Category Archives: Travel

Travel writing

A Unique Heritage Town

Posted on by

Extract from the Blog of a Gap Year Traveller:   ( Aboard Harmony of the Seas 3 ).

Friday 14th March. 2025

17352330_1464903680195232_6912132678742540136_n

Arrived at George Town’s enormous Lim Guan Eng Port. Impressed by the massive cable car, ‘the Dozen Island Project’ and the 16 lane bridge connecting Penang Island to the Mainland. The Port Towers has an amazing mural depicting the old Clan Jetties that used to occupy the Lim Wharf.

We took the short Monorail ride to the enormous Transport Hub at the junction of Victoria Street and Armenian Street Gaut. From there we were ferried by motorised Pedal Carts to the 9th Wonder of the World. My eyes filled with tears as I gazed lovingly upon the ‘Bicycle Mural’. A moment I’ll never forget. We waited patiently for an hour for the opportunity to have our photo taken next to it.

Progress has finally saved this area from stagnation and the old buildings that were once a blight on the town streetscape have now made way for attractive skyscrapers. Armenian Street now has a 33 storey Tourist Centre, a Heritage shopping Emporium and there’s the 46 storey Khoo Towers with the first 3 floors housing the most beautiful temple I’ve ever seen.

The real highlight of my visit and the main reason for wanting to stop off in Penang was the Singaporium in nearby Acheen Street. Accessible from Armenian Street via the Jagdeep Mall, the 88 storey high Singaporium houses a 1,000 square meter scale model of Old George Town ( circa 2000 ). Wow, it must have been an amazing place when people actually lived in the town.

We spent the rest of the day visiting museums ( The Upside Down Hipster Cafe & Bubble Gum Museum, The Corruption Museum, The Head Up a Dead Bear’s Bum Museum ) and escaped the heat at Carnarvon Street Water World.

All in all, a great day exploring a unique Heritage town.

tag

A Blast from the Past

Posted on by

Armenian Street, George Town.

Not that long ago you could walk down this old street and feel it smiling back at you.
Sure the buildings were in various states of disrepair but they exuded a kind of harmony that comes with the unfettered passing of time. The old uncles and aunties, trishaw riders, school children, business owners, hawkers, all akin by virtue of the tacit fibres that weave together any long standing community. Now that’s all changed. The old shophouses are painted purple or bright yellow, they sell post cards, ice creams, souvenirs and host flash-packers. Almost no community left now, just generic tourist crap.

This talented Lithuanian street artist painted a mural of two children sitting astride a real bicycle melted into an old wall and, lo and behold, hordes of tourists started queueing up for the privilege of having their photo taken next to the mural. They pose with inane peace signs and gawky smiles. I guess it’s to impress their friends on social media.
All day, everyday, the tourists come to this trifling shrine of extraneous junk to photograph themselves effecting some kind of expectation of what it means to travel. Wearing tight shorts, a lacy blouse and a big floppy sunhat, another little Asian princess climbs down from her pedal cart to construct a self-obsessed pose in front of the famous icon. Ice ball in one hand, a peace sign with the other, she poses and smiles sweetly for the doting boyfriend juggling camera, cigarette and credibility.
I try not to watch but the predictability and futility of it all is compelling. Part of me views these people as unconscious and achieving nothing of any worth. On the other hand, they are smiling and having fun. My gripe is at what cost?
What has been sacrificed for these people to enjoy the kind of generic fun they could get by playing with their smart phones. The unique qualities of this beautiful old town have been unconsciously trampled to dust by the masses herding toward that ‘tourist attraction’.

I read somewhere recently about a seaside town in Portugal or Spain or somewhere on the Mediterranean where the historic old streets were being over-run by trash tourism. The locals, or at least the ones who weren’t making any money out of the tourists and just wanted a normal place to live, were getting really pissed by what was happening to their town. There was this new sculpture of a clown on a tricycle wedged into the base of an old wall. It looked like the clown was juggling the clumps of moss growing on the wall and the mindless went nuts for it. They’d jostle to get near it for a look. Whole bus loads would come from all over to see the stupid clown. The old buildings and markets and local artisans didn’t matter anymore. All the tourists wanted was to photograph the clown.
If you wanted to raise your status on social media, just post a photo of yourself making a peace sign next to the clown and you were the shit and a bit.

Perched on a hill overlooking the town stands an old fort with grand ramparts, stone merlons protecting the inner courtyard and a number of old canons. The fort was used in medieval times to protect the town from invaders trespassing from land or sea. It was now mostly abandoned and its history all but forgotten as all the tourists were otherwise occupied taking photos of themselves next to the clown sculpture. Rumour had it that, unlike in Penang with Seri Rambai at Fort Cornwallis, one of the canons was still in working order.

Some of the locals hatched a plot to rid their town of the awful tourist hordes . A canon had not been fired in anger from the fort since early in the 18th century but it was time for a big gun to once more protect the town.
In the early hours of a Sunday morning, with all the town tucked up in their beds, a band of partisans broke into the fort, stole the working canon and wheeled it down the steep path and into town. They set it up facing the clown, loaded a large canon ball, checked that there was definitely no one within target range and then blasted the bastard into oblivion.
The immense boom resounded through every boutique hotel, hostel and chalet in town. The streets quickly filled with confused locals and tourists alike but there was no sign of the culprits. All that was left of the iconic symbol was a huge hole in the old wall and a big pair of copper clown feet.

You would think that would put a halt to the tourist frenzy. The late clown was the new ‘heritage’ and without it, what was this town now worth?
Unfortunately, what the band of mercenaries had not counted on was the resilience of the tourist invaders.
Once word got out that a canon had blasted the shit out of the town’s icon, every man and his dog wanted to come there to have their photo taken making peace signs next to the giant hole in the wall.
More hotels & cafes sprung up nearby – The Hole in the Wall, The Missing Clown, Canon Blast Coffee.
The whole thing just got uglier, proving that violence never solves anything.

Pork & Beef

Posted on by

It’s been a sad week for children of all ages with news of the passing of the 3 Little Pigs in Penang last Monday.
After long careers as storybook characters, all 3 had decided to join the MM2H program and retire in Malaysia.
Last year they purchased a Chinese Shop House in George Town’s Heritage Zone and set about restoring it.

According to a police report, their deaths are considered suspicious. A Mr. B B Wolf is now in custody and helping police with their inquiries. Eye witnesses say that the alleged killer was seen huffing an puffing outside the 3 Little Pigs residence on Kimberley St. only hours before news of their demise was announced. Cause of death is as yet unknown but a demolished shop house is possibly involved.

Their funeral was held on Beach Street today and attended by more than 1,000 mourners.
Pork Belly will be served at half price in most Chinese restaurants this week as a mark of respect.

3 Little Pigs Funeral

Funeral of the 3 Little Pigs in Penang

Matsuzaka Beef

I’m rapidly gaining a more realistic cognisance of my creative writing skills with my only gig thus far this year being to write copy for a Matsuzaka Beef Company in Mie Prefecture, Japan.
The criteria was to keep it simple – ‘none of our clients can read English’.
I guess I’m the perfect man for the job. A vegetarian writing about meat for people who can’t speak English. Thanks to Jordan for supplying the leanest cut – Best Karate Chops.

I had considered tossing them a proven catch – It’s the Beef that Matsuzaka reject that makes Matsuzaka the Best. Then I imagined reading about a massive International law suit with John West suing Matsuzaka Beef for 3 Billion Dollars while Veronica and I go into hiding somewhere in South America to avoid the Yakuza.

Did you know that 1 kg of Matsuzaka beef costs around US500?  I’m waiting for my cheque.

John Hanna & Veronica Greer

At a cafe in Penang – 2 old people using their smart phones – The Nokia 1280

Observations, Obligations & Obsessions

Posted on by

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.

Put your shoes in the pot plant!

Posted on by

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”

 
?!!!!!!

Somewhere Horrible

Posted on by

Letter from Malaysia*


It was nice to receive emails recently from several people whom I haven’t heard from for years. Ironically it was in response to a viral email sent to everyone in my address book encouraging them to purchase Italian Pizza Equipment. 
I do apologise, my email account was hacked in Taiwan. 
It has made me realise though that a viral link is probably more interesting to many people than a tortured epistle like this one. Perhaps this is how social media works. The more automated and unthinking, then the more ‘likes’ that can be generated. 
Strange monkeys we are.
* 


Taiwan:

We spent 2 weeks in Taiwan recently.
Malaysia’s eclectic mashing of Eastern cultures and the edgy, chaotic unpredictability of street life has wantonly seduced us for almost 2 decades. 
I expected Taiwan to be all that and more but it wasn’t. Instead we found it to be clean, safe and ultra friendly. I suspect that the Taipei Water Board might be sluicing happy juice through the taps. Perhaps their media doesn’t get its pyjamas wet hosing down hope. 

Taipei is extraordinary. I can’t imagine what kind of punitive measures were used to whip this big dog into shape but it’s always immaculately groomed and it sits every time.
Even the rubbish truck sounds like a Mr Whippy van, albeit twice as clean. It smiles around the back streets luring the happy residents out with their neatly tied plastic bags full of separated waste. They stand around exchanging pleasantries with the immaculately dressed Refuse Engineers before gayly skipping back to their well kept dwellings. It’s the Truman show.

The MRT ( subway ) is a breeze. Passengers queue in well marked rows for the trains. Nobody pushes, everyone stands up for older people ( I wasn’t totally enamoured with that – thank you all the same but I’m actually still quite young ) . Everyone stands on the right side of the escalator to allow others to pass. 
If you’re standing on a footpath looking at a map, motorists will pull over, get out and assist you. On one occasion a bus pulled up and the bus driver jumped out and said how very happy he was to meet us.

Over two weeks in Asia without a moment’s frustration. We kept pinching ourselves. I even looked up ‘low blood pressure’ on Google to see if it was bad for you.
On top of all that, almost no Westerners come here. Why?

* 

Asia’s tallest building hiding behind the world’s tallest woman.

In Taipei we stayed at a brilliant little boutique establishment close to the MRT called Mudan House. Nothing fancy but life in the house revolved around one large breakfast table where the guests ate and chatted together in the mornings. Pivotal to this scenario was a larger than life character called Kuku. A rotund lady replete with apron and bandana, she would whip up insanely delicious local breakfasts. Like the sentient maid from a 70s American sitcom, Kuku cooked and bestowed her words of wisdom upon all who gathered in her kitchen each morning.
* 

*

Cukoo & Kuku.

We took a train to Tainan from Taipei.
Tainan has heritage buildings comparable with George Town’s, so it was a must see destination for us.

We stayed for 5 nights at a Malaysian couple’s B&B in the heart of the old town.
Our host arrived at the station to pick us up, parked his car and dashed into the station. When we came out, the car ( actually it was a rusty old van he had bought for $50 ) had gone.
He immediately dismissed the suggestion that it might have been stolen. Who would want it?
Then he spied it about 100 metres away, backed up against a statue in the middle of the cities’ largest round-about with a testy cop looking like he was about to hit it with his truncheon.

“Oh shit, no hand brake, I forgot”.

The van had rolled backwards across 4 busy lanes of traffic and come to rest with the founding father of Tainan.
We scurried across the road, jumped in and sped off with the blessing of a now relieved policeman. I don’t think he wanted the paperwork.

One of the joys of travelling with Lotus Bud is following her down back streets and alleyways in search of trendy cafes. Taiwan has plenty of those.

In Tainan we found a cute little coffee shop run by an equally cute young lady with a little fish mouth, several rows of teeth, a slight underbite and a tongue that did all it could to sabotage her attempts at English.

Veronica and her hit it off perfectly as they chatted about all things coffee. 
The little girl was most impressed with our Melbourne pedigree and wished that she could visit there one day and experience the great coffee culture. 
After a lengthy discussion about different types of coffee beans, the young lady said.

“You have Fred White in Australia?”

“No, I’ve never heard of Fred White coffee beans”, replied Veronica.

“What? You come from Melbourne and you’ve never heard of Fred White coffee?”

“No,” insisted Veronica.

“Yes, you know, coffee with milk, Fred White.”

Veronica laughed until she almost choked on her flat white.

As a rider to Fred White, we recently received a text from a relative of Fred’s, Cheah White.
The text read from Cheah White … , which left Lotus Bud quite perplexed until a follow up SMS came through with … Ant removal.

Two great menu items in a Tainan restaurant called Teddy Bear:

The fancy explodes the pineapple in the mouth of tasty.  

Pig has the balls of mouth watery perfectness.
*

At Teddy Bear restaurant with a friend.

The Enemy:

The Malaysian Mosquito is a highly intelligent creature.
In fact, it’s level of intelligence is directly proportional to the inverse ratio of neurones to body mass of the average Malaysian motorist. 

Professor Karl Schleussler from the Anthropology Department of Monash University in Melbourne describes this phenomenon ( in his ground-breaking study – Modern Primitive Man ) as the Vacuum Effect. 
The theory states that wherever the dominant species perpetuates enough acts of gross stupidity another species will step up to prosper the development of logical thought.

Our house has traditional windows with wooden shutters and no glass. This allows for the free passage of air and mosquitos. Even retarded mosquitos are able to enter and sample the Western food. 

Lotus Bud was recently heard to say.

“It will be strange returning to Melbourne and going to bed without a tennis racket.” ( zapper )

An update on the progress of the ‘war on terror’. Two days ago we had fly screens fitted to all the windows …. and they work. 

Every time Veronica and I  pass each other we giggle or punch the air like we’ve just kicked the winning goal. We are winning. If only we could stop the temple smoke as well.
* 


The Chinese:

I used to believe that another difference between the Chinese and the rest of humanity was their lungs. The Chinese have iron lungs. They can chain smoke cigarettes, inhale joss stick smoke, burn incinerators and breath diesel fumes all day without the slightest affect. Or so I thought. I had this conversation yesterday.

“Where’s Uncle?”

“Uncle get sick and die”

“My God, what was wrong?”

“He cough.”

“Why did he die?”

“He old”.

‘How old?”

“50 over”.

For many years we were scared that the traditional ways would die out. Actually the only thing dying out is the traditional people who appear to have no idea that their lungs are important.

At the moment it’s the Hungry Ghost Festival. Throughout the day people come to the temple ( the one we bought  a house right next to ) and burn bags of money to send to Grandpa in heaven. The Chinese value life by two concepts, money and luck. Grandpa gets the money and we all need luck to stay alive during the financial transaction.

Last night was the special night for the ghosts to walk around the streets. George Town was like a ‘ghost’ town. At 9.30 pm we wandered around to a friends restaurant for a night cap and she welcomed us as the first customers of the evening. A day earlier and you could hardly move in town. The power of superstition.

The Wartropp:

We’ve been buying furniture. Old, cheap stuff that we can trick people into thinking is antique. 
Last week it was a wardrobe ( or wartropp, as they call it here ) from Mr. Lee the signboard engraver. He has half of George Town waiting for him to complete restoration work. All our friends have texts from him explaining why the job is not yet completed. Either he or one of his family members has met with an accident. Broken arms, legs, heart attacks, all detailed as if pulled from a Shakespearean tragedy with words n’er used since the 18th century. When we went to see him about our overdue wartropp, the back of his head had been hit by a car and he had 3 blood clots but if we cometh back nigh Tuesday the wartropp shalt be redy.

The Music:

I found out how they make Malay rock music. They record some poor bugger having a nervous breakdown, then add guitar and the sound of a cat being neutered. When the recording is complete, you can listen and wonder why you haven’t  converted to Islam yet as you wheel your shopping trolley around Cold Storage at Queensbay Mall. 

Final Word:

Lotus Bud chatting with a Vegan guy in KL who wouldn’t stop talking – 

“It’s enough to make you want to eat meat”.


*

 

 

 

 

 

Word from the Trenches

Posted on by

The Storm:

The city of George Town ( Penang ) contains the largest collection of pre-war houses in South East Asia.
Ninety percent of the city is made up of old Chinese shophouses, all in various states of disrepair. The other ten percent includes majestic Victorian colonial buildings, temples, mosques, several disgustingly drab 70’s concrete boxes with equally dour windows and a few tall buildings squeezed into place courtesy of government muscle.
The street-scapes are wonderfully nostalgic and mostly spared the curse of high-rise.

The tallest building, the centre-piece of George Town and jewel in the crown of a Government completely oblivious to the concept of aesthetically credible architecture, is KOMTAR.
KOMTAR is an acronym for an auspicious Malay politician and its lofty tower serves as a navigation point for hopelessly lost back packers tricked into venturing too far from Chulia Street by the Lonely Planet.

The second tallest building in George Town is the UMNO building. Another acronym, this time for a political party that’s been in power for 56 years. Just enough time to polish the turd of corruption into a model of expected and unspoken commissions.

Two weeks ago a  mini-cyclone struck George Town, the worst in Penang history. Wind gusts exceeding 150 km an hour ripped up dozens of 100 year old trees and created chaos on the roads.

The worst incident involved the UMNO building. Its giant antenna was snapped off and sent plummeting to the ground striking a truck containing gas cylinders. Several cars were also flattened including one unfortunate soul sent hurtling to his grave more than 15 metres under Macalister Rd. They’ve now given up searching for him.

( see CCTV footage on Youtube – http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2NkIiPFEnjw )

Veronica and I decided to check out the disaster area a couple of days after the incident.
The whole place was cordoned off so that only police, disaster relief workers, the press and Australians could enter the area. It’s always like that, we seem to have carte blanche to go anywhere. We thought our luck had run out as a cop appeared to be waving us away from the gaping hole in the road and back behind the barrier restraining the local peasantry from entering the drop zone.
But no, he was actually beckoning us over to join in a press conference. I love this place.

I feel very sorry for the missing man and his family. He was a Hawker from Pulau Tikus and the story goes that he was visited by a huge crab the day before his sudden descent into hell. Instead of returning it to the sea, he ate it. Unbeknown to him it was actually a Malay spirit. He was of course punished for this misdemeanour.
Superstition constantly supersedes logic in this neck of the woods.
Free thinking eventually destroys culture, so we are happy to buy into their esoteric view of the world. It’s a lot more interesting than the bleached streets of mainland China.

The Haze:

Cultural events and festivities add such colour to a community but I do wish that they would stop burning anything and everything flammable. The Gods and the ancestors require their earthly delights converted into smoke and the locals love to oblige to the point of pyromania.

During the June, July, August period, Indonesia burns off huge tracts of Sumatran forest and consequently Peninsula Malaysia is covered by a blanket of pungent smoke. The first 14 pages of this morning’s Star Newspaper was about the ‘haze’. The air quality reading here was over 400 thingamabobs, more than double the ‘run for your life’ limit.

Penangites are all bitterly complaining but here’s the stitch. Most of the Companies responsible for the gigantic bonfires in Indonesia are Malaysian. Further more, once the haze subsides, the locals avoid smoke withdrawal symptoms by immediately returning to their own form of combustible worship. Our neighbour lights a 20 litre drum of hell money right outside our front window every morning. Not sure if that’s to keep Grandpa happy in heaven or to help reunite him with the rest of the family and the next door neighbours.

The Chinese:

Had another of those spiteful emails recently from the White Australia league bemoaning the fact that only white people are labelled as racist. Poor dears, the world just won’t fully line up for them, will it.
Perhaps they should move to Malaysia and become enlightened by the concept of minority groups.
Yes, they can walk around in a darker skinned man’s town and be known as ‘foreigners’. They might even adjust to the idea of being thought of as stupid. I wonder where the locals ever got that idea from?

There is a fine line between observation and racism and I fear that the former often rebounds with chilli sauce on it.

We choose to live in a Chinese community and the majority of our close friends are indeed Chinese.
The invention and propagation of concepts such as religion and politics occurs in one small part of the human brain.  I’m now convinced that the Asian brain is wired differently from the familiar Western model.
This discussion deserves more than an anecdotal paragraph, so I will revisit this topic in another post.

The WTF:

Living in Penang, Lotus Bud and I often find ourselves in one of those – ‘how the **** did we get here’ situations. Our day can turn in an unexpected direction at any given moment. We have a basket full of eccentric friends and all the time in the world to fall victim to them.

The other evening we found ourselves hurtling in fear along the Burma Rd in a car driven by a maniac ladyboy looking for the Church of the Immaculate Conception so that we could interview a woman who’s Mother was lying in an open coffin while the mourners ate noodles and ice cream.

Last Sunday I was watching Brisbane playing Geelong on my computer while Lotus Bud was selling floor tiles to tourists in a shop we are operating part time to raise money for spaying stray dogs.
A Brisbane player missed a goal from only 15 metres out which prompted a huge, disappointed ‘SHIT’ to bellow out of my mouth just as 6 burka-clad Moslem girls made their way downstairs after prayers.
I apologised profusely but I think they quite enjoyed it.

The strangest and most encouraging part was that these Malay girls were not buying into the Islamic nonsense about dogs being somehow unworthy. They were even happy to pat the dogs.

The Heritage:

George Town is changing rapidly. Tourism has increased on the back of the UNESCO World Heritage Listing but the strongest tourist magnet in recent times has been the proliferation of murals appearing on the decaying walls and back lanes of the core zone. Started by a talented Lithuanian guy, the murals are drawing in hordes of young Chinese tourists who just love to have their photo taken standing next to an orange cat or a kid on a pushbike. It’s bizarre.

Low class entrepreneurs line the footpaths selling useless trinkets, postcards and T-shirts with orange cats and kids on pushbikes emblazoned across the front.

Perhaps the most distressing metaphor for this Jonkers Street style morphing of heritage into trash is the tale of HULLO WATER.

Hullo Water is an enterprise owned by a miserable little Chinaman operating an old style pharmacy on Armenian St. For years he never said boo to anybody. We often went into his shop to buy a home made herbal cough medicine and our limited conversation was always in Mandarin.

When tourists started appearing about 10 years ago he saw an opportunity to cash in and as people passed his shop you could hear this feeble little voice calling out – ‘hullo water’.

Hullo Water grew into a multi-national concern with a daily turnover in excess of 7 ringett ( approx AUD2.30 ).
It was one of the most enjoyable parts of any day, walking past the old pharmacy and hearing the gentle lilt,  ‘hullo water’.

After arriving back in Penang in April I could barely contain myself as we strode along Armenian St. searching for our ‘hullo water’ fix.
Shock, horror, there was a table set up outside the shop with three people sitting behind it, including the little Chinaman with his distinctive shitzu underbite and as we passed he quite aggressively yelled out,  ‘postcard’.

Veronica and I were mortified. It was the end of something special. Worst of all, the friggin’ postcard was of a stupid orange cat.

A few days ago I needed some cough medicine. The only stuff that ever works for me is the herbal formula from ‘hullo postcard‘.
Even after 16 years the silly old coote doesn’t recognise us. As we approached his shop he called out, ‘postcard’.
I greeted him and explained in Chinese that I had a sore throat and needed some of his cough medicine.
He got up from his table and immediately dropped the biggest fart I’ve ever heard as he made his way inside the shop and behind the counter.

He looked bemused by my protests after he tipped a bottle of pills out onto the counter.

‘No.  Cough medicine,’ I explained.

He then grabbed a bottle of some commercial brand of cough medicine.

‘No’.

We go through this same procedure every time.
Instead of persevering he just turned around and walked back outside.

The scene is then rescued by his wife who miraculously appears from backstage left as she always does when she fears that her husband’s dementia is getting in the way of another sale.
I finally got my medicine and left without even a grunt goodbye from the Armenian St. postcard tycoon.

The Racket:

There is a new weapon in the war on terror.  It’s a battery operated tennis racket zapper.

I received a long lecture from Lotus Bud on statistical realities. Zapping the occasional mosquito is not going to eliminate the one that will give you dengue fever.

Somewhere between that lecture and now, she has had a change of heart.
She has become obsessed with the crackling sound of a mosquito being fried.

Her forehand is good, backhand down the line even better but it’s the overhead smash that is really decimating the Aedes population. I can’t prise the racket out of her hand. She even takes it to bed.
I can see some potential for it as a contraceptive aid. Perhaps I’ll see if Hullo Water is interested in a joint venture.

The Last Word:

Finally, a little pearl of wisdom from the lips of Lotus Bud.

Our cleaner texted to say that she would be late because she had a driving lesson.

“That’s amazing,” utters a confused looking Veronica.

“I didn’t think anyone would have driving lessons here.”

Cambodia to Penang

Posted on by

Throughout May we traversed the length of Vietnam and parts of Cambodia, including the mighty Angkor Wat, with yet another great group of fellow travellers.

So many highlights but Sapa and Halong Bay stand out for me as two must-see places before you die and once you get to Hanoi there is every chance that may happen. The traffic is deranged.

Our local guides were fabulous including a one-man entertainment machine called Hai who serenaded us through Saigon and the Mekong.

Perhaps my favourite story of the trip came from Tien, our Hue and Hoi An guide.

She was telling us about people who live in the Vietnam countryside. Typically deprived of any formal education they often have no idea about family planning.
A Government representative went out to the villages to show them how to use contraceptives. He demonstrated the use of a condom by rolling it onto his thumb. They seemed to grasp the idea ok.

A year later the birth rate had not changed despite a huge increase in condom sales.

During a follow up visit the representative inquired as to why the use of condoms had had no affect. One of the farmers stood up and said he always rolled the condom on his thumb before sex, exactly as he had been instructed to. Perhaps the condoms were faulty?
The representative then explained on which part of the body the condom should be used.

A year later and the birth rate was still high. A follow up visit by the Government rep uncovered another obstacle to success. As one farmer described.
“The little plastic bulge at the end of the condom gets in the way and feels uncomfortable, so most of us just cut it off”.

Vietnam was hot, damn hot.
One comment from one of our group during the hottest part of the hottest day.
“It’s so hot that even the beggars are too lethargic to come over and bother us”.

Cambodia, unlike many of its Asian neighbours, is not prone to natural disasters.
No earthquakes, tidal waves or typhoons.
Unfortunately its recent history includes a human disaster of monstrous proportions.

In 1975 a group of psychopaths took over the country and began a systematic slaughter of their own people. Three million souls died horribly for no sane reason.
Like Hitler’s Germany, this genocidal nightmare is beyond comprehension. When it touches you you just start to cry.

Today the people of Cambodia are brave and brilliant. We really like Cambodia circa 2013.

When our group left Phnom Penh and flew back to Australia, Veronica and I set off for a few days of R&R in the southern Cambodian town of Kampot.
We purchased bus tickets and the irony licked my bitch like a Hebrew slurping Haagen Dazs, they gave us the front seat.
I’ve always thought of the front seat of a bus as a cross between the office chair and detention. Last place you want to be in a 12 car pile up. Never viewed it as contestable real estate. We travelled in fear like watching a kid taking on the Minions of Astroid 9 and hoping he makes it through to the next level.

The next level was Kampot, a sleepy riverside town full of crumbling French colonial shophouses and a sensational local market. Nobody really gave a shit whether we were there or not –  the ideal destination for anyone jaded by the rape and pillage mentality of the main tourist arteries.

We checked into a riverfront boutique hotel called Rikitikitavi. Arguably the best all round value place we’ve ever stayed. Magnificently run establishment with extraordinary staff.

Started chatting to a guy over lunch on our fourth day at Rikitikitavi. He asked us what we would recommend to do in the area. We suggested the twilight river cruise. We had done this two nights earlier with a boatman called Mutley ( no kidding ) and both the sunset and the fireflies on the banks after dark were stunning.
Kampot pepper plantations are interesting and there’s a temple inside a cave that pre-dates Angkor by 500 years and there are NO tourists. The countryside is rugged and in the villages it’s like stepping back in time.
There’s a huge frenetic morning market that a white man can walk through without ever hearing the word ‘hullo’.
On the riverside, heading south out of town the shrimp boats unload their catch at 6 every morning. The locals set up a makeshift market to sell the shrimps wholesale. It inspired me to watch Forest Gump again.

The guy at the next table thanked us for our information but before he left I asked him what he did.
He told us he lives in Saigon, his name is Mark Boyer and he makes a living from his travel website – Rusty Compass.

Now here’s the irony. The reason we chose Kampot, the reason we chose Rikitikitavi, was because of the Rusty Compass website. Apparently he had only been to Kampot once before but gleaned enough from that visit to post some good information. Having learned much about the area from him, not only was it a crazy coincidence to bump into him but to then be giving him advice about the area was delicious irony. Just another reason to never stop travelling.

Kampot is a strange brew of local farmers, fisherman, market sellers, old fashioned shop retailers and embittered expats called Pot Pats.
It’s impossible to hurry. It’s hot and there’s nowhere to go.
The hotels and cafes range from dives that even German backpackers might think twice about, all the way up to condemned buildings with running water. Something for everyone on the new hippy trail between Sihanoukville and the Mekong.

Sitting at a Kampot cafe I watched a gecko working the illuminated Illy sign like a sticky clawed Call Girl baiting a street lamp. Her clients fly in and die for the pleasure.
Opposite there’s a cheap pub with travellers plugging ipads into cracked plastic wall sockets festooned beneath the same Bob Marley poster their long haired parents may have paid homage to. Eclectic, happy, hippy dulled by decades of dust. It’s a time warp that nobody is really trapped in. The backpackers are mildly amused by what they assume to be retro while the locals perpetuate the 1974 Lonely Planet shoplift to finance their belief in the unchangeable Western mind.
I am just grateful that my dignity prohibits any more than a furtive glance at the Reggae Hotel.

I wanted to buy a flash drive memory stick in order to copy some Khmer music from a local guy’s computer. Resorting to charades once again to compensate for my lack of legible English, my fingers demonstrated how you would insert the little USB device into a computer. I’m sure the young man working behind the counter thought I wanted to have sex with him, because he ran away.

Another day, another village. After 4 nights in Kampot we travelled to the seaside town of Kep for 2 more nights. It’s only a 20 km journey but the locals call it the PGA. Some of the pot holes have flags but most are bunkers. It’s a tough course.

We stayed at the Spring Valley Resort in Kep and we were the only guests.
There are bungalows, rooms, suites, a swimming pool, dining room, extensive tropical gardens, 12 staff and us.

We had to wake up the little girl to check in.
I said, ” We have a reservation “.
She said, ” I know “.
I think she had been waiting for us since February.

I felt like we were in one of those post apocalyptic movies where the human race has been reduced to a handful of living beings. We wanted to get away from it all and it seemed we had succeeded.

On the first morning, word obviously got around that THE guests were coming for breakfast.
The staff quickly maned their stations and stood there attentively until we needed a coffee or an egg scrambled. It was hilarious. Once we left the dining room, the staff all raced off, donned casual clothes and started whipper snipping the garden.

We had our own private tuk tuk driver too. His name was Bun Hoarth but we renamed him Ben Hur. He would be waiting for us at the gate with his chariot to chauffeur us around the deserted streets of Kep.

Veronica and I are now back in Penang after our month in Vietnam & Cambodia.

Upon our return we were pleasantly surprised to find the house in good shape.
Unlike in Melbourne, here the forces of nature can act quickly against the will of man.

We entered the front door and sullied through to the back with an ever growing sense of control.
Not too dirty, no rising damp on the walls, tiles not too crusty with salt deposits, no tiles fallen off the roof, no puddles of water around the air-well, inside trees still alive, no trees growing out of the walls, mould in the kitchen no worse.

On first inspection we were just a little bit chuffed with ourselves.
Taming one of these old shophouses is not so difficult.

Then Veronica opened the kitchen cabinet.

Ever had a surprise birthday party? You know, one of those ones where you walk into an
empty room and suddenly the lights go on and 25 ass-holes jump out and yell SURPRISE.

When opened, the cabinet literally exploded with termites as they fell or flew out to lay siege in the kitchen.

The best bit was watching a usually refined Lotus Bud bellowing expletives that would make a politician blush.

We will never win the war but there is no sign of surrender from the allied Australian forces.

 

Letter from George Town

Posted on by

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”.

3

The Legacy of Lim

Posted on by

I first meet Lim Lai Leong in November of 1997.
I was returning from the world championships in Italy and had elected to stop off in Penang, West Malaysia, for 5 nights of R & R.

It was a strange time. I had been selected to represent my country in Tai Chi and everyone was full of praise but I felt completely empty and inadequate. The movements may have looked ok but the art of Tai Chi was technically beyond me. I didn’t really know what to do about it because my Instructor at the time, despite his high profile, was either unwilling or unable to teach with any depth.

The Penang Esplanade was one place the local Chinese people would gather in the morning to practice Tai Chi. On the 3rd morning I decided to go down and join in. The locals always love it when a Westerner can do Tai Chi and they were almost overwhelming with their adulations. One lady said that I must meet her Master and that he would be amazed to see a white man in Penang who can do such good tai chi.

Master Lim
9

She asked me to come back the next morning and she would get her Master to come down and meet me.

The next morning I could see him watching me from the shade of a tree. After completing a form I was introduced to Master Lim Lai Leong. He looked stern and aloof. He shook his head.
“There are lots of things not quite properly. You are not very good”, he told me.
I felt like screaming out Hallelujah, tell me something I don’t know. I knew at that moment that this was the start of something. I asked him if he would be willing to teach me.
He told me to come to his house at 9 am and we would start training.
I did and we trained all day until 6 pm in 33 degree heat with 100% humidity. It was wonderful. It was real. I came back for more training the next morning but had to fly out that afternoon. All I thought about on the flight back to Australia was how quickly I could get back to Penang.

In 1998 I took Veronica and we went 3 times. Lim methodically deconstructed our empty techniques and replaced them with foundation and knowledge.

For the next ten years we visited Penang as often as possible and we also brought many students from Melbourne to be taught by Master Lim.

We look back over those years with great fondness. Apart from the quality tai chi tuition from Lim, there were some wonderful times we had with fellow students and our tour groups. Of course everything we did was made all the more special by being in one of the most unique and historic cities in Asia – George Town, Penang. Everyday was like walking around on a movie set and we fell hopelessly in love with the place and its people.

We trained in a neglected old Chinese Shophouse on Hutton Lane that Lim rented for a song. The Penang rent act forbid landlords charging more than a pittance, which in turn allowed the local people to live and work in the inner city. I recall the hundreds of hours we spent training barefoot on the 100 year old concrete tiles that graced the shophouse floor. The sweat would pour down our arms and drip off our elbows and wrists onto the tiles. Every half hour we’d take a break to drink a bottle of water and mop the puddles of sweat from the floor.

Rio, Lim & Veronica – 2007

8

There are many great memories of Lim too. Some funny, some serious and some sad.
Lim didn’t drink. He believed every man should leave at least one vice alone. He was a fighter and often talked about wiping the floor of several opponents at a time. It would be a brave man to dispute the validity of any of his stories. He mellowed with age and channeled all his fighting knowledge into the internal arts. He approached Tai Chi with a fanatical zeal. He would stand in the Zhan Zhuang stance for hours or sit for half a day in the lotus position. Lim expected his students to have the same dedication. The local Chinese were a big disappointment to him. They wouldn’t train hard enough. It was only the ‘Foreigners’ who were willing to practice for hours on end and pay him a fair wage for his knowledge.

Lim taught with enthusiasm and honesty. He wouldn’t hesitate to tell you that you were lazy or fat. He loved detail. Refining one move could take days. He was inventive too. I remember him grabbing a towel from a wall hook, excitedly wrapping it around Veronica’s neck and pulling both ends tightly while explaining how ‘anything’ could be used as a weapon. Veronica’s look of utter surprise turned to horror as she slowly turned blue. I had to explain to Lim that choking my partner to death was probably not in the best interests of any of us. He realised what he was doing and let go.

Lim smoked. He was typical of the old Chinese Masters. They spend their lives honing their bodies and yet appear oblivious to the horrendous affect smoking will have on them. We were forever berating him for his filthy habit.
One year, after we arrived in Penang, Lim was so proud of himself telling us he had given up smoking. We were delighted and made a huge effort to praise him.
We went back to his place and as we were talking he started packing a pipe. When we tackled him he continued to assert that he had given up smoking, this was only a pipe. He lit it up and puffed away for the whole time we sat there.

Material possessions meant nothing to Lim. He really was a man of simple pleasures. We learned that the hard way.
In 1998 we brought him a gift. It was a souvenir Australian plate with indigenous animals glazed onto the rim. We later heard that he threw it out the window the next day. In 1999 we brought him a cigarette lighter with his name engraved on the side. He opened the box, uttered the words ‘Ronson’ and then tossed it on the floor. He gave it away to a student. In 2000 we brought him an envelope with money in it.

Going out to dinner with Lim was always an anti-social event. He loved Winston Coffee Garden. It was a Chinese hawker area on Anson Rd. where young female singers would wail away on a stage set up in front of the tables. Lim would sit down, pull out a Chinese newspaper and spend the evening catching up on local and foreign events. When he had finished the paper, he would just get up and go.

He was a loveable rat-bag and a rattling good teacher. All of us foreign students accepted him unconditionally. Underneath the tough, often tactless exterior was a man who lived for tai chi and gave all that he knew to his trusted students. We were always grateful to be in his presence.

In 2007, Lim’s years of smoking cigarettes finally caught up with him. He developed throat cancer. He stopped teaching and we watched the disease shake his spirit.  He had moved to a dingy dwelling in a side street off Hutton Lane. He refused to be operated on. He coughed a lot and spat the sins of his past into a ceramic spittoon. He breathed through a hole they’d drilled in his neck.
The last time we saw him was standing in his doorway to wave us goodbye. He still looked proud as he gently rotated his naked wiry upper body over solid hips. He never stopped practicing. After all the years we spent with Lim, my most enduring memory of him is watching him still moving like a tai chi Master in that doorway as we rode away.

We never saw him again. He simply disappeared. Nobody knew where he went. There were strong rumours about a long lost son taking him to Singapore for surgery.

Lim Lai Leong had a profound affect upon us and on our school. His style of Tai Chi is our lineage. We want to believe he is still alive somewhere and continuing to perfect the art he loved so much.

8