Palms reach toward high-rises that hide the view of the sea. Flora sprawls across lawns and creeps between houses – their backdrop: hills of uninhabited jungle. All is new and invigorating.
I approach the first bus stop. A man lounges on the bench in island fashion. I stand near, shifting my weight from one leg to another, watching traffic rush by. I can’t bounce transit ideas off my husband – he’s not here. My kids aren’t providing ongoing distraction from my concerns – they’re not here. I’m alone, in a place I don’t belong. I want to explore but my uncertainty intimidates me.
Chinese New Year In Penang
“Does this bus go to Georgetown?” I ask the man on the bench as the 101 approaches. I don’t know how I’ll be received. I don’t even know if he will understand me.
“Yes,” he says, and I follow him on.
Georgetown, the colonial downtown of Penang, Malaysia, has been influenced by many cultures and that’s what draws me. Its townscape is a medley of architecture with Malay, Portuguese, British, and Dutch influence. There’s a whole section called Little India, which borders Chinatown. Each of these cultures has impacted the development of this resource rich island, which draws tourists from around the world. This year, I’m one of around five million.
“How much?” I ask the driver, then examine my money before holding out one Malaysian ringgit and coins. He exchanges them for a ticket and I secure myself behind him, standing in the aisle. If I don’t know where I’m going at least I can be near someone who does. But the tide of new passengers pushes me away.
A Chinese man bumps my arm and says sorry. I smile at this. In China, such a small intrusion would go unacknowledged. I manoeuvre through those standing in the wide aisle, making room for the new passengers, and slide into the standing space across from the back door. Each load of passengers represents a mix of cultures and I realize, though far from my destination, I am already experiencing it.
In Contrast to the Colonial Buildings
A Chinese teen stands in front of me, her face covered in acne. The guy beside her, her boyfriend, I guess, entangles his fingers in the hair that cascades down her back. She looks into his eyes, then glances back at the boy beside her – her brother? Beyond them sits another couple, a man with dark curly hair looks out the window. The doe eyes of the woman beside him peer out from behind a black veil.
A group of women move in. One stands close to me and returns my smile. She has a gentle look. Her friends form a cluster behind her, faces prominent behind hijabs of various colours.
On my other side a woman, about my age, with skin dark and hair darker, wearing a silver nose ring, is sleeping. She has a scarf held to her nose and I wonder if it’s scented with peppermint oil to prevent motion sickness. The man beside her hangs his head to the side and his eyes are half open. His shock of white hair is rust-coloured at the tips – his skin is dry and cracking. I wonder how many times he has taken this ride.
“Too many people,” a fair-skinned boy yells as his mother holds his hand to help him on. He marches down the aisle and up the few stairs that lead to pairs of chairs on each side. He is offered a seat and takes it. It looks like he has his routine down.
His white blonde hair reminds me of my own son when he was young. I remember taking him on buses in China, or outside to play. People reached out to touch his hair and said to each other, “He’s so white.” Here, today, no one pays extra attention to this boy, or to me.
I decide I like this experience. I’m used to being one white person in a crowd of Han Chinese. I’m used to feeling like I don’t belong. That’s what I expected today as I ventured into the unfamiliar. But here, in Penang, I’m one of many in a mix of minorities.
By being different, like everyone else, I believe I belong.