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Alor Setar, Kedah
July 28 - Aug 20, 2024

This trip back to my hometown, Alor Setar, wasn’t planned. It began with a message from my brother on July 12 telling me that our father was too tired to wake up that morning. Eleven days later, on July 23, my cousin Miang—who is a doctor in Australia—reviewed his lab results and saw that his AFP level was above 16,600. Based on this and his symptoms, she concluded that Dad was likely facing liver cancer, and she recommended palliative care. With AFP more than a thousand times the normal limit, the reality felt undeniable. If there was ever a time to go home, it was now.

I booked a flight starting from Louisville on Breeze Airways to San Francisco, then connected to Malaysia on Cathay Pacific flight CX851, arriving on July 28. Somewhere over the Pacific Ocean, I watched a Chinese film, Gone with the Boat—a quiet, sad story about an elderly woman reflecting on her final months. It moved me deeply because I couldn’t stop thinking about Dad and the uncertain path ahead for all of us. When my brother picked me up, we stopped in Gurun where I bought RM200 worth of durians—my way of easing back into the familiarity of home. Walking into the house, I surprised my 91-year-old mother. She looked up slowly, recognized me, and smiled. That moment alone made the long journey worth it. Later that evening, I visited Dad at his separate home and gave him a red packet with RM100 for good luck. My half-siblings and their families had all gathered to be near him. On July 31, Dad insisted on taking us all out for dim sum. But during a restroom break, he had an accident that left him visibly shaken. It was painful to watch. Sitting outside afterward, he looked defeated, as if coming to terms with what age and illness had taken from him. Jin tried to reassure him gently, reminding him that all of us will face similar challenges when we grow old.

Meanwhile, the stress I carried from the U.S. came with me. One of my tenants was late on rent, leaving my finances tight during the summer months when the university doesn’t pay faculty. On top of that, I had promised to fund my niece’s studies in Kuala Lumpur—RM30,000 (USD 6,780) per semester at Monash University, plus another RM30,000 for her living expenses. The weight of these responsibilities lingered in the back of my mind. Medical treatment in the U.S. is expensive, so I took advantage of being home to get a checkup, including optional cancer screening and finally learning my blood type—simple things that would cost hundreds or thousands of dollars in America. Not everything at home was peaceful. My 13-year-old niece snapped at me when I asked her to lower her voice while I was working, reminding me sharply that I was “in her house.” She ignored me for the rest of the trip, and I was frustrated that my brother and his wife avoided intervening. Family closeness is often beautiful, but it can also test one’s patience.

Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia
Aug. 3 - 5, 2024
On the way to Kuala Lumpur, we stopped in Ipoh for dim sum at Hong Xing and ticking off another checkmark was to meet my middle-school friend, now a lawyer, Devaraj Nadarajan. However, the main purpose of the trip, though, was to visit my eldest niece, Zi Yi, who was studying at Sunway University. The campus looked modern and alive with young people searching for a future. I filmed parts of it with my Insta360 camera. We had dinner at Tai Er, a Chinese restaurant chain known for its mala fish. The bill came to RM260, which shocked me. Jin jokingly thanked me, but his youngest daughter still refused to speak to me—a small gesture, yet symbolic of a growing distance. At that point, I knew she wouldn’t be joining the upcoming Hatyai trip. A lighter moment came from my eldest niece’s phone app that let me “spin” to decide whether I should buy something. It was silly and charming in its own way.

On August 4, towards the evening, while I thought I could have a moment of peace back in the hotel, Jin invited me to watch Malaysia compete in the Olympic badminton bronze-medal match at a mamak kopitiam. Aaron Chia and Soh Wooi Yik fought back from losing the first set to beat Denmark’s Kim Astrup and Anders Skaarup Rasmussen. The entire shop erupted in cheers. For a moment, all the stress faded into pride. Visiting my maternal cousin Beh Chin, who had recently lost her husband, reminded me that grief was gradually circling closer to our own family.

Back in Alor Setar, my old friend Pam Choo took me out for dinner as she always does. I bought herbal packs, coffee mix, kaya, instant noodles, and a few inexpensive gadgets—including a RM26.50 tripod and travel adaptor—from various supermarkets. But stress found its way back when my academic advisor in the U.S., Greg Roberts, sent contradictory messages suggesting my course might be canceled unless Lycan, a student was moved into independent study. His inconsistency only added to the mental weight. I'd have to take on one student just because they couldn't take the class at time when everyone else had to. How entitled! On August 10, Jin drove to Penang to pick up Dad’s nephew and his son from China, whose tickets Dad had paid for. The father struck me as cunning, but his son, Tua-ti, seemed sincere and respectful. Unfortunately, around the same time, my beloved niece Zi Yi had food poisoning and needed emergency care, costing over RM600.

Thinking ahead, I discussed retirement possibilities with my cousin Ai Lee. A comfortable condo in Penang would cost RM1.5–2 million, plus RM100–150K for a car. Daily living might average RM70, or RM2,000 monthly. ChatGPT had previously estimated that basic living expenses were highest in Kuala Lumpur and that all three cities—KL, Penang, and Bangkok—would require about USD 5,000 per month for a luxurious lifestyle. Malaysia’s MM2H retirement visa requires purchasing property, and Thailand’s long-term visa requires an annual income of $80K, assets of $1 million, and a $500K Thai investment—far too high. Only Thailand’s OA/OX visas were realistic, requiring proof of THB 65,000 monthly income and a balance of THB 800,000. On August 13, Jin’s friend Ah Chang visited and treated us to dinner at Zhou Guo Xian in Pekan China (Chinatown). Later, we stopped to see the Hungry Ghost Festival getai performances—lively, colorful, and a little surreal, with young singers performing Mandopop for both spirits and spectators.

Hatyai, Thailand
Aug. 14, 2024
On August 14, Jin and I left early in the morning to pick up Tua-ti at 8 a.m. for our one-day road trip to Hatyai, Thailand. It should have been a simple cross-border visit, but what happened at immigration set the tone for the entire morning. When we arrived at the border, both Tua-ti and I were asked to wait outside while Jin was directed to speak to an “agent” inside. After waiting in the heat and confusion, the so-called middle person finally told us that immigration wanted 1,000 baht for “processing.” It was a bribe, plain and simple. Jin reluctantly handed over the money — something he later regretted, feeling he should have negotiated or refused. That encounter alone wasted nearly an hour, and we couldn't stop talking about how openly extorted we were. It left a sour taste that lingered well into the afternoon. By the time we finally reached Hatyai, it was already 11:20 a.m. We were behind schedule but tried to make the most of it. Along the way, we stopped at different roadside attractions whenever something caught our eye, mostly so Tua-ti could take photographs. He was enthusiastic about capturing everything — temples, statues, even random signs — anything that reminded him of home. We joked that perhaps he never really left China.

Meanwhile, I became increasingly frustrated with my Insta360 camera, which had completely failed me despite my having reformatted the SD card the night before. No matter what I tried, it refused to function, and I felt robbed of documenting a trip I genuinely wanted to remember. One of our main stops was a Chinese temple, where I donated 20 baht. It was quiet and unassuming, offering a brief moment of calm after the chaotic border crossing. From there, we headed to visit our Thai friend, Chok-hia, at his shop. Not long after, we stopped by Duz, the café run by his daughter. I was intrigued by the creative use of glassware and displays — small design details that stood out to me more than the coffee itself. Chok-hia insisted on taking us to a famous noodle restaurant in Hatyai for lunch. The food was simple but comforting, and his hospitality reminded me how generosity can soften the weight of an exhausting morning. When we left Hatyai, it was already around 6 p.m. Malaysian time. The trip had been short, chaotic, unexpectedly expensive, and yet still memorable — a mix of irritation, small joys, cultural snapshots, and the kind of unpredictable detours that tend to define every journey I take with Jin.

Penang, Malaysia
Aug. 15, 2024
Jin dropped me off at the KTM station before 8 p.m. so I could catch the commuter train to Butterworth for what I called my reconnaissance retirement trip. I bought a one-way ticket for RM7.10 at 7:10 p.m. for the 8:18 a.m. train the next morning. When the train finally arrived, it was five minutes late—nothing unusual, but I noticed everything more carefully this time, knowing that someday this commute might be part of my life if I chose to retire here. My cousin Ai Lee, who lives in Penang, had sent me detailed instructions on how to transfer from the train to the ferry. Thankfully, everything was interconnected, clearly labeled, and easy to navigate. While waiting, I ended up talking to two 19-year-old Mormon missionaries who approached me on the ferry bridge. I took a photo of them and told them kindly not to waste their time trying to convert me—I was already too far on the opposite end of the belief spectrum. They asked what I relied on if not religion, and I told them simply: “Myself.”

At the jetty, Ai Lee was waiting, along with another cousin, Siong-ko, and his wife. Their plan was to show me prospective retirement properties around Penang Island. Our first stop was near the jetty area, close to the beach, including Karpal Singh Drive. The developments there were impressive—sleek, modern—but most prices were over RM1 million, well beyond what I imagined paying for retirement unless absolutely necessary. Our second stop was the Queensway project by the Ideal developer, who seemed to have a major presence across the island. As we drove through, only two properties truly captured my attention. The first was SummerSkye, which appealed to me because some of its blocks were not extremely tall—fewer floors meant fewer potential elevator issues with age. The surrounding commercial units were thoughtfully chosen: groceries, Mr. DIY, small eateries—everything one might realistically need day-to-day. The second property was a stretch of landed homes, linked houses with small front garages, though too short for a full-sized sedan. Still, at around RM800K, it felt like a rare deal for Penang Island. After exploring the neighborhoods and discussing retirement costs and logistics, I headed back on the commuter train, paying another RM7.10. I boarded the 4:25 p.m. train, but a delay near Gurun pushed my arrival in Alor Setar to 6:01 p.m. As the train rolled into the station, I felt torn. If I ever returned for good, would I be doing so as a “former American,” or remain an American choosing to live abroad? It was a question I couldn’t answer yet.

Four days later, the inevitable family drama surfaced. Dad asked me to come over because he wanted to give me some money from his safe. He emphasized that he wanted me to have his remaining U.S. dollars—USD $50 in $1 bills and two $100 bills. When Jin, Jess, and I arrived, we were surprised to find Kok Chiang already there, and immediately his tone was sharp and defensive. We suspected someone must have tipped him off because typically he would have left before 5 p.m., yet here he was, planted firmly in the room.

As Dad opened the safe and pulled out various currencies—Hong Kong dollars, U.S. dollars, Singapore dollars, and Chinese yuan—Kok Chiang positioned himself physically between Dad and me, inserting himself into decisions about how much Dad should give. There was over SGD 10,000 in the safe. Dad hesitated, unsure what amount to pass to me, and Kok Chiang declared that SGD 5,000 would be “appropriate” as reimbursement for my airfare to come home. It felt intrusive and controlling. Even as we were leaving, he made a rude remark about how Dad only ate one or two bites of the food he bought for him. My sister-in-law snapped back, telling him firmly that regardless, Dad still needed to eat. The whole encounter left all of us tense and angry.

DEPARTURE...

August 20 came quickly. It was time for me to return to the U.S., and coincidentally Dad’s nephew and his son were also flying back to China the same day. I later heard that both of them cried at the airport, fully aware that this would likely be the last time they saw Dad alive. Before leaving, I handed Nursi, our Indonesian maid, a RM100 bill to thank her for caring for both of my aging parents. This would be her final year with our family. At the Penang International Airport, the immigration officer took one look at my passport photo, paused, then showed it to me, clearly noticing how much I had aged. He flipped to the page showing my Malaysian birthplace and asked, “Masih boleh cakap Melayu?” I answered with a simple “Boleh,” and he waved me through. During the long layover at Hong Kong Airport, I walked around trying to pass the time until Cathay Pacific began boarding at 12:50 a.m. The flight to San Francisco was about 14 hours. By 11 p.m. Pacific Time, I finally arrived at Tony’s house. Exhausted, I still found myself venting in the car about Zi Xin—my stubborn niece who had refused to speak to me the entire trip.

It was a return marked by emotional heaviness: the weight of aging parents, the pressure of financial commitments, unresolved family tensions, and the growing realization that each visit home carries more significance than the last.