A whole world of stories...

I'm writing this in the comfort of my parents home in New Brunswick. It's a little strange to be back here after so long, not because anything has changed, but because it hasn't. I could have very well left last weekend, like slipping on an old pair of sweat pants you find buried in the back of the closet. This is why we love home. The never shifting, stable, grounded territory where we can unwind, see loved faces and swat away mosquitoes.

This time last week I was rolling out of my dingy hostel bed and greeting the humid Malaysian day with an Indian curry followed by some mango slices. Right now, I'm drinking an Alpine as a hot summer breeze is turning into a rolling thunderstorm. Australia is 18,000 kilometers away, even though it still feels 'close as' in my head. Like most trips of this size, there were a few interesting anecdotes that occurred on the way home, which I'd like to share now.

Perth to Kuala Lumpur


I've realized a few things in my travels, and one is how to fly. Aside from typing in the wrong airport, which was my border-line retarded move last year, I feel I'm pretty good at finding cheap flights and pinching pennies when I take to the air. Perth, the most isolated major city in the world, is certainly not your airport of choice for leaving Oz, but frankly, what choice do you have? So, as I search and type and ponder aloud, I realize I can get to Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia for about $300, which is a pretty major South East Asian airport, and from there can bounce my way back to Canada. The thing with cheap airlines, as my seat mates so readily pointed out, is this: Obviously the frills and bobbles are absent, but it also means that any Joe-Schmoe boards for a dime, and doesn't really give a hoot about who they piss off. These guys were, of course, sitting next to me!

For a brief moment there were about nine seats in my vicinity that were unoccupied, including the two beside me. I mentally high fived myself on my luck, until the last travelers boarded the plane in a cattle-like drove. In an airplane full of tiny Asians, it would make sense that I ended up wedged against the window by two obese Australians, revved up and liquor fueled from the airport bar. Now, normally I'm all for raucous behaviour, being a main instigator myself most times, but the timing was just a bit off this night. Grief stricken and mentally sapped from all the tough goodbyes leaving Oz, the last thing I wanted to do was make cordial conversation with these monkeys.

My silence didn't last long though, as they noticed my Canadian flag bookmark and started yelling 'Hey Canuck! How's Gretzky?' He's good mate, real good. Eventually I bowed under the pressure and started conversing with the guy beside me. His name was Andy and he was actually from Sheffield, England. He had moved to Australia 20 years ago as a bricklayer, but now worked in insurance, namely the claims process. One of his latest endeavours was to go to New Zealand and tell people how much they were entitled to after there house was shaken to dust by this years earthquake. Good times Andy.

All nine of them were going on a 'golf trip' in Vietnam, although they told me they only had a couple sets of clubs between them. Something was giving me a bit of deja vu at this point, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it. Then, as Andy and I talked about the merits of a strong currency in a place like Vietnam, as well as the the 'hospitality' of the local female population, it hit me. On my connecting flight last year, Alaska to Taiwan, I met four American guys doing the exact same thing, only going to Thailand. I can't remember the guy's name next to me, probably Buck or Hank or something, but he blatantly offered up that they were going, not so much for golf, but for whatever ulterior Thai hole in ones they could score, wink wink, nudge nudge.

After a little further chatting, yes indeed this is what my surrounding seat mates were going for, as places like Thailand had already been 'golfed' in previous years. Now your first instinct is to admonish these guys for their immorality, but as I looked around at this mid 50's group, red in the face from some late night drinking and smiling the whole way, I really couldn't pass any judgement. Other than grossing young people out, age really has no bearing on who or where you 'golf'`.

About half way through the flight, my seat mates were informed the plane was out of beer. Not wanting to crumple under tragedy, they ordered a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black, at god knows how much money. 'Hey Canuck, want some whisky?!'. Why not. At 36,000 feet, straight scotch does it's magic pretty quick. In a matter of minutes, we were laughing, sharing stories and having a grand time. This is, however, a red eye flight and the immediate seats in front weren't really enjoying the posterior socializing. After some polite requests to quiet down, met with rather pointed rebuttals from my golfing friends, this Chinese woman braces herself and yells 'Pees shut up! You shut up! You bully me cause I small, an you big, My chidwen sweeping!` followed by immediate applause from the rest of the plane.

Andy, in that somewhat comical English drawl goes `Luv, it`s boodget air-lyyyne, take a betta plane next time`. Somehow, my quiet and sombre plane ride had turned into a drunken Chinese face off. It only wound down when I noticed Andy`s eye glaze over and he stopped talking so much. In a word, pickled. Shortly after that, the announcement that we were preparing for descent, please buckle up, came on. Obviously Andy misinterpreted this, stood up, grabbed his carry on and started walking towards the front of the plane, ready to step off. Although I`m sure a few passengers would have been more than happy to see this happen, he had to be ushered back to his seat. `Thut we had lannend` he said grinning.

We finally touch down in Singapore, where we shakily stumbled off the plane and went through customs, surprisingly with no problems (other than a small child puking on the floor beside me...what a weakling, I thought to myself). I shook hands with my new friends, and Andy whispered `Jus rememba son, bein`a wanka is universal`. Too true.

Enjoy the golfing boys

                                                               

Kuala Lumpur


Let me say this, Kuala Lumpur is a very cool city. Although the actual tourist attractions are pretty minimal, it seems to have a metro-energy that constantly pulsates as you walk through it. Of course this could be said of many highly populated SE Asian cities, but KL has the added benefit of relative safety and a broad encompassing knowledge of the English language.

Not to mention this guy!

                                                                 

I was staying in a very discreet hostel that was recommended by a friend, and although a little quieter than what I'm used to, it served as an excellent home base as I trekked through the sights and sounds of KL. Now for any avid readers of this blog you may recall a story from the beginning of the trip where I was trudging through the damp streets of Manhattan, accommodation-less, when a more than friendly young chap invited me to 'crash' in his hotel room with his other friend. In a brilliance of naivety, I accepted, only to realize my host's true intentions as he climbed onto the bed and started stroking my forearm with some heavy breathing thrown in. Cue sprint out of hotel.

Now, I always reckoned it was the wrong time and place kind of situation, or possibly just a freak encounter within the late of night, never to be repeated. Almost never to be repeated. As I set out from my hostel, always using my powers of intuition as oppose to a map, I scampered down busy streets and alleyways hoping to come across something interesting. In my peripheral I notice a very small Chinese fellow maintaining about ten feet of distance, but most certainly tailing me. After about two blocks, I pull an about face, and ask him if there's anything I can help him out with.

*Nervously* 'I want to ask you a question'
'Yes my man what's up?
'Will you have some sex with me?'
'HAHA! No I'm sorry my friend, not today!'
'Uhhhh, okay, okay... bye bye'

This was one hour after I got off the plane. So it's clear to me now, wearing my fisherman pants and beer singlet with flip flops, that I give off some sort of homo-pheromone, inviting unabashed invitations for day time coitus with other men. Well, shit. He quickly shuffles off to the other side of the road as I'm left pondering how many aspects of this trip have come full circle, and what exactly his next move would have been had I had a more agreeable answer. Luckily this was the only time that week that this happened, and my hosts at the hostel assured me it was not the norm. My next move? Grow a beard and get a forehead tattoo to prevent further confusion.

Everyone wants a piece of the wolf shirt

                                                   

The American Dream


Being back on North American turf, with loud and over-enunciated consonants ringing in me ear, was for the first hour or so, very comforting. Times square bill boards flashing ads for Gap and Lexus, people casting their heads down or hiding behind their dripping umbrellas as they sashayed to their various appointments, this was almost the motherland! Then the realization that my trip was over started sinking in, and for the hundredth time on my extensive transit I missed the things I had left behind 'down unda'. And how does the modern man alleviate feelings of want and despair? Happy hour coronas, of course. After three of these, my jet lagged and red eyed brain was overcome with a soggy fatigue, where I soon found myself sleeping through 'The Green Lantern', then boarding my bus.

We meet again, Times Square

The thing I enjoy about long distance bus rides is that you get all sorts of personalities aboard. Age, race, weight,  background, temperament...all these attributes are stuffed into a steel box and forced to endure one another for hours at a time. On this particular trip, I was seated next to two geriatric Russian ladies, who were more than keen to swap stories about their fascinating time in NYC attending a hook rugging conference. Wow, I said, what better place to congregate and discuss the latest techniques than the Big Apple! Light sarcasm is usually lost on the elderly.

There was a forewarning before we departed that went something like this:

'Now listen up! No drinkin', no smokin', an no weapons! If you get stuck in the bathroom, then lord have mercy, cuz you stayin' in there for the rest of the trip'

I smirked at the unlikely, but no less comic, thought of someone spending six hours in that tiny stall, with various waste products and blue toilet water sloshing about over every bump. So what do you think happened thirty minutes later? A very 'robust' lady waddled her way to the bathroom as the bus snoozed on in relative peacefulness and I chatted away with my Russian ladies on the merits of coming from a country with eight months of winter (very few). I excused myself, and headed to the back to relieve my own expanding bladder, only to realize that the handle is being frantically pulled from the inside and this women is banging on the door 'I'm stuck! Let me out!'.

After ten minutes of pulling, pushing, kicking and one excitable fellow snapping off the outside handle, the bus driver was made aware of the situation. But hey, we've been warned haven't we? Before the bus even started movin'? Ya think I was playin'?

Eventually he's convinced, mostly by the complaints of the smell leaking from the new hole where the handle used to be, to pull into a McDonald's parking lot and further assess the situation. I get out, stretch my legs, run off for what is, at this point, a very much needed piss, and return to find a whole section of the bus panelling being removed to expose our poor privy prisoner. Of course, being on the upside of three hundred pounds, it took a small army of American home-boys to hoist her down, amid the applause and cell phone filming of the crowd. Luckily it was too early in the trip for the toilet to exude too much of it's contents, so she emerged relatively unscathed.

We re-board the bus, as most of the excitement boils down to just a few chuckles, when one of my Russian women tells the driver to turn the air conditioning off. This does not go down well with the bus's almost fully African American passengers, who tell the old ladies to 'can it' and 'put on a jacket Grams'. The bus driver eventually turns the A/C back on, where the second lady says 'You nee' ta make us happy, you are za boos driver', where he replies, (and I need to mention I really liked this guys style) 'Haha, woman! If you're not happy after seventy-five years, ain't nuttin' I can do 'bout that!'

As we roll into Boston four or five hours later, my Russian ladies say a quick goodbye and 'God bless you, safe travels'. Thank you old ladies! They turn to the bus driver as they're stepping off and say 'Go to hell, and don't be well'. God Bless America!

thanks for reading!