Philippines: Bad Start; Sort Of Getting Better

Here's a possible Final Jeopardy moment:

[Alex Trebek]: "Contestants, it's time for Final Jeopardy. The category: world capitals. The answer: This capital city is so awful to visit that if David Newman were given two choices - return to the city or be tarred and feathered - he'd take the latter. In a heartbeat. Thirty seconds, contestants."

[Jeopardy music playing; contestants racking their brains for something to write and cursing the fact that they wagered so much.]

What's the correct answer? Properly phrased in the form of a question, it is "What is Manila?" Yes, Manila. The capital of the Philippines and my entry point into the country. The city and surrounding areas are home to some 20 million people, all of whom are compressed into such a tight area that Manila ranks as one of, if not the, most densely populated cities in the world.

I'll try to think of something nice to say about Manila before I get to the honest part.

Thinking....

Still thinking....

Nope. I got nothing.

So here's the honest part: I hated it. I gave this city a fair tour and then some. I walked streets most visitors don't even dare to set foot on, and paid the price for it in terms of things I saw and encountered. I don't usually speak in absolutes, but I will never go back. If you've been to this city and you liked it, then I say to you, whoop-de-fucking-do. It's got the feeling of a lawless, Wild West kind of city where anything goes because the police are either outnumbered, indifferent, incompetent, or on the take. Cockfights, pistols, prostitution, gambling, and drinking at 8:00 a.m. are the norm, not the exception. This sign, which I saw at the entrance to a hotel, says it all:



A fuller explanation is in order. The numero uno reason this city ranks at the very bottom of places I've visited so far is the widespread poverty. Maybe I sound like an ass when I say that, but it's no fun being surrounded by human misery and suffering 24/7. True, it provides a valuable service: it's eye-opening and educational and makes me soooo thankful for what I have. But it's heartbreaking and frustrating, depressing and terrifying. The poverty here is an equal opportunity beast, affecting men and women, young and old. An army of beaten and broken souls inhabits this city. On the first morning I was in Manila, I left my guesthouse early to grab some breakfast. On my way to the market I saw hundreds of children (that's no exaggeration) sleeping on the streets; many naked, all dirty. Sometimes their parents were sleeping next to them; sometimes there wasn't an adult in sight. It was painful to see this right in front of me. I literally had to step over kids lying in the street to get where I was going. Then, just when I figured it couldn't get worse, it did. I turned a corner and saw a community of homeless people who had turned a portion of a sidewalk on an empty street into their living space. Their "homes" were little more than newspaper roofs and cardboard walls. In the space of a typical American bathroom were groups of 10, sometimes 15 people, living together. Without any plumbing, the street became their toilet. I could not believe my eyes when I saw people using the street as a communal bathroom (for both number 1 and number 2). Watching people do their business on the street, and then seeing and smelling the result, left me numb. This scene was replayed countless times. And then it got worse, again. Later on that day, I almost stepped on a man in street. Why? This man was an amputee with no right arm and no right leg. He didn't have a cane or a wheelchair. His only way of moving was to crawl on the ground, face down. I didn't see him because a) he was crawling and just not in my field of vision and b) he was so dirty that his clothes matched the color of the asphalt. At a snail's pace he was slinking himself along while no one seemed to give a damn. The whole scene was soul-crushing. I thought of taking pictures of these displays of poverty - not so much for the blog but as a reminder for me of how fortunate I am. It just didn't seem right. Frankly, I have no desire to relive those moments once I get home. Living it once was enough.

Reason numero dos why I hated Manila is that the tourist center is right smack in the middle of the red light district. For a while I couldn't understand why the tourist hotels would situate themselves in that area. Then it dawned on me: I had the sequence backwards. The hotels came first, and since most of the "tourists" to Manila are looking for cheap sex, the hookers and pimps were not too far behind. I'm an opened-minded guy when it comes to prostitution (that is, other people doing it), but this was like something from another planet. Manila takes it to a whole new level. It's about as up front as you can possibly imagine it. No, let me change that - it's WAY more up front than you could ever imagine. In the roughly 10 square block area that makes up the main prostitution area (I say "main prostitution area" because the entire city is filled with prostitutes, as I found out quickly), roughly 90% of all women are looking to get paid. They politely call them "guest relation officers" at the strip clubs and bars, but they're hookers, plain and simple. Several things make the prostitution in Manila even more slimy than your run-of-the-mill street hookers. The people paying for the sex are largely older white guys from central and northern Europe and Australia. So all you see are old, fat, balding white guys walking around with tiny Filipino women. There's just something unpalatable about it, bordering on extreme exploitation. Much of the time it's not clear whether the hookers are minors or not. Second, the hookers are aggressive. Very aggressive. As a white guy walking the streets alone, both during the day and at night, they were on me like a fly on shit. Every five minutes or so I'd hear, "Hi handsome, you want to party?" or "You want to [insert bizarre sex act here] to me?" No, no I do not. And then there's the grabbing. I already have a thing about strangers touching me, so when prostitutes would come up to me and grab my arm or reach out to try to rub my neck or back, I was not shy at all about getting them off me. One women wouldn't stop harassing me. After 20 seconds of following me (around a corner, no less) she reached out and grabbed my shirt. I nearly lost it. I spun myself around while unleashing a torrent of curse words. I had to stop myself from throwing the hardest haymaker I could muster. And that was at 9:00 o'clock. In the morning. The rest of the day was downhill from there. Much of the time I felt like an undercover CIA agent in a spy novel trying to avoid being nabbed by the Russians. I would double back, quickly cross streets into oncoming traffic, duck into alleyways, walk into stores and exit out a back door, and hide in churches. Oh thank heaven for churches, one of the few places where a man can get away from hookers. (There was a certain oddness about that last point that was not lost on me. In a country that's 95% Catholic, but somehow open to prostitution, I was the rare Jew seeking solace in churches.) I realize that most of the Filipino women don't understand that a white guy traveling alone wouldn't want to pay for sex - I was an anomaly in Manila and they probably just can't get their heads wrapped around the concept. Kinda tells you something about the city. The whole situation was so repulsive that it actually made me not want to think about sex, at all. For the first time since puberty, I refused to let any sex thoughts, including the pleasant ones, invade my brain. That is truly remarkable.

Finally, there's the non-stop hassling. When women weren't looking to get paid, men were chasing after me for everything from taxi rides to drugs. (As to the drugs, I was repeatedly offered Cialis and Viagra. I was both humored and mildly insulted by this. Do I look that old? I hope not.) It's one thing to get asked for such things while walking down the street - it's commonplace in Southeast Asia as I've discovered - but here they don't give up after the first "no." Guys would follow me for blocks demanding that I buy whatever they were selling. Ignoring them only worked occasionally, and saying no just seemed to encourage them. Way too often I had to resort to throwing out such universally understood phrases as "Fuck off, asshole." Doing that for twelve to fourteen hours is, surprisingly, very tiring.

When you add these issues to the usual litany of problems associated with large Southeast Asian cities - noise, pollution, etc. - Manila just never had a chance.

Ok, that was depressing to read (and write). So here's some cute, cuddly kittens to liven up the mood:




Was there anything I liked about Manila? In fairness, yes. There were a few sights that were interesting and worthwhile. But I'm only going to describe one of them because that's all I'm willing to do to salvage something positive about the city. The oldest church in town - built in the late 1500s - is beautifully decorated and well-maintained. It contains a lot of interesting Christian relics that were brought over by the Spanish in the seventeenth and eighteenth century centuries. The church also explains in excellent detail the efforts made by the Spanish to convert natives to Catholicism. The best part of the church is the ceiling. It's painted in a 3-D style that makes it look like there is all sorts of ridges and levels and adornments. There aren't any. The ceiling is flat as a pancake. It's just a bit of sixteenth century trickery. What's really weird is that it gets more dizzying, not less, as you climb stairs and get closer to the ceiling for further inspection. Alright, that's the only nice thing I'm saying about Manila. In fact, because I disliked the city so much, it caused me to chop off about five days on my planned trip. Before I arrived in the city, I had set out to explore regions north of Manila. But doing so would require returning to Manila, which was out of the question. So I headed south, where I could still explore 85% of the country.

My first stop as I headed south was Tagaytay. An otherwise completely unremarkable city 30 miles south of Manila, it boasts one thing that draws tourists in: Taal Volcano. (That's it in the far distance in the picture.) The volcano sits in the aptly-named Taal Lake, and there is also a lake inside the volcano. It makes for a pretty stunning sight. The volcano is only semi-active, so there's smoke but no fire. Getting to the top requires a boat ride to the base of the volcano and then an ascent to the top. The vast majority of people get to the top by riding mules because it's moderately steep and somewhat slippery and it was 95 degrees and blah blah blah. I grew a pair and climbed it. It's a fun hike that takes a few hours and the view from the top is undoubtedly much nicer when you're armed with the knowledge that you're not a wuss and you've accomplished something on your own. Once down the volcano, there's nothing else to do in the town except watch the sun set over the lake with a cold beer and fried chicken. (For reasons as yet unknown to me, fried chicken is big in the Philippines. I don't understand it, but I respect it.) So I sat there, beer in one hand, drumstick in the other, enjoying a peaceful night on the lake. The electricity cut out at 8pm due to a lightning storm. This was a good thing because it silenced some guy's radio that was blasting American pop music to the entire town. So it was me, a warm night, a cool breeze, some lightning, cheap eats, and cold San Miguel beer. Not a bad way to spend a night.

Heading further south, in the direction of the beaches, required several more rides on public buses. One of them took me in the complete opposite direction for about two hours, and the other stopped every three minutes to pick people up and drop them off. Just an FYI if you ever make it to these parts: there are no formal bus stops. You get on and off wherever you please. Sounds nice, but in practice it's terrible if you're traveling long distance. I kid you not, there were times when the bus would stop to drop someone off, move twenty yards, pick someone up, move fifty yards, drop someone off, move thirty yards, and pick someone up. Reeee-diculous. This can pose several other problems besides pissing me off and causing me to be late. [Note: if you don't want to be grossed out, skip the rest of this paragraph.] So I'm on a bus and I've violated one of my two bus rules: always use the bathroom before getting on public buses. You just never know when the next chance comes. (The other rule is a natural corollary: always bring food and water.) The bus is running late and there's no bathroom on board. We're stuck on a highway, lots of traffic, no air conditioning, and I have to urinate real bad. As in "my bladder will explode if I don't empty the tank right now" bad. Without a bathroom on board, I'm desperate for options. I start looking around and I consider the following: a) the window, but rule it out because I have to stand and it's way too obvious; b) just going on the floor, but rule it out because, well, that's just not right; and c) a small door in the floor of the bus leading to the axle, but rule it out because my aim isn't that good and it was in the middle of the bus and therefore prone to being spotted. Then I realize: I have a half-empty bottle of Sprite in my bag. I gulp it down and then quickly focus on the task at hand. Now, you have to realize, this bus is going over a very bumpy road and I'm at the point where once I break the seal, there's no stopping it. So one slip of the hand and it's going to be very messy for me and for the bus. But with the steady hands of a surgeon (which I no doubt inherited from my father), I did my business in a soda bottle. In a public bus.

Next up on my journey was Puerto Galera, a small town on the northern edge of Mindoro, one of the major islands in the Philippines archipelago. The town has a sorry excuse for a beach but boasts of being the top diving spot in all of the Philippines. I've only scuba dived once in my life - usually I just stick to snorkeling - but there were so many dive shops in this small town that I figured there must be something special to draw so many people under the water. There is. The coral around the island is amazing, truly amazing, and the fish are numerous, varied, and colorful. I took a day-long course to learn the basics and then went underwater for about an hour with my personal guide. It's so much better than snorkeling. Instead of just observing I felt like I was part of the action. My guide took me to a depth of 13 meters and we zigzagged our way across coral that had bold purples, bright pinks, and blinding yellows. Schools of fish swam next to me and around me. I ducked in and between some massive coral protrusions. I was the subject of some curious sea snakes. It was awesome. And all I have to show for it is this crappy certificate.

Once the sun goes down on Puerto Galera, it's time for more drinking and in-your-face prostitution. The bars are filled with loads of middle-aged white guys holding hands with Filipino hookers. How sweet. I managed to escape most of this nonsense due to sheer luck. My neighbor at the small motel I stayed at was an American guy, 65 years old, who had just retired and moved to the Philippines. He was in search of a warm beach with no memory. He wanted nothing more than to live out the rest of his days without stress or strain. In addition to being recently retired, his wife had died a few years before, and he had no children. He had no ties to the U.S. and was content to never return. He was staying at this motel for a month before deciding where to permanently settle. For three straight nights we watched from our balcony as the sun said goodbye to the sky and to us. This was our view. We'd shoot the shit for a few hours. Or we'd just sit and say nothing at all. We learned about each others' lives, we dispensed advice, and we relived glory days. After three nights, I felt like I had known the guy for years. And then, I left. Didn't say goodbye, didn't exchange contact info. I left at a time when he wasn't there, so that was that. It's funny, these encounters I have with other travelers. And it's odd when I think about who we all let into our little private lives and what we show each other. Whether I'm talking with someone for an hour or a day, I'm always shocked by how open and honest people are about themselves (or, at least, how open and honest they seem to be). Maybe it's because we all figure that we'll never see each other again, so there's no harm in telling strangers things that we might not even tell family and friends. (Although I have, a couple of times, bumped into people I met weeks earlier in a different country, so I guess not all meetings are one-offs.) Or maybe, people are just honest. But there's no doubt that I've been more open and forthcoming with other tourists than I have with former co-workers - people that I spent years with and saw every day. I guess that's how it goes. I'll meet someone, we'll be best friends for a brief moment of time, and then - nothing. We separate once again into our own lives carrying nothing but a memory that will fade over time. Every now and then I'll get an email address or a name to look up on Facebook before a parting of ways. More often than not, at the end of the day, it's "Good meeting you, enjoy the rest of your travels," and that's all she wrote. For example, my diving guide and I got along just swimmingly (oooh, great pun) because we were so alike. He was 30, from San Diego. He sat behind a desk for 8 years in the mortgage industry. Hated his job, loved to scuba dive, and in 2008, saw the writing on the wall about the housing market. He quit his job, got certified to be a scuba instructor, moved out of his apartment, put his stuff in storage (much of this was eerily familiar to me) and moved to the Philippines to work. He loves his job even though the pay is crap. After our hour-long dive, we got back to the boat that was gently rocking in this beautiful cove. He smiled and said, "Welcome to my office." I smiled back and asked, only half-jokingly, "You guys hiring?" Instead of going back to shore, we told the boat driver to wait a while so we could enjoy the view. We chatted for an hour, each describing the steps leading to our respective decisions to quit our job. We talked of the future, of the NFL, and of our past lives. We both concluded that our decisions to quit our jobs were the best decisions of our lives, and that we'd be suckers if we ever relapsed into the same b.s. routine. I'll probably never see him again. But for three hours, we were best pals. That's how it goes, and it's by far my favorite part of traveling. Some people have amazing stories about where they're going, where they've been, and why they're where they are. I love hearing every one of them, and people seem genuinely interested in what I've done. There's a small community of people who have eschewed the standard life - get a job and keep at it until retirement - and overcome the fear of not always having a steady income. And they're they happiest bunch of people I've ever met.

Anyway, back to reality. Another draw of Purto Galera is that there are walking paths in the inland jungle that let visitors see how rural Filipinos actually live. It's not part of the standard tourist fare; it's not in the guidebook. Enough Westerners live in the area who enjoy exploring the jungles that, if you're lucky, they'll bring you along and give you a first-hand glimpse of how "real" Filipinos live. A few Norwegian girls that I met in town told me about an older guy they had spoken with who was going to take them on one of these walks. They suggested that I come along. There was one tiny problem. They failed to explain that this "walk" was really a hike. Everyone else (there were 12 of us in total) showed up at the designated meeting spot with hiking shoes and tons of water; I - presuming that this walk would be easy and relatively quick - came in flip-flops, carrying only a bottle of Sprite. It started out easy enough for the first 30 minutes and I was feeling ok about the situation. Then it got nasty: steep hills, slippery rocks; blazing hot sun. I was hungry, tired, and sore. So yeah, I was bitter and regretting every moment. By the time we finished I was severely dehydrated. I was actually in bad shape - by far the worst I've felt in the last three months. As we sat down to eat after the hike, five hours later, I began to see double. That was bad in and of itself. What made it worse was that the group was full of ugly people, so I was seeing double the amount of ugly people. I think the Norwegian girls were a little concerned, but I was trying to be macho and pretend like it was nothing. Fortunately our meal ended just in the nick of time because 15 minutes later I got to my motel room and passed out for three hours. Then I woke up feeling fine, but with a bizarre craving for a sundae. Weird.

So that's how the first week of the Philippines went. Let's see how the second week goes...

Malaysia, Part III: The Climax (With the Warm Afterglow of Brunei)

No more beaches. No more cities. It was time to man up and enter the jungles of Borneo once and for all. Wild tigers, primitive headhunters, giant-sized mosquitoes: nothing could stop me now....

....Except the damn bus driver. He refused to leave. (By the way, this is my "bus" - a hollowed out, rusted, barely-functioning piece of crap. It was older than I am - never a good sign.) I was amped to get my jungle on, but the fact that I was a paying customer was more of a nuisance to him than anything else. "I don't leave until I have enough passengers," he told me repeatedly. Hey, I get it pal - it's your world and I'm just passing through. So there I am, waiting, waiting, waiting. Patience is a necessary ingredient of traveling in Southeast Asia, but 3-plus hours of sitting idle at a bus station - just hoping that some other person shows up - is enough to push anyone over the brink. In those three hours, I'm pretty sure I went through the entire Kübler-Ross Grief Cycle (shock, denial, anger, etc.) and after reaching the last stage, acceptance, I created a new final stage: the iPod stage. What would I do without you, REO Speedwagon?

Before I go further, how about a quick geography lesson for those who have no idea where I am? Borneo is the third largest island in the world. It's on the edge of the Pacific rim, just south and west of the Philippines. It's sort of circular in shape; if you drew a line from the upper right hand corner to the lower left, the top portion is Malaysia and the bottom portion is Indonesia. Or, you could just click on the link below the map on the right side of the blog and let GoogleMaps explain it all.

So, finally, the jungle. After several hours driving on a "road" off the main highway, my first destination awaited me: Mt. Kinabalu. I'll be honest - I had never heard of this mountain until a week before I arrived. But scores of people told me that it had to be seen, and if possible, climbed. So I ventured out to the "big daddy" of Borneo. It stands at 13,500 feet in elevation. While not tall in comparison to more commonly-known mountains, what makes Mt. Kinabalu visually striking is that it's not part of a larger mountain range. It stands by itself; the next tallest mountain in the area is at least a mile shorter. Furthermore, Mt. Kinablua is "two-toned" - the bottom two-thirds are entirely jungle while the top one-third is bare granite. And, if you're lucky, sometimes a low lying cloud will sit right at the intersection of jungle and granite which further enhances this visual effect. A fair number of people climb to the top of the mountain and from what I hear, it's not a particularly difficult climb. Doing so requires sleeping at a small camp about 3,000 feet from the summit, so it ends up being a two-day affair (and provides the opportunity to see the sun rise over the summit on the second morning, which is supposed to be a killer view if the clouds cooperate). Did I climb to the top? Nope. Because I'm a coward? Well, that may be true, but that's not the reason. The temperature change (from a balmy 90 degrees in the jungle to sub-freezing temperatures at the summit) requires a litany of clothing and tools I didn't have: long pants, sweater, jacket, gloves, flashlight, ski mask, etc. etc. etc. Sure, I could have bought these things for a 36 hour hike (in addition to the $250 required to pay for a mandatory hiking guide, insurance, and a "conservation" fee) and then thrown them away the next day. But... nah. I'd rather spend my money on beer. So sue me. Anyway, I did climb to the first base camp (elevation 7,200), which was nothing to sneeze at, thank you very much. It took me a full day to go up and down, and the view from there is still quite breathtaking. On my way down, with about an hour of sun left, I figured I'd do a final exploration of the jungle before I headed back to my homestay. So I bust out the "map" of the mountain (provided by the park ranger) and take what appears to be the "scenic" route as amongst the seven or eight small trails weaving towards park headquarters. It turned into a pleasant exploration of the local flora, including these flowers that stood out from the blanket of green covering everything else. But this map was the worst piece of crap ever. I could have received better directions if I had given a piece of paper and some paint to a three-year-old and asked him to do a finger painting. I passed a rest stop that met at the conjunction of four trails, and with time running out, I decided it was time to drop the scenic tour and just head back in on the most direct trail. So I looked at the map and followed the path for 20 minutes until... I'm right back at the rest area. One big stupid loop around a hill. Great. So then I decided to go the other way from this rest area and 15 minutes later... the same damn rest area! By process of elimination there was only one trail left to take, but by then it was dark and I could only hope that I didn't twist an ankle or whatever. I made it (obviously) but there was a brief moment of fear (I'm man enough to admit it) where I thought, "Well, you've had a good run at this life. Twenty-years ain't so bad." So, yeah, that was my introduction to the jungle.

The next day, I thought I'd tone it down a bit. I figured I'd be more of an observer than a doer. I headed to the Sepilok Orangutan sanctuary in the far northeastern corner of Malaysian Borneo. It's one of only four in the world and, according to them, the best of the four. The sanctuary's mission is to rescue orphaned orangutans left behind as a result of deforestation and raise them to be re-released into the wild. The sanctuary is small - just a few buildings - but it's built into a large swath of protected rainforest. It's a fun place to visit because there are no nets, cages, or enclosures when viewing the orangutans (and whatever other monkeys come to visit). You walk about a mile into the jungle along a set pathway to a feeding station where a lot of the orangutans hang out. At specific times, workers bring some food to the station and, low and behold, out of the jungle come scores of orangutans, macaques, and proboscis monkeys (which are found only on Borneo). They do their thing for about an hour at the station - swing around, thump their chest, smell each other, and sleep - and then disappear back into the jungle until the next feeding period. I was fortunate in that many of the orangutans and macaques that showed up that day were comfortable getting close to those of us watching them. We (the humans) were all standing about 30 yards from the feeding station and they (the monkeys) didn't seem to mind one bit. Even though I realize that we're about 97% similar when it comes to DNA, it's still amazing how similar their facial expressions and movements are to ours. But, in a not-too-subtle way to underscore the 3% difference between species, the worker involved in the feeding warned the observers, "Don't get too close. The dominant male will get angry and is strong enough to rip your limbs off your torso." Good to know. I kept my distance from the dominant male...

The following day I headed further into a portion of the jungle that's only accessible via plane. The "airport" looks like something the CIA might have covertly built in Laos during the Vietnam war. It's a small strip of land, a tiny building, and then hundreds of miles of primary rainforest. Why build an airport in this jungle? So people can visit Gunung Mulu National Park. It sort of sounds like an infectious disease - "Doc, is it bad?" "Dave, I'm sorry to tell you this. You've got Gunung Mulu." Some people come here for extended three or four night jaunts into the jungle wilderness. I wasn't up for spending four nights in the jungle - that's just craziness - but I figured I could handle a couple of days trekking around in a small group with a guide. The hiking actually began at dusk on the first day and we walked around in the dark for a few hours before coming to a stop. There was a full moon so most of the bigger animals didn't come out, which sucked, but the insects and reptiles were in full force. At one point the guide stops us as she spots a giant toad in the distance. When I first heard the guide say "giant toad" I was hoping for some monster thing like two feet in length. Not exactly. It was about eight inches - big, but certainly not giant. Anyway, the guide keeps telling me to get closer and closer so I can take a picture. I'm a little reluctant because I figure I'll scare it off, but she's egging me on, so I'm about 18 inches from it when I get this shot. Only then does she tell me, "Watch out. It's poisonous. If the chemical it secrets on its back touches your skin, it'll burn like hell." Uhh, say what? Shouldn't you tell me that BEFORE you encourage me to get within 18 inches of this sucker? Not exactly instilling a lot of confidence at the beginning of our excursion together... Anyway, we plodded around the jungle for a couple of days. It's nice, but I'll be honest - the jungle looks the same whether you've been walking around for two minutes or two hours. It's not as if the jungle gets denser the more you hike; the park headquarters, where all the trails start, is already right smack in the middle of the jungle. But we did catch some interesting reptiles and insects along the way, like this tree snake (about three feet long) and this millipede (which I measured to be the length of 1.5 dollar bills. Imagine that thing crawling into your sleeping bag!) All of the insects seem to be on steroids. I'm not an insect person (who is?), so it was just one giant "ugh"-fest during the hikes as the guide pointed out creepy-crawlies that make me shiver with disgust. Fun, huh?

As nice as the jungle trekking was, I (like the majority of visitors) really came to Gunung Mulu to explore the limestone caves. These caves - approximately six of which are open to the public for viewing - are truly spectacular, and you don't need to take my word for it. The BBC, in 2006, produced a documentary called "Planet Earth." It quite possibly contains some of the most incredible shots of nature ever put on film. (I liked the series so much I recorded it on my DVR and had the DVD.) One part of the series, which I believe fell under the heading of "Jungles," explores these caves. The most famous caves include Clearwater cave, which contains parts one of the world's largest underground river systems and is believed to be the largest cave in the world by volume, and Deer cave, which contains the largest cave passage in the world.
The cave's size has been measured in a variety of different ways, but let's just say it's friggin' huge. And there's more. Deer cave is home to three million bats that semi-frequently come out of the cave en masse at dusk to dine on the local insects. If I recall correctly, in the "Planet Earth" documentary, the bats all come out and form this massive tornado before splitting up to find food. That's not exactly what happened when I was there. The bats came out in waves, about 50,000 each time, and stormed out looking for food without any tornado-like effects. It looked almost like the black smoke from the the t.v. show "Lost."


It was still really cool to see this go on for about 45 minutes even though I was expecting a massive bat tornado. But, given that that bats often don't come out at all, I was glad to catch a glimpse of them regardless of what shape they took.

After my days in Gunung Mulu, it was goodbye to Malaysia. A quick flight back to the nearest city (Miri) and I was back in civilization. But I wasn't prepared to leave Borneo just yet. Just a few miles from Miri is the border between Malaysia and Brunei Darassulam (aka Brunei the Abode of Peace, or just Brunei). I figured it was worth a visit; when the heck am I going to be this close to Brunei in my life? So I boarded a bus and three hours later I had arrived in the capital, Bandar Seri Begawan. Brunei is a tiny country in terms of both size and population (about 350,000 people) but it's ruled by one of the wealthiest families in the world, headed by the Sultan of Brunei. He was once the richest man in the world. His personal wealth was estimated by Forbes in 2007 (I did a little research) to be around $23 billion. Several other royal family members, including several princes, are estimated to have anywhere between $5-15 billion. That's what you get when your country is essentially Shell Oil Company. (A little more research revealed that the Sultan owns 130 Rolls Royces, 531 Mercedes-Benzes, 367 Ferraris, 362 Bentleys, 185 BMWs, 177 Jaguars, 160 Porsches, and 20 Lamborghinis. It's good to be the Sultan. And, just to be clear, his full title is "His Majesty Sultan Haji Hassanal Bolkiah Mu'izzaddin Waddaulah, Sultan and Yang Di-Pertuan Negara Brunei Darussalam.") I imagined a sort of mini-Dubai with wealth oozing from every surface. Not even close. The country is very understated, albeit clean, quiet, organized, and completely alcohol-free (boo!). Walking around at 8:30 p.m. feels like it's really 2:00 a.m. It's a dull place but I think that the people like it that way, i.e., no crime, no beggars, no disaffected youth, minimal unemployment, etc. And the people are very friendly. For the first time in almost three months, drivers would actually stop to let me cross the intersection. That's unheard of anywhere else within a 1000 mile radius.

Okay, I won't kid you: I really came here just to add a cool stamp to my passport. I was only here 48 hours. That being said, I liked it a lot even though I didn't do much touring. I did visit the two main mosques in the capital, both of which are just stunning.
They were built by the Sultan in the last 40 years and serve as the primary worshipping areas for many of the Muslims living in the capital. And yes - if it looks like gold, it is. There's also a fascinating museum dedicated to all things Sultan. In one portion of the museum there is a large collection of gifts given to the Sultan by visiting dignitaries. It must be tough trying to come up with a gift for a guy who literally has everything. Some of the gifts are nice, but some of the poorer countries brought gifts that look like trinkets compared to what the Sultan already owns. Which brings me to my other favorite part of the museum. It houses all of the ornaments and regalia used during official ceremonies to remind everyone just what a big shit the Sultan is. In addition to the usual stuff you'd expect to find - gold throne, gold umbrellas, etc. - there was one item that just made me laugh. It looks exactly like a prosthetic arm but it is made of solid gold and designed for one purpose - to hold up the Sultan's chin. This is no joke. It looks exactly like a prosthetic arm (starting mid-bicep) that would sit on a table; it has the palm of the hand facing open as if you were resting your chin in your hand. Since it would be unseemly for the Sultan to rest his chin in his own hand when he's a little tired, he has to have an arm of solid 24k gold to do it for him. You can't help but look at this and think, "They had some extra gold laying around after all the important stuff was built and someone said, 'What else can we do with this. Oh yeah, a fake arm to hold up the Sultan's chin! Why didn't we think of that earlier?!'"

What else was left to do in Brunei? Probably a fair amount more, but for me, there was only one more thing on my agenda: a night's stay at The Empire Hotel & Country Club. It might sound like any other resort, but it only sounds that way. This place was built in 1994 by one of the princes - Prince Jefri - as lodging for guests of the royal family. Construction costs were approximately $1.1 billion. Yes, you read that right - $1.1 billion. After just a few years, it was converted to a resort to try to recoup some of that cost. From the moment you walk into the main lobby, your jaw drops. It's ridiculous and extravagant and orgasmic: it's ridicagantmic. One part of the lobby is seven stories high and supported by pure Italian marble columns that have solid gold leafing everywhere. The place has nine pools, a dolphin center, a bowling alley, a gym with tennis courts and badminton courts and squash and yada yada yada, a full-size movie theater, it's own stretch of private beach, a spa, and a golf course. Then there's the Empire Suite ($22,000 a night - just a shade out of my price range) that houses a chandelier made of pure Baccarat crystal. Nice. I can just imagine how frightened they were when I walked in. You have to keep in mind my physical appearance these days: crappy $2 t-shirt from Laos, sweat-stained shorts, Billabong flip-flops, and a frayed NorthFace backpack with muddy shoes tied to the back. Not exactly the type to saunter into a 5-star resort. The guy at the reception was undoubtedly paging hotel security to throw me out. "We have a situation here. Main lobby, purple shirt. Looks like a backpacker is trying to crash at the hotel. Repeat, backpacker is trying to crash at the hotel. Need immediate assistance." But, as my father taught me, my money is just as good as anyone else's, so when I walked up to the reservation desk and brought out the plastic, it was nothing but smiles and "Hello, Mr. Newman." And when he asked me how many people would be staying, I got a likely smarmy and said, "Two. Me... and my American Express." It was totally lost on the guy.

I opted for the "standard" room, which "only" has a king-sized bed so deliciously plush it nearly brought me to tears, an ocean view, a gigantic bathroom that's wall-to-wall marble, and electrical sockets with gold-plating. And, as it should be, the staff practically got down on their knees every time I walked by to better position themselves to kiss my ass. I don't usually like being called "Sir" and I hate "Mr. Newman," but given what this place cost me for just one night, I thought, "You bet your sweet ass you can call me sir."

I hated to leave this place, but it had to be. I left Brunei and the good life behind me. My one day vacation from being a backpacker was over.

It's back to the grind, back to the budget hotels, back to the road. Goodbye Malaysia, goodbye Brunei.

Hello Philippines...

Malaysia, Part II: The Dance

After several days on the beach, in the water, and through the jungle, civilization beckoned me. After a long bus ride through the middle of the country, I found myself in the port city of Georgetown, situated on Penang island on the northwest edge of Malaysia. Georgetown was a major commercial center for British and Dutch traders as early as the 17th century. Although its commercial relevance (and aesthetic presence) has been far surpassed by Singapore as the primary business destination in the region, it still remains an important trading port for Malaysia. That being said, if you put a gun to my head and asked me to come up with a "must-see" list for Georgetown, you'd probably end up pulling the trigger. Somehow I got the impression from my guidebook and from other travelers that I talked to that this was the place to be on the west coast of peninsular Malaysia. Well, screw the guidebook and screw those travelers. They were wrong. In fact, my most memorable experience in Georgetown happened when I first arrived in town. It was completely spontaneous, so I give no credit to anyone or anything but the randomness of life. It happened around dusk when the cityfolk were done with work and filled into the main park by the harbor. I was wandering by, aimlessly, just searching the city for a place to eat, when I heard in the distance some guy shouting. I assumed it was the local schizophrenic. When I got closer I saw that there was a sizeable gathering of people listening to this guy. It was then that I realized that this was Malaysia's counterpart to Speaker's Corner in Hyde Park, London. About 75 people had encircled this guy who was bitching about something. He was switching between English and Malaysian so I only understood part of it, but listening to semi-crazy people rant is fun in any language. And on and on he went, gesticulating wildly. He was screaming for about 30 minutes, entertaining everyone, and then, well, I'll just give you my inner monologue: "This guy's pretty funny. I like the fact that... Oh crap, did he just make eye contact with me? No, no. False alarm. Only a coincidence; I'm just the tallest person in this general direction. He wasn't specifically looking at me. Just be cool. See, everything's alright... Oh shit, now he's pointing in my direction. Well, maybe he's pointing to someone behind me. [Slowly turning my head around]. Crap, no one's behind me. Ok, he was probably just motioning to some government building as the source of his general frustration and I happen to be standing in line with that building. [Surveying the area.] Damn it, nothing but trees within eyesight. F--k me, he's back to pointing at me and now people are looking directly at me. Why do I have to be the only white guy within 300 yards? Wait, is he walking this way? Not good, Newman, not good. Time to bail." The moment he turned away to point at someone else, I took off running like I was Seattle Slew. Then I grabbed some great Indian food with a cold beer. All better.

Anyway, back to the city itself. There were a lot of little sights that were moderately impressive but nothing that made me really pause and linger. Most of the non-religious buildings are 18th and 19th century British-styled structures that are good examples of the design and architecture of the time (City Hall, the seaside fort, etc.). But, they're also good examples of what happens when you don't maintain centuries-old buildings. The external decay is quite evident: crumbling corners, water stains, shattered windows, and rusted metal. If you give it a few minutes, you can almost imagine a bustling and vibrant town 200 years ago where the buildings stand tall and proud and where horse-drawn carriages and stiff Brits roam the streets. Those days are long gone. And perhaps for the better. What has taken over Georgetown is the most amazing mix of people I've ever seen in such tight quarters. Current Georgetown - an area no bigger than a few square miles - hosts thriving Hindu, Buddhist, and Muslim communities, with a lingering Christian population. Little India, Chinatown, and Muslimtown (just made that up) are literally right on top of one another. One minute I was walking down a street with nothing but dumplings and noodles on the menu, then I'd take a left onto another street and it would be chicken tikka masala and naan. There was one stretch (176 steps, I counted) where there were two Buddhist temples, one Hindu temple, one mosque, and one church. (The pictures, clockwise from upper left, are a mosque, Buddhist temple, Hindu Temple, and another Buddhist temple). All of these buildings are in great shape (because they're actually used) and are open to the general public. Some of them are fairly mundane while others are exceptionally ornate. I particularly liked the main Buddhist temple (pictured upper right) and I was fortunate enough that one of the temple elders happened to be present to give me a quick tour. What impressed me most were the pillars in front of the entrance that are built from stone. The stone was imported from China as were twelve skilled artisans who worked on the pillars for four years. The result: some of the most intricate stone carving I've ever seen. This is more than just bas relief - these carvings extend, in some circumstances, eight inches off the main pillar surface. Truly remarkable when you're up close and personal.

It's really a treat to walk around and see such racial, religious, and ethnic diversity and, more importantly, not get any sense of hostility from any single group of people. Granted, I'm a stranger in a strange land, so maybe there is lingering and tacit hostility, and I just can't perceive it. But to the extent I'm right and these diverse communities have learned to live with one another, it's inspiring and yet, quite frustrating. It's inspiring in that it can be done. These people, who have been forced to live with each other in ridiculously cramped quarters, have obviously been exposed to everyone else's craziness, but maintain a level of civility and decency. Maybe over the years the Muslim said something like, "Those Hindus are nuts with their 300 million gods. Just crazy. But then again, we believe that Mohammed lept to heaven on a horse. So maybe we're a little crazy, too. Let's eat." (And repeat for all the other religions). Ok, so it was probably more nuanced than that. But somehow it worked. With so many religions bumping elbows with one another, everyone was bound to realize that acceptance had to happen; otherwise, every day would bring a new holy war. Life's just too short for that when there's such good food to eat. Kudos to them for setting an example. But, as I said, it's frustrating to see this harmony because if living in cramped quarters on a tiny island is the only way to achieve it, then the world is screwed. And I'm not even talking about "harmony" like I'm some lefty tree-hugger (which I've never been accused of being). I'm just talking about general civility and decency, as in "I'll eat your food and ride in your taxi and not deface or destroy your property and not try to kill you even though I think you're going to hell." Even that would be ok with me.

After just one day in the city, I decided I wanted more beach time. I'll admit, I can't say no to a beach. I guess that makes me a beach slut. So I took a two and a half hour catamaran ride to the islands of Langkawi. Langkawi actually refers to a chain of 90-plus islands on the west coast of Malaysia. Unlike the previous beach island I stayed at (the Perhentian island, which is tiny, secluded, and consisting of just a few bungalows here and there), the main island of Langkawi is large and developed and well-populated by natives and tourists alike. The popular beach is nice but nothing special - just another long stretch of sand set against palm trees and jungle, just like you'd find in Jamaica, Cancun, Hawaii, and probably hundreds of other locales. There's a city behind the beach, so there's lots of background noise. The water isn't remarkably clear on the beach and the sand can get dirty at high tide. Laying out on the beach and looking toward the ocean, you're as likely to see crabs walking along the sand as you are a three year old empty bottle of Clorox bleach that washed up from... somewhere. So if you're looking for a beach with 'things to do' a la parasailing, jetskiing, etc., and with real dining options and bars to visit, then this is the place to be. If you're looking for a quite beach without boats and cars constantly breaking the silence and without planes flying overhead every hour to the local airport, it's a must miss.

The one thing that Langkawi has over many other beaches in Malaysia is that it faces west without any other land or islands between it and the horizon. This makes for a great sunset, and on my second day there, the sun and sky cooperated. The day ended with a painted sky of red and orange and gold. It made for a scene so beautiful it brought just about everyone out on the beach for about an hour. It was so powerful, in fact, that it did just about the impossible - it silenced the city. People stood still and gazed west without saying a word, as if we had all tacitly agreed that everyone could have that time of tranquility to appreciate the beauty for which we had traveled. Which brings me to another 'touchy-feely' experience I had that I would be remiss if I didn't mention, if only because of what it has made me think about. As I was standing on the beach, a middle-aged man walked to about 10 yards of where I stood and, like me, stood alone and motionless while watching another day's chapter close on life. There I was, halfway around the world, a young, white, American Jew; and there he was, an old, dark-skinned, Malaysian Muslim (I assume). Two different men, standing almost shoulder to shoulder, enjoying the same moment, the same sight, the same experience. Just as the sun was being erased by the ocean, we caught each others' glance, and in that way that men do, we communicated by saying nothing; we smiled slightly, we tipped our heads, and we looked away. It got me thinking, and I've been thinking about it for days. How often do I think of the differences instead of the commonalities? Too often. How many times in the last two months have I seen grandparents beam as they watch their grandchildren play; how often have I seen couples walk hand in hand on the beach; how often have I seen teenagers sit around and enjoy ice cream at the end of a hot day? Just as often as I'd see in L.A. or any other American town. Perhaps we all want to live good and decent lives; to enjoy the big and little things; to be able to say, when our last breath is gone, that we gave it our all and have no regrets? A bit corny, maybe, but I'd like that to be true...

The other islands in the area are almost all uninhabited because they don't have beaches. I hired a guy to take me to a few of the other islands just to see what they were about. The first thing that you realize as soon as you get away from the main island is how different the color of the water is. Around the beach the water is standard "water color", but just a few hundreds yards away and the water is pure green, in a good way. As this little boat was motoring away from the harbor, it felt like we were riding on waves of supple jade. The first island he took me too is nothing but unaltered forest and home to lots of little monkeys. And they're not afraid to just come up to you and walk around like it's no big deal. I couldn't resist taking this photo - no explanation necessary. The next island I visited has a wide u-shaped bay where sea eagles gather every afternoon to catch fish that swim just below the surface. Hundreds of eagles circle overhead and then dive down to try to pry their dinner out of the water. We just sat in this bay for a while watching these eagles do their thing. The eagles ignored us, undoubtedly accustomed to having people watch them from boats. They often dove down to the ocean a few feet from the boat. They swoop down towards the water at ridiculously high speeds and then at the last minute extend their claws out to try to grab something. And these are no small birds. My guide told me that some of the eagles have been measured with wingspans over six feet. Most of the time they come up empty-handed, but every now and then they grab a fish... and that's when the real fun begins. The bigger eagles, which have been sitting quietly in the nearby mangrove trees, come out and try to steal the fish from the eagle that caught it. So there are occasional mid-air fights between birds, and if the fish drops, then there's a mad rush by other eagles in the air to try and catch the dead fish before it hits the water.

After a few days at the beach, I reached the end of my time on peninsular Malaysia. From those relatively small beach islands, I flew to Borneo, the third largest island in the world and home to Malaysia and Indonesia. The welcome mat for most travelers is laid out at the city of Kota Kinabula, located in the northeast corner of the island. It's a big city with about 500,000 people, but it doesn't have a big city feel. Most tourists, like me, only use it as a stopping point for further travel inward. I happened to arrive here at night and for some reason I was pretty wired. So instead of going to bed, I wandered around town looking for an open bar at midnight (which is no easy feat in a Muslim nation). I came upon a karaoke bar populated by the three types of people in the town who were drinking that night: Hindus, Buddhists, and me. People were butchering the lyrics to Britney Spears, Journey, and the crowd favorite, Guns 'n' Roses. Go figure.

Due to a scheduling snafu on my part, I was stuck in the Kota Kinabalu for an extra day before the adventure into the interior part of the island - the jungle - actually began. It was then that I discovered why this city is nothing more than a stop-over for tourists: this place is boring. I imagine that my feelings about Kota Kinabalu would be the similar to those of someone traveling to America to see New York or Yellowstone, but then being stuck in Kansas City or Cleveland or Des Moines for an extra day. When I asked the clerk at the motel what I could do in the city to pass the time, she said, "There's a hill at the edge of the city that gives a nice view of the harbor." Wow!! A hill?! Yippee!! What a great slogan that would make: "Kota Kinabalu - We Have A Hill!" After 30 minutes of walking the city (seriously, 30 minutes) I was out of things to do. So I did something I never thought would occur on this trip: I went to a movie. A bag of popcorn, a soda, a fairly recent Hollywood comedy, and the feeling of being back home for two hours: all for just $4.50. It's not all boring here, though. The city has an excellent night market. These are common throughout Southeast Asia, but this one seemed to have a better variety of food choices, and since the city is on the water, the seafood was fresher than fresh. There's something bizarrely fascinating about watching guys chop up live fish right in front of your eyes.

And now, the jungles of Borneo await...

Malaysia, Part I: The Seduction

Oh, Malaysia, you sweet, sly temptress. You invited me to relax on your pristine white-sand beaches; to swim in your crystal-clear waters; and to explore your lush tropical jungles. You invited, and I obliged. Oh yes ... I obliged. Malaysia, you had me at, "Hello"...

Tropical. Islam. Two words you don't often hear together. But that's what Malaysia is about. The stifling humidity, the never-ending waves of palm trees, the pounding rain that seems to come from nowhere: you could just as easily be in Florida, Tahiti, or Costa Rica. But the domed mosques, the black burkas, the daily prayer calls: there's no mistaking the central role that Allah plays in all of this. Welcome to Malaysia.

My introduction to the country began as it does for many travellers, in Kuala Lumpur. As the capital city, it is like most other large Southeast Asian capitals: crowded and noisy. But to describe it in only these terms would be to unfairly sell it short. It's an incredibly diverse city - while Islam is the dominant presence, there are significant Indian and Chinese minorities. (Most budget travellers find themselves in Chinatown, which is, to be polite, a shithole.) It also has a touch of modernity that many Southeast Asian locales don't as well as an efficiency that is seemingly incomprehensible to its neighbors farther north. To wit, the city has not one but two reliable public transportation systems: an elevated train/subway that was easy to navigate and a monorail that quickly cuts through the city from end to end and goes all the way to the airport (which, for some unknown reason, is 70 km from the city center). And nothing is more indicative of Kuala Lumpur's efforts to bring itself into the 21st century like the city's pride and joy, the Petronas Towers. Previously the tallest building(s) in the world (until Taiwan came along and built something taller in 2004, spoiling all the fun), these towers are home to the government-run petroleum company. Sleek and tall, a graceful marriage of glass and steel, they loom large over the city. And just to show off how much money runs through this building complex, the lower levels of the lobby include a shopping mall with all the designer names you'd find on Rodeo Drive. Yet someone decided that having the second tallest building(s) in the world wasn't enough, so they went on to build - approximately 300 yards down the road - a communications tower called the Menara KL Tower that dwarfs the Petronas Towers in height. (Apparently, the people keeping track of "Tallest [fill in the blank]" make separate categories for buildings and for other man made objects, like communications towers. Who knew?) The Menara KL Tower sits at 421 meters high, making it the fourth tallest man made structure in the world, behind communications towers in Canada, China, and Russia. I don't remember exactly how high up the observation tower is, so let's just call it "way the hell up there." From the observation deck, everything looks like ants. On a clear day, visibility extends well beyond 25 miles. And what do you do when you're an oil-exporting country with too much money pumping into both of these tall structures? If you answered something like "spread the wealth among your impoverished populace," then you need a reality check. What you do is light up these buildings every night like they're Christmas trees. Makes for a wonderful city nightscape, which I quietly enjoyed while sipping a delightful after-dinner Coke (not beer, because it's a Muslim country and alcohol, while available, is ridiculously expensive).

Even though I really only came to Kuala Lumpur to visit these two architectural marvels, once I was here I just started exploring the city on foot and found lots of things worthy of visiting. I came across this mosque almost by accident, but it happens to be historically and culturally significant because I think it's the oldest still-standing mosque in Kuala Lumpur. Despite what you might think of Islam and some of its followers, I think there is little denying that much of the art and architecture in the Muslim world is quite splendid. The domed ceilings, the ornate archways, and the color schemes make for some interesting viewing (and a welcome break after seven weeks of seeing nothing but temples and pagodas). I tried to go in the mosque and explore the interior sections but I happened to be there during prayer hours so I could get no farther than the outside gate. The gatekeeper, who I later learned lives at the mosque and studies there, began engaging in a friendly conversation with me about what he assumed was my interest in Islam. I had to bite my tongue before I said, "What interest?" Anyway, after a few minutes it became apparent that this was his "soft sell" to try to get me to convert. He wasn't agressive or militant; he was just doing his best to spread the faith. Well, good luck pal. While he was going on about the virtues of Islam I was thinking, "I wonder how differently this conversation would be going if he knew I was American and Jewish?" Next to the word "futile" in the dictionary should be nothing more than a picture of the two of us with this guy is trying to convert me. Better luck with the next tourist, buddy.

After visiting this first mosque, I figured it was worth it to visit the National Mosque of Malaysia. I'm not sure why I was surprised, but they actually let tourists into this place. The only caveat is that you have to be dressed "appropriately" to enter, which I was not - my t-shirt and shorts didn't pass muster. (Add this to the long list of times I've been kept from entering a building/bar/nightclub based on my substandard wardrobe.) They outfitted me with this lovely robe so I could go in. The mosque can hold up to 14,000 people for prayer and the main sanctuary is right over my shoulder. (The sanctuary is off-limits to non-Muslims, so that's as far as I could get.) The people were very friendly and, once again, began handing me brochures about Islam and encouraged me to learn more about the religion. Here's an A.P.B. to the good people of Malaysia: you won't convert me. Don't waste your time.

There's a good deal more to see in Kuala Lumpur - some historical buildings, a lovely botanical garden, etc. - and I'm glad I toured most of them during my two days there. But my one night staying in a crappy hostel was all the motivation I needed to get a move on. (This was actually the first true hostel I lived in during my trip, and once this trip is done, never again. My room was basically the size of a prison cell; the whole place smelled; the common bathroom was as you'd expect it to be; and you could hear everyone's business all night long.) So where does one go after a night like that? The Perhentian Islands, a sublimely perfect beach locale spread over two tropical islands in northeastern Malaysia. An acquaintance described this place as one of the better beach spots in Southeast Asia. Not only would I agree with that, I'd go farther - this place ranks high on my all-time list of best beaches. The Perhentian Islands are just south of the Malay-Thai border on the east coast of the country. An hour flight from Kuala Lumpur to a city called Kota Bharu, an hour drive to the port town of Kuala Besut, and a 30 minute speedboat to the islands are the three steps along the path to beach nirvana. These two islands - called, quite descriptively, Big Island and Small Island - are tiny. By speedboat you can probably circle them in 10 minutes. Each island is roughly oval shaped and has about three or four separate small beaches on its circumference. Most of the backpackers stay on Small Island, ergo I chose to stay at a "resort" on the Big Island. "Resort" is a loose term here - think along the lines of a few wooden bungalows on the beach with a small outdoor restaurant. Not that I'm complaining. The place I stayed - Flora Bay Resort - was divine. I was told by a guy who organizes scuba dives on the islands that the resort was located on the best beach of all of them, and it's not hard to imagine why. Located on a bay on the south side of the island, the white sand is so fine it feels like baking powder and so sun-bleached it's almost painful to look at it. The water is clear to the point of being eerie. The weather, finally, was cooperative, so I got several days of never-ending sun at just the right temperature: hot, but not sweltering. Cars don't exists on the islands since there are no roads, so quiet is the name of the game. In fact, there is nothing on the island beyond the beaches except jungle. Looking towards the island from the water, the sequence goes like this: water, beach, bungalow, jungle. And the best part - which I had no hand in - was that I came during the lowest point in the tourist season (just before the monsoons start to roll in), so there were about 15 tourists on the entire beach. (I think capacity during the high season is about 500 people.) There were stretches of hours when I saw no one and heard nothing but the gentle crash of the waves. Truly awesome. In fact, my only interaction with someone on the beach itself was as follows: there was one point where I had been lying out, half-asleep, for about an hour. I was face down in the sand, no towel or belongings with me - after coming out of the water I just did a big ol' belly flop on the shoreline and checked out of reality for a while. (That's my standard beach m.o.) Then, this middle-aged British guy comes up to me and the following conversation took place:

Nice British Guy [pressing on my shoulder]: "Hey, are you ok?"
Me [dazed and groggy, coming out of my slumbers]: "Huh?"
NBG: "Are you ok? Do you need help?"
Me [confused, lethargic]: "Huh?"
NBG: "Are you hurt? Do you need a doctor? I passed by you about an hour ago and you were in the exact some position, face-down in the sand. You haven't moved an inch. You have sand all over your face. You have no belongings, no towel. I thought maybe you had a seizure or heart attack or something."
Me: "Oh no, I'm fine, thanks. This is how I beach."
NBG [bewildered; probably thinking how bizarre Americans are]: "Ok then. Very well. See you around."

Nice guy. Never saw him again.

After lazing on the beach for a few days, it was time to explore the ocean. Scuba and snorkeling are big here. Being the wimp that I am, I stick with snorkeling. You don't need to get in a boat and be whisked away to some remote spot in the middle of the ocean because everything that's worth seeing can be reached just by swimming from the beach. My favorite was Shark Point, and indeed I saw several sharks. They're not particularly big - black tip sharks range from two to four feet in length - but scary enough to see when you're in the open water all alone. The coral was interesting but nothing special while the variety of the fish was impressive. Overall, good but not great. Can't win 'em all

I could have stayed for weeks at this beach, for months even. This is one of the things for which I had been searching. A paradise all my own (almost), a place that felt like mine, a place that felt right. But then -- the death blow of all solitary travellers: I finished my reading material. Spy novel - done. Murder mystery novel - done. When you run out of reading material, and there's no tv, no radio, no internet, and basically no one who speaks your language (other than Nice British Guy, who I saw only once), you start to get a little antsy. At first, it was ok. I'll admit, I sometimes talk to myself, and I'm an interesting enough person that even I can entertain my own brain for a while. But then the hours drag on, and as often happens when I'm out of things to think about, I start making Top 5 lists. Nothing out of the ordinary - Top 5 burgers I've eaten in California; Top 5 roads I've driven on in America; Top 5 action movies. And when I get to something like the last one, I start subdividing because there's too many to choose from. So I'll go with Top 5 action movies where the villain/enemy/bad guy isn't human. That let's me toss out "Die Hard," "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid," and "Die Hard." So too go "Braveheart" and "Heat." Now I can start making some progress. First to mind is "Predator" - great action movie. No love story, no character development or arc, and - let's be honest - no real plot. Just Arnold Schwarzenegger, Jesse Ventura, Carl Weathers, and a few other guys on steroids chasing an alien through the jungle. Next to mind is "Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan." William Shatner doing his thing and any movie with Ricardo Montalban is worth watching. But then I'm thinking, is it really an 'action' movie? There's no prolonged gun fight or hand-to-hand combat or car chase (although there is a short 'spaceship chase' at the end of the movie through the 'Mutara' nebula. I'm such a dork for knowing that). So then I start thinking, "well, what makes something an 'action' movie?," and I begin making a list of criteria. Anyway, this has gone on long enough - you get the idea. When I get to the point where I try to define what an action movie is in order to pass the time, it's time to leave so I can have some legit human interaction. And so I did after a lovely few days...

I figured that a nice contrast to lazing on a great beach for several days would be roughing it in the heart of the Malaysian jungle, so that's what I did. After a full-day drive through the Malaysia back-country, I arrived at Taman Negara national park. It's located right smack in the middle of peninsular Malaysia, covering about 4,000 square kilometers. The town that serves as the base camp for hikers is called Kuala Tahan. Despite its being the gateway to this popular national forest, it's a small scruffy town with no real infrastructure. There's one mini-mart, no banks or ATMs, and most of the restaurants are on river barges. And there are roosters everywhere, roaming wild and free and making noises at all hours of the day and night. Roosters, why do you squack at 3am? WHY?! You're on notice, roosters: I hate you all.

Malaysia claims that Taman Negara is the oldest rainforest in the world, although I have no idea how such things can be measured. Oldest or not, it's beautiful and worth at least two full days of hiking and exploring. There's a 50km loop that takes at least two days to hike (i.e., it requires that you sleep in the jungle) and I thought, "Yeah, I can do this. I'm in good shape, and a few insects near my sleeping bag won't bother me." But the jungle, upon hearing my thoughts, said "Are you kidding me?! I'm going to beat you down, chew you up, spit you out, and then for good measure, take you out back to the woodshed and beat you again, just for kicks." And it did. I woke up early the first day to begin my hike, but after about 3 miles, I knew that I was in trouble. It isn't so much that the hiking is incredibly tough, because for the most part, it's not. The trails are clear - if not altogether even - and the highest rise in elevation is a 'mere' 2000 foot hill (which I climbed, barely... More on this in a second.) You don't have to make your own path, machete in one hand and flashlight in the other. And no compass is needed, at least on the short hikes. The real killer: the heat and humidity. The air just sits still on the jungle floor and it's so thick it's almost palpable. I know I've droned on before about the weather in these parts, but this took it to a new level. I swear, the sweat coming off me felt like (and may have looked like) this:



So instead of a major multi-day hike, I had to break my time into two day-long hikes. Fortunately, most other people I met felt the same way and had the same experience, so I wasn't alone in my wussiness. In fact, when you come back to town, you see a parade of hikers coming in for the night, all of whom looked beaten, tired, sore, exhausted, and utterly defeated. The jungle is universally unkind. (Plus, there's the added bonus of a shower, air conditioning, and a real dinner.) The most brutal part of my day hikes was a climb up to the 2000 foot high hill called Bukit Temeresk. For those who don't hike often, 2000 feet is not really a major climb. But this climb was epic. It was one of the most physically humbling experiences in my life that I can recall, particularly since I fancy myself something of a decent climber. The first 1000 feet or so were tough but doable. The second thousand required a rope to make my way up. It was so intense that I couldn't go more than one minute without stopping. So for about an hour and a half, it was climbing for a minute, then pausing for a minute. I was sucking air like oxygen was going out of style. I wanted to turn back so badly, but I was determined to make it to the top. Why? Because that little voice inside me said I could do it? No, it was nothing so courageous. The previous day, I chatted with two Russian girls who made their way up this hill; they were, to say the least, "big boned." So all I kept thinking as I made my way up was, "If those fat-asses can do, so can I." Mean? Yes. But effective. I made it.

Two days of exploring the jungle, while rough on my lungs, legs, and feet, was worth it. I didn't see many animals during my hikes - a few flying squirrels and some birds - but I did hear all sorts of monkeys, bats, foxes, and insects sing and hum and bark. One of the few "touristy" things they have in this park is a canopy walk - a series of 20 meter wooden planks suspended by rope from the tops of the trees stretching for 600 meters. Unlike the canopy walk I did in Singapore, which was anchored in concrete and made of steel beams, this was beyond wobbly. "Don't look down, don't look down, don't look down..." The view, while intersting, is not terribly impressive - you just end up staring at tree leaves from a closer perspective.

Since I didn't see many animals during the day, I opted to take a night safari in the back of a 4WD jeep. The jeep took five of us around a path in the jungle for two hours at night with a guide sitting on the roof holding a high-beam flashlight pointing out animals in the dark. There are not many big animals in the jungle but it's full of leopard cats, foxes, owls, snakes, birds, all of which we saw. The 10 foot long python was busy swallowing something so we just sat there for a few minutes and watched it slide down its throat. Pretty damn cool. There was one hitch to this ride, however: the rain. Just as we took off for the jungle at 9pm, the rain began pouring down like nothing I have ever experienced. One minute it was clear, the next minute it was like we drove under Niagara Falls. It was so intense that we had to pull over and seek shelter. You know you're in trouble when, in the middle of a rainforest, the guide says, "Too much rain." So there we are, waiting for the rain to clear. And then, after 20 minutes, it passed. So it goes.

That's the first part of Malaysia for me: city, beach, jungle. That cycle will be repeated again at least once more, so stay tuned...