Malay Down Besides Me

Greetings.  I'm sure you've had somewhere near a gut's full's worth of apologies regarding delayed posts etc. to the point where I'll just skip them and delve straight into words more blogworthy than the tedium of repetition.  So this Christmas, as a result of a mild translatory faux par with our superiors we inadvertently wangled the week off.  We were trying to get a week off in January, but never mind.  We decided, taking into consideration how cheaply Air Asia could take us to Malaysia, that Malaysia would be the best place to celebrate the birth of the Lord Our Saviour, The Patron Saint of Unnecessary Capitalising, Sir Baby Jesus of Nazareth.  Malaysia is Islamic.  The trip was split into two: we would spend the first three days in Melacca, about 90 minutes south of Kuala Lumpur, before heading up and spending the remainder of the holiday in the capital itself.   As with the Kyoto blog, this will be done in a kind of blog/diary entry concoction, complete with photos and titles in bold to signify place changes.  Have fun.

Melacca/Melaka

Melacca has two ways of spelling it and I'm not entirely certain which is correct, so I'll go with the one that looks least likely to be spelled out by a youth in a hooded jumper operating a "text messaging" device.  Melacca is the historical centre of Malaysia.  It was colonised by the Portuguese, then the Dutch, British and Japanese all took their turns in calling the place theirs.  Whilst the shenanigans of empire larked on; Chinese businessmen relocated in great numbers to the town, bringing with them their wealth, culture and traditions.  It was a peculiar mix of European, Oriental and local.  Anyway, enough back story.

Melacca riverfront of an evening

We arrived in Melacca around midday-ish.  On arriving to Malaysia the first thing I noticed, once out of the airport, was how nice it smelt.  Everything was lemony fresh or had the aroma of coconut milk.  Air has never since been so delicious.  The bus terminal in Melacca is also, I think, a market (if it isn't, I have no idea why three four-feet tall women had so many coats, nor why they were trying to flog them in a town two degrees north of the equator).  We found a taxi that was at least as old as the Cold War and made our way over to the hotel.  We were staying in the 'Old Town'.  It became a World Heritage Site about five years ago and has since become a hotbed of middle class British folk wearing stetsons, backpacks the size of a Smart car and saying things like "I just really need the atmosphere to find me" and other ridiculous waffle.  I realise you probably think I sound very much like the people I've just described, however when around these people, I tend to polarise in the opposite direction.  I start talking like a Trotter and walking with a limp, kicking old people and swearing at pigeons as I go.

One thing we noticed pretty early on in our stay was that the majority of the houses in the Old Town, built by the Dutch, were all incredibly narrow.  This was a result of the tax attributed to each property, which was based primarily on the width of the house.  Most houses were no more than four metres wide and usually around sixty metres long.  Most of the houses seemed to have a courtyard or two with maybe a small water feature.  It was incredibly pleasant.  Our hotel was one of these pleasant Dutch buildings, complete with the lemony fresh smell and a sort of inside-outside feel to it.  The room was rather nice with the only real downside being the bathroom.  The bathroom was spacious, had an open shower area, jacuzzi and a bench at one end.  I don't really know why you need a bench in a room with a jacuzzi AND a toilet, I'd have suspected at that point of fitting the jacuzzi and toilet that all sitting down necessities had been catered for; apparently not.  The issue came in the fact that the bathroom walls weren't as tall as the ceiling, meaning you could talk freely with the person in the bedroom whilst you were in the jacuzzi or having a break on your bench.  You could, if you were of an athletic or possibly hyperactive disposition, have a game of tennis or catch over the wall.  All these are fantastic features, however the incomplete wall throws up one glaring cringeworthy factor.  A conversation that goes a little like:

Me:  Uhh, darling....
Turtle: Yes Captain Lovegun?  (She doesn't actually call me that, but I'll make it catch on within a month I reckon)
Me:  I say, what's that song you really like lately?  You know the quite loud one?
Turtle:  I have no idea what you're talking about.  Did you enjoy your incredibly spicy meal by the way?
Me:  Oh yes!  That, frankly too spicy, meal was divine!  But back to the issue of the quite loud music... 
Turtle:  It just seemed so authentic, I loved how the flavours all worked so...
Me:   JUST PLAY SOME MUSIC I DON'T WANT YOU TO HEAR THIS
Turtle:  Ohhhh!.........  Okay..

Introduction to Gangnam Style begins on full volume..

Bunting ruining a good picture of mental paintings on buildings

In the evening we took a ride in a three wheeled Hello Kitty rickshaw, by a man whose dream was seemingly to be a tour guide.  We must have taken a good two or three detours as he exclaimed well-rehearsed facts about the area.  I don't know how much historical information you can take in with the Beach Boys blaring out from the stereo he had installed under our seats, but it was nice anyways.

On one of the days we thought it'd be nice to go for a 'river cruise'.  How posh and extravagant a river cruise sounds...  The cruiseliner, decorated heavily in Malaysia bunting, I'm fairly certain was built with the intention of being a vessel of rescue missions, as opposed to a vehicle of romance and purveyor of quality views.  Myself and the Turts had a family sat opposite us; the seats were so close that our knees all touched in a quite uncomfortable manner.  One of the younger children in the family had a twitch in his leg which didn't get irritating at all... Selfish shit.

Buildings from the boat - part 2

The sites were all very nice once we'd departed and set off on our way; knee knocking excitement subsided marginally as a cruiseboat passed us in the opposite direction and sprayed us all as bow waves collided.  Once moistened, or offered a 'complimentary natural cooling aid', we turned a bend in the river and saw a fantastic row of houses.  Each house a different mural.  The colours and distinctions in styles between each house were immense.  Some of the houses had recently been done up whilst others had been left for some time.  Both new and old, in their own ways, added something to the individualistic mesh and uniqueness of the place.  When everything is different everything is the same and that's a good way to be with regards to houses.  Too many people seem very conservative with houses.  Go mental, draw a drunk goat on your house, if your neighbour draws a spaceship on theirs it won't look so out of place.

The old Dutch square

On the penultimate day, before our coach trip back to the capital, we went on a tour of one of the old houses which was owned by a wealthy Chinese businessman.  The tour was fraught with difficulties from the off as a family (the size of which led me to believe they MUST have been Catholic) thought it would be good to bring along their infants.  Infants don't like tours around museums, they just don't.  They like colouring in and staring at bits of snot.  They care little for the interior design of a house from the 1800s.  It was an interesting gander round though and learned a little bit about the British influence: the designs of the crockery was all from the UK whilst a chair was created by the Chinese when their British business partners arrived.  It was like a normal chair, but with a fold out footrest and a "Gin holder".  Genius.  Later that day we came across a pirate ship, which was unusual.

Kuala Lumpur

Well this may well be one of my favourite places in the history of ever. 

Some rather large conjoined buildings

We got to the hotel mid afternoon.  Whilst booking the hotel, we noticed not of the grandeur of the place.  Identifying it as a dwelling within budget, we didn't presume of the luxuries we'd inadvertently booked.  It was the kind of place where there's a man whose job it is to take your bags from the taxi on an entirely separate journey as you to your room.  There was also a woman who knocked our door and asked if she'd like to "turn my bed down".  I have literally no idea what she meant, but given my track record with the ladyfolk turning down my kiss in a bus stop move during my teens, I thought a turn-down of the bed might be a bit too much to take.  Also, the Turtle was just about to get in the bath and was giving the cut throat sign at the prospect of letting someone into the room.  The hotel was next door to the Patronas Towers.  They can be seen from just about anywhere in the city and are very pretty all lit up and that.  

Our first night we spent in a taxi.  We'd reserved a table at a 'Dining in the Dark' experience, which was exactly as petrifying as it sounds.  Unfortunately, the taxi driver was yet to indulge himself in a bit of blind dining and thus had literally no idea where it was.  As we did laps of the general locality, passing bars and restaurants like pictures and plant pots in a Scooby-Do corridor, the minutes ticked by.  Eventually, the driver decided he'd be best maneuvering the busy streets of downtown KL on foot.  So he parked us on a one way street and scarpered.  He returned a few minutes later with information he'd attained after engaging in dialogue with a man selling meat on a stick to inform us it was about twenty yards away..

Once we'd made it to the restaurant we were greeted by some lovely um, greeters?  That seemed to be the entirety of their job, just say hello to people and ask them if they'd ever done something like this before.  Essentially, stall customers until the real waiting staff arrived.  By this point I was quite a bit nervous.  I don't have a phobia of the dark at all; I don't mind sleeping with the light off and I'm in no way racist.  The issue was more focused on the fact I'd be putting all manner of unknown things in my face and hoping for the best.  The greeters laughed at me and told me to calm down, which agitated me a bit but I didn't say anything.  In my head I told them to fuck off though...  

Food porn

A short time later we were met by our waiter.  One thing the Turtle had omitted (I feel I should add here that this was ENTIRELY her idea.  Whilst I agreed to it, obviously I was nervous and knew little of it, she'd done all the research-based legwork) the fact that all the waiting staff were blind.  BLIND!  I only noticed when he completely rejected my hand shake...  Once we'd been introduced and eventually shook hands, he made the Turtle put her hands on his shoulders and my hands on her shoulders as we essentially conga'd our way into the pitch darkness.  It felt like we were winding our way through the most elaborate maze and by time we got to our table I was entirely terrified.  I think the thing that really frightened me was the idea that it could be a social event.  In my mind, given that sight was so restricted, we'd be relying on our heightened senses of taste, smell and hearing, predominantly.  I worried that people would be quite vocal and we'd have to talk to people.  It's not like I hate my voice, it's just that the idea of having some freak allergic reaction with everyone listening was far worse than if everyone watched.  This fear diminished relatively quickly as the dull murmur of conversations surrounded us with a relieving sense of anonymity.  It was then that I realised something I never really noticed before.  The pitch dark is absolutely petrifying.  It seemed so intolerably encapsulating that brought about a horrendous feeling complete entrapment.  My breathing got a bit heavy and I was actually a bit concerned.  Then we overheard an American female and my feelings turned from fear and terror to abhorring despise.  "OH MY GAAAD I CEHNT FIND MY FORRRRRRRK"..... "LOL OH MY GAAAAD IT'S NEXT TO THE SPOON".  Flid.  

When you're in that environment you learn just how difficult it is to be blind.  You're always aware it's difficult, but Christ alive the waiting staff were like wizards of the night.  They'd always remember your name and inform you when they'd put your meal in front of you.  Almost always without you noticing too, which was even more mental.  In terms of the food, it was pretty delicious and just about all of the tastes textures were familiar, which was a relief.  The biggest issue I had was how utterly diabolically awful I was with my fork stabbing aim.  I must have truly decimated my plate as I chipped the living daylight out of it.  In the end I shoveled things onto a spoon, using my hand as a protective boundary at the plate's edge.  Upon leaving, we got to see the menu and realised we were actually pretty good at guessing what we'd had.  Overall, it was pretty fantastic, if not a touch terrifying.  

A duck-like creature with about fifty eyes

The Turtle (#nomakeupselfie)

The next day we were up bright and early for a touch of David Attenboroughing (it's a thing, yes).  We headed off to the bird park, known to local taxi drivers as "bud pak" and known to people who have blown up girlfriends as the World's largest free-flight walk-in aviary.  Some of the birds were massive, but then we got past the American tourists WITTY SLANG JOKE ALERT.  Everyone seemed to enjoy themselves as the birds all flew overhead or perched themselves in the canopies which followed the routes of the paths laid out before us.  Nobody seemed to care as much as a fraction as I about being in high-risk shat-on territory.  I tried to fashion a hat-come-shit protector out of the map we'd been given on upon entry but the Turtle made me take it off because people were looking and I looked a twat, apparently.  Saw some emus, they were cutting themselves with the paper they'd just written poetry on.  I think that's how you spell emu anyways..  We then went to the neighbouring butterfly park and they had rats scuttling about and some turtles in tanks.  Insert your own TMNT conspiracy theories here.

Batu Caves

Steps, 5,6,7,8 and so on...

On our last day we were taken for a treat by an old friend from university and resident of Kuala Lumpur to the Batu caves, just north of KL.  Francis, a man who has seemingly worked out how to avoid aging skin and a formula for perfect hair (what an absolute bastard), picked us up and became a tour guide for the day.  The caves are essentially a hollowing in the formation of a huge limestone rock jutting out of the landscape.  To reach the caves themselves you're first confronted with a good 320 steps.  That was hard work for the Turtle and I.  Francis (the bastard) simply skipped up like an irritating goat.  

The Caves are hugely important for religious reasons.  It's a site of great significance for Hindus and contains a good few shrines.  I can only presume it is because of this religious importance that we came up came up against one of the most peculiar examples of signage ever.  At the foot of the steps, a slinkymaster's paradise, there was a sign that told us we weren't allowed to wear shorts, dresses or dogs.  Needless to say my ensemble was ruined..  

Opening at the top of the caves

Once we'd reached the zenith, we looked more like gorillas that had been water boarded as opposed to those covering themselves in glory as a result of walking up 320 steps like the true champions we knew ourselves to be.  The conditions did little to aid proceedings either; it was 30 something degrees and muggier than a Dutch oven.  Once I'd stopped breathing like an asthmatic being tickled and stopped drawing attention to myself, we were able to take in the surroundings.  I've got some photos but they don't do the place justice whatsoever: it's impossible to gauge just how massive the caves were.  The sheer cliff faces reaching right up to an opening, seemingly away in the heavens.  On the steep faces of the limestone lived monkeys and, somewhat more obscurely, some chickens.  The monkeys seemed alright with having their photos taken, although Francis (not a bead of sweat, the bastard) told me of some awful stories about the little tykes doing some terrible things in the past.  I wanted to give it a bottle of water with the top done up properly tight but Francis warned against it.  It was an undeniably beautiful place, both in terms of the natural scenery and the man-made shrines.  The only real downside was that, given it's the epicenter of a great big annual festival, it does have the feeling of something entirely different to a God-based cave.  The cemented floors and towering floodlights made it feel a touch more like a car park than what it should've been.  Nevertheless, still a fantastic place.  On the way out we saw some old Hindu ladies talking about their sex lives as I tripped over a gate.

Francis then took us to one of his favourite restaurants in downtown KL.  It was up the side street of a back alley of a side street, or so.  We were given a noodle, beef, egg, sardines and crispy onions concoction.  Sweet Jehovah was it delicious!  I've never had anything like it.  Francis suggested putting some chili sauce on it.  I rejected as the hotel's bathroom door didn't close properly and I didn't want another Melacca music conversation incident.  It was honestly one of the nicest meals I've ever had though.  After another hour or so catching up and learning from our very kind guide, we were dropped back at the hotel, ready to pack for our 5am flight.

A few final words

Malaysia often gets bunched together with the countries around it, for perhaps obvious reasons, but I just can't see the likes of Thailand and Indonesia being quite as refined and polished.  I'm aware that's part of the whole charm.  But equally, the charm of Malaysia was definitely that it had such a past of empire and grandeur, of the wealthy and important.  Coming from a place where English speakers are rarer than cheese you can't use as a rubber, Malaysia was full of English speakers, full of hints at British culture and a suspicion of it pushing on to be a very, very exciting place in the future; not languishing in the mistreatment of its past or settling to be an equal of its neighbours.

Given there are three such prominent ethnicities, cultures and peoples all being crammed together, it would be naive to think there's no case of any underlying tensions, of course.  But it's a place that seems to welcome a break from the norm and, generally, embrace those different from their own for the greater good.  South Korea nor the UK could hold a candle to how well Malaysia deals with cultural differences.

All this has made it even more sad that such a tragedy as the MH370 will forever be tied with Malaysia.  Though I'm not particularly well travelled, I cannot recommend the place enough.  You should go, even if you don't get there, still try, it's worth it.