The Spirit Of Unsportsmanship

I was watching the Olympics the other day when they showed those 4 x 100m events of the past years, and suddenly I was reminded of my own sad, terrible tragedy which took place more than a decade ago...

I was a bright-eyed, naive and innocent boy then (and still am now), and it was the annual School Sports Day. We'd specially rented the Bukit Jalil Staduim for this special event. Apart from the mundane long jumps, high jumps, and goodness-knows-what-else-would-jump, there was the 4 x 100m relay, with four gold medals to be awarded to the winning team.

Tensions ran high, naturally. I was one of those asked to represent the Red Team, for whatever the reason was known only to God. I wasn't particularly a person you would call a fast sprinter. I mean, I even had enough difficulty running after the ice-cream truck, and they're just placing me in there? They'd probably have more luck predicting the 4 winning lottery digits. Granted, all I had was height, and I might have excelled better in NBA, but that's another story for another fine, sunny day.

On that particular day, the four of us were asked to get ready, and the coach handed us our team uniforms - nothing more than simple cotton t-shirts tinged with a healthy dose of Communist Red. I loathe that shirt. Don't even get me started on the sporting event logo. Fast forward 2 hours, and there we were, all set on the sprint track. With four teams comprising four runners each plus the respective coaches made around twenty-plus individuals on the grounds.

As each team huddled together to receive their last words of wisdom, our coach broke the news to us: there was going to be a reshuffling of each runner's position. I was scheduled to run third, but was now placed last, due to an unwise decision made by our bumbling coach. She reckoned that the guy originally schedule to run after my turn would give our team the upper hand should he run first in front of me. Big mistake. No sooner than that, all of us got ready to sweat it out and burn rubber on the grids, and perhaps tear a hamstring or two for those unfortunate enough to get it. As I was in fourth position, there was nothing much that I could do except sit down, and prayed that my first runner had taken enough steroids not to fall behind the rest.

With the shot fired, it boiled down to a test of strength versus will, muscle against muscle, and the doped versus the undoped while the crowd went wild. Our guy made the mark and he passed the baton to the second dude. The latter chalked up a pretty good record too and the baton made its way into the third fella's hand. He was off like a speeding bullet. That was when all the innocence of my childhood began fading away, and the ugly realities of life started to beat the snot out of me.

At first, things looked good, but then later somehow Mr. Third Runner seemed to slow down, and the remaining two sprinters from opposing teams quickly caught up with him, eventually passing him by. By the time I received the baton, all three runners from the other teams were already almost halfway around the bloody track. I tried my best to keep pace with them, but it was no use. I even tried to visualize that ice-cream truck in front of me to allow myself some encouragement to run faster, but even the phantom ice-cream man, with his neatly-pressed white uniform complemented with a black bow tie, poked his head out of the imaginary ice-cream truck and laughed at me.

By now, the three earlier sprinters had already completed the race, and were sitting around the track resting their worn-out muscles, eyes on me. I was only at the halfway mark, no thanks to the third guy's inept running skills. What could've turned out to be my finest hour now lay in shambles, as the crowd, now impatient, started booing me in unison. They were obviously tired of waiting for the race to end, and the sight of one lone runner going for broke amused them, or probably angered them, or both. I don't know. To be booed is one thing, and to be faulted for other people's ineptness and idiocy is another.

I finally reached the finishing line, and for a moment there I swore I caught a glimpse of my coach giving me her disapproving stare. What did I do wrong anyway? But there was no time for that as my tired muscles, poorly-trained for this event, eventually gave way and I tumbled down onto the track. No one came to my aid nor help me up to the locker room. Those pretty young female nurses which were abundant all around the stadium one moment were gone the next. I was left to simmer and bake under the afternoon sun. So much for taking one for the team. The next year, requests for me to make an appearance for the sprinting team once more were met with replies of "Get lost!" and "You'll never take me alive!", echoed by me.

Memoirs Of Mount. Kinabalu

CHAPTER 01: GOOD MORNING SABAH!
I awoke from my deep slumber. The mattress was somewhat hard but nonetheless comfortable, and for a while I stared up the ceiling, asking myself why it looked so unfamiliar to my eyes. It should be, for I was not within the confines of my own bedroom, but rather at the majestic Sutera Kinabalu Lodge. Crawling out of bed, the first thing I did was to head towards the frost-filled window, tip-toeing across the cold wooden planks that made up the floor. The early rays of the sun had just broken through across North Borneo, bathing a nearby mountain with its golden, magnificent rays.

That mountain was Kinabalu upon closer inspection. I recognized one of the peaks to be Donkey Ears. Excitedly I called upon Shearn and Jarod, who happened to be there at that time. Together, we enjoyed the view from our humble room while basking in the warmth of our brotherhood. Breakfast was sort of a "cook-it-yourself-or-go-hungry" kind of event, mainly comprised of instant cup noodles. No one complained although the forementioned noodles tasted somewhat rubbery that day. Could've been the water, I told myself.


CHAPTER 02: D-DAY
We sat there suited up on the kerbs, backpacks firmly secured in place and looking very much like a bunch of paratroopers sans rifles, waiting for our ride. Some were still busy chowing down on their breakfast (myself included). Soon the van came, and after placing our rucksacks into the vehicle and taking only the necessary survival items, we were off.

Arriving at Headquarters a little after five minutes, each individual lined up for their general-issued dogtags which was to be worn throughout the whole stay atop the mountain. It was also at HQ that we assigned two mountain guides to our 13-man squad. Endless photoshots were taken of the mountain, or of a person posing with the mountain in the background. After a quick round of prayers, we were off to war. A war of attrition against potential muscle fatigue, mental anguish, altitude sickness, and the effects due to the lack of oxygen.

The bus gradually picked up speed, roaring down the narrow tarred road. Instead of singing and merrymaking, as most people would have expected us to be doing, each person was silently deep in his or her own thought. A few took the opportunity to catch a few winks or so. But for me, the adrenaline generated from my body was having a field day rushing through my veins. During those defining moments of my life, I could not help but think of cliched phrases such as how this was the moment we were all waiting for, the moment of truth that would put each individual to the test. Such philosophy indeed.


CHAPTER 03: THE POINT OF NO RETURN
The bus suddenly came to a grinding halt; we'd arrived at the last place that officially separated Mount. Kinabalu from the rest of the world - Timpohon Gate. Once the gates swung open and we passed through, there would be no major civilization landmarks until we reached Laban Rata. Prior to that, our friendly guide - the more senior dude of the two - gave us a small pep talk on survival techniques and what-not-to-do along the way. Each of us received an A4-sized paper advising those with chronic diseases ala heart attacks, asthma, diabetes et al not to proceed with the ascent. Pardon my thoughts, but shouldn't this whole inane disclaimer thing be brought to the attention of all potential climbers at least a day before the big climb? I imagined some poor unlucky chap burning RM200+ to stay there for the night, secure a guide and hitch the bus all the way to the Gate, only to be stopped for asthma!

Yep. Some smart system we have here. But then again, having made it this far plus spending almost close to RM300 for the air tickets, I sure as hell wasn't going to let anything as trivial as those mentioned in the paper stop me (if I had them in the first place, that is). Heck no. They can roll my dead body off the mountain later once I'm finished conquering Low's Peak.

CHAPTER 04: AND WE HAVE LIFTOFF!
I stopped by at the loo to drain my lizard for one last time before attempting the ascent, having heard nasty stories of horrifically-nauseous toilet shacks along the way up. Coming out, I saw my first much-famed porter of that day. She had this great straw rucksack upon her shoulders where all sorts of imaginable things were stacked in - bags of rice, water bottles, Armalite M4A1 carbines, the Death Star - that rose to almost twice her height. And here I was carrying only my first aid-kit, winter apparel, food and beverages, and already on the verge of throwing myself off the cliff.


CHAPTER 05: THE LONG ROAD UP
I've never been so alone before in my life. Trudging up Mount. Kinabalu proved to be a lonely experience for me, partly caused by the numerous times I stopped to capture some particular scene in my DSLR camera's viewfinder. Occasionally I'd bump into Pearly, Jeremy or Dizzy, but due to the fore mentioned camera-clicking frenzy high I had at that time, naturally I found myself all alone once more. Can't blame anyone. Once past the gates into the unknown, it automatically turns into one of those do-or-die, "every man for himself" kind of situation, where the average fit individual find it tough while the severely unfit calls it an impossible task, and your mind is being overwhelmed by rhetorical questions about life, the future, and what kind of madness could have possible driven you to accomplish such a suicidal adventure.

I continued walking, with the sounds of life growing fainter and fainter behind as I gradually crossed into colder zones. Tall, upright trees were slowly but surely being replaced by their gnarled and stumpy cousins. The soil turned stark orange and was said to contain some element which would kill off all plants except for a few. Once above a certain elevation, all signs of life, save for those firmly rooted into the ground, is gone. Gone are the birds which accompanied you as you made your way up during the first leg of the journey. Gone are the delightful chatter of squirrels and their mischevious antics. For some, it is an eerily unnerving thought. For me, it is deeply therauphetic. Think Genting Highlands without the Ah Bengs and Ah Liens.

Occasionally at certain interval points, there is a simple hut/shelter in which you may stop to rest your tired feet, slap on huge dollops of questionable muscle fatigue relieving cream, and of course, eat your measly rations (either half-melted chocolate or something equivalent to it) and drink whatever water you have left. If you're out of drinking water, or if you desperately need some, the authorities have been kind enough to establish green rust-proof water tanks right next to the said huts, with the contents being collected rainwater. It just sits there quietly, tempting you to take a swig or two out of it, and you can't even lift the damn cover to tell what's died inside it, if there's any. At this point, having Halizone tablets in your inventory is a blessing indeed. Nailed neatly onto on of the supporting wooden beam posts is a sign indicating your current elevation. Once you've had enough rest and confirm that your feet might not conspire to walk you off some cliff, you continue upwards. It's repetitious and in some ways an expensive way to suffer, but strangely enough I got quite a kick out of this whole sadistic operation.


CHAPTER 06: HALFWAY POINT WITH HALF-LIFE GONE
The hike was now around five-sixths of the total journey up before reaching the halfway mark, given the calculation I made in my mind. I could be wrong, but such optimism keeps one from either impaling himself on the nearest sharp tree trunk, or doing the swan ballet off a cliff. Besides, I wanted something to tell my grandchildren about. Earlier on, at the third shelter where I stumbled upon Dizzy, Jeremy and Pearly once again, the sign nailed at the beam indicated an elevation surpassing that of Genting and Tahan. Given me, I'd pop open some champagne and arouse the men to celebrate, but at the risk of getting impaled, or forced to do the swan ballet, or both.

The landscape suddenly changed as abruptly as how money changes hands in a casino; there wasn't even enough of those gnarled trees and shrubs to start a plant army of my own now. The entire surrounding was mainly granite slabs now, with slight hints of loose rocks. The steps grew larger apart, straining the kneecaps. Retreating poisonous orange soil was being replaced by light tan ground.


CHAPTER 07: HELL FREEZES OVER
During the Battle of the Bulge, isolated 101st Airborne paratroopers, cut-off and surrounded by thousands of well-prepared German soldiers


CHAPTER 08: MIDNIGHT RUN



CHAPTER 09: THE DAWN OF A NEW BEGINNING



CHAPTER 10: A PEAK TOO FAR
My parents and also some of my friends who are in a saner state of mind that I am in (that's what I think, more or less) constantly question my strange preference to pay money for some trip which either leaves me half-destroyed or fully incapable of functioning well by the time I reach home, in this case mountain-climbing (or scrambling, whichever applies). I tell them honestly that I do not understand my semi-suicidal urges as well, save for the comforting thought that I am actually probably taking the path less taken (pardon the pun). I don't really see much joy or excitement to be visiting some exotic beach miles away from my house, with the sun-baked sands searing my soles, and the salty sea waters leaving me feeling like some salty sea dog. Granted, they make nice picture postcards, but then again, nothing beats big, shiny mountains with their rugged peaks and danger at every turn.

That train of thought ran through my mind as I braved the strong winds, struggling to get a foothold on the slippery granite ground. Each step demanded an average of five gasps of thin mountain air, and five steps taken brought the body to a standstill while you recalibrated yourself. My backpack, though lightened and temporarily freed from all the burdensome weight of food and extra squirrel fodder, still felt like deadweight upon my shoulders. Pain and suffering were the standard order for the day, and still I got a kick of out it.


CHAPTER 11: THE HEROES AT 13,000 FEET

CHAPTER 12: MISSION: HALF ACCOMPLISHED

CHAPTER 13:

CHAPTER 14:

CHAPTER 15:

The Mystery Of Vertical-Scrolling Games

I'm sure many of you born during the 80s have fond memories of playing the Micro Genius home entertainment system - one of the earliest home-based console systems. The games are usually in catridge format and some boast of games up to 1001 in a single package.

One of the games I've spent quite a lot of time in are the vertical-scrolling ones. And over the years of playing them, I noticed something strange and repetitive about these kind of games, like as though they have a strange conspiring connection amongst them :-


01: There's always some badass megalomaniac bent on ruling the world.
Yep, and he has an almost endless supply of fighter jet pilots, tank battalions and turret gunners to do his evil bidding. His headquarters is nothing short of impressive and laden full of powerful guns. But no matter how great there's bound to be a hero who will manage to crack the code and destroy his lair.

02: There are a lot of suicidal evil pilots and tank crew who don't mind shooting at people they don't know.
Indeed. They make up the bulk of the cannon fodder that the hero (in this case it's you) will encounter along the journey. These nameless, mindless henchmen who spend years training to fly planes and do not hesitate to shoot at heroes that are destined to win over them. They usually comprise of useless individuals who can't even shoot straight. All these poor sods get in appreciation for their service with the villain boss is a lousy, cheapskate plane that explodes instantly by a single shot to it, guaranteeing no chance of survival.

03: You never run out of missiles or ammunition
Good news heroes and enemy pilots alike - you are all blessed with a never-ending supply of rockets and tracer magazines to shoot the heck out of one another. Your guns will never overheat from the constant firing, and missiles just magically appear on your wingtips after a few seconds, ready to lock on the next target.

04: There's always an enemy plane full of power-ups to aid you
Nothing can be dumber than a evil megalomaniac who approves of power-up plane blueprints. No bad guy in his right mind would ever so generously provide assistance to the hero in the form of fighter jet arsenal add-ons so that he can pit the big boss' downfall. Surely even the enemy pilot of the power-up plane would see the rationalé of this whole dumbass operation as illustrated below :-

Enemy Pilot: But boss, why are you even sending me out in a plane full of powerful weaponry meant to be picked up by the hero after he destroys my jet and kills me?

Evil Boss: I don't care, just go! Go I tell you!

Enemy Pilot: You idiot! No wonder we'll never win this game for eternity! It's because of idiots like you who keep on supplying heroes with powerful guns that we keep on losing the war!

05: Every pilot flies at the same altitude
Isn't it amazing that planes, meant to fight third-dimension wars by harnessing the advantages of altitude, can all just fly on a fixed agreed height, both hero and enemy jets. This is the dumbest thing since having the bad boss approving of planes carrying power-ups to assist the hero in his quest. Adding to the insult is just how even tanks on the ground can manage to shoot planes in the air.

06: The government does not care for you
Curiously enough you never seem to start missions with fully powerful planes, but instead have to slowly gather power-ups via the suicidal enemy pilots. This would seem to make me think that the government does not actually care enough for my welfare to provide me with enough firepower and ensure my own survival as I take on the boss' henchmen.

07: Everyone's shots looks exactly the same
The ubiquitous, round-shaped orange pellet that travels with fairly fast speed across the screen is both amusing and deadly. Amusing because it defines the defacto trademark of all vertical-scrolling games, and deadly because somehow or the other the enemy seems to always have a better and faster firing rate compared to you.

08: You are reincarnated twice per token
Strange, yes. Getting killed is often a tidy process in vertical-scrolling games with little or no debris from destroyed vehicles. Everybody just kind of vaporises into thin air, and no one mourns for dead buddies. If you get killed, an exact clone of you will arrive at the scene in less than three seconds after your original self has just died, and you are given five seconds' worth of indestructability period. Nevermind that the whole journey from the plane carrier situated somewhere in the vast Pacific ocean to Alaska takes some time. Your replacement duplicate will always be on time.

09: You never have to go for toilet breaks
Fighting this war must be taking a strain on every pilot, yet you do not have to stop to piss, shit, rest, sleep, or even eat. You just fly, and fly, and knock enemy planes out of the sky, and fly some more while awaiting the boss for that particular scenario. It's a sick routine that would make even the sanest pilot mad.

10: The background music never goes away
While you're busy fighting, there is always an irritating soundtrack playing in the background in the sky, presumably to boost your yamato damaishii. Someone, or a few musicians high up in the clouds somewhere actually have the decency to follow you around for every stage, complete with bass guitars, drums and electronic keyboards and mash up electronica music that repeats over and over til it reaches a sickening crescendo.

11: The boss blinks when hit
It must be me, or it's a cool new kind of technology. But I seriously cannot comprehend just why level bosses are all equipped with vehicles that actually blink when your shots find its mark. What exactly is the secret behind this? And to make things even stranger you (as the hero) can get time off after the destruction of the level boss while someone meticulously calculates your medals and kill ratio and finally gives you a bonus. During that process, no enemy is cruel enough to take precise aims at your jet to destroy you.

12: There is always a sub-mini boss
A prevalent disease amongst some vertical-scrolling games. You finally destroy the level's boss, only to find out that a smaller plane is hidden within the big plane that you've just obliterated. It will subsequently transform into a robot and spray even more orange pellets at you. You, on the other hand, can never get the luxury of having a cool transforming plane, and your vehicle seems inferior compared to what the level bosses are using to kill you.

13: The most you can get is a partner
Not more than that, although the world can offer more than just two pilots fighting for freedom. I mean, if you send all the good guys at once ala Independence Day, the war can be over soon am I not correct? But nooo, the government has to send just two against two million. I really suspect by now the government does not care whether I return back alive or die fighting.

14: You still have time for souvenirs and medals
The nice part of this war is that you can destroy houses, buildings, and other public amenities to reveal medals and cash items to pick up for points. Some of the medals are even as big as the plane that you are piloting. Trouble is, how is it even possible to acquire them by just "flying over" the items? Next tell me how in the world can a small plane actually carry thousands of medals in its cargo bay without the slightest hint of getting bogged down?

15: You win in the end as usual
It will be conveniently revealed to you in the form of a message outside your cockpit - Final Level. This is to tell you that you've struggled hard through the entire journey, and that you're coming close to the end. You are brainwashed to believe that you will emerge victorious, even though the fact is that you're now Clone No.10, with the previous ones having died in fiery plane dogfights. And in the end, you do win the war, but at a price of a few more tokens if you are a lousy pilot. The boss will be destroyed along with the remmants of his army, and the world will be a safe place once again. Until the next token slides in, that is...


I admit that I still do occasionally play re-runs of these games. Just for old times' sake, and to get a kick out of laughing at the illogical things I've just presented out. The 80s were indeed a golden age for video games.

Nostalgia : Bidor

My car cruises at a comfortable travelling pace, passing by a row of pre-war shophouses in a sleepy semi-town area. Those shops entice me, with each of them having their own great history to tell. I love old shophouses. I'd give just about anything to spend a quiet night in one of them, looking out at the moonless sky, while the dim glow of the yellowish light bulb is the only source of light in the room. Barely moderate, but just enough to my own perfection. I like it that way. Someone slides in a cassette of the greatest romantic songs from the 60s, interrupting my train of thought, and immediately the unmistakable voice of Paul Anka comes out, belting out the love piece, Venus. And as his dreamy voice croons on, so does my car, with each passing second nearer to our destination.

The sun, peeking slyly from behind the clouds ever so occasionally, plays tricks on my eyes, conjuring up the greatest mix of landscapes by producing shadows of great mountains to eclipse my car or to cast the cotton-white clouds' shadows upon the flatlands. Paul Anka's song, still playing at this point, seems to be the perfect soundtrack for all this majestic beauty. I see the peaks of the hills and mountains alike in the distance, surrounded by lush invitating flora. I was only ten at that time, but I promised to scale them once I'm much older and having the chance to do so.

Soon, after another half an hour or so of travel time, we stop by the next town for a short break. At a glance, to me it looks just like any other quiet small town filled with pure nostalgia, but to my father it's different; he knows every town in Perak well. I reach for the door's handles, and upon opening it, a whole new world beckons me. The smell of the country air, the sound of the running river nearby. These are some of the things in life you realise that money won't be able to buy once it goes away forever.

Gently, my father takes me by the hand and tells me of the wonderful history of how the town started as a small Chinese settlement community during the early turn of the twentieth century. And I watched, with all the amazement a ten year-old could ever offer, my eyes following the antics of the shopkeepers and roadside traders while they milled with their daily routines. We then head for the same Chinese coffee shop housed in those ubiquitous pre-war shoplots that is the trademark of small, sleepy towns of Malaysia, with my mum and brother in tow. Each year as we make our journey up North, we never fail to stop by the shop and savour the char-siew paus, reputed to be quite famous, or so to me it seems.

One thing about these typical coffee shop houses which have such a special place in my heart is due to the surrounding environment and all that there is that I have grown to love from an early age. The off-white marble table tops, the sturdy wooden chairs, and the good old way of serving hot coffee in those millet-brown china cups complete with a plasticky orange stirring spoon.

And then, after a hearty meal of traditionally-brewed teh tarik and nescafe peng, it was time to hit the road once more and complete the last leg of the journey. This time however, the scenery takes an abrupt change from wide open spaces to heavily-wooded road paths, mostly rubber trees which would sometimes grow so tall they practically block out some of the sunlight at certain areas. Randomly, there would be a wooden Malay house situated in the middle of the rubber plantation. During this time I still remember I always kept myself busy looking out for Chinese and Malay women selling guavas, for it would mean that we were on the brink of reaching the outskirts of my beloved Bidor hometown itself.

But of course, along all old Malaysian roads, there are roadside plaques planted a click apart from each other that would ultimately indicate precisely how much further more one was from his or her intended destination. Numero uno would always be the much sought-after digit. Just try to picture it - a lonely road with some wild grass growing at the side, while in the background looms the distant green hill and beyond it, a blue sky dotted with clouds. Finally numero uno does come, and upon passing the Goodyear service building, we are officially in the borders of Bidor. The sight of the town famous for its chicken biscuits and egg-yolk crackers is a welcome sight indeed.

My father carefully negotiates the car along the familiar bend of the road, descends up the slight of a hill and steers right upon reaching the first junction. It is but a small junction, but yet deep in my heart I know this very same road leading right up to the housegates of my grandmother (now long passed on) holds much delightful precious memories. Her dog, a brown mongrel barks enthusiastically, knowing we were back for the Chinese New Year reunion dinner just like we did every year. And as always, my grandmother is ready to welcome her son back and to coo over her young little grandchildren.

I miss my grandmother.

After nearly a year or so of not seeing each other, no doubt there is a lot of catching up to do with my three cousins. We do exactly that, but the part whereby we all rush to the outside and soak up all the fun comes later - we still have another two more cousins awaiting. In time, it is their turn to arrive at the gates, and thus so the circle of cousinhood is complete. We waste no time to explore the vast fields, no-man's-lands, and every nook and cranny of Bidor, running off into the direction of the evening sun.

At this point, the camera will pan in a steady motion upwards. Above me, the same cotton-white clouds drift lazily along their charted courses in the blue sky, with the stillness of the quiet nostalgic town of Bidor occasionally punctuated with the laughter and giggles of six young children heading off for another adventure, possibly the nearby river creek or hiking across the grassy plains, glad for the day's blessings and wishing the best for tomorrow.

It's been ages since I last made a trip back, but everytime I look back upon this, a smile is etched on my face as I recall back the memories of Bidor.