Mbeke Blog

Mbeke Blog

Category: Asia

Black Expat Stories – Police people

We sat in the car nervously. We had a Nigerian driver for today’s excursion and the police had pulled our car over. It would seem that three black women and a black driver were cause for concern in Malaysia

They demanded our passports and none of us had them with us. We hadn’t thought and so the driver was asked to step out.

They want money I thought.

 In Ghana, my driver was tired of dashing anything to the policemen.  The one who pulled us over on that Christmas Eve morning was drunk. I smelt the alcohol on his breath and saw the gun swinging carelessly on his arm.  I became worried for I had not gone to Ghana to die! I suggested to the driver,

 I will pay. It is not a problem!

 He did not care anymore for he was tired.  His Christmas earnings were disappearing and there seemed to be stop points at every junction. I paid and we moved on.

 The policemen in Malaysia looked so young on that morning.  He had demanded that the tinted windows be opened.  As he heard our English, Carribean and Yorkshire accents, he seemed confused though. Somewhat agitated too.  He may not have been able to identify our accents but it wasn’t what he expected.  After all, all black people are Nigerian….

 Passports! Where are your passports? He asked

 I felt a slight anxiety begin to rise. We, like any vulnerable group, could be taken to a police station and never seen again. People did not stay connected in this day and age. Once they did not hear from you, a fleeting thought of I wonder what happened to so and so would so be lost I the noise and disruption of gadgets and social media.

 The driver came back to the car where his brow showed signs of serious tension.

 Where are your passports? he asked.  He knew the answer yet hoped they would appear…just to make this situation right.

 My day of black girl magic had started with the reminder that black peoples power is so great that the whole damn world is threatened.

 We want to see your passports

 No problem, you just need to follow us to the hotel and we’ll present them, we confirmed.

 I work here, I repeated.  He didn’t flinch. He was preparing to deliver the classic line

 I am the police. I don’t follow you!  You follow me to the station! There it was! Power over those who, at the moment, have very little!

 I work here, I repeated. It is an MOE project, I said   He didn’t flinch. I tried giving him specific details of where the office is and the name of the departments who we worked with. He was not interested.

 Has your work permit run out? He asked, smiling

 I reminded myself that the woman who carried the AK47 was not needed today so I simply smiled too. My sister stepped in and stated what everyone knew.

 If we follow you to the police station, we still won’t have our passports!

 Don’t get loud with me. He responded. She was not loud.  She was a gentle professional black woman. It was clearly time to retreat.

Let’s go back to the car I suggested, leaving the driver to negotiate his (and our) way out of this one. He came to the car just after we sat down and took some money from his wallet.

 How much are you giving them? I asked

 I only have 50, he answered as he hoped this would buy us our freedom today.

 OK. I said. I was angry at the global abuse of power that police people demonstrate. I wondered where the land was that this did not take place.

Some of the women in the car were surprised. I was not for I knew this from Ghana, Jamaica, South Africa, Tunisia, and Malaysia. And yes, it happens in the UK!! It was not a surprise. The stop. The threat. The unreasonable demands. More threats. The solution to help us. The result is that we really don’t need to go to the station. And then, the exchange!

 

With passports in hand, we began the day again. We would not be defeated!

Black Expat Stories – My original hair they asked

I peeped around the corner, as I  quickly pulled the hot comb through my hair. There was no sound. Thank goodness, my mother was still sleeping.  The kitchen window was open so that she wouldn’t smell the hot comb process from that morning.  It was 1976 and a seriously hot summer.  My afro would go from 7 to 2 inches as soon as I started to sweat. I loved the work of Angela Davis and so wanted my afro to look just like hers. In 1976, as one of the hottest recorded summers in the UK, the shrinkage was real!

I allowed my sister to convince me to put ‘realxing cream’ into my hair once. It was hard work though and all of that burning, visits to the hairdresser and ‘treatment’ really didn’t work for me. It was so funny watching the women flock to be around the male hairdresser. He reminded me of Marvin Gaye, but that was insignificance once he started doing my hair as it all took so long and seemed to cost so much money! He was making a killing as I suspect those women would have paid him just to walk across the shop floor.

I had locks for years. Once I cut my locks off, I wore all of the hairstyles which looked exactly like locks. Single plaits and that pineapple wrapped thing were my favorites. Whilst I had lived in Ghana, having my hair ‘fixed’ was easy and cheap.  I could change my style every week if I wanted to and explore colors, up, down, braid, weave, whatever I fancied!.

Moving to Asia was a different ball game. There was one Ghanian aunty who I found after asking all the women who I saw with braids, where did you do your hair?  Aunty Cynthia was great and I bathed in the familiarity of her and her twi speaking customers.  Her tails of the traffic she endured to get to her place in Cape Coast and the constant light off, brought back fond memories.  I had loved many aspects of my Ghana journey. The traffic Jams and power outage were not part of that though! I liked aunty but she never really understood how tender my scalp was. I mean, really was.  Twelve years of locks had made my scalp super tender.  On my last visit, I had to bite my tongue and hold myself from cursing as she had not mastered the crochet style and kept digging my head with the needle. It was not a good look and my blood pressure rose every time she exclaimed ‘sorry o’. I decided to only go there if I was absolutely desperate.

The Nigerian community in Malaysia had grown and hair extensions, bleaching creams, and yam had appeared in Chowkit market.  The store owner offered me a hairdressers number but, if the truth be told, I was wary of the Nigerian women I had met so far. My Nigerian friends had also stayed away from Nigerians. The young men told me how their mothers had categorically warned them not to go to their churches. They said too much 911 was going on so I followed their advice.

I pulled out my braids on a trip to London, and, although I knew that the hairdresser there had overcharged me, I paid anyway. The fact that she whispered the price was not the friendly gesture that the mini-me had received this as.  My funds also looked greater on the first day than they did on the last. I wanted a good steam and wash, plus she reminded me that I have hair so I paid her asking price.

I left the hairdresser happy that my hair was clean and that she had managed to comb out all of the hair which had begun to lock for I had washed it many times with the braids in. As she blow dried my hair, I admired it in the mirror.  It looked good and felt so soft. I was considering a short neat cut, but not today.  I loved the feel as I walked down Peckham Rye Lane with my own hair. That trip to sunny London was way too hot to wear my wig and my hair demanded to be free of all attachments so I listened and complied.  I decided to stay in that space for my return to Malaysia.

People asked me is that your original hair?.   I loved the way that the English language took on its own style in the different places I have lived and worked in.  My hair! My original hair! Not someone else’s hair or a synthetic rendition but my own hair!  I told them yes.  It was not a perm.  Their stories came out of how they had longed for curly hair! How their children had been born with beautiful curly hair, which soon became limp and straight. Who would have known that these Malaysians wanted what I had been covering up for so long?

Black women support a billion dollar industry of hair extensions and products.  Indian and Brazilian women of all ages sell their hair for very little money.  Whilst wearing braids, I had wondered if, even though it was described as synthetic, whether it was, in fact, the hair of a cousin or sister of one of the many south Indian people who live in KL

I reminisced on my years of having locks. Large unruly beautiful locks in a time when locks were worn as a covenant with the most high. My cutting and disassociation from that community came after years of watching domestic violence and disrespect.  My son was born and there was no rasta man I wanted him to emulate. The locks could have been transformed into a ‘hairstyle’ but, that was not my attachment to them. They had to go.

 

I still watch admiringly now at the many who wear locks. There are sista locks,  ‘false’ locks and lots of different colored locks.  Some people feel that it is a mockery for all of these Asian, Caucasian and others to be wearing locks. I reflect that mocking can only take place if people don’t know their power.  If we don’t collectively know our power.

At the end of my UK trip, I let the Antiguan hairdresser straighten my hair.  I loved her energy and we both had lessons to learn. Me about the healing I and my loved ones needed. She about her health choices.  As she used the hairdryer and straightener,  I was fascinated as it smelt exactly as those early morning hot comb quickies had.  The hair looked lifeless though. My already thin hair hung and even though she tried hard to convince me that it looked ‘wonderful’, I wasn’t persuaded. As I left the salon, we hugged. Something special had been planted between us.

It took two hours for the humidity in Malaysia to kick all of that straightness out! My afro returned whilst all of that straightening and serum simply disappeared.  But hey, the fro looked good and Viola Davies and many other black women before her continue to empower as we celebrate our natural hair.

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There are women who work in countries and/or organizations where their natural hair and/or the wearing of braids is illegal. The growing movement of black women who are wearing their natural hair continues to challenge those systems and to empower women’s right to have this choice.

Black Expat Stories – Meet you at the Toast Masters Club

Meet up groups were a new discovery for me. Whilst I was working in the Far East with no friends and family to call on, it meant that I had to create my own work-life balance. For me, this meant spending time with people beyond those who were working on the same project as I.  In my previous overseas roles,  family and friends had resided locally and I had happily spent much of my social time with them.  This location came with none of that!

 

It was not long before I found a large number of groups on the Meetup platform. They included cookery, language, travel, wealth creation, discussions about spirituality and lots of health-related activities. There were many clubs and outlets and it was easy to spend a Sunday afternoon visiting a local indigenous group, observing

their traditions and wearing their customs, or traveling out to see traditional dishes being made and having the opportunity to meet other local and expat travelers. The writers club was fun, although a little confusing as I had rushed over, thinking the black UK writer, Zadie Smith was going to be present, whilst they thought I was her when I arrived!!

The photographer group took me to Chow kit market where I discovered plantain, and black hair products on sale everywhere!  I met one of my fellow photographers on the journey home and we sat on the train discussing how we had both toyed with the idea of attending the Toastmasters club.  It had taken me about a year before I attended my first meeting and she had been considering attending for just as long. Others whom I’d spoken to, had said the same thing.  This was strange for me as, there we were, both professional trainers and yet there was a reluctance to place ourselves in a space where we’d be judged on something that we did every week. I decided to go along as my curiosity and love of words meant that I couldn’t stay away.

 

My first Toastmasters visit had me in awe and bouts of laughter at the same time.  There were a conviction and commitment that the core members demonstrated through their opening allegiance. Traditions which had been recorded and started in 1903 by Ralph Smedley, and which were alive here in Malaysia in 2018.  Needless to say, other clubs existed then and still do in many parts of the world with very similar aims and objectives.

Toastmasters prides itself on the development of confident and proficient speakers and leaders.  As a professional, these are two of the core transferable skills that I and many others,  find ourselves teaching, training and coaching groups and individuals in the development of.  In this fast-changing and unpredictable environment,  Leadership and Presentation skills remain current and necessary for us all.  Whether you are a business owner, self-employed, employed or unemployed, the ability to sell our skill set, improves with confidence and proficiency in our presentation and leadership skills.

At my first session, the evening began with the usual ‘Where are you from ?’ question.    My ‘proper English accent’ did not fit in with some of the member’s prejudgments of how a woman with this voice, should look, so the inquiry was lodged again and my response was repeated.  In my mot non threatening voice, I asked if I had been white, would they have had a problem with my location of birth.  There were uncomfortable stares and some silence. Eventually, a braver soul inquired, so where are your parents from and the pompous ‘Ah ha’ to my answer  ‘Jamaica’, was familiar.  After all, they knew there was ‘something else which I just wasn’t saying!!! I could not be ‘British’ !

 

The roles were introduced and I watched with an increasing curiosity and excitement.  The Time Keeper, Grammarian, and Ah counter would evaluate each person that presented a Table Topic.  The timekeepers’ lights would guide the presenter through,  the grammarian would feedback on the accurate and inaccurate use of grammar and the ‘Ah’ counter cited all of those Ah, well, hmm moments which find their way into presentations.

The table topics and word of the day followed and this opened up the opportunity for anyone to speak on the topic for two minutes. I volunteered on my first evening and the feedback was kind. It was a test speaking to a line of a nursery rhyme so, as they say, I did my best! I cringed as I watched the man from Bangladesh who volunteered after me.  He was not familiar with English nursery rhymes.  He spoke for two minutes as to why ‘the dish ran away with the spoon’ but his logical approach to this nursery rhythm, which of course has an adult history to it, was painful to observe.   The voices in my head complained about Cultural inappropriateness and being inclusive. Were these issues not of concern to this club in the heart of Kuala Lumpur?

 

The set speakers of the evening,  presented and we were then tasked with providing feedback to the evaluators once they had given their feedback to those speakers. As a Coach trainer, I know whenever a role play situation is enacted,  the coach, coachee, and observer gain equal value as each role affords the participant, a unique perspective and opportunity to develop their skills. On this evening, we had the opportunity to speak, to give feedback and to evaluate those who had evaluated!

The club is based on what some may consider as old-fashioned, albeit, sturdy values.  They do form part of the cry for 21st-century skills and an evening at the Toastmasters club will include problem-solving, critical thinking, flexibility, managing uncertainty and providing constructive feedback. All are cited by the top leadership and management game changers as critical for survival in this century,

 

I left the Toast Masters club feeling satisfied.  It had been a good use of my time. The gentleman who I left the building with asked me why did you come?. I was a little taken aback and responded that feedback in a friendly environment is always useful.  He had won but had seen a light in me, even though I had not thought I had presented well. I  was reminded that I am often my worst critic and that I need to be a lot less harsh! Pictures were taken and moments captured as is the case at every event I have attended in Malaysia so far.

My work colleagues were invited to the second Toastmasters trip. They too had been considering it for over a year. Unfortunately, they couldn’t make it that evening.  The core members and 10 guests were in attendance at my second session. One of these was the international champion for Malaysia who had recently come second in a tournament. He is a lecturer by profession.

I grabbed the opportunity to do the two-minute table top talk again and froze at the first sentence.  I wanted to remember FEAR as False Evidence Appearing Real. It wouldn’t come and there lies the irony! I asked if I could begin again and the smiles and head nodding confirmed that I could. The skill of being able to come back from the floor and to still do well takes confidence, determination, and a little arrogance.  I left knowing that, it doesn’t always go well, and that too is ok.

Yes, the Toastmasters club is filled with quirky word enthusiasts who are taking every opportunity to improve those all important presentation skills as they surface in so many areas of our life. As with every other place where two or more people meet up, this is also a networking opportunity. One of the new guests ( but a long-standing toastmasters attendee from Lithuania) is employed at the Mind Valley corporation office in the same building! Mind Valley produce amazing self empowerment material.

If there are any grammatical or spelling mistakes, unwanted ‘ahs’ or ‘wells’ in my written or spoken pieces, get ready to see the back of them as I fine tune my skills through my attendance at the Toastmasters clubs in Malaysia.

 

DISCLAIMER:

The thoughts in this blog are mine. My opinions, uncensored.  Please don’t take it personally.

 

 

 

Black Expat Stories – Eating Durian in Malaysia (what was all the fuss about)

Just do it! Yes, I know it’s the Nike strapline but it dawned on me that its success had come from the fact that it was true! There are things which we take far too look to make a decision on and yes, I know about all of those sayings including the one that says that nothing happens before its time.  I had not tasted Durian in Malaysia,  even though 24 months had already gone by since I first moved to live and work in South East Asia.  With the pungent smell that overpowered everything around it, that for me had a big turn off.  Its offense was so indignant,  that it was banned in hotels and many condominiums. That had been enough for me to refuse every invitation to ‘Durian eating sessions’. I had given into my fear of this strange fruit which others seemed to be happily enjoying with no lasting consequences or illness. You know that I had checked!!!

Walking through Penang after a day of consulting in schools, it was easy to feel motivated around Azinah though. Her loving and sweet personality had us chatting and laughing at the ease and delights of this part of Malaysia. When she asked

Would you like to join me for Durian ?’ in that happy jovial Azinah way, my natural reply of ‘why not’ made total sense. I let my mood dictate my openness to this adventure for her energy was always so pure and kind.

Have you had it before ?’, she asked as we entered the store

I haven’t’, I admitted, a little embarrassed.

This store we entered sold nothing but Durian. The aesthetics were not important here.  The café style tables and chairs were plastic and very basic.  The Durian fruit and Durian products were scattered on the shelves but it was safe to say that all overheads had been kept to a minimum. It was not so much a store as an open space with some Durians on a rack, a sink where you could wash your hands and table and chairs.

The young man at the door looked as if he’d been on shift all day. He was not kind to my many questions about why the Durian came in different shades of yellow or why it was so expensive (equivalent to 20 British pounds) or what the health benefits were. Whilst Azinah giggled at the blatant curiosity of this expat, he simply stopped answering for he was not about to be my Wikipedia for the day. Didn’t he understand that I still thrived on human interaction and to be honest, I thought his answers would be more authentic than Wikipedias. We opted for what was the king durian and as there was no queen durian.  Having made out purchase, we sat down ready!

I looked over at the table of eight men and women who ranged from dark to light shades. They were also sharing the experience of durian eating.  I could hear Asian and European accents.  The fear on my face must have been evident.

Is it your first time? , one of the men asked

It is!!! Answered I, the virgin Durian eater

You’ll be alright. It really isn’t that bad!!!!. He reassured me as he returned to his group.

 

I smiled and wondered why there were no beautiful pictures or some degree of distraction for us over emotional and sensitive types! As I sat in front of Azinah, I asked her to record this coming of age experience in Malaysia for it was time!

 

The bright sunshine, Azinah’s smile and the laughter from the other table, all helped to diffuse the pungent smell. The first taste was mild. Incredibly mild compared to the smell.  I was waiting for the taste to knock me down or to at least throw me from my seat and a little way from the table. It didn’t do any of that. The texture reminded me of freshly made butter. Incredibly rich and creamy. The fruit slid from the seed into my mouth with so much ease. The richness of the texture made eating large amounts impossible. It had to be taken a small mouthful at a time and  I closed my eyes and swallowed the rich, slightly pungent tasting fruit. It was however not offensive. I had tasted grapefruits in the UK which had me twisting, and resisting the next segment. In this case, the smell soon disappeared and the specialness of the fruit lingered. I ate another piece and found that I liked this strange fruit. I liked that it was warm and comforting and strangely familiar.

My husband hates it so I have to eat it outside,   Azinah explained.  She smiled all the time, what seemed to be a genuine and love filled smile. I wondered if there were things her husband ate or did which she didn’t like.  Did she have space to also express or to object? So many of the women I had met here, were warriors. just like other women. I had stopped letting the smile and hijab fool me in any way.

One of the men from the other table joined us. He had a German accent. He had come to see if I had survived the ordeal for he had been watching me.

How was it? my new friend enquired

It was fine, I smiled still eating small pieces.  Have you finished yours?

No, I didn’t take any today. I’ve had it before…my friends wanted to come.

Ahh. So you just accompanied them?, I asked

Yes. I don’t like it that much anyhow. He admitted

I understand, I said, eating the last of my own supply. It had begun to grow on me

He sat with us for a few minutes and then wished us a good evening as he returned to his group.  They were still laughing and discussing the experience.

Azinah and I had planned to take some back but our plates were empty and we remembered that it was banned in the hotel. Having had such a great afternoon, I wondered what had all the fuss really been about anyway. I shall certainly eat Durian again!

 

 

DISCLAIMER:

The thoughts in this blog are mine. My opinions, uncensored.  Please don’t take it personally.

The Black Expat Stories – African Women (Like me) do climb mountains

 

A bucket list wasn’t for me. I was either going to do it or I wasn’t! “Yes, I’ll add that to my bucket list, and that, and oh yes, that too!”, they say! A list that will go into a draw, maybe next to their will and some poor soul will find it when they have transitioned.
In Ghana, I simply asked if I could join in the climb. It was being organized by one of my colleagues’ professors and it afforded me the opportunity to meet Ghanaian intellectuals and to climb a mountain. Both were of interest. Mount Afadjato is one of the highest mountains in Ghana’s Volta region and the guide Joey took us to the summit and back down in one day.

 
In the UK when I had first accepted that I would be moving to work abroad, mountains and hills had become symbolic for overcoming challenges. Up until that point, I had been a seasonal exerciser where the long spring and summer months would find me walking for hours, bike riding and jogging. The winters would come along and it was easy to revert to eating a certain brand of apple pie and custard in front of the TV huddled under the quilt with my children. My spirit knew that the energy I needed to relocate, was going to take a sustained effort of exercise and healthy eating. And so it began. I wrapped up warm and found hills to climb, parks to exercise in and streets to jog along. The move was hard but made possible by a stronger healthier mind, body, and spirit.

 
The party of four of us who completed the climb up Mount Afadjato were all fit and the professor was practicing for her climb of Mount Kilimanjaro later that year in her efforts to fundraise for a project that documented the stories of the elderly in Ghana. The climb itself was exciting as we navigated the forest terrain. The funniest part must have been meeting the locals at the top who were sitting and talking. They looked at us as we celebrated and congratulated one another on our achievements. It was more a sneer than just a look for, they probably walked this mountain every day to their farm, or to somebody else’s! They saw no need for celebration! As Ghanaians say, ‘I didn’t mind them!’. No one was taking away this victory from us and I changed there and then to take photographs of me holding yoga poses to honor the mountain and myself.

 

 

My second big climb up Mount Kinabalu was different. There was no one there to meet us for no life sat on or close to that hard rocky surface. The last four hours of the climb had taken place in the dark with nothing but head torches to guide us. The ropes had been strategically placed alongside the stairs and rock edges and it felt as if every ounce of energy, had been diverted to my arms to pull me up. At this point, my legs felt oh so heavy and were barely holding me up. I didn’t recognize my body and why would I? I had never climbed for two days. The altitude affected my breathing and I found myself stopping, at points wondering if I would even make it to the summit.
There were no friends here and the work colleagues had gone their own way as my need to stop, to gauge the risk versus the triumph of continuing, had bought out the survivor mode in them. It was definitely every wo/man (or couple) for themselves.

Whatever happened, we would meet back at the halfway house.

The first part of the hike had been fine. Each stop had made restarting difficult for a rhythm and a momentum had already built up. The rest stops, lunch stops and toilet stops allowed the muscles to cool down and the steeper the hill became, the tighter the calves and thighs were. We kept stretching but they were holding in that lactic acid.


I had worn my blue headscarf on the morning of the climb to the summit.  This had come with me from Ghana and was a simple blue tie-dye print in satin and very similar to those found in Malaysia. In the last hour of the climb, the wind and cold became so intense, reminding me of the coldest harshest winter days in the UK. I placed my wool gloves over my mouth and cheeks to generate some heat. Tying my bandana over my mouth was fruitless for, no sooner had I tied it, that I would have to release it. That feeling of suffocation!  It was a mad situation so placing my hands on my face, provided some temporary relief and then I could go on.

 

 

 

The intensity of the climb increased as we drew closer to the summit. I had packed cloth for every leg of this climb. A fellow climber had asked me where I was from! He had seen my ‘ethnic cloth! It had been a short conversation beginning with ‘Where are you from?’.  As the cold increased, I wrapped the cotton headcloth over the satin one, grateful that I had packed it for at 2 am, having slept very little in a dormitory of 6 beds with my colleague on the bunk above, clearly unable to control his flatulence problem, meant that I wasn’t too sure what I was doing. There was a reason my spirit had wanted me to be on the top bunk! The smells wafted down and there was nowhere to turn so it was a very long night.

 

As I climbed towards the summit,  the winds increased.  I wrapped the cotton cloth over the satin scarf. The sunrise revealed the extent of the vast open space which I had just climbed. I met two of the couples descending as I approached the summit and although we were only five minutes apart, they were descending as I was going up. We stopped and shared how nausea had us feeling that we might just not make it. I climbed to the top where I stopped, watching others take their photographs with the sign and taking in the magnitude of what I had just achieved.

 

I had passed younger, fitter, taller people than myself who had stopped 10 minutes away, telling themselves they could not go any further. They looked healthier than me. I too had spun myself that lie and then I had flipped the script. I had come here to reach the top and I did! The sun had risen.

 

Back at the half-way house, we ate breakfast as it was only 10 am. It was 10 am and I had just climbed a mountain!  It was an amazing if unbelievable feeling.  We drank tea, ate breakfast and repacked for the final leg of the journey.  The climb had taken so much out of me. I wasn’t sure that I had enough leg to navigate the descent.

 

As we left, I decided to leave the others behind and walked the four hours walk alone out of the forest. My knees were hurting and I realized I would need focus, concentration, and energy to leave the forest. All the qualities and skills that I had needed to successfully arrive at the summit.  I had been told that Mount Kinabalu was a spiritual space. In between feeling the pain and soreness of my ankles, thighs, and shoulders, my knees began to hurt further. I saw monkeys, ladies in threes, crocodiles and old men watching me. As I looked back or came close, they were no longer there.

My flight was three hours delayed.

No one tells you about the spiritual, psychological and physiological impact of such a climb..but that’s for another story. The image of me standing on the mountain is my story. My headwrap is what people noticed and as I studied the image, which confirmed that women who look like me, do climb mountains.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

DISCLAIMER:

The thoughts in this blog are mine. My opinions, uncensored.  Please don’t take it personally.

For information on expeditions, you can contact

Ghana :Dziedzorm JayJay Segbefia
dziedzorm@braveheartsexpeditions.org

Malaysia: Clement@trulysabah.com
0060146510218

Black Expat Stories- Why Jakarta ?

I woke up and looked out of the hotel window. Century Park Hotel was fine. The long drive and time in the traffic following the initial delays at the airport was not fun. Unfortunately, Jakarta looked a lot like Malaysia and I wondered why I had booked my long weekend here. Travelling out on one of the many public holidays in Malaysia had become a habit. I would see the Air Asia printouts in the hands as other staff members walked away from the photocopier. Expats and locals just loved to travel. Another trip was confirmed on the cheap airbus of this region and off we would go. We had already visited Bali, Vietnam, Thailand and so Jakarta was one of the many local countries on that ever-growing list. Looking out this morning though, I did start to wonder if it was time to reduce the local trips and to start planning for a few long haul trips to places like New Zealand, Australia, India or Mauritius. Paupi New Guinea sounded nice too…

The hotel had been selected as it was next to a park. Hours had been spent looking at the many hotel and flight packages, figuring out which offered a free breakfast, Wi-Fi, and free shuttle. It was back and forth and back again until I couldn’t remember what had attracted me to that particular hotel in the first place. In the end, either my selection was confused or my laptop was for we ended up in a hotel with no free breakfast or shuttle. The website also did not mention that the stadium and park were closed for renovation. The dark rainy day was not inviting and I wondered whether I had been blessed with the writing weekend I had been asking the universe for. I looked around the large room and knew that, with sufficient sustenance, I could possibly stay here all weekend and write.

Bola messaged me and we agreed to meet in the foyer to walk to the closest mall. We needed to find some food for breakfast. We had both forgotten the one-hour difference as arriving at the mall, we found that most of the restaurants were just setting up. The staff took to staring at my braids and at Bolas skin whilst putting the chairs and menus out. We kept walking, mindful but not troubled by this attention for we had become used to. Those already open, displayed a list of dishes that were dominated by meat and fish. That wouldn’t work as we were both living happily without either.

A walk towards another mall was met with can we just go back to the hotel and use their wifi to find a vegetarian place. I didn’t resist as jetlag was kicking in. I could have walked or returned.

Burgreens was such a great space with a covered outdoor space that resembled a countryside summerhouse and a small and cozy store. It was positioned on the top of a small building with two other outlets in total alignment with all that it stood for. The ground floor sold organic fresh vegetables, the middle floor sold vegetarian and health products including raw honey, essential oils and vegetarian/vegan cakes and snacks. At the top of the building, stood Burgreens selling great what we used to call whole food…wholesome dishes and all vegetarian/vegan cooked and raw. The term used now is Plant-based and as with previous labels, it has different connotations for all who use it.

 

The restaurant was set up so that customers could watch all of the food preparation and taking photographs was totally accepted. There was staff who spoke English and they were able to explain what was in each dish. At the restaurant, we saw the advert for the Healthy diet and lifestyle conference and knew that this was why we were in Jakarta on that weekend.

 

Saturday morning began with two yoga sessions for me and a meditation class for Bola. The Yin class was great as was the hot yoga class. Having qualified this year as a yoga teacher, I was mindful that I needed to practice more until I was able to commit to delivering a regular class. With my work travels being ad-hoc, I had found that I could not attend a regular class to stay in shape. Delivering a class had also proved problematic and I recalled the private teacher who had been mentioned to me some time ago.

The second yoga class was hard and reminded me that I needed to push myself more on the yoga mat. I recalled my yoga teacher saying that the body has muscle memory. So it was important that my recent memories were of an accurate and strong yoga practice.

The aura reading was enlightening and I watched the reader as her words flowed and flowed before she spoke. Her face showed no emotion and so I started studying her hair and clothes as I waited for her to return. Her energy was not definitively male or female and I asked my self if this was important. It didn’t seem to be. She didn’t look up until she had stopped writing, as if she had taken an x-ray of my soul, seeing only what she could see and then take the words to paper from that x-ray. When she spoke, I asked little for it is true that with self-awareness, there is little new news that comes my way. We thanked each other. She had only met a few like me. I laughed and then smiled.

Watching the different faces as they engaged with the knowledge from their readings, gave me pleasure too. Reflective looks and smiles were all around. People connected with memories that confirmed why that had not happened or indeed, why that had happened. With yoga classes, ancient chanting, the smell emanating from the body and soul products and delicious food, I was at home.

 

Meeting the owners of Burgreens was inspiring. A young man and woman had met in university in the US and had returned home to Indonesia, determined to eat in a way that was not harmful to the environment or to their bodies. With asthma, eczema, insomnia and ongoing colds, it was time to change their lifestyles. They had successfully healed their bodies and were now sharing that with the millions who would benefit from their knowledge and meals. The naked Burgreens, raw strawberry cheesecake, and super nutty protein bowl served me well for Saturday and Sunday morning. Helga Angelina and Max Mandias thank you for following your dream.

I stood at my window listening to the music. There were so much noise and so many people. The covered school girls moved along the road in groups and I assumed it was a school day. I couldn’t remember if this was a Sunday to Thursday or Monday to Friday region. The music increased as did the crowds. I could see colored mascots moving too with the sun reflecting on their bright colorful headpieces. I wanted to see more and my room view no longer seemed satisfactory. I put my exercise shorts and t.shirt on, checking in with the hotel staff to confirm that it was acceptable to be on the street dressed like this. I found myself in a carnival atmosphere with food sellers, clothes stalls, live bands and a flow of people carrying batons in T-shirts for the Family Olympics. The announcer included ‘African’ two or three times as he described the moving crowds. I noticed and moved on right in with those on the walk. It was the Olympic Day fun run 2017. The characters from The Justice League were also there to remind me that You can’t save the world alone. The aura reader was right.

 

Moving along with the crowds, I watched the families, police, sellers cyclists and serious runners negotiate the path. All senses were being fed. I stayed with the walkers for an hour and a half, powering up and slowing down as the body dictated. Towards the end of the run, I decided to follow others going from one side of the road to the other to catch the best images as the sun opened up over us. I retook some of the earlier shots as the dark morning had not afforded those images the intensity and contrast that came with the early morning sun. Amongst all of this activity, noise, and movement, I was temporarily rooted as I watched the drone moving over the crowds. I had seen the young men setting it up but watching it move now overhead, whilst taking its aerial shots was something else. What an invention this was. It had revolutionized so many things in my lifetime.

I drank the fresh orange juice and purchased something which looked like a banana fritter. It was the one thing that everyone nodded to when I asked vegetarian? The dignitaries sat under the canopy in front of the fan. They took selfies in their nice suits whilst waiting for the speeches to begin. Groups of children and adults were preparing to display their martial arts, stretching and balancing. Others danced to the local popular music that was pumping out. An elderly man of about 75 caught my eye with his sharp foot movements. Age was not going to catch him at all! I watched as many of those who had been walking, now sat eating noodle dishes with fish, meat, tofu and vegetables added. It had been a fun morning. The serious runners didn’t stop and looked as if they would just run on along to join another event.

Back in my hotel room, I continued to watch the crowds from my window. The traffic could still not pass down that road so it continued to back up along the park road. I was tempted to shower, change and rejoin them. I hadn’t packed yet though. There were clothes on the bed, chair, and sofa looking at me as if to say don’t you dare leave this room again. I really did need to pack.

 

Why Jakarta? All of this of course! You never know what or who you will find or what you can create until you get there.

DISCLAIMER:

The thoughts in this blog are mine. My opinions, uncensored.  Please don’t take it personally

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