BCAA Travel Blog

As we lurched through the chaotic traffic of downtown Kuala Lumpur, I realized with a sinking sensation that Shirley, my Chinese driver, had only a passing familiarity with the automobile. She savagely grinded the gears of her company’s Mercedes into submission and weaved between lanes like a drunken sailor, leaving a chorous of angry horns trailing in our wake. Any pedestrian unlucky enough to venture into our flightpath saw their life suddenly flash before their eyes. As we careened past yet another terror-strickened face, I finally shouted in exasperation, “Holy smokes, you almost hit that guy!” Shirley showed not an iota of concern. “When I used to be walking, drivers did that to me all the time. Now, I just paying them back.” Shirley’s logic was as spotty as her road skills. During the three days I spent in her company, I never came close to figuring her out, or why the Malaysian Tourism Department had appointed her as my official escort. I had come to Malaysia to write a feature travel article for a Canadian magazine. My hosts, eager to encourage North American tourism, had rolled out the red carpet, supplying me with one of Kuala Lumpur’s finest luxury hotel rooms. After going to such lengths to make me feel welcome, it seemed peculiar that they should then entrust the task of introducing their nation’s capital to someone like Shirley. When not piloting us to the brink of vehicular homicide, she critiqued my choice of apparel, barked at me to walk faster in her shrill, drill-sergeant voice, and tried to cadge money out of me for “special tours” not found on the official itinerary. Shirley may sound extreme, but she is not unique. As any writer who has ever who has ever dipped their snout into the travel junket trough can attest, there are some strange characters out there waiting to show you around. In the Third World, where cross-cultural confusion is the norm, the tour-guide experience frequently takes a surreal turn. I vividly remember a night in Pattaya, Thailand, when myself and a group of travel writers were escorted to a beachside restaurant, where our guide, a plump, balding man with the off-putting name of Porn, excitedly informed us he had a surprise in store. We would be serenaded throughout our meal by the “Tom Jones of Thailand,” a singer, he emphasized, who possessed so powerful a voice that he required no microphone. We were the only diners in the place and so the cordless crooner was able to devote his full attention to our table, relentlessly circling us like some giant, pomaded vulture as he bellowed out such Jonesian chart-toppers as “What’s New Pussycat” and “Delilah,” complete with pelvic thrusts. It was less than ideal for digestion. Another time in Kuching, Borneo, I was assigned a guide who was actually an impostor. I immediately grew suspicious when he picked me up at the airport and informed me it was too late in the day to see any of the city’s sights. “But, it’s only 2:00 p.m.,” I protested. “I’d like to see the Sarawak Museum.” “No. It’s closed,” he replied. I insisted we check it out. The museum, which is considered the finest in South-East Asia, was open. My reluctant guide waited outside while I toured its various displays, which included a 40,000-year-old human skull, native weaponry and a human dental plate that had been extracted from the belly of a crocodile. Afterwards, when my guide could think of no other spots of interest, I proposed we take a boat across the river to view Fort Margherita, which was built in 1879 to guard the approaches to the city from pirates. On the ride over, my escort apologized for his lack of knowledge and tearfully confessed he was merely a clerk. His boss at the travel agency had foisted this unwelcome assignment upon him because all the agency’s real guides were busy. Even legitimate guides with impressive titles can prove bewildering. On a trip to Acapulco, my guide was none other than the resort’s director of publicity, a statuesque blonde of Austrian heritage named Julie. She had not lived in Acapulco for very long, or else her memory was extremely poor. Repeatedly, she would lose her way and then ask me for directions, a futile exercise as I had been in town less than 24 hours. As we drove around in circles, I learned something of Julie’s personal history. Before entering the field of tourism, she had worked as an Aztec fire dancer in a Mexico City nightclub. A former actress, her resume included bit parts in several films, primarily as set decoration in such cinematic gems as The Phantom Gunslinger, starring Tab Hunter, and Boeing, Boeing, with Tony Randall. Considering her acting history, it seemed ironic that she should now have graduated to the post of director. Despite her position of authority, Julie evidently lacked the clout to secure a courtesy car. Instead, we clanked around town in her battered Impala. The driver’s door could be locked, but not opened, the side mirrors dangled from a spaghetti-like mass of wires, and the air-conditioning system, a necessity in Acapulco’s soul-sucking humidity, sputtered and died each time we hit an incline. Adding insult to injury, the ceiling lining on the passenger’s side had collapsed, forcing me to ride with several pounds of saggy, brown fabric sitting atop my head. At such moments, any illusions one might have about the glamour of travel writing swiftly evaporate. Still, in all honesty I can’t complain too much. No matter what sort of headaches people such as Julie and Shirley may induce at the time, they are actually doing me a favour. As I learned long ago, the worse the guide, the better the story.

Filed under: Life as a Travel Writer