Four months of living in Australia and she is still as ignorant as the first day she stepped into Adelaide Airport. The more time passes, the bigger the world of the unknown becomes.
‘Take it step by step, you can’t expect to know everything overnight,’ Marietta has said.
‘It’s just a matter of time,’ Jim says one evening.
‘When am I going to learn? I’m so stupid, I don’t know anything,’ Laila says.
‘You need to be patient, honey. Don’t be so hard on yourself.’
Package tucked under her arm, Laila walks towards the post office. In the package is a book on flower-pressing for Jeannie, a T-shirt with an Aboriginal motif for Krisno and a packet of potpourri for Mak. When Jim is able to save more and give some to her, she will send money to Mak. For now, she can only afford little gifts.
‘Hi, how are you?’ the man behind the counter says.
‘Fine, thank you. I would like to post this to Malaysia.’ She shows the man the package.
‘Okay, you’d need to use one of those packs. Over there.’ He points.
Laila walks to a wall of shelves. There is a dizzying array of postpaks, satchels, padded bags, tough bags, expandable tough bags, mailing boxes, mailing tubes, CD cases, winepaks, special-purpose products. Under each item is a label with a description and price. She scans the items trying to locate what she needs. She doesn’t know where to start. After some time, she picks up a postpak that’s about the size of her package. She returns to the counter. The man shakes his head.
‘Get one of those pre-paid international ones, love.’ ‘Sorry, I didn’t hear you,’ she says.
‘Pre-paid.’
‘Pre what?’ she says.
‘Pre-paid satchels, at the far corner.’
She still can’t make out what he’s saying but she returns to the shelves anyway, too embarrassed to ask again. She stands there trying to figure out what the man meant, looks at the far corner but can’t find whatever it is he was referring to. Ten minutes later, she leaves, the gifts still in her hand.
Jim chuckles when she tells him her ordeal that evening and offers to mail the parcel the next day.
After completing her morning chores, Laila runs to the shop to buy a notebook. She starts with random jottings of names and things. Pergola, Weet-Bix, secateurs, placemats, plunger, fly swat, infuser, cask, spatula, blood and bone, sachet, squeegee. She makes little drawings so she can remember what the item looks like.
After about eight pages, she finds them too randomly listed, making it hard to refer to them. So she re-lists them under categories she indexes alphabetically, such as Home, Outdoor, and so on. Soon she runs out of pages, so she goes out and gets another, bigger notebook and re-enters them all. She lists ‘them’s the breaks’ and ‘beaut’ under S for ‘Speech’, and ‘budgie’ and ‘chook’ under A for ‘Animals’. When she shows Jim her OZ book, he laughs.
‘Honey, you don’t need a notebook. Plenty of dictionaries around.’
‘Dictionaries are not the same. It doesn’t have words like chux,’ Laila says.
‘You’ll remember these words in no time at all.’
‘No, I won’t. How long did it take you?’
‘Me? I never had to learn. Everyone here just knows these words.’
‘No, Jim, you did learn, your whole life. Forty years.’
‘Hey, not quite, thirty-nine, okay? Haven’t hit the Big Four-O yet.’
‘You know what I’m saying. You were born here and grew up listening to these words and learnt from the time you started talking.’ She flicks through her book ‘Me? It’s only been four months. I will need another forty years to be able to know everything like you. I will be sixty-four then.’
‘Still a damn good-looking sixty-four-year-old, I bet.’ He chuckles.
Laila walks away and plonks herself on the bed, looking up at the ceiling. ‘Jim, you are making fun of me.’
‘Oh babe, I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to.’ He joins her on the bed. The mattress creaks under his weight. ‘I think it’s great that you’re taking such pains. If it was me, I wouldn’t bother. I’d just stumble along until I got it. Guess I can’t know how difficult it is. Haven’t travelled, haven’t been overseas.’
‘If you ever go to Malaysia you will love it, I know. You will eat like crazy.’
‘Yeah, pig out. Doesn’t sound like hard work.’
‘Pig out.’ She props herself up on her elbows, opens the book at Speech and pens in the words. ‘Pig out,’ she verbalises and writes out the meaning beside it, ‘eat like crazy’.
‘Why do you Australians call everything a pig?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I was at the hairdresser’s the other day and overheard two women talking. One of them, she was so angry and her face was so red, she said her husband was a pig. She said she had enough of him spending all their money at the—the pockies?’
‘Ha-ha-ha…’ Jim cackles. ‘Oh Laila, you can be so funny. There’s another one for you—pokies. Poker machines, you know, at the hotels, those rooms with gambling machines.’
She grabs her pen and flicks the pages.
‘And her husband is a pig because he is one.’ He lifts his head, slaps his knee and cracks up. Then he drops back onto the bed, laughing up at the ceiling.
‘But pigs are such cute animals. Why would anyone refer to them when they want to say that someone is bad or horrible?’
‘It’s just an expression, honey. People talk in a particular way because it’s easily understood. So instead of saying he’s a bloody inconsiderate and selfish arsehole, she just calls him a pig. Plain and simple, and everyone knows what she means.’
‘Jim, don’t use that word. It is not nice.’
‘Arsehole?’
‘Don’t.’ She continues writing. ‘In Sarawak, we have really big wild pigs. They are very dangerous animals.’
‘Oh yeah? I know a few people I’d like to feed to the wild pigs.’
She eyes him. ‘Don’t be mean, Jim.’
‘Me?’ He feigns an innocent look.
After she finishes, Jim takes the book from her and leafs through it, reading aloud here and there.
‘Pack the shits: scare you. Yakka: work…Pass the buck: give responsibility to someone else. Pooch: dog…Moggie: mongrel. Hit the jackpot: win a big prize.’ At some points, he raises his eyebrows and cracks up. ‘Dunny: toilet. Hah! Didn’t think that would be so hard.’
‘Don’t laugh at me, Jim.’ Laila goes to the cupboard to get her nail polish. She sits on the bed and paints her toenails.
‘Hey, you could put the same word in more than one listing, you know,’ Jim says.
‘How?’
‘See, you’ve got “drop the bundle” under “Speech”? That really is slang.’
She looks at him questioningly.
‘Slang means expressions used in a certain place or by some people, say Australia. So you could start a new list called “Slang” and put some words you’ve got under “Speech” there as well. That way, it’ll be easier to find them.’
Laila thinks for a moment, then her face lights up.
‘You are right. You are so clever.’
‘Not bad for a fruit-picker, hey?’
Laila follows Jim up the stairs. Her shoes clank on the metal steps. The wind gets stronger the higher they climb, cutting into her skin. She pulls the parka right up to her chin, buries her hands in her pockets. When they reach the top of Headings Cliffs lookout, 360 degrees of panoramic riverland scenery surrounds them. Laila moves from corner to corner on the platform, her hands clinging onto the railing like a child.
‘Oh, Jim, this is so beautiful,’ she says.
‘This is the reason why I live here. Can views get better than this?’
‘Also, your parents and grandparents lived here, that’s why.’
‘Damn right. Hard to remove your roots, if you know what I mean.’
To their left is the River Murray, its waters the dee
pest blue she’s ever seen, darkening where shadows of gum trees linger. On their side of the bank, a sharp drop of red earth, craggy, dotted with clumps of bush scrub. Where the drop plunges into the water, fringes of reeds sway in the wind.
Down towards the river she hears the cry of kookaburras but she can’t spot them anywhere. At such a height, sounds emerge from unknown places, travelling in surround-sound. Out in the distance, the spread of orange and mandarin trees. Yet further out, clumps of she-oaks cover the hillocks, blending with the stubble and fallow of the land.
The spread of the landscape reminds Laila of Sarawak. She sees her brother Krisno swinging on the longhouse verandah, his hands gripping the wooden railing, and before Laila could say, you know Mak says not to do that, you’ll break your neck, Krisno has already let go his hands. Sticking his tongue out, Krisno is grinning at her as he lands on his backside on the grass, then his body is rolling down the slope, his shrieks of delight echoing along the river.
Rumah Busang suddenly appears in front of her, and she and her sister Jeannie are huddled in a corner of the bilik. Laila is showing Jeannie magazine cut-outs of Richard Gere and Mel Gibson, for which she’d swapped her own cut-outs with her girlfriends at school.
‘Happy birthday, darling,’ Jim says.
Laila is suddenly brought back to Australia. Jim gathers her into his arms, then he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a present. He takes her hand and places the present in her palm.
‘Just a little something.’
‘Oh, Jim, thank you. I wasn’t expecting anything.’ She looks down at the present in surprise. It is clumsily wrapped in brightly coloured paper with smiling crescent moon and sun motifs, corners uneven and edges crooked.
‘Go on, open it.’
Laila opens the package carefully. She peels the paper away to reveal a perfume box. The label reads Red Door by Elizabeth Arden. She opens the box and takes out the bottle, brings it close to her nose.
‘Spray it on, go on,’ Jim says.
She fiddles with the lid. Jim helps her. The lid comes off and he holds out her wrist and sprays the perfume on her pulse point. Laila lifts her arm and smells her wrist.
‘Mmm…very nice,’ she says.
She returns the bottle to the box, puts it in her pocket and wraps her arms round his neck.
‘Thanks so much, Jim.’ She kisses him.
Dearest Jeannie and Krisno,
Sorry I have not written for so long. I was busy preparing for the wedding. As you can tell from the photos, it went smoothly. It was held in the local church. About thirty people attended, mostly Jim’s friends. After the ceremony, we had a reception at a hotel in town. There were all kinds of food, music and everyone had a good time. See the flowers in the photo? I chose them for decorating the room. There were speeches as well. Everyone kept looking at me. As you see, an Australian wedding is very different from an Iban wedding. Jeannie, do you like my wedding gown? Jim bought it for me from the bridal shop in town. I wasn’t sure about the veil but Jim said it looked nice.
I’m writing in English so Pak can’t read this, okay? But, to be on the safe side, try not to read it in his presence.
Jim is a wonderful husband. He is kind to me and always giving me little gifts. We do a lot of things together and he cheers me up when I get homesick. He will make faces or act in a silly way, like a clown, and that always makes me laugh. For my birthday he gave me a bottle of perfume.
I have made a very close friend. She is Filipino and her name is Marietta. She is like my half sister. We see each other nearly every day and go to town together. Through her, I see this country in a different way. She has taught me a lot of things that have helped me get used to life in Australia—for example, how to use the barbecue, how to pick out sale items in the supermarket, how to tell when someone is making a joke. Even though she is Filipino, she is just like a Sarawakian. She thinks like us, acts like us, and she truly understands me. We both love noodles, sticky rice and anything made with coconut milk.
Yes, I don’t need to wash the clothes by hand anymore. What a relief.
You won’t believe what the shops are like in Australia. Supermarkets are not just supermarkets. They have clothes, blankets, slippers, socks, vases, greeting cards, picture frames, novels, candles and home decoration items as well. You can’t imagine this, can you? If you were here, you’d love looking at the things in the shops. Jeannie, you’d love the craft shops, and there are so many of them. I know you’d go crazy with the patchwork. I still remember the colourful one you made for Mak with leftover pieces of cloth. The word they use is ‘haberdashery’ (think I got the spelling right). I am thinking of doing some craft to pass time. Might as well put my skills to work—remember how I won the sewing prize for my smocked baby dress?
Even though Renmark is a country town, the shops are all nice, new and clean. Totally different from the shops in Kapit and Belaga. Australians really know how to decorate their shops. They have nice names too, like Patisserie, Gabbie’s Gifts, Bargain Basement, Vaughan’s Shoes, Cinnamon Grove Gifts and Crafts. There is no dirt on the streets, no open drains and all public toilets are clean and have toilet paper!
My life is simple. Jim goes to work in the morning and I stay at home to do housework. I cook him dinner every evening. If I have time, I’ll walk into town. Most afternoons, I meet Marietta by the river. Did I tell you, our place is near the River Murray? It is so beautiful. I cannot take my eyes off it each time I walk past.
I miss Sarawak food so badly. The food we eat at home is boring. Every time I think about pansoh manok, daun paku, ikan terupok and kuih celolot, I feel myself going mad. I cooked noodle soup once for Jim and even though he ate it, I know he didn’t really like it.
Australian people are not very friendly. The shopkeepers, they don’t recognise you no matter how many times you visit their shop. The say hello, how are you, but it is just for show, not really to find out how you are. Not like the shopkeepers in Kapit. Remember the butcher Mak used to take us to? How he would always ask us about things in the family? Not here. People are not really interested in your life. But that’s OK, I have Marietta and Jim.
Well, that’s all for now. Don’t forget to translate this letter to Mak. And give her my love. I miss you all very much.
Love,
Laila
The bell dangling from the top of the door rings as she enters Craft Corner in Lefty’s Mall. The attendant is serving two women so Laila browses. In one large box are packages with different pictures showing through the plastic. Across the other side of the shop are shelves of rag dolls, stuffed animal toys and rolls of fabric. Sewing machines and sewing tools are displayed in a corner.
As soon as the two women leave, the shop attendant walks over to her.
‘Hello, can I help you there?’
Laila smiles and points at the packages. ‘What are these?’
The shop assistant runs her hands lightly over them. ‘These? They’re cross-stitch kits.’
Laila picks up a kit and looks at it closely. Then she scans the kits. There are patterns of teddy bears, vases of flowers, seaside scenery, old-fashioned cars, sailing boats, with names such as Fairy Princess, Little Bunnies, Let There Be Peace, Australian Animals, Little Beehive, Bear Hugs.
One of a mother cat and three kittens catches her eye.
She’s always loved cats. Mak used to secretly feed the cats that would wander from one bilik to another in the longhouse. When Pak wasn’t looking she’d feed them rice mixed with food scraps. Tails upright, the cats would crisscross around her and as soon as Mak placed the bowl on the floor, they would stick their heads into the bowl. Mak would move quickly so the meows of the cats wouldn’t have the chance to drift into the bilik. Once Pak caught her at it. He yelled obscenities, threw his slipper at the cats. ‘Pests. Stupid creatures!’ He kicked the bowl and it flew across the verandah, the rice scattering over the earth.
Laila lifts the cat pattern off its hook and checks the price.
Twelve dollars. She makes the usual quick calculation—twelve times two and half equals approximately thirty ringgit. She’ll check with Jim tonight. While she’s reading the details of the packaging, the sales assistant takes another kit from the wall above and shows it to her.
‘How about this one? It’s popular and sells well.’
Laila looks at the kit named Our House. A frontal view of a brick house stares at her. White window frames, white fence. The only difference is that the wall is made of cream brick. Her heart leaps for a split second. She takes the kit and looks closely at it.
‘I like both of these but I need to think about it,’ she says.
‘Sure. You know where we are.’
Laila hands back the kits and heads for the door.
After Jim says, sure, honey, go right ahead and buy it, Laila races back to town the following day. When she enters the shop, no one is around. She lingers at the entrance, looking at the cross-stitch kits from a distance. After waiting for a few minutes, she’s about to leave the shop when she hears shuffling from a doorway. Then footsteps. An old woman wearing a floral frock and a light green cardigan appears.
‘Well, hello there. Hope you haven’t been waiting around for long. Can I help you?’ The woman comes towards Laila.
‘Those.’ She approaches the kits.
‘Was there any one in particular you were after?’
‘Yes. There was one of a house I saw yesterday.’
‘Now let me have a look.’ The woman goes through each one slowly.
Laila watches her, tries to locate it herself.
‘I don’t seem to see it anywhere here,’ the woman says.
‘The lady who was here yesterday showed it to me.’
‘Ah, my daughter. She owns the shop. Let me look again. Sorry, I’m not familiar with things here. I’m only minding the shop for her today.’
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