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.

I sat overlooking the rice fields this evening from an umbrella table in the back of our lodging’s courtyard. The place feels like something made for the gentry, except that this is a former Dutch colony, not English. There are 5 larger two-story cottages around the perimeter of Sri Ratih’s inner courtyard and a handful of smaller single cottages leading to the rice field in back. A swimming pool holds center court along with a variety of flowering trees such as hibiscus and frangipani. The buildings are of a pagoda style, and with 2 shrines on the compound for daily offerings there’s no doubt this is far from the English countryside.

Early Morning Harvest of Elephant Grass

There are farmers in the rice fields tonight using their sicles to cut long grasses from the terrace ridges. This morning Dave and I walked a long, curved path into the rice paddies north of Ubud that wind between the 2 rivers that flow from the north. From our vantage point along the ridge path we watched farmers in coned hats bend in the sun cutting elephant grass and tend their rice crops. Sitting this evening watching our neighboring farmers I wonder what it takes to successfully bring a crop of rice to harvest. I spent much of my growing up years among Midwestern farms so I understand their rhythms and the work involved. But I watch these men trudging the terrace ridges between the fields, cutting grasses, and spending concentrated efforts to perhaps set right the irrigation among the fields, and I am without reference to know what they do.

Tending the Rice Fields

The fields swim in a peaceful verdant green with water flowing at their perimeters. North of Ubud along the path this morning the noise of the town fell away and we were left with only the wind and birds as accompaniment. Halfway through our walk we sat on the steps of a yoga studio in a small village and watched several farmers work in their paddies across the road. There was an orderliness to the fields, stretching before us in neat terraced plots, and an graceful efficiency to the men’s labors. Two small brown and white herons plied the watery fields in search of bugs and fish, in silent partnership with the farmers.

A Lacy Sky

Tonight I’m back in that quiet along our neighboring rice field. The evening sun is slipping below the horizon beyond the palm trees at the far end of the paddy, leaving a hint of pink glowing out through the trees. The sky above is the faintest blue, soft and lacy like a worn handkerchief. Swallows dip and swirl overhead, along with a flotilla of dragonflies that dart above the shrubbery along the field’s edge. Soon small black bats will be out collecting their evening fare of mosquitoes and gnats. It’s a different, lesser-known kind of paradise out here among the fields of rice.

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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A New Year in an Old World

Jan 1, 2005

David's Entries, Philosophical Ramblings, Thoughts on Art

Okay, New Year’s Resolution: no more heavy, philosophical bullcrap. Just the facts as I see ‘em ma’am. Though that may not work out too well since I can’t seem to resist those meanderings, at least every now and then. Then maybe… okay REVISED New Year’s Resolution #1B: not so much heavy, philosophical bullcrap. Keep it light and tight. No one wants to spend ten minutes of their valuable allotment of discretionary time reading someone else’s brain noise.

Morning sky over San Miguel

The problem here is the same as Popeye’s and everybody else’s: I am what I am. Just bear with me and I promise to mix it up.

One promise I made myself for the new year was to get this weblog up to speed. Thanks to some new software you can now try to toss me a line when I go out dog-paddling in the deep end. Post your comments and save me from drowning in simile.

Welcome to the New Year! The “new” thing is very big in this world, so no wonder this holiday is popular. Western Culture keeps us hungry for it. Keeping on top of it is our lifestyle and you’re some dotty old crank if you aren’t right there.

The sharp point of “the new” is always staring us down as artists. While making a fresh instance in art is vital, there’s really nothing new under the sun, so finding a context and then developing a viewpoint seems to me more important. Or else you’ll go around with a big, neon, self-conscious arrow pointing to your “new art”; all shiny and new but trivial at last. It’s like the “New Toy at Christmas” phenomena. The toy that gets twenty minutes of attention Christmas morning and then passes onto a heap of mediocre plastic.

Stefanie in the campo

At some point as we age the opposite value makes its stand: Old is amazing! I see it as the ultimate test of value: been around the block a few times, still kicking and looking good! (well maybe just the first two parts). We met many great people at our art fair this week but some of our favorites were well up there on the chronological scale. One lady told us she painted watercolors for ten years but gave it up because “I decided I didn’t know what the hell I was doing!”. Another charming lady told us she decided not to buy land here thirty years ago.”I could shoot myself. In fact I’m surprised I haven’t!”

Sunset blaze on templo edifice

These old beauties tell me the wonderful part about the age I’m entering. Its time to have fun with my foibles and weakenings, let go of the pride that is death to humor and the unflinching opinions about what is real quality that make me a snob and get on with opening my senses to this big fat juicy life.

Smiles at the art fair

Sure we love our new things; new house, new car, The New Christie Minstrals. But god forbid we Americans learn a new language. Talking to a lady from San Luis Potosi (who spoke multiple languages), I lamented the lack of foreign language study in the States as well as my own inability to master Spanish. She asked me if I knew what a person who spoke three languages was called “trilingual”, Two?, “bilingual” One? “gringo”.

Happy New Year. May it bring you new ways to see growing older.

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