We get off the train at KL Sentral train station, and go find food that I can hold down and Dominic will eat. Fast food fits the bill, so we find a place and drag our beaten up bags and carcasses, both of which are beginning to resemble each other after the train trip, slump the in a corner to eat. I decide to go get some things from a pharmacy, so upstairs we go finding a great big, multistory shopping mall is attached to the station. Confusion sets in for just a few seconds as I spy a mall cop, and ask him directions. Most people here speak even rudimentary English so communication is no problem. We get what we need, and then it's on the metro to the bus station. As our hotel is located near the bus station, we walk to the hotel which is on Petaling Street, a very famous shopping street where you can by any brand of knockoff product you want. The hawkers have catalogues full of product, with any style, make and colour you desire, of any item you could ask for. Carti-ish watches, Chan-esque hand bags, Micro-sorta software, Pana-sorta hardware, plus Nikely and Crock shoes, clothes by Dolce and Gibbon, and the latest music and movies, some even before they are released, all under an enormous covering with a very Chinese feel, as this is in Chinatown. I try for our whole stay in KL to find souvenirs which are indicative of Malaysia, and find that there really aren't any. The most Malaysian souvenirs really are cheap, fake product made in China.
A thought about Malay culture. It seems to me that because the country is so new, really only 50-odd years old, that there is no established Malay culture. It is made up of Chinese, Indian, Indonesian and British cultures mostly with smatterings of local island monarchies and hill tribes. It may take some time to become it's own entity. and the fact that I didn't see evidence of a written Malay language in use on official signage (the fact is that the Malay language is written using the english alphabet and the signage is a phonetic representation of the spoken Malay language) is proof of an emerging culture which has a way to go to becoming it's own animal. There are many things which can be bought that are made in Malaysia, various handicrafts like masks and cloth with patterns, but the masks are Thai, Indonesian or Indian in origin and the cloth patterns are the same.
The whole city is remarkably clean for a very big urban hub, and we look forward to seeing what it has to offer. My dear friend from way back when, Sarah, lives in Jakarta, Indonesia, so she comes out to hang with us for a couple of days. She looks great as always and we catch up on all the mutual goings-on, where our lives have taken us, and how we have grown as people. We drag her around to various temples, have a beverage and a meal or two and brave the markets looking for handbags and stuff. She kindly agrees to go where we go when we go, so we put her through our brand of tourism for a bit, and she keeps up, brave soul that she is. Siobhan's brother's friend, Paul, also lives in KL (such a very small world when you get out into it), so we go and have breakfast with he and his charming wife. Lots of good chat and laughs and then Paul has to go and Sarah has to go at the same time, as she needs to get home and get ready for her trip to Israel and Egypt. Given what's happening now in Israel, I hope she's OK. It was really nice to see her, even for a little bit, and great to meet Paul and his wife, but it's back to just our little family unit again.
We do notice that our hotel does have some very sparkly dressed women in very high heels coming and going quite frequently, and sometimes a few times in the same day. Then they just go and stand outside for a while. At all hours of the day and night. Hmmmm. We just didn't catch on at all for a few hours because we don't tend to stay at places that so overtly rent their rooms by the hour. It seems to be the same women too. Busy people.
So the days pass fairly quickly, just walking around the city, or as much of it as we can see in the short time we have. Conclusions are simply that it is an enormous, rapidly growing city, like most major cities in SE Asia, but the religious and cultural tolerance is a revelation. The prevalent religions are Buddhism, Hinduism, Islam and Christianity, and they all exist quite happily alongside each other. Culturally, the city is a mosaic of its origins, and because this is such a new country and all cultures must build the country together, everyone seems quite happy to be with each other, and to make the country an example and model to other countries. Perhaps I am naive, I have seen stickers calling for Sharia law to be installed in Penang by 2020, as it is in Wakaf Baru regarding family matters, but for the most part the tolerance is nothing short of wonderous. Burma calls.
Tuesday, July 29, 2014
Monday, July 28, 2014
Perhentian Islands
We left the Cameron Highlands a day early because we felt we had got all were going to from the area, and just wanted to move on. Our arrival on the Perhentians was less than auspicious again. After a white knuckle speedboat ride, we are dropped at a resort which we booked at the last minute after deciding to leave the Cameron highlands.
The first thing to greet us is not a welcoming smile or a beverage or even a hello. No, we are greeted by a dead rat being eaten by several dozen ants. I might have thought that the rat had died a natural death, and the ants were simply completing the circle of life, but the fact that the rat was half wrapped in a napkin put paid to that notion. We are not dissuaded, and sally forth to begin our trip to this island paradise. First a dip in the pool. Lovely water temperature. No hordes of screaming sunburnt British children, just well behaved tourists out for a swim. The little man wants into the kiddie pool, so over the little separating wall to the small pool, when my foot slips on something at the bottom of the pool. Algae an half an inch thick covers the floor and wall of the pool. Ugh. Ok. Out of the kiddie pool, back into the big boy pool and I will carry him around and get him kicking in the water. Bugs bugs and bugs go floating past. Super ugh. Then a family of French chavs arrive poolside and every one of them including the 12 year old boy in the wifebeater shirt and gold chain light up fags. Everyone out of the pool. Again I won't name the hotel, I won't give the staff a black eye because a few were not doing their job. The place itself is really nice and could be so much nicer with just a little effort. They wanted an awful lot of money for dinner, so we decide to walk a little way down the beach to see what the other places have and what they want for it. We find a diving based hotel which looks reasonable, and sit down. The boy amuses himself marching up and down the paving stones, while we wait a very long time for food to arrive. Eventually we are served and seconds after the skies open up. We move off the beach and sit closer to the little dive hut where we meet a very nice couple, a Lebanese man and a Japanese woman. They are here for the diving and the man talks about what he misses about home. It's a pretty common discussion, we talk about how regardless of how close to perfection this place is, the little things are lacking. He wants za'atar which is a Lebanese herb mix which they put in everything. Siobhan wants a nice, strong, hot cup of tea which is what she wants from every country except England and just can't seem to get it. As we chat the rain falls harder, and then the light show begins. Lightning forks down to the sea and thunder follows close behind, punctuating each strike. They get brighter and fiercer, causing the whole sky to seem purple and the thunder gets louder and the rain falls harder and the wind picks up making the rain fall sideways and then the lightning gets sharper and fiercer again making the whole thing seem like nature is trying very hard to impress and is winning. The next day we go to the place which we are actually booked into, on the next beach along. It is completely cut off from the other beaches making it seem like it is it's own tropical island, we can only reach it by boat. Yesterday's boat trip is still very fresh in Siobhan's mind, and her fears seem to be getting worse. She refuses to get into the little water taxi, which is just a little speed boat, so I have to go negotiate for a larger sturdier boat, and give explicit instructions to go slowly, an instruction which I have to give more frequently as our travels extend. I manage to arrange a slightly higher priced boat and we head off to Bubbles Dive Resort, which also doubles as a conservation effort for the turtles which nest on the beach. They will actually come wake you to watch the turtles come on shore to nest. Very cool thing which you just won't see many other places. The resort has got a hostel like feel, and the staff is actually made up of volunteers who exchange their efforts for free diving, so not the best in customer service, but a good try and a fair way to get to dive too. The beach is immediately noticeable for its fine, white, velvet soft sand, and some of the clearest water you are ever likely to see and on blue sky days, it reflects perfectly the colour, appearing to be perfect azure. Siobhan actually wanted to snorkel so badly, she ventured to submerge her face in the water, which I assure you never, never happens. The variety of fish is like looking into a tropical aquarium, so many colours and types of fish. Some are like little chihuahuas, they are small and territorial and not afraid of you and likely to nip when you get too close to their territory, which appears to be a small section of water right in front of the boat landing. I saw a small mantra ray swimming along the bottom of the shallow bay, it's wings rippling as it glided along the seabed. The most wonderful thing I saw under the water was a pair of blacktip reef sharks which were swimming remarkably close to the shore, perhaps no more than 75 feet away. These sharks are timid, and will only attack when very, very hungry, but with the amount of fish swimming in the area, there is simply no fear of that. They were just minding their business, gliding calmly through the water. I had been told by a very brown, leathery Frenchman earlier in the day that he had seen one while paddling around earlier that day, and I admit to having been just a little jealous. Then there they were. I knew that they were harmless, but still kept my distance, partly because I didn't want to scare them off and partly because they are SHARKS. I feel I should mention something. I have always maintained that the way we travel is to get in, see everything possible and get out. No time for lazing about, and certainly no time for tropical island paradises.(paradii?) Anyway, by the end of the first day, I was entertained but getting antsy, feeling we were wasting valuable sightseeing time, and frankly a little bored. I am used to the stress and speed of our brand of tourism. We had Three days. What exactly was I supposed to do for three days when I am bored by one. Day two comes, we go for breakfast. I should also mention that the resort does food in two different ways. One is a la carte and the other is a buffet. We decide that buffet would be fine, as there is one for every meal. Within an hour we are lamenting our choice as most everything on the buffet is not appealing, so I go talk to the manager, and he happily agrees to apply the money that I have paid towards our buffets for 3 days, towards a more a la carte type of ordering. Very pleasant, friendly and accomodating man. Breakfast the next day has us once again lamenting our choice, but I have already asked the manager to change once, so we stick with our choice, thinking that to ask again to change would make me a dick. Back to the truly fascinating story (if you are still reading this, it's your own fault). Breakfast comes and I can't stop staring at the water. I want in. My son wants in. Siobhan wants in. So in we go, and stay there all day. Dominic gets regular slatherings of SPF 50, and Siobhan and I put on the 30. By the end of the day Dominic, in his full swim costume, legionnaire style hat and layer of spray on armour is just fine, where as we are a somewhat unhealthy pink, but no pain. Next day, and not only do we want in the water, but now we don't want to leave. I can't imagine wanting to run around S E Asia when we could just do this for months. And why stop there? I could get a job teaching English, Siobhan could do the same or work as an economist or clean hotel rooms or organise trips for the pennypinching but lazy, and Dominic could grow up swimming in crystal clear water. Sigh. Last day, and I have woken up in the night with the urge to purge. A lot. And I do. Next morning I look how I feel; weak, ashen, sick and loose in the caboose. But it's time to go, so I strap the big bag on and head to the beach to heave it into the waiting boat. And Siobhan's bag. And the stroller. And The tent and Dominic's bag. Whuff. Retch. Boat. Gack. This happened on our last day in Jerusalem as well, so I'm thinking that I should stop going places I like, it just ends in tears. Sigh. The boat, while a little rough, is nowhere near as bad as it was on the way there, so everyone is relatively calm when we get asked for our tickets before we disembark. We search every square of every bag. No tickets. Sigh. 60 Ringgits later we are off the boat and after a quick trip to a chemist for some Imodium and a tinned carbonated beverage found in this part of the world called 100 Plus which is very good for replenishing lost liquids, but sadly tastes like it too, we are in a taxi to Wakaf Baru train station to catch an overnight train to Kuala Lumpur. Siobhan had investigated the trains in Malaysia and found that they are modern and very comfortable. As it happens this is accurate only on the coast opposite us. These are old and bumpy and unpleasant trains with lights that never dim during sleeping hours and people who come with their carts trying to sell you crisps at 2:30 and 4:30 in the morning. Sigh. On to KL.
The first thing to greet us is not a welcoming smile or a beverage or even a hello. No, we are greeted by a dead rat being eaten by several dozen ants. I might have thought that the rat had died a natural death, and the ants were simply completing the circle of life, but the fact that the rat was half wrapped in a napkin put paid to that notion. We are not dissuaded, and sally forth to begin our trip to this island paradise. First a dip in the pool. Lovely water temperature. No hordes of screaming sunburnt British children, just well behaved tourists out for a swim. The little man wants into the kiddie pool, so over the little separating wall to the small pool, when my foot slips on something at the bottom of the pool. Algae an half an inch thick covers the floor and wall of the pool. Ugh. Ok. Out of the kiddie pool, back into the big boy pool and I will carry him around and get him kicking in the water. Bugs bugs and bugs go floating past. Super ugh. Then a family of French chavs arrive poolside and every one of them including the 12 year old boy in the wifebeater shirt and gold chain light up fags. Everyone out of the pool. Again I won't name the hotel, I won't give the staff a black eye because a few were not doing their job. The place itself is really nice and could be so much nicer with just a little effort. They wanted an awful lot of money for dinner, so we decide to walk a little way down the beach to see what the other places have and what they want for it. We find a diving based hotel which looks reasonable, and sit down. The boy amuses himself marching up and down the paving stones, while we wait a very long time for food to arrive. Eventually we are served and seconds after the skies open up. We move off the beach and sit closer to the little dive hut where we meet a very nice couple, a Lebanese man and a Japanese woman. They are here for the diving and the man talks about what he misses about home. It's a pretty common discussion, we talk about how regardless of how close to perfection this place is, the little things are lacking. He wants za'atar which is a Lebanese herb mix which they put in everything. Siobhan wants a nice, strong, hot cup of tea which is what she wants from every country except England and just can't seem to get it. As we chat the rain falls harder, and then the light show begins. Lightning forks down to the sea and thunder follows close behind, punctuating each strike. They get brighter and fiercer, causing the whole sky to seem purple and the thunder gets louder and the rain falls harder and the wind picks up making the rain fall sideways and then the lightning gets sharper and fiercer again making the whole thing seem like nature is trying very hard to impress and is winning. The next day we go to the place which we are actually booked into, on the next beach along. It is completely cut off from the other beaches making it seem like it is it's own tropical island, we can only reach it by boat. Yesterday's boat trip is still very fresh in Siobhan's mind, and her fears seem to be getting worse. She refuses to get into the little water taxi, which is just a little speed boat, so I have to go negotiate for a larger sturdier boat, and give explicit instructions to go slowly, an instruction which I have to give more frequently as our travels extend. I manage to arrange a slightly higher priced boat and we head off to Bubbles Dive Resort, which also doubles as a conservation effort for the turtles which nest on the beach. They will actually come wake you to watch the turtles come on shore to nest. Very cool thing which you just won't see many other places. The resort has got a hostel like feel, and the staff is actually made up of volunteers who exchange their efforts for free diving, so not the best in customer service, but a good try and a fair way to get to dive too. The beach is immediately noticeable for its fine, white, velvet soft sand, and some of the clearest water you are ever likely to see and on blue sky days, it reflects perfectly the colour, appearing to be perfect azure. Siobhan actually wanted to snorkel so badly, she ventured to submerge her face in the water, which I assure you never, never happens. The variety of fish is like looking into a tropical aquarium, so many colours and types of fish. Some are like little chihuahuas, they are small and territorial and not afraid of you and likely to nip when you get too close to their territory, which appears to be a small section of water right in front of the boat landing. I saw a small mantra ray swimming along the bottom of the shallow bay, it's wings rippling as it glided along the seabed. The most wonderful thing I saw under the water was a pair of blacktip reef sharks which were swimming remarkably close to the shore, perhaps no more than 75 feet away. These sharks are timid, and will only attack when very, very hungry, but with the amount of fish swimming in the area, there is simply no fear of that. They were just minding their business, gliding calmly through the water. I had been told by a very brown, leathery Frenchman earlier in the day that he had seen one while paddling around earlier that day, and I admit to having been just a little jealous. Then there they were. I knew that they were harmless, but still kept my distance, partly because I didn't want to scare them off and partly because they are SHARKS. I feel I should mention something. I have always maintained that the way we travel is to get in, see everything possible and get out. No time for lazing about, and certainly no time for tropical island paradises.(paradii?) Anyway, by the end of the first day, I was entertained but getting antsy, feeling we were wasting valuable sightseeing time, and frankly a little bored. I am used to the stress and speed of our brand of tourism. We had Three days. What exactly was I supposed to do for three days when I am bored by one. Day two comes, we go for breakfast. I should also mention that the resort does food in two different ways. One is a la carte and the other is a buffet. We decide that buffet would be fine, as there is one for every meal. Within an hour we are lamenting our choice as most everything on the buffet is not appealing, so I go talk to the manager, and he happily agrees to apply the money that I have paid towards our buffets for 3 days, towards a more a la carte type of ordering. Very pleasant, friendly and accomodating man. Breakfast the next day has us once again lamenting our choice, but I have already asked the manager to change once, so we stick with our choice, thinking that to ask again to change would make me a dick. Back to the truly fascinating story (if you are still reading this, it's your own fault). Breakfast comes and I can't stop staring at the water. I want in. My son wants in. Siobhan wants in. So in we go, and stay there all day. Dominic gets regular slatherings of SPF 50, and Siobhan and I put on the 30. By the end of the day Dominic, in his full swim costume, legionnaire style hat and layer of spray on armour is just fine, where as we are a somewhat unhealthy pink, but no pain. Next day, and not only do we want in the water, but now we don't want to leave. I can't imagine wanting to run around S E Asia when we could just do this for months. And why stop there? I could get a job teaching English, Siobhan could do the same or work as an economist or clean hotel rooms or organise trips for the pennypinching but lazy, and Dominic could grow up swimming in crystal clear water. Sigh. Last day, and I have woken up in the night with the urge to purge. A lot. And I do. Next morning I look how I feel; weak, ashen, sick and loose in the caboose. But it's time to go, so I strap the big bag on and head to the beach to heave it into the waiting boat. And Siobhan's bag. And the stroller. And The tent and Dominic's bag. Whuff. Retch. Boat. Gack. This happened on our last day in Jerusalem as well, so I'm thinking that I should stop going places I like, it just ends in tears. Sigh. The boat, while a little rough, is nowhere near as bad as it was on the way there, so everyone is relatively calm when we get asked for our tickets before we disembark. We search every square of every bag. No tickets. Sigh. 60 Ringgits later we are off the boat and after a quick trip to a chemist for some Imodium and a tinned carbonated beverage found in this part of the world called 100 Plus which is very good for replenishing lost liquids, but sadly tastes like it too, we are in a taxi to Wakaf Baru train station to catch an overnight train to Kuala Lumpur. Siobhan had investigated the trains in Malaysia and found that they are modern and very comfortable. As it happens this is accurate only on the coast opposite us. These are old and bumpy and unpleasant trains with lights that never dim during sleeping hours and people who come with their carts trying to sell you crisps at 2:30 and 4:30 in the morning. Sigh. On to KL.
Saturday, July 12, 2014
Cameron Highlands
One of the main problems with guerilla tourism is that you're never really in one place long enough to really get a good feel for a place or get a good read on the people, to figure out what they are all about, how they live and what they know and like about where they live. That being said, another day or two would have been great.
The highlands are as advertised, the highest point in Malaysia. The jungle is thick and lush and verdant, covering every available square inch of land. The road up to the town of Tanah Rata where we stayed is about the most winding stretch of road I have ever been on, almost falling off my seat several times. As we approached the town, we noticed that the jungle had been replaced by long plastic snakes, which after being told that the Highlands were famous for strawberries, we realised were enormous strawberry farms that occupy most of the land surrounding the towns in the highlands.
Tanah Rata was much like any other small town you could find anywhere in the world, but the majority of the food stalls don't open until sunset, as it is Ramadan and the Muslim world, of which much of Malaysia is, fasts until sundown for a month. The town, again like much of the world is gripped by world cup fever, so every cafe and bar and shop with a TV is broadcasting either a game or a highlight show at top volume, with competition from Malay pop music and Koran recitations pumping out of loudspeakers, and drive by advertising for the latest Bollywood film. Then of course the restaurant we chose had not only the football, but a one man band who figured himself the Malay Carlos Santana. No, seriously. We depart before Black Magic Woman hits it's stride. Quite a cacophony.
The daytime is much quieter, and lends itself to taking a tour of the more low key sights, such as the strawberry farm, where they suggest you might want to go pick your own for a small price, an apiary (bee farm) where you might want to try the two types of honey from the two types of bees, one of which is smaller than a housefly, is stingless, and produces a honey reminiscent of molasses, for a small price, a rose garden who's entrance fee goes to the cultivation of the flowers and is filled with all manner of beautiful and exotic flowers, and roses with a such a divine scent, it makes you think the smell is sprayed on, there is the butterfly farm, housing some of the most gorgeous breeds of butterfly I have ever seen, plus some other bugs which give me the Wiggins, and of course the tea plantation, still owned by the same Scottish family since it's founding in the 1930's. There are treks through what they refer to as the mossy forest, which is just a higher elevation jungle, and a hike up to Malaysia's highest point which is now topped by a telecom tower. All of nature's wonders laid bare and still relatively unspoiled.
The tea plants look like that plant with the flat green leaves which sat in everyone's from room and no one actually knows what it was called, and collectively, the way they wind slowly across the landscape in very tight bushes makes you think you are looking at a thick green carpet. I didn't get to take the tour of the tea factory because my boy needed a wee at the same time as the tour was starting and the toilets were at the other of the facility, and the tour took all of five minutes anyway, but apparently the same machinery as was used in the '30's is still used today. A very simple process which brings a life sustaining fluid to millions of Brits the world over.
The negatives are few and mostly pertaing to the hotel, no breakfast, no laundry, comical internet, no TV, weak tea, a French person runs the place, all minor complaints which add up to enforced self sufficiency. Not a big problem and more cost effective in the end, but in the same way that the rose garden sold no rose related products, they are missing a trick, I think. We leave a day early as we have seen what we think we have come to see, and board a minibus to the Perhentians Islands. Stay tuned. Or not. Whatever.
The highlands are as advertised, the highest point in Malaysia. The jungle is thick and lush and verdant, covering every available square inch of land. The road up to the town of Tanah Rata where we stayed is about the most winding stretch of road I have ever been on, almost falling off my seat several times. As we approached the town, we noticed that the jungle had been replaced by long plastic snakes, which after being told that the Highlands were famous for strawberries, we realised were enormous strawberry farms that occupy most of the land surrounding the towns in the highlands.
Tanah Rata was much like any other small town you could find anywhere in the world, but the majority of the food stalls don't open until sunset, as it is Ramadan and the Muslim world, of which much of Malaysia is, fasts until sundown for a month. The town, again like much of the world is gripped by world cup fever, so every cafe and bar and shop with a TV is broadcasting either a game or a highlight show at top volume, with competition from Malay pop music and Koran recitations pumping out of loudspeakers, and drive by advertising for the latest Bollywood film. Then of course the restaurant we chose had not only the football, but a one man band who figured himself the Malay Carlos Santana. No, seriously. We depart before Black Magic Woman hits it's stride. Quite a cacophony.
The daytime is much quieter, and lends itself to taking a tour of the more low key sights, such as the strawberry farm, where they suggest you might want to go pick your own for a small price, an apiary (bee farm) where you might want to try the two types of honey from the two types of bees, one of which is smaller than a housefly, is stingless, and produces a honey reminiscent of molasses, for a small price, a rose garden who's entrance fee goes to the cultivation of the flowers and is filled with all manner of beautiful and exotic flowers, and roses with a such a divine scent, it makes you think the smell is sprayed on, there is the butterfly farm, housing some of the most gorgeous breeds of butterfly I have ever seen, plus some other bugs which give me the Wiggins, and of course the tea plantation, still owned by the same Scottish family since it's founding in the 1930's. There are treks through what they refer to as the mossy forest, which is just a higher elevation jungle, and a hike up to Malaysia's highest point which is now topped by a telecom tower. All of nature's wonders laid bare and still relatively unspoiled.
The tea plants look like that plant with the flat green leaves which sat in everyone's from room and no one actually knows what it was called, and collectively, the way they wind slowly across the landscape in very tight bushes makes you think you are looking at a thick green carpet. I didn't get to take the tour of the tea factory because my boy needed a wee at the same time as the tour was starting and the toilets were at the other of the facility, and the tour took all of five minutes anyway, but apparently the same machinery as was used in the '30's is still used today. A very simple process which brings a life sustaining fluid to millions of Brits the world over.
The negatives are few and mostly pertaing to the hotel, no breakfast, no laundry, comical internet, no TV, weak tea, a French person runs the place, all minor complaints which add up to enforced self sufficiency. Not a big problem and more cost effective in the end, but in the same way that the rose garden sold no rose related products, they are missing a trick, I think. We leave a day early as we have seen what we think we have come to see, and board a minibus to the Perhentians Islands. Stay tuned. Or not. Whatever.
Tuesday, July 1, 2014
Penang, malaysia
It's hot. Really hot. And humid. The air is hot and thick and makes you want to lie down and not move until it rains which is the only time you're going to get a break from the hot. I have tried very hard to be descriptive without being rude, but I have swass. That is short for swamp ass. That means that the contents of my shorts are hot and wet and getting even less of a break from the heat because of their locale. I apologise for that, but there is a cost to being a tropical part of the world, and a sweaty crack is that price.
Moving on.
The old part of Penang is a world heritage site called Georgetown, full of old colonial style buildings with street names like Carnarvon and Stewart. It seems a little dilapidated, there's not been much in the way of upkeep in these Asian cities, with the emphasis on building new rather that repairing old. That being said, there is a small portion of Georgetown dedicated to religious harmony, aptly named Harmony Street. Mosque and Hindu temple sit peacefully next to a Chinese temple dedicated to the old gods and still frequented by the locals and tourists alike, little India is one street over with accurate replication of India itself, the noise and music, the incense and food smells, the shops with clothes and kitchen implements and religious pictures and icons and and and. The only thing missing is a cow and smell of diesel and urine and the combination of animal and human effluence.
Night in Georgetown brings a completely different atmosphere, one where you could imagine yourself in a hip capital city, with it's cafés and food stalls, smells and sights and lights transform a tourist haven into a cool urban centre, somewhere to see and be seen. The streets are nowhere near as busy, meaning that people congregate, walking freely down the streets. To be fair, they do anyway, it's just easier going at night. We didn't really venture into the newer sections of the city, honestly new holds very little interest for us. Maybe we didn't give the rest of the place a chance, but we have 3 days to see the place, and a little boy who is just not interested in what time you went to bed or what you were doing to keep you up that late. He knows what time breakfast is, and he feels that we should too. We quit drinking when we found out Dominic was on his way, so now there's not much reason to frequent the bars and clubs. There is the occasional tug from a part of the brain that remembers my days as a Viking, but that part doesn't say much for long. The reason we can afford to travel is because we don't drink or smoke or go out for dinner or movies or gigs or football matches or clubs or dogfights or underground bare knuckle bouts. We travel, and that's about it. Very strange to think how much my priorities have changed. Once upon a time I thought a good life was getting drunk with friends, barbeques and backyard fire pits. No thoughts to a wider world, and I didn't care overly. The world was bigger than I cared to think about, so I didn't think about it. Every new place I go, the world shrinks just a little. I understand people a little better and cultural differences are just that. Differences. Not insurmountable hurdles, just differences. Sometimes there are things I don't get, some political moves or religious ideologies which make ordinary people do things they wouldn't ordinarily do in the name of a cause I can't get behind. But for the most part, people are just trying to achieve the same goals that I am. Live well, love your family, keep those around you that you trust and know who you don't. Do a good turn knowing that no one may do it back, but that's not why you did it. Work hard in your own way, try to enjoy what you do. Be remembered for the lives you touched and die painlessly.
I don't know exactly how much of this I can apply to my day to day life, as I don't actually like people that much, I trust basically no one, and I don't even like massages because I don't like being touched. I think the philosophy is sound still.
I have strayed. Penang is groovy. There is still more to see, and I look forward to seeing it. We are headed to the Cameron Highlands in a day or two, so more when we get there.
Moving on.
The old part of Penang is a world heritage site called Georgetown, full of old colonial style buildings with street names like Carnarvon and Stewart. It seems a little dilapidated, there's not been much in the way of upkeep in these Asian cities, with the emphasis on building new rather that repairing old. That being said, there is a small portion of Georgetown dedicated to religious harmony, aptly named Harmony Street. Mosque and Hindu temple sit peacefully next to a Chinese temple dedicated to the old gods and still frequented by the locals and tourists alike, little India is one street over with accurate replication of India itself, the noise and music, the incense and food smells, the shops with clothes and kitchen implements and religious pictures and icons and and and. The only thing missing is a cow and smell of diesel and urine and the combination of animal and human effluence.
Night in Georgetown brings a completely different atmosphere, one where you could imagine yourself in a hip capital city, with it's cafés and food stalls, smells and sights and lights transform a tourist haven into a cool urban centre, somewhere to see and be seen. The streets are nowhere near as busy, meaning that people congregate, walking freely down the streets. To be fair, they do anyway, it's just easier going at night. We didn't really venture into the newer sections of the city, honestly new holds very little interest for us. Maybe we didn't give the rest of the place a chance, but we have 3 days to see the place, and a little boy who is just not interested in what time you went to bed or what you were doing to keep you up that late. He knows what time breakfast is, and he feels that we should too. We quit drinking when we found out Dominic was on his way, so now there's not much reason to frequent the bars and clubs. There is the occasional tug from a part of the brain that remembers my days as a Viking, but that part doesn't say much for long. The reason we can afford to travel is because we don't drink or smoke or go out for dinner or movies or gigs or football matches or clubs or dogfights or underground bare knuckle bouts. We travel, and that's about it. Very strange to think how much my priorities have changed. Once upon a time I thought a good life was getting drunk with friends, barbeques and backyard fire pits. No thoughts to a wider world, and I didn't care overly. The world was bigger than I cared to think about, so I didn't think about it. Every new place I go, the world shrinks just a little. I understand people a little better and cultural differences are just that. Differences. Not insurmountable hurdles, just differences. Sometimes there are things I don't get, some political moves or religious ideologies which make ordinary people do things they wouldn't ordinarily do in the name of a cause I can't get behind. But for the most part, people are just trying to achieve the same goals that I am. Live well, love your family, keep those around you that you trust and know who you don't. Do a good turn knowing that no one may do it back, but that's not why you did it. Work hard in your own way, try to enjoy what you do. Be remembered for the lives you touched and die painlessly.
I don't know exactly how much of this I can apply to my day to day life, as I don't actually like people that much, I trust basically no one, and I don't even like massages because I don't like being touched. I think the philosophy is sound still.
I have strayed. Penang is groovy. There is still more to see, and I look forward to seeing it. We are headed to the Cameron Highlands in a day or two, so more when we get there.
durian
In nature, the are many signs given off by plants warning you to stay away, and not touch and most certainly not eat. Spikes all over are a plant's way of trying to prevent an animal from touching it, and a tough outer skin to prevent an animal from easily accessing the contents of the fruit. Once the flesh is accessed, if you are hungry enough and have managed to overcome the obviously unwelcoming spikes, the next sense to be assaulted is the sense of sight. If the fruit looks like a slug-penis thing made of over-ripe mango, you should very likely not want to eat it. If the the sight of slugcock does not make you think that nature is trying very hard to tell you something important, there is the smell.
Ah the smell. If you have heard about this fruit at all, you have likely heard about the smell of durian, that public transport will not allow you on with durian, or that hotels won't let you through the front door with it, never mind let you in your room with it, that it is a colossally revolting stench that will make you want to pull your own face out through your anus, just to smell something nicer, that sort of thing. It's all really quite true.
My question is this: after being shown this truly awe-inspiring display of natural defences, all of which quite clearly is designed to ward you off. My description of the smell of rotting sweet fruit, vomit and decomposing flesh. Do you now think to yourself "I wonder how it tastes"?. Of course you do. It tastes like very sweet petrol soaked mango. Many will tell you it is quite a mild flavour. Compared to the smell, I suppose that is true. It is an appalling fruit in most every sense.
Nature is trying it's best to tell you to stay away. Listen to nature. It knows best.
Ah the smell. If you have heard about this fruit at all, you have likely heard about the smell of durian, that public transport will not allow you on with durian, or that hotels won't let you through the front door with it, never mind let you in your room with it, that it is a colossally revolting stench that will make you want to pull your own face out through your anus, just to smell something nicer, that sort of thing. It's all really quite true.
My question is this: after being shown this truly awe-inspiring display of natural defences, all of which quite clearly is designed to ward you off. My description of the smell of rotting sweet fruit, vomit and decomposing flesh. Do you now think to yourself "I wonder how it tastes"?. Of course you do. It tastes like very sweet petrol soaked mango. Many will tell you it is quite a mild flavour. Compared to the smell, I suppose that is true. It is an appalling fruit in most every sense.
Nature is trying it's best to tell you to stay away. Listen to nature. It knows best.
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