A slightly wrinkled but well-preserved Chinese woman with a whitened face, her hair very straightly parted and tied into a tight knot, greeted the guests and with a barely noticeable nod sent the two teenagers to wordlessly fill the guests’ cups with weak green tea. The newcomers joined all those gathered at the table and sat down on the carmine cushions breathing in the smell of opium. Everyone was observing the four players smoothly rearranging and removing the tiles with mysterious signs hand‑painted on them. The game of mahjong was intense.
At the same time, the guests on the upper floor were having a very different and more disrobed type of pleasure, the entrance to which was guarded by an equally whitened, though more wrinkled Chinese lady sitting between the kitchen and the corridor with her bowl of noodle soup and slurping silently, ignoring the excited voices coming from over the mahjong table. The players, on the other hand, were ignoring the excited voices coming from the upper floor.
Do you know the feeling when your boss lights his joint, approaches you, pats you on the back, says that he couldn’t have found a better employee anywhere in Europe and opens you a fourth bottle of beer, while dancing and barking to the beat of music? No?
“If you wait until evening, and then walk silently along the walls, or go up on one of the hills and sit quietly on the old stones, you will hear it. It is almost a whisper, like the breeze, but you hear it all the same, the voice of history. Malacca is one of those places. They whisper in Chinese, in Portuguese, in Dutch, in Malay, in English, some even in Italian, others in languages no one speaks any more. But it hardly matters; the stories told by the dead of Malacca no longer interest anyone.”
I was woken by chants in stereo coming from nearby mosques. I rolled over to the other side, moaned, having forgotten that on the other side I had a broken collarbone, rolled back to the first side and covered my head with a pillow with medium to low soundproofing properties. Continue reading
Ua-ua-ua-ua! I’m in love with your body! Bombastic, ele fantastic, pa pa l’americano, asi voce me mata, ai se eu te pego, ai aiiiii so hot in here! so ice ice baby… ice ice favorito baby! pasito pasito oppa gangnam suave suavecito gangnam style poquito a poquito, mista lova lova sube sube!
A muscular red tomcat with a scar just by his snout and a bitten tail circled around my legs for the fifth time. I took a critical look at my plate: nasi lemak – rice steamed in coconut milk with fried egg, hot sambal sauce and – aha! a few fried tiny anchovies… The look in his eyes was friendly, indulgent even. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed five of his smaller, bony, far less friendly-looking cat bodyguards gathering. I just met the cat Al Capone. I could say goodbye to my anchovies.
I spent 1,5 hours in h&m trying on clothes that I a) didn’t want, b) didn’t need, c) didn’t like, d) didn’t intent to buy. Aha! I can see you looking for the solution in the mysterious meanders of female logic. That’s not the right path. There was good air con in h&m.
Having cooled down a bit in h&m (you can only imagine how enthusiastically Piotrek went into the store with me!), we take a stroll around Georgetown – the culinary Mecca of Malaysia and the Asian capital of murals.
I like lights. Lights are nice. I can’t be in Kuala Lumpur and not see my lights. – Justyna and Marek came to visit us and barely had they landed, she wanted to rush to the mesmerizingly illuminated Petronas towers immediately. I went a bit further in the interpretation of her “light” wishes.
Well, I got my share of luck. Having fallen victim to two gentlemen on a motorcycle, I’m sitting in Melaka two months longer than originally planned, persuading my collarbone to grow back faster after the mentioned gentlemen pushed me off the bike, tempted by a very low-profile, rag backpack that in no way indicated its contents, while carrying half of the electronic devices we used to possess.