Holiday Time: Part II

We roll into Sandakan and take an overpriced taxi ride (mind you, in Asia, overpriced is still quite reasonable) from the on-the-outskirts bus station to our hostel. Our hostel is run by a surly and efficient Mr. Lum, who informs us in short and informative sentences about the innumerable services available at the Mayfair (including an expansive movie collection, with films filed into categories such as "Schwarzenegger Movies"). The hotel is painted with an industrial blue that makes medical wards look cozy. EVERYTHING in the rooms are branded with the "Mayfair" label, so that if we were to steal the yellowing lamp shades, the local citizens would be sure to spot our crime. Signs with reminders to the patrons line the walls. Special mention goes to: "Children must not wet the bed. Thank you." The sign, of course, illustrates its command by depicting a babe with a wet pool round his bottom and a large "X" nearby and, alternatively, approving the dry, soundly sleeping babe. Other signs indicated "forbidden fruits" in the hotel, such as Durian of course (refer back to an earlier blog to understand the reason for such fruit legislation).

It is here at the Mayfair that I have a Christmas Skype with my family. Dave and Courtney are home from B.C. and from a visit with Courtney's family and friends. Dara and Choo Yeung are home from Toronto and Choo Yeung's family Christmas. All family members gather in the camera's line of vision, taking turns in the prominent seat. I watch them open their presents sent from Vietnam, and am able to explain their significance. Dave suggests that we take a family photo, so Choo Yeung sets up his camera on timer and they all gather around the screen. The final product has my head filling the entire oversized computer screen, making me appear quite like a bodiless bobble head in comparison to the normal proportions of my family.

It is after this conversation, that I realize that I miss home. Up until this point, I haven't had any significant pangs for Canada--perhaps the business of life in Saigon prevents having time for those feelings. Accompanying this sense of "missing" Canada is a "missing" of Saigon. Indeed, the city has become a home to me now.

While in Sandakan, we take local bus number 14 to the Sepilok Orangutan Rehabilitation Center. To quote from an entirely credible source, the center's visitor's pamphlet: the center aims to "return orphaned, injured, or displaced orangutans back to the wild." Orangutans have become endangered as their natural habitats have been replaced by Palm Oil plantations. Many plantation owners take Orangutans as pets, and so one of the primary sources of the centers in-take are these plantations. As a visitor we witness part of the process of rehabilitation by visiting the feeding platform, where the natural diet of the orangutan is supplemented with milk and fruit. Both human caregivers and the other orangutans help teach new arrivals how to nest and other survival skills they lack.

Watching the orangutans confirms their 96% genetic similarity to human beings. One large fellow stands upright on the platform doing some GQ poses for the audience. Another gets a little aggressive when it comes to others crowding his banana stash. One playfully aggravates his friends. I could have stayed watching this scene indefinitely, but the orangutans eventually exhaust their food supply and take off into the jungle. A walk about allows me to catch sight of a few tucked in the top of trees or swinging about.

Back in Sandakan we make a discovery of great importance: our favourite seaside restaurant sells blended banana, ice, and oreo shakes. This is, of course, a blessing for my mouth and a curse to my diet. I have a dream that night about fried squid and oreo shakes. It has become an obsession. It is also here in Sandakan that our love of roti grows into an obsession. With stops for the delicious Indian style flatbread and curry sauce becoming a staple of both our mornings and evenings.

From Sandakan we take a 5 hour bus down to Semporna, a small town on the lower east coast of Sabah. The bus ride is blissfully Cyclops-free. I passed much of my time watching a family of 8 sharing four seats. The kids patiently stood or squatted in the small space by the more grown ones feet. The baby was passed from sibling to sibling and back to mother. Later in the trip, I will make a harsh comparison between the patience of these children the manic-ness of the two American children on our 45 min. flight to Kota Kinabalu. The bus meanders along and makes stops at seemingly random spots in the jungle to crowd on more people. The bus is, however, fairly luxurious, with air-con and no pervasive bathroom smell. We wind through palm oil plantation ofter palm oil plantation, confirming what we had heard at Sepilok. Upon reaching Semporna we file of the bus, collect our bags and ask a young local how to get to our Scuba shop. The boy points us in a straight direction, so we begin our wander. Not 2 min. into our walk, the young man shows up and walks us the rest of the way--right to our hostel door. We check in and arrange our dives through Rob, a man in his early thirties perfectly fitting the Scuba the dive master profile, looking much like a tiered and possible hung over surfer. Shoulder length, tussled blond hair. No shoes. Topless. Surf shorts. We soon learn than this is a sort of uniform for the dive masters at Scuba Junkie. Tattoos also seemed common.

We take some time to explore Semporna. We wander into the market area, which is a community built on stilts over the water. The place is filthy, with sanitation comparable to Kibera. Two little boys kneel on the wooded walkway, shooting at rats with slingshots. Migrant peoples bob in their boats--families of five in just one small vessel. I consequently dive into interviews to the Scuba Junkie staff about the living conditions in Semporna and take on some internet research. According to my findings, there are no known NGOs servicing the community (besides with environmental initiatives). Often areas that have a flow of tourism (as Semporna does for its proximity to the famous Sipidan dive location) are idea for the development of development projects, because there is increased cash flow and outside awareness. I was struck by the absolute irony of the fact that thousands of divers file through Semporna en route to the pristine waters of Sipidan, but likely don't often see the local inlet of water, the banks of which are riddled with garbage and human waste.

The next day we catch an early boat to Sipuan Island where we will do our introductory dive "course." I use the word "course" lightly, because it was more of a whirlwind intro to the art of staying alive underwater. It is great, for Adam has us into the water and diving around the coral in just a few short minutes. The boys in the open water course are struggling, so we take their most advanced member to join our dives. Rory, our second dive master, nearly kills me as he picks our place of decent to be directly above a field of sea urchins (picture me slowly sinking to look down at looming black spikes only inches from my feet, only to add enough air back into my BCD with just enough time to save my life.. haha). On this dive, we see both stingrays and turtles, both of massive size. I am hit with the surrealism of breathing underwater as turtles swim inches from me.

The island is nicknamed "Sunburn Island," so as others turn to lobsters, I bathe in sunscreen.

The island is inhabited by Filipino people who were once "sea gypsies", who illegally squat on the land. The Malaysian government ignores their presence, but they are left entirely to fend for themselves in the often harsh climate and conditions of the island and sea. The politically incorrect term, "sea gypsies," is used quite liberally by the residents. Although the term may sound romantic in its ability to conjure up images of a nomadic people with the tropical ocean as their home, there is certainly very little romantic about the poverty-stricken state of these peoples. The children warmly greet us and bring us coconuts, while the men stare. The marine police, stationed on every island in an attempt to prevent the proliferation of sea piracy, ask to take their pictures with us.

The following day we take a boat to Mabul, another island in the area. The dive company has a simple, but beautiful, lodge there in which we will spend the night. We pester Rory and Sero with questions about the ocean and various fish we discover while snorkeling. We lay in our hammocks and read. We swim in the blue water by the jetties. We wander the island, watching the local children fly their stunning handcrafted kites, made of salvaged metal and old plastic bags. On the other side of the island, I walk by a group of kids whose ancient radio plays some tunes. I do a little dance, and before I know it, I am circled by a hoard of children who are clapping, laughing, and cheering me on. Old woman gather on the periphery, watching from a distance with small smiles on their faces. Due to our initiation of the dance party, we get warm welcomes throughout the rest of the village. We meet a fun collection of people (a school teacher from Britain, a business man from Germany, and a ultra-sound tech from Canada) who we spend our evenings with.

We spend New Year's Eve waiting for our delayed flight out of Tawau back to Kota Kinabalu. I slump in a chair to sleep and make some failed attempts at calling home from an airport pay phone. I read my book out loud to Cheratien, while curious children eavesdrop. We arrive in Kota Kinabalu just in time to see some fireworks from out cab, check-in to our hostel, and fall asleep. Exhausted. Our final day partial day in Borneo we spend stalking up on particular drug store supplies (ex. tea tree oil, non-whitening lotion, and vitamins) that are hard to come by in HCMC. In partial jest and partial seriousness I purchase a crystal salt deodorant called "Smelly-no-more." I have been since using this magic little stick and loving it!

Our flight lands us in KL for an evening spent sleeping on airport benches, which are surprisingly suitable for a semi-successful night of slumber. I wake up at about three and snack on the roti I had stashed in my carry-on.

From KL, we arrive back into HCMC and take the now familiar ride back to District 7. The house is a disaster zone, and I spend the day doing laundry and cleaning up dust and gecko poo. A perfect end to an adventurous holiday.

*****

Since returning from holiday, I have successfully and without too much pain, integrated back into working life. My students were thrilled to be back at school (they ACTUALLY were). They constantly amaze me with their zest and creativity. We had a wonderful discussion the other day. One person every three days dies in Vietnam due to domestic violence. Three out of five women report abuse. The Vietnamese government, for the first time, has instituted laws that provide fines for domestic abuse. People are, however, worried that these laws will have little impact on the situation. My students discussed why this might be. They compared Korean culture to Vietnamese culture with respect to the treatment of women. They brainstormed ways that these laws could be more effective (coming up with such statements, as: "If our whole culture says that women are to obey men, women are not going to step forward and people are going to continue to ignore this violence. Women need to know that there is somewhere that they can go. Support for them from the people. Otherwise, she will just make the problem worse for herself and have no way to actually escape the violence." Sometimes these kids make me so proud.

Interesting bits and pieces:

I am on the new facilities committee, which means I am playing a role in choosing items for the new school and providing consultation for the owners. Our building will hopefully be completed by August. Hopefully.

I had a fairly reasonable conversation with my xe om driver entirely in Vietnamese this week. Very exciting.

I went swing dancing on Wednesday at this little French cafe downtown. They run free lessons from 8-9, and then run dancing well into the night.

I am leading a community involvement club at the school. The kids are going to be going to Ben Tre with us this coming weekend and working with the students there, visiting some of their homes and seeing their living conditions. The students are so excited and have already come up with an initiative for how they are going to raise money to assist the students there. They are in a flurry of activity: preparing, writing letters to parents, visiting classrooms, etc.

We went with the ladies to the Hard Rock Cafe last weekend. Playing there was the first an American rock band named "American Hitmen." Apparently they had to be approved by the Ministry of Culture, who sat cross-armed and straight faced while the band sang about having killed people and being willing to do it again. I think that the Vietnamese contingent didn't have a literal translation of the lyrics or they may not have approved the group. However, they loved them and gave them the go ahead (perhaps over-looking the fact that they are all also U.S. Marines).

Jennifer, our friend who works at the American Consulate, but plans on leaving the job at the end of the year to pursue some of her other interests, is trying to get experience with film and so brought along a hand cam. I surreptitiously arranged for her to rock some tambourine with the band, while I filmed. By the end of the evening we had about seven or eight random ladies from the crown joining us for dance parties on the stage. Strategically navigating around the band members as they played. Thankfully, we had befriended the security guard, so instead of blatantly kicking us off the stage, gave us weak and fearful smiles.

We also held a very candid interview with a Malaysian man at the restaurant, inquiring about the seemingly odd practices of some Asian women (skin whitening and nipple pinkening).

We hit up the Hard Rock again last night with all the ladies from C.I.S. I know. I know. Going to a cheesy themed restaurant two weeks in a row...not quite my style, but a whole lot of fun.

I was happy to sit at a table under an Allman Brothers' Band guitar!

Thanks to all who sent packages, cards, and letters my way. I definitely reverted back to "kid on Christmas morning" mentality upon their arrival.

To all friends and family. I love and miss you deeply. Thanks for taking interest in my going-ons!

Love,
K