The worst day to forget your camera

The Lake Gardens are circled by a long stretch of road lined with epic sprawling trees with gigantic concertina leaves like corrugated cardboard. The vegetation is so lush and gorgeous I want to eat it, but settle for a handful of dates and a salak, which is fruit covered in snakeskin.

In the butterfly garden, the angry bat-sized inhabitants hurl themselves in my face and perch delicately on the fingers of the braver patrons. There are demonic horned beetles in tanks, and teeny tiny baby turtles all stacked up motionless on top of each other.
The Bird Park is a huge open air aviary, full of peacocks strutting around "presenting" themselves at no one in particular. A mynah bird wishes me an Ohayo Gozaimasu, which makes me feel right at home. There are skinny neon pink flamingos and an owl who, when threatened, turns its eyes to slits in hope of "emanating a block of wood." Natural Selection gets us all in the end.
In the Orchid Garden, a wedding is being dismantled by some disgruntled Malayan slaves. I sit under a massive waterfall and read a 3-year-old Booker Prize Winnah. Another take on the Indian underclass I would have dismissed by now if I were home, but here I devour it like the Kit Kat Chunky I found in a 7-11 this morning. A year and a half since such beauty has graced my lips.
Glossy silver monkeys playfight and squawk and eat bananas. Other sounds: the cicadas that sound like bells ringing on the breeze when the wind changes their note. The strange, melodic call to prayer, every few hours, hypnotic and beautiful. The sound of my stomach, rumbling.

An unmixed, unwrapped nasi lemak In the Botanic Gardens, I eat nasi lemak: coconut rice with spicy sambal, dried anchovies and egg slices, wrapped in a banana leaf pyramid. It's a common breakfast food and annoyingly filling. I glory in eating yet another meal not made from Japanese sticky rice.
I sit in a beautiful trellised summer house. Trailing vines drop from the ceiling and there are huge plants with foamy explosions of star-shaped leaves. Tree trunks comprise of a million interlocking roots. The leaves shut out the light. If Miss Havisham had a summer house, this would be it.
My solitude is shattered when an old man enters and starts barking questions/orders at me. I am 27. I should be married by now. What do I think I am doing? He himself was wedded at 16, and sees no reason why I should not follow suit. Food for thought indeed.

Sudah makan?

The first word I learn in Malay is one I'd forgotten I knew!

"Makan" means food, or to eat, and is in the first line of Almayer's Folly, by your favourite Polish-born, Malay-based, English-speaking author, Joe Conrad. Malaysians often greet each other by asking "Sudah makan?" or "Have you eaten?" instead of Hello. This is definitely my kind of country.


A rambutan (similar to lychee), mangosteen, starfruit and cilak (new potato-shaped mango). At the front are grape-like longan.


Racks of sweeties in the Central Market

With a population of Indian, Chinese and native Malay chefs, you can smell food everywhere you go. It is regrettable that the human body has not evolved past its paltry 3-meals-a-day requirement. It seems so inefficient that supply far outstrips demand.


Street stalls in Chinatown

I make up for this by employing an all day grazing technique, allowing me to pick up peanut satay, samosas, mango tic tacs and coconut pastries wherever I find them.



I instigate a second sitting for dinner, so I can try two restaurants, one at 5pm and one around 9. This also helps prevent liver damage.


Peanut butter with choco crispies?! Be still, my heart. It's certainly the Choice of this Lady.

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.

On the razz

It's the first night of the holiday so I need to find a suitable den of ill repute.

The Reggae Reggae bar fits the bill nicely. It's full of backpackers and has a faux Chinese cocktail menu. Inside, the walls are lined with posters of Bob Marley. There are hand-painted poems extolling the virtues of ganja, punctuated by governmental warnings that the penalty for trafficking drugs of any kind in Malaysia is DEATH.

Rashly, I order a Blue Lagoon, followed by a Black Russian. Both are accompanied by maraschino cherries. The Black Lagoon forming in my stomach convinces me I can play pool, and I do so, badly, with a Canadian gapper and his diving instructor chum. Disappointingly, despite hailing from the Channel Islands, he has only 10 fingers. I convince them I am hustling them and will get much, much better in about 10 minutes.

I stay until the bar becomes overrun with freshly graduated international school students. The girls are 18 but look 35, like exhausted prostitutes, falling out of butt-skimming lycra dresses. The boys look 14, in stonewash denim with untamed bushes of hair. Every so often there is a murderous shriek, accompanied by the sound of glass breaking. I pity them. They are missing out on a key stage of their development by not sitting home alone, depressed in their rooms, listening to Radiohead and Hating Everyone, like normal 18-yr-olds. The youth of today.

The Stained Kimono Goes Malaysian!

The Happy Hooker



Best Airplane Novel Ever.
Gory and clinical but never erotic, this fantastically entertaining novel saw me nicely through the 7hrs to Kualar Lumpur. It covers all your bases: bestiality, swinging, S&M and roleplay.

The Love That Dare Not Speak Its Name is referred to as "Greek Style", which has put me right off yogurt.

The rest of the night flight is a turbulence-filled misery fest. I fall into a delirium of Rhianna lyrics, the conviction that I have not turned in an important essay on King Lear and wake continually from snatches of sleep for perhaps minutes at a time.

On landing, a tropical rainstorm hits. The air smells metallic and raw. The terminal is lined with Starbucks and McDonald's and I am not allowed on the bus with my smoothie. Brenden the Bus Driver ushers me into a battered deskchair and we sit under dripping tarpaulin and swap Japanesisms while I slurp my BananaKrunchBrekkiePower! His accent is probably no worse than mine.

I arrive in Chinatown, pleased to note that there are only a few leprosy-ridden beggars for me to step my privileged white self over, and collapse at my hostel. Loud bhangra music from the lobby awakens me from my slumbers. I emerge, blinking, from my room. The owner, wearing only a towel, is sitting in the common room surrounded by his friends, discussing the best way to use Facebook to get girlfriends. They are watching a loud Bollywood movie, and will not move from this position for the duration of my 3 night stay.

What's new, Kitty Kat?

15 months in this great nation, and while I'm yet to manage a haircut or master the lingo at the most basic of levels, I have immersed myself fully in Japanese culture. I've ikebana-ed, learnt to make sushi, seen the sumo and most importantly, consumed a vast quantity of Nestle's greatest product, the humble Kit Kat.




May I present my Top 13:

We'll start with the most transparently Japanese of the flavours: Green tea (matcha). This one's available exclusively in the all-nite convenience store based in Narita Airport, hence the hideous Vietnamese bedspread pictured beneath.


The colour is mould and the flavour too slight, when you consider the potential deliciousness of the marriage of bitter matcha and sweet sweet cocoa.


Sakura matcha, or, in layman's terms, green tea with a hint o' cherry. Exquisite. I was almost mauled to death by Narese deer while walking through a herd and ripping one of these babies open. Available in Kyoto, and only in cherry blossom season, boo.


Wasabi, a Shizuokan speciality. Could definitely have used a bit more, urm, wasabi. Bit of a swizz this one. With colouring almost identical to its tastier older sister, the Matcha, it follows suit in flavour, with perhaps the merest whisper of artificially sweetened mustard aftertaste.


The Daddy of them all: This one's dark and delicious and comes in a Chunky-style bar form. Adults only.


Bitter Almond, seen here struggling to survive a Japanese summer. I know just how it feels, but I'm not half as delicious.


From the sublime to the plain disgusting: the European Cheese. A whole lot more effort has gone into producing a suitably authentic French pong. The smell is wholly realistic, but the taste, well...


Inside, hundreds of the foul tasting buggers, thousands, millions, breeding, multiplying like a horrific fungus, like bacteria like, well, cheese.


The ghostly pallor of emmenthal. Still, one whiff of this and its sayonara to European homesickness.


A change of pace now, to the malteaser-shaped "Big/Little". Note the confusing use of both English and Japanese in the product name.


Sweet potato, in bar form. The texture is somewhat akin to that of the Holy Grail, the Kit Kat Chunky. Not available in Asia. Let's take a moment to reflect on the pathos of that last statement.


Still, look how happy I am to have found one, and on the streets of Akihabara too, more commonly known for its electro gadgets, doleful-eyed, latterday geisha maids and Sexy Sex Shops.


Waiting for the last train back to the hostel, the Midnight Munchies make their presence known, and I just can't wait any longer.


Long enough to take a pic of the Almond, in bar guise, which I appear to be holding in my prosthetic hand.

Strawberry Shortcake. Short, saccharine and ultimately unfulfilling.


Pretty pale pink, though.


But let's get back on the chocolatey horse of goodness with this double whammy: the Cola/Lemonade twin pack.


With a rather anaemic brown colouring, the cola could use some work, much like the non-fizzy kind of penny sweet cola bottles. The Lemonade however is a taste sensation.


Back to the balls, of the Custard Pudding variety. The lily has officially been gilded with this disconcertingly phosphorous offering.


Less chemical in taste, and with possibly my favourite packaging of the bunch, the plain, no-nonsense, dark choc of the Semisweet is a winner.


And for the bonus round - Coconut M&Ms, all the way from Guam! Slightly soapy aftertaste. My quest for the Coconut Kit Kat continues.


Alas, the Soy Sauce, the Miso, the Ginger Ale and the Royal Milk Tea remain illusive, but that shall make them taste all the sweeter when they are mine,

I'm a bit cold

A handy survival guide to winter in the northern hemisphere.

When you're 600m above sea level, cycle to work and spend your days expelling breath in little fluffy clouds, extreme measures are called for.

Receding hairline? There's an app for that...

Exhibt A: Steve Jobs
As sunglasses are to Bono, and luscious locks were to Sampson, the simple, clean lines of the Jet Black poloneck are the source of all Jobs' power. The fact he comes across as a cheap French mime artist are purely a bonus.

The polo neck is to be worn under all your clothes (over a vest top) lest a whisper of flesh fall prey to the wicked winds of the west. It's a little bit beatnik, a little bit existentialist and a whole lot hideous, but as we will see in Exibit D, fashion is really not on the agenda here.

Exibit B: The Beanie

Jason Mewes and I share many striking similarities: a love of Prince; a forehead you could project a movie on; the long, mustard-coloured tresses; and a predilection for 7/11s (I like the snacks). But let's focus on the head gear.

Note the jaunty angle of the hat: the beanie comes smoothly down almost to the eyebrows, covering the large shiny forehead and making a feature of the much overlooked eyebrow region. The hair can be utilised as a makeshift scarf.

C: Now is the winter of our discontent

But not of our discomfort. Now is the time for trans-fats, artificial colours, MSGs and Red Dye #2. Accept no substitutes. Chase that junk food dragon til your insides turn all gooey and warm and glowy, or you pass out into a sugar coma, and wake up incapable of ingesting solid food. Broccoli tastes of Cold.

D: The Layered Look

Less of a "look" than noisome eye pollution, do not try to fool yourself you are rocking wunnuver-kind vintage. You are almost certainly wearing clothes that old ladies died in. You look decidedly dumpy. If you are wearing less than 5 layers (including underwear), you have failed.

The worst aspect of this particular "vogue" is that it looks suspiciously like you've made an effort. We're mixing patterns, eras, cuts, fabrics - I hesitate to include "styles" in this list, as there are none on display - it's a sartorial nightmare.

Be warned, this is not the "Frasier's Crane's apartment" of dressing. Don't think that by having one carefully chosen patchwork jerkin and mixing it with contrasting plaid bolero you can somehow tie everything together with that sassy pair of antique feather earrings. You look dreadful. But you are warm. Now you know how those old people feel who have to chose between heating and eating each Winter. Dressed like this, however, you do not deserve to eat.

Note Betty's long loose hair, similar to Mr Mewes', covering both ears and neck. It's much too cold for the smart, professional, working gal bun. A fringe is also sensible, and may negate the need for The Beanie. This in turn is negated by the fact that you already look appalling. Glasses can add anything up to an eighth of a degree in extra warmth.

E: Reading material

The three volume Victorian novel is perfect for this time of year. Calm yet convoluted middle class life, nonsensical character development (is it development to get married?) and pleasingly implausible plot twists, all set against the backdrop of a drafty Gothic castle/turbulent moor/damp squalid debtor's prison.

Anything Russian is also good. At least Lara and Yuri are colder than you are. People also get cold in Dickens, usually under conditions of forced labour and/or domestic abuse. Shakespearean tragedy offers a wealth of ritual blinding, matricide/suicide/homicide, hanging and really annoying timing coincidences, all of which are quite cheering under the circumstances

F: Coping mentally
Got a thermometer built into your alarm clock? If you do, you're probably the kind of guy/gal with a compass in their shoe, and I take my beanie off to you, but I digress, Get Rid Of It.

Likewise, stop checking weather updates. It's Cold. Deal with it. Constant mental reinforcement of just how cold you are (as though you need reminding) is not going to help. The temperature in the corridor is cheerfully displayed at a brazen 8 degrees. and it's only going to get colder.

G: How to stay warm in class

• Stand as close to the windows as possible and bathe in the rogue pools of sunlight that collect on the floor.
  
• Allow any heat residue from the sun to soak into your back. Do not allow the students to pull the curtains. This is your only source of warmth, and some of them are wearing shorts.
  
• Play "Where is the Draft Coming From?" and reward yourself with a pinch on the wrist for each correctly identified open window/door. Bonus points if you know that closing it is a mere formality, that the offending door/window will be reopened in a matter of minutes and is a complete waste of time.
• Think very deeply about your most embarrassing moment. A recent one. Really project, now. He was asking out the girl behind you. You will glow a lovely warm red.
  
• Laugh very, very hard. Similar result.
  
• Think about sex. Ibid.
  
• Prowl around the room stealing students' hot water bottles/hand warmers. They will think it's funny and cute. Again, half of them are still wearing shorts.
  

In between classes, you can run between rooms to avoid the scalding cold. Sing as you go. Students will fall in line behind and trot merrily after you, transforming you into a sort of harlequinned Pied Piper (this is dependent on you having got the Layered Look right).

Think warming thoughts. Think of the two pairs of tights, tracksuit bottoms, hat, scarf, earmuffs and two pairs of gloves you will don to cycle home, through the snow. Home to your 1x1 two-bar heater, rattling aircon and sporadic, earthquake-inspired power cuts.

If all else fails, make a blog post about how dreadful your life is and melt the frozen tears into pools of joy. If nothing else, it will guilt trip your friends into posting you chocolate.