Dee-Rob

We arrived in KL a while back, I think it was Monday, also known as yesterday, which is tomorrow if you are reading this from the other side of the international dateline. Something like that.

Since hitting Kuala Lumpur, M.’s aunt has done yeoman’s duty shuffling us around to the sites. Today was Melaka, where it all got started Malaysia-wise. Cool little town. Kind of like visiting Plymouth, MA give or take a few hundred years of human history and another hundred of colonializing nonsense from Europe.

What I really haven’t had time to describe in writing words or show in photographic splendor is the drive from Penang to Kuala Lumpur. We drove one car with two teenage/young adult cousins and a dog and followed the caravan lead of M.’s aunt and uncle (and owners of one said adolescent and dog).

The thing is, Penang is an island connected to the mainland by bridges. Consider holiday traffic at it’s peak in the U.S., since we were holidaying here, on a Sunday when everyone’s trying to get back from their family homes to their real life homes. Now, factor in an island. And, throw in the body count of Asia’s higher population numbers. Finally, stir in the fact that Penang drivers are the joke-butt crazies that back where I am from would equal Boston drivers.

When the radio traffic reports promised gridlock, we scuttled our after lunch departure plan. It became a waiting game to see if positive reports would reach our eager to leave ears. No such joy.

The plan then became an after dinner plan. But, where to eat? That question and its answering became another bit of a delay. So then we ate.

We said our goodbyes all over again and hit the road at about 9 p.m. We didn’t hit KL until about 3 or 3:30 a.m. Monday, hours after what is meant to be a four-hour ride.

Here’s what I want to show in pictures some day and find the words to describe — The truck stops along the route were mad crazy crowded. Traffic jam crowded. Like crowds you sometimes see maybe on the New Jersey Turnpike, or heading back from Cape Cod on an August Sunday. But, it was fucking 2 a.m.

Everyone was doing what one does, grabbing snacks, coffee, soda and the toilet, when one is on the road. But, it was fucking 2 a.m. and men, women and playing children were out in force.

And, it was all Asian and shit — meat on sticks and tropical fruits and Muslims ducking into the prayer room.

When I have more time, I will strive to write more and better. But, now, we prepare for healing soup that is only available at a certain vendor up around midnight.

Last night had us sitting in the living room of M.’s old partner in crime from high school days. They reminisced about the old neighborhood and old friends, while he plied us with booze and Dunhill Lights.

Out of politeness, I found myself sipping Jack Daniels on the rocks with a splash of Coke.

Yup, so far here in Asia, I’ve danced along with “Achey Breaky Heart,” and I’ve sipped Kentucky bourbon. To say that U.S. cultcha is pervasive is a fucking understatement.

Today’s the last day for a lot of the family in visiting their hometown. We’re caravaning back to Kuala Lumpur, following an aunt and uncle and probably carrying a couple of cousins in the car. We’re the old cousins, almost the ages of the aunts and uncles, but hanging out with the young adults of the generation in which M. is the eldest.

We decided going to the national rainforest in Tamar Negara was a bit too far. Somehow, hiking with two pieces of luggage and the prospect of dubious pleasantries (such as a toilet) seems less fun than it did before we left home.

So, we’re hanging in the big city of KL for a couple of days, before spending our last day(s) in Singapore, at a four-star hotel with WiFi everywhere. Expect many photo uploads!

M. and I drove around the island of Penang a bit.

We went to the Penang Butterfly Farm, which had an awesome brochure that was clearly translated from another language into English. Apparently, it’s the world’s first butterfly farm, and the brochure indicated that it was built in the ’80s and “you can imagine how long ago that was.” Yes, yes, I can, oh lost youth.

Coolest part of the butterfly farm was the non-butterfly exhibits, like the insects that camouflage by looking like something else, the scorpion pit and the various meat-eating plants.

We all went to the Penang’s forestry park, which may be the world’s smallest. (They love the superlative tags in this part of the world — first, largest, smallest, tallest.) M. gloried in sun creeping through the jungle, but the monkey count was still low. That is, it was non-existent.

On the drive back by Batu Ferringhi we were rewarded. On a side street off the road, a fine Samaritan was tossing bread into the trees. Suddenly, there was a frenzy of monkey dining!

M. parked the car, and we took a million or so photos. OK, maybe it was a hundred or so. Here’s the thing, though. If you ever find yourself in a monkey-living part of the world, the locals find it pretty stupid if you take that many pictures. I guess it’s kind of like someone coming to my neck of the woods and showing me dozens of squirrel pictures.

In fact, one of M.’s cousins told me how there are extra heavy screens in some parts of Singapore to keep monkeys from reaching their hands into the kitchen window and feasting. I mean how cool would a monkey hand reaching through your
window be? Screens. Bah, I say.

Squirrels don’t have little human faces.

More monkey pics here. A few other pics here.

This morning brought a revelation — WiFi is available poolside where the hotel serves breakfast. Cereal, coffee and email. Wonderful stuff, really.

Last night, we were part of a splinter group of relatives. The rebels split off and had Indian food at a local eatery rather than homemade food at the family’s ancestral headquarters. I felt so reckless.

The downside really was that I missed gambling and drinking Tiger beer. Tiger is a fine, fine beer on a blazing hot, tropical night.

Not much else to report right now. No monkeys (yet).

Later, I plan to write far too much about bathrooms. Toilets truly are that which most moves me (no pun intended) when I travel. Here’s a good hint if you ever find yourself driving from Kuala Lumpur to Malaysia — Caravan with the locals who’ve made the drive previously. They know the stops with the cleaner bathrooms and where to get good pomelos.

All citrus fruit should be as big as your head.

Oh, one last thing. Now that we’ve discovered the interwebs at the hotel, I’ve started uploading pics. Unfortunately, they are raw, unedited and un-sized for good web viewing. Here is my first (partial) upload – last day in Singapore (hanging in Chinatown), driving from KL, our arrival in Penang and the reunion dinner with family (ending in karaoke). I think.

So far, I have seen the paltry, slight vision of one monkey, off in the distance ambling near the highway ditch, from a speeding, “almost as good as first class” coach.

However, last night was the New Year’s Eve reunion dinner. The first event of a series of eating events, as the family home-for-the-holidays gathering commences. The crowd is indeed a crowd, although it is slightly reduced from what was anticipated because of some sick kids in a family branch.

Dinner was amazing, a huge variety of different dishes for which I don’t know what the names, except for curry chicken, because I know those two words. There was homemade sausage, vegetables, various bowls of Asian-y stew-type things, oh, fried prawns, I recognized those too. There are great cooks in M.’s family.

His uncle joked with me that it was Thanksgiving.

After dinner, as I cradled an icy cold can of Tiger beer, in the combined living room/dining room where all of the furniture had been pushed back and card tables set up to accommodate all of the clan and the huge amount of food, out came the karaoke.

I cannot adequately set the scene. First, imagine any large gathering of family. Now, because a huge percentage of the tiny number of readers of this sad little blog are of the caucasian pallet, imagine that same family gathering with Chinese faces with all the same differences in age from babies to 90+ year olds. And, then there was me, as M.’s aunt called me, Gwailo, essentially “whitey.”

And then, karaoke. I did not sing, despite the admonitions and calls for “American Idol,” which would be me, the American. Singing, I cannot do.

(As a total aside, M.’s family has a spectrum of skin tones from the warmer side of the pallet. Lovely tones suited to the neighborhood and the climate, light browns and tans and such.

I am fair-skinned. When it is hot as a mother-fucker, which it certainly was last night, steamy, fucking hot, and I’ve spent the day in the sun, and I’m eating curries, and I’m drinking beer, I become the classic red-faced and splotchy tones of my potato-eating people. I am Ted Kennedy on a bender with tones of pink, white and red. It is my natural state.

It was hard to convince the folks that I wasn’t about to succumb to tropical heat and perish. Alas. Poor gwailo.)

Perhaps the highlight of the evening just for pure surreal — Was I really thousands of miles from home? — had to be M.’s cousin’s rendition of that Billy Ray Cyrus classic, Achey Breaky Heart. In the background, two of the aunts provided backup with an impromptu Electric Slide. I fear I will not leave this island until Aunt #6 successfully teaches me to line dance.