[The Midwest Adventure]
by YBLalat

Among the performances that I could recall was a nasyid performance (which was a stupid thing to do in a westernized event and to a secular audience) by four dudes in kopiahs; the DJ backed up their songs with a two-step techno beat to a hilarious result. Fazrul’s sister crooned a couple of forgotten pop medleys and danced to her own barely audible voice while some Chinese girls dressed up like transvestites, mimed to the chorus and sexually caressed their own body for the pleasure of the VIPs during the song’s verse, much to my disgust and others. If there were anything at all that caught my interest, then it would have been the dikir barat performance by the Western Michigan U students, complete with its own costume and musical arrangements and kompangs. Though the words of the song were not that thought provoking, it really was an entertaining feat, since the leader of the performance was a fat Chinese student wearing a full Malay costume to go along with the whole team of costumed performer.

Overall, the dinner event was a stink bomb. I hated it; it was a waste of my time and money, and Rafique agreed to the same thing too, I think. At least that was how he reacted to it; I have never seen him so uptight about it. His face was looming with boredom and he seemed unenthusiastic when every contingent leader’s name was being called to the stage to receive an appreciative gift for ‘coming all the way from your hometown to get drenched in my U’. He made himself looked so very depressed by gazing at the others who were busy taking pictures of each other and saying their last ‘Hi’ before embarking on their journey home the next morning. People hugged each other, whatever their gender were, laughing aloud in the lounge, like drunkards in a farewell frat party. We were waiting for Adha and Zulfaa at the lobby, slouching like apathetic bystander on the hotel walls, looking around for familiar faces to say ‘Goodbye’ or ‘See you again’.

“Rafique, this is the first and last time I am coming to the Games. I am sorry”

He simply nodded, and without a word, continued looking back at the hysterical crowd going crazy over the passing-by of the Chinese girls who sang a song onstage with Fazrul’s sister, the ones with the skimpy dresses and danced like strippers. His eyelids shuddered with shame. I sensed that he too wanted to say the same thing to me, but he could not. Others beside us might overhear the president’s selfish ultimatum. Heading the U of M’s student body means being the leader of the people and being the proponent of the activities of the organization and not letting down the expectations of the grass-root supporters. He was afraid that he would be labeled an irresponsible chief, although being the pious and God-loving person that he is; he could not bear the vile of the Ambassador’s Award night. No longer could he tolerate the glorification of sins accompanying the whole event, but what other type of emotions that could help him get through the whole ordeal but forceful patience and suppressed dissatisfaction?

“What about traveling? Do you still want to travel with us after this?”

Pyan shouted at me over the whole commotion at the lobby, as if I was talking to him instead of to Rafique before. He had this condescending smile on his face, like I was his fat kid-brother to toy around with, when he asked me that question. I knew he was stabbing my ego with his sarcasm again, using that question, and not only was it so obvious; it sounded so rhetorically idiotic at the same time, especially coming from him. I did not have enough energy to build up a debate on him; so I did not played along. He is a nice person most of the time, but sometimes he gets in your face, like a thumb up your nose. Weirdly enough, he is annoyingly loveable, like Mamat. If I were to fight back with excuses to his face, we would end up having a bitter argument on the van. That would be hazardous to others; he was the back-up driver for the trip.

Hafiz Mat was actually there at the Games and I hardly believed that he was. We met at the soccer field during the semifinal bout between Ohio State and Michigan State, and although the match was very entertaining (both teams played superbly), we ended up talking to each other for nearly an hour, catching up on each other’s story. The world sure is a small place; if not, I would not been able to see my former roommate in high school. We shared the same room, an all-prefect dorm room, for one and a half year, together with four other prefects. I like him better than anyone else in the room because he was one year younger than me and he looked upon me not as a senior, but a f**ked-up piece of youth. I still call him using his father’s name; it was customary back then in school to call juniors his batch by their father’s name, and he did not mind about it all. “For old times’ sake, right?” he even joked about it.

We talked about his friends coming to the States, to the U of M this fall, his undergraduate study at the Purdue U and how he managed his spare time there, since Purdue is not that exciting of a town. “I jogged the whole campus area”. We even recapped the story about how gay one of our roommates was during school years, that he went to pursue a local degree in communications; “Soft males are already good at communicating, man” he said that as he thrust his crotch up and down to an imaginary target in midair. It was not a homophobic joke at all but I guess anything that could extend the length of the conversation between us was good enough to talk or laugh about anyway. I used to tease him with gay jokes since he was so timid and that he was once caught having lunch with that soft male’s parents. It was not that serious of an incident, but it provided me with some material to poke shame at him occasionally. If anybody were to ask whether or not I have a good friend during my high school years, then Mat’s corpse-white face would immediately pop up from my memory.

The journey home was a fleeting recollection of deep thoughts, a series of reflective insights accompanied by the soothing snores of the van’s passengers. Everybody was financially exhausted and physically consumed, their mind yearned for the comfort of rest, and their wallets longed for the content of payday. Some felt fulfilled by the experience while some wished that they had done extra hours of work instead. Others slept to recuperate while some dreamt of their next travel plans, whether it is to the bordering Canadian cities in the next few days or to the local lakes during the second summer break. One might want to think that summer is too short to have all the fun a year could provide, but looking back at the past months of living your life true to yourself, I think that summer is just an excuse to do anything at all.