Mother-in Law’s Dumplings

'Mother-in-Law'’s kitchen was infused with the sort of light which could only be accurately captured by that miracle of Chinese film making - Zhang Yimou. Inside - the ambience was Chinese rustic meets culinary museum as a poignant and pregnant romanticism filled the cooking scent-filled air. I was poised – at the very tip of my metaphorical seat, to engage, for the very first time, in my new family’s ‘Dumpling Festival’, otherwise known as Duan Wu Jie.

 

I tittered a Frankie Howard titter when my new 'mother-in-law' offered me her dumplings. It was a cultural misunderstanding – not the first and will certainly not be the last. At the very last minute I realized that I was the only one in the room getting the joke – the smile on my lips died an ignominious death, the way of all such, and I let the bawdy Englishman in me take a backseat for the remainder of our visit.

 

A plate of small dumplings was set before us. It was being converted into a ‘still life’ which my wife was so painstakingly drawing, but as she did so the ‘subject’ was rapidly disappearing as I snatched sweet dumpling after sweet dumpling, unwrapped and then dipped them into a gula Melaka (palm sugar) sauce. Dripping with sauce, I proceeded to throw each summery coloured delicacy into my mouth with barely room enough for breath. That pile of yellow dumplings (Ki Chang) – so called because of their colour was reducing at an alarming rate – alarming to my artist partner that is, not to me – I was quite happy with the way things were going. I was not deterred by the stickiness of those goodies, nor of the fiddliness of unwrapping the bamboo-leaf packaging. In fact, as time slipped by I was becoming quite adept at unwrapping all things Chinese. 

 

'Ma-in-Law'’s antique fan-cooled kitchen spoke of sundry other worlds. It was enhanced with flavoured teas from Japan, crispily dry crackers from the Americas and, of course, a super-abundance of delicious foodstuffs from the mother country – China. Woks bearing the patina of ages sat beside antique rice-cookers, those rice-cookers sat next to aging hot water boilers bearing antediluvian brands, while gleaming tins of straw mushrooms leaned on other tins stuffed with black bean sauce doused fried Dace.

 

We sat, correction – I sat, and consumed delicious sweet yellow dumplings while dragon-boats bobbed up and down on equatorial waters a few kilometers away and memories of dead Chinese poets haunted the warm air. It was my very first ‘Dumpling Festival’ and aside from a heaviness brought about by over consumption, the day was looking like a great success.

 

That visit, unlike previous visits where car tyres were counted and I was grilled as to my intentions towards the family’s only daughter, was also looking like a great success as Dim Sum followed dumplings and yet more dumplings followed Dim Sum. My waistline – a little dormant over a six month period, began to assert itself onto my (British bought) Bangladeshi leather belt. It was a gluttonous day, a day concerned with 'Mother-in-Law'’s dumplings, of long forgotten delights of Chinese delicacies and, ultimately, the warmth, love and care of families. Schoolboy titters had long since been left in the playground of my memory, and cultural misunderstanding pushed to the side of the plate as the last yellow dumpling slipped with ease from the fork, seemingly dipped itself into the sweet sauce and hastened its way to my waistline. Then, SUV loaded and permanently visiting stray dog stuffed back onto the rear seat - we once more shot down the North/South Highway, back towards the city haze, to suburbia and home.

Dog Days

There was once a sign. It had become weather-beaten and a little dog-eared over the years that it had been posted on that notice board, in a leafy Shanghai park. That black and white sign prohibited dogs and Chinese from entering the area of the park. From the very precise wording, it was quite clear that the park was reserved for foreigners only, despite the fact that Shanghai is in China.

That sign has long since vanished. Shanghai has moved on. Dogs, Chinese and many other nationalities share that once forbidden playground. The sun shines and all may seem well with the world. Yet here, in equatorial Malaysia the vestiges of cultural separation and ethnical misunderstandings yet prevail.

Recently, over teh tarik, I was told this story...

A friend of mine, and his lovely Chinese wife, were invited to brunch with an old acquaintance. It was right across Kuala Lumpur from where they lived, so there was much effort made to get there. The road was tangled with highway and byway, misdirection and dead-ends, yet my adventurous friends navigated well and soon – ok maybe not so soon, but soon enough, arrived at their acquaintances’ door.

The door opened. Their acquaintance beckoned them in. There was a slight look of surprise when she noticed the husband, but quickly adjusted her smile and led them to a table where sat three women. It was a hen party. There were no men. My friend’s husband was gently escorted back outside, in the most gentile of manners, and into the yard. It was explained that he might prefer the garden. Admittedly, it was a very charming garden – replete with water features and green leafy plants, sturdy furniture and enough shade to cool the eternally equatorial sun. But it was, nevertheless, a yard.

 After the initial shock had adrenalin-rushed through his system, my friend’s husband had the distinct inclination to bark. He did not bark, but perhaps barked an internal bark, a hound of the Baskervilles howl, or a werewolf howl to the moon that was then hidden by the bright sun. That urge to converse like a canine was so very strong that it consumed much of his time, sitting on the designer furniture, watching shadow play as a slight breeze stroked the lovingly planted plants and swayed the leaves.

In a thoughtful mood, my friend was reminded of that Shanghai sign. He too was reminded of the fact that both his wife and his ‘host’ were Chinese, and he English. It was an irony, he thought, that he should be escorted out of the house of his host, very much like one of those unwanted Shanghai dogs, or Chinese.

Over time, just when he was beginning to cool and look dispassionately at his situation, his host reappeared with coffee and food. Once again, my friend was reminded of his dog-like situation - he sought for the dog bowl and leash - there was none. There was only the dog bowl and leash in his mind as he surveyed the food and drink. Grabbing at his hand phone, my friend’s husband SMSed his wife, who was inside the house. He told her of his feelings – his kennel-like treatment, the dog bowl and his inclination to bark. They left – all smiles and regrets that they could not stay longer.

He recovered, with no ill effects, save the need to pee on seeing lampposts. Perhaps, in that dim distant leafy lined suburb of Kuala Lumpur, there should be a sign - posted for all to see. Like that Shanghai sign, the suburban Kuala Lumpur sign should be prominent and available for all to see. In clear, concise, writing it should state that no husbands, and certainly no Englishmen would be welcome in that corner of suburbia – giving advance notice of that household’s preferences.

Dog Satay

Despite extant rumours to the contrary, my partner has returned to suburbia and her apartment is still safe, all her belongings are there, accounted for, and not sold off to the nearest pawn shop. I have not run off with her car, money or any of her priceless paintings and/or jewellery. Her dog – whom I have fed and walked ever since her departure, had not been roasted, boiled, grilled, fried or otherwise made into a gourmet delicacy. And, despite us being of two different races our bond together is as tight as it ever was.

Friends and family are, no doubt, well meaning - that is to say they wish my love well, me on the other hand, being new to them and a Gwailo (white man or ghost man) they are not so sure of. It comes as somewhat as a shock, nay a disappointment, to know that I have been and am being watched and judged, literally taken at face value and stigmatized on racial grounds. It comes as shock - because we white people have been so good at doing exactly that, to so many races and peoples, over our long domineering history.

 

Malaysia, truly Asia - where it is advertised that all races live in a harmony as perfect as the durian harvest will permit, is deeply racist. I came across this disharmony a little at a time. Small things like antique slang words for other races - tiny insignificant slur words dredged up from the history of the federal states still have the power to stab with their barbs and innuendoes. Notions that this or that other race is lazy, stingy, smelly, ignorant or simply waiting to rob you blind (apparently), prevail in a country ever being divided along racial or religious grounds.

 

The golden age (retrospective illusion) dictates that twenty-five years ago all was perfect in the world, and therefore by default –Malaysia. The races, when not intermarrying, ate together, drank together, laughed, and joked at pretty much the same things. On the internet we can espy ageing posters of Malays advertising beer, see images of mixed race dances and coffee houses where those eating pork or drinking alcoholic beverages, and those forbidden to by religious laws sit side by side - enjoying each other’s company.

 

Was there racial tension behind those poster smiles and air-brushed advertising – some would have us believe so. Some would argue that racial harmony is no retrospective illusion, but a myth instead. They would debate as to whether it is, or was ever, possible for the three predominant races in Malaysia to get on together, let alone accept a fourth – a white race into their bosom, despite the remarkable evidence to the contrary.

 

Everywhere I look in my little suburbia I see mixed race couples. They, and we, partake of fusion food, and hear a lingo - seemingly a hotchpotch of Malay, English and whichever language the speakers wish to inject into their earnest conversations. Evidence of the coming together of Malaysian races is everywhere, but steadfastly denied by those with a politic to do so. To add to the mix, many white men (Orang Puteh, Mat Salleh, Gwailo) have successfully married into one or other of the races in Malaysia. Some have changed religion to be with their heart’s desire; others have simply adopted leanings towards goat curry and dosai or prawn mee and pau.

 

Clear evidence of the longevity of these mixed race marriages is all around in Malaysia, but more especially within the apartments and condominiums of suburbia, my dear suburbia, where rojak marriages produce mixed race children who sparkle with health and intelligence (another myth). For myself I can only but point to all the successful mixed race marriages clearly evident amidst the professional strata of Malaysian society - where no-one has run off with the belongings or possessions of the other, despite their colour, creed or religion, nor have roasted, boiled, grilled or fried any form of domestic animal either, as far as I know that is – dog satay anyone?

Maid in Heaven

My contact with the suburban species - ‘maid’ has been, necessarily, slight. I have noted that interaction between myself and the so called ‘maids’ has always been less than fruitful so, with the very best of intentions, I have sought to avoid them for the better part and that stratagem has been largely successful. I must, however, relate to you - dear reader, in case of difficulties – yours, not mine, a possible charter for dealing with this tender, delicate species, lest you too fall foul of them and have them ruin whatever may remain of your life.

One must never raise one’s voice to a maid – lest she run in floods of tears to your partner (her mistress, not yours), and later vacate your apartment altogether. This situation necessarily causes all kinds of ripples to issue forth – none of which will benefit you. Maid’s tears are acid, they will eat into anything – people’s hearts especially.

Furthermore, do not comment on the (sub) standard of her work. She is a sensitive flower, and must be handled as such. Such concepts as hard work, standards, and cleanliness pass her by. She is not at all au fait with the intricacies of modern housework and notions of a job done well and any amount of chivvying on your behalf will be fruitless. Better that the toilet be left with brown stains, rather than upset your maid.

 

It is a well known fact that maids must eat as least as much as those who employ them. They will frequently be seen diving into huge bowls of rice, cooking noodles, vegetables etc. Do not, under any circumstance, come between your maid and her meal. It will upset her and she may respond in much the same way a lioness may when her young are threatened. There will be repercussions which, in general, will not benefit you.

 

Maids do not exercise. That is a known fact. Please not make them. Do not put your slightly over weigh maid on an exercise machine – they are mechanical, maids are not. There will be problems. Do not, under any circumstances, take your maid for a walk, she is not canine – but human, it will upset her and quite possibly your partner too. Swimming, unless accompanied by a sufficient amount of males from the maid’s own country, is pointless, and is to be avoided.

 

Do not – keep said female helper in accommodation unsuitable for her. She too needs her own bathroom and, preferably, a double bed as large as yours. She is a creature designed for comfort – yours. Though naturally not born to comfort, she will find it where she may – by wearing your partner’s clothes, her jewellery, and perfume both with and without your partner’s permission. Do try to understand that your maid’s need for comfort is in-built and is non-negotiable.

 

Male comrades, do not, under any circumstances, approach your maid for physical or sexual favours. That is the biggest no, no, and no good will come of it. Do be warned. At the very least, you may be presented with a little human parcel some nine months later, and an even larger bill. At the worst, should it come to that – prison, severing of partnership and what is then left of your pitiful life will be spent in HELL, or your own religion’s equivalent of it. Be warned.

 

Finally, for those of you, who are wavering, do think long and hard. Do I really need a maid, or is it another wife that I must have? It is a tough decision, and both paths are strewn with peril – yours.

Jacky

Thoughts of having a dog were furthest from my mind. If you had asked, though there is no reason why you should have, I would have said that owning a dog was as remote from my thoughts as was a jaunty sprint up Mount Everest or attempting to swim the English Channel - though I have been doing a bit of swimming lately.

Having said that, I have just returned from walking said dog - thoughts of whom were furthest from my mind. He aroused me from my slumber at the ungodly hour of six am, making insistent noises, which to a trained ear said – walk me now or have a smelly kitchen.

Jacky, or Jackajack as he is now better known, presented himself one day at my partner’s door - some months before she and I had met. My partner requested him to leave. He didn’t, instead she felt pity on this sad stray and gave him food – a great mistake as anyone who has an animal will tell you – that’s how I got to be here. Once fed, Jacky promptly made himself at home, as did I. ‘Just for one night then’, my partner naively said to the sad-eyed looking canine. I could imagine that wry smile on the-dog-who-was-to-become-Jacky’s face. Jacky stayed, and has stayed ever since.

Enter the Big White Man, as I am euphemistically called in some quarters - even though my weight-loss is quite evident. I knew that my future partner had a dog. She had brought him with her on her first visit – another compelling story for a future telling. It wasn’t so much that dogs and I do not get on - it’s just that I have always seen myself as more of a cat person. In this increasingly smaller world there seems to be a line drawn between the cat lovers – Moi, and dog lovers - seemingly a good chunk of humanity. I had not wanted to step over that line. I was happy in my comfort zone, sans canine.

When the decision was made to move to suburbia - a decision, incidentally, not taken too lightly, I also had to consider sharing my life with a dog. At that time there was a maid – also the subject of a future missive. One of the few things she was good for, other than raising of our collective blood pressures, was walking said dog now named Jacky.

Morning, noon and yes night time too our maid would, often begrudgingly - as is the way with some maids, walk said dog. I was not too troubled. He – the dog now named Jacky and I co-existed. We were not emotionally close, physically yes, as it is only a small apartment, but not emotionally. He made few demands on me and I made no demands on him, except that he stayed at a reasonable distance.

The maid returned from whence she came. It was only then that I realised just how busy my partner was running her business, seeking charity donations for her favourite charity – Colors of Cambodia, and running her children around from school to tuition classes, to music classes etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. But someone had to walk Jacky while my partner lay exhausted from her running around. Someone had to walk Jacky when my partner was absent doing her running around and someone had to walk Jacky at night before my partner returned from her full day’s labours. There was no-one else.

I didn’t exactly volunteer. It was more like I was press-ganged in walking said dog. I thought it a one off, just as we were getting settled after the maid’s departure – it wasn’t, so I write this just minutes after arriving back having taken Jacky for his 6.30am walk, and am pondering on just how life changes from minute to minute. First there was no dog, then a dog and walks enough to keep me a little fitter than I was. I still prefer cats, but Jacky is Jacky and quite possibly the craftiest dog in suburbia, with his tousled hair and big brown, seemingly innocent, eyes. Jacky stays and I stay, and somehow we are working things out.

Have less and do more

When my ex-partner put those fresh, neigh impenetrable, stainless-steel padlocks on my property, and imprisoned the house that I paid for out of my entire life savings, she effectively barred me entrance to my own belongings, books, clothes, house, car etc. In one very real sense - she had freed me. I had effectively lost my whole world, but notionally gained my soul.

At that moment I was forced to take stock of my being and my life. It was a very small and very quick inventory. Assets - one – I am alive. Ok - so I did manage, in a brief moment of rare enlightenment, to grab my computers and the merest handful of back-up CDs, but other than a few items of clothing - that was it – the sum total of my worth. The house, car etc had all been paid for in cash, and were in her name, which she had gloatingly reminded me of on the day I discovered the stainless-steel padlocks.

Bob Dylan sang - When you got nothing, you got nothing to lose. You're invisible now, you got no secrets to conceal. And in a way he was right. Someone else sang The only way is up, and no doubt many other singers have sung about loss and the positive aspects therein through the ages. I felt as though a great burden had been lifted from me. I no longer had that money, those possessions, and they no longer were able to demand my time, or possess me. Finally I was free of materialism. True it had not been a conscious decision to give up all my worldly possessions, but gave them up I did. I was then free, but to do what, that was the burning question. I had no intent to take up saffron robes, though the colour yellow did appeal, nor did I wish to grow my hair and finger nails and wear nothing by a laterite stained dhoti, live in India and chant all day long.

But what I really, really did want to do was to eat a bacon sandwich. A seven year deprivation had left me longing for that one very special comfort food. The one which excels all others – the iniquitous bacon sandwich – incidentally the bacon sandwich of my dreams. It was that luscious and delectable bacon sandwich, dripping with fat which used to console me at Colchester Bus Station - after a long hard day’s slog at St. Helena secondary modern school. Thoughts of back bacon, streaky bacon cooked with garlic, began to consume me. I lusted for a mouth watering bacon sandwich.

I sought it here; I sought it there and imagined real pork bacon to be as elusive as that infamous pimpernel. But just as my quest was proving futile, and dizzy with my newly found freedom, I found the non-halal section of our local Tesco. If there be saints I would have praised them. There, in that humble lean-to, and adjunct to the main Tesco, was the haven of all things porcine. I purchased not just enough bacon for several bacon sandwiches, but pork belly to cook later and pork enough to feed a small army – ok, well a very small army - perhaps five people. Inside Tesco I also purchased wine enough to quench a seven year thirst, and what a thirst it was.

So with Janis Joplin singing Freedom's just another word for nothing left to loose in my ear I strode into the rest of my life chewing a bacon sandwich and guzzling red wine - a little poorer than before, but also a lot richer in many ways. I’ve learned that it is better to have less and do more……..so this is me doing more.

Sunday Despacho

With the lilting lyrics of Lou Reed’s Velvet Underground – and the song Sunday Morning, insistently playing in the back of my head, we all tumbled into the black SUV and headed out of suburbia. Velvet Underground rapidly became Yani, as my partner changed the vital CD and left me a little crestfallen.

   We didn’t travel too far when we all agreed that a Taiwanese lunch might be a good idea, to begin the journey with – that is despite the picnic of salad, rice, and roasted duck sitting in the back of our vehicle, in various plastic containers, like some New Age forgotten Last Supper. So we tumbled out of the SUV – dog and all, tied said dog up to convenient standing pipe and partook of simply one of the best Taiwanese lunches available in KL. It was also fortuitous that the family we were escorting out of suburbia, just happened to be the owners of said Taiwanese restaurant.

   That aside, and delectable lunch partaken of, once more we edged into the black SUV and led the other family out of suburbia and into the wilds of Hulu (Ulu) Selangor. The other family contained a shaman. We were going to meet up with another mystic man, at the Magick River, in a land where earth, water, fire and air spirits are still honoured, and where the government in their infinite wisdom has built a bloody great big dam and flooded the majority of land belonging to indigenous peoples.

Magick man, shaman – three families - together we mourned the loss of the Magick man’s Bamboo Palace – sadly burnt to the ground (literally) one week previously. With painful hearts we saw the charcoal remains of that once splendid structure and inwardly bawled a bucket of tears. But we came not to mourn but to rejoice and, quite probably, to heal too.

   Our on-board shaman, recently returned from promotional trips to Taiwan and the US of A, was to undertake a Despacho and fire ceremony, as a celebration of life, love, and the nature of all things – in nature. It was to bring reciprocity, reverence, and thanksgiving between us and the natural word, and of course to the mountains (apus - of which there are plenty around Bukit Fraser) and to Mother Earth (Pachamama) herself.

   We dallied a while in the Magick River herself – the time not being quite right for the ceremony to begin (and vague stirrings of Jim Morrison’s Lizard King in my mind) and we all enjoyed the coolness of that river on our over-stressed and over-heated bodies. Sun dappled shadows onto our bodies, the river and the evident joy we were all experiencing frolicking in that water. Men, women, children, and one super ecstatic dog were enjoying the easy flow of life and the river. Magick man and shaman compared mystical notes and pretty soon it was time to dive into the roasted duck, rice, and salad, as shamanistic rituals are best undertaken on a relatively full stomach.

   I had expected to be a little more sceptical than I was. It’s not every day I am faced with a full-on Despacho ceremony, and despite the blowing of wishes and the raising hands to West, East, North, South, ground and sky it all seemed less silly than it does to write about it. The Despacho – a shamanistic parcel of wishes, hopes, and good will was made, and copious amounts of sugary items placed therein, amidst feathers, leaves, and other natural elements. After various shakings of rattles and the blowing of some fluid we proceeded to burn the parcel on the ruins of the former Bamboo Palace. It seemed somehow fitting that we should do so. We stood with our backs to the fire, and let it consume the parcel. That done and we were once again entertained by spontaneous drumming and serenaded by that old Magick man himself. It seems almost too obvious to say but - Sundays will never quite seem the same after that.