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.

Selamat Hari Guru!

Last week, I got sucked into Teachers' Day at one of my schools - I popped in to visit one of my mentees, and she suddenly recalled that there were to be no lessons that day. Oops. Oh well, a day of games and makan-makan (eating) it was, then. Life is hard.

I was immediately dragged onto the quad to take part in Coconut Bowling, which is, as you may guess, bowling a coconut at ten plastic bottles - a marvellous and eco-friendly version which I am definitely taking back to Africa for future family gatherings. As soon as I walked out, children flooded the quad from all over the school, bearing cameras, and I was terrified of accidentally killing somebody with my poor aim! The problem, actually, honestly, is not my aim (honest) but the shape of the coconut - it's like a built-in probability-quantum-thingy. With all the little knobs and bumps on it, you can aim all you like, but it (almost) entirely depends on how the coconut falls, and at what angle. I didn't do too badly - got 5 bottles over three throws - which was apparently enough to put me among the top few teachers, so thank goodness. Once all the children had taken an acceptable amount of photos of the orang putih chucking a coconut about (and not, thankfully, committing any unintentional manslaughter), they disappeared back to their mysterious preparations, and my mentee demanded her own photo of me taking one final (and illegal) turn.

Once all the teachers had taken part and had their score recorded by one of the Year 6 pupils, we moved into the open-air hall (you can see it behind me in the photo above), where the kids demonstrated their amazing skills in planning, organising and executing a whole ceremony to honour their teachers.

Although they didn't do all  the work... We were all called up to sing the national Malaysian Teachers' Song - I did my best, reading off my neighbour's song sheet, but fear I did worse than I would have had I known the tune. Or any of the words. Nonetheless... The kids all watched and clapped and took photos.

Then it was cake-cutting time; as is becoming usual in my life, I was asked to have the honour of making the first cut. I managed to persuade them to let me do it with the headmaster.

After cake-cutting, the students awarded certificates and presents to each teacher - awards like Smartest Teacher, or Most Easygoing Teacher, or even Cutest Teacher (she was...)

And then there was the gift-giving, when each teacher gave a present to another. Of course, I hadn't been warned, and had no gift to give, but the ever-generous teachers magically found one for me, leaving me embarrassingly short-handed - but next year I am determined to always carry around a store of little presents that I can pull out suddenly when the occasion demands it, earning myself title of Most Prepared Teacher (Orang Putih Division).

And then, finally, it was time for makan-makan, which is an essential part of any gathering/ceremony/awards-giving/celebration/party/first day of school/last day of school/day the orang putih attends our school/any old day... I love it, I have to admit, now that my teachers have gotten used to my vegetarianism. I always get mothered, with teachers asking me if I'm on a diet when my plate is only half full of rice - "Why not proper portion Emily? You don't like rice?" - invariably leading to a discussion on Africa's staple food, and expressions of sympathy that it's not rice. Makan-makan is not just eating, for Malaysians, it is a part of the culture, a part of their innate hospitality, their desire to take care of you. In that respect, there is a strong link between them and the people of Zimbabwe, making me feel more at home in this strange place!