Malaysia Part Five: Discount Providing German Gestapo Hippos

river view

*Munch munch*

MLTC and I are enraptured with our breakfasts. Cereals, toast, delicious authentic Cameron Highlands tea, coffee, an assortment of jams, juices – it’s simple but more than enough. If you’re North American that is.

Enter the hostile Germans.

The hostel is currently under a lot of construction. Chalets are being constructed behind the main building as well as a pool. Therefore, the guest roster is still rather small. A semi-elderly couple from Germany and a middle-aged couple from Canada have also elected to stay here.

Some might describe the Germans as disagreeable. Others might go so far as to call them pestilential. Still others might utilize the phrase Holy Terrors. Slightly more self-serving people would dub them hilarious entertainment. All these people would be correct.

The Germans lower their rather hefty bottoms into their chairs with a deep sigh as if being served food on a terrace in the middle of a beautiful rainforest is a considerable chore.

“VOT IS THIS??”

“I think this is breakfast,” replies one of the Canadians amiably. She begins pouring herself some coffee.

The Germans proceed to grumble. The rainforest birds begin to chirp.

The Canadian man asks me to pass the butter for his toast.

“No butter, I’m afraid, but here’s the margarine.” I pass it to him.

The German man reaches for it next.

“…VOT IZ DIS!?!? GOOD GOD, I THINK IT’S MARGARINE!! MARGARINE?! VHERE IZ DA BUTTER??! ZUM DONNERWETTER!!!” The German man looks aghast, indignant and furious. He scowls down at the lowly margarine and then calls out the staff to question them as to why on earth they thought margarine might do. Verschärfte Vernehmung or “enhanced interrogation” is seemingly in the works. The cold bath technique may follow.

“VELL, DIS WAS DEFINITELY NOT THE BEST CHOICE WAS IT. NEIN.” The wife looks over at her husband disparagingly and then glares at her surroundings, withering a few rare flowers in the process. It’s clear she silently blames him for dragging her out into the middle of the wilderness where there is no butter with which to pad her ever-expanding bottom.

Although, we must take into consideration that the Germans were very hungry. Last night’s dinner had something in common with this morning’s breakfast as it, too, was unacceptable. The quantity of food was scanty, the fish wasn’t fresh enough, and to be fed vegetables is just an obscene lack of judgment.

As MLTC and I began to make our way back upstairs to prepare for the day we notice the staff making enough toast to feed the entire Gestapo. Somewhat flustered they make their rounds to the dining area only to be constantly berated by the Germans. “ISN’T VAT A COW OVER DERE? VHY CAN’T YOU MAKE ME SOME BUTTER!!! ACTUALLY. FRENCH FRIES. I VANT FRENCH FRIES. CAN’T ANYONE AROUND HERE MAKE SOME DECENT FRENCH FRIES??! VAT IZ DIS VERDAMN TRASH?!” The vitriol flows up the stairs as we ascend, the Germans violently demanding pomme frites.

While the Germans are a bit of a thorn in the side for the entire staff of the hostel, they do wonders for us. We are treated with grateful smiles, discounts and general worship for our relaxed presence that doesn’t demand things like butter and fried potatoes. Nor do we order that a slave come to scrub our scaly backs in the shower.

The day is fun filled, exhausting, hot and delicious. Locals stare. Travelers start up conversations. Numerous languages flow in and out of our ears. A wild boar is spotted as he runs among chalets. He is chased and duly photographed. The jungle is lush and green. Trees with roots bigger than the average Japanese person loom before us in our path. Monstrously huge leaves litter the ground making me feel akin to a smurf. Never before have I seen so many different shades of green.

After a trek through the jungle which leads up to a slightly perilous walkway made up of planks glued to discarded ladders up in the trees, MLTC and I find ourselves back on the other side of the river, pleasantly full from our lunch on one of the many floating restaurants and awaiting our scheduled boat ride.

Our guide from the hostel arrives on time and plops down exhaustedly into a white plastic chair. “Well, we have to wait for the other guests. Of course they’re late. We went to the canopy walkway. They said it was too high. So we walked back.”

Judgments and comments hide behind seemingly innocuous statements of truth. They long to escape from their polite words of cover. I can nearly see them seeping out of his eyes that are bulging with frustration. They gather on the table, a mixture of Malay and English profanity.

But he only smiles at us and sighs.

“Oh. There they are. Maybe they’ve come to tell me they don’t want to go.” He gives us a sidelong smirk and gets up resignedly to greet them.

To his utter surprise they have not come to cancel. The Canadians make pleasant small talk with us until the boats come.

The two Canadians climb into the front of the boat. The two Germans clumsily lumber towards it, and awkwardly settled themselves into the shallow canoe-like motorboat with a gruff, “Uhhhhhgggmmph.”

The navigator starts the engine and the boat begins to turn around ready to head down the somewhat murky river.

MLTC and I look fondly down at the two discount-providing hippos, spread out awkwardly in the little boat with their limbs contorted strangely. Just looking at them is uncomfortable. The boat’s motor chugs and chokes under the newfound weight but eventually roars to life.

MLTC and I climb into our own private, half-priced vessel and settle back for a relaxing, sparkling journey down the river.

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Published:
6.4.07 / 10am
Category:
what i call life, travel, culture