It’s been a whirlwind of a couple of weeks; hard to believe that two weeks ago today I awoke to a shaft of sunlight penetrating my throbbing eyelids in Henry’s apartment in Barcelona. A glance at the time had informed my addled brain that I was possibly going to miss my plane if I didn’t get up and leave RIGHT NOW. I was very hungover from the night before, which was spent drinking far too much red wine with Darren and Rushy, and badly needed a shower that I didn’t have time for. A pannicked check around the flat to make sure I hadn’t left anything on fire and I was in a taxi speeding my way to the airport to catch my flight to Birmingham. Now here I am sat at my desk in my room in Medan, Sumatra; a fan helping to ease the sticky heat in this dirty city.
I’d plonked myself on Henry’s doorstep in Tarragona once again, previous to meeting up with the guys in Barcelona, and imposed myself upon his ever generous hospitality. Incredulous that I’d had the audacity to do so, Henry gritted his teeth, turned me around, marched me down to his lovely new car, strapped me in and drove me to Barcelona where he frog-marched me up to his other flat, dragging my luggage behind him and threw me unceremoniously into it. All the way he kept muttering under his breath about how he’d left England to get away from all this and how people just kept turning up and drinking his booze and eating his food and expecting him to just drop everything and where did he have to go to get away from all the bloody Brits and get some peace? I began to thank him and say how grateful I was but he held his hand up in a manner which suggested that I should not utter another word, he threw the keys at me and told me to just leave them when I left which he hoped would be soon and then he left. He’s a terribly nice chap.
The ensuing weekend was a flurry of sightseeing and drinking with Helen, Emelyne, Jo, Darren, Rushy and Maggie. A good time was had by all, but certainly the highlight was on Saturday night. Not only did we see Barcelona at the Camp Nou stadium playing Vilareal, not only did we get to see the living legend Ronaldinho play, not only did they win four nil, but Ronaldinho scored twice, one of which was an over-the-head scissor-kick! It’s…something…to …sniff… tell the grandchildren about… Once again Henry went out of his way to accommodate us; he drove all the way back from Tarragona with a stinking hangover to pick up the tickets for the game from his mother’s where they had been posted and then cycled across the city to deliver them to us before going back to his mum’s to watch it on telly. He must have been feeling quite poorly because some harsh sounds were emitted from the back of his throat when he met us and he spat on the floor at our feet. Probably had a cold coming. Many thanks once again Henry, it’s OK you can rest easy now, I’m several thousand miles away.
Anyway, after all the excitement of the game we all went off and got drunk. I remember several tequilas being consumed and an awful lot of air-guitaring at a club that purported to be a jazz and funk place but seemed only to have soft rock and pop. I’m having cold shudders just thinking about me and Darren and Bon Jovi’s “Living on a Prayer”.
A week in England of drinking in the Cask, catching up with people, sorting out visas, not sorting out visas, more imposing on friends’ hospitality, more drinking, and all of a sudden I was in Indonesia. More soon.
If I had taken more interest I might have noticed that there were three stops on my flight to Jakarta. Twenty eight hours it took, with stops at Dubai, Colombo in Sri Lanka and Singapore. Everyone that I had mentioned that I was flying Emirates to had usually done an “Oooh, Emirates, nice,” so I was quite looking forward to the lavish attention I would receive. Unfortunately I was unable to appreciate the first leg as I was sat next to a gentleman whose breath would embarrass a seal. It was truly disgusting and I couldn’t think what to do about it; I kept my head turned mostly away from him but this was not only ineffective, but inhibited my enjoyment of the in-flight entertainment somewhat. I began to entertain thoughts about dousing my hot towel in cologne and wearing it around my face but felt this would look a little conspicuous. I even wondered about telling the stewardess that the man sat next to me had chronic halitosis and would she mind seating me somewhere else? In the end I resigned myself to farting freely and with impunity.
I had never flown so far eastwards before and it was slightly disconcerting to be speeding through the timezones, so that no sooner had you settled down after a nice lunch and glass of wine to watch a movie, than all of a sudden it was dark and the lights were switched off. The perceived wisdom of the cabin crew seemed to be that the best way to help you adjust is to keep feeding you at all of the correct times, so that lunch, dinner and breakfast all occur within about six hours. It’s no wonder you body gets so confused, by the time you’ve arrived; you’ve eaten the equivalent of two days’ meals in the space of time I would normally spend in the Cask. Although it must be said that I have often consumed two day’s worth of alcohol in the same amount of time.
The week that I was in England was meant to be spent sorting out a business visa, a process which involved three parties attempting to co-ordinate time and documents from opposite ends of the earth. The school that I would be working for, the Indonesian embassy and myself would all have to work together in a very small space of time to produce a small piece of paper that allowed me to work in their country. Of course it never happened; apparently the Indonesian consulate are notoriously tardy at their share in the process and so it was eventually agreed that I should just get a tourist visa and we’d sort the rest out when I arrived; this meant lying my way through border control with a bag full of English grammar books and teaching certificates. Up until ten minutes before I left Leamington on Monday morning I had no information as to whether I was being picked up at Jakarta airport, where I would be staying, when my flight on to Medan would be or what the addresses of any of the schools were. I had received an email literally as I was about to leave Anne and Steve’s informing me that somebody would pick me up, they just didn’t know who. It was all very disorganised and I was beginning to enjoy myself.
When Bond arrives at an airport, somebody invariably comes up to him and says “Mr Bond? We have a car waiting for you.” Somebody then takes his bags and they get into a car and drive away. Well it was just like that! Although I was a little disappointed that I didn’t get to say “We’re being followed,” or get taken to Baddy Headquarters and a cat-stroking evil genius. Instead I was whizzed through the dark and busy streets of Jakarta to a rather posh hotel where I was deposited into a nice room with a mini-bar. There was unfortunately no beautiful vixen under the covers of my bed who would introduce herself by saying, “I’m Gagginferashag,” to which I would raise my eyebrow suggestively and say, “Well I daresay there’s something we can do about that, my dear”.
My stopover in Jakarta was brief and I had just enough time to have a quick scout around the dark and dirty streets and suitably frighten myself before dinner. This I had at the hotel, where I was offered to be shown around the city and be taught some Indonesian by the very attractive waitress who served me; I was more than a little gutted that I was flying out the following day. Cursing Medan before I even got there, I went to bed and slept sporadically. I had enough time in the morning for a wander, enough to confirm my suspicions that Jakarta was indeed a massive and polluted metropolis. My flight out of there was welcome, and enhanced by the stunning stewardesses who wore long, tight dresses with slits up the side. I did very little reading.
My guidebook has this to say about Medan, the place that I would be spending the next year. “Medan is big, hot, noisy, congested and dirty with only a few havens of greenery -for example, Merdeka Square - and no obvious ‘sights’ to enthral the visitor.” It is possibly the kindest of all the articles and books that I read about my new home. The few people I knew that had been there usually shuddered when I mentioned the name before being overcome by extreme concern and sympathy for me.
Let’s not beat around the bush, it should have been strangled at birth. Even from the air the city looks ugly; a dark cancerous growth spreading itself amongst the verdant tropical paradise of Sumatra. It is flat; no skyscrapers to provide a welcome relief to the monotony of the two and three storey cages. Smog and bruised, bloated clouds coalesce in the heavy, humid and exhaust filled air. The place is a fractal; to take a look at one tiny part of the city is to see the image of the whole repeated in hellish monotony. Picture a street pitted with pot-holes and filled with brown and muddy rain-water; the pavements, where they exist, are a treacherous game of hop-scotch where one wrong step can send you plummeting into any number of holes. Amongst the holes and crazy-paving exists an open drain/sewer from which brims a silvery black glistening stew; flotsam pokes beady eyes up from the murk, willing you to miss your next step so that it can pull you down into the depths. These are not the only hazards to impede your progress because every remaining space is taken up by a dirty food stall selling noodles and fried rice, cooked over a blackened petrol stove which adds to the already thick, oily haze of the street. If you want to avoid the vendors and their relentless call of “Hello Mister!” then you must take your chances in the road which is already heaving with a crazed cacophony of hell-bent drivers and riders, all rushing to get in front of the other in a frenzied and ceaseless race. There is a tenth level of hell and it’s here. If you take this little snapshot and copy it ad finitum then you get some idea of what Medan is like. Did I mention the rats?
I don’t know about you but I have frequently bought an item of clothing from a second hand shop which upon reaching home had turned from the most stylish sartorial bargain of the century into a nasty and cheap garment that you could only have bought from a second hand shop. I had one such pair of trousers; they were made from a nasty man-made fibre which became most uncomfortable in the heat. They were fastened with a draw-string which had become unravelled and frayed soon after purchase, causing all sorts of problems when visiting the lavatory; at some point I had managed to get a patently visible blim burn in them. They were brown. I got used to them though, and after a while and several changes of address I still hadn’t got rid of them; the more tatty and threadbare they became the more reluctant I was to discard them. I became attached to them without ever really knowing why.
I only bring this up because I just got back from Malaysia where I spent Christmas and New Year. I had a fantastic time; the skies were blue rather than murky, drivers were sedate and forgiving, it was clean, well–ordered and laid back. I reclined on beautiful and quiet white-sandy beaches and cooled off in blue seas and waterfalls. So it came as a bit of a surprise when I got on the plane to come back and found to my astonishment that I was actually looking forward to smelly old Medan. I missed the frantic chaos, the smiling faces and the persistent ‘hello mister’s. I was missing being one of only a handful of white faces whose presence never ceases to amaze and excite the locals; there’s a certain charm about having fellow shoppers stare with un-restrained curiosity at your shopping basket to see what you could possibly have bought. And the becaks… ahhh the becaks, more of them later.
Indonesia as far as I can make out is an absolute mess, utterly disorganised with few rules that anybody pays attention to. In theory, for instance, one drives on the left whereas in actuality it is wherever you can fit. If you want something done it will get done but not in a hurry and possibly not very well. Projects are begun and then left in limbo indefinitely; they might get finished but just not yet. It suits me right down to the ground.
I don’t like christmas very much and I’m sure I have bored you with why on many occasions so I won’t do so now. When I decided on islamic Indonesia as a work destination , it was was with a wary eye on the approaching festivities. Unfortunate then that the country has embraced this vaguely christian tradition with money-grabbing glee. Many shops, cafes, hotels and restaurants have caught on to the financial gain in stringing up flashing lights and playing the same tired old christmas songs that we have been hearing year after year after bloody year since we were born. I mean really, what do I have to do to get away from this crap? How far do I have to go?
Well I decided to go a little further and try Malaysia. I told the school that it would be a marvellous idea if they were to pay for the flights, the taxi fares and at least some of the accommodation and oddly enough they agreed. So after only five days of work, I and a fellow colleague, Al found ourselves dribbling at the beautiful stewardesses on a flight to Penang, an island off the west coast of Malaysia for eleven days of R&R.
Al arrived in Medan to begin his career as a teacher just two days after me, and at only twenty one years old is barely older than many of his students. I would also like to make quite clear at this point that the many inquiries that I received during our vacation as to whether he was my son or not, can be attributed entirely to his youthful and baby-like face and in no way reflect any ageing in my own features thank you very much; he doesn’t even shave, OK?! Anyway he’s a nice guy. But I pondered, as I sat on the plane next to this young whipper-snapper, how this particular adventure would turn out. I, with my cynicism, irritability, healthy addiction to alcohol and intolerance of people generally, holidaying with an enthusiastc young lad who gets drunk on two cans of Carlsberg, jogs and had barely been born when I was discovering the joys (and headaches) of women and booze. Big Brother popped into mind; “Day 1 and Steve has already told Al that he mumbles, whinges and talks shit; on the whole Al takes it well.”
*
Penang is a thriving holiday destination sprouting modern hotels complexes along much of its otherwise beautiful coastline like weeds; it was not where we particularly wanted to spend all of our holiday. Malaysia is more strictly muslim than most of Indonesia and as such, the one commodity that is relatively expensive is the alcohol. Langkawi however, a smaller island further north, was granted duty-free status several years ago in order to attract more tourists. And so, strangely drawn to the island, it was here that I decided we should head for, the day after arriving in Penang. Christmas Eve isn’t the best time of year to begin looking for accommodation on a tropical island paradise but after an initial frantic quest for somewhere, we ended up with a hut on a beautiful stretch of beach on the west coast. I thought for a horribly surreal moment that we might end up in the stables.
An air of expectancy hung over us as the day progressed; had I been by myself I would have gone and found a quiet bit of the island to get silently sozzled upon. But I wasn’t, I was with Al who had brought christmas presents from his family with him to open on christmas day, and had asked if I could take photos of him opening them so that he could send them back home. So you’ll understand what I mean when I say there was an air of expectancy as the evening made its merry and festive way towards twelve. I began to feel edgy. We had gravitated to a bar populated with Westerners who would, I knew, get all happy and celebratory in less than an hour. Al was drinking fruit juice. So was I, but mine was laced with vodka. I hated the thought of all the joy that would spontaneously erupt at this arbitrary hour, but felt guilty about leaving my companion to celebrate his first christmas away from home amongst strangers. I was beginning to panic. I thought about all of the christmas’s that I had successfully disappeared on my own and couldn’t believe that I had trapped myself in this situation. I had a sudden wild and desperate plan.
“Let’s go to the nightclub,” I croaked. Al looked at me in disbelief, as did I. "It’ll be erm... fun,” I managed weakly. I remember little of how I justified this foolish plan but it worked, Al was convinced. My own personal reasoning was this: being in a crowded nightclub I could easily get ‘lost’ in the crowd before zero hour and return later. Look, it was the best I could come up with in an emergency.
As it was, the club, which was contained within the only posh hotel in the area had not attracted the numbers that I was hoping for. So, with an honesty that I found altogether unbecoming, after ten minutes of watching a band dressed in santa claus outfits destroy some of those good old christmas classics that I love so much, I turned to Al and told him I couldn’t take any more and was leaving. “Ok,” he shrugged. Somewhat shocked at the casual way that he took this devastating piece of news, I left. I went and found a quiet bit of beach and lay looking at the stars pondering how Al would celebrate without my bubbly and effervescent personality, and got silently sozzled. When I awoke a little while later, covered in a thin layer of sand, and returned to the room I found Al vomiting in the toilet. Content in the knowledge that the lad had against all odds celebrated perfectly respectably without me, I passed out on the bed.
Wiggling my toes in the sand the next morning as I drank my coffee, I reflected that I had, quite uncharacteristically, been far too judgemental and egotistical. The belief that Al wouldn’t be able to enjoy himself without me and that I might be tied to him for the rest of the holiday without any of the solitude that I often crave had almost spoiled my night. I could now rest easy, knowing that Al was perfectly able to take care of himself and that I would be able to head off by myself whenever the fancy took me. What an idiot I'd been.
Al informed me later that morning that the vomiting had been self-induced. He hates being left alone and when in that situation he eats to excess and then puts his fingers down his throat... I suddenly felt like I was looking at the end of this holiday through the wrong end of a telescope.
*
Contrary to what you might think, Satan does not rule the underworld. According to Dante he resides waist deep in ice on the ninth and last circle of hell; condemned for all eternity for betraying his host. What Dante did not realise was that there was a further level just below The Evil One’s frigid hooves. It is the place reserved for Betrayer of Young Lads With Eating Disorders and where I shall be residing till Kingdom Come.
“So,” I began shortly after Al had told me of his porcelain-based after-dinner entertainment, “This happen much?” He nodded. “Well, you’re gonna have to sort your shit out because I’m no babysitter.” Al nodded glumly and I, to ensure my place in the icy depths, got up and left him for the day.
This was not an act designed to give Al a kick up the arse, there was no idea of therapy in my decision to abandon a young chap who quite patently didn’t like to be alone. It was a purely selfish act on my part and one that I am not proud of. The thing is, it seemed to do the trick. For much of the rest of our holiday, Al and I would depart at different times and to different places on the island upon our respective mopeds. We would meet up in the evening for dinner and Al would invariably be thoroughly excited about where he had been and what he had done. I would listen jealously, cursing his fantastic adventures and wishing I had gone with him. I detected no untoward sounds emanating from the bathroom and the toilet rim was carefully inspected for dried carrot lumps; nothing.
Occasionally we would venture out together during the day and find many a hidden delight, usually waterfalls of which there seems to be an abundance on Langkawi. We found a particularly good one that hardly anyone appeared to know about; only a few people interrupted our bathing in the cooling pool and one of them was stunningly attractive. I thought I might be dreaming at one point as I swam in the crystal waters, gazing up through the sunlit jungle, my view partially but welcomingly obscured by a dripping wet temptress posing sexily in front of the tumbling falls. I had a fleeting thought that I may have been caught up in a Timotei commercial. Anyway, as far as I was concerned we had reached a happy compromise whereby I could patronisingly call Al a jumped-up, immature, naïve little snob and he could sulk about it for a couple of hours. All in all it was a lovely holiday with swimming in the warm sea, playing football on the beach (something I recommend you don’t do against young and fit natives in the hot thirty degree afternoon heat), motoring around the island on mopeds and generally doing whatever I felt like doing or sod off and do something by yourself. I even managed to fit in an authentic hour long ancient Malaysian massage by a girl from Nottingham.
New Year’s Eve was spent back on Penang as we had to leave on the 2nd and didn’t want to miss our plane or the stewardessess within. At an early part of that evening I felt it was only fair to inform Al that I always disappear before twelve to be by myself. He appeared to take this as a challenge and most of the rest of the night he kept a careful eye on me; the game had commenced. Sticking to my Christmas Eve plan which I hadn’t managed to carry out, I suggested going to a club and Al suspiciously agreed. This one was heaving and despite attempting to keep a close eye on me at all times, Al was, quite naturally, distracted by the stage act which defied even the Christmas band for pure tacky cheese. I chose this momentary lapse of vigilance to duck (quite literally) into the crowd. Many revellers that night will have seen a white guy bent double, furtively navigating the club towards an emergency exit, the only visible trace at head level being a large tumbler of vodka and Indonesian-strength Redbull cutting through the sea of dancers like a periscope. I somehow found myself in a warehouse where there appeared to be the tail-end of a heist in progress; acting nonchalantly I strode purposefully, importantly and carefully, so as not to spill my parasol-spiked drink, towards the exit.
I had intended to get back shortly after zero-hour, triumphant in my victory over my opponent in this game of cat and mouse, but I got carried away sitting on the rocks watching the sea and supping an increasingly strong vodka and coke; I’d brought plenty of vodka but little mixer. When I returned he’d gone; I could feel icicles forming between my toes and hear the distant sound of splatters upon porcelain. Shrugging off my guilt I continued to have a merry old time for a couple of hours before embarking on my intended destination for the night.
Penang Hill is misnamed in my opinion. At around 800m, straight up from sea-level, it is surely a mountain. Anyway it bloody well felt like it as I staggered up there in the wee hours of the morning, the lights of Georgetown twinkling below me. My idea was to watch the sun-rise from the top, I was in the East after all. It would be almost as though I was the first to see the sun in 2007. I was rather excited about the prospect and so a bit disappointed when I reached the top to find I was in a cloud: a cold and precipitous cloud. It was the kind of fog that you get wet in and so I took refuge in the Buddhist temple that shared the summit with a mosque. I make no religious statement of preference here, just that I knew that the call to prayer would start at about five in the mosque and didn’t fancy being a sleeping infidel trespassing upon the house of Mohammed at that hour. Besides the Buddhist temple was very colourful and its steps looked more inviting and sheltered.
A couple of hours later the night had turned to a dark murk, and coming to terms with the fact that the sun had aleady risen out there somewhere I went off to find it. It was ten minutes away, just below the cloud that I had been wrapped in. Enjoying the steam rising from the jungle foliage as I whistled my way back down the hill, I was sure to wish a very good morning and year to all of the early-risers who had had the idea of being the first to the top of Penang Hill that day. It was about sevenish as I made my way to the bottom and I realised that all my friends and family would be celebrating just about now and so had a little toast to one and all. I felt very pleased with myself; I had begun the year in style with a great bunch of friends in the ice and snow of Chamonix and finished it in tropical heat amongst the hot steaming jungle of Malaysia. Where would I be next year?
