Malaysia Part Four: Elysium And Then That Bug Infested World Outside It

Taman Negara Rainforest

Our bare feet touch pristinely clean white marble floors that I’d be willing to eat Thanksgiving dinner off of. The kitchen is huge with a high ceiling that the gods would approve of. A huge fluffy couch (currently housing two little blonde German boys, their stoic, humorless mother and a large collection of toys) sits in front of a massive, silver, flat screen TV. Tall paneled glass doors, decorated in multicolored paints celebrating the hostel lead out onto a tiled balcony area that looks out into the jungle. But inside it is air-conditioned, cool, comfortable and civilized.

Jack, a smiley, understated, soft-spoken Malaysian man greets us, offers us a cold drink and tells us to relax, perhaps on that giant, comfy looking, cloud-like couch over there. I gape at him, glowing from under his halo and meekly reply that I’d like an orange soda. MLTC and I quickly down our beverages and Jack asks us if we’d like to stay upstairs or downstairs. Another man appears, chivalrously grabs our bags and escorts us upstairs where we have our pick of rooms. Upstairs is equally as pleasurable, complete with a living room, comfy chairs, television, dvds, two computers from which we might let the rest of the world know, “HEY I’M IN A RAINFOREST!!!!11… online…”, balcony and rainforest view. Every bedroom has a balcony, the beds and pillows are gloriously soft and clean, both fans and air-conditioning are provided complete with remote controls, and the rooms are just simply lovely. Jack tells us to make ourselves at home and then, when we are ready, we can come down and talk about our plans.

After several minutes of staring at the spotlessly clean ceiling in utter bliss and thanking our lucky stars we are no longer sharing our beds with random Malaysian stag beetles and glowworms, we make our way downstairs. There, Jack explains that breakfast and dinner are provided everyday. We may help ourselves to anything in the fridge and make ourselves tea or coffee anytime we like. He then sits us down and explains to us the various activities that the rainforest has the offer. And all with a rather shy smile.

Sure, there’s no bonfire and no earwax sculptures, but I rather like this place.

Eager to stretch our legs after the Magic Number Eight Hour Van Ride, MLTC and I, change and attempt to hurry back out to see what the area has to offer at 8:30 at night. The answer to that would be a resounding: Nothing. We are completely unprepared as I am wearing flip-flops and the seemingly useful flashlight brought by MLTC is acting uselessly illuminating the bottom of her luggage. The night is pitch black, only lit by the occasional harsh neon light radiating from a shack-like restaurant or glare of a TV. I make my way down a flight of stairs, a true city-girl with my trusty cell phone lighting the way, only to have the light shut off at a key moment. PLOP. My bare foot finds its home in a deep, murky mud puddle. I am quite sure I have a leech or two feeding happily on my ankle, smug slug smiles on their faces.

We finally settle down in an outdoor restaurant to wait for our ride to return to the hostel. A family sits in the back. A large group of men sit in the front chatting freely. They are all wearing entirely too much clothing given the heat and humidity. They all look curiously at us as we enter and plop down into two chairs prepared to salt and shrivel any leeches that may have grabbed onto our toes during our walk in the dark. Thin, frisky, little lizards dart across the wooden beams of the ceiling. A malnourished, tiny, little kitten with sparse patches of fur finds its way under our feet. MLTC nearly crushes it to death with her little toe.

The family is watching the Malaysia equivalent of American Idol, classily entitled GANGSTARZ! The kids cheer as their favorite acts come on, and pish-posh the acts they deem ridiculous. Although, how they sort that out is impossible for me to discern. The most impressive thing about this program is not the talent, for there is little. It is not the voices, for they aren’t great. It is not the dancing, for it’s lacking. It is the bilingual ability of all these people – those on the program and those gawking at it.

A trio of boys finishes their absolutely dreadful rendition of an Eminem song. The judges begin letting their candid opinions flow. Malay flows from their lips. And then English. And then Malay. And then, “I really like how original that song was.” It is completely fluent English. I understand it. And given the show, the situation and the premise, it makes zero sense. I comprehend a fifth of the commentary, while the kids understand all of it. Their cheers and catcalls flow over to us a few tables over and I’m able to make out an English phrase here and there.

One judge comments almost exclusively in English: “I wasn’t feeling the gang, you guys. You’re supposed to be a gang and I just wasn’t feeling it. You have to work on that. I have to KNOW you’re a GANG. I have to feel it. A gang. You get me?”

Eventually our ride arrives and we are chauffeured back to our marble palace to rest up for our next early day. In an attempt to stop the white-boy-rap-mimicked-by-prepubescent-Malay-boys that is on an terrifying infinite loop in my head, my unconscious quickly takes over and rescues me with a Deep, Dark, Slim-Shadyless-Sleep.

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Published:
5.22.07 / 9am
Category:
what i call life, travel, culture, unschoolish