| The Malaysia Trip-a-Palaysia, part V |
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| Written by Jeff Ritter | |
| Friday, 24 August 2007 | |
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Cheating death and the "Tomio" Experience
Greetings from Petaling Jaya, in Selangor, Malaysia. I’m rapidly approaching the end of the line for this adventure, but it doesn’t mean things are winding down quietly. I’m currently sitting in room no. 1803 of the One World Hotel, feet up, eyes heavy, and to be honest, far too exhausted to write a clever intro. Instead, let’s get right to the recap:
* Yesterday I mentioned that it’s taking us international journalists, 41 in all, more than six hours to complete a full round of golf. Let’s face it: A dyspeptic yak can play 18 holes in less time. Some members of the group had described the man they believed to be most responsible for slowing play, though, oddly, everyone who played with him enjoyed the experience. Yesterday I finagled my way into his foursome. His (Westernized) name is * …I really don’t want to belabor the whole thunderstorm thing, but after my second storm here in Malaysia, I need to speak with not only a meteorologist, but also a therapist. Here’s what happened: Fifteen holes into The Tomio Experience, clouds rolled in, and a light sprinkle quickly turned into a downpour. Less than five minutes later, thunder and lightning began. We were stuck out on the far end of the course, so our caddies led us to an open-air shelter that was about the size of an average living room. Two foursomes form Indonesia joined my group under the shelter just as the thunder started. Once again, it was The Malaysian Thunder—the kind that sounds like it’s exploding inside your head. As the 12 or so of us waited out the storm, lightning began to flash. Then I thought it was all over.
There was quick flash of light right in front of us, immediately followed by a boom and sharp, fast crackle right over our heads, rattling the shelter’s tin roof. It was a little like the sound a bug-zapper makes when a mosquito buzzes through, only about 100 times louder. I thought this time I was the mosquito. The Indonesians ooed and aahhed. The caddies giggled. The American checked his drawers. Tomio motioned to indicate he was certain Twenty minutes later, the rain lightened, the lightning stopped, and the caddies buzzed us to the clubhouse in our carts. Some questions still remain: In Malaysia, is getting hit by lightning as common as, say, a fender bender? Also, can taking malaria pills reverse a person’s magnetism and cause them to attract lightning bolts? And perhaps most importantly, if the odds getting hit by lightning are the same as winning the lottery, does this all mean I might be due for a jackpot? * One final quick story, this one from earlier today: I now have a Chinese name. I asked two of my new friends, Beatrice and Steve (their Western names) at breakfast today how folks from Asian countries select Western names. It turns out they usually just pick one that sounds good to them. Chinese names, they said, have deeper meanings, the characters and words standing for traits about the individual. That was all I needed to hear. Since my parents didn’t do it, I hired them to select a Chinese name for me. They debated back and forth in Chinese, occasionally pausing to ask me in English about various aspects of my life. This went on for nearly half an hour. I’m almost positive my own parents spent less time selecting my American birth name. Eventually they decided on this: Ray Le Fu. It’s meaning is “Clever Happy Man.” When I return home, I plan to ask my boss to put these Chinese characters on my business card. I’m pretty happy with my new name. Heck, I’m just happy to be alive. Time to shift gears and wrap up for now. The flight home leaves tomorrow. Stay grounded, America.
LEARN MALAYISAN
Many basic golf terms, like “bunker,” mulligan,” “water” and “fairway” are the same in English, Malaysian, and, presumably, any language. Others require translation. Here are a few basic terms a golfer would commonly use, along with their Malaysian translations:
Good shot: “Pukulan hebat” Ball: “Bola” How far? “Berapa Jauh” Thank you: Terima Kasih” Nice playing with you: “Seronok bermain bersama kamu” Cobra: “Ular tedung”
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Tomio, pronounced “Tommy-O.” He’s from Taipei, Taiwan, and if he were ever somehow able to enter a U.S. celebrity pro-am tournament, he would easily steal the show from Bill Murray, George Lopez, and all the other so-called “entertainers.” Although his occupation is that of magazine photographer, Tomio was born to entertain. His swing is fluid—heck, it’s a lot better than mine—but he can only hit it about 125 yards, 150 tops. Yesterday he was clad in funky red-framed eyeglasses and an orange golf shirt, and at about five-foot-one, 90 pounds, he bore a striking resemblance to a No. 2 pencil. Naturally his nickname back home is "Lion." When he clutched his fancy TaylorMade driver, it looked like he was attempting to swing a mailbox. He speaks virtually no English, but communicated through exaggerated gestures and pantomimes. On the course, he takes no gimmies or mulligans, and counts every stroke. The first day, when asked what he shot, he proudly said, “One hundred thirty-four.” On one par-3 that required a long carry over water, Tomio dunked five straight shots and eventually took a 15. Still, his mood never soured. After good shots, he jumped and pumped his fists like Tiger Woods on 12 Mountain Dews. After poor shots, he dropped his head and sarcastically moped like a five-year-old who just got caught trying to steal an extra cookie. But Tomio was always smiling. Always. Sometimes he would yell at the ball. Sometimes he would imitate the seagulls. (I could never figure out if the bird calls were a response to good shots or to bad; they seemed to pop up at random.) But the show never stopped. It was just a fantastic time, and a new friendship was born. It was a perfect afternoon…for 15 holes… 
the roof of the shelter was hit by lightning. So were the caddies. Heeding their advice, we made sure to “ground” ourselves on the tile floor of the shelter, meaning that we kept ourselves dry (lightning is more drawn to soaked golfers) and took care to touch nothing metal. This seemed to make everyone else feel safe, but I still wanted to scream, THIS IS IT? DON'T TOUCH AYTHING METAL? THIS IS THE ONE THING I CAN DO TO PREVENT TEN MILLION VOLTS OF ELECTRICITY FROM PASSING THROUGH MY BODY RIGHT NOW? We continued waiting. Then, five minutes later, it happened again. A flash, a snap, and again the shelter roof was struck. The Indonesians stopped joking. The caddies grew a little more serious. I sat on a tile ledge and began scribbling my last will and testament onto my notepad. There was nowhere we could go. Ten minutes later, it happened AGAIN. Yes, I am telling you with a straight face that I sat under a Malaysian shelter that was hit by lightning three times in less than 20 minutes and lived to tell about it. I was completely out of my mind, as was the only other North American in the group, a writer from Canada, who had turned a ghostly shade of white. (Come to think of it--probably not all that remarkable for a Canadian.) Still, we both thought we were finished. 
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