Nasi Padang

I never did get a handle on Indonesia. Well, Jakarta, that is. 

Like many, I thought I knew Indonesia just because I've been to Bali a number of times.

When I was in Jakarta, I felt everything to be very far from each other. Especially between the gilded rich and the ghastly poor. It's a huge gulf; and it's engulfing that one 'voice' I know that's dying to get out.

The one 'voice' of Indonesia.

It's said that one can suss out the ideals of a nation through its advertisements.

Well, in Jakarta I couldn't suss out even the idea of what's good to eat, never mind the ideals of the nation.

Actually, I did. Well, the food. Nasi Padang. That's all I seem to like. Even when I'm in Bali. Heck, even when I'm in Kuala Lumpur.

Anyway, I'm thrilled for one thing.

I was asked to write to some people in Jakarta about a regional posting. I wrote in a pertinent objective. To help unearth the 'voice' of Indonesia through advertising communications - much like how Thailand has done it. 

I wrote that I can do that because I possess a culturally agreeable disposition. I will never be a prejudiced, jaundiced, supremacist-minded expatriate.

I got a couple of calls.

I'll be heading to Jakarta soon for chats.

And maybe this time, I'll skip the Nasi Padang for something else. I don't know what, but the choices are certainly not few and far between.

Kampung Sireh, Kota Bharu, Kelantan

I was born here. It was very different then. Perhaps because I wasn't indifferent then.

The Sultan's palace across the main road was not only a humble yet palatial awe, it was also a playground for me - I was buddies with one of the Sultan's nephews (I still wonder why it wasn't his niece instead).

There was this Indian stall where the best 'nasi dagang' and kopi-o was to be had. Every morning. And late evening.

There was this sawmill a few hundred steps from the junction - I used to run here and kick sawdust into the faces of my friends.

Then there was the 'guava' tree fronting the gates of my house. I liked perching myself up there and whistling down on those walking by below. I also helped save lives from that 'high' position - I could see oncoming motor vehicles approaching each other from the blind bend and signaled for them to go slowly.

Then I got indifferent.

Everything became so normal. So familiar. So day-to-day.

Even the sight of the foreign backpackers who would stay at this traditional house turned into a lodge just across the little lane in front of the house.

Nothing was a novelty anymore.

Nothing.

Until I brought her back to my house on her first Hari Raya trip to my hometown - to be surrounded and bombarded with cheeky questions by my numerous relatives, all in good fun, and good faith, that she was the one.

That was a novel memory. It still is. And I know it will always be. And because of her, I grew to miss 'home' again.

Evil in the workplace

You can think of the many cliched non-pleasantries in the workplace.

Ungodly hours. Unreasonable deadlines. Irresponsible colleagues. Ungodly hours, again - though this may not apply to the public sector; here it's more about working bare minimum hours, and this is pretty gross in itself.

To my mind, what's really evil in the workplace is racism. And a sure sense of supremacist standing. And all this, while you're an expatriate. Working in a foreign land, but with prejudices and a jaundiced view of the local people.

These racists literally stink.

And most of them are people who've done things the same way all their lives. The consummate conservative. Ultra-nationalists. Bordering on fascists. Otherwise dumb.

When one is not open-minded, one is open to the fallacy of certainty.

And one is certain to always be wrong.

I don't know if any of you have had to work with  a stinking racist expatriate, but trust me on this one.

If the guy is so aggressive and abrasive about getting his way around, then just look at one thing. Look at the final work, the end result of all that insult and disrespect.

It'll always be mediocre and substandard.

You can't expect anything else. Certainly not from people who would die for process and procedures (no matter how outdated, dimwitted or inapplicable), and not for inspiration and the accident of new ideas.

These guys are afraid of new things.

They'd much rather win with a whimper, than fail (from time to time) but with great sensation. And, so sorry, they mostly wear ties, again.

They're not worth another minute of your cooperation.