Wednesday, December 31, 1997

New Years Eve is always underwhelming. I try to sleep through it when I can. It's another holiday with overrated expectations. My frequent flyer ticket is valid for that day. I cashed in years worth of work related travel to get one round-the-world ticket on Singapore Airlines. My major stopping points are established. The details will be filled in over time; San Francisco to Singapore to Frankfurt to New York to San Francisco.

A good friend drops me off at the airport. I am early with lots of time to relax, get some lunch and get used to the idea of solo travel. Scared, scared, scared, but I am going anyway. If I thought about it, there is nothing to be scared of, except maybe my own shadow and bouts of loneliness. I have traveled frequently by myself for work. This journey is different. It has no structure, no objective, no real purpose other than going. The fear of being hurt? Driving in Silicon Valley traffic is a daily life-threatening event, not to mention slippery showers, earthquakes and computer monitors. The travel books have extensive sections about every bug, beast or microbe that could possibly invade your personal space. I had shots, lots of them, to arm myself against hepatitis, tetanus, typhoid, and who knows what other agonizing jungle deaths. Pills in my suitcase to avoid malaria. I'm ready, I'm prepared, and I am still scared.

But I get on the plane anyway. What else is there to do? I wasn't invited to any swinging New Years Eve parties. Besides, I have to go now, I've told everyone goodbye and someone else is living in my house for the next five months. I even have a new suitcase.

Uptight and nervous, I watch other travelers going places while I wander to and fro pulling my "carry-on with wheels". It contains four t-shirts, two shorts, one skirt, four pair of underwear and 3 bras, some socks, my sandals and some new, deluxe hiking boots. I stressed about what to bring. Fancy designed travel clothes were analyzed in catalogs and stores. Two heavy rain jackets were bought and returned. Finally, I took regular stuff. I'll figure it out when I get there. Then there is the film, lots of film in a lead protector pouch. A woman at the airport security station brags that her powerful machine can see through the pouch. And of course, I must take all sorts of daily ritual potions, shampoo, Band-Aids, aspirin, and deodorant.

Okay, so much for laundry lists and knowing the contents of one of those wheely suitcases that everyone is pulling around in airports these days. I get onto the plane with great anticipation and settle into the seat for a long flight of movies and cramped snoozing quarters. The captain makes his welcoming announcements, telling us it is January first in Singapore, I have missed New Years. Gone are my visions of tooting horns at midnight as we cross the date line or other man made timelines. Maybe I'll have a glass of champagne anyway.

 

I made it. 3 am, first night, Singapore hotel.

Business class is definitely a worthwhile thrill for such a long plane ride. I get such a kick with the booties and eye patches they give us to make the ride more enjoyable. The food is good, there are lots of movies to choose from on my private viewing screen. It is fun to feel so pampered. We stop for an hour in Seoul, Korea. It's a refueling stop. Everyone needs to get off the plane. There we all are, in the middle of the night, wandering the halls of the airport. Some smoking, others looking at shop windows. I walk the halls, feeling disjointed, trying to get some exercise.

Friday, January 2, 1998

Two something in the am, January second. That's okay. Singapore is a very efficient airport. I'm out of the plane, in a cab and in my "hotel" in about thirty minutes. Through the wonders of the web, I arranged a room at one of the YMCAs in Singapore. It has a good location and good price. Wired and tired, I make a quick call to tell family I've arrived then I try to get to sleep. It doesn't happen easily. I take a shower. What in the world am I doing? It will take time to loosen up. Eventually I sleep.

Awake with the morning light, I don't know anything. It's like I'm showing up for the first day of school. The choices of where to go and what to do are confusing. I try to get oriented to time zones, weather and other oddities. Armed with my Lonely Planet guidebook and a map from the info desk of the hotel, I go forth to explore. The air is a blanket of heat and humidity. The plants are tropical, green and lush. The city is standard issue concrete and cars. I walk through streets of "Little India". The modern subway takes me to Orchard Road, the "Shoppers Way". I stroll from Burburries to Gucci with Levis, Starbucks and other name brand confections along the way. Logos and merchandising are quite alive in Singapore. Eventually I escape to an air-conditioned movie theater and a newly released James Bond movie. My exploration continues with high tea at a vestige of "nose in the air" British colonialism. It's a strange blend of crumpets and dim sum, complete with Earl Gray tea as well. The ceiling fan turns and the band plays on. It's an experience enjoyed yet lacking for the want of a friend to share it with.

I return to my hotel room to sleep, perchance to dream. Rather to be awake, lonely, confused, sad and wondering about this self imposed exile. Escape. Time for an out of the box, away from the familiar experience. Well, here I am. I write in my journal, random scratchings saying little through my tiredness.

Saturday, January 3, 1998

I go on more wanderings, from Arab town to travel agents and an English bookstore. I am planning the next step on my way. I've decided to go to Malaysia. From the city map I figure out where the bus station is and choose a route to get there. My walking takes me past apartment buildings and neighborhood markets. It's fun to see how everyone lives. It's almost Chinese New Year and there are shops with all sorts of red and glittering decorations. I check out a few of them and decide to get some New Years Cards to send to everyone. The decorations are colorful tissue paper creations that come in garlands, tassels and everything in between. I'd love to have a bunch for a party with my nieces. I'm missing home.

Eventually I make my way to the empty block that serves as a bus depot. There is a trailer shack where I get my bus ticket for tomorrow to the town of Malacca. I walk another route back to the hotel. It's a chance to survey more of the city. As long as I walk slowly, it's not too hot. Occasionally there are nice stores to go into for air-conditioned relief. I get back to my room and read the travel book on Malaysia I bought in one of the English bookstores. I hope it all works out. I don't know where to stay when I get there but that's all part of the adventure. Give it a go.

Sunday, January 4, 1998

All nervous, I get up and pack and get to the bus. I've made a jelly sandwich from the breakfast bar to take for the bus ride. I don't have the packing, getting going routine down. A taxi takes me to the bus. I climb on with other travelers going north from Singapore to Malacca, Malaysia.

The bus stops at Singapore boarder. The passengers must get off the bus, walk through the customs building and then back on the bus. A few minutes later, we stop at the Malaysian boarder, get off the bus, go through customs again, get the passport stamped and then get back on the bus. We travel miles of highways past palm trees as far as the eye can see. It's a modern highway that cuts north on the western side.

Our bus arrives in Malacca. I have met two sisters returning to their birthplace. They live in Australia now. I am thankful that they have taken me under their wing. We first walk to their hotel, the Radison. It is a typical, international hotel. After they checked in, they go with me to examine few less expensive hotel options.

It is a huge help. I am nervous about the hotel search aspect of my journey. Finding a hotel has always been a trauma for some reason. Finding the right hotel, luxury at a bargain price is an ongoing quest. My stress is increased with the knowledge that hotels have a wide variety of rack rates, and discounts. The desk clerk can give me a deluxe room or a dud. Money money money, spending and enjoying, it is one of the things to explore on this trip. We survey a few of the options available. I settle on one, the "Lucky Inn" not too far from the Radison. It's sparse, clean and reasonable.

We meet up again and begin wandering around Malacca. Our first stop is lunch with "real" Malaysian food at a local place. The sisters are careful to guard my western stomach, warning me of things that won't agree with my digestion. We find the café they used to go for ice cream treats. Actually, it's a shaved ice concoction with syrup and jelly substances topped condensed milk. I drink bottled water. The water source for the shaved ice is not to be trusted. We continue our walk, looking in temples and antique stores. Later, we stop at a tea shop. While sitting at the table, the owner tells us about Portuguese settlers and language. It is quite the history lesson.

Malacca, like many Asian cities, experienced a building explosion that has recently come to a standstill with the financial crisis. While the expansion was in progress, the waterfront area was extended with landfill to create ocean front property for resort and commercial development. In many of the antique shops, the sisters and I had seen Chinese pottery pieces and coins. We were told they just washed up from the ocean. The true source was more involved.

There had been a hill in town who's name meant "Bad Hill" because it was a place of pirates and tragedy. It was rumored that treasures were buried there. When landfill was needed for expansion projects, this hill was targeted. Bulldozers moved the dirt with no allowance for history or archeological excavation. The land was pushed straight into the ocean. A very bad three-day storm hit the region, washing a large gully through the entire, newly filled area. The storm exposed coins, pottery and even skeletons on nearby beaches. Artifacts kept washing ashore. Locals collected them. Many bad things were said to have happen to those who did. The locals made a report to the developers. In order to continue the project the evil spirits needed to be exorcised. Chinese and others religious leaders were brought in to appease the spirits.

 

Food stalls make all sorts treats on the spot. Banana drinks and fruit on sticks are popular.

The teashop owner goes on to say how the development projects were funded by greed and corrupt development consortiums from Singapore. After hearing the end of the story, it is time to move on. The sisters show me where the old beachfront had been; it is now a quarter of a mile inland. Beyond, on the new oceanfront, stands a huge luxury hotel resort complex, a mall and block after block of empty business complexes. Where are the businesses? Where are the hoards of tourists? A bridge heading to an island just off shore ends halfway to the island. Construction is halted due to financial difficulties. Throughout my travels in Asia, I saw many instances of huge, aggressive building projects. Thousand room hotels in remote vacation destinations with limited access. Office complexes, skyscrapers, all stand empty, without tenants. Sometimes they are only skeletons of uncompleted towers. Who has the need or money to rent these places?

After the afternoon of wandering and experiencing the city through the eyes of the sisters, we return to their hotel for dinner. Ramadan has started. Muslims cannot eat or drink from sunrise to sunset. The Ramada hotel puts on a fancy dinner buffet with local food for the fast breaking at sunset. The sisters recommend it highly. I splurge and enjoy. Dessert includes the shaved ice confections made with "safe" source water. It turns out that one of the sisters is a food critic for a newspaper in Australia! The food is delicious but the stories the sisters' share of their lives are even better.

Monday, January 5, 1998

Malacca is okay. There isn't anything else I want to see or do. I decide to go. My next stop is the Cameroon Highlands and hill country. I make my way back to the bus station in Malacca, get a ticket for Kuala Lumpur and then head on my way. I feel better, the first day and night on the road is behind me. Gradually I'll get the hang of this solo travel business. The bus arrives in Kuala Lumpur after working it's way through lots of city traffic. Any thoughts of sticking around are gone after looking at the city. It is a huge, busy place that is full of construction and pollution. I take the next bus to Cameroon Highlands after an uninspiring lunch in a restaurant across from the bus station.

The second bus works its way out of the city, back to the highway. Green is everywhere on the way with a lush exuberance of palm trees, bananas, and ivy. It's raining, that's how things stay green. I like how the bus drivers honk and wave to each other.

The road goes up, winding it's way through the mountain on a skinny road. We pass cliffs, houses and people sitting on the side of the road watching it all go

by from their bamboo huts. Scraggly dogs and naked kids appear and then fade back into the mountainous jungle green. There is beauty this drama. Each turn of the bus on the windy road is a breath holder. I have faith that the driver knows what he's doing. He has traveled this way before. Again I am nervous about where to stay when I get to Cameroon Highlands. The guidebook gives sketchy info. I pick a few places that sound promising. The bus arrives in a scratchy mountain town. It shows signs of recent developments in anticipation of increased tourism. I don't see flocks of tourists to create the anticipated demand for rooms.

A graceful face carved from wood is one of many statues for sale in an antique shop in Malacca.

I go to the dining room for dinner. It is good. I like Indian food. I feel awkward in my singleness because of candles on the tables and couples talking softly by themselves. Still, I'd rather be on this journey than at home waiting for a companion to enable my trip. There is an ongoing parade of romantic moments that I savor by myself. I read too many tacky novels. They have put ideas of partnered bliss in my head. Reality, from past partnered experiences, is often less dreamy. It would be nice to have a friend to share this with. But I don't. I return to my room, write in my journal, read some of my novel then go to sleep to crickets and other mountain jungle sounds.

Tuesday January 6, 1998

Muslim prayers to awake the faithful. The speaker warbles in the not too far distance. I am awake. I was awake before. Rain gently patters on the leaves. I think too much. About how to do travel business, how to meet people, staying in the right places. It's going to take several weeks to unwind into all of this. I'm finally oriented to the time zone and the heat and the humidity.

It is time to explore this place. I've signed up for a local tour after breakfast.

The small van packs me in with other random tourists. Our first stop is a new Chinese temple. It is big, new, and cost a lot to build. Twelve monks and nuns live here and tend the grounds.

Our next stop is a tea plantation. The curvy roads lead to acres of tea bushes hugging the mountain sides. Our tour guide's grandfather was one of the original Indian workers brought by the English to clear the land and plant the first tea bushes. They came because they were the most knowledgeable about planting and caring for tea. His grandfather only lived 10 years after arriving in Cameron Highlands. The work is difficult. His son did not follow in his father's footsteps. He opened a supply shop. The grandson gives tours. Today the tea workers are mostly from Pakistan. They live in huts on the tea plantation and go home once a year to spend time with their families.

Americans tend to think of ourselves as a melting pot, a collection of immigrants moving to a new world. But other parts of the planet are just as fluid with people traveling for work and new opportunities. The next generations evolve, becoming part of their new home carrying some of their own. Was the guide Indian or Malaysian or some of both?

Both of my parents were born in Ukraine. I feel so totally American. Physically I can easily pass for just another wasp type person. Would it be very different if I was Asian? Am I Ukrainian? I don't think so. As I see more places, I feel more strongly American, and proud of it. We are blessed with so many opportunities. These thoughts are with me often on the trip.

Our tour continues with a visit to a butterfly farm. A fenced in place where butterflies flitter around. An added attraction is the bug display showing local beetles. They are pretty with their iridescent shells. After the tour, I wander through town and get a few postcards. I feel awkward. I want to take a hike but don't feel comfortable going solo into the jungle. I've got my fancy boots and proper warnings for leaches and other creepy crawlies. A hike by myself unknown territory is beyond my comfort zone.

 

Tropical flowers are exotic and abundant. The blossoms range from stark white to florescent pink

I try to relax, to read, and to write. I think about pulling out the small paper and paints I brought. It's a good idea that doesn't work in practice. I read some more. When the rain lets up, I go to the garden and have afternoon tea and write post cards about what a wonderful time I'm having and how beautiful it all is. The beautiful part is true, but I'm lonely and wishing there was someone to talk to. But I'm shy and unsure of myself and what I'm doing. Ah yes, this is what adventure travel is all about. This is the picture in the brochure. I'm smiling in the postcard and slapping mosquitoes on the sly.

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Bhudda tiles in a new Chinese temple in Cameroon Highlands. Thousands cover the walls inside the main temple.

Wednesday, January 7, 1998

Raining, more rain, so I decide to take the bus from Cameron Highlands to Penang. I have reserved a very comfortable hotel. It's a long bus ride. Because of Ramadan, the bus driver can't eat until sundown. I hold my breath as we wind down the mountain road and then barrel down the highway. I know I'd be a crazy person if I hadn't eaten all day. I trust the driver's skill, but I still wish he could have had lunch. He drives fast, as if going faster would make time fly. It doesn't. But in time, sundown comes. We pull into a roadside stop with other buses. Ah, food.

Back in the bus after the dinner break, we continue in darkness and arrive in Penang. Even though I've got a reservation at a hotel, it's dark and I don't know where the hotel is located. Fortunately, a "coincidence", the bus drives past the hotel and then around the block to the bus station. We stop. I'm off with my trusty bag on wheels to check into comforts of the modern business world. I settle into the big bathtub and wrap myself in the familiar. The world of business travel is more known to me than the backpackers trail. Budget wise, the insulated, country-neutral corporate chain hotel is expensive. Once in a while they are a luxury to ease travel kinks. I've not been gone all that long, but it takes time to acclimate to everything being so different. With all these new experiences, there is lots of culture shock. Yes, I can "handle" it, but it's hard to feel always watchful, dealing with unknown, the lack of understanding, and the loneliness. I am very glad to be here and taking this journey. Ah, the bath feels great!

Thursday, January 8, 1998

Refreshed from the bath and good comfortable night sleep. The window outside my room overlooks a city landscape filled with construction. Cranes tower over concrete and scaffolding. I hope the financial traumas don't hurt the locals too much. The sky is clear, with a few puffy clouds. I get up to walk and look and walk more. I go down alleys, past temples and mosques, exploring everywhere, occasionally pulling out the tourist camera to capture a picture. It all goes by in images and sounds and smells and light and heat and humidity and people and shops and pushcarts and cars and life of a bustling city.

I find Ft. Cornwallis, memories of colonial days. I wonder what it was like to run a European fort here, with wool uniforms and marching. It must have been very strange. There are cruise ships in the harbor. This is one of their travel stopping points. In the afternoon, I take the hotel shuttle to their sister property on the beach. The region is a beach and holiday spot with a string of luxury hotels that runs along the beach. I sit in the shade on the beach with a drink and watch the tourists.

 

A mosque on a side street in Penang. Just down the street is a Chinese temple.

A group of young Japanese women have dared each other to go parasailing. A man on the beach straps one of the women into a halter contraption. At the appropriate signal, the boat driver guns it. The line tied to the "passenger" goes taunt, the sail fills with air and the passenger is hoisted aloft with many squeals and screams. The screaming fades in the distance as the boat moves away from the shore making its circle. As it returns, the passenger swings around and poised to land near the departure point. The next participant is made ready. This is repeated until all the women have taken their turn, complete with a photograph to record the event. I'm too chicken to do something like that. They look like they enjoyed meeting the challenge. I walk in and out of beach hotels until it is time to take the bus back.

Friday, January 9, 1998

It is time for some resting. I take advantage of the comfort of my room to read and rest. I've been on this adventure for about a week. I'm getting the hang of it, getting more comfortable with the going, wandering, taking it one day at a time. Maybe tomorrow I'll continue north to Thailand. I'll be meeting Traci there soon, why not see what that is like.

There is fairly large shopping mall attached to my hotel. All age groups shop and wander the multilevel collection of goods and services. Prosperity has made consumers of the locals. Good for them. For now, I am off to find a cyber café. The world becomes modern. The taxi drops me at another multistory shopping mall. This mall seems to attract a lot of young people. They are hanging out, walking, drinking coffee and in general being seen. The cyber café is on the second floor. I settle in front of my assigned station, a black Siemens/Nixdorf computer running Windows 95 and Netscape Communicator. Air-conditioning and blaring music complete the ambiance. There are about 20 computers with cyber surfers, mostly young men but a few young women too, surfing, playing games, or chatting. Even the bellman at the hotel has an email address!

My technology fix is a big help. Faxes, phones, and emails make the gaps in distance and time smaller. The loneliness abates in those moments of communication. I am with people I know. Heart fuel is so necessary.

 

Streetside advertising reflects modern opportunities.

Technology is finding its way around the planet. In this northwest corner of Malaysia I connect to the bigger world. It's not that common now, but in a very short time, the internet has made windows for the world to see each other. The search for world wide cyber access gives me a mission. It is a quest that goes beyond of usual tourist boundaries.

There seems to be a "modern" worldwide culture that is familiar but different. The mall is a conglomeration of loud music, stores and McDonalds with teenagers cruising in groups of giggles, gossip and jeans. They check each other out and occasionally survey the merchandise that surrounds them. The town square has been replaced by air-conditioned enclosed storefronts, just like most urban and suburban environments in America. Is it different in the rural areas where the air-conditioned enclosures have yet to be constructed?

I walk the few miles back to my hotel. It's a chance to see more of the back streets and watch how people live. A sign on the side of the road encourages parents to send their children to computer classes. There they can learn computers to be able to make profitable multimedia productions. Cars stop on the side of the road to buy snacks and drinks from roadside vendors. The streets are lines with tall buildings and small shacks, apartment buildings tower over temples and mosques.