Leaving Malaysia

I fully expected it to be awful, but with the last minute rushes of packing, goodbyes and closing bank accounts I didn't have time to process the enormity of leaving. Equipped with enough hugs from Anna to protect me through the airport and beyond, I left KL. Even in Dubai I felt fine. Just travelling. That universal airport feeling, easy to associate it with good things.

But then, as the hours-to-go counted down on the in-flight info screen, the doom swelled heavily in my stomach. The hours trickled quickly into even more rapidly vanishing minutes. Heathrow in sight, I knew it wouldn't feel any worse if we were falling out of the sky with no engines or wings.

KL for Kids

Today I went to the launch of "KL for Kids" at Marmalade cafe in Bangsar. It was a friendly little affair and fairly well attended. The authors signed copies of the book and chatted to guests about their experience of making it.

This is an impressive book, not least due to the stunning photography of kids having fun in and around KL. It is easy to use and a pleasure to browse. The main places to go are given a lavishly illustrated double page spread, while other sections sum up lesser or more distant attractions and activities succinctly. The text is detailed in its information, both enthusiastic and realistic in its descriptions and hits the nail on the head with candid comments such as:

"It has some great flashes of genius coupled with a few dysfunctional gaps," (the National Science centre) and:

"Staff attitudes are a little haphazard," (Aquaria KLCC).

However, these are just points to be aware of - there's nothing in the book that the authors don't recommend. All the places who earned a
place in the book did so by providing children with an enjoyable experience.


I would heartily recommend the book to anyone with children, whether local, expat or tourists. It gives the details you can never quite track down elsewhere, such as prices, eating options and stroller access, along with the obviously necessary directions and opening hours. Best of all, through the lively text and fabulous photos it will inspire you to visit those places you've never quite got round to.

Pictured right: Lorien Holland (writer)

Pictured right: Kate Phillips (photographer)

"KL for Kids" goes on sale in local bookshops this week and is also available from http://www.amazon.co.uk/ and http://www.klforkids.com/

Things to do before you leave Malaysia

I began this list a long time ago with someone who was a friend, when I'd been ranting against the current abundance of 'things to do before you die' (when else?) books. I kept on adding to it and now that the time to leave draws near, I'm glad to say that I've done most of them, though maybe not often enough. The list is really just a mixture of favourite places, foods and things to do, along with places highly recommended by friends as well as some of the more amusing or frustrating things about life in Malaysia. Obviously this will all mean more to those of you who know Malaysia, but I thought I'd share it anyway.

• Eat fried fish from the fish man in Brickfields


• Ride a motorbike with your jacket on back to front


• Drive to Megamall on a Saturday afternoon, find a parking place and try to buy something in Jusco


• Visit Gunung Mulu national park


• Ask the bank to explain why foreigners aren’t allowed to make internet transfers from their Malaysian accounts to another Malaysian account


• In fact, ask anyone to explain a pointless rule they are enforcing


• Smell the rain before it comes, smell the streets afterwards


• Watch people contorting themselves in front of the Petronas towers in an attempt to fit the whole building into a photograph


• Eat roti canai


• Eat a huge Chinese meal with lots of Chinese friends who know the best things to order


• Hike Chiling river and jump in to cool off


• Visit KKB for small-town charm, old shophouses set on wide streets, great food, local walks, lakes and rivers, and cycle up to The Gap.


• Climb Bukit Kutu and marvel at the madness of the Englishman who built a house at the top. Only the fireplace remains, along with a well where you can still draw fresh water.


• Go to Cherating for a quaint no-longer-quite-happening beach experience – and have a drink at Muda’s café on the beach, while Muda himself folds and twists a palm leaf into a perfectly formed grasshopper.


• Ride the monorail from end to end for a quickly changing view of KL


• Learn and use as much Malay as you can


• Go rock climbing at Batu Caves


• Take a walk- or run - in Bukit Gasing


• Visit the rubber research institute and watch rubber tappers at work


• Try to explain to someone who is littering that this is not a good idea


• Make your own batik painting, for example at the Craft Centre in KL or in many touristy places countrywide


• Snorkel or dive Perhentian and eat beach barbecue for tea after soaking up the rays on the white sands.


• Take a dip in a hot spring. At Selayang the springs are a community bath where families go for a good wash. Throw scoops of breathtakingly hot water over yourself and your loved ones. At Sungkai in Perak it’s a more relaxing affair where you can choose from a number of pools for a good wallow.


• Learn to double park, or simply leave your car in the most inconvenient spot for other road users.


• Mountain bike the trails round Batu Dam


• Drink tea or Milo from a plastic bag


• Get lost in Putrajaya, and ask yourself, “What’s it all for?”


• Kayak Sungai Sungkai


• Eat banana leaf curry with your fingers


• Try to explain to a Malaysian that you won’t have a drink because you’re driving


• Watch a storm, feel the lightning rip the air


• Tag lah onto the end of sentences, but only tongue-in-cheek


• Sit round a table at a restaurant, stall or bar with a group of friends, being sure that each of you spends the entire time having an sms conversation with somebody not present


• Do the canopy walk at Taman Negara


• Eat something unidentifiable


• Dump your car in a busy Bangsar street at night and give the keys to any shady looking young man who approaches you


• Visit an Orang Asli village, introduce yourself to the headman and spend some time getting to know people. Watch toddlers leaping fearlessly into rivers, women carrying home baskets of jungle vegetables, men loafing around – or if you’re lucky returning from hunting with a wild boar.


• Try to explain to a Malaysian that your phone may sometimes be switched off, or that there may even be times when you choose not to answer it


• Dive Sipadan


• Have afternoon tea in the Smoke House in the Cameron Highlands, or at Carcosa in KL
  
• Visit a tea plantation


• Watch a movie in Gold Class – but take plenty of warm clothes. For a long film, a sleeping bag works well.


• Drink teh tarik. Preferably late at night on the pavement of a still-busy street


• Shop in a night market


• Visit the KL tower for unbeatable views of the city and its surrounds


• Watch faces gawp as you explain that yes, you are single, despite being a woman over thirty, and yes, you are travelling alone


• Run the KL marathon


• Eat durian fresh from the ground where it fell


• Pop into Brunei for a surreal day in BSB, where everyone seems to be somewhere else, petrol is a fraction of the price of water, and people are indescribably friendly and polite. Wander the water villages and take in the mosque.


• Have a massage in Brickfields from a blind masseur


• Enjoy a beer and maybe a steak (bib provided) at the shabby Coliseum. Sadly they no longer do real bacon butties.


• Cycle Sabah, wallow in cool rivers


• Perfect at least one seriously dodgy traffic manoeuvre


• Eat mangosteen


• Make use of the KLIA express and the station check-in


• Get lost in your car. No shortage of places to try this one


• Enjoy a duty-free beer on the beach in Langkawi as the sun goes down over the sea


• Go to Kuala Selangor to see the fireflies


• Try to buy a bra with no padding or underwiring. For the brave, add to your request that it should be a sensible colour and contain at least some cotton


• Eat nasi lemak


• Attach as many electric blue lighting devices to your car as possible


• Visit Kuching and Bako National Park


• See the Thaipussam festival at Batu Caves


• Get a twelve minute, twelve ringgit haircut in a well designed shop where they even hoover your head afterwards. Some cutters may only have had twelve minutes training, but at that price, who cares?


• Eat wanton mee. And duck-leg soup. And roast duck. And mee mamak. And chicken rice and rendang and laksa and pumpkin curry. And roast pork with that crunchy salty fat layer all crispy round the side.


• Go for a ride with at least four people on one motorbike, preferably including at least two unhelmeted toddlers


• Baffle a supermarket checkout clerk by refusing any plastic bags


• Catch a taxi in the rain


• Go caving in Gua Tempurung, near Gopeng in Perak


• Wander the narrow streets of Melaka. Take a rickshaw ride in the prettiest, floweriest rickshaw you can find.


• Learn to make candid personal comments, eg: “You’re looking much fatter than last time I saw you”


• Visit Penang


• Fly a kite


• Eat nasi kerabu in Kelantan


• If you are a short-haired female, entertain yourself by explaining to the ladies’ toilet attendant that you are indeed a woman. This is best done in Malay while thrusting your breasts forward. However, this is not always enough…


• Climb Gunung Kinabalu


• Have a drink in the Luna Bar


• Stay in a longhouse in Sabah or Sarawak


• Stand still in Megamall and feel the building move beneath your feet


• Spend Chinese New Year in KL just for the pleasure of empty roads and limitless parking


• Eat in Jalan Alor


• Try foot reflexology


• Employ a guide for a jungle walk and learn about local wild food and traditional medicines as you go


• Did I mention Mulu National Park?

Motorbike Madness

What makes Malaysian motorcyclists so special is that they wear back-to-front jackets. This baffles visitors and newcomers, but I was given a perfectly logical explanation - the jacket protects the chest from windchill and squashed bugs while the open back allows ventilation in the hot sticky climate.

Of course, these mopeds weave in and out of traffic in an alarming manner. They are driven on either side of the road and also on pavements. They are immune to traffic lights. On motorways they use the hard shoulder, which is probably just as well as they rarely have rear lights. In the cities, adults wear helmets in accordance with the law, but the numerous children, toddlers and babies on board don't. In the countryside, helmets are fairly rare and it isn't uncommon to see boys as young as ten or twelve riding along village roads.

A small bike can carry anything up to four people, especially if small children are passengers. Loads can be large or interesting - chickens in big round baskets, stacks of newspapers that tower above the driver's head, milk churns. Some bikes have small fruit or drinks stalls attached like sidecars and vendors chug away from their pitches with large colourful umbrellas still up over the bike and stall. Bread bikes have loaves and packets hanging from racks and ice-cream bikes carry their cold bins on the back with bags of buns (instead of cones) hanging down by the rear wheel. Pictured right: ice delivery.

I love all this. But I was horrified recently to see, on a dual carriageway, two bikers overtaking us lying stomach-down on their seats, legs horizontal behind them. These guys were going fast, had no helmets and doubtless little control in the event of their needing it suddenly. Madness.

Many thanks to Kate for letting me use her photo. To see more of her fabulous work, visit http://www.katenorth.com/

Malaysian parking

On this street, double parking (eg red car and white truck) is common, as is the sound of 'horning', as those parked in lean on their horns until they are freed.

Better still is the parking right round the corner onto the other road.

Another good use of a spare corner. The owner of this car returned as I got out my camera, but at this point he hadn't yet moved.

Double-parking on this street is managed by the 'jockeys' - a couple of unlikely looking lads to whom owners of nice cars merrily toss their keys. These guys park your car and then juggle and rearrange cars as you return to collect yours. I met someone once who returned to find that the police had towed all the cars and confiscated the keys, but apart from the congestion it causes, the system is generally reliable. It's also a good way of alarming visitors when you hop out of your car in the middle of the road and give the keys to a total stranger.

U turns

Some time ago, a British friend commented that a traffic system that relied on U-turns as an essential means of getting from A to B was quite ludicrous. Like anything else, I have got used to the idea that U-turning could be a legitimate and essential manoeuvre. Gone are the days of UK driving where U-turning is rarely legal and often thought of as an amusing way to duck out of a navigational cock-up. Here in Malaysia, U-turn spots are signed all over the place, road signs are adorned with the hitherto humorous symbol of the big U. However, I don’t think I will ever get over the incredulity that hits me every time I come across the great highway U turns that I am obliged to use – or react swiftly to avoid – around KL.

For the uninitiated, let me explain. Sometimes when travelling on a three-lane carriageway, a U-turn is the only way to reach a destination accessible only from the opposite carriageway. Occasionally, someone may have thoughtfully built a special U-turn bridge, linking inside lane to inside lane. More excitingly though, you may find that the outside lane suddenly becomes a turning lane. Yes, the fast lane. So as you slow down or join the queue for the turn you are kept on the edge of your seat by the prospect of another fast moving vehicle piling into the back of your car. Best of all, having squeezed through the gap and made the turn, where do you find yourself? In the fast lane, of course, offering your rear end to unsuspecting high-speed traffic.

My friend's real mistake was in thinking that there was a traffic system at all.

The Petronas Towers, Kuala Lumpur

Iconic of the city, the Petronas Towers are stunning beyond belief. For a few years they enjoyed a reign as the world's tallest towers, but no more. But it really doesn't matter whether they top the world or not. There is no structure this tall that is so breathtaking.

The design is strongly Islamic, the floorplan of each tower being based on the eight-pointed star used so much in Islamic art. Each tower rises in five teirs, honouring the five pillars of Islam. There are numerous interesting features which I'm sure you can read about elsewhere. I once watched a television programme about the building of the towers and was delighted to learn that the project had encountered some very Malaysian problems, such as a poor survey which meant that while one tower was to be built on rock, the other was due to be founded on a muddy bog. The high speed lifts, designed I think by an American company, had to be slowed because Malaysians don't like to move so quickly!

One of my favourite pastimes in the vicinity of the towers is to watch people trying to photograph them. They don't fit easily into the average viewfinder, so people lie on the ground, or set the camera on the ground then contort themselves in order to see what's on the screen.

At night - that is, a clear night - their lights rise over the city. In the daytime their glass and metal gleam blue and silver with a shocking brightness. I like them best of all at twilight, when their faces can still be seen but the lights are already on against a deepening blue sky. I never would have thought I'd feel a moment of excitement looking at a skyscraper, but in this case I do. Frequently.

Demonstration for fair elections

At the weekend there was a large rally in Kuala Lumpur. 10 to 30 thousand people took to the streets in a peaceful demonstration demanding fair elections. The rally had been banned by the police (the constitution here forbids gatherings of more than five people without government permission), who had promised to arrest anyone taking part. Obviously it wasn't possible to arrest so many people, but tear gas and water cannons were used to break up the rally.

There have been recent occasions when rallies have been allowed to go ahead, for example anti-war demonstrations in the wake of the attacks on Iraq. So clearly, the government is capable of granting permission when it sees fit. So what message are they sending to their people and the world by banning this one? Malaysia claims that its elections are free and fair, so wouldn't it be better to let it go ahead and state that the demonstrators' concerns are being investigated?

I've talked to a few locals, such as friends and random taxi drivers, about their views. One thing I was told (and I have not investigated the truth of it) is that groups such as the police and armed forces do not get individual votes but are 'block voted' by the authorities. What most non-Malays will really want to talk about is racial discrimination. It is well-known that the various ethnic groups that make up Malaysia have different rights. If you are of Indian or Chinese origin, despite being 5th or 10th generation Malaysian nationals, you do not have the same chances, rights or financial support as the ethnic Malays. Malays get tax breaks, housing benefits, and need lower grades to enter universities, as well as being something of a 'chosen people' when it comes to promotions, selection for teams and so on. Coming from the UK, one of the most ethnically diverse countries around, this is hard to fathom and quite outrageous. Malaysians divide themselves up by race and often seem to have no concept of national identity. They call themselves Malay or Chinese or whatever, not Malaysian. Yet somehow, despite this, at street level there seems to be very little inter-racial tension and different groups work and socialize happily together.

Back to the election, there are plentiful allegations of multiple voting, uncounted votes and so on. The organisers of the protest stated that their goal is a change in the electoral process in order to prevent fraud. If the government really believes that their elections are fair, they should want to ensure that they are. They should want to show the people that they care about this. They definitely want the world to see the country as a forward thinking democracy, but their response to this demonstration has had people likening Malaysia to Burma.

Kuala Terengganu

A three hour bus ride took me to Kuala Terengganu. I'd booked into the Ping Anchorage Backpackers, cited by the Lonely Planet as the "number one spot in town" for budget travellers. I would have to doubt their judgement on this one. The place is completely unmanned - you collect your keys from a shop downstairs then go up a floor, unlock a padlocked grille and enter the echoing bare concrete hallways of the 'hostel'. It had a rather prison-like air and my room, though big, was scarcely better. A massively stained dark green carpet covered the floor, curling up at the edges and joins. The room smelled dank and the 'hot' shower provided a trickle of cold water which after ten minutes had just about wet me. Within minutes of arrival I had decided to move to somewhere else in the morning.

So after a good enough night's sleep, broken abrubtly in the pre-dawn by the call to prayer from the mosque which I'd admired on the corner last night, I checked into the Seri Malaysia hotel, reminding myself that the huge cost of the move was actually less than twenty pounds. Friday isn't a good day to be exploring an East coast town in the off-season. Everything was closed. The tour operators told me that there were no other travellers to make up groups with so any hopes I had of visiting Tasik Kenyir or travelling up the rivers nearby were quickly dashed. Saturday wasn't any better - even the steps up to the top of the small hill overlooking the town were closed, as was Redang island, course. Pathetically, I stayed in my rather nice hotel room watching National Geographic channel until checkout time, knowing that the afternoon would be long enough. By the afternoon I'd even lost interest in taking the ferry across the river to the village where fishing boats are reportedly still made by hand. No doubt the boat-builders would not be working on the weekend either. I took a look at the markets and mosque and sat by the waterfront watching a team of cleaners and sweepers clearing a small stretch of sand by chucking the rubbish back into the river. Waiting for my evening flight back to KL, the day stretched out forever.

The beach on the East side of town was very pleasant though, so I strolled along, as slowly as possible. Had a paddle, had a cold drink. Kite sellers had set up stalls along the beach and a few people were flying kites. As soon as I reached the busier stretch of beach I was greeted by young grinning lads sitting around on motorbikes. I wasn't in the mood for chatting to these Met Rumpets, being leered at and asked inane questions such as "where you going?" and "where you come from?"(both of which I repeatedly answered "there" with a point in the appropriate direction). I'll usually talk to anyone, especially if I've got nine hours to kill, but their pushy arrogance and mocking laughter made me just want to push them off their little 125cc pedestals.

Luckily, there was plenty of good food in Kuala Terengganu. Chinatown offered lots of choices as well as beer and friendly service, and at a Malay stall I tried nasi kerabu goreng which was pretty good, though not as delicious as its unfried counterpart. The lady running this stall was sweet and delighted by my few words of Malay, even showing them off to her friends. I sat at her stall sipping lime juice for as long as my bladder would let me. I'd run out of things to read on the Friday and was forced to consider writing a novel instead. Luckily there were some newspapers around.

Eventually it was time to leave and I realised that I had been counting the hours for so long that I wasn't actually expecting such a time to come. There's nothing wrong with the place, but I had obviously been somewhat over-optimistic about the opportunities for seeing the area even just a week or two into the monsoon season.

Oh yes. It rained a lot.

Muzium Negeri Kelantan

The Kelantan state museum, Muzium Negeri Kelantan, appeared slightly unexciting in the way that I've come to expect such places to be. However, I was able to while away a pleasant hour or so learning everything I could want to know about keris (Malay daggers), from their design to their magical and mystical properties. Some can kill an enemy by flying through the air, others you simply stab into your enemy's footprint to render him deceased. Most importantly, I now know how to clean my keris, an eight step procedure involving banana stems, limes, bamboo, coconut water, smoke and wax.

Weapons used by women were another interesting feature of the museum, ranging from deadly hairpins for "protection against predatory males and others of evil intent," to the lawi ayam, a tiny dagger with a finger hole in the handle, held in the palm with just the tip of its curved blade poking out of the hand. While men conceal this hand in the folds of their clothing, women keep their lawi ayam "hidden in the coils of the hair as protection from a man with evil intentions." Obviously a lot of these men about.

There was also a small room displaying information about poisons made by witch-doctors, which were either ingested or carried magically by the wind to the intended victim. There were also samples of plants that could be use as medicines, love potions and so on.

In the royal family room, I was interested to read about Tengku Muhammad Faris Petra, the crown prince of Kelantan, especially his education. At the Sultan Ismail Primary School he achieved five A grades and won the trophy for 'student of the year'. Following this he went to an international school in KL (no mention of any achievements) then to Oakham in the UK where he "was in the A-level class." There was no mention of his having got any A-levels though. I couldn't help thinking that maybe his primary school had overestimated his brilliance, in the way that Malaysian institutions shamelessly will in their dealings with royalty and other important figures. However, to give the guy his due, he went on to study useful things like diplomatic relations and European business administration, so it does seem that he or his family had some intention of his being well informed in areas that might prove relevant to his position.

One other thing that I found interesting was that in older photos of the royal family, women wore no tudongs. I'm not sure whether this is due to their status or simply because back in the seventies and eighties it was more acceptable for women to be seen with their heads uncovered. Certainly in the more recent photos, the women wore their tudongs.

Kota Bharu

I enjoyed Kota Bharu. It's a small city, easy to walk around and quite tourist-friendly with good signing, museums and plenty of good places to eat. Anyone visiting the town should drop into the tourist information centre just for a chat with Roselan. He's a delightful chap, very friendly and helpful, who enjoys dropping his bits of London English into conversation. Although I didn't arrange any tours with him, he happily gave me details of things to do. I was very tempted by his Malay cookery workshops, but unfortunately there were no other participants to share the cost, so I decided against it. ("I'm Jamie Oliver round here, pukka Malay food!") He wished me a slighly camp "cheerio," and I set off to follow his sightseeing advice.

People rave about the market in Kota Bharu and I suppose it is worth a visit if you haven't seen many Asian markets. The usual smells of fish, raw chicken and well-trodden vegetable scraps greet you as you enter the large circular market hall. Upstairs, the selling space is smaller, around the outside of the building, and from here you can look down into the main fruit and veg area below.

I visited the Kelantan state museum - more of that later - and wandered around looking at other places of interest, including the Second World War museum which focussed on the local landing and subsequent occupation by the Japanese. The craft complex was as touristy as you'd expect, but very nicely done. I was delighted to find, after hours of city streets, a hut in the food court offering foot massage. My masseur, a southern Thai, was an interesting guy to chat with. I even discovered that my feet were being cared for by the hands that massaged the Sultan.

Is this what happens when your floating restaurant is going under?

And yes, it was still open.

Zeck Travellers' Inn, Kota Bharu

Sultan Ismail Petra airport looks, from the runway, like a two-storey concrete car park encased in the walls of a mosque. Kota Bharu itself is a city with a small-town feel, typical of so many places in Malaysia. New buildings nestle between old wooden ones, Chinese shophouses flake away looking slightly unloved, potholed roads are bordered by drainage channels covered wonkily by concrete slabs, some of which are of course missing.

I stayed at the delightful Zeck Travellers’ Inn. This little backpackers has basic but pleasant rooms and a nice communal area out front. Zeck and his wife are a lovely friendly couple and it was them who really made the place what it was. Zeck gave me plenty of useful information about the town and possible excursions and Maria filled me in on the local foods I should try. I took her advice the first evening and went to Yatie’s stall at the night market for nasi kerabu, a delicious combination of rice, fish, salady vegetables and herbs and spicy nutty sauce which immediately shot to somewhere near the top of my top eats list. In the morning she urged me to join her family and friends for breakfast which turned out to be a sociable and entertaining way to pass the morning. She had cooked an excellent fish curry, making second helpings quite irresistible. I only wish I’d asked her for the recipe or even a cooking lesson.

So, well set up for the day, I headed out to explore Kota Bharu.

Sungai Gabai

I often used to cycle in this area and have been to the Sungai Gabai waterfall before. This isn't a remote and peaceful spot, but it is truly beautiful. The waterfall area is within a small and fairly well maintained 'recreational park'. Steps lead up past a series of waterfalls where the water pours down over well-smoothed rocks, including one very high drop. The volume of water isn't huge, rather it forms long delicate trailing veils as it falls. Following the steps up, there are a number of good viewpoints and well-used picnic spots.

As usual, the falls were quite busy with families preparing the most enormous picnics, boiling great vats of rice or unpacking dozens of take-away cartons. I like the whole local feel of the place, with dozens of people just enjoying an afternoon out. I've never seen any other foreigners there, so as usual our arrival caused a few interested glances and cheery greetings. At the top of the path the real fun begins - here there is a section of the river that flows over the rocks which form a natural waterslide before forming a safe swimming pool above the main fall. Like many groups of laughing adults and families our first priority was to cool off by sliding down. The rock is so smooth that it's quite comfortable even to slide down head-first on your stomach. Groups of young men like to try to stay on their feet, although their mates tend to try to take them out on the way down. However loud and raucous these guys are being they always make room for the children and help them over the slippery rocks at the top.

After I while I left my friends and the children playing and walked on up beside the river. Here there is no proper path and a bit of scrambling over muddy roots is necessary. Higher up, the lads were jumping into a narrow channel where the water gushed between two walls of rock. In another place they showed off to their girlfriends by diving quite impressively from higher rocks into another pool. Above all this, I had the river to myself. Quietly it burbled between the trees, looking like a true jungle stream. I watched a spider spin a picture-book perfect web in a matter of minutes. I paddled across to sit on a sunny rock and drink in this image of Malaysia, Malaysia as I'll always remember it.

A load of rubbish

To a visitor, probably the worst thing about Malaysia is rubbish. There’s litter in the streets, on the beaches, in the jungle and on every river bank. Waterfalls attract heaps of the stuff, even waterfalls that are two hours' walk from any road. Presumably people go to a waterfall simply because it is so beautiful, so how can they think so little as to leave rubbish behind? And I’m not just talking about a carelessly dropped sweet wrapper – I’m talking about piles of bottles, plastic bags, food-cartons and left-overs.

Out by a swimming spot in a pretty river, a friend of mine encouraged other picnickers to make use of her bin-bag. Grudgingly, they did. Then with a big grin on his face, one man threw the whole bag into the river.

You have to be quite determined here about refusing plastic bags in shops and at stalls. Even a snack like a single doughnut comes in a paper bag which is immediately dropped into a plastic one, even though it is almost certainly for immediate consumption. People don’t say no to this, but the second they walk away, the bag is dropped. Or binned, if in a shopping mall – the one place where people seem to use bins. City streets are kept reasonably clean by an army of sweepers, but in the countryside the rubbish just heaps up.

At the Gap resthouse, on the way up to Fraser’s Hill, I watched a kitchen worker come out of the hotel, cross the road and empty a whole bin of waste into the trees.

Snorkelling off Perhentian, I started to dive down to pick up drinks cans. I tossed them into our boat. As we moved around the island to different snorkelling spots, my pile grew. Returning to the boat after a swim, I noticed that they had all gone. Either they had vaporized or our boatman had chucked them back into the sea. This is one of Malaysia’s most gorgeous islands, it relies heavily on tourism, yet people are happy to spoil it.

Everywhere you go, you see people simply dropping rubbish where they stand, even when there is a bin nearby. They toss it out of car windows. My polite “Excuse me, I think you’ve dropped something,” only receives a reply along the lines of, “I don’t need it,” or “It’s finished.”

In the UK, only louts and children do this. In Malaysia, it’s the norm. And almost nobody seems to mind. This year is ‘Visit Malaysia Year’. There is a huge awareness campaign, sponsorship abounds and no doubt the budget is huge. I can’t help feeling that what they really need is a public education drive along the lines of a ‘Keep Malaysia worth visiting’ campaign.

Jalan Alor

Jalan Alor, in the heart of the city, has to be one of KL’s greatest nightspots. This is a place to come for food. All sorts of food. The street is crammed with local restaurants and food stalls, serving every Malaysian dish you could wish for. The abundance and variety can seem quite staggering. The little carts that make up the majority of stalls advertise everything from frog porridge (soggy rice – with frogs of course) to carrot cake (a savoury stir-fried mush). Bundles of squid hang above woks alongside leafy green vegetables. The air sizzles with the sound of frying and a thousand delicious smells assail you. There are barely-cooked shellfish which ooze blood (?) as you pick them from their shells, there are butter prawns with fried curry leaves, wantons, laksa, black pepper venison, soft-shell crab, lala, steam boat, chicken fish and a hundred kinds of noodles. Sugar cane squeezers grind to produce glasses of sweet, refreshing juice, while a huge stack of spent canes builds up on the pavement. On long thin barbecues satay is grilled, row upon row, smoke billowing as the cook fans it vigorously breaking off only to slop spicy peanut sauce into plastic dishes.

There are fruit stalls where you can buy mangosteen and rambutan and a dozen other local treats. An old man weighs huge, spiky durians before splitting them open with a hefty swing of a parang. At a table nearby, groups of people bite into the gorgeous, rich, creamy flesh of these mighty fruits whose stench overwhelms unsuspecting foreign passers-by.

Tables from stalls and restaurants spill out over the pavements, onto the road, where they butt up against parking meters, streetlights, parked cars and trestle tables full of pirated CDs. While you eat at one cafe, you can order extras from other nearby stalls. Cars nudge their way between pedestrians, men selling tacky light-up toys or packs of socks and children selling tissues. Mini-skirted girls in Heineken or Tiger outfits flit between tables taking orders for beer.

The whole street is buzzing. The lights and movement, sounds and smells give you a kick of excitement, but the atmosphere is always relaxed and friendly. This is Kuala Lumpur at its best.

Kuala Gandah elephant sanctuary

Yesterday I visited the Kuala Gandah elephant sanctuary. This is a place that I’ve heard many people raving about, but had never been to. My friend Kate had her sister’s family staying, so we had six excited children with us to make the trip worthwhile.

Unfortunately, there was no information given by the elephants’ keepers, although there may have been some on display somewhere. It all had something of a feel of a circus, with “Next activity, feeding the elephants!” announced over the PA system. The elephants were all chained to the ground by at least two of their ankles, with only a couple of inches of movement allowed. However, hand-feeding them with fruit proved a big hit with the children and the keepers kept an eye and showed the kids what to do.

The largest two elephants were then taken off to give rides to visitors, the keepers sitting on their necks steering by poking them in the backs of their heads with narrow metal sticks. This horrified me, as it is quite possible to lead such a tame elephant by a rope. The rides lasted all of about twenty seconds, but again the children were delighted, especially those who had never been here before.

The final activity proved a bit too daunting for all except Anna – riding an elephant into the river then being dumped into the water as it plunged for a swim or a roll. To keep Anna company, I joined in with this one, but to be honest, the highlight was swimming in the river rather than sitting on the poor elephant. All of the Anna’s brothers and cousins joined us and we spent a wonderful hour or so swimming and playing in the brown water of the jungle river.

My initial feeling was that this place was offering little to the elephants. However, a bit of research has shown me that the foundation is mainly concerned with removing elephants from areas where their natural habitat has been destroyed and transferring them to national parks and reserves. Unfortunately, this wasn’t made clear at the time. Nor was the future of the elephants who were resident at this sanctuary, seemingly with the sole purpose of entertaining tourists. It set me to thinking about the David Sheldrick elephant orphanage I visited near Nairobi. There, keepers stand with the animals, explaining how they look after them, how the programme of care changes as the elephants mature, how they are eventually released into reserves or a protected and limited (but large) area, in which they can live wild. Everyone loved watching the youngest being bottle fed and enjoyed looking in on the bedrooms where the keepers slept with them. I think there may have been an opportunity to pat the babies on their heads, but that was about it. Yet the place was teeming with visitors. It isn’t necessary to make a circus there. However, my real sadness was not from the activities at Kuala Gandah but from the way the elephants were chained, prodded and yanked about. Yes, I know this was essential for visitor safety, but without such close proximity it wouldn’t have been necessary at all.

The organisation’s website isn’t particularly endearing, as it rants about “the world's 10 BIGGEST CULPRITS that keep on warming up the fragile world and yet blames Malaysia for supposedly cutting down all the forests.” I had heard that a past volunteer had caused problems, but didn’t expect to see this on the website:
“all volunteering & internship opportunities have since been stopped for an indefinite period as a result of various problems caused by an insensitive, ignorant & " ugly " North American.” The authors are also at great pains to make us appreciate how “thankless” and dangerous the work of the sanctuary is. Too see more, take a look at http://www.myelephants.org/ .

I had a wonderful day out, thanks in great part to the company, but I would only recommend this to families with children. Adults might have to put their gut feelings aside, but it’s definitely better than a zoo and it's quite an experience to get so up close and personal with these amazing animals. I'm glad I went to see it for myself and very grateful to my lovely friends for taking me along.

The sanctuary was further than I expected from KL, but the last few kilometres were bliss, giving me a view of the Malaysia I love and have missed – the narrow roads winding through the lush greenery, wooden houses with children playing outside, the rich smells of the earth and leaves and flowers, fruits and fried things for sale at the roadside, insects chirruping, the warm humid air soft and sweet, enveloping us as we arrived.

Comments please!

Quite a few of you have given me much-appreciated feedback on the blog but told me that you were unable to comment. Now I think I've worked out how to make commenting easier and you shouldn't need a google account to do it any more - just click on the 'comments' link after a post and leave your message. I hope this works. Would love to hear your thoughts. Many thanks for the many kind words so far, - I was delighted to find out how many people have actually been reading and enjoying my site.

Kuala Lumpur

Stepping out of the airport building, the hot thick air hit me. It always does, without fail, wherever you have come from. I find it at once both stifling and comforting.

All week I enjoyed being back, pottering about and spending time with the friends I have missed. On Sunday evening I stood at the edge of the night-market, watching. And the sensation that had been nudging at me all week became clear, a reality: this is no longer my home. What made me see this was the other matsallehs, the expats. How they, despite being as foreign as me, belong here. There was a purpose and certainty in the mundaneness of their evening that I will never have again.

Edinburgh - Heathrow - Entebbe - Nairobi - Dubai - Kuala Lumpur

A lot of flying.

Yao's Second Flight

Yao’s first flight had been earlier that morning, to Nairobi where I came across him at the transfer desk. Half an hour into our conversation, our boarding passes arrived and we discovered that we would be sitting together on the flight to Dubai.
“God is good,” he said.

He was on his way to Osaka to attend a month long training course. He was a teacher, deputy head and French teacher at a secondary school in Cote D’Ivoire, further up the ladder than me, yet until today he had never flown before. Flying is something I take for granted. He told me how he’d miss his students and daughter while he was away.

It wasn’t until we were in the air that his ‘novice flyer’ status came up in conversation and then it quickly explained his blank reception of the bags containing blanket and headphones, his sharing of my video screen in preference to using his own and other minor uncertainties. But still his calm assurance threw these things into a stark contrast. He professed no fear of flying and most refreshingly, had no fear of appearing uninformed or inexperienced.

At dinner time, he asked advice about what to eat first and, “Is it alright to eat the bread with this?” I realised what an inadequate model of etiquette I was, as constrained by space I forked food one-handedly into my mouth, inelegantly juggling and stacking the containers on the over-full tray. We talked on and off, explored the in-flight entertainment (on both screens by now) and the time passed all too quickly.

He was enchanted by the night-time view of Dubai on our approach to landing, delighting in identifying roads by their strings of orange lights, then individual cars and later the tall buildings of the city. I have never lost that sense of wonder, viewing the world from above. I hope he doesn’t.

As we taxied, seemingly for miles, I told him that Dubai was a much bigger airport than Nairobi.
“I’d never seen anything like Nairobi airport before,” he replied. I knew he was in for a shock. Nairobi is a typical developing country airport, small for a capital city, slightly shabby and decidedly dull. Dubai glitters with opulence, shops overflowing with unnecessary and expensive goods, floors gleaming, lights twinkling, the whole place looking much like a top-end shopping mall. We walked around together, Yao so quiet that I couldn’t tell whether he was overwhelmed or simply unimpressed. I tried to see it through his eyes, this movie-set of an airport, the likes of which he had never seen before. How far apart our worlds must be, yet however much I told myself this, all I could see how similar we were, but for the accidents of our homelands and the experiences they’d given us. And now we were just two travellers in a place that was no place and at no time.

With hours yet to go, our gates were not yet displayed, but Yao was uneasy with my nonchalant assurance that they’d appear in an hour or two, so he went to make enquiries. I walked him to his gate, where he wanted to wait and promised to return once I’d done the things I needed to do. Realising he’d have no currency, I took him a Coke – and writing this I remember the similar kindness I received here back in March– and we said our goodbyes again.

Over the months, I’ve met many people who’ve asked me to return or visit them in the future, but none has struck me as more sincere than Yao, nor has made me want to do so as much. I had found a friend in the nationless sky.

Stranger in a strange land

A lot has changed in the five years I've been away from the UK. Little things. Every now and then I found myself feeling much as I imagine a stranger would feel, or an old person who suddenly finds they haven't kept up.

In London I tried to board a bus only to find I should have bought my ticket from a machine behind the bus shelter. In a shop I tried to pay with Switch, then panicked when I saw that my card no longer bore the Switch logo. This was alright though, but then the cashier pointed me to a card reading machine on my side of the counter. Only on my third attempt did I get it in the right way round, then was asked to enter my PIN. "Is that the same as the one I use in the ATM?" I had to ask. It struck me as funny, but I've a feeling I just appeared rather stupid and confused.

Luckily I was taken step-by-step through the self-check-in process by a charming young man at Heathrow - see, now I even sound like an old dear. The new security measures in the airports were easier to deal with, as there were plenty of instructions for the uninitiated.

Nobody had told me that mobile phones were 'locked' into one network. And that was after I'd remembered not to call it a handphone. And so on. There I was, old before my time, a stranger in a familiar land.

Night bus to London

Edinburgh, 10pm, and Princes Street is teeming with half-naked children tottering about on stillettos. These girls are so young that the boys with them are still at the age where they're smaller than the girls. Nobody looks over thirteen, many look slightly drunk. Cheery barrel-chested policepersons stand in twos, flourescent yellow beacons attracting tourists who ask for directions or photos. More kids continue to carry each other, squealing with laughter, up the Waverley Steps from the station, spitting themselves onto the street, before slipping back into cool and mooching across to McDonalds. Suddenly I feel very old, and feel that I have been away for a very long time. Finally, I feel relieved to see at last the UK I have always known was lurking here, beyond, behind and within all the lovely places I have been to.

Compared to a bus trip in Africa, it was a doddle, but I have to say I expected it to be comfortable rather than just bearable. I will save the details for the letter I'm writing to Megabus and just tell you that I arrived dazed and delirious at Victoria at about six-thirty on Saturday morning.

The Falkirk Wheel

This is a really fascinating piece of engineering. The Falkirk Wheel is a rotating boat lift linking the Forth and Clyde canal with the Union canal near Falkirk, as you might have guessed. The canals have been reopened and renovated fairly recently, but the flight of eleven locks that previously joined them had mostly been destroyed and built over, so this boat lift was created to replace the locks. Apparently it used to take a whole day to navigate the entire flight of locks, but the new method takes less than twenty minutes.





Mum, Dad and I went for a look, read up a little in the information centre, then watched the wheel in operation. We declined the opportunity of a boat trip up and down again, and instead watched the workings which would not have been visible from the boat. The upper canal has been built out from the hillside, through which it has passed in a tunnel, onto an aqueduct that juts out over a large pool beside the lower canal. The boats enter the wheel area, which is then completely sealed before the wheel rotates, bringing one boat up to the top while another comes down.


We walked up to and through the tunnel and along the canal a little way, passing a couple of locks and a pair of very cheery lock-keeper types who chatted about this and that. I thought briefly about walking back all the way to Edinburgh along the towpath, but instead opted for a ride in the car, including a stop off and Marks and Sparks where we indulged in an orgy of biscuit buying. A grand day out.

Aberdeen

Aberdeen is a strikingly attractive city. Perched on the edge of Scotland, stacked full of grand granitic architecture, it gleamed in the sun. Big business-like ships somehow managed to dock right in town next to the bus station, and a ferry waited to set sail for Shetland. The grey North Sea bravely sparkled when it could, dog-walkers strolled along the beach, even the big oil-related installations sat benignly on the harbour front. Out by the beach the city gives way to a tiny old fishing village of tinier houses, small and bright like beach-huts. Walking the narrow paths between them felt like walking through private gardens, amongst the barbecues, potted plants and washing.


Of course, I'm sure Aberdeen has rougher edges, but everywhere I went was simply the epitomy of couth.
In honour of the city's grandeur, I have penned a wee poem with some help from the famous poet, Adrian Mole:

Oh, Aberdeen!
I had never seen
you before.
Your granite glistened grandly
in the Scottish summer sun.
So did the sea,
till it rained.

I had only gone to spend a couple of days with my friend Shona and her family. Then somehow managed to stay there a week. In fact, it was so nice I'm surprised I'm not still there now. In all the time I was travelling, there was always the issue of "Going home" - an issue that I had trouble dealing with, as I had and have no home. The home I pictured as I travelled was the flat in KL that is no longer mine. But at Shona and John's, I found myself at home.

It was great to chat, or relax with a book, or a glass of wine, fun to do homework with the kids, walk along the railway line, and specially to go and watch Maxwell play his rugby match. And that's despite the shock of being reminded that I am old enough to be mistaken for the parent of a 13 year old! I even braved my way through Lucy's seventh birthday party - possibly a rather more contraceptive experience.

This was not only a lovely slice of Scotland, but also a lovely slice of family life. Not to mention a wonderful chance to catch up with people I haven't seen for a year. Now I'm just trying to work out why I decided not to apply for that job there...

All roads roam to leeds

Mum, Dad and I headed to Leeds to see Simon and Ping. So here we all are, apart from Mum who must have been taking all the pictures. Small niece is Sophie, aged about 3. Smaller one is Catherine, who has been around for about a year. They live somewhere near Leeds, and we took an afternoon walk from their house, past the sewage works to some scenic village which is home to the Woolpack pub of 'Emmerdale' fame:

Now that I have met these new relations, I can disappear again to distant continents, safe in the knowledge that everyone needs an elusive aunt.

Edinburgh

While not technically a part of the African continent, Edinburgh is an obvious stop when you think about it logically. So, with hopelessly directionless meander from one far-flung Heathrow terminal to another, I arrived in Edinburgh's swanky new 'I'm the capital of a nearly independent country' airport.

The differentness of the familiar never hits as hard as it should. But one thing did strike me as we drove south towards Peebles - despite the late hour it was light, a perfect summer sun shone over the evening hills, as if switched on by the Scottish Tourist Board, making ludicrous my parents' claims of having endured the worst summer ever. Hadn't every day had been like this?

It's always rather pleasant to stroll through Peebles, the river Tweed gushing its shallow water and numerous ducks through the town towards first the border then the sea. This is real small town life, where most people seem to know half the people they meet on the high street and butchers and bakers are still family businesses. Add to this a nice line olde stone buildings, meagre traffic and a public library (oh the joy of such an establishment after five years' absence!) and life seems pretty good in such a place.

I managed to get up to Edinburgh twice for a dose of the festival. I love Edinburgh at festival time, the gracious buildings plastered with gaudy posters, performers accosting you on the street to persuade you to come to their show later, dozens and dozens of student-types trying to out-whacky each other but mostly achieving more tacky than whacky in their bid for attention and audiences. There's plenty of good stuff to see, and I was lucky enough to see John Hegley at the Pleasance. I'd loved his show five years ago and this was just as good. His chat and poems had me chuckling aloud, the humour intelligent, spot-on and always delivered dead-pan dry. Check him out at: http://www.johnhegley.co.uk/networds/docs/poemdeterre.htm

Hiking over the hills somewhere near St.Mary's Loch reminded me that the UK isn't all dismal at all. This is a beautiful area and I enjoyed joining the 'Ramblers' for the day, especially up on the tops where the moorland looks so big and empty, the shadows of clouds scud rapidly over the heather-covered hillsides and the ground is boggy enough to absorb the unsuspecting hiker up to his thighs. Like all good walks, this one ended at a country pub where I enjoyed a drink or two with the lads while the old and/or ladylike went off to a caff for tea. Hard to believe that it's probably ten years since I last met these guys... makes me feel much older than any of them looked... anyway, they're a damn fine bunch and great company. Lesson for life: stick with the beer-drinkers.

Photos

I am slowly tackling the task of photos. A few thousand of them. Some are being inserted into this blog, e.g. at http://geckozo.blogspot.com/2007/04/step-by-step-guide-to-roast-pork.html and others on Flickr. This looks as if it will take some time, but a few sets are there already, so if you are interested take a look at http://www.flickr.com/photos/geckozo/sets/

Funny

Wouldn't it be funny if, having diced with death on buses, matatus and boda-bodas, at the edge of Vic Falls, in the face of lions, on the end of a bungee cord, the streets of Jo'burg and the waters of the Zambezi, wouldn't it be funny if my nice safe clean British aeroplane fell out of the sky tomorrow? Just a thought.

The End is Nigh

Once the flight was booked, a couple of weeks ago, the clock was ticking on this trip. It got louder and louder until the thought of using a washing machine suddenly seemed little recompense for leaving Africa. But I'm sure spending time with friends and family will be. This last week, time has hurtled towards me, thrusting at me an unknown expanse of future, rippng from me all the things not done.

It's been so long, but gone so quickly. I feel as if I've barely started but always been here, I feel tired and energized, worn and elated by the journey, journeys.

Strange Journey

I travelled from Kampala to Entebbe today in a matatu with only one person per seat.

"Give me money"

This phrase is so common in this area that I am beginning to think that maybe it just means hello. But for the tell-tale outstretched palm. I cannot believe how often I hear this here. Occasionally it is interspersed with the odd, "Give me sweet," or the more eloquent, "Please assist me one thousand to buy book," and I can only presume that this is the legacy of tourists who have in the past given money or sweets. Yet I wonder, how often are these requests granted? I suppose even if it is only once in a blue moon, it is still worth asking. I noticed that the children never asked when there were adults nearby and never when they were in school, so clearly it is not wholely acceptable.

It is so sad that this behaviour has been learned and, probably, encouraged. By people who get a kick out of seeing children fight each other for hand-outs, love the attention of being the giver, feel guilty, or think they are helping? I don't know.

This area, a scattering of small villages, is not wealthy by any stretch of the European or 'Western' imagination, but compared to other places, it is much better off. Three rafting companies employ guides, cooks, drivers. As do quad bike operators and horse riding outfits.There are numerous campsites, guesthouses and cafes all bringing in the tourist dollar, each employing dozens of locals. Softpower has built two schools, an education centre and has refurbished numerous other schools. Boda-boda drivers shuttle tourists and their kayaks round the countryside, women sell crafts and jewellery, villagers take tourists on guided walks. A similar village, or string of villages, elsewhere in the country, away from tourist spots and glorious rivers would have none of this. Employment would be rare, money much harder to come by and life would mostly be lived off the land. Yet visit these places, where mzungus rarely tread, where need is so much greater, and nobody will ask you for money.

In Rwanda, I was never asked for money, but over and over I was asked for my address or phone number. I was touched by these people, so eager to make friends, asking me please to tell them about my country and about my experience of theirs. How different.

At the education centre here, as well as teaching children, lessons in cooking, art, craft, pottery and I.T. give adults the chance to learn skills that will enable them to get dollars from mzungus from their work - this strikes me as a much healthier handout than money. Adults here never beg, nor are the knick-knack sellers and boda-boda drivers pushy. Who taught the children to beg? And who will teach them to stop? There are many ways, good ways, we can contibute to improving the lives of people in places such as this, but none of them involve giving coins to small children.

No Husband, No God

There's a nice guy who works at the kayak school who I chat to most days. In the course of our conversations he was amazed to learn that I was thirty-nine and have no husband or children. Cassius himself is forty and a grandfather, like most people his age. It is incomprehensible to him, and many others, that I could be so old and still single. Hardly surprising in a country where, according to yesterday's paper, 70% of girls are mothers by the age of 18. Life expectancy here is about 50, so it made little sense for me to be brushing off his horror with comments about being young and having plenty of time for that later. The WHO says 'healthy life exectancy' is only about 42.

In another conversation, while sipping tea on a bench in the mud behind a tiny restaurant shack, I answered no to so many religion questions that I was left with no choice but to admit the truth, that I don't believe in a God. Poor Cassius nearly choked on his tea, but was too polite to make a scene.

Thereafter, he introduced me to anyone he knew by saying,
"This is Zoe, she's thirty-nine and has no husband and no god."
Thus began my career as a freak-show exhibit...

Bujagali Falls

Not so much a waterfall as a series of big rapids, this is a very pleasant spot. A grassy slope leads down to the rocks banking the river, so there is plenty of space to stretch out, relax, and gaze across the rapids, across the Nile.

This place is just ten kilometres from Lake Victoria, the source of the White Nile. The water here is just beginning its 6695km journey through Uganda, Sudan and Egypt to the sea, a journey which will apparently take three months.

A small sign advertises the "Bujagali Swimmers", and I had the chance to watch one of these men swim the grade 5 rapid with no safety but the bouyancy provided by the jerrycan he clutched to his chest with one hand, the other hand waving triumphantly every time he surfaced.

Enviously I watched as kayakers came down, disappearing into waves and holes, cartwheeling or capsizing, emerging one way up or the other at the end. Just then I realized how much I want to kayak that well, and cursed myself for not getting out in my boat more. Two rafting companies brought big groups of their big rafts through, making the whole thing look rather tame by comparison.

I stayed a week at the campsite here, just upstream from the falls. The bar had a deck overlooking the river, offering stunning views downstream. (Picture on right taken from deck).

There are plans to dam the river here, a horrific thought, seeing not only how beautiful this area is, but also how much the local economy relies on tourism - tourism that is based almost solely on the river. I'm not a big fan of dams at the best of times, but to do this here seems terrible. What's wrong with solar power? Heaven knows, there's enough sun in Africa. To read more about the proposed dam, go to:
http://www.gg.rhul.ac.uk/simon/bujagali.html

I went out with the kayak school for a day on easier water, but unfortunately rather too easy. Not that I didn't need the practice, but I would have liked a little more excitement, but I had been grouped with the only two other customers, both beginners. Still it was good to be out on moving water, right at the source of this river, pracising a roll or two and bouncing around on grade one and two rapids. This is such a big volume river was quite unlike anything I've encountered in Malaysia, with strong currents even on the flat, whirlpools and eddies all over the place.

Apart from a Sunday spent wandering around the villages nearby and watching kayakers and the river, the rest of my week here was spent volunteering with Soft Power education, painting schools.