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...
Saturday, June 28, 2008
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...
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