24 hours in London

Having survived the 13 and a half hour flight from KL to London, my re-entry into the western world for the first time in 417 days went pretty smoothly.  Even Heathrow was kind to me and I was through immigration and had my bags in 30 minutes.

I hopped on the wildly overpriced ($30.70 for a one way-ticket) but super convenient Heathrow Express and 15 minutes later I was at Paddington Station.  A quick glance at the Tube map (Bakerloo to Victoria - how could I have forgotten?) and I was bound for Brixton - a trendy London borough which had a bit of reputation the last time I hauled out to South London (2003) that is known for it's Afro-Caribbean flavor. Gentrification has set in the last 9 years and now it's one of the trendiest, most diverse and almost affordable places to live in London.

Like other major cities around the world, Londoners are not particularly famed for their friendliness. But in the nearly two years since I was last in the UK, I had completely forgotten about that unfailing, unrelenting habit British people have of saying 'please' and 'thank you'.  (In Malaysia, you simply get 'can' or 'cannot' in response to virtually every question - or statement.) I had also completely forgotten about the British love of forming a queue.

My route to Brixton involved a change at Oxford Street - London's premier shopping district - at 6:00 on a Saturday with only three weeks until Christmas.  I was gobsmacked by the orderliness of it all.  Anywhere in Southeast Asia (Singapore excepted) this would have resulted in a massive free for all - pushing, shoving, elbowing, stomping on feet - but instead people waited patiently for passengers to exit (what a concept!) and then in an orderly fashion we crammed ourselves into the carriage, while others waited patiently on the platform for the following train that was just a minute or two behind.

It was bliss. I can't remember the last time I felt that relaxed on public transportation!

I arrived in Brixton and met up with my dear friend and hostess, Rachel, and we set off for a delightful little restaurant called Honest Burger in Brixton Village (If you like a good old-fashioned burger, a touch on the rare side with delicious toppings such as cranberry relish, fried camembert, watercress and poppy seeds - this is the place for you.)

Our walk to Brixton Village brought me face to face with a crosswalk (or to be a Brit about it, zebra crossing).  We approached the crosswalk and Rachel just strolled into the street.  I remained glued to the pavement, braced for Rachel's swift and sudden demise by a car careening down the street at approximately 200 miles an hour.  She got across, I looked up, noticed a car waiting patiently for me to cross and she said, 'what the hell are you doing?' It all came rushing back, and I thought to myself, 'I could play at the this zebra crossing all day.  It's amazing.'

My 24 hours in London went by all too quickly, and now I'm in Chicago - London's chief rival for my affection (London or Chicago, I can never settle on a favorite)..

Anyway, since my return I've been maintaining a list of wonderful things I've forgotten about and/or previously took completely for granted:

• toilet paper
• dry bathrooms (with no muddy footprints on the toilet seat)
• real napkins that are not made of tissue/toilet paper
• knives in restaurants
• large gaps between cars travelling at high speeds
• a strict adherence to red lights and other traffic signals
• a complete lack of illegal parking
• people who walk at an acceptable speed (no Malaysian shuffle here!)

In short, I don't mean for this to sound like some anti-Asia rant, it's just really, really good to be home. 

Oh and for the record, I am completely embracing the cold weather.  It's so refreshing.

An embassy row

As with most third-world countries, it is necessary to get a visa prior to entering Myanmar.  Fine.  I've been through visa processes of all types - students visas, residency visas, dependent visas, working visas, tourist visas - not to mention renewing visas and transferring visas between passports. First world or third world, visa procedures are rarely pleasant, straight forward or efficient. So with a fully loaded travel schedule between now and our late January departure for Myanmar, we thought we better get the Burmese visas over and done with.

We found out what we could beforehand and got some advice from friends who had previously been through the process - it didn't seem so bad.  The application form is the most unofficial document you've ever seen - it's a document with absolutely no headings, seals, or insignias that would signal it is in any way an official government document.  It's so basic your average first grader could create it in Microsoft Word.

The drop-off process went smoothly and Ian was delighted when they said our visas would be ready for us on Monday. Splendid.

The best way I can describe the Burmese Embassy is to say that it resembles a small refugee camp.  Dozens and dozens of Burmese citizens, mostly young men, loiter around the front of the embassy and inside - and by inside, I refer to a courtyard surrounded by a corrugated iron fence with a few tents set up to provide shelter from the sun and rain - and there, dozens more people sit on filthy plastic chairs smoking and chatting - there are no tablets, smartphones, kindles or ipods here.  Everyone looks like they have been there for a very, very long time.

The contrasts between the Burmese embassy and the surrounding embassies are stark - even the Senegalese embassy a few doors down looks palatial by comparison.  The Irish embassy and ambassadors residence is just opposite - it is a modest mansion with a lovely pool - where the huddled masses from the Burmese embassy can just about peer over the spiked fence while the Irish ambassador relaxes poolside.

We left work early and arrived 15 minutes before pick-up time - which is strictly between 4:00-5:00pm.  There was already a queue with roughly 20 people in front of us and a rapidly expanding line behind us. 4:00 came and went. At 4:15 an employee appeared, sat down at the window and commenced eating a sandwich.  Another employee appeared.  Things began happening.  A few happy people came away with passports, a few travel agents waited on the side and a few people came away looking disappointed or frustrated. Uh oh.

Word began to circulate that passports were only being returned to people who had applied on November 29th (not the 30th like us - despite the fact that our receipt very clearly said that our passports would be ready that day).

No need to panic, we had requested the expedited service. We got to the window, put forward our receipt and the man flipped it over, shoved it back in my face, shook his head and said 'no' (and by the way, the expedited service doesn't exist!)

Time out.

Not only can I not be leaving work three hours early to queue at the embassy during my last four working days of the year - but I've got a flight to catch to the UK at the end of the week.  I need my passport.

Panic was rising and time ticking.  I've been through enough visa drop-offs and collections to know that the possibility that the window would be slammed shut at 5:00 regardless of how many people were still in line was a very, very real possibility.

I also know that this was probably about the last situation in which one should shout.  Shouting about third-world bureaucracy rarely achieves anything.  In fact, it can be downright counter-productive. Nevermind. Frustrated, stressed and wet (the heavens had opened) I  let loose.  'I MUST have my passport. I am flying to the UK tomorrow' (white lie, but given the circumstances . . . ) Repeat several times.  Man at the window shouts back.  After several unproductive minutes of trying to shout above the noise of the now torrential rain, he says, 'you wait, wait' and disappears into a dilapidated building.

Minutes tick by.  He re-emerges to applause - he is carrying a basket of passports, escorted by a man holding a giant pink umbrella over the basket. Ian's photo is poking out of the top of the basket.

A few more minutes and we are safely away with our passports.  Drenched and back at the car we notice the stamps have been slightly smeared by the rain (but all remains legible).  I dried them in front of the air conditioning vent.  I hope we don't have to bribe a border agent when we arrive.

Leeched

Back from our second attempt to conquer Borneo, I'm pleased to announce that we've all returned decidedly un-head-hunted, but there was still plenty of blood-shed thanks to the local leeches.

The sun shining, we set off on an excellent hike into Kubah National Park that ends at a lovely, extremely slippery, two-tiered waterfall. The ranger at the station told all about how clean and clear the water was, recommending that we be sure and remove our boots for a quick soak and not even hesitate to drink the water (something which I met with great scepticism - 'drink the water' isn't something you hear a lot in this part of the world.)

After walking at a steady clip for about an hour and a half in 90 degree heat with 100% humidity, the hiking boots were shed immediately upon arrival.

A few minutes later my mother noticed that blood was streaming from my ankle.  I knew I hadn't cut it and noticing that the blood was flowing in a steady trickle from a tiny hole, I grimaced, said 'leech' and shrugged.  They're gross, but harmless.

Leeches are also remarkably sneaky.  They latch onto your undetected, getting into the most bizarre places (hours after we returned Thomas found one in his armpit and Ian located one settling in his belly button!)  They inject their victims with anaesthetic that prevents you from feeling the bite as well as an anti-coagulant  to ensure a steady stream of blood (which often continues long after the leech is done feasting and has fallen off of you in a blissful blood coma).

When we returned to the car, I noticed a red patch of liquid slowly creeping across the sleeve on my mother's shirt.  I paused, looked her up and down, and she - quite literally, looked like she had just been shot.  There was blood streaming down her leg, arms and chest. Fortunately, she's a nurse so the sight of blood doesn't really phase her. Examining her wounds (and more concerned about the state of her shirt than the leeches), she told us quite happily of how they actually still use leeches for medicinal purposes.

Ian cheerfully announced that at least we'd be free of consumption, the vapours and all other medieval disease.

The whole thing was a bit like that scene with the leeches in 'Stand by Me' only featuring a calm fifty-something woman rather than a passel of panicky teenage boys.

Clearly, I had underestimated my mother. She took it in stride and as we headed back into Kuching it was decided that an immediate need for beer(s) superseded the need for clean clothes.  We spent a happy hour slurping pork noodle soup and downed a few beers, while mom happily built a beer can tower before sauntering off for a long overdue shower.