The Land Beneath the Winds

No, it's not a corny Bette Midler song.

It refers to Sabah, one of two East Malaysian states situated on the Borneo island, separated from the peninsular West Malaysia by the South China Seas.  It is home to Malaysia's highest peak, Mount Kinabalu (4,095 metres), and the Kinabalu National Park at its foothills is a World Heritage Site, due to the richness of its plant diversity and unique geological conditions.

It's that nipple in the horizon... 

(seen from our Air Asia flight, just minutes before landing)

We did not spend any time near any of that during our short trip over the Vesak Day weekend.  There is much to see and do in this part of Malaysia that seems so familiar, and just yet so different.  We will return another time to explore more.  

It is regrettable that us Peninsularians (I made that word up) know so little of our compatriots over there.  Or maybe it is just me?  I only recall vague notions of the main ethnic groups - Kadazan-Duzun, Bajau, Murut - and that those who maintained their traditional lifestyles in the jungles live in rumah panjang (longhouses), and some of them are were headhunters.  

So with the best intentions to learn more about my fellow Malaysians, I signed the family up for a visit to a cultural village near Kota Kinabalu, despite YL's protests that we should just have a non-productive relaxing holiday.

The Mari Mari Cultural Village showcases the lifestyles of the five largest ethnic groups in Sabah - Dusun, Lundayeh, Rungus, Bajau, Murut.  The Bajau are seafarers, so their houses were built high up on stilts.  In this example of a typical Bajau dwelling, a wedding is in the cards for the daughter of the family, as the long colourful cloth hung along the verandah indicates.  

Speaking of daughters, it was interesting to see the importance every tribe placed in the protection of their daughters.  In every dwelling, except the Murut's, the girls in the family slept high up on an alcove.  The ladders are withdrawn every night after the girls are in their rooms, to prevent unwelcomed visitors in the middle of the night.  The boys slept on a low platform on the other side of the hut, while parents typically sleep underneath the girls' alcove.  

I am guessing the Murut people did not need to do this as they are known ferocious headhunters, their collection of skulls prominently displayed at the entrance to their villages and in homes.

 Don't mess with them or you will be given a place of honour in their home.

After being "welcomed" with an ambush of the Murut warriors as we neared the entrance of the Murut village, we were questioned as to the reason of our visit in a tongue I did not recognise (each tribe have their own language, quite distinct from the Malay language).  After they were satisfied that we were not there to steal their chickens or women, we were allowed in.

They even allowed YL a go at poisoned darts.  If I were them, I'd be afraid of this benign-looking man who hit the coconut 10 metres away at first try.  He is definitely after the chickens, this one.

Poisoned darts and skulls aside, we were also shown many harmless day-to-day practices of the tribes, such as the making of rice-wine, snacks, ropes, vests, cooking methods, and games they played.  

Rice wine

Roti jala, simply made from eggs, flour and sugar.  I like!

Typical meal cooked in bamboo.  Ours had potatoes and chicken flavoured with salt, basil and ginger.  I like!

The guide explaining the clothing of the Rungus ladies indicated their marital statuses.  Sleeves down - single.  Sleeves up - taken.

Here is the longhouse of the Rungus tribe.  Some 20 families live in a typical one.  On the left are the private rooms for the parents and girls.  On the right is a low platform used as sleeping quarters at night by the boys. 

Each room is occupied by one family. 

Longhouse of the Rungus tribe

Somewhere in the middle of a Murut longhouse is a lowered platform made from bamboo. It is held in place loosely by, well, more bamboo, giving it a bounce.  Think of it as a trampoline.  

The men take turns at night to jump on this platform to try to hit the object hung high up on the ceiling. 

I was most impressed by the fact that the whole place was ran by young people.  They were performing, guiding, and sharing their culture, keeping it alive and making it come alive.  Syabas!

The aboriginal boy-band.  They were good.  And good-looking.  I was mesmerised. (Don't tell the chicken thief with the poisonous darts)

Tribal dancers flexing their muscles.  

Speaking of young people, the young Dusun gentleman who drove us to the village told us some fantastical stories about black magic and its modern day applications (think the recent Sulu invasion in Sabah).  He was a young educated man, soft-spoken and well-mannered.  He assured us that black magic is alive and well in Borneo, obliging my fast and furious questions with stories and personal anecdotes about orang jin (genies working for men in exchange for food), penanggal (disembodied flying heads surviving on the blood of pregnant women), curses, witch doctors, and the impenetrable bodies of the Sulu soldiers who recently tried to claim Sabah for their own (the Malaysian army apparently had to recruit soldiers from Sarawak who are skilled in the dark arts to fight them when their bullets and bombs had no effect.  Of course you won't find any of these in the official media.  Ask me for more juicy details).  

I found all this fascinating, just like my kids did...

OK, so the kids did not thank me profusely after the outing, but they did enjoy our stay at the resort, where they mucked around on the beach (a REAL one....not like the ones here in Singapore), enjoying the sunset,

oogled at two of the four orang utan being rehabilitated by the resort's nature reserve,

became ranger for the day, preparing food for the orang utan, and feeding other animals, 

but mostly just demanding to be brought to the Kids' Club

to see Thomas & Friends.

Sigh, so much for education.  But they will thank me and the dart-shooter one day.

A bad break-up

Don't worry, YL is still safe :)

After the shameful shenanigans that resulted in a stolen election last week, I was absolutely devastated.  I languished in a roller-coaster of emotions - from anger to anguish, from crying uncontrollably to spouting F-words every other sentence.  It was like someone trying to get over a terrible break-up.  The world came to an end, and I was fumbling in the dark looking for meaning in life but every road I took brought me to a dead-end.  I looked for comfort in fellow Malaysians at work and at home, but none seemed as plagued as I.  YL told me he was affected, but he seemed pretty normal to me, his burgeoning list of patients probably a good source of distraction.  In hindsight, it was a good thing that only one of us was an emotional wreck, because what was to be done if we were both out-of-order?  The kids would be confused why Baba and Mama are angry and sad, but not at each other.  :)

Erstwhile innocuous words started to take an evil form and triggered a serious vile loathing in me: words like "phantom" (OK, this is not a good example), "lights", "bus", "black".  I could not concentrate on work; I was on Facebook 20 times day commenting, sharing, liking.  I moaned to friends who cared to listen Whatsapp; I trawled Facebook for feel-good positive messages to help me see the light at the end of the endless tunnel and downward spiral.  I subjected innocent non-Malaysian colleagues to a diatribe on Malaysian politics.  <sounds of wide-eyed, fear-filled colleagues scattering in the background>

I wore black every day for the whole week (that's the extent of the black stuff I have in my wardrobe).  I was probably the only one silly enough to do that, but it was a state of mind.  Mourning for my country.

Now the week is over, and I am happy to report that I have slowly but surely recovered from this nasty business.  I continue to mourn for many things - fellow Malaysians abroad within arm's reach of a foreign passport finally picking up that option; fellow Malaysians who feel a heightened sense of shame when calling oneself Malaysian; fellow Malaysians losing momentum in this fight for change; fellow Malaysians being influenced by all the hate messages in the mainstream media, etc.  

But the stories, messages and pictures I see on FB tell me not to worry.  Stories like the one where two Malay chaps defended a Chinese when another Malay called him derogatory names.  Messages from compatriots dissecting the situation rationally and pledging to continue the support for fairness and integrity.  Pictures of 100,000 Malaysians of every colour cramming the stadium in Kelana Jaya in a show of solidarity to reject the dirty tactics.  With these positive reinforcements, I press on with hope, still proud of my country and its people.    

Never change, anak bangsa Malaysia! 

Black

Am in black today.  But my heart is bleeding red.  Like everyone back home. 

If they played fair, I would have congratulated them.  Alas, it was the blackest, dirtiest elections ever in the history of the nation.  Blatant, arrogant dirty play.

But let's celebrate the small victories.  The opposition won more parliamentary seats compared to 2008.  They made inroads into Johor, a bastion of the ruling coalition.  The people are more determined than ever. 

We are young, we will continue the fight.

All for 2 slips of paper

Up at 3:45am.  Drove 400km there and back (thanks, bro!).  All for 2 slips of ballot papers.

It was worth it.

I have been very quiet on the blog because work has consumed all of my waking hours, of which there too many, what with the demands of the kids and husband.  But all the whirr around me here in Singapore are drowned out by the fervour over the elections in the country that I am still proud to call mine.  Tempted several times to blog about my thoughts, but deterred every time by the lack of words to describe this heavy, leaden feeling of gloom threaded with hope, I do not think I can say any more or any better than what my compatriots all over the world have put out on various online media.  With every new revelation of tricks, schemes, and shameful ruling from the Elections Commission, the weight in my heart grows.  

Despite that, the bond amongst ordinary Malaysians continue to grow across ethnic lines.  I saw it during the two Bersih rallies.  I see it again now.  Malaysians are grown up now; we have opened our eyes.  It finally dawned on us that "the other race" is no longer the enemy.  We are in the same boat together.  We are ready for change.  

On Saturday morning, barely caught my two winks, we roused at 3:45am, picked up a fellow Malaysian, and headed for KL, hoping to beat the traffic and to avoid troubles with the authorities, legal or otherwise.  It was a smooth ride, barring a one-hour traffic jam due to an overturned and charred vegetable truck.  We spent the rest of the day with family, trading election news, warning each other about being absolutely compliant with voting procedures and reminding each other to be vigilant of suspicious activities on that day.  

Sunday morning, again with hardly two winks in my reserve, I left KL for Ipoh at 4am, reaching my hometown just after 6am.  It was another smooth drive, with Kau Fu Zai (my dearest brother who gamely drove 400km to escort me to vote) updated me with more election news and politics.  Nourished by Ipoh dim sum and tea (dim sum restaurants open at 5am in Ipoh...we are purists in this aspect), we headed to the voting center which was a primary school, and arrived just after 7am.  We were one of the earliest ones, and queried the mostly Malay staff about the procedures.  They were a little flustered with the setup of everything, but were pleasant and polite.  A good start so far.

I joined the queue behind a young Chinese lady, and started chatting with her and the young Chinese man behind me.  (I belong to a constituency with a predominantly Chinese population)  The young man was going to take up a shift at noon as an observer at another voting station, and gave us tips about the process.  We reminded each other again to check the ballot slips in the presence of the third clerk to avoid any risk of having our ballots thrown out as spoilt votes.  

We also started chatting with the elderly rotund Indian policeman who was watching over our voting station.  We asked if he had voted (yes, on Tuesday - 5 days earlier!), whether the setup in the classroom was ideal and confidential (yes, just cover what you are doing with your butt!), where was the best place to place the queue (over there, but sorry for the sun), etc.  At some point in the exchange, he said with a warm smile, "we serve the public".  At 8 am sharp, he put on his cap, brushed off the wrinkles in his uniform, stood up, and said in a serious tone, "OK, we go slow and steady."  To which the young man behind me chirped, "...slow and steady wins the race."  Smiles all around.  

When it was my turn, I entered the classroom and greeted the Malay clerk in Bahasa Melayu, which was returned with equal sincerity.  Identity card checked, I proceeded to have my left index finger painted with indelible ink (indelible my foot!), and while doing so, overheard the young Malay lady who seem to be the head of that station telling the third clerk not to allow the voters to unfold the empty ballot slips at the registration counter as it will hold up the queue.  I told her in a soft voice that I *would* like to check the ballot slip before I take it with me to the voting booth.  She reconsidered, and said, OK let them check.  Hands shaking now but grateful, I opened up the ballot slips with only my right hand to avoid smudging it with my left, and scrutinised every printed corner of the pink and blue slips.  Satisfied, I gamboled over to the booth, and willed my brain to absorb and digest the symbols carefully.  ("OK, now this is the scale and this is the rocket.  Sure ah.  Rocket is here and scale is there ah")  Finally, hands shaking, I put pen to paper once for the state seat, and then a second time for the parliament seat.  Folding them up again, I walked over to the ballot boxes and dropped them in, along with all my hopes for a fair and clean election.  

Brother and I left immediately after that for the drive back to KL.  Traffic was normal on the roads.  But something in the air was different.  It smells of ... unity.  And change.  It is not whether it is the scale or the rocket.  We just want our leaders to know that we choose who gets to lead.  

Ethnicity is mentioned several times in this post, because it has been used in Malaysian politics and society since her colonial days.  Our past leaders drew these lines loudly and boldly.  Divide and conquer.  It is important for you to know that what is happening now is blurring these lines.  We are no longer Malay, Chinese, Indian, Eurasian, Kadazan, Bajau, or Dusun.  We are Malaysians.   

No matter what the results of the elections are, I pray with the ardour that only a desperate, lovesick citizen can muster, that we will remember to keep up this spirit - united we stand, divided we fall.  

Negaraku

We are far, but our hearts have never left, 

The land which nurtured our bodies, our minds, and our souls,

This is why she is still...negaraku* 

Our hearts bleed for her greatness that is not fulfilled,

Our hearts weep for the chasm dividing her people,

Our hearts mourn for the injustice percolating in the streets. 

But we have hope, we have passion, we have courage.

This is why we came out today for....negaraku*.

* my country

International Day Again

Pardon me for the silence in the past several weeks; work has been crazy and it is just a matter of time before I  have to prove my worth to my company for sending us on this prolonged family holiday in Paris :)  The early mornings-and-late-nights-at-the-office routine is nothing much to blog about, except lauding YL's quiet unflinching tolerance looking after two boisterous, bickering kids at home till bedtime.  (His actual words were "We're happy without you".  Hmmm.  Tact have never been his forte.) 


But finally, there is something to talk about this weekend, Sophie's school's annual International Day.  I helped out at the same event on my own last last year, and it was a real pleasure to be able to attend it this year with her.  Like last year, the idea is to create an opportunity for the kids to learn about the countries and cultures of their classmates.  They are each given a "passport" with a different country on each page, and they have to answer a few questions about each country to receive a stamp.   There were 38 countries on display this year.

And once again, the Malaysian makcik and kakak (aunties & sisters) have put together an impressive room to welcome the "tourists".  The place was filled with Tourism Malaysia posters and paraphernalia.  For food, we had curry puffs, dodol, wajik, love letters, muruku, teh tarik & nasi lemak (these last 2 on the menu are reserved for Malaysians only :) ). 

YL demonstrating batu seremban and congkak to Sophie.

Sophie is a real tourist in her own country.  She does not understand Malay, is averse to spicy food, and does not know what is an orang utan is until today.  She identifies herself as Singaporean.  She said to me after the event that if there was a Singapore booth, she would have been able to answer all the questions without help and without a doubt.  Oh when will our beloved country sort itself out?  When will we be able to return to our tanah tumpahnya darahku*? (* Literal translation:  the land where I spilled my blood.  You know what I mean)  

The Chinese sheikh

She was rather proud of getting her stamp for Italy without help.  

(Who painted the Mona Lisa?)

Trying on the Korean hangbok 

She took one look at the sunflowers and knew the answer to the question in the Netherlands

(Name a famous Dutch painter.)

Writing her name in Japanese

These Japanese snacks were one of the best I had today 

While over at the good ole' United States of the America, guess what they served?  Popcorn.

With some of her best friends in school.  The medals were given out by the Great Britain booth, in celebration of the Olympics to be held in London this summer.

And finally, we're home, in Malaysia...

Welcoming the Water Dragon in the Tropics

(aka Happy Chinese New Year, from Malaysia!) 

The Chinese New Year always falls during an exceptionally scorching-hot period in Malaysia.  With the non-stop commute between various bustling spots around the Klang and Kinta valleys to visit relatives and friends, cranky toddlers having meltdowns while stuck in traffic, extortionate prices charged by enterprising capitalists everywhere (last year, our local neighbourhood aunty-hairstylist charged us RM20 to cut Ju’s fistful of hair), and the fitful nights caused by the neighbours’ all-night parties and firecrackers, there is really a lot going against it. 

But once again, we prove ourselves to be demented people with several loose nuts in our heads, and so we bundled up the kids and headed back home for one action-packed week of CNY celebrations with the family.  For there’s the inimitable food back home including Nai Nai’s famous kitchen, the exchange of family gossips, the joy of reconnecting with old friends, the lessons about the importance of family, and the passing on of Chinese traditions.  

First things first: getting reacquainted with tropical-strength humidity, tee-shirts, shorts and slippers, and grass that you can actually step on.

Next: The national sport, badminton!

Next, family members like cousins, and

heroic uncles.  

Burning incense for the deities, and asking them to make him grow older and taller quickly (not sure they can do anything about the height part - have you seen how tall his parents are??)

First encounter with firecrackers.  He was amused but scared all the same.

Uncle Khim can get these kids to do anything.  Why?? 

   

One last family photo, and...

off we go again, back to the wintry charms of Paris.  

Gong Hei Faat Choy, everyone!  Wealth and good tidings to all!  

Stockholm - YL's Selection