July-August-September 2011 : Bali, Lombok and Sulawesi, Indonesia
October 2011: Around Malaysia and Ko Phi Phi, Thailand

Upcoming trip:
Nov 2011: Avignon, Toulouse, Marseille (France) and Andorra

It was a gray wintry November when I went to Paris. I stayed with a French friend at an old, quaint one studio apartment in Bastille-one that a winding wooden staircase up to the fifth floor of the apartment. That winter, I reveled in cheese, red wine and microwave dinners while watching Weeds (with French subtitles of course!) and Dexter episodes, back to back. I bought myself a pair of boots and trudged through the slush of snow with it. I was content and quite delightfully happy.

When I took the first leap, the first sure way to escape, the first path that lead me from the old to the new, as long as I had my backpack, I was invincible. I had no name for my backpack but it was a dark blue one with gray straps, and stitched in white it’s brand, DEUTER, a sturdy German label that assures comfort, longevity and hardiness. It was a name that stood against time and nature.

It was my most expensive investment before I left home and took that 24-hour rickety sleeper train to Bangkok from Butterworth, the first point of my journey. It probably cost about RM380 which with the passing of time makes my memory less accurate on it but nonetheless, I remember, it was a worthy investment.

Ed and I, in all our eagerness to leave our lives as corporate slaves and namely, our city, the good old polluted Kuala Lumpur, had went to Pertama Complex with Steffert, the Dutch CouchSurfer that we were hosting at that time, to look at backpacks. It so happened that Steffert also needed a new backpack. The trio headed there and within 15 minutes of haggling with an aggressive old Chinese lady, we managed to get at least 40% off the original prices. After all, Malaysians hadn’t got the hang of the culture of backpacking yet and they needed to make some money-3 expensive backpacks off the racks within the week must be pretty good business.

I remember leaving the shopping complex, beaming and dreaming of all the adventures that I could have with that backpack of mine. It was a 45+10 Litres, with a lot of extra space for shoes and dirty laundry. I even attached a silver and blue teddy bear luggage tag to it, thus personalizing it.

Over the years, the backpack had served me well. I had never washed it so it continued to wear the stains of spilled shampoo, the muddy streaks of dirty hiking sneakers, stains of tar, grime and dirt yet I still love it. It’s mine, it’s my home and now, it finally has some sort of character to it. When I load the backpack onto my shoulders, it towers over me, but the weight never wore me down. The hip straps balanced the weight properly and so even if people couldn’t see the top of my head from the back, they could see that the person carrying the backpack walked in perfect straight lines.

The backpack has been and seen places-it has been put on the cigarette littered train floorboards of the creaking Bulgarian trains, tied to the top of the roof of the Vietnamese busses, placed in between sacks of rice and random poultry animals, in between my unwashed knees and below the feet of my travel companions, from cruise ships to the back of motorcycles, from obscure bus stations to airports…everywhere.

It never tore, the zips always opened and my things were always safe-unlocked. In there, I could fit a hair-dryer, 6 different pairs of shoes, dresses, an umbrella, a sleeping bag, under garments, you name it.

It was my anchor, the only thing that I had constantly despite my transient existence.

You could only imagine my grief and anguish, the feeling that I could akin to losing a loved one, when the staff of a domestic Indonesian Airlines lost my backpack. At first, it seemed like it was misplaced and there was still hope. After all, I always got my backpack back, even if it went missing in Paris, Rome, Guadeloupe, Venice and Doha. It always turned up, like the rising sun.

However, as days slip into weeks and now months, hope has melted away. I had to accept the fact that I’ll never see my best friend-ever again.

I went to purchase a new one, from the same shop that sold my old one. The old Chinese lady was still there, still willful to make a bargain. Everything felt the same, the experience of haggling and everything, except this time, I looked at the Deuter red and grey backpack and thought, no, it is just not the same.

Nothing will ever be the same again.

Wherever you are now, my Blue and Grey Deuter Backpack, may you continue to see things and go places.

Old people hanging around Tirana

Prologue

London

I‘m back from my recent wanderings. Back while I was still on the ship, Tim, a friend of mine that I have only met and travelled with once, emailed me and asked what I was doing for the summer. I remember saying I don’t know and I don’t think I could see that far ahead yet. It was probably somewhere in February 09, and I was still working on the MV CE-the worst ship that I’ve ever been on. I was still in the midst of my depressing existence, not exactly enjoying life onboard. Every time, I would look longingly at the waves and wished it provided answers of some sort. I know I couldn’t be truly happy until I get off the ship. Tim said that he may travel around the Balkans and I said I’d join him once my contract finishes. “Cheap flights from British Airways to Tirana. 104 GBP,” he said. Tirana? Where in world is Tirana? I didn’t even know but the more obscure the names are, the more I like the sound of it. It turned out that Tirana is the capital of Albania.

Flags of Albania

When I told Moreno, Francesca and Roby, my closest Italian colleagues that I’d be embarking on a trip, somewhere around Eastern Europe, with an open-ended itinerary that would start from Tirana, they literally went speechless. I’ve never seen speechless Italians before. Their faces were a combination of horror, fear and disbelief. It was the most comical expression that I’ve ever witnessed. And then, Roby opened his mouth slowly and bellowed the longest ‘No’…. that I’ve ever heard. He went on to give me ten reasons why I shouldn’t visit Albania and it included rationales like: Albanians are thieves and they’re dangerous; they create a lot of problems in Italy for the locals; Albanians will kidnap and rape you… and etc. Moreno wagged his finger and blatantly called me crazy.

However, despite their ignorance and their contentment to not budge from their warped bubble of perspectives, I knew that they were merely concerned. Nonetheless, it didn’t stop me from buying a one-way ticket to Tirana. The flight to Tirana would leave from Gatwick Airport, London, on the 24th of June, 2009.

As I was literally stuck on the ship till June 21st, I didn’t have much time to research about the region or find out whether I need visas for these countries. There was a rough plan about the places we should cover but no just no itinerary at the point of departure. Tim said, wait and see. I said, we play by ear.

I didn’t even have time to worry about how travelling with Tim would be like, after not really staying in touch for these past two years. Tim was a friend of Steve’s. He was introduced to me because of his extensive knowledge about teaching ESL in various parts of the world. I have utmost respect for his decision to quit his high-flying lifestyle in England, to become a professional ESL tutor. We met in Perhentian Islands, Malaysia, two and a half years ago (thinking about it now…) and we travelled from there to Bangkok together. I’d shuddered at some snippets of our time together because I remember him as very judgmental, harsh, critical and brutally honest. But he was also very intelligent, interesting, generous, opinionated, kind but brutally honest.

21.06.2009-27.07.2009 (Together)

• Albania
• Montenegro
• Kosovo
• Macedonia
• Bulgaria
• Romania

27.07.2009-06.08.2009 (Solo)

• Turkey

Somewhere between Bulgaria and Romania, Tim visited Serbia on his own while I went on to Ploiesti, Romania, to visit Valentin for five days. It was difficult to get a Serbian visa while being on the road and I didn’t think it was worth it. Tim stayed back in Sofia, Bulgaria after because he found love. As for me, I plodded on because I was happy to travel solo again. I went on to find my own love in Istanbul, Turkey.

The next few entries would be chapters of each country that I’ve been to and its highlights. I’d try to make it as concise, as interesting and as profound as possible.

Fort in Kotor Bay, Montenegro

Pushing Tim into the freezing lake in Sveti Naum Monastery, Macedonia

Partying it up with my English bodyguards (ex-PARAS) in a bar in Pristina, Kosovo

Sibiu, Romania

Pristina reborn, ten years after the bloody battle with Serbians

Bâlea Lake situated at 2,034 m of altitude in the Făgăraş Mountains, in central Romania, in Sibiu

We watched Palermo Shooting by Wim Wenders in a cinema with communist deco in Sofia, Bulgaria

Riding on a rickety Ferriswheel in a retro themepark in Istanbul with Nick

Acknowledgments

1. Grazie Mille to Tim for being the first to initiate this journey and for being a muse, an inspiration, a critic and a friend. If there’s anything that I learned from you, is the fact that no one can make you feel bad without your consent. Un abbraccio to you for your thick and outdated Lonely Planet Eastern Europe guidebook. Without it, we might find ourselves more lost than we already were.
2. Hugs to the two big boys, Colin and Rick (ex-British Paratroopers) that I met in Pristina, Kosovo. Thank you for making me and treating me like a Malaysian Princess. I wonder if things would be different if I’ve stayed on for another day.
3. A million kisses to Tsveti, my Bulgarian CS host(ess) who commanded us to make ourselves at home while we were in Sofia. Like a sister that I never had, she took care of me without being obliged to. Sofia won’t be the same without her.
4. Cheers to Valentin, his friends(Bogdan and brother, Luiza) and his family, Ovidiu and his family and friends (Tibi and Gabby) for showing us the true Romanian hospitality. I will not forget the day where Ovi and Tibi, drove all the way down to Brasov to pick us up and then took us around Transylvania till 11pm. Or how Ovi’s mum had cooked us meals but we never eat them on time.
5. Thanks to all our CS hosts in Romania (Tia & Frank), Kai and Kemal (Istanbul) and the lovely travelers that I’ve met along the way (Alex, Juliana, July, the Swedish guys, the Australian girl, Giulia & Niccolo, Iacopo, Riccardo, Jacobo, Ivan, Ester, the French couple, Sondes, Melahat, Jet Set Zero crew: Jen, Rob and their CS guests) and whoever that I’ve failed to mention but nonetheless not forgotten.
6. Most of all, tanti bacini to Nick, the treasure that was awarded to me at the end of my travels. His kindness and love have provided me with a shelter over my head in Istanbul, endless interesting conversations, necessary intake of good food and alcohol and a sanctuary to be who I am.

I didn’t make it to Amsterdam. Everything happened too quickly. I had many things to settle like library books, writing assignments, my novel, people to catch up with before I go and all those sorts. I was also hosting Ken, a CouchSurfer who has dabbled in almost everything from race cars to producing films and things just escalated from there.

Nov 6-9: Cork, Ireland

“All tales of youth involve a large measure of folly…” begins Bill Barich in his essay and I must say, I can easily attest to that.

Last Friday, I found myself out in London’s cold, under a dimly lit bus stop, waiting for N381 to come. After countless of clicking and changing itineraries on the Transport for London homepage, it was prescribed that I should take night bus N381to Parliament Square and then change for bus N44 that would take me directly to Victoria Coach Station. From there, I would be able to board the 3.30 am National Express coach that was supposed to take me to Gatwick Airport. And I was meant to check in at 4.20am and board the plane at 6.20 am for Amsterdam. And as luck would have it, if I don’t catch this 381, the rest of the plan can go to hell.

The clock ticked and minutes passed, still I saw no sign of N381. It was already 2.15 am and I wasn’t alone. Another man hidden under the shadows, stood close to the bus stop but away from the lights. My heart beat a little faster, wishing the bus would come. I started contemplating options. Perhaps I should take a taxi. It shouldn’t cost me more than 10 pounds to get to Victoria Coach Station but first, how do I take one. Should I call for one or should I simply flag one down? Being a foreigner in a country is difficult-you are not bestowed with innate knowledge of a local. Being a foreigner means even to take a mere taxi, you have to learn how to do it the right way. Anyway, whilst I was going through a series of choices, I saw the headlights of a double decker approaching. My near-sighted vision had me asking the man in the shadows. He stepped into the light and told me it was N47. He looked nice but blast the bus services, I needed the bloody N381.

-Where do you have to go?

-Victoria Coach Station.

-Oh no, but that’s C10!

-I know, but C10′s services terminates after 1am. And I’ve got a damn flight to catch.

I got on the bus and asked the bus driver for my predicament. It seemed like N47 would take me to a bus stop near Trafalgar Square and then from there, I could board N44 to Victoria Coach Station. Shivering in the cold, I could only board the bus happily, hoping that N44 would also come in time.

***

Schipol Airport welcomed me with a cafe latte from Starbucks. I was worn out, thoroughly beat, and after being sleep deprived for the last 36 hours, I could only bless the coffee company that stands for American Imperialism with gratitude. As the first shot of caffeine drenched my blood stream, I shrugged my fatigue off and set off to find my way to Teun’s place.

I continue to be amazed at my tenacity to meeting and drinking with him again. Last summer was a glorious period of sunshine, alcohol and drama. Friendships were formed, the heart was lifted, broken and then lifted again. When Teun proudly shared with me his personal anecdotes of his life and in the city that everything took place, I thought it sounded like a kingdom of treausres-only crazy miracles can happen here. I vowed to see it, and I did, last summer. I lived and breathed the city, through Teun and his mates, which now became my mates too. Now, I was back for  30 hours, ready to relive history.

Tram 5 took me right into the heart of Museumplein (Museum Square). The city basked under warm golden rays last summer but now, it looked a little intimidating with ominous clouds hanging in the background. Perhaps it was too early. I walked across the sprawling park, in front of the Rijksmuseum and past the underground Albert Heijn supermarket, tasting the biting cold and admiring the Dutch early birds who were already playing frisbee with their dogs. Despite the greyness, the grass was in tender green, covered with spots of fresh dew.

The way leading to Teun’s place was familiar; it felt like going home. I just had to find the canal, the Ruysdaelkade street, and it would lead me to the green telephone booth outside Marjan’s Tiller Gallerie and Teun’s studio apartment is just two floors above it. As winding through a series of streets that are named after artists like Johannes Vermeerstraat, I arrived at Hobbemakade which is right opposite Ruysdaelkade (yes, Ruysdael is famous for his Dutch light paintings). Amsterdam is a city of details; it’s the little things in the pictures that makes the entire portrait ‘gezellig’, a feeling of cosiness or a sense of belonging. It’s like, if that cat wasn’t sleeping on the window pane, it would have changed the entire picture.

I saw two ducks, walking clumsily along the canal….a dark blue boat…..black and white bicycles leaning against walls that are covered with wild ivy and climbing vines…perfect postcard views, except for the fact that my photographic skills are too meagre to capture that momentary expression.

I crossed the ‘Spronken Bridge’, a bridge in front of Teun’s place that hasn’t been named and he wanted it named after his family and slowly, in great relief and triumph, I rung his doorbell. The white door buzzed open and I climbed up the familiar narrow stairway. The steps were cluttered with newspapers, letters and sales brochures, just like how it always was a year ago.

-HOIIII!!

-Heya!!!

And I jumped into Teun’s arms as we embraced and he held me up high, like how a father holds a child. Teun’s towering figure of 6 ft 6 (200cm) made it difficult for conventional hugging hence such extreme measures of affection must be taken. I pushed open his apartment door and walked into the narrow space that I once shared with him last summer. Everything was the same; everything was in place.

***

From GoBudgetTravel

Links to the articles that I mentioned earlier. Read Iyer’s article your own risk because he’s known for verbosity!

WHY WE TRAVEL : http://www.goliards.net/Why%20We%20Travel.htm

Damn! There ain’t a proper link to William Sutcliffe’s : Everyone loves to love backpackers, so here’s the copy and paste version.

EVERYONE LOVES TO HATE BACKPACKERS (by William Sutcliffe)

EVERYONE loves to hate backpackers. Even people like me, who have spent months of their lives backpacking, hate backpackers. Why should this be? Let’s start with the uniform.
However wealthy a backpacker is (and let’s face it, this is hardly a rickshaw fare. Then we come to guide books. The Lonely Planet and Rough Guide series are treated with reverence by most backpackers, not just as a source of information but as a talisman representing the holiday they intend to have. No one has helped them choose what to do. No one has organised their trip for them. They are independent.

Few backpackers see the irony in these constant professions of independence, while they tour around huge countries following the same minutely selective routes picked out by the author of one (or perhaps two) guide books used by every single traveller in their area.

This is the real purpose served by the Lonely Planet series: not to allow you to find your way to unique and undiscovered places, but rather the opposite – to give you security in the knowledge that, wherever you go, you can take a book out of your backpack and look up where all the other travellers are hanging out.

This, to me, is the most disturbing aspect of backpacking. The desperation with which most “independent travellers” cling to one another, aided by their guide books, sums up the spirit of contemporary travel. Distant strongholds of the western leisure industry are being set up in spectacular locations, catering specifically to the tastes of western backpackers: in particular drug-taking, white-water rafting, bungee jumping and trekking. Most backpackers, it seems, are less interested in new experiences than in familiar experiences in exotic places.

The authors of these guide books create a travellers’ circuit of approved hotels which conform to rigid demands. Incense in the lobby, scruffy sofas in a courtyard and banana pancakes on the breakfast menu are compulsory. In a bizarre form of apartheid, most travellers stay in these hotels, which cater exclusively for westerners, and often specifically exclude locals (other than servants).

While business travellers in the East stay in up-market hotels used by people of all races, backpackers insist on staying in this style of pseudo-down-at-heel hostel used only by whites under a certain age on a certain kind of trip. A London banker staying at the Holiday Inn in Delhi is more likely to mix with Indians than a backpacker at the Yogi Lodge in Varanasi.

Such is the power of the guide book writers that if the Lonely Planet’s top recommendation in a particular town is say, the Rainbow Lodge, backpackers will be greeted at the railway station by hordes of rickshaw men who already know where they want to go. These drivers will often then take them to unpleasant, badly located hostels which have been renamed the Rainbow Lodge and offer a commission to enterprising rickshaw men.

Long arguments ensue, and it is not uncommon to be driven to several Rainbow Lodges before you are eventually taken to the perpetually full, non-commission-offering original. You can tell it is the right one by the scruffy sofa in the courtyard, the incense in the lobby and the banana pancakes on the menu. Moreover, all the guests will be white westerners.

Ask backpackers why they are happy in hotels with such glaring racial exclusivity, and they will all give the same answer: “It’s cool here. You don’t get hassled.” Which leads me to “hassle”. Backpackers are obsessed with the idea that, wherever they go, they get unfairly hassled. This “hassle” usually takes the form of local shopkeepers trying to make them buy things. Given that all contact with locals, other than the purely commercial, has as good as been wiped out by the traveller lifestyle, this seems a bizarre complaint – as if even outside the confines of their exclusive hotels they expect the locals to steer clear – as if any intrusion on their western privacy is an offence.

For those travellers who simply can’t bear the attentions of big-city salesmen, there are always the backpackers’ retreats: places like Manali, Ajmer, Goa and Kovalam, where entire towns are devoted to servicing the whims of these fearless adventurers. These resorts are proliferating throughout the Third World, and will turn up every few pages in most guide books as places for “a little R&R from the rigours of travel”. In some of these resorts, such as Goa, backpackers might have to suffer the intrusion of package tourists on two-week beach holidays. Of course, backpackers can’t be expected to mix with these “holiday-makers”, and will do everything they can to steer clear of anyone who might have to spend the rest of the year working for a living.

Travel has become a compulsory hoop for middle-class youths to jump through. Many British universities now explicitly prefer students who have had a year off for their “extra maturity”, and Gap Year travel plans feature on most university applications. Completed trips subsequently appear on many graduates’ CVs.

Travel is thought to demonstrate initiative, independence, strength of character and numerous other attributes desirable to universities and employers. As a result, backpacking through Asia or Africa has transformed itself from an act of rebellion into an act of conformity. Society as a whole seems adamant that Travel Is Good For You – that you somehow are not a real person unless you have suffered from diarrhoea on a Turkish bus or been mugged in a Bangkok backstreet. Travel is popularly perceived as an inevitable stage of personal growth for the middle classes. Although many of us have backpacked, and have enjoyed it, few can look back on the experience without a twinge of shame. I myself was a culprit of every one of the classic backpacker sins (yes, including the clothes) as a middle-class 19-year-old on a Year Off in India. Although I am pleased that I did the trip, I feel deeply sorry for the people who had to put up with me, not to mention nauseous embarrassment. If I could go back and give a tip to all the rickshaw drivers I haggled with, I would.

© The Sunday Telegraph Are You Experienced?, William Sutcliffe’s novel about backpackers, is published by Penguin

Stephane Grenier

Stephane is my favourite moto driver. The night before we went to Bach Ninh for the ‘Jellyfish Festival’, he said, “Cheap-cheap moto. Tomorrow, I drive, you sit behind.” The arrangement continued when we went on a 3 days motobiking adventure to Mai Chau.

On our way to Bach Ninh for the “Jellyfish Festival”

He’s also the one who lifted me from the toilet and put me safely back to bed, when I got too drunk again. He became my partner in crime for food. Every morning, unknowingly, we’d wait for each other in the reception and when we see each other, either one of us will say, “Breakfast?” (Even after he moved to another hotel with his mum).

We’d sneak out for a pizza simply because people would laugh at us for doing it in Vietnam. He agrees to go for a pasta buffet with me simply because I craved for it. He’d finish up my food all the time because he knows I got a small stomach. We’d tease each other relentlessly. He’d push me into the pool,trip me, make me touch ice-cream to my nose, and then sticks out his tongue at me. When I avenged for my humiliation (I tugged the rubberband that held hislong, blond hair) he said nothing. When I gave him back the band, he said, keep it-it has some strands of my hair on it. It’s true. The black band is still on mywrist till this day, and of course, with some strands of his hair tangled on it.

Sharing sticky rice with coconut by the lake

We played bubble bubble at Bach Ninh

I must admit that I did have a crush on Stephane. Who wouldn’t-he’s too beautiful to behold! His features, a combination of his French and German genes, is exquisite. A heart-shaped face, a strong jaw, and perfect well-shaped lips. He usually keeps a slight hint of beard, macho without being scruffy looking. And you have to see his eyes! You’d get lost in his huge Dom Perignon coloured irises and those very long eyelashes that gently flutter whenever he blinks. Long blond hair tied in black bands, he tried to grow them into dreadlocks but unsuccessful-his hair’s too silky.

Apart from that, Stephane is a quiet man, an enigma. It could be the language barrier but we both got along great all the same. He shared with me his dreams to become a photojournalist while showing me some black and white images that he took in New York, his travelling adventures in Australia, his life in Paris when he was a driver for a VIP and some childhood tales. He’s the only son and the baby of the family, but behaves like a man who takes care of his two elder sisters and his mother well. He’s a man of strong will as he started to stop smoking in Vietnam (not an easy place to do so) and a man of moderation-when he’s tipsy and stoned, he’d stop.

By the spring at Mai Chau-Stephane and Guillaume

So we traded lessons of life and in philosophy, we both watched the river flow just like how Siddharta in Herman Hesse’s best-selling book did, and man, did we share an amazing friendship that grew through the little day-to-day events that we always take for granted.

The philosophical Stephane

“If you’re in Paris, call on me. If you’re in Germany, stay with me and I’d show you Blackforest-the smell of the forest-ahhhh, so good!”