The Heritage In Our Dotage

Some say we are already in our dotage. Surely not, we may be in our sixties but we aren’t weak and in declining health, are we? Sigh, it’s all relative I suppose. When was the last time I dashed a hundred meters or jumped six feet high? My recent reunion with school mates from four decades and more ago was a stark contrast from distant days gone by. We wouldn’t be seen stark naked these days, we just don’t possess a physique that demands a first look anymore. We talked about health issues and wealth issues, no longer girl issues. Some of the grey ones amongst us are blessed to be doting grandpas, in dotage.

Upon my return to Penang, I was reminded of my hometown’s proud achievement in 2008. Georgetown, Penang’s capital city was listed as a UNESCO World Cultural Heritage site. The oldest of the British Straits settlements, Georgetown is dotted with rows and rows of shoplots, many of which are still in desperate need of a good paint job. Gems are easily found hidden amongst these, some are exquisitely renovated and have been brought back to their former colonial glory. Retaining the island’s cultural and architectural heritage is admirable. But I think to be a world heritage site, it has to offer more than just these. As importantly, I think Penang’s famed food heritage should be equally cherished and protected. This precious heritage through the culinary gifts from so many faraway places in Asia for over two hundred years shouldn’t be taken for granted lest it is quickly lost. Broadly speaking, the incredibly vast menu of food including street food, also known as hawker food, mostly originated directly from China, India, Sri Lanka, Thailand, Indonesia whereas others are influenced by mixed cultures such as the Peranakan, a blend between Malays and Chinese. To simply say the foods are from China and India of course is to markedly devalue this culinary diversity that is Penang’s gift to the world. These two vast nations have over two hundred ethnic groups, each with their own uniqueness stemming from geographical, seasonal, tribal, and cultural influences, to name a few. China and India are in fact two major civilisations that pretend to be countries.

In the past 44 years, I have returned home for maybe five times. So, I think returnees like me may have a strong claim to know if a cherished dish has lost its original flavour. And if so, such dishes ought to be out of favour in order for Penang to retain its title as one of the street food Paradise on Earth. Yet, in every corner of Penang, the street food hawkers reign supreme. Many with solid reputations, enhanced by social media and food review “authorities” such as Tripadvisor are often disappointing to those who remember how their food tasted in their heyday. Is it social media that has socially engineered our food heritage? I suspect the hawkers are merely adjusting to the generally less discerning and therefore less demanding taste buds of tourists, and they get away with higher profits with less tasty ingredients. Why spend the monetary cost, effort and time using tediously prepared ingredients when they can simply avoid it and the affable unquestioning tourists will be none the wiser and still rate it with five stars? Food bloggers are usually younger and less discerning, they do not have yesteryear standards to compare with. To me, the issue here is the locals expect and demand street foods to be cheap. They mentally calculate how much a plate of Char Koay Teow should cost from its ingredients without attributing any value for the main ingredient, i.e. the skill and knowledge of the hawker. It is akin to a diner at a Michelin 3-star restaurant who does not expect to pay a stiff price for the chef’s culinary creativity and skills. No, that would not happen in the developed world, so why is this lamentable disgraceful slap in the face treatment for our finest hawkers be tolerated in Penang? Over time, our best food hawkers will simply die away or if we are lucky, their successors and pretenders will compromise on the quality of their output, since people do not put a value on their input.

Below are the only stand-out establishments I was lucky to have experienced last week. These are to me, Penang’s finest food destinations that have retained the high standards passed down from their fore-fathers. There hopefully are many many more that I have missed, a week in Penang is far too brief. I also acknowledge that one man’s treasure is another man’s trash, many will undoubtedly disagree with my opinion.

Penang’s Teochew cendol is a sweet delicacy which requires the best Gula Melaka and freshest santan (coconut milk). I have been suffering from severe withdrawal symptoms due to my chronic addiction to it. To soothe myself, I had one serving on my way to Penang. Kwong Wah in section 14, Petaling Jaya, any cendol will do I thought to myself. Surprisingly, Kwong Wah now has usurped the title from Penang’s legendary outlet in Lebuh Keng Kwee as best cendol in the land.

I had Penang’s most famous street food, Char Koay Teow, in four separate locations but none of them made my list. It is a disturbing trend that has to be arrested, or we lose what made us great.

Penang Road Char Koay Teow with Duck Egg

888 Hokkien Mee and also the Lor Bak at Lebuh Presgrave.
113 Duck Meat Koay Teow Th’ng 111 Lebuh Melayu
Hokkien Rice Porridge (alternatively, with mee sua) at Hon Kei Food Corner, Kampung Malabar
Hokkien Cha and Sar Hor Fun at Gou Lou Hong Kee, Campbell Street
Jawa Mee at Bobo Cafe, Lip Sin Garden
Nasi Ulam at Air Itam
Chee Cheong Fun, served unfolded with Sesame, Hoisin and Hae-ko at Seow Fong Lye Cafe, McAlister Lane.
Lor Mee, at Kheng Pin, Sri Bahari Road.

Apart from the above street foods, the fabulous Peranakan restaurant I had the privilege to enjoy is Winn’s Cafe @ Irrawaddi. It is Nyonya food close to its pinnacle, I reckon it easily rivals Violet Oon’s National Kitchen in Singapore. What sets Winnie Poh’s restaurant apart from the rest is her preparedness to trust and value her chefs’ culinary skills whilst honouring the traditional recipes of the Baba Nyonya. She adds a modern-day touch to her heritage in terms of high-end presentation in a classy air-conditioned environment. Impressive dishes in a large menu include Pie Tee and Lor Bak, Jiu Hoo Cha, Kiam Hoo Koot Gulai, Tau Ewe Bak, Perut Ikan, Nasi Ulam, Assam Prawns and Ikan Tumis.

Four Seasons including Pie Tee and Lor Bak

Penang Lang, appreciate the skills of these finest hawkers, value them before they devalue themselves. They are our vanishing heritage in our dotage.

R U At RU8?

Reunion no.8, what an overwhelming event. I almost choked when I was on stage, maybe it was the Yee Foo noodles down my throat. A reunion of old school mates, some of whom started school life with me, in 1965 right through to 1975. That gives us a special bond, despite it being severed for 44 years. That’s a life time in Victorian days. That’s also a lifetime for many lost brothers. I was shocked by the casualty list, the lengthening list will become more and more casual, unfortunately. RU1.0 was held in 2008 and everyone has been excited at the increasing number of attendees since then. On reflection, the number instead will decrease over time. After all, we have all passed middle age, our twilight years approaching with accelerating speed. With a vengeance perhaps, the way we eat, drink and party till late here, surely the day of reckoning is beckoning.

I was keen to meet some of my school teachers, particularly the Malay teacher who taught us Bahasa Malaysia, and the biology teacher. The Malay didn’t turn up, not surprisingly. He was a sadist who turned and twisted many a nipple of those unfortunate students of his. I was one of his victims. Faham kah? Faham kah? He repeated as he asked me a question. I didn’t understand what faham meant, so I kept shaking my head. Each time I shook my head, the harder he pinched and distorted my nipple. Faham kah? I should have been smart enough to nod instead of continuing shaking my head. Duh! The class laughed and applauded with each twist and turn of the nipple. The classroom rebel was born that day, what class! By the way, faham kah means do you understand.

My biology teacher unfortunately does not remember me, even though I remember her well. I was inconspicuous when I thought I was special. I retold her the story of how I challenged her in class during a frog dissection session. Why do we need to dissect a frog per table of five or six students? Why not just dissect one frog per class? Why at all? It’s not as if school children will miss some significant knowledge that couldn’t be attained from a Form teacher? Why would a chloroformed frog teach us more? I gave her a hug but I think she was visibly afraid of me and my Rasputin hairstyle. Never mind, that was for all the frogs that were sacrificed.

The spirit of brotherhood amongst the original St Xavier’s guys and those from La Salle should be the envy of many. It’s a rarity to find such amazing camaraderie amongst men who are strangers in fact. We may have met some during our school years, but some didn’t meet at all. The Xaverians from Branch School joined our school, SXI, from Form 1, whereas the Lasallians came three years later. Our year had some 450 students in secondary school, many I hardly knew or never met. I rationalise that it was because I lived just a hundred steps from school, and thus had no opportunity to roam about with mates after school. Even those I hung around with in school were mostly unrecognisable. Some faces I could connect to their name tags after some recalling, others were faces of strangers. Even cheating didn’t help, I soon peeped at their name tags first, some names I instantly have an affinity for, others were long forgotten or never were acquainted with. Seldom did I connect a face to a name. Yet, the spirit of brotherhood was undeniable. I was overwhelmed by the incredible goodwill and unmatchable welcome from these brothers. The Lasallians taught us all to call one another Brothers. Think of blood brothers, brothers-in-arms, brothers in shining armour, and you’ll know what I mean. These guys will do pretty much anything for one another. One even took his shirt off his back and gave it to me because I loved it so much. I asked to buy one. Alas, it’s a limited edition, sold out last year. They treated us, “out-station” guys as if we have VIP special status. Out-station here means visitors from interstate or overseas. We are the long lost brothers, unconditionally welcomed back with open arms and strong bear hugs.

“Brothers Forever” on a banner flashed across my view but it also flashed dismay in my mind that somehow we Brothers have forgotten the Form 6 girls who attended our school for two years. I think they should not be excluded. Maybe RU9.0 will flash a banner that says Brothers & Sisters Forever.

RU8.0 was an unforgettable event and will remain embedded in my heart till the end of my time. We let our hair down all night, well, at least literally for those with long hair anyway. Too many were bald or balding. We rocked like youthful fanatics until the ground rocked. At precisely 11 pm everything and everyone started swaying. Earthquake! I screamed in my mind. But, later I realised it was a false alarm, people were swaying because they were totally inebriated! My brothers missed me so much, it was quite touching. Throughout my short stay in my birthplace Penang, they often called out miss (my surname), miss (my full name), miss (my initials). I’m so overwhelmed by how much they have missed me. Missing me may have something to do with my hair, someone joked.

AirAsia AK1639 left Penang at 4:30 pm today. Goodbye Penang, goodbye my brothers. When will we meet again?

It Feels Great To Be Grateful

Bikash sends me another gem, a reminder that it’s not happiness that makes us grateful but gratefulness that brings happiness to us. There’s a lot to be grateful of, therefore there is a lot to be happy about. We just need to view our circumstances from a positive perspective.

I woke up with a troubled tummy for the third day. It’s worse today, as the exotic foods I had have by now been infused and churned with the dozens of Durian from yesterday. I was greedy, and now I’m paying the price? No, I’m grateful I had the opportunity to enjoy the diverse tastes of the fruit. Now I know how to differentiate between Ang Bak and Bak Ewe, Green Skin and Lin Fong Chiao.

I have been over-eating and observing my Intermittent Fasting programme with abject failure. My pants are tighter, which means my belly fat is embarrassingly visible. An accidental glance at a shop window gave me a horrible fright, I saw myself like I never saw myself before. Now I hear what my cousins said about me. IF has made me skinny and my muscular frame a distant memory. Why are you so silly? You reject food when it’s served in front of you? What does your mother say? Aiyah, so stupid! Life is short, eat, eat eat! Everything in moderation, another cousin chimed in. My cousins were echoing that same message throughout last night’s dinner. This concept of moderation, how much is it before we exceed “moderation”, I asked her. You’re eating in moderation, and is that why your arms are flabby? Another cousin said leave it to our Maker. It’s already preordained. We can’t change our date with destiny. The Lord maketh us and toil addeth nothing thereto. No matter what we do, we can’t improve ourselves. Am I sad? How should I react to that? I didn’t need to. She went on to say her brothers have already told her she sounded like an uneducated woman. No, I was not the least mollified by the barrage of criticisms about my IF programme. It’s backed by science. I invited them to argue with Dr Oshumi, the 2016 Nobel Prize winner for Physiology, who reported the benefits of autophagy from fasting. Don’t argue with me, I’m not qualified. But, I’m grateful for the opportunity to spend precious time together with my 89 year old auntie and a few cousins. My lovely aunt even stepped into a bar for the first time in her life. Cheers. Being grateful has brought me much joy and meaning to my life.

Whilst waiting for a friend to pick me up for lunch today, I noticed a homeless woman ranting loudly about how she is going mad from despair. She has bloodied wounds on her foot and back, her left leg is noticeably swollen. She didn’t ask me for help but I gave her the box of Him Heam biscuits meant for my friend. He won’t miss what he doesn’t know, I rationalised. After that, more sob stories rattled off her tongue. Wow, I hope you’re not trying to scam me for money, I told her. It’s scammers that make it difficult for good samaritans to keep helping. A fool and his money are soon parted. The warning bell tolled long and loudly as I took out a RM100 note from my wallet and handed it to her. Don’t lose it, I said. Don’t be scammed by anyone. Use it for food only, ok? Such good advice, right? Sometimes I should listen to my own advice!

Anyway, she didn’t show any gratitude like you would expect from someone in such dire circumstances being just handed an equivalent of 20 plates of Char Koay Teow. Not a word of thanks, not a nod of acknowledgement. Hmmmm, I did say we ought not to have any expectations when we give.

Duran Duran? Nah, Durian is King

I’m in Penang, my birthplace. When my friends invited me to a “Duran” party, I wondered why it would be at noon and not in the evening. They weren’t talking about the British band, a multiple Grammy winner and Brits winner, Duran Duran. In Asia, Duran Duran will have to move aside for the Durian, there can be only one King. The Durian is king of all the fruits here. It’s exotic, aromatic and some say even erotic. Smear it all over your lover’s hands, mouth and body, and you’ll have a devilish time. In recent years, planeloads of fans have flown into Penang from Hong Kong and China to snap up limited tickets to Durian farm tours. It’s not only Duran Duran that has lost out to Durian in this part of the world, you won’t find planeloads of tourists flying in for any other fruit. There just isn’t any comparison, the King sits alone at the apex.

I was privileged to be amongst the 12 A-list guests for today’s tour to a Sungei Ara farm. Only the elitist can be in such a list for one of these parties, I imagine. After all, I know the bloke who many adoringly call the Prez, short for President For Life of our committee that oversees our school reunion.

In a Duran Duran party I imagine I’d be dressed impeccably in a black turtle neck with long sleeves, drinking red wine. But this is a durian party, we just need to be in the shade, away from the scorching sun and drink lots of water. The wine industry is a lot more sophisticated. Wine has been so well described by connoisseurs you could almost imagine the taste from just reading their notes about the wine. But when it comes to Durian, many are lost for words when asked to describe what they are tasting. There is nothing subtle about the Durian. It is an explosion of smell, taste and texture that befuddles the brain. Some will die for it and others will die because of it. A university building in Canberra had to be evacuated yesterday because some students had smuggled durian into the campus. For many Aussies, the aroma was so vile to their senses that they senselessly ordered the evacuation and temporary closure of the building. Either you love it or you loathe it. When it comes to Durian there is no fence sitter.

When the Durian party is over, there isn’t a moment to harbour any regrets. It’s a very sweet food, my insulin spike would have skyrocketed. Never mind the high cholesterol, it’s ecstasy whilst it lasted. As I leave the farm, I think back of the camaraderie in the Durian group, it’s a happy moment in time when everyone is basking in the warmth of good friendship with sticky, stinky fingers and lips. They dismissed my suggestion of using disposal gloves to enjoy the fruit. No, the Durian tastes better when eaten with bare fingers, they assure me. But for me, the Durian fragrance is alluring and irresistible only before you eat it. After devouring it, its fragrance changes to a foul smell. It will take days before the stink leaves my body, via the privacy of my toilet, hopefully.

On the way back from the farm, I was stuck in a car full of A-list guests. Someone in the car decided he would be the random phantom who couldn’t control his bodily functions. We didn’t catch him. Maybe they? He was too clandestine with his random release of Durian infused gas from his butt hole. Random means there was no warning from him. Have you ever sat in a small Nissan full of big old men on a hot sweltering afternoon in Penang? And the air conditioning unit was struggling in vain to make it a pleasant ride? My ride was made so much worse by the incessant release of the pungent smell of durian by an irresponsible old man. I am sure I wasn’t the culprit but I’m over 60, there’s no absolute guarantee that I was in full control of my bodily functions. I reckon it was definitely one of the other guys. It is unfathomable how the once irresistible fragrance becomes a disgusting intolerable odour once we are bloated with durian.

We Or The Kiwi?

Having decided on Skol rather than Tiger, the flirtatious waitress asks our Kiwi friend what he would be happy with – how many bottles to begin the night with – was what she meant to ask. Our Kiwi friend replied “sex”. Sorry sir, we do not offer sex at the table, later perhaps. Somehow the Kiwis insist on pronouncing sex instead of six. How often have you returned to Penang? Sex times. What time should we pick you up from your hotel? Sex tonight. How much is a schooner of beer in Christchurch? Sex dollars. How old are you? A sexy Sexty

So, sex was in our conversation all night. When we were teens, we were engrossed in the opposite sex. We brashly claimed to be virile even though we were untested and our focus was mainly on football and sex. Now that we are in our early sixties, many still find sex titillating, bragging about being virile and their focus is still on football and sex. Nothing has changed. We are born in the year of the Dog, so we call ourselves the Top Dogs in our school. We have maybe three or four alpha dogs in our year. Dinner with these alpha dogs can only mean one thing, it’s purely a liquid dinner and the discussion will center on “sex” matters. Philosophy, Religion, Politics, school fights, girls who broke our hearts, and sex. When we were young teens we had much time for one another, we cycled everywhere, we were free and easy, life wasn’t complicated, our first courtships were with the bicycle. Back then we didn’t have pocket money to spend. A street-wise friend showed me how he collected beautiful tropical fish for his aquarium. He would eye carefully the fish he prizes and then scoop it out of the shop’s aquarium without the shopkeeper noticing, before casually releasing it into the drain that runs along the shop’s perimeter fence out to the public drain outside the shop. He would then calmly and nonchalantly leave the shop before hurrying to the drain outlet with his own fish net and plastic bag and wait for the eventual arrival of “his” fish. How many did he catch that day? Sex.

But, of course much has changed. Amongst us, very few still retain a youthful look. Many are perfect candidates to commence on a strict regime of IF, Intermittent Fasting. Those that loudly counter IF stands for Incessant Feasting are the ones most eligible to fast, they tend to be rotund and sweaty. Those who heckle and say IF means Interesting F..ks are likely the most inactive when it comes to sex. They look desperately out of shape and out of puff. Seriously, I haven’t spent so much time bantering and drinking with old men before. They are old folks who qualify for senior citizens benefits such as free bus rides. They are either overweight and balding or overweight and grey-haired. A handful of them are slim enough though but they are the boring ones. The reason is they practise IF and they don’t join us for early breakfasts or late liquid dinners. Anyway, they are all grey, balding or bald, no matter fat or slim, all have a full waistline. It suddenly hit me hard. I’m uncertain if the Skols woke me up or I was slightly inebriated, but the sudden realisation that I am actually one of them was so sobering I couldn’t get drunk no matter how much was poured into my bottomless glass. This morning, the bitter truth was confirmed, one of them told me his younger daughter could not recognise me at all, and the awful fact is she only saw me three years ago. Urghhling, why did I have to be told this?

Even Penang, my birthplace has changed. It never looked or felt wintry when I was growing up here. I guess it’s only right we have to accept that everything and everyone changes. Ageing is a fact of life until the scientists find a breakthrough in preventing our telomeres from shortening as our cells divide. Maybe one day soon, before it is too late for the Top Dogs of my school, a telomerase can be manufactured for our daily consumption. A telomerase is an enzyme that adds bases to the ends of telomeres. In young cells, telomerase keeps telomeres from wearing down too much. But as cells divide repeatedly, there is not enough telomerase, so the telomeres grow shorter and the cells age. In the meantime, let’s all age gracefully. After all, one could say that the correlation between telomere length and youthfulness is still not proven.

007 Vs 107

Earlier this morning, a friend said I still look groovy. What’s the hip word these days that has replaced the 60’s word for cool and hip? He came back with “suave”! Haha, suave is a word that brings James Bond, 007, into my mind. I’m far from that, first of all, I don’t even own a tuxedo. I told him 007 would never trip himself on the carpet whilst walking in a casino, that would be the opposite of suave. Besides, I have not visited a casino for yonks. Whereas Bond is a frequent roulette player. In my dreams, I see myself as a super duper hero, flying faster than Superman, more lethal than Wolverine, with more bulk than Hulk, even towering over Thor. But, I’ve never dreamt of myself as 007.

I’m 107, a friend said at lunch today. He is an old buddy, a classmate in primary school. Enthusiastically, he announced he is 107. 107, 72, he proudly repeated. Ah, he meant his blood pressure. For some of us in our sixties, our bp and ldl levels are topics for thorough, in-depth discussion. In the sixties, we were virile hot-blooded teenagers. In our sixties, it’s no longer how hot our blood is but how high our blood pressure is.

The last time I met most of these friends, we were sixteen year old youths, chasing away errant monkeys or dating beautiful Thai girls at our regular haunt, the Youth Park. Now, Youth Park is for the aged, a place my old mates now frequent to practise their Tai Chi, no sight of any young girls. Sometimes, these friends are shooed off by errant monkeys, we realise now who the alpha males are. It’s no longer the monkeys who are scared. No 007’s amongst us, I am sorry to add. You’d see James Bond bond with beautiful women, you’d see him jump over walls and chase after bad guys. I asked my friend how the wound on his right elbow came about. Did he ruffle with some bad guys or scuffle with some gangster? Nah, his wife, next to him, said he merely tripped himself whilst jogging around the block. The only chasing he does these days isn’t after baddies or beauties. That, we leave to 007. Our 107 only chases after aeroplanes because he’s often “delayed”, never once did he admit he was late for his flights because of his poor time-keeping. Once he was late because of diarrhoea, and then he became even later because he forgot his phone. Have you ever heard of 007 suffering in a bathroom with stomach pain? Maybe he did, but I think he was fighting someone in a bathroom and got hit in the stomach, in Casino Royale. Well, our 107 can lay valid claims to having stomach pains too in a bathroom.

We all know 007 drinks his martini shaken, never stirred. 107 however, is a non alcoholic drinker, after all, he’s unstable on his feet even without a drop of alcohol. His favourite drink is coconut water, a liquid so similar to our blood plasma that it can be used as an intravenous drip. During WW2, British and Japanese soldiers were given coconut water intravenously as saline solution was scarce.

Oh, there’s also one difference between 007 and 107. I’ve never seen the former’s Aston Martin still with original plastic intact, protecting his expensive car doors from blood spillages.

Urghhling, he warned me not to mention that. I guess I’ll have to catch the free bus next time.

p.s. the only imagined similarity I can think of between 107 and 007 is their love for “tannau” salted fish, and so, they may have met each other in the shop.

Agent 107 loves his ‘tannau’ salted fish

IF Stalls By The Food Stalls

Penang, my birthplace, is still a street food paradise. Once upon a time, its beautiful pristine beaches and unrivalled leisurely tropical lifestyle made it the Pearl of the Orient. Today, there are many cities that vie for that title. Shanghai with its old French Quarters, Hong Kong, Manila, Saigon, Goa, Colombo in Sri Lanka all have reasons to claim to be The Pearl in Asia. Why the pearl? What makes a pearl beautiful, valuable and sought after? Is it the rarity of a natural pearl? Pearl divers purportedly are saying they are almost extinct. Its value is dependent upon the size, shape, colour, surface quality and nacre quality. Even before the Middle Ages, pearls were cherished for their beauty and rarity. Eventually, pearls symbolised power, most European royalty and aristocracy were often painted wearing pearls. Even Christianity used pearls as an attribute for chastity and purity. In the 17th century, the Dutch master Vermeer loved painting his subjects with pearls to depict wealth and power. Arguably the most famous pearl isn’t Penang, but the pearl worn by the girl in The Girl with the Pearl Earring.

But, what’s indisputable about Penang is it is still the street food paradise of the world. I arrived in Penang with a cocky confidence of a very disciplined Intermittent Fasting practitioner. During a recent three week holiday in Europe, I travelled from London via Amsterdam and Copenhagen to St Petersburg. Much of that holiday was enjoyed in the Viking Jupiter, a luxury cruise ship that presented the most delectable meals from breakfast to late suppers. Yet, this IF guy was resolute right through, never did I waiver or submit to the temptations from the ship’s kitchens. The strict regime of IF was so important to me that nothing and no one could weaken my discipline. I observe IF strictly for health reasons. After 18 months, I no longer have a weight problem and neither do I have a waistline to worry about. To the constant chagrin of my fellow travellers, their teasing and harmless mocking could not tease me out of my cabin to join them for breakfast.

When I arrived in Penang three nights ago, I was absolutely confident I would continue with my IF routine. Fasting for 16 hours leaving a window of 8 hours to eat, isn’t punishing when it is so beneficial for my health. It’s a lifestyle that I’m now totally accustomed to and in fact, enjoy. Importantly, I feel good and I look spritely for my age. Many of my friends and even friends’ friends have declared that they too are giving IF a try. This alone has made me feel good, that I have imparted something good to others. Prior to IF, I did not think there was anything I know in health matters that I could promulgate and share, let alone influence.

But I got to admit my self belief in my rock-solid absolutely unshakeable willpower was irrational. It took a mere 24 hours to shatter the mirror in my mind. We often look at the mirror and don’t see a true reflection of ourselves. Either we are too critical and we blame the devil for it or we are too lenient and we see the angel that we are not. I have lost my swagger. I have lost that absolute belief in myself. Penang broke me. It broke my will well before it was time to break my fast. There are simply too many amazing food stalls here that dish out the most delicious temptations that somehow my steely resolve cannot fight. Last night, a mere morsel of Penang Hokkien Mee was enough to render me a mere mortal. IF stalls whilst the food stalls of Penang are near me.

A Coconut For A Coconut?

It was a relief to step into the condominium a friend has kindly let me use during my short holiday in Penang.

The sweltering heat of the mid afternoon sun had sapped much of my energy, turning my freshly ironed shirt into a sweat sponge. After a cool long drench under the rainforest shower, I was eager to act out the visual image I had whilst being soothed under the gentle waterfall. In the movies, it would be quite the expected scene in a tropical paradise to have Keanu Reeves in a dapper black suit similar to the one he wore in The Matrix, sipping chilled coconut juice straight out of a freshly cut green coconut. By his side is of course a Hollywood blonde siren in a revealing white cotton dress. The superstars are being served by a coloured person in a white jacket. If we could read the coloured person’s mind, he would most likely be thinking, oh why can’t I be Keanu Reeves; why can’t the gorgeous blonde lying by his side be mine instead? A brown man thinking or wishing he’s white inside, would be called a coconut, since the coconut husk is brown on the outside and its flesh inside is white.

My reality on a hot humid afternoon in Penang is not quite like that. After my long cool shower, I smelt clean and would have been maybe even alluring, had I bought the Calvin Klein cologne to match my Calvin Klein underwear. The young green coconut I bought from Gama had a pre-cut top. Just press it down and slip in the plastic straw that came with it, right? In the movies, Keanu Reeves wouldn’t be seen with a plastic straw, it would be senseless for him to risk upsetting his bevy of women fans, many of whom would surely frown at anything plastic except their boobs, maybe. But, I struggled with my coconut. Gently pressing the pre-cut top would still displace the juice onto the kitchen bench. I can’t risk dirtying my friend’s sparkling kitchen. There’s no chance of finding a chisel or a hammer in the condo. All I had was a butter knife. Has anyone tried cutting away the top of a fresh coconut with a butter knife? Ten minutes of chiselling away at the coconut, the only fluids that poured was my sweat, not the coconut juice. By this time, my CK underpants were soaking wet, so I dropped them onto my ankles and stepped away from them. My just-shampooed long hair, the only thing I have that’s similar to Keanu Reeves’, his hairstyle in John Wick, had begun to feel like a wet mop. Glancing at the mirror next to the lounge, I realised in my stark nakedness, I resembled a tropical monkey, except the monkey wouldn’t have struggled and sweated as much to get to the coconut flesh.

Nah, I’m no monkey, but was I the coconut trying to get at my coconut? The good news is I managed to use the butter knife as a fulcrum and slipped the straw in. Thank goodness it’s a plastic straw, it would have been impossible to squeeze a metal straw flat enough to push it in.

I must make a confession here since I wouldn’t be confessing to my generous friend who owns this condominium. I’ve thrown away his butter knife, it’s horribly bent. I am sure he won’t know it’s missing. Urghhling.

Muelsing Isn’t Amusing

The wool of a sheep around its bum has the tendency to retain faecal matter and urine thereby attracting flies. To prevent parasites from infecting their flock, Australian farmers practise muelsing, the controversial removal of wool-bearing skin of the sheep around its buttock. I’ve been mulling why nature doesn’t protect the sheep naturally from flystrike. Why does it require the intervention of urghhlings to exact such agony on the sheep in order to protect them? It’s deplorable that we take advantage of animals, make them work, and yet torture them instead of appreciating their sacrifices in serving our needs.

Mulling over Mueller’s report on Trump would also be a rather alarming task. Forensic psychiatrists at Yale University, some of whom represent the World Mental Health Coalition, assessed Trump’s mental capacity from the 448 page report and concluded that President Trump failed every criterion for rational and reality-based decision making capacity. Their strong recommendation is to remove Trump from war making powers especially his easy access to nuclear weapons. His recent mental instability, recklessness and impulsive decision to attack Iranian assets almost sent America to the brink of war with Iran. That was immensely frightening to the world and should serve as an urgent wake up alarm for everyone.

Perhaps the solution is muelsing, not of animals but of the madman in the White House. Now, that’s not an amusing thought. Or, is it? Urghhlings, please avoid history from repeating, do not allow one madman the access and authority to destroy global peace and jeopardise the lives of millions of people.

Ysabechhum Not Ydbachhum

In Arabic, Ysabechhum means Good Morning, whereas Ydbachhum means Kill Them! A Palestinian labourer didn’t spell it wrongly when he posted a selfie next to his tractor, on Facebook wishing his friends a Good Morning. In his case, Artificial Intelligence got it wrong and sent the Israeli forces to arrest the poor bloke. A good reminder to all school children out there, pay attention during your spelling lessons! It may just save your life one day.

My sons were again asking me why I didn’t properly anglicise their names, especially knowing they would be growing up in Australia. I reminded them our surname was actually given to us by our old colonial masters, the British who ruled Malaya and Singapore from 1873 to 1963. It was some nincompoop Brit who failed to spell our family name correctly. And now we are stuck with it unless someone is resolute enough to change it. A name spelt without a vowel is simply too difficult for the western tongue to say let alone announce on stage. And so, my sons who are musicians have always had to put up with their names being badly enunciated on the radio or on stage ever since they were six years old. Why didn’t I give them names that are easy to spell and easy to remember e.g. Lang Lang and Yo-Yo. They aren’t being reasonable, how was I to expect they would have a career in the performing arts? If I did, I would have renamed them Elvis or Sinatra.

In the not too distant future, parents will have an easy job of naming their children. Big Data algorithms will discover through our biometric data what makes us excited and happy, and with 5G and super computer power, external computer systems can hack into our digital world and know what our desires, interests and preferences are. AI will know us better than we know ourselves. AI will definitely know our children better than we know them, having access to their Google or Baidu searches, Facebook, Twitter, Wechat, Whatsapp and Instagram accounts. AI would tell the parents, at a price, what careers will be ideal for their children. And if AI calculated that a child has the right aptitude and attitude to be a concert pianist or cellist, it could supply a short list of new catchy and more importantly, appropriate names for the parents to rename their children. Maybe Lang Lang the Second? Or Yo-Yo Two? Urghh, that would take the angst out of parenthood, wouldn’t it? It would be AI’s fault if their name was spelt wrongly.