Tag Archives: George Town

A Blast from the Past

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Armenian Street, George Town.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The TRUE story of KOMTAR

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During the latter part of the 20th century, a large commuter rocket from the planet Tau Ceti E* was blown light years off course by a massive cosmic storm. Lost in space, it eventually plummeted through the Earth’s atmosphere and crash-landed in the centre of George Town, Malaysia.
The rocket’s unexpected arrival obliterated several blocks of old Chinese Shophouses while simultaneously deleting a surprised group of onlookers from the Hokkien gene pool. A huge firestorm then shattered any hope of a relaunch and left the alien occupants stranded here on planet Earth.

Komtar02

The good folk of Tau Ceti E* had been part of a mass exodus from their planet which had been completely taken over by tourists from all corners of the Galaxy.
Their once beautiful planet had been rendered almost uninhabitable by the invasion of mural-hunting, selfie-taking Foreigners.
They had decided to abandon their world in search of a new planet in which to establish a community untainted by the hideous ravages of tourism only to now find themselves stranded on a planet inhabited by strange ape-like creatures called humans.
A delegation from the Malaysian Immigration and Customs Control came aboard to negotiate terms of settlement and after much discussion the aliens, despite dire warnings of the inevitable catastrophic outcome, agreed to teach the local people everything they knew about how to make money from Tourism and Corruption in exchange for being granted MM2H.

Unfortunately, within one month, most of the aliens either succumbed to pollutants in the atmosphere or starved due to lack of nutrition in the food.
Despite their sad demise the Alien legacy lives on. In less than a month they were able to show the Earthlings how to set up awful trash shops and tasteless retail outlets throughout the rocket complex and laid a blueprint for dozens of novelty museums that would one day keep future generations of shallow souls suitably distracted from the bureaucratic mismanagement happening 20 floors above them.

And that girls and boys, is the true story of how the big ugly blot on the landscape known as Komtar, came into being.

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”

 
?!!!!!!

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.”

Letter from George Town

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

3

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A conversation in a coffee shop last night:

“Can I please have a white coffee”?

“No sir, only black coffee”.

“Then can I get milk with that”?

“Yes sir”.

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

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

3

The Convent Light Street

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I remember a time when we came to Malaysia for a holiday.
e
I’m sure that some of our friends have restored houses before.
Why did nobody warn us that it’s easier to plan an assault on the summit of Everest?
Our task has been made all the more difficult by being in Malaysia.
It’s taken us 3 weeks to achieve what we would do in 3 days in Melbourne.
Nothing is simple, nothing is logical and nobody does what you would expect.
3
Our days are at least 12 hours long. They begin and end with a one hour ride on the
dodgems with half a million inmates of the Penang lunatic asylum.
Our lives have become fully consumed by this 1876 money pit that threatens our sanity
daily.
Are we having fun?     You bet.
7
We left Melbourne a month ago.
Our Air Asia flight had a new ‘special’ on the menu. A fancy fruit platter called the ‘F’ Cup.
Should have seen it as a sign of things to come.
7
We spent a few days in Melaka before going to Penang and met some really nice guys there, Johnni, Leonard and Raymond, who helped make our time there very special.
7
One of the bonuses of living with Lotus Bud ( my girlie ) is being privy to a range of great
one liners and astute observations.
Standing on the banks of the Melaka River.
” Why is it that everyone on a boat has to wave at everyone not on the boat. “
7
Looking at a very ornate, gold-leaf Chinese screen in a Melaka shophouse.
”  I couldn’t live with all that guild. “
7
Travelling home in our car which was running low on petrol.
” I won’t turn on the air-con so we won’t drain any more petrol than necessary. “
7
Yes, we have a car. It’s actually ‘my’ car, Veronica hasn’t yet come to terms with it.
Our friend Appu organised its acquisition. It was a Mazda 626 but when we went to pick
it up it was heavily disguised as a Toyota Corolla. This is quite common in Malaysia.
Assume nothing and expect anything.
7
Have been recently inspired by the entrepreneurial skills of an Indian gentleman who
sits at a bus stop on Penang Rd. and sells little piles of grated carrot laid out on the footpath.
Why didn’t I think of that?
7
Lotus Bud went for a health check yesterday. The Doctor felt her pulse, looked at her tongue and took her blood pressure. After much consideration, her diagnosis was:
” You cannot take Durian. “
Now if you went for your annual medical check-up expecting some feedback on your
cholesterol, blood sugar levels, heart, liver etc  and instead you were only told that you
probably shouldn’t eat Scotch Finger biscuits ….
7
Our friend April has a blind dog. I mean the dog is blind. We now call her a seeing eye person.
She doesn’t get it.
She is gorgeous. Her life is devoted to saving stray dogs.
Veronica volunteered some time to give a talk at Speaker’s Corner in support of April’s
campaign to save stray animals.
For the last two nights we have been woken up by dogs barking and cats fighting.
At 6 am this morning, Lotus Bud sits up in bed and yells out.
” F***in’ dogs and cats, I hate them, ” and then she goes straight back to sleep.
6
Despite the house restoration, we have been able to catch up with most of our closest
friends over lunch or dinner during the past 3 weeks.
A lovely Malay friend, Nazlina, is a very liberal and progressive thinking Moslem. Her daughter has a scholarship to the Convent Light School ( a Catholic girl’s school ).
Over lunch I happened to mention how much I’ve always wanted to see inside this grand
old dame with its colourful history, almost as long as Penang itself. We have been walking
the streets of George Town for 14 years now and throughout that time it is one of the few
places that has escaped us. You can’t just walk in, it is strictly policed for the protection of
its students.
6
Nazlina suggested that she could get us into the school. Ten minutes later we slipped through the maze of guards at the gate and entered one of Penang’s most beautiful colonial icons.
The buildings are majestic and the grounds stately. Ghosts of countless generations traced our intrusion down the long wooden corridors and out onto the padang.
4
Lost in a frenzy of clicking cameras, we could hear Naz’s voice echoing down one of the wooden verandahs.
” Quick, quick, we can sneak into the Church, there’s no one in there. I don’t want anyone to see me because they’ll think I want to convert.”
The Church was beautiful and , like so much of our time in Penang, the visit to the Convent
Light School was unexpected and fascinating.
5

Heart of Malaysia

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We’re back in Malaysia. Landed in KL and then bused it up to Taiping for a couple of days of debriefing.

First thing we had to do was buy a couple of nails to slide between faulty shutters on our hotel room. We walked into a Hardware store and asked for 4″ nails. The guy behind the counter gave us a curious look before rummaging through some boxes.
“How many nails do you want”, he called out.
I told him two.
“Two”?
I explained that I just needed enough to nail Veronica to a cross.
Neither the Hardware guy or Veronica could see a lot of humour in that.

Next we bought an umbrella at a junk shop. I needed to road test it. A group of bemused Malay sales girls stood watching while a strange bald man started aggressively swinging his newly acquired cheap red umbrella around in the 5-footway. I didn’t break anything including the expectation that white men are very odd creatures.

We wandered through a fruit market. I told this guy selling mangosteen at RM5 for 3 kg, that in Australia we pay RM7 for one.
“One kilo”?
“No, one mangosteen”.
He wouldn’t believe me. Within 30 seconds the entire market was discussing this enormous travesty. We left the market through a guard of honour, as stall holders and buyers shook their heads at us in sympathy.

Walked around the huge central lake. Taiping is a pretty place. Met a Chinese guy who had lived in England for 40 years but decided to come back home to die. He told us that Taiping is famous for two things – rain and gambling.
“I bet you it will rain by 3 o’clock”.
He was right. Apparently it always rains by mid-afternoon.

Next day we took a jeep ride up Maxwell Hill. Don’t do that trip on a full stomach.
Met a black nuggety Indian who reckons he saw a tiger up there 20 years ago. He himself had just seen a monkey with spectacles on. An English guy who overheard our conversation then told us about a group of Liverpool supporters who visited Australia a few years ago. They wanted to see the ‘Outback’, so they hired a jeep and went bush. It was just on dusk when a large Red Kangaroo jumped out in front of them and was unfortunately hit and killed by the jeep.
The Liverpool lads felt really bad. They stopped and gathered around the dead roo, debating what to do with its remains. One of the guys had a bright idea.
“We should bury it but first let’s get a photo of it”.

They then decided that they should all be in the photo with the kangaroo. Another suggested putting one of their Liverpool soccer jumpers on it. So they propped up the deceased beast, put a jumper over its head, threaded its tiny front legs through the arm holes and gathered around for a group photo.

When the camera flash went off, the kangaroo suddenly woke up, looked around and then bolted off into the bush. The Liverpool lads were completely stunned but perhaps not as much as the local aboriginal tribe who are still coming to terms with the kangaroo who regularly bounds past wearing a football jumper.

That night we hardly slept. Downstairs there was a group of about 60 Malay men enjoying a karaoke party. It was that awful whining Malay pop music that makes Michael Bolton sound cheerful. Every song is the same pleading, crying, painfully desperate, monotonous melodramatic dribble, made all the more obnoxious by the fact that none of them could actually sing.
I went downstairs to complain. The lady on the front desk suggested we just try and ride it out. They are all members of the Police force.
Ok, we’ll live with it.

We arrived back in Penang, happy to be home despite feeling very tired from having no sleep the night before.
After an early night we bounded up to the park the next morning to meet all our tai chi friends. Instructor Peter Lim has two new western students, Philip and Hugh. They wear shirts tucked into tight shorts and socks with their tai chi slippers. Apparently they have stayed here 30 times already, speak fluent Bahasa and don’t mix with expats. No wonder we hadn’t seen them before, they probably see us coming and hide.

Dieticians agree that breakfast is the most important meal of the day and who am I to disregard such good advice. So in Penang, I usually enjoy at least two breakfasts. Muesli and fruit with Veronica and then nasi lemak or beehoon with the locals. It’s all part of a hopelessly flawed weight loss program.

Malaysia is eternally frustrating. It’s a society bursting with contradictions. Flagrant disregard for their fellow man is often coupled with acts of extreme generosity and sacrifice. There is chaos on the roads but almost no road rage. Democracy with no safety net for the poor or disadvantaged. Places of great beauty drowning in a sea of plastic bags and polystyrene. One thing, it’s never boring but I’d like to belt the living suitcase out the bastard who revs the hell out of his motorbike at 5 o’clock every morning.

Our days here are full. Whether it’s doing a qi gong course, watching Chigku perform in a restored shophouse, sipping madras coffee with Teresa at Edelweiss, meeting friends in Chinese coffee shops, riding through kampongs on our motorbike or feeling like time has stood still when prowling the decaying streets of George Town. This place just makes us smile.

One thing we have often talked about doing is trying to find Suffolk House. This majestic mansion was once the home of Penang’s founder, Francis Light and stood as a seat of governance for successive generations. We have never met anybody who actually knew where it stands. Like Camelot, Suffolk House has always been the stuff of legends. We’ve seen pictures painted of it 150 years ago but for all we knew, it had crumbled and disappeared into historical memory. By all accounts this was by far the most magnificent mansion this island has ever seen. We probably should try and find it or what’s left of it.

Over breakfast at a hawker centre in Air Hitam, we quizzed a large group of Chinese friends about the whereabouts of Suffolk House. Not only did they not know where it was, they’d never heard of it.
They are living in one of the most special cities in all of Asia and it’s slowly crumbling around them. They don’t notice it. When it’s all gone, it doesn’t matter, we can build something else and it won’t look so old and tired. Heritage, what’s that? A multi-level car park would be nice. Sure make it easier to get to the new supermarket they’ve built now that that horrible old row of 1875 Southern Eclectic Style Chinese Shophouses has finally been bulldozed from memory.

Veronica and I found new determination. We are going to find Suffolk House. We are John and Veronica, tai chi Instructors, team number one on the Amazing Race. Someone once told us that the Mansion was somewhere near the State Mosque. We bid our Chinese friends good day, jumped on our motorbike and left them to contemplate new ways to make money.

We knew that Suffolk House was annexed to a school and had even been used as the school canteen for a number of years. I believed it was St. Xaviers, so we headed there. An Indian couple outside the school thought it wasn’t here but we should try the Methodist Boys School further along the Air Hitam Road. Sounded right, we rode there, talked our way past the bored guard on the gate – something about me being a professor and doing a doctorate on Asian education. We rode up the main drive and then walked the last 50 metres to the main office. We explained our quest for the Holy Grail and consequently found ourselves being directed to follow a young female student who would take us to the school counsellor.
Two things immediately sprung to mind.
Why do we need a Counsellor and what’s a girl doing at the Methodist Boys School?

The Counsellor was busy but upon hearing what our girl guide uttered, he just pushed all his papers aside, stood up and charged out of the office dragging us in his wake.
“I’ll show you Suffolk House”, he proudly stated.

This was getting exciting albeit a little strange but hey, this is Malaysia, strange is the norm. We didn’t have to walk far before the scaffold-clad facade of what was left of Suffolk House loomed imposingly over the school’s back fence. It was bizarre. This was it. Like finding the Pyramids in a suburb of Cairo. Like an inconsiderate Developer who had built a high-rise Condo next door to a bungalow. But this was no Condo. Even in its neglected state, its former magnificence was obvious. We squeezed through a small gap in the cyclone fence and onto a construction site. John and Veronica, you are team number one.

The Counsellor left us to our devices and suggested we come back to his office when we were ready. He had apparently written an article on the house that we may be interested in. Suffolk House was to be fully restored and stage one had begun. Stage two and onward was dependent on securing funds.

After wandering around the skeletal remains of the mansion for about twenty minutes we went back for some counselling. The Counsellor printed out an article on the house for us and showed us several old photos of generations of school children eating their lunch at the ‘Suffolk House Canteen’.  With the passing of time the house eventually became structurally unsafe for use, boarded up and abandoned.

The Counsellor was very kind and generous with his time. I suspect that he was delighted to meet people with a kindred interest in the House. We rode out of the school grounds with a sense of achievement. Why had it taken us so long to find the grand lady in the small parlour? Finding Suffolk House and sensing its future was probably now secure left us with a wonderful feeling.

We browsed through the horrible Batu Ferringhi trash market that night. Found a CD of nursery rhymes that included songs such as Mary had a Little Lamp and Little Jack Horny. I kid you not. Also bought a DVD with a warning for pirates. Any person making illegal copies of this video will be persecuted. We bought some movie about teen werewolves, just for the warning. The pirates who make these copies inadvertently copy the threats against themselves incorrectly. Now that’s funny.

I recall watching a pirated copy of a Batman movie that we purchased at the Bart a few years ago. It was in English but also contained English subtitles. At one point Bruce Wayne was berating a group of wealthy guests being entertained at his mansion. He yelled out that he was fed up with all his sycophantic friends. The subtitle had him being fed up with all his sick of antique friends.