Too Hot To Learn, Malaysia

We were nearing the end of a four-hour tour outside Kuala Lumpur.  The thing about Asian tours is that they tack on manufacturing plants in between the real destinations.  They must have seen me coming.  I picked up a shirt at a textile plant, a button-up deal with insane patterns infused with Muslim undertones.  The young British couple didn‘t buy anything.  He was snapping heat-warped photos of dusty alleys with this telescopic contraption.  Dead serious.  After having my picture taken with the world’s largest beer stein at a pewter factory, I wondered if things could get any better.

     Our final stop would be the Batu Caves, the monkey-run Hindu temple tucked within a jagged limestone mound.  I asked Aadi, our tour guide and driver, if there were any bats in the cave. 

    He thought for a moment.  “The bats, they are…no more.”

Aadi was a native dark-skinned Malaysian.  It’s not the tour sights or history that interests me, but the day-to-day routines of regular people.  Earlier in the day, I asked why everybody pulled the wiper blades from the windshields.  Having a knowledgeable tour guide is one thing, but Aadi made us flesh out our own answer.

    “Why do you think people do this,“ was his response.
     “Uh, I don’t know,” I said.  “The only time I’ve cocked up my wiper blades is before an ice storm so they don’t freeze to my windshield.”
    “It doesn’t snow here very often, my friend.”

Yea, I liked him all right.

The thing is, you can answer a question with a question, but you can’t answer a question to a question with a question.  He had asked everyone their nationality at the beginning of the tour.  Now I envisioned him using this information in some crude nationality experiment for maximizing profits.  Everything would be discussed at the next tourism board meeting… 

The British are very polite and lack on-the-spot bargaining skills -- we can exploit this.  The Americans are curious about their surroundings, but have no understanding of Equatorial practicality...

    “The wipers,” he said.  “They melt to the windshield.  It is very hot here.”

As we pulled into the Caves parking lot, Aadi gave us a short briefing.


    “You must hide all jewelry and sunglasses from the monkeys.  They will take them.  You may leave them in the van if you wish, but I can not be held responsible.  If you must bring your camera, hold it tight.”

The British couple looked at each other like two kids at the top of a roller coaster.

    “And what ever you do,” he continued.  “Do not open any type of backpack or fanny pack in front of them.  They will think you have food and grab for it.”

I thought about explaining to him that anyone wearing a fanny pack deserves to have things ripped off their body by primates anyway. 

    “Have you ever given a tour to someone who’s been attacked?” I asked. 
    He chucked dismissively, “Good luck to you, my friend.  Return in one hour.”

    There was some hotshot camera crew blocking the entrance, trying to capture some compelling footage of flying pigeons.  The director had the vision in his head, I could tell.  The little buggers just wouldn’t fly right.  A boy threw out crumbs to lure more birds for another take.  We walked past between takes. 

    A golden statue of Murugan, a Hindu deity, watched over the sprawl of Kuala Lumpur.  Long tailed-macaque monkeys frolicked along the 272 stairs leading up to the cave.  Baby monkeys held on to mother monkeys with little swollen breasts.  Others just sat atop these banister posts that resembled green melons.  And despite Aadi’s warning, the monkeys didn’t seem to mind having a camera shoved in their face. 

    There were small shops at the top of the stairs selling golden trinkets.  The monkeys couldn’t resist them.  A shop keep muttered some kindhearted obscenities to one monkey and shooed it away with feather dusters.

    Water dripped from the cathedral ceiling as our eyes adjusted to the darkness.  So now, with wet monkeys lurking in the shadows, the Brit is compelled to change the lens on his Nikon.  He tried to be slick about it, but the monkeys had that cave on lockdown.  Brit unzipped his bag just enough to stick his hand in when a monkey shrieked something that translated to:  “BLITZ!” 

    Ten monkeys were on him in an instant, grabbing at his bag and pockets and even a bit of crotch.  The ones that didn’t latch on jumped around, screeching their approval.  Brit slung his bag around like a sack of doorknobs.  The little guys disbanded as quickly as they arrived.  Everyone in the vicinity had a good laugh at his expense.  The girlfriend examined him for monkey bites. 

    When we returned to the van, I told Aadi about the monkey attack that ‘we’ had been involved in. 

    “I say to you, ‘do not to open bag,’” he said.  “Maybe next time…not so lucky?”

He had been trying all day, but it finally dawned on him:  We just weren’t going to learn.  Maybe next time I’ll observe my surroundings and deduct my own conclusion.  Maybe next time we won’t open a bag in front of a troop of monkeys.  Then again, where’s the fun in 'next time' when you‘re already on vacation?

Stuck In the Middle, Penang, Malaysia

It seemed as if everyone had boarded the plane. There was an open seat next to me on the flight from Kuala Lumpur to Penang, and I was feeling pretty good. And then three-hundred and twenty pounds of late, hard-breathing man stepped onboard. Jesus, I thought. What a kick in the pants. Takayo and I were a good twenty rows back, but I knew. I knew. He didn’t so much sit down, but let gravity pull parts of his body between the armrests. The remainder of him spilled into the aisle and upon my shoulder like a mudslide.

“Hey,” I said to Takayo. “You wanna switch seats?”
She just smiled like the sunshine and went back to her book. After landing, I peeled myself out from my neighbor's armpit. It was time, I felt, to grab something to eat, and something very strong to drink.

Kenny Rogers had found a home in the Penang Airport. Even with a plug from Seinfeld, the Roaster’s chain had all but tanked off the face of the Earth -- or so I thought. Of course we had to eat there just to say we had "the best chicken in the world." But I wondered: If the Kenny Rogers sign hadn’t scorched out my rods and cones, would we still have eaten there? I wonder.

We would be staying on Jerejak Island, just off the coast of Penang. Jerejak was once a leper colony, and after that a prison. I’m usually not a sucker for history, but I was sold. The resort of today was built on top of the old leper colony. After a lunch of the best chicken in the world, we taxied over to the ferry dock. There was a sign welcoming me to the island, which I thought was pretty classy. Naturally, they spelled my name wrong. A bunch of kids were playing volleyball along the shore when our ferry docked. I figured that it was all a show. The managers probably made them play whenever a ferry rolled in, but I like that sort of thing. So many places today just don’t care enough to build the illusion.

The front desk clerks handed us red drinks with sliced fruit along the rim. Our bags were piled into a compact car with the doors ripped off. They drove us up a steep hill to our duplex bungalow. Our balcony overlooked a dense forest, and there was a long throwing spear on the wall. The next-door neighbor was alone, but spent much of her time talking on the phone. She got her rocks by slamming the door seventeen times an hour. SLAM! We starting counting after it became ridiculous.

That first night, Takayo accidentally bumped the shower knob all the way over to HOT and liked to damn near burn herself to death. She jumped out just in time. Steam billowed out from the bathroom like nothing I had ever seen. Neither of us could get near enough to turn it off. I grabbed the tribal spear off the wall and stabbed the water off.

It rains a lot in Malaysia. We had a clear afternoon and decided to walk the ‘Prison Trail.’ Well, I decided to. Takayo was against it, but went along anyhow. It was a dirt road along the edge of the island that led to the old prison. At least that was the theory. There was a string of abandoned houses with busted windows. Then the trail became muddy. We had been arguing about something earlier in the day, so now she had more ammunition.

“We can walk along the edge here,” I said.
“I hate you right now.”

We kept going, hoping the prison might be just around the next corner. Remnants of a crude brick structure sat by the water’s edge. It could have been anything: A pirate’s stash house, a fisherman’s home, a guard post. The path became progressively muddier.

“I hate you times three.”

Little did I know, the trail was not finished. By the time we sighted the bulldozers, she was already up to hate times seven. We headed back. When we finally peeled off our shoes, one of us (I can’t remember who. I’ve blocked it from my memory) had changed the name of the ‘Prison Trail’ to the aptly named, ‘Hate Trail.’
There was a nice little spa at the top of a hill, overlooking the forest and waterway. We both had a massage, which took some of the edge off after the Hate Trail. Perhaps the worst thing about staying on a small private island is that you are at the mercy of only one restaurant. It served Malaysian curries, large hunks of charred lamb, and a purple soup with corn, cubes of black gelatin, and ice. As colorful as the food was, we were entranced by the monkeys that stole food from the buffet. The employees chased them away when they could, but there were just too many to keep in check. They ransacked the trash and climbed the buildings, looking for victims. An Asian man, a guest on the island, threw rocks at some monkeys one day, as if he had nothing better to do. We decided to consider him an asshole, and let karma take care of the rest.

On the last day we hiked a trail into the forest. We passed what might have been the world’s most dangerous obstacle course, full of barbed wire, malaria-filled mud pits, and bone-jarring drops. I could see some gung-ho corporate manager screaming at his employees, making them perform ‘Leap-of-Faith’ trust building exercises. They’d come out stronger all right, but at what cost? We passed the obstacle course and found the Flyingfox zip line. A suspension bridge crossed over a jagged stream, and up to the highest platform. From there it’s down, down, down. We strapped a harness tightly around our groins and jumped from the platform, hurtling over a gully. Aside from the poor circulation, it’s not a bad way to spend a morning.

With our bags packed and out the door, the sky opened up just before we reached the ferry dock. The waters became choppy and the ferry was delayed. I rested against my pack, taking in the smell of the rain and the wispy sounds of palm fronds slicing together in the wind. We would head over to Georgetown, Penang for two days, and then fly to Langkawi. But first, there was the ferry. It was nice, I though, having a seat of my own. Sure, I might have flown here in the armpit of a 320 pound man, but I wasn’t going out that way.

Good People in the Streets, Kuala Lumpur

It was nearly dark on the walk back from Jalan Alor, but I could see the river of matted fur pouring up from the sewer, marking the nightly dinner hunt. The world was a smorgasbord, and even the rats knew: The hawkers in Kuala Lumpur cook up some of the best food around. The hardest thing about walking down Jalan Alor is choosing between Chinese, Thai, Malaysian, Indonesian, or Indian cuisine. For a self-confessed street food junkie, the place was overwhelming.

There’s almost a carnival aspect to the street, from the smoke billowing grills to the plastic tables and chairs. Every stall looks so inviting. If you arrive early, say 5:30 or so, it’s easy to spot the local favorites. The tables are already filled with folks taking in quick inexpensive meals before rushing off to work. It became a nightly pilgrimage to go out looking for new places to eat. Takayo and I hit up a Thai stall for sausage balls with chili sauce. Next, an Indian joint for some Bryani and chicken Kurma. As we sat and talked, the locals cleared out. Before long, the seats filled up with freshly showered tourists like a culinary Changing of the Guard. Time to hit the streets.

The hardest working man in KL might be the Chinese toy salesman on Jalan Bukit Bintang, your typical high-traffic shopping area. Armed with a cargo van full of electronic dogs, doll babies, alligators, robots, etc., he stuffed them with batteries as fast as he could, turning them loose right there on the sidewalk. We just stood there and watched. The sidewalk flashed red and yellow and green. The toy man poured sweat, taking in money hand over fist. Animals crashed into unsuspecting ankles or made slow getaways. Everything brayed or chirped or cried bloody murder.

Further up the street, we passed a stretch of sidewalk occupied by, what seemed to be, a roving clan of disfigured street peddlers. One of these poor guys stood about four feet tall. He wore thick glasses and leaned against a tree on legs that bowed at an impossible angle. I dropped a Ringgit into the tin cup at his feet and hurried past.

There was an odd scene in front of the McDonald's at Bukit Bintang. A car was parked on the sidewalk with two shirted monkeys jumping around it. There were some cats caged in the backseat and a couple of birds. It was hard to tell if somebody was living in the car, or just using it as a mobile zoo. A crowd had gathered by the time we walked up.

The monkey handler had a shaved head, and a disposition that matched the smell seeping out from his car. When a girl raised her camera to take a picture, the monkey man brandished a windshield wiper blade.

“No! These are my monkeys. I don’t take pictures of YOU, do I?”

Now, of course, everyone wanted to take a picture because he told us we couldn’t. Meanwhile, the monkeys were going wild, jumping from a lamp post to the car. I tried to take a photo, but he turned just in time and threatened me with the wiper blade.

“Can I take a picture with the monkey,” I said.
“Come here! Five Ringgits.” I forked it over and he put it in his pocket.
“OK, be very still or they will tear you to pieces.” He took my arm and turned it into a cradle for the monkey to sit in. The little guy held on to my shirt, but jumped onto the car before Takayo could take my picture.
“Watch this,” he said, pulling a juice box from the trunk. He handed it to the monkey in blue, and rebuked the one in red for trying to steal it.
“Do you see that?” he asked Takayo. “Did you know monkeys are GREEDY animals?”
“No. I didn’t know that,” she said.
“Yes, maybe now you know.”

We checked out some bars, but nothing compared to the streets that Friday night. “I can’t wait to see this place on a Saturday night.”

The following night, however, it was as if a downpour had washed the streets clean of freaks. Normal folks and women in burqas filled the sidewalks. There was no Chinese toy hustler. No roving band of street peddlers, or the monkey man. All that decent open chaos was gone. The following afternoon, we turned on the television and found out why.

The Malaysian immigration bureau conducted a round-up. A camera stalked the fringes of Kuala Lumpur’s underbelly, capturing the whole thing on a Dateline-style exposé. Anyone without papers was hustled into a paddy wagon and hauled off. And wouldn’t you know, I saw the little guy with the glasses and bowed knees. The camera was right on top of him. He didn’t have the necessary paperwork, so they apprehended him and the rest of that sad crew. So that's the end of crazy in the streets of KL. So long, my bowlegged friend. So long.