Detour travel story by Lary Kennedy
On any given road trip, roadblocks and detours can and do come into play. Just because I’m living like I’m dying doesn’t mean I hold a get-out-of-jail-free card. Nope. Nothing on this tour revolves around free, let me tell you. It’s more like double or nothing.
Before I launch into the originally intended programming, I’ll share the past mad-cap six days that have derailed my blog, forced me into bankruptcy, added 3,521 new gray hairs to my head, and bumped up my blood pressure… permanently.
Let me back the clock up a bit..
Thanksgiving was a complete and utter bust. Malaysians don’t eat chicken breasts, let alone have ever seen a turkey. My gobble-gobble dinner consisted of a Burger King Whopper with cheese, medium fries, and a medium Diet Coke. Then, out of some warped sense of tradition, I ordered a pepperoni pizza (beef pepperoni — pork is a no-no in Muslim land) and polished it off to assure I was sufficiently stuffed, disgustingly bloated, and bursting the seams of the shorts I’d purchased in George Town.
Memories of Turkey Days past flooded in. Tears flowing, hating myself for the massive carb dump, and questioning EVERY single choice I’ve ever made in my life, I contemplated hurling myself over the balcony of my high-rise and splatting right next to the awesome pool below.
I am clueless about the suicide rate in Southeast Asia, but it cannot be high. There’s a plethora of opportunities for one to fling themselves into the great unknown. Same as in Africa. OMG — when I went to Victoria Falls in Zimbabwe you could sit on the edge of a cliff, the waterfall raging directly below, and with the slightest push or slip you’d be swimming with the fish… literally.
America’s love affair with changing their names to Sue makes this sort of opportunity pretty damn difficult in the land of turkeys. Anywho, jumping off anything will never be my go-to to end it all. Neither will shooting myself. OMG — I worked for a year in the OR (Operating Room) at Dell Seton Medical Center, the number one trauma hospital in Travis County, Texas. Having seen one too many misses, I can safely cross putting a gun to my head off the list. Not a good look. That was the best job I’ve ever had and ever will have. The stories I can tell. And one day probably will.
Malaysia has been beyond enlightening; however, I’m ready to move forward. Four months in this country and my body is begging me to move. In order to keep finances from flailing, I am required to book nonrefundable everything. And it is for real — not just playing-around nonrefundable.
Determined to spend Christmas with all the trimmings, Vietnam promises to keep me from drinking the cherry-flavored Kool-Aid.
This being the one time of the year when coordinated, precise, and astute planning is imperative. The pieces that need to fall into place take time, patience, and a bit of luck. When I say planning, I’m talking 2–3 weeks in the future. There are planes, trains, automobiles, housing… everything. Planning, moving, enjoying, sleeping, breathing, writing, photographing, editing — it’s all part of the journey. I accept that.
I honor that mistakes will be made, that money will be bled, that emotions may run high, and that smooth sailing is just not gonna happen. There was no doubt in my mind that obstacles would present themselves. My ability to roll with the punches, bend in the wind, go with the flow — all have been well-honed over the years. My chances of survival would be nil if they hadn’t.
Six months on the road, presented with challenge after challenge by myself, feeling the holiday angst alone, missing my friends, wanting to burn every piece of clothing I own, and wishing I could land somewhere so I can once again experience the unconditional love of a dog… I needed to get myself straight.
What better way to ground myself than to get a tattoo?
Borneo’s indigenous inhabitants are by far the kindest, most authentic, empathic, intuitive, and loving people I will ever be surrounded by. It is just their culture, as they tell me every time I’ve been in their presence. Like all indigenous cultures in our world these days, they are on the road to extinction.
Chat leads me to the only traditional tap tattoo artist in Kota Kinabalu, Sabah, Borneo, Malaysia, to commemorate and honor the kindness of the people of Sabah with a tribal protection tattoo.
Walking into the Orangutan Tattoo Studio, there was no doubt I’d found the perfect place for a great experience. Bornean tribal culture envelopes and amazes. There isn’t a space in his studio that doesn’t represent appreciation for anything tribal, along with hints of other cultures including Japan, Buddhism, and other tattoo styles and traditions.
Cliph, the owner, gets right to business as I enter, asking what I want. Mesmerized, my eyes take it all in. This place is beyond magical. Every inch of it holds meaning. Completely enthralled with my surroundings, I fire off questions. The more I ask, the more he shares. Looking back, it cracks me up… he’s wanting me to sit and let him ink me, and I cannot stop asking questions and wanting to talk about the wonder around me.
I’d gone in for a generic — although meaningful — idea, and ended up with an authentic traditional tap tattoo. Cliph is an expert tapper, if they call it that. Pain level and healing times are one-quarter of what a machine tattoo is, he tells me. For real, the initial tap stung like someone hammering a nail into my back, but after that it was pretty mellow. Machine tattoos hurt a hell of a lot more.
Just as he’s finishing, his friend Cristabelle walks into the studio. The three of us randomly share some laughs, and before I know it, Cliph, Cristabelle, her BF, and I are miles away at a dive karaoke bar drinking Carlsberg beer, singing (screaming) to Katy Perry — California Gurls.. California Gurls, we’re unforgettable.. Daisy Dukes, bikinis on top.
Cristabelle (aka Miss Sabah) having never set one foot in California let alone the USA spoke Los Angeles so perfectly, we connected immediately.
After playing some pretty decent rounds of pool with the locals, we’re off to dance somewhere else, then a 4 a.m. soup stop, and I’m dropped off at my hotel and in bed by 5 a.m.
What a glorious encounter that can never, and will never, be experienced again. It was pure spur-of-the-moment, complete acceptance and inclusion into a world I could never be in as fully and completely if the pieces had not fallen exactly as they did at that time in space.
Now… about that detour.
If you enjoyed this wild detour-on-a-detour, you can always buy me a glass of wine here → https://ko-fi.com/X8X51OT3GU
