Sajakkini

It’s one helluva bitch being an explorer these days.

The age of the dashingly romantic khaki-clad adventurer and his trusty Senoi Pra’aq trekker is well and truly dead.

Forget fear-factor thrills. Dodging the irritating sensationalist press, allegedly expert historians, and scheming bureaucrats are the latest perils. Conceited annoying academics and bumbling politicians are the new Nazis. And with the ever vigilant RSPCA (and Malay Mail) on alert, whipping galloping steeds has to be swapped for the more humane but mundane steering of a 4WD.

Add a strong dose of capricious filibustering from bruised superior egos all-around, and that pretty much sums up the current state of my quest for the Lost City of Kota Gelanggi.

Welcome to the sad World of Malaysian Discoveries.

RAIMY CHE-ROSS counts geriatric archivists in antiquarian libraries and chilled out stoners at roof parties as his fraternal colleagues. He intends to learn Sanskrit, complete his Asterix & Tin-Tin collection, visit Beirut and finish the full series of CSI before his next re-incarnation.

This is what it really is

Sounds like a whinge? Hell yes.

Historical studies in Malaysia is a dismal pursuit, local archaeology a depressingly incompetent affair.

The former generally breeds on the premise of recycling shoddy research to pad up shoddier resumes. A lengthy CV is a prerequisite for advancement. Incestous academics in an already narrow territorial domain are thus obliged to multiply.

Then there are those reliant on pre-fabricated research work courtesy of their supervised students. Wallowing in their self-importance, most grow arrogant, pompous and academically flabby. Insecurities are rife, suspicions high. External “interference” (particularly from a certain curious maverick independent researcher) into this enclosed self-gratifying domain are thus instantly treated with utter contempt, disdain and fear.

What passes for “archaeological” and “heritage” studies here is in an even sorrier state; or as a senior museum official publicly stated last year, it’s just an excuse to purge excess funds. Conservation, restoration and preservation projects meant for professionals are consigned into grubby tacky hands.

The objective being, not for domestic education or lasting appreciation, but to lure in the cheap tourist dollar. The net result? Towering propaganda, made-to-order national antiques and instant history. Forget about accuracy and authenticity. It’s good and pretty enough for Malaysia. So, who cares about integrity?

Which makes the outcry over my recent revelations concerning the existence of a Lost City sitting right under the KLIA-Changi hourly shuttle flight-path, all the more amusing.

Confusion

But before moving onto further bits of assault and flattery, some errata et addenda are in order.

1. Yes, there’s a Kota Gelanggi in Pahang. No, it’s not the same as Johor’s. The Kota Gelanggi in Johor is meant to be a majestic Kota Batu Hitam (Black-Stone Fort). The Kota Gelanggi in Pahang is a guano-filled Gua (Limestone Cave).
2. Here’s a bit of post-colonial angst: we have our pre-Merdeka masters to blame for the original bungle (more below).
3. You say Linggui, I say Gelanggi. You say Gangga Ayu, I say Wuruwari; Linggiu, Klangkio; sheesh, call the whole thing off already.

Ironically, I have already reasoned the ertswhile muddle created by our colonial scholars; Linehan and Swettenham, who both confused the ‘Kota Gelanggiu’ of Johor with the ‘Kota Gelanggi’ of Pahang, thanks to their aural similitude (the Kota’s, not the Mat Sallehs’).

Check out the last edition of JMBRAS (December 2004. Yes. This is a shameless self-promo drive here). There are 31 pages of my pedantry in there that has already dealt with the non-issue.

These gentlemen, however, were not the only ones guilty of the faux pas. Wolters, our former Emergency-Era Director of Psychological Warfare and later internationally acclaimed scholar of Srivijayan studies, confidently equated Kota Gelanggi with Palembang.

Even more comically, Muhammad Haji Salleh, our very own exalted sasterawan negara, transliterated the place-name as ‘Langkawi’ in his recent pricey deluxe-edition of the venerable Sulalat as-Salatin (the Sejarah Melayu’s Arabic refrain).

Though no one, of course, has bothered to correct these icons on their startling blunders.

Simply put: a millenia of diverse texts written in archaic scripts and different languages has blessed the place with various designations. Call it whatever, but it’s still the same Lost City really, by any other name.

So much for expert opinions.

On my part, I feel no reason to stray away from ‘Kota Gelanggi’, seeing that it’s the moniker originally adopted in the very ruckus I had sought to quell.

Besides, it’s now the name most quoted in international press reports from Hong Kong to Istanbul (Constantinople).

Not surprisingly, ‘Kota Gelanggi’ gains the most keyword hits when you Google it online. Check it out; there’s about 800 links.

Type in ‘Linggiu’, and you might get 7.

That’s the main curly-bits out of the way.

Unfortunately, there’s still a lot of pointless distracting confusion being flung about. Plus misleading and erroneous news reports. Perhaps they’re a clumsy delaying tactic, perhaps something more sinister. Whatever it is, I’m hacking my own detour past this petty jungle of juvenile politics. Life’s too short to deal with other people’s insecurities.

Headache

As for the supposed expedition, don’t get me started.

Personally, it’s been a surreal monorail-rumble through Bolehlah-land Zone. There was, for example, that memorable yet absolutely bizarre time when; to my stunned and shocked amazement; my ruminations were submitted to the cabinet by a federal minister, slandered by one hapless chief minister, frantically shrieked at by another, and subjected to MGG Pillai’s hilariously wild speculation, all in the span of 72 hours.

Normally you’d only get blasted by one or the other. Getting slammed at both ends was quite a singular honor.

As a friend quipped, it’ll be excellent fodder for my memoirs one day.

So, bewilderingly, what was once a casual hum-drum, albeit unorthodox, private post-raving recovery pursuit, has now been transmogrified into a Misteri Nusantara-esque international melee.

And yet, in the midst of this all, one vital question remains.

Dude, where’s my lost city?

Dude, where’s my lost city?