Car trouble. Myanmar. Toe surgery. Fail.

The Magnificent Volvo has suffered a minor setback. The alarm system has gone kaput.
On the one hand, that's bad, because broken things inevitably cost money. And on the other hand, it doesn't really matter. Who ever wired up the system failed to include any sort of immobiliser in it. So while the alarm sounds, you can still put the keys in the ignition and drive the car away.
I did exactly that, and the guard at our house didn't even look up from the morning paper. I'd hoped a short drive would enact some kind of override, and the alarm would stop. It didn't.
So I (literally) ripped the alarm out and we continued, still with the hazard lights flashing away, and that's how it's stayed for the past two weeks.
I don't want to spend more money on that stupid thing. It cost $1000+AU at the last service, and it didn't even grow wings and fly after that.
So if you need a giggle, think of Jem, driving the twenty five minutes to work every day with the hazard lights on.
Which, being Malaysia, doesn't even raise an eyebrow with the police.

Ah, the beauty of Myanmar, caught mid-sneeze

Myanmar was interesting, for most of the time. It has incredibly lovely, helpful, genuine people, and
about 20 bazillion temples. If you like temples, and would like to hate them, go to Myanmar. Temples (or Pagodas, for that matter) now make me feel nauseated.

Things to do:
Walk around:
Meet people. See them smoking cigars, carrying huge baskets on their heads, smiling, being helpful, and sneaking out in pairs to go sit up at the temples with their boyfriends/girlfriends. Funny stuff.
Ask someone about An Sung Soo Chi:
She's the national hero. For a long time I wondered why the government hadn't killed her off; she caused them a fair bit of grief over the years. Now I know; the whole country would have revolted against them.
Buy some Ann Sung Soo Chi merchandise:
I bought a coffee mug. Jem was given a keyring, with the head of Ann rising out of the centre of a rose. Classy, and understated.
Eat:
Everything. Have a quick look around the restaurant to ascertain basic hygiene standards, and then tuck in. Mildly spicy, so after two years in Malaysia I had no problems ordering the 'hot' food. Pork option universal. Generally nothing has fish-head in it, it's just fresh, simple flavours. Wash it down with Myanmar Lager: it's probably cheaper (safer?) than water anyway.

I went for a walk around, and found a protest. Workers were upset about their factory being closed, and were taking part in a hunger strike to promote their cause. This was in the centre of town, beside the second largest Pagoda. Before the end of the day, a government official had come down to address their concerns, and the strike had ended.
It's a nice though that the government now responds positively to a cry for help from the people, but I'm not naive enough to think this is the case Myanmar-wide. There's a whole people group that are currently not recognised by the government... because they're muslim, not buddhist. Yeah... not convinced. I was approached by a local journo who gave me the basic run down. Apparently having ten day growth and a backpack on makes you look like a reporter. I must remember that.
"Hello, would you like to come and see the protest?"
"Yeah, what's going on over here?"
"Hunger strike protest. They don't wan't money, they just want jobs... are you, maybe, a reporter?"
"Oh me? No, sorry. I just have a camera..."
"Oh, haha, I thought you were freelance..."
"Well, I'm if you mean 'free' as in 'no-one pays for it', then yeah, I guess I am..."

"Dey took err jerrrrbs" IRL edition


Anywho. We stayed in Yangon, where accommodation is crazy overpriced, (we're talking Melbourne prices for third-world spec rooms... yep, it's a joke) we stayed in Mandalay, where they make awesome velvet thongs, and Bagan, where you will learn to hate Pagodas. It's kinda cool though.
There's thousands of brick temples there. It's as though for a one hundred year period, 50% of the population made temples, and the other 50% made bricks. And it's not all nice stuff either, there's plenty of horrible stories of brutality from the rulers of the time pushing to get them up. Mmm.

 At some stage, 'enlightenment' meant 'sticking neon lights behind Buddha'. I have no explanation as to why I found that so amusing.

 Green dude approves, but it's fair to say he's biased.

This church in Mandalay looked way too much like the preacher robot from Futurama


We were about done in Mandalay when I decided to remodel my toe. Toes and number plates don't mix, so be careful not to kick them in an uncovered state. Ironic that the worst injury I've ever gotten from a bike was getting on the bloody thing.
So after a day or so of bandages, I got sick of not being able to fit my foot into shoes, and walking meant that the wound kept bleeding, so I took Luke Wilko's advice and sent Jem for superglue.
Enter Jem, finding a dinky little hardware shop in Mandalay..
"Can I help you?
"Um, yes... I'm just looking for superglue."
"Ok, what do you need to use it for"
(Jem is slightly taken aback by the perfect english spoken by the female store clerk)
"I need to glue my husbands toe back together."
(without hesitation) "Here, use this one. It's made in China, it's much better quality than that Thai made stuff."
FYI, superglue is less painful than stitches, and so, so much faster than waiting for the wound to seal up. 10/10 would use again. No side effects I'm aware of. The pink elephant that has been following me is apparently from something else.

Umm... mum asked me about my uni studies. I am still technically studying, but if I were to give myself advice three months ago it would be something like this: Don't muck up your credit card so you can't order books until week five and then work on a movie set for two weeks and then try and catch up for one week and then go on holiday for another two, or you may find yourself failing a semester in it's entirety.
Just sayin'.

Mandalay. One of the Pagodas. The one on the hill. That narrows it down, right?

 

Temples, pagodas and... oh hey, it's a lizard... nice.

We bought some paintings from here. They're pretty sweet.

mmmmm.... vomitous

The outside is calm, but the inside threatens violence should he spit red beetlenut slime in front of her just one more time...

Got swagger?

 For those concerned, this man isn't drowning. He's actually fishing. I'm aware that seems unlikely.

 'Do you like stairs? You'll LOVE Myanmar!'

 Saturated dude with large fish indicating previous picture of different person was indeed fishing and not drowning

I talked to this guy on the street. He told me that he realised I was busy just then, but should I ever be back in Yangon, he'd like to invite me to his house. Although he couldn't give me his phone number (he didn't have one) and he couldn't give me his email (he didn't have one) but if I took his photo, and asked around, someone would know where to find him. He's known on the street, you see...

So, yeah. Hopefully some updates will come a little more often now. But, you know me. So let's all just hope together.

Wanna see a cow race?

Leong's bike ground to a halt, kicking up a cloud of red Cambodian dust. He points to the dried rice fields on his left. My eyes are drawn to a massive crowd of people standing in the middle of the field.

With a smile that seems to cover his whole face, he says words not usually put together:

“Wanna see a cow race?”

On the rare occasion a man is asked whether or not he wants to see a cow race (or, for that matter, a racing cow) there is only one answer he can possibly give.

So we doubled back, and began to cut across the field towards the mass of villagers gathered.

Pulling up next to the cart selling iced sugar cane juice, (which I usually hate, but three days of eating trailbike-thrown dust made it taste incredible) it was immediately clear that whatever the focus of the day had been before we had arrived, it had now changed. We were swamped.

Small children dared each other to approach, pushing one another forward before chickening out and retreating behind the nearest adult. I fished around in my bag for half a packet of jubes and a few packs of peanuts, and eventually managed to give them away by kneeling down, head bowed, before the intended recipient snatched it from my hand and darted back to safety.

We smiled and shook hands with the gathered friendly locals and immediately regretted not knowing any khmer (Cambodia's native language) whatsoever. A much older Khmer man in a weathered camouflage jacket (apparently oblivious to the thirty-something degree heat) approached me humbly, bowing his head as he clasped my hand with both of his, and if his beaming toothless grin was anything to go by gave me the warmest of greetings possible, seemingly honoured to have simply made my acquaintance. Knowing full well Cambodia's history, and (to put it bluntly) the rarity of someone his age, I suddenly felt very small, and then incredibly inadequate of doing this occasion due justice. A man like him would have some stories to tell.

Our guide Leong worked his way through the crowd.

We're on the final leg of a three day trailbike trip through southern Cambodia, and making our way back to Phnom Penh. My oldest friend was getting married, and as best man I thought the buck's party would be better spent in south east Asia than on a pub crawl through Melbourne. So, with him having never left Australia (but for a short trip to England, which absolutely doesn't count) I dragged Neil out into the middle of nowhere to celebrate the closing of the longest chapter of his life. Fortunately, we found a cow race, and the trip was a great success.

Leong calls us over. The locals have directed us as to where the best place to capture the race is. They factored in wind direction, so we wouldn't be covered in dust. I'm fairly sure they didn't understand what we'd been up to in the previous days. They pushed us well back from the track, signalling that they really couldn't be too sure as to where the cows would run though.

The wind changed, and they hurried us to the other side of the field. And then I saw the racers.

Two bulls strapped to a cart. A muscular Khmer atop of the cart, wearing nothing but a loin cloth and sporting some of the finest mutton chops I've seen since the last time I went to the Drysdale RSL. Wielding a stick that is probably best described as a goad, they cut an imposing figure.

The bulls ambled their way to the opposite side of the field where their opponent was waiting, and the anticipation grew.

I was assuming all this time that the bulls would run side by side, drag racing style. I was fairly confused when this didn't happen, and the bulls and carts tore past one after the other, the pair behind almost pushing into the cart in front. They crossed the finish line, the crowd erupted into cheers, and then were promptly chocked out with more red dust.

Neil, Luke (our fellow groomsman) and I looked at each other and shrugged our shoulders. We had just witnessed the craziest race any of us had ever seen, and had no idea who'd won.

Leong came to the rescue.

Should, by chance you have met Leong, you would understand why I haven't tried to quote him directly in what he said. He's got a strong twangy Cambodian accent at the best of times, and when he talks quickly sounds almost exactly like Jar Jar Binks. Except that Jar Jar is slightly more comprehendible, and everyone wants to kill him. Leong, on the other hand, is a top bloke.

Leong explained that when the bulls race they tie a piece of bamboo between the two carts. Should the bamboo fall, the cart in front is declared the winner. Should it stay up, as was the case here, the cart behind is crowned victorious.

The crowd gathered around the cart. I walked past the bookie, dealing out big handfuls of rial. A man walked past me, big grin on his face, fanning himself with a massive wad of cash, like some sort of a Cambodian TAB commercial. I see a kid I've previously given a small packet of peanuts to, following me around like a pup, unopened packet still in his hand. If I was his age, I don't think I would have saved it to take back to the family. I feel pretty small again.

After another 20 minutes of smiles, shaking hands, and shy children, it's time to go.

Whenever we're cutting through a village on the big dirt bikes, kids run out to the front fences to wave, and the younger adults usually give us the universal 'do a wheelie' charade act, waving their arms in the air. Leong obliged, Neil took off with him, and Luke tried to do the same. Immediately Luke was choked out in the dust, and his bike ground to a halt. I was fifty meters away filming, and he couldn't hear what I could hear over the noise of the other bikes.

We're in the middle of nowhere. I can't even see the village from where these people must have travelled from. We've got 100 or so northbound clicks to ride to get to Phnom Penh before dark, through fields, goat tracks, railway lines and through villages. 

There's five hundred or more Cambodian villages in field for a cow race.

And right now, every one of them is laughing at Luke stall his bike in the dust. 

The ongoing horror of Svay Pak

'High Street' Svay Pak

I feel sick to my stomach. I steady myself against the wall, and breathe for a moment.

“This was on the wall when we got here,” he says, motioning to a sketchy hand drawn princess. Something any little girl would've drawn.

“We left these rooms as they are to show people what it was like.” The stalls (the term 'room' is misleading) are tiny, with a simple bed, a curtain for a door, and no roof. No privacy. Nowhere to hide. No escape from the noise. No escape from what they had become.

“And upstairs, was the pink room...”

The last few days has been a learning experience.

This time, I knew of the Cambodian history.

I didn't know how it would effect me. I didn't know how it affected the present Cambodia.

Come with me to Svay Pak. Walk down the dusty street, lined with run-down (so, normal) looking shops. See the regular smiling kids walk about the place.

There's nothing to immediately discern the place from any of the other poor areas around Phnom Penh.

We walk into a modest sized hall, with colourful paintings on the walls.

It's a friendly place, kids noisily moving about the room. There's a large colour-filled 'Good Shepherd' painting on the wall.

We're led around, shown the rooms where they hold the kids club, english lessons, pre-school... It's all madly familiar to me. Just like the YWAM centre in Bacolod, Philippines that I spent time in when I was ten.

Across the street is a gym. There's some of the skinniest gym-users I've ever seen pumping iron, and chatting with their mates in their baseball caps and singlets.

“We run a kick-boxing program, and a weights and PT program too,” says Isaac.

“It's a great way to get the guys interested. Some of them have actually gone on to kick-box professionally.”

He smiles.

To come from a poverty stricken neighbourhood, to now being able to support himself and his family, and keep his sisters out of brothels... “It's a cool story, actually...”

We walk down the street to another hall. 'Rahab's House' is emblazoned across the facade.

“This is the original centre,” says Isaac.

“The building was rented by Don when they first started up in Svay Pak. It was abandoned at the time, and central to the town. It needed some work, though, because it was last used as a brothel.”

I knew this. I joked to Isaac about the dark irony of the building... and then immediately the gravity of the situation took hold of me.

Shut up, Josh, I thought. There's nothing funny here...

“When they moved in they knocked down most of the stalls, as you can see...”

I walk along the wall. I can see the ends of the brickwork, marking out the tiny stalls.

“...but we left a few of them here, so that people could see how it was. And we left this...”

The curtain is drawn back, and I see the picture on the wall.

Psychologists will tell you that abused children invent imaginary friends, or even different lives in their mind to escape from extreme abuse.

It's clear that this room was occupied by a child, but in her physical surroundings - her detainment - there are some things she couldn't escape from. She was a slave. With no rights and no future. She was there to please her captors, the wardens and any man who walked through the door.There are some things she couldn't escape from.

I feel physically sick. “Upstairs,” says Isaac, “was the pink room, where you could buy a virgin.”

Just eight years ago, this was a house of pain. Now it's a house of restoration. I'm trying to grasp hold of that, but it's seriously doing my head in.

It was around eight years ago that the initial raids in Svay Pak occurred. The obvious brothels were closed, the owners were arrested, and some of the sex-slaves were released from their effective bonds.

But the unfortunate truth of how things are in Cambodia, is that within a week nearly everyone had been released from prison.

The sex trade returned to Svay Pak, only now it had been pushed underground.

Harder to see, harder to infiltrate, and just as evil as ever.

“What we have now, is someone sitting in a cafe, waiting for a pimp to walk past and set up a deal.” says Isaac. “Now some of the major hotels in Phnom Penh will set up the deal for you, and arrange for the child to be brought to your room.”
The paedophillic sex tourism industry in Cambodia is alive and well.

The UN states that 80% of Cambodia's “Sex Workers” are between 12 and 18 years old. The reality of the situation is that the term 'workers' isn't a true description of many of the girls. Being a 'worker' suggests a choice in the matter, some sort of rights, and a basic wage.

What actually happens to many of the girls (and boys) is that they are sold into the industry by their impoverished parents, or lured across the border from Vietnam to nannying or domestic worker positions that don't exist.
Once they've been taken by a pimp or brothel, they are no longer a worker.

They're a slave, plain and simple.

They have no choice in coming and going, no choice on yes or no. They are an object for someone else to exploit.

The facts that come out of Svay Pak are staggering.

Reports of girls as young as six being sold are common. Children are bought and sold, traded across the Thai and Vietnamese border like some sort of commodity. Entire factories are run on slavery. During our tour, Isaac tells me of a woman who has been enslaved in a brick factory for twenty years in an attempt to pay off a $200 debt.

The whole situation is being taken advantage of not just by sex tourists, but by locals as well, and kept open by corrupt government officials turing a blind eye. Of course, soliciting children is illegal in Cambodia, but the arrests are few and far between. Examples of handcuffs 'slipping off' on the way to the courthouse are the rule rather than the exception.

Rahab's House has many stories of 'rescue-raids' being foiled by corrupt police.

The last time it happened, the rescue targets were two enslaved girls; one 12, one 14. The day before the raid two uniformed officers walked into the house and notified the owner of the planned action. The house was raided the next morning, and the girls were nowhere to be found. These stories are commonplace.

When I first found out about Cambodia's history, I read an article in which the author explained the extreme levels of injustice as such:

'The evil of the Khmer Rouge lives on within the people that it was inflicted upon.'

It made sense to me. In a land where all the intellectuals, policy makers, teachers, and anyone of employable intelligence/book knowledge was murdered, there was no-one left to guide those who remained. Think of the pillars of society in your own communities- Mayors, Clerics, counsellors... Anyone seen as a threat to the Khmer Rouge was eliminated. Many of the children were left without parents. A lot of those that survived moved into crime and prostitution out of not just desperation, but because there was literally no other option. The only people in Cambodia with money were soldiers.

You are now faced with the result of an entire generation that was raised without guidance.

Isaac put it quite simply: Many of the people lack a moral compass. As a result, we have parents that would sell their children, and wage-earning government officials that would accept a bribe rather than liberate a child.

But fortunately, the story doesn't stop there.

Because despite the setbacks and constant frustrations, there are people who were outraged enough to put themselves in the middle of all of this and do something about it. Little by little, things in Svay Pak are changing. It's slow, hard work, and work that needs our support.

“One of the biggest problems is that people don't know about Svay Pak,” says Isaac.

“The pedophiles know. They know it's somewhere they can come and have sex with a little kid.”

I feel physically sick. Again.

To those who know me, I ask as a personal favour to me that you share this story with your friends, work mates, team mates and families.

It's been too long that Svay Pak has been famous to the perpetrators alone.

We can change this.

Joshua Welsh

no1welsh@gmail.com

This interview was arranged by Change Your World, a group set on highlighting the issues of modern day slavey in Asia today.  www.changeyourworld.com.my

For more information on Rahab's House see http://agapewebsite.org/projects/rahabs-house/

"It would've been a good school."

I first landed in PP in about March this year. I play football with a bunch of expats in Malaysia, and we'd arranged for a friendly against a bunch of expats in Cambodia. It was only a weekend thing, footy match, then an after match bar, and that was about it. I liked the vibe of the place- the people were friendly enough.

I didn't know anything about the history of the place. I sat up late on the computer researching it the night after I got back. As I was reading, I realised I'd noticed the disturbing lack of old people.
I remember the chills going down my spine.

If you're like me, and don't know what happened here within the last 35 years, then do some research. And then send an angry letter to your world history teacher.

This trip was going to be a little bit different.

I'd looked into visiting the Killing Fields. I wasn't too sure how I felt about it.

Both the Killing Fields and S-21 are now owned by a Japanese mob, and I'm not very sure about where the money goes. I think Cambodians have suffered enough without being robbed as well. I was pretty decided on not visiting either of the places.

I think it was boredom that got us in the end, and we found our way to S-21.

S-21 was a detention/interrogation centre where suspected traitors of the Khmer Rouge were house and inevitably executed. KR were very good at keeping records, so we can ascertain quite clearly that of the 20,000 inmates that entered, only 7 came out alive. All of the prisoners were photographed on entry, measured, weighed. The records are plastered all over the three main buildings that S-21 consists of.

Like many things in Asia, once you've passed the first few things, everything starts to repeat itself, and it gets a bit same-same. You start to gloss over.

I didn't want that. It didn't feel right to view the place without being shocked, traumatised even.

The whole place gave me chills.

S-21 was originally built as a school. The classrooms hastily and fairly crudely converted into some twisted asian version of Guantanamo Bay.

It still looks like a school. Just a non-descript set of white buildings. Creepily, there's still a set of varying height monkey bars in the yard.

Just like Drysdale Primary.

We walked back out the tuk-tuk, past the beggars and landmine victims. The legacy of the past still remains in Phnom Penh. The KR may have left, but the recovery isn't even close to complete.

We sat on the bike in silence and started our way back to the hostel.

"It would've been a good school," said Steve.

Once upon a time.

I began to think of the people who built it. The town planners, the teachers. The parents of the students.
A school is always a community within a community. Imagine how you would feel, the investment that you made into your community being used as a slaughter house?

The reality is that all of those teachers were either displaced or killed. Anyone with an education was seen as a threat to Communism.

Those parents, planners, and teachers lay silent in the graves of the Killing Fields.


It's not something that's easily put to words.

Friends, beaches, dodgey parachutes

The end of September saw a fantastic change in schedule for the Welsh household abroad, with a few visitors making the trip across the seas for a stay in the condo.

I think we managed to put Malaysia's best foot forward: between noisy markets, the open air seafood and stray cat awesomeness that is Nong and Jimmy's Thai BBQ, and probably the best nightspot in KL, the 57^th floor establishment of Merinis, we managed to encompass the opposite ends of the spectrums that we experience on a weekly basis.

Malaysia has a growing middle class, but it's still a country of extremes. It takes a while to get your head around the excess of Ferraris and Porches parked on one side of the road, and the construction site filled with Bangladeshi workers who make probably $200 per month on the other.

I maintain that you can see all of KL that you need to within three or four days. At a pinch, you could cram it into 48 hours without missing too much of the action, and only gain two inches to your waistband.

Anyhow.

We packed our visitors in the Volvo, and headed to Langkawi. Via the airport.

There we met Mr. Andre, the Dutch owner of Sunset Valley, where we were staying.

Mr. Andre was sailing around the world on his yacht with his wife when he pulled into port in Langkawi.

That was seven years ago, and he hasn't left since. Understandable, because he lives in one of the most beautiful tropical valleys I've had the pleasure of staying in. He rents out five or so restored traditional wooden Malay houses on his property, surrounded by rice paddies, green hills, and birds that don't seem to sleep.

The place was unreal. But next time, I'm bringing ear plugs.

Pantai Cenang is particularly nice at sunset. Sitting on the beach, have a refreshing non-specific drink while you watch the fat tourists go parasailing... it's awfully easy to get used to.

We stuck a sweet deal for parasailing ourselves, and for about $50AUD Jem, Josh P and myself went for a lovely glide over the bay.

Seeing all the other tourists fly up, out, around, and back onto dry land successfully, I figured I'd take the opportunity to take some shots from the air.

I tied the camera to my arm for safe keeping.

That worked pretty well.

The camera stayed tied to my arm on takeoff. I took some great sunset shots, I got a shot of some swimmers waaaay underneath me, and I took a fantastic vertically-held shot of the sky, the islands, the boat, and my feet, and when we dry the camera out, I might be able to confirm whether or not you could see the tow rope coiling up in the ocean as the boat ground to a halt, and I splashed down into the sea.

On the plus side, we were thinking about getting another camera anyway. And they gave me a second ride for free!

Langkawi finished up with a local market supplied dinner by the pool, with the sun setting over the valley. You can't get much better than that.

The next trip will be a little different. I'm going to Cambodia, and visiting Svay Pak, the home of sex slavery and people trafficking in Asia. I'm meeting the man who's trying to stop it. Should be interesting...

It's Friday

Righto, let's give this regular update thing a shot.

I've started volunteering at Jem's school, and I think I may be enjoying it. Kids are pretty funny, even the 16 year old ones. They're smarter than I remember which although slightly intimidating, makes for some good conversations. Early days, but I think I could get into this teaching thing. Plus one of the sixteen year olds told me that having me as a teacher “would be sick”, which, if I remember correctly...  is good.

I'm writing this while sitting on a chartered bus, going to the airport to be an extra in an ad for Malaysian Tourism. It's funny because we've encountered a bit of traffic, due to the bus driver not using the massive and never choked toll road that goes almost directly from our place of departure to our destination.

So rather than pay probably 5rm in tolls, he'll pay probably 20rm extra in fuel and take an extra half an hour in transit time. I like that this is the preceding action before shooting an ad about how awesome Malaysia is.

Wait on.. we have a development. He has now turned onto the MEX, which, you should know, is the best motorway to take. Which means he wasn't avoiding tolls, he just didn't know the right way to get from KL's largest train station to KL's largest airport. Yep, still funny.

I think we have living fairly well down pat now. Mrs Welsh and can eat a fantastic meal of tandoori chicken, garlic naan, and tosai masala (washed down of course with refreshing iced lime tea) for 20rm (about $7) at our favourite mamak. I can buy Australian fillet steak for $10 a kilo, and a slab of duty free Tiger, which tastes almost exactly like beer, for $28. We also have a contact for discount wine and spirits.

Our contact ('cos every white guy has a booze guy) doesn't import duty free beer via fishing boat from Langkawi like everyone else does, rather he has his own importing licence and runs his business from home. I can buy most things off him for duty free prices, and it's delivered to my door free of charge in the boot of his Proton.

I had a good chat to booze man Kamal one day, as he gave me a lift into town. Tragically, he doesn't sing, and the importing business is something he does after hours as a second job. His first job is in admin at a nearby International school.

Clever him. He's surrounded himself by cashed up white alcoholics.

He does that for however many hours, does his beer deliveries, and then goes to his third job... as a Police detective, on night shift.

“You're a what?” said I, obviously surprised.

He smiled. “I tend to arrive late and leave pretty early.”

“Kamal when do you sleep??”

“Oh, I get about four hours a night. I get by ok on that.”

He then went on to tell me that he's on track to retire at forty. Clever him indeed.

In other news, my li'l hog is running perfectly. For those who don't know (I'm working off the laughable theory that I might have some new readers) I acquired a scooter a few months ago, as KL traffic jams are savage, we don't have the cash for a car anyway, and taxis can get you killed.

I had a pretty bad run with The Blue Lightning initially, which I'll cover for you now, with prices converted to AUD for your convenience.

Fault: Bike stopped on highway bridge, while overtaking a bus with pillion passenger; clogged carburettor

Fix: Indian man pushed bike to repair shop, carburettor serviced - $12

Fault: Carburettor fell off over speed bump

Fix: Carburettor refitted, battery replaced - $20

Fault: Failed piston and rings due to massive overheating after 90 minute “I have no idea where I am” thrash in searing heat

Fix: Broken parts replaced with parts of the original (read:correct) size - $80

Fault: Bike won't restart after initial rebuilt motor test, stuck at 7-11

Fix: Catch taxi, recharge battery, actually run the engine in properly - $5

Fault: Rear tyre flat after collision with discarded lump of concrete in motorcycle lane on a rainy night

Fix: New tyre- replaced by workshop at 9:45pm (try doing that at Peter Stevens) - $22

Fault: Carburettor fell off five times on one trip

Fix: Reattach, glue carb in place with silicone, secure with fencing wire, zip ties, brace with broken hammer handle and cardboard box - $??

Fault: Drive belt broke on the way home from resigning at my last job

Fix: Walk to pub, fix in the morning - $15, plus two beers and a bacon sandwich.

I think we've crested the hill of brokenness for now. I ring the neck outta the poor little 110cc (0.11 litre for those of you with a sense of humour) single, winning traffic light battles, crossing median strips and pedestrian walkways, parking anywhere, and making air over speed bumps as I overtake BMWs. The look on their faces is priceless.

I even got 120 kays out of the tiny five litre tank the other day, and a lot of that was with Jem on the back. I'm happy to admit I'm impressed.

But soon we'll be buying a car. This year's tax return will treat us very, very well (working for six months on a high income tends to do that) and there's a few things on the wish list, and some solid convictions on what to avoid.

Firstly, I have a theory about not buying cars from companies who spend less on development that Tasmanians spend on beer. So that eliminates anything locally built from the list. Google Proton Jumbuck crash test, you'll get the picture.

I wouldn't buy a small Ford or GM in Australia, so I'm not about to do it here. You can get a small Toyota, but I'm a large Australian, so that has its issues as well. Subaru has only just begun selling cars here on mass, so they're out.

That narrows the list down to things imported from Europe.

Fortunately for me, European cars tend have the value holding properties of a carton of milk, so for the proposed budget ($8000 AUD) there's quite a few things on the table. But I'm all for slashing the list a bit further.

Mercedes: Well engineered, but hold their value a little well, so you have to buy one that's at least 18 years old. 18 years in Malaysia is like 200 years in Europe. Pass.

BMW: No wagons. I have an unhealthy obsession with wagons, so that doesn't help. Old BMWs are a bit scary electronically too. I have a re-occurring nightmare about a 7-series developing a misfire at idle. Pass.

Audi, Citroen, Renault... no, just no. Horrendous idea.

That leaves one candidate.

2.0 or 2.5 litre turbo engines, which is good, as rego fees here are calculated off engine capacity. Good on the highway, enough poke for the city, but low-boost reliable setups that should see me through for the next couple of years.

Potential for small modifications (intercooler, exhaust) but difficult to modify heavily, and anything that discourages that is a good thing for me and my marriage.

ABS, airbags, German engineering, Bosch parts, class leading (world leading, technically) safety, and autobahn-capable of the high speed cruising that Malaysian highways sometimes allow.

For the budget, I should be able to get one that's right on ten years old.

Bet of all, they come in wagon form.

Only thing is, I have to tell people something I'm not entirely comfortable with.

You see..

Well, it's just that...

I want a Volvo.

Is there a support group for this?

Bikes, jobs, unimaginative headings

There are times in life when you end up doing things that you once swore you'd never do.

Some things come to mind immediately, like owning a modified car, or buying another high powered rifle. On the plus side, my hot rod brings all the bros to the yard,(and they're like, why doesn't it start?) and the .308 looks nice sitting next to the .223, .303, 12 gauge and pair of .22's that never see daylight, or spotlight for that matter.

So, things.

Before I moved to Malaysia, I'd sworn that I wouldn't ride a scooter in KL. The roads were too busy, the drivers were too nuts, and in short, I thought widened the odds of me dying of old age to an unacceptable level.

I mean, depending on which body you consult, the Malaysia annual road toll stands at 3,600 or 6,000 for the official/unofficial figures respectively. By rights, it's enough to make you lock yourself in a room and order take out until you wind up on one of those 'It Happened To Me' late night television shows, being winched out of your roof.

On to the present, I ride one daily. Often with my wife, hanging on the back. That's quite a change of opinion, and now I'll explain how it came about.

Firstly, I learned, and possibly conquered Malaysian roads in a Mighty Myvi.

Because you're not some sort of car encyclopaedia, I'm happy to explain that a Myvi is a small, locally built soft-drink-can-with-wheels that is the mode of transport of choice for entry-level car buyer.

From here I learned a few things. For starters, everyone merges into your lane. All the time. So you need to expect that. Easy.

Secondly, the majority of the merging, cutting off, reversing down on-ramps, and stopping in the middle of highway happens fairly slowly. So you have a few seconds to contemplate “Is he... really going to do that?” (of which the answer is inevitably YES) and then respond accordingly.

Thirdly, the right hand lane is suicide.

Seriously kids, suicide. It's where the Porches and Lambo's play. But it's easy enough to avoid.

Two more factors.

I caught taxis to and from work for a few weeks before the scooter came up for sale. In short, some of the taxi rides were terrifying.

The problem with being a mechanic is that when you're in a half million-kay old proton that's hooking round a highway bend at speed is that you're painfully aware of the relevance of every bump, creak, groan and grind to your personal safety. My worst motorcycle scare has nothing on my worst taxi rides. Nothing.

Now, about the road toll. Malaysia has a similar amount of people as Australia, so yes, the road toll is as absolutely shocking as it sounds. But it doesn't particularly worry me.

To obtain a motorcycle and licence in Australia, you have to pass a few tests of skill, be financially stable, and wait. You wait a long time. And then you pass another test.

You have super strict road laws regarding speed, as well as general road manners, and observation of road safety laws.

Whereas in Malaysia, you need to be too poor to own a car.

As to why being poor makes otherwise sane people ride scooters like absolute nutcases, I'm out of ideas. There is a saying thrown around that translates to 'by the will of Allah', which gives a little insight. In other words, you may live, or die, it's all in the hands of God. That can't help. What I know is that whilst there are no guarantees on Malaysian roads, (or Australian roads for that matter) the way you ride has a higher influence on life or death than anything else.

Now that you've digested all of that, I give you my closing argument.

From memory, around half of Malaysia gets around on two wheels. They do so occasionally out of practically, but mainly because of one thing: annual income.

I live in their country, eat their food, and breathe the same air as they do. The difference with me, is that I grew up in Australia, and when I relocated to an essentially developing country, I did so with large amounts of financial replenishment.

The average bloke on a motorbike does it out of necessity.

Millions of Malaysians ride scooters.

And in the end, if it's good enough for them, it's good enough for me.

A few words about employment

In the interest of using this blog for actual chronicling of relevant news regard myself, I'll give you a quick run-down of my employment of the last six months.

Initially, I was happily and busily unemployed. I set up house, arranged a few things, did the washing, and occasionally did modelling work for my cousin's casting agency.

That got boring, and the work got scarce, so I was looking for a job.

I got one, through a friend at the football club. It was for a PR agency. That lasted six weeks.

In the end, I pulled the pin, which was 50% because I found out I wasn't suited to PR, and 50% because the last week I worked for them was a 62 hour week. No including the weekend. Yeah, not really why I moved to Asia. I still like my wife, so I should spend some time seeing her when I can.

Today I completed what may be my first step into a new career direction.

I worked a day at Jem's school. The principal is keen to get me started with them as a sessional/emergency teacher, off the back of my Cert 4 TAE. Short of me hating the work, I may begin study towards a proper teaching degree next year. But it's early days.

Anywho. Exciting times.