Religious Intrusion

The outside wall of the temple (1) at Batu Caves

As moved as I was by the splendor of the King Hassan II mosque in Casablanca I didn’t feel strange visiting. It wasn’t a Friday so there weren’t and abundance of people praying. I had been given clear instructions abut my time there- where I could go and what I should be wearing. Even as I could see why people sought God there, it felt more like a museum visit- edifying without intrusion.

In Italy, encouraged by one of my besties, who despite being a devout Muslim has a real fascination and appreciation for churches, I walked into more churches than I can remember. I mused at the ornate architecture and the gilded Jesus in varying poses of turmoil. Even with people quietly praying in the pews, I did not feel invasive.

But twice I have visited temples in Malaysia and twice I have felt the sensation that I was intruding on the sacred.

No one said anything, or even looked in my direction. Still, I found myself unsure of where to be or even how to stay out of the way. Inside the Batu Caves just outside of Kuala Lumpur, tourists and devotees alike walk up the 272 stairs, avoid or confront monkeys depending on your disposition, and admire the grandeur of nature and the hope of faith mingling. There are spaces clearly marked specifically for those who have come to worship and the cave itself, though brimming with humanity, provides clear instruction for where I, a visitor, should be so as not to interfere with those there for spiritual reasons.

Lord Murugan statue and the 272 stairs to Batu Cave

But below the cave, beside the 140-foot statue of Lord Murugan, there is what I assumed was a temple. Even now I can’t find the name of this presumed temple or who it might be dedicated to.

Colorfully painted with squat curvaceous columns instead of walls and open doors. The only sign posted requested the removal of shoes before entering. I followed the instructions, eager to be obedient in this space that was not meant for my consumption but generously offered me an opportunity to witness just the same.

As I enter I am struck by how little I know about the appropriate way to be in this space. I know my shoes should be off and my legs should be covered but…what else? How do I blend? How do I not distract people there for reasons other than curiosity.

I watch as people bend down and touch the wood at the base of the entrance and then touch their lips or chest. Should I do that?

Shoes outside the Kek Lok Si Temple

Inside, I am stuck by how voyeuristic this all is. I watch a blond couple take a picture, the woman posed with clasped hands at her chest that felt mocking in this context (probably in any context) and I followed my instincts to leave.

You’d think I'd learn.

In Penang, shortly after the Lunar New Year, I was urged by Malaysians to visit the Kek Lok Si Temple. Along with the pagoda and the Guan Yin Goddess of Mercy statue, there is a Buddhist temple. The temple, is actually the easiest structure to enter.

Listed as one of the major tourist sites in Penang I added my shoes to the crowded entrance. “I’m allowed to be here,” I thought as I stepped over the threshold. Further in, aiming my camera at one of the three golden statues inside, my feelings changed. People were praying, the scent of incense thick in the air.

Open to the public or not, it felt invasive, prying eyes on a moment meant only for a deity.

Making my way to the pagoda I was met by multiple spaces meant for the devoted. Some waiting for followers, others with people clustered around the various statues. I was unsure where to look. Prayer is an intimacy.

These spaces have open doors. I did not bulldoze my way with a sense of entitlement...and yet...I still feel my implied entitlement.

Distant view of the temple, statue, and pagoda in Penang

I do not know what I will do in the future. Entering into religious spaces without an explicit invitation may be something I remove from my travel itinerary. Not because I don’t want to know and learn, but because my knowing and learning isn’t the purpose of these places. Or maybe my responsibility is to find the middle ground to see without gawking, learn with interfering.

Wasted Time

“Crap, I wasted the entire day,” I thought to myself as I wandered down the strip in front of Pantai Cenang beach. I’d anticipated getting to Lankgawi around 5pm but I didn't reach my hotel until almost 7. I watched the sun settle into the horizon from the back seat of my Grab.

Langkawi bakso

Still, it wasn’t a wasted day. I have to retrain my brain and stop thinking about my time transactionally.

Back in my working life the transactional approach made sense. Most of my days were spent doing wanted to do. It was a zero sum game...two hours of this meant I didn’t have two hours for that. Talking to a stranger meant less time to talk to friends.

things I was required to do; so the bit of free time I had I was intent on doing the things I

That isn’t my life at the moment. My life at the moment isn’t compressed into the hours between 5pm and 8am. My time is just...mine.

So the “wasted” day my brain initially registered was actually a day that introduced me to Sonia- a woman who a few years ago sold her house, quit her job, and traveled for two years. We talked about politics, shared travel suggestions, and commented on our observations from our time in Malaysia. We even shared a Grab.

I hardly call that a waste of time.

“I wasted the day,” was a fleeting thought. I excised it almost immediately after it slipped into my brain. And just like that I felt lighter. Instead of lamenting the time “lost” I reflected on the experience gained. I smiled as I walked down the busy street, the odor of durian drowning out the scent of coals burning the fat of satay filled my nostrils as I searched out dinner.

An order of bakso (a soup I know from Indonesia) allowed me to have a conversation with a family from Shanghai (they always eat the papaya in Malaysia because it is sweeter than the ones in China), they encouraged me to visit the Bund in Shanghai when I visit.

a plain rotiboy

A leisurely walk in the other direction led me into a Rotiboy- something I’d never heard of. A fancier shop than the usual hawker centers I frequent. I was met with a smile and an urging to try a rotiboy and for 75 cents, why not? It is a sweet bread, about the size of my hand, with a thin cavern of melted butter inside. It was at once new and familiar.

More interesting than the food was the man who offered me a seat at his table- not unusual but quite unnecessary as the shop was nearly empty. Still I sat down and we began to chat. DiDi was most delightful company. He asked me about America and my travels, he told me about his work and favorite foods. Inspired by my curiosity, he insisted he buy me a teh tarik (a sweet tea concoction made frothier by pouring it at a distance from one container into another).

DiDi at Rotiboy in Langkawi

We exchanged Instagram information before he had to leave.

DiDi was not a waste of time either.

I am retraining myself to be leisurely.

I want to bask in the reality that I have no particular place to be and no particular time to be there. This allows met the greatest of appointments, the ones I don’t have yet.