Thought I’d share again some of the more relevant or amusing things
plucked from my scribblings over the last couple of months.
It’s a strange existence living in two parallel universes but life is never dull
when we’re sweating.
I figure that we are now dual-fuel humans. We run on oxygen in Melbourne
and carbon monoxide in Asia.

NEIGHBOUR #1:

I’ve been plotting the execution style murder of one of our neighbours for a
few years.
Every day at precisely 7.05 am, this elderly gentleman revs the living shit out
of an old car parked right in front of our house.  He never drives it anywhere,
it just gets mercilessly revved for 20 minutes each day while our house soaks
up all the carbon monoxide.

Veronica has consistently defended the old guys right to life, insisting that a
better solution is for us to get up and leave the house every morning before
he starts his car.
When I recently suggested that he may well be the same guy who ‘sings’
Karaoke here every Saturday night, Veronica’s immediate response was.
“Kill him”.

Speaking of death, despite the poor air quality and high levels of cigarette
smoking, not as many people die of lung related diseases here as you would
assume. I once believed that they must have iron lungs but I now understand
that it’s because they die of liver cancer before their lungs get the chance to
collapse.
Interesting too, they die of liver and lung cancer here but hardly anyone dies
of a brain tumour.  Just saying.

NEIGHBOUR #2:

Recent generations of Chinese living within the Malaysian diaspora mostly
value chattels by their price tag. Aesthetics have little to do with anything,
beauty is redundant and craftsmanship an emblem of past hardships.
Paradoxically, their ancestors effected a world of extraordinary charm and
artistry, as evidenced in a crumbling George Town now inherited by Hokkien
slum dogs and lazy Facebook barbarians.
Our next door neighbour has known only concrete, smoke and struggle
throughout his 70 years. His world is without choices. Without disposable
income or a proper education, he is like a caged bird who loses the will for
flight.
Now his little xenophobic heart has to deal with two migratory cuckoos
sharing his nest.  What to do?
Complain bitterly about the fact that we have too many plants on our front
porch.
Living in Penang is a wonderful experience but you do have to be tolerant
of people who possess little logic and even less empathy.

THE EARTHQUAKE:

A sacred mountain suffers the indignity of a small group of climbers posing
naked at the summit. It’s portrayed as more disgusting than racism, sexism,
religious bigotry or corruption. In fact, this disgraceful act is probably
responsible for the deadly earthquake that shook Kinabalu. The God’s were
not amused.

Meanwhile, a wealthy real estate Developer pays the obligatory
‘commissions’ to the applicable bureaucrats and then his Company goes to
work raping the jungle-clad hills with its 20 storey cock. The God’s are not
alerted to this misdemeanour by the local press who act as regime managed
engineers of public outrage, implacably fanning the sparks of superstition
and stupidity that set the masses on fire.
What should we think next?

INDIA:

We had the pleasure of travelling through India with 23 friends this August.
I have since concluded that there are two kinds of people in the world –
those who have been to India and those who haven’t. It’s like nowhere else
and nothing can prepare you for the onslaught.
No fancy words, photos or film can possibly come close to describing the
mayhem and sensory overload that India provides.

My video will show us sitting on rickshaws in Varanasi but it’s only a biopsy
of the total experience. You would need a dozen sets of eyes to absorb half
of what’s going on around you. The arrant chaos overwhelms you to the
point where you just start to laugh. This is torrential life. A veritable flood
of humanity.  An effulgent synergy of man, beast and vehicle pervading a
landscape subjugated and moulded by repetition and rhyme. Every man,
woman and child knows precisely what they’re doing but, to the man from
Cranbourne, the sheer multitude of souls in collision makes it appear to be
utterly out of control. These people are remarkable.

The Aeroplane & Kolkata –

We are the only two white bait in a sardine can chock full of farting Sikhs,
ubiquitous BO and the ferocious snorting of phlegm. We haven’t even left
Malaysian airspace and I’m wondering how the hell we’re going to survive
a full month in India.

The plane speaker crackles to life. Indian Authorities request that the
cabin be sprayed before landing. Seems to me like sterilizing your rubbish
en route to the tip.

Arriving into Kolkata after midnight, was like driving through a war zone.
It was all but deserted with every building, road and vehicle looking like a
bomb had exploded nearby. Why on earth did we choose to come here?
We had figured that any city that has districts called Dum Dum and
Ballygunge, has got to be worth exploring and when the sun came up
next day, we fell in love with the place.

It’s ironic, we’re in a place where everywhere you look there is a photo
opportunity and yet we are the centre of attention. The unfamiliar is of
interest. A local cannot possibly understand what we find fascinating
about a hand pushed cart. Similarly, we don’t know why two old white
people from Cranbourne could possibly warrant a second glance, let
alone persistent stares.

We wandered the streets of old Kolkata by ourselves for a few days and
then with a complimentary guide supplied by our local Operator for
another. His name was Bikash, but my spell checker changed his name
to Bike Shop.
We had a great day exploring the city with Bike Shop. We had a driver
too. He would turn off his engine to save fuel while waiting for the traffic
lights to change. When the lights changed to green, he turned the
ignition key, put the car into gear and beeped the horn. All in one
continuous, unconscious action. Kolkata streets are noisy.
I remember a guy once telling me that he was going to Culcatta to
‘find himself’.

We stayed in a large family home in one of Kolkata’s more affluent areas.
A mental picture of this neighbourhood approximating Toorak would be
a major miscue.

Our host’s father was into munitions ( he wasn’t impressed by my quip
about supplying Pakistan with nuclear weapons ) and the other person
sitting at the table was a mechanical engineer specialising in cancer
research. Both nice people with lots in common but curious that one
makes a living out of the potential to destroy human life and the other
is committed to saving it.

Discussing wildlife in India with them and the subject of leopards came up.
I asked if there were any still left in the wild. I learned that they are nearly
all in designated reserves now as encroaching human habitation has
diminished their habitat and food sources. Now they eat children quite a
bit, so they moved most of them into nature reserves. I asked if they were
called Leopard Colonies but, as is the norm in Asia, my attempt at humour
fell on deaf ears.
I claim it’s cultural differences but Veronica insists that it’s because I’m just
not funny.

Delhi –

I’d rather spend a couple of nights in a public toilet. Delhi is essentially a
shit hole. It’s hard work.
You soon get a strong sense of your own worth. You are nothing to anybody
except that you take up space and you may have a wallet.
Delhi is a dodgy city. A giant dodgem ride. Whether you’re driving, walking
or talking, it’s all about territory. If you get your nose slightly in front, then
you have right of way.

In Delhi everyone is a beggar. The woman in rags holding a naked baby, the
old man sitting cross-legged on a sheet of cardboard at the railway station,
the toilet attendant, the grubby faced children tapping on car windows, the
cripple, the holy man, the shopkeeper, the tour guide, the waiter, the
businessman, the politician, they’ve all got their dirty hands out.
The tourist is nothing more than cold white meat and every vulture wants
a piece of your remains. They will find you, they can smell you and they
are hungry.

In Connaught Place the touts swarm around you like Mosquitos.
” Hullo sir, tuk tuk ?”
” Shops are closed sir, follow me to the tourist centre.”
” Where do you come from sir ?”
Beggars, scammers, pedi-cabbies, street vendors, even the stray dogs eye
you off as a potential touch. You daren’t stop, look unsure, consult a map
or make eye contact. You literally have to swipe them away like flies. I
even resorted to confusion as a means of defense by responding in
Chinese but that only incited more interest.

Body language is the window to your intentions and Delhi’s array of
parasites are very good at assessing your vulnerability. The best form of
defense is to have a distinct plan. Walk with clear intention and treat the
mosquito swarm with utter indifference. Any level of engagement or
emotional response supplies leverage. You must totally ignore them
without looking like you’re trying to ignore them.

It’s hard to be hard in the face of poverty but any demonstration of
compassion will incite a manic feeding frenzy that will tear your carcass
to shreds. You are the prey.
If witnessing poverty first hand is distressing, then there are smarter
ways to respond than by helping to perpetuate begging and the
exploitation of children on the street. Better to contact an NGO group
and assist by supporting infrastructure projects.

Group arrives from Australia –

They’ve built an elevated rail line right next to our Delhi hotel, the
Jaypee Siddharth.
Trains rumble passed every 30 – 60 seconds.
Is this a problem?
Not if you read the hotel’s in-house information folder.
” And we have an open air restaurant that offers impressive views as the
racing metro creates a pulsating imprint. ”

Leaving the hotel room for dinner at the open air restaurant with the
pulsating imprint, I was obliged to remove the room key card from the
power slot. Unfortunately this meant no power to the room for charging
phone and camera. I decided to try my Medi-care card in it’s place.
It worked. Finally the Australian Health system is starting to provide
benefits.

One of our group, Chris, had the pleasure of witnessing two Indians
attempting a Western Breakfast. They  both picked up large bowls and
added cornflakes, coco puffs, muesli and wheat flakes before moving
along the buffet bar to add tomato, corn, peas, alfalfa sprouts, onion,
mung beans, yoghurt and warm milk. They then sat down to enjoy the
kind of breakfast that foreigners eat.
After a few mouthfuls it was obvious that something wasn’t quite right.
So one of them got up and added a couple more spoonfuls of peas.
That’s better.

Rajasthan –

Rajasthan has the most significant assortment of forts and palaces on
Earth. They are stunning.
We were about to ride up to a fort in Jaipur on the back of elephants.
I warned everyone that being behind an elephant when it farts is a very
unpleasant experience.
Meredith chipped in – being behind me when I fart at the moment is not
too good either.

In Jaipur they have a 14 year old Maharaja ( king ) who will become the
most eligible bachelor in India. Don and Robyn suggested they should
introduce him to their daughter Melanie.
Someone then said, “What about Nathan ( Melanie’s boyfriend ) ?”
Don turned around to Nathan and said,  “See you Nath.”
I asked, “How do you put up with Don, Nathan?”
He shook his head and said, “Mel’s a great girl.”

We stayed in some amazing hotels in Rajasthan, including an actual palace
in Mandawa, complete with a four poster shower. Astonishing though, for
all the intricate workmanship that’s gone into creating the palaces and
forts, they can’t get the plumbing right in a 4 star hotel.

Visiting China, you eventually become ‘templed out’. So too in India, no
matter how incredible the next edifice, you start to become a bit
‘forted out’. I joked with Eric, who suffers severe back pain, that he’ll
probably even stop taking Panadeine Forte now.

Comparisons with China are inevitable. In China you mostly need to travel
off the beaten track to find anything resembling the old ways and then it’s
often just locals living in high rise apartments dressing up in traditional
costume to perform for the tourists.
In India, the exotic travel posters are not the exception they are the rule.
It exceeded all my expectations. The real India is everywhere. From the
millions of cows who nonchalantly roam down even the busiest of streets
to the rickshaw pullers who work the laneways exactly as they did 100
years ago. Half a billion women dressed in the most colourful of saris.
The holy man sitting cross-legged on the footpath savouring a chilim.
The half naked little ragamuffins weaving through traffic to solicit a few
rupees from gridlocked drivers. Brightly painted buses bursting at their
rusty seams and jammed atop with hordes of noisy commuters. Crowds
bathing and washing their clothes at the Ghats. Groups of orange clad
Hindu worshippers, high on bhang, chanting and dancing as they pass in
procession. Whole families living under canvas on dusty footpaths or
under metro bridges. Camel drawn carts. 6 people on a motorbike with
a pig. Chaotic streets encrusted with such a multiplex of electric wiring
that it almost dims the sun. Forts and Palaces so massive and so grand
that you are left wondering why it took you so long to realize such things
existed. Old men in long flowing white dishdasha and orange turbans
sitting smoking at desert road stops. Walking across the busiest pedestrian
bridge on earth, teeming with flower sellers, rickshaw pullers, beggars,
Hindu Sadhu, shapely Tamil girls in glitzy saris and every imaginable mode
of transport choking its gridiron artery. Ancient streets selvaged with
crumbling haveli, donkey drawn tilbury, betel nut stalls, smouldering mud
ovens and the ubiquitous rabble of cows. A blue smoke-stained door jamb
framing an old lady in a ruddy sari slowing stirring a cast iron pot of yellow
dhal.
It’s as if impossibly exotic post cards are springing to life all around you.

We took to the air on several legs of the domestic journey. One flight was
with a local operator called Indigo. No doubt inspired by lots of credo from
the Branson hand book, this trendy company was ‘like really cool and stuff’.
Apart from farewelling passengers  at the gangway with “see you later,
Alligator’ scribbled over everything, their lunch box logo promised us a
great day, unless we did something really stupid.
My favourite though was their in-flight magazine’s promotion of a new book
entitled ‘Kama Sutra for Business’. I wondered whether it gave instruction
on how to screw your competitors.

One of the real highlights of our tour was riding a camel in the desert,
20 km from the Pakistan border. My camel was called Michael Jackson.

73 kg of human being sitting tenuously astride an irritable camel with only
his testicles to emulsify man and dromedary . I quickly contended that the
Idly may have originated in the desert camps of Ghani camel traders. The
woman folk, having their culinary imaginations pricked by the recumbent
gonads hubby brought to their nuptials, were duly inspired to create the
tasty snack. It’s also possible that the concept of Eunuchs may have been
born between humps on the Silk Road.
My voice goes up in pitch as I privately belt out “I’m bad, I’m bad” rocking
high in the saddle with Michael Jackson.

The camel herders, adorned in spotless white robes and colourful turbans,
strut nonchalantly alongside their beasts. For the next half hour we will
leave our comfort zones and put all our trust in these illiterate men.
Out here in the desert they are Kings.
A dung beetle passes under hoof rolling an orb of camel shit twice his size.
The pretty girls in saris and heavy mascara appear to glide across the
shifting sand in their bare feet as they follow the convoy of camels.
It’s a piece of desert theatre played out for every captured tour bus.
“Money for photo”.

Michael cranes his neck and twists his head around to glance at the latest
batch of hapless gauchos.  His posture is part regal, part goofy yet
quintessentially exotic. This is the desert and he’s a real camel. I tap my
heels against his sides, rise up in the saddle and scream “No prisoners.”

TAI CHI IN PENANG:

We are now back in Penang and at the end of class this morning Michael
& Barbara were deciding where to go for breakfast.
“Maybe the Chinese coffee shop on the corner of Malay and Carnavon
or is it porridge today?” asks Michael.
Mika chimed in with her softly officious German accent, “Your porridge
day is Thursday I think”.
“Wow, Mika, the joys of being young. You miss nothing,” adds Michael.
“Well I’m an Anthropologist, I study human behavioural patterns and I
think you’ll find that Thursday is porridge day”.

Unfortunately, Thursday week is not only porridge day but it’s the day we
have to leave the lovely warmth of Malaysia and return to Melbourne.
Despite the horrible haze from slash and burn that is now cloaking
George Town,  the plummeting ringgit and farcical politics and the fact
that everything is harder here than in Melbourne, we don’t want to
leave.

Gems from Lotus Bud –

“India will be a very successful country in the years ahead, they are
such good liars.”

“When you’re older you tend to do things just to get your money’s worth.”

At the end of a long day and desperately tired, she was recounting our
elephant ride in a phone call.
“Then we went up the hill on envelopes.”

After the group had left Kolkata to fly back to Australia.
“I woke up during the night wondering where the tour group would be
and then realized I didn’t know where I was.”

And finally one from Eric, sitting on the bus going out to the Airport to
leave India after consuming several beers and now nursing a painfully
distended bladder.
“I’ve enjoyed everything about this trip, until now!”