Our final installation for today.
There is a lot of talk about the difference between a traveler and a tourist. Most travelers consider themselves independent of tourist, higher on the food chain of intelligent and genuine travel so to speak. The odd thing is that ‘tourists’ don’t care about this distinction and everyone else from family members, friends, locals and tourism agents see the two as identical. So it is actually a distinction that is found only in the individual ‘travelers’ minds. And even when you take a survey of this distinction among travelers it is vague, varying and inconsistent. Some travelers define their status based on length of stay, others on the purpose of the trip, and still others on the budget or the accommodations or the modes of transport used. The variation might account for the lack of any set definition or distinction of a ‘traveler.’
I’ve met both travelers and tourist on this trip and based on my own personal definition, I have been both as well. My definition – whose validity is as concrete and permanent as my current address (which is to say non-existent) - is based on three criteria: what you leave behind, what you forego, and what you give up.
According to me, a tourist leaves behind very little, foregoes very little in the way of comfort or normalcy and gives up only on a short-term basis. A tourist does not leave behind a job or any important events because they plan their trip as to avoid leaving anything that they can’t return to immediately and without disturbing much of their day-to-day routine. The tourist – because of their length of stay and the promise of continued income upon return – can afford to partake in many attractions and activities that a traveler must forego. Anything that a tourist gives up be it tap water for drinking, consistent hot showers or other western comforts, is only a short-term issue.
A traveler does all these things – leaving behind, foregoing, and giving up – in excess and with a greater degree of permanence than does a tourist. They do leave behind jobs and opportunities and family events. The traveler often foregoes the attractions labeled as ‘touristy’ based on principle or budget. And the travel frequently – if not continually – gives up western comforts and normalcy opting instead for the cheaper route which is often referred to as being more ‘genuine’ though that is debatable.
But, as I mentioned earlier, I have been both on this trip which suggests a degree of flexibility in both definitions. It’s more of a sliding scale with TOURIST on one end and TRAVELER on the other and a mixture of characteristics in between.
And that was a very long introduction to the following topics which at first glance seem unrelated to the topic of tourist versus traveler.
The following stories are about the activities we did while in Thailand. Three activities actually: rock climbing, scuba diving, and our visit to the elephant park. On the surface, these activities seem very touristy indeed as they are the reason many people come to Thailand for vacation. What I would like to show you, though, is how these activities are experienced in the context of a traveler.
Rock climbing might seem like the least ‘touristy’ of the activities as it requires perhaps a little more adventuresome nature and a prior disposition towards the “edge of the cliff” mentality but upon arrival in world-renown rock climbing area of Krabi we were immediately bombarded by advertisements for guided rock climbing lessons. The monetary demons of tourism were tied securely to this rock climbing haven. The three of us are far from experts so the temptation to hire a guide was strong. Had it not been for a fortunate twist of fate we might have done just that.
We had already scoped out and priced the various schools and, despite being very expensive, had decided to pay for a lesson. Before signing the dotted line we took a walk around and discovered an excellent bouldering wall on the far shore.
There were a couple of guys standing around while one lean guy attempted to climb one of the limestone stalactites hanging from the wall. It was taking some difficult maneuvers and a crowd was gathering. After repeated attempts and some very impressive heel-holds and reaches he finally managed to climb up. Everyone congratulated him and we found out that he and his buddy were from the US. Blue and Pete were everything we weren’t – experienced, equipped and willing to lead rope routes. Desirae, Lisa and I are top-ropers only which basically means we follow a route that has been lead-roped previously which allows us much more room for error without the serious consequences involved in lead-roping.
After a little chatting we arranged to meet them the following day to climb. Now we were able to forego the expense of a guided lesson and spend a fraction of that money on renting a rope, belaying device, and another pair of shoes. The boys only required that we buy them a few beers that night.
The tourist in me wants to tell you the facts and figures – how much, how high, names of routes and their difficulties. And these are definitely part of the experience. Climbing four routes whose difficulties matched or exceeded our prior climbs is definitely worth mentioning. Having done that in the rock climbing mecca of Krabi, Thailand is certainly memorable. But travel to the traveler is more about the experience and the way that experience shapes not only your outlook of that activity or location but your overall outlook on life in general. It’s about the permanence of a lesson learned on the road.
Rock climbing is full of lessons that apply to life. There are the obvious lessons of trust and confidence and pushing your limits. Every route is a unique challenge and in order to ‘conquer’ that route you have to ignore the overall difficulty and divide the problem into manageable quantities – two feet at a time, find the next handhold, footwork, etc. Several times I’ve reached up to suddenly find myself at the top of the route and been completely surprised by this. I was so focused on the present, the here and now, that I had momentarily forgotten about the future. It wasn’t that I was ignoring my end goal – the top – but that I was so confident that every decision I was making was moving me towards that goal that I no longer needed to measure my progress based on anything other than my immediate efforts. How’s that for a lesson which should be applied to day-to-day life?
Rock climbing for me is an ideal activity because it allows me to push my ability, my limits and confidence in myself while simultaneously developing my trust in my companions. Both Lisa and Desirae have been my anchor and safety while climbing and I have held that rope for them as well. I knew I trusted them prior to rock climbing but it put that trust in prospective when I was hanging from the cliff face. A persons reactions, triumphs, and angry outbursts are on display when climbing and I’ll be the first to admit that I’m not proud of how I handled every disappointment on the rock. It’s a bit of a wake up call on your reactions and personality really.
So, yes, I have climbed in the world famous Krabi, Thailand and I found it remarkable and exciting and all those other similarly expected terms. The tourist in me loved the fresh fish at in the restaurants at night and the hot shower in our room. The traveler in me can’t forget clearing my first route which requires taking town the hardware (i.e. carabiners) and transferring the rope to the equipment on the cliff – which sounds vague and uncomplicated but actually required more skill than I thought I had at the time. Turns out I was wrong which proved to me that with the right amount of faith in ones self and encouragement and instructions from your friends, you can reach heights that were previously unthought-of.
I'll continue this basic ideal of activity from the eyes of a traveler in the next two blogs as well but those remain as of yet unwritten. I would hope that I can finish up this section about Thailand and Southeast Asian travel in general before I head back but I promise to post the rest of my tales even after I return home.
Right now we are enjoying the sun and beautiful ocean views here in Sihanoukvill, Cambodia. Who knew Cambodia had such a beautiful coastline? We will leave tomorrow for Siem Reap the location of the famous Angkor Wat where we will meet our friend, Garrett from San Antonio.
Time is flying and soon I''ll be telling stories face to face with many of you. I hope that you are enjoying the blogs because I am enjoying writing them. Take care and God bless.
Love from the road...
Friday, July 18, 2008
Tuk-tuks, Trains and Transport Galor...
Like I said, I have decided to approach Thailand a little differently. I will be posting stories that have more to do with Southeast Asian travel in general so you will find a wide spectrum of countries and locations discussed in the upcoming blogs. Topics are also discussed in more general terms with more of an emphasis on "how" the experience made me feel and less emphasis on the "where" the experience happened. Let me know if you like this approach or if you find it 'boring' or 'tedious.'Feed back is always welcome.
On with the show!
America lacks creativity in the transportation department. Despite our obvious initial contributions of the car and airplane, we have fallen short in the area of creativity. The roads back home are filled with a never-ending parade of mass manufactured cars and trucks. People don’t travel by train anymore - tractors are only for the fields. And when is the last time you saw more than two people on a motorbike? Where are the tuk-tuks? The sawngthaews? The rickety buses filled with karaoke-singing locals? Does this all sound very foreign? That’s because it is…
Obviously the word ‘travel’ implies movement. Movement via foot or road or water. Via vehicles as varied as their inhabitants. Movement is the singular constant in a traveler’s life and so the mode of this movement becomes of particular interest to that traveler. When your days are filled with endless stretches of road you begin to pay a great deal of attention to what is taking you down that road.
Southeast Asia provides an enormous range of transportation techniques. You can’t turn a corner without being accosted by some well-meaning driver prepared to whisk you from point A to point B in his taxi, tuk-tuk, sawngthaew, bus, or moped. Transportation here is so available and so varied that it is indeed possible to take a boat, a taxi, and a train all in one day. I know this to be true because we did it. We boarded a modern fast-boat ferry in Malaysia, took a taxi to the border of Thailand, boarded a $2 train bound for Hat Yai and drug our exhausted feet down the busy streets of a new country – Thailand – all in less than 24 hours. Yes, it was a very long day.
But it isn’t only the shear array of transport via water, road and rail here in Asia – it’s the astounding variety and impressive creativity of the vehicles themselves. Some of these vehicles are familiar in name – buses, trains, ferries and the like – but as with all forms of “normal,” Southeast Asia has put its own spin on even these seemingly dull movement machines.
Take buses for example. Seems pretty straightforward right? A bus is the most common vehicle of mass transport worldwide. An elongated vehicle with numerous seats, the windows always sticking, the air stale the world over. Even in Southeast Asia the buses look like buses even if most of them are precariously close to complete breakdown. But it’s the interior of the bus that makes a Southeast Asian bus a Southeast Asian bus.
No bus, no matter how old or how decrepit it might be, is without cheap tacky polyester curtains. The practical purpose is of course to keep out that relentless sun but one has to question why they seem to have been required to use the world’s most hideous flowery designs in every puke-inducing color combination known to man. It’s like there is a factory somewhere deep in Thailand experimenting with hallucinogens and curtain design simultaneously. But even if you are color blind and fashion ignorant, you cannot avoid or ignore the even more universal characteristic of a Southeast Asian bus – the comic and horrific use of karaoke while en route.
Many a bus that appeared to be without basic necessities like seat cushions or windows that stay either up or down has been equipped with a color TV at the front above the driver and the requisite Thai Karaoke DVD Collection.
How can I possibly convey the feelings evoked when you realize that your next 6 hours of bumpy, winding roads will be accompanied by the sound track of your fellow traveler’s foreign voices singing to the ridiculously upbeat twang of Thailand’s version of hip-hop music? It can be humorous at best and mind-numbingly irritating at worst. After hours of watching the world’s worst love-drama videos played continuously at ear-splitting volumes one can begin to doubt one’s sanity. Especially when you realize you are actually trying to sing along!
But if buses aren’t your thing or if you prefer to travel at a slower pace that allows you to stare contently out the window at the passing scenery while a railcar full of locals stares just as contently at you, then trains are for you.
Ah, trains – the clickety-clack of the rails, the romantic rhythm of the tracks, the bad food, the growing restlessness… You see, I am new to this train travel thing. My knowledge of the railroads comes from old Merle Haggard songs and a few movies. And let me tell you, ol’ Merle never rode the rails in Southeast Asia. There are no hobos here – only locals laden with fruits and boxes and living creatures in cages. It is like a market on rails except that the main attraction here isn’t the stalls or the smells. It’s me, Lisa and Desirae. Those seated close stare directly at us and those unfortunate enough to be seated ahead or behind this Caucasian freak show made multiple trips to the bathroom or just walked by and gawked.
We took multiple trains in Thailand and despite the unwanted attention, the heat and the occasional two hour delay (can someone explain to me how a train is late?), I found a certain appeal to this mode of travel.
Unlike a bus, a train offers a limited amount of personal mobility. The scenery slides by instead of jolting and jerky along. And after a while I took the unceasing stares as permission to do a little staring of my own. The sweet-faced local that fell asleep on Lisa’s shoulder, the small boy hanging out of the window – his smile already reflecting the easy pleasantness of his country folk, the old couple who seemed to so thoroughly enjoy the food that looked inedible and tasted even worse – these are characters I have shared a railcar with. Characters whose nuances and expressions would have certainly been missed on a bus.
But the real joys of Southeast Asian travel and the true creativity contained therein are not expressed in these long distance modes of transportation. To really enjoy the flare and ingenuity of this region one has only to hop aboard that pinnacle of Southeast Asian transport – the infamous and ingenious tuk-tuk.
Tuk-tuk! What a great name. With a name like that you have to expect something enormously entertaining and inevitably annoying. And your expectations are not to be disappointed.
A tuk-tuk is not easy to define because of the variety and variation of the vehicle but there are certain shared qualities across the board. Almost all tuk-tuks originated from a motorcycle. The engines, handlebars, gearshifts, and brakes are either from a motorcycle, part of a motorcycle, or very similar to those on a motorcycle. So you can consider a motorcycle as the foundation.
On this foundation a number of additions and adaptations are added. Some tuk-tuks are simply a motorcycle which has had a large side-cart attached. Something like a wooden cart with one or two wheels and a bench or two strapped alongside your run of the mill Japanese or old Russian road bike. These rudimentary models are often associated with smaller, rural towns and often double as trailers for produce and materials.
But from this basic model the sky is the limit. A popular design in Thailand is the model which sports the front end of motorcycle – the single tire, handlebars, and driver sitting up front – but the back has two wheels and a bench that allows room for two or three people in a squeeze. The whole backside is covered by a cheap tin ‘roof.’ Most often the seats are covered in bright shades of cheap vinyl and the outside sports creative patterns of bright colors as well.
The sheer excess of these vehicles in Southeast Asia is astounding. They have a cult following all their own and it’s easy to see why. What other vehicle is specific to an area and shows so much variation and creativity? We saw models that ranged from the VW bug-like variety in Phitsanulok to the popular Laos model which has three benches in the back which often results in ‘overcrowding.’ On one such occasion, we had 7 people and their various boxes, bags, produce, etc. piled, seated, and hanging from the tuk-tuk. In Cambodia the tuk-tuks are actually trailers attached to the tail-end of a motorbike which gives them the appearance of some modern-day Cinderella carriage.
Naturally, they are all ridiculously loud and obnoxious with mufflers that rival the worst moped screech. And it seems that every Southeast Asian country has produced a class of males whose soul purpose is to drive tuk-tuks and harass passing tourist. I would almost swear that their first spoken words are “Where you go?” or “Tuk-tuk lady?” Their persistence is renown and for good reason. It’s like being followed by a pack of tireless three year olds. It’s irritating, infuriating, and frustrating but I know I will miss their endless calls which are as much a part of my Southeast Asian memories as fried rice and friendly smiles. My tuk-tuk memories will doubtlessly be nostalgic and pleasant despite having been ripped off by a driver multiple times and having to hold on with white knuckles as we zipped through traffic.
The transportation wonders in Southeast Asia are endless. There are sawngthaews, or jumbos, which are basically pickups with a bed covered by a high roof and modified to contain two or three benches in the bed. While the wind whipping through your hair while the crystal clear images of scenery flash by can sound romantic at first, this is a feeling that subsides quickly as more and more and more people, produce and packages are loaded on and the air becomes stifling within.
And of course there are the hordes of mopeds in every city, town and village zipping around like some swarm of irresponsible bees. It’s hard to imagine a day in Southeast Asia without the constant bbbbmmmmmmzzzzz of a moped in the background. If Southeast Asia was to have a soundtrack, the moped muffler would be it.
Then there are the two-wheel tractors with attached wooden trailers, the horse drawn carts, and a myriad of other homemade vehicles. It is truly a never-ending and ever-changing list.
And perhaps that is part of what draws restless travelers from the world over to this area. Transportation here is an art, movement a constant and elaborate part of life: principles that every traveler can identify with. If travel is movement and movement is transport then Southeast Asia is the king of travel indeed.
I know that stories like this would be best with a picture for reference but I'm not positive how to incorporate pictures onto my blog so you'll have to trust your imagination - or if you just can't figure out exactly what the heck a tuk-tuk is supposed to be, check out http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Auto_rickshaw for a picture. Lisa has some great pics lined up for our time in Thailand so be sure to check our her photos when she posts them.
Alright I have one more blog for today then I'll leave you nice people alone for a while. :)
Love from the road...
On with the show!
America lacks creativity in the transportation department. Despite our obvious initial contributions of the car and airplane, we have fallen short in the area of creativity. The roads back home are filled with a never-ending parade of mass manufactured cars and trucks. People don’t travel by train anymore - tractors are only for the fields. And when is the last time you saw more than two people on a motorbike? Where are the tuk-tuks? The sawngthaews? The rickety buses filled with karaoke-singing locals? Does this all sound very foreign? That’s because it is…
Obviously the word ‘travel’ implies movement. Movement via foot or road or water. Via vehicles as varied as their inhabitants. Movement is the singular constant in a traveler’s life and so the mode of this movement becomes of particular interest to that traveler. When your days are filled with endless stretches of road you begin to pay a great deal of attention to what is taking you down that road.
Southeast Asia provides an enormous range of transportation techniques. You can’t turn a corner without being accosted by some well-meaning driver prepared to whisk you from point A to point B in his taxi, tuk-tuk, sawngthaew, bus, or moped. Transportation here is so available and so varied that it is indeed possible to take a boat, a taxi, and a train all in one day. I know this to be true because we did it. We boarded a modern fast-boat ferry in Malaysia, took a taxi to the border of Thailand, boarded a $2 train bound for Hat Yai and drug our exhausted feet down the busy streets of a new country – Thailand – all in less than 24 hours. Yes, it was a very long day.
But it isn’t only the shear array of transport via water, road and rail here in Asia – it’s the astounding variety and impressive creativity of the vehicles themselves. Some of these vehicles are familiar in name – buses, trains, ferries and the like – but as with all forms of “normal,” Southeast Asia has put its own spin on even these seemingly dull movement machines.
Take buses for example. Seems pretty straightforward right? A bus is the most common vehicle of mass transport worldwide. An elongated vehicle with numerous seats, the windows always sticking, the air stale the world over. Even in Southeast Asia the buses look like buses even if most of them are precariously close to complete breakdown. But it’s the interior of the bus that makes a Southeast Asian bus a Southeast Asian bus.
No bus, no matter how old or how decrepit it might be, is without cheap tacky polyester curtains. The practical purpose is of course to keep out that relentless sun but one has to question why they seem to have been required to use the world’s most hideous flowery designs in every puke-inducing color combination known to man. It’s like there is a factory somewhere deep in Thailand experimenting with hallucinogens and curtain design simultaneously. But even if you are color blind and fashion ignorant, you cannot avoid or ignore the even more universal characteristic of a Southeast Asian bus – the comic and horrific use of karaoke while en route.
Many a bus that appeared to be without basic necessities like seat cushions or windows that stay either up or down has been equipped with a color TV at the front above the driver and the requisite Thai Karaoke DVD Collection.
How can I possibly convey the feelings evoked when you realize that your next 6 hours of bumpy, winding roads will be accompanied by the sound track of your fellow traveler’s foreign voices singing to the ridiculously upbeat twang of Thailand’s version of hip-hop music? It can be humorous at best and mind-numbingly irritating at worst. After hours of watching the world’s worst love-drama videos played continuously at ear-splitting volumes one can begin to doubt one’s sanity. Especially when you realize you are actually trying to sing along!
But if buses aren’t your thing or if you prefer to travel at a slower pace that allows you to stare contently out the window at the passing scenery while a railcar full of locals stares just as contently at you, then trains are for you.
Ah, trains – the clickety-clack of the rails, the romantic rhythm of the tracks, the bad food, the growing restlessness… You see, I am new to this train travel thing. My knowledge of the railroads comes from old Merle Haggard songs and a few movies. And let me tell you, ol’ Merle never rode the rails in Southeast Asia. There are no hobos here – only locals laden with fruits and boxes and living creatures in cages. It is like a market on rails except that the main attraction here isn’t the stalls or the smells. It’s me, Lisa and Desirae. Those seated close stare directly at us and those unfortunate enough to be seated ahead or behind this Caucasian freak show made multiple trips to the bathroom or just walked by and gawked.
We took multiple trains in Thailand and despite the unwanted attention, the heat and the occasional two hour delay (can someone explain to me how a train is late?), I found a certain appeal to this mode of travel.
Unlike a bus, a train offers a limited amount of personal mobility. The scenery slides by instead of jolting and jerky along. And after a while I took the unceasing stares as permission to do a little staring of my own. The sweet-faced local that fell asleep on Lisa’s shoulder, the small boy hanging out of the window – his smile already reflecting the easy pleasantness of his country folk, the old couple who seemed to so thoroughly enjoy the food that looked inedible and tasted even worse – these are characters I have shared a railcar with. Characters whose nuances and expressions would have certainly been missed on a bus.
But the real joys of Southeast Asian travel and the true creativity contained therein are not expressed in these long distance modes of transportation. To really enjoy the flare and ingenuity of this region one has only to hop aboard that pinnacle of Southeast Asian transport – the infamous and ingenious tuk-tuk.
Tuk-tuk! What a great name. With a name like that you have to expect something enormously entertaining and inevitably annoying. And your expectations are not to be disappointed.
A tuk-tuk is not easy to define because of the variety and variation of the vehicle but there are certain shared qualities across the board. Almost all tuk-tuks originated from a motorcycle. The engines, handlebars, gearshifts, and brakes are either from a motorcycle, part of a motorcycle, or very similar to those on a motorcycle. So you can consider a motorcycle as the foundation.
On this foundation a number of additions and adaptations are added. Some tuk-tuks are simply a motorcycle which has had a large side-cart attached. Something like a wooden cart with one or two wheels and a bench or two strapped alongside your run of the mill Japanese or old Russian road bike. These rudimentary models are often associated with smaller, rural towns and often double as trailers for produce and materials.
But from this basic model the sky is the limit. A popular design in Thailand is the model which sports the front end of motorcycle – the single tire, handlebars, and driver sitting up front – but the back has two wheels and a bench that allows room for two or three people in a squeeze. The whole backside is covered by a cheap tin ‘roof.’ Most often the seats are covered in bright shades of cheap vinyl and the outside sports creative patterns of bright colors as well.
The sheer excess of these vehicles in Southeast Asia is astounding. They have a cult following all their own and it’s easy to see why. What other vehicle is specific to an area and shows so much variation and creativity? We saw models that ranged from the VW bug-like variety in Phitsanulok to the popular Laos model which has three benches in the back which often results in ‘overcrowding.’ On one such occasion, we had 7 people and their various boxes, bags, produce, etc. piled, seated, and hanging from the tuk-tuk. In Cambodia the tuk-tuks are actually trailers attached to the tail-end of a motorbike which gives them the appearance of some modern-day Cinderella carriage.
Naturally, they are all ridiculously loud and obnoxious with mufflers that rival the worst moped screech. And it seems that every Southeast Asian country has produced a class of males whose soul purpose is to drive tuk-tuks and harass passing tourist. I would almost swear that their first spoken words are “Where you go?” or “Tuk-tuk lady?” Their persistence is renown and for good reason. It’s like being followed by a pack of tireless three year olds. It’s irritating, infuriating, and frustrating but I know I will miss their endless calls which are as much a part of my Southeast Asian memories as fried rice and friendly smiles. My tuk-tuk memories will doubtlessly be nostalgic and pleasant despite having been ripped off by a driver multiple times and having to hold on with white knuckles as we zipped through traffic.
The transportation wonders in Southeast Asia are endless. There are sawngthaews, or jumbos, which are basically pickups with a bed covered by a high roof and modified to contain two or three benches in the bed. While the wind whipping through your hair while the crystal clear images of scenery flash by can sound romantic at first, this is a feeling that subsides quickly as more and more and more people, produce and packages are loaded on and the air becomes stifling within.
And of course there are the hordes of mopeds in every city, town and village zipping around like some swarm of irresponsible bees. It’s hard to imagine a day in Southeast Asia without the constant bbbbmmmmmmzzzzz of a moped in the background. If Southeast Asia was to have a soundtrack, the moped muffler would be it.
Then there are the two-wheel tractors with attached wooden trailers, the horse drawn carts, and a myriad of other homemade vehicles. It is truly a never-ending and ever-changing list.
And perhaps that is part of what draws restless travelers from the world over to this area. Transportation here is an art, movement a constant and elaborate part of life: principles that every traveler can identify with. If travel is movement and movement is transport then Southeast Asia is the king of travel indeed.
I know that stories like this would be best with a picture for reference but I'm not positive how to incorporate pictures onto my blog so you'll have to trust your imagination - or if you just can't figure out exactly what the heck a tuk-tuk is supposed to be, check out http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Auto_rickshaw for a picture. Lisa has some great pics lined up for our time in Thailand so be sure to check our her photos when she posts them.
Alright I have one more blog for today then I'll leave you nice people alone for a while. :)
Love from the road...
Once Upon a Time in Thailand...
Hello Everyone!
We found our way to Cambodia and our time in Laos is done. It was a great country, one of my favorites in many ways, and now our trip is really winding down! I will be back in the good ol' USA before you know it.
Even though I haven't posted a blog in a while that doesn't mean I've been falling behind on writing them. I am going to post three - yes, three - blogs today all of which have to do with Thailand.
For those of you still reading these increasingly long winded tales I hope you enjoy the next few blogs. I'm approaching these a little different as you will soon see. Spice it up a bit right?
So here we go...
Thailand – the land of smiles, of beautiful beaches and backpacker legends, of dainty lady boys and enormous elephants. It was the first of the Southeast Asian countries to embrace the backpacker subculture and the tourism trade and therefore it was the first to show the signs of misuse and abuse. There is something forced and fake about parts of Thailand as if they wear a mask of ‘culture’ to meet the expectations of the farang (foreigner) that crowd their streets and beaches. But I don’t want to get off on the wrong foot here. Thailand had an immense amount of things to offer. A month there barely scraped the edge of the iceberg but that scrape was memorable and amazing.
As with all the countries we have visited it is impossible to summarize our time in Thailand without writing pages and pages but the best I can do is to say that my time in Thailand was a tantalizing taste that left me wanting more.
You see, Thailand has a tourist trail worn so smooth and flat that it is becoming increasingly difficult to depart from that route. There are obvious reasons for this: A. Transportation to and from the most popular areas is easy, simple and cheap – three words that every backpacker lives by. B. These popular places are amazing and beautiful and no amount of tourism can completely erase their charm. And for these reasons many an intrepid traveler has stumbled into Thailand with all the intents and purposes of stepping off the beaten track but eventually they plod down the same trail as their peers, Thailand’s very own path of least resistance. And we did the same.
Our time in Thailand could have been straight out of the Lonely Planet itinerary. We hit many of the best known highlights with a steadfast commitment. While our inability to depart from that tourist trail is disappointing at first glance, I must admit that I really did enjoy my time in Thailand and if that makes me an unimaginative traveler then so be it.
Take a look at Thailand on the map and the trail is not hard to find. We crossed over from Malaysia in the south and stopped in the non-descript city of Hot Yai before making a beeline for Krabi.
Krabi is an area comprised of multiple beaches. We stayed on Railay Beach in Krabi which is located on the tail end of the small archipelago on the west coast of Thailand that draws sun worshippers and cliff hangers in equal amounts. Only accessible by boat, this sunny beach-bound strip of land has such an island atmosphere that it is easy to forget that you aren’t in the middle of the ocean. By day a rabid sun scorches the white sands of the shoreline. The only reprieve is the cool blues of the warm tropical waters. The landscape is dramatic. Limestone cliffs and pinnacles jut above the horizon or rise spectacularly from the jaded blue of the ocean’s surface. The outstanding rock climbing of the area draws its usual charismatic and adventuresome types who inhabit the rasta bars and restaurants by night, their muscles taunt and sore from the days efforts. It was an island paradise attached to land.
From there we headed to Phuket on Thailand’s tsunami ravaged west coast. Devastation still scars the land in ways both visible and invisible. There are oddly clear areas where the tree line was forced upward by the shear furry of nature’s force. There is a silent echo of despair that still reverberates on some of Phuket’s street. “We were here. We saw it all,” it seems to whisper. One has to pause here on the side of tourist trail and wander at the horror that occurred. Testimonies of human resilience and nature’s power stand side by side.
From east to west – we went from Phuket to Koh Tao, the world renown scuba training island which, like much of Thailand, absolutely lived up to the hype. Advertised as a picturesque island surrounded by clear calm waters that make it ideal for scuba diving. Diving centers on Koh Tao certify more divers than anywhere else in the world with the exception of Cairns, Australia, quite an impressive figure for an island so small.
We traveled by boat and then bus to Bangkok, the center of the backpacking universe. A city so embedded in Southeast Asian lore that one cannot avoid its sights, streets and markets. There is overwhelming and then there is sense-shocking overload. Bangkok definitely falls into the latter with its prominent sexuality, crowded streets, and vendors selling everything from knock-off t-shirts to grilled grasshoppers. And amidst all this craziness you are likely to find elaborate and highly decorated wats (Buddhist temples). From the famous Koh San Road’s “Las Vegas gone dingy” neon to Wat ?? enormous reclining Buddha, Bangkok is a maze of winding streets and contradictions.
Bangkok was Desirae’s departure point and we were sad to see her go but happy to have shared our time traveling with her. She provided invaluable experience and ‘know-how’ in this land which was so new and so foreign to Lisa and I.
And we never left the trail. From Bangkok it was one long train to Phitsanulok. It was here that we were able to visit the beautiful temple gardens of Sukhothai, a World Heritage Site. Ancient and elegant, those gardens reflected the pride of a kingdom past. In its well preserved chetis and Buddha images one can still see that proud heritage.
Our road led on to charming Chiang Mai, a city both old and new with personality bubbling out of the ex-pat cafes and shining in the light of the night market stalls. We found much to do around Chiang Mai indulging in a local cooking course and paying a visit to one of Thailand’s famed elephant parks. Chiang Mai’s refreshing cool nights and deep-seeded culture boosted our spirits for the final week in Thailand.
Our port of exit was the characterless town of Chiang Rai which had little of its neighboring Chiang Mai’s charm. It was our last layover on our route to Laos.
And those are the places we saw. An in-depth description of each town might help to define my outlook on Thailand but I doubt it. You see, Thailand’s appeal is in the details – in the transportation, in the variation of activities, in the exotic and exciting markets, and in the historic and elaborate wats and temples. These are Thailand in my mind, not names on a map or roads or railways. Thailand is something you do and experience – not just some place you visit. And in the spirit of that I would like to share those experiences with you.
And this is only the beginning...
Love from the road.
We found our way to Cambodia and our time in Laos is done. It was a great country, one of my favorites in many ways, and now our trip is really winding down! I will be back in the good ol' USA before you know it.
Even though I haven't posted a blog in a while that doesn't mean I've been falling behind on writing them. I am going to post three - yes, three - blogs today all of which have to do with Thailand.
For those of you still reading these increasingly long winded tales I hope you enjoy the next few blogs. I'm approaching these a little different as you will soon see. Spice it up a bit right?
So here we go...
Thailand – the land of smiles, of beautiful beaches and backpacker legends, of dainty lady boys and enormous elephants. It was the first of the Southeast Asian countries to embrace the backpacker subculture and the tourism trade and therefore it was the first to show the signs of misuse and abuse. There is something forced and fake about parts of Thailand as if they wear a mask of ‘culture’ to meet the expectations of the farang (foreigner) that crowd their streets and beaches. But I don’t want to get off on the wrong foot here. Thailand had an immense amount of things to offer. A month there barely scraped the edge of the iceberg but that scrape was memorable and amazing.
As with all the countries we have visited it is impossible to summarize our time in Thailand without writing pages and pages but the best I can do is to say that my time in Thailand was a tantalizing taste that left me wanting more.
You see, Thailand has a tourist trail worn so smooth and flat that it is becoming increasingly difficult to depart from that route. There are obvious reasons for this: A. Transportation to and from the most popular areas is easy, simple and cheap – three words that every backpacker lives by. B. These popular places are amazing and beautiful and no amount of tourism can completely erase their charm. And for these reasons many an intrepid traveler has stumbled into Thailand with all the intents and purposes of stepping off the beaten track but eventually they plod down the same trail as their peers, Thailand’s very own path of least resistance. And we did the same.
Our time in Thailand could have been straight out of the Lonely Planet itinerary. We hit many of the best known highlights with a steadfast commitment. While our inability to depart from that tourist trail is disappointing at first glance, I must admit that I really did enjoy my time in Thailand and if that makes me an unimaginative traveler then so be it.
Take a look at Thailand on the map and the trail is not hard to find. We crossed over from Malaysia in the south and stopped in the non-descript city of Hot Yai before making a beeline for Krabi.
Krabi is an area comprised of multiple beaches. We stayed on Railay Beach in Krabi which is located on the tail end of the small archipelago on the west coast of Thailand that draws sun worshippers and cliff hangers in equal amounts. Only accessible by boat, this sunny beach-bound strip of land has such an island atmosphere that it is easy to forget that you aren’t in the middle of the ocean. By day a rabid sun scorches the white sands of the shoreline. The only reprieve is the cool blues of the warm tropical waters. The landscape is dramatic. Limestone cliffs and pinnacles jut above the horizon or rise spectacularly from the jaded blue of the ocean’s surface. The outstanding rock climbing of the area draws its usual charismatic and adventuresome types who inhabit the rasta bars and restaurants by night, their muscles taunt and sore from the days efforts. It was an island paradise attached to land.
From there we headed to Phuket on Thailand’s tsunami ravaged west coast. Devastation still scars the land in ways both visible and invisible. There are oddly clear areas where the tree line was forced upward by the shear furry of nature’s force. There is a silent echo of despair that still reverberates on some of Phuket’s street. “We were here. We saw it all,” it seems to whisper. One has to pause here on the side of tourist trail and wander at the horror that occurred. Testimonies of human resilience and nature’s power stand side by side.
From east to west – we went from Phuket to Koh Tao, the world renown scuba training island which, like much of Thailand, absolutely lived up to the hype. Advertised as a picturesque island surrounded by clear calm waters that make it ideal for scuba diving. Diving centers on Koh Tao certify more divers than anywhere else in the world with the exception of Cairns, Australia, quite an impressive figure for an island so small.
We traveled by boat and then bus to Bangkok, the center of the backpacking universe. A city so embedded in Southeast Asian lore that one cannot avoid its sights, streets and markets. There is overwhelming and then there is sense-shocking overload. Bangkok definitely falls into the latter with its prominent sexuality, crowded streets, and vendors selling everything from knock-off t-shirts to grilled grasshoppers. And amidst all this craziness you are likely to find elaborate and highly decorated wats (Buddhist temples). From the famous Koh San Road’s “Las Vegas gone dingy” neon to Wat ?? enormous reclining Buddha, Bangkok is a maze of winding streets and contradictions.
Bangkok was Desirae’s departure point and we were sad to see her go but happy to have shared our time traveling with her. She provided invaluable experience and ‘know-how’ in this land which was so new and so foreign to Lisa and I.
And we never left the trail. From Bangkok it was one long train to Phitsanulok. It was here that we were able to visit the beautiful temple gardens of Sukhothai, a World Heritage Site. Ancient and elegant, those gardens reflected the pride of a kingdom past. In its well preserved chetis and Buddha images one can still see that proud heritage.
Our road led on to charming Chiang Mai, a city both old and new with personality bubbling out of the ex-pat cafes and shining in the light of the night market stalls. We found much to do around Chiang Mai indulging in a local cooking course and paying a visit to one of Thailand’s famed elephant parks. Chiang Mai’s refreshing cool nights and deep-seeded culture boosted our spirits for the final week in Thailand.
Our port of exit was the characterless town of Chiang Rai which had little of its neighboring Chiang Mai’s charm. It was our last layover on our route to Laos.
And those are the places we saw. An in-depth description of each town might help to define my outlook on Thailand but I doubt it. You see, Thailand’s appeal is in the details – in the transportation, in the variation of activities, in the exotic and exciting markets, and in the historic and elaborate wats and temples. These are Thailand in my mind, not names on a map or roads or railways. Thailand is something you do and experience – not just some place you visit. And in the spirit of that I would like to share those experiences with you.
And this is only the beginning...
Love from the road.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Perhentian Perspectives
And I'm back!
I know, I know - three blogs in one week! Don't get used to it. Lisa and I will depart soon for the southern part of Laos which is much more remote so my computer access could be limited. But at least I have Malaysia finished and maybe I will be able to get most of Thailand done before I wing it back to the US.
Now for the grand finale (in Malaysia anyway)...
There are some places you travel to that are remembered like home movies – there is movement, there are sounds. But others are seen in the minds eye like scattered Polaroid pictures – composed of a specific detail enriched by colors and tones from which you can choose to focus on one aspect or moment at a time. As a storyteller I prefer that latter. A movie speaks for itself and therefore the retelling can be difficult, too much information is already present. But a picture, well, as they say, a picture is worth a thousand words. And I always have at least a thousand words to spare.
Today, from these scattered pictures in my mind, I choose the definitive picture from the Perhentian Islands on Malaysia’s upper east coast. There are many snapshots of memory from these tropical isles and I must riffle through pictures of beaches composed of minuet shells, sweaty shots of jungle treks, and blurred shots of enormous monitor lizards and a ‘tame’ monkey on a chain, both found on our guest house property. There are underwater shots here too. Glossy pictures of giant clams and brilliantly colored fishes as well as a haunting distant shot of a silvery black tipped reef shark. But I cast all of these aside and stare intently at a simple image instead.
The foreground is dark creating a perfectly square frame around a brilliant spot of light at its center. This dark frame is created by one of the windows in our room, a dorm room of simple means with a concrete floor and five single beds against the dark clapboard walls. If you approach that square of light with me you will see a postcard-inspiring beach that creeps slowly down to the cloudy blue of the waves lapping the shore not 200 yards from where this picture was taken. There is no glass to distort our view. A hinged shutter is the only protection from the wind and rain but the heavy heat that persists well into the dead of night here requires that we leave these windows flung open wide in hopes of a wayward breeze.
Look closer – the beach is populated by a few ragged palm trees jutting out of the sand at odd angles. Just outside the window, past the soft patch of sand that is the perfect size for a volleyball court, two hammocks and their inhabitants sway to and fro. Is it the contrast of dark frame and blinding light that give this snapshot that distinct air of exhausting summer heat? If so, it serves the truth well. The heat was oppressive, draining ones thoughts all activities by midday.
Surely you recognize the figures in the hammock. My fellow gypsies in this journey seem to avoid the head by avoiding quick movements. Each holds a book in her hand, their swimsuits blots of color, light and dark, on the brightly lit landscape.
My snapshot has a hazy quality given to summer memories by the rising heat and cooling waves. It is simple and subtle which are good descriptors of the Perhentian Islands, tucked far away from the touted Penang Island of the west coast though not far enough away to avoid all the tourist hype.
My mind’s ‘lens’ tends to capture these moments that demonstrate an area’s personality by the people inhabiting it in that moment. But that is the great thing about travel companions. Their ‘lens’ may be focused on other points of light, other moments and details. Memory, like all other art forms, is a matter of prospective.
Perhaps to Lisa’s photographically-inclined mind’s eye these island oasis’ are summed up in the bazaar fiery sunset we watched from the barren beaches of the island's west side. Maybe she sees again that ocean spreading out like an endless promise in front of her, its surface mirroring the impossible colors from Heaven’s latest masterpiece. An explosion of oranges and pinks and purples bursting skyward and spreading its golden tingled wings across a darkening horizon. All color, all time, is heightened. The sun has disappeared, no orb-like glow, no red-orange ball of flame, but in its place this eternal golden bird hangs motionless above us, wings spread in twilight flight. Perhaps she sees this water and feels again the dying warmth of daylight or hears the glorious absence of human presence in the tiny whoosh of the water meeting the land.
And who’s to say that Desirae’s picture isn’t completely different? Maybe her mind has captured and held that eerie image of the night sky with the palm leaves silhouetted by the slender silver light of a full moon rising. It is a moon that plays cat and mouse with the drifting clouds, so dark and forlorn that they make the night sky look full of light and life. This snapshot of moonlit shadows and ghostly palm trees has an air of foreboding to it for in the distance the clouds mount higher, the lightening pulses convulsively, and the rain seems eminent. Perhaps she sees again the twinkling of distant stars and hears the soft crunch of footsteps on sand. The moon is dancing on the water now as the clouds break momentarily. In this snapshot the calm before the storm is the peacefulness of a beach glowing with moonlight. And all around, the island glows silver in the moon and frighteningly orange in the lightning’s spastic bursts.
Perspective – the act of applying one’s own opinions and emotions to an object or experience – is automatic and inevitable. Traveling as we do, with short stays in ever-changing places, often brings perspective into sharp focus. Along the road you are bound to meet travelers who have visited this place or thas country and each of them will tell you a different thing about the same place, either a glowing review or a desperate warning. So you learn quickly that the only way to really know whether a place is brilliant or bazaar, worthless or wonderful, is to go there yourself and see what your mind’s eye records. After all, if everyone depended on the perspective of others, nothing would ever change for the better and all exploration would stop. Travel is about exploring and recording, through snapshots, movies and stories (both literally and figuratively), and each perspective is as important and meaningful as the next.
The Perhentian Islands were the final stop on our road through Malaysia and offered a very different perspective of this unique and adapting country. From its busy, modern cities to its antique port towns and its cool highlands and heated east coast islands, Malaysia was different in almost every way from Indonesia and I started to see that the all-encompassing term of “Southeast Asia” fails to provide you a good definition for the amazing variety found in this area. Countries that are closer together than Texas and Colorado seem worlds apart in culture and economy. The road was far from finished and our stories far from done.
That's all, folks! I hope everyone is enjoying the summer weather back home. We have no shortage of heat here ourselves and I must admit I might be ready for the cool fall temperatures when they finally arrive!
Take care. Love from the road...
I know, I know - three blogs in one week! Don't get used to it. Lisa and I will depart soon for the southern part of Laos which is much more remote so my computer access could be limited. But at least I have Malaysia finished and maybe I will be able to get most of Thailand done before I wing it back to the US.
Now for the grand finale (in Malaysia anyway)...
There are some places you travel to that are remembered like home movies – there is movement, there are sounds. But others are seen in the minds eye like scattered Polaroid pictures – composed of a specific detail enriched by colors and tones from which you can choose to focus on one aspect or moment at a time. As a storyteller I prefer that latter. A movie speaks for itself and therefore the retelling can be difficult, too much information is already present. But a picture, well, as they say, a picture is worth a thousand words. And I always have at least a thousand words to spare.
Today, from these scattered pictures in my mind, I choose the definitive picture from the Perhentian Islands on Malaysia’s upper east coast. There are many snapshots of memory from these tropical isles and I must riffle through pictures of beaches composed of minuet shells, sweaty shots of jungle treks, and blurred shots of enormous monitor lizards and a ‘tame’ monkey on a chain, both found on our guest house property. There are underwater shots here too. Glossy pictures of giant clams and brilliantly colored fishes as well as a haunting distant shot of a silvery black tipped reef shark. But I cast all of these aside and stare intently at a simple image instead.
The foreground is dark creating a perfectly square frame around a brilliant spot of light at its center. This dark frame is created by one of the windows in our room, a dorm room of simple means with a concrete floor and five single beds against the dark clapboard walls. If you approach that square of light with me you will see a postcard-inspiring beach that creeps slowly down to the cloudy blue of the waves lapping the shore not 200 yards from where this picture was taken. There is no glass to distort our view. A hinged shutter is the only protection from the wind and rain but the heavy heat that persists well into the dead of night here requires that we leave these windows flung open wide in hopes of a wayward breeze.
Look closer – the beach is populated by a few ragged palm trees jutting out of the sand at odd angles. Just outside the window, past the soft patch of sand that is the perfect size for a volleyball court, two hammocks and their inhabitants sway to and fro. Is it the contrast of dark frame and blinding light that give this snapshot that distinct air of exhausting summer heat? If so, it serves the truth well. The heat was oppressive, draining ones thoughts all activities by midday.
Surely you recognize the figures in the hammock. My fellow gypsies in this journey seem to avoid the head by avoiding quick movements. Each holds a book in her hand, their swimsuits blots of color, light and dark, on the brightly lit landscape.
My snapshot has a hazy quality given to summer memories by the rising heat and cooling waves. It is simple and subtle which are good descriptors of the Perhentian Islands, tucked far away from the touted Penang Island of the west coast though not far enough away to avoid all the tourist hype.
My mind’s ‘lens’ tends to capture these moments that demonstrate an area’s personality by the people inhabiting it in that moment. But that is the great thing about travel companions. Their ‘lens’ may be focused on other points of light, other moments and details. Memory, like all other art forms, is a matter of prospective.
Perhaps to Lisa’s photographically-inclined mind’s eye these island oasis’ are summed up in the bazaar fiery sunset we watched from the barren beaches of the island's west side. Maybe she sees again that ocean spreading out like an endless promise in front of her, its surface mirroring the impossible colors from Heaven’s latest masterpiece. An explosion of oranges and pinks and purples bursting skyward and spreading its golden tingled wings across a darkening horizon. All color, all time, is heightened. The sun has disappeared, no orb-like glow, no red-orange ball of flame, but in its place this eternal golden bird hangs motionless above us, wings spread in twilight flight. Perhaps she sees this water and feels again the dying warmth of daylight or hears the glorious absence of human presence in the tiny whoosh of the water meeting the land.
And who’s to say that Desirae’s picture isn’t completely different? Maybe her mind has captured and held that eerie image of the night sky with the palm leaves silhouetted by the slender silver light of a full moon rising. It is a moon that plays cat and mouse with the drifting clouds, so dark and forlorn that they make the night sky look full of light and life. This snapshot of moonlit shadows and ghostly palm trees has an air of foreboding to it for in the distance the clouds mount higher, the lightening pulses convulsively, and the rain seems eminent. Perhaps she sees again the twinkling of distant stars and hears the soft crunch of footsteps on sand. The moon is dancing on the water now as the clouds break momentarily. In this snapshot the calm before the storm is the peacefulness of a beach glowing with moonlight. And all around, the island glows silver in the moon and frighteningly orange in the lightning’s spastic bursts.
Perspective – the act of applying one’s own opinions and emotions to an object or experience – is automatic and inevitable. Traveling as we do, with short stays in ever-changing places, often brings perspective into sharp focus. Along the road you are bound to meet travelers who have visited this place or thas country and each of them will tell you a different thing about the same place, either a glowing review or a desperate warning. So you learn quickly that the only way to really know whether a place is brilliant or bazaar, worthless or wonderful, is to go there yourself and see what your mind’s eye records. After all, if everyone depended on the perspective of others, nothing would ever change for the better and all exploration would stop. Travel is about exploring and recording, through snapshots, movies and stories (both literally and figuratively), and each perspective is as important and meaningful as the next.
The Perhentian Islands were the final stop on our road through Malaysia and offered a very different perspective of this unique and adapting country. From its busy, modern cities to its antique port towns and its cool highlands and heated east coast islands, Malaysia was different in almost every way from Indonesia and I started to see that the all-encompassing term of “Southeast Asia” fails to provide you a good definition for the amazing variety found in this area. Countries that are closer together than Texas and Colorado seem worlds apart in culture and economy. The road was far from finished and our stories far from done.
That's all, folks! I hope everyone is enjoying the summer weather back home. We have no shortage of heat here ourselves and I must admit I might be ready for the cool fall temperatures when they finally arrive!
Take care. Love from the road...
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Malaysian Mountain High
Our final few weeks in Malaysia would read like the ideal travel brochure boasting of the rich greens of the Cameron Highlands and the serene blues of Malaysia’s Perentian Islands.
The heat drives most everything inward eventually and so it was that we left the congested den of Kuala Lumpur and the sultry heat of Melaka’s coastline and dove headfirst into the crisp clean beauty of the famed Cameron Highlands.
The town of Tanah Rata, which was to be our base, was unremarkable though it could have been the astounding beauty of the surrounding area that cast a dingy light on the small town. After two months of chasing summer and a full month of enjoying my catch in Indonesia, I must admit that the retreat from the glaring sun and ever-increasing temperatures was welcomed. I was not expecting the refreshing nip in the morning and evening air that brought to mind Colorado summers nor was I prepared for the chilly nights inside our bunker-like room but they were both wonderful changes from the sun burnt days of our recent past.
The Cameron Highlands are truly a jewel in Malaysia’s natural crown of beauty. Situated high in Malaysia’s central mountain range and far from the glow of any populated cities, this region is remarkable in color and character. It is one of the last places where the Orang Asli, the native race of Malaysia, can still be found which adds culture and history to the natural beauty of the area.
There is something about pristine mountain air that makes the colors of plants seem new and playful. A new depth is given to the forest green, a new brilliance to the wildflowers of the region.
Such steep and forested areas would have been written off as profitless and unusable by lazier farmers but here the farmers are of Chinese descent and anything but lazy. No mountainside is too steep for terracing and no land too barren for use to these hearty people.
We drove through several farming communities that evoked images of the mining towns of frontier America – filthy places caked in dust and mud, the streets clogged with groaning machinery and old Land Rovers converted to carry livestock and the produce for which this area is known. Vegetables are big business here, bringing in over $2 billion ringgit per year (which is just over 600 million US dollars). These muddy towns support the people who work the land – poor people working long hours for very little pay which is the story of most agricultural workers the world over. Here in Malaysia the government owns the land. Leases are given on a long term basis, usually 30 plus years, and this ‘temporary occupancy land’ makes up about 60% of the total agricultural land nationwide. It is a basic tenant farming system which further impoverishes this class of people.
But despite the muck of the towns and the depressing status of the inhabitants, one cannot help but be impressed by the sheer exuberance with which they work the land. Impossibly steep terraces support blossoming green tomato plants and ripe green vines of melons and eggplant. Perfect rows of corn grow high above our heads and all around is a scattering of plots supporting plants thick with glowing red and green peppers ripening in the sun.
Of particular pride for this area are the strawberries of the region. Predominantly grown with precision and efficiency in surprisingly modern hydroponic facilities, these gorgeous red jewels are at every roadside stand and adorn at least one item on every local menu. Lisa is ecstatic. It’s her birthday and strawberries are her favorite fruit. And here we are in the strawberry capital of Southeast Asia. We sample every kind of local recipe – strawberry ice cream, strawberry tea, strawberry rotis which are a type of Indian pancake, strawberry cheesecake and of course, fresh strawberries right off the vine.
The cool in the air, the fields and their workers all make me nostalgic for Texas in the fall. While the scenery and the faces are certainly foreign to my eyes, their toil and their rewards are familiar. My ties to agriculture are far stronger than I can explain and so I have discovered here again, as I did a few years back in Armenia, that it is in the fields and the fresh markets that a countries people speak most clearly to me. I feel it is undeniable that the basis of all society is food – the growing, the gathering and the preparation – and that despite all other differences, it is here in the field, at the table or in the market that we can all connect somehow.
In our final days of mountain highs we travel to a local tea plantation. Malaysians are fond of their tea drinking it several times a day and often spurning the ever-popular coffee of other countries for their local grown teas. This area supports the lion’s share of tea production though the processing is mostly done elsewhere. An energetic young man of Indian ancestry shows us around the plantation where his mother still works. He expresses a hopelessly nostalgic view of the simplicity of plantation life which again reminds me of my own feeling about the farms I worked on back home.
A tea plantation is aesthetically pleasing to the eyes. The plants are a deep, waxy green and, because they are pruned often, closely resemble neat, tidy hedges. Only the very young leaves are taken to make tea so the deep green of the aged leaves gives the land a calm, resounding peace and an orderly beauty.
Though some advancements have been made in the gathering of tea leaves, the process is still very basic and difficult. Women and men alike prune and pick the leaves with the help of a heavy, cumbersome piece of equipment. The leaves are then stored in large baskets or bags and lugged to and fro. When you consider the steep inclines of these fields it is hard not to be more appreciative of your next cup of tea.
Our day was capped off with a warm cup of tea from the café onsite which boasted a panoramic view of the estate. Our time in the mountains was drawing to close. Soon we would head back to the sun and the sand for our final stop in Malaysia.
Don't you like how I left you hanging there at the end? :) Oh the suspence!
We will be here in Vientiane (the capital city of Laos) for another couple of days so hopefully I can wrap up the Malaysian chapter of our trip during that time. After this our trip certianly goes a little more "off-road" as we explore some more rural areas of Laos. That should lend itself to lots of great stories I'm sure!
Until next time - take care and God bless!
Love from the road...
The heat drives most everything inward eventually and so it was that we left the congested den of Kuala Lumpur and the sultry heat of Melaka’s coastline and dove headfirst into the crisp clean beauty of the famed Cameron Highlands.
The town of Tanah Rata, which was to be our base, was unremarkable though it could have been the astounding beauty of the surrounding area that cast a dingy light on the small town. After two months of chasing summer and a full month of enjoying my catch in Indonesia, I must admit that the retreat from the glaring sun and ever-increasing temperatures was welcomed. I was not expecting the refreshing nip in the morning and evening air that brought to mind Colorado summers nor was I prepared for the chilly nights inside our bunker-like room but they were both wonderful changes from the sun burnt days of our recent past.
The Cameron Highlands are truly a jewel in Malaysia’s natural crown of beauty. Situated high in Malaysia’s central mountain range and far from the glow of any populated cities, this region is remarkable in color and character. It is one of the last places where the Orang Asli, the native race of Malaysia, can still be found which adds culture and history to the natural beauty of the area.
There is something about pristine mountain air that makes the colors of plants seem new and playful. A new depth is given to the forest green, a new brilliance to the wildflowers of the region.
Such steep and forested areas would have been written off as profitless and unusable by lazier farmers but here the farmers are of Chinese descent and anything but lazy. No mountainside is too steep for terracing and no land too barren for use to these hearty people.
We drove through several farming communities that evoked images of the mining towns of frontier America – filthy places caked in dust and mud, the streets clogged with groaning machinery and old Land Rovers converted to carry livestock and the produce for which this area is known. Vegetables are big business here, bringing in over $2 billion ringgit per year (which is just over 600 million US dollars). These muddy towns support the people who work the land – poor people working long hours for very little pay which is the story of most agricultural workers the world over. Here in Malaysia the government owns the land. Leases are given on a long term basis, usually 30 plus years, and this ‘temporary occupancy land’ makes up about 60% of the total agricultural land nationwide. It is a basic tenant farming system which further impoverishes this class of people.
But despite the muck of the towns and the depressing status of the inhabitants, one cannot help but be impressed by the sheer exuberance with which they work the land. Impossibly steep terraces support blossoming green tomato plants and ripe green vines of melons and eggplant. Perfect rows of corn grow high above our heads and all around is a scattering of plots supporting plants thick with glowing red and green peppers ripening in the sun.
Of particular pride for this area are the strawberries of the region. Predominantly grown with precision and efficiency in surprisingly modern hydroponic facilities, these gorgeous red jewels are at every roadside stand and adorn at least one item on every local menu. Lisa is ecstatic. It’s her birthday and strawberries are her favorite fruit. And here we are in the strawberry capital of Southeast Asia. We sample every kind of local recipe – strawberry ice cream, strawberry tea, strawberry rotis which are a type of Indian pancake, strawberry cheesecake and of course, fresh strawberries right off the vine.
The cool in the air, the fields and their workers all make me nostalgic for Texas in the fall. While the scenery and the faces are certainly foreign to my eyes, their toil and their rewards are familiar. My ties to agriculture are far stronger than I can explain and so I have discovered here again, as I did a few years back in Armenia, that it is in the fields and the fresh markets that a countries people speak most clearly to me. I feel it is undeniable that the basis of all society is food – the growing, the gathering and the preparation – and that despite all other differences, it is here in the field, at the table or in the market that we can all connect somehow.
In our final days of mountain highs we travel to a local tea plantation. Malaysians are fond of their tea drinking it several times a day and often spurning the ever-popular coffee of other countries for their local grown teas. This area supports the lion’s share of tea production though the processing is mostly done elsewhere. An energetic young man of Indian ancestry shows us around the plantation where his mother still works. He expresses a hopelessly nostalgic view of the simplicity of plantation life which again reminds me of my own feeling about the farms I worked on back home.
A tea plantation is aesthetically pleasing to the eyes. The plants are a deep, waxy green and, because they are pruned often, closely resemble neat, tidy hedges. Only the very young leaves are taken to make tea so the deep green of the aged leaves gives the land a calm, resounding peace and an orderly beauty.
Though some advancements have been made in the gathering of tea leaves, the process is still very basic and difficult. Women and men alike prune and pick the leaves with the help of a heavy, cumbersome piece of equipment. The leaves are then stored in large baskets or bags and lugged to and fro. When you consider the steep inclines of these fields it is hard not to be more appreciative of your next cup of tea.
Our day was capped off with a warm cup of tea from the café onsite which boasted a panoramic view of the estate. Our time in the mountains was drawing to close. Soon we would head back to the sun and the sand for our final stop in Malaysia.
Don't you like how I left you hanging there at the end? :) Oh the suspence!
We will be here in Vientiane (the capital city of Laos) for another couple of days so hopefully I can wrap up the Malaysian chapter of our trip during that time. After this our trip certianly goes a little more "off-road" as we explore some more rural areas of Laos. That should lend itself to lots of great stories I'm sure!
Until next time - take care and God bless!
Love from the road...
Footprints
Hello again!
Time marches on and we are making the most of our time here in Laos. The days are hot. The nights are too for that matter. But the land is truly magnificient. I can't wait to spend some time writing about this area. Hopefully I will peak your interest. This country has much to offer...
But for now I want to take you to a different place...
Imagine a street of crumbling grandeur. The buildings, once gleaming white in the heat of the sun, are now cracking and fading. Wooden shutters, once painted tidy shades of blue and brown, hang from their hinges, warping in the moist sea air. Carved cement facades proudly decay above the chic cafes who fee off the tourism brought in by the now legendary beauty of a town in decay.
A wasted fort stands sentinel one the hill crowning the lively town square. A formable church of deep, brilliant red sits prominently below in the shadow of the old fort. The stark white lettering proclaims in to be “Christchurch” boldly in the noonday heat. The grid work of streets is orderly. Bright paint gives a touch of pride to the reconstruction efforts and more and more restaurants, pubs and guest homes appear regularly.
A few kilometers from the old city center a new mall glares testily at its surroundings. Inside name brands and knock offs compete for shelf space.
The smells of coffee and warm pastries can be found on every street. The newer cafes showcase excellent cakes and pies, their walls decorated in art motifs.
The people smile broadly. Their English has a faint accent but is otherwise perfect. They sit in shop doorways and watch with amusement the growing tourist throng.
Is this a scene from modern day France or Portugal? No, far from it – at least geographically speaking. The town was Melaka just south of Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. This was a sleepy fishing village until the opportunistic Portuguese discovered its exceptional location on the recently discovered trade route on Asia’s Silk Road. For centuries this simple town would be tossed between dueling European countries. It would see the Portuguese, Dutch and British flags before its identity as a South East Asian city would be restored. Its story is not unusual.
During the 14th century, the European super-powers of the day marched across the globe in an insatiable quest for discovery and conquering. They trod with heavy feet and those footprints are still evident today – often in the most inconspicuous places.
This march of European influence left entire nations and even continents in its wake (i.e. New Zealand and Australia) but even in areas where the shadow of a European flag hasn’t been seen for hundreds of years, the evidence of their lasting impressions still echoes in remote towns and communities. You can taste the influence in the excellent French pastries of Luang Prabang, Laos and see its ghostly face in the old colonial tea plantations of the Cameron Highlands in Malaysia.
It catches a traveler by surprise this faded but familiar echo of European ambitions. These countries, perhaps so used to the myriad of influences from outside invaders, have embraced and adapted these influences to suite their needs. The broad grid-like streets of Melaka prove perfect for a colorful – and entirely Asian – night market. The local tuk-tuk drivers, noticing the European appreciation for color and grandeur, lavishly decorate their tuk-tuks with fake flowers, flashing lights, and blaring radios to draw the attention of the pale tourists braving the humidity and heat. (Side note: a tuk-tuk (pronounced took-took) is a mode of transportation found all over South East Asia though its forms vary greatly. The tuk-tuks in Melaka were bikes modified to have a bench-like seat attached behind the driver. These seats are then covered with a shade and decorated in the most unique manner possible. They are a source of pride for the drivers who often heckle their less decorated or overly decorated peers.)
Melaka was a beautiful town – then and now. Its proud history gives it a peaceful and picturesque personality. It was, for our traveling band of gypsies, a surprising find of misplaced influence on the road less traveled.
Oh but there's more! I have another blog coming up in three....two...one...
Read on!
Time marches on and we are making the most of our time here in Laos. The days are hot. The nights are too for that matter. But the land is truly magnificient. I can't wait to spend some time writing about this area. Hopefully I will peak your interest. This country has much to offer...
But for now I want to take you to a different place...
Imagine a street of crumbling grandeur. The buildings, once gleaming white in the heat of the sun, are now cracking and fading. Wooden shutters, once painted tidy shades of blue and brown, hang from their hinges, warping in the moist sea air. Carved cement facades proudly decay above the chic cafes who fee off the tourism brought in by the now legendary beauty of a town in decay.
A wasted fort stands sentinel one the hill crowning the lively town square. A formable church of deep, brilliant red sits prominently below in the shadow of the old fort. The stark white lettering proclaims in to be “Christchurch” boldly in the noonday heat. The grid work of streets is orderly. Bright paint gives a touch of pride to the reconstruction efforts and more and more restaurants, pubs and guest homes appear regularly.
A few kilometers from the old city center a new mall glares testily at its surroundings. Inside name brands and knock offs compete for shelf space.
The smells of coffee and warm pastries can be found on every street. The newer cafes showcase excellent cakes and pies, their walls decorated in art motifs.
The people smile broadly. Their English has a faint accent but is otherwise perfect. They sit in shop doorways and watch with amusement the growing tourist throng.
Is this a scene from modern day France or Portugal? No, far from it – at least geographically speaking. The town was Melaka just south of Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. This was a sleepy fishing village until the opportunistic Portuguese discovered its exceptional location on the recently discovered trade route on Asia’s Silk Road. For centuries this simple town would be tossed between dueling European countries. It would see the Portuguese, Dutch and British flags before its identity as a South East Asian city would be restored. Its story is not unusual.
During the 14th century, the European super-powers of the day marched across the globe in an insatiable quest for discovery and conquering. They trod with heavy feet and those footprints are still evident today – often in the most inconspicuous places.
This march of European influence left entire nations and even continents in its wake (i.e. New Zealand and Australia) but even in areas where the shadow of a European flag hasn’t been seen for hundreds of years, the evidence of their lasting impressions still echoes in remote towns and communities. You can taste the influence in the excellent French pastries of Luang Prabang, Laos and see its ghostly face in the old colonial tea plantations of the Cameron Highlands in Malaysia.
It catches a traveler by surprise this faded but familiar echo of European ambitions. These countries, perhaps so used to the myriad of influences from outside invaders, have embraced and adapted these influences to suite their needs. The broad grid-like streets of Melaka prove perfect for a colorful – and entirely Asian – night market. The local tuk-tuk drivers, noticing the European appreciation for color and grandeur, lavishly decorate their tuk-tuks with fake flowers, flashing lights, and blaring radios to draw the attention of the pale tourists braving the humidity and heat. (Side note: a tuk-tuk (pronounced took-took) is a mode of transportation found all over South East Asia though its forms vary greatly. The tuk-tuks in Melaka were bikes modified to have a bench-like seat attached behind the driver. These seats are then covered with a shade and decorated in the most unique manner possible. They are a source of pride for the drivers who often heckle their less decorated or overly decorated peers.)
Melaka was a beautiful town – then and now. Its proud history gives it a peaceful and picturesque personality. It was, for our traveling band of gypsies, a surprising find of misplaced influence on the road less traveled.
Oh but there's more! I have another blog coming up in three....two...one...
Read on!
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Assumptions
Hello Everybody!
We are now in the beautiful country of Laos. I don't know if I've ever seen a place so green! Lisa and I are both doing well. As our trip winds down we begin to realize how far we've come and how much we've seen and done on the way. This trip has been amazing - and it ain't over yet!
Today's blog is a little different - it is not so much a description or account of a place or experience but a commentary on one of the many lessons we've learned on the way - and yes, it is a challenge to my fellow Americans. I'm a proud American and so the issue I talk about really gets under my skin - because I know the real beauty of my home country and I know I have reason to be proud. I hope you see and understand my point and if you disagree or have something to say, don't be shy! Here we go...
After almost six months of travel I have at least a dozen anecdotes to take home – anecdotes about travel, about life, about toilets and drinking water and instant coffee. One such anecdote is this:
Sometimes, in order to discover where you are from, you must travel abroad.
A person’s identity, both personally and culturally, is challenged daily when traveling and can be redefined from country to country, town to town. Life abroad takes on an uninvited amount of assumption both on the part of the traveler and on the part of those the traveler meets. A traveler assumes they know something about their next destination based on hearsay, history and guidebook details. The people they meet assume they know the traveler based on the answer to the worlds most asked question: “Where do you come from?”
A simple question with a simple answer. The answer never changes. It is a static truth as certain as the day you were born. But the conclusion reached, based on the assumptions presumed, can vary as widely as the weather in Nairobi and Nantucket. And suddenly a naïve traveler such as myself discovers that countries and cultures are not defined by the people that inhabit them but by the people who do not – the visitors, the foreigners, the documentary watchers and article readers.
Case in point: Ask any American to define Africa and you are likely to hear the words “wild” and “dangerous” but if you were to ask a local tribesman or smiling child on an African plain I doubt either “wild” or “dangerous” would be first on their list. Just as history is defined by the winners of wars, so modern day culture is defined by the mass media induced pictures and phrases. Africa is “wild,” Asia is “exotic,” America is “naïve,” and Australia is full of crocodiles.
In extreme cases I fear these definitions are in danger of becoming true. Africans, treated as unruly, their foreign aid delivered under armed supervision, and political dissention treated as a continual crisis instead isolated events, have indeed become increasingly wild. Asia, depicted as erotic in films and literature, taught to students as the seat of communism and drug activity, and pictured on postcards as pristine and picturesque, has indeed become a place of exoticism full of sex trades, easy drugs and a subculture of seedy expats and backpackers.
And what of America? Have we become naïve after years (possibly centuries) of accusations from the more ‘cultured’ European nations that we are inward-looking, self-effacing, and power-hungry? Do we ignore the plight of our neighboring nations – more interested in the antics of Brittney Spears than with the violence in South Africa? Is it true that Americans don’t travel, don’t read and don’t care? My indignation at these accusations is surely mirrored in the hearts and minds of many educated and hardworking Africans and Asians. And, perhaps, we face the same dilemma – the apathy of our fellow countrymen.
Like any rumor, the only way to dispel it is to prove it false. Africans – not the UN – must strive for political peace. Asians – not foreign government agencies – must restrict and reduce the drug and sex trades. And Americans – not organizations but actual citizen’s en masse – must show an interest in foreign affairs.
Open your newspapers! Subscribe to English versions of overseas publications! Get varied opinions and look for other sources of information concerning current events. And – TRAVEL! Go to a former Soviet state to see the ruins of communism. Go to Beijing to see communism’s new face. Visit Mexico City’s slums and Costa Rica’s rich coastline. Go to Spain and France and Italy and decide for yourself if looking at a 15th century fresco makes you more cultured. But if time and money restrict you from going abroad then at least surf the web and hike through the local library. Naivety is just as difficult to dispel as exoticism and wildness but wisdom and understanding, when precursors to kindness and involvement, can erase them all.
And as for Australia being full of crocodiles – well, that is a rumor that neither I nor the natives can completely dispel. I tend to think they like the dangerous and untamed picture this paints of them and their land. And maybe it’s this spirit of mystery, courage and mischievousness that truly shows the nature of an Australian. I guess some rumors are true after all.
Summer has come on a heat wave to South East Asia and both Lisa and I have not enjoyed the intense heat here in Laos. The nights are cool but the days are extremely hot and humid...sounds a bit like South Texas doesn't it?
I hope that you are all doing well. I hope to have Malaysia wrapped up and posted this week then I can move on to Thailand. Until then, take care and keep in touch.
With love from the road...
We are now in the beautiful country of Laos. I don't know if I've ever seen a place so green! Lisa and I are both doing well. As our trip winds down we begin to realize how far we've come and how much we've seen and done on the way. This trip has been amazing - and it ain't over yet!
Today's blog is a little different - it is not so much a description or account of a place or experience but a commentary on one of the many lessons we've learned on the way - and yes, it is a challenge to my fellow Americans. I'm a proud American and so the issue I talk about really gets under my skin - because I know the real beauty of my home country and I know I have reason to be proud. I hope you see and understand my point and if you disagree or have something to say, don't be shy! Here we go...
After almost six months of travel I have at least a dozen anecdotes to take home – anecdotes about travel, about life, about toilets and drinking water and instant coffee. One such anecdote is this:
Sometimes, in order to discover where you are from, you must travel abroad.
A person’s identity, both personally and culturally, is challenged daily when traveling and can be redefined from country to country, town to town. Life abroad takes on an uninvited amount of assumption both on the part of the traveler and on the part of those the traveler meets. A traveler assumes they know something about their next destination based on hearsay, history and guidebook details. The people they meet assume they know the traveler based on the answer to the worlds most asked question: “Where do you come from?”
A simple question with a simple answer. The answer never changes. It is a static truth as certain as the day you were born. But the conclusion reached, based on the assumptions presumed, can vary as widely as the weather in Nairobi and Nantucket. And suddenly a naïve traveler such as myself discovers that countries and cultures are not defined by the people that inhabit them but by the people who do not – the visitors, the foreigners, the documentary watchers and article readers.
Case in point: Ask any American to define Africa and you are likely to hear the words “wild” and “dangerous” but if you were to ask a local tribesman or smiling child on an African plain I doubt either “wild” or “dangerous” would be first on their list. Just as history is defined by the winners of wars, so modern day culture is defined by the mass media induced pictures and phrases. Africa is “wild,” Asia is “exotic,” America is “naïve,” and Australia is full of crocodiles.
In extreme cases I fear these definitions are in danger of becoming true. Africans, treated as unruly, their foreign aid delivered under armed supervision, and political dissention treated as a continual crisis instead isolated events, have indeed become increasingly wild. Asia, depicted as erotic in films and literature, taught to students as the seat of communism and drug activity, and pictured on postcards as pristine and picturesque, has indeed become a place of exoticism full of sex trades, easy drugs and a subculture of seedy expats and backpackers.
And what of America? Have we become naïve after years (possibly centuries) of accusations from the more ‘cultured’ European nations that we are inward-looking, self-effacing, and power-hungry? Do we ignore the plight of our neighboring nations – more interested in the antics of Brittney Spears than with the violence in South Africa? Is it true that Americans don’t travel, don’t read and don’t care? My indignation at these accusations is surely mirrored in the hearts and minds of many educated and hardworking Africans and Asians. And, perhaps, we face the same dilemma – the apathy of our fellow countrymen.
Like any rumor, the only way to dispel it is to prove it false. Africans – not the UN – must strive for political peace. Asians – not foreign government agencies – must restrict and reduce the drug and sex trades. And Americans – not organizations but actual citizen’s en masse – must show an interest in foreign affairs.
Open your newspapers! Subscribe to English versions of overseas publications! Get varied opinions and look for other sources of information concerning current events. And – TRAVEL! Go to a former Soviet state to see the ruins of communism. Go to Beijing to see communism’s new face. Visit Mexico City’s slums and Costa Rica’s rich coastline. Go to Spain and France and Italy and decide for yourself if looking at a 15th century fresco makes you more cultured. But if time and money restrict you from going abroad then at least surf the web and hike through the local library. Naivety is just as difficult to dispel as exoticism and wildness but wisdom and understanding, when precursors to kindness and involvement, can erase them all.
And as for Australia being full of crocodiles – well, that is a rumor that neither I nor the natives can completely dispel. I tend to think they like the dangerous and untamed picture this paints of them and their land. And maybe it’s this spirit of mystery, courage and mischievousness that truly shows the nature of an Australian. I guess some rumors are true after all.
Summer has come on a heat wave to South East Asia and both Lisa and I have not enjoyed the intense heat here in Laos. The nights are cool but the days are extremely hot and humid...sounds a bit like South Texas doesn't it?
I hope that you are all doing well. I hope to have Malaysia wrapped up and posted this week then I can move on to Thailand. Until then, take care and keep in touch.
With love from the road...
Sunday, June 15, 2008
What's Buggin' Me
And Hello Again!
Blog Number Two for today serves two purposes - to introduce you to Malaysia and to cover a subject that has been on my mind for a while. It's another introduction. An introduction to the "bad" parts of travel - and no, it's not all sunshine and beaches. This blog was intended to share with you what traveling is like from my perspective and it would be unfair - a downright lie actually - to paint it as a perfect picture captured thousands of miles from where you are. I hope it helps to give a more complete idea of what extended travel is really like. It's not meant to be whiny or to take away from the days of sunshine and beaches but rather to provide a 3rd dimension and therefore a more realistic view.
Love from the road...
Blog Number Two for today serves two purposes - to introduce you to Malaysia and to cover a subject that has been on my mind for a while. It's another introduction. An introduction to the "bad" parts of travel - and no, it's not all sunshine and beaches. This blog was intended to share with you what traveling is like from my perspective and it would be unfair - a downright lie actually - to paint it as a perfect picture captured thousands of miles from where you are. I hope it helps to give a more complete idea of what extended travel is really like. It's not meant to be whiny or to take away from the days of sunshine and beaches but rather to provide a 3rd dimension and therefore a more realistic view.
It’s a strange country too because of its obvious mix not only in cultures – and therefore foods, religions, and clothing – but also in how much or how little its citizens have embraced Western ideas. Before I elaborate, I should give you some examples of “Western Ideas.” Western ideas include the obvious fast food restaurants and increased cell phone and internet use but also the ‘progressive’ ideas of what a person can wear, how they cut their hair, or what music they listen to. All of which are subtle hints at a societies acceptance of a more liberal culture and freedom of ideas. Whether this is a positive or a negative could be debated for pages on end – but the fact remains that the world is becoming more westernized as it becomes more globalized. And the evidence walks the city streets. In the quickly modernizing capital of
Don’t get me wrong – KL is a magnificent city and we did enjoy this dose of big city living after our month on
And so – as you can see – my first impression of
So it was strange indeed that here in the city so westernized and modern that we would have our first run in with something that brings to mind filth and depravity – the backpackers nightmare: bedbugs. Stick with me for a bit because this is a story that is sure to make your skin crawl.
Not long ago I received an email from a friend who pointedly asked: “I’ve read your stories and it all sounds so great but I have to wonder, haven’t there been any bumps in the road?” In response to this I have to answer a weary “yes.” Travel – or at least the extended kind of travel that takes you far from home carrying your very existence on your back into completely foreign places with very little preparation – is not all walks on the beaches and beers at sunset. Believe it or not, the tedious, the tiring, the day-to-day complaints all follow you – even to the most distant shore, even when you pack the bare minimum. There are still bills to pay, still ignorant people to deal with. The service at most restaurants and hotels is almost always sub-par. Prices are always increasing. You are always getting lost. And while the 9 to 5 may be a thing of the past, in a sense your days are much longer for at the end there is rarely, if ever a home cooked meal or nice relaxing evening around a TV. Everything you do becomes dependant on someone else’s decisions. If your bus driver is late – well, you just wait. If your taxi driver is rude – well, too bad. There are no managers to speak to, no number to call and complain. And even if there were they wouldn’t speak English. You – the foreigner, the lighter skinned and therefore assumedly filthy rich – will be hassled for money, overcharged based on race, lied to, screwed over, stared at and basically set apart on a daily basis. You do no fit – you do not belong. Racial profiling? Yes. And, yes, profiling is wrong (to quote one of my favorite comedians). But it’s just a fact of life when you are on the road.
But all of societies issues aside, there are other ‘bumps’ that will really get under your skin. I’m talking about the creepy crawlers whose uncommon occurrence in
I’ve stayed at some pretty shady places in the
It was a nightmare. We had followed the well meaning advice of our guidebook and gotten a dorm room at a recommended place in KL. The Green Hut, as it was called, was nice enough. It looked and smelled clean. It was popular with other backpackers. All signs pointed to yes. But to fall back on an old adage – looks can be deceiving.
We called it an early night – or at least an earlier night than the off-tune, want-to-be folk singer trio just below our window. As we were getting ready for bed the only other earlier-nighter in the room began tossing and turning in her sheets. She got up and dusted off the sheets mumbling in her native tongue. She tossed and turned some more before finally sitting up, and seeing our weary looks, explained, “There are bugs. They not bite but I feel dem crawling.” I looked at her with pity. I figured she was overreacting or maybe slightly crazy. I hadn’t seen any bugs – not yet.
Lights out and I was soon asleep but it wouldn’t last long. I woke with a start. My clock told me it was 2 am. The room was filled with the filtered, shifting shadows of cars passing below on the city streets. What had woken me? Then I felt something crawl across my chest. I jumped up and grabbed my flash light. That was a bad idea. There were two bed bugs on my pillow and a very dead one on the heel of my hand where I had squashed it on my chest. I saw several crawling on the walls.
If you’ve never seen a bed bug, they are nasty little creatures - small, flat and brown with the look of a mite or tick but larger. They are creatures of the night, lying in wait in the dark crooks and crannies found on mattress seams or pillow cases awaiting the dark so that they can crawl out and feast on the nearest warm-blooded creature. And I had woken up mid-feast. They were on the walls. On my sheets. And, I felt certain, on me. I climbed off my top bunk. Maybe it was my proximity to the wall, I thought. Or just my bed. I decided to switch to the bunk below and across from me but just before laying down I saw the granddaddy of them all crawl sluggishly across the pillow. This was an infestation beyond imagination.
But what’s a girl to do? It was 2 am. I couldn’t merely wake up my travel companions and suggest we wander the streets looking for a better accommodation. All I could do was lay lightly and pray for the first light of morning. Needless to say there was to be little or no sleep that night. The sound of my fellow dorm mates tossing and turning was eerie and disheartening. By the time the sun shone through the windows I was anxious and miserable. By the time we arrived at our next destination (Melaka, just a few hours south of KL), I was itching and uncomfortable. My legs and my arms, my lower back and stomach were covered in large, itchy welts. I looked and felt like a leper. It was embarrassing. Lisa looked the same, her arms, legs and neck pock marked with red bites. Desirae’s would take a day to appear, her lower back and legs covered.
The bites took 4 to 5 days to disappear and I can’t remember anything ever itching so badly. After that I would start to notice similar marks on other travelers and my heart would go out to them. The mosquitoes I was prepared for – the bed bugs I was not.
So bumps – yes, we’ve had our bumps. I’m thankful they have only been minor and temporary. Our ‘road less traveled’ has indeed been fairly pot-hole free.
After reading this some of you might ask “Well if it’s so bad sometimes then why do you do it?” The answer is simple – I travel for the same reasons that some stay in less than ideal jobs. Because I love the lifestyle it provides. A 9 to 5 supports hobbies, a home, and allows a person to stay in the place they want to be. Travel does the same for me. To have what we want, we all tolerate what we dislike. Your irritations might be traffic jams or bad weather. Ours are bed bugs and the other occasional “bumps” on the road.
Love from the road...
Indo in the Rearview Mirror...
Hello Friends!
And welcome back to the blog. I've got lots of stories for you today (two blogs!) and some news as well. First off, Desirae made it home safe and sound. We'll miss her - and we know she'll miss us too! :) Secondly, being home is starting to sound pretty good to Lisa and I as well. We have made our plans to return back to the US of A after our trips through Cambodia and Laos. But don't you worry - I am so far behind on my blog that I might be writing for years to come!
But enough jibber-jabber. Here's the first blog for today - and the last blog from Indonesia...
My last memories ofIndonesia Bali . The place was barren of tourist when we arrived so our presence (and our money) was very sought after by the local business people. We found the town to be unremarkable perhaps explaining its unsustainable tourism industry.
Our only highlight was the sunrise dolphin viewing from a local colorful longboat. It was more of a dolphin chase as a swarm of boats powered by noisy, converted car motors headed seaward at dawns first light and proceeded to chase several pods of dolphins to the grim delight of the passengers. The sunrise was indeed pristine, the water calm and fair, and the dolphins were as graceful as one expects these athletic seafaring mammals to be. But the sight of so many loud boats chasing these animals with reckless abandon was somewhat obscene. Adding to the tainted experience was the overwhelming presence of floating trash and debris even when we were far from the shore line. We humans do have a knack for making a perfect mess of things.
Wishing you all health and happiness. Love from the road...
And welcome back to the blog. I've got lots of stories for you today (two blogs!) and some news as well. First off, Desirae made it home safe and sound. We'll miss her - and we know she'll miss us too! :) Secondly, being home is starting to sound pretty good to Lisa and I as well. We have made our plans to return back to the US of A after our trips through Cambodia and Laos. But don't you worry - I am so far behind on my blog that I might be writing for years to come!
But enough jibber-jabber. Here's the first blog for today - and the last blog from Indonesia...
My last memories of
Our only highlight was the sunrise dolphin viewing from a local colorful longboat. It was more of a dolphin chase as a swarm of boats powered by noisy, converted car motors headed seaward at dawns first light and proceeded to chase several pods of dolphins to the grim delight of the passengers. The sunrise was indeed pristine, the water calm and fair, and the dolphins were as graceful as one expects these athletic seafaring mammals to be. But the sight of so many loud boats chasing these animals with reckless abandon was somewhat obscene. Adding to the tainted experience was the overwhelming presence of floating trash and debris even when we were far from the shore line. We humans do have a knack for making a perfect mess of things.
Needless to say we didn’t tarry long but were soon headed to our last stop – the surfer’s idyllic paradise of Ulu Watu and the surrounding shoreline. In route we spent another night in Kuta,
We spoiled ourselves with an immaculate bungalow and spent our final days in
A final uneventful night in Kuta before we headed for the airport at the break of day. The scent of incense still lingered as we entered and prepared to board. My first introduction to
Wishing you all health and happiness. Love from the road...
Friday, June 6, 2008
Market Madness
Hello from the Land of Smiles!
We are currently in Bangkok - and yes, it's just as crazy as you've heard. Thailand has been truly amazing and I can't wait to tell you all about it. But first, I have to finish with Indonesia - and then of course, I still have Malaysia to write about as well. We better get started!
We left you last in Kuta, Lombok riding the waves. After another journey via ferry, we found ourselves back in Bali. Our sites were set on a little town called Ubud and after a long days journey we finally arrived. Ubud was everything we needed - a nice town full of wonderful spas and good food. We stayed at a family owned bungalow. The little lady who showed us our rooms was just as sweet as could be. She was grandmotherly and had the nicest smile. We were well taken care of - tea and coffee and breakfast every morning on our deck. Our bungalow looked somewhat like a little temple with an elaborately carved door and beautiful cement work on the outside. The grounds were full of beautiful landscaping and small hidden shrines that were faithfully attended to daily with incense, fresh flowers, and offerings. All of it was homey and relaxing. But the town and the bungalows aren't what I want to talk about today. I want to talk about the place I enjoyed the most...
The word “travel” is individually defined by those that endeavor to pursue it, each person creating a criterion of comforts, choices, locations, and lengths to meet their ideas or itinerary. The weekend road tripper sees travel as a dot on a map chosen by the miles round trip, and the continual feeling of the open road. The two-week vacation seeker leans towards the comfortably exotic and the relaxation of a controlled atmosphere where money is secondary to convenience and quality. The backpacker looks for budgeted accommodations and (often) numbers of passport stamps with the temptation to spend their time like their money – with quick stops in the cheapest places more concerned with variety than quality. Those that travel for work might see it as a business opportunity with the benefit of exposure to new places and faces instead of hefty 401ks and retirement plans. But no matter what your definition, travel is (or should be) a way to increase the enjoyment in your life.
Even the most seasoned backpacker will readily admit that if comfort is your definition of enjoyment then you’re going to have to shell out a little more mula. The old saying is true: you get what you pay for. More money will undeniably buy you better accommodations in a nicer part of town or with a better view. The nicest restaurants will probably be cleaner than their cheaper cousins – the food stalls. And souvenirs are usually on par with the price as well (at least ‘high-end’ things like artwork and jewelry). In my limited experience, however, I have managed to find one area of travel where this “more money = better item” rule is reversed and that is culture. You can’t buy culture and when it does have a price tag you’ll probably find it forced and fake. Cultural shows, while excellent ways to see the exotic or unusual side of a society, often have an air of repetitiveness. Museums are culture strongholds but offer only a snapshot of occurrences or phases but do little to expose you to current culture. In other words, it’s hard to get a sense of emotional pride or religious vigor by looking at an artifact encased in glass. This is because culture is a living, breathing dimension of society. And it lives and breaths most commonly (and colorfully) in the back alleys and city streets, in the fields and aboard the trains and boats. So if your definition of travel involves meeting the locals or being exposed to the heart and soul of a city or town, may I suggest one very important must-see – the local market.
You’ll find that markets are as varied and as unique as the places you visit. All markets have some kind of appeal from the amazing variety (and constant repetitiveness) of the classic tourist trap souvenir markets to the fresh off the boat and out of the field produce markets. The latter are my favorite and carry the added benefit of food stalls and fresh fruit stands. For authentic local food the rule is simple – eat where the locals eat. And if you’ve ever visited a market you know that the locals adore those little food stalls.
Back in the US of A, local produce markets are usually small weekend affairs located conspicuously in a large, open air parking lot or town center. Here in Asia where the produce, meat, and fish are still grown and distributed within a hundred mile radius the markets are still a daily part of life. Arrive early to any market (and every city and village has at least one) and your sure to see restaurant owners and grandmothers haggling side by side. The markets are located wherever there is adequate space and can sometimes prove surprisingly difficult to find.
That was the case with the market in Ubud, Bali. This artsy town offered every traveler something – from fancy hotels and spas to small family-owned bungalows (like ours) and cheap local eats. We had heard rumor of a big market and even saw signs of one with local women carrying large baskets on their heads that were overflowing with bright chilies, eggplants, and mangosteens. However, the only stands we could find were those selling sarongs and other run of the mill tourist fare. Finally, we decided to follow one of the ladies whose basket was empty. She led us through several narrow alleyways lined with souvenir shops, past paintings, clothing, and wooden knickknacks, all interesting but lacking the true soul of a local market place.
Then – bam! – we turned another narrow corner and it opened up to a large area filled with the sites and sounds and smells that make a market so incredible and so memorable. If you’ve ever been to a fresh produce market then you know what I am talking about. Suddenly I was standing in the middle of an ancient ritual – buying and selling food. There is something so basic and heartwarming about watching the vendors (which in Asia are predominantly women) sitting among their wares. Baskets filled to the brim with rich, vibrant chilies in an array of colors, their spicy scent filling the air. Large mounds of the oddly cartoon-like rhambuton, a fruit akin to the lychee that is encased in a red covering with tiny, soft, spike-like hairs growing from it. That fierce exterior hides a sweet, grape-like fruit that makes an excellent snack. We had our first experience with snake fruit here as well. This small, spade-shaped fruit has an outside skin that looks and even feels like its namesake. Inside you’ll find a truly unique fruit that combines the taste and texture of an apple, pear, and cashew nut. Then of course, there was the mangosteens – round, deep purple fruits whose thick, soft exterior can be peeled away to reveal a fleshy white fruit that is sweet and tangy and absolutely amazing.
We were loving it. The smells of fruit and spices, the women haggling and laughing, the people constantly moving and looking. A market is a cultural picture in motion.
Mixed in with the fruits and vegetables were the pastries and packaged spices as well as the random house wares and souvenir stalls. The whole of it was located in what appeared to be a multi-level parking structure converted to fit the ramshackle mix of tables and stands with the more permanent stalls lining the corridors that faced and overlooked the action below.
A whole section was dedicated to meat. Chickens were being cut up and wrapped in paper. Mystery meats were awaiting purchase while providing the flies with an early morning meal. A liver the size of a McDonald’s tray was lying on a table alone. Beef and pork were mysteriously missing (as was refrigeration) but duck, chicken and the occasional fish were in abundant supply. It wasn’t exactly appetizing to see or smell but it was part of the cultural picture. This is life here. Minus the Wal-Marts and mass distribution you get what you get on a daily basis.
We roamed the stalls for hours purchasing fruit, trying new things that the vendors happily cut up and offered to us. We happened on a stall stacked high with pastries and snacks. One of the ladies spoke limited English and guided us through the wide selection of items. There were samosas – tiny fried wanton-like pastries filled with potatoes, glass noodles and spices and packaged with a small bright green chili that would bring tears to the eyes of the most staunch chili enthusiast but when combined with the samosa was downright delightful. Individually wrapped muffins, sweet or savory colorful crepes with crème fillings and delicious cake slices all littered the shelves and soon filled our bags. Each bag cost a little over a buck.
We went three times to the market to explore the stalls and to browse the souvenirs. We met delightful merchants and watched colorful transactions. On one such occasion, we saw two people haggling over a live duck who, judging by the sheer volume and vigor of his quacks, had already guessed his fate.
That market with it’s routine madness and activity gave me the best cultural lessons I would learn in Indonesia’s crowded streets. The images of women walking serenely with basket full of produce balanced precariously on their heads, the smiles of the vendors, and the way that they would take the money they earned after the first purchase of the day and wave it over the rest of their items as a sign of good luck – these are images that will last long after my pictures have faded or been stored away in some back closet.
I would (and will) visit many more markets on my trip, each as individual as the cities I stayed in. All of them share the direct connection to the local culture that the market in Ubud first showed me. As Desirae said a market is a place where you can go and watch without being watched. The customers are there to buy food for their homes and businesses and the vendors cater to them, not to the wayward backpacker that buys a kilo here and a kilo there. You lose the dollar sign that floats about your head out on the street and for just a second you can stand as an observer as life at it’s normal, hectic pace walks around you in a blur of colors and smells.
Our time in Indonesia was just about over. We were moving on up - literally. Malaysia was north of us and the next destination on our trip.
I'll leave you for now. Be sure you keep Desirae in your prayers on Sunday, June 8 (Saturday June 7th for you). She'll be leaving us then and flying home. We will miss her but I'm sure her family will be just as happy to see her as we will be sad to see her go.
I hope all is well back home. I miss and love you all. Adios from the road...
We are currently in Bangkok - and yes, it's just as crazy as you've heard. Thailand has been truly amazing and I can't wait to tell you all about it. But first, I have to finish with Indonesia - and then of course, I still have Malaysia to write about as well. We better get started!
We left you last in Kuta, Lombok riding the waves. After another journey via ferry, we found ourselves back in Bali. Our sites were set on a little town called Ubud and after a long days journey we finally arrived. Ubud was everything we needed - a nice town full of wonderful spas and good food. We stayed at a family owned bungalow. The little lady who showed us our rooms was just as sweet as could be. She was grandmotherly and had the nicest smile. We were well taken care of - tea and coffee and breakfast every morning on our deck. Our bungalow looked somewhat like a little temple with an elaborately carved door and beautiful cement work on the outside. The grounds were full of beautiful landscaping and small hidden shrines that were faithfully attended to daily with incense, fresh flowers, and offerings. All of it was homey and relaxing. But the town and the bungalows aren't what I want to talk about today. I want to talk about the place I enjoyed the most...
The word “travel” is individually defined by those that endeavor to pursue it, each person creating a criterion of comforts, choices, locations, and lengths to meet their ideas or itinerary. The weekend road tripper sees travel as a dot on a map chosen by the miles round trip, and the continual feeling of the open road. The two-week vacation seeker leans towards the comfortably exotic and the relaxation of a controlled atmosphere where money is secondary to convenience and quality. The backpacker looks for budgeted accommodations and (often) numbers of passport stamps with the temptation to spend their time like their money – with quick stops in the cheapest places more concerned with variety than quality. Those that travel for work might see it as a business opportunity with the benefit of exposure to new places and faces instead of hefty 401ks and retirement plans. But no matter what your definition, travel is (or should be) a way to increase the enjoyment in your life.
Even the most seasoned backpacker will readily admit that if comfort is your definition of enjoyment then you’re going to have to shell out a little more mula. The old saying is true: you get what you pay for. More money will undeniably buy you better accommodations in a nicer part of town or with a better view. The nicest restaurants will probably be cleaner than their cheaper cousins – the food stalls. And souvenirs are usually on par with the price as well (at least ‘high-end’ things like artwork and jewelry). In my limited experience, however, I have managed to find one area of travel where this “more money = better item” rule is reversed and that is culture. You can’t buy culture and when it does have a price tag you’ll probably find it forced and fake. Cultural shows, while excellent ways to see the exotic or unusual side of a society, often have an air of repetitiveness. Museums are culture strongholds but offer only a snapshot of occurrences or phases but do little to expose you to current culture. In other words, it’s hard to get a sense of emotional pride or religious vigor by looking at an artifact encased in glass. This is because culture is a living, breathing dimension of society. And it lives and breaths most commonly (and colorfully) in the back alleys and city streets, in the fields and aboard the trains and boats. So if your definition of travel involves meeting the locals or being exposed to the heart and soul of a city or town, may I suggest one very important must-see – the local market.
You’ll find that markets are as varied and as unique as the places you visit. All markets have some kind of appeal from the amazing variety (and constant repetitiveness) of the classic tourist trap souvenir markets to the fresh off the boat and out of the field produce markets. The latter are my favorite and carry the added benefit of food stalls and fresh fruit stands. For authentic local food the rule is simple – eat where the locals eat. And if you’ve ever visited a market you know that the locals adore those little food stalls.
Back in the US of A, local produce markets are usually small weekend affairs located conspicuously in a large, open air parking lot or town center. Here in Asia where the produce, meat, and fish are still grown and distributed within a hundred mile radius the markets are still a daily part of life. Arrive early to any market (and every city and village has at least one) and your sure to see restaurant owners and grandmothers haggling side by side. The markets are located wherever there is adequate space and can sometimes prove surprisingly difficult to find.
That was the case with the market in Ubud, Bali. This artsy town offered every traveler something – from fancy hotels and spas to small family-owned bungalows (like ours) and cheap local eats. We had heard rumor of a big market and even saw signs of one with local women carrying large baskets on their heads that were overflowing with bright chilies, eggplants, and mangosteens. However, the only stands we could find were those selling sarongs and other run of the mill tourist fare. Finally, we decided to follow one of the ladies whose basket was empty. She led us through several narrow alleyways lined with souvenir shops, past paintings, clothing, and wooden knickknacks, all interesting but lacking the true soul of a local market place.
Then – bam! – we turned another narrow corner and it opened up to a large area filled with the sites and sounds and smells that make a market so incredible and so memorable. If you’ve ever been to a fresh produce market then you know what I am talking about. Suddenly I was standing in the middle of an ancient ritual – buying and selling food. There is something so basic and heartwarming about watching the vendors (which in Asia are predominantly women) sitting among their wares. Baskets filled to the brim with rich, vibrant chilies in an array of colors, their spicy scent filling the air. Large mounds of the oddly cartoon-like rhambuton, a fruit akin to the lychee that is encased in a red covering with tiny, soft, spike-like hairs growing from it. That fierce exterior hides a sweet, grape-like fruit that makes an excellent snack. We had our first experience with snake fruit here as well. This small, spade-shaped fruit has an outside skin that looks and even feels like its namesake. Inside you’ll find a truly unique fruit that combines the taste and texture of an apple, pear, and cashew nut. Then of course, there was the mangosteens – round, deep purple fruits whose thick, soft exterior can be peeled away to reveal a fleshy white fruit that is sweet and tangy and absolutely amazing.
We were loving it. The smells of fruit and spices, the women haggling and laughing, the people constantly moving and looking. A market is a cultural picture in motion.
Mixed in with the fruits and vegetables were the pastries and packaged spices as well as the random house wares and souvenir stalls. The whole of it was located in what appeared to be a multi-level parking structure converted to fit the ramshackle mix of tables and stands with the more permanent stalls lining the corridors that faced and overlooked the action below.
A whole section was dedicated to meat. Chickens were being cut up and wrapped in paper. Mystery meats were awaiting purchase while providing the flies with an early morning meal. A liver the size of a McDonald’s tray was lying on a table alone. Beef and pork were mysteriously missing (as was refrigeration) but duck, chicken and the occasional fish were in abundant supply. It wasn’t exactly appetizing to see or smell but it was part of the cultural picture. This is life here. Minus the Wal-Marts and mass distribution you get what you get on a daily basis.
We roamed the stalls for hours purchasing fruit, trying new things that the vendors happily cut up and offered to us. We happened on a stall stacked high with pastries and snacks. One of the ladies spoke limited English and guided us through the wide selection of items. There were samosas – tiny fried wanton-like pastries filled with potatoes, glass noodles and spices and packaged with a small bright green chili that would bring tears to the eyes of the most staunch chili enthusiast but when combined with the samosa was downright delightful. Individually wrapped muffins, sweet or savory colorful crepes with crème fillings and delicious cake slices all littered the shelves and soon filled our bags. Each bag cost a little over a buck.
We went three times to the market to explore the stalls and to browse the souvenirs. We met delightful merchants and watched colorful transactions. On one such occasion, we saw two people haggling over a live duck who, judging by the sheer volume and vigor of his quacks, had already guessed his fate.
That market with it’s routine madness and activity gave me the best cultural lessons I would learn in Indonesia’s crowded streets. The images of women walking serenely with basket full of produce balanced precariously on their heads, the smiles of the vendors, and the way that they would take the money they earned after the first purchase of the day and wave it over the rest of their items as a sign of good luck – these are images that will last long after my pictures have faded or been stored away in some back closet.
I would (and will) visit many more markets on my trip, each as individual as the cities I stayed in. All of them share the direct connection to the local culture that the market in Ubud first showed me. As Desirae said a market is a place where you can go and watch without being watched. The customers are there to buy food for their homes and businesses and the vendors cater to them, not to the wayward backpacker that buys a kilo here and a kilo there. You lose the dollar sign that floats about your head out on the street and for just a second you can stand as an observer as life at it’s normal, hectic pace walks around you in a blur of colors and smells.
Our time in Indonesia was just about over. We were moving on up - literally. Malaysia was north of us and the next destination on our trip.
I'll leave you for now. Be sure you keep Desirae in your prayers on Sunday, June 8 (Saturday June 7th for you). She'll be leaving us then and flying home. We will miss her but I'm sure her family will be just as happy to see her as we will be sad to see her go.
I hope all is well back home. I miss and love you all. Adios from the road...
Monday, May 26, 2008
Surfin' Indo Style
Hello!
And Happy Memorial Day! Remember to tell all those important veterans thank you! (So thank you Grandad Jack and all the others that read this!)
We are here in Phuket, Thailand. It's an interesting place. The tsunami devestation of 2004 seems to haunt the area even though the affects cannot be easily seen.
I believe that when I last left you we were enjoying the sunny shores of Gili Air. As our days in Lombok came to a close we had the chance to see another part of the island entirely.
Leaving Gili Air was difficult and I feared that the next location would be disappointing if only in contrast to the paradise we had just left. But here’s a true travel lesson for you – paradise has many forms and every place has something to offer if only you’ll allow yourself to see it. I truly believe that the places I have seen that disappointed me had much more to do with my emotional state than with the physical or cultural atmosphere surrounding me. If it’s true that life is what you make of it then travel is a condensed version of that truth. Kuta, Lombok was a good example of that.
Kuta, Lombok sits on the southern shoreline of Lombok. It’s a sleepy town that serves as a hub for surfers that frequent the area for the amazing surf breaks found there. Indonesia is relatively new on the surf scene (when compared with say Hawaii and Australia) but it has much to offer as we were to soon find out.
Our first day of exploring the area surrounding Kuta took us along the coast to Gerupak, the site of a few of the most popular surf breaks. This little port town was in sad shape. A former fishing village, it was now over fished and overly dependant on tourism. The harbor was full of long boats that in a previous life had hauled fish from the sea. Now they took surfers to the popular breaks which could only be reached by boat. We checked around at the numerous surf shops and signed up for a morning session the next day. Then we headed back to Kuta along the hilly, pock-marked roads.
It was a spectacular drive. The ocean sat complacently to our left, blue waves crowned in white silently stealing the shore line one wave at a time. To our right all was green. Hills rose up capped in trees and vines. Herds of cattle, tawny and tan, plodded along the road with their watchmen staring more intently at the passing mopeds than at the livestock in their care. Occasionally a herd of water buffalo would appear. These poor creatures got the short end of the stick. They are ugly, slow and stinky. Their appearance is of a badly formed cow with balding hair and big flat faces. Even their babies missed out on that cute stage that almost all animals go through.
I watched the scenery go by and tried to soak it all in – the green of the grass, the smells of the countryside, and the sounds of birds and passing mopeds. So much of it was foreign. So much of it was familiar.
The next morning we rose early and were in Gerupak by 8 am awaiting our departure. The air was already balmy. I remember walking across the crumbling street and through a narrow alley between rows of rundown cement block shanties to pick up one of the surfboards we would be using that day. Such a strange sight: a home of such simple and basic construction with a rack of modern (and well-worn) surfboards stacked behind it just like you would expect to see in some Hawaiian garage. It is one of those surreal travel memories born of a moment completely incapable of occurring in the world I know back home.
We helped load the three boards (two 8’ and one 9’) onto our converted fishing boat. The boats construction is worth noting. It’s basically a canoe with a long, narrow frame and flat board benches for sitting but has the addition of two outriggers, one on either side of the boat. For those of you familiar with outrigger canoes that are so popular in Hawaii, these boats look like larger versions of an outrigger canoe with two of the arm-like extensions that provide balance for such a narrow hulled boat. Our boat had a large outboard motor powering us along. Our “captain” was a young local boy who said little. His tanned skin and taunt muscles attested to his experience on the waters.
So imagine, if you will, a cove which is fairly broad but whose mouth is relatively narrow. It is almost completely enclosed by the aged hills that must have once boasted dramatic cliffs and points. What now remains after time and tide has taken their toll are softer hills with the occasional lingering evidence of a majestic drop or cliff face.
The cove is enough to create several ideal breaks along its broad shorelines and dramatic points. Our little boat, its paint faded but still bright in the morning sun, cuts a path across first the stagnant green water of the shallow harbor and then into the deepening green-blue of the cove. As we cruise along, the wind in our faces and the land at our backs, the whole world glimmers with natural brightness and the anticipation of doing something old in a place so incredibly new to us.
We glide along the back of the break we will be surfing. It’s a long break just over the top of a reef and as we join the two or three boats already anchored near the break we watch the break take shape. Watching a wave, any wave, is an amazing thing. Few things in this world can compare to the grace and form of a wave’s natural arch. Be it 30 feet or 30 inches, the face of a wave has the impressive ability to move while move and to push and pull simultaneously. I could watch the waves all day but to watch a wave with the knowledge that you plan on riding that wave changes the perspective entirely. It becomes a study, an examination. That wave is both friend and foe and you see it as such. Suddenly it’s not only grace and power but the location of the break, the type of wave, and the force behind it. This is a wave you want to know – not just watch from afar. It’s the difference between watching a horse in a pasture and approaching a horse with a saddle in a corral.
I’m certainly no surfing goddess or expert just a humble follower of the sea and any excuse to be closer to the ocean is a good excuse for me. You simply don’t get much closer than surfing. I don’t desire dramatic drop-ins or epic rides but I am addicted to the feeling of the ocean picking up my board and allowing me to ride her waves for a few seconds. So when I hopped off the boat and onto the 9’ monster board I was simply praying for a couple of good waves. What I got was a few hours of answered prayers.
We paddled out and joined the small mass of people already waiting for the wave. Surfing offers the unique chance to paddle up between an athlete that is 10 times better than you and an athlete that is just getting started. And each of them is waiting on the exact same thing – the next good ride.
For over an hour and a half we shared the water with a handful of surfers on a perfectly sunny day. That break gave me some great rides. The nice thing about a 9’ monster board is that it can catch any wave from a ripple to a ripper. I rode big waves (for me) and small ones. I drank greedily from the cup offered to me – taking any wave at first and loving them all. Remember as little kid when your dad would grab your hands and spin you around like a helicopter? Surfing has that same timeless joy. It is a joy brought from a movement so effortless that you have to hang on to it to keep it – and that makes the ride worthwhile. And just like a little kid the moment the wave releases me, I’m jumping right back on my board and paddling out as if saying “More more more! I want to do it again – just one more time!”
And that joy spreads from face to face on the wave. Emotions are written clearly on each face: the concentration of riding, the elation afterwards, the disappointment when you miss a good wave. Each face tells a story. I love watching Desirae and Lisa. Lisa with her ever-present smile broadening to encompass her whole face, her body bent in concentration then easing into the ride. Desirae looking intense when dropping in then a childlike grin creeping up from her toes and taking the rest of her body with her body with it. These are moments of joy that carry a sense of purity – you are taking nothing from the ocean and giving only yourself in return. You and the ocean – the giver and the gift – are in unity if only for a few lingering seconds. It is an undeniable peace, an unexplainable comfort.
After a couple of hours it got crowded. A group of Swedish chicks in a surf school showed up wearing helmets and hogging the waves. The locals crowded in and the peace was shattered but it’s affects remained and on the boat ride back, now facing land and the heat of the day, we all wore smiles that would linger like the last waves at sunset. All was well…
And so the story continues. I should wrap Indonesia up in a week or so and then I'll take you on to Malaysia. Time keeps speeding up and up...I wish someone would tell me how to slow it down a little! I hope this finds all of you happy and healthy. I miss you and love you all. Take care!
Love from the road...
And Happy Memorial Day! Remember to tell all those important veterans thank you! (So thank you Grandad Jack and all the others that read this!)
We are here in Phuket, Thailand. It's an interesting place. The tsunami devestation of 2004 seems to haunt the area even though the affects cannot be easily seen.
I believe that when I last left you we were enjoying the sunny shores of Gili Air. As our days in Lombok came to a close we had the chance to see another part of the island entirely.
Leaving Gili Air was difficult and I feared that the next location would be disappointing if only in contrast to the paradise we had just left. But here’s a true travel lesson for you – paradise has many forms and every place has something to offer if only you’ll allow yourself to see it. I truly believe that the places I have seen that disappointed me had much more to do with my emotional state than with the physical or cultural atmosphere surrounding me. If it’s true that life is what you make of it then travel is a condensed version of that truth. Kuta, Lombok was a good example of that.
Kuta, Lombok sits on the southern shoreline of Lombok. It’s a sleepy town that serves as a hub for surfers that frequent the area for the amazing surf breaks found there. Indonesia is relatively new on the surf scene (when compared with say Hawaii and Australia) but it has much to offer as we were to soon find out.
Our first day of exploring the area surrounding Kuta took us along the coast to Gerupak, the site of a few of the most popular surf breaks. This little port town was in sad shape. A former fishing village, it was now over fished and overly dependant on tourism. The harbor was full of long boats that in a previous life had hauled fish from the sea. Now they took surfers to the popular breaks which could only be reached by boat. We checked around at the numerous surf shops and signed up for a morning session the next day. Then we headed back to Kuta along the hilly, pock-marked roads.
It was a spectacular drive. The ocean sat complacently to our left, blue waves crowned in white silently stealing the shore line one wave at a time. To our right all was green. Hills rose up capped in trees and vines. Herds of cattle, tawny and tan, plodded along the road with their watchmen staring more intently at the passing mopeds than at the livestock in their care. Occasionally a herd of water buffalo would appear. These poor creatures got the short end of the stick. They are ugly, slow and stinky. Their appearance is of a badly formed cow with balding hair and big flat faces. Even their babies missed out on that cute stage that almost all animals go through.
I watched the scenery go by and tried to soak it all in – the green of the grass, the smells of the countryside, and the sounds of birds and passing mopeds. So much of it was foreign. So much of it was familiar.
The next morning we rose early and were in Gerupak by 8 am awaiting our departure. The air was already balmy. I remember walking across the crumbling street and through a narrow alley between rows of rundown cement block shanties to pick up one of the surfboards we would be using that day. Such a strange sight: a home of such simple and basic construction with a rack of modern (and well-worn) surfboards stacked behind it just like you would expect to see in some Hawaiian garage. It is one of those surreal travel memories born of a moment completely incapable of occurring in the world I know back home.
We helped load the three boards (two 8’ and one 9’) onto our converted fishing boat. The boats construction is worth noting. It’s basically a canoe with a long, narrow frame and flat board benches for sitting but has the addition of two outriggers, one on either side of the boat. For those of you familiar with outrigger canoes that are so popular in Hawaii, these boats look like larger versions of an outrigger canoe with two of the arm-like extensions that provide balance for such a narrow hulled boat. Our boat had a large outboard motor powering us along. Our “captain” was a young local boy who said little. His tanned skin and taunt muscles attested to his experience on the waters.
So imagine, if you will, a cove which is fairly broad but whose mouth is relatively narrow. It is almost completely enclosed by the aged hills that must have once boasted dramatic cliffs and points. What now remains after time and tide has taken their toll are softer hills with the occasional lingering evidence of a majestic drop or cliff face.
The cove is enough to create several ideal breaks along its broad shorelines and dramatic points. Our little boat, its paint faded but still bright in the morning sun, cuts a path across first the stagnant green water of the shallow harbor and then into the deepening green-blue of the cove. As we cruise along, the wind in our faces and the land at our backs, the whole world glimmers with natural brightness and the anticipation of doing something old in a place so incredibly new to us.
We glide along the back of the break we will be surfing. It’s a long break just over the top of a reef and as we join the two or three boats already anchored near the break we watch the break take shape. Watching a wave, any wave, is an amazing thing. Few things in this world can compare to the grace and form of a wave’s natural arch. Be it 30 feet or 30 inches, the face of a wave has the impressive ability to move while move and to push and pull simultaneously. I could watch the waves all day but to watch a wave with the knowledge that you plan on riding that wave changes the perspective entirely. It becomes a study, an examination. That wave is both friend and foe and you see it as such. Suddenly it’s not only grace and power but the location of the break, the type of wave, and the force behind it. This is a wave you want to know – not just watch from afar. It’s the difference between watching a horse in a pasture and approaching a horse with a saddle in a corral.
I’m certainly no surfing goddess or expert just a humble follower of the sea and any excuse to be closer to the ocean is a good excuse for me. You simply don’t get much closer than surfing. I don’t desire dramatic drop-ins or epic rides but I am addicted to the feeling of the ocean picking up my board and allowing me to ride her waves for a few seconds. So when I hopped off the boat and onto the 9’ monster board I was simply praying for a couple of good waves. What I got was a few hours of answered prayers.
We paddled out and joined the small mass of people already waiting for the wave. Surfing offers the unique chance to paddle up between an athlete that is 10 times better than you and an athlete that is just getting started. And each of them is waiting on the exact same thing – the next good ride.
For over an hour and a half we shared the water with a handful of surfers on a perfectly sunny day. That break gave me some great rides. The nice thing about a 9’ monster board is that it can catch any wave from a ripple to a ripper. I rode big waves (for me) and small ones. I drank greedily from the cup offered to me – taking any wave at first and loving them all. Remember as little kid when your dad would grab your hands and spin you around like a helicopter? Surfing has that same timeless joy. It is a joy brought from a movement so effortless that you have to hang on to it to keep it – and that makes the ride worthwhile. And just like a little kid the moment the wave releases me, I’m jumping right back on my board and paddling out as if saying “More more more! I want to do it again – just one more time!”
And that joy spreads from face to face on the wave. Emotions are written clearly on each face: the concentration of riding, the elation afterwards, the disappointment when you miss a good wave. Each face tells a story. I love watching Desirae and Lisa. Lisa with her ever-present smile broadening to encompass her whole face, her body bent in concentration then easing into the ride. Desirae looking intense when dropping in then a childlike grin creeping up from her toes and taking the rest of her body with her body with it. These are moments of joy that carry a sense of purity – you are taking nothing from the ocean and giving only yourself in return. You and the ocean – the giver and the gift – are in unity if only for a few lingering seconds. It is an undeniable peace, an unexplainable comfort.
After a couple of hours it got crowded. A group of Swedish chicks in a surf school showed up wearing helmets and hogging the waves. The locals crowded in and the peace was shattered but it’s affects remained and on the boat ride back, now facing land and the heat of the day, we all wore smiles that would linger like the last waves at sunset. All was well…
And so the story continues. I should wrap Indonesia up in a week or so and then I'll take you on to Malaysia. Time keeps speeding up and up...I wish someone would tell me how to slow it down a little! I hope this finds all of you happy and healthy. I miss you and love you all. Take care!
Love from the road...
Friday, May 16, 2008
Paradise Personified
Hello again!
We are here in Malaysia but my stories about Indonesia are not yet done! So enough chit chat - let's get straight to the point. We'll pick up where we left off - at the top of Rinjani.Climbing Rinjani was an exhilarating, albeit trying, experience – the type of journey that left you physically and mentally exhausted and searching for some rest and relaxation. From the mountain’s staggering heights our sought after respite became glisteningly clear. Far in the distance, off to the east, shining in the ocean like three pearls of peace were the
After our brutal decent from Rinjani’s slopes we made a beeline for those distant dots. Getting to the
We were headed for the
Our packed boat sailed right up onto the sandy shores of the ‘town center’ on Gili Air where we hauled our packs over our heads to the shores to prevent them from getting wet. The clear waters aside, the area was sparse and what buildings there were had a distinct air of dilapidation about them. A crowd of the miniature horse drawn carts waited to transport the new arrivals but otherwise the area seemed deserted.
As with most of our destinations, we arrived sans reservations with only a Lonely Planet list of accommodations to guide us. However, this time it was an aging, eccentric Dutch woman who proved to have the best recommendation. She had chatted with Lisa on the short boat ride, extolling the virtues of a little known guest house called Lucky’s which she assured us had nice bungalows with a good view of the sunset side of the island, decent rates and good food to boot.
After we disembarked from our boat she led us through the back paths of the village to deliver a mattress she had procured for a new father and his family. She was a little off-kilter but her intentions spoke of a kind disposition despite her zany outward appearance.
We followed the well-trodden foot paths to Lucky’s and it was on these paths that we got our first taste of Gili Air. Like all ‘postcard paradises’ this island sported a healthy population of palm trees but it was startling to find fly covered cattle grazing beneath the swaying palms. These cleared areas nestled between homes made of every available material from ancient wooden planks to corrugated tin and crumbling cement blocks. I wouldn’t say the place was in despondent poverty but more of a state of easy and tolerated decline. Women in elegant traditional sarongs walked to and fro sometimes carrying large bundles balanced precariously on their heads. Children scampered about half (or sometimes completely) naked, and a group of adolescence finished up a soccer game in a bare field beneath the deepening sapphire sky.
Our guide spoke with a very somber youth who then accompanied us to Lucky’s and showed us the bungalows. Our soon to be home-away-from-home was nothing grand to look at – a simple scattering of barebones bungalows sitting a stones throw from the ocean. A low lying building that served as an office, kitchen, and home for the owner’s family sat at the edge of it all. A line of four cabanas – simple, open air structures made of a wooden frame, palm frond roof and bamboo mat floor that was raised a few meters above the ground – served as dining tables that faced the dying light of day with a terrific view of
We agreed to the price of $10,000 rupiah per night which is about $10 US or $3 each for a small, simplistic bungalow with a fan and basic bathroom. The veranda had a nice view of the ocean out front. (We would forgo the view for an A/C unit after two nights of stifling heat – for an additional $3 US).
This is where we would spend the next week – lazing about the compound, in the shade of the cabanas or on our porch, with the occasional walk about the island in search of good swimming beaches and snacks. Lucky’s was a natural fit for us. It was a family run business with the same kids running about, flying kites and making noise, and the same women sweeping the floors and surrounding areas. This was a place were life flowed smoothly but slowly so that time warped into a trickle of days and nights punctuated only by the meals, sunsets and occasional venturing out to see the redundant sites of the island.
The owner/operator of Lucky’s was Luke – a small local man with an easy manner but sharp, observant eyes and a slightly mischievous smile that would appear suddenly. He took obvious pride in his business and would often join us at the cabanas as we ate if only to chat about the day and how we were enjoying our stay. My memory of Gili Air will forever carry with it Luke’s smile and his family’s presence.
This island, with it’s lack of modern distractions and conveniences such as motorized vehicles and neon lights, will stand out in my mind as the perfect example of paradise – a place rich in culture, simplicity and ease without the price tag that is so often attached to such places elsewhere in the world.
If I could paint you a picture of Gili Air, it would look something like this:
Everything is covered in the light one baths in when this close to the equator – a sunlight unfiltered and unpolluted, bright, airy and dampened with a humidity that begs you to find shade and a cold drink. The worst of the heat has burned off as the sun seeks the horizon, a perfect fiery ball hovering above the ocean. The ocean, too, seems to be retreating as low tide seeps in. Its glassy reflection sits directly in front of the little cabana where the three girls sit seemingly blending in with the surroundings. They move without any sense of urgency, drinking, snacking and talking in voices that barely carry beyond the palm frond roof of their enclosure.
They are watching with earnest the unfolding drama at the waters edge. One of the ever-present children that came complementary with their current accommodation is in the process of flying his homemade kite. A friend stands a short distance away letting out string that is wrapped around an old coffee can as the little man tries to catch the wind. He squeals with excitement when the wind finally grabs the kit and sails it skyward where is sails up and up. But this is where the land meets the sea and so the wind here is sporadic and moody. It tosses the kite about in a violent dance as if it is possessed by a spirit all its own. Suddenly it plunges down – directly as the smiling figure of the little man below. It chases him for a few feet, darting about his head as he squeals and runs, swatting. A smile as large as his small face can contain shines in the afternoon sun and laughter like breaking waves leaps forth as he scampers away.
The three girls can’t help but laugh too. This pure and simple enjoyment seems to be so definitive of their time here – as if the modern world and all its complications had somehow overlooked this island during it’s all-encompassing march through mankind.
The sun dies slowly and they enjoy the colors and shades of this masterpiece. Off in the distance red lightening pierces the sky – but it is far away and brings only mystery and beauty and a cooling breeze to their paradise. The stars come out and Luke brings dinner. As they say – just another day in paradise…
There are more spectacularly beautiful places in this world, most of them now overseen by high rise resorts and blinking traffic lights. There are also areas more symbolic and historic but if you are looking for paradise personified, look no further than Gili Air – where paradise echoes in the laughter of local children and is displayed in the colorful fabric worn by the women. Where the easy manner of Luke’s hospitality and the simple beauty of the palm trees sway is enough to calm a rocky soul and sooth a tired mind.
I hope this blog finds you all healthy and happy. For all of you back in Texas - and close enough to call my mother - please call her and tell her to TAKE IT EASY. She's recovering from back surgery but needs encouragement to do as the doctor says! Just kidding mom - I know you are following him by the book.I hope to post again soon. Until then - take care and God bless.
Love from the road...
Charlsea, Lisa, and Desirae
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Mountains to Climb
Hello Again from Kuta, Bali!
Even as I type this my time here grows short. Indonesia will soon be a thing of the past. Replaced with the mystery of Malaysia and then the excitement of Thailand. Our time here has been everything rolled into one - hectic and peaceful, exciting and slow, expected and unexpected. And while I am behind on my blogging, don't you fear! I will eventually catch up. There are many stories from this amazing country yet to come. Here is the second tale...
I want to tell you the story of Gurung Rinjani. It was told to me by a local boy from Lombok. He was about my age and originally from the small seaside town of Sengiggi. He is now studying at the university in Mataram. He was quiet. Shy around girls. He was a Muslim. I can not imagine having less in common with an individual than I did with this boy. But we all share a love for stories. It’s the oldest form of art, the most ancient form of human enjoyment. This is the story he told me.
Long ago, before Indonesia was Indonesia, before the islands were ruled by one government, there were many kings and many kingdoms. This was before Islam, before Hindu, before Christianity touched these shores. This was a time when the people still cowered before mountains of fire and worshipped gods they created to explain the havoc they could not.
During this time Java was ruled by a selfish prince. His land and seas were abundant. His farms and family were beautiful. But he looked upon Lombok with desire and jealousy. Lombok, the small island to the East, was ruled by a pleasant king and his kind queen, Rinjani. They enjoyed the joys of their islands’ beauty and their islands’ people. They were civil and sincere. They enjoyed a good party.
And so the prince of Java came to call on the king of Lombok. The king knew of his guests’ jealousy and evil desires. But he could not deny his guest. Instead he threw an outrageous party in honor of him. He brought in dancers and musicians from all over the island. The best food, the most delicious drinks were laid before his guest. All day and all night they ate and drank. They laughed and listened. By late night, the queen of Lombok had grown weary. She tenderly kissed her husband goodnight and departed, leaving the men to be men.
The prince of Java took of everything offered and then he took more. He guzzled the drinks. He scarfed the food. He groped the dancers and laughed too loud. The king kept up with him drink for drink. He watched the jealous prince grow mad before his eyes. Maybe he expected the prince to drink himself into a stupor. Maybe he expected a fight. He did not expect the prince to suddenly and violently plunge a dagger into his back. No warning. No remorse. The king died.
Chaos reigned. The party was full of shuffling feet, fleeing servants. The prince charged forth. His work was not done. He needed to find the queen. He needed to finish what he had started.
Can you imagine him creeping into the royal palace? All is quiet. Shadows watch his movements, mocking his every move. The moonlight weeps tears of silvery light. He creeps towards the queens’ bungalow. He parts her ornate silk curtains. His dagger is ready. Her husbands’ blood not even dry on the blade. He steps out of the shadows…There is no one there! The bed is empty. Someone knew. Someone had seen his thoughts. The queen was gone.
She had fled. With a servant? With a son or daughter? She fled the ease of her kingdom. She did not know of her husbands’ death. She only knew she was in danger. She raced along the dirt paths under the watchful eyes of swaying palms and whispering rivers. The moonlight shifted to cover her path.
The road led her far. She traveled fast. But not as fast as the word of her husbands’ death. Servants whispered to maids. Maids to delivery boys. Delivery boys to journeymen and farmers. Farmers to the mysterious gods of the mountains – “The king is dead. The king is dead.” In the hills and the valleys, across the rivers and to the very mouths of fire spewing forth their lava and flame, the word traveled faster than the queen. It arrived before she did to the first stop of her long journey.
Lombok was filled with family of the kings and queens past and present. The old family’s and the new generations all flowed across the land. And so it was that the queen arrived at an uncles’ house. This uncle lived close to a river, high in the hills. He had been plagued for years with a disease that made his nose run with a dreary and dreadful snot. All day for years and years, his nose ran and ran. It ran so much that it colored the water of the river he lived on a yellowish, sluggish brown. She stopped to see this uncle. She asked if he had news of her husband. She pleaded. She waited. But he only sniffled and sneezed. There were no answers there but to this day the river runs a sluggish brown-yellow.
On she went. She arrived at the second uncle’s house. This uncle was known for his long flowing beard. So great was this beard that it covered the valley and flowed across the land. His beard whispered and waved in the wind but it did not tell her the answers she was searching for. The queen walked forlornly on through the hills covered by his deep beard. Today the rice terraces flow throughout this valley like the uncle’s beard of long ago.
No answers but she knew. Her heart was already weeping when she arrived at the third uncles’ house. He was greatest among the brothers. The lord of a domain of beauty and despair and hope and tragedy. He knew what it was the queen sought and he had great pity for her. He knew she was never to be safe and he knew that her broken heart would never heal. He watched her approach with tears in his eyes. When she came to him, he held out his hand. “He is dead. He is dead.”
She cried tears of pure sorrow. They filled the lake at his feet with a blue so pure and deep that no one could take their eyes away. She took his hand. “Where do you wish to go? You cannot stay here.” He looked at her as he asked this question.
She did not know where she wanted to go. She wanted desperately to be near her husband but she could not bring herself to leave her beloved island. Without knowing where she was going, she led the uncle to a high peak overlooking the valley and the sea, the rice paddies and the lake her tears had filled. Here her arms could touch heaven, her feet could touch her beloved island. “Here.” She said. “Here I belong.”
The uncle looked at her and said, “Yes, Rinjani, my queen. Here is where you shall stay.” And so the second highest peak in all of Indonesia came to be. It is a volcanic mountain whose fury and anger has wiped clean entire villages, whose beauty and grace have inspired thousands of pilgrims. Whose very presence speaks of tragedy and of love.
I wanted to tell you this story because I have stood on the summit of Gurung Rinjani, Indonesia’s second highest peak and one that as recently as 2004 spewed angry ash and lava into the air. I have seen the valley below her as it changed from a velvety blanket of night to a glistening gleam of green rice paddies. I’ve watched the sun warm the mountains shear sides and felt her crumbling rock slide beneath my feet. I’ve fought for air at her staggering heights and lost my breath at the very sight of her beautiful lake.
Rinjani is more than a mountain – she’s a lesson in strength and fortitude. A reminder that pain and discomfort are often the only paths to peace and beauty. A reminder that the best views cannot be accessed by an air conditioned gondola or an escalator.
There is so much to tell about our journey. I could fill page upon page of descriptions and explanations. I could bend your ears for hours about how humbling it was to hike in unbelievable heat and humidity for 9 hours following guides who easily navigated paths even when laden with all our food and equipment while we staggered behind scrambling and whining about our packs which carried only clothing and a little water. I could make you laugh out loud talking about the monkeys that scrambled around us when we took our lunch breaks and how they scampered and seemed to dare each other to get closer and closer to this obvious feast just out of their reach. I could make you cringe talking about rising at 3 am to hike in pitch black up a slope full of crags and sharp rocks where our imaginations had us believing a wrong step in one direction, just a few centimeters out of our flashlights glow, would surely send us tumbling over a huge cliff. I could tell you of the stars that blinked and winked at us. Of the way the sun flirted with the horizon for hours, first casting a grayish glow, then a warming yellow, then a flattering red, before bursting forth into a vibrant and exuberant glow of orange and flame.
But could I, with all these words, make you feel the last slope as we approached 12000 feet? The way the rock slid from under our feet. The way our bodies gasped for air to thin to fill our lungs? Could you understand the mental and physical turmoil? Could I express the fulfillment and joy and appreciation that waited for us at the top? How the view was secondary to that feeling of completion and contentment? No, I’m not that good of a story teller.
But I can tell you the story of the great mountain. I could not find it in the Lonely Planet Guide. I haven never heard it before or since. It was passed from our ‘porter’ who carried the bulk of our food and equipment on a bamboo stick. He told the youth from Mataram. Our porter was young as well but he seemed old. He seemed as if he knew the land as an old man knows the home he built with his own hands. It was a real story – the kind you hear around campfires full of cowboys, on barstools full of old miners, in kitchens full of laughing women. The kind of story I fell in love with as a child. And it tells of Rinjani in a way I could never explain or imagine.
Before I leave Rinjani forever I have a few “thank you’s” that are due:
I would like to thank Erin for making me buy that $5 sarong in Maui. Not only has it flown countless miles serving as my pillow or blanket but it has now made the trek up Rinjani as my head and ear protector in those early hours before dawn.
Thanks to Boo for an ancient red bandana that saved my scalp from the burning sun and added the much needed thin layer between my bare head and the nippy air in our tent at the base of the summit. It also covered some horrendously dirty hair by day 3.
For a simple pair of lifesaving socks that were tucked away in my stocking a few years ago, I owe a big thank you to my Momma. She probably had no idea those tan and maroon socks would save my little feetsies from Rinjani’s cruel paths – but boy did they ever.
My body would like to thank my father for the extra large bottle of Advil he purchased for me before I left.
And of course, to my two climbing companions, Lisa and Desirae, whose encouragement and strength pushed and pulled me to the top. Thanks ladies – here’s to us. May the rest of the journey be a gently sloping and downhill all the way.
That's it for now. May you be safe and prosperous until we meet again.
Miss you all from the road.
Even as I type this my time here grows short. Indonesia will soon be a thing of the past. Replaced with the mystery of Malaysia and then the excitement of Thailand. Our time here has been everything rolled into one - hectic and peaceful, exciting and slow, expected and unexpected. And while I am behind on my blogging, don't you fear! I will eventually catch up. There are many stories from this amazing country yet to come. Here is the second tale...
I want to tell you the story of Gurung Rinjani. It was told to me by a local boy from Lombok. He was about my age and originally from the small seaside town of Sengiggi. He is now studying at the university in Mataram. He was quiet. Shy around girls. He was a Muslim. I can not imagine having less in common with an individual than I did with this boy. But we all share a love for stories. It’s the oldest form of art, the most ancient form of human enjoyment. This is the story he told me.
Long ago, before Indonesia was Indonesia, before the islands were ruled by one government, there were many kings and many kingdoms. This was before Islam, before Hindu, before Christianity touched these shores. This was a time when the people still cowered before mountains of fire and worshipped gods they created to explain the havoc they could not.
During this time Java was ruled by a selfish prince. His land and seas were abundant. His farms and family were beautiful. But he looked upon Lombok with desire and jealousy. Lombok, the small island to the East, was ruled by a pleasant king and his kind queen, Rinjani. They enjoyed the joys of their islands’ beauty and their islands’ people. They were civil and sincere. They enjoyed a good party.
And so the prince of Java came to call on the king of Lombok. The king knew of his guests’ jealousy and evil desires. But he could not deny his guest. Instead he threw an outrageous party in honor of him. He brought in dancers and musicians from all over the island. The best food, the most delicious drinks were laid before his guest. All day and all night they ate and drank. They laughed and listened. By late night, the queen of Lombok had grown weary. She tenderly kissed her husband goodnight and departed, leaving the men to be men.
The prince of Java took of everything offered and then he took more. He guzzled the drinks. He scarfed the food. He groped the dancers and laughed too loud. The king kept up with him drink for drink. He watched the jealous prince grow mad before his eyes. Maybe he expected the prince to drink himself into a stupor. Maybe he expected a fight. He did not expect the prince to suddenly and violently plunge a dagger into his back. No warning. No remorse. The king died.
Chaos reigned. The party was full of shuffling feet, fleeing servants. The prince charged forth. His work was not done. He needed to find the queen. He needed to finish what he had started.
Can you imagine him creeping into the royal palace? All is quiet. Shadows watch his movements, mocking his every move. The moonlight weeps tears of silvery light. He creeps towards the queens’ bungalow. He parts her ornate silk curtains. His dagger is ready. Her husbands’ blood not even dry on the blade. He steps out of the shadows…There is no one there! The bed is empty. Someone knew. Someone had seen his thoughts. The queen was gone.
She had fled. With a servant? With a son or daughter? She fled the ease of her kingdom. She did not know of her husbands’ death. She only knew she was in danger. She raced along the dirt paths under the watchful eyes of swaying palms and whispering rivers. The moonlight shifted to cover her path.
The road led her far. She traveled fast. But not as fast as the word of her husbands’ death. Servants whispered to maids. Maids to delivery boys. Delivery boys to journeymen and farmers. Farmers to the mysterious gods of the mountains – “The king is dead. The king is dead.” In the hills and the valleys, across the rivers and to the very mouths of fire spewing forth their lava and flame, the word traveled faster than the queen. It arrived before she did to the first stop of her long journey.
Lombok was filled with family of the kings and queens past and present. The old family’s and the new generations all flowed across the land. And so it was that the queen arrived at an uncles’ house. This uncle lived close to a river, high in the hills. He had been plagued for years with a disease that made his nose run with a dreary and dreadful snot. All day for years and years, his nose ran and ran. It ran so much that it colored the water of the river he lived on a yellowish, sluggish brown. She stopped to see this uncle. She asked if he had news of her husband. She pleaded. She waited. But he only sniffled and sneezed. There were no answers there but to this day the river runs a sluggish brown-yellow.
On she went. She arrived at the second uncle’s house. This uncle was known for his long flowing beard. So great was this beard that it covered the valley and flowed across the land. His beard whispered and waved in the wind but it did not tell her the answers she was searching for. The queen walked forlornly on through the hills covered by his deep beard. Today the rice terraces flow throughout this valley like the uncle’s beard of long ago.
No answers but she knew. Her heart was already weeping when she arrived at the third uncles’ house. He was greatest among the brothers. The lord of a domain of beauty and despair and hope and tragedy. He knew what it was the queen sought and he had great pity for her. He knew she was never to be safe and he knew that her broken heart would never heal. He watched her approach with tears in his eyes. When she came to him, he held out his hand. “He is dead. He is dead.”
She cried tears of pure sorrow. They filled the lake at his feet with a blue so pure and deep that no one could take their eyes away. She took his hand. “Where do you wish to go? You cannot stay here.” He looked at her as he asked this question.
She did not know where she wanted to go. She wanted desperately to be near her husband but she could not bring herself to leave her beloved island. Without knowing where she was going, she led the uncle to a high peak overlooking the valley and the sea, the rice paddies and the lake her tears had filled. Here her arms could touch heaven, her feet could touch her beloved island. “Here.” She said. “Here I belong.”
The uncle looked at her and said, “Yes, Rinjani, my queen. Here is where you shall stay.” And so the second highest peak in all of Indonesia came to be. It is a volcanic mountain whose fury and anger has wiped clean entire villages, whose beauty and grace have inspired thousands of pilgrims. Whose very presence speaks of tragedy and of love.
I wanted to tell you this story because I have stood on the summit of Gurung Rinjani, Indonesia’s second highest peak and one that as recently as 2004 spewed angry ash and lava into the air. I have seen the valley below her as it changed from a velvety blanket of night to a glistening gleam of green rice paddies. I’ve watched the sun warm the mountains shear sides and felt her crumbling rock slide beneath my feet. I’ve fought for air at her staggering heights and lost my breath at the very sight of her beautiful lake.
Rinjani is more than a mountain – she’s a lesson in strength and fortitude. A reminder that pain and discomfort are often the only paths to peace and beauty. A reminder that the best views cannot be accessed by an air conditioned gondola or an escalator.
There is so much to tell about our journey. I could fill page upon page of descriptions and explanations. I could bend your ears for hours about how humbling it was to hike in unbelievable heat and humidity for 9 hours following guides who easily navigated paths even when laden with all our food and equipment while we staggered behind scrambling and whining about our packs which carried only clothing and a little water. I could make you laugh out loud talking about the monkeys that scrambled around us when we took our lunch breaks and how they scampered and seemed to dare each other to get closer and closer to this obvious feast just out of their reach. I could make you cringe talking about rising at 3 am to hike in pitch black up a slope full of crags and sharp rocks where our imaginations had us believing a wrong step in one direction, just a few centimeters out of our flashlights glow, would surely send us tumbling over a huge cliff. I could tell you of the stars that blinked and winked at us. Of the way the sun flirted with the horizon for hours, first casting a grayish glow, then a warming yellow, then a flattering red, before bursting forth into a vibrant and exuberant glow of orange and flame.
But could I, with all these words, make you feel the last slope as we approached 12000 feet? The way the rock slid from under our feet. The way our bodies gasped for air to thin to fill our lungs? Could you understand the mental and physical turmoil? Could I express the fulfillment and joy and appreciation that waited for us at the top? How the view was secondary to that feeling of completion and contentment? No, I’m not that good of a story teller.
But I can tell you the story of the great mountain. I could not find it in the Lonely Planet Guide. I haven never heard it before or since. It was passed from our ‘porter’ who carried the bulk of our food and equipment on a bamboo stick. He told the youth from Mataram. Our porter was young as well but he seemed old. He seemed as if he knew the land as an old man knows the home he built with his own hands. It was a real story – the kind you hear around campfires full of cowboys, on barstools full of old miners, in kitchens full of laughing women. The kind of story I fell in love with as a child. And it tells of Rinjani in a way I could never explain or imagine.
Before I leave Rinjani forever I have a few “thank you’s” that are due:
I would like to thank Erin for making me buy that $5 sarong in Maui. Not only has it flown countless miles serving as my pillow or blanket but it has now made the trek up Rinjani as my head and ear protector in those early hours before dawn.
Thanks to Boo for an ancient red bandana that saved my scalp from the burning sun and added the much needed thin layer between my bare head and the nippy air in our tent at the base of the summit. It also covered some horrendously dirty hair by day 3.
For a simple pair of lifesaving socks that were tucked away in my stocking a few years ago, I owe a big thank you to my Momma. She probably had no idea those tan and maroon socks would save my little feetsies from Rinjani’s cruel paths – but boy did they ever.
My body would like to thank my father for the extra large bottle of Advil he purchased for me before I left.
And of course, to my two climbing companions, Lisa and Desirae, whose encouragement and strength pushed and pulled me to the top. Thanks ladies – here’s to us. May the rest of the journey be a gently sloping and downhill all the way.
That's it for now. May you be safe and prosperous until we meet again.
Miss you all from the road.
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