Flying out of Paris into Singapore meant returning to the mod-cons: a decent exchange rate, cheap food, free toilets, and internet access. I stayed with family, (8th Aunt to be precise,) and every luxury lavished upon me came with warm hugs and fresh smiles. Of course, staying with family also meant risking the question:
--“When’s it your turn?”
It’s a loaded question with no easy answer. Giving a definite date is too flippant. Yet, admitting uncertainty points to one not being a team player in the reproduction game. Funnily, those with young infants don’t tend to ask. It’s probably just dawned on them that they’re locked into the long haul. I can imagine a similar ethic on death row:
--“Hi. Mad Dog, isn’t it? Cell Block C, myself. Quite like that job you pulled up North. So … ah … when’s it your turn?”
Nup. Can’t see that happening. Surprisingly, the question never popped up during the whole of my first week in Singapore. I guess the recent surplus of babies and marriages in my family has satisfied demand for the time being. Anyway, I wasn’t in a state to handle questions about my love-life when I landed. Some people say jet lag doesn’t exist. I say that those people should try being woken up at 3pm for breakfast and see if that does not totally screw them up.
After three nights of three-hour sleeps, I visited my grand-uncle’s house. We usually shoot the breeze about nostalgia and the world economy, but this time I was reduced to two-word sentences …
--“The Japanese marched into Singapore on Chinese New Year Day. How
unsporting.”
--“Uh. Banzai.”
--“Greenspan will retire before the balance of payments figures get worse.”
--“Uh. Dot-com crash.”
… and having Tom and Jerry plotlines explained to me by my young niece:
--“…And then Tom is sleeping. And then Jewwy ties Tom’s tail to the
pipe…”
--“Uh-huh.”
--“…And then Jewwy turns on the water tap. And then Tom cannot swim…”
--“Uh-huh.”
--“…And then Tom tries to untie his tail, but Jewwy hits him on the
head…”
--“Uh… I don’t like where this is going…”
--“…And then Jewwy gets a big hammer…”
--“Okay. I’m desensitised now, carry on…”
I’m sure it was lack of sleep, combined with rich foods such as Hee Pio (fish maw) soup and Chilli Crab that made my body temperature rise. In Chinese, we call this condition ‘Yeet Hey’. I made the mistake of mentioning that I was ‘yeet hey’ at a family dinner, which instantly set my aunties to tearing 8th Aunt apart:
--“Ach! Why don’t you boil some Kuk Fa Cha?!”
--“No! Give him Ha Shang Kuk!”
--“Why you let him eat so much junk food?!”
--“Doesn’t your house have any Kuk Fa?!”
It’s that constant contact with family that I miss in Australia. Family is almost like a sixth sense in Singapore. As 8th Aunt dragged herself from the mauling and got the maid to boil me some Ha Shang Kuk she told me that my grandmother who lived in Melbourne was, unbeknownst to me, visiting Adelaide. Bizarre.
8th Aunt’s Filipina maid did most of the work around the place. I wasn’t familiar with maid protocol, so 8th Aunt did most of the translating for me:
--“Hey Alma, this fish is great.”
--“Almaaa!”
--“Yes, marm?”
--“This fish is great.”
--“Thank you marm.”
Alma suggested the best way of getting rid of leeches: salt; for when I went north into Malaysia’s jungle. The only realistic suggestion to date was nicotine, but I wanted a solution that didn’t require me to smoke. Prior to that, my family gleefully furnished me with copious other leech remedies that involved saliva and urine - your own or someone else’s.
So I brought along enough salt to Malaysia to cause a small leech holocaust, but never got to use it. At the time, it was too dry for leeches in Taman Negara. Taman Negara is, according to the Malaysian government, the largest and oldest rainforest preserve in the world. It occupies a sizable chunk of land in the state of Pahang, which I imagine the Pahang government is not too happy about, because of all the housing estates they could otherwise build on top of it.
Getting to Taman Negara from Kuala Lumpur takes a four-hour minivan ride to Kuala Tembeling, followed by a three-hour boat ride up the Tembeling river to the resort town of Kuala Tahan, just inside Taman Negara. On the minivan, I saw the built-up chaos of Kuala Lumpur gradually transform into lush fountains of green. The slow boat ride through the corridor of jungle that lined the Tembeling river left me breathless, much like the gondola journey through Venice’s canals did.
Having said that, Taman Negara is not a romantic place. You would not bring a partner there. At least, not if you wanted to keep them. Dormitory accommodation is comfortable (Chalets are available), but no toilet paper is supplied. Fortunately, I had the foresight to bring some all the way from South Africa. Ha! I’d finally foiled Malaysia and its Islamic bottom-washing habits.
And then there’s the bugs. Every insect you can think of has bigger cousins in Taman Negara. At night they come out and claim the camp, flying into the plasterboard walls with the power of a Bruce Lee one-inch-punch; waging insect Armageddon with each other until dawn brings the view of half-eaten bug carcasses on the pavement. The bugs did not affect my appetite, but the price of food at Taman Negara Resort did. Meals there cost a minimum of RM$30 (AUD$15). Alternatively, you could pay RM$0.50 for a boat ride across the Tembeling river, and eat on the waterfront at one of the barge-restaurants for less than RM$9 (AUD$4.50), including drinks.
--“Criminally cheap.”
That was the comment from Rasha and Lucy, two London schoolteachers I met at Taman Negara. When I met them at the barge-restaurant, They were slamming down Roti Canais (Malaysian Pancakes) like popcorn. In Australia, Roti Canais cost about AUD$4, in London: GBP$4 (AUD$11), in Kuala Tahan: RM$2 (AUD$1). Malaysia seems to be a land of two distinct financial strata. In the Bangsar district of Kuala Lumpur, Juliet and I ate our fill at an Indian cornershop, drinks and all, for RM$12 (AUD$6). Then we went around the corner to a ‘Coffee Bean’ franchise and paid RM$16 for two frappuccinos.
Lucy, Rasha, and I, while engaging in our Roti eating competition, discussed the plight of teachers in the Western world. What was it with kids these days? I’d encountered some awful children in my travels: babies disrupting South African Airways flights, screaming kids ruining the sanctity of the Cappucine monastery, American boys throwing tantrums over ice cream in the Tuileries, and teenage daughters haughtily arguing with their Lisboan mothers.
--“Parents are not prepared to accept the responsibility of disciplining
their children.” Commented Lucy as we watched the brown-skinned 11-year-old
helmsman ferry another boatload of people across the river while smoking his
fifth Marlboro.
--“Actually, adults used to assume the role of a guide to all the young ones.
Every adult took responsibility for every child in their community. They don’t
anymore.” Said Rasha.
--“It’s not fashionable to be old and conscientious. Right?” I
offered.
--“Right. So the job of disciplining the kids falls on teachers, but we’re
reprimanded if we do it.”
--“And so the kids end up little monsters.” Said Lucy.
--“Invariably.” Piped Rasha.
Conversations like these make me see parenthood like a trip to a faraway land, shrouded in mist and danger, inhabited by fierce gibbering pygmies. As if that’s not bad enough, tickets are only ‘one-way’ and there’s no possibility of a short-term visa. I thought of ourselves, mere children compared to other life on Earth, and what we’d done to our parent. We’d taken the best bits for ourselves and set aside tiny shrines, like Taman Negara, hoping it would be enough. Hopefully I’ll be long gone before Mother Nature gives us the wooden spoon and sends us to bed without supper.
Climbing Bukit Terisek (344m) was the closest I got to Mother Nature, i.e. the furthest I got away from civilisation. It was a different world up there: cool, dry, air! The sounds! A symphony of wildlife calls and replies. The smells! Like walking past a different Chinese herb shop every eight steps. The bugs…
There’s not a lot to ‘see’ in Taman Negara. But there’s plenty to smell, hear, feel, and if you’re brave enough, taste. This is especially true if you ever take a night walk, or stay in a ‘Bunbun’ (hide) overnight. It gets very dark very fast at night. Five steps away from the lights of the camp and you won’t be able to see your hand in front of your face. Fabrice, a Parisian, and I got half-way to Bunbun Tahan in this thick blackness when my torch gave out.
--“Shit.”
--“Merde.”
--“I think the batteries are dead.”
--“Merde.”
--“Shit.”
When one sense fails, the others become heightened. As the dark blinded me, the insects seemed to shrill louder, the odours grew stronger. The rainforest was laughing at the two man-fools who’d gotten lost in the woodsies. The rustling sounds you hear as you walk through the forest – that reveal nothing when you turn to look - got closer. We also heard some noises that weren’t made by either bird or insect. There is a happy ending, though. (Or you wouldn’t be reading this.) Parisians generally smoke, so Fabrice was able to bring us home with his lighter. Not, however, without burning himself a few times. Nights and mornings are the best times to walk.
The hot afternoons are for sleeping or swimming. After lunch I walked the canopy walk, viewing the jungle from the treetops, then went swimming in Lubok Simpon. It was like swimming in tea. Then a few boats roared by and made it like swimming in milked tea. Still, I needed the swim. It was very hot and humid. One can be taken unawares by how sticky it is, but you can prepare yourself for the climate by simply taking a shower with your clothes on. I was wearing jeans and boots to protect my legs from thorns and leeches.
No matter what you wear, you’re going to be hot and sweaty, so wear what you feel like. Nothing beats a sarong, according to Sundar, a Malaysian Indian who taught us how to tie them. Sundar also tried to sell his script ideas to Fabrice, who worked in cable TV. The idea was a kid's show about moral conversations with animals. It was the first time Fabrice pretended not to speak English. I asked Fabrice why the French seemed reluctant to use English and was surprised with his answer:
--“Zey are embarraissed… that zair Anglaish is no good. Bert if you speak a leedle Frainch, zey will feel at ease and try to ‘elp you.”
Made perfect sense to me. I don’t respond well to perfect strangers who approach me and expect me to speak Chinese. Fabrice’s countrymen – a crowd of French students, punctuating every second word of their loud banter with ‘putain’ - arrived en masse as I left Taman Negara with a boatload of Italians. It didn’t take me long to discover the Italians were big fans of 80s music. For the three hours to Kuala Tembeling they serenaded me with yesteryear’s hits: ‘Culture Club’ and ‘Frankie Goes to Hollywood’ sung like football chants.
--“Make Loaf! … Your Goal-ah!”
Perhaps all we need is ‘loaf’. Then the world won’t seem as bad. Perhaps the children are our future. I thought so, in one moment of weakness, as I let my four month old nephew grab my fingertip with his miniscule hand. Ignoring the maid, his mother, and his doting aunt for one Singapore second, the little man stared sleepily at me. The mist cleared slightly and I could see, just briefly, that the mountains and jungles of that faraway land were just as beautiful as they were treacherous. One day I may cash in my chips, find a travelling partner (or not), buy that one-way ticket, and strap myself in. But in the meantime there are plenty of other return trips to buy, many more memories to make, and more stamps to go in my passport. No destination is nobler than another. No journey is more respectable than another. I’m not afraid of commitment. It’s just that I’m committed to another path: getting a fast car, burning my name in the road, and seeing more of the world before starting down that other track. It’s not hard; travelling, that is. Sure, it takes time, money, and effort, but so does everything else. Anyone can do it.
So, when’s your turn?
