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!