Travel tale #1: Wonder in Asia

A sensory recount of a visit to South-East Asia

I stood in between two lanes and looked up at the Kuala Lumpur skyline, at how the tall buildings seemed to merge overhead — a gathering to welcome me. In that moment, I felt the excitement, the joy, the sense of adventure that comes when I’m somewhere new, with a world of things to feel, see, taste. I was there to celebrate the love of one of my dearest friends, and we would trace our mirth across Malaysia, Singapore and Thailand. I feasted on many moments with friends, but I also found pockets of time for my own wonder.

I went to Petaling street, and I watched how the pill-shaped lanterns swayed, each one a different colour, inked with symbols I wish I understood. There were colours everywhere. Blue windows against yellow walls; red paper fans dangling under a red ceiling; an explosion of green, pink and blue in an old man’s hand — a toy he squeezed and expanded as he walked. There were murals too, like the woman with a garland around her neck and a scarf blowing outside her window. Or a little girl smiling at the viewer while boys played in the grass. Here, I was doing the looking, spared from the curious gaze of passers-by, who were too busy navigating this full place; laughing, talking, eating in the market, to look at me. I was grateful for this. And then there was Jalan Alor with the food stalls that lined the path. People lobbied for my attention, hoping for a new customer. I found the sweetest things, like the ice cream in a frozen coconut, and the light pancake coated with a flavour that reminded me of childhood. I ate my way through KL. The fried rice, the chicken, the nasi lemak, the hojicha ice cream from the mall, the custard buns, the peanut butter toast, the noodles, the milo, the coconut water. The only thing I regretted eating, that I tried while knowing better, that I bit into as the others stifled giggles, was the durian. Its taste, heavy and strong, stubbornly stuck to me for the rest of that day.  

In Singapore, I was in awe of the malls. Large, overpowering, intricately designed buildings, leading into each other, housing people ready to cover miles for fashion and food. The terraces were lined with sparkling gold lights for Christmas. There was a rooftop bar that overlooked the Bay at night, with its alien glass domes perched by the water, with the green lights from the artificial trees in the nearby garden. The way that the whole space speaks of design, craft, creation. The way it draws comparisons, competes, with Dubai. Thin buildings shaped like an arc. Tall sparkling towers made of glass. A Louis Vuitton shop that floats. Flowers and grass bent into shapes to suit a tourist eye. But there were the other parts too. Parts that seemed left out of all this change, heaving with real people. Like Old Airport road, with the food stalls of barbecued pork, rice noodles, fruit juices, rows of plastic chairs. Like Little India, with its many fabric shops; with its buildings of green, yellow, purple; an area that felt like what happens when a people don’t want to lose themselves; when they strive to build commerce, community, somewhere else. Like the botanic gardens, where I could not hide from the unblinking sun, where I gazed at rare flowers and walked under green arches. And as always, the food. The chilli crab at dinner which I ate while bibbed, childlike in other ways too — ignorant of how to use the tools, hands coated in sauce.

Phuket seemed like the high note of a glorious song. We arrived after nightfall and were stunned by the view we woke up to. The sea, a mix of vivid blues and greens, generous and endless. What it felt like to be in it, to drop my braids and float, doused in its cool layers, protected from the searching heat. What it felt like to ride between islands— Maya Bay, Monkey Beach, and how small I felt there, dwarfed by the sheer scale of things. By the large rocks covered in green moss that seemed to make a path for the water. By being on just one of many boats. By trying to swim when water pressed my mouth, competed with my air waves for space. By the depths of the ocean, with its strange gifts, like an object I was ready to swim away from, till I realised that it was just what happens when water puts pressure on a thing. And then Bangkok, the final notes when the song is nearly over. The route back home, but first more food. Food eaten on the roof of high buildings overlooking the city. Food eaten after a cooking class, thai dishes made with my own hands, recipes that I swore I would repeat when I got home, dinner parties in Paris imagined, still pending. Food eaten in expansive malls. The taste of the honey toast and thai milk tea shaved ice at After You café. The stubbornness to go there even after I had been sick the day before. (Was it my cooking?) The light embarrassment at having two desserts alone. Before I remembered that this was my one life, my first time here, my last day on the trip. The massage that ended it. The way a nimble old woman climbed my back, pulled till there were cracks, kneaded till there was sleep. And waking light, floating on the boat that took me back across the water.  

There was so much wonder. We held the threads of my friend’s love, and we wove them together across these places. Here is a thick braid of beautiful memories. The most important ones were of her, of them, of all we were celebrating. Like the laughter from the bridesmaids as we bullied the groomsmen, made them wear and eat things, made them cast things off their bodies. Like the gasps at my friend in all her dresses, the way they held her figure, the way they trailed after her so lightly. Like the tears, the side-aches, the nods of agreement during speeches, how it felt to give one, to face her and offer something whole. Like the reunions, the nostalgia, the remember when’s with old friends. Like the silliness, the taste tests of fizzy drinks, the shivers from jumping into cold pools, dancing barefoot in heart-shaped glasses. Like all the times I was submerged in water, going down a slide and ending in the ocean, or diving into the pool at the wedding afterparty. Like the longing, for a love that manifests itself like theirs did. For more moments of fullness like this one. For more life. And always, for more wonder.  

Prompt:

Where have you felt the most wonder? Write about it and share it with me (by sending it on instagram, or replying by email if you’re a subscriber) in the next week, and it will go up on the Instagram page.