Showing posts with label Tropical Affairs. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Tropical Affairs. Show all posts

Thursday, May 5, 2011

Booktalk on 7 May, at MPH The Spring, Kuching

                                                                  
Please excuse the really short notice, but I have a Booktalk on Saturday, 7 May, 3-4 at MPH The Spring in Kuching.  In addition to autographing all three of my books Spirit of Malaysia, Tropical Affairs, and Lovers and Strangers Revisited, I will be giving a short talk.  The title and subject: The World is Yours—Bring the world to you as a travel writer, or tell the world your own story through creative non-fiction, or create your world through fiction!

Booktalks in bookstores, I have to admit, can be a funny animal, because as a speaker, you never know what to expect.  In recent years I’ve given about a dozen such booktalks inside bookstores, which are often the hardest place to speak because you’re never quite sure who your audience is.  Rarely do you have a proper sit down audience (thankfully MPH The Spring finds a way to create one by shifting some of their aisles around).  My last one in Singapore, I hardly had anyone directly in front of me because the space was too narrow with a display of my books in the middle.  Instead, people were spread out on both sides, so I was forced to swivel back and forth to make eye contact.

At other stores, I’d have people roaming all around me looking for, what else, books!  They’ll also be juggling books and/or tugging at spouses or children to get their attention.  One friend even dropped by with a baby stroller and she wasn’t even married; just happened to be babysitting her niece or nephew that day. 

At Silverfish Books in KL, they have a separate room for talks, which makes it ideal, and with months of advance publicity through their monthly online newsletter.  They know how to make it into an event that people plan in advance to attend.  At MPH, they have a talent for making signs and displays.  One I even had framed and another I brought back from Singapore for my office.  It states: Calling All Fans of Robert Raymer! My wife, bless her heart, laughed.

For publicity, I usually announce booktalks months in advance on my website, but lately I’ve been rather slow updating it.  Some people may hear about it from a flyer or an in-store promotion.  Some hear about it from a Facebook announcement, an email reminder, or an SMS.  Most just happen to be in the store at around that time, or were passing by the store and noticed me standing near the entrance speaking into a microphone.  When I was in Singapore last year, midway through my talk, we actually had a little crowd going just outside the store. 

In some stores people sit or stand right in front, while others stand pretty far back, though in my direct line of vision.  Some listen attentively from an aisle or two away, while others lend an ear from wherever they happen to be, while perusing a book, often out of eyesight or even somewhere behind me.  Others pop in and out of the store, pausing for a few minutes to listen, and then hurry off to their next appointment.  One Australian gentleman was so eager to hear me speak in Singapore he came a day early and wondered where everyone was.  Thankfully, he came back the following day.

It’s relatively easy to talk to an audience who are sitting or standing in front of you, but not so easy in stores when people are roaming all around looking for books. Sometimes when you start out, you really don’t have an audience per se, though potentially you do if you can catch their attention.  Those are the times I wonder, if I just start talking will people think I’m some madman rambling in a bookstore, or will they start to gather round and form an audience?  Or will they shush me because they're trying to read! If you’re holding a microphone, that’s always an attention getter, but there have been times, I admit, I’ve been tempted to announce, “Your attention please, does anyone want to buy a book?  It comes with a free autograph!”

One time in Penang, when I had over-scheduled myself with a couple of workshops, two separate talks and a booktalk all in the space of two days, I was actually relieved when I had no audience at all.  For the first time I could just relax and mingle and casually talk to a few stray people who just happened by about my books.  Even managed to sell a few.  Then my son showed up an hour late—teenagers—and asked, “How did it go?”

By the way, if you’re free on Saturday and you happen to be in Kuching and at The Spring at around 3, do drop by.  If not, I'll try to catch you later in some other bookstore, or feel free to check out one of my books or any other book that may interest you... 
         Borneo Expat Writer 



Here are links to some of my author-to-author interviews of first novelists:

Ivy Ngeow author of Cry of the Flying Rhino, winner of the 2016 Proverse Prize.

Golda Mowe author of Iban Dream and Iban Journey.

Preeta Samarasan author of Evening is the Whole Day

Chuah Guat Eng,  author of Echoes of Silence and Days of Change. 

Plus:

Beheaded on Road to Nationhood: Sarawak Reclaimed—Part I 

Wednesday, April 27, 2011

Power Outage: Don’t Moan—Improvise!

Yesterday when the power went out in the midst of editing on my computer, I just kept on going, in the dark . . . . Then I grabbed some other editing, and took it outside where it was nice and bright.  The power outage lasted a couple of hours, but it also brought a smile to my face, because it reminded me of an article I wrote for New Straits Times in 2000, titled “No Wind, Row!”  This was the first article of mine that I’m aware of that a total stranger, an editor for a highly successful magazine, was so inspired by it, she made photocopies and mailed them to her friends.  Of course, now a days, we send online links!

I  re-titled the article "Don’t Moan—Improvise", revised a few times and included it in Tropical Affairs, under the “Being a Writer” section.  Even though the article feels a bit dated since I was writing about the mid-1990’s (I haven’t dusted off that manual typewriter for a long time, finally sold that old unreliable car, and haven't been playing tennis either), still the advice rings true today, especially since moving to Borneo and leaving teaching.

Don’t Moan—Improvise!

“No wind, row!” barked Winston Churchill, no doubt to a group of hapless sailors bemoaning the lack of wind to fill their sails.  Although I’m no sailor, I often apply this nautical advice to other facets of my life.  When things don’t go according to plan, instead of moaning, I force myself to make a new plan by improvising.  In other words, I do whatever I have to do to get what needs to be done completed on time.

For instance, in Malaysia where I live as an expat, we occasionally have power shortages, so if I’m in the middle of writing, I’ll permit myself to groan a little, then I’ll say, “No computer, type!”
           
I’ll dust off my ever dependable manual typewriter and get the job done.  If the typing isn’t urgent, I’ll take advantage of the down time by completing other non-typing tasks, like editing or brain storming new ideas for articles, short stories, screenplays or novels.
           
This is also the time to reorganize my writing notes, straighten out my files, update my non-computer records, and clear away everything that has been accumulating on my desk, so when the power – and especially my computer – is back on, I’m raring to go with a clear mind and an uncluttered office.
           
Then on those days when I have errands to run and my car refuses to cooperate, which happens a lot with my less-than-trusty old car, I’ll boldly announce, “No car, walk!”
           
By walking, I still get to my destination and pick up some much needed exercise in the process.  If the distance is too far, as is often the case, I’ll take a bus or a taxi, or – if I feel truly inspired – I’ll ride my bicycle.  I just do what I have to do to get wherever I have to go.  Instead of complaining that I have no car and use that as an excuse, I get on with my life. 
           
To make sure that I get to my destination or to my appointment on time, I’ll leave early to allow for delays, and will often bring along an umbrella in case of rain as well as a book or a magazine to read while waiting for the bus or taxi.
           
Every now and then when I go to Kuala Lumpur or Singapore, I’ll make my rounds visiting magazine editors and publishers, and if I can’t make an appoint­ment ahead of time because the editor is out or if I just happened to be in the area, I’ll stop in and present myself and my work.  If the person I want to see is busy, which is usually the case, and if coming back later or the next day is inconvenient or impossible, I’ll tell myself, “No appointment, wait!”
           
While waiting, I’ll browse through the publishers’ latest publications, go over my manuscripts, and rehearse my selling pitch – for articles, short stories, or a book proposal.
           
Invariably I get to meet the person whom I came to see, even if it’s only for a few minutes while they are rushing out of the building to meet their own appoint­ments.  More importantly I’ve put a face behind my words and have established contact, which later will lead to sales.
           
Now that I’m teaching writing full time and freelancing part time, I have these days, weeks, months, when there’s just not enough time to complete all of my tasks, so I think back to a time management seminar I once attended and say to myself, “No time, make time!”
           
So I’ll get up an hour earlier, shorten my lunch hour, cut out unnecessary breaks, limit phone calls, cut short e-mails, avoid idle chatter with colleagues, leave the TV off, and just try to work more efficiently both at work and at home.
           
Then during those intense periods of my life when I feel that all I ever do is work, I’ll use my final battle cry, “No life, get one!”
           
So I’ll go to a movie, play tennis, visit a beach, read a novel or just play with my son who’s always so full of life.
             
Now whenever I find myself in the middle of the sea of life and there’s no wind, I rarely moan or shrug my shoulders in defeat and say, “What to do?”  I just do my best Winston Churchill imitation and get on with my life and gain a little life in the process.
                                                             #  #  #                 

*Oh, it sounds like we're going to have another thunderstorm here in Borneo, so I'd better post this before the power goes out...I'll grab some romantic candles while I'm at it and get those two little boys bed to early! 
                —Robert Raymer, Borneo Expat Writer


Here are links to some of my author-to-author interviews of first novelists:

Ivy Ngeow author of Cry of the Flying Rhino, winner of the 2016 Proverse Prize.

Golda Mowe author of Iban Dream and Iban Journey.

Preeta Samarasan author of Evening is the Whole Day

Chuah Guat Eng,  author of Echoes of Silence and Days of Change. 

Plus:

Beheaded on Road to Nationhood: Sarawak Reclaimed—Part I 

Monday, April 18, 2011

Being Peed On (now and then) is All a Part of Writing

My four-year-old son peed on me.  He was half asleep and those things aren’t all that cooperative early in the morning.  Instead of the pee flowing straight into the toilet, it shot at a sharp angle at me.  Luckily I wasn’t fully dressed.  As I washed it away, his brother and mother laughed at me.  Nothing like getting peed on to start your day.  Surely not the best of omens.

Sometimes this is what it feels like when you get a less-than-fantastic review for one of your books, as I did when I stumbled upon a review of Tropical Affairs that I overlooked in Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, based in Hong Kong when it came out in February.  (I was pushing a deadline.)  This is the second time Tropical Affairs has been reviewed outside Malaysia/Singapore in one month!  In March it was reviewed in Holland by Expatriate Archive Centre  I’m flattered that Cha chose to review it, but you can’t expect everyone to love what you write.  That would be naïve. Most books and movies get mixed reviewed.  Not all good, not all bad.  Each individual has to decide for themselves.  As I wrote in an earlier blog, The Outsider Within

“I guess you can’t really call yourself a writer if someone doesn’t find fault with your writing somewhere. When you put your work out there, whether in book form, in literary journals, magazines, newspapers or blogs, you have to expect some criticism, or comments regarding your competency as a writer….It’s all part of the writing game like developing thick skin.  Remember, it's only one person’s opinion.  Think of your favorite singer or band, favorite movie or TV show, favorite and most-loved book of all time, and there’s going to be someone out there who absolutely hates it for a perfectly valid reason.”

But as a writer, it’s also important to learn from these reviews (many writers purposely ignore all reviews, good or bad, because they find them so depressing, so judgmental as well as any comments from editors or agents!)  True the reviewer may be way off base, but often there’s some truth there.  Many of the articles written for Tropical Affairs were, in fact, my first works to be published over 20 years ago, and I did go overboard on some of them.  Others parts did get repeated as snippets in other pieces, often written years later in different publications.  Yet when you place them all in one book, they tend to stand out, as I now know.  Another reviewer made a similar comment.  In hindsight, I wished I had left out several of the pieces, even though they had been previously published (see there’s that validation!); others needed to be toned down.  Also how to arrange or group your articles is never an easy decision—do it chronologically, as a memoir, or by subject matter?  (I started out grouping all the movie pieces and those under being a father, and then doing them chronologically within each section.)

By the way, the more that your work reaches a wider audience outside of your home or residing country, the more open it will be to criticism, and justifiably so.  Your work has to be good.  But with all criticism (including off-handed remarks from loved ones, friends, and colleagues), don’t let it ruin your day or your writing career (Everyone hates me, I’ll never write again!)  Also don’t read more into it than is actually there.  Often it’s only one or two comments that are less than favorable, not the whole review.  Let yourself cool down and re-read it later, as I just did.  It wasn't so bad.  Could've been a lot worse!  They could've told me never to write again!

So try not to read too much into your reviews or put in words that aren't even there.  That goes for reading between the lines!  Often you'll see that you were way to harsh on yourself!  And do as I did this morning after my son peed on me.  After scolding/reminding him to be more careful with his aim and after being laughed at by my wife (I think it made her day!  And we both had a good laugh over it and so did the boys!), I merely washed it off my leg.  No problem.  Then I showered and began the day properly, as fresh as the day I was born.  A little older, a little wiser, and then I put the review in its proper perspective.  I even laughed at myself for taking it so seriously.

Also, next time, especially early in the morning, I’ll let my sons pee first.

Here are links to some of my author-to-author interviews of first novelists:

Ivy Ngeow author of Cry of the Flying Rhino, winner of the 2016 Proverse Prize.

Golda Mowe author of Iban Dream and Iban Journey.

Preeta Samarasan author of Evening is the Whole Day

Chuah Guat Eng,  author of Echoes of Silence and Days of Change. 

Plus:

Beheaded on Road to Nationhood: Sarawak Reclaimed—Part I 

Saturday, April 2, 2011

Autographing Books at Tun Jugah and Country Number Twelve!

This just came up at the last moment, but Borneo Tom and I are autographing our books at Tun Jugah here in Kuching today (Saturday) and Sunday 11-4. So if you know anyone in the Kuching area that may be interested, please have them drop by. Next week, I’ll be conducting two workshops in KK and signing more autographs.  This is the best part about being an author, signing those autographs.  Of course, cashing that royalty check is pretty nice, too.  Right now the sums are in Malaysian Ringgit, later this year I’ll be earning them in Euros and that’s a nice feeling.  Of course a mid six-figure to seven-figure advance on one of my novels would look pretty nice in my bank account.  It has happened to some of my friends and to other writers that Tom knows.   


“Home for Hari Raya” has just been accepted in Istanbul Literary Review, making Turkey the twelfth country that has published at least one short story from Lovers and Strangers Revisited.  I had suggested that they use the link to The Story Behind the Story. That’s the 80th publication of one of those stories, which I find absolutely amazing! “Home for Hari Raya” a sentimental favorite of mine finally breaks out of Malaysia.  Since I recently rewrote all of the stories for the French translation, I want to start submitting them again.  Hey, you never know.  



Here are links to some of my author-to-author interviews of first novelists:

Ivy Ngeow author of Cry of the Flying Rhino, winner of the 2016 Proverse Prize.

Golda Mowe author of Iban Dream and Iban Journey.

Preeta Samarasan author of Evening is the Whole Day

Chuah Guat Eng,  author of Echoes of Silence and Days of Change. 

Plus:

Beheaded on Road to Nationhood: Sarawak Reclaimed—Part I 

Friday, March 25, 2011

Expatriate Archive Centre’s Book Review Tropical Affairs—22 March 2011

Two good news for Tropical Affairs: Episodes of an Exapt’s Life in Malaysia. One, a book review appeared on Expatriate Archive Centre’s blog.  Expatriate Archive Centre, located in Den Haag, Holland, is also one of the libraries that I mentioned in a recent post. This is, unless I’m mistaken, my first book review outside Malaysia/Singapore!  (*correction, the original Lovers and Strangers by Heinemann Asia was reviewed by Asia Magazine in Hong Kong back in 1993.)
Thoughts on Robert Raymer’s “Tropical Affairs” Written by Amanda Potter
Narrative essays collected into a book are a little like the predecessor to modern blogging. Robert Raymer’s “Tropical Affairs”, a collection of previously published non-fiction narratives about his life and times in Malaysia, almost reads like one (in a good way). Through his years of essays we learn a little about Robert’s life as an American living in Malaysia for more than 20 years, sympathize with his struggles, and cheer in his successes.

Tropical Affairs collects essays from Robert’s own life through relationships, work, children, and hobbies and after 20+ years in his adopted country, it’s clear that Robert loves Malaysia and the people who call it home. The book is organized into a series of themed sections with a little something for everyone to relate to. Personally, I found the expatriate, writing, and “being myself” sections the most interesting, but parents and even movie fans will find entertaining and thoughtful morsels as well. Humor and candor play equal parts in Robert’s writing, reflecting the complex and multicultural experience of living abroad.

However, although the essays are interesting, often entertaining, and sometimes even inspiring, I was left wanting a stronger central narrative to carry the book as a whole. I had hoped to learn a little about Malaysia through Robert’s experiences, but without any prior knowledge of the region, the essays didn’t lay the groundwork for me to fully understand his encounters. In addition, I found the way the essays “time traveled” back and forth through is life to be a bit jarring; especially when there were two essays written about the same exact event but not placed side-by-side.

Ultimately I found “Tropical Affairs” to be best read by simply flipping the book open and selecting a story at random. Each on its own is sweet and filled with experiences that anyone can relate to. And I like the slightly provocative title which encourages you to have a short, fun affair with each story, but maybe not a long term relationship.

Robert Raymer is also the author of (the equally provocative) Lovers and Strangers Revisited, a short story collection about Malaysia. He writes for several publications and also blogs and maintains a website at borneoexpatwriter.com.
                                          *  *  *
The second good news, I just got the Tropical Affairs royalty statement, though not as high as I’d like it to be—is it ever?— but it did mention a second printing around June 2010.  That’s good because I recently added buy links on all my 2009 Tropical Affairs excerpt posts, which I accidentally left out.  Several of these, particularly on Indochine and Paradise Road, continue to be my most popular posts, maybe because of the cool costumes that I get to wear in the films. 



Here are links to some of my author-to-author interviews of first novelists:

Ivy Ngeow author of Cry of the Flying Rhino, winner of the 2016 Proverse Prize.

Golda Mowe author of Iban Dream and Iban Journey.

Preeta Samarasan author of Evening is the Whole Day

Chuah Guat Eng,  author of Echoes of Silence and Days of Change. 

Plus:

Beheaded on Road to Nationhood: Sarawak Reclaimed—Part I 

Thursday, January 27, 2011

Early Mornings and Borneo Blackouts

Now that my six year old is in primary one, I have to wake up at 5:45 each morning to help my wife to get the two boys ready for school, so she can leave by 6:15, especially during the monsoon season when torrential downpours back up traffic.  For her it’s extra driving into town and then back out to the Free Trade Zone.  For me, since I’m wide awake now, I stroll into my office, turn on my computer and get to work.  Luckily I have a two minute commute. 

Getting up early used to be a big problem for me as I wrote in “Much Ado about Sleep” in Tropical Affairs.  But when your children are schooling you don’t have much choice, and that can be a good thing.

Since the school year started on January 3rd, my logged-in working hours has taken a significant jump.  This is why I’ve been able to revise my novel so often.  Although this does lead to burnout, when I continue to work in the evenings, after reading to the boys and putting them to bed, especially if I stay up past 11, which I’ve done every day this week.  One night last week, pushing a deadline, I was up until 4am, having started at 6:15am, so I worked nearly around the clock.
           
“Are you crazy?” my wife asked.
           
“No, just sleepy.”
           
So last night with my novel out to Amazon, and also needing to catch up on some sleep, I was relieved there was a lightning storm, common this time of the year.  I was in the midst of doing the dishes, and I dropped everything to save the blog I was working on since I hadn’t given it a file name, and shut everything down, and unplugged the computer.  Having heard one too many stories about someone losing their computer (and every file in it) from lightning, I’m now quick to react.
           
As soon as I got back to the dishes, lightning struck again and we had a blackout.  The boys panic since it’s pitch black in our house, while Jenny and I scramble to get some candles lit, using the stove for our fire source.  Only then can we see the batteries to load into our flashlights.  Batteries rot fast around here; maybe since it’s the tropics. 

By eight, with work officially done courtesy of the blackout, we get the boys upstairs where they brush their teeth and change into their pajamas by candle light.  They refuse, however, to sleep in their own rooms without a night light, so we all settle into our bed and after reading them a candle-lit story, get a good night’s sleep.
           
In theory, anyways.  Getting to the boys to quit poking and kicking each other is another matter.  When the power comes back on at 9:30, after moving the boys to their own beds, and with Jenny falling asleep, I sneak back downstairs to post yesterday’s blog, doubly glad I had followed my instincts and saved it.

By the way, do you know how far away the lightning is from you?  Since light travels faster than sound, as soon as you see a lightning flash count one thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand three.  If you hear the sound, it’s three miles away.  If you hear the lightning even before you get to one thousand and one, it’s pretty darn close.  One recent afternoon I saw this huge flash that looked as if it was just outside by backdoor, and the sound was immediate.  My house and computer got lucky that day, but my modem was destroyed.  
           
Early mornings and blackouts in Borneo.  It’s all a part of my writing routine.

                     -Robert Raymer, Borneo Expat Writer


Here are links to some of my author-to-author interviews of first novelists:

Ivy Ngeow author of Cry of the Flying Rhino, winner of the 2016 Proverse Prize.

Golda Mowe author of Iban Dream and Iban Journey.

Preeta Samarasan author of Evening is the Whole Day

Chuah Guat Eng,  author of Echoes of Silence and Days of Change. 

Plus:

Beheaded on Road to Nationhood: Sarawak Reclaimed—Part I

Saturday, January 15, 2011

Dying Alone in a Far Away Land

Back in 2009 I blogged an excerpt of "Dying Alone in Far Away Land" from Tropical Affairs Episodes of an Expat’s life in Malaysia (MPH 2009) and I got several comments and also enquiries via my website email from those who new Bill McVeigh and been to his house located behind Casuarina Hotel (now Hard Rock Hotel) in Penang, Malaysia.  So I thought I would publish the full article for the benefit of others outside of Malaysia, who while staying at the Casuarina Hotel back in the 70's, 80's and early 90's, may have visited him and his mélange of animals, or glimpsed him walking to and fro on the beach with his dog or one of his otters, or had heard about him and are curious.


DYING ALONE IN A FAR AWAY LAND

Whenever I see an abandoned house in Malaysia, I often wonder if the former occupant was an expat like me, and did he die alone?  Was he forgotten?  This is a fear that many expats have – dying alone in some far-flung country.  But then I met a man who did just that ten years ago (now 16 years): Bill McVeigh.
           
When he was alive, thousands of tourists would walk past his house in Batu Ferringhi without even knowing they were walking past a house.  Even if they looked beyond the stalls offering souvenirs and fake watches, they would be hard pressed to make out a house sequestered behind a wall of trees and shrubbery (on all sides) that sealed off Bill McVeigh from the rest of the world. 
            
On several occasions, I had heard about McVeigh, this modern-day recluse and his mélange of exotic animals, including otters, golden gibbons, and a hornbill, who lived in direct defiance to the hotels that had squeezed in around him.  It was said that when he took walks along the beach, his two otters would follow him.  When a friend of ours was visiting from Holland in November 1988, she bumped into him.  I knew I had to seek him out and meet him for myself.


Although his house was next to the Casuarina Hotel, finding an entrance among the shrub­bery was difficult, so I went around back and eventually found an opening.  The house was the size of a small cottage and looked unlivable – doors were off their hinges, windows were broken, and large parts of the roof had collapsed inside.  Debris lay every­where inside.  Yet as I glimpsed through the broken bars of two moon windows, a sem­blance of a home emerged – scattered furni­ture, framed pictures, and book­shelves full of books and maga­zines.  I knocked on the front door and called out, “Hello?”
            
Drawn to a large cage with a beautiful golden gibbon, I ventured around to have a look.  The double doors to the servants’ portion of the house were missing.  Thinking there had to be a beach access, I circled around to the other side, where there were more cages, although each was empty.  Feeling uncom­fort­able at trespassing, I made my way to the back gate, past an old dona­tion box for tourists (often guests of The Casuarina Hotel) who wished to view his animals.
            
While walking along the beach, I saw a scruffy westerner with a fisher­­man’s air about him.  His white beard was short and patchy and his top teeth were missing save for a few stumps, as if someone had bashed them in; his lower teeth were intact.  He was walk­ing at a fast clip with a large black dog that struggled to keep pace.  I stopped and asked him if he owned the house by the Casuarina Hotel.
            
“No,” he replied, “but I’ve live there – if you can call it a house.”  He then looked at me curiously for awhile.  “You’re Robert.”
            
Taken aback that he knew my name, I looked at him—amazed.  He said he recognized my face from The Star newspaper; two weeks earlier, they had featured me for win­ning third prize in a short story contest.  Having read my story, “The Future Barrister” he began to compare my writing to that of Paul Theroux.  Then he criticized Theroux for all of the “foolish errors he had made about Malaysia” in his book, The Consul’s File.
             
As he spoke, he looked sideways, occasionally glancing at me.  He talked like he had been shut away for years.  I gladly listened, yet also wondered, was he mad?  Far from it, he was lucid and extremely well-read.  As we stood there on the beach, he talked for an hour straight on topics ranging from pythons to the Loch Ness monster.  A pragma­tist, he looked to refute Nessie through careful under­standing, observations, and explana­tions.  Never once did he dismiss something offhandedly; he backed up his opinions by citing books that he bought from the second hand bookstalls along Macalister Road (later shifted to Chowrasta Market). 
            
I asked about his otters.  Years back, I saw one­ creeping along the beach.  The otter then ran up to a startled tourist and rubbed against the man like a cat.  Everyone, including me, was amused.  But not all hotel guests liked the idea of sharing the beach—let alone the hotel pool—with an otter and complaints were made.  McVeigh told me one of his otters had been caught and killed.  Later, the other suffered the same fate.

Five years later in 1993, while staying at the Pacific Bayview, I happened to look out the window and saw hidden among the trees, Bill McVeigh’s house.  I wondered, was he still alive?  As I approached the house carry­ing my son Zaini, who was less than two at the time, I had my doubts.  The place looked more decrepit than before, as if no one had lived there for years, if not decades.  Standing in a partial clearing by the side entrance, I called out Bill’s name.  Not one but two dogs sounded the alarm.  Both came charging.  Knowing that dogs smelled fear, I held my ground.  For Zaini’s sake, I tried to remain calm.  The lead dog’s head came up to my waist, to Zaini’s legs, yet Zaini didn’t cringe nor did he cry out, even when the dog had a good sniff—first me, then him. 
            
Moments later, Bill appeared.  He couldn’t see us, so I called out again.  He bent down and made us out through the underbrush.  Bare-chested with a sarong around his waist, he invited us to come around to the front of the house.  The golden gibbon that was supposed to be in the cage was gone—he had let it out a couple of weeks ago to have a run around.  He expected it to come back.  He assumed I was staying at Casuarina Hotel, where guests some­times visited and brought him food or gave him money—he had been living on charity for years.  When I told him that I met him five years ago, he racked his brains and asked, “Are you the short-story writer?”
            
He then talked about other writers, again in a rapid-fire one-sided conver­sa­tion.  Meanwhile I jostled Zaini back and forth between one knee and the other, now and then offering him his bottle or swatting away mosquitoes.  The mosquitoes, which thrived on his property, didn’t seem to bother McVeigh.
            
“Occa­sion­ally I forget,” he said, as he watched me swat away yet another mosquito from Zaini.  He went inside and was quick to offer some spray for our legs and a mosquito coil.  He later joked about the young tourists who wanted to venture into the jungle but couldn’t last a half hour on his front porch.  He had a good laugh over this.
            
He also had a good laugh over “the hippies” back in the 60’s and 70’s.  He told me some expats visited him, including one on a Harley Davidson, but who knew practically nothing about motorcycles.
            
“It was all for show,” he said.  When I mentioned that I knew one of the gentlemen he was referring to, he said, “Don’t tell him you know me!”
            
Although I wished I could stay longer with him, Zaini was getting restless; it was so steaming hot in McVeigh’s makeshift jungle that sweat poured off my son.

Six months later, I took my friend Anni (“Farewell to a Tango Dancer”) to see Bill and brought him a copy of my recently published collection of my short stories set in Malaysia, Lovers and Strangers (Heinemann Asia,1993, later republished as Lovers and Strangers Revisited, MPH 2008).  Going to his house was always creepy; you didn’t know what you were going to find, including finding him dead.  Bill was still there, and alive, but barely.  He told us he almost died from the cancer that was clear­ly growing out of his left ear.  

He talked for nearly three hours as we sat on his porch and listened.  Never in any of my visits had he invited me inside the house, no doubt ashamed of how it looked.  I had heard from a friend—the former “hippy” that we both knew—that he kept snakes there, including a python.  When the friend had asked to see the python, it took Bill a long time to return to the porch.  “I had to disentangle them all,” he had said.
            
It was hard to imagine that anyone could live in that house— and with all those snakes too, and god knows what all else.  But I refused to pass judgment on him.  He had made up his mind long ago that this was where he was going to die.  Until then, he just made the most of it.
            
The few bits and pieces of information that I had gleaned from him about his personal life was that he was English, born in China where his father might have been a diplomat, and that he grew up in Australia.  During the war he was in Burma, and then he came to Malaya in 1949 and fought the communists throughout the Emergency (1948-1960).  He lived awhile in Johor where he raised crocodiles.  In Penang he traded in animals: cats to Europe for lab testing (before it was banned) and more exotic species to zoos.  He grew a beard because he used to be a diver; he had what divers called ‘blue chin’.
            
“Every time I shaved, I would scrape off all the skin,” he said.  “All divers back then grew beards—it saved their faces.”
            
There was so much more I wanted to know about him, but Bill McVeigh was not a man you could ask questions to—he rarely gave me a chance to speak.  If you were with him, your role was to listen and let him talk about whatever he wanted to talk about.  And enjoy the ride.

Three months later in April 1994, Anni called me.  She said all the shrubbery around Bill McVeigh’s house had been cleared by a bulldozer.  The cages where the gibbons and the hornbill had lived were gone too.  I dropped whatever I was writing and met with Anni.  Everything was cleared out of the house, save a few magazines scattered on the red tile floor, including an issue of Manor Houses, June 17, 1965, and a large, moldy, green leather steamer trunk.  Curious, I opened the trunk and a large gecko jumped out and landed on my jeans, startling me.  The joke was clearly on me; I could almost hear Bill McVeigh laughing.  Anni sure did.
            
From the staff at the Casuarina Hotel, I found out that Bill had died of cancer.  They hadn’t seen him walking his dog for three days, so they checked on him and found him dead in the bathroom.
            
I never knew what brought Bill McVeigh to Penang, other than he came with his sister.  One thing I did know, he lived a lot, read a lot, and laughed a lot, particular­ly at the foolishness of expatriates who think they know more about Malaysia than they do.  Myself included.
            
Of course, Bill McVeigh didn’t actually die alone—he had his animals, including his snakes.  Nor was he forgot­ten either.  Anni had painstakingly restored the trunk back to its original condition.  Whenever I visited her, I would marvel over how great it looked and we’d reminisce about him and his house.  His spirit also stayed alive in my journals, in my mem­ories, and in my writing the original article about him, inside my book Tropical Affairs, Episodes of an Expat’s life in Malaysia (MPH 2009), and now this blog, twice. 
            
His house, by the way, survived, too, at least the foundation and some of the walls.  It had been converted into a bistro called Ferringhi Walk.  On the wall are framed photographs that I took of Bill McVeigh’s house, taken a few days after he had died, after the land had been cleared.  I’ll even donate a copy of this article, so the patrons can read about him.  Perhaps they’ll raise a toast:  To Bill McVeigh, who lived and died in a far away land. 
—Robert Raymer, from Tropical Affairs: Episodes from an Expat’s Life in Malaysia, Borneo Expat Writer
*Update, this is now a souvenir outlet for the Hard Rock Hotel.

Here are links to some of my author-to-author interviews of first novelists:

Ivy Ngeow author of Cry of the Flying Rhino, winner of the 2016 Proverse Prize.

Golda Mowe author of Iban Dream and Iban Journey.

Preeta Samarasan author of Evening is the Whole Day

Chuah Guat Eng,  author of Echoes of Silence and Days of Change. 

Plus:

               Beheaded on Road to Nationhood: Sarawak Reclaimed—Part I

Sunday, November 28, 2010

Expatriate Lifestyle - Febrary 2010 - just got it, better late than...


 
Here are links to some of my author-to-author interviews of first novelists:

Ivy Ngeow author of Cry of the Flying Rhino, winner of the 2016 Proverse Prize.

Golda Mowe author of Iban Dream and Iban Journey.

Preeta Samarasan author of Evening is the Whole Day

Chuah Guat Eng,  author of Echoes of Silence and Days of Change. 

Plus:

Beheaded on Road to Nationhood: Sarawak Reclaimed—Part I 

Thursday, November 25, 2010

Beyond Rangoon: Part II

When I arrived at the jetty to join Beyond Rangoon Wardrobe at 5:30 am, it was still dark and hard to see.  Ernie was busy directing people as they unloaded from a truck the two thousand longyis that he had dyed.  He had been up most of the night trying to repair the axle on the truck so he could make the delivery on time.  Also present was Ernie’s wife, Kathleen, who always wore a pair of scissors around her neck so she wouldn’t lose them.  They had been working together for the past sixteen years and had been married for ten of those years.  Kathleen directed me and Rikki, one of the tour group extras, to help two seamstresses make bandanas.  She told us to tear up several basketfuls of materials, fold them into a triangle, tear again, and then pass them on.

As soon as the extras – mostly students rounded up from every available school in the Penang area – began arriving by the busloads, they were sent to one end of a shipping container filled with clothes racks.  By the time they had exited the other end, they had a shirt, longyi, bandana, scarf, and sandals.  They were also given a plastic bag to store their clothes and vouchers in.  They would need their voucher at the end of the day to get paid.  All meals, including breakfast, were provided, plus beverages, throughout the day.

Handling all the logistics was the Kuala Lumpur based Movie Location Services.  They scouted the locations, auditioned the local actors and extras, arranged for permits, provided transportation and food, and even constructed the sets, including a nearby Buddhist temple, complete with an authentic-looking 33.5 meter pagoda.  Chandran Rutnam, the company chairman, who was responsible for bringing 50/50, Indochine, and Gateway to China to Penang also brought Barry Spikings to Malaysia and had persuaded him to shoot Beyond Rangoon here.  Fortunately Spikings was impressed not only with the all-year round sunny weather that was conducive to film-making but also Malaysia’s multi-racial, multi-cultural environment, which made it possible to make a shot appear to have been filmed in a least half a dozen different countries, thus saving on production costs.

After finishing the bandanas, I helped with the 50 policemen and 50 soldiers.  First I collected their vouchers.  If they failed to return their uniforms intact, no voucher was given, thus no pay.  Although all of them had been pre-fitted and their respective clothes tagged with their numbers, problems cropped up.  One policeman didn’t have a hat, and three others, no pants.  Two seamstresses quickly got to work.  Then a soldier lost his shoes.  He had set them down and, apparently, the shoes walked away.

When everyone was dressed, they were assembled into their respective groups for inspection.  Those who were missing an article of clothing or had their clothes tucked in or wrapped inappropriately were put right.  While Rikki helped the women get dressed, I assisted the men.  Then I went around cutting the tail off their headscarves.  As soon as a group was ready, they were herded back onto the bus and sent to the set.  Then the next group was brought in.

Once we finished at the jetty, I was transported to the set, sprawled out over several streets near the Esplanade, where I joined two others named Tomcat and Libby as part of the “aging crew”.  Our task was to make sure all the freshly washed clothes were badly soiled, so the students would look like they had been wearing them for days on end.  Mineral oil was applied to the clothes to create sweat stains; dirt powder of different shades were used to create smudge; and colored wax was rubbed into the elbows and collars to add some filth.

Later Tomcat, who sported a long ponytail, needed to do some serious ageing on the lead Burmese actor’s vest, including a few rips and a bullet hole.  He couldn’t find his special rat-tail file that he needed for the job, so he sent me to a van on the other side of the set, a good distance away, to go find it.  When I returned from the van empty-handed, Kathleen assured him once again that it had been left back at the Wardrobe house.  Tomcat rolled his eyes and shook his head, then proceeded to gripe about the missing rat-tail file for the rest of the afternoon.

Meanwhile, Libby was also upset and was complaining a lot.  When Deborah drifted by to see how things were going, Libby stalked off.  Everyone was reaching the ends of their rope.  This was only natural after working long hours, for weeks on end, and often under stressful conditions.

Then there was the politics.  Ernie felt he should have had Deborah’s job as Head of Wardrobe because he had more years of experience.  Deborah, however, was more familiar with Asian culture as she had lived in Penang several years ago and was now based in southern Thailand where she works as an archaeologist.  Wardrobe was her means to finance her projects.  Despite their differences, however, she and the others got the job done professionally.

There were plenty of light moments, too, when they played tricks on one another, or sat around and swapped anecdotes from past movies.  Ernie talked about the time Gene Hackman had taught Catherine Deneuve, the legendary French actress, how to swear during the filming of March or Die.  “She was going around telling everyone to ‘f— off’ without even knowing what it meant,” Ernie said.  “It was hilarious, but they all thought I had taught her!”

Since there was no American Embassy in Penang, they borrowed the stately Municipal Council building.  Besides adding an American flag, they built a wall made of Styrofoam and covered it with plaster and coats of paint, including streaks of black and gray to age it, so that it would blend in naturally with the environment.

Several cars had been overturned and set on fire.  Close-ups shots were taken of students running, ducking here and there to avoid bullets, so they did not end up like their dead comrades.  Later in the filming, there would be a ‘blood’ day when all of the people would get shot and killed.  When shot, the actor or an extra would release blood via a hand-controlled mechanism.  After each take, new clothes had to be brought in and more blood would be spilled.  A messy day for Wardrobe people, something they were not looking forward to, but the deaths and wounds had to be realistic.

Realism was important to John Boorman.  The moment the audience stops believing in the realism of the film, it becomes a farce, and they tend to reject it.  Above all, Boorman liked to engage the viewer’s intellect:  You have to have them think.  ‘Would I have reacted or behaved like that if caught in that situation?’

For the American Embassy scene, Boorman and his crew were set up just inside the gate where all one thousand extras would soon be charging.  His orders were given via walkie-talkie and relayed to a Malay translator standing on top of a plat­form who would announce them in Malay over a megaphone.  Each take took a long time to set up, and the wait for many of the extras seemed even longer since they had been there since early that morning and it was already pushing evening.  Some grew restless.  Just prior to one take, a young Malay woman suddenly shouted and ran out crying, bringing everything to a halt.  It seems a boy standing behind her had been pinching her behind nonstop.  The boy was promptly thrown off the set.

The chief advantage of being an extra or helping out behind the scenes was not only getting a firsthand view of how movies were made, but also seeing the stars up close as they performed.  Standing only a few yards away from Patricia Arquette, I could clearly sense the tension building up inside her.  Before each take, she would hop up and down and take deep breaths, psyching herself up, for she knew that Beyond Rangoon could be the perfect vehicle to make her a major star.  There was plenty of action and suspense, and it involved some serious acting, like when she had to fight off and kill a soldier bent on raping her.

For Patricia Arquette, Beyond Rangoon, was a change of pace.  In True Romance, where she starred opposite Christian Slater, she portrayed a call girl.  She also read for the part of another call girl (before Julia Roberts was chosen) in the original version of Pretty Woman.  Commenting on Beyond Rangoon, she said, “Since Laura and the priest were not romantically involved, it delved more into the human and spiritual side of a relationship.  This older, wiser man, from a totally different background was able to help Laura confront her fears and to look beyond them to become a better person.”

Acting is not new to the Arquette name.  Her father Lewis Arquette was an actor, so was her grandfather. Then there’s her sister Rosanna, who hit the big time first when she starred opposite Madonna in Desperately Seeking Susan.  Toto’s Grammy award-winning song Rosanna, incidentally, was dedicated to her.  Patricia also has three other siblings who act: Richmond, Alexi and David.  And now a new generation is getting into the family act: Patricia’s five-year-old son.  She had brought him along to be close to him; however, when the casting crew failed to find a suitable boy to portray her son in the film, her real son got the nod.

Nepotism is not new in the movie industry.  In fact, John Boorman’s son, Christopher, would portray the Belgian photographer in the American Embassy scene.  He was first used by Boorman in The Emerald Forest as the American boy who got lost in the Papua New Guinean jungle.  In between scenes in Beyond Rangoon, he helped out on the set wherever needed and was kept busy.

Another Boorman offspring on the set was his one-year-old daughter.  She endured the chaos with complete bliss.  No doubt, a future star in the making.  A highlight for me was being able to stand close to Boorman and the cameramen as a thousand extras stormed the American Embassy.  They came right at us.  It was an awesome feeling.  And to have it repeated take after take.  Where else in life can you restage a great moment over and over again until you get it just right?

As it turned out, most of the people helping out behind the scenes were people like me who just happened to be in Penang and were either interested in how movies were made or were simply available.  Many were friends of those already involved, like the girlfriend of the second cameraman who was always hanging around the set and was soon put to work.  Or the Australian who came to Penang to see his friend and because of his sheer size was hired on the spot as a grip.

Movies are like magnets.  They attract all kinds of people.  Payment for many of us was secondary.  Some would do it for free just for the once-in-a-lifetime experience and the glamour associated with being involved in a film, especially a successful one.  Then there were the out-of-work actors who needed a steady income as they bided their time to get discovered, so they took on work as extras or small speaking parts.

As for myself, once the shooting was wrapped up for the day, I had to rush back to the jetty and help everyone undress.  In exchange for the policemen and soldier’s uniforms, they got back their vouchers.  So far so good.  For the others who were coming back tomorrow, we had to pin their voucher number to their clothes and hang them on the clothes racks in numerical order so they could easily be found the next day.

There were some complaints, too.  One boy had his new Reeboks stolen and a young woman lost all her clothes.

It was one in the morning when I finally left, only a few hours from working around the clock.  The day we had 2,000 extras, I arrived home at 5a.m., and would gladly do it all again.

When I first got involved, I often felt I was in the way, but after working behind the scenes a few days, I just did what I thought needed doing and found myself moving about the set with a sense of purpose – whether it was chasing down Tomcat’s missing rat-tail file, cutting off tails of headscarves, or coming to the aid of several people trying to find the key to a locked portable toilet that hundreds of extras needed to use.  I coolly picked up two pipes and broke open the lock, solving the problem within seconds.

“Nice move,” one of them said, before rushing inside.

It was all in a day’s work.  As Churchill once said, “If there’s no wind, row!”  You do what you have to do to get the job done and overcome all obstacles.  That’s basically what everyone does in the film industry.  That’s how films get made, including Beyond Rangoon.  And because this particular film got made, Aung San Suu Kyi finally got released.  That was back in 1995, and now she’s released again.  But for how long…
 -from Tropical Affairs:Episodes from an Expat's Life in Malaysia
                                                          Robert Raymer, Borneo Expat Writer
* Link to Part I 



Here are links to some of my author-to-author interviews of first novelists:

Ivy Ngeow author of Cry of the Flying Rhino, winner of the 2016 Proverse Prize.

Golda Mowe author of Iban Dream and Iban Journey.

Preeta Samarasan author of Evening is the Whole Day

Chuah Guat Eng,  author of Echoes of Silence and Days of Change. 

Plus:

Beheaded on Road to Nationhood: Sarawak Reclaimed—Part I