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3月31日 The curious incident of the kitten in the nighttime, and other stories...I haven't quite decided if Bukit Tinggi is a strange place in itself, or if, because we are tourists that stick our like sore thumbs, we attract a certain type of strange individual. Either way, some bizarre stuff happened while we were there.
I've already mentioned a character by the name of Lala. He was somehow connected to the people that owned the Turret Cafe, where we ate most days. We never did discover the connection, though I constantly hoped he wasn't a chef - he had the dirtiest nails I've ever seen. Lala looked like a cross between one of David Bowie's stranger incarnations, and Mick Jagger. On our last day in Bukit Tinggi, he showed us a plan he had to prevent any more natural disasters from occuring in Sumatra. His plan involved lobbying the government to get all the schoolkids one week off school (I support that), to help pick-up litter. He also wanted to ban people from throwing litter, spitting, or urinating in the streets. I have to say, I supported all his plans, but quite how they would prevent tsunamis or earthquakes was beyond me, and he never really explained it. I think he thought that if we were kinder to Mother Nature, she'd be kinder to us.
One night, I accompanied Rose to the ATM. It was raining, and as I waited outside the ATM vesitbule (Jill Wannamaker calls it an ATM vestibule, I'm calling it an ATM vestibule) I heard a strange noise coming from the bush nearby. Brandishing my umbrella in front of me, getting wet and looking silly in the process, I approached the bush to see what it was. Suddenly, to my right appeared a man in camoflage gear, holding a knife in one hand. In the other hand, he held something much worse - a durian fruit. Cutting open the durian, he insisted I join him and his three pals, and eat some. Not wanting to appear rude, and keeping a keen eye on the knife, I took some. Boy was that a mistake. The durian is a large, spiky fruit, that doesn't at all look appealing. In fact, I'd love to know how anyone ever had the idea to cut one open and eat it. Furthermore, it smells so bad that it is banned from most businesses and every hostel I've ever been in in Asia. One guidebook I read described it as "the king of fruits", and suggested that it made an excellent ingredient in every fruit salad and dessert, which is a bit like saying the lion is king of the jungle, and suggesting that it would make an excellent house pet. I quickly took my leave of them, and walked with Rose (or should I say, walked a few feet away from her, the smell was clining to me and she didn't want me to get too close) back to our hotel.
On our last day in BT, as we did a tour of the town's (closed) monuments, we were approached by another character on a bike. Shaking my hand, he started listing all the English speaking countries he could think of. Then he moved onto Asian countries. Then back to English speaking ones. Not getting the reaction he was expecting from us, he started reciting all the US presidents after Carter. I had no idea what he meant by this. At first I thought he was telling me he had lived in the States during their terms of office, then I realised that you couldn't spend that long in a country and not have enough English to talk about it.
Towards the end of our stay, Bukit Tinggi was like a cross between Twin Peaks, and an episode of the Twilight Zone, and we were more than ready to leave. Freeing the captive bird, Osama bin Laden's water-trick, and crossing the Equator at will...Because of our cold, we decided to put off the jungle trek for a day or two. When we set off, the first thing Mirza, our guide asked us was if we got car sick or not. Answering in the negative, we were left to wonder who could get car-sick on an hour-long journey. An hour and a half later, on the point of throwing up, we tumbled from the taxi in relief. A combination of Indonesian driving, about 50 number hairpin turns, and a car full of exhaust fumes served to make us all car-sick for the first time in our lives.
No sooner were we out of the car than we were surrounded by t-shirt vendors, all wanting to sell us t-shirts which proclaimed that we had crossed the Equator; they didn't seem to care that we hadn't actually done that yet. Escaping to the (relative) safety of the Equator Museum (the guy who worked there also sold the same t-shirts from behind the ticket counter), we took a walk around the bizarre and out of place collection of artifacts: brass cooking pots, muskets, daggers, and old, crumbling money.
A small bird had become trapped inside the museum, and none of the staff seemed concerned about its constant crashing into the a/c units and dusty display cases (they were all too busy selling t-shirts). Using what practice I had acquired from owning a pair of overactive lovebirds, I quickly caught the bird, and carried it in the my hand outside. I noted, with no small amount of Franciscan self-satisfaction, that it was quite happy to sit in the palm of my hand while I stroked its head, and it only flew off when I was again approached by a garishly dressed t-shirt vendor.
Outside, we were brought to the line that marks the Equator (drawn by the Dutch, apparently). On one side of the line stood a man with a bucket of water, and a funnel. Another guy stood pointing at the first chap and saying "Osama bin Laden, Osama bin Laden". Whether or not this was his actual name, or the second guy thought we were Americans and was trying to mess with our heads, never became clear. The water experiment involves pouring water through the funnel back into the bucket, and watching in what direction it flows. Then you walk 20 paces or so to the other side of the Equator, and repeat the experiment, this time noting that the water flows in the opposite direction. It was interesting, if a little anti-climatic. Rose thought it would be better to set up a "massive perspex drum", on wheels, and move it along the Equator while the water drains out, just to see what would happen. I was happy enough with the experiment as it was, but I did wonder what Bart Simpson would've made of it...
After that we started the trek proper, and it quickly became apparent that I was in no state to hike through the jungle. My over-the-shoulder bag was keeping all the weight on one side, and thus throwing me off balance - not good when you're trying to navigate the narrow end of a rice paddy bank; and, in watching our feet all the time, we were missing a lot of the scenery.
We stopped for lunch - spicy beef and rice, served in a banana leaf, and eaten with our fingers - and I discovered that I had dropped my long-sleeved shirt. I was not a happy trekker.
When we eventually arrived at the first "village" where we would spend the night, we were forced to redefine our understanding of the word "basic". No electricity, no furniture, no windows, no running water, all brought a new meaning to the idea of a simple life. I lay down on the floor and quickly fell asleep. When I woke up, all the children in the village we outside looking in, just watching me sleep.
Mentioning that I was going to get washed, Rose said she'd come to help. I explained to her that I'd been doing it for myself for quite some time, and could manage on my own. She told me to wait and see the shower before I decided. As it turned out, the shower was nothing more than a bamboo log, which carried water up from the stream (that also served as our toilet, by the by) to the back of the house. She held a towel around me, while I washed. I found it strange that a people so concerned with covering up exposed flesh, especially where women were concerned (and especially where foreign women were concerned) would expect people to get washed with no means for privacy.
Having quickly tired of being stared at, and with none of the locals wanting to engage in conversation, I retired to the bedroom to read my book by the failing light of day. Fi had caught some sort of tummy bug, and I wasn't feeling the best, so it was with little enthusiasm that we returned to the living room for dinner. As we might have expected, they served enough food to feed an army, so we felt rather guilty about being in no state to eat even half of it. As the three of us settled down for a long and uncomfortable night in the same bed (which was a bed in name only), I realised that it was St.Patrick's night, and everyone I knew was either having a pint, or thinking about having a pint, whereas I was trying to control my bladder so as to avoid having to go out in the dark and navigate the stream looking for a place to relieve myself!
The next morning, over brekkie (3 rounds of dry white toast - Elwood Blues would've been happy), we discussed our situation. Although we didn't want to do it, we had to face the reality that we weren't up to the challenge, not at that time anyway. About 20 minutes into the trek, we told Mirza that we couldn't continue, and would have to return to town. After resting for a while back at the house, and no doubt looking ridiculous in the eyes of the locals, Mirza arranged some motos to take us to the bus. The bus turned out to be a mini-van driven by a local with a penchant for classic rock, and we had The Scorpions and Guns 'n'n Roses all the way back to town.
When we were thinking about doing the trek, I imagined that it must be how Indiana Jones would spend his St.Patrick's Day. Doubtless he would've managed a lot better than us though. 3月27日 Bukit Tinggi after the money's gone...Because getting to Bukit Tinggi was such an ordeal, we really hoped the place would have something to offer. Waking up 8 hours after our unforgiveably late arrival, we checked out of our grotty hotel and into a less grotty hotel. Stopping to eat at the first place we came to proved a capital idea. The Turret Cafe, on the main street in BT, has an appealing and varied menu (actually, at that point anything would've appealed - we hadn't eaten in over 24 hours, not since Malaysia), and it's cheap too. The owner, Anita, doesn't have a lot of English, but she's really friendly and she tries. They have a small book exchange, where I managed to find a limited edition copy of a collection of Colin Dexter Short Stories (Result!), and a wide range of CDs for you to choose to listen too. After ordering one of everthing on the menu, and putting some Bruce Hornsby on the CD player, we sat down to relax.
The Turret Cafe is about the best thing in Bukit Tinggi. Some of the places mentioned in The Lonely Planet no longer exist, and the ones that they do mention aren't great (no surprise there, really). Nowadays, BT is like a goldrush town after all the metal has been mined. Throughout the 90s and up until the last few years, BT, at the heart of a beautiful volcanic valley, has been a real tourist hotspot - the local economy thrived on tourism. However, tsumanis, earthquakes, flash floods, Islamic fundamentalism, plane crashes, and ferries capsizing have all taken their toll on the Indonesian tourist industry. The numbers are down, and no one seems too optimistic about them getting back to normal. While we were there, the effects of the latest earthquake were still being felt - some businesses had collapsed, others hadn't reopend due to damage, and in one hotel wherein we stayed, their collection of gorgeouse Chinese vases were fastened securely on mattresses on the ground, lest they get broken (some of them had in fact been smashed in the quake). There's a quiet desperation behind every transaction, and you get the feeling that any tip you leave, however small, will go a long way.
Unfortunately, everything in BT is a little run-down, and a walk around the town's monuments was just confusing. Everything was closed, even on the bank holiday, the one day when everyone was out and about to see it. The clock tower, which is a focal point for the town, showed the wrong time on each of its four faces. The biggest monument had a guy in a Davy Crokett cap, standing atop a mass of writhing snakes and dragons - what it all meant, I couldn't tell you. What information signs that we could find were all in Bahasa. To get to (humourously named) Fort De Kock, the most famous site in BT, you have to pass through the zoo, which contains the saddest bunch of animals I've ever seen. Even the monkeys, normally good for a laugh, just sat around looking miserable. In the lion cage there was a rabbit running around eating grass - the rabbit was clearly lunch, but the lion didn't make any move to get it. Fort de Kock, once a great Dutch post, no longer exists. What is there now is hard to describe. It's not a fort, it's not even a replica fort. It's just a building, with a huge telegraph pole on top. On one wall, the words Fort de Kock are spelled out in neon lights, but they weren't lit when we were there. Again, there was no information available to tell us anything about the fort, or what happened to it, or why they had built what is there now.
Bukit Tinggi is a great place to spend a few days - the accomodation is fine, the food is excellent, and the people are very welcoming. Despite the fact that I was sick here, my spirits were never low. I hope BT can recapture some of its former glory, but with all the bad press that Indonesia gets (Seriously, close your eyes and think of Indonsia - are you having good thoughts?), it's hard to see how that can be achieved. 3月26日 Leaving Malaysia, wishing we had stayed...Leaving Malaysia was difficult, but it had nothing to do with a desire to stay there. Rather in concerned the two forms of torture that the shipping company chose to blast through the cabin on the Malacca - Dumai high-speed ferry: icy-cold air conditioning that was so frigid I was forced to unpack my bags to put on long pants and a warm shirt; and, a karaoke DVD of Bollywood's Greatest Hits - something so awful I'd rather not try to explain, any Westerner with a twisted imagination can picture our tormet. Luckily, we only had to endure the latter for the first hour, after that they put on a Jackie Chan movie, which was marginally better, in that it was quieter, and bearable if you averted your eyes.
As soon as we set foot in Sumatra, a man led us to the Immigration office. We were welcomed to Indonesia three times by perfect strangers before we'd even submitted our passports. The immigration process itself is simple enough - you hand over your passport and $25 and a few minutes later you'll have your visa. They'll even make sure you get your money's worth by explaining that a shorter-term visa is much cheaper.
While we were waiting, I got to talking to this one official, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt and smoking a cigaretter inside the office (clearly, things are much more relaxed there) about our travel plans. Hearing where we were headed - Bukit Tinggi - he not only advised us on the best route, but then arranged a shuttle for us (and 2 Canadians who, by virtue of having white skin were assumed to be friends of ours) to the ticket office. At first we were glad of his help, as he was about the only person around who spoke English. However, when he came to me with his hand out and asked if I "understood" about tipping, I was a bit disappointed. I had been on the point of deciding how much I should give him for his help, but the fact that he asked for it rather put me off.
We had over an hour to kill before the minivan was set to leave, so we wandered down the street, attracting lots of stares (on the part of the girls) and envious looks (on my part) from the local lads. The food in the glass displays looked tasty, that is to say, the flies were enjoying it. We opted for packet noodles and tea, and sat down to eat, drawing a crowd of locals to nearby tables to watch. One of these, it turned out, was the local language teacher, that had been summoned to the cafe by a student who worked there. They both sat down with us, and he tried to encourage her to practice with us. Like most Asian teenagers though, she suffered from paralysing embarassment, and so he did most of the talking, and she did most of the giggling. (Between the staring and the silent table guests, it was starting to remind me a lot of Korea).
As the time approached for our departure, we returned to the office to wait. And wait. And wait some more. Finally, over an hour after we were supposed to have left, we were crammed into the back of a minivan and we set off for Bukit-Tinggi. Or so we thought.
A few blocks over we stopped at another ticket office and, for reasons that were never explained to us, I had to fill out another identical set of tickets. We left again, only to stop once more a few streets away to collect some more passengers, lots of luggage, a few water pipes, and a TV. Off again. A short time later we stopped for one of many meal breaks. I'm afraid after that it all becomes a bit of a blur. We had been told we'd be travelling the "new road" to BK. I'd like to read the Indonesian definition for "new". (I'd like to read the Indonesian defintion for "road" for that matter.)
Indonesians, incidentally, are the worst drivers I've ever encountered, and I've driven in Sicily. Every journey is a constant effort to overtake everyone else, so that most of the time you'll find yourself facing oncoming traffic, with all the flashing of lights, honking of horns, and attacking of hearts you'd associate with such madness. I'd love to explain to those yahoos that if they tried leaving on time, and not stopping every fart's end for a curry and a smoke, that they could probably travel in relative safety.
Not long after we'd crossed the Equator, and about an hour and a half after we should've arrived in BT, we again stopped to eat. By that I mean the driver and his chums stopped to chow - I wouldn't have served that slop to a dog. By this stage, as I'm sure you can imagine, we were more than a little fed up with these guys. On more than more occasion, we'd had to ask them to turn down the heavy beat dance music CD that blasted throughout the van; we probably wouldn't have minded as much, but it was the same 5-track CD (including an Indonesian-dance version of Alice Cooper's Poison) played on repeat. As numb as most of my body was at this stage, I could still feel that noise pound through to my very soul.
Around 3am - a good 5 hours after we should've reached BT - we again stopped for snacks. For snacks. I thought I was going to crack-up. Getting out of the van, I started giving off to the two cowboy drivers, demanding to know when we'd get to Bukit Tinggi. Apparently, we were in Bukit Tinggi, but instead of delivering us to a hostel, the driver didn't think we'd mind stopping for crackers. Realising we were more than a little pissed off, they took us to the homestay. Naturally, it was closed, so we made them drive us around town until we found somewhere that was open.
Eventually we found a rather run-down establishment, with a friendly night-clerk, who still had a twin room available for us. As we were signing in, he told he we didn't have to check out until the afternoon because we were arriving so late, and he could tell that we were tired.
As we drifted off to sleep, more relieved than you can imagine not to be still inside that damned Mitsubishi mini-van, the 4am call-to-prayer started up, and I thanked Allah that I wasn't a Muslim, and therefore not expected to be up and praying.
300 (Gladiator knock-offs later, and still not as good)On our last night in Malacca (after some Guinness Foreign Export on the rooftop garden) we went to see 300. As entertaining, and, "visual", as it was, I couldn't help comparing it to Gladiator - and it came up short.
Just like every slow-mo fight scene post-1999 will be compared to The Matrix, so too will every swords and sandals epic be compared to Gladiator (perhaps the generation before ours would forever compare Gladiator to Ben Hur, or Chariots of Fire, I don't know). The movie is full of those sepia-coloured memory sequences - you know the type I'm talking about, with our hero walking through some breezy wheatfield, towards his wife, and that haunting female soloist moaning in the background. However, the random bursts of heavy metal music, that sometimes preceded a particularly gruesome battle scene, were somewhat out of place in a Greek tragedy.
Sure you'll want the good guys to win, and the baddies to lose; but you won't feel about the Spartans as you did about Maximus (or even Charlton Heston for that matter!), nor will you hate Xerxes half as much as you hated Joaquin Phoenix's Commodus.
You'll leave the cinema asking yourself the question "Are you not entertained?" And you will be, you just won't be moved. 3月12日 PhotosI've uploaded a bunch of photos to all the latest entries - something I couldn't for the last week when I was actually writing the posts. Enjoy! Ants, ants - what would Buddha do?It's slightly thrilling to see a story you've read in some local paper also reported on the BBC World Service. Rose and I read this story this morning in The Malaysian Star daily.
How Malacca got its name; and other storiesAccording to Western sources (read: Wikipedia), the following is merely legend. But I assure you, in Malaysia it's reported as fact. Malacca was founded by Parameswara, a prince who was forced to flee Sumatra. Sitting down by a tree near a river, he saw that his dog had cornered a mouse deer, and was preparing to attack. However, the mouse deer kicked the dog so hard that it fell into the river. Seeing this as a good omen of the weak overcoming the strong, the prince decided to name the area after the tree against which he was leaning at the time - the Malacca tree (we can only be grateful that he didn't think it appropriate to call the place Mouse Deer).
As an important port, Malacca has been attacked and occupied by the Dutch, the Portuguese, and the British. Their influence is clearly apparent, and the local government is trying to cash in on this past with a host of museums (including one inside a replica Portuguese galleon) and displays down near the river.
Today, we wandered down the street toward the old ruins of a church, and the Porta Santiago, for a look around. Old churches, especially in distant ports like this, fascinate me. The tombstones alone make interesting reading, but if you were only to read them you'd leave with the impression that no woman lived beyond the age of 22, and no children survived being born. Strangely, the skull & crossbones motif is used on many of the old graves. I'm reliably informed that it's simply a symbol of our mortality, and no reference to piracy or Johnny Depp.
The ruins of the church are full of hawkers selling all sorts of curious tat, and it annoyed me in a way that I can't really describe to hear them sell their wares. Standing among the headstones of people long dead, the last thing I want is a pewter statue of the Petronas Towers, or a bird whistle, or a print of the KL tower. Down from the ruins, near the Porta Santiago - the only remaining entrance to the former fort - there was a man with a iguana on his shoulder. For $1, you could hold the giant lizard, and have your picture taken. As much as I had griped about the guys inside, Rosie could see that I was excited about the iguana, and it didn't taken much to convince me to take hold of it for a while.
In the main square of Malacca, the Tourist Police have an office, decorated with fairy lights and with a sign outside welcoming visitors (in conjunction with a local bistro) to the town - it couldn't look less like a police station if it tried. The town has a beautiful fountain at its centre, and Christ Church chapel sits at one end. This Church was founded 250 years ago by the Dutch, but has since become an Anglican Church. It has services in Bahasa, Mandarin, Tamil, and English. Stepping into the cool interior, the first thing you'll notice is the elderly Indian at the back, selling everything from prayer books to cowboy hats. If you take a minute to stand in the doorway, with the church at your back, and gaze at the street outside, with the tuk-tuk drivers playing their pop music, the locals sitting around the flowing fountain, the colourful Tourist Police Station with it's neon ticker, and the Muslim call to prayer in the distance, you'd be forgiven for not knowing where you are.
After a walk around the replica galleon, and the maritime museum, we headed in the direction of the "Cultural Food Court" for lunch. Finally something other than Indian food! Our meal - chicken and black pepper, with noodles, served on a sizzling hot plate, was delicious and cheap too.
This is our last night in Malacca, and I'll be sad to leave the place. It has a pleasant port-town atmosphere. Our hostel - the Travellers' Lodge - is the cleanest hostel I've ever stayed at. In fact, it's cleaner than some hotels I've slept in. It's Muslim-run, so there are warnings everywhere against bringing in non-Halal food. You also have to keep your shoes off at all times. Small prices to pay for a clean room with no ants! Whirling Dervishs On Ice, and Indians Against CoconutsLooking through the photos on my camera today I remembered two things from Kuala Lumpur that I wanted to write about, but had forgotten in the rush to get out of the city.
The first concerns the Turkish ice-cream man - he has a stall at the Bukit Bintang mall. He's dressed in traditional Turkish gear, right down to the fez (which always makes me think of Tommy Cooper). Whenever you buy an ice-cream from him, he performs a complicated little dance, singing some Turkish number at the top of his lungs, then he rings a bell as he passes the ice-cream to you, upside down (he likes to show how firm it is, and that it won't fall out of the tub!) You can imagine how such an individual would react when someone like me thanks him in his native language - he nearly jumped the counter to shake my hand. The ice-cream wasn't great, but it was worth it to see him do his routine.
The second story has to do with the Hindu shrine at the end of the street where we were staying. No matter what time you passed by, there would be countless Indians there, all barefoot, praying, singing, and lighting candles. At night, they'd each take a coconut, put something into the hollow, then light it. After a while, they'd blow it out, then go over to a huge container, and hurl the coconut in as hard as they could, sending milk, hair, and other bits of the nut exploding up around them. Apparently, if they break the coconut, it brings good luck. Behind the shrine, there were bags and bags of broken coconuts, usually being devoured by rats. I couldn't help think it was quite a waste, but it something to watch. 3月11日 On the busesSix hours in Temerloh passed quite quickly - I wish I could say the same for the 4-hour bus ride to Melaka.
In an effort to secure three seats together, I chose the one seat on the bus that didn't recline. This, combined with the fact that the bus was a noisy, rattling old wagon, with suspension that probably gave out sometime during British rule, meant that my behind was in pain by the time we got off. Roads across the penisula seem to consist of either neverending sections of hairpin turns, or long straight stretches with pot holes larger than my old Korean apartment.
Our driver, who alternated between a 1st gear crawl and a Formula 1 race, spent half his time jibba-jabbering to the unfortunates in the front seat at the top of his voice, and the other half blasting Malaysian radio throughout the bus at top volume. Malaysia radio, in case you've never heard it, seems to switch between cheesy 80s-style Malaysian pop, and cheesy 80s Western pop - Belinda Carlisle's "Heaven", UB40's "I got you babe" and Peter Cetera's "Glory of Love" stick out in my recollection. (They did however play the theme tune from Grease toward the end of the Journey (but unfortunately no Journey), which cheered me no end. "Have you no idea of progress, of development?" "I have seen both in an egg. In Narnia we call it 'going bad'."When we were in Vietnam, we spent a few days in Sa Pa, close to the Chinese border. There, we went hiking in the mountains with girl guides from the Black H'Mong tribes. Every so often, we'd stop along the way to visit the homes of these ethnic minorities. Despite the fact that there were, at times, large numbers of us, the H'mong welcomed us into their homes, and chatted away merrily, answering any and all questions we put to them. Having members of their tribe as our guides of course helped smooth the way for us, and no doubt opened many doors that might otherwise have remained closed to gawking tourists.
When we visited the Orang Asli, or Original People of Malaysia, it was a rather different case. For one thing, our guide was a Malaysian, and although he claimed to have been a friend to this tribe since childhood (his father having been a sort of middleman for them to the outside world, acting as a agent to sell their sandalwood goods), it as clear that he was not one of them.
Furthermore, the children playing around the camp seemed thoroughly perplexed and a little intimidated by us. Also, the adults mostly ignored us. I imagine they might have been slightly curious about the oddly dressed white people, wandering around taking pictures of everything (I wonder if they even knew what the cameras were - they live a truly basic life, and all government efforts to drag them into the so-called advanced 21st century have met with failure).
On few occasions whilst travelling have I decided to keep my camera in its case - this was one of them. ONly when we were apart from the main camp, being shown a demonstration of how to light a fire with leaves, and how to shoot small animals with a blow-pipe, did I venture to take a few snaps.
Curiously, while the Black H'Mong of Northern Vietnam looked, well, Vitenamese, the Orang Asli had African features, builds and even hairstyles. I would be curious to know where these people are thought to have come from - is this what the Malay race would look like today without the influence of the Chinese, Indian, Portugues, Dutch and British? But before I had a chance to ask such questions, we were brought to the souvenir stand, and I was more than ready to leave. 3月10日 Ants, ants, crawling in my pants...We arrived at Petaling bus station a few minutes after the 10.45 bus to Taman Negara had pulled out. This didn't concern us though, as we had planned on taking the 12pm bus anyway. However, as soon as the ticket vender heard where we were going, he came out of his booth, hopped on his scooter, and chased the bus down, forcing it to return to the station to pick us up! We looked like a right bunch of eejits getting onto the bus, backpacks and all, holding up the locals, and we could hardly explain that it wasn't all by choice!
The Taman Negara is a massive national park in the north of Malaysia. A visit there promises such exciting activities such as jungle safaris, rapid riding, and a walk along the world's longest canopy walkway. The reality though, is a little disappointing. Despite the fact that the goverment is trying to promote this area as the place for ecotourism, the facilties aren't great. Accomodation seems to vary wildly between the expensive, and the pitiful. We managed to find a place somewhere in between; at first glance, all appeared well - the bathrooms were clean, and the rooms had been recently painted. However, after a few hours, our 8 bed dorm was like an oven, and it was swarming with ants and huge spiders. We somehow managed to confine the ants to one side of the room (mostly), and the spiders disappeared (into my sneakers, as it turns out), but we still spent a rather sweaty, scratchy night there.
The floating restaurants along the river offer the same unremarkable food, and as the township is dry, you can't even wash it down with beer. They also all offer the same tours and activities, and don't seem to make any effort to distinguish themselves from each other, so it's a wonder to me how they can make any money at all.
Having taken a safari in Africa, the girls were rather let down with the Taman Negara night version. I've never been to Africa, but even I was disappointed: two hummingbirds, a kingfisher, a frog, and a leopard cat (don't get excited, the important word here is "cat"), didn't really do it for me either.
The trek to the canopy walkway got us up and out of bed early in the morning, and we managed to work off breakfast walking up through the jungle. However, the walkway itself is very short, start to finish must have taken less than 10 minutes, so we were left with nothing planned for the rest of the day.
On our last day we wanted to relax, but we also wanted to swim a little, to escape from the heat. I found it rather unbelieveable that there was nowhere near the township itself (built on a riverbed) where you could swim, but instead you had to rent a boat and go somewhere else. We decided to combine our desire to swim with the so-called rapid-shooting activity. The rapids are somewhat less than vigorous, and only for the two sailors (for want of a better name) rocking the longboat to and fro among the waves, I don't think we would've been wet at all. They stopped near a pool, and we went swimming for a while, before heading back to the hostel to do battle with the ants one last time.
We managed to catch the early bus out of Taman Negara, but by the time we got to the nearest big town, the bus to our final destination was full, and we've had to sit around here for the last 6 hours. We're leaving shortly for Melaka, and after that, Indonesia. More to follow... Friday Feast 134Appetizer
What is your usual bedtime? Do you like that, or would you rather it be different? Usually around midnight. I'm travelling now, so I can go to bed anytime I want. Soup When it comes to advice, do you give more or receive more? I give plenty, even when it's not asked for! Salad Describe a memorable meal you've had. When I was a kid, we went on holiday to Jersey. I quickly made friends with the chef (I was a big kid), Gary, who cooked us scrumptous meals every night we were there. The night before we left, Gary offered to make me anything I wanted, so I asked for duck. So, he cooked me up duck a l'orange, and it was delicious. Main Course Name a work of fiction that affected the way you think about something. The Catcher In The Rye changed the way I think about America. Dessert What is your favorite type of fruit juice? Aloe. Aloe juice rocks. Closely followed by mango juice. Then coconut and pineapple.
Juice TherapyThe following was printed on a juice cup from the food court in the Petronas Twin Towers:
Prices went up. Shares went down.
Planning a long night out on the town.
Lost your dog. Lost your cat.
Someone sat on your favourite hat.
Thesis due. Got the flu.
Feeling lonely. Feeling blue.
Think you're skinny. Think you're fat.
Twisted an ankle avoiding the rat.*
Missed the deadline. Made the headline.
Girlfriend hates your receding hairline.
Stressed out. Maxed out.
Crazy roommate kicked out.
Missed breakfast. Working late.
Pregnant again (this will be number eight.)
Pumping iron. A weak heart.
High cholesterol. Too much fart.
Whatever the problem, dump the unhappy.
What you're having now is juice therapy!
*With its open sewers, trash lying around, and restaurants serving food right out onto the streets, rats are a common feature on the streets of KL. Indeed, we nearly "twisted our ankles" avoiding one on my first night there... The Tallest Twin Towers in the WorldFew landmarks have held me in awe quite as much as the Petronas Twin Towers in Kuala Lumpur. By day or by night, they are simply magnificient. No matter where you are in the city, when you catch a glimpse of them, you stop and stare. When we actually arrived there for the first time, I was disappointed to have to go inside to the movies - I would've been quite happy to stand and look at them all night.
The metal and glass structure, and the way that they light it at night, combine to give a look that's almost black and white, so it's almost as if you're looking at a building on an old movie reel; and yet, the height, the shape, the overall look of the thing is so futuristic, that you hardly know what to think. You simply stare.
If you get there early enough in the morning you can get your hands on some free tickets for a trip to the Skybridge on the 41st floor, about half-way up. The views from the bridge are good, although unlike somewhere like New York, you don't really recognise anything that you see! Our enthusiasm was dampened somewhat by the less than helpful staff on the ground, and the attitude of the German tourists on the bridge, who took issue with the fact that the Petronas still calls itself 'the tallest twin towers in the world" - their arguement being that, since September 11th 2001, the Petronas are the only twin towers in the world. Personally, I couldn't care less, and I rather think that's missing the point. (This is why I probably couldn't live in Germany.)
Downstairs, there's an impressive display of facts and games and other activities, no doubt designed for schoolkids visiting the tower, but equally entertaining to us. You can compare your height to the Towers (at 1.81m, I'm 250 times smaller than they are...), and see a demonstration of what would happen were the Towers to be struck by lightning (nothing, it would seem). You can also learn a little about the design concept, based on the Islamic principles of "unity within unity, harmony, stability, and rationality" of the Towers.
The floor plate of the Towers contains two interlocking squares, which create 8-pointed stars, that represent the elements Earth, Air, Fire, Water, and the atmosphere of Hot, Cold, Dry and Moist. After having been here, I started noticing the 8-pointed all over the city, from the walls of businesses, to the bases of trees planted throughout the streets, and even in the tiles along the sidewalk.
The following was written at the base of the Towers, showing the importance of geometry to their design:
Geometry enlightens the intellect and sets one's mind right. All its proofs are very clear and orderly. It is hardly possible for erros to enter into geometric reasoning, because it is well arranged and orderly. The mind that constantly applies itself to geometry is unlikely to fall into error.
Ibnu Khaldun
The world's most honest taxi driversThe guy who ran our hostel had told us to expect to pay somewhere between 5 and 10 Ringgit for the short trip to the Petronas Towers, so when we were being quoted 15 and 20, we knew we were being ripped-off. However, one driver asked for 8, so we were happy to hop in his cab. He seemed genuinely excited to have some foreigners in his car, and he never stopped chatting and offering advice. He must have been the friendliest member of his profession I've ever come across, and he had the amusing habit of reacting to everything that was said with a glorious "Aha!", as if every word that was spoken was some sort of revelation - even if it was he that had said it!
Later that evening, we were again quoted outrageous amounts to take us back to our hostel. However, when one driver saw that we were being ripped off, he was quick to quote us the proper price, and then take us home, giving off about unscrupulous drivers along the way.
Coincidentally, there was an article in the paper later that week quoting the Mayor of KL, who has suggested that Malaysians smile more, and that taxi drivers stop trying to rip people off, in an effort to boost tourism in the country! As far as I'm concerned, the people smile enough as it is, but the taxi drivers could certainly do with a change of attitude. Breakfast again at the Bukit BintangTo be honest, Kuala Lumpur isn't a city that inspires one to do anything. After crawling out of bed late again we made our way to the Bukit Bintang, a large shopping and entertainment district south of where we were staying. Our choices for breakfast were limited: Indian curry houses, Chinese restaurants, expensive tourist traps serving bland over-priced fare, and American franchises like the ubiquitous Starbucks, Cinnabon, Aunties Anne's pretzels, and, to my mild delight - the Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf, where Brittany and I spent most of our Sunday mornings after Mass, thinking of ways to escape the other foreigners in Seoul. We resigned ourselves to the same place we had eaten at the day before, simply because we were tired of walking around.
We thought we'd check out Chinatown, before making our way to the Lake Gardens. Chinatown is supposed to abound with cheap hostels and coffee shops, but I didn't spot anywhere that I'd want to sleep in, let alone eat at. Its market contains a dazzling array of knock-off wallets, belts, cuff links, ties, soccer and rugby jerseys, DVDs, CDs, and a whole host of other tat.
Realising we were close to the Masjid Negara, or National Mosque, we decided to meander in that direction. However, no sooner had it appeared on the horizon, than our way became blocked by two highways, a flyover, and the Monorail. Getting to the mosque on foot seemed impossible, and I began to wonder why the faithful made the trek to Mecca each year, when reaching this place was just as difficult. Giving up, we escaped to the relative comfort of the Central Market, which hosts all manner of Malaysian arts and crafts, for the right price. While we were browsing the secondhand books, an almighty thunderstorm erupted outside, and we were forced to buy an umbrella for the walk home. By the time we made it back to our hostel, I was the second-wettest I'd ever been in my life. We barely had enough time to shower and change before leaving for the movies. The theater was in the Petronas Towers, and I was rather excited about seeing them at night. However, to get there in time we needed to take a taxi, something which always leaves me a little nervous in a new city. As it turns out, I didn't have to worry, but, more on that later. 3月5日 Merry Christmas, Mr Kim - give my regards to GwangmyeongI left Korea in the rain, which is probably the best way to do it. Wet weather has a way of making big Asian cities appear even more Asian. (I know that last sentence doesn't sound all that ridiculous - I've tried it out on other Seoulites and it made sense to them; it must have something to do with the way Asian places are presented in the movies - any Chinatown you'll ever see will be suffering from a massive downpour, which serves to heighten the effects of all the neon lights and bad guys on motorbikes.)
For the 14th time I boarded the Airport Limosine, and for the 14th time wondered why I hadn't thought to bring the correct fare with me - I now had a pocketful of loose change. Don't they realise that a pocketful of loose change (which is only good for vending machines and PC bangs) is the last thing you need when you leave the country?
Thanks to my boss (who, up until that point was used to dealing mostly with Americans and must've thought it would make me feel right at home) my first meal in Korea was from Burger King. Thanks to whoever it is that runs the main restaurant at Incheon International, which stops serving breakfast at 10am, but doesn't start serving the lunch buffet until 11am (leaving you to choose from the menu, with its mouth-watering choices, including "Marshsnail abroth to chase hangover" and "Ham and the Melt cheese samdwitch"), my last meal in Korea was a McDonald's breakfast.
As you pass through security at ICN, you'll notice a diagram, complete with photos, of the shoe-bomb that Richard Reid was convicted of trying to use to blow-up an airliner. Now, I imagine that if you're the sort of person who is going to use such a device, you don't need help with the design from the good folks at the airport, but still, seeing it posted there struck me as odd.
The crew on Malaysia Airlines are courteous, friendly, and efficient, but they wear terrible uniforms. The ladies are in a long, tight-fitting one-piece, with a floral design, the negative effects of which are somewhat mitigated by the fact that they are all beautiful. The gents however, don't get off so lightly. Sporting mis-matched polyester trousers and jackets with wide lapels and gold floral patterns and trim, they look like theatre ushers from the 1950s.
The crew in my section were all Korean, and I quickly discovered that a little of their language went a long way. I got as much beer and nuts as I wanted during the flight, and fresh coffee and free Cointreau after the meal was served. (I wouldn't be a huge fan of Cointreau, or Heineken for that matter, but when the airline is paying you don't refuse.)
I spent a sweaty hour in the transit lounge of Kota Kinabalu airport, which is probably about as close to Borneo as I'll get on this trip. The airport suffers from an over-abundance of postcards featuring orangutans, and a complete lack of air-conditioning. However, you can get all the Mars Bars and Toberlones that you'd like, to sustain if you decide to go trekking in the jungle.
At Kuala Lumpur International, the first thing I noticed was the huge numbers of Indians waiting to pass through immigration. Malaysia has a sizeable minority of Indians (nearly 10% I believe), and if the arrivals lounge at KUL is anything to go by, it doesn't show any signs of getting smaller. The immigration process itself was mostly painless, though it took the girl a while to figure out where in the world Ireland was.
Rosie was waiting for me outside, and on our way to get the bus she amazed me by stopping for hot chocolate (it was about 30 degrees outside, but apparently the air-con was getting to her). After dropping off my bags at our Indian-run hostel, we strolled around the neighbourhood in search of a meal. Every single place was an Indian curry-house, and had it not been for the palm trees and odd Malaysian on a motorbike, I might've thought I was on the streets of New Delhi (I knew I wasn't in New Delhi, because the streets there must be deserted, all the people having moved to Malaysia.) The food was cheap and plentiful though, and served by an ever-smiling waiter, so I couldn't complain too much.
This morning we considered visiting the Petronas Towers, but apparently you really need to go early in the morning to get your hands on the free tickets which allow access to the skybridge. Instead, we headed in the direction of the Masjid Jamek, a mosque in central KL, and, after donning long navy robes (and head-scarves for the girls), we wandered around the perimeter. Strangely, non of the men in or around the complex were praying, or even talking, or actually doing much of anything, but sleeping. I'm not sure how long you'd get away with sleeping in a church, but I imagine it wouldn't be long. (I'm sure that at some point on this trip, when I'm out and about and particularly tired, I'm going to consider converting...)
After that, we walked a short distance to the Dataran Merdeka, or Independence Square, where, 50 years ago, the Union Flag was lowered, and the Malaysian flag was raised for the first time. It always gives me a small but intense thrill to visit the places where the Brits have finally given up their hold, and gone off home. In order to escape the rain, we ran to the National History Museum, located at one end of the green. It contains all the information you could ever need about Malaysia, from the first traces of humans there, through the Portuguese and British invasions, and the Japanese occupation, right up until the creation of the Proton motorcar. Precisely at 6 o'clock though, a guard came through the museum to tell us that it was closing. Within 30 seconds of his telling us (i.e. before we'd even had a chance to locate each other, let alone find our way out), the lights went off. For two long minutes we imagined we might be stuck there overnight, especially when we discoverd that the front door was sealed and the ticket-counter staff had disappeared, but we eventually made it outside, where it was still raining slightly. Walking up toward our hostel, we noticed that the streets were empty, all the sensible people were indoors.
It was Indian again for dinner tonight, and already I'm bored with it. Hopefully by the time I have something else to write, I'll have found something else to eat. Now I must be off home, there's a lunar eclipse tonight, and people have been advised to stay indoors - but more on that later... 3月2日 Friday Feast 133Appetizer
What does the color pink make you think of? The sexy underwear set that one of the parents gave me as a going-away gift. It's sexy. And pink. And sexy. Soup Name something you thought you had lost, but later found. I can't think of a single thing. Salad In 3 words, describe this past week. Busy. Stressful. Exhausting. Main Course What are you obsessed with? Pint glasses and passport stamps. Dessert What kind of perfume or cologne do you like to wear? I really like Givenchy. Paul Smith London is also rather nice. |
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