cast From The Herd Exceprt # 108: A Touch of Luxury!

 Cast From The Herd:  Memories of Matriarchal Malaysia

M. Bakri Musa

Excerpt # 108:  A Touch of Luxury!

Customs and immigration when I landed at Hong Kong Airport posed no problem for me; not so for a fellow Chinese student. He was detained for extra scrutiny. Without realizing it then, I was witnessing an early and very crude form of racial profiling. The only difference with this oriental variety, in contrast to the American (then and now), was that both perpetrator and victim were of the same race and skin color. Thank God I was spared the humiliation. 

            Upon exiting, I was mobbed by touts offering all sorts of services. I had to keep a tight hold onto my pockets amidst the din and chaos. Then an officious-looking Chinese lady in the distinctive bright orange Canadian Pacific Airline jacket came up and grabbed the ticket in my hand. “You go Canadian Pacific tomollow?” she asked, to confirm what she had already read. I nodded. She dragged me to a van where some other passengers were already waiting. 

            After navigating the narrow congested streets, with cars blasting their horns and rickshaw drivers tempting fate, we arrived at the ornate porch of our hotel. We were greeted by a platoon of Oriental beefeaters eager to grab our bags and lead us to the glittering lobby with its huge chandeliers and ornate plush carpets. I was now entering a new world of luxury and opulence on a scale much grander than that of the Sri Menanti palace. I felt like a sultan; now all I had to do was act regal. 

            I was ushered to my room with the bellboy lugging my suitcases. As I entered the room I glimpsed at a portrait of myself in the huge dresser mirror – a kampung kid incongruous amidst the opulence, like a scrawny village water buffalo plunked onto a lush meadow. After placing my suitcases on the wooden stand, the bellboy muttered in his choppy Chinese, “Loof top lestaulant best!” as he pointed his thumb up. 

            It took me a few minutes, and only a few, to get used to the luxuries. I flung myself over the vast expanse of the firm bed and cuddled one of the overstuffed soft pillows. Outside were high-rises, and down below and a world away, the congested dirty streets of Hong Kong. As a typical Malay boy would do in the afternoon even though it was cool in that room, I took a shower. More luxury! Hot water and thick velvety towels! Invigorated, I then explored my new abode. 

            I went to the rooftop restaurant as earlier recommended by the bell boy and wandered into a hushed, empty dining room. I was about to retreat thinking that it was closed when the maitre de came up and guided me to a table by the window, repeatedly bowing over and over while extending his right palm to lead the way. From my table I could see the vast expanse of the harbor. Soon the waitresses were all over me. One spread the cloth napkin across my lap. Such attention, and a bewildering selection on the menu! 

            Remembering the earlier halal advice of my imam, I chose seafood. Soon I was served soup in a turtle shell. A moment of theological crisis:  Is turtle land or sea animal? I remembered the turtles I saw in the rice fields; those were definitely not edible, by sight and what they eat. On the other hand the sea turtle eggs of Trengganu were prized treats. After having a sip, I decided that the soup was of sea turtles. It was heavenly; must be halal. Allah would not deny His mortals such delicacies. 

            Dinner was now a whole new experience for me. Used to piling my food on the plate and then gobbling it down as fast as possible, I was now very much conscious of the elegant presentation, coaxing me to relax and enjoy. Whereas dining at the high table at my old college I had to slow down so as not to trip on my table manners, here I wanted to pace myself and savor the experience. Even the shrimp was meticulously laid out on my plate; likewise the vegetables, so artistically presented. It would be a sin not to appreciate this great work of culinary art; an even greater sin if I were to gobble down the delicate morsels. I savored the moment, taking in the aroma, color, sight, and taste. I could get used to this – of being treated like a sultan – with ease and without much encouragement. 

            Back in my room despite the excitement of this new experience, I was sleepy, the post-prandial serotonin rush affecting me. In the movies this was where they would start smoking cigars, drinking wine, and reminiscing about the good old days, except that in my case the good days were that very moment. However, the most decadent thing I did was to slump on the sofa with my feet on the coffee table. If I were to do that at home my mother would reprimand me in no uncertain terms. 

            I was deep in revelry when the phone rang. I hesitated. Who would want to speak to me in this strange land? Must be a wrong number, but it kept ringing! Out of curiosity I picked it up. A loud shrill voice of a hysterical Chinese woman blasted from the other end like a burst fire hydrant. I put the phone away from my ear to avoid her verbal deluge. After she confirmed who I was, she commanded – yes, commanded! – me to pack my bags. I had been assigned the wrong hotel; mine was the cheaper one across town, not The Empress. I was to be at the lobby in thirty minutes to be picked up. 

            I knew there had been a mistake. I felt guilty indulging myself although I could not deny that I enjoyed the decadence. Given a few more opportunities and I could without much effort overcome my guilt. I decided to linger for a few minutes, the after-dinner hyperglycemia now overcoming me. Just as I was dozing off, the phone rang again. Oops! I was late and they were waiting for me. In my absentmindedness I picked the phone up again; the same high-pitched gush from the other end. 

            “Neber mind! You stay dare!” Then more choppy instructions, like a telegraph message. “Your plane lip tomollow, two o’cock. Van pick you lobby, noontime. Don’t be late.” Then before hanging up, “You hap blekpass at hotel!” 

            A last minute reprieve! I got to enjoy The Empress after all! 

Next:  Excerpt # 109:  A Personal-Guided Tour of Hong Kong