Bye Bye Bali… Hello Malaysia
Bali to Malaysia travel blog
Not so quick.
Crossing into a new country always means customs, immigration, endless forms — and in my case, paying for overweight luggage. Unfortunately, I have no choice. My nephew and his wife had promised the safe keeping of my family heirlooms, expensive artifacts, legal documents, and prized possessions, including the ashes of my beloved dogs, Wolf and Grizzly.
Two weeks of board games, reminiscing, family bonding had come to an end. At 8 a.m. on the morning of my departure, my nephew barges into my room screaming: get the fuck out of my house or I will have you forcibly removed. Shock. Rage. Disbelief. That moment has only intensified with time. One day I’ll tell the whole story — it will be worth reading. But not today.
With four hours to sell my car, catch a plane, and somehow figure out how to salvage the pieces of “my life,” I have no time to process the horror film I’m suddenly starring in. My entire life ends up unceremoniously dumped in the skids of Panama City, Florida, at a Salvation Army. They tell me my donations will help a battered women’s shelter. How appropriate. From one battered woman to another. They struck pay dirt that day. Money, however, can never replace the irreplaceable.
What wasn’t dumped or donated — heavy coins, jewelry, and whatever small mementos I could squeeze in — I carry with me as to avoid throwing away money.. literally. Thanks to sticky-fingered baggage handlers, my suitcases lost some weight along the way.
Having jumped through all the hoops required for transit, I see the finish line. One hurdle left before my fond farewell to Indonesia.
“You’ve overstayed your visa. You must pay,” the diminutive agent tells me, her mask covering her face and half her left boob.
“What? No,” I say. “I arrived July 27. It’s August 27.”
“Yes. That means two days over. First day doesn’t count. You only get 30 days. Pay up or you no catch your plane.”
She points to a line of furious travelers — red-faced, sweating, knowing their flights were leaving without them while their luggage goes on. One man with a heavy Irish baroque accent screams,” Bloody extortionists, the whole lot of you”. Having just watched a series about Jean McConville — the mother of ten murdered by the IRA — I fight the urge to duck and cover. The angrier the line grows, the slower the extortionists move.
Slapped with a $180 fine for overstaying and a $150 spanking for overweight bags later, I limp to the gate just as the last passengers board. Relieved I made it I gingerly take my seat. These learning curves are killing my pocketbook. Another note in the “Don’t Let History Repeat Itself” file.
History
History class. What a bore. Memorizing dates, dead people, and horrific fashion choices. What’s the point? What does any of this have to do with now? Who cares if Shakespeare and Abe Lincoln were BFFs?
Growing up with undiagnosed, unheard-of ADHD gave me no chance at putting the pieces together — let alone in order. Now was all that mattered. Old things creeped me out. The future was where it was at.
Fast forward through my own history, and what do you know? History fascinates me. It excites me. It motivates me. History is life — it’s everything that is and ever will be.
Reading historical fiction, exploring American landmarks during my RV living like I’m dying adventure, and finally getting proper medical guidance shifted my perspective. People in those old photographs — the ones I once thought looked weird — actually lived in this world. Some of them stood in the exact same spots I might be standing now. They loved, laughed, explored, and believed they lived in the most fabulous time.
And just as I marvel at how hard life must have been “back then,” they must have thought the same.
There is no way I can do what I’m doing now without the resources I have at my fingertips. Without interactive maps, my Directional Dyslexia leaves me dead in the water.
Imagine forty years from now. My body, devoured by sharks (per my request, not from lack of direction). Some quirky, secretly rebellious, soulful tween stumbles across an old blog in iCloud’s “ancient history” section. They read my words and think: how weird that anything I wrote, lived, or fought through could once have been controversial. Well, the clothes maybe. But the struggles? Out of touch. Ridiculous. “OMG, I’m so glad I live now,” they’ll think.
In the present I live never knowing what I’m walking into. With no preconceived notions of who, what, where or why, I see everything with fresh eyes. Kind of mind blowing sometimes knowing I’ve got a whole new playground to discover. Having never researched George Town, Penang, Malaysia, I’m clueless as to what an amazing history I’m about to experience.
What waits in George Town is more than streets and buildings, It’s a history that deserves some telling. For now, the photo’s carry the weight of the arrival.
