by Jian Qiu Huang

Second Edition

Copyright 2011 Jian Qiu Huang

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Table of Contents

The Epic Journey

A Dangerous Place

Tastes Like Lamb

Middle of the Road

Settling In

Menglish

"Ghost"

International House

Lick-O-Rice

Ta Mi Mi

The Real World

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It was 1974 and a Boeing 747 was landing at the Subang International Airport in Kuala Lumpur. It was the first time in my adult life I had ever worn a tie. It was also the first time we ever saw such an enormous plane.

The sound of its screeching engines shook the clear glass wall separating the restaurant and the public viewing area and my uncle, in his excitement to view the plane, momentarily forgot the glass wall and ran straight into it. Hearing a loud thud we turned to see him picking himself up from the floor, dazed and with his hand over his face still trying to find his way around the clear glass wall. He wasn’t going to let this little frontal attack stop his chance to see the plane.

I was about to leave on my first trip overseas to attend a university in Australia. I was the only person to have this honour in my immediate and extended family, and my whole clan had come to send me off. It was the proudest moment for my parents, five brothers, three sisters as well as my aunties and uncles. Entering a university was to guarantee a better life for me and for them – and a step up the social ladder for all my relatives. Everyone had come to the airport to share this occasion although in retrospect I sometimes wonder if it was the planes landing and taking off that was the real attraction. As the largest airplane to hub out of Kuala Lumpur, or KL to the locals, the Boeing 747 generated enormous interest among Malaysians and they made special trips to the airport just to see this monstrous plane.

My relatives came from a small town called Kuantan in the eastern part of the Malaysian Peninsula and getting to the airport in KL was almost as big an adventure for them as my flight would be for me.

So here I was, ready for my epic journey and dressed in the most western style known to me.

Hearing how cold Australia could get, my parents bought me an oversized jacket made of imitation leather from the only local ‘western’ shop in town. All expensive clothes were bought oversized so we could grow into them.

My oversized jacket was stylishly complemented with very fashionable bell bottom trousers and a skin-tight shirt with an over-sized collar: ‘flying collars’ emulating stars like Tom Jones and Englebert Humperdinck. The tight purplish, polyester silk-like shirt and a light blue pair of just as tight bell-bottoms was worn by Tom Jones in his performances to undies-wielding female audiences. We all believed that everyone who flew in planes must wear western clothes - and a tie. My tie colour clashed with the rest of my attire.

Regardless of how I must have looked, I felt grown up and very western. A tie was not normal attire for me, especially in tropical Malaysia where it would take no more than a minute before perspiration forced its removal. In an air conditioned airport perspiration was not a problem and, in Malaysia, flying in a plane to a western country was not only a legitimate reason to wear western clothes but also a requirement. My eldest brother once took a 35-minute Fokker Friendship flight from Kuala Lumpur to Kuantan. For the flight he specially made a western style suit which must have cost him more than the air ticket. He thought the minimum attire to board a plane would be a suit. As for me, I was actually going to fly in a jet airplane to Australia, so a tie and jacket had to be mandatory.

Of course celebrities, like me, had to pose for last minute pictures with everyone. They all wanted to have their pictures taken with me so they could fill their photo albums showing proof of their big trip to Subang International Airport. Digital cameras were still twenty years away, and cameras in the 1970s were the single reflect lens, box cameras taken with black and white films. Colour films were very expensive as they were not available commercially. I smiled so much my jaws hurt.

We arrived at the airport a good six hours before departure so I didn’t miss out on getting a seat on the plane. First-come first-served mentality was still prevalent and having a confirmed air ticket did not mean anything to us as we never thought it guaranteed a seat. Another reason for going early was to enjoy a night’s outing to see the enormous Boeing 747s, to enjoy the western style food served at the airport and, of course, to enjoy the air conditioning. We therefore had plenty of time to get excited, take pictures and generally do things like having one’s face rearranged by crashing into glass walls.

Amid all the excitement, there were several other clans who also came to farewell their prodigy children. They all had similar large contingents to honour and farewell their star and they were all just as loud and excited as we were. It was as if the decibels generated were directly proportionate to the importance of their stars. But I felt especially important because we were the loudest and most excited. Excluding my relatives, my immediate family had nine members, eight of whom were married and were at the airport with their siblings - and these young siblings count when it came to making noise.

I met my classmate Michael among this cacophony of noise and excitement. He was a member of our team, the back-row-boys in class at high school. The back-row-boys were the smart kids who preferred to portray a non-caring, cool and silently rebellious image. We specialised in disrupting the class with smart comments and generally giving our teachers a hard time. We knew we were the smart kids, and so did the teachers. Perhaps that was why we got away with our disorderly behaviour. We found pleasure in challenging the teacher with well thought, well researched counter opinions on matters such as why we thought the Mayan civilisation did not disappear. We claimed that the Mayans had managed to reach such a height in their personal spiritual growth that vibrated at a different frequency to other humans, and this was why they were not visible. Our teacher walked out.

Michael and I had shared many hours eyeing girls, climbing mangosteen trees, playing badminton and studying together. On lecture-free afternoons we sometimes ended up bowling at the local bowling arcade, a favourite activity for cool kids. We showed off our twists, stances and varying ball-delivering tactics, dressed in bell bottoms and drinking Coke from the can. Canned drinks were new and drinking from a can while tossing our head backwards was considered cool behaviour, like James Dean in his 1955 movie ‘Rebel Without a Cause’.

I went over to say hello to Michael but did the right thing by addressing his elders first, a sign of respect by young kids, before talking to him. Regardless of whether I drank out of a can, I still needed to respect the elders. James Dean's movies failed to influence us in this area.

“Do you have any place to stay in Melbourne?” Michael asked with a worried look in his eyes.

His question hit me like a tonne of bricks and sent panic right through my veins. We thought we had covered every angle in our preparations for Australia – clothing, food, bank drafts; in fact everything except the most fundamental need, accommodation in Melbourne. I was to fly off to a new country without knowing where to stay.

“No, I have not thought about it!” I replied getting worried.

“What do we do?” Michael panicked.

When my clan realised this not-insignificant oversight, communal panic set in. In the mid 1970s there was no internet, no fax and no mobile phones. The only means of communication was by letter or by an operator-connected international call which cost a small fortune. None of these options were available at the airport, only hours before we were about to leave. What could we do? We didn’t know a soul and had no idea of where to find accommodation at this eleventh hour.

Our fear spread to other students as Michael and I approached every Australian bound student we could identify. Finding fellow students was easy as they all had ties and tight bell bottom pants with oversized imitation leather jackets. Despite the air conditioning, perspiration poured out of us from rushing around and from fear of joining the homeless in Melbourne. Our ties and fake leather jackets fluttered as we rushed from contingent to contingent, asking if they were going to Melbourne and, if so, what had they done about accommodation.

We then came across a fellow student, George, who as luck may have it had been to Melbourne before and had arranged accommodation. His friend had an apartment in Hawthorn and he wouldn’t mind putting up a couple of would-be fugitives for a few days until they found suitable accommodation. He instructed us to meet him at the arrival hall in Melbourne airport just outside the exit doors. Having never been to Melbourne ‘outside the exit doors’ did not mean much, but it was better than ‘straight to being homeless’. Without wanting to sound too unworldly and naïve, both Michael and I agreed to meet ‘outside the exit doors’.

The good news went back to the two clans, containing the fear contagion. With the issue resolved, we continued our photo sessions with sweat and all.

Suddenly someone noticed the check-in counter opening and immediate panic set in as every contingent surged to be first in line. Every contingent meant not just the students but their whole entourage - all pushing to secure first in line. The rush was worse than an iPad opening sale. It was a mass of bodies rushing to hand their documents in at the check-in counter.

Our self-appointed queue jumper, my fourth brother, with his quick wit and speed, managed to secure a place near the front. Fighting the other self-appointed queue jumpers, he beckoned me to him with my luggage on tow.

With no international flying experience, we had little knowledge about baggage allowance. As far as we were concerned we had paid an enormous amount of money for the ticket which meant we could bring whatever we deemed necessary for our survival in Australia. Bed sheets, blankets, pillows, favourite stereo sets, and prepared food were all necessities. We had packets of freshly cooked curries, sweet & sour noodles, dried cuttlefish and salted fish. Every mum in the check-in counter wanted their sons and daughters to eat well in a western country with their prepared food and, as a result, every person checking in had bulging baggage. No-one wanted to pay the exorbitant charges for overweight baggage. So the packed food and other items had to be re-packed to keep within the weight allowance. Every clan went through a ritual of unpacking and re-packing, which generally meant shifting the contents of one bag to another in the hope that this would reduce the weight.

The check-in counter resembled a tsunami rescue centre. The airport soon looked like a Sunday market with relatives asserting the importance of their food or bedroom item for the journey. Invariably arguments began and, as usual, loudness was synonymous to being more important. Soon the airport became a full blown open-market operation where items were traded according to their perceived importance.

No-one had any knowledge of custom restrictions or lifestyle in Australia and trying to settle the relative importance of an item without a reference point depended on other factors such as how loud each relative shouted, or how much time they took to prepare the food, or how much they paid for the item. The speed and efficiency with which the items were exchanged would make the most seasoned traders at the New York Stock Exchange look amateurish.

Perhaps getting to the airport early had a legitimate reason after all. We instinctively knew it would take a long time to check-in.

After a few hours the check-in saga played itself out and returned to normality. Relieved that I now had a boarding pass, I relaxed. Still wearing my tie and with my shirt stuck to me from the perspiration, I survived the pressure cooker of an open-market bartering system. I was ready for a cool drink.

My mum handed me a can of Coke.

This may not sound too significant to many but if you knew my mum you would think she had changed. Brought up in a well-to-do family, she was given the opportunity to have a little education unlike most of her peers who had no education as it was considered a waste of resources for females to be educated. Consequently she was open to new ideas and new thoughts such as drinking Coke. Offering Coke to your son was considered a modern thing to do. Usually she would offer water, boiled and brought from home; she would never buy a drink from the shops - and definitely not a can of Coke. The western influence must have got to her at last and she had bought this can earlier in anticipation of my need. Nonetheless, the lukewarm Coke was welcome and I drank it with the customary cool tossing of the head as James Dean would have done.

As I took the last few gulps, I noticed a trickle of tear in my mum’s eyes. Watching me intensely with the realisation that her youngest child had finally grown up and was leaving the nest, she wiped the evidence from her eyes with her pure white handkerchief. I had never seen my mum or dad cry, let alone in public and in front of relatives. As I finished the can she took it away and hugged me. This was significant because she not only showed her emotions she actually did the ‘western’ thing and hugged her son. Neither heat nor perspiration bothered me as she hugged me. Taken by surprise I didn’t know an appropriate response. I wanted to give her a full blown hug, but was conscious of everyone around us. In my heart I wanted to hug her, but not having any practice, I self-consciously placed my hand on her shoulder as a gesture of consolation. For me that was as good as a full blown hug, especially as showing emotion in public was not considered normal practice. In essence she said “I love you. Please look after yourself”. The can of Coke would have said it all, but her hugging said even more. My dad did the man-thing and patted me on the shoulder, saying:

"Pei sum gei dit dok shu ha!" Study hard. What he then said I will never forget:

“Gei ji sam go wa”. Remember three things.

“Mm hou chou guai po!” Do not marry a "devil" woman (a western woman).

“Mm hou sek dok fan!” Do not get involved in drugs.

“Lou foo doi le mm hou ge”. Tigers are not good partners for you.

His words of wisdom were based on his limited perception of western women, gained from western movies and the odd back-packer he had seen. The back-packers always looked dirty, with their unkempt hair and shabby clothes. For him the gorgeous and heavily made-up women from the James Bond movies had loose morals. Putting two and two together I could understand my dad’s parting advice. He had also read about the Flower Power movement which featured prominently in the Chinese media. The American counterculture movement during the late sixties and early seventies had a negative impact on dad. The drug culture, associated with the pacifist movement, brought fear to all Chinese parents, especially those who were about to send their children to a western country.

But the Tiger partner bit left me a little baffled. When queried, he explained that he had looked up my future and, based on his reading of the Chinese Zodiac animals, the most incompatible animal as a partner for me would be a Tiger.

“I won’t” I replied, without thinking too much about it. A good son is an obedient son.

I think he knew that I would study well and that I would be able to look after myself, but for some reason he was worried that I may succumb to loose morals, dirty unkempt hair, the influence of drugs, and be eaten by a Tiger. I dismissed these thoughts and considered them superstitious words of the older generation.

I was heading into the unknown with an opportunity to improve myself, an opportunity to study overseas, an opportunity to bring honour to my family, and an opportunity to improve our economic status. This was an epic journey for me and, indeed, for the entire clan, not dissimilar to the journey taken by my grandfather in the late 19th century.

My grandfather Yong Chun Huang was born in Guangzhou in 1878 and on his fifteenth birthday he left his village of Pan Yu to travel overseas. As with me, going overseas was the only avenue to improve his economic status, to bring honour to his village, and to better his and the family’s life.

China in the late 1800s was a period that many Chinese would rather forget. The weak and declining Qing dynasty provided a fertile ground for the rise of western imperialism. Devastating floods, the rise of people power against the declining Manchu rule and widespread social decay from corruption and opium addiction exacted an enormous toll on its people. Topping it all, the Taiping Rebellion from the south and the Nian rebellion from the north ignited the passion of the peasants and wreaked havoc throughout the country. The result was poverty, starvation, opium addiction and death. Thirty million people died in China during this period, more than the total casualties of the two World Wars.

My grandfather decided that it was time to leave his village for Malaya, a British colony widely known to bring enormous wealth to many Chinese migrants. Malaya was one of the world’s largest producers of tin and he decided to try his luck in the tin mines.

But without sufficient silver dollars to make the entire trip in one journey, he went to Vietnam and spent a year with an uncle working in his trading business. Saving enough to embark on stage two of his journey to Malaya he landed in KL at the age of seventeen to start his first job in the Malayan tin mines.

After several years he had saved enough to return to Pan Yu to marry his beloved fiancé, a petite Chinese village girl who became my grandmother. She made the treacherous voyage to Malaya on a boat and produced one child, my dad. With increasing bad health, my grandmother returned to Pan Yu alone to seek medical help. That was the last time she saw my grandfather. She died without returning to Malaya, just before the fall of the Qing Dynasty in 1911. My dad became the only child in his generation and, as far as perpetuating the clan was concerned, one child was not considered too auspicious. Consequently my grandfather instructed my dad to produce as many children as possible.

My dad and mum worked overtime to comply with the instructions of my grandfather and now have a family of six boys and three girls.

As I headed toward the big Boeing 747, I turned to wave goodbye to my family. I saw dad waving frantically at me, and mum burying her face into her hands trying to hide her overflowing emotions. I will never be able to know what my grandfather felt when he left Pan Yu, but I can imagine that his feelings would be like I was feeling now - a combination of quiet excitement and fear. We both secretly knew our epic journeys would change our lives way beyond the imagination of any sixteen year old.

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Despite more than eight hours cooped up in the smoking section, the realisation that I was finally going to be in Melbourne made the plane trip less gruelling. Aeroplanes in the seventies had areas designated for smokers and no matter where you sat, smoke drifted through the cabin.

My friend Michael managed to bring his guitar on board. Forlorn and melancholic, he started to play. He had left his fiancé back home with a promise to get a good education in Australia, find a decent job, and start a family with her. Strumming on his guitar he sang what must have been their favourite song not once but many times. Michael’s music may have entertained some of the other passengers and for me it also made the smoke chamber a lot easier to tolerate. He was a little older than me, a great guitar player and had a calm disposition. On first meeting Michael, most people would warm to him.

They say that opposites attract and I saw myself much different to him. I was too much of a go-getter, more a taker than giver, and anxious to be accepted by people. Deep down, I didn’t think I was confident in making and keeping friends. As a kid in school other kids often mocked “wong cong chiu” which meant yellow banana if mispronounced in Cantonese. Being a person of smaller physical stature and with a passion for artistic activities, my sports-oriented school mates treated me as inferior and never accepted me as part of the team.

I too had my own quest. To go to Australia, study hard, graduate, get a job and be a CEO of a large company - a simple and yet straight forward ambition. Of course I wanted to have a good marriage along the way, whatever that meant.

My brothers financed my trip to Australia, especially my third brother. Sisters were considered ‘married out’ and as such did not have any responsibility for supporting their younger brother. I was the youngest in the pecking order and, unlike my older siblings, I was the only one given this opportunity to attend university. The exchange rate between the Malaysia Ringgit and Australia dollar then was almost four Ringgits to one Australian dollar and my three-year undergraduate course was going to cost a small fortune. Failure was simply not an option. They offered financial support; I provided my life.

Going through customs and immigration at Melbourne airport was hard, simply because I did not know the process. There seemed to be so many forms and the warnings on them were daunting to say the least. I thought it was unfair not to allow fruit and other food stuff into the country.

My questions directed at the flight attendants were either not answered or were answered with a curt “you just simply can’t bring them in”. In my baggage I had preserved ginger, belacan shrimps (chilli shrimp paste) and cooked curry packed in a marmalade jar sealed with sticky tape. What would I be allowed to keep? I did not have enough knowledge to fill in those forms and no-one, not even Michael, could help with advice.

In all of my past sixteen years, nothing had prepared me for the customs and immigration forms. Being the youngest in the clan, my brothers and sisters provided my support structure. My parents were more involved in the big decisions which affected the entire clan while my brothers and sisters provided the rest. Consequently, most major life decisions were made for me and if I needed advice I relied on my eight other siblings and a number of other relatives. Now I was like a lost sheep in a great big paddock. Completing the customs and immigration forms, and making a decision on what to declare, was a scary experience for a young uninitiated teenager. Ultimately I decided to declare everything. This was the best decision to make, and one I made without any help. Making decisions and accepting responsibility for them was to be my first challenge, and the customs form became lesson number one.

“What’s this?” the customs officer asked as she inspected a slab of dried and smelly strip.

“Cuttlefish Dried” I smiled.

“And this …?” she asked, looking at the black shrimp paste.

“Belacan, and it’s very nice when cooked with vegetables,” I answered.

“Really? How do you cook it?”

“Cut up some garlic, then a pinch of oil to fry the garlic…….”

I started a cooking lesson with the customs officer who confessed her love for Asian food. Forgetting about the form, I enjoyed the conversation and realised that I had something in common with the officer. I felt proud of my basic cooking skills which my mum had taught me, especially when I realised that they could be traded for goodwill with the officer.

With a smile and I am sure a sense of resignation, the customs officer waved me through with all the food my mum and relatives had stuffed into my suit case.

With my stock of food and a clear mission fuelled by a strong sense for adventure, I was ready to take on my new life in Australia.

I walked past the customs officer towards the automatic doors that read ‘EXIT’. Behind those exit doors would be the arrival area. My heart pounded in excitement.

“I am finally here! In Melbourne!" I thought, with visions of myself as one of the overseas students in the brochures advertising Australia's universities.

The vision of me ‘studying overseas’ had powerful overtones. To be able to study overseas is a dream for many young people in Malaysia and the statement “my son is overseas” can elevate families into the smart, lucky and wealthy category.

Mum’s status among her peers would immediately be raised a few notches. It also meant a constant topic of conversation with her mah-jong kakis (her mah-jong friends).

Mum was an avid mah-jong player and her kakis were fellow home makers with a similar interest in mah-jong. Together they enjoyed a game of mah-jong, but more importantly their sessions provided an opportunity to up-sell their family’s status, and this would then be used as a currency to find an appropriate partner for their respective sons and/or daughters.

Among her kakis she was the first person with a son studying overseas. This meant a weekly update on her son and, more importantly, what her son was going to be doing when he finished university.

The famous courses pushed by parents were ’doctor‘ and ’engineer‘. As far as they were concerned everyone studied ’doctor’ or ‘engineer’. I guess that was simply because they knew no other courses – and any other professions would not be a talking point. I was going to study for a degree in commerce and this would be not as easy a sell as ‘doctor’ or ‘engineer’.

“Koma?" Commerce?

"Mee yeh lei keh?” What is it?

My mum’s mah-jong kakis would snort in Cantonese. They were all heavy smokers and they habitually talked through their nose as they exhaled.

My mum was undoubtedly the best salesperson in town and during a short session of mah-jong, she managed to explain ‘commerce’.

“Chou sang yi lo!” Do business! Mum provided the complete explanation with four words in Cantonese.

The mah-jong game continued and not a word would be said. My mum knew when to attack and when to retreat. It was important at this crucial moment not to oversell and she decided to let the seed grow until next week, when another episode of 'sang yi' (business) was communicated.

Explaining the commerce course would require at least four weeks of mah-jong and gossiping. After all, it needed to include what ‘commerce’ was and, of course, what job her son could do after he finished his degree. The first two weeks would be the most crucial moments and if she did not communicate the value of koma to her kakis during this period, then the topic would be dropped for other more interesting subjects like how to slaughter chickens without spilling too much blood. She had a long way to go because nobody had heard of commerce before. It was’ Commerce 101’ for my mum’s kakis. Hers, mine and the clan’s creditability was at stake. She had to make sure she explained it correctly or she would not be able to stay in high esteem amongst her kakis and would jeopardise her son’s status when seeking his future partner. If he were alive Sun Tzu, the famous strategist who wrote ‘The Art of War’, would travel from ancient China to seek advice from my mum.

By the end of four weeks she not only had the mah-jong kakis eating out of her hands, she even convinced the entire neighbourhood that her son was going to be a successful businessman as he was going to be graduated from a prestigious university studying koma. In her mind her son would be a successful businessman after graduation, and for her it was also the passport for a good future daughter-in-law. A successful business man would also mean a much sought after son-in-law.

Once the kakis understood what commerce was, the weekly mah-jong games became an internet dating service, except this was live, P2P and in real-time. This real-time dating service only required four kakis to start. The permutations from these four kakis and through a precursor to our current Wi-Fi, commonly known as village gossip, the whole community would know in advance that my mum’s son was eligible. As her son was a koma business student, only the well-bred girls would be considered. Ability to cook was one of the indicators of good breeding as were large buttocks which were seen as a symbol of fertility. The right girl would, of course, need to be intelligent, because her son was going to be intelligent too when he graduated from koma.

The pressure was on me to do well because my mum had branded me and I would now need to deliver and maintain her brand positioning.

The opening of the automatic doors at Melbourne airport jolted me back to reality.

A sea of eager eyes stared at me, searching in a nano second for signs of familiarity as they waited for their relatives or friends to appear. I felt like an instant celebrity, just like when I won first prize at a local singing competition, at ten years old.

My sister’s friend, a voice trainer, thought I had a good voice and pushed me into a singing competition. With a couple of quick singing lessons and her friend’s promise to back me on stage with her guitar, I entered the competition. With no performing experience, I did what came naturally and sang straight into the eyes of the audience. I must have connected with the judges, and to my surprise I won, beating the ‘big people’ who were seasoned competitors. Dragging myself onto the stage to receive the trophy (a silver cup bought from the local sports shop) was my first brush with instant fame. It was a daunting yet exciting feeling as I walked on the stage to receive the trophy.

While the faces of the audience at the singing competition were familiar, the sea of western faces at Melbourne airport was even more daunting; I had never seen so many western faces before in my life. In fact, I had never been so close to so many western people. My closest encounter with westerners was with my Peace Corps teacher from the USA who taught English in my school in Kuantan. He was a soft spoken teacher who had an evangelical fervour in making sure I pronounced my ‘v’s properly - “Volvo” instead of “wowo”.

The sea of eager western eyes seemed to linger a lot longer on me than others. They must have been affronted by my sense of style and colour in my western clothing. With an oversized fake leather jacket I must have looked like a true ‘ulu’ (a person from the village who has never been to the big smoke).

I searched for a familiar face - Michael or any other person we met back at Kuala Lumpur airport but all I saw were white faces. Then I remembered we had agreed to meet “outside the exit doors”.

“Where is outside the exit doors?” I thought, scanning the arrival hall.

A low steel railing barricaded the crowd from the exit doors and provided a walkway for arriving passengers but with this barricade I could turn only one of two ways - to the left OR right. Momentarily stunned by the crowd, and not knowing whether to turn left or right, I turned to go back through the automatic doors to look for my friends. But alas I was too late the doors closed behind me with a sign that read “Unauthorised Entry Prohibited”. I was stuck, amidst a sea of unfamiliar faces.

I decided to turn left and kept walking along the barricaded walkway. Pushing my trolley past the crowd of western people and feeling secure with my stock of food from Malaysia, I ventured into the unknowns of the Melbourne airport arrival hall.

I couldn’t see any familiar faces so I thought I must have been one of the first students to come out of customs. George, who we met in KL and who was going to provide a roof for me and my friend Michael, was nowhere to be found. I decided they must still be inside, perhaps giving cooking lessons to custom officers. I fought the thought of having to spend the night under a bridge, like people without accommodation in some TV series.

Then I heard “Stiffen!” Steven pronounced in a Hong Kong accent.

The name Steven was given to me by Brother David, my form teacher in Kuantan. I attended a Catholic school and because of my voice I became a member of the church choir. In the choir each child was given a Christian name. Mine was Steven. Now that I was in a western country I decided it was legitimate to use my Christian name.

I turned to see George with a group of people I assumed to be from Hong Kong as George’s accent had changed. Hong Kong students usually came from rich families who bought them apartments while they were in Australia attending university. He had Michael with him as well. They were looking in my direction and waving frantically. What a wonderful sight to finally see Asian eyes! With a sigh of relief and sporting a big smile I pushed my trolley toward the group, greeting George and Michael - the only two people I knew in this unfamiliar world. I now have a place to stay in Melbourne.

Driving from the airport to George’s friend’s apartment, I stared at western workers digging up part of the road. It was a rare sight for me. Based on our experience in Malaysia every western person must be rich. They held senior positions and seemed to have money to spend. Most westerners in Malaysia were expatriates who had been seconded to the country to manage a foreign organisation. In Malaysia, people who did menial task were earmarked as those who never went to school and usually from economically disadvantaged homes. A westerner in Malaysia was never seen doing these jobs.

The Australians working on the road were actually dirty from shovelling earth in what looked like the replacement of a burst water pipe. I even saw westerners sweeping leaves in a park and getting their hands dirty. I couldn’t believe my eyes, and made a mental note to mention it in my letters home.

Being more experienced, George became our private tour guide and mentor for all things Australian and he pointed out places of interest to us as we drove into the city.

“That’s the Children’s Hospital,” George pointed.

I thought: “Wow, there is actually a hospital especially for children. How advanced!”

“… and over there is the dental hospital” said George, pointing again.

“Ooh, a whole hospital for dentists?” I said, not realising it was a training hospital.

”If you have any problems with your teeth, you can go to the hospital and get treated for free” George continued.

Now a dental hospital may not sound like a place of interest to normal tourists coming into Melbourne, but for students who had limited finances, knowing this free dental hospital was important. It could mean the difference between having a pie for lunch or nothing at all for at least a few weeks.

I made a mental note as I knew that dental treatment was very expensive in Australia and very few students would be able to afford it. Having medical insurance was unnecessary as we were expected NOT to have any teeth issues, and knowing a dental hospital that offered free service was an important piece of information.

Then I noticed train tracks.

Normally there is nothing unusual about train tracks, but these tracks were anything but normal: they were built in the middle of roads shared with cars. We were driving over train tracks. My thoughts went wild searching for the logic behind sharing the road with a train. I knew train and cars cannot share the same traffic without risking a major accident.

“Melbourne must be a dangerous place for traffic. This is stupid,” I thought, looking intently at the tracks.

“They have a free dental hospital but can’t build enough roads for cars? Weird!” I started to blink from lack of sleep.

“We are entering the city,” George announced proudly, interrupting my thoughts.

We stopped at a set of traffic lights and I noticed a street sign by the side of the road.

“NO STANDING ANYTIME”

From a newcomer’s perspective, Melbourne must not be as safe a place as the brochures depicted. Not only did trains share roads with cars, people were not allowed to stand on the side of the road either. Maybe you would get mugged if you stood still or maybe that was to avoid being bull dozed by a bullet train. All this was utterly confusing for a tired teenager. Having had little sleep on the plane, and smelling of stale cigarette smoke, being confronted by confusing logic was too much for me.

I fell asleep in the car.

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