The Chicken Carcass and the Stolen Banana

It may shock some of you to learn that, on occasion, my eyes can be bigger than my belly. Greed often takes over and before I know it I’m rolling around on the floor with belly ache. There is, however, no chance of that here owing to small portions, minimal choice and a restrictive daily budget. Having said that, sometimes the food Gods look down on me in pity and with a powerful arm grant me the opportunity to fill one of my many stomachs. On this occasion I surmise that he must have been Indian since we were strolling through the Saturday night market in Little India in Kuala Lumpur. Buying small, tasty titbits as we dawdled along, my eyes suddenly fixed upon a large wok, within which was frying what looked like succulent pieces of chicken. Once cooked, various pieces aplenty were then placed on a large plate for people to choose their cut before buying. Going on the instincts with which I was born, I immediately chose one of the biggest pieces on the plate, paid the 80p equivalent in cash and was feeling happy with my purchase. I was pretty hungry for something substantial at this point and, after a short walk to find somewhere to sit, we settled down so I could devour the purchase of which I was so proud.
 

Now, digressing for a moment, imagine you’ve just eaten your Sunday roast. Leftovers consist of a bunch of vegetables, potatoes and the body of a chicken stripped bare of its breasts, legs, thighs, wings and other areas from which any substantial meat can be taken. Essentially you are left with the ribcage of an animal, good for nothing else but producing stock or for extracting whatever scraps remain for the cats.

Back to the story. Sitting perched on the step at the front of a building in Little India, my steaming-hot, fried chicken portion encased in golden batter concealed to my horror and embarrassment what amounted to nothing more than a chicken carcass. I immediately questioned why anyone would batter and deep-fry a chicken carcass, let alone use it for any form of sustenance. What looked like a huge piece of chicken that was about to satisfy every need of my appetite had bitterly disappointed and I was left feeling disgruntled with a food God I had always assumed was on my side.

The Stolen Banana

I’m sure you are wondering what the hell a stolen banana has to do with a chicken carcass? Well the answer is absolutely nothing. Aside from giving these anecdotes a cracking title, it merely amounts to a couple of mistakes I have made so far that could be categorized together in the ‘dumbass section’ for the purpose of comedy.

As you will either know or well imagine, there are so many temples in Asia to visit. So much so that continuous visits to different temples over a period of time can result in what is known as ‘temple fatigue.’ A visit to one of these temples resulted in a rookie error, the type of which I assume I can be afforded since it was so early on in our trip. Having missed breakfast for an early start to avoid the masses later on, we had prepared ourselves with a packed-breakfast, which consisted of some malted milk-style biscuits and a banana each. Now, wild monkeys are everywhere in SE Asia, especially, as we have discovered, around tourist traps such as temples. They will often steal something easy to grab such as sunglasses, cameras or flip-flops in order to trade them back to their owners for food. It seems graffiti artist Banksy is spot on with his depiction of monkeys wearing clapperboards displaying the words, ‘laugh now, but one day we will be in charge.’

Previous to this visit, I would have refused the idea that a monkey could be more intelligent than I, but at 33 years of age, together with a whole bunch of other questions about life, I am now pondering this very notion. In hindsight, it may have been a little silly to walk to the temple that morning holding a banana. I mean, who knew that monkeys eat bananas and would probably do anything to get their hands on one? Well, as you can imagine I was mobbed by an unarmed gang of delinquent and bearded critters, each one no more than a foot tall, some tugging at my shorts and some trying to climb me. I managed to fight these off with Charles Bronson-esque street-fighting skill not seen since the seventies. Holding my banana high, as if I thought monkeys couldn’t climb, I was managing to keep my breakfast mine when it was suddenly and rudely snatched from my grasp. But not, as you would imagine, by one of these monkeys climbing my Greek God-like statuesque physique. No. This one was sitting on the roof of the jeep, next to which I was standing.