Both of us overcome in the heat
One of the most polarising experiences I ever had as a workawayer was volunteering for a month or so near Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. I love to work for and stay with locals whenever possible, as you get a far more genuine picture of what life for the people in that country is really like. I can’t stand the processed, fast food version of so called culture that you purchase for a pittance at the tourist stalls and cheap tour operators.
This particular workaway had advertised for help as a local charity- we would be doing everything from rescuing stray dogs (who were less than thankful about being rescued) to giving the homeless haircuts (who enjoyed making fun of one another's new hairstyles more than they actually needed the cut).
Before coming, I was warned by the proprietress that if I couldn’t handle “huge slobbery kisses” then I probably shouldn’t come at all. While this may seem off-putting for some, I’m always up for new experiences so I just figured hey, what the heck, I’m single. Arriving in the little street where I was to be working, with its broken concrete sidewalks and jungle-like plants growing through the cracks in the barred windows, I began to regret that decision just slightly. Scenes from ‘Misery’ started running through my mind.
However, saying hello with a series of booming barks, I soon discovered that the giver of the kisses was actually to be a 50 kilo, almost-blind and somewhat arthritic Mastiff. He was intimidating but I long ago learned to love anything even vaguely resembling an animal (it’s probably why I’m such a good teacher) so ignoring his attempts to instill fear and trembling I calmly walked up and asked (in dog language of course) whether he would like a rub behind his ears, which he politely accepted. This formality out of the way, his smaller, cuter sisters came out to say hello too- both rescued strays as well, all mutts, and all given free rein of the house (it was not the cleanest or flea free-est workaway I have been to).
The place itself really was simply a cinder-block style building with some bunk beds added for sleeping in, provided you could ignore the constant heat and mosquitos. But the walls were painted in bright colors with inspirational messages and murals painted by former volunteers, and all of this served to give a remarkably homey feel to the place. Being as I had woken up to both a rat and several cockroaches crawling about on my face (thankfully on separate occasions) in hostels around the world, this really was a step up for me, and I gratefully chose a bunk to crash on.
However, the problem with no insulation in homes like this is that you are directly exposed to the elements, and let me tell you, all year round, Malaysia is hot. Lying at night on my squeaky metal bunk, sweating into the mattress (as I’m sure countless others had before me), my only option was to occasionally get up to douse my naked top half in cold water in a vain effort to keep cool. It worked for a few minutes at a time, and I would use these few moments of comfort to enjoy staring out of the window through the missing panes of glass into the steamy night of Malaysia, listening to the mixed garble of town and jungle sounds that filtered through to me. It took a good 2 days of adjustment to the heat before I was able to do more than stand up without breaking into a sweat.
Our first challenge after arriving (we had a close knit team of 4 backpackers who were all eager to hit the mean streets and do some good) was to try and capture a stray dog who had a litter of puppies. Strays are treated very poorly by some in Malaysia, considered dirty animals, and this family would not be safe if we left them out on the streets.
We knew the area where she was living and had a rope and some wooden partitions to try to corner her safely for capture. This would prove not to be so easy however. We spotted her, usually hiding behind parked cars, and would entice her out (she was obviously still suckling her puppies and needed the nourishment) with scraps of dog food.
The idea was to lure her into an area we could cordon off, slowly pen her in with the partitions and use the rope to leash her into a transport cage. She wasn’t having any of this, though, and the wiley little bitch managed to pull a "trump in an impeachment'- whenever we thought we had her she somehow slipped away, leading to frayed tempers on our part. Each delay took longer for her to trust coming out again for the tidbits we left, and we were rapidly running out of usable light to make this happen.
After one more trial and failure, I saw something on the ground I hadn’t noticed before- the sewer drains were huge and covered with slabs of concrete, but every now and then a section would be cracked or missing. Here was how our little Houdini was escaping- she knew each and every entrance into these sewers and was happily escaping under our feet every time we got close. In fact, listening closely, I realized she was still scrabbling away beneath me right in that moment. Thinking quickly I realized if we acted fast enough we could trap her right there in the tunnels far more safely and effectively than in the open street. I ran forward and heaved one of the cover blocks up (which must have weighed a good 30 kilos and would leave me bent over and hobbling for a week or so afterwards), and was rewarded to see her beady little eyes only a few feet away. Working together, with many scrapes, lots of sweat and a few drops of blood (mostly mine, as I was the only one strong or stupid enough to lift up the concrete blocks), we managed to sandwich her in the tunnels between the partitions. One of our bravest members donned thick elbow length gloves and agreed to plunge headfirst into the sewer to get a rope around her neck. I had tied a stiff noose out of the rope we had and passed it down to him, and he valiantly managed to slip it over her head and also avoid the snaps she gave defensively.
Fortunately she was either too tired or scared to put up much aggression, and with only a few half hearted snaps in my direction as I pushed her hindquarters out from the other end of the sewer drain up into the cage, she settled in rather calmly. We covered it to protect her from the sun and from too many ogling faces, and let her rest.
Of course, a mother with no puppies wouldn’t do, as they would certainly not survive without her, so we needed to find them, and fast. Our fearless leader, the energetic and jovial Indian hostess who ran the workaway, had noticed our mum often ran back to the same bunch of cars after we had tried to catch her, and had a suspicion this might be where the pups were being hidden.
Sure enough, after a brief search, we found them huddled, probably only a week or 2 old, laying quietly in a hovel under one of the cars. They were absolutely gorgeous, eyes still closed, and did little more than mumble grumpily at being disturbed as we carefully picked up each one and plopped them back with their mother, who visibly relaxed once reunited with her pups. They were delivered happy and healthy to a rehoming facility, and despite the fleas and scrapes I had picked up, I felt we really had accomplished something special.
The next evening was Thursday, and this meant it would be homeless haircut day. This was a huge process because we always brought a meal for them as well. Our day was spent chopping, stewing and frying a mountain of various foods (like the slimy star-shaped Okra vegetable) into vegetarian curries, and making vast quantities of rice. Then, loaded up with all the accouterments, we piled into public buses and went into the dark, dirty and slightly intimidating heart of the city. This was not the glitzy glamor of the twin towers or malls, this was the tiny, smog-cloaked back alley of the less fortunate.
It was an interesting dichotomy- our hostess worked incredibly hard to meet the needs of the less fortunate in her community, yet she was a monster to anyone who crossed her, even if the slight was perceived rather than actual. I had drawn close to one of my housemates, named Tania. She was a beautiful little Portuguese girl and we got along immediately, sharing a backpacking mindset that sought to, above all else, have a positive impact on the lives of those people around us (as well as a penchant for diving deep into philosophical rabbit holes whenever the possibility presented itself). I had arrived about 2 hours before she did, and while I understood huge dogs and how to manage them, Tania was a little less confident with the big Mastiff, and being as he was blind and a little panicky, he lashed out and gave her a firm nip- not serious, but painful nonetheless. Anyway, from that point on, our hostess would single her out as never being good enough, never doing the job right, always the cause of any problems. I, by contrast, was the golden child in her eyes, though this may have been more hormone driven than based on any of my other than physical qualities...
Anyway, suffice to say Tania suffered but soldiered on, keen as she was to engage i the amazing opportunities to help those in the Malaysian community that were presented to us. Therefore, before long we found ourselves ready for dinner service in the rubbish strewn streets of deep K.L.
We set up our folding tables and a coat rack filled with donated clothes, and I was given the dubious pleasure of actually administering the haircuts (namely because everyone else simply refused to do it themselves and I wasn’t paying attention when the jobs were handed out). My hapless victims would plonk themselves in front of me on a plastic stool, and I would ask (through mime) whether they wanted it all gone (the most popular choice of the evening) or if they wanted the latest style Brad Pitt had worn. This consisted of shaving the sides in a kind of undercut, which was the best I could manage, but they seemed to think it was the height of fashion. I lost count of how many meals, trousers, and haircuts we gave out that night, but at well past midnight, tired, sore and covered in all sorts of different kinds of hair, I left with a huge smile on my face at having had a real connection with some people who I certainly would never have had the opportunity to otherwise meet. Remembering their often toothless smiles and the hugs I got, I couldn’t help but think I got more out of the experience than they did.
Eventually though, after we had swum with the disabled children of a nearby special school and done a few more teaching spots and various other volunteer jobs, Tania had reached breaking point (to be fair long after I would have packed up and left). I decided it was probably my time to disappear too to go and find my next adventure, so we left together, and were able to explore K.L. without the burden of an overbearing (and sexually aggressive) mother hen following us around.
In all I had spent more than a month at this workaway, helping out with the same and many other volunteer tasks. It was tough work, and not always easy to get along with our host mother, whose passion for the work was only matched by a fiery and dominant personality not all of my compatriots were able to deal with. But what it taught me, I think, is that volunteering is often an uncomfortable experience, coming with a lot of work and more than a few scrapes along with it, but the experiences you derive from it- of meeting local people, eating local food and ‘doing as the Romans do’ has left me in no doubt I would take heat, haircuts and hairballs over a tiki-tour booze cruize any day of the week.
The rescued pups
Washing the great beast was a favourite duty
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