She Bites

Being awaken in the morning by a set of five mini-teeth firmly sunk in your nose is by far not a very pleasant experience, or normal, for that matter. People invented alarm-clocks for that very purpose. Yet, I find myself making quite generous exceptions these days. The little carnivore I am currently living with is growing her teeth and, consequently, has a bit of affinity with biting things, my nose included. On the good side, however, it does get me from a state of deep sleep into high battle-readiness in seconds; a feat comparable to Masai warriors of Africa.

The other parts of my anatomy are not exactly safe either. I was peacefully enjoying my dinner the other day when I felt a sharp pain on my left leg. Fighting off the impulse to violently shake my legs, I decided to look under the table. Sure enough, there she was, testing the consistency of my right calf-muscle with her fangs.

These random and unprovoked attacks are getting more frequent lately. I tried reasoning with her but I received some blank stares and intelligible mumblings for all my troubles. My effort to rigorously discipline her was met with eardrum-shattering cry and matching stamina. My comrade in arms, her mother, only shrugged and said something about it being a phase that she was going through.

My mind even refuses to contemplate what the next phase would be.

My Valentines

As my junior high school friend ever so subtly put it, February is the official 'Bulan Bercinta'--the month of loving. And it all culminates on February the 14th. The Valentine's day.

Yes, break that old piggy bank. Start shopping for that special someone, be it already acquired or at the courting stage. Get a box of chocolate, a dozen of roses. Get something fluffy and pink. Or heart-shaped. Be somebody. Better yet, be somebody's somebody special. Yes, stop flying under the radar. Make the control tower jolt. Go for it. You only live once.

And this year, all I want is to see them emerge from Sydney Airport's arrival gate. That is worth all the chocolates in the northern part of New South Wales.

Embrace

I wasn't a big ice cream fan. They're not thirst-quenching. Ice, of all variants, is supposed to quench thirst. For me it was more like a sweet cold meal. And most of them come in small quantities. A couple of years ago, a friend bought me an alarmingly small cup of strawberry ice cream at some fancy parlour. The reddish thing with bits of strawberries in it was tagged at thirty grands. Ridiculous. Of course, I didn't tell him that.

This afternoon, however, I developed an unusual craving for ice cream. So when the ice cream truck passed by I flagged it down and ask the man for 'a liter of something good'. In exchange for six dollars, he gave me a container of something called Embrace, which according to the label translated into 'choc coffee almond swirl'. The surface was so pretty with off-white ice cream and dark brown chocolate coating in a pattern that closely resembled a submarine propeller. Plus a liberal amount of chopped almond scattered here and there. I stared for a full minute before resolving to stab my spoon at it.

What followed was a phenomenon many culinary expert recognized as a flavour explosion. Not a kaboom-there-goes-your-limbs explosion. Rather, it was subtle and elegant. Like the burst of ink deployed by a scared squid. I swore I could feel the chocolate and coffee swirled hand in hand like a pair of champion ballroom dancers in my tongue, stepping on my every taste bud to make sure that I knew they were good. It's chocolatylicious, coffeelicious, almondylicious. Delifuckinglicious.

The first spoonful sent me into an ice cream frenzy. Initially, I planned to be civilized and ate out of small bowl. But when I felt that scooping the ice cream into the bowl took what seemed like aeons I just dug in straight from the container. I didn't know where I was. The whole world turned mute. All I felt was this sensation of sheer grandeur in my mouth. Teasing, flirting, and bewitching like 19th century French courtesan. When I came to, I was halfway down the container. There went my resolution to a healthier life. I knew there was little I could do but surrender in its embrace. And dug in some more.

O, Wounded Hearts, Trivialize Thy Pains..

Yeah..as if it's easy

What Cigarettes do to Your Lungs

It's all pretty hazy now. But I distinctly remember that there was a time when playing football was actually fun. Nonetheless, as I lay there, flat on my back, my chest felt like a furnace and and my head was throbbing agonizingly, I wished that I had liked chess instead.

I used to play a lot when I was a kid. Every afternoon, I would go down to the football pitch near my house and played until sundown. That's nearly two hours of football. Scurrying here and there. Everyday.

I remember feeling like Maradona everytime I scored a goal. Or like Hans Van Breukelen when I went into full-stretch dive to deny one. I could still recall what it was like to be hacked down while running or the clashing of shin-bones when I tackled. What I don't remember is that feeling of having my life sucked out of me every time I finished playing.

I don't get it. Where is that kid now? Has he really became this decrepit of a bloke who is lying on the grass gasping for air?

Reflection in the Dark

Remember when you went home on a night bus or train? It was pitch dark out there. You couldn't see a thing. Even so, you still tried to look. And mused. And mused. And mused. But then you realized that all you did was marveling at your own reflection on the window. And suddenly you felt guilty of being narcissistic.

t.A.T.u

Hmm..let's see..two teenage girls, Russian accent, wet school uniform. What's not to like?

Saat Pulang

Jadi teringat saat pulang. Menjenguk keluarga di Cilacap, bermalam bujang di Jogja, atau menjumpai kekasih di Semarang. Bersusah payah antri tiket di Pasar Senen jam tiga siang, tapi akhirnya mencari sela di balik bangku paling belakang. Gelar koran, rebahkan badan.

Hebat juga kalau dipikir-pikir. Betapa selembar tipis koran bisa membuat lantai kereta jadi sedikit beradab. Dan terkesan higinis. Lha, mau bagaimana lagi. Sampai sekarang belum bisa menguasai seni tidur sambil duduk.

Kompartemen tidur milik pribadi. Kepala tidak harus berjajar dengan kaki. Wajah tidak harus terlangkahi. Badan yang terguncang-guncang, lelap dalam buaian. Irama kereta jadi lagu pengantar tidur. Kaki terjulur di lorong, jadi sandungan bagi siapapun yang lewat. Tidak ada yang protes. Semua mafhum.

Lepas Cikampek. Lutut ditepuk oleh kondektur. Karcis! Diucapkan dengan lafal yang khas. Diiringi bunyi cekrak-cekrik pembolong kertas. Beberapa kali mencoba tidak beli karcis. Menyuap kondektur dua kali. Tapi hati tidak tenteram, tidur tidak tenang. Tidak sepadan. Kondektur lewat sambil dikawal polisi. Senjata laras panjang yang disandang di punggung. Konon tanpa peluru.

Bangun karena lantunan terhenti. Rupanya Cirebon. Saat makan malam. Belasan penjaja menawarkan nasi bungkus di kantong-kantong plastik berwarna-warni. Merah telur, hijau ayam, biru rendang ati sapi. Lengkap dengan seplastik air putih hangat untuk diminum atau mencuci tangan. Biasanya layak, tetapi terkadang basi. Tergantung hoki. Sajian malam ditutup dengan kopi di cangkir plastik. Nescafe, Tugu Luwak, atau Kapal Api

Cirebon adalah awal dari rangkaian pedagang asongan. Semua naik berganti-ganti. Pedagang Cirebon turun di Brebes. Pedagang Brebes turun di Tegal. Demikian seterusnya. Mainan, nasi bungkus, air mineral, minuman ringan, jagung rebus, mangga, berbagai jenis kacang dan keripik, dodol garut, wingko babat, kerupuk, rokok, dan terasi. Berpura-pura tidur untuk menghindari rayuan maut tahu sumedang dan cabai rawit hijau.

Empat jam lagi pagi akan menjelang. Dan kaki akan menapak Kroya, Tugu, atau Tawang. Pulang.

Tribute

Dudek
Hyppia
Finnan
Carragher
Traore
Riise
Alonso
Kewell
Gerrard
Hamann
Garcia
Smicer
Baros
Cisse
Benitez
for a memorable night. may 25, 2005

Out of Reach

You've made the decision.
Some things are behind you now.
Some things are out of bounds.
Even when it seems they are not.

Look at me in the eye.
They are beyond you now.
Don't even think of reaching out.
Lie to yourself if you have to.

Now, say it over, and over, and over, and over.
Say it as you inhale.
Say it as you exhale.
And say it in between.

End of Trimester Recap

Here's what I've learnt so far. There's a good boss, and there's a bad boss. And in the spirit of not looking at things in black and white, the difference between them is not very clear sometimes. Or perhaps, should not be made clear.

Happy employees are not neccessarily productive employees. It takes an extensive compensation plan, valid job design, clear career planning, competency-based training scheme, fair job evaluation mechanism, and rewarding retirement plan to make a happy employee a productive one. For good measure, throw in a company T-shirt or coffee mug. The relationship between happiness and satisfaction is yet to be established. However, motivation is highly important. Apparently, human motivation is a pyramid with 'physical need' written at the bottom and 'self-actualization' at the top.

Human resource policies should take into consideration issues like balancing work and life, which means that work should not interfere with personal life. Or was it the other way around? Either way, office romance is a big no-no. Furthermore, the company should not discriminate its employees on the basis of age, religion and belief system, sex--including sexual orientation, nationality, race, language, attractiveness, mental health, and body odor. Unless. Oh, I like this bit. Unless specifically needed to do the job.

Leaders are made, not born. Although, technically, they should be born first and then made. There are a vast range of activities aimed to create leaders. The majority of them require external consultant. Good leaders should be able to inspire his men, and women. In this sense, Hitler is a good leader. Deluded, but good nonetheless. I wonder if it's the moustache. Upon closer examination, the mile-long list of criteria for being a good leader is frighteningly close to the job description of a god.

All that, and the fact that internet connection and the printer start to conspire against you about two hours before the deadline of your assignment. Now if you'd excuse me, I'm going to enjoy my summer holiday..

Recounting Today

It's pretty late now. SBS has had enough for the day. It leaves a still image of the globe on the screen and the alluring voice of some lady singing something melancholic in French. At the bottom, a running text proclaims that her CD is available in appointed stores or by phone order. A sip of red liquid, the produce of an unheard-of cellar, helps me to recount the tiny pieces that intertwine to form the 24-hour period more aptly known as a day.

Amor, amor, amor. The goddess of love teased and flirted. Promises of heavenly pleasures brought down to earth at my disposal. It's within reach, she winked. But there will be hell to pay.

Fighting off virtual demon with virtual bow and arrows in an equally virtual realm. Blood spilt, cities ransacked, glory gained, time killed. But to what end?

An angel is growing her fifth teeth. Cooing and laughing over the phone. But she cried when I called her name. O Angel, it's criminal that I spend more time being lonely than being with you. And your mother.

The northern wind dropped by and gave hints of impending disaster. Homecoming won't be as smooth as I would expect. Oh, the politics of interconnecting two family trees.

Oh well, it's one of those days.

The Tamarind of the Mountain--the Salt of the Sea

I am smitten by Limewire. For the past 5 hours, I've been tracking down the songs that had been the theme-songs of my, uhm, younger days. And in doing so I accidentally came upon a song called Asam di Gunung dan Garam di Laut, whose literal translation makes up the title of this posting.

The song is your everyday dangdut song. It's a more optimistic take on unrequited love. The message is that despite the distance, the tamarind and the salt will eventually meet in a sauce pan. If the day's menu happens to feature sour soup or thom yam, that is. However, the catchiest thing about the song is its intro. After a short burst of piano, the singer, a guy named Ona Sutra, immediately deliver the following limerick:

Tanam pinang rapat-rapat,
agar puyuh tak dapat lari.
Kupinang-pinang tak dapat-dapat,
Kurayu-rayu kubawa bernyanyi..

..which in English would sound somewhat like:

Plant the palm trees in a tight line,
so that the quail shan't flee.
Everytime I propose, you always decline,
so ceaselessly shall I entice you by singing merrily..

Simply brilliant! The translation could use some work, but I suppose it's close enough. Now, if I used that line to a girl, I would definitely be at the receiving end of a blank stare, at best. However, this guy somehow manages to deliver it in such a way that convinces you that he will eventually get the girl. Goddamn, how I envy the charisma and confidence of dangdut singers...


PS. To Suparman of Jalan Rajiman, Cilacap. This is for you, man..wherever you are..

Cilacap This Morning

It’s four o’clock. The dawn is yet to break and the streets are silently asleep. The row of closed shops is bathed in orange light from street lamps. The serenity is only disturbed by occasional roaring of Aman and Utama buses, the town’s only bus companies, prowling Cilacap’s main streets in search for passengers before they depart for Yogyakarta or Semarang. However, the noise does not seem to bother the local lunatic who sleeps in front of Toko Kemenangan, a strip of sidewalk he apparently calls home.

At the other end of the street, the becak drivers congregating in front of Damri pool are rustled from their sleep by the arrival of the first Damri coach from Jakarta. Their colleagues in Terminal, the town’s only bus station in the northern part of the town, are similarly awakened by Sinar Jaya, also from Jakarta, and early Purwokerto buses, the likes of Putra Remaja and Keluarga.

It’s five o’clock. Cilacap is stirring. The firsts of Patal employees begin arriving for the morning shift. They pedal their old jengki bicycles all the way from Kroya, Adipala, or Maos, some 20 kilos away. Riding in long rows, they resemble the Tour de France—without the glamour, of course. Morning chill, rain, or meager pay never seems to stop them. That is until the mass layoff in early 2000s.

At this time, the serabi* vendor near Brug Menceng**, is besieged by her loyal customers. Under their watchful eyes, she skillfully tends to five clay stoves arranged neatly in semicircle to her right. Not a movement wasted. She lifts the cooked serabi from the pan, puts it on the wicker basket on her left, dabs the pan with coconut oil, pour the serabi mix, and put the lid on top. Then she moves to the next stove and with remarkable fluidity the process is repeated. Somehow she also manages to take orders, handle the monetary side of the business, wrap the right number of serabi for the right customer, make coffee, and engage in small talk.

Elsewhere, people start their morning walk to the beach, or ‘kisik’ as the locals call it. Cilacapians have a soft spot for watching sunrises. On Sundays they come in droves, young and old. Bursts of laughter break amidst the sound of footsteps and the pedaling of bicycles. Kids don’t walk, they run. Worried warnings can occasionally be heard as the brats stray to the middle of the street. By five thirty, the beach that stretches from THR, that’s Taman Hiburan Rakyat—People’s Amusement Park, to Areal 70 in the south is rife with festivities. Balloon and toy vendors compete to lure children and ambush their unsuspecting parents. Other children shriek in delights among the sound of the breaking waves. A young couple with a toddler wrapped in warm jacket simply content to lean to each other and watch the reddish eastern sky.

Back in town, Purbaya sounds its horn to mark its departure for Surabaya. The train has always been the favorites of students going to Yogyakarta. If you walk from the front car to the rear, you’re a bound to meet old friends, be they from elementary, junior high, or high school. It happens every time.

The green minivans that comprise the town’s public transport start to operate. People from other cities refer to them as ‘angkot’, a short form of ‘angkutan kota’—the city transport. However Cilacapians prefer to call them by its full name; angkutan kota. There are two main routes of angkutan kota. The Lomanis route caters for the western part of the town, while the Damalang serves the east. Both routes start from the Pasar Gedhe, the main market, to Terminal and vice versa.

It’s six o’clock. The town has fully come to life. The brisk pace of morning commutes can be felt in the air. Students stand in roadsides, waiting for angkutan kota. Often they watch helplessly as the green minivans, already filled to the brim with luckier students, pass them by. Other flocks in bicycles, chattering about homework or their latest crushes. The Pertamina school bus, reserved only for the offspring of the oil company’s employees, picks up students from the town’s Pertamina housing complexes; Tegal Katilayu, Gunung Simping, and Lomanis.

Civil servants, unmistakable in their khaki uniforms, and other workers ride their motorcycles alongside cars, becak, and angkutan kota. Some have children in red and white uniform clutching tightly at their waist. The town’s main street, Jalan Ahmad Yani, is the busiest. On one end it has three schools, Yos Sudarso High, Pius Elementary, and State Junior High 1, while on the other, right across the city square, lies the District Office, locally known as the Kabupaten. However, except for rainy days, traffic jam is extremely rare.

It’s seven o’clock in Cilacap. If you’re still on the streets, you’re late.


* Serabi is some sort of pancake made from rice flour, coconut milk, and god knows what else.
** ‘brug’ is Banyumasan for bridge, probably derived from Dutch. While ‘menceng’ means askew. The bridge is so named because it doesn’t lie in a straight angle from the street.

Warning

She said,'If you're gonna pull that act on me again, at least give me a warning'. By that she meant disappearing on her. No mails, no text, no calls. None whatsoever.

So he did. A two week notice.

To which she responded,'That's very nice of you, but you know what? F**k you!!'

Falling Away

...
staying awake to chase a dream
tasting the air you're breathing in
I hope I won't forget a thing

promise to hold you close and pray
watching the fantasies decay
nothing will ever stay the same

and all of the love we threw away
and all of the hopes we've cherished fade
making the same mistakes again
making the same mistakes again

and I feel my world crumbling,
and I feel my life crumbling down,
I can feel my soul crumbling away,
and falling away,
falling away with you
...

muse: falling away

Recently, I have found myself walking on the forbidden path. Again. The flame that flickered is now burning. It's funny that I don't want it to die out. Although it should. It should.

Cats in the Craddle

I tried not to overdramatize this. Really, I did. I mean, the kid has been producing all sort of noises unintelligible to anyone but her mother. I've heard some of them. The cooing, near-hysteric laughter, and heart-wrenching cries of various pitches and loudness. So this was bound to happen. The kid would eventually talk some time soon. It should not be a surprise.

It was. It so was. When her mother in her usual offhand manner sent me a text message saying that the kid had uttered 'mama' and 'papa', I was momentarily reduced to a state of comatose. It's funny how elation and rage decided to mix. Bloody hell! How much more of this I have got to miss?

I was not there when she was born. I was not there when she learnt to roll on her tummy. Neither was I there when she finally managed to sit and crawl.

Oh, well. Hopefully I'm going to be there for her first step. First day of school. First of many teenage tantrums. I will be there to cross-examine her first boyfriend, or girlfriend for that matter. I should be there for her wedding day, if she decided to marry, that is. At the rate of nowaday's cultural evolution, you never really know.

Man, it's really hard to type with your fingers crossed.

A Flickering Flame of Old

Does it still burn? Does it ignite? Is it now strong as it was might?

Crackle, crackle.
Light the firecracker.

Your eyes cut right into me as you sip your camomile tea. You put your cup down and ask me candidly.

Fluttery, fluttery.
Is that a butterfly in my tummy?

I did not mean to stare. Neither did I mean to make you scared. But do you know that despite the blushes your eyes do seem to glow?

Everywhere, nowhere.
Can you tell me if it's still there?

Lebaran

Yes, the big day is finally here. Due to a bit of mix-up, I didn't get to do the annual Eid prayer. I had always thought that Eid would be this Tuesday, but apparently the moslems in Australia had other idea. Oh, well.

It is appaling, however, that missing out on the prayer didn't trouble me. Rather, it's the absence of the usual festivities that surrounds Lebaran--which is how they lovingly call Eid back home. There are no people incessantly calling the infamous "Allahuakbar walilla ilham" through a mosque loudspeaker, something that never fails to stir something inside me. No firecrackers are being lit. No people dressed in new clothing wishing one another Happy Eid and asking for forgiveness. And the most devastating of them all, there is no sign whatsoever of the three pillars of Lebaran: ketupat, opor ayam, and cookies. It's just, well, sad.

Evidently, my conception of Lebaran has not changed since I was five, which is, again, sad. Despite all the sermons I listened to all those years, I remain faithful to the traditional rather than the spiritual side of Eid. The reason being that the former is obviously much more fun. Yes, Ramadhan is a time to cleanse our soul. Yes, Eid is the day of victory when our faith is renewed and our sins are written off. Yes, during the following months we must maintain our conduct and harness our worldly cravings just like we did during the Ramadhan, thus being better persons. But seriously, how fun is Lebaran without ketupat, opor ayam, and cookies?

Anyway, Selamat Hari Raya Idul Fitri, Mohon Maaf Lahir dan Batin. Cheers!!

Mudik

It is the most exciting time of the year. It’s the time of the year when your backpack is bursting at the seams. There are that jeans you buy for your brothers. The sarong for your father and that four-in-one juicer your mother has always wanted. The new dress for your girlfriend. Toys for your numerous little nieces and nephews. T-shirts of various size and color for your uncles and cousins and headscarfs for your aunties. Not to mention a tin of dried biscuits, two cans of margarine, three packs of sugar, two bottles of syrup, and a pack dried peanuts that made up your office’s gift parcel.

It’s the time of the year when you pay twice the usual price for half the comfort. It’s time to sit on a newspaper on the floor of the station platform wondering if the train will ever come. It’s the most logical time to travel light but you consciously choose not to. And you immediately feel that you’re gonna be just fine when you see the young family sitting next to you has a large luggage, three traveling bags, four cardboard boxes—one of which positively identified as containing a stereo set, several smaller plastic bags, and worst of all, two unusually energetic children.

It’s the time of the year when you have to fight to get a seat because seat numbering means squat to some people. It’s even time for people to get into the train car from the windows. It’s time to rejoice when you hear the whistle is blown and the train slowly depart. You hear the blaring siren of Pasar Senen crossing and feel good because you won’t have to hear it for some time. It’s time to wonder how nice it would be if you don’t have to come back.

It’s the time of the year when the fan in the ceiling refuses to operate but you shrug it out. It’s time to sit in the sweltering heat and listen to people complaining about the state of the country’s public transportation system. And small children insisting on having their say in the loudest manner possible. And as you know you will have to another nine hours of this, you wonder when you will be able to afford an executive class train. And to add insult to the injury, Argo Bromo, complete with dark windows, curtain, cushion, and airconditioner, overtakes your train because it has the right of way. It’s the time to swear that next year you will get an Argo-class ticket even if you have to slaughter the entire office.

It’s the time of the year when your train has to stop for two hours in Prupuk to wait for extra locomotive from Purwokerto. Overloaded and overweight, your train needs to be pulled by two locomotives to negotiate the looming hills of Bumiayu. By now you have grown immune to the heat and perspiration. You can’t even hear the woman sitting next to you describing every member of her family tree with great detail, something she has been doing for two hours. You just look up to your backpack, think of what’s in it, and you’re in a happy place.

It’s the time of the year when you screamed silently as the train crosses Serayu River. It’s time for you to wonder in disbelief that ten hours ago you were sitting miserably at Pasar Senen. But it’s all behind you now. It’s the time when the swaying paddies sing with you. The trees greet you. The ducks, the buffaloes, and the cows smile at you. Every passing telephone pole bid you warm welcome. Your heartbeat quickens at the familiar sight of markets, railway crossings,hamlets, and back roads. It’s the time for you, and millions like you to enjoy the final moments of long and weary journey. And as the train slows down to a stop, you are reminded of those who are still waiting for trains in Pasar Senen, stuck in miles-long traffic jam in Pantura, struggling to get buses in Pulogadung, and queuing to board ferries in Merak.

Yes, it is the time of the year when a nation is coming home.


Newcastle, H-2