Fishy business conducted during Ladiesnight...

I woke up yesterday with this terrible hangover caused by lots of Margaritas and even more beer. Also I noticed I wasn't in my seedy budget room but in an apartment somewhere beyond the suburbs of KL. And there were all these good-humoured Botswanian girls running around wrapped in colourful towels... The agony! I woke up in an apartment full of students (Did I mention they came all the way from Botswana?) and I could do nothing but run to the toilet to throw up or release other toxic waste and try to sleep trough my headache sweating like a pig! (Do pigs sweat? I imagine if they do it must look like me having a hangover and sleeping it off...) Seriously, I start to believe in God again, and He is out there to punish me in mysterious ways! I normally never have hangovers when in good company, but they didn't seem to mind having this sweaty grungy guy on the premises. Well, it proves you can meet some of the more fantastic people while travelling. I remember that after the Taipussam festival we all ended up in some place were ladiesnight meant free Margaritas, and so I ordered the same for me in order to switch my almost empty glass for a fre half-full glass every other 10 minutes or so, after which they would order themselves some more free drinks. And something about a taxi-driver who didn't talk for the first five minutes and then turned out to be one of the most funny cabdrivers of KL. Reminder to self: going out with a bunch of happy students (Hey, you know, they came from this place in Africa, Botswana I think it was... must have helped in prying loose even the most tight-lipped asians...) gives you a whole new perspective of having a good time. Call it a wicked time! Luckily I recovered a little before going back into the city or my stomach would have turned upside down with all those smells coming from hawker stalls. It still did, but I didn't have anything left to give up at this point. Except my casual "I don't have a hangover" stride of course.

PS: If you know the right places, every night is a Ladiesnight in KL... The horror!!! ;-)

These youngsters are preparing for the big Taipussam festival at Batu Cave, update will follow after the hangover...

Scam City, do's and dont's

The more tourist populated areas tend to attract scammers of all sorts. Armed with shorts, Hawaiian shirts and a dangling video-device around the neck, one attracts more unwanted attention than George Michael in a public toilet... (Did I say UNwanted? Okay, there are some minor flaws in my reasoning, but the point is clear, no?) All the guesthouses and Backpacker-hotels in KL seem to have numerous postings in their elevators, on notice boards and in toilets, but still it seems like some visitors insist on getting scammed! Of course, the people trying to get that extra little bit of money out of your pockets know their social skills well enough to pick out the valuable targets and leave Interpol's agents on the sidecurb. Even I wouldn't fall for those kind of Hawaiian shirts if I was looking to pick up a walking ATM. A general 'Do' would thus be to wear one of those shirts, if you want to be left unharassed. (Also this tactic will work sorting out your doubts in the "Are these girls smiling at my wallet or do they really like me?" racket.)
In general the scammers are actually Scam-artists, as they have perfected the Scamming into an art. They will not approach you by asking the time or anything, because even a desperate 32 year old virgin knows this is the shortest way to end any possible social talk afterwards. No, they will look for something that makes you stand out of the crowd. (Again, not the Hawaiian shirt, and not the video-device around your neck, as any stranger pointing at your precious holiday-attribute will be quickly categorized in the "suspicious" genre.) In my case, it seems like Basketball is a good starting point. Being a wee bit longer than most Asians with my 1 metres 91cm's I do tend to stand out of the crowd. And so it begins: "Waw! You are very tall!" Accompanied with upwards glancing big eyes and standing on tiptoes while trying to get a hand at the same height as the top of my head. This is ment to stop you in your tracks, catch your attention and make you smile warily and answer something generally nice. "Yes." Is my favourite answer. Not very cunning, I agree, but at this point you don't want to make any friends yet. The next one varies, depending on how fast they want to get tjeir routine going. When in no rush, the sports question will follow ("You play basketball?") otherwise they will start assembling more facts about this particular white specimen ("Where are you from?" or "You are from Germany right?"). By now, my scam-antennaes are already doing overtime, so the need to make friends is replaced by the need to show them I'm not interested. Thus, my answers will be something like "No, I play cards in Vegas when not travelling the world." in the sport section or "No, I'm from the Filippines." when in the data-assembling alley. Both answers are short and always seem to work, as 80 percent of the scam-artists are Filippinos and Filippinas trying to make you lose money playing cards. Of course they will not put it so bluntly, they rather smoothen you up, carrying their expensive looking shopping bags filled with lies rather than Gucci-dresses or Boss-shoes. (They don't catch big fish often enough to actually go shopping in those places with their petty commission-money they get from their way more cunning boss.) "Oh, you are from Belgium? Waw, what a coincidence, we are going on holiday there next month with our uncle (aha, also known as: the boss...) Mister pipi! Club Bruges? You from Brussels or Antwerp? (Sorry people from Ghent, never heard your town popping up) "Waw, Antwerp! City of Diamonds!! (Here they try not to make their eyes watery with anticipation, also, this is were their uncle -who has even more general facts about every country in the western world- will most conveniently have a cousin working in the diamond business. Thus their little holiday to glamorous Belgium. Tadaa!) Anyway, the general idea is making you loosen your shirt, start relaxing, maybe they even walk you around a little -pointing out unimportant facts about the city, getting you closer in their net of social pressure. Once you make it into the house, unvariably the uncle will be a most warm host, soften you up further by complimenting yuor roots and so, and after a while they will start talking about this businessman that has ripped him off in some kind of deal but still seems to be a close friend as he is coming over for dinner. He will insist on you learning a few card tricks as the businessman will be cautious of his riped off associate trying to get back to him. The idea is to make the man lose a lot of money, splitting the earnings 50/50. That's the kind of uncle he is, sharing his fortune with strangers, right? Of course the businessman is i on the deal and the victim will lose heaps of money if by then he still hasn't figured things out. And every dollar will be paid off, for they even go to the bank with you to exctract the necessary amount due to them. Social pressure is the overall leverage they use, combined with the fact that they never reveal themselves as scmaaers, and it will be the guy you were supposed to scam that will scare you enough to pay up. The uncle will remain on your side, trying to calm things down, but alas, he can't help it if you lost from this guy, better to pay him, you know, he's in all sorts of unmentionable businesses. And yes, there still are people walking into this trap. One of the notices in my guesthouse came from a Canadian who ashamedly admitted on losing 3000 dollars. (I hope it were Canadian dollars at least.) Which makes you wonder why people that are willing to lose such amounts of money in cardgames are staying in 5 dollar rooms...

KL, Point of Saturation...

Once more I find myself seated in one of Asia's many internet-facilities filled with bleeps, bad Celine Dion songs and screams from beyond the grave while a constant rumble of gunfire fills the public space like static. I really must look for one of those places where there are no speakers attached to the computers. The concept of wearing headphones is one that raises startled eyebrows in this part of the world. "What do you mean private space? Is that something that comes with a five bedroom apartment on the riverside?" "What do you mean ear damage? Is that something that comes before or after the brain damage we inflict upon ourselves by playing games online all day?" It seems that kids here can kill monsters with three heads before they even have mastered their first words. I've seen 4 year olds playing Ragnnarok and Doom Something-something with concentration that is sometimes to be seen on the faces of the great chess minds of the twentieth century. And the older ones seem to try to defeat their opponents with the noise coming from their speakers. At least they will not be able to hear the commands the redneck-general in the computergame gives them because of malfuncioning eardrums. Right now some 10 year old kid is shooting some Muslims to the other end of the world while an exstatic voice is spurring him on. And that for a country run by Muslims... Makes me whish the crepy guy with his left hand always in the pocket of his pants was still sitting there, at least he didn't use the speakers while surfing seedy websites featuring non-veiled chubby ladies. Yup, private space is a faraway luxury in some parts of the world.
Today I found myself wondering once more what to do with all my free time here in KL. This was only moments after glancing up once more at the Petronas Towers glittering in the blazing hot skyline of Kuala Lumpur. (By the way, do real soldiers also have to play this mind-numpbing games before they are unleashed upon the world with their artificial intelligence? Well, they sure will be stress-resistant when all hell brakes loose, at least on the noisy part of the whole war thing.)
So I went to a little cemetary somewhere on my tourist map of KL and wandered around taking care not to step on snakes or hidden gravestones. I noticed there is a point of saturation when travelling around for longer periods. I guess the first (By Allah, give me a grenade so I can shut these motherfuckers with their mouse-controlled machineguns up!) signs are sleeping trough half of the day to shorten them, no longer feeling tempted to buy T-shirts saying 'the Tallest Twin Towers in the World" or "I banged my clock in Bangclock" and so on. Other signs include $#@*ucking hell co=*%$ckers Die Die Die!!! I'll bl&*^%$##@%#%7.*&^^&%$#ll out of ya ya little &%$$#@@$.....

I shall return to you all after a little meditation time in the Batu Cave, and after having supplied myself with industrial ear-protection...

Ps: look out for a movie going under the name "Kung-Fu Hustle", it's Kung-Fu slapstick taken to a new level due to the digital revolution falling into the hands of Mr. Stephen Chow. Sometimes a little bit tiresome during the fighting sequences, but the visual fun is beyond camp and the humour beyond cheesy, hell it's beyond the things the artificially inseminated spawn of Steve Martin and Leslie Nielsen would consider to be cheesy. (Check out the Roadrunner sequence between the landlady and Chow...)

Taking a nap in the V.I.P. Lounge...

Forewarned hangover...

Waking up around 4 pm today I realized my head was still attached in a sound way to my body. If it was sound in itself trying not to get me into trouble is another story. One that starts yesterday late evening, when I wandered into a typical pub on Lebuh Chulia (the backpackers' street of Georgetown, colorfully lined with cheap pubs, motels, oldies and fattish 'working girls' and goodlooking but not definite girlish 'working girls') Also it seems to be one of the areas of the Island of Penang where one can smoke a little bit of Marijuana. Well, I didn't bother with that, being forewarned and all about the small print on passport entries. But I ended up in this place featuring an old and sweaty Chinese guy who was trying to impress a beyond curvy-set Indian girl with his vocal capacities. Singing in Malay while on the TV-screen images of a happy Malay couple dancing in a sunflowerfield (do they have sunflowerfields in Malaysia? Or was this a big-budget Karaoke video?) and holding hands. It looked like good fun to me, and besides, the price of the beer was even cheaper in this place than in the China-Blues Cafe I just came out of. In the back two youngsters that looked like they had walked out of a VZW somewhere in the deep heart of Borgerhout were playing a game of pool on a battered and ragged pooltable. Resting on the bar was the head of the Japanese bartender, an outcast of the Samurai Island and probably the only Japanese bartender in the whole of Malaysia. With luck he was making in one year what he could make in one month back home, but back home people were to uptight, as he later confessed to me. Once the Chinese man had taken off, the place started playing Bob Marley and other Reggae classics. Another reason to stay a little bit longer.
Soon a Malaysian man with red but focused eyes placed himself at my table, leaving his pregnant wife alone in the back, where the pooltable with the characters was. He introduced himself as a man that has only just begun life, repeating regularly during our lengthy conversation that life begins at 40. (I guess that was when he left wife and children behind on the mainland to marry his second wife here in Penang and start a second family.) Being a Muslim this was no problem, he joyously added, brushing away my frowned eyebrows and trying to keep a good vibe going. With all that Bob Marley in the background that wasn't to hard anyway. Looking at the amount of beer he was consuming, I suspected that being a Muslim in Malaysia is quite a different thing than being a Muslim in, oh say, Iran... Well, after talking about world-politics (Europe cultivating frustration and anger amongst it's many settled Muslims, fundamentalists being used by the word of some God to accomplish things that benefited someone talking of that God, Thailand being such a good place to enjoy the lighter side of life (coming from him, not me) and so on) and local policies ("Oh, they can hang you even if you just posses Marijuana, no need to be trafficking Heroine at all.") I was invited to his upstairs room to smoke some herbs that could seriously damage one's health in this country. Sure, why not, I thought, listening to good old Bob singing joyously about his green-grass-revolution. So up we went, entering a drab room were one of the VZW-guys was frantically painting the walls. It turned out to be the owner of the Motel/Bar and a local supplier of Penang's illicit drug-market. (Nervous little fella, but very friendly and funny.) I was soon to be introduced to the local way of rolling and smoking. No Rizzla's here, but some kind of leaf from some kind of Bamboo-like plant growing at riverbanks. And tobacco mixed in with grass that looked like tar scraped from a sunburned highway. The tobacco, that was. It was Indonesian cultivated tobacco, sticky and dry at the same time, if you can imagine. The grass was grown somewhere on the compounds of the Motel, but this was only admitted to after I confessed not working for Interpol. (See, I told you this guy was funny. Even though I wasn't sure why a comedian needed a diver's knife attached to his right leg, patting it subconsciously from time to time to check if it was still where it was supposed to be...) Immediately after my first drag of this hazardous little smoke-stick, I could feel my hands tingle and this funny little awareness of having space behind your eyeballs. (Do we?) This was good stuff. Not like the dry rubbish in Cambodia or the light-version of Bangkok. But then again -smoking from their personal stash- I don't see why one would want to risk the gallows only because of some crappy light version of what weed should be. This was not some medical weed, relieving you from arthritis or something, this was highly entertaining grass, taking you on a cloud somewhere beyond the paranoia and overshoulder experience a milder version would bring with it. Once our little ceremony was over we went back downstairs, where the Japanese bartender had fallen asleep on top of the hifi-chain that was now playing something that could come from a Thunderdome-compilation. Talk about a change of moods. Luckily we couldn't be bothered with such futile changes of decorum, and soon the owner had to excuse himself from our table to go play pool with some very out of place characters. I thought they had just walked out of Rikers or someplace like that, but my new friend assured me it were just the local cops coming to play some pool and collecting whatever it is badass-cops collect in a place like this. After finishing my beer and trying to shake the impression that one of the cops (he looked like the local version of Danny Trejo, you know, Razor Charlie in From Dusk Till Dawn) was looking over in my direction more than just casual, I shook hands with Mr. Life begins at Forty and I walked out before sunrise, remembering the advice the owner had given me earlier while painting his room. "It is your right as a visitor of Malaysia to refuse a urine-test, exercise this right!" Well, now I only had to steer clear of the working girls whose make-up could no longer cover their five o'clock shadow and find my way to the hotel...

Is this Malaysia or China?

Well, it is Chinatown in Georgetown. As I got out of the Express train into the blistering peninsular heat of Butterworth, I almost ran for the ticket booth to return immediately to good old Bangkok. This was nothing like Cambodia, Laos or Thailand. This was really south! I didn't feel like traveling in South-East Asia, I felt out of place. I felt confused. I knew it was going to be different, and yet it still struck me this was a new place, a new set of rules. A new pace as well. Although the Taxi drivers where still trying to charge ridiculous prices, they did so in a very lazy and amical way. Which didn't stop me from walking to the ferry going to Penang Island. On my way I picked up a copy of the New Straits Times, the more serious looking of the English newspapers.Dengue fever, Coxsackie, good old diarrhea... This were some of the mentioned after-effects of the tidal wave that struck Malaysia's West Coast. And Penang was no exception to the rule. I embarked on the bright green ferryboat and expected to land on a ravaged wasteland of bricks and rusted deformed steel, only to be amazed by the vast modern skyline of a 20th century city. No visual damage here, it seemed the evil effects of the flood rested in the polluted groundwater. Georgetown unraveled slowly before my eyes as the ferry cruised towards the docking area. And since the taxi drivers were no more reasonable as on the mainland, I decided to explore town on foot, saving myself 2 euros for what seemed to be a 600 meter walk. That was of course not taking in account the tropical heat, and looking at all the blathered and fainted paint on buildings I wasn't the only one suffering here...
Soon as I had to leave the shade of the ferry-arcade, I started dripping from every pore that wasn't covered by more than one layer of cloth. (All the other pores were simply pouring gallons of salty water out of my body.) I felt like a huge dripping candle to be found in presumably romantic shagging-decors,the difference being I was dripping and melting in a not so romantic fashion. Packed to the teeth with my iron suitcase filled with papers and video-equipment, a backpack filled with dirty laundry, another bag on my belly containing my guidebook and other useless cooling-aids, and of course my little shoulderbag with my Minolta and it's accompanying set of lenses. That should teach me to come prepared! But if it was because of the delirious sunrays beating on my skull or because of the many Bollywood-hits coming from colorful Indian shops, I was sweatily smiling as I felt the old tingle of walking into a new world. Houses painted in every available happy color, mostly faded and blathering off the walls, trying to get out of the heat. Indians walking around with little umbrellas to keep them from getting a tan beyond their already chocolate-colored skins, Chinese fellows smoking funny looking cigarettes (not funny in a way that we have them in Belgium, because possession around here can get you a death penalty, which up until now didn't attract many comedians testing it out.) from the shade of their one-room shops. Streets that were more like alleys, internet acces that is fast and cheap, just like back home... Which makes me want to consider to change this title into "Is this Malaysia or The Lowlands..." Because ever since I sat down in this internetshop I've been disturbed by sounds from far far away. The whizzkid running this place is compiling a playlist on his laptop consisting of songs like "How strong is the solitary cyclist", and "A little bit in love..." Translate into mellow Dutch and you get the point. Probably some kind of campy Malaysian thing, like we have this wacko Indy-songs that don't make sense but a lot of fun. And just now a pitch-black Indian looking guy (forgot to bring his umbrella?) picked up his phone after it played "They shall not tame him, this fierce, and Flemish Lion" (do I have to mention the translation-gig here?) in polyhonic orchestra-version. Maybe he used to have a nightshop or international phonebooth or both in the Van Maerlantstraat or something. But all in all looking around I would say this is a different place altogether. Asia but not Asia. At least not how I used to picture it. But they still smile a lot and have those delicious smelling dishes around every corner.
Which reminds me to get me some dinner.

Again.

Bangkok Express Train, 3 AM.

Little Kookai was said to have survived the floods merely by running into the mountains on his unseparable flip-floppers...

Do they even read what they are printing?

This was published in the Bangkok post on January the fifth. Lots of presumably good meant cheering up, but what is all this blabbering about bright skies? There was not one dark cloud in the sky when it happened! And they even shamelessly repeat it a little bit. Darned, these guys must have been living in their Italian-designed penthouse-offices/lounges for too long. (In which case I advise them to let their windows be cleaned, so as not too worry too much about that dark skyline anymore.) I let you guess which sweetmouthing-company bought the space...

Baiyoke Towering Buffet!!!

Baiyoke II Tower is proudly advertising itself as Bangkok's tallest building, and towering 304 meters above the asphalt it sure is. Since I myself happen to be a tall guy, I thought to go and check it out. Accompanied by a sweet girl that also happened to have worked in the now closed Japanese restaurant on the 23rd floor, I felt confident I would blend in as one of the many tourists hoping to catch a glimpse of Bangkok's skyline trough the smog. No smog, but lots of tourists though. Russians, Japanese, Chinese, Germans! But mainly bulky and noisy Russians who easily win the unaware-of-your-bad-taste-contest from the Americans. I mean, who makes this shirts anyway? (If they are made in China, I'll have to give it to them for having a knack for wicked humor, and the guts for bringing it on the market, hoping there would be something like Russian tourists to buy them.) Forget about Hawaiian designs, forget about the "My Sister-in-law's-niece went to Zimbabwe and all she...". This stuff would make John Waters drool pure snot from the cavities under his tongue. (What, you didn't know he had cavities under his tongue? Well, then maybe you also didn't know he can be seen in "Seed of Chucky", the latest, well.. what do you think.) Anyways, I tried taking a picture of them but all I got was a loud scream from my camera as I pointed it towards the Russians. And then nothing. Just pitch black screen. Battery fried. That's for trying.
Baiyoke II tower. Yes. Why did I wanted to share this?
Because of this godly invention called "All You Can Eat" which in my case means "All I Can Eat And Then Some More". For 9 euros I got an entry ticket for the 77th floor featuring the skyline, and a voucher to get into the walking buffet on the 78th floor, which soon turned into a one-man marathon buffet. I did all the continents in 4 plates, saving some space for dessert. (Note: skip the following part if you are on a diet) I vaguely remember eating Teriyaki with soya-pepper-sauce, Tagliatelli with REAL bolognese sauce (most of the time they just chop the beef up in little pieces and wok it after adding some tomatoes on top), sliced duck in raisin-sauce (just like Christmas), mashed potatoes and mayonnaise, French-fries (crispy!!!), red snapper in some spicy salsa, more mashed potatoes with mayonnaise, Japanese kinda pizza stuff, salad-stuff with thousand island sauce, springrolls in sweet and sour, Hong-Kong style beef goulash (just goulash with a delicate burned aroma to it), grilled squid, again mashed potatoes with Mayo, and lots of other things that went into some black hole where some people presume I have a tummy. I'm sure I forgot to mention lots of things, but you see, it all went blurry and stuff after the elevator doors 'pinged' open to the heaven of floor 78. I do remember trying to keep a low profile by seating me and the missus next to a table of porky Russians, but I'm not sure it worked. Unless taking mugshots from stuffed and still starving visitors and printing them out accompanied with many funny red characters and even more !!!'s for their complete staff is standard procedure in Baiyoke II.

All in all it was a good evening out, and in doing so I am sure I helped the many people that have suffered from the tidal wave, since these days every business in this town is trying in some way to divert some of their profits to a helping organization.
There are many ways in which the Thais try to help the disaster-stricken locals and tourists in the southwest. At New-year's eve for example many of the Go-Go Bars in Patpong and Nana lured hordes of men in with the promise that a 100 Baht of the Barfine would go to an organization helping orphans in the south. (Barfines are around 500 Baht and have to be paid to MamaSan or ManagerSan for relieving them of one of their numerous dancers or short-skirted waitresses). Many nightclubs mentioned in their ad's that on this or that night 20 percent of their profits would go to the south. I couldn't help but wonder if this meant 20 percent of their profits before or after the local law-enforcement had taken their cut out of the pie. But even the cops where doing their best: in Kao San Road they had set up a large glass container to be filled with banknotes and coins, while a little flyer on the side mentioned the purpose. I guess about half of the local police force had decided to guard it as there stood a brown mass of uniforms all around the container, with accompanying serious looks. In doing so I think they managed to scare of most of the donators, since being stoned is still a serious and expensive offense in this country. But the intention was there.
Thai youngsters armed with a guitar and lots of off-key voices where raising money on a street corner. (Usually these groups perform just for the fun of it, or because of the level of alcohol in their bloodstreams, but today they had the ingenious idea of laying a hat on the pavement in front of them. This and a little "Help Thailand" note made up for the shrieking voices and unnerving accords stricken.)
In a pub on Kao San Road one of the many freelancers there (some are freelancers because they don't like the stigma of being a Bargirl, others because their monthly health-tests didn't please their MamaSan and as a result got sacked) proudly announced she was going to give blood for the second time tomorrow! And after saying this she sloshed (couldn't really find a more appropriate term here) her jug of Heineken down her hatch. (I'm not sure if "hatch" is appropriate, 'cause in general hatches from hootches don't make burping sounds that could make grown elephants cry)
Again, it is the gesture that counts. All in all, the Thai are all very keen in helping out, not in the least because 89 percent of them are superstitious and Buddhist, a combination that makes them believe good Karma can be bought. By donating blood, by giving part of your gray-area profits to NGO's, and so on. But all in all, most people here really feel like the important thing is just to do something while doing what they have to do anyway. Life goes on, but while it goes on and on and on, most of these people subtly and in one way or another try and make a little difference for the unlucky ones...

There's a new man in town.

Welcome in 2005!! I have no clue yet where I shall go, but I can already guarantee you that there will be stories about it. So for now I just wish you all a terrific 2005 and don't forget to get lost from time to time, that's where the fun begins!

And for those of you that wondered if they have the silly hats in Asia as well.... (Guess where they are made.)