I mention Penang’s geographical make-up as, for some unknown reason, I never actually look up the place before I get there – leading to a bemused look on Sheila’s face as we sit in the eager taxi-man’s vehicle and I ask if I’m on an island. Or not. You never can tell these days.

We’re staying in the Hutton Lodge in George Town which, quelle surprise, is a former colonial outpost for the British before they left Malaysia back in 1957. The town now serves as the capital of Penang province and, never ones to buck tradition, have decided to leave the British name in tact. As hostels go, it’s sufficient. We have free wifi, a large communal showering area (in which I manage to slip in, jamming my left foot between a pipe and a wall in the process) and access to old editions of magazines such as Men’s Health etc. I spend many an hour flicking through old fitness lore, calculating devious schemes to get myself back into shape when I get home.

Truth be told: I’m thoroughly conflicted about Penang. Looking over articles on the web and personal testimony from many visitors to the isle, there seems to be an abundance of positivity overflowing from eclectic and legitimate sources absolutely gushing about its wonderful culture, the exciting cuisine and how friendly the people are. I think it’s a total shit-hole.

The best analogy I can come up with regarding Penang is in relation to its colonialist beginnings. Now that the colonialists have all left, however, it’s akin to the practice of rich parents leaving a house in the questionably capable hands of their delinquent children only to come home and find that what was once a shining example of their opulence and refinery, is now reeling in the aftermath of a monster party.

There are remnants of colonial beauty in Penang; the architecture lush and intricate in places while some of the open-planned streets and wide, breezy areas, conjuring up images of Victorian women prancing around in with their sun-umbrellas, smack of the heyday of British imperialism. What’s infested Penang, however, now that the masters have departed, is a veneer of grime and neglect, with an ever-prevalent rubbish phenomenon that appears to be breeding out from its very walls. In a nutshell, the place has gone to the dogs. Or the cats more accurately, considering the burgeoning and starving feline population we come across at nearly every junction.

It’s not just the wild cats that are having a hard time of it. Bent and work-worn people in various states of disarray peer out from their dark, clammy hovels; working furiously away on whatever junk they’re hocking to the masses. One cavernous den has nothing but broken lawnmowers stacked on top of each other like the mechanical graveyard of a great grass-cutters’ war. It’s ironic as, to the best of my knowledge, there’s hardly any grass on Penang.

It reminds me in a way of my father back home who, growing up in harsher times than the era in which I did, is incredibly reluctant to throw anything away. The family shed is full of VHS tapes covered in mould; useless to anyone but those with an unhealthy penchant for mildew. My father would fall in love with Penang; its endless junk-traders and shit-hawkers obviously just waiting for him to join their fetid sect as a venerable leader and king.

It’s not just the crap oozing out of the shop-fronts that’s off-putting. There’s also trouble afoot when it comes to walking around the place in general. Hugging nearly every street in Penang are twin aqueducts that may or may not be the vestiges of an ancient sewer system. It sure smells that way. Though some of the troughs are covered by broken stone slabs, most go exposed to the public. Festering gullies of mulch, they’re a magnet for an unwary foot to get snagged in.

It’s also strikingly hot, a condition not helped by the forever grabbing trade-hawkers who hassle us incessantly from the side of the road. It gets so intense at one point that I have to go back to the hostel before risking incarceration for the (justified I might add) pummelling of a local shit-peddler.

The best thing about Penang is that there are no Burger Kings (that we could find, and we looked) so we’re totally reliant on the local cuisine. Rambling through the cat-infested streets, we come across an Indian establishment ballsy enough to declare itself as having the best tandoori in Penang. At this point, on yet another sweaty and harassment filled preamble, I really don’t give a shit where (or what) I eat so, making the pushy waiter’s year, I agree to sit there and put this crazy boastful to the test.

We only eat Indian food in one other place in Penang but, bloody hell, I think they’re on to something. We go back to “Kapitan” something like four times in three days, always overjoyed at the dishes we order. The food is cooked in the corner in a semi-open kitchen hovel consisting of two tandoors and a mountain of pots. The fresh naan bread seen to be slammed down into the counter at regular intervals. It’s hardly the pinnacle of hygienic conditions, but we care not a jot. In fact, when it comes to questionable hygiene, we’re the only people eating in the place with a knife and fork, the rest of the clientele seemingly content to scream up to the place on whiny mopeds, alight in a dangerous fashion, and then sit themselves down to a meal eaten with their bare hands. And we’re talking curries and rice dishes here. Doesn’t matter. They stick their hands in and scoop up the contents with naans and assorted breads. It’s so messy, in fact, that there are washing basins strategically placed around the open-to-the-road restaurant for the sole purpose of cleaning yourself up after your gastric adventure.

It really is good food. Later on in the trip we experience some Thai dishes that literally snap our taste-buds to attention, but it’s the chicken tikka masala and garlic naan combo (with Pepsi, no Coke, Coke is for infidels apparently) from Kapitan which we rate as the nicest dish we taste on our three month trip. And it cost something like a euro. At the most.

Amazingly, as we sit in Penang airport and are about to make our escape to Bangkok, I spy a Penang tourism video in the departure lounge. As we sit there subjected to a weird perpetually moaning child, I can’t help but think that the Penang depicted on the TV looks awesome. So much culture! So many friendly faces and beautiful sights to see. Why didn’t I see any of this during my short stay? Who knows. I’m just happy to escape Penang alive.

Toward the end of our tour, such a strategic locative factor starts to play a more and more prominent role in our destination selections. Do we really want to go to Krabi? Not really. Is it half way between Phuket and Bangkok? Krabi it is.

The other slightly more curious reason for taking in Kuala Lumpur is because Sheila’s boss spends half the year here. And when you hear so much about a certain location, even in passing, it does pique one’s interest to the extent that swinging by and taking in the sights becomes exceedingly attractive.

We arrive in Kuala Lumpur (herein referred to as KL – an abbreviation even the locals are comfortable with apparently) early in the morning and immediately hit the trains to take us into the centre of the city.

From the offset, KL looks cloudy, a tad more worn than Singapore and not as painfully humid. Low, dense clouds hang over the city like a cooling blanket as the train eventually deposits us deeper into the metropolis district. A sign hangs in the infrastructural hub of KL’s Central Station claiming Malaysian hospitality is akin to welcoming a friend into your own house. Maybe friends in Malaysia get a raw deal upon arriving at a friend’s home, destined to wander around the complex with no assistance as to where the bathroom is as, for the life of us, we can’t find the monorail station in the catacomb-esque building. Even after asking, we’re given directions about as helpful as someone telling you to follow the setting sun when informing them that your hotel is “west of here.”

After a half an hour of increasing frustration, we twig that the bloody monorail station isn’t even in Central Station; KL’s nexus for a myriad of travel options in Malaysia’s capital which, for some unknown reason, doesn’t extend to the monorail persuasion. This is despite KL being quite proud of their monorail network. You’d think they’d clearly sign where the fucking thing is.

In a flash of empathy, I finally realise what it must be like for a visitor to Dublin who, marvelling at the gray skies and dilapidated state of the airport they’ve just landed in, find out that there is no way of getting in to the city other than on a meandering, infrequent bus or by feeding themselves to pernicious taxi bandits queuing up outside. These same chiselers who persistently grumble that, in these dark days, they have to actually work for a living.

We exit Central and trek toward the direction of where we think we need to go. It’s a good introduction to KL street-life as we quickly ascertain the differences between this new city and the one we’ve just left. Compared to Singapore, KL is a battered yet tenacious entity. It’s not as clean as Singapore, nor as regimented. Many paths are broken, bridges and buildings are festooned with equal amounts of advertisements and detritus; as if the place has been so busy growing that someone forgot to clear up the empty boxes in the wake of such expansion. It’s not necessarily a dirty city by any stretch of the imagination (I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that it’s cleaner than Dublin for example), but, after the pristine, civic monstrosity of Singapore so fresh in our minds, it does appear slightly dishevelled if not simply “well used.”

Getting on to the monorail is like walking through a feeding frenzy, and it’s here I witness my first example of Malaysian rudeness. It might be a cultural thing but, it appears that here in KL it’s pretty much every bastard for himself. People will ignore queues and push right past to the top, nudge you out of the way in order to gain access to a train before you do, and generally jostle, squeeze and dismiss you if it means gaining any advantage.

On one particular occasion when boarding a train, laden with baggage and first to board, a man leans into me and then keeps pushing forward to access the train before me. I call after him in a loud voice, informing him and the entire train that he is, in fact, “a fucking ignorant prick.” Another man beside me, who, from the glint in his eye and ready-to-strike body-language I can tell was just about to do the same thing, smiles and waves me on. It’s a strange experience to be in such a discourteous place but I quickly learn that, if you’re going to survive in Malaysia, be prepared to confront people or risk getting trampled on.

The monorail is quaint and winds its way into the city like a short silent snake, leaning into the curves of the stone track like a subtle ice-skater. At one station, three Coca-Cola clad reps join the throng and request our attention. Turning my head away from the cityscape outside, they inform us that they’re going to teach us how to drink Coke. Pretty sure I’ve got the technique down after 31 years of constant cola consumption, I’m surprised that it actually entails sparking a can, taking a deep gulp, and then shaking like a lunatic. Startled, they offer me a free can of which I accept. They then get off, likely to catch the next train and do the same routine again.

We soon arrive in Raja Chulan without any further mentally questionable disruptions, and after the obligatory “Which way is north?” antics, we walk the short distance to our accommodation, the Rainforest B&B.

It’s at this point we get our first introduction to Malaysian traffic rules – or, more accurately, the complete lack of them. Cars careen through red lights. Motorbikes, speeding along at a rate that suggests Malaysia probably has a higher road traffic fatality rate than Ireland (a mean feat I should add), pretty much drive wherever they like; on to paths, across islands, up the wrong way of busy streets. It’s total bedlam, and I’m sure many a visitor to the city doesn’t make it out alive after meeting a grisly end at the hand of an erratic road user.

The B&B is pleasant and run by a small group of truly helpful and friendly staff. We do spend the first half of day one sweating like pigs in the room only to enquire about a possible malfunctioning air-con system and be handed the remote control device at the front desk. But it’s forgivable, if purely down to our own stupidity for not asking about it sooner. I’m also sure they had a good laugh at the painfully white foreigners sitting in their room, trying to connect to the free wifi and losing kilos of water in the oppressive heat.

It’s at this point we decide to pretty much wash every piece of clothing we have. We’re given a ridiculously low price (per kilo) and, the following day, a small Malaysian girl, encumbered by the sheer weight of the load, drags a basket back in from the laundry room. “So big!” she says. I don’t disagree, simply standing there marvelling at the sight of all my clothes; clean, pressed and stacked in a formation they haven’t experienced in nearly three months. We pack the clothes away and head back out into the heat.

Malaysia is officially a Muslim nation, my second of such to visit since Morocco some years ago. It’s not really a talking point to be honest, though it is always intriguing for a Westerner to witness the ethnical traits and nuances of a different culture; especially one as exotic and different as the Muslim way of life. About half the women wear the hajib, while a rare few go the whole hog and are dressed in the complete black burqa. After some rudimentary research in the area, I learn that whether or not a woman decides to wear the headdress is more to do with their (or most likely their family’s) interpretation of the Quran. Much like how some Christians actually go to church on Sunday and worship, while others still classify themselves as such because they were “born into the faith” and would rather now spend their Sundays in the pub. OK, so it’s not entirely synonymous. It is intriguing to note that the majority of servers in restaurants and the likes of Starbucks are women. And they all wear the hajib. And, for some reason I can’t really understand, they’re nearly all painfully gloomy.

I find it a tad ironic that, though the main reason behind the burqa (which, and I mean no disrespect, I can’t help but be reminded of a ninja whenever I see a woman wearing it) is to hide a woman’s virtues away from anyone but their husband, I find myself paying more attention to the women in question. Maybe it’s the novelty of the whole spectacle, but I can’t help but watch. Seeing just a pair of dark eyes staring back out from beneath the cloth is strangely alluring and exotic. Which I’m pretty sure is the direct opposite intention of wearing such a restrictive garb in the first place.

The biggest attraction KL has to offer is the Petronas Twin Towers. Once the largest building(s) in the world, the dual monuments to man’s ingenuity and quest to reach ever higher are now relegated to third place in the tall buildings stakes. Despite this loss of World’s Tallest title (to Taipei 101 if you’re interested, which has also since been surpassed) the Petronas Towers are the best thing about KL by far. And, lucky you, if you go to KL, you literally can’t miss them.

We walk toward them from the south-west, and due to some trick of the light (or more accurately the angle at which approach) for a short while it would appear that we’ve all been duped and there is is actually only one tower. Highest Twin Towers in the world my ass. The illusion is shattered, however, when we start to make our way around the base of Tower 1. It’s a testament to just how large the towers are that you can walk around one for so long and still not see the other until it finally appears, like an arrow of pure light thundering upwards toward a dizzying height.

Rising from the ground like a pair of huge tapered missiles, the Twin Towers look quite different depending on the time of day when viewed. By day, the towers are icy columns of green tinted glass. White and light gray metal, all rippling ever-upwards like two humungous waves of constantly folding recesses. When night falls, however, they light up like two sparkling crystals; twin emblems of prosperity and engineering mastery, huge and emanating light like a second sun in the night’s balmy sky. It’s spectacular to look at and a feat unrivalled by other tall buildings (like the Empire State Building for example, which is only fractionally smaller than each of the Petronas Towers) simply because the others are mostly constructed from brick and mortar. Having the towers encased in glass from top to bottom was an ingenious idea and, of all the man-made sights I’ve seen on my travels so far, I have to admit that nothing surpasses Petronas. Nothing by a long shot.

We spend a lot of time in the buildings, or at least in the shopping centre below, looking ever-upwards and always mindful of just what is above us, towering into the sky like a monstrous shining Babel.

When not in Petronas, we visit the KL Tower, another super-structure situated close-by to the Twin Towers and, not to be left out and overshadowed by the nearby Petronas spectacle, is the fourth largest tower in the world and taller than Petronas by a significant margin.

I should mention at this point that the classification of world’s highest building/structure/tower/whatever is a confusing tangle of red-tape, claims and counter-claims – a lot depending on interpretation, various definitions and where your building is in relation to the third moon of Saturn. Do you count spires? What about antenna? For example: there are storeys on the (Whatcha talkin’ about) Willis Tower (formerly the Sears’ Tower) in Chicago that are higher than the highest floor on Petronas, but the latter’s spire creeps over the top floor of Willis. Despite being nowhere near the top of the pinnacle of Willis’ double antenna (and we’re not counting antennas, remember?), Petronas is deemed higher. Which is actually higher? You decide.

When it comes to freestanding towers, however, the debate is a little less heated. With no-one but the crows living in these spires, the measuring tape simply stops at the top. OK, so there is some debate, mostly focusing on whether or not the tower starts on land or if you count the part of the structure that is underwater. But I’m not going there.

We take the elevator up to the top. It takes so long for the trip to finish (nearly a full minute) that an annoying Indian gentleman informs the elevator operator that he thinks it’s broken. She looks at him like he’s completely demented and asks him not to worry. I’m pretty sure she makes this journey hundreds of times per day. I’m guessing she’d know if the fucking thing was broken.

We leave the elevator and walk around the observation deck. Its circular layout is chockfull of trinkets and screaming children running about the place, gluing their noses to the windows and hogging the prodigious view of KL below.

We find it slightly amusing when we come across the “comparison” models: a series of frosted glass replicas of the world’s highest towers standing alert against the curved observation deck wall, the one we’re standing in right now proudly appearing fourth in the line-up. It’s amusing as we can literally walk past the models and say “Seen it, seen it, don’t want to see it, in it, seen it, haven’t seen it …”. It’s like the collection is a vague monument to our recent travels considering the towers of Toronto, Sydney, and Auckland all feature.

Ironically, like befriending the fat friend to get closer to the girl you want, we use the KL Tower for taking photos of the Petronas Towers which is literally less than half a kilometre away. It’s cloudy the day we go up, the towers shrouded in mist and mystery, but we get an unique perspective of their design, and the venture is worth doing if painfully touristy.

Connecting the two towers across from our view is the Sky Bridge – an interconnector between the buildings roughly half-way up between the super-structures. Getting up on to the Sky Bridge is free, the only price an early start to get down to the towers and queue for tickets. It’s first come, first served however, and despite valiant attempts to rise at seven and make the ten minute trek down to the ticket office (we even set an alarm), it just never happens.

It’s within the Petronas shopping centre that Sheila picks up a companion lens to the one she haggled over in Singapore, this time a wide-angle jobby we get to use on the final leg of our journey. Though I’m sure there was some back and forth over the price to be had, we pretty much pay the same as we did for the other lens without much scandal. I’m also pretty sure the guy knew we weren’t there for the taking after informing him straight up what we purchased the first lens for in Singapore. It’s almost like a pilfering defence mechanism. “We paid this amount for this product, we’re not paying much more for something so similar so don’t even think about it, Buddy.”

KL is a hive of activity and splendour. It’s chaotic splendour, however, and, as a vacationing city, it doesn’t really hold up to much scrutiny. We’re there for a couple of days, and by the end of it we’re happy to leave. The towers are magnificent, truly something worth checking out, but the rest of the city is simply a sprawling mass of dangerous traffic, peculiar diners and some of the most hardcore locals you’re ever likely to come across.

We make it back to the airport in pretty good shape and board for Penang.