Batu Ferrenghi

After almost ten hours of relaxing and taking it easy, both RoD and I had gone a little stir crazy and so secretly, lest the other fat, lazy, book-reading, cocktail-sipping holiday-makers (aka The Enemy), or the indulgence-encouraging, polite and attentive staff (Puppet Government of the Relaxation State) heard us, we planned our getaway, disguised by a game of scrabble played on a Malaysian board for extra covertness, wine, sushi and four games of shithead, which I lost.

The escape plan was executed first thing the next morning, after a lie in. Destination: the lighthouse at Muka Head (to signal to other adrenalin seekers, of course, who would parachute out of a low flying plane to rescue us). First, we had to stock up on free lunch from the breakfast buffet, but sadly my heart wasn't in it, so we snuck away with just a mini apple Danish and a blueberry muffin. The Puppet Regime offered to pack us some more snacks in an adorable picnic basket, but this was just a ruse to lure us away from both Risk and also Death, and thus away from the core ideals that make up our sense of Selves. 

We managed to allude the Enemy and catch a bus to the gates of the National Park, where we paid a man to take us on his boat to Monkey Beach, after swearing him to secrecy and refusing to wear our life jackets to show him we meant business. From Monkey Beach, we trekked a mountainous and accursedly slippery path (in flip flops, because we are Li Hi) up approximately 227m to the lighthouse. When we arrived at our destination, we signed the guest book in one final act of rebellion against The Enemy and their Puppet Regime!

Unfortunately, there was no word from our fellow Riskers, and we had to assume, whilst morosely eating our pastries, and reading our books at the top of the lighthouse in the sunshine with a beautiful sea view, that they too had probably fallen victim to the Puppet Government and were nibbling on fruit platters by the pool and sipping on fresh lime juice. We no longer acknowledge them as Brothers in Arms for this treachery. There was clearly nothing else for it but to sit in the sun a little longer, emulating our mothers in a sort of National Trust, pass-the-cucumber-sandwiches kind of way, and then return to be picked up by Akrim our private boatman, I mean, co-conspirator, and stop off at the Tropical Spice Gardens on our way home.

The Spice Gardens were a delight. There was a gift shop. I spent all my money, and then we had coffee and lunch in their treehouse restaurant.  Wonderful!

Satisfied that our protest would be recognised by the Puppet Regime, and they would no longer regard us with the same pity as they do the Enemy, but rather with a sense of awe and respect, such as one gives a great and dangerous member of the opposition, we retired to the poolside to sunbathe.  

However, when a member of the Regime dared to ask if we required drinks by the pool, we realised that these guys didn't know when to back down, and thus made a great display of showing them our Li Hi prowess by going for a run on the beach (or at least I did, RoD more maturely completed hers in the in-house gym where there is water and air conditioning).  My run, though, consisted of many film-like moments, as a tribute to Batu Ferrenghi, invented 1950s Italian film director who founded the town in which we now find ourselves. Parts of my run were like the opening of 'Chariots of Fire', except without the homo-eroticism, and more sweat; one moment was reminiscent of 'Amores Perros' when a puppy, initially frightened by my sudden presence, alerted three of his big friends, who began a stand off that had me backing slowly into the sea like the climactic scenes of 'The Last Unicorn'. Some Malaysian men helped me, initially, by clapping at the dogs, but when they saw that the danger had passed, they just laughed at me. 

After all this, I can confidently, without a slither of a doubt, confirm that we have both been reinstated as both Li and Hi, and thus can once again regard ourselves with respect and dignity. 

All cool and arty photos c/o the RoD Shiny New Birthday Camera Photo House.

Penang

Having slept at Changi airport rather than make the journey back to a comfortable home and bed (I had to say I'd done it at least once), we were gifted with a flying visit from Frenchie who was getting off a plane as we were getting on to one, and then we were off to Penang. There was a brief moment of frozen panic when I left check in a bit too late, but loudly assured Frenchie that he was a fussing grandma and the plane would never leave without me, only to be greeted by a nice lady who told me that the plane was full. Frenchie was standing behind me, a little distance away, refusing to become embroiled in yet another travel scandal of my own making, so I asked her to keep her voice down whilst she sorted it all out so that he wouldn't hear and be all smug about it. He did hear, but wasn't smug, because despite being French, he is a wonderfully patient man. 

George Town, in Penang is a lovely tumble down mixture of Straits Chinese shophouses selling quirky gifts, houses of revolutionary mainland Chinese politicians, street art and Peranakan mansions crammed with gold, jade and mother of pearl. Have some choice photos:

I personally think she should pay me for this one. Other than the interruption of the actual photographer in the background, it is beautiful. 

Cute!

On our first day here, we ascended the tallest hill on the island in a very, very steep funicular for "high" tea (chortle) in a lovely colonial building, whereupon it started raining and didn't stop until the early hours of the next morning. Following this, we discovered that Malaysian taxi drivers' raison d'être is to rip you off, despite the fact that that all their taxis are printed with the words 'this is a metered taxi. Haggling is not permitted,' but eventually we got to a very cool bar/restaurant/cafe called China House where we ate dinner and bitched about taxi drivers. 

Our hostel was very cute, and the owner super friendly and helpful, but we were quite impressed with our splurge hostel, which boasts a balcony bath, sea view and lovely pool. 

Hopefully the rain will clear up so that we can actually make use of the facilities. Until then, I'm refusing to move from this position:

RoD, on the other hand, is threatening to use her book to make a raft on which to sail back to the mainland if we do any more luxurious, tea-drinking, relaxing activities, so we might have to waterski tomorrow, or the appeal of the private beach, cocktails and sushi may be a little too much...

Hen Do

So, many close friends were surprised to learn via the intimate channels of Facebook that I am due to be legally married next Friday. The reason many people don't know this, and I am coming across as a spontaneous, slightly mental, eloper is because as far as Nico and I are concerned, the wedding is in December, as you all know. Conversations about lanterns, the colour purple, French translations, shoes and hymns all revolve around the real wedding. In December.  However, justice systems throughout the world don't see it like we do, thus we need to get married before commonwealth law as well as the eyes of God with our nearest and dearest as witnesses to the event and our undying, somewhat mushy and never ending love for one another. 

To actually tell you the process that lead up to this point would be boring, so let me transform it into an amusing and reduced script:

Priest: I'm sorry to inform you, I cannot legally marry you, because you're not in the country long enough before your wedding. God's still available on that date, though, so the church is still yours. 

St. Albans Registry Office: I'm sorry, we cannot legally marry you, because you're not in the country long enough before your wedding. 

Me: my grandparents are going to have a heart attack when they realise this is a sham wedding. 

Singapore: we can legally marry you because we are awesome and part of the commonwealth, so your marriage will be recognised in the UK without any further paperwork. All you will need is your passports, two witnesses and their passports, 15 non-consecutive days in the country and a lengthy online form process.

Me: phew. RoD?

RoD: yes.  Available. 

Frenchie: my parents are going to have a heart attack when they realise this is a sham, only-legal-in-British-commonwealth-countries-wedding. I am French and I hate the British. 

French consulate: we are incredibly useless and frustrating, but eventually we will meet you and publish your wedding banns so that this sham wedding is recognised in France. 

Frenchie: phew. 

Me: phew. 

RoD: so, since I can come to your legal wedding, but not your real wedding, we must only ever refer to the legal wedding as your real wedding. The one at Christmas is a sham. 

Me: got it. 

So now RoD have found ourselves in the departure lounge of Saigon airport once more:

...following an International Day at school where I dressed as a global bookshelf and spent the day raising the profile of international reading and even walked down a catwalk with and as a book, followed by a come-to-life Gatsby and Daisy:

I just love reading. 

We managed to trump even my 'wait-in-the-bar-until-your-name-is-called-over-the-tannoy' approach by having a very unhappy man waving a Tiger Airlines sign accost us just after we'd paid our bill and tell us to hurry up because we were the last people to board the flight. Then, a colleague who was also in the airport, rang RoD to ask her if she was okay because they'd just heard our names over the tannoy. Obviously, the message was 'board your flight on time', but I was just enthralled by the fact that if you force them to, airlines will up their game and lay on a personal hosting service for you to take you from the bar to the gate. If I'd known this before, I would never have gotten to the gate on time!  I want the first class experience as a standard, please!

Anyway, now we are off for a stopover at Changi airport before a lovely hen do in Penang, full of UNESCO World Heritage sights, beaches, diving, cocktails and afternoon tea. What more could a girl want?

Motorcycle Diaries

Since being in Vietnam I've had three trusty, and not so trusty bike companions who have facilitated many adventures, great and small.  The first, Little Moto, was so reliable and awesome that he got his own blog post, and a picture, which pretty much makes him a celebrity in Vietnam; the second was Kicker, who was so annoying (had to be kick started every time because the ignition didn't work) that I gave him back only after a month or so; and now I have Wobbler who, after a flat tyre that lead to what I suspect is a crushed wheel (whatever the metal interior bit is called) now wobbles disconcertingly if I drive too fast. 

In general, I am a very safe driver. When given the option of life or death, I invariably choose life, even if I'm late for something, or quite tired. Evidence to this is that I spent my first 11 months on a bike without mishap, which is quite something in Saigon. I'd say the average time spent before a significant accident is around 3 months, so I was really beating statistics. 

However, a few weeks ago, as I was on my way to a birthday party, a pizza delivery boy failed to acknowledge my existence and, essentially, drove straight into me from the side. My bike slid sideways, I face planted in the middle of a busy road, and I lost my shoe. 

It's funny what your brain does in situations like these. My first thoughts were that I needed to get out of the road, sharpish; my second that I quite liked that shoe, and needed to try and save it without having my hand run over. Thankfully I was able to salvage it and then get out of the road and into the nearest bar, whereupon the most wonderful demonstrations of humanity took the sting out of the whole event. First aid kits and green tea were produced; strangers got my bike to safety on the pavement; another stranger took my helmet off for me; I was ushered into a bathroom and then bettadined whilst squealing like a girl; ice bags were producdd; a taxi was flagged down and my bike looked after. Really, human beings are the most wonderful things. 

I managed not to cry until I got into the taxi, where I made all sorts of strange, suppressed noises, because I didn't want to bother the taxi driver, but really, this was probably a lot weirder and more disturbing for him. He had to rummage through my bag and take money out of my purse when we got to my apartments because my palms were ripped to shreds, and he did the whole thing without pinching any doe, which is very comforting. 

I managed to get to Risk or Death, who regaled me with stories of when she had biked through the deserts of Azerbajan in hot pursuit of international bandits and sustained similar injuries, and Frenchie took one look at me lain out, helpless on the sofa, when he popped over the weekend and said, "Eh, I 'av 'ad worse eenjuries een rugby. You Eenglish, you are 'elpless een ze face ov pain!', to which I agreed and plaintively asked for a cup of tea 

It took a day or so to get back on poor Wobbler once we'd picked him up from the bar and hammered the foot pedal away from the gear pedals (I say 'we' - some helpful Vietnamese men did it) but I got back on eventually, wrist splint, dressing and all, and spent about three days riding to work with one trouser leg rolled up so that the oozing wound on my leg could air. Mmmm. Tasty. 

Shallow wounds to the palms, left elbow, knees and hips were sustained, but all in all, not too bad an induction into the world of motor cycle crashes!