WARNING: Some pictures may contain graphic images

Let me start with an apology and an explanation. An earthquake off the coast of China about a month ago severed an undersea fiber optic cable that just so happens to carry a good deal of data in and out of Malaysia. For the past month, I have not been able to find a reliable internet connection from which I could post, that is, until I had a connection installed in my apartment for a ridiculous (relatively speaking) amount of money. The connection, fortunately, works wonderfully unlike the connections at every school and internet café I have been to in the past several weeks. I fully intend to resume weekly posts as of this moment. That said, I have much to tell about the past month.
My time in an air-conditioned hotel at orientation came to an end and I have been sent forth into the wild to fend for myself. Well, not really the wild, but I will be without the company and comfort of other Americans from now on. My first stop away from the hotel was the house of a small family on the outskirts of Kuala Terengganu where I was to live for the next several days. I was introduced to Kamal and Rosalina and they took me into their house, fed me, and treated me like a brother they had not seen in years. Kamal was a man of modest height, coming up to about my chest, with a quiet and easy manner, but little English. His wife on the other hand, was fluent and served as my interpreter for most of my stay. They had a beautiful and modest suburban home complete with a garage and a minivan and there I was introduced to the two cutest children that I have met, Ikram and Alia. Alia, an amazingly bright six-year-old, had heard that an “orang putih” (white man) was coming to stay for a few days and had apparently been antsy and excited for days. She was waiting in the doorway for me when I arrived with wide eyes and a grin itching to turn into a giggle. Ikram, only a year old, was too busy destroying things to notice me much until I started tickling him. I had a blast with the little girl and we took turns teaching each other words in our languages. She taught me how to say hair (rambut), fur (bulu), fan (kipas), buncik (belly), and a bunch of others while I taught her how to count to five, say “How are you? Good.” We had a whole routine down by the time I left and we performed in front of her beaming parents. I have seriously never felt so welcome in a household that wasn’t my own, and not just because there was a constant supply of food on the table. They treated me like royalty and their generosity came directly from their hearts, not from obligation. For example, there is a celebration in Islam called Hari Raya Qurban, (literally translated means Day of Celebration and Sacrifice) in which the family comes together for a day, enjoys each other’s company, and gives food to the poor. More specifically, beef is given to the poor since the unfortunate rarely get meat. Sure enough, there was a bull patiently standing in the shade when I arrived: the sacrificice. After an hour or two of meeting people and polite conversation, an imam (local minister) came by dressed in a blue pair of pants, a t-shirt, and a white cap symbolizing his pilgrimage to Mecca. He was carrying a long curved knife. Ropes were tied around the legs of the bull and a small army of men forced it on its side while women, children, family, and friends gathered around to watch. The imam bent down, said a prayer, and as you can see from the pictures, the bull quickly became unhappy. I have never seen something quite as graphic, but I did manage to videotape the whole process if you would like to see the entire ceremony start to finish.
After the bull stopped moving, the men went to work. I tried to help, but my knowledge of butchery is rather limited. I wasn’t that bad at skinning, but when they pointed to the testes and then to my knife, I decided that I should leave such things to the experts. Chunks of fresh beef were carved out of the carcass and placed into several small piles, each destined for a different poor family. I still remember the smell of those piles as they sat in the sun on dirty bloodstained tarps while the sound of axes and sharp knives rang in my ears. My thoughts went to sanitation but then turned to an old man enthusiastically cutting meat from the remainder of a leg. He was over ninety years old; if he ate in this manner annually, I imagine that whatever process they use works just fine.

After the meat was appropriately cut, the women took over. They rinsed it many times, mixed it together with spices and a thick peanut sauce and simmered the mix in a huge pan over an equally huge propane burner. I was allowed to help shave some of the coconuts to make cooking oil and mix the pan a few times, but I wasn’t much help. We left shortly after the beef started cooking, so I didn’t get to taste the meat that I had helped prepare, but I imagine that it was delicious. Normally, this ceremony is reserved for Muslims only, but in the spirit of hospitality, I was allowed to take part. To understand how truly touching this gesture was, think about how often do you invite foreign guests over to your house on Christmas morning.

For me, the most heartwarming part was yet to come. At our final lunch together, right before I was to leave for my school posting one hundred and twenty miles to the south, we ate and talked together about the weekend and they asked several times when I was coming back. As I was about to leave, Kamal looked at me and quietly said, “I do not have much to give you, but thank you for coming. I hope I see you again soon.” Then he took off his ring and handed it to me. His initials were engraved on the side of the silver ring, and a oval of Swiss diamonds encircled a pale red stone in the middle. It was beautiful. “You keep this,” he said. “My brother-in-law is a goldsmith. It is no problem.” He wouldn’t accept my objections and insisted that I take the ring with me. With the exception of my own family, I have never felt such sincerely and kindness. I still do not understand what I did to warrant the kind of generosity and care that I was given, but I will certainly never forget it and I only hope that I can pay it back somehow.