And then there were seven

(Today's blogpost by our special guest, Nazma)

My parents are both turning 60 this year. Dad's birthday fell on February 26, so Farah came up with the idea of treating both of them to a trip. As relatively well-travelled as the Shivjis are, Southeast Asia remained largely unexplored, and so Kuala Lumpur became the meeting point for everyone. Only the Shivjis would come from three disparate continents to gather on a fourth!
And so it was that Mom, Dad, Farah, Arzoo and Aliya arrived at the hotel at 3am on the morning of Feb 21, the flight from Bangkok having been delayed (we thought they'd been quarantined, or that Dad had been caught with dried fruit in his pockets, since he seems to carry it wherever he goes).

By then we were quite familiar with KL, and the best places to eat and shop, so a considerable amount of time in KL was spent - what else? - shopping and eating. On their first day, Dad made a beeline for the first coconut stall he saw. And one 10-story shopping mecca boasted the craziest roller coaster any of us had ever seen.

After a few days in KL, the two "in-laws" (Arzoo and Lloyd) headed up to Taman Negara to explore what's been billed as the world's oldest rainforest (130million years - never touched by an ice age -- Lloyd will write more about this). As the core-Shivjis are not "roughing-it" types, we appropriately took a VIP bus to Singapore. While they fought off bees and leeches, we avoided all jay-walking and consumption of bubble gum for fear of canings.

We then all reunited in the historic city of Malacca (or Melaka), allowing Lloyd and I to make a return trip to what has probably been the best eating experience of our two months: satay celup. Picture this: a bowling vat of satay sauce in the middle of your table, constantly replenished, in which you dip your choice of sticks from a huge fridge. We devoured, in total, 108 sticks and three plates of chicken, periwinkle meat, clams, shrimp, the biggest prawns we've ever seen, squid, tofu, bean curd skin, spinach, beef, fish balls etc. (Apparently the record for a single man is 169, and 70 for a woman set by a normal-set girl from - where else? - the US.) What enhanced the experience was the outgoing and proud owner of Capitol Satay, Mr. Low. It's been the family business for three generations. On our first visit, upon learning we were Canadian, he immediately pulled out pictures and a business card for "Spicy Steve". Turns out Spicy Steve is from N. Van and has a show on Shaw cable, of all things, and will be featuring our man some time in March, so watch out.

To his dismay, though, neither of us came close to beating the record. But Lloyd did plan out how he would, if he were to ever try! (Stick to the small clam/shrimp sticks, and of course avoid the bread cubes they give you for dipping--surely a rookie mistake if there ever was one.) Overall a great evening.

The next evening, and our last together as the Seven, was Dad's 60th birthday. Arzoo's family (ever-generous) treated us to a fine dinner at a nice hotel, which was then topped off by karaoke where even Dad participated with his own rendition of "My Way" by Sinatra.

Sadly we all had to part ways the next day after a week that just flew by too quickly. But we were so glad to have had the opportunity to be together.

Cooling off in the Highlands

Realized we've hardly posted since coming to Malaysia. Well, the big draw was Thaipusam, a Hindu festival that we rushed down to Kuala Lumpur (KL) for. I can't say too much about this for the time being: first because we're still digesting the entire experience; second because we still have a lot of background research to do; and third because that will likely be the subject for the third Sun article. Here's a pic, though.

After this experience-that-we-can't-talk-about-yet, we fled to Tanah Rata in the Cameron Highlands, a Banff-like little town in the hills where temperatures hover around a positively orgasmic 20'C, and taking a shower isn't this hopelessly futile errand, since I instantly burst into sweat as soon as I step out of the stall. A one-street town, the kind we love: no foreign subway or evil taxi-ripoffs to worry about.

The thing to do here is go for treks/walks into the lush surrounds. The local folklore, however, includes a fellow named Jim Thompson who, after introducing the world to the beauty of Thai silk, decided to go for a stroll in the Highlands and promptly vanished. Not wanting to enjoy the same fate, and being inexcusably lazy, we did none of this, and instead spent four days gorging ourselves on "steamboats". You've probably had this under a different name before. The largish Chinese community here seems to have made this the thing to do in town. You pay per person, and they bring out a huge pile of vegetables and raw meats, and a big pot of soup on a gas burner. As the soup roils away, you cook your meat in it; afterwards and during you can drink the soupy goodness and fish for those random food particles you lost during the cooking process. They do it with flare here: our first burner burst into flames and they had to give us a new one.

We did manage to go out to the tea plantations for which the area is known, from back when the British were kicking around. They still produce some pretty good tea, as Nazma the tea junkie will attest to. We're so high up that the tops of the beautiful green hills are shrouded in cloud and mist all day long.

This being a Muslim country, it's a bit hard to get good bacon these days, though there's no shortage of attempts to provide. Here's the latest: beef bacon, a greasy stringy pseudojerky mess.

G.I. Jane

While Nazma and I work really well together, almost four months of constant togetherness can take its toll. We, of course, have diverging interests: Nazma seems to like painting her toenails every so often, and I hate feet. So when I found a one-day tour unlike any of the hundreds of cookie-cutter "treks" in Chiang Mai, the lightbulbs went off over both our heads. She could have her salon and shopping day, while I traipsed around the wilderness doing manly things.

The grand-day-out was a Thai-army "survival course" which had just started up a few weeks before. The upshot of this is by the time you read this, my ugly mug will likely be plastered all over the freshly printed brochures. The tour was run by Jane, the brutally honest lady whose internet cafe we would always end up at. "Brutally honest" as demonstrated one time I was there, when she tried to sell the tour to these two Brits. When they declined and left, she told me, without a hint of cattiness, "Probably because one of them is too fat". Sure thing, Jane.

Jane's brothers are in the Thai army, and to supplement their income apparently they have some kind of arrangement to let yokels like me into their jungle training compound on the weekends to do a bit of a hike and some other sanitised (i.e. less psychologically debilitating) but still interesting activities.

So five others and myself were whisked off in the back of a pickup early in the morning to the compound. First off we were shown snakes, and how to handle them. Things didn't bode well when the first snake they pulled out of the bag bit the handler dude, but he seemed to take it pretty well. If it's got its fangs in you, the trick apparently is not to move suddenly, and he won't venom you. Thanks for the advice. The two girls in our troupe were already pretty squeamish, and took this opportunity to hide behind the truck.

Language barriers being what they are, I couldn't identify for you which snakes we saw. We got to hold pythons, though, and he pulled a cobra out of a rice-sack and showed us how to suppress it. Then I had to pee and while I was gone they pulled out one that was even worse than the cobra; not even the handlers went near it. Pics were taken but the photos are somewhere in the Pacific right now, en route by slow boat back to Vancouver along with all the booty we picked up in Bangkok/Chiang Mai.

Next they showed us some useful jungle plants. Lemongrass apparently repels mosquitoes. Another one, when chewed, tasted like lemon but apparently stops thirst. One was some kind of iodine plant for cuts. There were a few different kinds that were for "man power", if you know what I mean. The Thais seem to be obsessed with this. "Well, I won't be needing that, haha", we all said to each other, manly men that we were.

Then they set up some fruit on stands and we had a little crossbow tutorial and tournie. This is tougher than it looks, and the equipment was pretty shoddy (yeah, that's it). I hit an apple on my second practice shot (the only one to do so) but when it came time for the actual contest I went 0 for 5. Mind you, I watched the army guys go afterwards and they weren't much better, so that's why I can blame the equipment.

We set off on our little hike, up for about an hour to the top of the waterfall. The plan was to do a 3-stage abseil down, with the last stage in the waterfall. My harness looked like something had been at the loop where the main-line/belay device attaches. When I pointed this out, Jane gave me another one, but took the gnawed one herself. "I'm lighter. No problem." Sure thing, Jane.

On the first stage, down a little crevasse in the rock, I got a taste of the iodine plant firsthand when I cut a knuckle on the rock face. They found a nearby bush, crushed up some leaves, and rubbed it into the wound.

Second stage was a bit freakier but still dry, at least. This was on a sheer face down the side of the waterfall, and the splash pool below looked pretty tiny. Still, no problem, and I arrived at a little lip right beside the rushing water. I was third up and watched everyone before me go, but when I traversed into the water, I completely blacked out.

I've never liked water, but I'd never known what a phobia was like until now. I started hyperventilating and while my conscious brain remembers everything, this primitive hindbrain reflex kicked in and all I wanted to do was get out as soon as possible. I scrambled back to the lip, but as soon as I was out I'd already forgotten why I was so afraid. Honest Jane was very sympathetic - "No problem, maybe you try again, but don't worry." I stood by while everyone cycled through and went, but I was totally lucid: part of my mind was thinking about how I'd explain a failure on the blog. I was determined to try again.

Second time around I think I lasted longer in the water, but I wasn't moving. My mind was screaming you can't breathe, and I just stood there in the waterfall, gulping air and mountain stream, while Jane screamed for me to come back to the ledge. In the end, the height wasn't the problem: it was this uncontrollable fear of drowning. They pulled my sodden, quivering wreck of a body out of the water and I slumped down the side, around the waterfall through the forest and down to where everyone was already waiting. One of the girls handed me a shot of something and commiserated. It turned out to be sangsom (Thai whisky); a few refills later, I'd calmed down pretty well, and the abseil became a very abstract memory.

One of the army guys had been doing the entire trek in his flip-flops, including abseils. He did the waterfall portion backwards (face down). Nice. By now, all the army guys were down and were prepping lunch. Here they showed us all the techniques they'd had to come up with to cook food in the jungle. They had hollow bamboo segments filled with soup and rice, double-boiler plastic bags full of sticky rice hanging from a bamboo tripod over the fire, and chicken/beef/pork sides roasting. Then they dug up the fire and underneath they'd buried bundles of rice, steaming in underwear, wrapped in banana leaves. Whatever it takes, I guess, but let me tell you, that, washed down with water and sangsom, was the best lunch I'd had in a long time.

Afterwards we hiked back down to the truck for the short drive to our last stop, a 35ft-high tower and zipline where they do basic parachute training for the troops. After the water, this was nothing; we strapped on our helmets and harnesses and I was the first one up.

Bravado aside, there's still a quiver that runs through you when you're tramping up the stairs. Two guys strap you onto the zipline, and there's probably only a 2-3 meter drop before the harness takes you. Still, the ground is pretty far away, and it is Thailand, even if they have insurance. Feet placed here, stare straight ahead, no clutching onto the side of the tower (I imagine all kinds of fingernail marks there but I was a bit busy to check). On the count of three, you're supposed to jump well clear of the tower on your own, but I could swear I felt a knee in my back at two-and-a-half. Out I went and the world spun out of control until the harness went yank. Then I was rushing down the zipline toward the far end, where another line clotheslines your harness and you swing up 90degrees before swinging to a halt. This was by far the worst part: that final downswing + harness + manly loins = crushed boys.

The stepladders were brought out, someone grabbed my leg, and I was unhooked and sent on my way. It was so good they let me go twice. Jane felt badly about the abseil, and I had something to prove. The second time was just as much fun, if a bit scarier, only because I was dreading that downswing at the end.

Part of the deal is you get awarded "wings" by a 5-star general once you've made your jump. As deplorably cheesy as this sounds, after the day we'd had, damned right we'd better get our wings. There was a palpable sense of accomplishment and we were all pretty pensive on the drive back into town, the wind rushing and the sun setting in the nearby mountains.

Nazma, toenails still drying, was there at the guesthouse to greet me as I returned, flushed with triumph, completely unaware of my manky jungle-stained clothes and parachute-helmet-hair. Clutching my wings and bundle of lemongrass, for a long time afterward I couldn't stop grinning, like a little boy who'd just done something really cool.

Bummed: beach- and otherwise

We had heard good things about Ko Lanta, and headed out by ferry to the island after two days in Ao Nang. This involved sitting on the deck of the boat for 2 hours, at the end of which I emerged, lobster-like, into the din of taxi touts. We arrived at our first place, a pretty upscale place (by backpacker standards) right on the beach. The place had been rebuilt following the tsunami last year (out of pocket: they apparently saw no money from the aid) and only reopened three months ago. We got a nice bungalow amidst the palms.

I attempted snorkelling, but my ridiculous glasses proved too big for the mask, so on top of my morbid inability to swim, I was blind too. I saw several dark forms moving through the water that Nazma later explained were fish; I have to take her assessment on faith. Apparently there were topless girls about, which I also missed. Nazma was very happy to tell me all this, in the safety of my blindness. Utterly dejected, I spent the next two days reading on the beach while Nazma splashed around. And in case you were wondering, no more topless girls availed themselves once my sight was restored: a final cosmic kick-in-the-crotch.

In our walks along the beach we discovered what the travel agents in Ao Nang had failed to mention: all the places were beachfront. We found a place that cost a third what we were paying, and had more character, and so we moved there for the rest of our stay. This place had been similarly rebuilt following the tsunami, and was staffed by some cool tattooed dudes who liberally exercised their dj booth nightly. We also had our choice of hammocks. Here's the one on our porch.

And here's the other one, by the beach. I spent an obscene amount of time here.

(The photo at the top was a fire-dancer we chanced upon one night on the beach. If buskers in Vancouver put in this much effort, I'd empty my wallet (er, paper/money-clip) every time I saw one.)

Escape from the Germans

We decided to forego the long train/bus journey from Chiang Mai to Phuket and just flew for cheap. Arrived at night and immediately was not impressed. While the rebuilding efforts of locals, international aid, backpacker et al. were laudable, Phuket was such a trap that we were glad we only had the two nights. Old and morbidly obese bikinied tourists, who were inexplicably uniformly German. Every fibre of our beings compelled us to flee.

Let us speak no more of Phuket. Skip ahead a couple of days: we arrived in Ao Nang, a little beach town north of Krabi. What Germany is to Phuket, for whatever reason, Sweden is to Ao Nang. All the menus were in Swedish, and we could even have had a decent approximation of Danish food, apparently, at any number of restaurants. The town has a nice boardwalky, schlocky, pirated-CD feel to it, if you like that sort of thing. Nice public beach, loads of knockoff North Face gear, and endless boat and taxi touts. But nice sunsets.

Oh, and random false teeth. I must say, I really like this photo: I think it captures this ineffable feeling of sadness and loss. Somewhere out there, a poor toothless Scandinavian granny gently weeps.