That's what it says every time you fill out one of those customs forms. I asked our favorite Penang cab driver, Suliman (Stanley Tucci) how people are executed.
They hang 'em.
Last night, as predicted, was a heated debate on the roles of women in various cultures and the difference between respecting cultural tradition and opposing inherent wrong. I am now known as Beth "No one would ever choose to wear a burqa" Spotswood and I stand by my new nickname.
This morning we awoke and were met by Suliman's friend. I guess Suliman's car broke down so he arranged for a suitable replacement, going so far as to calling said friend when we were en route to the airport and asking to speak with my father. We love Suliman and I'm pretty sure he doesn't make his wife wear a burqa.
Actually, when we were chatting with him about the tsunami and earthquakes in general yesterday, he mentioned that his apartment at the top of his huge, sad looking building swayed back and forth during the most recent quake. Some residents hysterically ran downstairs and others stayed up top.
"I stay up top." Suliman said matter of factly. "If the building collapses, you die whether you are at the top or the bottom. I look at my children and say 'If Allah wills it.'"
And then, perhaps for our benefit. "You know? It's up to God."
Our flight to Singapore was uneventful, save that I was convinced, via SFMike's last comment, that we'd be hijacked and taken to the Philippines. I saw a shady looking guy at our gate, his only suspicious-looking carry-on a cardboard box apparently containing a DVD player. Alex caught be looking.
"Jesus Christ, you are so paranoid. This flight is an hour and 1 minute. Relax."
"What's the flight number? You can always tell by the flight number."
This has always been my theory. How does your flight number sound with, "Terror in the Sky: The Story of Flight ____"?
We were flight 191. It kinda worked.
Then Alex goes, "That'd be a great movie tag line. 'I was expecting a quiet 61 minute flight to Singapore and it turned out to be the worst 4 days of my life.'"
I laughed as I imagined Alex being forced to tackle DVD box guy, a good 4 times smaller. My 6'5" brother said he wouldn't need to fight with plastic butter knives. He'd just walk up and say, "Um, can you hand that over now?" and then flex.
61 uneventful minutes later, we were in Singapore, which for those that are idiots (me), is a tiny section on the end of Malaysia that's it own country.
Kind of like the Vatican. Or Florida.
Singapore, indepent since practically last week (1965), is clearly a very wealthy country and it's obvious by the towering skyscrapers, immaculate city and gorgeous businessmen in the lobby that this place is an international player.
As opposed to, oh...Penang.
Our hotel, Raffles, is much like E&O in Penang and turns out, both were founded by the Sarkies Brothers. Right now, everything is decked out in classy non-demoniational holiday decor, which I regard as very Home Alone-esque. It's all very tropically colonial again, with the pith helmets and knee socks. As we walked in greeted by bellmen dressed as Maharajas, I remarked, "God, these places are all so Rudyard Kipling."
"He stayed at both!" My father delighted in telling us.
In fact the bar here is called Writer's Bar and was home to Kimpling, Somerset Maugham, Noel Coward and other high maintenance queens.
So I fit right in.
It's pouring rain, with thunder and lightning and Maharajan bellmen following you around with umbrellas. I'm off to wander, but not before leaving you with the quote of the trip thus far.
Alex, observing the jungles and wildlife from the top of Penang Hill yesterday:
"The life of the monkey is the life for me."
And now, an optional slide show: