Alas, that sensation of excitement was not without a feeling of sadness and stupidity. We lived one month train-hopping in India, a month of gallivanting through the mountains of Nepal and the three months city dwelling in Korea while our passports contained visas which allow us entry to the Republic of India. A fun fact: both Emily and I neglected to notice that we are only allowed a SINGLE entrance to India and therefore we will be brushed away the moment we try a second time to enter the country blamed for originating calculus.

No, we never detected this until about a minute before the piney man at the Indian immigration booth in the western Nepalese border town of Nepalgunj ordered we return to the countries capital (Kathmandu/530km) and purchase new visas to India. Minutes later it was the same individual who allowed into Nepal the three, twenty-year-old hippie Australians (along with their supply of horse tranquilizers and marijuana that they so brazenly consumed for the 15 hours bus ride) with not so much as an “Are you bringing any exotic fruits or animals into the country?” – hrmph!

To break it down for you we had already been stamped OUT of Nepal and we were rejected entering India. None of the six different border entry and departure points we experienced in the past three months had a person mention to us the yielding status of our visas. We thus needed to again explain ourselves to the Nepalese immigration control agent and convince him to put rubber and ink to paper for us one more time. If turned down, stupid us, we would be trapped between the two boarders along with all the chicken merchants who are forced to live riverside in five foot boxes and kill/pluck fowl – their penance for being extremely stupid when it comes to understanding transparent information that is staring you in the face multiple times for the past 100 days.

For the next couple hours we worked hard to get a flight to Kathmandu. We needed to fly not because we want to appear as lush cosmopolitans to a town the size of a shoebox, but because time is of the essence and dates are more important to us now than they are to territorial Native American Indians. This all happened on the 18th, the flight bringing us home from Delhi is on the 21st, our Nepal visas expires on the 20th and swimming lessons are on the 16th of next month (just a reminder to myself). Oh and I should mention that in South Asia any mode of transportation other than flying takes longer than the lifespan of most six legged insects.

So that breaks down for you the problem. The solution was very simple for your average oil tycoon but felt a little costly for us. We flew to Kathmandu late on the 18th (148$/each) and got visas and a flight to Delhi on the 19th (310$/each).

It is now the 20th and we have equivalent to 7$ in our pockets (well just one pocket) and we hope to not have to ping any more Canadian banking/credit agencies.

So who’s to blame?

Is it the Korean travel agent, who booked all our flights and knew we would enter India at least twice and was also responsible for getting us our visas? Yes.

Is it the multiple Indian and Nepalese border officials, who would stamp us out and in to their respective countries and not tell us that we can’t get back into India? Yes.

Is it society, who in its vast mysterious ways creates individuals who will do bad things and must be restricted from going to certain places and effectively is responsible for confusing and excessive counter-defenses? Defiantly!

Or? Is it Michael and Emily, who float through life without feeling responsible for their mistakes and who, up until now, rely on the fact that they can beg and charm their way out of embarrassing logistic situations? Perhaps.

It doesn’t matter, right? … wink wink … home on Sunday!

Getting to the island of Tioman, Malasyia was much easier than the popular opinion would let on. The main bus terminal (Puduraya) has been under permanent renovation since 2007. Our cabbie explain that they are hoping for a January open but he failed to tell us which future January that would be. So we had to drive 20 minutes to the indefinitely temporary bus station which is also a field hockey stadium parking lot.

The first person we asked told us that the next bus to Mersing Port would be at midnight – it was 11:45 am – but thankfully that man has no idea what he is talking about. The next bus departed only 30 minutes later.

Emily and I spent the next five hours rotating our attention from the hilly and very green landscapes, the occasional color filled town, the strange girl in the seat next to me who was singing out loud for three hours and the novels we were reading. For hours we could see the well organized fields of palm. Every minute or so we could understand the process of how they farm the powerful sprawling trees. Some crops are freshly planted. Some are taller. Others have grown to their full potential and they must been a decade or two old. Then you see fields of empty land, where the trees once stood, that now have only rotting palm leaves and shrub. Finally you will enter a town and realize the trucks and trucks piled with the trunks of the lavish specimens, their drivers likely having a meal somewhere.

It was on this bus trip, the midway eating spot and town port of Mersing that we saw the strong Muslim presence Malaysia offers. The dress ware and the language changes from person to person much like the colors of the countryside. Many of the corner eating stands don’t serve alcohol but they do have a variety of unique beverages as an alternative. Can you guess what a glass of Sirep Limoc is? Don’t waste your time. I had one and I’m still pondering. Very good though. Sweet. But very good.

When our over-air conditioned yet cozy bus had arrived we found a travel center and arranged a ferry to and from the island of Tioman, four sleeps on a quiet beach (transportation included) and the bus back to Kuala Lumpur. All in, we paid roughly $250 USD (not each!)
The ferry was two hours, the 4×4 was 30 minutes but the views will last a lifetime. Never have I seen a inlet with such calm waters. The blue and green tide changes by the hour, it seems, and once you’re in the warm waters you can’t take your eyes off the sprawling mountainside. Clouds disappear and more mountainside reveals itself just in case you had any breath left to take away.

I wont share any pictures of it though. I would rather you go and see if for yourself.

Ahh hell, you never will … will you?

(click to enlarge, hover for description)

The city was so hectic and confusing that we were secretly pleased when the woman at the ‘Foreign Tourist Only’ booth (#52) at the famous Victoria Terminus told us we had to take the train today or wait for two more days if we wanted to go to Goa. That was at about twelve noon. By eleven PM, when our train was leaving we couldn’t be happier that we were on our way out of Mumbai. In about ten hours the salespeople and their elaborate rackets, the strident disregard for organization and spacial respect and the expensive leather shoes stepping over people sleeping in the sidewalks to stroll to a Mercedes or BMW had sucked the enjoyment out of what is a culture rich and visually beautiful place.

The train to Goa (or more specifically, Arambol) was very enjoyable considering my standard negative expectations. For about $14 USD we traveled in a ‘sleeper’ car which consisted of small cells with 3 bunks on each side.

As you can see I have mixed feelings about Mumbai. It’s a city I will have to visit again and for longer time to admire the true good (and bad) it offers and since the ‘Gateway of India’ is in Mumbai, I’ll surely have another chance to just that, again and again on my many future trips to this wonderfully curious nation.

I wonder what experiences we will have in the souther states of India. Actually since I’ve been here a day I already know somewhat how the south is. I’m just trying to be a tad dramatic.

Below are images from our day in Mumbai. The first image is The Gateway Of India behind crowds of locals and tourists. It was built to commemorate the visit of Michael & Emily King George V and Queen Mary to Bombay in 1911.

(click to enlarge, hover for discription)

As far as diversity goes food was no disappointment, either. Our first dinner of the single night we spent in KL consisted of prawns and asperagus over sweet and sour fried rice and was complimented with a melange of steamed greens and garlic to nibble on. All of it was finished off with a big boy bottle (or two) of Angkor Beer, a past favorite from our ’08 journey through Cambodia.

Our third dinner was simply a bowl of rice noodle soup that included pinapple, mushroom, spring onion and a form of meat, that after much self debate, I decided was diced pieces of something pig.

Malaysia has tickeled my inquisitive mind and I have much research to do before I form my, often conveluted and detail lacking, opinion of this strange and beautiful country. Since bitrate is at a premium on the Island we’ve just landed on (Tioman) I will spare you from some drawn out, redundant blabber that could easily be deconstructed by your common construction worker

When I say drawn out, redudant blabber I am of course refering to th…