PENANG PERAMBULATIONS

VOTES & VIEWS # 32

For this leg of the journey, I had booked ahead to stay a few days in a ‘homestay’ in Penang, touted as being a great cultural experience, as well as within walking distance of the city centre. I was genuinely excited and looking forward to a few days on this small island, part of Malaysia, which was a notable hub of the spice trade and reputed to be a foodie destination of note.

At the Phuket airport lounge I was accosted by an elderly Chinese from Penang, and we engaged in a serious discussion on the evils of governments, especially when it came to the rights of minority groups. Obviously his people don’t feel safe in Malaysia; jobs are reserved for the Malaysians, money is pumped into their education, health and pensions, while lesser groups’ needs are ignored to a large extent. Nepotism and corruption are rife, and the rulers are as corrupt as can be since all criticism is stifled. So what’s different from Africa? He reckons that Malaysia is also suffering a huge brain drain from all the educated, and more especially the Chinese leaving. We wasted a mutually informative hour and then boarded another of these little turboprops that we had first encountered in Vietnam. There were only between 20–30 passengers, and I wondered how long Firefly Airlines (cute name) could possibly keep aflight at that rate of occupancy. All along the route, while there was no cloud cover, there was land in sight. Either the sea was dotted with islands, minute to respectable chucks of crust, or the Malaysian coast lurked in the shadows and waxed and waned. The approach confused me entirely, as we approached from the south of the island, crossed the third-longest road bridge in the world, and then came to another under construction, of a similar design.

Immigration was pretty laid-back again and with one or two exceptions who encountered difficulties, the passengers were all let loose on Malaysia. We queued for tickets, then we queued for taxis, but instead of my age and Buddha-like figure being the decider, the family before me and the single guy behind me got the Mercedes, and I got a clunker with a bad gearbox, juddering clutch, bad brakes and poor driver. We landed in the Friday afternoon rush-hour and my man weaved, ducked, jumped lanes, got lost and referred the problem back to me. I refused to help; he being supposed to know how his town was assembled. So phone for help brother, you have a cell phone! With directions relayed to me, I succeeded in locating the landmark which we were meant to find in Pengkalan Weld, the promenade along the bay, as he attended to the traffic, but he overshot the mark and had to get back to where I’d asked him to stop in the first instance. This was where I was decanted as his car could obviously not ride on a walkway a few feet wide. There was no signage, so I had to take it on trust that we had arrived at the correct place. I promised him dire curses would be laid on his head if he just deserted me in what would turn out to be just a warren of old Chinatown. Bag slung over my shoulder, I dived into the seething melee, and was soon on some sort of a jetty, which a few friendly elders, sitting smoking in front of a technicoloured temple in their underclothes, affirmed indeed to be Chew Jetty.

Chew Jetty

This was a culture shock of some proportion. We had seen a sea-gypsy village in Halong Bay, where a few dozen boats were moored together, but nothing like this modern-day perpetuation of an ancient Chinese way of life. Instead of wooden stakes being rammed into the lagoon bottom they had taken a stack of 25-litre paint tins, knocked out the bottoms and filled them with concrete and perching these on top of each other to obtain a forest of tottering, rusting piles. This is obviously a more permanent solution than wooden pillars which could be attacked by marine borers. However, even the platforms and walkway showed many signs of repairs and additions, which testified to the age of this place. The houses were built cheek by jowl on these with a narrow frontage, often with a flat platform verandah, on which you might find the sleeping forms of elderly or otherwise idle people. The houses extended the entire length of the jetty, leaving a precarious four-plank walkway, bicycle and motorbike lane, with odd open spaces on the opposite side where fishing skiffs are moored, just the place for hordes of tourists, playground for toddlers, kids, teens doing tricks on their bikes and mommies with perambulators. 

This is after all a UNESCO World Heritage site and Chinese from the world over have come to view part of their diasporan history. Even they were overawed and muted by this microcosm of Chinese early life that had been preserved for touristiority. Whole groups were being photographed at key points of the jetty, which seemed to include the porch of my destination, as it had a large poster proclaiming its ancestry, on the wall. However, the security gate was firmly locked and there was no reply to my ‘hallo’ from the interior. A kind, if surly, lady from across the jetty took mercy upon me and made a call to someone. Obviously with some success, as she motioned me to take a seat on a bench on her porch and commanded me in an unknown tongue to wait. With some trepidation, I have to admit, I sat on the kerb, in a strange city, in a strange country, without anyone round me even speaking a smattering of the same language. This certainly looked as if it might be an adventure of sorts, so I made the best of it – smiled at everyone going past, waved at the kids, and consented to be photographed by the tourists. The shoe was certainly on the other foot, and I had become a noteworthy sight on this historic jetty. Time passed; then a middle-aged lady came bustling up and greeted me – in Hokkien, I presume, since I didn’t understand a word. She led me to the closed security gate, opened it and beckoned me inside. It was a fully functional home; no frills, nothing special. My room was about two by four metres, lined with clapboard, one fluorescent on the ceiling and a fan as well as an air conditoner (which roared horribly at intervals). The mattress had a sheet over it, and two covered pillows; towels in the wardrobe – that seemed to be it. She led me along through the house to the kitchen, pointed out kettle, teabags, instant coffee and a bowl of fruit. The rest was obviously up to me. I heard some vague gurgling sounds from nearby, which reminded me that my last visit to the toilet had been a while back. I mimed flushing a toilet, and she pointed at a corner screened off by some corrugated asbestos sheets. The door was closed, so I knocked and was answered by a male voice. Mrs Chew explained something unintelligible and we wandered on through the house. A few moments later we were joined by a burly man clad in a towel. Obviously Mr Chew; so I introduced myself, he grunted and departed elsewhere, while his spouse pointed to a child in a family photo on the wall, saying ‘daughter’ and pointing at the wall clock’s face, miming that she would be here at 9 p.m. Before leaving me to it, she pulled out her cell phone, dialed said daughter and handed it over to me. A slightly incoherent conversation followed, during which unseen daughter tried to interpret all the features of her home to me, while leaving out all the important bits. But she would be home later and we would meet face to face, she ended breathlessly. I told her that I was looking forward to that.

Mrs Chew departed; Mr Chew had stretched himself out on the planks of an attached deck at the rear of the house and was snoring loudly, so I could do whatever I wanted to do. Nature called and I returned to the recently vacated cubicle in the kitchen. The sanitary arrangements in the house consisted of a slightly bigger than a metre square concrete slab with a squat-toilet bowl sunk flush into it, a cold shower head, and a plastic pipe with a faucet, lying handy in case one should not wish to use the nonexistent toilet paper. Through the porcelain’s hole one had a fine view of the somewhat murky green sea below. Ah well, as I was in Georgetown, I did as the Georgians did. There was no room for a washbasin, which was in the kitchen, next to the sink; neither was there a mirror. That made some sense, since Chinese people don’t shave much.

Chew Jetty Eatery

I was parched, so decided to prospect for some local brew. There were a number of shops along the jetty, selling snacks, tourist geegaws and foodstuff labeled in Chinese. At the first fridge I saw, I made enquiries and for a change spoke to a young lady with a reasonable command of English, who was bouncing a fat baby on her hip. No, beer she did not have. What? Didn’t Chinese drink beer? I asked. She explained that she liked to keep alcohol off the premises as far as she was able, but that I could get it on terra firma a hundred metres further along. We had a short chat about why I was there, where I was staying and what I was paying for my accommodation (a query repeated by everyone I chatted with). In no time I found a tavern which dispensed a couple of cans of the local brew, and as I had noticed a flourishing food market as we drove in along the promenade, so I decided to dip in there for supper. A very attractive-looking stall with a large crowd immediately caught my eye, but apparently they were getting their sustenance in a raw form, which meant they then had to do a sort of fondue-style cook-out. It was a sultry evening, and the idea of standing next to a roaring gas burner seemed just a little too close to purgatory to appeal much, so I wandered off until I found me a Hokkien Mee stall selling a noodle concoction with shrimps, pork and bean sprouts. I needed somewhere to sit and drink my beer as well as eat, so I wisely invested a tad more than a dollar and had me a fair portion of eminently edible stuff, while downing some cold lager at the same time. A lad came over with a drinks menu, and I waved him away, but I had obviously transgressed the rules of the place as he pointedly left the menu, which stated quite clearly in many languages that patrons of the food-stalls were to buy at least one drink per table, at a minimum – so he must have been the landlord or clan chief or something. As I wanted some real coffee to take home for the next morning, I hastened to comply with house rules, and got a double takeaway in a plastic bag with a straw in it. Neat solution.

Well, that was the inner man taken care of, so I wended my way back along the jetty, nodding to the neighbours, so to speak, and looking into the shrines as well as the front doors of every house, which were left open to let some of the heat escape. My abode was deserted except for the still form on the planks at the rear, so I took my remaining beer to a lounger on another part of the precarious deck which surrounded the house, and watched the passing parade. One of the reasons for wanting to get off the jetty for supper had been the pervasive, gentle, putrid perfume of sewage that enveloped the entire historical site. Not unnaturally so, since everything emanating from a few hundred people living there, went down the drain, straight into the sea. Since this was a quiet backwater of the bay, there was hardly any wave motion, and I doubt there was much by way of a current. A romantic picture it might make, but pixels don’t pong. The reality is somewhat more unpalatable. Maybe the evening air had something to do with it, but I finished my beer as quickly as possible and went to my air conditioned room, which while it did not smell any better, at least the miasma was cooler.

My verandah

A little later some people entered the house. I investigated, and found to my surprise that I was sharing the house not only with the Chews, but also with three youngsters from Ghuangzhou. This was going to get really chummy, especially considering the dearth of plumbing. Nothing I could do about anything at this stage, but wait for the daughter to arrive. This did not happen, as far as I could discern, so finally I went to sleep. In the middle of the night, there was suddenly a huge racket. Doors banged, people talked loudly and stomped up and down outside the room, which, since the whole place was built on planks, made the bed rock violently. For a while I tried to ignore it, hoping it would stop and I could go back to my slumbers. As the racket carried on unabated, my ire overflowed and I had a look at the time; 1.22 a.m. – I shot out of bed and out into the house to confront two girls in their nighties (me in my boxer shorts). They looked suitably abashed by my sharpish query as to what the hell they thought they were up to in the middle of the night, and stuttered something about only brushing their teeth. I snarled at them to keep quiet and let senior citizens have their sleep, and retired once more. For some reason the talk continued, as did the shifting of furniture and thudding of feet. By 2.30 I was ready to commit murder, so I banged on the wall and shouted ‘shut up’. This did seem to have some effect, but once I wake up in those small hours, it takes me a while to go back to sleep. Instead I spent some of my waking hour(s) trawling the internet for alternative accommodation – which seemed uncommonly scarce – but then, it was the weekend and Georgetown was obviously a popular destination. By 6.30 the kids were at it again, this time at the front gate – leaving. They were sped on their way by my thunderous looks and disappeared out of my life.

I managed my ablutions under trying conditions, which I will leave to the readers’ imagination, but they included a shave under the cold shower – by touch. As I came out of the ‘bathroom’ I was accosted by a very attractive young lady on her way out, whom I naturally assumed to be the missing Miss Chew. She was, but not the right one, instead she was the Singapore sister on a visit. I asked after the whereabouts of her sibling, and she assured me she would be meeting her for breakfast – which I hoped I would also be able to do, since I had a few choice words I wished to communicate. There were obviously Chinese girls hidden in all sorts of unsuspected corners of the house, since a little later Siew Pheng, the queen pin of this whole scheme, appeared. A lovely lass, actually, full of apologies for my night of misery, and quite willing to refund me all monies paid, call me a taxi, get me fixed up somewhere else, and so on. How could I not mellow under this charm offensive? I explained that I just couldn’t stay under these conditions, took back the money for the nights not yet used, as such and she even helped to carry my luggage to the taxi she had summoned. We parted on excellent terms and I was in the hands of a driver who demonstrated some impressive local knowledge. He suggested that my possible choice of destination, which I had made during the night via the internet, might be a little rowdy, since it was a popular hangout with Aussie and Kiwi backpackers. In fact the whole street suffered from the same problem, while the next street was a lot more laid back, quieter and populated by older patrons. I was only too glad to agree to this, but the first half dozen places were already full and unable to accommodate me. Finally we arrived at the 75 Travellers’ Lodge, where a dour Chinese elder, who went by the name of Feng, inducted me into the mysteries of a fairly unprepossessing room with the tiniest skylight admitting a dim semblance of daylight – but it had a toilet, a basin and a shower all crammed in one cubicle, as well as a bed and air conditioning – what more could a man want. It was near the centre of town, which made walking about a possibility, and eateries abounded on every street, according to Feng. I found out about the three mosques within earshot the next morning at about 5 a.m.

I moved in and almost immediately left again to seek sustenance. Within a block I came to an Indian place. Not overcrowded, but some patrons. The first dish I chose was not available, the second, a rawa thosi, was. This was absolutely delicious, and while the coffee wasn’t really to my taste, I couldn’t complain. Siew had written down a couple of streets for me where she thought I might find antique books, so I set off. Almost immediately I was sidetracked into Chowrasta market, which I didn’t even know existed. Stalls, mostly offering fresh fruit, vegetables, prepared foods and drinks, lined the alleys, while inside the cavernous building meat, poultry and fish occupied one side while the other held displays of haberdashery and dry foodstuff. I was delighted to come across produce that was unfamiliar once more. There was a pickled green tuber, shun-tshe, which unfortunately was too large to buy for a sample; then a pink flower bud, Rosella, which is eaten as a vegetable, a type of ginger I had never tasted before, a number of new gourds and squashes, which I was not about to sample, and as a first prize, they also had water-chestnuts, something I had been looking for since Hanoi. I also bought some jackfruit and sabodille, which looked rather like dusky sheep’s testicles, but taste gorgeous. It was hot work, going up and down tiny alleys, but I managed to criss-cross the entire place and finally set off well supplied on the antiques search once more.

There were a couple of secondhand bookshops, from one of which I managed to get a fairly current guide to Myanmar, but I was less successful with older material. Only one shop owner confessed to having had Burmese laquerwork books in the past, like the one I refused in Phuket, but his supply had dried up. My hip and back were murderously sore, so I kept on having to try to find places where I could rest for a few minutes. Suddenly I spotted a roadside eatery selling the familiar Chinese steamed bun. The language problem arose once more and I couldn’t establish whether they were sweet or savoury, but the lady beckoned me inside and to my delight, showed me a trolley full of steaming dim sum that had chunks of prawn sticking out of the little darlings. Now I had been looking for such an establishment ever since we arrived in the east, and I was delighted to make my choice of four types, three apiece, with a pot of tea thrown into the bargain. I was not disappointed. This was absolutely delicious stuff, but for the first time in my life, I had a problem eating my food with chopsticks, since being steamed pasta, they were as slippery as greaseballs. Well-satisfied, I plodded back through the streets, with only one task to fulfill, i.e. the purchase of a small pocket knife which I could use to peel my water chestnuts, as I had to leave my key-ring sized Swiss Army job in Singapore since I might have bene suspected of hijacking intentions on the flights. Finding one was quite difficult, as Chinese cooks and Tong members are both known for their liking of huge cleavers, but at last I was successful at a small hole-in-the-wall general dealer and, exhausted, I dragged myself back to the lodge to try and catch up on a bit of sleep.

Dim sum banquet

That evening I sallied forth once more to a place nearby, which my landlord had recommended. The Red Garden was touted as a night market and the biggest assembly of seafood in town. Yes well, we would see. It was only a few blocks distant, so I made my way there and found a large courtyard populated with the inevitable plastic chairs and tables, and very little else, since the hour was early. Nonetheless, the stalls around the periphery promised a huge choice, at very reasonable prices. After doing a round of window-shopping, I was seduced by the sushi stall – something clean and simple to start with, I thought. I ordered a modest platter and a large beer, which arrived in a wine bucket filled with ice – a most sensible idea in this heat. It was also a big mistake; it was the worst sushi I have ever eaten. The fish was dry, tough, leathery and the rice was awful too. Obviously the genre has not translated well into the tropics. To make up for the disappointment, next was an oyster omelette that I had been wanting to sample since Hanoi, where instead, we had been presented with an omelette sprinkled with tiny clams. This one was excellent, and I felt a lot happier still, when I saw another stall opening up and hanging out a sign proclaiming that they would be selling dim sum. But sufficient unto the day; I went home to a slightly less noisy night’s rest.

The morning was grey and misty – or smoggy, when I stuck my head out of the door, but there were things to do. It was Sunday, 9 a.m., and the streets were eerily quiet in this nation of Moslems and Chinese. The shutters were down over the shop fronts, there were almost no cars on the roads – this did not bode well. The place I had earmarked for breakfast was lifeless. So were the next half dozen eateries. This was a calamity. I moved over to a cyclo rank where a dozen men were sprawled in a half comatose state over their vehicles and the pavement. I asked if they were in business, and if so, what the rate would be. The head man answered that it was the expected ten ringits (US$3) an hour, so the cyclo mafia had penetrated here as well. I stated that I wanted someone to take me to Little India and the head man detailed one of his scrawny minions to take me. 

I first felt his muscles to see whether he could shift my hefty frame, then I had a mate take a photo of me reclining in my conveyance, and we were off. My pedal pusher managed quite well, but I did feel somewhat insecure, as he went through stop streets, turned without looking into intersections, with a blithe disregard for the safety of my legs, which after all, would be the first to impact any oncoming traffic. Still, this lord of the roads proclaimed proudly that he had delivered me at my destination after no more than five to ten minutes of leisurely exertion along level roads. He held out his hand and said ‘ten ringits’. 

‘Not on your nelly, you haven’t earned your cash yet, so drive me round the place’, I replied. A heated argument ensued in which he reiterated that he had delivered me to my destination and I could expect nothing more, while I said I wanted my sixty minutes for that extortionate amount which his boss man had quoted me anyway. I can’t recall the exact words we exchanged, but in the end I threw the money at him and he left it lying in the street and rode off into the sunrise, shouting uncomplimentary terms over his shoulder. I picked up my ringits and looked round. Little India at this stage consisted of several tables at the roadside, with some work in progress, but no produce to be seen. Obviously its existence was pretty erratic. Across the road was a garish temple, mainly in pink, with clashing shades of purple, turquoise and gold. That was it, nothing further. I consulted my tourist guide and decided that probably the ferry to the mainland was my best option for something to do in this defunct town. It was quite a long walk, since I entered the terminal from the wrong side, but I made it onto the double decker ferry just in time as the gates closed. I shrugged aside the ridiculous return fare of the equivalent of forty cents US for two twenty-minute ferry rides and boarded. At that stage I had no idea whatsoever what to do on the mainland, so I looked once more at the map, and to my delight, found an arrow leading off into the hinterland, which proclaimed ‘St Anne’s Church, Bukit Martajam, is the site of an annual pilgrimage, and which houses the Cherun Tokun stone with a 5th century Buddhist inscription in the Pali script.’ What serendipity! This was surely a worthy place to visit, and possibly to photograph.

 Fortunately the first taxi drivers I accosted on the other side of a twenty minute ferry ride, both knew about the church, and one even knew of Cherun Tokun. We struck a deal and set off into mainland Malaysia in a very ramshackle Toyota with collapsed seats, blown exhaust and a variety of other ailments and deficiencies which would make it unroadworthy in most countries. Still, the steed and the driver were willing. On this side of the straits the country was much more third world. The roads were still good, but buildings looked much shabbier, rustier and neglected; there was rubbish strewn all over and the traffic was wilder and more erratic than in well-ordered Penang. There were numerous factories, but most were elderly, obviously producing goods for local consumption, unlike the gleaming industrial giants of branded world products that I had observed on the island. We drove for what seemed like an hour, which made me a bit apprehensive about the low rate quoted for the trip, but my man said he knew where it was. Finally we came up against crowds of people and a road block manned by police. My man turned off and parked. He turned round apologetically and gestured that I should get out and walk; St Anne’s was thataway. It turned out that I had just chosen the good saint’s day, of all days, to come here, and the road was blocked by a throng of pilgrims, worshippers and sightseers as well as stalls selling food, drink, garments, religious mementoes and votive offerings. Rather reluctantly I set off on foot, after a burly parking attendant with no English, assured me that it was the way to go. Most of the pilgrims seemed to be of Indian descent, with a sprinkling of Chinese and a few Malays, which, coupled with a Catholic saint’s festival, seemed quite odd in a Moslem country. Every few hundred metres I asked for reassurance that I was still on the right path. No spire was to be seen anywhere, but then there were a lot of trees in the way. My last informant, who was selling ingenious two-metre long votive candles, obviously for megasinners – no thicker than a centimetre, but cunningly taped to a sturdy stick to keep them from drooping in the heat, waved me to the left round the next clump of trees, and sure enough, there was the church.

A really interesting style of architecture, reminiscent of the layered roofs of Thai temples, but without the upswept ends. At the front, an open, arched portico with slanting walls sheltered a statue of the saint, the focal point for the crowds, and quite ethereal, beautiful choral singing, not at all Christian-sounding to my ears, washed over the surrounding countryside. Thousands of pilgrims bearing lit candles, surged inexorably towards the saint, while other streams of humanity flowed away again. An impressive and ordered scene. But my taxi was waiting, and I had to find my stone. Again, it proved to be something of a task, given the crowds, the language barrier, coupled to the fact that it was a pagan monument. Nonetheless, with a lot of goodwill and help from bystanders, I finally arrived at a massive boulder, larger than an elephant, inside a fenced enclosure, under a roof. To my disappointment, there was very little to see, except, very plainly the date, 1840, chiseled into the top, and various graffiti from thence onwards, culminating with ‘David loves Mary’ in quite fresh chalk. I could hardly make out the Pali script, but took photos nonetheless. I hope to be able to find out from other sources whether this is an ancestral form of the Balinese, a thousand years later.

A sweaty half hour later, I rejoin my patient cabby and we drive back to port. In appreciation for his good services and reasonable fare, I overpay him – something I have not been noted for in Asia. Again, I manage to sprint on board the ferry as the gates are closing. By the time I get back on dry land, I am parched, starving and dead tired. I need a rest, so decide to lash out and enrich the taxi industry some more. A drive to Penang Hill is indicated. At the taxi rank a burly Indian chappie with a smattering of known language is located and he quotes me a fairly hefty price for the trip, but as I have no map on me which indicates exactly where this hillock is to be found, I agree. He’s a chatty lad and I finally find out why Penang has died this Sunday morning. According to cabby, the Moslems wanted Friday as their day of rest, which is only fair, since they are in the majority; however the Chinese had the most economic clout, and they wanted to work seven days a week to satisfy their admirable work ethic, whereupon the Indians joined with the rest of the minority groups in protesting that man shall not live by work at all times, and the previous government apparently bowed to the might of the supposedly Christian West, declared Sunday as an optional workday in deference to the mighty dollar, and now nobody is satisfied. At least that’s how his story went. On the last stretch of road leading up the hill to the station, there is one almighty big Chinese temple. Over the top doesn’t begin to describe it. I tried a photograph on the way down, but it’s so big there’s no way to fit it into a frame from across the street.

At the funicular I pay my dues (about the same as the Table Mountain cable car’s) and wait in the supposed queue as half a hundred Indians managed to insinuate themselves in front of me inside of ten minutes waiting time. It’s one of their national virtues and pastimes, I believe. The train arrived, suitably slanted at about thirty degrees, and as soon as it is gorged with passengers, departs at a breathtaking speed up the hill, actually much too fast to let anybody get much of a view of anything except dense jungle, the odd house and a few cuttings and tunnels rushing past. The good company was not going to waste time, which was money, on a day when they could cram 120 people into the caboose every five minutes at $10 a pop, were they? The station at the crest was actually nothing of the sort. From it you could spend a further tidy sum of money and take a golf-cart buggy-ride to a ‘ginger garden’ and aviary at the summit. A winding road led there, which had the health warning sign up, saying it would take 15 minutes to walk the distance. I was tempted, as I might have enjoyed the gingers, but given the touristy locale, I decided it probably wasn’t worth it, so opted for a much-needed snack and drink at the overpriced food court to rest my wearies. Admittedly it was a touch cooler here than in the muggy city, which I thought might be due to the fact that we were up in the pea soup which could be described as light cloud cover (you certainly could see almost nothing of the city below), but then I discovered that the roofed-over, but open-sided food court, was actually air-conditioned by a bunch of oversized units causing global warming elsewhere, and dropping condensation on all the inmates.

There was nothing more to do, so I decided to quit, and queued, coincidentally with the same fifty Indians who again proceeded to push past me, until the train arrived. As the rush commenced, I decided to repay in the same coin, and Asiatics were shouldered aside ruthlessly, toes were trampled and my meaty arm barred passage to many a Tamil. I didn’t get quite to the front of the carriage, since there was a burly Brahmin in a white robe, a good foot taller, and a foot bigger round the waist than I, whom I just couldn’t shift. But I snuck in close to him so that at least by cricking my neck, I could see our descent, and I certainly spoilt everyone’s photos by being in them. The ascent had been fast; the descent was quite hair-raising, especially at one point where the line suddenly dipped to at least 50 degrees and it felt as if we were falling over the edge of the hill. Most impressive and entertaining. I toyed with the idea of taking a bus back to the city, but as I had a vague idea that the terminus was a goodly footslog from the inn, I gave in to temptation and found yet another taxi, who charged me 40% less than the robber who had brought me out here. This elderly gent and I had almost no conversational skills in common, but he very ably deposited me where I hoped to get a real meal. To my disgust, the establishment was also closed for the non-Sabbath. So I cast about and finally found me a working class Tamil establishment, which dished up a good, solid dosa dish, and a most enjoyable vegetarian vermicelli noodle mush, washed down with iced coffee since they didn’t serve beer – all for less than the price of a cup of coffee in Cape Town. At last a bit of economy along with all this reckless expense of the day!

My afternoon rest was disturbed by frenzied bouts of drumming, seemingly from the next room at the inn. It started, rose to a crescendo, dropped to a few rolls, then the odd tap, then silence; then it would recommence. Problem was, one never knew when the drumming was going to start up, and it did, for some hours. I was minded to give this hippie maniac who was relieving his stresses, a good solid piece of my mind, when I realised that the noise was actually coming from another building behind ours. On enquiring at the front desk, Feng’s stand-in led me to understand that it was either a martial arts group or dancing troupe that was giving a performance in a clan temple. I returned to my 

Chulia Temple

room and practiced meditation. Whatever it was, it finally ended as night fell. To compensate I went to indulge on some divine dim sum, sampled dried, toasted calamari chips, and even ventured into the field of what I thought were sausages, but later came to the conclusion that they were actually crisp, fried lengths of intestine, without the stuffing that normally makes a sausage. No matter, it all tasted good.

My night was yet another uneasy one as a Nordic berserker couple discovered a good WiFi signal in the ablution block right next to my door. They set up their computer a scant two metres from me and proceeded to bellow out messages of goodwill to their family members in far-flung countries. As midnight loomed, my composure deserted me completely and I once more entered the fray clad suitably in boxer shorts and a bad attitude. I bellowed at them that it was the middle of the night and to kindly shut up and keep their folks awake in the morning and let me go to sleep. They ducked their heads apologetically, lowered their voice by half a decibel and shut down the Skype within a few minutes, thus avoiding murder and possible compound computer fracture. Again, getting annoyed at that time of night doesn’t help in getting to sleep, but at least I slept through the muezzins’ early throat clearings at first sparrow belch.

At last Monday and normality came to all of us. I hobbled out of the inn as fast as I could and scouted for calories. I passed by a few Eurocentric eateries offering eggs, toast and marmalade and opted instead for one of the ubiquitous ‘Mee’ stands on a corner. His menu was all Hokkinese to me, so he pointed out heaps of ingredients, like three sorts of noodles, assorted chopped veg, shrimps, chips of meat – that sort of thing. I chose several innominate ingredients and asked him to do his cheffy thing and sat down, ordering iced coffee as an afterthought. This came from the other side of the stand, where another man was offering similar fare, but based on a staple of rice. It seems a fairly common practice in Penang for food hawkers to combine forces; one holds the lease on the premises, but sublets a corner to another competitor, in the hope that the greater spread of dishes will attract more custom, some of which will rub off onto him. An eminently sensible idea, especially so when most foodsellers specialise in one type of dish only. My man quickly stoked up his hibernating charcoal embers in an oil-drum which was cut in half, by turning a crank on an air-pump and plonking his wok on the resultant white heat. A handful of this and that, a sprinkle of the other, frantic stirring and in less than two minutes I had my steaming, tasty dish in front of me.

Street Eatery Basics

The inner man replete, a taxi was next on my list since I couldn’t face a whole morning’s walk. First the cabby was requested to show me the architectural highlights of the early 19th century city hall, law courts, St George’s Church, etc, which were most impressive. The magnificent Eastern and Oriental Hotel also, was on a scale I had not seen before. Large and grand enough to compete with Buckingham Palace, it looked; all gleaming white pillars, domes and porticoes where your chauffeur would whoosh you up to the pearly gates in your Rolls. No, I did not peep inside. They would in all likelihood have hoofed me out, dressed modishly in crumpled shorts and shirt with $5 sandals. Fort Cornwallis came next; a square and much smaller copy of the castle at the Cape, complete with pentagonal bastions. In the armaments department they had us beat though, since their Big Boy peeking over the edge is at least a thirty-two pounder – though apparently the cannons were never used in combat. Then onwards to the museum, which I had been keen to see since my arrival, but which had been shut over the weekend. The displays were quite good, mostly well-labelled in several languages, but the items on display were very local in nature, and limited to the period from 1785 until the present, focussing on the different population groups that made up the mix, although as an afterthought, the art gallery provided a water colour painted by an artist before that date, which showed a Malay fishing boat, ‘suggesting’ that there may have been a village in pre-European times! Of greater interest to me were a number of different versions of the Koran, some splendidly illuminated, most handwritten, which illustrated the varied character of the calligraphy, depending on the period and place of origin. In the art gallery I was delighted to find a large collection of prints on Penang by my old acquaintance William Daniels, who had done some lovely work on South Africa in the early 1800s.

32 pounder Cannon at Fort

Some considerately-placed chairs enabled me to rest up for the next leg of the morning’s walk. This was into the centre of the old town, where I hoped to find a carver of signboards, who would hopefully be able to enlighten me into the intricacies of Chinese ideographs. Along the way the oldest temple in town caught my attention for a few moments, but it was completely encircled by Indian stallholders selling all manner of items, which didn’t really seem to fit in with Buddhism/Taoism. I couldn’t get an intelligible explanation from anyone, so I took a photo and moved on. Next was a very splendid modern edifice, the Kapitan Keling Mosque, which though most photogenic, unfortunately had a large banner proclaiming some restoration work, spoiling the best aspect. I found my wood carver in a little side street; a skinny little elder, fast asleep in a wheelbarrow in the middle of his workshop. He was surrounded by untouched planks, and there were no more than half a dozen finished items standing about – none particularly impressive. The elder awoke and pointed me in the direction of some pamphlets that the Historical Trust had printed, which outlined the elements of his craft. He then tried to sell me a six inch square of red-painted timber with the symbol for luck on it – for the princely sum of 30 Euros (if I understood him correctly). I thanked him kindly but told him I couldn’t afford the excess luggage, and wandered on.

Since I dislike wandering about with bottles of lukewarm water clutched in my sweaty paw, I land up in the alternative situation of suddenly having a raging thirst because I’m dripping buckets of sweat. Thank goodness in Penang this was rarely a protracted problem. Somebody was always selling water; you just had to find a place with a fridge. I’d mapped out a rough campaign of route so that I would land up in a street known for its eateries at roughly the right time. I don’t carry a watch, but usually my innards will give me a hint when it’s lunchtime. I chose an establishment run by a harried looking old warrior, more for the comfort of his chairs than the menu or the name, which inappropriately was ‘Mona Lisa’. He advertised a special soup filled with vegetables, which I thought might be the thing for this thirsty work I was doing. Mostly soups contain a certain amount of noodle as well, so I assumed I would be replenished. To my surprise this was not the case. It consisted of nothing but a fine assortment of vegetables in a delicious broth made from pork bones, as far as I could taste, and it was just spicy and salty enough for my taste buds.

I wandered on along a street which had specially been mentioned as containing antique shops, but not a single one could I find. As I turned the corner, I was back near the market which had so interested me on Saturday. I invested in a few samoosas, which gave me a chance to sit in the broiling sun while they were cooked, and then I reckoned Ihad done enough – time for a bit of rest. 

I had to pass one of the mosques from which originated the calls to prayer, that had become part of my days and nights, and I saw a number of men lounging near the front door. This was my chance. I walked into the courtyard and asked if the imam was available. Someone understood and called him for me. A tall, youngish man, clad in a white robe, with a Malay turban on his head, came to meet me with a smile. I introduced myself and he replied in excellent English, asking whether I was a Muslim. This I denied, but trotted out my ‘borrowed’ son-in-law again, and explained that I was looking to find a copy of the Koran in Bahasa, the local language, with a parallel Arabic text, which I would like to bring back as a present to South Africa, as I had already managed in Vietnam and Thailand. He was charmed by the idea. He summoned one of his brothers from inside the building, and dispatched the old man to bring me a choice of Korans to choose from, from the latter’s establishment. Within a few minutes I had a splendid copy (definitely in the excess baggage department) and I departed from the mosque with many ‘trimah kassies’ and bearing the blessings of the imam. Such nice people.

To sum Georgetown up – it’s a charming little city. The old, central part oozes history and has a grand old dame of 19th century East about it, while the seedier parts are reminiscent of what Fordsburg was to Joahnnesburg back in the sixties. Flophouses, motor repair shops (often quaintly labeled as doing ‘car knocking and spray painting’), tourist junkshops, haberdasheries and clothing shops rub shoulders with a few remaining craftsmen, hundreds of eateries, street markets and the like. In between are genuine cultural sites, temples, institutions of learning, guilds and associations and other places that could interest a traveller. The overall look is shabby, in need of more than a coat of paint. On both sides of the road are open channels with water flowing in them. In part they are covered over with cement slabs, but these are often broken or missing. In the absence of continuous sidewalks, walking the streets after dark would be risky, especially since the street lighting is mostly confined to emanating from passing traffic. Certainly not the ideal place for an inebriated pilgrim to stumble home along in the dark of night. Let us also acknowledge that the liquid travelling along these channels often consists of more solid matter than last night’s dishwashing water – as can be deduced from the stench that emanates from them at intervals. While I didn’t see any rats, they must flourish in that environment. A skip filled with waste, which I passed in the evening, had been thoroughly looted and spread over the road surface by the next morning. Obviously cats, rats or dogs, or all three would be the culprits.

Penang prides itself as being the food centre of Asia. That may be an exaggeration, but for sheer variety and value for money, I would certainly agree. It is an absolute wonder to me that all Penangians are not complete tubs of lard, given the abundance, quality and cheapness of their food. I have no idea of what rentals or house prices would run at, but judging by the accommodation available to the backpacker, it should be fairly reasonable. Transport too, is almost ridiculously cheap as long as it is of the public variety. A return trip on the ferry to the mainland costs a mere US$ 0,40, which is about a cent a minute. The public transport offers modern, air-conditioned rides, which won’t cost you an arm and a leg; and there are even a few free bus routes within the city. But tourist beware, the shoe is on the other foot if you look for other means of getting from place to place. Taxis often have a sign on the door ‘Do not haggle, as prices are fixed’. These are the guys to avoid, since they always seem to add an extra $10–15 just for the hell of it. Rather pick an elderly car with a white-haired gent driving it – ask him what the fare is to where you want to go, and if you don’t argue with him, why, he might even stop a couple of times for you to scramble out, take some photos and buy a bite to eat or something to drink, without wanting to raise the ante because you are infringing on his day. I’ve said my piece on cyclos – they’re highwaymen and thieves – let them starve, I say. For the rest of the businessmen in town, yes, they’re all scratching a living, but I didn’t come across any downright larcenous types. If you don’t fancy the price, shake your head regretfully and walk on. I didn’t find anybody running after me with a sudden ‘better offer’ because he liked my face. I returned to Singapore, well-satisfied with an interesting interlude!