A Room With a View

As promised, I am delivering some pictures for those who are interested. The picture you see on the top left there is a view from my room. I had described it in passing as a "chateau." This perhaps was a bit misleading. It still is a chateau (three stories with an elevator--her father was afraid he would not be mobile in his waning years), but it is not, like one may imagine, perched on a grassy knoll with embankments on each side. Rather, it is clustered with many of the same type houses. The gated community is an interesting one. As I trolled the streets last night, I met with an older couple selling fruit and vegetables to the inhabitants of Damansara Heights from their truck. Li and Wohan (pronounced "lie" and "wohahn" respectively) come every Tuesday and Saturday to deliver produce to paying customers. One might be surprised to find many white neighbors here, ex-pats and the like, who stroll about, taking their children to the public pool and playground, chatting in their primrose front yards, etc. A security guard makes rounds regularly on a bike. Benches dot the streets at regular intervals for weary walkers or leisure seekers. It is still abominably hot however.

Interestingly, each house or "unit" as they like to call them in anthropology, has an automatic door for the cars and a manual one (that can only be unlocked from inside) for entry into the front yard. Thus, unlike gated communities even in the States, homes and yards are walled in twice over, leaving the wanderer "walled off" or shut out from within.

I don't think that this is really for security purposes, and I'll tell you why. Firstly, it's redundant. The community is already gated. The probabilities of another, highly wealthy homeowner in Damansara Heights stealing off with your television and jade collection under the cover of darkness is relatively nil. Secondly, the walls are not really designed for that sort of protection, per se. They are easily scalable and the door lock is a thin cylinder that hinges into a slot. Thirdly, a security guard patrols regularly on his bicycle, neighbors are almost always walking around or driving by. I simply don't see much of a reason for it.

This leads me to believe that there is a different underlying reason for such "double-walling." I believe it is largely psychological. In this manner, the homeowner may not only exclude the urban stranger (via the initial gate, with rottweilers and guards), but may also exclude, if he/she so chooses, other neighbors, so that there is a concentric circle of liminal delineation. One may even take this further to the privacy allowed by rooms. Thus the double-walling is a means of negotiating space within close confines. Land is a very valuable resource, yards small. Therefore that which is "mine" must be guarded psychologically from that which is "theirs." To put it more succinctly: those who can afford to wall themselves in close quarters do so for the comfort of privacy and voluntary exclusion/inclusion. At least this is what I think, and I haven't found any information suggesting the contrary.

Since Malaysia is still developing, it is interesting to leave a gated community to go, for example, grocery shopping. I have only been to small markets and the like. "Mini marts" seem to be for expedient snacks, etc. while the larger establishments are like the grocery stores we have in the States on a much smaller scale. Expensive furniture stores or restaurants, still sit alongside poor housing. As KL central is being revitalized, it is pushing out, slowly but surely, into the surrounding neighborhoods. As I said before, old infrastructure is being razed for new developments such as expensive condominiums and night clubs. I've even passed a Hindu temple still standing in front of a large, new shopping mall. Even so, the traditional Malaysian establishments (the small eateries that dot the city) are not absent. Today, for the first time, I had Nasi Lamak (the "National Treasure"). It is comprised of a ball of rice (which one eats with a spoon), a curry chili sauce on the side, nuts and fried fish strips (is the only way I can explain them) and a boiled egg, all served on a banana leaf. You can also order chicken or other such delectable treats with your meal. It is traditionally a breakfast food, so we had it for breakfast. I must say, it was quite good. To drink I had a little drink that can only be described as an iced, sweet lime concoction. Both my and Villie's meal, with chicken and drinks included, came to about 10 Ringgit (which, according to the current exchange rate, is around 3 USD). Not a bad deal, I'd say.

DVD's are cheap...when they're pirated. I am contemplating the box set of The Wire for about 400 Ringgit...which is essentially $115. If anyone knows how expensive and scarce even Season 1 of The Wire is, then you'd know how amazing the price is. Of course, you do have to sit through their little movie store promo...but that's the price you pay...for a lower price. Another thing of note: parking here is not free. Now what do I mean by that? I mean that almost all of the parking lots I have been to are controlled by automatic or manual tolls and/or parking meter stations. When you enter a lot of any kind you have to get a ticket. Depending on the lot, you either pay the ticket up front and stick it in your car, or, more often I've seen the ticket paid at the end of the stay. Therefore, if you don't have the money, you're stuck in the parking lot. I believe this is tax money (which almost every extraneous cost is here--"service tax" also goes to the government), but it's an interesting concept. In mall parking lots there is even a time limit to escape after paying for the ticket. Since those meters charge exponentially for time used, then to avoid people clocking in for an hour, paying for the ticket and staying for another five, there is a time limit from the point that you pay for your ticket to the point you exit the parking lot. Mall parking lots are generally confusing here--arrows go everywhere, random cones stand in the way, exit signs are posted at every corner pointing up and down. It's beyond me how anyone makes it out in 20 minutes, much less 10.

But people navigate. Unspoken rule of the road: the pedestrian does not have the right of way. If you come here and are planning to cross the road, STOP, and look both ways with cupped ears. It isn't like Italy where one really must cross in front of traffic and mingle with the motorcycles and tour buses careening inches away from your nose. Here, either the car won't stop (unlikely) or it will (much more likely) and someone will be angry (certain).

Well that's all for now folks. I promise I'll post again soon. I think the crystal clear swimming pool is calling my name at the moment.

P.S. If it's this beautiful in the city, then I am anxious to see the country.

Yours,
Trey

Kuala lumpur

My apologies to all of you who have been trying to contact me via internet. Anyway, not much has happened of note. I have been eating mainly "Western" food and gradually edging in to more Asian delicacies. Needless to say, Tony Roma's doesn't really lend itself to the exotic Malaysian flair. I did feel at home though when I had a "Texan" burger at Chili's (a cheeseburger with "jalapeno sauce" and "tortilla strips"...not recommended.) Last night I had some pretty fantastic Thai food. I ambled to the bathroom soon afterward.

So far, I have been in a pretty commercialized part of K.L. I asked some of Villie's friends if there were any locations or sights that represented Malaysian "culture" (whatever that means), and they told me that really it was their food. A certain dish I have yet to try is their "national treasure" called Nasi Lamak. I don't know what's in it yet...I probably never will.

It is hot, but really not any hotter than Texas. It's the humidity that kills you. Even though I am in a commercialized section of K.L. (I have been in many "megamalls," i.e. seven-floor consumerist monstrosities--paeans to the inevitable spread of capitalism), I have noticed alongside centers of affluence, abject poverty. Flanking a road to the center of the city for example, sit rows of abandoned and degenerate housing complexes. Across from four and five-star hotels are colorful tenement buildings, a small park for the children to play in next to an intersection. A dirty river cuts through the scene. Nestled amidst sprawling shopping centers and five-story car parks are dilapidated homes, the stubborn hold-outs of a rampant revitalization campaign.

Just as with many, if not most, of the post-industrial cities of the U.S., Kuala Lumpur is a classic case of "urban revitalization." Here's how it works in a nutshell: the city or federal government buys decaying city infrastructure from the urban poor, then offers the land at a discounted price to urban developers. The urban developers usually raze the infrastructure (i.e. poor housing) in order to erect new, commercial enterprises: shops, services, etc. for the more wealthy city-goers. The poor are displaced, and usually, depending on government policy, are provided money and housing in return for relinquishing their property.

What usually happens? The poor are displaced, not offered comparable housing or payment, pushed to the outside of the city, and the inner city is reconstructed to fit the consumerist dictates of a post-industrial society. K.L. has an added interest in doing this since the inner city is a prime tourist location (the Petronas Towers, etc.)

Interestingly, the rich/poor dichotomy is reflected even in the "megamalls," albeit on a smaller scale. One can easily cross from a Chanel retailer to "Jusco," a poor department store. The lower one goes in Jusco, it appears, the poorer the clientele.

That being said, K.L. is, not surprisingly, rather diverse. Chinese Malaysians walk alongside, Indian Malaysians, walk alongside Malaysian Malaysians, etc., etc. English is spoken predominantly here, or what can be construed as English. I have found myself tempted, many a time, to gesticulate wildly and enunciate as I order something like "creme brulee" (which came back to me as a blueberry crumble.)

My knowledge of Malay is poor. I was corrected on how to say "hello" at a gas station. But there is no such thing as "hello" in Malay. Really there are "good morning," "good afternoon," "good evening" and "good night." I said "good afternoon" and this woman deemed it to be "evening." Difference of opinion I'd argue. On the whole, people are very nice or rather rude. Some will be accommodating, others will act as though you are requesting a Herculean effort for them to turn around and get you a bottle of water. Very well. Small talk is kept to a minimum, and so it is sometimes difficult NOT to be the obnoxious American. I have found that even if they can't understand what you're saying, as long as you smile you have a good chance of getting what you need.

On the whole, I really like it here, and it is rather beautiful, even the poorer bits (but then, as an anthropologist, of course I would find those equally if not more beautiful). I will post more as I push out of the general radius and explore both the overlaying and underlying composition of Malaysia. Check back soon.

Trey

In Taipei

I am in the Taipei airport...they have free internet...it's all in Chinese. Try checking your email that way. One last leg to go. Let you know when I get there.

Trey

The Night Before

For all of those not so informed, I am off to Malaysia tomorrow, Kuala Lumpur specifically. It will be an all-day affair. And by all day, I mean literally all day...around 24 hours. But that's okay. Because it's Malaysia.

I am sorry that I wasn't able to see everyone for as long as either you or I wanted. I have been busy, and it's been very hectic leading up to today. In fact, tomorrow will still be hectic...and the day after. I will keep your affectations and kind words in mind as I sit on the plane staring blankly at the ocean, then as I bowl over in the lavatory from whatever I might be ingesting, and finally, of course, when I pick out souvenirs. I will try to keep all updated as much as possible as I trek about this new territory, and I have trusty Villie as my guide, so all will be well to those who are still worrying.

I will be arriving at Kuala Lumpur at around 12:15 p.m. baggage in tow. From then on, it's anyone's guess. But really, I will do my best to describe the sites and sounds as they present themselves to me. I am rather excited, and I will try to remember this "discourse." Obviously right now I haven't much to say...I'm assuming when I get there I will. However, do not expect any tweets. I refuse to twitter or fritter my vacation hours away on a website that bandies the mundanities of life like Venice merchants. I do want to stay in touch though. So for those of you who don't yet know, this might be a good place to find information on said topic.

And...on another note, and one not wholly in accordance with the subject at hand, I would like to say Happy Birthday to Mom. May 18 was her birthday. In honor of her birthday, and of course she would be mortified, I am going to post something that she wrote herself:

It was so strange to see soldiers standing at every corner, especially near the banks, dressed in their drab greens and holding machine guns at the ready. In fact, it is one of the few things I remember most vividly from my few months in Istanbul, not the people I met, not the foods I ate, not the sights I saw. Such an odd concept for me, soldiers, on corners, machine guns, ready. It is frightening now to think of it, but somehow it wasn't then. But I was only 17 and still felt pretty immortal--at least, compared to now, when at 33 I feel pretty close to death most of the time. I could even say that I felt a little comforted by the sight of the soldiers, as if they were some tangible guardian angels protecting me and others of the city from terrorists and other evil beings. Which is what they were there for, to keep control of terrorists. Turkey had just undergone a change from one kind of government to a military government only months before I and about 50 other kids had arrived as foreign exchange students from the U.S. It was with some degree of fear that I'd read about this takeover, but I was in the midst of saving my money and packing my bags for the trip. Military government?, I remember thinking abstractly. Was this a good thing? Was it safe? But would they, AFS, send us if it weren't safe? That was the big question here, but I was too young to really think of asking someone in charge. When it was time to go, I went an that was that. I suppose my parents might have checked into it (I would now if my son wanted to go somewhere outside of this city), but if they did it was secretly and without my ever learning of it.

Anyway, I grew used to these soldiers, although I never actually approached any of them, never offered to trim their rifles with flowers or ribbons, never even smiled and said hello. Then again, I rarely felt brave enough to smile and say hello to anyone, much less someone carrying a weapon and presumably watching out for bad guys.

It was the summer of 1981 and I had just turned that great old age of 17 about two weeks before departure. I was so excited to be leaving Arlington, so thrilled to be getting away from my family, that I could hardly breathe as the plane left ground and headed for New York. It would be in New York that I'd find myself in the first of two orientation camps, both geared to getting us prepared for the culture shock that we would encounter in a place like Turkey.

Unfortunately, the shock, cultural or not, would begin much earlier for me than for most because 1) I had not been camping since I was in the second grade (and had not liked it THEN) and 2) I had not expected to have to undergo such intensive preparation. The first camp was on a college campus, one whose name escapes me now. I was not happy to learn that we would be there for an entire week. For what?, I asked the window of the bus as we rumbled out of the airport and onto the highway. I was also not too pleased to learn that I'd be sharing a dormitory room with two other girls. This sharing room stuff was something I left Arlington for and here I was, in a situation that was, for me, even worse since I didn't know the girls. I was very shy back then and had quite a difficult time in the locker rooms at school, so the prospect of revealing what I thought was a completely hideous body to strangers was appalling. And it was hot, unusually hot for New York. Or so said the camp counselor that next day after we'd spent our first night sweating in our tiny twin beds, a sheet and scratchy old blanket each. No air conditioning in New York, not then, anyway. During the next few days, we would attend sessions and meetings that focused on Turkish foods, Turkish people, Turkish words, Turkish customs, and Turkish culture in general. It was long, it was boring, it was tedious.

We sweated our way through that week, an endless week I might add, and finally Friday arrived and we could prepare to board our flight to Turkey. It would be making three stops, one in France, one in Germany, and finally, Turkey. We were not going to be able to go sightseeing in either of the first two, but we didn't care--just get us to Turkey, please, and let this exchange thing happen. Little did we know what awaited us there. Camp New York seemed like the Hilton compared to that hellish place they bussed us to on arrival to Istanbul. But first, the arrival. The flight took forever, with long waits in Paris and Germany not helping at all. My time was spent mostly reading and helping out a Pakistani woman with her two small children. They were practically in my lap, anyway, so I was the logical one to provide on-board care for the poor lady. She was grateful and I was gracious, end of story. It was also a great way to keep myself from focusing on the fact that we were flying over a great expanse of water and emminent death.

In Germany, as we reboarded our plane after a fifteen minute break, we were told something very disconcerting by our adult chaperons: we had to land in Turkey at night, under cover of darkness, or not at all. Our questions were met with shrugs. Great, just great. It was not the best way to ease someone's mind about the safety of the country to which one is going. We finally approached the airport, or that's what the pilot told us we were doing since we could see absolutely nothing in the complete blackness below us. As we circled over this non-runway, I could not only feel but hear my heart pounding in my scrawny chest. The handy map of Turkey and its surrounding land and waterways that they'd given me in New York did not make me feel much better. According to it, we had a fifty-fifty chance of landing in the water around Turkey, much less at the tiny airport toward the tip of the country. I felt the air pressure in the cabin change as we descended hundreds of feet, still into total dark. But no one else seemed to be panicking (I kept a close watch on the flight attendants and saw no rush for their emergency seats), so I tried to calm down and ignore all the signs of my seemingly inevitable death. The Our Father was never so faithfully repeated as at that moment.

But we landed safely, obviously, for here I am to tell of it and we were shuffled quickly into a deserted airport to wait until morning. It was apparent that we could no more drive into the city at night than fly into the country duringn the day. So we slouched and slept uncomfortably around the airport for about six hours until they loaded us into three long buses. We were tired but elated--we were on our way.

Happy Birthday Mom. And may my travel narrative be anywhere as skillfully written. R.I.P.

Trey

My Initial Thoughts

As a rule, I dislike blogs. Firstly, the blog is a self-gratifying, inane and presumptuous invention. Secondly, and perhaps more importantly, I abhor the term "blog." People have used "blog" to birth an entire, hideous, new vernacular: blogging, blogger, blogosphere, etc.--all words that I wince at when I hear them uttered (the same applies for the rest of that technocratic twaddle...you know what I'm talking about..."webinars" and the like.) I would much prefer the term "web journal," except that it implies a level of intimacy with which I am not planning to grace you. Thus, I am reduced to blog, and as such, I must admit that my own activity--the very act of writing this--may lend credence to the suggestion that I am a blogger. I will deny the accusation to my death.

However, since most of what I do seems to be self-gratifying, inane and presumptuous, I cannot pretend that this is not a natural course of action. Thus, instead of titling this a "blog," I will title it a "discourse." And instead of titling myself a "blogger," I will much prefer it if I am referred to as the "Principal Dialogic Contributor."

Now that we have that settled, let me introduce the reasons for which I have begun this discourse. For one, I was reminded by a friend of the pleasures of such an activity. Not only does my friend have something to say, it's actually pretty good what he's saying. I cannot promise either, but I can promise that my own ennui has prompted me to begin this, and most likely it will prompt me to forget it very soon. Next in line as a reason is that I can try to keep people updated on my current situation. I wouldn't go so far as "tweeting" and the like. I will have no such nonsense. But if I am successful in this, those who are legitimately concerned about my well-being may track the trivial despairs and Pyrrhic victories of my quotidian existence.

So let me begin by saying that in 7 days (18 May 2009), I leave for Malaysia. I will be staying there until July 29, and most likely traveling around Southeast Asia with my girlfriend, Villie. She is from Malaysia, so I am not worried. She also lives in a three-story chateau nestled in an affluent, gated community...so I don't have to be anxious about enraged and impoverished Malaysians surrounding the house with torches and pitchforks demanding American blood. But don't let me frighten you. I have been informed that the greatest tragedy that might befall me there will most likely be intense bowel dysfunction for a period of two weeks or so as I get used to prized Malaysian dishes such as "pork ball noodles." I am rather excited to introduce my Epicurean palette to such delicacies.

While there, I will try to take pictures posed in front of buildings, monuments and sunsets, which will be distributable to grandmothers worldwide in two sizes: wallet and picture frame. I will be smiling, sunburned and sweating as mosquitoes dine dizzily on fresh meat (fear not, I have already gotten malaria pills, tetanus shots, hepatitis shots and typhoid shots--the only thing I missed out on was the rabies shot, but if I stay away from rabid dogs and monkeys, I should be okay).

Second in line, my paper on the homeless in Arlington is complete. It is entitled, "Angelic Vagrants: Agency, Discourse and Otherness, A Modest Case Study of the Homeless in Arlington, Texas." The title itself should be an indicator of what you may expect. It is 50 pages in length exactly. This has some significance as 1.) it is 10 times the minimum page requirement, 2.) 5 is my favorite number and 3.) I promised a homeless friend, Shane, that I would make 50 pages. He said that when I was finished, I should bring it to him so that he could go out and buy a folder for it. As he told me, "No matter what, if it's the only thing I have, I will keep this with me for as long as I live."

I would post the paper in its entirety, but blogger doesn't allow for simple procedures such as tabbing and footnoting, both of which are crucial to my ponderous and labyrinthine style. Therefore, I will send the paper on request, and you can read it at your leisure or your disleasure. Be forewarned that it has not really been proofread. It frightens me too much to read it, so it may be rife with a whole host of redundant polemics and typos...or it could just be brilliant.

Next in line, is that I believe I will be staying at U.T.A. I have pondered U.D., but I don't think I have the time to apply now, and with all that has been going on, I don't think I would ever have had the energy. U.T.A. is not a bad school, and it will allow me to explore my options in comm studies, french and english. More and more, I am becoming enamored with the written word. It might just be that my jaunt as an anthropologist is coming to an end...or it could be that it is just beginning...we shall see.

Check often for updates. There just might be some.

Trey