Me, the fashionista.

My aunt and uncle treated me to a Ramadhan buffet tonight and before picking me up, I was given a simple caveat;

"Wear something nice."

Discarding the suspiciously stained shirt and crotch-torn jeans that I somehow suspect my aunt knew I was going to wear (I think she's psychic), I grabbed a shirt and a pair of jeggings that someone else had picked for me during an earlier mandatory shopping spree.

Because that's the universal definition of nice to anyone who knows me;

"Not something chosen by Aziemah."

I seriously wish I was just being sarcastic.

I managed to wear something decent but by the time I got home, I had several foodstains on it. Not because I'm a messy eater, but because food sometimes fly out of my plate whimsically to spatter on any decent shirt I decide to wear.

Oh food, you silly inanimate object you.

But my point is, if we go out for dinner, why should we dress up? All you're doing is adding suspicious stains to your decently styled (and priced) attire. If we're going out for movies, why bother dolling up? I doubt people go to dark cinemas to appreciate your expensive shirt they can't see. Maybe when night vision is the next improvement in our evolutionary progress, it makes sense but then you're also competing with the most beautiful women in Hollywood as people focus on the big screen in front of them.

If we go shopping, why should you wear that stylish new top? Everyone goes shopping to buy clothes off the rack, not your body. Besides, I believe those who go shopping use it as a reason to parade their non-existent fashion sense, so they're too preoccupied with how much attention they're able to get, hardly having enough time to spare attention to you.

The only suitable time to dress up is when...

...

...

I'm... stumped.

Do you know when?

Hey guys, I found the perfect job for anti-social people.

Alright, might have been a bit too premature in sharing that I've been way too free at my workplace. But then again, it was sort of the truth. Having the luxury of not having much to do lasted all of...

2 days.

Then the dam burst.

Now I'm going home at around 9-11pm every day, starting work the moment I touch base in office at 7am and as I reach home sometime before 12am, I would either continue work late into the night or pass out immediately.

Work.

More effective than Rohypnol.

Then again, I'm better off than my cousin who's staying longer in the office and working later into the night, and much better than my senior who arrives to work before I do and getting home much, much later. Even some of my batch mates are already considering 11pm as an "early" time to get off work.

...We just started work barely a month ago.

Right now, I'm leaving a backlog of shit to do and completing a stupid e-learn for our "Continuing Professional Development".

People, heed my warning;

Never be an auditor and a member of a professional body.

Just... No.

Alright, going to continue wasting my life away with keeping my head above waters with workload and foregoing social life completely now. But then again, didn't have much of a social life to begin with... I guess this won't be much of a struggle then.

Enjoy your non-auditor life.

Today is...

I can't talk about work because the project I'm involved in is confidential.

Though, I don't exactly understand how my new mastery of the new "change to landscape" function on the photocopier or using an oversized stapler is considered confidential.

Seriously though, I was slotted for a rare slot at doing something out of the normal scope of work, which I was informed made it more complex. Not only is it completely different from what my other fresh colleagues are doing, there's only two other people involved. And the work load is crazy.

Only, I'm new and the only thing I can contribute to is my wide-eyed stare and terrified glances at the document pile. Even my superiors couldn't understand how a new employee could be joining them. Thus, with my skill set, I am totally KILLING the world's fastest speed at punching papers and playing Solitaire when no one's looking.

My batchmates, however, are doing relevant work-related stuff and going home at 11pm. After just two weeks of joining.

And myself? I had enough time to reorganise the Media files in my music player.

But hey, if I'm still getting high pay even if I'm continuously clicking on my empty desktop to look busy and typing "BORED" 17,294 times in Notepad, I'm all for it.

Oh, and I now understand how Nurisya can genuinely like Rebecca Black's Friday song.

IT'S FRIDAY, PEOPLE!

Google Dabai. "Did you mean Dubai?"

“What. In. The. World. Is. That?”

“You’ve never seen it before?”

“How does ‘Hell-To-The-Naw’ sounds to you?”

“But you’re Sarawakkian, you should know of it.”

This is Nasi Goreng Dabai, or Dabai Fried Rice. It’s pure awesome and you’ve probably never heard of it. Which I’m going to emphasize, because it makes me feel like less of a loser for not having heard of it as well.

I know, I know, you’re not from Sarawak and your ignorance makes sense. Shut up.

So... Dabai is a fruit.

I googled dabai and there were less than five relevant results for it, which was to be expected. I could plagiarise and sound all smart and shit, but you know, as I usually confess easily;

Too lazy.

So go have a read here.

The dabai, having been seasoned with salt, was overpowering in its saltiness, but when I shoved another spoonful of fried rice into my mouth, it tasted just right. The dabai tasted... unique, different. It was full, rich, the texture was smooth and it had a strongly distinct flavour. I don’t think anything else could replicate the taste, neither can I exactly describe it. It’s nothing like any other salted variety of fried rice, like Nasi Goreng Ikan Masin or I don’t know, Nasi Goreng Garam or something.

But I would definitely have it again.

Anyway, as it turns out, I did know of Dabai, it was a fruit I did have as a kid, I just didn’t know its name or that it was native to only Borneo. Ten years later, it’s only natural that I forget. It’s hard to come by, since the other name for it is Sibu olive. It’s not as easy to get in Kuching as hawkers selling it at the weekly market would have to bring it all the way from Sibu, the only place where it’s harvested. Oh, and it’s seasonal.

Sibu, like most of the small cities in Sarawak could hardly be called a city. A few modern buildings, official looking establishments and widely-sparse residential areas restricted within a small circumference hardly fitting to be deemed a “city”. Sometimes there’s a small airport, but most of the time a short drive, meaning several house (like, ten), is the only means to get to places.

Oh, and helicopters.

But that’s how most cities in Sarawak are. Sarawak is huge, mostly underdeveloped, proudly rural, jungles spewing forth everywhere and cities are several miles apart. Roads are not always accessible. I drove three hours to another nearby city from Kuching for a “day-trip”.

On the way there though, you could find several small creeks, untouched rivers, hot springs or beautiful landscapes of nature where you could literally park by the roadside, take out the picnic basket you packed and have one hell of a breakfast, lunch, or evening tea by the crystal clear waters set in pebbled stones and shaded by wild trees.

It’s breathtaking.

It is definitely fitting to be called “Borneo” or the “Rainforest”.

So travellers, if you visit Sarawak, while you’re having the Kolo Mee, Laksa Sarawak and Teh C Peng Special, don’t forget Nasi Goreng Dabai as well. It’s rare and a only few places sell it though, so good luck.

Three Layers of Pure Awesomeness

The overhead ceiling fan whirred loudly, slowly cooling the sweat off new customers entering the open-styled restaurant.

If you can even call it a restaurant.

The timid waitress scuffles about, order sheet and pen perfunctorily in each hand. Before she even settles on a table, a command booms over the relaxing gusts of artificial wind.

“Dik, Teh C Peng Special sigek!”

It’s been awhile since I came home, but for the eight days that I stayed in my hometown, every meal eaten outside was accompanied by this novelty drink.

Before I take a sip, I would note the beads of condensation on the ice cold glass of drink that could only be described as inviting as the sun continues to beat down relentlessly on the Land of the Hornbill. Even the crinkle of ice against each other was music to my ears.

There’s a trick to taking the first few sips of this local drink, which is what I never fail to look forward to. With the straw held firmly in your fingers, start sipping from the bottom and quickly work your way up.

It comes in stages. The refreshing taste of pandan hits you first, then comes the slight hint of brown sugar which would later be overpowered by the sweetness of the condensed milk, before your taste buds settles on the slight bitterness and unique taste of the red tea.

Pure. Ecstasy.

After the first three or five times though, you get a bit self conscious when you notice the nine year old sitting next to you drinking it exactly the same way. Then, you clear your throat and stir the triple mixture like the adult you try to appear to be, coalescing it into the boring brown colour of a normal Teh Tarik. Then you remind yourself not to repeat the act of drinking like an idiot again.

But then, at the next stall and with the same order, you conveniently forget to remember.

Teh C Peng is also called Three Layer Tea, and I think the name was given by West Malaysians when the drink was brought over from the East, from Borneo. Try as I may though, I have never, ever found a glass of Teh C Peng as refreshing, inviting and perfect as the ones from Sarawak, where it originated. The best I had for this trip was probably the one at J&J Corner, the one I had on my last day, as pictured above.

I love my hometown.

Oh, I'm just heading to Hell. You?

Was talking with my aunt about rodent infestations and she said;

“People don’t have the guts to kill the rats they’d just caught by hand. What do you think they do?”

“Um... leave it outside until it starves to death?”

“Exactly... especially if the sun’s scorching hot outside. Kills them faster.”

That’s when a wave of guilt hit me. Hard. I must have repressed this memory for a while, but it all came back during this conversation.

When I was in the UK, in my first semester, in the narrow, unkempt and dingy little house I stayed in, we had rodents. No, I’m not talking about my landlord. Well, maybe partly.

There was a whole family of them, from the size of a grizzly sun bear to a sea plankton.

We had to hide all our food in little containers, but when they started eating through the containers and even ate our lotion, moisturisers and some of my friends’ make-up, that’s when we got down to business.

Our home-pest-control aspiring little senior set up traps using the rat glue bought from pound stores, which worked surprisingly well. We’d wake up to the sound of thrashing and squealing, sometimes from two separate sources. One from the bathroom, and one from the kitchen cabinet.

“So... how do we get rid of them? Release them outside?”

“Yeah, sure. It’s like this game we play with the rats. Let them find their way back and see how often we would catch the same ones repeatedly. Maybe put a little mark on it to see how many times we caught Whiskers or Jerry.”

“Then what? Just leave it to starve outside?”

“We can do that too, so it can start calling for help from other rodents. We just have to prepare the Welcome to your New Home! banner for the newcomers first.”

“Then what?”

And it was decided. We would just give them a quick death. Well, guess who got the honour of giving just that? That’s right, the person whose nails weren’t just done or who isn’t wearing a new top from Topshop.

Me.

Perpetual guilt from inhuman cruelty is negligible compared to ruining beautiful red acrylic on germs-infested nails and cute purple tops with hearts on it, you know?.

They suggested drowning them in boiling water (Jeez, and I’m supposed to be the tough one?) but I didn’t have the heart for it. I wanted a quicker, less torturous death for these transporters of the black plague so this is how I killed several of them:

1. Wrap it in thick newspaper until I’m sure the ickiness wouldn’t seep through the layers, onto my skin and into my blood streams, killing me slowly with icky rat stuff.

2. Holding the rat firmly with both hands, one hand encircling the belly, fully rotund from ingesting all that coconut-scented hand lotion and No. 5 mascara and another hand wrapped around its head.

3. Twist.

4. Twist very hard.

Of course, such a deprived, vile act came with its own consequence. The rat problem went away after everyone adroitly handled the catching and I handled the killing. Though for weeks after that, I couldn't help but relive the moral agony.

...The little pleading squeaks as I held it tight.

...The futile thrashing in my hands.

...The heat from a live creature seeping warmth into my palms as it used up every ounce of its energy to free itself from the captivity of death.

...The trilling squeak that escalated in volume right before the sudden, cruel twist.

...The minuscule, almost indiscernible crunch as tiny, fragile bones break

...The little body going limp as I ended the life of another living creature.

...

...

...

Ah well. It was either them or my favourite Kellogg’s Crunchy Nut Clusters (With chocolate curls!)

Acid Man's Inspiration

Was combing through my backlog of unread Reddit posts, and came upon this interesting article.

Anyway, it hints that throughout Asia, mostly where women are still subjugated and expected to be servile, obsequious slaves for men or where misogyny runs rampant, acid attacks are not that out-of-place and most of the time, much like how rape and wife-beatings are turned a blind eye upon (sometimes, even encouraged), the culprits are never hunted, let alone apprehended.

Then, it led me to this article, which then states that wife burnings is common in certain parts of Asia.

...How can I be so ignorant of something like this?

Here are some salient parts directly quoted from the article (Click on the link, you lazy sloths):

"Since 1994, Ms. Bukhari has documented 7,800 cases of women who were deliberately burned, scalded or subjected to acid attacks, just in the Islamabad area. In only 2 percent of those cases was anyone convicted."

"This month in Afghanistan, men on motorcycles threw acid on a group of girls who dared to attend school. One of the girls, a 17-year-old named Shamsia, told reporters from her hospital bed: “I will go to my school even if they kill me. My message for the enemies is that if they do this 100 times, I am still going to continue my studies.”

“I screamed,” Ms. Azar recalled. “The flesh of my cheeks was falling off. The bones on my face were showing, and all of my skin was falling off.”"

We're angry that the police force aren't aggressively hunting down the "Acid Man" (Though I'm not sure how most came to that conclusion), despite the fact that he probably hasn't been exactly eager to indulge in his perverse act when a baton-wielding policeman is traipsing along congested areas. At least we look upon this act as abhorrent and completely appalling, and the media coverage it has gotten thus far shows how unanimous we are in observing its treachery.

These women aren't so lucky;

"Because women usually don’t matter in this part of the world, their attackers are rarely prosecuted and acid sales are usually not controlled. It’s a kind of terrorism that becomes accepted as part of the background noise in the region."

Here are more pictures but honestly, for greater impact, just visit the site itself.

The backstory is that they got attacked simply for rejecting an offer for marriage, to settle a family dispute, because she tried to divorce her deadbeat husband, because her father didn't want another girl, was raped by three men and was later given an acid bath, etc.

I... don't know how to react to this.