But First: Packing the Emotional Baggage
So I get back from my epic
journey around the world, and for a few days, I'm Neo in the Matrix. I walk down 4th Avenue
in Kitsalano, unnerved by the baby stores that have sprouted like the hairs in
an old woman's mole, and I literally see through the woven fabric of
society. Numbers and dots
and letters appear to fall from the sky, exposing the true essence of modern
life, describing all that I learnt on my wild, whacky adventures into the
worldeness. The problem is, I've
never been very good with numbers and dots, and the letters look suspiciously
like #$!@&, which I understand as cuss words. In any event, the Matrix fades after three days,
before I can figure out what the hell it actually meant. 4th Avenue begins to resemble
4th Avenue, and yuppie Lululemonites solidify into focus. Everything is more or less where
I left it, a thousand years ago. Not discouraged, I thrill
in the fact that I no longer require a cell phone. Having left it behind for a year, I am liberated, sans ringtone, no vibration in my pocket to call me
slave. I'm beaming. It seems
perfectly clear to me that the glass is half full, and always has been. Further, after picking up my car
from storage (five years, no accidents, leave it in storage for a year, and
some slug reverses into my door), I am so at ease that I see little point to
drive faster than 40km an hour.
Around me, cars are screeching and horns are horning, and I'm a mobile
island of f--king tranquility!
Absorbing all the lessons of my incredible year, here is the new me, an
Enlightened Esrock, the downright Groovin' Gonzo. Three months later, I'm
suffering with the disease of the phantom ring - the one you hear when your cell phone is not actually
ringing. I left my Nokia at home
one day, and felt utterly lost.
I long for the calls of friends telling me they're going to call me
later.
Accelerating for no reason in particular - C'mon buddy! Learn to
drive! What is this, a golf
course?! - I feel the need to spend money I don't have on stuff I don't
need. The glass is empty, because
I drank the last half. I'm
tearing my hair out in traffic jams, waiting in bank lines, navigating
voicemail systems designed in the third level of Hell. I've been towed and ticketed, worked on
jobs as stimulating as flaking plywood, and begun to obsess about meaningless
local issues that provide talk radio fodder. In other words, I'm back to being the same idiot I was
before I ventured to five continents in twelve months, albeit, a better
travelled idiot.
My past adventures feel fuzzy, like a dream you remember when you wake
up, but have forgotten by the time you've had your morning leak. I'm startled to realize that my few
items of traveller hippie gear look ridiculous in public - my prize purple
hipsters from Goa transform into evening pajamas. I hear foreign accents in the street and feel the urge
to talk to them (they're mostly Australians on work permits). I even did a story about
backpackers in Vancouver, which might have been a thinly veiled disguise to
sneak my way back into the hostels.
Is this what they mean by "post-travel depression?" The sensation of having seen and
done so much, only to realize that your old life waits like a thick-necked
coach in the gym, waiting to beat you back into shape? My epic journey began
to feel like a book I read last year and vaguely recall, a movie I saw three
years ago that left an impression but I can't remember why, a song I once sang
loudly in my car, how did it go? By whathisface? I must have changed, even if the world I returned to
didn't. "The first three months
home were great," Phillipe told me, as we drove into the fertile interior of
New Caledonia last January. Picture his French accent, as he floors
his jeep down the empty highway, much like he once floored himself through
South America. "I caught up
with all my friends, went out a lot, slept, ate, fished.
And then, I had to get a job. I had to do something. And I found a good job, but I don't want to work. I want to travel. I want to go back to Colombia. Oh man, the woman in ColombiaŠ" and
into some sexual exploit or another. He is, after all, French. By the time I left his
little island in the South Pacific, Phillipe's good job had become unbearable. Adjusting to a life at home was not
easy. My other long-term
travel buddies are going through a similar crisis. Post travel depression indeed. I felt the coach putting
on the squeeze. When I was in high school,
there was this creepy physical education teacher named Mr. Bolton, who wore a
full afro, thick mustache, and running shorts that snuck up just a little too
high. There was a
rumour that he enjoyed relations one of the girls in my year, who happened to
the same girl who was my first kiss when I was 13, and who later went on to die
of a heroin overdose. Tragedy, all
round. Point being, coaches have
always freaked me out, and if the proper instruction dictated that it was time
for me to settle down, find a job, a home and a wife, latent teenage rebellion
was bound to kick in sooner or later.
Plans were quickly underway. All this is a long-winded
way of explaining the fact that I am typing this in Kuala Lumpur International
Airport, somewhat drunk from the free Bloody Mary's I felt it was my duty to
consume on the flight from Taipei.
I've been travelling for almost 36 hours, and still have another four
hour flight before I arrive in Kota Kinabalu, on the coast of Malaysian
Borneo. There is
life in this Modern Gonzo yet, and with a summer that promises Borneo, China,
Russia, Mongolia, London, Montreal and the West Coast Trail, it appears I'll be
able to delay reality just a little while longer. Without an insurance cheque, I'm hustling to
pull the river card, grifting my graft, and, also, providing an unusual conduit
between those that would have others travel, and those that want to. Apparently the Vancouver
Sun received numerous complaints from people appalled that I would use my
insurance money to travel.
It takes a special kind of person to write to a newspaper because a guy
they don't know is living his life the way he (and so many others) wants
to. I'd love to know what I
should have spent my money on instead.
Donations to the church? A new cage for an abused hippo? Purple hair dye? Pro-life
posters? Bling for my
bitches? Maybe they'll
write and tell me when my new articles appear in the Sun. In any event,
hold onto your ALT-TAB button, because here we go again. **** "People kill themselves
whenever it's the World Cup," says
Patrick, which might explain why the headline of the Borneo Times reads
"Ex-Property Manager Dies in Jump."
The newspaper also carries a page two story about 15 newly banned
pornography books, including Classic Nude Photography, and the wonderfully
named Box Lunch - The Layperson's Guide to Cunnilingus. I am not making this up. Malaysia may not be going down on
the World Cup, but the country is as football mad as any. Half the newspaper is made up of World
Cup coverage, while sidewalk diners are bustling through the night. With games being screened live at
3am, I decided that just this once, I'd stick with the brutal jetlag I'd picked
up en-route somewhere in Taiwan.
The World Cup is my only opportunity to watch countries attack each
other on the battlefield, with no body count to spoil the fun. Brazil vs. Ghana? Holland vs. Portugal? There's more going on here
than just football. Bleary
eyed, reading the breakfast paper, there was a story about a Japanese fan
hanging himself. Maybe he
wasn't getting any sleep either. Borneo is the third
largest island in the world, after Greenland and New Guinea (Australia is not
considered an island, but a continent). Thick with dense, legendary jungle,
Malaysia and Indonesia have large states that comprise most of the island, with
the wealthy yet tiny independent Brunei protects Michael Jackson on the north
coast. I'm in Malaysian North
Borneo, the state of Sabah, where the air is steamy and the thicket is alive
with bugs, birds and hairy creatures.
It's a good thing I arrived in the dry months, because the cyclonic
sheet of rain that was flooding parts of Kota Kinabalu must be something in the wet
season. K.K is the capital
of the state, population 350,000, surrounded by jungle and palm oil
plantations. My quest was
Mount Kinabalu, located about 90 minutes drive away and puncturing the sky with
sharp, shark-teeth peaks. Towering
at over 4000m, Kinabalu is a young mountain (in fact, it's still growing) and
has a steep 8km trail that goes up right to the top. Unfortunately, you need to book months ahead to get on
it and stay overnight at the mid-way lodge. But when I found out that the
record for a return visit to the top was an incredible 2 hours and 41 minutes,
I decided to see how far I could get. ŚWait, please, a break Gonzo, please!" says my guide
Dell. He's taking a bit of
strain with the steep, slippery steps (think the Grouse Grind), the hard rain,
the mud. "I need to
replenish my oxygen," he gasps, and lights up another cigarette. Unlike the drenched rats in their
Helly Hansons coming down the uneven steps, I'm all boisterous enthusiasm. It's not every day you get to peak on
Southeast Asia's tallest mountain.
At the 2400m mark, Dell calls it quits, which is just as well, because
we make it down just as a watery shower curtain falls from the sky. It's the kind of thick rain you see in
movies, not in real life.
Fortunately, I could watch it from the restaurant at Kinabalu's lodge,
tucking into my fourth helping of nasi (rice) ayam (chicken), smothered in a
rich, spicy-sweet sauce.
I've missed Malay food. Later, I somehow make it
down to the hotel bar at 4am just in time to see Portugal beat Holland, much to
the horror of a few, orange-clad Dutch tourists. Portuguese soccer fans are underrepresented in Borneo,
which is more popular with Dutch, Australian, English and Scandinavian
visitors. Earlier, a waiter
screamed for Ecuador, earning him the hairy eyeballs of the English in the bar,
complete in red and white face paint.
Beckham bent it, so I decided to explore the Sinsuran Market, picking up
a pair of $2 Ray Bans that, despite its labeling, were probably not "Made in
the USA". Dell treated me to
some crunchy fried banana while young men watched American wrestling on the
TV. Sabah is made up
of Muslim Malays, Chinese Buddhists, and indigenous tribes largely converted to
Christianity. Wrestling is
non-denominational.
That night, my plans to hit the town with Dell were foiled when his car
got stuck in a flood. It was
already so hot and humid that it's quite possible the air just turned to water,
to save the rain the trouble of falling.
A short flight north along
the coast, I headed to Sandakan, the animal capital of Sabah. A town of about 250,000, Sandakan
would be my base to explore the jungle and aquatic wildlife. I visit a water village, just one
of a town of houses built on stilts that extend into the sea. Cracking wooden boardwalks acts like
boulevards, and you can literally fish from your living room table. Having existed for generations, homes
are rent free, but au natural
plumbing can be a bit of a problem.
Some neighborhoods are comprised of Chinese communities, while others
are made up of the descendents of Malaysian water gypsies. A Buddhist temple caters to the Chinese
water village, a huge, Soviet-gray mosque to the Malays. Their children attend school together. I'm craving a cold beer,
so head off to a shebeen-like corner bar with a jukebox, plastic tables and
chairs. A women with a face of
nails pours me a cold Carlsberg in a frosted glass, beneath dozens of Carlsberg
posters depicting a blonde model hiking up her green miniskirt and clutching a
beer. An ambulance drives
by, chased by children. I
kind of wish I was a spy on a mission, because it's a little sad to be draining
beers on one's own in a sweaty, exotic jungle town. There's no TV, but the jukebox is blaring the Scorpions. "Leesin to the weened, of che ye
yange." The menu contains only beer - Guinness, Tiger and
Carlsberg. My coaster says,
"Someone's got to lead the party, why not you?" A few beers later, it strikes me as deeply profound. Sepilok Orangutan Sanctuary
is the oldest in the world, having rehabilitated hundreds of orangutans into
the wilds of its 43 square kilometer jungle. Although they once swung in the trees throughout Asia, wild
orangutans are now only found in Borneo, where the increasing encroachment of
plantations have put these laidback redheads on the endangered species
list. With their remarkable
human-like qualities, the Malays called them orangutan, which literally means "man of the forest." They share 96.4% of our DNA, have
opposable thumbs, and faces that alternate between pure innocence and old
wisdom. I thought that a
visit to Sepilok, all the way in Borneo, would bring me up close and personal
with a great ape. I was
searching for my Clyde, an able partner for my Eastwood. Unfortunately, those
looking for an intimate experience might want to try their local zoo. Nobody is allowed to get close to
the apes. In order to touch
one, visitors must get special permission, including taking a blood test to
avoid the transmission of any human diseases that could wipe out the
population. A viewing
platform is provided for the public, where the apes can feed twice a day.
That's about it. Even my
media hustle was useless.
Staff are instructed not to talk to media and I would have to get a
special letter from the Ministry of Information ("good luck!") to get any
special access. Maybe they're
training the orangutans as part of a new weapons program or something. Project O. Whatever, there were dozens of tourists and nobody
seemed especially pleased to be kept as such a distance, bringing up the old
debate of conservation versus satisfying the Humphries from Perth. The vets will argue that
this is a sanctuary, and that tourists are lucky to be able to get the chance
to see the apes in the wild.
But then why do they market the sanctuary so aggressively to
tourists? It would take very
little to build a glass enclosure where we might see the babies being bottle
fed, or even come into contact with an inoculated infant. It would also do wonders for the
educational experience, and
donations no doubt. I remember
stumbling across the gorilla enclosure at Sydney's zoo, where there is a thick
plastic wall for visitors to gape inside a gorilla playpen. A huge adult was
leaning against the plastic screen, tragically bored. I looked at him, and he looked at me, and there was a moment
of mutual recognition, where I saw the humanity in his eyes, and perhaps he saw
the apeness in mine.
Whatever your opinion of zoos, that one moment of contact made me care
more about gorillas in my midst than any show on Animal Planet. Sure, the gorilla might be
happier in the wild (where he'll have to fend off poachers, alpha males and
food shortages) but he was doing a great service for his species, and getting
all the TLC he could ever want.
Ironically, my disappointing visit to Sepilok reminded me of the very
zoo they don't want it to be.
People taking pictures of apes being fed on a wooden platform is what it
is. Any which way but loose.
* So we're driving along a
road in Northern Borneo and I catch a glimpse of a white guy walking on the
side of the road. Something
clicks, we U-turn, and pull up alongside.
It's Bryan, the worldly Scottish traveller I explored Angkor with in
Cambodia seven months ago.
The probability of driving past someone I know in the jungles of
northern Borneo is, by my calculation, 1:543,000,020,063,007. But these things happen to
me, which is why I buy lottery tickets.
Another sleepless night
watching France destroy Spain (no bad history between those two) and I'm off to
Selingan Turtle Island, an hour boat ride into the warm South China
Sea. Giant sea turtles, some
as ancient as 100 years-old, lay eggs on the beach of the small island, which
are then collected by rangers, protected from predators, incubated, hatched and
reintroduced into the sea.
Only a small percentage will survive to maturity, as little as one
percent, the rest of the little guys feed the food chain (and local markets,
where turtle eggs are illegal but common). Turtle Island is one of those tiny tropical islands
where monitor lizards run past your feet and fireflies strobe at night. Sparkling water, soft sand, not much to
do in the day except sleep and take shelter from the heat, humidity, and
bugs. The surrounding beaches are
covered in turtle tracks that resemble thick motorbike treads. Last night, there were 27
landings, with over 2000 eggs laid and 500 hatchlings released. After dinner, a ranger yells
"Turtle Time!" and we rush off to a beach where a giant female is laying 84
ping-pong ball eggs. The
soft eggs are taken away, buried in the hatchery, while others are hatching
throughout the night. We are
allowed to hold a baby, which melts hearts with its flapping and flipping, but
any attempt to slip one away could result in a hefty fine and maybe three
months in jail. Darn
it. I named mine Gonzo,
blessed its green shell, and hoped it would beat the odds and go on to become a
wise adult, and not the delicious turtle casserole I ate in New Caledonia. On the beach, the
hatchlings head for the light, shuffling their way forward into the sea, where
they will disappear - the lost years - and return to this very beach to lay
their eggs when they mature in about 40 years time. The wondrous cycle of life, like March of the
Penguins, only with hardshells and flippers. And so week one draws to a
close. It's been hot
and sticky, with the frenetic pace of a football international. I didn't find my ape sidekick,
but as I write to you from an air-conditioned cabin on a small island in the
tranquil South China Sea, there's no doubt that coming to Borneo has been a
definite score. 28 June, 06 Selingan Turtle Island Sabah, Malaysia * Forgive my references to the Clint Eastwood 70's
classics, where Dirty Harry was out-acted by an orangutan named Clyde.