CONTENTS

December Archive

1. WILL THE REAL MALAYSIAN PLEASE SHUT UP!
A Pseudo-Anthropological Introduction

2. ADOI! MY TISSUES SO SENSITIVE!
The Mysterious Mamak
The Heavy Metal Kutu
The Sungei Wang Jinjang
The Sentul Soul-Brother
The Singhular Warrior
The Portuguese Connection
The Mat Salleh
The Illegal Immigrant

3. HAI-YA, TYPICAL ONLY!
The Mini-Bus Hopper
The Yamaha Yahoo

November Archive

The Jaga Kereta Syndicate
The BMW Bunch
The Bushjacket Boss
The Elvis Fan Club Loyalist
The Professional Form-Filler
The Cari Makan Ethic
Gourmet's Glossary

4. KAMON-LAH, TOK MANGLISH OK?
A Condensed Glossary of Common Manglish Words & Phrases

5. THE JUNK JUNGLE
What Is Junk?
The Video Junkie
The Newspaper Junkie
The 4-Digit Junkie
The Junk Food Junkie
The Mahjong Junkie
The Power Junkie
The 4-Wheel Drive Phenomenon

October Archive

The Born-Again Entrepreneur

6. WE DON'T LIVE IN TREES, YOU KNOW
The Club Med Casanova
The Aficionado of the Arts
The Angry Young Artist
The Pub Pundit
The Undaunted Environmentalist
The Selangor Club Loudmouth
The World-Record Breaker
The Hysterical Hostellite

7. SIGN LANGUAGE

8. GET OUT OF THE WOODWORK!
The Black Marker Brigade
The Phantom Voter
The Human Rights Activist
The Quiet Emigrant

9. AFTERWORD

10. THE AUTHOR/ILLUSTRATOR

11. BACK COVER

Sign Language

Lrgend has it that along the main street of a particular small town in Peninsular Malaysia, the observant visitor can quietly chuckle at a bold signboard displayed by a gas retailer: WEE KAN FATT. Directly across the road, above a sundry shop, is the proud proclamation: SOH KAN WEE. In another small town, possibly mythical, is a street full of tailor shops. One of them is called MAK MEE KUM; right next to it is another outfit known as MEE TOO. I presume these provocative shop signs are imaginary - I have yet to see them with my own eyes, and when I do I shall most certainly photograph them for posterity. Meanwhile here are a few that undoubtedly exist. Some may not quite warrant a guffaw - but they're worth at least a smile.

OLD COFFEE SHOPS AND DOCTORS WHO HAVE MADE A NAME FOR THEMSELVES

It's a lot like mushroom hunting. You don't see them at all until you begin looking - then when you find one, hundreds seem to pop up from nowhere. Not long after I'd been around taking pictures of signs that amused me, I ran into Hari (an old friend and first-rate photographer) who told me about the large number of DR QUEKs he'd encountered. 'There'salso an Ear, Nose and Throat specialist named Chin,' he added.

But what made me reload my camera and go sign-hunting again was the old coffee shop in K.L. that Hari mentioned. 'It's located in a totally dilapidated building and it's called SOON GOH FATT.'

I was too late. The place had gone phut.

However, I'm sure you'll be glad to hear that the GOON INSTITUTE continues to flourish - despite the fact that Spike Milligan and Harry Secombe are not on the board of trustees.

The Black Marker Brigade

Sad but true, the Black Marker Brigade exists. It's a quiet, diligent, anonymous league of Backroom Types whose mission on Earth - or, at least, in Malaysia - is to protect us from accidental or intentional exposure to titillation of the salacious variety. Their thankless task, in effect, is to ensure that you never have to be confronted with (and, presumably, affronted by) an image of the Female Nipple. Whenever and wherever it may appear: in imported literature, cinema posters, and comics, for instance. And so what if you've just forked out $18.75 for a reputable photography journal or glossy art magazine? How can it claim to be reputable if it's got naked pink titties in it?

Hah! In the name of Art too many atrocities haved been committed. Too Much Flesh Exposed. It's time people stopped taking off their pants just so that some artist-pervert can paint them. One practiced stroke of the felt-tipped pen and... voila! Goya's Naked Maja is naked no more! A deft rub here and a quick daub there and... Hullo! Michelangelo's David is ready to meet the Malaysian public! Anytime now the Black Marker Brigade may be commissioned to bring decency and modesty back to the medical textbooks. You can bet the floors of all our book warehouses will be slippery with drool.

Do members of the Black Marker Brigade go to work in sinister Ku Klux Klan-style hoods? What do they do to nude black women - do they switch to Tipp-Ex? What are the long-term consequences of membership in the Brigade? Does one go through life seeing dark spots and splotches on women's chests that can't be removed with even the most devout rubbing? What do they write in their passports under Occupation?

Well, it's a dirty job - but somebody has to do it. The Stout-of-Heart and Incorruptible who attain the rank of Veteran in the Black Marker Brigade have the awful onus of ritually purifying 8 X 10 glossies and wall-sized posters of the most notorious and lascivious-looking of foreign film-stars. (God, we had a horrible experience with that disgusting Member of the Italian Parliament... what was her name? Ah yes... Cicciolina... none of us got any sleep for a week. we had no choice - it was a Standing Order from the Minister of Home Affairs.)

One shudders to think of the things some people have to do to earn a living. Still, there are obviously a few rare souls who seem to have been born with black marker pens in their untiring little hands. You can easily identify them in a crowd, they're a breed apart: look for the dark ink stains on their lips and fingertips. Our hands are filthy but our minds are clean! This is the solemn credo of the Black Marker Brigade.

The Phantom Voter

How do the politicians do it? It seems they can even raise the dead - turn former citizens into Zombies, Hungry Ghosts, Phantom Voters! As the term suggests, the Phantom Voter doesn't exist... except on some electoral roll. The Phantom Voter, you see, was created by expediency. Everyone knows winning isn't everything, it's the only thing. So what if we have to cheat and lie and fudge the records?

All you need to conjure up a Phantom Voter is an identity card number. It could belong to someone unborn or long dead. The Elections Commission won't delve too deeply into the details. After all, they're in the civil service.

The Phantom Voter, like any other spirit, must inhabit some Party Branch- preferably an unregistered (and officially non-existent) village outpost. When it comes down to votes quantity is what counts - who cares about quality? Don't tell me the Phantom Voter's political influence is insubstantial.

Anyway, how about YOU? For heaven's sake, you didn't even register to vote in the last elections - so how dare you cast aspersions on the Phantom Voter? Boo!

The Human Rights Activist

Hello... er, where did she go? Oh well, what can I say? Turn the page...

The Quiet Emigrant

Only last week he sold you a bunch of palm oil futures. 'Things are definitely looking up,' he said. 'Look at the rubber prices - they've bounced right back, thanks to AIDS, ha ha!'

This is a wonderful country to be born in. The food's good, people are talented, it's a lively blend of East and West, plenty of land, natural resources, blah blah blah.

So how come this week his villa in Damansara Heights is up for sale? Ah... he's joined the rest of his family in Toronto. Oh well, lucky bastard, managed to find himself a job in Canada. Probably did it for the sake of his children (they were terribly traumatised when the Minister of Education visited their school to promote the use of rubber hoses as a disciplinary device).

But will the kids grow up as Canadians? Will they someday qualify as Mounties? Or will they be mistaken for Eskimos? And does it matter? In the end we're all just human, aren't we?

Next year he might send you an invitation for the summer - and there'sll be a P.S. asking if you could smuggle in a couple of durians (for his wife). They're all going to really miss their curry laksa. But I doubt if they'll seriously regret being Quiet Emigrants.

The jingoist crudely declares: 'Let them go. Those who stay are going to cause less trouble.' Isn't that the crux of the problem? We are seen as a nation of potential troublemakers. Paranoia is rampant.

I hear France is a lovely country. Baby Doc seems quite well adjusted there. How about Honolulu? No need to speak Frog there. Too many bloody Japs, though. Maybe Mongolia. Outer... as far Outer as possible.

Personally I'm just about ready for a private dome on the moon. I need some time off-planet to recover from what they call Compassion Fatigue.

The Author/Illustrator

Kit Leee (who has sported his third 'e' for so long he cannot remember how or why he acquired it) was born in Batu Pahat. Since moving to K.L. in 1970 he has enjoyed a remarkable - or ridiculous (depending on your worldview) - career as an adwriter, actor, photographer, traveler, commentator on the arts scene, cartoonist, scriptwriter, and gatecrasher. In his passport under 'occupation' he has written: Ontologist. However, he has no objection to being called a Freelance Human. 'Even though,' he hastens to add, 'I'm not really free. In fact I charge as much as I can but I'm worth it.'

Afterword

Alamak! Things change so quickly in this country. Just like with teenagers: turn around for a moment and they sprout tiny hairs all over, their voices crack, and they start talking back. And take the deadline for this book, for instance. It was originally scheduled for release before Christmas 1987. 'No way!' I protested. 'Let's shoot for Christmas 1988.'

We missed - or, rather, I did.

So we're trying for Easter 1989. Failing which we'll get it on the shelves before next Christmas. You hold in your hands an infinitely postponable publishing event.

How come it took so long? I may not be a certified dynamo of human productivity - but I'm really not that lazy. Truth is, I suffered a temporary loss of my sense of humour. Don't ask me why. Read the newspapers. I was almost ready to quit.

Now you know why the book ends with "The Quiet Emigrant" instead of something more positive - like the image of a completely contented Malaysian squatting on the curb behind a heap of durian shells, happy as an idiot just thinking about the anticipated influx of tourists in Visit-Malaysia-Year 1990. I wouldn't want, however, to underestimate my fellow Malaysians' potential for nobler aspirations.

And what could be nobler than gritting your teeth and muttering: 'Right, we're in for the long haul!' Don't tell me you believe in ready-made Paradises? Well, I believe it's our task to try and establish a Fair Deal (so what if people say there's no Justice in the world?) Things tend to balance out. Somone who's already migrated reports that curry laksa is easily obtainable where he lives in Vancouver, no problem. Others who are on the verge of emigration now confess to harbouring second, third, and fourth thoughts. This place is exasperating - but it's so enjoyable!

I wouldn't mind a change of scene myself. I just don't like the idea of running away. A fortune teller (prognosticators bloom in times of gloom) informs me in good faith that I would make a lot of money 'overseas.' That's hardly news: everybody seems to make a lot more money over there, even those on the dole. No way you can 'earn a living' in Malaysia writing books or acting or singing or dancing or playing music, or so I've been told. Okay, help me prove them all wrong: 

DON'T FLIP THROUGH THIS BOOK AND PUT IT BACK ON THE RACK - TAKE IT TO THE CASHIER IMMEDIATELY AND DO YOUR BIT FOR THE NATION'S CULTURAL DEVELOPMENT. AND DO IT WITH A BIG SMILE.

But I was talking about the swift changes sweeping the country, especially K.L. The ugly ditch right in front of the Royal Selangor Club won't be there forever, though the padang's gone for good. Did I say 'for good'? Oh, why not - some good comes out of every situation. The nation has never had a better education than in the last few years, I'm sure.

A few specimens I'm not supposed to describe (if I want to be published) are still pretty much at large - indescribably so, I'm afraid. That's another Malaysian hang-up: we seem to be sensitive in all the wrong spots. To me being sensitive means when someone touches you there you wriggle your toes and sigh. Or else you fly into a rage, throw a monster tantrum, have it out then and there and be done with it. Putting critics in jail and roughing them up and making publishers squirm is not very nice.

Anyway, as I was saying, changes occur in the blink of an eye. I've just been told there are no longer any Illegal Immigrants in our midst - some sort of amnesty was declared. Oh well, we'll keep the chapter in for posterity. Sorways nice to look back arfturds and have a bladigood laugh, izzenit? Adoi! so pain one ah! And with that I bid you Adieu.

January 1989,
K.L.

Back Cover