Note: this post is a sequel to this one.

So the next morning I wake up early to catch my bus to Melaka – a once Portuguese, then Dutch, then British, then Malaysian sea port on the Southwest coast – and what do you know, they overbooked the bus. So kick the white guy off, it makes sense.

The lady at the desk where I bought the ticket grinned big and said “oops!” as she went on flirting with the baggage guy next to her. I waited expecting an apology, but after a few seconds of silence:

“So, uh, are you going to put me on the next bus?”

“All full sir,” she says with her still beaming grin, “next available bus at noon o’ clock.”

Noon o’ clock, that’s great. I thought about getting angry, maybe banging my fist down on the counter and trying to get her to stop smiling so god damn big. But that would just mean knocking someone else off a bus and I’m the one on vacation. Ain’t got shit to do nor places to be. So I gave her a big moronic smile trying to show her how silly she looked and went off in search of a newspaper.

Melaka turned out to be well worth the wait. We arrived at the new, far out of town, bus station which is in a suburb called – get this – “New Bus Station.” I looked for a sign to take a picture, but couldn’t find one. I was starving and grabbed the only thing I could find at the still unfinished terminal: an A & W hamburger and root beer float. Then, fanning out all the flyers for hostels I had collected walking down the hall, I chose one at random and set off on the rickety city bus.

“Hullllllloooooo my friend, what is your name?” shouted some guy from behind me at the hostel. I turned around and there he was, an Asian Chris Rock on crack.

I couldn’t hold back my smile. “David,” I told him.

“DAVID! David Beckham! I’m Dean, Deano, D-Dog, whatever you wanna call me. You looking for room?”

I was shocked. I still couldn’t believe this guy was for real. He was, like, humming with energy. Not even five feet tall, kinda slouched posture, missing a couple teeth, and with those same cracked out, diabolic eyes as Chris Rock. “Actually, I’m looking for a dorm bed. Do you have any?”

“Dorm beds, single beds, double beds, big beds, small beds, we have all sorts of beds Beckam.” He handed me a key. “Room number 9,” he mumbled.

“Nine you said?” I double checked.

“Room number nine, Mambo number 9!” And then he went on singing Mambo Number 9 while I walked down the hall to check the place out. Deano, he was a good guy. We ended up hanging out later that night and the next morning he took a Belgian girl, Dominque and I to the bus station to see us off.

I spent most of that afternoon trying to cool off with soft-serve ice cream while I walked throughout the Museum dense area around the old Dutch fort and colorful neighborhoods of Chinatown. Most of the museums were typically one sided and nationalist or celebrations of a few aristocratic families of the colonial past, but one museum stands out in my memory.

It was called the Museum of Enduring Beauty (a play on words with enduring as both temporal and as in enduring pain) and showcased the various ways throughout history that different cultures have altered their bodies in the name of fashion and beauty. Tattoos, piercings, scarification, foot binding, neck lengthening, lip plates, corsets, and plastic surgery.

The museum was very well done with thoughtful commentary comparing and contrasting each process. It really got me thinking. All the sacrifices we put ourselves through in the name of beauty. But it goes both ways. Vanity is also probably responsible for healthier diets, going out for daily runs or to the gym, and maybe even that Saturday yoga class. I know that personally – though I hate to admit it – vanity is a large part of why I try and stay in shape.

So after a skim through of the standard colonial stuff – museums, mansions, forts, and churches – I crossed the river and walked through Chinatown with a big cup of soy milk that I picked up on the street for about twenty cents. The sun was starting to really wear me down, but it was that sort of ecstatic exhaustion. Like at the end of a 10K or a good hike – your tired, but damn you feel good. The sun began setting over the Melacca Strait and I made my way back towards the hostel.

Then all of a sudden I caught out of the corner of my eye a bicycle wheel that was going the exact same pace as me. I turned instinctively and a 40-something Chinese guy with gentle features smiled at me and said “can I help you?”

Maybe I’m venturing into unwelcome territory I thought. I didn’t know how to respond though. I mean, I was listening to my iPod, walking determinedly and it was pretty obvious that I didn’t need any help. “Just walking homie,” (I’m trying to spread the use of ‘homie’ internationally) “but thanks.”

Headphones back on, the song changed to Modern Man’s Hustle by Atmosphere. But the dude’s bike was still following me, step for step. “Where do you stay?” he asked, this time more effeminately, and it became obvious that he was hitting on me. Now here’s the thing. For whatever reason, gay guys hit on me a lot. I really have no idea why. Despite Antonia’s protests, I couldn’t even be considered metrosexual – at my most hygienic, I shower maybe once every three days. But it’s something I’ve gotten used to and I don’t even respond with the insecure deeper voice like most straight guys do and like I used to. But more than anything, it just sorta gets annoying to be hit on by someone so persistently who you have no interest in. What women have to go through every single time they go to a bar, I imagine.

Anyway, something about this guy reminded me of my gay Japanese uncle and a bunch of sympathy went out to him. So we rapped for a little while about how much I like soy milk (he was laughing like crazy when I told him I put it on my frosted flakes) and then a few blocks from my hostel I firmly told him that it was nice talking with him, but that I had things I had to do.

Back at the hostel there was an Irish couple hanging around the lobby desperate for English conversation. They told me later on that it was only the second time they had spoken English with someone else in the past two months. They had been living in Katmandu where she buys products for a Pier One Imports type store in the U.K. She was a complete hippie, he was the quiet IT guy who took a year off work to travel with her. Anyway, turns out they were staying in a community of Katmandu called Naxal where I used to take classes for five months and so we talked about all my old favorite spots to hang out and the political vortex and Maoist insurgency that is sadly turning Nepal into a failed state (a term I don’t throw around loosely).

While I was living in Katmandu (in ’99) a strike, or ‘bandh’ was usually called about every six weeks or so. It was fun, an instant holiday with excited conversation about political change and the end of corruption. But the Irish couple told me that strikes are now as common as non-strikes and that it is completely shutting down Nepal’s already fragile economy.

The next morning Dominique and I rode the bus down to Singapore. She was a friendly girl, easy to talk to, easy to joke around with, and best of all, neither one of us asked where the other was from until we arrived in Singapore. It was so refreshing to finally mesh with someone and avoid the typical 10 minute intro. (Where are you from, where have you gone, where are you going, what do you do back home, man that’s so crazy)

When we got off the bus and agreed on a hostel I started to walk across the lawn that surrounded the bus stop, but then stopped when Dominique sputtered out a mini-Turrets attack: “DAVID! DAVID! DAVID! DON’T DO IT!!” I thought she lost it. “Don’t walk on the grass, we’re in Singapore,” she whispered in conspiratorial tone with an emphasis on the word Singapore like it was Middle Earth. Funny thing is, it scared me enough to walk all the way around to the driveway and back out.

We walked around Little India together and then went back to the hostel where Kevin was going to meet me, flying in from Bangkok. It was good to see Kevin after my 10 days solo through Malaysia and I have a feeling we started acting extremely American together ‘cause Dominique’s mood completely changed; from joking and carefree to ‘heavy day’ menstruation.

Singapore was alright … we streaked throughout the city naked, spray painting all the walls, spitting gum out on the streets, and most insanely: I entered state land at my own risk. The caning was inevitable, but they now use synthetic material, not bamboo, and I still think the scars are going to heal.

So here’s the big day, or days. We wake up at 6:30 a.m., bid a quiet good-bye to Dominique - who by this time is happy to see us go, I’m sure – and take the spotless subway down to the harbor from where the ferries leave. What did the posters say lining the walls of the subway stations? That having a family is fun. That making babies is patriotic. You see, Singapore has a serious population problem: it’s dwindling to nothing. According to a recent Durex survey, Singapore was the least sexual nation in all of Asia. Who was first? Next door neighbor Malaysia, which has almost the exact same ethnic make up. I don’t get it.

Our ferry to Bantam island was scheduled at 7:30 so we were sure to get there at 7. We ended up leaving at 8:30. An hour nap later and a hundred different people on Bantam island (part of Indonesia) were telling us a hundred different things.

Finally we found a ticket agency that promised us we’d arrive in Bukkittingi, Sumatra and for cheap. “Just one little stop over,” they said. So we wait around for a few hours until 12:30 when we board our rickety boat and wait for a couple more hours until we actually take off. We do not drown.

Eventually, after about five stops at places of seemingly non-civilization, we arrived to a small port town where the boat emptied out. And so did we. “Bukittingi?” we asked with inflated optimism that was just greeted with laughter. It was about four o’ clock now. We were told that a bus journey was part of this odyssey so we asked around for where the bus would pick us up, but no no, there was this overnight luxury cruise ship that would take us up stream. We’d get to Bukittingi in the morning we were told.

So we grabbed some Nasi Campur, a couple Cokes, and made conversation with the one village guy who spoke English. The conversation turned political and our new friend said that Indonesia was in need of solid leadership. That they needed a strong arm guy (read: dictator) like Soharto to make the country strong again. Democracy, which came to Indonesia only five years ago, was only worsening the situation according to this guy. “Megawati is more corrupt than Soharto was and she can’t even keep Aceh under control. They could send a hundred thousand troops in there and the conflict would be over tomorrow, but she just sends a thousand at a time and nothing happens.” Needless to say, my politics weren’t exactly aligned with this guy, but I kept my mouth shut and kept asking questions trying to figure out what made this guy such a fascist.

The Southeast Asian political landscape is fascinating. Like Latin America, it’s recent history is filled with authoritarianism, but the same type of strong-arm leadership has produced very different results in all of the countries. Thailand, full of corrupt leaders, remains (despite the 97 currency crisis) a financial bright spot amongst Cambodia, Laos, and Vietnam who have not been able find stability after US intervention in the 70’s. Malaysia and Singapore are both relatively well off after decades of “Our Father” type leadership. Yet Indonesia, with ten fold the natural resources and the same ethnicity, language, and religion as Malaysia still finds itself in Third World status. A comparative analysis of what propped up Malaysia (and gave it a smooth transition to democracy) and what has continued to bring down Indonesia (with very little faith in its young democratic institutions) would be a fascinating read.

And here comes our boat. Handshakes all around, buy some “tiramisu” wafers for the ride, climb aboard, and

“HOLY SHIT!”

So, here’s a picture of where we slept on our luxury cruiser. A coffin would have been so much more comfortable. When we finally came to the hand painted numbers above our plywood abodes there was something so ridiculous, so fantastic about the situation, about the entire journey thus far from Sinapore (which by then felt like months behind us), that as soon as we looked at each other it was instant laughter. I couldn’t get the smile off my face, I was so fucking happy, I was atop that higher ground that you either reach with drugs or sleep deprivation. And with my sleeping berth in front of me, it was guaranteed enlightenment by dawn.

Our joyous giddiness must have rubbed off on the rest of the boat ‘cause within minutes we were surrounded by about 20 people, mostly younger, all staring at us. At first they wouldn’t say a word, but after a few “wuhwuh’s” and knocking fists we started some great conversation. Not only with the five common words of English that they all knew, but also the 20 phrases of Bahasa Indonesia thanks to Lonely Planet and their emergency words for survival.

“I am vegetarian. Does this shower have hot water?” we would say.

They would point to our tea and say, "hot."

Eventually our creativity with our 20 phrases ran dry and just as I was about to point to a girl and ask, “how much does that cost?” – a joke that would have undoubtedly gotten us thrown off the boat and fed to the alligators – a guy about our age came up to us and spoke more than passable English.

His name was Deny, he’s 24, single, Muslim, and does this nightmare commute about once a month for work. He was good people and I hope that I one day meet him again. The sun started to set behind the dark green foliage that lined the river and Deny told me I should check out the view from atop the boat. I climbed up there with him up – a move you would not want to do intoxicated – and soaked in the scenery in mostly silent camaraderie with Deny and some dude who introduced himself as ET and didn’t speak a word of English, but would laugh when we did anyway for good show.

I felt so good, so whole, so healthy and clear minded. I knew right there that no matter how bad the rest of the trip went (and it went pretty bad) that it was still worth it. That this one moment, this memory would remain engraved for decades to come. I realized Kevin should be a part of it and climbed back down the back of the boat to get him

We passed by a small clearing in the thick jungle that led to a wooden dock. On the dock were about 30 people and I started to worry that the boat was going to fill to full capacity. But Deny explained to us how the entire village will come out and wait to see off just one or two persons. It was hard for me to believe, but sure enough, only two of the thirty came aboard and all the rest waved and cried out cheerfully. There was something heartwarming about that, something that made me realize we’re too selfish with our precious, precious time back home.

It was a drawn out and regal sunset. The type of sunset that you end up taking more than 30 pictures of ‘cause you just don’t think it could get any better, but does, over and over again. The peach turned to pink, the pink to deep purple, and finally all the surroundings became monochrome in a dark, royal blue.

To be continued …