With four weeks of chilling out on the
islands it came as somewhat of a surprise at how quickly the rigours of travel
caught up with me. No sooner had I hit the mainland when I became overwhelmed
by the petty inadequacies of living life in the real world. I like to think we
create our own realities, but this is always dependent on the multitudes we
must deal with, each minute of the passing day. Ampana isn’t such a chore to
spend time in, the people are unbelievably friendly and generous with their
charm and hospitality. It doesn’t make organizing anything easier though, this
is Asia after all, and Indonesia is one of the more disorganised of these
tropical nations. Hotel space was at a premium, courtesy of a sudden influx of
business groups heading for a weekend of team building on the coast. I had work
to do, my edited manuscript was finally downloaded and I had the task of
laboriously going through it once more to make my final corrections. After
spending two whole days and still not completing it, I needed a break. It was
time to jump on another bus and head for my departure point. Palu was the destination, a ten hour ride away, not one I was looking forward to. Reputed to be small in comparison to Makassar, it was a city all the same, it was also in one of the most hotly contested areas of religious disharmony, through a region of extreme fundamentalism. Only a few years ago a couple of Christian school girls were kidnapped and beheaded. (Photo: Quirky restaurant, with actual dining cars - Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia)
It isn’t so much a situation to be afraid of, there is no use running scared of horror stories, but knowing of such happenings can easily sour the experience of such places. I needn’t have worried the bus hardly even slowed down, only briefly pulling into various terminals to give local hawkers the chance to ply their wares. The journey was through a variety of environments, none of them unpleasant. First of all it was a delightfully twisty road, winding round a rocky, rugged, totally undeveloped coastline. A succession of tiny coves broke the rocky shoreline; backed by shady coconut groves, their only inhabitants were the occasional fishing family. Once moving away from the immediate coast, the broken hilly slopes were divided into fields of maize. No attempt had been made to create terracing for the production of rice, only when we reached flat, open land did the paddy fields put in an appearance. Then they once again became the dominant crop. It’s hard to tell why some areas, or islands, put in so much effort to turn even the steepest hillsides rich areas of rice production. They didn’t there, merely utilizing the lay of the land with minimum effort. So when the sea finally inundated the last coastal strip it was hardly a shock to see little done with the natural wetland. Was it down to laziness? It wouldn't have been the first country in the tropics where inherent laziness was rife, nor will it be the last I visit. Java had quite intricate terracing in it's central regions, as did Bali, so it isn't an Indonesian quirk. Sometimes there is little else to do but accept that things are different wherever you go, and maybe that is precisely why some of us travel.
Both the beginning and the end of the journey were along coastlines, though completely different coasts and completely different environments. Neither boasted vast riches, the local populations lived in rustic huts with few visible means of wealth. Not so the interior, more houses were solidly built, most of bricks and mortar, though rusty iron roofs were ubiquitous. Of maybe more interest was the emergence of Hindu shrines, which I hadn’t noticed since leaving Bali. There were also more churches than Mosques, it was easy to see why some fanatics would feel threatened by such a strong presence of opposing religious fervor. I wouldn’t like to cast dispersions, but I can’t help thinking that fundamentalism is little more than insecurity in your own belief system. After all, if you’re that strong in your convictions surely there is no point to prove, doesn’t it speak for itself? It’s about time the people of this screwed up world became more tolerant, don’t most religions advocate tolerance and understanding? In truth, I think inaccurate translation, often purposefully to suit specific controlling bodies, is the cause of so much inter-religious friction. Most religions I have any understanding of preach similar tenets, don't steal, don't kill, respect your fellow man etc. So why is it alright to kill someone if the church says it's fine, but not otherwise? It's beyond me, but there again, I don't go into the realms of begging for forgiveness on my knees. A forgiving and understanding person/entity surely wouldn't demand such humiliation. (Photo: Petronas Towers- Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia)
And so after ten months of travelling the
snail trail from my humble home in North Wales I’d reached my final destination,
Palu, in Cental Sulawesi. It was time to hit the airways, and make tracks
homeward bound. With a mere two days to wait until my flight I had enough time
to finalise my manuscript before it gets typeset and printed. It wore me
ragged, the editor claimed she saw a lot of potential in both the book and my
writing; so she gave it a harsh editing. I swore and cussed, working my weary
little head into quite a frenzy. I’d have to work off my
frustration with walks, morning and evening. Pounding my way down the side of
the road it would be to a continuous cacophony of ‘Hello mister’. I can’t help
it though, however much I wanted to be left to my own thoughts I had to smile
and wave, calling back the appropriate greeting in Bahasa. It might be a hassle
at times, being the centre of attention, having constant demands made of every little snippet of your day, but I insist on reciprocating these well wishes, it
means so much to the people who’s lives I pass through. (Photo: A young Malay(?) woman - Kuala Lumpur)
So did I feel relieved to finally take to
the air, maybe I should have felt remorse because it was the end of something
special. Actually the relief was at getting the final version of my book
successfully returned to the publisher, and if being ripped off and robbed on
private buses is special then it good riddance. Neither good nor bad feeling
accompanied the event, like the rest of my travelling, I took it all in my stride.
Two shorts hops of a couple of hours a piece and I was lined up at Malaysian
immigration, wondering how they’d be deal with the security issues of persons
unknown in full burkas. Simple really, ignore it, just stamp their passports
and let them through, there wasn’t even a dog to sniff up their skirts. I did
have a laugh though, at a guy who cheekily walked straight through a queue of
more than fifty people. There must have been some discrepancy with his
passport, he was questioned for ages, last I saw of him was being lead away by
two officials. It’s petty of me I know, I could have played the outraged member
of the public, ‘Oi, who do you think you are?’ In all honesty the last thing I
want is to draw attention to myself, at least not when queuing in line for the
powers that be.
Ah, KL again! A city I understand, whether or not I fully appreciate it is another issue altogether. But how can you not like it at all? Yes it’s busy, noisy, polluted, and the pace is frantic. Without doubt there are some rundown areas, often those that cater for the backpacker brigade. You can also get where you want, what you want whenever you want, just about. Not only is it a shoppers paradise, it has an amazing arrayof ethnic cultures, which gives it a richness that few other places fully encompass. You will see a wealth of genetic diversity at every turn, Black, brown, yellow and white, even blue-blooded Celts put in the occasional appearance. Nymph like Chinese girls, with alabaster skin, skitter around in micro shorts, often in giggling groups, always shopping. Serene Indian women saunter, in saris or chemise and pantaloons of silk, poised and elegant. Young, hunkish, Nigerian guys tower above the crowds, sometimes in small groups, more often with female accompaniment. Matching them for their depth of deepest ebony, are the short and broad Tamils, when they’re with women it is of their own kind. Though there is no norm here, there doesn’t seem a majority race. Wherever you look the people are infinitely multi-cultural, it really is a huge melting pot of ethnicity. It may be true that like often attracts like, but you’ll find folks of any race partnered with each other in KL. Just what is a Malaysian nowadays? The closest I could come to answering that is a person who resides in Malaya. However deep you dig you’ll only find more diversity, there’s a whole lot more ethnic minorities spread around Malaysia, maybe these could be claimed to be the true Malaysians, of original genetic stock.
And it’s still so much more than genetics,
with cultural diversity comes the inevitable wide range of culinary delights.
There’s never a shortage and it’s hard to get bored with food here. My
favourites are the food halls, whether inside or out there is simply a jumble
of tables with numerous stalls around the peripheries, each offering a
distinctive range of dishes. This is also the cheapest way to eat, a plate of
rice with two or three other dishes for about £1. But I still favour nice crispy waffles for breakfast, freshly
made and dripping with honey. It may not be very Asian, but they are so nice
with iced coffee. But of all the pleasures of the city I’ve left the best to
last, taking the time out to go and dance myself stupid. Admittedly the first
time wasn’t anything to shout about, the place was so packed it made it hard to
find space to have a decent dance. Going mid-week to the Reggae solved that little
problem. I only went there for a beer with Rudy (Canadian guy from the hotel),
and shook ‘ma thang’ till they kicked us out at 3 am. (Photo: One of the more oriental denizens of the city - China Town, Kuala Lumpur)
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