langkau fiction

Most football fans in this country are not ardent followers of the Italian football because Astro has been feeding us the EPL matches for many years. But for those of you who happen to follow Serie A calcio, then you’d know F.C. Internazionale Milan (or ‘Inter’ for short, as they can’t pronounce their own club’s full name) won the scudetto for the 15th time last weekend after beating Siena 2-1. The two goals from the criminal Marco Materazzi were enough for Inter to seal the game. Finally, they could party…idiots!

Last Sunday’s victory over Siena handed Inter Milan’s its first scudetto since 1989. Now, that’s like more than 18 years since they were last crowned champions! After spending millions of dollars on players like Ronaldo, Zanetti, Figo, Veron, Djorkaeff, Baggio, Mihjalovic, Vieri, Stankovic, Crespo, Recoba, et. al. they still failed to win the scudetto on the pitch! The only sense of satisfaction they had during their scudetto drought was to be one step better than their bitter rivals A.C. Milan. For example, in 2001 they finished 5th in the Serie A but at least, according to their website, they overtook Milan this time. How pathetic. For what’s it worth the Nerazurri can just vaffanculo, y’know!

Inter merda Milan’s win this season is questionable. With their bitter rivals asshole Juventus, fascist S.S. Lazio, Fiorentina and all-conquering Milan being heavily penalized for the calciopoli scandal, it would have been ridiculously stupid for Inter not to win the scudetto this season.

Apparently, that’s not the only scudetto they have ‘won’. Since Juventus was deservedly relegated to Serie B with points deducted this season, and their 2005-06 season stripped for their protagonist involvement in the calciopoli scandal, the 2005-06 scudetto was handed to the then third-place Inter! In other words, Inter scavenged the title in 2005-06 for winning it at Juventus’ expense (not on the football pitch), and the latest 2006-07 scudetto because their rivals were unfairly handicapped.

As if it is not enough for them to scavenge the 2005-06 title from Juventus, the Nerazurri unshamefully invited the cowards at relegated Juventus to switch to the San Siro. Patrick Vieira and Zlatan Ibrahimovic were two of them. And recently, Vieira — without provocation — said that Milan do not deserve to be in the Champions League because they are corrupted. Vieira and president Moratti (pictured above) said that it is Inter that deserved to stay in the Champions League and win the bloody thing!

Well, if they had actually behaved themselves after the 2nd leg of the Champions League game against Valencia at the Mestalla, then someone would take pity on Inter’s shameful exit. But instead, the likes of Materazzi, Maicon, Cambiasso and the gang turned into monsters and attacked Valencia players. What a shame, Inter! While they claimed Milan to be dirty buggers, they’re not that particularly clean either. Besides, look at Milan’s last 20-year achievement in the European competitions and tell me if any clubs in Europe has achieved that level of consistency.

tsk, tsk, tsk…Inter testa di merda! Enjoy the scavenged scudetto while you can. Next season it will be your sorry le palle on the line.

Bob asked me on Saturday if I was interested to join him for mountain biking on Sunday afternoon. My immediate reply was “Of course! What time and where?” Details were given and I was ready to go. Initially, I had planned to do the ritual Sunday morning tennis thing but it rained that morning. So, I thought mountain biking would be a fair compensation for the loss of Sunday morning exercise!

As planned, I enthusiastically cycled over to Bob’s place at around 2pm. We loaded the bikes into his four-wheeler and off we went. He gave me the map of jungle treks that we were going to cycle through that afternoon and I looked through the names of places, illustrated contours, some numbers, dots and codes. I didn’t understand most of what map told me but I told Bob “Well, all is good! I’ll just follow you!” Yeah, great.

We arrived at Simpok village at around 3pm, took out our bikes from the car and assembled the wheels and seats. I had a minor problem with the front brakes but it was easily fixed. Before we started, Bob briefed me on the trails informing we would go through some muddy patches, bridges, streams and three hills. The trail in the first ten minutes would be a test to our bikes, to see if the brakes or gears work. In my mind, after not doing this kind of activity for more than three years, I thought to myself “The first 10 minutes would be a test to my thigh and calf muscles to see it it still works!” I knew my bike could take a hard beating.

And off we went! Bob took his dog, Sal, along and Sal led the way. Bob zoomed off while I was already struggling with my bicycle’s momentum. The path needed a lot of getting used to. I was struggling to catch my breath by the third minute, while trying to catch up with Bob who was almost out of sight in front of me. After almost 10 minutes of rigorous paddling, constant change of gears while absorbing the beautiful scenery, I saw Bob stopped in front. Apparently, Sal wanted to have a short bath and drink at the stream. This was good for me as it allowed me to catch my breath that I left behind!

Bob, a dog’s best friend!

After five minutes of watching the dog took its pleasure in the stream, we rode off. And that was when the first hill entered my view. By walking standard, it didn’t qualify as a hill. By cycling standard, or at least MY cycling standard, it was Mt. Kinabalu! Bob casually paddled his way up while I came off my bike to give it a push after three feet up the hill. Bob waited for me at the ‘peak’, which was equivalent to Low’s Peak in my cycling terms. When I reached up there, he smiled and asked “That was hard, eh?” I told him that he had secretly exchanged our age using some dubious spells before we started our journey. I mean, how else could I explain a phenomena of a 50-year old cycling up the hill with almost no effort? He was even literally seated on his bicycle seat while doing that! Then, he said “Ok, another two more hills ahead and we’ll be in Benuk”

Although that sentence “Why am I doing this?” kept playing in my head, I must say the scenery was quite beautiful. I didn’t have the time to stop to take photos because I had to play catch-up with Bob and his dog, Sal. The second hill proved even worse that the first with the loose rocks, narrow paths and a slippery slope. I had to get off my bike every second or third paddle to push or carry my bike on that slope. Again, I didn’t take any photo of the monstrous paths that we went through. Why? Because I have not acquired the skills in cycling-while-taking-photos through the jungle trails. I would have been thrown off the path or worse, fall into a deep ravine where bamboos and plants with long thorns waiting for me!

Try cycling downhill and ram into this

About an hour later, we arrived at a nice comfortable ‘pit stop’. It is always comforting to see such ‘pit stops’ installed in the middle of the jungle. It means that a village is located nearby or it’s a half way point between one village settlement to another. The ‘pit stop’ is made of a long bench constructed by bamboo and a plank of wood from a local tree nearby. Sometimes, you could see traces of spit from eating beetle nut on the litters of leaves on the ground. It looks like blood. But then again, for those who are not initiated in the jungle version of time, a “village nearby” or “half way point” would possess a different set of meaning.

There were two ‘pit stops’ along the way and after the second one, it took only 10 minutes to arrive in Benuk. Bob, Sal and I cycled around the village and aroused the curiosity of the villagers. At one point, I heard my name was called from one of the houses. I stopped and saw a guy with a toddler. At that moment, I couldn’t remember who he was. He seemed surprised to see me in Benuk and asked where did I come from. I told him we cycled from Simpok and he and his mates laughed simultaneously uttering “Whoooooooa…only the two of you?” Yes, I replied. And a dog. Still not remembering who the guy was, I asked him if he lives in Benuk and he said yes. “I’m from Benuk and this is my grandson. This is my house and these are my mates!”, he declared. Then, the guy asked “Want to join us for Stella?” I would have immediately said yes, a cold one would be great! But at that point, Bob was already far ahead and turned back to see if I had lost my way. He saw me and said, “Oh, there you are! Your friends?” I said yes, even though I couldn’t remember where I had met them before this. I told them I appreciated the Stella offer but we had to cycle back to Simpok before it gets dark.

The journey back to Simpok seemed to be shorter but definitely not less easier. It’s the same trail, I just needed to reverse my perceptions. We arrived at our starting point at around 6.15pm, disassembled the bicycle parts and then made our way back to Kuching. Instead of cycling back to my place from Bob’s house, he drove me home because he was convinced that I had used up my energy quota along the Simpok-Benuk trail. I would have been delirious to think that I could cycle back to my apartment after that thigh-breaking, lung-killing, heart-attacking and brain-wrecking experience!

…but of course, I would do it again if I get an invitation! Sunday was great!

Please note that the first six book reviews that you see in today’s post is not a result of a combustible flow of inspiration.

1. Teacher Man by Frank McCourt
2. Who Gives A Dam! by James Ritchie
3. No Woman, No Cry: My Life With Bob Marley by Rita Marley
4. The Innocent Anthropologist by Nigel Barley
5. How I Became Stupid by Martin Page
6. Tuesdays With Morrie by Mitch Albom

If I could write all those reviews in one day, then you’d think I don’t have a job. But I do have a job. A real job. Writing these reviews is just a job de-stressing method. Or a terribly weak excuse. I wrote these book reviews on my Papermargin last year. From now on, I will continue writing reviews on Langkau Fiction instead….that is, if I make the effort to read…

“How I became a teacher at all and remained one is a miracle and I have to give myself full marks for surviving all those years in the classrooms of New York. There should be a medal for people who survive miserable childhoods and become teachers, and I should be first in line for the medal and whatever bars might be appended for ensuing miseries.”
- excerpt from the Prologue “Teacher Man”

This is the third McCourt book I’ve read and it often amazed me how his life is filled with irony. The fact that he can write well plus the witty stuffs is a positive addition to the story. Many would say that it’s not as hillarious as “Angela’s Ashes” or “Tis” but I’ve never considered McCourt as a writer of tragedy-comedy (that explains the four stars). His life is our life and he writes about its mundaness.

This time, far from being in the frontline of poverty in “Angela’s Ashes” or the growing adulthood of “Tis”, McCourt narrates his 30 years of teaching public school kids in New York. Or did he actually teach his students? Since he is often at a loss when it comes to teaching, he would talk about his miserable childhood to his 12-year old students instead of teaching them English literature as required in his profession. There have also been several occasions where he got the boot because the children’s parents complain to the school principal about him telling their innocent children depressing childhood stories. Otherwise, it’d be his unique teaching technics such as telling his students to recite food recipes as if it’s a poem or using a pen as a metaphor for constructing proper sentence structures.

Of the thousands of students that he’s taught, it gives him the whole meaning of life. Or rather, the whole meaning of dealing with life’s problems knowing very well there are no solutions to it. In this memoir, McCourt sees his life revolving around his students’ lives — students with family problems, students with don’t-care attitudes, students who think teachers are there to torture their lives, students who have problems with their self-esteem, multiracial students with multiracial issues, etc.

I like this book not for the same reasons I’ve enjoyed his other two memoirs. This one’s mild and a tinge of philosophy is injected in the story but without any pretense. The only thing I don’t understand about McCourt is that although he considers himself as repulsive (esp. with the red eyes and such physical abnormalities), possessing a terribly low self-confidence, doesn’t consider himself intelligent, and what-noughts, he still gets the gorgeous women! How’s that possible?

If you’ve read “Angela’s Ashes” and “Tis”, you should get this one too!

I can’t remember ever reading a book that does not have a publisher. hhm…

After reading this book, I wondered if it was even worth the RM30 that I raked out of my wallet to buy it. With a catchy title like “Who Gives A Dam!”, I wouldn’t blame the reader for being spellbounded to flip through the pages and succumb into buying it. I know this because I went through it, judging the cover by its book.

Indeed, much has been said about the Bakun Hydroelectric Dam project especially throughout the 1990s. This was followed by the local communities’ involuntary resettlement to the Sg. Asap Resettlement Scheme. Then, there was a lengthy political, economic, scholarly, cultural and social debate on this matter, eventually leading to the emergence of different factions that positioned themselves in the various contradicting axis. While indulging in their own ideological axis, most of these people – i.e. project proponents, government agencies, non-governmental organizations, journalists, academicians – fail to highlight the local communities’ dynamic lifestyle who incidentally are the direct recipients (although I’m quite tempted to use “victims”) of this project and ideology. In other words, there are many who do give a damn about the dam and unfortunately, James Ritchie ignored these facts in his book.

James Ritchie recounts the events that led to this mega project and its impact on the local communities affected by the dam, namely the Kayan, Kenyah, Lahanan, Penan and Ukit communities. These include the Sarawak government policies relating to ‘development’ in general, brief socio-cultural background of the communities living in the upper reaches of the Balui river, justification for the construction of the Bakun dam, a harsh critique on the groups that oppose the dam project, and his personal affiliation with the local communities, thus implying the validity of his argument.

The only positive comment I can give concerning this book is the detailed presentation of “facts”. However, as we all may realize, the mere presentation of “facts” does not necessarily mean the author has presented a valid argument. Far from it. “Who Gives A Dam!” leaves out the fundamental argument in this discourse, that is, the direct voice of the affected people. Most of the respondents quoted in this book are the who’s who in Sarawak’s political arena. To spice up the “truth”, James Ritchie sprinkled the element of “Orang Ulu-ness” among the politicians and local elites who are from the area and belonging to the affected groups. This approach is used as a representation of the local communities’ voice and thoughts. But as James Ritchie implies that it is wrong to generalize (referring to the opposition to the dam project), he himself also falls into the trap of generalization and representation. Local elites or politicians belonging to the same ethnic group do not necessarily represent the people they claim to represent.

I feel that James Ritchie presented his “facts” without critically scrutinizing them. This can be misleading to the reader. While the author neither clearly indicates his support for the Bakun Hydroelectric Dam and Sg. Asap Resettlement Scheme nor his opposition to such projects due to its adverse implications, James Ritchie is sitting on an unstable fence that can easily be dictated by the slightest political motivation. In addition, the book is also poorly written in terms of its format (there are several typo errors, hanging sentences, etc.), fragmented arguments, and referencing techniques. As a prominent writer, and reputedly to be one of Sarawak’s best, it is almost embarrassing to see James Ritchie commit such glitches.

Finally, when a writer has the Chief Minister as his/her source of inspiration in writing any book, then I must say it leaves little room for discussion, let alone critical analysis.