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
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Sunday, January 3, 2010
PART 1: HOLIDAY TIME
This blog may be weighty, like a good meal of zesty carbohydrates that is delicious at first, but gut rotting and excess by its mid-way point. Feel free to drop out at any point along the way. I have decided to format this entry in a "live time" narrative approach, just for something new.
Dec. 12
Cheratien and I are up early to catch the bus which will take us to Trinh's parents home. Today, we will be a part of a Vietnamese wedding. With ao dai's in tow, we make a 6 hour journey into the countryside. With only pork fat sandwiches as sustenance (generously provided by the groom's parents) we arrive a bit peckish. We change into our ao dai's on the bus and hightail it in front of the other relatives, so that we can be the first to arrive. It is our responsibility as "bridesmaids" to receive the gifts which the groom's family will bring for the bridges family. After wandering down a small path in the forest for about 20 min, led by Trinh's small cousin on his oversized bicycle, we arrive and line the sides of the drive to the house. The groom's family arrives and hands us over large trays filled with fruits and other offerings. I received the heaviest, but was able to retain a graceful gait for its delivery to the family alter. From there, are job was done and we were able to simply watch the ceremony. Tea. Prayers. The lighting of the candles (couples hope that the flames of both are of equal strength, as that will symbolize at equity in the power dynamics of the relationship). The groom's parents giving the bride jewellery. And so on. Humourously, many of those who came the great distance for the wedding, sit back in the tent drinking beer and eating peanuts. We have a delicious meal, at which numerous family members take turns scooping choice meats into our bowls... a sign of friendship and respect.
One of Trinh's small cousins takes a liking to me, and more particularly to my casualness with my camera. He becomes my resident photographer, documenting the day and forcing together odd partnerships for photo opportunities. He speaks to be quickly and often in Vietnamese, in spite of his knowledge that my Vietnamese is limited. Once again, my belief that children are some of the most innocently generous hosts is reaffirmed. We babble at each other in our respective languages and communicate quite well. Upon seeing us to the bus, he gets a light-bulb flash of inspiration and hopes on his over-sized bike once more, to race back home. He returns sweating, a few moments later, with a gift for me. One of the wedding balloons... a dilapidated pink heart. Thankfully, Cheratien has a Canadian pin on hand, and so leans out of the bus window to pin it on his lapel. He beams. Another great moment of the day was being offered a husband by a Vietnamese woman who decided I should be her daughter in law. She literally went and collected her son and brought his forward. An awkward few moments of stilted conversation ensued, before she let him recoil in embarrassment.
Dec. 13
We are to meet Trinh and Trang at the "Beauty Saloon"... yes, two "Os:...at 11 to get our hair and make-up done for the reception, which would take place at noon at a restaurant in town. We arrive and are promptly seated and attacked by brushes, hair-spray, and sponges. My eyes are closed in preservation, but I can feel my eyebrows growing. I open my eyes to note that large caterpillars have taken residence on my brows. It takes a bit to convince my make-up artist that they should be tamed down--that they are big enough as it is. Because of my persistence in this matter, I let it slide when she brought out the purple, sparkly eye shadow. As mom always says, choose your battles. I, however, felt quite fortunate when I swivelled my chair to check out Cheratien's make-up and coif. Mouse and a curling iron had transformed her hair into a pageant-participant's style. Her eyelids were vibrantly adorned with blue, glitter, and her lips a bright coral pink. Beauuuuutiful. Her boyfriend would later compare her visage to that of the Joker. Trinh rolled in at quarter to twelve. With only fifteen official minutes to get her ready, she had a team of about eight working on her at all times. With no question as to her desire, one woman pinned her hair into two side buns and spray painted them a fuchsia pink. In went some orchids and baby's breath, seemingly materialized out of thin air. Another woman lathered whitening lotion on to Trinh's arms. Another went to town on her face. We rushed to the back room, and there stands a suitcase. When opened up, we see that it contains Trinh's three wedding dresses. She chooses one, yanks it out of the suitcase and puts it on, while another helper runs next door to try to find a crinoline. In a few second we are being ushered out the door and into a taxi on our way to the restaurant. We arrive to see our images broadcast onto television screens scattered throughout the restaurant. We take the elevator up to the main room, where our little photographer eagerly awaits our arrival. The bride enters moments later with the groom and the parents, with the back-track of what can only be described as eerily similar to "The Final Countdown" (think Job's theme song in Arrested Development). The strobe light is pumping. The smoke is flowing. All important parties say a speech, and the couple cuts the cake. They also pour pink campaign over a pyramid of campaign glasses, cleverly stocked with dry ice to produce billowing smoke. The singing begins and a middle aged Vietnamese woman gets up to crock Jingle Bells out. The music is so loud that no conversation can take place. Following the litany of legitimate performers comes karaoke time, which was mostly monopolized by staff of the Canadian International School. Although I was not foolish enough to sing, Trinh dragged me on stage a few times to dance. Overall, this two-day wedding affair was a blast to be a part of. Culturally, highly informative.
Dec. 15
As I stand in the Activity Room, a small carpeted area which houses nearly 55 pre-pubescent and pubescent youngsters practicing for "The BEST Christmas Concert Ever" in the stanky heat of the Ho Chi Minh City afternoon, my principal, Bonnie, sticks her head in a calls me yonder to the door. Typically a sign that something of secret confidence needs to be shared. I keep a half-watchful eye on the tiered students dragging through the last refrains of "IT'S HOLIDAY TIME!" Ji Hun is pretending to me a Christmas ninja and punctuating the rhythm of the song with karate chops to the air. Man sleeps with his head doing the infamous drop and pop manoeuvre; as he falls into sleep he lets his head drop down, only to snap it back up in recovery.
Sung Woo is using his music sheets as a make-shift torture device. Appreciating my students’ fatigue, I turn to Bonnie to be informed that because of an important soccer game that will take place on Thursday (the scheduled date of our performance), the owners have decided to reschedule the concert to tomorrow night. Still without a stage and tent, a dress rehearsal, several major props and costumes, and so on, this seemed like an impossible and ill conceived proposition. The students, upon hearing the news, go into hysterics for several key players would be able to attend the rescheduled date. With all these confirmations of the horrific nature of this plan, we swing into action to convince the owners that we should proceed with the concert as planned, and ask parents to attend in spite of the "Big Game." We reached a compromise. The concert will go ahead on Thursday, but the game will be played on big screens before the show begins, and an update of the score provided mid-way through. Reasonable. In the end, the students think that the teachers have pulled a massive practical joke on them to spook them into taking practice more seriously. We did not correct their misinterpretation.
Dec. 18
After two months of shenanigans, it is performance day. During the day, students run gleefully about the halls in their costumes. Alice asks me if she can wear her elf costume all day. By noon, the kids have shed their costumes in favour of regulating their body temperatures. One kindergartener is caught, during dress rehearsal, pulling off his cotton tail, eating bits of it, and sticking the rest into his nose and ears.
Perhaps all the headaches paid off when I get to see 190 of our students dressed in a variety of costumes (from dogs and ducks to elves and ghosts) singing their hearts out on stage. The parents were worse than paparazzi, ploughing through real and invisible boundaries in order to capture their kid-letts in action. In the end, Cheratien, Kay, and I receive big bouquets of flowers for our work and kid speeches from several students. One student states with confidence that we were "the absolute BEST music and drama teachers in the school." Sure, the only, but also the best. I was very proud of my students and their grand accomplishment to sing and act from memory, in their second or third language. You can see facebook for some blurry and inattentively taken photographs of the event.
The staff gathers afterwards to have some drinks. We toast to this odd accomplishment and to optimism and co-operation in the new year.
Dec. 19
Riding the let-down from the concert, the Intermediate teachers hold a pancake breakfast and movie time for the students. We made pancakes served up with genuine Canadian maple syrup and watched Elf.
By 4:30 Cheratien and I are on a flight to KL, Malaysia. On this flight I solidify something I have abashedly had fleeting recognition of previously, I like airplane food. Yeppers. It's true. Our flight to Kota Kinabalu is delayed several hours, so we spend much of the time chatting with Mohammad over cups of white coffee. He manages this store and passes his days meeting interesting travellers.
December 20th and BEYOND
Upon arriving in KK, we learn that 126 bags had been left in KL because the plane was too heavy to fly. Our bags were among these. We arrived at our hostel at 2:30 a.m., slept, and then waited for our promised luggage to arrive. We explored the city, marvelling at the vast varieties offered in the drug stores. Zai, the hostel attendant, meets up with us to go about town. In the evening, her husband picks us up and we all go to a local beach outside of town. We eat steamed peanuts and corn on the cob, and drink young coconuts. We see some local musicians and dancers performers as we sit on the beach chatting. Zai and her husband are eager to continue the night, so we go to a local street cafe/bar in the centre of town. They are having a street party in opposition to the development of coal plants proliferating in Sabah. We eagerly join in with the crowd, starting a dance party to the tunes of the live music.
It was here that we met Chantal, a fellow Canadian, who insisted that she was drawn to us because we spoke her dancing language. She accompanies us as we explore the Sunday market which bustled just outside the front door of our hostel. We head from there to catch a boat to the islands of Abdul Rahmin National Park--a collection no islands just off the coast of KK known for their snorkelling and trekking. We rent a tent and head to Mamutik first. After trekking around the island, a local diver, Billy, takes us under his wing and shows us the best snorkelling spots. It was beautiful and vibrant. Although the group of rag-tag divers tried to convince us to stay, we head to Sapi for our night adventure. We arrive just as the island is shutting down for the day-4 p.m. I am able to convince the owner of the small food stall to cook us a small meal, even though they are officially closed. He, like the park ranger, takes moment to warn us about the wild boars, which WILL attack our tent should we leave food inside. After receiving this warning three times, we decide to tie our goods into a tree. We set up our tent right on the beach, after much carefully deliberation and head out to trek around the island for sunset. The trails entirely to ourselves, we wander through the jungle terrain and find an ideal spot to watch the sun drop. On our way back to camp, we realized our situations had the makings of a great horror movie plot. Three girls. alone on an island. The night is getting dark. They are lost in the jungle wilderness. Warnings of wild boards. There may be some money in this. We made it back to camp after some wanderings and went for a night swim. The island, stars, and water to ourselves. After our swim was sat on the jetty and watched fish and sea creature for nearly an hour. I read the girls some pages from my book, Catfish and Mandala. Early to bed with little else to do.
This was not the best sleep of my life, although I don't mind waking up to an immediate view of stars, mountains, sand, and water. I wake in the middle of the night fairly certain that I see a wild boar cross in front of the tent, but in the morning, upon track analysis, we determine that it was likely just a cat. What a letdown. I want a wild boar story. At least some chewed shorts, tracks, or a slight glimpse.
We spend the morning snorkelling, despite the prickling sensation all through my body. It was jelly-fish season--as the signs warned us.
People began arriving around 11:30, impeding on our tropical paradise. Snorkelling in PFD dominated the area, standing--irresponsibly--on the coral when they got weary (Coral dies when it is touched!). We busted out of there before our sweet memories of the place were corrupted. We spent the next days with horrifically sunburnt bums, for although we wore sunscreen our exposed rear-ends, so white from constant coverage, took a hit.
After returning to town, we eat a delicious dinner of nasi goreng (fried rice) at the evening market.
The following day, we are picked up by Romeo and Canon, our white-water rafting guides. We collect several people about the town and head for out 3 hours drive to the Padas River. The drive is beautiful, winding through the mountains. We stop at a roadside dinner which clings to the side of a hill, overlooking valleys and mountains. We enjoy tea tariks in the cooler climate. We take trolleys to the starting point.... small flat wood rectangles (with enough room for three) which careened along the rail-lines, propelled and controlled by men with long sticks. Pushing us forward with the stick to the ground, breaking by placing the stick in front of the wheel. The 45 min ride takes us beside the river, through the Borneo jungle. Stunning. The river contains level three and four rapids, which our guides take us through in a myriad of dangerous fashions. "Flying Without Wings" has to be one of my favourite of the guides attempts to capsize us. Canon loads us all into the back compartment and heads us straight into the rapids, so that the front of our boat juts 45 degrees into the air, while the back weighs heavily in the water. We bounce around uncontrollably, but fail to capsize. They ensure that this occurs, though. We are tossed from the boat. I am momentarily trapped underneath the boat, free myself, and consequently body surf through boisterous rapids. The videographer, who shared out boat, drifts gracefully in front of me, filming me flounder and flop so ungracefully. On the more peaceful sections of river, Canon asks us to sing to him. We rock out to some Christmas tunes and Bon Jovi.
That evening Canon and Spider (another guide... neither of whom go by their given names, clearly) take us to Karaoke. We butcher "All that she wants is another baby" and a variety of other cliche sing-a-longs, but nail "Santa Clause is Coming to Town."
The next day, we are in a mini-bus winding through the mountains toward Mt. Kinabalu National Park. Tomorrow, we are climbing the mountain, which is a two day venture. The driver lets us out at the park entrance in the afternoon drizzle. We check-in to our hostel, which is luxurious by our hostel standards and find our way to the main building, which contains a small restaurant and sitting room with a roaring fire. Two girls are sitting next to us. My suspicion that they are Canadian is confirmed by their Mountain Equipment Co-op backpacks and Lulu Lemon pants. I yell "CANADA" at them as they are leaving, and they join us for tea and conversation. They are backpacking SEA, and will be trekking the mountain on the same day as us (we are four of 75).
That evening as Cheratien and I are in our hostel room, the girls enter and we realize we are sharing our four person room. We grab books, head to the fire, and enjoy this "Christmas" time facsimile. A group of Malaysian men and women (staff workers at the park) come out decked in Santa hats and sing Christmas carols in four part harmony. Their traditional attire and heavy accents make it an endearing, but slightly humourous scene.
We begin our trek at about 8:30 and reach the rest point before noon. Although our guide, when present with us, chides us that we are going to slow, confirms that we did the first day's accent fairly quickly. We, and our new Singaporean friends, are the first to arrive at Laban Rata. We enjoy some tea and the awesome view off the side of the deck. We chat about our respective countries, meet other interesting folks as they arrive, and enjoy a well deserved meal. The first days climb is a strait accent, plagued with tremendous flights of rustically constructed stairs worked into the mountain side. Porters, getting paid 8 RM (3 dollars) per kilo, carry all sorts of goods up-- propane tanks, towels, water bottles, food, etc. One older woman was carrying nearly 30 kilos on a trip she makes almost daily. Unbelievable.
We go to bed just after sunset, and are ready to start trekking again by 2:45 a.m. Nicholas (our guide, who we lovingly termed St. Nic) suggests that, because we are fast, we don't need to start climbing until 3:30. We ignore his advice, and start on our way. This part of the climb is indescribable, but I will attempt to do the impossible. The steps give way to rocky embankments, and it isn't long before we are climbing into the dark sky. I have only once in my life seen starts like I see now. I was in Kenya, sleeping on a night bus, with my head pushed against the window. The bus hit a pot hold and I was shaken away to see a night sky unlike I had ever seen before. It was as if the sun had exploded into tiny pieces and splattered itself over the resulting darkness. As if there were more stars than dark sky. This morning is quite similar. The only difference is that we are continually moving towards them. The temperature was consistently dropping, and I somewhat desired to be able to climb into one of those burning balls of gas to warm up. I was thankful for Kim's warnings and the bundle of warm clothes, mitts, hat, and scarf that I had lugged along.
We are the first to reach the summit, along with Bianca. Bianca had been trekking Tibet previous to coming here, but is a circus trainer by trade when she is back in Australia. Unique character to share the mountain with. Due to our quick ascent, we revel in our arrival and then hunker down in the freezing cold to wait another two hours until the sunrise. Ha. We share a kit kat and tell stories.
The sun rises and sheds astounding light onto the layer of clouds below us. In various directions, between patches of clouds, I can see Sabah spread out below. They say that on a clear day you can see the Philippines. Photos, nor my words, can describe the scene. The descent from the summit provides lots of breathtaking moments, as the sights we had missed in the darkness of our rise, are now clear.
After our trek, we reunited with our fireplace and begin reading once more. Merry Christmas.
The following day, we wait by the gates, in the rain, for a bus to take us to Sandakan. The bus arrives, with the only seats left by the lavatories. We enjoy a 5.5 hour bus ride in the company of the intrusive smell of urine. To further the experience, the in house movie is titled "Cyclops" and revolved around a Cyclops that had invaded Rome. Some stellar lines from the film include: "We shall not kill the beast. We shall take him back to Rome so that all will know that I, Marcus Aurelius have defeated the Cyclops."
With that I shall leave you... I am off to make dinner. Another day, I will continue on with tales from the holidays.
Much love to all,
K
Dec. 12
Cheratien and I are up early to catch the bus which will take us to Trinh's parents home. Today, we will be a part of a Vietnamese wedding. With ao dai's in tow, we make a 6 hour journey into the countryside. With only pork fat sandwiches as sustenance (generously provided by the groom's parents) we arrive a bit peckish. We change into our ao dai's on the bus and hightail it in front of the other relatives, so that we can be the first to arrive. It is our responsibility as "bridesmaids" to receive the gifts which the groom's family will bring for the bridges family. After wandering down a small path in the forest for about 20 min, led by Trinh's small cousin on his oversized bicycle, we arrive and line the sides of the drive to the house. The groom's family arrives and hands us over large trays filled with fruits and other offerings. I received the heaviest, but was able to retain a graceful gait for its delivery to the family alter. From there, are job was done and we were able to simply watch the ceremony. Tea. Prayers. The lighting of the candles (couples hope that the flames of both are of equal strength, as that will symbolize at equity in the power dynamics of the relationship). The groom's parents giving the bride jewellery. And so on. Humourously, many of those who came the great distance for the wedding, sit back in the tent drinking beer and eating peanuts. We have a delicious meal, at which numerous family members take turns scooping choice meats into our bowls... a sign of friendship and respect.
One of Trinh's small cousins takes a liking to me, and more particularly to my casualness with my camera. He becomes my resident photographer, documenting the day and forcing together odd partnerships for photo opportunities. He speaks to be quickly and often in Vietnamese, in spite of his knowledge that my Vietnamese is limited. Once again, my belief that children are some of the most innocently generous hosts is reaffirmed. We babble at each other in our respective languages and communicate quite well. Upon seeing us to the bus, he gets a light-bulb flash of inspiration and hopes on his over-sized bike once more, to race back home. He returns sweating, a few moments later, with a gift for me. One of the wedding balloons... a dilapidated pink heart. Thankfully, Cheratien has a Canadian pin on hand, and so leans out of the bus window to pin it on his lapel. He beams. Another great moment of the day was being offered a husband by a Vietnamese woman who decided I should be her daughter in law. She literally went and collected her son and brought his forward. An awkward few moments of stilted conversation ensued, before she let him recoil in embarrassment.
Dec. 13
We are to meet Trinh and Trang at the "Beauty Saloon"... yes, two "Os:...at 11 to get our hair and make-up done for the reception, which would take place at noon at a restaurant in town. We arrive and are promptly seated and attacked by brushes, hair-spray, and sponges. My eyes are closed in preservation, but I can feel my eyebrows growing. I open my eyes to note that large caterpillars have taken residence on my brows. It takes a bit to convince my make-up artist that they should be tamed down--that they are big enough as it is. Because of my persistence in this matter, I let it slide when she brought out the purple, sparkly eye shadow. As mom always says, choose your battles. I, however, felt quite fortunate when I swivelled my chair to check out Cheratien's make-up and coif. Mouse and a curling iron had transformed her hair into a pageant-participant's style. Her eyelids were vibrantly adorned with blue, glitter, and her lips a bright coral pink. Beauuuuutiful. Her boyfriend would later compare her visage to that of the Joker. Trinh rolled in at quarter to twelve. With only fifteen official minutes to get her ready, she had a team of about eight working on her at all times. With no question as to her desire, one woman pinned her hair into two side buns and spray painted them a fuchsia pink. In went some orchids and baby's breath, seemingly materialized out of thin air. Another woman lathered whitening lotion on to Trinh's arms. Another went to town on her face. We rushed to the back room, and there stands a suitcase. When opened up, we see that it contains Trinh's three wedding dresses. She chooses one, yanks it out of the suitcase and puts it on, while another helper runs next door to try to find a crinoline. In a few second we are being ushered out the door and into a taxi on our way to the restaurant. We arrive to see our images broadcast onto television screens scattered throughout the restaurant. We take the elevator up to the main room, where our little photographer eagerly awaits our arrival. The bride enters moments later with the groom and the parents, with the back-track of what can only be described as eerily similar to "The Final Countdown" (think Job's theme song in Arrested Development). The strobe light is pumping. The smoke is flowing. All important parties say a speech, and the couple cuts the cake. They also pour pink campaign over a pyramid of campaign glasses, cleverly stocked with dry ice to produce billowing smoke. The singing begins and a middle aged Vietnamese woman gets up to crock Jingle Bells out. The music is so loud that no conversation can take place. Following the litany of legitimate performers comes karaoke time, which was mostly monopolized by staff of the Canadian International School. Although I was not foolish enough to sing, Trinh dragged me on stage a few times to dance. Overall, this two-day wedding affair was a blast to be a part of. Culturally, highly informative.
Dec. 15
As I stand in the Activity Room, a small carpeted area which houses nearly 55 pre-pubescent and pubescent youngsters practicing for "The BEST Christmas Concert Ever" in the stanky heat of the Ho Chi Minh City afternoon, my principal, Bonnie, sticks her head in a calls me yonder to the door. Typically a sign that something of secret confidence needs to be shared. I keep a half-watchful eye on the tiered students dragging through the last refrains of "IT'S HOLIDAY TIME!" Ji Hun is pretending to me a Christmas ninja and punctuating the rhythm of the song with karate chops to the air. Man sleeps with his head doing the infamous drop and pop manoeuvre; as he falls into sleep he lets his head drop down, only to snap it back up in recovery.
Sung Woo is using his music sheets as a make-shift torture device. Appreciating my students’ fatigue, I turn to Bonnie to be informed that because of an important soccer game that will take place on Thursday (the scheduled date of our performance), the owners have decided to reschedule the concert to tomorrow night. Still without a stage and tent, a dress rehearsal, several major props and costumes, and so on, this seemed like an impossible and ill conceived proposition. The students, upon hearing the news, go into hysterics for several key players would be able to attend the rescheduled date. With all these confirmations of the horrific nature of this plan, we swing into action to convince the owners that we should proceed with the concert as planned, and ask parents to attend in spite of the "Big Game." We reached a compromise. The concert will go ahead on Thursday, but the game will be played on big screens before the show begins, and an update of the score provided mid-way through. Reasonable. In the end, the students think that the teachers have pulled a massive practical joke on them to spook them into taking practice more seriously. We did not correct their misinterpretation.
Dec. 18
After two months of shenanigans, it is performance day. During the day, students run gleefully about the halls in their costumes. Alice asks me if she can wear her elf costume all day. By noon, the kids have shed their costumes in favour of regulating their body temperatures. One kindergartener is caught, during dress rehearsal, pulling off his cotton tail, eating bits of it, and sticking the rest into his nose and ears.
Perhaps all the headaches paid off when I get to see 190 of our students dressed in a variety of costumes (from dogs and ducks to elves and ghosts) singing their hearts out on stage. The parents were worse than paparazzi, ploughing through real and invisible boundaries in order to capture their kid-letts in action. In the end, Cheratien, Kay, and I receive big bouquets of flowers for our work and kid speeches from several students. One student states with confidence that we were "the absolute BEST music and drama teachers in the school." Sure, the only, but also the best. I was very proud of my students and their grand accomplishment to sing and act from memory, in their second or third language. You can see facebook for some blurry and inattentively taken photographs of the event.
The staff gathers afterwards to have some drinks. We toast to this odd accomplishment and to optimism and co-operation in the new year.
Dec. 19
Riding the let-down from the concert, the Intermediate teachers hold a pancake breakfast and movie time for the students. We made pancakes served up with genuine Canadian maple syrup and watched Elf.
By 4:30 Cheratien and I are on a flight to KL, Malaysia. On this flight I solidify something I have abashedly had fleeting recognition of previously, I like airplane food. Yeppers. It's true. Our flight to Kota Kinabalu is delayed several hours, so we spend much of the time chatting with Mohammad over cups of white coffee. He manages this store and passes his days meeting interesting travellers.
December 20th and BEYOND
Upon arriving in KK, we learn that 126 bags had been left in KL because the plane was too heavy to fly. Our bags were among these. We arrived at our hostel at 2:30 a.m., slept, and then waited for our promised luggage to arrive. We explored the city, marvelling at the vast varieties offered in the drug stores. Zai, the hostel attendant, meets up with us to go about town. In the evening, her husband picks us up and we all go to a local beach outside of town. We eat steamed peanuts and corn on the cob, and drink young coconuts. We see some local musicians and dancers performers as we sit on the beach chatting. Zai and her husband are eager to continue the night, so we go to a local street cafe/bar in the centre of town. They are having a street party in opposition to the development of coal plants proliferating in Sabah. We eagerly join in with the crowd, starting a dance party to the tunes of the live music.
It was here that we met Chantal, a fellow Canadian, who insisted that she was drawn to us because we spoke her dancing language. She accompanies us as we explore the Sunday market which bustled just outside the front door of our hostel. We head from there to catch a boat to the islands of Abdul Rahmin National Park--a collection no islands just off the coast of KK known for their snorkelling and trekking. We rent a tent and head to Mamutik first. After trekking around the island, a local diver, Billy, takes us under his wing and shows us the best snorkelling spots. It was beautiful and vibrant. Although the group of rag-tag divers tried to convince us to stay, we head to Sapi for our night adventure. We arrive just as the island is shutting down for the day-4 p.m. I am able to convince the owner of the small food stall to cook us a small meal, even though they are officially closed. He, like the park ranger, takes moment to warn us about the wild boars, which WILL attack our tent should we leave food inside. After receiving this warning three times, we decide to tie our goods into a tree. We set up our tent right on the beach, after much carefully deliberation and head out to trek around the island for sunset. The trails entirely to ourselves, we wander through the jungle terrain and find an ideal spot to watch the sun drop. On our way back to camp, we realized our situations had the makings of a great horror movie plot. Three girls. alone on an island. The night is getting dark. They are lost in the jungle wilderness. Warnings of wild boards. There may be some money in this. We made it back to camp after some wanderings and went for a night swim. The island, stars, and water to ourselves. After our swim was sat on the jetty and watched fish and sea creature for nearly an hour. I read the girls some pages from my book, Catfish and Mandala. Early to bed with little else to do.
This was not the best sleep of my life, although I don't mind waking up to an immediate view of stars, mountains, sand, and water. I wake in the middle of the night fairly certain that I see a wild boar cross in front of the tent, but in the morning, upon track analysis, we determine that it was likely just a cat. What a letdown. I want a wild boar story. At least some chewed shorts, tracks, or a slight glimpse.
We spend the morning snorkelling, despite the prickling sensation all through my body. It was jelly-fish season--as the signs warned us.
People began arriving around 11:30, impeding on our tropical paradise. Snorkelling in PFD dominated the area, standing--irresponsibly--on the coral when they got weary (Coral dies when it is touched!). We busted out of there before our sweet memories of the place were corrupted. We spent the next days with horrifically sunburnt bums, for although we wore sunscreen our exposed rear-ends, so white from constant coverage, took a hit.
After returning to town, we eat a delicious dinner of nasi goreng (fried rice) at the evening market.
The following day, we are picked up by Romeo and Canon, our white-water rafting guides. We collect several people about the town and head for out 3 hours drive to the Padas River. The drive is beautiful, winding through the mountains. We stop at a roadside dinner which clings to the side of a hill, overlooking valleys and mountains. We enjoy tea tariks in the cooler climate. We take trolleys to the starting point.... small flat wood rectangles (with enough room for three) which careened along the rail-lines, propelled and controlled by men with long sticks. Pushing us forward with the stick to the ground, breaking by placing the stick in front of the wheel. The 45 min ride takes us beside the river, through the Borneo jungle. Stunning. The river contains level three and four rapids, which our guides take us through in a myriad of dangerous fashions. "Flying Without Wings" has to be one of my favourite of the guides attempts to capsize us. Canon loads us all into the back compartment and heads us straight into the rapids, so that the front of our boat juts 45 degrees into the air, while the back weighs heavily in the water. We bounce around uncontrollably, but fail to capsize. They ensure that this occurs, though. We are tossed from the boat. I am momentarily trapped underneath the boat, free myself, and consequently body surf through boisterous rapids. The videographer, who shared out boat, drifts gracefully in front of me, filming me flounder and flop so ungracefully. On the more peaceful sections of river, Canon asks us to sing to him. We rock out to some Christmas tunes and Bon Jovi.
That evening Canon and Spider (another guide... neither of whom go by their given names, clearly) take us to Karaoke. We butcher "All that she wants is another baby" and a variety of other cliche sing-a-longs, but nail "Santa Clause is Coming to Town."
The next day, we are in a mini-bus winding through the mountains toward Mt. Kinabalu National Park. Tomorrow, we are climbing the mountain, which is a two day venture. The driver lets us out at the park entrance in the afternoon drizzle. We check-in to our hostel, which is luxurious by our hostel standards and find our way to the main building, which contains a small restaurant and sitting room with a roaring fire. Two girls are sitting next to us. My suspicion that they are Canadian is confirmed by their Mountain Equipment Co-op backpacks and Lulu Lemon pants. I yell "CANADA" at them as they are leaving, and they join us for tea and conversation. They are backpacking SEA, and will be trekking the mountain on the same day as us (we are four of 75).
That evening as Cheratien and I are in our hostel room, the girls enter and we realize we are sharing our four person room. We grab books, head to the fire, and enjoy this "Christmas" time facsimile. A group of Malaysian men and women (staff workers at the park) come out decked in Santa hats and sing Christmas carols in four part harmony. Their traditional attire and heavy accents make it an endearing, but slightly humourous scene.
We begin our trek at about 8:30 and reach the rest point before noon. Although our guide, when present with us, chides us that we are going to slow, confirms that we did the first day's accent fairly quickly. We, and our new Singaporean friends, are the first to arrive at Laban Rata. We enjoy some tea and the awesome view off the side of the deck. We chat about our respective countries, meet other interesting folks as they arrive, and enjoy a well deserved meal. The first days climb is a strait accent, plagued with tremendous flights of rustically constructed stairs worked into the mountain side. Porters, getting paid 8 RM (3 dollars) per kilo, carry all sorts of goods up-- propane tanks, towels, water bottles, food, etc. One older woman was carrying nearly 30 kilos on a trip she makes almost daily. Unbelievable.
We go to bed just after sunset, and are ready to start trekking again by 2:45 a.m. Nicholas (our guide, who we lovingly termed St. Nic) suggests that, because we are fast, we don't need to start climbing until 3:30. We ignore his advice, and start on our way. This part of the climb is indescribable, but I will attempt to do the impossible. The steps give way to rocky embankments, and it isn't long before we are climbing into the dark sky. I have only once in my life seen starts like I see now. I was in Kenya, sleeping on a night bus, with my head pushed against the window. The bus hit a pot hold and I was shaken away to see a night sky unlike I had ever seen before. It was as if the sun had exploded into tiny pieces and splattered itself over the resulting darkness. As if there were more stars than dark sky. This morning is quite similar. The only difference is that we are continually moving towards them. The temperature was consistently dropping, and I somewhat desired to be able to climb into one of those burning balls of gas to warm up. I was thankful for Kim's warnings and the bundle of warm clothes, mitts, hat, and scarf that I had lugged along.
We are the first to reach the summit, along with Bianca. Bianca had been trekking Tibet previous to coming here, but is a circus trainer by trade when she is back in Australia. Unique character to share the mountain with. Due to our quick ascent, we revel in our arrival and then hunker down in the freezing cold to wait another two hours until the sunrise. Ha. We share a kit kat and tell stories.
The sun rises and sheds astounding light onto the layer of clouds below us. In various directions, between patches of clouds, I can see Sabah spread out below. They say that on a clear day you can see the Philippines. Photos, nor my words, can describe the scene. The descent from the summit provides lots of breathtaking moments, as the sights we had missed in the darkness of our rise, are now clear.
After our trek, we reunited with our fireplace and begin reading once more. Merry Christmas.
The following day, we wait by the gates, in the rain, for a bus to take us to Sandakan. The bus arrives, with the only seats left by the lavatories. We enjoy a 5.5 hour bus ride in the company of the intrusive smell of urine. To further the experience, the in house movie is titled "Cyclops" and revolved around a Cyclops that had invaded Rome. Some stellar lines from the film include: "We shall not kill the beast. We shall take him back to Rome so that all will know that I, Marcus Aurelius have defeated the Cyclops."
With that I shall leave you... I am off to make dinner. Another day, I will continue on with tales from the holidays.
Much love to all,
K
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