Inside Kelantan, Kota Bharu, Malaysia's Coliseum Market. Photo Taken By A Malaysian Website On Kota Bharu.

ON TRAVELLING
By: Iris P. Concepcion

I had, again, experienced a wonderful train ride two days ago, with youngsters in tudongs and kids of plain but lucid faces sitting in benches.

Kelantan, Khota Bharu, Malaysia has been improved since the last time I had visited it.  The magical lights at night, softly hushed by soft glints, are now peaceful with a sustained air of Providence.  I have seen newer stores that accept vouchers and sale coupons and are selling goods in bulk.

I have scouted and seen the Backpackers' Inns and found them airy and spacious with very agile and young persons off to their errands, marketing Roti burgers.  Milton Hotel had been torn down for a new tenement of other pilgrims on the road. Young people are owned by people below 20 years old, offering plane rides around islands for affordable prices. These are not your average tourist, nomadic youngsters. They are frontliners in hotels, hostels and business establishments with focused eyes on receipts, accomodation facilities and easier access to roads. They go to China or Korea during their off-days, and are eating fruits as dinner meals. I have talked to a young guy from the Philippines who is selling burgers. I had a free taste of his concoction and said, as trade-off, that I could buy him a Big Mac for him to know the definitive meaning of burgers.

You enter the A&W outlet here not for its huge root beer but for its washing area; splendid dwarfian nook on washing your hands, with bursts of  lavender flowers adorning its mirror. Be forewarned of the hotdog and burger patties' pictures  though. They look like monsters in pans but are definitely mouth-watery.

I have scouted a new ice-cream parlor with Belgian cones the width of my arm wrist at 3 ringgit (30 baht) with ultra red cherries on top. The taxi drivers sit by the mall chairs, waiting for people on the road. One has hair all over his face like Hagrid  and admitted to being friends with the chanting voice. Here, young people own the banks, stores, food outlets and are not too keen on hanging out in beaches. They earn bucks on weekdays and hide off to another country (say, Japan) on weekends.

My bus ride had friendlier men and women with strong argumentative skills, offering commentaries on the buildings as we pass by them. One temple of green make has Roman designs of angelic cherubims on the roof hanging like Nabokovian characters. The language is common, the critique on the socially conscious, adept.

This is a knowledge on scouting accomodations for less and I had been blessed to be too frugal that I ended up paying less for the best shower and water bed without grumping on a room without a window.  Another young guy was hospitable enough to give me directions to the best roti dish, sitting in a corner, unlit road. At 2.50 ringgit, the fare is delectable as it is spiritually-fed. This has finally matched my Indian-inspired, Banana Leaf experience back in old Makati City, Philippines. Here, sauce is in clear pink, wrapped in readable newspapers. I just read this from a Malaysian website: this roti variety is called murtabak, a Malaysian version of the French crepes filled with meat or chicken. Manis murtabak is the sweet version. I got mine with veggie eggplants and minced meat.

Ang sarap. This is Filipino for overtly delicious.

I had at least broken the frontiers of the smug and the harried: I kidded them about their Potato Chips that are priced higher than my shower cream and Cadburry chocolates; there is no other way to parry but to accept respect to this travelling visitor who had located for them the places they could get stressed on normal days. Besides, these young 'uns are giving discounts like receding cash registers and are even to be trusted for rebates. I was given back my deposit of 5 ringgit that is exactly my fare in getting back to Sungai Kolok and Yala, Thailand without further mumbling.

I visited the Thai Consular Office but only for a brief, cursory look at the Caucasians sitting outside who looked like Vogue models. One was in a draped towel.  They were animated and were watching television drama soaps for no apparent reason. I promised to return after realizing the soft brooms that had been repeatedly sent their feet; to keep the leaves off their paths.  The immigration officer at the border has a newer tack; I gave him the knowing "what are you talking about" look and had won the laughable exchange via a shortened notice.

In this fresh but brief sojourn, I am elated by one reality: the Muslim community here no longer had to be entering countries in nocturnal forms, under pain of being domiciled with uncertainty. I almost shouted with joy when I saw them with their handsome passports, lining up at the border like  myself and being embraced by the technology of transportation with equal dignity being accorded by the courteous officials reserved for alien visitors. Even their children  in colorful Muslim garbs carry passports. I do not know why it had made me tearfully triumphant. I guess, I just wanted to give these people the respect that had been denied them in slanting prejudices. Yes, they can line up; yes, they can be trusted to travel in peace; yes, they are functioning humans just like us.

In Kota Bharu, Malaysia, they integrate well with the Orientals and Caucasians and I saw a world shrank in harmony.

This is, after all, a borderless universe.

To rewind on my train education:

This an Indian recollection, the railway track, when it was invaded by its British colonizers from where the humanity of Mahatma Gandhi was molded. Salt was then considered a prime commodity in this formerly named Kashmir country. The British controlled this particular trade to control its people.

India's railway system is fabled for its countless stories; of oppressed people reviling the colonizers.  Where the Americans leave their colonized countries with specific agendas on free public schooling, the British leave their invaded lands with chugging trains that had remained old and untouched.

Thailand, a country that has not been conquered by colonizers with communism bent unlike its neighbors, has a railway system that is now caught in unbridled progress.  Certainly, its rail tracks, even from its provincial outskirts, have faster engines than the first class varieties  of its counterparts.  From my experience, these could rival the best roller coaster rides of themed parks even if their coaches need refurbishing.

This recent trip using this transportation means brought me close to a Viper experience.  This is a roller coaster ride in the United States where even the most hardened astronauts in space could experience barfing. This is how mean this machine is.

My foray into this is not exactly a new territory, chartered as I am in the unfamiliar terrains of airplane rides piloted by men who had perhaps survived air strip Khabul.

How does it feel getting caught in this cyclone as wild rivers with greeneries hover outside the train windows?

Exquisite.

I had heard shrieks from actual people in theme parks emitting gasps out of nowhere. I had silently guffawed as a consequence.  It is the passengers' choice to embark or disembark at will, in places of somber settings populated by men with craggy smiles and untold stories of the past.

Sungai-Kolok now has a brochure of the railway with meaningful touches of the folklore. It is very catchy, with a picture of a train that I had seen in my readings of Hans Christian Andersen tales.  Even the underneath lines invite literary allusion: "North British Locomotive Co., Hyde Park, England". Jekyll and Hyde has come to the fore even without googling the references.

The accompanying, drawn pictures are curious-looking. I was tempted to place captions above the sketches (Bangkok-Chang-mai) with passengers hitting bridges as some elbows were stuck out from windows.

Over-all, this is a neatly packaged brochure that is as good as your average cosmetic pamphlet.

I reiterate: getting inside a train is not a ride; it is an experience of transformational nature.

                                       Photo Shared In Facebook Via Earthschool Harmony. Photographer Unknown.

THE VARIOUS FACES OF SPIRITUALITY
By: Iris P. Concepcion

At the corner of Arkonsongkhroh Road in Yala, Thailand where wedding thrift shops and old Binondo-style restaurants are crossed like kidnapped lovers, an eatery is spotted where several faces of spiritual gurus are hanged.

There are pictures of monks and Thai royalty lineage that are draped in different frames.  A contemplative man, sitting, is eyeing a huge cooking, frying pan (wok expanded four times) in an open firewood as if he is facing a gastronomic library.  The various pictures of monks in one frame looked overtly serious; their protruding eyes open to competing gazes with wall pictures of graduation and celebratory, community-based events. Their calendar carries not dates nor years showing pictures of, normally in Manila, a bleeding Jesus with His heart adorned with thorns, but with fruits and vegetables meant to be consumed during these alloted months. This curious calendar is placed above the pictures of monks who, contrary to notions of lanky men walking in orange robes, are actually plump, robust and healthy.

The King's lineage is like a flag in paint, reminiscent of my father's own tableau of the previous Presidents of the Philippines (inclusive of years they had served the Republic). The man with formidable moustache is a member of this Royal Thai ancestry, the one whom I had acquianted in Phang-nga via the golden bus which served as my riding vehicle where I saw the travelling elephants by the road. He appears with the King. The way they are painted would put shame to ordinary still life sketches of stationary fruits and vegetables hung in upscale museums with their spray paints mistaken for Rembrandt; or their miniature clays hailed as the best of abstract painting. I know good facial contours when I see one and these painted faces are represented at their best angles, refined edges and all. These are clean works in oil. Put these in massive, wooden frames and they could cost a million. I dare not steal the thing I am writing after this paragraph.

This:

I am itemizing the loot of visual take here, with its Samsung television set having its share of Sto. Nino worship as it is surrounded with garlands, incense and chanting booklets, precisely to drive home a point of artistic symmetry.

Again, forget the television set; the real deal here are the future price tags of these works.

I long for our own museums back in the Philippines to showcase these kind of artworks. They deserve a space not in obscure restaurants but the Louvre.

I do wonder why in my sojourns, the ones that gave me the highest aesthetic pleasures are often the ones I just accidentally see off street racks. Our own cities in Metro Manila should bear witness to sculptural beauties with historical imprints that could make me weep, laugh and meditate. The lion bust spewing water in Singapore is massive as it is. Had it been colored with gigantic wings with various diorama of Singapore's best places in holograms, perhaps, I would sit down and have my lunch there too. Our own Ninoy Aquino landmark in Makati with two people holding him back could use  a little more spruced imagery of the writing man. Maximo Soliven at Roxas Boulevard had it better, built as he was with his typewriter and newspapers. A weird guy with a berserk imagination had actually improved Ninoy Aquino's Makati sculpture with my own hometown's San Franscisco plants. It looked livelier.

Perhaps, our art patrons can start giving these outsiders a good headstart in embracing the tiled floors of these upscale art places. For fun or livewire theater, whatever the cause is, it could at least alter or improve our views about certain places and people.

             A Baby Picture Shared In Facebook That Has Nothing To Do With This Entry. It Looks Cute And Needs Sharing. Photographer Remains Unknown.

CRITIQUE ON THE PERSONAL VOODOO CONTEXT OF ONE HUNDRED YEARS OF SOLITUDE
By Iris P. Concepcion

Gabriel Garcia Marquez' book One Hundred Years Of Solitude had as fictional landscape the early Argentinian political history of authoritarianism and familial dynasty.  It caught my fancy as a reader primarily because of one thing: one of its human characters was born with a pig tail. The authoritarian governance as themed in this work of art has the grip of military fantasies in the psyche of political dominion.  A reviewer had likened the setting of this novel to the central American countries that had been ruled by dictatorships in the past like the Philippines and Chile. With the massive and explorative political ideas spread all over the novel, it was that one feature, the human born with a pig tail, that had stuck lingerly on my mind for its veritical foray into what Garcia Marquez had mastered: magical realism.

This aspect contains voodoism references which may be rife in countries deeply entrenched in political chaos and uncertainty. There is an implication that guarding the most fundamental institutions of the land do not require mere branding of armory and fleets of war chest but dimensions of spirituality to protect itself from intrusions of the most secular and inane gossip of revolutionary threats. Our own President, then Cory Aquino, was often the target of gossip fodder on her fatalistic views as she summons God in the major political decisions of her life. Powerpoint may not have a place in the executive branch with the Creator calling the shots to move the plebeians and mass, the pyramidal and fattest portion of our political heirarchy.

I had often wondered if Presidents may be armed with telepathic powers to ward off irritants to their executive power. If Superman can zap off a villain, surely, the President can introduce some herbal medicine or ointments to heal the needy concerns of societal waywards using the premise that he had used telepathy to silence the noisy stumbling blocks to his platforms to progress.

Recalling my visit to Wat Chang Hai here in Thailand where I found a  goat skull floating in a black pool of water meant to deflect bullets, Garcia Marquez may have had his share of these visits to various New Orleans-like witchcraft in his own Argentinian land. His epiphanies to weave his tale that is replete with skeletons of rulers coming out of the closet by leaps and bounds had therefore rung truer than say, Richard Burton's sideway onscreen-kiss with Elizabeth Taylor.

There was not much elongation on what the pig-tailed human had evolved into. I wonder if she had grown weary of this rather curious appendage and cut it out of spite. It may be turned into a Pampango sisig, if the author were a Filipino.

This brings me to several postulations. Shall I change my views about a particular political belief if I had been thrown the Trump Tower on my head since the President found it unsalacious for well-heeled women to be tweeting about his crumpled polo barong? What if he throws me the hollow blocks as well? Supposing he has acquired a doll with pins to inflict pain on the enemies of the land, shall we eventually see the creations of parks and ranges and wildlife roaming for citizens to get their just social due?

I shall wish these things for President Noynoy Aquino, him who does not know much about information technology but possesses a succinct development platform for his country. He had been hounded for his lovelife concerns  that makes for front page news and could use some telepathy to green the forests, fill the dam with water, create electrical posts, improve land terrains and trees.

If I were possessed with this little craft, I would twist the hair of senseless citizens of the republic who spread out lies like crazy to derail my concept of progress. I shall twist them into pig tails, pull them till Alaska (strings coming from Hanoi)  and see if their scalps fall off as a consequence.

That could hurt but at least I had made my park shiny, speck and clean with children in tied balloons catching the fruits of the forests freely, courtesy of the authoritarian ruler.

On another note, I had stumbled upon wondrous articles on studies from the Stanford University website. The photographs are specially engaging and the words, a visual scouring of the imagination. Here are lines worth quoting:

Stanford Report, October 10, 2011

Dancer arrives at Stanford's Jasper Ridge Biological Preserve

In collaboration with the biological preserve, the choreographer plans a set of historical tableaux for this winter.

"Carlson's definition of dance goes far. She refers to herself as a movement-based artist and maintains that "all conscious movement is dance." In the past, her projects have included performances in unusual locations such as trains and barns, with choreographed encounters between non-dancers – lawyers, security officers, custodial staff – and live animals, including goldfish and fainting goats.

The work has garnered her a collection of high-profile awards, including fellowships from the Guggenheim Foundation and the National Endowment for the Arts. Last year, Carlson was named a visiting artist at the Stanford Drama Department, where she continued her site-specific work with the campus-wide "Still Life with Decoy."

                          Photo Shared On Facebook. Photographer/Painter Unknown. Extremely Good Visual Of A Little Einstein

BREAKING STEREOTYPES
By:  Iris P. Concepcion

Staccato is a very disciplined musical form, the arrangement of which not all individuals could master. It is not for your average musician.

A few people may discern its split second beats. Everyone may claim to have  complete mastery of it but only the wisened can incorporate it into real, compelling songs.

I am opening this entry with a musical reference to weave a tale on our perceptions of the past which may no longer hold true as I am inking this pen on my scratch sheet of paper.

A link on Philippine T.V. 5's Interaksyon, a portal for Philippine news, has definitely relaxed the  rules on newspaper writing in my archipelago, the pearl of the Orient, home of both Jose Rizal and adobo. It has welcomed these new forms of information perception.

Akin to the abovementioned musical arrangement, I had read a column by Teodoro Locsin, Jr. today via this news link. Mr. Locsin is an eminent worshipper of the divine dictionary and punnery who had been photographed before to have flashed his middle finger unto the faces of those who had virtually made it a cottage industry to irritate the sanctified institution of the Presidency.  The writer had dropped his rock star reply to hecklers and had linked it with fellow writers. He had likewise lent his columns to the marginalized, voiceless sectors of the writing universe along with Conrad de Quiros. Post-modernism has come out alive, in daring lithographs, debunking myths and yarns long held sacred.

Here is the link: http://interaksyon.com/article/14263/teodoro-l-locsin-jr-thank-you-harry-and-cancel-their-us-visas

By virtue of this insurmountable decree from the Higher Beings, our view of the oppressed and maligned in other countries may just prove to be false. In fact, hypothetically speaking, I may be portrayed as a nomad with drug problems who had been begging bread on the sidewalks. No one was telling the story of how I had made children appreciate the good swing rides at the Children's Playground at the Rizal Park. I wonder what other rumors may be spread to cast aspersion on people who had wanted to taste the rosier and more comfortable side of the world. Those who want you tied up to a water pump for life is not a good voyager.

To cite an example. The best speaking English conversationalist that I had met here is a Muslim woman who is also conversant with modern "tudong" and the like. She is friendly with her white friends.  The most amiable and polite people are the Orientals whom I have met at the Church Assembly Hall. The Caucasians whom I had met on my travels prefer to know Nepalese culture and are quite far from the sex vultures usually portrayed about them in the media. The best American burgers that I had tasted here did not make me thin nor obese. They made my arms plump.

Where are the writers who can thread properly their tales, the food's nutrient forms,  the humanity beneath the face of wars, the triumph of common decency? Nobody is writing about their advocacy. They teach, they spread their word, they make people functional, literate beings.

Far from the sex fiends often peddled for rumor mill excitement that may have been repeated often through walls, no one dares to take the pen and write about their heartfelt purpose to save cultures from bigotry and hatred.  I had often wondered before why I had amassed quite a number of bibliography of English literature and why I had developed quite a deep love for the vocabulary. These people had actually placed them there for me to browse. They are not after my ass.

It is only today that I had learned why Mr. Locsin was a raging bull before, protecting then President Corazon Aquino from sycophants. A lot of people had retreated but not him. My other fathers had disliked laziness and booze while at work and I only understood the essence of this discipline today.

These people always step-up, clean up the mess, bite the bullet, bong the gongs to understand the real cries of the natives from orchestrated threats, prejudice and disorder.

Respect for authority is a code only for the brave men.

Photo Taken By This Writer Going To Phang-nga, Thailand Inside A BusWith Its Cross Culture And Interfaith Beliefs.

WHERE ART THOU MY EYEBROWS OR HOW I REDISCOVERED GOD THROUGH POMELO
By: Iris P. Concepcion

Once upon a time, I had seen pythons and a dead person upclose but it did not jar me to take up knives and become an angry woman. In fact, these sights made me closer to spirituality and my avowal to peace as the better alternative to change things.

I had attended a service here in Yala, Thailand with hopes of dusting the feathers off my winged self. I had always been tolerant of other people's faiths, having with me Baptists as friends when I was young. I would invite them to attend my Misa de Gallo; I am in return invited to join their Daily Bible School camping gatherings. In fact, a Catholic (me) bagged the first prize in a biblical contest and I was not begrudged for my different mode of worship.

Hence, it was a breather that I found my location, off-kiltered as I was in a junction of Sunday gatherers, yesterday morning, while the sun is crisp and shining brightly. I got lost in a temple but was talked to by a kindly, Thai woman where I am heading. I said, I am looking for a place of worship. She replied that she could take me there. I hopped in her motorcycle and was driven to the original destination.

The place is called Yala's Fellowship Assembly Hall. It sounds like a municipal office cum church. Everything here reminds me of my quiant town, down to the people I have flashes of memory from the past. The worship starts at 9:00 a.m. as advised by a cook who was selling siomais, siopaos and teas to his early breakfast eaters adjacent to the church.  I had an egg sandwich beforehand and vowed to buy the Chinese cuisine smorgasbord after the worship which, again, I was advised to wrap up at around 12 high noon.

There was a makeshift table in front of the church where people take their morning meals. I was offered siomais (in a large tin plate) tea and rice by a trio of Vietnamese-looking people. I had declined for I was still full. They kept on giving me tea cups, plates and assorted food as if I were part of the diners. I had thought of them very kindly. I had a memorable conversation with them about food and places. They came from Chang-mai.

The assembly hall was formally opened by a familiar face.

I did not feel left out upon seeing this guy who looks like a corn kid of the Stephen King novel who had opened the gate for my entrance. He talked in proper English, the kind which reminds me of grammar books. He drove a pick-up and asked me if I came from the Philippines. I think I am wearing an invisible map of my country on my forehead since they always predict my correct country of citizenship. The hall is painted in lavender, with sturdy chairs and bulletin boards for church services and donations. It has toys and tables for children. I talked to Ne-pha, the early bird, who drove in his dainty motorcycle. She has a dandy Espana native, embroidered bag and  a cute fish denim cover for her bible. She wore great shoes too. I praised her for all the wonderful things that she owns. She mopped the hall and cleaned the area squeakily.

I offered to help but she told me to sit down. I was told, as a changed schedule, that the service starts at 10:00 a.m. I patiently waited, pulling out my ballpen and sheet of paper to gather my thoughts about Ang Lee and his picturesque films of the Orient in blooming colors.

The church goers looked like Thai/Japanese/Chinese Orientals. I reminded Ne-pha that the people who had arrived slowly (with ready smiles and polite gestures of Sawadeeka) came from these different ancestries. I asked for the pastor's name. She said, everyone can actively participate in the fellowship with no resident evangelist.

Everyone here is a pastor, a priest, a reverend.

The old Chinese presider opened the service with songs I could not understand but could dissect. This is my revelation: I may not know the language but I nonetheless share their means of communication. I understood them like they understood me.

They have bibles and veils (like the Catholics) although they likewise vary. A beautiful woman who sat beside me wore a yentil-like cup coaster, a cap in crochet. She placed it on top of her head. She looked Jewish. The other woman who can quote the bible well, in great modulation, was wearing a black, crocheted hair band reminiscent of Maria from The Sound Of Music. She looked like a Vietnamese. There was a very tall guy on a wheelchair who was shuddering and looked extremely pious. He reminds me so much of lanky trees weeping orchids out from their barks.

This is a Catholic/Baptist/Yentil/Buddhist/Taoist service and I like its democratic engagement of God's words.

People started to trickle in this fellowship of beings. I have met Su-ne, Kiet-Kong, Mon, Pai-linne, Somphul, Kawin and Paih-Buhn. These are the worshippers who had discussed the Roman passages (Romans 13-14 are tablets of good behavior and it is worth the discussion) in debate form.

They are like homilies in capsules, discussing good and evil, of corruption and authority, of doing a neighbor a good deed and to put a cliche to this, of "all things bright and beautiful, all creatures, great and small."

Kiet Kong had a lively parry of words with Kawin. Both quoted God and Confucius. They looked like they had been taken away from their material wealth but are nonetheless inviting those who had made them such in glorified redemption. The play is on moral conscience and they are all articulate and had good points each going for them. Thou shall not steal, thou shall not speak ill against thy neighbor, do a good deed. These people had discussed them like Jesus Christ would.

The flock, similar to Born Again Christian gatherings, mutter the words "Amen, Amen" repeatedly. It sounds "Yeah, man" and "Yemen" at times.

Only people who had truly shared viands together can mount a great debate on this end. They even have different bibles and hymnal pamphlets.

The service truly ended at 12 high noon. I was advised to stay for lunch. We had spicy food. The presider told me that it  is Vietnamese but the beautiful woman told me it is authentic Thai. Curry soup with noodles. They enjoyed the fare with splices of parades and town activity talks. I got myself fruits (their unripe mangoes are the best I have tasted thus far), eggs and a portion of the curry.

I congratulated everyone who had declaimed their great, biblical speeches and those who had interpolated on the actions of men. They had articulated that we must not, at all times, manipulate those who are weaker than us since strength, power and prestige are short-lived.

I had concluded after this service that these men are just like my portly priest back in the Philippines who officiates mass inside the Robinson's mall during Sundays.

Those who had sinned must have cried rivers over this realization as these eloquent speakers had spoken truly and succinctly well.

And yes, while their English is not "strong", as Kiet Kong (he said he could never be forgotten as it has syllables similar to King Kong) had parlayed, we all understood the language of our innate humanity as spoken from God's words.