Travel Musings

Narita Airport

Singapore/Malaysia 2007 Travelogue

My God, this toilet is way too complicated. There's this "Powerful Deoderizer" feature that kind of scares me and I don't know the difference between the "Spray" button (a blue butt icon, posterior view) and the "Bidet" button (a pink butt icon, lateral view): what happened to good, old-fashioned TP? Plus, I don't know where to set the flush "Volume Control", but I suppose the quieter, the better. The Japanese obviously have too much time on their hands.

With ten minutes separating my Minneapolis/Tokyo flight deboarding from my Tokyo/Singapore flight boarding, I have just enough time to hit the currency exchange and see if they'll accept the hundred bucks in Cambodian Riel that I've toted around for the past two years. They reject it, just like every other international airport currency exchange I've visited since 2005. Who knows, maybe the money will come in handy some day.

Changi

12:15  We pull into the gate at Singapore's Changi Airport

12:20  I'm through Customs

12:25  I've scored Singapore Dollars

12:30  I've claimed my luggage

12:35  In a taxi

12:50  Have checked into my room at the Changi Village Hotel (approximately $100) booked through Far East Hotels

INTJ that I am, I adore Singapore convenience and efficiency. No lines. No traffic. No bullshit. Why can't the rest of my life be this easy?

1:05  Enjoying a Tiger beer, shrimp-fried-something, and a little televised soccer action at the nearby outdoor food stalls. I'm minding my own business and attempting to navigate these damn chopsticks around these slippery noodles in sleep-deprivation mode (sans contact lenses: blurry sticks, blurry noodles, blurry soccer). A shadow falls upon my sloppy table.

The only other American within a 10 kilometer radius has singled me out. He's overweight, sweating profusely, and wearing a wifebeater.

"I don't like rice, noodles, or vegetables. You know where an Amer'cun can git some food 'round here?" he bellows.

CRAP. Why me? All I want is some shrimpy noodles and a brew. Slurped in peace.

8:30  On the hotel shuttle back to Changi

Changi! Home of fabulous shopping! I stumble upon Shanghai Tang, a funky, chic, Chinese boutique. Five minutes, $100 later, and I'm the proud owner of the sexiest little gray fabric/red leather wallet you've ever laid eyes upon.

Oh look, Prada!

I should board before I sprain my credit card.

I Love You, Langkawi

11:05  Malaysia Air flight from Singapore to Penang for $326 roundtrip

2:10  Flight from Penang to Langkawi, booked directly through Firefly for $66 roundtrip

Landed. I seek out a gift shop to purchase Pringles, but they only sell imposter Mister Potato (any relation to Mr. Peanut?). But they'll do in a pinch. One piece of advice to novice travelers: ALWAYS Carry Pringles.

I ask the lady at the transportation desk about taxi fares and she explains the set fees from Point A to Point B, Point B to Point C, then she inquires why I don't just rent a car.

"Because you guys drive on the wrong side of the road!"

There's No Way that I'm attempting driving on the left-side, although the airport advertisements for $30/day rental cars tempt me (and internet posters have proclaimed the Langkawi roads good, as long as you keep an eye out for stray water buffalo when driving at night). Nuh-uh: I've racked up my fair share of accidents just sticking to the right.

I know, I know: why Langkawi??!!??

Well, because Traveler featured Langkawi in the 2005 *Asia Issue.

Just over the horizon from some of Asia's high profile resorts lies a group of pristine islands only now registering on the radar. Ondine Cohane finds abundant wildlife, untouched rain forests, alabaster beaches, spicy street markets, and some new enclaves of luxury -- all sharing a Malaysian idyll called Langkawi

Where do I sign-up?

*Year-upon-year, the best travel magazine issue published

Berjaya Beach & Spa Resort

Flight from Penang to Langkawi: $66; Taxi from the Langkawi Airport to the Berjaya Langkawi Beach & Spa Resort: $7; Claiming my chalet on a tropical island in Southeast Asia as 300+ O'Hare flights are grounded due to snowstorms: Priceless.

The Berjaya ($125 first night; $150 subsequent nights -- no tax in Langkawi; booked through Asia Web Direct) was my third choice of Langkawi accommodations, considering my budget and recommendations from posters on Fodors.com and Tripadvisor.com. My first choice was the Bon Ton Resort (booked full), followed by the Tanjung Sanctuary (undergoing management changes and unable to accept new reservations). All three resorts offer a natural, outdoorsy environment rather than the cookie-cutter, over-air-conditioned, unnatural confinement of the typical, concrete, North American mega-deluxe-hotel-complex-plus.

I arrive feeling somewhat trepidatious: recent Tripadvisor posters had complained about Berjaya, bitching over walking long distances, bugs, etc. In response, I had played with switching my lodging up to only a couple of weeks ago, but had found that everything was booked. So I resigned myself to Berjaya.

I like this lobby. Open-air, vaulted ceiling, natural light, non-cheesy bar/lounge: beats your typical, mauve and forest green Marriott lobby with chintzy wallpaper (complete with floral border) and water-stained, drywall ceilings.

An SUV-sized golf cart whisks me to my chalet, a free-standing, cabin on stilts tucked into a corner of the rainforest.

Chez Moi

My chalet is sparse, but cozy of all -- it boasts a spacious deck enveloped in leafy greenery. Kind of a nice change in scenery from my deck back home, which overlooks The El, telephone wires, and gangs of harried rats with places to go and dumpsters to raid.

Berjaya consists of 502 chalets all-told, ranging from my humble Superior Chalet, to chalets built over the water, to the seabound, 1,600 square foot Presidential Chalet. Despite the number of units, privacy is a non-issue: the property extends a good kilometer along the coastline and the scattered units dot numbered, twisting trails that snake up from sea-level to the high hills.

I suffered from chalet envy when booking my reservation, wishing that I could afford the chi-chi chalets crouching on the water's edge. Now here, however, I actually prefer my basic bungalow, 2195 (Trail 3), to the more pricey, more prestigious models: the view of the trees and critters interests me more than flat water. Furthermore, I realize that I lucked out with a cabin facing no roads: those overgrown golf carts are noisy and they spoil the mood. My advice to future Berjaya guests: pick your chalet with care, and scope it out before committing, if the front desk clerks allow you to do so.

Berjaya's Best-Kept Secret

The woman at the front desk exhorts me to flag a ride to the spa. It is "very, very far."

I relish my fifteen-minute stroll: encountering monkeys crashing through the treeptops (those guys are agile but far from graceful) and lolling along the path, scratching themselves and eyeing me from head-to-toe, cooly permitting the right-of-way: obviously the simians reign over the humans on this island and their message comes through loud & clear: mind your monkeys. Jack-in-the-Beanstalk plants, including the naughty Ronus Jeremyllym specimen (left) flaunting itself outside my doorstep (good for a daily giggle), sprout larger-than-life leaves, and the din of the cicadas' eek-eek-eeking grows louder as dusk settles: sounds like the Psycho shower scene! The internet posters who complained of walking (gasp: exercise) at Berjaya deserve banishment to a Springhill Suites complete with claustropic corridors and flickering fluorescent tubing.

A spacious deck lies at the base of the spa: a steady breeze drifts off the water and caresses the fronds and leaves guarding the deck; the rhythmic swaying surrounding me is hypnotic. Save for a random butterfly, the tranquil patio is wonderfully uninhabited. I'll be back.

I wait, evesdropping openly, as a compatriot requests a morning massage.

"We have only very early appointments available," warns the scheduler.

My fellow guest and I exchange a look of alarm: we don't like early mornings so much. Not on vacation.

"What's early morning?" asks the American.

"11:00."

We share an approving chuckle. Not in the U.S. anymore, Toto.

Holy Flying Lemurs, Batman

Back at 2195, I grab a can of Tiger (not-so-tasty, this beer in cans, but it's better than nothing), head to the deck, and kick my legs up onto the railing. This sure beats....this sure beats everything.

Back inside, I close the patio door and survey my room. CRAP!......tiny, black, winged dots speckle the walls and bedspread, like something out of The Amityville Horror.

The housekeeper exits my room one hour later, dragging bedsheets, insecticide, and a broom behind as I thank her sheepishly.

"Did you leave your patio door open?" she asks.

"What? No! Of course not! Do you think I'm stupid?"

I'm so stupid.

I'm outta here: smells like Raid. I happen upon Dev's twice-weekly Berjaya Resort wilderness tour, so I tag along. Dev is an experienced, knowledgeable naturalist and an engaging speaker. He trains his flashlight on flying lemurs gliding gracefully, as if in slow-motion, between trees; and on giant, red, flying squirrels leaping from limb to limb. He directs our attention to a large tree outside 3324, which he refers to as "Heathrow", due to the proliferation of mammals alighting onto its boughs. The balconies of 3235 and 3236 face Heathrow: those are the best-situated chalets on the resort.

Dev's tour ends, and I follow the dark, tree-lined trails rustling with nocturnal creatures to the Thai restaurant, sensing dozens of pairs of detached, yellow, blinking eyes -- a la Scooby Doo -- peering down upon me, monitoring my progress. Kinda eerie.

Pahn-Thai Restaurant lies at the end of a lengthy pier. The atmosphere is perfection (if you can ignore the incongruous Christmas music); the prices: reasonable; and the food: average. I order the sea bass, which arrives head and all. I oscillate between my grumbling stomach and memories of the Big Mouth Billy Bass episodes from The Sopranos, Season Three. I expect my entree to face me any minute now and launch into Take Me to the Water.

Screw it, I'm hungry.

 

Jungle Trek

I step onto my deck (careful to shut the door behind me) to assure myself this whole Malaysian-island-resort-deal isn't just a dream. There cling (motionlessly) two lemurs to a tree: a large, silver one perched a few feet above a smaller, brown one. If they had skinny tails and scurried across the alley behind my condo they would disgust me: but they're downright adorable affixed to a trunk, snoozing, here in Langkawi.

I sign-up for Dev's Jungle Trek, a three-hour expedition, at the lobby Activities Desk. The tour costs 120 RM, which converts to $40 USD: one of the more expensive tours.

Hey! You're not Dev! A Dev stand-in leads our mixed group -- six of us total -- this morning. The other five wear long, cotton pants: I wear a jeans skirt. The other trekkers sport enclosed, athletic shoes: I'm clad in sandals (what's the point of having a pedicure if no one see your toes?) The rest of our group carries backpacks: I tote my black, leather Longchamp bag.

Our guide is sweet -- every Malay I've met has been sweet -- but he spies no exotic animals for us on our hike. He directs our attention to a small spider, a mosquito ("we have these back home," whispers a co-trekker, rolling her eyes), and several common locust skins. I flashback to a favorite Monty Python skit, How to Recognize Different Types of Trees from Quite a Long Way Away. Only instead of The larch. The larch. The larch, it's The locust. The locust. The locust.

We do, however, encounter a colony of termites marching determinedly by, and our leader points out my footgear as What Not to Wear in the Presence of Termites. He explains that, if a termite were to sink its fangs into my feet, we would be forced to remove its head from its body, as it would choose death over unclenching its jaws from my flesh. He expounds on the subject for quite some time, as the little bastards sneak in closer and closer.

"Can we move on already?!?"

I suggest politely.

Not Your Typical Christmas Eve

Back at The Berjaya, I check my e-mail in the Internet Cafe (which offers neither food nor beverage) and retire to the lobby bar to read the expat paper (The Star) over a Tiger and the ubiquitous Christmas music. These simple indulgences -- internet, newspaper -- have seen me through multiple solo Southeast Asia trips: daily rituals, I've learned, help to keep my obsessive thought loops (the bane of solo travel) at bay when I'm alone far from home.

The spa scheduler from yesterday greets me warmly and escorts me to the woman's locker room, ceremoniously hands me my locker key, and recites the locker room protocol. Why is every initial spa visit so formal and awkward?

I follow my therapist to an indoor room shared with a woman receiving a pedicure. My reflexology treatment is nice, but it would be a whole lot nicer if the yentas next to me would stop gabbing for one second, plus I'm forced to shield myself from gnarly toenails flying in all directions. Hey ladies, this is a SPA, not a damn PARLOR.

Afterwards, I'm escorted back to my locker, and my therapist bids me farewell. Was I supposed to tip her? Yes? No? I forgot to do my homework on Malaysia tipping customs. I return to the front desk and leave a gratuity: better to err on the side of not appearing cheap.

2195: I shine my flashlight (came with the cabin) into the tree and I'm relieved -- heartwarmed, even -- to spy Ozzie and Harriet! Hey, guys! They're finally fussing around a bit; scratching, cleaning, stretching: must be getting ready for a big night out on the trees.

I can imagine nothing more horrible than participating in one of the mandatory Christmas Eve buffets (me, and hordes of families) tonight so I order room service. Forty-five minutes later and my dinner arrives, via moped. It's awful -- absolutely inedible. Fortunately, I will not go hungry: I've got my back-up plan.

Evenin', Mister Potato!

A Heckuva Nice Day

'Mornin', Ozzie. Harriet. Baby Jesus. Ozzie and Harriet haven't budged.

I polish off my buffet breakfast -- except I'll never be sold on beef "bacon" and chicken "sausage" (Mayalysia is comprised of a wonderful hodgepodge of ethnicities, but Islam is the official religion).

I walk the full distance (.2 km) to the Oriental Village -- which is neither Oriental, nor a village: the so-called Oriental Villiage is a cluster of run-of-the-mill tourist shops. And the Langkawi Cable Car. The cable car ticket office opened 30 minutes early -- at 9:30 -- because today is considered a holiday (my travels confirm: everyone loves Christmas). No line.

I share a car with a Malaysian family, and the dad engages me in conversation.

"Are you here celebrating Christmas?" he asks.

"I'm here. Yes, I am!"

We chat all the way up: he visited Langkawi once before and recommends the Island Hopping Tour. Everyone on the island -- locals and tourists -- has been friendly and outgoing. Just one more reason to love Southeast Asia.

360 degrees of Langkawi from 2.5 km above sea level: How awesome would it be to view sunset from this vantage point?

I share a car with a Malaysian family on the way down as well: the wife is dressed traditionally, but the two daughters wear contemporary clothing. We converse the entire trip, and then they snap my photo with their cute kids. I'm an anomaly.

Back at the ranch, I indulge in my daily diet of www and The Star, and then sequester my iPod, my United States of Arugula book, and myself on the deserted spa deck. So content.

4:45 rolls around and I pop into the lobby: the scheduler and I are buddies now. I request an outdoor appointment: no gabbing, no toenail missiles. Pure bliss. And this time I tip with confidence: I researched the subject online earlier and learned that tipping in Malaysia is absolutely optional: no tip is not considered an insult and giving a tip is appreciated, unless the amount is quite small, in which case foregoing the gratuity is the most appropriate way to go.