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.
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