R & R

I got my R&R in the mountains--a fabulous week alone in Malaysia with my Creator, His Word, my journal, backpack guitar, and flute. It was food for my soul. The computer stayed home (brand new experience)! The first half of the week was spent in hibernation at the guest house, then venturing out the 2nd half.













Oh the beauty! O the joy and nourishment of adventure
(and monkeying around).









A foot massage (the best ever), assembling a 600-pc puzzle, and discovering new settings on my camera.

I got rather concerned on the bus ride down, as our driver was more concerned about his watch that had stopped than he was about watching where he was going. Also we were running late, and I was just sure I was going to miss my train. He was creeping at a snail's pace--which, I guess is the best pace to go, if you're going to work on fixing your watch on windy, mountain roads. I arrived at the station just as the train pulled in. Whew!

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If you have time for a story, read on (adapted from my journal, about the trip up)....
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I finally made it to these mountains—finally in the grand scheme of things (having been wanting to do it someday), and finally after a long trip yesterday. Things ran pretty much like clockwork, really—my 6 am flight was on time, no problems getting a bus to the train station, arriving at the train station just in time for the 9 am train, 2 hrs later I was in—er, close to—T-town, where the people helped me get to the bus that took me to T-town, where I would need to catch another bus to my final destination. It was here that things slowed down, so that it was 4 pm when I was standing uncertainly at the top of a privately-marked driveway with a ferocious-sounding (and -looking) dog running towards me.

People are not quite so obliging without Colleen at my side. On our first trip to Malaysia, we tread on the graces of the people every step of the way. But they were falling over themselves to help (excepting the man from the chalet who tried to rip us off!). It was either the absence of Colleen or it was my short hair. People don’t look at me the same. My mom pointed out people may have been more used to tourists in that area and not concerned for my safety. Anyway, despite it all, no one led me astray, but they didn’t have a whole lot of patience with me (I did try it pretty well on a few of them!) :)

It was a day of the disabled. First my train seat partner was a deaf girl. Her brother and sister-in-law told me when they put her on the train. I discovered too late on the ride that we could communicate by writing. She said she knew a little bit of American Sign Language. I was trying to find out what sign she used, because I had watched her on a cell phone video call with someone, fingers flying. In Malaysia! She was also sending text messages—which was my (delayed) tip-off that I could write with her and ask some questions. I was dying to know more about where she got her education, curious for the sake of the deaf kids on the island. I ran out of time, though, and didn’t get that sorted. Oh well.

From there I was the disabled one—the ignorant white girl, bumbling her way about the Malaysian bus system. I made it on the bus to T-town, and plopped in a front row seat so I wouldn’t have to drag my luggage further. Then a youngish man climbed aboard. His leg was not functioning, and his shoulder looked out of place. He sat next to me for a similar reason—not to hold up the bus. At the next stop, a couple guys got on and had trouble getting past his straight leg that was barring the entrance because he couldn’t bend it. After that he moved to a seat further back where he could stretch his leg down the aisle without obstructing passengers. Good thing, because the next guy to get on was a shoe-in for Asia’s Biggest Loser. I mean no disrespect, it’s just the facts. He was bigger than most of the people I’ve seen on ABL. Maybe not quite as big as Kevin, but this dude was a beast. I watched in fascination as he struggled up the steps and wondered how he was going to get down the aisle, then for a fleeting second I thought he was going to sit with me, and I didn’t know how that was going to work. But he didn't sit next to me. He disappeared behind me and I didn’t turn around to watch.

In T-town, the crippled man discovered we could communicate, and began telling me his woes, wanting some money because he had a difficult life. We sort of became friends after that. As it turned out, my bus was not leaving for another 2 hours, so I spent part of that time with him.

On the last bus, a young girl behind me wanted to ask me questions while we wound around the mountains. Fortunately she didn’t start until close to her destination, because I have a weak stomach, and had to turn around every time she said something. But Daisy got off early, after getting my email address. For 2 hours the wind whipped around me and the air got cooler and cooler. Not once did I have to move hair out of my eyes! :) Ah, that was nice. I am loving short hair. But I had to brace myself around every curve, holding on to my guitar, little suitcase, and dear life. The driver whipped around those mountains he drives every day, while everything and everyone behind him was slammed from one side of the bus to the other.

When the bus pulled in to the final stop, I stepped off, with my directions in hand:

...walk on the main road and you will reach the driveway to the bungalow. It is the first driveway on the left after the town. It is not marked.

First problem: I couldn’t exactly tell which was the “main road.” But I guessed and started walking... and hiking... and there was nothing. And I began to wonder. Fifteen minutes passed. Isn’t that how long it takes to walk a mile? Aren’t there 1.6 km in a mile? But I was going uphill. Dragging luggage. Then 20 minutes… 25. What if I am on the wrong road?

Then I saw a driveway on the left. In my exhaustion I think I heard a choir and saw golden light streaming out from it. I crossed the road and started up the long driveway, music fading as I passed a sign that read:

Private property. Do not enter.

And there I was, at 4 pm, all hopes dashed, being charged by a dog while a young woman was running after him calling, “Brownie!” It seemed quite an unsuitable name as I froze, hounded, with visions of my other dog-bite incidents dancing in my head, wondering if I was going to become Brownie’s snack.
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As it turned out, I had made it to the guest house. Brownie did not eat me, though he tried at other times. We came to some sort of workable relationship in which he would try to chew up anything in my hands and I would beat him with it.