The Hungry Caterpillar

When I think about change, I think about caterpillars.

Like that hungry one in the storybook, all lumpy and green, emotionally eating his way through a wide variety of foodstuffs before pupating and emerging as a butterfly.

Sometimes I feel like that caterpillar, spinning a cocoon – up, up and around myself.

But other days, it’s like I’m going in reverse. Disassembling my own potential, thread by thread.

This has been a hard couple of weeks. I’ve been dealing with a lot of anxiety, which clings to me in a way that only anxiety can cling to a person. I knew that taking this internship would not be easy, and that I would struggle with some parts of myself that I have always tried to push away. But that process is painful. And there is nothing I can do but grit my teeth and let it run its course.

I think part of my anxiety comes from struggling with change, even if that change is a good thing for me. In this past 3 weeks, many things have shifted for me. I was living in Lantana Villas, in Bukit Antarabangsa with another intern, Danae, and a 50 something year old English man named Dave. Dave turned out to be a super huge ASSHOLE (I will not go into details), so I needed a quick solution to get out of a bad situation.

Over Hari Raya, which is a 2-day public holiday in Malaysia, to celebrate the end of Ramadan, I moved into a new apartment called The Astaria (pictured below), with another intern from my university (Kim) and an MSRI employee (Margot).

It’s a little bit ghetto…

While the place seemed too good to be true (it’s quite difficult to find a 6-month lease in Malaysia), we quickly realized that we had a bit of a cockroach problem, so I spent most of my week hyperventilating into a paper bag and sleeping with my eyes taped open.

Despite our rocky start, the landlord has been very accommodating, repairing windows, fixing showers and sending “the roach guy” to spray the kitchen and look at potential entry points, which are, for the record, EVERYWHERE, since cockroaches can flatten their bodies to fit into extremely small spaces, including cracks that are only 1/16 of an inch (1.5 millimeters) thick).  PUKE.

Anyways, although a lot has happened as of late, I have found it a bit challenging to keep up with my blog. I want to keep up with my writing, but since I am in a going through a hungry, stressed-out, undergoing some kind of great change caterpillar mode, I’ve decided to forego my usual storytelling to post instead some of the things that make me happy in Kuala Lumpur. And in life in general.  

1.) Reader’s Paradise

I found a little shop in the Ampang Point mall, close to my work, called Reader’s Paradise, where you can rent books for 6 ringgits, or $2.00 Canadian.

So far, I have read 3 books.

It is an exciting thing, when you open a book, and fall in love with the first passage. It is even more exciting when you stumble across a valley of words and letters that somehow, together, spell out ideas that you have always carried with you, but have never known how to articulate.

My favorite quotes, from each book, that I had the forethought to earmark, are below.

From Love in the Time of Cholera

“He allowed himself to be swayed by his conviction that human beings are not born once and for all on the day their mothers give birth to them, but that life obliges them over and over again to give birth to themselves.”

From The Gift of Rain

“When you are lost, in this world or on the continent of time itself, remember who you have been and you will know who you are. These people were all you, and you are them.”

From The Kite Runner

“For you, a thousand times over.”

2.) Rat Fights

In addition to the hundreds of stray cats that wander the streets near our apartment, there are also SO many rats. Like, I see about 5 – 6 rats per day. And they are enormous, much bigger than Yoda. The other day, my Italian roommate Margot, who makes me laugh more than anyone I have ever met, glanced over to the patch of grass near our house, and said, in her sing-song Italian accent.

 “There are two rats fighting over there.”

And so there were.

And,  as we discussed what they might be fighting about (ex: cheese,  ex-girlfriend, bought the same sweater, etc.), I thought to myself, how strange it is to be here, in this moment that I will never be in again. 

3.) Burnout Fitness Centre

When I arrived in KL, I bought a 6 month pass for a gym really close to my work, called Burnout Fitness. It’s the most ridiculous gym I have ever been into, but it has become a staple in my routine. I go 2 – 3 times during the week during my lunch hour. I love it because it’s almost always empty + they blast electronic music SO LOUD and sell Gatorade from a grass hut.

4.) Yousician

About 2 weeks ago, I bought a guitar, and I have been fiddling around with this super awesome app on my phone, called Yousician. It’s kind of like playing Guitar Hero, except you’re actually learning an instrument.

The app teaches you chords, and notes, and technique. I think I will eventually take some lessons with a real live person, but for the time being, this is enough.

5.) DuoLingo

I am learning Spanish! Every night, Margot and I sit down for half an hour and we practice nuestros Español with an app called Duolingo. I can now say really useless sentences like “los hombres necesito el bano” (the men need the bathroom!) and “tengo una gata” (I have a cat!).

6.) Yoda

I think I have decided to send Yoda back to Canada, which fills me with the utmost happiness. And so, I must now go through the process of getting him vaccinated, and organizing his “pet passport”. I love the idea though, of coming home after a year away, to the best little souvenir a girl could ever ask for.

7.) The Family Bundle

The Family Bundle is a Malaysian vintage clothing store where I go with Margot and Kim from time to time. I like to try on all of the old dresses.

8.) A Man Wearing a Plastic Bag on his head for No Apparent Reason

This needs no introduction

There are many more things, that I have not been able to capture in this blog post, which fill me with joy. It is in abundance here, and weaves its way into the fabric of every single day I have spent in this place.

And as I move through this land, all chaos, and dirt, and head-tilted, gap-toothed smiles, I know that I will be OK. And all of this hard work, and all of this joy, is transforming me. I may never be a butterfly. But maybe, just maybe, as I sit in my half-constructed cocoon, its walls perpetually growing and shrinking, I will learn that being a caterpillar isn't so bad. That maybe I'm not meant to be different, and the real change comes from accepting myself just as I am. 

A Crack in the Concrete

"All living things contain a measure of madness that moves them in strange, sometimes inexplicable ways. This madness can be saving; it is part and parcel of the ability to adapt. Without it, no species would survive."
- Yann Martel, Life of Pi

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! 

My eyes open slowly, blinded by the darkness that has settled into my room, as my right hand fumbles for my phone, which has found its way onto the floor at some point during the night. I turn my alarm off, struggling to keep my eyes open, and drop my head back onto my pillow with a resounding WUMPH. I turn my face to the side, and in the dull grey hue of morning, a small figure darts across my room and into the shadows. A smile, which stems from the very depths of me, makes its way onto my face. 

"Yoda?" I call out in a groggy sing-song voice. 

"Mroww"

A pause. Some rustling. 

"Yodaaa?" Again, that same sing-song. 

"Mewrrhhh"

Another pause. And then, a faint sound of purring, which intensifies as he draws near. 

"Come here baby," I say, my voice flowering with tenderness, as I lift him from the floor with one hand. 

He lands on my chest, and presses his soft, warm nose into my face. I pull him away and try to make him hunker down under my chin, to cuddle into the soft folds of my shirt, so that I can stroke his fur and drift into the abyss once more. Instead, he viciously bites my hand, and flips onto his back, exposing his little pink belly. His back legs kick back and forth as he clamps his razor sharp nails into my skin. I sigh, defeated, and turn on the light. 

"C'mon," I say wearily, lifting myself from the mattress and planting my feet on the floor, "breakfast time". 

It's Ramadan. And I have half an hour to eat before I go into lock down mode. I make my way into the kitchen and throw two pieces of toast in the toaster, as Yoda winds around my feet, crying and crying and crying some more. He is still bottle-fed and ready for his own breakfast, a scoop of goat's milk powder mixed into hot water followed by 3 mL of antibiotics, 2 mL of probiotics, and an array of other medicines that have to be jammed down his throat with a syringe. I hate this part, and it takes me the better part of 15 minutes to get it all down. I remember my toast, which is cold by now, and spread a thick layer of coconut butter on top, with a second layer of tropical jam: sweet juicy pineapple. mouthwatering mango. crisp coconut flakes and hint of lime. I cram it into my mouth and wipe my hands on my pants. The knowledge, that this is the last thing I will eat for 12 hours, sits heavy on my mind. 

Yoda, still howling, for what I do not know, tramps behind me back into the bedroom. I get dressed, brush my teeth, and swaddle him tightly in a light blue towel, patterned with elephants, which seems to be the only way to calm him down when he is being fussy. He sits, bound in his terry cloth prison, and stares at me with big blue eyes. His mouth opens and shuts softly, like he is murmuring to himself. Eyelids get heavy, and I shove him under my burnt orange sweater. 

I call a taxi with an app on my phone (similar to Uber), and then hurry down to Jalan Kelab Ukay 5, which is the closest address listed for pickup. It takes about 7 minutes to arrive, and I barrel in with Yoda, heavy on my arm. 

As soon as I'm settled in the back of the cab, Yoda wakes up, and begins to wriggle out of his swaddle, howling uncontrollably. I feel a warm puddle begin to form on my lap, and I run my hand through my hair, which stands on end. The driver glances into the rear view mirror suspiciously, and then cranes his head towards me, his dark eyes settling on my sweater, which has taken on, more or less, a life of its own.

"You have kitten?" he asks menacingly, and wracked with guilt, I nod, lifting the burnt orange fabric to expose Yoda in all his glory, arms thrashing and face, deranged. 

"So cute!", he exclaims, delighted, and tells me that he has 10 cats at home. This is not uncommon in Malaysia. I do my best to dry my pants while he talks, stroking Yoda's ears, to keep him quiet. 

At work, Yoda stays in a pink basket on the window sill, where he sleeps, plays with his orange ball, howls for his bottle and basically does cat things. I feed him 3 - 4 times during the day, and then, when work is over, we go straight home. The people at work have, with knowing grins, started calling me, "kucing ibu" which means "cat mom" in Malay, and recently, at an iftar dinner (which is a break fast dinner for Ramadan), a Malay grandmother who spoke not a lick of English, asked her granddaughter if I was breastfeeding the cat. Everyone laughed. This is my life now. 

I am a starving cat mom. 

When we arrive home, Yoda prances around the house like Matt Rempel at a music festival, and I sit, with fork and knife clutched in hand, waiting for the call to prayer to sound out across the city. It's been a long and stressful day. But I am happy. 

Because Yoda is happy. 

And even though he shits on my bed and spreads litter all over the house and bites my face while I'm trying to sleep and cries for milk at all hours of the day and night, at the end of the day, he has shown me how resilient life can be. 

And, in this month of Ramadan, like a flower, growing up through a crack in the concrete, how resilient I can be. 

And that is an important lesson to learn, any day. 

Yoda - the day we found him - severely malnourished and covered with fleas

So tiny!

Bottle feeding when he first arrived (pre-medication!)

Swaddled in my burnt orange sweater!

"What's that mom?"

"I'll just sit here..." 

Helping me with my blog!

The Danger of a Single Story

In 2009, a Nigerian writer, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie gave a TED talk called “The Danger of a Single Story". It is about what happens when you boil the stories of millions of complex human beings down into one single narrative. 

When I was a little girl, we didn't have cable. We had 5 channels, and other then Saturday morning cartoons (which I lived for), I spent a lot of time channel surfing. Since I refused to go outside, especially on nice days, and was even more averse to cleaning my bedroom, I ended up wiling away countless hours, stretched out lazily on our lumpy green couch succumbing to my fate. The World Vision one hour special. 

Looking back, I now realize that I spent an inordinate amount of time watching colonialism in action. An old, grey haired man strolls into a remote African village, where the people live in squalor, a bank of flies teasing their nostrils, climbing into their eyes and ears. This man (think Bill Clinton), looking particularly well-kempt in this setting, kneels in his khaki pants (always khaki!), one knee in the dirt, to reach the child's height. Placing an arm around the malnourished, fly-ridden body of the young person, he looks directly into the camera and asks, rather implores, for help. For the good of the child. For the good of the community. Because they do not have the capacity to save themselves. 

And so, with my spongey little nine year old brain, I learned that Africans are nothing more than the passive recipients of white benevolence and that Africa itself is an undesirable, poverty-stricken, heat-ravaged, fly-infested dust bowl of a place. 

Sadly, I held this conception for a long time, because nobody showed me another truth and I didn't take it upon myself to learn more. And this, my friends, is the danger of a single story. 

I now know that Africa is one of the largest continents in the world, comprising 54 distinct countries, which encompass more than 1500 region-specific languages and countless cultures, as well as a tremendous wealth of natural resources. It is home to a vast and fertile landscape, enormous rainfall, good soil and plenty of sought after minerals, like diamonds, salt, gold, iron, cobalt, uranium, copper, bauxite and silver, in addition to a plethora of other resources like petroleum, cocoa beans, woods and tropical fruits. 

In the past, when I have conjured up images of Africa, they have been two-fold.

"Extreme hunger in drought-ravaged East Africa"

OR

African Safari

My own misconceptions, and my failure to examine my flawed belief systems, led me to see Africa as one homogeneous entity. This TED talk, "The Danger of a Single Story", shed some light on how we, as people, are prone to categorizing other people, places, cultures, religions, and more, based on our own black and white interpretations of what we THINK we know. Africa is not homogeneously poor - in the way I was led to believe. And things are not always as they seem. 

When I started writing this blog, I wanted it to be diverse, to showcase every aspect of my trip. But I also need to be careful about the way that I tell my own stories. For example, while police officers in Kuala Lumpur are notoriously corrupt, that doesn't mean that they ALL are - and even the ones who do fit this description aren't always all bad - one might shake down a refugee for every penny they have on them in the afternoon, and be home in the evening to sing their baby to sleep. 

As far as I'm concerned, there is a Jekyll and a Hyde, a good and a bad, in everyone and everything. And there are a million sides to every story. Understanding this is an important part of being human. There is no black and white. People are complicated, multi-faceted. One problem can have 10 different solutions, each one as good as the next. 

I have come to realize that it is my job to sift through all of the information presented to me - to identify the gaps and to do my own research, to find my own truth. That is what I aim to do in this internship, and outside of it. This life is meant for digging, And the deeper you dig, the more you will find :) 

Algiers (the capital city of Algeria) 

Abuja (the capital city of Nigeria) 

Snow in a small ski town in South Africa

The Danger of a Single Story

A Rude Awakening

The midnight air is frigid, the A/C blasting its icy breath into the back of the cab, as Danae and I make our way home from "The Green Man", an English pub in the heart of downtown, Kuala Lumpur, on our first Friday night in the city.

"I am seeing this word, Jalan, everywhere..." Danae proclaims loudly, her words glauming on to one another excitedly, as she pushes her large brown satchel to one side, "I'm going to ask the taxi driver, what does Jalan mean?"

I see his shoulders sag.

"Excuse me, sir. sir? Can I ask you..." she taps him on the shoulder, "Sir? Yes, Sir. What does Jalan mean?"

"It means road," he sighs, and stares longingly at his GPS, willing it to call upon our final destination.

Peals of laughter erupt from the backseat, and I can almost see him roll his eyes through the back of his head. Then, the mood shifts in the car quite suddenly, as we come over the crest of a steep hill and begin to descend the long and winding road towards home.  I notice, all around me, for the first time, flashing lights. A nervous energy winds itself, like a persistent weed, into my body, and I hear my voice, urgent and strangled, ring out in the darkness.

"Is that a police blockade?"

The taxi driver, his fingers wrapped tightly around the steering wheel, nods, and turns towards me for the first time.

"Yes ma'am. Very bad for us..." he smiles apologetically.

"But it's OK right?" I hear myself say, as if from far away, "because you haven't been drinking".

"No ma'am," says the driver in his indistinguishable accent, "they are not checking for the drinking... they are checking for the passports."

My blood freezes in my veins.

I don't have my passport with me, and neither does Danae.

"It's OK", says Danae quietly, all of her previous gusto evaporated, along with my confidence, "we can show them photocopies".

I'm not convinced. The Malaysian police are notorious for taking bribes, and arresting travelers who are unable to show documentation.

As we near the check-stop, a car up ahead is being searched, and I am horrified to see that every officer in the vicinity is sporting an automatic weapon, which resembles an AK47.

Pretty much, this was happening

One heavily armed officer approaches the window, and taps the butt of his gun against the pane. The driver rolls it down hurriedly.

"Yes Sir," he says, timidly, as the police officer ignores him, and sneers into the back of the cab.

"Passports," he says gruffly, and I can tell, for lack of a better expression, that he is not fucking around.

"We don't have them," I state plainly, my voice wavering slightly, "they're back at the house."

"That is not my problem," he says, a callousness buried deep in his voice.

"We have photocopies though", says Danae, a little too brightly, and begins to dig through her wallet.

"You can't produce REAL passport...", he says, "you go downtown".

He opens Danae's door, and motions for us to get out of the cab.

As he turns to speak to another officer, I violently stuff 600 ringgits (about $200.00 Canadian) from my wallet into my bra, and refuse to step foot out of the taxi.

After much pleading, we manage to convince the officers to let me leave Danae at the checkpoint and return to our apartment to fetch our passports. I take her phone, since mine is dead, so that I can use Google maps to find my way. It takes half an hour to get back to her, and the entire time, my heart beats out of my chest.

After an hour of negotiations and travel, I return to the scene of the non-crime, in my opinion, to produce our shiny navy blue passports for inspection. And then, just like that, we are on our way.

One of the things I have thought about often since this incident is how lucky I am to be Canadian. How lucky I am to have a passport. Most of the refugees living in Kuala Lumpur don't have any form of documentation. Nor do they have any ways to obtain that documentation. And for them it means random police checks turn into human rights violations on a daily basis. They are robbed, assaulted, strip-searched, and oftentimes detained indefinitely by police. The system is incredibly broken, because it allows people (and particularly, men) in positions of authority to exploit the most vulnerable populations.

And why is it that I'm special and they're not? Why is it that I can move freely across borders, and my story does not end with violence or humiliation or degradation or detention? Why is it that my face in a little booklet, worth $120.00, tells the police officers in Kuala Lumpur that I mean something?

The more I learn about the refugee plight, the more I realize that the world is not fair.

And it probably never will be.

And that's just not OK.

Dreaming of the Batu Caves

I stare up at the large gold statue, guarding the entrance to the Batu Caves, and marvel at the significance of this moment in my life. A big, indescribable flurry of feeling funnels itself out of my gut and whips kinetic energy into my limbs, every molecule of my body vibrating with anticipation.

I am going to see a monkey today.

And a 400 million year old limestone hill, sprinkled with stalactites and stalagmites, home to some of the most sacred Hindu temples in all of Malaysia.

But mostly a monkey.

Or maybe several monkeys...

My mind wanders, as I imagine our first encounter, on the thronging steps that stretch out before me. A long tail twists around my legs, as a set of human-like teeth smiles up at me, waiting for sumptuous handouts of fresh coconut and banana, small brown hands tugging playfully at my thin yellow scarf, pulled round my shoulders and saturated with the soggy breath of May.

"We are such fucking tourists," says Danae, laughing in her thick Greek accent, and I drop from my reverie like an egg, cast out from the unfortunate nest of a prematurely hatched cuckoo bird (yes, that reference is for you, Bianca). With that, she pulls out her very conspicuous Nikon D-90, raises the view finder to her eye, and attempts to encapsulate the frame of this indomitable figure, Lord Murugan, the Hindu god of war, knowing full well that his magnificence exists in direct relation to scale, which is impossible to capture in the dimensions of a standard photograph, 4 inches long by 6 inches wide.

Lord Murugan

My own camera, a Nikon D3200, sits heavy in my bag, itching to be taken out, and I submit to its inanimate longing. Removing the lens cap, I feel my eyebrows stitch together, as I begin to think about all the people who have come before us, brandishing this same token of their visit to Batu, without understanding the full magnitude of meaning that this statue, and this place, holds for the Hindu people.

But as we begin our ascent to the main cave, amidst the clamor of tourists and devotees, sweating and bumping and waiting and watching, I am once again caught up in the excitement of this new and fantastic place.

And then, in amongst a sea of colorful fabric, I see him.

Tail twitching. Stern, contemplative face examining the inside of a coconut, hands shredding the pulp with a lustful desire. I jostle my way up the stairs to get a better look.

He does not look as friendly as I had hoped... 

Despite his relatively unpleasant disposition, the monkey intrigues me greatly, and after this first sighting, I develop an unexpected and largely frantic need to see MORE monkeys.

 National Geographic, here I come!

After some time, my index finger begins to tire, and I promise myself that I will put my camera away for a while, to enjoy the present moment.

UNTIL I SEE THIS! 

WHAT?!

OMG

You're lucky I've restrained myself (but you may find more monkey pictures attached to the end of this post...) 

Attempting to distract me from my monkey mania, Danae suggests that we continue up into the caves. As we climb the steps, sopping with sweat, I begin to look at the people around me. They are incredibly diverse, and many look somber, devoted and hopeful. It is an interesting thing, to pull your attention away from yourself and to place it on to other people. 

My friend Jake once asked me if I knew the meaning of the word sonder, and I didn't, so we looked it up in the Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows. 

sonder

n. the realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own—populated with their own ambitions, friends, routines, worries and inherited craziness—an epic story that continues invisibly around you like an anthill sprawling deep underground, with elaborate passageways to thousands of other lives that you’ll never know existed, in which you might appear only once, as an extra sipping coffee in the background, as a blur of traffic passing on the highway, as a lighted window at dusk.

I liked this definition so much that I think of it often, when I am surrounded by people, and have the clarity to know when I have become too self-involved.

A Hindu women, clad in the warm colors of a life, long-lived

Some of the people around me, I realized, were ascending the stairs on their knees, eyes raised to the heavens, an unwavering endurance planted firmly beneath their eyelids. 

When we enter the caves, the shrines, which house Hindu deities Vishnu, Shiva and Shakti, come into view. People congregate beneath the colourful structures, their bare feet supported by a slab of cold limestone.

I begin to understand that for these people, this is not a vacation, it is a pilgrimage.

A young Hindu man removes his hat, and swiftly passes his hand through a hot flame, touching his head and his face before his skin cools. An act of purification.

An older man prays by the same flame, standing up, falling to his knees, and jumping into a push up, then back, before raising his hands, once again, in prayer. In every action, he is flanked by his young son, who attempts to mimic his father's devotion. 

Some children, their heads covered in Vibhuti, or sacred ash, tip toe into the temples, dressed in beautiful garments made of fabrics that shine in the natural light that filters in through the caves. 

I am humbled by the knowledge that some devotees have traveled days to arrive at the temples to pay homage to this Holy place. 

As we are leaving, Danae picks up a coconut husk to give to a monkey.

"Is it too big do you think?" she asks, "I'm going to try to break it". 

She places it on the ground and proceeds to stomp on it. 

A young Hindu man, his face twisted in fear and discomfort, rushes towards us with arms outstretched, waving back and forth in a universal symbol which I interpret to mean "NO!"

He points at the coconut, and says, in broken English: "This... a symbol of God... Not good for breaking". 

Danae, mortified, because she goes out of her way in every situation to be culturally appropriate, apologizes profusely. 

After more tutting and frowning, the man finally cracks a smile and shoos us away.

"You can give to monkey now. Just goh, goh,"

As we leave the cave, I try to be mindful of my own position in the world. Of my own privilege. That I am here, in this space, this place of worship, without even knowing what my presence might mean for those who spend their lives dreaming of the Batu Caves. 

Inside the caves

 More monkeys! 

Not crying over spilled milk

Hindu altar

Vibhuti (or sacred ash)

 Henna

Fresh Coconut Water

Open House Friday at the Sahabat

It is late Friday afternoon when I climb the stairs in the medical services and community support building for the Sahabat Support Centre (SSC). The building itself is unmarked, and "fronted" by a run of the mill business which exists to divert attention away from what happens on the 2nd and 3rd floors. My feet are heavy in the narrow stairwell, as beads of sweat congregate at my temples, along my hairline, streaking salt into my eyes. Sunlight dapples in, through grimy windows, and voices carry into the echo of the vast space.

I am nervous. 

"I hope you don't mind, but we're going to throw you right into the deep end", says Gloria, the operating manager of the SSC, 

She is conducting an "open house", where refugees book appointments to discuss medical claims, appeal for support (monetary and in kind) and pursue claims with the United Nations Refugee Agency (UNHCR).

When we enter the small and stuffy room on the top floor, the first candidate, an old man, his face heavily etched with dark creases, is hunched over an unsturdy looking table, surrounded by metal fold out chairs. Gloria motions for Danae and I to sit down, and a young Iranian man joins us, quite unexpectedly. 

"Hello. My name is Gloria," says Gloria, with a hint of an accent, "do you mind if my interns sit in with us today?" 

The young Iranian man begins to speak to the elderly man in what I assume to be Arabic. I understand, then, that he is an interpreter. And that interpreters are the lifeblood of this organization. 

The old man looks up, his face kind, as it expands and contracts into a short-lived, but impressively toothy, smile. He nods, and the interview continues in Arabic --> English, English --> Arabic. He is a homeless man who has been living on the street for several months, because he is sick, and cannot work. 

"What would you do, if you could do any job?" Gloria asks, "like... what do you have the skills for?"

After some deliberation, the young man replies, with a smile dancing in his eyes, "he would be a cook... or a basketball player!!" 

Laughter erupts out of my mouth before I can stop it, and the elderly man sitting across from me grins wildly, shooting a 3 pointer with both hands in mid-air (I kid you not!) 

As my laughter mixes with his, to warm the air in the room, I realize that this man is not hopeless. And he does not need my pity. 

Because although he may be desolate, and yes, his life may be hard... his humanity, and his dignity, are still very much in tact, and that's more than I can say for most people. 

As he leaves his appointment, without any rent assistance (which means he will stay homeless for now), but a food voucher and a promise to follow up on his UNHCR file, he bows his head.

"Thank you," he says in English, with a silent grace that hurts my heart. 

The rest of the interviews follow along the same vein. 

A beautiful Afghani woman, with strong features and hair like black silk, is unable to afford a hospital visit for her son, who is ill. And the reality is that even if she could afford it, she would need an interpreter to go to the hospital with her since she cannot speak a lick of English. And even if there was an interpreter, she risks deportation. Why? Because she crossed the border illegally, by way of human smugglers, who removed her passport upon arrival, abandoning her (and her 5 children) in Malaysia without any form of identification. 

An older woman from Afghanistan follows, asking for assistance in finding her two children, in their early 20's, who fled to  Germany two years ago, and ceased all communication. Tears spill from her eyes, which bring life to pain that I don't know I will ever experience, as she describes her last conversation with them. 

"She is terrified for her children", says the young Persian interpreter, a woman this time. 

My desire, then, is to reach my hand out towards the old woman. To touch her elbow. Her hair. To take her burden from her shoulders in some way, and place it squarely onto mine. Instead, I extend my fingers over my heart. And with this, I can express to her without words, that we are connected.

More interviews followed, and each refugee, no matter how hard their struggle, managed to touch my heart in some way. Whether it be their gentle eyes, or their playful spirits in the face of adversity. I don't know that I have ever experienced that kind of rawness. Of people cut wide open, and sewn back shut, yet somehow still in tact, and still beautiful. I will never forget the experience, for as long as I live. And I know that this is only the beginning. 

My first day in Kuala Lumpur

After 29 hours in transit, and a few days to recuperate, Danae and I have finally begun to settle in to our temporary residence in Apartment Villa Lantana, just off Jalan Kelab Ukai Utama, in the district of Ampang.

We arrived in Kuala Lumpur in the early morning on May 9th, and took a light rail train from the terminal to immigration. After passing through customs, I began to take stock of my new surroundings, and what I noticed, in particular, was the wide array of clothing in the place. Milling about by the baggage claim was a large group of men sporting dishdashas, which are long white robes traditionally worn around the Arab gulf. Next to them, young men adorned in beautifully embroidered billowing wide-sleeved robes from Africa. And then the saris, trimmed with gold and all the colours of the rainbow. Textured pashmina scarves, vibrant sashes with sequins and bobbits and whosits and whatsits, and flowing sarongs, paired, almost exclusively, with a lofty pair of durable brown sandals.

One of my most favorite things about KL thus far is the diversity of the people. Although the city is primarily a mix of Malays, Chinese and Indians, rapid development has led to an influx of workers from other countries like Thailand, Bangladesh, Nepal, Burma, Sri Lanka, Phillipines and Vietnam.When you add religion to the mix, which includes Islam (the majority religion), followed by Buddhism, Hinduism, Christianity and Daoism, this city is a virtual melting pot.

After taking some time to collect myself, we went to collect our luggage (which arrived in tact!), and emerged from the airport into the sweltering tropical heat, which hit me like a brick wall. The temperature ranges at this time of year between 32 and 35 degrees, but, in the weather forecast there is always a sneaky "feels like" disclosure, which calculates through some kind of Houdini math "the apparent temperature felt on exposed skin", adding about 6 or 7 degrees to the average high. So... it's hot. Like... real hot.

 A sweaty man in his mid-40's, who seemed to spot us from an unreasonable distance, trundled over, yelling excitedly in what I assume was Malay. He had one arm up in the air and was shouting "Teksi!" "AK FEK JIARIG HR AG" "Teksi!" "Teksi". Before I knew what was happening, he had herded us into a passenger car, punching our address into Google Maps as we were lurching down the freeway at break neck speeds. "OK" he said, drawing out the letter K in a thick accent, "no working... you know where is?". I did not understand how lucky we were at that time that he spoke any English at all. We drove in circles around Ampang, up one street and down the next, searching for Lantana Villas.

In the end, we did manage to find the address, and paid 30 Ringgits (the equivalent of $10.00) for what seemed like a 10 hour trip.We unloaded all of our bags, excited at the prospect of a cold shower, but quickly discovered that the girl who had arranged our stay had forgotten to send an e-mail indicating our arrival time and date.

Me, after receiving the bad news

We ended up sitting outside, sweating profusely and talking an inordinate amount about how good water tastes, until finally the upstairs neighbor, Cindy, arrived home 5 hours later. She found us, hungry and dehydrated, and overcome by fits of hysterical laughter because her dog, Cooper, had pirouhetted past us on the stairs and had peed on Danae's bag. Cindy, wondering at the state of our mental health, decided to take us to dinner at a local Indian restaurant, called Ali Maju,

When we walked in to the restaurant, there was a palpable shift in the room, as dark eyes turned to stare in our direction. There are very few white people in Ampang, and I am getting used to drawing unwanted attention. That being said, the people are also some of the friendliest I've ever come across, once you shoot them a big beaming smile. The server, who was not very nice however, approached us and began speaking in an aggressive dialect that I could not, for the life of me, begin to process in my condition. Cindy, fluent in Malay, took the reins and ordered Tandoori Chicken and Garlic Na'an and fresh squeezed orange juice. It is one of the best meals I have ever had in my life, and it only cost 10 Ringgits, which is about $3.25 Canadian.

Ali Maju Restaurant

When we returned home, our roommate, Dave, was waiting for us. Dave is a man in his mid 50's who came to Kuala Lumpur 8 years ago, after a prolonged stint in the Oil and Gas industry. He's a nice guy - drives a Harley Davidson and smokes like a chimney. I went to bed pretty early that evening, and was surprised to wake up to shouting in the kitchen, around 9 a.m. the next morning. Apparently, Dave's former maid/ex-girlfriend had broken into the house "to talk". All I heard, upon removing my bright pink earplugs, was, "WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING HERE", followed by some scuffling, a shrill voice yelling, "LIAR!" and a violent expulsion of sorts. The woman lingered on the premises, banging erratically on the door for half an hour, until Dave threatened to call the police.

So... overall, we've been having a pretty weird time, but there plenty of excitement on this end! I will try to keep these short, as I'm sure you all have busy lives back home and can't spend hours reading my blog posts. But, I will keep them up. There is so much going on here at any given time, that there is no shortage of material.