It's also about the people

Travel Story by Angela LCW

Malaysia

Curry chicken, wok-tossed char-kway teow (flat rice noodles), steamy coconut rice, a smorgasbord of other delectable Malaysian dishes.

A blend of smells, a potpourri of hunger-taunting aromas.

A whirl of activity, a hungry crowd, constantly moving bodies of people– laughing, walking, rushing– eating, drinking, chatting.

I was in line at one of the food stalls in Malaysia; waiting for my turn to be served and wondering what I should eat, when a particular dish caught my attention.

It's funny how a familiar smell, sight, or sound can jog one's memory and immediately transport a person back in time. For me, that day at the food stall, it was celery and chicken...

Thirteen. Such a vulnerable age, one only wants to be accepted, blend in and be friends with the Ah Mei, Jane, Pushpa or Fatimah next to them. Just the wrong kind of shoes or bag can set one apart from the crowd. Whether it is in Malaysia, Italy or the United States, being thirteen transcends all countries, cultures and genders; after all, who doesn't want to fit in.

I was 13, oh-so many years ago. And they aren't kidding when they say 13 is an unlucky number.

Dad died, we lost our house, car and were left with no money. Yes, we did receive an inheritance... a barrage of debts. A grim reminder that we had lost everything came soon after dad's funeral; mom had cooked a meal, yes, celery and chicken. We were all seated around the dinner table and mom told us probably what must have been the hardest thing for her to do; that this might be the last good meal we would have for awhile. My younger 9-year-old sister was horrified and in tears; "Does this mean we will go hungry?"

My eyes were dry but I was crying, inside. My life was in shambles. My whole world was thrown into turmoil. Wasn't it enough that my dorky Pallas (a local brand) zap-on shoes already stuck out like a sore thumb (toe?) amidst the hip and much more expensive Reebok sneakers at school?

I just wanted to be wallpaper. I wanted normalcy.

I wanted to escape - run away.

Fortunately, as fate would have it, we were blessed with a generous aunt who took us under her wing. She assured my mother that she would look after us.

Watching movies or television shows brought me solace, an escape into another world. I wanted to be everywhere else, but Malaysia. I hated everything about the place as it only brought depression, isolation and sadness. Sure, all the travel brochures boasted sunny beaches, swaying palm trees, smiling faces; but here I was - unhappy.

I had about a year left of school and was determined to finish it. I smiled when I wanted to cry, I acted as if everything at home was normal. Friends would ask me to go on weekend trips but I had to lie. I said I wasn't allowed to go - too embarrassed to tell my friends we couldn't afford it. It was all very ironic, me going to a private school with no money. No prom dress either as I didn't have the courage to ask mom for one. Our mode of transportation, a borrowed old car that leaked and flooded when it rained. Imagine this among the many chauffeured-driven BMWs, Mercedes Benzs and every other fancy car.

I had to get out. And with about RM 20 savings, I couldn't really afford a trip to Paris, but I needed to be somewhere else, so instead of luggage, an airplane ticket and a passport, I bought myself a pen, paper and postage stamps.

I wrote.

And I wrote.

And I wrote some more.

Denmark, Croatia, Ghana, Japan, the United States, Austria, Germany, France, Thailand. I wrote and fostered friendships around the globe in the ancient world of non-e-mail. I was running away. I wanted to be where they were, do what they were doing. Every other country seemed so much more peaceful, so much more pleasant than where I was...

Oh-so many years and letters later and back to the present, I am now living in San Francisco. Yes, I made it out. Life is good, but guess what? I miss home. Life sure is strange, isn't it?

Now that I am older, I realize that I wasn't looking for an escape out of the country. I was looking for a release, an outlet from my life, my past, my story. Looking back I think it could have been worse. In fact we were fortunate, after all we had a roof over our heads, an education, food to eat... and each other. It brought us, the family, so much closer.

I miss everything about home now, family, friends, food and even my past. Oh, and of course, mom's celery and chicken. They have all made me who I am today. I'd like to think that I'm an oddball, quirky and different from the rest; but maybe everyone views me as what I had only wanted to be at 13. Wallpaper.

Regardless, I am me.

Malaysia is wonderful, really. I try to go home every year with renewed appreciation for family, friends and also for my country. Nothing else really matters, does it?

No, this isn't really a conventional travel piece, but I just wanted you to see that in Malaysia, as sunny and beautiful as it is, every person you meet will have a story. I just wanted to remind you that travel isn't all about the sights or the landmarks. You could visit Malaysia and visit the Petronas Twin Towers, the KL Tower or Batu Caves. You could visit historic Melaka or scuba dive off Pulau Redang. But remember...

Travel is also about the people.

Take time to get to know each person you meet, every smile, tear or frown has a reason, a story. A smile could be a mask for sadness, a tear a sign of happiness, things sometimes aren't what they seem. Explore. Ask. That's travel.

Everybody has a story.

This is mine.

Read more about the author of this story:
Angela LCW