willful nomad

our linear obsession with the one lane race toward death saps life from limb,
it's only rewards guilt's bitter aftertaste and a memory of something akin to regret.

we run trip tumble and throw ourselves at immortality only to gasp,
baffled when it splits and swallows us like the softest gauze.

i watched another sun sink into the haze of the delhi horizon,
warmed my hands on its glow and prayed for one more day in the depths of its heat.

i'm okay.
i distrust this feeling.
when did stability get to be so wrong?

Last Sunday I took part in something highly political, totally radical, and kind of dangerous: I went to Pride.

This was not your San Fransisco or Vancouver Pride parade where scantily clad members of every sex and gender march festively and lustily through the streets. This was the first Pride in conservative, moralistic, and still quite colonial New Delhi. And it was awesome.

Most people know by now that my taking part in a rally isn't all that shocking; for a while in Victoria it felt like I was either organizing one, marching in one, or speaking in one every other week. But to march in the streets of New Delhi, yelling slogans I barely understood and actually getting to help cause a traffic jam, was an entirely new experience. Within minutes of finding the parade (its location was changed at the last minute so we joined mid-route) Pema, Brandy, and I were carrying a giant pink sign that read "It's all about choice."

The reason Pride activities in Delhi are so meaningful is because here sexuality is definitely not about choice. Much of the activism is centered around the intersection between homosexuality and arranged marriage, where the gender of your partner is chosen by custom and religion and the individual is chosen for you by your family. Even families comfortable with love matches have difficulty accepting relationships between members of the same gender, or raising a child whose gender doesn't always coincide with their sex.

The parade's trans women, people who are sexed as men but present as women, formed a boisterous, decorative, and passionate knot in the middle of the march. Known here as eunuchs (a term I still have trouble with), trans or intersex people were part worshiped part feared and almost completely supported by the Hindu faith. But with the British came Britain's repressed views on sex and sexuality, later deepened by the West's media influence, and over time eunuchs have become more and more marginalized. Only the strictest, or by some interpretations most superstitious, Hindus still continue to financially support this group.

Growing marginalization didn't stop these women from stealing the show, though. They moved through the parade starting chants and singing at the top of their lungs, waving flags and capturing as much camera time as they could. In a movement where visibility is key, we all have a lot to learn from the eunuchs.

The problem with visibility, though, is that to some coming out means being disowned or ostracized by their families. Parade organizers provided rainbow-coloured masks to be worn by those who wanted to participate but couldn't be recognized out of fear of the repercussions. Interestingly, though, very few marchers actually wore them. And aside from the curious on-lookers, no one looked twice at those who did.

Most participants seemed quite happy to be visible in such a setting. Young families brought their small children, men held hands and walked dogs, and a female couple in their mid-fifties wore rainbow flags proudly stuck to the left bum cheeks of their matching white capris. Even some of the cops got into it, bouncing along with the rhythm of the drums and haughtily shooing away anyone who threatened to disrupt the tentatively peaceful assembly.

The parade route went from the Intercontinental to Jantar Mantar. It had been scheduled to start from the Regal Theatre in CP, where Canadian Deepa Metha's film Fire was interrupted by a group of Hindu activists becuase of it's lesbian content, but the location made it too difficult to gather what amassed into a very large group of marchers. Newspaper reports before the event predicted 100 to 150 people, but after the tourists, expats, and journalists, of which there were many, were factored in, there were more like 500 to 750. We all marched and hollered and waved our signs along the parade route, but not everyone knew what was actually going on. Some people showed up to take pictures of the spectacle and wound up becoming part of the march, and when asked, the two men who drummed the length of the route couldn't tell you what the parade was for. They just wanted to come help out the marchers, keep them upbeat and interested. To that I say, way to go. How about coming back next year?

At one point my friends and I even ran into a fellow Canadian. Tall, dark, handsome, and nameless smiled for a camera about two steps behind me and said "Hello from Canada!" We struck up a conversation. He said his plane was leaving the next day to go back to Toronto, but when he'd heard there was a Pride parade he just had to go. He also said he's happy his dad doesn't watch the New Delhi news from T.O.

The march ended in a large huddle around a circle of candles outside Jantar Mantar. Campaign organizers spoke of their personal experiences and those of their loved ones, some living, some passed away, and then, miraculously, the whole group managed two minutes of almost complete silence. In Delhi, a group of 500 people was almost completely silent for two whole minutes.

When the crowd was breaking a couple of smartly dressed men with a camera and a microphone came to interview my friend Claire and I. We tried to deliver as positive a message as we could, but afterwards both of us said we felt a little weird about being interviewed. After all, we said, the march wasn't about us. Claire felt that way because she's straight. I felt that way because I'm white. But later it dawned on me that something like a Pride Parade should be about everyone who supports gay rights, or who at least doesn't see the point in restricting people based on their gender choice or sexual preference. I know, I know, hand me a lighter and we can all sing "We Are the World" or something. Yes, the focus should be on celebrating queerness, but no one, queer or ally, should have to worry about how their views on sexuality will affect their happiness, health, and well-being.

That worry-free existence isn't a reality yet. Till it is, we have Pride Parades. I've already booked next year's in my calendar.

For the past six weeks or so I've been joining a group of women on Sunday nights for what we like to call soccer. We show up to Siri Fort Sports Complex, take over the smelly side of the field hockey pitch (somehow the guys always get the non-smelly side first), and kick a few balls around. Granted, sometimes we come out with some killer moves, like Caitlin's play-stopping head-butt or Annie's fancy footwork, but after the talent we saw at the 10- to12-year-olds tournament last Saturday, we may have to rethink our terminology.

Saturday afternoon was an event we have been preparing for for weeks. Jean, our French coach, set up a game between our fledgling team and the semi-finalists of the Danone World Cup India who would be made up of 10- to 12-year-olds. We cracked jokes at every practice about how we were going to wipe the field with those kids, make 'em cry, and all kinds of other talk inappropriate for young ears. We even came up with a team name, the Troublesome Chicks, named after a dish at the Golden Dragon down the street from where we practice (if you're ever in Delhi, have the Troublesome Chicken in Wonderful Sauce at G.D. It is both troublesome and wonderful). However, a few days before the big game, Jean revealed a slight change of plans: we'd now be playing the Air France women's team. Even though he made it clear that none of these women, aside from an unfortunately traded team mate of ours, had any soccer experience, we suddenly felt like we had competition.

July 12 rolled around and we showed up to the field near old Delhi in our mismatching white tshirts and dark shorts. We warmed up. We ran. We showed each other back stretches in the middle of the field, all in an attempt to assuage our panic at the sight of the opposition's matching jerseys. We didn't let their coordination sway us, though; when it came to game time, we had them beat.

Even though we had only practiced for a few weeks, we could already feel ourselves playing like a team. And my goodness, there's nothing like a little competition to really get a group going! I've never seen any of us run so fast or be so aggressive with the ball. Denise, a recent addition, got so into it she took out their goalie, and Anne, who's been injured since our first practice, couldn't keep herself off the field and ended up playing in her jeans and Chucks. Not to brag or anything, but we spent most of the game in their end.

Truly though, we were the half-time show. We gave the finalists a chance to get their breath and provided some entertainment for the teams who hadn't made it into the last match. Our entertainment value extended, apparently, well past the end of our game. We turned out to be a curiosity for players and spectators alike. Some of the teams had traveled days by train to participate in the tournament, many of them from smaller towns without much tourist traffic. Can you imagine, then, what we must have looked like? This group of white girls, some of us with red and blond hair, in shorts of all things? And what is that yellow bubbly stuff they're drinking out of that water bottle? Never mind…

The kids were the real highlight. Their tiny legs could kick the ball half way across the kiddie-sized field, they had fantastic aim, and they never seemed to get tired. They had us girls hooked right to the end of their shoot-out finish. It was a bit of a heartbreaker, though—most of us were cheering for the Sikkim team.

We all agreed that we were much happier playing the Air France women's team than we would have been playing the kids. For one, we would have had our asses handed to us on a platter. Secondly, some of Air France is going to join our team starting at this Wednesday's practice. We don't know when our next game is, but that doesn't seem to matter. For now, we're happy practicing and honing our skills for the next time our team hits the game field. Go Troublesome Chicks!

So I'm kind of a big deal.

Thursday night was the Sancho's grand opening. For those of you who don't know, Sancho's is this amazing Mexican restaurant that opened up in South Ex a few weeks ago. Though the place is owned and run by Indians, Jorge, the chef, is actually Mexican (never mind that he was recruited in San Antonio, Texas). He makes everything from the salsa to the quesadillas fresh in the kitchen and oh my goodness is it ever good.

Anyway, Sancho's has quickly become an expat hot spot on account of its amazing Mexican food, a rare commodity in a place like New Delhi. It's where our soccer team (go Troublesome Chicks!) had our post-victory party, and you'll often hear sentences like "oh I was here Thursday, Friday, and Saturday night last week…" float through the crowd.

Despite its already wide-spread popularity, Sancho's hosted a grand opening to officially get things going. Basically it was an excuse to get the who's who of Delhi, but Indian and expat, into the restaurant to hobnob for cameras and make the place look good. And how might I have been included as one of the who's who, you might ask? On soccer night I made friends with Jorge, the chef. And thus it was done.

I showed up to Sancho's after jazz class (to be explained in a subsequent post) having changed in the washroom and freshened up in the car. Really this is code for "I showed up sweaty." This seems to be a theme (sweaty was the word of the night at the soccer girls' after-party). Jason and I crawled through a throng of on-lookers and cops toward the restaurant only to pass it by a block. As soon as we stopped, though, the car was surrounded by men who seemed like their sole purpose in life was to open the door for me. I stepped out of the car and asked Jason to wish me luck.

When I got to the door, these lovely young women smiled and made gestures toward their guest list. I smiled back and asked innocently, "do I have to have an invitation?" Their smiles widened. "Yes, madame. (more smiling) We're having a party." "I know," says Beames, "Jorge invited me."

I, Penny Beames, have never so shamelessly name-dropped in my life. I didn't even know I could. Thank goodness for years of theatre training, I suppose, fake it till you make it. And not only did I name drop, I turned my own name into one to be dropped. As the smiling young women wrote my name at the bottom of the list I casually added, "I have some friends coming, they'll be here shortly. Shall I just tell them to ask for me?" More smiling. More nodding. And I walked in.

The party was slow when I got there but that didn't last long. Most of my soccer team was already there and a few of the expats I had met last weekend and they were huddled around eating Mexican finger food and drinking margaritas. Good news, the drinks were free. Bad news, the drinks were free. Kiwi, peach, and classic margaritas. Strawberry banana dacquiries. Tequila shots. The liquor was flowing and so was the food. Mexican heaven? Perhaps.

Now, in the past ten years or so India has changed. It has modernized drastically in many ways, but in others there are still obvious pillars of what I think of as "old India." Many of the older women in the crowd wore saris and suits. Don't get me wrong, they were incredibly glamorous and well put together, but the saris contrasted sharply to the mishmash of Latin, Western, casual and formal wear that dotted the crowd. The older crowd also did a lot of standing around the edges marveling at the patrons glommed together in the middle while the glommed patrons wondered when the older crowd would leave so the dance party could start.

As I polished off my first kiwi margarita of the night I saw a friend step hesitantly through the elevator door. Ah yes, one of my name-droppers. I had furiously texted my friends to let them know the secret password to get in without an invite. Apparently they had done the same. Soon enough there were folks there "with me" who I didn't know, but by the end of the night we were on a first name basis, shaking hands, saying "we should get together soon."

About half way through the night, when the place was properly packed, two professional dance couples in costume climbed up the stairs and through the crowd to the tiny dance floor in the top back corner. I couldn't see much on account of my being heads shorter than most, but what I did see was pretty impressive. They cha cha'd, salsa'd, and merengue'd in polished costumes and make up, Latin dancing straight from Mumbai. When the pros were done Jorge and I took to the stage and did our own salsa performance. Lots of folks said they liked us better. What a sight, though! Jorge in his chef's uniform and this strange blue-haired white girl salsa dancing in the restaurant!

Things started to wear down after midnight. I'm not sure if it's because people were tired or if it was that the dj was the only one enjoying the bad techno he was playing. Jorge got changed into his civies, folks started splitting off to go to other bars, and some of us decided it was time to go to bed. On our way out, though, the lovely nodding smiling young women at the front door handed us goodie bags packed with nachos and salsa. They smiled and said "a gift for you, Madame, please return!"

I'll definitely be back to Sancho's, if not for the friends then most definitely for the food. Plus it's right next to Morrison's, so truly, how can I resist?

"I can't believe how clean it is in here!"

Apparently the Delhi airport has changed somewhat since Mom's first encounter. I had to admit, even I noticed huge improvements even since I'd left last September. All the walls were perfectly white, the check-in counters looked brand new, and everyone was waiting their turns in line. The cleaning women who had worn saris and carried bamboo brooms now wore perfectly ironed uniforms and pushed what looked like they could have come out of a Swiffer ad.

I have to admit, I was almost disappointed. Even though I was likely too tired to deal with the Delhi airport I remembered, I couldn't help but pine a little for its former mania.

Mom and I found ourselves a few chaise lounges near departure gate 4 and had a seat. It was late and both of us were tired from having worked all day, but I was too excited to sleep. Our plane was due to leave in an hour or two for Kuala Lumpur.

Our one-hour sit in the lounges though reminded me that, no matter the physical improvements made, some things forever stay the same. The ceiling above us hadn't been finished so I could still see the dust-encrusted stucco and some wires hanging at random. And the staring was just as rampant as ever. I'd close my eyes for a bit until I felt myself being watched. The gawker would only look away after I'd let my own eyes wander, crawling up his too-tight jeans or his polyester uniform till I met his face long enough to scare him away.

I guess I can't moan too much, though, because I was doing my fair share of people-watching. How could I help it with so many interesting specimens in sight? The monks draped in burgundy robes sipping fanta and checking their laptops were fascinating, as were Jon Bon Wannabe and his Asian-American dreadlocked girlfriend. I've also developed a deep desire to own one of those belts the cops wear, and not just because I'd like to slap them with one for staring too long. They're leather and have these enormous square silver buckles; I can feel myself strutting just thinking about them.

I'm writing this from my hotel room in Kuala Lumpur; the Delhi airport seems a million miles away. Mom and I have slept and eaten most of the day away, and after an all-night flight I can't really imagine a better way to have spent the day. We're off to explore now, more updates to come.

So Mom and I have done some damage. We decided that, since we have this vacation to ourselves for the first few days, we'd take advantage of the situation and shop just us girls.

Luckily KL is more than happy to accommmodate.

Yesterday evening we headed out the door to look for Jakel's, a famous fabric store, despite having only been here for a few hours and not having gotten much in the way of directions. But, as I mentioned, KL is more than happy to accommodate: Jakel's has a giant balloon with it's name and the word "sale" emblazoned boldly on both sides floating two storeys above the store. We hit up the silk section, joked around with the staff, and left with enough fabric to keep Mr. Alam the tailor busy for weeks.

Today, after being disappointed at the Petronas Twin Towers (more on that later), we taxied over to Jalan Tuanku Abdul Rahman to do some more exploring. Mom found a shoe store with a section that catered to women with larger feet (or men with large feet who dress as women, you decide), and after some hemming, some hawing, some water and some smarties, we made a few key purchases.

In both cases, Mom found the shop's only pregnant sales woman and paid for the unborn child's first year of life in commission.

The markets we explored this afternoon mainly sold the floral fabric Malay women wear. Most Malay women are Muslim and dress conservatively, long sleeves, long hemlines, and headscarves. Having grown up in a really waspy town in Central Ontario, I'm still not quite used to hijabs and headcoverings, so I was surprised to see row upon row of shops dedicated to designer headscarves where women could buy the newest designs from Turkey and Dubai.

Sixty percent of the Malaysian population is Malay; the other forty is made up of thirty percent Chinese and ten percent Indian. This last statistic explains the sari shops interspersed between the Malaysian florals, and why this afternoon you could have found me bopping along to Salam-e-Ishq as it blared out of a cd shop on the street. Oh, and since I've been here, I've had three random men smile and say "Hello Madame" for no reason. They've all been Indian. I'm beginning to believe that you can leave India, but India never truly leaves you.

This evening, however, a local woman showed us parts of the Chinese thirty percent that we likely never would have encountered without her help. Cheryl works at the Canadian High Commission here in KL; she's a tiny woman with a big smile, high cheekbones, and perfect posture, and, until 10pm at least, seemingly boundless energy. She took us into China Town a few metro stops from our hotel and my goodness this was the shopping I was looking for. Give me knock-offs. Give me oddities. Give me hot-off-the-back-of-the-truck export madness. We wandered the stalls, being hooted and hollered at and "Hello Madamed" for an hour and I bought nothing but some dried ginger and coconut. It was amazing. Now that I have a sense of the place I can go back and see if my Delhi-trained bargaining skills will work in KL. I've already discovered that the Indian nod I've whole-hearteldy adopted doesn't translate here. At all.

Then she took us for Chinese at a flourescent restaurant near Central Station. Despite being full from the half a bag of dried ginger I'd consumed in China Town, and the bowl of soya pudding she bought me, I stuffed myself silly on fried chicken, pork ribs, rice, and some tiny eight-legged seafood friends in a dish I can't name to save my life. She must think I'm crazy, going on and on about how much I love the food. Then again, she had us bring twenty pounds of food with us from Delhi, sweets and snacks she fell in love with while she was there but couldn't get here in Malaysia, so I suppose I must not seem that crazy afterall.

Food and shopping. That's pretty much all we've done so far. And so far I have to say, I'm really okay with it. I have some trips of the more cultural variety planned for tomorrow, but we'll have to see if Central Market doesn't distract me along the way.

Afternoon Adventure

Friday afternoon was cloudy and muggy, but it didn't stop me from taking a few hours out in the afternoon to explore Central Market. It was actually quite nice, actually, taking a walk sans Delhi heat and sun. After spending so much time walking everywhere in Victoria, it's been hard adjusting to the feet-free Delhe lifestyle. So Friday I took advantage.

Central Market is this two-storey open concept building full of shops and handicrafts that I think was conceived as an indigenous souveneirs shop. It's since been taken over slightly by plastic shops that sell your standard made-in-china fare. But if you can get past the sparkles and the lit-up Hello Kitties, you can actually find some pretty spectacular stuff. Gorgeous Malaysian batiks, woven bamboo mats, South Indian textiles... again, though, the soundtrack was quite disconcerting; I was shopping to the "Life in a Metro" soundtrack.

The place has an awesome food court as well, especially for those like myself who are inexplicably drawn to shoddy Asian fast food. I had Chinese at a place called Mama's Kitchen that was staffed by these two young, round women with gigantic smiles. They must have thought I was pretty funny, not knowing how things worked and being adamant about eating vegetarian food (being a strict veg here would be so frustrating!).

I had originally come out to visit the National History Museum, but according to a sign posted on its front door it's been closed since November 07. Hm. And I even braved traffic to cross the street to get it!

Luckily the Museum looks out onto the Independence Lawn, or Dataran Merdeka. It's marked by an enormous flag that was raised on August 31st 1957, the day Malaysia declared independence from Great Britain. The flag--and a row of about a hundred of its smaller counterparts--stands in defiance across the street from the old British administrative buildings. The buildings themselves are quite beautiful, topped by a Big Ben-style clock, but the flags make a real mockery of them now.

Masjid Jamek, one of the most prominent mosques in the area, hides in a corner behind Central Market and the British buildings at the point where Kuala Lumpur's two major rivers join. It was prayer time while I was practicing my hack-job photography, so I heard the mosque before I ever saw it. After braving traffic a bit more, I happened upon its backside with a street and the two rivers between myself and the mosque's lawns. I sat and listened to prayers for a while, took some long-distance photos, and wandered on my way.

Tucked somehow between the Market and the Mosque is a tall indie art gallery and annexe that housed some of the most interesting new art and artists I've seen in a while. The place that caught my attention the most was this small store and studio called Gajah Gajah Gallery. The owner, a famous Malaysian illustrator, uses the facility to promote "Naive Art," and he's loud and proud about it. At first I thought he meant "native," but no, it's "naive." He aims to foster artistic creativity in old and young people alike despite their exposure to art or their lack thereof. Donald, one of eight young (or young at heart) artists-in-residence, showed me around the tiny spot, pointed out his peers' work, and quoted me prices for some of the pieces I liked. They were all super bright and colourful, and each student had a different subject--Donald painted dogs, one student painted cats, another city scapes, and the oldest painted close-ups of nature settings. I bought a few paintings of monsters, tucked my wares under my arm, and headed back to the hotel on the monorail.

Batu Caves

This morning I crawled out of the hotel for some coffee and ran square into two women doing the same thing. They'd just gotten off the plane from Sydney, Australia, but within two minutes I'd discovered that one had actually grown up in Orillia, Ontario. It is a small world, my friends, a truly small world.

After breakfast I dragged my still-tired body into a tour car to go to Malaysia's most famous Hindu temple at Batu Caves.

Hindu faithfuls flock to the location in January to perform masochistic rituals under the watchful eye of a giant gold Murugan, Ganesha's younger and much-slighted brother. According to legend, Murugan got upset after losing yet another bet to Ganesha, hopped on the back of his trusty peacock, and took off for the top of a hill to start his own following. Thus, his temple is nestled in the hollow of a large cave at the top of a 242-step staircase. Stairmaster, eat your heart out.

I stepped out of the car and straight back into India--hot, sticky, and colourful. Up the stairs I went with barefooted men and high-heeled women, past the head of the giant Murugan, and into the high-arched moss and limestone.

The temple and statues were interesting; they were colourful and like many of the temples I'd been in with Gowry last summer, but for some reason I had a hard time deciphering what kind of story the place was trying to tell. I've taken a pile of photos, particularly of Murugan and his peacock, so hopefully going through those will give me more of a clue. It had an anticipatory feeling, like it was waiting for the real action to start. I guess carved and painted gods can't replace the spectacle of flesh and blood being pierced and stretched to its maximum capacity.

Berjaya Times Square

Malaysia is making itself famous for its shopping. And I say that quite seriuosly--it wages its own campaign 24/7/365 advertising to itself and to the world that KL is THE place to shop. So Mom and Dan and I decided to check some of it out today.

I'm really not a mall person. I wandered around for two hours and bought two things. But it was kind of cool none the less, watching people wander through the shops that all sell the same things, toting bags and laughing, scarfing down more bad food court fare. At one point I wound up in the fray around the 10 ringit per item bin at some teeny bop store, but I pulled out after taking a good hard look at the shrieking Asian teenagers I had to contend with. Ten years ago when I, too, was a shrieking teenager I may have had a chance; today, I was a goner before I even started.

I'm so tired and I haven't even gotten to China Town yet. But I'm going back again tomorrow, so there will likely be more updates than I have already.

Oh, KL. You're a strange little town, but I think I like you.

This evening I drank a little too much red wine at cocktail hour, seeing as it was my last chance to take advantage of such things, and came back to my room to try on the day's loot. I couldn't help but laugh at myself when I realized I'd bought the very jeans I've told everyone not to buy--you know, those jeans that make your legs look like they're in sausage casing--but at least the process of buying them was fun. I haggled for them in this street stall in China Town this afternoon from an impossibly skinny and way too hip Malaysian kid, and only after he'd led me through a maze of racks and shoes to the tiny corner fitting room in someone else's store.

Now I'm back in my hotel room clad in a bathrobe and sitting down to write the last note from KL. I'll likely have a digest post when I get home, but till then this'll have to do. Sad to think about going home, really, when you've got this view out your window.

It's funny, I always find myself getting a feel for a place right before I leave. At least that's how it goes with the places I only stay in for a few days. I'm realizing more and more that I'm not the one-stop-shop type traveller; I like having a chance to really get to know a place and hate having to pack the highlight reel into a time quantified in hours. So far KL's highlights have only made me want to stay longer, immerse myself, try to figure out what the hell is really going on here.

Maybe I feel that way because of today's completely unplanned adventure. I was in the Central Market/China Town area again, picking up a few choice items that I'd had my eye on, when I found myself without much to do. I wandered back to that little art studio that I'd found the other day to see if Donald was around. I'd promised him that day that I'd come back and visit but hadn't yet. I wandered in. He was painting. I think he was miffed that I'd taken so long to return, but all he did was say "I can teach you to paint, you know." What? Teach me to paint?

I put my loot in the corner and sat in the chair that normally accommodates aspiring artists of the five-year-old variety. Donald suited me up with a kitty cat apron and then brought out what felt like a very large canvas. I have to say, I find painting incredibly intimidating. I can stare at the blank page and blinking cursor of any computer screen and feel more than confident that I can come up with some kind of drivel to fill it. A canvas, however, is an entirely different universe. I tried painting once in an old boyfriend's backyard when I was fifteen. It didn't go well.

But Donald felt like teaching me and I felt like I had a few days' debts to make up for. First he asked me what I wanted to paint. "What's in your mind?" he asked. "What kind of animals do you like?" I'm so bad at this... "I had two pet rats that I really liked?" For not the first time since I'd met him, he looked shocked. "Flowers," I said, "I like trees and flowers." Donald appeared relieved.

We started off with a skyline and background. He applied the first few strokes, and at first I was happy to just let him paint the whole damned thing for me. But as the colour took shape I found myself wanting to carefully remove the paintbrush from his hand and start in on it myself... maybe if I go really slow he won't notice... But then he handed me the brush and said "now you try."

So there I went, brushing blue and white paint into a skyline and green into what now looks like grass if I squint hard enough. The same Malaysian power ballad had been playing on repeat for a while when Auntie and her family came in to watch the grand daughter paint. I, being the anomaly in the room, was of instant curiosity to Auntie, so as I etched trees onto the canvas she and I talked about her kids and her English language skills and her lifelong dream to emigrate to Canada. Her big eyes had teared over a little from under her glasses and rose-coloured hijab when I talked about the cities I'd lived in in Canada. She said she's always wanted to move there, but her husband didn't want to go any further than inside his own cocount shell.

Auntie got wrapped up her grand daughter's handy work, so Donald took the opportunity to engage in some conversation about anything but painting. He asked if I'd been to Jakarta and was a little disappointed when I said no. "I'd love to go to Jakarta," he sighed heavily. He spoke of Jakarta with the same reverence as those who speak of Greenwich Village or Commerial Drive, young artists dreaming of a bohemian life of paint and cigarettes and cheap rent. "I wouldn't want to work there, though," he added.

It turns out he spends all day every day at the studio. He opens it at 10 am and closes it at 9 pm, Sunday through Saturday. He said his boss asks him to take breaks, but he always replies with "I would take a break, but I wouldn't know where else to go." The studio has become his home.

At some point during the afternoon I must have started to wind down. "Are you enjoying?" he asked. I realized I hadn't had any lunch aside from the third bowl of soy bean pudding in as many days from China Town. I headed back to the food court in Central Market for a late lunch and wound up eating some deep fried Thai amazingness at a table in the corner. Beside me sat a trio of gay, deaf Malaysian men signing animatedly over their lunch. I wanted desperately to be able to communicate with them, but I didn't recognize their sign. Not that it matters, the only sign language I remember is "I forget how to sign," but it didn't mean I wanted it any less. So I sat and ate and tried not to stare too obviously.

The studio was full when I got back--Auntie's whole family had arrived to watch the grand daughter paint. Sisters and brother wandered around me in circles while I added more detail to my painting, but because none of them spoke English we couldn't exchange much more information than names and countries. One tiny girl, Ayesha, looked like she wanted more than anything to paint with me, but when I offered her the brush and pointed to a fish that needed filling she blushed and shied away. I sat and painted while Donald and his friend of a name I never got watched and commented on how I should come back and paint more often.

I finished up the last edges of the painting I'd made only to find that Donald was missing. Auntie said she, too, was waiting for Donald, who'd gone off for lunch, so in the meantime she told me stories about how she'd finally gotten a chance to travel abroad. Her cocounut shell husband heard the first few strings of this long wornout story and made himself scarce, so I remained Auntie's sole audience member. She fed me traditional Malaysian cakes baked into fish shapes and told me how, six years ago, she'd been on a bus through France on her birthday and how the whole international bus tour sang her the American Happy Birthday song. More tear-glazed eyes as she recounted that she spent her birthday evening atop the Eiffel Tower. Then she told me that the train she had taken in Bali while she'd been there had been bombed two days after she'd left. "Praise God for long life," she said, and offered me more cake.

Donald returned as the painting finished drying, so showed me how to autograph it and bagged it up for me. Auntie took advantage of the lull in conversation to point out that I was a "soft-spoken Canadian" with nice clean cheeks... "Auntie, are you playing matchmaker?" Donald blushed, but I have to say, he's pretty cute if a bit young! I've promised to return on my last day, tomorrow, to say goodbye and maybe paint some more if I have time.

I'll have to juice up my camera and take a few photos of my teacher.