The Curious Diary of Mr Jam

by Nury Vittachi

  Saturday, May 17

  It’s early evening. Eddie and I are at Sydney King Smith Airport, ready to check in for the overnight flight back to Hong Kong. My face brightens as I see the sign at the security check area at an airport in Australia. In large letters on a board are the words: “We Take Jokes Seriously”.

  “Look,” I say to Eddie. “These are people after my own heart.”

  He looks nervous. “What do you mean?”

  “I take jokes seriously too,” I explain. “I spend my days dealing in jokes. I make lists of things which make easterners laugh and things which make westerners laugh. I study theories of humor. I have even discussed laughter-generation with a researcher in neuroscience. If they want jokes, I can deliver,” I say. “When the guard asks me if I have a laptop in my bag, I’m going to say: ‘No room, because of all the bombs, ha ha.’”

  “NO!” shrieks Eddie, eyes popping. “The sign means strictly no jokes allowed.”

  “But that’s not what it says,” I argue.

  As we inch along the queue, he explains that “We Take Jokes Seriously” signs in Australia indicate that airport officials immediately arrest anyone who tries to be funny. “They actually put people in jail for joking,” he says. “That means you. Do NOT be amusing. Even mildly.”

  “Can I be wry?”

  “NO.”

  “What if no one laughs?”

  “ESPECIALLY if no one laughs. This is an airport. No one laughs in airports.”

  I frown. “Then the sign should say the opposite of what it says. It should say ‘We Do Not Take Jokes Seriously’. What they are doing is refusing to recognize jokes as jokes.”

  Eddie looks at the sign again and decides that technically I am right.

  “And what about human rights?” I continue. “The right to be funny is surely a fundamental freedom covered by the United Nations Bill of Rights.”

  “I don’t think it is,” he says. “It’s probably not even mentioned.”

  This shocking news renders me speechless.

  Four minutes later, we have edged closer to the security gate. I tell my companion that we could help the Australian Government by re-wording the sign to say whatever it is that they intended it to say. “What the sign should really say is: ‘This is an irony-free zone. Any statement intended humorously or ironically will be deliberately misunderstood and taken at face value.’ “

  Eddie thinks for a moment. “That’s correct,” he says. But despite his reassuring words, he is starting to look worried. “Listen, mate. Airport officials have their senses of humor surgically removed when they get their jobs. So please don’t try anything funny.” He then drops back to let other people go in front of him. This is to put some distance between himself and me, in case I commit an act of humor in public.

  Six minutes later, we are both through the security gates. We meet up at the airside coffee shop.

  “I was right,” I say.

  “What do you mean? You didn’t try joking with one of those guys, did you?”

  I point to a chubby guard with an ill-fitting uniform, a 1975 haircut and a plastic digital watch.

  Eddie winces. “You’re crazy to take risks like that,” he scolds. But he can’t resist asking: “So what did you say to him?”

  “I said, ‘Cool uniform. Nice haircut. Wish I had a watch like that.’ The guy nodded and thanked me. So we were right. It really is an irony-free zone.” Despite himself, Eddie makes the strange tortured-cat howl that passes for a laugh.

  Sunday, May 18

  We touch down in Hong Kong. Emerging from the aircraft sleepy and red-eyed, I pause at a free internet counter to check if there are any comments on mrjam.org.

  On top is one with a dramatic tone to it. “Only you can save the world,” it begins.

  “Why do all the weirdos write to me?” I murmur out loud.

  “Like attracts like?” says Eddie, standing at the next computer.

  As I read the posting, my eyebrows rise higher until I am sure they must be floating cartoon-like over my head. The writer is not being sarcastic. He is a teacher named Man-sir who has heard about my interest in Asian humor. He has sent me links to several articles which say the biggest threat to world peace is the culture gap between west and east.

  “Experts say the best bet for bridging that potentially catastrophic gap is shared entertainment: movies, sport, and in particular, humor,” he writes. But that’s the problem. “As you have pointed out in your on-line diary, westerners consider Asians to be wildly unfunny. And several non-western cultural groups, such as Muslims and Mainland Chinese, they consider humorless to a dangerous degree,” Man-sir writes. “We need to prove that all cultures, especially Asian ones, can be funny.”

  Monday, May 19

  After taking the kids to school, I head for my office desk, the third table on the left at the Quite Good, and write back to Man-sir: “I’d love to save the world and all that, but I just thought a study of humor might help me with my career, and earn me a few dollars so I can pay for luxuries for my children, such as new rags to tie around their feet. Why not enlist a famous comedian for your campaign?”

  Man-sir must be sitting at his computer, because he replies instantly: “Most famous comedians are westerners and they have a coarse style which does not work outside the west. You are not as funny as them but you are Asian, you serve an audience of Muslims, Buddhists, Hindus and so on, and lately you have become totally inoffensive.”

  Sensible people do not waste time on people who insult them. So I decide to go meet him after work.

  Nine hours later, dusk is falling, and we are sitting at a pavement café in Kowloon. I realize his ideas are pretty interesting, after I train myself to focus on his words, instead of his bizarre scalp, which is like an electron-magnified picture of a patch of skin: an expanse of pink with a handful of thick black rods sticking up. He teaches history and international affairs at a local university, and is regularly in trouble with his humorless dean for poking fun at important institutions.

  The world’s most pressing problem is a drastic shortage of Islamic humor, he explains. “Locating and distributing this will defuse global tension by showing that Muslims can be funny, charming and self-deprecating.”

  Thinking about it, I realize words like “funny” and “charming” and “self-deprecating” aren’t used a lot about Osama Bin Laden, the person most westerners will think of if you ask them to name a Muslim. To me, Islam is a gentle, mystical religion. Indeed, I would never even identify Bin Laden as a Muslim. You cannot be a practicing Muslim and a practicing murderer at the same time, thus he is not a Muslim, whatever he calls himself. Charles Manson grew up in a Christian country and would inevitably have Christian phrases in his speech, but no one calls him a Christian serial killer. He’s just a killer. These guys are evil people who work against their religious backgrounds, not for them. “We need to change this,” I say. He asks: “Do you accept the mission?”

  I nod. Man-sir has inspired me.

  Tuesday, May 20

  Dear Diary, this morning, I sit at my desk at the noodle shop and realize the momentous nature of the charge I have accepted. Only we can save the world. First, we need to consult experts. I’ve been out of step with Muslim culture for a long time and need an update. I phone Wang Daiyu, a devout Chinese Muslim (there are more Muslims in China than in Saudi Arabia).

  “Are Muslims funny?” I ask.

  He replies: “You should know that asking that question triggers an automatic fatwa. How would you like to die?”

  I assume he is joking, but you never know with him, so I quickly move the conversation on. “Do you know any good Islamic jokes? Are there any?”

  He gasps: “Are you kidding me? Muslims INVENTED jokes. Don’t you know this?”

  “My father was pretty funny,” I tell him. “He loved the Nasruddin stories.”

  He points out that the Nasruddin tales are 800 years old. And he tells me he knows a Muslim joke said to come fro
m the 9th century.

  “Tell me,” I say. This is it.

  A man who claimed to be God was brought before the Caliph.

  The Caliph said to him: “Before you open your mouth, let me give you a warning. Last year, a man turned up claiming to be a prophet sent by the Almighty, and we put him to death.”

  The man nodded. “You did the right thing. I didn’t send him.”

  Not bad.

  “I thought you were a Muslim?” Wang says.

  “I was,” I say. “I guess I’ve kind of drifted away.” I decide not to tell him that I had married an Englishwoman and we were raising the children as Christians.

  There’s a moment of silence, and then he snorts dismissively. “We all go through phases,” he says. “Anyway, if you are going to be a successful humorist, you’re going in the right direction. Muslims are the funniest people in the world.”

  I thought of my father. “Actually, I may even believe you, but can you help me prove it? I need concrete examples.”

  Wang promises to get on the case.

  Using email and my website, I commission others like him to find Islamic and/ or other Asian humor we can use to save civilization. Being funny has suddenly become a serious matter.

  Wednesday, May 21

  It’s getting quite exciting. This morning I flick on the computer to find several replies in my inbox, and comments on mrjam.org. And my phone is ringing. And people are visiting the Quite Good Noodle Shop looking for me. I have stumbled on a hot topic.

  My scouts looking for examples of eastern laughter tell me that there are a few Asian comedians in the west, but they are nearly all western-born people making fun of their parents’ culture, like Canada’s Russell Peters. That stuff makes me uncomfortable. Asia-originated humor is much, much rarer. A visitor tells me about the movie Looking for Comedy in the Muslim World. In it, American funnyman Albert Brooks does a stand-up comedy routine in front of an audience of Muslims, Buddhists and Hindus. No one laughs.

  That afternoon, Wang Daiyou meets me at the Quite Good and tells me that the Prophet Mohammad himself showed playful wit, and there is a whole document listing cases of him laughing. Here’s an example of the Prophet’s wit:

  An elderly woman came to Mohammad with a request: “Pray to Allah for me, that I may enter heaven.”

  The Prophet replied: “There will be no old women in heaven.”

  Bursting into tears, she left the room.

  Mohammad told his assistant to run after her with the punchline: “Because old women will be made young again.”

  Badump. (That’s the sound of a drum announcing a punchline.) For a 1,400-year-old joke by a religious icon, it’s not bad at all.

  Thursday, May 22

  I phone the editor of the newspaper for which I used to work. They put me through to Hendrick Mong, who is now deputy editor. “Hi, Hendrick. Can I write a column on Muslim humor?” I ask.

  “Sure, how much space do you want? Half a centimeter?”

  “No, really, I’m collecting Muslim humor.”

  “And we’re not printing it. Try one of those newspapers in Denmark which print cartoons.”

  He rings off.

  Friday, May 23

  And now the pan-Asian items of humor are pouring in. Some are jokes, while others are wry observations. They may not be one-liners up to the standard of Steve Martin, but there’s a home-grown, grass-roots feel to them. Here’s a typical one from South Asia, sent in by a woman called Padmini:

  You know you are Asian if any two of the following are true:

  (a) Your dad is an engineer or a doctor;

  (b) Everyone assumes you’re good at math;

  (c) You have a 25-kilo sack of rice in your pantry;

  (d) You have rocks, sticks, leaves and mysterious strange-smelling substances in your medicine cabinet.

  (e) You refer to all adults as Auntie and Uncle.

  Here’s a joke in Indian English:

  Manager: Raju! You was discharged from hospital yesterday only. Why you come office today itself?

  Raju: Doctor told me take rest for a month. That’s why I come to office!

  Seems to me the charming Indian English is as entertaining as the joke.

  Saturday, May 24

  Over lunch, Benny the Barman makes a pronouncement on my mission. “Interesting. You seem to have pulled the lid off something which has been well-buried for many years,” he says. A sour, wrinkled Malaysian man at the bar who does not want to give his name takes a sterner view. “Why has Asian humor proved so tough to find? The media in Asia tends to be run by business people looking after their own interests working with backstabbing government officials. Individuals like that just aren’t naturally funny.”

  His view is coincidentally corroborated by Ms. Luo in Beijing, who tells me via email that her government once put out an officially approved pop song called When I Grow Up I Want to Be a Peasant. Had it been intended to be ironic, it would have been funny.

  Later, I get back to cyberspace and look to student publications, theatre groups, internet chat-rooms and so on: that’s where Asian humor is hiding.

  Monday, May 26

  Best joke received today so far:

  An Indian man goes into a night market food-stall in Singapore and orders three rice dinners. He eats all three by himself.

  “Hungry?” asks the food stall man.

  “I am one of three brothers,” the diner says. “One of my brothers has a curry house in Delhi and the other has one in Beijing. So we pledged to always eat like this, so we can remember each other at mealtimes.”

  Every day the diner comes to the food stall. And every day he eats three rice dinners.

  This goes on for more than a year. And then one day he comes into the restaurant looking very sad. Weeping, he orders only two rice dinners.

  The food stall boss approaches with his head bowed. “I would like to offer my condolences on the sad passing of your brother,” he says.

  “Oh, neither of my brothers is dead,” says the diner. “I am on no-carbs diet.”

  A fascinating debate takes off at the bar this evening about the two meanings of “funny”. Asians may not be top of the list when it comes to things which are “funny-ha-ha” but we are definitely right up there when it comes to “funny-wacky”. Where else in the world do grown men collect Hello Kitty soft toys? Where else do fisherfolk discover living dinosaurs—and barbecue them for lunch? Where else is the most expensive dish on the menu made of congealed bird spittle?

  Tuesday, May 27

  Dear Diary, I am sitting in the coffee shop thinking about my father. A serious Muslim, he loved sharing the Nasruddin Tales, which are 12th century Islamic jokes.

  Grabbing the laptop, I fire off emails to family members to see if they remember any of them.

  Just now, I only recall his favorite one, which went like this.

  Nasruddin tells his wife: “I’m going to spend the day plowing and will be home for dinner.”

  His wife responds: “You should never make a statement without adding insha’Allah, if it is God’s will.”

  Ignoring her, Nasruddin sets off. He is struck by lightning, falls off a cliff, washed away by a flood and carried away by a tornado. He crawls home on his hands and knees and knocks on the door.

  His wife asks: “Who is it?”

  He replies, “Nasruddin, insha’Allah.”

  Wednesday, May 28

  A tale arrives by email from a family member.

  Nasruddin falls asleep under a tree and misses an appointment with the mayor.

  When he gets home, he finds the mayor has scratched the words “IDIOT” on his door.

  Nasruddin races to the mayor’s office and says: “Sorry, I forgot our appointment. Luckily, someone scratched your name on my door.”

  Two hours later, another tale arrives, from a cousin of a cousin.

  Nasruddin is guest of honor at a dinner. But when he turns up in casual clothes, his hosts tell him to come back in
formal dress.

  Nasruddin returns in a suit and pours the soup onto his clothes. “Meet my jacket,” he tells the other guests. “It’s the guest of honor.”

  * * *

  The stock markets around the world are still bad. But not everything is going down. “London house prices defy gravity” an international newspaper headline says.

  Thursday, May 29

  Dear Diary, I am busier than ever, answering comments and posting items on the web—but can’t yet see how this all works as a business model. Whether a blog is ignored or reasonably popular doesn’t change the amount of money it pulls in: zero dollars and zero cents. The end of the month is approaching and the ATM is about to run dry. And I am no nearer to showing Harold S.T. Woot that it is possible to make a living in Asia telling funny stories to people. As usual at these times, the philosophical node in my head switches on: The blogger suffers the most dramatic work/ pay mismatch since slavery was abolished.

  A wave of horror sweeps over me. Am I working so hard to set out on a road that leads nowhere? But then Man-sir phones, delighted by the way our little database of Asian jokes is growing. “Did you hear about the funny man who built a bridge?”

  “No. Tell me.”

  “Look in the mirror.”

  I take a look. No bridge builder visible. Just that creepy bald guy, who is now a creepy, bald, baggy-eyed guy.

  III.

  A SPELL AT SUMMER SCHOOL

  Chapter Six

  THE HUMOR TAP TURNED ON

  In which an idea grows into an issue

  Monday, June 2

  Dear Diary, it’s the day of my presentation at the Rotary Club annual dinner. I give a talk called: “Asians May Not Seem To Be Funny-Ha-Ha But We’re DEFINITELY Funny-Weird. I Mean, Just Look At Me.”