so this place is like this, you see; it's a one-storey sprawl over an expanse of sun-bleached knotgrass. little pondoks dot the open spaces, they are populated by malay women in headscarves, with their hospital sympathy-camping paraphernalia of tiffin carrier and plastic mat. their broken-toothed smiles are ever-ready, and if you nod and smile back, it's more than likely that they will call out friendly greetings, or a compliment, or even a word of thanks, in Javanese-accented malay. i have often thought, i would like to spend the midday break curled up with iced coffee from the canteen and a book in one of those little huts, but then it's just not the done thing, is it. how we are limited by the opinions of others.
the colleagues, well, they're nice, and human companionship is refreshing after listening only to imaginary conversations for so many interminable afternoons in that little room in a little building near a beach far away from home.
i never told anyone about that friday afternoon when i went by myself to the seashore. there was a little attap-roofed hut and beyond it the rocks, and i could smell the salt on the wind from the straits of malacca. you know that passage in conrad? maybe there is more than one; i think he mentions the scent of spices of macassar, the scent of the tropics, the scent of jasmine on the breeze, as the ship enters the fabled strait. i wish i knew what that smelled like, or is it better to be me
not knowing the difference
because that is the scent of familiarity?
after that two boys appeared, obviously tourists; why they sought out this unknown and un-scenic part of the beach (in a housing estate!), i'll never know. and we we traded glances of "i wonder why you are here" and i was too much of a coward to stay.
that was at sandy point, where i learned that there was more to being alone than self-isolation.
now i'm here somewhere in between the suburban/rural demographic, and the language barrier came crashing down again today. there's a whole other world whose surface i can only skim; i have the language to a degree, but not the culture, not the mindset, and i am reminded of one particular night spent in an unfamiliar room far away from here, two o'clock in the morning when it was winter. trading theories about why we somehow did not belong in this land we call our own. what are we? the cry of generations of angst-ridden youth looking desperately for what they don't know they have lost.
i remember i said, we are the diaspora. we have no ties. now, on second thought, isn't that just another manifestation of being alone?
the colleagues, well, they're nice, and human companionship is refreshing after listening only to imaginary conversations for so many interminable afternoons in that little room in a little building near a beach far away from home.
i never told anyone about that friday afternoon when i went by myself to the seashore. there was a little attap-roofed hut and beyond it the rocks, and i could smell the salt on the wind from the straits of malacca. you know that passage in conrad? maybe there is more than one; i think he mentions the scent of spices of macassar, the scent of the tropics, the scent of jasmine on the breeze, as the ship enters the fabled strait. i wish i knew what that smelled like, or is it better to be me
not knowing the difference
because that is the scent of familiarity?
after that two boys appeared, obviously tourists; why they sought out this unknown and un-scenic part of the beach (in a housing estate!), i'll never know. and we we traded glances of "i wonder why you are here" and i was too much of a coward to stay.
that was at sandy point, where i learned that there was more to being alone than self-isolation.
now i'm here somewhere in between the suburban/rural demographic, and the language barrier came crashing down again today. there's a whole other world whose surface i can only skim; i have the language to a degree, but not the culture, not the mindset, and i am reminded of one particular night spent in an unfamiliar room far away from here, two o'clock in the morning when it was winter. trading theories about why we somehow did not belong in this land we call our own. what are we? the cry of generations of angst-ridden youth looking desperately for what they don't know they have lost.
i remember i said, we are the diaspora. we have no ties. now, on second thought, isn't that just another manifestation of being alone?
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