Onboard The Queen (Part 1)

I have always loved the sea and for as long as I can remember, had always wanted to sail. I've had a small problem though. I was never a good swimmer and that shortcoming somehow made me a little bit wary about going on sea voyages.
 Which perhaps explains why I've never had that much of a liking to visit Langkawi, since I would have to take a boat ride from the mainland. I've been there on by boat once and I did not like the crossing. The boat was small and it was packed with vacationers.
 Another long sea voyage I took was a two-hour catamaran ride from the city of Seattle on America's north-west coast to Victoria in Canada. I didn't like it at all because the sea was rather choppy at the time. I got seasick because the catamaran was travelling quite fast even in that rough seas.
 And so it was when my wife thought of the idea of going for a Mediterranean cruise, I tried to delay the trip for as long as possible. In the end I relented and agreed to sail on the luxury ship, the Queen Elizabeth.
 Queen Elizabeth belongs to the US-based Cunard Cruise company. It has two other similarly luxurious sister ships, the Queen Mary and Queen Victoria. I won't dwell too much on the technicalities of the ship but suffice to say that Queen Elizabeth is a six-star floating hotel. It has everything a lazy traveller would want to be pampered with.

The Queen Elizabeth berthed at Southampton

 We took the night flight out of Kuala Lumpur, reached London Heathrow early the next morning and hopped on a coach to the southern city of Southampton, home port for the all the three Cunard ships. When we got to the port at around noon, Queen Elizabeth was ready for embarkation. Form the departure hall, the ship looked like a city block of 10-storey high.
 The embarkation process was as smooth as silk. All payments were made in advance and about the only thing we had to do was to register a credit card for any purchase that we may make while onboard. There wasn't much of a necessity for that since meals have all be included in the overall cost of the cruise.
 While I was a bit apprehensive being on that ship, invincible as it seemed, I was looking forward to spending some quality time together with my beloved wife. We have both been very busy chasing after our dreams in the 25 years that we had been married that at times both of us feel that we should lay everything down and spend whatever time that we may have left seeing as much of this wonderful world as possible, together.
 Both our daughters have grown up to be beautiful ladies and they are well on their way towards building their own future. I guess thinking of all these helped me forget for a while the fact that I was a lousy swimmer and would have drowned in a matter of minutes should the big ship goes down.
 As we had spare time while waiting for the other passengers to board, we toured the ship. And what a big ship it was. I didn't feel like I was on a ship at all. It was more like walking around in a big hotel.
 There were four dining halls, each with their own dress code, a big theatre, a huge dance hall, several cafeterias, bars, a casino, a shopping arcade, a very beautiful lobby, an art gallery, a fully-equipped gymnasium, a spa complete with all the facilities and other amenities to make our 10-day stay memorable
 Outside there was a sizeable swimming pool, various outdoor sports facilities, a jogging track that actually runs around the ship, and more bars.

Our cabin on Deck 8

The main lobby

It was about 3.45 in the afternoon when the captain blew the ship's horn. I got out to the balcony of our luxurious cabin, perched on the 8th deck and saw the mighty ship's bow-thrusters slowly pushing its hull away from the pier.
 Soon the ship was sailing southeasterly through a narrow channel out of Southampton. For a while scores of pleasure crafts accompanied us as they sounded their horns to wave the Queen Elizabeth 'Bon Voyage".



 The log transmitted to a TV in our cabin says we'd be spending two days at sea before reaching our first port-of-call, Lisbon in Portugal.

(Next: Lisbon and into the Mediterranean)

In search of myself on a road less travelled

For Mancis, the writing is on the wall

The cup of tea was still hot when I took the first sip in that hot, humid and dusty afternoon. I had taken a seat in an almost empty stall, with a view of the road in front of me. It must have been a good ten minutes before the first vehicle passed by, a truck laden with timber inching its way towards a destination probably only its driver knew.
 I had exited a crowded highway to Kuantan about an hour earlier, deciding to follow a road less travelled southwards into Negeri Sembilan. The journey, cutting through rainforests, oil palm and rubber plantations and small towns I never knew existed, had taken me here to Mancis, a one street town north of Negeri Sembilan.

Malaysia choose and life will go on.

 Finally, after what may well be four long years, or maybe more, Malaysians are staring squarely at the day of reckoning.  After such a time of having their emotions bottled-up, after seemingly endless arguments which at times border absurdity, criss-crossing truths, half-truths and outright lies, Malaysians will now have the opportunity to either show their appreciation or vent their anger at the ballot boxes which will be opened from 8.00 am on Sunday.
 When I saw a frail old lady planting little multi-coloured flags on the grass sidewalk near my office this morning, I wondered about her wishes, her frustrations and her aspirations.
 Likwise, when I saw youths risking their lives climbing lamp posts to hang party flags, I wondered that besides the money they’d get from doing so, whether they actually believed in the party’s struggles.

Almost There

It seems the much-awaited 13th General Elections (GE) is just around the next bend. An MCA leader said it should happen within six weeks.
 The war-drums however, have been thumped since long ago. In fact since the 12th GE when the ruling coalition party, Barisan Nasional (BN) chalked-up one of its worst performance ever, Malaysians in general have done little else but talk politics.
 Many are growing increasingly tired of the politicking as other issues affecting Malaysia seems to have been relegated to the bottom of the 'To Do' list. At times, it feels like we are approaching India's status as a nation with probably the most politically-charged society around.

The General Elections and the media

AT the centre of the period leading to the 13th General Elections (GE) is the media. It would not be too much for me to say that never in past GEs has the media been put to as great a test as it is being put through now. Indeed, the media is living in a very different time.
 The primary agent for change as far as the media is concerned, is the internet and the advent of telecommunication. With arrival of the internet and advancement of telecommunication, the media as we know it in the past have lost its monopoly in the dissemination of information to the public.

The Big Picture

FOR most of us, this is the only land we have. We were born here and will most probably be buried here. We belong here and that MyKad identity document we carry in our wallets and handbags wherever we go is testament to that fact.
 That card, though not any larger than the credit or the various discount cards we carry with us, signifies our rights to everything the nation has to offer, including in determining its future. We should all take our ownership of this land and its future seriously.

Elections

Eventually, I will have to write about this. Yes, that special day when we all will choose the government who will govern us and the nation for the next term of mandate.
 I'm not new to general elections. In fact I have always been interested in it since I was a child. But somehow, since I joined the Press fraternity some 23 years ago, I have avoided writing too much about it in the newspaper I work for. I have my own reasons for that, and I wouldn't want to discuss about them here.

As I Turn The Final Corner

Me, on the last day of 2012

Well, apparently I'd turn 52 in less than a month's time. That means I'd be about 18,900 days old. And that’s a lot of days.
 I have outlived a Volvo car, arguably the most long-lasting car man has ever made, by some 2.66 times.
 While I am not about to succumb to a downhill ride, I am beginning to feel the strain of age. And somewhere in my mind, that date with destiny is always there. Like a car long after it left the showroom, I could feel certain changes to remind me of my age.
 Looking back, I remember that once I was a very active tennis player in college. I could play an entire singles match without much of a problem.

Of birthdays and such

Today's toys are very different from what they once were

JANUARY is a busy month for me, as far as birthdays are concerned. Both my daughters were born in this month, with their birthdays just five days apart.
 We try to celebrate their birthdays, at the very least with a simple dinner at a place of their choice. And then there are the presents of course.
 It was different when I was small as I was never really bothered about my birthday. Most of the time I forgot, save for a few occassions that I was reminded of it.
 But I remember I got a toy from a sister once, when I was about eight. It was a battery-operated capsule of the Apollo spacecraft, a popular toy a time when America was in the final stages of putting man on the moon. I had wanted the toy so much after seeing it in a toyshop right at the far corner of the Port Dickson town.

Another year

Me, at the command centre in the newsroom.

AND so another year is coming to an end. We leave another chapter behind and continue to hope for a better one come January 1, 2013.
 The Christmas week is always a slow week for us in the newsroom. Most people are on leave and even if they're not, most would be occupied with the impending return of schooldays in about a week's time.
 All said and done, my 2012 was a good one. Indeed there were ups and downs but here I am, writing this now, still very much in one piece and not much different from the person I was at the end of last year.
 I guess as we grow older, it gets a bit more difficult to put our finger at the meaning of progress, except perhaps in the spiritual sense. It feels like we've seen and done it all and that there's not much else to achieve except to continue living a happy life.

A journalist's life

A Buddhist monk performing self-immolation during the war in Vietnam

GLAMOROUS is nowhere near a depiction of a journalist's life. When I joined, I didn't even have a desk of my own, let alone my own workstation.
 A fellow who joined a year after I did got it all wrong when he walked into the office with tie and all, and asked to be shown to his place. There was none, and he lasted a short month, perhaps realising it wasn't his cup of tea.
 There were always many people running about the newsroom but I must say that the best of times would be after that story was done and I'd find one corner of the building to sit and reflect for a while, just me and my pack of cigarettes.

Listen and thou shall know

In my office at the newsroom

ONE of the things I have learned to master over the years as a journalist is to listen more than I speak. Since I don't talk that much anyway, many-a-times, I just listened and hear people tell their stories. After several years of doing this, I also picked up the ability to read between the lines when people talk and also the skill of observing people's body language to figure out what they actually mean when they speak.

Into the newsroom

Me, at the town square, Vladivostok, Russia.

I STARTED reading newspapers when I was about seven. It was 1968 and America was getting increasingly involved in that senseless war in Indochina, trying to stave off a strong unification effort of the two Vietnams then (the Communist North and democratic South) by the frail but lion-hearted North Vietnamese leader, Ho Chi Minh
 Stories coming out from the war zone interests me at the time. In fact I am still intrigued by that 30-year war fought in that small arena, which spanned from the time Ho Chi Minh launched a campaign to drive the French out of the region to the time of America's humiliating defeat on April 30, 1975.

Strolling through the school system

Author's note: None of what's written here are to be taken as advice how one should approach the schooling years. While he had free-wheeling days in school, the author still believes that passing through with good grades is the easiest way to secure one's future. 

Roots

There is a Malay saying that no matter how high an egret flies, it will come down once in a while to rest on a buffalo's back. This is a story about my recent homecoming of sorts.

Mother's resting place

Moscow, The Red Square and Vladimir Putin

The Red Square and the Kremlin

THE iron curtain was torn down and folded into memory long before I finally landed at the Demodedovo International Airport about an hour outside of Moscow. It was early spring when I got there some sixteen hours after I left Kuala Lumpur on an Emirates flight, with a short transit in Dubai.
 A lot has changed by then to a nation once thought of as nobody's friend and a harbinger of Armageddon. It came closest perhaps in 1966 when Khruschev lined-up a portion of his nuclear arsenal in Cuba, much to John F. Kennedy's and America's disdain.

A marriage remembered

Somewhere in London

HER eyes lit up as I slipped the ring into her finger, moments after we entered into a union that both of us wanted so much to last for as long as we breathe. It was 25 years and two beautiful daughters ago.
 I could still look back at the time with much fondness, though both of us now have greying hairs. To me she never got one minute older from the time we vowed to share our lives ahead. I love her as much now as I loved her then.

Apples of my eye

Aisyah (L) and Yasmin - At Stratford-upon-Avon

ON her last day at the kindergarten, my eldest daughter, Yasmin, handed me a work of art she had just completed. It was the mark of her tiny palm against the paper's white background. A poem was also written on the paper, saying the tiny palm will one day be tiny no more.
 I shed a tear on reading the poem, also thinking that as she finished kindergarten, she'd be schooling and from there she will advance in her life and that one day, I will have to set her free to seek her own life and future.

No Woman No Cry - In Bob Marley's backyard.

One of Jamaica's most famous sons - Nesta Robert Marley

I MUST say the fun started the moment the British Airways flight took off from Gatwick Airport, just outside London that morning. I had arrived at dawn at Heathrow on a flight out of Kuala Lumpur, then hopped on an airport transfer coach for Gatwick.
 The 10-hour flight was to take me to Kingston in Jamaica, birthplace of the reggae music, Bob Marley's backyard, home to some of the fastest men and women on earth, the Rasta movement, and indeed 'weed', if you know what I mean.

Father ( A Tribute To)

We were never close but he was always there to shine the light on me

FOR reasons perhaps only he knew, my late father somehow thought I was Superman. While I may have the longest name in the family, mine seemed to be the one being called out for, most frequently.
 Being number eight out of the nine siblings did not help. When I sat down for a break under a mango tree, nursing my blistered palm after helping him fix barbed wires around our perimeter fencing at the kampung, I did wonder whether this man was out of his mind. I was barely eleven at the time.