M A C V A Y S I A

Saturday evening Leen and I went to a wedding at the Armada Hotel in PJ. It was the wedding of my former colleague, Nadzrah, to a really tall French guy named Olivier. Just before leaving for the wedding, we discussed whether or not we should bring Alisdair along. Should be no problem, I said. Besides, I said, if we don’t bring him, we’ll find everyone else brought their kids, and everyone will be asking why we didn’t bring Al. So we brought Alisdair along. What a silly thing to do.

Alisdair was very charming at first. Smiling, laughing, running here and there. Yes, it was all charming at first. But after a few drinks of the very sugary syrup drinks being handed out to guests, the laughing and running were amplified exponentially. It was pointless to explain to him that he was not meant to be the centre of attention, that such an honour was reserved for the lovely couple wearing fancy clothes at the head table. Alisdair seemed quite happy to be the centre of attention that night. So happy, in fact, that he seemed intent on sharing his glory with his father. Look! There’s little Alisdair, running around the tables. Look! There’s Jordan, chasing after him. Oh look! There’s Alisdair climbing up the steps to the pelamin. And look! There’s Jordan, turning quite red as he tries to coax his screaming little boy back down. Oh, my former colleagues — there were quite a few in attendance — must have found it so entertaining.

An attempt to take Alisdair back to our table resulted in a screaming fit, so I took him out of the hall to try and calm him down. I kept trying to explain to him that he needed to be a good boy, but everything I was saying clashed with his idea of a good time, which involved lots of running and screaming and jumping. His frustration was made worse by the fact that he hadn’t had his afternoon nap. So he was tired, cranky, full of sugar, and two years old. If that’s not a recipe for disaster, I don’t know what is.

Those of you who are or have been the parents of toddlers are probably familiar with the toddler’s weapon of last resort. If they don’t get what they want, they’ll cry. If they still don’t get what they want, they’ll cry more loudly. If that doesn’t work, they’ll scream and thrash. If that doesn’t produce the desired effect, they’ll do their best impression of Linda Blair in the Exorcist. At first that will merely involve more forceful crying and thrashing, and perhaps an attempt at spinning the head all the way around. But eventually, they’ll break out their ultimate weapon: they’ll make themselves puke.

Having failed in all his attempts to get his way, Alisdair switched on his barf cannon and fired a pile of hot, syrupy vomit all over my shirt. The only good thing about such an event is that it almost invariably ends the stalemate. The focus of both parties switches to the task of cleaning up, and also of consoling the distraught toddler (one of their main reasons for resorting to the technicolor yodel is almost certainly the fact that it gets them plenty of sympathy). The bad thing about this particular stomach bombing was that it only ended the stalemate for a short time. Eventually we went back into the hall and everything continued as it had before, except that now my son and I smelled like vomit. The only thing that saved the evening was my camera. I handed it to Al and he went around taking pictures, which was much more charming than the raging monkey routine he had performed for much of the evening.

Last night one of Leen’s colleagues came over for dinner, along with her husband, their son, and a friend. Just as we sat down to a lovely meal (Leen’s delicious mee hailam), Alisdair got into a tiff with our youngest guest, something involving the toy cars the lad had brought along. Once again he puked, but this time Leen was his victim. And boy did he spray her good. They both had to have a shower. I sat at the table and smiled feebly at our guests. Their kid is almost three. It’s okay, we understand, said Leen’s colleague. We really understand.

The good news, as the title says, is that Alisdair is cute. He’s smart, he’s funny, and he’s doing great with his potty training (I never thought I’d be so happy at the sight of an O-Henry-bar-sized log in the toilet). I just want to squeeze him. Of course, sometimes I feel tempted to squeeze him really, really hard. Just have to count to ten first, I guess.

So another new year is upon us. Another one, you ask? Well, we’ve already celebrated our regular, plain old new year, and the Islamic new year has come and gone. So what’s this one?

Chinese new year, of course.

Yes, we’re about to usher in the Year of the Rat. And what an eventful Chinese new year it’s turning out to be.

I’m about to experience Chinese new year in Malaysia, as I have several times over the last few years. It’s an interesting holiday, for sure. I’ve also had the good fortune of being able to experience the holiday in China, where pretty much everyone doesn’t call it new year but instead refers to it as the Spring Festival.

Anyone who’s been following the news knows that this year’s Spring Festival is a rather complicated one, with winter storms wreaking havoc upon several Chinese provinces. The southern province of Guangdong, where I spent one of the most interesting years of my life, didn’t get the snowy blast that hit other provinces, but it is indeed seeing more than its share of havoc.

The days just before Chinese New Year (yeah, I can’t help but call it that) are filled with havoc in Guangzhou even in a good year. That’s because the somewhat prosperous city’s population is bolstered by huge numbers of people from other provinces who migrated there looking for a better life. When Chinese New Year approaches, they all want to go back to their hometowns; since most can’t afford plane tickets (and the flights are sold out in the blink of an eye anyway), they have to take the train.

I’ve complained about the trains in Malaysia, but they seriously have nothing on China. Actually, Guangzhou’s equivalent of Malaysia’s LRT is way better, but the trains you need to take if you want to leave the city, well those are the stuff of nightmares. My good friend Ice—my brother from a Chinese mother—had to endure a 40-hour journey from Guangzhou to Changchun, in the country’s frigid northeast. He was almost too traumatised to talk about it, but he did mention something about the train being so packed that he couldn’t even get out of his seat; when he finally managed to push through the crowd on the train, spurred on by the overpowering urge to relieve himself, he even found people three-deep in the toilet. Every square centimetre of the train was occupied, which made bottles essential for any passenger (many of those anticipating having to do more than a mere pee were also prepared, apparently). That was all he told me before he went silent and stared at the ground. 40 hours. Okay then.

If that was the scene on the train, just imagine what it was like when everyone was trying to get on at the main railway station in Guangzhou. Just multiply the number of people exponentially. We saw the crowds when we were there, and let me tell you, it was insane. Now throw in a heavy winter snowfall that has pretty much crippled several other provinces and screwed up the transportation system, and what do you get?

Chaos.

Go here for some videos, and here for a video of a stampede at the station. Go here for some pretty compelling photos of the military’s efforts to deal with the human tide, and here for a blogger’s personal account of some of the chaos at the train station.

I think I’d better give Ice a call. Hopefully he didn’t even try to go home this year. If he did, he’s probably somewhere in that crowd. Hopefully he’s okay.

And hopefully everyone will still have a happy Chinese New Year. To all my Chinese friends: Gong Xi Fa Cai!

Well, it didn’t rain on Leen’s cousin’s wedding today in Kampung Melayu Subang. It was a pretty good day. I do find the wedding season tiring, but one thing that makes it a little less painful is the fact that Leen’s family can be so much fun (and since it’s a big family, that means big fun).

We figured it would be nice if we could get to the party early so the night before the wedding we rented some rooms at—of all places—the Rubber Research Institute of Malaysia. Ah yes, rubber. At one time there were no rubber trees in Malaysia, but one day someone decided it would be cool to get some from Brazil and now there are lots of ‘em. No trip to Leen’s hometown would be complete without a drive by one of Johor’s many rubber plantations, which really smells and always gives me an excuse to say to everyone in the car, “If you want to fart, do it now!” But I digress. The RRIM is on the road to Sungai Buloh, and if you drive inside and navigate the little roads with funny names (Jalan H. Microphylla, Jalan H. Nitida, Jalan H. Brasiliensis, etc.), you’ll find a nice-looking group of buildings, one of which is the Malaysian Rubber Board’s lodge. It’s only RM60 a night to stay here, which is already a sweet deal but we got the rooms for RM45. Wicked, eh? We booked the room for two nights because the plan is to go straight to KLCC on Christmas morning so Alisdair can splash around in the wading pool, and so we can meet up with Fir Mamat. Should be a good time. Azlin and Faaris are with us and will be going with us in the morning.

I was hoping to go to bed early, but it’s almost 4 AM and I’m still up, because I really wanted to upload a video to YouTube. It’s a very short video of Alisdair saying hello (well, not really, but you know) to his grandmother and his uncle Troy. My mother really wants to see it, so damn it I’m going to upload it. Not a fun process when you’re using Bluetooth to connect to your phone’s WAP connection. It’s really slow and the connection crapped out several times. Anyway, it finally finished, so without further ado, here’s Alisdair’s Christmas greeting:

OK, so he’s not into the whole Christmas thing. There is another video in which he manages to get out a nice baby talk Christmas greeting without crying, but that’s twice as long and would take hours to upload. This one will have to do. I think it’s cute enough.

Merry Christmas from the MacVays: me, Leen, Alisdair, and of course Smokey.

I know my mother’s going to be calling because this morning I read a story on my favourite Canadian news site about the floods that have been making life nasty in parts of Malaysia. I’m assuming there was a short soundbite on the TV news as well. For everyone outside of Malaysia, here’s the scoop: everyone’s OK. It’s supposed to rain like crazy today in Selangor and the Klang Valley, but hopefully we won’t experience the scale of flooding they got hit with in Johor and elsewhere. In Muar, Leen’s hometown, things are fine except for a wonky water supply, but that’s OK because the in-laws came to stay with us last night so we can all attend yet another wedding on Sunday (I have no idea when Leen will run out of single cousins). The parents of my brother-in-law’s wife, Tipah (I guess that would make her my sister-in-law), had to move to higher ground because their kampung house in Pagoh got swamped.Tipah and Leen’s brother won’t be coming for that wedding.

Anyway, the news coverage of the floods highlighted a little language point that always bothers me. The same photo can be seen at both the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation site and also the New Straits Times site. What’s interesting is the slight difference in the captions. On the CBC site:

Railway staff inspect tracks damaged by floods in Segamat, in the southern state of Johor, Malaysia, on Friday.

On the NST site (and in their print edition):

A railway staff inspecting part of a track damaged by floods in Segamat.

Now, some might think the difference is that the NST chose to focus on the man in the foreground while the CBC included the ones in the background. But that isn’t why the descriptions are different. They’re different because, in Malaysian English, one person can be referred to as a staff, whereas in Canadian/American/British and just about every other variety of English, staff is a collective noun.

In standard English, staff can indeed be either singular or plural. But if used in the singular it can only refer to a group. A staff, then, cannot be just one person (unless that one person just happens to be the only member of a particular staff, but that use is restricted to certain cases). However, the use of the word staff to identify or describe a single person is widespread in Malaysian media. The same is true of the word personnel, which is often used in Malaysia to refer to one person when in fact it can only refer to a group (its use in standard English is even more restricted than staff, as it can never be singular).

I’m 75% tempted to just dismiss these quirks of Malaysian English as incorrect use of the language, but there’s still that other 25% telling me to simply accept them as just that: Malaysian English, and therefore perfectly acceptable. The rules governing singular/plural/collective/mass nouns can be incredibly complex, so it can’t be that unreasonable to think different—and equally valid—ways of using them might arise in different places where English is used. Perhaps staff and personnel can be Malaysia’s gotten (apples and oranges, I know, but I think my meaning is clear).

Well, maybe it’s not 75-25. More like 95-5. But I’m trying to be nice about it because I’m willing to give Malaysians the benefit of the doubt. I mean, I prefer to think of the frequent sightings of such uses of staff and personnel in Malaysian English papers as the natural evolution of a distinct variety of English, because the only other option is to assume that the editors of the Star, NST, Sun, and other papers consistently let glaring grammar mistakes slip by them.

(By the way, in spite of everything I’ve just said, I’m pretty sure the title of this post is grammatically correct. Go figure.)

He’s so articulate, eh? OK, so I’m not quite sure what he was saying. But whatever it is, he says it so well.

The in-laws were up for the weekend to help us put on a little housewarming thingy, which went quite nicely. Last night Ibu took Leen aside and surprised her with the following question:

“Do you love your husband?”

Duh, Leen thought, and said something to that effect.

“Then, if you really love him,” Ibu continued, “make him stop riding that bicycle to work!”

The reaction to my new hobby has really floored me. I knew riding my bicycle 20 km to work three times a week would raise some eyebrows, but some people are really having a difficult time accepting it.

“Even Banglas ride motorcycles when they can,” said Ibu. That wasn’t the first time my in-laws suggested I ride a motorcycle instead.

OK, first of all: a bicycle has two wheels; a motorcycle also has two wheels but goes a lot faster than a bicycle and doesn’t have to spend nearly as much time in the lane (as opposed to on the shoulder) as a bicycle. On what planet is a motorcycle safer than a bicycle?

Second: I think this is less about my safety than about face. It seems I shouldn’t ride a bicycle simply because I don’t need to. Leen’s been walking to work twice a week (2.5 km, but still), and that provoked a similar reaction from Ibu, something about how dentists just don’t walk to work.

Well you know, we went and forgot where we parked our Lincoln Navigator. Silly us.

Anyway, my method of getting to work might not seem too silly in the new year, when the two tolls I would have to drive my car through ten times a week go up 30 sen each. (Speaking of strong reactions, I’d love to post a photo of a fine work of art my colleagues and I whipped together, which involved a newspaper photo of Samy Vellu, something that looked like horns and a cheesy moustache, and a word balloon that mentions something about a hair transplant. But I’d hate to go to prison or get deported over something so silly.)

Another thing that provokes a surprisingly strong reaction from Malaysians is when a father takes his baby out alone. Oh my God, you mean the baby’s mother is somewhere else? But you’re a man! Can you handle it? Yesterday Leen was working in Puchong. I took Al to a clinic to get his latest shot, then I took him to Puchong to see his mommy. We had a great time together, and it was no trouble at all. I did OK, imagine that. And I don’t even have breasts. Thank God Leen is of the same mind as Dr. Miriam Stoppard, who points out in Conception, Pregnancy & Birth:

Your baby doesn’t have any notion about the difference between mothers and fathers. She just wants to be loved and cared for. Men can do these things just as well as women and caring for your baby helps build your relationship with her for the future. That fact alone makes a powerful argument for parenting being equal and shared.

OK, perhaps I should take this opportunity to admit that I was scared shitless when I first took Al out alone. But I did OK. Who’s your daddy now?

A few days ago one of my former students from my year in China emailed me to see if I could find the mistakes in something he’d written for work. I wasn’t sure how to reply. Tonight I replied and told him there are so many mistakes I’m not even sure what it all means, and that maybe he could start by making the sentences shorter.

Here’s what he wanted me to proofread:

Profile
Our company is by the Dongguan bureau of industry and commerce authorization, has in Dongguan the healthy group company and the Chinese chemistry ministry of industry Zhonglian rubber main corporation initiates together, by famous producer SSL group and China famous producers of a ¡õcenter healthy group limited liability company in August, 1999 the official evaluation joint capital contract, invests 7.9 million Yuan establishments, is China produces the adult health care thing the joint venture, produces and sells the happy happy series product. At present, it also is happy happy series product produces the factory in world 17th. We are the natural toy specialized production factory, by reason of the unremitting goal, the abundant research and development, the production strength, obtained each correlation customer market the approval! This company host camp product uses the import raw material, the sense of reality is lifelike, the majority of products are sell in distant markets North America, Western Europe, area Southeast Asia, has won various customers good appraisal. Our company has introduced the world advanced production equipment and the craft technology. The product manufactures the entire process to realize “GMP the” standardization management, the product quality achieved the SSL group unifies the international standard, its correlation technical specification surmounted the nowadays whole world strictest European Union CE test standard, as well as international authentication standard ISO9002. Is China produces one of adult health care thing companies, forecast in the future two years the market share will double. The company has 8 years specialized production and researches and develops the adult thing, the natural appliance experience. Once provided for the domestic many well-known merchants puts up a factory the start technical support, including the equipment production, the installment, the debugging and new staff training and so on, and provided OEM for it. Company’s prestige and the technical level obtained the customer market approval, set up the good oral traditions in the domestic customer, we through and do with the domestic and foreign famous merchants, we have grasped the world most advanced production technology and the design idea, product covering thing all classes, including female uses the series Male uses the series Crystal set of SM instrument and so on . The happy happy series product take the brand-new quality image as China’s adult, the natural health will make the positive endeavor, and will give the advantageous supplement to China’s adult market high grade demand. Sincerely welcome each place to count the fresh contraceptive to stand with the domestic and foreign dealers establishes the broadest cooperation relations with our company.

The scary thing is that he was one of the better students.

I feel bad for not sending him a more detailed reply, but I simply don’t know what to say.

Remember how I said I’d bought a bicycle, and that I wanted to start cycling to work? Well, I’ve been doing it. Since buying the bike I’ve been cycling to work three times a week, on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. I haven’t been totally consistent, but I’m getting there.

So far a lot of people have expressed their disapproval.

Some say it’s too far. OK, actually a lot of people say it’s too far. Sure, it’s a 40km round trip. But it’s all good, soon I’ll be in wicked shape. And hey, the distance isn’t as scary as it sounds. I can usually make it to work in 45 minutes and I haven’t had sore legs at all yet.

Some say it’s sheer lunacy to ride a bicycle on Malaysian roads. Sure, you need to have eyes in your arse, and I’m sure I don’t need to go into what Malaysian drivers are like. But I’ve found that if you keep a clear head and ride smart and stay the hell out of everyone’s way, most problems can be avoided. And despite the chaos that reigns on Malaysian roads, one good thing is that Malaysian drivers are already quite accustomed to sharing the road with two-wheeled vehicles. I know, it’s different when it’s a bicycle, but I’m an optimist, remember? Or perhaps I’m a realist, because I know that bicycle commuting in Malaysia requires assertiveness, but it’s a different assertiveness than that which is advocated by supporters of bicycle commuting in the west. They’ll tell you to ‘claim your lane’ and other stuff that would lead to a quick but messy death here in Malaysia (come on, could you imagine what would happen if I used the standard western arm signal for a right turn here?). Bicycle commuting here is like doing Parkour on two wheels. You quickly decide on the path of least resistance and then just go for it. What a rush.

Then there’s the lecturer from my uni’s school of medicine who told me he ‘can’t accept’ my new hobby because my knees will be ruined by the time I’m in my fifties. OK, that may be true. But I’d rather have sore knees and the fitness of someone half my age than be a fat slob with great knees. I dunno, you give and take, right?

My mother says she doesn’t want me to cycle so far because I’m already skinny and I’ll get even skinnier. Actually, if I fuel myself properly I’ll build muscle and increase my bone density. And hey, I may have a ’slim’ build, but it’s starting to get more difficult to keep the spare tire off my midsection.

Then there are the people who bring up the hazards of riding at night or in a nasty rainstorm. I’ve already done both, no big deal. Just have to be extra-careful.

Thankfully, I’ve also had plenty of support, especially from Leen. And now that people have seen that I actually went and bought the bike and that I’ve actually been doing what I said I wanted to do, I think some of the naysayers have become more supportive too. And anyway, I paid RM1500 for the bike and its accessories, so damn it I’m going to use it.

I haven’t spent much time on the bike this week. Monday morning I was less than halfway to the office when my front tire blew. I have to get it fixed. If I can get that done soon enough, Friday morning I’ll be on the road again.

This is pretty cool. I figured out how it works (I’m sure you will too after looking at it a few times), but it’s still cool. Give it a try.

Last month Leen and I bought new mobile phones. There’s a small shop in the Tesco complex in Kajang that was offering really good deals so we said what the heck and bought a phone each. Leen bought a Nokia 6280 and I went with a Nokia 3230. All was well, until Leen started having minor issues with her phone. The battery didn’t last very long, the slider wasn’t very smooth, plus a couple of tiny issues I can’t remember. She took the phone to a shop and the guy there told her it wasn’t a genuine Nokia phone. Then she went to Nokia and the people there told her the same thing. They showed her how to tell whether it’s genuine (mainly looking for the Z-Tron label inside the back or something like that) and told her the phone she had was basically a cheap knockoff.

Needless to say she was a bit miffed. So was I after I took a look inside the back of my phone. Miffed would be quite an understatement, actually. We went straight to the little shop in the Tesco complex. I marched up to the counter, dropped the phones—packed neatly back into their boxes—in front of the workers, and told them I wanted two real phones. They were flabbergasted. They said they only sold real phones, not fakes. They said that while the phones they sell are not ‘genuine’ Nokia phones, they are not fakes either. Yes, that’s what they said. They said the phones are called ‘AP phones’ and are basically the real deal except they’re put together locally so they can be sold at a lower price, kind of like how Peugeot uses Naza to manufacture their cars in Malaysia.

I’m not quite sure what to make of all this. First of all, if the phones had sported a ‘local’ brand name, I wouldn’t have bought them. Nor would I have bought them if the salesperson had mentioned they weren’t genuine Nokia phones. I’ve lived in China, I know how crappy fakes are. When I went to the shop the other night, the salespeople told me I should have known the phones were AP phones, because everyone else knows. Is that true? I mean, if I go to Petaling Street or Damansara Uptown, I know full well that anything with a brand name on it is a cheap knock-off. But if I’m in a supposedly reputable shop and I buy a brand-new phone that comes complete with the box and all the accessories and all that, I would expect that phone to be genuine. According to the salespeople, with whom I was losing more an more patience with each passing minute, practically every shop that sells new mobile phones is actually selling AP phones, with only a few selling the genuine article.

I was quite angry and made that quite apparent to the salespeople. I told them I wanted genuine phones, and of course they told me I’d have to add a few hundred ringgit. I said no, because I had thought they were selling me genuine phones in the first place, and now I wanted what I had paid for. Things started to get ugly and they had to phone their boss several times. We left there with the same AP phones and paid a visit to the boss in his other shop in downtown Kajang. He swore there was nothing wrong with AP phones, using the Naza example again, blah blah blah. He managed to diffuse my anger a bit by giving us new batteries and chargers, but he wasn’t willing to budge an inch on my demand for ‘real’ Nokia phones unless I added several hundred ringgit. We left with our phones but told him we’d be back if we found out we’d been ripped off.

So we still have those same AP phones. They seem to be OK, and mine especially has always worked like a charm (aside from the occasional software glitch that these phones seem to have, if I can believe most of the reviews I’ve read). The phones even came with warranties, although they’re only covered by the company we bought them from, not Nokia itself. Actually, I like my phone. For now.

My question is: what’s up with AP phones? Are they legal? Have I been ripped off? Considering we got the phones cheap, I’d be inclined to say no—if not for the fact that what we got wasn’t what we thought we were buying. If there’s nothing dodgy about the phones, I’ll feel a little guilty because I was teetering dangerously close to the edge of asshole territory in my conversation with the salespeople at that shop. However, if these AP phones are in fact a big rip-off, I’ll have no qualms about going back to the shop owner and acting like a complete asshole.

So can anybody shed some light on this for me?

Well, it’s exam time again at the university, which for me means three things: no classes (yay!), some proctoring (which no matter how many times I do it will always sound like something that requires the use of surgical gloves), and lots and lots of marking.

I’m a little lazy to give a good written description of how marking makes me feel, so here’s Alisdair to help me demonstrate:

Thank you, Alisdair.

Now, where the heck did I put my red pen?

So Tariq Kamal has passed the ‘50 Posts to Independence‘ baton on to me. His contribution to the project is a good read, despite his insistence that it was terribly rushed. Mine is also terribly rushed, not because I didn’t know about it but because I’ve been busy. OK, that’s just an excuse. But anyway, like everyone else who has contributed to the project, I was given a week to write this, a week that ends today. I picked at it here and there, in between exam proctoring sessions and marking and meetings and lots and lots of family time. Rushed as it is, I hope it will suffice.

Here’s my contribution, post #40 in the countdown to independence.

**************************************************

My relationship with Malaysia and Tariq’s are different in many ways. His is the story of a Malaysian, born into a prominent Malay Muslim family, who tasted freedom from the oppressive weight of his culture and religion overseas but then somehow found Malaysia was indeed a part of who he is anway. As he says, “It’s shitty, but it’s home. You can’t take that away from me.” Nor could he take it away from himself. What was supposed to be a glorious freedom from the shackles of all that Malaysia represented became instead an awkward distance that brought with it an important realization :

But this is home. I learnt something in that dark and empty year — that I would not be able to dig out being Malaysian from my pscyhe in pretty much the same way I’d be able to dig out being male, Malay, Muslim or middle class. It’s there. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.

My story is different, but the same, but then again different. It’s different because I’m not Malaysian. It’s the same because, like Tariq, I moved away from home and learned to appreciate it, that it is a big part of who I am. But then again, my story is different because I’m here to talk about what Malaysia means to me, not Canada. That’s going to be a tough one though, because my Canadian-ness—my foreign-ness—is a big part of who I am here in Malaysia. Tariq’s story is that of someone who was pulled back to Malaysia. Mine is the story of someone who is being pulled—and pushed—away.

My name is Jordan MacVay, and I am not Malaysian. I’m from Canada, a country that is different from Malaysia in too many ways to list here, although similar in more ways than I might be willing to admit. In the year 2000 I fell in love with a young Malaysian woman. In 2001 we were married. In all the time in between I had to come to terms with an important fact: she would have to return to Malaysia upon completion of her studies. That meant I was going to leave Canada, to emigrate to Malaysia. And in 2002 that’s excatly what I did.

I remember sitting on the plane, watching out the window as my home faded away beneath the clouds. A longtime genealogy buff, I consoled myself with the knowledge that I would not be the first person in my family to say goodbye to his home and set out for a new one. My family history is full of stories of people who left their homelands and settled elsewhere. At various times throughout the last few hundred years they set sail from Scotland, Ireland, France, and England on crowded, leaky, disease-laden ships and began new lives in what is now Atlantic Canada. They took that great leap into the unknown. They had all done it long before I did it. I clung to that thought as the plane touched down in Malaysia, my new home.

But my experience would be very different. Those people who populate my past were pioneers who helped shape Canada into what it is today. Everything was new and different to them, but they made it their country. They made themselves at home, and made a home for themselves. They embraced their new home and it embraced them. When I stepped off the plane in Malaysia, I was entering a land that was only someone else’s home. A land that had its own history, its own delicate issues. And its own rules. Not used to embracing newcomers, it politely nodded to acknowlege my presence, then turned away to tend to its own affairs.

In the four years since, I’ve managed to get the occasional glance in my direction, even a grunt or two. But those glances and grunts often give me the very clear impression that I’m supposed to just stay out of the way. After four years, I haven’t been recognized as anything more than a visitor, one whose employment is temporary. One who is expected to eventually leave.

There’s been some shoulder tapping: Excuse me, Malaysia. I don’t want to leave. I’m not a visitor, I’m an immigrant. I’ve settled here. Permanently. I intend to make this place my home.

Yeah, I’ll assert myself. I’ll stand up for my rights, such as they are. But why? Do I really love Malaysia?

You know, for all the complaining I do about this place, you’d think I hated it. I do complain about this country. Its rude drivers, its rampant racism, its ridiculous immigration policies, its ruthless politicians, its rotten environment, its ‘religious’ issues. I complain about them all. Can someone who complains so much possibly love this country?

To be perfectly honest: I still don’t know. It’s a strange, strained relationship.

Canada isn’t perfect, it has its problems too. But that’s the thing, I can complain about them. I can speak and be heard. Canada is my home. In Malaysia, my place is to be seen and not heard. As a visitor, I have two choices: I can enjoy my visit and leave without having caused any problems, or if I feel there are things I don’t like I can just leave now. Even if I had Permanent Resident status, I would be prohibited not only from voting but also from participating in politics in any way. That broad prohibition is the government’s way of saying “If you don’t like this place, just keep your opinion to yourself, because there’s nothing you can do.” Even if I were to somehow be granted citizenship here, I would be able to vote, but what’s the point? I would still be a second-class citizen, with fewer rights and privileges than a ruling class that is extremely sensitive to perceived threats and jealously guards its ‘rights’. And even if I had the same rights and privileges as members of that privileged group, I’d be denied several freedoms that I had become accustomed to back home, most notably religious freedom and freedom of speech. But I’m not a citizen of Malaysia, or a permanent resident. And I don’t know if I ever will be. I’m just a visitor.

I can feel myself being pulled away by my homeland, a place where I belong and which belongs to me, while at the same time I feel I’m being pushed away by this other place, where I often feel like an intruder. Should I just leave? Do I really have any reason to stay in this country?

Canada has immigrants, even Muslim immigrants. They are generally embraced, as long as what they do is not incompatible with fundamental Canadian values. And I think that’s fair. But now I’m an immigrant. I believe immigrants who can’t live in accordance with a country’s fundamental values should go back where they came from. Does that mean I should leave Malaysia? Again, do I really have any reason to stay in this country?

I believe I do.

Yes, I complain. But am I complaining about fundamental Malaysian values? Am I complaining about things that make up the foundation of this country, things that would lead to its collapse and ruin if they were taken away? If all those rude drivers, all that rampant racism, all those ridiculous immigration policies, all those ruthless politicians, that rotten environment, and all those ‘religious’ issues are all really essential pillars of Malaysian society, then perhaps I will eventually leave. But for now I just refuse to accept the idea that the things I complain about are fundamental elements of what Malaysia is and what it wants to be. I believe there are plenty of Malaysians who complain about the same things. I believe there are many Malaysians who want Malaysia to be better. I believe there has been a vision of Malaysia all along in which the things I and many other people dislike about this country do not belong. I believe many Malaysians simply want their country to be better, to be all the things it could be.

I don’t know if that will ever happen. And if it does, I don’t know if I will stay long enough to be a part of it. But I do know that soon Malaysia is going to celebrate 50 years of independence, and God willing I’ll be here to be a part of it. Because somehow, Malaysia has become a part of who I am. And that means, for now, that I have a reason to stay. This is my wife’s homeland. She is a citizen of Malaysia. My relationship with her has given me a relationship with Malaysia, a relationship that has plunged me into a few troughs but has also raised me up on glorious peaks. Not only that, we’ve got a child, and he’s Malaysian. His name is Alisdair Imran MacVay. He’s my flesh and blood, and this is HIS country. He was born here, and he’ll likely spend at least the first few years of his life here, if not most of it. No matter what happens later, whether we leave here or not, whether he wants to love Malaysia or not, there is no doubt that Malaysia will always be a big part of who he is. Like Tariq, he might not be aware of it at first, and maybe, like Tariq, he won’t want to be. But wherever he goes it will be there, inside of him. Part of him, as he is part of it.

I’m still trying to figure out how much I really love Malaysia, and whether I want to stay here—and whether Malaysia wants me. But I do know that there really are things to love about Malaysia. Happy memories, friendships, my wife, my son. My connection to them doesn’t make it any easier to get Malaysia’s attention, but that doesn’t matter. Because Malaysia is a part of me now, whether I like it or not, and whether Malaysia likes it or not. So go ahead Malaysia, you can ignore me, you can keep calling me a visitor, you can even make me go back home. But you can’t keep me from thinking of this place, in some small way, as home too. Like someone once said: it’s shitty, but it’s home. You can’t take that away from me.

**************************************************

Thanks to Tariq for choosing me to be part of this project. I consider it an honour. I also feel honoured to be able to choose Najah Nasseri to continue the countdown. Hey Najah:

Ring ring.

Seven days.

Click.

It’s all good.

Here are all of the contributions to the project:

#50
#49
#48
#47
#46
#45
#44
#43
#42
#41
#40

Well, I’ve written about English pronouns in Malay, and more recently about how pronouns can be politically explosive in Malaysia (and elsewhere). Just in case you haven’t figured out by now that I’m fascinated by languages generally and by pronouns in particular, here’s a big list of pronouns used by Malay people. The list was compiled by none other than Nizar Ismail, who finally did get his own blog but really wanted this list published in mine. He said he’s just using me to get readers, or something like that. Hah! Well, I don’t mind.

The following list, while perhaps not an exhaustive one (someone always brings up another obscure addition), is certainly interesting. I’m not sure about the inclusion of at least one pronoun used by the Semang people, unless they actually use it when they’re speaking Malay. And where’s the northern Malay third-person pronoun depa? And could various titles such as the Malay equivalents of Mr., Mrs., brother, sister, etc. really be considered pronouns? (My guess is yes, since they’re often used without the person’s name as both subject and object.) I can’t really say much else about the list, since I’m no expert on Malay pronouns. All I’ll say is that Nizar did a great job.

Everything below the line of asterisks is Nizar’s. I’ve edited slightly for language and formatting, but otherwise everything’s his. Any text added by me is in parentheses and marked with three asterisks.

OK, enjoy!

*********************

MALAY PRONOUNS

*e = e pepet, sounds like i in bird; ē = e taling, sounds like e in “hey”.

1st person singular pronouns:

Saya - the most common word, pairs with “awak/kamu/anda”.

Aku - common, said to someone close, may sound unmannered if speaker is not close to listener, but in Indonesia, this is OK. Also, when praying to God, “aku” is always used (to show closeness). Pairs with “engkau/kau” in Malaysia, “engkau/kau/kamu” in Indonesia.

Bēta - “saya”, said by a sultan/sultanah.

Teman - “saya”, in Perak.

Cēk - “saya”, in Penang/Kedah, said to someone older.

Kula/kulo - “saya/aku”, in Javanese (in Batu Pahat, Muar, Kuala Selangor, and other areas where old Javanese people can be found).

Kamēk - “saya”, in Sarawak. “Kamek orang” for plural.

Dēnai/Dēn/Ēsē - “saya”, in Minangkabau slang (especially in Kuala Pilah, Negeri Sembilan, and South Sumatera).

Awak - “saya”, in sounthern Perak (Tapah, Setiawan, Bota, Batu Gajah, Grik, etc).

Ambo/Kawē - “saya”, in Kelantan/Terengganu.

Kami/Kita - “saya”, said by kids among themselves, usually in Johor.

Kawan - “saya”, in Johor (not widely used today).

Orang - “saya”, in Singapore (***Jordan’s note: also in Johor!).

Ana - “saya”, from Arabic (sometimes used by Muslim scholars, eg tabligh, or someone who tries to adopt a little Arab culture).

Wa/Gua - “aku”, coined from Hokkien, in Indonesia: “Guē”.

Sinda - (classical, northen slang “I”), to pair with “sira”.

Patik - “saya”, said by ordinary person to a sultan/sultanah.

Hamba - literally means ‘slave’, mainly in classical literature, it shows humbleness.

1st person plural pronouns:

Kami - “we”, plural of “I”, listener excluded.

Kita - “we”, “you + I”, “you all + I”, listener(s) included.

Kema - “kami/kita”, in Perak.

Sēpa - “kami”, in Kedah/Penang.

Iboq - “kami” in Semang (an aborigine tribe in Pahang/Terengganu).

Manira - classical “kami/kita”, probably from Sanskrit.

Kita orang or simply kitorang - informal, broken, very common, daily speech. Not used in Indonesia/Brunei.

2nd person pronouns:

Awak (plural awak semua*) - the common word, pairs with “saya”, not used in Indonesia, though. (* semua means “all”, this word is added to make a plural “you”.)

Engkau/Kau - sounds rude if speaker is not close to listener. Pairs with “aku”.

Kamu (plural kamu semua) - another common word, more formal, higher level (teacher, parents, older, boss) to lower level (students, kids, younger, employer) – there’s a sense of superiority of the speaker, Indonesian Malay doesn’t have “awak”, some Kelantanese/Terengganu people think it sounds rather rude, especially if the listener is older. Ironically, they use the shorter form “mu” to pair with “ambo”. Again, don’t mix up the pairs!

Anda (plural anda semua) - formal or polite form of “you”.

Saudara - “you”, polite, formal, addressed to a male stranger on the street when you want to ask for directions, shops, seminars, etc. Literally, it means “brother”, also used in informal letters.

Saudari - feminine form of “saudara”.

Dēmo - “kamu”, in Kelantan.

Sira - “anda”, classical, in northern states, pairs with “sinda”.

Mika - “engkau”, in Perak, used between close conversants, or older to younger, higher level to lower.

Kome/Komē - “kamu” in Perak, informal. Usually said by a superior speaker.

Hang - “engkau”, in Perlis/Kedah. “Hangpa” = “kamu semua” (plural).

Cēk - “kamu” in Penang, used by older speaker to a younger listener.

Koē - “awak”, in Indonesia.

Kitak (plural kitak semuak) - “awak” in Sarawak.

Ēkau - “engkau” in Minangkabau slang, pairs with “dēn”.

Anta - “kamu”, from Arabic, for a male listener. Pairs with “ana”.

Anti - feminine form of “anta”.

Mung - “kamu”, in Terengganu.

Tuan hamba - literally means ‘master of slave’, mainly in classical literature, it shows greatness, pairs with “hamba”.

Kalian - plural form of “anda” in Indonesia.

Lu - “awak/kau”, coined from Hokkien; in Indonesia: “Loh”.

Kau orang or simply korang - informal, broken, very common, daily speech (plural). Not used in Indonesia/Brunei.

Encik - “Mr.”, formal.

Puan - “Mrs.”, (in Malaysia/Brunei), formal, polite. Don’t use the husband’s name, she’s not “Puan Jordan” but “Puan Leen” (using her own name).

Nyonya - “Mrs.”, especially in Penang, Melaka, and Singapore during pre-independence time, now only used in Indonesia, especially if she is of Chinese decent. “Nyonya Mansur” doesn’t mean Mansur is a she-male! It’s her husband’s name.

Ibu - this doesn’t mean you’re calling another woman “mom”! It’s the equivalent of “Puan” in Indonesia. “Ibu Leen” = Madam Leen.

Cik - “Miss”, in Malaysia.

Nona - “Cik” in Indonesia.

Tuan - literally means “master”. Equivalent to “Mr.”, usually addressed to someone who has performed his pilgrimage to Mecca, eg: Tuan Haji Jordan (pairs with Puan Hajjah Mazleen) (***Jordan’s note: InshAllah!), also means “Sir”, especially to police officer, judge, eg: “Tuan Inspektor”, “Tuan Hakim”, “Tuan Doktor” (this even includes a female judge or doctor!). In that case, it means “Lady/madam” to show respect/status/higher rank. In classical Malay, “Tuan Puteri” (My Lady Princess). Not “Puan Puteri” or “Cik Puteri”.

Bapak - literally means “father”, used in Indonesia. Equivalent to Malaysians’ “Encik/Tuan”, excluding “Tuan Puteri/Doktor”. Eg: “Bapak Polisi”, “Bapak Jordan”. Male only.

Abang - “elder brother”, to a stranger on the street, at a warong, shops, campus. In Malaysia only.

(Kang) Mas - “abang” in Javanese, Indonesia.

Kakak/Kak - “elder sister” in Malaysia, also “abang/kakang” in Indonesia.

Kakēk - “grandpa”, in Indonesia.

Adik - “younger brother/sister”, in Malaysia.

Makcik - “Aunty”, in Malaysia.

Pakcik - “Uncle”, in Malaysia.

Tanter - “Aunty”, in Indonesia.

Om - “Uncle”, in Indonesia.

3rd person pronouns:

Dia - “He/She”

Ia - “He/She/It”

Dēme - “They” in Northern dialect.

Nya - “He/She” in Sarawak. “Nya orang” for plural.

Merēka - “They”

Dia orang - or simply diorang - informal, broken, very common, daily speech (plural). Not used in Indonesia/Brunei.

There you go, a comprehensive list of pronouns in Malay. I made it like ages ago while dreaming that one day I would have my own blog writing this kind of stuff, but I admit it, I do have one now, but I am too lazy to maintain it and this list would be a waste of the time I had killed if I don’t share it with others. I figured that Jordan’s blog would be a good place to put it since he’s really consistent in maintaining his blog, plus… he’s quite a celeb among the readers! It’s a little contribution I can make to his blog.

I know this is really confusing for foreign learners. For us Malays, “saya-awak” is the safest combination you can use, and is commonly used by children at school – sounds like squarepants – thus most of us use “I”, “you”, “you all”, “we all”. I thought “we” already was plural! It’s a shame, I know. Jordan was right about “awak” being a nasty choice when talking to someone older. It’s most suitable for someone in the same level, husband and wife, friends that are not so close. To the children, you can use “kamu” instead. You won’t have much problem like this in Indonesia, but in Malaysia, I suppose you can try using “pakcik” (uncle) and “makcik” (aunty) when talking to someone old enough to be your parents, or just “abang” or “akak” to someone who is old but not old enough to be your parents. Confused? Heck, me too!

If you’re in Malaysia or Singapore, I suggest that you just use “saya-anda”, but never “saya-engkau” or “aku-awak”. “Aku-kamu” sounds a bit weird in Malaysia but this pair is valid in Indonesia. Nevertheless “saya-kamu” is more recommendable to use in Indonesia. I’m not quite familiar with the custom in Brunei but I suppose “saya-anda” is the best to use.

“Cik” (pronounce “cēk”) is also informally used to address any woman, married or not, usually among themselves. E.g.: “Cik Tipah”, “Cik Kiah”, “Cik Bedah”. It’s like “Ms.” in English. Previously spelled as “Chē”

Disclaimer: I made this list from what I know and observe, and also by asking native speakers from each state (excluding Sabah because I could not contact any friend from there). My main reference is the Kamus Dewan 3rd Edition. If there’s any mistake, or changes/addition you think is good, please don’t hesitate to share.

Here’s Alisdair striking a cool pose in his cool bib. It was sent to him by Fir Mamat in Australia. It’s quite nice and obviously custom made. I mean, I doubt there’s a bin full of these things somewhere in Melbourne and one just happened to say Alisdair.

It’s really cute, and it’ll probably come in handy. Thanks, Fir!

This sign wouldn’t turn my head in Canada, but it sure did just that when I was driving through Bangsar. It’s kind of like running into a cousin or an old friend far away from home. It’s not that there’s anything really special about pizza from Canada. But it’s Canada, ya know? Leen and I couldn’t resist going there for supper. Not as good as some of the other pizza places back home, but not bad.

Here’s their website, if anyone’s interested.