Consummatum

Dear Sensei.

You're leaving now. After so long with us. I don't know why the state government refused to let you continue teaching us, to let you finish what you started. But it doesn't matter anymore. You're going. To where not even you know. Maybe you'll be done with Malaysia and go to that German Olympic Training Centre you were offered several years back. Not likely, I know, because you promised your sensei to improve the standard of Judo in Malaysia. And you're tied to that promise. Binding words, those are - and we know you're a man of your word.

But anyway, thank you. Thank you for being there for us. Thank you for teaching me my Osotogari. Thank you for clapping your hand on the small of my back before my first match at the Nationals, against that national player. Thank you for yelling at me whenever I lost a match.

Thank you for teaching us about spirit. About never giving up, no matter who the opponent. Thank you for telling us stories (the one about Kankenai, for instance, changed the way Tang and I thought about life, forever). Thank you for tending to our injuries, no matter how trivial, or how bad. You were there at the hospital when Vincent broke his collarbone, you were constantly on the phone with the doctors when Shahirah compressed a disc in Johor; you taught us conditioning to prevent most major injuries from happening. Remember when I passed out from a choke last year? You stopped the match when I turned blue, treated my neck muscles after the competition and joked about it in training afterwards. Stupid of me to have fallen forward.

Thank you for yelling at us when we were running. That the only reason we were to stop was if we passed out of exhaustion. Thank you for telling us about Steffi. Being compared to a girl was precisely what we needed, nevermind that she was one of the toughest judoka you ever taught. You told us she got up faster than all of us during Randori - and we didn't like that. So we got up. Again and again. Every time you slammed us to the ground.

Thank you for lying to us in the gym. I've lost count of the number of times you've said "One last time!" on the bench press, only to have it repeated again and again as we strained against the weights. You taught us style and you taught us technique, and you were never satisfied with our performances. Our Judo was shaped by your hands.

Most of all, Sensei, thank you for teaching us about life. Like politics, for instance. In Penang, you sat us down and talked to us till late in the night about our country. About how being sent for competitions on state money was no small thing - it wasn't the government's money, it was ours. About how our government heads were our servants, not our leaders - leaders only if they gained our respect and if they were willing to lay down their lives for us. Through Judo you taught us about obstacles, and how to deal with them; you taught us respect - for officials, opponents; you taught us attitude. To know what you want in life and to work hard towards it. No nasi lemak culture. No shortcuts.

We made an agreement with you very early on in 2008 to give up our social lives for Judo. And for academics. You gave us our priorities: exams first, Judo second, everything else after that. Those were the conditions of being in the state team, and you sat us down one Sunday to explain it to us. We agreed. We never complained afterwards, because it was clear what you expected of us. And everytime I came close to falling from exhaustion I reminded myself that it was this deal I made with you, that we made with you, and it was my choice. And somehow I always managed to carry on. Thank you for pushing me to my limits, and for making me find out that my limits aren't so clear cut after all.

And do you know that Horng Eng's leadership style, Tang's management can-do, my teaching technique for debate, these were all from you? We learned more about leadership from your Judo than we did from anywhere else (the *ahem* prefectorial board, for instance - but that's just ironic considering Horng Eng and Steffi were both head girls). You were a great leader. And yes, we know you're not without your faults - but you taught us that being human was no excuse for stagnating. Come to think of it, you didn't like excuses. Period.

My last lesson with you was on Saturday. I didn't know what to say, when I shook your hand: "Goodbye Sensei. Thank you for -" and my brain froze up. Circuit overload. I struggled for the right word, and settled for: "- everything."

You smiled. "You're welcomed," you said to me. "I hope you learned something."

"I did! Spirit ... Not giving up, Judo." Clipped. Staccato. A rush of images behind each word.

"Good, good." I stepped back to collect my shoes, my gi, to leave my last lesson under you. "Oh and - ?" you cut in. I turned.

"Remember to pay your fees."

Damn.

Goodbye Sensei. Wherever you'll be, whatever you do. We'll miss you. I'll miss you.

Take care.

Heavy

I found out I was 64kg today.

That made me feel very bad. I went downstairs and opened the fridge and took out a bar of Elvan chocolate and finished that, and then I opened the larder and took out a bag of sugared cookies and finished that, and then I went to the dining room and opened a packet of Mentos and sucked on that.

Then I was better so I watched the Olympics until I felt thinner, and then I went back upstairs to stare at my Physics textbooks for the next four hours.

Which is all a lie.

But here's the sad fact: my lie isn't too far from the truth. Over the past 2 months I had been doing all of the above, only over the space of weeks, not hours. I hadn't been to the gym, played Judo or ran in those 60 days, and I had a bad shock when I stepped on the scales in the afternoon.

Let me clarify. Weighing yourself isn't as easy as jumping on a scale and screaming your head off. I stripped down to my underwear and distributed my weight evenly on the metal surface, and then I stared as the meter swiveled up, up past the 60 kg mark and onwards to the half-point. I was in my parents' bathroom - a completely weird thing to do and probably even weirder had they barged in. Imagine finding your teenage son near naked and staring at an analog meter.

Totally freaky.

(Oh and by the way, if you ever get the opportunity to play at a national level Judo tournament be sure to bring nice underwear. The weighing-in ceremony takes place in a roomful of opponents, random coaches and fierce-looking officials - in your underwear - so it makes sense to leave your pink playboys at home. I find it really distracting to fight against a guy in a thong - don't you?)

So anyway I found out I was 64 kg. Which meant that I was 4 kg overweight. I figured that at least 2 kg of that was water (I sweated out as much the last major tournament), and since I had not being gaining muscle in the past 2 months .... the other 2 kg was fat.

Damn.

I started running. I knew what I was getting myself into, but I strapped on my shoes and plugged in my iPod and got my dog all excited at the prospect of a walk. She rushed out wag wag wag. Poor girl.

And everything came back to me quickly. The slap of rubber on cement, the steady thump of beats from my earbuds, the smell of sweat as it trickled down my chin. And the pain! Oh how welcomed the pain was! A burning sensation reached out from inside my chest and spread its fingers down, past my solar plexus, stabbing right into the stomach muscles. It hurt so badly! Breathe. Stabofpain. Breathe. Wobbly legs. I thought back to the afternoons being yelled at by Sensei and kept at it.

The idea behind running is to maintain a rapid pulse, and to keep at it for a good period of time. 1 kg, for instance, takes approximately half an hour of aerobic running to burn. And my metabolic rate had skyrocketed after training this year - while my training intensity had gone down my hunger hadn't. I can now eat two packets of rice and still forage for cookies. D'oh.

I came back and stripped down and weighed myself again. The analog meter swung right up, up, past the 60 kg mark, and it settled at ... 64.

Dammit I'm fat.

Studystack

Been studying 4-5 hours a day, which is torture if it wasn't for a steady stream of good music. The following are a few albums I've been listening to on near constant loop for the past few days. Click on any one of them to listen to download one song from that album ... not the best, but the most listener-friendly.

Note: I'm an alt junkie, so all of the above music are from the alternative genre. Metro Station is the only band you'll hear on Malaysian radio - they're new, relatively unknown, and the lead singer is Miley Cyrus's older brother Trace. Paradoxically, he actually makes decent music.

Commonwealth

Title: One And The Same
Topic Number: Class A: 3, Is The World Becoming Tribal Or Global?

Mr Brigham is slightly excited when the plane touches down. He has been promising himself a holiday for five years now, and this year he finally puts his foot down and shuts his wife up and packs his bags. By George he is going to have a holiday, he tells himself, he deserves it. And nevermind the mortgage for three days. Nevermind the travelling expenses. He needs a reprieve from the humdrum of daily life, so the month before he goes off to the travel agency and picks the most exotic location he has never heard of.

The brochure reads ‘Malaysia’. It has a picture of an Orangutan in the front, some leaves at the border, and a very fierce looking warrior-type man with a wooden shield. Mr Brigham likes it immediately. He signs up to stay with a local family, because he is a Smart Man. Smart Men do not fall for tribal wish-wash on travel brochures: they want the Real Thing, and living with a Malaysian family for three days is as close to the Real Thing as Mr Brigham can possibly get.

So here he sits, a cup of peanuts in hand and awaiting his first gasp of Malaysian air. The airport is all sleek steel and shiny metal, but Mr Brigham ignores this and looks beyond. He sees a highway full of rushing cars: Mitsubishis and BMWs and local Protons. Mr Brigham ignores this and looks beyond still: ah! Dense tropical foliage! They did not have this in Britain!

Mr Brigham snaps a picture through his airplane window and chuckles to himself. It was quite a pity Mrs Brigham hated travelling, or she, too, would be enjoying this beautiful first glimpse of Alien Country.

Mr Brigham gets out of the plane at last and takes a deep breath. He wants to savour local oxygen, but what he gets instead is a solid blast of cold, dry air conditioner. It is much like the sharp sting after a spell of English rain.

Mr Brigham doesn't mind: he is sure the air outside the airport is warm and humid and nothing like London's. So off he goes to collect his bags at the carousel, out the whoosh of the sliding glass doors, and he finds himself in the midst of a bustling multi-racial world.

Mr Brigham is suddenly very happy to see so many different faces. There are sharp-featured Indians, slant-eyed Chinese and a brown-skinned people he supposes are Malay. He feels like he is in Canada again, where he cannot tell who is what. He taps a porter curiously and asks: "Excuse me sir, are you Malay?"

The porter smiles back and says: "Hello sir I am Chinese!"

"Oh!" Mr Brigham exclaims. He looks around the arrivals lounge and recovers quickly: "And that fellow there - he is Chinese, I suppose?"

"Tunku," the porter's mouth twitches, "is a Malay."

"But you look so alike!"

The porter frowns for a moment. He does not look pleased. "All of us sir - including you - are quite alike."

But Mr Brigham sees his family now, waving his name, and he excuses himself. He is bouncing with his bags by the time he reaches them.

Hello! Hello! Hello! they say, and he loads his bags into Mr Goh’s car. As they drive down the highway Mr Brigham acquaints himself with the family: Mr Goh is an insurance salesman, Mrs Goh is a housewife, and Michael is a teenager, a whole career in itself. Mr Brigham is pleased with his family; he does not notice the huge roadside billboards advertising everything from plasma televisions to perfume.

When they arrive in Kuala Lumpur Mr Brigham wants to eat. He sees all these interesting little coffee shops, tucked away in corners and populated by the uncles and aunties of the country. He supposes this is where the beating heart of Malaysia lies: over kaya toast and teh tarik; however, he cannot be sure. The Gohs take a turn and the old shophouses disappear behind a curtain of flyovers, skyscrapers and monorail lines.

They take him to eat in a food court in Midvalley Megamall. The mall is obvious; the valley is not. As Mr Brigham eats his five ringgit nasi lemak he sees a funny looking stall. To his consternation it reads ‘authentic Scottish Western traditional fish’. He tells the Gohs no such thing exists. Michael tells him the food there is very nice.

The Gohs bring him back to their home, and Mr Brigham finds his room very tolerable. He is tired after a long flight, so after watching 30 minutes of a Lost rerun with the family he goes to bed. The Ikea comforters the Gohs use are so comfortable they’re almost like the ones back home. Mr Brigham sleeps well.

The next day the Gohs take him out to the National Zoo, where the orangutans and the elephants and the monkeys look exactly the same as the orangutans and the elephants and the monkeys back in Twycross. Nothing escapes import, Mr Brigham says, and he feigns interest in a sleeping Bengal tiger.

After the zoo they eat at this trendy haute cuisine place, only trendy is subjective to preference. The Gohs dig into their food with gusto, but Mr Brigham’s moustache droops at the thought of how unoriginal his foie gras is. He makes a note to remind the Gohs to bring him to a traditional Malaysian coffee shop (‘mamak’, the glossy in-flight magazine calls it) for a taste of true local fare. Then he eats his foie gras and finds the dish to be international standard. He can close his eyes and imagine for a moment – almost – that he is in New York.

When they reach home the Gohs spring a surpirse on him: the Durian. With the smell of hell and the taste of high heaven the Durian is the King of Malaysian fruits. The Gohs tell him there is no middle ground with this one: he will either love it or hate it. Mr Brigham takes one, finds it remarkably better than the sample his Indonesian clients once opened in his office, and then finishes six pieces. He keeps up the act of a naïve foreigner throughout (oh my God it stinks!) and the Gohs smile and laugh with him. “Nothing escapes import,” repeats Mr Brigham, just before he goes to sleep – some part of his brain tells him he has tried nothing very different in this country, but he is too tired and collapses snoring onto his Swedish covers.

Mr Brigham has always been good with young people, so he goes out the next day with Michael and his friends. They strike up a lively conversation about football on the LRT to the shopping centre. Mr Brigham supports Liverpool; but Michael and Eric argue vehemently for Manchester United, and Navi is a Chelsea supporter.

“I once read somewhere that soccer is responsible for something akin to culture genocide.” Navi says.

“Oh really? Why so?”

“It’s like a virus: it spreads all over the world and wipes out the traditional games it comes into contact with. You never wondered? Malaysia, for instance – football is pretty much a part of our everyday life.”

“Oh you play it?”

“Sometimes.” Eric answers. “We watch it more.”

Mr Brigham keeps quiet for awhile. “And Malaysian football?” he asks, “Do you watch that?”

All three boys burst into laughter. “No! Absolutely not!” Michael says, and Eric cuts in: “English football is the best.”

They head for Berjaya Times Square, and Mr Brigham wants to know what music they listen to. He is – by now – completely unsurprised when they squeal ‘My Chemical Romance!’ – his nephew back in London has the exact same taste. He enquires about local bands, and they take him to Borders and pop headphones on him and play OAG. Mr Brigham yelps and tears it off: his ears are attuned to The Beatles, so this music is horrible in comparison. On top of that they sound exactly like MCR.

They go off for lunch. Mr Brigham asks them to take him to a local mamak, but they laugh him off and bring him excitedly to a McDonalds. “Even if you have eaten in one before,” Navi says, “You’ll love the Ayam Goreng McD – they won’t have that in England now, would they?”

Mr Brigham goes home that day staring at every coffee shop passing him by. The Malaysian night air is warm and unhealthy – the city is big enough and modern enough to have its own air pollution index – but he takes a deep breath at every station, when the doors electronically open and a crush of new passengers enter. Mr Brigham is reminded of his hitchhiking days, when smells announced new places: sea-smell for Cornwall, bread-smell for Paris, the sharp bite of coffee-smell for Rome. Here the air is marked by heat and rain, and the barest hints of spicy cooking, but it is also interwoven with the smells of Big City. Smoke and dust and sweat are whisked in with the people, and Mr Brigham coughs.

He reaches home to (finally!) some authentic Malaysian cooking – Mrs Goh sets the table as Michael and him relate their day, and Mr Goh folds his newspaper and laughs at all the right places. Dinner is a few stir-fried vegetable dishes and chicken, which Mrs Goh has cooked with rice wine. Mr Brigham enjoys this meal tremendously. After dinner he discusses global affairs with Mr Goh: Iraq, Iran, the US presidential elections, before retiring to bed. He chuckles to himself while brushing his teeth: “Mr Obama is spiffy, don’t you think?” Mr Goh had said, “Far more exciting lah than any Malaysian politician you’ll ever see.”

The next day is Mr Brigham’s last, and they are off for a traditional dance and orchestral ensemble at Istana Budaya. Mr Brigham looks forward to this: he can barely sit still as the lights dim and the clash of gongs announce the dancers.

As Mr Brigham gets his taste of Malaysian culture we should consider, for a moment, what the show represents. Dance was once the communal draw in the fishing villages of the country, and people grew up breathing in its beat … forgetting the fish, the weather and the sea in the trance of the Gamelan or the Joget. Now it is a preserved commodity, its collection of liquid moves and music on a lifeline of audiences like Mr Brigham, trapped on stages playing to expensive seats, nothing more than a left-behind, a relic made obsolete by modern entertainment. Soccer wiped out stick games and Two-Old-Cat; videogames and television swallowed dance. The lucky become global and the tribal die, or it changes – until what you get is a heady mix of both; a hybrid in-between.

This diatribe plays somewhere at the back of Mr Brigham’s head, but the dance is short and sweet – a spike of instant gratification. Two hour shadow puppet epics must wait for another day; the Gohs now rush him back to pack up and strap on his travelling implements.

Mr Brigham presents the Gohs with a bottle of red wine. He tells them he has enjoyed his stay, and he can’t wait to come back for another round. The Gohs twitter in approval, they load his bags into their car and send him to the airport.

It is only in the plane that Mr Brigham reviews his holiday. Mrs Brigham will surely demand a comprehensive report upon his return, of which he would lie and assure her it was very enjoyable, thank you very much, he did many New Things. But the truth is less cheerful: Mr Brigham finds Malaysia too much like the world, he is sick of fast food and zoos and copy-culture. He leans back in his seat and closes his eyes for the whole of ten seconds. Then his hand reaches up into his breast pocket, and he retrieves what he has picked up on his way to the departure terminal.

It is a purple brochure. It has a picture of a temple in the front, some leaves at the border, and an Indian dancer with ruby marriage spot and golden trinkets. Mr Brigham likes it immediately. He loves the photos inside even more: there is no sign of a shopping mall anywhere and the people walking within are clad in sandals.

It might be three years or so before Mr Brigham can get away with another holiday. But he is a Smart Man, and Smart Men know what they want. This time he wants a tribal vacation, and – well now – India sounds like a good bet, doesn’t it? Mr Brigham closes his eyes once more. The plane shudders, it lifts him up into the air and past wispy clouds, back into the sky, where he really belongs.

*

When I was in Form Four I remember going through a strict submission process for the Commonwealth Essay competition in my school. The teacher in charge was a supposedly brilliant one, famous in 'the whole of Kuching' for teaching English and Literature. I did not like her. The first draft I submitted was entitiled 'The Experiment', and it involved God pressing the reset button on planet Earth.

The essay came back to me with a terse: "Typical cloak and dagger story with the Almighty at the end. Not original." Okay, I thought. I sat down and redid my essay, this time on another topic: "Tell us something you're good at, and what it means to you." I wrote about writing, because I loved it, was good at it, and had being doing it since I was seven. I got called to the staffroom.

The teacher sat me down at her table, took out my draft and looked me in the eye. "The judges," she said, "Are looking for something good. Something honest, maybe original. You should write about something you're really good at; something you can write honestly about. This topic you've chosen, about writing ... you're not very good at it."

Oh, I loved that. I remember thinking to myself: who are you to talk about writing? I left the staffroom, promptly quit the competition, and I didn't submit anything for the rest of my St Thom school life. St Thomas's won nothing that year, and had a draught for five.

Until now.

To that teacher, wherever you are (and God have mercy on your students): this essay is for you. People like you exist to make sure that not everyone becomes good in their respective fields: you are the shit filter and you ensure the weak never actualize their potential. You provide a necessary function in our society, much like the bottom feeder and the short trader, or perhaps the guy who boos at all the wrong moments in a football match.

God bless you.