Picture Shared In Facebook. Artist Unknown.
ON KELANTAN ORIENTATION
By: Iris P. Concepcion
I am
Sirigenan Khunmikal in the Circus of Dreams, lone voyager, keeper of the train wheels.
I finally learned the meaning of
nama penuh (full name), a
Bahasa Malaysian term for stating your full name. This is my third visit to the southern part of
Malaysia via the railway and bus, the cheaper means of reaching this place where city structures are erected to blend with the old ones without the pandemonium of cultural clashes.
I had learned the word from my front desk hotelier,
Sitti (stated without a surname), a lodging inn that is only one degree higher in accommodation amenities than the regular backpackers' inn one can find inside
Kota Bharu, Kelantan, Malaysia's citified area. I was asked to register with my full name, address and passport number, a requirement for guests. It proved handy when I was browsing a
German Shakespeare and a
French book on the desk floor: I saw a young girl, mocha-skinned with the most remarkable marble eyes. I used my newly found words to strike a conversation with the young traveller.
She answered with a big smile on her face:
"Fayada."
She and her family are occupying a two-bedroom accommodation. She is bringing conveniently-bought food items from the 7-11 store beside the inn.
Kelantan is observing a two-day holiday in commemoration of
Guti Sempena Hari Raya Eidel Adka when I arrive and the embassies are closed. Most of the commercial places are likewise not open for business, except for these gustatory enclaves known for its western affiliations:
McDonald's, A&W. Pizza Hut, KFC and the mall,
Parkson.
Muslim men and women and the
Chinese had filled these establishments with their bargained food items, reduced for the holidays.
Everything goes for 5.95 ringgit (50.95 baht, P50.95 Philippine peso) at
McDonald's during lunchtime with a complete set, inclusive of soda and large french fries. I know that I had been triumphed when I saw the food consumers enjoying their huge hamburgers and splattered catsups in sachets. All the banks are likewise closed. People are waiting outside to encash their riches but as the guy at 7-11 had rightfully predicted:
"
That can only open tomorrow," with a cheshire grin on his face as I anxiously ruminate where they can probably stay when all the hotels seem to be fully booked.
My train ride back to this city brings a lot of natural splendor, creatively grown bigger with annotations of their origins. It seems that God had placed them where they could emit melancholy, awe and satisfaction from people on board the train. I have seen the habitat of fat cows, white flying doves and
carabaos on vast horizons of green fields looking like
Discovery Channel subjects.
My favorite bread corner here is
Kedai Kopi's Muhibah Paraiso with its luxurious
M insignia, exacting from people opulent slices of cakes in spectacular make. I have never seen pastries and cakes wondrously created as these: they are covered with
strawberries,
kiwi,
peaches and
apples in large portions on top and are sprinkled with the curliest white chocolates resembling teddy bears' fur. They are priced at 58 ringgit; fruit cocktails and strawberries
de luxe spread on their icing like they had been picked from the giant branches of the wilds.
Its
German forest variety, resembling our Black Forest fare in the Philippines, seems to be forlorn with its solitary cherries but the symmetry of orientation on where we place our craftsmanship has ended on this piece of dessert. These designs befit the beautiful visages of
Canterburry's Fairy Tale stories.
I had laughed at one particular concoction. In addition to
Disneyland characters that had crept in the birthday cakes,
Duffy Duck, Mickey Mouse and
Goofy now have a companion with the new, sensational cartoon character embraced in
Thailand like their King's own. From
Haad Yai to
Butterworth, it has become a significant face of pop importance:
Angry Bird. Malaysia is embracing this flying commentator too.
Out of my fascination for these items, I am compelled to quote the French book lying in my inn.
"
Mais nous, lecteurs, contrairement a eux, avons le privilege de 'etre dans la confidence de chacun...."
I never understand
French but I know the meaning of these evocative words, rendering the lectures conversed and undergone, from the humidity of
Mindanao plains to the aborigenic tendencies of Thailand's southern field drawls.
Inside this bustle of people in transit driving and marketing, collecting money from ATMs and other monetary hides, I saw a human aberration: a child of unproportionate dimensions. His head weighs like a 5-kilo melon sized fruit in concave form. He is placed inside a
"cariton" (rolling, wooden carriage) with a container where people could place money, perhaps, berserked by his unnatural anatomy. In this portion of the Earth, deformity and abnormality invite piety and donative power.
I am starting to believe that somewhere else in that remote village overlooking the egg-shaped mall, a baby with a pigtail can realistically exist. This made me recall the
Circus Town visiting my old hometown during municipal anniversaries where you are required to pay hard earned coins to watch spectacular freak shows like men with seven feet or
Wonder Boys with oversized anatomical parts protruding out from bodies.
I have likewise browsed Malaysian newspapers (
Panca Indera, Mingguan Malaysia and Metro Gigs) and try to emulate the diphtongs of the easy phonetics accompanying the words. I have likewise seen John Grisham titles and David Heddles' "
Pour Tout L'or Du Monde" where I extracted the above
French excerpt for me to sound cosmopolitan. I do not think the other inn frontliner named
Faye, a guy with a hat and fit shirt, had shuffled these titles together in this nook.
All floors at my inn have ironing boards with steamer capabilities. All wrinkles get vanished in just one press.
Only in Kelanta. This is Kelantan.
From my quick lunch grab after all these human purveying, an
American (his accent is evident) passes by, carrying food inside a plastic container. It looks appetizing and I ask him where I could get his tummy loot.
"
It is in that corner. Here, you can have it," extending to me what looked originally like a chicken meat but is actually a sweetened banana when I took a bite.
It is called "
turon" in the Philippines. Here, it is whitened with a pudding-like taste. He went on surveying the fields of structures and I do wonder what his comments would be on that big-headed boy wrapped in a warm blanket being paraded in public view for compassion.
I have read books by
Kelantan sidewalks, with literary poetry for Grades 4 and 5 pupils. Their examination questions are punishing but entertaining. This city's
Notary Public (stale) is called
Commissioner Of Oaths (exquisite). Not a bad tag for a man engaged in authenticating public documents and is practicing the law profession.
On my second day in this republic of wonders, I tried its
Kedai Makan Ummi's restaurant where menus are rendered obsolete by the proximity of the dining tables to the kitchen. One can order almost anything without knowing the dishes' names. I simply placed my orders by pointing at the mouthwatering fares of my seatmates. Woe are the people who might get stuck on diners with poor food choices.
Luckily for me, a roasted Peking Duck with
hoisin sauce (I never miss that fare: I could not afford it in the Philippines) is hoisted without any takers. I had to claim it as my order least someone would beat me to the food race. I likewise pointed at the fried rice with green leaves and meat that looked different. I was served first a fried rice with a yellow color; I politely returned it after tasting its rather sad, three granules.
I said "
I want that," pointing at another seatmate with the goodlooking fried rice and shrimps in soy sauce. The chefs in the kitchen whom you could talk to in case you need variations, acceded. I waited for my rice in both bewilderment and consternation. There had been mix-ups as shakes, fruits and juices land on other tables and had to be re-arranged to their proper owners. I did not order milk tea but was still served one. I have no other choice but to drink it.
My fried rice arrived with the attendant
chilis. I forgot to instruct my chef that I do not like spicy food. Nonetheless, the first spoon of rice captured my mouth like a mini volcano; it did not sting but tasted what could be the flavor of the whole Mediterranean sea. My original chef pass me off to other chefs for my proper taste buds and it is funny as hell as the food rotation seems not to know any order nor symmetry.
Finally, I collect my visa (granted without hysterics) and is glad to meet Filipinos at the
Thai Embassy having their passports stamped too. They came from
Quezon Province.
A
Nigerian, fulfilling his visa requirements, ask me if he could tag along as I head my way back to the main city. We compare each other's lodging amenities. I brag about my modestly priced room; he has holed up himself inside his hotel at a steeper price and is, according to him,
Facebooking all day due to the holidays. He wants to see my room; I said he could wait at the ground floor or buy drinks from 7-11 as I collect my bag. He has never seen this side of the place. I wonder why he has not gone out to enjoy the city that promises a lot of surprises with its magical spells and dark moors.
I can see from his face that he is quite flabbergasted by the immense designs of the banks (
Islamic) and batik houses that easily resemble art museums.
He says this as curtailment to my own tourist advices: "
You do like the big city huh?"
I reply: "
I like any place where I can set foot without a bother. See that? That egg-shaped building is a mall."
Like
Houdini, I show him a book I had obtained freely from the Thai Embassy titled: "
Peace Of Writing, Piercing Words Together", a winners' selection of student essays on Thai Muslims and Social Harmony as we are walking. He asks for its price. I reply, one can get it without paying from the Thai embassy.
At this point, he seems to be teary-eyed for no apparent reason and when he asks me where the bus station is, I eagerly show him the way. The area is wide open as it faces the egg-shaped mall. He mutters:
"How much is the taxi fare going to Bangkok?".
I said he can go with me at the border bound for
Thailand and from there, take its futuristic bus rides to
Bangkok. I further implore that he could ride any bus and that he could reach any place with its transnational destinations as he wishes.
I ask him if he likes to grab a bite at
McDonald's but he begs off from my charitable offer. I advise him the rates of fare going to the
Thai border. He walks away from me like he has never known the road where we had previously creased our shoes.
On my train ride back to
Yala, fellow passengers include a
British guy bound for
Champon. It is a small island for water revellers, he says. Another one is disembarking at
Chana. A young girl, a
British-Malaysian, is with her mother. She has not been to
London but has mentioned her place in
Malaysia where
McDonald's also exists. We know our rapid way back to our original destinations despite the severe and stern warnings in that station of elbows getting cracked and bags flying off from roofs like the
Persian carpet of the old tales, immortalized in advertisement signages.
S
ungai Kolok, the first train station at the border, is fearsome only when you get past by its train advertisements and television shows. On the train itself, a gaggle of boys in sweet but smart street gear hop in looking like
The Beatles. Their shirts are fearless (The Who, Life Is Music, Hawaiian polos, Cute Headgears). Even their eye glasses compete with all the eyeglasses combined in these coaches. These rock musicians are polite; they carry the
Muslim women's bags and are overtly benign and peaceful.
Yala, at half past four in the afternoon, finally opens its gates spocked with school establishments for me.
I could never get lost here, in this city/municipality of renewed faith and expectation.
