The remainder of Vietnam was incredible. The beauty in the North-- Ninh Binh, Sapa, and Halong Bay-- is breathtaking. To be honest, Ninh Binh and Sapa stand beside Zion Canyon and Yosemite Valley as the most beautiful places I've ever been in my life. Ninh Binh's gorgeous, black limestone mountains, surrounded by lush green rice paddies, is a dream. Sapa's steep mountain slopes have been cut into jaw-dropping terraces of the same verdant green as Ninh Binh, but these lay pressed inside valleys, beside alpine rivers, and below ridges of rugged mountains... really, Northern Vietnam is otherworldly.
Also, the wild bipolar antics of the Vietnamese seemed likewise to abate the farther North I went-- a real breath of fresh air for me. The people became more predictable: slightly scammy, slightly annoyed at having you around, but less likely to fly off the handle, which I certainly appreciated. In addition, I soon started traveling with four guys, an Irishman I'd met in Saigon and three of his Australian friends. They were mellow, intelligent, and all so different from each other. We could spend hours at a restaurant talking or in a hotel room playing cards. It was an experience I'd never had before, traveling with such a large, diverse, yet well-knit group; I miss that camaraderie.
On the 25th of August I left Hanoi, flying back to Kuala Lumpur for a six day respite before my next goal: India. What amazed me was how differently I perceived KL. I remember the first time I went there, fresh from Singapore. Malaysia was the first country I'd ever been to where I couldn't readily communicate with people. It was also the first third-world country I'd independently explored. Everything seemed so dirty. I couldn't communicate with anyone. Everyone looked like they were ready to cheat me, trying to scam me or hawk their goods upon me. People stared at everything I did and it just felt so oppressive that I couldn't wait to enter Thailand, fearful though I was that it might be worse in all those ways
It's almost impossible to describe just how differently Kuala Lumpur came across this second time. After all the rest of Southeast Asia, KL was a dream. Prices were listed on store items. Everyone seemed to speak English or, if not, at least try to understand what you wanted and help. People didn't yell, "hey you!" or "where you from?" and then enter into some sales pitch. On a whim I asked a cellphone store owner where I could buy an alarm clock and, to my amazement, instead of trying to sell me something she offered me directions. This was almost beyond belief.
The most memorable of my experiences in KL was on my second day, when I walked into a four-story department store just to wander and look around. It felt so calm, so tranquil. Ten minutes in, while passing through the clothes section on the second floor, I suddenly realized why it all felt so wonderful: no one was harassing me. No one was shoving objects in my face, or pulling on my sleeves. People weren't staring as I walked by; in truth they didn't even seem to care that some white guy was in their store. I experienced a rare emotion then-- I felt a bit like crying, so much was my joy. I realized then just how different my relationship to KL was this time around.
It amazes me to compare that first and second time in Malaysia and to reflect on the immense contrast between my perceptions of that place. Is it a sign of personal growth, of change? Is this adaptation on my part something that will evince itself outside of travel, in my day-to-day life or is it a momentary or context-specific change? I'm unsure, but hopeful of its salience. In any case, this is the first situation where changes within myself have been brought to my attention....
They say that it's hard to see how you've changed while you travel; you're constantly adapting to new circumstances, diverging and branching off from one experience to the next, so that you never can see how you've changed from the original ones. That is, you don't see how you've changed until you return and are put back in them. Because one of the main themes of this trip is self-growth, I've wondered a lot about that growth: how much I've changed and how it will affect me. Whether the re-experiencing of Kuala Lumpur is a hint of that change or of a momentary adaptation, it still impresses upon me how powerfully travel can affect us, and confirms to me my hope that it will leave a profound, lasting mark.
Also, the wild bipolar antics of the Vietnamese seemed likewise to abate the farther North I went-- a real breath of fresh air for me. The people became more predictable: slightly scammy, slightly annoyed at having you around, but less likely to fly off the handle, which I certainly appreciated. In addition, I soon started traveling with four guys, an Irishman I'd met in Saigon and three of his Australian friends. They were mellow, intelligent, and all so different from each other. We could spend hours at a restaurant talking or in a hotel room playing cards. It was an experience I'd never had before, traveling with such a large, diverse, yet well-knit group; I miss that camaraderie.
On the 25th of August I left Hanoi, flying back to Kuala Lumpur for a six day respite before my next goal: India. What amazed me was how differently I perceived KL. I remember the first time I went there, fresh from Singapore. Malaysia was the first country I'd ever been to where I couldn't readily communicate with people. It was also the first third-world country I'd independently explored. Everything seemed so dirty. I couldn't communicate with anyone. Everyone looked like they were ready to cheat me, trying to scam me or hawk their goods upon me. People stared at everything I did and it just felt so oppressive that I couldn't wait to enter Thailand, fearful though I was that it might be worse in all those ways
It's almost impossible to describe just how differently Kuala Lumpur came across this second time. After all the rest of Southeast Asia, KL was a dream. Prices were listed on store items. Everyone seemed to speak English or, if not, at least try to understand what you wanted and help. People didn't yell, "hey you!" or "where you from?" and then enter into some sales pitch. On a whim I asked a cellphone store owner where I could buy an alarm clock and, to my amazement, instead of trying to sell me something she offered me directions. This was almost beyond belief.
The most memorable of my experiences in KL was on my second day, when I walked into a four-story department store just to wander and look around. It felt so calm, so tranquil. Ten minutes in, while passing through the clothes section on the second floor, I suddenly realized why it all felt so wonderful: no one was harassing me. No one was shoving objects in my face, or pulling on my sleeves. People weren't staring as I walked by; in truth they didn't even seem to care that some white guy was in their store. I experienced a rare emotion then-- I felt a bit like crying, so much was my joy. I realized then just how different my relationship to KL was this time around.
It amazes me to compare that first and second time in Malaysia and to reflect on the immense contrast between my perceptions of that place. Is it a sign of personal growth, of change? Is this adaptation on my part something that will evince itself outside of travel, in my day-to-day life or is it a momentary or context-specific change? I'm unsure, but hopeful of its salience. In any case, this is the first situation where changes within myself have been brought to my attention....
They say that it's hard to see how you've changed while you travel; you're constantly adapting to new circumstances, diverging and branching off from one experience to the next, so that you never can see how you've changed from the original ones. That is, you don't see how you've changed until you return and are put back in them. Because one of the main themes of this trip is self-growth, I've wondered a lot about that growth: how much I've changed and how it will affect me. Whether the re-experiencing of Kuala Lumpur is a hint of that change or of a momentary adaptation, it still impresses upon me how powerfully travel can affect us, and confirms to me my hope that it will leave a profound, lasting mark.
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