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”.