You say Melaka, I say Malacca...

Spent yesterday in Melaka, an historic town situated about 2 hours south of KL. It's a quirky wee state, with a rich mix of culture seen in the architecture, people, and busy tourism industry. Funny that I went all the way to Malaysia, to find myself back in Christchurch...



The thing I find odd about the place is the times it has been colonised (and re-colonised) first by the Portuguese (c. 1511), then the Dutch (c. 1641), then the English (c. 1824), briefly occupied by the Japanese (1941-1945), and then eventually tag teamed to form Malaysia (1963). Despite the constant shift in its governance, the locals here are pretty casual, and it's no where as busy as it is in KL.

The legend regarding the founding of Melaka includes something about a mouse deer which looks like this...



...so it is somewhat of an iconographic (and unknowingly cute) marker for Melaka (alongside the churches, land reclamation, Malay tradition)...



Given that we have a fat flightless bird as our national symbol I shouldn't be so patronizing.



Anyway, off with the tourist hat. And now for a moment of celebration- a great review of The Court Jester's show A Very Merry Scriptless here, a full length improvised Christmas musical. Lin Clark has reviewed a few of my shows in the past, slightly encouraging but never entirely convinced. It sounds like she genuinely liked this one...

"It takes a team with assured physical and vocal skills to handle song and story without dropping the pace or losing the thread. Jeff Clark, Andrew Todd and Kathleen Burns each bring individual strengths to their hectic performances, but the outstanding quality of the work is their trust and solidarity with each other."

It is rare that you will come by a good review for an improv show, theatre critics seem to either be seduced by the novelty of an ask-for, or in complete (and often scathing) disbelief that an improviser/actor can actually be active and available enough to create a spontaneous story in the moment. I managed to catch it before I left. Great work team, 10 house points!



It is coming up to that time of year again...the last Scared Scriptless of the year. I am sad to be missing out on this years festivities. All in company shows are always full of mischief and playfullness, in the true spirit of Christmas. The Christchurch public will be yearning for some much needed laughter and relief that I have no doubt they will receive in the last show of 2011. Can't wait for the move into the big kid's theatre in 2012. Merry Christmas Jesters!

Back in KL...

I have been having some great conversations with my cousins about theatre here in Malaysia. Because they are in no way, shape, or form involved in the 'scene', they provide a fresh perspective to give me a wider understanding.

In Malaysia, there are four categories for theatre- Malay Theatre; Indian Theatre; Chinese Theatre; English Theatre. There is a great article written by Carmen Nge here on the Five Arts Centre website.

To my family over here, going to the theatre is not recognized as a popular form of entertainment. Especially those living in Malaysian Borneo. In fact, I don't even think they have many, if any, theatres around those parts. I guess it seems obvious, but you won't go watch a show if it isn't spoken in your (cue the Spelling Bee soundtrack) "Language of Origin". And then, why would you dish out a hefty sum for a ticket if you didn't know what it was all about? You might understand what they were saying, you mightn't understand what they were saying. The theatre-going demographic becomes somewhat of an exclusive audience (like the ones in NZ, where people wear merrino togas and rattle their costume jewelry at the operaaaah).

I was watching a dvd yesterday, a Christian show called 'Drunk Before Dawn', a musical written by young Malaysian composers, orchestrator, playwright and lyricists all under 25, featuring an entire cast and live orchestra of over 80 people from all ethnic diversities. It's about the missionaries coming to Borneo to do work with indigenous Sidang Injil Borneo (SID), sung in English, and not too dissimilar to an American broadway musical. Well, just quietly, it was like watching Ricky Wong from Chris Lilley's 'We Can Be Heroes'. That's the thing, I'm not interested in Western/English forms of theatre here. If it's not intrinsic to your own native language and natural cultural poetry, it just won't fly.



It reminds me of watching the New Zealand show 'Arohanui', back in August this year. There was something so powerful and moving about the kapa haka- the physical prowess, the synchronized choreography, the meeting of the audience. Moments of strong connection, of tu and of rongo. However, moments of dialogue in English lost that connection, and it gets me curious about how the skills implicit to Kapa Haka can be translated or lost into the performing of English verbal text.



The problems in the theatre models here are entwined in Malaysia's political difficulties. Within its vastly diverse ethnic make up is an inability to come to any cultural agreement. That is to say, the romantic notion of '1Malaysia' is in itself a flawed concept. Ethnic communities here strive to retain their language, their tradition, their religion. The idea of unifying a community means leaving a part of that thing that makes one 'special and unique' behind, bleeding together a largely Western notion of popular culture, creating a globalised state.

This happens all over the world. Who 'owns' the culture of the land- the indigenous, the colonizers, the slaves that work and build the landscape? Despite the generations of people that call a country home, ownership lies in the hands of the powerful. This is my first experience of being in the country where the white man is not so overtly villainized for coming in on a boat, raping and pillaging the natural resources, and then shrugging and saying 'well no one told us it was occupied'. Hah, there are a bunch of other culprits, and everyone and no one is to blame. I'm not in any position to start name calling, but it is painfully obvious that this is a country in the throngs of a National Identity Crises.

And on a side note, went to the Petrolium Museum in Miri, and check out their company logo, a symbol of Malaysian wealth and prosperity...



"It's a small world after all, it's a small world after all..."

KL Bye, Miri Hi...

I've been in Miri the last couple of days, meeting long lost family, spending some pretty concentrated time trying to work out where I fit in.

Firstly, the language. My family's tongue is Hakka (a dialect of Chinese on Gong Gong's side), but they also speak Hokkien, Mandarin (they've learnt this to keep up with the times, given that being able to speak Mandarin in the modern world equals power), English (which is arguably the only uniting language of Malaysia), Bahasa Malay (the national language), and, to get by in restaurants and convenience stores, Cantonese (although that's only usually spoken by the kids in my generation).

So. I speak English. I know more words in Chinese than I give myself credit for, but obviously not fluently. They find it really funny when I mispronounce things (but prefer for me to attempt it and get it wrong then say nothing at all).

Language is culture, so to them, there is much for me to learn. Chinese culture is rich with tradition, deeply ingrained and practiced daily, passed from generation to generation. Value is placed on family. Family are Number One. Within that is the generational hierarchy (i.e. grandparents are top, eldest children are responsible for them, and the kids, blah blah blah). Nothing comes before that. Nothing. That means education, wealth, individual ambition. It's always so hard for Westerners to understand this. You will sacrifice everything for your parents, for your family's name, for your family's reputation. This is nothing new to me.

I feel like I am put in a really difficult position here, because some of my family don't understand why I have chosen to a) move away from home (and cities), b) study a craft that will not guarantee financial prosperity, and c) leave Mum living in the family home by herself. It's usually easy to justify that sort of thing in New Zealand, because it is a relatively Western model for family, and Mum and Dad brought us up to chase our ambition (education, career, travel). Here, faced with the firing squad of aunts, uncles, and cousins who don't see the value in living any other way, it's really testing. There are definitely two trains of thought- the progressive, younger generation, and the elders. Period. Add to the mix one part Chinese spirituality and ancestral worship vs. Christianity, two parts repressive and prejudice Malaysian government, and three parts society that blatantly discriminates against certain ethnic groups, and you have yourself some twisted as shit.

New Zealand is allegedly the land of the free. And, given my experience of being here, it totally is.

Here are some pictures of my beautiful parents the day they got engaged...



And on their wedding day, December 10th 1972...



And their honeymoon...



I am some strange alien they find foreign, endearing, and [very] white. And yet, because I am so familiar, they are inclusive, encouraging, and [very] playfull. My cheeks are still sore from the hours of laughing-till-crying moment from last nights family reunion.

Anyways, enough with the soul searching. Today I went to a crocodile farm and tried to pat a monkey, but realised that it might give me aids, even though it was tied up, so I flinched and it got scared and tried to steal my camera. Go figure.

The Shed, Bernard Street, Chrimeschurch

Before leaving Christchurch, I was fortunate enough to pop down to Addington to check out the new Court Theatre (the old one was at the Art Centre, which, subsequent to the Feb21Quake, is goneburger till further notice).

I have many a fond memory in the old building, the workshops and rehearsals, the shows, the bar, Kubb on the front lawn (not to mention the buffalo chips and gingertoms at the dux).

So, what does it look like? And, more importantly, what does it feel like? Well, see (and feel) for yourself...

The outside, industrial, deceiving...



Inside...whoa! Like stepping into some creative gallery space in downtown NYC. Concrete, banners, and storage containers- like!



New box office, sexy (bigups to Deloitte for that one)...



The wee stage in the foyer (did I hear host-your-next-corporate-at-The-Shed? I think I did!



Entrance to the theatre (and two criminals. One who pretends to work at the theatre. One who actually does).



And finally, inside the beast. 400 seats. Beautiful. (Note the set for the new Roger Hall. It's like being inside a scout hall. Trippy).



I'm so stoaked for everyone who made the theatre happen, it's amazing what can be achieved in SEVENTEEN FRICKEN WEEKS. Ye-yah. Can't wait to get on that stage and play with all the pretty things. Also, green room, ehhmm, I mean, actor's lounge, sweet jebus! http://www.courttheatre.org.nz

Also, as I was walking down the road, I bumped into this wee fulla...



ABC Gallery. While we're popping the champers and patting Cantabs on the back, I might as well do a shout out to old Art School friends Oscar and Seb who are doing a marv job of keeping shit going. http://www.abcgallery.net/

Ahoy-ahoy.

Goodbye Homeland. Hello Motherland.

Well, I've made to Malaysia, staying just out of KL with family. It's big, dirty, crowded, and wonderfully lively. I'm going to sound like some bad romantic oriental lit major when I say this, but the quality of light is so different here, it diffuses through the trees and smog, and looks hazey and warm.

I step off the plane, and am suddenly dripping with sweat like a fat kid at lunchtime detention. Humidity 1. Al, 0.

Now, I know this is documentation of my experiences of the local performance and art scene during my trip, but I can't go too far without talking about all the food I'm consuming.


Dim sum for breakfast. I'm the white-est, most unco looking one in an outdoor eatery packed with hungry Chinese. People yelling stuff in all sorts of different languages. They keep coming up to the table, tray after tray, with loads of dumplings, bao, and deep fried goodies. I think it's because I keep making eye contact with the waiters, curious and eager to know what everything is. I'm discovering that maybe sometimes it's better just to eat and not ask.




We managed to head into KL city last night, and they currently have an outdoor exhibition, "United Buddy Bears", you can read about it here...





Essentially it's about promoting tolerance and understanding. People here are going nuts for it, taking photos and running around trying to find their nation's respective contribution. Which, of course, I did. And here it is...





My cousins, who are from here, helped me point it out, because they recognized the tuatara and the wildlife on the legs from when they visited NZ. And the moko, on the face. I cringe. Let's represent NZ's concept of tolerance and understanding by tentatively painting a poor imitation of some Maori iconography? Oh because of the distinct cultural imagery that makes NZ special and unique! The warning bells are going off. It raises questions of ownership and identity. I genuinley can't work out whether it is exploitative or celebratory. Because it comes down to purpose (and ignorance), it all just feels a bit novel. Oh jeez Peter Hoffman. Well, you decide, according to his statement here...

"I have covered my bear with typical New Zealand motives, mainly flora and fauna. If you feel like counting, you will find sixteen birds, including two flightless kiwis in a white "egg" on the bear's belly. Maori patterns adorn the head and one of the arms. Three prehistoric tuatara lizards crawl up the feet. On the back of the arms you can see the active volcano Ngauruhoe. A group of New Zealanders, old and young, gather behind the two flags: the official New Zealand flag and the flag designed by the artist Hundertwasser."

This shout out goes to A. Paterson, when I asked rhetorically, will he "get a tapu and die"?

Now I will sign out with an obligatory tourist shot of the Petronas Towers, the tallest twin towers in the world. We did a drive by last night. A surreal sight.



I had a lovely conversation with a dutch girl on the monorail, she has just started working at the Shangri La hotel on a 6 month internship. I instantly liked her, she is so away from home here, but is loving the adventure.

Goodbye Wellington...

It's great, you know, when you're preparing to spend some months traveling, and you get to put all your seasonally unsuitable clothing into storage.

Heading to those hot, humid, sunny countries means packing away all the boots, the coats. The beanies and gloves. You take the time to say goodbye to all the suede, fur, and wool that your animal-killing heart so softly desires. You're left with the singlets and slinky dresses. Clothes with little substance or moral fibre, but plenty of efficiency for sun and fun.

Then you realise you've still got a couple of days left in New Zealand, but that's OK, because you've got a suitcase full of holiday attire, and our summers here are so lovely and consistent.

And then you remember that song on the radio you once heard and wasn't it something about four seasons in one day?

And then, like that other song you once heard by that indy poppy Canadian woman about needing a knife instead of a cutlery drawer full of inappropriate utensils, Wellington decides to rain. Heavily. For ages. And ages.

No sun. No fun.

Ok. So you've got to pop out for a coffee, jump to the post shop, and oh, there was that meeting at the bank. You realise you can either wear a) short shorts, b) water wings, or c) jandals. So you opt for d) all of the above, with the option of e) snazzy sunglasses. I guess, given the standard dress code and activity of Newtown, a partly clad female power walking down Adelaide Road in her bikini on a Monday at 9am in the pouring rain is completely regular.

I hope it gets me a great deal on my travel insurance.

Thanks Wellington. Next stop, Chrimeschurch.