A short lesson in world politics

Sitting on a couch, reading Sherlock Holmes.

It's not a bad way to finish the day, particularly when it's hot, and the couch is beside a pool. Anyway.

I was interrupted by three guys, all about my age, who stopped for a chat. Which is good, I'm a chatty sort of person.  So we chatted.
It could've been a joke...

Two Persians and a Malaysian walk into a bar. The first Persian requests a soft drink, because he's studying later.

The second says absolutely nothing, and promptly fires up his sheesha.

And the Malaysian wanders over and punches 90's western pop songs into the juke box.

Interesting bunch. Each quite different. 

All are studying. One mechanical engineering, one IT, and one, from what I could gather, some sort of business-mixed-with-english studies.

One of the Iranian guys (learnt something that day: Persian=Iranian) that we'll call Mike for fun, gave me a new insight into world politics. In this case, it was perhaps better described as fate. 

He was explaining the problem with life in Iran.
Mike comes from a well off family. His father is a helicopter pilot, his brother and sisters all went to university and went on to get good jobs. His mother was able to stay at home and keep house.
They're clearly a hardworking, intelligent bunch. In any other country, that would be enough.
But Mike is uneasy about his current situation.
I was surprised about how many Iranian students I found studying in Malaysia. There are two reasons, from what I can gather. The first is financial. Malaysian Universities are pretty cheap by world standards.
And while no-one actually said it, I get the feeling that Malaysia's standing as a modern Islamic nation has a bit to do with it's popularity as well.
(don't follow? Can you imagine doing an Australian O-week as a non-drinking muslim?)
Mike loves it here. He's made friends, and his studies are going well. His english is excellent.
But he's worried that he'll have to go home early.

His family isn't running out of money. They're not poor. The problem they face is a simple one of currency and exchange rates. Ten years ago, the Iranian Rial was selling at 908 IRR per Australian dollar. Now, it's more like 12,000 to one. 

Their currency rates are on the borderline of being in freefall. None of the banks will exchange IRR for another currency, because no-one wants to be stuck holding the cash. It's a colossal game of hot potato.
This presents a major problem for Mike, because as an international student in Malaysia, he's not allowed to work. So he relies on funding from his family. And funding can't be sent if it can't be exchanged.

Time passed.

But I spoke to Mike again last week. He was back in Iran. Until the financial market changes, he's stuck there, with half a degree, in a country that may or may not be on America's future hit list.

Now any sort major conflict is a terrible idea. I would guess most people agree with me there.
But it's funny how news reports tend to desensitise you to the human side of international affairs.

It's funny how easy it is to think of a people, rather than a regime of being evil or dangerous. Even for a second.

But here was a regular guy, with regular dreams of career, family, wealth, you name it. With all of his prospects being dictated by the things you see at the end of the news.
I can come to grips with poverty affecting someones life. That makes sense.
But I'd never realised how something as inconsequential (in my eyes, at least) as nationality could interrupt someone's otherwise well laid out plans.

And now, it seems so obvious. I guess it's hard to understand until it hits you in the face.

First he's here, now he's not. Mike stuck in limbo, and no-one can tell him what his future holds.

In regards to driving

New term- 'Napoleoned'

(past tense, verb)

To have thrown one's GPS unit out the window with the recharge cord still attached, allowing it to bounce along the asphalt behind the vehicle, in order to prolong the unit's suffering, rather than bringing about it's immediate destruction.

Driving in Malaysia's kinda fun. If you like that sort of thing. Which I do, of course.

Most of the highways have three lanes of traffic during the non-rush hour times. Simple enough to negotiate, then, provided you have a GPS, which will frequently get you very lost. But far better to yell at an inanimate object than at your wife, with a map spread across her lap, and a confused look on her face, in the passenger seat. So with the GPS I persevere.

The left lane is occupied almost entirely by scooters. Smoky, slow, unpredictable things they are, and best avoided whenever possible. Scooter riders have a death wish, and no respect for the fact that all they wear is nylon jackets and open face helmets for their protection.

The right lane is mostly occupied by police escorts (of which you can hire if you wish to simplify this mess) and fast european cars. The Merc, Beemer, Lamborghini, Porsche crew (especially those big Cayeene 4WDs) and stupidly fast pimped-out Taragos, called Alphards. Which is, predictably, my new favourite car name in the whole wide world. (Say it to yourself a few times. Alphard... Alphard...)

You can surf the right hand lane, but you need to keep and eye in your rear view mirror, looking for the tiny black spec that oft approaches at 180kph.

Middle lane's the go, then, avoiding the worst of the bikes, europe's fearless finest, and stern looking police officers, on ridiculously oversized Hondas that point angrily at you as though you had some means of getting out of their way.

Don't bother looking for speed signs. That'll get you killed. Besides, speed cameras are few and far between, and it would seem that most of them are offline.

Just drive with the traffic flow, and let the tailgaters past. And should someone's driving offend you, don't worry, very soon you will have someone different to be offended by.

It's inevitable. Like death, or taxes. Or John Farnham comeback tours.

Rush hour changes things. What was three lanes becomes seven. An extra one for cars on the far left, and on the far right, and a lane between each of the other lanes, just big enough to fit a scooter through. Not really big enough to fit a Kancil(the Malaysian equivalent of a Daihatsu Curoe, or possibly a mini), but that won't stop anyone from trying. It's also just the right size for a fifty seater bus.

Two things consistently amaze me about rush hour traffic. The first is that the scooter riders seem to speed up. And don't seem to die. Which causes my logic driven mind to skip a beat.

The second thing causes my logic driven mind to blank out for a second or two, and loop over simple mathematical equations until things settle down again. Bikes are the quickest way through the mess. The second quickest way is on a bus.

They're faster than the ambulances. They give horn blasts for one and all, but no hoots are given for anyone. These bus drivers, the Schumacers of the Heavy Rigid scene, blast through traffic jams, barely altering their timetables. People actually drive behind them to speed up their transit.

I'm in awe. It's like Moses parting the red sea. With a bus. And air horns.

So. Watch out for the buses, because they'll flatten you.

Watch out for the scooters, because they seem to aim for you.

Otherwise, you can basically drive as you wish, without regard for signalling or road rules, but always keep in mind that everyone else on the road is driving in exactly that fashion as well.

And above all, watch out for people with their indicator on.

At no stage should you assume that they're signalling direction. More likely, they're staring hard at not the road, but their dashboard, and trying to figure out where that annoying clicking sound is coming from.

Observations.

There are three different types of liars in Malaysia, each governed by his/her own set of convictions.

First type is the financial liar. This is majorly represented by the Chinese ethnicity. Store workers. Market stall owners. Salesmen.

The justification for lying is quite simple, and fairly sensible once you understand the Chinese work culture.

It differs somewhat from the Australian work culture.

Back home, we work to pay off the mortgage, avoid the wife, get the car, or keep up with the Joneses.

Chinese work culture is motivated by one thing alone: World domination.

When a Chinese (in this case, designated Chinese-Malay, or Chi-lay* for short) family moves into an area, they immediately set up their business, on the basis of which they will form their dynasty. Often setting up house in the upper room of said business, they will forsake rest, fun, and public holidays in the quest for financial gain. The world, at present, revolves around the almighty dollar, and he who controls the most steers his section of world, should he wish, from behind a curtain. You know, Wizard of Oz style.

Let us observe the finest of financial liar in his home turf: The Maketplace.

Being tall and white puts me at an undeniable advantage over much of the people of this world, particularly where finances are concerned. Also, reaching things on the top shelf of kitchen cupboards. Unfortunately, it makes me a clear target in a crowded marketplace.

“Hey sir, I have watches for you! Best quality! (lie) Genuine Tag Hueller! (lie)”

“Can I see?”

“This one, sir, look good on you!(lie)”

(Tall white man tries on watch)

“Genuine, yeah? How much is it?”

“This one new model!(lie) Top quality!(lie) For you just ninety ringgit!”

“Ninety? That's to cheap to be real... C'mon, genuine?”

(seller moves on his feet a little) “...uh, genuine copy...”

“Ninety? Too much for a knock off. I'll give you forty.”

“Forty?!? Oh, you hard man! I pay fifty to buy(lie), you say forty? No! I sell for seventy. Good price!(lie) Best copy!(lie) New model!(lie) Top quality!(lie) You pay seventy, I make your size for free, and 12 month warranty!(lie)”

The lies are easy enough to work out, when you know what to look for. If the words being spoken increase the chance of you handing the person in question money, they are lies.

Righto then.

The second type is trickier to define, but easy enough to spot. It's called the Honour Liar.

It would seem the common Malaysian is a helpful fellow. Which is nice. In Australia, a foreigner asking people for advice in the street is a little more likely to be met with some unsavoury returns. I wonder how many people of asian descent, on the streets of Melbourne, were directed not on the most efficient way to return to their house, but rather told they should return to their place of origin?

Malaysians, on the other hand, are usually quite nice in the reply, and seemingly knowledgeable about various landmarks, hotels, and stores. They will take time to explain in detail, using mostly their hands, the left, right, down the street, past the hospital, and two blocks down. There is a confidence displayed, in spite of two clear facts:

A:he doesn't know what you're talking about, which is probably because

B:he doesn't speak more than three words of english.

It's a point of interest that admitting you don't know something is seen as less honourable than giving the wrong answer.

This is best witnessed in the taxi driver.

“We're going to Subang Jaya. Number 5 Jalan 1. Do you know where that is?”

(Long pause, eyes look off into space)

“......ahhh, yeahhhhhhh........”

This is a good time to look for another cabbie.

General vagueness is a dead give away here, and if you think he seems unsure, then you can be absolutely certain that he is.

Conformation will come halfway through the trip, when he begins to call friends on his mobile, repeating the address back to them time and time again.

The third type is probably a form of honour lying, but for fun I'll name it differently.

It's the 'not us, man, Indonesia did it' liar.

Think of a problem. Any problem.

“There's a lot of rubbish on the beach.”

“Yeah, it's all from Indonesia. Whenever there's a typhoon it gets blown over. ”

“I heard the crime rate was rising..”

“Yeah, it's all the Indonesian workers coming over. When they don't get jobs, they turn to crime.”

“Pretty smoggy today, isn't it?”

“Yeah, it blows over from Indonesia, they burn fires all the time.”

“This coffee tastes awful!”

“Yeah, all the good beans go to Indonesia to be eaten by animals so they can be crapped out and sold to rich westerners.**”

The 'not us, man, Indonesia did it' or NUMIDI-liar for short, is a tad different. For starters, there may be an element of truth to what he is saying. The rubbish on the beach in Lankawi may have indeed come, in part, from Indonesia. But to say that Malaysia is completely free from blame in the issue is stretching the truth. It's compounded by the fact that Lankawi is in the middle of south east asia, surrounded by other countries that don't have the best record on cleaning things up either. And given the rampant destroying of rainforest to build palm oil plantations, Malaysia isn't exactly the good green citizen of earth that it may have you believe. Indonesia just seems to be the whipping boy for every Malay problem you can think of.

So should the answer to your question about smog, crime, global warming or traffic jams contain the word 'Indonesia', it's best taken with a grain of salt.

And that, friends, is round one.

Next time I should write something funny...

Josh

Asian Grease 1st Edition

*Chi-lay is not a term used by anyone at all.

**I made that bit up. No-one actually said that either. But google Kopi Luwak for a bit of fun.

Sitting on the plane was nice.


Three months ago, no. Twelve weeks ago (if you say weeks it sound like less... I think) we got The Call Back. 
We'd written off the whole idea. Thought it was a no-show, for at least another year. And then. 
Oh, and then.
Waiting on a call back like this one is a little like being stuck in wet concrete, with a fence around you, and lions outside the fence. Even if you could move you're not sure it's for the best.


I should explain. 
Say you need a lamp for the bedside table. 
I could go to the shop and BUY one, but I might be moving to MALAYSIA and the lamp would be USELESS.
So when the wait was finally over, I breathed a sigh of relief. 
And then I bought a new rifle. 


No, you can't take a rifle to Malaysia, it doesn't work like that. You can't really shoot anything here anyway.
I think my underlying thought process was this: Malaysia is away from everything I like, (cars, guns, football) but if I have this rifle my holidays back home will be AWESOME.


Anyway. Keep moving forward, there's lots of things to do. Shed to pack. Cars to fix. Jem can do the house, and the preparation, I'll do the man things.


So naturally, I picked a few things to focus on. I stuffed them up, too, not managing to finish anything before the time to leave came. I was actually machining a cylinder head just two hours before I had to drive to the airport, fortunately in a different car to that which I was working on.


I hadn't achieved much of what I'd prioritised. The stress was getting up something shocking. 
The Lovely Mrs Welsh puts very few expectations on me, which is nice, but there's still a feeling that I was failing, letting her down you might say, and frankly, true or not, it felt like crap.


It's that special (horrible) feeling you get, deep in your gut, when you're about to sit an important exam that you haven't prepared for. 
Regret. Unease. Maybe a little shame.


What surprised me most of all, was at about seven o'clock, just two hours before I had to leave.
I switched off the miller. The head hadn't ground flat yet (mechanic speak for bad), and looking at the clock, I knew there was no way in the world I was going to complete all the work I needed to finish.


At that point, the strangest, and most unexpected thing happened.


I felt total and utter relief.


I hadn't been that relaxed in three months. I exhaled, sat down, and surrendered. Whatever happened next was in God's hands.


I felt completely at peace.


So yeah, sitting in the plane was nice. I knew, that no matter how hard I tried, or what I'd failed to achieve, that whatever had been set into motion was going to happen, with or without my efforts.


It was disarming, but I didn't feel disempowered.


Strange. But nice.


So here we are, then. Jem's started working at the Australian International School of Malaysia already, I'm drinking coffee and interneting full time now, as opposed to part time as back home. 


It's nice. Peaceful. Soon, I'll be job hunting, househunting, friend hunting, and possibly (unlikely) pig hunting, but I'll be sure to keep you all posted.


Till then.


Josh
Asian Grease, 2nd Edition. 
(but you should probably have read this first)