Yesterday, I got into the back seat of a taxi and just as my behind hit the vinyl, the driver turned his head asking,
"You stay where?"
Now, normally, I would have answered an innocuous question like that, but I could tell! I could tell by the very sound of his voice that that question was going to lead to . . . "The Thousand Questions".
Warning bells went off! Interrogation! Interrogation! Privacy Alert! Privacy Alert! Go to Plan! Go to Plan!
Taking a long breath, I calmly smiled a calm smile. Then, I squeaked,
"Sorry, can't talk now. I have a sore throat."
"Oh," he said, "I see." There was a flustered pause in the front seat. Then, a silent implosion. Then, silence.
Silence! Yes! It worked!
For a half of a second, I felt a teensy bit guilty for lying. But, then I felt a little soreness in my throat and thought, "I do have a little bit of a sore throat, actually. I mean, it's not extreme, but I prefer not to talk. Besides, why fill the air with all kinds of personal information that this stranger has no need to know? I'm doing us both a favour and it's not really a lie. My throat is slightly sore. I have a right to be still."
The ride was enjoyed in silence, except for the clacking of the radio speaker and repeated "confirm" from the girl on the taxi dispatch. I had won a victory. My plan was indeed watertight!
Thursday 18 April 2013
Sunday 14 April 2013
TAXI ADVICE FOR SINGLE WOMEN TRAVELING IN MALAYSIA
Here in Malaysia, getting into a taxi can be dicey. As a single woman, you may be imposed upon with what I affectionately refer to as "The Thousand Questions". They go something like this:
(In rapid succession, like he can't wait to get the next question out of his mouth to continue the interrogation.)
Where are you FROM? What are you DOING here? Why are you staying in MALAYSIA? Where do you LIVE? How much do you pay for RENT? Where is your HUSBAND? Why aren't you WITH your husband? How many children do you have? How much money do THEY give you to live on? How OLD are you? Where do you WORK? How much MONEY do you make?
This is not an exaggeration. Not even slightly. The questions that some taxi drivers have the nerve to ask is embarrassing.
In the past, I tried to deal with it in different ways. I used to be cordial, sociable and have a nice "chat". Until, I discovered that, with a lot (not all) of taxi drivers, it's impossible to get out of the question vice. They will repeat the question until they get an answer. You can ignore the question and sometimes that works, but, they will only come up with another more invasive question, so you really have to have "A PLAN".
Because I have suffered head-aches and proposals, incessant banter and the nine yards, I finally made a decision about how to deal with talkative, inquisitive and gold-digging drivers!
First, I always sit in the back seat, now! That, in itself, has deterred most of the taxi drivers I've encountered lately. I look staunchly out the SIDE window and do not engage. If it looks like the driver may be turning his head to start a chat, I pull out my cellphone fast and pretend to text a message.
So far, I haven't had to pull out my big guns. I'm rather looking forward to it, though. Now that I have a water tight plan, I want to USE it!
Here's what it is:
I'm going to answer the first question with,
"Oooh, so sorry la, but I have a VEERY sore THROAT. Cannot TALK."
And THAT, my dear traveler, is the BEST POSSIBLE ADVICE I CAN GIVE TO A SINGLE WOMAN USING A TAXI IN MALAYSIA!
Friday 12 April 2013
Getting Around in Malaysia
By now, you may have noticed that I didn't go back to Cambodia. I didn't stay in Thailand either. It happened like this:
I stayed for three nights in the very cheapest room I could find in Bangkok. The bus let us off at Khao San Road, so it was quite fortunate that I bumped into a Chinese man who asked,
"You wanna cheap room?"
This guy is reading my mind! (I'm wearing a small backpack, carrying a heavy guitar case and pulling a suitcase with a loaded backpack on top of it.) He leads me down an alley into a tucked away little hostel. The room was 150 batt as opposed to 500 batt. And I was too exhausted to say no to a good price, even if there were a few drawbacks.
After three days, I got a little weary with the Kaosan Road tour every day and decided to hop onto a tuk-tuk and go to my gem of a find of a guest house where I'd stayed the last time I was in Bangkok. (What year was that?!) It was close to the train station. I remembered it as being so cute, clean and quiet.
Not anymore!
The "room" they gave me was more like a closet. The neighbours started a continual door-slamming routine after 11 pm. I had to carry (by myself) all my luggage up three flights of stairs and down one. It's a good work-out for a young man, but not for an older woman. Thanks for your help, "Your Place"!
Not to be negative, but after five days in Bangkok, I was ready to get the heck out of Thailand. Perhaps if I hadn't known Thailand to be the "Land of Smiles" of former days when tourists were respected, bowed to, helped and considered and where cars were few and far between, I may have been a little more tolerant to what is now a culture of hectic, thoughtless, and at times rude people. Several of them even looked at me like they wished I were dead.
The thought came to me (almost like the Prodigal Son) that maybe I could "go home"! (She says, clicking her ruby slippers together.)
Yes, so I decided to check out flights to K.L. (Kuala Lumpur) and knocked on the door of what I thought was a cruise tourism place. They were closed, but the man unlocked the door and asked me what I wanted. I asked whether they sold flights and he said he would see what he could do.
He found a booking on a plane to K.L. for the next day and remarked,
"That was the last sale of the day. The company was closing but I got you in."
So, I got a great price on an afternoon flight the very next day. I landed in Kuala Lumpur and received a three month visa! Hallelujah!
I spent a few days with my friends in Rasa Kamayan who helped me celebrate my birthday on March 13th and then I found a room in Kamayan Square.
Then, I took the train to Kampar to visit the family!
I stayed for three nights in the very cheapest room I could find in Bangkok. The bus let us off at Khao San Road, so it was quite fortunate that I bumped into a Chinese man who asked,
"You wanna cheap room?"
This guy is reading my mind! (I'm wearing a small backpack, carrying a heavy guitar case and pulling a suitcase with a loaded backpack on top of it.) He leads me down an alley into a tucked away little hostel. The room was 150 batt as opposed to 500 batt. And I was too exhausted to say no to a good price, even if there were a few drawbacks.
After three days, I got a little weary with the Kaosan Road tour every day and decided to hop onto a tuk-tuk and go to my gem of a find of a guest house where I'd stayed the last time I was in Bangkok. (What year was that?!) It was close to the train station. I remembered it as being so cute, clean and quiet.
Not anymore!
The "room" they gave me was more like a closet. The neighbours started a continual door-slamming routine after 11 pm. I had to carry (by myself) all my luggage up three flights of stairs and down one. It's a good work-out for a young man, but not for an older woman. Thanks for your help, "Your Place"!
Not to be negative, but after five days in Bangkok, I was ready to get the heck out of Thailand. Perhaps if I hadn't known Thailand to be the "Land of Smiles" of former days when tourists were respected, bowed to, helped and considered and where cars were few and far between, I may have been a little more tolerant to what is now a culture of hectic, thoughtless, and at times rude people. Several of them even looked at me like they wished I were dead.
The thought came to me (almost like the Prodigal Son) that maybe I could "go home"! (She says, clicking her ruby slippers together.)
Yes, so I decided to check out flights to K.L. (Kuala Lumpur) and knocked on the door of what I thought was a cruise tourism place. They were closed, but the man unlocked the door and asked me what I wanted. I asked whether they sold flights and he said he would see what he could do.
He found a booking on a plane to K.L. for the next day and remarked,
"That was the last sale of the day. The company was closing but I got you in."
So, I got a great price on an afternoon flight the very next day. I landed in Kuala Lumpur and received a three month visa! Hallelujah!
I spent a few days with my friends in Rasa Kamayan who helped me celebrate my birthday on March 13th and then I found a room in Kamayan Square.
Then, I took the train to Kampar to visit the family!
Thursday 11 April 2013
Hair Disaster One and Two!
In case you are ever thinking about having anything done with your hair while visiting Seremban, first be cautioned against it. Then, listen to my tale of woe. I had four days of misery on account of what the so-called hair-dressers of Seremban did to my hair. They cost me my self-esteem, my love of life, my social interaction and the condition of my hair! . . . Here's my story.
One fine Sunday morning, I was coming down the ramp from the Tesco grocery store, when I was approached by a young Chinese man flaunting a clown-like mop of obviously peroxided hair, like so many Chinese teens are wearing these days. I marveled a bit at the idea of using peroxide in this day and age, when, at least in Canada, we learned back in the sixties that it's the worst possible way to lighten one's hair. But, I gingerly accepted his advertisement and offhandedly enquired as to the price of a fringe cut. He said it only cost 5RM.
So I followed him into the hair salon, never considering that he might actually be the hair-dresser! I was directed to sit in a chair and, when he came toward me with a pair of scissors, it slowly dawned on me that this crazy person with the bazaar, orange/yellow locks was acting hair-dresser! But, I quietly allowed him to cut my bangs. He did not do it the way I had requested and he seemed to have only one method, -- his own.
Then came the fatal mistake that I will rue to the end of my days. I asked him how much he charged for a cut. His answer was that the cut was included with hair colouring; only 67RM! I was hooked and going down fast. I asked,
"Could you put a few blonde streaks in my hair first then and cut it, but leave the back long?" He nodded enthusiastically as if all things were possible at his hands. (All things disastrous, anyway.)
Ok, so I chose the colour, a light blonde. He said something about bleach which I overlooked because I figured he knew what he was doing. Then, as things progressed, I chatted away about Canada, the coming Amero, the US dollar, the economy of Malaysia and he, nodding enthusiastically in agreement, continued working.
"You know that I just want streaks, right?" I asked. He agreed. Later, I confirmed,
"You know that I just want streaks, right?" Now I'm noticing that my entire head is being slathered in some sort of stuff that is beginning to bite a little. He looks at me with his head cocked. That look was wrong. It was like my kids got when they were caught with their hand in the cookie jar.
Warning bells are going off. I just can't hear them because I have these plastic flaps over my ears, for some unknown reason, but known to the so-called "hair-dresser" who had made a fair task of convincing me that he understood English enough to know what I had asked him to do!
"You know, HIGHLIGHTS?" I said, a little hysterically.
"OH!" he shook his head. "Sorry, la."
Sorry la? What do you mean? What have you done? He left me to sit while he cut another man's hair. Then, after the wash and rinse and conditioning, we were back at the chair. When the towel came off, I shrieked,
"OH MY GOD!"
He had turned me into HIM! He had peroxided all the colour out of my hair and stripped it of its natural oils.
I was shocked! I was distraught! It was difficult to breathe. A little voice in my head was getting louder and louder, saying, "Kill him! Kill him!"
"Cut it off! Cut if off!" I said, trying not to look in the mirror. "Get rid of it."
He nervously grabbed the scissors and started hacking away, to my, "More off! More!"
"But, then you gonna look like a boy..."
It was hopeless. I had tried to get "wispy" but that was way beyond any expectations one could have of this monorailed, hair ignorant imposter. However, he did manage to cut my hair. Short. Thank God.
I needed a hat! How could I go out in public? That evening, I had plans to go to Kuala Lumpur to a Christian ministry. It was humiliating. --Especially when I was unexpectedly invited to talk on stage!
The next morning, I awoke and the nightmare was still there. What to do? I remembered there was a hair salon right in the next street where I was staying in Kamayan Square, so I decided to pay them a visit.
They showed me hair swatches and when I asked how much the brown was, she said, "150RM."
What?
"I only have 100RM." (100RM was way too much, considering I had very little hair left.) She immediately lowered her price and "reluctantly" gave me the lower price. So, another young man coloured my hair in what we thought would be a darker brown.
When the towel came off this time, I nearly cried. Instead of helping the situation, it had made it worse. I was now a red-head. Not that I have anything against red-heads. I love red hair. Just not on me. It looked utterly and unforgivably insane. At my age!
I was crying in my soup. I was complaining to everyone I knew, writing online and messaging on my phone about my hair disaster. My friend, Laura invited me to come along with her to her regular hair salon on Thursday. That meant I had to wait three whole days. I hid in my room. When I had to go out in the hall, I skulked around, hoping nobody would see me.
Thursday finally came. I went to Laura's hair-dresser and got my hair coloured brown. This time, when the towel came off, I breathed a deep sigh of relief and said,
"I'm a real person, again. Thank you, God!"
One fine Sunday morning, I was coming down the ramp from the Tesco grocery store, when I was approached by a young Chinese man flaunting a clown-like mop of obviously peroxided hair, like so many Chinese teens are wearing these days. I marveled a bit at the idea of using peroxide in this day and age, when, at least in Canada, we learned back in the sixties that it's the worst possible way to lighten one's hair. But, I gingerly accepted his advertisement and offhandedly enquired as to the price of a fringe cut. He said it only cost 5RM.
So I followed him into the hair salon, never considering that he might actually be the hair-dresser! I was directed to sit in a chair and, when he came toward me with a pair of scissors, it slowly dawned on me that this crazy person with the bazaar, orange/yellow locks was acting hair-dresser! But, I quietly allowed him to cut my bangs. He did not do it the way I had requested and he seemed to have only one method, -- his own.
Then came the fatal mistake that I will rue to the end of my days. I asked him how much he charged for a cut. His answer was that the cut was included with hair colouring; only 67RM! I was hooked and going down fast. I asked,
"Could you put a few blonde streaks in my hair first then and cut it, but leave the back long?" He nodded enthusiastically as if all things were possible at his hands. (All things disastrous, anyway.)
Ok, so I chose the colour, a light blonde. He said something about bleach which I overlooked because I figured he knew what he was doing. Then, as things progressed, I chatted away about Canada, the coming Amero, the US dollar, the economy of Malaysia and he, nodding enthusiastically in agreement, continued working.
"You know that I just want streaks, right?" I asked. He agreed. Later, I confirmed,
"You know that I just want streaks, right?" Now I'm noticing that my entire head is being slathered in some sort of stuff that is beginning to bite a little. He looks at me with his head cocked. That look was wrong. It was like my kids got when they were caught with their hand in the cookie jar.
Warning bells are going off. I just can't hear them because I have these plastic flaps over my ears, for some unknown reason, but known to the so-called "hair-dresser" who had made a fair task of convincing me that he understood English enough to know what I had asked him to do!
"You know, HIGHLIGHTS?" I said, a little hysterically.
"OH!" he shook his head. "Sorry, la."
Sorry la? What do you mean? What have you done? He left me to sit while he cut another man's hair. Then, after the wash and rinse and conditioning, we were back at the chair. When the towel came off, I shrieked,
"OH MY GOD!"
He had turned me into HIM! He had peroxided all the colour out of my hair and stripped it of its natural oils.
I was shocked! I was distraught! It was difficult to breathe. A little voice in my head was getting louder and louder, saying, "Kill him! Kill him!"
"Cut it off! Cut if off!" I said, trying not to look in the mirror. "Get rid of it."
He nervously grabbed the scissors and started hacking away, to my, "More off! More!"
"But, then you gonna look like a boy..."
It was hopeless. I had tried to get "wispy" but that was way beyond any expectations one could have of this monorailed, hair ignorant imposter. However, he did manage to cut my hair. Short. Thank God.
I needed a hat! How could I go out in public? That evening, I had plans to go to Kuala Lumpur to a Christian ministry. It was humiliating. --Especially when I was unexpectedly invited to talk on stage!
The next morning, I awoke and the nightmare was still there. What to do? I remembered there was a hair salon right in the next street where I was staying in Kamayan Square, so I decided to pay them a visit.
They showed me hair swatches and when I asked how much the brown was, she said, "150RM."
What?
"I only have 100RM." (100RM was way too much, considering I had very little hair left.) She immediately lowered her price and "reluctantly" gave me the lower price. So, another young man coloured my hair in what we thought would be a darker brown.
When the towel came off this time, I nearly cried. Instead of helping the situation, it had made it worse. I was now a red-head. Not that I have anything against red-heads. I love red hair. Just not on me. It looked utterly and unforgivably insane. At my age!
I was crying in my soup. I was complaining to everyone I knew, writing online and messaging on my phone about my hair disaster. My friend, Laura invited me to come along with her to her regular hair salon on Thursday. That meant I had to wait three whole days. I hid in my room. When I had to go out in the hall, I skulked around, hoping nobody would see me.
Thursday finally came. I went to Laura's hair-dresser and got my hair coloured brown. This time, when the towel came off, I breathed a deep sigh of relief and said,
"I'm a real person, again. Thank you, God!"
Tuesday 9 April 2013
Back to Bangkok
The bus arrived at the Thai border in a couple of hours where the ordeal began. Border crossing by bus is not fun. First you que for at least two hours and inch by inch move toward the counter, hauling whatever luggage you have with you. (Unless, like me, you have a dear Cambodian girl accompany your guitar and suitcases on a trolly.)
Then, after inching to the first counter and receiving your exit stamp, you following the crowd across a scorching hot landscape toward the next shelter where you . . . que again. It's the heat that makes things seem worse than they really are. No, maybe it's the stupidity. Well, that, too.
That's when I realised that if one is serious about touring around in SE Asia, one needs to learn how to travel as light as possible! One certainly should not carry a guitar inside of a hard shell case.
Then, after inching to the first counter and receiving your exit stamp, you following the crowd across a scorching hot landscape toward the next shelter where you . . . que again. It's the heat that makes things seem worse than they really are. No, maybe it's the stupidity. Well, that, too.
That's when I realised that if one is serious about touring around in SE Asia, one needs to learn how to travel as light as possible! One certainly should not carry a guitar inside of a hard shell case.
Monday 8 April 2013
The Six Month Visa Deal!
https://www.elance.com/s/teacherbrenda/?rid=34KXV
Val informed me that all I had to do to get a visa was to go and visit a travel agency and they would take care of the whole thing! What an amazing discovery! This was so unlike Malaysia where you are required to either (A) leave the country and re-enter again after a week or so, or (B) visit your local Immigrations, fill forms, que in long ques, answer questions in an interview, get photocopies of your documentations and pay a lump sum.
In Siem Reap, all you had to do was to hand in your passport and a small photo and pay the fee of $155 for a six month visa! It was a joy to imagine being able to avoid the entire Immigrations experience. Apparently, Cambodia is welcoming Westerners who can afford to pay for the visa!
It took me several weeks to decide whether to stay on or not. One morning, I woke up with staying on my mind! AND, to my surprise, it was raining! No rain had fallen since my arrival and none was expected during "dry season". But, it was raining right outside my window!
On this special occasion, I gladly boarded one of the tuk-tuks stationed outside of the hotel close to my room. The driver was wearing his rain slicks and the carriage was covered in a plastic protector. How lovely to feel the wet. The morning was almost cool and it was so early that some of the shops hadn't opened. Traffic was minimal. I thought, "This is the best time of day to have a look around town. So quiet." By 8 am, I was let off at the travel agency which was closed, so I stood outside a bit under the awning.
The shop keeper next door offered to call the travel agent and let me talk to her. She advised me to buy two pictures for the visa and hand my passport to the shop-keeper. (I preferred to wait for the travel agent.) So, after breakfast, I showed up with the pics and handed her my passport. She looked at it and said,
"Oh. You cannot renew because you came in on a visitor's pass."
"WHAT."
"You cannot get six month visa. You can get only one month for $45," she announced calmly.
"But, "
What's the point? Did she actually think I'd gotten myself a business visa and was going to her to have a one month business visa extended? Who would do that?
Of course I came in on a visitor's pass!
She looked at me, expecting the $45 and I looked back at her with a blank expression.
"Let me think about it."
So, after a bit of thought, I decided it was useless to buy a one-month visa for $45, when I would have to leave at the end of the month anyway. Thailand, here I come.
I went and bought a bus ticket that morning to Bangkok.
Val informed me that all I had to do to get a visa was to go and visit a travel agency and they would take care of the whole thing! What an amazing discovery! This was so unlike Malaysia where you are required to either (A) leave the country and re-enter again after a week or so, or (B) visit your local Immigrations, fill forms, que in long ques, answer questions in an interview, get photocopies of your documentations and pay a lump sum.
In Siem Reap, all you had to do was to hand in your passport and a small photo and pay the fee of $155 for a six month visa! It was a joy to imagine being able to avoid the entire Immigrations experience. Apparently, Cambodia is welcoming Westerners who can afford to pay for the visa!
It took me several weeks to decide whether to stay on or not. One morning, I woke up with staying on my mind! AND, to my surprise, it was raining! No rain had fallen since my arrival and none was expected during "dry season". But, it was raining right outside my window!
On this special occasion, I gladly boarded one of the tuk-tuks stationed outside of the hotel close to my room. The driver was wearing his rain slicks and the carriage was covered in a plastic protector. How lovely to feel the wet. The morning was almost cool and it was so early that some of the shops hadn't opened. Traffic was minimal. I thought, "This is the best time of day to have a look around town. So quiet." By 8 am, I was let off at the travel agency which was closed, so I stood outside a bit under the awning.
The shop keeper next door offered to call the travel agent and let me talk to her. She advised me to buy two pictures for the visa and hand my passport to the shop-keeper. (I preferred to wait for the travel agent.) So, after breakfast, I showed up with the pics and handed her my passport. She looked at it and said,
"Oh. You cannot renew because you came in on a visitor's pass."
"WHAT."
"You cannot get six month visa. You can get only one month for $45," she announced calmly.
"But, "
What's the point? Did she actually think I'd gotten myself a business visa and was going to her to have a one month business visa extended? Who would do that?
Of course I came in on a visitor's pass!
She looked at me, expecting the $45 and I looked back at her with a blank expression.
"Let me think about it."
So, after a bit of thought, I decided it was useless to buy a one-month visa for $45, when I would have to leave at the end of the month anyway. Thailand, here I come.
I went and bought a bus ticket that morning to Bangkok.
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