Rest Day

I wondered where the toilet paper was. I dragged my eyes around the bathroom, past the soap scum-covered brown tiles under the rusted shower head, past the grey porcelain sink with a leaking tap and to the door. No. Paper. What. So. Ever. Public bathrooms in the region didn’t always have toilet paper, that was a given. The affectionately-named ‘bum sprayer,’ the southeast-Asian cousin of the bidet, was always commonplace. Though not my preference, I appreciated that for many this was the best post-evacuation cleaning solution. The bathroom I was in had a bum sprayer, but I didn’t want that. I wanted toilet paper. A bit much to expect in a public toilet, I know, but I wasn’t in a public toilet. I’d gone out of my way to stay in a private room in a hotel and my experience was far from luxury.

I’d spent three nights in Georgetown, the big, exciting city at the northwest edge of the island of Penang. It was nice, but I needed a break. I’d been at busy, social hostels for a while, sharing rooms with six or more people. Criminals only have to share a jail cell with one other person, and their accommodation is free. I’d been woken each morning before dawn by local mosques competitively chanting the Muslim call to prayer. I’d been kept awake at night by slamming doors and a roommate who’d spent an hour learning Spanish on Duolingo followed by a forty minute call with her parents in London on speakerphone (Jemima’s doing fine, but Derek’s having some trouble with his Geography degree in Manchester, if anyone asks). And, to top it all off, on my last night I’d had my first bout of illness in months, going to sleep hot and shivering as a likely result of dehydration and exhaustion.

I needed a break. I spent some time researching places to stay up the Penang coast, where there were beaches. Batu Ferringhi looked nice. The Shangri La Resort was there. I wouldn’t be staying at the resort, but I’m sure the area would be nice. I could spend a few nights by the beach in my own room in a little hotel. I could rest and recover. I could catch up on some writing for my blog. Batu Ferringhi was not meant to be the story.

I found a place online that I liked. It had mixed reviews but, like reading an astrological horoscope, I chose to ignore the bits that didn’t agree with my already decided opinion. The reviews read “Old linen. Next to a noisy road. Close to the 7-Eleven. Unclean bathroom.” I read it as “Blah. Blah. Close to the 7-Eleven. Blah.” So I thought I’d stay there. After all, it was close to the 7-Eleven.

A few hours later I was in my room trying to find the toilet paper. I’d managed to discover the absence of loo roll before mounting the porcelain throne, but that was little comfort. I knew that the moment would come sometime in the next twenty-four hours. But the toilet paper fiasco was just the tip of the iceberg.

I had originally asked for a regular double room. But that wasn’t ready when I checked-in early so the owner kindly put me in the triple room which was already cleaned and had a balcony instead of a window. I didn’t mind, a balcony was just a floor-to-ceiling window. This was an upgrade. I was wrong.

The ‘balcony’ was a one-by-one metre area that looked on to the busy street. It was a place a teenager would go to smoke cigarettes away from her parents. It was sort of a Juliet balcony, the type Juliet would go to if she wanted to get her suicide over and done with in Act One. The door to the balcony was a normal door, no glass. Just a normal door. And so I was in a room that, when the door was closed, had no natural light. Great. At least this excluded the need for curtains, which, if they were in the room, I’m sure would have been covered in mould.

The rest of the small room was otherwise painted in various shades of piss-yellow, bringing the unique ambience and smell of the bathroom to the entire suite. There were speckles of white across one section of wall from filler used to fix some of the holes in the wall before being forgotten about. The sheets on the double bed had balls like a well-worn woollen jumper. The pillows had more lumps than a carton of expired milk. The linen was older than me and had gone through a lot of wear-and-tear. That was surprising. You’d think a place that wouldn’t get many visitors. Clearly there were others as gullible as I who chose to stay in such a place. But why? There were plenty of other places just as close to the 7-Eleven.

The highlight was, of course, the bathroom. A petri dish of microscopic activity, I tried not to think about the diverse range of bacteria that covered the surfaces which I encountered. My favourite part of the bathroom was the toilet. The toilet had a great feature every time it was flushed. Not only would the full flush take about ten minutes to complete, but every time the flush button was pushed a small quantity of water was flushed onto the floor. There was a hole in the back of the toilet. I didn’t know that was possible.

So after a one night stay in Batu Ferringhi I left and returned to George Town. I didn’t get to swim in the ocean or go to the beach, the heavy rain prevented that from happening. The hotel owner asked if I’d leave her a nice review, I mentally replied that not leaving a review was the best thing I could do for her business. During my stay I did overcome my initial toilet paper woes and bought some paper at the local 7-Eleven. After all, it was so close by.