Monthly Archives: June 2013

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.