The
notes were taken during the summer of 2006 and were originally on my mac blog. I almost traveled around the world, beginning
from the Arabian Peninsula and going east as far as Pittsburgh and then turning
around and going west as far as Amsterdam and then returning to the UAE for work.
Asia
(Malaysia) I
climbed Cameron Highland’s Gurung Jasar in 40 minutes following the trail from
the Camelia Gardens trailer park and returned to Father’s Guesthouse with time
for lunch. An hour later Sean, a 21 year
old graduate from Colorado State and I played 14 holes at the local golf course
until heavy rains stopped us. All in a
good days timing it was playing with my last ball because the previously
purchased four went into the drink on the 12th and 13th
greens where alligators slummed and local kids wanted money to fetch them.
(Borneo) At Mt.
Kinabalu’s HQ this beautiful morning a hallowed band of cloud separates the
green effervescence of the holy mountain.
Earlier in the day I shared the bus from the Kota Kinabalu Hotel with
Lou, a lawyer from London who quit her job and was in the middle of a ten-month
holiday, and who confided she had quit smoking yesterday. I asked if she had any concerns about
climbing a mountain almost ten kilometers high.
“My guide book says it is the highest and most accessible mountain in
the world.” A day later I met her as she
came down and I headed up. “knees gave
out, had to stop.” During the ascent to
the summit, a tremendous thunderstorm pounded us into submission. We sat in the
lodge and sipped tea. My guide was a
good fellow who wore a Yankees baseball hat.
“I first climbed Kinabalu when I was nine. The oldest climber was a 94 year old Japanese
man.” He climbs the mountain two or three times a week. We waited seven hours in the base camp guesthouse
at 3300m and decided when waterfalls crossing the path weren’t easing up to
return to the headquarters. Three hours
later I climbed onto a bus to Sepilok.
A room
at the The Malaysian Hotel for two nights is 110R. I sat on the hard bed and watched the
Argentina-Mexico football match until the front desk switched the channel to an
awful Bruce Willis movie with Kim Basinger.
Yes, it was still awful. But not
awful enough to get up and tell them to put the game back on.
The
young man who served me scones with coddled cream and strawberry jam dressed in
a tux asked of my origins. He said
excitedly, I love America. America is
great. Why is America great? Without
hesitation he said because it is strong.
Culturally, no one imprints a powerfully sensual ideology on the minds
of so many more effectively, in spite of who runs the joints, than the
corporations on Fifth and Madison and Pennsylvania Ave. I sipped Earl Grey and watched the staff set
up a croquet set on the manicured lawn behind me. The English Tea House sits high above
Sandakan Bay, a beautiful afternoon with cool breezes where Nelson Eddy croons
and even here America is still envied.
Q
(Macau) In a
park above St. Paul’s ruins birds in cages hang from trees while their owners
sit on benches and whisper the day away.
Large black birds jump up and down rocking their cages. Are they entertaining themselves or are they
trying to topple the little prisons off the branches, hoping a 10 foot fall to
the concrete will release them to join the other free birds who sit on branches
squacking for their imprisoned relatives.
Q
(Bangkok) Soi
seven slash one is quiet. The overcast
keeps the alley amazingly cool in the early afternoon. Nothing really makes sense sometimes so it’s
best to simply sit and let everyone walk by.
The summer has been few with the lessons, but one in particular jumps
out. Speak less. Promises made in a moment become indifferent
when I discover sincerity wanes. Why
speak when truth isn’t forthcoming?
The sun
bursts out and illuminates everything.
Profane heat pushes me out of my comfort and I retreat in the darkness
of another web where reason takes a back seat.
North
America
The
manager of the Jet Motel walks by and there he is, Elvis has come back as an
old Japanese man.
Seattle’s
air is rich and sweet, a crisp clean smell that doesn’t sweat like the thick
tropical airs of Asia. The Emirati air
is blank. Hot and dry and in the winter
months cool and refreshing, where the desert is void of smell unless you’re
barbecuing.
The man
sitting in front of me works on a Canadian crossword puzzle. He is a throwback to a generation of
gentlemen with brylcreamed hair and tweed jackets. His aura was one with confident resignation
for those who believe hygiene and a fedora distinguish. Well, right he is as we cruise to the border
on the bus.
Q
The Tropical
Suite Hotel in Vancouver is the find of the holiday. My suite in the 1950’s pink décor has a feel
where deals are made by Russians and their local sharks. Not that I am making any deals in the next
two days….
On a bus
heading south, soon, there is nothing outside the lines that more or less
touches us more so than the illumination of the profane and sacred.
Q
The
Panama Hotel in Pioneer Square was built in 1911 and nothing has changed,
except for the communal johns and glorious 21st century showers.
Q
My
cousin put me in the guest room on the third floor of her 102 year old and
almost restored home. It is hot but we
got multiple fans swirling the humid summer air and it is enough. Five days in Pittsburgh for a family reunion
and it was the first time to come to the home of my father without him.
Europe
(Amsterdam) I asked
the elderly man sitting at the coffee kiosk if it was ever too early to have a
beer in Germany. The Pilsner was his
second. At seven in the morning it
wasn’t bad but I followed it with a cappuccino.
He traveled with an entourage of Mexican women and their children. They were in an American Airlines line that
stretched the length of the terminal. An
elderly woman, presumably his wife, stepped out of line to share a beer. “We’re going to Los Angeles I felt like a
criminal after going through the check-ins.”
I mentioned traveling in and out of the Middle East there still
existed--when there weren’t stampedes and people actually queued--a certain air
of hospitality and respect for the traveler.
The old man from San Diego stood up when I mentioned the Middle East and
leaned close to me “America will never win a war in the Middle East because
when you kill the father you have to contend with the hundreds, perhaps
thousands, of relatives, who by the powers they hold and believe, must exact
blood payment. Be careful, son.” I suppressed a laugh and thanked him for this
advice. I didn’t tell him I was an
English teacher and the only trouble I get into that I know of is not turning
paperwork on time.
Q
A young fella
from Australia stopped me on my walk along this curvaceous road: do you speak English? An affirmative yes. Could you read this for me? I followed his lead and two seconds off my
path looked at a leaflet taped to an empty storefront window. “Well, it’s Dutch we’re looking at, but I
know the words in the first sentence here:
dress code.” He laughed and I
laughed and I continued onward. He
wasn’t dressed for anything other than right where he was on the street.
(Dubai airport) The plane that was going to fly
me to Kathmandu never arrived in Dubai.
Sorry, sir, one of the engines fell off the plane while it taxied in
Delhi.
(Frankfurt) In the
Holiday Inn’s biergarten a cool refreshing evening and it’s still light at 9
o’clock. A draught of Henninger, “von Frankfurt
aus in Alle Welt”. An elderly woman sat
to my left on the flight from Doha and spoke to me in German throughout the
flight. Though it didn’t matter that I
know about five sentences in the language I never used them and didn’t need
to. The invisible infants two rows ahead
of us and to our right hit crescendo when simultaneous blood curdling screams
prompt calls for banishment throughout the cabin.
I sipped
a Konig Ludwig in the smoke choking dining car.
An elderly Egyptian man and his wife came and ordered coffees. The man tried to pour sugar in his cup but
there wasn’t enough in the jar to come out of the silver spout. They drank their unsweetened beverages
standing next to me and smiled, smoking cigarettes that penetrated my clothes
and skin. When they finished and left an
Asian woman came in with her four year old boy and ordered coffee. Wishing for sugar she unscrewed the jar’s lid
and poured the remaining contents into her cup.
(Amsterdam) The
Spanish lady working in the Green
House Café agreed with me, the weather has been brilliant: blue skies,
strong sun, perfect days in August. Yes,
it’s nice to sit outside with a cappuccino and strudel and ask eternal
questions where nothing is known until it’s brought up again by those who are
skeptical about everything until they have a pain in their stomach and then go
to a doctor who does in fact know something more than the skeptic.
All of a sudden a camper rolls by me, a minute later a woman in a motorized wheelchair zigs zags back and forth on her way to evening vespers. God, what a country. Then three officers stroll past me, the blonde has sparkling blue eyes and I can only wonder if she has another job.
The sun
is on my back, the grass smells fresh and green. The summer fragrance intoxicates. This city is so concentric. The canals are to blame, no? ok, not to blame, but does it take four hours
to walk from central station to the Richstag?
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