A Town Called Ubud

If you've ever read “Eat, Pray, Love,” you know exactly what to expect in Ubud. The book (and the movie, really) depict it perfectly. Ubud is green. Ubud is culture. I confess, if it weren't for “Eat, Pray, Love” I don't know if we would have ventured to this far-off land.

Chris and I had gotten into a pretty serious fight in Kuta (these things are bound to happen on long travels). Because of this we weren't talking on the minibus to Ubud. I had to pee in a way I've never had to pee before. I couldn't communicate this to anybody. I dearly wanted to lean over to Chris and tell him I was dying, but I stubbornly sat upright, too proud to announce to anyone that my bladder was in the throes of exploding. Instead I hopped out when the van stopped for some gas. Bladder drained, I continued my speachless stoicism, all the way to Ubud.

Even on the outskirts, you can tell that Ubud is a cut above the regular tourist town. Workshops abound. Stone statues, of the Easter Island quality, stare down at you while you're gawking. This is the land of weirdness. But the weirdness is culture, and you want a part of it. Strange demon faces used to scare me while staying at my grandma's (she was a traveler not unlike myself). In Ubud, strange demon faces are the thing. Stock up while you can. No scariness; it's all cultural.

What Money Can Buy

Our bungalow only cost £12 a night. What in the Western world can get you £12 a night? In Ubud it got us our own private world, complete with koi pond and altar. Our bungalow was decorated like a temple, with scary masks on the wall. Chris and I couldn't believe our luck. More than that, we were situated across from some community center which presented daily performances of Balinese music and dancing. Every morning we'd hear a few poundings from a drum, then in the evening we were serenaded with music, much of the dong-dong-dong variety. We were in Ubud. There was never any doubt.

The food—oh the food. There was hardly any Western fare in Ubud. Restaurants abounded, usually the kind where you sit on mats with your legs curled to the side. There was a laid-back quality to everything. Everywhere you went were fountains and koi ponds and dong-dong-dong music (seriously, the only TV we found in Ubud played Balinese dancing with the ubiquitous dong music; no Olympic coverage here). Back to the food—fish was the specialty. Pepes. Marinated fish steamed in banana leaves, served with a salsa and rice. It was like an orgy in my mouth. Fifty Shades of Grey has nothing on Balinese food (and I use that as a reference because I was reading the first book while in Bali). I nearly went through the roof with pleasure. Did I mention that most meals cost about £1 each? Add the local drink, a mix of lemonade and rice whiskey, you come to a meal that cost £1.75. Seriously, I could live here for a very long time.

Monkey Business

Just down the street from our bungalow was the Sacred Monkey Forest. I'm not being funny; this is the actual name. After side-stepping the daily offerings (every business has an offering put infront of its door, consisting of rice, flowers, and sometimes, Snickers bars) and trying not to sprain an ankle on the sidewalk tiles, we made our way down to this forest, just on the edge of town. The entrance fee was something like $2, a pitiance considering what was being offered. It was Indiana Jones. The moss-covered demon statues, the bridges connecting banyan trees, temples guarded by angry monkeys. It was too perfect. I can't make this stuff up. You just have to go.

The monkeys were bearded and looked like wise old men. In fact, some of them, the elders among them, looked pretty wise. They minded their own business, tolerating the tourists, but not messing with them for food. The young ones were a different story. They were cheeky. We ran into a few of them in the temple harassing pretty tourist ladies. They'd climb onto a tourist's head, making them squeal, getting a kick out of their own antics. I could tell the adolescents were trouble, just like in any community really. I steered clear of the pesky youth. Just minding my own business, though, walking along the path, I felt something hard hit my shoulder. Instinctively I yelped and jumped to the side. Chris saw the monkey before I did. He was perched up on a branch above, with the smuggest of faces. Beside me rolled a half-eaten potato. It dawned on me soon enough that this little bugger had chucked a potato at my shoulder. Perhaps he had been aiming at my head. Perhaps he had been out to crack my skull. His little joke over, he made his way across the branch and disappeared. I stood in mild shock. If I had been on my game, I would have gone after that little monkey tail and flung him through the trees. I would have swung a monkey. I really would have.

The “Volcano” Tour

It would be a crime to come to Ubud and not sign up for a tour. There are so many things to see in the area, and renting a bike wouldn't get you very far. Chris' birthday was coming up. He wanted to see a volcano. Batur and Augung are the giants in the region. Ideally we wanted to climb a volcano, but we were sold on a tour out of our hotel. Dubbed “The Volcano Tour,” it sounded just like what we were looking for. A few temple stops, then a drive through volcano land. We charged up our cameras and aimed for an early start.

On the minibus we were joined by a pair of Brits and a Danish/Korean guy. We instantly gelled as a group. We didn't really have a guide, just a driver who barely spoke English. He dropped us off at the sights and we were left to explore them on our own.

The first stop was a temple just down the road from where we were staying. We were made to put on the obligatory sarong and sash, males and females alike. It was interesting, having been to different religious sights through Asia, finding each religion to have its own dress code. For mosques it's shoes off, legs and arms (and for women—heads) covered. For Buddhist temples it's the same—shoes off and arms and legs covered. For Hindu places of worship, it's perfectly okay to keep shoes on, and really it seems that anything goes. For Balinese Hinduism, a sarong and a sash are required. They're provided at the temple entrance for a small fee.

The temple complexes are huge. To be honest I don't know what to make of them. They look very similar to a Balinese family compound. There are really no statues to behold or kneel before. There are lots of tables, and you get the sense that this is a place for the community to come and participate in celebrations. The temples are really just really big arts and crafts workshops. As Chris and I were wandering around, one of the keepers drew us in and showed us a few of the buildings. One of them housed a gong, another held a mosiac of a god. “One god,” the toothless man told us, pointing upward. “Only one god.” This fit into my understanding of Hinduism, as they believe in a whole pantheon of gods and goddesses, yet they're merely symbolic. It's really not very different from Catholicism, considering the trinity and in extension to that, angels and saints. Christianity as well has a whole family of beings up in heaven. Same with Islam. One god maybe, but lots of other stuff going on as well. Perhaps Hindus just take that stuff into consideration a bit more.

Our second stop was Elephant Cave. The cave wasn't as spectacular as the walk to the cave. The flowers were in full bloom in the garden, and there was a stream and a waterfall. It was Eden, right in the middle of Bali. In fact, I would like to say a word about paradise and chosen lands and such. If there was a universal god, and I'm talking a completely wise all-knowing god that is in control of everything—why, according to a particular religious book, why would he pick a people to represent him, promising them one of the crappiest scraps of land in the world? And for this crappy scrap of land there would be wars and problems galore. If I were god, well to be honest with you I wouldn't pick a people to represent me in the first place, but if I did, I'd pick the Balinese. I'd say, you guys are the happiest people in all the world. I've put you in one of the most gorgeous settings. Share your joy with the world, show them my goodness. I don't even need to send a prophet. You guys already have it made.

Moving on, we came to a place I would rate as one of the best sites in Bali. Its name is Gunung Kawi, and it's full of mammoth-sized stone carvings. It's an ancient Hindu site, and indeed you can feel the age of it as you walk along. The setting is fantastic, down in a valley surrounded by rice terraces. It's a great place for wandering, as one temple leads to another, to another. It had the grandeur of Machu Picchu, or what I'd imagine it would be (I've never been to Machu Picchu, so I'm not sure how I made the connection, but I definitely did). We watched a priest prepare an offering on one of the long tables. Incense filled the air. This was religion at its best, this mixture of ancient beliefs and architecture. You could tell the priests have been making offerings in this setting for centuries. It was a place stuck in time, though you don't have to go far in Bali to encounter that same feeling.

As we rolled up to the next place, we started to get the impression that we were on a “temple” tour instead of the “volcano” tour we had signed up for. But the variety in temples had kept us interested. We had come to “Holy Springs,” a pilgrimage site for the religious to wash themselves clean. There were two main pools. Devotees took up one of the pools, lining themselves up under the spouts. The second pool was empty, so Chris and I took turns dipping our heads under a free-flowing tap. It felt magnificent, cooling ourselves off in that manner. A lady came by to lay down an offering. Everywhere you went there were offerings. Whether these offerings were being presented to a universal force or to ancestors, it was never quite clear. The Balinese are very animistic in their beliefs. They believe that there are spirits everywhere. Some good, some bad. The spirits must be appeased in order to have peace and prosperity. It's not disimiliar in the rest of Asia. Most houses in Buddhist households have an altar dedicated to their ancestors. Well, I'd like to think that my ancestors are watching over me, fluttering around my house, but I just can't picture it.

Our next stop was a nice treat. We had come to a coffee plantation. We got to learn how coffee was grown, roasted and ground. The most interesting aspect to this plantation was the little creature scampering around in a metal cage. It was a luwak, better known as a weasel who fancies feasting on coffee cherries. This is how the process works: The beans inside break down in the weasel's stomach, the acid playing a special role in the procedure, then the weasel poops the beans out whole, and then those beans are washed (thoroughly, I hope) and roasted, then made into the most expensive coffee known to man. Luwak coffee. A cup cost around £3, which isn't bad considering. We had all kinds of coffees and teas placed before us for tasting. It didn't cost anything to taste, and we would have been quite happy just sitting there in the beautiful setting sipping away at ginger or vanilla or chili flavoured coffees. But it was Chris' birthday. This occassion called for something special, so we ordered Chris a cup of Luwak Coffee. A deep smooth brown, it had a peculiar smell. Everyone in the group was apprehensive about tasting it, but Chris loved it. I had a small sip, and dare I say, it carried the subtle flavor of, well, something different. One sip was enough for me. Chris was hooked. He now craves the taste of weasel shit which is unfortunate as it's very hard to come by.

Finally we came to the volcano part of the tour. Our minivan climbed some steep winding roads. Suddenly we found ourselves in a completely different landscape. We were in the region of Kintimani, the land of volcanos. Agung was half-hidden behind clouds, but Batur stood out in all its glory, its giant bulk dominated the landscape. Down below was a lake. From what I could understand, Batur was a double-caldera volcano. The first crater included the lake (which made it a very big caldera). The second caldera was the one that stood tall in the sky, a perfect cone. Our group was very excited, finally getting a glimpse of these beasts. We asked the driver to pull over so we could get some shots, but he told us we'd stop further down the road. This was a cause for agitation, as we were driving further away from the scenic viewpoints we wanted. The driver did stop, but at the destination of his choice. This was a restaurant. Granted, the restaurant offered fantastic views of the valley, but it also offered up overpriced buffet-style meals. We found ourselves trapped. It was obvious that we were expected to buy something. I read later in Lonely Planet that drivers were notorious for doing this. The restaurants charged double the regular price, only for the driver to recieve 50% commission. We were well onto this game, and none of us wanted to play. The whole group decided to get up and leave. The disappointment was obvious on our driver's face. Not only was he not getting his commission, he was also not getting a tip from his grumbling passengers. Such is the game.

We were taken to another temple, but by this time we were all templed-out. The group went in search of street food. Chris and I settled for some instant noodles from a nearby shop. It was a perfect lunch. At that, we left Kintimani. The volcano portion of our “volcano” tour was over. At least it gave us a taster. The region was beautiful, particularly that lake. Chris and I agreed that we'd have to go back, this time on our terms. Maybe we'd even get to climb one of those volcanoes.

The tour ended with a rice-terrace stop. This was more like it. The scenery was outstanding; post card perfect. Curved around us, like an ampitheatre, were the greenest rice paddies I've ever seen. It's impossible not to come across rice paddies in Asia, but hillside ones like this have to be seen to be believed. They are gorgeous. Too bad for the pile of dog shit I stepped in while trying to get that perfect shot. I wiped it off the best I could then climbed back into the minivan. Our tour was now complete.

A Place Like Home

We stayed in Ubud a good five days. Staying in the same bungalow, we enjoyed a little patch of heaven. The people running the place were so accommodating. The old lady was a little senile, but we loved her just the same. We named her Nana (we had had Mama in Samui). As we were paying up at the end of our stay, Nana informed us that a ceremony was taking place in about ten days time. It was the cremation ceremony, performed once every three years. We had seen them preparing for something down at the community center. Life-sized bulls were being lined up side by side. We hadn't understood the significance of these bulls, but now it made sense. Bodies that had been preserved over the past three years were now to be placed inside these bulls to be burned. Highly religious stuff. We couldn't turn down Nana's invitation to return to Ubud for the festival. I was very happy at the prospect of returning. Ubud is one of the most cultural places I've ever visited. It's absolutely overflowing with color and customs. The culture isn't even on display for the tourist, rather it's on display because the Balinese love their traditions and do all they can to keep them alive. We caught Nana and other members of her family watching TV one night. What were they watching? Balinese dancing with that dong-dong-dong music. They love the stuff. They can't get enough. That's what's so special about Bali. Ancient traditions aren't practiced for the sake of tourists and bringing in dollars. The Balinese practice their traditions because it's who they are. And you have to respect that.

Upon leaving our bungalow, I skirted around the koi pond. As I turned back to talk to Chris I noticed a giant spider dangling from a tree branch. I'm talking the biggest spider I've ever seen. I had noticed that there were spider webs covering the tops of several of the koi ponds along the path. I had thought to myself, those must be some big-ass spiders trying to catch fish. Well, yes, I was looking at a big-ass spider that was as big as my face. I'm really surprised I hadn't freaked out, considering I had walked right past it, probably even brushed up against it unknowingly.

With that, we left Ubud.

Life Below the Equator

If it was exoticism we were after, we certainly got it in Bali. The very air felt different after stepping off the plane. The climate was cooler, the scenery lush and volcanic. The bustle was unlike anything we had experienced in Asia so far. The men wore sarongs and cloth hats. The women carried baskets on their heads. Strange wood carvings and stone faces gave us the impression we were in Polynesia. The sensation was immediate—I knew I loved Bali.

There were a few games we had to learn before we even left the airport. Taxi drivers were persistent, surrounding their prey who were fresh off the plane. Asking for 400,000 rupees to take us to Kuta, they weren't open to negotiation. “Very far,” they would say, or “Traffic bad.” Those were always the excuses. It's hard to judge, just arriving in a place. Do you trust them or not? Well, it turned out—not. Thank goodness there was a Westener around who informed us that we shouldn't pay more than 50,000 rupees. There was a taxi booth right down from where all the taxi men were gathered, and there they were selling tickets for the appropriate price. Our first lesson in Bali—don't trust the locals. They'll clearly cheat you with a smile.

The narrow roads were clogged with traffic. Perhaps because Bali is just a tiny island, there aren't highways. Getting from point A to B isn't a clear-cut path. It's a zigzaggy path, many times involving driving the wrong way down a one-way street, skirting pedestrians and souvenir booths. I loved it. We arrived in the evening, and the streets were lined with activity. Chris and I were wide awake looking out the windows. It was as if we started our vacation afresh. The thrill of travel was back.

Our taxi nosed its way down a narrow alley, parting pedestrians and motorbikes. It amazed me that they allowed vehicles on back roads like this. There was literally just enough room for a vehicle to get by. Tourists had to press themselves into walls or step into a booth to avoid getting hit. Lots of horn honking. Lots of tourists looking over their shoulders.

We had picked a hotel out of Lonely Planet. We needed something, less we get dropped off at some out-of-the-way place that was owned by a relative of the taxi driver. Fortunately the hotel was perfect. Our own bathroom, a balcony, breakfast brought to our room in the morning. The price was the cheapest we had encountered in a long time. Our love of Bali was alive and growing.

Kuta is a tourist hub, something on the par of Khao San Road in Bangkok, except larger. There was no shortage of restaurants or tourist shops. Everything was cheap cheap cheap. Chris and I splurged a bit the first night. Just down the road from us was a place called Tubes, which was geared for the surfer crowd.  A surf board was stuck to one of the restaurant walls, and you could stand on it and pose for a picture. Chris did this. I didn't. I was more interested in the Mexican fare being served at the restaurant, particularly the margaritas. After Malaysia, which isn't booze-friendly by any means, it was nice to get back to cheap cocktails. Chris and I may have gone overboard that night, ordering dessert and cigarettes (cigarettes are sold on the menu along with the food) ontop of food and drinks, but the atmosphere was so relaxing. There was gentle music playing, and waves crashing on giant screens around us. There's something so satisfying about stepping off a plane and arriving in a destination and going out for that first meal. You feel you've made it to where you want to be.

Another Sleepless Night

I was hoping to follow up our relaxing meal with a relaxing night of sleep. After all, it had been a long time since I had gotten a decent night's sleep. It started in Kuala Lumpur where Chris and I had shared a dorm room with two Asian princesses. These girls had taken up the eight-bunk room with their crap, draping clothes and accessories over every inch of space. These girls were a pain in the ass from the very start, playing their music (despite Chris' snarky remarks) and doing themselves up into the late hours as Chris and I were trying to read. They tottered out in their whorish garb just as Chris and I were settling into bed. I knew they'd be back drunk in the wee hours of the morning, and of course I was right. They not only turned the light on, but they sat on their beds talking to each other about god knows what, until Chris asked them to turn the light off and shut the hell up (good man). One of the girls was on the phone for what seemed like forever. Then she disappeared and never came back. This was very weird behavoir for a hostel in Kuala Lumpur. Were these girls travelers, or prostitutes? We'll never know. Anyway, we didn't receive a whole lot of sleep that night.

Singapore was a nightmare sleep-wise for me. First we had those creaky bunk beds, then I had the bed bugs dropping down on me. I just wanted somewhere quiet and bug-free.

Bali looked like the place. It was geared towards relaxation, bubbling fountains and koi ponds and massages. The air was cool and bug-free in Kuta. Chris and I sat up reading for about an hour in our nice airy bedroom. As I sat there, it occured to me that down the road from us construction was taking place. I could hear a drill. “I hope that's not going to go on all night,” I told Chris. Silly me. The drilling stopped. We went to bed. I dozed off. Around midnight a truck rumbled down the narrow alley, and then the REAL construction began. Drilling, backhoeing, dynamiting... I don't know what the hell they were doing. But the noise moved closer and closer until they were right outside our hotel. I simply couldn't believe this was happening. I looked outside to see a work truck parked in the alley, several men asleep in the back. How were they able to sleep with all that noise? It looked like it was going to be an all-night operation. I went to grab some earplugs. Up til then they hadn't seen out the outside of my rucksack. I popped them in and the construction was lessened to just a mild roar. Along with the workmen outside, I eventually dozed off.

Like a Surfer

We could have been on the Gold Coast in Australia. Anyone with blond hair and board shorts in Kuta had an Australian accent. Just a short hop over from Oz, Bali was the destination of the kangaroo people. I found it interesting. Just like Americans in Cancun, or Brits in Ibiza, the Austalian youths headed to Kuta for their partying. Hearing “Summer of '69” sung loudly in an Aussie accent outside our hotel at 1:00 in the morning was no different than hearing the any wanker closing down a pub on Manchester Rd back home. The urge to shout “Shut the fuck up!” was strong in me. One thing I've realized on this trip—I have a general dislike of young drunken party-goers, regardless of their nationality. I don't find them witty or cute. I don't even find myself dredging up old party memories from a decade ago when gazing upon them. No, at best I just tolerate them these days. I'm getting old.

But not every Austalian was in Kuta to party. A good number of them came to surf. Understandably so. Kuta Beach is famous for its waves. Huge honking waves that can take a novice out. Girls and boys alike with gleaming trim bodies could be seen carrying boards through the streets, the most gorgeous people you could imagine. I felt like such a frump in my gypsy skirt and tank top get-up. To make it worse, I carried a boogie-board. But I didn't even care. Boogie-boarding I could do. Boogie-boarding was a good time. I wasn't going to die boogie-boarding.

Chris and I each took turns. One would boogie-board while the other sat on the beach. On the first day out, I went first. What a thrill it was. I don't even care if that sounds lame. The waves were ideal for boogie-boarding. I had mastered this little skill before back on a vacation to South Carolina. I had spent three days in the water before I got the hang of it, droppin the board down just a split-second before the wave hit. Timing was the key, and I got it right time after time after time. A few times I rode a wave completely in, sailing past swimmers and waders, coming to a stop on the wet sand, rolling awkwardly off. It was exhilarating when this happened, and I'd rush back out into the water to do it again.

I'd get braver, going deeper out into the water to catch the bigger waves as they crashed. There was a line of surfers out past the break-line, just chilling out waiting for a really big one. It was always exciting to see when one was forming, the surfers would come to life. I'd get my boogie-board in gear and together we'd all try to catch that big one. There were some exceptionally good surfers out there. Some were crap, falling off their boards immediately, but some knew exactly what to do. I'd never seen surfers up close before. It was quite thrilling to be there among them, riding along with them, watching each wave come rolling toward us.

Beware of the Hawkers

When my turn boogie-boarding was over, I squinted over the beach, trying to find Chris. I had traveled quite a bit over but I knew we were next to a flag. Everything blurred without my glasses. I looked for a solitary figure on the sand. What I got was a blurry group of people waving at me.

I did an inward groan as I walked over. Chris had attracted a whole group of hawkers. They had actually made themselves comfortable, sitting around him like they were good friends. They greeted me happily. Chris looked happy, but only because he saw his escape, grabbing up the boogie-board and heading to the water. I awkwardly sat down next to our new “friends.”

It was all, “Where you from? What you name? How long you here?” I absolutely can't stand these conversations. They're all a lead-up to, “You want massage?” or “You want sarong” or whatever else they're trying to sell. We had encountered hawkers in many places in Asia, but these Balinese ones took the cake. The conversations lasted forever, talking about family and life ambitions and such. They talked with such seemingly sincere interest, though, it was hard to break them off. And with dread you knew the question was coming, “Maybe you want…?” So awkward, especially after hearing about how their husband was out of work or their children didn't have shoes.

The women that surrounded me were annoying to the max. I must have said no thanks to them at least a hundred times. The most persistent was an older lady who was wearing like five layers of clothes (she was cold, she said, though I was sweating in the sun). She was dead bent on giving me a massage, even giving me a taster. I wasn't opposed to a massage. I might have wanted a massage very much. Just not then and there. I told her maybe later. Good price, she said. So I asked her how much, out of curiosity. The price she gave was okay, so I told her I'd consider it, maybe get one later. I couldn't shake her after that. The other ladies wandered off, realizing their time was wasted on me. The older lady stuck with me to the end. Chris returned with the boogie-board and I was so happy. But here was the keeper of the money, and the lady turned to Chris. “Your wife want massage, yes?” Chris and I both got up, ready to leave the beach and get away from the hawkers. “Another time,” I told the lady, not sure how else to be polite. She turned nasty then, realizing her time had been wasted. “You asked how much. You don't do unless you buy.” I hadn't signed up for her game anyway, so I don't know why she was calling me out for cheating. “You bad luck,” the lady said, walking angrily away. “You bad luck, you bad luck.”

God, I hated these hawkers. Perfectly charming people, but they couldn't understand the meaning of no. I saw lots of tourists just ignore them. “Where you from?” was met with downcast eyes. Chris and I just couldn't do that. We'd always give out a “no thank you.” But in Bali, no thank you is just another way of saying yes. It was exhausting.

The people were so unbelievably friendly. It created problems because you didn't know if there was sincerity there. If there was, and you were rude, you just looked like an ass. Chris and I errored on the side of kindness, and for this we were pestered to death. But we did interact with the people, and for that I give ourselves credit.

The only time we ran into problems with this kindness was at a money changers. The guys there were jokes and laughs right from the very start. While Chris changed the money, I sat outside and talked with a friendly young man. The friendliness was overflowing. Chris popped his head out to ask if I had 10,000 to make the exchange easier. I complied, but it was still jokes from the money changer, and we were laughing along. We walked away from there thinking, wow, those guys are great. Chris actually thought we had gotten a good exchange rate and we were laughing about that. Well the joke was on us, as we later found out. At dinner Chris counted out his wad of cash and realized that we had either spent way too much in the past few hours, or we had gotten ripped off at the money changers. Well, we had failed to heed the warning from Lonely Planet. Money changers in Bali are notorious for ripping off tourists. They count the money in front of you, then cause a distraction (like, “hey, you have 10,000 rupee note?”), then pocket a good chunk of the money while you turn away. It happened to us.

I was pissed off, and a little disillusioned to be honest. We had had such a good time with those guys. They were full of crap, ripping us off while patting us on the back. I was so angry that when we passed that way later that night, I spouted off to the guy standing there. He was the guy that had entertained me outside. I figured he had been used in the distraction. “Thanks a lot for ripping us off,” I spat at him. He seemed deeply hurt, saying he was just a shopkeeper, he wasn't even the money changer. The money changer wasn't around. I walked away from him feeling confused. Had he been part of the scam, or had he been genuinely nice to me? As much as I loved Bali, I hated that aspect of it. You didn't know whom to trust.

The construction continued through the next few nights. I stuck my earplugs in and learned to sleep with this background noise. Like the hawkers, some things you just need to tolerate in order to experience the bigger picture.

 

Singapore Surprise

I'll confess, I didn't know much about Singapore. I know a few things since I've visited, namely that Singapore has to be one of the coolest city/states on the planet. Before that kind of knowledge, Singapore was only known to me in terms of Micheal P. Fay's caning case back in the 90s. This American twat was caught spraypainting walls in the pristine Asian city, and well, he got caned. And rightly so, says I. What kind of idiot tests the government of such a restrictive place, a place where you can't even chew gum? Moreover, why would you want to spraypaint in Singapore? Go to Europe, where they consider spraypainting an artform.

Singapore was meant to be a stopover place—a night or two before catching a plane to Bali. My expectations weren't only low, they were non-existent. This worked vastly in my favor.

All I could think about on our journey to the Malaysian/Singapore border was food. Since the advent of my Perhentian stomach bug, I hadn't eaten anything. And I do mean anything. I remember sitting in a Burger King at the central train station in Kuala Lumpur and turning my nose away from Chris' french fries. I didn't despair though. This was my opportunity to drop 10 lbs or so. However, I was starving. And I do mean really really hungry. By the time we walked out of Woodlands station in Singapore, going through customs and all that, I was ready to devour any walking man or beast. I grabbed Chris' arm, something I don't do a whole lot, and firmly declared, “We're eating.” Chris insisted on finding our hostel first. With this I tightened my grip, and with a determination I haven't used since walking away from a Jim Carrey movie, announced, “We're bloody eating.” Chris knew there would be blood if I didn't have my way. Wisely he conceeded to my decision to patronage Mickey D's. He was greatly rewarded. We both were. We scoffed down those Quarter Pounders like there was no tomorrow.

We headed into Little India in search of a hostel. Our first choice was full so we headed down the street to the next best thing. We got a dorm room that was air conditioned and non-smelly. That was all it had going for us. They had placed us in the world's squeakiest bunk bed. I mean really, you breathed and the bed squeaked. I felt bad for the other dorm dwellers. They must have thought we were constantly getting it on, when we all we were doing was getting comfy beneath the covers.

Disneyland Singapore

We had a few days to blow before dipping below the equator (Singapore is just a hair north of the line). After the travesty of Malaysia (we had been sick from one ailment or another the entire time we spent there) we were limping along, just waiting to get to greener pastures. Chris had mentioned a cable car. Anything to catch some breeze. Singapore was insanely hot. The sun was almost directly overhead, and it was relentless. It was the kind of heat where you dreamt of sticking your head into a freezer and leaving it there for an hour. You'd kill someone to get out of the heat. If the laws weren't so darn strict, more people would be doing drive-bys or other crazy kinds of shit. Yeah, it was hot.

The Singapore tranport system was a pleasant surprise. World class. It didn't hurt that everything in Singpore is written in English. The spoken language is Singlish, which is horribly pronouned English, but it's bearable. Stuff can be accomplished in Singlish. Takes lots of shouting and repetiton, but you get there in the end. The written langauge was our saving grace. Chris and I kicked ass when it came to tackling the mass transit system. We grabbed the metro by its horns and rode it hard. We rode it all the way to Harbour City where we boarded our Angry Birds cable car.

It must have been a slow day. Cable cars swung by empty, music and crazy laughter emanating from them, as we stood there on the 15th floor of some office building. It was like some kind of nightmare; the glass door shutting close on our car, being stuck with some birds glaring down at us. Can I just admit that I don't have a clue what Angry Birds actually are? They're part of a game, right? I just don't keep up on these things. We were given masks, and like we were six and it was our birthday, we wore them, while swinging over the treetops. Music played, and stuffed animals bore down on us with their angry eyebrows. It's like they wanted us dead. The good news was that the view was unbelievable. We swung upward to a vantage point where we disembarked and walked through Angry Birds merchandise to get to the actual viewpoint. We caught some breeze. The city of Singpore didn't look like much, especially in comparison to a skyline like Hong Kong’s. However there was a lot of sea. I got the sense that Singapore was a major Asian port.

The air was stiffling, even at the top of the world. We boarded another cable car, heading back from where we came, and swinging even further, as we had purchased an all-day pass. We rose higher and higher, the birds laughing even more crazily, as we approached Sentosa Island.

See, this is what I'm talking about in saying I didn't know a thing about Singpore. This certainly wasn't the caning experience I had read about. Singapore was nothing less than a theme-park. The whole fricken city. You didn't even need to pass through a ticket booth to enter the park. From the air you could see that the city was something a bit above the regular up-and-coming city of the century. Dubbed “The Garden City,” Singapore is a step beyond anything I've ever seen. The love child of Vegas and Disneyland, but sanitized to kindergarten standards (cutesy poems on billboards abound), this was the city of dazzlement. And there was nothing cheezy about it. Well, there was some cheese, I guess starting with the Angry Birds. Alighting on Sentosa Island, we found fountains and gardens and monuments to wow the senses. All we really cared about was aquiring some water, to be honest, but the sparkle of the place wasn't lost on us. I was impressed. For a city that I didn't expect much from (maybe some flush toilets and air conditioning) I was dazzled. Even back on the main island, the buildings were reminescent of Hollywood. We turned a corner off of the metro, and there we were at the Oscars. A building, like something out of Gotham City, rose infront of us, golden statues dominating the avenue from 20 stories up. I imagined celebrities and a red carpet. How the hell had we desceneded on this brand of themepark-acity?

That British Influence

Chris was adament about seeing Raffles Hotel, just a few blocks from the City Hall stop on the metro. Now Thomas Stamford Raffles was the British chap that founded Singapore in the late 1800's. He built a hotel and named it Raffles. We were thinking about kicking back there for awhile, sipping on Singapore Slings in the garden. However, wearing our usual backpacking garb, we weren't sure we'd be allowed to roam the premises or if we'd get chased off with garden rakes. The whole hotel complex was dressed in a pristine white. Very few people were about. For sure there was a garden area where a few foreigners were sipping drinks, but Chris and I quickly passed on by after we had caught a glimpse of the prices. We pretty much had the place to ourselves, to take pictures and crane our necks at the elegant balconies. It very much reminded me of Ricky's Cafe in Casablanca, where we had spent £60 on drinks not too long ago. It's the kind of place where you just want to sit down and listen to a man play a piano. You could feel refined and dignified by just being there. We hadn't gotten chased off with garden rakes, and for that I was thankful.

We perused a bookshop just across the road from the Raffles Hotel. It was a treasure trove for both of us. There were all types of books from my childhood, books I hadn't seen in absolute ages. There were Archie comic books, Little Golden Book Classics, even Scholastic books. What these were doing in a bookshop in Singapore I didn't know, but Chris and I spent a good hour there. I walked away with several comic books, glowing with a nostalgia I haven't felt in years.

An Ethnic Mix

Our hostel was situated in Little India, a colorful section of the city with charming wooden buildings. Lining the streets are shops with apartments perched above, sometimes three or four stories high. The buildings are adorned with balconies and brightly painted shuttered doors. Our hotel fit right. Chris and I sat out on our balcony, listening to the traffic below. A rat scurried past us in the dark, darting behind a potted plant. Indeed, it felt as if we were in India.

On our second day in Singapore we visited temples, one Hindu, one Buddhist. Walking through Little India (which is actually a sizeable neighbourhood) we came to the temple I had picked out from the others—the Temple of Kali. There's too much to Hinduism for me to get my head around. I'd really have to sit down and study the concepts, for that's what Hinduism is, mainly a philosophy. To say that there are millions of gods and goddesses isn't exactly true. Hindus believe in one god. The countless dieties are merely manifestations of that god. Still, in looking at Kali, I'm not sure what manifestation she's supposed to represent, with her human skull necklace and her vampire teeth. She's a bloodthirsty demon. Walking around the temple we saw several statues of her. In each statue, she was severing someone with a spear, her tongue out and streams of blood shooting from her mouth. How anyone could find peace in such a place is a mystery to me, but there were a few worshipers about. A priest handed out rice balls. Incense and offerings were given. Signs were posted not to pour milk over the statues. This is all probably deep stuff. Or maybe not. I'd always like to think that religion is deeper than its traditions. Hinduism is very ancient stuff, humans' ways of understanding the world. Still, with the likes of Kali, I'm not sure I'd subscribe to such bizarreness.

We had to hop on the metro to get to Chinatown. Having been to countless Chinatowns throughout Asia, we were pleased to find something quite different. Instead of labyrinths of stalls and spitting women, Singapore's Chinatown was very clean and orderly. The buildings were similiar in manner to those in Little India, with the balconies and shuttered doors. Chinese characters were used as decoration along with strings of red lanterns, all very picturesque. The only downfall was the rain, which had started as soon as we stepped out of the station.

The main temple in Chinatown is the Buddha Tooth Relic Temple. With a name like that you'd expect a tooth on display. For some reason I envisioned an elephant tusk gleaming in some golden light. It turns out that the Buddha tooth only makes occassional appearances at the temple. The tooth was not there when we visited. This did not dampen our spirits. The temple was like none other than I've ever seen. In all the Buddhist temples we've walked into, there was little going on other than mats and golden statues and a few monks walking around. I had trouble connecting to that kind of thing. This temple was Chinese and it differed from the temples we had visited in Thailand. Thousands of tiny golden Buddhas adorned the wall, like some 3D type of wallpaper. The altar area wasn't cluttered in the Thai fashion of statues. There was only one Buddha, and he was smiling in his gold and peaceful way. The outside of the temple was dark wood with layers upon layers roofs. I don't know why this all impressed me the way it did, but I connected with this brand of Buddhism the way I had hoped. Chris may connect with Thai Buddhism, but for me it's Chinese. It's orderly and dark and somehow more meaningful. It didn't hurt that there was some kind of service was going on. Monks, at least half a dozen of them, were chanting into microphones infront of the altar. Rows of women were sat behind them, chanting in a rapid pace, following Chinese characters from books. The room was filled with sound. It was theatrical. It felt like something important was going on. Why this strikes something in me, where nothing else has in my travels, I don't know. I've always related to Taoism, even back in the day I was a raging Christian. Perhaps this was the closest thing I experienced in the Taoist realm. I actually had tears in my eyes. Chris didn't feel a thing. Funny what we each individually connect to.

After our temple visits we stopped for some food. Prices were high in Chinatown. The rain poured down incessantly so we took shelter in a corner cafe where we hoped the prices were reasonable. They weren't, but the food was amazing. I had crab wontons. One of the best dishes on this trip so far.

Good Night, Sleep Tight...

We asked to change rooms. Two nights of the squeaky bunk bed had deprived us both of sleep. When we moved to the dorm the next room down, Chris and I felt we had hit the jackpot. Even though there were twenty beds available, we had the room to ourselves. Hitting the light at 11:00, we doubted anyone would be checking in later than that. We tucked ourselves in, fully expecting a good night's sleep.

I was somewhat aware that little creepy crawlies were dropping down on my face. I don’t know if I was awake for this, or if I was feeling it in my sleep. In any case, around 1:00 in the morning the light came flipping on, the room suddenly filling with bodies. They had all come in at once. I flipped over on my pillow, realizing that my sleep had been short lived. With the light now on, I noticed for the first time that there were several bugs on my pillow. Without thinking I flipped a few of them off. There was a fat one resting there, apparantly comfortable. I looked at it for a short while before I realized what I was looking at. I had been itchy in Singapore, it's true. I had attributed any bites to the fleas that jumped around the walls. It never occured to me that we were dealing with bedbugs. But the fat bugger I was looking at on my pillow had bedbug written all over it. I freaked out.

Seen as how we were all wide awake, I raised my head up Chris' level in the bunk above me. “Look at this,” I said, thrusting my pillow near his face. “I think that's a bedbug.” “So?” was Chris' response. “What do you want me to do about it?” What he did do, without my suggestion, was flick it. It exploded in a smear of blood on the pillowcase. Oh, just lovely. How on earth was I supposed to sleep now? The beds were now full of Filipino workers. The lights soon went out, but my eyes stayed wide open. The bugs continued to drop down on my face. How could I just lay here and be dinner for all these nasty creatures? It was one of the hardest nights of my life. I was pissed at Chris. He wasn't bothered at all. Every time he changed position above me, more bugs dropped down. My skin literally crawled with them.

The bites didn't appear immediately. Over the next few days they surfaced on my skin. All in all I had over a hundered bites. Easily. My skin was all bites, all except areas that had been tightly covered (such as my groin, thankfully). They got my face, they got my ears, they even got my knuckles. My body was one huge itch by the time we landed in Bali. After a string of ailments, it only seemed proper.

Chris and I loved Singapore. It came as a complete surprise. The bedbugs were a hiccup, but it wasn't Singapore's fault. Singapore is the cleanest city I've ever been in. Recycling bins are ubiqutious and manners are encouraged in positive messages around the metro area. We would be back in a month's time. Pushing on below the equator, we were about to discover a completely different kind of place.

Not Quite Paradise

The time had come in our travels for a vacation. For me this meant sitting on a beach somewhere, reading a book, sipping on a mango shake while being as lazy as humanly possible. I didn't want anything remotely cultural or physically demanding. I wanted salt water to lick my wounds clean.

In a country surrounded on three sides by beaches, we chose the Perhentians. These are two islands to the northeast side of mainland Malaysia. Lonely Planet described them as being veritable spots of paradise on earth, complete with white sand beaches and leafy jungle treks. Sounded good to us. We loaded our bags onto our backs and made off to the bus station in Kuala Lumpur where we were to catch our overnight bus for the eight-hour journey.

This was the first stretch we had done by ourselves in awhile. Most places in Asia you can get from point A to point B with the help of a travel agent. Their method is to have a mini-bus to pick you up from the lobby of the guesthouse, where all you really have to do is produce a ticket and shift your body and bag to a big bus somewhere down the road. Travel is usually so simple, it doesn't take much brain power at all, which can make a tourist quite lazy. We had gotten lazy. To find ourselves in a bus station with locals, all sweating and choking on diesel fumes, not having any help at all in locating our bus—this was a shock to our systems. Buses were parked in a line alongside the road. Their engines gave a collective roar and we had to shout in order to hear each other as we passed from one bus to another, enduring blasts of fumes to the face, as we tried to locate the number we were given. New buses were arriving every minute, and we'd shuffle through the crowd to see if it was ours. This went on for some time, and it was getting closer to the supposed departure time. Chris and I were sweating and getting quite perturbed by the whole scene. Finally with the help of some higher power (or that of a nearby bus driver) we saw our bus come steering into port. We tossed our bags into the hold and climbed aboard the beast. The AC was on full blast, both a good and bad thing (good in contrast to the oppressive heat outside in the station, but bad once the novelty of it had worn off). With my travel pillow and my scarf, I reclined the seat and tried to ignore the musty smell. We settled into our accommodation for the night.

Our bus pulled away, just ten minutes behind schedule. It's always a good moment when your mode of trasportation gets moving. It gives you license to lean back and relax; the journey now underway. I felt that way upon leaving Kuala Lumpur. However just a few blocks down from the station our bus came to a complete standstill beside a highway. For no apparent reason. Chris used this opportunity to dart off to a gas station where he made use of the facilities. He must have known that the bus wouldn't be making a pit stop for another five hours. Sleep came as soon as the bus got rolling again. There's something nice about the hushed, dark interior of a bus at night. As long as the bus keeps up a nice, stable cruise speed, the gentle rocking can be very nice indeed.

The pit stop came in the early hours of the morning. Facing a squat toilet while balancing my bag on my lap—well to be honest I had become quite used to it by then. A real pro. I stumbled back onto the bus and resumed my sleep. I woke up periodically after that, as the bus began to make stops. It can be quite ennerving at the end part of a journey, when you know you're in the vicinity of your destination, but you don't know just how far away you are. None of the stops had any visible signs. Communication wasn't very forthcoming from the driver. Some of the passengers would alight and we'd be left sitting there, craning our necks to see if our bags were being dumped by the roadside. Usually on these kinds of journeys we relied on other Westerners that were aboard, but there was one other foreigner on this trip, and he looked just as confused as us. Finally the air turned gray with the early dawn's light and the expectancy was thicker in the air as everyone watched the bus turn corners. We were all fully awake when we pulled around the last corner. This was the end of the road. As we grabbed our bags we were pointed in the direction of a kiosk. The first boat was to leave at 6:00. We bought return tickets, then also purchased a bus ticket back to KL, six days away. That gave us five nights in the Perhentians.

As the light became stronger along the horizon, speedboats started humming to life in the water. We were divided up into two groups—one for the big island, and one for the small. We had opted for the small, having read that accommodation was cheaper on the smaller island. There was some time spent getting settled in these boats. Chris and I were put with two of the ugliest Russian girls I've ever seen (and I love Russian girls). One of them had a mustache. Then came the Germans, and the Dutch. We were made to put on life jackets, and then the boats roared to life. We sped through the water, kicking up spray as we raced the boat bound for the big island. Somewhere along the way we had to stop and swap a couple. The pair that left our boat, they had left their luggage behind. The exchange had gone so quickly that no one even noticed. I wonder what ever happened with that situation.

The wind was exhilarating. The speedboat slapped the water, sometimes coming down so hard it actually hurt. We were jostled about, but it was enjoyable. With the salt spray and the wind, we were fully awake, watching as the islands grew bigger. We rounded what looked like the smaller of the islands, carving a line through a cluster of locals out with their boats.  We approached a bay surrounded by fuzzy green hills. The strip of white sand in the distance was Long Beach, our destination. The engine lowered to a dull roar as moved deeper into the bay. The water was extraordinary. It was the clearest I've ever seen. The saline density was lower than we had encountered in Thailand. Between it's greenish-blue clarity and the smooth white sand underneath, this was looking like the paradise we had expected.

The speedboat stopped dead in the water. A mere rowboat took us the rest of the way, though we had to pay for this unexpected transport. Once we arrived on the beach, we could see what our little Perhentian island consisted of. A row of resorts, restaurants and shops. That was it. There were no streets, not even any sidewalks. It was a beach and then jungle. This wasn't civilization. This was Robinson and Crusoe.

We had to walk through the sand to get anywhere. This was quite difficult with our heavy rucksacks and flipflops. We approached the closest resort. We were hoping for something ridiculously cheap. I thought with the heap of garbage and the chicken-coup appearance of the place, we would be guaranteed a good price for a bungalow. Nope. There wasn't even any haggling. Rather we were pointed in the direction of Happy Hippie Resort, or something close to that, just down the beach. We trudged through the sand. Thinking we had come to the Happy Hippie place, we made the aquaintance of Habiba.

Habiba's

It was the arsehole of Asia. At least it felt that way. The room was within budget, I'll give it that, but it was shocking. Chris and I have stayed in some pretty dire places on this trip. But this was beyond the limit of bad. It looked as if we'd be staying in a refugee camp. We told Habiba, “Er, thanks but we'll keep looking.” As we made our way down the path, he opened the door to another bungalow, this one just a bed and a mosquito net. We thought the bathroom was through that door on the other side of the bed. I opened the door to find a malarial swamp filled with garbage. However, the bungalow was dirt cheap. And with its low chalet-style roof, I tried to convince myself it was rustic, thus charming. We could do this for a couple of nights, then move on. Right? While Chris went to check in, Habiba came down the path and took my hand. Yes, this middle-aged man just grabbed me by the hand and walked me like a child into the trees. I thought maybe he had seen the cloudy aberration on my eye and deemed me half-blind, I have no idea. What he was in fact doing was showing me the outdoor bathroom. Out past the plastic water bottle heap were the toilets. These were the facilites for the refugee camp. Hurricane Katrina refugees had better facilities. Corrugated iron and chicken wire. I ran back to Chris. “We'll take the room with the bathroom,” I firmly told him. Actually I didn't like either of the rooms and I didn't know what I was thinking, but we had told Habiba we were staying. Now we'd just have to deal with our decision.

Chris was not well. Ever since the heat and dirt of the bus station in KL he had been feeling feverish. He was rendered inactive, lying in sweat under the mosquito net. There was no electricity at Habiba's. We were told the power only came on at seven at night. This meant no fan in the tropical heat of our room. I don't know how Chris could lie there like that. I ate breakfast on my own and then went to sit on the beach. There were a few interchanges with Habiba as I came and went. I smiled at him, as he seemed like a nice guy. I felt bad that his place was shit. I felt bad because I think he felt bad, and he was trying to make up for it with smiles and friendliness. He gave me a mat to sit on the beach. I was conscious of his eyes upon me as I swam and sunned myself, but he was stationed at the entrance to his resort and didn't think he was particularly watching me. There were other women out on the beach, and they were younger and cuter than my 35-year old ass. I was slightly middle-aged and obviously married. Sure, my husband was laying near-death in one of the shacks out back, but I wasn't giving anyone a show on the beach. If anything, I took a nap.

Back in the room, Chris was out of it. Why he preferred to lie under a mosquito net in a squalid tin shack instead of out on the beach, only he could tell you. I read a bit, but left the door to the room open for fresh air. I hitched my skirt way up and hoped not to draw an audience while I dozed off. Well, Habiba must have come along while I was asleep. The chair outside had moved into the doorway. Maybe he sat down and watched us. Or maybe he was just blocking the doorway to keep intruders out. Who knows. I remember telling Chris after my nap, “When I woke up and realized that I was still here, I thought 'Oh crap.'”  Oh crap, indeed. And things were only going to get worse.

It began to get dark. Chris was starting to feel marginally better. I just wanted to get the hell out of Hippie Haven or whatever. We made our way down the beach where we passed by several much better-looking resorts. Dinner was eaten out on a terrace. We were served by a very fine-looking Scandinavian hippie. We asked him how much the rooms were at the resort. He didn't know, but he guessed a price. The food was terrific, Western-style. I figured if the food was this good, the rooms had to be on par. I told Sven that we might be back later.

The beach was quiet at night. There weren't any lights to light the way. We looked for the darkest square in the darkness and found Habiba's. It was now well after seven, and the power should now be on. When we flipped the switches in our shack, only the lights came on. The fan was kaput. At least I could see with the light the bathroom, which I hadn't gotten a good look at before. There was no toilet seat. The back of the toilet had no top. The ballcock was exposed, amongst the other inner things of the toilet. There was no sink in the room. Rather there was a tap. Chicken wire was over the window. Why? The point I was at, I was like “Why not?” There was a showerhead, but when I turned the handle, no water came out. Really? How many other things were broken in this place? It was actually quite funny. Chris couldn't see the joke though. The fan was not working. He looked ready to cry so I gathered up my skirt and went to go see Habiba. He was all smiles. He came to our room and pounded on the outlet for awhile. The fan came on and we felt we were saved.

We fell into bed, pulling the mosquito net around. The mosquito net was not only useless (it had rips and holes that even a bat could fly through) but didn't even fit the bed. We tried moving the bed over, but the fan was blowing the net right into Chris' face. Chris was ready to throw a fit. I tried to console him by saying, “At least it's better than camping.”

I sought out Habiba again. I wanted to ask him what time the power went out (it hadn't been made clear to us then). Using a lot of sign langauge and near-shouting, Habiba still couldn't understand my question. He thought it had something to do with our shower (I had told him about the shower not working, and in turn he had turned on some water thing). He laid his hand on my arm, I thought this was because he was trying to reassure me that everything would be fine. I didn't think much of it, other than Habiba was a friendly guy. He tried getting someone on the phone to answer my question. It was just awkward. Finally I guessed that the electric would come on at seven. He seemed to imply that it would. I patted his arm, to reassure him that he wasn't stupid, and retreated back to our little hell on earth shack. As Chris and I lay there, far from sleep, a loud rushing sound came from our bathroom. “What now?” I thought. Even before I checked, Chris was adamant, “I can't stay here. I can't stay here.” I swung open the bathroom door to find a waterfall coming through the chicken wire on the window. Should I let it go? I wondered. Oh for Pete's sake. For the third time that night I had to seek Habiba out.

He was standing on the path in the dark, as if he were expecting me to return. I kind of laughed when I saw him. “You won't believe it, but...” 'Yes,' he said, smiling, putting his arm around my shoulder. “It's the bathroom,” I began, leading him towards our shack. And then Habiba did a very inappropriate thing. The arm around the shoulder, I didn't mind. Our room was crap, I needed some consoling. However, in the dark, Habiba moved his hand down to my left boob and gave it a squeeze. This totally came from left field, and it blinded me for a second. I then grabbed Habiba's hand and threw it down. “Don't do that,” I scolded him. “Don't ever do that.” We were now at the door of our shack, and it was awkward indeed as I went inside to see Chris. I gestured towards the bathroom and Habiba went inside. I grabbed up Chris and hissed, “We're not staying here. He just grabbed my boob.” I don't think Chris had time to process this. I was out of there. I heard Habiba call after me as I stalked my way down the path to the beach, “You not staying then?” “Looks that way!” I called back to him.

The hour was late and the beach was very dark. I walked as fast as I could in the sand, hoping I wouldn't fall into any pools of water. I sought out the resort we had eaten dinner at, however everyone, according to the lone gentlemen at the restaurant, had gone off drinking. There was nobody at the reception desk. Just lovely. I walked back down the beach, frantically trying to find a place to take us in. I knew this wouldn't be an easy task. The last boat in was at 5:00. After that nobody can leave the island. There are only a handful of places to stay. The next resort I tried was fully booked. I thought it would be this way up and down the beach. It was almost 11:00. Anyone who had arrived had already checked in. It didn't look good for us.

As I flung myself through the sand, I saw a lone figure on the beach. Thankfully that figure called out my name. “He fixed the water in the bathroom,” Chris told me. “I don't care,” I said. “I'm not staying there. The guy groped me.” I'd sleep out on the beach before I stayed at Habiba's. There was some kerfuffle as we tried to locate Habiba to ask for our money back. Habiba seemed to have disappeared. We couldn't find him anywhere. We decided to try another resort, the one not far down in the other direction. Miraculously they had a bungalow for us, twice the price of the one at Habiba's, but a million times better. More than that, dinner was free. The kitchen was closing, but they could make a pizza for us. It was like salve for a wound. Paradise had arrived in the form of Panoramic Resort.

Aren't You Here to Dive?

Our bungalow was set back in the jungle. We could sit on the porch and watch monitor lizards scurry past. There was a used book room at the resort and we checked out quite a number of books while there. It was ideal. All except for the mosquitoes and the fact that Habiba was never too far away.

It was an awkward situation with Habiba. We had to seek him out the next morning, as we had paid for two nights. I was thinking we should get a full refund, but seen as how we had stayed the whole day before, we would settle for one night in return. Chris was nervous. After all this was a small island and everybody knew each other. It was my word against Habiba's. He might argue that he never touched me and refuse to give our money back. More than that, he might be so defensive that it would cause problems getting off the island. I was in attack mode. I wasn't going to back down from that creep. We were getting our money back—period. It turns out that any worry was in vain. Habiba knew that he had done wrong. He was very sheepish when we went to see him. He invited us to sit down and went to go get us some Cokes. “We don't want those,” we told him. “We just want our money back.” He handed the money back with no arguement. He was very apologetic, we just couldn't tell what for. He kept going on about the water in the bathroom. “You groped my wife,” Chris said, looking to defend my honor. “I think you owe her an apology.” Habiba gestured that he couldn't understand and kept saying, “Sorry, sorry, no English.” It was enough. I almost felt bad for the guy. Perhaps I had led him on? Then again, come on. Would I really go for Habiba? No wonder women had their own carriages on trains in this country, if the men really are this skeevy.

Chris and I went swimming later on that day. We laid our towels outside our resort. We could see Habiba down from us, stationed at his usual place. However he was helping some girl out with her mat, watching the girl bend over in her bikini. “Looks like he's moved on,” Chris told me. Though I was relieved, I felt sorry for that girl.

Other than Habiba, I didn't mind our time in the Perhentians. Sure, there wasn't much to do. But it was relaxing. All day long we would read or nap. The electricity went off for a few hours (this seemed standard for every resort on the island). At night we'd go to the restaurant and have our buy-one-get-one-free dinner and watch a movie. One night we even drunk beer at the bar. Each can of beer was insanely expensive. Malaysia is not a drinking country. We realized that there wasn't much of a party going on. Not here.

We soon discovered that most people come to the Perhentians to dive. That's all there really is to do. Young people descend on Long Beach every day and sign up for diving classes. Chris and I must have looked like fuddy duddies, sitting on our porch all day long like old people. We're not divers. I'm afraid of the water, I really am. I can't have something strapped on to my face, and something heavy attached to my back. I don't care much for fish, other than those that turn up on my plate with rice or noodles. I like the ocean from a sitting position on the beach. I came to the Perhentians to heal. I know the benefits of salt water, and I figured a little salt would benefit my eye. In fact, my eye had improved greatly. I could actually see the improvement. For that, I'm grateful to the Perhentians. Still, it wasn't all good healthwise.

Sickness Descends

After five days of extreme laziness, it was time to leave the island. I didn't mind. I had slapped more than my fair share of mosquitoes and had dealt enough with the locals to be glad to be rid of the place (the shopowners seemed to have a real distaste for us, yawning or ignoring us whenever we entered their businesses). We had booked our return to KL that Friday, another overnight trip. We had one last dinner with one last movie under the stars. I had a whole margharita pizza to myself. It was so good I wouldn't share with Chris. Not this time around. We turned the fan on at full speed and settled in beneath the mosquito net. Chris flopped his pillow around, once again complaining how dirty it was. We had sweated five nights in this bed. Yeah, it was getting pretty gross.

At some ungodly hour I woke in utter dread. It's hard to explain. I just felt this horrible feeling, like something bad was going to happen. I tried to go back to sleep, but I couldn't. Instead I ran to the bathroom. Several times.

Well, this was it. I had finally gotten sick. I was surprised it had taken this long. I tried to get as much of it out of my system in the early hours. After all, we had a boat to catch that afternoon.

It soon became apparent that we weren't going anywhere. I was shooting fluid from both ends, often at the same time. After soiling two pairs of panties in less than an hour, Chris informed me that the best method was to sit on the toilet and puke on the floor. Seen as how our bathroom was a wet room, this was a good solution. I don't want to get too graphic, but I had so much fluid flowing for me projectily, I could have been used as a Roman fountain. In between bathroom rounds, I laid listlessly on the bed. I couldn't raise my head most of the time. Chris stomped off to buy me water and pop (he wasn't happy when I told him we'd have to stay another night). I couldn't believe how much fluid I was losing. With every bout of sickness I lost an astonishing amount of liquid. Two sips of water left me vomiting a lagoon onto the bathroom floor. I was losing so much water that my watch had become loose on my wrist. Chris helped me mix a sachet of rehydration formula to a bottle of water. Nope. More dehydration as I heaved everywhere. I've never been so sick that I've had to worry about dehydration. It felt like I was leaking. With body chills and aches, I worried that I might have something serious. After all, who gets sick from eating margharita pizza? We had received a fair bit of mosquito bites. The Perhentians border malaria territory. It was possible that something serious was afoot. There was a bit of concern, as the only medical facility on the island was on another beach, and only so many boats leave each day. After a certain time, no boats leave for the mainland. We could very well be trapped.

Chris was feeling trapped in his own way. I didn't realize he had felt so passionate about leaving. He was obviously holding it against me that I was delaying his departure to the mainland. There was no way I could have gotten on a boat that day. I had to put up with Chris' bad mood along with everything else. I realized that we were losing money by my sickness. Chris called someone and asked if we could get our bus tickets refunded. The answer was a resounding “No.” We'd have to buy new tickets once we got to the mainland, and we didn't even know if tickets were available. In the throes of sickness, though, you just don't care. I knew I couldn't endure a boat trip or bus trip (with bathroom breaks every five hours). Wasn't happening. I told Chris to deal with it.

I felt a smidgeon better by evening. Remarkably I was hungry. Really hungry. I was dreaming of mashed potatoes. It sounded bland enough. I decided to give it a go. A few bites in I knew it wasn't happening. I semi-ran back to the bunglow to unload my dinner onto the bathroom floor. The mashed potatoes weren't as neutral as I thought they'd be. I sprayed the vile green liquid down the shower drain (which, to be noted, was just a hole in the floor leading down to the ground under our bungalow). My stomach allowed me to drink water at this point, so I desperately tried to hydrate myself. My fever had abatted, and I knew that whatever I had it was on the way out. It came on strong, but it was receeding. We planned for an early boat trip in the morning.

Sometime in the middle of the night, a row broke out next door to us. Posh British girls. Chris and I both found it amusing. It's been awhile since I've heard a good drunken British fight. Done in a posh manner was even funnier. Oh well, the girls had to listen to me being violently sick all day. It only seemed fair to let them air their business, even though it was two in the morning.

We rose at six. I popped Immodium and prayed that my sphincter would hold out for the eight-hour journey. We were taken in the reverse order we had arrived: first a rowboat, then a speedboat. The speedboats were scattered across the water, each waiting for specific customers. Agencies must use particular boats. It seemed ridiculous, as we sat around forever. Some boats took off with just one or two passengers. If they had consolidated and gone with first come first serve, the whole process would be so much smoother. But what did I know? After about half an hour of floating about, we got a few more passengers and we were on our way. I was so happy that I had stuck to my guns and hadn't done this the day before. I would have been shooting liquid everywhere in that boat.

When we got to the mainland, we were in a mad dash to find a bus. Sure enough our tickets from the night before were rendered useless. The good news is that the cost was less than we thought. We made it to the bus in seconds flat. Finally we were heading back to Kuala Lumpur and to civilization. I give my body immense respect. After a serious bout of stomach sickness, it held out for me on that bus trip. Just like before, the bus only stopped once mid-trip. This meant four/five-hour increments where no bathroom was in sight. Nobody ever praises their spincter, it usually goes unnoticed and unappreciated. I salute mine. It had been put through the ringer and then some. But it come through for me in the end. Hallalujah. And hallalujah to getting off the Perhentians. Paradise for some. Not so much for this traveler and her companion.

 

KL Forever

We were back in Kuala Lumpur, not as much as a choice as it was for obligation. I was due to see the eye doctor for a check up. It had been a week since I had been given the all-clear for a mini-holiday. Now it was business again, traversing the fume-filled streets to the RTS, then traveling by monorail to the hospital. This was not a happy time for me. I had felt that my eye had gotten worse over the week. The pain had returned somewhat, and from what I could tell, the ulcer had grown thicker. I still couldn't look directly into daylight, and for this I kept my head down most of the time. I was disappointed not being able to bathe the elephant at the sanctuary and felt as if everyone was having a party around me, while I watched on helplessly from my blurred bubble. I tried to put a smile on my face, but really I was anything but happy.

Expecting the worst at the eye doctor, I was surprised to hear that my eye had improved. Not only had the ulcer shrunk in size, but the infection was under control. There was little chance of the infection coming back. The doctor impressed on me once again how long it could take for the ulcer to heal. He mentioned the option of getting the ulcer scraped off, but it would be a painful process, and to be honest that didn't sound too appealing to me. I felt that I should let it heal in its own time in its own way. As long as I didn't need any more shots to the eye, I was good to go. Dr. Ahzer still gave my eye a good cleaning before sending me off. This meant some numbing drops, then some eyeball probing with a Q-tip like device. I hated these cleanings. He explained to me he was getting the slough off (indeed there was a lot of slough) but it was uncomfortable to keep my eye open and unblinking for long lengths of time. At the end of the cleaning, he'd dip the stick deep inside my lower lid and remove the slough that had come off. Yeouch. I couldn't wait to be done with all this eye stuff. I still had drops to put in, but I could now alternate them every two hours. This was a little bit of a relief. I was ready to focus more on my travels now that I was out of the danger zone.

It was a weird experience walking out of that eye hospital. I felt liberated but grateful at the same time. This was the place where my eye was saved. These were the people who forcibly held me down and pumped antibiotics into an eye that very much could have been lost. It still gets me, how close I was to losing my sight for good. Looking back at the photos that were taken, I have a hard time believing that I suffered from something that bad. The infection had spread in such a short time. In another day's time, who knows where I'd be. Only a few cells had to spread, literally one or two, beneath the cornea, and my eye could have been lost. I'm incredibly lucky. I'm left with a milky white blob on my iris, whether this is the scar, or the ulcer still healing, I don't know, but my eyesight has almost completely returned. Two months on and I'm almost fully recovered. I will always hold Kuala Lumpur as special, for this was the place I experienced the first real emergency in my life, and the place where I was rescued. I will always remember KL for this.

Scary Monkeys and a Long Flight of Steps

To celebrate our triumph at the eye hospital, Chris and I spent the afternoon at the Batu Caves, on the outskirts of town. To get there we had to catch a train from Central Station. We noticed, for the first time, that trains within Malaysia have seperate cars for women. There are even waiting rooms for women. I find this odd, like it's some form of segregation. Is it because women menstruate and are dirty, or maybe they turn whorish in the presence of men? Or is it the other way around, like reverse-segregation? Perhaps it's the men who can't control themselves, those lustful, leering, hand-wandering creatures. Whichever the case, it's weird to me.  By putting such an emphasis on avoiding sex, it brings sex very much to the forefront. Situations that should be no big deal at all, such as a man and woman alone sharing an elevator, turns into an opportunity for debauchery. The suggestion is definitely there. Women wearing the hijab, it makes you wonder what's going on under there. It increases the mystery of women; it doesn't take it away. That's my take on the whole separating-women issue.

We had experienced many religions on our journey thus far: the Christian religions of Europe, the Islam of Turkey, Arabia and Malaysia, and the Buddhism of Thailand and Hong Kong. Now we were stepping into a completely different world, even if that world was situated in some caves on the outskirts of Kuala Lumpur. Stepping off the train we immediately saw a giant blue monkey god statue. It was gaudy and impressive at the same time. It was my first step into the world of Hinduism.

There were a few temples on the base of the cliffs, but the main draw was a set of steps leading upward, next to an enormous golden statue. Pilgrims and tourists alike were climbing these stairs. I could only assume that they led up to the Batu Caves, so despite the scary monkeys eyeing us from railings and landings above, we began to work our way up.

After our monkey experience in Koh Phi Phi, where Chris had come under attack by a monkey village, I was nervous around monkeys. They can move lightening-quick. They've got horrid sharp teeth and claws. Plus they're crawling with lice and who knows what else. I may not have seen any of them throw feces yet, but I got the impression that they weren't above doing so. They eyed us like something out of a Hitchcock film, ready to pounce with their long, outstretched fingers. Yelps and screams were heard all around as monkeys jumped on people, grabbing things from their bags or directly from their hands. A monkey jumped at Chris, trying to get at a little plastic bag he was carrying (I believe it was my eye medication) and Chris had to swing the monkey away. We watched as other monkeys snatched bottles of water right out of peoples' hands. They were adept at opening any kind of bottle or package. Greedy little bastards. I held my bag close to me and kicked at any monkey that came within the periphery of my personal space.

At the top of the stairs we entered into the front section of the caves. Some horrific-sounding music played while we moved past a souvenir stand. Pictures of Hindu goddesses flashed in psychadelic colours. Had we dropped acid somewhere unknowingly? It was like moving through a dream, or a nightmare, these multi-limbed goddesses moving their arms around like hands on a clock, the same high-pitched voice playing from a boombox propelling us through the cave, as infectious as “It's a Small World” at Disneyworld. Whichever religion I had come into contact before, nothing come close to this. This was religion on hallucigens.

Monkeys were present just ahead, and we nearly had to bolt through a gate in fear of them dropping onto us. There was a temple at the end of the cave; the devoted knelt there in worship. The decoration was colorful and busy, with faces of gods, demons and cows layered ontop of each other, some with their tongues out, some with serene smiles. Flowers and incense and the crazy echo of music—it was really something to behold. However the monkeys were the real attraction. It was feeding time; some guy threw a barrelful of bananas at them. And the monkeys went ape shit. Such spoiled creatures, no doubt they had been given handouts as long as the caves had been a religious site. They fought like children amongst themselves, some of them quite nasty. There was a particularly bad monkey fight that broke out that got the tourists moving backward in fright. Monkeys out of control is as dangerous as watching, say, Northern English girls fighting over a bloke. You just don't want to be in their fight path. We fled from the monkeys and the whining drone of music (really, that song must have gone on forever) and caught the segregated train back to Kuala Lumpur.

Weird Noises in the Night

Fernloft Guesthouse was our base in KL. It had treated us well with its clean beds and free wifi. At first, before my hospital stay, we had stayed in a private room. Then, after my hospital stay, we had been put into a 6-bed dorm. This time around we had been put into the 24-bed dorm. I actually enjoyed the big room. I felt sort of anonymous in the enormity of the room, and the light went out every night at 11 sharp, thus taking the pressure off me to ask, “Is it okay to turn the light off?” I always hated that. The hostel was fully booked. The guy at reception had told us a group of American musicians were staying. We could hear guitars being strummed in the stairwell, and I have to say, I was intrigued. Finally some Americans. And musicians at that. Perhaps we'd have something good to listen to.

As we settled into our beds, I was aware of voices overhead. The terrace was on the floor above us, so I could only assume that these musicians had congregated there. The voices raised together as one. There were guitars being strummed and tamborines being thumped. It sounded a bit hippyish. I stood in the stairwell, and sure enough, a party was going on. I persuaded Chris to come with me to check out the show. After all, it's not every day that we get seranaded by American hippies.

The music had stopped by the time we reached the terrace. We walked into a very weird scenario. There was a group of young people gathered, I would say about twenty in all.  They were all eerily silent, as though the party had come to an abrupt stop. Chris and I grabbed some seats and sat on the other edge of the group, curious to see what would transpire. A girl sat on a counter with a guitar. She wasn't playing, rather she sat there with a shining smile on her face. Really, her whole face was glowing. It appeared to be wet with tears. She started talking, saying something like, “You know, when you're on a plane and you look down on the clouds, and you see the sun rising—I don't know—I just think of Jesus, and, you know, how much love he has. I don't know how to say it. It's like when you watch a bird in flight. You feel so full of love. Watching it—I don't know—it's like Jesus watching over us. He's so full of love. You know. It makes me think of, when you're in a car, and you're driving...” and on and on she went. Chris and I looked sideways at each other. Meanwhile, her words must have made some impact on the others. Quite a few of them were crying. There was a girl infront of us, her shoulders were shaking. Several girls came up to her and laid their hands on her. Not, the “oh there there” kind of touching, but an actual laying of hands while they moved their mouths, in what I assumed, was prayer. Yup, it turns out that Chris and I had turned up at some kind of revival. We felt incredibly uncomfortable, especially because everyone was crying. Chris was the first to get up, and though I was curious (afterall, this whole experience was supposed to be about taking in others' cultures), I followed. They burst into another song as we reached the stairwell. It was a well-rehearsed song, they all sung it together in harmony. I had never heard singing like that. It wasn't hymns. I don't know how to describe it. It was very hippyish, yet not hippy at all. It was a love/joy song to Jesus. They were so in love, the tears were running. It was very strange. Especially since they had chosen to do their thing on the roof of a hostel.

I tried an experiment that night. All this love about Jesus. Having been a die-hard skeptic for about seven years, I considered, okay, well here's the chance to find out for sure. I've tried the whole “Jesus Be My Savior” prayer before, and got tumbleweeds in way of response. Now with my eye in pain (it always hurt more at night) and running a river down my temple (so much so I was surprised I didn't have my own version of the Grand Canyon on the side of my head), I was looking for a miracle. The doctor said my eye wouldn't heal for months. I was going to ask for a miracle, in the humblest way possible. “Jesus, if you're real, I'd really like to know it. If my eye is healed by morning, I'll know it's a miracle. I'm not testing you, but this would be the best way for me to know. If you make yourself known through this miracle I swear to you I will follow you to the end of my life. You yourself said that whatever we ask for in your name you will give. Well this here will save me—right? If you could just let me know. That's all I'm asking for. After this I won't ask anymore” This was my “prayer,” even though it's hard for a skeptic to pray, thinking that mere words are spoken in the recesses of the mind. Regardless, I tried to be as open as possible. Listening to the love being professed above, I fell asleep. When I woke, my vision hadn't miraculously been restored. Rather the gunk had sealed my eye shut. I grabbed my bag of eye medication and padded off to the bathroom to do my ritual morning eye-cleaning. On the way I almost stumbled over a religious reveler sleeping in the hallway. Perhaps he had overdosed on love.

I'm quite critical of Christianity. Some forms more than others. In Britain I was very impressed with the attitude towards religion in general. It's regarded as a private thing. Even in the Church of England, doctrines are rarely discussed within the congregation. Religion can provide a community, I can appreciate that aspect of it, however it's not something that should have much impact on others' lives. The only time I ever got worked up about religion is when I read comments on Facebook from Tea Baggers back in the States. It's that particular brand of religion that irks me, the fundamentalist black-and-white, if-only-you'd-accept-Jesus-as-your-Lord-and-Savior, accuse Obama of being anti-Christian, prayer in school, look down on homosexuals, all Muslims being terrorists... well, you know the type. The vocal kind of Christianity. This sours my view towards Christians in general, and I guess it's funny because they might think they're being persecuted, but I think it's a load of BS.

Why am I taking the time to write about this? Because the next night, when most of the Americans had left and the hostel was a hell of a lot quieter, Chris and I sat down in the lobby to watch the National Geographic channel. There was a program on about bears. We were comfy, Chris and I, then out of nowhere a girl plonked down on the couch next to us. She introduced herself as Emily and told us how she had been helping on volunteer projects around the world. We had a wonderful discussion with her. Usually I don't like people interrupting my television time (it's so precious on the road) but Emily was both personable and interesting. I had an inkling she was one of the Christian revelers from the night before. In fact she was, but she brought it up casually and didn't make a big deal about it. She professed to be Pentecostal. I understood about all the laying of hands and such. As a group they had freaked me out with their intense emotion. However Emily seemed very level-headed. I really liked her. The next morning we saw her one last time. We were on our way to catch a bus and Emily was waiting for her group. Saying goodbye, she called out, “I'll pray for your eye!” God bless you, Emily. You really mean well.

 

Rumble through the Jungle

Chris was very sad to be leaving the Cameron Highlands. I, on the other hand, was ready to get out of the cold dripping wet. I'm not brilliant with cold and damp climates. The hills were nice, but I was ready for some jungle.

We booked a boat into Taman Negara, a national park in Malaysia. It contains the oldest ecosystem in Malaysia. That's nothing to sneeze at. I was ready to see some big trees and witness wild jungle animals at play, namely tigers and elephants. The leeches I wasn't too keen on meeting, with our guidebook warning us about them. I bought some expensive repellent at our stop in Jerantut.

The scenery at Jerantut was pretty incredible. There was a wide brown river carving out much of the landscape. All around was jungle. We were only a few hours away from the Cameron Highlands, but the difference was staggering. This was verifiable jungle. It felt sort of Amazonian, especially as we piled in a long boat and slid off through the water. Low to the river, we cruised through the muddy water, keeping our eyes peeled for crocodiles and natives. Everyone took their shoes off and got comfortable. It was a long ride upstream. Three hours to be exact. It was a long time to be sat like that in a boat, but the scenery kept us alert. There were water buffalo about, and locals with their fishing boats. We saw no towns along the river, only wilderness.

In late afternoon we slid up to civilization. We saw floating restaurants lining the shore of the river. Mama Chop's was dead ahead, and a guide waited there for us. After gathering our bags, we sat around and listened as the guide welcomed us to Taman Negara. The park was actually just across the river from us; we could see a sign and some steps leading into the park. The village we were stationed at was Kuala Kanpung Tehan. It was hardly even a village, there were two roads in total. It really felt like we were in the middle of nowhere.

The guide invited us back that evening to view a video on Taman Negara. Plus we had signed up for the Night Jungle Walk. We'd return to Mama Chop's, but first we had to get up a very steep hill with our rucksacks. It was rough. There were only a handful of guesthouses in the village, but fortunately the one we picked was very nice. Our room was equipped with a squat toilet, which wasn't ideal, but I was ready to overlook it in favor of the decor. The whole guesthouse had a kindergarten quality to it, with kid-style mosaics on the walls, stuffed animals hanging from the ceiling, and positive messages posted throughout. Our room had giant lady bugs painted onto the walls. A sliding door opened onto a mosque and jungle. Very nice. My only problem was that squat toilet. I still didn't have the hang of using one (I had a bad experience in Turkey that left me traumatized).

We prepared ourselves for leeches. I wore two pairs of socks (I heard these little buggers can squeeze through the holes in cotton socks) and tucked my pants into my boots. Chris and I sprayed our expensive insect repellent all over us. Leeches be damned.

The sun was setting over Taman Negara. Beautiful. We could see smoke rising across the river. There are communities of natives that live in the jungle. Related more to the Aboriginees than to Malays, they live in longhouses and maintain their jungle way of life (though tourism must make some impact on their lifestyles).

Chris and I ate at one of the floating restaurants then showed up at Mama Chop's for our orientation to the jungle. Groups of us sat around at tables and watched the half hour film. It showed some pretty non-impressive stuff. Lots of insects. My ears did perk up with the mention of tigers and civets. Maybe there was a chance we'd see one or two. Looking across to the deep darkness of the park, I wondered what we'd run into in that pitch blackness.

Snakes, Scorpians and Spiders—Oh my!

A short boatride took us across the river to the park. Our group did this in batches of two. Our guide was a small little Malay man with a slight lisp (non-English speakers had a hell of time trying to understand him). He seemed overwhelmed by the size of our group. He said he wasn't used to having so many people at once. I knew our chances of running into any elusive jungle cat were next to nil with this many people.

We started on our jungle trek. Chris and I noticed that most people were wearing flip flops and shorts. Ha, we thought. Let the leeches get them. But we weren't really walking through the jungle. Rather we were walking on a raised wooden platform. Still it was quite exciting, in that it was completely dark and the jungle hummed around us.

Our guide would sweep his flashlight over everything in his search for wildlife. Finally he drew our attention to a tree. We all gathered close to see the thing he had caught in his light. A frickin cricket. Oh dear. I knew we were walking along one of the tamest tracks in the park, but I was really hoping to see more than insects. Further on he found us another cricket, but a different type. I appreciated the guy's enthusiasm, but I have never in my life been excited about crickets. Thankfully things did pick up as he spotted a green snake hanging over our heads, and then a few really big spiders. The highlight of the walk was the scorpian he coaxed out of a tree. We all held our breathes as he tapped on the bark, waiting for the scorpian to emerge. Back in the Butterfly Farm in Brinchang, I had seen a few scorpians in a tank. Monster scorpians. But nothing prepared me for this guy. Frickin hell, he was huge, like something out of the Cambrian age. I stood far back, getting that feeling of creepy crawly things on my skin. Insects are good for a freak show, but in general I'm not a fan. Where were those tigers?

We continued on to an animal hide. This was a wooden hut built in the jungle, located near animal licks, for people to watch animals feed. There are a few hides throughout the park, but we were in the one closest to the park's entrance and to the resort. There was a very slim chance of finding anything. Sure enough, our guide swept his flashlight over the area, and only darkness stared back (though there were probably many insects to be found). He left us to sit in the hide for fifteen minutes in the dark. We all had to stay quiet in order not to scare any animals away. I knew that the animals were far off. Animals are not dumb, even with salt licks around. They keep their distance from humans. Still I liked sitting there staring out into the dark jungle. We could hear the sound of crickets and frogs and maybe a snapping branch here and there. It was almost meditative for me. When our guide came back, sure enough nothing was there. He talked a bit more, probably about the other fantastic hides further out in the park, but then before we were to leave, he shown the light into the dark again, and said, “Oh, there's something there!” We all jumped forward to the edge of the viewing area. It was just a deer, stopping to take a drink by the river. Yawn. “I've seen more wildlife in my parents’ backyard,” I told Chris. Still it was an interesting experience. There are elephants and tigers out in Taman Negara, and I dare say, I'm glad they steer clear of humans.

Among the Canopy

We went back in Taman Negara the next day for a little jungle trek of our own. One of the greatest things about the park is the Canopy Walk, a set of wooden bridges suspended from trees. It was quite a hike in itself to get there. The heat was intense. We weren't so worried about bugs anymore. We hadn't seen as much as a mosquito the entire time we were there. We did keep a keen eye out for snakes though. One thing I had learned from the night walk is that there are things everywhere. Seriously, we were probably walking past all kinds of creepy crawlies without realizing it.

Our guidebook had advised us to visit the Canopy Walk early in the morning before crowds gathered. Well Chris and I had vied to sleep in. Organized tour groups were due there in the morning, to avoid the crowds, I could only assume. By the time we got there, mid-afternoon time, we found there was no line at all. Funny that. All those people had joined organized tours thinking they were beating the crowds, when they actually were the crowds. Anyway, Chris and I had the walk to ourselves.

I walked through it in a breeze. Chris, on the other hand, is afraid of heights, but he did rather well. We were up pretty high, and some of the bridges swayed as we walked across them. Chris called out that there were rivets missing, a disconcerting announcement. But we made it safetly across, and I was somewhat disappointed to have passed through so quickly. We trekked back the same way we came. I tried to take in as much of the jungle as I could. After all, it's not everyday you visit one of the oldest ecosystems in the world. The trees were magnificent, their roots like giant octopus arms. Some of the trees stretched way high into the canopy. I thought of the redwoods and giant sequioas in California. Some of those trees are thousands of years old. They looked prehistoric. I could see some dinosaur rubbing its back against one of them.

Looks like Diarrhea for You

We had dinner at another one of the floating restaurants. I have to point out that these were the only eating establishments in town, and the food in them was not particularly wonderful. In fact it was downright scary. These places were as basic as you could get, which means that hygeine was probably lacking. I ordered a fish dish, just to change things up a bit. Marinated fish with rice on the side. I thought fish might be a safe bet, seeing as how we were on a river. At least it would be fresh. When the dish was set infront of me (and indeed it was a whole fish, head and all) Chris looked at me and said, “Looks like diarrhea for you,” or something to that effect. These are words I really want to hear just as I'm about to bite into my food. It ruined my meal. That and a dead fly I found buried in my rice. I really did feel ill and left quite a bit on my plate.

Sometime in the middle of the night, under our mosquito net, I felt a rumble in my tummy. Oh boy, this is it. I've been waiting for food poisoning. I was actually suriprised I hadn't gotten it earlier. I thought I'd be pooing my way across Asia with all the stories I had heard. In fact I was kind of betting on it, hoping to lose a few pounds along the way. But it was a false alarm. Nothing was going to happen over that squat toilet anyway, as my arse doesn't seem able to handle such a device. So it was no food poisoning for this traveler, though I wanted to swat Chris over the head for putting such a notion in my head.

Birthday with the Elephants

I was thrilled to be spending my day at an elephant sanctuary. Sure, I had originally planned on being in China at this time, and holding a baby panda on my birthday, but riding and feeding elephants was just as good if not better. I had decided this for my birthday treat. A bit pricey, but the sanctuary was a good place that helped find homes for displaced elephants, and didn't exploit them or force them to work like some of the other places in Asia.

We left Taman Negara early. This time we took a bus to Jerantut, and from there we got a mini-van to the elephant sanctuary. It was just Chris and I, so I was really hoping for an intimate experience with the elephants. That's what I had envisioned anyways. A little one-to-one time with Elly. When we were in Bangkok, we visited the zoo there. Most of the animals had been asleep, but the elephants were awake and ready to be fed and touched. I had never been close to an elephant before. It was a real treat to feed the elephants pieces of coconut. I couldn't stop laughing as an elephant truck searched my hand, gripping around the coconut chunk, leaving snot on me. I adored those elephants, and I wanted more.

Immediately we could see that the sanctuary was well funded. In the middle of nowhere, it had a very Western visitor center, complete with displays with elephant factoids. We were ushered into a theater where we watched a film on displaced elephants. It was actually quite sad. With the proliferation of date palm plantations (used for palm oil), lots of elephants find their natural habitat reduced. They barge into these plantations looking for food, creating massive amounts of damage. They risk being shot by the plantation owners. The film shows a team of men taking these large animals and placing them in a protective environment (many of them get taken to Taman Negara, which is a protected area). It's supposed to be a happy story I suppose, elephants being saved from being shot, but it was quite sad. These elephants don't know what's happening to them or why. They're tranquilized and chained and put into a completely different setting. The look in their eyes is just devestating. These are wild elephants, not used to humans. You can imagine how traumatizing the whole thing would be for them. I wanted to cry watching this movie. I wasn't sure what it had to do with the sanctuary. Maybe only the injured ones get rehabilitated at the sanctuary. I'm still not quite sure.

After the film we were hurried along to go feed the elephants. Chris and I were handed a bag of bananas. Ahead of us was a line of elephants behind a low wall. A crowd of people were already gathered. Chris and I tried to find a place, hoping to have more of an intimate experience. We focused on the last elephant in line. A cheeky fella. He danced around in front of us, shifting back and forth on his legs, but he didn't like bananas. He took them from our hands, but then tossed them aside distastefully. We had a potato in our bag amongst the bananas. The potato he liked, munching happily away. But the bananas... nah. I wonder why they had given us so many bananas. None of the elephants were very keen on them. It was sort of funny watching them fling them over their shoulders. I can imagine the dialogue in their heads as they reach out their trunks and discover “Oh crap, another banana.”

It wasn't the stuff of Hallmark specials, in that it lacked the elephant/human bonding experience I had hoped for. Still it was entertaining. That elephant dancing and tossing bananas was pretty damn cute.

They paraded several elephants out and performed tricks for us. I only hoped that these elephants were wanting to do this, and not forced. After all this was a sanctuary and not a circus. Some of the tricks involved rolling over and playing dead. Another sprayed water out of his trunk at the crowd. After that they lined the elephants up and we got to ride them. My first elephant ride. It was only around a little ring. It wasn't the most comfortable ride in the world; I wasn't very steady. We did get to stand there behind another elephant and watch him empty his bladder and bowels. Wow. That's all I can say. Wow.

It was then time to bathe the elephants. Or just one of them anyway. They brought a little Dumbo baby elephant out with a girl on his back. They led the elephant into the river (the very dirty river by the look of it). Chris got into the water with some of the others. Rolling his shorts up, he thought he could escape getting wet. I decided not to take part in the elephant bathing. After all, taking care of my eye was still my priority. I didn't want to risk getting bacteria in it, and that elephant-bathing water looked pretty bacteria-infested. I stood with the camera and snapped pictures as Chris climbed aboard Dumbo. The handlers there suddenly shouted “Bathe bathe” and started splashing the elephant and Chris. Everyone followed suit and within seconds Chris was soaking wet. It was really funny, especially since Chris had wanted to stay dry. I laughed and smiled, but I was quite sad that I hadn't taken part. Damn my stupid eye.

After our elephant extravaganza, we boarded another mini-bus back to Kuala Lumpur. We shared our ride with a bouncy blonde young girl from New Zealand. She was fantastic company. We discussed sheep and Maoris and everything kiwi. One thing I was pleased to find out—New Zealanders said they would boycott Cadbury chocolate if they started using palm oil. This was a fitting discussion, seen as how we were moving through palm oil territory. Palm oil is a cheap oil found in most kinds of chocolate. Not only is palm oil incredibly bad for you, the plantations are an atrocity to the Malaysian rainforests (we discovered one of the consequences of palm oil in the elephant video). New Zealanders had made their voice heard, and Cadbury had decided against palm oil, a real victory for environmental types. I'm proud of New Zealanders for taking a stand. I can only assume that Cadbury, bought out by America, wanted to cheapen their product (Americans don't know good chocolate anyway). I learned a thing or two by visiting Elly and her friends. I don't want palm oil in my diet. I'll be reading labels when I get back to settled life.