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?

Temple of the Thug

The Uluwatu Temple in Bali sits atop a lip-shaped cliff overlooking the Indian Ocean. It's the sort of place that seems to say "forget all your troubles.  This is paradise."  Of course, my wife, Takayo, and I did not know this just yet.  We were a quarter-mile away, roasting in the parking lot as an old man wrapped a purple sarong around my waist.  I was patient.  Next, the man fished around a basket of sashes before choosing a pink one. At least I think it was pink. The sun was bright, but our driver was adamant that we leave our sunglasses in the car.

"Monkeys.  They are very greedy animals."

The old man pointed us toward the path from his stool. We began our hike to the temple when all of a sudden, a woman was walking with us through the wooded footpath. She was probably sixty years old, but the weathered lines in her face made her appear much older. Good for her, I thought, she's still got it.  She said something to me, but her voice carried like a whisper over the squawking birds. I slowed my stride and leaned down to hear what she was saying.

“I come with you to temple” she said. “I protect you from monkey.”
I nodded my head. “Sure.  Whatever you’re into.”

With the prospect of a monkey guard, I became excited and picked up my stride.  The path meandered and sloped toward the ocean, which was still just a blue glimmer of hope beyond the palm fronds.  Unable to keep up with me, the woman spoke to Takayo.

“So, you pay me 50,000 rupiah.  OK?  I protect you from monkey.”
“Uh, wait a minute… what?” said Takayo. “Noah, hold up a minute. This lady wants 50,000 rupiah to do what?”

I stopped and turned.

“Your driver, he ask me to come with you. I protect you.  OK?”

It was strange, but not surprising.  Our driver had spent the hour-long drive to Uluwatu trying to sell us a volcano tour.  The odd thing was that she didn't inspire the sort of fear one expects from a hired thug.  It wasn't the fact that she was 80 pounds that raised doubt, but rather, her weapon of choice:  A stick the width of a chicken bone.

She assured us, “I protect you when monkey attack.”

Now it was no longer if the monkey attacks.  It was a matter of when.

“Um no,” Takayo said. “We don’t need protection from the monkeys, OK?”

The woman stopped in the path and we continued without her. It made me wonder:  How many people, on average, pay for this woman‘s services?  Monkeys are the quintessential clowns of nature.  The thought of physical harm does tap into a persons psyche, especially on vacation.  But hiring security?  Personally, I enjoy the rush of plunging into the unknown.  A safari is one thing, but if you need to fork over cash to avoid contact with nature, should you really be traveling?

As we continued down the trail, I wondered what the monkey protector would have done in a monkey attack. Would she lay down her life, like a secret service agent protecting the president? Had that ever happened? Her services, in all likelihood, were not licensed by the Indonesian government. It's not like you can take her to court or anything.  I began to wonder about the temple, its money-grubbing underbelly, and the undertones of her violent insinuations.

Was it all necessary? Perhaps the monkeys had mastered the art of primitive tool making, chipping away day after day, perfecting the meat slicing blade. They probably had stock piles hidden all over the temple preparing for the strike. First the tsunami wreaked havoc, and now it was evolution -- the return of a primate New World Order. They’ve always been bloodthirsty, but now they were prepared. The closer we got to the temple, the furry paw of paranoia began to tighten its grip of me.

“Can you believe that?” Takayo said. “I could’ve carried that woman with one arm. Protector of monkeys? She should call it ‘Adopt a Grandparent’ instead.”

“What if we made a mistake? What if we do need a monkey guard after all? Suppose they‘re crazy monkeys…evil monkeys.”

“Well, it’s too late now. Unless you want to go crawling back to her.”

So much for apocalyptic delusions.

We had already put on the sarongs, so we would just have to take on whatever came our way. As the path lead out of the canopy, it edged along a steep cliff overlooking a remote sandy beach and an electric blue sea. Moss covered boulders cluttered the shoreline, assaulted by sets of broad white crests. We spotted some monkeys when we approached the base of the temple. There were a lot of Japanese tourists congregating in groups around their monkey bodyguards. Things seemed under control.  Like small furry humans, they munched bags of chips, took hand offerings of peanuts, and drank from plastic water bottles.

An old man was sprawled out under a stone doorway, reciting some ancient chant. I watched him in passing, unaware of the low-slung tree branch just ahead of me. By the time I turned forward it was too late -- a monkey sitting on the branch whacked the back of my head with its tail. I felt ringing in my head, numbness, and then finally, betrayal. It wasn’t particularly painful, just humiliating. Thankfully, this particular strike didn’t warrant the services of a medevac team.

As for the temple, well, it’s made of stone and it’s old and inspiring, but you already knew that. If you’re interested, take Anthony Bourdain’s advice and catch it on the Discovery Channel. Better yet, go and discover it for yourself. Just know that there are options when it comes to protection from monkeys. My wife and I may not have needed monkey protection services, but we respected the way she laid that monkey hustle down.

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.