Malaysia, part 2: Immersion

Apparently Monsieur and I were not immune from jet lag, in spite of keeping to local time on arrival. We slept fitfully that first night and when we finally dragged our heavy bodies down to breakfast, it was all gone. What next? We decided to talk to the concierge about our sightseeing options, but he was very unhelpful. I can only think that maybe the real concierge had dashed to the loo and his fill-in was a clerk who didn’t know what was what.

In the end we took a taxi to Merdeka (Independence) Square, where The Empire was well and truly alive. The Royal Selangor Club resembled a long mock-tudor sporting pavilion, looking onto a very English cricket pitch that was currently cordoned off in the process of preparations for the forthcoming celebrations. It was easy to imaging sipping on the gin slings that must have flowed here in the past. Voices seemed to float in the air “Harry, daaaaarling, how the devil are you?” “Jolly good, jolly good, my dear. Now, tell me. Where’s that husband of yours. Thrashed him at tennis today. Did he tell you? Your old boy usually thrashes me! Quite a shock, I’m telling you.” What ho and another round of slings, please.

Looking around, we noted a ginormous flagpole with (yet another) Malaysian flag flapping in the breeze at one end of the Square. A stage was in the process of being assembled, no doubt for speeches and performances on Independence Day, but a few concerned glances told us that we were probably in the way of the workers, so we moved on. Stopping only to snap away at the buildings all around us, so reminiscent of colonial times with their columns and domes and shuttered windows, we headed for the nearby Sentral (Central) Market.

In spite of all the guidebook reviews saying what a key destination this covered market is, it was really just a thinly disguised tourist trap, filled with stalls of cheap ethnic souvenirs -from batik wear to beads and prawn crackers to feng shui tools. It did, however, sell food, so we stopped there for a quick breakfast. Then, back outside beneath a sky that threatened a good old tropical downpour, we stumbled across Petaling Street, the main drag of Kuala Lumpur’s China Town.

In International-China-Town-Style, there stood huge red gates topped with pagoda-style roof at either end of Petaling Street. In between we found all the current knock-off brands (Louis Vuitton, Coach, Gucci) in all their guises (sunglasses, bags, belts, clothes, watches) next to UK rugby and football shirts. Colour spilled off the stalls of fruit and vegetables -pink dragon fruit, lychees, glowing orange persimmons, and the stinky Durian Fruit, so prized in this region yet despised for its smell. Florists injected even more colour into the street and its off-shoots, and chestnuts were roasted next to stalls selling pirated DVDs. All around, locals waved and shouted and encouraged tourists to buy, buy, buy. “I give you best price!” they implored.

On a street running parallel to Petaling, we saw a pet shop. Inside were cages of rabbits, dormice, hamsters, rats and small birds. The terrapins were only RM8 each. I wondered if these animals really were destined to be pets, or if some of them would end up in a casserole. I hoped with all my heart it was the former.

Across the road stood a reflexology shop with giant plans of pressure points in the feet hung suggestively in its window. All the way along the street there were open-fronted eateries, filled with Chinese Malaysians sat at wipe-clean white plastic tables as roast chickens and ducks hung on meat hooks in the windows, enticing hungry passers-by. One large souvenir shop boasted an entire wall of Buddhas of all styles and descriptions, including North Asian style with knotted hair and Happy Style with smile and big belly. There in their midst was a bust of Chairman Mao as statuettes of long-bearded wise men stood watch over tables of Chinese comics. At last, we were beginning to feel Asia everywhere around us.

As the humidity cranked up, we walked to nearby Jalan Tun H.S. Lee to look at the temples. There are three along this street: two Buddhist and one Hindu. The Hindu temple was a riot of figures depicting various scenes from Hindu lore, including the Ramayana, an epic Indian poem about a hero, Rama, who lives his exemplary life according to Dharma. On the street outside the temple stood tiny stalls laden with fresh garlands and fruit to offer to the gods dwelling inside. One worshipper after another purchased their offerings and removed their shoes at the entrance as they went to prayer.

Opposite, we poked our heads through the gate at one of the Buddhist temples, but the beggars there were scarily insistent that we give them money, so we decided against going in, lest they pummel us with their crutches and we never come out.

As the clouds once more grew black, we walked past a cluster of fragrant hawker stalls to the colonial railway station. Now that many of its functions have been taken over by the newer Sentral Station, it stands quite obviously quiet and under-utilised. But no one can take away the beauty of this place. With domed turrets and spiralling stairwells, this is a marvel of colonial architecture and, once more, in tardis-like fashion, it’s easy to imagine porters and travelling trunks, steam trains and vintage fashion passing through these platforms. Snapping out of the past and back to reality, however, we were now a bit lost.

We wanted to buy bus tickets to Singapore and had been told that this was the place to buy them. However, the information was a bit out of date because we couldn’t find any indication of the recommended bus company and a lot of the station’s previously occupied offices were now empty with piles of uncollected mail on their floors. At the Railway Station Hotel, we thought we might find some help. Sadly not. A grumpy woman, obviously put out that we didn’t want to stay in her establishment and merely needed (free) directions, grumbled at us. “there are no bus companies here anymore.” We persisted. “Do you know where they’ve gone?” “No.” Turning away from us to a young pair of backpackers who were potential fee-paying business, she transformed from evil ogre to charming landlady, quoting rates and room configurations. Bemused by this change in behaviour, we hesitated in the lobby, looking into the long bar. There was dust everywhere. What could have been a nostalgic place to eat or drink looked like an Asian version of Miss Haversham’s dining room. Faded postcards, dusty souvenirs, sticky-looking plastic flowers, an empty bar and sad-looking staff. I glanced at the rate card. At RM76 per night for a “superior single room” we would not be staying here. Ever.

We found a cab and asked where we could find buses to Singapore. “Pudu Raya station,” came the reply. So off we zoomed in the KL traffic to Pudu Raya. What an experience this was! Monsieur and I are honest travellers, quite unused to dealing with people who think nothing of telling a few white lies to up their business. We knew the bus company we wanted to travel with, but were shanghaied by a tout claiming he worked for them as he knowingly sold us tickets for another company. At first I was furious and argued with the girl behind the ticket counter, fag hanging dangerously out of a corner of her mouth. A stony face told me I’d get nowhere with her. As we’d already paid the tout RM35 each for the privilege of not travelling with the company we wanted, we finally realised we’d lost this particular battle, took our tickets and walked through the station, working out where we’d need to be in a couple of days’ time. Later, I realised that in a way, this sort of business-getting is quite admirable. It just surprises me because I wasn’t built that way.

Time to eat. Next stop on the list was the Bukit Bintang shopping area. Once again, we’d missed a meal; this time, we reached the hawker stalls too late for lunch. Everything was closing up until evening. Eventually, we found a little Thai restaurant that was still willing to serve us. Watching the adjacent market open up after its lunch-break, we sat in the shade drinking icy lager under huge fans blowing cool water into the humid air. As we refuelled on spicy seafood laksa, our waiter kindly took time to explain the quickest way to walk to the Menara Tower. But first, we had to check out the electronics stores in the nearby shopping centres.

Inside these large complexes, we found ourselves in windowless mazes of identikit commercial space, only discernable one from the next by product, much of which was the same as next door. Some shops sold laptops, others MP3 players. There were DVD shops, computer game shops, tamagotchi and hand-held game shops, game memorabilia shops, audio-visual equipment shops, software shops and mobile phone shops. After a while, they all seemed to blend into each other and the windowlessness of the IT shopping centre gave everything a sci-fi film feel. Who could tell where in the world we were? Most of what we saw could have placed us anywhere.

We had a quick look in a commercial shopping centre that sold clothes, as opposed to computer games, but we weren’t really in the mood for shopping. Besides, we had strict baggage allowances to adhere to. So, in typical Monsieur and Epic style, bickering a bit about which way the waiter said we should go, (“it’s this way” “no, it’s that way. Are you deaf?”) we set off in search of the Menara Tower.

In fact, this wasn’t difficult at all. The tower is built on a hill and is therefore the tallest point in Kuala Lumpur. You can’t miss it. The tough part was encouraging our tired legs to persevere with the steep hillside climb to the base of the tower. Once there, we were greeted by a pair of rickshaws, decorated with plastic flowers and garlands of the brightest of colours created for us by Mother Nature (and plastics factories). The queues were minimal so we had no trouble buying tickets and were soon zooming up the tower shaft in a lift to the viewing deck 276 metres above ground level. It was so fast that my ears popped several times en route.

Even though the views over KL were incredible from this height, apparently, the tower rose to a whopping 421metres, so we were only part way to its zenith. Opened to the public in 1996, its function is to serve as a telecoms tower and, as such, it is the fourth tallest in the world, apparently, after the CN Tower in Toronto, Ostankino Tower in Moscow and Oriental Pearl Tower in Shanghai. Size really does matter to some people. Especially those in the business of building telecommunications towers.

Standard issue listening devices on the observation deck helped us to understand what we were looking at and we were soon able to place most of KL’s famed landmarks. We spotted the Merdeka Square where we’d been just that morning, saw the nets of the Butterfly Park in the Lake Gardens, the Petronas Towers and our hotel in the distance, and the glinting domes of the mosques of Masjid Negara (National Mosque) and Masjid Jamek (the old mosque).

Back on the ground, the skies opened and the downpour that had been threatening us all day commenced. We were lucky to get a cab, which then got stuck in terrible traffic on the way back to the hotel. We were only a short walk away but two seconds in this sort of weather would have seen us soaked to the bone, so sit in the cab, rain pelting against the windows and traffic lights bleeding through the wet, we did.

For dinner, we decided to try the Pacifica Grill and Bar on the ground floor of the hotel as we were rather impressed by the its prize from the Malaysia Tourism Awards 2004 for Best Western Restaurant. Sure enough, the food was impeccable. Monsieur started with a salmon tartare, constructed like yet another tower, and I had soft shell crab with fennel and a drizzle of lobster sauce. Now that I’ve discovered soft shell crab, I’ll be eating it as often as possible! Something called a virtue sherbert arrived to cleanse our palates and no sooner had we licked the last morsel off the spoon, the glass was whisked away and the main appeared before us. Had we taken a sip of our wine? Yes? Top up at the ready. The service was really quite something.

Monsieur tucked into a nice slab of beef with a potato mousse next, while I tried the cod in black miso sauce with sweet potato fries so delicate that they fell through the fork. Faultless so far. Following fresh mojito aperitifs, we had chosen wine: a red bordeaux for Monsieur and its white equivalent for me with lashings of sparkling water to keep us hydrated. After a long day on our feet, we needed it.

Dessert was delicious. Monsieur’s choice comprised creme brulee with lemon thyme and white chocolate. Mine was a choccy-lover’s dream, consisting of tastes of chocolate mousse souffle in a tea cup, accompanied by chocolate ice cream, chocolate discs and a sprinkling of (unnecessary) gold leaf.

The only thing to fault the evening’s meal was the service. It was so efficient that we had an unnerving feeling that every one of our moves was being closely scrutinised. I was almost scared to sneeze. The wait-staff pounced every time we put our cutlery down at the end of a course and we barely had time to breathe before the next culinary instalment arrived. So it was with the bill. It arrived for signature almost as soon as we’d asked for it, along with a wine glass of more chocolates, this time artfully tipped on its side to spill the contents. As we walked out of the restaurant, I counted the wait-staff and did the same for the patrons. The restaurant wasn’t full tonight, so the ratio of staff to patron worked out at 2.5 each. Incredible. The poor staff were probably bored, hence the extra-committed service. Nonetheless, it was yet another memorable meal and we’ll never forget how rapidly our every need was attended to, even if it was a bit unnerving at times.

To read the previous instalment, click here.

To read the next instalment, click here.

Malaysia, part 1: A Malaysian Initiation

Monsieur and I had two weeks’ holiday at our disposal, so, as you do, we went to Waterstone’s in Notting Hill and stood in the midst of the travel guide section, looking for inspiration. In the end, we restricted ourselves to three guides: Greece, Croatia and Malaysia, which we pored over at home, trying to decide on our destination. I’ve never been to Greece and my mind soon filled with images of sun-drenched islands littered with whitewashed houses and azure-blue doors, juicy olives, lethal ouzo and moussaka everywhere. Monsieur wasn’t overly keen. He’d already visited Greece. Strike one.

Then there was Croatia. A colleague who holidays there every year with his wife gave me brochures and lots of tips on how to plan the trip. I even wrote an itinerary. It will have to wait, however, because in the end Monsieur and I decided to brave the thirteen-hour flight to Malaysia.

We booked the flights, researched hotels, read about the food, the people and the history and Somerset Maugham found his way onto my bedside table. Then, a couple of weeks before we left, the UK went onto red-alert. There’d been a terrorist threat involving liquids that could be easily converted into bombs once on-board a plane. Carry-on luggage was banned. Clear plastic bags were all you could take onto a flight. No books or papers or magazines or liquids or make-up or mobile phones or laptops or just about anything you’d usually take into the cabin with you were permitted. This was a problem. I don’t do boredom. I’m never bored, partly because I never go anywhere without a notebook or something to read – just in case I get stuck with nothing to do. How ever would I cope on a plane for so long without, at the very least, a book? This would be a case of 13 hours of enforced film watching, at best.

Days before departure, the restrictions were lessened somewhat. Liquids and electronics were still banned but it was possible to take books onto planes again. There were still extended check-in times because of the lengthier security checks, “but that’s all right,” I thought, “it’s for our own good.”

When we got to the airport, it was surprising how many people were still trying to take liquids through security. The additional staff had arranged for big clear bins to show us how much was being confiscated. There goes another bottle of water, a lip gloss, contact lens fluid, soon to be joined by the umpteenth can of deodorant… I couldn’t believe that our fellow travellers had missed the widespread news coverage about this over the past few weeks! The irony was that once through security, we could buy liquids everywhere – water, duty free alcohol, perfume…

In the end, the flight wasn’t too bad, although long. Once the cabin lights were dimmed at night time, I raised my window blind and looked down. There were zig zags of lights far away in the darkness. Checking the map on the movie screen, I could see that we were somewhere above Afghanistan. “Look where we are,” I whispered to Monsieur. Deep breathing came as a reply. He was already asleep.

Eventually we arrived in Kuala Lumpur. I felt smelly. My breath was strong enough to asphxiate a camel, I had dry skin, cracked lips and was desperate for chewing gum and a dab of uplifting perfume. As we walked away from the plane (trying hard not to breathe on Monsieur) there, in the middle of the concourse was a Harrods sign. Yes, they had installed a Harrods cafe, here in Kuala Lumpur. It would seem some parts of the Empire had never left.

As we waited for our bags to arrive on the conveyor belt, I started to jiggle. Spotting the nearest ladies room sign I took off, only just making it into a cubicle in time. Oh hell. It was a hole-in-the-ground. I’d have to aim carefully and pray that all those squats in the gym had strengthened my thighs enough to hold firm. This loo was the first visible sign of being in a different culture. Having said that, it was clean and space-ship modern, so a mix of the past and the future seemed to blend here, and this was just a loo!

Bags collected, a squirt of scent and a swish of lip gloss later, we met our transfer driver. When we expressed our surprise at having a whole car to ourselves, he smiled: “we are upgrading your transfer because no one is coming to our country now. Tourism is bad. We are Islamic here. Westerners don’t want to go to Islamic countries anymore.” It suddenly hit me that our cabin had been half empty and most of the people who were on our flight looked Malaysian or wore headscarves. There hadn’t been that many white faces and now we knew why.

The drive into Kuala Lumpur was fascinating. There were flags hanging everywhere. Why was that? “Ah, that’s because it’s Merdeka soon,” explained the driver. “Merdeka is celebration of Malaysian independence.”

We were lucky with our driver. He was keen to answer all our questions and tell us about his country. Of Chinese background, ethnicity was one of our first lessons. “In Malaysia the main religion is Islam. You must follow Islam to succeed. If you are Chinese, like me, and you convert to Islam, you will benefit from government initiatives. If you do not follow Islam, you will be at economic disadvantage.” Heavens. So was our driver a Moslem? “No. I am at economic disadvantage. I do not want to convert.”

Lining the motorway were tens of candy-coloured apartment blocks. Were they state housing? Our font of Malaysian knowledge answered the question before it was asked. “what do you see missing on those blocks? Hmm? Balconies. They are missing balconies, but do you know why?” We shook our heads. “The government is clearing native villages and bringing the people into the cities. It is very hard for them to adjust to city life. Many of them jump off their balconies and die. They are not used to living high off the ground like that. So the government builds them apartments with no balconies. Now they cannot jump.” Goodness. Malaysian culture was more complicated than we’d realised.

I looked up at the skyline. At last, there were the landmark Petronas Towers and we would be staying next door. As we exited the motorway, heading for the hotel, I craned my neck to follow the position of the towers, to see how far we were from a hot shower and much vigorous tooth-brushing. Soon enough, we were waving farewell to our driver and walking into the Mandarin Oriental hotel, those gunmetal towers standing huge in the sky overhead. When we reached our room on 13th floor, the door opened onto floor-to-ceiling windows filled with our neighbours, the Petronas Towers, yet again. Out came my camera as I stood mesmerised, snapping away at this architectural wonder.

Yes, we did brush our teeth, but thought better of taking a shower. We could swim instead! Down at the fitness centre we found an outdoor infinity pool with views over Kuala Lumpur. Clinging to the edge which spilled onto the postcard view before us, we observed the surrounds. There were the Petronas Towers, just next door (it seemed there was no getting away from them in KL), perfect circles of man-made pond sat below us in the midst of lush, symmetrical gardens, giving onto the Suria (Sunshine) KL Convention Centre shopping complex. Varying heights of building, mostly hotels and banks, formed the rest of the view. Then, turning around we saw the Menara Tower climbing above the other buildings. This was definitely a 21st Century city.

Later that evening we went to explore the KLCC shopping centre. As we noticed a glowing green sign for Mark’s and Spencer, I wondered if we’d really left home. Inside, there were all the big names: Gucci, Sony, Tiffany, Hugo Boss and Bally. “Are we really in Asia?” Monsieur enquired. “It doesn’t feel like it yet.” I could see why.

Back at the hotel we decided on Japanese for dinner and took the lift down to the Wasabi Bistro in the basement. Once we saw the prices, we knew we were no longer in London. The current exchange rate meant we could have whatever we felt like and only pay the equivalent of a pizza and house wine back home.

We each chose a different set menu. I went for the Enzo Meal, diving into a plate of divine soft-shell crab set on a bed of prawn cracker noodles. This was followed by a tray of small dishes: miso soup, rice, sashimi of tuna and salmon, prawn and vegetable tempura, and chicken slices. Monsieur, meanwhile, ate from the Chef’s Specialties menu, starting with a mixed salad, moving onto sashimi of tuna, yellow fin and sea bass, presented in small dishes on a bed of ice, and finishing with chicken slices tossed onto salad with a sesame seed dressing. We were highly satisfied customers.

Next to us, a table of 3 Japanese customers had a lively time with their meal, enjoying warm sake and plum wine as they ate from sizzling hot plates. Elsewhere, men in suits conducted business over their dinner. We sat, exhausted from the journey, and drank in the atmosphere. Not too tired to try the blackened sesame seed ice cream with a cup of green tea, we now knew for certain that we were in Asia.

To read the next instalment, click here.

Epicurus said… don’t fear death

Death is feared by most mere mortals. Having said that, the way people drive in North Africa is such a case of vehicle leap-frog that it’s almost like a test of their faith in God: “Insh’Allah!” the Egyptians exclaim as they challenge an oncoming Goliath lorry with their twenty year-old David of a sedan.

To have such faith in God is admirable. The cynic in me nags, however: “what if God thinks it’s your time to be crushed by Goliath? What then?” It’s this sort of fear that Epicurus is talking about; fear which is, to me at least, quite rational, as we consider the distress our demise will cause loved ones, count how many bills there are still to pay, regret all the things we have left undone or unsaid, and wonder, “will it hurt?”.

That’s just when we think about our own death. What about the deaths of others? That can often be worse. Any parent who has lost their offspring will readily state: “it’s not meant to be this way; children are supposed to outlive their parents.”, and most would have happily given their own lives to let their child live.

As a true cynic once said: “there are three things you can be sure about in life – birth, death and taxes.” Birth is the easy part. We don’t have much say in how we come into the world. The decision has not been ours. Then there are the omnipresent taxes. You pay them (or not, in some cases), or save up for a multi-million pound studio in a tax-haven like Monaco, but the tax-man is always there, ready to take your money and promptly forgetting to invest it in basic civic needs like road repairs, choosing instead to use it to fuel a war or rescue a building society with whom you’ve never held an account. It’s out of our hands. Unless, of course, we are a government minister.

So that leaves us with the third assured aspect of life: death. From the moment we’re born, we know we must die one day. Most hope it will be a long time in the future. With death, however, there are so many different ways of dying that surely that is where a lot of the anxiety develops. Will we be squished by a 137 bus as we cross King’s Road? Is that headache the onset of a deadly tumour? Will a routine operation expose us to that deadly flesh-eater, MRSA? How old will we be when we die? Will we go in a flash or have a long and painful demise? Will I resolve that rift with Auntie So-and-So beforehand? It’s that unknown quantity of not knowing when and how that feeds the fear.

Epicurus lived in a world where the Afterlife was firmly established in the local belief system. People were buried with items to help them in the world hereafter – vases of oil, tools, accessories, food. If an Ancient Greek didn’t behave well in this life, he might end up in the dark hole of Hades (hell) instead of roaming through the Elysian Fields (heaven). What if his family forgot to pack something vital in the tomb? Would he be able to buy another in the Afterlife?

Epicurus was an atomist. That is, he was one of the first to believe that we are all made of invisible moving particles. What does this have to do with death? Well, if the mind is central to who we are, and the mind is made of these tiny particles, then on death these particles must dissolve into the nothingness from whence we came. Therefore, following death, we are no more. He calls this “total annihilation”. What a comforting thought.

The Epicurean argument following this total annihilation is that if we dissolve completely on death, then there is nothing to fear from the Afterlife because, obviously, there isn’t one. His definition of the living is that they have not yet been “annihilated” and, as they are still alive, death cannot possible affect them and is therefore not a bad thing.

The next part involves the dead. For something to affect a person, that person must be alive because if they are dead, they cannot be affected by anything because they are no more. Therefore, death cannot be a bad thing for the dead because the dead do not exist. Got it?

On the subject of pain, if you are dead, pain cannot reach you because you don’t exist. Therefore, fear of pain on death should not be a consideration. Well, I’m glad we got that clear!

Given all the different beliefs we have in the modern world, this all seems very simplistic. The easiest part to understand is that we don’t know what comes after life. We don’t know if there is an Afterlife. We don’t know if we disappear into a great void of nothing. We don’t know if we will be recycled into a new human or a bee or an elephant or a tree. We simply don’t know. So while we are alive, perhaps we should just enjoy each day as it comes and follow the old adage: Carpe diem! Seize the day.