“…This is not about Midas touch, or luck. In fact, this is calculated risk. This is science. This is about STRATEGIC PICKING.
First, do not do unnecessary things before exam. I see some people like to bulldoze everything before they enter exam hall. Please, never do all the questions. If you want to do it, don’t do for the sake of exam, do it for your mum. Perhaps she will be proud of you that her children managed to sapu all questions before going for exam.
Next, think of who will be setting the questions and which area will be tested. Based on these two things, you can formulate your own way to score the highest marks. Normally, it will be (a) maximize your knowledge or (b) maximize your understanding. Of course, you can make a hybrid from both methods.
Pinpoint which topics you MUST understand well and spend more time on it. Don’t forget to revise on the important topics at least once before the exam. Remember, you have to take risks and smartly during exam. This is because you never study consistently. But, you control what you write during exam and therefore you make decisions during exam in order to maximize your marks.
Since you don’t understand well the chapter because you study last minute, you have to use your own smart way to answer. Never stick to your limited knowledge since you can’t absorb much at the last minute and you won’t understand well. Hence, you need to use what you have inside your brain to do whatever which you do not know.
This is just like building something. What you need are materials which means you have to choose the materials which can build anything. When they ask you to construct a weird building, you need to use what materials you possess and build whatever to satisfy them. Take some risks to select only certain materials that will be useful to you. This is the SPOTTING part. One engineer may buy all materials in the shop; some may only buy basic materials and some may select the most important only due to time and financial constrain.
But honestly, this is not safe at all….”
– Revelation from stupidhsiang
“During our secondary school time, we are trained to survive even we are only given the last minute to prepare.” – Sherlock Ho
Can one of the nation's great musicians cut through the fog of a D.C. rush hour. Let's find out.
By Gene Weingarten
Washington Post Staff Writer
Sunday, April 8, 2007
HE EMERGED FROM THE METRO AT THE L'ENFANT PLAZA STATION AND POSITIONED HIMSELF AGAINST A WALL BESIDE A TRASH BASKET. By most measures, he was nondescript: a youngish white man in jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt and a Washington Nationals baseball cap. From a small case, he removed a violin. Placing the open case at his feet, he shrewdly threw in a few dollars and pocket change as seed money, swiveled it to face pedestrian traffic, and began to play.
It was 7:51 a.m. on Friday, January 12, the middle of the morning rush hour. In the next 43 minutes, as the violinist performed six classical pieces, 1,097 people passed by. Almost all of them were on the way to work, which meant, for almost all of them, a government job. L'Enfant Plaza is at the nucleus of federal Washington, and these were mostly mid-level bureaucrats with those indeterminate, oddly fungible titles: policy analyst, project manager, budget officer, specialist, facilitator, consultant.
Each passerby had a quick choice to make, one familiar to commuters in any urban area where the occasional street performer is part of the cityscape: Do you stop and listen? Do you hurry past with a blend of guilt and irritation, aware of your cupidity but annoyed by the unbidden demand on your time and your wallet? Do you throw in a buck, just to be polite? Does your decision change if he's really bad? What if he's really good? Do you have time for beauty? Shouldn't you? What's the moral mathematics of the moment?
On that Friday in January, those private questions would be answered in an unusually public way. No one knew it, but the fiddler standing against a bare wall outside the Metro in an indoor arcade at the top of the escalators was one of the finest classical musicians in the world, playing some of the most elegant music ever written on one of the most valuable violins ever made. His performance was arranged by The Washington Post as an experiment in context, perception and priorities -- as well as an unblinking assessment of public taste: In a banal setting at an inconvenient time, would beauty transcend?
The musician did not play popular tunes whose familiarity alone might have drawn interest. That was not the test. These were masterpieces that have endured for centuries on their brilliance alone, soaring music befitting the grandeur of cathedrals and concert halls.
The acoustics proved surprisingly kind. Though the arcade is of utilitarian design, a buffer between the Metro escalator and the outdoors, it somehow caught the sound and bounced it back round and resonant. The violin is an instrument that is said to be much like the human voice, and in this musician's masterly hands, it sobbed and laughed and sang -- ecstatic, sorrowful, importuning, adoring, flirtatious, castigating, playful, romancing, merry, triumphal, sumptuous.
So, what do you think happened?
HANG ON, WE'LL GET YOU SOME EXPERT HELP.
Leonard Slatkin, music director of the National Symphony Orchestra, was asked the same question. What did he think would occur, hypothetically, if one of the world's great violinists had performed incognito before a traveling rush-hour audience of 1,000-odd people?
"Let's assume," Slatkin said, "that he is not recognized and just taken for granted as a street musician . . . Still, I don't think that if he's really good, he's going to go unnoticed. He'd get a larger audience in Europe . . . but, okay, out of 1,000 people, my guess is there might be 35 or 40 who will recognize the quality for what it is. Maybe 75 to 100 will stop and spend some time listening."
So, a crowd would gather?
"Oh, yes."
And how much will he make?
"About $150."
Thanks, Maestro. As it happens, this is not hypothetical. It really happened.
"How'd I do?"
We'll tell you in a minute.
"Well, who was the musician?"
Joshua Bell.
"NO!!!"
A onetime child prodigy, at 39 Joshua Bell has arrived as an internationally acclaimed virtuoso. Three days before he appeared at the Metro station, Bell had filled the house at Boston's stately Symphony Hall, where merely pretty good seats went for $100. Two weeks later, at the Music Center at Strathmore, in North Bethesda, he would play to a standing-room-only audience so respectful of his artistry that they stifled their coughs until the silence between movements. But on that Friday in January, Joshua Bell was just another mendicant, competing for the attention of busy people on their way to work.
Bell was first pitched this idea shortly before Christmas, over coffee at a sandwich shop on Capitol Hill. A New Yorker, he was in town to perform at the Library of Congress and to visit the library's vaults to examine an unusual treasure: an 18th-century violin that once belonged to the great Austrian-born virtuoso and composer Fritz Kreisler. The curators invited Bell to play it; good sound, still.
"Here's what I'm thinking," Bell confided, as he sipped his coffee. "I'm thinking that I could do a tour where I'd play Kreisler's music . . ."
He smiled.
". . . on Kreisler's violin."
It was a snazzy, sequined idea -- part inspiration and part gimmick -- and it was typical of Bell, who has unapologetically embraced showmanship even as his concert career has become more and more august. He's soloed with the finest orchestras here and abroad, but he's also appeared on "Sesame Street," done late-night talk TV and performed in feature films. That was Bell playing the soundtrack on the 1998 movie "The Red Violin." (He body-doubled, too, playing to a naked Greta Scacchi.) As composer John Corigliano accepted the Oscar for Best Original Dramatic Score, he credited Bell, who, he said, "plays like a god."
When Bell was asked if he'd be willing to don street clothes and perform at rush hour, he said:
"Uh, a stunt?"
Well, yes. A stunt. Would he think it . . . unseemly?
Bell drained his cup.
"Sounds like fun," he said.
Bell's a heartthrob. Tall and handsome, he's got a Donny Osmond-like dose of the cutes, and, onstage, cute elides into hott. When he performs, he is usually the only man under the lights who is not in white tie and tails -- he walks out to a standing O, looking like Zorro, in black pants and an untucked black dress shirt, shirttail dangling. That cute Beatles-style mop top is also a strategic asset: Because his technique is full of body -- athletic and passionate -- he's almost dancing with the instrument, and his hair flies.
He's single and straight, a fact not lost on some of his fans. In Boston, as he performed Max Bruch's dour Violin Concerto in G Minor, the very few young women in the audience nearly disappeared in the deep sea of silver heads. But seemingly every single one of them -- a distillate of the young and pretty -- coalesced at the stage door after the performance, seeking an autograph. It's like that always, with Bell.
Bell's been accepting over-the-top accolades since puberty: Interview magazine once said his playing "does nothing less than tell human beings why they bother to live." He's learned to field these things graciously, with a bashful duck of the head and a modified "pshaw."
For this incognito performance, Bell had only one condition for participating. The event had been described to him as a test of whether, in an incongruous context, ordinary people would recognize genius. His condition: "I'm not comfortable if you call this genius." "Genius" is an overused word, he said: It can be applied to some of the composers whose work he plays, but not to him. His skills are largely interpretive, he said, and to imply otherwise would be unseemly and inaccurate.
It was an interesting request, and under the circumstances, one that will be honored. The word will not again appear in this article.
It would be breaking no rules, however, to note that the term in question, particularly as applied in the field of music, refers to a congenital brilliance -- an elite, innate, preternatural ability that manifests itself early, and often in dramatic fashion.
One biographically intriguing fact about Bell is that he got his first music lessons when he was a 4-year-old in Bloomington, Ind. His parents, both psychologists, decided formal training might be a good idea after they saw that their son had strung rubber bands across his dresser drawers and was replicating classical tunes by ear, moving drawers in and out to vary the pitch.
TO GET TO THE METRO FROM HIS HOTEL, a distance of three blocks, Bell took a taxi. He's neither lame nor lazy: He did it for his violin.
Bell always performs on the same instrument, and he ruled out using another for this gig. Called the Gibson ex Huberman, it was handcrafted in 1713 by Antonio Stradivari during the Italian master's "golden period," toward the end of his career, when he had access to the finest spruce, maple and willow, and when his technique had been refined to perfection.
"Our knowledge of acoustics is still incomplete," Bell said, "but he, he just . . . knew."
Bell doesn't mention Stradivari by name. Just "he." When the violinist shows his Strad to people, he holds the instrument gingerly by its neck, resting it on a knee. "He made this to perfect thickness at all parts," Bell says, pivoting it. "If you shaved off a millimeter of wood at any point, it would totally imbalance the sound." No violins sound as wonderful as Strads from the 1710s, still.
The front of Bell's violin is in nearly perfect condition, with a deep, rich grain and luster. The back is a mess, its dark reddish finish bleeding away into a flatter, lighter shade and finally, in one section, to bare wood.
"This has never been refinished," Bell said. "That's his original varnish. People attribute aspects of the sound to the varnish. Each maker had his own secret formula." Stradivari is thought to have made his from an ingeniously balanced cocktail of honey, egg whites and gum arabic from sub-Saharan trees.
Like the instrument in "The Red Violin," this one has a past filled with mystery and malice. Twice, it was stolen from its illustrious prior owner, the Polish virtuoso Bronislaw Huberman. The first time, in 1919, it disappeared from Huberman's hotel room in Vienna but was quickly returned. The second time, nearly 20 years later, it was pinched from his dressing room in Carnegie Hall. He never got it back. It was not until 1985 that the thief -- a minor New York violinist -- made a deathbed confession to his wife, and produced the instrument.
Bell bought it a few years ago. He had to sell his own Strad and borrow much of the rest. The price tag was reported to be about $3.5 million.
All of which is a long explanation for why, in the early morning chill of a day in January, Josh Bell took a three-block cab ride to the Orange Line, and rode one stop to L'Enfant.
AS METRO STATIONS GO, L'ENFANT PLAZA IS MORE PLEBEIAN THAN MOST. Even before you arrive, it gets no respect. Metro conductors never seem to get it right: "Leh-fahn." "Layfont." "El'phant."
At the top of the escalators are a shoeshine stand and a busy kiosk that sells newspapers, lottery tickets and a wallfull of magazines with titles such as Mammazons and Girls of Barely Legal. The skin mags move, but it's that lottery ticket dispenser that stays the busiest, with customers queuing up for Daily 6 lotto and Powerball and the ultimate suckers' bait, those pamphlets that sell random number combinations purporting to be "hot." They sell briskly. There's also a quick-check machine to slide in your lotto ticket, post-drawing, to see if you've won. Beneath it is a forlorn pile of crumpled slips.
On Friday, January 12, the people waiting in the lottery line looking for a long shot would get a lucky break -- a free, close-up ticket to a concert by one of the world's most famous musicians -- but only if they were of a mind to take note.
Bell decided to begin with "Chaconne" from Johann Sebastian Bach's Partita No. 2 in D Minor. Bell calls it "not just one of the greatest pieces of music ever written, but one of the greatest achievements of any man in history. It's a spiritually powerful piece, emotionally powerful, structurally perfect. Plus, it was written for a solo violin, so I won't be cheating with some half-assed version."
Bell didn't say it, but Bach's "Chaconne" is also considered one of the most difficult violin pieces to master. Many try; few succeed. It's exhaustingly long -- 14 minutes -- and consists entirely of a single, succinct musical progression repeated in dozens of variations to create a dauntingly complex architecture of sound. Composed around 1720, on the eve of the European Enlightenment, it is said to be a celebration of the breadth of human possibility.
If Bell's encomium to "Chaconne" seems overly effusive, consider this from the 19th-century composer Johannes Brahms, in a letter to Clara Schumann: "On one stave, for a small instrument, the man writes a whole world of the deepest thoughts and most powerful feelings. If I imagined that I could have created, even conceived the piece, I am quite certain that the excess of excitement and earth-shattering experience would have driven me out of my mind."
So, that's the piece Bell started with.
He'd clearly meant it when he promised not to cheap out this performance: He played with acrobatic enthusiasm, his body leaning into the music and arching on tiptoes at the high notes. The sound was nearly symphonic, carrying to all parts of the homely arcade as the pedestrian traffic filed past.
Three minutes went by before something happened. Sixty-three people had already passed when, finally, there was a breakthrough of sorts. A middle-age man altered his gait for a split second, turning his head to notice that there seemed to be some guy playing music. Yes, the man kept walking, but it was something.
A half-minute later, Bell got his first donation. A woman threw in a buck and scooted off. It was not until six minutes into the performance that someone actually stood against a wall, and listened.
Things never got much better. In the three-quarters of an hour that Joshua Bell played, seven people stopped what they were doing to hang around and take in the performance, at least for a minute. Twenty-seven gave money, most of them on the run -- for a total of $32 and change. That leaves the 1,070 people who hurried by, oblivious, many only three feet away, few even turning to look.
No, Mr. Slatkin, there was never a crowd, not even for a second.
It was all videotaped by a hidden camera. You can play the recording once or 15 times, and it never gets any easier to watch. Try speeding it up, and it becomes one of those herky-jerky World War I-era silent newsreels. The people scurry by in comical little hops and starts, cups of coffee in their hands, cellphones at their ears, ID tags slapping at their bellies, a grim danse macabre to indifference, inertia and the dingy, gray rush of modernity.
Even at this accelerated pace, though, the fiddler's movements remain fluid and graceful; he seems so apart from his audience -- unseen, unheard, otherworldly -- that you find yourself thinking that he's not really there. A ghost.
Only then do you see it: He is the one who is real. They are the ghosts.
IF A GREAT MUSICIAN PLAYS GREAT MUSIC BUT NO ONE HEARS... WAS HE REALLY ANY GOOD?
It's an old epistemological debate, older, actually, than the koan about the tree in the forest. Plato weighed in on it, and philosophers for two millennia afterward: What is beauty? Is it a measurable fact (Gottfried Leibniz), or merely an opinion (David Hume), or is it a little of each, colored by the immediate state of mind of the observer (Immanuel Kant)?
We'll go with Kant, because he's obviously right, and because he brings us pretty directly to Joshua Bell, sitting there in a hotel restaurant, picking at his breakfast, wryly trying to figure out what the hell had just happened back there at the Metro.
"At the beginning," Bell says, "I was just concentrating on playing the music. I wasn't really watching what was happening around me . . ."
Playing the violin looks all-consuming, mentally and physically, but Bell says that for him the mechanics of it are partly second nature, cemented by practice and muscle memory: It's like a juggler, he says, who can keep those balls in play while interacting with a crowd. What he's mostly thinking about as he plays, Bell says, is capturing emotion as a narrative: "When you play a violin piece, you are a storyteller, and you're telling a story."
With "Chaconne," the opening is filled with a building sense of awe. That kept him busy for a while. Eventually, though, he began to steal a sidelong glance.
"It was a strange feeling, that people were actually, ah . . ."
The word doesn't come easily.
". . . ignoring me."
Bell is laughing. It's at himself.
"At a music hall, I'll get upset if someone coughs or if someone's cellphone goes off. But here, my expectations quickly diminished. I started to appreciate any acknowledgment, even a slight glance up. I was oddly grateful when someone threw in a dollar instead of change." This is from a man whose talents can command $1,000 a minute.
Before he began, Bell hadn't known what to expect. What he does know is that, for some reason, he was nervous.
"It wasn't exactly stage fright, but there were butterflies," he says. "I was stressing a little."
Bell has played, literally, before crowned heads of Europe. Why the anxiety at the Washington Metro?
"When you play for ticket-holders," Bell explains, "you are already validated. I have no sense that I need to be accepted. I'm already accepted. Here, there was this thought: What if they don't like me? What if they resent my presence . . ."
He was, in short, art without a frame. Which, it turns out, may have a lot to do with what happened -- or, more precisely, what didn't happen -- on January 12.
MARK LEITHAUSER HAS HELD IN HIS HANDS MORE GREAT WORKS OF ART THAN ANY KING OR POPE OR MEDICI EVER DID. A senior curator at the National Gallery, he oversees the framing of the paintings. Leithauser thinks he has some idea of what happened at that Metro station.
"Let's say I took one of our more abstract masterpieces, say an Ellsworth Kelly, and removed it from its frame, marched it down the 52 steps that people walk up to get to the National Gallery, past the giant columns, and brought it into a restaurant. It's a $5 million painting. And it's one of those restaurants where there are pieces of original art for sale, by some industrious kids from the Corcoran School, and I hang that Kelly on the wall with a price tag of $150. No one is going to notice it. An art curator might look up and say: 'Hey, that looks a little like an Ellsworth Kelly. Please pass the salt.'"
Leithauser's point is that we shouldn't be too ready to label the Metro passersby unsophisticated boobs. Context matters.
Kant said the same thing. He took beauty seriously: In his Critique of Aesthetic Judgment, Kant argued that one's ability to appreciate beauty is related to one's ability to make moral judgments. But there was a caveat. Paul Guyer of the University of Pennsylvania, one of America's most prominent Kantian scholars, says the 18th-century German philosopher felt that to properly appreciate beauty, the viewing conditions must be optimal.
"Optimal," Guyer said, "doesn't mean heading to work, focusing on your report to the boss, maybe your shoes don't fit right."
So, if Kant had been at the Metro watching as Joshua Bell play to a thousand unimpressed passersby?
"He would have inferred about them," Guyer said, "absolutely nothing."
And that's that.
Except it isn't. To really understand what happened, you have to rewind that video and play it back from the beginning, from the moment Bell's bow first touched the strings.
White guy, khakis, leather jacket, briefcase. Early 30s. John David Mortensen is on the final leg of his daily bus-to-Metro commute from Reston. He's heading up the escalator. It's a long ride -- 1 minute and 15 seconds if you don't walk. So, like most everyone who passes Bell this day, Mortensen gets a good earful of music before he has his first look at the musician. Like most of them, he notes that it sounds pretty good. But like very few of them, when he gets to the top, he doesn't race past as though Bell were some nuisance to be avoided. Mortensen is that first person to stop, that guy at the six-minute mark.
It's not that he has nothing else to do. He's a project manager for an international program at the Department of Energy; on this day, Mortensen has to participate in a monthly budget exercise, not the most exciting part of his job: "You review the past month's expenditures," he says, "forecast spending for the next month, if you have X dollars, where will it go, that sort of thing."
On the video, you can see Mortensen get off the escalator and look around. He locates the violinist, stops, walks away but then is drawn back. He checks the time on his cellphone -- he's three minutes early for work -- then settles against a wall to listen.
Mortensen doesn't know classical music at all; classic rock is as close as he comes. But there's something about what he's hearing that he really likes.
As it happens, he's arrived at the moment that Bell slides into the second section of "Chaconne." ("It's the point," Bell says, "where it moves from a darker, minor key into a major key. There's a religious, exalted feeling to it.") The violinist's bow begins to dance; the music becomes upbeat, playful, theatrical, big.
Mortensen doesn't know about major or minor keys: "Whatever it was," he says, "it made me feel at peace."
So, for the first time in his life, Mortensen lingers to listen to a street musician. He stays his allotted three minutes as 94 more people pass briskly by. When he leaves to help plan contingency budgets for the Department of Energy, there's another first. For the first time in his life, not quite knowing what had just happened but sensing it was special, John David Mortensen gives a street musician money.
THERE ARE SIX MOMENTS IN THE VIDEO THAT BELL FINDS PARTICULARLY PAINFUL TO RELIVE: "The awkward times," he calls them. It's what happens right after each piece ends: nothing. The music stops. The same people who hadn't noticed him playing don't notice that he has finished. No applause, no acknowledgment. So Bell just saws out a small, nervous chord -- the embarrassed musician's equivalent of, "Er, okay, moving right along . . ." -- and begins the next piece.
After "Chaconne," it is Franz Schubert's "Ave Maria," which surprised some music critics when it debuted in 1825: Schubert seldom showed religious feeling in his compositions, yet "Ave Maria" is a breathtaking work of adoration of the Virgin Mary. What was with the sudden piety? Schubert dryly answered: "I think this is due to the fact that I never forced devotion in myself and never compose hymns or prayers of that kind unless it overcomes me unawares; but then it is usually the right and true devotion." This musical prayer became among the most familiar and enduring religious pieces in history.
A couple of minutes into it, something revealing happens. A woman and her preschooler emerge from the escalator. The woman is walking briskly and, therefore, so is the child. She's got his hand.
"I had a time crunch," recalls Sheron Parker, an IT director for a federal agency. "I had an 8:30 training class, and first I had to rush Evvie off to his teacher, then rush back to work, then to the training facility in the basement."
Evvie is her son, Evan. Evan is 3.
You can see Evan clearly on the video. He's the cute black kid in the parka who keeps twisting around to look at Joshua Bell, as he is being propelled toward the door.
"There was a musician," Parker says, "and my son was intrigued. He wanted to pull over and listen, but I was rushed for time."
So Parker does what she has to do. She deftly moves her body between Evan's and Bell's, cutting off her son's line of sight. As they exit the arcade, Evan can still be seen craning to look. When Parker is told what she walked out on, she laughs.
"Evan is very smart!"
The poet Billy Collins once laughingly observed that all babies are born with a knowledge of poetry, because the lub-dub of the mother's heart is in iambic meter. Then, Collins said, life slowly starts to choke the poetry out of us. It may be true with music, too.
There was no ethnic or demographic pattern to distinguish the people who stayed to watch Bell, or the ones who gave money, from that vast majority who hurried on past, unheeding. Whites, blacks and Asians, young and old, men and women, were represented in all three groups. But the behavior of one demographic remained absolutely consistent. Every single time a child walked past, he or she tried to stop and watch. And every single time, a parent scooted the kid away.
IF THERE WAS ONE PERSON ON THAT DAY WHO WAS TOO BUSY TO PAY ATTENTION TO THE VIOLINIST, it was George Tindley. Tindley wasn't hurrying to get to work. He was at work.
The glass doors through which most people exit the L'Enfant station lead into an indoor shopping mall, from which there are exits to the street and elevators to office buildings. The first store in the mall is an Au Bon Pain, the croissant and coffee shop where Tindley, in his 40s, works in a white uniform busing the tables, restocking the salt and pepper packets, taking out the garbage. Tindley labors under the watchful eye of his bosses, and he's supposed to be hopping, and he was.
But every minute or so, as though drawn by something not entirely within his control, Tindley would walk to the very edge of the Au Bon Pain property, keeping his toes inside the line, still on the job. Then he'd lean forward, as far out into the hallway as he could, watching the fiddler on the other side of the glass doors. The foot traffic was steady, so the doors were usually open. The sound came through pretty well.
"You could tell in one second that this guy was good, that he was clearly a professional," Tindley says. He plays the guitar, loves the sound of strings, and has no respect for a certain kind of musician.
"Most people, they play music; they don't feel it," Tindley says. "Well, that man was feeling it. That man was moving. Moving into the sound."
A hundred feet away, across the arcade, was the lottery line, sometimes five or six people long. They had a much better view of Bell than Tindley did, if they had just turned around. But no one did. Not in the entire 43 minutes. They just shuffled forward toward that machine spitting out numbers. Eyes on the prize.
J.T. Tillman was in that line. A computer specialist for the Department of Housing and Urban Development, he remembers every single number he played that day -- 10 of them, $2 apiece, for a total of $20. He doesn't recall what the violinist was playing, though. He says it sounded like generic classical music, the kind the ship's band was playing in "Titanic," before the iceberg.
"I didn't think nothing of it," Tillman says, "just a guy trying to make a couple of bucks." Tillman would have given him one or two, he said, but he spent all his cash on lotto.
When he is told that he stiffed one of the best musicians in the world, he laughs.
"Is he ever going to play around here again?"
"Yeah, but you're going to have to pay a lot to hear him."
"Damn."
Tillman didn't win the lottery, either.
BELL ENDS "AVE MARIA" TO ANOTHER THUNDEROUS SILENCE, plays Manuel Ponce's sentimental "Estrellita," then a piece by Jules Massenet, and then begins a Bach gavotte, a joyful, frolicsome, lyrical dance. It's got an Old World delicacy to it; you can imagine it entertaining bewigged dancers at a Versailles ball, or -- in a lute, fiddle and fife version -- the boot-kicking peasants of a Pieter Bruegel painting.
Watching the video weeks later, Bell finds himself mystified by one thing only. He understands why he's not drawing a crowd, in the rush of a morning workday. But: "I'm surprised at the number of people who don't pay attention at all, as if I'm invisible. Because, you know what? I'm makin' a lot of noise!"
He is. You don't need to know music at all to appreciate the simple fact that there's a guy there, playing a violin that's throwing out a whole bucket of sound; at times, Bell's bowing is so intricate that you seem to be hearing two instruments playing in harmony. So those head-forward, quick-stepping passersby are a remarkable phenomenon.
Bell wonders whether their inattention may be deliberate: If you don't take visible note of the musician, you don't have to feel guilty about not forking over money; you're not complicit in a rip-off.
It may be true, but no one gave that explanation. People just said they were busy, had other things on their mind. Some who were on cellphones spoke louder as they passed Bell, to compete with that infernal racket.
And then there was Calvin Myint. Myint works for the General Services Administration. He got to the top of the escalator, turned right and headed out a door to the street. A few hours later, he had no memory that there had been a musician anywhere in sight.
"Where was he, in relation to me?"
"About four feet away."
"Oh."
There's nothing wrong with Myint's hearing. He had buds in his ear. He was listening to his iPod.
For many of us, the explosion in technology has perversely limited, not expanded, our exposure to new experiences. Increasingly, we get our news from sources that think as we already do. And with iPods, we hear what we already know; we program our own playlists.
The song that Calvin Myint was listening to was "Just Like Heaven," by the British rock band The Cure. It's a terrific song, actually. The meaning is a little opaque, and the Web is filled with earnest efforts to deconstruct it. Many are far-fetched, but some are right on point: It's about a tragic emotional disconnect. A man has found the woman of his dreams but can't express the depth of his feeling for her until she's gone. It's about failing to see the beauty of what's plainly in front of your eyes.
"YES, I SAW THE VIOLINIST," Jackie Hessian says, "but nothing about him struck me as much of anything."
You couldn't tell that by watching her. Hessian was one of those people who gave Bell a long, hard look before walking on. It turns out that she wasn't noticing the music at all.
"I really didn't hear that much," she said. "I was just trying to figure out what he was doing there, how does this work for him, can he make much money, would it be better to start with some money in the case, or for it to be empty, so people feel sorry for you? I was analyzing it financially."
What do you do, Jackie?
"I'm a lawyer in labor relations with the United States Postal Service. I just negotiated a national contract."
THE BEST SEATS IN THE HOUSE WERE UPHOLSTERED. In the balcony, more or less. On that day, for $5, you'd get a lot more than just a nice shine on your shoes.
Only one person occupied one of those seats when Bell played. Terence Holmes is a consultant for the Department of Transportation, and he liked the music just fine, but it was really about a shoeshine: "My father told me never to wear a suit with your shoes not cleaned and shined."
Holmes wears suits often, so he is up in that perch a lot, and he's got a good relationship with the shoeshine lady. Holmes is a good tipper and a good talker, which is a skill that came in handy that day. The shoeshine lady was upset about something, and the music got her more upset. She complained, Holmes said, that the music was too loud, and he tried to calm her down.
Edna Souza is from Brazil. She's been shining shoes at L'Enfant Plaza for six years, and she's had her fill of street musicians there; when they play, she can't hear her customers, and that's bad for business. So she fights.
Souza points to the dividing line between the Metro property, at the top of the escalator, and the arcade, which is under control of the management company that runs the mall. Sometimes, Souza says, a musician will stand on the Metro side, sometimes on the mall side. Either way, she's got him. On her speed dial, she has phone numbers for both the mall cops and the Metro cops. The musicians seldom last long.
What about Joshua Bell?
He was too loud, too, Souza says. Then she looks down at her rag, sniffs. She hates to say anything positive about these damned musicians, but: "He was pretty good, that guy. It was the first time I didn't call the police."
Souza was surprised to learn he was a famous musician, but not that people rushed blindly by him. That, she said, was predictable. "If something like this happened in Brazil, everyone would stand around to see. Not here."
Souza nods sourly toward a spot near the top of the escalator: "Couple of years ago, a homeless guy died right there. He just lay down there and died. The police came, an ambulance came, and no one even stopped to see or slowed down to look.
"People walk up the escalator, they look straight ahead. Mind your own business, eyes forward. Everyone is stressed. Do you know what I mean?"
What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
-- from "Leisure," by W.H. Davies
Let's say Kant is right. Let's accept that we can't look at what happened on January 12 and make any judgment whatever about people's sophistication or their ability to appreciate beauty. But what about their ability to appreciate life?
We're busy. Americans have been busy, as a people, since at least 1831, when a young French sociologist named Alexis de Tocqueville visited the States and found himself impressed, bemused and slightly dismayed at the degree to which people were driven, to the exclusion of everything else, by hard work and the accumulation of wealth.
Not much has changed. Pop in a DVD of "Koyaanisqatsi," the wordless, darkly brilliant, avant-garde 1982 film about the frenetic speed of modern life. Backed by the minimalist music of Philip Glass, director Godfrey Reggio takes film clips of Americans going about their daily business, but speeds them up until they resemble assembly-line machines, robots marching lockstep to nowhere. Now look at the video from L'Enfant Plaza, in fast-forward. The Philip Glass soundtrack fits it perfectly.
"Koyaanisqatsi" is a Hopi word. It means "life out of balance."
In his 2003 book, Timeless Beauty: In the Arts and Everyday Life, British author John Lane writes about the loss of the appreciation for beauty in the modern world. The experiment at L'Enfant Plaza may be symptomatic of that, he said -- not because people didn't have the capacity to understand beauty, but because it was irrelevant to them.
"This is about having the wrong priorities," Lane said.
If we can't take the time out of our lives to stay a moment and listen to one of the best musicians on Earth play some of the best music ever written; if the surge of modern life so overpowers us that we are deaf and blind to something like that -- then what else are we missing?
That's what the Welsh poet W.H. Davies meant in 1911 when he published those two lines that begin this section. They made him famous. The thought was simple, even primitive, but somehow no one had put it quite that way before.
Of course, Davies had an advantage -- an advantage of perception. He wasn't a tradesman or a laborer or a bureaucrat or a consultant or a policy analyst or a labor lawyer or a program manager. He was a hobo.
THE CULTURAL HERO OF THE DAY ARRIVED AT L'ENFANT PLAZA PRETTY LATE, in the unprepossessing figure of one John Picarello, a smallish man with a baldish head.
Picarello hit the top of the escalator just after Bell began his final piece, a reprise of "Chaconne." In the video, you see Picarello stop dead in his tracks, locate the source of the music, and then retreat to the other end of the arcade. He takes up a position past the shoeshine stand, across from that lottery line, and he will not budge for the next nine minutes.
Like all the passersby interviewed for this article, Picarello was stopped by a reporter after he left the building, and was asked for his phone number. Like everyone, he was told only that this was to be an article about commuting. When he was called later in the day, like everyone else, he was first asked if anything unusual had happened to him on his trip into work. Of the more than 40 people contacted, Picarello was the only one who immediately mentioned the violinist.
"There was a musician playing at the top of the escalator at L'Enfant Plaza."
Haven't you seen musicians there before?
"Not like this one."
What do you mean?
"This was a superb violinist. I've never heard anyone of that caliber. He was technically proficient, with very good phrasing. He had a good fiddle, too, with a big, lush sound. I walked a distance away, to hear him. I didn't want to be intrusive on his space."
Really?
"Really. It was that kind of experience. It was a treat, just a brilliant, incredible way to start the day."
Picarello knows classical music. He is a fan of Joshua Bell but didn't recognize him; he hadn't seen a recent photo, and besides, for most of the time Picarello was pretty far away. But he knew this was not a run-of-the-mill guy out there, performing. On the video, you can see Picarello look around him now and then, almost bewildered.
"Yeah, other people just were not getting it. It just wasn't registering. That was baffling to me."
When Picarello was growing up in New York, he studied violin seriously, intending to be a concert musician. But he gave it up at 18, when he decided he'd never be good enough to make it pay. Life does that to you sometimes. Sometimes, you have to do the prudent thing. So he went into another line of work. He's a supervisor at the U.S. Postal Service. Doesn't play the violin much, anymore.
When he left, Picarello says, "I humbly threw in $5." It was humble: You can actually see that on the video. Picarello walks up, barely looking at Bell, and tosses in the money. Then, as if embarrassed, he quickly walks away from the man he once wanted to be.
Does he have regrets about how things worked out?
The postal supervisor considers this.
"No. If you love something but choose not to do it professionally, it's not a waste. Because, you know, you still have it. You have it forever."
BELL THINKS HE DID HIS BEST WORK OF THE DAY IN THOSE FINAL FEW MINUTES, in the second "Chaconne." And that also was the first time more than one person at a time was listening. As Picarello stood in the back, Janice Olu arrived and took up a position a few feet away from Bell. Olu, a public trust officer with HUD, also played the violin as a kid. She didn't know the name of the piece she was hearing, but she knew the man playing it has a gift.
Olu was on a coffee break and stayed as long as she dared. As she turned to go, she whispered to the stranger next to her, "I really don't want to leave." The stranger standing next to her happened to be working for The Washington Post.
In preparing for this event, editors at The Post Magazine discussed how to deal with likely outcomes. The most widely held assumption was that there could well be a problem with crowd control: In a demographic as sophisticated as Washington, the thinking went, several people would surely recognize Bell. Nervous "what-if" scenarios abounded. As people gathered, what if others stopped just to see what the attraction was? Word would spread through the crowd. Cameras would flash. More people flock to the scene; rush-hour pedestrian traffic backs up; tempers flare; the National Guard is called; tear gas, rubber bullets, etc.
As it happens, exactly one person recognized Bell, and she didn't arrive until near the very end. For Stacy Furukawa, a demographer at the Commerce Department, there was no doubt. She doesn't know much about classical music, but she had been in the audience three weeks earlier, at Bell's free concert at the Library of Congress. And here he was, the international virtuoso, sawing away, begging for money. She had no idea what the heck was going on, but whatever it was, she wasn't about to miss it.
Furukawa positioned herself 10 feet away from Bell, front row, center. She had a huge grin on her face. The grin, and Furukawa, remained planted in that spot until the end.
"It was the most astonishing thing I've ever seen in Washington," Furukawa says. "Joshua Bell was standing there playing at rush hour, and people were not stopping, and not even looking, and some were flipping quarters at him! Quarters! I wouldn't do that to anybody. I was thinking, Omigosh, what kind of a city do I live in that this could happen?"
When it was over, Furukawa introduced herself to Bell, and tossed in a twenty. Not counting that -- it was tainted by recognition -- the final haul for his 43 minutes of playing was $32.17. Yes, some people gave pennies.
"Actually," Bell said with a laugh, "that's not so bad, considering. That's 40 bucks an hour. I could make an okay living doing this, and I wouldn't have to pay an agent."
These days, at L'Enfant Plaza, lotto ticket sales remain brisk. Musicians still show up from time to time, and they still tick off Edna Souza. Joshua Bell's latest album, "The Voice of the Violin," has received the usual critical acclaim. ("Delicate urgency." "Masterful intimacy." "Unfailingly exquisite." "A musical summit." ". . . will make your heart thump and weep at the same time.")
Bell headed off on a concert tour of European capitals. But he is back in the States this week. He has to be. On Tuesday, he will be accepting the Avery Fisher prize, recognizing the Flop of L'Enfant Plaza as the best classical musician in America.
Emily Shroder, Rachel Manteuffel, John W. Poole and Magazine Editor Tom Shroder contributed to this report. Gene Weingarten, a Magazine staff writer, can be reached at weingarten@washpost.com.
The train reached Bukit Batok LRT Station, and Stupid and I made our way out of the LRT station to my cousin’s house. We were lost and we needed to use map. And even we looked at the map we couldn’t locate the direction (ie, north, east, south, west, etc). We asked shopkeepers - 3 shopkeepers before we found our direction.
We came across a mini park which is a bit hilly and we needed to climb stairs. When we reached the top of the park, we found something is wrong. It is not only wrong, but creepy in fact – we saw a signboard of waist height in front of a pile of earth, and same kind of signboard every few meters apart. We stopped. I looked at him and so did he. Everything pointed that we were not in a park but cemetery zone.
We tentatively walked towards the signboard, and found out that it really is a signboard – signboard containing instructions for equipment in the park. We were relieved. Stupid even took few photos of that imaginary cemetery.
What a way to end a day which captured our fantasy. In very same morning, we went to Nanyang Technological University to attend its open house. The facility is great, the university is impressive and the fees are expensive too. While our local varsity has Ramli Burger outlet, NTU has McD and Subway. I had my first Subway’s foot long bread there.
On top of that, we had our own tour guide during the open day. She invited us into her hostel room, which would not happen in a million years if it is USM or UKM. We had a fair share of chatting and played a share market board game. To end our short trip to NTU, three of us had a dinner before we parted our ways.
Just now, after having dinner, I cycled back to my hostel. When I saw the images in front of me – dim street lights, big trees and stretch of cow grass, I strolled down the memory lane. Both of us now end up in local varsity and not MIT or ANU or NUS or NTU or whatnot. We dreamt big before we were brought back to ground but at least we had dreamt before. Sometimes, it seems to be so near yet so far. Perhaps someday when Stupid set his sight across the Johore Straits, he will recall back the night we stepped on the cemetery land.
P/S: Today is her birthday - the girl who became our tour guide in NTU, who biologically is no longer a kid, who physically still is and who in-person is a lovely girl. Happy birthday, Jenny!
Today, I am going to dedicate this piece of writing to him.
When I first took notice of him, I just began my first half year of my 18-month Form 6 (I hate to use the word STPM as what we endured were more than just an exam.) He was in a relationship with my fellow Form 6 schoolmate. He was Form 5 that time and would be taking SPM at the end of the year. Everything went smoothly. Or perhaps I never knew there was something wrong. Not even him. Only God knows and He knows the best.
Fast forward to March 2010, SPM results were released and he did something any school would be proud of by grabbing 12As. I never met him afterwards until the 1st day of 2010/2011 batch Form 6. I was due to talk in front of all my juniors, along with President Cheuckolate and Secretary Li Ching. What I saw afterwards amused me – his name was on the name list of reporting students. But given the fact that many pre-university programs start later than Form 6, it is not a huge surprise to see those ridiculously good result students reporting for Form 6.
But, a few weeks after Form 6 commenced, he was still there - L63, 2nd floor of Block C. And after doing some ask-around, I was told he was forced to temporarily abandon Petronas scholarship due to health problems. This made me recalled back the fate of my friend. My school has Hari Anugerah Cemerlang or Excellent Awards Day. The winner name list will be announced through PA system several weeks before the big day.
That year (2008) is the year I took SPM. The announcer first announced Hong You Wei swept 5 (FIVE) best subject awards, which included Chemistry, Biology and Physics. This was by far a mean feat and whole school applauded. Next in line was Khoo Wee Min. And he swept the same number of best subject award – 5 (FIVE), albeit more on linguistic subjects. Whole school applauded, this time was even louder (for both of them). At the end, both of them never really got what they deserved. They were not receiving oversea scholarship.
Now, KWM is studying in Australia while HYW’s case is a sad one. He went to Perlis Matriculation College and came back few months’ later, citing health reason. With his return, we were confident that our batch Form 6 will be one of the best, if not the best batch ever studied in SMSM Form 6. During my lower 6 end of year exam, he was the top scorer for 3 subjects – Pengajian Am, Maths T and Biology in his class but he was ranked 11 out of 24. The reason was he failed Chemistry. He failed as he was absent during the exam day for Chemistry. He was just ridiculously excellent.
But after that, he never appeared at the school anymore. His family cited health reason but majority believed it is a combination of mental health and physical health. One 4.00 student was taken away under our noses. And this time around, it happened again.
Okay, that is enough. Let’s go back to the issue. As a direct senior of him, we had some interactions. On top of that, he was elected as Treasurer of Form 6 Society, taking over from me. This perhaps opened the door for me to understand better about him or vice-versa. He was dedicated to his responsibilities, always trying to do the best he could for F6S. He was equally dedicated to his study as well. Sometimes, he would ask for advices from seniors.
Since the turn of the year, I left the school and while I still keep in touch with my juniors, we seldom meet up. Last week, I went back to SMSM. School Administrator Board announced about his conditions and pleaded the public to support him. I was stunned. I never knew it would deteriorate into such condition. His news soon appeared on the headline of major Chinese newspapers. [HERE and HERE] Social network sites followed by spreading the news through electronic media.
This piece of news really struck my heart. Perhaps not in a million years we will think about difficulties endured by people around us. Today, a student of all teachers, a junior of all seniors and a bright prospect of our beloved country is facing sticky situation. Physically, it was about the money to undergo the operation. But to me, it is all about courage, bravery and gratitude to accept challenges and crave for a brave new world. Take a bow, Neoh Yi Kuan.
Once, Stupid ate Wantan Mee for 3 days in a row. Bakar Arang’s Ah Niu, The-shop-beside-Singer and his native Taman Ria’s. We used to ajak-mengajak to Bakar Arang, just to have a taste on the noodles and a good chat, in the morning. Ahh… The good old times.
Here, what I have for my breakfast are a packet of Nasi Lemak, 2 karipap and a cup of hot Milo. Ultimate pleasure. Joash said this is the typical Malaysian breakfast. Perhaps this is typical, but typical 1BlackForm6 breakfast. One Nasi Lemak, 3 karipap and one bottle of bancuh-sendiri Milo. Just ask Cheuck.
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Who says dialects aren’t important? To me, dialects are as important as foreign language. Some are willing to pay RM 300 for 10 classes of Spanish or French or Japanese or Korean. Perhaps it sounds cool when you can pop out a few foreign words. Perhaps it sounds cooler if you can speak dialects. Hokkien. Teowchew. Cantonese. Hakka. Hainan. Foochew.
And since we’re 1Malaysian, it will be no harm to learn Tamil so that we know what the hell Indians are talking about. If you throw in Thai, it would be perfect. You can enjoy without being cheated in Haadyai, Bangkok, Phuket, Pattaya, etc.
Look at your CV. Mandarin, English, Malay, Tamil, Hokkien, Teowchew, Cantonese, Hakka, Hainan, Foochew, Thai. Isn’t that impressive?
It has been 5 weeks since the last post. It is a long hiatus but given the inconsistency that the blog endured since its inception (even forced to shut down for a few months thanks to some ISA-like threats), this 5 weeks are just peanuts.
Anyway, I just came back from PIMPIN Siswa camp, albeit with some sore throats and influenza. When I was having my breakfast just now, that issue spring into my mind again. Is USM Transkrian campus that bad?
If I never stepped my foot on Kolej Teknologi Timur (KTT) and Rumah Syaitan, perhaps I will answer “YES!” Ahmad knew very well about KTT and Rumah Syaitan. In fact that was some sort of “foundation” class for those who are going to India. There is a saying that, if you came back Malaysia from studying in India, you can eat rotten food for 2 weeks here in Malaysia and still survive.
First of all, I need to explain the locality of KTT and Rumah Syaitan. KTT is a JPA-sponsored A-Level college, mainly for medicine students who are going to continue their degree study in India, Czech Republic and etc. It is located at Salak Tinggi, the nearest housing estate to KLIA. The landscape around KTT is very rural and mainly oil palm plantation. There are a few rows of shop lots in front of KTT but have no tenants. The nearest shopping complex is Giant, 15 minutes’ drive from KTT. The only way you can go out from KTT is through taxi service, with the trip to nearest train stations, Nilai KTM or Salak Tinggi ERL costing around RM 15. Rumah Syaitan is a house rented by KTT to accommodate their students since the hostel within KTT is not enough. It is located within 5 minutes’ walking distance from KTT.
With all respect to Ahmad and his friends, Rumah Syaitan is really literally devil’s house. 13 guys cramped into a double storey terrace, with only 10 could sleep inside their room while the rest needed to sleep in another room – living room. Out of the 10 lucky ones, 6 cramped into the master bedroom (2 double decker and 2 normal bed), the rest divided equally into 2 small rooms. Perhaps out of his love to his housemates, Ahmad chose to sleep in the living room.
Before I went to KTT and Rumah Syaitan, Ahmad did tell me some pictures about the condition. He texted me that he didn’t know whether I can stand Rumah Syaitan even for a night and now I would be going to stay there for 2 nights! Anyway, due to my curiosity towards his college, I chose to go there.
Okay, back to the topic. Inside Rumah Syaitan, there are 4 corners in the living room. One corner of course is the staircase to the first floor while 3 mattresses lied on the other corner. And there was where Ahmad slept. Before I went there, Ahamd promised me I would have place to sleep and when I reached there, Ahmad asked one of his friends to donate his bed to me and joined them downstairs. For a moment, I was touched.
There were 3 toilets, one at downstairs, one is the master bedroom attached bathroom and another is shared between 2 small rooms. The one downstairs is dipping water from the ceiling 24/7, while the one inside master bedroom is also dipping water from shower hose 24/7. Most of the residents bathed at the car porch!
One night, Ahmad and his friends came back from playing futsal at 12.30am and one of his friends was hungry. The friend wanted to fry some eggs, so he took out the hot plate, put a flat pan on the hot plate and waited for 20 minutes for the pan to heat up since there was no gas stove in the house. After the pan was hot enough, the friend put in 2 eggs. Astonishingly, the egg white and egg yolk diffused together immediately, without any stirring. The friend has no choice but to throw away the fried eggs.
Ahmad decided to become the chef and cook for everyone. So, he searched for anything can be cooked. He found vermicelli, some gingers, tomatoes, and canned mushroom. All these stuff were bought a month ago. Anyway, out of food, they had no choice. The friend told Ahmad the tomatoes were rotting. Ahmad replied that only one was rotting but not the whole bag of tomato. So, they took the good tomatoes and sliced it. When the friend cut the tomatoes, we could see the seeds were germinating. For the first time in my life, I saw germinating tomato seeds, inside the tomato.
Next was the canned mushroom. They had the canned mushroom but the can opener was rusting. I had no idea whether they succeeded to open the can. Then, Ahmad started to cook the supper. It was already 1.30am and I went upstairs to sleep. I guessed they had a good meal, vermicelli with ginger, germinating tomato and mushroom. Yummy! The next day, I told Song You about the supper and he said luckily I had my dinner with him last night. If not, I would be enjoying the supper with them.
Compare to what we have now in Transkrian. Couldn’t we appreciate what we have right now instead of grumbling about what we do not have? Yes, here in Transkrian we have nothing but Charlie and oil palms. But I am sure you know the condition here before you fill in the form at pohon@USM. So why grumble now? The economy rice tastes sucks but what would you prefer between crappy economy rice and yummy vermicelli with ginger, germinating tomato and mushroom?
I felt grateful to have the chance to visit KTT and Rumah Syaitan. It really opened my eyes and taught me about gratitude. Thank you, Ahmad, Krishna, Narahari, Ravinder, Farhan,Vinod and the supper. I really enjoyed my time there.
Tomato: Is it better than the crappy economy rice?
When we arrived at the bus terminal, we found out something very unpleasant. That particular day, there was no bus to Alor Setar. So, we had to take a cab to Kangar as only Kangar as bus bound for Alor Setar.
The trip from Kuala Kedah to Kangar was about 20 minutes. The cab passed by the Malay villages along the way. The scenery was truly magnificent as that time the paddy was ripe enough, waiting to be harvested. Behind those yellow-golden paddy fields were hills, unexplored hills which combined with paddy fields to present us magnificent view. When we arrived at Kangar, we managed to catch 1700 hours bus to Shahab Perdana. I was so tired that I slept the almost whole 1 hour 15 mins journey from Kangar to Alor Setar.
At Shahab Perdana, we were finding bus bound for Sungai Petani. We found out there was no express bus to Sungai Petani. Instead, there was a transit bus to Sungai Petani, the bus which would stop every 5 minutes until we reached Sungai Petani. It was 1830 hours and the sky was becoming darker and darker. We had little choice and reluctantly boarded the bus.
The final 2 hours of homecoming journey was not a very pleasant one. The bus was not air-conditioned and slow (but steady). We were closer to our homes, inch by inch. The bus bought us to the kampungs, enabling us to see rural area of Kedah, far from the “advancement” in the city. My watch showed 20:32 and my car was waiting for me.
the end
Kedah Maju 2010 Sejahtera: We were served with this thing during our final 2 hours journey.
The clock showed 13:00 and we were at Kuah jetty. Just to show the true spirit of Malaysia’s efficiency, there was no counter to sell ferry tickets to Kuala Perlis. Instead, the whole waiting hall has a information counter, with a staff sleeping on the desk. We went to the counter, and asked for ferry tickets. She woke up, rolled her eyes twice, then phoned another staff to come over and give us the tickets. Truly Malaysia.
The ferry will depart at 1430 hours, and we will only arrive at our hometown 6 hours later. The journey from Kuah to Kuala Perlis was another type of experience compared to Kuala Kedah. The ferry passed by several small islands, inhabitable islands. The waves were not so strong compared to Kuala Kedah route. Our phones were temporarily switched to Thailand line, perhaps due to its proximity to Thailand.
We arrived at Kuala Perlis at 1330 hours, and our friend was already waiting there, with 5 pre-ordered chicken rice. After having the truly “special” lunch at pondok, we were discussing ways to go back Sungai Petani. There is a bus terminal within walking distance from the jetty, which has buses to Alor Setar and not Sungai Petani. We walked there.
to be continued...
Sleeping beauty: Power nap? Or rotten to the core?
It was 0605 hours, and I was walking towards the train station. Bizarrely, there were not much people there. Suddenly, a middle-aged man said: “The train has gone.” I couldn’t believe it. He repeated it again, “The train really has gone, just 5 minutes ago.” I stared at him.
We had not much choice, and we decided to take bus to Alor Setar. My friend’s dad would like to fetch us to bus station, but my dad said this was a lesson, and suggested we should walk to bus station. We walked. We passed by the clock tower, the HSBC, the Pelita, the Fairy and reached the bus station. It was 0630 hoursand we waited for the bus. We waited. Finally, the bus arrived, and exactly at 0700 hours, it departed. This, was just the beginning.
It was 0800 hours, and we were at Shahab Perdana. We were told there was no bus to go to Kuala Kedah and we needed to go to Pekan Rabu for the bus. We waited for 30 minutes at Pekan Rabu and a 70’s bus written “Kuala Kedah” arrived. We immediately jumped on the bus. We arrived at Kuala Kedah jetty at 0900 hours, in time to catch 0930 hours ferry, bound for Langkawi.
Klaus Toepfer: Executive Director of UNEP once wore Bermuda shorts with slipper during an international meeting.
1986 was United Nation’s International Year of Peace. In that year, I was in Bangladesh and working with a NGO called Gono Unayan Prochesta (GUP).
GUP was founded by a group of community activists who fought against President Hossein Mohamed Ershad, who was notorious with corruption at that time. I had the chance to work with GUP through Naserudden Ahmed, a former student activist who was expelled from University Dhaka. I met him during a program in University Thammasat, Bangkok.
During a meeting discussing about International Children Convention on Environment which was scheduled to take place in Kuala Lumpur in 2007, I was as usual wearing jeans and slipper. But when I saw Executive Director of UNEP, he was even worse than me. He wore Bermuda shorts and slipper. Most of delegates from Asia wore coat and tie while those from Europe wore T-Shirts.
The conference room provided by hotel was quite tight until some delegates were standing. One of the delegates complained that this was unfair. Thus, Director of UNEP, Klaus Toepfer from Germany requested suggestions from delegates to solve the problem. Some said it was fair, because early birds should be seated while latecomers should stand. Those who were standing were angry and demanded to move to a bigger conference room.
Klaus Toepfer stood up and said, “You people are typical Asian politicians - wasting so much time to solve a simple problem.” His words were directed to Asians as those who complained were Asians. They were late yet they still complained. At the end, Klaus Toepfer asked hotel staffs to move out all stools so that everyone could sit on the floor. Problem settled!
The meeting was conducted in a very informal manner. Suddenly, a delegate stood up and asked Klaus Toepfer, “Who is taking down the minutes?”
Klaus Toepfer replied, “Why do we need minutes?”
The delegate asked again, “Then who is going to remind us of our responsibility?”
Klaus Toepfer shook his head, “Are you from Malaysia?”
The delegate answered, “No, I am from Bangladesh.”
[Excerpt from "Closing the Reality Gap 1", by Mat Saman Kati (MSK), 15 August 2011. Retrived, modified and translated by Kyle Hampden]
