From my notepad the day after I arrived in Melbourne, 25/9/09.
INT. RUNDOWN HOSTEL LAUNDERETTE, MELBOURNE CBD
It’s cold and raining hard outside. A man sits on a bench, one leg perched atop a washing machine filled with his thoroughly journey-fragranced clothing. A country bumpkin from somewhere south of Bristol & a similarly gormless Northern Irish lass make basic chit-chat about the usual travel topics (“How long‘ve ya been/got left here?”, “Where ya headed next/Where‘ve you flown in from?” etc, etc), but it quickly seems clear to the man they’re too young and naïve to make non-tiresome conversation. The spin cycle sends sensual mechanical ripples through his body, and he’s suddenly the female protagonist in a Mills and Boon novella. He giggles but quickly snaps out of it to refocus on his musings. The young ‘uns were too much work for someone as jetlagged as he. He’s thankful when they leave. Almost instantly they’re replaced by a pony-tailed Italian man who drops some damp cycling shorts in a dryer. He soon exits too. Like a toilet-tag-teaming group of lads in a bar, seconds later some other anonymous bloke enters to collect his still damp, lint-covered bundle of clothes. He verbally abuses the machine and also leaves. Meanwhile the man - probably in his early 20’s - just sits there, scribbling into a notepad, wondering if there’d ever existed a script with such a lengthy, convoluted and amateurish scene-setting intro. But he wasn’t even an amateur - more complete beginner. In fact he’d never even attempted to write a movie script before and hated the third person. Especially if that third person was a [insert racial group of your choosing] man. Which he wasn’t, because of course it was he, himself. He had to try really hard to bust my way out of it. If it had worked on this cold, rainy day in Melbourne, I might have called it (365) Days of {Spring and} Summer. And the last 300 words have quite obviously just been a poor attempt to shoehorn in that non-joke/not-even-topical-anymore movie reference. My apologies. Anyway, the shitty weather is probably just my punishment for banging on about escaping the cold before I left. “Ha!” I said, “No winter for me!” Spring time down under come September! It’s my fault. Gutted.
Anyway, there’s seven minutes of my wash cycle remaining, so I’ve got a bit of time to say anything I want. So yeah…. Laundry! Only six days into my trip too. But you’d be amazed how many clean clothes you’ll get through in a hot, sticky and generally stinky place like Kuala Lumpur. That plus two long-haul flights. I stayed up AGAIN last night, getting to bed around 4am, which on KL time was 2am. I’m getting there. Gradually. Having never had a long distance journey heading west to east around the world, this jet-lag thing is a relatively new experience. Back from San Francisco to London in March doesn’t really count because I was home and straight to bed. I could completely relax and not care about anything besides turning over from Jeremy Kyle or losing at Call of Duty 5 on XBox Live. Now I’ve got to worry about seeing things, meeting people, ensuring my stuff isn’t pinched and doing bloody laundry. Well not too bloody - I’ve yet to commit my first travel murder, just give me a few months. We’ll see what happens when Dane Cook tours New Zealand.
Anyway, this piece just got more dreary than a dull, rainy, very early spring day in Melbourne, where there‘s nothing to do besides cleaning clothes and writing about the experience. So that‘s that. Or this is that. Or that’s this. Delete as appropriate.
My clothes ended up being very clean and I didn’t require another wash until my first day in Auckland
Saturday, 24 October 2009
Saturday, 17 October 2009
Kuala Lumpur to Melbourne Made Easy
Transcribed from my little black book, 24/09/09
Well after a late one (yet again) last night, I woke around 9:45am with the intention of being all sorted and gone within half an hour. It didn’t quite work out that way. Having to repack my bag again and getting caught up with amusing goodbye chats (mostly with Andy and Joey), it was about 10:45am by the time I left The Reggae Guest House, heading out toward Seni Pensar station, (or Pensar Sani, Pansir Seni, or in fact any combination of those letters) for a quick one stop south to KL Sentral. I hopped on the SkyBus, my prepaid hour-long ride to the Low Cost Carrier Terminal at Kuala Lumpur International Airport. Phew, let‘s say LCCT @ KIA if it comes up again, which it won’t. Fortunately I just caught the 11.05, which left me a solid 35 minutes before the check-in desk closed for the 1:40pm Air Asia flight to Melbourne. Either through bad signage or my general idiocy, I managed to wander into the wrong check-in area and spent about ten minutes pressing the shit out of touch screen incessantly informing me my passport wasn’t valid. A politely non-condescending Air Asia official pointed out I needed to head to the other side of the building. Staggeringly, I remembered his directions and lugged my bags over to one of the several large queues at the correct place with about 25 minutes before the cut-off. Fine. So long as people are queuing, surely they wouldn’t close on the dot? Would they? Fortunately, with 10 minutes left I reached the front and handed over my passport.
Click, click, type, type, click. The next thing I expected to hear was the tszzz, tszzz of a printer, then maybe a few more tszzz, tszzzs. Instead the lady enquired if I had my visa to travel to Australia. “What?! Surely I don’t need a visa. Really? A British citizen, visa, what?”
12.32pm.
“Sorry Sir, you’re not on the system as having a visa, so I can’t let you board,” her words the most courteous of daggers in my side.
Shit! Shit! Shit! “Is there anything I can do to board this plane? I have a flight to Auckland booked and a New Zealand Working Holiday Visa? I’m not the world’s least plausible fake-middle-England illegal immigrant, I promise!”
“You’ll have to talk to this guy here,” she said gesturing to the desk next to hers and a man talking at a supersonic rate into an ancient telephone. I thanked her and jumped into next door’s queue. Two people were ahead of me and it was 12:34. Three minutes seemed like three hours as I eventually reached the front, dejected and facing the prospect of spending more time in hot-and-sticky central. The man calmly informed me I could apply for a visa online. Casually scribbling down a web address on some scrap paper, he pointed me in the direction of the ‘Premier Lounge’ - my one shot at Internet-based salvation. I asked if there’s any possibility they’d keep the desk open for me - he said “Maybe ten minutes, but I can’t promise anything.”
Right. With that I hurried, but tried not to run - marking the automatic weapon wielding security personnel - to the other side of the terminal. The place was empty and I charged for the nearest computer. It turned out to be an ETA (Electronic Travel Authority) system, almost exactly the same as required for the United States, and as I recalled back in March my application for that was approved within fifteen minutes. So there was hope. Still there were ten or so pages of the web-form to fill in, and I was paranoid about mistyping. But at the same time, were I to take too long, they’d close the flight anyway, so it was all or nothing. Tap, tap, click. Tap, tap, tap, click, click. Multiplied by twenty. No criminal records, no HIV, no yellow fever, no previous names, no deportations, a promise not to work or overstay, and so on. Tap, tap, and a final click.
*Application accepted. Please note this doesn’t mean your application has been approved yet - we will let you know the outcome within 72 hours.*
I checked my email straight after. Nothing. Screw it, I had to move. Paying to twenty ringgits (£4!) for ten minutes access, I hurried again (not ran, remembering those automatic weapons) back to the desk, where I had to wait in line again. Meanwhile, at 12.52pm, the screens still said ‘Melbourne: Open’, but this clearly mattered little if the visa hadn’t gone through. Finally, a different lady asked for my passport. Gulping I handed it over. More tapping. A sort of tap, tap, click, click, tap sort of scenario, in case you’d forgotten. While the click-tap medley took place, I considered my options. I didn’t want to go back to Kuala Lumpur, so was thinking of hopping on a plane to somewhere random in Indonesia. Perhaps one of the small islands where I’d heard only crazy people live, just for a goof. Or maybe play it safe and head to Bali. The good thing was my New Zealand-bound flight out of Melbourne wasn’t for over a week and a half, so time was on my side.
But such contingencies were happily not required as the lovely lady behind the desk gave me the all-clear. Amazing! I was so elated I could have given her a pound. Maybe two! (That’s some big bucks in Malaysia!) That was meant as a joke, but on re-reading it seems more offensive and belittling - I really ought to edit it out. Not to worry, it’s on my Top Priority To Do List - just like getting through security was seconds after the tzssss tzssss-sounding device delivered my beautiful boarding pass. Of course making the flight wasn’t a done-deal until I got on the plane; turning up late at the gate could still prove disastrous. So inevitably the exit-passport-stamp lines were all massive and, as you’d expect, the one I chose was moving quickly until the guy immediately in front of me. It took five minutes of unconvincing behaviour to warrant the immigration clerk disappearing into a back room with a handful of papers. At this point I did what you should never normally do in a multiple-queuing environment: swap into to one that looks faster. I scanned for a new line with predominantly European-looking travellers - not on horribly racist grounds, but merely from what I’ve observed waiting at immigration in tons of airports all over the world. People from developing countries almost always face extra scrutiny, while a European Union, Canadian, Australian and (to a slightly lesser extent) American passport holder will almost always sail through. And those in my new line did. And so did I, not before glancing back to see my unfortunate former queuemates still stuck behind the shifty chap. They looked set for a long wait.
By this point the plane was boarding and I still hadn’t even joined one of the two 20-passenger long security lines. They were both moving at a snail’s pace. A severely disabled snail minus its wheelchair and carer. I’d already impatiently taken out my computer and removed my guaranteed-metal-detector-setting-off shoes, humming disgustingly after three days traipsing around the almost-equatorial Malaysian capital. Eventually I got through, had time for a quick pee (not that important to the story - or is it? Find out soon!) and by the time I’d found the gate, the final boarding call was being made. Double - no quadruple - hooray!
I think making the flight more than made up for missing the Bradford to London coach five days beforehand, and all the knock-on expense. Corduroy jacket, I forgive you. I hated to even think what not being on this flight (yep, I’m writing this two hours and seventeen minutes outside of Melbourne) would have cost. As another two hours are wiped from my life as I move from GMT +8 to GMT +10, I’m just glad it wasn’t £300 wiped from my bank account because of a stupid clerical oversight. Well that’s me done. I’m pooped. To end on the subject of poop - and by vague extension other bodily waste - the fact I peed after security wasn’t at all significant. Sorry for getting your hopes up.
Well after a late one (yet again) last night, I woke around 9:45am with the intention of being all sorted and gone within half an hour. It didn’t quite work out that way. Having to repack my bag again and getting caught up with amusing goodbye chats (mostly with Andy and Joey), it was about 10:45am by the time I left The Reggae Guest House, heading out toward Seni Pensar station, (or Pensar Sani, Pansir Seni, or in fact any combination of those letters) for a quick one stop south to KL Sentral. I hopped on the SkyBus, my prepaid hour-long ride to the Low Cost Carrier Terminal at Kuala Lumpur International Airport. Phew, let‘s say LCCT @ KIA if it comes up again, which it won’t. Fortunately I just caught the 11.05, which left me a solid 35 minutes before the check-in desk closed for the 1:40pm Air Asia flight to Melbourne. Either through bad signage or my general idiocy, I managed to wander into the wrong check-in area and spent about ten minutes pressing the shit out of touch screen incessantly informing me my passport wasn’t valid. A politely non-condescending Air Asia official pointed out I needed to head to the other side of the building. Staggeringly, I remembered his directions and lugged my bags over to one of the several large queues at the correct place with about 25 minutes before the cut-off. Fine. So long as people are queuing, surely they wouldn’t close on the dot? Would they? Fortunately, with 10 minutes left I reached the front and handed over my passport.
Click, click, type, type, click. The next thing I expected to hear was the tszzz, tszzz of a printer, then maybe a few more tszzz, tszzzs. Instead the lady enquired if I had my visa to travel to Australia. “What?! Surely I don’t need a visa. Really? A British citizen, visa, what?”
12.32pm.
“Sorry Sir, you’re not on the system as having a visa, so I can’t let you board,” her words the most courteous of daggers in my side.
Shit! Shit! Shit! “Is there anything I can do to board this plane? I have a flight to Auckland booked and a New Zealand Working Holiday Visa? I’m not the world’s least plausible fake-middle-England illegal immigrant, I promise!”
“You’ll have to talk to this guy here,” she said gesturing to the desk next to hers and a man talking at a supersonic rate into an ancient telephone. I thanked her and jumped into next door’s queue. Two people were ahead of me and it was 12:34. Three minutes seemed like three hours as I eventually reached the front, dejected and facing the prospect of spending more time in hot-and-sticky central. The man calmly informed me I could apply for a visa online. Casually scribbling down a web address on some scrap paper, he pointed me in the direction of the ‘Premier Lounge’ - my one shot at Internet-based salvation. I asked if there’s any possibility they’d keep the desk open for me - he said “Maybe ten minutes, but I can’t promise anything.”
Right. With that I hurried, but tried not to run - marking the automatic weapon wielding security personnel - to the other side of the terminal. The place was empty and I charged for the nearest computer. It turned out to be an ETA (Electronic Travel Authority) system, almost exactly the same as required for the United States, and as I recalled back in March my application for that was approved within fifteen minutes. So there was hope. Still there were ten or so pages of the web-form to fill in, and I was paranoid about mistyping. But at the same time, were I to take too long, they’d close the flight anyway, so it was all or nothing. Tap, tap, click. Tap, tap, tap, click, click. Multiplied by twenty. No criminal records, no HIV, no yellow fever, no previous names, no deportations, a promise not to work or overstay, and so on. Tap, tap, and a final click.
*Application accepted. Please note this doesn’t mean your application has been approved yet - we will let you know the outcome within 72 hours.*
I checked my email straight after. Nothing. Screw it, I had to move. Paying to twenty ringgits (£4!) for ten minutes access, I hurried again (not ran, remembering those automatic weapons) back to the desk, where I had to wait in line again. Meanwhile, at 12.52pm, the screens still said ‘Melbourne: Open’, but this clearly mattered little if the visa hadn’t gone through. Finally, a different lady asked for my passport. Gulping I handed it over. More tapping. A sort of tap, tap, click, click, tap sort of scenario, in case you’d forgotten. While the click-tap medley took place, I considered my options. I didn’t want to go back to Kuala Lumpur, so was thinking of hopping on a plane to somewhere random in Indonesia. Perhaps one of the small islands where I’d heard only crazy people live, just for a goof. Or maybe play it safe and head to Bali. The good thing was my New Zealand-bound flight out of Melbourne wasn’t for over a week and a half, so time was on my side.
But such contingencies were happily not required as the lovely lady behind the desk gave me the all-clear. Amazing! I was so elated I could have given her a pound. Maybe two! (That’s some big bucks in Malaysia!) That was meant as a joke, but on re-reading it seems more offensive and belittling - I really ought to edit it out. Not to worry, it’s on my Top Priority To Do List - just like getting through security was seconds after the tzssss tzssss-sounding device delivered my beautiful boarding pass. Of course making the flight wasn’t a done-deal until I got on the plane; turning up late at the gate could still prove disastrous. So inevitably the exit-passport-stamp lines were all massive and, as you’d expect, the one I chose was moving quickly until the guy immediately in front of me. It took five minutes of unconvincing behaviour to warrant the immigration clerk disappearing into a back room with a handful of papers. At this point I did what you should never normally do in a multiple-queuing environment: swap into to one that looks faster. I scanned for a new line with predominantly European-looking travellers - not on horribly racist grounds, but merely from what I’ve observed waiting at immigration in tons of airports all over the world. People from developing countries almost always face extra scrutiny, while a European Union, Canadian, Australian and (to a slightly lesser extent) American passport holder will almost always sail through. And those in my new line did. And so did I, not before glancing back to see my unfortunate former queuemates still stuck behind the shifty chap. They looked set for a long wait.
By this point the plane was boarding and I still hadn’t even joined one of the two 20-passenger long security lines. They were both moving at a snail’s pace. A severely disabled snail minus its wheelchair and carer. I’d already impatiently taken out my computer and removed my guaranteed-metal-detector-setting-off shoes, humming disgustingly after three days traipsing around the almost-equatorial Malaysian capital. Eventually I got through, had time for a quick pee (not that important to the story - or is it? Find out soon!) and by the time I’d found the gate, the final boarding call was being made. Double - no quadruple - hooray!
I think making the flight more than made up for missing the Bradford to London coach five days beforehand, and all the knock-on expense. Corduroy jacket, I forgive you. I hated to even think what not being on this flight (yep, I’m writing this two hours and seventeen minutes outside of Melbourne) would have cost. As another two hours are wiped from my life as I move from GMT +8 to GMT +10, I’m just glad it wasn’t £300 wiped from my bank account because of a stupid clerical oversight. Well that’s me done. I’m pooped. To end on the subject of poop - and by vague extension other bodily waste - the fact I peed after security wasn’t at all significant. Sorry for getting your hopes up.
Saturday, 3 October 2009
A Little (Indian) Wander About Kuala Lumpur
Once more a pseudo-transcription from my notepad - 23/09/09
Corrrrrrrrr Love a duck! Well actually I couldn’t because there weren’t any at the Kuala Lumpur Bird Park. But I was ready and willing just for the Charlie Brooker/Ray Winstone reference (YouTube “Top 10 Cocks in Advertising” if you‘ve no idea). That’s the pre-emptive intro I started writing when visiting said bird park was on the agenda, minutes before realising I had in fact been there before - three years ago. And forgotten. I think. It’s the world’s largest enclosed aviary with hundreds of species of colourful flying stuff, all squawking their beaks off, and all relentlessly engaged in a turf (or rather branch) war over those comically crucial head-poopable perches. There’s also a butterfly enclosure housing some other colourful flying stuff too. If you’re lucky, they’ll land on you. If you’re luckier still, they’ll treat you to some gross, point-blank defecation. Worth checking out if you’ve a thing for pretty colours and being shat on, but once you’ve seen a load of foreign birds in an enclosure and failed to construct a half-decent tasteless joke, foregoing a second visit is probably best.
Just to set the scene, I‘m currently sat in McDonalds in the middle of Little India. It’s a part of town which, on my basic reconnaissance, seems the same size as KL’s other pint-sized ethnic locale to the south, Chinatown. In practically every Malaysian city you’ll find a Little India and a Chinatown because the country’s population is made up of three main groups, those being: (and you may have guessed the first two) Indian, Chinese and native Malay. But before I get bogged down with interesting facts, I’ll simply say you know you’re guaranteed to find great food in any neighbourhood partly named after a popular British takeaway. Except in Mini Kebabville. That’s just nasty. Now I sense your universal condemnation for being in such a bastardly western fast-food joint when I’m no doubt surrounded by wonderfully authentic Indian cuisine. Well just hold your blinkin’, judgemental horses, alright?! I’m here a) for dessert, having just eaten in one of the wonderfully authentic Indian cuisine outlets, and b) primarily because it’s air-conditioned and it’s hot as hell outside. So give me a break. Plus, of course c) it means I can abuse their flat writing surfaces (tables) to pen this rubbish for the benefit of you - one of the four people who’ll be actually reading this thing. Aaaaaand relax.
Rewind. Minus the crowd saying ’Bo’, and me shouting ’Selecta!’. Instead of the Bird Park, I decided to take the KL Rapid Transit train from my base in Chinatown to have a wander round a different part of the city. It’s been thus far very easy to be touristically lazy - I’ve been to the Petronas Towers (the tallest twin towers in the world, don‘tcha know), been up the Sky Tower (sort of a mini CN Tower in Toronto, but still very tall, offering great views and detailed info about what you‘re squinting at), went to most of the museums and historically/culturally significant places, the Bird Park (I think - coloured birds and poo were involved anyway) We even managed a trip to the Sunway Water Park - welcome relief to the KL climate of hot, sticky, hot, a bit hotter, and a bit stickier. So my routine of hanging about during the day, then drinking beer and eating out in the evening has been achievable relatively guilt-free. But waking up today after another late night, this time spent partly in the Beatles Bar for karaoke and partly in the Reggae Bar (just under my hostel) for leery guys and shockingly shit none-reggae-based music, I felt some exploring had to be done.
I’ll quickly mention last night while I’m sort of on the subject. I met an Aussie guy called Andy and his travel buddy Joey (from San Diego) in my dorm earlier that afternoon. They’d both been working aboard a surf boat - a concept that begged explanation to the none-surf-savvy pencil pusher like me. Apparently around 80km off the coast of Sumatra - Indonesia’s largest western island - lie a collection of much smaller, uninhabited islands that generate some toadally rad surf conditions and some most bodaciously patronising surfer language. Dude. As there’s no infrastructure, the only way to surf such surf is by heading out on an all-inclusive boat from the mainland that drops anchor nearby. For the princely sum of $2500 US you can book your place amongst the delightful company of Andy and Joey, for two weeks of surfing paradise. My immediate reaction was “Shit, that’s expensive - is it mostly yuppies?”
“No, you’d be surprised. And when you think of it, people pay a lot more for two weeks skiing in Europe, and they don’t include your food and booze,” or the sea-sickness. But it was a valid point, and really it sounded pretty damn cool. Unlike the temperature in here: the AC isn’t working any more. Perhaps the vents are clogged with fat, or other more solid attempts at derisory McDonald’s humour.
So it was with Andy, Joey and another Aussie (a girl called Miriam) I headed to the massively inaptly-named Beatles Bar, where such classic hits as Hotel California and Rock the Casbah were being slaughtered by try-hard locals and tourists alike. We had a fun time despite my feelings toward karaoke, as outlined on Improvised…..see the link below. Drinks and good conversation were had, and our two surfer friends had a go with varying degrees of success. Just as I’d built up enough courage (or blood-alcohol content) to blast out a bit of Backstreet Boys in the style of Trey Parker, time was called and my chance of fame and fortune on the Malaysian parody-karaoke scene was lost. So that was that. And I realise I’m completely a million miles from where I intended to be with this piece. I’ll re-focus, just give me sec.
Indian food. Yes. So I took the train a few stops north of Chinatown to Little India and ambled (Ha! Ambled!) around a bit. After going the most roundabout way to reach its centre, walking past tons of street vendors and shops pumping out some extreme bhangra tunage, I eventually found a signage-devoid eatery that had a locals to hapless tourist ratio of about 50:1. After I’d taken a seat. This, I reasoned was a good thing, because if locals ate there, they couldn’t be dishing out the bugs too heavily. Given, it was a buffet style setup with a people who only eat with their hands, so chances are any second helpings would cover the serving spoons with tons of gob and flu of swine. But I just threw caution to the sewer-filtered wind and went for it. It was bloody lovely too. The naan bread was particularly amazing. Baked fresh in a tandoor oven, they arrive on your plate at finger-burning temperatures and make Patak‘s attempts taste like bum. Mass-produced bum. A large plate of assorted veggie curries (chiefly potatoes and chickpeas), rice, two delicious naans and a can of Sprite set me back seven Ringgits, or about £1.40. Hardly got a smile the whole time, and half the staff appeared borderline hostile to my presence. But I was very gracious and didn’t ask for a knife and fork - not that I’d expected any within a square mile. Or a circular one for that matter. By the end, after lots of my smiles, nods and probably unfathomable contentment-indicating gestures, it felt like they’d sort-of warmed to me. Slightly. Which was nice.
So here I am now - initially in search of somewhere to wash the curry off my hands, I spied a McDonalds and figured I’d get dessert. Even if it did cost 75% of what was just paid for the Indian meal. But then they had to be put to the test. If the Malaysians couldn’t muster a half-decent chocolate Cornetto McFlurry, their country clearly has serious problems. Fortunately it was good and the staff in here have been patient enough to allow me to scribble all this down. And looking back over the last page, it really has all turned to barely legible scribbles. There: my irrelevant postscript for your pleasure. Look out for the imminent food-poisoning update - I’ll be detailing precisely how the lovely curry decided to leave my body soon.
I’ll spare the details - let’s just say it all went to plan. Hooray! My views on Karaoke: here. Oh, I also discovered there are a number of duck species in the KL Bird Park, so my intro failed miserably, unless you haven’t read this final sentence.
Corrrrrrrrr Love a duck! Well actually I couldn’t because there weren’t any at the Kuala Lumpur Bird Park. But I was ready and willing just for the Charlie Brooker/Ray Winstone reference (YouTube “Top 10 Cocks in Advertising” if you‘ve no idea). That’s the pre-emptive intro I started writing when visiting said bird park was on the agenda, minutes before realising I had in fact been there before - three years ago. And forgotten. I think. It’s the world’s largest enclosed aviary with hundreds of species of colourful flying stuff, all squawking their beaks off, and all relentlessly engaged in a turf (or rather branch) war over those comically crucial head-poopable perches. There’s also a butterfly enclosure housing some other colourful flying stuff too. If you’re lucky, they’ll land on you. If you’re luckier still, they’ll treat you to some gross, point-blank defecation. Worth checking out if you’ve a thing for pretty colours and being shat on, but once you’ve seen a load of foreign birds in an enclosure and failed to construct a half-decent tasteless joke, foregoing a second visit is probably best.
Just to set the scene, I‘m currently sat in McDonalds in the middle of Little India. It’s a part of town which, on my basic reconnaissance, seems the same size as KL’s other pint-sized ethnic locale to the south, Chinatown. In practically every Malaysian city you’ll find a Little India and a Chinatown because the country’s population is made up of three main groups, those being: (and you may have guessed the first two) Indian, Chinese and native Malay. But before I get bogged down with interesting facts, I’ll simply say you know you’re guaranteed to find great food in any neighbourhood partly named after a popular British takeaway. Except in Mini Kebabville. That’s just nasty. Now I sense your universal condemnation for being in such a bastardly western fast-food joint when I’m no doubt surrounded by wonderfully authentic Indian cuisine. Well just hold your blinkin’, judgemental horses, alright?! I’m here a) for dessert, having just eaten in one of the wonderfully authentic Indian cuisine outlets, and b) primarily because it’s air-conditioned and it’s hot as hell outside. So give me a break. Plus, of course c) it means I can abuse their flat writing surfaces (tables) to pen this rubbish for the benefit of you - one of the four people who’ll be actually reading this thing. Aaaaaand relax.
Rewind. Minus the crowd saying ’Bo’, and me shouting ’Selecta!’. Instead of the Bird Park, I decided to take the KL Rapid Transit train from my base in Chinatown to have a wander round a different part of the city. It’s been thus far very easy to be touristically lazy - I’ve been to the Petronas Towers (the tallest twin towers in the world, don‘tcha know), been up the Sky Tower (sort of a mini CN Tower in Toronto, but still very tall, offering great views and detailed info about what you‘re squinting at), went to most of the museums and historically/culturally significant places, the Bird Park (I think - coloured birds and poo were involved anyway) We even managed a trip to the Sunway Water Park - welcome relief to the KL climate of hot, sticky, hot, a bit hotter, and a bit stickier. So my routine of hanging about during the day, then drinking beer and eating out in the evening has been achievable relatively guilt-free. But waking up today after another late night, this time spent partly in the Beatles Bar for karaoke and partly in the Reggae Bar (just under my hostel) for leery guys and shockingly shit none-reggae-based music, I felt some exploring had to be done.
I’ll quickly mention last night while I’m sort of on the subject. I met an Aussie guy called Andy and his travel buddy Joey (from San Diego) in my dorm earlier that afternoon. They’d both been working aboard a surf boat - a concept that begged explanation to the none-surf-savvy pencil pusher like me. Apparently around 80km off the coast of Sumatra - Indonesia’s largest western island - lie a collection of much smaller, uninhabited islands that generate some toadally rad surf conditions and some most bodaciously patronising surfer language. Dude. As there’s no infrastructure, the only way to surf such surf is by heading out on an all-inclusive boat from the mainland that drops anchor nearby. For the princely sum of $2500 US you can book your place amongst the delightful company of Andy and Joey, for two weeks of surfing paradise. My immediate reaction was “Shit, that’s expensive - is it mostly yuppies?”
“No, you’d be surprised. And when you think of it, people pay a lot more for two weeks skiing in Europe, and they don’t include your food and booze,” or the sea-sickness. But it was a valid point, and really it sounded pretty damn cool. Unlike the temperature in here: the AC isn’t working any more. Perhaps the vents are clogged with fat, or other more solid attempts at derisory McDonald’s humour.
So it was with Andy, Joey and another Aussie (a girl called Miriam) I headed to the massively inaptly-named Beatles Bar, where such classic hits as Hotel California and Rock the Casbah were being slaughtered by try-hard locals and tourists alike. We had a fun time despite my feelings toward karaoke, as outlined on Improvised…..see the link below. Drinks and good conversation were had, and our two surfer friends had a go with varying degrees of success. Just as I’d built up enough courage (or blood-alcohol content) to blast out a bit of Backstreet Boys in the style of Trey Parker, time was called and my chance of fame and fortune on the Malaysian parody-karaoke scene was lost. So that was that. And I realise I’m completely a million miles from where I intended to be with this piece. I’ll re-focus, just give me sec.
Indian food. Yes. So I took the train a few stops north of Chinatown to Little India and ambled (Ha! Ambled!) around a bit. After going the most roundabout way to reach its centre, walking past tons of street vendors and shops pumping out some extreme bhangra tunage, I eventually found a signage-devoid eatery that had a locals to hapless tourist ratio of about 50:1. After I’d taken a seat. This, I reasoned was a good thing, because if locals ate there, they couldn’t be dishing out the bugs too heavily. Given, it was a buffet style setup with a people who only eat with their hands, so chances are any second helpings would cover the serving spoons with tons of gob and flu of swine. But I just threw caution to the sewer-filtered wind and went for it. It was bloody lovely too. The naan bread was particularly amazing. Baked fresh in a tandoor oven, they arrive on your plate at finger-burning temperatures and make Patak‘s attempts taste like bum. Mass-produced bum. A large plate of assorted veggie curries (chiefly potatoes and chickpeas), rice, two delicious naans and a can of Sprite set me back seven Ringgits, or about £1.40. Hardly got a smile the whole time, and half the staff appeared borderline hostile to my presence. But I was very gracious and didn’t ask for a knife and fork - not that I’d expected any within a square mile. Or a circular one for that matter. By the end, after lots of my smiles, nods and probably unfathomable contentment-indicating gestures, it felt like they’d sort-of warmed to me. Slightly. Which was nice.
So here I am now - initially in search of somewhere to wash the curry off my hands, I spied a McDonalds and figured I’d get dessert. Even if it did cost 75% of what was just paid for the Indian meal. But then they had to be put to the test. If the Malaysians couldn’t muster a half-decent chocolate Cornetto McFlurry, their country clearly has serious problems. Fortunately it was good and the staff in here have been patient enough to allow me to scribble all this down. And looking back over the last page, it really has all turned to barely legible scribbles. There: my irrelevant postscript for your pleasure. Look out for the imminent food-poisoning update - I’ll be detailing precisely how the lovely curry decided to leave my body soon.
I’ll spare the details - let’s just say it all went to plan. Hooray! My views on Karaoke: here. Oh, I also discovered there are a number of duck species in the KL Bird Park, so my intro failed miserably, unless you haven’t read this final sentence.
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