The Curious Diary of Mr Jam

by Nury Vittachi

  At that moment, one of the organizing staff breezes past and says: “You is here after all.” I am about to reply “Yes I is” when I realize what she means. Mr. or Ms. You has made it.

  I turn back to the half-typed, half-scribbled briefing notes I have been handed. They say: “He will be speaking first.” I blink at this. Who will be speaking first? Prof. Smith? Or me? Or You? I crosscheck my notes with the conference schedule. The first speaker is a man named He.

  Lucky guy. I wish my name was He. What a cool name. It is impossible to write anything about a guy named He without making him seem like a god. “Upon arriving at the office, He ate a donut, He went to the toilet, He blessed his followers and He ascended unto heaven.” See what I mean?

  The Design Education conference starts. I introduce Prof. He Renke, who is an expert in designs from traditional minority cultures in China. Of particular interest are the Tongdao people, who are very poor yet very law-abiding. “There has not been a single crime in 20 years,” he says, or perhaps I should write He says.

  I am amazed. I’ve lived in places where we can’t manage 20 minutes without heinous crimes, and that’s just in the kindergartens.

  At the end of the day, one of the delegates asks whether I am enjoying the conference. The conversation goes as follows.

  ME: “He really made me think.”

  HIM: “Who did?”

  ME: “He. You was good too.”

  HIM: “Me?”

  ME: “Not you, You.”

  Some days in China, everyone’s conversations sound like Abbot and Costello screenplays. At the end of the conference I catch up with Professor He and tell him I enjoyed his talk. He says he did not know why the Tongdao people had no crime. But instead of teaching them, he found himself learning from them. So there we have it. In unspoiled tracts of rural China, people have created a crime-free society. While out here in the modern world, we are arresting goats.

  Sunday, November 16

  Among the new inventions on display on day two of the design conference is a revolutionary alarm clock from Phillips. It is a globular appliance you stick on your bedside table. The thing is dark at night but gradually gets lighter as the day breaks until it shines brightly, waking you up. “No one likes being woken by an alarm clock,” the inventor tells me.

  Neat idea. However, I inform him that I already have such an appliance at home. “I call it the sky. It’s dark at night and gently gets brighter every morning. I keep it just outside my bedroom window. You may have seen it.”

  Monday, November 17

  The phone rings. It’s a friend of a friend asking me to be the entertainment next week at a big dinner being thrown for the worldwide boss of McDonald’s, who will be touring his Asian operations.

  As a dyed-in-the-wool Asian militant, I find it a bit of an ideological problem to be hosting the boss of the iconic American multinational fast food shop. But it is an important charity fund-raising dinner, so I agree to do it.

  Later, I discuss my misgivings with Des. “I don’t approve of McDonald’s food, but my children love eating there, so we argue about it all the time. Yet because we love each other, we end up compromising. I compromise by allowing them to eat there. They compromise by not throwing tantrums. Everybody wins. This is known as good parenting.”

  Des, who has no children, nods sagely.

  Wednesday, November 19

  Over breakfast with a pair of German reporters, we ponder one of the most puzzling east-west mysteries. Crime is linked to poverty, so why do cities in the richer west have more crime than those in the poorer east?

  “Confucianism? Asian values? Respect for authorities?” one of the Germans suggests.

  “Maybe Asian criminals are just too dumb to pull off a decent heist,” I tell him, thinking of reports I have written on hapless thieves who break into houses only to leave behind their wallets, keys, toolboxes and in one memorable Malaysian case, an expensive getaway car.

  I am still thinking about this puzzle when I get home that evening. At 11 pm I go to bed.

  At midnight, just as I am dozing off, my workaholic wife comes home noisily and wakes me up.

  At 2 am, Granny wakes up and turns on all the lights, ready for her usual hearty breakfast of English tea and custard creams. (Doctors have diagnosed my mother as suffering from “disorientation and general confusion about everything,” a term which perfectly describes my normal state of mind.) I fix her a snack and send her back to bed.

  At 3 am, two of my children wake up. One needs an urgent visit to the toilet and the other needs comforting after a bad dream. “Did you dream about a scary monster?” I ask.

  “Yes,” she weeps. “Mike Myers in The Cat in the Hat, widescreen edition.”

  I tell her that if Mr. Myers turns up at our flat, I will drop to all fours and bark to scare him away.

  At 4 am, Granny turns on all the lights again, informing me that we should phone the reception desk and tell them to reserve a table for us. I tell Grandma that our kitchen does not have a reception desk (“You can’t get the staff these days”) and send her back to bed.

  At 5 am, the dog, who shares our room, has a nightmare, and spends several minutes barking at something invisible.

  At 6.02 am, I finally fall asleep.

  At 6:30 am, the alarm goes off. Time to get up for work.

  This action-packed home life is common enough in most over-stuffed multi-generational homes of people in crowded Asian cities. Sometimes I wish I lived in a rural Texan family, which I understand typically consist of two rednecks and a goldfish, each of whom have a separate room, wing or building. (And a separate building to store their guns.)

  Of course not every night chez Jam is as disrupted as that one. Some nights it’s worse. Granny, the kids and the dog act as a tag-team, taking turns to wake me up at 15-minute intervals.

  After arriving at the office, I send an email to the German reporter. “I think I know why Asians don’t commit more crimes,” I write. “Actually, we’d love to. But we’re just too tired.”

  Thursday, November 20

  The day of the McDonald’s gig has arrived. Racing home to change, I tell my daughter that I am going out to meet the President and Chief Operating Officer of McDonald’s.

  “This guy is the big boss of every branch of every McDonald’s in the whole wide world,” I announce, knowing that that will impress her mightily.

  “You mean Ronald McDonald?” she gasps. “Can you get his autograph for me?”

  “Er, no, actually, his name isn’t Ronald.”

  She’s shocked. “But he will be there, won’t he?”

  “Er, no, I don’t think so.” I break it to her gently that the yellow-suited clown which the company uses as a symbol is not actually the guy who runs the business. “Ronald is not the big boss of the company. It’s run by a businessman.”

  “A businessman?” she says in scornful italics. You can’t blame her. To a kid, a country should be run by a king, and McDonald’s should be run by a clown. What would you need a businessman for?

  “Businessmen don’t even eat at McDonald’s,” she says. Good point. I decide to not try justifying this, but simply head out to dinner.

  At the party in a hotel ballroom, I conduct an auction and the McDonald’s boss repeatedly donates vast amounts of cash to Asian charities, causing me to temporarily lose my ideological opposition.

  I learn three surprising things about McDonald’s:

  1. It’s not as ubiquitous as people think. Asian countries without McDonald’s include Bangladesh, Bhutan, Cambodia, East Timor, Laos, the Maldives, Mongolia, Myanmar, Nepal, North Korea, Papua New Guinea and Vietnam.

  2. In Asian places which do have McDonald’s, beef-burgers don’t dominate the menu. The most popular items in Indian branches are vegetarian. In Japan, buyers queue for prawnburgers. In South Korea, they eat the Bulgogi Burger, a traditional Korean pork dish. In Hong Kong, fishburgers are top sellers.

  3. Many adults think Ronald
McDonald doesn’t exist. In fact, that’s the name of a family member who works as a restaurant consultant. The whole clown thing has been massive marketing problem for him. His website warns people who book his services: “Ronald does not have red hair or wear big shoes.”

  Friday, November 21

  A magazine editor from Thailand calls to ask whether I have ever interviewed Obama, the soon-to-be-President of the USA. He has to fill a ten-page special section on US politics.

  “No, but I did meet the older George Bush once, although I didn’t write about it. Let me think. This might work: I had an exclusive interview with his son earlier this year as he prepared to leave office,” I reply. “But it took place in a particularly dark corner of my imagination, for a newspaper.”

  “That sounds good. Can you email it to us? We’ll pay you, probably.”

  I do so happily.

  * * *

  GEORGE W. BUSH: I jess want you ta tell the Asian people that ah am totally in favor of them continuing to export their great, great products, such as fortune cookies, to the Land of the Free.

  ME: Er, fortune cookies are American.

  BUSH: That’s right. I noo that. What I meant was Asian CULCH’RAL products, such as The Karate Kid, and Mulan, and all them great movies you guys make.

  ME: Those movies are American too.

  BUSH: I noo that, too. I meant Asian movie actors, such as Pat Morita and George Takei.

  ME: Let’s just move on. Now, surveys show that Asians feel very negative about foreign policy during your presidency. Your invasion of Iraq was widely condemned by Asian nations.

  BUSH: Let me explain it in simplerized terms. America was attacked on 911. So we fought back by attacking Iraq, also known as Iran.

  ME: But Iraq had no connection with the 911 attacks.

  BUSH: Yeah! Lucky them. Otherwise we would have smacked ‘em WAY harder.

  ME: But why attack them at all, since they had no connection with the crime?

  BUSH: Because that Saddam Hussein repeatedly denied having weapons of mass destruction. We warned him that if he continued ta deny it, we would invade. So we did.

  ME: So when you attacked him, did he use them in defense?

  BUSH: Nope. You see, them weapons never really existed. It was all a bluff.

  ME: But how can you accuse him of bluffing when he had been saying all along that they never existed?

  BUSH: He only said that ta make us think the opposite.

  ME: Do you really believe that?

  BUSH: Of course. Ain’t it logical?

  ME: What do you feel about Asia today?

  BUSH: Ah love the food. Specially the fortune cookies. But your countries have terr’ble human rights records.

  ME: What about Guantanamo Bay?

  BUSH: Yeah, them too. ALL Asian countries.

  ME: Guantanamo Bay is American.

  BUSH: I noo that.

  ME: President Bush, when you took office, there was a tiny handful of serious terrorists hostile to America. After your reign, the great majority of the world’s population was angry with America, including most Asian nations.

  BUSH: Well, Saddam Hussein shouldn’t have started all that trouble.

  ME: He didn’t. You did.

  BUSH: Technically, that’s right. Well, that’s because it’s important to take the initiative. It’s The Amer’can Way.

  ME: How would you like people in Asia to remember you?

  BUSH: Asian folks respect business, right? Well, ah was the guy who steered more power into the hands of the business comoonity than anyone else ever before.

  ME: But didn’t that end up triggering a global financial crisis?

  BUSH: Yah can’t blame me for that. We should blame Iraq. Or North Korea. Don’t really matter who. Each one is a heavily armed place run by a self-obsessed, trigger-happy leader.

  ME: Rather like America during your reign?

  BUSH: Exactly.

  * * *

  An hour later, feeling nervous, I call the magazine editor back, and repeat the fact that the interview with George W. Bush never actually happened, it was just a bit of humor.

  “You said that before.”

  “I just wanted to make sure you got it.”

  “Of course I got it. You sound like one of those people who think that Asians have no sense of humor. I hate people like you.”

  He abruptly puts down the phone.

  Monday, November 24

  Beard guy is still following me around. I give a public talk and I notice the guy with the long tresses and ZZ Top chin hair standing at the back, watching. Again he leaves as soon as I have finished. He looks like the gwai-lo bad guy from a Cantonese martial arts movie. This means trouble, I’m sure.

  * * *

  As the end of the year approaches, fear flowers are blossoming out of season. In Hong Kong, the azalea and the flame of the forest are known as fear flowers, because they always produce blossoms between March and May, when students are frantically cramming for their main exams. But the pretty red flowers have all started blossoming now—either half a year early, or half a year late. The Hong Kong Observatory blog says that climate change has caused nature to go haywire.

  Tuesday, November 25

  Now it becomes clear. The fear flowers were trying to warn me of bad news, which arrived in spades today. One of the publications which is actually paying a decent fee for my column has suddenly closed down. Eddie is sympathetic but Des gloats behind a face of false sympathy.

  Eddie has spoken to his friends at the wire agencies and they have all said they have no interest in seeing anything from an Asian columnist.

  The landlord sends me a letter saying that he is raising the rent 35 per cent.

  A newspaper which created a well-paid post for a humor columnist reveals today that it has given it to young woman with no experience in journalism or humor. However, she is considered more than qualified by dint of being the daughter of one of the newspaper’s board members.

  I get an email from the bank reminding me of the need for “proof of income”. Aiyeeah. What a day.

  Wednesday, November 26

  Dear Diary, today dawns sunny but cool, with a light breeze from the north. It puts a spring in my step as I head out to the Quite Good.

  On the way, I notice that the neighborhood seller of second-hand stuff has a magazine featuring an article on the science of comedy. For a few days once a month, it says, women prefer poor funny guys to rich, handsome ones. Scientists at the University of California showed 41 women two sets of pictures. One featured a creative but penniless group of guys, and the other a wealthy, successful group of men. Which ones did the women feel drawn to? Those who were ovulating preferred the cheeky-but-poor guys. I often complain about scientists wasting public money, but in this instance, this study should instantly be given the entire research budget of every university on earth.

  Why do women like witty guys during their fertile period? The magazine says: “Humor is a sign of creativity and intelligence and hence an indicator of high-quality genes.” But of course.

  Another finding in the magazine: men and women both list “sense of humor” in their list of essential characteristics for the perfect date. But they mean opposite things. Women mean: “I want a guy who makes me laugh.” Men mean: “I want a woman who laughs at my jokes.”

  Arriving at the noodle shop, my first task is to call Sandy Gandhi, an Indian female comedian working in Australia. She is cute and funny but complains about not getting dates.

  “So THAT’S why I’m still single,” she replies.

  “Yep. Guys aren’t charmed by your humor because they’re waiting for you to be charmed by theirs.”

  “All the men I’ve gone out with had that certain something, which I call the X factor,” she grumbles. “Everyone one of them became quickly an ‘ex’.”

  Sitting back and pondering the issue, it strikes me that these scientific discoveries are interesting, but a bit tough to apply in practice, espec
ially in conservative Asia. I mean, how do you find out if a woman is ovulating when you haven’t even got to the dating part yet? Can you just slide it into the conversation? “Hi, do you come here often? Are you ovulating?”

  It would be better if one could make a general announcement at the club. “Call all ladies who are in the fertile part of their monthly cycle kindly line up next to the guys who are poor and ugly but kind of funny.”

  Thursday, November 27

  In the evening I am sitting at the dining table at home reading the newspaper, while the kids are playing some sort of computer game nearby. Or at least my eyes are reading the newspaper, dancing from one word to the next, while my mind is elsewhere.

  It occurs to me that all the odd little things I do to earn a bowl of rice to feed them with could be starting to converge. I write this diary mainly for myself, but chunks of it go onto the internet as posts, while the same or other chunks appear in newspapers and magazines as columns. Some bits are suited for live performance and become new routines. Some bits I use as radio comedy. What’s more, all the activities trigger feedback these days, with people adding jokes or observations or sending in ideas or funny stories from their localities. They do it by email or instant message or by adding comments to the blog. Some even still write physical letters, while others call on the phone. Sometimes people even stop me in the street with tales to tell. Many of the contributors are folk who come from communities believed to have no sense of humor—they are Muslims, communists, Asians in general, all people who would get top places on Harold S.T. Woot’s supposed list of individuals with no senses of humor. These comments in turn inspire new diary entries and so a self-sustaining system has evolved. More importantly, all this has happened at the same time as there has been a change in society. People in Asia are somewhat turning their backs on western entertainment. They want to see themselves in the mirror that the arts holds up for them—not a society 10,000 kilometers away.