Gunung Semanggol... The threat from the mountains

Continuing from where we left off... From Taiping arriving at Gunung Semanggol...

The small town of Gunung Semanggol lies at a junction heading for Bukit Merah which is quite famous for its big lake and an amusement park. Gunung Semanggol on the other hand is probably well-known only to those who read history voraciously especially on subjects related to the resurgence of Islamicic movements against the British colonisation of the Malay Archipelago...

The first time I went to Gunung Semanggol was about a year or two ago... To find the original location of an old house which has been relocated to Janda Baik, Bentong, Pahang. Click Rumah lama Perak di Janda Baik (An old Perak house in Janda Baik) for the story.

Prior to that my knowledge of Gunung Semanggol was that it used to be quite a prominent place for people who wants to deepen their Islamic knowledge. The idea I got was the place holds some esotoric secret knowledge based on the deeper and more spiritual aspects of Islam.

The name which could be translated as the mountain of (gunung) Semanggol itself sounded rather mystical... Although I've heard about it more than 20 years ago and since then I've passed it a few times while going from Taiping to Parit Buntar and vice versa, it's only quite recently I actually stopped there and try to find out what's all the fuss about...

A view of parts of Gunung Semanggol from a restaurant I stopped by at. Notice my travelling gear which includes a 'promotion kit' for my "Berpetualang ke Aceh" (literally translated as "The trip to Aceh") book series?

As I've said earlier, I first stopped here a year or two ago to find the original location of a certain old house and dig it's history and significance. That's when I found out there's a prominent and very famous (among those interested that is) religious school called Ma'ahad Ihya Il Sharif!

I stopped by at the main mosque... Got the time to hang my book series poster. God willing, a pictorial story on the mosque will be written for the bi-lingual blogspot SENI LAMA MELAYU (MALAY OLDEN ART) later.

Back to Maahad Ihya Il Sharif. I don't remember when it was established but it has been around at least since early 20th Century. The story goes that the school saw the first official grouping and meetings of Malay nationalists fighting for the independence of Malaysia (then known as Federation of the Malay states or something like that), even earlier than the meetings against the British-invented concept of Malay Union which resulted in the creation of the Malay political party UMNO in 1946.

The problem is the nationalists which gathered at Gunung Semanggol were staunch Muslims, the kind that were later officially announced by the powers-that be as being related ( I believed allegedly) to a certain opposition party. Yes, the meeting did give some people the impetus to create a pro-Islamic party which has been labelled as anti-development but I do believe the people who lighted up the fire of independence there where not into partisan politics. They were just decent Muslims who were tired of the country being run by infidels...

Nevertheless, the confidence they inspired made certain parties worry especially the British. And so the people who converged in Gunung Semanggol to fight for the rights of the Malay (mind you, being a Malay MUST MEAN you are a Muslim, if you actually know what Malay stands for) were labelled by the British as the threat from the mountains (as in gunung). The propaganda machines painted them in unflattering ways as if they were communists trying to create hell for the people.

Anyway, it's time to leave Gunung Semanggol...

This is the actual hills known as Gunung Semanggol. Not tall enough to be regarded as mountains... Nevertheless, there's an ominous presence which says there's more than meets the eye... Just like the name Gunung Semanggol seems to reverberate through my being everytime I think of it...

While on the bus to Taiping, I tried to snap as many scenic pictures as possible using my cheap digital camera which doesn't register too well on bumpy rides...

Nevertheless I tried even though the result were 'wavy' pictures like this... Perhaps this picture could denote the fact that life is just like a dream? Que sera sera... Next story please!

From Kedah to Perak... The show must go on!

Greeting dear readers. Tonight, the 11th night of the Muslim fasting month of Ramadhan I feel like continuing the story on my last long travel made over 2 months ago covering the states of Pahang, Kelantan, Kedah, Perak and Selangor.

In my last posting here on the subject (titled A typical day in Alor Setar? ) I talked about having a quite day at the Kedah capital. The story-telling was continued with Jalan-jalan (walkabout in) Sungai Petani... in the blogspot SENI LAMA MELAYU (MALAY OLDEN ART) before ending the session in Malay with a piece called Kuala Ketil, Mastura dan Char Koew Teow... in the blogspot CATATAN SI MERAH SILU . So let us continue from where we left off... In the town of Kulim, Kedah.

After spending the night in Kulim, it's time to move on. Earlier, I've spent 4 nights in Pahang and 5 nights in Kelantan. It's only in Sungai Petani the previous night that I noticed the number of nights spent at the respective states.... When circumstances like missing the last bus for the day (plus the fact that I was so damn tired) forced me to stay a night there after spending 2 in Alor Setar and a night each in Sikh and Baling. Otherwise I couldn't care less as I wasn't counting time. I was just travelling and stopping wherever and whenever I felt like it, that's all.

Now, having noticed the numbers, I felt obliged to follow a certain order. After all, I do have a fetish for numbers. So naturally, to follow the progression I should spend 6 nights in Kedah and the night in Kulim was the 6th. So it's time to head for the next state Perak.

Above is a picture taken the previous day at the bus station in Kulim. The friend who hosted me for the night sent me there the following morning. I intend to take the bus to Parit Buntar, the closest town in Perak but there's few direct service to the town from Kulim... Instead I took a bus which ends at another place... A bus which arrived earlier than the one to Parit Buntar.

So there I was at the small town of Serdang which lies on an alternative route to Parit Buntar. On the way I passed through the district of Selama and learned you can go to Lenggong, Perak from there. All this while I only knew the Kuala Kangsar route to Lenggong which lies on the way from Perak to Kelantan.

Here in Serdang I missed the bus to Parit Buntar twice, once because I was in the toilet, the second time because I decided to have lunch at a foodstall nearby. Luckily there's regular service heading to the Perak town every half an hour. So on to the next picture...

At last I arrived in Parit Buntar. And at last I am in Perak, the state where my father was born in.

There, a look at the bus I was on. That's when I realised why circumstances made me took the route through Serdang... It was the first time ever I moved from Kedah to Perak or vice versa without going through Seberang Perai which is a district in the state of Pulau Pinang. Otherwise I might have to burst the bubble on my plan to follow a progression of nights spent at each succesive states.... Having spent 4 nights in Pahang, 5 in Kelantan and 6 in Kedah, I must spend 7 nights in the next state and it's just too much time to be spent on such a small state like Pulau Pinang... No offence to the locals ya...

Besides, if I do spend 7 nights there, then I must spend 8 nights in Perak, that is if I were to stick to the progression of numbers. As it is, my girlfriends in Kuala Lumpur where already complaining that I spent too much time on travel when they needed me to be around. And before embarking on this session of travelling, I told them I was planning to be on the road for just only a week...

Now, I intend to head for the royal town of Kuala Kangsar. Naturally, for someone who refuses to use express buses (at least for certain trips and sessions of travelling) the next step is to take the bus to Taiping first... And there's a destination in between which I felt obliged to visit.

There... The destination I must stop at between Taiping and Parit Buntar. The name is Gunung Semanggol and it carries certain reverberations and significance for those who know why...

A thought on the Crusade War

Dear readers, today I was going through the Internet to find some pictures and articles related to the Crusades, Jerusalem, the Freemason movements, the Illuminati and the Zionist movement... Came the urge to make a quick post using one of the pictures... Here it is.

Hmm... Maybe I could copy and paste something and then make a quick comment... Let me search first... OK here is something on Jerusalem from Wikipaedia...

Jerusalem (Hebrew: יְרוּשָׁלַיִם (help·info), Yerushaláyim; Arabic: القُدس (help·info), al-Quds)[ii] is the capital and largest city of Israel[2] in both population and area,[3] with 732,100 residents in an area of 126 square kilometers (49 sq mi).[1] Located in the Judean Mountains, between the Mediterranean Sea and the northern tip of the Dead Sea, the city has a history that goes back as far as the 4th millennium BCE, making it one of the oldest cities in the world.[4] Jerusalem has been the holiest city in Judaism and the spiritual center of the Jewish people since the 10th century BCE.[5] The city contains a number of significant ancient Christian sites and is considered the third-holiest city in Islam.[6]
The walled area of Jerusalem, which constituted the entire city until the 1860s, is now called the Old City, and was added to the List of World Heritage Sites in danger in 1982.[7] The Old City has been traditionally divided into four quarters, although the names used today—the Armenian, Christian, Jewish, and Muslim Quarters—were only introduced in the early 19th century.[8] Despite having an area of only 0.9 square kilometer (0.35 square mile),[9] the Old City is home to several sites of key religious importance: the Temple Mount and its Western Wall for Jews, the Church of the Holy Sepulchre for Christians, and the Dome of the Rock and al-Aqsa Mosque for Muslims.
Modern Jerusalem has grown up around the Old City, with its civic and cultural hub extending westward toward Israel's urban center in Gush Dan. The Arab population resides in clusters in the North, East and South. Today, Jerusalem remains a bone of contention in the Israeli-Palestinian conflict: Israel's annexation of East Jerusalem (captured in the 1967 Six-Day War) has been particularly controversial, as Palestinians view this part of the city as the capital of a potential Palestinian state.[10][11] The status of a "united Jerusalem" as Israel's "eternal capital"[12][13] has not been officially recognized by most of the international community, and nearly all countries maintain their embassies in Tel Aviv.[14]

Now my take on this... The explanation from Wikipaedia is pretty fair... But I feel maybe it is slightly slanted towards the view maintained by the Jews... Eh, but that is another story. Just for a quick say on the crusades since I made these posting just for the heck of it... Actually no... I made it because I was editting parts of my third book "Berpetualang ke Aceh: Sirih pulang ke Gagang?" (translated as "The trip to Aceh: Return back to the nest?" or something like that) or BKA III and there came a part on the Crusades...

Well what the heck... Let me just voice my mind. According to the Western slanted view, the Crusades happened because they wanted to 'free' Jerusalem from the Muslims... Me as a Muslim on the other hand would like to maintain, it is the Muslims who freed Jerusalem from the iron-grip of the Byzantium Empire and then allowed people from all persuasions and faith to reside in Jerusalem.

God... I can't properly express my thoughts now... It's just something tells me something is brewing in the Middle East which will see something else of Biblical proportions coming soon. OK I think that's it. Cheers! :]

A typical day in Alor Setar?

Greetings dear readers... This is my first posting at any of my blogspots for the current fasting month of Ramadhan which started two days ago... Just feel like sharing some pictures taken during my trip covering Pahang, Kelantan, Kedah, Perak and Selangor made more than 2 months ago...

These pictures were taken on 18th July 2007 after my first night in Alor Setar for that trip (I've been there a few time mind you)... You could say the story here continues from the Malay one made for the CATATAN SI MERAH SILU blogspot under the title Sekitar Alor Setar terutama di Langgar... written last month... Or you can say it relates to the story Alor Setar at last! made in this blogspot early August. Here goes...

This particular story starts after waking up at a cheap hotel above a Chinese restaurant in the capital of Kedah... See the mess here? That's what happens after one got so tired being on the road since the last 2 weeks...

I woke up and head for the verandah and decide to take some pictures... Facing my right is this view of Alor Setar...

This is the view facing direct ahead...

And this is to the left, a private university... Then I notice something I could use...

Upon closer scrutiny, I'm convinced there is a strategic point for something... I immediately rushed down...

There.... See it? What I saw was a nice place to hang the promotional poster for the "Berpetualang ke Aceh" book series, hehe! :]

That done, I took a shower and started looking out for breakfast... Saw this nice stall which serves rice porridge... Turn out to be quite something so I had two bowls of it...

A view of Alor Setar from the stall I was sitting...

Then I walked to Pekan Rabu and meandered at the bus stop there...

There... A typical sight when a bus arrives... So is this a typical day in Alor Setar? Hehe! :]

Trip to Europe 1995... Walking 50km in Paris before closing the trip in Brussels...

Me posing far in front of a very recognisable monument in Europe...

OK... Today is September 11, a very famous date because of a disaster which happened in New York exactly 6 years ago... The day after tomorrow Muslims (at least in Malaysia) will start fasting for the month of Ramadhan... So let me use this date to make a posting which will close the on-going session of stories made in 1997 based on a hitchiking trip in Europe of 1995... Here is part 10 and the last... Enjoy it... Cheers! :]

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“When in Paris, don’t forget to see the Eiffel Tower, the Arch De Triumph, the Louvre and shop at the Champ Elysees,” a friend advised when I said I was going to include Paris in my travel around Europe. I did heed the advise, yes I did but in a manner that only a tourist with two Francs in the pocket can do.

Imagine if you were a stranger coming to Kuala Lumpur for the first time with only RM2 in your pocket. You don’t know the people. And you’ve lost the phone numbers and addresses of the ones you knew. What to do? At least with RM2, you can get three trips on the minibuses or two trips on the Intrakota. In Paris, the two Francs wouldn’t cover even the cheapest bus trip!

What would you do if you were in my shoes… In a country where the people refuse to speak or simply don’t know the language you spoke be it English or Bahasa Malaysia? Check the nearest Malaysian Embassy?

Actually I did think of that. Problem was I didn’t know where it was and wherever it was, it usually has to be somewhere in the city centre, quite a distance from where I was.

You see, I was dropped more than 25 kilometres outside of central Paris. I was lucky enough to get a lift in the morning from a nice middle-aged French lady who took me from Lyon driving 448 kilometres all the way towards Paris. The problem was she was going somewhere else. So I had to get off at Evry on the outskirts of Paris... A bit like being dropped in Kajang when you actually want to get to Puduraya.

As it turned out, this was the start of a walk covering a distance of fifty kilometres in two days. I had no choice!

So there I was walking alone with the heavy backpack trying to get to Paris, the capital of France where many rich Malaysians travel around in rented limousines or luxury coaches. It soon started to rain… I took shelter at an office at a construction site off the highway.

Next was at Ris-Orangis near the river Seine where my last Francs (French currency) was spent for a bottle of cola and three loafs of baguette. After my tea cum lunch, I went northwards passing Orly airport, two kilometres of the distance spent walking underground beneath the runways.

Whenever there’s buses and cars heading to central Paris, I posed a sympathetic look at the drivers, hoping to get a lift. But people rarely give strangers lift on their cars in the city, in fact in any city. Common sense soon told me it’s better to just keep on walking…

Paris had an extensive network of underground train. In London, I used to slip through security barriers at the train stations easily avoiding the train fare but it was a lot tougher in Paris. Each entry point was secured by a turnstile and a steel barrier that only opens when you insert the ticket into the receiver. There were also staffs hanging about watching the flow of customers getting in and out the train platforms not to mention the security cameras observing every nooks and crannies.

I was tempted to take the risk to go through the barriers and hop on a train relieving me the torture of walking for miles and miles. But the thought of the time spent in a police lock-up in Lyon two days before plus the fact that my name was probably in the police list advised against this.

What can I say… It’s walk, walk and walk again. By the time the sun sets (it was after 9pm, after all it was summer!), I was at … (sorry, couldn’t catch the name of the place as the hardcopy for this story had a cigarette burn hole at this point), a few more kilometres to go to Paris. I stopped there for a short nap on a bench.

An hour later I arrived at Port D’ Italie on the fringe of the city of Paris. The entrance of a botanical garden nearby became the sleeping spot for the night…

Paris on foot was not a bad idea. From Port D’ Italie, I went pass Les Gobelins and Port Royal to Jardin Luxembourg where the Palais de Luxembourg lies, a palace which was once a prison for politicians and writers during the French Revolution. This was where Georges Danton, one of the founders of Republique of France was detained before he lost his head to the guillotine (the authentic French head-cutting machine).

From the palace, I walked across the river Seine to an island where the Palais de Justice, the local high court is situated. It was not far from the world-famous Louvre which houses some priceless paintings including some by world-famous turtles – Leonardo, Michelangelo, Donatello and Raphael. But I contented myself with just posing among the monuments and gardens surrounding the Louvre.

There was also the Grand Palais and the Petite Palais (big palace and small palace. Now that’s two too much palaces in Paris, isn’t it?).I also went to the Eiffel Tower, a must-go place for all tourists to Paris. My brief sojourn was spent under the Eiffel Tower right in the middle between the four main pillars of the structure.

Then there was the Trocadero, a square with cannon fountains, the Arch de Triumph, a world-famous archway and the Champ Elysees, the city’s main shopping street with its restaurants, boutiques and departmental stores ready to suck the tourists out of their hard-earned cash.

I concluded my tour of Paris at the Monmarte, the district known for its artistic population as I passed through a gathering of philatelist exchanging stamps on the benches in front of a park nearby the famous Marie Du Nord church with its erotic pointed towers. At a patrol station off St Denis, fifteen kilometres out of Paris, I got a lift from a Parissian heading for Denmark. That brought me to Brussels, capital of Belgium where Van Damme and his stupid accent was spawned.

By this time, I was running out of steam. The original plan was to get back to Amsterdam where I first started out my European tour. But I was tired, so tired… And I had totally ran out of food and money.

Brussels was also known for its chocolates, Belgian chocolates… My favourite since I discovered Thornton’s ( a chocolate brand) in London. But I can only look at those little creamy pieces and dream at the pleasure it has to offer… Arrgghh!!

So that night, 17th September 1995, using my crumpled London-Amsterdam round-trip ticket, I took a bus back to London ending 31 days of walking and hitchiking through eleven countries on 180 Pounds (Actually 130 Pounds as 50 was spent for the London-Amsterdam round-trip bus ticket).

I was glad to finish this journey. Travelling over 4,000 kilometres on the road on several different vehicles and 200 kilometres on foot was trying physically but satisfying mentally and spiritually. So was sleeping at various different God-forsaken places.

It was a lesson in survival, people skills and how to deal with danger and diffuse hostile situations. It gave me a bit of understanding of different ways of life, of why things are the way they are… Everybody whether thieves, muggers, prostitutes or executives, bankers and models can teach you something about life.

Thank you everybody for enriching my life. Adios…

Trip to Europe 1995... Locked-up in Lyon!

Me again looking most unkempt, somewhere off the southern mountains of France. That's what you get after a few days staying unwashed and sleeping on the streets...

And to complete today's streak of postings, part 9 of the European trip of 1995. Part 10 which is the last will appear whenever I feel like it. Cheers! :]

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Guess what… I was thrown into a lock-up in a police station in Lyon, the second largest city in France, Some gits thought I might be a Muslim terrorist hell-bent on bombing the city down!

It all started when three Frenchman gave me a lift in their car from Grenoble to Lyon. They dropped me at the city centre near a bridge crossing a river where a tunnel lies ahead burrowing through the hill that divided Lyon into its eastern and western parts.

Not wanting to climb the stairs up the hills, I walked through the tunnel. Big mistake! After walking for about a kilometre, a police car pulled beside me. Out came three French policemen asking me questions in French. They asked for my passport. My visa had expired! And on top of that, my first name is Mohamad, a Muslim name which immediately aroused their suspicions.

It was bombing season in Lyon and Paris, a time when religious fanatics mostly Algerians blow bombs all over the cities (at least that’s what the French claimed). They took me with them citing national security as the reason… Huh?

During the trip to the police station, the policemen at first tried to intimidate me by shouting questions (more like abuses) at me. The one that sat with me in the backseat looked quite eager to beat up somebody judging by the way he was tapping his baton.

At the station I was asked to sit next to a couple of men, most of them Middle-Eastern looking, some speaking in French, some in Arabic. One was handcuffed behind. Another man handcuffed on the front was moving his hands up and down, left and right quickly making the signs of a cross. He looked scared, his mouth uttering something repetitively, maybe a prayer…

I tried to reason with the officers to let me go but none of them understood me. Instead I was ushered into a room where I had to strip my clothings leaving me naked with the pong of several days of unwashed clothes and unwashed body smell spreading into the air.

My belongings were turned upside down as they searched for God knows what. I remembered the police cataloguing my goods which included a loaf of bread, bottle of tap water, a London-Kuala Lumpur flight ticket, two Francs and an assortment of coins in different currencies. Altogether, whatever money I was left with was equivalent to about two Pounds (RM 8) at the most.

Then I saw a sight which made my heartbeat race… One policeman put on a pair of rubber gloves… Oh… Oh,,, Déjà vu… I’ve seen this in the movies. They use gloves to look for items hidden in certain cracks and crevices… Oh no!

And he put his fingers up a crevice… Ouch! Of my jeans and jacket. Phew! Thank God for sparing me the torture…

I was allowed to wear my jeans and t-shirt and then I was put in a cell. Inside the locked room with glass windows I tried to get to sleep. But the room was chilly and I had only a layer of clothes. Coupled with the screaming and singing of other inmates, it was impossible to get a wink.

As time passed, I became restless and started banging the glass window. The guard shouted at me telling me to shut up (in French, le shut up monsieur or something like that…). I went on drumming some beats at the glass while singing doggerels and wailing the blues.

Later, I felt my kidneys straining. I banged the glass hard for attention for someone to let me go to the toilet. Again the stupid guard couldn’t understand me.

I pissed across the room. That the guard understood.

He banged on the glass asking me to stop but I continued letting out all the unnecessary fluid out of me, ignoring the angry guard.

In the morning , two policemen came in, one looking exactly like Freddie Mercury of the pop rock group The Queens! I was handcuffed and led into a room where a superior officer was waiting with a language translator behind him.

Although it was terrible to be detained by the police in a foreign country, I was confident nothing will go wrong. Sure, my visa had expired but two weeks earlier, an agreement allowing Malaysians to enter France without visa was enforced. It was in the New Straits Times (read in Malaysia Hall, London).

Through the translator, I asked the officer to contact the Malaysian embassy explaining to him Malaysians do not need to have a visa to enter France anymore. He refused… I asked him to call the French consulate. He refused again…

“Call your bloody consulate and ask them to verify my claim,” I said. After some deliberations, he did that.

I saw a kind of blush on his face, like that of someone who have just made a mistake. But despite that, he didn’t even tried to say sorry, all in the name of national security huh?

As I collected my things making sure everything was there, some policemen shouted at me asking me to get out fast. We exchanged verbal abuses as I made my way out of the station.

Not only did they not apologise for detaining me, they didn’t return my bottle of tap water and shooed me away!s Then I had to walk three kilometres to get to the city centre from the police station.

Lyon was actually a beautiful city but the way the policemen treated me left a bitter impression on me. Maybe I came to Lyon at the wrong hour. Maybe I should have spent more time at the small French towns that I came across between Nice and Lyon.

Puget Theinier in the French Pyrenes was one. Athough the town was no more than four blocks big, it can calm the most restless spirit. The sight of the locals especially elders playing Payton, a game like playing marbles but with black iron balls the size of lightbulbs somehow stirred the romantic bones in me.

Then there was Entrevaux, a town sandwiched between two hills with a river rapid cutting and curving across. The ancient town was walled with windows dotted on it meant for sentries and archers of old to observe enemies from outside.

High on the cliffs was a chateau, looking down the town observing every activity there. The ancient façade reminded me of movies about medieval times where peasants walked the cobbled streets while the ruler up in the chateau chanted magic mantras conjuring demons out of the deepest parts of hell.

Sisteron was another walled citadel town but with most of the ancient walls torned down. I spent the night there under an ancient bridge on a slope with my feet pushing against a tree, body balanced on a flat rock with a lake waiting to engulf me 10 metres below. A heavy rain soon forced me to sleep inside a road tunnel ignoring the vehicles passing to and fro just a 2-3 metres from my head...

I also remembered the villages of Laragne and Eyquaine where I walked for miles occasionally plucking the apples that grew in the orchards along the way to appease my growling stomach. Grenoble, the main city in the French Alps surrounded by hills and small mountains with the looming presence of the highest section of the Alps including Mont Blanc, the highest mountain in Europe just overlooking the city was also a better place to visit than Lyon.

Any of these places were better than the lock-up in Lyon. Well, what’s done is done. Time to move on…

Trip to Europe 1995... Gangsters of Genoa...

A very shaggy-looking me posing in front of the replica of Columbus's ship in Genoa, Italy, after a night laden with thieves trying to "skin-off" people...

And without further ado, part 8...

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“To go or not to go, that is the question…”
Here on the highway at the outskirts of Milan, I was confronted with a conflict of choice. Shall I go visit the city, head for Rome or make my way to Genoa?
Hitchiking was never easy. At times, a lift is swift, at other times it took a whole day and night, And not all cars that stopped will take you to your destination.
After some thought, I decided to head for Genoa. With only 20 Pounds left and two weeks to go – I have to get back to London to catch the flight back to Malaysia – it was the natural choice.
But Genoa proved to be too dangerous for me. First there were gangsters trying to bully me…
I was walking in front of a row of shophouses when a group of middle-eastern youngsters followed from behind. One tried to kick my legs. I swerved aside. Then he showed me some Kung Fu moves…
“You do Kung Fu?” he asked.
I just smiled and maintained my pace. A few minutes later, they left me alone.
Are you wondering what’s happening here? Well, what they tried to do was to intimidate me. It’s an old street tactic. When you want to mug someone, you got to size him up, see whether you can beat him easily or not.
They can’t figure me out so they might as well not take the chance.
Again that night, there was trouble…
I tried to sleep on a bench in front of the main train station. There were suspicious-looking Arab youngsters hanging around.
Once, I closed my eyes trying to catch a wink but was immediately woken up by vibrations coming from the rucksack used as a pillow. Right enough, on the next bench were two youngsters pretending to tie their shoes. And the rucksack’s zippers were half-open. Hmm…
I stared at the two. They smiled at me trying to feign innocence and later moved away to join their friends on another bench.
Shifting the rucksack to make sure the zippers faced the top, I snuggled back into the sleeping bag. But a guy sleeping on another bench was not so lucky. He was lying face down obviously out for the count. One of the Arabs picked out the guy’s wallet. He saw me and grinned. I ignored him and tried to get back to sleep. But I can’t, not under the scrutiny of those thieves.
As the night goes on, it became harder and harder to stay awake. And I was sure they would strip my things the moment I fell asleep. The only option was to go some place else.
When I put the sleeping bag into the rucksack, the leader of the youngsters approached me. He tried to persuade me to stay. “Sleep here, we won’t disturb you, we are friends!” he said. Yeah sure… After what happened in Prague, I won’t take any chances.
So that night I slept at the theatre by the coast, a bit far away but at least secluded and safe.
Genoa was the biggest port city in Italy, proud as the birth-place of Columbus. Off a pier near the theatre and a museum was the replica of the ship which brought Columbus to America… Like the one in Bandar Hilir, Melaka but larger and covered in golden coloured ornaments projecting an aura of grandiosity fit for a conqueror of the oceans.
But it was also a port for Middle-Eastern criminals making their way into mainland Europe. I was walking along some shophouses facing the sea when I came across the slump parts, dirty and unkempt like some sort of low-class crime-ridden ghetto.
My suspicions proved correct. There were a bunch of rowdy-looking guys heading my way. I walked on trying to remain unaffected. We crossed path.
They looked Middle-Eastern blabbing something like “Ahlan Wa Sahlan” (they all sounded the same). One of them had a big chopping knife tainted with blood while the others ushered him away as if running from a crime scene. And right enough, three police cars came to a nearby alley filled with people.
I didn’t see what’s going on and neither did I really want to. I went hastily out of Genoa, my impression of it tainted like the knife with the blood on it.
My next stop Arenzano was about ten kilometres away. It looked more welcoming with the streets lined by palm trees and shophouses with architecture not unlike Chinese shophouse in Melaka. The blue Mediterranean sea was alluring convincing me to take a plunge.
From Arenzano I got a lift to Savona, another to Andora and the last hike for the day to San Ramos, thirty kilometres to the French border. A pine tree behind the toll plaza was my snoozing spot having failed to get any more lift for the night.
The next day’s hiking attempt was at first terrible. I was refused lift from every vehicle starting morning till afternoon until 2.30pm when a Frenchman heading for France took me in his car.
We struck a conversation. He was about sixty, balding with a large beer-belly and very opinionated…
“I was a banker in Singapore during the 50s,” he claimed. We discussed some economic issues.
He said Malaysia’s current economic bull-run was phenomenal but it was still a third-world country.
“Malaysia don’t have a social welfare system like in Europe,” he argued.
I was infuriarated.
“Yeah… But it was the social welfare system that creates so many underclassed like in Britain,” I retorted. For a ‘developed’ country, Britain had a large number of homeless, beggars and the likes. Each week they would collect their ‘alms’ from local welfare officers before stopping at the next pub for a pint of lager.
We had some polite disagreements over some other issues before he decided to take me on a spin to Monaco, the gamblers’ capital of Europe.
Monaco the state and Monte Carlo the city are often confused. With a size of 1.6 square kilometres, there is hardly a need to make distinctions.
The Grimaldi family which ruled the principality is much admired. It was their policies that ensure Monaco to be continously rich while receiving protection from powerful France.
My hour-long trip in Monaco was done mainly from inside the car. With the beautiful clean streets, video cameras at every corner and high-class looking people with latest-fashion clothes adorning the expensive boutiques, I must admit I was quite intimidated to walk out there.
For a gambling capital of the world, it was a surprise to find out it had only one casino. But it was no common casino. This solitary business premise can sustain the economy of Monaco on its own!
After exhausting the streets of high-rise buildings and coastline cliffs overlooking huge yatches and water marinas, we went of to Nice, one of the main cities on the French Riviera. I bid farewell to the Frenchman before going on a shopping spree spending my last few pounds on food.
I deserved it I thought after living on a loaf of bread for the last few days. And that night, I had the best sleeping spot so far on my trip… On a beach with the smooth waves like a lullaby putting me through a most rewarding sleep.

Trip to Europe 1995... Alpine frolicking in Switzerland

Me somewhere in Zurich...

OK... After 10 days or so of not making any postings, here is part 7 of the story on the European trip made in 1995... About some experience in Switzerland... Here goes... :]

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“ Yo… Yo… Yo…” That’s the way Marussia said “Yes… Yes… Yes…: to show her agreement. Her Swiss accented English and slightly quivering voice was still fresh on my mind along with her school-teacher looks and the sweet serene smile.

For a sixty-four-year-old lady, she was one tough mama. When I came across her at the highway off Rosenheim in Germany, she was on her way from Vienna to Widnau, driving a distance of more than 600km alone! She was brave enough to give me a lift when many others were intimidated by my torn jeans, leather jacket and necklaces fit for a witch-doctor.
However she was a lonely woman and mother. Her three kids were all living with their spouses and seldom came to visit. The eldest son was a mountain climbing instructor who liked to travel.
I guess that’s why she took me to her place in Widnau, Switzerland… Because I reminded her of the son. The bungalow shared with two refugees of Indian origin was most welcoming although the Indians were a bit weird.
I’ve talked to one of the Indians once. He claimed his father, a politician was murdered in India. The killer was still looking for him. That’s why he’s in Switzerland, to seek political asylum. He promised he will go back to India when the time is right to exact his revenge. Did I hear Bollywood in my head?
Marussia’s place offered me the bath, meal and sleep I haven’t had for the last several days living on the street like a beggar. I remembered bonking oops… Bunking at secluded corners of buildings and streets totally at the mercy of the elements. A loaf of bread dipped with a choice of half a bottle of choc spread and half a bottle of mayonaise was meant to last for a week – for breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner.
Ah… What a refreshing break to be at Marussia’s.
The next day, she brought me to Walzenhausen, 700m above sea level where the alpine scenery unfolded, awe-inspiring and spirit uplifting. The fresh air, cool almost mint-like seeped through the nostrils. The sound of cowbells chiming as the cows grazed the grass was hypnotic. The rolling farmland on hillsides, patches of alpine forest tattered across the landscape, lake Bodensee spread across the horizon bordered by Germany, Austria and Switzerland, the view was simply breathtaking.
We stopped at the Canzanis’ place where Marussia attended to them. The husband and wife both aged over ninety years-old were gracious hosts. The man had to walk with a walking stick while the wife stuck on a wheelchair needed Marussia to help her move around.
Despite that, they managed to guide me around the huge house. A bungalow three-storeys high with yard big enough to hold a football match, it used to be a barn for farm animals.
The next three days were spent around Widnau riding Marussia’s bicycle at times venturing into the surrounding towns of Lachen, Arbon, Rosharch and St Gallen while she attended to the Canzanis. I remembered cycling up the alpines once to the Canzanis’.
The steep winding road passing through forest and vineyards was really testing. Most of the time, I ended up pushing the bicycle up the slopes.
Thank God, fountains and taps lined up the road quenching my thirst with fresh cool mineral water courtesy of mother nature.
The trip downhill was like a roller-coaster ride, only better! With gravity’s assistance, it was physically effortless but mentally demanding as I watched out for curves and obstacles. Why, I nearly rammed into a tree and narrowly missed falling down a ravine!
Fun and frolicks aside, it was soon time to move on…
On 7th September 1995, I decided to make my move to other parts of Switzerland before heading southwards to Italy.
Marussia being the kind lady she was offered to drive me around. She took me along the river Reine passing by proud alpine mountains standing tall like invicible guardians before stopping at Vaduz, the capital of Liechtenstein.
Vaduz was small, smaller than Muar, maybe the size of Parit Jawa. It was not surprising considering the size of Liechtenstein which was smaller than Labuan. Sandwiched between Switzerland and Austria, the country was so small it didn’t have its own currency, relying on Swiss money instead.
She then took me westwards passing by more mountains, one with a white streak cutting vertically across. It looked odd at first but upon closer inspection, the moving streak turned out to be a waterfall.
Wow! It must be a sheer fall of 1,000 metres striking down like a piling machine banging on the poles at a construction site.
Marussia showed me lake Walensee with its green coloured waters, calm, narrow but long looking deep as if hiding some ancient secret inside. A few hours or so later, we arrived at Immensee.
At an old folks home I met Dr Josef Niederman, Marussia’s foster-father. He was in his nineties.
Quite recently he got struck by an illness leaving him stuck in a wheelchair, absent-minded worsened by a speech problem. Despite that, we had a decent conversation as he lapsed between speaking in German and English, at times lost, not able to recount what was said…
We helped him into Marussia’s car and off we went to Rigi Kulm, a mountain 1,700 metres tall but feeble by alpine standard. It was a heartwarming trip as I observed the two, Marussia and Dr. Niederman reliving old times amidst smiles and laughters.
Later after sending Dr. Niederman to the old folks home, we drove to Zurich, the banking capital of Switzerland. En-route, Marussia took me to Luzern, famous for its covered wooden bridge passing beside a castle on a lake…
It was soon time to part ways. At 9pm, we arrived in Zurich.
Saying goodbye was never easy. “Good bye Radzi, I hope you will find what you’re looking for. Don’t forget to write,” she said, her voice quivering with a tinge of sadness. I could almost see her tears as she drove off, as if letting her own son go.
Switzerland was certainly beautiful. I remembered the meeting point of lakes Luzernsee and Unersee, two lakes perpendicular to each other, flanked by mountains on all sides.
The setting sun casting its rays on the water, reflected like so many scattered gold coins was a most wondrous sight. The beauty of the alps covering all of the country goes without saying.
But it was the kind people I met that puts Switzerland in a special place in my heart. Marussia, Mr and Mrs Canzani, Dr Niederman, I shall never forget all of you, your warmth, kindness and humanity…

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! :]