Dreaming of the Batu Caves

I stare up at the large gold statue, guarding the entrance to the Batu Caves, and marvel at the significance of this moment in my life. A big, indescribable flurry of feeling funnels itself out of my gut and whips kinetic energy into my limbs, every molecule of my body vibrating with anticipation.

I am going to see a monkey today.

And a 400 million year old limestone hill, sprinkled with stalactites and stalagmites, home to some of the most sacred Hindu temples in all of Malaysia.

But mostly a monkey.

Or maybe several monkeys...

My mind wanders, as I imagine our first encounter, on the thronging steps that stretch out before me. A long tail twists around my legs, as a set of human-like teeth smiles up at me, waiting for sumptuous handouts of fresh coconut and banana, small brown hands tugging playfully at my thin yellow scarf, pulled round my shoulders and saturated with the soggy breath of May.

"We are such fucking tourists," says Danae, laughing in her thick Greek accent, and I drop from my reverie like an egg, cast out from the unfortunate nest of a prematurely hatched cuckoo bird (yes, that reference is for you, Bianca). With that, she pulls out her very conspicuous Nikon D-90, raises the view finder to her eye, and attempts to encapsulate the frame of this indomitable figure, Lord Murugan, the Hindu god of war, knowing full well that his magnificence exists in direct relation to scale, which is impossible to capture in the dimensions of a standard photograph, 4 inches long by 6 inches wide.

Lord Murugan

My own camera, a Nikon D3200, sits heavy in my bag, itching to be taken out, and I submit to its inanimate longing. Removing the lens cap, I feel my eyebrows stitch together, as I begin to think about all the people who have come before us, brandishing this same token of their visit to Batu, without understanding the full magnitude of meaning that this statue, and this place, holds for the Hindu people.

But as we begin our ascent to the main cave, amidst the clamor of tourists and devotees, sweating and bumping and waiting and watching, I am once again caught up in the excitement of this new and fantastic place.

And then, in amongst a sea of colorful fabric, I see him.

Tail twitching. Stern, contemplative face examining the inside of a coconut, hands shredding the pulp with a lustful desire. I jostle my way up the stairs to get a better look.

He does not look as friendly as I had hoped... 

Despite his relatively unpleasant disposition, the monkey intrigues me greatly, and after this first sighting, I develop an unexpected and largely frantic need to see MORE monkeys.

 National Geographic, here I come!

After some time, my index finger begins to tire, and I promise myself that I will put my camera away for a while, to enjoy the present moment.

UNTIL I SEE THIS! 

WHAT?!

OMG

You're lucky I've restrained myself (but you may find more monkey pictures attached to the end of this post...) 

Attempting to distract me from my monkey mania, Danae suggests that we continue up into the caves. As we climb the steps, sopping with sweat, I begin to look at the people around me. They are incredibly diverse, and many look somber, devoted and hopeful. It is an interesting thing, to pull your attention away from yourself and to place it on to other people. 

My friend Jake once asked me if I knew the meaning of the word sonder, and I didn't, so we looked it up in the Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows. 

sonder

n. the realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own—populated with their own ambitions, friends, routines, worries and inherited craziness—an epic story that continues invisibly around you like an anthill sprawling deep underground, with elaborate passageways to thousands of other lives that you’ll never know existed, in which you might appear only once, as an extra sipping coffee in the background, as a blur of traffic passing on the highway, as a lighted window at dusk.

I liked this definition so much that I think of it often, when I am surrounded by people, and have the clarity to know when I have become too self-involved.

A Hindu women, clad in the warm colors of a life, long-lived

Some of the people around me, I realized, were ascending the stairs on their knees, eyes raised to the heavens, an unwavering endurance planted firmly beneath their eyelids. 

When we enter the caves, the shrines, which house Hindu deities Vishnu, Shiva and Shakti, come into view. People congregate beneath the colourful structures, their bare feet supported by a slab of cold limestone.

I begin to understand that for these people, this is not a vacation, it is a pilgrimage.

A young Hindu man removes his hat, and swiftly passes his hand through a hot flame, touching his head and his face before his skin cools. An act of purification.

An older man prays by the same flame, standing up, falling to his knees, and jumping into a push up, then back, before raising his hands, once again, in prayer. In every action, he is flanked by his young son, who attempts to mimic his father's devotion. 

Some children, their heads covered in Vibhuti, or sacred ash, tip toe into the temples, dressed in beautiful garments made of fabrics that shine in the natural light that filters in through the caves. 

I am humbled by the knowledge that some devotees have traveled days to arrive at the temples to pay homage to this Holy place. 

As we are leaving, Danae picks up a coconut husk to give to a monkey.

"Is it too big do you think?" she asks, "I'm going to try to break it". 

She places it on the ground and proceeds to stomp on it. 

A young Hindu man, his face twisted in fear and discomfort, rushes towards us with arms outstretched, waving back and forth in a universal symbol which I interpret to mean "NO!"

He points at the coconut, and says, in broken English: "This... a symbol of God... Not good for breaking". 

Danae, mortified, because she goes out of her way in every situation to be culturally appropriate, apologizes profusely. 

After more tutting and frowning, the man finally cracks a smile and shoos us away.

"You can give to monkey now. Just goh, goh,"

As we leave the cave, I try to be mindful of my own position in the world. Of my own privilege. That I am here, in this space, this place of worship, without even knowing what my presence might mean for those who spend their lives dreaming of the Batu Caves. 

Inside the caves

 More monkeys! 

Not crying over spilled milk

Hindu altar

Vibhuti (or sacred ash)

 Henna

Fresh Coconut Water

Open House Friday at the Sahabat

It is late Friday afternoon when I climb the stairs in the medical services and community support building for the Sahabat Support Centre (SSC). The building itself is unmarked, and "fronted" by a run of the mill business which exists to divert attention away from what happens on the 2nd and 3rd floors. My feet are heavy in the narrow stairwell, as beads of sweat congregate at my temples, along my hairline, streaking salt into my eyes. Sunlight dapples in, through grimy windows, and voices carry into the echo of the vast space.

I am nervous. 

"I hope you don't mind, but we're going to throw you right into the deep end", says Gloria, the operating manager of the SSC, 

She is conducting an "open house", where refugees book appointments to discuss medical claims, appeal for support (monetary and in kind) and pursue claims with the United Nations Refugee Agency (UNHCR).

When we enter the small and stuffy room on the top floor, the first candidate, an old man, his face heavily etched with dark creases, is hunched over an unsturdy looking table, surrounded by metal fold out chairs. Gloria motions for Danae and I to sit down, and a young Iranian man joins us, quite unexpectedly. 

"Hello. My name is Gloria," says Gloria, with a hint of an accent, "do you mind if my interns sit in with us today?" 

The young Iranian man begins to speak to the elderly man in what I assume to be Arabic. I understand, then, that he is an interpreter. And that interpreters are the lifeblood of this organization. 

The old man looks up, his face kind, as it expands and contracts into a short-lived, but impressively toothy, smile. He nods, and the interview continues in Arabic --> English, English --> Arabic. He is a homeless man who has been living on the street for several months, because he is sick, and cannot work. 

"What would you do, if you could do any job?" Gloria asks, "like... what do you have the skills for?"

After some deliberation, the young man replies, with a smile dancing in his eyes, "he would be a cook... or a basketball player!!" 

Laughter erupts out of my mouth before I can stop it, and the elderly man sitting across from me grins wildly, shooting a 3 pointer with both hands in mid-air (I kid you not!) 

As my laughter mixes with his, to warm the air in the room, I realize that this man is not hopeless. And he does not need my pity. 

Because although he may be desolate, and yes, his life may be hard... his humanity, and his dignity, are still very much in tact, and that's more than I can say for most people. 

As he leaves his appointment, without any rent assistance (which means he will stay homeless for now), but a food voucher and a promise to follow up on his UNHCR file, he bows his head.

"Thank you," he says in English, with a silent grace that hurts my heart. 

The rest of the interviews follow along the same vein. 

A beautiful Afghani woman, with strong features and hair like black silk, is unable to afford a hospital visit for her son, who is ill. And the reality is that even if she could afford it, she would need an interpreter to go to the hospital with her since she cannot speak a lick of English. And even if there was an interpreter, she risks deportation. Why? Because she crossed the border illegally, by way of human smugglers, who removed her passport upon arrival, abandoning her (and her 5 children) in Malaysia without any form of identification. 

An older woman from Afghanistan follows, asking for assistance in finding her two children, in their early 20's, who fled to  Germany two years ago, and ceased all communication. Tears spill from her eyes, which bring life to pain that I don't know I will ever experience, as she describes her last conversation with them. 

"She is terrified for her children", says the young Persian interpreter, a woman this time. 

My desire, then, is to reach my hand out towards the old woman. To touch her elbow. Her hair. To take her burden from her shoulders in some way, and place it squarely onto mine. Instead, I extend my fingers over my heart. And with this, I can express to her without words, that we are connected.

More interviews followed, and each refugee, no matter how hard their struggle, managed to touch my heart in some way. Whether it be their gentle eyes, or their playful spirits in the face of adversity. I don't know that I have ever experienced that kind of rawness. Of people cut wide open, and sewn back shut, yet somehow still in tact, and still beautiful. I will never forget the experience, for as long as I live. And I know that this is only the beginning. 

My first day in Kuala Lumpur

After 29 hours in transit, and a few days to recuperate, Danae and I have finally begun to settle in to our temporary residence in Apartment Villa Lantana, just off Jalan Kelab Ukai Utama, in the district of Ampang.

We arrived in Kuala Lumpur in the early morning on May 9th, and took a light rail train from the terminal to immigration. After passing through customs, I began to take stock of my new surroundings, and what I noticed, in particular, was the wide array of clothing in the place. Milling about by the baggage claim was a large group of men sporting dishdashas, which are long white robes traditionally worn around the Arab gulf. Next to them, young men adorned in beautifully embroidered billowing wide-sleeved robes from Africa. And then the saris, trimmed with gold and all the colours of the rainbow. Textured pashmina scarves, vibrant sashes with sequins and bobbits and whosits and whatsits, and flowing sarongs, paired, almost exclusively, with a lofty pair of durable brown sandals.

One of my most favorite things about KL thus far is the diversity of the people. Although the city is primarily a mix of Malays, Chinese and Indians, rapid development has led to an influx of workers from other countries like Thailand, Bangladesh, Nepal, Burma, Sri Lanka, Phillipines and Vietnam.When you add religion to the mix, which includes Islam (the majority religion), followed by Buddhism, Hinduism, Christianity and Daoism, this city is a virtual melting pot.

After taking some time to collect myself, we went to collect our luggage (which arrived in tact!), and emerged from the airport into the sweltering tropical heat, which hit me like a brick wall. The temperature ranges at this time of year between 32 and 35 degrees, but, in the weather forecast there is always a sneaky "feels like" disclosure, which calculates through some kind of Houdini math "the apparent temperature felt on exposed skin", adding about 6 or 7 degrees to the average high. So... it's hot. Like... real hot.

 A sweaty man in his mid-40's, who seemed to spot us from an unreasonable distance, trundled over, yelling excitedly in what I assume was Malay. He had one arm up in the air and was shouting "Teksi!" "AK FEK JIARIG HR AG" "Teksi!" "Teksi". Before I knew what was happening, he had herded us into a passenger car, punching our address into Google Maps as we were lurching down the freeway at break neck speeds. "OK" he said, drawing out the letter K in a thick accent, "no working... you know where is?". I did not understand how lucky we were at that time that he spoke any English at all. We drove in circles around Ampang, up one street and down the next, searching for Lantana Villas.

In the end, we did manage to find the address, and paid 30 Ringgits (the equivalent of $10.00) for what seemed like a 10 hour trip.We unloaded all of our bags, excited at the prospect of a cold shower, but quickly discovered that the girl who had arranged our stay had forgotten to send an e-mail indicating our arrival time and date.

Me, after receiving the bad news

We ended up sitting outside, sweating profusely and talking an inordinate amount about how good water tastes, until finally the upstairs neighbor, Cindy, arrived home 5 hours later. She found us, hungry and dehydrated, and overcome by fits of hysterical laughter because her dog, Cooper, had pirouhetted past us on the stairs and had peed on Danae's bag. Cindy, wondering at the state of our mental health, decided to take us to dinner at a local Indian restaurant, called Ali Maju,

When we walked in to the restaurant, there was a palpable shift in the room, as dark eyes turned to stare in our direction. There are very few white people in Ampang, and I am getting used to drawing unwanted attention. That being said, the people are also some of the friendliest I've ever come across, once you shoot them a big beaming smile. The server, who was not very nice however, approached us and began speaking in an aggressive dialect that I could not, for the life of me, begin to process in my condition. Cindy, fluent in Malay, took the reins and ordered Tandoori Chicken and Garlic Na'an and fresh squeezed orange juice. It is one of the best meals I have ever had in my life, and it only cost 10 Ringgits, which is about $3.25 Canadian.

Ali Maju Restaurant

When we returned home, our roommate, Dave, was waiting for us. Dave is a man in his mid 50's who came to Kuala Lumpur 8 years ago, after a prolonged stint in the Oil and Gas industry. He's a nice guy - drives a Harley Davidson and smokes like a chimney. I went to bed pretty early that evening, and was surprised to wake up to shouting in the kitchen, around 9 a.m. the next morning. Apparently, Dave's former maid/ex-girlfriend had broken into the house "to talk". All I heard, upon removing my bright pink earplugs, was, "WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING HERE", followed by some scuffling, a shrill voice yelling, "LIAR!" and a violent expulsion of sorts. The woman lingered on the premises, banging erratically on the door for half an hour, until Dave threatened to call the police.

So... overall, we've been having a pretty weird time, but there plenty of excitement on this end! I will try to keep these short, as I'm sure you all have busy lives back home and can't spend hours reading my blog posts. But, I will keep them up. There is so much going on here at any given time, that there is no shortage of material. 

The first drop in the bucket

It is always difficult to start a blog. As a person who grapples with crippling self-doubt, I am forced to push past this incessant question, which slithers it's way into my head every time I endeavor to take on something new.

"Am I worth it?". 

It's not easy to do things for yourself.

About one year ago, I went through a fairly tumultuous relationship, and I was forced to examine some very deep and dysfunctional parts of myself. And through this difficult process, I discovered that I am, what some health professionals deem, co-dependent.

For those of you who don't know, codependency has been referred to as the disease of a lost self, which sounds terrifying in its own right. But I know that, in some respects, I can identify with this definition, however inflated. My self is not lost, but it is buried under an excessive reliance on other people for approval and identity. 

What gives me solace is that we are all a little bit co-dependant. Except for those unicorns out there, who don't need anybody or anything to get by, and even then, they probably fall on the other end of the spectrum, where perhaps they can't open themselves up to trust or be vulnerable.

What I am getting at is that we are all a little bit crazy. And that's OK. 

 Musings from Philosoraptor 

This is something I've learned over the years, and many of you may disagree, but I feel it in my bones. And there is nothing wrong with falling outside of "the norm", so long as it doesn't negatively impact your life. And if it does, then maybe you should work on it. Or at least try to be aware of it. Embodied awareness, where you accept it as a part of all that you are. Own the crazy. Make it yours. 

My own unique blend of madness has led me on all kinds of adventures. And through it, I have found love. Fierce love, all fire and passion and darkness and light. The kind of love that reminds you that you are human. And another kind of love that takes you in its arms, guiding you softly, tenderly, away from the heat. But the most important thing I have discovered, in admitting that I am just a little bit off my rocker, is self-love. And this is absolutely the hardest to come by, in my opinion.

"Am I worth it?"

This question is always there. And finding self-love means that the resounding answer to this question must always be yes. I'm at a point in my life, where I am about 60/40. Sometimes I say yes, and sometimes I take the easy way out.

Which leads me to where I am today. 

Sitting in a muggy room on the outskirts of Kuala Lumpur in the district of Ampang. 

I chose to say yes to an experience that has taken me entirely out of my comfort zone. Away from my friends and family, like a fledgling bird whose got no idea where the hell she is going but knows it's too late now to go back to the nest. 

Below is a journal entry from my first day in the city, attempting to detail this vibrant and transformative landscape:

"We take the train to KL Sentral from the airport. On the way to the station, the scenery is surprisingly lush and green, the land terraced and teeming with palm trees. In amongst the trees, you can spot the odd man, arms taut and brown, chopping leaves or piling dirt. There are also shaded areas housing cows, which seem a novelty in this foreign place, their brown hides gleaming with sweat. 

As we approach KL, the high rises at the centre of town come into view. It is a bustling metropolis, which spreads from the centre out into patchy ghettos on the outskirts of town. Here, many buildings lie stagnant, half-constructed with no signs of imminent completion. Cranes lie motionless, while banners indicating future vacancy flap haphazardly in the wind. The buildings seem to be scrubbed down with dirt, worn around the edges, but infused with a multitude of colours, as laundry hangs from the balconies to dry in the heat.

This is my city for the next 7 months."  

For those of you who don't know, Kuala Lumpur is the capital city of Malaysia

Over the course of this 7 months, I will be working at a refugee centre in Ampang, which services refugees from war-torn areas like Iraq, Iran, Palestine, Pakistan and Syria. This work will be difficult, but also so meaningful. I intend to travel for 5 months afterwards, to Bangladesh, India, Nepal, Cambodia, Laos, Vietnam, Thailand and Singapore (mostly pictured on the map above). 

I sat for awhile this morning contemplating the name of this blog, because these are important things to think about! I chose "Caught in the Deluge" because the tropical rain in Kuala Lumpur is tremendous, and nearly impossible to move through. The word deluge has two meanings: one is to be caught in a great flood and the other is to be inundated with a great quantity of something. The something I have been inundated with in this city so far is indescribable. The smell of the streets. The way the heat mixes with the rain. The FOOD! My god... the food. I am already finding in this experience, and in myself, through this experience, something achingly beautiful. 

I know that I am on the right track in my life, and am doing some really good work on myself in the process. Because that is what we should do as humans, learn and grow, learn and grow. I can't wait to share my journey with all of you, the people I love most in the world. 

Until then, here are a couple of pictures to tide you over! 

The puppy who lives upstairs (her name is Colleen)

One of the busy streets in downtown KL

Laundry hanging from balconies

The man who delivers bread and other sweets