The bustling Grand Bazaar in Istanbul

As we briskly walked through the carpet souk at the Grand Bazaar in Istanbul a man stopped Dave to ask us, “Where are you from?” The United States, Dave told him. “Why don’t more people from your country come here?” he wanted to know. It’s a hard question to answer and one we’ve heard all too frequently, from Bali onward. We usually give the standard answer that people are afraid. And indeed they are, for a variety of reasons. Recent bombings in Bali and Spain, both places on our itinerary. Imagined reprisals from Muslims. It’s easy to get caught up in the fear from recent events. It was even suggested to us by someone before we left that we tell everyone that we are from Canada. That never seemed like a viable, or realistic, solution to any potential problems because of our nationality.

The face of Istanbul

Cool guy sports Stef’s sunglasses in hot Bali

Like everyone else our transport driver to Lovina Beach in Bali wanted to know where we were from. His response to our answer was a smile and then something along the lines of, “I’m not sure I like George Bush.” It’s our turn to smile and say we don’t care too much for him either, which in this case and other instances becomes an easy opening conversation and an intriguing window into others’ views of the US government. Another man in Bali assured us that he liked George Bush. “He’s strong,” he said. Interesting perspective. Going into an antique store on Jonker Street in Malacca, the proprietor came up with a surprising rejoinder after we assured him we didn’t vote for Bush or much care for him. “But he IS your president,” he said. Touch. A well-deserved come-uppance, I suppose. “I like Americans,” the man at the caf in the last Turkish town before the Greek border told us on our way to Athens. But he went on to add, “Government, uh, no!” It seems to be the common sentiment.

Fruit vendor at Lovina Beach

At times it feels like we’re inhabitants of a lost continent whose fellow citizens have long since passed into obscurity. We scan guest books in museums and tourist information centers for nationalities. USA is a rare entry. There’s a look that passes over people’s faces when we say we’re from the States, a mixture somewhere between wonder and remembrance of something long forgotten. Those who want to know more specifics and have heard of Chicago invariably say, “Michael Jordan, basketball.” At least we’ve moved passed Al Capone. Our travels haven’t seemed that far off the familiar path of common destinations. Yet there it is. We’ve not encountered many fellow Americans so far or seen evidence of their passing through.

Penang profile

In all of the places we visit during this journey and have been to in the past, the most lasting memories will always be my encounters with people, not the grand vistas or historical buildings spoken of in guide books. Spending the night on the transit lounge floor in Bangkok airport with a group of central Asian pilgrims returning from the Haj, getting a ride to our Singapore hostel door from a pair of sisters when we seemed lost in the metra station, sharing a cup of tea with a carpet merchant in Istanbul, or talking with a young Bangladeshi man selling roses along the promenade at the base of the Acropolis are opportunities to catch a glimpse into another’s world. Sometimes there’s little language except for a smile and a shared laugh, but that may be all that’s needed to bring us a little closer. “I am not like you,” our desert guide in the Sahara remarked to us during our trip to Morocco in 2000 when we were amazed at his ability to walk the desert with only thin sandals and sometimes barefoot. Indeed, we are not. But our encounters with others along the way help us see the commonalities that bind us together, to see the human despite the differences. In this age of fear, I think that’s exactly what’s needed.

New found friend in Penang

Chicken Murtabak with a hot mug of sweet Teh Tarik

I’m sitting in our room in Penang, Malaysia and not far from here, in some small restaurant lost to memory, is found that holy grail of Malaysian cooking: The Perfect Murtabak. When I traveled through here 16 years ago I stumbled on this local dish, a griddle-fried bread filled with goodies and topped with a mild, sweet curry sauce. I took a stroll from my guesthouse that long-ago morning and came across a man slapping dough on a greased stone, actually sort of flipping it, very skillfully against the surface to stretch it out into a thin disk about two feet around. Then onto the hot griddle it goes to toast before it gets filled with egg and onion and folded into a neat square. “What is this?, I asked. “This is Murtabak”, he replied.

The murtabak chef flips the dough to stretch it out

The smell was wonderful, my curiosity prevailed on me, and soon I had the pleasure of diving into one of the most delightful breakfasts of my life. The bread was toasty, with a crisp but chewy texture, the egg and onion chimed in, and the perfect compliment was the spicy tang of the curry sauce; not your overblown Northern Indian potent type of curry but a more delicate and exotic flavor that I didn’t even identify then as curry. My life changed that morning 16 years ago, and it’s brought me to my current state; finding myself trying to recapture that moment in my Search for the Perfect Murtabak.

A tender moment in a crowded Singapore foodcourt

At that time I thought it wouldn’t be difficult. Living in Chicago, I knew the chances were very good I could find murtabak in some restaurant, maybe up on Devon Avenue where the Indian and Pakastani cuisines thrive. I was to be disappointed though. It turns out that murtabak is an uniquely Malaysian dish, the Indian and Chinese cultures that influenced this country in so many other ways don’t feature it. Chicago, as far as I could tell, offered no one the ability to partake in the delights of murtabak. I spent 16 years telling of the joy I found that morning in Penang, at that little restaurant lost to memory, tucking into forkfulls of murtabak dressed in sweet red-brown curry.

Malacca historic district with fort remnant and sultan’s palace

And now it’s threatening to ruin my marriage. As I’ve traveled from city to city up the long length of the Malaysian Peninsula, trying to regain the thrill of that single encounter with murtabak, I’ve discovered to my horror that my wife doesn’t particularly like it. We ordered it in Singapore, at one of the large food courts in Chinatown. Chicken murtabak this time (the sardine variety is supposedly very tasty but I took a pass), which arrived not folded into a neat square but oblong, and sliced. I was back in the company of my beloved murtabak at last and though this version was a bit more bready and somewhat lacking in the filling of goodies, the sauce was much as I remembered it. Stefanie gave it a try upon my incessant ravings and urgings but she was left unimpressed. I was crushed, of course, but found consolation by discussing the shortcomings of this particular version. Too “bready”.

Schoolgirls waiting at the bus station in Tanah Rata

We traveled next to Malacca, the old port city of the spice trade days, just up the coast from Singapore. The remnant of the old fort is still there, as is the ruined church on the hill where St. Francis Xavier was once buried. In the same historical district is a beautifully recreated sultan’s palace, all in a dark wood, looking just like the day the slaves finished building the original (it burned to the ground 150 years ago). Later that evening we went down the streets of the old city along the Jonkers Walk and into one of the many antique stores found there. We saw elaborately carved “bridal beds’, like small open-side rooms actually, massively detailed, all shipped to the States for around $3500, if you please. Stefanie was heartbroken to leave behind a lovely celadon ginger jar painted with Chinese script.

The mountain view from the guesthouse porch, Tanah Rata

Malacca was wonderful but I ate no murtabak there, and soon we were on our way up to the Cameron Highlands to a small town called Tanah Rata. We needed to change buses in Kuala Lumpur where the bus station includes a warren of bus ticket windows for countless numbers of private little bus companies. They all cry out in jangled chorus to snag the customer before the other guys does. We just kept asking “Cameron Highlands?” and walked in the indicated direction past rows of windows until we found our guy, tucked away near the end of the second aisle. Fetching our tickets, we found the bus that would take us up the road north to the Highlands. After a couple of hours on the main highway we exited onto a winding mountain road that led into the jungle-covered hills of central Malaysia.

Rolling hills of a tea plantation in the Cameron Highlands

The days were cooler in Tanah Rata and we found the perfect little guesthouse up on a small hill south of town. One night, after a day spent walking through a brilliant green tea plantation, I set out to find a murtabak that would match my memory. I knew it was a crapshoot, picking the right place. Much murtabak to be found around Tanah Rata” but where is THE murtabak, the one from my dreams? We finally settled on a small street-side restaurant. I ordered… well, you know what. Stefanie ordered…Roti, another type of pan-fried bread. Now the story of my search takes an unexpected turn. For, you see, my murtabak was good. But the more I munched on my chicken murtabak, and the more we compared it to samples of Stefanie’s cheese roti, the more I began to agree with her; the roti was BETTER! Damn that roti! So delicious! So tantalizingly close to my beloved memory of my first murtabak. Maybe the chicken filling was confusing things!!

Tomorrow, in Penang, I will attempt to find the Perfect Murtabak. This time it will be simple and straightforward. No chicken murtabak, not even sardine murtabak (which I can’t quite get up for)” but egg murtabak, in Penang. Malaysia. This time for keeps.

Colorful crowded streets of Chinatown in Singapore

Arriving at the airport last Friday we were congratulating ourselves on our mastery of Singapore’s bus and subway system, conquered over our 3 day stay. We were especially proud of the fact that we’d made it to the airport by the recommended 2 hours prior to takeoff for our flight to Mumbai, India. But our smugness soon turned into chagrin when we discovered that India requires a special entrance visa, something we had not thought we needed and something we were sorely without. A torturous bus trip to the India embassy, with a drop-off of our luggage at our guest house, saw us arrive 15 minutes after closing time. And to compound our dilemma, a seemingly knowledgeable person standing in the outer courtyard informed us that it would take 5 working days to process our passports. In an instant Goa had slipped off our map.

Stefanie lost in Mustafa mall

As travelers on the lean budget plan, it took us exactly 30 seconds to come to the conclusion that an additional week in Singapore was out of the question. Singapore is an infinitely interesting, cosmopolitan, multi-cultured and clean city with an endless supply of air conditioned malls. However, it is also infinitely challenging to stay within our means in such a high-end place. We needed to escape to a more reasonable economy, and soon. Plan B was in formation before we had left the embassy grounds and was on its way to completion by the time we’d walked the several blocks to Orchard Road for a cheap lunch of curry puffs and fish balls from one of the ubiquitous stands found there amidst the tony shopping centers. While eating our lunch on a bench in the shade of the tree-lined street, we decided upon an alternative destination. When traveling the world, there are plenty of options. Peninsular Malaysia called.

Fugian dancers in graceful pose

Back at our guesthouse, we were soon pouring over tourist information booklets on Malaysia and studying the train and bus routes north. Our hostess, April, gave us some tips on bus travel and information on guesthouses in the areas we were most interested in visiting. By late morning the next day we had connected with our travel agent stateside and had confirmed new flights out of Bangkok, to arrive in Istanbul March 8th as originally planned. With a good idea of where we wanted to go and how to get there, and no further reason to remain, we decided to seize the moment and be on our way since it was still early afternoon. We packed our bags once more, settled our bill, and set out hoping to make Malacca, Malaysia, south of Kuala Lumpur, by early evening in time to hunt down reasonable accommodations. Our plan was to catch a local bus to Johor Bahru, just across the border from Singapore, where we could connect with a bus northward to Malacca, a cheaper option than a direct route from Singapore.

Soft hues of lotus blossoms at streetside

Four buses (including a wrong one due to miscommunications) and 2 hours later, we’d made it just to the far side of the border, a distance no greater than 10 kilometers. Once through customs and headed to what we thought was our connecting bus, Dave was snagged by one of the many taxi guys just outside the building. Dripping with sweat from carrying our bags through the dense humidity and heat, off-loading from 2 buses required to get us through the border, we made a quick decision to go with the information our taxi guy was telling us. That it was 15 kilometers to the bus station and there weren’t any buses going there. As we climbed into his car “a private one“ the heavens opened and torrents of rain fell from the sky, obliterating our view of what supposedly was Johor Bahru. Welcome to Malaysia. Fifteen minutes later as we began to believe we were driving in circles, the bus station appeared. Unable to drive through the terminal gates to the entry because he was not licensed, our taxi guy stopped at a distant curb where we disembarked for a mad 30-yard dash to the safety of the bus shelter.

A bicycle rickshaw — not one of our transportations

Now soaked to the skin, we lugged our baggage into the terminal in search of an express bus going to Malacca. The next one was scheduled to depart in half an hour. But first we needed Malaysian ringgits in exchange for our Singapore dollars, which the money changers at the terminal were happy to oblige, along with changing a few US dollars when 2 different ATMs failed us. Back at the ticket counter we purchased our tickets, then hit the McDonald’s (yes, McDonald’s!) for a take-out sack of cheeseburgers, fries, and cokes, and finally made a quick pit stop at the restroom with a little time to spare before boarding our bus.

The dancing lions’ message of good fortune

In Malacca, we hit pay dirt when Dave phoned the guesthouse and found a vacancy. We caught the local #17 bus as instructed, only to be let out very prematurely in unknown territory. Happily, it was on a busy street with frequent cabs. We haled one and arrived safely a short time later at our guesthouse some 8 hours after our journey began. Six buses, 2 cab rides and one torrential downpour later, we had finally managed our exit from Singapore.

You can go ahead and laugh at the superstition behind the Wishing Tree. I’ll just stand off to the side, arms folded, with that “I know better” look on my face. By the time we arrived at the airport in Bali, my wayward bag was sitting there with a red “rush” tag on it, next to the luggage carousel. I just know that that orange, tied to a wish, hanging up in that tree in Hong Kong, had something to do with it. Now, the other wish about lording over the known universe is looking more in the bag for me.

It seems to take me at least a couple days to transit the mental space between here and there, in this case between Hong Kong and Bali. The typical adjustments of travel; changes in currency and climate, orientation to the new lay of the land, etc, take some focus to achieve. It usually takes me that long anyway to begin to feel a part of each new place. Inside that time frame I usually feel a little disjointed.

Since I was here once before, I’m also dealing with “return visit syndrome”. My first urge is to tell Stefanie, “you wouldn’t believe how nice it was here 15 years ago”. Well shut your cake hole you big fat travel snob. OK, maybe Ubud (our home in Bali for the first week) was less crowded back then. On that basis maybe it was marginally nicer since less of my touristy types always equals better (forgetting for the moment that I am one of those tourists). But isn’t it curious how memory manages to sift out all those nasty little problematic negatives associated with distant experiences. For example, the last time I was in Bali I was also nearly broke and struggling to finesse a bank transfer to pay my lodging bill. Memory makes the grand positive out of the past. It can use that as a bludgeon then to pummel your appreciation for things during the return visit.

Our memories of first trips are unique. Eye opening. Revelatory. But I have to remind myself that they are also a fabricated assemblage of glowing details seen in the sweet gloss that comes from having a positive initial experience. I’ve sifted out all the negatives by now to create a nice little romance story. The return visit I experience now not only lacks that gloss of novelty, it’s also a much more vivid mixed bag of good and bad. So it’s a false comparison. Of course that first trip to Bali kicks butt” because god, it sure was great back then.

Total illusion. The classic downfall of the travel snob. And the big reason I think that this is a problem is that it begins to interfere with my ability to appreciate the events as they occur and people I meet. If I decide that I’m having a bad time then guess what, it’s no picnic for the people I meet either. Each encounter during any given day has the potential to transform, for good or bad. And those moments are abundant. Sometimes I’m amazed at how small gestures or behaviors from others affect my mood, and my opinion of people and places. To think that my attitude towards others has the same effect”

We were talking about these things over dinner and Stefanie gave a good illustration. While we were waiting for the plane to take us from Vancouver to Hong Kong she began to get a little anxious about what comes next. The flight attendant who took her ticket greeted her with such open warmth and measured calm that she instantly forgot her concerns and understood that all would be well. It transformed the moment for Stefanie and she was left not just impressed with that one Chinese woman but helped her believe that those she was yet to meet in Hong Kong would treat her the same.

Part of the problem of thinking, “it was all so much better the last time I was here” is that I may miss out on all that.

It’s a complaint I hear all too often among frequent travelers. Don’t ever believe it when you hear that a place is not worth visiting anymore. If you’ve never been there, go. It will probably be spectacularly worth it. Don’t use someone else’s take on how someplace has changed for the worse as your guide. You’ve never been there before. Enjoy the first moments. Let second moments and return visits be what they are. Someone else’s fiction (or your own) can lead you off the trail of a treasure.

It’s raining gulley whoppers and the old man is dumping tons of potatoes on his bridge. This booming thunder sounds just that way, like there’s someone up in the sky dropping loads of potatoes, or maybe bricks, just like my mother used to tell it. I don’t know when I’ve seen it rain so much, certainly not since we’ve been here. It started shortly after noon and has been unrelenting these past 2 hours. But I can’t complain, as it’s finally cool, and we have a fabulous deep porch to hide out on that overlooks Sri Ratih’s courtyard of frangipani and other tropical flowering trees.

I’ve been trying mightily to physically and mentally overcome the heat these past several days. Mostly to little avail. We’ve determined that any activity, even slight, is best accomplished in segments. Planning a walk into town, perhaps a half-mile, is done ever-so-slowly with a couple sit-down rests along the way.

Beyond dehydration and heat exhaustion, walking poses perhaps a more immediate hazard, that of getting hit by a motor scooter or jeep as they go hurtling past at a frightening pace. It doesn’t help that they’re going opposite to my usual sense of traffic orientation so that I’ve learned to look behind me if I step off of the sidewalk.

So, the rain today is welcome on several fronts, to cool us, to give us rest, but also as an added incentive to just sit quietly, without heed of what place we should be going. Simply to be in the moment, watching the birds and enjoying the beauty around us.

It’s more than a cliche to say you better be ready for anything when you travel around the world. And the way we do it, the unexpected can often come in torrents. A long flight from Chicago to Vancouver B.C. to Hong Kong ended with the added thrill of lost luggage as we stood and watched the carousel go round and round and people disappeared one by one. Stefanie picked up her backpack right away and that seemed like a good sign until we were left alone in the claim area with dying hopes. Nice way to kick it off, get the weirdness out of the way right up front so we won’t have to wonder when it’s coming. We filled out the forms and the nice men promised to call as soon as there was any news. I kind of kissed off seeing my little satchel until at least Bali since we are only here two days.

Hong Kong neon

The last thing I’d do is let that kick my butt. I’m ready to enjoy this come hell or unavoidable consequence so we grabbed our bus into Kowloon and I fought hard to not let that loss break hard on me. Everything in the bag except my wedding ring can be replaced so what the heck, we got our health right? I went through the stages of grief as quickly as possible on the bus ride to the hotel because I wanted to get into the much-anticipated joy of arrival if at all possible. I managed to keep my pouting to a minimum and, for the most part, internal.

The streets of Kowloon

We tried to get a good night’s sleep after checking in to the hotel. Our room was tiny and the two single beds ate up all the maneuvering space so we had to take turns moving around as we settled in. The double dose of Sominex got me knocked out for a few hours but soon I was back to the insomnia as I wandered through plans to get on without my backpack.

The Wishing Tree

Next morning we were up around nine, asking our hotel staff how to get to the wishing tree. Stef had her own reasons to make use of this Hong Kong custom and I just developed my own special need to make a wish regarding lost possessions. We mastered the Hong Kong rapid transit system and transferred our way up to a small town in the New Territories, the northern fringe of the former colonial region. After a quick cab ride we executed a commando raid on the wishing tree since we had only one day to see all of Hong Kong. The wishing tree custom involves tossing an orange tied to a scroll with your wish up into a tree, hopefully getting it lodged in the branches. You only get three tries. I got my two wishes written out and tossed into the trees. Stefanie got her bundles of wishes up too after buying one replacement for the second uncooperative orange.

Stef has success making her wish

Back down to Kowloon past the same lovely rural scenery we saw on the way up, we transferred onto the train that took us under the channel and on to the island of Hong Kong. The shiny, largely glass and metal city with its amazing blur of humanity rushing about greeted our rise from that submarine express. What at first I took to be frantic and oppressive actually grew on me fondly as the rest of the day progressed. The city is an elaborate 3-dimensional maze of triple-deck causeways and interlocking buildings. Often we wouldn’t realize when a hall between two stores became a connection between them. At other times just finding our way back outside at street level was a challenge. “Jaw-dropping” I kept repeating to myself. Like nothing I’d ever seen.

Statue Square

We had lunch with the locals in a noodle shop and then went from site to site, using our Xerox copies from the libraries guide book to lead us on. One of the only buildings older then fifty is the old Courthouse and we used the Statuary Square in front for a brief water break. We headed up through the HSBC building (a billion dollar wonder of exoskeletal construction) to gaze up twenty stories at into the hollowed out center atrium and then, through another causeway, headed out into a lovely tiered garden by the old Episcopal cathedral. After another short break in the lovely, cool interior with wood beamed and blue ceiling, we went up to take the tram up Victoria Peak. This famous overlook gave us our first overall look at this city and I agreed when Stefanie remarked, “modern architecture sometimes looks uniform and boring close up but from a distance the assembly can be very impressive”.

Stef taking in the view at Victoria Peak

Our day ended back on the Kowloon side, sitting on the promenade doing some people watching while the sun went down over Hong Kong. The bus ride back to the airport in daylight revealed easily the largest harbor complex we’d ever seen. Miles of docks, cranes, freighters and container cargo, receeding of into the vast distance.

The luggage left behind was fast becoming symbolic of what we had tried to leave. We made a promise to travel lightly but we had no idea just how extreme that commitment was.

The "Star" promenade at sunset

Hong Kong harbor

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Observations

Jan 9, 2005

Stefanie's Entries, Travel

Socializing in a plaza

Except for their Spanish, the girls could be any typical group of young adolescents in the U.S., talking and squealing in a tight clique. They’re dressed in school uniforms and gathered along the cramped sidewalk of Quebrada just above the bus stop where I’m waiting. I watch them crowd together, then fall back from one another, laughing. Their conversations seem urgent, their friendships kinetic, like they’ve just run a mile and are out of breath. Whispers and shouts emit from the group, and their eyes collectively watch each other and whoever is around them. Then suddenly it’s time to go. Kisses all around and peels of excited laughter as they pinch each others’ cheeks in fun. The kissing gives them away, as definitely not Norte Americanos.

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I was caught in a funeral procession again last week. They’re more solemn here and a curiosity to those used to the sterilized grief of a parade of cars with orange flags marked “funeral” adorning their hoods. As I stepped onto Quebrado I saw the slow parade of people dressed mostly in black walking through the street ahead, en mass, black umbrellas over head. Theirs was the largest group I’ve seen so far. The first I witnessed many weeks ago came marching down Insurgentes passed the Biblioteca following a flower-laden hearse. There was no question as to what they were. Their tears were enough to tell me what I was watching. Cars went around them, never stopping or hardly slowing. At home, I’d been taught to stop the car as funeral processions went by. So I stood at the curb and removed my hat in their honor. A little huddled knot of people unafraid to show their grief so publicly.

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Horses in the campo

“Hay Ingles/Espanl diccionario?” I asked the clerk at the bookstore. She told me “Si,” and handed me a copy of the one dictionary they had. Leafing through it I apologized, “Mi Espanl es muy mal.” I was on my way for a hair cut, and while I once again had looked up “length” (largo) and “grow” (crecer) and “deaf” (sordo) and “bangs” (flequillos), I’d neglected to translate “layers,” as in, “I want my bangs layered.” So, I was on a mission to get the correct phrase. My last hair cut I’d used the word “estratos” only to get a look of pure confusion from my stylist. I managed to pantomime what I wanted, but I knew I needed something more definitive this time.

Art sales in the lavenderia

Looking at the clerk at the bookstore, I took off my hat and pointed to my bangs. “Quiero corte mi flequillos en estratos. Como se dice?” I asked her, pointing to the Spanish translation of “layers.” She wrinkled her brow and got that same look of confusion. “No uno largo,” I said ” not one length ” using my fingers as a prop. She said something incomprehensible and then demonstrated different lengths along the side of her head. “Si,” I said, realizing she understood what I was after. “Como se dice?” How do you say it? She repeated but not to where I could understand. Another hearing loss moment. “Escribe, por favor.” Write it, please. I handed her a pen and she uncovered a scrap of paper. “En capas,” she wrote out. I repeated it to her satisfaction. “Si,” she nodded and smiled. “Muy amable,” I told her. (You are very kind.) “Muchas gracias,” I added as I tripped out the door with my newest magic phrase.

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