As one of the tallest, whitest, if not freckliest females in a group of 55 Australians recently descended upon Sunway, I’m finding it hard to blend in. No matter how hard I try to be inconspicuous, and play down the distinctness of my rare look here, I always sense that I’m being surveyed, especially on solo outings, which is often. It doesn’t help that these outings frequently involve me creating a scene by pleading with shop assistants for shoe sizes that don’t exist on the Malaysian market.
My height is apparently so noticeable in a country full of petite women, that I’ve actually spotted some of the regular taxi drivers stationed outside our condo, shifting their passenger seat back in case I choose to travel with them. “You’re very long miss”, I was once informed, as I fumbled to create some leg room.
It dawned on me just how impossible it is to be anonymous here, when I went for a swim at the pool inside my condo. (A “condominium” is considered to be one step up from an apartment in Malaysia, where the term “apartments” has the same connotation as “block of flats” in Australia). Between laps, I got chatting with some Malaysian kids who told me that “I was the girl who had visited their dad’s fruit stall at the Pasar Malam (night market) over the weekend, asking to sample some mango stein.” (Sure enough, I was that girl. I must have been too busy handling ringgits and trying all manner of fruits to notice these kids at the time).
Kids beaming at me is one thing, but being ogled at by an entire restaurant of men is another. It is not uncommon for me to walk into a local mamak store, appropriately dressed in knee- and- shoulder- covering attire, wielding a local newspaper as a prop for looking purposeful, and the entire shop full of (mostly) men, will turn their heads, chairs if they must, at right angles to get a good look. It doesn't take long before my newspaper and tea routine bores them, and they resume their own ritual of laid-back ‘teh tarik’ sessions.
But since frequenting one particular Indian restaurant, or “roti place” as I ambiguously tell taxi drivers, I am now an official, welcome regular for teh halia (ginger tea), kurang manis (less sweet), which is still about a table spoon at least of sweetened condensed milk, and I only get the odd, brief and forgivable stare.
Nevertheless, gone are the days (for now) of meandering to and from uni, without so much as a lingering glance from fellow café –goers and tram riders in Melbourne. But Melburnians are use to the sight of myriad faces hailing from all corners of the globe- although the recent attacks on Indian students reveal a tendency to rest on our multicultural laurels.
It would be nice to think you could feel at home anywhere, in any skin, but after speaking to some of the African students on the uni shuttle bus, who endure suspicious stares that are far more disconcerting than the curious looks Australians get around here, I’m reminded that certain minorities have it much easier than others.
The influx of unfamiliar faces in Sunway has happened at a very fast rate, and I suspect some attitudes haven’t had a chance to catch up. I imagine in ten years time all these racial and cultural elements will be more integrated, but for now, it's pretty obvious that some groups don't quite belong, no matter how much roti canai and nasi lemak they adopt into their diet.
I’m guessing from the stir of amusement we created on our first group visit to the local Pasar Malam, that this record-breaking intake of Australian exchange students at Monash Malaysia is the biggest depository of “whities” in Sunway yet.
Crude terms they may be, but after overhearing some locals at the park referring to me in bahasa as the “orang putih (person white) over there” , and after numerous inquiries about my “spotty skin condition” I’ve adopted a very direct way of discussing these matters of appearance, because let’s face it; our eyes are drawn to the unfamiliar. (One particular cab driver who kept glancing at my freckly shoulders, looked impressed when I explained that freckles were in fact kisses from the sun, as my mum once told me).
But step foot inside the shopping havens of KL and surrounds, and fair skin suddenly becomes as commonplace as the billboard ads and global brands, not to mention the whitening skin products. And foreigners attract little attention at the student hangouts around Sunway and Subang Jaya, like Asia Cafe and Rock Cafe, which are full of nonchalant adolescents and well-travelled lecturers, who are very familiar with all things western, especially Australia, where many of them have ties through study or family.
Literally a stone's throw from these establishments, in the more industrial areas, where many new immigrants from Bangladesh and Indonesia find work, being a white woman garners all sorts of unwanted attention. The Malaysian middle-class lifestyle of driving right up to air-conditioned destinations, and rarely walking medium distances apparently for fear of crime and heat, (even if it means double parking someone else in some cases), has kept these worlds separate.
I suppose that's the nature of Malaysia’s patchy development as well as its multiracial population; every second street could be a different country- at first glance. Within a square kilometre in Sunway, there are as many devout Muslims, Hindus, and Bhuddists as there are devout shop- a-holics.
On one side of the freeway, at the base of Pyramid shopping mall, office workers sip on Starbucks chillers, hooked up to wifi and chatting on their iphones, while nightclub workers clean up the last of the mess from ladies night at Ministry of Sound and a place called "Sexy Cocktail Bar", and the latest Beyonce tunes play eternally in the background as girls get about in shiny heels, short shorts and strapless tops, devouring the delights of the shopping life.
Meanwhile, on the footbridge connecting Pyramid to a less schmick, residential section of Sunway, the sound of trucks and traffic and the Muslim call-to-prayer drown out the mall's pop playlists, and a family of beggars sets up along the passageway banging tins tirelessly for spare change from pedestrians.
On a five minute walk around Sunway, a unique mix of cultural markings can be spotted.
From reflexology centres and Bhuddist shrines to sari outlets and prayer garland stalls; brothels and gambling houses, to primary schools and universities; old men fishing in the local pond to spontaneous student soccer matches; halal restaurants filled with hijab- clad women and their men, to Chinese hawker stalls offering an abundance of pork dishes and beer for students relaxed in flip flops and summery (flesh- showing) attire; and of course, the local mosque with its tall, gold minarets, standing just opposite the other golden icon of Sunway; an enormous, foreboding lion's head to remind us all of Egypt and shopping.
The uniting force behind all this variety, (besides the practice of referring to complete strangers as "brother" and "sister" in bahasa) is undoubtedly a love of food, and a ritual of long evenings eating out with friends and family in the warm Malaysian air, ordering round after round of iced beverages- a custom which makes even the most self-conscious foreigner feel welcome, as long as they don't mind a bit of spice in their meal.
My height is apparently so noticeable in a country full of petite women, that I’ve actually spotted some of the regular taxi drivers stationed outside our condo, shifting their passenger seat back in case I choose to travel with them. “You’re very long miss”, I was once informed, as I fumbled to create some leg room.
It dawned on me just how impossible it is to be anonymous here, when I went for a swim at the pool inside my condo. (A “condominium” is considered to be one step up from an apartment in Malaysia, where the term “apartments” has the same connotation as “block of flats” in Australia). Between laps, I got chatting with some Malaysian kids who told me that “I was the girl who had visited their dad’s fruit stall at the Pasar Malam (night market) over the weekend, asking to sample some mango stein.” (Sure enough, I was that girl. I must have been too busy handling ringgits and trying all manner of fruits to notice these kids at the time).
Kids beaming at me is one thing, but being ogled at by an entire restaurant of men is another. It is not uncommon for me to walk into a local mamak store, appropriately dressed in knee- and- shoulder- covering attire, wielding a local newspaper as a prop for looking purposeful, and the entire shop full of (mostly) men, will turn their heads, chairs if they must, at right angles to get a good look. It doesn't take long before my newspaper and tea routine bores them, and they resume their own ritual of laid-back ‘teh tarik’ sessions.
But since frequenting one particular Indian restaurant, or “roti place” as I ambiguously tell taxi drivers, I am now an official, welcome regular for teh halia (ginger tea), kurang manis (less sweet), which is still about a table spoon at least of sweetened condensed milk, and I only get the odd, brief and forgivable stare.
Nevertheless, gone are the days (for now) of meandering to and from uni, without so much as a lingering glance from fellow café –goers and tram riders in Melbourne. But Melburnians are use to the sight of myriad faces hailing from all corners of the globe- although the recent attacks on Indian students reveal a tendency to rest on our multicultural laurels.
It would be nice to think you could feel at home anywhere, in any skin, but after speaking to some of the African students on the uni shuttle bus, who endure suspicious stares that are far more disconcerting than the curious looks Australians get around here, I’m reminded that certain minorities have it much easier than others.
The influx of unfamiliar faces in Sunway has happened at a very fast rate, and I suspect some attitudes haven’t had a chance to catch up. I imagine in ten years time all these racial and cultural elements will be more integrated, but for now, it's pretty obvious that some groups don't quite belong, no matter how much roti canai and nasi lemak they adopt into their diet.
I’m guessing from the stir of amusement we created on our first group visit to the local Pasar Malam, that this record-breaking intake of Australian exchange students at Monash Malaysia is the biggest depository of “whities” in Sunway yet.
Crude terms they may be, but after overhearing some locals at the park referring to me in bahasa as the “orang putih (person white) over there” , and after numerous inquiries about my “spotty skin condition” I’ve adopted a very direct way of discussing these matters of appearance, because let’s face it; our eyes are drawn to the unfamiliar. (One particular cab driver who kept glancing at my freckly shoulders, looked impressed when I explained that freckles were in fact kisses from the sun, as my mum once told me).
But step foot inside the shopping havens of KL and surrounds, and fair skin suddenly becomes as commonplace as the billboard ads and global brands, not to mention the whitening skin products. And foreigners attract little attention at the student hangouts around Sunway and Subang Jaya, like Asia Cafe and Rock Cafe, which are full of nonchalant adolescents and well-travelled lecturers, who are very familiar with all things western, especially Australia, where many of them have ties through study or family.
Literally a stone's throw from these establishments, in the more industrial areas, where many new immigrants from Bangladesh and Indonesia find work, being a white woman garners all sorts of unwanted attention. The Malaysian middle-class lifestyle of driving right up to air-conditioned destinations, and rarely walking medium distances apparently for fear of crime and heat, (even if it means double parking someone else in some cases), has kept these worlds separate.
I suppose that's the nature of Malaysia’s patchy development as well as its multiracial population; every second street could be a different country- at first glance. Within a square kilometre in Sunway, there are as many devout Muslims, Hindus, and Bhuddists as there are devout shop- a-holics.
On one side of the freeway, at the base of Pyramid shopping mall, office workers sip on Starbucks chillers, hooked up to wifi and chatting on their iphones, while nightclub workers clean up the last of the mess from ladies night at Ministry of Sound and a place called "Sexy Cocktail Bar", and the latest Beyonce tunes play eternally in the background as girls get about in shiny heels, short shorts and strapless tops, devouring the delights of the shopping life.
Meanwhile, on the footbridge connecting Pyramid to a less schmick, residential section of Sunway, the sound of trucks and traffic and the Muslim call-to-prayer drown out the mall's pop playlists, and a family of beggars sets up along the passageway banging tins tirelessly for spare change from pedestrians.
On a five minute walk around Sunway, a unique mix of cultural markings can be spotted.
From reflexology centres and Bhuddist shrines to sari outlets and prayer garland stalls; brothels and gambling houses, to primary schools and universities; old men fishing in the local pond to spontaneous student soccer matches; halal restaurants filled with hijab- clad women and their men, to Chinese hawker stalls offering an abundance of pork dishes and beer for students relaxed in flip flops and summery (flesh- showing) attire; and of course, the local mosque with its tall, gold minarets, standing just opposite the other golden icon of Sunway; an enormous, foreboding lion's head to remind us all of Egypt and shopping.
The uniting force behind all this variety, (besides the practice of referring to complete strangers as "brother" and "sister" in bahasa) is undoubtedly a love of food, and a ritual of long evenings eating out with friends and family in the warm Malaysian air, ordering round after round of iced beverages- a custom which makes even the most self-conscious foreigner feel welcome, as long as they don't mind a bit of spice in their meal.
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