Malaysia, Part 3: Not Malaysia, Thailand

We rolled and carried and stacked our luggage onto a crowded ferry in the Penang harbor, a myriad of travelers squeezing into every available seat, and sailed the bumpy water to Langkawi, the northern most Malaysian island.  After a taxi ride to the opposite side of Langkawi, officials in a casual port side office stamped our passports out of Malaysia while we watched a flock of hornbills glide from tree top to tree top.  Boarding a speed boat for Koh Lipe, a tiny island off the coast of southern Thailand, we were off to a new country, a new culture, a new experience.  I have not cared much for boats in the past, but am realizing now that every time I am sailing on the ocean -- an experience I am having with increased frequency since moving to Indonesia -- I absolutely love it.  The sky was unseasonably overcast and the waves were choppy.  We arrived soaked with ocean spray.  The speed boat staff unloaded our bags directly onto the sand and, while we waited on a wooden slab bench, an official inside a little shack on the beach processed passports, calling out country names when finished, the most informal immigration procedure I have ever witnessed.  The speed boat docked on the busier, more developed side of Koh Lipe, but we had decided to stay on quieter Sunset Beach.  Wading into the warm water, we loaded up our luggage onto a long tail boat which motored us around to the other side of the island.  It is high, high, the highest high season, but we smoothly find an available room right on the beach.  Three boats, a taxi and two immigration offices later we have arrived for our authentic beach vacation.  

The simple joy of awakening early and seeing the sun rise orange over the ocean, Asher and I sharing a perfectly placed log in the sand, then sitting on our porch enjoying a pot of green tea as the sea breeze rustles palm leaves.  Our porch is front row on the sand, facing long stretches of turquoise water that only gets deep and turns dark blue far off shore, the hazy outline of jagged, uninhabited, rocky islands in the distance.  Between us and the shore’s edge are sparse clumps of stumpy palms and extremely tall pines.  Pines are a surprise for me on a tropical island, their needles wispy, draping like moss, their tiny, round pinecones smaller than a lump of sugar.  Occasionally a motorboat powers by; part time fishing boats, part time sea taxis and excursion transportation, all of a lovely asymmetrical Thai design with a long extension of wood at the bow and an almost dragonfly shaped motor extending off the stern.  When the sun is bright the white sand is blinding.  In places it is so fine a powder it is like pastry flour.  The beaches have tiny, gentle waves, perfect for Sofia the Mermaid to back float across a cove and snorkel in water shallow enough to stand in.  

Every day we do an art project using whatever we find on the beach.  Every day the project begins as a collaboration, Sofia and I, and soon becomes my intense focus while Sofia swims, draws in the sand, dances across the beach.  Sofia the Shell Collector is an excellent assistant when I put out the call for more big white clam shells or more colorful bits.  I take total enjoyment in the process and when I feel complete, leave the creation for the tide to redistribute or the resort staff to sweep.

Every day we swim in the warm, clear, rejuvenating ocean water.  Asher and I take turns snorkeling far off shore where the water becomes deep and the coral flourishes.  One of us stays with Sofia in the shallows and the other gets a good work out stroking against the current, the pay off being bright purple giant clams, sea eels, long, spiky sea urchins and florescent fish.

We walk everywhere.  We do not see one single car. We do see one very small, very short pick up truck twice and a few motorbikes.  Sofia the Barefoot takes to walking everywhere without shoes.  After a few days I join here.  We can go anywhere on this island on foot.  We can go anywhere on this island without shoes.

For years I have craved this feeling of endless days beside the ocean, hour after hour filled only with sand and salt water and sun.  It wasn’t a burning passion, but a quiet desire like a musical note held a long time while other instruments fill up the foreground.  Now that I am in the experience I have longed for I have the time to appreciate the details and to recognize all the pieces that have come together to bring me here.  Some of those pieces had rough edges and yet here I am, on a  gorgeous and exotic beach, watching two little birds hop by, admiring the black and white patterns on their wings and their bright yellow beaks.  Here I am, my body turning a darker shade of brown every day, savoring the sun, the colors of the ocean, the cloud formations, the constant sea breeze, even the rinsing off of sand from my feet before entering our little beach hut.

We celebrated New Years Eve on the busier side of the island.  One walk way connects Sunrise Beach and Pataya, lined with restaurants hawking fresh fish, Thai massage joints and, to Sofia The Ice Cream Lover’s delight, a real Italian gelato shop.  This was the first time we had ventured over on foot and the beach was hopping.  Every beachfront restaurant was packed and many had a dj or live music.  Large groups of Thai locals were playing games.  Two guys with boxing gloves straddling a wooden perch built into the shallows of the ocean punched at each other in a good natured way until one or both fell over into the water.  In the sand they ran a relay race that involved putting on a pair of shorts, in some cases too small for the participants, and running a loop back to home base.  The visitors, mostly every flavor of European, were sitting at long candlelit tables in the sand eating late dinners.  Many were releasing Thai New Years Blessings into the sky.  Shaped like Naguchi lamps, these flying lanterns are cylinders of white paper with a paper top and a metal hoop at the bottom holding a flammable coil.  Up and down the beach people were pouring their hearts and dreams and aspirations for the new year into their lamps, igniting their coils, waiting the prescribed 5 minutes for the air inside to heat up, then releasing their prayers, the lanterns rising like miniature hot air balloons.  Most of the time the breeze carried the lanterns up, over the docked boats, over the bay, a colony of oversized fireflies gliding gracefully out to sea, forming their own constellations in the night sky.  Sometimes a lamp had barely begun to take flight before it lost altitude, tangling into the mast of a sailboat or crashing into the ocean.  If the lanterns predict the future, some were in store for a dramatic year, their lamps rising, dropping dangerously close to the water, then catching the wind for a jerky climb up again.  For hours before midnight fireworks rocketed into the dark sky, not in one centralized location but percussively here and there.  We walked the stretch of beach in shining New Years masks, blowing sound makers, taking in all of the activities, Sofia The Prolific Artist pausing to draw figures in the sand.  Eventually we parked ourselves on a platform in a bar with good music.  Sofia made it until 11:30 and fell asleep, giving Asher and I the opportunity to start off the year with the workout of carrying her back across the island, under the canopy of fireworks exploding.  Earlier in the afternoon she had correctly informed me, “I am heavier when I am asleep.” 

On Koh Lipe every bit of food, other than fish caught locally, is imported from the mainland.  Another tropical setting that imports all of its food supply... I am noticing a strange, unsustainable pattern here on planet earth.  The (imported) curries were fantastic and I added my own fresh leafy (imported) Asian greens purchased at tiny markets.  One restaurant had an agreeable chef who allowed me to bring my own greens and fruit which he blended for us into green smoothies.  After a few days I was training him to make raw food dishes and writing down menu suggestions.

We hired a long tailed boat for a snorkeling expedition, island hopping to new stretches of coral.  Sofia the Snorkeler, afraid of getting her face wet in a pool just a few short months ago, swam hand in hand with Asher and I in the open sea.  We spotted a puffer fish and a lion fish with long mane of fringe.  When Sofia wanted to stay on the beach, Ring, our boat driver, made animals for her out of palm leaves. 

I wanted to stay beside the ocean until I had the satisfied feeling of having enough.  One evening Sofia said, “I’m beginning to get tired of this beach,”  and I said, “That’s good, because we leave tomorrow.”  I was ready.  We were all ready.  It was time to go.

Back to Langkawi by speedboat.  A taxi to the airport.  A plane to Kuala Lumpur.  If you want to take a taxi out of the KL airport you must purchase a ticket inside.  We didn’t know that, so when we finally got to the head of the queue we were ticketless and Asher had to run back inside the airport building.  They sold him a premium ticket, though he hadn’t requested one, and we were wondering if we had over paid, but while the long line of travelers waited for little cabs, we immediately got into a nice big new car.  We liked our Chinese driver, Andy, and hired him again the next day for a treasure hunt.  We had a day and a half before returning to Bali and were determined to find a newfangled ice shaver to bring home with us.  It was an adventure into the outskirts of KL, and sometimes it looked like the trail was going cold, but we ended up sourcing exactly the machine we wanted.  We knew somehow it would work out, because we felt the inspiration, and it did.  We found a company that could order the machine from a warehouse and deliver it to our hotel before our flight.  Like an old fashioned Asian ice shaving machine, our new baby has a spiked piece that hand cranks down hard on a frozen block of deliciousness, then electrically spins on an extremely sharp blade producing ribbons of edible confetti.  The whole thing is encased in pinkish red plastic with a big company sticker on the side that says WELL!, so it seems like something fun is going on when you just look at the thing.   

When we left Kuala Lumpur for travels north, KL was geared up and dressed up for Christmas.  Never missing a consumer sales opportunity, when we returned we found KL all done up for Chinese New Year.  The decorations mostly involve dragons and huge quantities of paper flowers.  In Chinatown Sofia the Fashionista found a hot pink Chinese dress.  In Little India she found another frock covered with beads and sequins.  Pink, of course.  She spent every last penny, or Malaysian ringet, of her birthday money we had been saving.  It was time to go home.

From vacation we return home to... Bali.  That still tickles us. I am experimenting with recipes for my ice shaver like coconut vanilla, raw cacao cashew and mango orange.  In the Green School warung I serve up the flavored snowy confections in bowls made from coconut shells.  It’s a hit with the kids, my first real raw food crossover item popular with the under 16 crowd.  Up until now I have mostly been serving to parents.  Our friend Ben Macrory brought back from his vacation in Oregon Asher’s commercial coffee grinder and his cold pressed coffee equipment.  We are getting tight on space in the warung.  Time to build the restaurant...

Malaysia Part 2: Going North

I fell asleep on the bus from Kuala Lumpur to the Cameron Highlands.  When I awoke, I thought I must have arrived on another planet.  On either side of the highway was an utterly devastated landscape, brutally clear cut land without any sign whatsoever of the lush jungle that used to thrive there.  Not a green speck.  All that remains is terraced red earth, ready for monoculture plantings of oil palms.  I had seen multitudes of palms from the plane before landing in the KL airport.  From the air they look beautiful; repetitive floral star shapes in endless green rows.  On the ground I realized the raw, alive, breathing jungle was being steadily transformed into a single commodity, an orderly, controlled, one crop nation ruled by short term gain.

Farther away from KL and closer to the Cameron Highlands we entered into steeper territory, more difficult to conquer, the jungle still reigning.  The roads were winding and narrow.  We sensed monkeys and wild things in the mountains.  In our travel group of two families we had animals of our own; 4 rowdy little girls with big voices.  The busload of Malays and Indians must have been glad when we reached our destination.

We stuffed the taxi van to the limit with luggage and ourselves, and it deposited us at a Scottish style chalet, built during the colonial era, now run by an Indian family, done up for Christmas.  Both the chalet and the family.  It was Christmas Eve.  Our friends waxed nostalgic for Christmas in England and partook of the evening special with cocktails, turkey dinner, Christmas pudding, songs and games beside the fireplace.  Asher and I opted out and went into the tiny town, during a downpour, searching for something fresh and ending up with vegetarian south Indian food served on a banana leaf.  We returned in time for a round of musical chairs.  I never knew it was a Christmas activity.  Even an Indian Santa arrived, beard askew.  Christmas, in a Muslim country, served up British style by Hindus.  Surreal. 

We intended to hike through spongy jungle in search of the legendary giant Rafflesia flowers while in the Cameron Highlands.  We hired a guide, Balan, a third generation Cameron Highlander of Indian decent driving a heavy duty old Land Rover mounted with cow horns.  Balan was willing to take us on the jungle trails, but informed us we would wade through knee deep mud.  We decided that might be a bit much for the 4 little howler monkey girls and opted for easier tourist paths with a view and a tea plantation stopover.  Half of Malaysia, it seemed, was vacationing in the Cameron Highlands which is rapidly sacrificing its natural beauty to develop into a commercial tourist trap, a phenomena sweeping Asia.  The narrow roads can get clogged to the point where a drive that should take 15 minutes lasts four hours.  Balan knew how to get around so that we never once got caught in traffic.  Our jungle walk was ho hum, but the rolling hillsides carpeted with vibrant green pruned tea plants were stunning.  Asher loaded up on a year supply of Boh tea while the girls had lunch in the plantation restaurant serving up food I couldn’t even look at, but instead feasted my eyes on the surprisingly sophisticated modern architecture design cantilevered over the growing tea.  For dinner Chinese steamboats, a Cameron Highlands specialty of a dozen vegetables you can plop for yourself, table side, into steaming broth -- or, in my case, skip the boiling pot and consume the veggies raw -- finally gave me something to eat that I didn’t mind consuming.

Moving further north, again by bus, we made our way to Penang, the Pearl of the Orient, a large island in the Malacca Straits almost kissing the coast of northwestern Malaysia.  An old trade route, Penang bears Dutch, Portuguese and British colonial influences as well as having seen waves of Chinese, Indian and Armenian immigration.  Word has it that Penang offers the best street food in Asia.  We arrived in George Town, Penang between Christmas and New Years without reservations or a plan, but with 4 wiggly girls wanting to run their legs and needing a meal.  Sofia also needed a toilet, but the bus station didn’t seem to offer that kind of amenity and we found a nice, hidden patch of grass.  We also found, immediately, two taxis able to take us to a hotel that happened to have rooms available at a decent rate and the rooms happened to have views of the ocean.  In no time at all we were on the streets sampling the cuisine, trying a bit of this here and a taste of that there.  It was super handy having our friend Edith with us (mother of the 3 stair-step girls two years apart), who grew up speaking Mandarin at home and could explain to the baffled street chefs, used to tossing everything into a sizzling wok, that I really didn’t want my Chinese cabbage fried.  Really.

George Town is a UNESCO World Heritage site which means plentiful strolling opportunities down side streets with colonial architecture and glimpses into the past.  We found a few wonderfully restored buildings, converted into restaurants or hotels, but most of George Town is more in the category of shabby chic.  Or just shabby.  On an early morning run I found some structures from a previous century that the jungle was in the process of reclaiming, trees and vines climbing through the windows.  Later we found a coffee bar with a wifi signal and were able to sit curbside sipping espresso and hopping on skype with my parents and son while surrounded by the streets of Penang just waking up, a confluence of influences and time periods merging.  Outside our hotel were updated versions of the rickshaw, pulled by a human on a bicycle, always waiting for a fare.  We hired two -- all the rickshaw drivers seem to be older men -- and they took us for a spin around town and down to the original port where the first Chinese immigrants made their homes.  The tiny rustic houses, still inhabited, look much as they always had only now each one has a television.  We determined that Penang offered a more authentic view into 19th century China than China does, Penang never having gone through the Mao era cultural wipeout.  

On one outing we took the munchkins to the Penang State Museum.  Entering the initial exhibit my surprised eye caught sight of a large photograph of the Lubavitcher Rebbi.  I learned that Penang’s Armenian quarter had once contained a small Jewish section and a Jewish cemetery, maintained by Muslims, still exists.  As my friends and the children continued sweeping through the museum, I fell into a lengthy conversation, before the Rebbi’s watchful eye, with two Jewish New Yorkers, Santa Fe transplants.  We had much in common including mutual friends who live in Bali.  This couple had just come from Koh Lipe, Thailand and it just so happened that Asher and I had recently decided Koh Lipe would be our next stop after Penang.  They gave us a big thumb’s up about going there and were able to recommend a place to stay.  Eventually I caught up with our group and had fun photographing the kids in front of the museum’s historic photographs, looking like they had stepped into the past.

Jon and Edith took the children to the Botanical Gardens while Asher and I had a meal with friends of friends who live in Penang.  Kung Wai, native to Penang, works with an NGO promoting organic farming and his Japanese wife, Junko, runs a Waldorf inspired preschool.  We had a lively conversation about raw food, public health and the politics of organic agriculture.  Malaysia, Kung Wai informed us, imports the vast majority of its food from Thailand and China.  What a dead-end course for a country to take, removing itself from its own food supply, choosing to chop down its jungle, import food necessities and focus on a single crop, palm oil, for export.  We left Penang with thoughts of gratitude for the Green School and the opportunity to put our beliefs into practice, serving up healthy, organic, locally grown food, and a sense of how important that model will be in the future.

Part 3 yet to come...