Malaysia, Truly Asia

The Lawas River flowing through town of Lawas, Sarawak

This is my first visit to Malaysia, save one brief change of planes at the Kuala Lumpur airport several years ago. Although few nations escape the mark of their geography, Malaysia is especially influenced and formed by the shapes of its landmasses. West Malaysia, by far the most populous part, stretches down the narrow Malay Peninsula from the northern border with Thailand to the southern straits facing Singapore. West Malaysia is dominated by ethnic Malays, the vast majority of whom are Muslims. As in most of Southeast Asia, a sizable Chinese minority exerts influence far beyond its proportionate numeric strength. South Indians, especially Tamils, also compose a significant minority.

East Malaysia is another world, sitting a few hundred miles across the South China Sea and stretching across the northern third of the island of Borneo. The two Malaysian states on Borneo – Sabah and Sarawak – are geographically Malaysia’s largest by far, yet they are also the most sparsely populated, with a combined population of 6 million, compared to 21 million in Peninsular Malaysia. Most of the cities of this part of Malaysia – Kuching, Miri, and Kota Kinabalu – sit near the sea on the north coast. The interior is an increasingly hilly and mountainous rain forest stretching across the island toward the border with the Indonesian region of Kalimantan, which covers the southern half of the island of Borneo. Although Malays and Chinese compose an important part of the population of East Malaysia, the region is also home to several dozen indigenous tribes, the majority of whom are Christian, as are many of the Chinese of East Malaysia.

There was a jingle that ran on television in various places in the past that extolled Malaysia as a tourist destination that was “truly Asia.” While I’m generally averse to any claim to be more “truly” anything than anywhere or anyone else, I could not help but find this description compelling today as a small propeller plan skimmed over dense rainforest, palm oil plantations, and wide, muddy rivers wandering their way down from mountains to the sea in preparation for landing at Lawas, in the far eastern reaches of Sarawak. Lawas is a town of about 30,000 sitting on a river just a few miles inland from the sea. It is cut off from much of the rest of Sarawak by the Sultanate of Brunei, a tiny, hyper-wealthy enclave that by accidents of British colonialism remains a separate country.

Surprisingly to me, entering Sabah or Sarawak from Peninsular Malaysia requires a passage through passport control. My passport was stamped both in the KL airport and in the airport in Miri, Sarawak. This is part of a special “20 point agreement” reached between the former British colonies of Malaya (now West Malaysia) and Sabah and Sarawak in the 1960s. It is designed, in part, to prevent mass migration from the Peninsula to the more sparsely settled East. In reality, I am told that some of these distinctions are breaking down today, although both states retain a much higher degree of autonomy than their counterparts on the peninsula.

Is Malaysia “truly Asia,” whatever that means? Perhaps. But it is difficult to escape the beauty of Lawas – the tropical afternoon downpours, misty clouds rolling down the mountains, the deep, muddy river swimming with crocodiles and boat taxis. It is a world away from the bustle of Bangkok, Manila, Chennai, or Delhi. It certainly lacks the sparkle of Singapore, Seoul, or Shanghai. It does not even begin to aspire to the grandiosity of Beijing. Yet in the fresh, humidity-laden air and the fading sunlight of late afternoon, it is hard to imagine a place more beautiful. 

Taking Taxis in Singapore

There’s no avoiding the fact that Singapore is a long ways from Grand Rapids. I considered myself fortunate to make the journey on Wednesday in less than 24 hours. The fact that flight time from Tokyo to Singapore is nearly 7 hours (approximately equivalent to the flight time from New York to Paris) is just one view into the immensity of Asia.

This was my fourth visit to this island city-state. My most enduring sensations of Singapore are

1)  flyovers/overpasses draped with purple, pink, or white bougainvillea flowers 

2)  smack-you-in-the-face humidity

3)  orderliness

Getting around Singapore, compared to many other places around the world, is remarkably simple. The city’s underground and above-ground metro system reaches across the island, uniting the airport, the central business district, and many outlying areas. Although I’ve made much use of the trains during previous trips, the relative shortness of my visit this time (24 hours) meant that most of my transit this time was by Singapore taxis.

Taxis are everywhere in Singapore. Every hotel, shopping center, and many other places have a taxi queue. Perhaps the most striking thing about the system is its orderliness. This is hardly shocking in Singapore, which is probably among the most “orderly” places on earth. Taxis come at a number of levels, with “flag drop” charges differing by a few cents based on the prestige of the car. All taxis are metered and governed by a strong set of rules. The driver’s name and license number is prominently displayed, many take credit cards, and they are required to have change. For anyone who has haggled over taxi fare, found a driver without change for a moderate-sized bill, or experienced a ride wondering all along if you are being taken advantage of, this makes for a deeply simple and gratifying process. 

The diversity of Singapore is on full display in its taxis. In four rides, I had three male and one female driver ranging in age from early 20s to late 60s. Three were Chinese, one was Malay. One driver had an elaborate display of Buddhist objects on the dashboard and played western pop music on the radio (Singapore’s best mix, in the DJ’s words!). One had hung a crucifix from his rearview mirror and played peppy Chinese pop music. The Malay driver’s car lacked any decoration at all and the radio played what seemed to me to be Malay-language talk radio.

This is not an easy week to be a taxi driver in Singapore. This Sunday is the Singapore Formula 1 Race, which takes place on city streets in the city’s waterfront district. By mid-week, numerous thoroughfares were beginning to close in preparation, causing traffic jams more reminiscent of Manila or Jakarta than Singapore. Overhead electronic boards, in addition to the usual admonitions to drive respectfully, added calls for patience.

There’s nothing quite like riding in a taxi across a city in the middle of the night on the way to the airport for an early flight. I found myself in such a situation on Saturday morning, as I prepared to fly on to Malaysia. The Chinese driver made his way down the surprisingly-busy-for-4-in-the-morning Pan-Island Expressway, the radio playing “Singapore’s best mix.” Sandwiched between the latest Beyoncé hit and Michael Bolton was the 1980s evangelical youth group hit Friends are Friends Forever by Michael W. Smith. How exactly such a thing made its way into “Singapore’s best mix” is beyond my comprehension. I can honestly say that I had gone many (rather happy) years without hearing that tune. But alas, it found me in a taxicab on an expressway in Singapore in the middle of the night. Globalization defined.

And now, having relived the memory, I can’t get the song out of my head…

Impressions of Abidjan

A view of Abidjan's Plateau district with Place de la République in the foreground

A bit over a year ago, I attended a conference of African seminaries in Addis Ababa. All participants were disturbed to learn that our friends from Côte d’Ivoire would be unable to attend due to the unrest and conflict in the country following a contested presidential election. This conflict was destructive indeed, leading to loss of life and the near complete shut-down of the Ivoirian economy for several weeks. It seems a bit amazing upon reflection that just a bit more than a year later, our friends in Abidjan not only participated in a follow-up conference, but managed to host it very well in their fine city. Although the emotional scars run deep, a casual observer would have no idea that this was not long ago a conflict zone.

African cities, it seems to me, come in two types. One type consists primarily of low-rise buildings spreading over a large area with lots of tree-lined, dusty streets. Sometimes, such cities seem to be something akin to a big village, possessing an undeniable charm. Cities like Bangui (Central Africa), Ibadan (Nigeria), Thiès (Senegal), and Bulawayo (Zimabwe) have struck me in this way. The other type of African city soars up in skyscrapers, buzzes with activity in business districts, and is filled with a constant flow of taxis, cars, buses, donkey carts (at least north of the Limpopo), and pedestrians. Nairobi (Kenya), Johannesburg and Cape Town (South Africa), Maputo (Mozambique), Dakar (Senegal), and Accra (Ghana) definitely fit that latter mold. Abidjan is perhaps the quintessential model of such a city, with its towering banks and hotels along the lagunes, its flashing neon lights at night, and its broad avenues of flowing (or not-so-flowing at times) traffic.

Abidjan sits just north of the Atlantic coast around a series of lagunes. It is definitely a city dominated by water. It remains the commercial capital of Côte d’Ivoire. At one point, it was the leading center of Francophone West Africa, a title it has struggled to keep through the conflicts of the past 20 years. It remains a grand place, with bold French colonial architecture, dramatic monuments, and broad avenues. The city center is dominated by a public garden, lushly filled with tropical trees and plants. A large business district - called the Plateau - is filled with bank towers and other buildings.

Unlike many cities in Africa, which are linguistically dominated by a “trade language” that stands alongside the former colonial language, Abidjan is undeniably Francophone. Although I’m told that Bambara (the main language of Mali to the north) is used in market trading, French is clearly the language of the street. In fact, Abidjan seemed to me the most “French” of the French-speaking cities of Africa, with some very Parisian elements.

One has to wonder what Abidjan could be had it not been for the destructive wars and conflicts of recent years. Regardless, the fresh breeze off of the lagunes and the sea, the verdant green of its tropical trees, and the prevalence of beautiful West African cloth in myriad forms make Abidjan a fascinating city to behold.

On French West Africa

The global utility of English is something that is easy to take for granted. Almost anywhere I go in the world, you don’t have to go far to find someone who speaks English. Certainly, native speakers of Hungarian or Tagalog do not have such a luxury. English is especially prevalent in the world’s globalized cities, where it is not uncommon to overhear Egyptian and Brazilian businessmen conversing in English. I find, however, that different parts of the world embrace language in different ways. In the Russian-speaking world, which is arguable one of the least friendly to English speakers, people are often quite surprised when a foreigner speaks decent Russian. Many, especially young people, insist on speaking broken English, even when the visitor’s Russian might be better (perhaps this is changing…) This is distinctly not the case in French-speaking Africa.

French-speaking Africa speaks French. This may seem a rather obvious statement, perhaps even ridiculous. But it’s the only way that I can begin to express the importance of the French language here. For the past ten days, I have been interacting with seminary leaders in the region at a consultation for French-speaking seminaries throughout Africa. There are only two people (former colleagues at OCI, one from the US, one from Zimbabwe) who do not speak French. I am surprised repeatedly that people carry on lengthy and involved conversations with me in my rather strained French, only to find them later speaking fluent English with my former colleagues. I do not say this out of frustration. I actually say it out of respect. I’m glad that they “force me” (in the best sense of that word) to speak their language. But I’ve not encountered anything else quite like it in the world. Chinese (at least urban Chinese), in my experience, do not seem to expect a foreigner to speak Chinese. Dutch and Hungarian people effortlessly switch to one of the 14 languages they speak when they see a foreigner (perhaps a slight overstatement). I’ve even found urban dwellers in France less doctrinaire on this issue. But French West Africans assume that a visitor speaks French.

One of our first nights here, my friend from Zimbabwe, who did not know more than a word or two of French, sat down to dinner with me and several other early arrivals from French Africa. One of the truly senior leaders of the group – a doyen –sat at the head of the table. A fluent speaker of English, he asked my friend “how many words of French have you learned today?” My friend took it as a joke. It was not a joke. He has since made some progress, reported nightly to le doyen.

Perhaps the most interesting part of this for me is that French is not the “heart language” of most inhabitants of French-speaking nations in Africa. Most have at least a “mother tongue” of their home tribe or area, and many also speak a local “trade language” as well. Complex marriage and family situations often add two or three more languages to the mental mix for an individual and a lot of highly educated people speak English (the interspersion of English- and French-speaking nations in West Africa makes this more likely). Speaking with several people this weeks, it is clear that they fear that their children’s generation is beginning to lose “mother tongues,” which in so many ways form the groundwork for the African mental universe.

So, if one wishes to exercise French, Côte d’Ivoire, Senegal, Togo, Benin, or other French-speaking African nations are the place to go. Vive la Francophonie!

Dining in Côte d'Ivoire

One of my Ivoirian meals - steamed corn dumplings with beef and spicy sauce

Over the past year or so, I’ve been paying much more attention to the food that I eat while I travel around the world. Writing a bit about it has helped me to appreciate the adventure that eating is. I am utterly convinced that a traveler simply must see eating as an adventure. It eating is seen merely as a means of sustenance or the quenching of familiar tastes, most travelers will be deeply disappointed. But if eating is seen as an adventure, where the next turn-of-the-road could yield a delight (or something else entirely), the experience can be more fully appreciated.  

As in much of Africa, cuisine consists primarily of some kid of starch served with some kind of stew or meat-plus-sauce. The starch here in Côte d’Ivoire has varied from rice to dried, ground manioc (attiéké) to pounded plantains (foutou), a dish that is the French cousin of the more pan-African fufu. Other starch accompaniments include corn flour dumplings steamed in a banana leaf and a type of sweet, slightly fermented corn-based biscuit. An abundant portion of starch is placed on the plate. Onto this is ladled first a piece or pieces of meat or fish, then an abundant amount of rich sauce and vegetables. If the meat or fish is served dry (not in a stew), it is generally accented with some sort of sauce. The whole thing is then garnished with a bit of hot pepper sauce (piment), which seems to appear in various forms at every meal. The whole ensemble is quite satisfying, yet I’m learning that the proportions are absolutely key. I’ve already seen two tables of west African diners get quite antsy about the perceived absence of proper quantities of appropriate sauce. To this point, my experience has been that most meals here tend to follow a more European pattern, using silverware, although the meals lend themselves to more tradition manual eating as well.

Chicken with sweet corn dumplings/biscuits, hot pepper sauce, and pepper-onion garnish

Foutou is especially memorable. I have a deep appreciation for the various pounded starch dishes of west Africa. Foutou or Fufu can be made from any number of things – corn, manioc, plantain, yam, etc. Each is meticulously and laboriously pounded until they can be formed into sticky, firm orbs the size of a tennis ball. Sometimes they are fermented at this stage of the process, but often they are eaten fresh, served with a bowl of sauce with some meat. In Ghana, most such meals were eaten with hands, with a small amount of the starch pinched off, a small indentation made in it to make a kind of scoop, and the whole lot pitched into the mouth. Here, people seem to use a complex dance of knife and fork to soak their foutou in the sauce and bring it to the mouth.

Dessert consisted almost exclusively of fruits, ranging from mango and papaya to fruits that are much more common to the North American palate. This was mango season in West Africa, with the streets lined with ladies selling neatly stacked piles of mangos, papayas, and many other tropical fruits. Our meals, however, were usually finished with more "exotic fruits" in an African context -- especially apples -- which are quite a treat in that part of the world, much like a good mango would be here.

Dining in Senegal - 27 July 2012

Even though I’ve spent a lot of time in various parts of Africa, I am still struck repeatedly by its sheer diversity and enormity. Not only is the continent composed of around 50 diverse nation-states, each one of these is in turn made up of several, if not dozens or even hundreds, of distinct cultures and languages. Being a native speaker of English and reasonably conversant in French indeed allows me to converse with most urban Africans. But one cannot go far in Africa before encountering either trade languages like East Africa’s Swahili, Cental Africa’s Lingala or Sango, or Senegal’s Wolof. Beyond that are the hundreds – probably thousands – of local languages, including those spoken by tens if not hundreds of thousands of people. As I was told today, to go from Dakar on the Senegalese coast to Thiès, about an hour inland, is to go from a predominantly Wolof culture to a predominantly Serer culture with different attitudes about religion and various other practices. 

Senegalese beef and vegetables over cous cous, served with a crunchy, spicy, garlicky topping

This diversity is perhaps best seen in the continent’s food. Senegalese food as served in Thiès is generally placed on large, communal plates covered in rice or cous cous cooked together with vegetables and spices, with meat in the center. Spoons or hands are used to take bits from the common plate, often sharing a piece of chicken or lamb with your neighbor out of respect. Several dishes have been served with some kind of semi-spicy accompanying stew, often onions cooked long and slow with vinegar. When this sauce is served with chicken and rice, it is known as chicken yassa.

My dinner last night was definitely not typical Senegalese and was emblematic of the kinds of mixed up culture that I encounter in my work. The administrative director of the seminary here is from the Congo-Brazzaville (the former French colony, across the Congo River from the Democratic Republic of the Congo-Kinshasa, a former Belgian colony). He is married to a German missionary. While visiting the seminary campus this morning, along with its sizable agricultural project, everyone was excited to find some wild greens growing on a hill after the recent rain. These greens formed the base of the lamb stew that was the centerpiece of our distinctly Congolese dinner, seasoned with a generous scoop of peanut butter. The rich stew was served over boiled potatoes and a manioc-based fermented foo foo (the staple of much of west and central African cooking). The meal was served with CocaCola and finished with a deep, rich German chocolate cake. What a joy to spend time with such fascinating people, talking about church, society, theology, and many, many other subjects. I am blessed. 

Congolese beef stew with greens with Congolese fermented foo foo

On Being a Guest

The whole concept of “being a guest” is a fairly big part of our life. As we walked through our home in Indianapolis one last time, one of the things that we remembered most fondly were the many guests we had had in that home for fellowship and meals over the years. One of the main reasons we bought our Grand Rapids home was to be able to capably house overnight guests. We’ve hosted a lot of people in GR already and I’m certain that we’ll continue to do so.

I am also frequently a guest in people’s homes worldwide. While I love this, it can also be a bit overwhelming at times. Sometimes it is overwhelming in the sense that I feel guilty for “special guest” treatment—being given the only room with an air condition in tropical Africa, being given a room to myself in Eastern Europe while seven children share a room, the feeling of disrupting a family’s normal routine and home comfort. Sometimes it is linguistically awkward. Sometimes it is just difficult to figure things out. Figuring out bathrooms can be especially tricky, from teeny-tiny toilets in Indonesia to bidets in the French-speaking world. There is always the fear of making some horrific cultural blunder. I’ve probably made a few in my time, but my hosts are gracious.

Staying in a home, as I’ve done the past few days here in Senegal, gives you a unique perspective into the culture and life of the place. I’ve enjoyed watching the teenage daughters of this family. The afternoon heat usually finds them reclining on sheets on the tile floor, resting and chatting. The kitchen fills with giggles after dinner every night as they roll out a mat and take their food from a common bowl there. The six or seven-year-old nephew keeps the water buckets filled throughout the day and is always quick to bring me or his aunty or uncle a chair when we sit outside. One of the girls seems to be charged with tending the front gate when visitors arrive. This is also an African pastor’s home, so other people come and go through the day, greeting the foreign guest brightly in what for some is probably their few words of French.  

More than anything, the whole practice of hospitality weaves us together. It takes us out of our comfort zones, whether we be guest or host. It helps us understand one another just a bit more.