DEATH IN THE COMMUNITY

The details were sketchy. He was awoken by a phone call at midnight by one of the elders of the Filipino expatriate community in Jakarta. Something was definitely wrong. She wouldn’t call at this hour, he thought to himself.

“Hello?” he answered sleepily.

“Hi, Arnold,” greeted the feminine voice back. “It’s Jane. I have some terrible news.”

He quickly sat up, dread creeping through his body. “What’s wrong Jane? Are you all right?”

“Yes, I am. It’s Glen. He’s gone. He died earlier in the evening and the funeral is tomorrow at Tangerang,” she almost whispered into the phone.

Arnold’s stomach tightened. How could that be? He had just seen Glen a month ago outside of church. Admittedly, it was odd that Gary didn’t want to step into the service. Gary was nine years his senior but Glen was in the pink of health except perhaps for a leg injury that dogged him for almost two months after an ojek accident.

The first time Arnold rode an ojek, or motorcycle taxi, was also the last time he did that. He couldn’t stand the derring-do of the motorcyclist meandering in and out of the traffic. Arnold could almost touch the door of the next vehicle with his knee. But Glen was unperturbed until the accident. The ojek he was riding was seconds away from being rammed by a car and he was certain that the ojek would be hit. That’s when he decided to jump from the motorbike. Glen hit the ground, injuring his leg. Glen suffered crack in the bone and had to be on crutches. Meanwhile, the ojek driver drove away unharmed.

“Thanks Ate Jane. Thanks for letting us know,” he replied. “Allan and I will be there tomorrow. Good night.”

Putting his mobile phone back on the bed stand, Arnold tried to go back to sleep but sleep was nowhere near. He got out of bed and popped in a movie into his laptop.

Liza was walking out of the building when he spotted her. He ran to her and blurted it out.

“I received bad news last night,” he said gravely.

Damn, thought Liza to herself. The chain text message said good news would be coming, not bad news.

“What happened?” she asked apprehensively.

“A friend of ours, also an English teacher, died last night,” he narrated. “I just can’t believe that he died of a heart attack. He’s too young for a heart attack!”

“When and where is the funeral?”

“It’s at Tangerang, which is at the other side of Bekasi. Allan and I will be leaving at 3pm today to attend.”

“Did anyone know about his heart condition?” she queried.

“That’s the thing! We didn’t know he had a heart condition!” he said, his voice climber higher with each word.

 “I’ll know the details later when we get to the funeral,” he added in a calmer tone. “He was with an international school in Jakarta and has been in Indonesia for eight years. The last time we hanged out together was when we watched the finals of Asian Idol.”

She let him ramble on. She didn’t know Glen and had never known him, but was nonetheless affected. Like her, he was away from home and dying in a foreign country was a tragedy. Dying before your time was a tragedy in itself, she told herself.

“The dark horse at the time was Hady Mirza from Singapore. He was just getting by with his charm. He didn’t have a fan base unlike the other contestants from Indonesia, Philippines and Malaysia who were the top contenders. But Hady won! We were so surprised with the decision,” he rattled on.

It was the evening following their chat that Liza learnt about the death of one of the members of the community.

“Where’s Allan? Isn’t he coming with us for dinner at Hard Rock Café?” she asked.

“He’s still at the funeral. I’m not sure if he’ll be able to join us,” he answered, as the SUV crawled through the Saturday night traffic.

“Funeral? Didn’t you and Allan go yesterday afternoon?”

“We were on our way but we turned back because the jam was very bad,” he explained. “Allan is there right now. I didn’t go because I’m disappointed, sad and angry. I don’t feel good about attending his funeral.”

Silence settled inside the SUV.

“He didn’t die of a heart attack. Jane whispered to me in church that he hanged himself with a belt in his flat,” he went on.

“Suicide?!” she uttered in shock.

“His sister said he was depressed after he got into an accident. But the rest kept saying that he didn’t look depress at all,” he said, mixed feelings crowding his face.

Arnold continued: “We were in touch for a while but we lost contact. Glen loved going to the mall. He loved socializing but he was a loner. He was also the only guy I knew who brought his toiletry kit everywhere he went, including a straightener-crimper.

“He sent for his parents from the Philippines to keep him company here a few days before he killed himself. I was told he was feeling lonely although his sister is here. But she has her own family now – she married a local and has one child. He told me before that he was disappointed with his sister’s sudden marriage and pregnancy. He wanted his sister to help him in supporting the family.”

Note: Filipino Glen Osano Kordoro was found dead Thursday in his house at Modernland housing in Tangerang according to The Jakarta Post dated December 6, 2009. Tangerang police’s head of the crime unit Commissioner Budhi Herdi Susianto said his mother found the 38-year-old hanging near a window and Glen might have committed suicide as no marks of physical violence were found on his body aside from rope marks on his neck.  ”According to witnesses and friends, it was due to his depression,” he told tempointeraktif.com. His colleague, who requested anonymity, said Glen had been depressed since he got an accident three weeks ago. “He fell from ojek (motorcycle taxi) and his leg suffered a fissure.

Details from the Filipino community revealed that Glen was 39 and it was his father who found him. He thought his son was simply looking out of the window until he noticed that his feet were not touching the ground. His father came in to ask him to come down for lunch. That Glen was indeed depressed and the leg injury was one of the reasons is the current scuttlebutt in the community.

 

THE WORLD OF GAIMAN

There’s something about being trapped in the world of Neil Gaiman. It’s not like being ensnared in the world of cute talking and singing animals of Walt Disney that leaves you light and fluffy inside. Nor is like being caught up in the world of modern vampire lore writers Stephenie Meyer and ilk. No drop-dead gorgeous, angst-filled vampires with impeccable sartorial skills to fill your head with twisted romance fantasies.

In Gaiman’s world of parallel universes, you walk through the unexpected without the hackneyed blood and gore, without the trite hero-heroine tryst and the stereotypical good-bad characters. You meet shrewd characters and supernatural characters caught up in situations that are extraordinary like the young Coraline who finds herself faced with her other parents and the young orphan Nobody Owens who is raised by a family of spirits and vampire guardian in a graveyard.

Coraline and The Graveyard Book are two of Gaiman’s books that have caught the attention of young readers worldwide. Coraline, in fact, has a film spin-off with the same title featuring Dakota Fanning as the voice of Coraline.

Written in 2002 and illustrated by Dave McKean, Coraline highlights the aphorism “Be careful with what you wish for” even though one doesn’t say it out aloud. The setting – an old-new house – is almost isolated, its isolation heightened by the dreary cold weather. The remoteness is further emphasized in Coraline’s situation because she has no friend – she’s an only child and her parents are too absorbed in their work to spend time with her.

The other characters are an array of bizarre and interesting – far from the two-dimensional characters – and this includes a talking cat.

Coraline and her busy parents had just moved into an old-new house. It’s a new house because it’s a new place for them and literally an old house with “an attic under the roof and cellar under the ground and an overgrown garden with huge old trees in it.” [pg 3] The house is partitioned off. One part is occupied by two retired stage actresses who are reminiscent of JK Rowling’s character Professor Trelawney, Miss Forcible and Miss Spink. Meanwhile upstairs is occupied by a “crazy old man with a moustache…training a mouse circus”. [pg 4]

Her adventures (or misadventures?) began when she found a mysterious door, which opened into a brick wall earlier on but, on the next try, she walked through. Down the corridor she went and into an exact replica of her old-new home where she meets her other mother and other father. Her other parents are exact opposites of her real parents, the ones she had been wanting. The other mother always fixes scrumptious meals and prepares everything for her while her other father pays attention to her. Earlier on, which Coraline doesn’t put much weight on, the other parents hint eerily at her fate: “‘We’ve been waiting for you for a long time,’ said Coraline’s other father.’” [pg 29]

Reiterates other mother: “‘…It wasn’t the same here without you. But we knew you’d arrive one day, and then we could be a proper family.’” [pg 29]

Coraline soon finds herself caught up in the much better world where meals are on time and her parents pay attention to her. “‘This is more like it, thought Coraline.’” [pg 30]

And just as the one gets comfortable with the turn of events, Coraline’s real parents go missing. The situation is far from easily walking back through the other door, locking it and throwing away the key. Other mother is pure evil, domineering and manipulative, as Coraline learns from other father and the three souls she discovers in a cabinet.

Following the advice of the cat coupled with wit and determination, Coraline rises to the occasion and locks horns with her other mother in a bid to get back her old life and imperfect parents. Although the ending is far from the adorable Walt Disney- endings, it’s still a happy ending nonetheless.

The Graveyard Book, on the other hand, is the latest from Gaiman who wrote it in 2008. Its pacing is slower and the storyline slightly unnerving compared to Coraline. It’s unnerving in the Edgar Allan Poe kind of way where the macabre sends a chill up your spine. Like the classic Dracula by Irish author Bram Stoker where the thought of Dracula is morbid enough – no need descriptions of blood dripping down his fangs or him ripping out the necks of his poor victims – Nobody’s situation is ghastly.

A graveyard setting is the first that grabs one’s attention followed by the storyline of a boy raised by a family of ghosts and vampire-guardian Silas. Third is the mystery behind the killing of the “architect Dorian Ronald Dorian, 36, and his wife, Carlotta, 34, a publisher, and their daughter Misty, 7, at 33 Dunstan Road.” [pg 227] There is no mention of Nobody Owens in the news but the mystery is him. Who is he? Why is he living in the graveyard? Why did he survive? Why is being hunted by the Jacks?

The characters are fascinating beginning with the spirits roaming the graveyard, which is a community of its own with set of rules. Individually, there’s the intriguing Liza, the witch who lives on “potter’s fields… (the site) for criminals and the suicides or those who were not of the faith.” [pg 94] Next is Miss Lupescu who Nobody thought “was not pretty. Her face was pinched and her expression was disapproving. Her hair was grey…her front teeth were slightly crooked (and) wore a bulky mackintosh and a man’s tie.” [pg 59] Despite her unappealing look and less-than-delectable dishes she made for Nobody, he learned, later on, of her place in his life. Then there’s Silas who sent Nobody back into the whole of the living, but not without packing a suitcase for him, a passport “made out in the name of Nobody Owens” and a battered old wallet with enough money for him to start in the world.

The revelation of Silas is done brilliantly; a cloud of mystery surrounded him until Gaiman revealed telling details about him in the last few pages of the book. Silas doesn’t have a reflection and carries the place he sleeps in when he’s far from his house – a steamer trunk “lined with whiteness” [pg 283] and dried earth.

The ending, again, is not your cute Disney ending. In fact, the ending is far from a completely happy ending. It’s bittersweet – Nobody is finally free to lead a life in the real world, but for a hefty price.

Being in Gaiman’s world is taking a brief respite from the real world. But you get the feeling that both worlds are not that different. At least, in Gaiman’s world, you can get on and off it when you feel like it.

 

YES, I TEACH.

“Wow! How connected you are!” he said, sarcasm dripping thickly into the cool night. She was taken aback at his sardonic remark, remembering him to be nice and polite way back in high school and which was why she loved hanging out with him.

That scene was years ago. She couldn’t remember what topic they were discussing on the rooftop of his parents’ house at a little get-together he hosted. It was a mini reunion of the old high school gang, and she decided to attend for all time’s sake at the last minute. She regretted it, wishing she’d trusted her instinct that she wouldn’t have fun at all. What she did remember was the disparaging comment and attitude at her new-found profession then – teaching. She had accepted the position of English teacher at their old high school, which was really part of her goals in life. She had planned to give back to the academic community that the late Mrs. Doreen Gamboa had built. Mrs. Gamboa established a school based on learning to be free, of balancing freedom and responsibility, and of fostering creative and thinking individuals, not mindless clones. And here was Mr.-Big-Shot looking down on her simply because she was a teacher who didn’t earn an iota of what the modern day slaves earned in a month.

He was a big disappointment as was his mother, her former English teacher. She – the former English teacher – decided one afternoon to talk about how she viewed each student in her class. She said one of the boys was a temperamental prat and should develop a level of maturity, making him walk out of class in a huff at the provocative remarks. Despite that she went on and on until she reached her. She was her favorite teacher thinking she understood where she was coming from best compared to her other teachers.

“What’s feminism really? I know you believe in that but I don’t see any point in it,” she went on in class while looking at her. “It’s just a group of disgruntled, strident women who don’t know what they want.”

She stared at her stoically, her mind racing to grasp at what she just heard. All the while she thought she understood her. All the while she made her believe that her beliefs mattered, she silently said to herself.

No melodramatic exits for her. If this woman, she thought, didn’t get her beliefs and didn’t even have the decency to respect them, walking out would just signal a victory for her. She simply waited until they were dismissed and she walked out of the classroom. So be it.

Her English teacher might have eschewed feminism but she was above infantile behavior to disavow her due credit. She taught her classes well, preparing them for the academic challenges that university life would throw their way without impunity. She thanked her for that.

That sarcasm towards people in the teaching profession never waned, she learned. They just came in various forms.

“Yes, I teach.”

“Ah, you teach,” some would recite like a first grader learning a new word and smile ambiguously.

“Yes, I teach.

“Ah, you’re a teacher,” others would remark nodding their heads uneasily, making her wonder if they suddenly had the attack of the runs.

Sarcasm was one thing and sarcasm and condescension was another issue altogether. At some point in her life, especially during the height of the global recession, there was an exodus of out-of-job corporate people into the academe. Teaching had become some sort of door stop to the careerists who were biding their time until the economy picked up.

But the corporate people-turned-teachers were easy to handle. They made no show of altruistic inclinations towards molding the minds of the future generation. It was the throng of pseudo-academes that riled her to no end. They were the ones who turned the values of education on its head and went about pontificating when they were the very epitome of unscrupulousness.

She remembered N vividly, that pot-bellied nincompoop colleague of hers and M, his ninny wife. N thought he was being smart by questioning her assignments and methods in his class. He never confronted her on this issue.

“He doesn’t like it when we work on your assignments,” said one of her students back then.

“We don’t really read the textbook,” added another one.

“He resents you Teach because we pay more attention in your class,” chirped one more voice from the room.

He, however, constantly pestered on the topic of marriage. She was single; he was married to the ninny and had a salacious son. One time, M, urged her little boy to kiss her goodbye out of politeness – it was a cultural thing – when she felt a hand rub her derriere. She looked at the less-than-10-year-old boy – his smile exuded lasciviousness.

Ninny, on the other hand, was a downright nut case.

“Okay, class. You’ll know tomorrow if you have quiz. It’ll depend on how easily I can open the door to your classroom,” she announced to her students, which, she learnt later, became a year-long policy.

The door was crooked and one needed to give it a strong nudge to open it, which wasn’t difficult. Far from being troglodytes, the students made sure the door was left slightly ajar so they wouldn’t have to sit through a mind-numbing quiz.

Horror stories of how class funds were systemically siphoned by the couple to fund their house and vehicle zipped through the grapevine. They were hearsay but, nonetheless, she wouldn’t let such shenanigans past them.

It was a constant battle of wits between her and the couple she had dubbed the Master and Mistress of Chicanery. And it was getting to be annoying and bothersome so she decided to put an end to it.

 “Yes, I do those things in class that you’ve been questioning in your class,” she told him pointedly.  “I make my students, read, think, critique, question, write, comprehend and reflect on issues confronting their lives directly or indirectly.”

“I…” he stammered.

“Don’t interrupt me. I’m not done yet,” she said, glaring at him.

“Yes, I teach unlike you who do nothing but criticize others when you’re not even teaching your class at all.”

“No…” he tried to argue.

“I said I’m not done yet. You have a comprehension problem, don’t you? It’s no wonder your students come out of your classroom none the wiser.”

“Wait…” he attempted to say.

“Shut up! Listen and you might learn something!” she shouted at him.

“As I was saying before I was rudely interrupted,” she continued, her eyebrow arched.

 “Yes, I teach my students. I make them see that second chances are not guaranteed, and that they, at most times, will only have one chance at greatness.

I teach them to say ‘thank you’, ‘please’, ‘good morning’, ‘good afternoon’ and ‘good bye’, as well making themselves presentable at all times. I also let them know that reeking of sour milk is not the norm.

I teach them to have their own opinions and not merely parrot what others have said.

I open their eyes to the beauty of words, the magic of numbers, the wonders of space, the thrill of natural elements and the magnificence of colors.

I teach them the folly of their ways and set them straight on the path again.

I fill their hearts with compassion not avarice.

I teach them to speak with coherence and intelligence.

I make them honor their commitment to people and apologize with sincerity if they aren’t able to.

I emphasize to them the importance of time and that tardiness is not acceptable.

These are the things I work hard to impart to my students. What about you?”

Before he could answer, she turned and walked away. She didn’t see any point in wasting another second with the Neanderthal. Life is too precious and short to waste on such fools, she told herself as she made plans to book for a facial.

 

BITTER DECEMBER

And so it has come to this
The end of the year is near
Yet neither a sign nor word of your return
Promises once made lay like shattered glass on the floor
Your voice has receded to a faint whisper
And your touch a wintry embrace
Wisps of memory tiptoe through the night
Hop scotching and dancing through the morning
I besiege heaven with endless pleas of compassion and mercy
To ease the sorrow, to lift the grief
But the sun sets and misery ceases not
Bitterness marches on through the grey gloomy days of December

 

LINGUISTIC TWISTS II

It’s seems fair enough. After all, we both mangle each other’s language in our attempt to communicate with each other. I mangle their language, Bahasa Indonesia, in my attempt to converse with the locals. For instance, one time I kept on saying I wanted to try the dish nasi duduk when I should have been saying nasi uduk all along. Nasi is Bahasa Indonesia for rice while duduk means to sit in English so it’s really hilarious to hear about someone wanting to taste “sitting rice”, as there’s no such dish. Nasi uduk, or Coconut Milk Rice, is a rice dish traditionally served with fried shallots and Indonesian chili sauce called sambal. In one of the food kiosks at the cafeteria of Global Prestasi School, nasi uduk is served with meat of choice (chicken or beef), shredded scrambled egg and krupok (Indonesian crackers), and drizzled with kecap manis (it’s like soya sauce but thicker and sweeter).

I’ve sorted out my nasi uduk terminologies as well as goblok, the Indonesian word for stupid or idiot. I first heard goblok from my sister who learnt it when she stayed for several months in Yogjakarta years ago in connection with the Artist-in-Residency program of the Cemeti Art Foundation.  When she uttered it I thought she was referring to a friend – I just automatically assumed the person who entered the room was a friend. Apparently, they weren’t friends and his name wasn’t goblok.

The results are equally rib-tickling amusement when the residents of Indonesia twist the English language.

Tough Tail

I have this habit of reading menus from first to the last page. I find it amusing how the food items are named and described in an attempt to make them sound absolutely delectable even though you know, for example, that a drink called Blue Mountain is just soda mixed in with blue syrup or that Chocolate of a Thousand Leaves is really just chocolate cake.

In one menu, I was snickering at one item under Local Favorites, which got me thinking of two things. One, people who love Sop Buntot (Oxtail Soup) must have a taste for the unusual. Two, the chef has gone completely batty. The menu read: Sop Buntot lovers have a choice of the oxtail steamed, fried or drilled.

When the S goes Missing

Having a dish named after an animal will make you think twice about digging into it. And learning that it uses certain animal parts – my mind always reels back to that infamous Scottish dish called Haggis, which is made with sheep’s heart, liver and lungs – would definitely make someone turn vegetarian over night.  But desserts are quite an exception. Chocolate Mousse is a favorite dessert of mine. I’ve long gotten over the image of a moose and its huge antlers popping out of the cup. Similarly, I’ve gotten pass the idea that the pastry chef might have been too experimental and decided to mix in a bit of hair styling gel.

However, I’m far from erasing the idea of a small rodent mixed in with my favorite dessert. At this café at CyberPark Bekasi Mall, part of the menu is Chocolate Mouse priced at Rupiah17, 000 per order. I think I’m better off sticking to my Dindi roti cokelat (chocolate bread) selling for Rupiah5, 000 a bun.

One Too Many

Mathematics has always been my waterloo but I do know my basic sums.  It’s not like I intentionally  set out to hate Mathematics , In fact, it’s the other way around – numbers don’t like me, they run away from me particularly the fractions, percentages,  and their cohorts. I thought I was the worse example of a Mathematics student until I attended this “concert” – a friend was singing so I lent moral support.

Someone had a jolly good time with Power Point presentation and flashed the program on screen inside the hall. Every number was a special song – no one bothered to find out the titles of the songs. My attention was held completely by two slides.

One slide read “Special Song”, single by Rainer Remuba. Impressive – one of the participants already had a single out in the market. Apparently, I was mistaken, as I learnt that the singer hadn’t released any single at all. He was simply going to do a solo number.

Next slide read “Special Song”, duet by Kezia and friend. Great – I get to listen to wonderful blending of two voices (Indonesians have beautiful voices). One singer went up on stage and started to sing. Wait a minute, I said to myself. What happened to the other? There was no second singer.

Is it a case of last-minute change in the program, merry mix-up or of one too many? I wondered.

 

UNDERGROUND

She was certainly not going to get on the back of a motorcycle and hold tightly to a stranger, as he negotiated through the traffic. The experience of riding the ojek was something she was more than eager to pass up. Riding the train, on the other hand, was something she was seriously taking into consideration. She was curious to see how Indonesia’s rail system functioned. Was it anything like Singapore’s Metro Rail transit that arrived every three minutes on the dot at each station, she wondered. Or was it anything like the train stations in Tokyo, Japan, where the conductors helped passengers get into the train by shoving them in, she mused further on.

It was a Friday morning, the day of Idul Adha for the Moslems hence a holiday in Indonesia, when she set out with her two friends to Jakarta. First stop was Carrefour for an errand –the heels of her Nine West stiletto boots needed repairing. Carrefour was teeming with shoppers packing their trolley with every imaginable item on sale or not on sale. The shoe repair shoe was not idle either. The four attendants in the tiny kiosk were busily sewing straps, buffing shoes, measuring and gluing soles.

“Total bill will be Rupiah63, 000,” said one of the attendants. “You can pay when you collect the shoes later.”

The train station was just next to the French hypermart, she was told. The trek to the train station, which she imagined would be orderly and nicely laid out, was a short walk on the uneven pavement parallel to the highway. Every now and then a gaping hole would open up from below; the entire slab of concrete apparently had collapsed into the sewer underneath. They passed an abandoned building and an ornamental twin-engine airplane.  Where was the train station, she wondered.

Down the steep staircase they went and deeper under the highway. An elderly Moslem lady sat on the narrow walkway separated by a high wire railing from the canal, her tiny plastic cup waiting for kind souls to drop in a few coins.  Deeper down into the tunnel, she imagined herself walking into the underground lair of a triad or the den of Hades.  The sun streamed through the other end of the underground tunnel, which opened up, on their side, to a nondescript ticket office and, across, the train stop with passengers travelling the opposite way.

The station was far from what she was used to in Singapore, which was well-lit, air-conditioned and fitted with signboards. The signboards and directory maps were nowhere to be found or the timing board telling the traveler how long before the train arrives. It was as if you had to negotiate through your senses, like your gut would tell you this is the train you’re to board. Or, when all else fails, you simply follow your companions who have done it before.

She was heading to Kota Jakarta and the 30-minute ride was a bargain at Rupiah1, 000 for a one-way ticket.

“A friend of ours used to go take the train so she could just buy cheap oranges,” he narrated with a chuckle.  “You can buy a lot of things of the train! Just you wait and see.”

“Remember the people holding a concert in the bus?” the other asked her. “Well, this time it’s almost like a choral group inside the train!”

That would be a sight indeed, she reflected.  Hardly anything surreal happens inside the trains in Singapore except perhaps for the vulgar seduction games of teenagers who destroy the sensual nature of seduction games.  No one sings inside the train. No one even smiles so count out singing and, most certainly, no selling of food stuff. You can’t even bring a bottle of water inside the train station.

The far-from-rickety train pulls up. She hopped onboard the car, distinctly an old Japanese train model shipped elsewhere for a second run. It was a hot Friday so the air conditioning was more than welcomed as well as the orange cushion seats.

“Err, this is new,” he uttered, looking completely puzzled. “Where are the vendors?”

He looked at him who was equally baffled. No modern day minstrels, no food-and-drink vendors and definitely no oranges on sale.

“They must be upgrading their trains. This wasn’t what we got onboard before,” he speculated, as uniformed employees walked up and down the cars.

Buildings, vast areas of lands and Jakarta’s monuments whizzed past the tinted windows. There were neither overhead announcements of the next train stop nor any sign at the train stop so alighting was tricky. Fortunately, they were heading towards the end of the line. The station was brimming with a throng of people when it pulled up at Kota Jakarta. Most were heading towards the exit cordoned off by two ticket attendees collecting stubs from arriving passengers. The rest were sitting on the benches waiting for their trains to pull up.

There was something different in the mien of the people at the station, she thought to herself. How would she describe it? Exhausted? Dazed? Reconciled to life’s trials and tribulations? The manner of dressing was different as well – nothing fancy, just something thrown together without thought of color co-ordination, occasion and whatever a fashionista would take note of.

She loved the metal cathedral-like ceiling of Kota Jakarta, reminding her of the architecture of King’s Cross Station in London. Outside, amidst the angkot-criers’ booming voices, there was a mad rush to board the angkot to various destinations.

It was back to the train station around mid-afternoon after walking around Mangga Dua, the Indonesian counterpart of Thailand’s weekend Chatuchak market. The ticket price was slightly higher. This time it was Rupiah1, 500 for the way back. And that’s when she finally experienced the train ride the two had been talking about after being told by the ticket conductor that they boarded the wrong train – they were on the Rupiah3, 000-train ride.  No histrionics – just matter-of-fact admonition to get off at the next stop and get on the next train.

She had a feeling of being stranded while waiting for their train to arrive. There was nowhere to go; the train was the only way out of the place. A train was berthed at the other side of the tracks, which had been turned into a lounge with a man moving up and down the train aisle with his plastic container-pushcart of neatly arranged fried tofu. Outside, on the platform, some peddled cold juice, water, and chocolate drinks while some hawked oranges. No singers inside and outside of the train though.

Our train finally arrived jam-packed with people. No air conditioning and still no singers.  No poles to hold on to either, and the straps too high for her to reach, she had to find her balance against the motion of the train.

“We need to stay close to the exit or we’d never get out,” he advised her, steering her towards the door.

 “That was what happened to him,” he continued. “He got stuck in the middle so we had to pull at his hand to get him out of the train. If we hadn’t, he’d have had to get off at the next stop.”

 

SURREAL

Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s One Hundred of Years of Solitude always comes to mind whenever I’m faced with absolutely surreal events that completely defy logic. In Singapore, many years ago, I was nonplussed at the waiter’s explanation of why he couldn’t move another table to accommodate late comers to a gathering I was at. His reason was that the table we wanted moved belonged to section A, and we were in section B. There was no point in talking with him because he remained adamant in his decision. Never mind that our group was quite a big one running up a huge bill. Never mind that he missed the point of what a gathering was – how can you segregate people in a gathering when the whole point is to come together? And to make it more tragic was the smug look on his face that seemed to taunt us of his empty victory.

A friend of mine also had her share of surreal moments when she was still in the teaching field. One incident she couldn’t forget was the utter lack of common sense in this student who, otherwise, was courteous, diligent and well-mannered. She – my friend – was in the office waiting to use the photocopier when she saw the student. He was about to leave the office and his hands were full. He was holding a guitar case with his left hand and a bag with his right. What she saw next flabbergasted her.  The young man proceeded to walk towards the door and just stood there for a couple of minutes, things in hand, wondering how he’d open the door while holding his things. Luckily for the young man, another person was coming in and gladly opened the door for him. To this day, she wondered what he would have done if no body, at that point, came through the door. She would, of course, have helped but would dove tail it with a dressing-down for his failure to use his head.

Recently, I went through a spate of surrealist episodes (magic realist moments in Marquez parlance) that left me wondering if what I learned in school really mattered in the real world. Somehow all the talk about rational thinking, hospitality, among others, are merely for convention’s sake, and don’t have any deeper meaning to them at all.

The first was when I was checking-in for my flight back to Indonesia from Singapore. The time of departure was delayed by about 40 minutes.

“It’s not delayed Ma’am,” said the cabin crew matter-of-factly when I asked her for the reason for the delay. “The departure time was re-timed, which is normal for AirAsia. It’s done every six months and we’re now following the winter flight schedule. You should have been informed via e-mail or SMS.”

Nice euphemism for delayed flight – re-timed flight. Luckily, she explained everything with a smile or she wouldn’t have anything to smile about after my little chat with her.

Back in Indonesia, there is much to be desired about the level of customer service (and they say customer service in Singapore is atrocious!). In a branch of Pizza Hut in Bekasi, at Metropolitan Mall, enquiring about why your order of, in my case, fish and chips is taking so long will get you an infuriating reply of “I don’t know.”  To make the situation worse, your order arrives not piping hot, but cold.  Moreover, they bill you wrongly and it takes forever for the mistake to be rectified.

In another restaurant, the noodle-rice place Baso Malang Karapitan, which is also at Metropolitan Mall, gives you the feeling that you’re not a trustworthy customer so you have to pay upfront after ordering. When the waitress was done taking our orders, she simply demanded – it felt like a demand – that we pay without delay.  Hospitality has certainly been reworked in this restaurant – and it’s not even a fast food joint.

Ordering McFlurry at McDonald’s is another unreal experience. It seems that the McFlurry machine – that blender-like machine – is just for display. Order a McFlurry and you’ll get a chocolate sundae in a McFlurry cup topped with nuts and drizzled with chocolate sauce. The attendant seemed surprised when I pointed out that he didn’t use the machine.

“Ah, you want it blended?” he asked, quite surprised at my statement.

“Yes, that’s the whole point of a McFlurry, isn’t it?” I answered back.

He smiled sheepishly and got to work in making the proper McFlurry.

An experience in at Gokkokan Teppanyaki at Mega Bekasi Hypermark, which is parallel to Metropolitan Mall, possibly takes the cake in bizarre dining experiences. Unless the rules of eating tempura have changed, ebi tempura is usually served with tempura sauce. Apparently, it’s different in Bekasi where they’ve rewritten the rules of enjoying Japanese cuisine. Tempura sauce is unheard of! I asked the manager of the restaurant – I didn’t trust the server who looked like he hadn’t a clue about Japanese cuisine – who was equally oblivious. He just pointed to the bottles of tomato and chili sauces sitting on the table and walked away.

Weird, annoying and frustrating as the episodes might seem, they provide a sense of comic relief and equilibrium to life’s vicissitudes. They also serve to remind everyone to be a little more flexible, a little more forgiving and a little more open to differences in circumstance no matter how exasperating they maybe. Naturally, the flip side of the situation is, while one is accepting, one shouldn’t lose sight of what’s right and the rationality of a situation. After all, pardon the cliché, life is one delicate balancing act.

 

FLIGHT

She had two choices – drop her luggage off at the hotel after landing at the airport or head straight to the exhibition after landing. Either way, she decided she’ll make her choice after the plane lands, as she sat at the departure lounge of AirAsia Indonesia. It was a full flight she mused to herself, staring at the steady stream of passengers making their way into the lounge. The lounge was already teeming with travelers. At the row of seats next to the departure door were three friends all lost in their own world. One whiled the time away playing his PSP; another fiddled with his iPod while the only woman in the group just sat quietly on her chair. In front of her were a mother and daughter, passports in hand, quietly waiting for boarding to commence. Beside her were another group of women chatting away.

From the corner of her eye, she spotted the lady who sat next to her outside the departure lounge. She recognized the shawl, skinny jeans and black flats. She – lady in skinny jeans – was also flying off to Singapore. She learnt about that tidbit after accidentally glancing at her boarding slip. They had the same boarding gate, D4. She – lady in skinny jeans – was oblivious to the world, busily typing on her sleek Blackberry, with her legs tucked underneath her.

Her thoughts shifted to the announcements overhead.

“Calling all passengers of AirAsia Indonesia heading to Ho Chi Minh City – please proceed to the lounge on your left. The lounge on your right is for the passengers of flight QZ7790 heading for Singapore. Thank you for your attention,” boomed the ground crew’s voice.

“To all passengers of AirAsia Indonesia heading for Ho Chi Ming City – please approach the counter for your free snacks. Thank you for your attention,” she broadcast through the air.

“To all passengers of AirAsia Indonesia QZ7790 – your aircraft has just landed and we’ll need 10 minutes to get everything prepared for your flight. Thank you for waiting.”

She had never flown AirAsia before but, despite the horror stories heard from friends, couldn’t pass up on the promo airfare for a weekend sojourn to the red dot. She wasn’t about to complain about the delay although she wanted to. After all, flying budget has its “perks”.

And yet another announcement: “To all passengers of AirAsia Indonesia QZ7790 – your flight is ready for boarding. We are now boarding passengers seated from rows 1 to 5. Kindly proceed to the departure gate at the end of the lounge.”

And she remembered why her friends wouldn’t fly AirAsia. The cabin crew stationed at the gate hardly looked at the boarding pass as she slipped through. The queue was virtually non-existent, it was simply pro forma. A throng of people circled the glass door and, in baby steps, maneuvered their way through the glass door, pass the cabin crew and down the tunnel to the plane.

However, AirAsia has certainly taken off, she mused, as she perused the in-flight catalogue of souvenirs – from shirts to Swiss adaptors – and the a la carte meals. The face of the budget airline’s CEO flashed through her mind suddenly. Tony Fernandez was not your archetypal stiff, staid and somber CEO running a major company. He was so casual in his attire of jeans, long-sleeved shirt and a red cap touting the AirAsia brand while his counterparts were garbed in the traditional corporate attire for the annual aviation conference when she first – and last – saw him. She gathered her wits, walked towards him, introduced herself (she was working as an editor for a travel magazine back then) and they exchanged cards.

Skeptics were just waiting their turn to have a go at the music man –turned – maverick airline CEO at one of the conference rooms of the then Swissotel The Stamford Hotel (now known as Fairmont Singapore). However, Tony was far from nonplussed at the jibes hurled his way. In fact, he humbly admitted that his credentials – he was formerly with Sony – did not state anything remotely connected to the aviation industry yet he pushed through with his plans of running his own airline. His wife was slightly cynical about the whole venture but backed him up nonetheless. Tony, undoubtedly, was facing difficulties in getting landing rights in Singapore at that time, which he took in stride, openly announcing that he wished Singapore would reconsider his nth application for landing rights. That was several years ago and AirAsia is regularly berthing its fleet of aircraft at Singapore Changi Airport.

Before she knew it, in less than two hours, she was landing at Singapore Changi, and that’s when she felt the coldness in the air, the queasy feeling in the tummy and the heaviness in spirit. But she brushed them aside and hurried to the taxi stand. She barely had enough time to hail a cab and hightail it to Artesan Gallery on Bukit Timah Road. Crossing her fingers, she hoped traffic would be smooth and the driver the silent type. She was certainly not in the mood for idle chatter. Her luck hadn’t run out that evening and she managed to make it to the gallery for her sister’s first solo exhibition in Singapore. There were a few guests left but at least she made it.

It was four months ago when she packed her bags to start anew, to collect her shattered soul in the suburbs of Bekasi. Now she was back in the red dot flummoxed by the sea of emotions – anger, sadness, desperation, hope, betrayal, pining away for a lost love – rushing towards her. There has to be an end to this endless wave of misery she thought to herself, as she waited for the taxi attendant to hail her a cab.

“Welcome to Singapore. Berth number 3 ma’am,” cut through the air. She mumbled a thank you and rolled her bag to the boot of the waiting cab.

 Traffic was smooth. She glanced at her watch – she still had more than 30 minutes before the Nessun Dorma: New Works by Lyra Garcellano closed at 10.

 Her thoughts continued to meander: will the ghosts of the past let her be or will none let her sleep tonight in the red dot?

 

GENERATION GAP

Panic crosses her face

Her eyes pleading for leniency

Her fingers searching through her uniform pocket

To switch her Blackberry to silent mode

Mobile phones were disallowed in the classrooms

Her silent Siemens M55 paled in comparison

A relic befuddling today’s generation

“How do you operate this?” someone once asked

The assignment on the board

She tells the class to copy in their notebooks

A hand shoots through the air “Can I take a picture, Miss?”

She was dumbstruck

“Can I take a picture of the assignment, Miss?” she asked again

Notebook and pen were old school

This generation looked for convenience

A shot of the assignment uploaded on Facebook is how they keep track school work

Her notebook brimmed with scribbles

Of things to do, ideas, books, dates, facts, dates, new word of the day

Lines of angst, love and sadness

Photos were for keepsake, of special occasions

Momentous gatherings, landscapes and creative endeavors

Today’s generation’s notebooks

Showcase names enclosed in hearts

Cartoon faces, abstract drawings

Nondescript details

The fissure widens between generations

Yesterday’s de rigueur in learning is eschewed

Reading is passé

Depth, substance and commonplace logic are sacrificed

Overshadowed by today’s speedy access to knowledge

All answers are within reach

All answers are ready with a click of Enter

 

TAILOR’S DUMMY

Through the hallowed halls He strides

A nod here, a smile there at the blurry faces

Streaming by

A mobile in the palm

He scrolls through the messages

Ignoring the bodies suspended in hypnagogic hallucinations

Strewn across the floor

He glances at his watch – it’s half past noon

Let the children lie – they’re children after all

His favorite repast waits

 

His retinue waits

An assemblage of tired, weary faces

Bound by duty to venerate the title

To pay homage to a regime

That knows neither head nor tail

Blinded by faith or browbeaten into submission

Not a whimper or sigh escapes their lips

It’s best to go with the flow

 

Counsel from the wise falls on deaf ears

He holds the title he knows best

Like a boy scout he pledges honor and commitment

Within seconds his promises wither

He humors the sage and pretends to listen,

His mind floating overhead waiting for the chime

His favorite repast waits

 

Everything is under control

He recites like a mantra to the Gods before him

Everything in under control

He recites to his silenced retinue

Everything is under control

He still believes as mindless, uncouth ruffians

Desecrate the hallowed halls