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July 12th, 2024

Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia

After spending most of my day devoured by computer work, I sauntered out of my hotel room just before five in the afternoon and fiendishly hobbled up to the first durian vendor I saw.  The fruit’s sweet embrace was the perfect reward for my productive morning.  Every impassioned bite erected my spine and deepened my breath.  Sitting beside me at the vendor’s fold-up dining table was another durian enjoyer, a middle-aged man who introduced himself as Yong from China.  

Striking up conversation while I waited for my durian to be dissected by our vendor’s machete, I inquired, “So, what brings you to Malaysia?”

Grinning, Yong confessed, “Durian!  This is the best place in the world for it, plus it’s in season right now!”

“Wow, so you understand my addiction!  I’ve been eating multiple durians every day!  I just can’t get enough.”  It was so comforting to know that I wasn’t alone. 

“Wow, that’s amazing.  I’ve never seen a Westerner eating durian before, to be honest.  And you seem to be quite a big fan!  But, listen, you can’t keep buying durians in the city center.  These are ripoff tourist prices!  You gotta go to SS2.  It’s this suburb on the outskirts of KL, where all the locals get their durian fix.  The price is way cheaper and the quality is way better.  Plus, you’ll be eating with locals!”

“Damn, thanks for the heads up, Yong!  I know where I’m going tonight!”

I was tempted to jet directly to SS2 once I finished my durian, but reflecting on its empty shell led me to realize how infected I’ve been by the big city’s rampant pace.  Immersion into urban hustle has shortened my fuse and awakened my compulsion towards immediacy.  My only moments of stillness have appeared during excursions into the city’s untamed jungles, where I was insulated from the metropolis’ rushed tempo.  So, maintaining my original hypothesis, which germinated during my taxi from the Kuala Lumpur airport, I resolved to find unhurriedly yogic presence in the rambunctious city center.  Distance from honks and sirens may make dhyana easier, but I refuse to accept that any environment could render meditation impossible.  If anything, the ability to retreat inward during peak chaos represents an immense advantage over the thrashing volatility of the material world.  

Naturally, I set a course for the Petronas Towers, a giant pair of identical skyscrapers in the dead center of Kuala Lumpur’s downtown bustle.  My commute’s monorail ride warmed my heart; I hadn’t hopped on a public transit system since my flight from the Big Apple.  Watching stone-faced office workers awaiting the train’s arrival at their station transported me back to innumerable evenings riding the bleak L train through Brooklyn.  

The Petronas Towers are unsurprisingly flanked by dozens of designer clothing stores, creating a playground for elite visitors attracted to the buildings’ grandeur.  I was surprised, however, by KLCC park, a heartwarming community green space directly at the towers’ feet.  The urban oasis boasts a thick cover of palm trees, an elaborate automated fountain display, a massive playground, a jogging track, and even a chlorinated swimming pool!  The latter is an amenity I’ve never before seen offered without a price tag attached.  Here, children bounce freely between the playground and pool while their parents picnic on nearby grass and joggers swerve to avoid their games of tag.  Not only did I settle into stillness at KLCC park, but so did all the Malaysians enjoying the golden-hour air with me.  A Buddha smile crept across my face as I sat, in padmasana, and observed the flurry of humanity before me.  This concrete-jungle oasis, directly adjacent to the world’s tallest twin towers, evoked, for the umpteenth time, Kuala Lumpur’s characteristic juxtaposition of man-made structure against life-giving nature.  

Riding the high of KLCC park’s beauty, I rode to SS2, the residential neighborhood on the outskirts of town that Yong clued me in on.  Not a single tourist was to be seen.  Durians, however, were piled high.  I bought four.  Each bowling-ball sized unit cost roughly four dollars.  Amused by my peculiar fixation, my fruit merchant generously slipped me an extra half-durian for free.  His selfless gesture made my heart flutter.  Leaping across the chasm of our language barrier, relying instead on eye contact, I offered him a reiki glance of unconditional love and appreciation.  He matched my look of endearment and our spirits flutteringly intertwined.  

Later, as I donned my plastic gloves and ceaselessly chomped at the silky seeds of my fibrous dinner, I felt hospitably embraced by the locals around me, receiving nothing but judgment-free smiles.  We were united by our enjoyment of durian’s divine delicacy.  

SS2 strikingly reminded me of Bushwick, the Brooklyn neighborhood from which I hail.  Both locales are on the outskirts of cacophonous metropolises, traipsed almost exclusively by their residents.  To me, this environment, far off the beaten path, is a much more honest display of Kuala Lumpur than the city center.  In fact, I see all suburban sprawls as poignantly concentrated cradles of cities’ true vibrancy.  I’d even guess that the families I saw scattered around KLCC park today live closer to SS2 than the Petronas Towers’ bourgeois zip code.  There is no tourist-trap tomfoolery here, only unadulterated Malaysian life.  In SS2, I’ve found the illuminating cultural immersion that every traveler strives to mine.  The outing has deeply informed how I aim to travel in the future: I’d much rather stay in a place like this, safely distanced from shiny attractions, than overpay for a fabricated tourist experience.  Above all, I want to get lost.  The farther off the trail I roam, the more surprises await.  With my breath intact and my body poised, I embrace all surprises with open arms.  

Thereby, I’ve fulfilled my prophecy of finding yogic essence in this city, both at its heart and its extremities.  Today’s three bouts of seated meditation — the first in my Chinatown hotel room, the second at KLCC park, and the third in SS2’s town square — each took on a distinct hue, combining to form the multiplicitous rainbow that all cities are known for.  May the rest of my travels continue adding unique colors to this infinite prism.  

July 13th, 2024

Selayang, Malaysia

This afternoon, I took to Kuala Lumpur’s outer fringes once again, hitching a ride to Selayang Hot Springs, a collection of steamy groundwater pools tucked into the jungle of the city’s northern edge.  Emerging from my taxi, I saw a modest smattering of Malaysian senior-citizens enjoying the mineral-rich spoils of their blessed biome.  Some submerged their entire body beneath the waterline, some doused their skin with bucketfuls of aqua from the pool’s edge, and some dangled their legs while their upper bodies soaked up afternoon sun.  Most interestingly, many bathers, as they dried off, were jumping frantically and hitting themselves, mirroring the somatic movement I learned at Bali’s School of Unified Healing.  Others employed muscle rollers and gua sha stones to press tension out of their tissue.  Unequivocally, there were no travelers or young people present at the hot springs.  Anticipating a tourist attraction, I was delightedly astonished to have happened upon such an undisturbed and pastoral scene.  These baths evidently provide ritualistic therapy to an entire community of elderly locals.  

Interrupting one man as he bid his oasis farewell and strolled back to his parked car, I gaped, “Sir, it’s my first time at these baths, but they seem amazing!  How often do you come here?”

“Three times a week,” was the definitive answer I received, thickly coated in a Malaysian accent.  

“Wow, that’s an incredible routine.  From your perspective, what are the health benefits gained by soaking in these baths?”

“Good blood circulation.  Good metabolism.  Good sleep.”

I was sold.  After scurrying to the changing room and slipping into my swim trunks, I bounded back to the pool, preparing to plunge.  

But, my big toe’s first contact with the water produced a sharp sting that sent neurons firing up from my foot to my brain stem.  “Ow!  Jesus Christ, it’s so hot,” I yelped as the frequent-attendees surrounding me playfully cackled and jeered.  No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t seem to keep my foot submerged for longer than a few seconds before ironically-icy pain made perseverance unbearable.  Shaking my head in disbelief at several smilingly calm people deep inside the pool, I grew baffled at their mental strength.  This natural spring, which I expected to provide comforting recreation, felt torturous, immeasurably hotter than any geyser or jacuzzi I’d ever entered.  

Sensing my disbelief, a wrinkled man behind me, with his feet soaking in a water-filled plastic bucket and his skin protected from sun rays by a black umbrella, teased, “It’s hot for you, isn’t it?”

I agreed, “Hot?  It’s a bloody scorcher!”  After a pause, I sought specificity: “How hot is it exactly?”

“Fifty degrees celsius.  That other pool, over there, that’s fifty-five degrees.”

“Oh, Lord!  Naively, I thought that my long tenure as a hot yoga practitioner would have prepared me for this moment.  But, these pools are sweltering!”

“Really?  Actually,” the footbather lit up, “I’m a hot-yoga fanatic, too.  I’ve been practicing Bikram’s twenty-six-pose sequence since two-thousand-eight.”

“No way!  You do Bikram here in KL?  Where’s your studio?”

“In my house!  I built an infrared-panel hot room for myself.”  He beamed with pride.  “Every morning, I pop in my Bikram audio-guide CD and do the whole ninety minute flow.  I can get my room to forty-two degrees!”

“I have one question… Don’t you ever get bored of doing the same exact sequence every single day?  Have you ever been tempted to switch it up?”

“Not at all.  A golfer never gets bored of playing the same eighteen holes.  That’s exactly how I feel.”

“I totally get that.”  I gushed, “Any ancient yoga posture is, to me, exactly like a masterfully-written book that teaches you something new every time you pick it up.  There are endless things to discover, endless layers to peel back.  With every repetition, you learn just as much about where you’re currently at, mentally and physiologically, as you do about the posture itself.”

“You’re right.  You know what that book is, for me?  The Art of War by Sun Tzu.  You should definitely read it.  It’ll blow your mind.  Anyway, you must get over your fear of this hot water and dunk yourself inside!  You’re a yogi!  Just focus on your breath.  Nothing can steal your peace.”

“I guess you’re right.  It’s time…  Any advice?”  My question was simultaneously an earnest plea and a stalling tactic.  

“Just get in there all at once.  The slower you descend, the harder it’ll be.  You can do it.  Oh, and just imagine Kenny G music in your head when you go in there.  It’ll relax you.  Incidentally, you look exactly like him!”

I long ago lost track of how many hundreds of times I’ve been told that I resemble Kenny G.  

Neglecting the demands of my nerve-endings, I rapidly plunged down to shoulder depth.  My fingers and toes tingled with panicked urgency.  In an effort to center myself, I brought my awareness to the cool air entering, and the warm air leaving, my nostrils.  Deepening my breath quieted my screaming extremities.  As I adjusted to the dramatic temperature and my nervous system relaxed, I was reminded that I’m capable of so much more than my mental-barriers of fear would allow me to believe.  The promises of improved circulation, metabolism, and sleep that catalyzed my plunge merely scratch the surface of this water’s benefits: I emerged from the bath, sixty seconds after I entered, unshakably reaffirmed in my control over my mind and body.  I felt strong, calm, nonchalantly invincible.  

I plunged three more times after that.  Rising from my final dip, during which I’d mustered the confidence and comfort to swim out into the middle of the pool, submerging my throat and chin, my footbathing friend remarked, “Looks like you’ve leveled up!  Congratulations!”

Participating in this spiritually-cleansing routine, and being embraced by its perpetuators, was endlessly gratifying.  The process informed my understanding that, across this vast and varied planet, countless wellness practices exist, each more niche and unexpected than the last.  Often, as in today’s case, a ritual that seems ordinary and unimpressive to its practitioners can bewilder and challenge outsiders.  We all grow up with unique programming that informs our perceived menu of healing tools.  As I bounce from country to country, witnessing yogic wisdom percolate in the most peculiar places, my menu grows, page by page.  I can’t wait to eventually show this ever-expanding document to my friends back home.  New York City might benefit from some hot-spring spirit!

July 14th, 2024

Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia

As I write this from a busy gate at Kuala Lumpur International Airport, preparing to leave the heavenly country of Malaysia, I’m once again panged with melancholy.  Hindsight has shown me that merely devoting seven days to explore this land borders on disrespect; I could have easily gotten lost in these rainforests for months.  Therefore, I aim to return here for a longer stretch.  Hopefully, when that time comes, I’ll be greeted by the budding sprouts of dormant seeds I’ve planted this week.  I use my optimism about their impending germination as a meter stick of good times, reminding me how lucky I am to dread leaving.  

Scanning the mental vignettes I’ve collected since my initial arrival at this same airport, my mind’s eye lingers on an image of me engaged in meditation, sitting vajrasana within a tranquilly shallow creek of Kanching Falls.  I’d just climbed up rugged, slippery rocks alongside the waterfall’s seven levels, following the stream to its mountaintop source, stopping to audibly greet captivating dragonflies, durian trees, wild monkeys, and sparkly stones along the way.  On my victorious descent from the peak, I scanned the roaring brook’s entire path for an idyllic swimming spot, until I crossed a stunning pocket of calf-deep puddles, graced on one side by a gently low-incline, songfully-bubbly cascade, on the other by a steep cliffside waterfall, and from above by a handsome footbridge of arched wooden planks.  I’d arrived, a sixth sense assured me.  

Rolling around like a pig in the mud, donning only my boxer briefs, with not another soul in sight, I gave my throat permission to express itself freely.  What emerged from my voice box was an intersection of manic laughter, pleasure moans, and verbal thanks, all dedicated to Mother Nature.  The water was shallow enough for me to safely lay on my back, allowing the gentle current to tickle and caress my skin while my gaze softened on the impressively tall treetops above me.  When I tired of splashing and flailing about, I landed in vajrasana, where I remained with my eyes closed, and my lower body submerged, for a timeless eternity.  My inner clock behaves so gratifyingly in complete wilderness-immersion.  I especially felt its slowed pace given sharp contrast against its behavior at Kuala Lumpur’s city center.  The undying sound of rolling water and singing bugs represented a single instant dilated eternally.  My spirit faded into the forest’s collaged consciousness.  

Eventually, the sounds of nearby voices informed me that my perfect puddle had attracted more visitors.  Lack of familiarity with Malaysia’s native tongue kept me oblivious to the content of the conversation that surrounded my inwardly-charged body, but, tonally, I heard giggly joy, and I felt safe enough to carry on with my introversion.  The ambiguous dialogue quickly blended into the jumbled jungle soundscape.  

My ultimate stirring from meditation was inspired by a desire to, utilizing the calming backdrop of my present moment, continue chipping away at my Gabriel Garcia Marquez novel, which I’ve been gradually nibbling through for the past two months.  Peeking my eyes open revealed the identity of my accidental companions as two women in their mid-twenties, wading in waist-high depths under the wooden footbridge.  They didn’t notice as I rose from the creek, silently and nimbly tiptoeing to the dry rock where my bag rested.  The thick paperback I sought was hidden inside its protective zipper, the legato foley of which I failed to suppress upon unsealing my sack.  The sound, akin to tearing paper, caught the attention of the two bathers.  As their heads swiveled to face me, I wordlessly joined my palms in prayer and bowed to them.  They did the same.  

“Hi! Nice to meet you,” one woman offered.  “What’s your name?”

“I’m Etai!”

“Oh, that’s a beautiful name!  Listen, I was wondering… I’m a university student here in KL and I’m making a video project where I interview different people who come here to Kanching Falls.  Would you be down for an interview?  It’ll be really quick, I promise!”

“Yeah, that sounds like fun!  By the way, what’s your name?”

“My name is Adi!”

“Oh my lord, that’s my sister’s name!  I’ve never met another Adi in the wild!”  

Incidentally, my sister was the one who’d recommended the book that I was in the middle of reaching for.  Her name has followed me to every Asian country I’ve entered.  In Nepal, I learned that Adi, in Sanskrit, means “infinite time in all directions.”  In Indonesian, Adi means “precious” or “superior”; the word was inscribed upon bountiful hotel and restaurant signage in Bali.  Now, Adi’s Malaysian namesake had found me, explaining that these three letters represent another name for Shiva, the Hindu deity of destruction.  I choose to chalk all these encounters up to magic, divine serendipity.  

My final night in Kuala Lumpur was also drenched in magic.  Ninety minutes before jetting to the airport for my red eye flight, I took to Chinatown streets for a final taste of durian, only to be blessed by my vendor with a miraculous two-for-one deal on the fruit over which I lust so deeply.  It was a tender, passionate farewell, made memorable by delicious pulp of creamy texture and orange pigment.  I savored every moment of the snack, even kissing the spiky shell before taking my final bite. 

Riding that indulgent high with heightened senses, I emerged from the durian shop and immediately heard the unmistakable frequencies of a live drum kit.  My ears perked up like a wild animal’s.  Following the trail of vibration led me into a speakeasy jazz bar, in which a wildly talented group of Gen-Z Malaysian musicians was masterfully tearing up the stage.  Although my flight’s departure loudly loomed, I stayed in the crowd for three entire songs, transfixed by the band’s unity.  At the conclusion of each number, I involuntarily erupted in hooting vocal cheers that stuck out like a sore thumb against the rest of the crowd’s reserved applause.  Was it cultural relativism or apathy that restrained their outward enthusiasm?  I don’t know, but I can confidently cite the reason for my explosive reactions as the blissful filling of a gaping, live-music shaped hole in my heart.  The brief selection of quirky gigs I’ve encountered since arriving in Southeast Asia is helplessly crushed under the weight of my lengthy New York City concert history, and I’ve sorely missed emotionally gut-wrenching performances like the one I found tonight.  It was so hard to leave before the show ended, but I remained thankful that I’d even witnessed a snippet of its full spectrum.  

The springing steps I took back to my hotel were interrupted by two voices calling out “Etai!” from the outdoor tables of a Chinese restaurant I crossed.  Whipping around, I identified the calls’ sources as Raf and Trinity, two stylish vintage-clothing resellers I’d chatted with for hours yesterday afternoon; after walking into their thrift store, I was showered in their graceful compliments, awestruck by their inspiring inventory, compelled to buy more clothes than my luggage could healthily contain, treated to a free sweater, and invited to sink into their furry black sofa, where I sat and received Raf’s thoughtful recommendations for my future travel destinations, as well as his nostalgic stories from his time spent in New York.  After beckoning me towards their restaurant table, Raf and Trinity drooled over my outfit, which was entirely made up of their shop’s catalog, and offered me a seat beside them.  I obliged, clutching the solitary caveat that I’d need to leave for the airport within a few minutes.  Upon hearing the devastating news of my departure, the selfless pair promised to, upon my inevitable return to their country, show me around their favorite spots and take me under their wing.  It was thoroughly reassuring and soothing to feel so held and seen by two friends who were strangers a mere day ago.  

I’ll take the seeds they offered me, tuck them in the soil, and trust God’s process.  Malaysia, in all its magic, will be seeing more of me.   Harvest season is on the bound.  

How would my night have gone if I didn’t have a flight to catch?  I see a million possibilities, a million parallel universes.  Yet, I’m here, and I’m endlessly grateful for this timeline.  As long as I can pick up the vibrations around me, I’ll always end up exactly where I need to be.

Love,

Etai