Penang

He started with my left foot outstretched on the tattered leather ottoman. Firmly rubbing the ball of my toes, clockwise, in a slow and steady pattern. It was a strange and painful sensation that was going to last throughout the next half an hour.

"Does it hurt?" He asked, in mandarin.
"No. I actually like it painful." I answered.
"Okay, but you have to let me know if it hurts too much. It is not a good thing," he warned.

I agreed, but only verbally. Every rebellious bone in my body was rising. I didn't want him to hold back on his intended strength. I wanted it to be piercing.

It was dark and quiet. He moved on to my shin, rubbing it up and down. No fancy uniforms, no smell of lemongrass, no sound of water falling. The only "experience" was that of a large leather armchair that looked like it had been sat on to the core. But he needed none of those gimmicks, he knew the right buttons to push and did so effortlessly. Somewhere in Penang, I found the most skillful masseur in the shittiest of place.

He was one of the skillful craftsmen we witnessed in action.

A stationery shop that hand sews their hard cover note books for sale

The signmaker's work in progress

At 86, he hand carves about two signboards a month

The amicable duck seller, ever reliable for a cheap and satisfying meal

Frying Char Kway Teow by the roadside, all you need is a wok, spatula, gas, ingredients and lots of love

At the Batu Ferringhi, they make a living offering water sports to tourists

Perfect for the weather

The old patriotic barber who refused to be photographed–perhaps the memory of his blood tears and sweat is all that really matters