We were invited to a birthday party for a four year old boy, a son of some friends of our former landlords. We went along with another couple who are renting the same downstairs apartment that we lived in last fall. The boy’s extended family live in a small village about a half-hour’s drive west of San Miguel. The entire village was moved to higher ground years ago when they dammed the river to make a reservoir . As we drove out there we could tell that the recent rains had only lightly colored the hills with fresh green. What is supposed to be a drenching, daily thunderstorm this time of year has so far only materialized as infrequent showers. The reservoir is of no use to them because they don’t have the water rights and the money isn’t there to put in the pipes and pumps.

Meeting Boniface’s sister and her burro

We turned down a dirt road by the town’s shuttered clinic which is staffed only on weekends, and pulled up alongside the Aunt’s house. Boniface and her sister and brother came out to greet us, “Boni” gave us the welcome of special guests by offering her cheek for kisses. We entered the property briefly to meet their burro and some chickens ambling in a tidy little courtyard. The brother brought out a small stone sculpture of a dog he had made and gave it to our friend. It was a special order for someone back in San Miguel that she was enlisted to deliver. The hound was a sad-eyed mutt but sensitively carved and we passed it around with compliments to the artist.

Riding to the maize field

The party took place up the road a little further at a modest house with a wonderful view towards the Presa de Allende (the reservoir) and San Miguel behind. We met the entire family of aunts, sisters and grandparents. We also met the honored guest, the serious faced little four year old who was to have his “cumpleanos” celebrated that afternoon. Tables and chairs appeared from inside and we gathered around for an early supper of tomato-y chicken soup and crisp tortillas.

The Presa with ruins of an old hacienda

The grandfather was an unending source of merriment for us as we listened to one story after another emerge from him accompanied by his smiles and laughter, all directed at us through piercing, playful eyes. Stefanie and I tried to follow the Spanish with our growing (still brutally limited) language skills. With key bits of help from our translating friends, we were able to mostly follow. And certainly the spirit of joy in the story-telling was not lost on us.

Stories and smiles from grandpa

After “tres leches” birthday cake (a fantastically moist Mexican concoction) and “Happy Birthday to You” (in English, which really tickled our hosts), we headed out into the campo to see their bean and maize plots. Listening to our friends talk about the dry weather and seeing the obvious concern on their faces, it was apparent that the maize crop, which had been planted a second time this year, was again hanging in the balance. We headed down a dry canyon and up onto the far side where the maize plot sat, small shoots inching up tentatively from the dry, rocky earth. Spread out in front of the field was a spectacular landscape. Below us was the lake in which stood the ruins of an old hacienda’s grain storage tower. The old pueblo’s church was there too, but it held to dry land and at the water’s edge.

Dave gives the slingshot a whirl

Beyond we could see San Miguel up against the side of higher mountains and all around lay the rolling desert foothills, glowing in late-afternoon sun. The grandfather, in fine mid-sixties form, entertained us by whipping rocks into the far distance with his rope-style slingshot. He talked about having rock fights in the past with others on distant ridges and about how he could rangle cattle back onto the trails with a well-aimed pellet. The guys all had to have a go at the handmade sling. I let two rocks fly and I think I felt something pop in my shoulder on the second.

Trying to "make it rain"

The grandfather regained the sling and let go on one last rock, sending it high into the sky. Someone yelled “Make it rain!” and we all laughed. Returning to the village, Boniface recalled years when the dry arroyos would fill with the runoff from abundant rainfall. This year is different as they are made to sit in their new town high above the reservoir, to watch the skies and wait.

 

Stefanie composes in Green Park, Athens

Our earthly circumnavigation fades to the background of my mind these days with visions of our wanderings crystallizing in the quiet of night just before drifting off to sleep. Outside the realm of the unknown the memories are friendlier. The difficulties of travel, the discomforts of lumpy beds, the uncertainty of food and lack of routine all fall away. In the safety of knowing the story’s “end” I linger over the images inside my head from our 10 weeks of travel. I’m finally free to just enjoy myself rather than worrying about the next thing down the line.

Colorful Singapore street market

Stefanie observes a ceremony at a Hindu shrine in Bali

That I am not an easy traveler is not surprising since I’m a worrier in general. So it fits with my character that travel makes me apprehensive.  Countless people have told us, “Oh, you’re so brave!” Believe me, I’m far less resolute than I appear. Yet there’s a duality that I find myself confronting. That is, my curiosity about new places rubbing up against a certain fretfulness about the unknown. Experience tells me that once I’ve arrived in a new place and had a chance for sleep the novelty of the adventure usually wins out. I can say I’m glad I did it, pushed the “what-ifs” aside and sought my curiosity’s satisfaction.

Dave relaxes for a lunch break outside the rainforest in the Cameron Highlands, Malaysia

Winter weather outside Grand Bazaar in Istanbul

Over the weeks of travel we learned the need to pace ourselves. We constantly repeated the mantra, “You can’t see everything.” We learned to pick and choose, prioritizing our hearts’ desires against what would be nice to see. I learned that every day need not be crammed with some sightseeing activity. In fact some of my favorite spots include times of relaxation in very ordinary places, like Green Park in Athens, where the locals stroll and the old men play endless games of backgammon. We went there twice during our two days in Athens and it felt like a luxury to sit quietly in a park and soak in the sun and do nothing more than share the daily lives of ordinary citizens. The week before in Istanbul I realized that our trip was a sort of marathon, an act of endurance as much as a trip of a lifetime. Part enjoyment, part pain and drudgery.

The train station at Pythion, Turkey and Greece border

Across Europe Dave focused on train stations. There’s something timeless about them; people arriving from and departing to distant places, and waiting eternally. The analogy to us was clear. Yet I will always remember us with our backpacks, Dave with the larger two, me with the smaller ones, strapped on front and back, and always – always – my wide-brimmed hat atop my head. I see Dave ahead of me on the sidewalk and my reflection in the store windows as we make our way to our destination. There’s a determination in our step and a keen attention to what’s out there. It’s as if to say, we know where we’re going. Though we didn’t always. Part of the adventure, part of the fun, was making it up as we went along.

Our street at night in Baeza, Spain

              

Donkeys carry hides past our pension in Fez, Morocco

And I had to remind myself of that. Especially as the time progressed and I grew weary of strange eating schedules and unfamiliar hotels. Yet in the end I find that’s a good deal of what makes me glad we did this trip. Knowing I can overcome the unknowns, combat the doldrums of waiting, survive the minutiae of planning, and wait out the occasional case of “nerves” that overtakes me. The payback was huge and well worth all of the downsides. Walking the rice fields of Bali. Snorkeling in Amed. The relief of a morning thunderstorm in Singapore. Gliding up the Mediterranean from Greece to Italy. Our intrepid hike through the countryside of Ronda, Spain. Watching the donkey train outside our pensión in Fez. One memory gives rise to the next. It’s good to be home but it’s just as good to know we went.

The narrow streets of Fez, Morocco

Up to Chicago, once around the world and back down to San Miguel de Allende, making a big “Q” on the globe. Which brings up another big “Q”. What was that all about? We briefly considered bagging the whole world travel plans in order to keep that money in more practical accounts but I ultimately lobbied hard to go ahead and hit the road and Stefanie saw things basically the same way. Very slender windows open on rare occasions and you just have to wedge yourself through them when you get a chance. I can’t remember a time in my adult life that I didn’t look forward to traveling around the world, so that tells you something right there. I guess it ultimately comes down to which thing we’d most regret; not having the money or not having the experience. Put that way, it’s a very simple equation. Money comes and goes… it will come again. Experiences like the ones we’ve just had don’t drop in your lap without some sacrifice, or trade-off. And rich experience can hang around for a lifetime once you provide for its arrival.

The streets of Granada, Spain

We made the barest of entries in this blog during our travels across the European side of the Mediterranean and on into Africa. That portion of the trip was probably the most densely packed and eventful, also the most hectic since we were moving from place to place every two or three days. Our access to good internet hook-ups was more difficult for some reason. Combine that with the fact that writing the weblogs began to move just outside of our circle of priority (arranging for things like lodging and train tickets took its place) and the result was, no new postings. That’s unfortunate because some of our best memories come from that segment.

Rythmically repeating arches Grand Mosque, Cordoba, Spain

Like:
Watching the flamingos stir up as our train cut through the last bit of the French coast on our way into Spain. Migrating up from Africa as we migrate down?

Or:
Getting stunned, stopped dead in our tracks upon entering the Grand Mosque in Cordoba, Spain, intoxicated as our eyes followed the rhythm of arches repeating into the distance in the dim light.

Interior of  Grand Mosque in Cordoba, Spain

Or:
Staying in a little dive pension in Granada, Spain on a street under construction, torn up with jackhammers and front-end loaders. Our little landlady gave us a break on the price because nobody wanted to endure the noise. She brought us coffee and a pack of store-bought Danishes for breakfast. Spoke halting English to our halting Spanish but managed to communicate great hospitality, and we, our extensive gratitude.

Or:
Meeting two Moroccans on the train from Tangier to Fez. The younger one spoke English, told us about his job (a guide for desert tours) and his family, he even helped us find our eventual lodging place in Fez. The older gentleman spoke to us in French while the English-speaking man was out of the cabin. He gestured “eating” with fingers to his mouth and “sleeping” with folded hand under reclined head but we didn’t get it. I thought he wanted to help arrange lodging for us or something. I said, “No, merci, no, no.” When the younger man returned I asked him to translate for me because the man was obviously exhasperated. He listened to the man and then said, “Oh, its just our custom. He wants to know if you’ve eaten well and slept well in his country.” It was a matter of great pride for him that he present this gesture of hospitality, and we were very moved. I had the translator tell him, “We’ve traveled all around the world on this trip and the friendliest people are here in Morocco.” His eyes welled up, our eyes welled up. He pulled a dirham coin from his pocket and held it up, “If you come to my house you will not even spend this much.”

And on like that…
At this point, it would probably be appropriate to do some assessment of the world trip. Though its true that rich experience does not require travel (with the right mental approach it can be had in a Barco Lounger), it seems to me that travel more frequently pulls the lever that dispenses it. And if the goal is enrichment, with a psyche that demands not just novelty but alternate viewpoint, and if I’m willing to endure discomfort for the sake of living where the fresh and unexpected live, then traveling by the seat of my pants works for me. Stefanie and I are a good pair; I am somewhat dangerously curious and gravitate towards the unknown, she provides a sensible base and pulls me back when I need it. Together we find out what it takes to make plans on the fly, deciding what to do and where to go as needs be; to make it up as we go along.

Stefanie says goodbye to Ahmed, our waiter at the guesthouse in Fez

And that is what I think we’ve learned. To begin to trust ourselves “improvising in the plan”, and to trust that the world will respond favorably if we do. As Stefanie says, “I learned that 99% of my fear about what might happen never does.” It seems that even the one percent of what eventually goes wrong is something you’d never guess and also not nearly as bad as you think. And we lie awake at night for….?

This journal of the transition from our corporate-job-life to the independent life in business for ourselves must now meet its true mission. We must begin to describe what happens when we (as the masthead says) “pack it in and take the leap.” We’ve spent nearly a year getting our feet wet; six months on an “art intensive”, three months traveling the world, several more weeks in transition through Chicago on either side of the world trip (the “swoosh” on the Q). We’ve been able to get a lot done in the process. We both created some solid chunks of art. We’ve collected experience and photography to inform our next creative phases. Now we begin to actually establish our lives here. Now we see what happens when.

A game of backgammon in Green Park, Athens

Green Park in Athens was full of families pushing strollers and little knots of men playing backgammon. Or else performing a curious ritual that we would see again in Italy and Spain. It’s a kind of walking discussion. But I don’t think it’s anything like what we do as we walk, which is most often idle chit chat or casual appraisals of what we see. These older men, in twos and threes usually, proceed very slowly, almost as if the stroll is mere pretense to the real purpose. I would watch many of these perambulations over many visits to the park. The men walk in rapt discussion, often accompanied by hand gestures, or else with hands firmly clasped behind the back. Suddenly they would pause as one man would try to drive home a point. Then they would both stand still and face each other. One man would gesture with a bit more animation, hold forth while his companion(s) would focus intently on him. After a period of about a minute or so there would be a brief exchange, maybe a shrug or two, a “this or that” gesture by flipping over the hand, and then the walk would continue. And always, an inward focus on the subject at hand passes between them. The conversation was the focus, not the walking and the watching.

Conversation is the focus in Baeza, Spain

I’m struck by the character of these gentlemen. They seem to be engaged in a foil with the important thing. They parlay, rejoin, sally and engage each other with opinion. The exchange of views is the only priority. A good day is one that includes this event. A productive day, one that has the highest value is a day spent in conversation with a good friend.

I’m reminded of the ancient philosophers of Greece, as they walk today in their steps. Though their discussions may not always reach to those realms, they operate in the same spirit. The salient features are there; an intensely inward focus, the need to express one’s views and to seek out a response to them. The desire for clarity.

The forum at the train station, Baeza, Spain

Thoreau says that man is not meant to do everything but man is meant to do something. These older gentleman have passed from the doing which characterized their active lives into a “doing” that expresses itself in simple, elegant conversation.

Post Office as palace

Madrid is all grandiosity. Great statues soaring in the sky atop practically every other building you pass. Not just some meek, chaste Madonnas but fabulous sweeping chariots and horses chafing to get underway, towering muscled Hercules posturing to the masses below, winged creatures of vast imagination in frozen animation. If that’s not enough, the buildings themselves are adorned with further flights of fancy – dancing cherubs, leering gargoyles, gilt angels, wrought iron vines just for the hell of it. Even the post office looks like a palace. It’s Michelangelo gone mad. It’s a Roccocophile’s paradise. Compared to Florence, with its glow of ochre and sienna and age-old Renaissance style buildings, Madrid feels more brash and daring. It grabs your attention and demands a response, an interaction. It asks you to dance, and a strong partner it is.

Roccoco everywhere!

Statue and all lit up on the Metropolis Building

Dave and I glided into Madrid on a hotel night train from Marseille, France the day before Easter. The streets were quiet in those early morning hours, as the Madrileños were catching some shut-eye from their late night out as usual, no doubt, and week-long festivities of Semana Santa, the week leading into Easter. Our first walk that morning out of our Gran Via hostel took us past the Metropolis building, with a winged statue atop, and through the winding streets of the Centro into the Puerta del Sol. Considered the place to start your exploration of the city, Puerta del Sol is the true center of Madrid, as well as Spain, as it is from this point that all distances are measured. Before travel exhaustion overtook us, we managed to make our way along the Paseo del Prado past the Prado museum itself, the holy grail of artists, just to get a glance at it and breathe in the atmosphere, saving its exploration for later. By the time we trundled back to our room for naps, Madrid had taken claim to our hearts.

Making keys in the Sunday Rastro

Besides the architectural art and world-renowned institutions, Madrid also has its share of quirkiness. One of the most popular spectacles is the Sunday Rastro, a weekly flea market that stretches for blocks on end and attracts locals and tourists alike. It’s wall-to-wall people on the order of Taste of Chicago, and not for the faint of heart. You can get every kind of clothing as well as knives, jewelry, Spanish linens, small electrical components, and you-name-it, besides having keys made on the spot. We joined the strollers while keeping a close eye (and hand) on our valuables but took a pass on the merchandise. Another form of entertainment we found was running the gauntlet up our street from the Puerta del Sol to our hostel on Gran Via past the working ladies who positioned themselves along the way both day and night. Juxtapositioned across from them were almost always 3 police cars and 6 municipal police who plied the street as well. Their simultaneous presence would suggest some unspoken truce or understanding. After all, the ladies simply stood, leaning against the buildings or talking among themselves. All those restive women with nothing to do. Which is not to suggest that we selected a less-than-desirable part of town. Granted, besides the shoe shops and cafes there were a number of sex shops as well. But this was no Combat Zone of Boston fame. All of the above rubbed shoulders with four-star hotels and pricey department stores, along with a constant throng of people moving about the whole gamut every night as part of the dance.

A little baudy, a little naughty in Plaza Mayor

One night on our way to find some little place to eat, out and about at the earliest possible hour of 8:00pm for dinner fare, we came across a violin, cello, and viola trio unceremoniously positioned against a department store, adding a classical air to the early evening. The music glided and swept around us, and we stopped to the side along with others to listen. Dave seemed to think the piece was Pacabel. “What does it sound like?” he asked. To my “ear” it sounded like the wonderful strings of viola and violin with the bass of the cello. But not recognizable as Pacabel, which I know. “It sounds like something classical”, was all I could say. Soon the song ended and they began another. “Vivaldi’s ‘Four Seasons,’” Dave informed me. I couldn’t recall “Four Seasons” though I knew I had heard it many times before. Suddenly there came a little flourish of notes in a marked cadence, the sound of strings in a familiar coupling, and what before had been merely pleasant became a memory released, a lost friend found. Without thinking, the tune sprang from my lips surprising even myself, and Dave and I embraced to share this unexpected poignant moment.

Ah, surprising Madrid. It swept me off my feet.

Flamenco, the grand dance of Spain

Instanbul’s Blue Mosque at sunset

After Asia, Europe seems like another civilization. OK, it is but still… something seems like a long lost friend here. I’ve always pooh-poohed the European travel thing, having a strict bias towards Asia, beginning with my stay in Nepal many years ago and gathering steam in visiting other points east. Arriving in Istanbul from Penang, Malaysia (via Bangkok) I had a flash of familiarity, and it was from the comfort of things western. Not like McDonald’s or Pizza Hut. Asia had those to little effect, but western style architecture, signage, words I could sound out and at least have a hope to understand. Also a somewhat less chaotic (to me anyway) style of urban living, no more horse carts, chickens, open butcher shops with sides of pork getting hacked up. Penang was full of these sites, as well as being hot, almost too hot to enjoy. An Asian city like Penang seems all a jumble, somehow just managing to sort itself out. A gloriously mad tussle, the teeming throng.

A streetcar moves down an Istanbul street

And then, after a long flight from Bangkok, through Dubai, we got to experience the sudden transition of being in the west. We came into Istanbul late and it was a dark taxi ride to the Sultanamet neighborhood. The darkness offered only glimpses of the huge mosques; Hagia Sophia and the Blue Mosque, that with Topkapi Palace lend the characteristic profile to this city. Their palpable, timeless presence, almost hidden by the night were waiting for us as we emerged from our modest room in Ayasofya Hotel. We came out onto the cobblestone streets of old Istanbul into a clear-crisp late winter morning. A full strength revelation emerged as well; the realization that my prejudices regarding Europe (we were, after all, right on its edge) were proving false. The familiar-exotic axis still swung distinctly towards the exotic with the morning call to prayer coming from the many minarets and the multi-domed mosques looming overhead. But it was a glimpse of something familiar inside all of it that was comforting somehow, something that looked like me.

Sweeping up in the cafe below Topkapi Palace

My bias away from Western Europe is that it seems to be pretty much the same as America. I always assumed that travel to London or Paris would be like travel to some new region of the States. Language differences aside, I’d still see malls, lots of shiny new cars and all the same haggard parents chasing after similarly indulged children. That type of travel was poison for me; until now I practiced strict avoidance. This entry into Europe via Istanbul was then the perfect antidote. I was pleased to be discovering an exotic western city. The same… but different. something about the “not quite familiar” is even more tantalizing and intriguing then the patently strange.

Preparing to tour the Blue Mosque

The vision of Istanbul that first morning was a craggy, weathered version of my own culture. Not a precise projection back, more like a distant relative from the old country. One with a different history, different language, even different behavior. But one who still has the familiar compliment of facial features that conveys relatedness.

The Blue Mosque

The city carries the vintage of buildings from the post-war era; tattered now but full of character and personal scale. The sweet shops with their honey-soaked pastries, sandwich stands and compact general stores pocket the streets. The faces on the pedestrians are severe as people get about their business, but smiles appear too in small knots of conversation here and there.

Hagia Sophia

All this “pace of life” stuff is common. The grand plaza, shouldered by the two great mosques, is singular. To stand in the middling space and turn first left, then right is to have two competing, yet complimentary, visions. The Blue Mosque is sedate; slate-blue grey and geometrically symmetrical. Precise. Harmonious. Resonating perfectly in the music of the spheres. Hagia Sophia is muscular; warm, orangey-red tones and massive. Brooding. Powerful. A much more earth-bound structure but sublime and full of enchantment and mystery as well. After visiting both it was fun to stand there between them and look first left, then right. The same. Different. Left. Then right. The guy selling those tasty sesame covered bread rings from his cart probably thought I had a tick. But I knew that I had only this moment to attach them to memory. And this city with its contradictions and continuities, with its tantalizing similarities, was giving me something.

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. Touché. A well-deserved come-uppance, I suppose. “I like Americans,” the man at the café 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.

Bali is where I came here for. We stayed in a resort north of Kuta beach on our last night on the island and that’s what the translation in the hotel information book said anyway. “The experience is where you came to Bali for”. We love the mistranslations and variations on spelling that frequent the signs and menus. Just because the sign in front of the restaurant says “tuna fish”, don’t think you’re looking at a sandwich with celery and mayo… we’re talking about a nice piece of grilled tuna steak here. And you’ll always see “shrimps” on the menu, just to calm you of your fears of getting only one.

A fruit vendor at Lovina

There’s no misunderstanding the people though. Unfailingly polite, welcoming and handy with a smile, the Balinese set the high standard for conviviality. Our travels around this island brought us into contact with a people bearing up under an onslaught of tourism with a genuine warmth and a remarkable openness to each personal encounter.

Pura Ulan Danu by Mt. Batur

The beauty of the people must come from the landscape. The country is a well tended web of rice terraces, corn fields and vegetable gardens, set in the lap of hills and mountains that roll up into the mist like majestic gods. And gods are what they are. The good and sacred deities in this peculiar Hindu-animist hybrid religion of the Balinese are the mountains. The surrounding ocean is the realm of evil. And the small island of the southern coast of Bali that is all limestone is the real bad thing because it appeared with no support from the good volcanic deities. Don’t go there without a high limit on your karmic card.

Ceremony in the inner courtyard

We went up from Ubud, north through the mountains to a lake below Mount Batur, the middle of the three Balinese volcanoes and the only one recently active (Agung in the east blew off back in the sixties). The glassy lake has a very sacred Pura (shrine) where we were fortunate enough to come a across a group of the devout from a local village doing a water blessing ceremony. The shade platform in the outer courtyard held a gamelan orchestra playing a very simple piece of Balinese music, not like the complex microtonal (dissonant to my ear) percussive variety of gamelan that I’m most familiar with. This music was almost gentle, and formed a background as sweet as the lake and green hills around the ceremony in progress in the inner courtyard. Men and women in white and yellow sarongs where seated facing the forward shrine and answering the chants of the leader in unison with an extended response. Hands together over their heads.

A dolphin paces our boat

The proceedings having concluded, they took various articles onto a small boat by the shore. Launching it on the lake, they took aim to gather their water and make their offerings.

Leaving the lake, we drove on through the high ridge above the other lakes by Batur, through a monkey forest and on to the north coast of Bali. Our travels took us to the area of Lovina Beach for three nights where we enjoyed an early morning ride in an outrigger canoe to run with the dolphins and a return after breakfast to snorkel over the fish and the reef.

Outriggers leaving for the morning fish run

We saved the best for last by taking a transport van to the Amed region in far eastern Bali. Still only gently brushed by tourism, Amed retains much of the character of a Bali that is passing. Days circle around the fishing rhythms. Early morning and early evening the men motor out on their outriggers to make their daily catches, some with line fishing, some with nets. They pull in a good haul of a silvery sardine variety they call “neh”. While we were watching they seemed to be doing quite well, unloading a long net clipped with fish that seemed to flow out of the small outrigger canoe forever. We rented a motor bike to head further east to the very eastern tip of Bali, snorkeling over one of the nicest reefs I’ve seen, near an old Japanese wreak that was close enough to the surface to touch.

Pulling in the haul

The web of rice paddies

We rode the motorbike a few more kilometers up the coast, stopping at a remote cliffside shade platform the Balinese call a “boesco” to escape the heat. It didn’t take long before we were joined first by a Balinese man who traded his very broken English for our scraps of Balinese. Then another young man of about 17 who spoke absolutely no English but was still very interested in Stefanie, and finally we were joined by another woman who needed a break from the load on her head in the heat of the day. They all found my attempts at trying to match the sounds I was hearing from my Balinese tutor highly entertaining.

That was as far as our road went that day and soon the “boseco” was disappearing around the curves behind us as headed back to our cottage on the hillside above the sea. Bali vanished likewise below us as we lifted off today for Singapore.