Karaoke to Kolkata

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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!”

People in Glass Houses …..

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Hi to all our family & friends,

We hope that you are well and if you’re in Melbourne, keeping warm.
I wrote this letter over a week ago and then decided not to send it, as I
felt there was not enough interesting things happening to warranty any
narcissistic discourse. Anyway, Veronica insists that I send it, so blame her
if it puts you to sleep.
Here’s a bit about us and our on-going struggle to remain sane in Malaysia.

Travelling with Lotus Bud can put some pressure on my ought for equilibrium.
The girl has a vivid imagination.
Prior to every flight , Veronica evokes a series of scenarios that all end badly.
Major headline badly. The Airline goes broke. A 20 car pile up en route to the
airport has us missing the plane. We go missing over the Indian Ocean.
We plough into a mountain. You get the idea.

We’re about to fly out of Tullamarine, when the pilot’s voice comes over the speaker.
Veronica turns to me all worried and says.  “Do you think he sounds a little depressed”?

We made it to Malaysia without incident and slotted back into life here as if it was no
more than a new day dawning.

We have been back for 6 weeks now. It’s been a busy time. The house is always in need
of maintenance. We’re teaching tai chi every morning. Lots of socialising and we have
some great new neighbours moved in behind us. I’m working on building websites and
Veronica is continuing in her quest to make the perfect sourdough loaf.
Things that we take for granted in Melbourne, like shopping, can be full day expeditions.

The latest sport to catch on at our house is cage fighting. Well, not exactly MMA stuff but
it’s pretty brutal. How it works is you put one ageing white man inside a mosquito net
with a Malaysian Aedes Egypti Mosquito and let them fight it out.
As I’ve already established in previous epistles, the local mosquito is clearly smarter than
the local human population, so this is not really a fair fight.
Hurricane Hanna up against Aedes Invisibilis. I can’t even see the little bugger as he ducks
and weaves around the canvas. I take hit after hit, itching and scratching, swinging and
missing.
I turn the light on and he’s no where to be seen. Light out and he laughs in my ear. He’s
cocky and I’m pissed.
In martial arts we learn that winning is one step closer to losing and losing is learning.
I’m a loser but my enemy is gaining weight. Eventually he can hardly fly under the weight
of my blood and I move in for the kill.
There are lots of fun things to do in Malaysia.

I have a lump in my neck. On my thyroid to be precise.
Decided to go to the hospital here and get it checked.
I rang up and explained my problem to a receptionist at the hospital.
My English being as bad as it is means I have to repeat myself many times
before they have any idea of what I’m banging on about. I usually hand the phone
to Veronica and she translates my gibberish.
Eventually it was all arranged. I was to see Doctor Wong, level 5 in the new wing.

Next day at the hospital I registered at the desk and was then ushered into a waiting
room. Apparently I would be going into room 7.
Sure enough, Doctor Wong’s name was on the door. Doctor Wong, Colorectal Surgeon.
I pointed this out to Veronica.
“Do you think they think I’ve got a pain in the arse instead of a pain in the neck?”
She immediately went to the reception desk and relayed our concern.
She returned and explained that apparently Doctor Wong was good at either end,
so we’re all good.

It seems like Veronica and I always manage to assign a significant portion of our time
abroad to visiting Doctors and Hospitals. It’s a form of time management.
We thought Lotus Bud had dengue. The doctor said it was too early to tell. It takes
about 5 days before a blood test will show a result.
He wrote out a prescription anyway.
We then went to the in-house dispensary, Veronica asked the girl what the bottle was.
“Medicine Ma’am”, she answered.
“What kind of medicine”?
“No Ma’am, just medicine.”
“What’s it for”? persisted a now plighted Veronica.
“To make you better Ma’am”.
“How? What’s it made of? What’s in it? What’s it do?”
“It’s medicine Ma’am. It makes you better.”
At this point I thought it best to just take the bottle and go.
Veronica was naturally a touch frustrated but I saw it as a brilliant metaphor for life
in George Town.
Actually, no one has a fuckin’ clue what they’re doing, why they’re doing it or what
might exist beyond the walls of their own insensitivity.

We stopped for a drink at a teh tarik stall in an alley off Hutton Lane ( no doubt soon
to have it’s name changed to something like Abdul Bin Raman Najib Razak Muhammad
Lane ) and low and behold there’s a temple roof rising over the back wall of the lane
and we’ve never seen it before. I asked the elderly proprietor of the 50 year old stall,
what the building was.
“It’s a temple sir.”
“Yes, I can see that, but what kind of temple? Buddhist, Hindu?”
“I don’t know sir.”
All these years and he doesn’t even know what is right next door. Unbelievable but
absolutely typical.

It’s so hard to get good staff here. Restaurants, cafes, trades, any business.
As a friend of ours recently explained.
“If they’re any good then they get poached or leave for higher pay.
If they’re just average, then they’ll stay with you until you have to kill them”.

I pinched this paragraph from an email Veronica sent to her Mum. It pretty much
nails everybody’s health problems here.

Every virus here is blamed on the weather, especially at this time of the year it seems.
Never mind if you have a sore throat, cough, cold, fever, headache, stomach ache,
toe ache, menopause, swollen glands, rash or probably even tooth ache, it’s all blamed
on the weather.
The heat, humidity, rain and storms are responsible for it all!!! Never mind that people
are in and out of air-con every few minutes. That a trip on a bus is deadly considering
the number of people who never think to cover their mouths when they cough or sneeze
and the fact that no one washes their hands after using the toilet even if they work in a
restaurant. That the Dengue Virus has risen by thirty percent in the last two years
because people throw their rubbish in the drains and block them up so the mosquito
larvae multiply.   No, no, no, it’s the weather that’s responsible for all of this!!!

Veronica’s love of all things coffee has enriched our travel experiences no end.
When you’re walking down back streets and alleyways looking for trendy cafes, you
inadvertently discover the soul of a place. A vibrant local scene usually exists there, like a
an honest heart beating unseen beneath the skin of tourist sites.
It’s not only great places we discover but interesting people. Today we met a coffee
importer called Willy Wee. He wasn’t interesting but his name card is now a cherished part
of my souvenir collection.

I guess to understand this little story you would need to know that the best known shopping complex in Penang is called Gurney Plaza. It’s like a poor man’s Chadstone or Doncaster Shopping Town. It’s located on Gurney Drive near the famous Gurney Hawkers, all named after Sir Henry Gurney, former High Commissioner of Malaya who was killed by Communists during the Emergency.

Anyway, I needed to strip mould off an outside wall and figured that a high pressure water
cleaner might do the trick. Do you see where this is going?
I walked into a Chinese hardware and tool centre on Beach St and yes, I asked if they sold
Gernis.
They looked at me quizzically for a few seconds before one brave soul stepped forward and said, “Sir, you’ll have to get a taxi. It’s too far to walk”.

Is it bad karma to promote your own good fortune? Can positive assertions invite ill fate?

At the time of restoring our 135 year old house in Penang, we spent countless hours in
coffee shops and restaurants in the company of kindred spirits, listening to their horror
stories. Nearly everyone we knew who was also restoring an old Chinese shophouse was
having a disaster with the contractor or tradesmen or both.
Roofs that leaked, pipes that burst, ill-fitting woodwork, poor tiling, budget blow outs,
worker truancy, miscommunication and work done badly etc etc.

We would sit back contritely listening to the carnage, glowing in the knowledge that Uncle
Chan and his merry band of misfits was crafting our dream home.
This group of artisans were considered too old by most prospective restorers.
Why would you employ people who should be retired?
Why?
Because they had experience and skill. To top it off we had an amazing Project Manager
who listened to all our ideas and offered many creative options of her own.
We had a dream run.

Ok, enough smugness. There had to be some karmic payback for all that good fortune,
albeit five years later. Last Friday it arrived on a motorbike sent from hell. His name was
Yurgis, a cheerful young Indian man and he rode in with a small posse of Vietnamese foot
soldiers.

Yurgis works for Richard who possibly has some kind of pact with the devil. Richard makes old style glass windows to suit heritage houses. He came highly recommended and word of mouth is usually the best assurance. I rang Richard.

To begin with, we received a quote to put glass windows inside the wooden shutters upstairs, with the stipulation that we could retain the old shutters and the fly screens.
Similarly, downstairs the glass would have to compete with both wooden casement windows and screens.
No problem, they could build a separate frame. They would also fit magnetic sprung glass over the downstairs bat windows and fit glass frames in the upstairs vents.

We are regularly the victims of smoke, dust, chemicals, car exhaust fumes and noise coming in through the old shutters. It’s a romantic notion to live in a house without glass but you soon realise that it is seriously compromising your health. Clean air and safe living is not something that has ever occurred to most Penangites. They just mysteriously get sick and die too young. It’s an act of God or whatever deity is assigned responsibility for their particular brand of human stupidity.

A week after receiving the quote, Yurgis rings me and tells me he’s coming now to start work.
I wrongly assumed that this meant fitting windows. It actually meant that Yurgis needed to
bring someone else in to recheck the measurements.
Yurgis and his Vietnamese side kick, walked around with tape measures, shaking their heads while mumbling and grumbling in Malay ( the lingua franca for all foreign slave labour here ) until finally a phone call had to be made. We figured there was a problem. No point in discussing it with us though.
10 minutes later, in walked someone we assumed must be Richard. No point in saying hullo, we just live here.
2 minutes later they all walked out. Yurgis told me it couldn’t be done as they leave.
We actually felt relieved, it didn’t feel right.
Then for some stupid reason I said, “What about the bat windows and vents. Maybe we could just do them”?
“OK”, says Yurgis and then he disappears.

Another week passes and we hear nothing, we feel reprieved. It’s ok, we don’t want glass
anyway, do we?
The phone rings. It’s Yurgis.
“Mr John, we come now and start work”.

They turn up on motorbikes within minutes of the call. In struts Yurgis with two scrawny
Vietnamese workers carrying tool bags and window frames.
They spread themselves out without a moment wasted before scratching, bumping and
knocking over anything that might have some value to the inhabitants.

The vent windows don’t fit. No problem, they’ll just shave bits off.
One worker takes off with a saw and comes back 5 minutes later bleeding profusely from
a cut on his face.
Yurgis hands him a tissue.

They need more light. The worker who isn’t bleeding tries to force open a window that
doesn’t open.
“Stop”, I yell but he keeps on wrenching.
“Tell him to stop Yurgis, it doesn’t open”.
He stops but only after damaging the catch.

The silicon bottles are jammed and the silicon gun doesn’t work.
Bits of plastic get sawn off the tubes. Still doesn’t work. A window frame falls out and dents the floor.

Yurgis leaves, bolting our door from the outside and effectively locking us in. Let’s hope a
fire doesn’t start now. Idiot. He rides off on his motorbike and comes back 15 minutes later with a new silicon tube.
It appears to work but one Vietnamese guy gets his hands covered in silicon and Yurgis
manages to stop him from wiping it off on our furniture.
He hands him a tissue.
It won’t wipe off properly, so he goes down stairs and Veronica manages to stop him just
before he clogs up our drain.
He comes back upstairs. The window frame falls out and lands on his foot. It bleeds.
Yurgis hands him a tissue.
I can’t watch anymore and go down stairs for a break.

A terrified Veronica orders me back up stairs to keep watch.
They want to fit filthy windows. I stop them and together we clean the glass. They giggle
away in Vietnamese making fun of the silly white man.
The windows get banged into place with what seems like a lot of unnecessary hammering.

The whole circus moves down stairs.
Ho Chi Minh drags the ladder into place, climbs up and starts unscrewing the fly screens.
Veronica screams. “The fly screens must stay”.
“You want to keep the fly screens”? inquires Yurgis.
I look at him in disbelief, not sure whether to laugh or slap him.
“You are doing separate frames,” I remind him.
“Oh yes Mr John.”
“Do you have the frames?”
“Yes sir.”
“Where?”
“At the factory sir.”
“Really? Are you able to get them?”
“Yes Mr John.”

They all leave and come back 90 minutes later after making the frames.
They look ugly and need staining.
A tin of stain gets opened in our lounge room and ….
Veronica screams.  “Get out, you can’t do that in here, I’m allergic to chemicals.”
They look at her as though she’s just confessed to some heinous crime.
So they sit outside the front window on the 5 foot way and …..
Veronica screams again.
“Get away from the house you stupid idiots, the fumes are coming straight in the
window.”
They edge a little further away like scolded dogs.
I asked Yurgis what will happen once the frames are stained? Surely they will smell.
“No smell Mr John”.

They finish and bring in the frames. They stink. Veronica can’t scream anymore and
retires to the back of the house, a defeated woman.
Then the banging starts. I have no idea why but they hammer the living suitcase out
of the frames, the windows and anything else that makes a loud noise when banged.

Then it all goes quiet.
“We are finished Mr John”, says Yurgis.
First time he’s actually shared anything with me. I’d got used to trying to guess the
next step.
“I will come back tomorrow and fix the windows,” he adds.
They were fitting a magnetic catch to the bat windows, so I assumed there was some
drying time needed.
“You mean once the silicon has set,” I inquired.
“Yes, Mr John. Can you pay me now for the workers?”
He handed me two bills. I needed to pay for the labourers now and balance tomorrow.
I paid and they left.

The next day we were just leaving the house, I opened the door and there was Yurgis
standing there.  He had a small ladder in his hand and his worker friend was carrying a
trowel with a small bucket.
“How did you know we’d be home?” I asked him.
“No need sir, no problem, we just come to fix window”.
“How were you going to get inside?”
“No need sir, we can do from the outside.”
“What do you ……. ”  . I turned around and got a horrible shock. They had knocked all
the plaster out of the wall around the windows. It looked like the aftermath of an
earthquake.
“You have some faulty with your brick sir”.
“Damn fuckin’ right I do, you’ve smashed the front of our house out.”
“You didn’t know sir? Never mind, we can fix it.”
Ho Chi Minh scales the ladder and starts trowelling plaster all over the wall. More bits
of old plaster start flaking off as he applies the new. It’s an awful job. The new plaster
starts cracking as it dries. The wooden window frames are covered in plaster. The 5
footway tiles are speckled with dripping plaster and crumbling bits of wall. It’s a
disaster.
“Do you have any paint Mr John?.
“Why?”
“i will paint the wall sir.”
“GO AWAY!!

Yurgis rings me twice a day looking for his money.
“My boss wants payment.”
“Have you told him what a complete cock up this job has been?” I ask.
“Yes sir, he knows.”

The day after hell opened and Lord Yurgis, Prince of Darkness rode out from the
underworld, a bad tempered Lotus Bud and I decided to go to Gurney Plaza.
We’d ordered a fridge that was to be delivered in one week. That was 5 weeks ago.
It was time to go into their main outlet and vent some frustration. It wouldn’t change
anything, because no one gives a toss here but at least it would feel better having a
bit of a yell.
I could see that Veronica needed to let off some steam but to her undying credit she
stayed remarkably calm as we walked from store to store encountering sales people
who almost unanimously proved that the Malaysian education system is farcical.
No wonder they queue up to come to Australia to learn to read and write.

Things were going well as Veronica browsed through Harvey Norman, finally stopping
to look at a bread machine. There was a big sign next to it that said ‘Bread Machine”.
The machine itself had ‘Bread Machine’ emblazoned across it and the manual sharing
the same stand was also titled ‘Bread Machine’.
A salesman sidled up to Veronica and in a most informative way told her that it was a
‘Bread Machine’.
Veronica looked up at him. I could see the steam slowly percolating.
“I know it’s a fuckin’ Bread Machine. Do you think I can’t fuckin’ read you stupid man!”
She walked away and quite calmly added.
“I feel better now”.

As mentioned, we decided to upsize our fridge. SEN Electrical is on Level 7 of Gurney
Plaza and they gave us a pretty good deal. Stock will come in from KL in a week. That
was 5 weeks ago.
The day before we went into their store at Gurney, Veronica rings them.
“Hullo, is that Sen?”
“Who?”
“Is that SEN Electrical?”
“Hang on please.”
Someone else comes on the phone. Veronica continues.
“Hullo, is that SEN?”
“Wait one moment please, I will check.”
Veronica looks incredulous. She covers the mouth piece of the phone and tells me
that whoever she’s talking to is having a good think about the name of the company
they work for.
After about 5 minutes they come back on the phone.
“Sorry miss, there’s no body of that name here.”

Our fridge finally gets delivered. The driver was a really nice guy, even carried our
old fridge into a neighbour’s house. 3 hours later we’re walking along Beach St and
the phone rings.  It’s SEN.
“Sorry Miss, the fridge driver can’t find your house.”

Welcome to Malaysia.

Observations, Obligations & Obsessions

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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!

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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

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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

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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.

 

Just Follow

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The mindless masses are moving in for the kill.

The witch hunt has begun. Only 7 months before we can all sink our blunt knives into the ‘Gillard’ government and be rid of them.

The people of Australia deserve better. Unfortunately they will elect an ‘Abbott’ government, so they won’t get better. In fact, they’ll get far worse but that’s another story. For now, it’s all about putting an end to all the pain and suffering.

Why a reporter would choose to venture into the bogan heartland of outer Western Sydney to seek answers completely escapes me. Perhaps it’s all a parody but I fear it’s more about gleaning opinions from the stupid folk who represent our moronic majority. The people who will vote out a Government who, despite a relentless media propaganda campaign against them, actually managed to invoke some innovative policies.

“And how will you vote in September sir”? asked our intrepid reporter.

“I’m a hardened Labour voter and all my family have always voted Labour but I’m going to vote Liberal”.

“And why is that sir?”

“Because I’m sick of seeing all these ethnic people taking over the place. We should send them back to where they came from”.

Then she interviews a store owner.

“I can’t make a profit anymore. Julia Gillard should come down here and work in my shop for a day and see if she can make a profit. She has to go.”

I just wish the reporter had asked this bozzo whether he’d ever considered that he might be a shit businessman. No, it’s Gillard’s fault.

Come September, Australia will get what it deserves. The morons will have a honeymoon for 3 months while Abbott does nothing, then the whinging will start. Nobody ever learns but two things are certain.

Abbott will privatise the NBN, putting us back in surplus. That man would even sell his mother to balance the books. Secondly, our hardened Labour voter, still doing it tough in Penrith, will never admit that he voted Liberal.

We are apes who act like sheep. Just follow.

 

The Dysfunctional Ape

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It amazes me how ingracious middle class Australians have become.

Europe & America are sinking in the wake of generations motivated by greed, while we cling to a raft of fortunate flotsam.

With our ipads, ipods, iphones, imacs, iwant more, potato chips, soft drinks, chocolate bars, cigarettes, fine wine, boutique beers, lattes, 64″ TV screens, 6 mt spas with a bedroom at one end, pensions, superannuation ( $1million is not enough nowadays apparently ), sick leave, holiday pay, caravans, BBQs, garage sales, speed boats, swimming pool, pedigree dogs, private health insurance, 3 bathroom house, investment property, etc etc … and I listen to some indignant Baby Boomer whinging about how – “It’s not like the old days.”  or  ” Bloody politicians are ruining this country.”

If anyone honestly believes that a vote for Abbott can change anything for the better, then they are delusional.
In reality, the Government of the day is actually responsible for only a fraction of our perceived problems.

It’s probably time we took some responsibility for our own lives, instead of undermining our attempts to be happy by overrating the Government .

Let’s all have another vile, fat-saturated McDonald’s Unhappy Meal and then complain about the overloaded public health system.

 

 

Happy Invasion Day

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In a local pub, somewhere, anywhere.

A monkey wrench of Tradies sit busy mastering plastering over any remaining vestiges of adolescent sobriety.
Jason reckons Ushtraya should be for Ushtrayins and those ‘boat people’ should fuck off. He’s never met a ‘boat person’ but they still mess up his life.
His grandfather hated Wogs and his father hated Slopes, so I guess it’s a tribal thing. Fortunately he never got religion. He’s banging on about the ‘missus’ , ( the bloating Sharon ) mercifully underpinned by alcohol and seemingly unaffected by formal education. She would have had a white wedding if she’d got married at 12.
Track suit pants, a supermarket trolley full of chips and soft drink, a tattoo on her left breast, she hates Moslems, they have no respect for our way of life.

Between them they earned $150,000 last year. That’s what’s great about this country, even the lowliest bogan peasant has a voice. Ignorance has a genuine place in the debate. They never go to the city, why would you, there’s everything you need down at the local shopping centre. Jason reckons the only good thing about the city is the airport. They’re off to Bali again next week.

Jase is notably the ring leader, he talks louder and more often.
“yeah, nah, obviously, I spose the boys played well. At the end of the day you have to take it one day at a time and obviously I spose the boys weren’t good enough on the day.”
Everybody agrees, wise words from Jase.

Little Mick McMick reckons Julia Gillard is a cunt.
Mick’s a plumber. He got his head stuck down a toilet only 3 days into his apprenticeship. Instead of helping him, all his workmates just kept pressing the flusher. Now he calls everybody a cunt.

Mack’s a butcher who saves his deepest cuts for the Queen’s english.
“Mate, she’s a red-headed clown mate.”

Now an Abbott Government would scrap multi-culturalism and replace it with policies that would strongly encourage homogenisation of the community. Forget about African festivals with their vibrant music and colour, Chinese New Year, Vietnamese restaurants and Flamenco dancing, we’re all off to the pub to join Jase and his mates on Ushtraya Day. Surely someone knows a good Abo joke?