5 March: Screw Heritage Day

A short but mind boggling article yesterday spoke of an auction that made me ponder, “Really? Can money turn people into soulless, self-serving pigs that put themselves above an entire nation?” Pffft… silly, naive me. Of course it can.

Antiquorum Auctioneers are about to auction off Mahatma Gandhi’s old belongings, including his sandals, watch and trademark round glasses. Despite massive protests in India, spokesperson Michelle Halpern said, “the auction will go ahead…” It will happen later today, 5 March 2009.

Once again, money has spoken louder than history, culture or life. This goes against the denunciation of greed that the humble leader stood for. Gandhi’s belongings may have cost less than 20 dollars. Tomorrow, they will be auctioned off for 1,000 times higher. With all this publicity, it could skyrocket further.

Once again, the soulless left-brainers that run the world (and got us into the state we’re in today) will continue to fuel their obsession.

Once again, monetary value outweighs historical and cultural value. That means to say everything has a price – which inadvertently means so does human life.

Why do Antiquorum insist on the auction despite protests from the rightful owners of Gandhi’s belongings? Wouldn’t these items hold deeper meaning in India? Do affluence (and perhaps) nationality make 1 buyer more important than 1 billion people?

Tomorrow, a country will feel the pain while the fat cats at Antiquorum smugly pop champagne. Next year, Indians will still feel a sense of loss whenever they think about it. Next week, Antiquorum would already be too busy making money off other people’s talents or possessions to even remember the name Gandhi.

Some argue that the Indian government deserves it for not helping the poor. What kind of argument is that? Punish the government by taking something away from the people? That would make as much sense as solar-powered torch lights.


The ideal scenario would be that these items sit in museum as proud parents tell their children about their nation’s hero, or as locals look on with pride while people from around the world muse at the personal belongings of this world icon.

But none of that is going to happen now is it? Come tomorrow, these items will go to one single individual.

It could go two ways. If the highest bidder has a shred of appreciation for heritage, these items could well be donated back to India. I can only pray that this be the case.

However, the highest bidder could also turn out to be a complete doofus, with more dollars than brain cells and culturally shallower than the Azov Sea coastline at low tide. I cringe at the thought of his first phone call: “Yee-haw, bay-beh! I got it! I got Ben Kingsley’s glasses!”
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To commemorate today, let’s make every 5 March “Screw Heritage Day”. Got something valuable your grandmother gave you? Pawn it. Especially if she’s dead. The money will bring you happiness.

Bhopal

I'm halfway through a book called "Animal's People". Here's an excerpt:

I used to walk upright. That's what Ma Franci says, why should she lie? It's not like the news is a comfort to me. Is it kind to remind a blind man that he could once see? The priests who whisper magic in the ears of corpses, they're not saying, 'Cheer up, you used to be alive.' No one leans down and tenderly reassures the turd lying the in dust, 'You still resemble the kebab you once were...'


The author is Indra Sinha - former copywriter extraordinaire who found the sense to leave copywriting.

My ignorance initially led me to believe that this was merely an amazing piece of fiction. But it is far from that. While the characters in this book are all fake, it is based on the true horror that happened in Bhopal, India, and the people linked to that horror - Union Carbide.

In a nutshell, the Bhopal tragedy involves a poison gas leak from the Union Carbide plant. The leak killed thousands of Indian villagers. Known to the victims as "that night", the tragedy caused hundreds to flee from their homes in the dead of night - the strong suffered, the weak died - my description does it little justice.

What I find disturbing are the two very different accounts of the incident. Without being biased, here are some links so you can read about it for yourself and form your own opinion.

Option A: "I want to believe genius American spin doctors who have collaborated with forever-honest Indian officials and, with plenty of money, power and influence, presented these facts." If this is you, visit www.bhopal.com

Option B: "I want to hear from the people who were and are in Bhopal". If this is you, visit www.bhopal.org or www.indrasinha.com/animal.html

Happy reading.

Logic

Kalau ada dua pisang, dua monyet mari, ok la. Tutup satu mata. Tapi, s'karang, ada dua pisang tapi dua puluh monyet mari - koyaklah.

Dehydration

The old lady in front drags her feet with one last ounce of strength. Then she falls face first on the burning sand. I stop to check for a pulse. CK mutters breathlessly, "Don't stop, bro. Or you'll be next."

We trudge along with the rest of the weary walkers - plodding forever, but never reaching our destinations. The merciless sun seems to scoff at us, its leering rays piercing through the skins of those with the nerve to venture beyond the shades.

I hear a feeble shout and turn to look. I see a local and a cop in a tug of war. Desperation makes people suspend all sense of reality. The local takes a weak swipe at the cop. The cop reacts. Being stronger, he manages to shove the local onto the floor. The cop then jumps on him and starts punching his face with blistering blows. The local is eventually motionless and the cop claims his "prize". I see they've been fighting over a bottle of water. There is perhaps one sip left in that bottle. Anarchy rules when the most basics of needs are not met.

CK nudges me and asks me not to stare. I comply. Because I don't care really. I just need to get away from the burning sun. It seems like we've walked in this never-ending desert for days. But as it turns out, it's only been 15 minutes.

I wonder how long more I can take this. My head feels faint. I am panting. My legs feel like cement blocks. I hope I can go through with this. It must end. I will conquer it. It will not get the better of me, this crazy Hong Kong summer.

Corkscrew Cabbie

The Hong Kong cab driver has one objective. OK, well, that's unfair. He has two objectives. One is he needs to take you to your destination. But is not his primary challenge.

The Hong Kong cabbie's main objective is to make you vomit. So he drives as if he's trying to shake your lunch out of you: pedal to floor, let go, pedal to floor, let go, floor, floor, let go, let go, brake.

If he has 50 meters of free space ahead, he accelerates like the A380 at takeoff. But after just 5 meters, he takes his foot off the accelerator completely (despite having another 45 meters of open road ahead). Then he glances at the rearview mirror to see if the passenger's head and neck are moving in a whiplash like motion. If they are, then he's off to a good start. Immediately he accelerates again and repeats jerk-head maneuver every 5 meters.

If there is an oncoming stop ahead (junction, traffic light, stopped bus), he tries to get to the stop in record time - then starts braking only when he's barely 2 feet from object at rest. However, he does so not with a giant squeeze on the brake pedal but in short rapid bursts. This makes the passenger jerk forward and backward approximately 2,500 times before coming to a dead halt. By this time, he's about halfway to meeting his main objective.

When it's time to move again, he reacts one step ahead. For example, when stoplight turns green, he accelerates immediately - even before the driver in front has stopped picking his nose. The reason for this is so that the cabbie is allowed one more jerk stop as his front bumper comes 0.1 mm within the rear end of the car in front. By doing this, he kills two birds with one stone: 1) Passenger gets thrown forward and backward within half a second, making him turn one shade greener 2) Cabbie gets excuse to honk at driver infront for 10 seconds.

By this time, lunch is about 3/4 way up. So he begins his foot exercises again: floor pedal, foot off, floor pedal, foot off, brake (for no reason), floor pedal, honk (for no reason). The only saving grace for Hong Kong passengers is that Point A is never too far from Point B. So normally, before the cabbie can successfully shake out that wonton noodle and tung yuen yong, passengers would have reached their destinations and clambered out to stable land - where they would lie on the sidewalk as understanding passersby try to feed them lemonade to ease the discomfort.

Because of HK's short distances, the cabbie rarely meets his main objective. Maybe that's why he's always so upset.

Summer Saturday

Summer is here. What would you like to do?

Count the waves?

Read the clouds?

Eat an ice cube?

Listen to nothing?

Chat with your imaginary friend?

Hangout with the shade?

Wait for Sunday?

Summer is here. What I would like to do is nothing.

Ku Klux Relic the Jogging Witch

It was a great day. First church, then lunch at Golden Phoenix (where dad enjoyed authentic HK char-siew), followed by a little exploring at Wan Chai.

After Wan Chai, we went to Leo’s place. It was there that he suggested walking a scenic trail to Wan Chai before dinner at Happy Valley.

So we trudged up a little hill and found ourselves at a jogging trail overlooking HK. We were at Mid-levels (Admiralty area) and we were making our way to Wan Chai. It was nice and green and quiet and happy.

Somewhere along the narrow trail, there was a map and we stopped for a brief second to look at it. That was when we met her. Walkers beware for the jogging witch appears without warning. Old but not haggard, and certainly no sweet grandma.

We could have blocked her way a little – but being the wicked witch she shrieked at the top of he lungs as if we were evil maggots: “WHY TAKE UP ALL THE SPACE?!!” Terrified birds scattered from the trees. Her cackling voice echoed through the hills. Wolves howled. The city stopped.

Then she disappeared out of sight. Another group of evening strollers had heard her warning screech and scurried out of the way. Hazel and mum said she was jogging. But they are wrong. I saw her riding on a broom.

Maybe cramped HK has gotten to her. Maybe she forgets that like me, she’s not from around here and should not act like trails belong to her daddy. Maybe, if she’s so unhappy, she should return to her faraway kingdom. Or, maybe someone just needs to remind her that it’s no longer 1908 but 2008.