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Hey Victoria. It is now day 15 of our Far East sejourne. A sound system irritatingly plays anonymous classical violin in the Internet cafe where we sit trying to get value for our Froggit, or whatever the damn currency is called. Earlier we walked up 273 steps to look at some gaudy misshaped plastic elephants inside a cavernous, dripping space guarded by monkeys with extremely sharp teeth. I think its name was Batu - the Batu Caves. Very sacred, apparently. Four days back, we saw a gibbon chained to a bus in Phuket. My mind is a blank about everything else that happened there - except for the gibbon. We were happy for it at first, though it very smart and clever, not to mention precocious, hanging onto the back of the open plan bus like that - then we noted the dull rasp of metal against its ankle, and our happiness turned to mute disgust. They walk elephants along the beach for tourists at midday - baby ones, whose hides cannot withstand the sun. And you should never stroke one - or its owner - after dusk, because they should NOT be up. Kuala Lumpur is much nicer: the hawkers in the market actually make jokes (mostly about the size of my waist) and don't try to pinch your skin as you walk past. Avoid the planetarium, though - it's crap and the walk uphill will make you hot and flustered and resentful of people in cars. Lunch today took place in a Chinese hostelry which hasn't had a brick, dish or waitress changed since rent was last set in 1917. It made us feel like we were doubling for Indiana Jones in some crap re-make of "The Water Margin", its dusty enclaves stuck picturesquely in between burnt out shells of wooden buildings and fucking massive steel skyscrapers. Desperately, we search for night time entertainment, but folk here in this pleasant, surprisingly prosperous city are mostly Muslim and eschew alcohol mainly - as do we, except for the odd bottle of supermarket Thai red wine which is as close to cooking vinegar as I'll ever allow in my stomach. Plus, the many cinemas either show kung fu, Eastern ladies in varying states of red dress, or Drew bloody Barrymore's Never Been bloody Kissed. We buy Hello Kitty brandware from night markets because all our last vestiges of taste and resolve have been drained away by the heat, and catch buses into the middle of nowhere. This bloody music! Last night I had a dream about NME Editor Steve Sutherland and my old VOX Assistant Editor Dom Stud - it wasn't sexual, but it still left me feeling thoroughly ashamed. Mostly though, I'm laughing: especially when Charlotte is looking back at me with her moonstruck eyes in Indian street markets. The highspots in this town have revolved around food (don't they always?) and the thought of being able to buy a bad bootleg copy of the Spice Girls for less than two US dollars. Tonight, we ate at a salubrious, low-key, low-ceilinged, nicely subservient Indian/English restaurant previously frequented by Somerset Maughan, English gentleman of little note. Every time we follow the map, we end up trying to cross a dual carriageway. Damn the map. The food is great here - and that's what counts. Cheers, ET (Addendum: on our trekking expedition in Chiang Mai, we were accompanied by two New Yorkers. The girl didn't know why she was there, and fell and twisted her ankle painfully at the first hurdle. The boy told stories about trekking across to Canada, and engaged me in conversation about whether karaoke is indeed the folk music of the 21st Century. The best drink here is iced lemon tea, tops. You just have to risk the dodgy ice cubes and drink as fast as digestion allows.) |
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