The Internation House (the first hostel I stayed in) looked very much like this.
Haa, my dear friend, see , I'm up to Part 3 now. What a movie this would make ya ! Naw---I don't think so...
Throughout my short stay at the International House, let me describe the interesting characters that I met. Some I couldn’t remember their names.
The Indian brother and sister
Okay, these two were Indians (rich of course) from Dubai - don't ask me how come !. The sister’s room was next to mine on the first floor. She was really good-looking and naturally attracted the guys. The brother was staying on the ground floor. Brothers being what they are, he was always protecting her and worried about her. The sister, a flirt that she was, was naturally fed-up of the over-protective brother.
Now the walls of the hostel were not thick enough to suppress the sounds from the next room. And of course there were discriminating sounds coming from her room almost every night – the squeaky bed, the grunts and what-have-you. I always knew when a guy would sneak into her room. Of course it wasn’t my business to tell the brother, and she was grateful for that. Poor brother!
The next morning she would always be the sweet, innocent and vulnerable little sister cooing away at her brother. With a twinkle and a wink from her eye, she would always flash a knowing smile at me – behind the brother of course.
Mike, my Anglo- Spanish buddy.
He was half Spanish and half English. He was my pool, billiard and snooker mate. We would play at the lounge till way past mid-night. We go out often —when he didn’t have dates. Dance nights or just the pubs at the University or the College Union House had always been the cheapest way of passing our time on weekends.
But, what a ‘ladies’ man’ he was. It was always a sure thing that the night would end with some ladies playing pool with us.
Later, he was kicked out of the hostel because he was caught bringing a girl into his room for the night when the warden caught him walking to the bathroom in the morning with only his brief on.
Anyway, one evening, I wasn’t feeling well but he wanted me to follow him to a party at the girls’ hostel. So I did. It was a distance away and we had to take a bus. He had already been drinking and by the time the bus arrived, I had to hold him steady. On the bus, a few elderly English women were passing rude comments about us being foreigners.
The next thing I knew, Mike was speaking to me in words which had no meanings at all – loud enough for the women to hear. So I got the cue – and did the same. It was easy for me—I just spoke Malay, cursing all the obscenities, and my friend Mike was just speaking goobledegooks—just rubbish meaningless words. AND WE WERE SERIOUSLY DISCUSSING THINGS WHICH WAS TOTALLY MEANINGLESS. We never laughed at all ALTHOUGH I DIDN’T KNOW JUST WHAT THE HELL HE WAS TALKING ABOUT. Sometimes he would get up on his feet and shouted at me as if he was angry. But the two women shut up.
Anyway when we got off the bus, we were literally rolling on the floor laughing our hearts out.
Now the party ended way past the time when all visitors should leave the premises. There was no way that we could leave by the main gate. So we roamed around the building and found the dark laundry room.
Mike decided to sleep on a work table and I found myself a nice long shelve to call it a bed for the night. So we slept, until the lights came on,
I heard voices of the security guards and they were waking Mike up, telling him off. At that moment, I got down from the shelf and asked what was going on.
I remembered one of the guards swore and shouted something to this effect, “Bloody hell, there’s another one of them!!”.
Anyway we were unceremoniously escorted out of the girls’ hostel compound at about 4.00 am in the morning. We had no choice but to sleep at the bus-stop. It was winter. It was freezing! We were frozen!
Told to leave the hostel
In the International House, every Thursday would be special because free tea would be served in the lounge to all residents. The idea was good as the hostel management would use the opportunity to convey necessary instruction. It also provided a chance for residents to know each other.
However, one evening, something else happened. While having tea, the management introduced a young couple who looked more European then English. They were in the mid twenties.. The boy had a guitar with him and we never thought of anything else other than perhaps a night of musical entertainment.
Now, after playing about four songs, the girl (gorgeous looking) talked about herself and her partner. She told us that they were former Muslims but could not find peace in the religion until they converted to Christianity. ( I apologise to any readers who might be offended, but this actually happened and I am telling this without any prejudice.)
This went on and on: belittling Islam and praising Christianity.
To me something was not right. There were about 10 Muslim residents from Sabah with me. I finally started questioning the couple on religious issues. This went on until they fumbled badly in all their answers pertaining to Islam. They finally asked for my name. I gave my name and reminded them that it’s a Muslim name.
To me , there were certain things I could not compromise on.
The atmosphere was tensed. Anyway, the next morning, I was called to the Warden’s office and was told to leave the hostel within 2 weeks.
I have no regrets leaving the establishment other then gratitude for their compassion when I first registered without paying any deposits when I was the victim of a pick-pocket.
The life of a homeless.
After 2 weeks, I still could not find an alternative place., However I decided to move out anyway, – to a friend’s house some 3 km. away from the University . You can hardly call it a room because what was available was actually an attic (attics fill the space between the ceiling of the top floor of a building and most often a slanted roof, they are known for being awkwardly shaped spaces)
To get to the attic, I had to climb a vertical ladder. It was winter and it gets very very cold at night as there was no heating. I could not stand up straight as the floor to roof height is very low—about one and a half meters high.
Naturally I had no bed - just a sleeping bag laid on a dusty floor. Above me would be the skylight and I could see the stars on a clear night. But when it snowed, I could see snow falling on the glass skylight and the sleeping bag was not enough to keep me warm.
I was an attic resident for almost two weeks.
65, Grafton Street.
That was my new address when I finally found a room. It was the front room of a three-storey terraced house. Now this place is strange in its own way. I occupied the front room on the ground floor and an Ethiopian occupied the back room.
The whole of first floor was occupied by a single mother, a Bruneian woman with her three kids. On the top floor was a young Sabahan lad who was a health freak.
Now, the Ethiopian was strange in the sense that he would bring home a woman and kept reminding me that he was having fun by making as much noise as they could. There was an occasion when I caught them in total nude in the bathroom taking a bath together. URGH!--but not for him I guess.
The Bruneian woman has an English boyfriend who also acted as her baby-sitter. The guy was a jeweler designer and later became a good buddy of mine. Of course they kept me ‘entertained’ by running around on the first floor and giving me sleepless nights.
ooooboy---what a life....And now the health-freak. Every evening, whatever weather it may be. He would be jogging and you can tell he’s at home when you hear him hollering ‘Sultan of Swings” and strumming on his guitar. But he was good company and we got on well .
Oh, by the way, there was an electric slot and gas slot for each floor. Everyday we would put in at least 50 pence or maybe more in order to get the electric or gas supply.The land-lord was a black Nigerian taxi-driver who stays across the street and who loved calling us for his weekly rent when he got back from work ---at 2.00 am. in the morning.
Hmmm… this place may be nothing to look at … but the people in it? That’s something else.
8, Virginia Crescent, Worthing Street.
I stayed for about 1 year at Grafton Street because my sister later decided to buy a house at the above address. It’s a little 2 + 1 bedroom terrace house in a cul-d-sac. I was excited and was busy turning it into a neat little home. I used to do maintenance work like re-painting during summer and I think my biggest pride was when I repaired the front window frame by cutting out the rotten parts and replacing with new wood. I would rent equipment, used paint removers and repainted the wooden frame.
This was to be my home throughout my stay in Hull.
My Advanced Diploma Years.
The day after registration, all overseas students were required to attend an English class for three hours a week or so. However after only one session, I was told by my lecturer that I need not attend the sessions anymore.
The Faculty of Education was housed in a big double storey bungalow. Again, everytime I stepped in the building the same waxy smell hovers in the air. I loved it so much and wondered if it’s the floor-cleaner they used. Now you would not believe this.
I was so obsessed with this scent that I actually traced it with my nose (of course I had to come very early when there was no one around), sniffing and trying to trace the smell. AND, I traced it to the wooden banister of the stair way. Haaa! Must be a furniture polish they used –just like the ones in the hostel.
The classmates.
Now my class consists of local teachers and, take a load of this, teachers from Brunei. I was the only one from Singapore. Anyway, with due respect to the other Bruneians, I did not think much of my classmates.
Like the Arabs, there was no doubt that they were all very well-off financially. They never stop to compare with each other about the gadgets and electronic stuff that they had just bought. In short, they were just flaunting their wealth. Of course poor students like me could only just listen and nod my head while suppressing the mother of all yawns.
If today’s students are using ‘copy and paste blindly’ method to do their assignments, these people were veterans at copying past students’ work. (I never cease to wonder where and how they got those supplies of answers.
Anyway, as we go deeper into the course, work got more difficult. The English language, which was and still is second nature to me, turned out to be their biggest nightmare. Assignments were piling –for them anyway.
One evening, I had visitors. A group of these Bruneian students came to my little room and, take a load of this, —offered to pay me to do theirs assignments. I HAVE NEVER BEEN SO INSULTED IN MY LIFE!
I can’t repeat the language that I used on them but suffice to say that they will never want to visit me or see me again.
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