langkau fiction

I just realized that I’m the only inartistic specimen in my family. Well, that is, among my siblings. My sister acts in theaters, my brother is an artist of some sort, my youngest brother whom I never grew up with is also an artist and crazy about fashion! And me, being the eldest among the siblings possesses none of such godly talents (well, if beer drinking is an art, it’d sure look good on my resume). My parents don’t count because their era didn’t bother to nurture the mind to be artistic. So, they have a valid excuse to possess this artistic handicap although they’re definitely not handicapped in other important sectors in life. Oh, no.

My sister sent me another link this morning, showing her new drama entitled Paua. She co-wrote and acted in this theater performance, and it’s showing until this mid-February. In Wellington. And as usual, I don’t have visual access to all her performances, so I just rely on online reviews. Paua, in the Maori language, means abalone, and this drama is about illegal paua poaching and personal issues relating to the environment. There is also the eco-terrorism thing lah. After the show, the actors and writers had a backstage conversation with their audience, explaining the meaning of the story and their performances. I couldn’t understand and got confused with their English, so I’m still figuring out what’s it all about…

Last night, I got home late from work. Got a simple dinner of fly lice fried rice at my regular coffee shop. (Oh, while I was eating, not far away from me a snatch thief was beaten up by some people who caught him and the ambulance had to take the thief away because he was unconscious by the time they were ‘finished’ with him)

Once I got home, I was too tired to read one of those books I have lying on the floor. So, I randomly picked up one book from my shelf, Collected Stories by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, one of my favorite writers. I’ve had the book for a couple of years, neatly tucked among the other Marquez’ books in my possession. I randomly (again) flipped to the story in the book’s last few pages entitled “A Very Old Man With Enormous Wings” and in that instant, I got hooked to it! This is probably one of my favorite short stories…ever! If you haven’t got any of Gabriel Garcia Marquez’ books in your collection — and if you’re into magical realism — at least take a peek at “A Very Old Man With Enormous Wings“. I will not do justice to the story if I am to review this piece of brilliance.

My weekend trip was a job trip. I didn’t want to go to Kabong. It’s not not that I didn’t like the bazaar. In fact, I have always had this fascination for small towns and bazaars. But Kabong is a five-hour drive from Kuching and to go there for a weekend trip isn’t really worth it. Furthermore, I was moody the whole of last week because I’ve been off alcohol. I asked my friend if it’s possible to get a hangover from alcohol withdrawal and he said without thinking “Yes!” Idiot. Shouldn’t have asked a fellow drinker. I guess that’s what I had last week: an alcohol withdrawal hangover. Symptoms include sore throat, headache and flu. But I had to go there because of work, because my colleagues do not want to go to a god-forsaken place, because it’s too far for them, because they can’t speak the languages there, because they had to spend time with their families at home, because it’s too tedious of a job to talk to locals, because it’s a last-minute thing and they do not know what to do about it, and because the sky is just fuckin’ blue lah, how?

Kabong

I hit the bed early on Friday evening because I have not had alcohol for days I felt weak and my joints were aching. A sign of an impending fever. I was constantly coughing, my head was throbbing and that watery stuff kept on drooling out of my nose. On Saturday morning, I left at 6.30am, feeling a bit drowsy. I drove very slowly and it annoyed a whole lot of road users. I mean, c’mmon, why is everyone in a hurry before seven o’clock on a Saturday morning? At around 8am, I made my ritual stop at Sungai Tenggang bazaar, had my delicious nasi campur with pork and cucumber slices, steamed chicken gizzard, salted vegetable soup, and an egg for breakfast. After finishing my plate of rice and all those things mentioned above, I just relaxed and absorbed my surrounding. I even almost went to sleep. Sungai Tenggang is was a popular place where travelers would stop and rest from a long journey. These days, it’s rather quiet. That’s because further up the road is another bazaar called Lachau and everyone stops there especially the tourists in big tour buses. And they like to eat a lot.

Paddy fields along the way

Anyways, after an hour of ‘rest’, I hopped into my mean machine and left Sungai Tenggang with a full belly. Contented. I arrived in Kabong at around noon time. It was hot and people were busy chatting away at the coffee shops. As expected, in a tiny town where everybody knows everyone, the locals eyed my movements, not much different from the way hyenas watch their prey. I found one of the least populated coffee shops, pulled a stool, sat down and ordered my drink. When the child waitress asked what I’d like to drink, I almost asked for a cold beer but before I could say anything, my cough interrupted my intention. So, I asked for a hot lemon tea. I was one of the only three customers at the shop and it took them almost 20 minutes to brew my hot lemon tea. I guess, they had to look around in the backyard for a lemon. At the coffee shop, I wrote the questions I’d want to ask the locals in different communities. I had identified several village settlements along the way to Kabong and each had a different physical environment. Perfect, I thought. I turned on my ‘job mode’ and got to work in that Kabong coffee shop.

That Saturday, I managed to go to four villages, did the mingling, harassing the locals with stupid questions, and finished work at almost 8pm. I continued the whole process the next morning, till I drove back in the rain and arrived in Kuching at almost 10pm!

Now, I’m exhausted and my ailment has not improved. Today is my eighth day without alcohol. Wow!!

As I sit here writing this, the guys are busy installing the prison-like grills in my new house. Once that is done, I will move into my prison cell.

Yesterday, I was quite surprised to see all my male colleagues wearing batik to work. I’ve not seen that for a long time although I was aware that our Prime Minister did say something in 2004 about civil servants must wear batik on the 1st and 15th of the each month. I never did.

And now, he wants all civil government servants to wear batik on Thursdays.

It’s not because I’m deliberately being a pain in the ass nor do I have this raging inborn tendency of going against my bosses. No, I am not an anarchist and I do not know what the term exactly means. And I have nothing against batik either. Nor do I have anything against those who wear them. What really bothers me is when a dress code becomes forced at work. Especially in a workplace that does not require uniforms. A directive from the Prime Minister to wear batik without giving appropriate reasons for this also ticks me off. Doesn’t he have any other more urgent issues to think about rather than wasting his time being concerned with work fashion? What happened to that pledge to curb corruption and bla bla bla that he made five years ago? Apparently, many blindly follow this directive.

I read about this civil servant guy in the paper who said it’s cooler to wear batik than a coat and tie “in this hot Malaysian weather”! Of course, it is hot dumbwit! And who would want to wear a coat AND tie in this tropical country? A coat in a 35-degree weather? Somehow, someone is still stuck in the colonial era. But in saying this, it still does not justify the directive of wearing the batik every Thursday for civil servants. I can’t remember the PM said anything about it being cool (as in temperature cool not fashion cool) but the Chief Secretary to the Government cited this as the reason to make people wear it on Thursdays: “…to make it easy for them [civil servants] to remember as to when they should put on their batik shirts.” What?? Can’t I decide for myself what I want to wear on my Thursdays? Is this guy joking? Should I laugh at this or how? Who do we think we are? Idiots? Well, at least I feel I am treated like one…

Even the Cuepacs president said that wearing batik would “create an original Malaysian identity” and since our PM consistently wears it during his visits overseas (it’s like he’s promoting it…), that means we — the civilized servants — should follow suit. “Original Malaysian identity?” What is a Malaysian identity? Oh, no, no…What is an “original” Malaysian identity? Wearing batik is an original Malaysian identity? When was that idea established? Oh god of earth and thunder, where are their senses? What has happened to our so-called leaders? Where are their brains that they have to make such senseless remarks? By the way, didn’t the batik — both the concept and attire — originate from Indonesia? Will it create another unnecessary tension between Malaysia and Indonesia, y’know, the loss of rasa sayang-ness between these two countries?

I would have liked to drill further into this amusement of stupid dress code at work but I don’t want to. Ok, ok, before I end this post I also need to highlight another thing that I do not understand: neckties. What are neckties for apart from being a piece of decoration? Does it have any practical use? Have you seen anyone regularly uses the necktie to wipe the stain of one’s mouth after eating or blow their nose into it? At my workplace, wearing necktie is like the canon law, everyone must wear it. Without wearing it, not only you do not conform but you are also regarded as being disrespectful to your employer. A necktie has the power to be all that: conformity and expression! Sure, people tend to look smart and intelligent wearing neckties and it’s also an illusion external expression of confidence. In other words, when a person enters the meeting room filled with CEOs, they are more likely to look highly on that person if he/she wears a coat, long-sleeved shirt and a necktie than a person who wears a jean and black T-shirt with huge ‘Napalm Death’ printed on it.

Unfortunately, in our so-called modern or k-society today, it is these dress codes and clothing attires that define us. What’s inside our brain and the way how we present them are secondary. People today appreciates the cover of the book. It’s less hassle compared to reading the whole thing. The necktie and batik represents our mind, maybe a bit of our heart, and gosh, let’s hope not our soul!

After that delightful conversation with Ms. Something this morning, I drove to work in an foul mood. Everything that I had meticulously planned in my head for the day got flushed out into the sewer. As I entered my office, I turned on my computer and stared at the computer screen for ten minutes. I only remembered I have due dates but Ms. Something ruined my day. So, I didn’t know which due dates were I supposed to meet first. Out of confusion, I picked up my broken camera and decided to work on it. I turned it on and the lens was still stuck. Oh, just grrrrreaaat! So, I decided to open the bloody thing and ‘work’ on it. Of course, I didn’t know what to do about it but since it’s already broken, and Ms. Something didn’t give me a good reason to be nice about anything today, I thought I might as well give the bloody thing a try. I started the surgery by opening it with a micro screwdriver.

Now, if only R2D2 was around, what would it do to fix this camera?…hhmm…let me try twitching this round silver-colored thing around the lens…hhmm…it didn’t budge. I tried pulling it out forcibly with my thumb and index finger but nothing happened. A few minutes later after trying the same thing, I decided to play around with it. Turning it on and off, tweaking some of the things inside it. At one stage, it dropped off my hand onto the floor! Damn! I picked it up, something fell off. “Ooooh, you mean this part can be opened”, I asked myself. I took the micro screwdriver and carefully dismantled the screws. I poked the back part of the camera, as if trying to pluck something out of it. While I was potentially fucking up poking the screwdriver into the ‘motherboard’ kind of thing, I pressed the switch on button on my camera. The lens moved a bit, struggling to pop out and out of frustration, I just pulled it and voila! the lens stared at me!

It worked? It worked!! I turned it off again just to make sure it’s not a false revelation, and turned it on. The lens came out! I was so excited that I just switched the on and off button so many times and the bloody thing responded positively. Hah! I turned it to the other side to see if the LCD screen worked.

Yes! It worked! Screw the bank and Ms. Something for almost single-handedly ruining my day, my camera now works! It has been resurrected! Hallelujah!! Praise be to R2D2!