The Incredible Brother & Sister
“Was it yesterday?”
“No, it was 13 years ago.”
“Wow, it feels like yesterday when we sat together watching Shah Rukh Khan dancing with Kajol in Kuch Kuch Hota Hai.”
“Time flies.”
“I’m going to miss you, my little sister.”
“What are you talking about? Don’t be silly. You will always be my brother. I’m just getting married.”
“Don’t you think it’s too soon?”
“I think this is my jodoh. I’m not getting any younger too.”
“I know. I hate it that we are no longer kids who can move carelessly in the kitchen biting every single bone like they are candies from Heaven, who can hide at a corner of the house making fun of every mean makcik in the kampung, who can sit lazily in front of TV bitching over stupid advertisements or cheap dramas, who can travel in a car for so many hours talking excitedly about everything as if we are attending an important international conference, who can be invisible in the middle of a noisy crowd so we can become who we are and decide which part of the world is exciting or which part of the universe is boring without being obliged to follow certain rules or conventions.”
“I know what has happened to us; we have been living in our own imaginary world.”
“That’s true. Our world has been beautiful and lovely. But, there will come a point when we must surrender ourselves to a real world that might seem scary and ugly. There will also come a time when we must live in a real adult life that might not fit in our imagination. Like everyone else, we must always do jobs that we detest because we are part of an organized society. If everyone is given the luxury to do things that they want to do, the world will come to a standstill.”
“That’s frightening.”
“Indeed, my dear sister. If we behave differently, we’ll be expelled from our own tribe because we could infect others and destroy something that was extremely difficult to organize in the first place.”
“Even if it means giving up what we really want to do?”
“Yes, we have to. We must dress according to the dictates of the fashion, change our hairstyle, complain about the cost of living, criticize anyone who is different, blame the Seksualiti Merdeka group for losing the track, go to a family day with our kids and puff ourselves with pride because we have followed the grand design of the universe and pity all those hopeless singles around the world for missing the excitement of the world. We must follow the rules passed from generation to generation, the rules that determine the meaning of success, the best way to love, the importance of rewards.”
“Are you scared?”
“All the time. But, the good news is, Love is there on earth to make us happy, to bring us closer to God and to our neighbours.”
“We will still be together, right?”
“Of course, we will. We will always be in the same circle of happiness and joy. The circle that always wraps around those who are in contact with love.”
“I’m so glad we are always on the same page. We think alike and read each others’ minds like they are a mirror.”
“We are The Incredible Brother and Sister, right? Oh, I also remember someone told me that we must always begin with the end in mind. It is important to know when something has reached its end, so that we can leave in the past those moments that are over and welcome a new chapter in our life.”
“We are both going to be fine in our new chapter of life.”
“Yes, my dear sister. If there is suffering soon, it’s best to accept it because it won’t go away although we pretend it is not there. If there is joy soon, it’s best to accept it too, even though we are afraid it might end one day.”
“Are you coming home?”
“Yes, I’m coming home.”
“I love you, my dear brother.”
“I love you, my dear sister.”
“Have you watched Shah Rukh Khan’s latest movie?”
“No. We are so gonna watch it together soon.”
A Pilgrim in Sydney Road
I could’ve hopped on a tram, sitting conveniently on a soft seat and watching the whole drama unfolding before me through a moving glass window. But, I wanted to create a history; I wanted to walk, not glimpse, into the Melbourne’s longest continuous shopping strip. And so I did! Beginning south from my apartment in Park Street (where else?) until the northern end in Bell Street and heading south back to my place, I continuously walked for ten kilometres within six hours, feeling so proud like a happy nomad walking through a hot desert. In fact, this whole on-foot experience was like going on a pilgrimage (culturally speaking, of course). As much as I enjoyed the extreme stillness of Princes Park talking to an imaginary Prince, I savored the slow experience of enjoying extreme delirium spreading endlessly along Sydney Road. Packed with an intricate fusion of coffee shops, restaurants, clothing stores, shopping outlets and community services, Sydney Road was all that I needed for a cultural blessing. It was indeed refreshing and mind-blowing.
So, for six hours, I was teased with a great deal of sampled sights from all over the world: Lebanese, Afghan, Thai, Chinese, Vietnamese, Japanese, African, Balinese, Indian, Pakistani, Sri Lankan and Nepalese. For six hours, I was also unleashed into such a daring planet full of brave men and women. I could feel the presence of famous pilgrims making their ways into their unfamiliar zones: Malcolm X’s journey towards the Free Land, Dalai Lama’s trip into the Independent World, Marco Polo’s exploration into the Adventurous Region, Ibn Battuta’s voyage into the Mysterious Soil. At the end of the day, I felt so good for having accomplished another crazy mission; venturing into the obscure. If you think I was crazy, Ibn Battuta must have been crazier. He once lamented in his famous Book of Adventure:
“Swayed by an overmastering impulse within me, and a long-cherished desire to visit those glorious sanctuaries, I resolved to quit all my friends and tear myself away from home. As my parents were still alive, it weighed grievously upon me to part from them, and both they and I were afflicted with sorrow.”
Ibn Batutta travelled 121,000 kilometres for 24 years. Me? Ten kilometres for six hours. Ceh.
Prince Tales from Princes Park
It appears that winter has made its way for spring in Melbourne. As I’m sitting here by a charming pond in Princes Park, the air feels neither too cold nor too hot. The enchantment of it, the gentleness of it, the harmony of it – all are marvelously assembled at this beautiful parkland. Located only a few hundred metres from my apartment, this vista is a convenient route to heaven, a free getaway to green leisure, a grand sales for Solace and Serenity.
I am still perplexed by the name of this park. The first time I realized about it, I thought it was a spelling error. Should it be Princess? Where’s the missing letter “s”? I did some quick research through the world wide web and, unfortunately, couldn’t find the history behind its name. It might refer to a park that belongs to a Prince, but where’s the apostrophe? I suppose whoever founded this park could have a better reason besides breaking the rules of English language (or was it a person’s name?).
You can see that I love being around here, enjoying the companion of silence and thinking of so many thoughts. How many stories have been coded and decoded at this park? How many promises have been sealed and broken? Like all my previous appointments with Mother Nature, I get easily and instantly connected to a place like this, a place that symbolizes hidden tales and untold emotions. I have listened to many of them, being whispered and delivered to me in their mystical voices and strange languages. Today, I’m listening to one of them – Prince Tales.
***
Once upon a time, there was a boy who grew up in a close-knit family. He was constantly reminded about values and tradition he sometimes couldn’t decipher.
“Read!” his father would say. “You must read so you can understand the world.”
“Write!” his mother would say. “You must write so you can be noble like your father.”
“Study!” his brother would say. “You must study so you can be smart like me.”
“Sing!” his sister would say. “You must sing so you can be happy like everyone else.”
The boy spent his entire childhood in the same house within the same community, reading, writing, studying and singing the way his family always dictated for him. He saw the world from the eyes of his parents: black, white, vertical and horizontal. But, even as a boy, he knew that there were more colours and lines in a bigger world out there. He knew that there was something larger than the uniformed world fed by his parents since his birth. He wanted to know more. He was very curious.
He finally moved out of his house to seek for better education. He was reluctant to leave his parents behind, but he was also excited to begin a new adventure in his life. As he met different faces and went to new places, he gained eye-opening insights. He began to understand that life could offer more than what he had experienced in his small world. He started to learn different values: they were strange and foreign, but they were fun and exhilarating. “Could they also work for me?” he asked. “Am I going against my parents’ wishes? Will I be bullied by my brother? Will my sisters agree with me? Will I be condemned by God?” He was very confused and scared but, most of all, he was very curious.
One day, he decided that he wanted to become like a Prince. He wanted to live the life he always wanted it to be. He set his mind to it and wanted to make it happen. He sought more opportunities around him and grabbed them like a hungry lion. He created bigger wings for himself and flew to more foreign countries. He designed a lot of daring experiments and found a great deal of fascinating discoveries. He ran the world through his own ideas, created his own system, broke his own rules, and improvised his own methodologies. He wanted to free himself from his personal history. He wanted to emancipate himself from the old ideas. He wanted to live in a world that could fit for his imagination. At last, he became just what he wanted it to be – he was the man of his own destiny.
This self-sufficient man, nevertheless, never forgot his own root. He happily returned to his homecountry and made greater contributions to his community. He was personally and professionally fulfilled. He continued to become an explorer of the unambiguous, a gambler of the unknown, and a risk-taker of the uncertain. He was awarded with many life-time achievement prizes and honorable titles from the government and many prestigious organizations. He was the man of the hour. His parents, colleagues and friends were all so proud of him. In his long and painstaking journey towards his own perfect world, he finally found himself. He became a Prince.
***
The boy, now an old man, is sitting right next to me at the Princes Park. I suspect this park must have some meaning in his life, a meaning so deep that brought him back here today.
“I think I’m a loser,” he said, trying to control his emotion. “I think I have failed in many ways. The world seems to go against me. I’m such an idiot. I’m a lunatic narcissist.”
“What happened?” I asked naively.
“You see, son. There’s always a price for something that you do in life, even it is for a cause that you truly believe in with full passion and conviction.”
“What do you mean?”
“When you live according to your rules, you will be treated differently by your own species. They might put happy faces and tell you how special you are, but you’ll always be misunderstood by your family, your friends, your community. In a way, you’ll be a social outcast.”
“Isn’t that just part and parcel of being a great genius?”
“Yes, but, sometimes, the pressure is too much. You might get killed by your own ambition. It costs a great deal to follow and live your own dreams. Depression and loneliness are just some of the modus operandi that you have to put up with. I lose my self-confidence and self-esteem all the time. I become a weeping child.”
“It’s okay to be a child, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is.”
“So, what are you going to do now?”
“I just don’t want to die while I’m still alive.”
“Come on, you’re still alive!”
“I know. I just don’t want to stop living. I don’t want to continue to work and eat and do my normal stuff automatically, taking for granted the magic moments that each day brings to me. I don’t want to stop thinking about the miracles of life. I don’t want to stop to understand that the next minute could be my last on the face of this planet.”
The old man and I sit by the pond in silence for a few minutes before I leave him alone with his deep thoughts. I’ll definitely bump into him again here, listening to more Prince Tales from Princes Park.
The Nostalgia of Royal Parade
Royal Parade is indeed special and royal, unlike any other typical streets in Melbourne. It runs for 3 kilometres between Grattan Street to Park Street, the street where I live now. It always feels so royally good to walk through this fine boulevard to my university and be immersed with its outstanding tree-lined beauty and cultural landscape. It has fully developed and dedicated multi-runaways for different traffic types: adventurous city-dwellers on tramways, law-abiding drivers along car routes, daring cyclists on bike lanes and wandering day-dreamers (like me) on footpaths. There are four extremely gorgeous plantations with 400 English elms (introduced since 1913!) that make me suffocated with natural spells and send me to the Wonderland. Yes, this is more than a street. It’s the Parade of Nostalgia.
NOSTALGIC POWER
Okay, Royal Parade does offer more than its pretty face. A deeper look into the past will explain why it is of historical and social significance to Melbourne. First, believe it or not, this street was traditionally known as “the road to Sydney” from the mid-19th century (I thought it was a joke, but it was true). For these nostalgic reasons, it is not a surprise that the state of Victoria has proudly awarded the Heritage Status to Royal Parade. This also must a great relief to many happy veterans out there who must have associated this boulevard with their happy childhood memories (just so you know, as of 2011, Australia is the second best place on earth to live, just behind Norway, and life expectancy is also second in place, behind Japan).
Speaking of childhood, Royal Parade also takes me back to my boy self, to my usual one-kilometer bike ride from Kampung Binjal to Sekolah Kebangsaan Kangkong, to my sweet biking buddies, to my carefree days struggling through dusty, red, unpaved road to education. There were of course no beautiful trees like these, no modern transportations, no civilized pedestrian paths, no Melbourne. There were only happy souls of my family members and friends as we made our ways to school riding our old rattling bicycles. The “Royal Parade” of Kampung Binjal has always been there inside me, specially marked with “Heritage Status”, protecting me from the blinding nature of adulthood, connecting me to more opportunities and freedom in a bigger world.
Alright alright. I might not be old enough to be too nostalgic, but I don’t want to wait until I retire to appreciate the weak spots of my own “Norwegian Wood”. Nostalgia is there for a better reason than melancholia or depression. It’s there to keep you moving forward. I want to be an idol of nostalgia, telling old stories and creating new ones. I want to be like many Aussie veterans who have created great histories and are happily living with their fond memories of Royal Parade.
A New Story from Park Street
I have moved out of my two-storey bungalow in St Albans (very nicely) and settled into this cool three-storey apartment located in Park Street (for the record, this is my fourth accommodation in Melbourne and, yes, I’m back into a young-and-crazy apartment life!). The manager of this apartment, Mr Wayne, is a very nice old man who kindly let me move into my unit earlier than the agreed date. He hoped that I would be more comfortable transferring all my stuff over the weekend. I said that he didn’t have to worry, that I had moved a lot in my life, that this time it should be a simpler task for me. Guess what, I was so wrong.
Moving out, nonetheless, was a very challenging, detailed, painstaking task. I might have a lot of experiences in a nomadic life, but to carry all the boxes and bags alone to my unit on the first floor was not convenient at all (typically, I didn’t know how the hell I ended up having a lot of stuff from the previous house!). To make matters worse, due to some unknown technical glitches, there was no electricity for the first two nights. So, I was stuck hopelessly among all the unpacked paraphernalia in darkness and slept with (romantic) candlelight. Plus, for the first two mornings, I had to take a cold shower (believe me, it’s not pleasant at all to have a cold shower, even during spring in Melbourne).
Anyway, I was not discouraged by this unprecedented incident (I forgave Mr Wayne). Once the electricity was back, I quickly transformed my world following my extreme whims and fancies and, wallah, things fell so perfectly into place. I love it that this apartment is a fully-furnished unit, like Micasa. But, it is way much better with more space: the living room (I love the huge flat screen HDTV); the dining corner (I love the great ambience); the kitchen (I love the enormous cabinet); the study space (I love the grand window); the shower room (I love the widespread lighting); and the bedroom (I love the majestic city-skyline view). Perfect.
A NEW WINDOW TO LIFE
At the moment, I’m looking out of this window from my new bedroom and gazing at the Melbourne’s bustling life happening so vibrantly out there. To begin with, this serene-looking Park Street is a special street because it lies at the border of two great suburbs. One is Brunswick, a big suburb with a population of more than 20000, and the other one is Parkville, a beautiful inner city suburb that is home to major education and research centres. Technically, my unit is located within Brunswick, but spiritually, I would love to be associated with Parkville for two simple reasons: first, my bedroom is facing right into Parkville; and second, the University of Melbourne is located in this suburb, too. So, I will be so proud to be part of the elite world of Parkville.
And there, from afar, I can also see Melbourne’s city skyline (it is even lovelier at night!). You see, I’m really back into the city. It is only 3 kilometres away from where I am now. It also means that the University of Melbourne is just around the corner. I can easily take a seven-minute tram ride or, for a healthier reason, I can get on my bike and reach my phonetics lab for only ten minutes (isn’t that convenient?). Oh, I’m so in love with the surrounding areas of Park Street. Its name speaks so much volume for what to be expected around here. It’s so close to parks and greeneries: Princes Park (I love the flowery garden); Royal Parade (I love the blossoming trees); and the beautiful Melbourne General Cemetery (yes, you heard me!). Wait, have I told you that my new place is also next to Sydney Road, Melbourne’s longest continuous shopping strip? Yes, there are just so many stories out there waiting for me to discover. But for now, this is just the beginning of my new story from Park Street.
A Letter to St Albans
Dear St Albans,
I have come here again to share some intimate moments with you. I always love this charming side of you. It always brings peace to my mind. Yes, today is my last day with you before I’m moving back to the city. Well, I’m excited to return to a place where I used to be, but, you know, I can’t help feeling a little melancholic.
Dear St Albans,
As I’m lying on the grass with you now, I’m having that emotional pain again. There are certain negative feelings inside me that must be unleashed today. So, I’m writing this letter to let you know what’s been bothering me and, hopefully, heal those unresolved feelings. Okay, here are my top-five feelings for you. Ready?
1. First, I feel quite annoyed lately. To be more blatantly honest, I’m very very angry at you for making me feel like I’m being imprisoned inside my own world. You see, I hate it to think that I miss a lot of fun and excitement in the city. I don’t like it that life in the suburb can be too laid-back (oh, I’m also pissed off with those crickets that always start singing as early as 4 p.m.!). Argh, I’m so tired of feeling isolated. I want to enjoy Melbourne more. I want to live life to the fullest.
2. Second, I feel so sad because I feel like I can’t appreciate you anymore. I know, it’s not your fault, but it really hurts when my own privacy and space are not respected. It’s extremely disappointing to be living with my own human species who sometimes don’t care about others’ feelings. I’m so sad to be stuck, helpless and alone in that pretty big bungalow. I wish I could bring the best out of my stay with you here. I want you to be special.
3. Third, I’m scared that I might have made a mistake of choosing you in the first place. I’m worried that I might be sick of you and stop admiring you. Yes, it’s frightening to acknowledge that I can’t find peace here anymore and, gosh, I’m afraid that I can’t do anything about it. It makes me feel incompetent and insufficient. Trust me, I’m deeply scared of this feeling. I feel like I’m being rejected, abandoned and hurt. I need a world that is more trusting and accepting.
4. Fourth, I’m sorry that I resent you so much lately. Please forgive me for always criticizing and judging you. I regret that I could have taken you for granted. I do feel ashamed of myself for demanding too much. Having to deal with my own petty feelings is so embarrassing. I’m sorry that I’m not more loving and accepting of your limitations. I’m only here for nine months and I want it to be unforgettable. I don’t want to lose my child-like wonder for you.
5. Finally, I have high respect and admiration for you. I understand that you are doing your best. I forgive you. You know what, I have had a taste of a suburban life and loved it! And wait, I met wonderful people too (I won’t forget Fiona, Jack, Dejan and Dominic). Yes, it’s been such a colourful journey. I thank you, dear St Albans, for being such a great companion and, more importantly, for going to be part of my cherished memories in Melbourne.
Love,
Cekmi
P.S. I’m just around the corner.
10 Therapies in Lantau Island
Therapy comes from the Greek word therapeia, which means “to be attentive to”. This definition implies that a therapy can be discovered through many tangible and not-so-tangible forms (by simply paying attention to them!). I have found a great deal of these therapies in many places. One of them is Lantau Island.
1. Colour Therapy
Being the largest island in Hong Kong, Lantau Island is a stark contrast to Hong Kong: high-rise buildings are replaced by high-rise mountainous terrain and, sorry to disappoint all the big spenders, grand shopping malls are substituted by grand indigenous forest. It means that the official “advertisement billboard” here is GREEN. As I witness this Giant Green Monster that keeps blanketing my whole vision, I feel like I’m being medically treated by a colour therapist. It has been claimed that Green symbolizes love and a sense of responsibility, and it is always associated with heart and lungs. So, it’s no wonder that Lantau Island is often referred to as “the lungs of Hong Kong”.
2. Dance Therapy
Oh, I feel like dancing on the Ngong Ping 360, a cable car that takes me to Ngong Ping Village. The views from inside the cable car are both body- and mind-boggling. I can spot the famous Big Buddha and Lantau Peak from afar. So spectacular, I could have danced merrily all the way to the top of the cable car terminal (the cable riders must have thought that I’m a poor dancer!). But, hey, at the end of the journey, my body and mind are well united and therefore giving a healthy balance and a sense of wholeness to my individual-self. My dance therapy is complete and successful.
3. Play Therapy
But the fun has just begun! There are so many other tools of diagnosis in Ngong Ping Village, an entertainment centre adjacent to the cable car terminal. I know that Play Therapy is designed for children only, but knowing me, my self-confidence is always communicated through play and adventures. So, what the heck? Right now, at this 1.5-hectare cultural themed village, I’m going to explore all these attractions and be fully diagnosed with all sorts of playful games. And it doesn’t take too long before I can hear the music resonating so beautifully from Lantau Peak.
4. Music Therapy
Yes, there’s something musical about Lantau Peak, the second highest peak in Hong Kong. With a height of 934 meters above sea level, Lantau Peak offers a perfect material and an immaculate design to achieve therapeutic goals. If you observe closely, you’ll notice that there is a pair of peaks on the mountain: one is male (the higher peak) and another is female (the lower peak), and together they make a perfect couple – “Fung Wong Shan”, the Chinese Phoenix Mountain. To find this gender harmony at the top of a mountain is so musically artistic, like The Puteri Gunung Ledang Musical. What a lovely music!
5. Physical Therapy
There are 268 steps to reach that large bronze statue of a Buddha. Honestly, this is a breeze (I have successfully climbed the 272 stairs to the most popular Hindu shrine in Batu Caves!). But, I’m now feeling like I’m being treated at a rehabilitation centre, with a physical therapist diagnosing my physical health, standing fiercely next to me and screaming loud: “Go! Go! Go! Hilmi! You can do it! Go!!!” As I climb these tough-looking stairs, I can feel my increasing heartbeat and increasing excitement. All these physical movements are just adding a little spice to my life’s adventures. So, who says the lift is better than the stairs?
6. Energy Therapy
And, yes, here I am! Phew. I’m standing so close to Tian Tan Buddha, the famous Big Buddha, the world’s tallest outdoor seated Buddha (prior to 2007). I feel like sitting down like this 112-foot-tall Buddha and replenish my energy, but, strangely enough, I don’t feel tired at all. There’s something energetic around here, like something greater is channeling the energy through me via some sort of mystical communication. I know, this place is more than a popular tourist attraction. This serene and dignified gentleman is still selling the most popular idea in the world – people and spirituality are inseparable. That’s the true energy.
7. Art Therapy
The hidden art is so abundant in Tai O, a fishing village located on the western side of Lantau Island. It is built mostly on the banks of the river, which makes it so idyllic, rustic and charming. At times, I thought I saw an abstract painting at an art gallery (and the brush belongs to God Almighty!). Also known as the Venice of Hong Kong, this place has a lot of pang uks, a kind of stilt houses that are constructed over the waterway. I don’t know what’s bothering me, but I can sense that unsettling melancholy as I wander through the village, which also makes Tai O special and unforgettable. All these artistic values and therapeutic sights have definitely increased my creative insights. How could I not be so in love?
8. Salt Therapy
For a small fee, I get to experience Salt Therapy in Tai O, very literally. The “gondola” man takes me around the inner areas of the village and I’m physically exposed to the salty air. The whole village is now visible to my raw eyes – poorly-managed squatter huts and hard-to-believe dilapidated stilt houses. I can also clearly see the salt production which has always been part of the local history. The locals usually smile whenever they see me, but it feels so awkward to return the smile. I feel like a jerky tourist who casually comes and leaves behind the locals’ misery to deal with on their own. It’s painful. My senses are being tortured through all these salty experiences.
9. Reality Therapy
It’s really humbling to see the lifestyle of the people in Tai O. They mostly depend on the traditional seafood production to earn their basic living. It’s even more disheartening to learn that a large fire broke out in 2000 and destroyed many residences. These people, however, keep smiling and selling, not only their salted fish, but also their poverty to the eyes of the world. Which leads to one important question – why would the Hong Kong tourism board include Tai O in their tourism strategy? Reality therapy, dude. Reality therapy.
10. Narrative Therapy
There are so many things to say about Lantau Island, the exotic island with a population of only 45,000. The stories of Lantau Island have surely been narrated in many styles, and this is my way of putting them. My direct contact with these places has, in many significant ways, “corrupted” and healed me through a wide range of so-called therapies. But above of all these therapies, the best one is Narrative Therapy. It’s about paying attention and finding meanings through rich stories of places and people we always encounter in our everyday life.
Diagnosed With Love in Lantau Island
A Gambler in Macau
Going to Macau was like going on gambling – I had no idea what I was doing but, after giving it a blind shot, the reward was priceless.
A NEW COUNTRY
When I arrived at the Hong Kong Macau Ferry Terminal to catch a one-hour ferry journey to Macau, I was a little confused to see a huge crowd lining up at what seemed to be an immigration checkpoint. I was panicked. Oh my god, am I crossing a border? After a few minutes of face-slapping dismay and emotional turmoil, I was beginning to understand that I was indeed going to enter a new country with its own sovereign territory. How silly of me. I always thought that Macau was part of Hong Kong. Thank goodness, I brought the passport!
Given my recent non-criminal record in Hong Kong, I passed the immigration easily and was granted a 30-day authorized stay in Macau (I loved that stamping sound on my passport, like a judge giving a favorable verdict to an innocent man). A few minutes later, I was already hopping merrily on a big red ferry called Turbo Jet. The ride was, considering my limited sea experiences, pleasurable. I’ve got my own assigned seat which somehow made me feel like I was flying on a chartered aeroplane. A pleasant sight accompanied me along the journey: an auntie having an exotic noodle, an uncle reading a hard-to-see newspaper, a boy staring at me like I was the next-top gangster in Macau, a baby crying for attention from their tired parents. It was overall a comfortable ferry ride, until I realized that I only had a few hundred Hong Kong dollars. Shit, what’s the unit of currency in Macau?
A PORTUGUESE WELCOME
The Macau Ferry Terminal looked like a runaway for a fashion show with all sorts of people with colourful costumes lining up to greet their arriving guests. Some signs were written in a strange language. Probably Portuguese. But I didn’t have to worry. Surely there was no one looking for me here. Oh, the money!
I found an exchange counter and converted the Hong Kong dollars to, er, Pataca! After learning this Portuguese word, I also learnt that Macau, like Hong Kong, is indeed a separate entity from the mainland China. After the handover in 1999, it has become a special administrative region that enjoys its own privileges – legal system, police force, monetary system, customs policy, immigration policy and transportation. Oh shit, speaking of transportation, how the hell would I get to that famous UNESCO World Heritage Site? Is it really here?
I was wandering around the terminal for about half an hour until I learnt how to get to that ambiguous destination. I got into a green bus and listened very hard to the announcement spoken in a language I hardly understood. Definitely not Mandarin. Probably Portuguese. It went without saying that I was simply lost. I sat on that bus, alone and hopeless, and enjoyed the amazing feeling of getting lost. When the bus driver asked me to get out, I hailed a cab and told him in whatever language I could find to get me to that god-dammit place.
THE FAMOUS SITE
The taxi driver dumped me comfortably at the Senado Square. He said I could just walk for a few minutes to the Ruins of St Paul’s. I stepped impatiently out of the cab and was awed with what I saw before me. This famous square was truly a beautiful landmark of Macau. Look, the pastel-coloured neo-classical buildings and the Mediterranean atmosphere were just stunning. Historical buildings were standing up so elegantly, showing off their architectural legacies and east-western assimilations. Modern and antique shops selling all sorts of paraphernalia were lining up and appealing to my every sense. Everyone seemed to be so absorbed with the Portuguese artwork that has long marked their cultural significance on this land since the sixteenth century.
Oh there it is, still standing tall amidst hundreds of posing tourists capturing their treasured moments with the stone facade. What’s so great about this leftover of Macau’s colonization period? It somehow resembled many buildings I had seen before in Malacca. But, what the heck, thanks to the rigorous efforts of Macau’s tourism board, I finally came here to witness the overrating superiority of the Ruins, the altar of the city, the “Taj Mahal” of Macau.
THE BLIND GAMBLER
Wow. I couldn’t believe my own eyes when I first saw this golden building standing so magnificently and outstandingly. What the hell is that? Yes, the Grand Lisboa is currently Asia’s finest casino hotel, an iconic building, the tallest building in Macau and the 118th tallest building in the world.
So I couldn’t stop my growing curiosity and decided to have a closer look at this building (perhaps having a peek inside!). The nearer I got into the building, the more intense I felt about the whole gambling experience in Macau. I learnt that gambling here had been legal since 1850s, and that made Macau famous worldwide and become the Monte Carlo of the Orient. In fact, gambling tourism is Macau’s biggest source of revenue. It is one of the main drives for the whole tourism industry in Macau (shhh, the World Heritage Site is probably just an excuse!).
Yes, I was at that main entrance and could smell the burning money. Could I be another contributor today? Would I be daring enough? I was smiling and felt the way that perhaps only a true gambler would understand. I had no idea what it was but it was certainly a good feeling. No, I didn’t walk into this famous casino and waste all my money. I didn’t have to do that in order to win more money. I had already gambled so much in my life. I had already taken so much risks in the hope of favorable adventures. I had already been an addicted gambler who had always been betting on my own ignorance. And guess what, I had already hit the jackpot in Macau. I won.
A winning smile of a gambler
10 Stars for ICPhS 2011
The 17th International Congress of Phonetic Sciences (ICPhS) in Hong Kong was unbelievably awesome. For all the wonderful things that happened within those five lovely days, I give this world event 10 stars.
1. The Venue
The first star goes to the Hong Kong Convention and Exhibition Centre (HKCEC), the venue for the congress. Nestled right at the heart of Hong Kong on Victoria Harbour, this magnificent building offers a perfect location and a spectacular backdrop to the grand congress. I loved this great feeling of grandeur and splendour. So mesmerized, I thought I was on another planet.
2. The Organizers
The second star goes to the organizers – the City University of Hong Kong, the Chinese Academy of Social Sciences, Beijing, and the Academia Sinica, Taipei. These people handled the event so beautifully (I loved the time-keeping bells!). Held for the first time in Asia since 1932, the ICPhS would be remembered by all phoneticians from this particular part of the world. I definitely would.
3. The Participants
The third star goes to the participants who created such positive vibes to the event. I met a lot of PhD students who shared the same passion and fear, trying out our best to establish a ground in the phonetic research. I loved every single conversation I had with these enthusiastic students. Too much information, there came a point when I had to resist saying Hi to a new potential friend. Maybe later.
4. The Big Names
The fourth star goes to all the big names in phonetics, the Kings and Queens of Sounds, who were freely mingling in the conference room. I was trembling when I was introduced to Rachid Ridouane, my de-facto mentor (it’s still difficult to match his name with his appearance, haha). And each time I saw the other phonetic celebrities, I felt like screaming, like a crazy fan at the Oscar’s Red Carpet.
5. The Plenary Lectures
The fifth star goes to all plenary lectures that inspired my intellectual self. The speakers talked about things that I badly needed to hear – the robustness of speech perception, speech recognition, the interdependence of sounds and prosodies, phonological complexity, speech dynamics, linguistic phonetics. Yes, they made me feel like an idiot, but it’s the kind of idiocy that I mostly welcome.
6. The Oral Sessions
The sixth star goes to the many oral sessions that I attended within five days – 12 oral sessions with 6 different overlapping themes within a session. How I wish I could divide my body and attend all those sessions, but that’s how things get more thrilling, right? At the end of each session, I always felt so condensed with phonetic details. But I also felt so good and told myself, “Hey, I could do this too!”
7. The Poster
The seventh star goes to poster sessions that all hooked up my senses. I had never been to an event like this, so I got more excited each time I passed one poster after another. The whole environment was like a huge street market, except these people were selling ideas and methodologies. So casual and personal, I could privately ask anything I wanted, not worrying whether the question was stupid or not.
8. The Local Tour
The eighth star goes to the “touristy” local tour that I joined on the fourth day of the conference. Together with other excited conference participants, we blindly followed the overly-chatty tour agent to the Victoria Peak, Repulse Bay and Stanley Market. The tour ended splendidly with the Victoria Harbour Cruise, complete with buffet dinner and a symphony of lights. Kudos to the Hong Kong Tourism Board!
9. The Presentation
The ninth star goes to, ahem, my own presentation. It was scheduled, not only on the last day, but also towards the end of the final oral session (saving the best for last, I suppose, huhu). Well, it went so incredibly well. The audience was not intimidating at all. In fact, they were all so positively curious, supportive and helpful with tips and recommendation. I must thank John (my saviour) and Sister Noor Nayan (the only Malaysian at the conference besides me) for being there for me. Love you guys!
10. The Future
Finally, the tenth star goes to the future of my career. I met wonderful participants. I brushed shoulders with prominent scholars. I listened to (and got confused with) a lot of phonetic stories from so many great phonetic storytellers. I got professionally involved with an international community and joined their vast network around the globe. The colourful future is absolutely on its way. I think I nailed it! huhu
With Professor John Hajek, my super-tall supervisor (figuratively, too)
With Sister Noor Nayan, my only Malaysian fellow (we all boleh-lah, kan?)
Attending Sister Noor Nayan’s poster presentation (good luck for your PhD at Reading!)
Posing (timidly) with the Rachid Ridouane at the Victoria Peak
With fellow researchers and experts from Japan (they are seriously young and bright)
Yours truly, beaming and thinking … (PhD is sweet, too!)
China & Cekmi
There are so many people roaming and blitzing in Causeway Bay, one of the most popular shopping spots in Hong Kong. The number of crowd is way too much for me to handle at one time. This is like one of the biggest pasar malams I have ever seen in my life. As a matter of fact, there are always people and people and people at almost every corner in Hong Kong. To be exact, there are 1.339 billion citizens in China and, gosh, seven million people in Hong Kong alone, making it one of the most densely-populated, sardine-ful cities in the world. With this overwhelming count of heads, you can imagine the general attitude of the people in China. With this awareness, you will begin to appreciate their being competitive and, after some time, you don’t even want to blame them for being unhappy, aloof and cold.
THE LESSON IN GUANGZHOU
I was only in Hong for a few days, but it didn’t take me too long to understand the locals and adapt their extremely kiasu-driven lifestyle and finally behave like one. It all started when I was stuck at the Guangzhou Baiyun International Airport for a couple of hours before catching my next flight to Hong Kong. I could see so many airplanes flying up in the air, but more importantly, I could also see so much stress flying up in the air, too. The level of tension was alarming I couldn’t help imagining that the promised doomsday was about to start. What was going on? I could see the terror flashing so clearly through the face of a lady officer at the information counter.
“Excuse me, would you mind telling me where the toilet is?” I asked her politely. She gave me that I-do-mind-so-go-to-hell look and dismissed me immediately. I felt like I was a sex maniac trying to rape her in the public. I was still waiting for her response when she looked at me again and raised her left hand and showed the direction of nowhere. I was frustrated. But I soon learnt the lesson. I realized that I was not in an English-speaking country. For God’s sake, I was in China, a huge communist country with a huge history of huge civilizations.
Which speak volume about its people. It then came down to me that these people couldn’t afford to be so personal and nice and accommodating to every individual (unlike the Aussies who deal with only twenty-two million people around the whole Australian continent). There is obviously lack of space in Hong Kong and, therefore, lack of courtesy and whatnot. To be frank, I have never seen the level of kiasuness this high (I bet the Singaporeans are more than happy to surrender their Best-Kiasu title to the Hong Kongese, right?).
So, this lesson that I learnt in Guangzhou had set the rules and patterns for my little game in Hong Kong. What would I do next to survive?
APPLYING THE RULES
First, never ask for a direction.
Get set and ready for the race of your life. You don’t want to get very frustrated whenever you ask a local for a clue if you are lost. They would give you either a strange look or a strange direction. To avoid this disappointment that might further worsen your day, always check the direction beforehand either on a googled map or a manual map. Again, never rely on the people. Trust me, they suck. Be proactive, not reactive.
Second, always be pushy.
Get set and ready to run for your life at the Mass Transit Railway (MTR) station. Don’t think too hard or too long, or else it’s getting more crowded and suffocating. Just push your way forward on the MTR. Forget the manners you learn at school. At moments like these, you have to be uncivilized or uncultured to be perfectly in-synch with other unhappy commuters packed on a sweaty train. Just be a true Hong Kongese.
Third, always keep to the right.
Get set and ready for the most thrilling ride on the fastest escalator in the world. Hold tight the handrail. If you think it’s dirty, don’t worry, it’s always sanitized. Stand on the right side, please. Right. Right. Yes, while you think left is always right in your country, always bear in mind that right is always right in Hong Kong. You don’t want to be a nuisance to people who are always in emergency and who think they are going to die any time.
Yes, I had no problems whatsoever applying these simple rules during my nine-day stay in Hong Kong. So natural, the locals had already started speaking to me in their local dialect after a few days. It might be due to my looks (which could have hailed from some remote part in China), but I suspect it had something to do with the way I carried myself that made me look like one of them. I didn’t mind the misunderstanding. I learnt the lesson well. Wherever I am on the globe, just learn the art of people and I’ll be fine.
Everybody Knows
You look around you
Beaming parents
Nodding aunties
Giggling nieces
Jumping nephews
Shrieking friends
Smiling guests
You notice their presence
They’re always there
Patterns to look for
Guidelines to abide
Designs to follow
Templates to fill
Rules to obey
But the light is out
Senses are blurring
Anxiety is humming
Fear is overwhelming
Have you found you?
Are you you?
Are you them?
So you think you’re free
But the tapestry is sealed
Escape if you can’t breathe
Doomed if you try to persist
That’s the deal of this game
This funny party called Community
This funny creature called Culture
Everybody knows
Flying in Hong Kong
I’m flying tonight to Hong Kong for a nine-day conference trip. But my soul is already flying high to the future, soaring into this glamorous sky of Hong Kong, catching a glimpse of the bedazzling Victoria Harbour, flirting with the seducing sight of Kowloon, dropping by at The Peak and admiring these towering skyscrapers. I’m already picturing myself there, towering high with pride, carrying all the fancy hopes and holding tight all the colourful wishes. My soul will then fly back to the past, putting back my feet on the ground, facing my parents, my friends, my supervisors, looking deep into their eyes, wondering whether I have met their expectations, and whether I have flown into the right direction. I will look again at the sky and ask myself out loud: “How high should I fly?”
SELF-MADE WINGS
“This is the moment to spread your wings!” I remember Janet saying this to me at one of the regular meetings.
“I’m not sure whether my winds are strong enough,” I lamented.
“Don’t worry, Hilmi. This experience will let you know that you’re not alone in your research. There’s always someone else thinking, rejoicing or suffering in the same way, and that will give you the strength to confront the challenge before you!”
Janet was right. I want to fly higher and harness that Energy of Diligence to the maximum. Of course, I’m feeling nervous with the ambiguous possibilities within those 20 minutes on that scary day, the 21st of August 2011, in that cold Room S224 of that grand Hong Kong Convention and Exhibition Centre, facing those intimidating looks of the phonetic experts around the world, listening to my own musings about word-initial geminate stops in Kelantan Malay, offering my humble contribution to the world of phonetic sciences, and putting myself in a position I never imagine I could have.
Yes, I’m deeply scared. But I want to move on. Because I know, that’s always how human beings will end up doing; as soon as we have decided to confront our greatest fear, we will realize that we are far more capable than we thought we were. We will fly with – not Air Asia or Malaysia Airlines or China Southern Airlines, but – our own unique brand of self-made wings.
And, yes, I always look forward to saying this: Hong Kong, here I come!
The Utopia of a Weight-Watcher
1. I’m not a weight-watcher, but I’m in love with this cereal nut that is richly filled with an abundance of almonds, juicy apricots and whole-grains on a super-delicious chocolate base.
2. I’m not a weight-watcher, but I’m fully aware that each cereal nut comes with energy (632 kJ), protein (2.9 g), fat (6.6 g), fibre (1.8 g), sodium (31 mg) and potassium (170 mg).
3. I’m not a weight-watcher, but I’m certain this cereal nut is a wonderful companion between meals, a sweet treat after supper and, hey, a great value for money.
4. I’m not a weight-watcher, but when I decided to treat this cereal nut as my new best friend, the philosophy was to respect my body and to idolize it in the holiest possible way.
5. I’m not a weight-watcher, but I would like to suggest this cereal nut for your fast-breaking meal today (though I’m certain it will be marginalized by other foods you get from Bazaar Ramadhan).
6. I’m not a weight-watcher, but the way I see it now, Ramadhan is not really helping; it is more like a month-long festival for lust-welcoming, hey-I-want-to-taste-this-and-that extravaganza.
7. I’m not a weight-watcher, but when I’m talking about an ideal physical look, I’m talking about self-confidence, self-esteem and feeling sweet saying “no” to a sweet teh tarik.
8. I’m not a weight-watcher, but I’m just trying to sell the idea of a smart eating habit, regular physical activities, behaviour changes, a feel-good lifestyle and a great taste for life.
9. I’m not a weight-watcher, but my heart goes out to those who are caught in weight-watching paranoia and keep failing to get their ideal shape, making them feel like the biggest assholes in the world.
10. I’m not a weight-watcher, but the Utopian Weight sometimes feels like a pure fantasy, too beautiful, too perfect, it easily disappears at any given moment, like a distant star.
The Ephemera of Sakura
I came back to Melbourne and, still feeling overwhelmed by Adelaide’s charms, was again pleasantly mesmerized to discover these beautiful flowers blooming so wildly and abundantly at the backyard of my own rented bungalow. I felt like getting a grand picnic mat immediately and having a grand picnic party underneath this lovely tree, but that would be so awkward. The kitchen was only 10 metres away.
I showed this picture later to my lab-mate, Eleanor, and she was like, “Wow… that’s a beautiful cherry blossom!”
“What? Is it native to Australia?” I was more curious.
“Definitely not. In Japan, they call it Sakura.”
I was dumbfounded.
Of course I knew what sakura was. I had seen this Prunus serrulata, the Japanese oriental cherry, the elite member of Rosaceae, for many times in the magazines or TV or movies. I had always admired this celebrated symbol of Japan, but how could I not recognize it when I saw it at my own backyard? To find sakura with my own eyes in a place called home was probably never part of my long-listed itineraries in Australia. Thanks to the cold winter, I don’t have to go to Japan to enjoy the sweeping beauty of these cherry blossoms. That’s great, isn’t it?
There is, however, something disturbing beyond the charming looks of these flowers. They look rather pensive, meditative and, er, morbid. As if they are being born again simply to smile in pain and die again. Maybe, that’s why the Japanese artists always associate sakura with mortality and the ephemeral nature of life. And right now, I’m feeling kinda mono no aware, engulfed with the wistful faces of these cherry blossoms, aware of their cheekiness, empathic with their ephemera, deeply touched by their gentle sadness, sensitive with their passing beauty, and apprehensive with their quick death.
But I don’t care even if they call it the flower of death. Spring is definitely on its way, demonstrating its blooming signs in Melbourne, and singing its extremely glorious songs to my blossoming yet ephemeral heart.
Bus of Memories
The overnight bus ride from Adelaide to Melbourne is smooth and enjoyable. By smooth and enjoyable, I imply that I’m being entrusted into good hands of a sober driver, I’m being well taken care of, I’m being pampered with great services, and, most importantly, I’m being transported to the right destination of life, not of death.
After being perpetually brainwashed by deathly bus services in Malaysia, I’m still nervous to hop on any similar-looking express bus, but I’m taking a chance tonight. Who knows it’ll be different in Australia? It’s my first time getting on an interstate Express Coach Service, and I’m already feeling wonderfully different. At 80 km/ hour, Firefly Express takes the word “Express” to a whole new level. This bus will drag me to a 10-hour night affair on the road, promising a pleasant journey, ensuring the level of service that is second to none. And if that’s not enough, the bus driver also acts like a sports coach who trains his tough players on how to use a toilet.
“I hope you all will enjoy your ride tonight. Please use the onboard toilet properly. Don’t forget to flush away your bad attitude,” he says on the loud speaker, sending a deep and welcoming message to all passengers, treating us like his naughty children, making me feel nagged and protected by a father. I actually feel so safe listening to his witty ramblings. A nagging father who drives a bus. Perfect.
Right now, I’m sitting alone on an oversized seat, watching I Am Number Four on the tilting TV set. But I prefer to look outside the bus window, gazing hard at the darkness and nothingness of the night. As the bus is carrying my tired body, it is also carrying the heavy bus of memories within me. Like listening to a subtle tune that brings unknown but familiar pleasure, like smelling some fresh aroma that brings mysterious but intimate sensation, these whole bus experiences now bring back all the melancholic, swept-under-the-carpet stories to life. When was it the first time I took a long bus journey like this? It must be years ago.
BUS-FUL RITUALS
20 years ago to be exact. I remember feeling nervous when Ayoh and Ma was sending me away to a boarding school in Klang. I had my first long-distant bus journey that night from Pasir Mas, with Ayoh and Ma sitting close to me on that sad-looking bus, bringing along their prayers and blessings for me to carry into my new hostel life. The image of Ma carefully and patiently holding Ise, barely four years old, on her lap on that long rocking bus ride was still fresh in my mind. I was so young and looking forward to my new adventurous game in the west of Malaysia. How innocent!
Now, it’s all coming back to me, all the pain and joy that followed that night, from high school to university, the frequent trips from Kuala Lumpur to Kelantan, the rituals that accompanied each ride, the building anticipation like it was a holy pilgrimage to the holy land, the anxieties I had to consume at the Hentian Putra in Kuala Lumpur running helplessly and looking for the right bus, the strangers sitting next to me (I always hoped the mysterious passenger was a kind auntie who would look tenderly at me and tell me fascinating stories), the struggle with the deadly-freezing temperature, the sad-looking selection of foods at the Merapoh restaurant, the nervousness when I reached the Kota Bharu station in the wee hours of the morning, all happened within a long night of a great battle. Then, a whole new episode of rituals started rolling by again on my way back to Kuala Lumpur, the unfathomable looks on Ayoh’s and Ma’s faces, the alarming hand-kissing moments, the terrible surge of sorrow that was always there with me, the remaining leftover of thoughts, the resistance, the hangover suffocation…
Why should I remember all these naive memories again now? Maybe I should. Because, they are all slowly slipping my mind now, fading away like the swarm of strange commuters at the train station, evaporating like the mist in the morning, flying high and mixing up with all the other stain of life.
It’s still a long way to Melbourne. This bus journey will definitely take my whole night, but I don’t mind this slow ride. I’m listening to the soulful and jazz-ful music of my past life. I want to cherish all these memories, enjoy every last bit of meaningful moments, relish the blessed feelings while they still last, before the grim reality of statistics and bus nightmares in my homecountry starts kicking again in my conscience.
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