Malaysia - Week 1

First week in Malaysia. First week in this country which fascinated Joseph Conrad up to the point of writing one of his best novels, and probably one of the best of the last century.

As you know, I have come of my own free will – some have tried to persuade me not to, others have warned me – most of you have encouraged me. I have already written this: to leave is no mean business. I have waited for this moment for so long, and waiting these past few weeks was really painful at times. How many times have I imagined myself in such or such situation, in this country I re-discover. I found out that living here is another story. I have to struggle. Struggle against a good ole cold from out of the French blue, which the air-con chill and the sizzling outside heat nurtures patiently. Struggle hard against sleep which comes only if I coax it for a long time. Struggle hard just to get that darn interview. I cannot unveil anything concerning my “work” for now, as I am officially unofficial, as nothing has been done concerning my application and I don't want to jeopardise anything, nor promise anything. But rest assured that I will give you ample information in good time. Let it be known that I am already toiling and grinning under the yoke for which I came – aka the Paul Bocuse Institute – even if nothing is official – I cannot stay put, like having two feet in the same tong. First, I don't know if you have ever tried, but this really makes walking uncomfortable – even dangerous – and second I cannot picture myself wearing anything else than flip-flops in this weather – outside working that is. God I like the sound of this footwear, which sound has onomatopoeitically given their name: flip-flops.

Flip-flop, flip-flop, flip-flop. Sole banging against the heel when the foot leaves the ground.

So it is Saturday now, a week to the day after this uneventful landing, this uneventful flight more generally, in the Malaysian capital city. Picked up on Sunday by my friend Yeow Wei at the college residence where he had nicely booked a suite – and I insist on the term 'suite'. Since then, I am more guided than mollycoddled, helped rather than assisted. Afer all, I'm a big boy. All in all it is not easy to share one's life (I “work” in the same university and I live at his place) for an undetermined period of time. A subtle mix of autonomy and being taken care of. Anyway, back to our flip-flops.

So I flip-flopped in a patch of primeval forest right behind the flat, some kind of park, except that in this park the monkeys, parrots, rubber trees, snakes and God knows what that is slithery, hairy and slimy are in their natural habitat – you are disturbing them. You really feel the impression of taking a path, literally. Monkeys only get out of the way because they know that the sole of your flip-flops is not edible – hence unworthy of their attention. I cannot resist the temptation of sharing once more this picture which I took last February – the first time I came here (sounds like a long time ago) – of a monkey on the rope bridge on top of the park.

Amongst other nocturnal flip-floppations, I walked around the block. I have discovered restaurants opened 24/7, markets that end at 11 at night just to start all over again at 5 in the morning, a human activity which is comparable to that of nature. It's bustling, it's swarming, moving. It buzzes about independently from the weather. Just have a look at the size of the trees: the branches are the size of an oak. The banyans root their network of aerial branches deep in the ground, which reappear above the ground a few meters away. Yesterday's shoot has reached adult size in a few months' time. Everything grows at an incredible speed – yet I haven't seen a single drop of rain until now. I know full well that rain will come, our regular “shower” will be drowned into insignificance, will just look like water from the can. But a storm is brewing. Those who keep a lazy eye on the blog know that the last storm dates just a few days' back.

I wrote “days”, but they tend to stretch on end – perhaps the time zone is to blame, or jetlag, or the fact that my nights are as short as a day without eating is long. I have been here a week and I already have the impression of having been here for ages, to know it and yet to discover a new aspect every time I move to the other side of the road, to inhabit this place while still being a stranger to its language (yeah, I know, I inhabit a language, but you'll sure approve it's better than to inhabit the space between two toes). I know that I have to let time take its course.

So to pass it, it being time, I chat with my new colleagues, who really are nice people, who are as warm as the weather, as generous as the stalls in their markets, as smiling as their sun. I discover so many new things that every time I went to bed a wiser man – well, “went to bed” is a big word nowadays. I wish I could take some flip-flop time with them, in a less formal surrounding.

Yesterday evening, on Friday, a Baroque concert was conjointly organised by the Mexican Embassy and the university. Many Ambassadors were present : of course the Mexican Ambassador, the Spanish one, the ones from Peru and Japan, the director of the Cervantes Institute and so on and so forth. Will you believe that there was no – not even one - Ferrero Rocher ©! Not to say that there was no one to spoil us: there were more ambassadors per square feet than musicians (not that they were bad, far from it: they did a rather fine performance of Couperin on the harpsichord, and an audacious flute adaptation of Bach), yet not a single one of these tasty titbits in sight...ergo, not a a real evening at the Ambassador's. Yet the evening was a good one: really nice dinner with a Hollywood actor (Edward Olmos: he used to play Lieutenant Castillo in Miami Vice and Detective Gaff in Blade Runner), the musicians, the president and CEO of the university (which helped organise the event and which has set up a brand new program with the production firm of Olmos). Without any Ambassador this time.

So here's what my first week looked like, in brief. I didn't mention eating too many yummy things for lunch for less than two euros, the evenings and nights listening to the sounds of the city and of the forest behind my friend Yeow Wei's flat, the muezzin chanting at five in the morning, calling the faithful to prayers, the sound of flip-flops which is so different from the other sounds – because I was between waking and sleeping – at four in the morning, going to eat a roti telur because neither of us could sleep. I didn't say “rôti”! A roti is a sort of naan (indian loaf of bread) but the flour is different – atta flour is used, I don't know yet what atta is – telur means 'egg' in Malay. Editor's note: roti is indian, roti canai is Malay. Same bread, but different name – same with many things here! I'll keep the roti (canai) Channa for next week!

I forgot to mention that I think a lot about some of you guys, and that only the time difference and my next mobile phone bill (never in my life have I paid such a price for a text message!) prevent me from giving you news individually, as I wish I could...

The fact remains that those who wish to see me, or simply see this part of the world, will have to be patient for a little longer...I should normally” become an “official” lecturer on Monday afternoon, with a status and more importantly one or more definite positions.

From Malaysia, with love. Warm wishes in these dark and cold times in France. See you soon via the blog. Do not hesitate to send news via email, carrier pigeon, Skype (not smoke signals please, the line between France and here is a bit busy)...anyway, any medium new technologies may offer.

Selamat tinggal!

Translator's note: it's 1:40 am. If you can see mistakes, then you're either far more awake than I am now, or it's morning to you, or it's the next day...I'll correct tomorrow, can't be arsed right now.