Kg. Pandan Backpackers

The UK Road Diaries: 12 - 22 March, 2010

2010-05-01T08:15:00.041+08:00

Treats and Traps: A Teaser

Touring a foreign country, whether it’s the UK or the Ukraine, is always a tale of treats and traps. Treats are rewarding and mind-changing experiences: places, people, sights and scenes that delight, surprise, inspire, and fire up your senses. Traps are, well, traps. Only worse. They make you wish you’d remained in Kg Pandan. It’s relative. A treat to you is a trap to your wife. The trick for a smart traveler is to anticipate and avoid the traps. Of course if it’s Ukraine, it’s 98% traps, to you and your wife, no relative here. If you’re born a loser, it could even be real, live traps. Sand traps, booby traps, marriage traps and the like.

But why would anybody want to visit Ukraine in the first place? Well, that’s not why I’m writing now. What I’m writing is actually about our recent 10-day UK getaway. Why UK? Because Air Asia doesn’t fly to France or Spain, that’s why. Actually you won’t go wrong with UK. It’s so well trodden, and the heavy hype in Malaysia has reached a pitch where if you’ve not been to London, you’ve not travelled. You may have solid proof that last year alone you’ve made five trips to Bandung for those Armani knock-offs, but Bandung is not London. UK is de rigueur for both serious and hilarious travelers. Just go to the travel section of any book store, you’ll find more guides on UK than France, Spain and Bandung combined.

The silver bullet for travel traps is preparation and more preparation. No short cuts or cheating like your college chemistry tests. In our case, we booked our flights in October 2009. We had a solid five months for planning, searching, arguing and online booking. I read Michelin, Fommer’s and almost all UK-related and unrelated websites, and drew up the best possible travel plans, complete with options and fallbacks. Fortune favors the prepared, somebody said. I knew, for example, which stretches of road in Wales had speed cameras. I could also tell you the night temperature in Lisbon. The problem is that Lisbon is not in UK. So much for more preparation. Honestly we’d never been this poised and primed for travel. We’re all set for a trap-free trip. Or at least that’s what we thought.

UK 101

The United Kingdom comprises the tentative countries or states or regions or whatever of England, Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland. Some of you may feel offended by this fifth-grade explanation, but one of my many sisters-in-law, if she happens to read this, may indeed find this useful and enlightening. She's a UPM graduate, nothing less, and she still thinks that Ottawa is the capital of Japan (Lisbon? Never mind). About 60 million people live in UK today, and naturally they are English, Scottish, Welsh, Irish and Pakistani. The country is made up of 60 shires with 647 castles and 1245 museums (OK, I made up the numbers, but you got the idea). Castles, like haggis and scones and afternoon tea, are really an acquired taste. If you’re culturally illiterate, like most Kelantanese are, you really need a lot of grooming and upbringing to appreciate the full grandeur and finer points of a castle, and even more training for all the 647 castles. Just about every industry, trade and settlement with more than 200 people has a dedicated museum. The British Museum, railway museum, ship museum, sheep museum, and so on. There’s even a museum museum to keep track of all the museums (yes, I made up this one, too). You don’t need training to see them all. You need a lot of stamina.

Most of us have a soft spot for anything English or British, thanks to childhood exposure, personal experience, English wife, or plain nostalgia. After all, at one time we’re very much part of the now-defunct British Empire, together with Zimbabwe (Fortunately, the British at that time deemed it uneconomic to merge Malaysia and Zimbabwe) There used to be a Padang Churchill and Tanjung Duff in Kelantan. While almost everybody knows that Susan Boyle is better-looking than Sir Winston Churchill, this Duff character remains a mystery. A railway clerk, maybe? Back in the 1950’s, we had some teachers trained in Kirkby, near Liverpool, to teach in the English-medium schools. I learned English words before I could speak standard Malay, and I had my share of run-ins with my maths teacher in form six, one Chris McLeod, from N Ireland. We still keep the name George Town for some reason. And, of course, the English Premier League and Wayne Rooney. Everyone now claims to be a diehard supporter of an EPL team. On an average day, all Malays will support Manchester United, all Indians (except Shebby Singh) support Liverpool, and the Chinese bet on any team that wins.

The Best-Laid Plans

Since we’d spent so much on the low-cost flight, low-cost terminal and low-cost meals, it only made sense that we should go for maximum return on investment. The same concept apparently was at the core of our government’s investment in 1 Malaysia F1 Racing Team. To achieve this, we decided to roam the roads and reaches of England, Wales and Scotland by car, with the last three days in London. A driving tour of the length and breadth of UK, if you like. So much about these places had been written and bandied about - their scenic variety, deep history, cultural diversity, football hooligans- that the lure was just impossible to resist. Only ten days and in six degrees C, this UK foray looked overly ambitious, self-indulging but sure-fire fun. It’d be a journey of more than 3000 km through unfamiliar cities, towns, villages, lakes, farms and, you guess, castles. Our itinerary read like a National Geographic’s A-list: York, Durham, Glasgow, Edinburgh, Stirling, the Trossachs, the Lake District, Manchester, Chester, Wales, Stratford-upon-Avon, the Cotswolds, Stonehenge, Salisbury, London, and all things in between. These places came with stellar reputation and glowing recommendations, and our expectation was uncontrollable as the departure date neared.

We’re a mixed bag. As diverse as it gets: three male, three female, 10 - 60 age range, one housewife, one retiree, two working adults and two students, with interests diverging wildly from Cartoon Network to History Channel. Looking at our wayward profile, it’s almost impossible for anything on the list to please ALL of us. We would’ve been a statistician’s dream sample had it not been for one glaring glitch: one of us was born in Kelantan.

Peanuts and Hitler (12 March, Friday)

We boarded Air Asia flight D7 2008 for the 3.50 pm flight to London Stansted Airport, expecting a cattle-car ambience. We couldn’t be more surprised and mistaken. The seat, the leg room and the pitch were anything but low-cost. Tony’s always one step ahead. No difference from the other airline (name begins with M) except for the free movies and peanuts. But for half the price, who’d need movies and peanuts.

The flight was long (13 hours) and smooth (no movies) and uneventful (no peanuts). Asrif, Aida and Sarah slept like a log after a round of low-cost meal. Fadli was reading Hitler’s Mein Kampf (heavy stuff. I’d prefer peanuts). We landed at Stansted at about 11 pm local time or 5 am in KL. For us it’s early morning, mentally and physically. So we’re fresh and wide awake. Unlike Heathrow (where the other airline lands), Stansted was much smaller and friendlier. The crowd here was easier. No rich and rowdy Arabs to make a scene. No Indian immigration officer asking why we’re in his country. We’re cleared in under 30 minutes, and, hooray, there’s no customs to check our Brahim’s, Maggi and Old Town White Coffee. Air Asia and Stansted were made for each other. A great start for us.

York, York (13 March, Saturday)

It’s five past midnight, an ungodly hour and a new day here. We’re still milling about the arrival lounge at Stansted, catching our breath and praising God after a long, safe flight. Aida and Sarah had yet to see anything worth bragging to friends. Fadli was browsing in W H Smith, a book shop. After picking up the key for our rented car from the Europcar counter, we wheeled out of the building towards the car park. What hit us was an early spring chill, about five degrees Celsius. Shivering, we quickly loaded our bags and literally jumped into the car. It’s a seven-seater VW Sharan MPV. Aida took the back seat, with bags all over her. Asrif turned on the heater and took the wheel. As it turned out Fadli, despite all the fancy reading, was still too young and needed special insurance to drive a rented car in UK. Did he also need a special insurance to read Hitler in UK? Who knew. We easily found our way out of the airport, and took the M11 and then A1 route towards our first stopover, York, about 300 km north east of England. This was really a defining and milestone moment for us: the beginning of a 3000 km, 10-day epic journey together, all six of us crammed up in one car. Imagine, at home we’d never been together like this for more than 16 minutes! Ah, tell me what’s sweeter than this.

It’s drizzling along the way. I’d call Aida every twenty minutes or so to make sure she’s still breathing behind the bags. After nearly four hours (4.30 in the morning), we stopped at a big 24 hr rest area outside York. Nobody else was around except the cashiers. All the shops, including a W H Smith, were wide open. Selling books on a highway at 4 am? You can’t get more literate and civilized than this. In a backpackers trade-mark style, we took the free hot plain water from the machine, made our own three-in-one Milo and shared one big muffin. For the record, a cup of coffee here would set you back RM5.00.

The dawn was breaking when we entered the medieval city of York. What greeted us in the early morning shroud simply took our breath away. The whole city was a castle. Partially walled with narrow entrances, the silhouette was hauntingly beautiful. The narrow streets, with some parts cobblestoned, were flanked by ancient buildings with unmistakable, timeless English character. Even Aida could appreciate this testament to early architectural elegance. I told her to do well in exams and come to study in York and live in this castle. We pushed on very slowly through the city, stopped at the city centre for some shots before making our way out, and then veered towards a 24 hr Tesco just outside the city. We bought some pastries, Walkers potato chips and mineral water and had our breakfast in the car as we rolled on to the next destination. The pastries, especially the pecan and maple combo, were gorgeous and cheap, even if you convert the price to ringgit. York was a fleeting dream.

The Wall. Where’s the Wall? (13 March, Saturday)

We’re back on the A1 leading to Durham, another old city with the famed Durham Castle. Our plan was to make a quick detour, find a sweet spot and take a few shots. True enough the castle was the centre-piece of this city, and you could see its full bloom as you approached the city centre. I sat back to appreciate and wonder what’s the rate of return on this kind of investment. We turned back without resolving the issue and headed further north, past Newcastle before turning sharply west towards Carlisle and then north again to Glasgow, Scotland.

Durham showing off its prize asset

The B grade road to Carlisle was mostly a single-lane affair, not far from the Scottish border. We chose this route to Glasgow with only one objective: Hadrian’s Wall. Parts of this route apparently ran parallel to a 100 km wall built by the Romans for the same reason the Chinese built the Great Wall. As we drove by the site, we’re straining to see any wall or any Chinese. Seriously, we couldn’t see any semblance of a wall. Aida, of course, couldn’t see anything. With bags and pastries around her, she’s completely unsighted. But the rest of us had a clear, open view of what’s around us. What we saw was nothing like the Great Wall. It’s just a meandering stretch of wall-like structure made of crude stones. This wall was supposed to be a defensive line against invaders (Scottish, not Chinese). But only three feet tall, this wall couldn’t keep out even the occasional stray lambs. With modern panties and boxer shorts not invented until 1000 years later, Hadrian must have figured that three feet was high enough to discourage the vicious Scottish marauders in skirts and kilts. Smart ass, this Hadrian. We stopped at a lay-by for some shots, and then drove on. Hadrian’s Wall, a World Heritage Site, was a let-down. A typical tourist trap.

Hadrian’s Wall and the comical engineer who built it.

Gretna, Golok and Glasgow (13 March, Saturday)

We joined the northbound M6 towards Glasgow at the Carlisle junction. As we crossed the Scottish border, we couldn’t help but notice a factory outlet on our left at the edge of the border town of Gretna. Since we had some time to kill, we dropped by to have a look, and rounded off rather quickly. A bit on the tame side compared to what we’d seen elsewhere. But there’s nothing tame about Gretna and the nearby border village of Gretna Green. They’re once notorious for quickie nuptials and marry-in-hurry (just like Las Vegas and Sg Golok) due to the more liberal Scottish marriage laws. At its height, even a blacksmith, believe it or not, could solemnize a marriage here!

Gretna and its blacksmiths were well behind us when we spotted the jutting skyline of Glasgow. After a journey of 700 km, we’re finally in Glasgow. We checked into a Premier Inn at Ballater Street, about one km south of the city centre. We’d booked two rooms online for 29 pounds each. It’s not a Hyatt or Hilton, but the rooms were clean and comfortable with en suite showers and heaters, certainly better than my old school dormitory. Glasgow was a city well past its prime. As an industrial centre, it’d seen better days. You didn’t feel the vibrancy and dynamism of, say, Bandung. Lately it’s been busy reinventing and rebranding itself into a European cultural hub. But the remnants and relics of its industrial past were everywhere. What they actually need is an F1 Team. The city has a population of about 600,000, evenly split, with 300,500 supporting Glasgow Celtic and the rest Glasgow Rangers. I first heard of these two football teams and their relentless rivalry way back in 1970, when they’re running European football. Now they’re European football’s running jokes.

It’s already late afternoon when we ventured out, heading for the city centre, melting into throngs of Glaswegians, tourists and Pakistanis. The hotspot at this time was George Square and Buchanan Street pedestrian mall, which were teeming with boutique shops and British brands including Marks & Spencer (M&S) and W H Smith, the bookseller. Flowing aimlessly with the crowd and braving the frigid climate, it’s quite an experience.

What a feeling! What a freezing!

Gay Glasgow: Trying hard to be hip

To be fair, there’s a lot to see in Glasgow if you’re truly curious and cosmopolitan. There’s plenty of high-minded stuff like museums, cathedrals, art galleries, opera house, gardens. But for us, it’s already late and it’d been a long day and a long way. It’s not the time for opera house. The only option was to drive back to Premier Inn. It’s only about two or three km away, but with only 54% of his brain mass actually working, Asrif lost his sense of direction and we took an hour to reach the hotel.

Trekking the Trossachs (14 March, Sunday)

It’s 4.45 when I woke up. The body was still functioning on KL clock. It’s early but it’s Glasgow, Scotland. Everybody was up before 7 and ready for breakfast of Maggi and Brahim’s. Fresh and fit, we’re ready to invade Scotland. Our plan was to explore Scotland’s natural splendor: highlands, lochs, forests and glens. We’d be trekking the Trossachs, a national park with rugged landscape known for its scenic beauty, about 50 km north of Glasgow. The writer Sir Walter Scott had so deeply adored the Trossachs wilderness that he dubbed it ‘the scenery of a fairy dream’. I read only a simplified version of his ‘Ivanhoe’, so I was not well-placed to judge his trip advice. Anyway, if it’s dream to Walt, it’s dream to us.

Our Trossachs tour began at a small town of Aberfoyle. From Glasgow to Aberfoyle, it’s part motorway, part pretty country road running across open spaces, farms and dreamy villages. After a brief look-around at Aberfoyle’s Scottish Wool Centre, we’re all set for the Trossachs. The Trossachs trail from Aberfoyle climbed up treacherously, winding and twisting all the way along fenceless shoulders, passing peaks with patches of snow, treeless valleys, small settlements, and two lochs, before reaching the town of Callander at the other end after about half an hour. That’s all? That’s all. The panoramic views and vistas at various spots were impressive enough, but they didn’t exactly blow us away. Garden variety compared to, say, the majestic Grand Canyon. Which made us wonder why all the rage. To be fair, the route we took didn’t run the entire length and loop of the Trossachs, and we’re not sure whether early spring was the best time to sample it. Sorry Walt, your fairy founders, falling short of our expectation. But the anticipation and the experience was still well worth it. I’d still recommend it to my sisters-in-law.

Airy-fairy scenery: The Trossachs

Castle, and Castle Again (14 March, Sunday)

Stirling, our next stopover, was no stranger. A good friend who studied here in early 1980’s still boasts that he’s from a top UK university (where top means top part of UK). Fadli’s co-worker is also a Stirling alumnus. Our earlier plan was just to pass by on the way to Edinburgh. But we couldn’t resist the sight of the sexy Stirling Castle precariously perching up high on the edge of a rock cliff. It gave a clever impression that it’s about to fall any moment. We drove all the way up a narrow lane, and passed its grand entrance and into the visitor centre inside. From the castle, you could savor the sweeping view of Stirling, its fringe and beyond. It’s just exhilarating, to say the least. At the end of it all, we had to rush down, fearing the great fall (joke).

Stirring view from Stirling castle

We reached Edinburgh, about 80 km from Stirling, at 4 pm or so. So much had been written and promised about this highly celebrated city that we could feel our pulse racing as we closed in. The city was every bit what we’d visualized. Old, dark and handsome, without being flashy or extravagant. There’s hardly a new building here. I read somewhere that the city was founded more than a thousand years ago. The whole city is technically a museum. For tourists who are serious (like Mr Bean) and hilarious (like Mr Bean), the city offers a repertoire of sights, experiences, landmarks and oddities to suit all fancies and peculiarities, but the crown jewel is no doubt the Edinburgh Castle. Built and destroyed and rebuilt on a huge and monstrous rock formation, it looms over the city, casting a giant shadow since the 11th century. Edinburgh was a visual feast, best consumed ‘as is, where is’. Just soak yourself in its atmosphere, its sheer expanse, steep history and rich culture. Don’t complicate it with mindless modern art, long castle queues and tiring theaters. It’d be easy on your legs, and even easier on your wallet. It’s also a good excuse for us to set up our base at Princes Street, a tourist thoroughfare and a vantage point for viewing the castle and anything in between. Princes Street was bursting with locals, transients and, yes, Pakistanis. Lining the street were the familiar names (including, yes, W H Smith, the bookseller) plus a couple of tourist-friendly gift outlets hawking odds and ends. Aida, Sarah and Ibu hopped in and out of the gift shops, stretching thin our ten-day supply of British pounds and my credit limit. Asrif was freezing outside, madly texting all his friends in Malaysia. Fadli, well, you know where he was. And me? Well, it’s a constant and personal struggle against the bone-biting and pee-pushing cold, even in four layers of cotton-rich garments. We took a quick driving tour of the venerable city, passing various landmarks, parks, gardens and unfamiliar structures, before finding the right way out. You need two or three days to really discover Edinburgh, not two to three hours. But even in the short time, the city was still worthy of all the rave reviews and our long journey. Edinburgh was a gem.

Iconic Edinburgh Castle: High, Dark and Handsome

The way back to Glasgow was a quiet and controlled ride on the busy M8 motorway. I broke the repose, telling Aida to do well in exams so that she could come to Edinburgh to study. She replied ‘semalam Ayah kata York’. I said that? ‘OK, York or Edinburgh or Brown. As long as it’s not UPM’, I said. Without warning, Asrif swerved into a rest area for a coffee and texting break. We reached Glasgow and Premier Inn without complication. The texting break just now must’ve restored his sense of direction.

Poets and Philanderers (15 March, Monday)

We’re still in Scotland. It’s our third and last day here. With another long trip ahead, we left quite early. Asrif was behind the wheel again, and Aida was behind the bags. We left Glasgow, heading 250 km south on motorway M6, to the Lake District, in the shire of Cumbria, England. Don’t ask me why it’s not Cumbriashire. Lake District is reputed to be one of the most beautiful spots in UK. It’s once a hotbed of romantic poets and classical writers. Wordsworth, Coleridge, Shelley, Keats, Southey, to name but a few, at one time or another, visited or lived and wrote here. It’s fine if you’re not familiar with all or any of these literary greats (no reason to feel uncivilized or anything). Sir Walter Scott had purportedly visited and fallen in love with Lake District. Knowing Walt and his fairy story, there’s no surprise here.

The Lake District without the lake

From the M6 motorway, we turned westward into the A66 at Penrith to a small, pretty town of Keswick, where we began our Lake District detour. It’s a scenic and wondrous drive all the way to Keswick and from Keswick to other lovely lakeside towns within Lake District. The road cut across mountains, valleys, villages, meadows, rolling pastures, rivers and, of course, lakes and more lakes (100 of them, big, small, very small). We stopped again and again to capture the stunning and sublime scenery along the way. At a small lake town of Grasmere, we dropped by Dove Cottage, Wordsworth’s residence and now a museum. Millions of people descended on Grasmere every year to pay homage to this revered figure, but for us it’s nothing more than casual curiosity. The cottage was old but very well preserved. There’s an eerie air of serenity hovering about the place and everybody seemed to speak in whispers. ‘Di karet, sepi telah datang / pada akal puisimu yang bening dan bising’, wrote a Malay poet in his poetry piece “di kubur chairil”, a tribute to the Indonesian poet Chairil Anwar. The poetic parallel was palpable. Wordsworth, for all he’s worth, didn’t mean anything to Aida and Sarah. The closest they’d ever got to a literary experience was watching Lady Gaga. I bought a black t-shirt on sale with Wordsworth’s pearls of wisdom printed at the back: “Men who do not wear fine clothes can feel deeply”. He wrote that? Pretty pedestrian for a literary champion. I suppose it's harder to be a plumber. I’d never read his works myself. Must be heavier than Hitler. Modern English is stressful enough, why wrestle with the ancient version? I knew of Shakespeare, Wordsworth, Keats et al just enough to get by and avoid any name mix-up with those footballers and philanderers.

Wordsworth’s poetry factory

Closest Malay translation: Pulau Pandan jauh ke tengah, Gunung Daik........

Finally Windermere. This town and lake of the same name is Lake District’s tourist centre. I couldn’t help but notice its touristy and overrun atmosphere. Nevertheless we spent more than an hour here, pursuing our divergent interests. Aida, Sarah and Ibu in and out of gift shops. Asrif madly texting his many friends. Fadli, well, you know. And I spent all the energy battling the climate change and chasing the toilet. We converged and immediately agreed on a well-deserved fish and chips. The Lake District was a fulfilling expedition, with Grasmere a clear standout. We came away inspired, but still not quite in the way that would convince even a retiree like me to turn to part-time poetry. Pottery is more likely. Or plumbing. We’ll talk about this later.

We rejoined the M6 at Kendal for a 100 km drive south to Manchester. We checked into a Travelodge on the M62 eastbound motorway rest area, together with some truckers. With two rooms at 19 pounds (less than RM 100) each room with three beds, bath and working heater, and free parking thrown in, it’s not hotel hell. There’s an M&S c- store and W H Smith (ha, ha) right next to the hotel. You couldn’t find a better value in this part of the world. We took a short trip to Manchester city centre, 10 km away, in the evening. Unlike Edinburgh or Glasgow, the city was comparatively modern, with new buildings and younger Pakistanis. It’s already late and nothing was open except the pubs. In no time we’re back at Travelodge and hit the sack.

I’m not hotel hell

Beth yw hwn? Beth sy’n mynd ymlean? (16 March, Tuesday)

What’s this? What’s going on? Yes, in Welsh. Today we’d be exploring Wales, another state, region or whatever in UK. Wales has its own language and writing system, which is almost vowelless and clueless. For those who’re used to Kelantanese language, Welsh shouldn’t be intimidating.

We reached the town of Conwy, on the northern coast of Wales, late morning after a 150 km drive west of Manchester. The imposing Conwy Castle, another medieval architectural masterpiece, was right at the entrance of the walled city. Conwy was smaller than York, but the buildings and streets were almost of the same character. It’s here that we discovered Welsh language, thriving and functioning everywhere. All English names and words here were proudly translated into Welsh. Or the other way round, Welsh translated into English. ‘The oldest house in Conwy’ becomes ‘Y ty yhnof yng Nghonwy’ in Welsh (yes, only two vowels). 16 March is 16 Mawrth, not 17 Mawrth. Not only the city was old, its residents were also old (but not as old as the city). In an hour or so we’re in Conwy, we saw only one young couple with a baby. Where’re all the young people? Out playing rugby?

Y Gloch Las: Perempuan Melayu Terakhir (Translation)

Near Betws-y-Coed: This is NOT a postcard. We actually snapped this beauty.

From Conwy we ventured inland, about 50 km south, to the village of Betws-y-Coed, in the county of Clwyd. We stopped for pastries and chips at a Tesco on the way out of Conwy. To reach Betws-y-Coed, we’d to pass the towns of Llansanffraid Glan Conwy, Craig Tal-y-Cafn Eglwysbach and Llanrwst. If I stack up the names, I’d have a short, instant poem, in Welsh. The road was narrow but the journey was short and sweet. Betws-y-Coed didn’t do justice to its graceful name. It’s as plain as pastry. There’re the usual stone houses, rivers, mountains and the stuff, nothing out of this world. Not even a public toilet was there to compensate for the disappointment. We took a different way out, and were immediately rewarded with a splendid view of the Welsh countryside. It’s a long and winding road with miles and miles of rolling fields and pastures, and villages with even more exotic names. We’re back on the A55 at a town of Abergele. Nothing off- beat here except for one particular car dealership that sold Proton cars, complete with a showroom full of Personas. Hardly anybody around when we stopped to get some shots.

Chic Chester (16 March, Tuesday)

We’ve done Wales but we’re not done for the day. It’s still early, and there’s space for another excursion. This time it’s Chester. Located on the Welsh border, Chester was supposed to be an ancient city: Roman, walled, fortified, gated, just like Conwy and York. But once you’re in the city square, you’re smack in 2010. We’re impressed with its cool, clean and funky feel. The commercial centre was a network of pedestrian-only streets with rows and rows of overpowering black-and-white Tudor styled structures, mostly trendy shops, restaurants, department stores and a W H Smith. The evening crowd was surprisingly young. There were even schoolgirls running, prancing and crashing into equally upbeat strangers. We’re just happy to hang on, blending in with the festive crowd, and wondering why were there so many young people in Chester? Were they actually from Conwy? Since we’re not going to solve this little mystery here, the better option was to return to Manchester. On the way back to Manchester we diverted to Cheshire Oaks, a factory outlet mall of 60 stores selling mostly XXL and XXS size items made in 1986. We had only about an hour to cover 60 shops, or one shop a minute. I’d heard of speed dating, but speed shopping was something else. We managed this by spending the entire one hour only at one shop. Everybody, except Asrif, grabbed something at 5.99 pounds. He’s actually outside, madly texting all his friends.

Wales and Chester had been, in corporate speak, a productive and value-creating excursion. We learned a bit of Welsh. We saw, for the first time, a castle located at sea level. If you’re going to Manchester for some reason, or on the way to Scotland for no reason, we’d recommend a Conwy and Chester detour. One day is enough, but one week if you plan to spend one hour at every shop at Cheshire Oaks !

Funky town Chester

This is our City, Manchester City FC (17 March, Wednesday)

This one is personal and football. If you want to skip this, go ahead. Believe it or not, I’m a full-time supporter of Manchester City Football Club. I’m not a supporter of Manchester United, never. Our Prime Minister can say five times a day on TV3 that he’s a Man U fan, I’m not interested. I supported Man City since the groovy year of 1968 (bell-bottoms and all) simply because I liked one particular player who played for the club, for the same reason my friend Hamid supported Man U because he’s crazy about George Best. So that’s the way it’s been for more than 40 years. I’d call and taunt Hamid whenever Man City sank Man U (roughly once in seven years). When Asrif and Fadli were growing up, I taught them the truth. That there’re only two teams in Manchester: Manchester City and Manchester City reserves. You could call this parental discretion. They had no choice but to support Man City, until now. Life as a Man City fan has never been easy. It’s all passion and patience. Agony and agony. The club has hardly won anything worth texting around. But that’s the whole idea. Where’s the fun of supporting a team that wins two or three titles a year, like those phony wrestlers.

We left Travelodge and followed the fastest route to the City of Manchester Stadium, home of Manchester City FC. Finally we’re here. The sight and the feeling was simply incredible. It’d taken me more than 40 years to be here, to see the club in the flesh. I could sense the all-round buoyant and bullish mood around this club. And why not? Owned and bankrolled by a multi-billionaire sheikh, the club is now the richest in the world. This guy has more than enough cash in hand to buy Man U stadium and burn it down for fun. He's waiting for the right time. At Citystore, we went wild, grabbing team strips, club shirts, fridge magnets, key chains and other club merchandise. Amidst the buying binge, Asrif forgot to madly text his friends.

Ecstasy: After 40 years

Repeat after me: I hate Man U, I hate Man U.

Pitiful Pottery (17 March, Wednesday)

We hit the road again, taking the M6 towards Birmingham, about 200 km south. On the way we strayed into Stoke-on-Trent, a haven for potteries and ceramic, looking for factory shops selling discounted seconds English dinnerware (Wedgwood, Spode). This was actually unplanned, and decided only when we saw the road signs. But most factories and shops here actually had closed down a few years ago. We turned back empty-handed. Apparently UK’s proud pottery industry had been hit hard by cheaper china from China. At this rate, it’s only a matter of time before the poetry industry goes the way of the pottery industry. In case you’re not aware, about one million Chinese are now frantically learning Wordsworth and medieval English, and by 2015 they’re expected to flood the UK market with cheaper poems. Nothing is safe from cheaper Chinese exports, except plumbing. (Sounds like a cruel joke. Sorry)

It’s still early when we reached Birmingham, so we decided to improvise with a side trip to nearby Warwick, another historic city with a famous castle. Warwick Castle was a magnificent structure surrounded by gardens with narrow, high-walled lanes leading to its entrance. Sir Walter Scott (yes, that Walter Scott) had acclaimed the castle as ‘the fairest monument’. By now we’d all wised up to Walt and his fairies, enough as not to take his observation too seriously. With an extortionate per head admission fee of 20 pounds (money, not weight), we’re just happy to take some shots and use the hard-to-find toilet before turning back. We crossed the pleasant city of Warwick towards Stratford-upon-Avon.

Poets Part 2 (17 March, Wednesday)

If Sarah thought we’re all done with dead poets, she’s dead wrong, because we’re going to Stratford-upon-Avon, the birthplace and home of William Shakespeare, the finest English poet, playwright and dramatist, also known as the Bard of Avon. The town of Stratford-upon-Avon, located in the district of Stratford-on-Avon, in the county of Stratford-under-Avon (I made up this one), is one of the hottest tourist attractions in the world, and we’re not going to miss it for the world. When we reached the town, it’s five past five, and everything was about to wind down for the day. The town was a delicate mix of the old and new. The main tourist hangout was Henley Street, where Shakespeare’s birthplace and Shakespeare Centre stood. The street was almost deserted when we stepped in, and only a few shops were still open, including the Shakespeare Book Store, where Fadli finally got hold of a hard-cover “The Complete Works of Shakespeare” as a companion to his Hitler. The city was heavily commercialized, with Shakespeare connections everywhere. Fommer’s was spot on when it concluded rather cynically that everyone here was out to make a buck off the Bard. Nobody would be surprised if there’s a Shakespeare Fried Chicken here. I sized up Shakespeare’s birthplace, a decent half-timber house, now a museum. It’s here that the Bard dreamed up all those sordid tales of trysts and treacheries, and left us the inspirational one liner ‘Et tu, Brute?’, which now comes in handy when your boss gets brutal upon seeing your KPI scores. Shakespeare was so good at his trade that conspiracy theories abound as to whether he used ghost writers (or even ghosts), or he’s doped (syabu, perhaps), or that he’s not sexually mainstream. Fancy Shakespeare a fraud, a junkie and a gay? Barbs off the Bard, I suppose. My own Shakespeare exposure is limited to a hilarious MAD Magazine parody of Julius Caesar plus a couple of Malay translations I read in the mid 60’s ‘Saudagar Venice’ and ‘Impian Di Pertengahan Musim Panas’. What would be the contextual translation of Macbeth? Your call, but Mat Rempit is fine with me.

Shakespeare wrote and doped here

Another tale of tryst?

It’s already dark when we left the mouthful Stratford-upon-Avon for the straight-forward Birmingham. We checked into a Travelodge at Maypole Road, just outside Birmingham. The Travelodge here was newer and more spacious, also at 19 pounds per room (money, not weight). There’s a Sainsbury’s across the road just in case we needed chips and pastries.

It’d been a fun-packed day. Football, pottery and Shakespeare. What a potent concoction. I certainly wouldn’t recommend City of Manchester Stadium to our PM or his lovely wife. But personally I wouldn’t trade it for anything on this trip. Warwick Castle should be in your list if you’ve plenty of time and pounds to burn (both money and weight). Shakespeare? By all means. The fame and name alone should be enough motivation to be there. If you’re a theatre freak, plays are all year round.

Beauty (18 March, Thursday)

Birmingham and its surrounding area is often referred to as the heart of England. We’d covered part of it yesterday, and today we’d be roaming the rest and, maybe, the best of it. We’re off early (which means at about 10 or so), cruising rural roads to the tune of Canned Heat’s classic ‘On the Road Again’ blaring out from the car audio. Our destination was Worcester, just 30 km south, the home of the world famous Worcester Sauce and Royal Worcester Porcelain. We’re not interested in the sauce because nothing on earth could be better than Saus Manis ABC. We’re after the Worcester porcelain and china which was supposed to be the world’s finest and available here at bargain prices at seconds shop at the factory. Aida squirmed at the prospect of sharing her tight space with porcelain. But we’re in for another disappointment when we’re told by a service station cashier that the factory had closed down two years ago. But there’s a museum, he added. Of course there’s a museum, we knew that. Just like the one in Stoke, the factory here had fallen on hard times. But the town of Worcester was surprisingly good looking, and drifting through it more than made up for the little let down.

From Worcester we headed south-east to another tourist hotspot called the Cotswolds. This area had some of the most charming villages in UK. One of them was Broadway. True enough, Broadway was a sleeping beauty. It’s open and spacious, with a generous layout of trees, gardens and lawns. The stone-rich buildings were an architectural delight. Old, quaint and English, what’s not to love? You’d wonder how did these people build and keep this village this way for so long. I guess things were easier without illegal immigrants. The dreamy, idyllic and laidback setting was almost surreal. Far from the madding crowd, you’d say. I just wished my artistic brother-in- law and his equally artistic wife were here. They’d fall in love with Broadway and even decide not to go back to working with the madding crowds at MBB and Mida.

Walking down the main street of this 15th century village was a pleasure beyond compare. Was it because of the free admission? Joke aside, it’s the loveliest street I’d ever seen. We couldn’t help but sneak in and out of its many dainty shops, with no real intention to buy anything. I still ended up buying a print of the village though. You should see it.

Breathless Broadway: No illegal immigrants here?

Me and Broadway. Better than me and USJ.

From Broadway, we swung south about 10 km to the market town of Chipping Campden, Boadway’s main rival for the prettiest village title. It’s a pity that they’re so near to each other. What we saw was what you’d see on a postcard. But Chipping Campden was more compact and livelier with rows of stone houses and structures of varied styles on both sides of the main street. The crowd was thicker here, just visiting or hunting for bargain crystals or tea set at the corner shops. Fadli was checking out the two bookshops here. If he’s in luck he could even find a rare Shakespeare’s “ Incomplete works”, as a companion to “the Complete Works” he’d bought yesterday.

Chipping Campden: We’re prettier than Broadway, ask him.

The Beast (18 March, Thursday)

Actually I’d lined up two more Cotswold villages (Painswick and Bibury) in today’s agenda. But from my thirty years of working my butt off in Petronas, I could scent the onset of low motivation with an 80% accuracy. It’s clear enough to me that the guys and the girls had had enough of pretty villages, English architecture and Sir Walter Scott. They wanted something different, something that could capture their imagination. Aida and Sarah, for example, wanted KFC’s cheesy wedges.

From Chipping Campden, we dipped further south toward Amesbury, about 200km away in Wiltshire. We reached Amesbury after about two hours, and pressed on westward for about 20 km before coming face to face with Stonehenge. The guys and the girls literally woke up to the sight of this so-called prehistoric monument. For the first time in about a week they’re looking at an anti-architecture. Just a circle of stones. It’s so devoid of design, taste and style that nobody had been able to link it to anything. ‘A prehistoric monument’ doesn’t amount to much. My parents’ house in Kelantan is technically a monument and figuratively prehistoric. But let’s not split hairs here. The point is Stonehenge is overrated and oversold. We walked past two busloads of German-speaking Germans who swore in German after they’re made to circle the stones by their guide. The only consolation was the panoramic view of Salisbury Plain, the rolling plains and pastures surrounding Stonehenge. Bleak and wind-swept in early spring, it’s much more dramatic than our prehistoric prima donna. Fadli seemed to be the only one among us and the Germans who’s genuinely interested. Asrif was madly texting his friends.

Don’t come here, it’s only stones.

Our plan was to actually return to where we’d started: Stansted Airport. But we still had an unfinished business. It’s drizzling when we showed up at the historic city of Salisbury, about 20 km south of Stonehenge. Where did I come across the name Salisbury before? Medieval rockers? Vegetable (no, that’s parsley)? A street in Taiping? Too old to recall. The tourist catch here was the cathedral, which towered over the city. Salisbury itself was a pretty sight with old stone buildings, but the rain had dampened our mood for adventure. We lingered for a while, just drifting and harboring a sliver of hope that we might stumble on a shop full of bargain dinner sets. There’s one actually, Watsons, on Queen Street. You’d heard it before and you heard it again: it went out of business two years ago.

It’s still raining when we found our way out of Salisbury. It’s 200 km to Stansted, mostly motorway. It’s already dark when we joined the M3 towards London and then onto the M25 orbiting London towards Stansted on the east side. We finally checked into a Travelodge about 6 km from the airport.

It’d been a trip of contrasts. The flawless beauty of Broadway and the beast in Stonehenge. The Cotswolds is a treasure, and, in hindsight, deserves more time. You don’t have to be an architect or an artist (like brother in law) to appreciate its character and charisma. All you need is good eyesight and a free mind. Stonehenge is, well, better never than late. No, really, that’s too harsh for a World Heritage. Don’t go to Stonehenge just for Stonehenge. You must wander a bit (Salisbury and Bath are nearby) to get your money’s worth. Otherwise skip Stonehenge and go for cheesy wedges.

Salisbury. Not Taiping.

London Town 1 – Beyonce and Mugabe (19 March, Friday)

We’d be going to Stansted, but we’re not going back to KL just yet. We’d not done London, remember. What? You scream. All this winding and twisting travelling tale and more of the same? But if you’ve come this far, I’m sure you’re game for more.

We packed up, left Travelodge and were in Stansted in less than 20 minutes. We returned the well-behaved car with the odometer clocking 3293 miles. It’s 1390 miles when we took it, meaning we’d logged 1903 miles or 3045 km! That’s a massive travelling by any standard, about 500 km everyday for six days. That’s about it, the end of roaring road trip. From Stansted we’d be going to London by a National Express bus to avoid the hassle of London driving: jams, congestion charge, parking fees, double deckers, horses, loss of sense of direction, Pakistanis etc.

We got off at a Park Lane bus stop near Marble Arch in London at about 1 pm. It’s drizzling and dead cold in London. We had to lug nine pieces of bags across the street to our hotel at Portman Square, about 200 metres away. We’re booked at Hyatt Regency the Churchill. No, we didn’t win a Petronas station lucky draw or anything like that. I was using my Hyatt loyalty points amassed during business travels to Jakarta and Bangkok. We got two connecting rooms and, despite the fancy branding, the rooms were only slightly bigger than Travelodge.

There’s no specific program for London. The guys had their own plans. Asrif had a friend in London and planned to catch up with him. Fadli wanted to see the British Museum and Tate Museum of Modern Art (what’s wrong with this guy). I hope he’s not also visiting the British Rail Authority. That left the four of us, and no discussion here because Aida and Sarah had already decided on Madame Tussaud’s, firm and final. It’s raining when we walked to Madame Tussaud’s on Marylebone Road, about 1 km from our hotel. Aida and Sarah were all fired up as we went in. All the famous and infamous, beauties and the beasts, were here in wax. Nothing much for a retiree, though, but the girls seemed to enjoy this tremendously. I must’ve done more than hundred shots here. Aida with Diana. Sarah with Beckham. Ibu with Shah Ruk. Aida with Audrey Hepburn (her idol). Sarah with Beyonce. Ibu with Salman (Khan, not Rushdie). Sarah with I-don’t-know-who. Me and Mugabe. And so on. There’re a couple of passable side-shows to add some variety to the whole thing. The girls enjoyed it, so I enjoyed it. On the way back to hotel, we stopped at a Tesco Express to buy you-know-what.

Me and Audrey. Pity she’s all wax.

London Town 2 – I’ve found what I’m looking for (20 March, Saturday)

Still without any plan, we spent some time looking at the options. It’s drizzling again outside. We decided on Portobello Road Market, since it’s hip and happening on Saturday. Asrif was out with his friend again today. We took the tube from Marble Arch to Notting Hill Gate station for Portobello Road. This market is a haven for antiques, farm produce, food and art. The crowd was unbelievable despite the weather. People of all cultures and interests were here, drawn by the promise of bargains and basement prices. The dealers were all over the narrow street showing off their wares. It’s here that we finally found what we’re looking for: the elusive dinner set. Old, English design, pinkish red, made in Staffordshire, England. Twelve pieces for 35 pounds or RM 180. We bought it from a seller named Wayne. He had an earring (not sure which ear, left or right). The last twelve pieces, he said, and he made only 5 pounds. Should we believe a man with earring?

Pasar tani Portobello

The drizzle turned into showers, and it’s colder than Edinburgh now. Not the best time to see London landmarks. It’s time to stay indoor and close to the toilet. From Portobello Market we moved on to Camden Town and got drenched in the driving rain. Camden, a tourist trap, was forgettable. Finally we’re back in Marble Arch and into the famous M&S store on Oxford Street. We’re looking at food choices and varieties in the food section when we bumped into a Malay family. We’re about to greet them when they turned the other way. It’s the sad, unwritten code of ethics in London that Malays will look the other way when they see their kind, unless they happen to be Kelantanese. (It’s free-for-all when Kelantanese meet Kelantanese in London).

We spent the evening at Harrods, burning with curiosity about the trappings of the high life. This iconic institution was almost deserted except for the restaurants. No Portobello crowd here. Only overpaid footballers and their wags. We roamed the floors, gasping openly at the prices. After only two floors, we thought we’d seen them all. And there’s that sad memorial to Diana and Dodi on the basement. You could almost feel a father’s deep sense of loss and anger.

London Town 3 – London Landmarks and Comedians (21 March, Sunday)

Morning was clear, and we’re beginning to feel we’re too long in London, especially in this freakish weather. Maybe the famous landmarks could lift our spirits a bit. All six of us took the tube to Westminster Station for a tour of the Westminster area, where a number of travel-guide landmarks were located. Out of the station, we had a good view of the Houses of Parliament, Big Ben and London Eye. Huge crowd here, all with the same idea. We just followed the crowd which somehow moved in one direction. Must be the herd instinct. Crossing Westminster Bridge, we strolled past Parliament, Westminster Abbey, Downing Street, Whitehall, and right up to Trafalgar Square before turning left along the Mall and onto the beautiful St James’s Park towards Buckingham Palace at the far end. I wasn’t sure whether Sarah was inspired by all this. She’s still very much into Barbies and Bratz. We took the tube at Green Park to Covent Garden. Sunday market at Covent Garden was packed with tourists from Bulgaria, and vendors were having a field day fleecing them. We stayed on for a while to watch a street performance by a black stand-up comedian. All comedians in the world are black.

Actually we’d prefer Raja Lawak on Astro.

After Covent Garden, Fadli split and off to museums. Asrif must be somewhere in London, madly texting his friends. I was back on Oxford Street with Ibu and the girls, ambling back and forth with the swelling afternoon crowd. The street was choked with people of all origins and shades, coming and going in all directions. They looked comfortable, confident, even with a hint of swagger, and as much at home in London as they’re in Karachi or Kampala. I guess here the Indians, Ugandans, Jamaicans, Pakistanis (yes) and even Kelantanese feel quite rightly that they have as much moral claim to Central London as the English, Scottish, Welsh and Irish do. And why not? Hyatt Regency the Churchill in the centre of London and Padang Churchill in the centre of Kota Bharu. “bahawa sejarah harus dibayar dengan sejarah/ dosa yang terkumpul/di beratus pulau dan negeri/perlu ditebus di pusat London”. Wrote a Malay poet laureate in his early poetry piece ‘England di musim bunga’, an allusion to British colonial past and plunder. Man, this is some serious stuff.

St James‘s Park underexposed

No prize for guessing the one from Kelantan.

Leaving London (22 March, Monday)

Our last day in London. Weather looked good, and it should last for the next hour or so. Last night all of us had to squeeze into one room because we had to give up one room. Actually more than three people in one hotel room is illegal in UK (but not in Ukraine). But since a Kelantanese has an equal right to central London, we thought we had a pretty strong case. We took the opportunity to have ice breaking and filial bonding sessions while trying to find enough space to breathe. So this morning we’re friendlier than normal to each other, salam, good morning, sorry, please sir may I go out and so on. But, just like the English weather, it should last for the next hour or so.

Fadli was out early on the last leg of his museum and book store tour. Asrif decided to go out a bit later because he’s not done with his mad texting. We had to check out at three, and not much time left. It’s already ten when I was out on Oxford Street with Ibu and the girls floating with the crowd, most of the time at M&S. It’s about the only place that we didn’t really feel out of place in London. Prices were purse-friendly, too. And we bought pastries again.

We checked out at three and waited for our bus at the hotel lobby until about six, when we had to drag our bags again, now heavier, to the National Express bus stop about 20 metres away on Portman Street. The bus pulled up at 6.15 and we’re on our way to Stansted.

We’re at Stansted at about 7.30, and the Air Asia counter was still closed for the 11.20 flight to KL. I pondered worriedly over our bulging bags, which looked twice the 60 kg luggage allowance purchased. True enough we had to cough up 45 pounds for excess. Other than that, no complaint. Stansted even had a surau, apart from three W H Smiths. There’s no immigration, and security hassle was no worse than expected. One security guy even called out ‘kasut, kasut’ to liven things up. He’s black. I was right about the comedians.

Sweet Home (23 March, Tuesday)

We landed at LCCT at 8 evening, half an hour ahead of schedule. We came out of the plane and right into the pressure cooker. Hot, humid and home. For Aida and Sarah, it’s hot, humid and homework!

A Final Word

The journey of a lifetime! You’ve heard that said time and again by returning travelers. Romping through beautiful places is a richly rewarding and life lasting experience. Our ten-day UK road trip is just that, and more. I don’t want to get overdramatic, but all of us together in one car for 3000 km is certainly an affair to remember. It’s yet to sink in. We hardly travel together at home, never mind sleeping in one room. I’m struggling to compare the experience to anything. Treats or traps, it doesn’t matter anymore.

Before I leave, let’s have one last fling of fun. I’m going to list the top five UK experiences for each of us. But that’s still not the fun part. The real fun part is that each list is not based on what they think. It’s based on what I think:

My list: 1. Broadway 2. York (Rest area/city) 3. City Of Manchester Stadium 4. Edinburgh 5. Conwy
Ibu: 1. M&S 2.Edinburgh Gift Shops 3. Portobello Market 4. Broadway 5. Shah Ruk
Asrif: 1. City of Manchester Stadium 2. Driving 3000km in six days 3. Buying a prepaid in Glasgow 4. Texting in Chester 5. Texting in Edinburgh
Fadli: 1. London museums/bookshops 2. Edinburgh 3. Stonehenge 4. Conwy 5. W H Smiths (all 23 of them).
Aida: 1. Madame Tussaud’s (with Audrey Hepburn) 2. York 3. M&S 4. Hyatt 5. Harrods
Sarah: 1. Madame Tussaud’s 2. Hyatt 3.Madame Tussauds 4. Bratz 5. Madame Tussaud’s

Their actual lists maybe different, but who wants to know?

Where’s my homework?

Still in faraway Broadway.

Bali’s Best Moments (11 – 15/11/07)

2008-01-06T21:54:00.001+08:00

Every travel has its moments. You know, the places you see, people you meet and things you do, some of them simply linger on long after you’ve settled your credit cards. They turn a plain passage into a thriller trip. I can still feel the joy of getting back Aida’s stroller left at Waitomo glow-worm cave in New Zealand, and I’m now rallying behind Barack Obama because I love his spirited speech at Abang’s convocation at Northwestern in 2006. Who can forget the companionship of some real backpackers and fruit pickers in Brisbane? Chihuahuas at Sydney airport, kids? Pak Cu talks fondly of Frank, the witty car rental operator in Auckland. And Pak Lang wants to see Mt. Tambourine again. There’s always something to take away from your travels: new experience, new perspectives, new t-shirts. Our five-day Bali outing certainly has its defining moments:

1. Pregnant? Who’s pregnant? (18 October 2007)

Sorry, we’re not yet in Bali on this date. We’re actually at the immigration office at the old Subang airport. All sixteen of us, young, old and very old, had to line up at this not-so-exotic place one fine Thursday morning to apply for a group passport for the twelve of us who’re without valid passports to travel to Indonesia (Bali is part of Indonesia, in case you’re confused. Ottawa is in Canada). We gladly appointed Mak Cu as the leader for the group passport, not only because she’s an Umno member but also because she works in Subang.

Because of you, we have to queue

The queue was long, and the crowd swelled in no time. As the air got thinner and the stench developing nicely, the kids became restive, with the younger ones beginning to question the wisdom of waiting at this rundown office and not at Subang Parade. The situation was getting so helpless that Pak Lang had to swing into action with his bag of tricks. He went straight to the counter and insisted that we deserved priority treatment because Mak Long was many months pregnant. It worked. The officer apologized profusely and attended to all sixteen of us immediately. Pak Cu had to identify all his five children. No easy task considering that most of the time he’s away either at his surau or in Tawau. We’re out of the building after two hours instead of two pm! To set the record straight, Mak Long was not pregnant (She’s fabulous 48 and Pak Long was retiring). Neither was Mak Lang. Mak Cu? We’re not sure. We’ve to ask Pak Cu.

2. Wayan, Made, Nyoman, Ketut and Mariezka (11 November 2007)

Anticipating a long check-in process, we arrived at KLIA quite early that Sunday morning for the 10 am flight to Bali. The check-in lady redirected us to a group check-in counter, just ahead of a group of randy pensioners on a Bangkok tour. We had a group passport, a group check-in, and what’s next? Group air pockets? It took the kind lady about half and hour to clear all 16 pax and 10 bags. We could see her struggling to tally and match the long names in the tickets against the passports and her computer. Quite a feat since she had to do all this in a tight fitting dress. We’re all set, in descending order: Pak Long, Mak Long, Pak Cu, Pak Lang, Mak Lang, Mak Cu, Azra, Faliq, Aida, Afzal, Nisa, Sarah, Zarif, Irina, Aizat, and Aqila, with 50 good years separating Pak Long and Aqila. The children had been waiting for this for the last two months and they just couldn’t wait any longer. The Airbus took off as scheduled (which means 20 minutes late). Due to some booking problems, we’re not seated together, although the children somehow managed to sit next to each other. Pak Lang and Mak Lang also managed to sit together, away from us. Wow. Just like what they always say in Hollywood, if you’re hot, you’re hot!

Look at me, Bali! Long names, long names

We touched down at Denpasar Ngurah Rai Airport with the usual dose of rattles and shakes. This wasn’t totally unexpected given that the whole world now is facing an acute shortage of trained pilots. Immigration clearance was surprisingly smooth. No question, no extortion. After retrieving our bags, we walked out to look for transport to our hotel. Pak Long saw the familiar Bluebird car rental office and went in to enquire, and settled for the biggest mpv in Bali to take all of us to the hotel for 150,000 Rupiah. Sounds an exorbitant lot of money, but it’s actually less than RM60. Like most Indonesians, the driver was friendly and engaging. He spoke in typical Indonesian language, just like the way bibik Sirami and Ponayah speak. You can’t help but admire the Indonesians for their language skills. They could articulate and spin something ordinary and unimportant into an eighth wonder of the world. Of course most of us Malaysians could never get down to marvelling at the way our maids talk; we’re far too busy managing their passports. Even after more than three years in and out of Jakarta, I’ve yet to fully master the shades and subtleties of the language. Every time I break into Indonesian language, people would ask me which part of Kelantan I'm from. Anyway, back to the driver. His name was Made. Actually Made is one of the four standard first names in Balinese naming system. Technically they’re not names like Amran or Mawi in Malaysia but rather titles or forms of address signifying the sequence of birth (like Along, Alang etc). The eldest son or daughter is named Wayan. The second is Made, the third Nyoman or Komang, and the fourth Ketut. The fifth will take the name Wayan again and the cycle repeats. With a population of three million, there’ve to be at least 500,000 Wayans running around in Bali today. Mak Long would be a Wayan, Pak Long a Ketut.

Minimalist Mirabilis

We reached our hotel, Harris Resort, after a short ride. With kids and bags on top of each other, it’s hardly a joyride. There’s simply no space for the children to breathe and misbehave. The hotel was located around Kuta beach, one of the tourist hotspots in Bali. There're more than sixty hotels of various sizes, shapes and stars in Kuta alone. Harris Resort was strongly recommended to me by a close Indonesian friend and former co-worker by the name of Mariezka. Extraordinary name for an everyday girl. Sounds like Sanskrit, but it’s actually meaningless in any language, living or dead. She’s not a Balinese, she’s from Bangka, which makes her a Bangkese. She cautioned me against taking the children to the beach, which was notorious for sumur (Indonesian acronym for susu jemur. Sorry) We took three rooms, and what a pleasant surprise. The rooms were clean and tasteful, big enough to accommodate all Pak Cu’s Wayan, Made, Komang, Ketut and Wayan again. The toilet was spacious, without complimentary cockroaches. Mariezka had described this hotel as minimalist. I couldn’t agree more. You notice the language? She didn't say cheap, three-star, basic or other put-downs. We decided not to venture out today, but just to hang around and let the kids enjoy the swimming pool.

I dream of turbine

3. Ubud (12 November 2007)

We did some homework before coming to Bali: surfing Bali websites, consulting Mak Cu’s boss who’d visited Bali three times a year, and talking to Kak Maria (a family friend and an illegal travel agent). Not much really, but enough for us to conclude that there were plenty of reasons why Australians keep flocking to Bali: Beaches, nightlife, culture, nightlife, temples, nightlife and probably rural sceneries, you know, mundane things like hills, hill slopes, rice fields on hill slopes, trees and monkeys on trees, which you could easily find in Sri Menanti on the way to Kuala Pilah. Since we’re not from Canberra (capital of Australia, see you’re confused again) and we had 10 children with short attention span, we decided that we’d skip the beaches, nightlife and temples, and go for some culture, rural life, and maybe a bit of shopping and nasi padang in between. For culture, crafts and country side, look no further than Ubud. With a wealth of local and foreign painters, carvers and dancers, it’s the last word in Balinese artistry. I also read somewhere that a wayward Dutch artist and a German musician, nothing less, had fallen so deeply in love with Ubud that they made their home there. We thought if Ubud was good enough for the Dutch and the Germans, it should also be good for those from Kg Pandan. So we started with Ubud.

Ubud or Kelantan?

We rented a 14-seater Isuzu Elf for our Ubud excursion. Without the bags, the space was more generous and the children were livelier than yesterday. The driver was Pak Agung (Nyoman Agung, I think) who doubled as our guide. Like all friendly Indonesians, he talked non-stop and found his match in Pak Cu who fired questions non-stop. We reached Ubud after about two hours of pleasant ride, passing through Denpasar, Batubulan, Celuk and Mas. Ubud lived up to our expectation, and certainly deserved all the rage and reputation. It’s all arts and crafts. Shops and galleries selling paintings, carvings and other forms of Balinese art lined up the main road. We couldn’t resist the temptation and stopped for a look at the paintings. Man, they’re so lovely, all done by local artists, you know, people like you and me, except that they’re more talented and creative. I know Mak Lang has an artistic bent, but I don’t think she’d have any space and energy left to draw or paint after those long hours managing her manic minister. What a pity. Most of the works here were of the modern variety and highly abstract. Not even one out of the sixteen of us knew the slightest meaning of any of them. Certainly not Aqila. I doubt whether the painters themselves knew what they’re up to. But who cares. Come on, we’re talking art here. People get away with art, remember. We hopped from one roadside ‘gallery’ to another, looking for something we might like. Seeing all the options, Pak Long and Mak Long went crazy as they’re totally spoilt for choice. They’re beautiful and incredibly cheap (the paintings, not Pak Long and Mak Long). Cheap in price but definitely not cheap in quality. I’d seen inferior quality ones priced much, much higher at Pasar Seni Ancol in Jakarta. All of us finally ended up with a few pieces each. Even Afzal and Faliq bought one each for their bedrooms. Pak Cu bought a dozen, all for his surau friends.

Actually, we are hungry

After we’re done with Ubud, we headed for Kintamani, an hour’s easy drive uphill, passing quaint villages, temples, kebun jeruk, dogs and a police road block. Apparently the police here were artists and sculptors in their small way, I mean the way they made the driver 30,000 Rupiah poorer without upsetting him one bit. We reached a small hilltop resort with a couple of restaurants with an outstanding view but outrageous food. We’re right at the rim of a deep valley, facing the majestic Gunung Batur, an active volcano. We stopped just long enough to snap some pictures. We boarded our bus and began our journey back to Kuta. We stopped at Ubud again for another round of crafts, this time wooden posters for the kitchen: Paris Café, Espresso, Today’s Menu and other fancy gastronomic battle cries, which reminded us that it’s way past lunch time, so we’d to hurry back. Everybody agreed on nasi padang for lunch. It’s almost three, anybody would agree to anything for lunch. We stopped at Natrabu, a nasi padang restaurant in Sanur, not far from Kuta. The food was simply out of this world. The waiter had to work overtime to bring us plates after plates of nasi tambah. All the children agreed to rate Natrabu ten out of ten. Better than Paris Café. Mak Cu said she’d not seen Zarif eating until today. Mak Lang had seen Pak Lang eating many times before, but never this much.

I think I can do better than this

4. The Nightlife (13 November 2007)

Travel experts and freaks all agreed that, for a true Bali experience, you’ve to see its nightlife. We thought it’s fair to check this out, after paying good money for this trip. So we ventured out this evening, taking the narrow back lane to Jalan Legian, the most happening and pulsating part of Bali. True enough, what greeted us was a complete contrast to the tranquility and easy pace of Ubud or Taman Nirwana in Ampang. The street had been turned into a full-blown tourist strip, with bright lights, restaurants, massage, lounges, discos and shops selling just about anything needed by tourists (except turbines). The one-way traffic was heavy, and the music, blaring out at full speed from all corners, was maddening. And it’s not yet peak season. Now we knew why the Australians ignored all terror threats and travel advisories to be here. It’s life in the fast lane. Nothing could slow them down, not even the sombre memorial to the 2002 bombing victims. For us, there’s nothing much on offer here. So we just picked one corner and watched the proceedings. Some loud and rowdy tourists were having the time of their lives, drinking and shouting and swearing at the locals. Finally we decided that we’d seen all, and strolled towards Kuta town centre. The children, bored and clueless, stopped at 7-Eleven four times. From Kuta town, we took Jalan Pantai Kuta and we’re back at Harris Resort. We’d got our money’s worth.

5. Whitewater rafting (14 November 2007)

It’s time for some real action, and it’s whitewater rafting. Until now I’m not sure why it’s called whitewater. Why not river rafting or just water rafting if you really need to differentiate it from rafting on land? Bad joke. Actually rafting was Pak Lang’s idea. On the way back to our hotel last night, Pak Lang stopped at a travel agency to enquire about rafting. I never knew that Pak Lang was so outdoorsy. I’d gladly accept it if he decided to take up painting or ballroom dancing or even wushu, for a change, but rafting? Was this an attempt to make up for last night’s nightlife? Or the simple need to whip up the adrenaline and mojo? Who knew. With Pak Lang leading the negotiation, we managed to get a competitive package for eleven of us, with transport and lunch thrown in. In the morning the number increased to thirteen, with Mak Cu (surprise, surprise) and Mak Long (reluctantly as usual) also joining the trip. Pak Cu opted to stay back with Ijat and Aqila.

Can we change our plan?

Actually none of us had ever tried rafting before, and we had only a vague idea of what it’s all about. What we knew for sure was that rafting involved water. Is it dangerous? Is it deep? No time for second thoughts as two vans arrived to haul us to a place called Kareng Asem. (We forgot to ask whether Kareng Asem was Balinese for Kurang Asam). From Kuta, it’s about two hours of glorious countryside with narrow and steep road, rice fields, Balinese gardens (gardens!), temples and all. Pak Lang was speechless throughout. We reached the starting point on the bank of a river called Telaga Waja. I could almost hear Mak Long’s huge sigh of relief. The river was actually narrow and not too deep, but it flowed very fast. It’s so clear that you could see the pebbles and sand below. All the way the river would run over rocks of all shapes and sizes, breaking into a series of rapids. So for the first time we’d be rafting and shooting the rapids. We’d to wait for our turn since there’re already two noisy groups ahead of us. From the way they looked and talked, we could tell that they’re Koreans and Caucasians, not Kelantanese. Thirteen of us were split into three groups, each in one inflatable raft led by a local guide. Everyone was given a paddle, more for show and style since none of us actually knew how to row. We just couldn’t wait.

It’s two hours of non-stop turning and twisting and tumbling down the fast river. Like Proud Mary, we're rollin’, rollin’, rollin’on the river! It’s fast and furious from start to finish. After half an hour, all of us were drenched to the skin. How we wished Pak Cu, Shakhir, Ida, Pak Di, Mak Di, Mak Ngah, Udin, Acik, Mak Cik, Adik, Abang, Abang Jilan were here. We screamed and laughed, passing and shoving and splashing and taunting each other all the way. It’s certainly faster and more exciting than painting. I couldn’t help but notice Mak Cu playfully screaming and splashing her way with abandon, and why not? After all Pak Cu was also having fun with Ijat and Aqila at the hotel (Ha ha ha. Lepas ni boleh la pi surau). The climax was when we’d to negotiate a five-meter waterfall and nobody drowned. I must thank Pak Lang for this little escapade, because my two girls, Aida and Sarah, seemed to enjoy it. Many times better than maths tuition, they told me. It’s also heartening to see the younger ones like Nisa, Irina and Zarif coming through and raring for more. The children certainly deserved a round of applause and nasi padang.

6. Jainori and Jimbaran (14 November 2007)

Seafood at Jimbaran was my idea, but Jainori was Pak Cu’s idea. We’d befriended one taxi driver by the name of Jainori who took us to the Discovery mall the night before. We had a soft spot for him because he’s a Muslim, which was a rarity in Bali. His Latin complexion and sharp dress reminded us of our Pak Uteh. He went off after dropping us at the mall. But when we flagged a taxi on our way back an hour later, it’s him again! There’re literally thousands of taxis in Bali, and the odds on hitting him twice were statistically impossible. Pak Cu and Jainori quietly exchanged mobile numbers. You’ll never know, one day this lucky guy might need turbines, Pak Cu thought. Fair enough.

Seafood at Jimbaran is highly recommended by any smart travel guide and travel agent, legal or illegal. Jimbaran is a beach less than10 km away from Kuta. Alfresco seafood dinner on Jimbaran beach, especially during sunset, is a highlight in any Bali travel itinerary. Since we had ten children with ten different ideas, we took longer time to get dressed, and missed the sunset. But that wasn’t a problem. The problem was transport. There’re plenty of transport options around but we hadn’t made any arrangement. Luckily Pak Cu, a multinational businessman, had the presence of mind to strike a deal with his new-found friend, Jainori. At only 100,000 rupiah for Jainori and his big van to take us all to Jimbaran and return, it’s a steal. We thanked Pak Cu for his strategic thinking. We waited and waited and finally Jainori showed up with his van, or something that looked like a van. My pulse raced and my cholesterol rose. What we saw was a wreck. It’s nothing more than a beat-up, rickety contraption with four tyres, torn seats, pungent smell, without aircon, enough maybe for eight small persons. It’s too late to change plans, so we squeezed in, and immediately I could hear choking sounds like somebody was grasping for air. Pak Long and Pak Cu were up in arms, griping and growling all the way, dressing down Jainori for not honouring his promise of a big, proper van with enough air for us to breath. We reached Jimbaran safely, and saw a long row of seafood restaurants right on the beach, with tables all the way down to the water. We chose one restaurant, took a long table, and quickly made our order. The food was good but not spectacular, just the normal seafood fare you’d easily find around Pernu in Melaka. But the ambience was certainly different, and romantic enough for mid-life couples like Pak Long and Mak Long. The crowd, mostly tourists, were surprisingly well behaved.

Jainori took us back to Kuta. He happily accepted 100,000 rupiah and quickly drove off. Pak Cu and Pak Long took one last look at the van, shook their heads and just laughed. Travel is lot of fun.

7. Maya Karin (14 - 15 November 2007)

There’s just one more thing left. Spa. Yes, Spa. There’re Balinese spas at Ikano Power Centre and Great Eastern Mall, of course, but why settle for Balinese spas in KL while you can get the real thing in Bali? What’s more rewarding after a terror ride than a round of uplifting massage and herbal bath? And wasn’t it about time for the three mums to clean up and rid themselves of the ravages left by years of raising children and husbands? Pak Long, Pak Lang and Pak Cu agreed that Mak Long, Mak Lang and Mak Cu deserved a break, at long last. Pak Long had negotiated a rock-bottom rate with Giri Loka spa at the hotel. It’s going to be a long and comprehensive session (10 children, remember?) over two days, starting 10.30 pm on 14 November until 1 am on 15 November (two and half hours actually). So the three mums sneaked into Giri Loka, leaving the dads to tend to the multi-talented children.

Before they became Maya Karin

Aida and Sarah were sleeping like a log and I was still packing for tomorrow’s flight to KL when somebody knocked on the door. It’s already past 1 am. At small hours like this, men of my age are bound to see ghosts. I opened the door and came face to face with Maya Karin. No, it’s Mak Long after a Balinese spa. I thanked god she didn’t smell like Maya Karin. Now you know why some men pay for their wives’ expensive spa trips. At breakfast the next morning, I saw the other two Maya Karins, sitting next to Pak Lang and Pak Cu. Balinese spas are truly effective. It’s close to one million rupiah for the spa. A tidy sum, but it’s money well spent. Pak Lang and Pak Cu were eating very slowly, deep in thought, reflecting and probably reconsidering their plans. Pak Long? Well, it’s too late now.

8. Milestone (15 November 2007)

It’s a milestone for Aida and Faliq. Their UPSR results were out this morning. Bali would forever be close to their heart. After all, how often do you get to know your exam results in an exotic setting like Bali? The results, well, no reason to complain. Were they happy? You just couldn’t tell. Children, you’ll never know them enough. They’re an enigmatic lot. One day they’re up, the next day they’re way down. Today she wants to be a lawyer, tomorrow a princess. A princess? You’ll never know what plays in their mind.

9. Too soon, Too soon (15 November 2007)

Mummy, daddy wants to stay back!

We checked out at about 11, plenty of time to catch our 3 pm flight back to KL. Much wiser now, we got hold of two hotel vans to ferry us to the airport. The check-in was painstakingly slow, but we’re just in time for boarding.

I always leave a place I like with a tinge of sadness. Well, not really sadness, but a sense of loss or, perhaps, feeling of guilt for leaving too soon, and, of course, the prospect of never seeing it again. You’d feel like staying a day longer. Or is it just the stark reality gripping you, reminding you that the carefree days are over and now is the time to pamper the bosses again? Bali has been one of our best holidays. It’s certainly value for money, or bang for the buck, said the bloody Americans. The moments will linger on for a long while. I was half way on board the MH flight to KL when something hit me. It’s the smooth, soulful opening lines of an obscure love song I’d heard the first time on Columbo, a hit 70’s TV series. It’s a Frank Sinatra cover of a Billie Holiday original. The title is Speak Low, and I thought I must share with you (but you must listen to Ol’ Blue Eyes to savour the atmosphere):

Speak low when you speak, love
Our summer day withers away too soon, too soon
Speak low when you speak, love
Our moment is swift, like ships adrift, we’re swept apart, too soon.

Frank Sinatra

Gold Coast & Brisbane, Australia (25/5 - 2/6/03)

2008-01-06T16:28:00.000+08:00

Sunday, 25 May 2003

Places: KLIA, Aboard MH0137

The day's finally here. We'd be leaving on a jet plane. 15 of us: Pak Long, Mak Long, Pak Lang, Mak Lang, Pak Cu, Mak Cu, Adik Fadli Hafiz, Faliq, Azra, Aida, Nisa, Afzal, Sarah, Zarif and Irina. Destination: Gold Coast and Brisbane, Australia. Yes, Australia. The children had been looking forward to this day since March, when their mothers started using Gold Coast as reward for any good behaviour. The excitement hit a fever pitch when Mak Long, Mak Lang and Mak Cu bought new jackets for the children, but not for Pak Long, Pak Lang and Pak Cu. For the record, Shakhir and Ida had wanted very much to join, but Ida's condition didn't allow even a trip to Giant, let alone Brisbane. Biasalah tu. Dia orang ni sebab dah tau tak boleh pergi, lagilah dia beria-ia nak pergi sangat (gimmick, gimmick).

The idea of an overseas trip was floated early this year. It had been almost two years since our last trip (to NZ), we thought we're primed for another trip somewhere (not PD). Various exotic places popped up: Chicago, Switzerland, Turkey, NZ (South), South Africa and Australia. After some research and free lunches at No. 26, Lorong C4, we settled for Gold Coast, Australia. Reason: it's a fun place for the children. It's also fun for Pak Long, Pak Lang and Pak Cu because they had to pay. It's the cheapest of the lot. Actually Lahad Datu is much cheaper, but it's not in Australia.

Unlike the trip to NZ, this trip suffered OAOAOAS (On And Off And On Again Syndrome) at the outset. On when Pak Long bought the tickets. Off when SARS hit the region. On again when Australia was not affected. Off again on rumours of two-day quarantine for visitors to Australia. On again when the rumours were baseless. Off again when Mak Lang had to complete an assignment for the government of Malaysia. On again when Mak Lang managed to force some luckless junior guy to take over. Almost off again when Pak Cu and Mak Cu had an accident (well, Pak Cu is good at turbine maintenance, but not family planning). On when Dr Hamid cleared Mak Cu. So it's on.

It's about 5 when when we all left home for KLIA. Pak Long with Shakhir, Ida and Yasmin (free), Pak Cu took a taxi (RM50), Pak Lang took ERL (RM10). Rosman had earlier agreed to take Pak Cu to the airport but couldn't make it at the last minute because he's busy with Sharifah Aini. We all met at the departure lounge. Shakhir was happy to see that Pak Lang got off at KLIA and not Salak Tinggi station. The children began a serious discussion to decide on who should sleep with whom in Australia. We boarded a B747, flight MH0137, to Brisbane (BNE) at 7.30 evening. Pak Lang was seated in front of Pak Long. Pak Cu was seated in front of the toilet, for obvious reason (Mak Cu booked his seat. Perfect wife).

We're supposed to sleep during a night flight like this, especially after a tasteless meal. The lights were off. The stewardesses went off after giving everybody a pack of peanuts. With the children asleep, Mak Long, Mak Lang and Mak Cu settled down nicely for a round of well-deserved action-packed movie (Mami Jarum). Pak Long, Pak Lang and Pak Cu found it impossible to sleep with their children's heads, arms and legs all over them.

New Friends:
The stewards and stewardesses (confirmed not the ones who'd appeared on the infamous vcd).

Date: Monday 26 May 2003

Places: Brisbane Airport, Europcar Car Rental, Pacific Highway, Tanah Merah, Sanctuary Cove, Gold Coast (Surfers Paradise, Broadbeach,Burleigh Heads ) Sunset Court Holiday Apartments, Pacific Fair Mall, Paradise Centre Mall (beachfront), Bi Lo, Coles and Woolworth's.

Landed at BNE at 5.00 am local time (3.00 am Kg Pandan time) after seven hours. We staggered out of the aircraft like a bunch of zombies. The children were ok, even at wee hours like this. You'd just wonder at their staying power and tolerance level, especially for first-timers like Zarif and Irina. Immigration was smooth. No silly questions from the Aussies, like 'what's the capital of Australia' (it's not Ottawa). We joined the crowd at the baggage carousel, dreamily waiting for our luggage. Suddenly the kids jumped and screamed: chihuahua! The small and ugly dog that Pak lang had warned us about was here and real. Like a true professional, it went about its business of twisting and wriggling and sniffing its way through everybody's legs and bags, creating chaos and commotion among us. Mak Long stepped back violently when the dog tried to kiss her stinking shoes (last washed in Auckland in 2001). The dog handler, also small and smelly, was offended and promptly told Mak Long off that 'my dog doesn't bite, ma'am. No reason for over-reacting'. Actually he owed Mak Long an apology. Had Mak Long just let his dog smell the shoes, his dog would drop dead (Mak Long is still waiting for the thank you letter).

All our bags retrieved, we're now ready for the stomach-wrenching and nerve-wrecking part: the customs and health. We'd heard plenty of horror stories about this one. But we're ready. The strategy was to spread the risk by distributing the foodstuff we bought from Giant among the three families. And each of us picked a different officer, if possible an aborigine. No aborigine or similar on duty at this time, but the plan worked like a miracle. Only Milo was dumped, while the rest (Brahim's, Maggi, Meehon,Teh Tarik etc) were cleared. We wheeled out happily into the arrival lounge. Australia, here we come!

Pak Long and Pak Cu confidently walked to the car rental area and secured a 12-seater Toyota van (nothing bigger than that in Australia). The van was just nice for the 15 of us without Mak Ngah and Udin. The children were excited to see the van because it's bigger than Kelisa Pak Long. It's about 7 when we drove out of the airport, found Pacific Highway and headed for Gold Coast, about 80 km south of Brisbane. We had our first taste of Queensland driving and drivers. On a scale of 0 to 10, Malaysian drivers are about 3. Queensland drivers are about 3.5. On the way, we passed a place named Tanah Merah. Then only we knew why the drivers were bad.

We took an exit for Sanctuary Cove but found only a golf course. Finally we reached Surfers Paradise, the hippest part of Gold Coast. Everybody was half-awake as we checked into our apartments, glamorously named Sunset Court Holiday Apartments. Pak Long went to see the owner (Bill) and proudly announced "I'm Omar. I've a booking here". Pak Long tried his best to sound like somebody from Newcastle, Australia instead of Kota Bharu, Kelantan. This trick apparently failed when Bill, unimpressed, just smiled and said "Oh, really?". Bill handed the keys and Pak Long handed his credit card. These days nothing works like a credit card.

Sunset Court was really basic but good enough. Not to mention cheap. We took two separate units, both on the first floor. Each unit had 2 bedrooms, 1 bath/bowl, 1 kitchen, fans, sofa, but no aircon. (We found out later that aircon wasn't really necessary, unless you're in Lahad Datu). Pak Long and Pak Cu shared one unit. Pak Lang, Mak Lang and 8 of the children took the other unit. Good luck to Pak Lang and Mak Lang!
After a quick bath ( bath and bowl for Pak Cu) and a bread/Brahim's combo lunch, we hit the road again for a quick tour of Gold Coast. We cruised along the coastal road covering the three main parts of Gold Coast (Surfers Paradise, Broadbeach, Burleigh Heads). Lovely place. So developed and civilised. No wonder it's been consistently rated as one of the best beach resorts in the world. Made you wonder when would PD ever be like this. Still no craft shops or markets in sight, so we turned back and stopped at Pacific Fair Mall, the biggest shopping mall in Gold Coast. We're just too sleepy to indulge in anything. So we just hang around and went in and out of K-mart, Coles, Myer, Target and numerous specialty shops. The prices were ok at first sight, but not ok when you converted them to Kelantanese ringgit.

Had a dinner of masak asam ikan and Australian rice, thanks to Mak Long, Mak Lang and Mak Cu who had to struggle with odd-sized pots and pans.( Of course, Cik Na Bukit Mahkota could've done it alone). The children went for maggi. Pak Long, Pak Cu and Adik FH ventured out and into the beach area. You'd find plenty of action here: elegant stores, discos, food, beach, Woolworth's, Ripley's, Chinese. Pak Cu was shaking all over when he saw the flashing lights and heard the loud music from the disco. But Pak Long was there to calm him down and get him to think of turbine and oil palm plantation.

As the three of us walked around aimlessly, we stumbled on some travel agencies hawking tickets for scuba diving and theme parks. We decided that Pak Lang wasn't quite ready for scuba diving, so we just bought tickets for Movie World theme park. It cost us $500/RM1260, after a discount of $60. There's nothing cheaper than this in Australia..

Finally everybody settled down for a much-needed rest. It's only our first day in Australia, but Pak Cu was already in and out of toilet four times.

New Friends:
Tony: the car rental clerk
Bill Atkinson: Sunset Court Apt owner
Suzie: Travel Agency lady who sold us Movie World tickets.
The chihuahua handler.

Date: Tuesday 27 May 2003

Places: Movie World, Mt Tamborine, Woolworth's

Bright and beautiful morning. Pak Long went out running around Sunset Road and Chevron Island before hitting the beach. Running on the beach in Gold Coast was nirvana, a dream coming true. The view was stunning, with the splendour of endless trees and apartments lining one side and the grandeur of the mighty Pacific Ocean on the other. The people, men and women and Pak Long, just ran and dressed freely. Nothing matters and nobody cares here. Aaahhh, the feeling..... simply out of this world.

Everyone's all fired up after a good rest and a grand breakfast of fried mee hoon and sardine sandwich, courtesy of the three Maks. Today's program: Warner Brothers Movie World theme park, about 20km from Surfers Paradise. Pak Cu took the wheel again. Pak Long took the map and planned our route despite his poor eyesight. Pak Lang took it easy and assured Mak Long, Mak Lang, Mak Cu and the kids that everything would be just fine because Pak Long and Pak Cu knew their way around here. Thank you, Pak Lang!

Reached Movie World at 10.15. What greeted us was Hollywood in miniature. The park was filled with sets and props and characters from the famous movies like Looney Tunes, Batman, Superman, Scooby Doo, Austin Powers, Harry Potter and the very latest flick, Matrix Reloaded. It's truly a world of make-believe. We began with Looney Tunes Musical Revue, a heart-thumping dance and music extravaganza by Looney Tunes characters. Then we moved on to Movie Magic Special Effects show, where we got to see how they made Superman fly ( but not Superman's fly), and then Bat Attack, a mock battle between Batman and bad guys, right before our very eyes. We wore on with Looney Tunes River Ride and other silly rides, before converging on Main Street for Star Parade, the day's highlight and an opportunity to see all the characters at one go. We wound up with Police Academy Stunt Show, a slapstick comedy show quite similar to Senario.

All in all, the kids had a good time cheering and touching Scooby Doo, Daffy Duck, Sylvester, Batman, Catwoman etc. The mothers had an even better time without bibis and bosses to bother. But the fathers had the best time of all as they had Marilyn Monroe to cuddle.

It's about 4 when we decided that we'd had enough of Austin Powers' teeth and made our way out. The park management must be relieved that our loud group was finally out of their park without leaving any trail of destruction, except for some bio-chemical by-product left in the toilet bowl by Pak Cu and his offspring.

Since it's still early, we made a detour into the hinterland, through the mountains, towards a village called Mount Tamborine. This was totally unplanned, so we had no idea what's ahead. We all held our breath as the van twisted and turned around and up the hillslopes. Nobody talked until we finally reached the top and the village, when Mak Long and Pak Lang screamed and went wild at the sight of antique and craft shops on the road side. Mak Lang and Mak Cu? They just stood and stared. We found out later that Mt Tamborine was actually famous for crafts and antiques, besides mountain and scenery and winery, but not for tambourine. It's really unfortunate that we had very little time because it's already dark, and the shops were closing. But Pak Lang had seen enough to fall in love with this lovely and quaint place. No surprise when Pak Lang, Mak Long and Shakhir agreed that we should've climbed this mountain earlier. Pak Cu immediately agreed and offered the same opinion, but since we'd known Pak Cu very well, we didn't take his viewpoint too seriously. Mak Lang and Mak Cu continued to stand and stare. The children were thinking of maggi.

On the way down to Surfers Paradise, we stopped at Woolworth's at the foot of the mountain to replenish our supply of bread, sardines, milk, eggs etc.

New Friends:
Marilyn Monroe

Date: Wednesday 28 May 2003

Places: Coolangatta, Murwillumbah, Mudgeeraba

Woke up to gentle showers outside. Rain in paradise. It's below 20C. Cold, but our spirits weren't dampened one bit. Pak Long was humming J Lo's famous lines 'Let's get loud, let's get loud...', but who'd be interested in a crooning old man when breakfast was nasi lemak (and sardine sandwich!). Nasi Lemak was Mak Cu's special. She knew Pak Cu couldn't last another hour without nasi lemak. True lovers. We should expect another accident. After a glimpse of the countryside yesterday, everybody was game for another excursion into the wild side of Queensland. The plan was to take the coastal route and Pacific Highway southward via Coolangatta to a seaside resort of Byron Bay in New South Wales ( another state in Australia, if Pak Lang asked). On the way back, we would cut inland into the mountains and a national park before rejoining Pacific Highway to Gold Coast.

It's still raining when we started. Pak Cu's at the wheel again, with Pak Long navigating, and Pak Lang comforting everybody else. Stopped at a fruit market for some apples and oranges. About half-way to Byron Bay, we'd to shift to plan B due to persistent rain. Aborted Byron Bay, and, instead, took a shorter route via a tourist drive up the mountains and down toward Gold Coast. It turned out to be one long and winding and rolling road. Narrow, lonely but scenic. We passed banana and sugar-cane plantations along the way, and had to constantly remind ourselves that this was indeed Australia, and not Perlis.

Our next stop was a town named Murwillumbah (what?). It's a small and old town, just like Taiping minus the Chinese. We had all the time in the world to eat lunch in the van, stand and stare, catch up with the children's vocab, and hunt for something not made in China to bring back home. We kept criss crossing each other. We passed the same shops three or four times. Mak Long was the busiest. She passed Pak Long five times. Pak Cu had always complained that everywhere his travels took him, he'd bump into somebody from Kelantan. But after two hours in this remote town, the only Kelantanese he met was Pak Long.

The adventure continued as we rocked and rolled through valleys and mountains and rain, passing small villages and dairy farms. We're hoping to find a kangaroo or two just to wake the children out of their dream of maggi. But none crossed our path. There're cows and sheep for sure, but they'd seen enough of that in Kuala Pilah. Suddenly our champion driver (that's Pak Cu) discovered that the van was low on fuel, and Pak Long quickly discovered that we're in the middle of nowhere. The nearest town and fuel was about 15 km away, and we'd to climb a mountain to get there. An easy drive turned into a suspenseful one as Pak Cu summoned all his skills and experience of driving Aman Services lorry in Puchong to maneuver the van up and up and up and down, left and right, with aircon turned off to save fuel. Thank God we finally reached the town of Mudgeeraba. Funny name, but sweet because it had service stations. So we stopped briefly for the van to refuel and some of us to defuel. We're back on Pacific Highway, and merrily cruised toward Surfers Paradise, with the aircon on.

It's still early but already dark when we're back at Sunset Court. The children were beginning to get loud, swarming and jostling around a big bowl of steaming maggi jointly prepared by Mak Long, Mak Lang and Mak Cu. Cooking maggi was certainly a complex process. It took three highly experienced and productive mothers to do it. It'd been a long day, but not long enough for Pak Long, Pak Cu, Mak Long, Mak Lang and Adik FH, who went out again to the beachfront shops, believe it or not. As if to prove the point, Adik FH sneaked into Ripley's Believe it or Not. We looked high and low for Suzie again and finally found her. Since Pak Lang was still not ready for scuba diving, we just bought tickets to Sea World. Same deal: we paid $500, we saved $60.

It's quite late when we're back at Sunset Court, but Adik FH was nowhere around. Worried, Pak Long and Pak Cu took off again, now in the van, to look for Adik FH (actually Pak Long and Pak Cu ni cari sebab nak keluar saja. Half a chance saja, depa keluar). After one round, Pak Long and Pak Cu spotted Adik FH, swaggering and swinging along the road towards Sunset Court, like somebody who's born in Mudgeeraba or somewhere in Queensland. Pak Long and Pak Cu picked him up and drove back to Sunset Court because there's really nowhere else to go.

New Friends: Suzie (again?)

Date: Thursday 29 May 2003

Places: Sea World, Australia Fair Mall

It's another day of showers, shine, showers. But the children were all set for Sea World, and nothing in this world was going to stop them. After a breakfast of nasi goreng (and sardine sandwich!), Pak Cu was behind the wheel again, Pak Long with three maps, and Pak Lang comforting the rest.

After a sweet 15-minute drive, we're at Sea World. It's located in Southport, north of Gold Coast (we couldn't figure out why Southport is north). It's drizzling when we filed into the park. Sea World was a haven and showcase of marine life like penguins, dolphins, sea lions, pirates etc. But there're also other attractions on offer: rides, live shows and live characters from Cartoon Network (yes, Powerpuff Girls). We headed straight for the monorail which took us to a dolphin show. As we hopped from from one show to another in the rain, we're soon drenched to the skin. The children were shivering and dripping, but not in the least discouraged by this minor inconvenience. They're having the time of their life. So we pressed on. We took a cable car to the next show, Pirates 3D Adventure, where we'd to wear the special glasses provided to experience the movie in 3D. The Powerpuff Girls were nowhere to be found. We had a lunch of mega-size and mega-price French fries on the terraces while watching Ski Challenge, a show of water skiing skills and acrobatics. The rain suddenly stopped, and the sun was shining brightly. And then it rained again. We're quite early for the next show, the Quest for the Golden Seal, another display of skills and acrobatics, this time by sea lions, in heavy rain. Where're the Powerpuff Girls?. The sky's clear, so we we went for the rides. Adik FH took the triple-loop corkscrew roller coaster. He came out alive, but shaken and whiter. Pak Cu rode the Pirate Ship and then went straight to the toilet. The children and Pak Lang just took the easy ones. We're still looking for the Powerpuff Girls. But all we met were the Powderpuff Girls (Mak Long, Mak Lang and Mak Cu). Finally it rained again.

We completed Sea World after half a day, but nobody's really thinking of going back to Sunset Court. We'd paid a fortune to come this far, going back early was certainly not value for money. So we headed north for Harbour Town Factory Outlet at Biggera Waters, just outside Gold Coast. Somehow we lost our way and couldn't find the place. Three maps were no substitute for good eyesight. So we turned back towards Southport and stopped at Australia Fair mall.

After a couple of hours at the mall, we began to age and tire. We're making a move when Mak Long realised that her bulky handbag was missing. The bag contained the most valuable asset on earth: Pak Long's passport. The frantic search for the golden bag began. Pak Long used all his running and acrobatic skills to dash up and down the escalator to look for the bag. Pak Cu, who's also missing at the time, knew that something was terribly amiss when he saw Pak Long running up and down the mall, instead of up and down the beach. Pak Lang was as cool as the dolphin. He and Adik FH had enough composure and presence of mind to enquire at K-Mart, where Mak Long had been. Thank God, the bag was there. Somebody had found it and left it with the K-Mart info counter. We love you, Australia.

On the way back, Pak Long and Mak Long stopped at Woolworth's (where else) for bread and sardines and eggs.

Sarah was down with fever.

New Friends: The person who found Mak Long's bag and returned it.

Date: Friday 30 May 2003

Places: Brisbane ( Queen Street Mall, West End on Vulture Road, Brisbane Backpackers Resort

Lovely morning. The sound of our children's chattering and clattering along the corridor outside was sweet music to our ears. So young and playful and carefree. How we should thank them all for the joys of this travel. Would they grow to be loving like Pak Cu? Or giving like Pak Lang? Or plain old like Pak Long? Que sera, sera. Would they ever get to be together like this again (not counting Saturdays in Kg Pandan)? Why're we asking these questions in Gold Coast? Pak Cu quietly went out walking or jogging or just moving. This was certainly a cause for celebration because the last time he ran was on 30 May 1983 in PJ Old Town.

Baywatch and beach time. Pak Lang, Pak Cu, Mak Lang, Mak Cu, Adik FH and the children went down to the beach. It's Surfers Paradise beach, not Tg Tuan beach. Pak Long couldn't resist the temptation, and joined this beach party, leaving Mak Long to care for sick Sarah.

Kids and parents had plenty of quality time, splashing and frolicking in the Pacific Ocean in the glorious morning sunshine and a cool 20C temp. Pak Long ran again, from end to end. It's difficult to sweat here, and you could play and run on the beach practically the whole day (but what's the point).

Back to hotel, time for quick bath and bowl and second round of breakfast. Then set out on a long drive, this time to Brisbane, looking for accomodation in the city for the next two nights. Pak Long had tried to book rooms in Brisbane on line a few weeks before the trip, but none was available due to heavy booking. Heard from Bill that 16,000 Rotary Club members from all corners of the world would be descending on Brisbane over the weekend. No wonder. Now we'd to compete against 16,000 Rotarians for rooms in Brisbane. Only Pak Lang was optimistic.

Despite the heavy odds against us, we're all in an exceptionally jovial and bullish mood during the journey (must be due to sardine sandwich). To kill time, we played riddles. Somebody would ask brainless questions, and the rest would take turn to give wrong (and stupid) answers. (eg. Stupid question: What's the name of the doctor at the clinic across our Sunset Court apartment?. Wrong answer: Dr Mahathir. Right answer: Dr Mohammad. Quite close actually, but still wrong). The questions were so challenging that even Pak Cu (who's supposed to concentrate on driving) wanted to participate, and he lost his concentration. We very narrowly miss hitting a car slowing down in front. Only Pak Cu's quick reflex gained from driving in Bahau saved us as he managed to swerve the van and avoid the car. Half a second late, we'd have banged the car. No more riddles.

Missing bag yesterday, near accident today. God's telling us something. Time to ponder and reflect.

We hit downtown Brisbane at about noon, and stopped at every 3-star, 2-star or no-star hotel and motel we saw. As expected, no rooms. Pak Lang suggested seeking assistance at the Tourist Information Centre. Good idea. Thank you, Pak Lang. There's actually one Tourist Info Centre at Queen Street Mall.

After a run around, we found Queen Street Mall. QSM was Brisbane's landmark and centerpiece. It's a mile-long pedestrian mall with 1200 shops and 200 non-halal eateries, sandwiched between two massive department stores (Myer and David Jones). It's full of people, walking and talking and gawking. The Tourist Info Centre was smack in the middle of QSM. Pak Long and Pak Lang approached a tourist assistant, an elderly lady named Millie. After 5 days in Australia, Pak Long finally met somebody who's actually older than him. She looked genuinely sympathetic and interested in our problem After half-an-hour of phone calls, she managed to find a decent (and cheap) place to accomodate all 15 of us. It's located at West End, on Vulture Road, in the southern part of the city across the Brisbane River. Its name: Brisbane Backpackers Resort. . Pak Long thanked Millie profusely. She's an angel, a godsend. After an hour or two in and out of the 1200 shops, we made our way towards Vulture Road, about 5 km from QSM, via Victoria Bridge. We found Brisbane Backpackers Resort. Even with poor eyesight, you could see that it's not part of Hilton or Sheraton. But it's certainly brighter and livelier than any UPM hostel. With options running out, we quickly booked three rooms for two nights. It's already dark when we found Pacific Highway and returned to Gold Coast. The fuel was running low again. If there's anything we'd never learned, it's how to manage our fuel. We had to exit again and refuel.

It's drizzling when we reached Surfers Paradise. There's a pasar malam at the beach front. We eagerly stepped out and braved the rain to survey. Nothing worth taking home. On the way back Pak Long and Adik FH volunteered for for one last grocery trip to Woolworth's. By now, the Woolworth's people already knew Pak Long's full name.

Pak Cu went out and came back proudly showing off a bundle of cheap Gold Coast t-shirts he bought from a Taiwanese gift shop. At last he bought something bigger than peanuts. He got it cheap after promising the Taiwanese that we'd all buy t-shirts from his shop.

Sarah was still down with fever.

New Friends: Millie, the tourist assistant at Queen Street Mall.(She's a volunteer). We all agreed to send a thank-you note to Millie and the guy at K-Mart yesterday.

Date: Saturday 31 May 2003

Places: Harbour Town Factory Outlet, Brisbane Backpackers Resort

Last day in Gold Coast. We'd be relocating to Brisbane for the next three days and two nights, exactly as planned. We checked out of Sunset Court at 10 after yet another breakfast of you guess what. Bill's wife was on hand to wish us luck and see us off. Soon we're back at the beachfront for last-gasp shopping and photos. Only Pak Long remained in the van, nursing sick Sarah. We're beginning to bump into newly-arrived and ever-excited Melayu families, with rowdy children and that trademark lepak look. So we'd to get out of Gold Coast fast before we met somebody who spoke Kelantanese.

Everybody on board, and we're ready to leave Gold Coast. It's five days ago when we came here and, after the thrills and spills and sardine sandwiches, it all seemed like yesterday. Parting is such sweet sorrow, said Shakespeare. Let's move on, said Pak Long. Mana toilet, said Pak Cu. We bid Goodbye to Surfers Paradise and Gold Coast. Pak Cu checked the fuel (good idea), took one final turn, and off we go. Pak Long dumped the map. We didn't need it. Even Pak Lang now knew the road to Brisbane.

On the way to Brisbane, we stopped at Harbour Town Factory Outlet, the one that had eluded us two days ago. What we saw was a big mall with discount shops sporting familiar brands like Corning, Royal Doulton, Sheridan, David Jones, DVD, and...hold your breath....Woolworth's! We went separate ways looking for a kill: Mak Long went for cheap Sheridan bedding, Pak Long cheap muffins, Pak Cu cheap turbine. What was supposed to be a brief stop-over and look-around turned into a major shopping expedition for Mak & Pak Long. Everybody's thinking of Brisbane but had to wait in the van for them, with sick Sarah crying and whining. Understandably Adik FH and every Malaysian in the car park were not too happy with Mak Long's time-insensitive diversion. Of course they're happy with Pak Long. Being old obviously has its advantages.

We reached Brisbane and checked into the place we'd booked the day before. Pak Long took room 210, Pak Lang room 207 and Pak Cu room 220. We opened and appraised our rooms with mixed feelings and short breaths. Bed, bath, bowl, TV were all there as expected. No towel, no welcome drink, no free massage. One common kitchen for the whole floor. Welcome to Brisbane Backpackers Resort (resort?). Pak Long and Pak Lang each got a big room with seven beds in military formation. Pak Cu's room was smaller, with only four beds. He's ok with less than seven beds so long as there's a bowl. We're now seven backpackers with eight children. And we're about to experience a new culture. Were we scared? Not at all. It's the other way round. The other backpackers were worried. Our children soon took over the whole floor. They'd run and scream and squeal along the corridor, and the lady backpacker at the end room would come out and grumble.

We had a simple dinner at the kitchen. No more masak asam or curries. Later in the evening, Pak Long, Pak Cu and Adik FH hung around the lobby, mingling with the tattoo and earring crowd. We made friend with the receptionist. According to Pak Cu his name was Abu Bakr, from Jordan (how we wished he were Bakar from Penang). Friendly guy. He told us where to find mosque and halal food in the area. It's amazing that in spite of the many rough and not-so-good-looking backpackers coming in and out, the place was orderly and respectable. No fighting or flashing. Feeling safe and secure, Pak Long, Pak Cu and Adik FH ventured out and took a lazy walk along Vulture Street and into a 7-Eleven for a fresh supply of bread, jam and butter for tomorrow.

Finally all of us settled down for our first night in Brisbane. Pak Long was about to doze off when Sarah suddenly woke up and mumbled something. After three days of high fever, she finally recovered. Alhamdulillah.

New Friends: Bakr, the receptionist at Brisbane Backpackers Resort.

Date: Sunday 1 June 2003

Places: Riverside Market, Sunshine Highway, Bruce Highway, Noosa Heads, Eumundi, Queen Street Mall, Chinatown.

First morning in Brisbane. Pak Long was the earliest to rise, breaking his own record set in Kuala Duyong, Melaka, on the morning of Pak Lang's wedding many many years ago. Mak Lang, who'd been the earliest everyday for the last five days, was still busy trying all the seven beds. Eager to show off, Pak Long strutted noisily along the corridor, back and forth, in a true backpacker style: skin head, green Marlboro sweater, Timberland mountain shoes, bundle t-shirt and kain pelikat cap gajah duduk! A tattoo and an earring should complete the package. Mak Cu actually heard Pak Long rioting outside and alerted Pak Cu, who's busy clearing up his blocked digestive system.

Our breakfast was a quick and colourless affair. We had to do without everybody's favourite, sardine sandwich. But it's still tastier than the koko krunch fare Pak Lang had on KTM first class to JB. At about 8 we're all aboard and out of the hotel, looking for Riverside Sunday market at Eagle Street. We found the market quite easily, right on the bank of Brisbane River. Pak Lang was lost for words. It's exactly the kind of market we'd been visualizing: flowers, frames, fruits, hand-painted shirts, hand-painted paintings, handicraft, pastries, hats, nick-nacks, nonsense. The traders were pure Australians, not pure Indons. The wares were mostly handmade in Australia, and prices were reasonable. The muffins and apple pies, ahhh, were savoury and gorgeous, all homemade from organic and low-fat ingredients. A fitness freak's fantasy. Pak Long made no attempt to resist and bought loads of them. And the lady returned the compliment with four pieces of lovely croissants on the house. Apparently she'd never seen such a good-looking and well-behaved customer in her life.

We headed northwards to Sunshine Coast, about 150 km from Brisbane, via Sunshine Highway and Bruce Highway. Our destination was Noosa Heads, the part of Sunshine Coast recommended by most travel books. We reached Noosa at noon. What we saw wasn't actually what we'd had in mind. It's a pretty, well-kept seaside resort, but nothing else. We'd expected a smaller-scale Surfers Paradise. A letdown in a way, but the journey and the anticipation was well worth it. There's always something to see, wonder, learn and take away. The adventure is inside, not outside, remember? After an hour or so, we turned back towards Brisbane. We stopped over at a small market town called Eumundi, just outside Sunshine Coast. It's the right place, but wrong day. So no market.

It's about 2 when we swung into Charlotte Street, downtown Brisbane. We agreed on a separate agenda. We dropped Pak Lang, Mak Lang and Mak Cu at Queen Street Mall, and the rest followed Mak Long to Stone Corner, a small shopping mall in south Brisbane, to look for Mak Long's dream dinner set. Found Stone Corner. Right place, wrong time. The store was closed. We rejoined at QSM, just before the 5 o'clock closing time.

We left QSM for another weekend market at Chinatown Mall at Brunswick Street. We found the location, but no mall and not a single Chinese. Must be SARS. Nowhere to go, we just coasted leisurely until we found Victoria Bridge and our way back to hotel. It's still about 7 or 8 and we went round and round looking for Coles or Woolworth's. But all supermarkets were closed at this time except Giant in USJ. So what's for dinner? Mak Long, Mak Lang and Mak Cu looked drained and rundown (as always). Nobody's sober enough to cook. Since this was our last night in Australia, we thought that we might loosen up a bit. Just let our hair down, so to speak. Everybody agreed, even Pak Long, who'd no hair to let down actually. There're two halal joints around our hotel: Nandos chicken and Turkish kebab. So kebab for the debab and chicken for the rest, all take-away. Each family had a private dinner in their dorm that evening. The food was so good and we're starving. We ate and ate and nobody spoke.

We made a rude discovery at the kitchen. It's in a mess, some of our foodstuff (maggi, Ipoh white coffee) were missing. We guessed it's all part of the culture. Mak Cu's bowls had been used and left unwashed. Who knows, if we stayed longer, they might even use Pak Cu's bowels. Bloody backpackers!

After dinner, Pak Long, Pak Cu and Adik FH went down to the lobby again, bought a $5 phone card and rushed out to find a public phone. Pak Long made a call to Abang at Northwestern, but Abang was half-alive and too sleepy to say anything that made half-sense. Adik FH called his good friend Shakhir, but he's engaged with his alumni. Pak Cu called his mother-in-law in Kg Pandan to speak to Ijat. Since reception was poor and Ijat was too young and still angry, Pak Cu had to half-scream 'Ijat, Ijat, Ijat'. Half of Brisbane could hear him.

Date: Monday 2 June 2003

Places: Stone Corner, Brisbane Airport, On board MH 0136, KLIA

Last day in Australia, and last chance to run in Brisbane. It's cool and breezy. Too good to pass up, so Pak Long and Pak Cu stepped out, running at first and then strolling at 2 km/hr. At this speed Pak Cu would only need a new pair of running shoes in 2020. The outing was short, but good enough for us to brag about for a long time.

After breakfast, we all got busy with the dumbest job in the world : packing. We packed, unpacked, repacked, unpacked, repacked. Mak Long needed at least three more bags to fit in all the stuff she'd bought. We checked out at 9, and had to bring down the bed sheets to claim a paltry $30 refund. Our last-minute shopping started at the hotel itself when everybody bought the official Brisbane Backpackers Resort t-shirts at the lobby. Good quality, made in China. Pak Lang bought eight (one for Shakhir). Pak Cu bought five (one for Shakhir). Pak Long bought ten (one for Shakhir). Everybody seemed to agree that the cheap, made in China t-shirt should look good on Shakhir.

With all our bloated bags loaded up, the van was filled to the brim, and its weight had doubled. We're supposed to fly out at 3.30, so plenty of time to wander around. Stone Corner again, for that dream dinner set. It's open now. Mak Long just grabbed and Pak Long just paid (this is called a win-lose relationship). Mak Cu also bought something for her new kitchen but wasn't really sure what it's used for. Finally time for some chocolates for the nieces and nephews. We found a supermarket named Action, and we emptied the chocolate shelf. We crammed the van until there's no more space to breathe.

All set, we looked up the map for the fastest route to the airport. It's a short, jam-free drive across the city. The airport was quiet and deserted. Pak Long and Pak Cu returned the overworked van. It took the airline staff half an hour to check in 28 of us (15 people, 13 bags). She was struggling with all the F and Z in Fadli Hafiz, Faliq Haziq and Afzal Zikri.

We had only enough time at the departure lounge for Pak Long to collect all the left-over Australian coins to buy three packets of macademia nuts. One packet for each family, and one nut for each family member. Only 10 cents left. Call it perfect planning.

Finally we're on board MH 0136 flight to KL. We took off at 3.30 as scheduled. Goodbye, Australia, goodbye. We promised to come back if Azra or Faliq or Aida or all three somehow found their way to study at the world famous University of Queensland instead of Universiti Putra Malaysia (also famous, but only in Kg Pandan).

The plane was almost full. No prize for guessing where Pak Cu's seated. The flight was so uneventful that even the airline food looked exciting. The children were abnormally subdued, realising that the freewheeling days were over, and their bibis were waiting. We landed at KLIA at 9.30 evening. The customs cleared all our 13 bags without silly questions. The arrival hall was crowded and maddening as ever. We parted and promised to meet again on Saturday. Pak Cu took a taxi (rm50), Pak Long took a bigger taxi (rm60), Pak Lang took ERL (don't guess).

We're back home, tired and thankful. All's well that ends well. Pushing the door open, we're overwhelmed by the warmth, sweetness and serenity of home. What rushed to our mind were George Moore's words:

A man travels the world over in search of what he needs, and returns home to find it. We couldn't agree more. Home is where our heart is.