Granted, I’ve not only been out of America for months, but have been in China, a country not known for its accessibility, especially of foreign news or information. I’m grateful to my friends who send me snippets and news articles, keeping me somewhat posted on the outside world.
One way that I have seen parts of America while in Malaysia have been through TV and movies, and I must say, it’s embarrassing.
One waiter asked, “Where are you from?” I answered, “America.” (which still feels like a strange way to answer that question.) He replied, “You’re from America?? You watch Family Guy? I LOVE Stewie!”
Granted, I do watch Family Guy, or at least I did. And yes, Stewie is hilarious. But I found it strange to think that this man, who has never been to my country, is bonding with me over a show that is based on me laughing at…myself and my culture.
In KL I went to a movie in a real movie theater, a true over-seas treat thanks to the exchange rate: 14 Ringit/30 RMB/$5 USD. I saw the only English movie other than Yogi Bear, “No Strings Attached” with Ashton Kutcher and my girlfriend, Natalie Portman.
In a not-as-dimly-lit-as-I’d-have-liked theater where Kelly and I were the only Americans, it was another time of laughing when no one else was, and cringing from the portrayal of American girls. At dinner with Ashton’s father, Natalie states explicitly that they are “fuck buddies” who “just have sex sometimes.” One of Natalie’s friends at a frat party states, “It’s a frat party. All you have to do is be drunk and sexy,” as the camera pans out to her shorts with “WHORE” on the ass. Classy.
That being said, I laughed. I enjoyed it. I reveled, even, in the English on the screen and the Non-China setting. But when the movie finished, I ducked my head and tried not to be seen. I’ll admit that I toyed with the idea of talking in a British accent on my way out.
Actually, the first incident occurred in my Aunty Ann’s family living room where Kelly and I sat watching a movie with my cousins and aunts alike. It was called “Dance Flick”, a Wayans Bros. spoof of all the dance movies, especially focusing on Save the Last Dance. If you’ve seen it, you have too much time on your hands.
No really, if you’ve seen it, then you know just how embarrassed I was to watch it in front of this family on the other side of the world. If you haven’t seen it, let me try to explain the predicament I was in:
I was sitting with my Chinese family in a Muslim country, where most people have never met a black person and have never been to America. I couldn’t help but feel somewhat personally responsible for the American setting of the movie, and for the racism-made-funny-because-its-kind-of-true on the screen.
(I know that my family in Malaysia doesn’t have quite the view of diversity or understanding of black culture that I gained from my 7 years in New York. My cousin William, while driving me home at 2 am, asked, “Do black people and white people get along? Is everything equal in America?” I wasn’t sure how to respond. I thought of teaching and how I always make sure to tell the little ones that it’s not over just because we have black history month and are reading a book about Martin Luther King. But I also didn’t want to promote the view of America as racist, white-run segregation, or as I know his father says of it, “Goddamn blacks everywhere.”)
So there I was, watching a spoof where I couldn’t not laugh, but I also couldn’t help explaining (almost apologetically) why I was laughing. They’d never seen the original movies either, so it was difficult to explain how this “spoof” was funny, although extremely exaggerated. For example, the final romantic final kiss between the white girl and black boy who were to represent the Save the Last Dance couple, was interrupted by white guys walking by. The girl immediately took out her keys and pretended he was a valet. She stammered stereotypical proclamations like, “My car’s the one blasting COLD PLAY” and “Don’t steal anything.” In another scene one of the Wayans brothers came in, kissed his baby, before declaring “I’m out.” The mother said as he left, “He’s such a good daddy.”
I’ve never been so proud to be an American.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Return to Batu Caves and other Touristy Adventures
On Saturday we decided to take my Aunty Sui Laun up on her offer to take us around, and requested a visit to Batu Caves. These limestone caves are at the top of a 300 stair-climb, and are set behind a 43 meter high golden statue of a Hindu deity.
In the caves at the top are a number of Indian statues and altars. At the very back there is a giant wall of rocks and vegetation where wild monkeys swing and play. When I came in 2001, the monkeys were mostly found on this wall. Now, they were everywhere.
They stalked the grounds like hungry rodents, armed with opposable thumbs. They begged from the visitors, their palms up, reaching for their bags. The bolder ones grabbed them from unsuspecting tourists, who were busily taking photographs. This was the opposite of the snake temple, whose snakes, once free to slither here and there on the ground and roof, were now only in safely guarded trees and stands.
My aunt grabbed my arm, warning, “Be careful. They attack people.”
It was another reminder that I’m not in America anymore, land of lawsuits. Though I must say there is something I respect about a country where you’re responsible for yourself and your own idiotic decisions. Such was the choice of one man, who crawled down, eye-level with the hungry, wild animals he had just sugared up with convenience store treats, and barely kept both eyes after it swiped at his face.
Keeping my distance, of course, I did enjoy watching the monkeys. They had been brought many small bananas and coconuts by wiser tourists or locals who frequent the temples. I could spend hours watching them peel and crack the fruits with the pristine fine motor skills unavailable to most wildlife.
After Batu Caves we went to the National Art Gallery. It is a small and free art gallery, one of the only in Malaysia, and it holds mainly contemporary art. I enjoyed watching my Aunt and Uncle, who admittedly could not recall ever being in an art gallery before, holding hands as they walked through the rooms, pausing here and there and whispering to each other.
My aunt came to me, pointing at Kelly and asking, “She studied this?”
“Yes, she has a B.F.A. in Painting. Now she’s the art teacher at my school.”
“Oh, so she does painting with them?”
“Yes, painting, drawing, sculpting, all kids of art for grades 1-5.”
“Oh, that’s why she’s looking around.
I can’t understand all this.”
I laughed, but it’s not so secret that I know virtually nothing about art myself. I remember one of the first times I met Kelly and Kit and some other artistic friends at the Whitney and realized, with slight horror, that I had absolutely nothing to say. That aside, I love being in art galleries, looking and thinking.
But how exactly are my Uncle and Aunt supposed to make sense of a giant quilt-like painting with golden wine glasses in one corner and bejeweled jug-like semicircles protruding seemingly randomly throughout the left side?
My aunt proclaimed again, “I don’t understand this” while looking at a porcelain unicorn with what appeared to be giant Tonka-wheels. It was no surprise when they got to the second floor, found a bench, and waited for us to finish.
They have a very agreeable disposition, however, even insisting when we said we were ready to go, “Are you sure?? No second round?”
In the caves at the top are a number of Indian statues and altars. At the very back there is a giant wall of rocks and vegetation where wild monkeys swing and play. When I came in 2001, the monkeys were mostly found on this wall. Now, they were everywhere.
They stalked the grounds like hungry rodents, armed with opposable thumbs. They begged from the visitors, their palms up, reaching for their bags. The bolder ones grabbed them from unsuspecting tourists, who were busily taking photographs. This was the opposite of the snake temple, whose snakes, once free to slither here and there on the ground and roof, were now only in safely guarded trees and stands.
My aunt grabbed my arm, warning, “Be careful. They attack people.”
It was another reminder that I’m not in America anymore, land of lawsuits. Though I must say there is something I respect about a country where you’re responsible for yourself and your own idiotic decisions. Such was the choice of one man, who crawled down, eye-level with the hungry, wild animals he had just sugared up with convenience store treats, and barely kept both eyes after it swiped at his face.
Keeping my distance, of course, I did enjoy watching the monkeys. They had been brought many small bananas and coconuts by wiser tourists or locals who frequent the temples. I could spend hours watching them peel and crack the fruits with the pristine fine motor skills unavailable to most wildlife.
After Batu Caves we went to the National Art Gallery. It is a small and free art gallery, one of the only in Malaysia, and it holds mainly contemporary art. I enjoyed watching my Aunt and Uncle, who admittedly could not recall ever being in an art gallery before, holding hands as they walked through the rooms, pausing here and there and whispering to each other.
My aunt came to me, pointing at Kelly and asking, “She studied this?”
“Yes, she has a B.F.A. in Painting. Now she’s the art teacher at my school.”
“Oh, so she does painting with them?”
“Yes, painting, drawing, sculpting, all kids of art for grades 1-5.”
“Oh, that’s why she’s looking around.
I can’t understand all this.”
I laughed, but it’s not so secret that I know virtually nothing about art myself. I remember one of the first times I met Kelly and Kit and some other artistic friends at the Whitney and realized, with slight horror, that I had absolutely nothing to say. That aside, I love being in art galleries, looking and thinking.
But how exactly are my Uncle and Aunt supposed to make sense of a giant quilt-like painting with golden wine glasses in one corner and bejeweled jug-like semicircles protruding seemingly randomly throughout the left side?
My aunt proclaimed again, “I don’t understand this” while looking at a porcelain unicorn with what appeared to be giant Tonka-wheels. It was no surprise when they got to the second floor, found a bench, and waited for us to finish.
They have a very agreeable disposition, however, even insisting when we said we were ready to go, “Are you sure?? No second round?”
Overheard in KL
I noticed people eating roti (flat bread) with some curry on similar trays in the lobby. Considering that they were all the same, I assumed it was an unadvertised breakfast provided by the hostel. To confirm, I asked one older gentleman, “Is the breakfast complimentary?”
He replied, “This is the breakfast, I’m afraid.”
“Is it free?” I asked, tying another approach.
“I think it’s some kind of pancake.”
“Thank you,” I said, and walked upstairs.
He replied, “This is the breakfast, I’m afraid.”
“Is it free?” I asked, tying another approach.
“I think it’s some kind of pancake.”
“Thank you,” I said, and walked upstairs.
Friday, February 11, 2011
New Year in KL
This week in KL has been just as I hoped. Kelly and I spend most of our days walking around, putting the map I bought to good use, writing for me, painting for her, and having the freedom to do as we please.
Taking this
as a trip out of China, feel no guilt in going to Whiskey bar two days in a row for whisky served right on a tray with a cup of ice, a cup of water, and the whisky separated for you to mix and sip as you please. I’ve also indulged twice in their cheese platter, which is a treasure I thought I would be missing for another six months.
I am understanding more how the lunar New Year lasts for 15 days. The lanterns and lights remain all around to signify the celebration, and there are spontaneous lion dances, fire works, and firecrackers on many different days. They were so loud one night that I didn’t dare leave the hotel room, but luckily had a view of the fireworks over the trees from my hostel. The booms and cracks were so earth-shaking that I had a better idea what it must be like to be in war before the 21th century.
By chance, when going to the Aquarium, they were setting up for a special acrobatic lion dance. The lions, each made up of two people, one controlling the head being the front legs, and another, back down, making up the body and rear legs, did the “dance” on top of 20 poles 10 feet high. The other lions also came through the crowd and tossed us oranges through their pen mouths. It was a spectacular sight watching them leap through the air, though I foun1d myself nervous for the boys, some of whom couldn’t have been more than 12, without the reassurance of knowing that it turned out as planned.
FYI – I applaud the aquarium in KL for making the feeding times for the different animals public shows. I’ve always walked through zoos and aquariums and thought it’d be much more entertaining to see the animals moving around and eating. The sea life in KL exhibits were exceptional lively, including an octopus that was swimming, suctioning, and climbing all about. (Until now, I’d never seen them do much of anything, and only spied the corner of octopus skin through a rock wedge.) They also encourage you to watch their feedings, so I saw them in the tank holding out fish chunks to the 5 foot long arapaima (Amazon River fish), sea turtles, manta rays, and even tiger sharks. Well done, KL!
PS… The newspaper, South China Morning Post, reported on 2/19 that in Beijing there have been 501 injuries, 2 deaths, 1 person blinded from fireworks since the year of the rabbit began on Feb 2nd.
Taking this
as a trip out of China, feel no guilt in going to Whiskey bar two days in a row for whisky served right on a tray with a cup of ice, a cup of water, and the whisky separated for you to mix and sip as you please. I’ve also indulged twice in their cheese platter, which is a treasure I thought I would be missing for another six months.
I am understanding more how the lunar New Year lasts for 15 days. The lanterns and lights remain all around to signify the celebration, and there are spontaneous lion dances, fire works, and firecrackers on many different days. They were so loud one night that I didn’t dare leave the hotel room, but luckily had a view of the fireworks over the trees from my hostel. The booms and cracks were so earth-shaking that I had a better idea what it must be like to be in war before the 21th century.
By chance, when going to the Aquarium, they were setting up for a special acrobatic lion dance. The lions, each made up of two people, one controlling the head being the front legs, and another, back down, making up the body and rear legs, did the “dance” on top of 20 poles 10 feet high. The other lions also came through the crowd and tossed us oranges through their pen mouths. It was a spectacular sight watching them leap through the air, though I foun1d myself nervous for the boys, some of whom couldn’t have been more than 12, without the reassurance of knowing that it turned out as planned.
FYI – I applaud the aquarium in KL for making the feeding times for the different animals public shows. I’ve always walked through zoos and aquariums and thought it’d be much more entertaining to see the animals moving around and eating. The sea life in KL exhibits were exceptional lively, including an octopus that was swimming, suctioning, and climbing all about. (Until now, I’d never seen them do much of anything, and only spied the corner of octopus skin through a rock wedge.) They also encourage you to watch their feedings, so I saw them in the tank holding out fish chunks to the 5 foot long arapaima (Amazon River fish), sea turtles, manta rays, and even tiger sharks. Well done, KL!
PS… The newspaper, South China Morning Post, reported on 2/19 that in Beijing there have been 501 injuries, 2 deaths, 1 person blinded from fireworks since the year of the rabbit began on Feb 2nd.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Lesson #1: “z” for “s” is not to be Trusted
We booked Ocean Palmz Hostel through a miscommunication. Kelly had been researching hostels and found Traveler’s Palm had excellent reviews. In the booking, we were sent to its next door neighbor, Ocean Palmz, and I didn’t realize the change until it was too late. I’m going to go ahead and call not losing the $5 security deposit and booking another place instead mistake #1.
Traveler’s Palm has a locked front gate, brightly colored, freshly painted walls, and a front yard that is indeed lines with palm trees. Ocean Palmz is set back from 20 feet of cement and sponge-painted to make the fake concrete blocks look dungeon-esque in maroon and black. Nevertheless, I kept optimistic thinking that saying about books and covers might also apply to hostels…
Our room was a small, windowless room on the first floor, close enough to the lobby to hear the chatting of the owner’s family and crying of their albeit-adorable baby. The sliding bathroom door was broken in half, but it was possible to slide one side to the other so that it mostly closed. Now, when I pay $13 USD per person per night, I’m not expecting aesthetics. The problem came at night.
Kelly and I were weary of the bed sheets. We slept on top of everything at first, completely disregarding the shabby blanket that looked like it was far too unfamiliar with the inside of a washing machine. After a while when we couldn’t sleep, Kelly proposed that we get into her sleep sack, a sleeping bag-shaped silk sack used for just this purpose. We covered the pillows with a towel and got into the silk, but I could not shake the feeling that I was being eaten alive.
To the credit of the hostel, much of my anxiety came from the left-over nightmares that I had when I slept in a NY apartment with bed bugs. I had dreams that I woke up with giant, swollen bites. By 8 am, when my Aunty Sui Faun called, I felt that I had just fallen asleep and asked politely to call her back later.
When I did get up, I only had two bites, but one on my left arm was a swollen oval about 2 inches long. And we still had another night to go.
Kelly and I attacked the second night with discipline. We made sure that we were exhausted, relaxed, and ready for bed before we went back to Ocean Palmz (armed with a small bottle of merlot, just in case.) Inside our room, we killed two small bugs and a cockroach, which I used as the excuse to get an extra sheet for the night. The owner, who I’ll say is extremely friendly and accommodating, assured me that it was “impossible” to see a cockroach here, as he obliged the extra sheet and took back the offending blanket.
Over the extra sheet, inside the sleep sack, with the towels as extra protection, I was able to get some good, nightmare-less sleep. In the morning I was putting our trash near another trash can and saw a giant cockroach. It was time to go.
Silver Lining: What I love about this is that it fits my theory of starting low and working your way up. This was my first hostel, and things can only go up from here!
(The new hostel, on the same street, is so new, clean, and reasonably priced that we booked it for the rest of our trip.)
Traveler’s Palm has a locked front gate, brightly colored, freshly painted walls, and a front yard that is indeed lines with palm trees. Ocean Palmz is set back from 20 feet of cement and sponge-painted to make the fake concrete blocks look dungeon-esque in maroon and black. Nevertheless, I kept optimistic thinking that saying about books and covers might also apply to hostels…
Our room was a small, windowless room on the first floor, close enough to the lobby to hear the chatting of the owner’s family and crying of their albeit-adorable baby. The sliding bathroom door was broken in half, but it was possible to slide one side to the other so that it mostly closed. Now, when I pay $13 USD per person per night, I’m not expecting aesthetics. The problem came at night.
Kelly and I were weary of the bed sheets. We slept on top of everything at first, completely disregarding the shabby blanket that looked like it was far too unfamiliar with the inside of a washing machine. After a while when we couldn’t sleep, Kelly proposed that we get into her sleep sack, a sleeping bag-shaped silk sack used for just this purpose. We covered the pillows with a towel and got into the silk, but I could not shake the feeling that I was being eaten alive.
To the credit of the hostel, much of my anxiety came from the left-over nightmares that I had when I slept in a NY apartment with bed bugs. I had dreams that I woke up with giant, swollen bites. By 8 am, when my Aunty Sui Faun called, I felt that I had just fallen asleep and asked politely to call her back later.
When I did get up, I only had two bites, but one on my left arm was a swollen oval about 2 inches long. And we still had another night to go.
Kelly and I attacked the second night with discipline. We made sure that we were exhausted, relaxed, and ready for bed before we went back to Ocean Palmz (armed with a small bottle of merlot, just in case.) Inside our room, we killed two small bugs and a cockroach, which I used as the excuse to get an extra sheet for the night. The owner, who I’ll say is extremely friendly and accommodating, assured me that it was “impossible” to see a cockroach here, as he obliged the extra sheet and took back the offending blanket.
Over the extra sheet, inside the sleep sack, with the towels as extra protection, I was able to get some good, nightmare-less sleep. In the morning I was putting our trash near another trash can and saw a giant cockroach. It was time to go.
Silver Lining: What I love about this is that it fits my theory of starting low and working your way up. This was my first hostel, and things can only go up from here!
(The new hostel, on the same street, is so new, clean, and reasonably priced that we booked it for the rest of our trip.)
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Kuala Lumpur
I arrived in KL last night, and was promptly escorted by Aunty Sui Laun, Uncle Hak Ngee and Yee Hu, the whole bunch. Although I was appreciative of saving a potentially expensive cab ride, I was worried about their driving all the way into the city just to drop us 20 min. later at our hotel. I needn’t have worried.
Not only did they bring us to our hotel, but up to our room. (No, we don’t mind sharing a bed.) They gave us a bag of waters and crackers, and then took us out to dinner. It was great to see Yee Hu again, who was the first cousin I met when he came to the states back in 2001 when I was in high school. He still remembers how I took him out to the cranberry bogs in Rochester to visit my friend James, where he asked, “This place…no electricity?” due to the scarcity of street lights.
It was great to see them. They are lovely and warm and friendly, and some of my favorite family on this side of the world. But the joy of having this day to wake up and do as I please is immeasurable.
I suppose that a country with lots of family isn’t the best match for my first attempt at backpacking.
Not only did they bring us to our hotel, but up to our room. (No, we don’t mind sharing a bed.) They gave us a bag of waters and crackers, and then took us out to dinner. It was great to see Yee Hu again, who was the first cousin I met when he came to the states back in 2001 when I was in high school. He still remembers how I took him out to the cranberry bogs in Rochester to visit my friend James, where he asked, “This place…no electricity?” due to the scarcity of street lights.
It was great to see them. They are lovely and warm and friendly, and some of my favorite family on this side of the world. But the joy of having this day to wake up and do as I please is immeasurable.
I suppose that a country with lots of family isn’t the best match for my first attempt at backpacking.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Penang
Being in Penang, I feel that I am finally getting to learn about Chinese history/family traditions, from my actual family. It is wonderful to be here without my father, not because I don’t miss him terribly, but because now I am a cousin or a niece, not just Siew Mun’s daughter.
Also, with Kelly here, I am finally not the whitest, most foreign person at our family gatherings. It’s just beautiful.
I’m finally getting to know the island, after seeing the same clock tower, temples, and historical streets for the third time (sometimes fourth time, as we were taken multiple times this journey by different family members.) I can find King Street, where my father grew up, for myself in little India. I joked that by my fifth trip, I will tour my cousins around.
My week in Penang was filled with exciting, if exhausting, days filled with mostly food. Kelly and I were fed big family meals by day and evening, and then were taken out by one cousin or another at night.
Highlights: Seeing the Temple of 1000 Buddhas brilliantly lit up for Chinese New Year, watching the sunset at the beach, and having a German beer at a bar that felt more like NY than I have since August.
The strangest thing is that in Malaysia, a place that once felt every bit the opposite of the world, now, compared to China, has the comfortable feel of going home. English is everywhere, and the food is now familiar to me. I’m seeking for myself the char kuay teow, roti chanai, prawn and curry mee (noodles) that I’ve been missing these past years.
I’m also realizing how silly to be in China to learn about my family. Barely any of my family has been to China, and their slight interest to go is not one of root discovery. My whole life I’ve been explaining, “No, I’m not Malaysian. My father was born there, but we’re Chinese.” In ways, that is true. My family is not Malay, like the Muslim country. But being part of Malaysia’s large Chinese population is not the same as being raised China, especially in the past 50 years. Coming here from China, I realize that my father’s history has as much to do with heat and sweat and being a minority as it does with Chinese traditions and culture. I’m sure that I wouldn’t have been able to put my finger on this had I not been in China, and I’m grateful for what I have left to learn in my time in Beijing.
Also, with Kelly here, I am finally not the whitest, most foreign person at our family gatherings. It’s just beautiful.
I’m finally getting to know the island, after seeing the same clock tower, temples, and historical streets for the third time (sometimes fourth time, as we were taken multiple times this journey by different family members.) I can find King Street, where my father grew up, for myself in little India. I joked that by my fifth trip, I will tour my cousins around.
My week in Penang was filled with exciting, if exhausting, days filled with mostly food. Kelly and I were fed big family meals by day and evening, and then were taken out by one cousin or another at night.
Highlights: Seeing the Temple of 1000 Buddhas brilliantly lit up for Chinese New Year, watching the sunset at the beach, and having a German beer at a bar that felt more like NY than I have since August.
The strangest thing is that in Malaysia, a place that once felt every bit the opposite of the world, now, compared to China, has the comfortable feel of going home. English is everywhere, and the food is now familiar to me. I’m seeking for myself the char kuay teow, roti chanai, prawn and curry mee (noodles) that I’ve been missing these past years.
I’m also realizing how silly to be in China to learn about my family. Barely any of my family has been to China, and their slight interest to go is not one of root discovery. My whole life I’ve been explaining, “No, I’m not Malaysian. My father was born there, but we’re Chinese.” In ways, that is true. My family is not Malay, like the Muslim country. But being part of Malaysia’s large Chinese population is not the same as being raised China, especially in the past 50 years. Coming here from China, I realize that my father’s history has as much to do with heat and sweat and being a minority as it does with Chinese traditions and culture. I’m sure that I wouldn’t have been able to put my finger on this had I not been in China, and I’m grateful for what I have left to learn in my time in Beijing.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)