Pants

OK so it's a little like Thailand, perhaps somewhat similar; the roads, stalls and fauna are roughly the same. But the similarities end there; it ain't the smiling, welcoming, fun, extrovert bordering country that I loved so much. I’m reminded a little of Bahrain – you can feel the British scar left over, see the infrastructure foundations that were laid and experience the jolly good spots the officers used to sip brandy and smoke pipes in. What you won't find is a great deal to occupy your time. I'm bored; for the first time in 7 months I've become a facebook regular and it's clear as to what the cause of this affliction is.

North across the border is an insatiable appetite for new and interesting things to get the farang punters spending money on. And it's done well, possibly the best in the region in fact. Here the governing faith means bars are almost non-existent, with clubs the preferred method to cater for foreigners due to their inherent seclusion (I've yet to discover the Malay name for my kind), which is great if you fancy a boogie but utter pants if you just want to grab a GnT and prop the bar up whilst chatting to randoms. So instead it focuses squarely towards families and couples, offering countless shops, eateries and stalls selling possibly the best forges I've yet seen (the guy flushed red as I complimented him on the quality of the fakes). And this has a couple of slight issues for solo travellers; boredom and lack of social muscle exercise.

Hang on a minute whilst I wait for the morning singing (or praying or wailing, chanting, moaning - however you want to refer to it), to finish; it's completely buggered my train of thought.

Ah that's right; Bahrain. It's the same there. And while I've yet to find the seedy area where so-called devout Muslims head to enjoy such pastimes as homosexuality, drinking, drugs, prostitution and any other vice you care to mention; I'm sure one exists. I'm determined to find it too; for I refuse to believe that any Muslim country is free of such recreational behaviour. Let's be honest, it's simply something to do, and with little else allowed than shopping, eating and gorging once more that day – ensuring your burka doesn't fit anymore due to gut protrusion, and your beard needs another few inches to hide the latest addition to chin count – I'm convinced the reason for any crazed "fundies" having such anger is simply due to frustrated boredom.

The wailing is still going on; Jesus, bring me the Chinese cat-strangling any day. Not really, that's a little harsh; they're equally as torturous.

Apparently one day we will all be the same shade of brown, don the same eye pigmentation, hair colour, nose shape and cheek-bone structure. Until this day of incredible tedium and indifference arrives, Malaysia is the perfect place to see what eventual globalisation will look like; people varying from dark southern Indian, through to fairer northern and eastern Indian, right the way through to positively pale Asian – and everything in-between – makes for the most multicultural place I've seen yet. I do wonder how the differing races and religions fit in with each other; how much friction and internal conflict there may be and how accepting each clique is of one another.

I'm heading on the train to Alor Setar, which is surprisingly clean, well maintained and more comfy than the Thai equivalent. The beds are wider, the linen whiter, toilets smarter – perhaps the carriages are simply newer, but it's possibly the nicest and cheapest train ride so far; a tenner to take me there and accommodation included, bargain.

Alor Setar is 11k from the jetty. Taxi drivers have swarmed the small car park; "Langkawi, Langkawi! 25!" they shout. I know there's a bus though, but have little clue where it might go from. Following a mixture of locals, my nose and instinct; after 2k I decide to ask someone. This someone ends up being a graciously helpful and considerate young lad of stocky build (perfect for rugby), with a blue paper in his hand. Directing me to the stop, he ensures I board the correct bus and proceeds to explain how Malaysians are untrustworthy; having had his moped stolen the night before and taking his police report for stamping. "Don't take taxi. They will stop car and rob you", he warns sternly as he clocks my watch and tripod dangling from rucksack (note to self). The bus arrives and it's 1.50RM, stopping just metres from the pier - that's 30p versus a fiver. The sport of ripping off punters isn't lost here either, it seems. On to the island by ferry.