Penang’s Drains

It hasn’t rained here for 3 weeks, the locals tell us. Penang’s streets are dry as tinder. Tropical storms which frequently deliver 20cm of rain in a day, are bypassing the region to the north. Hoses are out in gardens. Hanging baskets drip-dry on balconies after a careful watering. Tropical leaves, fat and thick, orientate to the zenith. Penang’s numerous UNESCO-protected broad greens (ancient polo and cricket playgrounds for British Officers) are now a dusty khaki. The air shimmers like oil in a hot wok.

To cope with the next rains when they finally come, every street has a copious storm drain, usually on both sides. These are U-shaped concrete trenches 2 to 3 feet deep and about a foot wide.

In London these unannounced concrete street ha-ha’s would break so many legs and ankles at pub-closing time they would be quickly covered over. In this muslim state, where a single beer costs as much as a delicious, hearty meal, folk are steady on their pins all day, and pick their way across these obstacles as part of daily life.

It is possible to live life outside the stifling, protective maternal embrace of British Health and Safety Legislation, and it is insightful that what the British have opted to ban is danger, not beer.

I observe that there is no tax revenue from danger.

What happens when the immovable wall of British Alcohol Consumption is hit by the unstoppable force of British Health and Safety Legislation? Surely beer-drinking is at least as dangerous as playing conkers?

With little throughput, Penang’s storm drains begin to fill with an insalubrious mix of rubbish, discarded meals, the micturations of ancient gentlemen caught short on their way back from the tea house, piles of fruit too overripe for sale, the cadavers of feral cats and dogs and with just enough runoff from pavement washing, and the perfect steady 35oC temperature this grisly melange begins to produce what one could call, the Penang pong.

The rains are awaited with increasing impatience.