Reaching across

Some stories

These are two experiences we had while we were travelling, in Malaysia and Singapore. I want to just leave them here, without deconstruction, but I welcome your reflections, however you like to share them, through the comments, or return emails, or Whatsapp mini-podcast voice messages (you know who you are)!

And a hearty congratulations to all who got through my banana missive! She was a labour of love, I tell you.

I appreciate you all as you read and stay connected with me through my ever evolving reflections and explorations via this Substack. It is a beautiful thing to have a space to share my writings with you.

We are in Singapore, wandering through the technologically awe-inspiring and aesthetic wonderland of the Gardens by the Bay. Eventually, we’ll make our way to the Cloud Forest, the 42-metre high fully enclosed “mountain”, full of tropical forest plants and one of the world’s tallest indoor waterfalls.

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Balaclavas are covering their faces to shield them from the heat and the grass, their legs protected with large aprons as they trim lawns that already look too short for trimming. They pause their work as we walk past, lifting their line trimmers up so they don’t spray us with clippings. They are acutely aware of us and where we are, and yet it is impossible to make eye contact, to give even a nod of the head to acknowledge that you see them.

It seems many people don’t see them.

We sit on a bench close to five men distributing soil under the surrounding trees, shaking it through the gaps of large plastic baskets. They don’t look at us, and the people who look like us don’t look at them. The people in their summer clothes eating ice cream, trying to find their way to the next themed garden. The men work, avoiding imposing with their work while the tourists walk past, and talking animatedly with each other when they are back around the large pile of pre-dumped soil they are tasked with distributing.

We inhabit the same space, but it feels like we are in different, parallel worlds, moving through and past each other, only one aware of the other. It is not a barrier of distance, or even of language. As I sit with it, it feels like a barrier of class.

Mohamed and I are sharing a small $5 SGD tub of icecream, sitting on this bench, and I wonder what the minimum wage is. Or if there is one.

One of the men is feeding the tree in front of us. He looks like he could be from India, or Bangladesh.

“Brother, how often do you do this?” Mohamed has an easy way of simply reaching out towards another person.

We speak to him briefly, and he pauses his work for just enough time to answer our questions before he heads back for more soil. He tells us they do this twice a year, and that he is from India, but I can’t remember from where exactly. And I am chastising myself for not remembering where exactly, because where exactly is important. India is huge, and culture, language and people change from north to south, from east to west. I wonder what type of food his mother would cook for his family, and if he has a wife, and where she is.

We go to leave, and Mohamed tells him “In Arabic, we have this saying yatik al afia, “may God give you health”. So, brother, may God give you health.”

He nods to us, and goes back to his work.

It is our last night in Kuala Lumpur before heading to Turkey, and we have rented an apartment in an area close to the airport. In contrast to the huge air-conditioned SUV we arrived in, the cars in the parking lot are old sedans, and the concrete block buildings surrounding it looks aged, with the tops of their faces tarnished black with mould. Our new friend drives us in tentatively, and only leaves us when we assure her all is fine, and we’ll let her know when we get in. As we look around trying to find our block, we can hear some men speaking on the other side of the parking lot, but cannot make out their language. After some back and forth over Whatsapp with the apartment owner, which block is block B?, which stairwell is 5?, made difficult by a unusually bad mobile signal, we find the key in the shared pump box in the open stairwell, and make our way up, and in.

Our apartment is incredibly clean and tidy, well-prepared with instructions for guests on the walls and even a small pantry full of Maggi noodles for a few ringgit each, but it is brutally hot in the way that fans don’t fix. We are only there to sleep, and spend the night heavily mouth-breathing through thick air chugged around the room by any fan we can find.

At 6.30am in the morning we leave the apartment to get a Grab taxi to the airport, clomping down the stairs and back into the parking lot, doubled up with our travel packs heaved onto our backs, and smaller backpacks koala-like on our fronts.

As we emerge out of the driveway of the complex and onto the street, we find 30-40 men sitting on the side of the road in green highlighter shirts and orange vests labelled “landscape services”, carrying small shopping bags packed with lunch and reused soda bottles filled with orange drink. We find a spot on the other side of the driveway, and they eye us quietly, with our big packs, waiting for our taxi.

It is early morning, and the sky is rapidly lightening; the banana trees being dwarfed by the coconut palms rising above the dim street lights.

I smile at a couple, and they look back at me, our destinations a gulf between us. I want to say selamat pagi, good morning, but Malay is not their language, and my tongue sticks on the English, feeling discourteous. A tentative smile, lips closed, and a head nod is what comes out.

A high sided pickup truck arrives, and they pile onto the back, some crouching, some sitting, some standing at the edges.

“Good morning”, Mohamed says, not scared of the English. One of the men looks back at us and smiles.

“What is your language?” I ask, in a weak hope to connect somehow, as if I would know how to greet him.

“Bengali'“ he said. “Bangladesh.”

“Ahh, you are from Bangladesh?” Mohamed asked.

“Yes, all.”

“Do you know any Bengali?” I whisper to Mohamed, who so often has a word or two in someone’s language, a small offering which feels like an honouring.

“Amar sonar Bangla…” Mohamed offers, the start of the Bengali national anthem.

He smiles back. There is no response from the rest.

“You are going to the airport?”

“Airport, yes.”

As the truck readies to move off, I want to say “Have a nice day”, but the pleasantry sticks.

We lift our hands in farewell, and he waves back. A couple nod. Most look at us, expressionless, starting their long day, and knowing that we do not know their life.