Examinations and Celebrations

A couple of days ensued after Selingan and before Pom Pom Island in which I had to work. Yes, work. Well, somebody's got to do it. I packed Aurelia off up the Mountain and she came back down reporting that it was easy. She lives by the Alps though, so read that as you will...

With the beginning of school after the break, Year 6 had more than usual to be sad about: with only two weeks left until the national exams, they are spending every night camping at school, the better to study and learn until as late as humanly possible. Last classes are at 10pm; they start again at 7am. At one school, a teacher tells me she was up until midnight dealing with welfare issues; the kids were up until 2. The headmistress is considering sending them all home again if they don't stop seeing it as a summer camp, but the parents complain that they don't study when they're at home. Teachers are unhappy because it means a lot more work for them, and the kids - one third of whom will fail the exams entirely, on average - are stressed and anxious; their midnight antics are a side product of that. It seems to me to be one of them lose-lose-lose situations, but you know, that's just me. 

The week after the week after the break (because between now and about the second week of October, everything will be counted from then; after that, time will be marked in relation to the end-of-year holidays...) we had a much more fun event at my biggest school (and the most Muslim school): a big party, combining Hari Raya and Hari Merdeka (Independence Day). 

The children were all allowed to attend in their holiday finery, and when I arrived, they were all standing to attention in the straightest lines I have ever seen children make, listening to the teachers exhort them to do their best to make their country proud.

We sang the national song, the state song, the school song, and finally the Hari Merdeka song, and then it was time for the choir competition. I did as I was told and sat in the front row with a flag.

The kids had been put into groups spanning three year groups (1-3 or 4-6) and given a teacher as a choirmaster, then spent two days rehearsing a version of the Merdeka song. Some did better than others... :) But all waved flags and grinned in their finery!

After the choir competition, the headmaster and local VIPs cut the cake...

...which is almost as obligatory as the food at these events.

The kids got their own food in their classrooms - each child had brought one thing to share from home, as well as their own plate, spoon and cup. A few had brought an old plastic container or bowl, and some had brought nothing at all - the teachers produced spares for them.

Through all the speeches and flag-waving and cake-cutting (and the cake was only for the teachers!), I never once saw a child seriously misbehave - they were little stars, singing and smiling, even when they were hot and tired.

The End of Fasting

 In retrospect, I probably could have planned it all a little better, but honestly, when I asked around, everyone said it was very unlikely that Hari Raya, the end of the fasting month, would be celebrated before Monday. So I didn't bother to factor the celebrations into our trip and instead booked a bed in K.K. for Saturday night. And yes, in retrospect this might be seen as tempting fate. So I guess it shouldn't have come as a surprise when the young guy in the stall at the night market mentioned that he was heading home as soon as he could shut up his stall, to prepare for the two days of feasting that would start in the morning. The problem was that we were meant to be driving south east in the morning, a 3-hour journey to a village called Nabawan. Instead, I found myself having to accept two invitations in Ranau, resulting in a 2.5-hour detour home, then a 3-hour drive south to Nabawan.

There's a lovely custom in Malaysia called the "open house." These happen around religious festivals - Christmas, Lunar New Year, and, of course, Hari Raya, the king of them all, the Muslim celebration of the end of Ramadhan. People literally open their houses on a set day, put out loads of food and a stack of chairs, and then simply welcome every single person from their extended family, their village, their kids' school, and every other possible source of vague acquaintances. Sometimes they even get an orang putih or two. Because Hari Raya isn't set until the new moon is sighted, people will invite you to their open house on either the first or second day of feasting, or perhaps a later day during the official week of holiday. This year, the moon was sighted on Saturday, so the invitation I'd received from my friend, which I'd expected to be for Monday, when I couldn't possibly attend, suddenly became Sunday, when I could. So I dutifully responded to Suryati's invitation, and when another arrived from one of my teachers, I said yes to that too. 

And thus it was that on Sunday morning, after a restless night of celebratory fireworks, Aurelia's first journey in Sabah was up into the mountain range to little Ranau. Dropping in at home for a short time, we met Lungkiam and Othman leaving for their niece's open house, so we joined them for that. After an acceptable amount of time and food, we said our goodbyes and drove onwards to Suryati's house to coo over her gorgeous newborn baby girl and laugh with teachers from my village school about finding a Malay husband. More food. More dirty jokes. Ah, a day in the life... Suryati's beautiful children and husband were dressed in brand new Hari Raya clothes in coordinating colours and I had to ask them to pose for a photograph before I left. This unfortunately meant that I had to give baby Nur Qisya back...

Then we travelled out to Lohan Village where one of my headmasters was holding court at his enormous house. More food. Sweets. Coffee.

We joined one of my teachers here who was visiting all her colleagues on one long day, together with two other teachers from the same school, and their families. All Christians, but still made so welcome by their Muslim hosts.

From the headmaster, we went to the deputy head's house, a beautiful blue wooden house on stilts. As we walked up, I saw her husband preparing to greet us, and, realising from the clothing and beard that he was a strict Muslim, had to hurriedly whisper to Aurelia, "Don't offer your hand until he offers his!" He didn't, and she didn't, and it was all fine. He welcomed us into his home with a gracious dip of his head. We ate some more food, a lovely curry this time.

And then, of course, because I'd eaten at the headmaster and the deputy head's homes, I couldn't leave before also visiting the home of the head of the afternoon school, so off we went down the road to one last house.

And it really did have to be one last house, as it was by now an hour and a half after my deadline for leaving Ranau. Well-fed-and-watered, we finally set off on the road south, arriving at the house of a very patient colleague well after dark. Her village - little Nabawan - is the last stop before Tawau, a city on the east coast. Between the two lie nearly 300 kilometres of road, most of it untarred and straight through rainforest.

Puasa

3am:

Awake. Kitten No. 1 just bit my nose, but I think that was about 5 seconds after I actually woke up - something is being heavily and noisily pounded in the kitchen.

3:15am:

Lungkiam phones: breakfast is almost ready if I want to join them in the main house. I rub the sleep from the corners of my eyes, throw on a jumper and stumble out of my flat. "Oh, I do hope I didn't wake you with the kitchen pounding," she says, but I'm pleased she remembered I'm fasting today and has invited me to join them.

3:30am:

Breakfast is on the table, and Dr Othman comes down to join us. He's dressed for breakfast and prayers in a sarong (before we all stole it, this was originally a Malay word meaning 'sheath') and kopiah - a traditional, round, white hat.

They thank Allah for everything, and then we can eat. Lungkiam is a master Dusun cook, but for this morning she has prepared a range of food from Western rye bread, to Malay fried noodles, to Dusun kampung vegetables, to plain-and-simple (and perfectly ripe) papaya from the garden.

There's also plenty of warm water to drink, and coffee - Othman won't be going back to bed, but is off to pray after eating. We sit and eat and talk. They are an interesting couple - Lungkiam converted to Islam in her teens so she could marry Othman; they moved to America to study for their PhDs; on returning to teach in Sabah in the 1970s, they were drawn into politics, with Othman entering parliament, and Lungkiam working with the Women's Division in the same party. Anyone who says that Muslim women are all oppressed needs to meet Lungkiam - a powerful, strong-minded, liberal woman who has more drive than most Western women I know. And Othman - well, he tells me for the second time of his glee at arriving at Heathrow at sundown one day, and giggles as he describes how wonderful the prayer room was - because every major religion was represented in the same room, with not even a fence to separate them. They are a wonderful pair who are truly becoming like family to me.

4:39am
We all gulp down the last of our water in the last minute before dawn officially arrives.

4:40am
Everything packed away, we say good night to each other and I return to my flat, where the kittens have celebrated a suhoor of their own, chewing my pillow to shreds. I stand on the balcony for a few minutes and listen to the extended morning prayer wafting through the pale light from the nearby mosque. Then tiredness kicks in and I head back to bed for a couple of hours.

11am
I'm on my way to Kota Kinabalu. I'm not hungry in the slightest, but I am thirsty. Very thirsty.

1pm
Driving through Kota Kinabalu city centre, I tut at a young American girl crossing the street, dressed in teeny-tiny shorts and waving a bottle of water at her friend. "Honestly, doesn't she know that some of us are trying to fast here?" I think the thirst is getting to me.

3pm
I stop for fuel on my way back to Ranau, and as I pay the cashier, I give in and ask for a small bottle of water as well. It's only 150ml, but it's a huge relief, and totally worth the guilt pangs.

6:15pm
Sitting on my balcony, I read to pass the time, anxiously watching the clouds over Mount Kinabalu turn from white to red to grey. There're other people in the common area of the homestay, mostly sitting and quietly talking. The Christian housekeeper is in the kitchen putting the final touches to the evening meal, but she's turned off her radio, and the air has a surreal calm to it. Everything holds its breath.

6:32pm
A prayer issues from the mosque. Lungkiam and Othman call me to join the other guests in breaking our fast with iftar, the evening meal. This is normally begun with a date, but tonight we have deep-fried Sabah bananas instead, with fruit juice - which is fine with me, as my blood sugar has plunged from its regular 90%+ level :) The fruit juice tastes better than ever before, and everyone breathes out as they nibble cautiously on fritters, before taking the plunge with the enormous meal laid out for us. This breaking of the fast is a very communal time for Sabahans, who take turns to open their homes to other villagers to come and eat together. Any food left over will be taken to the mosque to feed those praying the evening prayers, and those less fortunate - who, again, will all eat together.

7pm:
My fast is broken, and although I didn't quite make it all the way through the day, I'm proud that I managed as much as I did. It gives me a new respect for my teachers who do this every day for a month, and still manage to teach their classes! And I take comfort in the fact that they have all had years of training - children as young as 5 or 6 will fast for half-days, while still drinking water if they feel the need.

Not too sure that I'll be doing it again though. That dried-out-throat feeling is just too off-putting!

A Smiley Day

The other day I drove out to my village school. The morning was the usual - tackling the administrative-type people for tasks still undone, grabbing teachers as they flew by me on their way to classes, sitting in the teachers' room chatting to friends... oh, and aerobics. Yes, aerobics. And not just any aerobics - this was nationwide, nation-building, national aerobics, with a national theme tune and everything.

This was a little frustrating, as basically the entire educational system of Sabah shut down - there were no lessons from 7:20 to 8:20 because the teachers were setting up PA systems and getting dressed in their brand new trainers. There were no lessons from 8:20 to 8:40 because aerobics had been planned. No lessons from 8:40 to 9:40, because that was when the preparations finally finished and the PA system worked, and the aerobics was conducted. Then at 9:40, everyone was too busy packing up. Then we had break, and food. Then after break it turned out half the teachers had gone home to shower, and the other half were tired. And besides, a fair few of the kids had also bunked off after their energetic morning.

This is not unusual - I would estimate that my teachers are probably actually in class for about half of the time allocated to them for each year, what with extra-curricular competitions, sports days, sports training, teacher training, sick days, bridge holidays, and days taken off to escort family members to clinic.

I came off slightly better than my colleague in town - her schools had taken Monday off for the kids to practise the aerobics. Although these kids out in the kampung probably could have done with some practice! They were so sweet, trying to follow their teachers, the video, or just the other kid standing next to them...

Waiting for the aerobics to start - in varying states of dress.

This photo cracks me up every time, the kids are just having such a ball!

Chaos.

Little Rooney from preschool was so bewildered, he just stuck to his
sister for the whole hour and ignored the video entirely.

Two of the lovely teachers - Suryati is 9 months pregnant, but I'm not sure
what Khadijah's excuse for being on the sidelines was!

I think it was worth it just for the enormous smiles on everyone's faces that day! And then, even better, later on I left the school to drive down the road into the village for lunch. I stopped at a roadside cafe, just a wooden shack with some plastic tables in the shade of a rambutan tree, and as I got out about forty pairs of eyes turned to me. I'd stopped there before to get a cold drink, but never at lunchtime, and never when all three cafes dotted around this junction were full of villagers eating. There was this deathly silence, which got a little deeper as I walked up to the owner, and then suddenly lightened when I asked in Malay if I could eat something there with them? I could almost feel the sense of relief, and everyone laughed and pulled out a chair and the few who could speak Malay started asking questions. An older lady asked why I couldn't speak Dusun yet; I told her because I wasn't smart enough for two languages, and that kept them all laughing at me for long enough to allow me to order some mee sup. There were two little boys fighting over their own noodles across the table from me - the older one recognised me from school, where he attends the kindergarten. When I later asked them if I could take a photo, they suddenly remembered they were friends, and the elder pulled the little one close into him for their portrait. We talked in baby English and Malay about their food and toy trucks and pet turtles, until their mum arrived carrying her newborn twins. She was the only person who could speak any English, and suddenly everyone was bombarding her with questions to be answered. The questions mostly consisted of, "How long will you be here?" and, "Can you teach us English?" When I told them that we hoped to start workshops at the school soon for parents, they all wanted to know what date and when they could sign up and how much it would cost (this last caused some confusion when I told them it was free!)

It was all very exciting, because as part of my project we are supposed to be engaging parents, but I'm finding it an uphill battle with my teachers, who insist that the parents aren't interested in being a part of the school. I went straight back to report it to them, and received a non-committal "Hmm, really..." response.

But now that I know, I am determined to get them working on parent workshops soon... like it or not...

Island

It was straight onto the beach and into the sea for us then, a lovely blue-green sea with a slight swell, warm and clear. Heavenly!

We colonised a beach gazebo at the optimum distance for the beers to reach us cold from the restaurant's fridge, and there we stayed until after dark, when, our bellies filled with nasi goreng, we returned to our rooms. We'd requested an extra mattress in our room - there being three girls sharing a double bed - but the owner didn't seem willing, so eventually we just asked for an extra room. Occupancy was decided by the traditional Korean method: Rock Paper Scissors, and Leigh won the extra room to herself. The salt-water showers didn't leave us feeling like the cleanest bodies in the world, but we went to bed tired and happy anyway. At about 10pm, Cait and I were woken up by Leigh whispering at our window: she'd just found a scorpion in her bed! We all agreed it was best to just kill it, and for the next ten minutes listened to Leigh's shoe as it thumped the wall in pursuit. Things eventually went quiet, but in the morning, considering the location off the beach and the slightly unclean feel of the place, as well as the deadly insects in the beds, we all decided it was best to leave. We hoisted our packs onto our backs and went off down the beach in search of something cleaner and prettier, and found it in Rawa Indah, a collection of sweet cottages, fronted with airy verandahs and strung with shells and coral. The owner was Austrian, so no concerns about cleanliness!


We'd made plans to snorkel that morning so we headed back down the beach to Gili Meno's Turtle Sanctuary.


Run by Bolong, a wiry, 30-something islander, it's just a collection of rubber pools and old baths shaded by thatch in which turtles of varying ages doze on top of each other. Bolong pays islanders to bring turtle eggs to him instead of eating them; he carefully stores them and, when they hatch, protects the babies until they're about 8 months old, when he releases them into the sea. It's his one-man stand against the rapid decline of hawksbill and green turtles around Lombok. He told us they decimated more than 10kg of fish a day, and with no formal funding, he relies on tourists using his boat, or donating money for a chance to release an adult turtle, so we decided to contribute to the cause and go on a snorkelling trip. It was a tough decision...

Bolong's boat was a traditional one, but with two glass panels in the bottom, which made the trip all the more exciting. Because of his expertise in turtles he took us straight out to a point right on the edge of the reef where we almost immediately saw a green turtle lazily flapping his way through the deep water. As we swam, we were protected to our left by a coral wall; to the right, the waters descended into blue darkness and were a little scary! I saw about five turtles swimming, and another two on the surface after I'd exhausted myself and was sitting on the boat. We also went to a shallow reef, bustling with parrotfish, anemone fish, and unknown bright purple and blue flashes of life.

I could have stayed for the rest of the day, but my stomach was grumbling about having missed breakfast in the hurry of moving and being on time for Bolong, so we returned to the island for lunch.

The next two days we spent in a heady daze of beach lounging, napping on sunloungers, and reading books - especially hard for me, who had an exhausting selection of beautiful new books to choose from, thanks to lovely Liam and Robyn.

We had fresh grilled fish one night, selected from a table of the day's catch, a man lazily fanning the bugs away with a palm leaf.

We ate on a big deck above the sand, the waves gently washing the shore.

Another night we decided to have a cocktail at the only real bar on the island. Our barman started off on good barman terms, but the terms rapidly got awkward. He told us of the dire shortage of women on the island, and that he "wants Western girls, but they're too tall", so at least he "has imagination." "I do this," he says, reaching down below the counter and grinning, sending my mind into overdrive before his hand comes up with a sketch, actually rather good, of a naked woman. Every night, he says, he draws "pretty women", and his masterpiece, an oil painting, brought out from the back of the bar... well, let's just say that up close it looked rather indecent, but from further away, he kept telling us to step back... it looked even more indecent.

Another time we sat on a deck watching lithe children leaping around in the shallows, hitching rides on boats for a short way, laughing uproariously when the boats picked up speed and the slippery poles gently slid the brown arms back into the water.

Slightly further out, fishermen stood with bare torsos and straw hats, working their nets calmly and methodically, sometimes calling out to friends passing by on boats.

It was a time of rest, of calm reflection. At night we lay on our beds and listened to gecko songs - surprisingly loud for such a pale, small thing. During the day we tried our hardest to be true layabouts, but the beaches were shared with islanders carrying treasures for sale - rich cloths and lengths of ikat, turquoise bracelets and pearl necklaces, fabric hammocks and stone boxes, bowls of fresh fruit, which they'd expertly slice up for you there and then.

The Lombok pearls were bewitching; strings of gorgeously imperfect circles, shining white and demure cream, cloudy blue, and the daring, strong black. My first day I got gloriously ripped off by a long-haired man called, rather romantically, Peace. It was okay though - I think of it as a tip for having such an engaging personality. And in international terms, even the most expensive pearls were unbelievably cheap. So cheap that I checked every purchase with fire and bites, leading one man to comment, when Robyn also bit hers, "it's great to sell pearls to people who really know the real from the fake." Mmm. That one had a good selling technique: shameless flattery.

Robyn turned out to be the negotiating superstar - not as weak as Leigh and I, who felt bad going what we thought was too low. She wasn't perfect though: she bought one item for three times the price Leigh later bought it for... oh how we laughed! (No, not really... well, maybe a little...)