When I got off the plane in Kuala Lumpur, I had a vague idea of what to expect: Muslims, no booze and tasty food. Indeed I found those, but I discovered that Malaysia is obviously a lot more complex than these three basic assumptions. Malaysia turned out to be a fascinating country whose multiculturalism pervades every aspect of daily life--not unlike Canada, I guess.

Such was my introduction to the Southeast Asian subcontinent, which I set out to explore over five months, from August to December 2007. Malaysia exceeded my cultural expectations and this set the tone for the rest of my journey. From there, I travelled to Singapore, Indonesia, Thailand, Laos, Vietnam, Cambodia, and the Philippines.

One aspect of my trip that distinguishes it from the majority of English-language travelogues you'll read is simply this: I am not a white guy. I'm Filipino-Canadian and although my cultural heritage and visible-minority-turned-majority status in the region is largely insignificant, I consider certain experiences I had along the way as decidedly unconventional. Gridlock in Jakarta. Riding in a bajaj.

Take, for example, my visit to Kuala Lumpur, where I spent six weeks at my brother's home. He lives in an upper-middle class condo complex near the Bangsar city district, not far from downtown KL. The complex, called "Pantai Hillpark," mimics the design of Andalusian Spanish villas, with whitewashed walls and terra cotta shingles. Its swimming pools are surrounded by palm trees and tropical plants, which are attended to daily by diligent, dark-skinned Tamils. There are manned security gates at every parking lot entrance.

One afternoon, my brother and I were walking to the cafeteria located in the centre of Pantai Hillpark. To get there, we had to cross two security gates. It was extremely hot and humid, a veritable sauna of 30 degrees Celsius and 95 per cent humidity. I left my button-up short-sleeve shirt undone. As we walked past the second security gate, a large, stout Malay man in baggy Muslim clothes came running toward me. He was yelling something to me in Malay. My brother and I were startled and intimidated. The look on my face must have told him I didn't understand what he was saying because he quickly shifted to English and said angrily, "This!" He pointed to my open shirt. "This cannot happen here!"
Boat to the Gili Islands, Indonesia

I apologized and clumsily tried to button up my shirt. I felt like a kid getting in shit from the teacher. The man then asked if we were residents of the complex, to which my brother replied yes. He proceeded to interrogate my brother, amazed that we were unfamiliar with the local vestiary customs.

"Fucking asshole," my brother said. "Don't worry about it, Al. He's probably a part of the 'religious police.' They have that here, you know."

Would he have confronted me if I were European-looking? It seems odd to ask myself that, but then again, does it really? This country was colonized by the British; the British used to run everything here. They made the rules. So, after all this, I had to wonder: would he have made a big deal about my shirt if I were white?

I figured he confronted me because he thought I was Malay. I sort of look Malay. Filipino ethnic history dictates that I'm part Malay, by origin. Perhaps the alleged religious policeman made an honest mistake in trying to keep his fellow bumiputra in line. But I could be wrong.

Anecdotes like these coloured my trip across Southeast Asia. Sometimes I felt the locals treated me differently because I look like them, or because I seem familiar with their customs and culture. I do and I am. Therefore, my being Southeast Asian gave me a different vantage point as a backpacker.

My next stop was Singapore, the tiny island city-state connected by bridge to peninsular Malaysia. Singapore features the same primary ethnic groups as Malaysia--Malay, Chinese and Indian (mostly Tamil)--but with a greater proportion of Chinese and white expat businesspeople. My first impression was a common one: this is a developed country, unlike its poorer neighbours. I found Singapore similar to Toronto--business minded, English speaking and multicultural. My unique perspective would have to wait.
Scooter riding in Bali, Indonesia
I then spent the month of October in Indonesia, where I turned out to be somewhat of a racial chameleon. People had difficulty deciding where I was from. My attire is "American," my eyes "Chinese," my height (I'm 6-foot-1) is atypical of a native Southeast Asian. I'm often asked if I'm half-Asian.

Bali, with its world-famous surf, gave me two disguises. The Australians and New Zealanders there assumed I was Maori and more than once I was greeted as follows.

"How are ya, mate? You Kiwi?"

"Oh, I thought you were Maori. You look Maori."

Meanwhile, because there were so many Japanese surfers there, the local Balinese often mistook me for one. "Konichiwa!" they would say to me earnestly.

I toured Thailand for most of November and I seemed to blend in with the Thai. People on the street would immediately start talking to me in Thai. I assumed they were asking me something benign, like what time it was.

I realized something: Because I'm Filipino, everything I saw and did on this trip was relative to my knowledge of the Philippines. Upon my visit to the island of Ko Yao Noi, riding on a rented scooter, and all I could think was, "The Thai landscape is more like the Philippines' than Indonesia's is."

From Thailand, I ventured into Laos. I met a couple from Victoria at the border, Chris and Tina, who are also in their mid-20s. They seemed cool so I agreed to go sightseeing with them in nearby Vientiane for the day. We rented rickety bikes for the equivalent of $2.00 CDN and rode around town, taking pictures of literally everything in sight. It was a great day and at the end of it, when I was too broke to afford a beer and a bowl of phở, Chris paid for both. He's a really nice guy.

Then we spotted a big tin pot full of steaming eggs. The shells were greyish, not white, which made it pretty clear they weren't chicken eggs. "What are those?" asked Chris.

"Those are duck embryos, dude," I explained. "We eat those in the Philippines too. We call them balut."

"No way," he replied. "I think I've seen them on Fear Factor before. If I buy one, will you eat it?"
Duck embroyo (balut) in Vientiane, Laos
Of course I ate it. I've eaten these as far back as I can remember; I have clear memories of my grandmother teaching me how to eat them. I asked the vendor for some salt, but she didn't speak English, so I made a sprinkling motion with my fingers.

She nodded, went away and came back with a little dish of fish sauce with chopped chillies in it and a tiny spoon. This would have to do. I peeled off the top part of the shell and spooned some of the mixture into the egg.

"See? There. You can see the embryo," I said. Inside was the beige little duckling, curled up against the shell.

"Whoa, there's its eye... and its beak!" Chris exclaimed as he took pictures with his cumbersome digital SLR.

"That's disgusting. I don't even want to look," said Tina, of the duckling. She looked though.

First, I sipped the broth inside the egg. "That's the best part," I said, just as my grandmother always said to me. Chris and Tina were speechless. I peeled back the rest of the shell and sucked the foetus into my mouth. As I chewed it, the bones made a soft popping sound in my mouth, rather than crunching--more like cartilage than bones. Two other parts remained: the yolk and the white. The yolk is soft and delicious, just like that of a hard-boiled chicken egg, except it's covered in brownish veins. The white, which is hard and rubbery, is basically inedible. To Chris and Tina, however, the entire thing remains inedible.
Deep-fried tarantula in Phnomh Penh, Cambodia
This experience allowed me to look at balut from three angles: 1) from the eyes of a white Canadian: "That is bizarre," 2) from the eyes of a local Southeast Asian: "To me, this isn't bizarre at all. It's delicious!" and 3) from my own, Filipino-Canadian eyes: "I know you guys think this is bizarre, but isn't it cool how I can make it seem normal?"

My being Canadian, just like them, buffered the process for them. I'm not new to this. My family and I have been doing this to my white friends for years. Roast pig's head on the kitchen table? They've seen it. The smell of fried fish on my clothes? They've smelled it.

Bridging cultural gaps comes natural to me. Perhaps that's why my dad always called my brother and me "coconuts," as in brown on the outside, white on the inside. Indeed, I'm a bit of both. Maybe a blend of white and brown, say a "butterscotch pudding," is a more accurate metaphor.Boat trip in Halong Bay, Vietnam

After Laos came Vietnam. I spent a couple of weeks travelling from Hanoi to Saigon. A few older ladies offered me their daughters to bring back to Canada. I'm sure white guys get the same bridal offers. But one such lady in Hoi An called me "very handsome" and thought I was half-Vietnamese, so there you go.

I was the only foreigner on the bus to Hoi An. The porters kept pestering a pretty Vietnamese girl across the aisle, jokingly insisting that she come and sit with me. She would giggle coyly and politely decline. I, too, feigned laughter.

It was a 15-and-a-half-hour bus ride from Hanoi to Hoi An--the most uncomfortable bus trip I've ever taken. Forget any notion of personal space. The gentleman beside me had a friendly smile but kept propping his feet on the seat in front of him, nodding off on my shoulder. They would overfill the bus to the point where people stood and sat in the aisle amongst random cargo: boxes, tin suitcases and massive rice bags. One passenger leaned against my seatback as I futilely tried to sleep. Thankfully the driver burned incense intermittently because the bus stunk of too much recycled breath, sweat and foot odour.

Since it was cool outside, the windows were fogged up and dripping. I was trapped in a steaming hulk of humanity. Furthermore, the seats--made completely of slick white vinyl--made my ass, back and crotch sweat. It was disgusting. But hey, the ticket only cost me 215,000 dong ($13.47 CDN).
Gridlock in Phnomh Penh, riding in a "tuk-tuk"
My ability to blend in with the other passengers of the bus, let alone tolerate the discomforts onboard, is both visible and unseen. You can see it because I'm Asian, but it's invisible because I've done this sort of thing before.

I've ridden on buses and jeepneys in the Philippines, packed with chickens, goats and enormous bags of rice. My tolerance to these things is learned, but also innate.

In Cambodia, while sightseeing at Angkor Wat, a little girl selling souvenirs had a crush on me. My friends figured it was because, unlike most other tourists, I looked like her. She even drew pictures of me while I ate lunch. I didn't buy any of her souvenirs; I bought one of her sketches.

The Angkor Wat child vendors are notoriously relentless. They're sharp kids too, scripted in English:

"Hello sah... Where you from? ... Canada? ... Capital city: Ottawa... You speak two languages in Canada: French and English... Population: 32 million... Now you buy okayyyyy? ... Buy from me and I give you peace and quiet, okayyyyy?"

After Cambodia, I went to the Philippines to spend Christmas with family. It wasn't until I was leaving Manila--en route to Japan to visit my girlfriend, who teaches English there--did my unique perspective kick in.

I hate paying airport fees, as does everybody. As I waited in line to pay the dreaded fee, an American white guy and his Filipina wife stood in front of me with their two mestizo kids.

"Mestizo" is a Spanish term for "mixed race." Interestingly, the colonial significance of the term varies with locale. In Spain, mestizos are traditionally considered low class, mutts or half-breeds. In colonies like Mexico, Cuba or the Philippines, however, mestizos are the opposite: high class, fair-skinned and the image of beauty. Models in Filipino advertisements, for example, are almost exclusively mestizo.

Anyway, when it came time for him to pay their airport fees, I noticed the sign on the booth: "Airport Fee: 750 pesos or $18 US."

"I'd like to pay with U.S. dollars, please," said the American guy, as he handed the cashier four $20 bills.

"I'm sorry sir, but we do not have change," said the cashier.

I cringed. Here it comes, I thought.

"What? You don't have change?! How can you not have change if you're asking people to pay 18 dollars?! Obviously you must have change if some people pay exactly 18 dollars!"

The cashier shook her head apologetically.

The Filipina wife pulled her husband aside, to calm him down. "This is bullshit. Fucking third-world country," he grumbled.
Long-tail boat tour in Koh Yao Noi, Thailand
I had to agree with him. It was bullshit. The Filipino inside me was ashamed. The Canadian inside me knew the score. Once again my racial ambiguity, my cultural familiarity versus unfamiliarity, was playing tricks on me.

Images of Spanish conquistadors, Jose Rizal, American war generals, my immigrant grandmother and my white Canadian girlfriend flashed through my mind.

Good thing I had enough pesos left.

Allan Pulga is a freelance journalist from Regina, Saskatchewan. A graduate of the University of Regina School of Journalism, he has worked as a reporter in Saskatchewan, Ontario, Quebec and Senegal. He loves to travel and will eat anything.