The Smell of Malaysia.

It is nearly patriotic to complain about my country. After all, there are so many things to complain about. From driving examiners with their perpetually pissed looks plastered on their faces to the diabolical methods mamak stall chefs use to keep their chicken crispy. 

It is almost okay to buy a pirated good, even patriotic perhaps! In fact, buying an original is quietly, sometimes rambunctiously ridiculed. After all, in a purely buisness sense, its just better to spend 4 Rm on a game than 100 Rm! So what's the kicker? They have the exact same quality. Pirated is almost patriotic. 

  We complain, I complain, constantly and tenaciously about the government and about racial prejudices and so on. We see a whole in the ground and we wonder what on earth the government is doing about that! A vandalized traffic light or a sign board plastered over with loan shark stickers often earn our ire, directing us to blame the nitwits who dare. I pretty much dislike certain smells and colors of my country. And yet, whenever I say I am Malaysian, I feel proud. 

I've never really thought about how blessed I am to live in Malaysia. However, I only need to look in  the news to notice entire armies mobilized to kill their own citizens they swore to protect. Not because they are colored differently; but because they were born on the other side of the a mountain or the language they speak sounds slightly wierd. Other countries are run by pot-bellied scum made fat by the suffering of their people. Yet others run by ruthless men who float around shamelessly in their regal uniforms; being driven around in a fleet of mercedes benz that cost enough to sustain their countries for entire days. Their petty extravagances enough to feed their people for entire weeks. 

Perhaps racial divisions are something groups fight about and few very brave ones fight against. Its a problem wherever there are differences that are skin deep. But oddly enough, dear friends and even relatives are Malay, Indian and Chinese. I was cruising through my friend's blogs when I realized that their class photos were quite multicolored, thrown in with huge smiles and looney faces. I suppose, ignorance instead of culture, color or creed might be the only true reason for prejudice and racism. My cousin's name is Saiful, my friend's name is Terence Raaj. We would make a perfect multiracial promotion photo if we were snapped together.  

I was talking to a friend while we were waiting for a train in another country. Gradually we started whining about Malaysia. Then it hit me, how many times have I headed over to the largest shopping mall in south east asia, or eaten in an Italian restaurant overlooking the city. How many students walk around messaging on their touchscreen handphones in government schools and the amount of cars clogging up the roads. Hmmm, Malaysia can't be that bad.

Truth be told. I am simply proud of Malaysian culture. Once, someone refered to my country as Malay and I immediately corrected him. "Its Malaysia," I said, slightly annoyed. "Get it right." Then I realised what I felt, I felt a particular sense of pride for the country I was born and bred in. 

I remember the mamak stalls, the oily meals and the fragrance of nasi lemak. I love how the pasar malam smells. The prevailing, scent of Follow Me or Shokobutsu in the crowd and the wafting scent of char kuey teow or carrot cakes being made. I miss the noise in the famous coffee shops and the roaring din of the cyber cafes. One of my bittersweet memories are of the annoying Hari Raya song they play over the radio and the even more repulsively screechy Chinese New Year whines. The late nights in the shopping malls and the magical days when I simply hung out with friends and watched a movie. Not to mention the colorful fashion scene where some, possibly more artistically faulted individuals dressed. 

Never far from my heart are those quiet moments in a place called Leng Chai's which was basically a small coffee shop behind my school. Its toilet was a crack in the cement of a drain and the road to it was full of dead pigeons and rats. It was run by an Indian man who spoke english, mandarin, cantonese and tamil fluently. He was also married to a chinese wife who could speak manglish and cantonese. I miss eating spicy nasi lemak for breakfast with my mom and washing it down with an icy cold nescafe. Or chatting noisily with a friend over the mysteries of how hard it would be to start our own Malay Band. 

I love the quirkily humorous way different cultures try to pronounce their friends names. When a Malay says Ah Meng and when a Chinese tries to pronounce an English name. I had a friend once who couldn't stop messing up my name. She was an Indian named Sonia and instead of calling me Joseph, she called me,joSAP ( A as in Apple). Goodness.

I miss Malaysia. The brainless will think it a faultless place, the heartless will think it a terrible place. I have a little of a mind and some heart. But I still want to be home. Maybe it because I miss the smell.