“Oh, wow!” Jason said, his two-year old brown eyes lighting up.
We had just left the old, wooden Anglican church, which was built in 1865 and where Jason’s Bidayuh mother and I had been married five years ago in her village Quop, in Sarawak, on the island of Borneo. The new church had already been in use for over twenty years when I had made a formal request that our marriage take place in the old church. The priest thought the request odd, since the old church had neither fans nor air-conditioning and all of the pews had been removed. So blue plastic chairs had to be used for the guests. The chairs, however, didn’t detract from the ambiance and the warmth of the dark, natural wooden floors, walls, and ceiling.
But what got Jason’s enthusiastic attention was not the church but our descending a nearby slope, away from the church. For the first time he had seen in full view a cemetery where many of his relatives were buried. He was looking at the newer part where many of the tombstones were gleaming white. Much to his chagrin, I led him away, toward the recently dedicated cement steps that led to the top of a hill.
Jason stopped and said, “Water.”
There was a tiny stream at the base of the hill, so we paused for a few moments to admire the water. Jason squatted to get a better look.
“The water of life,” I said, though I didn’t know why I had said it, other than we were standing at the base of a cemetery and it seemed appropriate. Jason was too preoccupied looking at the water to care.
The steps led us to the older section, where the grave markers were mostly bare-wood boards that years ago may have had writings on them, even crosses carved into them, but which time and the tropical sun had weathered plain. It appeared as if someone had stuck a bare-wood board into the ground and that was that. Some of these boards had since been replaced with white markers. Others kept the old-weather-beaten board beside the newer version. Of the few old dates that I could still read, one stated that the person buried beneath us was born in 1875.
Jason and I were both silent, showing our respect as we traipsed among the grave markers. The view of the old church on the opposite hill was splendid – such a fine piece of work carved out of the jungle, at a time when taking heads for trophies was still practiced throughout Borneo. Whenever I see the old church, I smile. This was not only the church where Jason’s mother and I married, but also the same church where Jason’s grandparents, his great grandparents, his great, great grandparents, and all his relatives going back 140 years married. These didn’t include all those generations of relatives who married in Quop before the church was build, before the missionaries came and converted them to Anglican. Later, when Jason gets older I’ll explain the significance of this church. Perhaps he too would like to marry in that church, thus keeping the family tradition.
As we gazed around the cemetery, I couldn’t help feel alive. How can you not help but feel alive while standing all alone in a cemetery, knowing that all those who came before you were buried in the very ground where you walked? Yet we were not alone, as Jason deftly pointed out to me by steering my attention from the graves to a long line of marching ants that were going back and forth to their nest buried in the ground. His instincts was to put his foot on that very nest, to close it up, but I told him not to disturb it or his tiny feet would be overrun by hundreds if not thousands of very angry ants.
As we returned to the church service that was still in progress, eager children, much like the ants we had just seen, gathered at the entrance of the old church. They made their way, in single file, to the new church, as did children of various ages descending from two separate paths from two primary school buildings where bible lessons were being taught. Over a hundred children, if not more, swarmed around the entrance of the church awaiting their turn to receive communion and a blessing from the priest. Jason, too, got in line with his mother, who was grateful that we had successfully moved from Penang to Sarawak.
By the way, Jason’s middle name, William, comes from his American grandfather and an uncle, while his recently born brother Justin has a middle name taken from my wife’s grandfather, Rona, one of the graves we had just visited in the cemetery in Quop.
# # #
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Friday, February 16, 2007
A Walk With My Two-Year-Old Son
Before moving to Sarawak and to get out of rut, I decided to take my two-year-old son, Jason, for a walk. Usually when we walk it’s to a known destination for a known reason – running errands for me or playing outside with him. Today would be different. I wanted to see if we could learn anything in half an hour. Any longer than that, the mosquitoes would be biting.
We lived in Penang, in a mostly Chinese residential area, in Malaysia. Other than being Jason’s father, I teach creative writing and recently published a collection of short stories set in Malaysia, Lovers and Strangers Revisited (Silverfish Books, 2006). Lately I’ve been feeling weary of the “author” bit and needed to get back to “writing”. But in order to write, I needed to start observing my surroundings again like I used to do when I first moved from the U.S. to Malaysia. Jason, on the other hand, like most two-year olds, is a natural sponge, taking everything in around him. He’s also tiny for his age, petite like his mother, a Bidayuh from Sarawak.
I grabbed some biscuits for the both of us and a spongy orange ball. We didn’t get far; halfway down the stairs, I realized I had left the ball by the door when I unlocked it.
“Back so soon?” my wife asked, teasing me.
Jason wanted to hold the ball but I didn’t want him to drop it into the monsoon drain that ran alongside our street, so I handed him a biscuit instead and held his free hand securely – not wanting him to fall into the drain either.
As we turned the corner to the small field behind our building, I was startled to see an elderly Chinese man sitting on the ground, looking suspicious and suspiciously at us. Careful not to make any eye contact, I steered Jason around this man, whom I had never seen before. Not far away from him, on the other side of a tree, was a small wicker basket. Normally I would have taken a closer look but the man’s gaze continued to bear down on us, so we kept walking.
Initially I planned to play some ball here, but my wife had warned me before about getting my son’s hands dirty and having him put those hands in his mouth. So I handed Jason another biscuit. I figured we’d finish the biscuits first and play ball later. We were half way to the end of the field, when the Chinese man began to point and shout at us, as if ordering us off the field. I detoured toward the road, but then I saw it, a beautiful zebra dove resting peacefully in the center of the field.
I pointed it out to Jason, and his eyes began to grow. We ventured closer. The Chinese man again shouted and furiously waved us away. Since he was making his way toward us, wicker basket in hand, I thought it best to lead Jason toward the side of the road. We stood there eating our biscuits, observing this strange man and this bird, too. I thought perhaps he was a bird-catcher, like Papageno in The Magic Flute. He cautiously approached the dove. He set the basket down, opened the lower portion and gently coaxed the dove inside.
Afterwards, he began to pick at the grass. At first I thought he was gathering some edible goodies for the bird. Then I saw a small spool. He was rewinding the line than he had used to keep the bird from fleeing from him. I assumed the wings had already been clipped to prevent it from flying away. This dove – also called a peaceful dove, I later learned – was popular for cage-bird singing competitions. The man carried the dove in the basket under his arm to his motorcycle. As he rode off, Jason and I waved goodbye.
We made our way up a short alley, crossed the road and walked along a road I had never been on, since I had assumed it was a dead end. Jason and I discovered a much bigger field with a playground.
Delighted, Jason urged me across the street to the nearest and smallest sliding board. I helped him up the steps and sat him down at the top of the plastic slide. He squealed with delight when I caught him at the bottom – his first slide! We did this three times, before I led him to a bigger sliding board and placed him at the bottom and rolled the ball down from the top. He laughed and caught the ball. Catching on to this new game, he threw the ball about halfway up the slide and laughed as the ball rolled down to him. He could’ve played all night, but I spotted an even bigger slide at the other end of the field, so we went to investigate. It was an old wooden slide and way too tall for Jason or me. Again I placed him at the bottom of the board and rolled the ball to the top. Jason’s eyes grew as the ball rolled toward him, gathering speed along the way.
Next up was the adjacent swing. Leaving the ball on the ground, we got on, Jason on my lap. He giggled as we swung, higher and higher. Wanting his ball, Jason got off to play with it, while I continued to swing. Jason suddenly ran behind me. I desperately tried to stop the swing from slamming into him. I somehow managed to reach around and catch Jason by the shoulder and stopped with the swing an inch from his head. Relieved but upset, I had a stern talk with Jason about running in back of swings. Jason, nodded, as if understanding every word I said. What he understood was my mood and that he had done something wrong; he also knew it wouldn’t be fair to punish him because I was at fault, too.
Noticing a mosquito on his arm, I swatted it away and we made our way back across the field. Blocking our exit, however, were four large dogs. Being a dog lover, Jason pointed with glee and said, “Dog!” He would’ve run straight toward them if I hadn’t held him back. Not sure if the dogs were friends or foes, I maintained a wary eye, while the four dogs eyed Jason warily. Afraid he might hug them to death, the dogs wisely moved from our path. Jason waved and said, “Bye!”
Jason and I crossed the road. I noticed three Indian children playing with three rabbits. Jason didn’t know what to make of the rabbits. Other than Bugs Bunny, he had never seen a rabbit before. Eyes large and round, he marveled as the rabbits hopped across the lawn pursued by the three children.
Watching us watch the rabbits were two stray cats. Jason took an interest in them, too. He gave chase. The cats, fearing for their lives, hid under a car. Jason squatted down, bent over, and laughed as if to say, “You can’t hide from me!”
Four dogs, three rabbits, two cats, and we were nearly home when we came upon this woman who was walking beside us, almost step by step, although we were in the alley and she was at a lower level beside her building. The woman kept looking at Jason and me, as if trying to get our attention. Then we saw it. Perched on her left hand was a small green bird. I pointed it out to Jason. Like the elderly Chinese man, the woman was taking her bird for a walk.
When we reached home, I glanced at the time; exactly half an hour had passed by since we had left for our walk. In that short time Jason and I had seen a lot and had a lot of fun, too. Already I was looking forward to our next walk, no doubt our first walk in Sarawak, a series of walks to get to know the Bidayuh people, many of whom, if you trace the lineage far enough, might be Jason’s relatives.
We lived in Penang, in a mostly Chinese residential area, in Malaysia. Other than being Jason’s father, I teach creative writing and recently published a collection of short stories set in Malaysia, Lovers and Strangers Revisited (Silverfish Books, 2006). Lately I’ve been feeling weary of the “author” bit and needed to get back to “writing”. But in order to write, I needed to start observing my surroundings again like I used to do when I first moved from the U.S. to Malaysia. Jason, on the other hand, like most two-year olds, is a natural sponge, taking everything in around him. He’s also tiny for his age, petite like his mother, a Bidayuh from Sarawak.
I grabbed some biscuits for the both of us and a spongy orange ball. We didn’t get far; halfway down the stairs, I realized I had left the ball by the door when I unlocked it.
“Back so soon?” my wife asked, teasing me.
Jason wanted to hold the ball but I didn’t want him to drop it into the monsoon drain that ran alongside our street, so I handed him a biscuit instead and held his free hand securely – not wanting him to fall into the drain either.
As we turned the corner to the small field behind our building, I was startled to see an elderly Chinese man sitting on the ground, looking suspicious and suspiciously at us. Careful not to make any eye contact, I steered Jason around this man, whom I had never seen before. Not far away from him, on the other side of a tree, was a small wicker basket. Normally I would have taken a closer look but the man’s gaze continued to bear down on us, so we kept walking.
Initially I planned to play some ball here, but my wife had warned me before about getting my son’s hands dirty and having him put those hands in his mouth. So I handed Jason another biscuit. I figured we’d finish the biscuits first and play ball later. We were half way to the end of the field, when the Chinese man began to point and shout at us, as if ordering us off the field. I detoured toward the road, but then I saw it, a beautiful zebra dove resting peacefully in the center of the field.
I pointed it out to Jason, and his eyes began to grow. We ventured closer. The Chinese man again shouted and furiously waved us away. Since he was making his way toward us, wicker basket in hand, I thought it best to lead Jason toward the side of the road. We stood there eating our biscuits, observing this strange man and this bird, too. I thought perhaps he was a bird-catcher, like Papageno in The Magic Flute. He cautiously approached the dove. He set the basket down, opened the lower portion and gently coaxed the dove inside.
Afterwards, he began to pick at the grass. At first I thought he was gathering some edible goodies for the bird. Then I saw a small spool. He was rewinding the line than he had used to keep the bird from fleeing from him. I assumed the wings had already been clipped to prevent it from flying away. This dove – also called a peaceful dove, I later learned – was popular for cage-bird singing competitions. The man carried the dove in the basket under his arm to his motorcycle. As he rode off, Jason and I waved goodbye.
We made our way up a short alley, crossed the road and walked along a road I had never been on, since I had assumed it was a dead end. Jason and I discovered a much bigger field with a playground.
Delighted, Jason urged me across the street to the nearest and smallest sliding board. I helped him up the steps and sat him down at the top of the plastic slide. He squealed with delight when I caught him at the bottom – his first slide! We did this three times, before I led him to a bigger sliding board and placed him at the bottom and rolled the ball down from the top. He laughed and caught the ball. Catching on to this new game, he threw the ball about halfway up the slide and laughed as the ball rolled down to him. He could’ve played all night, but I spotted an even bigger slide at the other end of the field, so we went to investigate. It was an old wooden slide and way too tall for Jason or me. Again I placed him at the bottom of the board and rolled the ball to the top. Jason’s eyes grew as the ball rolled toward him, gathering speed along the way.
Next up was the adjacent swing. Leaving the ball on the ground, we got on, Jason on my lap. He giggled as we swung, higher and higher. Wanting his ball, Jason got off to play with it, while I continued to swing. Jason suddenly ran behind me. I desperately tried to stop the swing from slamming into him. I somehow managed to reach around and catch Jason by the shoulder and stopped with the swing an inch from his head. Relieved but upset, I had a stern talk with Jason about running in back of swings. Jason, nodded, as if understanding every word I said. What he understood was my mood and that he had done something wrong; he also knew it wouldn’t be fair to punish him because I was at fault, too.
Noticing a mosquito on his arm, I swatted it away and we made our way back across the field. Blocking our exit, however, were four large dogs. Being a dog lover, Jason pointed with glee and said, “Dog!” He would’ve run straight toward them if I hadn’t held him back. Not sure if the dogs were friends or foes, I maintained a wary eye, while the four dogs eyed Jason warily. Afraid he might hug them to death, the dogs wisely moved from our path. Jason waved and said, “Bye!”
Jason and I crossed the road. I noticed three Indian children playing with three rabbits. Jason didn’t know what to make of the rabbits. Other than Bugs Bunny, he had never seen a rabbit before. Eyes large and round, he marveled as the rabbits hopped across the lawn pursued by the three children.
Watching us watch the rabbits were two stray cats. Jason took an interest in them, too. He gave chase. The cats, fearing for their lives, hid under a car. Jason squatted down, bent over, and laughed as if to say, “You can’t hide from me!”
Four dogs, three rabbits, two cats, and we were nearly home when we came upon this woman who was walking beside us, almost step by step, although we were in the alley and she was at a lower level beside her building. The woman kept looking at Jason and me, as if trying to get our attention. Then we saw it. Perched on her left hand was a small green bird. I pointed it out to Jason. Like the elderly Chinese man, the woman was taking her bird for a walk.
When we reached home, I glanced at the time; exactly half an hour had passed by since we had left for our walk. In that short time Jason and I had seen a lot and had a lot of fun, too. Already I was looking forward to our next walk, no doubt our first walk in Sarawak, a series of walks to get to know the Bidayuh people, many of whom, if you trace the lineage far enough, might be Jason’s relatives.
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