Category: Uncategorized

I don’t remember which month of 1978 it was, or why had we all gone back to my dad’s hometown in Teluk Intan. All I remember about that trip was that night, I anxiously waited for my grand-uncle, Tok Ali, who really is a lot younger than my father is, to take me on his motorbike to tour the town and the banks of the Perak River. I remember asking him about the lights on the other side of the wide river.

“Sitiawan.”

Little did I know some 8 years later I would be riding a motorbike myself through the oil palm trees of that area to discover that Sitiawan would be some 40 kilometers to the north, and I was smack bang in a place called Ulu Dedap. It was really ulu then.

The next day, we left for home, but not before telling the driver of the craving for Tanjung Malim’s famous pau; therefore, a pit stop at Tanjung Malim became mandatory for that trip.

However, just after we passed Behrang, the front and rear tyres on the right exploded and the car careened. I remember the driver, the late Pakcik Ramli, push me down to the backrest (I was seated in front), and my elder sister and the maids were screaming in the backseat. Pakcik Ramli swerved the car towards an embankment in an attempt to stop the car from going into a ravine ahead of us. The car hit the embankment at around 110km/h, rolled up the embankment on its side twice, before rolling back down, landing on its tyres.

Then, everything was quiet for a while.

I came to a while later and realised I was in the rear section of the car. Everyone else were still. There was blood trickling down my face. I wiped it off and realised it wasn’t mine. I also heard the engine was hissing (or could that have been my hearing due to the loud bang). The first thing I did was to escape but I couldn’t open any of the doors. I didn’t even realise I was barefooted when I kicked the already cracked windscreen and escaped through it. I stood outside the front of the car and looked at it.

Plantation workers rushed to the scene, and some cars that were passing-by did too. Moments later, the police escorts that were escorting at the rear of my father’s car also turned back to help. One plantation worker stopped to ask me,

“Adik nampak tak accident tu? Apa jadi?”

WTF? I had blood on my head and he could ask me if I had witnessed the accident.

Anyway, to cut a long story short, all those inside the car were taken to the Tanjung Malim District Hospital before they were transferred to the Kuala Lumpur General Hospital.

As for me, the police escorts took me to have my Yik Mun pau before rushing me to the KLGH on my father’s orders. I escaped only with a few bruises, although I remember how my body ached the next day.

Four days ago, I took Wifey to Yik Mun for some pau and Hailam noodles. Oh, the car I was in when the accident happened? It was a Volvo. That’s probably why we all survived the crash.

I then went to the Buffet Car. It is a far cry from what it used to be more than a quarter of a century ago. I remember how each train’s buffet car is operated by a different operator; and on one particular mail train southbound from Butterworth is operated by this chinese husband and wife. Everything was hawker style – mee hailam, mee goreng, cantonese mee, mee hoon, kuey teow, cantonese fried rice etc etc. The car would be filled to the brim with people from the 3rd class coaches who refuse to make that 10-car journey back to their respective seats.

It’s totally different now. The seats are modern and more comfortable…not those wooden benches and barstools of the yesteryears. The buffet cars are all operated by a single company…and the cooks are non-Malaysian (mostly Bangladeshis).

But to my surprise, the buffet car was empty at lunch time. Maybe the cost of food and drink’s gone up.

Although the nostalgia of the smell of oyster and soy sauces, mixed with fried garlic is no longer there, the romance of being in a buffet car is still the same. I bought me a cup of Maggi (Curry flavour) and a drink packet, and just sat there watching the alternating sceneries, camera in hand.

I remember walking back to my seat more than 2 years ago; sometimes we would hang out in between coaches, or sometimes we’d just sit by the steps. Those who smoked, would smoked then. But the smell of diesel fumes emitted by the locomotive…priceless.

Walking back to my coach this time was through a dark passageway, uninteresting and dull.

Finally, I saw signs of civilisation as we passed Kulai. I sent a text message to Wifey informing her that I was half an hour away from JB.

Many of you would question my decision to take a train ride down to JB. A drive would take me 3-hours the most. But Wifey drove down the day before, so taking another car down seemed absurd. Flight? It would take me an hour plus to get to the airport, and if I were to take any of those low-cost carriers, I would have to be there two hours before. The flight would take close to an hour, and then spend another hour getting to the hotel (after taxiing to the apron and parking the aircraft). That would have been 5 hours.

Buses? You will never catch me on a bus ever again. I have had bad experiences being on those fast coffins. And my last trip by an express bus going to JB took me almost 8 hours. The driver exited the highway at Tangkak, and we followed the old trunk road all the way, and made lots of stops too.

On the train, I had a much needed sleep; I was very relaxed, and I got to reminisce about the old days when life was so much simpler.

I should take another train ride, sit back and relax…

What was to be a short nap, turned out into a full-blown three-hour sleep. The tension at work, coupled with the travel and visit to the oil rig, operations report, editing marketing report, going through figures determining IRRs, and hunting for interim vessels for jobs must have gotten to me. When I got up, we were already at Gemas. And because I was in a deep sleep, the ticket inspector could not wake me up to inspect my ticket. When he saw that I was already up, he immediately asked for mine.

TAK TAK TAK TAK TAK TAK TAK

The ticket inspector would make that staccato on the headrest with his single-hole puncher.

“Tiket! Tiket!” (Ticket! Ticket!)

This 40-something malay ticket inspector with the most unfriendly face asked me for my train ticket. I was travelling back to Kuala Kangsar with my friends that afternoon.

Ticket Inspector: “Adik punya dah potong ke?” (Has yours been cut? – what he meant was: have I had my ticket inspected)

I looked down at my crotch and replied, “Mesti la dah potong. Umur dah 17 tahun dah.” (Of course mine has been cut-off. I’m already 17 – I was referring to my foreskin)

He looked strangely at me, puzzled initially, then gave out this stupid laughter and went off.

A jolt by the coach as the train took a corner brought me back to the present. There was this ticket inspector, Indian, in a friendlier-looking uniform, with a friendly smile, still waiting for my ticket. I smiled back at him and handed my ticket to him.

I looked out the window, and saw a row of rubber trees in a plantation. My thoughts were then returned to that same train ride I was on 26 years ago.

“Your country is amazing. Even the trees in the jungle are in lines.”

I nodded at this foreigner, a backpacker who was with his girlfriend, I presumed. I wanted to laugh, but kept on a straight face.

“Those are rubber trees, you plonk!” I thought to myself.

26 years on, the view is still very much the same, save for some pockets of development, both legal and illegal, on both sides of the track. Somehow, I miss those days, my salad days – so carefree and the only responsibility I had was to pass my exams and not get scolded (the least) whenever I had to shove my report card beneath my father’s nose for it to be signed on the penultimate day of each school holidays. Those were the days when all we had to do was wake up in the morning, go for classes, go for meals, go for the daily swimming and water-polo training, go for prep, and sleep…or at least, pretend to sleep. Then, later at night, sneak out of the dormitory doing everything and nothing in Kuala Kangsar town, get chased by cops patrolling in Land Rovers, and jump into the Perak river to escape them.

Suddenly, I felt the urge to go to the toilet. Someone was in the sitting toilet, therefore I had to use the squat toilet. Since I was only going to urinate, I only had to stand. It is already a challenge trying to aim into a normal toilet bowl; imagine doing the deed, the bowl opening just half the size of a normal squat toilet, in a moving train. You can imagine how good my aim was…NOT. The difference 26 years later is that although the toilet did not look clean, it smelled clean!

To be continued…

For as long as I can remember, I have always been fascinated by trains. I remember when I was 4 years old, one of my toys was this train set. The locomotive was battery-powered and had a light at the front, and if you pour a drop of sewing machine oil through its funnel, it would emit a puff of white smoke. When I was 6, along Jalan Bangsar there used to be railtracks crossing it going towards what was the Lever Brothers godown. Whenever my mom visited her tailor at the still-existing shoplot at the entrance of Jalan Riong, I would alight from the car just to touch the tracks and see if I could steal some length of it and take home.

During my five years at the Malay College, the train was the only free ride home for most of us. Some who came from Perak never got to travel by train as they would be picked up by their parents, while some of the more clingy ones, also got picked up by their parents and sent back once school holdidays were over. For me, it was always the train…right to the day I left the college after SPM: I took that free train ride.

Recently, Wifey had had to attend a management retreat in JB. She drove down on a Friday. Then, I decided to join her in JB so I could drive her back. I decided to take the train down to JB. I went to buy the ticket after work on Friday. After thinking about the safety of my belongings, I decided to travel First Class – the same class I would travel in when I was still an Air Force officer.

Saturday morning – I got up at 6.30 and quickly showered. I left the house at 7.15am to take the LRT to KL Sentral to board the train. I had a quick nasi lemak breakfast, bought me some reading materials, then boarded the train.

The train left on time at 8.30am. I sent a few text messages to Wifey informing her of my departure, checked my Mobile Facebook account, then reminisced a bit of those days, more than a quarter of a century ago…those train-rides to and from Kuala Kangsar.

I was a 7th-grade student, first time away from home, though not really the first time on my own. And it was already April, close to the first school-term holidays. The prefects would brief us on our travel arrangements: those whose hometown are in the vicinity of a rail station, would receive a return ticket, 3rd Class (Coach Class, as they are called now), while those without, would be on specially-chartered buses to take them back (ex-KL). And we were told that there would be special coaches for the Malay College students. We were all so excited to be able to travel on our own.

Special coaches, my foot.

When the mail train arrived at the station, all the coaches were full. The civic-consciousness (or the lack of it) among Malaysians were on full display that day. Our coaches had been taken up by millions of others. We boarded anyway and looked for whatever that could seat us. As we were the most junior of the college population, those of us who had managed to get a seat were expected to give it up for seniors; therefore, my first train ride back to KL was done standing up – all the way, for 8 long hours. By the time I got home, I smelled of stale sweat, other people’s stale sweat, and diesel fumes courtesy of Keretapi Tanah Melayu (Malayan Railway). Over the years, we wised up, that during Aidil Fitri breaks, I would light-up firecrackers just to get people out of the seats. Whenever that failed, the luggage compartment above the seats would be the best 8-hour bed: of course I was much smaller then.

I was quickly brought back to the present when an announcement blared over the PA system saying that we were approaching Kajang station. I took a few photos, then took a short nap…

These were never shown to the public before, so here goes:

As this is the month I remember how it all began with Wifey last year, below is a reproduction of the final letter I wrote her before our wedding:

My dearest Jasmeen,

We have come a long way, long, bitter-sweet way to come to this stage in life. A long way to find each other.

I can still vividly remember how I first met you; and how I quietly admired this strong woman whom had gone through so much, and had to continue to go through so much in life. I am truly glad that we became friends first, almost always there for each other, despite the endless emotional roller-coaster rides we had had to endure. And I am glad that there was always that spark in us that was waiting to ignite our true feelings for each other.

I remember that sense of great relief the first time I held you tightly in my arms; how surreal it seemed then that you would choose me over others; this part of me inside struggling to grasp reality, that the woman whom had always been my good friend, had now wanted to be loved by me.

It has been a long journey for us both. We have laughed and cried together, and from now on, we shall continue to laugh and cry together – and this time forever.

I thank God for blessing me with you as my wife, and most important, for making you remain as my best friend.

I love you with all my heart and more,

John F Seademon

It’s 2nd February 2009.

There is a thunderstorm outside and Wifey is fast asleep. We were out karaokeing with some of the usual suspects ’til 4am.

This month also signals the 12th month of our being together, and 7 months into this lifelong partnership. And life has been good. Yes, it does have its ups and downs, but there are more ups than there are downs. With us both having gone through bad marriage (with an ‘s’ when it comes to me), we tend to tolerate less crap. However, the thought of how sweet it was when we first met, and how beautiful it was when we actually fell for each other half a year later, would bring us back to reality…thee reality that we have gone through so much pain to end up together, and such a thing is not worth going through another one of life’s painful episode.

I try as much now to maintain the courtship, although the courting period had officially ended last August. But I find it important to carry on courting her, and I still do date Wifey whenever I can. We’d try to have lunch together as often as possible. We still go out, leaving the kids behind, at times even for a weekend. For me, the courting has to go on. We still make fun of each other, tickle each other…swim together and quietly hold each other in the jacuzzi at the pool…stuff like that.

She would carry out her wifely duties of attending to the kids, the household matters – I always say that the kitchen is her forté so she makes the call on kitchen matters. I will only try help do the dishes. To me, she is a superb wife although she can throw a tantrum here and there, especially when the time of the month approaches. Other than that, she is still my cute Bunny Bunny. I love calling her that. She respects me as the head of the house, but at the same time isn’t afraid to voice out her disagreement; and I respect this as she is NOT my subordinate, but is my life partner. I am not always right, neither can she always be.

I love waking up with her. I can’t tell you how many times I had to rush to office after dropping her off because it is always so comfortable cuddling up with her in the morning…and by the time I had dropped her off, I would have some 20 minutes to get to the office. I also love watching her cooking for me. Wifey is an excellent cook. And she would go to lengths just to find the best recipes just to cook something special for me. I know other wives do this as well, but no one has ever done this for me before. One thing I love about this life with her is, we never fail to say or text each other to tell how much we love each other. So, that is good.

I now want to look forward to another 43 good years with my Wifey.

It’s just past 1am.

I have to write this down because it’s killing me inside.

I miss my children very much. I suddenly thought of them and suddenly tears welled in my eyes.

It’s December and two of my children have and will be celebrating their birthday this month. Hana’s was on the 10th, and Farhan’s will be tomorrow – Christmas Day.

The last time I saw them was 3 days ago. And before that I saw them last was 24 days before that. We spent two hours together…two short hours to make up for the 24 days that we were separated.

I hope that one day they will understand why things happen.

It’s been a long day. I’ve had meetings through lunch and managed to grab only a sandwich before rushing off to the hotel to checkout.

Tomorrow, it would be three weeks since I last saw my children. Hana and Fazira have been staying with my mother ever since they got back from Kedah. I do not know what form of retribution this is that my mother thinks my children should not be staying with me; Farhan and Nisaa were taken all over the place by their mother, without any form of courtesy to inform me of where they were going and when they were coming back. And on my planned visit to see Farhan and Nisaa on Aidil Adha eve, my ex conveniently took them out for almost the whole day.

In the three weeks that I have not seen them, Nisaa has refused to speak to me over the phone except once – yesterday during my company’s AGM. I know she is upset that she has not been able to see me. While Farhan is looking forward to my taking him out to buy his school paraphernalia, Nisaa does not want to see me at all. But the joy of being able to hear her voice, speaking to me, even for a minute or less, was overwhelming. Tears welled in my eyes that I had to excuse myself and stayed in the washroom for several minutes.

And everytime Wifey and I walk out of the McD joint at Ampang Park, I would be able to see that one corner where Nisaa was with me, all shy to even look at people, while I sat with Wifey and her colleagues. My heart would sink everytime I see that corner.

And as I was inside the lift heading for the basement parking of the hotel, there was this family that was inside the lift as well. They have a child, about the same size as Nisaa is, with curly hair, though not as curly as Nisaa’s…and she looked at me. I immediately felt sad. Somehow, like Nisaa when I was going through extremely rough patches of my previous marriage, this little girl gave me the sweetest smile, as if she knew how sad I was, and was trying to cheer me up…like Nisaa. When I got into the car, a teardrop rolled down my cheek.

Later, I sent a text message to Hana and Fazira, asking them how they were and told them how much I miss them as I miss Farhan and Nisaa. Fazira replied:

“We miss you too. Fazira rindu kat ica n Farhan (I miss Ica – that’s how she calls Nisaa – and Farhan.”

I just want to tell Wifey, how terribly sorry I am for snapping at her inside the car just now. My mind is just preoccupied with the thoughts of my children. It is not an excuse for me to snap at her, it is just to tell her of what exactly is happening to me right now.

Three weeks is just too long, not just for me, but for my children too.

And I miss them…terribly.

With a less-than-happy Nisaa 3 weeks ago