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Burn dimly in this darkening night
as a firefly, not a pheonix.
Light yourself with subtle, flickering beauty--
not to combust night's senses, scar its retina, choke its breath.
Don't let your glow freeze deer in headlights
Let it simply blink its existence,
let it simply say: I am.
As the title suggests I'm sitting in Changi airport, waiting for my flight to take off to Bangkok. I have enjoyed some of their fine amenities, such as duty free shopping (yay! overpriced alcohol that's still cheaper than what you find in stores!), the entertainment centre, and their e-hub. Yes, Changi Airport is a reflection in miniature of Singapore--clean, efficient, lots of consumer distractions. Give me the smelly bus stations of Malaysia anyday . . .
I've learned a lot about myself in the last few months. I've learned some of my motivations, some of my issues, a lot of my fears. I've learned about insecurity, and how I have let it control me. I've learned that I don't need attention to be okay. I've learned how far I still have to go. I see more of my father in me than perhaps I was willing to admit. I see more of my mother in me than I was able to recognize. I have dreamed up my own self-importance in many ways, and worn masks to deceive others into believing some of the things I wanted so badly to be true. I don't care whether they're true anymore. I think it's more important to be okay, and leave masks for others.
I think it was the moment I saw chairs flying across the bar last night that it really struck me how big a difference a few hours of travel can make. It's funny, cause you can fly from Vancouver to Singapore in less than a day, and feel like the only real difference is the warm weather. Or you can spend two hours by road and boat and be in a completely different world.
On thursday I went north from Kuching to Bako National Park. It's only 30 kms by bus, and a half hour boat ride, but mentally it's as further than the moon: it's jungle. I went with Leander, my companion from the longhouse misadventures, to hike to the furthest beach, on the tip of Bako's peninsula. We started our first day late, only 2hrs of hiking before we got to a little beach called Tajor. The hike was easy--lots of high flat rocky terrain, made very tourist friendly. The stretch from the trail down to the beah took some work, but was worth it for the view we got. Fine sand beach, pink clouds from a setting sun, clear weather (in the rainy season? we weren't complaining, but weird), and cliff walls carved out by ocean and river. Paradise, we thought. Until we realized that there would be no beach by high tide. The rangers hadn't mentioned that. Shrugging it off, we made our way around the the point to Sibur beach, the longest beach in the park. Fortunately it was low tide, so we made it easily. At this point we saw that this beach would also disappear in a few hours. A little annoyed, but still buoyed by the beauty of the forest at our backs, and the ocean in front of us, we trekked upriver to find a dry patch. A piece of advice, for those who are thinking about coming to the tropics: don't camp near mangrove trees. This is precisely what we did, justs as dark closed in on us, and the fireflies started darting around us. As they danced over the river, we appreciated the patch of grass growing on the sandy hill that we'd decided to pitch our tent on. Thinking we were far enough upriver to avoid the rising tide, we sat and talked, munching canned tuna and rice. A little paranoid, since we were sitting next to a river we'd been warned not to swim in, as a croc lived there, we still managed to relax and we looked at our surrounding. With stars and a firefly ballet things seemed to be going very well.
We were asleep at nine -- or at least in the tent. Something kept me from drifting very far though. It was then I heard ripples in the river. I listened carefully, but heard nothing more. A few minutes passed. Another sound from the water, like a . . . wave. Leander heard this one as well. We opened the tent and saw . . . an ocean at our front door. Retreat! Mildly annoyed, we got out and pulled our tent down. Just as we moved it, a wave swept over where we'd been sleeping a few minutes earlier. Pulling back further into the mangroves we'd seen some trail markers on a tree near where we were. Unfortunately it was pitch black, and with only one flashlight between us and a crumpled tent, we weren't about to start running around in the jungle in the dark. We saw a rise that looked like it should be a trail and went up--dry land, and palms. No mangroves--a good sign. As I got up into the jungle, Leander followed--and tripped. I don't know how much ya'll know about palm trees in the jungle, but they're not your average cuddly California coconut tree. They have thorns, and spikes. In fact, everything in the jungle seems to have thorns. When Leander feel he reached for a palm, and got about sixty splinter-sized thorns in his fingers. After a little looking around, we realized that we were also not on the trail at all. In fact, we turned around and realized that high tide had just washed over the trail. This is where things got less comfortable.
There's a kind of plant in this part of the world called the pitcher plant. It's carniverous. As the name suggests, it's pitcher shaped, and is filled with a sweet nectar that attracts ants and other insects. They get trapped by the sticky nectar and are slowly consumed by the plant for nutrients. This seems to me to be a perfect example, in miniature, of the jungle itself. Sure, at first it seems all pretty and green, full of cuddly monkeys and pretty flowers. But once you make your way in you get trapped, like an ant in nectar, and it seems all you can do is let the jungle consume you, and it really wants to eat you alive. Mosquitoes, ants, thorns--these are only the things that you see and feel.
So it was that we found ourselves on a hillock, in the middle of the jungle, settling down for a night from which we couldn't escape. Pitching the tent on the only patch of thornless ground we could find we settled in for a weird night. The tent was sweltering, and outside the mosquitoes beat themselves against the walls of our tent, intent on devouring us whole. Insects screamed from the treetops, and something made the most haunting noises, moving slowly in the trees above us. Some kind of owl, maybe. Occasionally we heard crashing noises coming from somewhere in the distance--not distant enough for my liking. We were not welcome. The jungle doesn't want you there, at least not unless you know the jungle. It was kind to us that night, but if it had wanted to it could have chewed us up and spit out our bones. After all, a place that creates glowing fungus, that shines through the floor of your tent, or golden six horned ants, nearly an inch long, an ecosystem that seems completely caught up in simultaneously devouring and reproducing itself is powerfully magical. It's full of ghosts, spirits, hauntings. It was in the air that night, prowling around us, but keeping its distance. We finally into a restless sleep, that only eased with the morning's rain.
And when we finally woke, and broke camp we realized that had we found the trail the night before, it would have led us to a river that we were supposed to cross. Had we crossed the river, though, as the rangers had told us we could do, we probably would have wound up in chest deep water, and probably sunk much deeper into mud like quicksand. We couldn't cross the river during the day, had we tried that night we probably would have drowned. So maybe the jungle was kind to us, maybe she held us close, saving us from the river, and taking only some blood and sleep as payment.
The next day's hike, though arduous, was worth it for a night on a real beach, stars that shouldn't shine like they did during this rainy season and a fire to keep away the mosquitoes. There were even moments I imagined myself in BC that night. Needless to say, though, the last day we had our minds set on a hot meal, a shower, and a cold beer. So we trekked hard, covering the longest 10km I've ever walked, shaky and leaking water by the end we made it back. Back in Kucing, after a shower, a shave, a nap, we went in search of Saturday night. The rest of this story you all know, conversation, pool, beer and we found ourselves sitting at bar called Discovery, at closing time, chairs flying over our heads, glass breaking as threats and fists bounced off eachother, giggling at the ridiculousness of it all. Three days of jungle, and we came back searching for the comforts of civilization, a place that worked according to rules we knew. Instead we found that this world, albeit completely different, still has some jungle in it.
Yesterday I rode back down the Ulu Skrang river, 2 hours by longboat, to a bus stop in the middle of nowhere, to catch a bus that took four hours to bring me back into Kuching. Last night I spent here in town, as I will again this evening. Today I saw orungatans and the largest flower in the world, which, it turns out, is not really a flower, but actually a form of fungus. Tomorrow I'll be heading to a coastal national park for a few days of hiking and camping on the beach. My life is pain.
I'm in Sarawak, East Malaysia right now, on the island of Borneo. I arrived on Friday night, and when I got to my hotel heard that a trip was leaving the next day for an Iban ghost festival.
(explanation:
the Iban are the indigeneous people in Kalimantan, sharing the island with other ethnic groups like the Dayak. The iban used to be headhunters. Also on the island, mostly the coast, are Malays and Chinese ethnicities.
the ghost festival is a big ass party that happens every 25 years to honor the ancestors of the iban people and insure a prosperous future
the main characters:
Me
Leander: a German guy making his way home from here overland, with whom I've got on well
Ernst: a Swiss fellow travelling the world for tattoos . . . picture pre-Roman Germanic tribes coupled with a childlike demeanour, little English, lots of hand gestures and a desire to discuss almost nothing but tattoos
minor characters:
Abba (our guide)
dutch couple
danish girls)
7am we (the above characters) leave Kucing, 4 hours by car to Abba's longhouse southeast of kucing. we arrive and walk from his longhouse to the party, talking place across the river at another longhouse in the village. we cross a shaky suspension bridge over a muddy river apparently full of crocs. music and shouts pour out from house. we walk in and are greeted with cheers. then comes the food. chicken and pork, rice and vegetables, over and over and over (yes, I've forsaken vegetarianism for the time being . . . when in Rome . . .). I stuffed myself, and with good reason: after the meal came the alcohol. whiskey, vodka, tuak (rice wine). Massive quantities, and an inability to refuse are seldom a good combination. this goes on for several hours. By 4pm I'm feeling quite hammered. At this point they unveil the food and drinks that need to be eaten to appease their ancestors. bottles of whiskey, gallons of vodka, truckloads of beer. We need to finish this tonight. more drink . . . Down to the river to take a break, back to Abba's house for a swim and a rest, then back to the party. . .more food. more drink. more food. more drink. dancing, processions, more drink. food. drink. dance. drink food. drinkfooddancedrinkdrinkdancefood. and the stumble home on the already shaky suspension bridge. out like a light. it's only midnight, but I've been drunk since 2pm. ouch . . .
the next day it's up the skrang river (the next river system over) on a two hour boat trip and we spend two nights at an older longhouse, farmers and hunters for the most part, are kind enough to welcome us in. only ernst, leander and I stay for both night, everyone else goes home after one night. we trek through the jungle, roast a chicken on a spit over an open fire . . . all in all it's been pretty fantastic. tomorrow I head to baku national park with Leander for a few days of hiking and nights on the beach. . . back to sing on monday and thailand on tuesday. . .
I smell like smoke from last night's campfire. It's raining hard, as I sit in a the top of a tower, at the top of a hill, near the top of Malaysia.
The Cameron Highlands smell like home. Maybe it's just the rain, the mist and fog that clings to these hills in the monsoon. Maybe it's the jungle that's alive with so many things that you feel like you're looking at a wall of life, and you can really pick anything out. The most you can do is focus on something really small, one thing at a time, and try to fit it into a bigger picture in your head.
Sitting here above this place, watching the forest below it seems like I've got the sense of the land, but I haven't. What goes on below this canopy, from the hidden folds in the mountains to the games played by life, it's not fathomable to a person like me, an urban kid with natural sympathies. But still, panorama and microscope come together and make my understanding a little clearer.
This place smells like green, like water hanging from the sky. This place smells like life.
Well folks, this is just a little note to say that I'll be taking off tomorrow to do some hiking in the Cameron Highlands, north of KL in Malaysia. This is the famous mountainous region where Jim Thompson, famed Thai silk tycoon (or was he a CIA agent?), disappeared 30 years. I've been told by my mother not pull another disappearing act. Anyways, I'll be there for a few days, then next Friday I will fly out to Kucing, in Sarawak (assuming I can book my ticket this afternoon). After that I'll return briefly to Singapore, before heading to Thailand to spend Christmas and New Year's with Jo Wong. Yay. Anyways, there's not really much to this message, but I will be checking email sporadically, so drop me a note sometime, but I probably won't write back as promptly as I've been doing recently :)