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.

Veronica and I have been back in our second home for a little over 3 weeks now.
It’s hot, damn hot.
Each day starts out sunny, gets searingly hot by midday, clouds over during the
afternoon and then we get a massive thunderstorm at night. The rain is torrential
and we’re often on duty with a mop and bucket as the house struggles to cope
with the flow of water.
It’s the tropics and it’s wonderful.

We are mostly proud to be Aussie’s abroad but there are times when you do
cringe a tad when a fellow countryman flies the flag at half mast. Take for example
the happy chappy from north Queensland who was sitting a few seats in front of
us on the flight coming over.
As he exited the plane he asked the Malay steward what he reckoned was the best
beer in Penang. Might as well have asked him what’s the best place to buy pork in
town, mate.

In the wake of the MH370 disappearance, there are now more stringent security
measures in place at all Malaysian airports. You have to scan your bags as you
exit the airport as well as when you enter.
When we arrived in Penang we were stuck in a long queue trying to get out of the
baggage area, so we decided to test the stereotypical Malay approach to everything
and assume that they really don’t give a shit. So we pulled out of the queue, circled
the long line of weary travellers and just walked straight out. If the guys in dark blue
uniforms noticed, they weren’t about to make any effort to stop us. Out we went
with our 5 kg of high grade heroin and 10 kg of plastic explosives.

It’s not that we don’t like Melbourne, we do but there is a predictability about daily
life. The gap between expectation and outcome is typically narrow. Not so with
Penang, where almost anything can happen.
Take for example our first 2 hours back here. Before we had even unpacked, I
secured a part-time job as a Barman while Veronica is not only about to start work
as a Waitress, she’s also landed a part in a movie.
All without any intention and before we’d bought our first pint of milk. Gotta love
this place.

We went to a birthday party two weeks ago. Most of Penang was also there. It was
Buddha’s birthday, otherwise known as Vesak Day. They have a big parade with
brightly lit floats powered by huge generators trailing behind on trucks with electric
umbilical cords. People march proudly with banners or in uniform, sometimes
chanting or singing, while the more stoic members of each troupe assume the
important role of urging the rows of onlookers to step back a pace or two.
It’s an eclectic, chaotic blend of percussive crashing, chanting, lambent pink lotus
and fairy light buddhas. You can’t help but get swept along on this river of raw
energy, however tacky the expression or profane your own contention.

We started the night as static onlookers but unwittingly finished up as part of the
parade. It was never our intention, we were trying to leave the area but there was
just no chance to escape.  So we marched along and waved like half-baked loonies
at the confused crowds who lined the sidewalks. Eventually we slipped through a
gap in the crowd and into a Buddhist temple that looked like it had been modelled
on Disneyland.
The sign said to remove your shoes if you wish to enter. Some guy in flip flops with
hawker shorts, grubby shirt and a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, shuffled up
to us and ordered that we place our shoes in a pot plant. Considering that the other
200 people who were already inside the temple had spread their foot wear out on
the ground either side of the first step, I asked him why we had to put our shoes in
a pot plant.
He muttered something about people being stupid. I’m not sure if he meant us
specifically or the rest of humanity.
” They will steal your shoes, ” he added.
Veronica and I both looked at our nondescript thongs and then at the range of foot
wear laid out on the ground  and wondered what was so special about our rubber
clobber.
” You must put them here ,” he insisted, patting the edge of the pot plant.
We figured it was like the street drunks who collect a dollar for helping you to park
your car.
We were parking our thongs.
So we put our thongs in the pot plant and then walked past all the shoes belonging
to the great unwashed and into the temple.
When we came out a security guard was standing on point duty, protecting the
pot plant and it’s valuable cargo.
No money changed hands, just a warm, knowing smile for a job well done.

As mentioned earlier, we are now working full time at a busy Restaurant in the
heart of town.
That means midday to 10.30 pm, with a 3 hour break from 3 – 6 pm. Veronica is
the pretty waitress soliciting orders, conveying meals and tapping the till. I am
front-of-house, boring customers with bad jokes and serving them dodgy drinks.
We are essentially singing for our supper, it’s not really a ‘get rich quick’ scheme.
This situation evolved courtesy of the incumbent maitre de going back to Nepal
for a 4 week holiday.
Raj began work here 3 years ago, without a word of English or any restaurant
experience. His development as a professional restaurant manager has been
Pygmalion-like and he has left us with big shoes to fill.

Raj’s favourite saying is ” Nothing is Impossible”.
Other gems include –
” There are a couple of things you can do to extend the length of your life and many
many things you can do to shorten it. ”
” There are 3 kinds of people. Those who help you out of a bad situation. Those who
leave you in a bad situation and those who put you in a bad situation. I am the last
kind sir. ”
Now I think I understand what he means.

We are still winning the battle against Penang’s mosquito fleet but last year’s bat
has returned to hang upside down at night over our back terrace and drop bits of
chewed fruit and excreta onto the terracotta.
We’ve named the little bugger, Raj.

After an 18 years association with Penang, I should rightly assume some level of
insight into the Asian mind.
However, their fervent attachment to money is still one of any number of things
that I cannot repatriate with western logic.
I once believed that the perceived value of money was directly proportional to
the lack of it.  Yet over here, irrespective of caste and despite routine acts of
generosity, most people will default to a form of covetous behaviour that sees them
willing to risk family, friendships or brand, for the sake of a single dollar. It’s
completely irrational. The art of compromise and the capacity for genuine empathy
appear to be lacking in modern Asian communities. Assuming both traits are pivotal
to the concepts of Socialism, no wonder Communism is such a huge fail in this neck
of the jungle.

There are lots of new cafes and restaurants in town. They are springing up daily, like
mushrooms after a morning shower.
A few are really good but most of them are generally missing one or more vital
ingredients, like staff who can talk or food you can eat or coffee that’s drinkable.
Perhaps the absence of any kind of business plan might also be the undoing of some.
My particular favourite this year is a cafe started by a one-time employee of the local
franchise chain, Old Town White Coffee. He’s called his cafe, New Town Black Coffee.

Our next door neighbour is a Temple Uncle. He looks after ‘our’ temple during daily
opening hours. His son and daughter in law have just had a baby and Temple Auntie
cares for the little nipper during the day. We have no issue with the baby crying but
they play the same Nursery Rhymes’ CD over and over again, all day, everyday.
We are becoming psychologically unbalanced. I just want to kill Mary’s little lamb
and pray that Michael’s boat sinks before he rows to shore one more time.

Funny story from our friends, Anita and Warren. They were on a local bus coming
back from Balik Pulau, a town on the mainly rural west coast of the island. There
were only 6 people on the bus and without warning the Malay driver suddenly
started hurtling down the winding jungle-clad slopes into Teluk Bahang. The driver
kept looking at his watch as the bus screeched around tight corners apparently
oblivious to the screaming passengers behind him. The bus roared into the fishing
village, slammed to a sudden halt, driver grabbed his prayer hat, opened the front
door and dashed into the mosque.
His passengers were left dumfounded on the bus for half an hour until all rogations
were completed. The driver then returned to the bus like nothing had happened
and then drove calmly all the way back to George Town.

That’s enough. We are off to Sri Lanka next month for a 2 week holiday. In August
we are very much looking forward to a group of 12 coming from Victoria for a 2
week tour of Penang.

PS: ( A word from Lotus Bud )

Today is Sunday, wonderful Sunday. Our first day off after
an incredibly busy week as novice waiters. My legs and feet
feel like lumps of aching lead but what do we do but get up
and walk the streets of Georgetown like a couple of 2 day
tourists!

After checking out a couple of Sunday markets that sold very
unhealthy Malay snacks I suggested that we go home for lunch
and maybe go out for dinner tonight.

John – ” No let’s have lunch out, I’m feeling lazy”
Me- “But you don’t have to cook it anyway”
John- ” No, but I’m feeling lazy for you”

 
?!!!!!!

The tide has turned.
Up until now it’s been all one-way traffic.

Today the score is:  Mosquitos – 983  / John – 1 .

Admittedly the poor thing was so full of my blood it could hardly fly.
I raised its crumpled body aloft on the tip of my index finger and performed a little victory dance.

The neighbour peered over the back wall wondering what the strange white man was up to now. At the same time I caught sight of my deranged face in the bathroom mirror and realised we were definitely back in the tropics.

Nobody is totally normal in the tropics, at least not here in Penang. The Chinese, the Indian, the Malays, they’re all a bit oval on the axil. Of course the strangest people of all are the Westerners, just ask my neighbour.
Expats, hippies and retirees. Misfits from another world exported here to further confuse Asian sensibilities.

While I’m engaged in a losing battle with a desperate and virulent enemy – the mosquito, Veronica is locked into a cold war with her nemesis – the cockroach.
I’m in the trenches getting shot at while she sits in the home office trembling over a perceived threat.  Seriously, what harm can a cockroach do?  It can’t suck your blood.

3

Last night I woke up at 2 am and Veronica was gone.
I saw a light on down stairs , slipped out of bed and peered down through the air-well.
My girlie was poised in a fight or flight posture. A can of Mortein in one hand, a broom in the other and that crazy look of engagement with the enemy in her eyes.
She had been to war. It was big apparently, half the size of your hand. It took half a can of Mortein in its stride.

In the morning we found it. Veronica did the little victory dance with the deranged face. We are holding our own against the forces of evil.

Veronica loves cakes. She can locate all the best cake and pastry shops in any city within hours. She’s like one of those airport sniffer dogs.
We are almost at the bottom of an escalator in one of KL’s major shopping centres.
A Famous Amos cart comes into view.
Veronica lets out a little sob and this teary voice tells me that she’s not feeling well.
I’m worried.
“Why, what’s the matter? Do you want to sit down for a minute”?
“No but I’m really scared”.
“Scared”?
“John, I must be sick. I honestly couldn’t smell Famous Amos, what’s wrong with me”?
Fortunately she has now made a full recovery.

We sleep on a thin mattress on the floor under a rectangular mosquito net suspended from the roof by a network of strings. The day dawns through the gaps in 19th century wooden shutters. The sound of the mosque filters in through those same gaps as the Malay men are drawn to duty.
The Chinese kick start their motorbikes and hurry off to work to make more money.
Every morning I reenact my birth scene.
The mosquito net is tucked in at the base between the mattress and the floor. I begin by prising a small gap in the net and poking my head through. Then I literally slide out naked onto the floor boards. I lie there waiting for morning to slap my ass.

Mosquitos 984 / John 1  :  Mosquitos 985 / John 1  :  Mosquitos 986 / John 1.

A giant mosquito breakfast rises and staggers downstairs.
There’s a newspaper on the kitchen table open to a page encouraging Penangites to give blood.
Haven’t I given enough?

Our house in Penang is lovely but so was my Great Grandmother.
We are beginning to feel like full-time carers.
The old girl put on a pretty new dress last year and her bones are good but she is incontinent and moody.

All of George Town is built on a swamp. After heavy rain or a high tide the water starts rising and soaking up into the floor and walls. Internal pipes divert tropical down-pours from the roof and terrace area. Rain water courses through the house like blood pulsing through a living organism.
This house is alive. Everyday we mop the floors to remove the build up of salt.

The forces of nature are strong here. These 19th century Chinese Shophouses are built to last but, if neglected for even a short period, nature starts to reclaim her ground.
The termites move in, trees grow in ever widening cracks in the roof and walls. The traditional roof tiles eventually succumb to years of pounding rain and hot sun as they slide from their battens.
In less than 12 months our wooden shutters and front door are peeling. Mould is growing up the back wall and salt is building up on the internal walls. Several cracks are appearing and white ants have paid us a couple of visits.

If responsibility was the enemy of happiness we wouldn’t have kids or pets or houses that require a lot of maintenance. I guess you only get out what you put in and we are really savouring the opportunity to be part of the history of this wonderful old house.

A conversation in a coffee shop last night:

“Can I please have a white coffee”?

“No sir, only black coffee”.

“Then can I get milk with that”?

“Yes sir”.

“OK, can I have a black coffee with milk”?

“Yes sir, one black coffee with milk, ok”.