Mother: What’s wrong with our driver? Where did he go?!
Daughter: You complain too much, Ma. This happened with Pa, too, remember? And I don’t think either one of them is coming back…
(Photograph courtesy of Muhsein Sofian)
Backseat Driver
2
12 Differences Between Pro and Amateur Photographers
- The pro envies the amateur’s artistic freedom; the amateur envies the pro’s lifestyle
- The pro buys the cheapest equipment that can get the job done; the amateur buys the most expensive equipment for projects he will never do.
- The amateur has to earn money to finance his photography; the pro has to resort to photography to finance his life.
- Models fall in love with the pro – and then regret it; amateurs fall in love with the model – and then regret it
- Amateurs drive BMWs; pros drive Protons
- Amateurs READ articles in photo magazine and think, “I can write that, too!”; Pros WRITE those articles and think, “Anyone can write this. But why don’t they?”
- Camera-shop owners love amateurs; camera-shop owners hate pros
- Amateurs think pros are at the top of their game; pros know that he is just an order-taker (most of the time)
- Amateurs THINK pros make tons of money; pros KNOW that amateurs make tons of money (not necessarily through photography, tho)
- Amateurs like to be seen with 30 kilos of equipment; pros think nothing of being seen with a crappy point-and-shoot camera
- Amateurs try to dress like pros; pros try to dress like amateurs
- Amateurs dream of going pro some day; pros dream of becoming amateurs some day.
Never On A Sunday
During the Christmas holidays – or any other public holiday for that matter – the world and his brother-in-law will descend on Umbai for the ikan bakar. Sleepy back roads, normally the domain of a few cows and goats, take on the appearance of Jalan Tuanku Abdul Rahman at rush hour. Compounds of nearby houses, usually vacant except for the odd underbone motorcycle or two, are miraculously transformed into temporary car parks – often without the consent of the houseowner. And the normally peaceful night is shot to pieces by the constant ringing of the ikan bakar operators’ cash registers.
Hold That Pose
When it comes to things literary, I can be a snob at times. It is seldom (very seldom indeed) that I get excited about the work of writers who are not yet dead. And if the writer happens to be younger than I am, hails from Malaysia and hasn’t got a book to his name, it’s likely I’ll never notice him till he kicks the bucket – twice.
But my days of literary snobbery are over! In a Facebook status update recently, a dear old friend asked me to have a look-see at his son’s blog, ‘Hold That Pose’. Frankly, I went in not expecting to see anything new. However, I ended-up reading the blog from beginning to end, immersed in each word as if they were the sweet, calming breath of a long lost beloved.
I Love My Stan Smiths
I recall buying my first pair of Stan Smiths. It cost a RM45 a pair back in 1977. This was an insane amount for a pair of shoes when, for example, a clerk at MAS at the time earned only RM175 a month. It was even more insane when you happen to be a 15-year old student with no income to speak of.
But buy them I did. I even tried bargaining with the lady. Since I had rather dainty feet (size 6, actually), I argued they should be cheaper because less material was used. I thought this was rather clever. Then the lady replied, “OK, I understand. But if you want your money’s worth, young man, may I suggest you get a size 11?”
Coming Home
Dear Helene,
Sometimes coming home isn’t easy.
When you’ve been away for a bit too long, you no longer know what to expect. Fear creeps in. Doubt begins to gnaw. What was once a sanctuary – a place of safety – now seems like a treacherous network of dark, foreboding tunnels. One wrong turn, a careless miscalculation, a hesitant pause could all spell disaster.
This is how I feel coming back to ‘Tea and Scones’.
Notes to Myself (And Whoever Else Is Interested) – 1
Just expanding on a few things I overheard recently – and not so recently
- “What a stupid thing to do!” – I just can’t help but admire people who try but then fail. Personally, I admire less people who sit back comfortably, do nothing but criticise, and then start criticising even more when things go wrong.
- “Nice. But this photo has been edited, hasn’t it? Me? I’m interested in photography, not editing” – It never fails to amuse me how willing people can be when it comes to putting down others who do not subscribe to their way of thinking. I guess it’s difficult to recognize arrogance in its many guises.
- “After all that I’ve done for him/her!” – This has to be the most cancerous and self-destructive thought known to man. The need for reciprocity is OK in business. However, in human relationships, it poisons the spirit and taints sincerity. Human relationships aren’t supposed to be transactional.
Sunset Cruise, Anyone?
The Sea Leveller walkaround boat
Being without a training gig for the past two months has given me plenty of time to twiddle my thumbs. And between twiddling my thumbs I have also managed to dream a little: a sweet indulgence that I have almost forgotten how to do. But after being here in Umbai for almost a year now, it’s all coming back.
For a couple of weeks now I have had a strange (but amusing) recurring vision. There is this gleaming white 30-footer walkaround boat (an Island Hopper Sea Leveller, actually) berthed at the far end of the Umbai jetty. Its 420 hp onboard diesel engine is purring on idle as it bobs gently to the rhythm of the waves. An old-timer, dressed in an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt, khaki cargo pants and blue deck shoes climbs out of the cabin. Straightening his worn out captain’s hat, he lights up a Winston and beams me a smile to end all smiles.
Walking Dead Men
As a rule, I am usually reluctant to discuss polygamy in the presence of women. The last time I did this, three wanted to hang me from the nearest tree, two added that this should be done by my balls and one quietly slipped me her phone number. But I am getting reckless in my old age. So here goes…
Kadir, who is a regular teh tarik buddy, lives down the road. I see him maybe once or twice a month. The rest of the time he is probably in some far flung corner or the country. The reason? He’s a bus driver. Though he has not caused some major accident that has claimed a dozen lives, he maintains this is not his fault – there is still time yet for him to fulfil this time-honoured tradition of express bus drivers.
Just the Two Of Us
The new 2010 re-issue of the CB1100
If you were in your mid-teens in the mid-70s – and if you had even a nano-gramme of testosterone coursing through your veins – chances are you would have lusted over a motorcycle more than you did over pretty little Kiah next door who was busily out-growing every new bra she bought.
Further, if like me you, too, were a teenager who lived with your grandparents, any access to a motorcycle would have been severely curtailed. They were dangerous, death-dealing machines. No amount of coaxing or cajoling (or emotional blackmail) on your part would have gotten you the permission to go anywhere near one.
Thus, without a bike to call my own, I quickly found out that access to Kiah was much more doable. But that – as I am fond of saying – is another story altogether.
