Simulated Terror

I'm back! It's been almost a month since the last entry, and it's been a simple case of "I'm going to write about this but wait let me do that first!". So like that lah. No entries. Anyway, happy holidays to everyone. I spent the last weekend watching Khabi Khushi, Khabi Ghum, a fantastically melodrama-mama story of family love, brotherly love, fatherly love, motherly love, parents-in-lawly love, plain old couplely love and housemaidy love. Any other day I would've laughed at the over-drive in sentiments, but for the sake of Shah Rukh, Amitabh and Kajol, I relaxed a bit and managed to shed some tears at the end. Next week, on New Year's Day, catch Aamir Khan's 1857: The Rising, a critically-acclaimed show but commercially lacklustre (which perhaps explains why Central was able to buy it off so early).

I heard last night and read today morning about the Surprise Simulated Attacks on MRT and Buses. It's a surprise that the Surprise Attacks have been announced on TV, radio and newspapers. But moving on. It's so remarkable that a country that's been able to escape any serious affliction (like riots, or natural calamities) in recent times has to resort to simulating agony to wake up its soft-legged, lily-livered and often spoilt citizenry into preparedness. While there are folks out there in the world who are battling grenades, explosions, famine, floods, earthquakes, rapes and riots on a literally daily basis, some of us whine about not being given access to toilets in country clubs (ST, 28 Dec, pg H7) and are generally too comfortable with our iPodified lifestyles where the only thing that comes to 'scary' is a Pooh bear. Or Barney.

But hey, you can't discount the fact that we're what we are today through the years of hardwork and determination and CPF. True, absolutely. But I wonder at the proportion of young Singaporeans who truly understand the meaning of pain and suffering. NS helps a bit for the guys, but for the girls, not even that. It's not anyone's fault that we're well off and dandy, and watching Kabhi Gushi, Kabhi Ghum. It's just so that one great scenario leads to another, and here we are now, taking time off from our capitalist excesses to get ready to face Simulated Terror. Let's see how it all goes next year on one of the weekends.

Chicken... Little...

It didn’t have to end that way, but unfortunately, it did.

It was a happy Wednesday morning, when a few of us friends met up to get away from the humid air of Singapore to the humid air of Johor Bahru. It had been a pretty long while since I had gone out of the country. So even this sad “cross-border” trip was enough to thrill my calves into action.

It’s always so strange to go to JB and somehow feel that it was not Singapore, even though what separates Woodlands and JB is a few kilometers of checkpoint formality. I think it’s the air. Or maybe the buildings. Or is it because everything looks old and unkempt?

We did the usual shopping and glancing and eating. They have clothing shops there that sell branded factory-rejects at branded prices (in Malaysian RM that translates to roughly the same SGD). Bloody crazy. And to top it off, such a shop shamelessly calls itself the Reject Shop. “Hey, nice shirt! You look good man. Where’d you get it?” “Oh, thanks. I got it from the Reject Shop.” No matter how differently I try saying it (slowly, high/low pitch, Singlish, English), to tell anyone that I bought anything from the Reject Shop is cringe-evoking.

We went to three different shopping malls, and there was one where we were treated to the underground world of pirated DVDs. All you have to do is to approach a shop, whose shutters are closed. Then, as if he dropped from the sky, an adolescent indulging in excessive Ah Beng culture appears and ushers you to the nearest shutter/shop. Once he confirms that yes, you’re there to buy some latest movies on the sly, without warning, he springs into action: he looks around (1.3 seconds), bends down to the shutter (0.03 seconds) and opens the shutter with a jolting “shada shada shada” (0.13 seconds), and quickly ushers you in. He then closes back the shutter with us, the patrons, in the shop. Then you realize that you’re doing something illegal and exciting – buying pirated DVDs from an illegal vendor, making you a party to the crime as well. Such a sad lot we are, finding the cheapest of thrills in the cheapest of ways.

But I think for me, the best thing ever about JB, and perhaps Malaysia, is the existence of surau’s. As a Muslim, I prefer to pray my five daily prayers on the prescribed timings right on the dot, or at least sometime near. In Singapore, when the prayer time arrives, when you’re in a crowded shopping mall, you can choose to either go to the nearest mosque (which can be next door or a few bus stops away) or go to an unused stairway to do your prayers. Both are inconvenient options, because either you need to take a bus down to the mosque or you need to perform ablution with water, in a washroom, which means getting your feet wet, then wearing shoes, then going to the stairway to do your prayers with a prayer mat you bring yourself.

In JB, everything is solved with the existence of a dedicated Muslim prayer room, called a surau. It’s a place for prayers, and depending on the shopping mall’s management, it can be big and spacious or small and minimalist. It’s usually located near the washrooms, and even in the signboards that direct you to the telephones, washrooms or exits, there are signs that point to the surau. And it has the ablution area as well. So this was fantastic for me, all I had to do was tell the buddies that I’d see them again in a few minutes, and I’d quickly do my prayers and resume shopping. I think Singapore malls don’t have them as space in any mall is expensive, and setting aside a room as a surau would be unprofitable, Muslims making a small percentage of the overall customer base. Having said that, having a surau (say in Wisma Atria) might induce more Muslim patrons to visit the mall, who, collectively, would contribute to the rental costs of the surau through their increased purchases at the mall.

After some dinner at a seafood joint, it was time to head back to the Big SG. Before checking into the checkpoint, Jalsa, another friend and I bought a few of those famous Ramli burgers. In total, there were 7 of them, all nice and hot and, very likely, juicy. Jalsa volunteered to keep all our burgers with him, because he felt that he was doing the other two of us a remarkable favour. He held all the burgers in a blue, semi-transparent plastic bag.

However, at the Singapore checkpoint, something went wrong. Very wrong. As the rest of us happily slid past the passport and luggage checks, Jalsa was held and questioned about the Ramli burgers. Apparently, the officer was shocked that there SEVEN burgers in his possession, and Jalsa was informed that no, he was not allowed to bring in the seven burgers onto Singapore soil. The reason was because the chicken burgers might spread bird flu to the sterile SG environment. No bargains or pleas were accepted. He was marched into a room (where other folks had to surrender their chewing gums, cigarettes etc) where he bade farewell to his, our friend’s, and my possibly juicy Ramli burgers. Jalsa then came out, looking baffled and hairier than ever. It took a while for the whole thing to sink in. So folks: no Ramli burgers, no chickens, no nothing. All of us burst out laughing on the trip back home.

It didn’t have to end that way, but unfortunately, it did. Remember, don’t even bring a Little Chicken from Malaysia to Singapore.