Malaysia Boleh!

(Or, A Short History of Malaysia in Three Parts, Part TIGA)

Kuala Lumpur:
The Authentic Singapore

As the AirAsia jet ascended into the blue Penang sky, I waved goodbye to my beloved food wonderland. Already missing the kuey teow, I hoped our final destination, Kuala Lumpur, would hold similar culinary treasures. In less than an hour, we touched down at our old haunt, the LCCT, and caught a city shuttle bus (8 RM, one way) to the heart of town.

After four days in relatively sleepy and chillaxed environs, the hustle of KL was jarring. The urban sprawl stretched forever into the distance, streets crowded with hordes of people, all beneath a cruel sun intent on sweating us out like pigs on a spit. Nix that, lambs on a spit. No pork here, got to keep it halal. When I stepped out of the comfortable air-conned bus into the humidity of midday KL, I involuntarily shuddered in disgust. It was gross. This was going to be a very long weekend in the city.

Mr. Kitty Is Hot Too

Once we checked into the hotel, we made quick use of the remaining daylight hours and rushed to the Golden Triangle, home of the iconic Petronas Twin Towers.

Though the actual distance from our hotel near Chinatown to the Petronas complex was not that far, the connections and transfers required between the subway lines was a pain in the ass. Like in Japan, the metro system in KL is a confusing mess of tracks that are owned by different entities, requiring different ticket purchases, and a whole lot of escalator riding. In the heat of the day, it is frustrating and exhausting.

From our above-ground light rail, we transferred to the subway at Masjid Jamek, the namesake of the gorgeous mosque that nests in central KL. At about 2 RMB per ride, we ended up paying 4 RM each way, to-and-from the hotel. That's about 16 RMB, more than 2 USD. Hardly crushing to the finances, but if you think a ride in a more convenient and time-efficient Shanghai subway car is only about 4 RMB each way, it feels like a rip-off.

Who Needs The Monorail?

Our destination stop connected to the basement level of the Petronas mall, one of the best shopping spots around. We hadn't eaten a full meal since the morning in Penang, which was still giving me residual orgasmic chills just thinking about the kaya toast and kopi. As we were back in civilization, we decided to be naughty and skip the hawker stuff for some nice corporate chain food: Nando's.

Nando's, a fabulous Portuguese-inspired chicken joint from South Africa, serves up meal plates similar to those found in Boston Market or by our old pal, Kenny Rogers. Except with a more suburban-strip-mall, fast-food-but-trying-not-to-be, Chili's vibe. It's a popular eatery in Malaysia, not least because it is halal, quite affordable, and really damn good. I tucked into a plate of their famous roast chicken covered in peri-peri spices (medium heat) and a side of sweet coleslaw and crunchy corn on the cob. Dashing on a daring blast of the mega-hot peri-peri sauce, I was actually pleased to be eating in a clean, indoor place with actual silverware. Mouth-fire extinguished with an icy homemade apple soda, it was time to brave the muggy twilight for a glimpse of the towers.

Peri-Peri Deliciousness

Outside, we had to walk approximately 5 miles just to obtain a suitable angle for taking a picture of these beasts. Launching into the sky like two upturned javelins, the Petronas Twin Towers are gorgeous peers to my personal favorite megascraper, the JinMao Tower in Shanghai, and far more graceful than the out-of-place eyesore, the Taipei 101. Once the tallest building(s) in the world, it no longer holds the crown, as it was out-scraped by the aforementioned 101 in 2004.

Behold Petronas!

One of many creative ways to get a shot of the entire building from top to toe.

Petronas - which is short for PETROliam NASional, the government-owned Malaysian oil and gas company - boasts 88 floors of office and entertainment space and is designed keeping Islamic motifs and aesthetics in mind. The skywalk that connects the two shafts also serves as a tourist draw, the tickets supposedly selling out every morning. I just wanted to get a good look at them from the ground up. Maybe do a little jumping.

JUMP! Petronas Towers

Once my memory card could no longer fit any more shots of the towers (there are only so many angles one can shoot from), we returned to the cool bosom of the air-conditioned mall. Exhausted from a day of transit, we surrendered early, biding to conserve our energy for our final day of endurance on this heretofore amazing adventure.

Masjid Jemak

At last, the ultimate day of the trip had arrived. My mixture of burned skin and competent shading had blended together to form a nice tan, I was getting used to the icky and sticky air, and my speech was already being butchered by an abundance of "la"s and lax Mandarin inflections. Before flying back to the polluted place I call home, it was time for another day of hard pavement pounding.

Which Way Do We Go?

From the Chinatown area, we returned to our old friend, Masjid Jamek Mosque and began our walking tour. Heading west (?) beneath the light rail overpass, the cramped downtown suddenly opened up to Dataran Merdeka, or Independence Square.

Familiar?

At midnight on August 31, 1957, British rule came to an end and the curiously Stars-And-Stripes-looking Malaysian flag was hoisted for the very first time on the square's towering flagpole, allegedly the tallest in the world. To the frenzied cries of "Merdeka! Merdeka!" the country had gained its freedom from colonial rule.

In the morning sun, the vast square left us naked and vulnerable to the UV death rays. Tour buses filled with Hong Kong and mainland tourists were pouring their loud, umbrella-wielding varmints onto the green grass, blocking the previously pristine photo-ops. Nearby, St. Anne's church bells were ringing for morning mass, one of the many reminders left behind by the Brits.

JUMP! Merdeka Square

Merdeka!

Ladies Love Merdeka

Details, Details, Details!

After some circuitous confusion, we headed south towards Jalan Raja, the old school market area. On Leboh Pasar Besar, the colorful shop houses and store fronts exploded in every tint and hue imaginable. Blasts of graffiti covered the concrete walls down gritty alleyways, the minarets of Masjid Jamek clearly visible in the distance beyond the canal. The pedestrians grew increasingly local, head scarves, turbans and batik gowns abounded.

Teal

Abolish ISA

Green and Gold

Crossing

At the famous Central Market, a Chinese lion dance created a massive racket with the thudding drums and exploding firecrackers, threatening to steal our good hearing. We quickly ran through the doors to escape the din. Inside, natural light flooded the gallery, the shop stalls abuzz with tourists bargaining for cheap souvenirs and other goodies to take back home. I decided to save my ringgit for better spoils, so I didn't buy anything. We were half tempted to get the fish spa treatment, but good sense got the better of us. There's no way I would enjoy hundreds of sausage-sized fish nibbling away the dead skin on my feet and legs, so we opted for lunch instead.

1888, Luckiest Year Since 888

Who's A Good Little Lion Dancer?

Fish Exfoliation = Bleagh!

At Old Town White Coffee, the purveyors of the best kopi putih klasik in the land since 1958, we took our first break of the morning. It was the perfect time to rest my bloody feet in the nicely cooled market. Despite a disappointing meal (overly sweet nasi lemak and some nauseating Balinese noodles), their iced white coffee was bliss. As I harped on many, many paragraphs before, this stuff is amazing. We bought a few boxes of the instant packets for future Shanghai consumption and then returned to our hotel for check-out.

Hotel Winsin

Fuck ISA

Old Town

My Favorite Facade In KL

With a good half-day to kill, we were at a loss. There were many things we could have done, but we must have been either too burned out or just confused with how to structure our time. There were a few things remaining on the list, of course involving food, so we decided to stay focused on our gastro-journey and nail the big one. The queen mother of the land: the humble durian.

Though I've seen durian before, this would be my first time actually consuming the revered fruit. In the past, the closest a durian ever came to my mouth was about 5 inches away, at which point the sensors in my nose and tongue told me to toss that fucking thing across the room, lest I suffer dearly for my foolish experiment. However, if I didn't try durian in Malaysia, it'd be a shame. It would be like going to the US and not having apple pie or a carb-loaded, deep-fried pile of something. I admit the butterflies in my stomach and tense anticipatory sweating might have caused an exaggerated response, but I was equal parts excited and terrified. Such a mythical fruit, so pungent and revolting that hotels in the area have "No Durian" signs outside their doors, so desired and delicious to some that it is also known as the King of Fruits and inspires fanatic worship by durian connoisseurs the world over.

Not Today, Pal

Even Mother Nature is in on the joke, trying her best to keep the luscious fruit protected from greedy mouths: the thick husk, covered in rock-hard spikes that could literally crush someone's skull into a pulp, is designed to keep you from getting to the goods within. I had to see what the fuss was about.

Luckily, our taxi driver just so happened to be a durian fiend and he knew just where to get some. As we pulled up to a streetside stall in the middle of a shaded square, we could see the bulbous death balls hanging from wooden sticks, their heady aroma drifting over to the parked cab. We chose one particular strain, the Mao Shan Wang (Cat Mountain King) variety, supposedly one of the best on Earth. Not cheap either: each of the soft wedges housed in the spiky stronghold was 9 RM each, about 20 RMB a slice. Our entire fruit was almost $10 US.

Taunting You

Like the longyan, lychee, mango or any of the other "heat" fruits, you can't eat too much durian in one sitting, unless you want explosive nosebleeds. Diabetics, like our taxi driver, need to be careful too. With so many factors against the fruit, why would anyone want to eat these things?

Gloves on, I picked up the soft wedge and examined it. It had a milky yellow hue, like a cooked egg yolk made of silk, soft to the touch like an infant's pudgy forearm. The bouquet wasn't too overpowering, at least not as nasty as other varieties I had smelled before. With no other choice but to take a bite, I placed the fruit in my mouth and took a hefty bite.

Stinky Gold

First reaction: felt like I was biting into a stick of butter. It was that squishy soft. The "skin" of the wedge gave way to a creamy center, which covered my tongue in a sticky mush that hit all of the taste buds. To be honest, it wasn't that bad. I didn't want to violently spew my day's food all over the farmer, I didn't pass out in disgust, and knew that my stomach wouldn't cave in on itself in protest to this fetid fruit.

Yet for some reason, my body and brain weren't connected. I knew there was nothing wrong with the durian, but my overall feeling was not pleasant. I understand how people can be hopelessly devoted to the stuff, but I had to expend a lot of mental energy to overcome the averse gut reaction my body was slowly building.

I finished my piece and appreciated its worth, but my gut was giving me a very clear warning that any more durian and I'd pay the price tenfold. Something about the faint hints of meat and cream and fruit blended together with the consistency of solidified baby food. It'll be a while before I yummy down on any more durians.

Doing The Deed

Salt Rinse For Luck

Washing our mouths out with salt water, our satisfied taxi uncle drove us to our actual desination, the Berjaya Times Square shopping complex. The final goal of the trip: Krispy Kreme donuts.

In a glorious twist of cultural exchange, I would have a chance to expose my Malaysian pal to a distinctly American treat that I daresay completely obliterates the durian in terms of enjoyability and pleasure. Krispy Kreme is part of the American culinary fabric and, apologies to hometown Dunkin Donuts, the best donut on the planet. God bless those deep-fried rings of heavenly dough, which I hadn't been blessed with since my trip to North Carolina in 2008. I was quite excited.

This shop, the first in Malaysia, had its grand opening the day before, as if they knew I'd be in town. As such, it was packed. The line was out the door, a massive team of workers trying their best to take orders from people buying 3 to 4 dozens at a time.

Waiting For A Ring Of Heaven

Patiently waiting, I glimpsed through the kitchen window to see the assembly line creation of their signature glazed donuts. Watching the tiny rings climb the metal gear ladders, they plop into the deep fryer for a quick bath, then get dragged along the cylindrical rack where they get doused in a constantly flowing ooze of delicious, delicious sugar glazing. I began to feel some excitement in my pants, and before any of my own sugar glazing could ruin the precious moment, I ordered my pile of donuts and iced latte. One step closer to bliss.

Seriously, Best Thing EVER.

Needless to say, approximately 1 minute after that first bite, my plate of scrumptious donuts had disappeared. I collapsed into the brand new arm chairs and almost dozed off like a lion that just gorged on a soft, sugary wildebeest. To go the full, decadent mile, we got one of the best massages ever at the ReBorn Massage on the 3rd floor of the mall, stall 03-38, by one beefy Dalian woman and a strong little Thai guy. My involuntary shivers were ample evidence of having experienced maximum pleasure at the sticky hands of Mr. Kreme and the skilled fingers of the ReBorn crew.

Unfortunately, the time had come to part ways and begin the penultimate portion of the Malaysian excursion. Left alone in the wilds of KL, I was exposed and vulnerable, like a lone piece of chocolate cake thrust into the midst of an obesity support group. The only pressing issue would be making my way from downtown back to my old pal, KL International Airport. Rather than go the ghetto route and take the cheaper express bus (8RM), I decided to try the KLIA Ekspres from KL Sentral Stesen [Editor's note: you'll please forgive the lack of "sic" designation for those mangled English words, which should read, in order, as "express", "central" and "station." But I'm sure you were smart enough to figure out the Manglish already.]

Olde Station

JUMP! Old Station

The "ekspres" train was cheap nonetheless, costing only 35RM for a ride that took less than an hour and was enjoyed in relative peace and quiet. Arriving at KLIA, I looked at my watch. I still had about 7 hours to go before departure, so this was primed to be a very, very long evening.

Should you find yourself in a similar monotonous circumstance, refer to the following:

Neil's KLIA Survival Field Diary

Hour 1 - Airport pretty nice. Clean, spacious. Doesn't smell. Sure beats China. After checking in, rushed to the bathroom to clean off the day's filth. Used the trusty ass-blast hose to clean the dirt off my flip-flopped feet. Contacts out, glasses on. Ready for the long haul. Went to the viewing platform. Not very interesting and too far from the main terminal. Expected to see planes taking off and landing, but instead saw a bunch of people equally as bored out of their minds, waiting for their own flights that were hours away. Hungry. Wonder if there's anything good after customs?

Hour 2 - God bless McDonalds. My last beefburger in Malaysia. Customs and immigration were a breeze. Luckily I don't have swine flu. I see the quarantine areas, but nobody seems to be detained. Sigh of relief. What to do now? Terminal A is a fucking ghost town.

Hour 3 - Took tram to Terminal B and C where all the action is. Felt good to take that giant dump in peace. Five pounds lighter, I gather. Checked email quickly on the free terminals. Facebook was blocked. Apparently "dating" sites aren't allowed here. I didn't know Facebook counted as a dating site... Now how am I going to find my future Muslim wife?!

Hour 4 to 6 - KLIA wins the award for best waiting area. The seats here are extended with foot rests and in reclining positions for weary travelers stuck here with nothing to do. Grab a water and hunker down with a book I bought yesterday. Chuck Palahniuk's Snuff. He's one of my faves, met him a few years back. This one is about a porn star who is going to break the gang bang world record. Classic literature, if you ask me.

Hour 7 - That was a good book. Quick chai latte at Starbucks and tram back to Terminal A. All I need to do is find the large group of loud and obnoxious people. There it is, flight back to Shanghai. God, I don't want to leave this wonderful land...

On the plane, I strapped on my air pillow and pulled my hooded sweatshirt over my face. It was almost 2AM and I had to be in the office in a mere 6 hours. I'd have murdered someone if I didn't get in a good dose of sleep. Luckily, I was exhausted enough to pass out almost immediately.

Five hours later, we landed in Pudong. Back on Chinese soil.

When I reached home and hurled my bags into my room, I stumbled into the bathroom to clean up quickly before work. Staring into the mirror, I was happily surprised. Nice, even tan. Refreshed look of contentment and happiness on my face. Hair stylishly disheveled. I was a walking zombie, but strangely enough, a sexy walking zombie. Vacations really do work.

Malaysia Boleh!

(Or, A Short History of Malaysia in Three Parts, Part DUA)

Penang:
Skeletons of Imperialism & Makan Madness

If there were one place in the world where I would happily relocate purely for the food, it would be Malaysia. From the jumbled mess of cultures that officially call this country home, the cuisine of the land is the true melting pot that America could never be. The glorious cultural threeway of the Malay, Chinese and Indian locals has given birth to one of the most distinctive food scenes in the world, one which I am surprised isn't more well-known or globally recognized. All the better: best to keep this little secret to ourselves, shall we?

From morning to night, it's all about eating. The Italians, Japanese and Chinese, though superior cuisines they may claim, have nothing on Malaysian street food. The Thai and Taiwanese nightmarket scenes come close, but fail to even catch a whiff of the Malaysian hawker's sandaled-foot as he runs off into the insanity of the nightly hawker market chaos. The sheer variety is staggering, whether you're in the mood for heavy and spicy Indian curries and rice, that familiar Chinese noodle goodness or a little Muslim-safe halal Malaysian.

The hawker centers are the places to be. A sprawling open-air market that focuses solely on food, no frills and no pretense. Singapore is full of them; they've even gone as far as creating a sterile and centralized version - the Makansutra Glutton's Bay at the Esplanade - which is just another example of Singapore's Disney-fication of the real stuff up on the northern mainland.

Here in Malaysia, hawker centers are grimier, packed with voracious eaters, buzzing with multilingual yelling, enthusiastic slurping and open-mouthed chomping, and an anxious level of intensity seeping from the pores of these laksa-craving zombies on their nightly hunt. Gangs of young folk, families out for dinner, lovers trying their hardest to walk hand-in-hand through the thick crowd: the hawker center is the great equalizer.

If you love your food done right, this is where you come.

Walking into the walkway rows at the hawker centers, which are flanked on both sides by wheel-able pushcart stalls serving up anything your gluttonous heart desires, you'll need to engage in improvised dance to avoid being scalded by open bowls of steaming noodles, attacked by plates of hot fried fritters, or molested by an overly touchy auntie (or uncle) who is out on the prowl for some young meat. And don't forget the endless piles of plastic tables and chairs, covered in splatters and drippings from night after night of satisfaction. It would be best to leave that new pair of white shoes or trousers at home.

Nowhere is this crazy awesomeness better illustrated than on the sleepy island of Penang.

In Penang, the premier hawker spot is on Gurney Drive, a prime seafront boulevard that overlooks the ocean along the northern coast of the island (about a 15 RM cab ride from central Georgetown or the ferry jetty). Stretching out as far as the eye can see, and conspicuously bisected into halal and non-halal sections, the Gurney Drive hawker center is paradise. I almost started weeping with joy when we stepped foot onto the sticky concrete and began our walk of reconnaissance up and down the aisles, trying our best to choose just which stall was going to have the privelage of serving me my very first assam laksa. To say that it is overwhelming is a slight understatement. If you've ever been to a Chinese nightmarket, you know how crowded it can get. Now multiply that by a couple digits and you have an idea of what it's like here.

On our first visit, we were wise enough to come before the evening crowds descended like crows to a delicious, spicy carcass. It was before 6pm and the final gasp of the day's sunlight provided natural lighting for our meal. We effortlessly found a full plastic table all for ourselves, giving us enough space to spread out all the spoils. Commence makan madness.

Gurney Before Sunset

First, the laksa. A noodle soup with spicy broth base, laksa is typically made with a creamy coconut milk-based soup - popular in most of Malaysia and Singapore - but Penang has it's own version, called assam laksa. My tongue felt that this variant was closer to Thai flavoring, since it uses a thinner, less creamy soup that is quite sour from the lime and basil and ginger. And spicy. Very spicy. Topped with assorted bits of pork and fish and green veggies and sprouts and love, it was a very good start, though my heart still belongs to the creamier versions found in Singapore and Sarawak.

Assam Laksa

Next, we enjoyed one of my personal favorites: char kuey teow. In the local Hokkien dialect, "char" is the same as Mandarin's "chao", which means "fried." Basically fried rice noodles or ho fun. In the Malay-Chinese style, they toss in egg, cockles and more spice, giving it a sweeter and spicier tang (whereas the typical Cantonese version most Americans are familiar with would have bean sprouts, sliced meat and green scallions, with a salty soy-based gravy). This is not to be confused with plain kuey teow, which is not fried, but rather swimming in a clear soup broth with some corpulent fish balls and blanched veggies (scroll down a few paragraphs). In either state, kuey teow is amazing.

Char Kuey Teow

Now we come to a little source of controversy. The carrot cake. Carrot cake, you say? How did one of the most delicious of Western desserts become a Malaysian favorite? Because of the misnomer. Or rather, the cultural misunderstanding that may make it seem like a misnomer.

I have always called this stuff luo-bo gao (Cantonese "lo but go") or radish cake, one of my favorite foods ever and made expertly by my old man every Chinese New Year. Much to the chagrin of my Malaysian pals, I refuse to acknowledge this holy dish as "carrot cake." However, their argument is as follows: in Chinese, white radish are called white carrots ("bai luo bo") and those long orange things that rabbits eat are called red carrots ("hong luo bo"). So technically, "luo bo gao" could be translated as carrot cake. I still grumble at the inconsistency between Chinese communities, but who am I to be picky. Whatever it is called, the stuff is almost the same, incorporating the shredded flesh of a hefty white radish into some flour and assorted salty food bits, which creates a soft cake perfect for steaming or frying in slices. Here, they use the same cake, but chop it up into bits and fry it with egg, resulting in a pile of fried chunks. Results are neither "carrot" nor cake. Silly Malaysians.

Similar in chunky appearance to the aforementioned carrot-confused dish, we have the Taiwanese staple: oh-ah-jian, the fried (jian) oyster (oh-ah) pancake. Almost as simple as the carrot cake, this dish takes a heaping crapload of juicy, briney oysters, fried with fluffy egg and green chives into a glorious glutinous mass topped with tangy sweet pink sauce. Over in Formosa, you'd be a fool to pass this up at the night markets. Here, you'd be the same fool if you missed the oh-ah-jian.

Oh! Ah!

My least favorite of the sitting was the otak-otak. Nothing personal against this sticky log of steamed egg and fish bits in a banana leaf. It had a strange consistency, kind of like soft custard, but with a strange texture that unfortunately reminded me of the cooked coagulated blood that clings to a nice steak or burger fresh from the grill. If that description doesn't get your food libido boiling, I don't know what could. In any case, I find no need to try this dish ever again. I'll go out on a limb and say I'd much rather tackle another durian, purely for the masochistic experience. To each his own.

Oh-no, otak~!

Iced Water chestnut Juice = YUM

Once the eating finished, we topped ourselves off with banana fritters and some retail therapy at the nearby Gurney Plaza mall and entertainment complex. Oh how lovely it was to shop in an environment without Chinese clerks crowding around you, smelly people fighting over sale racks or queuing for hours just to use a fitting room with spit and other assorted mystery fluid on the floor. In British India, a sort of Banana Republic meets safari outpost, I experienced service that I daresay have never even had in the US. It was like having my own personal shopping assistant; I didn't have to leave the dressing room! And lest you think it was due to the fairness of my skin, you'll note that my Malaysian friend also got the same top treatment. Malaysian hospitality at its finest.

It had only been a few hours since last stuffing my face with a tasty morsel, but digestive logic be damned, I was hungry again. Luckily for my American heart, there was a McDonalds on the ground floor of the mall. To balance out all the Malaysian food I had been consuming, mind you. Here, in order to protect the Muslim populace from any potentially disaster via consumption of pork products (see: Allah's wrath), hamburgers go one step more specific and are labeled as "beefburgers." The breakfast sausage patties are also noticeably made of chicken or beef. There's no bacon burger here, for which I quietly weep. Value meals also include ayam goreng (fried chicken) and McCongee (bubur ayam, or rice porridge), the latter of which surprisingly has enough calories to rival a pile of french fries. Go figure. After getting down with my Filet O' Fish and french fries covered in sweet chili sauce, it was time to call it a night. Mere hours in Penang and I had barely cracked the surface of the makan fantasy land.

Abandoned Building in Penang

The next day at a nearby Mr. Pot, our food tour (disguised as proper sightseeing) began with a classic breakfast staple: kaya toast and kopi. While the Brits and Australians have such nonsense as marmite and vegemite, the Malaysians were sensible enough to create an actual ENJOYABLE breakfast spread to be culturally associated with.

Kaya is made of egg, coconut and pandan. The egginess depends on whether you're eating Malaysian or Singaporean kaya. Creamy, grainy and fragrant, like a thick applesauce without the tartness, kaya is spread over thick, wheaty toast and garnished with a huge square of butter. Paired with kopi ("coffee"), it is bliss.

In Malaysia, they like their coffee white. And I like my white coffee cold, taking the thick black coffee and mixing with generous amount of milk and sugar, shaken vigorously with a handful of ice cubes. On a humid disgusting day where even the morning air is thick with moisture, there is nothing like it. If Dunkin Donuts learned how to make this kind of iced coffee, I can guarantee American obesity rates would triple within months.

Kaya Toast and Kopi

To pass the time in between meals, we resigned ourselves to some sightseeing. Luckily Penang is not only one of the best places for food in the country, but it is also a prime locale for anyone looking to immerse themselves in rich and eye-popping heritage sites.

Knock, Knock

The central hub of the action is Georgetown, the northeastern quadrant of the island. This is the place the British set up shop along their imperialist trade routes, injecting the grandeur of English architecture and landscaping into a previously rural tribe land.

Nearly everything in the area holds some kind of historical value, so a leisurely stroll under the intense and blinding sun will afford you a pretty good idea of why this entire town is a protected UNESCO heritage site. From the grandiose electric-blue Cheong Fatt Tze mansion to the pair of marble-white churches (St. George's and the Cathedral of the Assumption), the stately Supreme Court complex and Convent Light Street girl's school, we got a quick taste of the layered history of the island within a half hour.

Cheong Fatt Tze Mansion

Church of the Assumption

Olde British Tombs

Protestant Cemetery

Wandering down a quiet side street, we ended up on the waterfront, just in time to catch some local Chinese Malays doing their morning fishing. It was peaceful and heartwarming to see some non-tourists engaging in real life activities, but the day beckoned.

Catch Me A Winner

Past the imposing Town and City Halls and sweating to death under the brutal late morning sun, we arrived at the centerpiece of the Colonial District and the big must on any visitor's itinerary: Fort Cornwallis.

Penang Town Hall

Penang City Hall

The fort (also known as Kota Cornwallis) was the first outpost and settlement established by the British in 1786 by Captain Francis Light and his merry band of colonizing men, women, children, chickens and horses. They renamed Penang (properly spelled Pinang, the Bahasa word for the bloody betelnut) as Prince of Wales Island, a name that stuck until Malaysian independence was attained in the mid-twentieth century.

Within the protective red brick walls of the old fort - built on the blood and sweat of convict labor! - the expanse of the interior stretches considerably into the distance. There's a spooky and very ascetic chapel on the grounds (the first built on the island), a stock house, even a prison room to lock up the naughty men caught buggering the goats in the dead of night.

She Swore She Was 18!

The brick and stone are overrun with grass and weeds, lending a pleasant ruined flair to the site. I was surprised to see a pair of old horses still grazing along the upper turrets, sadly abandoned by their masters, who must have kicked the bucket over a hundred years ago.

Off To The Glue Factory

Along the sea-facing wall of the fort, a series of cannons wait patiently for the day when they can be used against any potential invaders. The queen mother cannon, Seri Rambai, found her way to the fort after being passed around like a cheap hooker, first from the Dutch to the sultan of Johor (southern Malaysia), and then the Acehnese, then the sultan of Selangor and finally relocated by pirates. Such a complicated journey for such an unimpressive weapon that time and technology have rendered useless. From island protector to tourist snapshot.

JUMP! Kota Cornwallis

Local Muslim Women, Not To Be Confused With The Middle Eastern Tourists
(You can tell by the head scarf that allows their faces to show)

These days, if anyone ever wanted to invade Penang, they'd just have to dock at the jetty and have one of the taxi uncles drop them off at the nearest hotel. However, a note of advice to potential colonizers: make sure to bargain hard for the taxi fee or check with your hotel beforehand, because they don't use meters in Penang.

We learned the hard way, after getting swindled out of 10 RM by a lovely taxi uncle named Ah-Fook, who even had the balls to offer us a ride to the airport on departure day. Wouldn't you know, the first and only time we got tricked in Malaysia was by a Chinese. We would luck out on subsequent rides, most comfortingly with Uncle Yeoh (the local pronunciation of my last name, Yang/Yeung), an ex-school teacher turned cabbie who played us Rod Stewart and Barry Manilow joints. He even told dirty jokes and called me "young boy," thinking I was just 18 years old. Gross flattery and toilet humor: the keys to my heart.

Penang has the best license plates EVER: most of them start with "PEE"!

You'll note it has been a few paragraphs since my last mention of food. Apologies to the fatties and foodies in the audience for my egregious transgression. Like you, at this point, we were right famished. Our original plan was to have afternoon tea at the grand Eastern and Oriental Hotel, but Lonely Planet failed to correctly note their times of operation (note: starts at 2pm, not noon, and there is no strict dress code). Quickly rearranging our schedule, we wasted no time. Ride forth, young soldiers, to Chinatown and Little India.

Strolling Down The Back Streets

A few blocks south of the colonial heritage district, the big British buildings fade away and the rows of streetside shops dazzle your eyes in the midday sun with their colorful rainbow facades. Peach pink, seafoam green, canary yellow. It looks a box of Crayola blew its happy load on the entire neighborhood. Total sensory overload.

On one block, the rich smells of food float from doorways, the fragrance of incense wafts from the Chinese temples. A few paces down, dense crowds of chocolate brown men with black mustaches scuttle from shop to shop, the tunes of Bollywood jams blasting from crackling speakers. Then, the air is pierced by the cry of the imam beckoning devout Muslims to salat (prayer) five times a day.

Kapitan Keling Mosque

This is more like it.

For lunch, we conveniently happened upon the best kuey teow shop in town (corner of Lebuh Pitt and Lebuh Armenian). Sitting at our ancient plastic fold table under the warm blast of the wall-mounted fans, staring at the jumble of framed critic reviews and celebrity photos hanging from the dirty walls, we tucked into a steaming hot bowl of these divine noodles.

The white rice noodles were covered with a generous portion of buoyant fish balls, a leafy green or two, and some crunchy mystery bits. Dunked into soy sauce with local fiery chili peppers, the fish balls were chewy mouthfuls of goodness. Washed down with a tart spiced nutmeg ice drink, it made me completely forget about that uppity British tea. Once we finished the noodles, we were still hungry, so we ordered some fresh deep-fried spring rolls, wrapped the minute we ordered them. For just a few bucks, it was a perfect lunch experience.

Kuey Teow Soup with Fish Balls

Springrolls

Nutmeg Ais

"Moved to Here":
Great, glad we found you!

Carrying on with the sightseeing, we meandered down a few blocks to the famous Khoo Kongsi (Khoo Family Clan House/Temple, located at Lebuh Pitt and Jln Masjid Kapitan Keling).

Beforehand, I was cautious about this visit, having been templed-out from my travels through the Chinese mainland. But surprise, surprise, this one was a stunner. Much like the Taiwanese folk temples, the explosion of color and detail at the Khoo temple was astounding. Schizophrenic even. Pictures cannot bring justice to this site; there aren't enough megapixels to capture all the minute detail covering every millimeter of the building.

Khoo Kongsi

Inner Doorway

Nice Lantern

Buddha Is A Sabbath Fan

At this point in the day, it was hot enough to melt sneaker soles into the pavement and so humid my thighs were trying to break out of my pants for a breath of fresh air. The heat was so intense that my dripping sweat was actually washing my sunscreen off my body, which resulted in pretty white skin lines ribboning through patches of red sunburn. Like a patchwork kilt on my chest.

Nowhere To Hide From The Sun!

After a few blocks of trudging past dilapidated old shops and stores closed for the holiday weekend, we found solace at the amazing Pinang Peranakan Mansion. The Peranakan people of Malaysia, also known as Baba- (man) Nyonya (woman), were the original Chinese inhabitants of the area, even more ancient than the waves of Chinese immigrants that followed over the centuries. They were the first to step foot on this land. As such, they were some rich sons of bitches.

Peranakan Museum

Stepping foot inside the lime green villa on Lebuh Gereja, you can taste the luxury and grandeur in the air. Though, for some reason, it didn't feel nouveau-riche tacky like a wealthy Chinese mainlander or American ghetto superstar. Most easily described as decadent Victorian charm mixed with the most dynastic of Chinese tastes, the interior decor clashes two very different cultural aesthetic sensibilities into one gloriously ornate, over-the-top mess.

Stairwell

Dining Room

Sitting Room and Dining Room

Time for another food check. It has been three paragraphs, so now's as good a time as any for another foray into food.

Are You The Delivery Guy!?

The Eastern and Oriental Hotel (10 Lebuh Farquhar) was established in 1884 as the swanky hotspot for all the hottest Brits in town to mingle and swap tales of malaria and secret miscegenation with the locals. Rudyard Kipling, Noel Coward and Charlie Chaplin are but three famous faces that have passed through the doors of this colonial landmark. I would be yet another, enjoying a spot of tea in the lazy haze of the late day sun.

E&O

E&O's afternoon tea runs from 2 to 5 pm daily. For about 40 RM (80 RMB or a little over $10 US), you get a choice of fragrant tea in a bottomless pot with all the milk and sugar fixings, a pile of sweet and savory goodies, like chicken pie and pasty, scones with jam and cream, cheesecake, chocolate tarts, cookies, and finger sandwiches filled with roast beef, salmon or cucumber. Seriously filling and a hoity-toity change of pace from all the streetside hawker gorging. I've had better (see: Ritz Carlton in HK or Sally Lunn's in Bath) and I've had worse (see: Peninsula Hotel in HK). Overall, very good value for money and a moment's solace from the heat and hustle waiting outside the huge French doors.

So. Good.

Luxury

After tea, we went for a short stroll along the hotel's seaside walkway. Peaceful waves lapped against the rocky shore, the bright blue afternoon sky creating shimmering diamonds on the surface of the water, the ivory hotel gleaming in the afternoon sunlight.

Peace and Tranquility

Suddenly, out of nowhere, a crow barreled from the sky and nailed a little bird in mid-air, grabbing its pitifully small head in its dagger-like beak. This all transpired about 5 feet from my face, the faint "pufft" from the feathery impact making me cringe away like a naughty child about to get smacked by a parent. The unfortunate prey, which looked like a chickadee, was squeaking and futilly flailing about as the crow landed along the cobblestone pathway and just tore it apart. There were two fat local kids playing on the hotel lawn nearby who stopped dead in their tracks and just started screaming. It was hilarious. Nothing like the cruel ferocity of nature unfolding in front of you while you digest your cucumber sandwich.

They Will Be Scared Of Crows For The Rest Of Their Lives

That night, having completed our itinerary in a shockingly efficient amount of time (Seven hours, 9:30AM to 4:30PM, about 20 sights total), we were free to do whatever we wanted. Which was to go straight back to Gurney Drive. Since we had just topped up on pastries and tea, it wasn't yet time for Gurney hawker makan. So we did what any deprived, long-term China resident in a considerably-less-totalitarian foreign land would do with a few hours to kill. We went to the movies.

Without getting too tangential, I will state the following: X-Men 1 was good. X2 is a classic. X3 is worthy of the drippings of sick that cling to my ass after a real bad diarreah explosion. X-Men Origins: Wolverine occupies the dangerous crevice between X1 and X3. While I enjoyed it - primarily for Deadpool and Gambit, my two favorite childhood favorites - it lacked that depth and meat that made X2 a classic of the genre. And now I've gone a put half of you into a nerd-averse coma. Apologies, let us continue...

After getting berserk with Hugh Jackman - during which time I just couldn't help myself and had a bucket of sweet caramel popcorn and big cup of Coke, whaaaat?!? - we ran to the hawker center.

The night before, we visited before sunset, before the crowds. On this night, Gurney was in full swing. It was like a Chinese train station during holiday season. Like making your way through a mosh pit. Everyone was out tonight. Traffic gridlocked, crowds packed into any empty space available. The noise level had increased tenfold, entire families staking claim to free tables that were now as scarce as a pube on a pornstar. Luckily the people were relatively civil, unlike in China where I'd have already flipped my durian and gone ballistic. Under the glow of hundreds of exposed lightbulbs illuminating the haze, I found one small table and held down the fort while the night's food was retrieved by my ever-so-patient buddy.

Hi Ivy!

As I sat in wait, the tables around me were buzzing. One group of ostentatious queer boys were hamming on about something in high-pitched Manglish (Malaysian mixed with English), while a family of chunky locals hunkered down beside them for a full dinner spread. Behind me, a group of older aunties staked claim to a table and waited for their friends to bring the food, just like me. The uncle from the beverage stall stopped by their table and asked if they wanted anything to drink. They politely refused and he moved on. I ordered some water chestnut ice drink and continued to wait.

When he came back, he passed me my drink and immediately shot a mean glare at the table of ladies behind me. After they had refused beverage uncle mere minutes beforehand, one had gone off to get drinks from another beverage stall in a different section. This is a big hawker makan no-no, kids. Very poor etiquette, like crossing gang territory and wearing the wrong colors or dillying your best friend's sister in a pub bathroom. He wasn't having any of it, so he stormed over and asked them why they went off and gave their business to someone else, when they were clearly sitting on his turf. He told them they had to move. The harsh penalty for their grievous faux pas. After words were exchanged and much whining ensued from the gaggle of ladies, I suppose some deal was cut in the form of hastily purchased drinks. They remained seated and he went away. A quick lesson in the dos and don'ts of the hawker universe: don't fuck with beverage uncle.

My attention returned to the agenda at hand when the food train returned. First up: fried pig intestine noodles (zhu chang mian). But not really pork innards. Just noodles that LOOK like pig intestines. Duh, such obvious naming conventions. These thick glutinous rolls of white rice noodle were doused in sweet hoisin sauce, red chili and soy, making for an overwhelming carb-overload that nearly filled me up. A quick bowl of tangy assam laksa was also wolfed down, followed by the Malaysian version of wonton noodles, i.e. dry, no soup, tossed with thin egg noodles, barbecued pork (char siu) and leafy greens.

Makan Happy Times

The crowd was building and our stress level was noticeably increasing. Once the last wonton was deposited into my belly bank, we had to escape. It was relatively early for a weekend night, but the crowds were reaching China levels. We caught a taxi and returned to the hotel to digest, hibernating like boa constrictors after a really sweet kill. We would leave bright and early the next day for the final leg of the journey, Kuala Lumpur. After partaking in all of the local ambrosia, I did not want to leave Penang.

Next episode: Off to the big city, Kuala Lumpur!