It's Bohemian

Smells like Hell - Tastes like Heaven

That's what the man said about durian when he was listing the flavors of ice-cream that were available - chocolate, vanilla, strawberry, durian - that he served in a hamburger bun, with or without chopped roasted peanuts for two ringet. He was dressed in a traditional Arabic  robe and a scull cap, though his accent was distinctively Indian. Beside him at another stand a chinese woman sold fruits - pineapple, mango, apples in a dark sauce (that you could get with a little chilli), and jak fruit. We originally wanted to buy some bananas for the monkeys we encountered at the botanical garden, but after witnessing a man throw large slices of bread at the monkeys, and after picking up a couple slices that the monkeys had left behind, and after Jess stood in the middle of the grass near the Japanese garden trying to feed the monkeys, and only after I saw her running toward the sidewalk screaming, throwing bread over her head as she was being chased by impatient monkeys did we decide to simply feed ourselves.

Jak fruit is so much better than durian. We didn't know that they were different fruit, so we kept saying "I don't like the mushy one. I like the one that's more chewy and sweet like bubble gum." Thats been our best explanation of jak fruit. As we sat on a planter eating our ice-cream burgers (not really sure what else to call them) we spoke to a local man whose features were more distinctly Malay, which to me meant that his features were not distinctly chinese or indian or arab. He looked like the product of two generations of all three of them in a delicate mix he spoke English perfectly, but was able to converse with us (if we had the ability) in Chinese, Arabic, or Malay.

It was only the night before that we sat in a courtyard of a Chinese Clan temple watching a Chinese Opera being performed. Men and women in intense makeup and colorful dress came and went, singing in between proclamations that we didn't understand. All we knew was that this one particular long red fabric was pretty important, so much so that people were crying and fighting over it. As bats swooped over our heads and as this Chinese fairytale unfolded, the "Call to Prayer" sounded in the distance over the city in Arabic, announcing the last of the five Muslim daily prayers. The chicken mussalla that we had an hour or so ago had not affected me the way I feared, which is one of those simple things in life that you learn to appreciate when one of the most important things you pack in your bag as you leave the guesthouse is your own roll of toilet paper.

Georgtown, an old port city located on the north eastern part of the island, still has the diversity you would expect when merchants and traders gather in commerce; a harmonious existence of dependance and respect that makes livelihoods across seas possible. If you were able to freeze time and focus your eyes to one small section, you wouldn't know if you were in China, India, Arabia (I'm using broad strokes, I know)…a trained eye might be able to relive the smells, sights, sounds, and possibly the feel of a specific city in some far away land. Bring the world back to life and in the motion you see all these cultures passing you by in the stream of life that seems to be Malaysia. Never before have I witnessed such a melting. Although I am writing with memories of Penang, it seems to me right now that Malaysia is what America was is dubbed; but Malaysia is more the melting pot and less the salad bowl that is America.

I sat at a table while an old Chinese man cut chicken with a hatchet as if it were a scalpel, placing it on a plate of soy sauce and what I think was plum sauce, then adding a little oil to it. A women about the same age as he brought it over with another plate of rice. A younger man, about my age, brought be a small bowl of very plain soup. The rice was warm, the chicken cold, the soup steaming. I found that if I placed a little chick on my plate of rice and then poured a small amount of soup over it, the chicken heated up into a tender and moist delicacy. The man smiled often, saying random things to what I assumed was his family as they went to different tables serving food, hollering things back and forth in Chinese. Some people would come to the cart where all the food was served from and he would switch to what I figured as Malay quickly, then to English for some. I could be certain, but I think he said a few words in Arabic and possibly Urdu as well to come passersby when appropriate. The same smile, and the same sincerity or trained smile was bestowed on all. It didn't matter what the smile meant; it was universal, and the same level of respect was offered to all, even if was for the purpose of running a little business. This was not an isolated incident. The jolly people as well as those who seemed a little more serious than most were that way to everyone as I observed them. People were themselves, looking past color and race and origin, and looking into the belly of life.

Sure, there were "clan" houses scattered around the city - Chinese families who had come to Georgetown and created small mafia's, supporting newcomers in finding work and food and shelter, possibly for some kind of future cut in wages - and sure these clan houses were elitist in that they most likely had disputes with other clan houses and other races once upon a time if not still. But I would venture to say that the discrimination was not one of race, but perceived necessity and survival. I feel at home in Malaysia, even when so much feels unfamiliar, because I'm just another alien who could fit right in, should I choose to, and more so, should I find out how to survive here without being a burden on others.

I won't start writing out the wondering of my mind in full, but as I walked down the street I started to imagine a world where no borders existed, where people were burdened by their own ability to survive, where begging and stealing were equally vile, but where all people treated one another just the same, with their own moral compass as their guide. In some ways it's a scary place, but it also feels like utopia, and in a way, so does Malaysia.