Trip to Europe 1995... Getting classical (and Merdeka too) in Austria!

A pix of me pretending to be a classical composer in Vienna...

OK... Time to break the ice.

After making my 111th posting in this blogspot 10 days and then leaving it unattended, now I present the 6th part of the story on my travels in Europe of 1995.

Coincedently, Merdeka... The Malaysian independence day is just around the corner (the 50th edition that is) and coincidently, I happened to mentioned something about Merdeka in Vienna in this article written in 1997, 10 years ago. So here goes. Enjoy it... :]

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“Merdeka! Merdeka! Merdeka!”. It was 31st August 1995, the independence day. I wish I could shout out loud those magic words the way Tunku Abdul Rahman did it… “Merdeka! Merdeka! Merdeka!” but I can’t. It’s not Merdeka time for me yet, at least not until my European trip is over.
Instead I was on a road full of cars and trailers making their way through the Slovakian-Austrian border. A gorgeous Bratislavan girl was standing outside a restaurant nearby. She was dressed to kill like a lass out on her first date. But the heavy backpack on her ruled that out. For all you know, she could be a wife running away from home…
I stood waiting for a lift while also eyeing the girl which began to look like an escaped mental hospital inmate as she walked to and fro looking at her watch waiting for God knows what.
A brunette with light blue eyes, she was slightly taller than my shoulder, petite with the right proportions.
She approached me with a smile, her beautiful full red lips curving up nicely to show off the neatly arranged teeth.
My… My… She turned out to be quite gorgeous…
“Are you going somewhere?” she asked maybe looking for company.
“Yeah, I’m going to Vienna,” I answered.
“That’s great. I’m waiting for a friend to take me there!” she said. That got us on an even note…We chatted as she waited for her lift. Looking at the girl, I didn’t mind spending all my time there.
Later, a blue car arrived. Out came a guy who immediately hugged her. They were deep in embrace as they spurted into some unrecognisable language, probably German. That’s when she told me the guy was her boyfriend. Shoot!
The girl offered me a lift. I can hear the two discussing rapidly their options… The guy grunting while she was all smiles presumably trying to persuade her boyfriend to take me in the car.
His face grimaced before finally giving his approval. And off we were on our way to Vienna.
In the car, she introduced herself. Elizabeth was sweet really. She was articulate as she shifted conversation between me and the boyfriend. A university student in Bratislava, she was conversant in English while being most charming in the way she flicked her hair and move those thick eye lashes… Damn!
I was let off nearby a river that runs through the city of Vienna. Little Donau as the locals call it was a tributary of one of the most famous river in Europe, the Danube.
I walked along heading for the centre of Vienna. There was a familiar flag waving outside a big hotel. It was the Malaysian flag!
“Merdeka! Merdeka! Merdeka!” With only 20 Pounds in my pocket, some Malaysian hospitality was sorely much in need.
Indeed, at the Vienna Hilton were plenty of Malaysians hanging around. It was an AIA (American Insurance Agency) Summit meeting, a bonus for the top sellers. A trip to Vienna lah, who don’t want lah…
However they were less than hospitable. I remembered what one of them said thinking I was one of the participants.
“Macam you pun boleh dapat top seller ka?” as his eyes looked up and down sizing me up. Big deal… Only insurance agents can travel overseas ke?
Observing the congregation of salesmen, I felt disgusted. I recalled the posters that largely adorned some sales headquarters in Malaysia with phrases like “Be among the 10 per cent intelligent people in the world. Join us and all your dreams will come through,” the war-cry of the higher-than-the-masses salesmen. Pass me the toilet bowl. Hurgghh!
Anyway Vienna was definitely a sight to behold. With history recording it as the capital of the much celebrated Austrian empire, it was no wonder to see majestic regal buildings and monuments strewn everywhere.
That night it rained quite bad, I tucked myself inside the damp sleeping bag, shivering from the cold. My shelter was a hollow cylinder like the one used to make oil pipes, protecting me partially from the water that occasionally creeped inside.
Come sun rise, its time for some help. With me and my clothes badly in need of washing, I decided to check the “Merdeka” spirit at the Malaysian embassy in Prince Eugene Strasse.
I met Ahmad, a diplomat there to ask him to let me stay the night at his place. He was sceptical at first as his eyes squinted looking at me like I was a conman. I can’t blame him. A lot of people would have either sprinted away or fainted on the spot seeing me then. Nevertheless, he accepted my presence soon enough…
Sleep that night was cosy. I had warm dry clothes and a very comfortable bed. Thanks, Ahmad and family.
On the way out of Vienna was a bridge over river Danube with an island five kilometres long dividing the river into a murky greyish side and a blue one. Was it the Blue Danube I wonder? The tune of the famous classical immediately sprang to mind inspiring me to go to Salzburg, the city of Mozart.
But the trip took longer than I thought. After hitchiking through Huttledorf, St Potters and Ybbs on different set of wheels, I spent the night under a flyover at Eugendorf, a small village town just twenty kilometres on the way to Salzburg.
I remembered coming across two old ladies on their morning walk (or was it they who came across me?). Tucked inside my sleeping bag, I heard them say: “Blah… Blah… Stupid tourist… Blah… Blah…” I looked around. Apart from the ladies, there was only me. Hmm…
Later at a junction in front of the local supermarket, I got my next lift heading to the historical city known for a famous citizen… A very famous composer and musician. Guess who…
Salzburg had a smell of romance in the air, the romance of lovers entwined together in tight embrace dancing to a classical tune.
Mozart was born here, pushed by his father to achieve artistic perfection but died a tragic death at a young age.
I can feel an orchestra in my mind, of concertos and overtures as I walked through the cobbled streets surrounded by hills with castles perched on top and old ancient tunnels underneath. But soon it was back to stark reality… Off Salzburg, I hitchiked a vacant express bus up to a junction to Munich and Innsbruck off Rosenheim, Germany.
Left alone, that’s when I realised I was out of food. With only 20 Pounds left, I promised not to spend a penny until I reached Italy.
Luckily there was a maize field. So it was maize (jagung mentah) for launch including some for tapau…
At the southbound highway, I got on a small Fiat driven by a sweet old lady to Innsbruck, Austria’s winter sports resort town, once the venue for the winter Olympics, also a famous destination among travellers. As it turned out, I decided to bypass Inssbruck, following her instead through a series of tunnels before arriving at Widnau in Switzerland, my resting place for the next three days.

Trip to Europe 1995... Playing the fool in Bratislava...

Me posing in Bratislava, Republic of Slovakia. If memory serves me right the picture is of the president's residence! So there...

And to end tonight's session of story-telling... Without much further ado, part 5... This also happens to be the 111th posting in this blogspot. As I like the number so much, this means that I won't make any new posting here for a while. So enjoy deeply what's already been served ya. Take care! :]

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On the way to Bratislava, I had a close shave with a group of boxers.
It started at a petrol station on the outskirts of Prague. I waited patiently for the last six hours trying several times to get lifts from the car and lorry drivers stopping at the station to no avail.
I was about to find a sleeping spot when an old rundown bus stopped for petrol. Several guys were onboard. Two came down to get some tidbits from the petrol station shop. This could well be my next lift.
Approaching them, I asked to be allowed on the bus. They said yes.
About thirty men were onboard. They claimed to be Czech national boxers on their way to Bulgaria for a friendly match. Bratislava was on the route, lucky for me.
We immediately got acquainted with each other. Mode of language were signs and gestures including caveman sounds. It was sufficient for us to share some light moments (or did they laughed for the wrong reasons?). To the untrained eye, we looked like spastic kids on an campfire outing.
As the hours ticked away, things began to turn ugly.
At first they asked for my money and camera jokingly. As I refused their request again and again, the tone of voice got more serious.
There were some sort of hints as they showed their boxing skills and once in a while slap my back in an exagerated manner. I understood what was going on, This was a veiled threat.
The boxing show means "give us what we want or you’ll get a punch in the kisser."
Uh… Uh… There’s no way I can take out these guys, so better play it cool.
I kept myslef calm hiding my shaking interior. Taking out some coins, I told them to have it. But they want US Dollars, not some Pounds (Hah! So much for Great Britain…). They opted strongly for the camera instead. That I can’t comply with. This was what I told them : "No… Camera can not… I need camera… Mama, papa see picture…" complete with the appropriate body language.
At last I managed to convince them not to take the camera. But I had to play a game of bluff. I had to keep cool, subtlely let them think I had Kung Fu or Black Magic. They can’t really figure me out, so the bluff worked.
However I was not allowed to be onboard anymore. They dropped me at Brno another 150 kilometres to Bratislava.
I wonder what would happen if I’d said the wrong thing… "Malaysian got bashed in Czech…." Huh, simpang malaikat empat puluh empat!
At Brno, I decided to take a train to Bratislava. I was surprised to find out a trip to Bratislava cost 74 Kroners (equivalent to RM8, by England’s standard chicken feed). Should have done that earlier instead of risking a fat lip.
Bratislava, capital of Slovakia had the cutest museums in Europe, literally midgets compared to London’s British Museum or Paris’ Louvre. Lacking the credibility of Prague, there were attempts to associate the city with greatness.
The tourist authorities traced Bratislava’s history to a thousand years ago pointing it out as a capital of the once powerful Austro-Hungarian Empire (was it in the 16th Century? Did anybody knew?). It was a good attempt but still the city can’t match the history of London, Paris or Prague.
There were grumbles about how the Slovakian region were treated like backwater parts while its inhabitants were considered country bumpkin by their relatively well-off Czech cousins.
That night, I came across a bunch of people under a tree in front of the French Embassy. Some of them were cosily tucked in their sleeping bags while others were chatting the hours away. There were banners with slogans reading "Stop nuclear testing Chirac" or something like that. Apparently they were protesters againts the Muruora nuclear testing in the South Pacific.
I had a closer look. There was a guy with a long blonde hair, three shaggy men and a girl with her face peering out of a sleeping bag. They asked me to sign a book. It was a petition aimed at France’s Jaqcue Chirac to stop nuclear testing. I don’t remember which organisation they belonged to but the blonde guy claimed they had quite an extensive network (no, they’re not Greenpeace).
We got acquainted and the tree became my shelter for the night. Jeez… It was bloody freezing.
Anyway my three-day stay in Bratislava was a Bohemian affair, carefree as I went around clubs and restaurants sampling free jazz sessions and traditional melodies. What it lacks in term of history and prestige, it made up with its warmth, cosiness and affordability.
On my final day in Bratislava, I had a conflict of plan… Head for the High Tatras in the middle of Slovakia, Sofia in Bulgaria, Budapest in Hungary or Vienna in Austria.
The plan still unsettled, I decided to stay another day. But I was out of Slovakian currency (Kroners). The money exchanger at the station didn’t accept my 50-Pound bill (They put a limit allowing only up to 15 Pounds for exchange).
On the way to town to change money, another problem came. I was caught without a ticket on the tram!
Two inspectors came asking for tickets. Feigning ignorance, I told them I didn’t have any.
They asked me to show my passport. Big mistake! I was forced to pay a 400 Kroners fine…
The next few hours were spent looking for a money-changer that will accept my 50-Pound bill escorted by the two burly six-footers with the passport in their hands. At a bus-stop, I lost my patience. I tried to grab the passport from them. A kind of Judo and wrestling match ensured as the two pushed and tried to hold me back, one trying to twist my fingers, the other trying to push me up against a wall.
We were about to trade punches when logic took over me… Consider these; the guys were bigger than me, they were the inspectors, I was in their country against… I could escape but without my passport or try to punch the lights out of them escaping with my passport. I might end up being crumpled like a crumpet or turned up being a fugitive and a international criminal… Fuh!
Suffice to say that we made peace and became friends later. But I still had to pay the fine (Hmm… Wonder what happened to the money).
The rest of the day was spent drifting around town aimlessly. After lunch-time, at last I decided where to go… Vienna. With only 20 Pounds left, it was the natural choice.
That afternoon, I walked all the way from Bratislava to Austria. I did really… Honest… To the borders anyway seven kilometres away.
I was greeted with puzzled looks by both motorists queuing for the immigration check-up and the Australian borde guards. Did the thorned-jeans, leather jacket, rucksack and worn-out clothes reminded them of someone else?
Well, Hasta La Vista Brtislava. Kalau ada umur kita jumpa lagi!

Trip to Europe 1995... The ugly side of Prague...

A picture of me somewhere in Vienna. As I've lost many old pictures including those captured in Prague, let me offer this one to grace this story ya...

OK... While I'm still up and running, the saga continues with part 4...

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In Prague, the beautiful fairy-tale-like capital of the Czech Republic, the city’s ugly side reared its head. Lying outside a pizza store one midnight, I tried to sleep when two Czechans came and stopped in front. Noticing the sleeping bag, they told me it’s trouble if the police caught me sleeping on the streets. They offered me a place to stay. The doubt was there but I decided to check the Czech hospitality.
I was led into a maze of rundown apartments to a one-bedroom flat. Two beds were inside, one occupied by a burly guy and a girl, the other vacant. They offered to take care of my rucksack and let me use the other bed. They were kind, much too kind, I smelled rat.
As I tried to sleep, there were sounds of zippers being opened. I tried to ignore it, closing my eyes tightly while breathing slowly and deeply. But I was constantly woken by nightmares of my pocket getting picked. So I just laid down vigil, ears opened, eyes-half closed alert for any monkey business.
When the first light of dawn showed, I rose from the bed and looked for the rucksack. The guys shaken by the sudden action tried to lure me away to no avail. The girl was missing, so that leaves only the three of them in the room. I checked my rucksack. The walkman, camera and loaf of bread was missing (God, they must have been really starved).
I questioned them. They shrugged their shoulders feigning ignorance. One of them threatened me. He said he had a Colt .45 handgun. I went for double bluff. "Where’s the gun?" I asked.
At last they pointed the finger to the girl. After some insistence, one of them offered to lead me to the girl.
We went to a train station. He told me to wait since the girl was in a club. "You stranger no enter club bouncer don’t like" he told me. He gaved me two currency notes, one Romanian the other Yugoslavian (useless since the country broke up years ago) and a small glass bottle he claimed containing liquid drug worth 1,000 Kroners. Then he left me waiting.
As he walked away, it occurred to me, my stuff was gone for good and the gifts were his way of compensating. I remembered the guy’s face when we stopped at a shoe store on the way to the train station. There was longing in his eyes as he stared at the Adidas, Nike and other branded shoes inside. Maybe he needs the money to buy a coveted pair of sneakers? Oh well… I guess those guys needed my things more than I did.
Prague was astounding with its old baroque buildings, cobblestone walkways and bridges crossing river Elbe. A thick smell of history and character emanated from the buildings which survived the ravages of two world wars. It’s like every stone including pebbles on the street have a story to tell.
At night it was even more breathtaking especially around the Old Market Square with its surrounding buildings illuminated by spotlights and antique street lamps, one looking exactly like a Hans Christian Anderson fairy-tale castle. Somehow I can feel the glow of the city, pleasing and dream-like, conjuring memories of old fairy-tales, of castles and palaces, of Camelot and Avalon as I used to read it when I was a kid.
Again amidst the beauty I found ugliness. I remembered joining some Londoners, a mish-mash of Pakistani, Chinese and Italian Englishmen checking the Prague night-scene. All they ever want was girls. And they kept asking me for girls. What am I? The pimp?
These Londoners in chic expensive suits went around thinking Prague, in fact the whole Czech Republic was a cheap sex heaven. To my knowledge, they didn’t get a single girl. Sad gits…
But there was a grain of truth to their expectations. There was this girl who stripped naked at a club we went to in the Old Market Square to the cheers of the crowd, mostly Western Europeans. And it’s not a tiger show parlour for God’s sake!
She had an excellent figure but I was disgusted, not at her but at the naughty eyes and hands surrounding her, mostly of Western Europeans. Why did she do it?
I later found out this was a quite common occurrence. And this kind of behaviour was not confined to Prague.
There was Dobi, a small Czech town near the German border. The girls were dressed to kill as they walked to and fro along the only main road there. Apparently, they were selling their "services" to the Germans who craved for cheap pleasure.
Some of these girls were naturally knock-down dead gorgeus. Why do they have to do this?
It’s like at the Thai border towns where its lasses depended on the relatively richer Malaysians for patronage. I cringe at the thought of long-distance taxi drivers relating their adventures there. "They let me do things my wife wouldn’t let me!" one said once.
I remembered the news reports read in London concerning the spiraling crime rates, theft, murders and prostitution in the capitalist economies, the former Communist bloc countries including the Czech Republic. Was it because of the Communism to Capitalism transition?
The streets of Prague, now invaded by Western market forces with its designer jeans, Mc Donalds and Coca-cola must be a far cry from the days before the Soviet Union went down. But the casualties are the wannabes staring wide-eyed into the shop-windows looking at branded jeans and sneakers that would probably take them half-a-year’s pay to afford.
It’s the same thing in Malaysia. Check it out if you ever walk the back-streets of Chow Kit and its surrounding areas. If you come across muggers and drug-pedallers, gangsters and prostitutes, observe. Most do what they did to support their bright-lights big-city style of living.
And this was probably what’s happening to these Czechs except on a bigger scale. They were suddenly exposed to the blinding light of Western salesmanship after several years living like moles in the Communist era.
I can’t shake the thought of such unfairness. The price for a pair of Levi’s jeans was about forty times the price of a meal consisting of a piece of roast chicken, a portion of mash potatoes and a glass of juice.
The thieves who stole my loaf of bread, the girls in Dobi waiting for German customers and their cash, the spontaneous stripper… They were all victims of a standard that prizes buying power. In the light of the Communism to Capitalism transiton at that time, it was a sad situation.
Prague or Praha as the locals call it, somehow you moved me to tears. How I felt at the time despise for the Western world with its material abundance and arrogance with the Westerners walking cockily drunk on the streets amidst the timid locals as if they own the bloody place.
I left the city after spending only one night there. Prague, I will come here again, hopefully under better circumstances.

Trip to Europe 1995... East-West contrast in Germany

Albums containing pictures from my old trip in Europe... As you can see, I'm not so good at taking care of my things. Maybe because I couldn't care less. But once in a while, I would feel so nostalgic that I start going through piles of old junk just to feel and evoke back the old mood and experience of yore. So there...

Thank God, tonight I managed to complete some work for my other blogspots. While I still got the mood and energy, might as well continue with the story telling on the Europe trip of 1995 here using the writings made in 1997 lock stock and barrel. Here goes... Part 3...

Oh... This part and the continuing stories didn't make the pages of The New Straits Times. When asked why, the editors said the pages were filled and they had to wait for another time.

I did wait but the stories never made it public. My guess is, after the last story which I republished here as the Trip to Europe 1995... Trouble in Amsterdam... received a public scolding by an upset Dutchman in the editorial pages, my travel stories were forced to go to cold storage. Anyway, we still have the Internet. So go on... Read!

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Ouch! My arms… Ouch! My back… Ouch! Ouch! Ouch!
On a cosy spot besides a highway near the Holland-Germany border, I was attacked… By ants, teeny-weeny German ants.
Woken from my slumber, I jumped out of the sleeping bag frantically frisiking under my sweaters for the insects. A few of them were inside but that was not all.
When I opened my rucksack, there they were, hundreds of the little pesky six-legged creatures marauding on my bottle of chocolate spread. Some tougher ones managed to get inside indulging their little tastebuds with the precious choc spread.
The sun was already up and my stomach was calling for breakfast. Not wanting to waste any food, I took a few pieces of bread and dip it into the choc spread, ants and all. Munch… Munch… No more ants (actually, I shaked some of them off, I didn’t want to spoil the taste).
After that episode I soon rose up to see what Germany had to offer.
The first hike of the day was on a gigantic trailer driven by a Dutchman who dropped me near Koblenz, a tourist town famous for its vicinity to the beautiful sections of the river Reine, one of the two major rivers in Europe stretching from the borders of Switzerland and Austria to its estuary in Holland, 1,392 kilometres away.
But I didn’t see the much-touted scenery, in fact I didn’t pay much attention to any of the scenery in Germany, whether at Wiesbaden, Mainz, Frankfurt or Dresden, the four main cities visited while in Germany. Instead I was more concerned about the contrast between East and West resulting from Hitler losing the World War II.
There’s the Mercedes C300 which brought me from Bingen, a town a few miles off Koblenz to Wiesbaden, a city neighbouring Mainz and Frankfurt. The driver, a guy younger than me managed to make enough money to buy the Mercedes. Not bad… He insisted on me to visit his hometown to see how beautiful it was. So I went there.
Classy Wiesbaden with clean streets and regal buildings reflected its affluent society. It was a typical example of rich Germany with rich-looking well-dressed people filling the well-decorated shops.
Then there’s Mainz, a city about five kilometres from Wiesbaden, across the river Rhine. Compared to Wiesbaden, the city looked like a ghetto. As the German guy with the Mercedes described it, "Mainz is a low-class city". Still it was comparatively affluent compared to some.
Frankfurt’s skyline strewn with tall buildings like in Bukit Nenas and Bukit Bintang was impressive. Apart from a few World War II ruins, most of the city were made up of post-war structures.
All three cities displayed signs of western Germany’s affluence. The character of the western Germans themselves were a testimony to that.
I used to think they were uptight, like those soldiers with the famous oversized helmet in Combat walking rigidly with legs raised up to hip-level as depicted in so many Hollywood World War II movies. I also thought that German girls are burly, sturdy built with the statistics of a mental hospital nurse.
But I was wrong, so wrong. The Germans proved to be quite lively people.
Here were also some of the loveliest creatures in Europe. After all Claudia Schiffer is German. And there’s more, even better where that came from. The deep blue eyes, nicely formed nose and the golden blonde hair coupled with the confident gait… Ahh…
However the eastern Germans were a different story. The case study was of inhabitants of Dresden, the largest city in the eastern parts after Berlin.
With my guide Dirk, a guy from Frankfurt (Frankfurter?) I met outside the only McDonald’s in town, the night scene was explored for a closer look at Dresden’s post-Communism life-scene.
The city looked pretty modern with several night-clubs on the northern parts looking set to rival London’s Hippodrome and Equinox or KL’s Modesto’s and Brannigans reflecting the advancement of capitalism seeping in since the Berlin wall broke down. But the sight of the people in the discos were a far cry from the polished exteriors of the buildings.
The teenagers looked quite trendy with their latest-fashion Western-clothings but ackward with a strange vacant look in their eyes as if scared to let themselves go, a bit like shy kids attending a party for the first time. In London or even Frankfurt, they would be totally out of place. In fact the Sri Aman girls and Bukit Bintang boys frequenting Piccadilly’s at Damansara Utama looked far more bolder and livelier than these Germans.
This vacant look was prevalent even during the day as the citizens walk about with serious faces and monotonous expression. The ones with the lively eyes tends to be tourist from Western Europe.
There were times some locals stared at me. Was it because I was not fair enough, my nose was not sharp enough, my eyes not blue or simply because I did not look as timid as they were?
Maybe they were not used to foreigners. There were very few foreigners there. Come to think of it, I was the only one I saw.
There were also a few times when I came across rowdy looking guys staring with that "Watcha doin’ in ma bloody country" kind of look. I stared back. They looked at me with an even meaner look.
I smiled at them. Somehow they backed off, not able to look me straight in the eye. Odd… Was it an offence to smile at strangers? Yet a moment ago they looked ready to spill my guts. Could this be the effects of years of Communism?
Although the era was gone, these guys spent their childhood in it. Maybe self-expression was a major offence under Communism with the Gestapo or KGB waiting to spring on those who dare to be different?
Dresden had its fair amount of opulence. The museums, the opera house and a 15th Century building studded with gargoyles on its rooftop with a road lined up by statues and lamp-post painted in gold did hint at some form of affluence.
But the sight of many cheap-looking flats surrounding the city again betrayed the actual affluence of the city much like the vacant eyes of the teenagers in the nightclubs betrayed their lack of self-expression.
The flats not unlike the Pekeliling flats in front of Dewan Bahasa Pustaka were everywhere. Maybe these were the standard citizen’s accomodation during the Communist era in adherance of the Marxist’ principle citing all people are equal.
Of course the leaders, the generals and the Gestapos would live in better houses. Some people are more equal than others…
I left Dresden thanking God the Domino Theory of the advancement of Communism from Communist Vietnam never did materialised. Imagine every apartment in KL looking like the Pekeliling flats, uggh…

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Footnote: Going back through this story made me realise why the editors at The New Straits Times stopped publishing my travel stories... I was just too opinionated and there were many instances where what was said could offend others... Just take the part about what I said if every apartment in KL looks like Pekeliling flats. Down right snobbish! Then again that's me in 1997. Just take these writings as a journey of discovery of one's own self and leanings which in turn provide the impetus for better changes, God willing! :]

Trip to Europe 1995... Trouble in Amsterdam...

Hardcopies of the writings on my trip to Europe of 1995. The writings were made in 1997 using my then workplace's computer system but was lost when upgrades were made in the Intranet system. Thank God, I rediscovered the hardcopies at a family house in Kajang about a week ago.

Continuing from where we left off at Trip to Europe 1995... The story begins... is a piece on what happened in Holland, particularly in Amsterdam. The editted piece was published in The News Straits but soon enough came a letter to the editorial made by Dutchman who was not happy with the story. The letter which was published in the NST's centrepage blasted my story for potraying Amsterdam as a place of thieves. I guess it's my mistake for highlighting the city's negative side. Then again many Europeans have told me how dangerous Amsterdam really is. Anyway, read the story and judge for yourself... :]

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Again. I lost my guitar again. First I missed the bus with all my things inside. Then someone decided the guitar was worth a few fix.
What’s the big deal? Well, for a start it was an Ovation! (the famous Malay rock band Search used it for their concerts, mind you).
Just when I thought I could have my own "Live in Amsterdam concert" – busking was part of my travel agenda – the guitar was snatched right under my nose. Worse comes to worse, I could have sold it for some bread.
It was partially my fault really. I had been warned about this. I was told about Amsterdam’s reputation as the city with the highest crime rate in Europe. But no… I still treat things as if I was in Kuala Lumpur.
I was sleeping on a table in Niumarket, a market square east of the infamous red-light district after the long bus trip from London. It felt like a king-sized Dunlopillo at the time as I snuggled inside my sleeping bed ignoring the mid-noon heat, and a gruffy Dutchman lying torso bared with red-eyes beside me.
He was mumbling all sorts of rubbish about living on the street as a thief. Maybe he was striking conversation to relieve his angst.
I didn’t care as I dozed off with my rucksack under my head as my pillow and the guitar-strap tied to my body. I was out for the count.
Suddenly, a loud voice shocked me from my slumber. "Wake up, someone stole your guitar!!!"
There was an old guy thugging at my arms. The rucksack was there, so’s the straps. I can’t believe it, where’s the guitar?
I waited for a few minutes. There was a time in London where a homeless guy went off with my guitar and came back to return it. But then this was not London. The Dutchman never came back.
Much later at a police station where I made the report, I was told not to raise my hopes. In Amsterdam, once something is gone, it stays gone…
Anyway, it’s time to move on. I decided to check a coffee shop filled witg gigly funny-looking people (there were plenty of them around). It looked like any normal pub. But the music, an endless mix of rave with its repertoire of electronic sounds was hypnotic, almost pscychedelic.
A waiter handed me a menu. On it was a list of items. Jamaican, Turkish, mixed, weed, black plus some other exotic names. Hmm… Interesting blend of coffees, one might think.
Surprise! Surprise! No one’s talking about coffee but different blends of cannabis!
The bartender looked at me and the rucksack, rolled his joint, and bluntly said: "Keep a watch on your things buddie. This is Amsterdam,"
Yeah… Keep a watch of my things.. I will always remember that. And my guitar was probably somewhere on a boat to Colombia as an exchange for some cannabis!
That night, I walked around the famed red-light district. Several shops with the sign "adults only" greeted me.
Flanking a canal were old shophouses with glass windows and pink night-lights radiating a kind of sexy tinge in the air.
Inside the windows were every schoolboys’ wet dream come true. Girls, lots of girls… Chinese, Siamese, African, European, all clad in their undies dancing along to sexy music like some magic mannequin waiting for prince charming to pay their bread and butter.
They would dance non-stop until it’s time to rest or a customer calls. But that night, they’re just for show…
Sleep was in a sampan moored on one of the canals. No one seemed to mind. I did it for two nights (the sampan I mean).
Touring around Amsterdam on foot, I came across a fountain in the middle of a small round-about near Central Station. The surrounding pavement was filled by people watching street entertainers perform and pigeons scrurrying around for food.
But the main focus was the Damrak, the main street of Amsterdam extending southwards flanked by shopping malls and restaurants. Museums graced the other end including Van Gogh’s in honour of the eccentric painter who puts Holland on the arts map and his ear in an envelope.
I walked along it, sight-seeing and window shopping. Indonesian restaurants seems to appear at every visible corner. Locals cycling on big bulky bikes reminding me of cyclists in Muar, my hometown filled the gap between the cars and the people.
Then there’s the VondelPark, the local Taman Tasik Perdana with its beautiful landscape and twelve statues of Buddha sitting in the familiar lotus position in the middle of a lake.
However unlike Taman Tasik Perdana, the park was full of people high on booze and spliffs and joints enjoying a cool acid jazz concert, certainly a rare sight in Malaysia.
Despite all the attractions, it was time to start my hitchiking journey. But I still hadn’t summoned the guts to flag down any cars or lorries.
Instead I took the coward’s way out. A train to Schipol airport, another to Leiden and then a bus to Den Haag or The Hague. But I still got the best deal – I didn’t pay.
At Den Haag I spent two nights at a friend’s place facing the English Channel. The beach constantly filled with tanned Dutch, men and women, some topless, some as nature intended literally spelled sumer-time Dutch style.
On August 22th, I was finally ready for my first hike. The friend dropped me beside a highway, an ideal place to get a ride. My target was to reach Germany before midnight.
So there I was holding a cardboard marked "To Germany or East?" waving my thumb at every passing motorist.
Two hours later, I was still there with arms getting sore from the exercise. I walked heading east with the cardboard plastered on my rucksack, while waving to all the vehicles along the way.
Five kilometres later, I got my first hike from an Arab in a van all the way to Rotterdam. A good sign, I thought.
The rest of the hike saw me throught the towns of Delft, Dordretch and later Venlo near the border of Germany, before midnight.
As planned, I arrived in Germany, before midnight.
As I closed my eyes, body tucked inside the sleeping bag on a cosy spot in the woods beside the highway, I thought again about my beloved guitar.
Well goodbye guitar, welcome Germany.

Trip to Europe 1995... The story begins...

A copy of the first article I did on my travelling in Europe 1995 as appeared in The New Straits Times, Saturday March 15, 1997. The editor who edited it mentioned that the writer Radzi Sapiee travelled through 9 countries. The truth is it was 11 countries as the editor who saw a sketch of the route forgot to count in Monaco and Liechenstein which are independent countries despite their small sizes...

As promised, a story on my travels in Europe in 1995. The story was made in 1997, in my first year as a journalist with the major Malaysian English daily, The New Straits Times. So forgive the naivity in the language and such... I was still new to writing, being a graduate in Mathematics and at that time eager to impress with what I thought then was a fresh and exciting way of story-telling.

The truth is, what happened during the travel was dark... Very dark as the travelling was made during a period of intense soul-searching. Nevertheless, I managed to jot it down on paper and it did made the pages of a mainstream paper for all to view. So here goes, the actual version as written in 1997, not the version editted and appeared in the paper.

Oh... For information, this piece and the remaining pieces on the travel which covered 11 countries were supposed to make my first book. But I dumped the idea after the whole lot which was stored inside the company's computer Intranet system was lost after some upgrading exercise.

I've forgotten about it for 10 years now until I accidently discovered some hard copies which was actually stored at a family home in Kajang. I take it as a signal that I should at least present it for all to see. Here goes...

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“Europe in 31 days… See the canals of Amsterdam, the fairy tale-like castles of Prague, the beautiful towering alps surrounding Zurich and the rest of Switzerland, the warm mediterranean coast of Genoa and Monte Carlo and the sprawling majestic city of Paris with its Eiffel Tower and Arc de Triumph.”
Ahh… How did that grab me. So there I was going around asking friends on how to travel around Europe, the things to do and other myriad gory details. “Check out the chicks,” the guys said. Yeah, sure…
So how does one prepare for a European tour?
Simple. Get a Eurorail ticket, the cheapest way to travel, they said. Its valid on most trains in Europe for 30 days.
Lodging shouldn’t be a problem either. Cheap youth hostels are available all over the continent or take night-trains and sleep onboard, a friend advised.
Remember to visit the museums, theatres and entertainment venues – EuroDisney, Eiffel Tower and Amsterdam’s many love museums. Check the love-scene too, said one hedonistic friend.
Passports and currencies, etc.?
Get visas where required (call the embassies) or Schengen visa from the French consulate covering entries to most countries.
Do get some currencies too - Holland’s Guilders, German’ Deustchmark and France’s Franc – and travellers cheque, normally Thomas Cook cheques in US Dollars.
Maps, traveller’s guides and bilingual dictionaries in the main languages – English, French, Italian and German – are also a must especially for those looking for company.
And then, there’s the rough and tough jeanswear, travelling boots and a backpack along with clean underwears and a ton of deoderant. You’ll need it.
There, its bon voyage time.
“Wait a minute, what’s the cost,” I asked a friend.
“Not much. A Eurorail ticket cost 245 Pounds (about RM900). One night in youth-hostel cost at least six Pounds (roughly RM25). So’s the food per day,” she replied.
“What about tickets to Eiffel Tower, the Louvre and classical concerts in Prague?” I pestered her.
“Not to worry, 700 Pounds (about RM3000) should cover most expenses and provide a fulfilling trip. That should be affordable,” she assured me.
“Uh… Em… Er… 700 Pounds. OK, should be peanuts,” I answered.
Yeah… Sure… Some peanuts. I only had 150 Pounds in my accounts… Time to get another advice.
“Joe, can I tour Europe with 150 Pounds?” I asked another.
“Sure, go to Amsterdam or Paris, you can spend three days there and enjoy yourself with that much money,” he replied.
“But I don’t want to see just one or two cities, I want to visit at least ten countries in at least 30 days,” I said. “How then?”
“Uh… Em… Er… Work for a few more weeks and save money or get some from your dad,” was the wise advice. Not exactly a solution. I don’t have much time. My London to Malaysia flight was due in 6 weeks time. Dad wouldn’t give me money either.
After a few nights of brainstroming, I arrived at a solution.
This was what I did:-
(a) Sold the old Samsung microwave to an Iranian friend for 30 Pounds.
(b) Bought a 50 Pounds Euroline round-trip London-Amsterdam bus ticket, the cheapest to Europe avaiable.
(c) Get the arsenals; a rucksack, sleeping bag, clothings and towel, guitar, cheap camera, some guts and a thick-face.
The travelling plan was:-
(i) Go to Amsterdam.
(ii) From there, hitchike, clockwise through as many countries as possible before returning to Amsterdam.
(iii) Go back to London.
Sleep? Any place, with a sleeping bag.
References? Any bookshop and petrol station would do.
The guitar would be handy for company or busking (= extra money) or if worse comes to worst can be sold (= more extra money but that’s it. It’s only for one shot).
The 130 Pounds left will cover the meals plus any contigencies. Piece of cake isn’t it? Not exactly… Once, I was thrown in a lock-up in Lyon for no apparent reason. More than once, some gangsters tried to mug me. So’s the thieves who tried to reap my things.
First morning in Europe and I got stripped of my travelling gears! The rucksack, sleeping bag and the guitar; the mobile home and accessories, vanished, kaput, nyilek!
It was at a rest area on the outskirts of Breda, Holland. The bus made a pitstop on the way to Amsterdam.
Breakfast at a restaurant nearby and a visit to the toilet and the bus was gone! What’s left was an empty spot between a tree and a red car in front where the bus was on.
So much for the travel plan. At least the passport, bus return ticket, wallet and cash was on me.
But how was I to conclude my travel without the mobile home and accessories? The only solution was to catch the bus or check the things at the next station. Either way it means getting to Amsterdam as soon as possible. But how?
Then I realised other Euroline buses were around. I approached one. Luckily the driver let me on the bus heading for Amsterdam.
I sat beside the driver’s seat facing the back with thoughts fixed on the guitar and the rucksack. Will I see it again?
Three hours later, we arrived in Amstel, Amsterdam. No other London-Amsterdam bus was there.
I looked around walking to and fro in front of the station watching and scanning the surroundings. Where was the bus? No sign of my belongings at the Euroline office either.
Despair was setting in… Suddenly came a bus with some familiar faces onboard. They recognised me too. Some waved their hands frantically asking where had I been. What a relief!
It was ironic. I departed twenty minutes later, arrived twenty minutes earlier… And recovered my belongings too!
Well. Let’s see what Amsterdam has to offer…

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Next... The thieves at Amsterdam or something like it. Coming soon... :]

Another Perak trip... A one day trip made in December 2006

And to close the current session of writing for the day, let me let out a simple pictorial story of a one-day trip to Perak made on December 8th 2006...

The trip was intended to be made up to Tanjung Malim, the town at the border of the states of Perak and Selangor. We stopped at Kuala Kubu Baru in Selangor on the way...

Another view of Kuala Kubu Baru...

We stopped at a food-stall for launch. It happened that there's free wi-fi Internet signal there. So I decided to check out what's on the World Wide Web.

Oh... While in Kuala Kubu Baru, we also visited an old mosque there. Click Masjid (mosque of) Ampang Pecah for the story...

I can't remember where this is. We are heading for Tanjung Malim when I saw this mosque not far from the main road and asked Zaidi to turn the car back so I could snap this picture...

Oh... It's in Kerling wherever that is... At least that's what is inscribed in Jawi writings on the walls...

Soon enough we arrived in Tanjung Malim. The main reason I asked Zaidi to join me there is to visit an old mosque which is actually situated across the border in the Selangor side. The story has been told in Masjid Sheikh Ismail di Ulu Bernama (The mosque of Sheikh Ismail in Ulu Bernam) .

Then I felt that we should go on further into Perak... Next stop is Sungkai. Zaidi snapped the picture above with the main range Banjaran Titiwangsa in the background as we were about to leave Tanjung Malim...

At Sungkai, we stopped at the old mosque for Maghrib prayers... The inscription says the mosque was built in 1933...

A view inside the Sungkai old mosque...

We tried to catch the picture from outside but Zaidi's budget video-camera needs more light to catch better pictures...

At least we managed to record this inscription saying how the mosque was used as a meeting place for some Malay nationalists to organise an effort to ask for the independence of Malaysia, then known as Tanah Melayu, the Malay lands...

We decide to press further into Perak and head for Teluk Intan. For dinner, we stopped at this old Malay house in Bidor which has been turned into a restaurant...

The leaning clock tower of Teluk Intan. This picture is taken the next day, after spending the night at the old mosque of Batak Rabit... For a story on the mosque, click Masjid lama Batak Rabit (The old mosque of Batak Rabit)...

While going around in Teluk Intan, we found this curious looking picture which looks like a Malay nobleman worshipped at a Chinese temple...

Nearby that temple, we found pictures of these 'elders' worshipped by a Chinese family. But that's beside the point...

This particular trip to Perak was intended to be made just up to Tanjung Malim, about 70km away from Kuala Lumpur but we ended up in Teluk Intan some 100km further.

Anyway that wraps up this current session of writing. God willing, after this, I will feature my old writings on a hitchiking trip made in Europe in 1995. Cheers! :]

Perak trip of September 2006... A look at the tombs...

These are some of the tombs visited in the Perak trip made on 12-15 September 2006...

Tomb of Toh Puan Halimah, daughter of Laksamana Raja Mahkota Muhammad Amin beside the old Malay mosque in Taiping. She was married to the well-known 19th Century Malay figure Ngah Ibrahim...

The tomb of Daeng Kuning in Taiping...

Daeng Kuning is said to be the grandfather (or was it great grandfather) of Mahaguru Meor Abdul Rahman, the late founder of the martial art's group of Silat Gayong...

The tomb said to be of Datuk Sagor, one of the Malay warriors implicated in the murder of the British resident to Perak J.W.W. Birch in 1875. This tomb is also located in Taiping...

The old graveyard at Kamunting in Taiping...

A grave hidden among the bushes there...

This piece of tombstone now stucked under tree-roots should give some idea on how old are the graves here...

I was in Kamunting with some friends to look for the tomb of a local legendary figure known as Bidan Susu Lanjut. Suffice to say, after an hour searching or so, we found it but can't disclose it's actual location because of certain reasons...

The tomb of Tok Temong, a legendary female leader of 16th Century Perak, one of the tombs that must be visited by Perak rulers upon their installation up the throne...

The tombstone of Tok Temong which is an Aceh-type tombstone...

The tomb of another legendary Perak figure, Daeng Selili at Kampung Padang Changkat, Kuala Kangsar...

I don't know who was buried here but this tomb outside Masjid (mosque) of Kota Lama Kanan, Kuala Kangsar must belong to someone of significance and noble birth too. The end! :]

Perak trip of September 2006: Around the royal town of Kuala Kangsar

Continuing straight from where we left off...

I spend the night besides the tombstone inside Masjid (mosque of) Kota Lama Kanan some 3 km or so across the Perak river from the town of Kuala Kangsar...

In the mosque's compound are many old graves and this old cannon...

Here is a look at the mosque...

And a last look at the tombstone inside before starting the day's journey. For information the tombstone is erected inside the mosque to mark the spot where Sultan Mansur Shah, the second ruler of Perak who lived in the 17th Century was said to have vanished without a thrace after conducting the Jumaat prayer there...

I walked out from the mosque heading back towards Kuala Kangsar and snapped pictures along the way...

Then it's time to get on the Sultan Abdul Jalil bridge...

The bridge seen from the sides...

And Bukit Chandan seen from the bridge...

After getting across, I came across this quite interesting old Malay building at the Jalan Daeng Selili/ Sultan Abdul Jalil bridge junction...

I head for the town centre and saw the burial site reserved for the family of Temenggong Wan Hassan, a Perak noblemen of 19th Century or so...

Took this picture of the intersection between Jalan Maharajalela and Jalan Laksamana named after two noble titles of Perak... I found it fascinating as I know for a fact that the first Maharajalela who is Daeng Selili and the first Laksamana who is Raja Mahkota Nakhoda Hitam (both lived during the time of Sultan Muzaffar Shah III, the 13th ruler of Perak sometime in the 18th Century) are actually brothers, a fact that very few people know or care to know...

A jetty off the Perak river...

Then I saw this interesting mosque across the river. The story has been told in Masjid (mosque of) Sayong, Kuala Kangsar ...

A view of Sultan Abdul Jalil bridge...

Staircase leading to a bridge across one of the tributaries of Perak river...

View from a jetty...

And this... This is my way of telling enough of this particular story... On to another one... :]