“Hey Clarissa”
Ian’s message popped up on my phone, “You still interested in
senior-ing for this trip’s BRAT’s camp?” He asked.
I had missed
the last one because of a family trip to Thailand, so I was still getting a lot
of flak for dropping out at the last minute.
Okay, no.
That’s not the version we agreed on.
In all
honesty-not-really-but-okay, I’d been harassing Ian for the past year for a
chance to senior for the next BRATs camp. It’s was unbearable. I was relentless
-
So desperate.
- Until
ultimately he gave in (in what I’d like to believe was a table flip and near-manic
“What will it TAKE to get her off my back??”)
and let me hop on board. Because really, ever since I moved back to Penang,
things haven’t been the same for me.
I guess both
accounts are true-ISH, depending on how you want to see it. But either way, I
found myself getting on an 8 hour bus ride to Melaka that involved screaming
babies. A pervy middle aged man, and one very, very slow bus driver.
BRATs is
young journalist camp for teens from the age of 16 to 19. The acronym stands
for Bright, Roving, Annoying Teens, which I suppose is a pretty apt name, given
the sort of people we’ve managed to attract in the past (it takes a certain
type of person to enjoy writing, and another sort to willingly put that writing
up for critique and judgement) VJs, international models, chart topping bloggers
(ahem), you name it.
I was a
little more than apprehensive about the thought of handling thirty-over – practically
forty – angsty teenagers. Not because I think I’m cooler than
them (which so does not need
proving), but because I’ve been a BRAT before and BOY WAS I OBNOXIOUS. I feel
bad for whichever poor soul who had to lead my team (I afterwards found out
that not only did I forget said person, but no one seems to recall me either.
Huh.) I thought I was the best writer on the planet, that my farts smelt like
roses, and that my shit don’t stink (all of which were proven to be disastrously
wrong).
So you can
see why I wasn’t sure if I wanted to keep up with 38 past-Clarissas; I cannot
stress this point enough: I. Was. A. Little. Shit.
I arrived at
the hotel some time around 4pm, having taken a taxi ride from Melaka Sentral to
Quayside hotel and MAN, did the place look posh. What was previously some sort
of warehouse had been converted into an artsy loft-styled hotel that looked super atas, in a Tumblr sort of way.
Ian and the
rest of the R.age team – May Lee and Vivienne – arrived an hour later, considerate
enough to bang on my door for a full minute before letting me know that I had
the wrong room. Fuck.
The kids* were
arriving the next morning, so that night would be the only responsibility-free
one we’d have until the end of the workshop.
 |
| It's shoooooo pretty |
The night before.
Our first
stop was Pak Putera Nasi Kandar where I had multiple foodgasms in one sitting.
It was a first for me. I could hardly stand up after we were done. I’ve never
done it with three other people before.
Really, this
is too easy, I can go on all night (Ayyyyyyy).
Then we
walked down Jalan Heeren, Jalan Jonker, and Jalan Tukang Besi to get an idea of where the
BRATs would be doing their assignment the next day.
Nearly all
of the shop houses were closed for the day and the roads were glowing with a
dusty yellow streetlamp-glow. On Jalan Heeren there was the sound of live piano
music dancing out from a tropical looking café, darkly lit and empty. At the
back sat a man behind a huge, black grand piano.
Then we
turned down to Jalan Jonker and walked past more closed buildings till we got
to the main road where a few food stalls were closing.
On Jalan
Tukang Besi, reggae music was blasting from a dingy, little store. When we got to
the source of the Jamaican beats, we saw a couple of foreigners chilling
outside on rattan lounge chairs. The interior was a narrow and plainly
furnished with a couch, a counter for the cash register, three tables, and a
fridge way at the back, filled with nothing but orange juice**.
We had a can
each and sat at a table near the couch where three middle aged Chinese men were
sitting and rolling joints. That was when I noticed that the walls were
entirely plastered with magazine cut outs of random things. And cat heads. A
lot of cat heads. All the images of people had their heads replaced with that
of cats. It was bizarre.
We could
have gone back to our hotel then, but hey, it was 1 in the morning and we had
at least another hour to kill. So we drove around in this completely inconspicuous looking The Star van, through dark empty
roads on night-chilled asphalt.
There was a
stretch of real nasty looking pubs and nightclubs. Outside one, stood a crowd
of about 20 people who were either cheering or standing idly in the middle of
the street, directly in front of where we were heading.
“Oh my god I
think they’re fighting.” May Lee said, from the high perch of her shotgun seat.
“Let’s get
out of here” Said Vivienne, who looked like she wanted to be anywhere else but.
The crowd
made way for our van as we drove past slowly. From my window, I saw a man
stumble across the street, blood flowing from his head down to his torso. This was
getting a lot more exciting than I had anticipated.
Just as we
made a two-metre headway, people started running in all directions. A man
actually ran so fast he made it past our van and went on sprinting. It was
hilarious. Bless his soul.
At first we
thought that there must have been a cop car coming from behind, but when I
turned around, all I saw was a blank van. “Oh my god” I said, “I think they’re
running from us.”
And our The
Star charity van. Imagine that.
We managed
to find our way back to the hotel where everyone collapsed on their bed . I
fell asleep nearly as soon as my head sunk into the pillow. I didn’t even get
around to hearing May Lee’s snores.
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