Sing 9. The Roads, Parts 2-4

Some of you may know the story of how I lasted two whole days as a pizza delivery boy. I jacked it in because I couldn't stand trying to find places in the dark. Keep that one in the back of your mind while you read on. This is something I penned in Kota Bharu but never bothered sending until now.

The Roads, Part II

I took what I expected to be a soft option for getting around Malaysia on my week off: I hired a car. Armed with a zero-detail highway map and the city maps from the Lonely Planet, I headed for Pulau Pinang (Penang Island), straight up the motorway.

No worries, you may think: just get on the highway to Ipoh (along the way) and you're set. But no. The Malaysians like to give you a challenge. I think it all stems from their concept of service, or total and utter lack thereof. (See the book "The Malaysian Concept of Service", one of thinnest in the world, alongside "The German Book of Humour" and "British Cooking At Its Best".) Example: I missed the first turnoff because it wasn't signposted. Come to the second one at a roundabout. Big sign: Ipoh motorway, straight ahead. Now, there's a flyover running through the roundabout so you can't see until too late that straight ahead is clearly not the right way. Turns out the flyover was the motorway and I was meant to turn right.

So that's half an hour of my life gone but when I do get on the motorway I'm sure it's all okay from there. Pity it wasn't actually the motorway and I was meant to turn off soon. But being in the far right lane, and given that there wasn't any warning about the off-ramp, I missed that, too.

An hour later I'm finally on the damned thing once and for all after travelling the back roads. By nightfall I'm coming up to the island and get stuck in traffic. The plan had been to leave at 2:00, but there were check-out problems (they wanted me to pay! Can you believe it? I'd ordered room service every morning and all and they expected me to pay! What's worse is the Bank also expected me to pay, even though they had booked me in, and chosen one of the most expensive hotels in town to boot), so I didn't leave until 3:15. When I finally got to Penang, I saw the big sign for GEORGETOWN. Great, I thought, follow this and I'll be there in a jiffy. But then the Georgetown signs stopped, the road forked and by 8:00 I was cruising around a one-way streeted nightmare with an inaccurate map trying to find my hotel in a foreign city, with foreign language road signs, in the dark.

I could practically smell the pizza.

Part III: Cross Country

Driving across the peninsula is a real pain in the arse. The highlight was probably when, after a couple of wrong turns, I was happy to be on what I took to be the east-west highway. There was even a signpost for Kota Bahru (destination). Two Ks down the road the road just stopped. Yeahhhhh.

They're a lot more laid back out here, though. Sure, there are some riced-up P-platers doing 130+ and overtaking on blind corners, but on the whole everyone just cruises along. At around 50 in a 110 zone. Where overtaking is difficult. And then when you do get past you come up to a lorry or a truck doing 20kph up 10% hills. With blind corners. I don't want much. Just an overtaking lane every so often.

I was advised the 400-odd kilometre journey would take anywhere from four to six hours. One guy even said to go back to KL and get a bus. In the end it was around six and a bit. With no navigator to talk to and only my MD player to keep me company, I was pretty nutty by the end of it.

For the record the main roads were in good nick. The back streets were a little dodgy, but it's kinda cool cruising by cows, seeing elephant warning signs, and crossing jungled mountains. Unfortunately, I didn't take any photos of this stuff because I just wanted to get the hell to KB. And at the time it just didn't seem peculiar enough to stop for. Now I wish I had. Oh well.

PART IV: Merang

I was then faced with a drive back to KL in a few days time. This was too much - the long distances, the solitude, the crappy MD-car kit, the crippling driver's seat of the Proton Wira and the aspiring Alex Yoongs - so I left the car at KB airport (and, even though they have an office their, Budget fined me for changing the drop-off point) and hired a guy to drive me to Merang. This, despite a sizable cash outlay, was an excellent decision.

Merang is not exactly on the main highway and by now I'd realised that my map was as useful as a 1:100,000,000 topographical of the moon. Besides, it was cheaper than a hire car as well as more characteristic. This thing was a 1950's-vintage Mercedes with ample ventilation, original interior finishes and a partially renovated dashboard (ie, stuff was missing but hadn't been replaced). It also came with a couple of Poms in the back seat, one of whom proceeded to lecture me about motorcycles in Vietnam. She also managed to make clear, in that polite unspoken way that the English have, that I clearly didn't know anything about two-wheeled transport in KL, because she'd been to Hanoi.

No wonder the English lost their empire.

Sing 8. Nick's Food Tour of Asia, Parts 6 and 7

Part VI: Ribs

Seeking a change from my all-rice diet and feeling like splashing out, I headed down to the local Fat Bastard-eria, Missippi Slim's. This is a restaurant, presumably a chain, named after the owner, Slim. Slim was obviously named by an Australian (probably a red head called Bluey) and he features prominently throughout his establishment. There's the big, 4-foot wide life sized photo of him out on the street, and he shows up on every page of the menu: there's Slim heartily tucking into a plate of fat; Slim wiping the grease from his bearded maw; Slim counting a wad of ringit he just relieved you of for a very tasty, if not entirely healthy, meal.

Now, I hadn't eaten (western-style) ribs for some time. My first trip to America was the last time, in fact, and that was in 1982. I remember them being pretty fatty and not particularly satisfying. More the kind of dish Fijians would get excited about, rather than Jack Sprat here. But lamb ribs, I thought, might be different. Lamb chops are ribs, aren't they? Maybe they just name things differently.

Well, they were nice, and Slim's special barbeque sauces were pretty tasty, too. And I probably needed a bit of fat to help give me that shiny coat. But at the end of the day, you're paying for a plate of fat covered bones. (It's the American version of chicken's feet.) This just leaves you hungry, so you have to order more, (in my case, Mississippi Chocolate Mud Cake), and that probably has no nutritional value, either (in my case, absolutely not!)

On the other hand, Mississippi Slim's does give the chance to catch up on what's been happening on the country and western music scene for the past 40 years, and the fat was damned tasty. But if you go, get the burger. It has meat in it, is half the price, and will leave you practically incapacitated from over-eating.

The overall score, based on two visits, is 3/5. Definitely worth a look when you want to get bloated on western food and still have a sense, false or otherwise, of having done better by your body than if you'd gone to KFC.

No wonder Americans are so fat.

PS: Vegetarians needn't apply.

PART VII: A&W

Went to a fast food place in Kota Bharu (A&W), only because a mate was. Pretty standard hamburgers, but served with root beer. Who the hell divised this cruel and revolting substitute for a beverage? It's not beer, it's not refreshing, in fact it's not even possible to drink: it tastes like cough syrup for crying out loud. I once tried it in America the first time I went. When I was eight. Urgh.

A&W scores a measly 1/5: eat it if you must, and if you want something that tastes the same as Burger King or MacDonalds, but in smaller servings.

So now my list of forbidden foods/drinks is as follows:

1. Anything endangered (eg bear paws)

2. Anything still alive (eg monkey brains)

3. Sun-dried tomatoes

4. Durian (pending further experimentation)

5. Root beer

This ends my food tour of Asia for the time being as I'm back in Melbourne and really need to start doing some work. But now:

A DIFFERENT NOTE

On a different note, the lack of booze in Muslim Kelantan reminds me of the funniest thing I saw in Malaysia. Being so Islamic, all the women in Kelantan, and indeed in much of Malaysia, wear head scarves that hide all the hair. This makes it difficult, therefore, to sell certain items to the consumer. Such as shampoo.

Sunsilk, however, has a billboard campaign featuring a bottle of shampoo, a slice of lime, a bit of water and a smiling, scarf-headed woman. "My hair's so shiny and full of life with new Sunsilk. If you were my husband and we were in the privacy of our own home, I'd show you. But check out these eyebrows. Aren't they something?"

Its probably the same advertising people who do the bank and tampon ads.

I wonder what they do in the Arabian countries where the women can only show their eyes...

Sing 7. Big Ol' Rant

I was obviously an angry young man when I wrote this, but in the interests of journalistic integrity (ha!) I thought I'd include it. NJL 7/10/6

Anyway, I was asked the other day what I thought of the Malaysian concept of service. To which I naturally replied, "what concept?"

It's not that service here is bad. Service is actually very good in most cases. When it exists. Which is rare.

For example, the dodgy DVD seller who told me, without anyone asking him to, of his other stock, not on display, that I was also welcome to purchase. Or the pimp who hung out on Jalan Sultan Ismail, between my hotel and the restaurants, who asked me every time I passed whether I wanted a girl. Such unsolicited helpfullness is "good" service.

But contrast that to the taxi drivers who just ignore you standing at the taxi stop waving frantically, and when they do pick you up they have no idea where your destination is (ie, the twin building, 27 storey international hotel about 1,500m up the road, on the corner of Jalan Ampang and Jalan Sultan Ismail. What do you mean you don't know where Jalan Sultan Ismail is? It's a major road with a mono-rail running its length. Do you even know where we are now? No, turn *right*, in the direction I've been pointing all the time. Now turn *left* back onto Jalan Ampang, otherwise we're going back to where we started and where's the point in that, or can't you fathom that concept either? What do you mean I can't have a receipt? Of course I can. Every legal taxi has receipts. Fine, no receipt, no fare). Or the waitress who comes by to ask what you'd like (a menu, please), says "certainly, sir" and then forgets. Each time.

Or even my contact at the bank. I'd ask him for a power extension cord and he'd say something in Bahasa Malaysia to the girls that contained the phrase "power cord" and it would never show up. I think what he was saying was "Roza, I'm just going to say the words 'power extension cord'. Please ignore them, and do nothing."

I'm told all this stems from a Malaysian/Indonesian desire to tell you what you want to hear. Singaporeans tell it like it is. Yeah well that's nice, but who's more developed and who's living in filth?

Sing 6. The Roads, Part 1

A note on roads for the petrol heads (and Dave).

Roads in Singapore are well maintained and sparsely populated. Because of restrictive Certificates Of Entitlement, a ten year life span of cars, and at least 100% tax on vehicles, the cars are all fairly new and classy: if you're spending $30,000 on a COE - ie, the right just to buy a car - and then $100,000 for a $50,000 car, you may as well get something good. Needless to say, they are often riced up.

There are also a lot of motorbikes, nearly all ridden by people wearing shirts backwards and unbuttoned. No-one actually knows why. I think someone cool did it once and everybody else just followed suit without asking why. Like bellbottoms. But the shirts invariably fall down to the elbows. So if it's an attempt to keep dirt off, it doesn't work. If it's an attempt to look cool, well that doesn't work either. I'm sure the unbuttoned look is to keep cool, but I'm also sure that the air currents would get dirt on their backs, too.

As for the roads, they're mainly divided. This is a good thing as indicating to change lanes isn't a fashion that took off here as readily as wearing improvised hospital gowns. It seems the way to do it is much like in Melbourne: occupy two lanes for a while and just drift into the next lane when you feel like it. Without the one-way system or road dividers, I'm sure things would get ugly, but everybody seems to understand and the system works.

Now Indonesia has some shitty roads. No edges. Lots of mud and dirty kids. Real third world stuff. I reckon you can tell if you're in the third world by looking for a combination of the following:

• unsealed edges
• lots of corrugated iron
• shanty villages
• dirty kids

The real giveaway, though, are the motorbikes. In the third world the motorbike is the family vehicle. Have to go to the grandparents' for the weekend? Not a problem, they're in the shed out the back. No! The other grandparents: No worries, just pile the missus and kids onto the Honda dirtbike and strap a case on wherever you can. Not enough helmets? Who cares? Small accidents don't happen here.

KL, in terms of roads, is like Paris. They're covered in shit, they stink and they're filled with fucking lunatics for whom road laws aren't so much disobeyed as disdained. Respect for other road users is more like a vague rumour, heard of but not fully understood, and certainly not considered applicable. Red lights mean nothing. This is not a city for pedestrians. Indicating just wastes time.

And the mopeds! Like Paris the place is full of them. I guess because they're too poor for cars bikes are the go. But not the big street machines of Singapore, or the dirt bikes of Batam. Oh no, here it's hundreds of shitty, gutless two-strokes. It sounds like the national whipper-snipper championships. Oh for the sweet hum of a 750.

And they are fucking liabilities to a man. Where are the police? Why aren't they out arresting these people. I don't know what the road toll's like here, but I bet it's high. Even though Malaysia has the death penalty, what they need is some good old Singapore style zero-tolerance policing.

After a little more than a day in this open sewer of a city, I'm reminded of Sydney. Replace the homosexuals with mopeds and the Opera House with the Petronas Towers and take out that ounce of culture that Sydney has (in Balmain) and you couldn't tell the two apart. (Especially in the really multicultural bits.) Maybe I'm getting soft after being spoiled for so long by the West. Maybe I just need to see the good part of town. I'm new here, after all. But right now, even though my hotel suite (it has a couch so to me it classifies as a suite) overlooks the Petronas Towers, I say this:

Get me the fuck out of this goddamned shit hole!!!

Sing 5. Nick's Food Tour of Asia, Part 5: The King of Fruit

There are a lot of fruits in this part of the world that, as westerners, we'd consider 'exotic'. Jack fruit (yum), those weird little things a bit like segmented lychees (yum), all manner of stuff. But they say the king of fruit is the durian.

Now, durian is a little on the nose. Indeed, it's so pungent that it's banned in some places. Cut open a durian in the wrong company and there'll be trouble. That said, you can't really avoid smelling it sometime in SE Asia. For example, the Park N Shop supermarket beneath the office in Hong Kong used to smell of durian, and a lot of taxis, both here and there, smell of it too. It's a sickly sweet smell, a real I've-just-been-sick-in-the-corner type of smell. But they say that it smells a lot worse than it tastes.

So when I tried it last night at the Changi Yacht Club with Ben's friends I was surprised how wrong "they" were. Being somewhat used to it I didn't find the smell that bad. I didn't take a huge lungful-type smell, but I could tell it wasn't incapacitating. But as for the eating... Let's just say that if durian is the king of fruit, then it is the King John of fruit. The King Louis XVI. The Ivan the Terrible. The Good King Wencesles it ain't.

The flesh was gooey. (Apparently the Thais like the flesh hard - gooey flesh can be indicative of rottenness.) There's a big pip in the middle of the goo and around six sets of goo-covered pips in all. (I really didn't count them, so don't hold me to it.) This is surrounded by thick white rind and a softish, green spiky shell.

As for the taste, initially it tastes a bit like it smells: kind of a sickly, breadfruity taste. Then the aftertaste kicks in. This is hard to describe. Interesting, that's for sure. And definitely exotic. Bitter. Bile-like. Putrid probably sums it up best. And repeating. It's the taste that keeps on tasting. For hours.

Of course, as the newbie, I was offered the last piece after I'd already relished my first. Politely I declined, but these guys weren't taking "no" for an answer. If anything, this piece was even more interesting and exotic than the first.

Eating many foods requires you simply win the mind game. Dog, eyes, brains, intestines, fish head. Clear the mental barrier and you're fine. So far, though, only durian has presented itself to me as a food for which you have to physically train.

So give it go if you're out this way. Maybe you'll love it straight away. My score, however, is a low one: 1/5 (1 for the benefit of the doubt. I don't want to write it off yet. Maybe it's better hard.)

Indonesia

After working so hard for so long, the boss gave me Friday off. Top bloke, the boss. Understanding, appreciative, witty. Great to work for. Sure, he keeps trying to touch me and making lewd, sexually suggestive comments, but who could blame him, what, with my chiselled Roman-Greco physique?

Anyhow, after giving myself the day off (get it now?) I decided to pop over to Indonesia. Two main Indonesian islands are apparently visited from Singapore: Pulaus Bintan and Batam. I understand Pulau Bintan is more for lazing around on the beach and playing golf. Batam is meant to have more stuff to do. This is a dubious claim.

Should you go to Pulau Batam, at all costs avoid the Penguin Ferry Services one-day tour. It was after two extremely brief stops at places that can only aspire to the term "tourist trap" (a really crap Chinese temple and a go-carting place) and several stops at stores selling local produce that I realised what was going on. You know those coaches that go to all the discount stores in town, loaded with women in tracksuits carrying a million shopping bags? I was on one of them. And these shops were nothing special. A Ralph Loren store, a dodgy department store, a street store selling Indonesian groceries, and a souvenir shop with prices in Singapore dollars. With the exception of the souvenir shop these places wouldn't even dream of aspiring to Tourist Trap status.

Batam is seriously third world and if you throw yourself in you'll probabaly find that it rocks. But from a coach full of dried fish and local handicrafts, all it does it make you appreciate, a week after you've done everything in Singapore, that Singapore is a great place.

On my daytrip to Indonesia I was befriended by a bunch of Philipinas. Over lunch they were talking about me in front of me, but in Philipino. I may not speak Philipino, but it seems some words don't translate. One of them, whose name I can't remember (call her Rosa for the sake of the story), was clearly keen on me and saying stuff like "yabba yabba yabba Nick yabba yabba Standard Chartered yabba yabba yabba yabba unlimited expense account yabba yabba yabba ha ha ha." No jokes.

Naturally, I failed to stick around after the tour.

Next night I'm on my way home after gorging myself at dinner when I bump into Rosa and her friend from the day before. So I get talking with her friend, who wasn't at all scary to look at, and we all trooped off to a club for a drink and dance.

So the friend (whose name I couldn't remember either) makes herself scarce while Rosa is trying her damnedest. I remember thinking: you'll regret it. DON'T. I only stayed in the bar as long as I did because I was checking out some sensational Chinese girls dancing in front of my seat. Finally the pressure got too much, I muttered an excuse, and I ran. I've never actively run from a girl before, but I seriously sprinted home. Urghhh.

Sing 4. Animatronics

I went to Fort Canning the other day where you can see the Battle Box, the underground command bunker used by the British and ANZAC forces in WWII. A great experience, complete with animatronic dummies and stilted voice overs. It seems that the Fort Canning people blew the budget on the latest and greatest plastic, moving men. This only left S$15.47 to hire the actors to do the voice overs. Let's just say that the voices perfectly matched the robotic, plastic and thoroughly unconvincing look of the dummies.

But you know, something was missing. For mine, an animatronics display just isn't complete without an animatronic beaver. Or at least little animatronic children in national costumes singing "It's a small world afterall". Is that too much to expect? I'm sure they had beavers in the war. Surely they could work one into the story...

Sing 3. Nick's Food Tour of Asia, Parts 2-4

Part II:

I'm a big believer in exploring all the local flavours in foreign countries. So, being in Singapore, and out with a bunch of poms in the boonies, it seemed only natural to go the pizza. But not any old pizza. One I've only seen in Singapore: Norwegian pizza. This is basically a cheese pizza with a hint of smoked salmon. Not bad, but not more than 2/5 on a good day.

Part III: Fish head curry.

Ben, my main man at Standard Chartered, offered to take me and Rob out for a fish-head curry. I'm game for anything, but Rob, being a typical conservative Englishman, was having none of it. "There is no way I'm eating fish head. I'll have to tell Ben a story. I've thought about it and can't do it." Luckily for him, he left before the Big Day.

The Big Day was actually pretty good. Three guys from the bank and I went up to the Civil Service Club and ate off banana leaves. The fish head was pretty sizeable and included a fair chunk of what would be the neck, if fish had necks. Basically all the flesh falls off and it's just like eating any other fish curry. Except any other fish curry doesn't have an over cooked eye staring up at you.

So of course Ben points out that eyes are a delicacy. What he actually said was "Nick, the eyes are a real delicacy here" but what he meant was "Nick, we want to see what you're made of. Eat the eyes or lose a lot of face."

I dropped the first one on the table.

The second one came with a great bit of cartilage, so I had to suck it down and couldn't savour the texture. Not that that was a major problem.

The brain is the other delicacy. Luckily I'd gained my share of face and didn't want to look greedy. Navith was more than keen to get his teeth into the skull, though, so we all let him.

All up, I give the fish head curry at the Civil Service Club a big 4 out of 5. Apparently it's peculiar to Singapore, so I guess you have to come here to have it. Just don't try it for dinner because the curry can go off during the day.

Part IV:

Saturday's plan was to wander down to Boat Quay for dinner, but I took a turn through Chijmes on the way. Well, there was a Philippino Mariachi band playing outside the Spanish restaurant. And I'm just a sucker for Philippino Mariachi bands, so that was that: dinner at Octo. I'd always wondered how many flamenco songs there were, and when the band started cranking out Up Town Girl, I found out: not that many.

The food, for the record, was vegetable paella. Pretty good, but nothing to write home about, even though I am. 3/5.

(Note: Chijmes is a big complex of bars and restaurants in an old convent, and everyone pronounces it "chimes", ie, with a silent J. But I reckon this is a cop-out. Adding mysterious silent letters make Hangman and Scrabble wholy different games, and seems a little pretentious. "It's spelt 'Sir Raymond Luxury Yacht' but it's pronounced 'stoat gobbler throat warbler'." But it's a good place. If you come to Sxingapore, make sure you ask the cabbie to take you to Chidgmees.)

Happy eating. Stay tuned for further gastronomic tales.

Sing 2. The Touristy Stuff

Okay, so what's been happening in Singapore?

After getting in late on Saturday night, I went watch-hunting on Sunday. Just a simple dive watch, nothing too flash. Duty-free prices in Melbourne were around the $300 mark, so when the first place I went offered something at $260, things were looking good. I was prepared to pay that, if only I could look around a bit, first. But $260 was too high, only a fool would pay that, kind sir, and only a fool would waste his time looking elsewhere. $200. That's a much more reasonable price. What do you mean its suspiciously low? Are you serious sir? $150. International warrantee. I'm making a loss, but I want to see if you're serious, I don't think so, you're not serious about buying, yes we take Visa.

So then it was work for the afternoon, sitting in the well-air conditioned hotel bar. The air conditioning in this country is something else. Cryogenic preservation, to be exact. Let's just say that by the end of the briefing session I couldn't feel my feet. In Standard Chartered's offices it's even worse. Fancy needing a jumper 1° from the Equator!

On Sunday we (Rob the project leader and I) went to Boat Quay, kind of like Southbank, but more lively. This was followed by rickshaw-chicken, a game involving an old rickshaw driver complete with tired rickshaw, two expats, and lots of traffic, all going the other way. Then Monday was the Singapore Zoo Night Safari, one of the few places were you can see animals trying to sleep in the dark.

On Wednesday, Rob left for the UK, leaving me all alone with my first ever audit. Quite an experience. But enough about work.

The weekend was an exercise in refined culture, starting with sailing on Saturday out near the airport. It's quite exhilarating seeing jumbo jets coming in to land that close to the airport, but not as exhilarating as dodging the container ships and barges. Whilst sail has right of way, might is right when it takes several miles to stop.

Anyhow, that night I took a quick turn through one of the clubs at Chijmes. They had a cover band. How good was it, you ask? Well, let's just say they'd be a suitable band for Brisbane's Royal Exchange Hotel. But then I'm ordered to order a beer. All I caught was "cover charge ... have to buy a drink ... have to leave" How gay is that? I'll tell you. It's gayer than a black Lycra singlet and the greased-up, buffed-up, gold-jewellery-wearing guy wearing said singlet down Chapel Street. (I had a whole lot more, but I thought I'd keep it clean).

That's how gay it was.

So Sunday it was back to high culture: Rodin exhibition in the morning (much better sculptures than the Precious Moments dead-baby figurines on sale in the mall), Raffles after lunch for a drink, then a couple of temples with Kim, the Texan I met drinking at Raffles, (and she was ALL class).

Nothing else to report. I've got a tonne of work and a fast approaching deadline. So there.

Singapore 1. Nick's Food Tour of Asia, Part 1: Flying To Singapore

The flight over to Singapore (six week business trip) was an exercise in indulgence. I hadn't even sat down and they were asking me what I'd like to drink, Mr Lander. Being only 4:00p.m., I thought it was a bit early for anything alcoholic. Then, before we'd even finished taxiing, they'd cleared up my orange juice and asked if I'd like anything a little stronger, Mr Lander. How about a newspaper, sir? Well, it was 4:10 by now and my will was broken, so it was The Strait Times, vodka-tonic, champagne, another VAT, then around 5:00 it was dinner time (a regular nursing home, is Singapore Airlines) and a beer to wash down all three courses. Quick nap, couple of dodgy movies, then "refreshments" (turkey sandwich and a side of salad) and there I was, in Singapore at last: bloated, barely sober and feeling very happy with myself. I've decided Economy Class just isn't worth it. My new rule of thumb is: anything over 6 hours (well, anything international) should be Business Class. Am I getting soft?