ramblin rose 4

AT SEA, THREADING THROUGH THE ISLANDS OF INDONESIA--
Sabah, a state in the nation of Malaysia on the island of Borneo, is not what you think it would be.
Our first glimpse as our ship pulled into the wide harbor ringed with low mountains was of modernistic high rises, a contemporary industrial port. Not an Englishman in impeccably pressed white shorts and a pith helmet; not a jabbering jungle monkey; not a bedraggled freighter captain that looked like Robert Mitchum or John Wayne; not a painted head hunter -- not a one of these in sight.
We skimmed across the blue water (I still cannot think of a better descriptive word than incredible) in the ship's tender, then loaded into modern air-conditioned buses for a trip into town. The city centre (spelled this way because it was once a British colony) boasts more of these brilliantly white high rises, crowded modern shopping malls, signs written in both English and Malaysian with some Chinese characters for good measure and an ubiquitous McDonald's. Yep, you can satisfy your Big Mac attack anywhere in the world.
Not until we got past Kota Kinabalu, the financial capital of Sabah, did we begin to find traces of the old traditional Malaysia. And even then you had to stretch your imagination. The rural area we traveled had been reclaimed from the sea, and it was filled with modern apartment buildings on one side, quaint little houses on stilts (an early Malaysia version of high-rise?) on the other. Our guide, a vivacious Hindu lady, told us they were built up that way to keep the varmints out -- like snakes and other jungle critters. I thought it was to get the houses above high tide, and those who built along the coast may have had that in mind. But some of them were far from the shore, up on hillsides, and I don't think the tide gets that far.
The beautiful sandy beaches and the fabulous resort hotels face the China Sea.
From fancy hotel right down to lowliest hovel, all buildings are surrounded by flowers of the tropical variety -- bougainvillea, hibiscus, poinciana, flowering ferns and palms. It is summer all year long here, and the blooms are lush.
It is also hot, miserably hot and humid.
We were on our way to Bringgit Cultural Park, located on a lovely inlet of the sea. There three petite Malaysian maidens and three fierce-looking Malaysian warriors danced for us, barefooted, in the traditional steps of their people, while native drummers kept up a thumping rhythm.
The costumes were bright and colorful. The first set was traditional of the farmers who live along the coast; the second of the fisherman who went out to sea and the third of the headhunters who reigned in the jungle. Borneo boasts the largest rain forest in the Pacific area, and headhunters thrived even into the last century.
They demonstrated how to use those long blowguns that shot poisoned darts at their prey with deadly accuracy. Then they called for volunteers to try their hand at blowing.
And I did it! I did it! One fierce warrior helped me hold the bamboo gun up, it was so heavy, but I aimed at a balloon in the nearby tree, and I hit it. I actually hit it and broke the bloom. The dancing girls formed a circle around me and danced the dance for the successful hunter.
Then they laid these huge bamboo poles on the ground in the shape of a big plus sign and clapped them together. The other dancers hopped in and out between the poles as the pace stepped up faster, faster. They were agile and graceful -- they had to be. Two of those poles, although light bamboo, could snap an ankle. A young warrior came around and asked me if I wanted to try that, too, but I shook my cane at him. No way.
I may be a blowhard, but I am not a high stepper.
Little Malaysian boys demonstrated the national pastime, played with a ball bigger than a softball but not as big as a soccer ball. They stand in a circle and pass it to one another, not using their hands, but kicking it or heading it exactly as soccer players do. Score is kept by counting the number of kicks before the ball goes out of bounds.
We left the park for the railroad station to board what was billed as the last train in Malaysia. It was so old I kept expecting Jesse James and his gang to rush up the aisles gathering watches and travellers' checks. The ride reminded me somewhat of that excursion train that runs from Mohawk Park in Tulsa up to Collinsville for a Saturday night barbecue.
We clickety-clacked down a bumpy track through rural areas marked with lush vegetation -- giant ferns, palm fronds that grow from the ground, mangrove swamps, tall grasses like those ornamental clumps people plant in the corner of their gardens, all kinds of trees with strange leaves of every shade of green as well as white, silver and yellow.
Occasionally we came through a village of houses sitting on stilts. Each had a bright blue tank of water on a small platform, and the same color bright blue privy in the yard. They both looked like they were made from some kind of plastic. I am not sure how they always tell them apart.
More than half of the population of Malaysia is Moslem. Each village had its domed and spired mosque. Little children walking home from school wore traditional head dresses - the girls white cotton veils that covered their heads and most of their faces; the boys a funny little black topknot of a hat. All were in uniform, and they would wave at the train as we waddled by.
We saw several buffalo on which perched birds, picking at the lice or fleas that infested their furry hides. We saw some cows, and a billy goat. And we saw an awful lot of trash and debris cluttering the ditches and the roadsides. Americans are not alone in desecrating the landscape.
In all, the interior of Malaysia reminded me a lot of the Bahama Islands. The same tropical flowers; the same pastel paint on their small homes. The same general scruffiness of the overgrown fields. The same heat, and the same glimpses of that incredible water of the sea and sand not far away.

Back on the Queen, I got myself around two huge glasses of ice cold tea, scribbled a couple of postcards to my kids and washed the heat off my face. Dinner tonight was a Malaysia menu. I had an appetizer called kerabu, which was shredded carrots, cilantro, hot peppers and baby shrimp in some kind of marinade. And a soup of roasted pepper and yellow squash. And then a wok dish called penang keuw teow, which was made of more shredded vegetables, peppers and mixed seafood. All were absolutely delicious.
I think I would like to come back to Kota Kinabalu, stay in one of those posh hotels by the blue blue sea and live like a queen. With one of those handsome native boys wielding a colorful fan (of bamboo, naturally) to keep the heat and the varmints away.
Oklahoma is a long way off.

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