Even though excited to get to Thailand, I hated leaving Malaysia as I grew to love the place. But after 5 weeks or so the hardest thing to leave behind was the language (OK and the food and the people and...). But oh how I miss the days of a good old "selamat pagi". I had studied bahasa Malaysia for a month or so before before leaving so I could at least find a toilet and food when I got there. Laziness and denial let me get to southern Thailand with not one word of Thai in my lexicon. Turns out I should have been studying Thai instead of Malaysian. The language situation is the exact opposite of what I had imagined. Everyone in Malysia seems to speak some English and a lot speak it well. In Thailand not many speak it well and there are quite a few who have no English words in them what so ever. And the written script? Where are my roman letters!? It makes it very hard to find anything or go anywhere by bike if I can't even phonetically try to read a town name. So that has been hard for me and boo-frickety-hoo! "Of course they speak Thai, you ninny, youre in Thailand!!" Oh my God, here come the voices!
I use the Lonely Planet guide book for a ton of information and it is great. For language tips, it's useless. When for the first few days here I tried to say "I am vegetarian" people would just shake their heads and pick up a fish or chicken part. I would point to the noodles and veggies and eventually come up with something to eat. Finally at the guest house in Krabi the owner pulled me aside and helped me out with some key vegetarian phrases. That night I tried it out and sure enough some veggie plate came to my table and it was delicious. The next night I tried it out again and more head shaking...which has been my response of late. Back at the guest house today, I tried my one phrase out on a group of women sitting with the owner and they all just laughed. Apparently I have been going around Thailand asking every food vendor if I'm a vegetarian. I guess my answer is yes when I refuse the meat held up to me in response. Language is tricky and I like to point a lot more now than I ever have. "I'd like one more Thai iced tea please" is easily translated to pointing my index finger at my empty glass then holding up the number 1. Simple, effective, yet not conducive to much more. If you can tell me how to sign "What subject did you study at University" please send it to my comments section... with photos! Well, it's almost 6pm here so off to dinner...hmm, wonder what will end up on my plate tonight?
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Language
There are no words to describe just how beautiful these islands off of S.E. Asia are. Magnificent! Stunning! Breathtaking! Hmmm. Geologists have named this type of formation a karst which doesn't really inspire me, for one , to start packing my bags or dust off my passport. And that's the problem with language, isn't it, trying to convey a personal experience using conventional words. Experiences that no one else (out of over 6 billion people!)will ever have...no matter how crowded the beaches get or how worn the sidewalks. Only my experiences, sifted through my culture, and my upbringing, (not to mention my filters that unconsciously weed out the bits of information that don't quite "fit"), only these matter. They are mine alone, but how do I share them?
By the way, and as an aside, I've taken to placing rhetorical questions at the end of my sentences these days, haven't I? I think I sound more European, or at least British, and really who doesn't want to sound more British? It's a new influence from all the English travellers I've been talking to. It seems like they need confirmation of what they're saying to verify their reality, doesn't it? And it is weird if you try to answer the question because they've moved on, unconscious of even having asked it, and look at you a bit like "Why are you interrupting me", don't they? Sorry, it's a dangerous path to start trodding. A bit addictive, isn't it?
Anyway. Yesterday I rode 126km or so. I like using the metric system because it sounds so much more demanding to ride 126km than the standard British 75.6 miles, doesn't it? So I'll have to blame it on the intense heat and humidity instead of the distance."It" being my insane behavior of talking to/shouting at myself. Since today I am writing about language I think it is only appropriate, if not too revealing, to let you in on my conversation with myself. Not the ones we all have that take place in our heads. But this one, that was at full volume with shouting and arguing and crazy laughter. I'm guessing that this phenomenon is shared by others who spend a lot of time doing physically demanding activities alone: marathoners, triathletes, blue water sailors, and trombone players...sorry dad! If not then I truly am losing it out here. It began with some "beeps" and "boops" as I sang some be-boppy jazz riffs that were just passing through my head. Then, "There are strange things done in the midnight sun, by the men who moil for gold", came blurting out of my mouth, inspired maybe, from some long forgotten neuron in my brain that just died of heat stroke. One of my favorite poems from a great poet Robert Service...and for the first time I really understood the word "moil". That's what I'm trying to say here, with language and experience. How could I have understood, at 16 years old, moiling for anything? If it's possible to moil your way through a bag of Dorito's, or through the channels of afterschool T.V. shows then, yes, I would have understood better Robert Service. But yesterday I actually moiled and I think that's why the poem came to me. "Moil" I said, then shouted and then laughed at the rediculousness of that word and me yelling into the Thai afternoon. But I was now on a roll and from that word sentences sprang, stories, country western songs trying to find a rhyme with Kuala Lumpur (try it sometime), and even characters. I had the cockney house wife screeching at the snooty BBC World Service headlines. I had the Irish Priest and the lucky charms leprechaun arguing over their purple moons and green clovers. But my favorite was the stereotypical stiff-upper-lip WW2 British Major who always rallied his troops through the worst of the worst. He's the one who pulled us (me) through the mid-day heat. "C-mon, lads" he'd (I'd) shout, "this is nothing!" "Why, I could tell you stories of the jungle heat in Rangoon..." and off he'd be 'tut-tutting' and 'stiff-upper-lipping' his (my) way down the road. It worked brilliantly too! The kilometers flew by as I shouted and grumbled and accented my way to Krabi which like I said is "stunning", "breathtaking" and "beautiful"!
All throughout Thailand so far, people shout out "Hello!" from wherever they are...homes, yards, shops, and fields as I ride by. It may be a stereotype but the Thai people really seem welcoming and open. Yesterday however, looking down at my legs which had developed a bright red rash with welts in places (too much heat I think), and my black shorts with weird white lines of dried salty sweat, and my dripping front grill of a chest that was marked with dead bugs, I realized that I didnt hear nearly as many hello's. Either I was starting to look too far gone, too foul or just too nutters to be Hello'd to anymore, or maybe I just couldn't hear them through all my screaming and arguing.
OK time to go check my meds.
By the way, and as an aside, I've taken to placing rhetorical questions at the end of my sentences these days, haven't I? I think I sound more European, or at least British, and really who doesn't want to sound more British? It's a new influence from all the English travellers I've been talking to. It seems like they need confirmation of what they're saying to verify their reality, doesn't it? And it is weird if you try to answer the question because they've moved on, unconscious of even having asked it, and look at you a bit like "Why are you interrupting me", don't they? Sorry, it's a dangerous path to start trodding. A bit addictive, isn't it?
Anyway. Yesterday I rode 126km or so. I like using the metric system because it sounds so much more demanding to ride 126km than the standard British 75.6 miles, doesn't it? So I'll have to blame it on the intense heat and humidity instead of the distance."It" being my insane behavior of talking to/shouting at myself. Since today I am writing about language I think it is only appropriate, if not too revealing, to let you in on my conversation with myself. Not the ones we all have that take place in our heads. But this one, that was at full volume with shouting and arguing and crazy laughter. I'm guessing that this phenomenon is shared by others who spend a lot of time doing physically demanding activities alone: marathoners, triathletes, blue water sailors, and trombone players...sorry dad! If not then I truly am losing it out here. It began with some "beeps" and "boops" as I sang some be-boppy jazz riffs that were just passing through my head. Then, "There are strange things done in the midnight sun, by the men who moil for gold", came blurting out of my mouth, inspired maybe, from some long forgotten neuron in my brain that just died of heat stroke. One of my favorite poems from a great poet Robert Service...and for the first time I really understood the word "moil". That's what I'm trying to say here, with language and experience. How could I have understood, at 16 years old, moiling for anything? If it's possible to moil your way through a bag of Dorito's, or through the channels of afterschool T.V. shows then, yes, I would have understood better Robert Service. But yesterday I actually moiled and I think that's why the poem came to me. "Moil" I said, then shouted and then laughed at the rediculousness of that word and me yelling into the Thai afternoon. But I was now on a roll and from that word sentences sprang, stories, country western songs trying to find a rhyme with Kuala Lumpur (try it sometime), and even characters. I had the cockney house wife screeching at the snooty BBC World Service headlines. I had the Irish Priest and the lucky charms leprechaun arguing over their purple moons and green clovers. But my favorite was the stereotypical stiff-upper-lip WW2 British Major who always rallied his troops through the worst of the worst. He's the one who pulled us (me) through the mid-day heat. "C-mon, lads" he'd (I'd) shout, "this is nothing!" "Why, I could tell you stories of the jungle heat in Rangoon..." and off he'd be 'tut-tutting' and 'stiff-upper-lipping' his (my) way down the road. It worked brilliantly too! The kilometers flew by as I shouted and grumbled and accented my way to Krabi which like I said is "stunning", "breathtaking" and "beautiful"!
All throughout Thailand so far, people shout out "Hello!" from wherever they are...homes, yards, shops, and fields as I ride by. It may be a stereotype but the Thai people really seem welcoming and open. Yesterday however, looking down at my legs which had developed a bright red rash with welts in places (too much heat I think), and my black shorts with weird white lines of dried salty sweat, and my dripping front grill of a chest that was marked with dead bugs, I realized that I didnt hear nearly as many hello's. Either I was starting to look too far gone, too foul or just too nutters to be Hello'd to anymore, or maybe I just couldn't hear them through all my screaming and arguing.
OK time to go check my meds.
New Photos
I have to go either vomit or poop or both RIGHT NOW! But go check out some new pics of the trip if interested. I've made it easy for you too! Check out the new link on the right side of the screen!
Monday, November 27, 2006
Thailand!
After unloading my gear at the hotel and showering off the days grit I still had a few hours of sunlight to explore the small city of Satun in S.W. Thailand. It is the landing point for the ferry from Langkawi Island and the old section of town where I'm staying is crumbling, quiet and rustically quaint near a bend in a river. Stripped bare, my bike seems to float with almost effortless pedal strokes down the narrow moped choked streets. Although the area is still predominantly Muslim, I'm starting to see more random Buddhist shrines standing on posts in front of homes like gilded, ornate mailboxes. Buddha mail, full of prayers, delivered on the smoke of incense to the whole world. I pass a school that is spilling its students out onto the street. All girls and they sparkle in their uniforms. Some look like girlscouts in that green polyester not-quite-military style shirt and shorts...patch on breast pocket included. Other girls are wearing immaculate white button up shirts and bright blue skirts. They all yell "Hello!" as I pass and laugh at my "Hello" in response.
The black clouds ahead are rapidly approaching and as the first dime sized drops fall I realize I have mis-timed this ride. Two minutes later I'm sitting under an awning which is a snack shop for the after school crowd. The sky has unloaded like I've never seen. It's not pouring, it's waterfalling. A solid sheet of water, like a pane of glass, is hanging from the edge of the awning. As I try to order a cold drink I begin to understand that Thailand will be more challenging to travel through than Malaysia. I speak absolutely no Thai and down here no one has bothered with English either. I point to a bright green syrup sitting on the counter, then to a bucket of ice and then to the blender. Blank stare. The womans daughter offers assistance and after a performance of blending an icee/slurpee/margarita that Marcel Marceau would have been proud of (I even added blender sound effects), I ended up with a coke on ice. When I finished my coke and got up the nerve to try again, I barely discerned the word capuccino and eagerly said yes. As I watched the nescafe hit the ice cubes in the blender I imagined the frapuccino I would soon enjoy. When the drink came, the grape flavored bubble tea sized tapioca balls at the bottom were a bit of a surprise. And while not totally horrid, I thought that this should never be attempted at home. It was while I was chewing my capuccino that the terrorists showed up.
People had been warning me about S. Thailand and the islamic separatists since Singapore. Over the past few years bombs have been going off sporadically as well as targeted shootings. A few tourists have been killed accidentally by being in the wrong place at the wrong time. The Thai government has responded in a typical heavy-handed way and the violence continues although in limited areas. So I was surprised, after only four hours in the country, of running into trouble. But here they came...the little shop was suddenly rushed by 8 or so eleven year old girls dripping wet and crowding around me pointing and laughing. They were enjoying the odd sight of a farang on this tiny side street and the opportunity to practice any English phrase they could remember. From "What is your name" to "I love you" the conversation moved briskly from the mundane to the intensely personal. What really made them howl, jump into the rain, or literally fall into the river of the street, however, was having me repeat sentences in Thai. God only knows what I was saying but the bubble-tea-capuccino maker was laughing just as hard as the girls. After many breakdowns of language, and comprehension, the girls told me that they all drive mopeds. As I looked at them, smirking incredulously, a little kid not quite tall enough to sit up straight on the seat came blowing by on one and popped an unstable wheelie as all the girls screamed their approval. Pouring rain, slippery flooded streets, no helmet, child driver...no worries. Suddenly Malaysia seemed like Peoria. The girls, after exhausting their English phrases, including counting to 10 in both languages, all said goodbye a hundred times each and headed out hand in hand into the pouring rain. The shopkeeper overcharged me for the drinks and I headed back to the hotel not quite sure what to think about the place I'm going to be for the next 2 months.
The black clouds ahead are rapidly approaching and as the first dime sized drops fall I realize I have mis-timed this ride. Two minutes later I'm sitting under an awning which is a snack shop for the after school crowd. The sky has unloaded like I've never seen. It's not pouring, it's waterfalling. A solid sheet of water, like a pane of glass, is hanging from the edge of the awning. As I try to order a cold drink I begin to understand that Thailand will be more challenging to travel through than Malaysia. I speak absolutely no Thai and down here no one has bothered with English either. I point to a bright green syrup sitting on the counter, then to a bucket of ice and then to the blender. Blank stare. The womans daughter offers assistance and after a performance of blending an icee/slurpee/margarita that Marcel Marceau would have been proud of (I even added blender sound effects), I ended up with a coke on ice. When I finished my coke and got up the nerve to try again, I barely discerned the word capuccino and eagerly said yes. As I watched the nescafe hit the ice cubes in the blender I imagined the frapuccino I would soon enjoy. When the drink came, the grape flavored bubble tea sized tapioca balls at the bottom were a bit of a surprise. And while not totally horrid, I thought that this should never be attempted at home. It was while I was chewing my capuccino that the terrorists showed up.
People had been warning me about S. Thailand and the islamic separatists since Singapore. Over the past few years bombs have been going off sporadically as well as targeted shootings. A few tourists have been killed accidentally by being in the wrong place at the wrong time. The Thai government has responded in a typical heavy-handed way and the violence continues although in limited areas. So I was surprised, after only four hours in the country, of running into trouble. But here they came...the little shop was suddenly rushed by 8 or so eleven year old girls dripping wet and crowding around me pointing and laughing. They were enjoying the odd sight of a farang on this tiny side street and the opportunity to practice any English phrase they could remember. From "What is your name" to "I love you" the conversation moved briskly from the mundane to the intensely personal. What really made them howl, jump into the rain, or literally fall into the river of the street, however, was having me repeat sentences in Thai. God only knows what I was saying but the bubble-tea-capuccino maker was laughing just as hard as the girls. After many breakdowns of language, and comprehension, the girls told me that they all drive mopeds. As I looked at them, smirking incredulously, a little kid not quite tall enough to sit up straight on the seat came blowing by on one and popped an unstable wheelie as all the girls screamed their approval. Pouring rain, slippery flooded streets, no helmet, child driver...no worries. Suddenly Malaysia seemed like Peoria. The girls, after exhausting their English phrases, including counting to 10 in both languages, all said goodbye a hundred times each and headed out hand in hand into the pouring rain. The shopkeeper overcharged me for the drinks and I headed back to the hotel not quite sure what to think about the place I'm going to be for the next 2 months.
Friday, November 24, 2006
In Too Deep
I'ts 3:30am and the Swede has just lost his last hand, busted, and heading off to sleep. My voice is dry and cracked (despite the pile of empty beer cans in front of me) thanks to the constant chainsmoking of the Brit across the table. My eyelids are sandpaper but I'm not tired. How can I be? I was dealt 2 kings straight off and have been raising the pot at every opportunity. But the Irish bloke to my right won't fold. He's just learned poker and plays it horribly, losing huge bets on awful bluffs. But his beginners luck is uncanny and my hand falters as I throw another 10 matchsticks (our impromtu poker chips) into the pot. He sits to the left of Ibrahim. Ibrahim, and old but fit Iranian, who owns the guest house where this surly night is taking place, is an ex-colonel from way back in the Shaw's army. Earlier he had told me a long winded, beer fueled, and rather dubious story of the time he met Saddam Hussein on the battlefield. Anyway, he and the Irishman hate each other, that much is obvious, and have been taunting back and forth with wild, crazy bets on cards the rest of us would have long ago discarded as trash. The crusty Canadian, a retired fisherman from Vancouver Island, with broken capillaries strewn about his ruddy face, is calmy yet firmly running this game like the Vegas lounge lizard he is when not with his Thai "fiancee" over here in S.E.Asia.
It's hot tonight, here on Langkawi Island, and sweat drips down my back. It's my last night in Malaysia and the stakes are high. We've been at the table for 5 hours and it shows: haggard faces and the detritus of beer cans and cigarette butts.The cheerful taunting of the Irish guy has gotten to all of us and I'm starting to hate him... deeply. His nickname for Ibrahim was "Ayatolla". To avoid the brewing fistfight I changed the nickname to "Bob" and for the rest of the night this poor guy was Bob. But I don't feel bad because he cheats like a young Bill Clinton and we have to watch him closely and make him recount his sticks before tossing them into the pile. My "sure thing" of a pair of kings gets weaker with every card played in this hell that is called "Texas Hold 'em". "The most popular poker game in the world" says the Canadian in a way that sounds like a threat some how. I've no reason to doubt him at this point as I've never played before and he's proven himself the undisputed expert at this table (which actually isn't saying a lot). By now I am focused, committed to playing this through to its bloody end. I could quit with a respectable little pile of fire-starters but I want more. Besides the fool's bluffing and I want to shut that Irish lilt up for good. I push in my entire stack of matches and the idiot calls me! "Flip 'em" grunts our liver challenged Canadian and I do. I swear the Irish bastard was humming the "lucky Charms" tune as he raked in the mountain of wood with the 3 sevens he was holding.
Back in my room I assessed the nights damage. Five hours of poker, another step toward second hand smoke lung cancer, mild liver damage, loss of valuable brain cells, and worst of all... I was down almost SEVEN U.S. DOLLARS.
It's hot tonight, here on Langkawi Island, and sweat drips down my back. It's my last night in Malaysia and the stakes are high. We've been at the table for 5 hours and it shows: haggard faces and the detritus of beer cans and cigarette butts.The cheerful taunting of the Irish guy has gotten to all of us and I'm starting to hate him... deeply. His nickname for Ibrahim was "Ayatolla". To avoid the brewing fistfight I changed the nickname to "Bob" and for the rest of the night this poor guy was Bob. But I don't feel bad because he cheats like a young Bill Clinton and we have to watch him closely and make him recount his sticks before tossing them into the pile. My "sure thing" of a pair of kings gets weaker with every card played in this hell that is called "Texas Hold 'em". "The most popular poker game in the world" says the Canadian in a way that sounds like a threat some how. I've no reason to doubt him at this point as I've never played before and he's proven himself the undisputed expert at this table (which actually isn't saying a lot). By now I am focused, committed to playing this through to its bloody end. I could quit with a respectable little pile of fire-starters but I want more. Besides the fool's bluffing and I want to shut that Irish lilt up for good. I push in my entire stack of matches and the idiot calls me! "Flip 'em" grunts our liver challenged Canadian and I do. I swear the Irish bastard was humming the "lucky Charms" tune as he raked in the mountain of wood with the 3 sevens he was holding.
Back in my room I assessed the nights damage. Five hours of poker, another step toward second hand smoke lung cancer, mild liver damage, loss of valuable brain cells, and worst of all... I was down almost SEVEN U.S. DOLLARS.
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
The Ugly Ameicans
I'm tired of feling emarrassed about being American. If a situation feels awkward when someone asks where I'm from, I'll usually say "Canada, eh." The other day someone called me on it and said "Oh yeah? Whats the capitol there?" Brain freeze-up and panic! OK, I've travelled a lot and am not a geographical moron but the question was so out of the blue, especially since I just threw out that remark to get the guy off my back, that I couldn't, for anything, remember Toronto. It wasn't coming and I had to act quickly or look like a liar or something. "Quebec", and I managed to say it without the inflection rising at the end of the word. Fortunately he only asked because he had a scam going and didn't listen or also didn't know that Quebec is not the capitol of Canada. But the story illustrates a frustration I'm having over being an American travelling in Malaysia...especially since it's an Islamic country. It's not only that George Bush is so universally disliked and disrespected by everyone I've come across (and I'm not exagerating here) . No, that's a given and a common ground that I can actually bond with everyone I meet. Mr. Bush has actually helped ease my getting to know people of other cultures. He has greased the wheels and lubricated the awkward silence after you actually decide to be honest and tell someone that you are an American. Bush is the best ice-breaker going! He is something we can all agree on. Just so you know, there's a general concensus, across cultural boundaries, that the leader of the most powerful nation has the intelligence of a monkey.
But there is another stereotype that I'm fighting that is even more insidious. The Ugly American. I'll give you some examples of the ones I've seen on this trip. Just today on a crowded ferry I met a couple, Paul and Kelly, from New Mexico who now live in Chiang Mai and are building a tour business for Americans to go to India. (Check out their website www.northstarjourneys.com) There were no seats on the crowded boat and an Islamic couple was leaning uncomfortably against the luggage area. The woman in full black chador with slits for the eyes was standing next to a group of young Europeans all in T-shirts and shorts (my dress code as well). As I was talking to Kelly about their business, and yoga, and travel in general, Paul (her husband) got up and tapped the husband of the chador-wearer on the shoulder. I watched as the man developed a warm smile and Paul pointed to his open seat. They gratefully sat down and we all squeezed together. Paul and the man then struck up a conversation and I was impressed by the warmth of that gesture. Another example of the ugly American abroad comes from my first few days in Singapore. A couple whom I had never met, Sharon and Steve Morris, (of the San Juan Island Morrises I'll have you know) are aquaintances of my sister Samantha. They offered to let me sleep at their place in Singapore when they heard I was coming. Not only did they let me stay for two nights in their beautiful home but they took me to dinner both nights and I practically had to extricate myself from their house as they were so gracious...giving me tips on where to stay, what to avoid, and how to behave properly in Malaysia. They even gave me their cell phone number and told me to call them if I had any problems as they were the closest people I had in the area (the area being Asia).
Every other American I've met on this trip has been stellar (OK, one scuba diving couple in Tioman Island was horrid, but hey they were from L.A. so...). There HAS been a lot of negative whining about Cambodians being aggressive or about the Thai being horrible or about being ripped off here and scammed there. But not from the American travellers. The Brits and the Aussies and I hate to say it but the Canadians were the ones doing the complaining. And loudly so that everyone around could hear (like maybe the Thai's). As the stories grew worse and the scams more obnoxious, people were talking over one another trying to outdo each with how bad this city or that temple was. It was sad that they were so into sharing the horrors of other cultures (while travelling in them) with so much glee. It was after that, and then again today on the ferry, that I began to think that the stereotype of the Ugly American Traveller needs to go away. As much as everyone likes to hate us, Americans are some of the nicest, most caring and most culturally sensitive travellers I've seen. And believe me...I can't believe I'm writing this! I've always thought it so chic to be the American that thinks Americans are pigs. Another realization of the truth that stereotypes are rediculous and for the lazy. Don't worry though, I still think Bush is an idiot, and I feel kind of chic saying it too!
But there is another stereotype that I'm fighting that is even more insidious. The Ugly American. I'll give you some examples of the ones I've seen on this trip. Just today on a crowded ferry I met a couple, Paul and Kelly, from New Mexico who now live in Chiang Mai and are building a tour business for Americans to go to India. (Check out their website www.northstarjourneys.com) There were no seats on the crowded boat and an Islamic couple was leaning uncomfortably against the luggage area. The woman in full black chador with slits for the eyes was standing next to a group of young Europeans all in T-shirts and shorts (my dress code as well). As I was talking to Kelly about their business, and yoga, and travel in general, Paul (her husband) got up and tapped the husband of the chador-wearer on the shoulder. I watched as the man developed a warm smile and Paul pointed to his open seat. They gratefully sat down and we all squeezed together. Paul and the man then struck up a conversation and I was impressed by the warmth of that gesture. Another example of the ugly American abroad comes from my first few days in Singapore. A couple whom I had never met, Sharon and Steve Morris, (of the San Juan Island Morrises I'll have you know) are aquaintances of my sister Samantha. They offered to let me sleep at their place in Singapore when they heard I was coming. Not only did they let me stay for two nights in their beautiful home but they took me to dinner both nights and I practically had to extricate myself from their house as they were so gracious...giving me tips on where to stay, what to avoid, and how to behave properly in Malaysia. They even gave me their cell phone number and told me to call them if I had any problems as they were the closest people I had in the area (the area being Asia).
Every other American I've met on this trip has been stellar (OK, one scuba diving couple in Tioman Island was horrid, but hey they were from L.A. so...). There HAS been a lot of negative whining about Cambodians being aggressive or about the Thai being horrible or about being ripped off here and scammed there. But not from the American travellers. The Brits and the Aussies and I hate to say it but the Canadians were the ones doing the complaining. And loudly so that everyone around could hear (like maybe the Thai's). As the stories grew worse and the scams more obnoxious, people were talking over one another trying to outdo each with how bad this city or that temple was. It was sad that they were so into sharing the horrors of other cultures (while travelling in them) with so much glee. It was after that, and then again today on the ferry, that I began to think that the stereotype of the Ugly American Traveller needs to go away. As much as everyone likes to hate us, Americans are some of the nicest, most caring and most culturally sensitive travellers I've seen. And believe me...I can't believe I'm writing this! I've always thought it so chic to be the American that thinks Americans are pigs. Another realization of the truth that stereotypes are rediculous and for the lazy. Don't worry though, I still think Bush is an idiot, and I feel kind of chic saying it too!
Monday, November 20, 2006
How to/not to travel #1
Why have streets if you don't name them...or why have maps for that matter? I usually have a solid sense of direction (which is a bonus in a place that doesn't have street signs) but here I get lost all the time and it's starting to piss me off (big surprise there). The one way streets, always going in the wrong direction, used to bug me. But here it's more of a suggestion than a command, so I got over it and just weave headlong into the traffic...no one seems to care. Miserably lost today, and with a good map in my hands too, I heard that whiney voice inside complaining that "it's not like this back home!" Yes I did. I complained that I'm in S.E. Asia and it's actually different than it is at home. Go figure.
Anyway, the word in Malaysian for street is jalan. I began noticing that every town I came to had a Jalan Sehala. Sometimes more than one of them and I wondered who Sehala was. Which past leader or historical figure I hadn't a clue but he's obviously important if so honored in every town and city. So imagine my dismay in Pekan (yeah, it rhymes with the nut) when I came to an intersection with 3 Jalan Sehala's! The fourth road, not surprisingly, was unmarked. Standing there in my lycra shorts and helmet looking very confused and very conspicuous among the headscarves and long black pants, I noticed for the first time the arrows on the signs. Like a fog lifting I remembered the prefix se- having to do with the number 1 and I shook my head at my own staggering genius. Sehala isn't a person but a direction..."one way". Honing my special powers of observation, I did indeed notice all the cars moving in the same direction as the arrows. It's confirmed...I'm special.
Like I said, I'm blessed with a really good sense of direction (although this trip is shaking that belief). As an example, when I rode into Panang's Georgetown I had no clue where I was and hadn't looked at a map. But some inner homing beacon made me turn right off of the two lane expressway and into the center of town. I should explain that Georgetown is a small city but none the less, high rises stretch for miles along several main roads. As the streets grew narrower and more congested, and dirtier, and seedier, I knew I was heading in the right direction.
Here's a travellers tip when in Malaysia: cycle (OK, walk) past the high-rises with familiar names like Hyatt or Sheraton. Then wander aimlessly until you notice more and more garbage in the gutters. This is the first sign that your getting warmer to the bed at the end of the day. Disclaimer: This is not iron clad as in some towns all the gutters are filled with crap all the time until the afternoon monsoon rains wash it all out to the beach. OK, go past the hotels you used to frequent back home. Now they seem outrageously exhorbitant as youv'e been haggling for weeks to get the (now standard) grimey rooms to somewhere around $6.00/night. The concept of the value of money slowly changes over time and you don't even notice until one day, you realize that you just spent 20 minutes and considerable pain to work out a deal costing someone an extra 60 cents. OK, more and more signs are now in Chinese and the alleyway markets have more noodles and chickens chopped up in varying stages of dismemberment; from whole and plucked resting like sleeping nudists to random sized chunks of pale goose-bumpy skin. Good so far, keep going. Everyone is now shouting in the stacatto of Chinese instead of shouting in the rat-a-tat rhythmical bursts of Malaysian. Getting deeper into "your" neighborhood the sidewalks have become impassible, blocked by parked mopeds and food/drink stalls. Steam rises from the huge metal pots of savory smeling nooles that sit over rusty yellow "Shell" natural gas containers. The same containers that were delivered in 4's strapped to a moped that screamed by your head a few blocks back. I've wondered several times what would happen if one of those mopeds, with the perenially chain smoking drivers, actually crashed. Next to the pots of noodles are the dishwashers dipping plastic bowls and spoons into a cold, gray, murky petri dish of a bucket. It's that water that sits on your plates and utensils as you watch your food seved up, diffusing the bacteria into some ungodly cell-count. Sometimes I'm inspired by the sight of soap suds and get a more calm, settled feeling in my digestive tract...but not very often. Stay close now 'cause the streets are jammed with jostling people and mopeds and bikes. Personal space has disappeared. It feels more like a discoteque than a street. Especially as you begin to hear the Hindi music pumping from the CD-DVD stores of little India.
Congratulations, you've done it...you are home. Right where Little India meets China town. Look up and there will be the throngs of internet connection places, guest houses, back-packer hostels, a 7-11 oddly enough, and scores of Europeans young and old with backpacks on. Many are carrying the blue bible that is Lonely Planet's guidebook on Malaysia . Mine is tucked away in my handlebar bag so I feel superior...like I almost fit in with the locals. That feeling dissipates soon enough as I follow the herd toward guest-house-row where the haggling and room inspections begin once again.
The truth is that modern day backpacker travel is a cliche'. We all feel so adventurous as we seek the same sights and experiences. If you want a real adventure and not the well-worn backpacker trail, where all the locals know exactly what you want and will gladly sell it to you, then get on your bike, get lost, and leave your guidebooks at home! As for me, I think it's about time for a venti-decaf-no whip-caramel-frappuccino light on the caramel please (at a whopping US$4-$5)and I know just the book I can look up the directions. I'll flip through the pages in my guest houses $5-$6/night box of a room and congratulate myself on my adventure. And I'm not complaining. REALLY. I mean, with these prices I could stay out here for years!
Anyway, the word in Malaysian for street is jalan. I began noticing that every town I came to had a Jalan Sehala. Sometimes more than one of them and I wondered who Sehala was. Which past leader or historical figure I hadn't a clue but he's obviously important if so honored in every town and city. So imagine my dismay in Pekan (yeah, it rhymes with the nut) when I came to an intersection with 3 Jalan Sehala's! The fourth road, not surprisingly, was unmarked. Standing there in my lycra shorts and helmet looking very confused and very conspicuous among the headscarves and long black pants, I noticed for the first time the arrows on the signs. Like a fog lifting I remembered the prefix se- having to do with the number 1 and I shook my head at my own staggering genius. Sehala isn't a person but a direction..."one way". Honing my special powers of observation, I did indeed notice all the cars moving in the same direction as the arrows. It's confirmed...I'm special.
Like I said, I'm blessed with a really good sense of direction (although this trip is shaking that belief). As an example, when I rode into Panang's Georgetown I had no clue where I was and hadn't looked at a map. But some inner homing beacon made me turn right off of the two lane expressway and into the center of town. I should explain that Georgetown is a small city but none the less, high rises stretch for miles along several main roads. As the streets grew narrower and more congested, and dirtier, and seedier, I knew I was heading in the right direction.
Here's a travellers tip when in Malaysia: cycle (OK, walk) past the high-rises with familiar names like Hyatt or Sheraton. Then wander aimlessly until you notice more and more garbage in the gutters. This is the first sign that your getting warmer to the bed at the end of the day. Disclaimer: This is not iron clad as in some towns all the gutters are filled with crap all the time until the afternoon monsoon rains wash it all out to the beach. OK, go past the hotels you used to frequent back home. Now they seem outrageously exhorbitant as youv'e been haggling for weeks to get the (now standard) grimey rooms to somewhere around $6.00/night. The concept of the value of money slowly changes over time and you don't even notice until one day, you realize that you just spent 20 minutes and considerable pain to work out a deal costing someone an extra 60 cents. OK, more and more signs are now in Chinese and the alleyway markets have more noodles and chickens chopped up in varying stages of dismemberment; from whole and plucked resting like sleeping nudists to random sized chunks of pale goose-bumpy skin. Good so far, keep going. Everyone is now shouting in the stacatto of Chinese instead of shouting in the rat-a-tat rhythmical bursts of Malaysian. Getting deeper into "your" neighborhood the sidewalks have become impassible, blocked by parked mopeds and food/drink stalls. Steam rises from the huge metal pots of savory smeling nooles that sit over rusty yellow "Shell" natural gas containers. The same containers that were delivered in 4's strapped to a moped that screamed by your head a few blocks back. I've wondered several times what would happen if one of those mopeds, with the perenially chain smoking drivers, actually crashed. Next to the pots of noodles are the dishwashers dipping plastic bowls and spoons into a cold, gray, murky petri dish of a bucket. It's that water that sits on your plates and utensils as you watch your food seved up, diffusing the bacteria into some ungodly cell-count. Sometimes I'm inspired by the sight of soap suds and get a more calm, settled feeling in my digestive tract...but not very often. Stay close now 'cause the streets are jammed with jostling people and mopeds and bikes. Personal space has disappeared. It feels more like a discoteque than a street. Especially as you begin to hear the Hindi music pumping from the CD-DVD stores of little India.
Congratulations, you've done it...you are home. Right where Little India meets China town. Look up and there will be the throngs of internet connection places, guest houses, back-packer hostels, a 7-11 oddly enough, and scores of Europeans young and old with backpacks on. Many are carrying the blue bible that is Lonely Planet's guidebook on Malaysia . Mine is tucked away in my handlebar bag so I feel superior...like I almost fit in with the locals. That feeling dissipates soon enough as I follow the herd toward guest-house-row where the haggling and room inspections begin once again.
The truth is that modern day backpacker travel is a cliche'. We all feel so adventurous as we seek the same sights and experiences. If you want a real adventure and not the well-worn backpacker trail, where all the locals know exactly what you want and will gladly sell it to you, then get on your bike, get lost, and leave your guidebooks at home! As for me, I think it's about time for a venti-decaf-no whip-caramel-frappuccino light on the caramel please (at a whopping US$4-$5)and I know just the book I can look up the directions. I'll flip through the pages in my guest houses $5-$6/night box of a room and congratulate myself on my adventure. And I'm not complaining. REALLY. I mean, with these prices I could stay out here for years!
Friday, November 17, 2006
Rehab
The telltale signs of motor addiction hit today. A little softer in the midsection, a little weaker in the legs, a little more winded while stepping up into a bus. The image looking back at me in the mirror, while not quite a shadow of its former self, wasn't smiling. Today was a quick 50km ride on the northern shore of Panang Island. Beginning the ride in Georgetown was a treat as I wound through the crowded twisting streets as the sun glinted off the crumbling, peeling colonial buildings. The breeze in my face and the beautiful city was like the Betty Ford Center for Motor Junkies. I was back! I'm OK! I love my bike! Georgtown has a huge Chinatown that butts up against a little India and the mixture of cultures is exciting. Smells of curried rice waft over the sweet and sour pork, and smoke filled Hindu temples lie within chanting distance from incense filled Budhist temples. Just when you think you know which neighborhood your'e in a group of minarets will stab at the sky calling the faithful to prayer and reminding you that this is Malaysia baby...a crazy mix of cultures and religions and smells and tastes and it really doesn't matter what neighborhood your'e in. It's all good.
The ride was sweet and I didn't have to wait in line or pay money to go...I just rode. I rode down whatever street I wanted to and stopped wherever I wanted. So I get it. I again (and probably not for the last time) have learned the lesson of balance. Yin/Yang, fast/slow, exercise/rest, dripping in sweat/cool and dry, bicycle/bus-train-whatever. It's all the same thing of course just opposite sides of the same coin. Neither is better and it's good to just get to wherever it is you're going and enjoy the ride. But really, if your'e going to call it a bicycle adventure...
So during the ride I found "The Beach". The one you see in brochures but never in real life. Beautiful and totally deserted with white sand, warm water and lapping waves and..."hey where you from?" came the voice from behind. That usually leads to the ever thrilling conversation detailing home countries, destinations, distances ridden and for some reason the cost of my bike. This was no different and before I passed out from sheer boredom I needed an escape plan. But then the conversation went suddenly in a whole new direction. "I watch sex movies" was a sentence I hadn't heard before here in Malaysia (why did I ever tell this guy I was from the U.S.? Canada dammit, remember that!). I can sadly say that now I have. It's not really a bad sentence in and of itself, but how does one respond? He kept looking nervously over his shoulder which wasn't helping my anxiety level either as I wondered at that moment why deserted beaches are so coveted. "Hmm, OK, yeah" was my resoponse. Safe and non-commital. Also, it doesn't need a lot of brain power as I was using most of it to think of a way out of there. Being rude is not in my nature and it seems so, well, rude. But when he got more weird and finally got to his point (which was to ask me how big my um, better half is) I told him off as I got to my bike and rode in whatever direction he wasn't going. It was a powerful motivator and I rode fast and well and feel really good about my cycling average speed for the day. One more form of motorized coming up, a ferry, and I think I can handle it. But if you don't hear from me for a week or so...
The ride was sweet and I didn't have to wait in line or pay money to go...I just rode. I rode down whatever street I wanted to and stopped wherever I wanted. So I get it. I again (and probably not for the last time) have learned the lesson of balance. Yin/Yang, fast/slow, exercise/rest, dripping in sweat/cool and dry, bicycle/bus-train-whatever. It's all the same thing of course just opposite sides of the same coin. Neither is better and it's good to just get to wherever it is you're going and enjoy the ride. But really, if your'e going to call it a bicycle adventure...
So during the ride I found "The Beach". The one you see in brochures but never in real life. Beautiful and totally deserted with white sand, warm water and lapping waves and..."hey where you from?" came the voice from behind. That usually leads to the ever thrilling conversation detailing home countries, destinations, distances ridden and for some reason the cost of my bike. This was no different and before I passed out from sheer boredom I needed an escape plan. But then the conversation went suddenly in a whole new direction. "I watch sex movies" was a sentence I hadn't heard before here in Malaysia (why did I ever tell this guy I was from the U.S.? Canada dammit, remember that!). I can sadly say that now I have. It's not really a bad sentence in and of itself, but how does one respond? He kept looking nervously over his shoulder which wasn't helping my anxiety level either as I wondered at that moment why deserted beaches are so coveted. "Hmm, OK, yeah" was my resoponse. Safe and non-commital. Also, it doesn't need a lot of brain power as I was using most of it to think of a way out of there. Being rude is not in my nature and it seems so, well, rude. But when he got more weird and finally got to his point (which was to ask me how big my um, better half is) I told him off as I got to my bike and rode in whatever direction he wasn't going. It was a powerful motivator and I rode fast and well and feel really good about my cycling average speed for the day. One more form of motorized coming up, a ferry, and I think I can handle it. But if you don't hear from me for a week or so...
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Addicted
I knew it could be addictive and that there was no way I should think about taking it...especially in this part of the world. I don't have an addictive personality but the idea of trying it wouldn't let me be, especially on the longer, lonelier days. The more I thought about it, the more I wanted it and knew it would only be a matter of time...just waiting for the right opportunity. And in Malaysia surprisingly (to me anyway) it is plentiful and cheap. It seems like all the travellers over here use it and when I arrived in Jeruntut, surrounded by westerners for the first time in days, I succumbed to my desire. Just a little once or twice would be really fun, and wasn't it time for a little fun after all? I'd get out of my head for a bit and just BE...in a totally different place.
"Just a little, once or twice, turned out to be awesome!" What a rush. But what began as a little harmless fun, a quick escape, morphed into a jag and I find myself at the end of a buzzy, speedy week-long binge that is feeling more like the beginnings of an addiction. It has rocked me somewhat and made me question not only the nature of this trip, but the nature of James...not as strong as I thought, apparently. Now I am sitting here on Panang Island off of the NW coast of Malaysia tryng to piece together just how it is I got here. But it's no use. Blurred images flash by but all too fast, and jaggedly edited with fitful, short bursts of interrupted sleep. But that's today and I am getting ahead of myself. This story (and I need to tell it... like a confession, to redeem myself and try to begin anew) begins a week ago...10 days maybe, not sure, it's all compressed/blurred/fast. Ten days ago in Jeruntut, God, it seems so long ago. It was so innocent when I look back on it, but I was playing with fire. It's a big reason I haven't blogged for the past few days.
Having safely stored and locked my bike I took my first step toward addiction and stepped into the airconditioned minibus. I sat in the plush velour seats and smiled blissfully as the scenery began to pass by. Fourty, fifty, maybe sixty km/hr and I wasn't pedalling. I wasn't sweating, my crotch felt like it should while sitting on a velour seat, I wasn't even moving. Stillness inside while the world blurred past. It was so damn easy...too easy and I let go and enjoyed the ride. After 45 minutes we arrived and I eagerly awaited the next high. I didn't have to wait long as I walked down to the river bank and climbed into the boat. For the next 3 luxurious hours I sat in a haze as the sampan glided gracefully up the Jembeling River. My fingers traced lazy "S" shapes in the murky brown water as I looked at my feet crossed over the side of the boat. They weren't ceaselessly pumping up and down but completely still until I wiggled my toes letting the warm humid airblow through them. "A guy could get used to this" I thought, smiling, as we slipped deeper into the jungle. And oh, how quickly I got used to it!
Now that I look back on it I think that Sampan ride is probably what did it. The ride was perfect. It was also the way home and the return trip was just as easy, just as sweet. After that I was hooked on Public Transportation (movement without moving) but not willing to admit it. All I knew was I wanted more. I began seeking it out and realized it's everywhere...it even started coming to me. My poor bike wasn't put on the back burner, per se, my bike was removed from the kitchen. My beautiful Rodriquez that has taken such good care of me all this time was forgotten, discarded and collecting dust in some hotel storage room, or rattling around in the baggage car of some rickety train or being crushed under luggage in the underbelly of a long- distance bus. I couldn't have cared less and even resented the the lonely looks and plaintive glances it began to cast in my direction. One night I left it outside locked to a pipe in the rain on a dark street in Kuala Lumpur as if to say "take it, steal it I don't care...I could get to Bangkok in a day if it weren't for the bike always slowing me down". But no one did and we are still together...my shame and guilt now palpable as she has treated me with nothing but love and respect. I haven't ridden my bike once since that first boat ride even though that heady, giddy feeling of the sampan is long gone. That memory now replaced by the dark reality of a public transportation binge: dingy state run trains with grease stained windows, privately owned busses blaring Hindi music while the drivers chain smoke, crowded light rail sardine cans, city busses with the ticket takers screaming out the destinations during the whole drive (my favorite being KLANG! KLANG! KLANG! which broadcasts more like a sound effect than a destination).
Sure each form of public transportation has its ugly side effects, but you can learn to ignore them and get through that pain...because it's worth it! For example lets examine what it is to take the bus out of Kuala Lumpur. The basement of the Puduraya bus station is a tangle of busses, people, and luggage. Poorly lit and under-ventilated, the walls and ceiling are black with the years of thick diesel smoke. I reflected how I wouldn't be down here choking back nausea and lung cancer in the swealtering fog of 50-75 idling busses if I were out cycling in the countryside. I pushed that thought from my bus addicted brain and imagined the bus careening effortlessly down the highway. The previous night, just one floor above the chaos, while walking toward the ticket lines, I came across a dead body. With people milling around a hastily erected barrier, there was a body lying on the floor. Covering it up with newspapers was the young man whose snack stall this guy had decided to die in front of. I'm not sure how long he was down. There were no police or EMS people around but enough time had elapsed to organise the barrier and covering. "I know CPR. Call 9-1-1 someone give me a hand" is what I didn't say as I wondered about the quality of pre-hospital care in Malaysia. Instead I went off to purchase my ticket while fighting off the crowd of hawkers shouting for business and I even haggled a little. When I came back to the body there were still no police or EMS personnel around but as I left the massive terminal I heard an approaching siren. Another experience I probably won't have while cycling alone in the fresh air I considered gloomily..."but the distances you can go in a day!", I heard a soothing voice in my head saying. "Public transportaion rocks" I thought.
Hell, I've ridden them all now and though not proud of it I know I'll do them again. I even took a taxi...TWICE. And there is a ferry in my near future too. If it's not pedal powered I'll take it, ride it, sit on it, stand up, whatever...I don't care. I'm going down a dark, black road all alone but at least it's not at 20 km/hr on a bike!
"Just a little, once or twice, turned out to be awesome!" What a rush. But what began as a little harmless fun, a quick escape, morphed into a jag and I find myself at the end of a buzzy, speedy week-long binge that is feeling more like the beginnings of an addiction. It has rocked me somewhat and made me question not only the nature of this trip, but the nature of James...not as strong as I thought, apparently. Now I am sitting here on Panang Island off of the NW coast of Malaysia tryng to piece together just how it is I got here. But it's no use. Blurred images flash by but all too fast, and jaggedly edited with fitful, short bursts of interrupted sleep. But that's today and I am getting ahead of myself. This story (and I need to tell it... like a confession, to redeem myself and try to begin anew) begins a week ago...10 days maybe, not sure, it's all compressed/blurred/fast. Ten days ago in Jeruntut, God, it seems so long ago. It was so innocent when I look back on it, but I was playing with fire. It's a big reason I haven't blogged for the past few days.
Having safely stored and locked my bike I took my first step toward addiction and stepped into the airconditioned minibus. I sat in the plush velour seats and smiled blissfully as the scenery began to pass by. Fourty, fifty, maybe sixty km/hr and I wasn't pedalling. I wasn't sweating, my crotch felt like it should while sitting on a velour seat, I wasn't even moving. Stillness inside while the world blurred past. It was so damn easy...too easy and I let go and enjoyed the ride. After 45 minutes we arrived and I eagerly awaited the next high. I didn't have to wait long as I walked down to the river bank and climbed into the boat. For the next 3 luxurious hours I sat in a haze as the sampan glided gracefully up the Jembeling River. My fingers traced lazy "S" shapes in the murky brown water as I looked at my feet crossed over the side of the boat. They weren't ceaselessly pumping up and down but completely still until I wiggled my toes letting the warm humid airblow through them. "A guy could get used to this" I thought, smiling, as we slipped deeper into the jungle. And oh, how quickly I got used to it!
Now that I look back on it I think that Sampan ride is probably what did it. The ride was perfect. It was also the way home and the return trip was just as easy, just as sweet. After that I was hooked on Public Transportation (movement without moving) but not willing to admit it. All I knew was I wanted more. I began seeking it out and realized it's everywhere...it even started coming to me. My poor bike wasn't put on the back burner, per se, my bike was removed from the kitchen. My beautiful Rodriquez that has taken such good care of me all this time was forgotten, discarded and collecting dust in some hotel storage room, or rattling around in the baggage car of some rickety train or being crushed under luggage in the underbelly of a long- distance bus. I couldn't have cared less and even resented the the lonely looks and plaintive glances it began to cast in my direction. One night I left it outside locked to a pipe in the rain on a dark street in Kuala Lumpur as if to say "take it, steal it I don't care...I could get to Bangkok in a day if it weren't for the bike always slowing me down". But no one did and we are still together...my shame and guilt now palpable as she has treated me with nothing but love and respect. I haven't ridden my bike once since that first boat ride even though that heady, giddy feeling of the sampan is long gone. That memory now replaced by the dark reality of a public transportation binge: dingy state run trains with grease stained windows, privately owned busses blaring Hindi music while the drivers chain smoke, crowded light rail sardine cans, city busses with the ticket takers screaming out the destinations during the whole drive (my favorite being KLANG! KLANG! KLANG! which broadcasts more like a sound effect than a destination).
Sure each form of public transportation has its ugly side effects, but you can learn to ignore them and get through that pain...because it's worth it! For example lets examine what it is to take the bus out of Kuala Lumpur. The basement of the Puduraya bus station is a tangle of busses, people, and luggage. Poorly lit and under-ventilated, the walls and ceiling are black with the years of thick diesel smoke. I reflected how I wouldn't be down here choking back nausea and lung cancer in the swealtering fog of 50-75 idling busses if I were out cycling in the countryside. I pushed that thought from my bus addicted brain and imagined the bus careening effortlessly down the highway. The previous night, just one floor above the chaos, while walking toward the ticket lines, I came across a dead body. With people milling around a hastily erected barrier, there was a body lying on the floor. Covering it up with newspapers was the young man whose snack stall this guy had decided to die in front of. I'm not sure how long he was down. There were no police or EMS people around but enough time had elapsed to organise the barrier and covering. "I know CPR. Call 9-1-1 someone give me a hand" is what I didn't say as I wondered about the quality of pre-hospital care in Malaysia. Instead I went off to purchase my ticket while fighting off the crowd of hawkers shouting for business and I even haggled a little. When I came back to the body there were still no police or EMS personnel around but as I left the massive terminal I heard an approaching siren. Another experience I probably won't have while cycling alone in the fresh air I considered gloomily..."but the distances you can go in a day!", I heard a soothing voice in my head saying. "Public transportaion rocks" I thought.
Hell, I've ridden them all now and though not proud of it I know I'll do them again. I even took a taxi...TWICE. And there is a ferry in my near future too. If it's not pedal powered I'll take it, ride it, sit on it, stand up, whatever...I don't care. I'm going down a dark, black road all alone but at least it's not at 20 km/hr on a bike!
Saturday, November 11, 2006
So THIS is why I left Kauai
HEY, CHECK OUT PHOTOS AT http://flickr.com/photos/bike-nut/
They say pain creates growth and I suppose it's way more fun to read about misadventures than someones travelogue containing menu items and the great deals obtained after bargaining for fake Rolexes. Haven't written in a few days because of the latter. Visiting Kuala Lumpur was a highlight (as was the jungle at Taman Negara) of the journey. My first visit to a big Asian city and I loved it. I could write about all the food, the shopping and the great people, but refer to the above sentence and visit/experience this great, hot, humid, teeming, chaotic, stinky, crazy beautiful city on your own (you can see why I didn't go into sales professionally, but trust me KL is amazing). The Petronas Towers...maybeee the most beautiful buildings (OK modern buildings) in the world. "Used to be the tallest buildings in the world" doesn't sound as impressive as "the tallest" but they are stunning none the less. Apparently each tower was built by a different contractor racing to finish first for a completion bonus (which begs the questions concerning quality control) but while standing at the base gawking for hours nothing appeared to fall off. They do look like they tilt a bit inwards but that is just an optical illusion of scale...it's hard to wrap your head around just how big they really are.
I didn't even ride my bike to KL as I decided to take a bus from Jerantut. In a city where even walking is a negotiation of hawker stalls, chestnut roasters, mysterious but brightly colored icey drink containers, mopeds, the ubiquitous junk on the street, and oh yeah millions of people, I knew I had made the right call to travel at the speed of light... or 80km/hr after riding a bike for 3 1/2 weeks. It's been a week now without cycling: the crotch rot healed, no aching muscles, butt back to normal...so what then is blog worthy? What can I write about? Oh I know... the ways I create my own misery even when misery doesn't exist... like this:
Walking down a misty humid jungle path alone in the worlds oldest rain forest with the sounds of strange bird calls and far-off monkeys I was noticed the trail under foot wriggling. Upon further inspection I saw that the movement came from leeches...a lot of leeches, sticking their pointy ends up in the air. When they triangulated just where I was standing, through smell or my body temperature or ground vibration I know not, they began inch worming (LEECHES INCHWORM!) toward my sandles...my open toed sandles. If I sound like a girl here (and I wish I did because all the women I met had the telltale bites on their legs...tic-tac sized circular and hickey colored marks...yet they seemed not bothered in the least...saying things like "leeches just fall off after 20 minutes or so when they are full of blood) it's because I have a phobia of leeches. Not too irrational really and I think most people would give me a lot of lattitude here. But my thoughts, in the midst of this walk, weren't just that there were a few leeches on the path and that I might get bit once or twice. My thoughts were more like "LLEEEEEECHES!!!" All I could think about was leeches. All I could see was leeches or twigs that looked like leeches or leaves that looked like leeches. Momories of Humphry bogart and Kathryn Hepburn from African Queen pulling huge leeches off of each other came to mind. I no longer was in a beautiful rain forest but in a hell of my own creation. There weren't that many leeches after all and big deal if you get bit. But I wasn't thinking that at the time and really that is the point of this blog entry. Suddenly, I hated being there and left the trail after a short distance and returned to the river side park headquarters.
Later that night I was lying in bed and heard a rat chewing through the wall about a foot from my head. As I began to grab my earplugs, I started hating this trip and the experience I was having. I lie there in a misery of hatred. Hatred of rats, leeches, filth, humidity, humanity and ultimately of myself. I mean what a pathetic person I had become as I realized that I spend most of my time hating whatever it is I'm doing and wherever I am. Whether at work or in traffic or in a remote jungle in a remote corner of the world. Whether cycling or not cycling it didn't seem to matter and I understood more deeply than ever how much energy I waste trying to hide from the present experience and dream of the future or past. A deep sadness hit as I thought of the many amazing experiences I've had and the amazing people I've been around. Sad because I didn't really even have those experiences or really know those people as I wasn't present to them...I was always thinking of the next moment or the next thing.
I stopped reaching for my ear plugs at that moment and really listened to the rat. I stopped running from the unpleasant and just experienced that moment. It really wasn't that bad after all. A bit of gnawing here and a bit of chewing there really. So I relaxed into it and after a while fell asleep with a greater understanding of James. I understand more now why I have a constant low grade toothache desire for something else... always something else. What I want is unattainable...I want the next moment when all I have is this one.
They say pain creates growth and I suppose it's way more fun to read about misadventures than someones travelogue containing menu items and the great deals obtained after bargaining for fake Rolexes. Haven't written in a few days because of the latter. Visiting Kuala Lumpur was a highlight (as was the jungle at Taman Negara) of the journey. My first visit to a big Asian city and I loved it. I could write about all the food, the shopping and the great people, but refer to the above sentence and visit/experience this great, hot, humid, teeming, chaotic, stinky, crazy beautiful city on your own (you can see why I didn't go into sales professionally, but trust me KL is amazing). The Petronas Towers...maybeee the most beautiful buildings (OK modern buildings) in the world. "Used to be the tallest buildings in the world" doesn't sound as impressive as "the tallest" but they are stunning none the less. Apparently each tower was built by a different contractor racing to finish first for a completion bonus (which begs the questions concerning quality control) but while standing at the base gawking for hours nothing appeared to fall off. They do look like they tilt a bit inwards but that is just an optical illusion of scale...it's hard to wrap your head around just how big they really are.
I didn't even ride my bike to KL as I decided to take a bus from Jerantut. In a city where even walking is a negotiation of hawker stalls, chestnut roasters, mysterious but brightly colored icey drink containers, mopeds, the ubiquitous junk on the street, and oh yeah millions of people, I knew I had made the right call to travel at the speed of light... or 80km/hr after riding a bike for 3 1/2 weeks. It's been a week now without cycling: the crotch rot healed, no aching muscles, butt back to normal...so what then is blog worthy? What can I write about? Oh I know... the ways I create my own misery even when misery doesn't exist... like this:
Walking down a misty humid jungle path alone in the worlds oldest rain forest with the sounds of strange bird calls and far-off monkeys I was noticed the trail under foot wriggling. Upon further inspection I saw that the movement came from leeches...a lot of leeches, sticking their pointy ends up in the air. When they triangulated just where I was standing, through smell or my body temperature or ground vibration I know not, they began inch worming (LEECHES INCHWORM!) toward my sandles...my open toed sandles. If I sound like a girl here (and I wish I did because all the women I met had the telltale bites on their legs...tic-tac sized circular and hickey colored marks...yet they seemed not bothered in the least...saying things like "leeches just fall off after 20 minutes or so when they are full of blood) it's because I have a phobia of leeches. Not too irrational really and I think most people would give me a lot of lattitude here. But my thoughts, in the midst of this walk, weren't just that there were a few leeches on the path and that I might get bit once or twice. My thoughts were more like "LLEEEEEECHES!!!" All I could think about was leeches. All I could see was leeches or twigs that looked like leeches or leaves that looked like leeches. Momories of Humphry bogart and Kathryn Hepburn from African Queen pulling huge leeches off of each other came to mind. I no longer was in a beautiful rain forest but in a hell of my own creation. There weren't that many leeches after all and big deal if you get bit. But I wasn't thinking that at the time and really that is the point of this blog entry. Suddenly, I hated being there and left the trail after a short distance and returned to the river side park headquarters.
Later that night I was lying in bed and heard a rat chewing through the wall about a foot from my head. As I began to grab my earplugs, I started hating this trip and the experience I was having. I lie there in a misery of hatred. Hatred of rats, leeches, filth, humidity, humanity and ultimately of myself. I mean what a pathetic person I had become as I realized that I spend most of my time hating whatever it is I'm doing and wherever I am. Whether at work or in traffic or in a remote jungle in a remote corner of the world. Whether cycling or not cycling it didn't seem to matter and I understood more deeply than ever how much energy I waste trying to hide from the present experience and dream of the future or past. A deep sadness hit as I thought of the many amazing experiences I've had and the amazing people I've been around. Sad because I didn't really even have those experiences or really know those people as I wasn't present to them...I was always thinking of the next moment or the next thing.
I stopped reaching for my ear plugs at that moment and really listened to the rat. I stopped running from the unpleasant and just experienced that moment. It really wasn't that bad after all. A bit of gnawing here and a bit of chewing there really. So I relaxed into it and after a while fell asleep with a greater understanding of James. I understand more now why I have a constant low grade toothache desire for something else... always something else. What I want is unattainable...I want the next moment when all I have is this one.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Leeches and Monkeys and Rats Oh My!
Looks like the photo option isn't working right now, sorry...not too computer savvy. I think you can check out some of my photos at flickr.com/photos/bike-nut/ (as the Malaysians say after every sentence, maybeee)Sitting above the banks of the Temberling river across from Malaysias biggest Natl. Park and also the oldest rain forest jungle in the world. Undisturbed for 130,000,000 years it's home to tigers and elephants and monkeys and a whole bunch of leeches. I'm looking down onto the confluence of two rivers, one a murky latte joining with a dark tannin infused English Breakfast. Floating buildings house restaurants and stores- ramshackle tilting barges that hold corregated shacks along the banks. Metal sheets peeling at the edges all stained black above the window openings from years of smoking roti stoves. Long narrow sampan boats noisily ferrying people back and forth across the coffee and tea. The endless drone of outboard motors is somehow pleasing...reminiscent of the sea and the places I love. Sitting at the tables here I'm feeling more content than I have this entire trip. No agenda, no plans and nowhere to be. I am usually thinking about where I'm going to stop for the day and where I'll be sleeping and how to deal with all the stupid details of travelling. The ones that never get written about and that make travel a chore and not "super fun" or even interesting. Like where am I going to poop if I need to, and how am I going to get to this hostel listed in my book, and "how do I pronounce cold drink again"?
Not today however. Today is all chill out and be a tourist. I'm hoping to meet up later with my German friend that I met on the trail yesterday as we had a great conversation that lasted all day and well into the night. That was an amazing treat as for the previous 5 days I hadn't seen another tourist or for that matter anyone that could speak english (aside from the ubiquitous "where are you from, where are you going and where have you been in Malaysia?"). We met on a trail heading to a roped canopy that is suspended 150 feet above the jungle floor. She also has been travelling alone and after swapping stories it seems that my experience of loneliness and uncomfort and burn out is not very unique. I thought I was so special and different and confused...turns out a woman, from a country far from mine and of a different generation is having the same trip as I am. Maybe everyone's everyone having the same journey, travelling or not, looking for something nebulous and deeper and that will help them sort out what all this insanity is about. Hmm, maybe not. Anyway the tour we were on contained a group of young malaysian guys that gabbed the whole way effectively scared off any wildlife we might have come across, including any birds. And while in the thick of it, descending a steep trail, one of the guys' cell phones started ringing! Where has the sense of adventure gone?! So except for the wriggling leeches poking up out of the yellow slippery clay floor, the trip was pretty uneventful. The suspended bridge was spectacular however. Being up at tree level was exciting and beautiful and kind of spooky in a swaying, non-maintained rickety sort of way. Once safely back down, we did come across some puma tracks but they were the shoe variety not the cat kind. Todays entry should be called Puma's and Teva's and Nike's oh my!
After introductions and the almost painful "where are you from and where are you going" necessities we chatted non stop until the walk was over. Hours later she left to go on another tour she had signed up for. That trip was a visit to the local tribe of jungle people called orang Asli (original people). The photos at the floating ticket office/restaurant, of tribal people squatting down in the mud (ostensibly doing whatever tribal people do) while a group of white tourists in tennis shoes and tube socks encircled them pointing cameras was enough to keep me back in town. Juliane was also concerned but curious.
"Human zoo" was how she succinctly described it upon her return. And it really bothered her and me to; the crass desperation of modern man gawking at/searching for an authentic human experience. One stripped of comfort, of convenience, and of the inexorable push toward homogeneity. My dismay didn't last however as she continued her story. Apparently this small group..."who's children warmly greet visitors with smiles and curiosity and from whose adults one can learn the traditional ways of starting a fire or hunting with a blow gun"...are hired to camp out a few Km from town during the peak tourist season. For the rest of the year they live in Jeruntut, a bustling, delightful town downstream where my bike is currently being stored. One would assume that as part of their contract with the Park Service they have to silence their cell phones and hide their cigarette lighters during the contact-with-the-outside-world hour.Orang Asli have become Orang Disney. Even in the jungles of central penninsular Malaysia the only authentic experiences are the ones you don't want to have: leeches sucking on your ankles and sitting in a hide at a salt lick waiting for wild animals to appear...and they do; rats, pigs and other tourists.
Thursday, November 02, 2006
Ramblings, or More T.M.I.
I've taken to showering with my helmet on. It's not that I've developed some central nervous disorder like cerebral palsy and jerk my head and neck spastically therefor requiring protection. It's not that I have epilepsy or some other siezure disorder. No phobias of falling objects and I haven't started hitting the bottle either. To explain this new and admittedly odd behavior I'll begin at my feet. Before this trip I bought some new shoes. Sandles actually that have SPD clips in the soles for cycling. Sheryl turned me onto them and they are great for hot weather cycling. Even though my feet sweat like a firewalker on valium, the wind can blow through when I lift my toes giving some nice ventilation. You'd think that would keep down the stench nicely but you'd be wrong. Cooler and drier yes, fresher no. There was a sour funkiness that I started noticing the other day while riding and thought to myself, "damn, those are some powerful feet if I can smell them from up here, while riding... and with a descent headwind". Every once in a while I'd get the whiff and think that a good sandle scrubbing was in order just after the ride. That night the shoes were washed and smelled a lot like Dr. Bronners mint soap...and a hint of funk. Feeling good about it the next day I started to notice the smell again about an hour into the ride. This time I noticed it when wiping the sweat from my forehead and was pretty horrified to discover that my gloves smelled a lot like my feet. A lot of people have stinky feet, granted, and they make foot powders for this condition. But no one I know has stinky hands that smell like their feet...it's not right somehow. But I could blame it on the 6-8 hour sweaty gloves that were constantly wet. Like socks for my hands I reasoned. Eating lunch with those hands was a challenge as I had to reserve my water for drinking and didn't wash up extensively. It was like eating bananas and peanuts from a laundry basket, but when your hungry... That night my gloves got the same treatment as my sandles (which were now approaching their original state of putrifaction) and smelled mintier and a lot less foot-like. Today I noticed the odor once again and started to question my sanity as the gloves passed the sniff test with a minty B+. Every time I looked down at my feet I got the sour socks smell, yet I knew it wasn't my feet. Then it came to me with a disgusted clarity reserved for those who suddenly are aware of the bottom they've hit after a long battle with drugs or alcohol. It's my head. My helmet had been storing 6-8 hours of sweat, brewing it ever so slowly into a sauce (spelled sos here in Malaysia) that is common to sweat soaked socks and apparently gloves worn too long. My head smells like my feet! Not OK, not OK! What's next, my pits? Am I just going to walk around like Linus with the pall of old tennis shoes surrounding me? I'm becoming concerned. For one thing I'm adjusting my laundry budget for this trip. Secondly, I'm showering with my helmet on!
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
Too Much Information
I suppose it's that first long ride when the pain, fatigue and loneliness are most defeating that makes you wonder why you are undertaking a particualar trip. Now with the past three days of solid cycling behind me the pain, fatigue and loneliness are no longer enemies but companions along for the ride. We'll take turns leading each other through the jungle or up some evil grade that has the diesel spewing logging trucks grinding slowly up in 1st gear. That, by the way, is a curious feeling...hearing a massive engine approaching from behind, on a twisty narrow road as yet unseen around a bend. It's kind of like being stalked. You know it's out there and you can feel its presence; it's getting closer and it will eventually get you.
Yesterday was the best day of cycling yet as fatigue (after 105km) edged in fronty of pain to pull me into Maran, a small but welcoming town about 200km east of Kuala Lumpur. Leaving the coast and heading inland felt good. The terrain has changed to more dense jungle and quite hilly as the roads have shrunk. No more wide shoulder to ride on but not as much traffic either. Occasionally, through the trees, I could see the riverI was following to the right. Latte colored and wide as the Mississippi I rode toward its source, Lake Chini. All of its tributaries I noted were the color of coffee as well; most of them with lots of cream added, some with just a splash of powdered creamer and others just black. As hot and sweaty as I was these waters were not inviting. But the monkeys and crazy colored birds and butterflies and wild jungle sounds were.
As earlier noted, my companion pain had been leading the way today. And here is where I give fair warning to the TMI mentioned in todays blog title. Two Words: Crotch Rot. I've never had it before and hope to never get it again but fully understand its pressence right now. Here's the recipe. Take one pair of tight fitting lycra bike shorts. One assorted mixture of male anatomy (amount not critical in this recipe). One gallon of sweat. Set all ingredients on rubber bike seat ( leather will probably work) and turn up temp to 90 degrees and humidity to 90%. Churn all for 6-8 hours with even pedal strokes.
A mild chaffing 3 days ago became a scratchy erythematous annoyance 2 days ago that morphed into a red hot area of open skin now. With no one around for miles ( I hoped) in the middle of some deserted road I needed an assessment. "Nurse!" I yelled aloud laughing, thinking of all the times I heard that horrible word being moaned from innumerable patients. Now it was my turn, and still riding, I pulled the waistband away from my belly and looked down to see some angry looking wound where there once was skin. At about this time an anxiety born of pain, fear and the inability to bandage this particular part of my body began to build. "What if the whole thing just scabs over and falls off?" You know, that old anxiety. Stupid yes, but after hours of cycling when your weiner goes to sleep and gets all tingly and then starts looking like some roadkill you just passed... Anyway, it was this anxiety that led to a bold solution. Bolder yet knowing I was going into more conservative and more muslim terratory with every pedal stroke. Cycling naked would be out of the question but with some ingenious rearranging of lycra, oragami folding of T-shirt and shorts and bizarre body contortion making it look like I was riding with my spine strapped to a pole, I had positive air flow to my groin for the first time this week. Ahh relief, cooling ( if 90 degrees can be cooling) air flow! A few times I looked down to see myself exposed for the entire world to see, riding like some pervy flasher and would snap up the lycra ( which would rubber-band back over the open skin) before anyone would appear. I got away with it too until the quiet road I was on merged with a main road and the last 20km or so were back to the churning action as I passed a mosque with calls to prayer emitting from its minaretts. Now while I contemplate tomorrows ride (a short 50 km) the name Elena Bobbitt keeps coming to mind...hmm.
Yesterday was the best day of cycling yet as fatigue (after 105km) edged in fronty of pain to pull me into Maran, a small but welcoming town about 200km east of Kuala Lumpur. Leaving the coast and heading inland felt good. The terrain has changed to more dense jungle and quite hilly as the roads have shrunk. No more wide shoulder to ride on but not as much traffic either. Occasionally, through the trees, I could see the riverI was following to the right. Latte colored and wide as the Mississippi I rode toward its source, Lake Chini. All of its tributaries I noted were the color of coffee as well; most of them with lots of cream added, some with just a splash of powdered creamer and others just black. As hot and sweaty as I was these waters were not inviting. But the monkeys and crazy colored birds and butterflies and wild jungle sounds were.
As earlier noted, my companion pain had been leading the way today. And here is where I give fair warning to the TMI mentioned in todays blog title. Two Words: Crotch Rot. I've never had it before and hope to never get it again but fully understand its pressence right now. Here's the recipe. Take one pair of tight fitting lycra bike shorts. One assorted mixture of male anatomy (amount not critical in this recipe). One gallon of sweat. Set all ingredients on rubber bike seat ( leather will probably work) and turn up temp to 90 degrees and humidity to 90%. Churn all for 6-8 hours with even pedal strokes.
A mild chaffing 3 days ago became a scratchy erythematous annoyance 2 days ago that morphed into a red hot area of open skin now. With no one around for miles ( I hoped) in the middle of some deserted road I needed an assessment. "Nurse!" I yelled aloud laughing, thinking of all the times I heard that horrible word being moaned from innumerable patients. Now it was my turn, and still riding, I pulled the waistband away from my belly and looked down to see some angry looking wound where there once was skin. At about this time an anxiety born of pain, fear and the inability to bandage this particular part of my body began to build. "What if the whole thing just scabs over and falls off?" You know, that old anxiety. Stupid yes, but after hours of cycling when your weiner goes to sleep and gets all tingly and then starts looking like some roadkill you just passed... Anyway, it was this anxiety that led to a bold solution. Bolder yet knowing I was going into more conservative and more muslim terratory with every pedal stroke. Cycling naked would be out of the question but with some ingenious rearranging of lycra, oragami folding of T-shirt and shorts and bizarre body contortion making it look like I was riding with my spine strapped to a pole, I had positive air flow to my groin for the first time this week. Ahh relief, cooling ( if 90 degrees can be cooling) air flow! A few times I looked down to see myself exposed for the entire world to see, riding like some pervy flasher and would snap up the lycra ( which would rubber-band back over the open skin) before anyone would appear. I got away with it too until the quiet road I was on merged with a main road and the last 20km or so were back to the churning action as I passed a mosque with calls to prayer emitting from its minaretts. Now while I contemplate tomorrows ride (a short 50 km) the name Elena Bobbitt keeps coming to mind...hmm.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
