WAN A. HULAIMI: Email — shortest route to instant connectivity
Posted by fkdusdir65 on March 9, 2010
IN these past months I have received emails with snapshot attachments of Salt Lake City, and a quotation from someone in South Africa for my forthcoming jacaranda festival.
Looking in my mailbox now, I have letters from people telling me of future meetings and a nice note from an Indian lady about arrangements for a birthday party. I have no birthday coming, nor do I get invited to many, but now I have a welcome note from the Facebook team telling me that I am a member of that hideous mirror-gazing community, and I have been enrolled under the name of Cabinas, at the invitation of someone who goes by the delightful name of Elvis Barahona Martinez.
I receive all these enrolments and invitations even if I have never, in my conscious life, done the Twitter, Chatter, Mutter or make myself a complete Nutter in this so-called social-networking whirl, though I have been invited to a few and I have put them all in my “Hold” folder in the hope that you cannot hold on to things for long for they shall all soon fade away.
And what do I have here now? An email from a lady named Ruth inviting me to the pleasures of Kwarezimal and Figola in an enticing little nook called Triq ta’l-Ibrag in the district of Swieqi. I have looked in my Atlas to locate those places — I do not Google the Earth if you don’t mind, I am still addicted to road travel — and I have found out that Triq ta’l-Ibrag is actually a little street in sunny Malta. And all those of you who are now suppressing your little sniggers I shall disabuse you of whatever images you are drawing in your mind and let you know that Kwarezimal and Figola are types of cakes that you eat in Malta on Lent and Easter respectively.
As an exercise in lateral learning all this has been very useful. I know now how much influence Arabic has on the Maltese language (“Triq” is unmistakably the Arabic tariq, street; and “ibrag” from the Arabic bourj, tower), and it has all brought back to me once again the aroma of pastizzi wafting in the air amid diesel fumes one hot day at the bus terminus in Valetta.
These are emails from real people, not from soi-disant widows of some African dictators inviting me to share their loot, or that painstaking researcher Kun Chun, who, styling himself as an attorney at law, is trying to introduce me to a “deceased client of mine who shares the same last name as you”.
The said client, I am sorry to say, died in 2005 “as a result of a heart-related condition” as the attorney says delicately in his email, “due to the death of all the members of his family in the tsunami disaster on Dec 26, 2004 in Sumatra Indonesia”. And here the ever resourceful Kun Chun provides a Wikipedia link to the Indian Ocean Earthquake of 2004.
I have an image of this man Kun Chun with ‘tache and beard like Dr Fu Manchu, sidling forth with his piece of paper to elicit my consent to a transfer of US$19,000 (RM63,800) “under a legitimate agreement” without as much as a fanfare.
“If this business proposition offends your moral values,” he adds, “do accept my apology.” He’s a decent sort of guy.
Meanwhile, in the world of real people, I have gained the phone numbers of Kapil and Chitra Desai, Jagdesh Kirpalani, and Sanjay Singh, all apparently working merrily in a busy office in North America.
They flew like doves in my direction, released into the air at the click of the Send button by someone named J. Radia. I have since written to J. Radia to warn her of the randomness of the sorting office of this email provider, and she has replied with an er and an oops and many profuse thanks and apologies and a cheery “Have a great day!”
The email address that I am talking about isn’t the one that you see at the bottom of this page, so I can say “God rest ye merry” to all those who have written to me, but it’s my other one that just the other week gave me a snoop into the social life of one Isatou Ceesay Kebbeh who is now pining for her friend Tida. So if Miss Kebbeh is reading this, I hope she will soon write in with some news for me to forward to her friend in Gambia.
Which brings me to my son who was in a hotel lift one day with a gentleman from Africa. “Ah,” said the burly man who was looking resplendent in a Nigerian buba. “Why are you burning all those churches in Malaysia?”
“I am standing here and you are accusing me of burning churches over there,” riposted my son after recovering from the initial shock of the inquisition. “You’re Nigerian, you must be the man who’s been spamming me with those cod emails.”
The shortest route to instant connectivity is the email.
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