The Pigeon Man of Padang Nyiru

"'Tis a bird I love, with its brooding note,
And the trembling throb in its mottled throat;
There's a human look in its swelling breast,
And the gentle curve of its lowly crest;
And I often stop with the fear I feel--
He runs so close to the rapid wheel."

Lines from the Belfry Pigeon,
Nathaniel Parker Willis,
American author, editor
and (apparently) poet

Strangely appropriate - especially the bit about being "so close to the rapid wheel".

Can't get any closer to rapid wheels than this.

The pigeons have always been practically a fixture of this part of old Malacca ever since I could remember. They would be roosting on the traffic lights, the signboards, the quaint antiquated shophouses, and basically, any old thing they can perch on with their little birdie feets.

What struck me as odd is that the greatest number of the feral Rock Pigeons would always be congregating on the ground, and specifically, on a whole lane of the busy street at the Padang Nyiru junction - the end of Jalan Bendahara where the traditional Indian district is located. Local drivers are familiar with the flock there and avoiding them had become second nature. We let the mottled grey birds keep their little territory in the city because - well - they are part of that bit of town as much as the old buildings are around them. It's just not possible for us to picture the place without pigeons.

I always wondered what really attracted the avians there till I saw the Pigeon Man. I was still in lower secondary school years and I was in my mother's car on my way to the ol' alma mater for Taekwondo training on a Saturday. I remember a wide-brimmed straw hat, a grimy white singlet and the little sack of birdseeds he toted with him - but that's pretty much all I can recall now. Besides, I could hardly see him for the pigeons that flapped excitedly all around him. He was a silhouette in the midst and flurry of feathers.

That's the first and last time I saw of him.

Now every single time I drive past that spot, I kept an eye out for the old man. It's just something I do without thinking, like how I always split Oreos and eat the white cream filling first and the cookies later. To date, I have always been luckless. Sometimes, I wonder if I really did see him at all - but I guess I must have. At least, the pigeons seem to agree with me and waited for him every single day (from 8 AM, no less). The other half of the time, I wondered if the Pigeon Man have passed away over the years or just stopped coming to that place. Perhaps the pigeons are still flocking there based on some niggling fragment of memory in their little bird brains that some old bloke in a straw hat used to come with with goodies for them there - and the younger birds would just join them just because it seems like such a happening place to hang out at for them.

If he really is really gone, then this spot would be a monument to his memory - a constant reminder of a facet of the man he used to be - overly romanticised, I know. But who wouldn't want to be remembered, really? Who wouldn't want to leave a mark on earth as proof that they once lived and breathed and have done some good in this world - that their existence have not been a total waste of air and space? We remember the pharaohs because of the pyramids. We'll remember Dr. Mahathir for his twin towers (at least, till Malaysia becomes important enough for someone to kill the towers with a passenger plane). We see names on wooden boards dedicated to people who have funded the construction of new buildings in school, books of long-gone authors in the classics section, tombstones in cemeteries and initials in crude hearts carved into the bark of trees. There's a yearning in every person's soul to live on long after they have stopped living. It's a very human desire.

I have no idea how much the Pigeon Man wanted to be remembered - or how much he really cared anyway - but he had left a very visible sign that he was here. The pigeons will remember him.

Or if the pigeons ever leave the junction of Padang Nyiru, the boy who saw him will.

His legacy.

Who sometimes thinks a little more than necessary,
k0k s3n w4i

Lesson #12

The only thing that stands between you and free WiFi internet is your pride. Swallow it and ye shall receive.

Outside the Starbucks in Mahkota Parade, Malacca.

The Highlands of Penang and Char Kway Teow

"There are some kids who just make your hand itch to slap them."

Me

Day 3 of the Great Penang Road Trip

And here's some of those kids;

When I go to hell, this is what Satan has in store for me.

There is no hell scarier than one in which you're trapped in an achingly slow moving inclined train stuffed door to door with noisy, sniffy, gangster-ish primary school kids traveling up a hill.

It seemed to just go on and on. Pure torture.

I am speaking of the funicular railway of Penang Hill, which is also known by its Malay name, Bukit Bendera - and when God made it, he named it the Peak of Boredom. Sure, it's the de facto highest point of the island. Suuure it's several degrees cooler than the rest of Penang and you can pretty much see the whole of Georgetown from there. But all that didn't stop it from being mind-numbingly dull. You can actually hear your brain cells die screaming one-by-one up there.

If you're one of the locals looking for a good place to jog or to practice your tai chi, yoga or black sorcery, Penang Hill is your mountain. But if you're a tourist who came to Penang for a good time - like me - you're way out of the map on this one, buddy.

For great sceneries and old-fashioned, feel-good natural tranquility...

Dam.

... it's hard to beat the Ayer Itam Dam, further up the highlands where the famed Kek Lok Si Temple is located. Just drive past the temple till you fall into a lake, and thar you be, me hearties.

Okay, granted it's not that big a deal, but for Penang, it's kinda awesome in a small-islandish kinda way.

If I take a leak into the dam, all of Penang would technically be drinking my diluted piss right?

Neat.

And these are the villagers that would die if the dam breaks.

The clouds are causing a rad effect on the previous picture above, and on this next picture too;

Awesome - if I may say so myself.

That was my best picture in my whole three hours sojourn at the Kek Lok Si Temple, literally translated from Penang Hokkien as the Temple of Supreme Bliss.

Like I said, that was my best picture - so get prepared for a bumper-load of ugly, substandard ones. We stayed so long there because Sze Yin insisted to pay her respect to every deity in the place. But honestly, I don't drive that badly.

All I did was suggest that I turn off the engine and try rolling down the hill from the Ayer Itam Dam by gravity to save petrol. Perfectly reasonable, if you ask me.

And here's the kitten I played with while waiting for my genuflecting trip mates to catch up;

Mew.

I half wanted to smuggle it back to our room at the YMCA. I was sure my grandmother would approve of my bringing it back to Malacca if I tell her I got it from the temple and it's gonna bring luck to the family or something. Old people are suckers for this sort of stuff.

This scared me.

There's Minas KOMTAR yonder.

Huge lady.

It's a pity that on our visit, they were raising some sort of giant pavilion over the 30.2 m (about the size of a full grown blue whale) bronze statue of Kuan Yin, the Goddess of Mercy. I thought it was a daft idea really because she would look a lot more serene (and well, bigger) if she's just framed against the vast, empty sky.

By the time we reached the pagoda (in the first Kek Lok Si Temple picture I showed you), it had started raining - quite heavily actually - but pagodas don't climb themselves, you know;

Pagoda and raindrops.

It is seven storeys high but I can almost swear that it's closer to seventeen. The steps were steep and slick with rain, and the stench of lizard and roach droppings permeated the musty air. Considering the amount of devotees' cash they are getting *cough*giantpavilion*cough*, you'd think they would have enough left over to hire someone to sweep the place.

The pagoda has Chinese octagonal foundation floors, middle bits of Thai design, and a crown of Burmese aesthetics; reflecting the temple's embrace of both Mahayana and Theravada Buddhism. How they managed to do that is quite beyond me (I am referring to the inclusion of the two very different doctrines, not the architectural mishmash, of course).

Kek Lok Si is top-grade place to hang out if you're the religious sort - there's a Buddha of every imaginable shape and size to cater to your every worshiping need. Even if you're not a Buddhist, the temple complex is a veritable treasure hoard of architectural eye candy. Just be prepared to shell out some bucks for admission if you want to check out the giant Goddess of Mercy statue or climb pagoda à la Viennetta.

After that, we headed for a different kind of religious experience;

Inn Shan posing with Auntie Kuay Teow.

Right before the trip, Inn Shan and I performed in-depth research into the cuisine scene of Penang, the often cited (and constantly self-proclaimed) capital of good eats of Malaysia. By research, I mean we read blogs written by Penang bloggers and kept score - writing down whichever place that got the most hype. The island's most beloved dish is without a doubt, the Char Kuey Teow - the grub that launched a thousand inferior imitations all over the nation.

And of the hundreds of stalls on the island, Sister Char Kuay Teow of Lorong Selamat beats the crap out of all the others. It has overwhelming mentions.

OVERWHELMING, I TELL YOU!

I think it's cool that the Auntie wears a bright, funky red hat. There's no way you can miss her. And the way she fry is pretty out of the ordinary too. There were instances when she bends real close over the wok, squinting at the sizzling noodles, prawns and bean sprouts as if she was trying to spot any sign of imperfection on them (if they dare to be imperfect!), hence the goggle-like glasses she sport. All geared up and meaning business, I can tell ya.

The Char Kuey Teow.

It's the best Char Kuey Teow I ever had in my life, naturally - obviously superior to the one I had at the hawker center at Gurney Drive.

Notably, this was the only time I enjoyed eating prawns so much. So... very... juicy! Normally, I avoid seafood like dogs avoid baths. Prawn is an especial dislike of mine because they look like giant maggots - you can't argue with me there. The Auntie had fried thin slices of Chinese sausage (what we refer to as "Laap Cheong") with the noodles which added a sweet tinge of flavour not found in Malaccan Char Kuey Teow. I suppose the fact that she cook with a charcoal stove instead of a conventional gas outfit adds up to the great taste too. Simply said, 'twas amazing!

Anyone who visits Penang must try this stall for Char Kuey Teow. If you didn't on your last trip, go back and get some. Now.

It's only three days and I have sampled all three of Malaysia's finest food. Malacca's Chicken Rice Ball takes first place in my heart, of course (it's treasonous any other way). Sorry Penangites, but I have to vote for Ipoh's Nga Choy Kai over your Char Kuey Teow. Of course, this does not subtract anything at all from its awesomeness.

When I went back for seconds, I had to line up again. And serve myself. Oh well, it's a teensy bit of inconvenience I was willing to suffer for the best Char Kuey Teow in Malaysia.

Thus conclude my post today. Good morning.



The serial traveloguer,
k0k s3n w4i

Other posts in my Great Penang Road Trip series:

• Day 1: The Very Best of Malacca and Ipoh
• Day 2: Sam Poh Tong and Other Holes, Georgetown and About, and The Secret Base of Dr. Sun Yat Sen
• Day 3: Pimp My Clanhouse
• Day 4: Journey to the Far Side of the Island, Semi Solid, but Mostly Fluid, and Diamond Bay Stopover
  

The Orange Bus

"I seek for one as fair and gay,
But find none to remind me,
How blest the hours pass'd away
With the girl I left behind me."

Unattributed author, The Girl I Left Behind Me

I remember that it came at 8 o'clock every morning, and it would horn when it did. If I did not come out from my house within the first ten seconds, it would just drive away without me. A cartoon picture of some sort was painted on the side of the orange bus, on the right side of the door - it was to make sure its little passengers get into the correct one after school. I remember the schoolyard and the many buses that waited there, all revved up to bring their charges home after their classes. All orange; my favourite colour then, and my favourite colour still.

I remembered that once after classes I reached the schoolyard a few minutes late because my class teacher had to talk to me about something which, by now, I have long forgotten. My bus driver thought I had ran off somewhere to play. He told me to hold my tiny hand up and spanked it sharply. His hands were enormous, calloused and hard as wood, and it hurt bad. I cried - that's the only thing I know I could do then. I told nobody because I was just too young to know that I did not deserve it.

I remembered that once in a week, I would be given a small white envelope by my grandmother to pass on to my class teacher. Inside, there would be a RM5 bill - a proper paper RM5 that actually smelled like money, unlike those polymer crap we use these days. I recall clutching these little white envelopes on certain days when I rode the bus, and putting them on my teacher's table when I get to school.

One day, for no reason at all, I got tired of giving the money to my teacher and instead handed it to a bunch of those big boys who sat at the back, telling them that it was a present. They wore long, olive-green pants and goes to a school nearby, and I remembered that they were very happy to get the money - much happier than my class teacher who merely counted the envelopes and put them away. I vowed to give the big boys all the envelopes from that day onwards. It seemed to do more good that way.

Of course, my teacher found that the number of envelopes fell short that day and counted several more times just to make sure. Having names at the front of the envelopes, my teacher very quickly found out that it was me who didn't hand mine in. Naturally, she asked me where's it was.

'I gave it to the big boys on the bus,' I said, praying that she would not spank my hand with the wooden ruler she always carried with her.

Strangely, she did not. She just asked, 'They took the money from you?'

Why was she asking me something I already told her? I gave the money to the big boys so obviously, they took it. Not quite understanding where she was going with this, I merely nodded.

The next morning, I found that the big boys no longer ride in the same bus with us smaller kids.

That girl's house.

I remember that there was a girl the bus always picked up after stopping by my house from one of those smaller, half-wooden houses nearby. I do not have many memories of her now. I don't remember how she looked like, and I don't remember what's her name either. What I do remember is this;

I saw her running out of her house and getting onto the bus. She looked around, as if looking for something or someone, and smiled when she saw me. She slowly made her way to where I was, holding the seats' backs for support as the bus was already moving again. I saved a seat for her beside me, by the window.

I don't remember talking though I'm sure we did. I only remember both of us slumping into our seat with our little legs pressing against the back of the seat in front, trying to raise them as high as we could - like we were competing or something. I remember looking at her face and I remember laughter. Our laughter...

I think we were four years old, maybe five. When I got out of preschool and went to an all-boys primary school, this was all I could remember of her - except that I knew her name also then. I remember that I cycled to her house from mine, stood outside and called for her - but it was her grandmother who came out. The old lady told me that she no longer live there and had moved with her parents to an apartment somewhere else.

I cycled past her house every few days all through my primary school years and looked in, hoping to spot her if she ever comes back to visit her grandparents. I remember doing this once in a while too when I was a high school senior whenever the whimsy takes me.

Now, every time I drive past that little old house I can never resist peeking in and wondering how she had been. I guess it's just one of those habits that get irreversibly hardwired into people when they were little.

One day, I'll stop wondering and ask for her.



Wondering,
k0k s3n w4i

Why Was My Suitcase So Heavy?

"The surest way to make a monkey of a man is to quote him."

Robert Benchley, newspaper columnist and film actor

I love irony.

It's because it's half full with oodles of books I haven't read.

First order of business is an apology - for my protracted absence from here, my small little haven in cyberspace with which I have talked and reached out to you, dear reader, and have laid between us the merest thread of intimacy. I dare not assume that I have been missed, but I am at liberty to hope, am I not?

I discovered yesterday that I have had internet access since Monday, and the reason that I have not come online sooner was because broken phone line. The break was hidden in the router (splitter, divertrix, whatever) and there are parts of it that's pretty fried up - not to mention covered in a black, greasy film characteristic of what burnt synthetic rubber insulation pisses out. A lightning bolt was probably what did it in.

I managed to fix it though, with the help of an old phone line I got stashed somewhere, a box-cutter, a toothpick, and a dinner fork.

So here I am, bad penny himself.

Depicted in the picture below in all their glory was what I bought through the course of my one month vacation from various noteworthy bookshops (and by 'noteworthy' I meant 'not-MPH') throughout Malaysia, including from the Border's at Queensbay Mall in Penang. Yes, the road trip was an excuse. It was books I was after. Oh incidentally, there's still a couple Penang posts still pending and they consist mostly of boring travelogue-ish waffle and pictures which I (probably erroneously) thought looked awesome. I'll see to that soon enough.

Just the stack in front, obviously. Don't be daft.

See why I needed to buy a bookshelf?

The books looked a bit grayish and foggy because I have wrapped all of them with embossed translucent PVC wraps as soon as I brought them home. I like the feel of the gritty, scratchy wrappings when I read. It's a sort of fetish, really, like how some people like whips, handcuffs and leather thongs.

Here's what I got, from top to bottom of the stack;

A Wrinkle in Time
by Madeleine L'Engle

The celebrated first book of the Time Quartet and it contains strong modern science elements. It's a kid's sci-fi read, as expected (and by 'expected' I meant 'it was one of Beve's favourite') but it makes for a good light read, excellent for airport-hopping which was what the tiresome journey back here to Manipal required - so yes, I have finished it. I give it a 6-out-of-10.

Thud!
by Terry Pratchett

My first experience with one of Pratchett's many fantasy satires set in the Discworld universe was Going Postal, and his brand of writing is an acquired taste (at least it was, for me). Once I got hooked, I got hooked good. I am 100 pages into Thud! and I have already laughed out loud a dozen times. From what I've seen so far, it's definitely superior to Going Postal.

My efforts in hunting for a paperback edition of Wintersmith (the third book of the awesome Tiffany Aching series) was met again and again with failure. I guess Thud! would have to do for the moment.

Sabriel, Lirael and Abhorsen
by Garth Nix

I've seen Garth Nix's colourful (and sometimes gaudily hologrammed) books standing on the children's shelf of every bookstore I have entered in the past few years but I have always resisted the urge to pick them up (a product of my haunting disappointment in selecting the turd Eragon by Christopher Paolini from one of said kids' section). Also, I thought the author's name sounded daft and made up, and his Wiki article actually needed to stress that that was the Aussie author's real name. I only caved in after reading zzzyun's brief review on them and bought the lot; collectively known as the Abhorsen or Old Kingdom Trilogy.

They were pleasant reads (I have finished them) and I grade them a 6.5-out-of-10. The narrative was rather lacklustre with humor spread so thin you can't taste it. The redeeming feature of these novels is their system of magic, and the way the author handled the concept of necromancy - both rather tired elements of fantasy that felt fresh under Nix's quill. I know of three other novels with cooler interpretations of magic, and they are Stroud's Bartimaeus Trilogy, Clarke's Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell, and LeGuin's Earthsea books, in that order of ascending awesomeness.

Homeland, Exile and Sojourn
by R. A. Salvatore

Drizzt Do'Urden is frequently cited one of fantasy's most beloved characters. He was first birthed in the Icewind Dale Trilogy as a supporting character, but it quickly outshone all the other characters by the simple reason that it's the only original bit of invention in the whole archetype-ridden, clichéd-infested series. If you ever want to start reading R. A. Salvatore's books, I suggest you start with these. I've read 6 other of his books and they were all nearly-average at best. I felt like poking my eyes out every time he uses words like "stamina" and "adrenaline". I award the Dark Elf Trilogy (that's what Homeland, Exile and Sojourn are called) a 5-out-of-10. It's a good choice for mindless reading and it gave a cool insight into the twisted, malignant drow society featured prominently in these novels.

Dune Messiah, Children of Dune and God Emperor of Dune
by Frank Herbert

If these books are anything like their predecessor, the simply titled Dune which was hailed as one of the greatest science-fiction novels of all time, they should be chock-full of political backstabbing and pseudo-technological mysticism. Though it was a slow read, it was a good one and it has one of the qualities that most speculative authors strove to attain, but failed miserably in doing so. I call that quality 'immersive' (it's a word that ought to be coined, in my opinion - 'absorbing' is stupid). I use it to describe all the fantasy/sci-fi books that I got lost in.

The Dragonbone Chair

by Tad Williams

It's the first book of some-series-I-don't-remember-and-don't-care. After about 100 pages of pointless purple proses describing the hero's everyday life and the society he lives in - without the slightest sign that the story's going anywhere remotely interesting - I am almost ready throw my hands up in disgust and burn the damned thing. Still, I brought it along with me here to India for one of those extra rainy days. There's still about a million pages left of it and who knows, the good bits might just be hidden reaaal deep.

The Iron Dragon's Daughter
by Michael Swanwick

It's books like this that the word 'nihilistic' was invented for. I started reading this after dinner on Tuesday, and I couldn't put it down till it was 3 am in the morning. I do not approve of sex, profanity and contemporary culture references in fantasy novels as a rule (it would defeat the purpose of seeking escapism from them in the first place), but in this book, it all clicked perfectly together! The book follows the story of a changeling girl in a fairy world unlike anything I have ever read before - an industrial, filthy universe with the distinctive tang of post-apocalyptic anarchy.

The central theme is deals with 'that bitch, fate'. Yeah, you heard me right. It's not fate, it's 'that bitch, fate'. It also contains a light but powerful dusting of faith and existence, and the pointlessness of the latter without the former. At the end of it, I felt that I have learnt something important but for the life of me, I cannot quite say for sure what the heck it was. I give it a 9.5-out-of-10, and it is currently number 3 on my personal top ten chart. Read this superb review if you want to know more.

The Worm Ouroboros
by E. R. Eddison

It's a real oldie, written back in 1922 by some Norse scholar and it was a high fantasy novel compared often to Tolkien's The Lord of the Ring. In fact, Tolkien even praised this book once in print. I was told that Tolkien's prose style is "pedestrian" compared to this dude's mock-archaic, high-diction. That means I'll need a shot of espresso before I start reading it.

Brotherhood of the Wolf
by David Farland

This one is the second novel of Farland's epic fantasy series, The Runelords. The first book, The Sum of All Men was a humourless, hobbling sort of read but it does feature a rather cool system of 'endowments' where a person can give a trait of his to a person of his choosing, usually a king or someone of similar nobility. A person who gave an endowment of wisdom to another would be reduced to a witless retard. A person who gave an endowment of strength would be weaker than a newborn baby and could barely breathe without help. So, you can see where the title of the first book came from. It's just one of those books I consider to be crappy but want to read more anyway.

Coraline
by Neil Gaiman

I first learn of this book after reading a post from Jen's blog but I am far too lazy to go nosing for the link for it now. I'm not a big fan of Gaiman's works, and I found American Gods and Stardust to be rather average, really. The reason for my wanting to read this is this movie poster;

Makes you want to read it too. huh?

The book's rather thin and if you read it real slowly, it would probably take you only two hours tops. According to a review, the book is suppose to be creepy to adults, while kids would read it like it's a normal adventure tale. I don't know - maybe it was all the hype surrounding this novel and my expectations went too high - but I found it to be as chilling as a marble floor in the afternoon. I even chose to read it at 3 am during a rainstorm just to heighten the tingles but I guess I'm not adult enough to get freaked. Everyone else I know thinks it's marvelous though, and it would most definitely look great on screen. I can't wait for the stop-motion animation flick to come out - Dakota Fanning is going to be the voice of Coraline. 7-out-of-10 for the book, I think.

The Princess Bride

by William Goldman

I often do little research forays into the world wide web for great stuff to read, an occasionally, the title of a book comes up so often in so many people's listings of favourite reads that it becomes impossible to ignore. The Princess Bride is one such book, and I see it in every top 100 list I've read. Oh dear, I hope it will not disappoint.

The Third Policeman
by Flann O'Brien

This one had been in my books-to-buy-list since forever and I never got quite around to hunting it down. I found it accidentally when I needed to get an extra book to take advantage of some discount scheme that Borders was running. After recalling several book titles from my memory (I forgot to bring that list that day) for the information counter girl to check for me - and finding that they are all either sold out or no longer in print - I suddenly remembered this book. As luck would have it, they had it in stock an original paperback edition no less!

The only catch was that a long, straight (though hardly noticeable) crease ran across the top bit of the front cover. I asked for a discount for it and received a 10% cut. Anyway, embossed PVC wrappers are good for hiding this sort of defects, which was another reason why I prefer them over the clear types.

Oh yeah, a tip from a veteran book shopper on book shopping in respectable big chain bookshops (by 'respectable' I meant 'not-MPH-either'); if a book you wanted to buy has some sort of damage on it, always try to score a discount. Both Kinokuniya and Borders offer a good 10%. The only catch is that there must not be a mint copy lying about somewhere (and don't bother hiding those good ones either because they can always check their inventory). Occasionally, they'll give you the excuse that they can always send those damaged books back to the warehouse to be replaced, telling you that they can call you when the new copies arrive but try pressuring them by saying that you have to fly back to India in a few day's time or something. It always worked for me. If you still fail to get any price cuts, the problem may very well lie in how your nose and eyes are arranged on your face.

Lud-In-The-Mist
by Hope Mirrlees

I think this deserves a whole blog post dedicated to it - I can do no less. I have hunted forever for it.

I love you.

And now I've found you. My precious.

A Game of Thrones
by George R. R. Martin

I first heard this book described in an amateur writer's forum a few months ago as a good example of good characterisation. I got curious and started sniffing around for more information. Then I started seeing the series' name (A Song of Ice and Fire) cropping up everywhere I look. Myn Wee had already read it (and said that there's a disturbing amount of gore and incest in it), and I suppose I better start soon. I hate being behind, however imaginary the race may be.



So, if you are the type to return what you borrowed (rest assured, I will miss my books), and you're a principled person who never, ever, ever, ever put creases in the spines (or anywhere else, for that matter) when you read, I don't mind lending any to you at all.

Any, except Hope Mirrlee's Lud-In-The-Mist. That's too darn valuable. Go get your own.



Measures his happiness in unread pages,
k0k s3n w4i