“A supposedly fun thing I’ll never do again.” -David Foster Wallace

I had a bad feeling.

My friend believes that when this happens to me, I am just setting myself up for self-fulfilling prophecy. But I like to think that I’m simply prophetic.

Perhaps my bad mood was also in part because the Malaysian cab driver ripped me off with a faulty meter on the way to the airport that morning, and yet still smiled and tried to shake my hand as I forked over the outrageous fare. (If you ever run into a Nur Zaidy driving a taxi in KL, do yourself and wallet a favor and wave down another cab.) Regardless, I had been worried about the trip since I booked it. I didn’t like the idea of traveling with strangers, and I had no idea what to expect. And even the sunny, unspoiled look of Borneo from the plane window failed to assuage my anxiety.

Borneo is the third largest island in the world. It consists of Indonesia, East Malaysia and the tiny country of Brunei. I felt like I wouldn’t really have seen Malaysia if I didn’t make an effort to see East Malaysia. I chose to go to the Malay state of Sarawak instead of Sabah for the soul reason that the flight was cheaper. Sabah is supposedly more isolated, but both are known for their incredible wildlife and native peoples.

I only had a few days in Sarawak so I signed up for a tour to stay with Native Iban people in their longhouse and a jungle hike. I was nervous signing up for a tour group alone, and, as I said, I couldn’t shake my bad feeling. I had a day to myself in the city of Kuching before heading out to the jungle, and I felt disappointed in the city. I suppose I was getting jaded of traveling around Malaysia so quickly. Kuching is reputedly a nice city, but to me it looked like every Malay city I had seen with a Chinatown, Little India, and Arab Quarters. With the exception of an interesting museum, I felt bored and irritable walking around the same sites all alone.

I searched for an internet cafe when a young, hip Chinese man invited me into his cafe. I stepped inside and was greeted by a cafe made to look just like the inside of a Longhouse with bamboo and ratan walls and floors. The other travelers there were young and friendly, and I spent an afternoon relaxing, drinking tea, and watching The Simpsons and Chinese soap operas. It was exactly what I needed.

The next day, I was picked up at my hotel by a minivan and was greeted by my guide, Valentine, a short Native fluent in English, Malay and Iban, who had grown up in the longhouse and jungle, and who would serve as my guide. We drove to another hotel to pick up the two other travelers who would be joining me. I saw a man who bore a striking resemblance to Hulk Hogan with his daughter who looked like Barbie. Later, I found out she was actually his girlfriend who was younger than half his age. They were Dutch, and they were charming and friendly in that particularly Dutch way, (ie. not at all.) To be fair, they were nice enough and polite, but nothing more, which contrasted sharply with the Malays’ gregariousness. They both spoke English well, as they had to understand our guide’s accented English, but at our meals they conversed in Dutch while I ate my food in silence.

Our first stop was the Orang Utan rehabilitation center for the morning feeding. We trekked for a few short minutes along the center’s rain forest trail before encountering a small crowd of people peering into the jungle. In the distance, an absolutely enormous Orang Utan was perched on a platform eating bananas. Behind him we could see a few orangutans swinging from the trees. The sight astounded me. I felt I had seen orangutans in the zoo or on The Discovery Channel, so I wasn’t overly excited to see them at the center. But in their natural habitat, they were very different. They gracefully maneuvered through the vines and limbs of the canopy. I was glad I had purchased the binoculars in KL so I could watch their facial expressions as they leisurely gnawed through their fruit while dangling upside down from a vine. We watched for half an hour until the big one left the feeding area. It was an incredible site to see the behemoth scale the tree into the canopy, and I could understand how orangutans were once mistaken for men. As we walked back, our guide said what I had been thinking, that orangutans in the wild look completely different than the ones I had seen at the zoo. Here they looked alive and engaged, the ones at the zoo just looked bored.

Our next stop was a market for supplies for the jungle and longhouse. It’s custom to bring a small gift for the Iban families in the longhouse. It looked to me as if there’s a small cottage industry built around longhouse gifts bought by tourists. There were several stores with gigantic bags filled with 30 or so individually wrapped packages The longhouse were were heading for was a large one with several families consisting of about 100 people. So it was custom to purchase a bag in individually packaged items so the families could easily divide the gifts. I sympathize with the families’ poverty, but I felt uncomfortable being dropped off a store by my guide and being told that I HAD to buy a gift (especially since the tour package wasn’t exactly cheap.) Still, I bought two large bags of candies for the families.

It was late afternoon when we arrived at a river where a handful of Ibans waited for us with longboats. The hand-carved longboats were quite long and narrow with a large hole in the rear for the motor. The government was slowly building more roads into the jungle, but river was still the primary form of transportation for the more isolated longhouses. I sat alone in a longboat while a man powered the motor and a small but tough-looking Iban woman stood in the front with a long pole to steer and push the boat out of shallow areas.

We sped quickly down the river for about 20 minutes until we slowed down in front of some dilapidated buildings which were to be my home for the next two nights. In the river, a few Ibans were washing clothes or trying to retain a bit of modesty as they bathed.

We exited the boats and ascended a steep river bank to reach the longhouse. This particular longhouse had actually split in half a few years ago. The families that did not want to entertain tourists left and built their own longhouse downstream. The longhouse that wanted tourists, or at least tourist dollars, stayed and built a special tourist longhouse with electricity and showers. Travelers looking for a more “authentic” (whatever that is) experience can elect to go to longhouses further away with no electricity and sleep on the longhouse floor with the Iban families. I was perfectly OK sleeping in a guest longhouse.

We were fortunate in that the rain had held off until we arrived, and then suddenly it poured. I was shown to my bed which was on a long platform sectioned off on three sides with wood paneling and mosquito netting in the front. The Iban people worked in the kitchen and prepared us an absolutely delicious dinner, left the plates out for us and then left. I was disappointed I didn’t have the opportunity to eat with them.

There were also four other travelers staying there that night. Two more Dutch people (of course) and two stylish Spanish travelers who didn’t speak a word of English accompanied by their translator, the only other person there willing to speak English with me, but couldn’t since he was hired to speak Spanish. At dinner I sat in the middle between the Dutch speakers and the Spanish speakers, breaking out my rusty Spanish to try and converse. They were much nicer and more interesting than the Dutch couple, and remarkably tolerant of my slow Spanish peppered with the occasional Chinese word or phrase.

After dinner, we were invited into the main longhouse where the Iban lived. The Ibans present that night were mostly the very old or the very young. The children were sent away to government boarding schools to be educated, and many families had children studying at prestigious colleges on scholarship or working jobs in the city. The entire front width of the longhouse is one giant room resembling a unfurnished wooden work shed. Women sat on the wooden floor weaving ratan mats. Some of the old men sat in a circle playing games or smoked by the doorway watching the rain. On the back wall, doors led to the families’ private quarters, which we were not allowed to enter. Judging by the size of the longhouse, the back quarters were quite large. And judging by the occasional glimpse caught by an opening door, some of the rooms were quite modern with sports posters on the walls, couches, and tvs.

As we toured the long front room, and our guide pointed out the chief, a wiry, old man of about 88 who inherited his position (although some tribes elect their chiefs.) He also introduced us to the shaman, another wiry old man who smiled and gave me the thumbs up when I said I was from America. I asked the guide to ask the chief if he knew who Barack Obama was. The chief said no. He watches tv but cannot understand the language. I told the guide that perhaps the chief would be interested to learn that the president of the U.S. was educated in Indonesia. The guide replied that he couldn’t explain that to the chief, and that he wouldn’t understand it if he tried.

The chief took out his large heavy earrings for us to hold. (They were quite heavy!) The elongated earlobe is desirable and some women are considered more marriageable the longer their lobes are stretched. Finally, the chief took out a symbol for which the Iban’s have gained worldwide notoriety- a knife used by his great grandfather for headhunting. It was (allegedly) covered in human hair, and our guide pointed to a human skull hanging from the ceiling. (As I said, I was jaded by then, and I’m not really sure what to believe.) The guide then embarassed me by saying that once a bunch of Americans backed out of a tour at the last minute, because they were genuinely afraid of losing their heads. Headhunting arose as a way of resolving territorial disputes and hasn’t occured for over a century.

After the tour, it was time for the native dance. The chief, another man, and two women dressed themselves in native costumes and stood before us. A few women entered the main room from their private rooms, some in pajamas, to play the instruments.

I had expected tribal drumming and was surprised to hear a gorgeous haunting melody of bells. The Iban chief stepped forward and performed a slow strange dance, twirling his arms and hands slowly in the air and stepping gingerly along the floor. Next the other man danced alone for a minute. Then one of the young women stepped forward to slowly dance, and I heard the Spanish guide whisper that she was in “el tranceo.” Perhaps she was. But to me, her face had the same bored expression of an animal in a zoo.

After they danced, we were, to my utter horror, “invited” to get up and dance. I informed my guide that I don’t do dancing, but I was told it would be rude not to. A feathered hat was placed on my head, and I danced in a circle while my guide took pictures and I suppressed a nervous laughter at the sheer absurdity of it all.

One the dancing was finished, we were told to present out gifts to the chief and pose for a photo, and, finally, the ceremony was over. We sat down with the chief and some other Ibans while the women took the gifts and divided the candies into small piles so that every family had an equal share. Most of them then went to bed, finished with their “work” for the night.

While we sat, bottles of homemade rice wine and rice alcohol were brought out, and we all began taking shots. I had been informed the local brew was quite strong, but after several drinks I didn’t feel a thing. Our guide kept pouring me shots, and while it clearly had an effect on him, I must have been less sensitve than the Ibans.

Meanwhile, the Dutch Hulk Hogan had brought a few six pack of Tiger beer and was challenging the chief to a “Tiger juice” drink off. I was once again doing my best to muster up all my Spanish skills and insinuate myself with the Spanish speakers while our now utterly wasted guide thought it was an appropriate time to inform me how attractive he thought I was and kept touching my shoulders and knees, reminding me where his mosquito net platform was and generally repulsing me.

The next day, I really wanted to to go off with the Spanish group, but it wasn’t really an option. I was feeling annoyed by my Dutch traveling partners and extremely annoyed with my guide, but I had no choice but to head into the jungle with the trio.

Our guide continuously referred to the jungle as the Iban’s ‘Supermarket,” which sounded silly but I came to realize was quite accurate. I was actually incredibly impressed as our guide stopped every three steps to point to a plant or pluck a leave and explain its medicinal or culinary purpose. He made it look so easy, but at a certain point I fell behind the group, and without the guide, all I could see were green leaves. At a certain point in the jungle, someone had set up traditional Iban hunting traps which were right out of Indian Jones. They were made with simple materials but a demonstration proved that they were incredibly effective at capturing and killing prey.

I had hoped to see more wildlife, but many of Borneo’s animals are quite rare and require some deep trekking with no promise that you’ll see anything. Borneo is home to the world’s largest flower, and the sun bear, which I would have loved to see, but even our guide had never seen one.

After the jungle trek, we took a boat to another longhouse. This one was not equipped for overnight visits. It seemed poorer and was constructed without a single nail. Again, we sat in the longhouse awkwardly while our guide spoke Iban and caught up on local gossip. He also recruited a few Ibans to prepare our lunch, which was probably the highlight of my trip (as food always seems to be on my travels.)

We took the longboats to a small rocky island in the middle of the river, and I sat quietly while the Ibans prepared the feast. They began preparing a large fire and hacking giant bamboo. The hollow bamboo served as cups for us for more rice wine. Other pieces of hollow bamboo were stuffed with rice wrapped in a leaf, or with meat seasoned with freshly picked herbs wrapped in a leaf. They were then filled with water and placed over the pit to steam in the bamboo.

I would have liked to interact with the Ibans, but they stayed together and largely ignored us, so I continued to sit quietly. My guide, who seemed quite nervous that I wasn’t enjoying myself kept pestering me and asking me if I was OK. He then launched into a pedantic lecture on how you need to enjoy life and every moment, which is the last lesson I wanted too hear from a man I was paying to guide me. If I had wanted to merely enjoy myself, I would have stayed home with my friends and not ventured to the Borneo jungle.

Lunch was served to me, Hulk and Barbie while the Ibans sat to the side and talked among themselves. I finally realized that they were waiting for us to finish so they could eat our leftovers. I appreciated the lack of waste, but it continued to set up the awkward dynamic between foreigner and Native.

On the ride back, Valentine continued to ask me how I was doing and generally annoy the heck out of me singing “Hello, Is it me you’re looking for? ‘Cause I wonder where you are. I wonder what you do. Let me start by saying, I love you.” Sitting in a longboat in the middle of a river in the jungle with an Iban singing Lionel Richie is one of those absurd travel moments that can send you down a spiral of self-doubt wondering why you didn’t just stay home with friends and instead chose to hang out with headhunters in the middle of the Borneo jungle for the soul reason that it sounded interesting.

We returned to the longhouse, and more guests (German and, of course, Dutch) had arrived. The evening repeated itself. Dinner in Dutch and Spanish with no Ibans followed by dancing in the longhouse, although I managed to avoid a repeat dance performance. This time I turned down the rice wine and headed to bed early.

The morning we were to leave, they had two more activities set up. First, we had the opportunity to use a blow pipe, which, like the orangutans, ended up being much cooler than I had expected. A college professor once blew one in class for us, but using one was totally different. I was embarrassingly bad at it, but I was impressed by how a small puff of air into a pipe constructed completely from jungle materials, along with some highly skilled aiming, was all that was required to effectively kill something or someone.

The last activity was a watered-down cockfight. I might have been more sympathy for the birds if not for the fact that they had woken me up at dawn for two mornings. For perhaps about two minutes, the cocks’ feathers were ruffled and they leapt into the air at each other as the Ibans goaded them. But the birds didn’t seem very interested in fighting and in a short time went their separate ways.

I had, fortunately, scheduled a flight that left that afternoon. Valentine handed us feedback forms that could be mailed or faxed, and he kept asking me if I could give it to him to hand in, and kept asking me if I had a good time. I didn’t. But that was never the goal really. I can safely say I had a very interesting time, which in the end is what I really wanted. Although for anyone heading to Borneo, I would recommend the overnight hike in the national parks over the longhouses.

Fortunately I can end this post on a positive note. As soon as I stepped on the plane, I felt relieved and excited to be returning soon to my beloved China. On the flight from Borneo to KL, I could tell the young Chinese Malay boy was curious about the foreign girl sitting next to him, but I wasn’t in the mood for small talk. About midway through the flight, he finally asked, “Where are you from?” We stared talking, and I practiced a little Chinese (although two weeks in Malaysia and two days speaking Spanish really killed my Mandarin.) He was actually very sweet and helped me with my bag as we left. I told him I was taking the bus back to KL for the night, and he told that it was a long ride and to wait a minute. He had been in Borneo on business and he asked his boss if I could ride in the company car back with them to KL. The boss, dressed in business casual, eyed me with my backpack and clothing fresh from the Borneo jungle, and said, “Sure, no problem.” Yay Malaysia!

Days 6-7 Singapore

“There is no dearth of talent on this Treasure Island which is Singapore, and compared to other less fortunate areas of Asia, we are favored children under the sun with our comparatively high standard of living and working freely in a stimulating multiracial society and cosmopolitan atmosphere of relative peace.” -Chendana, from “Woodprints in Singapore,” 1996

So I don’t now about you, but up until recently, when I thought of Singapore, I thought of an impeccably clean city that where you can’t chew gum but you can ge t your butt caned. This image changed somewhat for me after I read a New Yorker article on Singapore street food. The author writes that Singapore is renowned for its ‘hawkers,” small street food stands throughout the city. When he arrives in Singapore he tell his cab driver that he wants to sample Singapore street food, the driver offers to take him to all his favorite places throughout the city. The driver proceeds to take him around to all his favorite places every day for an entire week, and at the week’s end, the driver says there were still so many places they hadn’t tried.

http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2007/09/03/070903fa_fact_trillin An absolute must-read for foodies!

I was intrigued by the article, but I had trouble picturing a city full of hawkers. Were they on the street corner or sidewalk like a hot dog stand? It wasn’t until I arrived and quite foolishly attempted to recreate that experience for myself, that I really understood Singapore street food, cab drivers, and, finally, that no matter how prepared you are for an impeccably clean and modern city, it still surprises.

After a short flight from Langkawi, I landed in Singapore and woke up just in time for the flight attendant to announce sternly that drug traffickers will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law (re: death. So don’t say you weren’t warned!) I took the impeccably clean subway to Little India, but couldn’t find my hotel. My pack was heavy, it was hot, and finally out of frustration I hopped in a cab. The driver asked me where I was from. I asked if he was from Singapore and he said, of course, that legally cab drivers had to be from Singapore because they all knew the city so well (which I found funny since in the U.S. it’s practically mandated that cab drivers are not American.) After a few minutes, we arrived back where he had picked me up. I felt a little better knowing I wasn’t the only one who couldn’t find it, but the driver was mortified. Amazingly, he shut off the taxi meter at $4 and vowed that he would get me to my destination no matter what as it was his “duty.” We took a few more turns around the block and passed a large market under a tent. I asked the driver if locals ate there, and he said they did. Bingo!

The driver got me there and refused to charge me more than $4. (A Malay later told me that the Singapore government rewards taxi drivers if people write in with enough compliments. Bloomberg, are you listening?)

After some more freakishly nice service at my hotel, (grabbing my bag from me as soon as I walked in and pouring me water and generally falling over themselves to help someone who wasn’t paying more than $15 her room,) I headed straight for the market I passed in the cab and got my first glimpse of food hawkers.

I walked in and there were little stands selling all different types of food including Indian, Malaysian, Indonesian, Korean, Chinese, and Muslim, and people ate at tables in the center. Honestly, it didn’t look unlike a mall’s foodcourt without the Pizza Hut. After only a few steps a man approached me and asked if I wanted to try some 1) Fish Briyani $2.50 SPD, a traditional Malay dish. Sure, why not. The drink attendant rushed over and took my order for ginger tea $1.30 SPD while the first man dished some out for me and sat down with me.
Hello, where are you from?
I’m American.
Oh, do you know Michael Jackson?
Um… no.
Oh.
Awkward attempts at conversation aside,, the fish briyani was pretty good. He showed me a newspaper clipping by his stand of Singapore’s president eating some of his fish briyani.

I gradually figured out that certain stands had famous reputations and would often display articles or awards on their stands including the Singapore Live to Eat Award and the Green Book Award. I have no idea what these awards really mean except that the food must be good, and so I began a game where whenever I saw a stand with an award for Best something, I would order it.

I next ordered what turned out to be one of my favorite Singaporean dishes, a 2) banana prata $2.00SPD from a stand with a Best Pratas award and washed it down with a mango lassi. And I couldn’t leave without sampling the award-winning 3) Soto Ayam $3.00SPD- a light and spicy noodle soup with buttery, melt-in-your-mouth fish. It was the best fish I’ve ever had in my life.

I was full. Uncomfortably full. Like the first five minutes after Thanksgiving dinner is over and you kinda want to puke full. This was going to be harder than I thought.

I vowed that I would spend my time in Singapore walking so I could see the city, get some badly needed exercise, stumble on some more hawkers, and continue to eat Singapore’s award-winning food.

Like KL and most Malaysian cities, Singapore has a Little India, Chinatown, and famous mosques. I wandered around Little India which the NYTimes dubbed too touristy, but I loved the colorful sari shops, the Indian food, and the hindu temples. Little India is also known for being the “bad part of town,” but I found that absurd. I tried on a sweatshirt in an inexpensive store and stupidly left my camera behind (it was only a matter of time and it’s why I won’t buy a really fancy digital SLR even though I badly want one.) I didn’t notice until half an hour later. I was certain it was gone, but when I returned the clerk cheerily reached behind the counter and handed it to me. Yay Singapore.

I next walked to the Arab quarters which the NYTimes pronounced more hip and authentic than Little India, but which I found to be overly touristy. (Seriously, NYTimes Travel section has steered me wrong one too many times.) And I was annoyed because I was denied entry for the the THIRD time at a mosque because it was prayer time yet again, but again I was transfixed by the sound of the prayers chanting over the loudspeaker.

I stopped for some award-winning 4) Mee Robus $3.00 SPD another famous and very delicious Malaysian noodle dish. The sun had set but I continued my rambling past the largest fountain in the world in time to catch the light show and down to the super-touristy, overpriced, and generally nightmarish Quay, which I escaped through an alley that led me to more hawkers and some award-winning 5) Dry Mee Sua $3.00 SPD I walked to Singapore famous Chinatown and ate some warm, crumbly, and of course award-winning 6) Prawn Crackers $2.00 SPD which were delicious except they were made with the entire prawn and the little eyes peering at me from the cracker weirded me out. The Chinatown was quite big and had tons of hawkers, but my stomach couldn’t handle anymore so I went home to sleep and digest.

The next day, I continued to eat my way through Singpore including.
7) Da Lian Traditional Noodle $3.00 SPD with coffee
Cheese Prata $2.00SPD
9) Mutton Currry $3.00 SPD
10) Ice cream sandwich $1.00 SPD (It was actually ice cream served between two slices of bread so I had to try.)
11) Hot and Spicy Ban Mian $3.50 SPD
12) Kok Kee Wanton Noodle $3.50 SPD

In total, I ate some of the tastiest dishes I ever had for about $20 US.

Day 8-10 Melaka (aka Malacca)

“If you haven’t been to Melacca, you haven’t been to Malaysia.” -Malaysian saying

I made a planning error. I should have spent an extra day in Singapore instead of three days in the small town of Melacca. But in travel as in life, you win some and you lose some. There are definitely worse places to spend an extra day than a UNESCO World Heritage Site, and it was probably best for my stomach that I got away from Singapore when I did!

Melacca is a large city of over a million people. As the bus pulled in, it looked like a generic Malaysian city full of cars and strip malls and looking generally unexciting. I was disappointed until I took the cab to the old city, just a few streets that constitute the World Heritage site and some of the most interesting architecture and history in Asia.

I arrived in a town of narrow cobblestone streets lined with Portuguese style buildings with old traditional Chinese characters written on them. It’s a unique architectural style from Portuguese and Dutch and Chinese Malays. This unique culture and people is known as Baba Nyonnya. The town has become quite touristy, but the architecture remains impressive. As I walked around I felt like I was in some bizarro European village with Chinese signs populated by Malays.

The guidebook said three days was necessary for Melacca, but one was more than enough. I had agreed to meet Molly there on the third day so I had to stay put, relax and make the best of it. For three days I wandered around the small town, indulging in a massage and having my feet treated by “Dr. Fish.” Dr. Fish originated in Singapore. They are little fish that like to eat dead skin cells, and so if you dip your feet in the water they exfoliate them. I had tried this before In Beijing, but this time I actually kept my feet in. And it really worked!

Finally, with the Malays being Malays, I was never alone for long. A number of people around town chatted me up. Some with worthwhile conversations, some that I had trouble getting a word into to excuse myself.

My favorite was a lovely antique dealer named Lee Ching. We ended up talking for over an hour about more than just small talk. She was incredibly smart and fascinating to talk about Malaysian history, and she just seemed like a nice person. She explained what some her antiques were including a fish trap and an opium pillow, talked about her career as a professional baker and as a consultant for Kenny Rogers’s fast food chain (See, “Kenny Rogers is Big In Malaysia.”) She also told me about her American-born Chinese grandfather who who migrated to Malaysia. She said she was grateful he died right before the Japanese invaded, since he would have been tortured for his American heritage. Afterward, I mentioned her to my hotel manager who said that Lily Ching was a very good woman who you could trust to buy antiques from. (And I felt a little better about my instincts. It’s always hard to know who to trust on the road.)

I also met Stanley Ho, a local artist. I waked into his beautiful studio and spoke a little Chinese to him. He was so pleased that he invited me in for some tea and to tell me his life story. He showed me how he had lost most of his teeth because he didn’t sell a painting for six years. He showed me where he had slept on the floor, until one day, his paintings one first prize in a Malay contest. He said he cried whent hey gave him 6000 rinngits because he had never seen so much money. Now his paintings hang in the Petronas towers.

Finally, a group of Malays sitting outside invited me to join them and bought me a beer. One of the guys was particularly chatty and he bragged about the group’s diversity as a reflection of Malaysia. There were six of them including Malaysian, Indian and Chinese descent, as well as Hindu, Christian and Muslim. The Malay told me to tell the world that Malays are more advanced than anyone realizes, and they’re not all living in trees like the rest of the world says. (So here I am telling “the world.”)

He’s right. Malaysia is the forgotten middle child of Southeast Asia. Thailand has tourism, Vietnam has its veterans, even Cambodia has Angelina Jolie. But when I told someone I was going to Malaysia, they asked me if ti was north or south of China.

As illustrated by that group of Malays, Malaysia is know for its diversity and they take pride in being a melting pot. But I came to realize that there’s still a lot of racial and religious tension within the country. There are regulations known as “sons of soil” policy that certain companies must hire 30% of their staff as Malays, in part, because the Chinese are so successful in business. Many Chinese Malays also identify more strongly with being Chinese than Malay, and apparently if a Chinese marries a Muslim, they must convert to Islam under the law (or so I was told.) One Malay man I spoke with said that when he’s with his wife at home he doesn’t drink or eat pig. But when he’s not there he can drink. This arrangement actually struck me as strange, but he said that’s how everyone in Malaysia get along. By minding their own business and opinions.

In Melacca, there is a street known as Harmony street because Chinese temple, a Hindu temple, and a Mosque are all with a few hundred yards of each other. Each was old and beautiful. In the Chinese temple, I engaged in a ritual where you shake a container of sticks and whichever stick pops out tells your future. My future was not a good one, probably because I’m not a Chinese Buddhist. (Later that day, I bought a bookmark written in spectacular Chinese calligraphy by a woman with no hand. She said it was good luck. So take that Chinese temple.)

The Hindu temple was by far my favorite!! I loved its bright colors, the costumes of the temple members, and the wild, joyful music they played when the ceremony began. It was the first Hindu ceremony I had every see and I was completely transfixed.

Finally, I visited Melacca’s mosque when Molly and her coworkers were in town. We walked in and admired the architecture. As we walked out, a Muslim man walked by me, and I stopped and stared completely astounded by what I saw. There on Harmony Street, this man walked into the mosque wearing an Osama bin Laden t-shirt. I froze and then angrily turned around. Molly’s co-worker, a young Chinese Malay who wants to study in the U.S., gently steered me outside and whispered to just keep walking, which I did.

“A good traveler has no fixed plans and is not intent on arriving.” – Lao Tzu

As the travel portion of my travel blog begins, I’ve been terribly remiss in posting. I’ve been too busy packing as much in as I can in a short time, and jotting down notes on flights and buses when I can. In the past two weeks I feel I’ve had enough new experiences to fill a book. My only regret is that I will never be able to convey the incredible array of experiences I’ve had living in a Muslim country, hiking through jungles, playing with monkeys, island hopping, eating some of the best food on the planet, meeting a diverse population of Malays, Indians, Chinese, Hindus, Buddhists, Muslims, and Christians, and mostly just encountering a world I had no idea existed. (And my only fear is that I will succeed in getting it all down, and bore everyone half to death in doing so!)

So, Malaysia in two weeks without a single post. A marathon trip begets a marathon blog post. Here we go!

Days 1 and 2: Kuala Lumpur: Bright Lights, Big City

As I wrote before, my selection of Malaysia as my destination had a lot more to do with the fact that I had a friend living here than anything else, so I had no idea what to expect. When I landed in KL and hopped in a cab to Molly’s apartment, I experienced a bit of a culture shock. I had grown accustomed to Beijing and its beloved grittiness, and KL looked extremely modern and surprisingly western as we sped by shiny skyscrapers, highways, and a monorail. I felt as if I had left Asia behind and landed somewhere in the year 2020.

One line to Dartmouth’s song reads “round the girlded earth they roam, her spell on them remains.” I can’t tell you how many random places I’ve come across Dartmouth alums- Beijing, Alaska, and Honduras, to name a few- and now I was lucky to be greeted in this strange new city with a big hug from Molly. Even though it was was after midnight, and Molly needed to be up at 7, she stayed awake to give me some maps, guidebooks, and advice; connect me to the internet; and basically take far better care of me than a couch-surfing college buddy deserves.

Molly is working in KL with several other MIT B-school classmates for the summer. She lives in a gorgeous modern apartment with views of the Petronas towers. I had been a little nervous about KL, but I immediately felt right at home, curled up on her big, comfy couch, and fell asleep.

The next day I woke up (late, of course) grabbed Molly’s map and just walked around, where I learned my first lesson. KL is not a highly walkable city. I walked along the road as cars zipped by gazing at the enormous modern buildings amid the palm trees. I didn’t feel like I was in Asia at all. It felt more like a city that Florida or California wish they had, if they could only purge all the awful 70s architecture, litter, and bums.

I headed towards the Petronas Towers, although I had little desire to go inside because, first, obtaining ticket involves getting up early, and second, two, a pair of tall towers will always have negative associations in my mind. Still, their stainless steel exteriors loomed attractively in the distance, and I headed towards them.

Before the towers lies a clean, modern park where I learned my most important lesson about Malaysia. Malaysians are freakishly friendly. They have no problem waking right up to you with their quintessential greeting for foreigners. “Hello! Where are you from?!” Now, I generally try to blend in wherever I go, but since a white American girl only has so many options for Malaysian assimilation, I chose to embrace my tourist role and walked around KL that day in a wide-brimmed straw hat. It was perfect for the relentless sunshine but definitely attracted attention. As I walked through the park and throughout the city, people looked at me and said, “Hello! Where are you from?” When I responded I was American and from NYC, many asked me for my phone number and email address so they would have someone to hang out with in case they ever came to America (I generally gave out email and withheld the phone number.) One girl even invited me to her home to talk to her sister who was leaving to study in NYC. This was after talking to her for 3 minutes!

I didn’t know how to react to this friendliness. Generally, it was wonderful, especially for a solo traveler, but after four years living in NYC, I’m accustomed to avoiding eye contact on the subway and the street, and generally distrusting strangers. So often when a Malay tapped me on the shoulder, I’d grab my bag, eye them suspiciously, and then feel bad about it. On countless occasions I benefited greatly from Malaysian kindness.

After the Petronas towers, I hopped in a cab and then, on my first day in Malaysia after three months of living in Beijing, I asked to be taken to Chinatown.

I know, I know. But KL is known for its Chinatown as 30% of Malays are Chinese, and its Chinatown is known for its street food. Chinatown was much grittier and a bit more interesting than KL’s business district. It also had some good bargains, and I bought a very decent pair of binoculars for only $8 which have proven quite valuable in my travels. After Chinatown, I was looking at a mp for the famous National Mosque when a man on the street greeted me and asked me where I wanted to go. He was of Indian decent (as are 15% of Malays) and decided Little India should be my destination and led the way. I followed him for about 15 minutes, and he pointed out hole-in-the-wall where I could get some great Indian food. Then he asked for my email because he wanted to go to American to start his business (which was, as best as I could determine, a not so successful street stand selling souvenir Buddhas, but perhaps I was missing something.)

Anyway, I was excited to see Little India, eat Indian food, and walk among the stalls selling gorgeous, colorful saris. Since Malaysia is largely an Islamic country, they were also selllng Muslim headscarves and most of them women wore them, sometimes with a long gown, sometimes with jeans. In the book store, they sold digital prayer counters (I guess they need to keep track of them? Kinda like a rosary.) One beautiful headscarf in particular captured my attention, and I couldn’t resist plunking down $1 for it. One could always attribute it to mercenary reasons, but I was pleased that the woman complimented the scarf on me and didn’t mind selling a headscarf to clearly non-Muslim woman,

I finally made it to the National Mosque at sunset, but I wasn’t allowed inside as it was time for prayers. A man’s voice chanting prayers played loudly over the loudspeaker and could be heard from a distance. It looked and sounded beautiful.

That night, I met Molly for dinner. We ate in one of Malaysia’s many, many enormous modern malls. I had avoided Beijing’s mega malls, but in KL it seemed like a pretty common place for people to hang out and eat, especially because of the air conditioning. It was great to have someone to discuss my day with and to tell me more about Malaysia, as well as fun just to catch up with an old friend.

The next day, I had a to-do list, so I utilized the Tourist Hop on Hop off bus, a lifesaver for anyone that wants to see KL. I grabbed some iced coffee (where I the coffee barista was so concerned with asking me where I was from and telling me where I needed to go in Malaysia that he messed up my order,) and waited for the bus while a taxi driver standing with asked me where I was from. Guess, I told him. He failed even after ten guesses. This happens all the time. I will no longer feel guilty for a failure to distinguish between Asians. They cannot distinguish foreigners apart despite my American accent, and the Chinese and Koreans mix each other up all the time!

I hopped on the bus and we headed to the outskirts of town while in the opposite lane, a massive traffic jam tried to get into KL. I mentioned the transit was bad, and it’s even worse for those commuting in from the suburbs.

I gained a decent overview of the city from the bus and some glimpses of its older sections. We arrived at the park, and I hopped off to see the bird park, the largest free flight bird park in the world. An enormous net was cast over the area, and the rare and delicate birds were kept in small cages inside. I spent a really fun two hours there chasing peacocks, photographing flamingos and feeding ostriches. (My favorite was the blue wattled Cassowary from Papua New Guinea which I had no idea even existed.) The park also had an orchid garden I enjoyed as well as a butterfly garden and planetarium that I missed. I walked about twenty minutes down to the National Mosque when the government rained on my parade.

Literally. Molly said that a recent dry spell compelled the government to seed the clouds for rain, and rain it did. Just as I arrived at the mosque, heavy sheets poured down. I began to remove my shoes when a Muslim cleric at the entrance stenrly told me that I couldn’t enter. I didn’t understand since I knew foreigners were allowed in until I realized it was prayer time- again! A Muslim woman gently asked me if I were Muslim (I give her a lot of credit for being so open-minded,) and I felt a little embarrassed to say no. But she was kind and said I needed to wait outside.

So I stayed under the roof at the entrance and watched it rain. At this moment, a walking caricature of a Muslim cleric in a white turban, a crisp white tunic shirt and pants and a scraggly beard and smiling eyes greeted me Malaysian style. He spoke in a soft, heavy accent, and when he found out I was American, he of course wanted my information just in case he ever came to America. Later, he started preaching to me about Islam, giving me the hard sell on eternal paradise. Since its not every day that a Muslim cleric goes to the trouble of trying to convert, and perhaps because I was feeling bored from standing int he rain, I told him that while paradise sounded nice, I tried to be a good person because I think it’s the right thing to do, not for any future reward. Either he didn’t understand, or pretended not to, but he then he left me to pray asking me to meet him later.

The rain lightened and suddenly streams of Muslims were entering the mosque. They all removed their shoes at the entrance and suddenly I noticed to the side was a cavernous, mostly underground tiled shower where dozens and dozens of men washed their feet before entering the mosque. I was still waiting for it to stop raining when yet another Malay greeted me. He was young and nice, and I told him I was annoyed I wasn’t allowed inside and getting hungry. He told me I should go to the food stalls. Did somebody say food stalls?!?! Where?! I demanded. Behind the mosque he said. They are there only on Fridays for the afternoon prayer service. I immediately headed in that direction, and was thrilled to see that he was correct, and that there were two rows of Malay food stalls.

I suddenly felt a tap on my shoulder and immediately grabbed my bag and whirled around suspiciously. It was the same young Malay who just wanted to make sure I found it. (Seriously, people, the Malays really are that nice.) He walked me through the stalls, conversing with the vendors for me and telling me which foods were good. One of the food vendors, a Muslim woman, when she asked where i was from and I replied America, suddenly grew cold. I asked if she liked America, and she said she did but, to my utter surprise, said she didn’t like Obama, and was the only person in my travels I’ve encountered who said so. I asked her why but she wouldn’t talk to me anymore.

The Malay told me more about Malaysia, how the cars here are too expensive to control traffic, so many people here ride motorcycles, and how the economic crisis had hit here hard too and how he lost his job. He offered me a ride back on his motorcycle after the service (no way was I getting on one of those things in KL,) and I politely declined. He went off to pray, and I returned to Molly’s apartment where she, her roommates and I hopped on a flight to the Malaysain island of Langkawi on the northwestern corner by Thailand.

Days 3-5 Langkawi: Islands in the Sun

A word about the flight. I took Air Asia, also known as the greatest airline in the history of the world. I had been planning on taking trains for most of my travels, for the fun of it and for environmental factor. But the speed and cheapness of Air Asia’s flights proved too alluring for me. Air Asia has been repeatedly voted best airline. My flight to Langkawi cost $60 (Molly bought hers early and hers was about $40 roundtrip!) They often have free flights to Singapore where you only pay taxes. So this is my ode to AirAsia, who made Malaysia travels possible.

So Molly, her four classmates, and I arrived in Langkawi. Now if I had been traveling alone, I would have just found a cheap bed. But there as many different travel styles as there are people, and after working hard in KL, they wanted to stay at a nice resort with a pool, which was still affordable and which was a break from my travel style.

Malaysia’s east coast islands are reputedly better, but I thought Langkawi was beautiful. It’s known as a popular destination for Arabs this time of year who seek to escape the mideastern heat in a Muslim country like Malaysia. At the resort, woman walked around in scarves and modest bathing suits. There was even a separate women-only pool.

On the beach, usually in the evening when the weather cooled, the Muslim women in the full burkas came out to sit on the beach. I have to admit, the contrast of the women completely cloaked in black sitting next to their husbands wearing nothing but shorts and sandals irritated the heck out of me. I consider myself fairly tolerant, but the double standard was blatant on the beach. But again, I must give them credit for their own seeming lack of judgment. We were walking around in bikinis with beers, and not once did I feel like I Muslim was staring at me or judging or taking pictures of me (all of which I was guilty of.)

At one point, a woman in burka photographed her husband, and reflexively I offered to photograph the two of them. I realized it was the first time I ever actually spoke to woman in a burka. I have to admit the moment felt a little odd since I obviously couldn’t register any facial expression. But she handed me the camera and her husband seemed pleased. The light was quite bright and after I took the picture I started to say that I couldn’t see their faces or face, but I trailed off worrying how that might sound and just returned the camera. They seemed very nice.

We spent the weekend enjoying activities like island hopping on a small, private boat and relaxing by the pool. One of our friends, Hari, befriended a Langkawi man named Emy who organized our activities for what seemed to us to be a fair price. He was barrel chested with long hair, red skin, amber eyes, and a gruff voice with mediocre English. He was Muslim, but could pound a beer in a single swig, as long as his Muslim boss wasn’t looking.

On Molly’s last evening in Langkawi, we went parasailing. I planned on staying in Langkawi and extra night, and making my way back to Kuala Lumpur somehow. Our Langkawi friend found out I was staying on without them and invited me to dinner. Emy was the last person on earth I could imagine having dinner with, but it seemed better than eating alone so I agreed.

While I ate green curry, Emy drank beer and bored me to death in broken English about all the women that come to Langkawi and apparently throw themselves at him. And how he coudn’t handle women not wanting to commit to him in Langkawi. When I asked why he didn’t date Langkawi women, he said that he didn’t like them. I turned my attention to the restaurant manager, a Chinese woman. I spoke wit her in my basic Mandarin and she replied in her excellent English. She represented everything I admire about Chinese women. She was smart, tough, competent and no-nonsense. She asked if I wanted to try some durian.

Did I!!? At the entrance to our hotel was a sign saying NO DURIAN. I had wanted to try it ever since I read about in a Wall Street Journal article http://wsj.com/public/article_print/SB121399917835493023.html Durian is a spiky fruit known for it pungent sulphur smell and taste that attracts a cult following. One Malay informed me that there are even durian buffets where you pay a fee to eat all the durian you can eat, paying a higher fee for the higher quality buffet.

The Chinese woman brought over a durian and carefully hacked it open with a knife. Inside it was divided in sections and you must eat the fleshy fruit around the seed. They say you either love durian or hate it, but I must be one of the few that fall in the middle. I didn’t love it, but I didn’t mind. The Chinese woman called me over to the sink and showed the secret to cleaning the smell form your hands. Pur water on the durian rind and wash your hands as the water runs off. I think it worked because I couldn’t smell it on my hands. She then advised me not to pass gas in an elevator after eating durian, and i assured her that I would take care not to do so.

The next day Langkawi all my own. For $7, I rented a moped. I was scared having never ridden one before, and especially because Malays drive on the left side of the road. When I gunned the engine and lurched forward, the hotel cleaning lady ran screaming and shrieking across the parking lot. But I got the hang out it soon enough, and map in hand, I set off to circle the island as the slowest moped drive in Langkawi.

I know many think I’m brave for heading off to Asia, but I take calculated risks, and I really don’t feel safe on mopeds. But as I said, I drove around slowly, there was hardly any traffic, and it was the best way for me to see the island.

I stopped off at the cable car for a spectacular view from the mountains. When I was at the beach I had badly wanted to be in the mountains, and when I was on top of the mountain looking at the distant white beaches, I wanted to be there. This pretty much sums up why I travel.

At one point, I stopped at a stand for lunch. The woman served me then best chicken soup (with lime and spices) that I’ve ever had in my entire life. And of course it was only $1. Driving around on my moped for hours around the island was one of my best days in Malaysia. I considered staying longer, but i had much to see and little time. And I need to make plans to get off Langkawi, which was not as easy as I thought.

I originally planned to take the ferry and then take trains or buses to get back to KL and to Molly. But I decided despite Lao Tzu’s advice, I did have some destinations in mind. So the next morning, I woke up early, packed my bag, and headed to the airport where I bought a one way ticket to Singapore for $70 for a flight that left the next hour. I love Air Asia.

(This entry was written while staying in the surreally beautiful Ping An rice terraces known as the Devil’s Backbone while staying among the Yao people, an ethnic minority known for growing their hair to their waste (and unwrapping it from their heads for you for a few bucks.) Why this place isn’t as popular as the Great Wall is beyond me, but it’s nice to get away from the crowds, and I’ll write more about it later, once I’m finished with my Malay blogs!)

Hopefully you guys can access these pics of Singapore. Promise to have a blog update soon!

Click on this link.

I’ll write more when I get a chance, but here are some (OK, a lot) of pics. Hope you guys enjoy.

http://picasaweb.google.com/l.grabowski/Ma

Malaysia- KL and Langkawi

“To travel is to discover that everyone is wrong about other countries.” – Aldous Huxley

I’m re-typing this entry on the plane after the original text I typed at the gorgeously-designed Shanghai airport was lost. I will be so happy when I’m in unblocked Malaysian cyberspace in just a few more hours.

So after three months, I’m finally leaving Beijing to travel. I’m sad to be leaving now, I love my little Beijing life. I have good group of friends, and I really enjoy my Chinese class. But my passport has reached its halfway point, and so I’m required to leave the country for a bit. Often, people take the train to Hong Kong for a quick visa run, but I figured since I had to leave anyway, I should make the most of my time on this side of the world.

I originally considered South Korea, Vietnam or Thailand, all places that have captured my interest. But then I learned that my friend Molly, (yet another Dartmouth grad) was in Kuala Lumpur for the summer. I liked the idea of meeting up with a friend, and I figured that I would definitely see Thailand and Vietnam at some point, but don’t know when I’ll be compelled again to see Malaysia. I emailed Molly, and she wrote back an enthusiastic email very kindly inviting me to stay with her at her place and travel with her on weekends. So I bought my ticket, and here I am!

I also plan on traveling by train down to Singapore for a few days before flying from Kuala Lumpur to Guilin in Southern China. I then plan on traveling around Southern China and up to Tibet if time permits. And if I don’t like it, I can always just hop on a plane back to Beijing.

Beijing is such a small part of an immense country. I’m really looking forward to seeing new cities, trying different foods, seeing mountains and rivers, and encountering some of China’s ethnic minority populations. It’s impossible to see it all, but I’ll have a few weeks for some interesting experiences I hope.

I guess someone would expect me to say that these past three months have gone by quickly. But it doesn’t really feel that way to me. I’ve learned so much since coming here. My time here has felt very dense, and I really feel that I’ve undergone the proverbial mind expansion travel is supposed to bring. I always dreamed of coming to China, and now I have trouble remembering a time when I didn’t know China, even though it was less than 90 days ago when I had not yet laid foot on Chinese soil. Still, I’m going to try and recall that feeling before I came, and contrast my expectations with the realities.

Chinese Government
Expectation
China is a Communist country and I’d have to watch my big mouth.

Reality
China is much, much freer than I had anticipated. I was astounded to see books about Tibet at the bookstore and hear people talk freely about Tiananmen Square. In my class my teacher said that she would like to see video of Tiananmen Square and talked about how her friend had been taken away by the government for two weeks almost 15 years ago.

My expectations were pretty low, and obviously there are still numerous examples of lack of freedom. But, it’s much freer than what I had expected, and many Americans have said the same thing.

And maybe I’m just being paranoid, but I still watch my big mouth,

Split pants
Expectation
Chinese babies wear split pants instead of diapers.

Reality
Chinese babies wear split plants instead of diapers (except when they are wearing split pants AND diapers.) They are called kaidangku, and I’m still not entirely clear on how these things work I had heard about split pants, and I feel a little inappropriate saying this, but it was so cute to see little Chinese baby tushies peeking out behind their split pants. For those who haven’t seen them, basically it’s a vertical slit in the pants of Chinese babies so they can just squat on the street. I’ve only actually seen a kid squat once. (My friend said she saw a baby squat in the Ikea, and while she loves China, it was a bit of a breaking point for her.) I’m still confused if the parent picks up after the child. They must since I’ve never seen any, ahem, “presents” on the street. Still, according to one source, the days of the splits pants are numbered. And I can attest that I’ve seen many diapers peeking out from split pants instead of bare bottoms. http://www.chinadaily.com.cn/english/doc/2004-07/16/content_349150.htm

Spitting
Expectation: Public spitting would be stopped after the Olympics

Reality: In my reality, there is still a LOT of spitting in Beijing. Although I think I have grown accustomed to it, because it doesn’t stand out for me the way it did when I first arrived. Still, I’ll be biking or walking along minding my own business, and suddenly I’ll hear this incredibly loud, revolting sound emanating from deep inside someone’s throat followed by a loud splat on the ground. Honestly, I couldn’t split as loud and as hard as a Beijinger if I tried. I think it’s partially from the pollution, living in hutongs heated by coal, and mostly from smoking.

Still, my pre-Olympic Beijing expat friends said it used to be much, much worse and the the Olympic crackdown actually improved the spitting situation a lot. So I should count myself lucky.

Dogs
About 2 years ago, the NYTimes Homes and Garden section ran an article on a New York woman who decided to move to a refurbished courtyard home in Beijing with her daughter and dog. In the article, she discusses how she often gets stared at for her pet dog, since pet dogs are still very rare in China.

So my first night in Beijing I’m eating dinner at the Lucky Diner with Vinny and Andrew when a little dog wanders up and snuggles my leg, waving his tail happily. I gave him a pat and announced with an air of authority that pet dogs are quite rare in China. Vinny and Andrew looked up from their dishes and said, Um, Noooooooooooo…. not quite.

And sure enough, the next day and every day after, all I saw in Beijing were people with some of the cutest little dogs I’ve ever seen.

Cheese
Blame the NYTimes for this one too. Not long ago I had read a NYTimes article on a cheese-eating club started by expats in China lamenting the lack of good cheese. And again, I’m not sure if they were extremely elite about what type of cheese they ate, or if things changed very quickly, but while I arrived in Beijing expecting cheese to be extremely difficult to procure, the expat grocery stores carry as diverse a variety as your average American supermarket. And yes, some of it is expensive, but for $3 I can buy the best Cheddar I’ve ever eaten, imported from Australia.

Ditto for Coffee

I was told that coffee was a rarity here. And again, not true. Perhaps because I have spent time in places frequented by tourists and foreigners, but there has always been a coffee shop in reasonable proximity. True it can be expensive (anywhere from $2-5 US dollars,) because it’s only for foreigners since I have yet to meet a Chinese coffee drinker. A word of advice for China travelers who can’t find a cup and are growing desperate (seriously, I feel your pain.) Try McDonald’s. They deliver a halfway decent cup for cheap in a pinch.

Saving face
From guidebooks, from other Chinese people, from word of mouth, I’ve heard of the concept of “saving face.” Honestly, maybe I just haven’t been here long enough, but I have no idea what they’re talking about.

Saving face, as it has been explained to me, means a Chinese person will react stoically in awkward or tense situations. Not so!

I’ve witnessed countless Chinese lose their tempers, raise their voices and yell. I’ve probably seen more fights here than I have in the U.S. Possible because Beijing is full of migrant workers, possibly less prone to care about saving one’s face so to speak, I have seen countless quarrels between constructions workers. One time I saw a laborer wielding a heave metal shovel at another. Another time a motorbike accident resulted in an exchange of blows, and always a crow of curious bystanders watch, just like anywhere else in the world. And no one seems to be concerned about saving face.

Chinese men don’t harass women; Chinese people dress modestly

Wrong, wrong, wrong. Perhaps this was true at one point, although I have trouble believing it. I can’t imagine where the guidebook writers got the idea that Chinese people aren’t human!

Here I’ve received at least as many annoying whistles, catcalls, and looks as I have in Brooklyn. What’s most amazing to me is how I will be dressed in jeans in a tank top, and it will attract more attention that a Chinese girl in a tiny dress, because tank tops are rare here since Chinese women don’t wish to have their arms and shoulders tan. In fact, removeable long sleeves are sold to attach to short sleeve shirt for sun protection.

Which leads me to my next point. Chinese girls wear the shortest skirts ever! Seriously. I say, if you got it flaunt it. And Chinese women’s slim figures are flattered by most cuts. Still, there’s limits, and some girls here dress outrageously and certainly far from the modesty described in the guidebooks.

Expats
These days I have trouble even recalling what I expected, but whatever I imagined, it couldn’t have matched the reality of the large, diverse, interesting, supportive, and well-connected community of expats I discovered in Beijing. One of the highlights of my stay here has been meeting new, interesting, and extremely friendly people happy to be your friend almost every day. The only downside is that I had hoped to spend more time with, you know, actual Chinese people here practicing my Mandarin!

So I’ve consistently had issues posting pics on this blog since it’s been blocked. I know I’ve posted some of these before, but here’s an album with lots of Beijing pics!

http://www.facebook.com/p.php?i=676557280&k=Z5LX2VSXS4WAUCAAQE45Q3U

*this is what the Chinese say instead of “cheese.” It means eggplant and it makes your face look kind of funny in pics.

“Anything that walks, swims, crawls, or flies with its back to heaven is edible.” -Cantonese saying. from The Chinese Kitchen by Eileen Yin-Fei Lo

Again, I’ve been remiss in blogging because I tend to have too much to say and not enough time to say it!!

I’ve been busy with the same old good stuff. I’m still slowly but steadily studying Chinese. Lately my teachers have been pushing us harder. Now I have to write little essays, not a simple feat when you have a vocabulary of maybe a thousand words. I usually type them since it’s much easier and faster to type characters rather than write them. Still, I’m enjoying my studies, and I just try to rely on the little patience I have since Chinese is something that takes years to speak fluently. I’ll just have to do the best I can with the time I have.

I also take some other classes when I can. My friend Clayton teaches a meditation class (so I can get more of that tiny bit of patience,) and I took a Chinese calligraphy class last night. I also went to few more good concerts like Convenience Store and Super VC, and, of course, I’m always eating new and interesting food.

Recently, my friends and I went to Wangfujing , a touristy but fun night market south of Tiananmen. The market caters to tourists interested in sampling fare from all over China like zongzis, dumplings, etc., but it also serves up exotic food for those looking for a Fear Factor experience.

On the cab ride there, I bragged about how I’ll eat anything. I talked about how I’ve eaten stingray and alligator, and loads of moose and bear. But I regretted my big talk when we arrived and I saw whatWangfujing had to offer.

There were trays of skewered scorpion, beetles, silkworms, starfish, squid and even sheep’s penis! The very site of these dishes made my stomach turn, and we decided to prepare ourselves with some fried bananas before the big stuff. We looked at the food and looked at each other laughing nervously. Why oh why had I boasted so much? Before I knew it, Vinny ordered a skewer of three scorpions for 15 kuai ($2), and the man heavily seasoned them and threw them in the deep fryer for about two minutes before handing Vinny the stick. Vinny assured me there was plenty to go around, and he took the first bite. I reminded myself that plenty of people in the world eat bugs, but still, just LOOKING at the scorpions made me ill. They looked like tiny little monsters and the little stinger on the tail scared me.

But, alas, my fear of looking stupid and my curiosity (two bad reasons to do anything) overrode my fear, and I took a bite. I still feel gross just thinking about it, but I swear, it didn’t taste bad at all. It was too heavily seasoned and fried to really taste like much. If the scorpion had been ground up into flakes and sprinkled on a salad or soup, I’m pretty sure I would have asked for more.

We wandered along looking at the stalls and stopped at place serving horned beetle. I made a big fuss once again before eating. The thing just LOOKED monstrous and unnatural to eat. As I made faces, a few people stopped to take pictures, and once again the pressure was on. Once again I ate, and once again, it really wasn’t that bad.

The worst was the snake. We had two choices, snake skin or snake meat, and Andrew chose the meat. Now, whenever I’ve had exotic meats in the states like crocodile, conch, or kangaroo, they’re often breaded and deep-fried beyond recognition, so everything ends up tasting like a chicken nugget. But not this snake. It tasted exactly like snake, which is to say, quite unappetizing. I actually preferred the scorpion.

The man who sold us the snake offered us another skewer which had not been on display, and which, to my utter horror, turned out to be cat.

I realize since I drink something emitted from a cow’s udder, I’m really in no position to criticize what others’ eat. But since I had lived with a wonderful kitty for several years in NYC, I was horrified. Eating pets always seems akin to cannibalism. Personally, I feel as though animals should be used for food or for company, but for both just seems wrong.

Before the Olympics, the Chinese government took a number of steps to make the city more friendly Westerners, and one of then was that it removed dog meat from most (but by no means all) Beijing menus. I’m not sure if this is related to that fact that in recent years there has been a proliferation in the number of dogs that are kept as pets, and everywhere I turn it seems there are tiny, adorable pet dogs running around. So it seems to me, Beijingers have abided by my arbitrary rule of eat or pet but not both!

I’ll post pics of Wangfujing when I have the time. Today is my birthday and tonight we’re going to party Beijing style!

“I’m not sure that we really made the difference that we intended. We do know it was a tremendously significant event, but we don’t know what it really means.” -Shen Tong, Tiananmen Square student protester

I don’t know when the tradition began, but every morning in Tianamen Square at sunrise, the guards march out and raise the Chinese flag while the national anthem is sung. Since I’m not a morning a person, I’d been planning on attending this ceremony after a late weeknight out, but, for obvious reasons, I decided to wake up at 4am and take a cab down to Tiananmen today on June 4, 2009.

I had trouble falling asleep as I kept thinking about the sad events of 20 years ago. Information about that day is still uncertain, and it might still be too recent an event in China’s history to judge quite yet. I’ve been reading many fascinating articles online, mostly in the NYT, WSJ, and Guardian, and still trying to make sense of what Tiananmen Square (known as the June 4th Incident here in China) really means, as so many people are, as well as trying to grasp what the political climate of the people is like today, which is not an easy thing gauge.

I woke up to a very peaceful and empty Beijing. I easily found a cab and asked him to take me to Tiananmen Square. I arrived maybe 10 minutes before sunrise. There were already of a few hundred people, and although I haven’t seen the ceremony before, I was told that there are normally a few hundred people, mostly Chinese tourists from outside Beijing. Tianamen Square is blocked off on every side by a fence and one must pass through a guarded gate to enter. There was a line of people waiting to cross the street to the gate, and several policeman by me. Before I could cross the street, a policeman stopped me and asked me for my passport. Annoyed, I replied that I didn’t have it. He told me I couldn’t enter. I’m not sure if this is typically the case for the flag-raising ceremony. I think it’s just because today is special. I was annoyed until I remembered what my friend Alex has told me a few days ago, that technically foreigners are required to have their ppassport on them at all times, even though nobody does. I felt a little uneasy and walked away from the checkpoint to watch the flag-raising from the sidewalk outside the square. A few others, two American college students and an American man his British wife, also lacked passports and joined me to watch the ceremony.

We watched the flag rose, and it felt a little anti-climatic. Obviously it’s a forbidden topic here, but it felt strange for there not to be any type of formal acknowledgment or commemoration of defining event in China’s history.

Then two policemen approached me and the two college students and asked us again for our passports. I felt slightly uneasy and told him again that we didn’t have it and apologized. They asked me what I did, and I replied that we were students. They asked us what school we were studying at. They may have said more, but I didn’t quite understand, but then they walked away.

The students and I were a little baffled but once they left we continued our conversation about our experiences in China for a few minutes until one of the police officers returned yet again. This time he asked for our cameras. He looked at the screen and scrolled through all the pictures we just took. I have no idea what he could have possibly been looking for, but none of our pictures seemed to bother him, so he left us alone, and this time we didn’t hang around for a third visit.

The entire time I’ve been here, I’ve never been really quite sure what to make of little events like this. In the U.S. I submit to airport searches and subway searches, and certain government areas are blocked from Google Earth. But the U.S. doesn’t have anything quite like Tiananmen Sqaure to cast a long shadow over little incidents. Am I the only one who thinks that forbidding discussion of events like Tiananmen and blocking websites and Twitter just makes things worse?

Anyway, I might write more about my experiences with Chinese authority, but not today. I really love my life here in China and remembering Tiananmen just makes me feel sad. Those events were not inevitable, and things might have turned out quite differently.

As mentioned before, I’m having trouble putting up pics since my I have to access my blog via proxy server, so here’s a link to a google album on some of my eating adventures:
http://picasaweb.google.com/l.grabowski/BeijingEats?feat=directlink

I took lots of pics while Jackie was in town, so I’ll try to get them up soon!