“Did you say bird flu? Where?” My friend’s voice came over the mobile phone.
“No, I said bird flew. F-L-E-W. Flew. The bird flew into the jet turbine just as we were about to take off.”
“Oh, then what happened?”
“Well, the pilot aborted takeoff and we’re back at the terminal building awaiting further notice.”
My friend seemed disappointed that there was not much drama in it. The English language or to be more exact, the English pronunciation, can be a bit of a bitch when you are trying to make yourself understood on a mobile phone. Well, even when you are a natural English speaker, making a call from inside an airport terminal is hardly the place when absolute clarity is of the utmost importance. And I, on the other hand, am an unnatural English speaker. So FLU and FLEW can sound quite the same, what with a whole lot of static in the background and all that. So my friend cannot be totally blamed for getting it all mixed up the first time around. After all it had just been announced that avian flu had hit the Thai province of Kanchanaburi (west of Bangkok) the previous day and although I was at that time in Chiang Mai (far to the north of Bangkok), and Chiang Mai is quite a distance away from Kanchanaburi, my friend was not going to let a little bit of geography get in the way of all the confusion.
But with all that sorted out, I can now make more phone calls to elicit some sympathies from friends in both Malaysia and Thailand. Not many sympathies were forthcoming. Those friends think I travel too much anyway and that I am always having a holiday at the office’s expense. I had always protested that my travels, which average about twice a month, were all for work. Regardless, they still feel I have always got the better part of the deal. Well, maybe I do. But not always, though. This time for instance.
I was returning to Kuala Lumpur after being on AirAsia’s inaugural direct flight from Kuala Lumpur to Chiang Mai. I had stayed back another two days after all the reporters had left for a meeting with some travel agents in the northern Thai city.
It was a morning that began like any other Sunday morning in Chiang Mai. The weather had not gotten quite cold yet. That would come in about a month’s time when winter arrives in late November or early December.
Flight AK897 was scheduled to take off at 11am Thai time and the girl at the check in counter assured us that the flight was very much on time. We boarded the plane which was mostly made up of Malaysians taking advantage of AirAsia’s promotional fare. But my romance with the Lanna Kingdom was not about to come to an end that fast. Lanna Kingdom is the old name for the areas comprising Chiang Mai, Chiang Rai, Lampang, Lampun, Mae Hong Son, Nan, Phayao and Phrae in the north of Thailand. These provinces were integrated into the Thai Kingdom or Siam as it was known then in 1876. By that time, the Lanna Kingdom of course, was past its glory days and had fought a series of war with Myanmar or Burma. But this had in no way diminished the beauty of the land which the northerners still call Lanna (translated as a million rice fields).
But Chiang Mai and the north are not just rice fields, especially modern day Chiang Mai. The second largest city in Thailand after Bangkok, one has to see it from the Doi Suthep Temple, located on a mountain overlooking the city to appreciate how big the city is. And taking a stroll along most of the streets in downtown Chiang Mai you tend to be fascinated by the array of wares and northern handicrafts on sale. Not to mention the beautiful girls selling them. But I here I am a bit biased, I must admit. I tend to fall in love with every third girl I meet in Chiang Mai. So most things Chiang Mai tend to be extremely attractive to me. My women friends may think otherwise, but I would like to dare the men to contradict me on this after a visit to Chiang Mai.
My love story with Chiang Mai actually began years ago. At the farthest end of the city is located the city gates. Visitors are normally warned that as you leave the city, you are never to look back. If you do, be forewarned, you will never be free of the city. You are destined to return again and again and again. And like Lot’s son, who was told not to look back at the city of Sodom and Gomorrah, I did look back at the city of Chiang Mai. It must be plain curiosity or just to disprove the belief. I am not sure whether it really worked, but on the average I had been back there at least twice a year ever since. So much for old wives’ tale, eh? The upside at least is that I did not turn into stone. Otherwise Chiang Mai’s City Hall would have had to contend itself with one unwanted statue.
But what is the story with flight AK897, you may ask. Well, I had settled down in my seat with a good book all ready to while away the flight time, which is close to three hours. The plane taxied off to the runway then slowly picked up speed. But seconds before lifting off there was a loud series of sound quite similar to a 100 passengers gargling simultaneously at the highest pitch their vocal chords could muster. This was followed by a screeching of brakes and in as little time as it would have taken us to be airborne, we instead came to a complete halt. It turned out that the captain, in his cockpit, had seen a big bird flying into his left engine. And to think that I, who was actually sitting at the wings of the airplane had missed the whole thing completely. It was a good thing that the captain had been observant. Otherwise we may have had more than one dead bird and a broken turbine on our hands. The plane taxied back to the terminal building and after ascertaining what had happened, we were deposited on the tarmac and took a slow bus ride back to where we had originally came from just minutes earlier.
But whatever efficiency had been demonstrated by the captain and his in-flight crew was slowly and surely undone by AirAsia’s ground staff at the Chiang Mai International Airport. One actually wonders how they would have coped had it been a bigger emergency. It certainly laid bare the fact that whatever training had been given to them, crisis management was not one of them. Still one wonders how much training or arithmetic were actually needed to figure out that if you have, say 100 passengers, and you decide to serve them food, you actually need 100 packets or more. I believe a cursory glance at the passenger manifest would have helped them to work out the number of people on the plane. In this instance, it was a piece of pizza which came in a neat triangular box. Some had water to go with the pizza. Others had a big glass of Pepsi. All not served at the same time of course. This naturally led to some confusion when another batch of food arrived 15 minutes or so later because one ground staff did not know what the other was doing.
If you think scenes of people clamouring for food in post earthquake Kashmir was bad, then you should have seen what went on in the airport lounge. One would have thought that people who had just spent thousands going on a holiday would conduct themselves a little better than people who had gone without food for days. This was after all the early stages of the wait. Shame on you Malaysians. An elderly Caucasian gentleman did not seem to have the heart to join in the madness, just gave up and went looking for food at the restaurant outside. I could not quite figure out which was more irritating – the fact that Malaysians still do not know how to queue or AirAsia’s Chiang Mai staff not knowing how to count.
The fact that the departure time kept getting moved from 5pm to 8.30pm to 10.30pm did not help much. Still people were willing to put up with it. But I think not many people could tolerate the inept handling of the situation which was a cross between idiocy and lunacy. And I say this not because I have a platform to say it. It is not even because of the feeling of pride I normally feel when I read of Malaysian companies doing well abroad. I say it because it is in my interest that AirAsia do well and turn in better results next year. I would like to see the company’s shares going up a few percentage points so that I could get my dividends at the end of the financial year. Sad to say, I do not think AirAsia’s ground staff in Chiang Mai are exactly turning me into another Warren Buffet any time soon.
Luckily somebody came up with the bright idea that the stranded passengers should be allowed to venture beyond the waiting lounge after depositing their passports with the airline staff. Most just went out in search of food to supplement the piece of pizza. No one seemed particularly interested when a similar menu was to be served for dinner and that night the Thai Airways International restaurant were full of AirAsia’s stranded passengers. Some even went back into town to catch up on some last minute shopping or just to finish off whatever bahts they have left. That at least help to calm a few frayed nerves apart from helping to further stimulate the Thai economy.
We were told that AirAsia would be flying another plane to Chiang Mai to take us home. The damage to the engine was worse than expected. I must say that it was one tough eagle which landed at the wrong place at the wrong time. Going boldly where few other eagles were brave enough to have gone before. It is certainly sad that it took the death of one short-sighted eagle and a perfectly good engine to tell AirAsia that a crash course in crisis management is urgently needed for its ground staff, in Chiang Mai at least. And Chiang Mai, after all, happened to be the hometown of the airline’s biggest shareholder in AirAsia Thailand (at that time at least).
We finally left Chiang Mai at about 11pm and touched down in KLIA at 2.45am. I, for one, actually held my breath when the plane was taking off this time around, hoping that no other eagle decided to avenge its mate’s death and take out another engine. Quite a journey and quite a day, I must say. Still I could not help wondering what would have happened had the plane already taken off when the eagle flew into the turbine. For example, what would have happened if the plane was about 10 feet off the ground? How long would it take the pilot to bring the plane down again or how much thrust would be needed to keep it airborne or whether it would be airborne at all? All questions which are beyond my limited mental capacity. And not being that great at maths, I think I will just save the question for the next time I am in Chiang Mai. The Einsteins in red miniskirts masquerading as AirAsia’s ground staff shouldn’t have too much trouble figuring that piece of maths out for me. Q.E.D.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Monday, September 25, 2006
Balikpapan beckons
We wrongly assumed that only the three of us were crazy enough to wake up at 3.00 in the morning, grab a cold shower and rush to the Kuala Lumpur International Airport to catch a three-hour flight to Balikpapan. And before you say Balikpapan where, allow me to give you a bit of geography lesson. Just imagine that you are in Sabah. Picture where Kota Kinabalu is, then mentally run your finger along the coast, going clockwise. When you reach a location about southeast of Kalimantan, somewhere due south of Tawau, you would be able to locate the city of about 300,000 population.
We were among the last to board the flight which meant we found ourselves occupying the last few rows at the back of the plane. It also meant we got three seats each. Quite a bargain actually, since we only paid RM8.88 (before tax and other incidentals, of course). No sooner had the flight taken off had people started curling up and going to sleep. Sleeping babies look cute. Slumbering adults just give the impression they are in a state of disrepair. One lady decided to turn the last row into her first class sleeping quarters, presenting her rear end for those still awake to admire. While I must admit beautiful rear ends can sometimes inspire equally beautiful works of art, one that was pointing towards me at that hour of the morning could only fill me with fear. You never know when it may decide to honour us with a 21-bum salute or something.
Prince Siddharta some 2500 years ago must have woken up and walked in on just such a sight of unprotected rear ends and drooling salivas. A sight disturbing enough, among others, to push the noble one to renounce all princely comforts and go seek answers to the nature of suffering. This rear end did not push me any nearer to seeking enlightenment. That station, I am afraid, belonged to another rear end, which no sooner had it convinced me of its lack of interest in my non-spiritual attributes, had plonked itself in the lap of one more deserving of her attentions. But that is another story. A love story, actually, that I do not care to go into detail here. Miss Rear End finally awoke after dawn broke and helped herself to a bowl of hot noodles, thereby ensuring her posterior portion could continue to get the necessary nutrients to torment those sitting at the back of the plane.
Flying at such an hour of the morning meant that the plane’s air-conditioning system seemed to be working extra hard. One of my travelling companions actually had the gall to ask a flight attendant whether he could have a blanket. He must have thought he was flying first class on another airline. Lucky for him it stopped at that. If he had also asked for red wine, friend or no friend, I would have reached over and given him a smack for being a nuisance at such an hour. He did not hear the last of that for another few weeks after we returned to KL. The flight attendant was suitably offended as she had every right to be. But credit to her for taking time off from her intellectual intercourse with a middle-aged Caucasian gentleman, to politely tell him blankets were not options provided by low cost carriers. She then turned back to continue her discussion with the Caucasian gentleman, presumably about how the oil prices rise disproportionately with airlines wages. Incidentally, Balikpapan, which happened to be an oil town, has quite a sizeable expatriate population. There is even a website for the expatriates’ wives club, a cross between a Rotary Club and a Joyluck Club minus the mahjong sessions.
We finally landed without much fanfare at this beautiful airport called Sepinggan Balikpapan. After going through immigration and customs we popped into the nearest coffee shop for breakfast. Then we took a taxi into town and went in search of suitable accommodation. Finally we settled on an establishment called Hotel Bintang, a two-star lodge charging four-star rates and providing three-star entertainment. Not all the entertainment were provided by the hotel, though. But they were within easy reach. A right turn takes us to a discotheque on stilts. One wonders whether dancers in graceful movements that can only come with intoxication ever danced themselves into the sea below. That would certainly have woken them up somewhat for the wet journey home. Turn left after emerging from the hotel and there is a health centre waiting to cure various forms of sickness that the flesh is heir to and to the front is a karaoke joint. What more can a lonely tourist ask for in a city such as this?
Then it was time to go look for some lunch, which consisted of nasi padang. Getting ourselves understood seemed a bit harder than the time I was in Bandung. It also took a while before my two millionaire companions actually got the hang of the rupiah-ringgit conversion. Balikpapan was not what we had expected at all. It has very modern facilities and wide roads, attributed to the fact that the city of some 300,000 owed its existence to oil. After lunch, we took the local transport known as angkut into town. Cost of transport to most part of town was 7000 rupiah. We were dropped off in front of the biggest shopping complex in town where we ran smack into a demonstration by Muslim students against the publication of Playboy magazine in Indonesia. While I shall keep my opinions on the Playboy magazine to myself, I thought they should have a re-think about their protests against condom vending machines. Just because the Muslim students were presumably practising celibacy, it is probably wise to reconsider their stand. Only moralists seem to think that the easy access to condoms would lead to more extra-marital sex. They forget that people have been doing it without condoms for centuries even in Victorian England. They seemed to think that just because condoms are easily available, innocent Muslim girls would throw off their headscarves and automatically lift their sarongs for the next man who comes along. I suppose people tend to equate condoms more with free sex than with safe sex.
The hotel was not the only place charging us exorbitant prices. The restaurants and taxis were also doing the same thing. We were told later by one kind lady that there are three prices in Balikpapan – one for locals of Kalimantan, one for Indonesians from other islands and another for foreigners. No prizes for guessing who gets fleeced. Take the time we decided to go visit Samarinda, a town some 100 over kilometres to the west of Balikpapan. We paid 408,000 rupiah for the baby-faced driver to drive us there and back. Anything babyish about the driver stopped at his looks. Once he got behind the wheels he was a maniac taking us to our destination in two hours. This was made possible by driving at about 120kph on roads where lesser mortals would only dare drive at 40kph. I tried to close my eyes and block out the speed but this only made it worse. It just meant that I get thrown about a whole lot more even with the safety belt on. Resigned to the fact that there was no way our very own Michael Schumacher, who hailed from Semarang in Central Java, was going to slow down, I did the next best thing and went to sleep. I figured if I die in my sleep it would be painless.
Samarinda, on the bank of the Mahakan River, had this bright yellow bridge connecting it to the east side. I suppose only a native of Samarinda could ever speak in glowing terms about such an apparition known as Jambatan Mahakan. It is the more of an eyesore as on the other side of the river stands a beautiful, soon to be completed, state of the art Islamic Centre. To think that they would latter stand side-by-side is simply blasphemous and an insult to the new and beautiful piece of Islamic architecture. After a brief tour of the town, we dropped by one of the international hotels to use its restroom facilities before going in search of nasi padang. By the time I came home, I still do not know how good local Kalimantan food is since nasi padang is found in abundance. By the time we left Samarinda for Balikpapan, I had more or less gotten used to being driven around at breakneck speed on small trunk roads that I stopped being bothered by it anymore. Our driver even had the audacity to tailgate a police petrol car. Now that took guts.
We came back to the hotel for a deserved rest after a tour of the petroleum facilities in Balikpapan. The tour is actually just a drive past the huge complex by the sea. I could still not get over the fact that I have had to pay 300,000 rupiah (about RM120) a night for my room, which faced a rubbish dump. Anywhere else it would have only cost half as much and at the price I was paying one would expect the shower to have hot water and for the door to close properly. It failed miserably on both counts. Only consolation was the double locks on the door. While double locks may keep intruders out, they do nothing for the soundproofing needs of the guests.
I woke up at 4am to the sound of the couple in the opposite room professing their undying love for each other, in a mixture of standard Bahasa Indonesia and English, no less. Being a romantic at heart, I was deeply moved by such outpouring of love between two people. It was two weeks before Valentine’s Day, so who am I to argue with cupid. I could not quite keep up with their wedding plans. After a while the discussion became unintelligible followed by a deafening silence. Good, I thought. Now I could get back to sleep since I had to catch a morning flight back to Kuala Lumpur the next day.
Fat chance. The enchanted lovers decided to fast forward from wedding plans to early honeymoon, and in the process waking up the entire floor. The old boy must have done all right because about the only thing she did not shout out was the speed limit in Balikpapan. (By the way I was told the speed limit is 68kph. Once you reach 69 you have to turn the other way around). After that I had a hard time myself trying to get back to sleep again. So it was a cold shower and getting ready for the airport.
The flight home was only half full and I chose a seat at the wings. As usual, the flight crew would come and request your assistance in opening the emergency door in case of an emergency. That was all fine and well but I am one of those who need at least one or two trial runs before I can get anything right. After all when my services are badly needed at such times, I would only have once chance of getting it right. What if the door would not open? They should at least let me play with the emergency door a bit so that I may be able to perform my task automatically when and if there was ever a need.
As the plane taxied away before take off, I noticed some egrets feeding in the field adjacent to the runway. I could not help praying very hard that the egrets in Balikpapan were not as suicidal as the eagles of Chiang Mai.
We were among the last to board the flight which meant we found ourselves occupying the last few rows at the back of the plane. It also meant we got three seats each. Quite a bargain actually, since we only paid RM8.88 (before tax and other incidentals, of course). No sooner had the flight taken off had people started curling up and going to sleep. Sleeping babies look cute. Slumbering adults just give the impression they are in a state of disrepair. One lady decided to turn the last row into her first class sleeping quarters, presenting her rear end for those still awake to admire. While I must admit beautiful rear ends can sometimes inspire equally beautiful works of art, one that was pointing towards me at that hour of the morning could only fill me with fear. You never know when it may decide to honour us with a 21-bum salute or something.
Prince Siddharta some 2500 years ago must have woken up and walked in on just such a sight of unprotected rear ends and drooling salivas. A sight disturbing enough, among others, to push the noble one to renounce all princely comforts and go seek answers to the nature of suffering. This rear end did not push me any nearer to seeking enlightenment. That station, I am afraid, belonged to another rear end, which no sooner had it convinced me of its lack of interest in my non-spiritual attributes, had plonked itself in the lap of one more deserving of her attentions. But that is another story. A love story, actually, that I do not care to go into detail here. Miss Rear End finally awoke after dawn broke and helped herself to a bowl of hot noodles, thereby ensuring her posterior portion could continue to get the necessary nutrients to torment those sitting at the back of the plane.
Flying at such an hour of the morning meant that the plane’s air-conditioning system seemed to be working extra hard. One of my travelling companions actually had the gall to ask a flight attendant whether he could have a blanket. He must have thought he was flying first class on another airline. Lucky for him it stopped at that. If he had also asked for red wine, friend or no friend, I would have reached over and given him a smack for being a nuisance at such an hour. He did not hear the last of that for another few weeks after we returned to KL. The flight attendant was suitably offended as she had every right to be. But credit to her for taking time off from her intellectual intercourse with a middle-aged Caucasian gentleman, to politely tell him blankets were not options provided by low cost carriers. She then turned back to continue her discussion with the Caucasian gentleman, presumably about how the oil prices rise disproportionately with airlines wages. Incidentally, Balikpapan, which happened to be an oil town, has quite a sizeable expatriate population. There is even a website for the expatriates’ wives club, a cross between a Rotary Club and a Joyluck Club minus the mahjong sessions.
We finally landed without much fanfare at this beautiful airport called Sepinggan Balikpapan. After going through immigration and customs we popped into the nearest coffee shop for breakfast. Then we took a taxi into town and went in search of suitable accommodation. Finally we settled on an establishment called Hotel Bintang, a two-star lodge charging four-star rates and providing three-star entertainment. Not all the entertainment were provided by the hotel, though. But they were within easy reach. A right turn takes us to a discotheque on stilts. One wonders whether dancers in graceful movements that can only come with intoxication ever danced themselves into the sea below. That would certainly have woken them up somewhat for the wet journey home. Turn left after emerging from the hotel and there is a health centre waiting to cure various forms of sickness that the flesh is heir to and to the front is a karaoke joint. What more can a lonely tourist ask for in a city such as this?
Then it was time to go look for some lunch, which consisted of nasi padang. Getting ourselves understood seemed a bit harder than the time I was in Bandung. It also took a while before my two millionaire companions actually got the hang of the rupiah-ringgit conversion. Balikpapan was not what we had expected at all. It has very modern facilities and wide roads, attributed to the fact that the city of some 300,000 owed its existence to oil. After lunch, we took the local transport known as angkut into town. Cost of transport to most part of town was 7000 rupiah. We were dropped off in front of the biggest shopping complex in town where we ran smack into a demonstration by Muslim students against the publication of Playboy magazine in Indonesia. While I shall keep my opinions on the Playboy magazine to myself, I thought they should have a re-think about their protests against condom vending machines. Just because the Muslim students were presumably practising celibacy, it is probably wise to reconsider their stand. Only moralists seem to think that the easy access to condoms would lead to more extra-marital sex. They forget that people have been doing it without condoms for centuries even in Victorian England. They seemed to think that just because condoms are easily available, innocent Muslim girls would throw off their headscarves and automatically lift their sarongs for the next man who comes along. I suppose people tend to equate condoms more with free sex than with safe sex.
The hotel was not the only place charging us exorbitant prices. The restaurants and taxis were also doing the same thing. We were told later by one kind lady that there are three prices in Balikpapan – one for locals of Kalimantan, one for Indonesians from other islands and another for foreigners. No prizes for guessing who gets fleeced. Take the time we decided to go visit Samarinda, a town some 100 over kilometres to the west of Balikpapan. We paid 408,000 rupiah for the baby-faced driver to drive us there and back. Anything babyish about the driver stopped at his looks. Once he got behind the wheels he was a maniac taking us to our destination in two hours. This was made possible by driving at about 120kph on roads where lesser mortals would only dare drive at 40kph. I tried to close my eyes and block out the speed but this only made it worse. It just meant that I get thrown about a whole lot more even with the safety belt on. Resigned to the fact that there was no way our very own Michael Schumacher, who hailed from Semarang in Central Java, was going to slow down, I did the next best thing and went to sleep. I figured if I die in my sleep it would be painless.
Samarinda, on the bank of the Mahakan River, had this bright yellow bridge connecting it to the east side. I suppose only a native of Samarinda could ever speak in glowing terms about such an apparition known as Jambatan Mahakan. It is the more of an eyesore as on the other side of the river stands a beautiful, soon to be completed, state of the art Islamic Centre. To think that they would latter stand side-by-side is simply blasphemous and an insult to the new and beautiful piece of Islamic architecture. After a brief tour of the town, we dropped by one of the international hotels to use its restroom facilities before going in search of nasi padang. By the time I came home, I still do not know how good local Kalimantan food is since nasi padang is found in abundance. By the time we left Samarinda for Balikpapan, I had more or less gotten used to being driven around at breakneck speed on small trunk roads that I stopped being bothered by it anymore. Our driver even had the audacity to tailgate a police petrol car. Now that took guts.
We came back to the hotel for a deserved rest after a tour of the petroleum facilities in Balikpapan. The tour is actually just a drive past the huge complex by the sea. I could still not get over the fact that I have had to pay 300,000 rupiah (about RM120) a night for my room, which faced a rubbish dump. Anywhere else it would have only cost half as much and at the price I was paying one would expect the shower to have hot water and for the door to close properly. It failed miserably on both counts. Only consolation was the double locks on the door. While double locks may keep intruders out, they do nothing for the soundproofing needs of the guests.
I woke up at 4am to the sound of the couple in the opposite room professing their undying love for each other, in a mixture of standard Bahasa Indonesia and English, no less. Being a romantic at heart, I was deeply moved by such outpouring of love between two people. It was two weeks before Valentine’s Day, so who am I to argue with cupid. I could not quite keep up with their wedding plans. After a while the discussion became unintelligible followed by a deafening silence. Good, I thought. Now I could get back to sleep since I had to catch a morning flight back to Kuala Lumpur the next day.
Fat chance. The enchanted lovers decided to fast forward from wedding plans to early honeymoon, and in the process waking up the entire floor. The old boy must have done all right because about the only thing she did not shout out was the speed limit in Balikpapan. (By the way I was told the speed limit is 68kph. Once you reach 69 you have to turn the other way around). After that I had a hard time myself trying to get back to sleep again. So it was a cold shower and getting ready for the airport.
The flight home was only half full and I chose a seat at the wings. As usual, the flight crew would come and request your assistance in opening the emergency door in case of an emergency. That was all fine and well but I am one of those who need at least one or two trial runs before I can get anything right. After all when my services are badly needed at such times, I would only have once chance of getting it right. What if the door would not open? They should at least let me play with the emergency door a bit so that I may be able to perform my task automatically when and if there was ever a need.
As the plane taxied away before take off, I noticed some egrets feeding in the field adjacent to the runway. I could not help praying very hard that the egrets in Balikpapan were not as suicidal as the eagles of Chiang Mai.
A touch of romance
There is nothing like a riverboat ride to start a new romance or rekindle ambers of waning passion that is threatening to snuff out a relationship. I have been on such boats on numerous occasions, especially in Bangkok, but never for either of those reasons. Just for work actually. The first time was a little over 10 years ago when I took the Oriental Queen, which could take more than a hundred passengers from Bangkok to head upstream for the old city of Ayutthaya. I had a group of journalists with me.
Such journeys are quite remarkable, conjuring memories of younger years. I grew up in the 1970s watching black & white shows of riverboats sailing up and down the Mississippi. The whole idea of people boarding the riverboat, travelling up and down the mighty river was something to look forward to as a child. Something I had hoped to do a little later in life. Well, the Chao Phraya River, which separates Bangkok from Thonburi, is not quite the Mississippi. But it was great to go upriver in one of those big boats, nevertheless, most especially if it is your first time.
The fare inclusive of meals is 1,400 bahts. You have a choice between the air-conditioned lower deck and the warm open-air upper deck. Of course, this is after you have had your fill of the buffet breakfast, served just after your boat leaves the pier at eight or so. Nothing like tucking with gusto into your first meal of the day, as the Temple of Dawn and the Grand Palace seem to float pass you at a leisurely pace. In between mouthfuls, you even have time to take out your camera and fire away a few shots to show the folks back home.
As noon approaches, when the upper deck gets a bit too hot, there’s always enough room down below to enjoy the sights without raising too much of a sweat. There will be the hardened souls, who would insist on staying out in the noonday sun, sipping their assortment of beverages. Since they were not Englishmen, one has to assume they are mad dogs.
By 2.00pm or so, the boat would, like those of merchants of old coming to ply their trade, approach Ayutthaya. The second capital of the kingdom may have lost much of its splendour, but retains most of its majesty. It was after all the setting of quite a few memorable battles between the armies of old Siam and old Burma, both trying to fight for supremacy over that region of South East Asia. One can only guess at the beauty of this ancient city during its hey days. However, telling the story of this city in a few paragraphs would not do justice to its illustrious history and better left for another time. Suffice to say that without Ayutthaya, Siam would not have evolved into what Thailand is today. It was here that Siam began opening up to both the west and the east. Small wonder that at some point or other, it had had the prime minister equivalent of today whose nationalities were Japanese, Greek and Persian. Not all at the same time, of course. It had also had influential and high ranking court officials who were Chinese. Of course, the Greek, by the name of Phaulkon, managed to get his head chopped off for being too overzealous in trying to convert the King to Catholicism. But, as I said these stories are better left for another time.
Anyway, on with our riverboat story. There are quite a number of interesting things to see even if you decide to opt for the dinner cruise instead of the trip upriver to Ayutthaya. The dinner cruise costs about as much as a morning trip to Ayutthaya, except that this time it comes with meals and entertainment. If I had not seen how he looked, I would have thought Kenny G himself was the entertainer. Alas, it was not the world renown saxophonist but a more than able Thai blower doing the job. Before you know it, you would be humming along to the music from the 60s and 70s. Two hours would have passed just like that before you realise it, and before long you are back at the pier again. As you get ready to jump off the boat and rejoin the real world once more, or of Bangkok, at least, with its traffic jams, exhaust fumes and street vendors you cannot help feeling a slight tugging at the pit of your stomach as you look longingly towards the Filipino singer in miniskirt. Her face has taken on a blank look and she had lost the plastic smile she had on while entertaining us earlier. She just seemed too busy staring into her cup of tea. Probably there are coded messages about her future hidden among the tea leaves. Her job over for the night, she picked up her string of pearls and sequined handbag before nonchalantly walking off the boat and into the night. Well, the tugging at the base of your stomach could have been unfulfilled fantasy or it could very well have been the result of being too liberal with the cili padi and fish sauce an hour or so earlier.
To say the scenes you will see on the banks of the river are breath-taking would be a gross understatement. It is something you have to experience yourself and quite certainly not one you would too soon forget.
Recently I have had the privilege of taking another riverboat, but this time instead of on the Chao Phraya River, it was the Mae Ping River in Chiang Mai. Its namesake, the Mae Ping Hotel had its 15 minutes of fame several years ago when Taiwan songstress, Teresa Teng passed away while staying there. On the only occasion I stayed at the hotel, I had wondered what I would have done had I been woken up by the melodious strains of Teresa’s voice telling me her love shines as bright as a million stars or something like that.
Anyway, a riverboat trip cum dinner on the Mae Ping is not quite as eventful as those on the Chao Phraya River. The boat could take only about 50 people without the risk of one getting into another’s hair, unless of course that was one’s original intention. It is more peaceful and the darkness does provide some comfort and is less of a strain on the eyes. The boat is romantically lit, the light from the numerous candles, placed at strategic locations on the boat creating a fairytale-like ambience. But it did not seem to do much in enhancing the beauty of the food. In the twilight of my life, failing eyesight tend to make me want to be sure what I put in my mouth. It was not too much fun just relying on your sense of smell and taste alone.
But I must say if I was there with somebody special instead of a film crew shooting a travel documentary, this would have counted as a romantic night. Imagine being there with the love of your life (or the one who must be obeyed, which ever the case might be). Dinner was just over. Dessert had just arrived. Coffee for me, at least, since I am not much of a dessert person. This being a special night and all that I would even suppress the desire to light up for an after dinner smoke. She will smile a contented smile. No need for words. There is soft music playing in the background. For a brief moment all seems well again with the world. It is the perfect setting to pop the question. So after letting the meal settle down for a bit, you take her hands in yours and look at her lovingly, knowing and convincing yourself that you are not good enough for her. You will probably see love or your unborn children in her eyes. Then gather up enough courage to pop the question…
“Shall we break up? I don’t think there’s any future in this relationship. Moreover, I’ve met this extremely nice girl in Chiang Mai… ”
As you jump over the side of the boat, turn around and tell her to take care of the bill. After all, you have been picking up the tabs for all the lunches and dinners ever since you have been with her over the last few years. Then swim as hard as possible for the opposite bank. And please make sure you know how to swim before attempting this because even if you do not jump into the river, she will definitely throw you overboard. Try not to go beyond the Mae Ping. Even in your wildest dream, forget about swimming across the Chao Phraya River unless you have a ship waiting in the Gulf of Siam or you won the gold medal at the last SEA Games for the 1500m swimming event.
As a coup de grace make sure you send her an SMS, reminding her to leave at least a 100 baht tip for the lovely waitress who had been flirting openly with you all throughout dinner, oblivious to the dagger looks your dinner companion was giving her.
Well, we can always dream on, can’t we?
Such journeys are quite remarkable, conjuring memories of younger years. I grew up in the 1970s watching black & white shows of riverboats sailing up and down the Mississippi. The whole idea of people boarding the riverboat, travelling up and down the mighty river was something to look forward to as a child. Something I had hoped to do a little later in life. Well, the Chao Phraya River, which separates Bangkok from Thonburi, is not quite the Mississippi. But it was great to go upriver in one of those big boats, nevertheless, most especially if it is your first time.
The fare inclusive of meals is 1,400 bahts. You have a choice between the air-conditioned lower deck and the warm open-air upper deck. Of course, this is after you have had your fill of the buffet breakfast, served just after your boat leaves the pier at eight or so. Nothing like tucking with gusto into your first meal of the day, as the Temple of Dawn and the Grand Palace seem to float pass you at a leisurely pace. In between mouthfuls, you even have time to take out your camera and fire away a few shots to show the folks back home.
As noon approaches, when the upper deck gets a bit too hot, there’s always enough room down below to enjoy the sights without raising too much of a sweat. There will be the hardened souls, who would insist on staying out in the noonday sun, sipping their assortment of beverages. Since they were not Englishmen, one has to assume they are mad dogs.
By 2.00pm or so, the boat would, like those of merchants of old coming to ply their trade, approach Ayutthaya. The second capital of the kingdom may have lost much of its splendour, but retains most of its majesty. It was after all the setting of quite a few memorable battles between the armies of old Siam and old Burma, both trying to fight for supremacy over that region of South East Asia. One can only guess at the beauty of this ancient city during its hey days. However, telling the story of this city in a few paragraphs would not do justice to its illustrious history and better left for another time. Suffice to say that without Ayutthaya, Siam would not have evolved into what Thailand is today. It was here that Siam began opening up to both the west and the east. Small wonder that at some point or other, it had had the prime minister equivalent of today whose nationalities were Japanese, Greek and Persian. Not all at the same time, of course. It had also had influential and high ranking court officials who were Chinese. Of course, the Greek, by the name of Phaulkon, managed to get his head chopped off for being too overzealous in trying to convert the King to Catholicism. But, as I said these stories are better left for another time.
Anyway, on with our riverboat story. There are quite a number of interesting things to see even if you decide to opt for the dinner cruise instead of the trip upriver to Ayutthaya. The dinner cruise costs about as much as a morning trip to Ayutthaya, except that this time it comes with meals and entertainment. If I had not seen how he looked, I would have thought Kenny G himself was the entertainer. Alas, it was not the world renown saxophonist but a more than able Thai blower doing the job. Before you know it, you would be humming along to the music from the 60s and 70s. Two hours would have passed just like that before you realise it, and before long you are back at the pier again. As you get ready to jump off the boat and rejoin the real world once more, or of Bangkok, at least, with its traffic jams, exhaust fumes and street vendors you cannot help feeling a slight tugging at the pit of your stomach as you look longingly towards the Filipino singer in miniskirt. Her face has taken on a blank look and she had lost the plastic smile she had on while entertaining us earlier. She just seemed too busy staring into her cup of tea. Probably there are coded messages about her future hidden among the tea leaves. Her job over for the night, she picked up her string of pearls and sequined handbag before nonchalantly walking off the boat and into the night. Well, the tugging at the base of your stomach could have been unfulfilled fantasy or it could very well have been the result of being too liberal with the cili padi and fish sauce an hour or so earlier.
To say the scenes you will see on the banks of the river are breath-taking would be a gross understatement. It is something you have to experience yourself and quite certainly not one you would too soon forget.
Recently I have had the privilege of taking another riverboat, but this time instead of on the Chao Phraya River, it was the Mae Ping River in Chiang Mai. Its namesake, the Mae Ping Hotel had its 15 minutes of fame several years ago when Taiwan songstress, Teresa Teng passed away while staying there. On the only occasion I stayed at the hotel, I had wondered what I would have done had I been woken up by the melodious strains of Teresa’s voice telling me her love shines as bright as a million stars or something like that.
Anyway, a riverboat trip cum dinner on the Mae Ping is not quite as eventful as those on the Chao Phraya River. The boat could take only about 50 people without the risk of one getting into another’s hair, unless of course that was one’s original intention. It is more peaceful and the darkness does provide some comfort and is less of a strain on the eyes. The boat is romantically lit, the light from the numerous candles, placed at strategic locations on the boat creating a fairytale-like ambience. But it did not seem to do much in enhancing the beauty of the food. In the twilight of my life, failing eyesight tend to make me want to be sure what I put in my mouth. It was not too much fun just relying on your sense of smell and taste alone.
But I must say if I was there with somebody special instead of a film crew shooting a travel documentary, this would have counted as a romantic night. Imagine being there with the love of your life (or the one who must be obeyed, which ever the case might be). Dinner was just over. Dessert had just arrived. Coffee for me, at least, since I am not much of a dessert person. This being a special night and all that I would even suppress the desire to light up for an after dinner smoke. She will smile a contented smile. No need for words. There is soft music playing in the background. For a brief moment all seems well again with the world. It is the perfect setting to pop the question. So after letting the meal settle down for a bit, you take her hands in yours and look at her lovingly, knowing and convincing yourself that you are not good enough for her. You will probably see love or your unborn children in her eyes. Then gather up enough courage to pop the question…
“Shall we break up? I don’t think there’s any future in this relationship. Moreover, I’ve met this extremely nice girl in Chiang Mai… ”
As you jump over the side of the boat, turn around and tell her to take care of the bill. After all, you have been picking up the tabs for all the lunches and dinners ever since you have been with her over the last few years. Then swim as hard as possible for the opposite bank. And please make sure you know how to swim before attempting this because even if you do not jump into the river, she will definitely throw you overboard. Try not to go beyond the Mae Ping. Even in your wildest dream, forget about swimming across the Chao Phraya River unless you have a ship waiting in the Gulf of Siam or you won the gold medal at the last SEA Games for the 1500m swimming event.
As a coup de grace make sure you send her an SMS, reminding her to leave at least a 100 baht tip for the lovely waitress who had been flirting openly with you all throughout dinner, oblivious to the dagger looks your dinner companion was giving her.
Well, we can always dream on, can’t we?
Thursday, September 21, 2006
Ole-ole Bandung
Anybody growing up in the 1960s would probably remember a song called Ole-ole Bandung (Souvenirs from Bandung). The lyrics had something to do with a short blouse being cut into a sarong or something like that. The reason for this song or rather the lyrics, I was to find out, is that the traditional costume for Sundanese women (who you find in large numbers in Bandung) is a sarong worn just half way down the calf with a kebaya (also known in Kelantan as baju Bandung) on top.
I was in for another surprise where the Sundanese were concerned. It happened when we walked into a restaurant for lunch on the way to Tangkuban Parahu, a mountain range housing six dormant volcanoes, about 20kms out of Bandung town. The girl who greeted us put up her hands in a wai position. Being Thai and being terribly polite especially with sweet-looking young things, I instinctively put up my own hands and replied “Sawatdi khrap” before realising that I was not in Thailand. (Wai is the Thai greeting and involved putting the palms together at about chin level).
It turned out that the Sundanese greeting happened to be a version of the wai, although they do not call it a wai. In fact they do not call it anything except a Sundanese greeting. And who better to demonstrate this than a Sundanese girl in traditional costume. She did it with such beauty and grace. How I wish we were 30 years younger.
Our age did not stop the driver from taking the trouble to extol the virtues of women from the various areas of Java, though. Sunda, Cirebon, Jakarta, Semarang, Surabaya, Yogyakarta and so on. My friend, whose ancestry can be traced to both the royalty of Cirebon and the pirates of Sulawesi was all ears. Our driver, being Javanese himself, was naturally trying to convince us that the best candidates for wives were Javanese. Moreover, he said, getting married in Indonesia would only cost us in the range of two million rupiah or so. Now, that is food for thought, especially for two poor, old bachelors.
Anyway let us just leave the wives part out of it for the moment. Too many damsels and all of them managed to have a distress story of some sort to tell. We seemed spoiled for choice and somehow it looked much easier to remain bachelors, especially at meal times.
Meals in Bandung usually consist of a fish dish. Of course there is also sapi (bull) meat. Not lembu, mind you. The sapi meat is usually served as miniature satays. A word of advice. If you are wearing dentures stay as far away from it as possible. The sapi must have had their fair share of skirmishes with quite a few local matadors judging from the tougness of their meat.
But hardly had we set foot on Indonesian soil and my friend was already talking about pacel lele. It is actually deep fried catfish eaten with vegetables and sambal. In the interest of gastronomic science, he was trying to determine if there was any difference in tastes between the pacel lele served at Indonesian restaurants in Kuala Lumpur and those found in Bandung. Much like he once went to Hat Yai, Bangkok and Chiang Mai to see if the tomyams there and those in Kuala Lumpur taste the same.
On our second night in Bandung, after hopping into a taxi, we politely requested him to take us in double time to the nearest restaurant selling pacel lele. The taxi driver must have misunderstood our Sundanese dialect because he deposited us near Jalan Sudirman where we found lots of shops and stalls selling bakmee but not pacel lele. We hopped into another taxi and asked the driver to take us to the nearest Muslim restaurant, instead.
This time there was no room for mistake and the waitress in tudung kind of convinced us we were in the right type of restaurant at last. Called Ampera, it is located in Jalan Kebun Kawung, somewhere between the Bandung Governor’s Residence and the Railway Station.
The deep fried chicken drumstick served here more than compensated for the missing catfish. Having found Sundanese food rather bland over the previous two days, my friend and I tucked into the sambal with gusto. Only this time it was not so bland. Being Thai I pride myself in my ability to stomach hot food. But this was something else altogether. It was like a few mini explosions had just gone on inside my mouth. I must say the numbing sensation moved us to tears and we were sweating in places that had no right to sweat at that hour of the night. But it was nothing that two tall glasses of freshly-squeezed orange juice (locally known as jeruk) could not take care of. Naturally there was no sirap Bandung. Sirap Bandung is a fallacy propagated by the back street vendors in Malaysia. Just like there is no nasi goreng Pattaya in the Thai seaside resort. Now I actually begin to wonder whether what my late grandmother called baju Bandung actually originated in Bandung at all.
But Bandung, being close to 800 metres above sea level has a rather cool temperature. It seemed to rain most of the four days we were there. I suppose if the temperature dropped lower than normal, the people of Bandung can always visit Ampera. The sambal would certainly warm them up somewhat. We did manage to find our pacel lele the very next day. Wonder of all wonders it was at a restaurant located 20 metres from our hotel.
Of course, pacel lele was not the only thing my friend was fond of. The other is fighting with taxi drivers. He seemed to have taken the fight from the streets of KL to back streets of Bandung over their reluctance to use the meter after midnight. Still they were a whole lot friendlier than their counterparts in KL. None argued or protested when we paid them half of what they asked. They were smiling broadly because probably they were still making a hefty profit.
I was just smiling because the taxi drivers did not take us to some dark alley and relieve us of all our worldly and unworldly possessions. After all, picking a fight with taxi drivers at three in the morning, whether in KL, Bangkok or Bandung is not very clever. But try telling that to my friend, the gaped crusader, who felt that justice must prevail and “broken meters” should be repaired.
We did encounter some very pleasant taxi drivers as well in Bandung. And my friend was not averse to giving a big tip to the honest drivers. If only they knew how much more they could have made from the tips if they had just used the meters in the first place.
The first thing I did after arriving back in Kuala Lumpur was to go check the next available cheap flight (translated as RM0.00) to Bandung. We were not quite finished with the pacel lele, the sambal in Ampera and the Bandung taxi drivers just yet. And, I had to come back to KL to find out that a replica of the Java Man is actually exhibited in the Bandung Museum. Now that us something I would like to have a look at. Of course, there is still the two million rupiah question to be answered. Tsk, tsk the things we do in the name of journalism.
I was in for another surprise where the Sundanese were concerned. It happened when we walked into a restaurant for lunch on the way to Tangkuban Parahu, a mountain range housing six dormant volcanoes, about 20kms out of Bandung town. The girl who greeted us put up her hands in a wai position. Being Thai and being terribly polite especially with sweet-looking young things, I instinctively put up my own hands and replied “Sawatdi khrap” before realising that I was not in Thailand. (Wai is the Thai greeting and involved putting the palms together at about chin level).
It turned out that the Sundanese greeting happened to be a version of the wai, although they do not call it a wai. In fact they do not call it anything except a Sundanese greeting. And who better to demonstrate this than a Sundanese girl in traditional costume. She did it with such beauty and grace. How I wish we were 30 years younger.
Our age did not stop the driver from taking the trouble to extol the virtues of women from the various areas of Java, though. Sunda, Cirebon, Jakarta, Semarang, Surabaya, Yogyakarta and so on. My friend, whose ancestry can be traced to both the royalty of Cirebon and the pirates of Sulawesi was all ears. Our driver, being Javanese himself, was naturally trying to convince us that the best candidates for wives were Javanese. Moreover, he said, getting married in Indonesia would only cost us in the range of two million rupiah or so. Now, that is food for thought, especially for two poor, old bachelors.
Anyway let us just leave the wives part out of it for the moment. Too many damsels and all of them managed to have a distress story of some sort to tell. We seemed spoiled for choice and somehow it looked much easier to remain bachelors, especially at meal times.
Meals in Bandung usually consist of a fish dish. Of course there is also sapi (bull) meat. Not lembu, mind you. The sapi meat is usually served as miniature satays. A word of advice. If you are wearing dentures stay as far away from it as possible. The sapi must have had their fair share of skirmishes with quite a few local matadors judging from the tougness of their meat.
But hardly had we set foot on Indonesian soil and my friend was already talking about pacel lele. It is actually deep fried catfish eaten with vegetables and sambal. In the interest of gastronomic science, he was trying to determine if there was any difference in tastes between the pacel lele served at Indonesian restaurants in Kuala Lumpur and those found in Bandung. Much like he once went to Hat Yai, Bangkok and Chiang Mai to see if the tomyams there and those in Kuala Lumpur taste the same.
On our second night in Bandung, after hopping into a taxi, we politely requested him to take us in double time to the nearest restaurant selling pacel lele. The taxi driver must have misunderstood our Sundanese dialect because he deposited us near Jalan Sudirman where we found lots of shops and stalls selling bakmee but not pacel lele. We hopped into another taxi and asked the driver to take us to the nearest Muslim restaurant, instead.
This time there was no room for mistake and the waitress in tudung kind of convinced us we were in the right type of restaurant at last. Called Ampera, it is located in Jalan Kebun Kawung, somewhere between the Bandung Governor’s Residence and the Railway Station.
The deep fried chicken drumstick served here more than compensated for the missing catfish. Having found Sundanese food rather bland over the previous two days, my friend and I tucked into the sambal with gusto. Only this time it was not so bland. Being Thai I pride myself in my ability to stomach hot food. But this was something else altogether. It was like a few mini explosions had just gone on inside my mouth. I must say the numbing sensation moved us to tears and we were sweating in places that had no right to sweat at that hour of the night. But it was nothing that two tall glasses of freshly-squeezed orange juice (locally known as jeruk) could not take care of. Naturally there was no sirap Bandung. Sirap Bandung is a fallacy propagated by the back street vendors in Malaysia. Just like there is no nasi goreng Pattaya in the Thai seaside resort. Now I actually begin to wonder whether what my late grandmother called baju Bandung actually originated in Bandung at all.
But Bandung, being close to 800 metres above sea level has a rather cool temperature. It seemed to rain most of the four days we were there. I suppose if the temperature dropped lower than normal, the people of Bandung can always visit Ampera. The sambal would certainly warm them up somewhat. We did manage to find our pacel lele the very next day. Wonder of all wonders it was at a restaurant located 20 metres from our hotel.
Of course, pacel lele was not the only thing my friend was fond of. The other is fighting with taxi drivers. He seemed to have taken the fight from the streets of KL to back streets of Bandung over their reluctance to use the meter after midnight. Still they were a whole lot friendlier than their counterparts in KL. None argued or protested when we paid them half of what they asked. They were smiling broadly because probably they were still making a hefty profit.
I was just smiling because the taxi drivers did not take us to some dark alley and relieve us of all our worldly and unworldly possessions. After all, picking a fight with taxi drivers at three in the morning, whether in KL, Bangkok or Bandung is not very clever. But try telling that to my friend, the gaped crusader, who felt that justice must prevail and “broken meters” should be repaired.
We did encounter some very pleasant taxi drivers as well in Bandung. And my friend was not averse to giving a big tip to the honest drivers. If only they knew how much more they could have made from the tips if they had just used the meters in the first place.
The first thing I did after arriving back in Kuala Lumpur was to go check the next available cheap flight (translated as RM0.00) to Bandung. We were not quite finished with the pacel lele, the sambal in Ampera and the Bandung taxi drivers just yet. And, I had to come back to KL to find out that a replica of the Java Man is actually exhibited in the Bandung Museum. Now that us something I would like to have a look at. Of course, there is still the two million rupiah question to be answered. Tsk, tsk the things we do in the name of journalism.
From the Mouth of a Volcano
I cannot help feeling smug. It is not always that I can say I am a millionaire. There I was, crossing the 50 metres or so of tarmac from the plane to the Immigration check point at Hussein Sasteranegara International Airport in Bandung with a few million rupiah on me. Malaysia had just beaten Indonesia for the gold medal in badminton at the Manila SEA Games.
While walking around smugly is one thing, gloating is quite another. It would be a fatal error, I think, to gloat at Indonesians, especially about Malaysia beating them at badminton. I could very easily end up at the bottom of Kawah Ratu, a dormant but the biggest of six volcanic craters on the outskirts of Bandung. I really have no desire to test how hot the temperature can get at the bottom of a volcano, even a dormant one.
For Indonesia, losing to Malaysia in badminton must rank somewhere between the tsunami and running out of clove cigarettes. But then neither do Malaysia like losing to Indonesia in badminton even back when we were losing to every other nation of some badminton repute in the world.
A few days later Malaysia beat Indonesia for the soccer bronze medal. However, by then I was past my gloating stage. Just as well to let it pass since our host and guide was kind enough to show us several variations of lap dancing. All to the accompaniment of music from Michael Learns to Rock, fast tempo and in dangdut version, naturally.
While still humming the non-dangdut version of 25 Minutes Too Late, we took the winding road up to the mountain in a Kijang (which is actually the Indonesian national vehicle minus the AP controversy naturally). The locals just call it puncak (summit), the mountain that is, not the locally-assembled four-wheel drive. The temperature dropped quite fast and we had the air-conditioning switched off and wound down the windows to have a better look at the swiftly changing vegetation and pollute our lungs a bit more.
Then the inside of the four-wheel drive began to take on a slightly unpleasant odour as if all of us were having indigestion and were playing childhood pranks on one another all at the same time. Nothing of that sort was happening, of course. The sulphuric smell was coming from the six volcanoes in the area.
Dormant they may be, but they were definitely emitting strong fumes and smoke that you can smell from quite a distance away. The fact that it had been years since the volcanoes were last active was scant consolation when we stood staring down at the smoky bowels of Kawah Ratu, the biggest of the six craters. We did not make it to the other five for lack of time. To the left of Kawah Ratu and making a wonderful background to the setting of an Indonesian myth was the Tangkuban Parahu mountain range.
As is always the case with any tourist attraction, there would be the usual souvenir peddlers whose vocabulary did not include comprehending the word NO. It was small consolation that some of them were kind enough to take us through the folklore associated with the area. You can tell they have been telling this story countless times to anyone patient enough to lend an ear. But nothing’s ever for free and the price for the story telling was being haggled no end by the story teller and his comrade in charms to buy their wares.
One cheeky fellow wanted to sell me a horn shaped volcanic stone with Quranic inscriptions. When I managed to convince him that I was not a Muslim, he was stumped for a few seconds and quickly put away the holy inscriptions. And that was that, I thought, when suddenly he turned around and there were strings of beads, necklaces and bracelets in his hands. His friends chipped in with some bamboo pens and postcards just for good measure. All were trying to outdo each other with their salesmanship. They were as amazing as the myth connected with the area.
It happened that once upon a time, many tectonic movements and tsunamis ago, in heaven lived a young god. One day he committed a sin with a beautiful goddess (must have been heaven’s version of playing doctor) and they were condemned and banished by the highest God of Sunda Pantheon to live on earth as animals. The goddess turned into a female wild boar, while the god turned into a black dog.The black dog was called Si Tumang. One day a Sunda King, who was hunting in the forest got lost and had the urge to urinate, so he did it in a dry coconut shell. The boar, which was thirsty, accidentally drank the King's urine that was mixed with his sperm. After several months, the boar got pregnant, but instead of giving birth to baby boar, she gave birth to a beautiful baby girl.
The boar then took her baby to the King's hunting log. The King and his men were surprised to find a beautiful baby in the forest. The King considered the baby as a gift from the gods and took her as his own daughter. The baby grew up to be a beautiful princess. The princess is loved by everyone in the kingdom, but she turned out to be a spoiled girl.
The princess was very skilful at cloth weaving. One day her weaving tool drop from the weaving pavilion. Too lazy to pick it up, she vowed that if there was a male that would pick up her weaving tool, she would make him her husband, but if a female were to pick it up, she would make her a sworn sister (this is Sunda after all, so no same sex marriage just yet).
However, it was Si Tumang who took her weaving tool and gave it back to her. Because of her vow, Princess Dayang Sumbi must marry Tumang, the black dog. Ashamed of his daughter’s mistake, the King banished Dayang Sumbi to the forest, living with Tumang, her dog husband (and these days we call that incest and bestiality). During the night, Si Tumang would turn into a handsome god and make love to Dayang Sumbi. Soon Dayang Sumbi gave birth to a baby boy named Sangkuriang. However, Sangkuriang did not know that his beloved and loyal pet, Si Tumang, was his own father. One day Dayang Sumbi had a craving to eat fried deer liver and asked her teenage son to go hunting. Sangkuriang took his dog, Si Tumang to hunt, but strangely, there was not a single animal in sight. Then Sangkuriang spotted a fat boar so he shot an arrow at it. The boar was the goddess incarnation, mother of Dayang Sumbi, Sangkuriang’s grandmother and Si Tumang’s amorous accomplice in Sunda heaven. Si Tumang knew this and he tried to stop Sangkuriang from killing the divine boar. Angered by his pet’s attitude, Sangkuriang accidentally shot an arrow at Tumang, and killed the dog. Confused and depressed, Sangkuriang then cut out Si Tumang’s liver and took it home. Dayang Sumbi cooked Tumang’s liver and ate it. Sangkuriang remained silent and did not want to eat the cooked liver. When Dayang Sumbi asked Sangkuriang where Tumang is, Sangkuriang told her the truth. The shocked Dayang Sumbi ran amok and hit Sangkuriang on the head with a ladle. Sangkuriang’s head was cut wide open and bled, and he suffered from amnesia.
Sangkuriang ran into the forest. Dayang Sumbi, who regretted her actions went looking for Sangkuriang but in vain. Dayang Sumbi then began a life as a hermit, eating only raw vegetables. Thanks to her diet and divine blood, she was able to remain young forever. Sangkuriang grew into a strong and handsome young man and was reunited with Dayang Sumbi and they later became lovers (a touch of Oedipus there, what?). Finally, Dayang Sumbi recognised the scar on Sangkuriang's head while combing her lover's hair and realised that her lover was actually her own son, so she knew she could not marry him.
However, she did not wish to disappoint him by cancelling the wedding. But she would only do so on condition that he provided her with a lake and a boat with which they could sail away on the dawn of their wedding day. Sangkuriang accepted this condition and built a lake by damming the Citarum River. With dawn just moments away and the boat almost complete, Dayang Sumbi realised that Sangkuriang would fulfil the conditions she had set. With a wave of her shawl, she lit up the eastern horizon with flashes of light. Deceived by the false dawn, the cock crowed and farmers rose for the new day.
With his work not yet complete, Sangkuriang realised that his endeavours were lost. In uncontrollable rage, he kicked the boat that he had built. The boat overturned and became the mountain range known as Tangkuban Parahu (in Sundanese tangkuban means upturned and parahu means boat). With the dam broken, the water drained from the lake, turning into a wide plain that now became the city of Bandung (from the word bendung, which means dam). DH Lawrence couldn’t have written a better story.
After our fair share of Oedipal folklore and persistent souvenir peddlers, we made our way to the hot spring or air panas at the base of the mountain. A welcome change from the rather low temperatures of the puncak.
While walking around smugly is one thing, gloating is quite another. It would be a fatal error, I think, to gloat at Indonesians, especially about Malaysia beating them at badminton. I could very easily end up at the bottom of Kawah Ratu, a dormant but the biggest of six volcanic craters on the outskirts of Bandung. I really have no desire to test how hot the temperature can get at the bottom of a volcano, even a dormant one.
For Indonesia, losing to Malaysia in badminton must rank somewhere between the tsunami and running out of clove cigarettes. But then neither do Malaysia like losing to Indonesia in badminton even back when we were losing to every other nation of some badminton repute in the world.
A few days later Malaysia beat Indonesia for the soccer bronze medal. However, by then I was past my gloating stage. Just as well to let it pass since our host and guide was kind enough to show us several variations of lap dancing. All to the accompaniment of music from Michael Learns to Rock, fast tempo and in dangdut version, naturally.
While still humming the non-dangdut version of 25 Minutes Too Late, we took the winding road up to the mountain in a Kijang (which is actually the Indonesian national vehicle minus the AP controversy naturally). The locals just call it puncak (summit), the mountain that is, not the locally-assembled four-wheel drive. The temperature dropped quite fast and we had the air-conditioning switched off and wound down the windows to have a better look at the swiftly changing vegetation and pollute our lungs a bit more.
Then the inside of the four-wheel drive began to take on a slightly unpleasant odour as if all of us were having indigestion and were playing childhood pranks on one another all at the same time. Nothing of that sort was happening, of course. The sulphuric smell was coming from the six volcanoes in the area.
Dormant they may be, but they were definitely emitting strong fumes and smoke that you can smell from quite a distance away. The fact that it had been years since the volcanoes were last active was scant consolation when we stood staring down at the smoky bowels of Kawah Ratu, the biggest of the six craters. We did not make it to the other five for lack of time. To the left of Kawah Ratu and making a wonderful background to the setting of an Indonesian myth was the Tangkuban Parahu mountain range.
As is always the case with any tourist attraction, there would be the usual souvenir peddlers whose vocabulary did not include comprehending the word NO. It was small consolation that some of them were kind enough to take us through the folklore associated with the area. You can tell they have been telling this story countless times to anyone patient enough to lend an ear. But nothing’s ever for free and the price for the story telling was being haggled no end by the story teller and his comrade in charms to buy their wares.
One cheeky fellow wanted to sell me a horn shaped volcanic stone with Quranic inscriptions. When I managed to convince him that I was not a Muslim, he was stumped for a few seconds and quickly put away the holy inscriptions. And that was that, I thought, when suddenly he turned around and there were strings of beads, necklaces and bracelets in his hands. His friends chipped in with some bamboo pens and postcards just for good measure. All were trying to outdo each other with their salesmanship. They were as amazing as the myth connected with the area.
It happened that once upon a time, many tectonic movements and tsunamis ago, in heaven lived a young god. One day he committed a sin with a beautiful goddess (must have been heaven’s version of playing doctor) and they were condemned and banished by the highest God of Sunda Pantheon to live on earth as animals. The goddess turned into a female wild boar, while the god turned into a black dog.The black dog was called Si Tumang. One day a Sunda King, who was hunting in the forest got lost and had the urge to urinate, so he did it in a dry coconut shell. The boar, which was thirsty, accidentally drank the King's urine that was mixed with his sperm. After several months, the boar got pregnant, but instead of giving birth to baby boar, she gave birth to a beautiful baby girl.
The boar then took her baby to the King's hunting log. The King and his men were surprised to find a beautiful baby in the forest. The King considered the baby as a gift from the gods and took her as his own daughter. The baby grew up to be a beautiful princess. The princess is loved by everyone in the kingdom, but she turned out to be a spoiled girl.
The princess was very skilful at cloth weaving. One day her weaving tool drop from the weaving pavilion. Too lazy to pick it up, she vowed that if there was a male that would pick up her weaving tool, she would make him her husband, but if a female were to pick it up, she would make her a sworn sister (this is Sunda after all, so no same sex marriage just yet).
However, it was Si Tumang who took her weaving tool and gave it back to her. Because of her vow, Princess Dayang Sumbi must marry Tumang, the black dog. Ashamed of his daughter’s mistake, the King banished Dayang Sumbi to the forest, living with Tumang, her dog husband (and these days we call that incest and bestiality). During the night, Si Tumang would turn into a handsome god and make love to Dayang Sumbi. Soon Dayang Sumbi gave birth to a baby boy named Sangkuriang. However, Sangkuriang did not know that his beloved and loyal pet, Si Tumang, was his own father. One day Dayang Sumbi had a craving to eat fried deer liver and asked her teenage son to go hunting. Sangkuriang took his dog, Si Tumang to hunt, but strangely, there was not a single animal in sight. Then Sangkuriang spotted a fat boar so he shot an arrow at it. The boar was the goddess incarnation, mother of Dayang Sumbi, Sangkuriang’s grandmother and Si Tumang’s amorous accomplice in Sunda heaven. Si Tumang knew this and he tried to stop Sangkuriang from killing the divine boar. Angered by his pet’s attitude, Sangkuriang accidentally shot an arrow at Tumang, and killed the dog. Confused and depressed, Sangkuriang then cut out Si Tumang’s liver and took it home. Dayang Sumbi cooked Tumang’s liver and ate it. Sangkuriang remained silent and did not want to eat the cooked liver. When Dayang Sumbi asked Sangkuriang where Tumang is, Sangkuriang told her the truth. The shocked Dayang Sumbi ran amok and hit Sangkuriang on the head with a ladle. Sangkuriang’s head was cut wide open and bled, and he suffered from amnesia.
Sangkuriang ran into the forest. Dayang Sumbi, who regretted her actions went looking for Sangkuriang but in vain. Dayang Sumbi then began a life as a hermit, eating only raw vegetables. Thanks to her diet and divine blood, she was able to remain young forever. Sangkuriang grew into a strong and handsome young man and was reunited with Dayang Sumbi and they later became lovers (a touch of Oedipus there, what?). Finally, Dayang Sumbi recognised the scar on Sangkuriang's head while combing her lover's hair and realised that her lover was actually her own son, so she knew she could not marry him.
However, she did not wish to disappoint him by cancelling the wedding. But she would only do so on condition that he provided her with a lake and a boat with which they could sail away on the dawn of their wedding day. Sangkuriang accepted this condition and built a lake by damming the Citarum River. With dawn just moments away and the boat almost complete, Dayang Sumbi realised that Sangkuriang would fulfil the conditions she had set. With a wave of her shawl, she lit up the eastern horizon with flashes of light. Deceived by the false dawn, the cock crowed and farmers rose for the new day.
With his work not yet complete, Sangkuriang realised that his endeavours were lost. In uncontrollable rage, he kicked the boat that he had built. The boat overturned and became the mountain range known as Tangkuban Parahu (in Sundanese tangkuban means upturned and parahu means boat). With the dam broken, the water drained from the lake, turning into a wide plain that now became the city of Bandung (from the word bendung, which means dam). DH Lawrence couldn’t have written a better story.
After our fair share of Oedipal folklore and persistent souvenir peddlers, we made our way to the hot spring or air panas at the base of the mountain. A welcome change from the rather low temperatures of the puncak.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Some Cabbages & Some Condoms
Somewhere after the Sukhumvit-Asoke Intersection in Bangkok is Sukhumvit Soi (Lane) 12. About 50 metres off the main road is Cabbages and Condoms.
You may not find many cabbages but you can certainly find many prophylactics. Well, you still find lots of other food to satisfy your gastronomic needs. And if you must absolutely have cabbages, then one will probably be made available for you at a cost. The condoms, though, come free of charge.
And you have lots of it at this restaurant. In fact, a sign you would see as you leave the restaurant after a meal is that the management does not have any candies to give out, so take a condom instead. And they come in two sizes.
Take an after meal stroll or a walk before the food you ordered arrives and you would find a gift shop that sells lots things pertaining to safe sex and family planning. Most aptly so as the restaurant is in fact situated next to the Population and Community Development Association (PDA).
Other handicraft products on display are produced by villagers from the rural areas of Thailand.
In fact, the restaurant, the brainchild of one Meechai Veeravaitaya, was conceptualised in part to promote better understanding and acceptance of family planning and to generate income to support various development activities of the PDA.
Proceeds from the sale of handicraft products, from key chains and neckties to books, t-shirts and food from the restaurant are used to fund development and social welfare activities of the association.
The restaurant is most certainly proud of the fact that the food served in its establishment is guaranteed not to cause pregnancy, says its brochure. Now there are not only Cabbages & Condoms Restaurants, there are also Cabbages & Condoms Resorts as well.
The restaurant’s name, tend to produce a few giggles and smiles. It does seem as colourful as the life of the person behind it.
According to his autobiography, Meechai studied in Australia in the 1970s and admitted that he was actually quite popular with the girls. He was having his fair share of fun until his mother threatened to bring him home if he did not buck up. He added that his elder brother was the studious one between them.
On another occasion, he failed to turn up at his own wedding at the appointed time. A search party sent out found him still sleeping and he did have a lot of explaining to do before the girl finally forgave him.
But then Meechai was not only fun and games. On his more serious side, upon completing his education and returning home, Meechai began to recognise the plight of rural Thais, what with their large families, small land holdings, and the capricious rice growing seasons affected by drought and flood.
He began a local citizens' improvement non-governmental organization (NGO) called the Population and Community Development Association.
Early projects included agriculture, horticulture and alternative cottage industries. Cotton and corn raising were tried in place of poppies and hemp. The eucalyptus tree of Australia was farmed for its hardiness and fast-growing qualities, and sewing and tailoring programmes were developed.
But he also recognized that the fundamental problem with community development and the improvement in the quality of life for the individual was the very large families rural Thais tended to have.
He began a programme of family planning and strived to make the condoms and the use of condoms popular. He is proud of the fact that if you walk into a drug store and ask for a meechai, the sales person will likely direct you to the nearest condoms on sale. In Thailand, the word meechai is now synonymous with condoms.
He also made vasectomy popular. In spite of strong objections, such clinics were established, along with publicity campaigns that the medical procedure did not result in loss of sexual potency, which is a common fear.
Those who participated in getting a vasectomy were given a T-shirt, which proclaimed, "I've been vasectomised and my pigeon still flies high".
Soon after, to have two children became popular. With his programme and that of the Thai Ministry of Health, population growth rate in Thailand dropped from 2.4 per cent in 1970 to 1.2 per cent in 1995.
Instead of doubling the number of Thais in 40 years, that doubling of the population will not occur for over 75 years now. That has major implications on both the social and economic development of any country.
Meechai attributed his success to the fact that he simply showed the benefit of family planning and smaller family numbers to the people.
From family planning, he moved on to sexually transmitted diseases (STD), especially with the rise of AIDS cases in Thailand. Meechai organised condom distribution campaigns among sex workers in the Bangkok’s red light areas and the use of condoms had helped check the rise of STDs in the country.
In between those works, he found time to write an autobiography and served in the government of interim Prime Minister Anand Panyarachun.
For his social works, Meechai Veeravaitaya was awarded the Ramon Magsaysay Award for community service.
When you think of Meechai, you cannot help but think of another icon from the 1980s. Singer Bob Geldof organised Live Aid to help the starving in Africa. Both men are special in their own way and you cannot help but be moved by the things they have accomplished.
They were ordinary human beings who went on to perform extraordinary things. Or maybe because of my upbringing I have only been conditioned to recognise saints when they are cloaked in religious robes.
You may not find many cabbages but you can certainly find many prophylactics. Well, you still find lots of other food to satisfy your gastronomic needs. And if you must absolutely have cabbages, then one will probably be made available for you at a cost. The condoms, though, come free of charge.
And you have lots of it at this restaurant. In fact, a sign you would see as you leave the restaurant after a meal is that the management does not have any candies to give out, so take a condom instead. And they come in two sizes.
Take an after meal stroll or a walk before the food you ordered arrives and you would find a gift shop that sells lots things pertaining to safe sex and family planning. Most aptly so as the restaurant is in fact situated next to the Population and Community Development Association (PDA).
Other handicraft products on display are produced by villagers from the rural areas of Thailand.
In fact, the restaurant, the brainchild of one Meechai Veeravaitaya, was conceptualised in part to promote better understanding and acceptance of family planning and to generate income to support various development activities of the PDA.
Proceeds from the sale of handicraft products, from key chains and neckties to books, t-shirts and food from the restaurant are used to fund development and social welfare activities of the association.
The restaurant is most certainly proud of the fact that the food served in its establishment is guaranteed not to cause pregnancy, says its brochure. Now there are not only Cabbages & Condoms Restaurants, there are also Cabbages & Condoms Resorts as well.
The restaurant’s name, tend to produce a few giggles and smiles. It does seem as colourful as the life of the person behind it.
According to his autobiography, Meechai studied in Australia in the 1970s and admitted that he was actually quite popular with the girls. He was having his fair share of fun until his mother threatened to bring him home if he did not buck up. He added that his elder brother was the studious one between them.
On another occasion, he failed to turn up at his own wedding at the appointed time. A search party sent out found him still sleeping and he did have a lot of explaining to do before the girl finally forgave him.
But then Meechai was not only fun and games. On his more serious side, upon completing his education and returning home, Meechai began to recognise the plight of rural Thais, what with their large families, small land holdings, and the capricious rice growing seasons affected by drought and flood.
He began a local citizens' improvement non-governmental organization (NGO) called the Population and Community Development Association.
Early projects included agriculture, horticulture and alternative cottage industries. Cotton and corn raising were tried in place of poppies and hemp. The eucalyptus tree of Australia was farmed for its hardiness and fast-growing qualities, and sewing and tailoring programmes were developed.
But he also recognized that the fundamental problem with community development and the improvement in the quality of life for the individual was the very large families rural Thais tended to have.
He began a programme of family planning and strived to make the condoms and the use of condoms popular. He is proud of the fact that if you walk into a drug store and ask for a meechai, the sales person will likely direct you to the nearest condoms on sale. In Thailand, the word meechai is now synonymous with condoms.
He also made vasectomy popular. In spite of strong objections, such clinics were established, along with publicity campaigns that the medical procedure did not result in loss of sexual potency, which is a common fear.
Those who participated in getting a vasectomy were given a T-shirt, which proclaimed, "I've been vasectomised and my pigeon still flies high".
Soon after, to have two children became popular. With his programme and that of the Thai Ministry of Health, population growth rate in Thailand dropped from 2.4 per cent in 1970 to 1.2 per cent in 1995.
Instead of doubling the number of Thais in 40 years, that doubling of the population will not occur for over 75 years now. That has major implications on both the social and economic development of any country.
Meechai attributed his success to the fact that he simply showed the benefit of family planning and smaller family numbers to the people.
From family planning, he moved on to sexually transmitted diseases (STD), especially with the rise of AIDS cases in Thailand. Meechai organised condom distribution campaigns among sex workers in the Bangkok’s red light areas and the use of condoms had helped check the rise of STDs in the country.
In between those works, he found time to write an autobiography and served in the government of interim Prime Minister Anand Panyarachun.
For his social works, Meechai Veeravaitaya was awarded the Ramon Magsaysay Award for community service.
When you think of Meechai, you cannot help but think of another icon from the 1980s. Singer Bob Geldof organised Live Aid to help the starving in Africa. Both men are special in their own way and you cannot help but be moved by the things they have accomplished.
They were ordinary human beings who went on to perform extraordinary things. Or maybe because of my upbringing I have only been conditioned to recognise saints when they are cloaked in religious robes.
The gold that lost its glitter
When it is possible for something to go wrong, it almost always will. I think that is how one version of Murphy’s Law goes. And this is no more so than when you work in a National Tourism Organisation (NTO). The bane for me has always been sports telecast. Whether it is World Cup soccer, the Olympics, the Asian Games or even the SEA Games. When the main events are being held, rest assured that I am always away from Kuala Lumpur and probably nowhere near a TV as well.
Take the opening game of the World Cup Finals staged for the first time in Asia when Senegal beat world champions France. I was somewhere on the Thai-Myanmar border. However, this time thanks to satellite and modern technology, I was able to catch the game at restaurant in a town called Maesot.
However, not so for most of the events at the last Olympic Games. Missed the 100m, 200m and all the metre events that mattered. Only consolation was that I did manage to catch some field events. Wasn’t the Russian pole vaulter nice to look at, by Russian women athlete standards or any standards for that matter. And to top it off, she could pole vault as well. Somewhere between her second jump and the medal presentation, I was head over heels in love. Well, actually the heels over the head part was hers. I was just madly in love.
I don’t know which was sadder. Not seeing her anymore or missing the marathon. Rushing back to the hotel room somewhere in north Thailand, after making sure a group of journalists on a familiarisation trip have had their dinner, I managed to catch the tail end of the event. And something was not quite right the way the commentators were going on and on. Only much later was I to discover what had happened.
Usually by the time the marathon was held, much of the excitement would have died down. After all we would have known which country would likely be the overall champion after a haul of gold medals.
However, somehow the marathon had always held a strange fascination for me. Maybe because out of all the events at the Olympics, the one that seem to test the limit of human endurance the most is the marathon. (The cute ones just pole vaults). But having never been a long distance runner even in much younger days, I must admit that the deduction does not come from first hand experience but more from acquaintances who have been brave enough to attempt running the marathon when we still have such a thing as the KL International Marathon locally.
Still, I have always enjoyed watching the marathon. There is nothing like seeing a marathon runner coming into the stadium to complete his race to bring a lump to my throat, regardless of whether he is coming in first or last. This scene of an injured marathon runner in a long forgotten race, literally hobbling in to thunderous applause from a whole stadium some hours after the others have completed, has always haunted me. For the race is not over until the last man has crossed the finish line. I do not remember the runner’s name, nor do I remember which country he represented. But I remembered shedding a tear for this man’s courage and sportsmanship.
But not so after watching parts of the replay of the marathon at the last Olympics, which was to bring the curtain down on the Athens Games. I could not help feeling cheated because of one deranged act of a defrocked priest. Without him rushing out of the crowd and pushing race leader Vanderlei de Lima off the road, it can still be argued that eventual winner Stefano Baldini of Italy may eventually overtake the Brazilian. But the disruption certainly meant that his rhythm was upset and he finally would not win gold and had to settle for just the bronze after being overtaken not just by the Italian but also by American Meb Keflezighi.
The International Olympic Committee was quick to correct any perceived injustice by presenting de Lima with the Pierre de Coubertin Medal “for exceptional demonstration of fair play and Olympic values”. Good for them.
As for Mr Baldini, I could not help feeling a little sorry for him. He may have won the gold medal, but he will never be a true champion in at least one person’s eyes. In an age where some sportsmen and sportswomen cheat just to get their hands on a gold medal, maybe it was too much to ask him to give up his gold medal. After all, he did win it squarely even if it was debatable whether it was fairly. The IOC deemed it unnecessary to give a duplicate gold medal to de Lima despite the fact that the Brazilian Olympic Committee put forward a strong case about the lack of security on the streets where the marathon was run. That, of course, is for the Court of Arbitration for Sports to decide.
What no committee could have done to right any injustice could have been done by Mr Baldini himself. He could have learned a thing or two about true sportsmanship from his countryman, the late Olympian and bobsled driver, Eugenio Monti.
Here permit me to quote an article that appeared some two years ago in the USA Today:
When the 1964 Olympic Winter Games in Innsbruck opened, the clear favorites in the four-man Bobsled event were the hometown Austrians and the Italians. Experts gave the Canadians an outside chance. But something magical happened. Canada 1 broke the Olympic record in the first heat and had a half-second lead on the rest of the field. But on that record setting first run there had been a problem. The Canadians went into the last turn too fast and the sled hit the ice wall and went up on two runners. The accident damaged the sled axle. If it were not fixed the Canadians would be disqualified.Eugenio Monti and his Italian team did not want to win unless they raced against the best and the best were competing on equal terms. Fifteen minutes before Canada's next run, Victor Emery reached the top of the track to find his sled upside down. The Italians had it torn apart. The collision with the wall had caused Canada 1's axle to seize. Monti's mechanics were doing their best to fix it. With Monti's help, Canada 1 was able to race and hold on to its lead. By the fourth and final run, they were so far ahead only a disaster would keep them from the gold medal. When the Canadians came to a stop, it was clear no one was going to catch them. The gold medal was theirs. In the end, Italy's Eugenio Monti and his team received the bronze medal.This is only the beginning of a great story.In the two-man Bobsled event, Tony Nash of Great Britain, after his first run, recorded the fastest time. A bolt attaching the runners to the shell had sheared.
Eugenio Monti, who was about to steer the Italian number one sled down the track said, "Get an Englishman and a spanner to the finish and they can have my bolt."
True to his word and ignoring inquiries from mystified Italian journalists, the bolt was ferried back up to the start and quickly attached to the British bobsled. In the end, Tony Nash and Robin Dixon of Great Britain took home the gold and Eugenio Monti again had to settle for just the bronze. But in the process he became the first recipient of the "Pierre de Coubertin" Award for Fair Play.Monti was viciously criticized in the Italian press but he was steadfast.
"Nash didn't win because I gave him the bolt," he said. "He won because he had the fastest run.
"Every real competitor wants to win but Olympic medallist John Naber says, "A true sportsman, who understands the Olympic ideal, wants to win against his best opponent on his best day. So the sportsman is not elated but disappointed when top competitors are injured or disqualified.”
As a follow up, Eugenio Monti won the gold medal at the 1968 Winter Olympics in BOTH the two-man and four-man Bobsled events. But it was his willingness to lose that earned him a prominent place in Olympic history. His act represents sportsmanship at its best: the pursuit of victory with zeal and passion, recognising that there is no true victory without honor.
Today, parents and coaches should be teaching youngsters that the real glory of sport is in the striving, not the winning. With so many athletes willing to cheat or behave badly just to win, we need reminders of the noble potential of sport. Eugenio Monti and his Italian team represent everything that is important in life. We must not only give the best of ourselves, but also give the best to everyone around us.
No one in our competitive world tries to lose intentionally. Nor do we take pleasure in giving away our chance for success to someone else. It’s the rare person who will help another if it means they have to decelerate their own upward climb.
Yes, go for the gold. But on your climb to the top, take a moment and seize any opportunity to applaude your rival. Who knows? Your encouragement could spark your challenger to improve their skills and set their sights on higher goals.
If he was in Mr Baldini’s shoes, I think there would have been very little doubt what Mr Monti would have done. But as it is, Mr Baldini is just another sportsman making up the statistics of gold medal winners in the history of the Olympic Games. Sadly, he was a step away from greatness but failed to take the final leap and will only be remembered if he is ever remembered at all, as the man who won gold through the misguided hands of a fallen angel.
Take the opening game of the World Cup Finals staged for the first time in Asia when Senegal beat world champions France. I was somewhere on the Thai-Myanmar border. However, this time thanks to satellite and modern technology, I was able to catch the game at restaurant in a town called Maesot.
However, not so for most of the events at the last Olympic Games. Missed the 100m, 200m and all the metre events that mattered. Only consolation was that I did manage to catch some field events. Wasn’t the Russian pole vaulter nice to look at, by Russian women athlete standards or any standards for that matter. And to top it off, she could pole vault as well. Somewhere between her second jump and the medal presentation, I was head over heels in love. Well, actually the heels over the head part was hers. I was just madly in love.
I don’t know which was sadder. Not seeing her anymore or missing the marathon. Rushing back to the hotel room somewhere in north Thailand, after making sure a group of journalists on a familiarisation trip have had their dinner, I managed to catch the tail end of the event. And something was not quite right the way the commentators were going on and on. Only much later was I to discover what had happened.
Usually by the time the marathon was held, much of the excitement would have died down. After all we would have known which country would likely be the overall champion after a haul of gold medals.
However, somehow the marathon had always held a strange fascination for me. Maybe because out of all the events at the Olympics, the one that seem to test the limit of human endurance the most is the marathon. (The cute ones just pole vaults). But having never been a long distance runner even in much younger days, I must admit that the deduction does not come from first hand experience but more from acquaintances who have been brave enough to attempt running the marathon when we still have such a thing as the KL International Marathon locally.
Still, I have always enjoyed watching the marathon. There is nothing like seeing a marathon runner coming into the stadium to complete his race to bring a lump to my throat, regardless of whether he is coming in first or last. This scene of an injured marathon runner in a long forgotten race, literally hobbling in to thunderous applause from a whole stadium some hours after the others have completed, has always haunted me. For the race is not over until the last man has crossed the finish line. I do not remember the runner’s name, nor do I remember which country he represented. But I remembered shedding a tear for this man’s courage and sportsmanship.
But not so after watching parts of the replay of the marathon at the last Olympics, which was to bring the curtain down on the Athens Games. I could not help feeling cheated because of one deranged act of a defrocked priest. Without him rushing out of the crowd and pushing race leader Vanderlei de Lima off the road, it can still be argued that eventual winner Stefano Baldini of Italy may eventually overtake the Brazilian. But the disruption certainly meant that his rhythm was upset and he finally would not win gold and had to settle for just the bronze after being overtaken not just by the Italian but also by American Meb Keflezighi.
The International Olympic Committee was quick to correct any perceived injustice by presenting de Lima with the Pierre de Coubertin Medal “for exceptional demonstration of fair play and Olympic values”. Good for them.
As for Mr Baldini, I could not help feeling a little sorry for him. He may have won the gold medal, but he will never be a true champion in at least one person’s eyes. In an age where some sportsmen and sportswomen cheat just to get their hands on a gold medal, maybe it was too much to ask him to give up his gold medal. After all, he did win it squarely even if it was debatable whether it was fairly. The IOC deemed it unnecessary to give a duplicate gold medal to de Lima despite the fact that the Brazilian Olympic Committee put forward a strong case about the lack of security on the streets where the marathon was run. That, of course, is for the Court of Arbitration for Sports to decide.
What no committee could have done to right any injustice could have been done by Mr Baldini himself. He could have learned a thing or two about true sportsmanship from his countryman, the late Olympian and bobsled driver, Eugenio Monti.
Here permit me to quote an article that appeared some two years ago in the USA Today:
When the 1964 Olympic Winter Games in Innsbruck opened, the clear favorites in the four-man Bobsled event were the hometown Austrians and the Italians. Experts gave the Canadians an outside chance. But something magical happened. Canada 1 broke the Olympic record in the first heat and had a half-second lead on the rest of the field. But on that record setting first run there had been a problem. The Canadians went into the last turn too fast and the sled hit the ice wall and went up on two runners. The accident damaged the sled axle. If it were not fixed the Canadians would be disqualified.Eugenio Monti and his Italian team did not want to win unless they raced against the best and the best were competing on equal terms. Fifteen minutes before Canada's next run, Victor Emery reached the top of the track to find his sled upside down. The Italians had it torn apart. The collision with the wall had caused Canada 1's axle to seize. Monti's mechanics were doing their best to fix it. With Monti's help, Canada 1 was able to race and hold on to its lead. By the fourth and final run, they were so far ahead only a disaster would keep them from the gold medal. When the Canadians came to a stop, it was clear no one was going to catch them. The gold medal was theirs. In the end, Italy's Eugenio Monti and his team received the bronze medal.This is only the beginning of a great story.In the two-man Bobsled event, Tony Nash of Great Britain, after his first run, recorded the fastest time. A bolt attaching the runners to the shell had sheared.
Eugenio Monti, who was about to steer the Italian number one sled down the track said, "Get an Englishman and a spanner to the finish and they can have my bolt."
True to his word and ignoring inquiries from mystified Italian journalists, the bolt was ferried back up to the start and quickly attached to the British bobsled. In the end, Tony Nash and Robin Dixon of Great Britain took home the gold and Eugenio Monti again had to settle for just the bronze. But in the process he became the first recipient of the "Pierre de Coubertin" Award for Fair Play.Monti was viciously criticized in the Italian press but he was steadfast.
"Nash didn't win because I gave him the bolt," he said. "He won because he had the fastest run.
"Every real competitor wants to win but Olympic medallist John Naber says, "A true sportsman, who understands the Olympic ideal, wants to win against his best opponent on his best day. So the sportsman is not elated but disappointed when top competitors are injured or disqualified.”
As a follow up, Eugenio Monti won the gold medal at the 1968 Winter Olympics in BOTH the two-man and four-man Bobsled events. But it was his willingness to lose that earned him a prominent place in Olympic history. His act represents sportsmanship at its best: the pursuit of victory with zeal and passion, recognising that there is no true victory without honor.
Today, parents and coaches should be teaching youngsters that the real glory of sport is in the striving, not the winning. With so many athletes willing to cheat or behave badly just to win, we need reminders of the noble potential of sport. Eugenio Monti and his Italian team represent everything that is important in life. We must not only give the best of ourselves, but also give the best to everyone around us.
No one in our competitive world tries to lose intentionally. Nor do we take pleasure in giving away our chance for success to someone else. It’s the rare person who will help another if it means they have to decelerate their own upward climb.
Yes, go for the gold. But on your climb to the top, take a moment and seize any opportunity to applaude your rival. Who knows? Your encouragement could spark your challenger to improve their skills and set their sights on higher goals.
If he was in Mr Baldini’s shoes, I think there would have been very little doubt what Mr Monti would have done. But as it is, Mr Baldini is just another sportsman making up the statistics of gold medal winners in the history of the Olympic Games. Sadly, he was a step away from greatness but failed to take the final leap and will only be remembered if he is ever remembered at all, as the man who won gold through the misguided hands of a fallen angel.
Time to give up smoking
“We would be landing shortly at Phuket International Airport. Please put your seats upright and continue smoking as usual.”
At least that was what I had imagined the cabin crew saying as I slowly stirred from my slumber. Well what the cabin crew really said was just “put your seat upright”. Anyway we smokers can always dream on, can’t we? Most especially in a nicotine-deprived state of mind. It must have been one of the longest period of time that I had been without a cigarette, not counting the time I gave up cigarettes for four years, that is.
Frequent flyers from 20 years ago would probably look back with fond memories to the time we were still allowed to smoke in airplanes, both short haul and long haul. Those were the days when smokers still have some rights before the whole thing was overturned and the rights of non-smokers not to breathe second-hand smoke took precedence over that of smokers to pollute the air. And before the non-smokers brigade take up arms and come looking for the writer to snuff him out, rest assured that this is by no means a campaign for the rights of smokers. Far from that. Like the second class citizens that we are in most parts of the world, we have long ago resigned ourselves to being treated like outcastes whenever we light up, whether at the office or sometimes in our homes as well.
Anyway, this particular incident happened on a flight between Sydney and Bangkok, with stopovers in Melbourne and Phuket. I had my last puff outside the airport terminal in Sydney, hoping to catch another cigarette or two in Melbourne before our next stop in Phuket. But it seems Melbourne or Melbourne Airport authorities are indeed serious about getting smokers to give up the habit. During the hour or so stopover, every possible direction that I went in search of a smoking room was an exercise in futility. Which brings me to the conclusion that in the food chain, we smokers rank even below drug addicts, especially in Melbourne. How do you explain the fact that the toilets in Melbourne Airport have places for addicts to dispose of their syringes after they have pumped their system full with whatever it is that addicts pump their system full with. Wait a minute. Maybe the containers were there for diabetics to dispose of their needles after giving themselves their insulin injections. Yeah, right!
But I must admit that being forced to breathe untainted air for a change was not all that bad. Almost made you think you could actually kick the nasty habit. At least until we reached Phuket, that is. I was among the first passengers off the plane. Others can go check out the toilets. We shall go check out the air quality in the smoking room. And indeed there were a few like-minded souls like I who instinctively know just where to go although at five in the morning our sense of direction should have been way off. One unlucky gentleman in fact did find out the hard way, mistaking the glass wall for a door. He must have thought the Phuket Airport authorities were playing a cruel joke by providing a smoking room with no doors. But other smokers soon pointed him in the right direction before he started tearing whatever was left of his hair out.
As most reformed smokers can testify, if you give up the habit, what else is there to do but eat. And eat non stop. Anything you can lay your hands on. This is compounded by the fact that on such long haul flights the cabin crew seem to be feeding you non-stop. It’s eat, sleep, eat some more, sleep again and eat again. Somewhere in between there is a hot or cold towel to keep you sufficiently awake to know which side of the spoon to use. And somewhere in between the female flight attendants had gotten out of their traditional Thai costumes and squeezed into a purple blouse and skirt. I think they are just trying to fool you into thinking it is a different set of people who are feeding you this time around.
And if you ever wonder where all the food the go, I will let you on to a little secret. It’s actually to your feet, which somehow grow to one and half times your shoe size. It does not matter what yoga position you try to put yourself into to counter the swelling. Your feet will not return to their original size in a while yet. If nothing else, the experience kind of make you understand and sympathise a bit more the next time women talk about water retention and stuff.
--ends—
(The writer in fact took a break from smoking three years after writing this)
At least that was what I had imagined the cabin crew saying as I slowly stirred from my slumber. Well what the cabin crew really said was just “put your seat upright”. Anyway we smokers can always dream on, can’t we? Most especially in a nicotine-deprived state of mind. It must have been one of the longest period of time that I had been without a cigarette, not counting the time I gave up cigarettes for four years, that is.
Frequent flyers from 20 years ago would probably look back with fond memories to the time we were still allowed to smoke in airplanes, both short haul and long haul. Those were the days when smokers still have some rights before the whole thing was overturned and the rights of non-smokers not to breathe second-hand smoke took precedence over that of smokers to pollute the air. And before the non-smokers brigade take up arms and come looking for the writer to snuff him out, rest assured that this is by no means a campaign for the rights of smokers. Far from that. Like the second class citizens that we are in most parts of the world, we have long ago resigned ourselves to being treated like outcastes whenever we light up, whether at the office or sometimes in our homes as well.
Anyway, this particular incident happened on a flight between Sydney and Bangkok, with stopovers in Melbourne and Phuket. I had my last puff outside the airport terminal in Sydney, hoping to catch another cigarette or two in Melbourne before our next stop in Phuket. But it seems Melbourne or Melbourne Airport authorities are indeed serious about getting smokers to give up the habit. During the hour or so stopover, every possible direction that I went in search of a smoking room was an exercise in futility. Which brings me to the conclusion that in the food chain, we smokers rank even below drug addicts, especially in Melbourne. How do you explain the fact that the toilets in Melbourne Airport have places for addicts to dispose of their syringes after they have pumped their system full with whatever it is that addicts pump their system full with. Wait a minute. Maybe the containers were there for diabetics to dispose of their needles after giving themselves their insulin injections. Yeah, right!
But I must admit that being forced to breathe untainted air for a change was not all that bad. Almost made you think you could actually kick the nasty habit. At least until we reached Phuket, that is. I was among the first passengers off the plane. Others can go check out the toilets. We shall go check out the air quality in the smoking room. And indeed there were a few like-minded souls like I who instinctively know just where to go although at five in the morning our sense of direction should have been way off. One unlucky gentleman in fact did find out the hard way, mistaking the glass wall for a door. He must have thought the Phuket Airport authorities were playing a cruel joke by providing a smoking room with no doors. But other smokers soon pointed him in the right direction before he started tearing whatever was left of his hair out.
As most reformed smokers can testify, if you give up the habit, what else is there to do but eat. And eat non stop. Anything you can lay your hands on. This is compounded by the fact that on such long haul flights the cabin crew seem to be feeding you non-stop. It’s eat, sleep, eat some more, sleep again and eat again. Somewhere in between there is a hot or cold towel to keep you sufficiently awake to know which side of the spoon to use. And somewhere in between the female flight attendants had gotten out of their traditional Thai costumes and squeezed into a purple blouse and skirt. I think they are just trying to fool you into thinking it is a different set of people who are feeding you this time around.
And if you ever wonder where all the food the go, I will let you on to a little secret. It’s actually to your feet, which somehow grow to one and half times your shoe size. It does not matter what yoga position you try to put yourself into to counter the swelling. Your feet will not return to their original size in a while yet. If nothing else, the experience kind of make you understand and sympathise a bit more the next time women talk about water retention and stuff.
--ends—
(The writer in fact took a break from smoking three years after writing this)
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Postcard from Melbourne
I think it must have been about half an hour before we landed at Melbourne International Airport when my boss told me she had two packets of biscuits in her suitcase. This was some time in between the cabin crew giving out the cold towels and the embarkation cards. If looks could kill, I think she would no longer be with us. I thought I saw her cringe from the dirty looks my marketing manager and I were giving her. Nothing like waking up, bleary eyed after some 10 hours or so, to be told of such foolishness.
“Well, should you get arrested, we are going to deny we know you,” I told her.
The said suitcase was safely in the belly of the aircraft, courtesy of very efficient airport staff at the Kuala Lumpur International Airport and Bangkok International Airport. Our Thai International flight had taken us from KLIA to Bangkok and Bangkok to Melbourne. Kind of a weird way to travel, I know. But all flights on MAS, SIA and QANTAS from KL were full because university and schools were reopening after the year-end holidays, we were told. We, on the other hand, were en route to Sydney for our annual regional meeting due to take place in four days time. The only way we were going to make it for the meeting was to fly north first and then fly way south. The announcement by my boss certainly took away some of the enjoyment I had of looking out the window and seeing Melbourne from the air for the first time. The airport somehow looks like a group of buildings surrounded by desert. It looked hot and dry.
“Ini macam airport Alor Setak saja ni,” I whispered to my marketing manager.
And as those who travel to Australia know, the country has a very strict policy about food being brought into the country. In fact we were to find out later that a Japanese tourist who brought in two pears was actually fined A$10,000 for his effort. The crime for bringing food into Australia must be quite close to being caught bringing drugs into Malaysia. Wisely, my boss actually put “YES” in the things to declare column and was spared the indignity of having her bags searched. Or so we thought.
Upon landing, trying to act our innocent best, we made our way to the immigration counter and went through without a hitch. It just so happened that Melbourne at that time was organising a tourism fair. So they had quite a large number people in the tourism industry flying in, and since we were also in tourism, I supposed it was assumed we were there for the fair as well.
About 10 metres after the immigration counter, we came to the luggage collection area. The place appeared to be some sort of mini United Nations judging from the number of languages spoken, from Thai and Chinese to Punjabi and Japanese. So there we were, standing around waiting for our bags, when who should arrive but our friendly customs officer and her dog. All of us had carry on bags and you guessed it. The cute, little doggie headed straight for my boss’ bag and sat down in front of it, prompting the customs officer to request that the bag be opened. What now, I thought. A thorough search was made and quite fortunately no illegal substance was found.
“Have you carried food in the bag recently, ma’am?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, okay then.”
Shucks, and I was so looking forward to hearing the customs officer saying, “Excuse me, ma’am. But we’re going to have to ask you to come with us, please.”
She had in fact carried “masak asam perut ikan” (seems to be a favourite food of Thais from the southern provinces) in the designer bag from Thailand to Malaysia every so often.
Our bags finally came and after that it was she going to the red lane and we to the green lane. But I must say, it was the green lane that seemed the far more dangerous place to be at. The red lane is for “confessed” criminals while the green lane is for those who think they have nothing to declare. We indeed saw somebody actually being hauled up after his bags were put through the scanners and some undeclared items were found. But I must say, the Australian customs officers were extremely polite even while they were hauling you up. We non-criminals were just waved through with a “Good die, sir.”
“Well, good die to you too, mite”.
But what of my boss and her biscuits, you may ask. Well, she was allowed to bring the biscuits into Australia without much fuss.
Anyway it was on to more urgent matters for me, which was rushing out of the airport terminal and lighting up my first cigarette after more than 10 hours. Whoa, it was supposed to be sunny and hot, but it was sunny and cold. In fact most of the nights in Melbourne and Sydney were pretty cold. And those were the times I dearly miss my nightly teh tarik.
One such nights, I actually wandered the streets of Sydney looking for just that. Not teh tarik, but just some hot coffee and donuts. And that was how I ended up meeting this most delightful looking and rather friendly lady in a miniskirt. But then that’s another story.
“Well, should you get arrested, we are going to deny we know you,” I told her.
The said suitcase was safely in the belly of the aircraft, courtesy of very efficient airport staff at the Kuala Lumpur International Airport and Bangkok International Airport. Our Thai International flight had taken us from KLIA to Bangkok and Bangkok to Melbourne. Kind of a weird way to travel, I know. But all flights on MAS, SIA and QANTAS from KL were full because university and schools were reopening after the year-end holidays, we were told. We, on the other hand, were en route to Sydney for our annual regional meeting due to take place in four days time. The only way we were going to make it for the meeting was to fly north first and then fly way south. The announcement by my boss certainly took away some of the enjoyment I had of looking out the window and seeing Melbourne from the air for the first time. The airport somehow looks like a group of buildings surrounded by desert. It looked hot and dry.
“Ini macam airport Alor Setak saja ni,” I whispered to my marketing manager.
And as those who travel to Australia know, the country has a very strict policy about food being brought into the country. In fact we were to find out later that a Japanese tourist who brought in two pears was actually fined A$10,000 for his effort. The crime for bringing food into Australia must be quite close to being caught bringing drugs into Malaysia. Wisely, my boss actually put “YES” in the things to declare column and was spared the indignity of having her bags searched. Or so we thought.
Upon landing, trying to act our innocent best, we made our way to the immigration counter and went through without a hitch. It just so happened that Melbourne at that time was organising a tourism fair. So they had quite a large number people in the tourism industry flying in, and since we were also in tourism, I supposed it was assumed we were there for the fair as well.
About 10 metres after the immigration counter, we came to the luggage collection area. The place appeared to be some sort of mini United Nations judging from the number of languages spoken, from Thai and Chinese to Punjabi and Japanese. So there we were, standing around waiting for our bags, when who should arrive but our friendly customs officer and her dog. All of us had carry on bags and you guessed it. The cute, little doggie headed straight for my boss’ bag and sat down in front of it, prompting the customs officer to request that the bag be opened. What now, I thought. A thorough search was made and quite fortunately no illegal substance was found.
“Have you carried food in the bag recently, ma’am?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, okay then.”
Shucks, and I was so looking forward to hearing the customs officer saying, “Excuse me, ma’am. But we’re going to have to ask you to come with us, please.”
She had in fact carried “masak asam perut ikan” (seems to be a favourite food of Thais from the southern provinces) in the designer bag from Thailand to Malaysia every so often.
Our bags finally came and after that it was she going to the red lane and we to the green lane. But I must say, it was the green lane that seemed the far more dangerous place to be at. The red lane is for “confessed” criminals while the green lane is for those who think they have nothing to declare. We indeed saw somebody actually being hauled up after his bags were put through the scanners and some undeclared items were found. But I must say, the Australian customs officers were extremely polite even while they were hauling you up. We non-criminals were just waved through with a “Good die, sir.”
“Well, good die to you too, mite”.
But what of my boss and her biscuits, you may ask. Well, she was allowed to bring the biscuits into Australia without much fuss.
Anyway it was on to more urgent matters for me, which was rushing out of the airport terminal and lighting up my first cigarette after more than 10 hours. Whoa, it was supposed to be sunny and hot, but it was sunny and cold. In fact most of the nights in Melbourne and Sydney were pretty cold. And those were the times I dearly miss my nightly teh tarik.
One such nights, I actually wandered the streets of Sydney looking for just that. Not teh tarik, but just some hot coffee and donuts. And that was how I ended up meeting this most delightful looking and rather friendly lady in a miniskirt. But then that’s another story.
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