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Published: September 21st 2010
At 6:50 a guitar sounds. 6:55, samba music blares. A telephone rings at 7:00, and I finally wake up to the multiple alarms set late last night. I knew I would have trouble waking up. I stayed up late writing my KL blog and packing. Leaving my old bag in the room, I check-out. I want to give it to charity or a fellow traveler, but the lack of time will leave it to its fate. Maybe I should have written my email on it, so I could see how far it travels.
Hauling my bigger, cheaper bag on my back, tennis shoes tied to the front, I cradle my smaller bag to my chest and walk down the stairs. I opt for a
teksi and make it to KL Sentral in 10 minutes with no traffic.
My companion on the train is antsy and mumbles to himself. The rest of the train remains silent as people sleep or watch a Malaysian movie on the screen. I catch glimpses through my sleep. It begins as a comedy with a gay or ultra-feminine male providing comic-relief. Then the script turns into a thriller with shrieking violins that have become iconic
sound effects for psycho murderers and flailing knives. I’m so perplexed by the plot, I give up trying to make sense of it and get back to my book of talking cats.
Sam and Sam
At the Ipoh Station, I encounter Sam, a taxi driver who insists on taking me around Ipoh at a discounted rate of 25rm/hour. He warns that the hotel adds commissions that will increase my hourly rate by 10rm. I ask him for his card as I want to double-check before agreeing to anything. When I ask the bellhop at the hotel, he quotes 30rm, so I decide I’ll call Sam back later.
I go out on a stroll in search of food. It’s quiet in Ipoh. Everything’s slower, people speak English with thicker accents, there are more churches, and not as many crosswalks. Some stores have what appear to be good-luck charms outside their doors with incense in small containers.
Sam said the population runs around 500,000 and the majority consists of “rich Chinese people.” I turn a corner and notice a few customers joking with a man who is slicing up a chicken. I go around the dining area and see
dumplings and curry. Because of his friendly demeanor, I return to the first man and ask, “What is the best meal?”
He says, “Rice and Chick’n? You wan one?” I nod yes and sit down on a cheap chair. A young boy brings my food and I hand over 3 ringgits (about $1 USD). The chef stops by the table, points to the white broth and says, “This one car’t soup. I trow it in.” I nod my thanks and smile back.
The man jokes with every customer, sings, and yells words I can’t comprehend. The subtle broth warms my stomach. I fork the tenderized, moist chicken and buttered rice. I clean up the red-orange sauce at the end by wiping the chicken in it until there’s nothing left. I slowly sip the remainder of the broth and enjoy the jubilant atmosphere.
As I leave, I bow deeply, thank him for the food and ask if I can take a picture. He grins and his co-workers laugh. A few of them yell, “Cheese!” as I snap a photo. I show it to him and he gives a hearty laugh.
Back in my room, I try to
dial out, but to no avail. The operator advises, “Press 9.” No luck. I call the operator again, this time it’s a different person, “Press STAR 9.” I try *9, #9, every variation I can think of, and finally call back in defeat, “I’m sorry, but it’s not working.” She promises to send someone up.
A bit later, there’s a loud knock on my door and a male voice says, “You have problem with phone?” I open the door and two men walk in leaving the door open behind them. Outside, the housekeeping ladies peek in. They are dressed in Indian clothing with red dots on their forehead signifying that they’re married. The man speaks quickly, and I don’t catch everything he says, so I nod while adjusting my ears. He tries dialing out and runs into the same problem I experienced. I’m relieved it’s not only me.
He says, “We have to wait. Wheh you from? You ah Chinese.” He states with a thick Indian accent, to which I correct him.
He points to the taxi driver’s card and jokes, “My name is also Sam.” Small world.
After some more small talk he asks, “May
I call you on your intuhnet numbuh?” I’m at a loss of words to the unexpected turn of events and reply, “Um, sorry, I have no internet number.” He seems disappointed then asks, “Well then, how do I contact you?” I wasn’t expecting the situation and am unsure whether I’m getting hit on or if he’s just being friendly, so I say, “Well, I have an e-mail. That’s probably the best way to reach me.” I write down one of my less-used accounts and give him the paper.
He looks down at the paper, then looks up, and asks, “What is your religion?”
“Well, I wasn’t raised with a religion.”
He seems perplexed, “Then what do you believe?”
“I wasn’t raised by any one religion, received the influence of many, and consider myself spiritual. I believe there is a higher power and think it’s proven just by looking around, but humans are too flawed and minuscule to understand something so grand. That’s as far as I need to go. What is your religion?” I ask to be polite.
“I’m Christian,” he says with a proud smile. “I don’t believe in forcing religion on other people.
But, I enjoy discussing it. I study theology and will graduate soon.”
“What will you do with it?”
“I will preach! I preach now. Sharing the knowledge,” he seems happy to share. He picks up the phone again and tries calling out. Still not working.
So, he calls the operator and explains to me, “I will call the numbuh for you.” He asks the operator to connect him to the number and tells taxi Sam to meet me tomorrow morning at 8. I overhear Sam agree on the other line.
Preacher Sam hangs up the phone and asks me, “What are you doing for dinner?” Outside, the cleaning women giggle. He looks behind me and says, “They ah laughing at me. I like talking to my custumuhs.”
Without thinking in terms of acceptance or rejection or intention, I answer honestly, “Well, I haven’t gotten much sleep, so I’ll probably call it an early night, but I may be open for dinner tomorrow.” I wouldn’t mind talking to someone who lives in Ipoh, and though I’m not interested in him as a man, he seems like an interesting person I can get to know in the
safety of the hotel. I think the worst that may come out of it is too much preaching.
Sam smiles and says, “It’s bery nice meeting you, Michelle. I hope to continue talking with you.” He insists that I use the security bolt after he leaves and to call him if I have any more problems with the phone. The sky is overcast like Kuala Lumpur. The wind blows and whistles into a loose sill. From the 8th floor, I look down on the small town then crawl into bed and call it an early night.
Veerasamy and Preacher Sam
Taxi Sam’s early and waiting outside. He has a white dash of color on his temple. I know he’s Indian based on his accent, and that he’s Hindu based on the various gods decorating his dashboard. He gives me a smile and asks, “Are you ready?” I’m ready. Sam asks, “Have you ever been to an Indian Temple?”
“Two days ago in Kuala Lumpur. I visited the Sri Mariamman. I was amazed by the gurung.”
“Ah yes, that is a good one! Would you like to see more?” I feel up for anything today and go
with the flow.
“Sure.” He’s happy with my reply. I imagine ringgit signs are lighting up in his head.
As we go, Sam asks if I know of the Ipoh Tree that sits outside the train station. He says, “Ipoh tree is very poisonous. You know blowing pipe?” He makes the motion of blowing hard through a pipe. “They take from the Ipoh Tree and the poison hits your skin and you can die.” I think of Indiana Jones in
Raiders of the Lost Ark as Sam goes on to explain the Indian gods.
Hinduism and Family Gods
“My favorite is Ganesh. My wife likes Miraimman. They are soft gods.” We stand at a temple with a beige-yellow gurung. Sam asks, “Do you see the elephants? This is a temple dedicated to Ganesh.” Indeed, Ganesh is everywhere in different postures with a single head to six. In the middle of the temple a priest blesses a worshiper.
I find the next temple more interesting. “This is the monkey king, Hanuman. He is not a soft god. You see this statue?” He points to the center statue, “This is him. The one to the right, this is
his, what do you say, second-in-command? He opens his heart and you can see his mother and father. He only thinks of them. You see this statue?” He points to a five-headed statue. Each head the shape of a different animal: a horse, a pig, a bird, a cat, and a monkey. “This one is third-in-command. If you do something bad, he knows. If you hide underground, he will become a pig and dig underground to find you. If you climb up a mountain, he will fly and catch you in his claws.”
He shows me another god and explains, “The family gods we can keep inside the house. But we keep this one outside. If you leave him inside, he will kill your family. You must keep outside, and he is like police man. If anybody tries to burglar your house or do bad, he will protect you. You see he holds a knife in his hand. But never leave him inside the house. Outside only.”
Finally, we walk towards a serpent’s head that extends out of a roof. Beneath the roof, more snake sculptures decorate the ground that looks as though its covered in blood, but,
of course, it’s just red powder. “This god is more for women, unmarried women, and if anything is bad or bad thing happen, they come here and pray to this god.”
An old woman sings to the monkey god with a strong voice that pulls undulating notes straight from her throat. Sam continues, “Most people pray to the family gods. The gods in this temple are too strong and pure, too pure. If I pray to one of them and say I am a bachelor and then get married, they would come after me for lying. They are too strict. Most people pray for special occasion.”
In the taxi, Sam opens up more as I ask, “How many children do you have?”
“I have five children. Oldest: daughter. Second: daughter. Third is my son in Singapore. Fourth: daughter. And youngest is son.”
“You are a wealthy man!”
“Yes. I am very lucky. That is why I pray to family gods. Family is important. All my daughters are staff nurses. My older son works for Singapore company. And my youngest is only sixteen. I am glad to have you as customer. Some tourists look on internet
and choose Chinese temples and have no open mind for anything else. They never see other things like Hindu temples. They know nothing about it, but think they know everything. You are open to learning. And you are girl. I am family man with children. I must treat you like my daughters. You trust me. I must take care of that trust. You are lucky. Many other taxi drivers not take care of you. I take good care of you and get you back safe. That is my number one priority. I like money, too, but to deserve that money, I give quality experience to my customers.” He shares his random observations with a comfortable candor I can sit back and enjoy, “Christians, Chinese, Buddhists, Indians, we visit each others’ temples. Muslims don’t. But that’s the only difference.”
Riding the Dragon’s Back
Next, we stop at the Mekprasit Buddhist Temple, a Thai temple with clawed dragon paws standing at the entrance. Strong incense wafts through the air. Sam points out small containers built into the walls. He says, “Cremations of people who have passed. This is a very sacred, special place.” On the cover of some of the boxes
are photos of individuals who have passed on. There’s something about Buddhist temples that always touch me more than other religious sanctuaries. Perhaps it’s the effect of incense or the nostalgia of going to temples with my grandmother or mother, I’m not sure, but there’s a numinous wave that calms my mind.
We walk out past the wave-shaped body of the dragon towards the claws of the entrance. Sam chuckles, points to the dragon’s scales, and says, “You want to go somewhere? You ride on the back and he will take you across the sea.”
The Mystical Chinese Temples
Perak Tong rests beneath a steep rock face draped with green curtains of overgrown forest. A monkey grooms its tail on a red rooftop. I look up the stairs and am overwhelmed by its exterior. But, I haven’t seen anything yet. When my eyes adjust to the darker light, I can’t help but stare surprised at the cave walls metaphorphosed into liquid paintings from a Chinese painter’s palette. A cross-legged golden Buddha sits five or six times higher than the woman worshipping before him.
I move like a magnet from one cave painting to the next. I’m struck
speechless by their beauty. It would be one thing to see them framed on a building wall, it’s quite another to see them painted onto the walls of a dark cave. Some rest on high corners of the cave, others are three times my height.
I climb up the stairs that extend out of the cave and see Buddhist pagodas sitting atop various parts of the mountain. I follow the winding steps up and down. Even on the outer rock face, a huge black Chinese character is painted on a white backdrop. I wonder if the character is always the same or if it’s the painter’s whim.
One random prayer house sits dusty and unopened. I peer through the dusty windows and see three prayer mats sitting across from three paintings. The ambiance is more mystifying because of the random ray of sunshine that leaks into the untouched room.
The mountain is devoid of tourists and other visitors. I enjoy having it to myself and after climbing plenty of stairs, I try to find my way back down using different paths. Every path I take is either a dead-end or a longer round-about, so I finally retrace
my steps down the mountain.
When I return to Sam’s seated location, I ask, “Can I buy water here?” Sam nods and takes me out to the unopened store. He must be a regular or just very friendly, as he waves and talks to many of the people at the various temples we visit. I buy two waters, one for me and one for him.
People ask him throughout the day, “Where is she from?” And he answers either that I’m from Korea or that I’m Korean. I can tell because “Korea” does not differ in many languages. From this, I wonder if it’s better to say I’m Korean rather than American. This is the case in many foreign countries. I have some friends that pretended to be Canadian during their European travels so as to avoid the politics and judgments that arise in being American. Evidently many people do this.
Speaking of America, I borrow the newspaper from Sam as we ride to the next temple and skim through it. One article speaks of reactions to the controversial Muslim Temple near the New York 9-11 site. I loved Keith Oberman’s passionate points on the subject:
Idiotic Man in FL
Some things make me so ashamed of my country. Though I love to hear the people who speak out against these things. The article relays that prominent US religious leaders are gathering against the intentions of a Florida-based church to perform a Quran burning on 9-11. I sigh and reflect on what the real intention behind such a burning besides sanctimonious hate and ignorance. When I think of book burnings, I recall Hitler or the Korean War where such an action instigated more hatred. What does this religious leader hope to bring about with such a throw of the middle-finger (!#%!^(MISSING)*&%!$(MISSING)@&*^)?
When I walk up to
Kek Lok Tong, the cave yawns open into a black throat. I feel miniscule beneath the large stalactites and golden statues. The statues stand like black paper cut-outs while people’s shadowy figures walk around them. There’s another opening on the other side of the cave, and a prehistoric sensation washes over me as I see a great brown lake in the middle of the pruned jungle garden. Tall plants with purple leaves surround the lake. A fish jumps out of the murky water, leaving a clear hole in its wake, which slowly shrinks until it is brown once again.
The last temple is
Sam Poh Tong. At the entrance, a pond of craggy,
moss-ridden rocks decorated with various Buddhist figurines sits still. I wander to the back of the temple where countless tortoises make their home in a pond or sunbathe on the side of the water. Children climb onto the fence, supported by their parents, awestruck by the ugly, yet elegant creatures with slit eyes, hard shells, and rubbery necks.
My shirt is drenched in sweat when I return to Sam’s taxi. Sam shares that his real name is Veerasamy, “But it is hard to pronounce, no? So, I make it ‘Sam’ because it is easier for foreigners.” We take a longer drive out to Kellie’s Castle.
Though I’m quick to be a scaredy cat in the face of anything supernatural, the supposed haunting of Kellie’s Castle doesn’t scare me under the glare of blinding sunlight. If anything, I’m beat by the sun.
Kellie owned 960 acres of the surrounding land full of palm oil trees and rubber trees. During the construction of his home, a mysterious illness killed many laborers. Kellie was told he must appease the gods by building a temple, so the remaining workers switched over to the new project of constructing a Hindu temple, which
includes a statue of Kellie amongst the gods. I ask Veerasamy, “Isn’t it sacrilegious or wrong to include himself beside the statue of the gods?”
He replies, “Not at all. Kellie is like a god. He did much for the people of Ipoh. We Hindus give him much respect and pray to him as well.”
Kellie’s Castle is rumored to be haunted by the man himself because he died of pneumonia before it could be completed. Others may find it more interesting, but I found the castle dull compared to the earlier temples.
”You Want Real Food from South India?”
Veerasamy asks me. Sure. He takes me to one of his favorite restaurants. He is diabetic and already grabbed a packaged lunch, so he eats very little.
He helps pick out the food. A seasoned red curry that’s sweet to taste, brown curried potatoes, green vegetables similar to squash but with a thicker skin on the outside, buttered rice, and Mango Lassi. It’s by far the best I’ve ever had. It’s not too thick and a perfect balance of mango and yogurt that doesn’t leave me with a sour face.
As we enjoy our meal,
Veerasamy seems to know most of the people in the restaurant as they stop by and ask about me and mainly where I’m from besides other conversation I can’t possibly make out. For the first time, he mentions that I’m also from the United States.
I’m so full. Full of sights. Full of food. I need time to digest everything. Veerasamy returns me to my hotel. We agree to head out to Gua Temperung the next morning if I’m not too tired from today’s excursions.
I shower, write, and take a nap. Around 7, the phone rings. It’s Sam from the hotel asking if I’m still open to dinner. I’m reluctant but say, “Okay. We can meet in the lobby.”
He suggests a nearby place a friend of his, a girl from Singapore, runs. I’m weary of leaving the hotel with him and make sure we stick to local roads and confirm that the location is not far. He points right across the street where many people are dining and the lights are bright.I calm down and follow. As a woman, it’s unfortunate, but I do take extra precautions to be safe.
He introduces me to
his Singapore friend who asks where I’m from and Sam says I’m Korean. She expresses surprise and says, “
Ahn nyeong haseyo. Chum baek haes subnida.” Wow! I’m surprised. Her Korean pronunciation is good.
Sam is also surprised and confronts, “What did you say?” His tone sounds paranoid, and little warning bells light off in my head. Weariness creeps up my neck, and I notice that she’s warmer to me than to him.
We order a lychee tea that comes with lychee, ginger, slices of jujube, a quail egg and other Chinese herbs. It’s sweet and delicious, much like Korean
Sujeonggwa. I drink the liquid and leave over the egg and other ingredients. I receive a soup bowl of noodles, herbs, and thin slices of red-skinned pork. It’s delicious and with both of our bowls less than 5rm. Sam pays before I know it. I insist on paying, but he refuses the money.
A man visits our table. I catch his words and look at the coupon-like paper, which advertises a food fair. Sam misunderstands and donates his 5rm in change to the man. The man says, “Ah no, no donations. This is food fair. You can try
different foods. It’s on Sunday.” And hands Sam back his money.
A little too insistent, Sam says, “I’m busy on Sundays,” which I assume refers to his church, “so I donate money. Go ahead, tekkit. I’ll donate the money.”
The other man shakes his head, shrugs his shoulders and takes the 5rm in a whatever-you-say response. Sam says to me, “I donate money because they ah feeding the poor.” Perhaps it’s in my own head, but I sense a bit of overarching condescension.
I know it’s low of me, but I feel the need to correct him, “Oh, really? Perhaps I misunderstood; I will also donate some money then.” I go after the guy with 5rm to get my facts straight and ask, “Wait, are you asking for donations to feed the poor? I thought it was a food fair to try food.”
The man says, “Yes, it’s food fair. You try food. I don’t need donations. He not understand.”
So, I return my money to my pocket and go to the table and explain to Sam, “Em, I asked the man and he says it’s not to donate food to the poor. It’s actually
for us to try different types of food. It’s a food fair. You can probably take your money back if you like.”
Sam looks upset and I decide not to press the issue further. The warning bells are official now, and I realize this may have been a bad idea to begin with. Lesson learned.
The man with the food fair tickets returns to our table though and insists on giving Sam back his money. For some reason the words “food fair” escape Sam’s comprehension, and he sticks to his own reality that, “I give to the poor. Yes. I donate money. Tekkit. I’m busy Sundays.” The other man doesn’t want to deal with the matter any longer, pockets the money, and leaves.
Sam, thankfully, mentions his three children and wife with whom he’s been married to over eleven years. And, his intentions are purely religious. He shares his belief that, “You know God exists because theh was the Volcanic eruption in Iceland, uh? You know? And theh are murduhruhs, kidnappuhs, child abusuhs,” and he goes on and on, officially killing any remnant interest on my part.
I reply, “I agree there’s a higher power, not
only because of bad things but good things, too.”
Then he takes on a different approach, “You know, Christianity is ethics. Without ethics, people will murduh, and do bad things. Free-thinking is dangerous. Free-thinkuhs have no boundaries. You must choose what you believe. To be good.”
I feel uncomfortable with the subject as he earlier labeled me a “free-thinker,” and try to reply carefully, “Well, I think religion is good for some people. But the idea of good and bad is not restricted by religion. There are good people and bad people amongst Christians, Jews, Muslims, Hindus, and free-thinkers. If religion prevents a person from doing bad, great, but sometimes it’s not enough.”
The next half-hour drags on. I manage to change topics to his upbringing. He was raised into Christianity as his father before him and grandmother before that. Though his grandfather was Hindu, he did not mind that they follow the Christian God. This reminds me of Veerasamy who shared that he also goes to church and believes in the Christian God as well. To which, I wonder if he would be accepted in Christian belief or judged for worshiping false idols?
Sam finishes
his meal and seems to realize that there will be no more religious talk. We return to the hotel where he says, “I hope to email you and continue talking with you. When you return to Malaysia, I hope you will bring your family with you.” I thank him for the meal and reply in kind, a lie, but one on the safe side, I feel.
I have many religious friends, some of whose religious undertaking I find quite admirable, genuine, compelling, and even enlightened, but Sam is not one of these people. His approach to religion makes me uncomfortable.
It’s a religious fervor that makes him feel not so present when having a conversation. He comes across more lost than found. He reminds me of evangelists, cultists, or fanatics whose precarious reasoning verges on desperate compensation for something lacking. I have yet to define it further.
Excerpt (
Kafka on the Shore):
Narrow minds devoid of imagination. Intolerance, theories cut off from reality, empty terminology, usurped ideals, inflexible systems. Those are the things that really frighten me. What I absolutely fear and loathe. Of course it’s important to know what’s right and what’s wrong. Individual errors in judgment can usually be corrected. As long as you have the courage to admit mistakes, things can be turned around. But intolerant, narrow minds with no imagination are like parasites that transform the host, change form, and continue to thrive. They’re a lost cause
It makes me think of the potential Qu’ran burning in Florida.
Friday: Hari Raya
With no internet to contact people back home or nearby travelers, I hang onto hours and lose track of days in Ipoh.
Veerasamy picks me up early again. It’s very gray this morning without the golden sunrise of yesterday. We head out to the Gua Temperung cave, and he hands me a thick planner of alphabetical letters with numbers beneath. We went over this the previous day with my birthday, and now he wants me to include my name.
“Each letter of your name equals a number. You add up all the numbers until you are left with one, and that is your number.”
My birthday equals 8. This is by adding the single digits of the month, day and year of birth. If you were born on January 23, 1904, you would add
1+2+3+1+9+0+4 = 20. Then you would add 2+0 = 2. So, your lucky number is 2. I don’t recall what the alphabetical numbers equal as they were random. Perhaps it can be found on the internet.
My birthday (just the day of birth) = 7. Then my whole birthday (month + day + year) = 8. Finally, I add my full name and birthday = 7. So, Veerasamy says, “Ah, so you are mostly 7, so you must do everything in sevens. That is your lucky number. So, when you find a man? Make sure he is a seven. This number has great luck for you. My number is three. My wife is nine. Because three times three is nine, we match perfectly.” We go on to speak of numbers in different cultures (e.g. the number four is bad-luck in many East Asian cultures like Korea, Japan, and China as it is the number of death).
He explains that for Indians, April 15 - May 15th and July 15th - August 15th are not good times to get married. The rare exceptions are those who are born in these months. He describes the Indian wedding ceremony with multiple
washings of the hands and blessings passed by both sides of the family. When we reach Gua Temperung, the gate is closed.
A man in a motorcycle drives over and explains that today is the one day they are closed due to Hari Raya. I’m okay with this as I’m okay to take a slow day after yesterday’s intensity. To compensate, I ask Veerasamy to take me to grab some of the fruit he insisted I must try. I buy two bags of mangoes, pears, bananas, and a red spiked fruit named rambutan. One bag for him, one bag for me. He asks, “Okay, what now?”
The gray weather makes me want to sit and relax. “I think I will return to my hotel.”
He drops me off at the hotel and I ask, “How much today?”
He pauses and says, “Today, we went out of the city. Gua Temperung is outside, so the rate is different.”
This is news. It would be different had I been forewarned. I’m feeling a dark dread rise up my chest. I hate these types of unpleasant surprises. Veerasamy goes on to show me a paper showing how the
rate to Gua Tupurung is higher than the standard rate. 40rm one way!
It’s not the amount of money as much as the fact that he didn’t tell me beforehand and the previous day had been hourly. Perhaps it was an honest mistake. I don't know.
I say, “Ah. You didn’t mention it before. I assumed the rate would be the same.”
“I leave it up to you. You pay me what you want.”
I dish out the money and leave things to karmic resolution. He’s my ride to the bus station tomorrow. Still, the gray clouds reflect my spirits as I get out of the taxi.
I drop off the fruit in the fridge and head outside. I need to do something to get out of this slump rather than sit around. I consider my loose jeans that fall down despite my belt buckle being worn to its last hole. I figure I’ll walk to the small shopping mall I spotted from my hotel room. When I arrive, my first destination is Starbucks. Nothing like a taste from home with a Caramel Macchiato to rejuvenate my spirit. I sit outside under an umbrella and
pull out my book to scribble my reflections. I feel a little lighter as I return the empty cup.
I go around the shops looking for some new jeans and a belt. Skinny jeans have overtaken the world. When I lift my legs, I feel the seams will explode. Each store carries the same jeans under a different name. I finally find some Levi’s and buy a sturdy black belt and ask for three extra holes, so it’ll last me a long time to come.
Label it estrogen or emotional shopping, I feel refreshed and look for lunch to pass the 30 minutes for the tailoring (I have short legs). All-in-all satisfied, I head out, pick up my pants, and return to the hotel.
I sit down on the chair and look out at the mountains. The sky is gray, but I can see more of the mountains than before. I hear the barely audible hiss of traffic and the birds chirping through the glass. I feel relaxed now. Hari Raya passes quietly and without any crazy congested roads.
Next stop: Cameron Highlands (
Politics and Police in Cameron Highlands).
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non-member comment
Miss you!
It's so nice to see your beautiful face! I'm glad you're having a good time! You look a bit tired in one photo, but I'll chalk that up to you traveling so much and having an AMAZING LIFE!!! I'm so jealous, but I can't wait to see you next year... I'm sure you'll have more stories!!! MWAHS, love ya bb!