The Near and the Far: new stories from the Asia-Pacific region

THE NEAR AND THE FAR

David Carlin is an award-winning writer and creative artist. His books include The Abyssinian Contortionist, Our Father Who Wasn’t There, and Performing Digital. David wrote and co-produced the radiophonic feature Making Up, which won four Gold and Silver awards at the 2016 New York Festivals International Radio Awards. David is vice-president of the international NonfictioNOW Conference, and Associate Professor of Creative Writing, co-founder of the non/fictionLab research group, and co-director of the WrICE program at RMIT University.

Francesca Rendle-Short is an award-winning novelist, memoirist, and essayist. She is the author of Imago and the acclaimed novel-cum-memoir Bite Your Tongue. Her work has appeared in a wide range of Australian and international publications, including Best Australian Science Writing, Overland, and The Essay Review, and her artwork is in the collection of the State Library of Queensland. Francesca is Associate Professor of Creative Writing at RMIT University, where she is co-founder and co-director of the non/fictionLab research group and the WrICE program.

Scribe Publications

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First published by Scribe 2016

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CONTENTS

Foreword by Alice Pung

Introduction by David Carlin and Francesca Rendle-Short

THE NEAR

DREAMERS

Melissa Lucashenko

FLOODLIT

Laura Stortenbeker

MY TWO MOTHERS

Suchen Christine Lim

M

Amarlie Foster

THE ILLOI OF KANTIMERAL

Alvin Pang

TRAMPOLINE

Joe Rubbo

STANDING IN THE EYES OF THE WORLD

Bernice Chauly

THE FAR

HIDDEN THINGS

Harriet McKnight

YOU THINK YOU KNOW

Omar Musa

THE DIPLOMAT’S CHILD

Robin Hemley

A LETTER IN THREE PARTS OR MORE

Melody Paloma

INCOMING TIDES

Cate Kennedy

BG: THE SIGNIFICANT YEARS

Xu Xi

TREATISE ON POETRY

Nyein Way

THE NEAR AND THE FAR

SOME HINTS ABOUT TRAVELLING TO THE COUNTRY YOUR FAMILY DEPARTED

Laurel Fantauzzo

THREE POEMS

Nguyen Bao Chan

UNMADE IN BANGKOK

David Carlin

COMADRONA

Jhoanna Lynn B. Cruz

1:25,000

Francesca Rendle-Short

AVIATION

Maxine Beneba Clarke

WE GOT USED TO HERE FAST

Jennifer Down

Notes on WrICE

Contributors

Acknowledgements

FOREWORD

Alice Pung

‘Wherever you go, go with all your heart.’ — Confucius

I didn’t do much travelling until I was twenty-seven. A strict Chinese upbringing coupled with the anxieties of genocide-surviving parents meant that I went through my university days living vicariously through the travel tales of my worldlier friends. The first time I went overseas by myself, I expected everything to be different: of course the architecture and food, but also the very material of the buildings, the composition of the leaves on the trees. I expected to see a substantially different world and was disappointed that the city of Beijing — apart from some historical quarters — looked like a city. I tried very hard to look for difference, so I could write original stories to send back home to my editor. I did not understand then that to write about a place is not to simply pick out points of difference, but to search for the things that make us commonly human, that this was the difference between an anecdote and a story with a heartbeat.

The Near and The Far is one of those rare travel anthologies, combining fiction with poetry and longform essays, each piece revealing a real insider’s experience of inhabiting a different world without exoticising the foreign. Each story has a centre — whether philosophical, moral, or political — and yet none of them are didactic.

Omar Musa’s tale of revelatory disorientation and Maxine Beneba Clarke’s exploration of ignorance and fear are rooted in a warmth for characters usually portrayed as pitiable or loathsome. Cate Kennedy watches with her poet’s eye but does not presume to know those who populate the other side of the Vietnam War, while Harriet McKnight’s politically charged vignettes are skilfully nuanced.

Stories about place often evoke memories of family, such as Jennifer Down’s beautiful story of kids bonded by adversity, Joe Rubbo’s brilliant tale of absent fathers that centres on the arrival of a trampoline, and Robin Hemley’s poignant father–daughter narrative that captures the teenage voice perfectly. In these stories, culture is not done, it is lived.

Suchen Christine Lim’s story explores a silent and stoic love that allows her to understand the meaning of family, while Alvin Pang examines through ethereal mythology the origins of identity and belonging. Melissa Lucashenko’s stellar, heartbreaking piece is about the laconic friendship of two women bonded by a mutual loss so immense it overtakes the landscape of the story, while Francesca Rendle-Short’s ‘1:25,000’ encompasses decades of love and longing through the chasm of the Grand Canyon. And indeed, the person or place at the centre of the journey, once a stranger, becomes a cherished lover, as in Jhoanna Lynn B. Cruz’s exquisitely tender ‘Comadrona’, or in Nguyen Bao Chan’s achingly nostalgic poems.

All art and travel is about risk-taking. Great literary risks are clearly evinced in Melody Paloma’s poem filled with the debris of daily life and pop culture, Amarlie Foster’s exploration of anxiety and art through palm readings, Nyein Way’s metaphysical, playful, cerebral ‘Joycean realities on paper’, and Xu Xi’s humorous insight into ‘The Significant Years’ before Google: all original and playful answers to the question of journeying. However, risk-taking appears as the central theme of Laura Stortenbeker’s light-and-dark coming-of-age ‘Floodlit’, and Bernice Chauly’s impassioned, frenetic piece about Malaysia’s Reformasi.

Finally, David Carlin cheekily acknowledges the faceless people who can often be appropriated for their culture in literature (including a Thai Elvis impersonator!), as does Laurel Fantauzzo’s funny ‘instructional’ piece about the inherent unknowability of a culture: ‘no one is a mere instrument of your movement’.

This is why I took the risk of resorting to cliché by beginning with a Confucius quote. The first quote I heard attributed to the Chinese scholar was in primary school, when a gappy-toothed boy told me — with fake Oriental accent — ‘Confucius say man who go through airport turnstile too quick arrive to Bang Kok.’ But when, as an adult, I visited Qufu, Confucius’ birthplace, and saw the immense reverence the villagers — literate or not — had for the man, I simultaneously understood both the tacit history of ignorant racism back home and the eye-opening wonders and possibilities of travel. The stories in this anthology perform just this function, by opening the heart to both empathy and awe.

INTRODUCTION

David Carlin and Francesca Rendle-Short

For centuries Macassan traders zigzagged across the waters between the Indonesian islands and Australia, fishing for trepang, or sea cucumber, and exchanging goods and culture with Australia’s Aboriginal nations — songs and stories, art and language. Among all the thousands of communities in South-East Asia and Australia, there has been a constant to and fro of people, animals, plants, and objects, exotic, precious, and mundane. Borders have been made and remade, foreign armies suffered and driven out. In this most hybridised of regions, everything is interlaced, whether on the surface or below. We share the same winds and the same ocean currents.

And yet, sometimes it feels like we hardly know one another, or where one another comes from. We feel like strangers. We go on cheap holidays to each other’s countries but never really meet: we don’t sit down together at a table, with a barbeque or lazy Susan.

Our different colonial experiences have left long shadows across our imaginations. Too often those of us who are settlers don’t recognise those whose land we’ve taken, or even that we’ve taken it. It was said we lived in ‘outposts’ — the ‘Far East’, they called it, with Australia farther still, almost lost, down in the Southern Ocean. It’s not surprising that we still look to Europe and America for our cultural headline acts: David Bowie could only come from Brixton, not from Bali. The far feels near, and the near feels far away.

So imagine a group of writers — from Brisbane and Kuala Lumpur, from Singapore, Yangon, Queanbeyan, and beyond — gathered together around a large dining table under a swishing ceiling fan in an old Penang apothecary. Or in a room above a river strung with yellow fishnets in Vietnam. One by one these writers take it in turns to share their writing, stories, and art. They don’t know each other. Everyone is awkward and embarrassed. They are offering the gift of their culture in its rawest, roughest form. The work is fresh and unfinished. It might have been written just that morning.

Imagine food from the local region on the table as sus-tenance and comfort: samosas and Xiang Si prunes, watermelon, rambutan, and mangosteen. After the first person reads aloud there is a long silence, impossible to interpret. The tall poet from Singapore leans in and says, gravely: what do we do now?

Into this void, the conversation starts to flow, slow and stuttering at first, riotous before long. Each person takes the risk in turn. Some of the writers are older, wise grandees, but still confess to being often lost. Others are young and wide-eyed, but with quiet, crystal voices.

Every writer wants a reader, because no writer can hear her own work from the other side. Every writer wonders: how does it strike you, dear reader? Does it move you? Does it immerse you in its rhythms? Does it make you care? Around the table in Penang or Hoi An, each writer wants to know: you, who come from somewhere very different to me, maybe with another language, with different gods and different lullabies — how do you hear this story, this essay, or this poem? Does it sing to you? Does it jar, perhaps, here, or here?

Where can the lines of our writing lead us?

The Near and The Far is an invitation to pull up a chair and join the table, listening in, as it were, to the conversation made by these stories, essays, and poems. The hope is that you too can become part of this growing conversation between the cultures of our region, whether it’s in your imagination or over the metaphorical back fence with your neighbours. Bring your own treats, be they lamingtons or laksa.

The table itself is courtesy of a project called WrICE (Writers Immersion and Cultural Exchange), started in 2014 by a group of us in the non/fictionLab at RMIT University in Melbourne. WrICE is a program of reciprocal residencies and cultural events focused on writers and writing from Australia and the Asia-Pacific. With support from the Copyright Agency Cultural Fund, WrICE, in its first two years, invited the extraordinary group of writers whose work is now collected in this book. Residencies took place in George Town, Penang, Hoi An, Vietnam, and in the Yarra Valley in Australia, with workshops, readings, and performances in Singapore, Castlemaine, Hanoi, Melbourne, and Footscray.

The mornings of a WrICE residency are spent writing and thinking, each of the writers moving quietly around their hotel or guesthouse, immersed in their own thoughts and imaginative worlds. Each writer finds their own creative space, making work as they see fit. When lunchtime comes, some venture out, in groups, to find food. They take in the local sounds and smells, and soak up the patterns and delicacies of their temporary home, whether it be Little India in Penang, the fish market in Hoi An, or among the world’s tallest hardwoods in the Yarra Ranges. Other writers prefer to be alone: to whistle off along the river past the square yellow fishnets on a bicycle or to keep writing in the cool of the bistro, headphones on, an iced ginger drink to hand.

In the afternoons, the writers gather around the table.

Trust and friendship grow out of the vulnerability and risk inherent in the act of sharing writing-in-progress. The cultural exchange is premised on a spirit of mutual respect and open-hearted generosity. After the residency, it flows on into public events: readings, workshops, and discussions. The shared cultural and artistic experience generates threads of connection that endure across distance and time, resulting in collaborations and dialogues, including this collection.

The Near and The Far. Think of it as dispatches from our neighbourhood, brief melodies from the local air. One or two might feel as familiar as your own skin. (It all depends on where you start from.) Others might take you a long way out from any shore you recognise, and yet when you wash up in some other place, perhaps in the end, that too might feel a little closer.

THE NEAR

DREAMERS

Melissa Lucashenko

‘Gimme an axe.’

The woman blurted this order across the formica counter. When the shopkeeper turned and saw her brimming eyes he took a hasty step backwards. His rancid half-smile, insincere to begin with, vanished into the gloomy corners of the store. It was still very early. Outside, tucked beneath a ragged hibiscus bush, a hen cawed a single, doubtful note. Inside was nothing but this black girl and her highly irregular demand.

The woman’s voice rose an octave.

‘Give us a Kelly, Mister, quick. I got the fiver.’

She rubbed a grubby brown forearm across her wet eyes. Dollars right there in her hand, and still the man stood, steepling his fingers in front of his chest.

It was 1969. Two years earlier there had been a referendum. Vote Yes for Aborigines. Now nobody could stop blacks going where they liked. But this just waltzing in like she owned the place, mind you. No please, no could I. And an axe was a man’s business. Nothing good could come of any Abo girl holding an axe.

The woman ignored the wetness rolling down her cheeks. She laid her notes on the counter, smoothed them out. Nothing wrong with them dollars. Nothin’ at all. She pressed her palms hard onto the bench.

‘Are. You. Deaf?’

‘Ah. Thing is. Can’t put my hand to one just at the ah. But why not ah come back later ah. Once you’ve had a chance to ah.’

The woman snorted. She had had fifty-one years of coming back later. She pointed through an open doorway to the dozen shining axes tilted against the back wall. On its way to illuminate these gleaming weapons, her index finger silently cursed the man, his formica counter, his cawing hen, his come back later, his ah, his doorway, and every Dugai who had ever stood where she stood, ignorant of the jostling bones beneath their feet.

Her infuriated hiss sent him reeling.

‘Sell me one of them good Kellys, or truesgod Mister I dunno what I’ll do.’

As twenty-year-old Jean got off the bus, she rehearsed her lines.

‘I’m strong as strong. Do a man’s eight hours in the paddock if need be. Giss a chance, missus.’

When Jean reached the dusty front yard of the farm on Crabbes Creek Road and saw the swell of May’s stomach, hard and round as a melon beneath her faded cotton dress, she knew that she couldn’t work here. When May straightened, smiling, from the wash basket, though, and mumbled through the wooden pegs held in her teeth Jean? Oh thank God you’re here, she thought that perhaps she could.

Ted inched up the driveway that afternoon in a heaving Holden sedan. Shy and gaunt, he was as reluctant to meet Jean’s eye as she was to meet his. This white man would not be turning her door handle at midnight. She decided to stay for a bit. If the baby came out a girl she would just keep going, and anyway, maybe it would be a boy.

The wireless in the kitchen said the Japanese were on the back foot in New Guinea but from Crabbes Creek the war seemed unlikely and very far away. What was real was endless green paddocks stretching to where the scrub began, and after that the ridge of the Border Range, soaring to cleave the Western sky. The hundred-year-old ghost gums along the creek, the lowing of the cows at dawn: these things were real. A tame grey lizard came to breakfast on the verandah, and occasionally Jean would glimpse the wedgetails wheeling far above the mountain, tiny smudges halfway to the sun. May had seen both eagles on the road once, after a loose heifer had got itself killed by the milk truck. You couldn’t fathom the hugeness of them, and the magnificent curve of their talons, lancing into the unfortunate Hereford’s flank.

Jean fell into a routine of cleaning, cooking, helping May in the garden, and sitting by the wireless at night until Ted began to snore or May said ah well. Of a morning, as she stoked the fire and then went out with an icy steel bucket to milk the bellowing Queenie, Jean would hear May retching and spewing in the thunderbox. One day, two months after she first arrived, there was blood on the marital sheets. Jean stripped the bed and ordered May to lie back down on clean linen. Then she took Ted’s gun off the wall and shot a young roo from the mob which considered the golden creek flats their own particular kingdom. A life to save another life. Jean made broth from the roo tail. And you can just lie there ’til it’s your time,