melbourne with a total distance of 28.2 kilometres. If you think this trail is not challenging enough, not to worry – there are 39 other great rides to choose from. One thing for certain, this book is definitely going to be my biblical friend for at least the next 12 months. Yes, that’s my religious target. Will I be able to complete all of these 40 crazy rides within a year? Of course, Hilmi always boleh!

Up in the Air has lost to Avatar in the recent Golden Globe’s category for Best Picture, but this film is always up in the air with me. Ryan Bingham is one pathetic man who knows how to fire people elegantly and how to put on a charming smile after completing his dirty job. He is a prick who thinks he can forever fly up alone in the air and travel around the world endlessly. He disconnects himself from people and loves the idea of going solo.

“What’s in your backpack?” he asks the audience in his motivational speech. Looking at his small backpack, he confidently claims that relationship is the heaviest luggage in life. When people ask him whether he is ever feeling lonely, he says, “How could I be lonely? I’m always surrounded by people at the airport.” Isn’t that just sad? His self-destructive values and over-the-top ethics will only lead him to a lonely death.

His philosophy is simple. Go light and easy in life. Leave all the unnecessary baggage. Yes, he reaches his dream and goal. He wins his ten million frequent flyer miles. But in the end, he has to admit that life’s important moments are seldom alone. He is caught between dreaming to be free and wanting to be attached. He can’t decide whether he should continue flying up in the air or walking down on the earth. He is just a confused loser and an irresponsible escape.

I feel like someday I would end up being just like Ryan Bingham.

The summer noon feels perfect from my balcony right now.

I can hear a group of drunk men singing a bad song from the Bali Park down there. The whining children are playing some unknown instruments. The slutty women are waltzing happily. The skateboarders are surfing carelessly. Some are just lying down. Some are just daydreaming. The Melburnians are indeed enjoying life and celebrating the 29-degree-celsius heat as if they will never experience summer again next year.

Back in Malaysia, I never notice the blessings that I have been enjoying for the past 33 years. Weather has never been a serious issue. It has always been a perfect summer the whole year through (with the exception of some unexpected flash flood in KL, of course). But in Melbourne, weather updates are my current obsession. Every morning, I will grab my iPhone, touch the weather application, and be thrilled by the latest weather surprise. I will look up to the sky and think hard of how many layers of shirt and underwear that I should wear on that day.

It’s funny the way I feel now. It’s the same feeling I could always feel every single noon in Malaysia. But right now, I just want to enjoy every bit of it, breathe it like I will never breathe it again, take it deep into my little lung like it is my last breath, and appreciate every single oxygen that I can catch. And as I feel the gentle breeze sweeping against skin, I remember the familiar sensation in Kampung Binjal again. My love affair with mother nature has indeed started since I was a little child. In a typical sunny afternoon, when the sky is clear, when my Ayoh is taking a nap and my Ma is still busy in the kitchen, I would take a short walk to a ghettok, a bridge, and I would stand on top of it, where I could see some muddy water flowing perfectly through a narrow river, where I could see the trees on the riverbanks swaying sweetly against the wild wind. I would listen to the tune of a perfect melody played by some invisible hands and I would deeply embrace the harmonious rush of mother nature into my body and soul. It might not be as magnificent as the postcard view I have seen from Sydney Bridge, but it offered me one of the most vivid images in my childhood.

I am still standing on my balcony right now and enjoying a perfect summer noon in Melbourne, but my mind is floating. I feel like standing on Binjal Ghettok.