Malaysia on my mind
I hadn't had a holiday abroad in years. Nevertheless, I arrived on a new continent straight off the bat of 7 months gallivanting between 7 countries. None of which I had visited previously, either. It was only upon arrival I fully realised the extent to which I don't do things by halves.
It was a 12-hour flight from Christchurch to Kuala Lumpur. The decision to visit South East Asia had been a mercenary one; it was cheaper to fly in and then out from any country in the region, than it was to fly directly to London. An opportunity to seize.
The thing is, when arriving in a country you know little about, all you tend to notice is what makes it different. It takes determination to look for similarities when it's so natural to notice all that's new new new.
So, I decided to indulge in the tendency. Why not intentionally imbibe all those things? They come crashing into the foreground and forming our first impressions anyway, why not swirl, smell, taste and savour?
A Hindu temple, Batu Caves, Kuala Lumpur
These are some of the heady notes I identified on that fleeting first day:
Tricky street names (containing the word Jalang a lot); temperature pushing 40 degrees; scooters jostling each other for prime position at the traffic lights; piles of shoes abandoned haphazardly on the pavement; very short people; garlands of flowers being sold from street carts; chickens on spit roasts left, right and centre (all scrawnier than the fattened versions I'm used to seeing in British supermarkets), boney, wily cats slinking in alleys; toilets without tissue (not a far cry from Bolivia or Peru) but an ominous-looking hose instead (a fellow traveller referred to it as a "bum gun"); simple, discreet mosques and wildly coloured temples coexisting on the same streets; a chaotic crush of people that simultaneously smiled at strangers.
KL's giddying, frenetic pace connected with my sense of adventure with it's wonderful 'Otherness'. Why else would you travel? Stepping outside of my norms connects me with the startling achievements of my fellow humans. I took the picture below standing beneath a 140 foot high Lord Murugan statue. It required 300 litres of gold paint to coat it. How could I not be flushed with a fizzing reminder of my own capabilities?
View from beneath the 140 foot statue of Lord Murugan, a symbol of the Hindu faith and painted in gold. Murugan guards the entrance to the Batu Caves. That staff means business!
Whether it was while visiting the Batu Caves, or Masjid Negara (The National Mosque of Malaysia) KL made my own story seem a small one. Even if I was 6,677 miles away from home.
Masjid Negara houses not just a main prayer hall with 48 smaller domes but also a 73-meter minaret, and a 16-pointed star made of concrete for the main roof. I staggered just trying to comprehend anyone daring to have a vision of such scope.
From inside the National Mosque you can see this view of a cross-section of one of the white ceiling dome features. It is embossed with gold-leaf in sections where there are words from the Quran.
After three nights in KL, a summons arrived from the Cameron Highlands' tea plantations. I answered, even though I don't like tea. I can't offer you a rational explanation about why I do this when I'm abroad.
It's like a compulsion to both better myself and tick boxes, I have also:
Taken myself to the cannon firing ceremony at Fortaleza de San Carlos, in Havana, despite being a pacifist.
Riden a bike down 'The Death Road' in Bolivia, despite having a knee-knocking terror of heights, knowing (beforehand) there were 500m sheer drops.
Tried Alpaca curry in Cusco, despite feeling traitorous because I'd stroked one a few days before. (Yes, it tasted good and no, it tasted nothing like chicken).
On this occasion though, I was neither conned nor cajoled. I'd assumed heading for the hills might offer solitude; I'd wanted the wide-open spaces and calm order of a plantation.
To my chagrin, it was sardines in a crushed tin can on the buses. We'd probably all been told the same thing, "get on one that's heading in the direction of Brinchang and get off at The Junction when you see the fruit stalls along the road".
There was no way I wanted to get in a taxi or hitchhike the final 3.5-kilometers to the BOH Tea Plantation, so I opted to walk. There was no chance of getting lost, the whole twisting trail was bumper to bumper. A line of diligent worker bees heading for the hive.
Passengers jumped from cars to help drivers navigate tricky bends; horns beeped only seemed to add to the jovial melee. The unbroken verdancy of the tea leaves, and cropping that faithfully followed the shape of the land, gave the impression of an expanse of green sea swelling across the hillocks towards the horizon. Trumpet-shaped Tropical Hibiscus: huge, bright and exotic, seemed to flaunt an entitlement to the 'National Flower of Malaysia' status, attracting a kaleidoscope of butterflies.
Camellia Sinensis: Green, Black, White, and Oolong tea are all made from these leaves.
Even when the greenery before me stretched out to a size equivalent to Singapore, it was hard to stay present. Intrusive thoughts about work niggled in the background.
Early in 2019, the National Education Union found that 26% of teachers in England, with less than five years’ experience, planned to quit by 2024. As one of the ones who has passed that 5 year milestone, and lives with the regret, I take an interest in education abroad. It can be strangely reviving.
I liked passing this particular community's tiny school, just one room deep and six rooms long. It had immaculate miniature gardens blossoming in front of each room. I wondered if my teaching career would feel more satisfactory in a simpler setting like that. But, tourists don't visit when crops fail and unless I'd broken my leg while taking photos, I had no need to consider how long it would take to get to a hospital. I also didn't consider whether I'd be able to access the final series of Stranger Things.
A single storey school building with neat flower beds planted in front of the classes.
In China, these are known as the 'shoe flower' because they are used to clean (you guessed it) leather shoes.
Langkawi, the last stop in Malaysia, had called. She regaled me with cautionary tales of cultural burnout affecting tourists. Advised me to take the opportunity to go swimming in her warm waters and eat Nasi Lemak for breakfast. How could I resist? I didn't, but we all know how even the best-laid plans...
Tsunami warnings hit within a few hours of arrival. Myself and my fellow 'falang' (local slang for 'tourists') were justifiably flapping. For a good 2 hours we tried to decide which piece of contradictory advice to follow. Members of the party left, without a destination in mind, feeling it was better than not acting.
The guest house manager was going to bustle past without a word. When I probed about what we should do he said to leave for "high ground" before rushing off on his motorbike. He didn't indicate where any was.
The taxi drivers just laughed at our requests to go inland, saying they weren't worried. I couldn't orientate myself, you go to an island to be by the sea, not hide from it. Panic increased as shops emptied while the Taxi drivers stood in groups smoking. It felt like encountering a maniacal cult, where the recklessness looks like it makes no sense but must, at least on some level, for a collective of people to find it 'normal'. They heckled about "God's will".
It wasn't my will though. So, two of us retreated to the guest house again (because misery loves company) and resigned ourselves to refreshing the weather warning website. We spent a few hours either pacing or swinging in the hammock outside the bedroom door. We'd each packed a small bag and a grim dread quelled conversation. Drowned people don't need their passports.
Then, it was all over with. The threat passed. The alarm stopped. We headed glibly out for dinner at a beach bar. We watched the sea idle innocently.
As the Bond title says, 'Die Another Day'.
00K signing off.
