Of petai and not being Malay enough...

I recently received a forward email on the goodness and virtues of eating petai (parkia speciosa). Well I have nothing against petai, and maybe some of the things espoused are true. But I do not go out of my way seeking petai and I never eat them raw. I only like them in sambal tumis udang.

Two months ago I was invited to my Canadian colleagues' house for dinner. And surprise, surprise – for the main course, which was fillet of cod in caramelised sauce, the cook had used sautéed petai beans as the accompanying vegetables. Fascinating and not altogether unappealing. Apparently Marilyn had found the petai in some exotic vegetables outlet in one of the upmarket stores here and decided to use them for her menu. Fancy that.

Years ago, when I was just starting my career, a colleague once hung a string of petai on my office door with a loud written message “eat more of this so you’ll be more Malay”! I was more amused than indignant, and thought how pathetic the chap who did it was. I knew he and a few of my colleagues had perceived me to be rather western, just because I like classic music, read English novels, go to the British Council and the Alliance Francais for movies, and by coincidence had just came back after a year’s course in England.

I called him up and challenged him to define what ‘being Malay’ was all about. I asked him if he’d like to debate me on that! He never took up the challenge but kept hounding me for my ‘Mat Salleh’ ways and even called me Mr. Chopin–Choping for liking classical music. Little did he know about Chopin or classical music.

Well all that did not deter me from pursuing the things I like and being myself. And no harm done either. Over the years that colleague and I went on to pursue our careers and a number of times, we even took over from each other at various assignments. We became supportive of each other, especially after I took over one extremely challenging assignment in which he suffered a great tragedy, and survived, and he paved for me to take over the assignment more comfortably. And I think he finally saw me as I am – like the lines in S. Samad Said’s poem beautifully voiced by Sharifah Aini in her 1980 “Suara Hati’ album,

" aku tak pernah barat di tengah-tengah Timur….. dan aku tetap manusia timur di tengah-tengah Barat! ”.

(I am never too western in an eastern environment. And I am still an easterner in a western environment.

And I have always had and am still getting the very best of both worlds. Alhamdulillah!

Mimi and Rodolfo

I recently came across a video clip of the aria “Che Gelida Manina’ by the late Luciano Pavarotti from the 1979 La Scala, Milan production of Giacomo Puccini’s opera ‘La Boheme’. He appeared with Ileana Cotrubas as Mimi.

It made me think of little Mimi, daughter of my friend and ‘ancient’ classmate Randhir and his Filipina wife Vicki. Years ago when I visited them in Melbourne, Mimi was a pretty wide-eyed, hyper-active little girl. I remember telling her the story from the La Boheme opera, of her poor and sickly namesake with the ‘frozen little hands’ and how Rodolfo, the struggling painter and poet sang to her in his dark and cold moonlit room as Mimi came to borrow a candle from him to lit her equally dark and cold room. Little Mimi listened in awe, eyes all wide-opened. She must be a beautiful young lady now.

(Randhir if you are reading this I hope your back pain is not troubling you too much).

Back to 'Che Gelida Manina’ which means ‘what frozen little hands’, it has always been one of my favourite arias. Every time I hear it, I get a choking feeling and even had tears in my eyes once, watching a tv concert version of it by Pavarotti. The lyrics are not all that sad but it is the melody and the mood of the song, the ups and downs of the music, its soaring crescendo, and Paravotti reaching the high notes that really got me.

I am happy to have seen a couple of live productions of ‘La Boheme’. The one I like best was the 1990 Polish production in Warsaw just before the communist era came to an end. It was a very lush production and I loved the orchestral repetition of some bars of the music from ‘Che Gelida Manina’ being played throughout the opera. And what a finale – Rodolfo’s heart-wrenching scream of ‘Mimi.....!’ when she expired at the end of the opera. That and again the soaring crescendo literally makes your heart stop!

La Boheme tells the story of the bohemian lifestyle of struggling artists in the Latin Quarter of Paris in the 1930s. When I was in New York in 2000, there was a modern adaptation of the opera called RENT, a tale of struggling artists and their poverty in New York in the 1980s against the backdrop of rising homelessness and AIDs.

But it was just too raunchy and loud for me!

La Paz - Bolivia

Last night, I watched the new James Bond movie Quantum of Solace, a big segment of which was filmed in La Paz, Bolivia. I was pleased with this as it bought back memories of my visits to that exceptional city between 2000 – 2002. What stuck me was how the non-Bolivian actors were strutting about energetically, no trace of panting or breathlessness. They must have acclimatised well (they were acting anyway!).

I remember whenever arriving La Paz's El Alto airport, minutes after exiting the aircraft I would feel a dozen needles in my head, followed by some degree of breathlessness if I walk fast or carry heavy things. La Paz airport is 4082 metres above sea level, and that was the reaction your would get.

I would then go down to the main part of the city, some 500 metres below The rest of the city and residential go all way down the rather steep mountainous settlement to about 3200 metres above sea level. I would normally have to lie down or sleep for some 8/10 hours before I could get acclimatised to the altitude before going about doing my stuff. And I had to drink a lot of coca tea for stabilization.

I remember La Paz to be an old, bustling and noisy city of a million people, not very attractive nor clean but with a very distinct character of its own. The natives are very much a feature of the population unlike some other Latin American cities like Bogota, Santiago and Buenos Aires where they hardly exist anymore. Being so high, the sun seemed so close and was always so blinding. The very dry air ensured that most things you touch resulted in statics – little electric shocks!

La Paz had a multiple micro-climates according to each zone's altitudes. From subsequent visits I learnt that the lower down I go, the better the air was and the less I was prone to breathlessness and pins in my hand. And the better facilities – hotels, shops, restaurants were also in the lower part especially the Aranquez area. It was a very divided city indeed, the rich lived in the lower parts while the rest inhabited the grotty and crowded upper parts. I read somewhere that La Paz is now a vibrant and expanding city. The country finally have a native for a president.

I love going to the night markets as there were many interesting ethic things to see and buy, not to mention some luxury smuggled goods! At night La Paz took on an extraordinary magic with almost fairy tale–like lights shimmering all over the valley of the Chuquiago Marka where the city is located. They look like a million diamonds in the sky!

During on one of my visits to La Paz, I booked a cruise on the Lake Titicaca , the highest navigable body of water in the world (I ate the best trout ever from that lake, the flesh was pink like salmon). The evening before the tour, I was told by the operator that the lake would not be accessible for the tour as the farmers had blocked miles of the road leading to it by putting rocks and boulders in protest against the Government lack of assistance to them...

Ok, I’ll not go into that!

Anyway, I did finally manage to do my cruise of Lake Titicaca from Puno in Peru, which was on the other side of Bolivia (Bolivia and Peru share the Lake and the border is somewhere on the lake). I even took a drive into Bolivia from Puno, to a colourful border town called Copacabana (surely not Barry Manilow's inspiration for his song!). But my loyal travelling companion, good old Sze Tho, did not have a visa to enter Bolivia from Peru. We negotiated with the Immigration Officer to let us in for a few hours only and his condition was that Sze Tho had to leave his passport behind and collect it upon return. Against all adds, having driven all that far, we agreed.

All the two hours in Copacabana we were constantly thinking if we were going to get the passport back, or whether Sze Tho will and up in some grotty Bolivian prison!

He got his passport back!

The other place I frequented in Bolivia was Santa Cruz and that had a totally different ambiance and landscape (and many aspirants Miss World/Miss Universe or Miss whatever!). I’ll write about it another time. Hasta luego .....

Pumpkins and Honesty

Two Saturdays ago I was invited to a Watch Museum, followed by a cheese fondue lunch at a typical restaurant in a very scenic countryside. I was not crazy about the fondue and was so relieved when I got home to see that the cook has left a large platter of fried kueh tiau and some salad for my dinner.

Driving back from lunch I passed these "mountains" of pumpkins of all sizes, shapes and colours by the roadside. Typically, the owner was not there, and the different pumpkins and their prices were clearly indicated. There was a money box on a table. You just need to choose the pumpkins you want and put the exact amount of money in the box. That’s how trusting people are here and a good degree of honesty is also expected from you (anyone could take any amount of pumpkins and drive off without paying, AND take along the money box as well...).

I took two different types of pumpkins and put in the exact amount of money accordingly. No doubt my pumpkins would turn up as sayur lemak, pengat and kueh koci (the cook always mix pumpkin pulp with the tepung pulut so the kueh koci will not be so sticky as to pull someone’s false teeth out when eating them !!!).

Back to the issue of honesty at trustworthiness, indeed very strong features among the people here. In summer you could drive along the country side and farms and there are always piles of vegetables and fruits left unattended with a weighing machine and a money box, and the same principle applies. Also the same at flower nurseries.

Isn’t it refreshing that one can still be at some corner of the world where some essential human virtues are still prevailing…

Jean-Luis Misar

A few months after my arrival here I met an artist on entering my office building. He had an atelier in the basement of the building. On finding out I was interested in paintings he invited me to visit his atelier. I told him I would gladly come in an hour or so after going through my desk.

A few minutes later he appeared in my office and insisted he accompany me to his atelier. He then noticed the paintings on my wall, among others, my own watercolour calligraphy of ‘Allah’ – always my favourite subject. He was so fascinated by them that he announced he wanted to do similar paintings and I should guide with the Arabic script.

That was the beginning of a friendship and collaboration with the 90 year old artist. Jean-Luis Misar had been painting all his life, going from one genre to another from the very conventional to the very modern and geometrical. He had even worked on some Hollywood and French films and would later show me his rich portfolios.

He then went on with such enthusiasm to make a painting of ‘Allah’, coming up with several prototypes and samples. I must confess to not being totally enamoured by his very exact and precise style of executing the painting but I encouraged him nevertheless. We finally decided on one which would be the final product and he said he would frame it and present it to my office.

When he presented me with the painting, he asked what I thought of the frame and I had to be honest and told him that I would have chosen a modern frame to suit the style of the painting. Obviously disappointed with my reaction Jean-Luis implored “but mon amie/mein bruder (my friend (in French), my brother (in German), I searched all over the city for a suitable frame as a mark of respect of your Islamic tradition!".

It’s amazing how, he with no English at all, and me with no French and a smattering of German, would somehow communicate!

Some time later I went to Istanbul for a holiday and was introduced to an owner of one of Istanbul ’s best–know art gallery. He asked if I could introduce him to an artist from where I came to do an exhibition in his gallery and I immediate thought of Jean-Luis.

A few weeks after my return I called Jean-Luis and his wife answered and said he was not well and she would call me when he was able to see me. She called a week later and said I could come to their house. On arrival she alerted me of what I was about to see. Dear Jean-Luis had become totally blind after a recent stroke. I was very sad.... How tragic for someone who had for the most part of his life been working with colours to now only see darkness. But he was so cheerful, positive and philosophical, hugging me and clasping my palms, endlessly calling me ' mon amie/mein bruder' . He was excited about the prospect of an exhibition in Istanbul when I broached the subject. He went on and on about the paintings he would still want to do based on music he was now listening to and the inspiration of his now total darkness. His wife only looked at me in anxiety...

I would later gave him some classical music CDs, invited him to my house for lunch from time to time, visited him and encouraged him as much as my time permitted. It was beginning to be hard to have a conversation with him as he would be repeating the same things again and again. And I could see that his condition was taking a toll an his wife who patiently and lovingly looked after him 24 hours a day.

Jean-Luis told me to go to his atelier and take any paintings I wanted for myself. Out of respect for his family, I only took one (he had already given to me one that very first day I visited the atelier and my choice too upon his insistence, and the painting of Allah). His paintings were clearly not cheap and hung in may corporate offices and buildings.

Some weeks later I met his wife outside the office building and I asked about Jean-Luis. She was surprised and asked if I did not receive the note she sent me a week before announcing his demise. I did not ……

Jean-Luis Misar, a short but beautiful chapter in my life. May you rest in peace.

To see his other paintings please see my Gallery Dindingmas at my art website :
http://ancoraobraz.net/collection/

Yoga and I

So now we are not allowed to practice yoga! Too bad, but it does not affect me anymore. My yoga days are long gone now. But I feel sorry for my fellow Malaysian Muslim practitioners of yoga if the ban really comes into effect. I took up yoga way back in 1976 with a fervour and it did me a lot of good for several years until the enthusiasm wore off and I just got too lazy and undisciplined to continue.

I started my yoga training at the Viviekananda Ashrama in Brickfields (that old building was a subject of a recent controversy when it was proposed for demolition to make way for a modern development. I wonder what has happened since then).

I found nothing religious in the way I did my yoga and it did not bring me any closer to Hinduism nor threatened my Islamic faith in any way! We were just a big, mixed group of people doing all kinds of breathing, stretching and bending exercise and at the end of each session, some relaxing meditation. I remember feeling very good after each session and subsequently in the long run. I was more energetic, I even lost weight and I could finally control my appetite. And I was particularly proud that I could do a perfect headstand, like in the photo taken in 1977 in Cherating (pardon/maaf anyone if is offended by my lack of covering!).

I kept doing yoga on my own even when I was overseas from 1979-1985. When I returned to KL I enrolled again for a refresher course at the same ashrama.

Alas, as the years passed I stopped doing yoga. I can still do some of the exercises and the one that I still do from time to time is the morning churning of the stomach and the breathing exercises. I wonder if I can still stand on my head as well as I did. The last time I did it was already some years back, it did not help that over the years I put on weight too.

I hope this controversy over yoga will come to a rational and positive conclusion. And we can all just go on with our lives and focus on more pressing matters...

Toby

In late 1996, when I had just set up home after returning from Australia, a little ginger kitten appeared at my front door just as I was leaving for work one morning. I gave it a bowl of milk. When I returned that evening it was still there at my front door, as if waiting for me.
I then decided that it wanted to adopt me as its owner! So the little ginger kitten, a he, came to live inside my house and I named him Toby. And what a joy he turned out to be. He brought out so much love in me and he almost had a 'human' rapport with me. Like a 'manja' child, he was always waiting for my return and was always happy when I was home since he spent most of the days locked-up in the house. The first thing he would do would be to run to the bedroom, wait for me to open the door, then run to the bathroom and jump up into the sink and expectantly wait for me to turn the tap for him to drink the water. That was his peculiarity; he would only drink from running water!

We lived happily in the corner terrace house with the lush garden a friend once described as ' orderly-disorderly'! Whatever, it was my own private Eden, and Toby was happiest when he was playing in it.

I travelled a lot in that three years, and Toby would always find a temporary home in my brother's house in Shah Alam, with an equally lush garden, and would find company in my brother's family cats, the wild Osama and the 'old lady' Minky. He was so at home in that house.

When I moved to Peru, Toby followed me, travelling some 25 hours in two air crafts. When we reached our destination he was a little perplexed at first but took only a day or two to make himself at home in the new house with the enormous garden and the 12 feet surrounding garden wall.

He was the happiest of cats, always patrolling the top of the wall which he managed to climb on to from a branch of a tree. Once he had a fight with a visiting neighbour's dog and was bitten in the stomach. It took a long time for me and the vet to realise that he had been bitten. He was just not himself and had lost so much weight. When the deep dog bites were finally discovered, he was almost a goner but the patient doctor operated on him, sewed the three deep gashes that had joined up to become one horrifying tear on his tummy, and came to see him daily till he was alright. Thereafter a month of confinement, and Toby was good as new. Of course the first he did upon release was to climb up the tree, onto the wall to patrol his territory.

Alas two years into my stay in Peru I developed a very bad allergy to Toby. He could not come near me without me breaking up into uncontrollable sneezing, teary and extremely itchy eyes. I put up with it for the love of the darling cat and often sent him to the vet to be bathed and groomed which had a temporary relief for me. But when I had a major operation, it was decided that Toby should not be the cause of further discomfort to me especially in my recuperative process.

Thus again Toby flew some 25 hours back to Malaysia, with Anita who came to see me through my operation. He has since lived with her and my brother in their huge Shah Alam house with their cats Osama (the terror we call him) and Minky, who had since passed on.

Yesterday Anita called, and among other things, told me that Toby was really getting old (he's more than 12 year old now) and slow but that he was alright and was well looked-after especially by my nephew Andreas.

I had not seen Toby for almost a year. Last month when I was back on leave, I went to visit my brother and Anita and as I arrived, Toby was at the neighbour's. I called out to him and went to pick him up. His immediate response was 'violent', he was hissing and growling and biting me endlessly but not hard enough to cause any bleeding. When he finally calmed down, he purred like a Harley Davidson - that's my Toby, always purring in my embrace. It was as if he was showing me how upset he was with me for being away so long.... It was the very same scenario when I picked him up before leaving.

My darling Toby, you gave Papa so much joy the 5 years we lived together.I hope you will still be there when Papa finally come home.....