Thought it was time to write something before the memory of the past
2 months evaporates. I’ve just been vacuuming the walls. We never
vacuum the floor, just the walls.
Veronica and I have always felt that everyone in Penang is a bit ‘not quite
properly’. Lately we have been having a few sneaking suspicions about
ourselves.

Our time in the restaurant game as indentured Coolies finally ended,
despite Raj, the Nepalese front man, not returning to Malaysia as planned.
Instead he turned up on my Facebook page with a wife. He didn’t look too
happy in the photo, so I assume some wanna-be grand parents hijacked
his career and put him out to stud in the boondocks of Nepal.

The majority of local Chinese speak Hokkien.
Penang Hokkien would have to be the easiest language on earth to learn.
It’s a dialect, so there is no written account and all words are just variations
of an aspirated sound. Meaning is discerned by how far apart the lips are
and how much hot air comes out. Some words are pronounced through
the nose ( like Australian ).
Hokkien is also a tonal language.
So ‘Aaaah’ ( rising tone ) means ‘what?’
‘Aaaah’ ( falling tone ) means ‘I agree.’
‘Aaah’ ( flat tone, quick aspiration and more hot air ) means ‘displeasure.’
‘Aaaah’  ( falling/rising tone ) means ‘confused.’
That’s it. Easy Aaah? ( flat/rising tone ).

Penangites don’t walk anywhere, they drive. If they have to visit a friend
who lives next door, they drive there. If they go for lunch around the
corner, they drive.
A friend had to walk for 3 minutes from her shop to where her car was
parked, then drive for 20 minutes around a difficult one-way road system,
find a park, then walk another minute to her destination, which in the
end was actually just a 2 minute walk from her shop. That’s absolutely true.
Penang people are astonishing.

A South African friend of ours has been working as an extra in the
upcoming 10 part BBC drama series, Indian Summers. This high budget
production, filmed entirely in Penang, is a love story set in  India during
the 1930s as it wrestles for its independence from Britain.
Our friend John is something of a comedian. During the shooting of one
very serious scene, the extras had to mill around behind the main actors
and ‘rhubarb rhubarb’ to each other. John decided to be a bit more
innovative and muttered in a low voice about how he couldn’t wait to
get home and take his wife’s panties off. This received a few muffled
sniggers.
Cut cut.
The scene restarts and he immediately continues by saying that the
panties were actually the frilly lace variety. More sniggers.
Cut cut.
Take 3:
” I can’t wait to take them off, they’re really starting to chaff my thighs”.
The whole set burst out laughing.
Cut Cut.

In another scene he was a policeman wearing a Pith hat. He was standing
guard on the third step of a staircase as the main actor came down the
stairs. John’s role was to turn around and say ‘good morning sir’, as he
passed. He turned ok but the brow of his pith hat butted the brow of
Henry Lloyd-Hughes’ hat ( Harry Potter, The Inbetweeners ) and knocked
him clean off the stairs.
Cut Cut.

This morning I reluctantly got out of my nice cold shower to answer the
phone. It’s a friend.  He tells me it’s 9 degrees celsius in Melbourne.
I am left in little doubt as to what we are doing here in Penang.
“How was your trip to Sri Lanka”, he asks.
Well …………

Our tour of Sri Lanka began in Colombo. Airport arrivals had an unusual
array of duty free shops. Instead of selling cigarettes, alcohol, cameras
and chocolates, there were just rows of tired, 1960’s style shops flogging
old fridges and air conditioners.

Colombo wakes up each morning with a pounding hangover. It’s busy,
noisy and choking on diesel vomit . It’s a sprawling tangle for the
embattled populace to navigate as they dutifully clog all major arteries
leading to it’s tired Colonial heart.
The area of Colombo known as Pettah is like a mini New Delhi. Chaotic
streets full of wholesalers distributing their wares by hand-cart or loading
brightly painted wooden trucks. There’s no room to move as you get
swept along on this river of noisy humanity, horns blaring, gridlocked
traffic, shouting, spitting, sweaty bodies stripped to the waist posing for
photos and laughing. ” Sir, take a picture of the monkeys.” Lots of giggles.
A group of workers catch us, ” Take picture of us too. 2015 calendar.”
More giggles.
Colombo is worth the stop, if only to visit Pettah.

I’ve heard several people question the logic of God’s creation.
“Why would she create mosquitos? What good are they to anyone or
anything?”
Well, I can think of two good reasons.
The lavae provide a considerable food stock for fish and, without
mosquitos, I would have a lot less to write about.

There appears to be two kinds of mosquito in Sri Lanka.
Little ones who bite a lot and big ones who need to be cleared for
landing by the Colombo Control Tower before feeding can commence.
The latter is less of a problem because they’re easier to track than a
Malaysian Airlines flight.
Insect repellent is completely ineffective in Sri Lanka. This is a land of
spicy curries, so mosquito repellent is like a much revered chilli sauce
to the local breed.

Kandy was the place I had reserved my highest expectations for.
It certainly delivered but not in a way we expected. ( Lucky I don’t have
to run this dribble passed an Editor ).
We stayed at the most delightful homestay with our host, Lillian.
It was so much fun that we didn’t  explore Kandy city as much as we’d
planned. We swapped the bustling back streets for afternoon tea on
Lillian’s front lawn, significant temples for 18 holes of golf and an
evening of cultural dance for an episode of Australian My Kitchen
Rules on Lillian’s TV. Never mind, I’m sure we’ll go back there again
one day.

Hapatule is a tea growing area completely devoid of tourist infrastructure.
We loved it. Staying at a Colonial Planters Bungalow, the wooden flooring
and walls creaked like the hull of an old ship bobbing snuggly on an
endless ocean of tea.
According to the guest book, we were the first people to stay there for
over a month. The staff consisted of a Manager, a Chef, a Gardener and
Baggage Handler/ Maintenance man. After checking in to the homestead,
a bone-jarring tuk tuk ride ferried us back into town. We immediately
conspired to walk back later, politely declining the driver’s offer of a
discounted return package.
Apart from the odd modern vehicle, the town appeared to be essentially
unchanged in over 100 years. Betel nut sellers and wine merchants
accounted for about fifty percent of the retail outlets. No wonder everyone
appeared more spaced out than a city full of Facebook zombies. The
balance of traders were fruit sellers, ayurvedic medicine shops, tractor
parts, flower stalls, local cafes selling food a white man could never eat
and butchers selling meat that a white man would die after eating.
Very friendly, lots of smiles and not a single offer to enrich our existence
by becoming separated from any of our money.
When we left Hapatule, the staff lined up on the lawn in front of the
bungalow to wave us off as we rode away in our tuk tuk. The image of
them standing there waving, the cook in all his finery with his chef’s hat
perfectly bleached and starched, standing next to the Tamil gardener,
barefoot and wearing a sarong, etched itself on my mind as yet another
priceless travel memory.

The rail journey from Hapatule to Ella took about 2 hours. After arriving
at the station I handed the ticket clerk 1,000 rupees ( about AUD9 ) and
asked for two tickets. He just shook his head, indicating that there was
no way he could change such a huge amount. Veronica waited at the
station while I jumped back in the tuk tuk and headed into town to find
a bank. Mission completed, the tickets finished up costing us the princely
sum of 20 cents each.
The train consisted of two, 3rd class carriages. No glass windows or doors,
just gaps in the carriage sides to lean out of. We literally had to jump off
the platform and onto the tracks to scramble across 3 sets of rails to reach
the old wood burner. I just couldn’t wipe the smile from my face. This was
like going back in time. Above the front seat an antique sign read,
‘reserved for clergy’.

Ella is a spectacular place. Breath-taking views, dramatic waterfalls and
lush jungle. It’s also a town completely saturated with tourist
infrastructure.

Tips for visiting Sri Lanka. Travel by rail as much as you can, always
third class. In the high country, stay in Hapatule instead of the hugely
popular Ella. Avoid the Lonely Planet as much as possible.
Eat as much buffalo curd and treacle as your liver can handle.

This next paragraph runs the risk of falling into the ‘too much
information’ category but hell, I traded in vanity for reality when my
hair and teeth started falling out 30 years ago.
On the subject of trains, my digestive system could typically be
compared to the Tokyo Subway. Departure times are as regular as
Swiss clockwork. Sri Lanka has been something of a paradigm shift.
8 Express trains leave on a Monday and then for the remainder of
the week only the occasional Goods train shunts out. By the weekend
it’s like New York Central again. Sri Lankan curries are delicious but
obviously take some adjusting to.

We rounded out our 12 nights in Sri Lanka with a 2 night stay in Tissa,
with a morning safari into Yala National Park. We even saw a leopard,
apparently. Sure enough, when Veronica zoomed into the photos on
her digital camera, there it was. We did see a leopard!
Our last 3 nights were spent in Galle. The Fort is beautifully preserved
but devoid of any local life.  Tourism has burnt out it’s soul. I wonder
how much longer George Town can withstand the scourge of the
mindless looking for ‘heritage’ murals to photograph themselves next
to, as they make peace signs and pout for their Facebook friends.
Sorry, I’m getting old and grumpy.
“Not much point in going into that 150 year old temple, it doesn’t
have a mural of cat doing kungfu painted on the wall”.

The role of every bus and tuk tuk driver in Sri Lanka, is to get their
vehicle in front of every other vehicle. Getting from A to B safely,
is a minor consideration.

I have to confess to a degree of political incorrectness. Perhaps a
more apt definition of this short-coming would be to say that my
DNA carries a recessive Benny Hill gene.
While travelling on one of the aforementioned kamikaze buses,
we passed a town on the south coast of Sri Lanka called Dick Wella
and it’s main attraction was a blowhole, Veronica had to slap me
for getting too silly. This descent into churlish behaviour can possibly
be attributed to a recent revelation made by my mother, that I have
a relative called Dick Cox. I swear that’s true.

Our taxi driver from Maharagama to the airport was a jolly little
chap. There was constant conversation. 93 minutes of it, to be
precise. We didn’t contribute much. Sometimes our driver was
talking and sometimes ‘his Buddha was talking’.
His phone rang. He answered it and chatted briefly in English to
the caller.
“That was an Indian Doctor I met last year”, he informed us.
“He is an old man. About your age sir”, eyeing me in the mirror.
I asked him why his taxi service is called Kangaroo Cabs.
He explained how his taxi hops all over Colombo with the passengers
held safely inside, just like baby kangaroos in a pouch.
Veronica let out a little “Ooh” – how sweet.
He appeared to be pleased with himself for being so smart and
soliciting such warm emotions from intellectually challenged
Westerners ( now there’s a tautology from the Asian perspective ).
He loved cricket. Civilised cricket. Not this 20/20 money grab
nonsense. Real cricket, Test cricket. Jolly good shot Watson. Bravo.
He liked English crowds. Not the Indians and Sri Lankans who jump
around and scream throughout the entire game. No, he liked the
English crowds. They sit quietly. When something exciting happens
and they stand up and clap, then they sit down. “They stand up,
they sit down”, he repeated with hand movements to emphasis the
return to calm.
He decided to teach us Sinhalese.
“Now repeat after me ………”
He offered to drive us all around Sri Lanka next time we came to
his country. I have no doubt that we would be fluent in the local
language by journey’s end but I’m not sure that that would be
enough incentive to spend 2 weeks in his pouch.
We reached the airport and hopped out of his cab feeling exhausted.

At Colombo Airport I attempted to buy a block of Cadburys Chocolate
for the upcoming flight. It had a US$5 sticker on it. I tried to pay in
the local currency, rupees.
“Sorry sir, we only take US dollars.”
“You mean I have to change my Sri Lankan rupees to US dollars to
buy something in Sri Lanka?”
“Yes sir.”
And I thought Malaysia had the copyright on such anomalies.

We realised that our peaceful holiday in Sri Lanka was at an end
when the Air Asia plane taxied along the runway for take off and
the incessant chatter of the first Chinese we’d seen in two weeks
completely drowned out the safety presentation.
Has there ever been a race of people more obsessed with itself?
The Great Wall is little more than a cool backdrop for a selfie.
The only reason most Chinese visit tourist attractions is to have
somewhere new or famous to photograph themselves.

Finally, some pearls from Lotus Bud:

Sitting in a French Restaurant inside Galle Fort, my girlie, soaking
up the ambience, looking all around the room, when –
” You know, I think the only thing that’s French about this place is
the French Fries.”

Browsing in a bookshop recently and spying a glossy book on
Chinese Kongsis –
” That would be a lovely coffee table book …….. if only we had a
coffee table.”

And finally, on the subject of our intention to do some historical
research in Penang, with a view to writing a book –
” We should do European history in Penang. Chinese culture and
history is all hocus pocus, at least British history is real.”

I’m not touching that one.