Friday, July 30, 2010

late stories: malaysia part 2: cameron highlands


the cameron highlands are a british-style hill station with gorgeous cool weather, incomprehensibly (un)marked hiking trails, and hilarious intermingling between the trickle of gringo tourists and the thick stream of locals.

ch is billed as a great place to self-hike, but all the malaysian tourists ignore the hills and drive from sight to sight.  it can get sort of trafficky, actually.  unlike us, the malaysian tourists are here only for shopping, eating, and kitschy events.   they cruise around by the bus- and car-load, bouncing from tea plantation to strawberry farm to honey bee farm and back … they tour tea plantations, pick strawberries, buy ridiculous strawberry-themed trash (e.g., pillows, umbrellas, dolls, pencils, earmuffs), sip tea, pretend to get lost in the bee-maze, eat royal jelly, buy tea sachets and tea t-shirts, and eat and eat strawberry ice cream, belgian waffles, chocolate-covered strawberries, strawberry shakes … 
of course we get in on this.
 

but for gringo tourists, since almost all of malaysia’s rugged mountains and forests require a professional guide, ch’s network of mapped, signposted hiking trails to nearby peaks and waterfalls and villages is a welcome change for the diy set.  slight problem: although the trails are beautiful, it’s generally impossible to figure out which one you’re on until (a) you show up where you were trying to go or (b) you end up someplace totally different and puzzle out where you must have been or  (c) you can’t tell whether you’re on a 5k trail or a 30k trail, and you end up turning around.  (c) was pretty frequent … there are all sorts of reasons why it makes sense to avoid allowing your 2-hour pre-breakfast jaunt to morph into an all-day, hoovering-up-the-peanut-crumbs-from-your-pants-pockets extravaganza. 

occasionally, we got lucky, found the right way by accident, and perfect pictures of peaceful hill-station life popped out of the woodwork … like this house, surrounded by fields of a feathery green spice with red flowers …
… or this one, with a household garden and household dog taking his guard-duties very seriously …

… or this little shrine, seeking good fortune  and a strong growing season from the tea-gods … 


sometimes, i really thought we were following a legit trail!  but what initially looked like a trail subtly and gradually changed into another beast entirely, until all of a sudden i’m in the jungle bushwhacking scene from “romancing the stone,” complete with mudslides and blame and eeeks! and emeralds and crocodiles and true love.   see how clean i look here?  this does not last.  

sometimes we spent most of the hike just praying for some signage – which, when we were lucky enough to find it, often looked something like this:   
 is this trail 10 or trail 11?  there’s only one way to find out.   here, there was no real difference … both of these trails lead to mountains of similar orientation,  trail-length, steepness, and sweeping panoramic vistas.  


however you choose to do it, you can’t really go wrong.

DJogJAkarta


a man in standing next to tom, beaming up at him in undisguised admiration.  "uh, i’m not sure in meters, but i’m 73 inches tall," tom is saying to the man as i backtrack a few batik-stalls to check in on the scene.  they strike up a little conversation: he is from yogya, we’ve just arrived from malaysia, this is our first stroll down malioboro road, he thinks tom is so splendidly tall and handsome.  "do you like art?" he asks.  yes, of course.*  "have you seen the art exhibition honoring the sultan’s birthday?"  no, not yet.  "o, you should see it before it moves to solo tomorrow! and" (here his voice deepens with conspiratorial pride) "my wife is part of the exhibition."  sounds lovely.  what time does it close?  "5:30.  here, it’s just down that street, take a right and then follow the signs…" he waves his hand about a half-block down, trots alongside use for a bit, then melts away.  i peer down the street: no signs.  "hallo?" another man emerges from behind a bakso stall.  "yes please?  where are you going? exhibition please?  follow me …" he motions to the left, an even smaller alleyway.  hm.   maybe later.  i turn away, wary.  “but today is the last day!” he protests.  what time does it close?  "4:30" is the confident reply (it is 4:15 now).  double hm.  a peanut gallery of women stares at us from behind their storefront counters, impassive as sergio leone’s saloon onlookers just before the big shootout.  yet another man materializes from behind a concrete slab. "yes hallo please?  art exhibition?"  um, not anymore.  i can see what’s going on now. "but it is last day.  close at 5:00."  we skedaddle, having survived the infamous batik-touts of yogyakarta, who lure cultured travelers to their overpriced batik-lairs with sweet promises of last-chance art shows. 

the next gauntlet is the sultan’s palace, set in the middle of a massive public square dotted with trinket-stalls and (sadly, less frequently) warungs selling snacks.  the entrance is suspiciously easy to locate – the guidebook warns that the non-legit entrance charges less to see a tiny portion of the palace, and the real thing charges more to see the whole thing – and yes, the entrance price is an unrealistic 5000 rupiah.  "why don’t you want to see the palace?" the ticket seller asks plaintively.  "because this is the fake palace," i call back.  safely inside, the palace grounds are spacious and chilled-out: low, open-walled, intricately carved buildings hold musical instruments, beautiful old crystal lamps and tableware, and the random personal effects of various sultans past.  my favorite is a cool, echoing tiled gallery filled with stylized portraits of the royal family.  apparently yogya’s sultans are vulcans, or maybe elves.  

yogya is an awesome jumping-off point for the nearby temples.  we motorbiked to borobudur and to candi prambanan, both stunning destinations and incredibly fun (albeit hairy) bike rides.  but yogya is also a super-charming place to explore in its own right … in the mornings, the little alleyways (“gang”) around our guesthouse are alive with bustling energy.  men sweep the gang with bristly homemade brooms, and ladies squat on the cobblestones, selling fresh breakfast in brown paper cones – to date, my favorite meal in indonesia came from this gang: for thirty cents, a smokey-flavored white mass of gooey/fluffy cassava, topped with savory young jackfruit curry, chopped long beans and crispy bits of fried tempe; the whole mass eaten messily and with gusto by hand. nearby, at tami sari (the old sultan’s water garden and bathing pools), tourists snap photos of the pools while older kids play soccer in the courtyard between the carved walls.  in the evenings, kids scurry up and down the gang, flying colorful paper-and-bamboo kites, while their parents lounge around the central square, playing badminton and snacking on fried tofu, fried banana, and soft triangles of spiced omelette.  and every home boasts at least one little bird in an elaborate little cage, trilling pretty notes and dreaming of freedom. 

*who says no to that question?  "no, i hate the stuff.  i’m a cross between an uncultured hun and a philistine and i like to sack and burn villages."

letter to lovina


dear lovina,
there are many things about you that i love. 

i love diving off pulau menjankan in a tiny group of five-plus-divemaster, all alone with the seaside temples and hypnotic walls of brightly glowing soft coral.

i love the loungey pool at the puri bali.

i love watching the local fishermen at sunset, catching dinner just a few steps out from the black sand beach.

i love your bali trash, also known as plumeria flowers in less perfect parts of the world.

i love the urapan at cafe barclona, the dolphin-boat captains too hyped-up on world-cup betting to bother asking if i want to take a dolphin trip, the streetside bakso, the dutch tourists wearing oranje balloon hats, and the dance party next door to apple’s warung.

however, for next time, please convince your cafes to play something other than tracey chapman and kenny g. 

otherwise, keep up the good work. 

love,
rebecca

Thursday, July 29, 2010

gili trawangan royalty

in case you were wondering how we're doing ...

Monday, July 26, 2010

late stories: malaysia part 1: melaka

 i could definitely use some moral uplifting. 

late stories: singapore: behind the scenes!


tom’s cousin has a good friend (britney) who lives in singapore with her husband (mack), so we take a train from kl to singapore to hang out with them for a long weekend. 

our taxi driver has no idea how to find britney and mack’s apartment complex.  “don’t you have the name of the apartment?” he asks.   tom repeats the address.  i scan the numbers on the street – they leap up and down like a high-voltage cable, with no apparent pattern.  “nobody here knows numbers,” says our driver, “we only know names.”
the name is the fabulous bel-air, and we are escorted to the 17th floor by a dark, quiet man, who rings the doorbell for us.  britney opens the door – she is blond and bright-eyed, and i don’t think i ever saw her stop smiling for the duration of our stay – hugs us, and starts talking about a tiling project with our escort.  apparently he is not our escort.  the apartment is spacious and lovely, with sweeping views of sunset over the city, marble floors, and comfy-looking couches.  it also sports a colorful carpet made of spongey alphabet-tiles, several baskets overflowing with toys, and some arty pictures of a small, handsome blond guy named anderson.  britney and anderson show us around orchard street and i try to wrap my mind around the singaporean shopping psyche.  

the gateway to singapore’s pleasure-dome: the mall.  gucci, ferragamo, chanel, mont-blanc, vuitton – there are like five louis vuitton stores within a quarter-mile radius – miu miu, yamamoto … the list stretches on, and a line stretches down the block just to enter the prada store.  it is dizzying. no indie stores in sight; here, they only know names.  britney explains: “you know how if someone asks you your hobbies, you might say something like ‘traveling’ or ‘cooking’ or ‘riding my bike’ … well, here, they say ‘shopping.’” 


we meet mack at the beaujolais (familiarly, the “beauj;” it’s their favorite spot) for some happy hour.  he is a total sweetheart, despite (unbeknownst to us) suffering from a crap day at work and being several double-vodka-sodas deep to compensate, and i can immediately see why his company was so desperate to lure him back to asia, just months after they bought a house in mill valley.  “so,” britney probes, “what kind of travelers are you?  do you, um, like to wake up early and see the sights, or do you go out a lot?”  this is a hard one; our current party-pattern isn’t really representative of my general willingness to rage, but i don’t want mack and britney to feel like they need to take us out clubbing if that’s not their thing.  “we haven’t really been drinking much while we travel,” i say around a mouthful of chardonnay.  “at home, though, we like to go out,” tom adds.  so we rage, delicately.  food is mentioned, and everyone falls all over the place trying to be accommodating of each others’ dining needs.  in fact, no one really cares where we eat by this point, so it is nachos at the beauj.  everyone has switched from chardonnay to vodka-sodies.  i overhear mack saying to britney something like “i think they’re 3 a.m.-ers” in a tone that could indicate anything from enthusiasm to despair.  someone mentions dancing and britney is suddenly on a mission.  we cab it to the tallest bar in singapore, and mack and tom wait in the cab while britney and i sweet-talk the bouncers into letting the four of us in for the price of two, plus four free drinks.  mack is still toting a murse-like briefcase.   the place is like the signature room, 90-something floors up the hancock building in chicago, and it is raging.  someone orders champagne.  mack starts eating fries off a plate at the neighboring table – “they said they were finished!” he explains.  the music gets good, and we start dancing, and pretty soon i look around and everyone is dancing.  a bachelor party revives nearby. tom and mack compare manly chest hair.  i spank bachelors. 




it is an eminently satisfying night out. 
only slightly bleary the next morning, britney and mack introduce us to their favorite noodle shop.  the noodle ladies give me and tom a cursory glance, coo and admire anderson, and deposit several plates’ worth of yummy on our table a few seconds later.   for me, a gorgeous seafood hor fun; for everyone else, some sort of pork noodle dish that tom happily pronounces “insane.” 

further explorations of singapore reveal more shopping and more food.  we discover an aptly-named place called “marvelous cream,” which sells fluffy waffle sandwiches filled with variously-flavored marvelous creams.  the big thing here is food courts that mimic traditional hawker stands – the government likes to control food quality and sanitation standards – and every mall boasts one.  yum, best hokkien mee ever, and tom finally gets the fried beef noodle he’s been dreaming of.



 
 
further explorations of mack and britney’s apartment reveal that anderson is right up there with leo as best little guy ever.  he’s really good with nouns (“hat! hat! hat!” enthusiastically pointing at my hat while britney drags him away from our room so i can change to go out), he’s got the cutest accent (britney: “everybody loves toast!”  anderson: “evewwybuzzy lub toash!”), and he does this thing called “getting excited” that basically looks like he’s going to jump out of his skin, and you can tell isn’t good for him but it is so damned funny you can’t help pissing yourself laughing. 

it amazes me that britney and mack can tear themselves away, but they can, and they take us out for a real expat’s day on the town.  we sip free-flowing champagne and snack on italian delights, brunching with friends on the resort island of sentosa, and britney persuades one of the staff to give her a ride on the back of his go-kart.  “she’s obsessed with ‘behind the scenes,’” mack explains as she rides away, literally whooping with glee.  we check out a long stretch of fake beach, complete with imported sand, fake wave machines and very real mojitos, and britney gets behind the scenes with the dj until his boss ambles over and we all return to our proper roles as staff and guest.  we lounge on the quays, sipping aged japanese whisky like the bankers of old who made singapore the glorious monument to perfected consumerism that it is today.   and finally, after a rousing and mostly on-key chorus of “happy birthday” to our taxi driver, we end up at home, playing “where’s the salami?”  with anderson and a piece of plastic italian sausage. 


i usually say that san francisco is like a playground for adults, and singapore is too – a colorful fluffy southeast asian playpen, snacks and baubles galore.  except with secret police. 

Sunday, July 25, 2010

sembalun


“miss rebecca!” 
“i grow carrots and chicken!”
“miss rebecca!”
“i am shy and polite and beautiful!”
“i am fat and curious and humble!” 
“miss rebecca!”
“what is your hobby?”
“my hobbies are studying and playing volleyball!”
“shakira is sexier than maradona!”
“i have three brothers!”
“miss rebecca!”
“i am from sembalun bumbung!”

when i found the fourth world love website, i didn’t really think that i’d end up teaching english. but fourth world love says they’re all about giving sembalun what the people of sembalun ask for.  and so, since 4wl funds the community development center of sembalun, and the cdc runs the volunteer program, and cdc tells me to teach english … i will teach english. sure, i’ve taught some stuff before.  i’ve taught the lsats to semi-adult, overachieving law-school hopefuls.  i’ve taught little kids how to ride horses, way back when i was a slightly bigger kid.  but i’ve never taught english.  and i’ve certainly never taught english to 60 twelve-year-olds who hardly speak a lick of it.

but here i am, teaching english. i never knew it could be so satisfying -- or so fun!  of course, it is the people who make it fun.  when i ride into school on the back of anto’s motorbike, all the kids pour out onto the football field, all smiles and shouting and waving.  they argue over whose class will get the foreign teacher for the day.  they climb up the outside walls in order to peer in through the windows -- and sometimes answer my questions from outside!  they crowd around, tugging at different parts of my outfit, indicating a button, a belt, a bracelet; they are eager to learn the names for everything. girls’ faces peek out from underneath their jilbabs, and as the week goes on, curiosity overcomes shyness.  when they learn how to describe each other, two girls start nudging and pointing at each other: “my best friend is crazy!”  one boy in the junior high school is my tireless lieutenant: he follows me around the class, explaining what i say to the others, bossing the others around, posing in my sunglasses.  a little guy in my cdc class is a budding actor – he is excited to participate when we act out the words for “crazy” and “scared” and (especially) “dead.”  and imagine my surprise when the entire elementary school class breaks into song on the day we practice colors!

it is amazing how time can move so quickly in a slow-paced town.  one week is definitely not enough!  i am sad to leave, but i am so happy to have come, and i have so many beautiful moments to remember … i will miss teaching the kids complicated american handshakes and high-fives.  i will miss hanging out with the cdc’s informal club for young men, listening to the soft sounds of “house of the rising sun” on the guitar, asking endless questions about bahasa indonesia and sasak life in lombok.   i will miss the gorgeous panorama of rice and garlic and coffee tomato fields in the shadow of gunung rinjani, on the way from sembalun lawang to sembalun bumbung.  i will miss my friend anto’s wonderful sense of humor, the way he revs his motorbike when we pass by some girls he knows, his explanations of the many possible ways to deal with lombok police.  i will miss hanging out and cooking jajan dadar with my friend miss paizah, a teacher at the elementary school and one of the sweetest, friendliest, and most energetic women i have ever met – i wish we lived next door to each other!  i will miss watching super family on tv with my homestay family, my mom inak gip’s delicious cooking and her incredible patience with my attempts to speak bahasa.  (here is a tip for you:  “ayam anda” means “your chicken.”  “anda ayam” means “you are a chicken.”)  i will miss comparing biceps with teacher albert during post-class coffee and snacks.  and i will miss the good-natured throttling of the elementary school girls, who decorate my arms with stickers and fake tattoos and grass bracelets, and roll their eyes around and yell “i love you! i love you!” when it’s time for me to go. 

after only a week here, i feel a little bit like i am from sembalun too. 



Friday, July 23, 2010

opportunity croaks

i first heard them in thailand: a resonating om from the marshes and swamps, low and vibrating like a bow across a cello's strings.  sometimes their voices pitched up in question, then, as if answering themselves, pitched-down.  for weeks, i was entranced, and whenever i heard the om-thrum, i stood as near to it as i could calculate, listening and smiling.  i could never find the singers, though; shy, i think, their voices always hidden in the thickest part of the reeds and weeds.  until one day in malaysia, traveling from melaka to the cameron highlands, the bus from ipoh to tanah rata broke down in the station, and everyplace nearby refused to deal with fixing it.  so we barreled down the rain-slick highway (naturally, in the opposite direction from our intended destination), smoking oil, fume-clouds drifting from the engine-chamber through the body of the bus, to the bus company's home base, for the necessary part.  it's raining, and dark, and there are no real snacks to be had, and you would think that this might suck.  but then the resonant om appears, deeply echoing and close, and finally i get to see the little round guys who have charmed and fascinated me so many evenings.  they are in the sewers, surrounded by trash, keeping it beautiful.


i've neither seen nor heard them since.