Those Goodbyes

If my life in Malaysia were a book, it would be divided into two parts. "Part 1" of the adventure would consist of my life as an MS student. And "Part 2" would be life as an expat, an OFW, if you may.

Part 1 feels like it happened ages ago. Granted, it only spanned two years and I'm now going into the fourth year of Part 2 - but it does feel like it happened in a completely different lifetime. A lifetime where I lived in a monkey-infested dormitory. A lifetime where I had hospital, police, and immigration run-ins. A lifetime where I relied on KTM and Rapid KL buses but went places anyway.

I relied on my graduate research assistance scheme and a couple of odd jobs, but it was a lovely lifetime, even more because I had a lovely set of friends whom I treated as my surrogate family here. As Part 1 drew to a close, the story with that crazy bunch drew to a close as well. I don't think anybody really counted on it. Some got married and moved to India, moved to Singapore. One took up further studies in Canada. Some went back to the Philippines to fulfill obligations as well as to start anew. My family in Part 2 is somewhat different from the family I grew up with in Part 1.

Oh, but they're still there. And oh, we still see each other around. A couple of them crisscross across Singapore and Malaysia and sometimes it feels like nothing's really changed. But things have. There's a nostalgic feeling to it, too.

But I guess that's the bittersweet thing about moving from one chapter to the next. You must first conclude one part in order to get onto the next. And it's often difficult, especially if you'll have to deal with a lot of goodbyes.

But you have to do it to begin the next adventure that awaits.

So that's it for Part 1 of the story. This 2015, I'll be sharing about Part 2. So, goodbye, "The Adventure - Part 1". Hello, Part 2.

On Making an Impact

When you embrace your identity as a world changer, it is often easy to get discouraged once you start to think that what you are doing isn't significant enough. Take me, for example. Five and a half years in Malaysia. Am I even making a difference here?

It's easy to say I'm not if I base it on the scales the world creates. But these aren't the standards that matter. It's the standards of the One who called us that matters the most.

I miss those early years when I had all the time in the world to just go out and see how God was moving in the lives of people all around. Unbound by work, having only my thesis and several class hours, I could go anywhere at a moment's notice to meet up with people, to talk about life, to sing "Salamat, Salamat" over and over again while playing a guitar with blistered fingertips. And then I'd spend the following day hibernating especially if the previous one was far too tiring.

We went to Malacca weekly because there was a group of Filipinos there, hungry for the word of God. We spent time with friends in KL, Kajang, Serdang - Johor, even. Those people had different stories. Some were at the height of life, some were at the lowest of their lows. But it warmed my heart to see how they clung to God no matter what.

These days I'm consumed by Monday to Saturday working hours. It often feels like Sunday is the only day I can give to God and to other people. But I realize that's not how things are supposed to be. I can be a blessing even during the nine-to-five. I can be a world changer even if I'm not travelling from city to city, even if I am not speaking in front of crowds as big as the Bukit Jalil Stadium.

Yes, there are people who do that - God bless them for heeding that call. And it's wonderful to dream of doing that too, someday. But this is where I am now. And this is how I can make a difference today.

Nothing is in vain. Things become of great significance when they are done with a great, great heart.

On Writing Letters

My father should have had an award for his effort in keeping connected in the days of dial-up modems and card-operated public payphones. While he was taking up his PhD in Australia, he never failed to keep us updated through snail mail, email, and phone calls - not ones made through a mobile phone with low IDD rates, but ones made through payphones using cards I eventually collected to make key chains. The handwritten letters were my favorite, though. He personalized photos and postcards with inked in comments and captions. He told us stories of his university life while we waited for visas and plane tickets to take us where he was.

I seem to have inherited his knack of writing letters. When I moved out of La Trinidad to study in ELBI (which was a good 10-hour-bus-ride away), I maximized my newly created yahoo account and wrote to my family and high school friends until I eventually became too busy with schoolwork. When I moved from The Philippines to Malaysia, I did the same and wrote password-protected pdf files. I also had a special exchange of letters with my Soul Sistah. I smile, thinking back at the days when opening my yahoo mailbox brought a rush of anticipation.

An excerpt from one of my letters home:

I was still awake the time that you sent it - still burning the midnight oil for an exam that I had this morning. I couldn't reply because I was afraid I'll just ramble on and on about interpolation, k-means clustering, etc, etc, etc. But I was greatly encouraged. I meant, I really needed every sort of encouragement during that time. Thank God for you. Lots of encouragement came all over the place din from different people. Ang sweet din ni Lord diba, te?

Maybe it's just me, but there's something about long letters that are meant to be treasured and appreciated. The thought of someone sitting down, giving full attention to either reading or writing - as opposed to distractedly trying to pay attention through the stream of multitasked activities we encounter each day - well, that's just something... special.

The last handwritten letter I wrote was delivered to its recipient at the beginning of last month. If people are said to wear their hearts on the sleeves, well, I wore my heart on that envelope. Embarrassingly enough, I had to gulp down bouts of tears as the one reading it went through it (silently) in front of me. I failed myself and let those tears out anyway. I cried because the letter left me bare and vulnerable. If anybody read any of my letters written in 2009 in front of me, well, I'd probably do a repeat performance of that Wendy's crying scene, too.

I hope writing letters will never die out and become an extinct craft. Social media and instantaneous response are good. But I still feel letters express a different - perhaps deeper - facet of love.

Do you love writing or receiving letters, too?

Interwoven

Aside from food, another "F" that I'll definitely miss when the day I'll say goodbye to Malaysia eventually comes will be - insert sentimental music here - my friends. Aww. Enter waterworks. People come and go, yes, but when they cross our paths, some of the most important ones imprint marks that we will forever keep in our hearts.

I've been blessed with friendship crossing many different cultures and religions. When I was studying, in addition to my TBC friends (note to self: write more about this later), I was also particularly close to two Iranian girls. We were groupmates in some of our IT projects. Because of them (the girls and the projects), I was introduced to Persian cuisine.

They cooked when we spent afternoons at their house going through software and code. I remember eating fried chicken with some kind of red seeds or berries. I'm not so good with names of food. I just eat and eat whatever anyone sets in front of me. I do recall a sticky sweet called Halvoc, though. It tasted nice with pistachio.

Persians seem to be fond of sweet and sour things. Well, sweet things then sour things, not sweet and sour together, like the Chinese.

Speaking of Chinese, working introduced me to the Mandarin-Hokkien-Hakka-and-Cantonese-speaking community. I mostly identified with Malays during my two years of studying. But these days, I fee more Chinese, somehow. I also feel Indonesian. Very Indonesian. I wonder. When my friends hang out with me, do they feel, in a way, Filipino, too?

Just a thought.

But that's Part 2 of The Adventure. I'm getting too far ahead.

Back to Part 1. In my dormitory, there was an Indian girl who lived a few doors down. We never got to be that close, but I remember she was fond of watching Bollywood and Filipino series.

I had Malay friends who invited me to eat in their open houses and to watch movies in their rooms. I got to witness a Malay wedding, too - the bride's side, where the groom was the one walking down the aisle towards his woman.

They taught me their language and we compared it with mine. And though it was short, the friendship was precious and worth remembering. One even emailed me the other day. She lives in a city far away but she had lots and lots of stories to share.

I believe all our lives are interwoven for a purpose. Friends from "The Adventure - Part 1" have, in a way, come and gone. But I know know the friendship will surely live on.

Half-eaten Halvoc.

Mereka Tak Lagi Menangis

Salam. Nama saya Mari. Saya dari negara Filipina. Umur saya - ah, tak apa lah.

Yes, I have hardcore Bahasa Melayu skills. I do! I can converse with taxi drivers, shop keepers, and people talking about their studies and their families. I do a good job of listening in on conversations, too. Public, pantry-type discussions, mind you. I don't really make a habit of eavesdropping when it comes to private exchanges.

I had to take two semesters worth of Bahasa Melayu classes when I took up my Master's degree. Some of my classmates didn't see the point of it, but I made sure to learn a lot from the course. I had dreams of being fluent in the language. But because of lack of practice... well, that dream could still come true if I push myself hard enough.

Satu, dua, tiga, empat, lima. Some words, like "five", are the same in Malay and Filipino. Kanan is also kanan, langit is also langit, and some words have similar sounds. There are some also found in Ilocano, my hometown's dialect (which I honestly can't speak that fluently). I'm told ikan is fish for both and jalan is almost the same as dalan. Sometimes, when I go home, I try to converse in Ilocano. But most times my mouth seems to want to spew up some Bahasa Melayu instead.

Cordilleran pronunciation is not far from the one used in BM. "E" as in keluar is not that of a problem for me because we don't pronounce "dinengdeng" the hard way in my hometown unlike other neighboring Ilocano-speaking provinces.

Perhaps that was one reason why I unwittingly landed on a BM poetry-interpreting stint. I unknowingly entered through the recommendation of my BM2 lecturer. I thought he just wanted me to read a few lines. Little did I know, reading a few lines meant that I was auditioning for a slot in the contest already.

The piece he gave me was "Mereka Tak Lagi Menangis". They're not crying anymore? Well, after I got into the contest (held a week after the auditions), I got tips on diction, interpretation, and could I set my recording against some music?

"Alright," I said. "I'll read it while playing my guitar."

Well that was an experience to remember. And guess what? I won second place! An African guy who memorized his piece and used creative gestures won the grand prize.

They didn't give out any cash or gift cards as prizes. They did give us trophies though. And I got a video and an experience to remember to take away as my own prize.

Lesson learned? Unexpected wins can happen if you say yes and allow yourself to be available.

Selesai.

Video Screenshot.

On Malaysian Food and Petai

When in Rome, eat Italian food. When in Malaysia, indulge yourself in nasi lemak, curry, chilli pan mee, char kuey teow, bak kuh teh, and nasi briyani. To do otherwise would be heretic. Well, not really. But your taste buds would be missing out on so, so many things.

I think my five-year-plus stay here has turned my palate Malaysian. If I suddenly had to pack my bags and say farewell to this country forever, one of the first things I'd miss would definitely be THE FOOD. Caps locked, italicized, underlined.

I could rave on and on about the food here in My. True, some of my friends aren't that affectionate about it ("Everything tastes like curry!", "Everything is so red!", "Everything is so spicy!") but I believe the adventurous will love it. Nasi Lemak (fatty rice) as the national dish is a must try. There are also a variety of noodle dishes (both dry and soup-based) that noodle lovers will surely enjoy. Malaysian food is good all year round, Malaysians eat all day round, but there's a season when it's particularly fun to enjoy a real good gorge-fest - Hari Raya Aidilfitri. After the Muslims go through a one month fasting period, everyone goes on an extended period of feasting. Hurrah for Malaysian food!

I'm not really a big fan of petai, though. Petai is a type of bean aptly called by some people as "stink bean". Some friends made me try it out while I was still a neophyte here. 

"Try this out, Mari. It's delish." Friend puts a piece of petai in Mari's dish.

"Okay." Mari pops whole thing in her mouth. Friends await Mari's reaction.

"It's... fine." Friends burst out laughing.

The thing is, petai is also called "bitter bean". It has a tart, bitter taste in addition to a smelly aftertaste. People don't usually eat it on its own. Nor do they put the whole thing into their mouth and chew it like an almond nut (it's even bigger than an almond, dear friends). I think it will be enough to say that the bean didn't make it to my top ten must eats in Malaysia. It did make it to my top ten things to trick newbies into eating or doing. Insert evil laugh here.

I found out that petai actually tastes okay when mixed with sambal or when it's eaten with some spicy dish. On its own its something that I'll say no to. But with something else... it gives that something else a unique flavor.

I think God throws in a lot of petais into our life and we tend to isolate these instances and regard them as stinky and bitter. But when we mix in some spicy chili, some shrimp paste - different flavors from different aspects of our lives, or different ways of thinking perhaps - we realize that life isn't really that hard to swallow after all.

Hmmm. Maybe I should try eating some petai tomorrow.

Beware.

Be Mobile. Be Very Mobile.

If there’s one thing I learned from being a dormer in a Malaysian university, it’s this: It pays to be mobile. Be very mobile.

I can not recall how many rooms I had moved into during my two years as a masters student. Wait, maybe I can. I must have trailed through six different rooms or so. Yes, six rooms in two years.

Twice I had to move after happily settling in because of some dorm mix ups. Twice more I had to move because, in my university, students who chose to stay during the summer break had to be displaced and kept inside a single block. And then I of course had to change rooms because each academic school year called for a new one. I only had to study for two years, so there you go. You can do the math.

Having had to move around that much, I needed to make sure i could pack up and relocate at a moment’s notice.

It was hard to be mobile, though. I came to Malaysia with only fifteen-plus kilograms worth of luggage. However, I seemed to have accumulated plenty more stuff with the passing of each additional semester. I hoarded books, papers, readings, clothes, kitchen utensils, toiletries, and cleaning materials. A lot of them were necessities. But the rest were by products of me being a pack rat.

Imagine what it was like to lug those things around three times every year.

Whew.

My most memorable move was, of course, the first. In less than a month — or was it a week? — of occupancy, I woke up to the sound of someone knocking on my door. The person was gone by the time that I got around to opening it, but there was a note left lying at the floor:

“Please come to the office immediately.”

I thought I was in some sort of trouble. Did I break any dormitory rules I didn’t know about? However, when I got to the office, they simply informed me that the management was planning to use my block for transients. “You have to transfer to another one,” they told me.

“When?” I asked.

“By this afternoon,” was their reply.

Thankfully, I only had minimal belongings at the time. But I did own a thick, wooden study table. A friend had passed it to me with every good intention in mind. Well, it took a LOT of effort lugging that THING all the way from Block F to the third floor of Block D. It wouldn’t have been so bad if I had someone to help me. But since I didn’t have any friends at the dormitory yet, I had to transport everything including that desk by myself.

It took me several trips to get my things to and from Block F and D. By the end of the move, I felt like I had done more than a day’s worth of exercise already.

Looking back, I realized I should have brought a trolley. Especially if I had know that it wouldn’t be my last time to do that relocating thing. But then again I didn’t expect to have moved around so much. So I never got around to buying one.

Right now, it’s time for me to do some moving again. Not to another block in the dorm, though. I had long graduated from that part of my life already. I’m moving to a new apartment, and gosh, my belongings seemed to have multiplied by a thousand and one times this time.

Thankfully, I now have some friends to help me out, unlike before. One of them has a trolley too.

I still wish I had taken my dormitory lesson to heart though. I wish I had managed to keep myself mobile. But oh well. After this move, I’ll make sure that I do.

Well, my belongings have now increased exponentially after five years.

Monkeys, Policemen, and Immigration Officers (Part 4)

I had to file a police report a week after. I needed one so that I could apply for new travel documents at the Philippine Embassy. Of course, I didn't tell them that the monkeys took my passport. Actually, I just let my Bahasa-Melayu-speaking friends do all the talking.

It was funny. One of them had been staying in Malaysia for almost ten years. The other had been here for almost seven. They had never set their feet inside a police station in all the years they had lived here. And there I was. Barely a month in, dragging them in.

The police station incident was just part of the first act. The second act came in a few months after. My new passport took too long to process, leaving me with an "overstaying" status by the time that I was able to apply for a student pass. That was my first trip to the Immigration Department in Putrajaya. The second trip involved an entirely different storyline. I'll probably tell you that one next time.

Now when friends have problems with their passports and visas, I have the guts to tell them not to sweat it out. I've been through some awesome things. I've seen how God, favor, and - okay - good looks can help turn tables around.

I don't miss policemen and immigration officers though. I sure hope I won't run into them in the near or not so near future.

Weee!

Monkeys, Policemen, and Immigration Officers (Part 3)

I went to Publika again following my trusty tablet-slash-GPS. It led me through Jalan Duta, a road that passes by Malaysia's big Immigration Office, the one that looks like a huge Middle Eastern castle.

I've had two run ins with the immigration department in Malaysia. I once visited their office while it was still in Putrajaya. I visited it a second time when it was relocated to Kuala Lumpur several years later, you know, because stuff like that happened to me all the time.

I blamed the monkeys in my old school for the first run in. The literal moneys, not the figurative ones. It was my first day inside the campus. I was super excited because, after days of Sungai Buloh quarantine and after days of being under house arrest in Kajang, I was finally able to explore the university on my own.

I had a map with me. I wanted to look for my classrooms before classes started officially. I didn't want to wear a dazed and disoriented look on my first day of school.

I held everything inside a yellow clear book: my map; my class schedule; my offer letter. And my passport.

I would frequently flip through the clear book when I went around the university. I leafed through it to the page where the map was to make sure that I was still on the right track

I had almost made it back to my kolej when I started to feel that something was wrong. Too much nasi lemak? It wasn't that. I began browsing through the yellow clear book. My passport was no longer there.

I tried retracing my steps. But it was to no avail. I couldn't find my passport anywhere. I sent my surrogate family an SMS: "Please don't panic. But I think I may have lost my passport."

I had to give them some credit. They didn't panic (or at least I don't think they did). Two of them even helped me put up lost and found signs around the university. But it was no use.

The monkeys probably took it.

Give me my passport back.

(to be continued) 

Monkeys, Policemen, and Immigration Officers (Part 2)

Some monkeys weren't as stubborn or as fierce. Some of them were just plain naughty, or "jahat" as the Malaysians say here. One afternoon, I was typing stuff out for my thesis. I had some wheat bread at arm's length and a jar of jam. Bread and jam kept me alive throughout most of my postgraduate days.

Suddenly, this tiny creature peeped into my window. I stared at it, unsure of what I should do (my previous monkey run-in was still fresh in my mind). The monkey stared back at me. Suddenly, with one swift movement, he reached out for my bread. And - just like that - he took my break-lunch-er.

There was nothing that I could do. I only found myself screaming out, "Monkey!" I grabbed the jar of jam and brought it close to my chest for safety.

In all fairness to the monkeys at my Kolej, they were somewhat neat and tidy. My friends from other Kolejes said they went inside unattended rooms, opened cookie jars, threw trails of powdered milk and sugar around, and played with liquid soap and shampoo. The monkeys at my Kolej did no such things. At least I didn't think so.

One hot summer day, I left my window open so that the breeze would come in. The worst thing that happened was that I woke up a jar of peanut butter short. I tried looking for it behind my books, underneath my papers. But I couldn't find it. I was sure of it. A monkey pilfered the loot in my sleep.

I miss those monkeys. There aren't any of them around my new neighborhood. Tough luck seeing them around my workplace, too. Those two areas are too developed, too civilized, too modernized. The day I see them outside my window once again would be the day pigs and monkeys fly.

Does the monkey want a cracker?

(to be continued)

Monkeys, Policemen, and Immigration Officers (Part 1)

We were talking about monkeys the other day. Lunchtime conversations at the office are always unpredictable. Somehow, the topic turned from our varying secondary school education systems, to Malaysian All-Girls Schools, to flashers, then finally to the monkeys that frequented my officemate's classrooms.

I've had several face-to-face encounters with monkeys, too. Make that a lot. My university dormitory (they call it "kolej" here) was up a hill surrounded by trees and - consequently - monkeys.

They only came out at certain times - afternoons, near dusk, close to what I believed would be dinner for them. I watched them cross the street one. An entire clan with fathers, mothers, babies hanging upside down from their mummy's bellies, and young adolescent monkeys made up the unusual procession. They gave me quite a shock. I didn't know there were that many of them around.

One other time, this relatively medium-sized fellow kept me from going up my room. He bared his teeth and snarled at me and I made a U-turn while letting out a tiny scream. Another monkey blocked the other entrance to my block. I stood paralyzed with fear. Should I wait for the monkey invasion to die out?

But I had such a long day and I wanted to retreat into the comfort of my room. I did what any tired girl would do.

I bared my teeth and growled at the naughty creature.

Nothing happened.

I stomped my feet.

The monkey remained immovable.

I danced like a wild animal. Eventually, the creature flashed its sharp incisors before he said goodbye.

Bye, Monkey. Bye.

(to be continued)

I Survived AH1N1 (Part 6)

I was discharged from the hospital almost a week later. I was worried I wouldn't make it in time for my university registration. I was worried my meals, my stay, and my surprise accommodation were going to cost me.

It turned out that I didn't have to worry much. Registration was still ongoing. And my whole hospitalization was free.

I only had to worry about coming out of the hospital looking weird and funny.

They gave me a duck-billed face mask. When I put it on, I really did look like I could go quack. And then they asked me to wipe all my belongings with a disinfectant. And then I had to put them all inside these big yellow bags labeled as "hazardous waste." I had to wash myself with a weird red chemical. They took every precaution to get all traces of the virus out.

Then again, I was free to go. I was led through a maze of hospital corridors, and was brought to my surrogate family who were there at last to finally fetch me.

I grinned at them sheepishly through my duck-billed mask.

We didn't know there would be more adventures up ahead.

* * *

I'm sure there was something - some lessons to be learned from that whole experience. Don't get too stressed out before taking a life-altering flight? Make sure to get lots of Zzzs and Vitamin Cs? Be grateful for everyone looking out for you, who'll wait in the hospital during the wee hours in the morning only to find out they can't see you because they'll risk getting the disease, too? Be grateful for the people at home whose concern and understanding are indeed heartwarming? Be thankful Malaysia has awesome quarantine facilities, because, gosh, what would have happened to me and my entire surrogate family if we all just shared a big group hug and then we all got AH1N1 and then we wouldn't know we'd all be carriers of the disease?

Yeah... Those were some lessons well learned. So, here's a t-shirt for everyone who survived AH1N1, too.

Quack.

I Survived AH1N1 (Part 5)

There were four beds in my new room. Two were unoccupied. Well, since I was to occupy one of them, that meant there was one more room for one more unfortunate soul.

My two other roomies - a mother and a daughter - looked Chinese. They mostly kept to themselves. I kept to myself, too.

I had only my hand carry luggage with me. The airport people didn't find my luggage anywhere in the LCCT's luggage conveyor belt. Ate Grace probably already took it. Thus, all I had with me were my money, my laptop, some papers, a notebook, a pen, some stationery and... that was all. 

I had Ate Mian's number though. It was a good thing I remembered to jot it down. 

I wrote her a note, using a page from the stationery. I asked for an adapter for the power outlet, a malaysian sim, some credit for the sim, and a change of clothes. "Pambahay", I wrote. I called one of the nurses and asked if she could call the number and read the contents f the note to the receiver. She took the note, put it in a ziplock bag, sprayed some stuff to disinfect it, and then granted my request.

Some time later - I honestly had a very warped sense of time - there arrived a package inside a bigger ziplock bag. The bag contained everything I requested. Plus a book and a long note from Ate Mian. Something to "keep me occupied", she wrote.

I don't have a copy of that note anymore. Sadly, it got lost during one of my many moves. But I remember her telling me how my arrival had affected them all - in a good way, though.

She and a couple of friends from my church and university were supposed to be my surrogate family in Malaysia. I forgot  her exact words but she said something along the lines of how the incident really taught them other facets of how it was to be a real family.

We would go through many more ups, downs, funny, sad, and crazy fiascos in Malaysia for the rest of the time that we were all here together. But I'm glad I went through that rollercoaster of a ride with them. I'm glad I had them as a family here in Malaysia.

Just passing the time away...

(to be continued)

I Survived AH1N1 (Part 4)

They gave me a couple of minutes, or maybe hours, to prepare my stuff before they transferred me to another room, one filled with other AH1N1 patients. I received a phone call during that interlude. It was my mom and dad.

"Anak! How are you? Are you in the dorm already? Mian gave us this number when we asked how we could contact you. How are you settling in?"

Oh gosh. How was I supposed to break the news to them?

"Uhhh... Hello, Mom - Dad. I have good news and not so good news. The good news is that I am safe and sound here in Malaysia and that I have pretty good accommodations. The bad news is... I'm actually in the hospital. They tested me and found out I'm AH1N1 positive. I have to stay here for a couple of days..."

"Wow... that's... is that so? Okay, you take care, daughter, and let us know hen they let you out."

"Alright, I will. I love you!"

I'm glad my parents were (and and still are) kind and understanding. I'm glad they didn't throw a fit when they found out that I was quarantined in some unknown hospital. I had made a promise to myself that I wouldn't make them worry about me but, oh well, things happen. I just chose to be grateful for them right then and there.

Well, with all that said, I had to hand it to Ate Mian or whoever it was who managed to get a hold of the hospital's phone number.

The morning before moving. See, you can see the telephone.

(to be continued)

I Survived AH1N1 (Part 3)

I don't know, exactly, how long the ride to the hospital took. One hour? Two? Probably not three. I remember staring into the night, into the brightly lit highways. We had probably already passed the Kuala Lumpur city proper. How far was this place from Kajang? The mountains lining the highway looked odd. They looked like lime stones, like the ones you see in prehistoric cave walls.

We eventually arrived in what I found out later to be Sungai Buloh. I think I just looked for a sign so that I would know where I was.

I don't recall going through a formal hospital registration. I stepped out of the van, and then I eventually stepped into a room with a hospital bed, an end table with a telephone, and an enclosed lavatory in the corner.

"Make yourself at home. Someone will come to take some swab tests later."

I remember asking God if I was dying. AH1N1 was highly publicized then. I never cared enough to do research, though. I had no idea if it was a life-threatening disease or if it was just a much-ado'd-about flu.

"There's a reason for all of these. There's a reason for all of these. I'm not going to die. I'll get home to Kajang soon. Tomorrow they will release me. Tomorrow I'll be out of this place and this will all be just a memory."

I sunk into restless slumber. A nurse came in the middle of the night to take some tissues from my mouth. A few hours later, the doctor came in with the results.

"Miss Mari I'm afraid we will have to keep you here for a couple of days. You are AH1N1 positive."

Of course I remembered to take a selfie.

(to be continued)

I Survived AH1N1 (Part 2)

A woman wearing a white tudong took my temperature. She made me drink a glass of water, and then she took my temperature for a second time. An auntie was going through the same process. "My legs are really swollen," she kept complaining. They let her go.

I thought that they would let me go, too. But then the airport nurse approached me and broke the news. "I'm sorry, miss. It seems you may be infected with AH1N1. But we're not sure yet. We have to take you to the hospital to get you tested. If the results are negative, then you can go. But if they're positive, you'll have to stay in the hospital for a couple of days until your treatment is finished."

"But, miss... My bags... my friends... Could you please call this number and tell them what you told me just now?" I had a phone but no Malaysian nor roaming sim card. Thankfully, the nurse was gracious enough to call the number up. They exchanged some words in Bahasa Melayu. Then she hung up. "Okay, Miss Mari, please come and follow me."

I though they were going to take me to a van full of other AH1N1 detainees. I mean, there were probably others who needed to be tested, too, right?

Wrong. I was the van's only passenger. Though I did have two escorts, I think. And of course, there was the driver.

Off we drove out of Sepang, out of the LCCT. One of the escorts attached a siren to the top of the van.

Yep. I was being welcomed to Malaysia in style.

(to be continued)

I Survived AH1N1 (Part 1)

I have found a happy place. It took me forever to get here, yes. The GPS had failed me on my first try. But I'm here.

The place is really pretty. It's coffee shop. It's no secret that I'm a big fan of coffee. And cake. Definitely cake. I'm sipping a warm mug of "sweet dreams" and munching on a slice of cheesecake as I write all these down.

Now I know this doesn't read like a very Malaysian-flavored introduction. I'm supposed to be writing about teh tarik and nasi lemak. Don't worry, I'll get to that soon. But for now, let's bask in the cozy atmosphere of my new-found happy nook.

I passed by the Sungai Buloh Restoran Jejantas on my way here. I told you the GPS failed me. I was supposed to be heading off to Petaling Jaya, but lo and behold - after a few missed turns, I found myself on that memorable highway to Sungai Buloh.

Sungai Buloh will always be memorable to me. Before I set foot on our house in Kajang, before I made myself comfortable in my dormitory in Bangi, I first had to spend a few nights in the infamous Hospital SB.

Why? I had AH1N1, you see.

* * *

I was feverish a day before my Manila to Kuala Lumpur flight on June 2009. I blamed it on stress and all the hassle I had to go through to get a special pass. I didn't think much about it - the fever, I mean- although there was already news of people catching that year's pandemic buzzing about.

The morning of my much awaited flight, I first had to go to the Malaysian Embassy in Makati to collect my passport and special pass. My former roommate, Melody accompanied me. We then killed time and grabbed a goodbye coffee with creatives Edward and Adrian (my super crush at the time) before we taxi-d our way off to NAIA3. But there was still a couple of hours to go before the check in counters opened.

And I was still feeling hot and stuffy.

Ate Grace, my travel buddy, arrived later with my bags and our send-off party.

My overweight bag caused Ate Grace and me to sit in different rows. She knew I wasn't feeling well, though. But I slept it all off.

"Are you feeling better? How is your temperature?" She asked me when we deplaned.

"I think I'm okay," I answered. I looked at the immigration card in my hands. There were several checkboxes asking me the same. "Have you had fever during the past n days?" How was I supposed to answer that question? I ticked "no". I didn't want to cause so much hassle that early in the morning. Our plane landed past midnight and Kuya Brian, our welcome party, was waiting at the arrival area, ready to take us home.

Let me give you one travel advice. Never lie to (or through) an immigration arrival card. They will catch you anyway. There I was, tagging behind Ate Grace the experienced traveler, when a woman in uniform asked me to stop. She said I made the body heat detector light up. They had to check if I was sick enough to be quarantined or not.

I didn't have a choice. They didn't even look at my untruthful arrival card.

What was going to happen to me?

Ready to fly: June 23, 2009. But I don't look sick!

(to be continued)