The next day belongs to…the playground.
In Malaysia, and perhaps in most of Asia, this rates as a pathetic playground. There are two swings, one slide, four rocking horses (a mouse, an elephant, a seahorse, and a giraffe, to be precise) and a bunch of sand. In Kathmandu, this would be more than enough. This would have saved a lot of the miles I have chased after him around the house (play, of course). But here in Malaysia, it doesn’t rate, not with the super park in town across from the McDonald's with enough space to hold two football stadiums. Not with the parks we saw in Bangkok. It matters little to Axl.
He proceeds to forego, in short order, a beautiful beach, his choice of swimming pool, and the five star rock fountain pool (the only thing I really liked here)...in favor of the playground. At the rock fountain pool, there is a deep and a shallow end, each flanked by rock formations growing out of the water and daring the swimmer to climb them. On top await a half a dozen water fountains, each one spouting water that could have been shot out of a fireman’s hose. It is just a nice place to horse around in, especially with your kids.
Instead I stand there in the sweltering heat, helping Axl on the swings, up the top of the slide and onto a phony seahorse while Liebi merrily wallows in the water with Bash. I converse politely with a Saudi couple, both US educated. When Axl asks to be hoisted up into the tree next to the playground, I pull him away. In the canopy above, there is a troop of monkeys on maneuver. They swing from one branch to another with one hand tied behind their back, it seems. I don’t think they will welcome an intrusion here. Kathmandu has taught me that messing with one monkey is dangerous enough. A troop of monkeys directing the entire troop’s resources at you is positively a disaster. Axl is pissed and when he is, he will buckle his own knees and make himself heavy, like an ’80’s nuclear power protester. No compromise here. I carry him back to our room.
The next day we visit the harbor of Langkawi, dominated by a huge replica eagle the size of a mid-size yacht. It seems tacky here, but who am I to say that? It’s not like they don’t pay tribute to eagles where I am from. Flapping its wings, the Langkawi island has its powerful beak pointed out at the ocean and the gorgeous islands popping out of it. The kids are still being mobbed at every opportunity. When we walk through this shopping center, a guy breaks away from his date to make a photo of Axl.
When we come back, the apes have struck on our balcony and possibly the entire floor. Now I understand the message. On our balcony a Pringles chips container lies tipped over on its side, most of its content devoured. They also snag a bag of raisins. So the sign reads, 'Don't feed the monkeys', but it essentially means, 'Don’t leave food on the balcony, knuckleheads'.
When we return to the pool, there is this Russian couple straight out of an Esquire magazine. The guy looks like a secret agent and built like a refrigerator. The wife is five star all the way. Just your average Russian tennis star, right? Their little fat kid, a year older than Axl, keeps picking on the tube Axl has sewn into his swimsuit. The Russians don’t admonish their kid or anything. Nope, just let the fat kid pick on him. Rule of the jungle. Then we switch to the rock fountain pool, which Axl finally embraces. Without hesitation, he makes that climb up the rock and plays with the water spouts. Meanwhile, Russian KGB guy and his fat son decide it’s time to switch venues as well. Problem is, Yuri can’t get fat boy to climb up the rock formation. Serves you right, Andropov. How about a glass of humble Stoli for a change, eh?
There are two other highlights worth mentioning. One is finding an Arabic restaurant (not a Lebanese) in a shopping center. Tagine for me, for the first time since I left Morocco eight years ago. It is delicious. It won’t hold Axl long enough. Axl wishes to dash through the center and stop at every shop along the way. The souvenir store with the musical instruments particularly piques his interest. The maracas, drums, xylophones…and the shop owners who would usually glance nervously at toddlers handling their things are delighted to have such a special guest. Axl’s new name must be ‘red carpet’. Little does he know how much that helps his parents at times.
In Malaysia, and perhaps in most of Asia, this rates as a pathetic playground. There are two swings, one slide, four rocking horses (a mouse, an elephant, a seahorse, and a giraffe, to be precise) and a bunch of sand. In Kathmandu, this would be more than enough. This would have saved a lot of the miles I have chased after him around the house (play, of course). But here in Malaysia, it doesn’t rate, not with the super park in town across from the McDonald's with enough space to hold two football stadiums. Not with the parks we saw in Bangkok. It matters little to Axl.
He proceeds to forego, in short order, a beautiful beach, his choice of swimming pool, and the five star rock fountain pool (the only thing I really liked here)...in favor of the playground. At the rock fountain pool, there is a deep and a shallow end, each flanked by rock formations growing out of the water and daring the swimmer to climb them. On top await a half a dozen water fountains, each one spouting water that could have been shot out of a fireman’s hose. It is just a nice place to horse around in, especially with your kids.
Instead I stand there in the sweltering heat, helping Axl on the swings, up the top of the slide and onto a phony seahorse while Liebi merrily wallows in the water with Bash. I converse politely with a Saudi couple, both US educated. When Axl asks to be hoisted up into the tree next to the playground, I pull him away. In the canopy above, there is a troop of monkeys on maneuver. They swing from one branch to another with one hand tied behind their back, it seems. I don’t think they will welcome an intrusion here. Kathmandu has taught me that messing with one monkey is dangerous enough. A troop of monkeys directing the entire troop’s resources at you is positively a disaster. Axl is pissed and when he is, he will buckle his own knees and make himself heavy, like an ’80’s nuclear power protester. No compromise here. I carry him back to our room.
The next day we visit the harbor of Langkawi, dominated by a huge replica eagle the size of a mid-size yacht. It seems tacky here, but who am I to say that? It’s not like they don’t pay tribute to eagles where I am from. Flapping its wings, the Langkawi island has its powerful beak pointed out at the ocean and the gorgeous islands popping out of it. The kids are still being mobbed at every opportunity. When we walk through this shopping center, a guy breaks away from his date to make a photo of Axl.
When we come back, the apes have struck on our balcony and possibly the entire floor. Now I understand the message. On our balcony a Pringles chips container lies tipped over on its side, most of its content devoured. They also snag a bag of raisins. So the sign reads, 'Don't feed the monkeys', but it essentially means, 'Don’t leave food on the balcony, knuckleheads'.
When we return to the pool, there is this Russian couple straight out of an Esquire magazine. The guy looks like a secret agent and built like a refrigerator. The wife is five star all the way. Just your average Russian tennis star, right? Their little fat kid, a year older than Axl, keeps picking on the tube Axl has sewn into his swimsuit. The Russians don’t admonish their kid or anything. Nope, just let the fat kid pick on him. Rule of the jungle. Then we switch to the rock fountain pool, which Axl finally embraces. Without hesitation, he makes that climb up the rock and plays with the water spouts. Meanwhile, Russian KGB guy and his fat son decide it’s time to switch venues as well. Problem is, Yuri can’t get fat boy to climb up the rock formation. Serves you right, Andropov. How about a glass of humble Stoli for a change, eh?
There are two other highlights worth mentioning. One is finding an Arabic restaurant (not a Lebanese) in a shopping center. Tagine for me, for the first time since I left Morocco eight years ago. It is delicious. It won’t hold Axl long enough. Axl wishes to dash through the center and stop at every shop along the way. The souvenir store with the musical instruments particularly piques his interest. The maracas, drums, xylophones…and the shop owners who would usually glance nervously at toddlers handling their things are delighted to have such a special guest. Axl’s new name must be ‘red carpet’. Little does he know how much that helps his parents at times.
