I wrote the articles below while I was gallivanting across Malaysia and Singapore, but once I returned to Australia I found myself so frightfully busy that I didn’t have a chance to post them. As I am now on a flight to Seoul, I will prepare them for posting so that it will just be a cut-n-paste jobbie once I check in.
Proof Reader Wanted (23 September 2011)
It has been pointed out to me, following my previous post, that I am badly in need of a proof reader. Perhaps posting blog entries while sitting by the pool revelling in the wonderment of Tiger beer, is not a good idea after all.
Nonetheless applications for the job of proof reader are now open. There is no monetary reward, but think of the personal satisfaction.
In Georgetown (24 September)
After our action-packed train-ride from Singapore to Butterworth (see earlier post) we checked into the
Yang Keng Hotel in George Town, Penang at about 10:00pm on Tuesday night. It’s a lovely little hotel run by friendly and enthusiastic staff. The hotel itself is in a
world heritage area of Georgetown and seems to be very popular. We only stayed there for two nights though as it was booked out after that.
It seems that this area of George Town is undergoing something of a rejuvenation. Our hotel was formerly a budget backpackers hostel that has been extensively renovated and restored. There are quite a few hotels in the area that have undergone similar transformations and quite a few cheap and nasties too. Prices are ridiculously cheap. My hotel is about MYR300 (a little under AUD 100) per night and includes breakfast and internet access. You can get a backpacker dorm for under MYR18 (about AUD6) per night.
Malaysia in general is a little like that. The country is not really poor, but it’s not yet a first world country either. It shows in lots of ways too. The trains I’ve already mentioned, but then there are the shopping centres with their department stores and name brands and mildew growing on the walls. There are the gutters that were once sewers and fall about three feet with little warning to the unwary. There are the street vendors selling freshly crushed mango juice mixed with carnation milk and crushed ice. The drink, while delicious almost beyond words in the Malaysia heat, is served in a plastic freezer bag and then sucked through a straw.
Often in countries like this, it I possible to nominate the service as a redeeming feature. That is not the case in Malaysia. The service is uniformly lethargic and uninformed. Sitting by the hotel pool yesterday I ordered two beers and an ice-bucket. There was no attendant at the poolside of course, so I made my way to the “Relaxation Centre” which consisted of a very serviceable gymnasium and a massage room. There were four or five staff in this area and no customers. I knew from previous experience that waving for them to come to the poolside only resulted in having a sore arm.
Attendant (brightly): “Yes Sir, how may I be of assistance?”
Me: “I’d like two bottles of Tiger beer and an ice-bucket delivered to the pool please.”
Attendant (curiously): “Yes Sir, you would like ice with your beer. I can assure you that it is well refrigerated.”
Me (flatly): “Not ice with the beer, an ice-bucket. A silver bucket filled with ice that I put one bottle of beer in while I drink the other. In this way I don’t have to come back and bother you when I need my second beer.”
Attendant (brightly again): “It is no bother at all sir!”
Me (flatly still): “Then it’s a bother to me. It takes too long and I’d rather just have the two bottles now and have an ice-bucket.”
Attendant (dubiously): “I will order two beers with ice?”
Me (flatly still, but with a slightly more directive tone): “Not with ice, in an ice-bucket.”
Attendant (brightly again): “Yes Sir!”
At this point my attendant picked up the phone, dialled a few numbers and thrust the receiver at me. I looked at him quizzically and prepared to ask him why he had spent so much time asking me if it was only to hand me a telephone, but I thought better of it.
Voice on Telephone (bored): “Yes?”
Me: “I want to get some beer delivered to the pool. I want two bottles of tiger beer and an ice bucket.”
VoT (slightly amused): “You want ice in you beer?”
Me: (calmly but emphatically): “No. I do not want ice in the beer. I want you to get an ice-bucket. It’s a large silver bucket. I want you to put two bottles of Tiger beer in the bucket. I want you to cover them with ice. I want you to deliver the ice bucket to the poolside where you will find me sitting with a book.”
VoT (bored again): “OK, It will be there in 25 to 30 minutes sir.”
Me (incredulous): “What?!?? Why will it take 25 to 30 minutes to bring my beer?”
VoT (still bored): “Very well sir, we will try very hard to have it there in five minutes.”
I was not especially surprised when my beer arrived 30 minutes later. There were two frosty cold bottles of Tiger beer and a small bowl of partly melted ice cubes.
Don’t think for a minute that this was a dodgy hotel. It was part of the Shangri-La group, admittedly a lower rung in the Shangri-la group than what I would have stayed in for work, for example, but nothing too shabby. The rooms were spacious and generally well appointed if a little dated, but it seems that the standard of service one might expect in Australia just doesn’t exist here. And frankly, the standard of service in Australia is not that great.
Malaysia’s growing pains appear in many ways. She is a little like a woman wearing Dunlop Volley shoes, cheap polyester pants and a slightly worn I heart Malaysia t-shirt while carrying an Hermes Kelly bag. You see rough shanties with roofs made from scraps of corrugated iron boasting shiny new satellite dishes. Young men and women wearing corporate uniforms – gray suits with the company colours for their ties or scarves – weaving their motor scooters through traffic that to me seems impenetrably dense.
On that point I wish to make a small observation that probably reveals more about my own prejudices than anything else. I find it very disconcerting to see a woman in a hijab riding a motor cycle. There I’ve said it.
At a resort near Batu Ferrenghi we saw quite a large number of young muslim couples. Most of the women wearing full head-to-toe burqas, taking banana boat rides. Afterward they would adjourn to the deck chairs in the resort, recline back with their non-alcoholic cocktails and take pictures of each other. Again, I found it odd, not just the apparent incongruity of a burqa sitting astraddle what appears to be a large inflatable phallus being towed around by a motor boat, but also the pictures. Our young romeo would have nothing more than a picture of someone wearing a burqa wouldn’t he?
Singapore rest room (25 September)
A short note to relate an entirely extraordinary event.
I am in Singapore right now. Awaiting my departure from Singapore airport, sitting comfortably in the Qantas lounge.
Our day started this morning when we arrived at Singapore on the Ekspres at about 7am. We went to find some breakfast and then at about 9am, the chikenz decided that there was more shopping to be done. It’s Singapore after all.
At the first of our shopping centres, which was a rather up-market one, I visited the men’s room in order to take advantage of the rather more sophisticated plumbing that one may enjoy in Singapore.
I entered the cubicle, closed the door and found that it was pitch black. Not dark. Completely black. The door fitted flush at the ceiling and floor and there was no light at all. I checked the next cubicle and found the same problem. Slightly perturbed, I went toward the wash basins, where a young man with a white jacket, similar to a dentists jacket, was wiping benches and basins and generally looking as though he worked there.
One of the lovely things about Singapore is that virtually everyone speaks English and they all speak it very well. So I was not concerned in the slightest as I strode toward my man and said “There seems to be a problem in the cubicles. There’s no light on as far as I can tell.”
In a scene reminiscent of Manuel in Fawlty Towers, my washroom attendant looked at me, tilted his head to one side and said “eh?”
“There’s no light. In the cubicle.” I said.
“Eh?” he said.
“The toilet. There’s no light in the toilet. The cubicle. No light.” I pointed to the light above us. “No light.” I said.
He too pointed to the light and said “Eh?”
I walked toward the cubicles, pointing that way and saying “The light doesn’t work. Is it broken or does it just need to be turned on?”
My washroom attendant looked at me quizzically as I strode back toward the cubicle gesturing to the ceiling periodically. It would be unfair to say that he looked at me as though I were stupid. He looked at me as though I were rather dangerous and quite possibly stupid.
“Look,” I said standing by the cubicle, “it’s dark, no light.” I gestured for him to come over and see for himself that there was no light.
He shuffled toward me. Clearly reluctant. When he was still a few metres away, he said “ah!” which is a lot like “eh?” but has a tone of enlightenment rather than a tone of puzzlement.
“Sotto!” he said.
“Eh?” I said.
He repeated. “Sotto!”
“Is it auto?” I asked.
“Yes, yes!” he said. “Close door otto!”
“It comes on automatically?” I asked. “Really? It didn’t seem to come on automatically before?”
“Sotto, sotto.” He said and gestured me to go into the cubicle. Then suddenly it dawned on me. I had to turn the lock in order to get the light to come on! So I turned the lock and the light DID NOT COME ON.
I came back out and said “no, it’s still not working.” But my washroom attendant had disappeared. Clearly a clever, resourceful chap, he had seen the danger that I represented, lured me into the cubicle and done a runner. I was in that damned cubicle for less than 20 seconds. The time it takes to close the door, pause while you realise you should lock it, lock it and the open it again. 20 Seconds at the absolute outside and my man had seen the gap and run through it.
Bravo!
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