Wednesday, January 10, 2007


Traveller's Guide to Living.

I am a loner, I just thought you should know.

I prefer to be alone sometimes, and I only seek company when I desire it. I am so used to having a license to surrender in self-pity, that now when I no longer am forced to do so, I still retain the habit of keeping to myself.

I read a book sometime ago, where the young intrepid heroine claims that her entire machismo act is just a cover for her ardent shyness. I remember thinking, ‘she got it in words’ when I read that paragraph to myself.

And although I call it a habit rather than a negative attribute that I am so selfish, I have found that as a result, I am seldom aware of my surroundings.

So I guess it makes sense that my two favourite places are the cities I’ve visited nearly every year since I was born. I hope that they count, despite the fact that they are both my parents’ hometowns, respectively.

During the recent Eid celebrations, my family and I travelled to these two spots, and after years away from both, I rekindled my love for Pasir Mas and Penang.

Pasir Mas has always existed in my memory. The first realization I had that every year, I was going back to Kelantan, came when my mother announced to a friend over the phone that she was from Kelantan. I was six, and this discovery was something of a surprise to me.

“But Ma,” I couldn’t stop myself from saying, “I thought we went back to Johor every year.”

When I told her recently, she claimed that she wasn’t surprised, considering the state of the organization of my mind now, that I was so clueless, even as a child.

My grandmother’s mostly-wooden house was built from the highest quality wood (I forgot what kind) by my grandfather, who saw to it that it would last generations. Every year, on the way to my kampung, I fall asleep in the car, anticipating the solid thumps of the wooden panels as my young cousins, in the tens, run around indoors, either making barricades out of pillows and playing fort, or simply catapulting themselves from the window and onto the pebbly underside of the house. Much to the fear of their parents.

I look forward to the scent of mosquito coil smoke, staying put to our clothes and hair until days after we arrived back home.

I look forward to watching as old men work their trishaws past our house, or listening out for the tinkle of the homemade ice cream man on his bicycle, with wafer cones and tinny hot dog buns for ice cream sandwiches.

I look forward to watching wooden homes, each uniquely designed and painted, dotting vast spaces in between green bushes or yellowing paddy fields. In my mind, I would compare them to the ugly, bland uniformity of the housing areas back home, and relish the sights.

I look forward to slipping past my mother and her sisters and their respective husbands, as they flit through the kitchen, each bustling with getting kinder for the outdoor grill (which is still the best way to get anything cooked) or coconut leaves for the nasi impit, or peeling the onion and skinning the ginger. This year was notable for my being assigned kitchen duty. Dang.

This year was different. The house was coloured different, it was a different Eid, there were fewer people than I was used to, and my grandmother didn’t really favour the rich smell of the mosquito repellent coils anymore. But then again, I had not visited in years, no thanks to the awful timing of my exams. And I had been out of the country, so maybe everything seemed different, regardless.

This year was also different, in that I finally had a digital camera of my own, and as the competitive streak in me searched for bright, attractive photos for my Flickr page, I found my usually fleeting and random thoughts actually find some sort of continuity as they moved through my head, feeding me with comprehension.

I finally understand what I feel about my Malay heritage.

I guess it was also different because I was too old to camp out in the living room anymore. And also, my grandmother, Mek, could no longer afford to foresee the entire cooking operations down in the tiled kitchen. Her feet have been giving her some serious pain, and now she only moved from her room, to the telephone table overlooking the indoor kitchen, and if she could bear it, to the front.

It hurt me, to see her life so different from how I remembered it. I imagined having to change as much as she had. Looking back, I should have sat down more hours with her, and give mind to the guilty pang I felt every time I passed her by.

But I didn’t really, and before I knew it, it was time to kiss farewell to everyone, and make our way to Penang.

I have always had a particular fondness of that island-city. I was born there. I guess that’s reason enough.

But it’s more than that. It’s about how I’ve always known that when I entered Penang, I was entering another city, another state. There is a different charge in the atmosphere, a different vibe. It’s a land the rest of time forgot, until recently. I have never seen another city where everything took its own time to age and grown old. Penang really managed to age gracefully.

You know when a city is proud of itself. I see it in my Penang, where the current generation still live in the old houses they grew up in, even though they drive around in the latest Mercedez models. New businesses open up in abandoned Edwardian mansions. The same couple my parents used to visit for desserts still work where they left them, nearly two decades ago. And according to my parents, they look as young as ever.

The same ocean front, Gurney Drive, remains a famous dating spot, and an outdoors lounge for families at night. Not even the tsunami, which brushed up against it, could change anything much. Every time we leave the Evergreen Laurel, which overlooks the ocean, my mother glances up at her dream home: an apartment at Number One, Gurney Drive.

I cannot pinpoint my most vivid memory of Penang, but one of the stronger ones would have to be driving along the Penang Bridge, the third-longest in the world, with the windows rolled down and our heads jutting out, just so we could feel the face-whipping breeze past through our mouths, never mind that we whiffed more exhaust than ocean breeze.

Line Clear, the nasi kandar stall which operates in an actual alley, still makes the best stuff in the world. Near it would be the Indian clothing boutique, where I bought my most favourite peasant blouses. We would always pass the gorgeous Eastern & Oriental Hotel, and on cue, my parents would repeat stories of haunted elevators, and how Anna Leonowen’s husband was buried in the nearby cemetery. This year we didn’t visit Komtar, which used to be a modern landmark before I was born, mainly because nothing’s changed. At all.

I’ve always had the feeling that I, the directionally challenged, would actually succeed at driving in Penang, because I’d end up in the same familiar circles, going through streets with British names, and always passing the same girls’ school or kopitiam.

It is a small, cosy island, the soil I was born to. Now, I realize that the only fitting thing would be to visit the hospital I was born in, as I reach my twentieth birthday in eight days. It would be a trip I would go alone, because nobody else would understand. Also because I wouldn’t stand the company.

I guess now, compared to my primary school years, I am a loner by choice.

In any case, just like in Melbourne, I wouldn’t mind wandering the streets of Pasir Mas or Penang alone, safety reasons aside. I can just imagine it: Me, walking through the streets, snapping up photos of nearly everything and imagining what Helen would comment about them, and thinking --

-- as easy as God has given this to me, He can take it all away.

Life is a celebration; a gift from God. Treat it with respect and dignity. And treasure it.

'Do they not travel through the land, so that their hearts (and minds) may thus learn wisdom and their ears may thus learn to hear? Truly it is not their eyes that are blind, but their hearts which are in their breasts.'

[Al-Hajj, 22:46]

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this has been a rant by Syazwina Saw at 3:07 pm

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