A shoutout to unnoticed acts of kindness

It has been a long time since I was last in “tanah air”. The irony is, as I sit here, in a small community near the border of Panama and Colombia, writing from half a world away, preparing arroz de coco (nasi lemak!), being fed “torta de chocolo” (cekodok!), and sometimes the occasional treat of “raspao” (isn’t this ais batu campur?), I feel closer to home more than ever.

So as a first writing to home, I thought I would by telling a story that happened in the past, around two years ago.

A memory that made me love Malaysians, a story that hopefully resonates amongst us all, because it is this kindness that I always see whenever I think of home.

This story took place two years ago, where right after the general election, I, out of frustration, perhaps of politicians, of corruption, decided to pack my bags, quit my job and left home.

I was lost, I was idealistic, and I wanted so badly a “tanah air” that fitted the image I had in my head.

I didn’t have a plan, but perhaps it was never meant for me to be the planner.

The first person I met was a Polish vegetarian called Joanna who was trying to hitchhike towards Thailand.

Joanna, I learnt, spoke fluent Malay and had been previously travelled around Indonesia.

She recounted to me a story of randomly being offered a role as an extra in the movie “Tenggelamnya Kapal van der Wijck”, which stirred memories of reading the book, and I knew right then she was to be my travelling partner.

There was only one problem. I had never hitchhiked before, and I’ve always been taught the supposed sensibilities as a young woman, of never travelling by ourselves, of the high crime rates in Malaysia.

But Joanna, strongly principled, gave me a good-natured lecture about not adding to the world’s carbon print and insisted that travelling should not be an opportunity for only those with money. She quickly convinced me.

In fact, the first hitchhike I ended up doing was not the least bit dangerous. Before we could even put our bags down and start waving at cars, a bus heading towards Alor Setar took pity on us, and stopped.

Waving us in, a man asked us where we are going. We said Penang, and he responded simply, “I can drop you guys off to George Town.” Joanna politely explained to him we are trying to hitchhike, and the man easily told us, “Don’t worry about the money.”

In Penang, I met a Malaysian woman who had a tent perched on the beach, busy feeding the stray dogs that now loyally visits her for regular food.

She would later become a friend, and I learnt that the tent is her permanent home, and that while in the beginning she was distrusted by the locals (she could perhaps be a spy), she later gained their trust and respect, and they in turn protected her from harm, and even guarded her spot on the beach on the days she needed errands done in town.

We also met a busking musician, a young Canadian boy called Oli, who also spoke Malay (the coincidence!) and who told us his story about how he learnt to play the guitar because he was homeless, almost close to starving in Panama, and how his idiosyncratic temper lost him love.

His music was beautiful, his voice raw and strong but soothing, and he wanted to try to get back to Canada, so he joined us.

This time hitchhiking, it took us a bit more time, all three of us desperately waving down cars, with our big backpacks and Oli's guitar. Finally, a slow, small, red broken down car picked us up.

He apologised (why would someone apologise for wanting to give us a ride), explained that he is travelling to his hometown, and that if we don’t mind, he could bring us all the way to Kuala Perlis.

Yes, yes! We scrambled into his car before he could change his mind.

A few hours later, we reached Kuala Perlis. Just a ride away to the border, but it was dark, and the border gates would have already closed.

We had to quickly scramble for a place to sleep, and, after another small hitchhike, (a kind old man who worked in the local market), we found a small plot of land, opened our tents, pitched it up and decided to wait it out until dawn.

I was nervous, completely certain now that one of the bad stories of the crime rates in Malaysia is going to bite us in the ass.

In the middle of the night, a flashlight shone on us. “This is it.” I thought. “We are going to get robbed, and I haven’t even made it out yet.”

Alas, it was just a couple of policemen, who were worried for us. “You guys will get robbed if you sleep here.”

They suggested for us to head into a mosque, saying that it is safe and we can wait there until morning.

Joanna, Oli and I declined, sure it would be disrespectful to rest in a place of worship (later, in Thailand we would discover it quite possible and fine, being invited to stay in the Buddhist temples, even hitchhiking along with Buddhist monks).

The policemen was insistent, still worried for us, and suggested that we keep safe in a residential playground, and we did, picking random flat spots (I chose a spot under the monkey bar) to rest in.

Throughout the night, Joanna and Oli slept well. I, meanwhile, was still nervous, and kept awake.

But what I noticed the most was the policemen, who watched over us, as we slept, to make sure that we were safe, even chasing a few people away to ensure our night remain undisturbed.

The next day, we waited for a full three minutes before we easily got a ride from a man.

After explaining to him that we were headed to the border in Padang Besar, he said, “Oh, I’m quite free this morning, I was just thinking of a relaxing drive. You don't need to wait anymore. I’ll take you guys to the border.”

That morning, we easily crossed the border.

I wrote this piece deliberately optimistic, but it is also entirely true.

There are many narratives out there, of Malaysia, of Malaysians. It is easy to focus on and highlight the ugly ones, of political mud-slinging, of racial and religious tensions, of intolerance.

There are so many of them. We capture these easily because of our good hearts, of not wanting to allow bad things go unnoticed, unpunished. But it is also important to remember the simple narratives.

This story is one of many that is so simple, it easily escapes unnoticed unless we take hold of it.

But these are the narratives that should always be the strongest ones: of our kindness, especially the ones that live outside the realms of newspapers, of social media, and just lives in the day-to-day of the everyday Malaysians.

These are the obscure acts sometimes left uncaptured, save in the memories of the few lone people who might be lucky enough to witness it, but perhaps the most important ones of all. – August 4, 2015.

* This is the personal opinion of the writer or publication and does not necessarily represent the views of The Malaysian Insider.