Ghost of a steam train - echoes down my track / It's at the moment bound for nowhere

 

As you pass through Malaysia it’s hard not to be gobsmacked by the infrastructure. From the KLIA, to the Twin Towers to the bridge from Butterworth to Penang, it’s incredible and makes my home country look a little less developed than this developing nation. And then there are the roads.

Grand sweeping highways, often cut through seemingly impassable terrain and sculpted out of the mountains cross the country. True, the driving may be less than perfect at times and trucks still belch black fumes but after Indonesia it's still a relief and I have to say I really enjoyed driving in Malaysia…more so than Bali, Australia or NZ. Especially when filling up is less than US$30 (about the same price as Indonesia but roads everywhere in Indonesia are appalling and often filled with charming people who become lunatics when given a vehicle).

Leaving Kuala Lumpur, heading to the town of Ipoh, we drove north on the variety of ring roads intending to visit the world famous Batu Caves just north of the city, but in our rush to leave had not partaken in breakfast, thus our eyesight was blurred and we missed the turn off (true story: a guy that worked for us in Bali drove our car into an obvious wall once..his argument was that it was midday and he’d not had lunch yet…the logic works for me).

So we travelled further north, spinning past a variety of food outlets (‘that looked good’) and made the split decision to flag the coastal route (it looked like it wound a bit) and make a detour up to the Cameron Highlands.

The Cameron Highlands are very famous. They are famous for their beauty, for their tearooms, market gardens, and, in my mind, even more famous as the place where the legendary Jim Thompson disappeared…offed, so speculation goes, either by the CIA, those damned Commies, or some corrupt Thai politician.

The thought occurred that perhaps we could figure out our likely scenario on Jim’s fate. I like a mystery, and this really was one.

Thus, off the six lane highway we went. The map said 45km to the central town of Tanah Rata which seemed do-able. And the road wasn’t bad as it goes…very windy, and quite narrow but better than large parts of State Highway One in my native land.

That said this relative ease was complicated by a few things. Firstly, we were all starving. Forget Jim Thompson, we need lunch…no make that breakfast. Secondly, we had some little shit on a cheap Japanese sports car lookalike who took pleasure in slowing down to 10km in the centre of the road for some extended periods then racing off…his Jim Thompson moment was about to come if we’d managed to get our hands on him. Thirdly…the road may have been ok, but it went on and on and on and on and on and on, and forever upwards. This was further complicated by the fourth factor: our petrol seemed to have gone from half a healthy tank to none almost in an instant. And there seemed to not be a petrol station. At least in Bali we have the alternative of those Absolut bottles full of watered down (often with vegetable oil) Premium on every corner as a last resort…but not Malaysia which seems to have left that past far behind.

But, it being a rental car, an Absolut bottle filled with anything (even Absolut) would’ve been helpful. Brigid suggested we turn back but Jim Thompson kept calling, as did the thought of some alpine café serving sates or something similar..so onwards we went with the clear knowledge that if there was no gas station in the first town, the oddly named Ringlet, we were, to use a kiwi-ism, profoundly rooted and wouldn’t make Ipoh that night.

As we went around the curve into Ringlet Blake spotted a Petronas sign and we cruised, ever so confidently, into that quite wonderful Pompa Bensin to fill’er up.

I wandered around the back, noted that one of the toilets was flooding out the door but the staff member near seemed unconcerned so I thought I’d let it pass too..when in Rome…

In the interim our navigator at the time, Blake, had found a map which indicated that perhaps there was another route to the north out of the Highlands. The chap from the station spoke no English and seemed confused by the questions so in my Indonesian tinged Bahasa Malay I asked:

Jalan itu paling cepat ke Ipoh dari disini?

Ya he answered, and we were on our way north, towards Tanah Rata for that lunch and then a quick flash through on whatever road that was to our booked destination.

Sadly it was the highlight of the Cameron Highlands. I think Jim Thompson decided he’d had enough of this place and had taken flight to a better place. Any place would’ve fitted that description..the Cameron Highlands were a dank, grotty place littered with tourist traps and ugly pseudo Swiss Chalet styled hotels. The food in uglier Tanah Rata was shocking….I refused to eat it and decided I’d wait till Ipoh whenever it may be. I had a strawberry.

We moved north, past more grotty tourist traps and a garbage dump, quickly looking for the way out and before we knew it we were sweeping down the new, not on any maps, multi-lane Highway 145, clearly designed as an escape route from the unappealing Cameron Highlands. If only Jim Thompson had waited….

And into Ipoh we went, past the huge Limestone mountains and the temples carved into their sides and down the boulevards of the former colonial mining capital to our pleasant, and pleasantly cheap, hotel.

A quick shower, still delirious from hunger we wandered down to the famous old railway station where the Raj sent tin trains south to fill the coffers of London’s merchant banks, for a hundred years or so, before the ore was depleted.

Clearly business there was still a little slow as the Station Hotel, listed in a few guides, was now a brothel. Well there you go.

After a wander around the station cum knock shop (if you will) we unwisely looked at the map and headed off for the Wooley Food Centre…much recommended..to finally kill the delirium.

It was nowhere near the map location. Indeed, some of the roads on the map had never existed. It’s embarrassing how lost we were and how close we were the whole time and it may be better not to mention the nice Moslem family, with headscarves, running the saté cart who politely declined to sell Sandra the pork sates she tried to order.

The Tiger Beer arrived at our table and we were in Ipoh but where was Jim Thompson?

Technorati Tags: Cameron Highlands,Ipoh,Malaysia

Ah come on all you lads, let's forget and forgive / there's a world to explore

We went to Malaysia.

On our third day there, we were lucky enough in Kuala Lumpur to bump into Peter Hoe. Brigid had written pages of notes for our ten days touring across Malaysia, most taken from the web, from TripAdvisor and the like. Some were not as helpful as we’d hoped they  might be (like the Dim Sim up by the Thai border, which was a bit of a drive from the Traders Hotel across from the Petronas Towers, although our navigator almost got us there a few days later but that's another story). Others, such as the tip about  Peter’s Emporium, just off Chinatown’s famous Petaling Street, were bang on. We’d wandered down, through Chinatown, past the intriguing T-shirt that asked questions about this strangely enigmatic country, stuck somewhere between a pre-medieval Arab world and the mid 21^st century in South East Asia.

We’d decided (ok, I decided, based on a few guidebook or vague memories from a taxi drive a year earlier) to check out Central Markets. I like a noisy, overcrowded Asian market as much as the next over-heated tourist. Sadly KL’s Central Market was not it. Apparently it used to be but now it’s a very sanitised, clean, boring waste of space full of ‘ethnic’ knick-knack shops stocked with items from Bali.

So we left and wandering in ever increasing circles in the 35 degree mid-day sun (no you can’t stop for a drink…yes I know I should've bought a hat...ok I won't complain since it was my idea) looking for something until Brigid suggested we search out the recommended Peter Hoe (everybody say….) Emporium, and we found it, hidden away on the second floor of an old building, without a sign.

We actually stood outside it for ten minutes, smiling at the nice Indian girls, vaguely looking around and feeling lost, like the out of odds tourists we were, until we noted the building number. Gosh, this was it..how silly. We went in, up to the second floor.

Peter’s place was an oasis, a refuge from the heat. And whilst Brigid and Sandra wandered around (looking at the items…mostly from Bali but very well selected) , Blake and I went into the café. I bought a Lemon drink.

Two actually.

And looked around for a hat (Brigid said I already had one in Bali so it was a waste..she bought me a travel iron instead, but that was later...)

And out came Peter. The building he said, was once the tallest in KL. So much so that the Japanese Kempeitai had used the place as their headquarters during the occupation. He pointed out the remnants of the room divides that once broke the large room down into smaller units and mentioned that the rooms were where the Japanese broke people down too. It was a chilling thought that sixty years earlier this oasis was once a place of screams.

Peter felt he’d exorcised the ghosts of those days by removing the partitions and filling it full of rather more beautiful rooms and we nodded but wondered all sorts of unhappy things anyway.

In a city like KL, or indeed any Asian city, you need a Peter Hoe, otherwise you spend your time wandering wastefully around the likes of the Central Markets.

So we listened to his advice on things to do and food and headed off in the direction of the recommended Islamic Arts Museum next door to the imposing, although rather clinical looking National Mosque (there are some stunning mosques in KL but this, from the outside at least, is not one of them).

We quickly realised that as helpful as Peter was, clearly he was not one who walked. His instruction of a five minute easy stroll, under the wonderful old colonial railway station (although as Blake pointed out, perhaps not so wonderful to the deportees selected by the former tenants in Peter’s building, to go north to Thailand in 1942-3) was optimistic.

Half an hour later, through the tropical midday heat (which to be honest, I quite like…mad dogs and all that) and over the railway station, we arrived.

We wandered the museum for some hour or two, and the fabrics, calligraphy, weaponry and much more were inspiringly beautiful in their execution and detail. I particularly enjoyed the Islamic architecture room but was not alone in noting that the prophet’s palace in Medina (it’s the one at the front of the photo in the link) was quite massive and thinking that he was perhaps another religious ‘prophet’ who had decided that claiming a direct line to the lord was an easy way to a not insubstantial following and lifestyle. It seems to be the cornerstone of much religion especially when it doubles as a form of control.

And we wandered through the ‘Women in Islam’ exhibition but felt uneasy that 14 centuries of Islam seemingly are only able to produce some thirty women worthy of note and many of those profiled here were profiled as powerful wives or mothers of male rulers. It was uncomfortable and both Brigid and I commented that they did themselves few favours with this exhibition.

That evening we wandered to Peter’s next recommendation, a little Chinese hole in the wall just south of the Bukit Bintang strip. Amongst the best Chinese food in KL said Peter and he was not far off.

The Paper Chicken, as greasy and unhealthy as we knew it was, was just fine, and we compensated ourselves by reminding ourselves of our morning / afternoon walk.

The owner, Chinese-Malay, Jessica arrived and announced that she’d lived in Papakura for many years, with her Welsh husband. I don’t think many New Zealanders make it south of Jl. Impi to the small food district..or at least she said so and we talked for quite some time.

She was enthusiastic. She was also opinionated.

She tore into all sorts of people….Maori, Unions..well actually that was the gist of it…over and over. My very good friend, Blake, who is half Maori and a former Union negotiator, sat very quietly. I was quite proud of him as a lesser person would’ve taken her strongly to task…taken those gaping chasms in most of her rants and driven a Tokoroa Timber truck & trailer through them.

But I guess she smiled so much and chattered so sweetly that he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

And then after all that she grinned and said she’d kept her NZ residency…just in case y’know…

But we wondered what happened to Jennifer?

You see, next door was a rather upmarket looking café…..’Jennifer: Taiwanese Food’. Somebody had put bit of money, effort and thought into the place. That said thought, it was a weekend night and the lights were off. Everywhere else in the precinct was busy but Jennifer was tutup…closed.

We asked Jessica but she was very cagey…something about an affair with the Myanmarese chef. But it didn’t wash, it sounded very non-committal. We looked and wondered but it seemed Jennifer had gone. Maybe she’d decided that the completion was too much and hopped it back to Taiwan with the guy from Myanmar. But it seemed strange that Jessica, who had an opinion on most things, had no real idea where her next door neighbour was.

Where is Jennifer?

Oh, and thank you Peter....

Technorati Tags: Kuala Lumpur,Malaysia

Don't Cry For Me Surabaya

On the way to Central Java I found myself sitting next to an American in his late twenties (from Idaho he said, in Futures he said). I asked him if he’d seen Hillary’s speech the day before. He looked at me and said “America’s not ready for a woman nor a damned black man”.

Looking around the Garuda cabin I wondered how many people on the average United Airlines flight would have been able to deal with 80% of the folks on this flight without running towards the nearest air marshal in abject terror.

I thought of those Sikhs who owned a gas station in New Jersey who were beaten up repeatedly after 9/11.

And then I thought that I’d better not think of it anymore nor ask my American friend any more questions and I put on my iPod.

Indeed, the iPod had become the first line of defence a couple of times in the journey. It drowned out the new Garuda song. The new Garuda song is everywhere. Go to their website…it plays automatically and you can’t turn it off. Wait in the  boarding lounge and it plays. Get on the aircraft and it plays in a continuous loop, until the tin tube is airborne…which, when you are in a holding place on the runway at Jakarta’s notoriously overloaded and slow Soekarno-Hatta Airport (also known by airport check-in and arrival screens as Cenkareng, although by nobody else on the planet, which can be very confusing) can be a while.

What we did to deserve this is beyond me. I’m guessing that Garuda didn’t have the cash to pay for a proper Andrew Lloyd Webber song, sung by a proper singer, so they settled for one of his cast-offs sung by some aspiring Opera-lite buff who may or may not be related to someone at Garuda. There is no other reason this guy, blustering with faux patriotic bravado, or the slightly out of tune brass player, could ever get the gig.

Andrew’s also knocked off (this is all assuming that Garuda simply didn’t just blatantly steal the melody of Don’t Cry For me Argentina from Lord Lloyd-Webber) some of the most excruciatingly clichéd and embarrassing lyrics of all time, just for Garuda.

Whilst enjoying this tune I noted that Semerang Airport has banned smoking and the nice girl in the Djarum branded non-smoking café tells me that the airport will ban all ciggie adverts in 6 months.

We will see.

I did lots of things in central Jawa (which, after all, is its name…surely the island that is home to 130 million deserves better than it’s colonial tag). But mostly I just drove, or at least, I was driven by a genial bloke called Jusef.

The word driving takes on a different meaning in Jawa, indeed in much of the third world. Although, from experience, Jawa, once you leave the big cities, has its own completely unique definition of that thing I grew up which we called driving or an approximation thereof. It can be harrowing. No...lets correct that...it will be harrowing, at least to anyone not native  to Indonesia or perhaps India. And as with much of the third world, a road is not a road or even a place to get from A to B, or to shop and eat. Or even a place to show off to girls. Rather, it’s an extension of your home, as much a part of your home as the patio with the Barbie is in Australia or NZ. It's a much more intimate relationship in Indonesia or other poorer nations.

People live on it, children play on it amongst the traffic, goats and other animals roam freely on it, and much of it has simply fallen apart but is still continually traversed at speeds exceeding average freeway speeds anywhere else, in vehicles that would be sent immediately to the wreckers in much of the world.

Like the hundreds of traffic warning signs (speed, keep left, give way etc) any vehicle certification is just completely ignored.

So I was driven. And Jusef asked if I’d mind if he drove fast. The thing is that what was once terrifying to me no longer has the same horror effect. Buses, trucks, six people on a motor cycle all careering towards me at great speed no longer horrifies me the way it used to. Horses, children and scooters coming out from side roads without a sideways glance into the morass don't raise an eyebrow this far into the adventure.

But I do think that each time you travel on such a road you somehow lessen your allotted lifespan just a little. You shorten the odds by that much. You walk that closer to the abyss.

But so be it, so I said to Jusef: Not at all.

Which of course meant that we too became a participant in the death defying cross lane, corner-overtaking, mayhem.

To be honest, I was less concerned with that...what will be will ...it is what it is, like Indonesia itself, and more concerned with the visual delights of another trek through rural Jawa.

I said once before that Alan Whicker once commented that you need to write down everything that amazes you on the first day in a new place because it will seem commonplace on day two. And that’s true in a place like Thailand or even Bali. But it seems not to apply to Jawa (see I’m determined to stick with the word).

Here you constantly see things that defy belief, that defy any sense of logic or that look like two, or three, or even four cultures coming together in a huge head-on train crash.

Like the brightly painted school bus, with Escobar written down the side. I assumed it was the soccer bloke that was being celebrated, but no, the front bore a massive airbrushed picture of the late Pablo. And it was parked next to an Anti-Narkoba! Sign which in itself was next to a rural police station, whose sign was proudly sponsored by a cigarette company.

I wasn’t fast enough to get a picture of that bus as Jusef veered into oncoming traffic to get past that 40’ (high cube mind) container truck that was slowing us down.

Since we were coming to a blind corner, he wisely decided to continue past that pink tourist bus.

And I noted the stalls selling the traditional national youth costume of Indonesia…..the pirated Ramones T-shirt, seemed to be doing a roaring trade despite the clouds of dust that continually enveloped them, as the swamps of the rainy season have turned to powder mixed with the concrete mist from the continual road works. The warungs selling fruit seemed to enjoy this flavouring too. As did the families playing on the roadside.

But just when you despair at the dirt and the dust you come around a bend and gorgeous layered ricefields stretch off as far as the eye can see. That's Jawa.

And then Jusef roars off, or as much as a poorly tuned 1.8ltr 1998 Kijang can roar, and I grip on to the seat again as we dodge an over-laden school bus triple overtaking on our side of the road.

And eventually I found myself back on another Garuda flight with that music again. And the Indonesian guy next to me smiled and said “what a terrible song”

On went the iPod again.

Technorati Tags: Jawa,Java,Indonesia

Cast your fate to the wind.....

Found by my friend Blake:

A Cheap holiday in other peoples misery

We may not want to admit it, but the war in Iraq is now primarily about murder.

So writes Chris Hedges in a gruesomely absorbing five page article in Salon this week which perhaps a examines reality of the war in Iraq far away from the vile claims of impending victory that emanate repeatedly from The White House and the drum beaters.

These veterans give us a true narrative of the war -- one that exposes the vast enterprise of industrial slaughter unleashed in Iraq. They expose the lie.

Its worth your time.

And now that the Military Tribunals have convened to try the 9/11 suspects, this guy comes to mind. Either you, as a nation, stand for something or you don't. In this case it's a fairly clear distinction, the lines are hardly blurred.

What are they afraid of?