Is the Malaysian malaise contagious?

We are all quite familiar with the Malaysian malaise -- from electric hibiscus (is that a nice name for a rock and roll band, or what?) and steel bunga mangga to instant nirvana and grotesquely fake Rococo furniture. (Jonathan Kent called this a-laugh-a-minute country. Another American couple thought we were simply bizarre.)

I was telling Anna that if I could invent a pill for writers -- you know like blue ones for prose, or pink for poetry, and so on -- I would be rich in no time. "No effort required, simply take one or two in the morning and two before retiring at night, and become a writer in no time, and claim your very own fifteen minutes of fame. For the Nobel Prize increase dosage to eight a day, but continuous usage may be required for at least six weeks. Maximum dosage: twelve a day. Proven side effects include stark raving madness, but that will qualify you to become a member of parliament." And while we are at it we could work on a pill for our footballers. "No training required. Take two in the morning and two at night for an Olympic medal. Guaranteed." Actually, I can think of pills for almost anything, though we probably have to beware of imitations. We are Malaysians after all. (I have absolutely no idea how we can possibly come up with a pill to cure our government officials of that dreaded electric hibiscus disease, though.)

You all have heard this before from this crabby uncle -- why are Malaysian's living overseas able to achieve so much more than those at home, be they writers or dancers or musicians or anything, why do we spend 3.5 million a month on a Philharmonic Orchestra comprising of (Mainly) foreigner mucisians for (mainly) foreigner audience, when that 42 million a year could be used to promote music education in a 1000 schools or build 100 mini KLPacs. (Can you imagine where the country would be now, in the ten years we have been wasting our time with The Malaysian Phil? God knows, I am not xenophobic.)

Anna, who has been in this country for 15 years, will be going to London for a bit before coming back. She hopes to do some work -- that is writing -- while she is there. She says she feels so lazy when she is here!

I was shocked.

"No, it's not so shocking. So many of my expatriate friends tell me the same thing. Being here makes them lazy," she said. "When they first come here, they like the sun so much, they spend all their time in the swimming pool. Then they get fed up, and try to look for other things, but there is nothing ... or they say there is nothing ... everything is so sensitive ... except shopping ..."

"Yes, yes, yes ... but why do you become lazy? Is it the weather, or is there something in the drinking water, or is it the air, or ..."

"I don't know ... except that when I am in London I will have plenty of time to write. When I was in Singapore, I used to help out in the National Museum like many other expatriate wives -- they gave us six months training -- but here they are not interested in us ... I had so much to do in Singapore."

I felt something there, because I remember a time when expatriates were quite active in the drama circles -- I mean in the production, acting, directing, music, lighting and so on. (We didn't learn all that living in a vacuum, you know.) Now, the only place we seem to find expatriates in are expensive coffee places, supermarkets or upmarket shopping malls. Still, Anna's answer was not entirely satisfactory.

"But that still does not explain why one becomes lazy when one comes here."

"Well, here everyone is satisfied with small things. If they go for pottery classes, they are happy if they can make a little pot for themselves. They are not interested in finding out more, in improving further, for excellence. There were many pottery classes before. Now, most of them are shut. When it comes to shopping they want the best, they don't mind spending twenty bucks on a cup of coffee, or a few hundred on a dress so they can look good. But they do nothing to improve themselves. They write a small story, they are happy. They make a small film, they are happy. Direct a bad play, and they are happy."

She went on and I kept trying to pull her back. "Yes, but what makes expatriates become like the locals?"

She tried to explain, but she couldn't put her finger on it, not to my satisfaction in any case. Anna has promised to write me an essay on the subject (which I shall post on this column as soon as I get it). But in the mean time one wonders what other expatriates out there think about this? And, are we really in serious danger of finding electric hibiscuses in Piccadilly Circus?