Making peace the best I can with the vampiress in the ghost month

August 29, 2014

The ghost month is usually the liveliest period in the kampung. Since it coincidences with the mythical harvest season in the farmer’s almanac stretching all the way back to the old country along with ten other celebrations that are unique to only the kampung social scenery – not a night goes by when there is not either a dinner or some celebration that involves the entire village.

I am wary of these events as since they involve loads of ‘yam seng’ style drinking where the only goal seems to be how to destroy one’s liver in sixty seconds flat! The prospects of a painful liver transplant is not exactly something I consider fun – it’s really only something I see in terms of national service to renew business ties and to sell my enemies the illusion that I am not really a threat or an evil person, when I am really one lah.

Besides I haven’t really recovered fully from the debilitating effects of dengue…not just yet. There’s still the lingering feebleness that makes any form of physical exertion just that harder than usual as if I walking in lead shoes.

But that’s not the real reason why I am keeping my head low during the ghost month.

The problem has to do with a marauding band of big breasted girls who usually descend on the kampung’s like vampiress this time of the year. These girls sell fertilizers and farm related products. They are appealing in a Cheena big bone sort of way that caters to the crude taste of kampung men. Which to my understanding usually involves exaggerated breast and ass augmentation – any thing else in between is negotiable after two cases of tiger beers. Usually when these vampiress see me, they just zoom right to my table for the proverbial kill.

If there are just interested to sell fertilizer that would hardly be problem. As I can always manage the profit motive by throwing them a bone based on the understanding – leave me be lah.

But the problem seems to be much more complicated. As from what I am able to observe – they’re just interested in disturbing me. It’s as if these vampiress can all see right thru my uncle power no nonsense bush jacket, square rim dark glasses and plastic pipe disguise.

Unlike most kampung folk who harbor a deep fear and respect for the image of the constant frontier man – these girls have zero respect for that other man. As I suspect they probably know it to be a well crafted paper mâché front – hence it’s not unusual for them to spend so much time on my table disturbing me that the village pineapple eyed auntie brigade begins to start frowning and this usually sends tongues wagging like a rippling shockwave thru out the kampung grapevine – its complications that I don’t need. As the last thing I want to do is diminish my image as a serious businessman. I am already struggling with that idea as since I am the youngest landowner it’s hard for the business community to take me seriously and it certainly doesn’t help when this sort of scandals circulate around.

It all started last year when I chanced upon one these vampires in the city at a gala event. I was decked in my G2000 attire. The super tight variety that highlights my 5% only and no more, frame, stepping right out from a Maserati.

I guess the image was so different from my stern man from uncle image that something just clicked in her head – this guy is just putting on an elaborate Chinese opera. I am going to expose his double life!

That was when she whipped out her camera phone and started machine gunning away and soon all those images of a boyish me found their way into the kampung Cheena Facebook grapevine.

Since then it’s become virtually impossible for me to live down the image of the man who lives a double life.

Impossible.

It’s best to keep a low profile….to run deep and silent…..in the ghost month like Casper the ghost wooooooooooooooo!

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‘The image of the frontier man or man of action will always be a very powerful figure in the rural psyche. If he did not exist. He would probably have to be fashioned into existence. As life in the frontier will always be bare and stripped of all outward affectations and pretensions where the idea of government may be so distant that it may well be on the surface of the moon – and for some semblance of life to reliably continue. For one to even be assured that the center has not given out and the sun will rise as certain as it did yesterday and the day before it and so on….x there will always be a need for this frontier figure. He’s Stalin, Mandela, Oprah Winfrey, Gandhi, Bruce Wayne, Wyatt Earp all rolled into a package of the man who is always there in the background.

He’s always there….so whenever there are disputes, he is usually to be found beneath the tree listening to both sides of the argument. If there are infractions, he is the magistrate and if the enemy stands at the gates, he will probably be the one who is riding the white horse and if children misbehave parents will usually invoke his name to set them straight.

But this character as appealing as he may be to so many who turn the wheel of life where life will always be at best a myth. A necessary illusion like how so many women continue to spend their money on anti ageing cream where the only active ingredient happens to be water. Or how so many people continue to put their faith in mumbo jumbo.

As in my opinion, no one man can possibly encapsulate the full range of ideals that this one figure is supposed too – it’s really too big a geography for one man to wrap his head around without the risk of exploding like a hand grenade. Nor can such a figure fulfill the multitude of roles that is so often expected of him and this should prompt us to ask, why then does this myth continue to endure?

What really accounts for its persistence and insistence to even be able to encrust itself so deeply into the psyche of those who turn the wheel of life in the frontier.

This is the question that has always enthrall me no end. Man’s predilection to fashion delusions and myths just to make an unbearable life that much more bearable.’

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