Box of Boxes Guide to the Klang Valley: Chapter One - Shah Alam

Chapter One: Shah Alam

Shah Alam is one of many little-townships in the somewhat sprawling area known as the Klang Valley. Most Klang Valley dwellers, particularly those born and raised in old Petaling Jaya, the tripartite of Bangsar/Damansara/Hartamas and the inner suburbs of Kuala Lumpur, are as familiar with Shah Alam as they are with Atlantis and other such mythical places. Yes, you’ve heard several hypotheses on where these places are supposed to be located. In the case of Atlantis, scientists have placed it all over the globe – from northern Europe to the Mediterranean Sea to the Indian Ocean – either way; you get an idea that it’s likely somewhere very watery. In the case of Shah Alam, some may place it somewhere beyond the toll plaza on the Federal Highway; the one that marks the end of Subang Jaya, and the beginning of a black hole that leads to an even bigger black hole known as Klang.  Other guide books will tell you that Shah Alam is only about 20 - 30 kilometres away from the heart of Kuala Lumpur. That puts Shah Alam somewhere near the asshole region, or about 30 minutes drive from KL – traffic jam caused by USJ fuckers notwithstanding. Spiritually however, scientists will tell you that Shah Alam seems to not only operate in a different time zone; it might as well be on a separate planet, where the lack of gravity slows everyone’s movement down to a spacey Buzz Aldrin moonwalk. Either way, you get the idea that it’s probably not worth visiting.

And you would be right, under most circumstances. But many long-time Shah Alam residents will insist that Shah Alam actually has many things to offer, especially if you want to get the hell out of Pangkal “Pelle”, Kelantan to a place that sort of reminds you of Kelantan, if Kelantan didn’t insist on keeping PAS in power for the last 20 years. Sure, in the recent elections, Shah Alam, with its abundance of cow-head waving, beer-sale protesting residents, had inevitably fallen under the hold of “Islamic” party PAS but at least they were smart enough to wait until they had good roads in place before voting for the opposition. Shah Alam seems to be one of the last Klang Valley bastions of the conservative right, where Perodua Kelisa cars and Toyota Avanza minivans drive round-and-round the city’s many round-a-bouts with bumper stickers proclaiming “UiTM Hak Melayu”, (err...if you’re going to take that line of thought, what about other Bumiputeras?). Funny, I thought that the whole point of a university education is to “broaden your horizons” and open your mind up to new and different perspectives – but when everyone around you is from more or less the same ethnic background, I would imagine that this would limit things, just that little bit more. You know, I almost ended up at UiTM Shah Alam after my SPM but I suppose Fate was gracious enough to delay my suffering for just that little bit longer. As a Melayu person, I actually did, a long time ago, receive an offer to study Seni Persembahan at the UiTM Shah Alam campus but then, it occurred to me what the fuck would I do with a Performing Arts diploma in Malaysia? God knows I already have a hard time doing anything with a Media and Communications degree (should’ve been a lawyer, they told me. Fuck that, I told myself). Anyway, if I was going to study the Arts, it sure as hell wouldn’t be in Shah Alam. That would be like studying Marine Biology in Bhutan. Good luck finding an ocean! (at this point, I would like to apologise to all UiTM Shah Alam Seni Persembahan graduates. I’m sure many of you are fabulous nonetheless, unless your name is Farid Kamil)

Did you know that there are no cinemas in Shah Alam? Not that one can learn much in terms of arts education through Hollywood blockbuster movies like Transformers 2 (Megan Fox’s cup size, perhaps?). But I’m just saying, THERE ARE NO CINEMAS in Shah Alam, or any other type of “entertainment” outlets (you can forget about bars and clubs). It was decreed by the old Sultan of Selangor that Shah Alam, as the site of many universities and colleges and therefore, many impressionable youths, shall be a city free of morally corruptive influences. The current Sultan of Selangor has decided to go on with this, because he’s never in Shah Alam anyway and is free and rich enough to get his jollies anywhere around the world. Yeah, thanks a lot, man, thanks a lot. So you will find that the youths here have turned to other “healthier” forms of entertainment; the most popular one being “staring at people for no good reason.” If Staring was an Olympic sport, Malaysia can count on Shah Alamites to sweep the gold, silver and bronze medals. If you feel like no one ever pays you any attention, I suggest you take a stroll around Dataran Shah Alam on a Friday night – you’ll have many eyes on you, even if you’re usually, not worth looking at. You will find many boys and girls gathered there to watch each other, watch each other, eyes boring deep into each other’s souls and coming up with a handful of sand.  And this is why a large number of Shah Alam youths are very fond of smoking weed; this way, a whole lot of Nothing suddenly becomes Something very interesting. Healthy.

Other folks in Shah Alam might choose to enjoy Shah Alam’s many little parks in their spare time. And for this, I must give kudos to the Shah Alam Municipal Council’s (MBSA) parks & recreation department, whom I’ve had the opportunity to work with through one of my company’s CSR programmes, and who does a significantly better job than their whackjob peers at MBPJ. You would think though, that a city with so many parks and jogging tracks would at least, boast plenty of scenery-enhancing fit bodies. Au contraire, my friend. From my general observation, the Shah Alam population are generally fatter, or more accepting of fatness than the rest of the Klang Valley, and is therefore a good place to heal if you’ve had your self-esteem damaged by not being able to fit into a size 2 at Topshop. Half of Shah Alam’s park visitors forego physical activity in favour of sitting and wolfing down an entire picnic basket, while staring at the still waters of Tasik Shah Alam. 

Since we’re on the topic of food, I should probably take this opportunity to talk about the dining-out options in Shah Alam and they are: Kelantanese food, Kelantanese food and other food cooked by Kelantanese people that end up tasting like Kelantanese food. Think that radioactive blue rice dish known as Nasi Kerabu. While I do enjoy stuffing my face with Solok Lada and lacing my rice with a generous helping of Budu, I don’t enjoy diabetes. You see, Kelantanese people are awfully fond of sugar. They love their sugar so much; they put sugar in their milk, sugar in their curry, heck, they put sugar in their sugar. Have you ever tried Spaghetti Bolognaise prepared by a Kelantanese chef? Don’t worry – just drown your spaghetti in maple syrup with royal icing on top and the effect should be more or less the same. Just another thing to note: it is impossible to find well prepared pasta in Shah Alam. And fast food doesn’t exist either. Don’t get me wrong – we do have KFC, McDonalds, Burger King and the likes over here but there is nothing fast about the food service.  (Also, Shah Alam boasts the SLOWEST Starbucks in the word. I kid you not.) If you’re starving and looking for a quick meal, you would be better off waiting for the eggs in your fridge to hatch into a fully grown chicken. It ain’t going to happen just like that Happy Meal isn’t, my friend. If it’s Sunday morning however, you can pay a visit to the Pasar Tani (Farmer’s Market?) at Shah Alam Stadium where you can feast on something called Gearbox Soup (pronounced Kelantan-style as Sop Gear-bok) with the snap of your fingers. It might sound like boiled motor oil with old car engine parts but really, it’s tasty animal fat floating in water with 11 herbs and spices. You can add some flat rice noodles for an extra carbohydrate boost if you like.

Now, back to the topic of exercise and recreation in Shah Alam - there are no decently over-priced gyms in Shah Alam, blasting shitty dance music. Those who do exercise can take it outside for free, around the many parks, and they usually do so in a sartorially spectacular manner - in puffy, nylon-polyester track pants that makes your butt look inflatable and render you very flammable. Perhaps, if you were pushed or end up “accidentally” falling off the top of a tall building, say, Plaza Masalam in Section 9 Shah Alam, where the Malaysian Anti Corruption Commission is located, these pants may act as a parachute and save your life. Well, it has been known to happen. Anyway, back to our Shah Alam Jogger - these track pants are often tucked into white sports socks for reasons that I haven’t been able to ascertain, but my, don’t you look zexxy....... Oh, how can anyone resist you now? On the topic of style, remember that when it comes to dressing up in Shah Alam; you don’t. Just forget about it. Call it a day. Use those pages from Vogue to wrap your Nasi Lemak. Unless it’s Hari Raya. Then Shah Alam offers a great and wide selection of beautiful traditional festive attire, sure to make even the most non-ayu, Grinch-iest among us glitter and sparkle like Siti Nurhaliza on the cover of Nona.

Since my love for Shah Alam is as evident as white mice in a field of snow, you may wonder, why I haven’t made a real effort to get the hell out of the place and return to the dimension from which I came? There are many answers to this question; the simplest one being free and abundant parking space. Seriously, do not underestimate the power of parking space in the Klang Valley. Have you ever tried looking for a parking spot in One Utama on a Saturday? Have you found one yet? How long has it been? 3 years? You’re better off parking your car in Shah Alam and walking the whole 30km to Bandar Utama – you’ll save time that way. My friends who work in KL – either in the Petronas Twin Towers or anywhere around Bukit Bintang spend RM 250 a month on parking alone (and that doesn’t include the toll charges for using the Smart Tunnel and whatnots so they’ll actually get to work in less than 7 hours). I spend about RM50 a year, and that’s only for the occasional parking fines I get for leaving my car in the middle of the bloody road because I suddenly got tired of living my life in an orderly fashion. Not for any lack of parking spots. Of course, the abundance of parking in Shah Alam is probably a sound acknowledgment of the fact that public transport to and around the area is shit, with everything but the armpit-scented KTM Komuter train stopping short at Subang. Even then, the KTM Komuter only passes through the industrial areas of Shah Alam – so unless you live in a tractor graveyard, good luck trying to get home. And you should know that the taxis here refuse to use their meter, charging you an arbitrarily and extravagantly chosen fee of RM20 just to drive a little further away than where you can spit. You end up asking the Taxi driver if he is employed by Satan and he ends up going all Pacino on your ass.

I’m pretty convinced now that the lack of public transport in and out of the area is not due to bad town planning but a devious and diabolical conspiracy, between the Powers That Be to keep Shah Alam people in Shah Alam and the rest of Klang Valley out. They’re trying to isolate us. Maybe Shah Alam was established for the purpose of a wacky, secret social experiment – like the island on Lost. Or maybe they’ve decided to put us under quarantine for general public health and safety – like lepers and tuberculosis patients in the old days, H1N1 sufferers, Zombies!!!!!! You see folks, at the end of the day, Shah Alam is not just a physical and geographical location; like New York, it’s also a state of mind. Well, it’s a state of mind that is a symptom of some kind of infectious disease. Just like people infected by the Zombie virus can’t help but think that they would like to eat your intestines. I’ve been in Shah Alam for 2 years now. It’s too late for me. I feel it, I feel the Shah Alam taking over. I’m staring at you, aren’t I? Save yourself! I don’t want you to see me like this. Leave me to my puffy polyester track pants, my blue rice, my parking spots, my slow-ass movements. Leave and don’t look back. The only thing I ask of you is that you remember me as I was, remember me before this dastardly disease took hold! Remember me as I was, and remember me fondly.

This is not a guide.

This is goodbye. 

Box of Boxes Guide to the Klang Valley: Introduction

If you’re a foreigner, and you meet a Malaysian who says he lives in “Kuala Lumpur”, otherwise fondly known as KL, do not automatically assume that he has a nice cottage smack next door to the glittering Petronas Twin Towers. Hardly anyone from “KL” actually lives there, and if you do, fuck you, you’re an expat living off the strength of the Euro. Or, you might as well be one. Or, you’re from Kampung Baru. In that case, the rest of us will assume that you know where all the best Nasi Lemak/ Tom Yam stalls and weed dealers are. .  

 More often than not, “Kuala Lumpur” is used by many to refer to one of the many cities, towns and suburbs that make up the Kuala Lumpur Metropolitan Area/  Greater Kuala Lumpur,  usually referred to as the Klang Valley, named after the large drain that flows through it.

On foreign soil, Klang Valley natives will present a united front as KL-ites because you might already have a hard time wrapping your head around where Malaysia is and we don’t want you to strain a muscle in your hat. Yes, that’s right. Your hat. Nice hat by the way. For your information, West or Peninsular Malaysia, where the Klang Valley is located, is a penis shaped thing below Thailand, pissing out a kidney stone known as Singapore. East Malaysia is irrelevant when we’re not stealing oil, gas and native land to make Peninsular Malaysia richer or come national election time, when Barisan Nasional (BN) needs to dig for votes to keep themselves in power since we’re all sort of fed up with them over here.

If you’re a local, you probably know all this already and you just should admit that back on home turf, Klang Valley folks are deeply divided by a sense of tribalism and you look upon other cities/towns/suburbs with a sense of superiority, or complete ignorance. Particularly, if you’re like me and you spent the first 20 years of my life in old PJ (that’s Bukit Gasing, not SS2, and definitely not the shitty PJS which isn’t even PJ mind you, but bloody Sunway). You see, even PJ kids are divided amongst eachother - it’s not just about where you live. Sometimes, it’s also about which school you went to when you were 14, even if you’re now 44. Graduates of Assunta, Sri Aman, Bukit Bintang or La Salle might still hate eachother but at least, we recognise one another as equals. If you went to say, Taman Petaling/ Taman Sea/ Taman Dato’ Harun - we might like you, but only because it’s so fun to root for the underdogs, isn’t it? If you went to a private/ international school like Cempaka or Kolej Tunku Jaafar, then you’re rich brat and even a 100k per year secondary education couldn’t save you from ending up dumber than a rock.   We sniff at you for your lack of pretend-street cred, and you in turn, will sniff at us for our toilet-cleaning, Mission-turned-Government school, boringly bourgeois, middling middle class ways.  Oh, and if your parents sent you off to some MARA Boarding school in another state; we wonder what you did to badly piss them off that they would destroy your life so. This is of course, only if you live in PJ. MARA Boarding Schools are completely acceptable if you live in places that some PJ kids can’t even name. And there are a lot of places that we can’t even name. Even if it’s just other places in the Klang Valley.  We’re out of touch, like that, and if we appear to not be, we probably fancy ourselves as some “creative freelance type”, who gets featured in KLUE a lot because all our friends work for the mag. And that ultimately means that we’re actually twice as out of touch but hey, look at this awesome DSLR around my neck, check out my “vintage” plaid shirt and wait, wait, wait, check out this dog-eared copy of this book with something that Nietzsche wrote on Andreas-Salome and uh, uh, we also write poetry on our blog and that’s where you can also find many artful pictures of us which makes us sort of look like Rodney Alcala’s murder victims.

Oh. Don’t mind me, I’m just bitter that I ended up moving to Shah Alam, with a shitty 9 to 5, no, 8 to 8 GOVERNMENT-LINKED COMPANY office job that also happens to be in Shah Alam. And the last time I wore some skinny pants to work, someone asked me why I decided to wear my swimming costume to the office. These are not swimming tights or part of a burqini you sartorially challenged wart! These are called “Disco Pants” by the pervert-owned poser-serving American Apparel

I want to have no EPF too. I want to write poetry too but as you can see, I have trouble sticking to a word limit. I also don’t have a Twitter account for this reason. I mean 140 word limit? The fuck! Do you tell Michelangelo that he can only paint using the colour purple? What’s that? I’m not an artist of his stature?!!

Stop digressing and end this introduction already.

Well, yes, Shah Alam. Living and working in Shah Alam for almost two years now, makes me hate myself and want to die. And that pretty much makes me the best person to write a guide on Shah Alam, doesn’t it? I mean, don’t you just hate those cloyingly optimistic, upbeat travel guides? They make it sound as if people in other places shit rainbows out of their ass. And they don’t. The only thing people shit out of their ass is shit. Hence, we refer to the action as shitting. Because it’s shit. Sometimes, I shit out of my mouth too or through my hands onto my keyboard and onto my blog. But not everyone is affected with that particular condition. Shitting rainbows however; well, no one can do that. Not even Care Bears. And screw Lonely Planet - dude, you people don’t even sound lonely! You know what’s lonely? Being stuck in gaddam Shah Alam.

So ladies & gentlemen, for the next part of my guide to the Klang Valley (yes, that would be Chapter One), I invite you to journey with me through time and space and non-matter to the “city” known as SHAH ALAM……………….

Except I haven’t written Chapter One yet so you’re just gonna have to wait.

Who is going to have to wait? No one reads your blog. 

People in Boxes: Someone said I wasn't Malay-Malay and Esquire called Jay-Z "Black Black". So what race-race are we?

“Hi there, my friends and I, over at that table, you see that table over there? Yes, we have a bet going on...........We were wondering whether you could help us out. Actually, I think you certainly can......”

Oh great. No. Whatever it is you have to say. No. It was a little after lunchtime on a Saturday and I was in Mont Kiara, having pasta and coffee with an old friend. We were talking about the very interesting subject of my bladder. Yes. Something about it being either the size of Texas or made out of double reinforced steel or both. And how my friend’s bladder is the size of a pea and made out of tissue paper. Yes, zexxxy. My friend needed to run off to the ladies and pee again. The woman needs to wear a diaper, I tell you.

And the moment my friend left, Mr. Bet #1 came over. His face was flushed red and greasy from the afternoon’s heat. His belly wobbled like 100 pounds of pure gelatine placed on top of an old washing machine. He was old too. “So, we’ve been looking at you, right... and one friend of mine bet a 100 ringgit that you’re Japanese, I’m pretty sure that you’re Chinese and another friend claims that you’re of uncertain mixed parentage. Help us out, here. What are you?”

What am I? What I am is annoyed. If you want to place bets and gamble, ask someone to point you to the nearest authorized 4D counter. Or what about Genting Highlands? Do I look like a Vegas crap table to you? A deck of cards? Woohoo black jack!

My friend returned with a relieved bladder and a dude-who-the-fuck-is-this-guy look on her face.

“And what about you?” Mr Bet #1 asked my friend, “Are you Chinese? Pilipino?”

“Malaysian,” my friend answered with one raised eyebrow.

“Do you girls want to join us for a drink?” he asked.

“No thanks,” I said, “We’re kind of in the middle of something.”

“Are you sure? Let us buy you a drink.....”

This is a decent restaurant. It ain’t no sleazy pick-up joint, asshole. Wrong place. Turn left at the exit straight down to fuck off.

“We’re sure.”

Mr Bet #1 left with his giant belly wobbling meters ahead of him. “Geez, I can’t leave you alone for two seconds.....” my friend said to me, laughing. Ugh. I always get the gross ones. I feel like those garbage filters they stick in rivers. My friend and I tried to resume with regular programming but 5 minutes had not passed before friend of Mr Bet #1 approached us. Let’s call him Mr. Bet #2.

“Hi, so my friend established that you’re Malaysian but what kind of Malaysian?” he asked me.

What kind of Malaysian?! What kind of Malaysian?! “Malay.” There. Are you happy? Can you buzz off now?

“Are you sure?”

Am I sure?! Am I sure?! What is this? Who Wants to be a Millionaire? Oh, this is a tough one. Hold on, let me ask the audience. Maybe they’ll give me the right answer. Wait, wait, let me use my “talian hayat”. What? Mom? I’m Malay? Oh, ok, “Yes.”

“Well, maybe you two can join us for a drink?”

“No, thanks. We really don’t want to be disturbed.”

“Oh, okay then,” said Mr. Bet #2 scampered off. Another 5 minutes went by and a third friend of Mr. Bet #1 came along. Please welcome Mr. Bet #3.

“Hi, I’m really sorry for bothering you......My name’s Ian. How are you two doing? So you’re... Chinese,” Mr. Bet #3 said to my friend and to me he said, “You’re probably Malay but you’re not fully Malay, are you?”

Ugh. Not fully Malay? Oh yes, my right arm and my left big toe isn’t Malay. I got it off some white guy called Ian whom I chopped up because he was getting on my nerves. “I am.”

“Really? That’s funny.....” ‘Ian’ said.

Yes, so funny that I apparently laugh on the inside everyday over the fact. There’s a drum roll and a ba-da-bing sound everytime I look at my I/C and fill up the “race” section of inane forms. Do you hear it? Do you hear it? What if I slap you across your ear, real hard? Would you hear it then?

And then Ian said, “You don’t look Malay Malay. You don’t seem Malay Malay.”

Oh, if I had a dollar for everytime someone said this to me..........I would shoot them in the face and use the money to bribe my way out of a murder charge. Or maybe I should just quit my job and make a living out of making people bet over my racial heritage. I feel like a carnival game sometimes – you know how they have the Guess the Weight of the Cake and Win a Prize or Guess How Many Sweets in a Jar and Win a Prize? Yes, I feel like one of those. Woo hoo! Ever since I was little, whether I’m at home in Malaysia or abroad, the “hey,what are you?” question follows me around like toilet paper stuck at the bottom of my shoe. Actually, it’s even worse at home because an answer of “I’m Malay” is usually followed by “I don’t believe you,” or “Are you sure?” or “But you’re not Malay Malay.”

I remembered when I was really little, before I even went to school, my brother said that I was adopted from an Indian family because I was apparently, “dark-skinned”. But that’s only because the rest of my family are of a rather vampiric shade. The colour of white ceiling plaster. Albinos. Pigmentally-challenged. Clorox-bleached. Sorry, but you lot really do need a touch of Mystic Tan. Anyway, the fool said I was Indian as if it was supposed to be insulting. But really, I’m just insulted that you would actually think I would be insulted. What’s so wrong about being Indian, if you are Indian? But I’m not adopted. And not all Indians are dark skinned. Anyway, dark, light, who cares? I still got the better looking genes! Ok, no. The better looking bit as compared to my sisters is highly debatable. But you get what I’m trying to say.

And then I went to school. And I remembered my first day in school, I got in line to go for Pendidikan Islam class and the other Malay kids screamed for me to get out of the line, “Cikgu! Dia Cina!” Uhm, I could be Chinese and Muslim, you know. There are tons of Chinese Muslims. But I’m not. I’m Malay. “Mata dia sepet, kulit dia putih.” Oh, so now, I’m fair skinned. I never knew. I had a music teacher in Std. 4 who said, “You Malay, ah? Cannot be. Too fair to be Malay” and do I really have to mention the tools who say, “You cannot be Malay, you speak too good English to be Malay....” Repeat all of this. Repeat everyday and fast forward my first week of work. I introduce myself to my colleagues and they ask me why I have a Malay name. A very Malay-malay name. Ingatkan you Mat Saleh. You speaking dalam English tadi.... Oh, you don’t wear the tudung-thing so I thought you’re Chinese leh, I think better you don’t wear if not look very typical Malay, not pretty, look Chinese better........ Oh ingatkan you Serani....Oh...... you ni macam tak begitu Melayu. Oh, you tahu kuih Melayu ni nama apa? Tak sangka, ingatkan you Mat Saleh....Oh, you makan ulam dengan budu? Surprising, ingatkan you Mat Saleh... You ni kasar sangat lah, bukan macam Perempuan Melayu..... Eh, you eh, eh, eh, diam kau. Bak kata pepatah Mat Saleh............shut the fuck up.  Who are you to grade me on my Malay-ness from the way I look, talk, walk, from what I watch, read, listen to, eat? Is there a Chartered Malay exam I forgot to sit for?

   

What do I have to do to qualify as this kata-ganda Malay-Malay person? I didn’t know there was such a category as Malay-Malay. (Ya, berganda kali kemelayuannya! Bukan kemaluan tetapi kemelayuan!). I’m suddenly reminded of Esquire’s ridiculous recent article on Jay Z, where the writer referred to Jay-Z as “black-black” Here’s an excerpt:

“Jay-Z is black black. He is old-school double-dark-chocolate-chunk black. He is black the way Labatt is blue. He is not white black, Barack black, like our president. Or the kind of black that doesn’t curse and deplores the n-word, the genteel black, like Oprah.”

Ok. So Jay-Z is a hip hop super mogul who used to deal dope on the streets and according to the writer, once shot his brother for stealing his ring. I see. So according to the writer, this makes him black-black. So that’s how you people, play it these days, eh? I see. I can just imagine kids in the future. Pretty soon, they won't just have to identify what race they are - Malay/Chinese/Indian/Dan lain lain bangsa - on all sorts of shitty irrelevant forms, they will have to go on to define and prove how Malay-Malay/Chinese-Chinese/Indian-Indian/Dan lain-lain bangsa-dan lain-lain bangsa they are. Well, I better get to work on this machine then:

People in Boxes: The People You Meet Backpacking - Part Cinq

Read Part Une, Deux, Trois, Quatre

# 9 The Globe Trotting Party Person/ People

Everyone wants to get a little crazy on the road but the GTPP are creatures who will travel 10,000 km for the sole purpose of doing the exact same thing they do back home – get wasted and get laid, under the false pretext that the former would be cheaper and the latter would be easier if they were to do it in say, Thailand (forget the temples and stuff – on to the Full Moon Party!) What they fail to realise is that a week-long state of inebriation, would make it very hard indeed to keep tabs on what they’re spending – what? How much did that last round of Jager Bombs cost? Here, take my wallet. I’m so out of it maaaaan. Hey, man, have you seen my wallet? I had it last night... As for getting laid? Well, it would be easier if you hadn’t already spent all your money on those Jagers. Enjoy getting laid on a discount!

Party People usually travel in small packs of 4-6 like-minded Bros and Hos from back home. But as the global trail of vomit and herpes continue, and they become more confident and experienced travellers, the GTPP pack will be reduced to about 2 people. People are intimidated by big groups. The reduced GTPP pack makes it easier for the experienced GTPP to meet “fun, new people”. These new people will add another dimension, richness to the GTPP’s travel experience – meaning the GTPP now gets to do the exact same thing they do with their mates back home – get wasted and get laid – with people who are like their mates, only with a funnier accent. Woohoo!

#10 The Mob

Upon closer inspection, The Mob of friends may consist of 4-6 Globe Trotting Party People or a mix of several different types of backpackers. A few of them may even be likable on their own, but to an outsider, they all seem like one giant mass of whatever. Certain members of The Mob may try to strike up conversation with you, as a way to while away the time as the rest of their friends try to get their act together - bloody wake up and shit - but they will certainly leave you hanging once their wave of friends approach and they are washed away by the tide, out to somewhere you’re not invited. You don’t like them anyway; the way they run in and out like a football team in training, the way they bring out painful, high-school memories of you eating lunch alone. There are 6 of them in an 8 bed dorm, and they take the entire place over, the way algae spreads in a neglected swimming pool. You are but a tiny droplet of regular-strength chlorine in a sea of shit. You feel like an oppressed minority – crushed under the weight and noise of inside jokes you don’t get; all while you’re trying to sleep or find time to write poetry in your journal. But then, The Mob is not here to accommodate you, stranger and they would’ve rented an entire holiday villa to themselves, were it not for the fact that they’re just too damn cheap.

#11 The Romantic Couple

One wonders why The Couple bothers to trek the globe with the rest of the backpacking herd when really, no matter where they go, they seem to remain stuck on a planet of their own anyhow. There are several sub-types under this category; the most difficult one being The Well-That’s-Not-Going-To-Last Couple – the kind of couple that will ruin a nice peaceful morning at the hostel, not by actually talking to you, but by arguing publicly, loudly, emotionally, passionately over undercooked tofu burgers. But even the The-Fun-Friendly-Likable-Made-For-Each-Other Couple can irritate your bitter, lonely, unloved-self at times, particularly with their use of the word “We” – “We are going to soandso tonight; you should come”, “We just got here last night”, “We are hungry”, “We think it’s great – even if only one of we thinks so”. For the Globe Trotting Party Person, this particular well-adjusted sub-type of romantic couple offer nothing but disappointment – yeah man, that’s one less person I can possibly get laid by. Bummer. 

People in Boxes: The People You Meet Backpacking - Part Quatre

Read Part Un, Deux, Trois


#7 The Princess. 

No, you don’t have an ear infection. You’re just in the presence of a Princess. A very unhappy one. You see, when The Princess’ many demands and unrealistic expectations are not met, The Princess produces a sound as beautiful and harmonious as a dental drill - IN YOUR EAR! There are several ways to deal with a Princess: you can amuse yourself by putting a pea beneath her mattress and watch her flip-out like a frog in hot water, you can enjoy the novelty of having venom spat in your face or even better, you can just send her to the guillotine and declare your dorm a republic. Yes, let’s see how well you eat cake without your head, Marie!

Unlike the North Face-jacket-donning backpacking masses, the Princess’ clothes are always chic, pretty and death trap-like. These include too-long maxi dresses for getting caught on scooter wheels and tripping on during boat transfers, flimsy sandals, high heels – all packed into a too-large TROLLEY BAG that is as convenient to rollerblading up the Eiffel Tower. The Princess is never found backpacking (or in her case, “trolleybagging”) alone, as who would carry her around on her ornate dais as she floats past the dirty plebeians? No, she will always be seen with either a group of seven dwarves or friend-servants made out of any one of the other types listed here. The question is, how did she get into this predicament in the first place, of having to slum it in a USD$2 per night hostel with scratchy sheets and suspicious stains? Well, how did the Princess in The Princess & The Pea end up in a place where she had to sleep, on like 1000 mattress and a pea? I’m not sure – it has been a long time since I read the story. But in any case, if Princesses always managed to remain in their plush castles – Snow White, Princess & The Pea, Little Mermaid etc.. – the world would be devoid of fairy tales to tell, valiant princes would suffer a sense of worthlessness from having no one to rescue,  there would be no happy endings; who would want to live in such a world? Therefore, we must thank the Princess for gracing our travels with her esteemed presence – like Disney; she’s only adding a little wonder, magic & excitement into our lives. Bow, subjects, bow!

**Yes, The picture above I stole from photographer Dina Goldstein. Sorry Ms. Goldstein. To view her modern interpretation of classic fairy tales, click here

#8 The Anal-yst

While the Anal-yst might be as much as a whiner and complainer as the Princess, there is one striking difference between the two: the Princess makes no secret that she is only speaking out for her own comfort and well-being, while the Anal-yst does it all in the name of “courtesy”. It’s only common courtesy to wipe the sink dry after use, buhblablabla. Who touched my things? Don’t touch my things; it’s basic courtesy not to touch people’s things! (But nobody touched your things!) The Anal-yst is under the impression that everytime he/she reprimands, bitch-stares and sshhhushes his/her dorm-mates for the slightest crinkling of a plastic bag in the wee hours of morn’, he/she is performing some great service to Mankind as a whole. When an Anal-yst is pushed to the brink, the Anal-yst will leave the room in a huff. The Anal-yst intends for you to feel his/her absence in the very core of your soul. But you don’t.

While the Anal-yst is as much fun as a deflated balloon, he or she might come in handy when you need a first-aid kit, a map or for someone else to tell the party people to shut the fuck up so that you won’t tarnish your easy-going reputation. (but make sure that you return the map to the Anal-yst in perfect condition as it’s only common courtesy to do so).

The Anal-yst is also a sucker for political correctness and any joke you make will be viewed as either racist or plain ignorant. He or she will often be disproportionately offended on behalf of non-white people around the world. Secretly however, the Anal-yst feels that every other country’s hygiene standards are inferior to his or her own nation, classifies Singapore as “third world” and thus, carries a large amount of water-purifying chlorine tablets and hand gel sanitizer in his or her well-secured backpack. This feeling of superiority may also extend to a country’s democratic practices and human rights record.  The Anal-yst will no doubt return home to write an academic thesis on the matter, feeling more superior than ever for having experienced these problems first-hand (during a 50 min stop-over in Changi Airport, that is).

People in Boxes: The People You Meet Backpacking – Part Trois

*Click here for Part Une  and here for Part Deux


#5 Jesus

Remember that Mitch Albom (yeah, YOUR MOM’s favourite author) book called The Five People You Meet in Heaven? Yeah, guess what? Jesus isn’t one of the five. Why? Where did he go? He went backpacking.

Jesus just loves cheap independent travel. The last time I saw Jesus; he was on the top deck of a Junk, cruising Ha Long Bay in Vietnam. I asked him to help snap a photo of my friends and I (didn’t you know? Us Asians are all about cheesy group photos). Jesus duly obliged and mentioned something about growing up in Colorado. Prior to visiting Vietnam, he had been working for a year as an aid worker for a Christian relief organisation on the Myanmar border (well, that’s Jesus for you). But before that, I bumped into Jesus in Byron Bay, Australia. He was playing acoustic guitar and singing a little song about beers and bongs and peeing in his pants.  I also spotted Jesus down in Coffs Harbour but that Jesus wasn’t doing anything remarkable. He was just sort of shuffling around the hostel in his sandals, looking for cereal.  Jesus has also been spotted tubing in Vang Vien, Laos; another friend spotted him in LA and six years ago, while on a short weekend break on Perhentian Island, I saw Jesus walk on water. Actually, he was walking on a wooden plank across a small stream but from where I was lying - flat on the sand, smokin’ a little somethin’ somethin’, it really did look as if he was walking on water.

Right then, I don’t know what is it with these blokes and looking like Jesus – the long scraggly hair, long beard, long, thin faces and sad, you-have-killed-me-WHY-JUDAS-WHY eyes. When it’s hot enough, you might even be privy to see their bony torsos – torsos that look as if they really did suffer for all of Man’s sins. Dude, eat a steak, find a cheap barber and stop freaking me out already. I’m on holiday. I don’t need to be reminded that I’m going to Hell.

#6 Third Culture Kids

This person provides you with a great opportunity to come across as the moron that you truly are. For example, take that Chinese guy who doesn’t know a thing about China and speaks Portuguese. You ask him, “Hey man, so where are you from?”  And he answers, “Brazil”. You, assuming that Brazil was the place he last travelled to, go on to say, “No man, I mean, where are you from?” And again, he answers “Brazil”. Before you can repeat your question for a third time, he explains that while he is of Chinese descent, his family has been in Canada for two generations but he has lived in Brazil since he was 9 months old and no, he has never been to China. To make you feel better about being an idiot, he mentions his interest in getting in touch with his roots with a much-practiced benign smile. At this point, you wonder whether you should ask if he’s referring to his Canadian roots or Chinese roots but as the concept of human immigration becomes all too much for you to process, you nod and quietly slink away. The next morning, you greet him with a pat on the back and a “Ni Hau Ma?” but soon realise that you must have said something wrong; so you quickly follow this up with a hesitant, “Uh....ohayagozaimasu?”


[Part Quatre and Part Cinq coming up.....well, soon enough]

People in Boxes: The People You Meet Backpacking – Part Deux

Did you miss Part Un (1)? Click here


#2 The “Soulful” Wanderer
Characteristics of the Soulful Wanderer include a gaze that is alternately intense and dreamy, out-of-(shitty bunk)bed/sleeping bag hair, some stubble (if male) and perhaps, small Buddhist prayer beads wrapped around the wrist (particularly if the Soulful Wanderer isn’t actually Buddhist). The prayer beads are often matched, with plain, practical clothing that are worn and crumpled but still smell of the loveliest fabric softener, wet grass and a hint of sweat. Soulful Wanderers will never let stubble grow into a full beard or match the prayer beads with tie-dye pants because they’re fully aware that the Hippie Revolution is over, thank you very much, and their interests lie in the socio-political realities of the here and now. The Soulful Wanderer travels solo and is not afraid to be seen alone or left alone.  It gives them the opportunity to enjoy moments of contemplative silence, to jot down deep thoughts in a Moleskine journal or to finally finish reading that dog-eared copy of Maxim Gorky’s Creatures that Once Were Men which he/she found abandoned at a guesthouse in Mongolia.


While Soulful Wanderer-types may not be overtly vocal or friendly, they possess commendable social skills nonetheless. They often stray from the pack and path of People-Who-Need-a-Visa-to-Be-here, in search of a more “authentic” experience, a Random Friendly Local (please refer to #3) or two to befriend and most importantly, to “find himself”; be it in the eyes of strangers or in the little-known ancient ruins of Choqueqirao, Peru. But alas, the Soulful Wanderer must eventually return to the hostel, or take some kind of minivan or another with other travellers, where he or she may engage you in a late-night talk of life, love and liberty up on the rooftop. This talk will leave you wishing that you had something more profound to add, something other than – Yeah, exactly, EXACTLY, that’s so true, oh my god, yeaaaaah and yeah?  The feeling is not unlike being on LSD and looking at a work by Dali or a song by The Beatles and thinking, “Damn, man, why didn’t I think of that?!” What you may have thought of is this: you’ve never met anyone who is as interesting, as intriguing as the Soulful Wanderer. Alas, you fail to realise that one of your friends back home is actually a Soulful Wanderer. But stripped off the romance of being in a faraway land and mired in familiarity, the Soulful Wanderer, as it turns out, is a real piece of Emo-bore.


#3 The Random Friendly Local 

Ah, what backpacking adventure is complete until you can boast the fact that you “hung out” with the locals. The Random Friendly Local is heavily sought after by those wishing to up their status from “tourist” to “traveller”.  And by locals, we don’t mean - hostel employees, cab drivers, restaurant waiters, tour guides – they don’t count – the Random Friendly Local must be just that; random (that guy sitting next to you at the hawker stall slurping away at his bowl of noodles) Now at the end of the day, the “foreigner” befriending the Random Friendly Local will probably not be able to describe their new friend in great detail, but that’s because they’re not so much interested in the person as they are in earning a new Traveller Merit Badge to show off to their still “tourist” friends back in the hostel. 

#4 The Person Who Came For a Summer Break and Ended Up Sort of Manning The Hostel’s Reception Desk for 5 Years or So 

The Person Who Came for a Summer Break and Ended Up Sort of Manning The Hostel’s Reception Desk for 5 Years or So is always welcoming, chilled-out yet moderately efficient and chances are he/she will be able to communicate with you in English (albeit sometimes with a thick, Scottish brogue – FERRR FERR TTTHEUWWW Pardon? FERR FERR TTTHEUW Again, please? AH SEEEIID the secuuuurehte couahd is FERRR FERR TTHEUWWWW Oh, you mean, the security code is Four Four Two? Yes, theit’s wha ah seiid, FERRR FERRR TTHEUWWW) and will help you steer away from all the tourist traps by recommending some great local hang-outs ....that’s not you know, too local. But secretly, he daydreams about setting you on fire. So what’s this person’s back-story?

Well, once upon a time, there lived a “Soulful Wanderer” who decided to spend the summer after graduation to “find himself” in a far off land. He did in fact, “find himself”. But alas, the “self” that he found sort of manned the reception desk of a hostel on the other side of the world. The “self” he found, had a hard time wrapping his head around the concept of “return ticket”. 5 years down the line, life has pretty much lost all meaning and sense of purpose for the former-soulful wanderer, and he’s absolutely loving it; the way a fat kid loves McDonalds but gets all sensitive when people call him fat.

Alas, while our former-soulful wanderer turned hostel guy may have found himself, back home, two parents mourn for the son they lost. The parents spend all day praying that the kid would come home and get a damn real job already, after all the money they spent on his education. Why, God?!! WHY??!!! He had such a promising future, God, why, God, WHYYYYYYYYYY?!!!!!!!!!!

[......stay tuned for Part Trois (3)]

People in Boxes: The People You Meet Backpacking – Part Un

“He who does not travel does not know the value of men,” according to a Moorish proverb

A journey is best measured in friends, rather than miles,” Tim Cahill said.

“I have found out that there ain’t no surer way to find out whether you like people or hate them than to travel with them,” concluded Mark Twain

Ok, ok, I get it; travel is about people more than sights. You know, I was going to write about the things I saw on my recent mini-adventure in Vietnam but I’ve been persuaded to write about all the new people I met instead. Except, they weren’t entirely new.  I’m pretty sure I’ve met them before. My friends have met them before. You’ve met them before.  In different corners of the world, with different names and different faces but you say to-mah-to, and you say to-may-to, and I say don’t-put-too-much-of-it-in-my-pasta-sauce-dammit – they’re all the same, people can all be stuffed into one box or another. And since this blog is all about boxes – SUCCESS!

“Too often, travel, instead of broadening the mind, merely lengthens the conversation.” –Elizabeth Drew

I do realise that most of the people listed here are just fellow travellers – but isn’t that usually what happens when one travels? Or maybe, I’m just a lousy tourist. The horror! Well, maybe half-a-step above tourist – as behold, I have the added advantage/ street-cred of being a cheap-bastard who refuses to buy souvenir key-chains.

Now on to the list (which is arranged in no particular order...............)

The first Backpacking creature on the list amuses me so much, I've decided to dedicate today’s entire entry to this creature and this creature alone. Today, I present:


#1 The Loud American We All Love to Hate (LAWALOTH)

The LAWALOTH will loudly (and nasally) air, share, declare and impose its opinions on EVERYTHING upon EVERYONE that crosses its path. The LAWALOTH considers all silent moments as an invitation for it to speak. It is further recognised by its inability to modulate the volume of its own voice, so a simple one-sided conversation with the person next to it on the bus, will be heard all across planet Earth and echo through neighbouring galaxies, provoking the aliens into a Roland-Emmerich-Independence-Day sort of attack on the White House. But you must understand, the LAWALOTH can’t help but release its opinion into the universe, just as a green tree can’t help but release oxygen into the atmosphere. Except, none of us really need or care about what the LAWALOTH thinks of anything especially since the more the LAWALOTH speaks, the more doubt is cast upon its ability to think.


The presence of an LAWALOTH is particularly unappreciated and dreaded on the morning of New Year’s Day, especially when stuck in a cramped mini-van, on a winding, bumpy, 4 hour drive to Soandso with everyone including the tour guide & driver suffering from the worst hangover since 1999.

The LAWALOTH will keep the entire world awake with such gems like:

“Oh, you’re from Malaysia? Maaaan, the penalty for drugs in Malaysia is like harsh, man, I mean, it’s practically a human rights violation. I mean, seriously, death penalty???!!!”

 And you answer, “Why are you worried? Are you a drug trafficker?”

“Like, they must execute people there everyday, right?”

“Why? Do they execute people in Texas everyday?”

Or

“You’re working? I don’t see alot of women in the Asian workforce. Aren’t they all housewives?”

And you say, “Dude, I thought you said you work as an English teacher in Japan; I’m sure there are women who work in Japan.”

(That’s another characteristic of the LAWALOTH – it can be well-travelled and exposed to many different cultures but its brain is somehow resistant to gaining new insight)

My favourite LAWALOTH gem however, is this:

“I once saw a monkey slap a puppy and I slapped the monkey back.”

Thank you, LAWALOTH, for that wonderful piece of information that wasn’t even meant for me; as I’m all the way up on the floor above you.

Not all Americans turn into LAWALOTHs once they venture out into the world beyond their own borders, although the fact that they are American, certainly puts them at risk. Still, it would seem that there are other factors, other than a US passport, that contributes to the creation of the LAWALOTH monster. Like the fact that they must already be made fun of by their countrymen back home. In fact prior to acquiring a passport, a plane ticket and an entry visa to complete the transformation, the larvae-LAWALOTH must already have a Facebook group dedicated to their charming personality, something along the lines of **Ryan Packall Demands Yo’ Respect!!! - You can laugh at Ryan Packall once, but not twice. This group must have no more than 20 members (including the creator) - all acquaintances who invite the pre-LAWALOTH to their parties, because pre-LAWALOTHs are a cheaper form of amusement than a trained juggling monkey.  And it would certainly show up with its own 6-pack of beer.

Now, LAWALOTHs are not to be mistaken for villainous Americans (refer Bush, George W.; Cheney, Dick; Madoff, Bernard; Palin, Sarah). The LAWALOTH might deep down, be all about hope and establishing warmer ties with the world and all that shit. The LAWALOTH is just going about it the wrong way. If you give it half a chance, a bucket-load of patience or some earplugs; you might actually find that beneath the LAWALOTH monster; is a great new friend ...... who demands yo’ respect.

** The name has been changed to protect the identity of LAWALOTH. Because you can laugh at him once but not TWICE. Respect!


[part deux (2) will be up tomorrow]