The Angel of Bang Kwang Prison (6 page)

Now that I had made my decision, how was I going to get myself to Asia? I lay in bed and went through a few scenarios for making the money for the air fare. One of my favourite customers at the nightclub floated into my mind’s eye. Bingo! I would ask him for the money. Philip was a well-to-do Chinese-Malaysian professor who owned a nightclub and restaurant and drove an expensive Jaguar. He used to come in for a quiet drink and we soon started having regular chats. We had enjoyed many a deep discussion over the bar. He had gone through a bad divorce and was missing his young son. After two weeks of talking to him he broke down one night in the bar and asked me to pray that he would discover the meaning of his life and what he was meant to do next. I liked him and felt sure that he would support my venture. I don’t usually like to ask people for help or money but this was different. The very next evening I walked into the lounge and found the professor at his favourite table. He smiled at me in welcome. I gathered myself together and headed over. I would just be upfront and not bother with the small talk.

‘Hiya, guess what? I’m off to Malaysia to do good things and God told me that you would pay for my plane ticket.’

He looked at me to see if I was joking. I trembled a little and he said, ‘Oh, I see! Right! Well let’s talk about this, why don’t you sit down.’

He ordered a bottle of Champagne and we talked until 4am. I told him my entire life story, including the drinking, drugging and rock ‘n’ rolling. He listened gravely without interrupting me once. Then he asked me why I wanted to go to Asia and what my plan was. He seemed very touched and asked me to let him think about it. He came back to me the next day, and said:

‘I feel that you have been completely honest with me and for that you have my trust. So, yes I will buy you your ticket.’

I flung my arms around him in thanks and relief. Now I could start to make my preparations. I was definitely going. Oh my sweet Jesus!

My parents were determined to hear me out and only raise valid, mature points about this new direction of mine. They knew very little about Asia and worried that I could end up being mowed down by a herd of raging, stampeding elephants or drink dirty water or fall out of the tree-house that I might be living in. Their biggest concern was what would happen to me if I fell ill; was there adequate medical treatment available? Philip did me another great favour in agreeing to visit them and explain to them what I could expect in his neck of the woods. They were very taken with his genteel ways and the fact that he was also a parent. He assured them that it was easier, and much cheaper, to get a doctor in Asia than it was in Australia; and that all the latest treatment was widely available. His visit had the desired effect and they were a lot easier in their minds about my going. I was always completely up front with them. I told them that this was something that I had to do and that I was prepared to give it three months. If it didn’t work out by then I would be happy to return.

So Philip was buying my air ticket but I still needed money for everything else. I decided to do a little personal fund-raising and approached both everyone I knew and strangers on the street holding up an empty coffee can that I needed filled with coins. Folks were fascinated by my story—that I was going to be a missionary in Asia. I suppose I really didn’t look the part and I was still very young of course. I bought a one way ticket, which shocked my family and friends, but that’s the cockiness of youth. I had complete faith that things were going to work out just fine! Maybe the excitement had me run ragged but I managed to come down with bronchitis with only a few weeks or so before my flight. My parents eyed me anxiously as I coughed and hacked my way through my final preparations. However, absolutely nothing was going to stop me getting on that plane. They took me out for a lovely dinner the night before I left and made me a present of much-needed cash. Rose was there too, almost as excited for me as I was.

Inevitably I didn’t sleep much that night despite the glasses of wine I drank to help me relax. The morning finally came round and I tried to savour my last hours in Melbourne, Australia. I remember eating a particularly gorgeous apple, and wondering how soon it would be before I would taste an apple that good again. On the way to the airport I constantly checked and rechecked all my bits and pieces. I must have worn a hole in my passport with the amount of times I frantically rifled through my holdall, even though I had just held it between my fingers seconds earlier. I clutched it, let it go and immediately fumbled around again as if it might vanish if I couldn’t feel it. Rose, her mother, her son, my parents and Annabel saw me off. I didn’t cry when I said goodbye because I was so tremendously excited.

I packed just one bag, wanting to keep it simple. Philip was flying out with me. We were landing in Kuala Lumpur where I was to spend a week before moving on to Penang. As usual I was taking a huge risk. Philip was heading on to Hong Kong to attend to some business dealings while I was going to wait for a miracle with my one bag and very little money. The last I heard of him was that he had married again, to a Filipino, and had settled down in Singapore. Meanwhile, I had a phone number of a guy I had met ages ago in Sydney. I knew he had married a Malay woman and was living and teaching somewhere in Malaysia.

The airport in Kuala Lumpur was a tin shed—nothing like its hugeness and variety of shops and restaurants today. When I stepped off the plane I nearly buckled under the immense wall of heat that seemed to descend on us; the typical reaction of westerners to tropical countries. We headed across the tarmac in the middle of the night. I was exhausted but on a high, hardly believing where I was. There were small crowds of youths standing around in groups; I marvelled at the amount of young boys out so late and hanging around an airport. I mentioned this to Philip, who laughed and told me that these were full-grown men and the reason they were ‘hanging out’ at the airport was because they were taxi drivers waiting to earn a living to feed their families. I looked again. They were shorter, slimmer and much younger looking than the men who drove taxis in Melbourne. They were also mostly dressed the same, stuck in the fashions of the 1970s, with colourful bell-bottomed pants and wide flashy belts. This was the 1980s now but I felt a jolt of nostalgia for the not-so-good old days.

I learned pretty quickly that transparent clothes were going to have to take a back seat in my daily attire. The first morning I innocently went walking in Kuala Lumpur clad in clothes which were normal in Melbourne. I was wearing bright pink shorts and a yellow see-through singlet, and as was usual for me I wasn’t wearing a bra. I almost caused a traffic accident. People were almost hanging out of their cars with lolling tongues and gawping eyes, and that was just the women. There were beeping horns, with people whispering and gesturing in my direction. I felt visually mauled and ran back in tears to the safety of the hotel. If that is what being a celebrity is like I’ll stop envying Madonna right now! I was so ignorant it actually took me a while to work out that there was nothing wrong with these people. I was the one at fault for dressing inappropriately and walking around a Muslim town. I was utterly shocked and thought about getting on the next plane home. Although, in my defence I would like to point out that I was very young and had spent the previous six months dressed as a playboy bunny!

The second morning I dressed in a cotton t-shirt and hippie skirt and headed out into the hot sun to explore again. I found some markets and bought myself a sarong kabaya, which is the national Malaysian costume. They cover most of the body but are quite tight-fitting so I felt sexy and conservative simultaneously. I received a much friendlier reaction, and people seemed to appreciate my attempt to fit in and conform.

I was to get a lot of early lessons in the customs and behaviour of others too. I walked along the busy street and spotted a family coming towards me. The husband was a huge man, Indian, with three chins and the body of a beached whale. He strode along, nose in the air, oblivious to his nearest and dearest tottering after him. His wife almost matched him in girth and I couldn’t help wondering about the possible size of their daily meals and the price of their grocery shopping. Three very young children ran to keep up with their mammoth parents. I got ready to smile dotingly at them but something terrible happened. The father began to make this awful hawking noise, preparing to either vomit or spit. I physically recoiled but couldn’t stop watching him. He hawked and hawked until he had collected every last drip of mucus from his vast interior and then he gathered himself to his full height and spat with considerable force. It landed on my left foot, which was only partially covered by my sandal. I screamed at the top of my lungs in horror and disgust. The entire family stared at me, shocked at my behaviour! I can laugh now, but I thought I was going to be sick right there in front of them. He never apologised or acknowledged his glob on my foot.

In Asia this sort of expelling of unwanted body fluids is perfectly normal. It’s funny because in Thailand you can openly and diligently pick your nose and ears without bringing any attention on yourself, but just don’t put a toothpick to work in your mouth or you’ll upset your neighbours. A friend of mine who went to China told me about watching these gorgeous looking girls picking their noses and belching in public but they would never allow themselves to wear a skimpy bikini at the beach because it’s not suitable behaviour for a young lady! Then there’s Songkla in Thailand where the men walk around in their colourful sarongs that make it easy for them to answer the call of nature—honestly, they just lift their sarong and wee, no matter where they are or who is around them. Of course if a woman was to squat on the street she would be arrested. Typical!

I rang my friend Ben’s phone number and was delighted when he answered. He thought that Pete was with me as the last time he saw us was when we were a loved-up couple enjoying the many sites of Sydney. I briefly summarised my life to date for him and he promptly invited me out to his house to have dinner with himself and his wife. Once again God was looking after me. Ben and his lovely wife, Esther, were thinking about moving to Penang; I couldn’t believe how serendipity was working for me. A bond was struck between us that day and we decided that not only would I move with them to Penang, but I would also move in with them to share the rent. Esther was gorgeous, with long, black hair, dark skin and always had a smile on her face. She made me feel right at home, with her generous, cheerful nature, and she also spoke very good English. They were hugely considerate people and mindful of the fact that I knew absolutely no one. The relief in my parents’ voices on my first phone call was huge.

Penang, or the ‘Pearl of the Orient’, is the name of an island in the Straits of Malacca. It’s also a Malaysian state, located on the north-west coast of the Malaysian peninsular. It’s not very big—in fact it’s the second smallest state in Malaysia after Perlis. We rented a house in Penang. It was quite a large house which allowed us to sub-let rooms. For a while we had a Chinese girl, a secretary, sharing with us. When she moved on we had a fair few people come and go in her place. As a result the rent was very manageable, even affording us to share the expenses of a battered second-hand car. It was a good place to be thanks to the 2,000 Australian Air Force folk based and living in the area. The Aussies left in 1985 and the site in Butterworth is now home to the Butterworth Regional Meteorological Office of the Malaysian Meteorological Service of the Royal Malaysian Air Force.

We lived very simply. I received small gifts of money and donations from my family and friends in Australia. Then when my visa ran out I would fly to Singapore and do a bit of fund-raising there. The locals were very generous and always liked to give a donation towards whatever project I was working on.

I worked hard in Penang. I had brought puppets over from Australia and Ben and I frequently put on shows for kids. We also set up a service to help out the disabled people in our area. I wanted to learn the Malay language because I hoped to get into one-on-one counselling. However, it quickly became apparent that I wouldn’t be using it much as everyone I came in contact with was actually Chinese, or Chinese-Malaysian. It made more sense to learn Hokkien, which is the Chinese language—or dialect—of the Hoklo, an ethnic-cultural group that originated in Fujian. People marvelled at my speed at picking up the language, but as far as I was concerned, my becoming fluent in a short amount of time just proved to me that I was meant to be in Asia; it was where I belonged. In fact I’d go further and say that I was predestined to live here. The Thais would say I must have been Asian in a previous life.

There are large numbers of Hokkien descendants in Malaysia, Singapore, Indonesia, the Philippines, Taiwan and Thailand. I know this because I think I’ve met most of them! Our Chinese house-mate introduced us to all her friends and then they took us out at night to meet other people. The Chinese are a friendly, curious bunch and make it extremely easy for you to chat them up at the local food stalls. These stalls are great meeting places at night and the food is good too. They’re not afraid to ask questions, and I love to talk, so we were perfect for each other. Also, the fact that I was Australian was a big plus; because of the Australian Air Force base Aussie dollars were very popular. I was meeting quite a lot of disenchanted young Chinese people and ended up giving quite a few impromptu counselling sessions alongside learning Hokkien and Mandarin Chinese. I enjoyed these people and even today I would probably be more suited to the Chinese personality than the Malay. The Chinese are just more direct; you always know where you are with them. No matter where I have travelled to I always end up meeting Chinese people. When I went to Indonesia a few months later I ended up counselling wealthy Chinese people. They were very open with me, perhaps because I was an independent foreigner who wanted and needed nothing from them.