Malaysia

The traffic of Kuala Lumpur yields to four-lane highway. It is dark now. The bis is VIP air-conditioned, only three seats across. Each seat is like a lazy boy, complete with footrest. Only in the color, patter and material reserved for airplane economy seats and hotel carpet. Coming from Kerala to Kuala Lumpur feels like we crossed two worlds and landed in Australia. The roads here have bright white lines clearly demarcating lanes. And the cars mostly stay between them and on their side of the road. And there are no cows in the road. In fact, we haven't seen a tuk-tuk since we left India. The road is smooth. Where an Indian tour company falsely advertised "no-jerk" bus rides, the Malaysians deliver. That speaks both to the smoothness of the ride and the lack of hassle.

And then there is the food. Delicious street food at every turn. Noodles are back on the menu. Curries are sweeter. Seafood more present and creative. Shrimp everywhere. And a whole range of soups with light seasonings like lemongrass, green onion and cilantro. The glimmering towers of Kuala Lumpur make it clear Malaysia is first world. And while the city's beautiful parks clearly started with bulldozers not jungle, they are as peaceful as the Petronas Towers are tall. Here one can definitely feel the Asian Tigers' roar.

Shadows of lone mountains start to appear in the darkness outside the bus window, like huge slumbering elephants. Their sides look scarred. In the darkness, it looks to be mining. Sides of mountains lopped off, gaping wounds exposed, the mechanics of industry below. Or perhaps it is merely the limestone cliffs on the Andaman Coast reaching inland to mark our journey north.

We reach Penang abruptly, just after midnight. The bus drops us on the side of the highway. I expected us to be in Georgetown and for it to be a sleepy colonial town. But, we are still a dozen miles from Georgetown, and it is far from sleepy. I object to the price a first taxi driver offers us. In most places, when we walk away, they give chase and take our last price. But he didn't. He disappeared into the night. And it was twenty long minutes before another appeared, at which point I was thankful to pay the same 25 Malaysian ringgat I had refused twenty minutes earlier. The taxi driver like the bus, didn't drop us exactly at our destination. We had to walk around an endless block to find no vacancies at the 75 Travellers Lodge. They sent us next door to an old colonial building with a great wooden stairway, high ceilings and plywood walls. We pay for the room, use the toilet, drop our bags, and head out into what is supposed to be some of the best food in Malaysia.

The sleepy Chinese man at the gate locks us out. He tells us to watch out for Indian purse-snatchers on motorcycles. He tells us their is a food court with live music and lots of choices to our left. And a fat Chinese woman with a stall of great food to our right. We opt for the choices to our left. We just came from the right. As we walk, Annette and I reflect on the recent safety advice we received. It is funny that it is always another race or nationality that is the threat. Our black South African guide from Soweto warned us about the Zimbabweans. The Ghanaians warned us about the Nigerians. Now the Chinese Malaysians warn us about the Indians. The guidebook just warns us about motorcycle purse snatchers, just about everywhere there are motorcycles and concentrations of tourists.

We find the food court is filled with pictures of every type of Asian food imaginable and a token pizza place. Many of the stalls seem to be scrubbing their grills down. We land on a Japanese place with salmon and chicken combination teriyaki plates for the equivalent of $3 U.S. We order two large cold Chang beers, which are equally as expensive as the dinner. We sit in plastic chairs and admire the cheap Chinese lanterns hanging everywhere. Two Malaysian women are drinking at the table to our left. Two Malaysian men are drinking heartily with two tattooed gnarled white guys two tables in front of us. It feels like a mix between a bachelor party and a sad business outing in which each tries to out-drink the other, when despite their bravado, all of them would rather be at home with their wives. There is a stage in the middle with three women singing over a synthesizer. They sing everything from Whitney Houston to the Beatles. It feels like karaoke, but it isn't quite. The girls have long hair, knee high tights or boots and midriff showing. Their outfits are about as coordinated as their dance moves. We can tell an attempt was made on both fronts, but they don't quite match. The mismatch works better with the outfits than the dance moves. Our view of the show is frequently interrupted by two waitresses and a waiter who seem to feel the need to refill our beer glass after every sip. We agree this is either a) an effort to get a tip from us, b) an effort to get us to buy more beer, c) training provided by Indian men in the art of service or d) all of the above. In the end, we still only drink one beer, don't tip, and find the waiters and waitresses more entertaining than the singers/dancers.

We stay past the end of the show. A few minutes after 1, we decide to walk a bit more before heading back to our hotel. We walk past a few posh night clubs that won't let us in because of our outfits. We stroll past a row of bars with mostly empty outdoor seating and drinks overpriced for tourists. We walk past a garage filled with a collection Mercedes Benz covered in an inch of dust. We wander around to the front of the building to discover the spotless shiny showroom, still lit through the floor to ceiling windows despite being closed. We walk back toward our hotel to find three prostitutes of questionable gender on a corner across from the iron gate, trickling fountain, leafy foliage and golden-lit balconies of a classy hotel. By the time we pass the 7-11 (they are everywhere in Malaysia and Thailand!), I have decided we should spend our limited time elsewhere. Since we have less than a week until we have to be in Northern Thailand for our meditation retreat, I would rather spend it on the emerald seas amidst the limestone cliffs of Thailand then the dirty streets and prostitutes of Georgetown.

We wake up in the morning and purchase a ticket to Krabi, Thailand. Last bus leaves at noon. We pack and leave ourselves time to wander around Georgetown in the daylight. I am quickly hit with doubts about the decision to leave so quickly. Food stalls waft deliciousness in all directions. We opt for Chinese tofu and vegetables over rice. I am always amazed at how delicious tofu is in Asia. It sometimes makes me wonder whether it is actually pork, not soy. We walk past temples with monks selling caged birds and incense sticks four inches across and six feet high burning. The whole place smells of smoke. Fires are burning in huge clay ovens outside, cooking something. I don't know what. The temple is elaborate. Carnival-esque in a different sort of way than the Hindu temples. The colors here are all based around red. The roof slopes at the edges.

We wander into an empty temple. Three cups of tea and three sticks of incense sit below a shrine as offerings. The stores next sell all the necessary and unnecessary items for worship. Incense of all sizes. Huge porcelain Buddhas. Urns too big to carry. Flower garlands. Temples in Asia always have these stores outside of them What do we have outside the churches in America? In small towns, the post office. In cities, the liquor store, pharmacy, another church?

Enjoying one of KL's parks.

Georgetown Temple

I wonder if the caged bird is a metaphor for something?

We wander back to the hotel for our van to Thailand, settling on the thought that this was the perfect amount of time in Georgetown. And, perhaps, we will have to come again.