Don’t Judge a Book by its Cover

"Eeeyuck!" My visitor's disapproval was obvious when he noticed the title of the book I was reading. He had immediately assumed that I was reading smut—which I could if I wanted to. So what?

The book is actually a historical study about how girls from desperately poor Japanese families ended up working as prostitutes outside Japan.

Karayuki-san... girls who went to work abroad...  some as young as 10-year-olds. Some, like Osaki, willingly left their villages to earn a living so they could help support their impoverished families as well as feed themselves. Growing food on infertile soil was bad enough without the exorbitant land tax to add to their woe. For many families, selling a daughter must have been an easy choice to make.

Besides the young girls sold by their families to procurers, there were also girls who were deceived or simply abducted and put as stowaways in ships: hidden in the coal store, in empty water tanks and such. Some were 'lucky' to reach their destinations alive. Some, forgotten in the bowels of the ships they were hidden, died of starvation or accidents. Some killed themselves by jumping into the sea.

The name 'Sandakan' in the title caught my attention. But this book is more than the story of one brothel in Sandakan. It is a study on prostitution involving young, illiterate, Japanese girls lured to work abroad... in SE Asia, China, Manchuria from around 1900... until they became a national shame and were shipped home to Japan where they were left to their own devices without any support from the government (whose economy they had helped to prop up) and shunned by the families they had supported with their earnings. 

Except for the rare few who were fortunate to have been married to wealthy foreigners, most of these former prostitutes, on their return to Japan, lived in poverty. Many must have endured terrible suffering from some sexually transmitted diseases they had contracted while they were working. 

I can't help but feel sorry for these Japanese girls. And for other girls who are so poor that all they have to offer are their bodies to willing 'renters'. 

It is easy for us to judge and to say that there are other ways to earn a living. But how many are willing to support, to educate and to give these unfortunate girls a chance? We see pictures of them in the papers—taken during surprise raids on night spots in the city—their heads bowed, their hair falling over and hiding their faces. Why don’t we feel empathy? Why don’t we sympathize? Is it because we feel we are superior to them?

Maybe instead of saying 'Eeeyuck!' we could put ourselves in the shoes of these girls and try to feel some compassion for them. 

One Man’s Meat…

… could make another man gag.

When I’m passionate about something, I often get carried away and forget that other people might not share my enthusiasm, or that perhaps they are not interested in the things I find fascinating. So it was with a sudden jolt I came down to earth recently when I showed Mr. Hubby the cucumber I had just plucked from the backyard garden. His response had been short but not sweet: ‘Not interested’.

The sole cucumber from the vine

 It felt like a slap in the face and for a moment I was stunned.

How do you react to this type of response? You could say something to elicit a better or a positive response—but I think that would make you look as though you’re begging for crumbs. Or you could shrug your shoulders, pretend you didn’t hear the unsavoury remark and (like I did) decide to finish that huge chocolate bar all by yourself.

Cucumber flower

My dear reader, I had nurtured the cucumber vine, the only one of three seedlings which had survived to maturity. I had fed the plant, watered it daily and I was really pleased when it finally bore dainty, yellow flowers. I didn’t leave the task of pollinating the flowers entirely to the ants and bees—just in case they were busy elsewhere—so I pollinated the flowers manually. Only one flower was successfully fertilized, however, and I watched the cucumber grow bigger every day and noted its colour changing from green to light brown. It was a joy to get that one cucumber squash. One cucumber is better than nothing, after all. It gave me a reason to smile and be happy and I had wanted to share that ‘happiness’. Too bad Mr. Hubby didn’t deem it ‘happy-worthy’.

The incident brought back memories of another time, another person. I had wanted to ‘share’ my book. It was of course entirely my fault for assuming that this lovely lady would be interested to read the book. You see, I have yet to meet a reader who said he hated the book—with the exception of one virtual reader but more about her later… So I thought I was being ‘helpful’ when I brought up the subject as we sat twiddling our thumbs while waiting for some health talk to begin at this senior citizens’ club.

 Me: Have you read my book?

Lovely Lady: No.

Me: Would you like to buy a copy?

Lovely Lady: I don’t read.

Now, that was as abrupt and blunt as Mr. Hubby’s “Not interested’. As I picked my jaw off the floor, I thought to myself: If I don’t read, that’s a secret known only to me and nobody else! Anyway, I didn’t know Lovely Lady well enough to feel hurt or rejected by her response or lack of interest. She just doesn’t read. End of story.

Footprints, one of the books nominated for Readers' Choice Award.s

However, it was a different story with a reader who gave my book one star out of five on a website. One star? I was taken aback. Several questions popped into my head. Would she have accorded the book zero star if there was a zero in the options? What had she expected to read? Why did my ‘stories’ fail to arouse her interest? Maybe she had wanted to know about paddy cultivation and the book didn’t meet her needs? Whatever her reason, she had every right to give her one star. I only wish I knew why so I could do better if I wrote another book.

 It is interesting to note that all the other readers gave positive comments and a few even thought the book deserved four stars. Bless their kind hearts!

I also happened to come across another site which put 'Footprints' in the list: “ten of the best books on Borneo”. You could have knocked me over with a feather when I saw the other nine books on the list.

So, one man’s meat could really be another man’s poison. Whatever we do we won't be able please everybody all the time. So we might as well stick to doing what make us happy. 

When the sun is up I’m going to plant more cucumbers.  Cheers!

Exploring Borneo (without leaving home)

I’ve been burying myself under a pile of books. And today I can’t wait to tell you about one of them. It’s a travel book (a genre I normally don’t read) and was recommended way back in 2008 by the friendly lady at Borneo Books. However, having already spent a small fortune at her store, I couldn’t add the book to my cart. Anyway, I found a copy at the library recently.

I liked it so much and I’m urging you to read it, too!

 

 Why I liked it?

1. It’s rolling-on-the-floor funny.

2. It tells me something I’m interested in. There’re lots of references to birds, butterflies, snakes and other wildlife but lots of birds in particular.

3. I learned a great deal about the natives of Sarawak and their cultures—I knew zero before—the Iban, Kenyah, Kayan, etc and the Ukit whom I’ve never heard of.

4. The author mentions about old customs  “ as delightful and exciting and sensible as nyayap, the secret night visiting of young men to the sleeping places of young girls”—and new developments, including: “There is new diseases here. Your spear it rots. You go to hospital, they look at your spear, you take medicine. We have a word for this diseases. I not know it in English. We Iban, in our language, we call it syphilis”… (as described by Leon, an Iban, who went on the upriver expedition with the writer.)

5. The book tickles my curiosity—my want-to-know itch-- about evolution and the migration of mankind. There’s even an excerpt from Darlington’s The Evolution of Man and Society.

 

6. It made me aware that the people in the remote parts of Sarawak, areas reachable only by many days’ worth of tortuous boat journey, suffer the same fate as Sabahans who live deep in the jungles or up remote hills accessible only through miles of footpaths. They live as their forefathers must have lived 200 years ago. No hospital, no doctor, no modern medicines and a cut could lead to gangrene to needless death.

6. There’s even an impressive bibliography at the end.

 

So if you like your reading materials high on the humour, with a good dash of local culture, a pinch of history and loads of nature, this book is for you! Cheers!

WILL YOU VOTE FOR MY BOOK?

My publisher surprised me with an email mid-March: Footprints in the paddy fields has been nominated for the Popular Bookstores Readers’ Choice Awards 2011. 

 To be frank, I don’t know whether to give myself a hi-5 for writing a book worthy of mention or… have a pity-party. 

Huh? Well, I'm one of those obsessive people who analyze things and situations AND jump into conclusions. In this case, I was thinking: maybe the book isn’t selling well and this is one way to boost sales? I know-I know-I know, people have told me I shouldn’t be so negative, so pessimistic. Even my own sister said maybe I underestimate myself? 

But the opposite of that is to be presumptuous; to be over-bold and think you are good and worthy. And Lord, I’m not worthy.

Last night, after I’ve seen the Popular Bookstores Contest Form where readers must pick their top three favourite books from the ten nominated for the awards, I posted about Footprints (being nominated) on Facebook. I guess I just want some votes. Imagine what it would be like if the other nine books receive a hundred votes each and my book gets only five? 

The message I’d get is: You think you can write? Think again!

I wouldn’t know where to hide my face. In case you’re wondering, no, I won’t jump down from my… er Mr. Hubby’s… rooftop. But it’ll mean I’d have to unlearn everything I know about writing and start all over again at the very bottom rung. At my age? That’s a big joke!

Then there’s this thing about being Sabahan...

But, let’s move on…

With the book being nominated, I was required to send a photo of myself. Know this: there’re fewer things I dislike more than having my own picture taken. I love being behind the camera, though! Anyway, I was given a few days to email the pic. I vacillated between asking my son, Sonny, to take a digital photo of me and going to one of those fancy wedding studios where they plaster and smoothen a 5cm-layer of cement (according to Sonny) on your face to magic away all your blemishes so you could look less like a frog and more like a princess. 

 

I visited a few websites. I called the first one on my list. No one picked up the phone. Another studio opens only a few days in a week. I took that as a sign and coupled with the likelihood that I’d have to empty my bank account to pay for the service… I gave up.

Time was running out. Sonny was busy. I was so desperate I even considered taking self-portraits! In the end, accompanied by Meg for moral support, I walked up the dusty steps to an old photo studio in Donggongon. I showed the photographer some ‘nice’ portraits of me taken by a pro—after I was painted and blow-dried by his make-up guy.

I told the photographer my predicament... and that some readers don’t buy a writer’s book because she’s:  A) unattractive B) ugly C) not pretty D) all of the above. I asked him if he could make me look nice in the pictures. He noted my home-made-up face all sweaty after the long walk from the parking lot.  Bless him, he didn’t burst out laughing at my foolishness. In fact, he was very professional and patient and sympathetic. 

“I’ll make you look like a businesswoman,” he said as he clicked his DSLR for the umpteenth time.  

“Please make me look like a writer,” I begged.

I sent the publisher this photo:

 

Being nominated is a big deal and a great honour. (I share the same publisher with an astronaut. Our books came out around the same time but his hasn’t been nominated.) 

Hoping to win the award is like wishing for the moon. And that’s furthest from my mind. What I want are just a few votes—okay, several votes—above zero so I won’t feel like I’m letting Sabah down.

So if you’ve read the book and liked it, could you please vote for it? Bless your kind heart and thank you in advance!

Shouting from the Rooftops

A few years ago, anyone who told me I’d be receiving royalty payment for a book would have got a piece of my mind. Why? I’d be quite convinced that he was sniggering behind my back and making fun of me and my not-so-secret dream of writing a book!

But yesterday I received an email from my publisher telling me that my first-ever royalty cheque is on the way. Yay!

The amount is mere pin money but that’s not important. Getting paid is a bonus because when readers like my book the pleasure is mine too. Also, I’m somewhat amused that as long as people are reading my book, I’ll still be communicating with them even when I’m dead.

I’m only sorry my father didn’t live to see the book. I know he’d have been surprised but pleased to see that I have written about the good old days. I can imagine him flipping through the pages, his eyes twinkling and a smile playing on his lips.

My mother thinks it’s no big deal, this book writing thing. When I showed her the first copy my sister sent from KL—Rita couldn’t wait for my own order (crossing the South China Sea in a boat, to safe on postage) to reach me—when I showed her the book with her picture in it, Mama wasn’t impressed at all! It was as though anyone could have their pictures inserted in a book. 

I’m sure my father’s response would have been quite different. So the next time I balik kampong, I’m buying some flowers to put on his grave—a small token to say ‘thank you for sending me to school and for instilling in me the importance of family and culture.’

Dear reader, excuse me for the sin of vanity: angkat bakul sendiri. I’m blowing my trumpet and shouting from the rooftops because this doesn't happen to me every day. I also want to remind would-be-writers to pursue their dreams of getting published! Cheers!

Pics borrowed from Google Images

All Men Are Equal

I’m halfway through this book about an Indian family who lived in the Big House somewhere in Ipoh. The story spans several years (from pre-Merdeka) and the reader gets to meet many very interesting characters.

This is not a book on politics but the author describes vividly the May 13 incident, the racial riots that shook the nation in 1969. No, let me rephrase that…the racial riots that shook Malaya in 1969. We in Sabah passed the days—it wasn’t just one day—in blissful ignorance. In fact, I knew nothing about the riots until I heard Malayan classmates (in college) talk about the horrific things they saw with their own eyes.

Great book!

The riots we had in KK (about sixteen years later) weren’t racial riots at all but were instigated by disgruntled politicians who could not admit defeat gracefully.

I’ll never forget what those senseless politicians put us, the common people, through and how they endangered the lives of innocent people and that they imported thugs from a neighbouring country to create fear among the people and they made the elected representatives bow to their demands. In simple words: the vanquished wanted the elected to hand over the mandate to form the government to the former or else…

… all hell would break loose.

I was in school when I saw black smoke bellowing skywards from the direction of KK some ten miles away. Soon nervous parents were at my school. They said: “The warehouses at Sadong Jaya are burning. Vehicles parked along the roads are set on fire. There is a demonstration. A bomb has exploded in Tanjung Aru. Some people have been killed. We must take our children home.”

Fearing for the students’ safety, the Senior Assistant—it was the afternoon session—could have told them to go home with their parents. I don’t really remember because I was near hysterical. My own daughter was in Primary Two and her school faced Sadong Jaya, the place going up in smoke.

I managed to drive to St. Francis’ primary amid all the chaos. The first time I drove up the school, I saw a few girls outside the classrooms but behind closed gates. My daughter was nowhere in sight. I didn’t dare leave the car for some thug to destroy so I drove another big round, past Sacred Heart, up the hill, round the big girls’ school, down Raintree Road, past the kindergarten and I was in front of the school again. It was a huge relief to see my child waiting for me. She was crying but she was safe.

All around were frightened people in a hurry to get home. The vehicles along the roads fronting the shops and warehouses were still burning. We left the scene of devastation and went home to find Mr. Hubby enjoying a nap. I shook his shoulder roughly.

 “Stupid you,” I hissed at him even before he was fully awake. “Your daughter frightened out of her wits and the whole of KK is in chaos and you can still sleep?”  I know I was being unfair. It wasn’t his fault that KK was in turmoil.

For several days after that, on my way to school, I had to drive past the mosque where the  thugs were given food and shelter. I saw rubbish gradually collect on the grounds. I saw the white crosses drawn on the concrete entrance to the mosque, drawn in paint by some nincompoop but the deed was attributed to some Christian fool. (Only a fool would dare go where thousands were sheltered in the house of prayer.)

If you think I had it bad, you haven’t heard my SIL’s story. On the way home from the airport, she had to pass the area on that fateful day.

“There were hundreds of them near Sabah College,” she said. “All dressed in black with a red band tied around the head. Wild-eyed, they were everywhere, shouting, and kicking, hitting passing cars caught in the hellish jam. Suddenly they were around my car. I couldn’t move forward. I couldn’t reverse.”

They lifted her car and tried to turn it up-side-down. She prayed and she cried. There was nothing else she could do. After what seemed an eternity the men-in-black-with-red-around-their-heads gave up. Her Carina was too heavy. They went for the next car.

Dear reader, maybe you don’t remember this black patch in our history. Perhaps you were too young then, or this happened before you were born. Seemingly harmless men, people we look up to as leaders, are capable of causing grievous hurt to his fellow men. One day they could be the charismatic leaders who vow to fight for your rights and interests and the next day they could be the devil himself.

I’m telling you this, and all the young people like you, because it looks like there are people who are planting seeds of disharmony and manipulating religious beliefs to create mistrust, ill-feeling and racial conflicts among the people of our country. We don’t want what happened in Malaya to take place in our beloved Sabah.

Be careful when people shout from the rooftops, "All men are equal but I am more equal than others."

Beware. There are wolves masquerading as sheep.

Pictures from Google Images

Life Doesn’t Have To Be Perfect

I’m reading ‘Marrying Anita’, a memoir by Anita Jain, a thirty-something Indian-American.

Disillusioned with the men she meets in NY, Anita returns to India, the country her parents had left decades earlier. She regales the reader with recounts of her escapades as she searches for a mate in cosmopolitan Delhi.

She lets the reader follow her trials and misadventures as she shifts through the men she meets and as she kisses frogs in the hope that one magically turns into a prince.

Good book! Read it!

This is more than a story about the writer’s desperate search for a soul mate.  The author also writes about the dating scenes in both Delhi and the small towns, arranged marriages and the stigma of divorce in old India.

Reading about her parents—they insist she finds a husband—and her encounters with men, I can’t help but recall what it was like when I was single and fancy free!

I’m sure my parents had hoped that I too would find a mate and settle down so people would quit asking them why I was still single—especially when my younger sister was tying the knot and there was still no sign that I had a boy somewhere on the horizon. And I was an old maid in my mid twenties. (Those days, the adults were very solicitous if at eighteen you didn’t have a potential groom!)

Don’t get the wrong idea. It wasn’t that no one was interested in pursuing me. It was more like I was so steeped in romantic fairy tales that I was not interested in my ‘pursuers’.  There was always something not quite right. I guess I was looking for a friend more than a husband for a life partner. I wanted a man who could talk about things other than himself—his problems with the boss, his past conquests, what he had for breakfast, the boils on his backside—okay, you get the picture.  I wanted someone who could understand me; someone who could accept me without feeling the need to change me. And definitely some romance. Was that too much to ask?

I loathe the common perception that the woman is less able and less intelligent than the man and that like a lump of clay, she needs to be thrown onto the potter’s wheel, slapped this way and that and shaped into the man’s (and his family’s!) idea of perfection.

Deep inside, I didn’t want to be a ‘wife’, a position normally interpreted as subservient, someone who had to bow down to the husband. Someone who must walk those three paces behind her lord and master, or else…

However, despite all my ‘cleverness’ I must have been giving out wrong signals because I was attracting the wrong kind of men. Some thought just because I was willing to do something for a lark… sharing a smoke, going for the late, late movies, gulping the occasional beer… I’d be easy picking. OMG! My mama smoked sigup like a chimney and she could drink anyone under the table but try messing with her and see if you didn’t go home with a  swollen skull and your tail between your legs.

Now that reminds me of this guy who must have thought that a bottle of beer would reduce my inhibitions and give him the opportunity to do with me what he would… not having an inkling that  I had ‘inherited’ the ability to hold my liquor well! You can imagine my dismay when I realised he was getting drunk on a single bottle of Carlsberg, and a small one it was too, while my own bottle wasn’t even making me tipsy!

Picture this, if you can… a grown man staggering to the toilet where he fell heavily, taking the porcelain cover of the cistern with him! Needless to say, the heavy lid exploded on impact with the cement floor making me jump and waking the dead.

That was not all. When my guest wobbled out of the toilet several minutes later, he was rubbing his mouth and complaining he could have broken a tooth. I had to suppress my glee at this well-earned reward for his kindness in supplying the beer.

My suggestion that I should get help from the neighbours to bring (read: carry) him home fell on deaf ears. He was embarrassed, he said. Well, he deserved to feel embarrassed, I told him crossly! What did he think I was? A whore? I locked my door as soon as the stupid nincompoop stepped out into the cold, night air. And, no he didn’t try it again and I’m relating this for the first time in a hundred years.

You see, if we, women, treat the boys nice, they think we’re cheap and take advantage of us. When we hold them at arm’s length, they think we’re stuck up or there’s something wrong with us—not with them. Either way, we lose. So the better option is to do what pleases us and to hell with what people think. 

Sometimes in the dead of the night when the house is asleep, my old friend, Insomnia, comes to visit. She brings with her memories of the past; maps of roads not taken; and reminders of the sacrifices one normally makes to fulfill other people’s expectations. At times like this when the heart refuses to be still, I’d sometimes remember the frogs I’d kissed, the eternal mama’s boys I’d met and even the practical men who wanted a chattel instead of an equal.

In hindsight I know that happiness does not necessarily mean bagging a spouse. I know that we can be quite happy living on our own. We don’t need to become a husband to feel whole. And certainly there’s no need to become that wife who has to walk a few paces behind her master.

Maybe to most people living ‘happily ever after’ means sharing the stage with someone else. Perhaps other people do better as a solo performer.

Cheers, everybody! Life doesn’t have to be perfect to be wonderful!

Pictures from Google Images

What are you reading?

The Pirate Wind by Owen Rutter (Oxford University Press) was first published in 1930. If you’re interested in the history of piracy in SE Asia, this book is for you! It’s only 282 pages and beautifully illustrated.

You’ll learn about the origins of pirates such as the Illanun and Balanini (both from the Sulu Archipelago… and therefore NOT Sabahan!) and how they roamed the seas—in their fleets of ‘prahus’ which could number 200 vessels. Don’t think that the ‘prahus’ were puny little boats because each could exceed 90 feet long and carry a hundred slave-rowers! The pirates had safe hiding places scattered all over the coasts of Borneo and they travelled as far as the Bay of Bengal!

Plundering bigger European ships was no problem and slave trade was good business. Farmers and fishermen captured from the heavily populated coasts of the Philippines were sold as slaves in Brunei. People caught in Brunei were sold elsewhere.

How much did people pay for a slave? Needless to say, only the wealthy could afford slaves. A young woman cost more than a man—about 18 to 30 British pounds. A pretty girl was more expensive than her plain sister and a person past middle age cost about 3 pounds—the cheapest!

There is a chapter on the history of Balambangan, the little island to the west of Banggi, the island off the northern tip Borneo. (On a map, Balambangan looks like a fish spitting out some water and has half its guts hanging out of its body.) Apparently, the East India Company wanted to develop it as an outpost where ships plying the east-west route could stop with their goods and trade on the island. But the wrong man was chosen for the job. Not only did John Herbert incur huge losses for the Company when he sailed the Britannia (the Company ship) to Balambangan, but the voyage from London to Borneo took him two and a half years instead of the normal eight months. He also used company money to buy goods and pocketed the profits when he sold them! Sounds familiar?

Balambangan had to be abandoned when pirates raided the island. The pirate-mastermind had actually been employed as a carpenter on the island. He had noted that the island was only defended along the beaches but the forested ‘backside’ was left vulnerable! (Remember Singapore and Penang WW2 when the Japs surprised the British by coming overland??) Same tactic.

There’s even a ‘love story’. What happened when a pirate chief fell in love with a slave and was willing to do anything to get her?

Owen Rutter also hinted at some treasure the British flung into a well as they fled from the raiding pirates. Just in case you fancy going on a treasure-hunt, (after reading the book) the East India Company dug dozens of wells!

I haven’t finished reading the book. Another two-thirds. So, what are you reading?

Be a Better Writer

Count yourself lucky if you’ve stumbled upon this post because today I want to tell you about one of the best books on writing I’ve come across.

Whether we write letters, essays, articles or blog posts, we all (I’m sure) strive to improve our writing. And, if you’re like me, you experience a sense of satisfaction and accomplishment after putting the last full stop at the end of a piece of ‘wonderful’ writing. It may not be so great one week later when the flaws jump out to hit you on the head! But that’s another story.

Pic from Google Images

Today I just want to tell you about this excellent book.

Writing Tools by Roy Peter Clark (Little, Brown and Company, 2006) has been at the Penampang Library since last March but it looks like no one checked it out until I borrowed it mid-August. I’ve been ‘re-newing’ it since then! (Sorry, but it’s a great book and I’ll return it real soon.)

The author has divided the 260-page book into sections.

Part One: Nuts and Bolts tells about the basic stuff like verbs, subjects, sentence lengths, use of punctuation to control pace etc. One new skill I learnt here: Place strong words at the beginning and at the end of sentences/paragraphs.

Part Two: Special Effects -  Among other things, in this section the author advises writers to “use shorter words, sentences, and paragraphs” when describing something complex.  

He divides words into three categories: function words (said, that) building-block words (house, river) distinctive words (silhouette, jingle). Don’t repeat a distinctive word unless you intend a specific effect.

Part Three: Blueprints -  More helpful advice such as Use dialogue as a form of action; Write from different cinematic angles.

Part Four: Useful Habits - Some are familiar refrains such as Limit self-criticism in early drafts. Others are common sense: Break long projects into parts (then assemble the pieces into something whole).

At the end of each chapter is a workshop—some exercises to hone your writing skills.

Throughout the book, the author has sprinkled short excerpts from the works of various writers—passages that have intrigued him.

If you’re looking for a book on writing, you might consider Writing Tools. Or perhaps you’ve a favourite book you’d like to share?