10 BIG Words for Adelaide
Just a few years ago, I learnt a lot of GRE (Graduate Record Examinations) vocabulary during my fatal struggle to enroll into one of the US universities. Although the scores for my verbal reasoning were not admirable enough and, sadly, I didn’t get admitted into any of the universities there, I still savour the fascination each time I encounter the same pompous, grandiloquent, weird-sounding words in any magazines or books. Today, I’m going to resurrect those words again and, hopefully correctly, describe my experiences in Adelaide, the fifth largest city in Australia.
1. SOPHISTRY
Sophistry means “elaborate, eloquent but logically invalid arguments intended to deceive .” When I first saw the city of Adelaide and was marveled by its engineering heritage, I recalled all the arguments and opinions of those who claimed that Adelaide is not worthy enough for a trip. However, the moment I touched the ground and witnessed the life here with my own eyes, my mind was spinning with amazement. Soon enough, I learnt that the Europeans have settled here in South Australia for 175 years (sure I have missed a lot of stuff, haven’t I?). Named after the Queen Adelaide, this well-planned city definitely gripped my attention that went beyond my imagination. Sometimes, what people say can be pure sophistry.
2. CONVALESCENCE
Convalescence means “gradual healing after sickness.” Well, I’m not seriously sick or anything, but being able to cruise along the North Terrace, one of the four terraces that surround the city of Adelaide, made me feel like I was walking along a Healthy Terrace. There were just so many places and buildings of great significance located at this famous cultural boulevard that could feed my intellectual and mental health: The South Australian Museum, The Art Gallery of South Australia, The University of Adelaide, The University of South Australia, just to name a few. After my successful intellectual “operation” here, I think my convalescence may last up to 100 years.
3. STRATAGEM
Stratagem means “a maneuver in a game.” I could see this deliberate, well-coordinated maneuver in the development of many squares and parklands around the city of Adelaide. I mean, why would the Adelaide City Council build such elaborate greeneries around the city? I’m sure they are intended to achieve noble goals that would benefit all Adelaideans, right? Okay, let’s check this fact out: there are 5 squares alone inside the city, plus 29 parks measuring 7.6 square kilometres that circle the city centre. Impressive, huh? So, it’s not a surprise to learn that these parks have been entered into the Australian National Heritage List. This is not an ordinary game. It’s the best stratagem.
4. SHAMBOLIC
Shambolic means “chaotic and very disorderly.” I had this wonderfully chaotic feeling when I was at the Rundle Mall, Adelaide’s premiere retail area. Opened as Australia’s first pedestrian street mall in 1976, Rundle Mall is still the most important retail centre in the city and is certainly way more chaotic than Bourke Street in Melbourne. Walking (or running) through this street, my mind was continuously tortured by the surrounding excitement from mall-goers and the endless choices offered by the mega stores, arcades and plazas. It’s the kind of chaos that would blind your logic and make you forget temporarily about your bank account balance. That’s why Rundle Mall was so shambolic.
5. MUNIFICENT
Munificent means “extremely generous.” I would tag this description to Adelaide’s very own Chinatown. Guarded by two paifangs and Chinese guardian lions, this precinct was so generous with sights and smells and sounds that were deafening my senses. Restaurants, grocery stores and markets sprawled along the Gouger Street that added more zest and life to my already hungry soul. Being surrounded by things so Asian in the midst of things so European could sometimes make me confused. How do I put all these confusing details in the right perspective? But that’s the magic of Chinatown, always complete with the munificent sum of cultures.
6. PLETHORA
Plethora means “excess of something.” The Adelaide Central Market is perhaps best described with this word. Established since 1869, this market has over 80 stalls and is South Australia’s best-known landmark, the heart of Adelaide. The range of fresh food, fruits, vegetables, seafood and cakes is just excessive. Struggling hard to walk among the excited traders and shoppers, I could smell the delicious aromas, glare at the vivid colours and cherish the atmosphere of a multicultural melting pot. I could just roam around here the whole day and be immersed into all this stimulating concoction. This food mecca is just over the top and full of plethora.
7. TRAVESTY
Travesty means “comedy that makes a mockery of something.” Sorry, I couldn’t help feeling a little ticklish when I rode the Glenelg Tram, Adelaide’s only remaining tramway. Being used to the vast tram network in Melbourne, the Glenelg Tram looked like a comedy to me. What’s more, I was amused when the officer asked me to pay the tram fares to the conductor who roamed freely on the crowded tram. While it looked a bit strange by the Melbourne standard, I admired the efforts to keep this tradition alive. And while machine and technology is now the order of the day, I still think it’s a good idea to have a real authority in the form of a friendly human being. However, this was so rare and, yes, a travesty.
8. SACROSANCT
Sacrosanct means “sacred.” That was how I felt when I visited the green heaven in the Adelaide Botanic Garden. Founded over 150 years ago, this garden might look like the same with the botanic gardens I have seen before. A closer inspection, nonetheless, revealed a lot more sacred treasures here. The garden’s tropical palm house, for example, showcases the precious collection of plants from the island of Madagascar. This heritage-listed glasshouse is still one of its kind in Australia. Not too far from the palm house is The Amazon Waterlily Pavilion, the exquisite glass palace that is home to the largest waterlily in the world. That, I think, is evident enough to claim that this garden is indeed sacrosanct.
9. LACHRYMOSE
Lachrymose means “showing sorrow and tears.” The River Torrens, the most significant and iconic river in Adelaide, showed just this. I walked along this clean and well-maintained river and could sense the untold stories beyond this extrinsic serenity. It was regularly visited by the “pop-eye” tourist boats, small paddle boats and black swans that further added its postcard-like elegance. The joggers and cyclist and lovers enjoyed the footpaths and riverbanks, participating in this natural extravaganza. I apologize for being romantic again, but I suspect there have been a lot of sad love stories being immortalized at this river. That’s why I could hear the music of love on the air, playing most of the time its lachrymose ballads.
10. AMELIORATE
Ameliorate means “to make better.” This was how I imagined my trip in Adelaide should end. Thank goodness, it happened when I was in Glenelg, a popular and scenic beach-side suburb of Adelaide. This is the oldest European settlement in South Australia since 1836. As I walked slowly (I mean, really slowly) along the beach, I envied those lucky residents who sat comfortably in the front-yard of their stylish houses that face the stunning views of coastal areas. I didn’t know how far I had walked, but I just kept going forward. When I was tired and decided to rest, I sat on a bench facing the beautiful sunset. Watching the blurring horizon far in the west, I thanked Adelaide for all the wonderful experiences that were certainly and badly needed to ameliorate my dry soul.
Make Your Day
We always say: “Thanks, you made my day!” Good things, apparently, always make our days. With all the blessings in our hands, we enjoy the rest of our blessed days and keep thanking our good parents or good friends or good lovers for making our days. We forget, sometimes, bad things can make our days, too. One of those bad things, unfortunately (or maybe fortunately), happened to me on my first day in Adelaide.
I woke up at the Sunny’s Adelaide Backpacker Hostel and remembered that the hostel’s manager had informed me earlier that free pancakes would be served in the morning. So, I ran fast to the kitchen and expected some hot, spongy, thick pancakes with honey syrup and melting butter served on some fancy plates. But, guess what, there was no sign of food. No pancakes. No honey syrup. No melting butter. Nothing.
I went to the reception and found the same manager behind the counter.
“Good morning,” I said nicely, trying not to sound too hungry or too desperate for pancakes.
“Good morning.”
“Er, I suppose there are pancakes at the kitchen right now?”
“I’ll be there in 10 minutes.”
“Are you the one preparing the pancakes?”
“Yes.”
“Should I wait?”
“Can’t you see I’m busy right now? I said 10 minutes! 10 minutes! 10 minutes! Okay?”
I was speechless. I didn’t know whether I sounded too hungry or too desperate for pancakes, but I certainly sounded so in the eyes of this angry manager. Poor little kid, hungry for food. Who does he think he is? A monkey?
For a few crushed pancake moments, I felt humiliated and belittled (very literally). I felt like checking out of this cheap hostel and just roaming aimlessly around the city, sulking the whole day over my unfulfilled pancake dreams. Then, suddenly, I realized that I was really acting like a poor, hungry little kid. And who is this manager? Who does she think she is? Is she the Manager of my Emotion? Does she have the power to make my day?
I didn’t know where the force and the energy came from, but I felt forceful and energetic. I waited patiently for the pancakes at the kitchen and, thank goodness, they were so worldly delicious. I thanked the manager for her beautiful culinary skills and, more importantly, for testing my patience and intelligence. I appreciate this rare opportunity of humiliation and belittlement. I got out of the hostel feeling cuter and taller than ever. At the end of my beautiful day in Adelaide, I discovered a great lesson never taught at the university – I just made my own day.
Yes, just remember, when people cause heartache or headache in our lives, just keep on walking. You’ll understand that you’re free to choose your destiny. You’ll make your day.
The Great Southern Rail
“I wanna jump off here! I wanna jump off here!” the little boy sitting in front of me keeps saying this little mantra to his indifferent mother. For a few disturbing moments, I thought the boy really meant to jump off the train and therefore proving any psychological disorder that he might be experiencing, probably being mentally abused by his psychotic mother or drunk father at home. But after a while, I am relieved to realise that the boy is just being excited and thrilled with what he sees outside the glass panel of the train, as excited and thrilled as I am, only I don’t have the guts to say, “I wanna jump off here too!”
Train travel, with all its rattling adventures and overwhelming luxuries, is still one of my favourite childish sports. It’s like taking a poetic pilgrimage to Eternal Bliss and Peace. Passing the spectacular Australian landscape and memorable open spaces always makes me jump out of my seat. Picture Perfect is at every turn and corner; lakes sitting quaintly in the middle of well-manicured fields, sheep grazing sleepily on gently-sloped hills like polka dots on a pretty dress, wildflowers blooming freely along the rail like a long carpet waiting for royal arrival, the greeneries that are never tired of their exotic tapestry and intricacies.
The train that I’m riding now is part of the larger web of Australian chain-trains called The Great Southern Rail. It is dubbed as “Australia’s Great Train Journeys”, which I absolutely agree. I have yet to book The Ghan (between Adelaide and Darwin), or The Indian Pacific (between Sydney and Perth) or The Southern Spirit (between Adelaide and Brisbane), but I can already tell they are all worth the booking. Right now, I’m so proud to be riding on one of their famous routes, called The Overland, which is taking me from Melbourne to Adelaide.
Established for more than 100 years, Emu has been the symbol for The Overland (see there?). It is for this “animalistic” reason that I decided to opt for a train ride instead of boarding a cheap flight: to fly gracefully through the wide open land (like Emu!). Starting at the Southern Cross Station in Melbourne at 8 o’clock sharp in the morning, the train crosses the Australian outback for 828 kilometres and takes ten and a half hours to reach the Keswick station in Adelaide. Moving at 85 km/ hour, there are no other better (and slow) ways to immerse yourself and appreciate the kaleidoscopic treasures that Australia has to offer. It’s the best way to relax and fly (or jump off, if you prefer so).
Surprisingly, the standard of service is of high class and admirable dedication. I don’t really mind if there are unexpected delays or unforeseen technical glitches. For the record, I am so used to being around poor train services in Malaysia. But but, I refuse to describe those experiences as “horrible” or “tragic”. I’d rather remember them fondly and highlight the best parts of them – being able to witness the romantic wilderness and being accompanied with the glorious side of loneliness – solitude. Illegitimate and private thoughts have never been so ripe and juicy and ready to pick on a lonely train journey, right?
Alas, no matter how beautiful (or how painful) the journey is, there will come a point when you have to end it somewhere at a chosen destination. Like a movie, there is a happy or sad ending. I’m lucky since my chosen course is as beautiful as the journey. Adelaide is welcoming me with all her magic and enchantment. I feel like jumping off the train now. Er, where is that little boy?
Wintering in Adelaide
Adelaide is pretty her face looks so bright
She says, “Dear Cekmi, are you ready for tonight?”
I say, “Sorry, darling, I don’t feel quite alright”
Reality is stark and it always does bite
“So what are you doing here?” Adelaide asks a cute question
“I don’t know, why do I feel like I’m at a boring bus station?”
“Whoa you sound like an old man with a huge pension and mansion”
“Haha that’s not what I mean but thank you for your attention”
Adelaide is smiling and I am still not fine
The words don’t rhyme maybe they are not mine
Tell me how so I can follow the sign
Save me now I am hanging on the line
Victoria Square
Adelaide
Healesville Sanctuary
I know this sounds silly, but hear ye hear ye: after visiting the Melbourne Zoo, the Werribee Open Range Zoo and (recently) the Healesville Sanctuary, I think I have accomplished one of the most important wildlife missions on earth; I have completed The Trilogy of Melbourne Zoos! Haha.
Yes, it feels like I have watched all the movie trilogies like The Jurassic Park or The Lord of The Rings or The High School Musicals or The Matrix or The Mummy or Transformers or Spiderman or I Know What You Did Last Summer! Huhu.
“But who cares? Animals? Aren’t they all the same?” my friend’s voice is still echoing somewhere at the back of my mind, like my mother’s sweet voice from my childhood. Well, thank you for the advice, my dear friend, but you are not my mother. I’m sorry you have lost your child-like wonders, so you can go back to your own world playing with your matured friends who are no different than the animals I have seen in the Melbourne Zoos. Ouch.
Oh, where were we?
Yes, Healesville Sanctuary.
I don’t know what’s gotten into me, but I am feeling high and dizzy, like I am a party animal dancing with hippy creatures at the Tarzan Club of Hedonism. I refuse to let go of my amazement every time I encounter these amazing little arts of God. I can hear what they say, fighting for my attention.
The Emu: “Hello, Cekmi! I’m a national bird of Australia. Just so you know, I have a prominent place in Australian Aboriginal mythology!”
The Koala: “Excuse me, I’m a cute arboreal herbivorous marsupial. I’m part of the Aboriginal cultures and legends in Australia too!”
The Kangaroo: “Whoa! Who doesn’t know me? I’m a national symbol of Australian cultures!”
The Platypus: “Wait a minute. I’m an iconic symbol of Australia too. Can’t you see me at the back of your Australian 20 cent coin?”
The Dingo: “Yo! I’m the country’s largest terrestrial predator. I play the most important role in Australia’s ecosystem, okay!”
The Tasmanian Devil: “Guys, listen up! I think I’m the most popular here. I’m the ambassador for Australian tourism, right?”
God bless these people.
Now, is there anyone out there who is kind enough to nominate me for the King-of-the-Zoo Award?
Gilbert’s Redemption
Have you redeemed anything in your life recently? Congratulations if you have redeemed an attractive voucher at a supermarket or a megastore, but that’s not what I mean. Redemption is more than monetary gain or shopping benefits or great savings. It requires faith and commitment that will repurchase your morality and dignity (and, again, that doesn’t include your Bonuslink points). Redemption, as the history dictates, has been found in so many ways.
Some have found it through music (well done, Susan Boyle).
Some have found it through books (well done, Helen Keller).
Some have found it through sports (well done, Lance Armstrong).
Some have found it through marriage (well done, er, Elizabeth Gilbert?).
Sorry, that very last redemption is still disturbing me. Because Ms Gilbert is a confused and confusing monster that will surely defeat the strongest Ultraman in Japan. Which is why I love reading her books. Her brilliant mix-and-match interplay between real-life events and academic narrations makes her a super-sensitive, hyper-dramatic, ultra-analytical writer. This latest memoir, called Committed: A Love Story, is not a chick-flicky and cheap-dirty book as it may sound. It unfolds, very seriously, a serious concept most human beings on earth have been subject to since the very beginning of that great Adam-and-Eve love story – the unification of body and soul. These days, the authorities all over the world, religious and secular, call it Marriage. And through her unfathomable mind, Ms Gilbert explores marriage and its surrounding issues – surprises, expectation, history, infatuation, women, autonomy, subversion and ceremony – which makes this memoir a brilliant masterpiece written for those who are always curious and looking for questions while not expecting for perfect answers.
Speaking of questions, I have similar ones that have always baffled me for so many years. To begin with, I have yet to redeem any significant achievements in any relationship. In case you are wondering, I hardly chicken out of matrimonial affiliations and its added values called commitment. I, in fact, always cherish my freedom and independence by putting myself at risk and being committed to the things I am wild at, like books and studies and experiments and boring stuff like that. But, yes, I heard what you said – those are inanimate objects, right? How about a breathing soul with feelings and emotions? I’m sorry, folks. For the record, I have failed miserably in this department; I’m a hard-boiled egg who needs a divine intervention (and a good spanking) to crack open. Nevertheless, given a blessed chance (and a good spanking), I’m all ready to redeem my wretched failures through some sort of agreement that good men and women around the world have been committed to. Ms Gilbert has at least done that. She inspires me with her uncanny stories and thoughts.
Here is a beautiful excerpt from the book that still leaves me breathless:
“… marriage is what happens between the memorable
We often look back on our marriage years later
and all we can recall are the vacations and emergencies
the high points and low points
The rest of it blends into a blurry sort of daily sameness
But it is that very blurred sameness that comprises marriage
Marriage is those two thousand indistinguishable conversations
chatted over two thousand indistinguishable breakfasts
where intimacy turns like a slow wheel …”
Maybe Ms Gilbert’s redemption was discovered through this slow wheel of marriage, but redemption comes in so many forms in our everyday lives. The question is, have you redeemed yours?
Dominic’s Freedom
Dominic is a middle-aged man. A real Aussie bloke. He’s just moved in a few weeks ago and is now my current bungalow-mate. He’s divorced.
“I’m settling down in China soon!” he told me excitedly one evening while we were having dinner together at the kitchen.
“What’s there in China?” I asked.
“Well,” he paused for a while, poking at the overcooked salmon on his plate, “I met this nice Chinese girl on the internet. I like her. She’s a beautician, you know.”
“Wow. She must be pretty!”
“Of course. She’s a hot sassy lady!”
“But hey, don’t you think she’s after your money? Well, you know, these days, Asian girls are always hunting for rich white men.”
“Who cares? This is my dream, Hilmi. I’m living out my dream in China!”
What can I say? Dominic is a free man. Single, rich and happy. He can do whatever goddamn things he wants to do. He must have been tired of his marriage that lasted for fifteen years (and he must have been tired of Australia too!). Bruised, broken and shattered, he must be following his heart now, pursuing his childhood dreams and reaching for his ultimate freedom.
But what is Freedom?
Does being married make you a pathetic slave? Does being single make you a carefree man? I heard marriage allows you to do so many things, freely, like sex, love and support. And I also heard that singlehood makes you an even more pathetic slave, tied and stuck, to your career, money and indulgence. We could be free in Australia (or China, for that matter), but how do we know if we are also slaves to our own freedom? Freedom seems like a blurry, relative, generic concept coined by men’s thirst for emancipation that further deceives their true needs and desires.
I have fought for my own freedom ever since I was a child. I was lucky for having parents who never dictated my life. I secretly woke up at night, opened the science book, and studied hard while they were sleeping soundly in their bedroom. I chose my own timetables and achieved colourful results for UPSR, SRP and SPM. I chose my own programs at the university. I chose whoever I wanted to be friends with. I chose wherever I wanted to go. I chose whatever I wanted to be. I chose PhD. I chose Melbourne. I chose unknown adventures. I chose ambiguous possibilities.
I chose Freedom.
Yes, I want to believe that it is always wonderful to be free. But, like slavery, there is always a high price for freedom. While I always smile with pleasure walking freely inside my own self-made world, there are tears that I have to bear. No, I don’t regret the painful times that I have been through while fighting for my freedom. I want to hold the scars as if they were Medals of Honour. Dominic’s freedom might also include this unwanted, complimentary package of life. He’s ready to fight for these lifetime-achievement medals, he knows that.
“Good luck with your Chinese adventures, mate!” I said to Dominic while I was doing the dishes.
“Oh, I can’t wait to be there!” he smiled like a naughty kid.
“If you are skyping with your hot Chinese girlfriend tonight, please send my regards to her, okay?”
“Yes, yes. I will ask her if she has a baby sister for you!”
We laughed together, heading to our own worlds with Chinese dream in mind. Dominic is going to love his freedom in China, although he has no idea what he is signing up for. That’s the real deal of freedom.
Kampung Utara Melbourne
“Tell me, what’s so special about Ramadan?” asks the cool-looking speaker to the well-behaved audience.
“Tak payah masak tengahari!” joke some of the women. No cooking in the afternoon! These women must have been tired of their hungry husbands. Or maybe they are just tired of this talk.
Drs Ahmad Dahari keeps delivering his fiery ceramah about Ramadan and its benefits. He speaks in a very eloquent Malay that resembles something like Bahasa Indonesia. I should be listening to his beautiful speech, but my mind is running amok elsewhere. There are so many thoughts passing by that are difficult to ignore. The long-standing issue and never-ending conflict within me are on the run again. Why is it so hard for me to do this? Why is it so hard for me to feel blended in, to feel belonged to, to feel part of something, to feel committed to, to feel wanting and wanted?
Looking back, I could see myself in many different forms and roles. I have been involved in many circles of personal and professional social networks. I become one of them and explore my potentials. But I never really stick firmly with any of them. My membership always expires in the middle of nowhere. I leave. Something is always bothering me. I guess I’m not meant to belong to any group in the world. Even with my family members. Yes, it’s true. Whenever I am around them, I feel blessed for the love and care, yet I always feel awkward I want to run away to Melbourne. When I am in Melbourne then, I feel thankful for the adventures and cultures, yet I always feel outcast I want to run back to Kelantan. When I was at the Deer Park Mosque sitting among the Bosnians recently, I refused to be different. And right now at the Broadmeadows Youth Central, when I am sitting among the people who don’t look very much different from me, I refuse to be the same. What’s happening to me? What am I doing here? Who are these people?
TALES OF ORANG KAMPUNG
They call themselves “the Malay Muslim families living in the northern metro area of Melbourne”. To be exact, they are the peace-loving Singaporean Malays who have the blind courage to mark their existence on the Australian map. Together, they build their own utopia called Kampung Utara Melbourne or KUM. The current event, simply called Majlis Syarahan Agama, is one of the many programs that the group has organized for religious purposes and, more importantly, I suspect, for the spirit of kampung-like togetherness. When I first learnt about the existence of this “underworld” association, I was curious. I googled the map of Australia and could not find the location. Is this a joke? Are they real? What the hell is Kampung Utara Melbourne?
“Bapak Rashid, what is Kampung Utara Melbourne?” I ask my newly-made friend at the end of the talk, dropping “the hell” from my question. He seems absorbed in his thoughts while playing with his two lovely daughters on his lap. He must have been a good father. Looking at me like a wise father comforting his curious son, he says, “Brother Hilmi, have you heard of what they always say about the Malays? They say we can always get out of our kampung, but we can never get the kampung out of us.”
Haha. Bapak Rashid is trying to be funny, but I strongly feel the irony. He tells me he has been living in this so-called kampung for more than a decade, and there is no sign of leaving any sooner. He loves his life in Melbourne and he hardly complains. I admire and envy his tireless energy and survival. Then I look at myself and feel ashamed. I have lived overseas for only two years and, yet, I have created a lot of fuss out of my short-term stay. Here I am again in this blog, whining about wanting the things I don’t have, talking to mysterious silent readers about how to live their lives when I don’t even have a decent one, dreaming of the dreams I am likely forbidden to achieve. Shame on me.
Well, for some people, the formula is very simple. Their concept of kampungness has gone to the next level. The very definition of kampung extends beyond the physical space of their homeland. Their spirit is free on this foreign land. They have travelled so far, yet they would never let go of their root. And that’s exactly what makes me feel troubled and alienated. I’m a restless man who will always be confused and confusing.
The Laundry Fantasy
It’s a sunny and bright Friday morning in Melbourne. The current temperature is four degrees celsius. It’s still cold and wintery. And I’m standing right here at the backyard of my house, in the middle of the iconic Hills Hoist rotary clothes line, among my freshly-washed shirts and pants and socks and underwear, feeling awed and inspired. No, I’m not drawn to the strong smell of detergent or the bright colour of the clothes pegs. I’m just dumbstruck to witness the tiny molecules of water dissolving and evaporating and vanishing and drifting and moving harmoniously on the air like little angels flying and singing and dancing merrily upwards into the heaven. At other times, they look like small particles of smoke being released from the burning laundry, like some dead bacteria running away from the burning bodies (only there are no dead bodies or burning hellfire around me, I’m pretty sure of that). Where am I? This is magic. It’s like God is giving me the superpower to inspect the microscopic miniatures and petty wonders of the invisible world. Call me naive and stupid, but I have never seen anything like this before. Gosh, I should do the laundry more often.
Julian & Zahrah
It turns out that the pale-looking man whom I spoke to at the Deer Park Mosque is not a Bosnian. He’s a real Aussie chap who became a muslim a few years before. His name is Julian. He told me excitedly about his Malaysian experience and how he came upon knowing a lot of Malaysian stuff. He was once part of the team that designed the famous Crystal Mosque in Terengganu and, God bless, that was when he met his dream girl.
“Bini saya Melayu,” he said in his horribly-sounding Malay. My wife is Malay.
“Oh, really?” I thought he was bluffing.
“Yes! She must be excited to see another Malay here.”
“Is she here?”
“She must be still inside the mosque, networking and chatting. You know, girl stuff. Oh yes, I want to give you a warning in advance. She’s extremely chatty and bubbly!” he said rather seriously I didn’t know whether he was joking or not.
And there she came walking with elegance towards us. Her physical appearance stunned me. To begin with, she was quite big for a typical Malay girl. She looked sophisticated in her fancy woolen sweater and swaying black pants and glittering tudung. Is she a model for a Muslimah fashion show in Melbourne?
“Hello, I’m Zahrah!” she said with unexpected excitement. I introduced myself with a little awkwardness and intimidation. The next thing I knew, I became deeply hypnotized by her words.
“Oh my God!” she began her big story with a big scream that wowed me. “Are you from Kelantan? Wow! My step family is from Kelantan too, you know. They are from Meranti, Pasir Mas. So I can kecek Kelate, huhu. Hey, I was in Kelantan when I was a teenager. Sekolah Menengah Zainab, Kota Bharu, you know? Of course you know. You see, I was not like this before. I was very conservative, with all that tudung labuh and baik image. When I was at the university, I took up Islamic studies. Can you imagine? A Kelantanese girl doing Islamic studies going out with orang putih? Haha. So, when I met Julian and fell in love with him, everyone thought I was crazy. They said I was murtad, that I wanted to become a Christian! Astaghfirullah. Oh, did you know that Julian’s father is a priest? Yes, a priest! So of course, my step father in Kelantan, who happened to be an imam, was totally against our relationship. Well, you know how it is like in Kelantan, right? It was really sad. All my friends stayed away from me. But I knew what exactly I wanted. I knew what I was doing. I got married anyway after Julian converted. The marriage ceremony was so simple. It was really really hard back then. I was only 22 when all these things happened. But alhamdulillah, I survived. See? Things are getting better now. We moved permanently to Melbourne. We have one daughter now, isn’t she adorable? But you know what, the funny thing is, all my friends now start coming back to me when they know that the sky is not falling down after we got married. Hah!”
Zahrah definitely has a big mouth. She is big, but her dream is even bigger and bolder. Australian dream.
Deer Park Mosque
“Assalamualaikum,” greets a pale-looking man who seems to be staring at me with a strange focused look. Maybe my hair is too black or my skin is too brownish or my feet are too small, but I don’t think so. I’m here for Friday prayer, not to sell fancy carpets or prayer mats. So I smile and say, “Waalaikumussalam.”
“Are you new in this area?”
“Yes.”
“Welcome to our mosque.”
The man quickly welcome me to their mosque. Deer Park Mosque. At a glance, this mosque might look typical if you look at it from a Malaysian perspective, perfectly blending in harmony with neighboring buildings and houses. But here in Deer Park, it looks outstanding and lavish. It’s like when you see a man with a long winter coat and fluffy scarf in the middle of hot and and sweaty Pasar Besar Siti Khadijah in Kota Bharu. Supervised by Australian Bosnian Islamic Society, Deer Park Mosque is the epitome of liberation and pride for the Bosnians. After all, you don’t find this stand-alone mosque very often in church-ful Melbourne.
It only takes a ten-minute bus ride from my place in St Albans to reach here. So there is no drama whatsoever in navigation. But I’m feeling a little anxious right now. As I enter the cold hall, I feel the strange air of cold isolation. It’s a completely different world inside here. It’s like entering into the rustic history book of Renaissance period in Europe. I walk towards a corner and sit down next to another pale-looking man. Is he sick? Is he meditating? Is he human? Should I shake hands with him? I offer my hands anyway and we both have a perfect and firm handshake. His smile brings some comfort to my unexplained anxiety. When the khatib starts to deliver his sermon, I become anxious again. I’m lost in translation. He speaks in a language I don’t understand. Right here in the middle of confusion, I try to console myself by mentally listing down the things that these strange men all around me might share in common. Right here in the middle of a blurry vision, I feel like running to the mimbar and grabbing the microphone from the khatib and delivering this poorly-drafted sermon: “Listen up, guys! You and I, we are not Doraemon, are we? We all have the same human skin that can bleed, don’t we? We all have the same tongue to lick a delicious lollipop, right? We are not so different, right? Yes, you, you, you, you, you, you, you, you, and you. Aren’t we all circumcised?”
My imaginary bravery is cut short when the bilal calls for prayer through his qamat. It all comes back to me now. Everyone in this hall has the same God to worship. That conclusion leaves a deep relief in me I say many thanks to Him for showing me the answer without having these people arrested me for having such a sinful thought of a sesat sermon. When the Friday prayer ends, I walk out of the mosque and bump into the same pale-looking man who has just sat next to me in the hall.
“Are you a Malay?” he asks me.
“Yes,” I try to control my surprise. “How do you know?”
“I have been in Malaysia and I notice that the Malays always shake hands with each other in the mosque, unlike the Bosnians.”
I leave Deer Park Mosque feeling ever more amused and anxious.
Melbourne in July
Trendy winter coats
Colourful scarves
Leathery gloves
Feathery boots
Melbourne in July is an eye-catching show
“But where is the snow?” you ask
Drinkable tap water
Happy tram passenger
Well-managed Yarra River
Arts and festivals in the centre
Melbourne in July is a bedazzling cosmopolitan pot
“But where’s your blue-eyed awek?” you ask
First-world nation
World-class education
Tip-top transportation
Same-sex rights revolution
Melbourne in July looks gayer and brighter than ever
“Sure you don’t miss your ugly kampung, right?” you ask
Crispy fresh air
Short sunny day
Long starry night
Sparkling dreamy eyes
Melbourne in July is a fairy-tale game for dreamcatchers
“Are you dreaming again, Cekmi?” you ask
PhD Second-Year Review
“I’m very honoured to know a doctoral candidate who began with almost nothing and is now working with almost everything that a true researcher ever needs,” Celia says at the conclusion of the PhD second-year review meeting. Janet is smiling and nodding in agreement as the three of us are completing the review form together. As my Advisory Committee, they are extremely serious when it comes to supporting my studies – intellectually, morally and motherly.
However, I’m not convinced. I’m still trying to digest what Celia has said. Can’t she see that those 12 Doctoral Attributes are simply impossible for me to achieve? An advanced ability to initiate research and to formulate viable research questions? A demonstrated capacity to design, conduct and report sustained and original research? Frankly speaking, that seems a loooooooooooong way to go. So I have every right to chicken out in the truest sense of a scared chicken.
Alright alright, let’s see what sort of damage I have done.
Collection of major experimental data in Kelantan. Checked.
Adequate analysis of experimental results. Checked.
Effective management of research data. Checked.
Paper presentation at a conference in Melbourne. Checked.
Submission and acceptance of paper in Hong Kong. Checked.
Completion of required coursework. Checked.
Writing two major chapters in the thesis. Checked.
Well done. But how about…
Research practice? Woo-hoo.
Research publication? Er.
Networking? Okay.
Knowledge transfer? Hmm.
Development of transferable skills? Well.
Related professional activity? Alright.
Maintaining momentum? Not too bad.
“Come on, Hilmi,” Janet blurts out. “You have done so much for the past two years!”
“Thanks, Janet. But I’m not really sure whether I have done enough to earn a PhD next year.”
The discussion and reflection and debate go on and on until we finally come to the final question in the review form: Is the candidate at risk of non-completion?
“NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!” Celia and Janet scream as if they have just seen a werewolf.
So ladies and gentlemen, with that loud confirmation and confidence from Celia and Janet, I’m now officially entering into the final year of my studies in Melbourne. But honestly, after all the twists and dramas for the past two years, I still do not understand this entire story of having me as the macho hero in an academic war. There is something surreal about the whole experience of doing a PhD, and it has always been like this from the moment I set foot on this foreign land. Day by day, I am always amazed with how everything unfolds. And now, after 24 months, I stand back and wonder again at this strange turn of destiny and dream.
The Little Game of Husnaa
“Husnaaaaaaaaa….” I call my little sister with unnecessary exaggeration and excitement that she looks directly into my eyes for a few seconds with amazement. Her facial expression says: “Mung nak ggapo gak?” What is it that you want? But I keep calling her name, acting like a clown with a stupid red nose. Then she smiles knowingly, like she understands perfectly what’s happening around her. Her body language says: “Bengo abe aku nih, mace Mok.” My brother must be crazy, like Mok.
Husnaa Farisya Hamzah.
She is only five months old, but she acts like she has lived for five years. So active and bubbly and chubby, many people thought that she was a boy. When Ummi is around and talks to her like a broken machine, she would make a lot of noises and chuckles and suggest a lot of desires and whims through her subtle non-verbal communication. But when she is with Ayoh, who is always silent, she would minimize her body movements and repress her voices, as if she knows that Ayoh wouldn’t be bothered by her childish demands. But even with Ayoh’s aloofness, Husnaa knows how to please him. Her brilliant strategy involves copycat-ing what Ayoh usually does. To everyone’s horror, every now and then, she would let out a loud and clear fart, poooooooooof, just like Ayoh.
Husnaa Farisya Hamzah.
She is the rare darling and precious gemstone in our family. So happy, Ayoh would just smile with pleasure when people ask him, “Cucu ke tu?” Is that your granddaughter? I don’t blame other people’s misjudgment. It once happened to me, too. When Ummi said that Husnaa was already 5 kilos after two months, I said, “Wah. Soon she will be bigger than her Ayoh Ngoh!” Ummi looked at me and said, “Ayoh Ngoh? Abe Mi lah!” You see, it is quite difficult to adjust to the fact that I can still have a new baby sister after welcoming so many nephews and nieces in my life (I hope Ayoh wouldn’t get confused too!). Plus, there are always awkward moments when these nephews and nieces of mine are playing with Husnaa (their little auntie!). They look at each other with confusion when they are forced to call her Cik Su. One of them even complained: “Why? Why? She’s smaller than us!” Yes, brilliant point. I have no concrete answer for that. Let’s just leave it to Ayoh. He is so responsible for bringing such a weird, complex and colourful game into our family. This little game of love that knows no age boundary and physical limit.
Husnaa Farisya Hamzah.
Rojie
Yo, Salam 1 Malaysia.
My name is Rojie. First of all, I’m not related to Cekmi. I don’t think he knows me, but I know the likes of Cekmi – koya, berangan and all the related adjectives. Frankly speaking, I don’t really like him. So I’m hacking his website now for a good reason, haha. Don’t worry, I’m not a professional hacker. I’m a very civilized man who knows how to get around in Kampung Binjal (unlike Cekmi!). I’m just a simple man born in this world with a brain, just like you. Well, maybe I’m not as as brainy as you all, but at least I know how to write in English like Cekmi, haha.
Psst, I saw Cekmi the other day at his house. I don’t even know he’s been around for a few weeks. He is so sombong you know. He looks busy doing something I don’t understand. He doesn’t even offer me one riyal or two like everyone else. Maybe he thinks I’m crazy. Asshole. Never mind, he is not going to be our wakil rakyat anyway. Old and pathetic bachelor like Cekmi is not fit for anything in this kampung, unlike young and energetic bachelor like me, kekeke.
Actually, I live just next to Cekmi’s house. But knowing Cekmi, he would rather going to a jungle visiting monkeys than coming to my ugly house. Yes, my family is very poor, but they are so rich with love. My mother sells the best pisang goreng in the world. A lot of people come and buy our specially-made pisang goreng. It is not much, but my mother managed to send my brother to a university. I’m so proud of my brother. He just graduated and is now working as a teacher. So it’s not that bad, you know. I don’t blame my mother for not sending me to a special school. Why bother? I’m already special, huhu.
So you’ve heard of Jakpa, right? In case you forget, you can click here. Pandai. For the record, Jakpa and I are best friends in Kampung Binjal. Excuse me, don’t you dare looking at me like that! I look more handsome than Jakpa, right? My skin is smoother. My smile is sweeter, haha. Poor Jakpa, his parents passed away recently. But he’s a strong man, I know. I’m glad Jakpa and I are friends. Together, we always roam around the kampung and everybody treats us like normal. Come to think of it, the world is a lot better if everybody stops for a while and says hi and cares for each other. I hope Cekmi will do the same one day. If you meet him, please tell him that I don’t bite, okay?
That’s all for now. Camekom!
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