THE ROAD NOW MORE TRAVELLED
By: Iris P. Concepcion

If it is any indication,  I have thought that Alex Garland had migrated to Nepal to befriend his coterie of manicurists, just to improve his take on the book Tesseract that is loosely based in the Philippines.

He is not a tourist; he is a traveller.

Imagine if a scriptwriter would find himself a subject of  any of his novels.  I do picture this perfect tourist guide to be sullen and ugly. He shall never drink Chang beer with or without the can and shall be in perfect shod: crystallized boots with pink laces and starry emblems.

He shall be perfectly bright and wide-eyed, aware of his ferocious, literary gorgeousness.  He shall be highly universal in thinking, intelligent to a fault and will never stray from senseless conversation.  I would even name him Bull to add a delectable tone to his filled arsenal of novelistic story lines.

I think, he shall point to the perspiring writers, new to the dinghy coach at the bottom,  a field of forests where the greenery erupts everywhere and where small thinking never thrives. We shall both shriek to the sight of rivers, cleaned and wild and wide.

Sleepy, we shall yawn together in perfect cadence to the beauty of bags and low talk. Of course, we dread how superior our tourist conversation exchanges are: naming the canals, poles and animals that never showed themselves up.

He shall seek payment for his Visa entries through transcendental meditation and collude with the gods of language that he does not like France.

He shall never praise a "crazy" girl and dumb corn writer by saying he likes what had already been written.

Of course, I would just tell him: God smiles upon those who fully trust in Him and His just ways.

It is fiction and it keeps on crawling back to reality.  It is always superior and counts no one as its peer.

And thus the travel continued:

The dawn is about to exit from its daily cycle.  Crows are never found here.  Yala is still sleeping, lit only by bulbs beautifully arched along its streets.

The train leaves at 6:30 a.m.  I am returning to Kota Bharu, Malaysia to have my Visa extended.  It is granted readily by the very courteous immigration officer to whom I had transacted my Visa the first time around.  I am at peace traversing the railway as I have already clocked in a sizable time using this means of transportation in my explorations of Thailand.

A solitary coach is at a standstill, welcoming my feet on its foot rail.  I climb and is expecting the emergence of a fog on the first station stop.  It is humid though at this hour.

The train chugs and as children, men and women alike choose their seats,  I gazed outside the door to take a look at the gaping horizon, endless and without edges.

The coach I had hopped in has engaging women who talk about pictures.  They merrily exchange notes on the  taken shots.  One is teary-eyed.  I had only a glimpse of  it, a woman posing for a camera.

Sungai Kolok is a border place between Malaysia and Thailand.  It is a transitory area.  I  breeze through the immigration hub and takes a bus for Kota Bharu. This ride takes longer than the taxi but is nonetheless smooth. I notice Caucasians going to Malaysia too. One must be very specific when asking the motorcycle driver getting you to the border to direct you to the Malaysian border.  I discover this when I am accosted to a river with a hut where one page, bond papers get stamped for entry. The Cambodian border.

Malaysian immigration does not know the word hustle; everything is easy.  As already written here, it has scanners and computerized biometrics confirmations for passports. I see that my companions in this border are whites. Travellers.

A hefty guy with a racing smile, and I must mention that he is with his wife (presumed) and glaringly white, is wrestling  a decision of a lifetime. He is very uncomfortable without his goofy amulet. Shall he take the bus or the taxi? Taxi drivers are egging me to ride in their vehicles. If it is Pattani-like Mercedez Benz, I would, I shortnoted in my mind.   I decline saying I am on an extremely tight budget, explaining the difference between five ringgit (bus) and 40 ringgit (taxi). I am not in a hurry, I interpolate, and could use my savings to eat a whole planet of chicken.

A sweaty guy, waiting for the bus like me, pushes his rolling bag.  He is actually a backpacker. His first attempt to be cosmopolitan savvy, with his wheeled bags, are very outer space. He asks his seatmate where he can have his tooth pulled out in Kota Bharu. I hope I did see the finer moments to this when I am conversing with the carabao author.

I do not know what thoughts go through the minds of tourists when they visit Asia.   I do know Garland's unexciting kind of thinking;  it is our common fascination to convert Asia into a European-kind of cultural destination. Having to sign up arrival and departure cards at every Asian entry is good for checking misfits. It is best though to show the people's common heritage here if Asians can visit each others' places via a trail connectivity and just declare : "Hey, I am Asian. Let us not do border limits."

I need not even get asked if I am from the Philippines. The people here already assume I am from the Philippines.

My Visa is given an extension at the Thai Consul-General Office. I returned to Parkson mall area where people are preparing for a night market bonanza. It is raining and I borrow a chair from vendors (suddenly sprouting overnight in an otherwise pristine area) who sell food in sticks. I notice that theirs is bigger (1 ringgit per stick). It is Rhamadan and most of the Western shops are closed to observe the fasting of the predominantly Muslim population.

There is a hotel in Kota Bharu that is entirely unique called New Pacific. It is a Barney-colored hotel. I miss its offer of 20/30 (P200-P300) ringgit per night stay with breakfast buffet; its room price hovers around 200 ringgit to 300 ringgit per night (P2,000-P3,000). I always close my eyes when passing by this hotel. I know I could not afford the atrocious rates and thus blink to stress my point. I did not see its discount signage walking from the Thai Consulate office. I grind my teeth in nasty chomp at this almost stupid, missed opportunity. Another tip: pay close attention to discount announcements, always. I stay at the poetic sounding Milton with fresher amenities. Ten people can stay inside my room at 35 ringgit/day.

The beauty of this quite normal rendition of a travelogue is my ride back to Yala. This is where the forests and trees appeared with Robert-Frost like winds that I momentarily swear, God is just within the train reach. Everything is hushed. I recall my bus ride to Phang-nga with this exact dimension of Thailand's outback.

If God can converse with me in this journey, He would say: "Take off at Mat-Yong station and buy Garland some slippers. Color them lavender-green."


I arrive at Yala and bought chicken strips and suds.

Also. My sister-in-law submitted herself for a regular check-up at one of Yala's hospitals.


It has a very impressive hospital named Sirroros. I saw its Suite Room and it is immaculate. It bears the pictures of the King and Queen and the nobility whose picture likewise graces the bus which I took in Phang-nga. With the M garland. This medical place is hotel-like with separate, luxurious rooms for visitors in its suite rooms. With big Plasma television sets.  Its ward rooms only occupy one person each. It is already air-conditioned with free provisions for the patient's oxygen requirements. No huge, oxygen tanks are seen here. It is blue all over and this is health care at its best. The room rates are affordable. Hospitals are the new hotels. Splendid, you need not even need butlers here. You shall be bathed, fed, taken cared of by nurses as opposed to paid spa in hotels. Lowering your cholesterol and blood pressure are the added, extra bonuses.  Do not ask me the rates; you shall drop your jaws by their affordability vis-a-vis the lush, medical amenities. Its medical kits even look like cosmetics bags. With white and pink towels (labakara), shampoo, conditioner, toothpaste, comb and baby talc. It has flowers all over it.

Do not say, "I'll check-in." Say this instead: "I'll have myself medically checked."  You would never believe your luck.

My sister-in-law bought me beef steak and chicken burgers with wasabi sauce, a Hotshots fare back in the Philippines after she was cleared off from her sickness. Priced low, they taste like the best, universal kitchen situated in a city/municipality area. One cannot go wrong with this.

Yummy, at 150 baht per huge plate, with french fries.