Depilation – The Art of Pulling Hair

For the naïve, innocent and potential virginal amongst us, a Brazilian wax refers to the removal of all hair around your fun parts and butt crack. Women started doing it to get rid of stray hairs when bikinis went micro until somebody said “Oh what the hell, just take it all off.”

I can only imagine that men who enjoyed the smoothness of their female partners weren’t left alone for long. So she was smooth, but still had to dive into her man’s jungle during their sexual adventures. I also imagine how the first guy was extorted into giving as good as he got, probably agreeing to clipping, or at worst, a shave down there.

But it never stops at clipping, and shaving is no fun, so eventually the boy-zillian was born.

My motivation to get a bru-zillian (short for brother/broer), as we call them in South Africa, was part practical and part morbid fascination.

I’ve been fairly hairy on the front of my body below my neck (curse you bald head) for most of my adult life. And seeing parts of my usually hair-covered body without hair is simply fascinating. As for the practical part… ok fine, there is no practical part, it’s all just vanity and curiosity.

Get Naked and Prepare for Pain – And Not In a Fun Away Either

Needless to say, there’s various aspects to consider when getting waxed at all, never mind around your boy parts. Consideration supreme is the pain. I avoid pain as much as the next guy, especially when it’s pretty much the same as having tens of plasters ripped off your hairy arm.

The second nearly equal major consideration is the embarrassment factor. I’m quite a pervy collector of experiences, with added value for the ones that make me feel awkward, but to open my legs and expose my hairy genitals to the gaze and touch of an unknown woman who I’m not about to have sex with, stirs uneasiness in me equal to what the thought of having my mom walk in on me masturbating would. Yes, graphic – but that’s exactly how it feels.

As fate would have it, being in Kuala Lumpur over the weekend presented the opportunity to have this experience. Fear be damned, because I was staying in Bangsar, literally a short walk from Strip, a waxing salon that the Journo has alerted me to, which also specialises in boy-zillians. My big chance to face and overcome awkwardness. Yay!

On Saturday night I popped in to Strip, which looks like a funky bar rather than a wax treatment centre, to make an appointment for Sunday. However, their specially-trained-for-boy-zillian waxing therapist was unavailable. I was offered The Curve and Sunway as an alternative, and opted for The Curve, which was substantially closer. Appointment set for 12pm.

Waxing Lyrical

I arrived an hour early and nervous, with all my potential areas of contact shower-fresh and squeaky clean. I popped in to Strip just to confirm my appointment and couldn’t help but notice that all the therapists were young and cute. I started to cringe as I went for a coffee to kill time – old would have meant they’ve probably seen it all, but young and cute? Shrug.

By the time I returned my therapist was waiting and she bounced out from behind the counter, slapped her hands together and said “Let’s start then, shall we?”.

We walked into one of a several waxing rooms, which was brightly lit, clean and modern. A high-table perched on-top of a laminated wood floor, cupboards lining the one side, part of which held the wax pots and paraphernalia. The other half, she explained, was for my clothes and personal belongings. “Boy-zillian and chest-and-stomach, right?”, she confirmed and said “put your personal belongings in there and just take everything off, ok?” and she disappeared behind and sealed the heavy curtain that covered the door.

I was left with a full-length mirror on the wall and as much trepidation. All I could do was strip down to nothing and look in the mirror for one last mental picture of my hairy body. Positioning myself on the bed I tried to drape the towel in a way as to at least appear modest. “Are you ready?”, she called from outside, and as I confirmed she bounced in, face-mask on, me lying down as per her instructions ready to start first on my stomach, working up to my chest, before going down for the kill.

She chatted away, coaxing answers from me as she put me at ease and easily won my trust. Her confidence and easy going personality made me completely forget that I was about to be as physically vulnerable with her as I’ve ever been in my life with a stranger.

My stomach and chest would be cleared with soft wax, she explained, whilst the harder, less painful hard-wax was saved for my bits. She applied two quick, warm strokes of wax to the first part of my stomach, and without stopping her chat, applied a strip, rubbed a few times and effortless yanked it off along with all the hair it touched.

The Difference Between Pleasure and Pain Is Very Little. Supposedly.

The ripping noise echoed in my head. But I didn’t scream, although I can’t lie; it hurt.

It didn’t hurt as much as I thought it would though, but it hurt nevertheless. I have paid for pain before – a massage by a blind therapist when I was in China – which was the closest that I’ve ever come to what I can imagine death would feel like – so I have a bar for pain against which I was measuring this experience. Yank No.1 wasn’t yet halfway there.

“What’s your name”, I asked her. “Elaine”, she replied. “Hi, Elaine, it’s nice to know the name of the people who torture me”. She laughed as I told her the story of the blind man, but she only paused for a moment before continuing. I looked a the pinkish-red bare patch of skin on the side of my hairy stomach and liked it, lied back and prepared for more. Expertly and quickly, always diverting my attention by keeping the conversation going, she proceeded to clear my stomach, matching, on scale, the rate at which the Brazilian (pun) rain forest is being cleared.

Apply wax.  Wait.  Apply wax strip.  Rub.  Rip.  Repeat.

Before very long my stomach laid bare below my still overgrown chest. If there was sun shining in, it would have gleamed off my belly, but instead my belly simply glowed red under the glare of the light. “Right,” said Elaine as she dabbed the last few stray hairs on my stomach, “many say the chest is the worst part of the entire experience.”

Up until now she’d been very caring and attentive, and the excruciating pain had been bearable. I tried not to anticipate anything more intense, so as to avoid any mental exaggeration of what might actually not be bad at all.

In Which Direction Does Chest Hair Grow? Ah, Therein Lies The Problem.

Swish, swish, and Elaine had applied two strips of hot wax, one of which covered my nipple. Rub rub, and on went the strip. She lifted the corner ready to pull. I braced myself just as I heard the sound of wax strip separating hair from tender skin.

The pain meter shot up deep into the red. I could hear the Blind Therapist laughing all the way from China. It hurt and it smarted and it wasn’t letting up.

Elaine paused and, as a statement more than question, she said “Pain?”. I groaned, trying to imagine how near to the border of pleasure I could possibly be and how I could get there quickly. Her eyes showed sympathy and she paused, but I said with a smile that was partly mutilated by the stinging pain “there’s nothing you can do for me Elaine, it has to be done”.

She laughed. “Once I did a hairy guy”, she said, trying as ever to divert my attention from the smarting patch of hairless skin around nipple, “and when I did this part he shot up and grabbed his nipple screaming ‘ it is still there!?’, and that’s how painful I know it can be.”

I could believe it. Only the fact that I didn’t see blood spurting out of a nipple-sized hole in my chest assured me that my nipple was in fact still attached. The smarting partly subsided relatively quickly and Elaine continued. My stomach had already stopped smarting and my attention was now fully focused on my chest. Each strip was as excruciating as the one it succeeded, the pain from my stomach area paled in comparison to the fire that was burning on my chest with burning coals added with every rip.

I clenched my jaw and didn’t make a peep. I’m a man, men don’t scream (not while they’re getting a wax at least).

Lucid with agony I heard Elaine say, “Ok, last one”, and after a final sting she was done. I looked down and saw my pecks radiating red as if I was lying on the pavement beneath the red glow of a S&M Club’s neon sign. It smarted, hard.

My Fun Bits Have Never Been This Much Un-fun

The pain on my chest, not unlike that of being slapped repeatedly with a flat, wet hand, was instantly diluted as Elaine ever-so-lightly adjusted the towel over my bits, as if to remind me where she was about to wax next. “For this part”, she said as she prepared the next pot, “we’ll be using the hard wax. No strips, just wax”. The hard wax is said to be less painful – I’m not sure why, but it’s applied as hot, liquid wax, which instantly solidifies. It is then just pulled off, not with a wax strip, just as it is.

Elaine grabbed the lower side of the towel and unceremoniously moved it up to my stomach. There it was, the moment I dreaded. Exposed, naked, a young woman – not a medical practitioner, not a sexual partner, standing there, looking down on my manhood thinking god-knows what. I sighed and said to myself, it is what is, no use agonizing over it.

“The hair might be a bit short”, said Elaine, not letting on that she had observed anything other than those pesky hairs, “but it should be ok”. She lightly tapped my thigh indicating direction before saying “Open your leg a bit”. As if I wasn’t feeling violated enough.

I opened just one leg, much less intrusive than opening both. Without skipping a beat she started applying the wax. It’s hot, but it doesn’t burn, in fact, in the air-conditioned room it actually felt quite pleasant. “It shouldn’t hurt too much”, she said as she grabbed hold of one end of the wax whilst holding down my groin with her other hand.

A quick rip later and my first patch of highly sensitive area was bare. She was right, it hurt less than my chest or stomach did, in fact, with my chest still smarting, the little yanks of pain coming from my genital area were a welcome distraction, if not a little pleasant. My god, I thought, what if I got aroused? Thankfully, there was still sufficient pain to numb whatever amorous feelings where around, because that never happened.

She expertly worked her way along the hairy bits, swiftly extracting hair from what I would consider impossible places. Yes, there was contact, loads, but she handled my anatomy just enough to do what she needed, to get the wax on and off. Her professionalism never wavered and continued her chatting as if she didn’t at all have my genitals in her hands rubbing wax all over it. 10 minutes later she said “Almost done, now just the back”.

Ten Minutes in the Valley

Again, dread besieged me. Elaine was about to witness my butt crack. In my life, not many people have witnessed my butt crack, it is, contrary to popular belief, not exhibited all that often. Bum cheeks, maybe, butt crack, no. However, by now it was clear that Elaine is quite the consummate professional, and turning on my stomach I found myself relieved to remove my privates from her sight.

“Put your legs here”, she said as she tapped on the back of my knees and then on the bed, a position that had me open my legs just a little. Gloved fingers gently pulled my cheeks apart for a little room to move and in a few brisk strokes the wax was applied. Swiftly, and surprisingly quite without pain, the undergrowth was cleared from the valley. Whether she was just such an expert, or whether my mind blanked out the embarrassing experience, I now cannot say, but I couldn’t feel the details of which part she was working on.

As the quickest section of the entire adventure, she was done in what felt like 5 minutes and asked me to turn back over. A quick rub of soothing oil on all the waxed areas tied up the treatment, and an hour after I walked into Strip at The Curve, I was smooth from chest to… erm, coxis.

All Waxed Out

“Ok, all done – thank you”, she said as she dropped her gloves in the bin and headed for the door. “No, no, Elaine”, I said as I sat upright returning the towel, together with my modesty, to a more suitable position, even managing a coy smile, “thank you”.

And with that she disappeared behind the curtain again, leaving me to get dressed. Of course, the first thing I did was get up to look at my new, hairless self in the mirror. All my hairy bits were clear, skin that I haven’t seen in decades bare and exposed without any cover, areas clearly highlighted by the deep red glow of freshly waxed skin.

All that remained was to settle the bill, where I saw Elaine again one more time to say goodbye. “We hope to see you again soon,” said the cashier as I walked away, “you certainly will”, I said, this time sporting a big ol’ smile.

Shit happens. It’s well documented.  You have the choice. Cry about it, or laugh about it.  Clearly my choice is to laugh about it.

Does it change things? No, but neither does crying.

I can hear you just as well, and absorb the lesson of whatever blunder has occurred equally well when I’m laughing as when I’m crying.  You; you go ahead and cry about it. It’s your choice, I’m not going to take that away from you.  Similarly, I will be laughing as I am afforded the same rights to my emotions are you are to yours.

Is everything a tragedy to you?

You never hear this question, because crying is a perfectly acceptable response to any given situation, happy or sad.  Laughing, however, frowned upon as it is, labeled as insensitive and inappropriate in most circumstances, is just as therapeutic as crying. In fact, perhaps more so, as I believe laughing releases endorphins, the feel good hormone, along with a slew of other health benefits. Crying on the other hand, does no such thing and only has disorders linked to it.

Laughing is my weapon of choice. It disarms, it defuses, it distracts, delays, postpone and dissolves potential sticky, awkward, uncomfortable and dangerous situations.

No, everything is not a joke to me. But I’ll be laughing about it anyway.

There. So, what? Cry about it.

I was wasting time on JeremyNell.com, as you do, and saw he picked up that Google search results show that COSATU.org.za may harm your computer. Clicking on it then gives the handy little explanation as additional information.

So, we’ve all suspected for a while that COSATU may harm your country, and now Google suspects the same about your computer.

Oh my stomach, I can’t stop laughing!

Well, if that’s not your problem, it was mine, and as I’ve solved it, I’d like to share (because I can’t code, this is how I give back to the community). Anyway, not sure if this is the easiest way to do it, but it worked for me.

I’m running Ubuntu 9.04 Jaunty Jackalope and I”m more of a visual user than a command-line user, so I’m going to tell you the way I did.

Rest assured, doing this you will not lose any bookmarks or settings from your current browser. But backup just in case.

1. If you haven’t yet, download the new Firefox 3.5 from Firefox.com to your desktop
2. Right-click the file (firefox-3.5.tar.bz2) and choose Extract Here
3. You will now have a new folder on your desktop called Firefox. Rename it to Firefox-3.5
4. Open a terminal window (just this once) and type sudo nautilus – this will launch your file browser with root privileges
5. Navigate to File System -> usr -> lib ( /usr/lib/ ) and copy the folder Firefox-3.5 into this directory
6. Open the folder Firefox-3.5 and find the file called Firefox.
7. Right click and Make Link. It creates a file called Link to Firefox
8. Cut and paste this link to File System -> usr -> bin ( /usr/bin/ )
9. There is already a link called Firefox so rename that to Firefox.old (if there isn’t, don’t worry), rename your new Link to Firefox to just Firefox

All done.  Now close down all your current Firefox windows, and restart with the improved Firefox 3.5. Tada!

Having made a comeback of sorts in the last couple of years thanks to the now-well-known internet phenomena, the Rickroll, Rick Astley although unintentional participant, is no stranger to successful viral campaigns.  But good turned to evil as somewhere in a forum in the dark underbelly of the ether, somebody decided on this viral misinformation campaign.

And as every lover of urban legends know: nothing cements the reputation of an urban legend as well as a credible source.

And credibility to Rick Astley’s supposed death was given a ton of cement by one of Malaysia’s biggest national newspapers, when TheStar.com.my posted a report of his death, accrediting it to AP (Associated Press) no less. Don’t bother looking for it now, it’s gone.

However, as many teenagers who sent naked pictures of themselves to their friends know, once it’s on the Internet, it’s never really gone and in what must have been minutes on their website before TheStar.com.my realised they’ve been epically Rickrolled, someone savvy and knowledgable took a screen-grab of the ultimate in careless journalism.

When I saw the first tweet, I did what I usually do with urban legends – refer to Snopes.com.  However, as this is fresh news, the official source was the only place to look, and in this case it was Rick Astley’s official website, which predictably said nothing of the singer’s death.  And I bet this was one action more than what whoever posted the story on TheStar.com.my took.

Unsurprisingly, my friend tweeted shortly after that the story disappeared off TheStar.com.my’s website – unfortunately for the heavily dented reputation of TheStar.com.my, it’s still stuck on the Internet. Tsk. Tsk.

Although it’s gone from their website now, the result is also still stuck in Google. For the time being.

Oh, and if you didn’t get it: Rick Astley is NOT dead.

For our Cape Town holiday we had compiled a list of things that we simply had to do, most of them, as you’d expect, quite touristy.

Today was Cape Point day, a journey which pretty much takes the whole day if you go about it nice and slow.  It involves cruising along the toenail of Africa, the actual peninsula of the Cape Peninsula.  We headed out along a part of the M2 highway, up towards where it makes a t-junction at the foot of The Mountain and headed towards Muizenberg on the M3.

Boulders Beach – Jackass Penguins in Cape Town

Muizenberg is, in my mind, a bit of a surf spot, although I believe the waves are small, but abundant. It was sunny, yes, but warm it was not and none of us had any aspirations to go in the water. I’m sure Muizenberg has other things going for it also, but we skipped it anyway and headed on past Kalk Bay and Fish Hoek towards Simons Town, home of the famous Boulders Beach Jackass penguin colony – the Journo had her heart set on this one.

Guided by plenty of penguins-this-way signs, we had no trouble finding the place.  It has changed much since the last time I visited some 4 or more years ago.  There’s a dedicated parking lot for one, but one small tourist van and a Malaysian-made Proton Gen2 aside (about which we were well excited), it was deserted.  The usual array of hawkers exhibiting their non-unique wares were lining the side-walk, clearly with no business, but not looking as keen as you’d imagine either.

Getting to what is now a fenced-in beach requires a short walk through a quiet neighbourhood. Entrance is R40 per adult, part of which, they say, goes to the conservation of the penguins. You never actually touch the beach, and of course, neither do you the penguins, although The Journo tried aplenty.

Wooden walkways guide you amongst the dunes and above the nesting penguins.  Some are in natural nests they’ve fashioned out of holes and rock spaces for themselves, and others make use of more modern conveniences in the form of fibreglass jars, planted in the ground to provide shelter against large seaguls eyeing a penguin egg for breakfast.

The sun was bright and glaring off the white beach sand, and there were penguins everywhere. But everywhere!  The Jounro was excited and kept on asking how we could touch them, the Sausage was amused and I, well, the novelty of the penguins wore of quickly for me. Especially after taking pictures from every conceivable angle. A penguin is a penguin is a penguin.

Cape Point Nature Reserve

Having had our fill of penguins we headed towards the Cape Point Nature Reserve a 20-minute-or-so drive away.  Several sightings of baboons and sweeping views of the blue False Bay merging with the even bluer skies made the trip a visual feast.  Entry to the park, if I remember correctly, is R60 per person.  Inside the park we saw more baboons, but for the wealth of animals there aparently is in this relatively remote part of Cape Town, this was all we saw.

Our brief (and expensive) lunch at the restaurant was entertaining.  Cape Point Nature Reserve Tip: Sit inside, because outside they only serve really expensive starters. The waiter was kind enough to point out that the starters are about as expensive as they are small.  Inside are bigger and undoubtedly more expensive main courses.

Another reason to sit inside is that sometimes they have operational challenges with baboons and birds, who are regular attempted-diners at the restaurant. I.e. they will come and hijack your food.

On this particular cold and breezy afternoon we only saw birds.  Clear signs warned not to feed the animals, especially the baboons, as they can get quite aggressive.  The birds, however, don’t wait to be fed. The Journo was about to finish the last bite of a sandwich, when a black bird swooped in, experty weaved his way through the umbrellas, and snatched the last bite out of her hands literally just before she bit into it. We weren’t quite sure whether to be shocked or amazed at this bit of real life National Geographic happening right before us. The Journo certainly wasn’t amuzed.

During our meal there was also some other commotion as people peered over the cliff down to the ocean below.  Far below us we could make out a whale.  It’s not quite whale season yet, but clearly there are some around and we were very excited to be seeing this one, albeit at such a distance.  We watched in awe for a bit and managed to get a few shots in which you can at least imagine seeing a whale.

We still had the actual point of Cape Point to reach, but by now we were cold and lazy, so we decided to take the Funucular up the steep hill. You can’t actually walk to the very south-westerly tip of the African continent, but we damn well went as far as we could, enjoying the absolutely breathtaking natural beauty of our surroundings.

The sheer cliffs plunged into the ocean some 100m below us, covered with greenery that dropped starkly into a deep blue ocean below.  On one side waves crash ferociously against the cliffs and on another it becomes saffire blue as it washes onto a bright, white beach. Cape Point must be one of the most spectacular scenes of nature on this planet.

Staying with spectacular, our return journey was supposed to include a drive along Chapmans Peak, a scenic drive as famous for its sweeping views of the Atlantic ocean as it is for rock-falls and avelanches. Unfortunetally, to prevent this very threat of rock falls, it is closed for maintenance, and, says the locals, God knows for how long.  So we had to drive through Constantia and Newslands to get to Hout Bay, which is where we wanted to sample supposedly famous seafood.

Hout Bay, seafood and Soap (Girls)

Being from Kota Kinabalu, the sea-food capital of Malaysia, the Journo and Sausage had no low expectations.  We parked near Hout Bay harbour and walked around a bit to explore and this is where me met the Soap Girls. But that’s a whole post by itself, although I will say this, I will go back to Hout Bay for the sole reason of meeting up with the Soap Girls again.

So what about the seafood, man?

Based on a recommendation by the Soap Girls we chose the Lookout Deck, situated on the Harbour Front near the yacht basin (if I was the Mariner’s Wharf, the other seafood restaurant, I would do something to impress those convincing girls). The portions where generous (the 3 of us were stuffed from 2 portions) and the fish was tasty, but did it beat the seafood in Kota Kinabalu?

Well, this entry is about Cape Town, so let’s move on

Cape Town Travel Tip 3: If you’re going to go to Betty’s Bay, I would recommend the Jackass penguin colony there over Boulders Beach. It’s cheaper (R10), less crowded and the walkway is closer to the ocean so there is a lot of penguin-in-the-waves action.

Our first full day here in Cape Town, and although the skies are blue and it seems like a sunny day, it’s still freezing for our Borneo-warmed bodies.  We dressed-up as if for the ski-sloped and took my mom’s energetic dog for a walk, using him as a means to explore the neighbourhood I haven’t seen in 4 years before picking up our Cape Town Rental Car.

I lost my driver’s license some time ago and I was unable to get it replaced while in Malaysia, so before we could pick up our rental car, I had to get that sorted.  The plan was for the Journo and the Sausage to hang about the local mall, N1 City, whilst I crossed the road to apply for a new license and get a temporary one for our travels.

Driver’s License Shuffle

N1 City has changed much  with loads more parking and shops, so I knew the 2 of them would be occupied for at least as long as it took me to get sorted.  We also had our first South African breakfast at Maxxi’s, a place my mom visits every now and again for breakfast.  It was clearly popular with the retired crowd.  Breakfast chips also featured on our plates for the first time here. Yup, chips for breakfast.

I took me about an hour and 90 minutes to sort out my driver’s license – this includes a damn long walk to the Goodwood Traffic Department, which technically is just across the road from the mall, but practically has only one entrance, and as I walked the wrong way around the block, it was at the far end of the totally fenced-in property.  I also needlessly queued for 15 minutes in the wrong line because the signage wasn’t clear, and then had to wait about 30 minutes to get my eyes tested.  And now I have to wait 8 weeks for the actual license, managing with the immediately-issued temporary license until then.

With my license sorted we were ready to secure our Cape Town car rental.

Cape Town Car Hire With Aroundabout Cars

Even before we left Malaysia I did some research about car hire in Cape Town, because not only is car hire expensive, but often you’ll end up with a small car and limited mileage, which could seriously cramp your self-driving holiday style.  After much research, I discovered that the best-value car hire company in Cape Town is Aroundabout Cars.

With Aroundabout Cars car hire we managed to get the best rate for our 14 – 30 day rental period as well as unlimited mileage.  With the Sausage, being Malaysian, as the primary driver and our Super Cover insurance rate, we also got a total excess waiver.  Super Cover is simply a more complete insurance cover option, and the excess waiver means that, should the worst happen and there is an accident or the car is stolen, we wouldn’t have to pay any excess .

Oddly enough, if I, with my South African passport, registered as the primary driver, we would be liable for something like R2,500 in excess.

I had spoken to Megan, the fun and friendly Aroundabout Cars rep, via Skype (aroundaboutcars) to arrange the pick-up of the rental car.  She instructed us to go to Imperial Rent-a-car first and then come around to their offices situated almost on the corner of Bloem and Loop street. We wanted to rented a car with 4 doors as the Sausage and myself are tall people and 3 doors would be just too cramped. Plus, on our travels we would have a decent amount of luggage, so we needed to rent a slightly roomy car.

Our rented car, given the other options, was a Toyota Yaris, and we were expecting the hatchback.  However, after we filled out the necessary forms at Imperial, we were taken to the car only to see it was the bigger Toyota Yaris sedan. Bonus!  We drove over to Aroundabout Cars, sorted out the payment and were on our way with our rented Toyota Yaris 1.5 sedan for R225 per day with unlimited mileage and a complete excess waiver.

Cape Town Travel Tip 2: According to my research Aroundabout Cars has the best deals for car hire in Cape Town (and they do other parts of the country too).

We arrived this morning after the flight, which didn’t feel as long as the 13 hours that it was.

I haven’t been on Malaysia Airlines in four years, in fact, I haven’t been on any long-haul flight in four years. It seemed less cramped, but that might just have been the excitement of going home. The in-flight entertainment is also way more advanced in that every seat can control every movie, which means at whatever time you feel like watching a movie, you go to the appropriate channel and if the movie is half way, for instance, you simply rewind it and watch from the start.

Previously I spent long-haul flights playing games, but this flight was ground breaking, because I fell asleep not too long after take-off and slept until two hours before we landed at Joburg. We were also lucky to sit in a section where the service was attentive and a super-friendly stewardesses brought us plenty of fluids.

We landed at Cape Town International Airport under clear blue skies, but icy cold weather. My mom, sister and brother-in-law met us at the airport and several rounds of hugs and greetings ensued and then introductions as I formally introduce the Journo and the Sausage to their South African hosts.

After settling in at home to the accommodations my mom prepared for us, we went to Cape Town’s biggest mall, Canal Walk, to pick up some braai supplies, but decided to go walkabout first before we buy things that would have to stay in the car. Whilst at Canal Walk we also changed some money, because we lucked out on Rands in Kuala Lumpur.

It was an exceptionally expensive exercise and we only did it once. In Malaysia there’s a rate on the board, which is a rate not far different from the international rates you can get from sites like xe.net for instance, and this the rate at which you exchange your money. In South Africa however, the poor rates displayed on the board is just the start.

Before we exchange money xe.net said the Ringgit vs. the Rand was something like 2.35 – we looked around the various exchanges at Canal Walk, but they were pretty much the same. Eventually we got a rate from Rennies. The board displayed something like 2.15 – but we needed money so took it. However, once they converted our Ringgit to Rand, they take a commission off the Rand they give you as well, so I worked it out that effectively our rate was something stupid like 2.05. That’s a big loss for your average tourist.

We decided then that exchanging money here like this is going to make our holiday more expensive and we would start using our cards wherever possible. Much later in the holiday I needed more Rand and drew money from the machine. I got a rate virtually the same as the xe.net rate and currently it doesn’t seem like I paid transaction fees, although that could still come at the end of the month.

Something else that also incentivised me to do this is that as a South African passport holder I must provide a utility bill with my name and address on it to prove where I live. WTF!? My Malaysian friends only needed to show their passports.

So Cape Town Tip Number 1 is don’t exchange money here: just draw it from the ATM.

As we went through the Waterfront looking at prices of stuff, I realised Cape Town has become a very expensive place, certainly much, much more expensive than I anticipated.

We had a BBQ that night, but the 3 of us were completely floored and had to cut it short because we simply couldn’t stay awake. The South African adventure begins.

I had a one-way ticket left over from my last work contract, so necessarily I’m flying to South Africa on Malaysia Airlines and our first stop: Kuala Lumpur.

The Journo got a exceptionally good deal, so she too is on the same airline, but as her ticket is so restricted that the conditions are about 8 pages long, she had to be on very specific flight numbers. Thus, her flight is the one immediately after mine – no cheap seats left on my flight.

Kota Kinabalu’s new airport terminal 1 is virtually brand spanking new, spacious and relatively well organised, if a little light on shopping options. Not that I mind as I’ve actually developed a bit of an allergy to shopping. But The Journo notices these things.

The Malaysia Airlines check-in lady put me in seat 14 A, very nice of her, which I only realised as I sat down. It’s the window seat immediately behind the emergency exit rows, with no seats in front of me – so leg room galore! I noticed since the last time I flew Malaysia Airlines (years ago, I’ve been budget airlining it ever since) they’ve gotten rid of the drab grey and purple interior in exchange for multi-coloured seats. I’m still deciding whether or not this is an improvement.

The flight, being only 2.5 hours, had no in-flight entertainment. Luckily I grabbed a newspaper on the way in, as there were no in-flight magazines in my entire row either. I managed to nod-off a few times too, significantly cutting down journey time.

The meal was something I looked forward to, because being a full-service flight, Malaysia Airlines still serve those. Instead of the stereotypical chicken-or-fish you always hear, I was given the option of kway teow or French toast. In Asia, kway teow - a flat, fried noodle – is not unexpected at breakfast, but French toast certainly is.  So I took it.

The meal came in a cardboard box with the translucent, printed lid already removed when they passed it to me.  The French toast turned out to be an apple strudel disguised as a two wedges of toast and looked like it could have been battered with egg.  The taste didn’t give anything away though.  The accompanying bun was fresh two or three days ago, and the orange juice was a near perfect imitation cordial – made in Sarawak.  I’m critical, yes, because on a full-service flight you pay for this food.  I couldn’t help but wonder how much of the expensive fair was allocated to this meal.  I longed for an AirAsia cup-o-curry-noodle.

On the up side, the stewards and stewardess managed to serve us 3 helpings of Joy orange juice (closer to being real than the juice with the meal) and coffee, which kept me well hydrated.  I hope this is a taste of things to come on the international sector where inevitably you find yourself dehydrating.

The landing at Kuala Lumpur International Airport was near perfect with a barely perceptible bump as we touched down.  I was 45 minutes ahead of The Journo at this point and looked forward to sitting down somewhere and taking advantage of the free WiFi, which KLIA loves to tell travelers about.

I booted up and managed to connect to the KLIA wireless network without incident.  However, reaching any websites proved to be futile.  I only managed to get error pages.  I tried from several locations in the arrival hall thinking that signal strength made a difference, but alas, it didn’t.  Somehow this failure didn’t surprise me – I’m becoming increasingly disillusioned with Malaysia’s Internet infrastructure.  It used to be so great…

Luckily The Journo’s flight was fast and she caught up in no time.  For the first time I took the KLIA Express to Central Station and 30 minutes later we were in town.

After a quick meeting with Kuan to get some Malaysia Ultimate Open discs (and a handful of MyDiscs for handouts), here we are at Mega Mall – the place is packed and all the shops and outlets are nearly bursting at the seams.  After a mammoth trek around the mall which is not called Mega Mall for nothing, I finally spotted an open seat in Starbucks and here I am, blissfully connected. The Journo, is blissfully off shopping somewhere. Addict.

Tonight we have a dinner with a random, German friend of The Sausage and who knows, an unexpected adventure or two.

My bags are packed and I my lungs are wheezing as I type this because of all the dust I kicked up thoroughly cleaning my house before I leave. At least that’s done too.

Now all that remains is 4 hours of sleep before the long journey back home to Cape Town, the South African pilgrimage, starts.

It’s been nearly 4 long years since I last saw home, but unlike the last time I was heading back, I look forward to this trip a great deal. The Journo and our tried and tested travel buddy, The Sausage, is coming with to discover and rediscover South Africa and the Mother City, Cape Town, with me all over again.

I’ve not gotten excited about this trip before this on purpose. You know how it goes; a gazillion things can go wrong. Even now I’m cautiously excited, as I’m not sitting on the plane yet. Only once the g-forces upon take-off pushes me back in my seat do I truly relax. Only once my stomach sinks as we leave the runway can I let go of my current location.

Our trio will be spending 1 night and two days in Cape Town before we head off on an early morning flight that will see us arrive in time for a breakfast in Cape Town. I’ve missed my mountain, I’ve missed the ice-cold oceans, I’ve missed the colourful people of the rainbow nation.

I look forward to updating my stale memories of Cape Town with new and exciting locations, activities and two great friends. What adventures we will have…