Notes on Penang

Day One.

A is probably one of the closest girlfriends I have in YF. The rest, I always seem to have to worry about whether they are poisoned against me, by twisted stories of a wayward tongue. It always seemed to be a competition that way – who could win more friends and influence more people; who could recruit more members on their side of the camp. I know I always remembered YF to be one of the happiest times of my secondary school life, the highlight of my early youth. I lived through the week for Sunday. And yet, I remember journal entries spelling a quiet anguish, an empty loneliness, a yearning to be loved, accepted, ‘part of the gang‘. Nothing much has changed, really. But just for tonight, in the name of girl-talk, of comprehensive catching up, of sweet reminiscing, for old time’s sake… I miss it.

I’m glad I tore myself away from the comforts of my bedroom, came out from hiding, waiting in vain behind the computer screen. It smells like an adventure. I’ve always wanted to do something like this.

The sun is just breaking over the clouds, tinged pink and purple. I don’t know why I set my alarm at 0530, only to reproach myself, turn it off and return to restless sleep.

I still woke up 10 minutes early, to say it.

It’s hard going away on a holiday like this. It reminds me of the last one past, and leaves a bittersweet taste in my mouth. I kind of wish you were here with me.

I got stung by a bee! It wasn’t the most pleasant experience; more like sharp and piercing actually. But there is a strange sense of pride to be found in the little puncture marks the bugger left behind, like a small island surrounded by a swollen sea of red patchy skin – like a battle scar to be shown off, a hallmark of a memory.

I checked for the millionth time. But, nothing.

There was a little school girl in the cable car. She was quite the forlorn picture – head buried in folded arms, shielding her eyes away from the unforgiving sun, beating down harshly from an azure blue sky. I saw her mentally drawing boundaries, blocking out the ambient noise of all those annoyingly enthusiastic tourists, encasing herself in a bubble of her own. As she toddles off onto the beaten trail back to her home, I notice her school-bag, like a tortoise shell, dwarfing her even further. She looked so small and frail. And yet, I somehow knew that inside, she must be strong and resilient as a weed. Probably, from having to make a journey that others would never have to make in their lives. Every day is an ascent, a mountain to climb.

Finally, disappointing. Was that all you could say? Obviously, you were oblivious to the effort behind the act; the initiative that I offer up to the table, not just today, but every day. For you. Strike 1.

Rendition. It was thought-provoking. It makes me wonder about utilitarianism – the classic argument that sacrifice of the minority can be justified for the greater good. Torture one, to save millions. You’ve got to admit, that sounds like a damn convincing trade-off to me. And the world will continue to be okay with it, as long as: One, they don’t see what goes behind closed doors. After all, ignorance is always bliss. And two, it doesn’t happen to them, or a loved one. But still, to me, no matter how many political rationales I’ve heard or religious arguments that have been fiercely debated over as dinnertime conversation – there is something inherently, innately, gravely… inhumanely wrong with slaughtering the innocent to purge the guilty.

An unfamiliar bed. It’s quite stiff, I try not to burrow my face too deeply into the pillow, like I often like to do, and the blanket rubs prickly against my legs. I don’t like sleeping somewhere foreign, unless it’s a damn good hotel. I mean that inherently, but of course, I suppose in the name of adventure or ‘roughing it out’, I’d step up to it. Or if I’m with someone who makes it all worth it.

Day Two.

I watch the uncle deftly scoop up soup from steaming, boiling vats into the bowls; the auntie with nimble fingers measure out the right proportions of noodle and deposit them onto the line-up of plates as-quick-as-can-be. Their faces are weathered by age and hardship, their hands worn out by toil and labour, their skin toughened like leather, as they work long hours by the heat of the flame. I wonder whether there will come a day when their legacy will become lost, as sons and daughters go off to university and spend the hours of their day climbing the corporate, social ladder; somehow come to frown upon the making of a simple living by a stove-fire, turn their nose up at bargaining for groceries in the bustle of a marketplace, in exchange for the clean grid-lanes of a supermarket. Char Kway Teow, Laksa, Chendol, Belachan Chicken, could all be extinct in the next 20 years.

I’m finding it very hard to be present. As we drive along the congested roads and the confusing streets, I feel the car-conversation wash completely over me. My mind wanders to places it should not go – not at this time, not with all these people around me, not while I’m here anyway.

It’s difficult watching L & A. That affectionate side-glance he steals at her when she does something remotely cute. A protective hand he subconsciously rests on her back as he guides her across the road or as we navigate our way through the maze of people and stalls. The late-night back and forth of texts, long after we’ve all said goodbye and goodnight. This is the way it should be, and what I am fighting so damn hard for, is wrong.

I answer too quickly. And you, don’t even flinch. Strike 2.

It feels kind of stupid now, that I tried to keep this trip from you. In faint hope that it would somehow matter, that you might suddenly realize that something went missing.

I find it funny how I’ve barely known these people 2 days, and here I find myself amongst them, in the thick of the sticky heat of a hawker market, like we do this every day after school. Plates and bowls of noodle and egg and meat make its circle around the table. The utensils of choice – one pair of chopsticks and a single soup spoon. Communal sharing at its best, and it’s never been more awesome, or natural.

I’m gazing out at the coloured city-lights doing a dotted dance across the surface of the black water. You can see the sleek straight lines of the bridge from here. Directly before me, looms the hulking shadow of a tree-carpeted island. I don’t see a soul, no sign of life. We dot the rough stony path like a sparse assortment of pebbles along the beach. Friendship should be like this. No pressure situations, no clamour for attention, no fight to the top, no private agendas. Just a bunch of friends, hanging out. Period. A simple equation where there’s nothing more to add, and nothing less to be subtracted from it.

Tonight, it all seems very far away. The emotions are fading, the pain is somewhat abating. I dare to scoff a little at how ridiculous, meaningless it is.

Day Three.

Beep. I jumped, only to wish it had been from you. Strike 3.

Am I making it weird or awkward for you? I don’t really know what to say. I’ve forgotten how we actually left things. It seems like it was a different lifetime, and I was a different person. Actually, a different age. Just, but a child – and children are egocentric. I was selfish to borrow power from your affections, positioning myself and my needs at the centre of it. It should never come down to that. I don’t know how much hurt I inflicted on you all those years ago. But if it’s even a taste, a shadow of the pain I’m feeling in this moment, I am truly sorry.

It broke, just above the bridge. Cracked, rather unceremoniously, as I was squeezing into the car and smashed it on the roof of the door. No matter that it cost a pittance, compared to the Gucci it’s modeled after. It was the one material thing I hold onto from Sydney. Sorry, but I take it very personally.

I’m kind of glad we’re going back tonight. I need the familiar smell of my bed.

Browsed at Borders in my last hour in Penang. I really should read more. I found myself meandering my way towards the Psychology section – Jung for a Lifetime, Divorce for Dummies, My World Came Crashing Down, Introduction to Freud. I picked up I am Sam and read a little, transfixed by how the simple, child-like narrative could capture a profound pain beyond its years. I realized as I was browsing the shelves, that I was searching for something, that could make me feel again. Sometimes, pain shocks you to your senses, awakens sleeping emotions. Anything, to remind me that I’m a living, breathing human, who feels. More importantly, feel for someone else. Apathy is one of my greatest fears. And as much as my nature seems to rub in the opposite direction of the path I wish to take – I am determined to make people my expertise.

A 1000 places to visit before you die. Sigh. I want to do it all, with someone special, one day.

I’m surprised at the pinch of sadness that prickles as we board the steps of our ride home. These people have been so nice. Nice is too generic and bland a word actually. Hospitality without a price, extending a hand of friendship without a question. Goodwill – no strings attached. The world needs more of this. L & L, S & M. I hope this isn’t the last I see of them.

I don’t like saying goodbyes. I like saying, fare well and see you again .