10/13: it takes a village
Spent most of yesterday by the pool. Everything I normally devote my time to seems so far away. Just being is such a good lesson. Of course it also makes me feel extremely untalented because I don’t have any skills that might be useful here. I can’t swim (well, just enough to not drown in a current-less, shark-less swimming pool), I can’t plan itineraries, I can’t make conversation with strangers. All I can do is eat whatever’s in front of me, which makes me more of a circus freak than a savvy traveler.
Last night at dinner (fish, spring rolls, two kinds of eggplant and the best desserts I’ve ever had—an array of bright green, chewy, ricey things), I confessed my travel-related insecurities to Ryan, who said that not complaining and not being afraid to try new things are genuine accomplishments. As always, I am accomplished in the negative. I’m good at not taking up too much space, not being too annoying or demanding. My therapist would not be surprised. Nevertheless, I took it as a compliment, and the three of us had one of those long, good, getting-to-know-you-even-better conversations.
Today we visited the Sarawak Cultural Village, a “living museum” not far from our hotel. It’s definitely geared toward tourists, with all the longhouses and tallhouses of different indigenous tribes clustered unnaturally together. At the same time, I was annoyed by the American guy at our hotel who said, “Yeah the dances they do there are cool, but if you’ve already seen a real longhouse, it’s like, whatever.”
There’s this anti-tourist snobbery among some “real” travelers that bugs me. Of course people who want their picture taken with the natives and always need to stay at five-star hotels are irritating. But the search for authenticity can be futile, and can manifest as one-upmanship. And for people who are less educated or have less money, touristy things can be a way in. I hate it when people romanticize the underprivileged of other countries while condemning our own—like if you work in a rice paddy you’re cool, but if you’re an American who doesn’t know the difference between an Iban longhouse and a Bidayuh longhouse, you’re not.
Anyway, the dancing was cool (see previous post). And we got to wander through the traditional houses, climb notched logs, taste palm-flour crackers, dance a little to some violin music, befriend a couple of bobtailed cats. B and Ryan played the Malay version of Mancala, a game played with rocks and what looks like a long wooden muffin tin. We listened to the Iban woman stationed at the Chinese farmhouse talk about how much she disliked Chinese people because they are always sour-faced even when they’re on holiday. She had something to say about everything and everyone. Later Ryan read us a passage from his guidebook: “Be sure to see the Sarawak Cultural Village. The comments of the effusive Cecilia at the Chinese farmhouse are worth the price of admission alone.”
Last night at dinner (fish, spring rolls, two kinds of eggplant and the best desserts I’ve ever had—an array of bright green, chewy, ricey things), I confessed my travel-related insecurities to Ryan, who said that not complaining and not being afraid to try new things are genuine accomplishments. As always, I am accomplished in the negative. I’m good at not taking up too much space, not being too annoying or demanding. My therapist would not be surprised. Nevertheless, I took it as a compliment, and the three of us had one of those long, good, getting-to-know-you-even-better conversations.
Today we visited the Sarawak Cultural Village, a “living museum” not far from our hotel. It’s definitely geared toward tourists, with all the longhouses and tallhouses of different indigenous tribes clustered unnaturally together. At the same time, I was annoyed by the American guy at our hotel who said, “Yeah the dances they do there are cool, but if you’ve already seen a real longhouse, it’s like, whatever.”
There’s this anti-tourist snobbery among some “real” travelers that bugs me. Of course people who want their picture taken with the natives and always need to stay at five-star hotels are irritating. But the search for authenticity can be futile, and can manifest as one-upmanship. And for people who are less educated or have less money, touristy things can be a way in. I hate it when people romanticize the underprivileged of other countries while condemning our own—like if you work in a rice paddy you’re cool, but if you’re an American who doesn’t know the difference between an Iban longhouse and a Bidayuh longhouse, you’re not.
Anyway, the dancing was cool (see previous post). And we got to wander through the traditional houses, climb notched logs, taste palm-flour crackers, dance a little to some violin music, befriend a couple of bobtailed cats. B and Ryan played the Malay version of Mancala, a game played with rocks and what looks like a long wooden muffin tin. We listened to the Iban woman stationed at the Chinese farmhouse talk about how much she disliked Chinese people because they are always sour-faced even when they’re on holiday. She had something to say about everything and everyone. Later Ryan read us a passage from his guidebook: “Be sure to see the Sarawak Cultural Village. The comments of the effusive Cecilia at the Chinese farmhouse are worth the price of admission alone.”
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