By Brian Yip
A reflective piece on living abroad and the remembering home.
The leaves turn yellow. Then brown. Slowly, they wither and fall away to their resting place beneath. Again and again and again.
It’s autumn.
I never thought I’d see the crisp sunlight that bathes this place. Nor did I expect to feel such cold air enter my lungs. Both form quite the backdrop to this market I’m at. Something familiar yet faraway.
As if just out of my reach.
Hobart isn’t the biggest place out there, so every city event seems larger than life. It’s fitting for the weekly markets here at Salamanca Place. The place isn’t that enormous by any means - you could probably walk from block to block in about…45 minutes? Including the small inner roads as well, I mean.
You’ll notice the venue being full of hubbub because of how close it is to the waterfront. Fragments of chatter fall out as I journey past the stalls. The lady beside me talks about having tacos with black beans for dinner. The cashier in the food truck shouts out orders to the kitchen crew out back. A child nervously cries as they ride their bike for the first time.
So I walk on.
There are stalls that sell fresh fruit in small boxes. A booth near the old trees sells cover art of things my parents are probably more familiar with. The smell of sausages frying linger in the air mingled with lobster bisque. An auntie places a heap of spiced apples into the crepe I just bought.
And I keep walking.
Music plays from a guitar at the end of the market. As I hover in to listen, I spy ceramics of all shapes and sizes begging to be inspected. Someone sells kangaroo jerky, proudly boasting to the customers that it’s a family recipe.
Joy, joy, joy.
It’s heaven. Condensed into a street separated into three rows of stalls. Then neatly wrapped up in sights and delights.
I like it.
So I smile as I bask amidst the blessing of discovering somewhere new. It’s funny, no? Markets aren’t something new to me. I’ve been to the pasar malam so many times. Each visit feels like a trip into this frenzied wonderland running on steam and song.
Nothing new there. Besides the various foods I’ve never tasted before. Or the trinkets that mean something I wished I knew. Or the landscapes of a foreign land. Or…O-or!
…
Ah, so that’s why it felt so faraway to me.
Every little bit of peace I feel in this market is something that just about feels like home. The crowds I see today - how are they different from what I know? We laugh and wander together, seeking out things to try and buy. Memories get forged. And they are connected under the same sky despite us being oceans apart.
But it’s not home.
Sometimes, I find it scary to have these feelings. People usually find solace in carving out a bit of hearth when they travel. It’s what keeps them going, right? Finding familiarity amidst the unknown.
But I feel yearning instead. A desire to come back home. The things that motivate travellers to stay here are the same ones that nudge me softly to look back. Come home, come home!
…they didn’t tell me about this in Living Abroad 101.
I’m not afraid to say I’m afraid. There’s this sense of joy I feel knowing that some things from Malaysia translate well into an Australian context. We like food and love our breaks. We love gatherings so much that it’s uncanny. And I think most of all, we’re not afraid to learn and share stories with each other.
A simple market is able to bring out the best of two different nations. It’s impressive.
But again, the yearning remains. No matter how lively the Salamanca markets may be, it will never fully replicate what I’ve seen in Malaysia. Maybe it’s the array of languages we use to speak. Or the way we haggle for prices. The humidity, perhaps?
Or it could be all of the above. I don’t know.
Tell me, does yearning equate to sadness? What’s the line between hoping and despairing for something?
I’ll be away for at least two years. The duration itself isn’t long, yes. Yet, knowing that I’m missing out on Malaysia surprises me sometimes. A feeling so overwhelming that for just a moment, I’m hurtling through a cloud of emotions cannot be named.
I’m not complaining about anything. Actually, I’m grateful for being able to remember home in a form that means so much. The chance to see the Salamanca market only furthers my point. It may not be everything I remember, but the world this place creates must be significant for the people around her. I guess I want to understand that world too.
So it’s worth the longing and aching, I think - if the whole experience means being able to remember my roots.
Hujan emas di negeri orang, hujan batu di negeri sendiri, baik juga di negeri sendiri.
I miss the pasar malam.
I really miss home, too.
Oddly enough, I don’t feel sadness as I finish writing these lines. Only relief.
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