Borneo to Kuala Lumpur (Jan 3-Jan 23)

Borneo Impressions
Mark

We're watching the Black Dhalia on TV and I'm feeling a bit peckish.
It's Kota Kinabalu, which means you have a choice between the Indians, the Muslims, and the Chinese. Most are closed at this hour, but I know the China man will be open. I love that place: raw, dirty walls, plastic chairs, staff that shuffles around in T-shirts, plastic shoes and sweat pants. The food is simple, tasty, inexpensive and hits the spot. They also sell beer. Only the Chinese sell beer and only the Chinese serve pork. We make a joke about the many restaurants that have "serve no pork" on their menus, as well as signs on their doorways and walls. It's a clash of cultures, but according toe "Man-boy", a local guy we met our first night here in Borneo, people get along and accept each other.

We met Man-boy (a nickname given to him by the Brits, who couldn't make out his real name of Mansaboy) at an Indian resto our first evening in KK. Downtown KK is set up with streets running one way, and walking promenades between them. Restaurants and shops spill out onto these promenades. On this night the Indian restaurant was full, as they had set up a TV for viewing whilst eating on the promenade. A silver buffet area had a variety of curries and rice, and we were implored to go and help ourselves by the owner. We also ordered a heap of roti to go with it. Caleb had returned with nothing but curry sauce - no meat or veggies, just a plate of four different sauces. Man-boy, who was at the table next to ours, saw this and commented: "You don't have any meat! Go get some meat!" I agreed completely, and cajoled him as well. Of course everyone was alternating between watching us and watching the movie on TV. Man-boy continued to make comments on what we were eating. He was friendly, and his comments were humourous. Man-boy was an older man, toothless, dressed in local garb and wearing a Muslim cap. He chain-smoked as he talked to us, and I eventually realized that his English was excellent, and went far beyond the usual "where are you from, how long will you be here." It turned out he had a received a PhD. from a UK university, had traveled the world, had 13 kids and spent years in Africa counseling families on health issues.

According to Man-boy, and our observations, no one seems to judge another: Muslim women walk around with their heads covered, and they are friends with Chinese women who expose their shoulders and wear short-shorts. Everyone seems to accept one another, which Man-boy agrees with.

In my late-night (it's 10:30) Chinese resto I order a Carlsburg and a Singapore noodles - the fat, flat ones - and sit back and watch the goings-on. The waitress remembers me and asks about my wife. She, like most people I encounter, comment on how beautiful she is. I tell her she's back at the hotel with my kids. She actually asks about my "friends", as Asians in general seem to find it hard to judge the relationship between L and C and A and I. One street vendor in Bangkok refused to believe that C & A were our kids. She stood there with arms full of Chan village items for sale, imploring Artemis to tell her the truth. She'd look from one to the other of us and say, "No. It's not possible." Of course it didn't help that I couldn't stop laughing (no, not because of the Thai weed) every time she asked. It was just so funny that she absolutely could not fathom or comprehend or see us as a family. She just kept saying, with complete incredulity, "You're joking right?" And I'd break out laughing. She thought L and I were too young, and C & A were too old to be parents/children. Most people thought C & A were around 18 or 20, and L & I in mid-twenties. The waitress at the Chinese resto also referred to them as my "friends", as in "Where are your friends?" I tell her they are my kids, and they are back at the hotel. She nods and shuffles off to tend to another client.

The resto is so basic: brown plastic chairs; dirty walls which need painting; a beer fridge which acts as a separator between us and the cooks. There is a woman (with her head covered) selling something in a corner. She'd been there for hours, and just sat there looking around. I order another Singapore noodles to take away, and the girl sends in my order with alacrity, and enquires if I want another beer or not, which I decline.

The woman who runs the place and handles the money is rough looking: pock-marked pudgy face; polyester clothing; short hair with a dyed perm. She is smiling, obviously recognizes me, and does some quick addition on a piece of ratty scrap paper to give me the total, which is about 6 bucks CDN.
As I'm walking home I quickly wonder about chopsticks to eat the noodles with, and take a quick peak into the bag: they've thought of it. There's a bag of chili sauce, chopsticks and a napkin included.

Kota Kinabalu is a small town. Rough around the edges, but appealing in a way as well. Right outside our hotel is THE place for Tom Yam soup in all of Borneo, if not all of Malaysia. From 7 in the morning until closing, at around 4, bowls of Tom Yam come streaming out of the place. All they serve is Tom Yam, chicken rice, fried noodles and Laksa - all of which are amazing. There are ALWAYS people at this place, including the outdoor part, which is located just outside our hotel. We divide our time between this resto, the hotel room, and some quick jonts to the local mall or the harbour. We are well situated, and can walk to any of these places in 3 minutes or so, which is a good thing as I have buggered my foot again - smashing my toe at the Monosopiad village whilst trying out their stilts.

Monosopiad is the name of the most famed head-hunters in this area: he had gotten 42 heads - more than any other hunter, and has been revered ever since. Head-hunting ended around 100 years ago (only!). Head-hunters would cut off the heads of their enemies and bring them back to the village as trophies. In order to get married a young man would have to show a head to his proposed bride. Monosopiad's name lives on in a mock-village set-up outside of KK, something like Burnaby village. The whole thing is quite well done, as you get to try out things like their food (which was delicious), try a slingshot and poison dart blower, and even their local tobacco. Life is so different when you leave North America. Here, Artemis is offered some local rice wine to taste, with the woman telling us not to worry, as it`s not very strong, only about 12% alcohol. In the mock traditional house, we are all invited to try their local tobacco - even Artemis! And we didn`t have to sing a single waver. When I smashed my toe trying their local stilts, the guide giggled and said I better get some ice on it. It`s quite liberating not living or visiting a non-litiginous society. You can walk where you want, try what you want, do whatever you want, as no one is worried about being sued! You can see how our culture of fear is built up, beginning with a fear of being sued, which leads to safety rails, disclaimers, and a general air of extreme caution, so when you are seated in a Disneyland ride, the host must spend 2 or 3 minutes explaining the need to wear a seat belt and how dangerous it is to lean out of the tea cups as they slowly spin around. Caleb`s main comment during our travels is "They`d never let you do this in Vancouver!"

Of course I wish I could sue the bastards as I smashed my toe pretty badly!
I tried to walk on the stilts a few times, with little success, so our guide, a pretty local girl with excellent English and rotted front teeth suggested I do it barefoot. I take off my protective Keens, and give it a shot: I stumble, smash my foot, and have been hobbling ever since. Within 10 minutes the nail on the second toe of my right foot is blue, and by evening it's black, including the back of the toe. Lianna has gotten some ice for me, and I freeze it, but to no avail, as the toe has swelled to the point where I cannot walk on it - again! This is the third time I`ve disabled myself. Why you ask? I ask the same thing. Slow down Markie. Slow down man.

The first time this happened was in Kyoto Japan, where, after dipping my feet in the river (kids were playing and walking about in the river, including my kids) I was bitten by... something, as my foot proceeded to swell for next three days, until it was twice the size and I was unable to walk. OK, fine. A message to myself to slow down. It was the beginning of the trip. I was anxious. I needed to relax. After that happened I remembered my first trip to Europe when I was 20 and I split my toe open on a bed frame whilst jumping on the bed with some drunken nurses one night (a mixed blessing, as they were the ones creating the frivolity, but were also able to bandage my toe). This disabled me for at least a week or more. So now, after Kyoto, some months later, I get another bite, ON THE OTHER FOOT, IN THE EXACT SAME SPOT!!!! It begins to swell, but I really concentrate on slowing down and not making this as serious as the first episode in Kyoto, as I have a very difficult to find and expensive permit to dive at Sipodan (a dive site Jacques Cousteau had proclaimed was amongst the best on earth), and was not about to lose this for a f*&%^ing swollen foot! Thankfully it went away in 3 days, which I considered a personal victory.

"I've improved" I thought to myself. Kyoto swelling, 10 days; Sipodan swelling: 3. Yeah! Until this....
Caleb did not come to Monosopiad village as he had been overcome with a fit of vomiting and diarrhea. That afternoon we all laze about the hotel room - we have a single room with a king-sized bed and two singles. I read some Abraham on the topic of sickness and resistance. It all fits and we all decide to let go. We are to leave to Kuala Lumpur the next morning, and Artemis and I get up with stomach cramps. She vomits - 3 times: once at the hotel, once outside the airport in a plastic bag we brought just for such an occurrence, and once inside the airport toilet, and I sit on the plane hoping I will not have to as my stomach roils with cramps and my toe aches. Resistance? What resistance?!

We arrive in KL without further incident - I do not vomit, and we come back to the same comfortable hotel we were in before Borneo, where we left our bags. Lianna and Caleb go to get our Indian visas at the visa centre. Opening hours are from 9 - 5 and it's 3 p.m. they walk in and the guard asks them what they want. She explains it to him and he directs her to the counter, where 4 people sit with "closed" signs in front of their stations. The guy at the counter tells her they close at 2:30. She re-reads the instructions, which state that you are to pick up your visas between 4 - 5 the next day. Welcome to India!

Mark