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.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
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.
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
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.
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| Here is one creepy crawly caterpillar |
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| and here is a bug trying to be a leaf |
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| Sami up in the canopy |
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| 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.
Friday, November 19, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
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.
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.
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.
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| Bats! |
Thursday, November 4, 2010
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.
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.
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