Still Thinking…

Boy boy…naughty me. Never aggravate a cold by being in the cold, but …err..how do you do that when you are in country where locals think 8 degrees is hot?

My cold (yes all the way from Singapore, started the day I ransacked my house and turned it upside down to pack the boxes) has worsened. It was all ok while in sunny California, I could even shout and scream during the rides and had the energy to dance up and down to Footloose during the street parties. But no, not in Canada. It came back like a whoossshh. A bad whooosh. Ok correction, it was a WHOOOSH. Sheesh.

When the plane started descending on that March 17 Friday in Vancouver, I was looking out of the window lovingly and thought about what excitement DH must be feeling at that moment, standing right behind the steel bars, and he would have, in all excitement, pushed his way through the crowds so that he could stand right in front of the exit door at the arrival hall to see me. The mountains surrounding Vancouver still has snow at the tops, this is Spring, but hey, this is also Canada. So near the Arctic Circle we are, so the snow stays till they are pushed literally away by the aggresive late Spring sun. I love the change of scenery – from hip hop LA to scenic Vancouver…aahhh..bliss. Until….

The queue lines at the immigration was snaking…and I mean realllllly snaking. It was easily 500 people in front of me. I was so bored, and so not happy, and thought. oh…poor DH! He must be waiting outside for a long time. I did what I do best, call him to play a prank on him that I was stuck in LA airport with no flights out, but my trickery backfired. He was not even at the airport, was still driving some 30 minutes away. Obviously Canadians know how long it will take to clear the lines!

It was nice to see not only DH at the airport, but all my siblings-in-law there . DH and my MIL organised a BBQ dinner that night with Uncle A’s family over and DH diplomatically forced everyone to watch JALAN together. Hahaha…I could never shake it off. JALAN is stuck to my bums.

It has been 5 days in Canada and I am back to watching Ellen, Martha, Oprah,Food Network and shivering. I thought I would acclimatise faster but my own cold is not helping.

Can’t wait to be able to breathe normally without opening my mouth wide and looking like a I am perpetually uttering ‘Ahhhh..’. There is nothing ‘ahh-ing’ about having a cold in the cold I tell you, its punishing. Sigh….here I go again dreaming of Sup Kambing at Boon Keng…

Having teh tarik while you are 30,000 feet above the seas is a soother, I tell you. Especially so when your a** have been sitting on the blue-holstered seat for more than 10 hours, and your mind play infallible tricks of sadness when you realise that the dreaded day of ‘migrating to a new land’ has finally arrived, albeit in disguise of a Disney holiday.

I cleverly packed 3 packets of tissues with me when I was about to leave for the airport on that Friday afternoon on Mar 10, but they didnt last me an hour. My niece In had to run to the nearby convenience store inside the terminal to get me 12 more. Yes, that was how much I cried. I hugged Mak first and last. The first hug I did, she didnt shed a single tear, only to send my mind racing that my mum indeed wants to be strong for me, and to leave me with the memory of her being the strong woman that she is. But I have proven to myself again that I am not a match for her steelness, and my tearducts broke like Niagara Falls whirlpools. The second time I hugged her she teared as she whispered, ‘Jangan lupa pesan Mak’ – and by that she did not mean calling her 3 times a day, or buying her gifts or coming back once a year. Mak just wanted me to read a surah she found in her doa collection every subuh morning. She rested my safety in Allah’s hands. And that is, a classic of my mum’s – something I learnt to cherish till this day, the virtue of being redha and all willing to what God plans for.

My teh tarik solace came in the form of Yaser, who was one of the cabin crew on that SQ 30 flight. It is not often that I get a ‘Bom!’ shouted at me from across the aisle, but I did. We had a good chat at the galley while everyone was asleep, and that was when he offered a soothing teh tarik made for me. A few hours later, when the entire cabin was having breakfast, I had a special teh tarik delivered to me again by the LS, and that, has just made the USD200 more I paid for that SQ flight all worth it.

L.A is the same, except that Anaheim is much more sleeker now. I sleep with the kids in one of the 2 suites, and we are having a rocking good time making silly jokes. Disneyland is all hype, but I am joyous that I get to ride in the tea-cups and and the King Arthur Carousel – except that my tight jeans means I can’t spread my legs wide enough to get on the horse, damn! The 3-D shows were awesome, and no guesses who scream the loudest.

I am a wimp when it comes to adventure rides. I detest roller coasters, and all those Space Mountain-types that most people go for when it comes to these theme parks. I can tell you a lot about the Mark Twain steam ship, but no thank you sir, I didnt’t take ’em rides. So sue me.

California Adventure Park is a thrill! I love it…especially the A Bug’s Life 3-D show. The screaming only made me lose my voice more, but hey, it was cathartic ok! And oh, how can I forget the mood-thumping, hip-rocking Block Party Bash, where everyone danced and clapped their hands up high. I was so into my 80’s mood, that I must have embarassed the kids. They were watching me in disbelief. ‘Oh God!’, they must have prayed. ‘Is this mad woman really my auntie?!’

DH said that there is a barbeque party waiting for me when I arrive in Canada on Friday. Everyone will be there, and I can’t wait for that.I can’t wait to see his face and munch on pancakes at IHOP on Sunday mornings and irritate him with my stories. I feel blessed by how God plans this entire transition, He is indeed, the personification of greatness.

A bunch of 16 year-olds got together after school yesterday, rolled up their sleeves and spent a few of their precious teen-hours to bake a cake.

It was the sweetest birthday cake I have ever got. Thanks to my niece Insyirah, and her gang of lovely sweet friends, whose verve and energy reminds me so much of my own teen years. It is the biggest compliment when teenagers who are so busy with their own happening lives remember your big day and bake a cake, no less!

Thanks girls. I wish you all well for this coming ‘O’s. You will all make fine, successful ladies I know!

Because I had some curious people *wink* asking me about the food and deco by Cooking Swatch during last Saturday’s party, here is a peek.

So let us make an effort to keep it as a rule,

That each one needs the other within the Katong school.

The night that was.

I cannot stop thinking what I do to deserve such a resounding farewell, from some of the women in my life whom I admire most for their beauty, gusto, intelligence, adventure, verve and friendship that have stood decades.

It was a wild night, to say the least – from the beautiful dinner all-white party set-up, to the spring colours that I so loved for the drapes, to the gorgeous looking food, the lovely flower centrepiece, the awesome toast albeit on sparkling juice, to the retro non-stop dancing of 80’s music, to the limbo games and musical chairs and the squeals and screams and squeals and screams that must have driven DA’s neighbours mad! The best..was of course the time when I merely sat on the rocking chair and listened to the female bonding chatter that we all did late into the night..what a way to celebrate friendship indeed.I am so thankful for this bunch of gal pals.

Thank you ladies, you are the best. I know I can’t post pictures here due to the very revealing dress code (ooppss…), but here’s a glimpse.

Few things in life will repeat itself. You either make it better, experience it worst, or notice remnants of deja vu in another setting that will, in some obscure way, put a sweet smile on your face. I experienced that somewhere between 1.20 am and 2.45 am in ZB’s patio, sitting on a cushioned wooden chair underneath a bevery shade, inhaling the nicotine-laced air that was fighting furiously with the fresh smell of curry leaves in her garden, and twirling the green beads that was hanging from my neck.Around me was the company of four men and four women with whom I have spent endless hours arguing, laughing, eating, criticising and encouraging. Their sheer passion and dedication amazes me.Their confidence is contagious. Their energy encapsulates my every dream of what a team should be.

I love this team. Making JALAN was somewhat a rite of passage for not only me, I discover, but also a few others I know in the team. I am glad that JALAN made superman Naz to feel so proud of his Malay roots, Intan to get to have a story to tell her kids, Raudha to know intimatelt the endless energy of Singapore’s streets, Fad to show me and Zai what bravery in the name of adversity means,Halim to feel the surety that there is still an info-ed in him, Wan to have the world discover his talents, Sanif to impart his fierce focus style of work, Yem to raise the bar in intelligent tv hosting, Jo to show that there is indeed room for drama in documentaries, Norfa to demonstrate calmness in the midst of a trigger-happy crew, Haider to make me hold on to the belief that 50% of a good program comes from audio, and confidence for In, Muni and Liyana in their growing years.

JALAN had its whoppingly fun and introspective wrap party yesterday. We had 4 hours of wild laughter complete with spoof awards and food, and another 4 hours late into the wee hours of the morning talking about our lives and hopes. The day ended with an activity we all so loved – cam whoring, at 3 am, no less.

But JALAN to me was a lot more. It smoothens this difficult transitional moments when I am about to move and leave all that I know and love behind to start a new life and chapter with DH,my true North.

Thank you Allah for this team. And thank you for making JALAN happen the way it is. You showed me once more what the power of doa is.

No, that is not a crop circle. It is, an aerial view of Mashad, a city in western Iran that is home to the burial grounds of Imam Reza. The makam is located right in the centre of the city, and all roads literally, well, lead to it.

Mashad and happy boys carrying Iranian breads on their heads have been keeping my mind busy. It took over my swirling headaches about the parties, the boxes that are screaming to be filled up, the letters that I have not opened and so many other mundane worries and have-to-do’s. All because Leila and Kazem are coming.

There are many countries where I was blessed with the warmest, unexpected hospitalities. The Balabanis in Melbourne, where Mrs Balabani will hug , kiss and say ve-u-ti-fool! ve-u-ti-fool! every 15 minutes and insisted her husband took me fishing in the middle of the sea, the Chengs in Spain where Auntie Cheng will cook up mean bowls of ginseng before we girls head out to town painting Madrid walls red, the Davies in Dubai who literally handed the keys of their villa for me to live in for 2 whole months while they are away, the Michaels in New Zealand who took care of me and my friend when we had a tragic accident and I lost a favourite cousin, the Roslans in Colorado who calmly took us through a fierce snowstorm on the way to Aspen only to be forced to turn back, and many more that I am forever, forever thankful for. I have always realised that I have been very blessed to have travelled to so many places at so young an age, but none of these countries showered as much magic as Iran did to me. A lot of it has to do with Leila and Kazem.

I met Leila in 1997 while I was sitting quietly in Nabawi Mosque in Medina, in my own world talking to God, in a way I knew how. She approached me and said an unsure hello, and we set off chatting about her newly married status and the Internet. That chat was merely 15 minutes, and we parted afterwards. What followed was a courtesy one email per year, just to keep in touch. Then, Leila dissapeared from the radar screen.

Six years later, on a hot afternoon in the Dubai office, I had an urge to Google for Leila’s name and saw a forum where someone whose name is similar to that of her husband’s, posting a thread. I sent a Yahoo message asking if he is THE Kazem that I knew, knowing full well that it was a long shot. Well, he was. And the weekend after had me flying to Iran, after numerous emails to MFA to ensure that I am allowed to travel there, and them documenting the addresses I would be in, just in case I had to be evacuated. Yes, I was nervous.

It was only 4 days. But Leila and Kazem showed me what hospitality means. They took me into their home, where I slept on the same bed with Leila on the first day. Kazem turned his plans around just so that we can take a 3-hour drive to Northern Iran to visit his uncle in an Iranian village just because I mentioned that I love long drives and don’t favour swanky places when I travel. They bought airplane tickets to Mashad just so that I can see the power of reverence that imposes itself in the structural map of a city, and rushed me to Tehran where I felt lucky I was allowed into the home of the late Ayatollah Khomeini rolling with a DV cam, thanks to Kazem cajoling the guards.

I have a big guffaw when I laugh. With a hijab on head, that is hardly the image of a demure, Muslim woman that I thought Iranians would be expecting me to be. I foresaw that I have to giggle instead, and help Leila serve tea to Kazem and his uncles so that I do not disrupt dynamics. I read in the media that Iranian women wanted more rights, and Iranian youths wanted more liberation – so I was prepared to be the accidental traveller and observe. So when Kazem offered to wash and iron my abaya, and his uncle in the village ran excitedly out of the house just so he could catch some chickens to feed me – I was stumped.

I was so touched by their efforts to make me sample the real Iran, that I vowed that when I am ever loaded, I will fly them to Asia and let them sample our own Melayu warmth.

So when they told me today that they are coming, I was heartbroken.I will not be here when they arrive, because by then I would have left for Canada. Chances of them being able to change their dates are slim. And worst, I do not know when I will be able to travel to Iran again. I remembered wanting to go to Iraq while I was in Dubai then, only regretting now I never did.

I am still hoping that my Iranian moments can be relived, because Leila and Kazem showed me a world that I never expected to stumble into. When it is meant to be,it will happen. I have learnt that.

And I am hoping to relearn that lesson again.

They say time is a great magic. It heal wounds, reunite losses and often, so very often, provides closure to questions left unaswered for years.

This one is a question that was unsolved for 21 years. No one (in my batch at least) knew why there is a turtle in our school crest.

Now I do. Thanks to JALAN.

Alas, my life is complete and I can move on.

Hee.

Women and parties are like fish and water. Or maybe, is it more like the bird and the skies. Lame.
I know, I know! It is like sambal belacan and ikan kering. No?

I foresee this coming February to be my party-happy month. There are 3 swirling in my head right now –

A) A wrap party for the JALAN crew
B) A farewell party that GAB is kindly and exuberantly organising for my departure
C) A Celebrating The 30’s party at D’s house possibly – women only!

Like writing, all 3 has distinct target market, and boy it has been a headache just thinking about them. With Party A, the options swayed from the typical eat-at-buffet-restaurant-until-you-burp-with-leftover-production-money type, to disco rave at Ministry of Sound thanks to the sweaty wants and desires of the male species in the crew, and to a Mediteranean I-cook-so-you-guys-better-eat ensemble at ZB’s movie-poster filled apartment. How do you make a hardworking team happy – when the range of members range from the teens to the mothers and fathers of school-going kids?

Party B is technically headache-free since I know GAB is a queen at organising such dramatic ones. Take how she organised my hen party 2 years ago at Samar. I heard that GAB, in her true legendary style, actually HAD time to go to a spa in an Indonesian island and had her hair relaxed and moisturised a few hours before the hen party, lugged the belly-dancer costumes all the way there and still make it in time – and err, VERY energetic when I arrived. And I thought I WAS the bride-to-be. GAB is still hunting for locations as of now, and kept pestering me on what kind of party I wanted. And me, well, just like my wedding video saga, I just can’t decide.

Party C was initially conceptualised as a housewarming for D’s huge place overlooking the runway, with a Retro theme. We wanted to relive the ‘function’ days where How Do I Know by Whitney Houston will be THE song that will have us girls prancing on table tops. Then, it evolved into a farewell one for me instead since I am leaving in a month, and the idea is to have just a few of us cackling good ol’ school days away. And then, as of today, Party C has morphed into a supremo gathering of celebrating the 30’s with a guest list that can form holding companies. I didn’t realise that so many of my girlfriends are women in their own rights now because when we all meet, it is just plain banter about politics and shallow gossips about this and that. The challenge is – how DO you organise a party for a noisy group of Type A’s who have travelled to the corners of Tuscany and sky-dived in the Australian skies at 20. I don’t know, because it is damn scary! I surely do not want to be leading the planning for this one.

So it will be Party C that will be the task for the month for some of us. In true women style, the planning kept on changing because hey, the flowers has to colour-matched and the cutlery has to be shiny silver – the kind that can double up as a mirror to touch up the noses. What I do know, Cooking Swatch will be summoned to draw up a halal list of mouth watering gastronomic elements. Gosh it is so nice to have friends in the party business.And he has NOT even been informed!

I seriously don’t know if Party C will happen. All I have in my head right now is a vision of a big Big BIG flower arrangement of lovely tulips and sweet lilies.

Ah women. So hard to please.

Here’s a conversation that happened today while walking along Bukit Pasoh with a director friend. Who also happened to marry someone I grew up with. Whose daughters also call me Mama XXX. Ok, you get the picture how comfortable I am with him.

Director Friend: So…has it been satisfying being an Executive Producer for JALAN?

Me: Ah? Hmmm….uhh…hmmmm…(look at apek walking in front)…oklah. Good hires, bad hires. Always have to remind myself I am paid to lead and therefore make the best of what I have. But I realise I work best with….(car zooms pass)….

Director Friend: So you’d do it again?

Me: Yes! JALAN Vietnam..JALAN China…

Did anyone ever think of JALAN Ellesmere Island? Now THAT would be cool eh?

Of all the scenes that I managed to go on set for the filming of JALAN, this one must be one of my favourite. It speaks volumes of the dedication involved amongst the crew – which resonates well with many others in the team as well.

This scene was slotted for Episode 6 – where Y, the host – ventures out to Changi in search of a railway that was once there sometime during the WW2. It was a reenactment of how the Malay Regiment Soldiers were tortured by the Japanese, and this scene had 2 of the soldiers running from a bomb explosion.

I did not have the likes of $2 million in my coffers to allow the director and the crew to make extended, expansive and elaborate reenactments and so they made do.To Punggol they went, camera in hand, lallang in the midst, mosquitoes in their most friendly moods, and lots of inspiration from Band of Brothers to make this scene realistic. While running alongside the actors, the crew nearly fell on top of each other, but they persevered. They took a few retakes of these – and the actors obligingly walked 100 metres back only to run in ‘exasperation’ again. My bright orange pants was in-shot in some of these scenes unfortunately,and so you may not get to see it on TV when this episode air eventually.

JALAN has seen its virgin episode aired last Sunday, at 8.30 on Suria. That was the episode on the rich Boyan heritage that was wiped out by development in Serangoon.Seven more episodes to go – before I can finally start packing my waiting bags and abandoned boxes to finally jalan to Vancouver.