Unkie Herb

It was, unintentionally, a fitting finale to my forays in Asia. Just under twenty-three months after I anxiously boarded a United Airlines plane bound for Taipei (through Chicago, San Fran and Nagoya, ahem), I was the highest man in South-East Asia.

Standing at the peak of Gunung (mount) Kinabalu, being the tallest guy there, I was indeed higher than any other person - not on an airplane - between the Himalayas and Papau New Guinea. My head was 4096.8m above sea level, about 13,522 feet. Up there, I went through a series of my “highest evers”:

My highest sneeze, just a few meters below the peak, snuggled under a blanket I taxed from the guesthouse just under a kilometer below.

My highest urination, behind a boulder on the way back down, at about 3900m.

My highest sunrise, at the peak.

My highest whoop of joy, combined with welling tears of sadness and accomplishment, at the peak.

I had to fight the tears back, having met some hilarious other backpackers who needed to maintain their stereotypes of tough, bearded Canadians. But, after so long here and going through so much (both in terms of traveling and personal self-realization), I realized at the top that it was all over. That from here I have only a few whirlwind days to make it through Bangkok to Vancouver. That soon I will be back in the Great White North to begin my life again.

People constantly express sympathy for my life here being over. I deflect these thoughts with excitement, to see my family and friends (and food) after such a long time.

They tell me that it must be scary to be “going back to real life.” The response to this is easy, automatic: “This, here, traveling, is real life. That, there, the machine of sacrificed dreams for financial gain, is the bullshit. That is the lie.”

I believe this, and I trust I won’t forget it. It’s why I cannot see myself being in Canada for more than a year or so. Perhaps I’ll find a dream job, but my dream job doesn’t involve staying in Canada, so there you go.

Getting back to the mountain, it was intense though obviously not immense compared to the great mountains of the world. It’s less than half of Everest, and even lower than Everest’s base camp. Canada’s Mount Logan is 5,959, almost 2000m taller. But for someone who experienced his previous highest peak by motorbike in Thailand (Doi Inthanon, 2,500m), this was quite a step up.

The first day, which began around 9:00am, was a straight up hike six kilometers long, climbing 1500m in altitude. It wasn’t too bad other than the volume of sweat thanks to 100% humidity, which of course became very cold once we passed 3000m. I ventured by myself, splitting the guide costs with a Dutch guy and an Italian couple. The Dutch guy had climbed three mountains in Indonesia in the previous month, and so was a great motivator. We scaled these six kms in around three hours. We were the first of the day’s climbers to arrive at the camp.

That afternoon we watched Liverpool win on penalties over Chelsea (replayed, of course) at around 3300m altitude, while drinking tea and enjoying instant noodles. Our accommodation was four-bed unheated dorms, but the aforementioned blankets did the trick.

At two am we awoke and scarfed a quick breakfast of tea and eggs before leaving around three in the morning to make the sunrise. This part of the climb was done in bursts of energy followed by periods of complete lack of control. I’ve never experienced such oxygen deprivation, where your legs simply don’t respond to your mind and your lungs are screaming for mercy. Luckily, my bursts of energy got me to the peak (sixth out of more than one hundred climbers) pre-sunrise, around 5:15am. It was 2.7 kilometers long and around 800m in vertical distance. It was sheer mental determination, overpowering my body’s protests, that got me there.

It was incredible. For those of you in Vancouver: May 7th.

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There is something fantastic about animals. Their behaviour allows us to reverse anthropomorphize and find parallels in human actions. It’s hilarious to watch a guy at a bar puff his chest up and strut like a rooster when he’s trying to pick a fight. As well, animals can often force one to reconsider human impact on the earth and the trivial nature of my own existence. The sea turtles I was swimming with a week ago have been here for more than a hundred years, and perhaps some of them will still be around long after I’m compost.

The Kingabatangan River, in eastern Sabah (the Malaysian state in northeast Borneo), is a wonderful opportunity to convene with nature on its terms. To observe massive amounts of wildlife on their turf. It is, ironically, such a diverse and concentrated wildlife preserve for precisely the wrong reason - massive habitat destruction due to logging and plantations has forced these animals and birds into a tight zone along the river.

 My dad and I floated downstream on the boat, our backpacks rocking by our feet. Our eyes, however, were up in the trees and out along the riverbanks. Our boatman called out scientific and common English names almost nonstop, trying to give us adequate viewing times while managing the fading light - we hadn’t even gotten to camp yet. When we did, a ten minute walk from the riverbank into dense jungle, we found a few basic stilted shacks with mattresses on the floor and mosquito nets. No doors, no windows, only metal caging to keep the macaques (common monkeys) from stealing everything. And steal they would: one cheeky bastard plucked a slice of french toast right off a Swedish girl’s plate, with her sitting in front of it.

Down the river, we saw two types of Langur (silver and red haired), two kinds of Macaque (long and pig tailed), and one of Borneo’s many endemic species: the Proboscis Monkey. These pot-bellied, big-nosed primates live in large family groups based around a dominant male. For those who are interested, the biggest belly and yes, the biggest nose are the easiest way to figure out who is running the troupe. In the trees all along the river we found these four monkeys, stopping often to gaze up and watch them feed, nurse young, mate and leap incredible distances from branch to branch.

Also along the river were countless birds and reptiles. On our night boat trip (with requisite spotlights) we saw owls ripping rats to pieces, sleeping kingfishers and monitor lizards, and the eerie yellow eyes of salt-water crocodiles. The river is home to four meter (13 feet) plus beasts, but perhaps the biggest one we saw was maybe half that. Still, a crocodile is a crocodile, and no swimming was to be done for our three day stay.

During the day, eagles, buzzards and kites (another bird of prey) soared overhead and perched in treetops, scanning the water and riverbanks for fish and other treats. Huge hornbills, massive toucan-like birds with epic beaks cruised across the river and laughed their strange calls from the huge rainforest trees. Great egrets, meter tall white heron-like birds, stalked the shoreline carefully, watching not only for food but for the inevitable cruising croc. Even a rare, endangered storm’s stork graced us with his presence.

But the ultimate prize, the reason we came, that most famous of Bornean animals, was in the trees right above our camp. Orang-utans. The only great ape to exist out of Africa, right above us. A mother with her year old baby was feeding on fruit, belching and smacking her lips to warn us from approaching too close. A young male descended into the lowest branches of the tree he was feeding in to piss on us (he missed), again a gesture of warning and, perhaps, insolence. He was only a few meters away.

Now, for me, a nature enthusiast, I have seen many of these species or their close relatives in zoos and in nature documentaries. But, obviously, there is no comparison to being with them in the wild. I had a wonderful time, the staff at Uncle Tan’s Camp were wonderful and the food amazing. The guides knew every species from incredible distance - indeed, their ability just to find snakes, tarantulas, birds and monkeys in the trees on the other side of the river was nothing short of remarkable. We owe our entire experience to the people at Uncle Tan’s!

Back in Kota Kinabalu, the 300,000 person city that is the capital of Sabah, before heading tomorrow to Mount Kinabalu (4095m), which I will climb for the finale of my trip. After that, to Bangkok and then to Vancouver.

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The beach in Malaysia is a bit of a difficult situation, as one struggles to deal with wanting to respect the Muslim nature of Malaysia’s east coast - i.e. conservative dress. This is easy in cities and towns, even in the country’s tropical climate, as light pants and t-shirts are respectable enough.

On the beach, though, it’s another story.

I love struttin around with my board shorts barely hanging on to my hips and nothing else except for shades and maybe some flip flops. In Thailand, even though Buddhist culture calls for conservatism in attire when visiting a temple, the beach and even the cities are a free for all of bikinis, short shorts and tank tops (worn inclusively by men, women and those who fall between).

On the beach in Malaysia though, I guiltily wore my uniform, getting hassled (quite rightly) by my dad to throw on a shirt when heading to a restaurant. It was a shock, then, when I arrived on Long Beach on Perhentian Kecil (the smaller of the now famous Perhentian Islands) and was immediately presented by a dozen topless foreign girls.

Now, you may be wondering, why is Evan complaining about topless girls? Indeed, I sometimes wonder at this myself. But there has to be a line somewhere, and even though we’re “on vacation”, we need to respect that this is not the Mediterranean. These girls, surprisingly, got little to no attention from local men, other than the inevitable (and irresistable, considering how attractive some of them were) looks. Most foreigners took part in the semi-subtle ogling as well.

After a few days with wonderful snorkeling - sharks, turtles and stingrays - and sunburns, my dad and I minivanned up to the Cameron highlands to enjoy some tea plantations and cooler temperatures. Here we met a pair of Californians who we had briefly chatted with on our way to the island, and we spent some time with them. The two blonde girls were taking a walk down the highway in the less Muslim highlands (higher populations of Chinese and Indians) and were harrassed by nearly every passing group of men. One even suggestively handled a cucumber. Granted, these girls were blonde and well endowed and wore spaghetti straps, but they said the attention from local men on the island was much less disrespectful.

Perhaps, then, one can conclude that wayward men occur in all religions, and perhaps devotees to Islam, being generally more conservative, will keep to themselves and not express their, umm, thoughts on such frivolous dress?

Or maybe it’s just that men everywhere love a blonde girl with cleavage and when there’s some phallic vegetables at hand, especially from a passing car with little chance of reproach, chauvanism is just too much to resist.

Anyway, back in KL now with a flight to Kota Kinabalu, a city in eastern Malaysian Borneo. We take off on the 27th for two nights in a rustic Borneo jungle camp before heading to the main attraction, Mount Kinabalu.

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Well just thought I’d throw a few photos up here to illustrate the past ten days in this fascinating country. My father is settling in nicely, and has begun to grow more comfortable with the heat and the openness of Malaysians. With a little encouragement he has stopped asking me questions about the country and begun to ask local people. The results have been predictably long winded.

Regardless, we had a blast in the jungle, which easily makes onto my list of places which require a repeat visit. Bats were trying to roost under the eaves of our bungalow, and a six foot long monitor lizard surveyed our arrival by boat up the river to the park. The jungle was steamy and full of examples of just how big things can get, such as trees, bugs, and hundred foot high canopy walkways. One night we took a “night safari,” which is a pickup truck ride into a palm oil plantation at night, and saw a couple of wild cats. At one point out tour guide pulled a Steve Irwin and flung himself off the roof to grab a snake out of the bushes roadside.

“Anyone want to hold?” He asked.

I jumped all over the invitation, and the guide handed the little bugger over.

“He won’t bite, will he?”

“No. Well, maybe sometimes bite, yes.”

Still holding him. “But he isn’t poisonous, right?”

“No. Well, a little bit poison, yes.”

“Cool.”

Yesterday we hopped the jungle railway north to the border with Thailand, from here to head back south along the coast to catch a boat to the Perhentian Islands, a slice of white sand beach paradise. The best snorkeling of my life awaits, with guaranteed sharks right off the beach (guaranteed by whom?)! My dad, who doesn’t seem to be as much of a beach bum as I profess to be, promises me a little extra patience as I lounge and ogle bikini clad backpackers.

Anyway, here are a few photos from KL and other places. The first is of Muslim men praying in a KL subway station. The station is right next to a large mosque, but on Friday prayers there is not nearly enough room, so the prayer rugs are spread out all over the sidewalks, even spilling into the rapid transit stop.

A durian (that stinkiest of tropical fruits) stand in one of KL’s Chinatowns and the bright colours of the big city’s Little India.

This guy was a tout for one of hundreds of ticket stands in Kuala Lumpur’s central bus station. They all sell the same tickets to the same buses, so this guy is constantly on his phone and harassing the throngs of people passing by. He saw me taking the shot just in time.

And now, from Taman Negara, the obligatory jungle photos of big trees and big bugs. That’s me under a mammoth tree and my finger next to one creepy-as-all-hell giant millipede.

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Enter Guns n’ Roses joke here.

In Taman Negara, a giant (4300 square km) virgin jungle park in central penninsular Malaysia. Just arrived today from Melaka, an epic adventure by taxi, train, minivan, bus and boat. But my dad and I made it in one piece. Malaysia transportation, though varied, is to be trusted. Especially when you have your father’s bankroll to drop $30 on a taxi to the train station, allowing you to cover the $6 train ride (for two tickets, for four hours).

I never expected to have air conditioning and a hot shower while visiting the 130 million year old rainforest here. I did, however, expect hot showers to be useless when the humidity is stuck somewhere between “sweat bath” and “suffocation.” My dad, four days removed from Canada and only two weeks removed from an ice fishing trip, is struggling noticeably more than I am. No worries, though, we’re drinking plenty of “Sea Master” brand drinking water.

Photos tomorrow, after we’ve explored the park.

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It is the city that Bangkok thinks it has become, that Saigon has wet dreams about, and that Yangon indoctrinates it’s citizens into believing it is.

Kuala Lumpur is, in short, urban Asia at its best.

It is dense without being packed; rich without being pretentious; and religious without being tense. Muslim Malays blend with Buddhist and Taoist Chinese who mix with Hindus from India and Bangladesh. Even a Christian Church is tossed in here and there, just to balance it out. All of this in a country that ceded from British colonialism by… wait for it… sending a delegation to London and asking for independence.

No prob.

Relatively small, KL proper has a population of less than two million, babyish compared to the ten million-plus of Saigon, Bangkok, Jakarta and Manila. Clean and efficient, it reminds me more of western cities than anywhere else, due largely to its multiculturalism and prevalent English-speaking. It’s transportations networks are shiny and silent, the freeways lined with palm plantations and downtown gardens almost overpower the scent of exhaust with fragrant blossoms.

When the monsoon rains strike each afternoon, the city glistens in the evening lights.

The curries aren’t half bad either, and the tandoori chicken was dynamo for dinner tonight. Cell phone shops are everywhere, as are McDick’s, and plenty of dirty bird (KFC) franchises and their inevitable Asian copycats. But there are also traditional fabric shops, markets (the Gucci belt is authentic, I swear) and restaurants. The skyscrapers are abundant, all advertising various banks. The twin Petronas Towers, oh so recently outdone by the Taipei 101, beckon subtly from the northeast part of town. I have yet to venture up to Little India, which is sure to be an assault on the senses, satisfied so far with Chinatown and the banking district.

The city could do with a few fewer buses, though.

Regardless, my dad (!) and I are having a blast just wandering the town and dodging impromptu monsoon bursts. The Nepali and Indian guys running the counterfeit designer stalls don’t know who to approach first: the fat well-dressed guy who couldn’t give two shits about designer labels; or the skinny, dirty guy who couldn’t give two shits about designer labels. We must frustrate the hell out of ‘em, cause we look at everything but never stop walking.

Keep cool, folks.

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Well, I’ve done it. It’s something that a budget nazi like me derides other travelers for doing, and yet I couldn’t help myself.

I’ve checked into a hotel with air conditioning, television and - gasp - hot water.

I’ve eaten my last two meals at McDonald’s and that classic of Seinfeld infamy: Kenny Roger’s Roasters. Oh… does Kenny make a beautiful bird, or what?

Now the first of these two sacrileges can be excused readily, but the second is slightly more of a rationalization. As my father is arriving early tomorrow to join me for three plus weeks in Malaysia, he requested that I find him a half decent hotel for his halfway-round-the-world jetlag recovery. Fair enough. I’m so damn excited to see my dad after more than a year that I’d check into the Four Seasons if he wanted me to (provided he’s footing the bill, of course).

The second, though, is probably a combination of two years of Asian cuisine “sickness” and a generally bad experience with my first day of eating Malay food. I’m still, after several days in the country, in the mode of carrying toilet paper with me everywhere I go, because the only regular thing about my bowels right now is that I have no control over them. I figure a little western fast food will shock my system into apologizing and righting itself. It is the first time I’ve eaten McDick’s since I left Taiwan more than five months ago, which is quite long for an Asian expat. The cravings generally set in not that far apart.

I think my problem might be that after a month in Southern Thailand - a veritable paradise of local culinary delights - I’ve been spoiled. The food there is so universally spicy and delicious that the hit and miss Malay food (which has its value, I realize) seems unappetizing. And so, I’ve fled to the relative safety of heat lamps and plastic chairs. I got myself two different potato based side dishes at Kenny’s today, and it was both disgusting and dreamy at the same time.

I figure, by convincing myself I have to save the KL sights for time with my dad, I’ll spend the rest of today lounging in my hotel room watching CNN and HBO. Whoop!

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My last week or so in Thailand was surprisingly emotional, as I watched the destruction of a wonderful beach community.

On Ton Sai beach, a rock climbing mecca, I met up with a huge crew of people from around the world, backpackers and climbers, who had turned the beach into a very relaxed village. The locals and foreigners had managed to keep prices reasonable, the package tourists out, and everything built of bamboo and wood.

But, a few days after I arrived, the police showed up and handed out eviction notices. The big resorts are coming, the concrete is being poured, and the white sand is being imported. The worst part is we do it to ourselves. We ruin what we want, because we are never satisfied. We want more. More comfort, more money, more internet, more ATMs. We are never satisfied.

The climbing community, I have since realized, is one of the most supportive and open. When they learned I had never climbed before, I was up on that wall in minutes. Falling often, mind you, but I was up!

At any rate, I have since left that dissolving scene behind and skipped to Malaysia, as my visa was finished. I am on Langkawi, a tax free island near the Thai border on the west coast. It’s chilled and has great beaches, although it is very touristy (a cable car, whoop!). Lots of concrete here.

Tomorrow I head to KL, to prepare for the arrival of my father, who will be traveling with me for a few weeks here. I am extremely excited, and I hope to continue to post on here as we travel together, although perhaps with his input. Maybe he can do a guest post or something.

Cheers folks, in Canada in early May.

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