Our First Korean Typhoon

We returned to Korea in late August after spending two weeks in Idaho/Oregon to find out that we had missed a couple of typhoons and near constant rain. Korean summers are absolutely miserable, marked by excessive heat, humidity, and precipitation. I am trying to have a really good attitude about winter this year because I find the summers infinitely worse.


Unfortunately, we did experience one final typhoon a few days after our return. We awoke at 5am to winds at speeds we had never before experienced and rain so heavy you could barely see through it. By 8:15, when I usually leave for school, things had calmed down a little bit, but when we looked outside there was no one on the streets. I waited until 8:20 to see if my co-teacher would call me to say that school was canceled or closed (I knew the chances of this were slim), but when I didn’t hear from her I was forced to venture outside despite the stormy conditions.

Everywhere I looked I saw trees parallel to the ground, debris, downed power lines, and billboards stripped of everything except their frames. While the wind continued to rage, I made my way to school, running through areas with an abundance of trees. It was definitely one of the scarier events of my life. As I approached the school I walked by several restaurants that had collapsed and I almost walked into live power lines flapping in the wind. Luckily I was able to hear a Korean man yelling at me to watch out in Korean over the wind. Throughout the walk I was suspiciously one of the only people on the streets, and as I got closer to the school it was very apparent that there was no one at school. Just as I arrived at school I heard my phone ring. I glanced down and saw that my co-teacher was calling. Her first word were, “What are you doing?” I responded, “Uhhhhh, I’m walking to school.” I don’t know what she said next because it was in Korean, but her next words in English were, “Why are you going to school?” At this point I was super annoyed. “No one called me, so I assumed we had school. What do you want me to do now?”


I ended up going inside (fortunately the doors were unlocked) and I sat in the dark until the staff and students arrived 2 hours later. The power was out, so my only option was to read in my increasingly hot and humid classroom. Thankfully I had a book with me.

I don’t really know who was making the decisions at this point, or why everyone was forced to come to school. Because the power was out, there was no way for teachers to use their computers, and no way for the cafeteria to make lunch. Everyone, students included, arrived at 11 am only to leave at noon. Of course, the teachers were forced to stay all day. This made for an extremely miserable day because we didn’t have power until 4pm, meaning there was no air conditioning. It was probably close to 90 that day, and the humidity was such that it left you with a constant damp and sticky feeling. By lunch time I incorrectly assumed we would be allowed to go home or leave to get lunch, but for some reason the Principal decided we had to stay at school. Unfortunately, there were no open restaurants nearby because our area had sustained quite a bit of damage. By this point I was cranky and frustrated, but I tried to hold in my complaints. I couldn’t understand why no one else was irritated that we had to stay at school in the sweltering heat with no power or food. Around 12:30 my co-teacher showed up with a loaf of bread and gave me a few pieces. Apparently this was lunch.

The day ended at 4:40. After 8 hours of reading The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo I was allowed to head home. Even though the things that happen here at times defy logic, I was amazed as I walked home to find that there were very few traces of the typhoon remaining. Within a day or 2 everything had been repaired and in several areas new trees were planted. Even though I question Korean decision making at times, they definitely know how to get things done quickly!

Deer Cave and Lang's Cave

I don't expect much from tour guides. Usually, I am just so happy to be anywhere other than sitting in an empty Korean elementary school classroom that I could care less how many English phrases he or she has memorized or how many historic or botanical factoids they can spit out. This holds especially true in those life alteringly beautiful locales like Angkor Wat, or a remote Fijian village- two destinations we had the pleasure of experiencing this past year. In those instances, I could really care less if the path we are led through is littered with doe-eyed kids begging to sell a knick knack, or if it happens to conveniently snake around the guide's uncle's souvenir shop.

I don't remember much of what our young guide at Mulu National Park in Sarawak had to say, but he was instrumental in pointing out all the creepy, crawly critters of the jungle, and didn't mind a bit if I dawdled slowly behind to take a picture. For this I am grateful.

Big ole flat looking slimy snail on the trail

Someone said this guy looks like he's made of metal. I like that.

There were also pictures of beautiful butterflies, but the creepy things are more interesting.

This was actually from the walk to the sky bridges earlier, but I wanted to include it anyway...

There is a little picnic area outside of the entrance to Deer Cave and Lang's Caves. This is the spot where visitors gather in the evening to view over 2 million bats as they exit the caves simultaneously for their nightly bug hunt. Under the covered area there is all sorts of information posted on bat species around the world, and even more nuggets of knowledge regarding the local varieties and surrounding ecosystem. I was somewhat surprised to learn that a very small percentage of bats actually drink blood (if they do it is the blood of small animals). Most bats eat their body weight in insects nearly every night. I say "nearly" because the bats do not come out if it is raining during their scheduled wake up time. At 2:00pm or so on the day we visited, the skies were starting to become overcast.

The view of the entrance to Deer Cave from the viewing area.

We waited in the covered area for the morning wave of guided tourists to finish and make their way out. Apparently, only so many people are allowed in the caves at one time. When our number was called, we entered through a tall, aluminum gate and walked around in a paved semi-circle from the left side up to the corner of the massive cave entrance where illuminated moss gave way to complete darkness. Deer cave is immense (the second largest in the world area wise we were told) and it was easy to feel like a hobbit underneath such a high ceiling surrounded by immense crags of rock. We were told that at no point inside does the cave ceiling fall below 90 meters and it is just over 2 kilometers in length. Once we were inside a ways, we were instructed to turn around and look out where the outcropping of rock along the cave opening formed an uncanny Abraham Lincoln silhouette.

Honest Abe

Eerie as the entire situation was, I didn't once feel uneasy regarding the estimated 2 million bats sleeping above our heads. I was more concerned with what lay on the ground outside of the roped off, cement trail. The ground to the left and right was covered with bat guano, which just looked like a fine dirt and really didn't smell like anything other than earth. Not surprisingly, the guano is considered excellent fertilizer and is harvested by local farmers for use in black pepper fields. An entire ecosystem subsists on the ground that surrounded us, but, while other caves in Borneo are famous for carpets of giant cockroaches, my flickering head torch illuminated surprisingly few. I did, however, make the mistake of placing my hand on a post that was littered with the bastards.

Yikes! I guess they weren't roaches, but freaky nonetheless.

The path around the left perimeter of Deer Cave led to the "Garden of Eden" where a hole in the roof lets in light and green vegetation thrives. There is even a spectacular "Eden's Shower" in which water emits onto a large rock table from a Seuss-like stalactite spout.

Sami inside Deer Cave

Inside Deer Cave.

This, I believe, is the Garden of Eden inside Deer Cave

 Much more Suessery was to be had at Lang's Cave next door. Even though Lang's is the smallest of the four show caves we visited, it may well be my favorite for its crazy array of stalactite formations. Coming from Deer Cave, the quarters felt cramped, but everywhere we turned there was a new outcropping of limestone deformed by constant dripping that blew our minds. Sculptures like these could not be created by the mind of man no matter how much LSD the artist dropped beforehand. Of course, none of the pictures I took turned out that well, but that didn't stop me from snapping away.

Inside Lang's Cave #1

Inside Lang's Cave #2

Inside Lang's Cave #3

 When we finished it started to rain hard so we put on our ponchos and made our way back down to the bat exodus viewing area. Many of our fellow tourists bypassed the rest stop, certain that the bats would nap through the rain. Since we were leaving Mulu before the next day's bat departure time, we chose to wait it out. While we were sitting, there was a little bit of drama as some European tourists blamed a group of Chinese tourists for swiping their nice ponchos. I sat and observed giddily, always being one to enjoy confrontation when not a participant. A slight smile formed at the corners of my mouth as a Chinese man confusedly handed over a coat. What did he think they were- gifts?

Waiting for the bats...

After the fifth or sixth time of ignoring Sami's suggestion that we head back to the resort, the bats came out in wispy puffs to the delighted shrieks of onlookers. They all descended from roughly the same spot, but there was no telling which direction a group would ultimately flee too. I nearly made myself dizzy pointing the camera in the air and twirling in circles. Of couse, it was approaching dusk when the rain halted long enough for some of the bats to decide to exit, so my pictures weren't nearly as cool as others I had seen. Still, it was a cool experience that I am glad we stuck around for.

Bat Exodus

By the time we walked back it was pitch dark. Hungry, we were able to pass quite a few travelers, but soon ran into a backlog and had to walk at the pace of the crowd. In the dark we could make out all the sounds of the jungle. The croaks, caws and monkey calls were even better than anything the guides had told us about on this most memorable day.

Running

My nipples are rubbed slightly raw. This unwelcome sensation is the result of yesterday's atypical workout. I say atypical for two reasons- first, yesterday was a Saturday and I never workout on Saturdays (mainly because Sami has has usually planned an outing for us at least a week in advance which always seems to revolve around her favorite activities: yoga, lunch and a trip to the bookstore- however I can't complain since I have made fall Sundays my Duck football sanctuary complete with beers and cursing at 5:30 a.m.) and second, I spent the entire workout on the treadmill after having eschewed running completely the past three months.

Recent cardiovascular neglect aside, I was able to stay on for an hour and 48 minutes- 13 miles exact. I didn't initially plan to run a stationary half marathon, but I must have been mentally prepared for something out of the ordinary after having toted a stick of anti-chaffing balm, purchased in preparation for our hike up Mt. Kinabalu, along with me to the gym. I generously applied the substance to the area between my thighs pre-workout, but didn't even consider my nipples until around mile eight when they began to burn slightly inside my standard issue, communal polyester gym top. Periodically, I attempted to dull the pain by jabbing a thumb into each one. Instead of coaxing them out of their erect state, however, I only succeeded in injecting salty sweat into the affected areas and thereby intensified the sting.

Worse than this, my iPod died at the ten mile mark. If it wasn't for my iPod, I am sure that I would never even attempt to run. I mean seriously, how boring. With the music blaring, I can take my mind to a place far away from aching legs and chaffed nipples. With the music blaring, I am sitting down next to John Fogerty in front of thousands, scraping thimbles across a musical washboard as he belts out a solo to "Suzie Q" (hey, my daydream not yours). I guess it should come as no surprise that many of the songs on my playlist contain some conjugation of the verb "run" in the title. There is "Running on Empty," "Run Through the Jungle," and who can leave off "Born to Run." Even my favorite Talking Heads "Psycho Killer" doesn't have "running" anywhere in the title, but still contains the adrenaline producing verse: "run, run, run, run..run, run awaaaaaaaaaaaay!!!!...oh! oh! oh! oooooooohhh!!! aye!!! yaye!!! yaye!!! ooooooo!!!!!!!!"

I went through a spell a while back where my iPod battery would die after about ten minutes. Naturally, when this occured, I would only run for ten minutes and then just go lift weights. Back before I had an iPod I never ran, except in high school where I participated in track. Even then, five miles was my max and I had no intention of ever running further than that. Eventually I began to give up faith in my tired iPod, and in turn, running alltogether. The original headphones I had been using were falling apart- the white plastic had cracked and the only way to keep its innards from spilling out was to secure it by wearing a headband. Only instead of wearing the headband like a normal person (and really who wears a headband anymore besides LeBron James) was to make it come down over my ears. I looked like a dork, which is fine with me, but when Sami caught wind of this accessory error she promptly ordered me to purchase new earphones. Magically, the new earphones have brought the iPod back from the dead and the battery lasts longer than it has in years.

Of course, another reason I am able run further- MP3 resurrection aside- is that I have dropped over 35 lbs, as referenced in this past post. An added benefit of slimming down is that now, not only does my Under Armor no longer make me appear pregnant, but I also don't tire as quickly.

Still, thirteen miles is pretty damn far. A few people have even told me unsafely far after not running for so long, which made me feel pretty cool. But, why push myself? Why care? After all, who am I trying to impress? It is not like I set any sort of goal, and I definitely don't strive for a body like a marathon runner. I think it comes down to this: I have never experienced true athletic success.

I went to a small high school so I had the opportunity to play on the basketball, football and track teams. In basketball, my teams were inconsistent at best, god-awful at worst. In football, we were talented, but never able to make it past the second round of the playoffs, and saddest of all, never able to beat our crosstown rivals in all my four years. My biggest disappointment was also my last competitive athletic event: the state track meet at Hayward Field. I ran the 800m and while I was certain I had no chance of winning, my goal was to make the finals and win a medal (all finalists get one). The top 8 make he finals and I missed it by .03 seconds.

I always think back to that race whenever I am on the treadmill. There are things I could have done differently, I am sure. I ran too fast on my first lap and that left me winded at the finish. I was in the lead for the first 600 meters before being pushed a couple of steps onto the infield by passing runners. I could actually hear the crowd gasp as I regained my footing. On the homestrech I could make out one woman screaming my school name, urging me on. I was so amped up to be running on the same track where all of Steve Prefontaine's heroics occurred. I am certain I gave it my all, but I always wonder if I could have just gritted my teeth harder, balled up my fists tighter (not proper form by the way, but still), kept my head down and pushed a little deeper, just maybe I would have made up that .03 seconds.

Still, maybe if I had experienced some success, things would have turned out differently. Perhaps I would be content to sit around, drinking beer and eating potato chips (ok, of course I do that, but not daily). Who knows, maybe my competitors in the state meet are all out of shape now- not obese by any means, but easily pushing the duece and (in my mind) balding and/or gray on the sides.

Anyway, I guess I should be thankful for these losing experiences and feel fortunate to always be chasing that .03 seconds. Even if it takes a working iPod and 13 miles to get there.

Costco

There is a Costco near our place that we frequent on occasions when we can no longer suppress the urge to indulge in the comforts of the US. There are multiple floors inside and when we go we walk right past the clothes and electronics section (really, what money do we have and how would we take it back with us?) and head down an electric ramp to the food floor. The magnetic ramp sticks to the metal wheels of the cart so that it doesn't roll down and injure someone.

Down there we see a lot of the familiar: peanut butter, animal crackers, cheese, beer and wine; and some of the unfamiliar like dried seaweed and octopus. Some items are exorbitantly priced, such as a 64oz jug of imported honey for the wan equivalent of about 30 bucks which isn't nearly as bad as the 44 dollar, 16oz bottle of real Canadian maple syrup.  Still, some staples are more reasonable and worth picking up. We usually always leave with some sort of meat for about half the price as sold at the superstore up the street. Other items we tend to seek out are bagels, cream cheese, cereal and butter. They have Tillamook cheese there too, but one time we splurged on a block and ended up consuming it all in less than two weeks. Feeling disgusted, we agreed to do without for the foreseeable future.

Stocking up on goodies, roaming the aisles and jokingly tossing a tire-sized plastic tub of neon orange cheese puff balls into the cart just to mess with Sami is all good and fun- but lets not kid ourselves, the best part about going to Costco is snarfing down a pizza slice, hot dog and ice cream- or as I like to call it: "hitting for the cycle."

As you can imagine, Costco is a madhouse and it takes expert skill to weave your oversized cart  through a sea of black coats (everyone wears black in the winter, and I mean everyone). However, the last time we went I was kind of hopped up on too much instant coffee so I barrelled my way through the dining area to find a cart parking spot against the wall all the while smashing into others and running over innocent and unsuspecting feet. Fortunately for me Koreans hate confrontation and wouldn't dream of showing any sign of annoyance even if I didn't say sorry, which I did.

I half jogged up to the ordering line and after my wait asked for a slice of pizza for me (supreme) and Sami (cheese). I love the pizza at Costco. Korean pizza at one of the ten thousand chains is good too, in it's own way, but it never has enough tomato sauce, which is my favorite part. They consider tomatoes vegetables here, but treat them the same as fruit. If I am mistaken, we foreigners believe the opposite to be true in both classification and popular usage. Here you will find cherry tomatoes in fruit salad or served as an end of meal refreshment. Too much sauce on pizza grosses them out and most of the pizza sold in Costco is the bulgogi style with a sweet sauce (probably delish but I can't bring myself to pass on supreme). Next I placed an order for a big cup of that soft serve ice cream that I love, but they were out. I felt about ready to scream in frustration, but before I could get out a sound I saw a woman wearing a bright green sweater. She caught my eye not only because she wasn't wearing black, but also because I have trained myself to detect any semblance of University of Oregon apparel. Sure enough, the front of her sweater featured a bright yellow O-R-E-G-O-N.

This now marks the third time in Asia I have seen someone sporting my alma mater's insignia. The first was one of my actual students' Prefontaine Classic/University of Oregon pullover that he wears when he knows I have to grade one of his tests, and the other occurred in Shanghai. A guy was trying to sell me a fake watch and I saw his shirt and took a picture of him, but did not buy a watch.

If I would have had my camera on me I would have taken my picture with the woman and my two slices of pizza, but as it turned out, I had to settle for waving frantically to get her attention and then pointing crazily at her chest and saying "Oregon! "Oregon!" Like I said, Koreans avoid confrontation at all costs. Any other country and I could have been easily taken for a pervert yelling, pointing and drooling over a stranger's bosom.

Anyway, I decided to show some restraint during our last visit and passed on the hot dog. They don't have sauerkraut as an accompaniment so I was a little turned off. My theory is that they think of sauerkraut as some sort of mutant kimchi. They do, however, have mustard, sweet relish, ketchup, and that magic metal box with a crank that churns out chopped onions like hail in a blizzard. They will get an extra plate and crank out a whole mess of just onions and mix it with ketchup and mustard. We are talking two to three cups of onions forming a mountain and spilling off the sides. They eat it with a spoon just like you and me with cornflakes. Kind of brilliant actually. I love chopped onions.

The worst part of going to Costco, even though it comes with the territory of being a whitey, is the stares. Here, everyone wants to examine, not only your foreign face, but also the contents of your cart. Yes, I have prunes, eight boxes of Kashi Go Lean Crunch, double ply toilet paper and diaper cream in my cart. Go ahead. Draw your own conclusion.

Actually, we visited Costco on the Friday before Halloween a month ago. Halloween is nothing here, but a friend who came with us and also happens to be an American English teacher here decided to go the extra mile and dress up in a tiger costume for her students in full makeup. Apparently she didn't have time to rinse off before she met us outside the subway stop. She is Chinese American, so she usually doesn't get the stares Sami and I are accustomed to. Walking around in tiger make-up, however, changed all that. Parents stared at her wide eyed and some kids shrieked in horror. Of course, no one said anything- that old confrontation thing again.

Doc

The other night after Korean class I walked to Lotte Mart, which is kind of like the Korean Fred Meyer’s and bought a basketball. It is made of rubber, needs additional air and features three atypical basketball colors- red, black and yellow. Yes it is cheap, but with the money I saved I was able to buy a softserve ice cream cone for the walk home.


I love basketball and when I lived in Portland three years ago I was playing four to five times a week. I was a member at an athletic club close to where I worked and there was a steady game Monday, Wednesday and Friday mornings and another Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. I was also in a Monday night league with a group of college buddies. The morning games were my favorite. I was the youngest player in the group by about 20 years, but the old fellas really knew how to move the ball around and a couple of them could flat out shoot.

There was a sports psychologist whom everyone called “Doc” since there were about three or four Mikes. He was 5-9 in both age and height and walked with a little hunch. He was lights out from all spots, but his favorite was a good three feet behind the arc straight on. He had an unorthodox shot and would stand there with the ball at the top dribbling nonchalantly pretending to look for an open man, but the truth was he never passed. He would lean and step in with his right foot, ball at the hip and flick his wrist faster than even I, with my young whippersnapper legs, could close out. If you took away his jumper he would drive, jumpstop, leave you caught in the air with a ball fake, and gently toss it in from unconceivable angles. The pinky on Doc’s right hand was bent outward at a 45 degree angle so that if he held it outstretched with the back of the hand facing in, the digit would point east rather than north. He joked and said that it was from so many times catching his hand on the rim during a dunk. Sometimes when Doc would get on a hot streak, the other players would joke, “Sure those shots are easy to make when you’ve got a finger that goes like that!” which was always pretty funny to me even at 6 in the morning.

One morning when I wasn’t there the guys finished up their game and Doc complained of shoulder pain. He had a heart attack and dropped to the floor sweaty in his shorts and Nikes. He died that day in the hospital. I went to his funeral in a Jewish synagogue and during the service the rabbi asked for everyone in attendance who had ever played basketball with Mike (they didn’t know him as Doc like our small group did) to stand. Damn near every male in that crowd aged ten and upward rose. It was a powerful scene and really proved that the kind smiling guy I knew for a few fleeting hours every other morning died doing what he loved most. Later, a man told a story about a charity auction where at one point they were auctioning off sponsorships to a camp of some kind for underprivileged children. As Doc raised his mangled right hand in an act of generosity, the auctioneer called out, “Put Mike down for four and a half.”

A few months after Mike died I was promoted from within my company and moved to Eugene. I was never able to find a consistent game even though I joined the YMCA and bought a nice new pair of shoes. Sure there would be a group of kids playing every now and then but it wasn’t the same as when you have a group that knows how to play together and trusts each teammate to make a smart decision. I played less and less, but always figured that I would pick it up again. By the time I gave it a shot I was in Arizona visiting my brother. A college friend from Phoenix let me run in his bi-weekly game and I was appalled by my severely deteriorated skills and physique. That was the last time I touched a basketball until the ghastly rubber thing I purchased along with an ice cream the other day.

It is going to take baby steps to shake off the rust, but we don’t have any big weekend plans from now until our vacation starts January 17th. Yes, it will be cold outside, but so far it has been milder here than last year. As long as there is no snow I should be ok. Being as hoops is not looked upon as a major sport in this country, I doubt I will be able to find a game. Even if Koreans did take a liking to it, ninety five percent of the people I know here are in 3rd or 5th grade. Still, I will be able to practice my set shot from way behind the arc and my jumpstop and lay-ins from impossible angles. I’ll just have to remember to be careful and avoid catching my fingers on the rim.

A word on books-On the trail with hidden bugs-Sky walk-Lost binoculars-Bowl of noodles

We sat down just inside the entrance to Gunung Mulu National Park in front of a seven foot high frosted glass plaque commemorating the recently tamed jungle acres and limestone bat caves within as a UNESCO World Heritage site. We sat waiting for our guide in the thick morning heat that is not unlike the heat at any other time of day or night at that particular latitude. While waiting, I set in on devouring a secondhand work of fiction purchased the day before at the Kota Kinabalu Airport.

Two days before I had finally finished McCullough's birth to death masterpiece on the life of our 33rd President. The epic tale was such a joy to read that I took time to savor every scene in the thousand page biography like a nine course meal. The "amuse-bouche" of asparagus mousse and champagne (The backstory of Truman's grandparents and parents, birth and childhood). Course 1: Tuna tartare paired with Reisling (Harry takes over the family farm and then joins the infantry in WWI even though he is over 30 years old, sees action in France). Course 2: grilled scallops with seaweed / sauv blanc (Harry falls in with a powerful political boss who helps him get elected as county judge). Course 3: sauteed foie gras / sauterne (Harry is elected state senator and makes a name for himself heading a committee that investigates war spending, uncovering tens of millions of dollars of waste). Course 4: gaspacho consomme /viognier (Harry is miraculously chosen as Vice President, 82 days later, FDR dies. The farmer from Missouri soon finds himself seated beside Churchill and Stalin in Potsdam, Germany). Course 5: lobster / chardonnay (The President approves the releasing of atomic bombs over Japan, ending the war and ushering the world into the atomic age). Course 6: fish dish / pinot noir (The President recognizes the Jewish state of Israel, runs come from behind election by traversing the country "giving 'em hell"). Course 7: meat course / merlot / cabernet (survives an assassination attempt) Course 8: cheese course / white red port wine (makes the controversial decision to remove Gen. MacArthur from his position during the Korean War). Course 9: dessert / montbazillac (life after the presidency back in Missouri).

The book I read while waiting for our guide was like a mini pack of Skittles. I cannot recommend it, much less remember any of the character's names, but Truman made me into a better reader, and I charged through it with vigor.

Our guide came and led us up the trail to the sky bridges, pointing out various little unique insects along the way. Our group consisted of a thick legged Scottish woman with short shorts and hiking boots, a scraggly young Englishman currently residing in SIngapore and a young Chinese couple with a young daughter. We saw hairy caterpillars and bugs that disguise themselves as leaves and twigs.

Here is one creepy crawly caterpillar

and here is a bug trying to be a leaf

The canopies seemed a neverending labyrinth and if I could do it again I would take fewer pictures and enjoy my time on the bridges. The pictures don't convey the sense of danger looking down at a plank not wide enough for both feet positioned side by side and suspended 50 feet over dense jungle and muddy river with no escape. The bridge would sway side to side with each step and creak and I would reach out to steady myself by grabbing Sami's shoulder, but I was alone- as a rule, only one person is allowed on each section of bridge at a time.

Sami up in the canopy

The young Chinese girl followed us around instead of her parents. Call me a wuss, but I would have been frightened to death that high at that age.

I borrowed a friend's binoculars on the trip and tried to spy birds or monkeys, but all I could ever see was the green wall of jungle trees. On the walk back I discovered that I had lost the lens caps to the binoculars and felt terrible. We re-traced our steps but couldn't find them. I looked back at the pictures I took to see when they fell. In one picture I saw them and in another I saw that they were gone. I went back to the area covered between the digital evidence, but they were lost in the expanse of the jungle. Hidden among the leaves like an insect avoiding prey, mimicking it surroundings.

I sat dejected by my carelessness and we ordered lunch. I had Mulu Laksa which was a rice noodle dish is a spicy red pepper broth with coconut milk. There were pink flowers in the bowl and a small cut lime to squeeze. It was my favorite thing eaten in Borneo. Much better than Skittles.

Reality Check

I certainly don’t consider myself a bad person. I don’t do drugs, always offer up my seat to elders on the subway, never steal or cheat and seldom lie. I have even cut down my drinking consumption to one or two watery Korean beers a week. I consider myself a loyal friend and an above-average son. However, I have a glaring personality flaw when it comes to my marriage and yesterday I received the gift of a much needed reality check.


I am inclined to selfishness and often act with my sole interests in mind. My credo might as well be: “What’s mine is mine and what’s yours is ours.” As petty as it sounds, this darkside often manifests itself during a meal or snack-time. A prime example occurred two nights ago. After returning from our Korean lesson an hour’s commute into the city (here it is worth noting that it was my idea alone to attempt to pick up the language through professional tutelage- Sami wanted no part of it, but still consented to participate and even spends hours creating study sheets to aid in her reluctant endeavor) we sat down to watch Modern Family online. Sami had two cookies and I wanted one. She had already fixed us both a snack and I had already downed a snickers bar and a beer, but I wanted one of her two cookies. She said no. I already had my treat and this was hers. How about a half? After she finished the last bite I smacked her empty water cup off of the table and onto the floor. It was a juvenile. It was stupid. I knew it, but didn’t want to discuss it. While Sami attempted to calmly explain how this incident was only the latest in a pattern of self-centeredness, I walked off into bedroom #2. I knew that I had hurt her feelings both by smacking the cup and walking out, and that she would retire to bedroom #1.

I woke up at 2:00 am and tried to get back into her good graces, but still couldn’t bring myself to apologize. This only upset her more. I went online and searched out the latest occurrences taking place on the other side of the world. Earlier in the past morning I browsed an article on the first living recipient of the Medal of Honor from the Iraq and Afghanistan wars. The ceremony was held at the White House the day before. I was stunned to read that one of the central players in the recipient’s moment of heroism was a high school acquaintance of mine.

I knew Josh Brennan as a tall, skinny, quiet hurdler on the track team. He was a sophomore when I was a senior, and unfortunately, I don’t remember any specific interactions we had. More likely, I was too caught up in my own clique and self interests to notice anything outside of my very small, immediate world.

I had known Josh had been wounded in Afghanistan and was sent back home, but it was only this week that I learned Josh had won the Bronze Star, been named Soldier of the Year, and later sent back to Afghanistan where he was killed in action.

There was a 60 Minutes segment on circumstances surrounding Josh’s death and the actions of a fellow soldier that would earn him the Medal of Honor. In the middle of the night, while my wife drifted disappointed in the turn her evening took, while friends and family in Oregon and elsewhere cradled warm mugs of late morning coffee, and while the sun dropped cold and low on the mountainous war terrain of Afghanistan, I watched.

I watched and learned that Josh was in the lead of a march straight into the teeth of an ambush. I watched and learned that two infidels attempted to carry Josh’s mortally wounded body off into some nightmarish locale, uncharted and devoid of friends, safety- the godforsaken evil of the unknown. I watched and learned how one soldier ran into a wall of bullets and killed the infidels carrying my track teammate.

The soldier had earned the Medal of Honor and yet all he could talk about was how he was only a mediocre soldier. How he was uncomfortable with the accolades. How he had given nothing. How Josh Brennan gave everything.

Online there were extras to the 60 Minutes story. Pieces that had to be cut due to TV time constraints. They interviewed the Medal of Honor recipient and his wife. The soldier gushed about how he owes all of the good that he has to her.

Watching this and remembering the incident earlier with the cookies and the water cup made me feel ashamed. I am not the most spiritual man in the world, though like many people I believe there is someone looking down at each of us every second and judging our actions. When it’s needed most we receive a much welcome reality check.

I had heard someone say once that if a man is a certain way at 29, he’s the same at 39, the same at 49, the same at 59 and so on. I am 28 now, so I better get hurrying on making myself right.

Mulu- Part 1

We took a small plane a short distance from Kota Kinabalu in the Malaysian Borneo state of Sabah to Miri, where we dropped off about half the passengers and then re-boarded on a flight bound for Mulu National Park in the state of Sarawak.

If the names of these destinations sound exotic to you, it is because they are. I crowded Sami and stared out the window in awe of limestone pinnacled jungle mountains and fat brown meandering rivers. If it wasn’t for our pleasantly uninspiring in-flight snack of peanuts and chocolate milk, I may have found myself too intimidated to depart from my aisle seat. Maybe it had something to do with the fact I was forced to read Conrad’s “Heart of Darkness” a few dozen times in high school and college, but I was scared.

My apprehension died the moment our escort dropped us off at the gate of the Royal Mulu Resort. Typically, we prefer to go the economic route- stay somewhere cheap and locally-run. In Mulu, there are two boarding options- the park, which was booked, and the resort. We first entered this jungle oasis by crossing a footbridge above the Melinau River, which wraps around scattered longhouses built on stilts. Wooden walkways sprawl throughout the resort, connecting clusters of suites and lead to a spacious reception lounge. 

Inside, groups of tour companies set up shop and helped newcomers create an itinerary for their stay. We opted to take the 20 minute walk to the park entrance instead of dealing with these groups and paying for a ride. Along the way to the park, a skinny dog walked out in front of us, leading the way. Even though our legs were still sore from the climb up Mt. Kinabalu, it was nice to walk and take in the beauty of this relatively untouched land. We passed a few houses along the way, and even a bar. Residents of the small village all drove motor scooters, and would occasionally stop to chat with their neighbors. We smiled and waved and followed our guide dog.

The employees at the park hurriedly helped us get squared away for the next day’s adventure. They worked quickly because we showed up at 4:55 and they were to close at 5. The park employees set us up with an itinerary that fit with our schedule- we were to walk over the sky canopy the next morning and visit two caves in the afternoon. The day after that, we would hit up two more caves.

That night, while reading at the lodge on the deck overlooking the river, I became enthralled with clusters of quick flying birds that darted about the room. The lodge has high vaulted ceilings, but is open around the sides so these birds could fly in and out at will. It didn't take me long to realize that they were really bats. I was giddy with excitement. I ran to the receptionist who confirmed my suspicion. I asked if she gets freaked out by them, but she said no. They are used to them. Every time a bat would buzz by I would shriek like a five year old and I watched entranced as they whirled around a light over the river, no doubt sucking down bugs.

Bats!

 I could have stayed watching all night, but Sami wouldn't have it. We walked back down the walkway to our room with me ducking and shrieking with each passing bat. Minutes before reaching the door, a violent rain came down that night and made us feel the power of the jungle. Once inside, I plopped down on the bed. I looked around at our spacious room- too nice for us. There was an extra bed that we used as a storage area for all of our sunscreen. I listened to the rain and thought about the bats. I was already starting to realize that this could be the coolest place I had ever been.

Down Mt. Kinabalu

The descent of Mt. Kinabalu was made easier by our newfound sense of accomplishment and the presence of the sun. After an otherworldly journey to the summit in total darkness, an extended moment to revel in the waking landscape would have been preferable had it not been for the biting cold and looming impressions of an arduous downward battle before us.

The sky turned too quickly from purple to crimson, orange, and increasingly pale shades of pink before blue. The inevitable birth and death and blending of colors created a continuously changing energy, and I couldn’t help but snap a picture with each clumsy step.

All told, I must have taken 200 pictures between sunrise at the top and breakfast at the lodge. Sami tried to keep me focused on my feet instead of the digital screen, but to no avail. I stumbled and smashed my knee into the cold hard granite, bloodying the girly gray tights she had lent me. Instead of bracing for the fall, I chose to cradle our cheap camera, shielding it from destruction.

Despite the fact that most of the pictures I took that morning are either redundant, off-centered, or littered with fellow climbers, I cannot bring myself to erase even one. It is hard to describe the sense of ownership we felt on the mountain that day. Sure, nearly every sunrise below Mt. Kinabalu is breathtaking, but this one was ours. We labored to the top, conquered the mountain, sidestepped the rain and we’ll remember every second of changing light- thanks to the camera.

Up Mt. Kinabalu- Part 3

The "night" before the climb was agonizing. I put "night" in quotation marks because the plan was to rise at two in the morning for breakfast before beginning our march to the top. I tried to fall sleep at 7 p.m. and took a natural sleep aid to ensure that I did, but missed my window of opportunity. Its effect wore off before I had a chance to doze. I was experiencing constipation- most likely due to the combination of high altitude and four buffet meals in two days. I rolled from side to side with each fart, hoping that the squeak of metal bed frame would cover the sound of any audible released gas. Sami, sleeping in the bunk below, later informed me that my ploy fooled no one- not her, the Irish girl three feet away, or the young Chinese couple at my feet. My ruse did not take the accompanying odor into consideration.

I was uncomfortable. The headstrap of my sleep mask was too loose and tickled my ear. I could feel a slight cold coming on. One nostril was completely dry and stuffed so that I couldn't breathe through it. The other leaked warm salty nose tears down my lips and chin. I hated being on the top bunk and was scared to death of a rollover. I tossed and turned and farted through the night with a bloated stomach and achy legs that I knew were only going to get worse. I twice frequented the men's room and put up one my most pathetic performances ever. I pushed and pushed and grunted and pushed for half an hour and each time came out with something no bigger than a Cheeto puff.

Eventually, I got a few hours of shut-eye, which I think was more than Sami experienced. Someones alarm clock went off at 2 am and we made our way downstairs for yet another buffet breakfast. Before we departed I outfitted myself in a pair of Sami's tights (yes they fit) to go under my hiking pants. I also wore cheesy hiking socks that we received as a Korean "service" at Columbia Outfitters and a giant blue poncho which came in handy more as an extra layer than to shield against non-existent rain.

Men in Tights

At 3 a.m. we slipped on hiking gloves and switched on our headlamps. Many hikers departed before we did and we soon passed them going up a steep set of stairs in the pitch dark. The hiking was more arduous than the day before. It was much steeper and above us headlamps glistened like eerie stars. I soon left Sami and the guide and took off at warp speed- exactly what I said I didn't want to do. I just couldn't stand climbing so slow in the cold behind fat people. I wanted to get out and move. Unbeknown to me at the time, I had all of our water bottles in my backpack, leaving Sami without any.

I took stone steps two at a time and easily passed dozens of climbers. I caught up to the lead group of about seven or eight young twentysomethings as we passed a checkpoint where a man at a desk made sure we were accounted for. The lead crew sat and rested as the guide commented on how early they were. Not wanting to go ahead on my own. I sat down as well with the intention of waiting for Sami, but when others bypassed the rest area and chugged ahead, my competitive juices started flowing. I waited for probably no more than ten minutes before bounding off on my own again.

The terrain past the check point changed quite drastically. It was all granite, no vegetation and no more steps. There was a rope attached to the ground that you could hold onto and I found myself pulling on the rope with my arms instead of using my legs. I passed all of the bouncing headlamps ahead except for two Frenchman who must be part mountain goat.

Soon I could see no more headlamps. It was cold and dark, but with the full moon I would see the tops of famous peaks above- the rhinoceros horn and the donkey's ears. If it wasn't for the rope and the orange lights of a village miles below, I could have sworn I was on another planet.

The volume of my heavy breathing was deafening against the dead calm atmosphere. My head ached from moving so fast and my stomach (still bloated) stretched against the tight belt of my poncho. At one point I stopped to adjust it and ended up just standing there, unable to move, forgetting what it was I was supposed to be doing. I wished my wife was there. I had never felt so alone.

Out of muscle memory I pressed on and passed the 7.5 km mark, then eventually the 8 km. Lowe's Peak- the highest point in Southeast Asia was just up above. I could see the Frenchmen's respective lamps.

The peak came with a whimper, not a bang. I was relieved to reach the top, but it felt strange having nothing to do. I was still at least an hour away from sunrise. I sat on a rock and stared at the unearthly terrain. A few guides reached the top after me and found a spot to lay down. Having made the trip on hundreds of occasions, they knew all of the best spots.

I found a decent rock to sit on and then shrieked in horror as something big and black scurried below. Rats. They moved quickly from person to person in search of dropped food. They must know that 4:00 a.m. every morning is when feeding begins. One even perched itself so close to a guide's

Oh my God! A rat almost touched his ear!

I hate rats and I cannot tell you why. I think it has something to do with the fact that they move around so fast, but I like other rodents with speed. It must be the tail. All I know is that I was shrieking like a girl the entire time at the top.

During one of my shrieks Sami approached with the intent of acting hopping mad. I think that she was more proud of herself for making it to the top than she was angry, so she didn't scold me to bad for taking off with the water. Also, she was laughing at my girlish cries every time I saw a rat. Serves me right for leaving her behind.

Finally day broke and offered us a panoramic that more than lives up to the hype.

 We'd made it, and despite my overall disinterest in hiking, this journey left us with a sense of accomplishment few activities can provide. Now all that was left, was to turn and go back.