| All aboard
the Singapore - Malacca Express |
| By Tim
Jellings |
Tim Jellings
is a freelance travel writer living in the United Kingdom. He and Lynne
Francis, Jelling's
long time friend and traveling companion, have seen the far corners of
the earth.
Jellings has been to such remote places as Darwin's Patagonia, the Grand
Palace of
Bangkok, drunk-driving-taxis in Sri Lanka, antediluvian rice fields in
Banaue,
effervescence
Putre, Chile, and old Arcadian Santorini, Greece, to name but a few.
Jellings has
been invited to send more accounts of his far flung adventures to the readers
of Escape
from America Magazine.
"All aboard
the Singapore-Malacca Express!!!"
I'm directed
towards a tumbledown sooty bus that's chock a block with baggage. I contort
into the last remaining seat with Lilliputian limb room. |
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| Next to
me is a chubby Chinaman; we sit with knees in parallel. As we glide
through the faubourgs, towards the Johore Bahru causeway, all inhabitants
are nattering merrily. Two young girls, fierce in competition, try to eat
as many dry fish delicatessens as possible. Finally we reach customs; swiftly
my co-travellers disembark.
The sanitary
cosmopolitan surroundings of Singapore have evanesced, as though they
were never there. Now verdant palm trees meander along the well-kept roads
lined with carmine earth. The coach hurtles along, outdistancing everything.
We take a break at a local market town. When I reach the restaurant the
fat Chinaman, who sat next to me is already eating his second course, on
a sticky plate, on a sticky counter, on a sticky stool.
We return
to the bus and endure an uneventful journey that brings us to the historic
Portuguese town of Malacca. The city is a salmagundi of sweet tempered
Malaysians, Chinese, Indians and Indonesians with their own religions,
living analogously together. Sprinkled about like children's building blocks
are antediluvian buildings constructed of crimson stone. There is an air
of peacefulness. |
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| I take my
first trishaw trip and my rider strains up a hill. I feel guilty, cubed
between suitcases in the back.
On the streets
the smell of food beckons me into a traditional restaurant. Try a "Satay",
a coconut and peanut spiced pork/lamb meal grilled on bamboo sticks, over
a charcoal fire, served with rice and wrapped in coconut leaves and served
on skewers. The coffee that follows and is served thick and strong in large
cups and is sweetened with tinned condensed milk. Ashtrays are filled with
water, to prevent ash flying from the swirling fan.
Looking
out of the restaurant window, my view is filled with pristinely dressed
schoolgirls, so characteristically Asian in their brilliant white blouses,
turquoise skirts and white plimsolls. A shower of constant rain follows
and soon my view changes to a mass of multi coloured spinning, waxen umbrellas
supported by delicate Asian women. |
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Offshore
Resources Gallery
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| Next I
take a shared taxi to the capital: Kuala Lumpur. As we leave Malacca
the Malaysian jungle soon impinges. A voracious growth of netted strangling
creepers is spotted with random villages, called 'kampongs'. Through
the clearings, cream oxen and water buffalo are set against the background
of verdurous muted shades of banana trees and giant ferns. Coconut palms
foster the stilted wooden huts with neat small gardens where tubs of orchids
are fixed onto wooden pillars.
A refreshing
breeze comes in through the window. The landscape is filled with incessant
rubber estates, specked with kampongs and the odd sighting of a paddy field.
At the next town open-air barbers snip away in tandem and businessmen sit
typing under a tree. Soon Kuala Lumpur overshadows the serene countryside.
I decide
to travel on to Penang Island by air. The next morning I bus to Georgetown
and take a trishaw around the city. The hood is very tattered, and gives
the driver little shelter from the melting sun. We trundle along at a leisurely
pace. The pure indulgence of travelling comes to mind. My eye is a camera.
Each blink could be a shot in the unfamiliar surroundings. |
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| We pass
a street vendor grating sugar cane and then a funeral procession of taxis
decorated with blazing gold and scarlet 'good luck' emblems.
Pink ribbons wave from all the doors. The mourners are dressed in western
clothes and carry clumps of gladioli. I turn from time to time to see my
driver's brown knees rising and falling in a measured, carefree rhythm.
He is an old man, with a noble lined and beaming face. I sign his book,
pay and say goodbye.
My eyes
catch each humorous shop name; like Bang on, Hang On, See Fun, Fun Fatt
Kok. The local spelling of Talipon for telephone, Bas sekolal for school
bus and Buk for book also brings a smile. Outside the Chinese temple, in
the early morning, I see a man standing outside with a burning joss stick
clamped between the hands. In silent prayer he asks for evil to be kept
away. Not one word or even a glance. |
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Offshore
Resources Gallery
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| A youth dressed
only in pyjama trousers is graffiting the posters in green and red paint.
He is observed by a very old man, who never stirs and sits crossed legged,
silently absorbing the young man's artistry.
In the Indian
sector shops sell brightly coloured clothing and wares. On palm leaves,
hot spicy, well-cooked mutton is served bed of rice with three vegetables,
chillies, pickled tomatoes and other delicacies. Like the Indians next
to me, I wash my hands in a nearby basin. I take the curried vegetable
and mutton and mould it with the rice to form a ball shape and put it in
my mouth. An occasional smile from my neighbours makes the challenge acceptable.
I finally
reach my hotel and think the time has come, where tiredness has already
conflicted with excitement, and tomorrow will still be as enjoyable as
today. I sit on the wooden verandah, swap adventures with other travellers
and write up notes. At night I find it's hard to sleep with the noise of
a large fan, spinning away. I get the feeling that I am going to be decapitated,
by its three slogging blades. Early next morning a neighbour practising
his Kung Fu wakens me into reality. Sadly its time to think about packing. |
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