pelirojo

It’s only taken 6 months but I now have 10 things I love about Prague:

2010-01-26T20:04:00.001+01:00

1. There is a scandalous, scurrilous newspaper called Aha! http://www.ahaonline.cz/ , With exclamation mark naturally, surely a more suitable name for a tabloid than The Sun, or a better use of the exclamation point than Hello! The front page always makes me want to exclaim 'Aha!' If only I knew who those people were...

2. It can snow 40 cm over the weekend and the schools will still be open as usual on Monday morning (and the trams buses trains and metro will all be fully operational ) no leaves on the track nonsense here Association of Train Operating Companies, formerly known as British Rail.

3. There are flower shops everywhere. Rather like the plethora of pharmacies in France and Spain there seem to be an unfeasibly large amount of florists (some open 24 hours just like the pharmacies) here. They are like little rays of sunshine in this city of permafrost.

4. People walk the streets with floor hockey sticks (I now speak knowledgably – I initially thought they were weird ice hockey sticks) gives a nice impression of vigour and violence to the inhabitants of Prague.

5. I can wear my long Canada Goose jacket everyday for months on end and my furry après ski boots which barely saw the light of day in Madrid.

6. You can use your travel card to take a ferry boat – my favourite is from the children’s island to the other side of the river (Line P4 Dětský ostrov - Národní divadlo-Hollar) . Important to note this is from April to October, as I just saw a part of the river yesterday that was completely frozen over.

7. People are very serious about sledging. There is a large hilly park on our door step with a Funicular Railway (I just love saying that) which makes it all the more civilized. I saw a very business like family on their way to the park on Sunday morning each carrying their own sledge, fully kitted out in serious ski-wear and all wearing goggles. This is in the middle of a city!
I love it – though the whole speed on the snow thing has not yet been by fully embraced by the whole family.

8. There is a real-live lamplighter – he looks straight out of Dickens with a top hat and long black cloak and he’s rather furtive.

9. The wonderful combination of superior building quality and triple glazed windows which means that even though it is going down to -20C tonight we only have the heating on level 2 (it goes up to 5), and I don’t have to wear thermal underwear in the apartment, this actually could be the best thing so far about Prague, except of course for Aha!

10. Obviously it is very, very beautiful and the beer is cheap, bountiful and capital!

I Married A Dandy

2009-11-22T08:43:00.003+01:00

Talking to M, after she had breakfast with the dandy:

“What did you talk about?”
“Well Papa asked if I thought his pyjamas were pretty and I said yes they were.”

Let’s look at the evidence so far:
A quick glance through the favourites folder is always a good clue as to where one’s interest lie, and this is just a small selection from the folder entitled ‘Wardrobe’ (exhibit ‘A’ right there)

Barbour - we live in Madrid (annual rainfall 440mm compared with Paris 642mm or London 593mm)
Derek Rose – Savile Row made pyjamas. (OK I understand the attraction of a bespoke suit from Savile Row but aren’t pyjamas taking it a little too far?)
Dandyism – speaks for itself
Hackett – again I must stress that we live in Madrid, not England nor the English countryside. Next he’ll be demanding marmalade on his toast and freshly ironed Le Monde. And here’s something I never knew, or would have guessed, that Hackett is in fact owned by a Spanish investment bank.
Marc Guyot – French Dandy
I don’t know what your definition of a sneaker is (please don’t say trainers it’s such an ugly word), but mine would be a shoe with canvas and a rubber sole –
1. A sports shoe usually made of canvas and having soft rubber soles. Also called tennis shoe.
"sneaker." Dictionary.com Unabridged (v 1.1). Random House, Inc. 05 Feb. 2008. .
you know, like Converse, not an old fashioned slim fitting leather shoe.
I’m trying hard to imagine what kind of ‘sports’ you would be participating in wearing those ‘sneakers’ from Marc Guyot:

On his wish list; a Jiffy Steamer – I think he wants a personal one – we don’t have enough space for his shoe, jacket and coat collections – so where is he going to fit a garment steamer?

Though I have to admit we are living in the right city. The Madrileños (I am talking about the men) tend to dress like very well dressed Englishmen; not that Englishmen are necessarily well dressed you understand, but in the style of.

The Peculiar Tale Of The Missing Cushion.

2009-10-01T17:22:00.004+02:00

A long, long time ago when we lived in a very small apartment (28m2) with bright yellow walls, we needed some furniture. This was despite the FM insisting we get an unfurnished apartment as he had lots of furniture; we are still waiting for the aforementioned ‘lots of furniture’ 10 years later (1 single bed, 1 chest of drawers and 1 desk). Therefore we had to make a trip to the dreaded furniture store on the North Circular (you know the one I am talking about). I despised it then and despise it still. Each time I go back I vow it will be the absolute last time and here we are 4 country moves later and we are back again for the positively, absolutely, definitely the last time.

First of all it’s always somewhere you can only get to by car.
They use hypnotic lighting that turns you into some kind of zombie that must follow the arrows and go through the entire shop. Yes, I know there are short cuts but these are for people have been there before, you try finding the short cuts on your first visit, you can’t, you’ve been hypnotized.
Those convenient flat packed boxes always weigh a deceptively preposterous amount and are always missing something crucial. Yes, I know you can check your flat pack boxes before you leave but who really does that after spending 4 hours in the place. Once you see natural light again and the hypnosis has worn off, you just want to leave as quickly as possible.
So it’s never just one trip but several.
It never looks quick like it does in the pictures.
You need 2 people to put up most things and I am always doing this on my own - OK not exactly the big shops’ fault, but as I’m on a rant.

Anyway we had to buy a sofa.
I took the measurements precisely and I knew that although it was big, it would fit up the stairs. Sure enough the delivery guys tried to take it back as it wouldn’t fit. As this was a long, long time ago and I was living in a country where I could fluently speak the language, I insisted I had all the right measurements and it would fit up the stairs and under my careful direction we managed it. I can’t explain why this was me dealing with the delivery men even in those days. So we had our lovely big white (BWS) sofa in our small yellow-walled apartment on Portobello Road; yes just around the corner from the blue door. And it was great and big, far too big for the apartment but comfortable, so comfortable you could sleep on it and many visitors did.
This was in the days when the 'orribles (generic term to cover any French friends of the FM), used to visit London, just for the Indian food I think. So we had a nice weekend eating Indian food, during which the only drama I can remember was that one of the ‘orribles managed to set the toaster on fire and then calmly walk into the living room and announced that the toaster was on fire, without firts putting out the fire in the toaster. One of the ‘orribles slept on the BWS and the other one slept on the floor on the very comfortable cushions from the sofa. And so they left. We put everything back in its place and strangely one of the cushions on the BWS was missing. So we searched the entire apartment. This you understand did not take long as it consisted of a kitchen, a bathroom, a bedroom and a living room, so we are talking about 4 rooms distributed over 28 m2. No cushion. We went to bed. The next day the cushion was still missing so we looked again. As I already mentioned, this did not take long as all you had to do was stand in the doorway of each room and cast your eyes about; there were no built-in cupboards or wardrobes to be searched. The FM searched far more thoroughly than I, looking inside the oven, checking the bath (no built-in cupboards there either) and under the bed (you couldn’t get a pair of shoes under the bed let alone a cushion from the BWS), but he’s very thorough.
Then he started getting serious. I may not have already mentioned this but we actually had a large attic (20 m2) in the apartment that was reached only by a ladder (so I’m not sure just how he imagined the cushion had managed to get up there, but as I said he’s very thorough) that we used for storage. There were a lot of boxes with I don’t know what inside them, and a lot of boxes with wine in them and so just to be on the safe side, he went up the ladder with a powerful torch and opened all the boxes. Still no cushion. This went on for a few days of repeated searching and wondering out loud where the cushion might be.
Finally he had a feasible theory – the ‘orribles must have taken it.
I should first explain that the ‘orribles had only come for a weekend and had come with Samsonite wheelie cabin bags. The theory went something like this: Maybe one of them spilt coffee on the cushion and was too embarrassed to say anything and accordingly they threw the cushion out the window, or alternatively, smuggled it out in one of the small Samsonite bags. This I think was discarded as being too ridiculous as it was hard to imagine how a cushion and clothes for the weekend would have fitted in one of the bags. The FM very casually called the ‘orribles and very casually slipped into the conversation the fact that there was a cushion missing and they hadn’t happened to see it or put it in their bag by mistake had they?
Of course they both strongly denied having anything to do with the missing cushion and that was that, or so he thought. A couple of days later he received an anonymous email from someone claiming to have the cushion and demanding payment for its release and safe return...
We found out later that the ‘orribles had been in contact and asked each other if they had the bloody missing cushion and to just return it and be done with it. When it became evident that neither of them had the bloody missing cushion, they realised that the FM was not of sound mind, which must have already been apparent to them as they had both known him for some time, and it was then that the cushion-napping scheme was devised.
I believe this is when he realized they did in fact not have the missing cushion and so he went back to his nightly search and wondering what had happened to the missing cushion.
This went on for about 5 months (I absolutely did not want to go back to the big shop on the North Circular), every night a complete search and on weekends a search that included the boxes in the attic, the oven and the bath. Finally I gave in and back we went to the big shop on the North Circular. Fortunately the sofas are on display at the beginning of the interminable maze so we didn’t have to go far to see our BWS on display in the living room sets. There it was with all its cushions, which happened to be exactly the same number of cushions that we had back in the little yellow apartment, just better arranged. We quickly retraced our steps and left.

We never returned to the big shop on the North Circular.

The ‘orribles never returned to the little yellow apartment but have visited since.

The BWS is now in retirement in the South of France with all its original cushions.

Crocs With Socks And Other Crimes

2009-09-27T16:46:00.005+02:00

I seem to have missed out on the 'elation' stage mentioned by expat experts and gone directly to stage 2, officially called 'Resistance', which for me is very, very irked and irritated.

The crimes so far:

1. First and foremost, Prague has failed the first two tests, the availability of Vanity Fair and anchovies (I have my priorities) but we do have a shop that sells only rope very close by. I am still trying to think of ways to use such an amazing variety of rope around the apartment.
No comments from Paul - who I am sure can come up with a lot of inventive ways with rope.

2. Annoyingly the FM cunningly organizing his schedule so that he has in fact not seen a packing box, except about 3 boxes full of his work that I have refused to unpack and are still awaiting removal to his place of work.

3. The moving company, Team Allied if you want to know and I still don't want to talk about it.

4. Socks with sandals or possibly worse, socks with crocs really does exist here in excruciatingly large numbers and it appears that this is de rigueur not only for locals but also tourists.

Apparently when you buy shoes here, on the receipt is a list of regulations for wearing shoes, included in which is that shoes are not meant to be used outdoors.
Aha, so that’s why everybody wearing sandals or Crocs with socks, it's the law and one is forced into it in order to protect proper shoes from improper wear.
So I imagine Czech people are very well shod indoors. I will get back to you on this, if I am ever invited indoors.

5. One month for the internet set up, and then only in Etienne's bedroom, and the FM had the audacity to ask why I had it set up there – well that would because they couldn’t set it up in the bathroom, of course.

6. Czech language, OK I know I’m not the world’s most gifted linguist, but signs are not looking good, after one month I can say: Hello, Goodbye and two beers please (don't know how to say one, or any other number for that matter).

So for all those who aren't discouraged by the above, bring ham, anchovies and Vanity Fair and stock up on condoms as they are only sold in packs of three.

Christmas With The Family Who Wish To Remain Anonymous

2008-01-17T20:29:00.000+01:00

The person that was organising Christmas with the family who wish to remain anonymous died then someone with whom the FWWTRA were meant to be spending Christmas with was diagnosed with lung cancer then someone else whom the FWWTRA did spend Christmas with was beaten up by their boyfriend the night before Christmas Eve (who said he ‘saved her from committing suicide’), then someone from the FWWTRA had their wallet stolen the day after Christmas (for the second time in Madrid) then the FWWTRA’s top floor apartment was broken into via the balcony door on New Year’s day at 5.30am when the FWWTRA were sleeping, a discovery that was made thanks to the baby monitor (intruders were heard via the aforementioned device) and was then told by the police – well you live on the top floor, happens all the time. The FWWTRA would like to recommend the Philips SCD489 Baby Monitor as a backup security apparatus.

The Impossibility Of Good Bread

2005-03-25T14:50:00.000+01:00

I started out by asking people in the street where to get good bread, a perfectly reasonable question in France, but I was getting very strange – why on earth would you want to eat bread anyway? – looks. It turns out that the Spanish only eat ham. Seriously, who knew they ate so much of the stuff? There are as many shops selling ham here as there are pharmacies in France, and trust me, that is a lot. My favourite is the museo del jamón (which if my Spanish serves me is the museum of ham) which is either a really popular name for a shop selling ham or it’s a chain. Our closest Museo del Jamon is open from 8.00am – 2.00am. Try that on a 35 hour working week. So we are back on lovely white sliced bread, which at the moment, possibly due to slight translation problems comes in slices as thick as, well I don’t even know how to describe how thick it is. Basically you have to put an awful lot of ham in the sandwich to be able to taste the ham; luckily we are in the right country for that. The bread is very sweet and sticky obviously not meant to be eaten with ham, so I’m guessing you’re just meant to take you ham straight up.

Grocery shopping is lucky dip at the moment as I am shopping on the internet. It takes a long time and a lot of dictionary consultation and I am taking delivery of a lot of things I can’t remember ordering. The brand names are ever so slightly different like Cif for Jif, Dodot for Pampers and Kalia for Vanish. Toilet Duck is obviously Pato W.C.
I am pleased to report that anchovies are widely available but I just can’t find those Kleenex tissues with balm yet.

Dogs are banned here like children are in Paris, in restaurants, shops and other public places. Parisians definitely prefer dogs to children. No children, but come on in with your smoking dog.

I can’t comment on Spanish television yet but as this is the birthplace of Hello (¡Hola!) where the big news is at the moment is Carlos y Camilla I have high hopes of entertaining quality television.

Maybe it’s because I grew up in that fashion disaster that was the 70’s and had an orange vinyl waistcoat with matching orange vinyl miniskirt – yes I really did, presumably to match my hair colour and it was my very best outfit, I have the school photo to prove it, alas available only in black and white, that I find the children’s fashion here so alarming. In Madrid it’s like stepping back in time, far beyond the horrors of the 70’s. The outfits the Madrileño children are wearing are borderline ridiculous. The boys are wearing long shorts with braces (naturally) with long socks and plaid shirts with button-down collars, girls are wearing (in soft pastel blue or pink) very short dresses with frilly underwear, little cropped cardigans in very fine wool, ballet slippers and large satin bows that make their heads look like Easter eggs. These outfits are worn to the park and not just on Sundays. Of course they all have those tailored overcoats with velvet collars and if they belong to the same family they will be wearing exactly the same outfit.

Protests and pigeons

2004-07-16T22:04:00.000+02:00

Undoubtedly Paris is a breathtakingly beautiful city; and the shopping is great once you have navigated the pitfalls of a 35 hour working week.
Is it closed on a Monday or a Tuesday?
Of course it’s closed on Sunday.
Does it close for lunch from 12.00 to 14.00?
Or 13.00-15.00?
Or maybe 12.00-15.00?
Then you can go to Madeleine Gely at 218 Avenue Saint-Germain, a shop selling handy little fur lined umbrellas and custom made umbrellas, or to Maria Luisa at 19 bis Rue Mont Thabor, the only stockist of Manolo Blahnik in Paris, carrying a small but perfectly formed collection, Or my favourite shop in Paris, BHV, though I have to admit they have reasonable opening hours; they are open on Mondays and lunchtimes. BHV is a department store (8 floors) with a fantastic Aladdin’s hardware cavern in the basement.

I’m sorry to have to bring this up but why do Parisian men have to pee on the streets?
Clearly it’s a guy thing to pee outside. Here they mark there territory on the street, that’s obviously if for some inexplicable reason they can’t do it in a car park which seems to be the preferred choice, more discreet perhaps? Or maybe it’s just a seasonal thing – car parks are preferable in the winter?

Something else inexplicable, why were the Foreign Legion marching wearing what appeared to be butchers’ aprons and carrying axes during the 14th July parade?

Protestors are out in force as we approach the strike season, there is even a website: www.lesgreves.com to ascertain who is striking this week. The organisation of the protests is impressive. Groups from all over France arrive at different metro stations, and then make their way to the starting point on foot. Off they go, marching in an orderly fashion with flags denoting which region they have come from. They sometimes have balloons. Maia has become quite a fan, especially if they have balloons. They are followed by police who are followed by the street cleaners.

The beautiful wide boulevards of Paris so ideal for protesters and parades were not in fact built for the citizens so much as against the citizens. They were designed to be too wide to build barricades across, and straight enough to aim a canon at any citizens that might be uprising in the streets. Protestors didn’t have the support they enjoy today back in the time of Napoleon III. Paris was redesigned by Haussmann, a city planner. Personally I see a pattern, city planners against the people. It continues to this day, in one of the universities, pebbles are embedded in concrete to make it too slippery for protesting students to stand on when water canons are being aimed at them.

There are principally two problems with Parisian parks; firstly you’re not allowed to sit on the grass except for one small over subscribed patch of grass in the Jardin de Luxembourg, that leads to the second problem of trying to find a park bench that is not enshrouded in pigeon fertilizer.
The Parisian pigeons seem to be a lot larger and sleeker than the London pigeons I remember, but that could just be a cultural thing, obviously the Parisian pigeons are more concerned with grooming whilst the Londoners are out drinking on the rooftops.
We are talking about big fat fornicating birds, and I do mean that literally. All they do is chase each other, for shagging purposes and eat what I fervently hope are conceptive pills. It’s a vicious circle; they are supplied with copious amounts of baguette crumbs by the little old ladies of the hood, which then makes them too fat (or are they all pregnant?) to get any decent elevation when flying. Consequently when chased by children, they barely make it over the children’s heads (that surely could be intentional on the part of the pigeons). The little old ladies `tut tut´ and feed the pigeons more bread, possibly deliberately, to keep them flying low over the children’s heads.

I also have been living on bread as it is so magnifique and proof man can live on bread and, wine and cheese alone, with maybe an occasional salad thrown in. Surely more agreeable than the Otago University researchers who tried to prove that man, or possibly they meant students, a different species altogether, could live on beer and fish and chips, allegedly they all got scurvy. It’s amazing I haven’t turned into a smelly wine soaked baguette by now, but it could possibly take a little longer, I will press on with the study.

I have recently spent time in the suburbs (banlieue) of Paris, a very scary place for someone with absolutely no sense of direction; I need mappy to go to the supermarket.
Yes, if you live in the suburbs you can have a garden and therefore dogs – not that the lack of a private garden prevents the inner city dwellers from rampant dog ownership. Or you could live in the suburbs and have three dogs all needing psychoanalysis. Two big dogs, one of a nervous disposition whose fur falls out and eats her own tail, the other big one has halitosis and a taste for small dogs and the small dog that lives inside and thinks she’s a cat.
And yes, you could even have you own private swimming pool. Or you could have a swimming pool full of gold fish, which would be tragic if it wasn’t 13°C in July. It was tragic last year (during la canicule) when it was so hot that the acorns simultaneously decided to commit suicide one night at 10pm.
So I am looking forward to getting out of la banlieue and back to the city and into our apartment. Just as soon as our band of Portuguese builders and Romanian cabinet maker (certified at the University of Transylvania) leave. Five months and counting.

Detropicalization

2004-03-11T14:59:00.000+01:00

Detropicalization: to adapt to non- tropical regions, esp. in regard to a return to Europe, esp. Paris with recently acquired apartment under renov. for an est. 4-5 month period, after three years or more in tropical regions

I’ll start at the top. No humidity (comparatively speaking) – so my hair is fabulous.
Moving on, my ears have gotten larger (no it’s not an age thing). It appears I have an allergy to cold weather. This is preposterous, for although my homeland could be described as a Pacific Island, it is by no means a tropical one and that’s not even taking into account over a decade spent in London living in a climate very similar to the one here.
I'm guessing it was the three year hiatus in more equatorial climes. In fact it happened once before in KL, just before we left. I was holding an ice cold bottle of coke on my delicate, lightly tanned, bare arms (the pigmentation was sucked out of me within hours of arrival here) and I got a strange rash in the shape of a coke bottle which took a couple of hours to clear.
It starts with my ears, they get itchy and swell (think bright red rugby player cauliflower ears), then my cheeks get red and itchy though don’t seem to puff up much and then – this is the fun part – my lips. We are talking about collagen injected inflatables. It takes about 10 minutes of exposure to reach stage one (the ears) though this can easily be averted by wearing a hat, and a further 10 minutes per stage. It takes an hour to deflate. Not exactly debilitating, yet strange all the same.

Now that Spring has sprung and all is well now on that front, however Spring has separate concerns for us. As it is now light until 9.30pm at night Maïa is having light sensitivity issues, which I guess explains why she never got jetlag. This is easily remedied with blackout curtains.

Speaking of my Little French Girl, she has become obsessive about wiping her feet. The LFG can’t walk past a door mat without thoroughly wiping her feet. I’m not really sure why this has come about as the sidewalks are remarkably free of crote de chien (the same of which cannot be said of park benches and pigeon excrement).
The streets and sidewalks are comprehensively cleaned and positively sparkle. I initially thought water mains were bursting all over Paris and commented to the FM (no longer known as the GM) what a terrible waste of water it was, when it was pointed out to me that the people in green suits were deliberately turning on the water, letting it gush down the street, and then giving it a good scrub – a fine use of water, I’m sure you’ll agree.

Sadly the LFG has finally lost her movie star wave – she just wasn’t getting the accolades from her fans when waving from a bus. The only appropriate response she got was from a boatful of tourists (mostly Asian) on the Seine. She is now focusing more on little old ladies, some of whom do in fact stop to say how cute she is especially if she is wearing her very cute (if I do say so myself) raincoat with matching boots ensemble.

The LFG hasn’t inherited the cold allergy, luckily for her as she does have an allergy to gloves and hats. She will wear a scarf, although this could be an innate chic French thing (who knows how they tie the things, I will have to wait until she is old enough to explain it to me). LFG also likes coats, then again this is fashion linked – one also needs a matching bag.

Now that the LFG and I fall under the category of mobility challenged people (have child and large buggy), we get around town via disabled bus routes. It slightly limits where we can go but at last we don’t have to ask for help from the unfriendliest people in Paris, working women. I don’t know what they are doing on buses at that time of the day – shouldn’t they be at work? There they are, not only ignoring us but being actively unhelpful whilst maintaining a disdainful expression – try it, it’s not as easy as it sounds. The men are falling over themselves to help – I guess they can’t help themselves though – woman and child in distress.

LFG’s language skills are improving more rapidly than mine, is anyone really surprised? Strangely she doesn’t seem to pick the easiest words. For example she prefers to say chaussure rather than shoe, chaussette rather than sock – you can see where her interest lies.

LFG is of at that delightful stage where she is repeating everything she hears (happily I am not driving around Paris so I’m not involuntarily contributing as much to her expanding vocabulary as I used to). We were listening to a breakfast radio discussion about the lyrics to a 50 Cent sing (the ones they don’t even print on the CD). They were going through it word by word, I was shocked - living too long in a censored society I guess – still it was only breakfast time.

And speaking of French radio brings me to French music. It isn’t quite what I thought it was – you know the same as Vegemite, an acquired taste that must be ingested from birth to be fully appreciated. Well it is if you have been subjected to the same French radio stations I have, Nostalgi and Cherie FM – dreadful, truly dreadful French songs (they really have a thing for the 80’s) and songs in English that you have never heard before, and that would be for a really good reason, that they are so naff.

And so to French television, first the fabulousness.
There is a channel (cable unfortunately) called Jimmy and they have back to back Dynasty and Dallas – great for my French skills. Unhappily now we just have regular French television which is basically variety shows and talk shows and boy can they talk. A normal talk show is 2 hours and I am not talking about an Oprah thing – I am talking about a bunch of guys (usually they’re men) who sit around a round table and argue about something for 2 hours minimum, and this is televised. One show I saw, not in it’s entirety you understand, was entitled La frite et la mode. The chef they were interviewing was dramatically disguised, in case the frite mafia got him, I suppose. One other show is presented by a gentleman with the most serious mono-brow I have ever seen – how is that allowed? I have never been able to watch it long enough to discover what it is about as I find the mono-brow too disturbing. This is Saturday night television.
Abysmal because that’s the governments cunning plan to get French people to go out and spend money.

On being a boy

2001-11-01T14:32:00.000+01:00

I write on little bits of paper that get coffee stains and fruit juice on them that also come in handy for wiping up spillages, however the absorbency of my little bits of paper could be improved. I carry them around in my pocket and occasionally try to pay cabs with them, maybe once I’m a famous writer that will be more effective.
My brother’s address book works on much the same system, it’s actually his wallet, he keeps all those little bits of paper that people give him with their numbers on, and that’s it. It never gets transferred into an actual address book. One time I went through it with him and he had three separate bits of paper with various, different numbers on them for me, so maybe it’s a family thing.

It got me thinking about growing up, thus I got out all the letters I had kept – you have to remember we grew up in a pre-email era. One of the letters was from CP and she has drawn a picture of a telephone on it labelled ‘a very cheap phone call’ because she couldn’t afford to call me – what a weird world we grew up in. I can make the following conclusions from the letters:

· Despite what has been said all my life, I did write, though obviously not to my parents.

· I was witty (everybody says so! – one person said I was as mad as a kiwifruit, but I think that’s positive).

· Everybody (male and female) was obsessed with the opposite sex, even if the boys just list conquests the girls wonder ‘if he really likes me’.

· I seem to have had some kind of reputation for drinking alcohol.

The great shame of course is that I don’t have my letters, I can only guess at the literary masterpieces (one was actually referred to as just that – I have it in writing) that have been lost forever. I know that one should write about what you know, I shall have to make it all up – obviously I have big blanks due to excess alcohol consumption as a teenager.
The GM has suggested I should use a pen name, but I already have one - Francesca Dubois (a little too Harlequin Romance perhaps?).
When we went skiing at Tekapo, there would normally be an odd number of people and one person always had to share the chairlift with a stranger. So you had 12 minutes to weave a complete fantasy life to your unsuspecting lift mate. We kept the same names in case we happened to bump into the same person again, but I don't think I could ever have kept my glamorous life details straight had that occurred. This all came about after a particularly traumatic episode for me when I told the truth. I was 12.
I was in my first year of boarding school when I took the lift with an old woman (at least 20). And so it begins:
‘What school do you go to?’
‘I go to boarding school in Christchurch’
‘Oh - do you go to Christ's College?’
Crushed 12-year-old girl with horrible short hair because someone forced me to have it cut off before I went to school (what is that all about - sending me off to school looking like a convict? - oh I get it) replies:
‘No, actually I go to St Margaret's College (pause - waiting for embarrassed apology)’
‘Oh - I went there’
Me thinking – ‘oh my God, what am I doing at a school where people come out as stupid and insensitive as you - you wrinkled old hag!’
It's enough to drive anyone to write romance novels, or alternatively take a 12-minute flight of the imagination on the chairlift at Tekapo.

But that wasn’t the last time it happened. About 10 years ago (grown woman now with small but perfectly formed breasts and hair 10 years long) I got caught in a bit of a downpour and returned to work looking like a drowned rat with hair plastered to the side of my face. This guy I worked with stopped suddenly and said in a shocked voice – ‘God Caro I never realised how androgenous you looked!’
I looked slightly horrified (mind flashing back to chairlift and earlier unmentioned childhood trauma playground scenario – ‘let the little boy go first’), and Michael says ‘Oh no – I meant it as a compliment’ Ah yes - of course, that was the look I was going for. Michael was, and I am quite sure still is, gay.

Childhood Trauma

2001-10-22T15:31:00.000+02:00

I know if it's not Bridget Jones it's all too Absolutely Fabulous, but I had always wondered why I couldn't remember my early days, it's not like I'm vague or anything. You know how people remember being born or their third birthday party, or whatever, for me it's always been a blank. I could only remember the really traumatic things like:

Dissecting sheep and seeing how far you could stretch the intestines.
Killing rats in a grain silo and hanging them up by their tails from the wire around the outside of the silo.
Me screaming my head off on my runaway pony Bambi, he was already called Bambi when I got him. My parents were obviously trying to kill me; I mean who gives a scrawny wimpy little kid like me a 4 year old car shy pony as their first pony? My parents. Your first pony should be a 100 year old Shetland pony; they are very short and therefore closer to the ground, with arthritis. Bambi and I were going for a walk and a car went past, he takes off, I start screaming, he speeds up, I scream louder, you get the picture. I was screaming so loudly that neighbours were able to call up my mother when I screamed past their houses. The houses being about 800 metres from the road Bambi and I were racing on. I imagine she cackled.
My sister M nearly drowning.
My sister L nearly drowning.
My brother getting lost and a search part going out at night to look for him. I think he was found eating carrots that were probably poisoned to kill rabbits.
Nearly dying of exposure when my parents dragged me over the Routeburn pass (a track I am sure only experienced climbers should attempt, not scrawny little wimp kids like me). Actually I also remember a woman who came on the 'walk' with us who had no kneecaps, she had had them removed for some reason I can't remember. Maybe she was a mafia moll and was 'kneecapped' (well you never really know someone). Anyway the woman with no kneecaps had great difficulty going down hill (think about it) and this was a walk across the Southern Alps for God's sake - it's obvious now - she was definitely tied up with the mafia, she must have been on the run, why else would you walk from the east coast to the west coast of the south Island with no kneecaps?
All my pets dying unnaturally - my dog was poisoned, my rabbit was eaten by a cat, my bantam eaten by a dog, my pet lambs were eaten by the entire family with mint sauce made by my mother.
And of course Aloysius the exploding lamb.

So you see it's all deeply disturbing and writing about it would only uncover the good and no doubt deadly dull things that happened to me. Perchance I could have been Janet Frame; I have the right hair colour, if only I hadn't been bundled off to boarding school...

On Helen's Secret Service

2001-09-14T14:39:00.000+02:00

I am now working at the New Zealand High Commission for the Defence Advisor, regrettably I cannot say much more than that. My dilemma is I could tell you what I do but I would then of course have to shoot you all and as I am not yet licensed to kill, it could be messy.

So now we get to go to glamorous ambassadorial parties. We have been to one New Zealand reception and one for France. Without wanting to cause an international incident all I will say is that at one of the aforementioned embassies is one of the rudest people I have ever met. I must also disappointingly report that there was not a Ferrero Roche in sight, which is a complete swiz.

I am getting used to working in arctic air-conditioned conditions and have to take a collection of winter clothes to work with me, scarf, gloves, balaclava and socks.
OK I exaggerate slightly; so far it's just the scarf although I am considering socks.

I have a wonderful boss and some transportation problems yet compared to London Underground it seems hardly worth mentioning, nonetheless I will.
Albeit I now take a taxi to and from work, I did try the public transport option, and it was great, it was just a major hassle to get to, not that that put me off. I had happily travelled on it about 10 times before I realised the reason it is so fantastic is that it is the longest fully automated line in the world – no drivers. That would be why I could stand at the front of the train with a view unimpeded be a train driver then. Not that that put me off, indeed London Underground should try it.

What really got me was the fact that umbrellas don’t work when it rains. The roads turn into rivers, complete with floating branches from trees hit by rain (it's that hard), and cars turn into speedboats cutting a metre high wake through the river, I mean road. Which is all very well for wakeboarding but not if you are walking along side the road on one of the few footpaths (people aren’t encouraged to walk here). Under these circumstances, nearly every day as we approach the rainy season, your umbrella acts as a cunningly devised barrier to stop the water getting away and directing the water down, with the effect of being in an shower enclosure. Resulting in getting completely drenched from head to toe not, in fact to dissimilar to a shower.

Speaking of bad hair days, I had a very scary hair experience recently whilst having my monthly manicure/pedicure. I was happily sitting there being pampered reading Hello magazine (well what else are you going to read in a beauty salon), when I was asked if I would like to have my hair done. I had heard of this before and in the interests of research, I said yes. So the deal is this: you get a big squirty bottle of water (similar to a Fairy Liquid container) and a bottle of shampoo (also very similar to the aforementioned Fairy Liquid container). You stay where you are, that is, sitting in a chair having the manicure/ pedicure. The hairdresser squirts a little from each bottle, and proceeds to lather, yes, while you are sitting in the chair. The only time you move is to rinse (obviously it’s only a matter of time before they figure that one out), but to compensate for this your manicurist will continue to work on you whilst having your hair rinsed. I was then covered in Velcro rollers, well my hair was, and stuck under a dryer. This was the really scary bit, and I hope you appreciate this was purely for your entertainment that I did this. For those who don’t know, I like my hair very, very straight (preferably ironed). Unhappily I have no before/after pictures to show what happened when I came out from under the dryer, still I’m sure you can imagine, it was big, very big, Texas big, and very scary. Unfortunately, it was completely flat again by the time I got home – about 300 metres, that’s the hell of humidity (it’s not always a bad thing).

But I digress; I was speaking of transportation. The beauty of taxi drivers is that you get from door to door without getting your hair wet or flat (if you are a big hair person). I also feel I have my finger on the pulse of KL as taxi drivers seem to be remarkably well informed on matters of sport, religion, and the government. Additionally there is of course the sense of danger and excitement (that a thrill seeker such as I require at least 5 days a week) that comes with getting in a taxi being driven by a Malaysian on Malaysian roads full of cars being driven by other Malaysians. I have only been involved in one accident so far. The taxi driver decided that a car trying to cut him off need to be rammed into, so that’s what he did. He then continued on his way, stopped at the lights, hopped out to check the damage and got back in again, he never said I word as I sat stunned in the back of the cab.

The GM’s answer has been ‘if you can’t beat em join em’, and consequently drives like a Malaysian (there isn’t a road rule that can’t be broken).

I have only recently discovered another of the reasons for traffic jams in KL, and that is accidents on the motorways. I know this causes traffic jams all over the world, usually because cars in the opposite lanes will slow down in the hope of seeing horrific injuries. In KL they don’t just slow down, they actually stop cars in the middle of the motorway and run across 4 lanes of traffic to look at the accident on the other side.

I say honeymoon, I mean Tournee des Magasin Le Vieux Campeur.

2001-08-23T21:52:00.000+02:00

To those happy people leading completely fulfilled lives without the old camper; I deviate with an explanation. The logo is an old man with a very long white beard that actually looks like long blonde hair (weird), wearing a flat cap (I guess it could be a beret), chewing a flower. It has stores at several locations around France in Paris, Lyon, Sallanches and Thonon (only one left to go to now) and is populated by highly specialised nerds (like those people in record stores). Apparently it’s a fun place to spend many, many very interesting hours. They also produce catalogues that provide additional hours of entertainment to those who are unable to visit the stores as regularly as they would like. Au Vieux Campeur also has a website, but it’s just not the same. In short it’s a disease, a mental illness. The first step is admitting it. The GM has reached that step. He realised this when he couldn’t travel without his catalogue. No need for a book anymore, just take an Au Vieux Campeur catalogue with you. Another great idea is to keep old catalogues so you can compare the latest models of jackets/boots/mosquito nets with the previous models.

Day 1: We started off at Le Manoir at Oustau de Baumanière in Les Baux de Provence, a beautiful village but unfortunately now basically the whole village is a museum. May I highly recommend the lobster dish at the Oustau de Baumanière.

Day 2-3: We crossed over to Spain and stayed at the Torre Del Remei in Bolvir (right near the border). We were upgraded to a James Bond–like suite complete with circular bed and matching circular windows. The Fiat Punto was definitely a star, managing to absorb a Paella pan and a Jamón. I would also like to officially thank all those who contributed to the decoration of the Punto that saved us from a parking ticket.

Day 4: Approach Carcassone via the D11 and you get the Disneyland view of Carcassone. The Hôtel de la Cité is situated right in the old city.

Day 5: Le Vieux Logis Tremolat (Bordeaux), we dined outside under the Linden trees, whatever they are.
And it wouldn’t have been a road trip if I hadn’t gotten lost.
This time it really was a doozey, but I have many well-founded excuses of how this happened:
The scenery is so beautiful it’s very tedious to have to look at a map all the time; I was there to see the sights not take a course in orienteering. I am out of practice from reading maps, in Malaysia they are so inaccurate, and a hangover from the war – maps can’t be too accurate.
Don’t name villages in France with similar names especially if they are within say, three hours drive of each other.
And finally I am a female, there is irrefutable scientific evidence that men are better at reading maps(1), we have other much more useful attributes too numerous to mention. So if you don’t want to take the more scenic route read the bloody map yourself.

Day 6-7: Marais Poitevin, where we stayed in a real live chateau, the Château de Curzay

Day 8-9: Domaine des Hauts de Loire where we took a hot air balloon ride over the many chateaux at sunrise that was absolutely magical.

Day 10: Lyon - Au Vieux Campeur No. 2 (no. 1 was Paris)
We stayed at the Villa Florentine, a beautiful hotel in the old part of Lyon, even the bathroom had a fantastic view, and were taken out by the Lyon Barfly to his bar (of course).

Day 11-12: Chamonix - Au Vieux Campeur No. 3 (also close to No. 4 but sadly unable to visit due to lack of time).
We had a close encounter with hailstones the size of ice cubes; very exciting in a convertible with a large crack on the front windscreen. And where we went for a little walk. I thought we were just going for a little stroll on the ice and was quite unprepared for the 4 hour hike from Aiguille du Midi 3,843 m to Pointe Helbronner on the Italian side. I should have guessed, our guide was Mountain Man, (ex Advertising Man now Book publishing Man - Mountain books of course) infamous as the man who allegedly tried to kill the GMs petite Maman and Franck, on the same little walk (different weather conditions apparently). We had to borrow/hire all serious equipment (anything required in addition to jeans and t-shirt) and got very dirty looks from guided tours completely outfitted in brand new colour co-ordinated gear. We had to go most of the way roped to MM and wore crampons and the GM even got to carry an ice pick. It was awesome, definitely the highlight for me. We stayed at the Le Hameau Albert 1er and ate in the 2-star restaurant with MM (and his wife), who said to the sommelier ‘whatever you recommend’. The GM nearly chocked on his amuse-bouche. The wine in was absolutely amazing and Spanish.

Day 13: Sestriere - Think `The Shining´ (in summer, in Italy - go on use your imagination). We stayed at the Principi di Piemonte Grand Hotel, a 100-room hotel, (I think we were the only people there) last decorated in the 70s, lots of orange and brown and fringed lampshades, just outside a deserted ski resort (well it was June), spooky.

Day 14: And finally, Nice - Fabulous darlings. Stayed at the Negresco, a pale pink Belle Époque wedding cake (with pale green piping) on the Promenade des Anglais. Think lawn green, bright yellow, hot pink and velvet in rich red and gold, furnished from the 16th century with tapestries on the walls, a royal blue carpet with golden fleur de lys and an antique 4 poster bed with a fake fur bedspread. Apparently inspired by the Kings Bedroom in Versailles.

And the weather was just perfect everywhere, the hailstorm in Chamonix was just a half hour episode.

1 ‘men are better at spatial-navigational skills such as map reading and judging distances’
Kimura, D. (1987). Are men’s and women’s brains really different? Canadian Psychology, 28, 133-147.

How To Kill A Snake

2001-05-28T14:27:00.000+02:00

The following announcement is courtesy of S from Singapore who learnt how to do this at school.

First get your snake (the easiest way to do this is buy it at a market), make sure it is put securely in a bag.

Go into the jungle (this will add authenticity).

Bang the sack containing the snake against a tree to render the snake unconscious.

Carefully open sack and grab the snake’s head (be careful) then slit the snake’s throat.

So the next time you come across a disorientated snake in a bag in the jungle, you know what to do.

Unfortunately we didn’t have these highly useful survival skills when we revisited Pangkor with my sister L. The snakes there came in boxes (how are you going to knock them out?). The whole snake thing was especially horrifying for the kiwis (we come from and island far, far away where there are absolutely no snakes), though we fearlessly did the ‘holding the boa constrictor’ thing. Only when the snakes were back in their boxes did the snake man tell us the snakes were all caught on the island, which was the end of any jungle trekking plans.

Other wildlife spotted by my paranoid and therefore highly observant sister: Finally a monitor lizard.

We were looking the muddy river that KL is named for; where incredibly a lot of large fish seem to thrive (it gets very stinky in warm weather – which is all the time). L spies a large piece of wood (there is loads of rubbish floating by).

L: That’s a large piece of wood isn’t it?

Me: Yes.

L: The large piece of wood just moved its tail.

AAAAAAAAAArrrrrrrghhhhhhhhh!

Just kidding, I was very cool – although very excited to see my first monitor lizard, especially as it was so large (1.5metres). I say this very knowledgeably, ignoring the fact that that was my first monitor lizard. I can now confirm this to be true as I have since seen 2 more and they were much smaller.

I have now 'done' all of the major tourist sites KL has to offer and am ready to act as your tour guide: The Railway Station.

Strange but true, this is after all a city of architectural delights and the railway station certainly is an architectural wonder. It is in fact two buildings, one on either side of the road, on one side an interesting blend of Moorish, Gothic and Greek influences and on the other, Northern Indian and Islamic and all this was designed by an English architect.

The Twin Towers (Petronas Towers).

An absolutely stunning building and you get to go up to the bridge that connects the two towers and fulfil any Catherine Zeta Jones/Sean Connery fantasies.

The KL Tower.

A much better view of the city than the Petronas Towers.

Batu Caves.

400-million-year-old caves with Hindu Temple built inside. Fortunately or unfortunately we had just missed the festival of Thaipusam, when over 800,000 devotees stick skewers into their bodies. You have to climb up 200 steps to get to the caves, which can get a little sticky.

Genting Highlands.

Very cheesy, the only casino resort in Malaysia. The temperature is much cooler up in the highlands 2,000 metres above sea level (I was needed a jumper, the GM didn’t) Seems to be the place where bored young KLites & Singaporeans hangout on the weekends. Bukit Tinggi The absolutely fabulous Bukit Tinggi (otherwise known as 'Colmar Tropicale'). a French–themed resort. This is a truly bizarre concept, a replica of a French village, namely Colmar built in the Malaysian jungle, comes complete with French restaurants, and half finished castle, will keep you posted on any further developments.

FRIM.

This was the big find – (and not nearly as boring as it sounds). It was quite an expedition to get there – we were trying to get to the Forestry Research Institute of Malaysia (nobody had ever heard of it), yet when I showed a taxi driver the address on a piece of paper – ‘Oh you mean FRIM!’ (I should have guessed, just like KL – Kuala Lumpur, PJ - Petaling Jaya, KLIA - the airport). Unfortunately by the time we finally got there it was closing for lunch (so I still have lots of things to go back for with the next visitors). We really wanted to go on the canopy walk (on a swinging walkway through the tree tops) but had to go with the jungle walk on the ground instead.
We were given a map with points of interest circled, and told we must stop at the ‘must see spot’ about half way along the trail. After liberally reapplying bug repellent we, the intrepid jungle explorers, set off. About 45 seconds into the jungle I couldn’t see L for the clouds of mosquitoes following her, they took about another 10 seconds before discovering any patch of skin untainted with insect repellent and commenced to feast. We bravely pressed on stopping, or rather pausing, to admire the points of interest as indicated on the map. We reached the ‘must see spot’ and couldn’t see anything particularly worth stopping for at first until we looked up and saw the Camphor trees. It’s very beautiful looking up at he intricate lace like patterns the leaves make, particularly when there is a breeze blowing and the leaves all sway in unison trying not to touch other branches, like synchronised swaying, anyway as I say it was all very beautiful albeit not when you are being eaten alive by mosquitoes and the only way out is through more jungle and you have already seen the beautiful camphor trees and their lovely delicate leaf patterns (L and I had unusually walked into the park and saw many Camphor trees on the way in, and had already admired the aforementioned fabulous leafy formations, sans mosquitoes). We tried to make our escape only a rather large spider’s web, inhabited by a correspondingly sized spider, blocked the way. L has a strong conviction in the jumping abilities of spiders and could not be persuaded to go further until I had gone first (being the eldest). I did stop to take a photo as supporting evidence of the size of the spider though it unfortunately came out blurry, due to the rush we were in).

Apart from the mosquito bites the most impressive thing of all was the Arapaima. They originate in the Amazon and can leap up to 2 metres out of the water to eat insects, small birds, bats and reptiles – at least that’s what it said on the little information notice board beside a very murky pond. L and I peered in to the water for some time in the hope of spotting one of these amazing fish, but all we could see were slightly large goldfish. We were about to give up when we saw one of them, I can’t tell you how deeply scary it was to see a goldfish (well that’s what they look like) 2.5 metres long (did I mention they grow up to 4 metres in length?) – there was something very radioactive mutation about the whole experience.

Wesak day.

My friend L who invited us for Chinese New Year invited me to join her and her family for Wesak day celebrations, the holiest of holy days for Buddhists. Celebrated around May (it depends on the moon) it marks three momentous events in Buddha's life - his birthday, enlightenment, and achievement of Nirvana. The celebration is highlighted by a candle procession. It was very beautiful and the only opportunity to walk through central KL streets safely (no cars), though quite tiring, walking for 3 hours carrying a candle (it can get quite warm) at quite a fast pace to see as many of the floats as possible. I felt very peaceful (totally worn out) afterwards still it’s only once a year.

Squirrel soup.

Some friends took me out for a meal to a little Chinese soup restaurant. It was like walking into someone’s kitchen with about 5 tables crammed in. The waiter (there is only one, a serene old Chinese man) takes your pulse then ‘prescribes’ a soup for your condition, fatigue, insomnia, lack of energy, breathing difficulties and so on. I was too yin or too yang so I needed rebalancing (I can’t remember which, anyway it doesn’t matter now because I’m cured). I happened to glance at the menu after we had eaten, there are about twelve soups, which seem to cover most ailments, and at the bottom was squirrel soup. I can’t remember what it was for however will definitely be returning with the GM for a health check.

Service issues resolved:

M (the Singaporean snake killer’s boyfriend) goes into a store to buy some Levis. He finds a pair that fit perfectly and the helpful sales assistant steps in.

SA: You like those?

M: Yes

SA: You want them in another colour?

M: Sure, what other colours do you have?

SA: No, no we don’t have them in any other colours.

S (the Singaporean snake killer) and I are out buying plants for the balcony and see a plant we like but it out of my price range,

Me: Do you have that plant in a smaller size?

SA: Yes, so high (indicates preferred size) it is (names preferred price)

Me: Great I’ll take it.

SA: No, no we don’t have any.

Ergo I now have the secret to getting good service: go to Thailand.

Bribes & Battery Hens

2001-03-20T14:50:00.000+01:00

I am now fully live and writing to you from the comfort of my own home. I was planning on writing this much sooner although clearly I am operating on Malaysian time now which is a much more ‘relaxed’ (just as long as you don’t want anything urgently) way to be.

In the end it took 6 men 2 months and 4 separate visits to get us connected with telephone and Internet.

Chinese New Year.
We were invited to Chinese New Year celebrations at a friend’s house (lost again), which was great fun except for my disappointment at the lack of fireworks (they are illegal here). One dish with jellyfish had to be tossed in the air with chops sticks as high as you could for good luck for the coming year. We were told that we are a good match (a Goat and a Boar) and given several ang pow packets (money) traditionally for children but because we aren’t married, we got them. Next year we have to give ang pow. We also tried the infamous Durian (for those intrepid travellers who may have tasted the fruit in Thailand apparently this is somewhat stronger than the Thai version of the fruit - I can’t comment at this stage). Anyway Durian is very popular in Malaysia and is notorious because of the smell – I say smell I mean stench. It is very overpowering and not the kind of smell that would make you curious about wanting to put the source of the smell in your mouth. It is graded here by numbers, the stronger the smell the more desirable the fruit, the higher the number. The version we tried was in the form of a cake – very misleading, it all looked cake-like; light and creamy and sweet. Once you have tasted it you wonder why you would think of flavouring a cake with something that smells rotten with a very strong garlicky oniony, very very bizarre. Unfortunately there are two seasons when the fruit is available and the next one doesn’t start until June so I’ll have to wait to try Durian a la naturalle.

Bribes.
Police and anyone in a uniform on a bike/scooter i.e. parking attendants like a little extra money for the holidays (Chinese New Year) so the moral of the story is drive exceedingly carefully around any holidays. First they will get out the ticket book and hover the pen in a threatening manner as though about to write something.
Man in uniform: ‘It will be $500 for insert traffic offence just committed’. Apparently the maximum fine for a traffic offence is $100 (200FRF)
GM: ‘How can you help me?’ (To be translated as ‘OK how much will it take for you to let me go?’).
Bargaining commences but basically what they want to know is: ‘How much do you have?’
So we paid out $50 the first time yet by the second time (feeling a lot more confident about the whole procedure) got away with $30, only to discover the guys whom we paid off probably can’t issue tickets anyway. A couple of days after this we were coming back from water-skiing with some friends and were in the emergency vehicle lane. The GM and I were both so nervous after the multiple bribe incidents that we kept checking in the rear view mirror and sure enough along came the police; luckily we had pulled over in time. S & M in the car ahead were the only ones who got pulled over and as we drove past the policeman had his pen poised to write the ticket. They caught up with us about 10 minutes later - no fine. M had showed the police his wallet; no money and S had got hers out as well to show it was empty. The policeman threw M’s driver’s license back in the car in disgust – no money, no ticket. S and M had been caught previously for some minor traffic misdemeanour and S had been so scared she got M to give what money he had in his wallet too. So I amend the moral of the story to: drive around with 2 wallets – the one you use and the one you show to the police.

Battery Hens.
When you buy eggs there is no such thing as organic free-range eggs here as the hens are so happy in little cages. They even have a photo on top of the egg cartons of happy (I’m not kidding, they are smiling hens) battery hens all lined up. We actually saw one of the egg farms and sure enough there they all were lined up in little cages, on top of a hill with a very nice view of the jungle and natural air- conditioning (being on top of the hill there was a nice breeze) so I have felt a lot happier since then. As soon as I have a scanner I will send the photo of the smiling hens.

Flora and Fauna.
I have recently started landscaping the terrace and so far have several orchids (including a vanilla scented one) and a Hibiscus. I was aiming for a white and green theme so I bought the hibiscus only after I had been assured it was a white one. Naturally it flowered a week later with red, and then a week after that with white so I think I’ll keep it. The plan is now to get lots of lush green jungle plants though it’s hard to stick to the green and white theme when you see some of the amazing plants and flowers, I have so far resisted a Bird of Paradise but I’m not sure for how much longer.

The only animals spotted are monkeys (at a friends house although I am sure there are monkeys here) and geckoes (little lizards). Despite numerous reported sightings I have yet to see a monitor lizard (one friend claims to have seen one swimming in the sea at Pangkor). The only thing I see around here a squirrels, more on them later and, a warning for visitors, rooster.
Birds spotted: amazing looking Hornbills and bats (not sure which category they come under but which I always mistake for birds). I have heard many very strange birdcalls and have not yet identified any of them. You may have heard how squirrels are just rats with good PR (the ones in Hyde Park are fairly cute), here they are without the good PR – these squirrels are definitely very close cousins of rats, the only distinguishing feature is a slightly busy tail. I thought they were rats until someone pointed out a squirrel to me when I thought I was looking at a rat. I was relieved however that the many little rat- like things I had been spotting have now been defined as squirrels.

Tour de Malasie (so far).
The roads are great once you get out of KL, you are right in the jungle, and it’s all very lush and green. A lot of time and effort goes in to the landscaping of motorways and they are all beautifully planted and well kept.
The concept of not stopping on motorways has not really taken off – there are too many stalls selling satays and sugar cane juice on the sides of the motorways, so cars tend to be stopped randomly to enjoy what the stalls have to offer.

Melaka.
I really liked Melaka, it had a charming atmosphere and it was nice to see some old buildings. The old Chinese houses are really beautiful. A lot of the old houses are now antique shops, although the ‘antiques’ are made recently and locally.

Pulau Pangkor (Island off the west coast).
Beautiful Island with golden sand beaches very laid back – we were there on a weekend during Chinese New Year (peak time) and it was amazingly deserted. We saw lots of Hornbill birds and I now know how Muslim women go swimming – fully clothed (including the veil). I also learnt what a bad idea bicycles are on a hilly island in the middle of the day.
Useful information for visitors: The arrow on ceiling in hotel rooms is not indicating where the fire exit it is which direction to face when praying (so obvious when you know).

Kuatan (on east coast).
Beautiful drive to get there through jungle (of course) and the sea was completely different to the west coast. Cool beach with big crashing waves and the temperature was almost chilly in the evening. Very disappointed not to see any monitor lizards swimming.

Another strange thing.
Manchester United is very big here – people were the shirts have the stickers on their cars and watch a lot of English Football; there is even a Manchester United merchandise store. They are also big fans of the All Blacks. At first I just thought there were a lot of New Zealanders here as there were so many cars with All Black stickers but have gradually come to realize it’s just like the Manchester United thing, though I haven’t yet seen an All Black merchandise store (there is a great business opportunity idea).

And finally.
I have just found out I am insured on the car, so officially I can drive here. I am currently still absorbing this wonderful information and will be venturing out soon – just as soon as I build up the necessary confidence and have fully charged my mobile (it could be some time).

P.S. We have had our first visitor.
And I am quoting directly from our Visitor Book:

I came (first)
I saw (a lot but not enough)
I fell in love (with Malaysia)
NB. Try the jellyfish at the Steamboat @ the Sunday night market. Mmm!

Paul tried everything (possible in 3 days) and I know he would have tried the Durian if it had been the season.

The Good, The Bad & The Taxi Drivers

2001-03-14T14:31:00.000+01:00

The first 30 days.

Good stuff:

Our apartment.
It's fabulous, though pretty Zen right now. The furniture that looked so big in Portobello Road looks a lot smaller here, and we have more rooms to fill. My project at the moment is to look for furniture - I have a digital camera so I can pictures of things I like then show to the GM for approval. We have found really great Indonesian furniture - the Malaysian furniture philosophy seems to be leaving no piece of wood untouched - carve it up, it's all very 'decorative'. We went to Hong Kong for Christmas, which was brilliant & amazing for furniture, I may need to go back once I have honed my bargaining skills something I definitely need to work on. Bargaining is the GM's skill area at the moment.

The food.
Obvious I know, it still has to be said. Everything is here from Italian, French, Thai, Chinese Indian, and Malay to New Zealand Fish & Chips (just franchised to Korea). We have a great restaurant in our condominium that does Chinese, Western and Japanese (finally somewhere that does cheap fabulous Japanese) The most expensive item is New Zealand Steak at 50FRF. We haven't splashed out yet, that would have to be for a special occasion as a meal for two at the roadside stalls is around 40FRF. We tend to eat out a lot - just to try everything and because we didn't have plates in our very Zen apartment, although this has now been resolved. So no doubt I'll spend all day whipping up culinary delights for the GM. The weather. Another obvious one however we have lost an entire topic of conversation. This will be the only time I mention it. I love getting up everyday and not having to think about what I am going to wear. The only variable each day at the moment is what time it is going to rain and making sure you are undercover - it's very dramatic at night with all the lightening although a little scary watching lighting when you are being pulled behind a boat on a wakeboard. Right now it's really pleasant temperature around the high 20's early 30's.
Now I'll never mention it again.

We live in a great area called Bangsar which has a lot of restaurants and bars and a cool market on Sunday nights, fruit vege, fish, food stalls, clothes (Hawaiian shirts are very big at the moment) & VCDs. VCDs are basically videos copied on to CDs that can be played on DVD players - not as good quality - nevertheless they have everything - the latest movies are all here. At first it was a bit of a lucky dip in terms of quality though we have found a good stall now so need never go to the movies again. The censors here chop everything to pieces anyway - Four Weddings & a Funeral was most interesting Malaysian style - all that swearing and all those gratuitous sex scenes - you would be surprised.

And now the bad:

The traffic or should I say the drivers?
I don't know where to begin with this - it is the scariest place I have ever been on the roads. They may not be fast but they sure are random. It is each man for himself - no indication at all; it really has to be seen to be believed. It's not just cars it's also pedestrians crossing motorways and swarms of people on gutless little motorcycles - they are the worst. At the moment I just take cabs and close my eyes. In the news at night they like to give accident statistics: first how many road deaths this year compared to last year, then it gets broken down to where the accidents occurred (which states), then on what kind of roads, urban, country, Federal Highway, Motorway etc, and then whether it was a car, bus, truck, pedestrian or motorcycle (the most likely) - all very interesting. The news is quite an experience all round. There is a 30 minute news in English each night that is 15 minutes of local news (which minister said what at which meeting - generally something about how fabulous Malaysia is) then 10 minutes of business news (the rises and falls in the Asian stock markets) and then 5 minutes for International, this is generally a piece taken from CNN that shows the USA in a negative light, how many obese Americans there are, how many Americans have heart disease how much money the poor health of Americans is costing. So I'm reading the International Herald Tribune, the only international newspaper you can easily get hold of. I got very excited a couple of weeks ago when I found Le Monde in a newsagents, I checked the dates and found one for the 6th which was not too bad until I realized it was the 6th of December, they had copies going back to 3rd November.

Getting Lost.
This is not really bad, it's a learning experience or a chance to bond with the GM - you know how getting lost always brings men and women closer.
Last Friday we were invited to a friend’s house for a meal and we had fairly detailed instructions on how to get there. We got on to a motorway that we couldn't get off for 15km. When we did get off we couldn't get back on the motorway in the other direction due to road works. So we were now completely outside of KL, completely off the map and the battery on the mobile phone was running out. We eventually made it (1 & 1/2 hours later - I am not kidding). It took us 15 minutes to get home. The maps in KL are of limited use as there is so much road building going on all the time that routes change on a weekly basis - so you may have it all planned out on the map - yet when you get there, there is a new road or a diversion. Needless to say we are getting a lot of quality time together within the close confines of the car.

And finally the taxi drivers.
This is the group of people I have had the most contact with (and delivery men). The first thing is each car is like a shrine, mosque or church. There are Buddha’s and incense or crosses or passages from the Koran dangling from mirrors. I have yet to get in to a non-denominational cab.
And then the inquisition starts, this is after they have asked me which way they should go (do I look like I know?).
Where are you from?
How long have you been here?
What does your husband do? (Not being married is worth going there)
How long have you been married? (What?)
How many children do you have? (I have to change my story for this one - see below.)
Why not? (Stop the cab)
Where do you live?
How much rent do you pay?

So what do I miss?
Apart from you all, Parmesan cheese (not Australian - what is that about?). Anchovies - I can find anchovies with everything except just plain anchovies. Strange what you obsess over.
Not having easy access to email.
So 'til the next time - maybe direct from our Zen apartment.