One East-West Train Wreck

To my frustration, I could say nothing nice about this book - nor could I say anything bad about it. It's a depressing read that the Internal Security Ministry would pass; everybody depicted here more or less fits the more popular stereotypes. The British are degenerate, amoral snobs; the Communist Chinese are bloodthirsty and ruthless, their sympathisers untrustworthy and cunning; and all Opposition party members are firestarters.

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When the past and present collide...

first published in The Star, 18 May 2008


One year ago, this book might not have reached the shelves. Contents include British colonialists, Communist insurgents, May 13 rioteers and the DAP. Who would've thought so much could happen in 365 days?

But is it a ghost story, or not? While "ghost" is in the title, the ambiguity of The Orientalist and the Ghost is guaranteed to titillate, or irritate.

Here, Susan Barker delivers a Lemony-Snicketish tale of a dysfunctional British-Chinese family forged in the fires of the Malayan Emergency that crumbles as time marches on.

Young Christopher Milnar is an adventurous and somewhat naïve scholar enamoured with all things Chinese who gets shipped to insurgent-era Malaya as an assistant administrator of a Chinese relocation settlement in Yong Peng, Johore. Translated, Yong Peng means "Everlasting Peace"; he would later find out that the British aren't the only ones with a sardonic sense of humour. He gets no welcome from the locals, especially the resentful Chinese who have been separated from relatives and loved ones under the Communist insurgents.

As the harsh reality whittles down his romanticism, love and hate come in the emaciated form of Evangeline Lim, an older half-Chinese woman with whom Chris has a May-December fling. Evangeline unwillingly betrays Chris' trust in her and ends up in court where she is sentenced to death, but not before leaving behind a daughter. Chris takes it upon himself to look after the child, named Frances, but the "Yong Peng Irony" continues as Frances becomes estranged from her "foreign devil" father and commits suicide years later, saddling Chris with her children, Adam and Julia. Like mother, like daughter.

However, this tale of woe begins with an ageing Chris being visited by phantoms of his past: his superior officer, colleagues and other memorable individuals from those heady Malayan days. The narration suggests that it's more hallucination than haunting. I don't blame him. He's counting his days, and his grandchildren have inherited that psychological Great Wall of China from their grandmother's side of the family. Plus, he's no Jamie Oliver.

It's not long before Chris himself crosses over, and suddenly, the grandchildren are adults. While Adam becomes a lab technician, Julia falls in with the wrong crowd and ends up a heroine junkie, too stoned to care when a letter from her mother's old school-friend arrives, asking for a meeting. As Adam sets off to meet the sender, the rest of the Milnars' sad tale unfolds.

I'm not a fan of non-linear plotlines, even though some stories read well when written this way. I didn't like the way The Orientalist leaps back and forth between the present and the tumultuous Malayan days. The aged Chris Milnar narrates the beginning, but then someone else tells us that he's dead, and Adam has the keys to his flat. A couple of chapters later, it’s good old Chris prattling on again, as if he never left. All that bouncing around gave me motion sickness.

Another gripe I had with it was the (perceived) interactivity. OK, there are plenty of clues as to why Frances became estranged from her father, but I had to dig. Surely it wasn't simply because of her conviction that her dad betrayed her mum? What really happened when she went searching for the teacher she had a crush on in the riot-racked city? Who really was the assailant that drove a rift between Chris and Evangeline? It's supposed to be literary fiction. If I wanted intellectual stimulation, I'd have done a Sudoku puzzle.

Storywise, it's pretty authentic. The sounds, emotions and atmosphere of those bygone times are captured very well. In Chris' narration, there are flashes of Shakespearean melodrama and the famous British wit; too bad his performance couldn't save this sad tale. And the only ghosts in the book are probably in Chris Milnar's head all along.

Should I feel cheated, or not?

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The Orientalist and The Ghost

Susan Barker
Doubleday
346 pages
Fiction
ISBN: 978-0-385-60980-7

Jumping My First Ship

Quote of the day: "Correct, correct, correct." It's so succinct, even he can't
comment on it.

So much is happening lately, it's hard to recall it all. The interviews, phone calls, assignments, and the island day trip.

After eight years and three months, I'm finally moving on. There are no comfort zones where I'll be going, and I'd be lying if I said I'm approaching this with little trepidation and doubt. What's unfortunate is that my schedule will be packed before my departure, which is just days from now. I just can't get a break.

Not many outside the company (or inside, for that matter) know I'm leaving. People change jobs all the time. It's not something worth dwelling over.

But it's going to be tough being the greenhorn again, after eight-plus years of seniority.

West Bashes West

After the hilariously entertaining Talk to The Snail, this was a bit of a disappointment - but I had fun reviewing it. I think the book speaks for itself.

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Sardonic mirth

first published in The Star, 09 May 2008


Just how long can an Anglo-Saxon comedy writer spin humour out of cultural clashes? If you are Stephen Clarke, "as long as it pays the bills".

Following the runaway success of A Year in The Merde, Clarke produced the sequel Merde, Actually and Talk to the Snail, a comprehensive and hilarious guide to surviving France. So far, all of his books are based on his own experiences in the country. The next chapter in the comedy of errors that is British expatriate Paul West’s life is Merde (Shit) Happens.

And boy, does shit happen here. Not long after he sets up his English tea room in Paris, West is heavily fined by the local authorities – for having English words in the menu. His attempts to weasel his way out of the penalty fail, placing him in deep financial merde. On top of that, his English-speaking French girlfriend Alexa is hinting that the relationship is going nowhere – the same as West.

So he returns to London and secures a gig with a dodgy outfit to promote England as a premiere tourist destination, which he hopes will help him settle the fine and win Alexa’s admiration. The catch is – OK, make that catches are – he has to tour the United States in a Mini Cooper; organise and emcee the related promotional events at each stop; compete with representatives from other countries (including France); and do all that wearing a kilt (which is typically Scottish, but hey, since when has semantics ever stood in the way of an impetuous British venture?)

West extends Alexa an invitation to come along, and she accepts the deal with typical French grace – so she could make a documentary about the "real" (read: ugly) America. Her contempt for the US and its denizens becomes material for some of the jokes and punchlines.

Further mayhem ensues upon their arrival at the former British colony. Their transport is delayed, nobody knows they were coming and what they were coming for, and their link to London is an attendant from a call centre in India. Halfway through their journey, they are joined by West's linguistically challenged American friend and a Hispanic hottie. The "West Goes West" roadshow continues its downward spiral into oblivion while the merry band salvages what they can from it. Snafus haunt the party like monsters in pursuit, hinting at possible attempts at sabotage.

After writing two books that caricaturise his adopted homeland, Clarke broadens his horizons by sending his hero westward. New victims of his dry, scalpel-edged wit includes Americans, Canadians and Indians (not the red variety). Metaphors abound and punchlines are aplenty, making the book feel more like a comic strip than a novel. In no time the plot becomes less and less tangible as Merde Happens evolves into one long, sardonic diatribe by a Brit about the (exaggerated) strangeness of America – when his French girlfriend isn't snarking about it. After each chapter, I was like, "What... was this book about?" It's not just the plot; the author's brand of humour would be lost on less sophisticated readers. Still, that shouldn't discourage others from giving it a try.

It's hard to imagine that Merde Happens is actually part of a series. The way it is written gives no hint of a previous connection with the other books, which is both a strength and a weakness. You don't feel compelled to collect the whole set, since it's more of the same anyway (unless you are a fan, or immensely curious about how West ended up in France and acquired his tea room). On the flipside, copies would end up crawling (like a snail) – not flying – off the shelves instead. Which might spell financial trouble for a real Englishman living in France.

I wouldn't call the book a must-have but maybe we should help out by buying a copy, if only to stave off the nightmare vision of a kilt-clad Stephen Clarke, touring countries on behalf of Britain in a Mini Cooper because his books aren't selling.

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Merde Happens

Stephen Clarke
Transworld Publishers
381 pages
Fiction
ISBN: 978-0-593-05631-8

Island Adventure

No time to wax lyrical over this latest misadventure. I'm tired, and my head is still in sync with the movements of the waves. I won't be walking in a straight line until I wake up tomorrow.


Pulau Ketam (a.k.a Crab Island) Labour Day adventure! In point form.

• Boat rides were OK, but wish they'd play more uplifting music instead of Chinese oldies and karaoke discs.
• It is not so bad when the boats move; it's even worse when they don't.
• The island is apparently the tourist destination for Klang Valley denizens too cheap to fly AirAsia.
• Try not to pay too much attention to the floatsam on the water.
• Who could imagine anything on stilts and concrete pylons could be so secure?
• Oyster and la-la omelette is made the Penang way - but still not up to par.
• Live crabs in plastic drums on display in the market district - animal cruelty.
• The umbrella-hats are real. Resisted the urge to buy one.
• Kim Hoe Restaurant no longer serves the very, very best crab bee hoon. A fact totally lost upon the holidaying rubes from the asphalt jungle. At least the crabs were nice.
• Sewage goes into sea; ocean bounty returns to land. Island-style circle of life. Yum.
• Most locals keep their doors open.
• On the island, Ah Sui is the Tesco of dessicated shrimp and dried seafood.
• When in the bathroom, make judicious use of tap water.
• Tragic to see so many people using the sea as a trash can.
• Eat light - or not at all - before getting onto a boat.
• What kind of maniac would spend days in a chalet that's more like a prison cell atop a floating fish farm, doing nothing but fish?
• Walk slowly and gently on the planks and don't look too closely at the wavelets showing through the gaps and cracks in the timber. Do not run, stomp or jump. Try not to fall in, either. The barramundi (siakap) are not picky eaters.
• Baby tiger garoupas are cute; red snappers are snappy.
• GreenWay fish farm tour was conducted mainly in two Chinese dialects. Not very educational. Maybe because I was in an all-Chinese group.
• Watch your head on boats.
• Weather behaved itself. And sea breezes can be cooler than air-conditioning.
• Next time, don't forget the motion-sickness pills. Maybe some sunscreen, too.

Starbucks and Stories

Coffee and conversation with the indomitable Yvonne Foong - and it's the second time I made her wait. This time, it's because I got lost. I hate Subang Jaya. Like everywhere else in the state, the signboards made no sense.

She has a debilitating disease, but it doesn't stop her at all. Earlier she'd written a masterful response to a journalist's poor professional conduct. There was talk about creating a branded charity foundation-or-whatnot. Discussions about psychology, marketing and, of course, blogs.

You do not want her angry at you.

Next time, I'm studying a map - and then, test-driving the route.

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There was supposed to be something about this month's LitBloggers' Breakfast with Kunal Basu, but I couldn't be bothered. Besides, I wouldn't want people to think I attend all these meets just so I could post something... .

Some interesting and pertinent points garnered from the meet include:

• 's chemical. Stories are all chemical. Natural ones produced by your body, of course.
• Let the story take centerstage. Don't fit stories into themes.
• Don't give a shit about readers. Write what you want, write what you like. And pray the readers you don't give a shit about will like it too.
• Research is important (and from his tone of voice it could also be fun). If all else fails, fill the gaps with your imagination. Why else would you call it "fiction", duh?
• Most lit-fic readers are women; no woman, all (lit-fic authors) cry. In this case, Bob Marley had it wrong.
• MPH Bangsar can't get their hands on chicken mayo.

Kungfu For Kung Fools

Hearken, voices calling for the Forbidden Kingdom to be... forbidden. From cinemas.

(I wish I was talking about China, too. But I'm not.)

There were complaints about how rip-offish the set pieces were. Words like "silly", "unoriginal", "irreverent" and "sacrilegious" were waved like Tibetan flags in a Beijing '08 Olympics' torch run protest.

(OK, maybe I do want to write about China. Maybe.)

The indignation from kungfu movie afficionados was so thick nobody ever paused to think that it might have been done on purpose. If the directors were poking fun at martial arts culture - or more precisely, certain perceptions about martial arts - they did so with aplomb.

Consider the plot: kungfu-crazed American teen falls through a wormhole into ancient China; to get back, he must learn enough martial arts to survive and complete a mission scriptwriters say only he could accomplish. Right, make some white kid the hero, with two genuine kungfu grandmasters playing sidekick.

Wrong.

After Jackie's and Jet's characters meet halfway through the movie, it all becomes clearer. The on-screen intensity of their initial rivalry, the friction, the repartee. This was what everyone wanted - a Jackie vs Jet showdown - and they got it. Elated over their first collaboration, they take it over the top. But when the reluctant non-Oriental disciple turns on both masters, they both put their pride aside to dish out a dose of discipline.

They look like they're having fun. Why shouldn't they? They've been doing this forever. Jet's is pushing fifty; Jackie, sixty. Retirement beckons - why not have some fun while you're on the way out, even at each other's expense? (and the audience's as well, but since they got half of their movies through pirates and YouTube, they shouldn't complain) A paid vacation. That's what it is.

It is Jackie's admonishment of Michael Angarano's character, however - an extension of the lesson Bruce Lee gave the West - that is the gist of what the movie is about.

"You've watched every martial arts film, played all the video games. You know the moves and their names inside out. Big deal. You can't even swing a stick properly! You're not learning anything because your head's filled with garbage! 'No-Shadow Kick'? 'One-Fingered Death Touch'? You know jack-shit about kungfu, white boy. Now hump those concrete blocks and gimme a hundred! And no supper till you're done!"

You might think that's rather mean of Jackie, but in case you forgot, he did graduate out of a training regime that would unnerve even the Spartans. Jet's own credentials need no elaboration. With regards to teaching neophyte "kungfu" nerds, there is no one else more qualified.

In the movie, Jackie's animated, impatient and fiery temperament is artfully offset by Jet's mountain-like calm. At the lowest point of the white boy's journey while holed up in a desert cave, he has doubts about his chances of success. "What if I freeze?" he asks the meditating Jet, who replies, "Don't forget to breathe." Ooh, how Zen.

The Chosen One may be Caucasian, but the real stars were the so-called token Chinks - and they stole the show.

All of them.

Lost On Ice

This novel, in size and weight, was a real brick. I wasn't exaggerating about its climate control properties - reading over 600 pages of Arctic weather descriptions has a profound effect on the mind. I didn't really hate it, but it's not something I'd recommend.

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Arctic slaughter

first published in The Star, 18 April 2008


The quest for the Northwest Passage, the fabled naval route across the North Pole to the riches of the East, has long confounded explorers and sailors. In 1845, Englishman Sir John Franklin set sail with two ships, Erebus and Terror, in search of the route – and never returned. The fate of Franklin's exploration team is fictionalised in The Terror.

The novel, which includes real and (possibly) fictional characters, begins months after both ships ran aground in the Arctic. Although Franklin is their de facto leader, the protagonist is Francis Crozier, captain of the HMS Terror and primary witness to the drama on the ice, who struggles to keep his crew in line (one of the novel's many flashbacks pin the blame on Franklin for the mishap). With supplies dwindling, bad weather and little hope of rescue, the crew from both ships face extreme hardship. Compounding the perils is a supernatural presence that is preying on the men.

As if that's not enough, the busy captain also has to keep an eye on a mute Eskimo beauty the crew dubs Lady Silence, who mysteriously blundered into their midst. In no time she's firing up the imaginations of the land-locked sailors, adding to Crozier's growing list of headaches.

Franklin eventually dies, leaving Crozier in command. Betrayal, suicide, murder, cannibalism, disease (scurvy, in particular), the cold and the mystery creature continue to whittle the group down to size. On top of all that, the stoic, no-nonsense officer would later be challenged by mutinous crewmembers led by a snivelling character everybody loves to hate. A typical day in the captain's cabin.

Wait – did I say "drama"? OK, I'm being generous. The promise of a "white-knuckle thriller" evaporates along with the story's glacial progress (mine turned white due to the strain of holding up and turning the pages of the big 769-page novel). In his efforts to entertain us, Simmons reduces the expedition members to crude, one-dimensional versions of their actual selves and serves them to the beast and the wilderness. You feel no pity for any of them as they perish one by one. If not for the Eskimos (apart from Lady Silence), The Terror is nothing more than a weekend slaughterfest at a Roman coliseum featuring foul-mouthed angmoh sailors, with the author in the emperor's seat.

The storyline often drifts between the past and present – or dream and reality, making it hard to follow. The flashbacks do shed some light to the crewmembers' backgrounds but you still can't relate to them enough to empathise with their plight.

The "supernatural presence" hounding the men? Sounds either like the polar bear from the TV series Lost – or Frosty the Snowman. There are also allusions to the creature's mythical origins and its connection with Crozier's enigmatic guest. It's rare for a reader to cheer for the monster, but that's exactly what I ended up doing.

On the other hand, going through the novel does feel like you're slogging through the Arctic snow, feeling cold, tired and hungry and asking repeatedly, "Are we there yet?" At some point I found myself turning off the air-conditioner. A testament to Simmons' ability to create very realistic backdrops.

Politics, greed, the fear of the unknown, and the fury of the elements – The Terror gives us an idea of the obstacles faced by those who helped open the trade routes leading to the proliferation of spices, tea, Starbucks and KFC. However, it falls short of its lofty goals as a page-turning thriller.


In the early 20th century, Norwegian explorer Roald Amundsen became the first person to fully navigate the Northwest Passage. In 2005, global warming opened up enough of the frozen north for a ship to sail the entire length of the fabled route.

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The Terror

Dan Simmons
Little, Brown and Company
769 pages
Fiction
ISBN: 978-0-316-11328-1