HOW do you compel highrise owners to contribute their share of the maintenance fee, a colleague who lives in a condo asks.
The deterioration of services and facilities she used to enjoy since she bought the property is causing her sleepless nights.
She has learnt that the problems were brought about by the poor payment of maintenance fees.
The management committee of her condo is helpless against the bad paymasters. Slow rubbish collection, lifts that break down frequently, and water in the swimming pool turning milky green are driving her up the wall.
I said she would get used to the conditions over time. I know I did.
My condo's swimming pool was an outdoor fishpond until the conscience of the majority restored it back to its former glory.
The lifts are better looking now although they are still a long way from convincing me to take a ride to the first floor.
But I am thankful that the stairwells are well lit, and the corridors are clean. These days, I only pray that people will stop flinging garbage from their homes into the garbage chutes.
I used to wonder how the maintenance of highrises could be improved, too, but I have given up. The good living in highrises I read about in advertisements is but a fleeting dream. Malaysians are not born for highrise living -- not unless they are made to appreciate the term "common property" and understand the need to pay for the maintenance of common property and facilities for them to run in good condition.
I was hopeful things would change when the Strata Title Act 1985 was amended three years ago and the Building and Common Property (Maintenance and Management) Act 2007 gazetted.
With the creation of a Commissioner of Buildings (COB) to adjudicate problems related to non-payment of maintenance fees and charges, I thought the authorities would enforce the laws related to highrise living. I was wrong.
Very little has changed.
You only need to ask highrise dwellers about their nightmares. No, you don't even need to ask. Just look at the outward appearances of the older flats, apartments and condominiums, and you will see what I mean.
Weathered walls, unmanned security posts, and poor maintenance of the perimeter areas are some of the clues to the financial health of the highrises' coffers.
How do you recover debts from freeloaders against whom the residents' management committees are helpless?
How can the bad paymasters be made to contribute their share of the maintenance fees so that those who pay are not deprived of the facilities? Is the management of highrises in Klang Valley monitored by the COBs or do they merely exist as a requirement by law?
Managing highrises is tough and leaving residents to run it by themselves often lead to failure in a matter of years unless the management body has the means and ways to retrieve bad debts.
Otherwise, it won't be long before apathy rears its ugly head and everything that was once in good condition will go down the drain.
Perhaps my neighbour's suggestion is worth considering: monitor the management of highrises to protect both the property owners and the managers.
If standards are not met, then have the alternative of privatising the management of these residential highrises to a licensed professional property manager equipped with the logistics to manage profitably and provide satisfactory services.
Empower the COB to oversee and enforce the collection of maintenance fee, and raise the collection to the level of efficiency of the Income Tax or the Road Transport departments. If people can pay their income or road taxes without prompting, surely highrise owners can be encouraged to do the same.
In the city where highrise living is becoming a permanent feature, the authorities must take charge to improve the management of highrises so that they do not turn into concrete slums.
Monday, December 20, 2010
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Woe betide this generation of pampered job seekers
TODAY's new job seekers have never had it so good, a friend tells me recently. She said many school leavers had been given a headstart most new job seeker in her time did not get. The friend, who owned a headhunting outfit, said she had advertised for junior executives as part of her company's expansion plan and was elated to receive an avalanche of applications.
Most of the candidates had their own transport but what amazed her was that nine out of 10 of those shortlisted not only owned cars but had paid for the vehicles as well.
It was a far cry from what she experienced two decades ago, she said. She had to use her savings to finance her first car by installment. Every month, huge portions of her pay went into servicing loans and maintenance expenses. Thankfully, she was staying with her parents who did not depend entirely on her financial contributions.
I told her she was luckier than those who started working during my time. For those who were required to have their own mode of transport, they could only afford motorcycles.
In the days when the Sunny 130Y or Toyota KE70 ruled the roads, banks were also not as generous with vehicle loans as they are now with the issuance of credit cards. Interest rates were also high.
Even if you had the down payment in hand, you still had to consider if you could afford the monthly installment - and maintenance costs - even though petrol was pretty cheap then by comparison.
Today, if you look around, you will see that most city children already have driving licences by the time they go to college. Some would have driven to school by the time they are in Fifth Form.
One girl I know has been driving to school since she was in Form Four. Her parents had given her one of those mini cars for her sixteenth birthday and she was already a pro behind the wheels before she was of legal age to apply for a driver's licence. Fortunately, she has managed to steer clear of accidents - and the traffic police.
A colleague attributes the phenomenon to kiasu city parents over-pampering their children.
Some buy their children cars by the time they are ready for college. Some put the down payment for the cars and have their children pay for the installments and other costs if the latter has found a job. Richer parents not only service the monthly loans but also pick up the tabs for the vehicle's maintenance.
Perhaps it is not so much of pampering. Families today are smaller and parents who have saved reasonably well are likely to have enough money to buy their children cars by the time they get a job.
While many parents pass their old cars to the children, I wonder how many image-conscious city kids would dare be seen driving their parents' 30-year-old jalopy these days.
With some jobs requiring you to have your own transport and public transport not being entirely reliable, there is very little choice for many.
However, for parents who buy cars for their children without having the latter work hard for their ownership, they may be contributing to their children's hardship later on.
Relieved of the responsibility of paying for the car and its maintenance, who can tell when the young and upwardly mobile will become chained to credit card debts when their parents are forced to cut the apron strings?
Most of the candidates had their own transport but what amazed her was that nine out of 10 of those shortlisted not only owned cars but had paid for the vehicles as well.
It was a far cry from what she experienced two decades ago, she said. She had to use her savings to finance her first car by installment. Every month, huge portions of her pay went into servicing loans and maintenance expenses. Thankfully, she was staying with her parents who did not depend entirely on her financial contributions.
I told her she was luckier than those who started working during my time. For those who were required to have their own mode of transport, they could only afford motorcycles.
In the days when the Sunny 130Y or Toyota KE70 ruled the roads, banks were also not as generous with vehicle loans as they are now with the issuance of credit cards. Interest rates were also high.
Even if you had the down payment in hand, you still had to consider if you could afford the monthly installment - and maintenance costs - even though petrol was pretty cheap then by comparison.
Today, if you look around, you will see that most city children already have driving licences by the time they go to college. Some would have driven to school by the time they are in Fifth Form.
One girl I know has been driving to school since she was in Form Four. Her parents had given her one of those mini cars for her sixteenth birthday and she was already a pro behind the wheels before she was of legal age to apply for a driver's licence. Fortunately, she has managed to steer clear of accidents - and the traffic police.
A colleague attributes the phenomenon to kiasu city parents over-pampering their children.
Some buy their children cars by the time they are ready for college. Some put the down payment for the cars and have their children pay for the installments and other costs if the latter has found a job. Richer parents not only service the monthly loans but also pick up the tabs for the vehicle's maintenance.
Perhaps it is not so much of pampering. Families today are smaller and parents who have saved reasonably well are likely to have enough money to buy their children cars by the time they get a job.
While many parents pass their old cars to the children, I wonder how many image-conscious city kids would dare be seen driving their parents' 30-year-old jalopy these days.
With some jobs requiring you to have your own transport and public transport not being entirely reliable, there is very little choice for many.
However, for parents who buy cars for their children without having the latter work hard for their ownership, they may be contributing to their children's hardship later on.
Relieved of the responsibility of paying for the car and its maintenance, who can tell when the young and upwardly mobile will become chained to credit card debts when their parents are forced to cut the apron strings?
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Working from home can be a risky business
IN the 1970s, working from home was quite common. In the village in Gombak where I grew up, my sister and I pasted tikam boards for extra pocket money.
Tikam is a game of chance now seldom seen except in shops in the rural areas. It is a large piece of cardboard from which cash or toys hang. At the bottom of the board are rows of paper foils containing numbers. For five sen, you get a pick. If the foil has a number that corresponds with a number on a prize, you win prize. Otherwise, you are given a sweet as compensation. Or nothing.
Pasting tikam boards was monotonous but easy.
We cut the numbers from a sheet of paper and pasted them onto paper foils that were then folded and mounted in neat rows on the main board. For each 144-foil board pasted, we were paid four sen. The earnings - less the cost of tapioca flour used to make starch - were our nett income.
Our neighbours made shopping bags from recycled cement packaging. For each bag measuring a foot by two feet, they were paid one sen. They had to first clean the paper of cement and trim it before it could be folded into bags. The only hazard was breathing in cement dust when the packages were sorted out.
Another family cleaned beer bottles. They were paid four sen for each large bottle; two for a small one. Since their well provided free water and the factory supplied detergent, the cost was only time and effort. The only risk they faced was getting cut by submerged broken bottles.
There were less hazardous moneymaking opportunities, too, I remember. A friend decided to check out one of the ads he saw in the papers one day. It promised a RM50 income a week working from home. My friend took me along to check out the advertiser located in a shopping complex in Bukit Bintang. It turned out to be a typing job for which I had neither the skill nor typewriter. My friend had both, so he got the job.
Having paid RM50 as deposit from which the penalty would be deducted if he failed to meet the delivery deadline, he was given a ream of paper to type sales letters at 50 sen apiece. Within two days he completed the job and was promptly paid RM25.
But at the end of the second week, when he had completed 100 pieces and gone to the office to hand in his work, he had a shock.
A group of disgruntled home workers had gathered in front of the locked office. My friend learnt that the employer had absconded with their deposits days earlier and the job offer was a scam.
When I saw banners on lamp posts advertising between RM500 to RM1,000 for working from home recently, I was reminded of the scam. I wonder if the banners were baiting school leavers waiting for their results and home workers in need of extra cash.
When opportunities are aplenty, I am sure opportunists are never far away.
Tikam is a game of chance now seldom seen except in shops in the rural areas. It is a large piece of cardboard from which cash or toys hang. At the bottom of the board are rows of paper foils containing numbers. For five sen, you get a pick. If the foil has a number that corresponds with a number on a prize, you win prize. Otherwise, you are given a sweet as compensation. Or nothing.
Pasting tikam boards was monotonous but easy.
We cut the numbers from a sheet of paper and pasted them onto paper foils that were then folded and mounted in neat rows on the main board. For each 144-foil board pasted, we were paid four sen. The earnings - less the cost of tapioca flour used to make starch - were our nett income.
Our neighbours made shopping bags from recycled cement packaging. For each bag measuring a foot by two feet, they were paid one sen. They had to first clean the paper of cement and trim it before it could be folded into bags. The only hazard was breathing in cement dust when the packages were sorted out.
Another family cleaned beer bottles. They were paid four sen for each large bottle; two for a small one. Since their well provided free water and the factory supplied detergent, the cost was only time and effort. The only risk they faced was getting cut by submerged broken bottles.
There were less hazardous moneymaking opportunities, too, I remember. A friend decided to check out one of the ads he saw in the papers one day. It promised a RM50 income a week working from home. My friend took me along to check out the advertiser located in a shopping complex in Bukit Bintang. It turned out to be a typing job for which I had neither the skill nor typewriter. My friend had both, so he got the job.
Having paid RM50 as deposit from which the penalty would be deducted if he failed to meet the delivery deadline, he was given a ream of paper to type sales letters at 50 sen apiece. Within two days he completed the job and was promptly paid RM25.
But at the end of the second week, when he had completed 100 pieces and gone to the office to hand in his work, he had a shock.
A group of disgruntled home workers had gathered in front of the locked office. My friend learnt that the employer had absconded with their deposits days earlier and the job offer was a scam.
When I saw banners on lamp posts advertising between RM500 to RM1,000 for working from home recently, I was reminded of the scam. I wonder if the banners were baiting school leavers waiting for their results and home workers in need of extra cash.
When opportunities are aplenty, I am sure opportunists are never far away.
Monday, November 29, 2010
In Rome, do as Romans do
WHEN a foreigner approached Char Boh and asked for her phone number because he wanted to be her friend, sh e was flabbergasted. When she did not give it to him, the man asked if she had a Facebook account so he could keep in touch. That was when she realised that he had not noticed the ring on her finger.
So she told him she was married, had no time for Facebook, and ignored him completely.
The incident happened when Char Boh was waiting for her daughter at a tuition centre in Jalan Ipoh. When she related her experience over dinner recently, her husband Ang laughed.
He said she should take it as a compliment that she was still attractive in her late 40s.
His remark raised the ire of his wife and fearing that Ang’s favourite fish head curry might end up on his head, I intervened.
With news of Malaysian women becoming drug mules to foreigners after being sweet-talked into friendship, I told Ang, one could never be too careful. Char Boh had done the right thing, I said.
A few years ago, a friend living in a medium-cost apartment in Kepong told me of his experience with foreigners who had moved into his neighbourhood. The area was peaceful until local apartment owners began renting out their premises to foreigners.
Before they knew it, outdoor beer drinking sessions, loud banter that bordered on quarrels and frequent fights had became regular features.
The residents decided that they had had enough when the foreigners teased the local womenfolk.
The locals held a demonstration and made it loud and clear that foreign troublemakers were not welcomed in their neighbourhood. Because of a mischievous few, all foreigners there became the target of nasty remarks.
Worried about the increasing tension between the groups, my friend moved out for the sake of his family’s safety. Are foreigners headed here for long stays briefed on our social etiquette or have they taken the trouble to learn about local sensitivities?
Do they attend orientation sessions like the ones held for foreign maids? I recall seeing on TV3 h ow maids had to undergo classe s to familiarise themselves with Malaysian cultures before even leaving their countries.
Some gestures that are acceptable social practices in a foreign land may be considered kurang ajar in ours – especially when some seem to think that Malaysian women are easy targets.
So she told him she was married, had no time for Facebook, and ignored him completely.
The incident happened when Char Boh was waiting for her daughter at a tuition centre in Jalan Ipoh. When she related her experience over dinner recently, her husband Ang laughed.
He said she should take it as a compliment that she was still attractive in her late 40s.
His remark raised the ire of his wife and fearing that Ang’s favourite fish head curry might end up on his head, I intervened.
With news of Malaysian women becoming drug mules to foreigners after being sweet-talked into friendship, I told Ang, one could never be too careful. Char Boh had done the right thing, I said.
A few years ago, a friend living in a medium-cost apartment in Kepong told me of his experience with foreigners who had moved into his neighbourhood. The area was peaceful until local apartment owners began renting out their premises to foreigners.
Before they knew it, outdoor beer drinking sessions, loud banter that bordered on quarrels and frequent fights had became regular features.
The residents decided that they had had enough when the foreigners teased the local womenfolk.
The locals held a demonstration and made it loud and clear that foreign troublemakers were not welcomed in their neighbourhood. Because of a mischievous few, all foreigners there became the target of nasty remarks.
Worried about the increasing tension between the groups, my friend moved out for the sake of his family’s safety. Are foreigners headed here for long stays briefed on our social etiquette or have they taken the trouble to learn about local sensitivities?
Do they attend orientation sessions like the ones held for foreign maids? I recall seeing on TV3 h ow maids had to undergo classe s to familiarise themselves with Malaysian cultures before even leaving their countries.
Some gestures that are acceptable social practices in a foreign land may be considered kurang ajar in ours – especially when some seem to think that Malaysian women are easy targets.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
There are other ways to stay tuned in
MY uncle Seng Chee probably owned the first television set in Kampung Cherong Lanjut in Kuala Terengganu back in the 1960s. Working as a headmaster, he was able to afford the technological luxury that came in the formof a four-legged cabinet with sliding doors that you could lock when not in use. The black-andwhite TV set was a Sharp.
When the TV was brought home, my uncle set it up on the verandah. With his limited technical know-how, he planted the antenna in the garden and I was told to twist it about as he tried tuning in. Our antics drew curious onlookers and word soon spread throughout the village that he had purchased a TV.
A ready audience materialised in the garden soon enough but to their disappointment, and ours, all we had to show was a fuzzy screen and noise. Some smart alecks who had never seen a TV programme speculated on what the fuzz was. Some said it was a snowstorm scene, others said it was a flock of birds taking off.
Only when that was all they had for over an hour did they realise that the TV was not tuned in, and what they were seeing was “snow ”, a technical term used to describe bad reception that I was to be acquainted with in later years.
The following day, a TV man came to mount the antenna on the roof of my uncle’s timber house and we tuned in to our first RTM broadcast — the Roadrunner Show. And before we knew it, the newspaper became more important than ever in the mornings, not only to us but those who had just owned TV sets. Everybody wanted to know what programme was on for the day.
I recall there were lottery “live ” draws, game shows like Ganda Wang Anda, the boring Wrestling from Great Britain, action series like Hawaii-Five-O, and midnight movies.
In the 1980s, Wednesdays, Thursdays and Fridays were much looked forward to when Chinese, Hindi and Malay movies were respectively screened. These were long shows, stretching into midnight and with breaks for news.
For those who had television sets, their living rooms were never short of an audience in the neighbourhood’s children — regardless of race or religion, as I remember. TV ownership became more widespread in later years as the sets got cheaper and larger, and video cassette recorders arrived.
By the time TV programmes were in colour, every home had a TV set or two. If in the past, prosperity was marked by the ownership of a TV set, now it was about how the size and how many sets one owned. Satellite TV came and before long, also took its place as a status symbol.
To have “arrived” was to be able to subscribe to satellite TV. Of course, that was until it got cheaper to own a decoder and subscribe. Nowadays you can’t judge how well-to-do your neighbours are by the satellite dishes peeking out the eaves of their houses.
Last week, a colleague asked me how I managed without subscribing to the satellite TV. I am surprised myself, I said. I think I have my children to thank — they love books more than the idiot box.
I suppose like most people who do not subscribe to satellite TV— or to the need to keep up with their neighbours — I can only say that it’s just mind over matter—if you don’t mind not having satellite TV, it really doesn’t matter.
When the TV was brought home, my uncle set it up on the verandah. With his limited technical know-how, he planted the antenna in the garden and I was told to twist it about as he tried tuning in. Our antics drew curious onlookers and word soon spread throughout the village that he had purchased a TV.
A ready audience materialised in the garden soon enough but to their disappointment, and ours, all we had to show was a fuzzy screen and noise. Some smart alecks who had never seen a TV programme speculated on what the fuzz was. Some said it was a snowstorm scene, others said it was a flock of birds taking off.
Only when that was all they had for over an hour did they realise that the TV was not tuned in, and what they were seeing was “snow ”, a technical term used to describe bad reception that I was to be acquainted with in later years.
The following day, a TV man came to mount the antenna on the roof of my uncle’s timber house and we tuned in to our first RTM broadcast — the Roadrunner Show. And before we knew it, the newspaper became more important than ever in the mornings, not only to us but those who had just owned TV sets. Everybody wanted to know what programme was on for the day.
I recall there were lottery “live ” draws, game shows like Ganda Wang Anda, the boring Wrestling from Great Britain, action series like Hawaii-Five-O, and midnight movies.
In the 1980s, Wednesdays, Thursdays and Fridays were much looked forward to when Chinese, Hindi and Malay movies were respectively screened. These were long shows, stretching into midnight and with breaks for news.
For those who had television sets, their living rooms were never short of an audience in the neighbourhood’s children — regardless of race or religion, as I remember. TV ownership became more widespread in later years as the sets got cheaper and larger, and video cassette recorders arrived.
By the time TV programmes were in colour, every home had a TV set or two. If in the past, prosperity was marked by the ownership of a TV set, now it was about how the size and how many sets one owned. Satellite TV came and before long, also took its place as a status symbol.
To have “arrived” was to be able to subscribe to satellite TV. Of course, that was until it got cheaper to own a decoder and subscribe. Nowadays you can’t judge how well-to-do your neighbours are by the satellite dishes peeking out the eaves of their houses.
Last week, a colleague asked me how I managed without subscribing to the satellite TV. I am surprised myself, I said. I think I have my children to thank — they love books more than the idiot box.
I suppose like most people who do not subscribe to satellite TV— or to the need to keep up with their neighbours — I can only say that it’s just mind over matter—if you don’t mind not having satellite TV, it really doesn’t matter.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Liaison efforts can bring police closer to the people
EARLY this year, the papers highlighted the issue of gangsterism in schools.
One of the reports featured a comment by a police spokesperson on crime prevention in schools.
The spokesman said police liaison officers would continue to visit schools regularly to interact with students and teachers to stop students from getting involved in gangsterism and other crimes.
The spokesman also said officers from either the nearest police station or the district headquarters carried out such visits once a month.
I had the opportunity to attend a PTA meeting a few weeks back.
Among the recurrent issues discussed was how to get in touch with a police liaison officer.
The school had not been able to benefit from the attention of a police liaison officer for a little more than a year and the teachers and PTA are at their wits’ end.
Although there had been no major crime in the school, the school authorities were concerned about its students’ safety.
Some time ago, the school’s security guard was threatened by some youths with a parang because they were told not to disturb the students.
Fortunately, nothing serious developed.
The PTA chairman said he had been to the local police station several times to meet with the liaison officer but without success.
He related how he was asked to “come back later” because the officer-in-charge was not around.
The PTA chairman said he went back three times, at different times of the day, but failed to meet with the officer.
Having liaison officers visit schools is a commendable effort that can help nip crime in the bud.
It is also a good way for the police to feel the pulse of the community it is entrusted to protect.
Having regular meetings with teachers and parents can provide vital information on the social health of the neighbourhood, too.
Where manpower shortage is concerned, the extra pairs of eyes do come in handy for the police.
In fact, why stop at having liaison officers for schools? Why not extend it to residents’ associations as well? Not many people I know will casually talk to policemen about their concerns for their neighbourhood although many people would not hesitate to blame the lack of police presence if crime rate soared.
Some even stop talking to the neighbours when they realise that the latter are policemen.
While we cannot help having people who prefer not to “get involved” around, I think the majority of those who love peace and security would welcome police liaison officers in our neighbourhood s.
Liaison efforts also bring the police force closer to the people. Right now, it is something the police could do with, I think.
One of the reports featured a comment by a police spokesperson on crime prevention in schools.
The spokesman said police liaison officers would continue to visit schools regularly to interact with students and teachers to stop students from getting involved in gangsterism and other crimes.
The spokesman also said officers from either the nearest police station or the district headquarters carried out such visits once a month.
I had the opportunity to attend a PTA meeting a few weeks back.
Among the recurrent issues discussed was how to get in touch with a police liaison officer.
The school had not been able to benefit from the attention of a police liaison officer for a little more than a year and the teachers and PTA are at their wits’ end.
Although there had been no major crime in the school, the school authorities were concerned about its students’ safety.
Some time ago, the school’s security guard was threatened by some youths with a parang because they were told not to disturb the students.
Fortunately, nothing serious developed.
The PTA chairman said he had been to the local police station several times to meet with the liaison officer but without success.
He related how he was asked to “come back later” because the officer-in-charge was not around.
The PTA chairman said he went back three times, at different times of the day, but failed to meet with the officer.
Having liaison officers visit schools is a commendable effort that can help nip crime in the bud.
It is also a good way for the police to feel the pulse of the community it is entrusted to protect.
Having regular meetings with teachers and parents can provide vital information on the social health of the neighbourhood, too.
Where manpower shortage is concerned, the extra pairs of eyes do come in handy for the police.
In fact, why stop at having liaison officers for schools? Why not extend it to residents’ associations as well? Not many people I know will casually talk to policemen about their concerns for their neighbourhood although many people would not hesitate to blame the lack of police presence if crime rate soared.
Some even stop talking to the neighbours when they realise that the latter are policemen.
While we cannot help having people who prefer not to “get involved” around, I think the majority of those who love peace and security would welcome police liaison officers in our neighbourhood s.
Liaison efforts also bring the police force closer to the people. Right now, it is something the police could do with, I think.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Urgent need to improve emergency response
MY colleague Kamarudin Ahmad’s teenage son underwent surgery to remove his tonsils recently. While the boy was recuperating at home in Kota Damansara, he suddenly coughed up blood.
Fortunately for the family, Kamarudin, a seasoned photo-journalist who has seen all sorts of emergencies in over 20 years of his career, including a stint in Iraq,was at home that Sunday.
Sensing that the boy needed fast medical attention, Kamarudin dialed 999. When the call got through, he briefed the operator and gave the details including his contact number and address. He requested for an ambulance to be sent immediately. However, much to his chagrin, having taken the details, the operator asked what he had given his son to eat and how did the boy cough up blood — questions only a medical personnel would ask and have use for.
Realising that valuable time was being wasted, Kamarudin pleaded for an ambulance to be sent at once. After what seemed to be a long wait, Kamarudin’s phone rang. The ambulance driver was calling to ask for directions to his house despite the details given to the 999 operator earlier. By that time, the boy had gone into a fit.
In the rising tension, Kamarudin still managed to repeat the details he had given earlier. Kamaruddin then asked if his son could be sent to the nearest medical facility, a private hospital in Damansara, which is only a 15 minutes’ drive from his house.
The response shocked Kamaruddin — the man said it could not be done because it was a government-owned ambulance service and that it could only send patients to Sungai Buloh Hospital, which is a good half-hour ride from Kota Damansara.
Kamarudin cancelled his request and drove his son to the private medical centre in Damansara where the boy was immediately warded.
Relating his nightmare, Kamarudin said he was lucky it was a Sunday when traffic was sparse.
Otherwise, he could not imagine what would have happened.
“I had no idea why the 999 operator asked me more than she needed to know instead of sending an ambulance immediately.
I am also wondering why, after having given the details to her, the ambulance driver still had to ask me for the directions to my house,” he said.
“Aren’t ambulances equipped with maps and global positioning systems so that they waste little time in getting to their destinations?” I said I did not know howprepared or well equipped our medical emergency response units are but I had a similar experience in the 1990s.
A neighbour’s house caught fire in the wee hours of the morning and I dialed 999 to ask for the fire brigade.
Instead, a sleepy-voiced operator put me through a similar drill of questions like how the fire started and how bad was the fire when all he needed to do was relay the call to the fire department.
He only relented after I told him to call me back if he was not convinced that it was a genuine distress call.
Perhaps the rising number of fake calls had prompted the 999 operator to ask more than he needed to know to weed out the crank callers.
But in Kamarudin’s case, did the operator need to know more than the nature of the emergency and location before dispatching medical help? Considering howcritical the emergency was, couldn’t the patient be sent to the nearest hospital instead of the pre-approved government hospital?
In emergencies when split-second decisions have to be made, are our emergency response personnel trained to make judgment calls that can save lives, and in this instance, pick the nearest well-equipped medical facility regardless of whether it is a government or private hospital?
Fortunately for the family, Kamarudin, a seasoned photo-journalist who has seen all sorts of emergencies in over 20 years of his career, including a stint in Iraq,was at home that Sunday.
Sensing that the boy needed fast medical attention, Kamarudin dialed 999. When the call got through, he briefed the operator and gave the details including his contact number and address. He requested for an ambulance to be sent immediately. However, much to his chagrin, having taken the details, the operator asked what he had given his son to eat and how did the boy cough up blood — questions only a medical personnel would ask and have use for.
Realising that valuable time was being wasted, Kamarudin pleaded for an ambulance to be sent at once. After what seemed to be a long wait, Kamarudin’s phone rang. The ambulance driver was calling to ask for directions to his house despite the details given to the 999 operator earlier. By that time, the boy had gone into a fit.
In the rising tension, Kamarudin still managed to repeat the details he had given earlier. Kamaruddin then asked if his son could be sent to the nearest medical facility, a private hospital in Damansara, which is only a 15 minutes’ drive from his house.
The response shocked Kamaruddin — the man said it could not be done because it was a government-owned ambulance service and that it could only send patients to Sungai Buloh Hospital, which is a good half-hour ride from Kota Damansara.
Kamarudin cancelled his request and drove his son to the private medical centre in Damansara where the boy was immediately warded.
Relating his nightmare, Kamarudin said he was lucky it was a Sunday when traffic was sparse.
Otherwise, he could not imagine what would have happened.
“I had no idea why the 999 operator asked me more than she needed to know instead of sending an ambulance immediately.
I am also wondering why, after having given the details to her, the ambulance driver still had to ask me for the directions to my house,” he said.
“Aren’t ambulances equipped with maps and global positioning systems so that they waste little time in getting to their destinations?” I said I did not know howprepared or well equipped our medical emergency response units are but I had a similar experience in the 1990s.
A neighbour’s house caught fire in the wee hours of the morning and I dialed 999 to ask for the fire brigade.
Instead, a sleepy-voiced operator put me through a similar drill of questions like how the fire started and how bad was the fire when all he needed to do was relay the call to the fire department.
He only relented after I told him to call me back if he was not convinced that it was a genuine distress call.
Perhaps the rising number of fake calls had prompted the 999 operator to ask more than he needed to know to weed out the crank callers.
But in Kamarudin’s case, did the operator need to know more than the nature of the emergency and location before dispatching medical help? Considering howcritical the emergency was, couldn’t the patient be sent to the nearest hospital instead of the pre-approved government hospital?
In emergencies when split-second decisions have to be made, are our emergency response personnel trained to make judgment calls that can save lives, and in this instance, pick the nearest well-equipped medical facility regardless of whether it is a government or private hospital?
Monday, November 1, 2010
To be fair, cats also cause a lot of problems
F the Selayang Municipal Council is not amused with the increasing number of the stray dogs in the municipality because of the apathy of pet lovers there, the authorities should try living in some condominiums and see whether stray cats are less of a nuisance. Surely the stray problem that dogs the authority is no less worse compared with what my friend Khoo Ching is experiencing at his condominium.
The stray cat population at Khoo’s condominium is making him miserable. While some of the stray cats are adorable, their habit of easing themselves wherever they like is driving Khoo and his neighbours up the wall. There is cat poo in the corridors daily.
Fortunately, the sweeper isat the condominium had been very kind to both residents and cats. The Indonesian woman cleans up removes the mess without complaint. She also uses heavy-duty cleaning fluid onto the more stubborn mess to get rid of the stains.
But, on her off-daysthe days when she is not working, residents using the corridors have to tread carefully through a ad to tread through a minefield of cat poo. When the lights are out because of, many end up with smelly soles.
No one knows where the strays come from but Khoo suspects that they are from neighbouring condominiums. He has tried various means to deter the cats from easing themselves at his doorsteps. He uses heavy-duty floor cleaners to get rid of the mess and then sprays insect repellent onto the spot where the misdeed occurred.
“Cats, like dogs, leave a scent to mark their territory,” Khoo explained. “If you get rid of its scent, the cat will not return.”
Well, it didn’t work. His neighbour Ah Gong burns the cat poo with old newspaper before getting rid of it. He believes that burning the excrement leaves a scent that frightens the bravest of cats. That didn’t work either.
Khoo’s neighbour Meor throws mothballs all over the corridor where the cats like to ease themselves. The cats appear to be deterred by the smell and stayed away.
But, when the mothballs disintegrated, the cats returned and eased themselves with a vengeance.
At one time, says Khoo, when Indochinese immigrants were living at the condo, the cat population was almost decimated.
“No one knew what happened. Those who seemed to know kept the knowledge to themselves lest they hurt the feelings of animal lovers.”
Khoo asked if I had any ideas for getting rid of the cats. I said I had none because there are also quite a few strays that hang out in my condominium.
One cat lover has been very kind to the strays and feeds them. So the stray cat population here is also going up. Thankfully, the population of similar cat lovers is not.
Khoo asked me if cats could be toilet trained. I told him that cats are born toilet-trained. In the kampung, cats immediately cover up their poo with sand or soil after they are done answering the call of nature. However, the hard condo floor does not afford it similar privileges to urban cats.
I told Khoo that the answer to his problem probably lies in the garbage chutes at his condominium. Perhaps, instead of getting angry at the cats, he and his neighbours should be monitoring how other condominium dwellers dispose of their kitchen waste. The hygiene-challenged are often the culprits behind problems with strays.
The stray cat population at Khoo’s condominium is making him miserable. While some of the stray cats are adorable, their habit of easing themselves wherever they like is driving Khoo and his neighbours up the wall. There is cat poo in the corridors daily.
Fortunately, the sweeper isat the condominium had been very kind to both residents and cats. The Indonesian woman cleans up removes the mess without complaint. She also uses heavy-duty cleaning fluid onto the more stubborn mess to get rid of the stains.
But, on her off-daysthe days when she is not working, residents using the corridors have to tread carefully through a ad to tread through a minefield of cat poo. When the lights are out because of, many end up with smelly soles.
No one knows where the strays come from but Khoo suspects that they are from neighbouring condominiums. He has tried various means to deter the cats from easing themselves at his doorsteps. He uses heavy-duty floor cleaners to get rid of the mess and then sprays insect repellent onto the spot where the misdeed occurred.
“Cats, like dogs, leave a scent to mark their territory,” Khoo explained. “If you get rid of its scent, the cat will not return.”
Well, it didn’t work. His neighbour Ah Gong burns the cat poo with old newspaper before getting rid of it. He believes that burning the excrement leaves a scent that frightens the bravest of cats. That didn’t work either.
Khoo’s neighbour Meor throws mothballs all over the corridor where the cats like to ease themselves. The cats appear to be deterred by the smell and stayed away.
But, when the mothballs disintegrated, the cats returned and eased themselves with a vengeance.
At one time, says Khoo, when Indochinese immigrants were living at the condo, the cat population was almost decimated.
“No one knew what happened. Those who seemed to know kept the knowledge to themselves lest they hurt the feelings of animal lovers.”
Khoo asked if I had any ideas for getting rid of the cats. I said I had none because there are also quite a few strays that hang out in my condominium.
One cat lover has been very kind to the strays and feeds them. So the stray cat population here is also going up. Thankfully, the population of similar cat lovers is not.
Khoo asked me if cats could be toilet trained. I told him that cats are born toilet-trained. In the kampung, cats immediately cover up their poo with sand or soil after they are done answering the call of nature. However, the hard condo floor does not afford it similar privileges to urban cats.
I told Khoo that the answer to his problem probably lies in the garbage chutes at his condominium. Perhaps, instead of getting angry at the cats, he and his neighbours should be monitoring how other condominium dwellers dispose of their kitchen waste. The hygiene-challenged are often the culprits behind problems with strays.
Monday, October 25, 2010
Missing covers a drain on resources
A BLIND man would have fallen into an uncovered drain in Jalan Ipoh last week if not for the vigilance of a biker. If the biker had not shouted out to warn the old man, whose sweep of his cane missed the drain, the latter would have been injured.
The incident occurred along the pedestrian path near SMK Perempuan Jalan Ipoh at the 31/2 Mile. The steel drain covers were stolen more than six months ago but were yet to be replaced.
Perhaps no one complained to the authorities about their disappearance or City Hall did not do a monthly stock take of its steel drain covers even though plenty had gone missing lately, such as those at SK Convent Sentul that were replaced with concrete slabs recently.
Perhaps it is also because of the low pedestrian traffic, the loss had gone unnoticed. Some civic-minded passers-by had used discarded wooden pallets and planks of various sizes to cover some of the holes and this had probably saved many unsuspecting people who used the footpath at night.
Last year, City Hall literally flushed close to half a million ringgit down the drain by using steel drain covers, if recent reports are anything to go by.
A total of 1,382 drain covers worth the amount were stolen last year. The first nine months of this year saw another 1,035 drain covers worth RM331,200 go missing. How many people fell into the exposed drains is not known -- or if any had taken legal action against the authorities for negligence and failure to maintain the safety of the pedestrian walks if there was a provision by law to do so.
According to someone in the scrap yard business, public owned grill drain covers and cast iron manholes have no resale value. They are contraband that will attract trouble with the law if there is an inspection by the authorities.
But there are some small-time dealers who turn fencers by buying such items from drug addicts and petty thieves. All the authorities need to do is to call on the many junkyards that pepper the city and find out who they are.
Of course, the solution to discourage the stealing of steel drain covers lies in concrete slabs that are too heavy to remove and have no downstream use -- yet. However, the slabs are not a concrete alternative. Unless they are reinforced with ribbed steel, they break easily -- especially under the weight of cars and bikes driven into them, or parked with their wheels on them. It will only be a matter of time before replacements are needed.
But concrete slabs are better than fibreglass grilles spotted covering the drains outside this newspaper's office in Bangsar. At least, during heavy rain and the drains overflow, the concrete slabs do not get washed away as one of the fibreglass grilles did some time ago, and which is yet to be replaced.
I wonder if there is a better solution our engineering students at the varsities can come up with or if City Hall has approached the academia for answers.
As we saunter towards a developed city's status, it will be keeping in step to come up with practical town planning solutions and think miles ahead to introduce facilities that are not only environmentally- and people-friendly but also those that need less frequent replacement or maintenance
The incident occurred along the pedestrian path near SMK Perempuan Jalan Ipoh at the 31/2 Mile. The steel drain covers were stolen more than six months ago but were yet to be replaced.
Perhaps no one complained to the authorities about their disappearance or City Hall did not do a monthly stock take of its steel drain covers even though plenty had gone missing lately, such as those at SK Convent Sentul that were replaced with concrete slabs recently.
Perhaps it is also because of the low pedestrian traffic, the loss had gone unnoticed. Some civic-minded passers-by had used discarded wooden pallets and planks of various sizes to cover some of the holes and this had probably saved many unsuspecting people who used the footpath at night.
Last year, City Hall literally flushed close to half a million ringgit down the drain by using steel drain covers, if recent reports are anything to go by.
A total of 1,382 drain covers worth the amount were stolen last year. The first nine months of this year saw another 1,035 drain covers worth RM331,200 go missing. How many people fell into the exposed drains is not known -- or if any had taken legal action against the authorities for negligence and failure to maintain the safety of the pedestrian walks if there was a provision by law to do so.
According to someone in the scrap yard business, public owned grill drain covers and cast iron manholes have no resale value. They are contraband that will attract trouble with the law if there is an inspection by the authorities.
But there are some small-time dealers who turn fencers by buying such items from drug addicts and petty thieves. All the authorities need to do is to call on the many junkyards that pepper the city and find out who they are.
Of course, the solution to discourage the stealing of steel drain covers lies in concrete slabs that are too heavy to remove and have no downstream use -- yet. However, the slabs are not a concrete alternative. Unless they are reinforced with ribbed steel, they break easily -- especially under the weight of cars and bikes driven into them, or parked with their wheels on them. It will only be a matter of time before replacements are needed.
But concrete slabs are better than fibreglass grilles spotted covering the drains outside this newspaper's office in Bangsar. At least, during heavy rain and the drains overflow, the concrete slabs do not get washed away as one of the fibreglass grilles did some time ago, and which is yet to be replaced.
I wonder if there is a better solution our engineering students at the varsities can come up with or if City Hall has approached the academia for answers.
As we saunter towards a developed city's status, it will be keeping in step to come up with practical town planning solutions and think miles ahead to introduce facilities that are not only environmentally- and people-friendly but also those that need less frequent replacement or maintenance
Monday, October 18, 2010
Monkey trials and tribulations
BACK in the mid-1970s, a coffee farm neighbouring my aunt's in Batang Berjuntai was terrorised by a troop of monkeys. Led by a dominant male, the troop would raid the farm at mid-morning and feast on the ripening coffee berries.
But when the primates also destroyed the unripe berries, the farm owner decided to put a stop to the marauders.
First, he lit firecrackers -- which sounded like gunshots -- to scare away the monkeys.
When the monkeys got used to the sound and played hide-and-seek with the farmer, he trapped one of them.
Then he dressed it up in a red shirt and released it.
When the odd-attired monkey tried to rejoin his troop, the rest were sent scurrying deep into the forest, frightened by the strange-looking monkey hot on their heels.
But after a while, the monkeys returned and when the damage became unbearable, the farmer went after the leader of the pack, a wily alpha male that was soon caught with a snare.
When the monkey bit the farmer as he tried to release it, the latter lost his cool. The monkey lost his head.
The dismembered monkey's head was put on a stake near where the the troop would hang out after their feeding frenzy.
That evening, the cheerful chatter was replaced with eerie wails as the primates mourned their loss.
The monkeys did not return for some time, possibly traumatised by what they saw.
But when they did return a few months later, they not only destroyed the coffee trees, they also attacked farm workers as if in revenge for their dead leader.
Finally, some farm owners got together and hunted them down.
If the monkey menace was confined to farms in those days, today, development is driving them to cross paths with humans.
A friend who moved into an expensive condominium in Taman Melawati a few years ago had spotted a lone macaque near his home.
The animal lover, his wife and 5-year-old daughter would take turns to throw cream crackers off the balcony of their second-floor condominium.
Within weeks, a tacit contract was sealed between man and primate. The monkey would turn up at the precise time each day and it would be fed its daily ration of biscuits.
One weekend morning, my friend heard his daughter screaming excitedly in the kitchen.
When he and his wife rushed in, they caught sight of the monkey they had been feeding climbing out of the window.
The startled animal dropped the tin of cream crackers it was trying to carry away. The experience left my friend's wife shaken and that was the last time she allowed anyone to feed the monkey.
But the primate continued to loiter around their condominium for months. Finally, when it realised that it could not get any more biscuits from the family, it stole from the neighbours.
Forestry experts know best when they say that feeding wild animals is not encouraged.
Whether these are wild boars or monkeys, the wild animals usually have plenty of food in their natural surrounding.
But given the chance, they prefer handouts any day.
If regularly fed, they will appear at the same spot daily at the precise time for their meals.
But when they are not fed -- and some may lose their natural ability to forage for food -- they will not hesitate to intrude into human dwellings.
In the case of monkeys, they often approach those who carry stuff they have associated with food.
We have heard of wild monkeys snatching plastic bags, haven't we?
Most of the time they do not do it out of mischief, I am sure.
But when the primates also destroyed the unripe berries, the farm owner decided to put a stop to the marauders.
First, he lit firecrackers -- which sounded like gunshots -- to scare away the monkeys.
When the monkeys got used to the sound and played hide-and-seek with the farmer, he trapped one of them.
Then he dressed it up in a red shirt and released it.
When the odd-attired monkey tried to rejoin his troop, the rest were sent scurrying deep into the forest, frightened by the strange-looking monkey hot on their heels.
But after a while, the monkeys returned and when the damage became unbearable, the farmer went after the leader of the pack, a wily alpha male that was soon caught with a snare.
When the monkey bit the farmer as he tried to release it, the latter lost his cool. The monkey lost his head.
The dismembered monkey's head was put on a stake near where the the troop would hang out after their feeding frenzy.
That evening, the cheerful chatter was replaced with eerie wails as the primates mourned their loss.
The monkeys did not return for some time, possibly traumatised by what they saw.
But when they did return a few months later, they not only destroyed the coffee trees, they also attacked farm workers as if in revenge for their dead leader.
Finally, some farm owners got together and hunted them down.
If the monkey menace was confined to farms in those days, today, development is driving them to cross paths with humans.
A friend who moved into an expensive condominium in Taman Melawati a few years ago had spotted a lone macaque near his home.
The animal lover, his wife and 5-year-old daughter would take turns to throw cream crackers off the balcony of their second-floor condominium.
Within weeks, a tacit contract was sealed between man and primate. The monkey would turn up at the precise time each day and it would be fed its daily ration of biscuits.
One weekend morning, my friend heard his daughter screaming excitedly in the kitchen.
When he and his wife rushed in, they caught sight of the monkey they had been feeding climbing out of the window.
The startled animal dropped the tin of cream crackers it was trying to carry away. The experience left my friend's wife shaken and that was the last time she allowed anyone to feed the monkey.
But the primate continued to loiter around their condominium for months. Finally, when it realised that it could not get any more biscuits from the family, it stole from the neighbours.
Forestry experts know best when they say that feeding wild animals is not encouraged.
Whether these are wild boars or monkeys, the wild animals usually have plenty of food in their natural surrounding.
But given the chance, they prefer handouts any day.
If regularly fed, they will appear at the same spot daily at the precise time for their meals.
But when they are not fed -- and some may lose their natural ability to forage for food -- they will not hesitate to intrude into human dwellings.
In the case of monkeys, they often approach those who carry stuff they have associated with food.
We have heard of wild monkeys snatching plastic bags, haven't we?
Most of the time they do not do it out of mischief, I am sure.
Monday, October 11, 2010
Let's hope they have learnt their lesson
THE people who put up the telecommunications (telco) tower in the children's playground in Jalan Bangkung, Bangsar, Kuala Lumpur, must be kicking themselves for thinking that they could fool Bangsar folk.
There is a lesson to be learned here. You just don't mess around with someone else's backyard without consulting them.
There is a Malay saying that goes like this: "Kalau nak masuk rumah, bagilah salam dulu." It basically means knock before you enter.
It's all about courtesy and, in this case, the people who put up the tower did not consult the residents first -- and it is obvious why they did not.
But even if they did, the chances of the tower going up are slim.
Transmission towers are bad news. It is common knowledge that they emit harmful electromagnetic radiation (EMR). There has been enough bad press about them since the first few came up in the city in the '90s when handphones arrived on our shores.
Whether or not these transmission towers emit EMR that can cause cancer or make you senile before your time is immaterial. Seeing one coming up, even if it is a dummy, can easily cause sleepless nights.
No one likes transmission towers in their backyard, especially those who are better informed and empowered, like those living in Bangsar.
Folk here are already up to their eyeballs in the rapid commercialisation of their once quiet residential haven.
The persistent traffic jams, haphazard parking and increasing noise pollution are already robbing them of what little quality of life that is left.
Putting up a telco tower in their playground where they exercise daily for good health is asking for trouble.
Never mind what the experts say about radio communication towers emitting very low frequency non-ionised radiation; unlike ionised ones such as X-rays. Or that the low frequency waves can at worse cause skin burns if one stands too close to a high-powered source.
Try convincing the people who live nearby that such towers are safe and see if you succeed.
Perhaps the Mandatory Standards for Electromagnetic Field (EMF) Emission from Radiocommunication Infrastructure guidelines can address concerns over the potential ill-health effects resulting from telco towers.
The guidelines, which were drafted by the Malaysian Communications and Multimedia Commission (MCMC), is now available for public viewing at its website at www.skmm.gov.my until Nov 15.
With the dos and don'ts spelt out clearly, hopefully owners of such infrastructure facilities will be more mindful of the placement of these towers to avoid giving people living nearby the jitters.
Never mind if the lack of such towers result in poor connectivity on mobile networks and headaches for users.
Goodwill is a better alternative than bad press about one's lack of corporate social responsibility.
Meanwhile, with the removal of the tower, people living in Jalan Bangkung can continue to enjoy their pursuit of good health at the playground.
They are lucky to have the well-informed, empowered and vocal Bukit Bandaraya Residents' Association to voice their grievances.
Folk who live in less privileged communities around the Klang Valley are not so fortunate. Many have to put up with transmission towers and live underneath high tension cables that power the quality lives led by people elsewhere.
There is a lesson to be learned here. You just don't mess around with someone else's backyard without consulting them.
There is a Malay saying that goes like this: "Kalau nak masuk rumah, bagilah salam dulu." It basically means knock before you enter.
It's all about courtesy and, in this case, the people who put up the tower did not consult the residents first -- and it is obvious why they did not.
But even if they did, the chances of the tower going up are slim.
Transmission towers are bad news. It is common knowledge that they emit harmful electromagnetic radiation (EMR). There has been enough bad press about them since the first few came up in the city in the '90s when handphones arrived on our shores.
Whether or not these transmission towers emit EMR that can cause cancer or make you senile before your time is immaterial. Seeing one coming up, even if it is a dummy, can easily cause sleepless nights.
No one likes transmission towers in their backyard, especially those who are better informed and empowered, like those living in Bangsar.
Folk here are already up to their eyeballs in the rapid commercialisation of their once quiet residential haven.
The persistent traffic jams, haphazard parking and increasing noise pollution are already robbing them of what little quality of life that is left.
Putting up a telco tower in their playground where they exercise daily for good health is asking for trouble.
Never mind what the experts say about radio communication towers emitting very low frequency non-ionised radiation; unlike ionised ones such as X-rays. Or that the low frequency waves can at worse cause skin burns if one stands too close to a high-powered source.
Try convincing the people who live nearby that such towers are safe and see if you succeed.
Perhaps the Mandatory Standards for Electromagnetic Field (EMF) Emission from Radiocommunication Infrastructure guidelines can address concerns over the potential ill-health effects resulting from telco towers.
The guidelines, which were drafted by the Malaysian Communications and Multimedia Commission (MCMC), is now available for public viewing at its website at www.skmm.gov.my until Nov 15.
With the dos and don'ts spelt out clearly, hopefully owners of such infrastructure facilities will be more mindful of the placement of these towers to avoid giving people living nearby the jitters.
Never mind if the lack of such towers result in poor connectivity on mobile networks and headaches for users.
Goodwill is a better alternative than bad press about one's lack of corporate social responsibility.
Meanwhile, with the removal of the tower, people living in Jalan Bangkung can continue to enjoy their pursuit of good health at the playground.
They are lucky to have the well-informed, empowered and vocal Bukit Bandaraya Residents' Association to voice their grievances.
Folk who live in less privileged communities around the Klang Valley are not so fortunate. Many have to put up with transmission towers and live underneath high tension cables that power the quality lives led by people elsewhere.
Monday, October 4, 2010
KL's unstoppable jams
WHAT does it take to reduce congestion on the roads of Kuala Lumpur? Even with the intelligent traffic management system, which we did not have 10 years ago, the traffic is still unmanageable on most days. Gridlocks threaten to descend on us whenever it rains or when some roads are closed for unannounced events.
With all the technology that is transforming the way we live, isn't it strange that we are still helpless when it comes to dealing with KL's jams?
More than a decade ago, there was a dispute on whether the city could manage without policemen taking over traffic control.
Someone had declared that the traffic lights were enough to do the job and the story went to town. The traffic controllers tested the theory.
Within hours, Kuala Lumpur was like a cat on a hot zinc roof. A point was proven: no technology is good enough when it comes to dealing with the unpredictability of the city's traffic.
After a couple of days of having "jam" for breakfast, no motorist wanted to relive the nightmare. The idea of intelligent traffic lights was put to rest.
But with the city all wired up today, could traffic flow be improved, especially with the electronic eyes monitoring our roads 24/7?
I am asking because if the traffic monitoring centres are to study all the video footages taken of congested areas, I am sure there is enough material to learn how to deal with our infamous jams.
For instance, along Jalan Bangsar in the mornings, the traffic police have effectively reduced the congestion heading towards the city by barricading the turn into Jalan Maarof.
Motorists heading from the city into Jalan Maarof have to make a U-turn at Jalan Pantai.
Previously, errant motorists often stopped in the yellow box and blocked the flow towards the city when the lights turned green.
In the evenings, however, the same diligence is not observed.
From the LRT station to the Jalan Travers-Brickfields junction, errant motorists are allowed to park along the yellow lined roadside in front of the shops. Buses, too, switch lanes at their drivers' whim, joined by other motorists.
Motorcyclists, meanwhile, weave in and out of the traffic from which only a seasoned Bangsar road user can emerge unscathed.
The same bad parking and driving habits are probably causing jams in other parts of the city at other times of the day.
A friend told me that Singapore managed its traffic well because the road users had been taught to respect the traffic laws and fear the consequences of breaking them.
Drivers there know that their movements are constantly being monitored and throwing caution to the wind will cause unnecessary hardship.
When I asked him if we could duplicate the effectiveness of Singapore's traffic management in Malaysia, the chap laughed. Singapore can do it, he says, because it is much smaller.
By the same comparison, can KL not be just as successful given the fact that our city proper is only a third the size of the Singapore?
Maybe our traffic police should not be so lenient with motorists and teach the recalcitrants to respect traffic laws and the rights of other road users.
With all the technology that is transforming the way we live, isn't it strange that we are still helpless when it comes to dealing with KL's jams?
More than a decade ago, there was a dispute on whether the city could manage without policemen taking over traffic control.
Someone had declared that the traffic lights were enough to do the job and the story went to town. The traffic controllers tested the theory.
Within hours, Kuala Lumpur was like a cat on a hot zinc roof. A point was proven: no technology is good enough when it comes to dealing with the unpredictability of the city's traffic.
After a couple of days of having "jam" for breakfast, no motorist wanted to relive the nightmare. The idea of intelligent traffic lights was put to rest.
But with the city all wired up today, could traffic flow be improved, especially with the electronic eyes monitoring our roads 24/7?
I am asking because if the traffic monitoring centres are to study all the video footages taken of congested areas, I am sure there is enough material to learn how to deal with our infamous jams.
For instance, along Jalan Bangsar in the mornings, the traffic police have effectively reduced the congestion heading towards the city by barricading the turn into Jalan Maarof.
Motorists heading from the city into Jalan Maarof have to make a U-turn at Jalan Pantai.
Previously, errant motorists often stopped in the yellow box and blocked the flow towards the city when the lights turned green.
In the evenings, however, the same diligence is not observed.
From the LRT station to the Jalan Travers-Brickfields junction, errant motorists are allowed to park along the yellow lined roadside in front of the shops. Buses, too, switch lanes at their drivers' whim, joined by other motorists.
Motorcyclists, meanwhile, weave in and out of the traffic from which only a seasoned Bangsar road user can emerge unscathed.
The same bad parking and driving habits are probably causing jams in other parts of the city at other times of the day.
A friend told me that Singapore managed its traffic well because the road users had been taught to respect the traffic laws and fear the consequences of breaking them.
Drivers there know that their movements are constantly being monitored and throwing caution to the wind will cause unnecessary hardship.
When I asked him if we could duplicate the effectiveness of Singapore's traffic management in Malaysia, the chap laughed. Singapore can do it, he says, because it is much smaller.
By the same comparison, can KL not be just as successful given the fact that our city proper is only a third the size of the Singapore?
Maybe our traffic police should not be so lenient with motorists and teach the recalcitrants to respect traffic laws and the rights of other road users.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Cheers to Kopi Musang
 |
| The shop front |
KOPI Musang is probably Muar’s best kept secret among coffee lovers and if you love gourmet coffee, you will understand why.
And no, it is not another brand. You would have heard of Kopi Musang by another name — kopi luwak or palm civet coffee as it is better known. It is said to be the most sought after gourmet coffee in the world.
The coffee gets its name from the musang (or luwak), an Asian palm civet. The animal eats the coffee cherries and passes out the beans the next day.
The defecated beans are collected, thoroughly washed, dried in the sun and roasted. During the journey in the civet’s intestines, it is believed that the digestive juices of the animal improves the taste of the coffee, making it less bitter.
In Muar, just across the express bus station by the river, check out the Sai Kee coffeeshop. You can’t miss the huge “elephant coffee bean” signboard. For those who know their kopi, Sai Kee is the maker of the famous Kopi 434, Muar’s pride.
Hooked at first sip
I had the opportunity to try kopi musang in Muar recently and met its operator Kiar Juan Pooh, who is in his mid-50s. Kiar, who is managing director of Kopi 434 (the number being the original phone number of the shop when it was established in 1953), said he discovered kopi musang in the mid-80s.
“I was approached by a coffee planter who wanted to sell his farm to me. I wasn’t interested at first but the price was irresistible, so I agreed to take over,” he explained. “Because the original owner could not take care of his farm, the coffee cherries were left to ripen on the trees.
 |
| This is how it looks like, brewed. |
 |
| The beans that have been washed and entirely cleaned |
“One day, one of my workers brought me a bag of beans he had collected. I asked him what they were and he said that they were beans eaten and passed out by the musang.
“He said the beans must be the best because as the civet picks only the best coffee cherries. He had collected the beans, which were in clusters, and had even washed them for me. He said if I was brave enough, I could try roasting the beans and see if they made good coffee.”
Kiar kept the beans in his factory for sometime before curiosity got the better of him and he roasted the beans and tried making coffee with them.
“I was not sure if it was safe to make coffee from beans that were defecated by the musang,” he said. “One day, with a few friends, we decided to try it.”
After the first sip, he and his friends were hooked. The discovery was kept a secret and shared only with close friends and as a surprise for coffee lovers he came to know or met.
Limited supply
Today, although he serves kopi musang at his shop, Kiar said, he has a little more than 20 kilos of the beans left. One Japanese coffee lover who came to know of his possession offered him several hundred US dollars a kilo to buy the beans but he turned the offer down.
“My kopi musang beans are for locals,” he said. “If I were to sell it to the Japanese, local coffee lovers will not be able to taste what kopi musang is.”
 |
| Here's a cup - from the conoisseur himself |
Kiar added that although the best beans are collected from the wild, they are becoming quite rare with the dwindling population of civet cats. In neighbouring countries where civet coffee is hugely popular, coffee beans are also fed to civets kept in captivity and the beans collected after the animals defecated.
Kiar has set a daily limit to only serve 200g of kopi musang. He added that he would be suspicious should someone turn up at his shop daily to drink kopi musang, adding that he might have to reconsider serving it.
Dirt cheap
Although I am not a coffee lover, I tried a cup of kopi musang. It tasted less bitter and smoother.
Kiar warned me that some of his customers who drank kopi musang for the first time, had told him that it made their bodies feel hot. I did not sense a similar feeling, perhaps I had been so used to drinking coffee that the caffeine made no impact. However, I did notice that the fragrance of the beans and the coffee’s aftertaste lingered for over two hours after I drank it.
Later when I told colleagues who were coffee connoisseurs about kopi musang, they said I must write about it. They tell me that to have drunk kopi musang at RM15 a cup is a steal — elsewhere around the world, drinking civet cat coffee would have set me poorer by at least a few hundred ringgit! And that would have left a bitter aftertaste in my mouth.
How to get there
The shop is located at 121 Jalan Maharani, opposite the Bentayan Express Bus Station (or Pagoh Bus Station), along the river promenade. You can’t miss the huge signboard but if you still cannot find the outlet, call 06-951 3046 for directions. You can park your car at the huge car park near the bus station.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Fear the living, not the dead
A HARDCORE "number worshipper" asked if I could direct him to the Bukit Ampang Forest Reserve after he read about the herd of wild boars said to be able to give winning numbers to punters.
He was unable to locate the forest reserve's location on his GPS reader.
The chap said he would be grateful if I could find out exactly where the location is from my colleague who wrote the story.
He wanted to bring the wild boars, named Bobo, Ah Pai and Ah Choi, some food and, hopefully, obtain a lucky number for the next Toto draw.
If he strikes the jackpot, which is now over RM43 million, he says, he will consider taking the wild boars home and feed them for the rest of their lives.
I said I would try to get the directions to the city punters' best-kept secret but warned that people like him could spell the end of the wild boars. This is because their population could grow too big from the pampering from superstitious city folk.
After all, an expert has warned that culling might be necessary if there were too many of them. I suggested to the "number worshipper" that if he was so desperate, he could visit the zoo instead.
I do not know if the wild boars there also inspire visitors to see lucky numbers like their Bukit Ampang cousins, but I am sure the zoo authorities will appreciate the additional ticket sales at the gates.
I know they can do with more funds to run the place better.
I am not going to laugh at those who rubbed the bodies of the wild boars or fed them at Bukit Ampang in exchange for lucky numbers. They could be laughing all the way to the bank if the boars brought them luck as did Paul the Octopus to the supporters of Spain in this year's World Cup.
Superstition is not a laughing matter.
Some decades ago, there was a story about a new shopping complex that was looking for tenants and someone applied to sell antique furniture there.
Without finding out exactly what the merchandise was, a contract was signed and the terms of compensation inked.
When the complex opened, the floor supervisor was shocked to discover that the "antique furniture" sold by the new tenant turned out to be Chinese coffins.
According to the story, which later became urban legend, the complex could not wait to get rid of the coffins but not before paying a hefty compensation to the operator for breach of contract.
It was no laughing matter, of course. The complex probably would have lost more in goodwill and clientele if it had allowed the coffin shop to continue.
If you have been reading this newspaper, you will now appreciate the protests by some Kepong residents against having a coffin shop in their neighbourhood.
The residents were not amused when the authorities approved the operator's "furniture" business licence. Understandably, the residents are afraid of the bad vibes the shop would bring.
Whether or not their fears are unfounded, who knows?
But ask those who are working in mortuaries or funeral parlours and they will probably tell you that there is nothing sinister about coffins or dead bodies.
They will probably laugh at you for fearing the dead when it is the living that you should be worried about
He was unable to locate the forest reserve's location on his GPS reader.
The chap said he would be grateful if I could find out exactly where the location is from my colleague who wrote the story.
He wanted to bring the wild boars, named Bobo, Ah Pai and Ah Choi, some food and, hopefully, obtain a lucky number for the next Toto draw.
If he strikes the jackpot, which is now over RM43 million, he says, he will consider taking the wild boars home and feed them for the rest of their lives.
I said I would try to get the directions to the city punters' best-kept secret but warned that people like him could spell the end of the wild boars. This is because their population could grow too big from the pampering from superstitious city folk.
After all, an expert has warned that culling might be necessary if there were too many of them. I suggested to the "number worshipper" that if he was so desperate, he could visit the zoo instead.
I do not know if the wild boars there also inspire visitors to see lucky numbers like their Bukit Ampang cousins, but I am sure the zoo authorities will appreciate the additional ticket sales at the gates.
I know they can do with more funds to run the place better.
I am not going to laugh at those who rubbed the bodies of the wild boars or fed them at Bukit Ampang in exchange for lucky numbers. They could be laughing all the way to the bank if the boars brought them luck as did Paul the Octopus to the supporters of Spain in this year's World Cup.
Superstition is not a laughing matter.
Some decades ago, there was a story about a new shopping complex that was looking for tenants and someone applied to sell antique furniture there.
Without finding out exactly what the merchandise was, a contract was signed and the terms of compensation inked.
When the complex opened, the floor supervisor was shocked to discover that the "antique furniture" sold by the new tenant turned out to be Chinese coffins.
According to the story, which later became urban legend, the complex could not wait to get rid of the coffins but not before paying a hefty compensation to the operator for breach of contract.
It was no laughing matter, of course. The complex probably would have lost more in goodwill and clientele if it had allowed the coffin shop to continue.
If you have been reading this newspaper, you will now appreciate the protests by some Kepong residents against having a coffin shop in their neighbourhood.
The residents were not amused when the authorities approved the operator's "furniture" business licence. Understandably, the residents are afraid of the bad vibes the shop would bring.
Whether or not their fears are unfounded, who knows?
But ask those who are working in mortuaries or funeral parlours and they will probably tell you that there is nothing sinister about coffins or dead bodies.
They will probably laugh at you for fearing the dead when it is the living that you should be worried about
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Fruit for thought: how much longer can we afford ours?
MY friend lamented how pricey local fruits had become during breakfast last week. He recounted how papayas had grown so expensive at the market he went to that he had to forgo his favourite fruit for a rock melon.
The papaya was selling at RM5 each. So was the rock melon of the same size, but he chose the better-looking rock melon in case the blemish-skinned papaya turned out to be a lemon.
Every week, when shopping for fruits at the market, my wife and I face the same predicament. Since cutting down on meat two years ago, we had channelled the savings into fruits instead.
Papaya was among our favourite local fruits but its price had been fluctuating so much of late that we wondered if supply was truly short or if it was a scam by the fruit vendors.
Three years ago, I recall, the price of the common local papaya was only RM1 a kg. It went up to RM1.50, and hovered around the RM2.50 mark. When supply was low, the price hit RM3.50 a kg.
The highest I had ever paid for a local papaya — that was probably carbide-ripened judging from the spots I saw on its skin — was RM3.80 a kg. The fruit vendor told me that the papaya farms in Perak were affected by a root rot epidemic.
Mature fruiting trees were wiped out and even the harvested fruits rotted on the way to the stalls.
During that time, even the imported Hawaiian solo was snapped up like hot cakes. A regular at the market joked that at the rate the papaya prices were rising, it would be cheaper to look for commercial laxatives to deal with her constipation.
Papaya is not the only local fruit that is costly these days. Guavas, cheap and plentiful in the old days, I noticed, have become a rare commodity, too. The giant guava costs between RM2.50 and RM3.50 a kg while its seedless cousin is sold for as much as RM6 a kg.
Last week, I bought a kg of guavas for RM7 from a vendor who claimed that his fruits were from Bukit Tinggi in Pahang. True or not, the fruits were crunchier and had fewer skin blemishes.
I was tempted to buy a kg of honey rose apples (jambu air) as well but was stopped by the RM9.50 per kg price tag — and there were only a dozen fruits to a bag.
At the Pasar Ramadan near Setapak Jaya just before Raya, a kelapa pandan (fragrant young coconut) vendor chided me for asking if I could get five for RM10. He said he could not go any lower than RM2.50 a coconut.
When I asked him if the plantations in Bagan Datoh were not producing enough for the local market, he laughed and said his fruits were not from there but from south Thailand. I wonder how much young coconuts from local plantations cost these days.
At the rate the prices of local fruit prices are climbing, it is not difficult to imagine what families, especially the big families, would be serving on their dinner tables a few years down the road.
Would you purchase a kg of papaya or guavas or go for a bag of green apples if they all cost the same but the latter had more fruits to go around?
The papaya was selling at RM5 each. So was the rock melon of the same size, but he chose the better-looking rock melon in case the blemish-skinned papaya turned out to be a lemon.
Every week, when shopping for fruits at the market, my wife and I face the same predicament. Since cutting down on meat two years ago, we had channelled the savings into fruits instead.
Papaya was among our favourite local fruits but its price had been fluctuating so much of late that we wondered if supply was truly short or if it was a scam by the fruit vendors.
Three years ago, I recall, the price of the common local papaya was only RM1 a kg. It went up to RM1.50, and hovered around the RM2.50 mark. When supply was low, the price hit RM3.50 a kg.
The highest I had ever paid for a local papaya — that was probably carbide-ripened judging from the spots I saw on its skin — was RM3.80 a kg. The fruit vendor told me that the papaya farms in Perak were affected by a root rot epidemic.
Mature fruiting trees were wiped out and even the harvested fruits rotted on the way to the stalls.
During that time, even the imported Hawaiian solo was snapped up like hot cakes. A regular at the market joked that at the rate the papaya prices were rising, it would be cheaper to look for commercial laxatives to deal with her constipation.
Papaya is not the only local fruit that is costly these days. Guavas, cheap and plentiful in the old days, I noticed, have become a rare commodity, too. The giant guava costs between RM2.50 and RM3.50 a kg while its seedless cousin is sold for as much as RM6 a kg.
Last week, I bought a kg of guavas for RM7 from a vendor who claimed that his fruits were from Bukit Tinggi in Pahang. True or not, the fruits were crunchier and had fewer skin blemishes.
I was tempted to buy a kg of honey rose apples (jambu air) as well but was stopped by the RM9.50 per kg price tag — and there were only a dozen fruits to a bag.
At the Pasar Ramadan near Setapak Jaya just before Raya, a kelapa pandan (fragrant young coconut) vendor chided me for asking if I could get five for RM10. He said he could not go any lower than RM2.50 a coconut.
When I asked him if the plantations in Bagan Datoh were not producing enough for the local market, he laughed and said his fruits were not from there but from south Thailand. I wonder how much young coconuts from local plantations cost these days.
At the rate the prices of local fruit prices are climbing, it is not difficult to imagine what families, especially the big families, would be serving on their dinner tables a few years down the road.
Would you purchase a kg of papaya or guavas or go for a bag of green apples if they all cost the same but the latter had more fruits to go around?
Monday, September 6, 2010
Paying the exorbitant price of progress...
RIVERS, streams and even drains in and around the city used to teem with guppies, a hardy aquarium fish that is now virtually impossible to find in our waterways.
The females of the species were usually larger than the males and could grow up to 6cm in length. But, what the males lacked in size, they made up for with long colourful tails and fins.
They can produce hundreds of offspring in a matter of months in the wild.
The live-bearing fish is named after British naturalist Robert John Lechmere Guppy who discovered it in Trinidad in 1866.
Even when Kuala Lumpur's waterways were polluted by domestic waste in the 1980s and early 1990s, some guppies still thrived.
The females eventually got smaller and the males lost much of their colour.
Instead of taking their rightful place in aquariums, most of them ended up as food for larger aquarium fish, including the oscar, arowana and toman.
Guppies were also found in ponds and disused tin mining pools. At one such lake in Jalan Genting Kelang, 1km south of the Wardieburn Camp, there were plenty of guppies and terubuk fish.
During certain months, the terubuk would gather along the shoreline to feed on damsel and dragonfly nymphs and pupae.
The spectacle, which lasted a day or two, went unnoticed for some years. But, it attracted people living nearby and lured the toman out of the depths of the lake. The feeding frenzy of the toman would start at first light. It was like experiencing a National Geographic documentary in real life.
Those who had nets cast them into the feeding frenzy and caught both predator and prey, and other aquatic life.
One morning, there was a commotion at the lake. Terubuk fry and other small fish had turned up dead by the hundreds. Someone had used tuba root poison to stun and catch the bigger fish but the smaller ones were killed. That was the last time I saw terubuk spawn in the lake. Today, the lake has been reduced to a patch of water.
Seeing a man cast his net into a tributary of the Gombak river that flows by Sentul recently brought back such fond memories. Wading in thigh-deep waters, he was bare chested with only a pair of faded jeans secured to his skinny waist with a raffia string. He had cast his net into the river several times but without success.
Finally, there was a smile on his face when he hauled up his catch. I saw a couple of black tilapia, two fingers width in size, and some "Bandaraya" fish struggling to get free.
I congratulated the man on his catch.
"There are few fish these days," he said with a grin.
"I used to catch more fish years ago. The water must be dirty. There are more fish after rain, though," he added, as he put the tilapia into a plastic bag. He then threw the "Bandaraya" fish back into the river.
I asked him what he was planning to do with his catch and whether he kept predatory fish. The man looked surprised and replied: "I take them home and cook them. Maybe I'll give some to the neighbours."
I wanted to tell him that the fish could be contaminated but didn't because I didn't want to be rude. What if that was all he had to eat?
The females of the species were usually larger than the males and could grow up to 6cm in length. But, what the males lacked in size, they made up for with long colourful tails and fins.
They can produce hundreds of offspring in a matter of months in the wild.
The live-bearing fish is named after British naturalist Robert John Lechmere Guppy who discovered it in Trinidad in 1866.
Even when Kuala Lumpur's waterways were polluted by domestic waste in the 1980s and early 1990s, some guppies still thrived.
The females eventually got smaller and the males lost much of their colour.
Instead of taking their rightful place in aquariums, most of them ended up as food for larger aquarium fish, including the oscar, arowana and toman.
Guppies were also found in ponds and disused tin mining pools. At one such lake in Jalan Genting Kelang, 1km south of the Wardieburn Camp, there were plenty of guppies and terubuk fish.
During certain months, the terubuk would gather along the shoreline to feed on damsel and dragonfly nymphs and pupae.
The spectacle, which lasted a day or two, went unnoticed for some years. But, it attracted people living nearby and lured the toman out of the depths of the lake. The feeding frenzy of the toman would start at first light. It was like experiencing a National Geographic documentary in real life.
Those who had nets cast them into the feeding frenzy and caught both predator and prey, and other aquatic life.
One morning, there was a commotion at the lake. Terubuk fry and other small fish had turned up dead by the hundreds. Someone had used tuba root poison to stun and catch the bigger fish but the smaller ones were killed. That was the last time I saw terubuk spawn in the lake. Today, the lake has been reduced to a patch of water.
Seeing a man cast his net into a tributary of the Gombak river that flows by Sentul recently brought back such fond memories. Wading in thigh-deep waters, he was bare chested with only a pair of faded jeans secured to his skinny waist with a raffia string. He had cast his net into the river several times but without success.
Finally, there was a smile on his face when he hauled up his catch. I saw a couple of black tilapia, two fingers width in size, and some "Bandaraya" fish struggling to get free.
I congratulated the man on his catch.
"There are few fish these days," he said with a grin.
"I used to catch more fish years ago. The water must be dirty. There are more fish after rain, though," he added, as he put the tilapia into a plastic bag. He then threw the "Bandaraya" fish back into the river.
I asked him what he was planning to do with his catch and whether he kept predatory fish. The man looked surprised and replied: "I take them home and cook them. Maybe I'll give some to the neighbours."
I wanted to tell him that the fish could be contaminated but didn't because I didn't want to be rude. What if that was all he had to eat?
Monday, August 30, 2010
Keep errant park visitors in check
AN expatriate had a nasty experience when he chided a local for riding a motorcycle at Lake Titiwangsa recently. The expatriate must have thought he was going to be beaten up. My wife and I had just arrived at one of the three wooden bridges at the popular park when we witnessed the incident.
The expatriate was enjoying the view of the lake on the bridge with his daughter, who was about 5 years old, when their attention was disrupted by the sound of a motorcycle.
A motorcyclist and his female companion were about to cross the wooden bridge on their motorcycle when the expatriate stopped him and told him that he should not ride in the park.
The local man, in his 50s, stopped his motorcycle and appeared furious.
Fearing that the motorcyclist might not understand English or could have mistaken the advice for an insult, I translated what the expatriate guy had said.
Instead of apologising for riding his motorcycle in an area meant for pedestrian traffic, the motorcyclist gave the expatriate and I a stern look before angrily turning the throttle of his motorcycle and speeding off.
When the motorcyclist was out of earshot, the expatriate told me that the man must have been angry because a “Mat Salleh” had told him off.
I assured him that he did the right thing. It was quite common, I said, for some people not to be remorseful after an act of transgression.
In fact, it takes a lot of guts to criticise a wrongdoing, sometimes even at the risk of life and limb if one’s good intent is not taken too kindly.
Just a day earlier, I told off a group of youths who were lighting up a stove for an open-air barbecue by the lake. For my trouble, I was told to mind my own business and one even retorted that I don’t own the park.
A few weeks ago, an ice-cream seller didn’t look too happy because I told him not to ride his motorcycle on the jogging path.
From his accent, he didn’t even sound Malaysian when he barked that I should not stop him “cari makan".
It beats reason why some people behave as if they own public property by virtue of their birth.
Visit Lake Titiwangsa on Saturday and Sunday evenings and you will get my drift. Motorists park their cars on any vacant strip of tar without regard for the inconvenience caused to others. Motorcyclists and ice-cream sellers whiz down jogging paths or park their vehicles on road shoulders, frequently obstructing the pedestrian’s right of way.
City Hall has spent a good sum of money to beautify and provide Lake Titiwangsa (and other public parks) with various amenities to offer city folk a respite from the city’s hustle and bustle.
Why the costly investment is not matched by vigilance and strict enforcement of park regulations is a question only the local authority can answer.
Park wardens on horsebacks or bicycles or even on foot can do wonders to keep errant park visitors in check. Closed circuit television cameras (CCTVs) can also deter uncivic behaviour.
Tonight, as city folk converge at Lake Titiwangsa and other parks in the city to celebrate the country’s 53rd year of Independence, let’s hope that we can all shout Merdeka with the pride that we have also freed ourselves from the indifference we now have for the right of others and our common property.
The expatriate was enjoying the view of the lake on the bridge with his daughter, who was about 5 years old, when their attention was disrupted by the sound of a motorcycle.
A motorcyclist and his female companion were about to cross the wooden bridge on their motorcycle when the expatriate stopped him and told him that he should not ride in the park.
The local man, in his 50s, stopped his motorcycle and appeared furious.
Fearing that the motorcyclist might not understand English or could have mistaken the advice for an insult, I translated what the expatriate guy had said.
Instead of apologising for riding his motorcycle in an area meant for pedestrian traffic, the motorcyclist gave the expatriate and I a stern look before angrily turning the throttle of his motorcycle and speeding off.
When the motorcyclist was out of earshot, the expatriate told me that the man must have been angry because a “Mat Salleh” had told him off.
I assured him that he did the right thing. It was quite common, I said, for some people not to be remorseful after an act of transgression.
In fact, it takes a lot of guts to criticise a wrongdoing, sometimes even at the risk of life and limb if one’s good intent is not taken too kindly.
Just a day earlier, I told off a group of youths who were lighting up a stove for an open-air barbecue by the lake. For my trouble, I was told to mind my own business and one even retorted that I don’t own the park.
A few weeks ago, an ice-cream seller didn’t look too happy because I told him not to ride his motorcycle on the jogging path.
From his accent, he didn’t even sound Malaysian when he barked that I should not stop him “cari makan".
It beats reason why some people behave as if they own public property by virtue of their birth.
Visit Lake Titiwangsa on Saturday and Sunday evenings and you will get my drift. Motorists park their cars on any vacant strip of tar without regard for the inconvenience caused to others. Motorcyclists and ice-cream sellers whiz down jogging paths or park their vehicles on road shoulders, frequently obstructing the pedestrian’s right of way.
City Hall has spent a good sum of money to beautify and provide Lake Titiwangsa (and other public parks) with various amenities to offer city folk a respite from the city’s hustle and bustle.
Why the costly investment is not matched by vigilance and strict enforcement of park regulations is a question only the local authority can answer.
Park wardens on horsebacks or bicycles or even on foot can do wonders to keep errant park visitors in check. Closed circuit television cameras (CCTVs) can also deter uncivic behaviour.
Tonight, as city folk converge at Lake Titiwangsa and other parks in the city to celebrate the country’s 53rd year of Independence, let’s hope that we can all shout Merdeka with the pride that we have also freed ourselves from the indifference we now have for the right of others and our common property.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
In tune with popular marching songs
ONE of the best marching tunes I love is the one from the movie Bridge Over River Kwai.
The tune was highly popular in the 1970s and was frequently heard over the airwaves. I did not get to watch the movie until much later in my childhood but it was a tune every boy (and girl) who knew how to hum or whistle could repeat with the same tempo and ease.
The tune was also the standard march past music played over and over during sports days and other athletic meets.
Another popular marching song was When The Saints Go Marching In.
The song was adopted by one of my rival schools when their team met mine at soccer, hockey and basketball meets those days.
Their cheerleaders would sing on top of their voices as their players strolled into the courts and even when their team lost to ours, they still held their heads up high, without doubt inspired by the tempo of the song, as they walked out of the courts.
For several years in the 1970s, Radio Malaysia broadcast a 30-minute Lagu-lagu March segment in the morning, right after Negaraku was played at 6am. I switched on my Silver transistor radio as soon as I woke up at 5.30am for school those days.
As I changed into my school uniform and got down to a breakfast of either a few pieces of "biskut askar" (tasteless hard biscuits for soldiers, they say) dipped in Ovaltine or treat myself to a bowl of hot two-minute noodles, the songs never failed to put me in high spirits.
I cannot recall the names of most of the songs, save for the more popular ones, but I remember I never got tired of listening to them.
The marching songs followed me from home to school each morning, moving from my home radio to an orange coloured pocket transistor radio I won from a lucky draw at the Batu Road Supermarket.
The portable radio fitted nicely into my shirt pocket but to listen to the marching tunes while I cycled, I had to use a hands free kit which earpiece looked like a miniature hair dryer attached to a unwieldy cord that was bent on getting entangled.
Reception wasn't clear most of the times but I had heard some of the songs so many times that it was enough for me to hum the missing parts as I left for school at 6.20am.
The last 10 minutes of Lagu-Lagu March was my companion as I pedalled my way through the dimly-lit main road from Gombak to the Setapak High School in Air Panas.
On those cold mornings, I remember, the foreign marching tunes were sometimes spaced with our local patriotic songs and one I especially loved was Malaysia Berjaya.
In August, if I am not mistaken, you could hear Malaysia Berjaya more than once a day over the radio. There was something about that song that never failed to keep me in high spirits each time I hear it.
I wonder how many of today's generation share the same enthusiasm about marching songs or Malaysia Berjaya.
I don't frequently hear them on the radio when I send my children to school these days - I could be tuning into the wrong stations.
I recently heard Muhibbah being played aloud at a supermarket.
Curious, I asked a local teenager beside me if he knew what song it was.
Confidently he nodded and declared that it was an oldie.
I didn't know whether to feel amused or embarrassed for asking. I said it was Muhibbah and added that when he goes home, he should ask his parents about other patriotic songs that used to rule the airwaves.
When they do tell him, I hope they will also tell him what those lyrics meant in eight days when we celebrate Merdeka.
The tune was highly popular in the 1970s and was frequently heard over the airwaves. I did not get to watch the movie until much later in my childhood but it was a tune every boy (and girl) who knew how to hum or whistle could repeat with the same tempo and ease.
The tune was also the standard march past music played over and over during sports days and other athletic meets.
Another popular marching song was When The Saints Go Marching In.
The song was adopted by one of my rival schools when their team met mine at soccer, hockey and basketball meets those days.
Their cheerleaders would sing on top of their voices as their players strolled into the courts and even when their team lost to ours, they still held their heads up high, without doubt inspired by the tempo of the song, as they walked out of the courts.
For several years in the 1970s, Radio Malaysia broadcast a 30-minute Lagu-lagu March segment in the morning, right after Negaraku was played at 6am. I switched on my Silver transistor radio as soon as I woke up at 5.30am for school those days.
As I changed into my school uniform and got down to a breakfast of either a few pieces of "biskut askar" (tasteless hard biscuits for soldiers, they say) dipped in Ovaltine or treat myself to a bowl of hot two-minute noodles, the songs never failed to put me in high spirits.
I cannot recall the names of most of the songs, save for the more popular ones, but I remember I never got tired of listening to them.
The marching songs followed me from home to school each morning, moving from my home radio to an orange coloured pocket transistor radio I won from a lucky draw at the Batu Road Supermarket.
The portable radio fitted nicely into my shirt pocket but to listen to the marching tunes while I cycled, I had to use a hands free kit which earpiece looked like a miniature hair dryer attached to a unwieldy cord that was bent on getting entangled.
Reception wasn't clear most of the times but I had heard some of the songs so many times that it was enough for me to hum the missing parts as I left for school at 6.20am.
The last 10 minutes of Lagu-Lagu March was my companion as I pedalled my way through the dimly-lit main road from Gombak to the Setapak High School in Air Panas.
On those cold mornings, I remember, the foreign marching tunes were sometimes spaced with our local patriotic songs and one I especially loved was Malaysia Berjaya.
In August, if I am not mistaken, you could hear Malaysia Berjaya more than once a day over the radio. There was something about that song that never failed to keep me in high spirits each time I hear it.
I wonder how many of today's generation share the same enthusiasm about marching songs or Malaysia Berjaya.
I don't frequently hear them on the radio when I send my children to school these days - I could be tuning into the wrong stations.
I recently heard Muhibbah being played aloud at a supermarket.
Curious, I asked a local teenager beside me if he knew what song it was.
Confidently he nodded and declared that it was an oldie.
I didn't know whether to feel amused or embarrassed for asking. I said it was Muhibbah and added that when he goes home, he should ask his parents about other patriotic songs that used to rule the airwaves.
When they do tell him, I hope they will also tell him what those lyrics meant in eight days when we celebrate Merdeka.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Hell hath no taste for sexy singers
SOMEONE asked me why the Chinese burn so many paper effigies for the netherworld.
No one knows, I said. But my elders say it's one way of keeping the inhabitants there happy so that they will leave mortals in peace and only come around once a year on the seventh month of the Chinese Lunar calendar, during the Hungry Ghosts Festival.
On the fifteenth day, when the festival is at its grandest, tribute is made to the King of Hades with even more offerings.
This year, said a friend from Penang, the King of Hades (known to the Hokkiens as Phor Tor Kong or the Tai Su Yeah deity) has decreed that no scantily clad singers be allowed as part of the celebration, at least not in George Town.
The Phor Tor organising committees in Klang Valley had better pay heed to the warning if they want to invoke the deity's blessings before the festival ends on Sept 7.
Songs and performances at Chinese religious festivals held at temples are not new.
They were introduced in the '70s to arrest the waning interest in temple celebrations among the younger generation.
Back then, a couple of nights of Chinese opera were usually part of the celebration.
Even at its most modest level, there would be at least three nights of operas or puppet theatres. Sometimes the shows are extended another night or two, courtesy of those who had benefited financially from the resident deity's patronage.
Showtime started at sunset and choice places were taken on a first-come, first-served basis.
You had to bring your own chairs and stools, of course. Folk tales that featured special effects such as acrobatics and fire-stunts often left little standing space even before the curtains were raised.
Although the crowd comprised mostly the elderly, all-time favourites like Madam White Snake, Journey To The West, and the Tale Of Mu-lien The Filial Monk also attracted the young.
The premiere show was reserved for the deities, and in Phor Tor celebrations, for wandering spirits known to the Hokkiens as Hoh Hnia Tee (or "good brothers").
To insist on watching the premiere during a Phor Tor celebration was to invite trouble. Tales were told aplenty of those who were possessed or had fallen sick after they offended the spirits.
The second day of the opera was for humans. An hour of songs usually preceded the show. In Hokkien villages, singers engaged from bars and nightclubs would belt out Mandarin oldies like Mei Lan Mei Lan Wo Ai Ni (Mei Lan I Love You) and the Hokkien evergreen Siau Lian Siau Chua Boh (The Young Are Dying To Get Married). Back then, the singers rarely performed in sexy costumes.
Those days, it was considered disrespectful to the deities if one came to a temple improperly attired. For women devotees, the limbs had to be properly covered. To wear a mini skirt would invite stares and possibly the scorn of temple elders.
Today, when people are no longer ashame of their lack of respect for places of worship, anything goes -- including performances by singers who make up for their lack in vocal talent by entertaining the crowd in their skimpy costumes.
It is not difficult to understand why even the King of Hades is not amused, for each time such mischief gets into the limelight, it must be one hell of an embarrassment for him.
No one knows, I said. But my elders say it's one way of keeping the inhabitants there happy so that they will leave mortals in peace and only come around once a year on the seventh month of the Chinese Lunar calendar, during the Hungry Ghosts Festival.
On the fifteenth day, when the festival is at its grandest, tribute is made to the King of Hades with even more offerings.
This year, said a friend from Penang, the King of Hades (known to the Hokkiens as Phor Tor Kong or the Tai Su Yeah deity) has decreed that no scantily clad singers be allowed as part of the celebration, at least not in George Town.
The Phor Tor organising committees in Klang Valley had better pay heed to the warning if they want to invoke the deity's blessings before the festival ends on Sept 7.
Songs and performances at Chinese religious festivals held at temples are not new.
They were introduced in the '70s to arrest the waning interest in temple celebrations among the younger generation.
Back then, a couple of nights of Chinese opera were usually part of the celebration.
Even at its most modest level, there would be at least three nights of operas or puppet theatres. Sometimes the shows are extended another night or two, courtesy of those who had benefited financially from the resident deity's patronage.
Showtime started at sunset and choice places were taken on a first-come, first-served basis.
You had to bring your own chairs and stools, of course. Folk tales that featured special effects such as acrobatics and fire-stunts often left little standing space even before the curtains were raised.
Although the crowd comprised mostly the elderly, all-time favourites like Madam White Snake, Journey To The West, and the Tale Of Mu-lien The Filial Monk also attracted the young.
The premiere show was reserved for the deities, and in Phor Tor celebrations, for wandering spirits known to the Hokkiens as Hoh Hnia Tee (or "good brothers").
To insist on watching the premiere during a Phor Tor celebration was to invite trouble. Tales were told aplenty of those who were possessed or had fallen sick after they offended the spirits.
The second day of the opera was for humans. An hour of songs usually preceded the show. In Hokkien villages, singers engaged from bars and nightclubs would belt out Mandarin oldies like Mei Lan Mei Lan Wo Ai Ni (Mei Lan I Love You) and the Hokkien evergreen Siau Lian Siau Chua Boh (The Young Are Dying To Get Married). Back then, the singers rarely performed in sexy costumes.
Those days, it was considered disrespectful to the deities if one came to a temple improperly attired. For women devotees, the limbs had to be properly covered. To wear a mini skirt would invite stares and possibly the scorn of temple elders.
Today, when people are no longer ashame of their lack of respect for places of worship, anything goes -- including performances by singers who make up for their lack in vocal talent by entertaining the crowd in their skimpy costumes.
It is not difficult to understand why even the King of Hades is not amused, for each time such mischief gets into the limelight, it must be one hell of an embarrassment for him.
Monday, August 9, 2010
No place is safe, actually
LAST week, two boys on a motorcycle tried to snatch my wife's gold chain. We were jogging through a residential area near Danau Kota - a route which we considered to be safe. The wide pedestrian walk provided safety for joggers from passing vehicles but we did not expect to meet snatch thieves.
I wanted to go on a run that day but my wife said she would rather walk because of the evening heat.
She asked me to run and wait for her at a designated spot ahead. We had done this many times. Since there was still daylight and good pedestrian traffic, I was not worried.
However, after running several hundred metres, I felt uneasy and doubled back. At a bend, I saw her walking towards me.
I felt relieved but when I came within hearing distance, my wife told me that two youths on a motorcycle had just tried to snatch the gold chain I gave her 15 years ago.
She said she was about to cross a junction between a side road and the main road when the snatch thieves rode up to her from the side road.
The pillion rider grabbed my wife's chain but she held onto it. The chain snapped and the thieves fled empty handed.
Although my wife screamed to alert those around her, no one from the nearby houses or burger stall came to her aid. I said I was not surprised. In fact, I would be amazed if any of the people who heard her came to her rescue. These days, Good Samaritans are rare.
This was the second time my wife had encountered snatch thieves. The first was 12 years ago.
I had been delayed returning home from work one evening and she had to take our daughters, then aged 7 and 10, for a haircut. As she and the children were walking to the hairdresser, two snatch thieves came from behind her on a motorcycle and grabbed her handbag.
My wife refused to let go of the bag. The pillion rider tried to kick my youngest daughter. Fearing for my daughter's safety, my wife let go of the handbag and the snatch thieves rode off. Shopkeepers who saw the incident did not lend a hand, nor did the passersby.
When my wife told me about it, I said she should have thought of her safety first. Give the thieves what they want but stay calm and note down details such as their motorcycle model and registration plate number. Although the plates are often fakes, the information could be useful to the police.
In last week's incident, my wife failed to note down the motorcycle's number. I don't blame her. Who could remain calm when taken by surprise? Although we notified the police at a station which was just a five-minute walk from where the incident occurred, I doubt they can do much.
I was relieved that my wife was not hurt but I am angry because the snatch theft occurred in a neighbourhood that I thought was safe. The thieves got away but can their luck last forever? I hope they get what they deserve one day.
When people tell me crime is on the rise in the city, I used to tell them to move to the suburbs. Now, I am not so sure anymore.
I wanted to go on a run that day but my wife said she would rather walk because of the evening heat.
She asked me to run and wait for her at a designated spot ahead. We had done this many times. Since there was still daylight and good pedestrian traffic, I was not worried.
However, after running several hundred metres, I felt uneasy and doubled back. At a bend, I saw her walking towards me.
I felt relieved but when I came within hearing distance, my wife told me that two youths on a motorcycle had just tried to snatch the gold chain I gave her 15 years ago.
She said she was about to cross a junction between a side road and the main road when the snatch thieves rode up to her from the side road.
The pillion rider grabbed my wife's chain but she held onto it. The chain snapped and the thieves fled empty handed.
Although my wife screamed to alert those around her, no one from the nearby houses or burger stall came to her aid. I said I was not surprised. In fact, I would be amazed if any of the people who heard her came to her rescue. These days, Good Samaritans are rare.
This was the second time my wife had encountered snatch thieves. The first was 12 years ago.
I had been delayed returning home from work one evening and she had to take our daughters, then aged 7 and 10, for a haircut. As she and the children were walking to the hairdresser, two snatch thieves came from behind her on a motorcycle and grabbed her handbag.
My wife refused to let go of the bag. The pillion rider tried to kick my youngest daughter. Fearing for my daughter's safety, my wife let go of the handbag and the snatch thieves rode off. Shopkeepers who saw the incident did not lend a hand, nor did the passersby.
When my wife told me about it, I said she should have thought of her safety first. Give the thieves what they want but stay calm and note down details such as their motorcycle model and registration plate number. Although the plates are often fakes, the information could be useful to the police.
In last week's incident, my wife failed to note down the motorcycle's number. I don't blame her. Who could remain calm when taken by surprise? Although we notified the police at a station which was just a five-minute walk from where the incident occurred, I doubt they can do much.
I was relieved that my wife was not hurt but I am angry because the snatch theft occurred in a neighbourhood that I thought was safe. The thieves got away but can their luck last forever? I hope they get what they deserve one day.
When people tell me crime is on the rise in the city, I used to tell them to move to the suburbs. Now, I am not so sure anymore.
Monday, August 2, 2010
Mystified by high-end coffee joints
RAIN sidetracked my wife and I from our regular jogging track and led us to a row of boutique eateries at a block of condominiums which opened for occupancy about a year ago in our neighbourhood. Each time we passed by the area on our way home, we wondered what attracted the crowd to the eateries there. That evening, the weather gave us the excuse to find out.
We picked the outlet that was most crowded — a high-end coffee shop. There were hardly any seats left when we arrived, save for a table at a far corner of the common five-foot way that had been claimed by the kopitiam. As soon as we were seated, a waitress brought us the menu.
Since we had already cooked dinner, I ordered two cups of black coffee and a couple of toasts and passed the order form back to the waitress.
Just as we were about to enjoy the old world charm of the kopitiam, the waitress arrived with our food. I was about to heap praises on her fast service when she passed me the bill. Two cups of coffee and two small slices of toasts came up to RM14.95, inclusive of tax.
I complained about the bill to my wife. She said the prices were more or less the same at most modern kopitiam. I had to consider the cost of the free Wi-Fi, fine furniture, courteous staff and other overheads, she added. I was lucky I did not order other food as well. Otherwise we would have had to cut back on our expenses for the following week to make up for our indulgence.
When we were done and I paid the bill, I dared not ask the cashier to keep the change after giving him RM15 - I did not want him to think I was insulting him, so I took the five sen change.
I left the shop no wiser as to why, despite the pricey food, the crowd continues to throng the kopitiam and several others like it each evening. If their food was not much different from the many that I had seen, then it must be the free Wi-Fi and decor that did the trick, I told my wife.
But these are the places where young people hang out these days, said my wife, except for the poorer ones who hang out at the stairways of shopping complexes. Another interesting point was that the foreign coffee chains, which used to monopolise the cafe business, are now being given a run for their money by hyped-up local coffee shops — an old business which everyone thought would not survive past the millennium.
In the old days, only retirees and the jobless hang out at the coffeeshops to engage in idle chat or a game of mahjong. You could order a cup of coffee for much less and would not look out of place if you stayed till sun down. The owner might even allow you to catch forty winks while you were there if you did not drool and dirty his marble tabletops.
Today, the younger crowd has taken over the seats at modern coffeeshops. They are not just watching the world go by on their laptops but doing so over cups of brew that could, in regular doses, not only hurt their health but also their pockets as well.
Judging by the prices at these designer eateries and their increasing popularity in the city, one can only guess that many of their younger customers are from the high-income bracket or were born with silver spoons in their mouths. Otherwise, it will be quite scary to think where these big spenders will end up a decade from now if they are not earning enough to meet their daily needs today.
We picked the outlet that was most crowded — a high-end coffee shop. There were hardly any seats left when we arrived, save for a table at a far corner of the common five-foot way that had been claimed by the kopitiam. As soon as we were seated, a waitress brought us the menu.
Since we had already cooked dinner, I ordered two cups of black coffee and a couple of toasts and passed the order form back to the waitress.
Just as we were about to enjoy the old world charm of the kopitiam, the waitress arrived with our food. I was about to heap praises on her fast service when she passed me the bill. Two cups of coffee and two small slices of toasts came up to RM14.95, inclusive of tax.
I complained about the bill to my wife. She said the prices were more or less the same at most modern kopitiam. I had to consider the cost of the free Wi-Fi, fine furniture, courteous staff and other overheads, she added. I was lucky I did not order other food as well. Otherwise we would have had to cut back on our expenses for the following week to make up for our indulgence.
When we were done and I paid the bill, I dared not ask the cashier to keep the change after giving him RM15 - I did not want him to think I was insulting him, so I took the five sen change.
I left the shop no wiser as to why, despite the pricey food, the crowd continues to throng the kopitiam and several others like it each evening. If their food was not much different from the many that I had seen, then it must be the free Wi-Fi and decor that did the trick, I told my wife.
But these are the places where young people hang out these days, said my wife, except for the poorer ones who hang out at the stairways of shopping complexes. Another interesting point was that the foreign coffee chains, which used to monopolise the cafe business, are now being given a run for their money by hyped-up local coffee shops — an old business which everyone thought would not survive past the millennium.
In the old days, only retirees and the jobless hang out at the coffeeshops to engage in idle chat or a game of mahjong. You could order a cup of coffee for much less and would not look out of place if you stayed till sun down. The owner might even allow you to catch forty winks while you were there if you did not drool and dirty his marble tabletops.
Today, the younger crowd has taken over the seats at modern coffeeshops. They are not just watching the world go by on their laptops but doing so over cups of brew that could, in regular doses, not only hurt their health but also their pockets as well.
Judging by the prices at these designer eateries and their increasing popularity in the city, one can only guess that many of their younger customers are from the high-income bracket or were born with silver spoons in their mouths. Otherwise, it will be quite scary to think where these big spenders will end up a decade from now if they are not earning enough to meet their daily needs today.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Learning to ride bicycles was a rite of passage
LEARNED to cycle quite late in my childhood when I was about 11. Most families in our village owned at least one bicycle. Well-to-do families owned more. Even their kids had expensive and smaller bicycles.
That year, one of the richer neighbours bought a Chopper bicycle for their youngest son who was my age. The Chopper had a five-speed gear lever that you could push back and forth. It had a long cushioned seat with a backrest.
The boy, of course, showed off his bicycle to the rest of us. One day, he offered to let us ride it around the village if we paid him five sen each. I did not have the money but an older boy who did, took up the offer.
When he returned from his ride around the village, we were shocked to see that he was not cycling. He was pushing the bicycle instead.
The Chopper's handlebar was bent, its front mudguard was twisted and the chain had fallen off. Its owner was aghast when he saw what had happened to his pride and joy. The older boy explained that he had crashed while trying to avoid hitting a fowl.
Instead of sympathising with the rider whose knees and elbows were bleeding, the owner of the Chopper demanded a 20-sen compensation or he would bring the matter up with his parents. Reluctantly, the older boy paid him. In those days, stuff on loan came with a tacit agreement -- if it was damaged or lost, you had to pay for it unless the owner refused compensation.
When I saw what happened, I was glad I did not have money that day. I would have caused greater damage to the Chopper because I did not know how to ride a bicycle at the time.
I realised that I had to learn and, to do so, I had to own a bicycle. From that day onwards, I would frequently stop by a bicycle shop near where we lived to ask the owner whether he had any old bicycles for sale.
One day, tired of my persistence, he told me to look at an old bicycle in his storeroom. It was a Norton. Its frames were rusted and the tyres were bald. The chain guard was missing and the cogwheels were covered in grime. But, it was good enough for me. The owner asked for RM15 for it. I told him I did not have the money but if he could keep it for a few days, I would buy it.
In not days but the weeks that followed, I went fund raising. I gathered and sold used beer bottles.
In those days, soy sauce factories paid nine sen for a large Guinness or Anchor bottle and four sen for half-sized ones. When I had enough money, I went back to the shop and bought the bicycle.
Perhaps out of pity, the owner also helped me to fix the bicycle. He allowed me to use his tools and taught me to use kerosene to remove the grime. I learned how to remove the links of the lengthened chain and even patch up a punctured tyre using a piece of cut tubing and rubber cement.
Learning how to cycle was one of the rites of passage children those days had to go through before they left primary school. No matter how many times we fell and bruised our limbs (and pride), we got back up and tried again. We cycled everywhere.
Back then motorists were kinder to cyclists. Although today cycling has been elevated to a healthy pursuit, there are few places in the city where you can ride safely. Even the parks do not have proper cycling tracks and most of the time, cyclists risk their lives riding along busy roads.
That year, one of the richer neighbours bought a Chopper bicycle for their youngest son who was my age. The Chopper had a five-speed gear lever that you could push back and forth. It had a long cushioned seat with a backrest.
The boy, of course, showed off his bicycle to the rest of us. One day, he offered to let us ride it around the village if we paid him five sen each. I did not have the money but an older boy who did, took up the offer.
When he returned from his ride around the village, we were shocked to see that he was not cycling. He was pushing the bicycle instead.
The Chopper's handlebar was bent, its front mudguard was twisted and the chain had fallen off. Its owner was aghast when he saw what had happened to his pride and joy. The older boy explained that he had crashed while trying to avoid hitting a fowl.
Instead of sympathising with the rider whose knees and elbows were bleeding, the owner of the Chopper demanded a 20-sen compensation or he would bring the matter up with his parents. Reluctantly, the older boy paid him. In those days, stuff on loan came with a tacit agreement -- if it was damaged or lost, you had to pay for it unless the owner refused compensation.
When I saw what happened, I was glad I did not have money that day. I would have caused greater damage to the Chopper because I did not know how to ride a bicycle at the time.
I realised that I had to learn and, to do so, I had to own a bicycle. From that day onwards, I would frequently stop by a bicycle shop near where we lived to ask the owner whether he had any old bicycles for sale.
One day, tired of my persistence, he told me to look at an old bicycle in his storeroom. It was a Norton. Its frames were rusted and the tyres were bald. The chain guard was missing and the cogwheels were covered in grime. But, it was good enough for me. The owner asked for RM15 for it. I told him I did not have the money but if he could keep it for a few days, I would buy it.
In not days but the weeks that followed, I went fund raising. I gathered and sold used beer bottles.
In those days, soy sauce factories paid nine sen for a large Guinness or Anchor bottle and four sen for half-sized ones. When I had enough money, I went back to the shop and bought the bicycle.
Perhaps out of pity, the owner also helped me to fix the bicycle. He allowed me to use his tools and taught me to use kerosene to remove the grime. I learned how to remove the links of the lengthened chain and even patch up a punctured tyre using a piece of cut tubing and rubber cement.
Learning how to cycle was one of the rites of passage children those days had to go through before they left primary school. No matter how many times we fell and bruised our limbs (and pride), we got back up and tried again. We cycled everywhere.
Back then motorists were kinder to cyclists. Although today cycling has been elevated to a healthy pursuit, there are few places in the city where you can ride safely. Even the parks do not have proper cycling tracks and most of the time, cyclists risk their lives riding along busy roads.
Monday, July 19, 2010
Can't we do something about the canteen?
AN errant canteen operator at a school I know will not have his contract extended next year for repeatedly flouting the food preparation and hygiene guidelines set by the school board.
For the past year and a half, the school's canteen committee has been lenient on and accommodating to the operator, who gave various excuses.
Repeated advice to improve has fallen on deaf ears. When a dead lizard in the sambal of a student's meal came to the attention of the principal, the school board decided not to renew the contract when it ends this year.
Cases of school canteens not serving nutritious food are not new. Those whose food handling hygiene is suspect often go undetected until mass food poisoning makes the news. Go around the city schools and do a surprise check if you want to see the mockery that some canteen operators are making of the guidelines set by the authorities.
From what I gather, schools monitor their own canteens' cleanliness through a committee comprising teachers and students.
Because the school board does not have the power to fire, even if the canteen operator is caught red-handed flouting health and food preparation regulations, the school boards can only advise them and perhaps notify the Education Ministry for further action.
Maybe the process of awarding of contracts to canteen operators should be tightened. At present, the Education Ministry calls for tenders for canteen operations. Maybe it is time the schools and their PTAs be allowed to do so, at least in city schools. After all, who understands the students' needs better than their teachers and parents?
At one school I know, the canteen operator often cites the lack of profitability as an excuse for the monotonous menu and unpalatable food he serves. It is an open secret that some school canteen operators have more than one contract, with each canteen run by a proxy under a different company name. It is not too difficult to know how much profit a canteen operator makes, if you ask me, what more those that serve food of substandard quality.
But why should our children pay the price for the actions of unscrupulous canteen operators who give scant attention to food preparation and quality?
Aren't there canteen inspectors to conduct surprise checks to weed out unhygienic practices and make sure that the guidelines and conditions for the awarding of contracts are adhered to -- and to penalise those found guilty, or even blacklist and bar them from future contract applications?
Canteen operation is not a gold mine, a former operator tells me.
It comes with a heavy responsibility. One cannot operate a canteen business blinded by profit, although the captive market allows one to take advantage of the situation quite unnoticed.
Our children spend one-third of their 11 years of education at school. When they are hungry or thirsty, the canteen is their first venue of choice.
And if the canteen operator cannot even provide clean premises and palatable, affordable food, we should do something about it.
For the past year and a half, the school's canteen committee has been lenient on and accommodating to the operator, who gave various excuses.
Repeated advice to improve has fallen on deaf ears. When a dead lizard in the sambal of a student's meal came to the attention of the principal, the school board decided not to renew the contract when it ends this year.
Cases of school canteens not serving nutritious food are not new. Those whose food handling hygiene is suspect often go undetected until mass food poisoning makes the news. Go around the city schools and do a surprise check if you want to see the mockery that some canteen operators are making of the guidelines set by the authorities.
From what I gather, schools monitor their own canteens' cleanliness through a committee comprising teachers and students.
Because the school board does not have the power to fire, even if the canteen operator is caught red-handed flouting health and food preparation regulations, the school boards can only advise them and perhaps notify the Education Ministry for further action.
Maybe the process of awarding of contracts to canteen operators should be tightened. At present, the Education Ministry calls for tenders for canteen operations. Maybe it is time the schools and their PTAs be allowed to do so, at least in city schools. After all, who understands the students' needs better than their teachers and parents?
At one school I know, the canteen operator often cites the lack of profitability as an excuse for the monotonous menu and unpalatable food he serves. It is an open secret that some school canteen operators have more than one contract, with each canteen run by a proxy under a different company name. It is not too difficult to know how much profit a canteen operator makes, if you ask me, what more those that serve food of substandard quality.
But why should our children pay the price for the actions of unscrupulous canteen operators who give scant attention to food preparation and quality?
Aren't there canteen inspectors to conduct surprise checks to weed out unhygienic practices and make sure that the guidelines and conditions for the awarding of contracts are adhered to -- and to penalise those found guilty, or even blacklist and bar them from future contract applications?
Canteen operation is not a gold mine, a former operator tells me.
It comes with a heavy responsibility. One cannot operate a canteen business blinded by profit, although the captive market allows one to take advantage of the situation quite unnoticed.
Our children spend one-third of their 11 years of education at school. When they are hungry or thirsty, the canteen is their first venue of choice.
And if the canteen operator cannot even provide clean premises and palatable, affordable food, we should do something about it.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Missing the fruit trees of the good old days
WHERE have our fruit trees gone? Do you remember the red "jambu air" (rose apple) that was so sour that you could only eat it dipped in thick soya sauce and "cili padi"?
How about the green ones, so crunchy and sweet that you had to watch out for worms within its cottony pith?
Maybe you remember the red and white "jambu batu" (guavas) that used to grow along the roads and whose leaves were home to the best fighting spiders.
No, they are not the same ones you find at fruit stalls today. I am not talking about the giant ones but the smaller variety that are harder to bite into unless ripe. The fruits ripen on the trees if they are not plucked and they attract flocks of birds and other fruit eaters.
There were quite a number of "rambai" trees, too, in Jalan Sentul in the 1970s. There were a few "bacang" trees as well, until a road-widening project got rid of them. In the mornings, when you passed by the area, you could see freshly dropped fruits waiting to be picked.
Did you know that people did not pluck "bacang" those days? You collected them after they dropped from the tree because the fruits are considered sweeter once the tree is ready to give them to you.
There were other trees, too, including "buah sentul", "kuini", mangosteen, "ciku" and even wild durians. If you knew how to climb trees, you just helped yourself to their bounty. But if you couldn't, there was always something that you could use as a boomerang. And if the fruits were out of reach using either methods, you left them on the trees for the animals.
A friend with whom I shared some "emping belinjau" (a type of cracker) recently said that the nut from which the snack was made could only be found in Indonesia. I said we also had some in Kuala Terengganu back in the '70s. We called them "buah sakok", not "belinjau".
The tree had a cone-shaped foliage, waxy leaves, and bore fruits in small bunches. The fruits changed from green to yellow-orange as they matured, and to wine-red when ripe, after which they fell.
Locals collected the fallen fruits, stripped off the skin and fried the nuts in a "kuali" of sand over a slow fire.
Once cooked, the shells could easily be removed and the nuts eaten. They leave a bitter aftertaste and were popular snacks before potato chips were here. The nuts can also be flattened with a pestle, dried and deep-fried in oil to make tasty crackers.
During my recent trip there, my wish to show my friend the "belinjau" nut and the "buah keranji" (the velvety tamarind which has been immortalised in a "pantun") was dashed.
The fruit sellers at the Pasar Kedai Payang did not have any. One chap who was selling apples and oranges told me that both "tok peseng doh", which in local lingo loosely means the fruits were no longer fashionable. I hope he was joking.
Many of our indigenous fruit trees have disappeared, some because of development, others likely because people did not know how to enjoy them. I now wonder how the animals whose diet comprises the fruits that have disappeared are coping.
The morning roll-calls of the bulbuls and magpies that I used to wake up to are fading away.
One day last week, the lone tree shrew that used to scuttle across the wall of my condo at 7.45am each day to feed at the rubbish dump across the road did not appear. The next day I saw a flock of crows feeding on a carcass of a small furry animal.
I hope it was not the tree shrew's remains.
How about the green ones, so crunchy and sweet that you had to watch out for worms within its cottony pith?
Maybe you remember the red and white "jambu batu" (guavas) that used to grow along the roads and whose leaves were home to the best fighting spiders.
No, they are not the same ones you find at fruit stalls today. I am not talking about the giant ones but the smaller variety that are harder to bite into unless ripe. The fruits ripen on the trees if they are not plucked and they attract flocks of birds and other fruit eaters.
There were quite a number of "rambai" trees, too, in Jalan Sentul in the 1970s. There were a few "bacang" trees as well, until a road-widening project got rid of them. In the mornings, when you passed by the area, you could see freshly dropped fruits waiting to be picked.
Did you know that people did not pluck "bacang" those days? You collected them after they dropped from the tree because the fruits are considered sweeter once the tree is ready to give them to you.
There were other trees, too, including "buah sentul", "kuini", mangosteen, "ciku" and even wild durians. If you knew how to climb trees, you just helped yourself to their bounty. But if you couldn't, there was always something that you could use as a boomerang. And if the fruits were out of reach using either methods, you left them on the trees for the animals.
A friend with whom I shared some "emping belinjau" (a type of cracker) recently said that the nut from which the snack was made could only be found in Indonesia. I said we also had some in Kuala Terengganu back in the '70s. We called them "buah sakok", not "belinjau".
The tree had a cone-shaped foliage, waxy leaves, and bore fruits in small bunches. The fruits changed from green to yellow-orange as they matured, and to wine-red when ripe, after which they fell.
Locals collected the fallen fruits, stripped off the skin and fried the nuts in a "kuali" of sand over a slow fire.
Once cooked, the shells could easily be removed and the nuts eaten. They leave a bitter aftertaste and were popular snacks before potato chips were here. The nuts can also be flattened with a pestle, dried and deep-fried in oil to make tasty crackers.
During my recent trip there, my wish to show my friend the "belinjau" nut and the "buah keranji" (the velvety tamarind which has been immortalised in a "pantun") was dashed.
The fruit sellers at the Pasar Kedai Payang did not have any. One chap who was selling apples and oranges told me that both "tok peseng doh", which in local lingo loosely means the fruits were no longer fashionable. I hope he was joking.
Many of our indigenous fruit trees have disappeared, some because of development, others likely because people did not know how to enjoy them. I now wonder how the animals whose diet comprises the fruits that have disappeared are coping.
The morning roll-calls of the bulbuls and magpies that I used to wake up to are fading away.
One day last week, the lone tree shrew that used to scuttle across the wall of my condo at 7.45am each day to feed at the rubbish dump across the road did not appear. The next day I saw a flock of crows feeding on a carcass of a small furry animal.
I hope it was not the tree shrew's remains.
Monday, July 5, 2010
My sleepy but safe and clean hometown
AT the risk of being accused of bragging about my hometown, yes, I still think that Kuala Terengganu is one of the cleanest towns in the country. You should visit it one of these days to see it for yourself — as my family and I did with a family friend.
I would not have noticed the cleanliness had my wife not pointed it out to me. Throughout our four-day stay, we saw council sweepers at work at many times of the day and even late into the night, in areas including the town square Dataran Shahbandar, the parks and alleys. Their presence must have made litterbugs feel guilty.
I did not see any warning signs against littering. You know, those that say you will be fined RM500 if you are found guilty of littering. One sign I do remember seeing was at a traffic light junction leading into town. It read: “Tak rasa bersalah ke…? Buang sampah dari kenderaan anda ?” (Don’t you feel guilty throwing rubbish from your vehicles?).
Judging from the cleanliness at the junction, the gentle reminder must have stopped many motorists from throwing out tissues, sweet wrappers and such from their vehicles.
But cleanliness is not the only thing Kuala Terengganu can take pride in. Along Jalan Kampung China, my friend was surprised to see cast-iron drain covers still in use. If those were in Subang Jaya or Jinjang, he mused, they would not have lasted 24 hours before ending up in a junkyard in Puchong or Kepong.
I also noticed that the fire hydrants along the heritage row in Kampung Cina were mounted with solar-powered LED lights.
The flashing lights came on at dusk so that in the event of fire, the hydrants could easily be spotted from a distance. That many of the blinkers were still attached to the hydrants and in working condition could only mean that vandalism was not rampant in the coastal town.
The trees, lamp posts and traffic lights, too, were spared from buntings and banners advertising ubat kuat bank lelong or announcing a kenduri kahwin The walls of buildings we saw were free of graffiti or bills and in most cases, it only took a “Stick No Bill” sign to keep the walls clean.
Perhaps people in Kuala Terengganu are more law-abiding than city folk, my wife said. Yes, and literate, I added.
Although the town is still very much a sleepy hollow by nightfall, Dataran Shahbandar was a hive of activity.
A bazaar and a fun fair held in conjunction with the World Cup was the centre of attention. Late into the night, scores of locals and tourists were out enjoying the breeze or watching a live soccer match being screened on a giant TV screen.
The streets were pleasant to walk during the day, and safe even late into the night. One could enjoy a stroll without worrying about being mugged.
I also noticed that there were more council enforcement officers checking on expired parking meters than policemen doing their patrols on foot or bikes.
The only time I saw the men in blue was one evening when a road block was set up at a corner of town to nab those driving recklessly on the narrow one-way streets.
And if the lack of visible police presence can be interpreted as a sign of safety and low crime rate, then Kuala Terengganu has definitely got one over Kuala Lumpur.
I would not have noticed the cleanliness had my wife not pointed it out to me. Throughout our four-day stay, we saw council sweepers at work at many times of the day and even late into the night, in areas including the town square Dataran Shahbandar, the parks and alleys. Their presence must have made litterbugs feel guilty.
I did not see any warning signs against littering. You know, those that say you will be fined RM500 if you are found guilty of littering. One sign I do remember seeing was at a traffic light junction leading into town. It read: “Tak rasa bersalah ke…? Buang sampah dari kenderaan anda ?” (Don’t you feel guilty throwing rubbish from your vehicles?).
Judging from the cleanliness at the junction, the gentle reminder must have stopped many motorists from throwing out tissues, sweet wrappers and such from their vehicles.
But cleanliness is not the only thing Kuala Terengganu can take pride in. Along Jalan Kampung China, my friend was surprised to see cast-iron drain covers still in use. If those were in Subang Jaya or Jinjang, he mused, they would not have lasted 24 hours before ending up in a junkyard in Puchong or Kepong.
I also noticed that the fire hydrants along the heritage row in Kampung Cina were mounted with solar-powered LED lights.
The flashing lights came on at dusk so that in the event of fire, the hydrants could easily be spotted from a distance. That many of the blinkers were still attached to the hydrants and in working condition could only mean that vandalism was not rampant in the coastal town.
The trees, lamp posts and traffic lights, too, were spared from buntings and banners advertising ubat kuat bank lelong or announcing a kenduri kahwin The walls of buildings we saw were free of graffiti or bills and in most cases, it only took a “Stick No Bill” sign to keep the walls clean.
Perhaps people in Kuala Terengganu are more law-abiding than city folk, my wife said. Yes, and literate, I added.
Although the town is still very much a sleepy hollow by nightfall, Dataran Shahbandar was a hive of activity.
A bazaar and a fun fair held in conjunction with the World Cup was the centre of attention. Late into the night, scores of locals and tourists were out enjoying the breeze or watching a live soccer match being screened on a giant TV screen.
The streets were pleasant to walk during the day, and safe even late into the night. One could enjoy a stroll without worrying about being mugged.
I also noticed that there were more council enforcement officers checking on expired parking meters than policemen doing their patrols on foot or bikes.
The only time I saw the men in blue was one evening when a road block was set up at a corner of town to nab those driving recklessly on the narrow one-way streets.
And if the lack of visible police presence can be interpreted as a sign of safety and low crime rate, then Kuala Terengganu has definitely got one over Kuala Lumpur.
Monday, June 28, 2010
To scrap or not to scrap?
THE possibility of the Ujian Pencapian Sekolah Rendah (UPSR) and Penilaian Menengah Rendah (PMR) being abolished as part of a review of the school examination system puts me in a jam.
My wife said it was a good idea.
I said it was not.
She said with the two exams out of the way, children would be less pressured.
They only had to deal with the Sijil Pelajaran Malaysia at the end of Form Five.
At the risk of having my daily budu withdrawn from the dinner table, I argued that it could lead to a decline in the standard of education compared with our neighbours'.
Without a good system to ensure that after 11 years of education, our children knew as much as or more than those in, say, Singapore, we could lose our competitive edge internationally.
But my wife said the pressure on children as young as 11 was bad. Instead of becoming intelligent all-rounders, some had become bookworms who interacted better through Facebook than in person.
Competition is healthy, I said. The best way to measure academic excellence is to benchmark it against the public examinations we are planning to scrap.
Competition only becomes unhealthy when parents start to demand that their children get not only straight As but also full marks every time.
Some parents even resort to emotional blackmail, reminding their children to study hard because they had given up life's pleasures for the children to study in a good school.
Unreasonable ones even decide what career paths their children should choose, not realising that the choice is not what the child wants but a second chance to realise their own failed dreams through their children.
Most city parents take public examinations too seriously.
Look at tuition centre ads.
Their claim to fame is usually the number of top scorers they churn out.
Textbook publishers and authors, too, make good money from reference books. Check out the UPSR, PMR or STPM guides in the market at the start of a school year.
Even compilations of past year questions sell like hot cakes.
Not long ago, assessment tests were introduced to PMR and SPM students. Known as Ujian Intervensi (intervention test) and Ujian Diagnostik (diagnostic), these were held before the trials to identify the weakness of students in certain subjects and improve on them before they sat for the finals.
Over the years, these too have become a race for As.
Although the papers were set by the state Education Department, schools were not monitored nor required to hold the tests at the same time, one teacher told me.
Students pressured to do well by their parents resorted to exchanging test papers with their peers in other schools where the tests were held much earlier.
Unscrupulous teachers who had seen the papers earlier were known to discuss the questions at the tuition centres where they taught part-time.
As a result of the accurate "spot" questions, the tuition centres gained reputation for helping improve students' scores.
I told my wife that UPSR and PMR may be scrapped, provided educators came up with something that would not lead to the very situation we want to avoid.
If schools were allowed to self-assess their students in their own way, could they be objective and free from interference?
And who monitors the schools so that the academic abilities of the students they produce are of high standard?
Maybe we should ask our children if they think it is such a great idea that these exams be scrapped.
My wife said it was a good idea.
I said it was not.
She said with the two exams out of the way, children would be less pressured.
They only had to deal with the Sijil Pelajaran Malaysia at the end of Form Five.
At the risk of having my daily budu withdrawn from the dinner table, I argued that it could lead to a decline in the standard of education compared with our neighbours'.
Without a good system to ensure that after 11 years of education, our children knew as much as or more than those in, say, Singapore, we could lose our competitive edge internationally.
But my wife said the pressure on children as young as 11 was bad. Instead of becoming intelligent all-rounders, some had become bookworms who interacted better through Facebook than in person.
Competition is healthy, I said. The best way to measure academic excellence is to benchmark it against the public examinations we are planning to scrap.
Competition only becomes unhealthy when parents start to demand that their children get not only straight As but also full marks every time.
Some parents even resort to emotional blackmail, reminding their children to study hard because they had given up life's pleasures for the children to study in a good school.
Unreasonable ones even decide what career paths their children should choose, not realising that the choice is not what the child wants but a second chance to realise their own failed dreams through their children.
Most city parents take public examinations too seriously.
Look at tuition centre ads.
Their claim to fame is usually the number of top scorers they churn out.
Textbook publishers and authors, too, make good money from reference books. Check out the UPSR, PMR or STPM guides in the market at the start of a school year.
Even compilations of past year questions sell like hot cakes.
Not long ago, assessment tests were introduced to PMR and SPM students. Known as Ujian Intervensi (intervention test) and Ujian Diagnostik (diagnostic), these were held before the trials to identify the weakness of students in certain subjects and improve on them before they sat for the finals.
Over the years, these too have become a race for As.
Although the papers were set by the state Education Department, schools were not monitored nor required to hold the tests at the same time, one teacher told me.
Students pressured to do well by their parents resorted to exchanging test papers with their peers in other schools where the tests were held much earlier.
Unscrupulous teachers who had seen the papers earlier were known to discuss the questions at the tuition centres where they taught part-time.
As a result of the accurate "spot" questions, the tuition centres gained reputation for helping improve students' scores.
I told my wife that UPSR and PMR may be scrapped, provided educators came up with something that would not lead to the very situation we want to avoid.
If schools were allowed to self-assess their students in their own way, could they be objective and free from interference?
And who monitors the schools so that the academic abilities of the students they produce are of high standard?
Maybe we should ask our children if they think it is such a great idea that these exams be scrapped.
Monday, June 21, 2010
The arcane art of telling fakes from originals
IF you are looking for jerseys of your favourite soccer team now playing at the World Cup in South Africa, wait until late July if you want to get them real cheap. By that time, they will go a-begging, an expert bargain hunter told me.
Two weeks ago, jerseys were in season as I found out at the Uptown all-night market near my home. They had replaced Crocs shoes in popularity.
There was a shopping frenzy at the most crowded stall. The RM10 price tag of the jerseys in the bin must have been the cause for the enthusiasm.
One chap there says the soccer jerseys in vogue now come from the north. Prices range from RM10 to RM30 each, depending on the design and material. Of course, if you can afford it, it is better to get an original, failing which what traders call a "replica" or "AAA-grade" jersey will have to suffice. Triple-A grades are given to product samples for which new materials or designs are created by the original manufacturer to test the waters but in the case of jerseys at the pasar malam, your guess is as good as mine.
Apart from the price, some people say it is pretty difficult to tell the AAAs from the originals, although those in the know will tell you otherwise. One giveaway is the quality of the fabric used. In an original, it should feel silky and cool to the touch, and usually does not leave a crease when crumpled. The stitches should be uniform and equally spaced from the seams, and always done in an unbroken stream.
The best evidence yet is the badge. It should be embroidered and not printed. The symbols must be clear and correctly placed, and the letters legible. If they are not, it would probably be unwise for you to pay through your nose for the jersey. But I was stumped by the AAA jersey I was shown. It appeared to be genuine, right down to the collar label that says "Made in England".
One trader priced his AAA at RM65 a piece but said he would be happy to give a RM10 discount if I was really interested. He claimed that the AAAs he sold were just as good as the originals and no one would notice the difference, especially if other clothing worn measured up.
I was reminded of an accountant friend who needed a gold watch to match his expensive tuxedo when attending a black-tie function. He borrowed a "Rolex" from his brother's Petaling Street collection. My friend laughed when he related to me that someone prominent he met at the function actually complimented him on his good taste.
But what happened to the nasi lemak lady I heard about years ago was not so pleasant. She had a penchant for wearing gold bangles and one day the glitter attracted the attention of robbers.
Moments after the robbery, just as the woman was feeling a great sense of relief that all the jewellery she lost were fakes, the thugs returned and gave her a slap. They told her that if she could not afford gold, she should not wear fakes. I had a good laugh when neighbours related the incident to me.
As for the jerseys, I think they will look odd on me because I do not play soccer and am not the fan of any club. An Eagle Pagoda T-shirt will suffice for now. At least I can be sure that it is an original.
Two weeks ago, jerseys were in season as I found out at the Uptown all-night market near my home. They had replaced Crocs shoes in popularity.
There was a shopping frenzy at the most crowded stall. The RM10 price tag of the jerseys in the bin must have been the cause for the enthusiasm.
One chap there says the soccer jerseys in vogue now come from the north. Prices range from RM10 to RM30 each, depending on the design and material. Of course, if you can afford it, it is better to get an original, failing which what traders call a "replica" or "AAA-grade" jersey will have to suffice. Triple-A grades are given to product samples for which new materials or designs are created by the original manufacturer to test the waters but in the case of jerseys at the pasar malam, your guess is as good as mine.
Apart from the price, some people say it is pretty difficult to tell the AAAs from the originals, although those in the know will tell you otherwise. One giveaway is the quality of the fabric used. In an original, it should feel silky and cool to the touch, and usually does not leave a crease when crumpled. The stitches should be uniform and equally spaced from the seams, and always done in an unbroken stream.
The best evidence yet is the badge. It should be embroidered and not printed. The symbols must be clear and correctly placed, and the letters legible. If they are not, it would probably be unwise for you to pay through your nose for the jersey. But I was stumped by the AAA jersey I was shown. It appeared to be genuine, right down to the collar label that says "Made in England".
One trader priced his AAA at RM65 a piece but said he would be happy to give a RM10 discount if I was really interested. He claimed that the AAAs he sold were just as good as the originals and no one would notice the difference, especially if other clothing worn measured up.
I was reminded of an accountant friend who needed a gold watch to match his expensive tuxedo when attending a black-tie function. He borrowed a "Rolex" from his brother's Petaling Street collection. My friend laughed when he related to me that someone prominent he met at the function actually complimented him on his good taste.
But what happened to the nasi lemak lady I heard about years ago was not so pleasant. She had a penchant for wearing gold bangles and one day the glitter attracted the attention of robbers.
Moments after the robbery, just as the woman was feeling a great sense of relief that all the jewellery she lost were fakes, the thugs returned and gave her a slap. They told her that if she could not afford gold, she should not wear fakes. I had a good laugh when neighbours related the incident to me.
As for the jerseys, I think they will look odd on me because I do not play soccer and am not the fan of any club. An Eagle Pagoda T-shirt will suffice for now. At least I can be sure that it is an original.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Dumplings bring back memories of days gone by
AT one time, if you were a Chinese woman but did not know how to wrap a chang (Hokkien for glutinous rice dumplings), you risked being ridiculed for it was one of the skills that women were expected to acquire by the time they were of marrying age - along with the ability to make nienko (sticky glutinous rice cakes) and prepare tongyuen (sweet rice dumplings).
Before raffia strings came about, a mangrove reed called kiam chow was used to tie the dumplings. The reeds and bamboo leaves used to wrap the dumplings had to be soaked overnight to make them supple before they could be used.
Folding the bamboo leaves to wrap the dumplings is an art even origami experts would not dare to belittle. Two or three bamboo leaves are first overlapped and folded by crossing the ends to form a cone into which the glutinous rice and fillings are placed.
Then the protruding section of the leaves is folded down neatly to cover the fillings to form a pyramid.
The strand of reed is whipped twice around the girth of the pyramid, tightened just enough and secured with an overhand knot or two.
Tying the reed is just as tough. If it is pulled too hard, it will snap. Wrapped too tight and the dumplings may not cook, or worse, they may burst at the seams when the glutinous rice expands.
Even the boiling process is a lesson in patience. It is usually done over a slow wood fire to ensure that the dumplings do not split.
Of course, you may laugh when I tell you that in those days dumplings were only available during the Dragonboat Festival.
To ask for one before the fifth day of the fifth Chinese lunar month would raise eyebrows among those brought up in tradition-steeped families.
Elders would not be shy to tick you off and tell you that only those who were eager to depart their earthly existence would desire to eat a chang earlier than its intended time. There was a time and season for all things.
Preparatory work for the dumpling festival usually started as early as a month before the celebration, with the sourcing of bamboo leaves. They had to be plucked green, wiped clean and dried in the shade for a day or two before being stored for use.
Although imported bamboo leaves were sold, we did not buy them if we could find them in the wild, along the foothills of the now-forgotten Mimaland and even as far as Genting Highlands. Only mature leaves were plucked because they could stand hours of boiling without splitting.
A wedge-like knife tied to one end of a long bamboo pole is used to nudge the leaves off the stem.
You were not allowed to fell the entire bamboo stalk to strip the leaves. This was to ensure that the bamboo would still be there for the following year's festival.
Today, dumplings are available all year round. Commercialisation has taken the bite off custom and tradition.
Visit a hawker centre any day and chances are you will find many types of dumplings being sold.
And if you wish to learn how to make some before the Dragonboat Festival on Wednesday, you will probably find just as many videos on YouTube to teach you as well.
Before raffia strings came about, a mangrove reed called kiam chow was used to tie the dumplings. The reeds and bamboo leaves used to wrap the dumplings had to be soaked overnight to make them supple before they could be used.
Folding the bamboo leaves to wrap the dumplings is an art even origami experts would not dare to belittle. Two or three bamboo leaves are first overlapped and folded by crossing the ends to form a cone into which the glutinous rice and fillings are placed.
Then the protruding section of the leaves is folded down neatly to cover the fillings to form a pyramid.
The strand of reed is whipped twice around the girth of the pyramid, tightened just enough and secured with an overhand knot or two.
Tying the reed is just as tough. If it is pulled too hard, it will snap. Wrapped too tight and the dumplings may not cook, or worse, they may burst at the seams when the glutinous rice expands.
Even the boiling process is a lesson in patience. It is usually done over a slow wood fire to ensure that the dumplings do not split.
Of course, you may laugh when I tell you that in those days dumplings were only available during the Dragonboat Festival.
To ask for one before the fifth day of the fifth Chinese lunar month would raise eyebrows among those brought up in tradition-steeped families.
Elders would not be shy to tick you off and tell you that only those who were eager to depart their earthly existence would desire to eat a chang earlier than its intended time. There was a time and season for all things.
Preparatory work for the dumpling festival usually started as early as a month before the celebration, with the sourcing of bamboo leaves. They had to be plucked green, wiped clean and dried in the shade for a day or two before being stored for use.
Although imported bamboo leaves were sold, we did not buy them if we could find them in the wild, along the foothills of the now-forgotten Mimaland and even as far as Genting Highlands. Only mature leaves were plucked because they could stand hours of boiling without splitting.
A wedge-like knife tied to one end of a long bamboo pole is used to nudge the leaves off the stem.
You were not allowed to fell the entire bamboo stalk to strip the leaves. This was to ensure that the bamboo would still be there for the following year's festival.
Today, dumplings are available all year round. Commercialisation has taken the bite off custom and tradition.
Visit a hawker centre any day and chances are you will find many types of dumplings being sold.
And if you wish to learn how to make some before the Dragonboat Festival on Wednesday, you will probably find just as many videos on YouTube to teach you as well.
Monday, June 7, 2010
Need for Wikipedia-like database on local herbal remedies
MY colleague's son came down with a bad throat infection recently. Mouth ulcers caused the boy so much pain that he couldn't even swallow his saliva. Worried about the likelihood of dehydration should this continue, my colleague asked if I knew of a home remedy that could help. I know of a number of herbs, I said, but they might not be suitable for the boy. I suggested that she seek a doctor's advice.
When I was young, my grandmother used what the Terengganu Hokkien call ban tay gim whenever anybody had a sore throat. I don't know what the herb is called in English. I have scoured the web for pictures of the herb but have yet to find any.
A Malay friend suggested that it might be the pegaga Cina, a smaller species of the common pegaga (pennywort) used for ulam. He could be right, since the leaves of the herb look like the pegaga but are much smaller. The largest is about the size of a one sen coin at most. When crushed, the leaves give off a fruity fragrance similar to that of the jambu air (water apple). The herb can be found in the foothills and along streams. You can grow it in pots but you have to keep it in the shade and water it well.
For sore throat, several handfuls of the entire plant are needed. They are pounded into pulp and the juice is squeezed by hand. Wild tualang honey is added and the concoction is drunk immediately. It stings a little as it goes down the throat, but if it works, the soreness will be gone in a matter of hours.
When my family moved to Kuala Lumpur in the 1970s, we had the good fortune of living next door to a herbalist who had a shop in Lebuh Ampang.
The elderly lady taught me quite a bit about medicinal herbs, including a local herb used traditionally for sore throat relief. It was known as snake grass among the Hokkien. The herb is planted around the home not only to keep snakes away, as it is commonly believed, but also as a cure for sore throat and other ailments caused by excessive heat in the body.
Two or three mature leaves are collected and infused in hot water. The infusion is drunk warm and if you can get it past your throat without throwing up, chances are relief will come soon after. Usually those who find the remedy a bitter pill to swallow will soon learn to take better care of their health so as not to chance getting another sore throat. They will also understand why the Malays call it hempedu bumi or "gall of the earth".
In the old days, families living in the villages used many plants as herbal home remedies.
Most have been forgotten not only because sugar-coated pills are widely available and easier to swallow, but partly because of the fear of side effects modern medicine has instilled in us.
I wish there were a database in cyberspace on local herbs, set up along the lines of Wikipedia and updated by anyone who has expert knowledge of them.
This collective knowledge shared in the public domain would provide an insight into the diversity of our medical flora and hopefully inspire research on herbal remedies.
When I was young, my grandmother used what the Terengganu Hokkien call ban tay gim whenever anybody had a sore throat. I don't know what the herb is called in English. I have scoured the web for pictures of the herb but have yet to find any.
A Malay friend suggested that it might be the pegaga Cina, a smaller species of the common pegaga (pennywort) used for ulam. He could be right, since the leaves of the herb look like the pegaga but are much smaller. The largest is about the size of a one sen coin at most. When crushed, the leaves give off a fruity fragrance similar to that of the jambu air (water apple). The herb can be found in the foothills and along streams. You can grow it in pots but you have to keep it in the shade and water it well.
For sore throat, several handfuls of the entire plant are needed. They are pounded into pulp and the juice is squeezed by hand. Wild tualang honey is added and the concoction is drunk immediately. It stings a little as it goes down the throat, but if it works, the soreness will be gone in a matter of hours.
When my family moved to Kuala Lumpur in the 1970s, we had the good fortune of living next door to a herbalist who had a shop in Lebuh Ampang.
The elderly lady taught me quite a bit about medicinal herbs, including a local herb used traditionally for sore throat relief. It was known as snake grass among the Hokkien. The herb is planted around the home not only to keep snakes away, as it is commonly believed, but also as a cure for sore throat and other ailments caused by excessive heat in the body.
Two or three mature leaves are collected and infused in hot water. The infusion is drunk warm and if you can get it past your throat without throwing up, chances are relief will come soon after. Usually those who find the remedy a bitter pill to swallow will soon learn to take better care of their health so as not to chance getting another sore throat. They will also understand why the Malays call it hempedu bumi or "gall of the earth".
In the old days, families living in the villages used many plants as herbal home remedies.
Most have been forgotten not only because sugar-coated pills are widely available and easier to swallow, but partly because of the fear of side effects modern medicine has instilled in us.
I wish there were a database in cyberspace on local herbs, set up along the lines of Wikipedia and updated by anyone who has expert knowledge of them.
This collective knowledge shared in the public domain would provide an insight into the diversity of our medical flora and hopefully inspire research on herbal remedies.
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