[dc]G[/dc]ot the city bus out to the suburban mountain town of Air Itam (cool name) to pay visit to the Kek Lok Si temple. One of Southeast Asia’s most famous, it’s nothing if not massive and sprawling.
And the setting is pretty special.
For some reason, though, I felt a bit underwhelmed by the place. Certainly worth visiting, I thought; but not really deserving of its renown. Looking, now, at the pics, however, it seems to me that I may not have given it its due.
There really are some beautiful moments to behold.
Climbing up the pagoda is fun: there’s a shrine at each level; but they each look as though they’ve not been touched since about 1953.
View from up there is pretty great, too.
And, what?, there’s always this.
So, yeah: give it a look, sez I.
[dc]Y[/dc]esterday, Wednesday, visited, on recommendation, the Blue House mansion.
Belonged to some dude who arrived in Penang with only the rags on his back, and built some sort of big commercial empire. One is only permitted to visit under the auspices of a guided tour. No photos allowed – but in fact, the tour was more interesting than house itself; so didn’t miss the camera too very much.
After, was heading down to the Market to get some lunch, and heard somebody hailing me (or so I thought). Turned around, and it was the crazy Indian mofo from last week!
“This is fate!” he triumphantly exhorted. “This is fate that we should meet again! I was just walking here, la; and I went into this alley to urinate…” (This would be the first of very many moments busting my gut.) “…Otherwise, I never would have seen you.”
I asked, just out of curiosity, how often he prefers to “urinate” in the alley? He took the innocent query as an affront to his decency, however; going to great pains to explain that of course if there’d been a coffee shop around, he’d have gone in; but that the alley was the only site available. He even pulled me back to show me precisely where he’d done the deed, and that it had been out of sight of the general public.
Then he was off and running with many of his same crazy postulations, plus lots of others besides. He also went pretty meta at times, at one point even professing that the “spirits” were giving him a bad vibe about me – because of the abrupt manner in which I’d cut off our previous conversation. (At 2:00 in the fricking AM, recall!)
“That’s your hang-up, man; it’s not mine,” I assured him.
“I even gave you the royal send-off!” He had walked with me about half-way back to my hostel, before breaking away. There I was, on the floor again.
And then a third time when I was egging him on about his belief in god. “So you don’t believe in Santa Clause? But you do believe in god? What’s the difference?”
“They are not the same. Santa Clause is a charlatan! He is an evil man! God is pure.”
Wow, hadn’t expected that response!
When I asked him for how long he’d be in Penang, he allowed as he didn’t know, because the spirits had sent him for special purpose; i.e., to teach people.
“You mean, like a prophet?”
“Prophet!” But he didn’t exactly like to use that term. Still, he’s here, he says, “saving lives”.
How I do wish I had had a dictaphone on this day, I must tell you! But I didn’t, and that’s that. Did, however, manage to wing a shot of him. The one on the left.
Passed some dudes in a shoppe, and they remarked upon my Watermelon. I offered to share, as I always do; but these guys actually took me up on the offer.
Hadn’t expected them to take such a big cut; but I seen them later on, and they said they’d quite loved it; so I guess everybody wins.
Asked the Indian weirdo if I’d gained some Karma points for having shared; but he said that I had not, because the recipients had not been deserving. Fucking nut.
But get this! He was hammering his Karma crap again, this time in re the pilot of the Enola Gay. Apparently, he went insane afterward, and the Indian gent was exceedingly thrilled by this supposed Karmic comeuppance. “He could have refused to fly, but he didn’t.”
“But those 200,000 people are still dead,” I protested, bringing in the same line of argument from our previous conversation.
He again accused me of muddling and confusing the issue, of “digging too deep”. But a while later, he told me that he was beginning to reconsider – that he’s now not so sure in the utility of Karma as a purveyor of justice.
[dc]T[/dc]o-day Kam, the durian-loving hostel staffer, and three of his friends (whom he’s known since school-days) drove out to the little burg of Balik Pulau – the epicenter of the island’s Durian output — me tagging along with. Sonny, the driver, took us off-road and up a mountain to a small farm, and out we pigged.
Here’s the farmer, with the freshly fallen fruit.
And here are the five of us, just getting ready to blow our ways into the first offering, a truly killer Red Prawn.
Beautiful Kun Poh here; this is becoming one of my preferred varieties.
This dog was all scavenging the seeds – but it later got smacked by a flying husk!
Behold the trees of wonder!
After we’d gobbled them all down, they all went inside and bought up some huge quantities of freshly made Durian Cake. (It’s not really a cake — more like soft candy. I even had a bit of it, and it was quite good.)
Back in town, they stopped for Laksa; a kind of fish/noodle soup. Apparently Penang’s Laksa is the best in the world, and Balik Pulau’s the best in Penang.
Then we visited some Durian stalls, and loaded the truck up.
When we arrived back in George Town, I was informed that the hostel had arranged for me to take a homestay tomorrow night at another farm back in Balik Pulau. Uh, yeah: they really go above and beyond here at this hostel! I mean, though vaguely aware of the existence of on-farm homestays, I’d not even inquired about the arranging of such a thing. I tell ya: when there’s a Durian-loving farang in town, the locals go all-out.
Walking through the Market in the afternoon, my eyes popped out of my gourd at the size of these Jakfruits.
Geez, it’s enough to make one suspect that the phrase “Holy shit!” was invented in the anticipation that somebody would someday make witness to these very fruits, and be in need of some way to react. Anybody else reminded of that Far Side? “Early vegetarians returning from the kill.” (Sorry the image is so small; it’s the only one I could find.)
So, my evening meal was the two fruits purchased back in Balik Pulau. First up, a Ling Fun Chao. Not sure about the spelling – but the variety is named after Jackie Chan’s wife.
When I’d purchased it, Sally had asked me to save one pod for her; ‘cause she wanted to give it a try. Of course, like a jackass, I totally forgot to do. Hour or so later, when she showed up, was a pretty horrifying feeling.
[dc]T[/dc]his week of Durian Ecstasy has not been without its cost. In my addled state, I have managed to:
Lose my juggling balls! Next day, when I realised that I’d lost them, I went back to where I’d last been using them, but they were nowhere to be found. This is certainly the worst tragedy to have befallen me during my stay in Asia. If I can’t find replacements, I guess I’ll have to use some rocks or something.
Lose one of my camera’s batteries. It was the bullshit off-brand one; but at least a crap backup was better that no backup at all.
Get sunburnt over much of my person.
Fall down off a step while trying to get a better angle to view a piece in a museum. Bruised my keister and torqued my back a little. No biggie, as it happens. Still…
Not to be messed with, these Penang Durian!
Friday eve. I finally et me a Red Prawn.
Oh, my. That’s what all the fuss is about!
Also met Faisal’s grand-uncle; the owner of a Durian orchard here on the island. He was asking me, if I recall, whether my travels had interrupted my time in the military. “No! Never been! Never would! I hate that shit!”
Confused, he asked is not it mandatory in the States to serve in the military? Nah, it ain’t, I corrected. Still confused, he asked, what about Mike Tyson?
“Mike Tyson?? … In the military? … Not that I’m aware of!”
He was sure he’d heard something about Mike Tyson having done time for having skipped out on his military obligations. Of course, it then struck me that he was confusing Mike Tyson with Muhammad Ali; and fifty years ago with nowadays.
Funny, isn’t it, how odd little bits of cultural ephemera can get all twisted and tangled like that?
By Saturday, Hassan declared, upon my arrival, that there was not much new left for me to try. He wanted to sell me a “Ganja” (I guess that’s really what it’s called), but when he opened it up, he didn’t like the looks of it.
“What about D600?” I wondered. He was surprised to learn that I’d not yet tried this variety; and so it was off to the races. The D600 was quite nice; but it was the D2, which I did next, what really threw me for a loop. So good I had to immediately order another of the same variety.
They call during a “heaty” fruit: it makes you sweat. Mangosteens are frequently taken to counteract the effect. But for me, the effect is slight or even non-existent. Except with the D2 – I was burning up well into the night. Pretty crazy.
Sunday, the last day of the fest, it was really getting down to the nitty-gritty; as they didn’t want to take any Durian home with them. But when I arrived, there was still a massive Red Prawn available:
Just as I was getting ready to dig in, Faisal stopped by with a lovely Cei Poi. I polished that one off first, before moving on to the Red Prawn, and then another D2 to finish the festivities with.
Sunday, the prize-competing fruits were lined up, awaiting their destiny.
I was sizing them up, and Faisal came over and just started rattling them off: “That’s a Musan King, that’s a Hor Lor, that’s a Cei Poi, that’s a Capri…” The kid is a prodigy.
At the end of the night, after all the Durian had been sold, and all the fixtures broken down and loaded into the truck to take back to the shop, Faisal and Hassan presented me with a gift:
My very own Durian Knife! Yeah, yeah, I remember: I said before that to open a Durian with a knife is a sacrilege. I still believe this in principle; but, when in Rome…
I ended up back at the shop again Sunday night, hanging out for a while. But it was almost midnight, so Faisal was too tired to drive me back up to George Town, and instead his father did the honours. He says that next year when I arrive, he will teach me how to speak Malaysian. For beginners, he taught me to say, “My name is Eddie.” But I’ve already fucking forgotten it. (Well, except for the “Eddie”.)
Meanwhile, staffer at the hostel who loves to talk Durian with me says he knows a guy who knows a guy, and he’s going to see if he can get me a job working on a Durian farm next year. Stay tuned!
Moreover, arrived to-day with an armload of Durian fruit whilst he and a handful of friends were sitting around shooting the shit. They were all amazed that I was able to list off my fave varieties; and aghast when I was able to pound down my entire day’s catch in one sitting. They promptly invited me to join them in a visit a few days hence for a Durian-farm pigout.
Haw haw; the vendor from whom I purchased my Durian to-day was also quite shocked when I told him it’d be of no moment to knock them all out. “Jesus Christ, you are just like that other guy…” He’s met a farang here on the island who eats Durian and only Durian for the duration of the season. Don’t think he’s seen him around this year, however.
Bottom line: Malays, they may be snobs when it comes to the quality of their Durian; but when they find a farang able to exhibit even a modicum of knowledge of and appreciation for their prized crop, the hosannas, from on high will they rain. (For the record: in truth, I’m such a piker when it comes to Durian obsession; but my protests are never able to find purchase with the locals…)
[dc]T[/dc]he non-Durianical news will need to be short-and-sweet this time; just too many interesting people here to leave much time for blogging.
In re the temples: still great!
Note to proles: fuck off and die, because, “Executive Committee are selected by Divine through Lord Buddha.”
This one temple was having a goddam super-mega smokeout day the other day. I wasn’t the only one brought to tears.
Speaking of smoke, a shoppe in Little India went up in flames yesterday. Huge throng of rubberneckers converged upon the scene to see what was what.
In re the galleries: pretty fucking out there, some of them!
In re the architecture: still cool.
See this shit?
It may well be the number-one tourist destination in all of George Town. Every time I walk by, there’s a big crowd there, each and all waiting to get photographed against the wall. Weird.
From the Nothing To See Here Dept.:
Doesn’t rain every day here; but when it decides to cut loose, it takes the form of a major walloping.
They’ve got these “clan jetties”, five or six of them, jutting out into the sea, with houses-on-stilts built astride them. So each of a given jetties’ houses belong to Chinese immigrants from a certain family. A real step back in time. Best of all, so peaceful way out at the end of the jetties; not a motorcycle to be heardanywhere.
Know what the one on the bottom-left means? Do tell! Best I can come up with is: “No pinching of salt.”
Night-time parade the other day. Hostel staff didn’t know the occasion; didn’t try to research it further.
Got the ferry over to the mainland ‘cause I wanted to go to the Bird Park. But when I got there, it was fuck-ass expensive, so I ended up going instead to this stoopid mall, hoping to find some juggling balls. No luck. That’s a friggin’ living embodiment of Hell over there, Butterworth: fucking pavement as far as the eye can see.
Yeah, I was at the Esplanade yesterday, Monday, doing some jumping and hopping and pull-ups and shit; dude (name of “Fadzil”, to go by his work uniform) asked why I was doing that, and I said it was pretty good cardio and so on and so forth.
“But,” he pleaded, “What about the balls?” He executed the universal juggling pantomime.
“Oh, man, I fucking lost them! I’m so sad! I…”
He cut me off: “Why?”
“Why? Fuckin’ because I’m stupid, that’s why.”
I think he’s more upset about it than I am, truth be told. I’d only ever juggled over there two or three times; but the Malaysians seem to dig it even more than do the Laotians and the Thais.
Anyhow, while over on the mainland, went to the train station to check out schedules and rates and whatnot, and some drunkards on the steps were giving me shit for my bare feet (but in a friendly way), and trying to let me buy a cellphone for 30 RM, and stuff. Dude kept hassling me, “My friend! … My friend! … My friend!” Every time I wanted to go, he had some new worldly piece of advice to give.
Finally, at the end of my rope, I turned back and snarled, “What?”
“I love you very much.” Made my god damn day. I loved him very much right back, and asked could I take his picture?
[dc]L[/dc]astly, another reminder to, come November, cast a vote against the Asshole In Chief. You’ll not be able to read this without retching.
As we observe the 50th anniversary of the Vietnam War, we reflect with solemn reverence upon the valor of a generation that served with honor. We pay tribute to the more than three million servicemen and women who left their families to serve bravely, a world away from everything they knew and everyone they loved.
From Ia Drang to Khe Sanh, from Hue to Saigon and countless villages in between, they pushed through jungles and rice paddies, heat and monsoon, fighting heroically to protect the ideals we hold dear as Americans. Through more than a decade of combat, over air, land, and sea, these proud Americans upheld the highest traditions of our Armed Forces.
It’s not just me, right: Obama’s even more rah-rah pro-military than was Kerry during the 2004 campaign? Such a fucking piece of crap.
[dc]O[/dc]kay, here’s my fucking fantasy. I would join up (or start up?) the Asian division of the ELF, and we would just obliterate every last motherfucking motorcycle on the entire landmass. Just fucking annihilating them, man. Just fucking…no prisoners, know what I’m saying? I’m talking “make a desert and call it peace” – only, it really would be peace. Think of it: no more motorcycles in Asia!
Shall we begin with Chiang Mai, or George Town? Maybe a spectacular simultaneous two-city event to announce our new campaign? We could leave behind some brochures.
Ah, well, probably I’m too cowardly (not to mention just plain lame) to actually be doing anything so righteous. But stay tuned: I may well snap.
For, George Town, much like its cousin-in-Heritage-status Luang Prabang, is an wholly intoxicating cultural/historical/architectural/sensory melange the likes of which to leave one’s head spinning ‘round and ‘round and ‘round again.
But the fucking motorcycles, brah (automobiles too, really). They’re stomping right to death this beautiful accident of space/time which is Penang Island. Deader even than Chiang Mai, maybe. And what can one cowardly farang do, save weep? If you think of something, let me know, ‘cause I’m almost running out of tears.
[dc]B[/dc]e the foregoing as it may, it didn’t prevent me from on Wednesday, following a bracing noon-hour thunderstorm,…
…really digging in to the heart of George Town; just walking the streets of the historic district, and allowing the molecules gloriously to suffuse my concisouness.
In Little India can be found, exploding out of the many record/video shoppes in the neighbourhood, the most exhilarating music in a city with a lot of it. The lively street scene is punctuated by shoppe-owners so strikingly gorgeous and utterly friendly and charming that — when admixed with the aromas emanating from their restaurants’ kitchens – I came very close to cracking and eating a Veggie Buryani. So far I have been able to resist; but for how long…?
The visiting of the gaggle of temples populating the length of Cannon street began auspiciously enough with a most excellent omen with which to begin such a journey:
And the temples? Well, the temples…
It’s interesting: the Chinese temples in Thailand seem so cartoony as to make one believe they were designed for children rather than adults. Not so here in George Town, where the Chinese temples are exquisitely beautiful and peaceful – with just enough whimsy around the edges to keep farang grounded. The Hock Teik Cheng Sin has now been entrenched as one of my very favourites in all of Asia.
The architecture around town is of course evocative and inviting.
The people-watching is phenomenal. Hell, it’s probably the most entertaining people-watching scene I’ve ever encountered anywhere.
There’s plenty of weird shit what’ll cause doubles- triples- quadruples-take.
The shoppes and galleries are to the hilt. And there’s (from the looks of it) so much more to the city and island outside the main core historic area, not to mention the country at large, that it’s little wonder ninety-day visa-free entry is so willingly granted: given such licence, the visitor will surely wind up extending his or her stay much longer than originally intended.
And on top of all this is the Durian!
But first, on the way to Times Square, a stop in to see if we could spy on a little bit of Pooja action.
Okay, maybe it’s not quite Eyes Wide Shut territory – but it’s pretty close!
[dc]I[/dc]f one would be so kind as to recall, the plan for Wednesday evening was to eat a Red Prawn. But then, I showed up and noticed some OC on display. Had never heard of this variety, but it looked so inviting that once I’d given a little whiff, it was all over.
“This one,” warned Hassan, cradling it in his hands, “this one is quite expensive. Are you sure you want to try?” It’s the same price as the Musan King.
“Let’s do it.” I was trying to sound casual and collected, you know?
That’s not Hassan modeling the OC, but rather his gruff-yet-merry Leftenant. Not sure the spelling of his name; something like “Fuoeng”, I think.
This is it, right here. This is the Durian variety for which any and all would crawl the scorchingest desert or swim the vastest ocean to be granted only the smallest of tastes. This is the One Durian to rule them all, the One Durian to find them.
Take your thesaurus and burn it, folks; because there aren’t any words.
My world melted and mind eviscerated, I then opted to try a Siow Hong, and an un-named variety. Both excellent indeed…but, I should have eaten the OC last; because after having experienced that, nothing else was going to even register.
After, stopped and watched a bit of this outdoor performance. Kind of a goofy pop vibe; I couldn’t believe, given how much I love the music in town, that it didn’t do anything for me. Dude was kind of fun to watch, though.
[dc]Y[/dc]esterday, Thursday, I walked down to the market to get me some Watermelon, and to my surprise bumped into (not almost literally this time) “Durian Darrick”. Darrick is, so far as I’m aware, the Godfather of the Durian vagabonding scene. He’s been blazing the trails for five or six years now; and Durian vendors throughout Asia know him by name.
It was his blog, The Vagabonding Vegan, which inspired me, even way back in 2008 or so, to get rid of all my crap and come to Asia to live life as a Durian fanatic. I had originally met him, briefly, in Hilo whilst he was – what else? – purchasing Durian at the Market. Recognised him, then, from the videos and pics of himself he’d posted in his blogs.
It was really great to be privilged to spend some time with him. Friendly and welcoming, yet soft-spoken and deliberate in his choice of words, he seems reluctant to accept the mantle as the progenitor of the Movement; preferring instead to inquisitively pry out little nuggets from those whose company he keeps. And, yes: we did manage to discuss subjects other than Durian.
We went to an abandoned field he’d recently discovered; me to do some juggling under a tent, he to run around the track out in the rain. He looks a bit like Caballo Blanco (R.I.P.) here, doesn’t he?
After lunch down by the sea, he took me to see his favoured Durian vendor. Upon his recommendation, I purchased a Green Skin 15 (have yet to eat it). Darrick hadn’t tried OC before, so I asked the vendor if he had any. He said that he might be able to get one for tomorrow (i.e., to-day), but that it wouldn’t be cheap. I noted that the price was the same for which I’d paid; and that in my opinion it was worth twice that price. So he reserved his OC to pick up this afternoon…
After that, he showed me his hotel. Note the bare feet – he says he’s been too self-conscious to walk around barefoot in Asia, not liking the attention drawn by the doing of same. But seeing myself prance around sans shoes, he felt liberated to do so as well. Here’s hoping his flip-flops have been forevermore retired!
He’s been staying at the same place for four years now (i.e., when Durian are in season); and he introduced me to an Australian expat who’s been in the same joint continuously for seven years. Name of “Rick”, he’s now fruitarian for three or four of those seven years.
Darrick busted out and shared with us a Kapili he’d had stored in his room. The same price as the Musan and the OC, the one segment I had was enough to know what I’d be purchasing at Times Square in a few hours hence. Darrick said he’d had better of the same variety, however.
On the way to Times Square, I showed him a few of the temples I particularly like; and couldn’t help snapping even some more photos while so doing. (Yep, that’s the Moon there in the middle photo.)
Darrick had sat down to eat yet another Durian (the man is truly possessed); an un-named one which he’d brought along with. Alas, the temple was closing up shop for the evening, and we did must go on outside the grounds instead – where he attempted to share the Durian with any and all comers. But I turned out to be the only one who would take him up on the offer.
He then realised that he had got way too many ripe Durian back in his room to be picking up even still more of them in Times Square; so he took my leave, and I put it on the heel and toe to meet my dinner.
This gentleman, on the left there…
…stopped me and demanded to know just what in Holy Hell a farang was doing toting a Durian all around town? “Durian is my favourite!” I screamed to his surprise and delight.
He opined that, “When you taste Durian, you are in Heaven.” No truer words ever were spoke.
[dc]A[/dc]rriving to Times Square, I made a beeline for Hassan’s stall, failing to notice that finally the buffet was in session. Kenneth, a staffer at my hostel, happened to be there partaking, and came over to steer me back in that direction. “If you want to try the buffet, then you should try the buffet,” Hassan graciously demurred.
“But…” I protested to Kenneth’s confused reaction, “this man is my hero!”
They were all sold out of Kapili; and I instead chowed down, at Hassan’s suggestion, on a D17.
“Do you think you can finish it?” mused Hassan playfully.
“I’ll finish it or die trying.” I was too focused on the task at hand to think up anything urbane — or even half-assed-witty. But somehow, Hassan busted a gut laughing. It didn’t seem like a courtesy laugh; but, I dunno, maybe it was.
Possibly the smoothest/creamiest Durian I’ve yet tasted, and subtly delicious; the D17’s flavour was in fact a little too subtle to rank among my faves.
After this, I ordered up a Hor Lor. I’d tasted just a little bit a few days before, and was anxious to dig in to an entire fruit.
And…another Penang Durian for which to seek to the ends of one’s very faculties. Oh, yes, the rumours are true: Penang is Miracle Island.
While I was eating my Hor Lor, Faisal told me that he wanted to “take me around Penang” to show me his dad’s stall. This is, I think, the “Durian Paradise” about which Hassan had told me before. Turns out that Hassan is not actually Faisal’s Uncle by blood; but instead a long-time very close friend of the family — with whom I get the feeling Faisal may even have lived for a time.
I’ve been interested to observe Faisal during this week. Mostly, he seems to just languidly laze it around on one or other of the wicker chairs deployed ’round and about the festival tent, smoking clove cigarettes and perhaps goofing off with his mobile device. But every once in a while I’ve caught glimpse of even Hassan himself asking Faisal’s help in putting the ID to a given fruit.
And when the stall gets busy and Faisal gets up to help out, he takes his craft very seriously.
As an aside, Hassan doesn’t allow photography of his person. But that’s him on the far left in the first pic; and with his back to Faisal’s in the second and third pics. Don’t tell him, okay?
Eighteen years old, Faisal has been working for his father for six years. He puts as much careful consideration into negotiating Penang’s insanely busy traffic corridors as he does carving up his father’s prized delicacies. He says the shop will be closed for a few days next week, so that the family can deliver 2,000 Durian to KL for some kind of corporate staff-appreciation party. Uh…wow; 2,000 Durian! He assured me they’ll all fit onto one truck.
I told him of my intention to return to Penang next year for Durian season, and he gave me his card and told me to call him when I arrived. I told him that we had a deal; and he begged me to not forget. Perish the thought, I admonished him.
Well, maybe the shop isn’t quite the Durian overload which I’d from Hassan’s description imagined.
But it feels like home all the same. From my brief gleanings, it was clear that the shop’s customers are intensely loyal – not to mention keenly knowledgeable about and appreciative of the King Of Fruit.
Faisal was excited for me to take a photo of the shop’s brand-new banner, which has not yet even been hung. That’s his father on the right.
“Cap” is Malay for “shop”; while “Landak”, I believe, is the Malay word for “porcupine”. Durian-loving (and all-around Penang-wise) older gentleman who owns the hostel here says that porcupines are prized for their supposed aphrodisiacal and cancer-curing properties.
I wanted to purchase a Kapili, but Faisal’s father opened one up for me and insisted that it was on the house. I protested to no avail, and finally got down to the business experiencing the ripping from my feet of the ground on which I stood.
Another stunner, the Kapili moves to near the head of the class. If we would return to the Lord Of The Rings analogy, it might shake out like this:
The One Durian: OC The Three: Ang Bak Kia, Hor Lor, Kapili
Faisal then took me to meet his mother and brother. When we arrived, his mom – who’d not been expecting visitors – began to freak the fuck out over the unfolded laundry resting in a comfy chair in the family’s living room. I couldn’t enter the house until she’d got them all hidden away.
But when she finally did permit my entrance, a more warm and friendly host one could never imagine. She says I’m the first American ever to have visited her home; and it only took a little bit of prodding for her to talk my ear off for so long that Faisal at last had to protest that we needed to get back to Times Square.
His mom was in despair at my dietetic protestations against her offers of something to eat; so much so that I finally accepted a glass of Tang. She insisted that next time I visit, I must stay the night; and, after a round of picture-taking and the meeting of Faisal’s cousin and his aunties living next door, we were off; his brother deciding to come along with.
(Please, try not to notice the “Durian Belly” protruding over top of my belt there.)
On the way back into town, Faisal gave me a small tour of Penang-by-night, and when we arrived back to the festival, Hassan and co. were just getting ready to close up for the evening. (When Durian are in season, the family’s stand is open from 8:00 in the AM until 2:00 in the AM.)
Hassan promised to save a Red Prawn for me for tomorrow (i.e., to-day), and I set out to return to the hostel.
[dc]A[/dc] little more than half-way along, I was accosted by a manically charming Indian tourist incredulous at my barefoot. “But it is against all scientific reasoning!” he thundered.
I made the case that in fact it is just the opposite. Barely managing to keep quiet long enough for me to play out an argument, he continued, “Okay, maybe I can accept this during the daytime. But at night? This is…this is…” He began tripping over his words, so instead led me to a darkened corner of the sidewalk, demanding to know how I could possibly negotiate such a stretch in full confidence of the safety of the ground underfoot?
Instead of noting that the ground upon which I’d been treading was much more well lit than was this particular corner, I agreed with him that I probably shouldn’t be walking barefoot at night.
I was so enchanted with his manner that I offered to share with him the Green Skin 15 which I’d all afternoon and evening been hauling around town. This sent him off into another paroxysmic jeremiad, this one concerning the evils of the Durian’s aroma (though admitting that the taste is enjoyable).
As he was raging against the stench which needs must emanate from all who consume the fruit; I asked him if I were possessed of this wickedness? Indeed not, he assured me, standing very close. Informed that I had eaten four Durian this day, the most recent within an hour-and-a-half, he grew entirely bewildered. “But…but…but…how long does does it take, the smell, to…to…to…to…”
“Dissipate?” I offered.
“Dissipate! How long to dissipate?” A word he used again and again over the next few hours, after he led me over to a bench to sit down and chat more in depth. It’s a pretty wack worldview he’s got, but he was so entertaining, I couldn’t possibly protest at its having been time for me to go sleep my Durian dreams.
In the end, we did find quite a few points of common ideological ground. But more than that, it was a hoot engaging in a pointed back-and-forth with such a learned-yet-insane gentleman as this.
His manifesto, to put a word to it, seems to be that the great principled men of history were those – Sadat, Rabin, and Gandhi were his examples – who acted on principle even assured in the knowledge that they would be assassinated for so doing. Lincoln, meanwhile, was a “rascal” who acted not on principle but had instead been fed by a power-mad monomania.
He’s surprisingly obsessed with the American Civil War. After listening to his repeated defense of the “institution of slavery”, on logical grounds that if the slaves had been starved and mistreated, the slave-owners would had to have purchased new ones, I protested that the logical conclusion of his argument is that Africans should have been volunteering to become slaves. He accused me of muddling the argument, to which, as I say, he returned again and again.
Meanwhile, as he was trying to convince me the validity of the concept of Karma, I finally had to counter that the execution of Karmic vengeance didn’t undo the injustice for which it had been invoked. “But that is not for us to understand!! I used to think like you, a long time ago. But men are clay! Karma is not clay! Men are clay!”
On and on he went with his mad and brilliant theories; until finally, when he was beginning to get a might too repetitive, I begged off and made tracks for a bed in which to sleep.
He hadn’t, earlier, allowed me to take his picture, and had wondered if I’d wanted to know why? When I’d said that I did, he’d promised to tell me later on; but then we both forgot about it. If I see him around town again, I’ll try to steal a shot.
[dc]Y[/dc]esterday morning, Monday, (almost literally) bumped into Lindsay, co-conspirator with her partner Rob of the second-greatest blog on the entire triple-dub: Year Of The Durian. (Sorry guys, Shorpy will always be #1…)
They’re just on their way out of town, in search of the elusive (perhaps mythical) “Elephant Dung Durian”: Durian that’s been swallowed whole by an elephant, then shat out undigested – but now delicious beyond belief. Good luck, friends!
[dc]W[/dc]ouldn’t want to be seen to be endorsing British Imperialism; but who could possibly resist visiting a site called “Fort Cornwallis”? Not me!
It’s kind of neat, with a few structures still in tact after all these decades.
The displays set up giving a basic history of the fort are fun: though seemingly written by a group of eight-year-old kids, it can’t help getting in some little jibes at British and French Imperial behaviour. But the best bit is about the fort’s founder having “forked out” his own money for a needed upgrade.
There’s a goofy cannon up on the wall, overlooking the sea, about which everyone is all gaga.
I saw one girl leaning on the cannon – technically not against the rules, I guess.
Save for the traffic, it’s quite a wonderful little town. It’s not difficult to understand why it’s received World Heritage status. But here’s the difference with Luang Prabang: in the latter, most everybody gets ‘round via bicycle; while here in George Town, it’s all motorcycles and automobiles. And they’re so loud.
Still, there are certainly plenty of neat old buildings here; and the people are very friendly and interesting. And definitely some great signs.
The tallest skyscraper is something of a focal point for the city.
It looks reminiscent of a Wilco album cover, true; but its name is the real drawing card: KOMTAR. Say it with a growl in the throat, and it’s as though it were an villainous mastermind in a Saturday Morning cartoon. As the building fairly dominates the skyline, one never fails to take sight of it, and so reflexively cry out in fear of the evil dastard KOMTAR’s irrepressible minions.
Some of the temples here are pretty wild; more evocative of Haiti, perhaps, than Southeast Asia.
I arrived at one last night just in time for “Evening Pooja”.
It seemed vaguely like some kind of Eyes Wide Shut shit was getting ready to go down…
But I didn’t stick around to find out. Visited some other temples to-day, Tuesday.
Quite nice, even though…
But then, the camera’s batteries were up and finished, so I decided to put off the temple explorations, and instead visit the largest mosque in town.
Very beautiful (and the intermittent prayer calls coming from the mosques in town are stunningly, heartbreakingly gorgeous). I went to take a “guided tour” of the interior, which turned into an hour-long recruitment pitch. Wow, Islam’s even stupider than I’d realised. I mean, not as stupid as Christianity or anything; but still, pretty damned stupid.
The guided tour of the biggest church in town (the first Anglican church in Southeast Asia) was much more fun, if quite brief in duration.
Apart from the prayer calls, the music blaring out from temples, shoppes, and homes here is incredibly wonderful. Possibly even as good as in Cambodia.
[dc]D[/dc]own at Times Square, there wasn’t any kind of buffet going on; but I did manage to explode my budget all the same. Went in for a two-time prize-winning variety, the Musan King.
It’s even better than it looks. When Hassan, the wild and crazy vendor to whom we have been previously introduced, asked me how it was, I couldn’t even find the words. I managed to eke out an awestruck, “Amazing!” But that didn’t even come close to telling the story.
“This is the King Of Durian!” Hassan declared (i.e., the King of the King of fruits). “And now you are eating it; so…you might be a king!” He’s very charismatic, you can see.
Four Welsh youngsters staying here at the guest house tried their first Durian to-day. They weren’t impressed. Well, I guess if you can’t love Durian from Penang, it just wasn’t meant to be…
Meanwhile, to-day I went for another named variety, the Ang Bak Kia. As he was cutting it open for me, Hassan predicted, “When you eat this, you will be mesmerised all the way back to Seattle!” I think he’s right.
What an experience – the first time that eating a Durian has actually brought tears to my eyes (and no jokes from the cheap seats, people!). Also had a bit of Hor Lor and D11; both superior — but it’s the Ang Bak Kia which will be haunting my dreams until long after I’ve returned to the States. Pretty sure it won’t have been my last one…
Turns out, Hassan and his brother operate a quite large stall near the airport – a “Durian Paradise”, he calls it. Listening to him talk about Durian makes me want to follow him to the ends of the Earth. The Shaman and his Acolytes: “You’ll smell ‘em before you see ‘em.”
I asked how many Durian fall in Penang each season? About a million, he says. Wow! I then asked if he knew of Jim Morrison. I think he may have thought I was being a bit patronising, as he answered, “I only know Jason Mraz.” After I picked myself up off the floor, I told him that I thought that he is the Asian Jim Morrison: the philospher/poet of Durianism and all for which it stands.
Tomorrow, he says, I will eat a Red Prawn. I was able to resist quoting Lawrence Of Arabia: “Then it shall be so, Lord.” But I’m sure I won’t be able to resist, on the morrow, the Prawn’s siren call.
[dc]I[/dc]n other news, very highly recommend Episode #7 of theAlpha To Omega Podcast:
Colette O’Neill, the creative genius behind the Bealtaine Cottage permaculture small-holding in the west of Ireland and the A Life In The Country blog, is this week’s guest. We chat about her love of permaculture; how she decided to give up her career as a teacher in London and return to Ireland to turn an old bachelors’ cottage and three acres of poor land in the wilds of County Roscommon into an oasis of abundance. We hear of forest gardens, stylish wooden verandas, her pantry, ancient burial sites, fairy rings, living outside the monetary system, the cuckoo, and space travel.
This is an incredibly inspirational interview.
Also! I have selected a “Personal Anthem”. The way it works is, when all the jag-offs at the stadium or watching on teevee are busy bleating up their star-spangled bullshit, I’ll instead be blissing out to…
Or, if it’s not that, it’ll be this…
Personal Anthem, man. Get yours to-day!
Incidentally, Joseph Arthur’s spectacular new album, Redemption City, is stillavailable for free download — in both MP3 and FLAC! — from his site. Well, for what are you waiting?
Train from Bangkok to Hat Yai was scary easy. Instead of equal-width booths with an aisle running the centre of the coach; one side’s are wider than the other’s, and the aisle is off-centred.
So, it was possible to really stretch out and get kinda sorta comfortable; even if the benches were still pretty hard. A two-hour layover in Hat Yai, followed by a four-hour minivan trip into Penang, and here we are. All for the princely sum of $10 (if, that is, one subtracts from the total the 250 Baht I’d have paid to stay in Bangkok for the overnight).
Getting across the frontier was the easiest since…I think the easiest of all, actually. Entering Malaysia, it’s not even required to fill out a Entrance/Departure card. Lady just scrutinised my passport for a few seconds, and stamped me in for ninety days. Simple as that!
During the trip in, a super-nice local dude returning from a vacation in Krabi gave me the low-down on George Town.
Ended up not eating at all on Saturday, as all the shops were closed up for some Saturday-afternoon Muslim stuff. Of course, it was still easy enough to find cooked food everywhere one would turn. Here’s my first Penang photo-op.
I’d known the street-food scene here was supposed to be pretty happening; but hadn’t, until arriving, realised just how pretigious is considered Penang’s culinary situation. It all smells pretty terrific, that’s for sure.
It may’ve been some kind of Muslim cooling-off period (or what), but that didn’t prevent a little streetside gambling going down. Ever seen a twelve-by-twelve checkerboard before now?
The motorcycles here are so outrageously annoying. There are fewer of them than in Northern Thailand; but they’re somehow much louder (I’d not have believed it possible). It’s just insane.
It’s a pretty interesting town, though. But…well, see, it’s got UNESCO World Heritage status, just like Luang Prabang. Never would have expected myself to be invoking Lloyd Bentsen, but: I’ve been to Luang Prabang, and George Town is no Luang Prabang. But I’ve only been here for one day, so some more explorations will be necessary before I make my final judgment.
I’ve been in Southeast Asia for going on six months now; and would you believe that (while I’ve seen plenty of rivers) I had not, ‘til to-day, had a look at the sea?
It’s a quite pretty town, mountains to the one side, ocean to the other. But lookit all the pollution! You know, people are always badmouthing Bangkok to me for its pollution. But I’ve found it to be one of the least polluted cities/towns (considering both noise- and air-pollutants, by the way) in all of Asia. So smoke that in the ol’ pipe!
Kind of a schismatic fruit scene here. The watermelons (well, at least the one I’ve so far et; but I suspect it’s a pattern that will carry) are easily the best I’ve tasted in Asia – even rivaling the quality of those to be found in the States at the height of the summer. Price is nice, too. The Penang Durian, meanwhile, are of course legendary.
But after that, it’s pretty slim pickings. A surprising quantity of fruit is imported – Apples and citrus and like that. The Mangosteens and Longkongs look decent, but are about four times the price as in Thailand (possibly, they’re imported from Thailand?). Mangoes are about double the price; but at least seem to be in season. The Lychees look like…well, I don’t know what they do look like; but what they don’t look like is something I’d want to eat! Yu-ikes.
But, anyway, I could travel a lot of miles eating only Watermelon and Durian. So I’m not complaining too much.
The locals are quite friendly; they’re keenly interested in my bare feet. In Thailand, Laos, and Cambodia, the locals can only make time to either ridicule or scorn the sight of them, or offer to sell to me some shoes. But here, they genuinely very curious to hear my little rants against the shod life.
This fine gentleman…
…after hearing me out, decided, “We’re not born into this world with shoes and slippers. You’re right: barefoot is better!” He then promised to see me again soon, and returned to his duties.
Oh, one thing that rules like none other: no mosquitoes here! Anyway I’ve not seen a one since arriving. Actually, I was kind-of/sort-of beginning to get used to the little fuckers. I’ve got this experiment I’ve been running (started it last summer, back in Montana): if I see one biting me, rather than kill it (which won’t prevent the itching anyway), I just let it finish. Maybe it’s only some sort of placebo, but the itching seems to be much less pronounced, and of much shorter duration than either killing one mid-bite, or inadvertently scaring one off mid-bite by a sudden motion.
You might give it a try; tell me if I’m crazy. May not believe how long it takes for them to finish, already!
So, there’s a little Walking Street here, last Sunday of every month. It coinciding with my first day here and all, I felt I should give it a try. Very small in comparison with Thailand’s and Luang Prabang’s Walking Streets. The handicrafts did look to be truly hand-crafted, however. Check out these killer dioramas (I guess one would call them?), for example.
There were some pretty good bands, too. Well, one was quite good indeed, be it known. And a little carpentry lesson, the beginning of which I didn’t catch.
Dude has a quite charming accent; he got off a wonderful quip after this bit of work, declaring: “You must never plane against the grain.” If you do so, all kinds of Hell will break loose. He introduced to us his chisel.
He “bought this chisel way back in England, all the way in nineteen…fifty-six! So it is already fifty-six years old.”
He passed around the finished product; but I couldn’t figure out what it was. Looked like some kind of small knife. I asked two old ladies seated next to me, and they related that it’s a hand-made letter-opener. Then proceeded to relate, in intricate detail, how to use a hand-made letter-opener. And now, I suppose, I’m an expert.
Later visited his stall; it’s filled up with cute little curios.
And then…well, lookee here!
I asked him how is it used, and why is it necessary, and so on and so forth. He gave me a nice long run-down. Turns out Penangites are quite dismissive of Thai Durian-harvest methods; and insist that a partially-open Durian will never be fully perfect; hence the need for the opener.
Apparently in Penang, Durian are harvested when they fall from the tree, and are ripe at that time, even though not yet beginning to open. In Thailand, they tell me, they’re harvested before falling, and then allowed to ripen off the tree. That’s why they split open by theyselves, and that’s why they suck. I tried explaining that Thai Durians are fucking delish; the partially-open ones even the more so; but they won’t hear of it.
Well, I went ahead and bought one. Two bones and some change, and I’ve got me a hand-crafted Durian-opener.
A coupla interesting signs in town. Anybody knows the meaning of this one, feel free to share.
Oh, fuck! I just now noticed that it says “JEANS” on the bottom there. Okay, never mind…
As for this cat, I expect he’s soon to become a character in a song by the artist collegially known as “Prince”.
If you haven’t stopped laughing yet, don’t worry: neither have I. You couldn’t dream him up if you tried! Actually, rather than Prince, it’s too bad Beefheart’s not still around to write a song about him!!
Okays, that’s probably enough small-talk. Time to get down to brass tacks.
Yep, I made my way down to Times Square to get in on the fun. Pretty low-key event, with only a few vendors going. Didn’t see any of these activities taking place, despite its being Sunday and all.
Dammit all, I wanna see Durian Man! There’re some info charts – surprisingly, not in English.
And, is this true? Squirrels? I’ve heard of tigers and monkeys being Durian fiends, not squirrels. But, it sure looks happy!
As for the Durian itself, it’s an entirely different world to Thailand’s four or five basic varieties. Here are a few of Penang’s…
And these are just named varieties. There are also the so-called “local” varieties, for which no name is known. I gather these are un-domesticated trees growing on the same lot as the growers’ highly-prized name-brand trees.
I bought one from one friendly vendor; it was quite good, though I wasn’t too thrilled with the flesh-to-seed ratio.
Another, super-friendly vendor was just setting up. Here’s one of his workers unloading the fruits.
I promised the vendor I’d return when he’d got set up. Which I did do. This guy is some kind of a superhero. He’s got so much energy, so much love for the Durian. He gave me a few pointers (indeed, he says it’s okay if the fruit has begun to open by itself!), and took a very strong interest in my bare feet.
“What? Why are your shoes in the bag? Shoes belong on the feet, not in the bag!” After taking some time to explain, and answer all of his questions, he was sure I must have been bullshitting him!
He sells his named fruits by the Kilo, and his “locals” by the piece. I selected one of the latter to sit down and eat. There are some ka-razy flavours coming out of these Penang Durian, oh my god oh my god! Like, almond and caramel and pine cone and…what else?
I began to learn that the Thai and the Malay Durian experiences cannot be compared. The former has been perfected down to the last iota. The latter, on the other hand, raises any number of existential questions: What is Durian? Who made Durian? Is Durian the saviour? The anti-christ? I mean…damn, what do I mean? Who needs the goddam Bible when there are Penang Durian to wonder over?
I wouldn’t want there to be a World in which only Thai, or only Malay Durian existed. I love them both!
So, anyway, after I finished the one, I decided to go pick out another. The main man was asking me some questions, and then flew off onto a long rant about Nigerians being the eventual ruination of Malaysia. To do with meth gangs, and raping Malay women and claiming to be the Ambassador’s son, and so on. It’s in all the papers, he said.
But his young helper (possibly his son) kept busting out laughing; so I couldn’t help wonder was it I who was being bullshitted now?
Finally, he gave me a few more selection pointers, picked one out, opened it in half, inspected it for a few seconds, and declared, “You’d better go finish it.”
I bent down to smell it, and he barked out, “Go finish it, or I’ll finish you!”
Whoa! I took it from him, and raced back over to the table. His young helper asked if I thought I could finish it? Was this some sort of a set-up? It was only two Kilos at most. I dug in, and couldn’t believe what I was tasting. Uh, yeah, this is going to be a good week.
Got to talking with a girl at an adjacent table; she was disappointed in my not taking some Mangosteen to eat with the Durian. Never got a chance to explain myself, as the vendor came over and admonished, “No talking! Finish it, or I’ll finish you!” He pointed his knife at me, to let me know he meant business. After heading back over to his stall, he screamed at me, “If you’re talking, you’ll never finish it!”
It did take me longer than I’d expected it would; but this was more ‘cause I was wanting to savour the experience. The vendor stopped by two or three times, to see whether I thought I could finish it? and how I was doing? and how was I enjoying his Durian fruit? When I finally did finish, he began clapping, and called out, “Bravo!”
After I’d paid for the Durian, and was on my way, the vendor allowed, “Everything I’ve said to you…I was just kidding.” I suppose this was in reference to the Nigerians; not sure.
Monday through Thursday is the buffet: about eight bucks for un-named Durian, and twice that for the primo varieties. I’ll try the latter at least once during this time. No choice, is there?
