Nick Hardcastle

The Malay taxi drive that took me to the airport today was hilarious. We chatted and laughed all the way to the airport. She trained as an engineer.

I have a poor memory for jokes. The ones I do remember for longer than an hour or two tend to be rather juvenile. Only two jokes remain with me from my childhood. When the despotic African leader Idi Amin was asked what he wanted to do about defense he replied “Paint it black”. I know, I know, but the second one is worse. “How do you see it?” the interviewer asked Cyril Smith, the gargantuan Liberal MP. “With a mirror on a stick,” he replied.

Imagine for a moment if you will, brushing your teeth whilst naked in the bathroom. A lapse of concentration and a large glob of minty froth drips from the brush….

Not so very long ago, such a thing wouldn’t have been a problem for me. When I looked down I couldn’t see my feet, let alone anything else below the navel. The drool would have decorated my paunch like bird droppings on a car windscreen. Now I am thinner and fitter though, it is quite a hazard. I can see more than my toes down there and there are places that Crest should never go.

I read in this mornings Internatioal Herald Tribune that airlines are working on the idea of offering ultra basic services on long haul flights in the same way that they have been doing on European flights for some years. I forget exactly how they refered to the services, but basically they offer the minimum of frills but very affordable prices. By the end of the year it appears that one airline will offer a single fare from London to Hongkong at about the same price as a train ticket from London to Edinburgh — remarkable.

How could Gulf Air cut the fat from its long haul service to achieve the necessary economies? They could start with the obvious I suppose. No blankets will be provided — if passengers ask for them the stewardess will look perturbed, open an overhead bin or two, and then tell you she is going to look for them. You will never see her again. When the drinks trolley comes past, only soft drinks will be on display and offered, although passengers wanting something stronger may ask. The seat pitch will be reduced so that it is just possible for the average male to physically fit in the space left. The seats themselves will remain in service long beyond the stage when they are ready for replacement. If customers complain that they are uncomfortable, slope in the wrong direction or are covered in stains, stewardesses will be trained to smile apologetically, say that they will see what they can do to find you another seat and then disappear mysteriously, never to return. Food will be served, but of a low quality and plastic cutlery will be provided to save on cleaning bills. The toilets will not be checked, cleaned or otherwise maintained throughout flights – making it possible to pay flight attendants less and generally lower the expectations of the passengers. After all, if they have just escaped a hellish bathroom, dripping with urine and littered with paper towels and discarded diapers, they will be grateful for the rest of the service, which will be marginally better. Finally, as a special economy, they will encourage a large proportion of Lebanese flight staff, whom they will pay minimal salaries. The Lebanese will be grateful of course as they will be able to escape Israeli shelling at home and as a special concession, they will be allowed to wear huge amounts of makeup and to be rude to passengers from the Asian subcontinent.

Now the above economy measures should allow Gulf Air to offer flights from Malaysia to Bahrain for lets say US$150. Oh…but they have made all those economy measures already? So what will they do? I have a few suggestions. Meals will be served – a plastic bag of Arabic bread and a plate of humus per row. The toilet will be converted to a squat and all paper supplies removed. By carefully arranging a hose so that its end falls into the toilet pan they will discourage its use and consequently maintenance costs. Air crew will all be made redundant. Instead the wealthy Middle East clients will be given a ten percent discount if they allow their domestic servants to lend a helping hand throughout the flight. Airport fees will be reduced by having passengers walk across the runway. Finally, alcohol and pork, served in unmarked containers, will be available to all for a nominally exorbitant charge.

There were quite a large number of empty seats on the plane, so who should be sat next to me that one of the larger members of the fat 17. Rani struggled into his seat, asked me how I was in Arabic, smiled and then began to recite pasages from the Koran, counting off the verses on his fingers. After about five minutes paused, drew his hand over his eyes as though he was weary and sighed deeply, before starting to recite once more, stroking his beard and teasing out the long strands. I turned up the volume on my iPod and wondered if this was how a suicide bomber might behave on his final mission. That I am writing this in Bahrain suggests my fears were misplaced.

Once we had taken off Rani no longer felt the need for Koranic verse and turned to me, interrogating me in a friendly but persistant manner. He was a religious teacher from Dammam, very much in love with his job. He was baffled that I could live in Saudi Arabia for six years and not have converted to Islam. Rani didn’t speak much English and it was obvious that the process of composing questions was time consuming and rather painful. At the end of an exchange I made a show of turning up the volume on my iPod, inserting the earplugs and turning the International Herald Tribune to a new page. A couple of minutes would go, just long enough to get into an article and relax and then another question would hatch. I escaped eventually when we both changed seats, him to sit with the seventeen, me to find more legroom.

I am flying from KL to Bahrain on Gulf Airlines. About ninety eight percent of the passengers are from the Gulf, many of them, by the way they are dressed, from Saudi. Living in Saudi I am used to seeing large numbers of Arabs on my flights to and from the country, but usually they are travelling in twos or threes. These passengers are travelling in packs. Just in front of me at checkout — and through the whole airport it seems — is a pack of 17 Saudis, all from the same family. They are amusing both because of their behaviour and appearance.

Three generations travelling together. The men all have long, rather impoverished beards that, in the English tradition of facial hair, would suggest that they were Open University sociologists stuck in a time warp or vagrants suffering from incontinence and a sense of hopelessness. In Saudi, of course, it rather conveys an air of the devout, a certain religious fanaticism. The girls and women all have huge hips and backsides, the pre-teens in too-tight jeans, the post-teens in shapeless black abayas and veils.

The whole family is queuing noisily, constantly making phone calls or sending a delegation off to one shop or another for emergency food supplies. Suddenly there is a crash as the 8 year-old, who has been rolling around on top of the huge pile of cheap luggage, falls from his perch and bangs his head on the barrier. The family pick him up and laugh at him whilst he rubs his ear and cries loudly but without tears.

When their turn comes at the check in desk they swarm forwards, pushing and shoving each other to get to the counter, dragging their bags and trolleys after them. Looking overwhelmed the petite Malay girl behind the desk asks the nearest behemoth for his passport. His backside shudders under his thobe as he turns to ask his brother what the woman wants. There is an exchange in Arabic and the oldest brother rummages in his hand-luggage and produces a collection of passports and tickets.

Between them, the family have about forty pieces of luggage, which the arrange on the floor, not understanding that they are expected to lift it on to the conveyor-belt themselves. Gradually, thanks to the patience of the Malaysian check in officials, the problems are gradually overcome and boarding passes issued.

At the immigration desk and security check the family once more swarm at one clerk, ignoring the other desks which are free. It is obviously important for them to stick together. I just hope that I am not sitting with them on the plane.

I have finally resigned myself to the fact that my climbing shoes have had it. This is the first pair I have ever had, in twenty six years of climbing, that have gone at the heel and not the toe. Each time I have worn them this year they have become a little more deformed until the sole projects a full inch beyond my foot. This isn’t my main reason for consigning them to the bin in Camp 5 though, for that would be the smell. They have stunk, on and off, since I bought them, but this summer the smell has got gradually worse. I have been keeping them in an airtight bag so they don’t contaminate the rest of my gear. This hasn’t helped. They smelled so bad today at Camp 5 that they were offending me, even whilst I was climbing. I am surprised that they didn’t ask me to leave.

I came by train and taxi. “Meter plus two ringgit?” said the driver. From Kelana Jaya to 1 Utama, the going rate is about MR8.50, so that didn’t sound too bad. Somehow though, he managed to fiddle the meter — MR17.50 and he didn’t even drop me at the right side of the road. I was fuming.

Climbing was good. I felt to be strong and moving well. The bouldering area is so steep here though that I quickly lose power. At the end of the session I thought I would do a hundred pull-ups but only managed 48. Of course I could just be out of practice.

On the return journey I managed to catch a taxi in the third lane of the highway — the traffic was moving that slowly. The young Malay driver was desperate to go to England where he believed that he could make his fortune. He took me to Kelana Jaya and charged me exactly what it said on the meter — MR6.70

I saw A Samad Said, perhaps the greatest living Malaysian novelist and poet, in Books Kinokunya. He looked very old. I wanted to talk to him, but couldn’t think of anything to say, and as I haven’t read any of his work for at least 8 years, was unable to compliment him on his latest writing.

I had a small panick this morning. My watch said it was the 30th, but the newspaper said it was the 26th and my telephone the 31st. It would be most inconvenient to miss my flights.

Starbucks is great in Malaysia – they are everywhere in KL and offer free internet, air conditioning and fairly good coffee. They don’t mind if you stay there for a couple of hours reading or surfing. I do have a gripe though, and this applies to all the Starbucks that I have been to in Malaysia, Singapore, Bahrain and Saudi Arabia. When I ask for a Venti Coffee of the Day with HOT MILK, they invariably serve me with a black coffee. I have tried varying the way I ask for the milk — giving it special emphasis, speaking particularly clearly etc, but nothing works. Usually I have to ask twice. Sometimes I have to ask three times and explain that I don’t want the cold milk which is supposed to be on the counter with the sugar because that makes the coffee too cold. I could add that the flasks are generally empty too, but that would be mean. Of course, when the hot milk is finally produced — and there are variations on the theme here, some add it, some provide it in a separate cup — there is no room in the mug, so you end up carrying a steaming cup of coffee, brimming over but with insufficient milk, spilling it throughout the length of the cafe. Starbucks obviously trains its baristas well — they can produce a wide array of standard drinks. Thinking for yourself though can’t be on the training programme.

The bus journey from Singapore to KL was completely painless. I fell asleep before we got to the border and again immediately after Malaysian immigration. I woke briefly again at a lunch stop and then was unconscious again until the outskirts of KL.

The roadside stop on the toll road was notable. Malaysia has some of the world’s best and most varied food. Why then was the selection available at this transport cafe so awful? I walked three times around the various stalls before eventually deciding that the safest bet was a chicken burger, which at least showed the promise of being freshly made. I opened the polystyrene box at my plastic table. It was oozing a combination of runny tomato sauce, mayonnaise and lightly fried egg, in which something, possibly chicken, was wrapped. I dropped it in the bin and bought a Cornetto.

Some days ago I wrote that I had been thrown out of my hotel, the illustrious Heritage Station. From there I had gone to a small and quite nice hotel opposite the Puduraya bus station. The room was RM88, clean, safe and had huge windows and bright lights — a general improvement all round. The receptionist was even helpful and pleasant. When I left there to go to Singapore I asked if I needed to book for my return in a few days. No need, I was told. Even so, as I crossed the border in to Malaysia this morning I thought I would give them a call and check that they had a room for me. They didn’t. Bugger.

There was a huge queue of busses waiting to drop passengers at the Puduraya bus station so our driver dropped us at the side of the road half way between there and Bukit Bintang. I decided to walk there and look for a hotel.

Much as I like my large North Face kit bag for its tough, waterproof qualities, it is a horrid thing to carry for any distance. It sits on your back like a sad sack, with no waist belt or frame to help take some of the weight. Add a camera bag and computer bag into the mix and walking becomes somewhat of a chore. Still, I am fit I thought and it isn’t far to the hotels.

I rejected two hotels on the grounds that they just looked too expensive and found a reasonable one near the bottom of Bukit Bintang. I was offered a room for RM145, which I declined on the grounds that this was too expensive. The clerk looked at me pityingly and said that they did have a room on the top floor for RM105. I went up to have a look. Dingy and not too clean — the sort of room that they probably don’t rent out all that often and way overpriced. Having stayed in a windowless hole in Singapore, I was desperate for something a little better, or at least good value. I moved on.

Nine hotels later I was getting a little desperate. Everywhere was full, whether cheap backpackers’ accommodation or nice hotels — four thirty on a Friday night obviously not being the best time to find a hotel in the Golden Triangle. I did eventually find two rooms – a suite for RM350 and a pleasant room in the Allson Genesis (yes, again) for RM205. Concerned that I may not find anything else cheaper and fed up of carrying my bags around the streets, I booked into the Allson Genesis.

In retrospect I ought to have sat down, had something to eat and reassessed the situation; as my friends often point out, I get very irritable when I am hungry. By the time I finally got a hotel I was ready to rip heads off, so perhaps it is a good thing that I am travelling alone. After some food — roti canai and teh tarikh across the road — life seems much better and I am smiling again.

I have discovered the main difference between a real Rolex and a fake one.  The real one works and keeps good time.  The fake one stops every so often and is completely, absolutely unreliable.  Just what you need in a watch.  At first I couldn’t understand why the company that makes these forgeries go to such trouble to make the outer casing look pretty good but don’t put a half decent movement in the watch.  Then I realised that the secret is in the target market – tourists.  If a watch looks good cosmetically they will buy it. As long as it works for a few days then people will be happy and leave town.  If it stops working after that, then it is too late, they are not in a position to take it back.  

I planned on running last night after I got back to the hotel, but once I started relaxing in the air conditioning of my windowless room, my resolve weakened. By the time I was ready to go out it was already dark and running on the busy streets of Singapore didn’t seem like such a good idea. I went back to the Indian restaurant again and ordered the same thing that I had yesterday. The restaurant was packed with local Indians. A meal here is cheaper than a Happy Meal at McDonalds. Why don’t good restaurants become successful franchises? Perhaps good food relies too much on the individual skills of the chef and isn’t replicable — however detailed the training manual.

The food is served on plastic trays covered with a neatly cut rectangle of banana leaf. Stainless steel jugs of water are on every table, together with small steel beakers which the customers don’t put to their lips, instead pouring the water in to their upturned mouths.

Having failed to run yesterday, I thought that I had better run this morning instead, lest my lack of enthusiasm catch up with me again this evening. Leaving my key at reception I headed out to Beach Road and the Golden Mile Centre to buy a bus ticket back to KL. I’m trying to get used to running with a Camelback hydration pack. I didn’t get along with the backpack version so I bought a waist belt type. As I ran down the road it bounced uncomfortably and felt extremely silly.

After my run, a cold shower and ten minutes in air conditioning to turn off the flow of sweat, I went to the Singapore Arts Centre, coinciding with no less than four different primary school groups. They were very enthusiastic about the place, running from room to room and thundering down the corridors, occasionally stopping to look at a painting or sculpture, but not often. Their teachers were plodding after them, showing as much interest in the art but not having any of the fun.