"But... You Can Have Him if You Want..." -- Malacca, Malaysia

I'm starting this post from a dirty sidewalk curb on Jonker Street. Glowing red lanterns are suspended above me, golden tassels fluttering in the slight breeze. Colorful, delicate umbrellas hang from strands beside them.

The temperature is finally tolerable, and I can operate like a normal human being again.

I watch a little girl cling to her father's arm with one hand and delve into the deep recesses of her nose with the other. When finished excavating her nasal cavities, she looks at me, then rubs her prize on her distracted father's pant leg. 

 

Throngs of people amble past me, backpacks on backwards (so forwards) to discourage the nimble fingers of pickpockets. 

Dreadful, god-awful music blares from somewhere to the right of me. 

As much as I try to be open-minded and appreciative of different cultures, I believe I will never grow to enjoy this high-pitched, frenetic music. Ever. I doubt I'll even reach "tolerance". 

Through the rankling din of Malaysian music, street musicians and the incessant chatter of the bulging crowd, I hear a faint pipe in the distance. Playing, "The Bonnie Banks of Loch Lommond."

Think he turn a wrong turn somewhere. Must have been on a FlixBus.

The streets are jammed with families, lovers, gaggles of friends taking seven selfies per second. 

Yes, Bourget. You're in selfie land now. Fuck. 

 

Malaysia befuddles me. 

People here put condensed milk in their canned corn (and in everything else). 

And canned corn on their ice cream (and everything else. Like beans. They put beans on their ice cream).

Also, I don't understand how people here are so slim. It is positively flummoxing. They appear to subsist entirely off of brightly colored sugary beverages and deep-fried god-knows-what. And condensed milk. If I ate that way on a consistent basis, I would weigh as much as a water buffalo. Within a week. 

And yet, when I went shopping for a couple of cheap tank tops in the mall yesterday, I discovered that in this country, I'm a size large. That is how tiny these people are. I'm a size small in the US. I'm a size large in Malaysia.

How does that make sense?

Tourists and locals walk together, unnaturally colored drinks in one hand and selfie sticks in the other.  They purchase bags and sticks of deep-fried god-knows-what, and cheap trinkets because why-the-hell-not?

It feels a bit odd... uncomfortable... unnatural to be in a consumerist country again. Where there are just so many unnecessary, glitzy, garish trinkets for sale.  

 

A group of pint-sized children whistle and scream. I can't tell which is which. They blow bubbles and then frantically leap after them in the dim light, intent on being the cause of their demise instead of allowing the bubbles to burst uselessly on the blouse of a random passerby. 

Living in a hostel dorm has been a difficult, dramatic shift from having my own room in Ganesh's homestay or booking two bed, private rooms with my Kiwi. The room with ten beds in which I currently sleep is stuffy, smelly and dim. The elderly Asian man in the bed across from me has uttered a grand total of two words in the four days I've been here. 

"Shut. Mosquitoes," he closed the door I'd left open in an effort to ventilate the stanky room. 

Other than those two words, Old Asian Man doesn't say a thing. He hunches over on his bed, silently switching between playing cards on his laptop and staring at me. Whenever he stands up, he lets out a boisterous, lingering fart. Which he doesn't seem to notice at all, but it certainly grabs my attention. Even with my earbuds in. When he sits back down, my attention is captured yet again by a similar sounding gassy hullabaloo.

While I was Skyping Boy this morning, Old Asian Man sliced a passion fruit in half, wordlessly handed me one piece and a fellow from Newcastle the other. Then he slowly, methodically peeled and sliced a pear, offering us each a quarter. 

"Thank-you," I said. 

"Terima kasih," Newcastle said. 

Old Asian Man said nothing, just stared at us deliberately. Then stood up to get a cup of coffee and let loose another impressive fart. 

Welcome to hostel life, Bourget.  

My second night at Jalan Jalan,  I returned from my walk to find the young receptionist from Bangladesh, absolutely sloshed, cuddling on the couch with a svelte, middle-aged Asian fellow. 

Hmm... I wouldn't have guessed him gay. I suppose my... err... gaydar has atrophied since leaving the theatre department. 

"He has promised to sleep with me," Svelte Asian confided triumphantly as he lustfully kneaded the receptionist's shoulders. "But... you can have him if you want," he sacrificially added. 

"Uhh... no dude, I'm good." 

The receptionist's eyes fluttered open. 

"I am so drunk," he murmured apologetically. "I could do nothing for you." 

"Man, it is OKAY." 

I felt a wee bit worried about how the plastered receptionist would fare with Svelte Asian (whose hands seemed deviously enthusiastic), but...

... but it's not my place to intervene... and they both seem... happy? Umm... I just wish he weren't so drunk. Blugh. 

The next evening, I sat in the common area alone, quietly studying French to cope with my insomnia. 

"You want a drink?" Receptionist entered with two of his friends, bearing a bottle of whiskey. 

"Sure," I closed my laptop just as I'd learned the French word for candle. 

Bougie. 

Hilarious. 

"Thanks," I reached for the drink.

"Cheers!" we all clinked our glasses. 

"How do you say cheers in Malay?" I asked, sipping my drink and feeling it go STRAIGHT to my head (I haven't been eating much lately, 'cos I don't like not knowing what I'm eating).  

"Jum minum," Receptionist's friend, a tall, chiseled bloke from Myanmar, replied. 

"Super. Jum minum." 

We drank and chatted until two in the morning. During the course of our conversation, I learned that the receptionist is not, in fact, gay (so my gaydar hasn't atrophied quite as much as I thought), and that he was only cuddling for the massage. 

"I had to make lines," Receptionist laughed. "No touching below here, no touching above here." 

Poor Svelte Asian. He was so used. 

Then we shared stories. Both the definitely not gay (but still quite the tease) receptionist and the chiseled bloke from Myanmar had moved to Malaysia for work. 

"My mother made me come here," Receptionist explained. "In Bangladesh, I can make so little money. And my father is dead, so it is up to me to support my mother and younger brother. Women do not work in Bangladesh. They stay in the home. Or go into politics. And when I have a wife, I will need to pay for her too. But that's okay, because she will clean for me, cook for me, wash my clothes, take care of my children." 

What a life. Blurgh. 

"They like it, I think," Receptionist continued. "Staying at home, only having to ask for money from father, brother, uncle..." 

Yeah, sounds like the dream. I mean, all I've ever wanted in life is to be totally dependent and confined to a home where I am required to cook, clean and make babies. 

Jesus Christ. 

 In other news, Chinese New Year continues to be delightful. 

2017 is the Fire Rooster year. In Chinese astrology, years are associated with animals and elements. So the other options would be Gold Rooster, Water Rooster, Earth Rooster, Wood Rooster (Air doesn't get a rooster). 

 

If you were born in January or February, you might be a rooster. So watch out. Chinese astrology says your birth year is your unlucky year. 

However, yellow is your lucky color. And yellow is nice. 

Avoid east. In general. Just don't do east. 

Apparently, you would make a great hairdresser. Or policeman. Either or. Just don't make any job transitions this year, as you'll probably fail. What with all that bad luck in the air.

 

According to myth, Chinese New Year is a result of Nian.

Nian was a horrible monster who fancied eating villagers for dinner (this was before the time of condensed milk). Particularly the young villagers (the ones who rub boogers on their father's pant legs when the father is distracted).

The villagers went into hiding, but an old man came to their rescue. He hung red paper all over town and set of firecrackers (kind of like the old man across the room from me). Nian never returned.

'Cos Nian doesn't like loud noises and is afraid of the color red.

For a ferocious monster who eats children for dinner, Nian is kind of a pansy. 

So every new year, the villagers wore red and set of firecrackers to chase off their pansy, child-eating monster. 

These days, people still wear red and light firecrackers (even though Nian is probably quite old and feeble by now). Incense is burned, prayers are made and gifts are given to the poor (and to me. A lady at a cafe gave me an orange in a bag the other day).

People clean out their homes before the first of the year, sweeping out the dust and bad luck. They retire the broom before the full moon so they don't accidentally sweep away all the good luck the new year is supposed to bring in (that would be a bummer).

Red packets full of money are handed out during Chinese New Year. Parents give money to children, elders and married couples give money to young singles.

Money must be given in even numbers. 'Cos odd numbers are just for funerals. 

One more night at this hostel, then two days couchsurfing in Kuala Lumpur.

Then I fly to the Philippines to meet Andrej.

Finally.

It'll be good to have a friend again.

Happy Chinese New Year! -- Malacca, Malaysia

I'm starting this post from the common area of Jalan Jalan hostel in Malacca, Malaysia. I've booked a bed for five nights in a long room with ten beds and nothing else. The fellow in the bed directly across from mine is an older Asian guy. And he spends the majority of his time in bed, feet hanging off the edge of his mattress, staring at me. 

This. This is why it was nice to have a private room for five weeks. 

 I listen to Roo Panes to drown out the noise floating in from the street behind me. My body itches all over from a dozen mosquito bites and the only respite from the sweltering heat is the fan that ineffectively whirs above me. 

I've only been away from Nepal for what, two full days? And I'm already missing the cool nights, the crisp mornings, the perfect afternoons. 

Carl, the German and I wandered around Malacca for the stifling afternoon.

 

"Traffic is so easy!" I exclaimed. "There are all these crosswalks. CROSSWALKS. Ah! Not so many motorbikes. I can get from one side of the road to the other without fearing for my life."

"Maybe this is easy for you," the German protested, voice cracking a little. "But coming straight from Germany, this is not easy."

How is this not easy? It's only the occasional pony, bunches of cars and a few hideously gaudy rickshaws. 

I'm grateful for the company. But... but I'd rather be with my Kiwi. Or just someone who already knows me. To whom I don't have to explain the basics. 

"What do you do in the US?"

"When I'm in the US, I teach yoga and try to find a non-profit to work for. But I'm hardly ever in the US... so..."

"How long have you been traveling?"

"Since June." 

"How do you afford it?" 

"Well..." 

...

This is the tedious part of meeting new people. Introductions. I want to skip them. Always and forever. 

For someone who likes starting over so much, the massive dislike I have for introductions is awfully inconvenient. 

I need to figure that out.

The quiet and the orderliness of Malacca are disorienting.

I feel like something's missing. This kind of world seems stark and empty after spending forty days in Nepal. My senses aren't being assailed all the time. 

And I... I kind of miss it. All that assailing.  

No water buffaloes contentedly chewing their cud in the middle of busy roads. No chickens bobbing about. Hardly any honking. No dust. No child beggars asking for, "five rupees." No buses flying down bumpy dirt roads, trumpeting their elephant horns. No women with baskets of fruit calling out, "Oranges, very sweet!" No shoe-shiner sitting on the curb, asking me for the umpteenth time if I'd like my filthy boots cleaned.

Doesn't the fact that I've allowed my boots to become this disgusting demonstrate that I do not care whether or not they're polished?

There are no stray dogs lazing about the sidewalks. 

There are, however, giant lizards hiding behind fences. 

Malacca was founded as a port city in the early 1400s by Parameswara, the last raja from Singapore.  

The raja found himself sitting under a Melaka tree when one of his hunting dogs was kicked into the river by a particularly gutsy mouse deer. Instead of mourning his drowned dog, Parameswarma was like, "Wow, that's pretty cool. Maybe I'll name the city after the tree under which I sat when the mouse deer catapulted my dog into the river. Super." 

In 1511, Alphonso de Albuquerque besieged the city with 18 ships. The Portuguese commander conquered Malacca within a few months and proceeded to slaughter or enslave all the Muslim inhabitants.

Malacca's mosque. I had to wear a burka to enter. It was stuffy. And awkward. And I like my sarong is much better than burkas. 

The Dutch defeated the Portuguese armada in 1641, and left a few landmarks of their own.

Somehow, Malacca shifted over to the British in 1824 (I doubt the Malaysians had much to say about the matter). I haven't found any relics of British rule, but I did come across a cafe advertising Full English Breakfast.

After a brief fling with the Japanese (during WWII), Malacca joined the Malaysian Union in 1946.

I slipped in and out of temples, trying to take sneaky photographs of people lighting candles, waving incense, bowing at the entrances and removing their shoes. 

I'm so over churches and cathedrals. This is a welcome break from all the crucifixes, sad apostles, holy water and stoic Madonnas. 
 

I love the dragons. The vibrant lanterns (I almost wrote, "I love lamp, but halfway decided against it. So now you're left with this monstrous sentence. Because I wanted to be funny, but couldn't quite commit to it). 

I appreciate the abundant aromatic incense, the bright bouquets of flowers.

Offerings for the gods.

I stroll along the Malacca River and feel relieved to observe very little trash clogging its current.

That's one thing I won't miss about Nepal. How careless people are about disposing of their waste.

I buy a personal watermelon. The vendor drills a hole into the fruit and then blends up the insides with an egg beater of sorts. He hands it to me with a stout straw and a plastic spoon, and I continue my stroll down the river, slurping up my refreshing watermelon in the humid heat.

Today is Chinese New Year. Year of the Rooster. A welcoming of spring celebrated every year on the first day of the full moon between January 201st and February 20th. This year's full moon happened to be on the 28th.

I spent the evening wandering through the Jonker Street Night Market.

The ubiquitous, smelly durian.

When I see chocolate now, I miss my Kiwi. He would have bought seven of these.

I ordered a non-threatening coconut milkshake, and then decided that coconut milkshake should probably not be my entire dinner. So I bravely branched out into the world of fish balls. Five fish balls for four ringatt, served in a bag. 

Which tasted... fine?

The paneer curry at Easy was better. 

No. Bourget. Stop it. Stop it now. It is not useful to compare these balls in a bag to the paneer curry my Kiwi and I would share at Easy. 

These things are terrifying in the dark. I will have nightmares. For ages.

The night was full of bombastic fireworks and the most bizarre, intimidating food things I've observed in my life thus far.

Confession.

Food in Malaysia scares me a little bit. The chicken feet in soup. The slimy green worms made from been flour that I discovered in my ice cream earlier in the afternoon. The brightly colored fish balls I consumed out of a plastic bag.

I could just eat watermelon for a week. But... but that wouldn't be any fun. And I would have the most boring stories to tell. 

I didn't leave Nepal to eat watermelon and tell boring stories. 

I'll just try to steer clear of the chicken feet.