Langkawi, Malaysia, has been my home for more than two weeks, my stay extended by a day here, a day there as we synchronize with the slow vibration of this place. It's a community filled with travelers who have come and gotten stuck on purpose. Years pass as they stop aging and settle into the rhythm of the sun and the afternoon monsoons and the reggae nights. Tourists come and go. You make a group of friends for a night or a week until they pass along to the next island, or return to their jobs back in Australia or Holland. The next night brings a whole new batch.
We spend our days writing and recording music, taking breaks to walk down the beach to get lunch at a little burger shack. We eat while watching Muslim men being readied for parasailing, the harness strapped on and adjusted, the chute ordered, the cords straightened, while their wives stand by in full burkas, flowing black in the wind, cameras at the ready. Then the boat driver guns the engine and the man begins to run. His feet lift from the ground and he flies off, trailed by a puffy circle of bright red against the pale blue sky.
We spend our nights dancing and drinking with the friendly strangers we meet. Having befriended the house band at the Reggae Café, we typically get invited to the stage to play a couple of songs, usually pairing an original with a tongue-in-cheek cover like "Gin and Juice," or something by Nelly. If we play Bob Marley, then they go bananas.
The food here is delicious, but it doesn't compare to Thailand, where we stuffed ourselves with the most flavorful, exotic dinners and walked away having spent $6 between the two of us. And the SPICE! Oh my, oh my. It took days of physical adjustment. But I didn't shy away. I persevered with gaping mouth and open pores and tears streaming down my cheeks. Very unpretty; kind of hilarious to the locals; but totally worth it. For the rest of the month I was dousing my food with chopped chillies without thinking twice.
