Given I have been residing in Thailand for over two months now and have failed to document my adventures thus far, I figured it was about time to do so. Seeing as I do not have the patience or dedication to think back and half-heartily record elusive memories already captured in the words and photos of my fellow companions, I will begin with my most recent jaunt- a solo trek to Malaysia!

Our four-day weekend was almost upon us, it was Wednesday night and a competitive game of Apples to Apples was slowly coming to an end when I had yet to decide where to take myself for the holiday. At 12:30 am I was still deliberating between heading out to Koh Phangan with the usual group of suspects or solo trekking it. KPN was guaranteed a good time; great people, and ideal-sounding beach, and a cornucopia that was bound to overflowith with alcoholic libations. Malaysia, on the other hand, offered me the chance to step out to forge my own adventure, make my own agenda and throw caution to the wind. Were the possibilities increased ten fold for getting mugged, abducted and forced to toil in a traveling carnie caravan, never to be found again??? Yes. And so I went.

Thursday began early. Maybe too early, but I wanted to try and reach my host (couchsurfing) and his place of residency before night fell and all given landmarks were obscured into formidable shadows by a foreign dusk. Having done little to no research, I congratulated myself for finding the right bus to Hat Yai and promptly prepared to fall into a deep slumber for the two and a half hour ride. Ha! Novice move. It is a very accurate stereotype when stating, “All Thai bus drivers are insane maniacs.” That known, all drivers seem to be under the delusional impression that each drive is an audition for the Daytona500. After a nauseating ride in which I muttered curse words and threats of doom in any and all languages I could remember (Tongues included, if the Devil speaks it, its valid) we arrived in tacked, at least physically…

     In Hat Yai, I did my best to fix my mental state of being, which at that point ran along the lines of  ‘these drivers are going to kill me, fight for the seat closest to the door and formulate Bear Grylls style survival tactics for a) head on collision b) over the rail water submergence and/or c) driver has a severe and spontaneous epileptic seizure.’ I kept coming up with improbable solutions and decided to surrender the threads of my life into the outstretched hands of the fates and put faith in their weaving abilities.

Thirty minutes into the ride, I am surprised to find myself not groping for the xanax; van driver #2 seemed to be obeying ALL traffic rules and regulations. Is he recklessly weaving through traffic and passing four cars in a row? No. Taking blind curves at demonic speeds? No! He is driving a steady course without taking out helpless motorists and pedestrians along the way. I was shocked at his obvious lack of road rage and quest for highway domination. All these factors led me to one belief - he was an AMATURE. Pondering this, I came to the realization that in the weeks and months to follow, my dependable road warrior would soon feel the thrill of his first reckless blind curves, ruthless cut offs and shameless tailgating sessions. I have no doubt that that his eyes will begin to glaze over and his heart will beat a little faster as the lust for domination consumes all rational thought and soon enough, he too will begin to believe that dreams of Nascar glory are obtainable.

Friday

Having arrived in Penang safely the night before, and relieved to find my host was of outstanding moral character (no mace attacks necessary) I decided to indulge my travel-sore body in a most excellent hot shower…. the first in at least a month.  So, despite the fact that I had yet to feel the beloved caffeine of coffee sing through my veins, I was happy. When the coffee was finally drunk and breakfast consumed, I made my way over to the city’s Snake Temple (despite having serious reservations based upon my absolute abhorrence to such creatures.)

Penang is a Western-like city of sizable proportion that can easily fit into the category of ‘urban sprawl.’ Without a map or reliable internal compass (or stars, setting suns or moss growing on trees) I decided it would be in my best interest to hail a taxi…which in turn led to one of the most interesting cab driver tell-alls possible.  My driver’s name was Gobi, which led me to like him instantly solely based upon the close sounding association it has with ‘Gumby’ a childhood favorite cartoon character. Gobi speaks perfect English and begins the 30 min ride with, “So what do you think of that Obama man?” After the usual banter of health care reform, education cuts and if I believe ‘that man’ will last another term; Gobi decides that I am worthy enough to hear his unabridged life story. What begins as a fairly normal monologued life biography of being born on the island, serving for the British services etc, swiftly turns into a bizarre rant that could give any psychiatric patient or Jerry Springer contestant a fast paced run for their money.

Gobi begins to describe, with unveiled contempt that his mother ruined his life. Point blank, “I blame her for all my problems.”

Apparently back in ’71, Gobi was given the choice to move to England with the British Army or finish out his services in Malaysia. Desperately wanting to go to England, yet being the only son, his mother told him that he was not allowed to go, that he ‘must be the man of the house.’ Bending to the iron will of his mother, Gobi stayed, and ‘made the worst mistake’ of his life. From ’71 on out, Gobi’s tale gets more depressing that a Little People Looking for Love convention. After being shot in the chest and having to go through years of rehabilitation and shock therapy (clearly it is at this point that I realized that his therapist was not a licensed practitioner) Gobi’s wife serves him with divorce papers. Again, ‘the divorce was my mother’s fault, just like getting shot was.’ This in turn led to a 12 year drug and alcohol induced depression. It subsided when he remarried and finally had a son. One would believe this to be a joyous occasion especially after telling me it took ‘soo much practice’ (TMI GOBI TMI) yet no. Gobi tells me now, at 13, his son is a useless disappointment. And because he is a useless disappointment, Gobi has just adopted a random Malaysian baby he saw at a local hospital.  Because that is the normal thing to do, buy another baby….

As we draw closer to the temple, I realize that both children of Gobi are at serious risk of developing deep-rooted paternal issues only Freudian specialists can handle…..and I begin to assemble the sad puzzle pieces of their futures. Violent tendencies, an inability to establish meaningful relationships with male peers, and finally, a breakdown in which they will only be able to rock back and forth on the cold concrete floor of a local phych ward muttering to themselves, “I blame him for all my problems.” As I exited the taxi, I took pause to dwell upon the sad fate of a family I will never meet, offered up a prayer of luck to whichever deity guarded the temple’s gate, and walked inside.

Friday afternoon

While mostly unimpressed by the Snake Temple given its small dimensions and lackluster décor, there were a few snakes passed out among the scattered potted plants, as promised by the brochure. Yet these snakes all seemed unwilling to partake in any serpent-visitor show downs, hanging limply from the branches in an incense -induced comatose state. Bored that there would be no violent confrontations between bro-ish Western men in polos and serpents of death, I made my way over to Kek Lok Si temple.

Kek Lok Si is a most impressive and stunningly beautiful multi-story structure rising gracefully from the foothills of the mountains. The temple has drawn its architectural inspiration from the Chinese, Thai and Burmese styles; all of which lend its form a pleasing array of designs. It is rightly considered one of the city’s most beautiful wonders with its pagoda of Ten Thousand Buddhas. Literally, thousands of painstakingly carved and gilded Buddhas cover the walls from floor to ceiling, making it quite the aesthetically pleasing sight. Having roamed the various corridors and prayer rooms gazing in wonder at the sheer volume of GILT OBJECTS, and trying desperately to draw from the half sealed well of knowledge named ‘Asian Art class 2006,’ I look up to see an immense bronze statue gazing benevolently down into the heart of the city.

Failing to see the large and obvious ‘Tram’ signs, I proceed to ascend the mountain at a slow and rather sweaty pace. After what seemed like an endless struggle between gravity, crazed Malaysian drivers, and me, I reach the top. In an euphoric state I exclaim in an emphysemic tone, and to no one in particular, “YES, VICTORIOUS!” Feeling as if a lung had just collapsed, I promptly sat down to catch my breath and stare into the eyes of the bronze beast.

 Composure regained, I took a turn around the statue’s base and marveled at the sheer size of it. Completed in 2002, this Kuan Yin statue stands at an impressive 30 meters and seems to radiate an inner light. Of course, this light could be due to its proximity to that burning orb of a sun, but most pious visitors probably think it’s due to the sheer glory of the represented figure. After walking around and admiring the well-maintained velvety lawns of the gardens, I began my decent down the mountain. Via tram.

Feeling pleased with my productive morning, and realizing that it had been at least three hours since I had last consumed anything, I headed down into the surrounding market to grab a bite of Malaysian sustenance. The delicious fare of rice, spicy meat and vegetables was ALMOST enough to prepare me for the encounter with taxi driver number 2.

Unfortunately, given the shorter ride, I was unable to be indulged in the complete life story of Kad, and elderly native with large tufts of curling white hair that gently plumed from his inner ear cavity (I swear it swayed in the light breeze of the air con).  Although time was not on our side, Kad made the most of it and this is what transpired…Kad and I begin small talk about the current weather conditions (sunny) and my job (educating Thailand’s future). Kad tells me how teachers are very well regarded in Malaysia ect. Somehow, within the span of three minutes, this safe path of discourse begins to fog over as Kad tells me how he often travels to Thailand to see his son (a professional kick boxer). While thinking this is an okay topic to pursue, Kad begins to tell me how he cannot eat the food in Thailand because it is too spicy. Fair enough! I begin to feel a common bond and try to contribute to the increasingly one-sided conversation by interjecting, “I’m not great with spice either!” Yet my contribution gets disregarded as Kad feels its necessary to let me in on a little secret; his 60-year-old intestines just can’t handle themselves like they used to! Excuse me?? Oh yes, and that ‘proper bowel movements are harder and harder to come by these days!’ At this point the bond is broken seeing as the hyena-like laughter that is bubbling up with in me is preventing all motor skills from functioning properly. Yet Kad is on a roll! ‘Diarrhea! All the time now in Thailand!!!’ After this, I lose it and give into the ridiculousness of the situation, the violent episode of laughter and the ensuing tears of disbelief. Why one earth would this Malaysian cab driver of senior citizen categorization think a young white girl wants to hear about his internal struggles?! All I could manage as we pulled up to the curb was, “That’s really unfortunate, good luck with that!”

Saturday

Saturday was by far one of the most amusing days/evenings I had while in Malaysia. After visiting two temples in the morning, I found myself aimlessly wandering the city. As I traversed through the wide maze of streets, I suddenly hear, “HEY YOU, WATHCA DOIN’?!” I quickly glance to my left to see a large Australian man standing in the doorway of a bar, pint glass of beer in one hand, and a debonair smile plastered on his face. I assessed my situation and realized I had two options: a) give him a dirty look and keep walking or b) respond, and possibly have a great time. Of course, I wisely choose option b.  I walk into a bar humming with boisterous energy and Taylor Swift proclaiming in an unwavering voice that I belong with her. The bar was packed with some of the largest men I had ever seen; they gave ‘brawny’ a whole new meaning with their muscle-roped arms and necks so thick they could rival Gaston’s.  For a good two minutes I thought I had stumbled upon a WWWF re-union, Malaysian style.

After being ushered to a center seat at the bar and being told to order whatever I so desired, I am soon informed by my new companions that they are all Aussie soldiers. Turns out these macho men have been training in the Malaysian jungles for some time and are livin’ it up in Penang before heading out to do battle with the jungles of northern Thailand.  After commenting upon the very random selection of music the bar has chosen, I am told that the source (iPod) of said music belongs to one of the guys. He had brought his iPod to the bar and convinced management that his ear for musical talent was unquestionable. On that cue, all five men surrounding me burst into the chorus of NSYNC’s “Bye Bye Bye.” But they did not stop to pick up their dignity after this shameless display, oh no! They threw it on the floor and a full on dance off followed suit between the two most keen to demonstrate superior gyrating skills. It was a brazen throw down only those apart of the Lord of the Dance extravaganza have witnessed thus before! Jimmy (one of the two die-hards) believed he could outshine the competition by running outside onto the bar’s patio, leaping up upon the concrete barrier and giving the city a show unlike anything it had ever seen before. Jimmy proceeded to fist pump Jersey Shore style and begins taking off his mank-top when the dual between his balance and the several pints of beer consumed commences. Balance loses. Jimmy topples over onto the unforgiving pavement (bear in mind this is all being recorded on video by another guy) yet springs up almost immediately, bleeding, and still fist pumping. I was close to peeing I was laughing so hard.

This was only the beginning of what proceeded to be a most entertaining night and one that cemented my belief that Aussies are awesome.

Sunday

Saturday night blurred into the early hours of Sunday morning and seeing as I had to catch an early van in too short of a time, I bid my farewells. The return journey passed without notable incident, I gave into my sleep-deprived body’s request for slumber and was unconscious straight through two demon driven van rides home. The solo adventure was an outstanding success and I feel quite proud that I survived without getting mugged AND eluded any and all possibilities of becoming the newest addition to that traveling carnie troupe …UNTIL THE NEXT ADVENTURE!