Petaling Market

My first full day in Kualar Lumpar! HostelMan is celebrating by wearing a fetching, off-white vest top. At least he is clothed. I eat the lifeless white bread and sticky pink jam provided as breakfast while trying to make sense of this morning's Bollywood film, which also functioned as a useful alarm clock.

Outside, the streets are Asia-by-numbers. A durian stall emanates that soft waft of rotting garbage. Some gentle heckling from SE Asians unfortunate enough never to have seen a woman before. Pigeons and budgerigars coo and squawk from their cages. I'm almost killed every time I cross the road. The stench of human waste mingled with delicious lemon-scented coconut rice. I'm excited and filled with childish delight at the thought of 5 weeks of adventure and freedom!













Some durians, yesterday.

I faun over sickeningly cute baby animals trapped in hot glass boxes in pet shop windows. I lose patience with the sixth cab driver to beckon me over and shout "Taxi? Taxi?" Yes, I know you are.


Petaling Market

I trawl the market, hawking footie shirts, Eastern Block 80s fashions and piles of mangosteens, lychees and other unidentifiable, and therefore exotic, fruit. I buy bamboo fans, batik elephants, cheesecake and a postcard of a monkey on a chain eating a banana. In a quiet corner, I let a tiny, withered, machete-wielding old lady cleave a coconut for me. She hands me a straw (several careful previous owners) and a tin spoon and I get to work.


Oranges are not the only fruit

Around another corner, people are sitting with their feet in glass tanks, letting flesh-eating zombie fish munch the dead skin from their toes. I watch, transfixed, with the kind of sick fascination I normally reserve for roadkill.


Dinnertime

I hand over the money and eagerly swing my legs over the tank, and watch in horror as a school of fish turn as one, toward my glistening pasty flesh, almost rising out of the water, starved mouths wide open. I swear I can see drool forming on their huge lipless mouths. One of them begins gnawing at the glass in anticipation.

I freeze, leaving my feet suspended over the water til my stomach muscles fail me and I cower back into my seat. I look helplessly at the owner, who gives me that humoring pitying look I will grow accustomed to over the next few days, every time I try and thank someone or excuse myself in Japanese. It must sound like I'm just getting Malay Really Wrong.

She guides me over to a second tank, where a cluster of under-10s are chatting, while much smaller fish chomp away their sores and callouses.

"This is the Childrens' Tank," one of them informs me, with an impressive amount of condescension for her 7 years. I spend a few more minutes as a spectator, discussing with the children the pros and cons of feeding myself to the fish. They assure me that after the first 2 minutes, it will feel quite pleasant, and very relaxing and soothing. I take the plunge and lower in my heels. It is none of these things. It is horrific.

The fish swarm in and around and under me, working as a team to suck, bite, gnaw and generally freak the crap out of me. My neighbour loses patience and begins cupping handfuls of water and pouring it over my exposed flesh. Her friend helps her, and soon the fish are venturing out of the water and onto my toes.


Feet pressed against the glass in morbid terror

It's an exhausting 10 minutes. My face is contorted in terror and I experience the occasional leg spasm every time my camera zooms in, and I see the full horror of what is happening to me. A tap on the shoulder and my relaxing, soothing spa treatment is over. I stumble away, my feet pulsating and my stomach lurching, but grateful to be top of the food chain once more.