Penang is an island full of Chinese people and Indian people. Some white guys used to run it. Okay, that's enough.
With our motorbiked revved, the sage Marcus and I began our trip. But first, breakfast.
Laksa, meet readers. Readers, Laksa. Laksa is a local favorate full of fish, onions, noodles, mint, pineapple. The heartiest of breakfasts. Take THAT, Raisin bran!
Nourished, we headed to the tropical Spice Garden. Upon entry, I was confused. There was no mention of Posh, or Sporty. None of the UK Spice Girls were to be found. Just useful spices. Unfortunately, spices aren't that photogenic, so enjoy these flowers.
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| Ooh, yellow. Unlike everything else here, no medicinal properties whatsoever |
Nearing the butterfly garden, my insides squeezed. The famed man-eating Penang butterflies were close. I could hear children screaming. Then I froze. There was the butterfly, no doubt resting after feeding on a slow, fat child.
The sage crossed his legs and instructed me on how to avoid the butterflies' fury. Do as I do, he said. Cross your legs, close your eyes, and pretend you are thinking of something spiritually deep when in fact you're remembering the Laksa you ate for breakfast.
Unconvinced of my spiritual soundness, the butterflies attacked. I pulled apart as many wings as I could, flicking their airy bodies into the dark waters, but they were too fast, all a-flutter, silently mauling me with their gentle wind missiles. This was the end. No longer would I defend the meek. As I cowered in fear (not sure what else you cower in, but it's an expression), I tried to remember a happier time in the ancient recesses of memory.
Namely, the day before, when we went to the Penang toy museum, home of some 100,000 toys.
But the nightmares persisted. Dolls and dolls and more dolls. Quickly, I conjured another memory.
Save me, banana girl, I cried out into the murky caverns of the mind. But she remained on her banana, that Japanese minx, unable to rescue this a-frightened wanderer. Still the butteflies flapped. They flew. They twittered. They twirled. So many colors, attacking me in a stunning rainbow of terror. Further I reached, remembering the sage's words over breakfast.
Coconuts. Bananas. What was my mind driving at?
From whence could I gain respite?
What did it all mean?
A third image surfaced, the botanical gardens we had journeyed to not two days prior.
But it was too late. The butterflies were swarming, pulling to my eyes the worst image of them all...
Surprisingly, the monkeys produced in me a strange calm. And then it came, that soothing, mouth-watering memory that would satiate my battered soul, save me from the wretched butterflies of Penang.
Ice and coconut shavings.
Lathered in sticky syrup and condensed milk.
Tossed with sweet corn and jellied fruits.
Topped with ice cream.
Why had I not thought of it sooner? My rescuer so many times from the oppressive equatorial heat, the Malaysia malaise.
Behold, the Ais Kacang, in all its glory.
