blur

Written November 25th, halfway through the 11 week trip.

Part I is from a fiesta-colored, sweaty dreambus on the way to a town with no name. Part II is from that village destination, written in a hammock swinging over leaves the size of platters.

***

I.

Having a hard time keeping up here... Everything blurs together in time, and before I have a moment to catch my breath and hold still for a moment, we're off again. The lull in Kuala Lumpur--for those brief days of being a guest, rather than a vagabond--were beautiful. But holding still allowed me the insight of just how exhausted I am. I'm okay with being exhausted; it's a result of soaking in everything that I possibly can, which takes a lot of energy--but I only say it because I feel like it would be dishonest to not admit it: traveling has made me tired.

Our first real day of relaxation in Kuala Lumpur was going to see Twilight, stocked up with Malaysian coconut treats, a couple bottles of wine, and a whole lot of build-up that surprisingly did not disappoint. It was an epic Thanksgiving.

And now I'm in Thailand, where the world shifts once again and the newness of this space and of the scents and colors and smiles and the curly-cue language I could never hope to read...

We began with a 48-hour stint in Bangkok (planning to return in a week or two), which consisted of a heavenly spa day, meltinyourmouth fish, roasted (and deep fried) bananas--

Our bus driver just pulled over, emergency lights on, so he could go buy himself a stick (a broomstick?), and apparently I'm just as ADD as he is, and it looks like the bargaining is done, he's on his way back now, that was hilarious--

and there are so many smiling faces. The people here--kind--are also always aiming to get something out of you. Even the nicest, it's just part of the experience. White, western, money... But the few times we've been taken (only considering the times I'm aware of) have been so insignificant in the grand scheme of things. 40 baht too much? Okay, so that's a little over a dollar... To think how much I take for granted... But it starts to get to you too... 'Can I trust you?' My questioning eyes are always met with assurances of 'Yes, of course,' but when I've caught the smile disappearing as soon as it appears and then I'm at the "only ticket office for bus tickets in the whole city," refusing to pay but, Fine, yes I'll go in for a whole of two seconds so you can collect your commission for bringing a westerner to their door, and then I'm on alert with every helpful gesture, with every quoted price--now that is exhausting--and I'm thrown by the kind souls who want absolutely nothing for helping me to find the right bus to board...Ahhh it's all a game I don't know how to win (am I even playing to win?) but at least I'm getting by--

And now I'm looking out the window at the most precious little altar. Brick red, Thai temple dollhouse with yellow trim turning up at the edges, tea cups in front and flowers tucked into corners...the celebration of life, love, Buddha, humanity, color--it's everywhere. I must be dreaming. Or maybe I'm just widely, shatteringly, painfully, deliciously awake for the longest stretch I've time I've ever been and that is precisely why I am so utterly drained.
And invigorated.
And turned on and numb and everything all at once, a great bramble of contradictions, loosening threads all over the tropics--

I've been reading Rumi, The Book of Love cover to cover... I'm past "Grief" and onto "Tavern Madness" and, as is often the case when I feel drawn to a particular book at a particular time, the poems I am reading now (as well as the commentary from the insightful Coleman Barks) speak to me like my own inner-dialogue.

Pale sunlight,
pale the wall.

Love moves away.
The light changes.

I need more grace
than I thought.

I do, I do.
There is a word in Arabic, faraji, it means "ripped open," or "happiness," or "one who brings the joy of being opened," and I feel like as if it could be embossed on my heart. There is a kaleidascopal universe twisting different shades of green, blue, gold, rain, smoke, and flame before me and the air I'm breathing is just so thick with the saturation of it all, in moments of madness I shut my lips and my eyes for a visit back home. I see the same slides flicker through my vision:

California coast and the gray foaming edges of waves kissing the shore where my feet pad soft etch-a-sketch prints on evening runs; all the fixings of my own kitchen and the simplicity of salad on a ceramic plate and both made by my hands in a true organic food experience; the friends and family and social fun of familiarity; certain smiles that I miss sweetly and certain embraces that I miss fiercely and -- ah, but it's all so familiar that I can imagine it in vivid detail with the very reoccurance of these memories in reinvented, technicolored fantasy -- what about THIS? This unimagined, unremembered, all brand new. Be here now.

II.

My toes are threaded through the holes of a hammock. I'm swinging to the music of insectual buzz flowing through the air like water; birds of all instrumental persuasions--trumpets and saxaphones and flutes and windchimes--join the melody in rounds.

I feel like a blanket of dust has been peeled off me and I'm new again.

This world--this being human--is at times (most times?) confounding. One moment I'm fighting my body: scratching the bites that cover my skin like a map of conquered territories, islands set on flame; the illnesses of various origins I've tested within just a month and a half; bruises, blood--and then Bliss. I find myself in a state of ecstatic union with my earth form and I'm assuaged with aromas and flavors and serenity, thrown back into a bed of woven cotton or buoyant in a salty ocean bath.

Our last day in Langkawi, Emily and I dove under soft little waves off a sandy empty shore, when it started to rain. The drops were heavy like marbles, bubbling all over the surface of the water. We floated, soaking in a warm sea and the chilled drops rained on our faces. Beautiful boundless bliss. We left only because we had to--the constant motion of this trip, it takes my breath away.

And then today, just as I began to lose grip of my edges, I'm saved, washed ashore, this time on a hill. A cottage close to the clouds, far from the confusion of cities and the deafening dance music roaring from backpackers' bars and I'm with soulful companions and

Silence.

Who looks out with my eyes? What is

the soul? I cannot stop asking.

If I could taste one sip of an answer,

I could break out of this prison for drunks.

I didn't come here of my own accord,

And I can't leave that way.

Whoever brought my here will have to take me home.

This poetry. I never know what I'm going to say.

I don't plan it.

When I'm outside the saying of it,

I get very quiet and rarely speak at all.

...and then...

We have a huge barrel of wine,

                                       but no cups.

That's fine with us. Every morning

we glow and in the evening we glow again.

They say there's no future for us.

                                      They're right.

Which is fine with us.



cozy

It is our last night in Malaysia before we fly to Thailand. Our new friend, Rash, is kind enough to have welcomed us as his guests for a few days and it is amazing to be in a real home again. Right now, I'm sitting cross-legged on the guest bed, wearing my Bob Dylan go-to shirt, with a glass of wine on the nightstand. (Side note: The friendly owner at the buffet down the street let us borrow a couple of glasses for the night. "Oh, you'll bring them back tomorrow? No problem!")

Emily's glass is on the floor. She has the sewing kit between us (her new bag handle started to rip, but that is now fixed) and she just got off the phone with a pizza place that delivers gourmet pizzas, calamari, and strombino.

After dealing with some airline-sanctioned red tape, taking a 9-hour bus ride down the country's coast, and completing our final Kuala Lumpur missions in the last full day we have in Malaysia, Emily and I agreed that all we really wanted to do tonight was hang out and watch movies and drink vino. Basically, we wanted a night that felt like home.

Yesterday, Rash asked us, "What's in your survival kit?" It took me a minute to realize that what he meant was something along the lines of, "What do you need from home to feel grounded as you travel?" I don't need a lot in terms of material objects, but having a cozy night is a main part of my experiential survival kit: Watching an American movie, eating some late night food American-style, browsing life back home through Facebook and email. Wine makes the night better. Pajamas make the night perfect. We've had plenty of Asian cuisine, lugged around a camera every day, and completely submerged ourselves in the travel experience. I can't really describe what a relief it is to just screw it all and become a homebody for a night. I don't think of it as a night wasted, but as a night earned.

Of course just by expressing my sense of relief for a break, I feel compelled to reiterate how lucky I feel to be on a trip that nearly exhausts me. I'm learning things every single day, whether it is how to ride a motorbike, how to cook new foods, or how to have a conversation about foreign politics with people who have a wildly different perspective than myself. I'm out of my element in all sorts of ways and it's awesome.

The people I have met--especially locals--have changed my world. Rash is a perfect example. The cousin of one of my new friends from Birthright (you're the best, Arun!), this guy got up at 3:30 in the morning, and picked Emily and me up from the bus station. He not only saved us a decent amount of money, but also introduced us to a different perspective of Kuala Lumpur. Last night, we joined Rash and his fabulous girlfriend at his buddy's new cigar and whiskey bar, Whisky Tango Foxtrot. We relaxed in the back room with a door that looked like a wall panel, and met some generous, down-to-earth folks who shared Japanese whiskey and traveling stories of their own. It was the kind of night that would only happen with a local friend, a night that was unique to Kuala Lumpur.

And now the pendulum swings and I need the cheesiest night possible: American films that rated poorly on Rotten Tomatoes, wine out of a bottle with a screw top, and thin crust pizza. All in my pjs. It's perfect. As much as I love the surprises of traveling, sometimes having the familiarity of a cozy night is just as wonderful, my personal take on a "survival kit."

wear

Please press play.

I just discovered this 10 hour version of the song, which at first seemed absurd to me, as I'm sure it does to you. But considering how many times I played it while I was writing the following entry, it seems like the perfect accompaniment.

Yesterday, Emily and I took a bus from Kuala Lumpur to Tanah Rata in the Cameron Highlands, giving me plenty of time to catch up in my journal....

Kuala Lumpur....yep, we're in Malaysia. The plans have changed a bit.

***

Kuala Lumpur, November 9-12:

In my AC-chilled hostel room, I comfortably dressed in black spandex pants and a long, baggy T-shirt that hid my curves. Since Malaysia is a predominantly Muslim country, I didn't want to offend the locals by showing too much skin while I went for my morning run. It didn't really occur to me how difficult I was actually making it for myself, attempting my first run in almost a month in such a hot and humid climate and with so much fabric covering my skin. 

I swung my heavy hiking boots forward as I slowly climbed the ascending pavement, into the depths of a park that felt like the outskirts of a rainforest. Water dripped from the trees overhead and onto my bare forearms, mixing with the sweat that glistened on my already wet skin.

About 20 minutes in, I passed the first pair of joggers. The woman was wearing shorts. They were as long as her male companion's, but she was still going for comfort over the rules of dress that I imagined were strictly enforced. By the end of my run, I had passed countless women in high-cut shorts and tank tops running on the same path. Needless to say, I was confused about the advice I had received to dress modestly.

Like most countries in the world, the cultural "rules" in Malaysia vary based on region, and in a modern city like Kuala Lumpur, Western influence has clearly made its mark. I hadn't realized just how developed the place was, with its efficient monorail system, futuristic skyscrapers, and fairyland LED lights which illuminated streets, temples, and even the royal palace. Kuala Lumpur is an urban burst of color and glitter that seems to draw from tradition just as much as it pushes for innovation and modernization. Of course what I'm describing here are the architectural developments I was able to observe.

So what about the social developments? How does the concept of modest dress work in such a modern city? The more time I spent in KL, the more I observed a diverse mix of female clothing, from waves of burqas--the few moth-like women flowing by--to the rainbow headscarves and butterfly tunics visible in every direction. I was also surprised to see plenty of bare shoulders and legs amongst the locals.

My fascination with these varied clothing styles has led me to think about the broader concept of how we, as humans, work with the physical form to express our inner selves. In fact, the ways in which we cover--and don't cover--our bodies reflect much more than our individuality. Clothing is about the relationship between an individual and the public. When I am home, I feel empowered as a woman and as a citizen. I present my body in ways that reflect that sense of freedom, I embrace the curves of my body and I show a decent amount of skin. However, as a young woman traveling without a male companion in Malaysia, I would feel vulnerable if I dressed the same that I normally do in California. Showing skin back home is an expression of my power as a woman, while covering my skin here is a way to empower myself as a woman.

Thinking about "modest dress" in this context gives me appreciation for the particular ways in which Malaysian women empower themselves through dress, even with the restrictions of a Muslim culture. (Although, as open-minded as I try to be, burqas are admittedly strange to me.) The varieties of colors and jewels amongst the women offer opportunities for self-expression that celebrate the physical form. No matter our country, traditions, or concepts of modesty, I think we all want to exert some sense of control over our physicality as way to express our personal power. Muslim clothes can be surprisingly audacious. There is also something sexy and powerful about leaving more to the imagination. By bringing more attention to a woman's face, head scarves and tunics highlight her unique beauty.

I'd be curious to know how the women here perceive tourists' more scandalous clothing choices and how they feel about foreign dress in general. Based on my current physical appearance--wrinkled, Thai "genie" pants, American shirts and shoes, an Indian henna--I probably look like a Western hippy backpacker, which carries its own implications about my identity and personal power. In some ways I think my appearance hinders my relationship with the Malaysian locals. Covered or not, I am still vulnerable as a foreigner and as a single woman, and so I can easily be overcharged by taxi drivers and hassled by strange men. As a foreign woman, I also haven't had a great deal of interaction with the local women. However, my backpacker outfits also empower me by communicating that I need help with translations and directions. My attempts at modesty (and my henna) show that I respect the local culture. My clothing provides me with opportunities to learn more about Malaysia from friendly locals who are intrigued by my appearance and want to engage in conversation. Obviously, I look foreign regardless of my clothes, but I also believe that my particular blend of local and American garb communicates much more than the fact that I am foreign.

It is interesting to consider the power of dress in a place with such different traditions from those I know. I don't believe appearance tells the whole story about an individual or culture--I mean, how could I?--but I am learning more about the power of appearance and clothing here in Malaysia. I am also learning more about Malaysia, simply by keeping my eyes (and mind) open to the explosions of colors and flowing fabric all around me.