In the morning, I wait patiently at the bathroom door for a go at the sink. HostelMan emerges, fresh from the shower, clad in his ubiquitous towel. He grunts at me and departs. The mirror reflects a puffy swollen eyelid, probably a glamorous tropical disease I caught off a parrot yesterday.
Yes, my eyes are closed, but look at the colour coordination.
I meet Mr Tantra the previous evening in a Chinatown street cafe. We discuss the caste system for British Asians, racism in Japan, the difference between Sprite and 7-Up; all the important issues. He spends most of the evening defending his profession. "Everyone thinks it's about Sex. It's not about Sex. It's all about Energy. You understand, Jenny, don't you?"
263 steps up
I get to see some revealing snaps of him in various poses on a beach at dawn, and some more comforting shots, fully clothed, during a class. He's overjoyed to hear I am Batu Cave-bound, and offers to accompany me and explain the unfathomable Hindu-ness of it all. I accept, because I think it will make a good story.
A monkey.
A monkey god.
I hope my leprosy-ridden eye will discourage his more amorous intentions. He shows up on time, on a motorbike, wearing a black cloth beret. I repress my amusement admirably (probably because it's painful to roll my eyes), and inform him of my No Motorbikes In Asia policy. He is crestfallen for only a moment, and soon we are on our way to the train station. We sit and wax mystical while we wait for the train. He keeps grabbing my hand and stroking the lines of my palm: "Interesting. Very interesting..." he trails off, smiling and looks away. I remind myself, not for the first time, that it is all about Energy.
When I look up, two men in National Geographic tshirts are taking our photo. Apparently Mr Tantra and I are to be the cover stars for their next issue on Ethnic Diversity in Malaysia.
Yay, more steps!
Outside the caves, we get some Indian food on a banana leaf plate and milky chocolate coffee in a tin cup. Tantra men eat with their hands, twirling the rice into the curry artistically with their fingers. Then we ascend the 8 bijillion steps to the top and the entrance of the cave. There are a lot of monkeys. I don't like monkeys anymore. In Malaysia, they run around stealing tourists' belongings, attacking small children unprovoked and having a tug of war with you over your bikini (I wasn't wearing it at the time). They are not like the monkeys in Disney.
Afterwards, I get some mehndi done, cos I'll never have the guts to get a real tattoo. It'll last 2-3 weeks, depending on how much I go swimming. As long as it fades before I go back home, although it's the least yukuza looking tattoo ever.
The finished article
YogaMan can't stop telling me how good the henna looks against my white, white skin. I can't get off the train and away from him fast enough. When I come back to Kualar Lumpur, I will come and stay with him won't I. And his parents. I reveal I am otherwise engaged for the evening. He looks crestfallen again. I'm given three goodbye kisses, three more than are necessary, and turn and flee into the night, my face wet from his mouth. I head for the shower.
Note: There are no pictures of YogaMan. I did not take any. This is because I want you to imagine a hot, young, lithe, bendy tantra master who fell helplessly and hopelessly in love with me and showed me his world, rather than a balding, slightly tedious, unattractive aging hippie. This is how I want to remember it too.
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