July 1, 2011
I finished up in Kuala Lumpur after three nights, knowing that I would most likely be back more than once in the coming months, leaving me plenty of time to eat and visit the viewpoint of the Petronas Tower. So I packed up and headed to the coast.
After a boring, expensive, way-too-air-conditioned bus ride, I arrived in Melaka. Several years ago I read an article in National Geographic about piracy in the Straight of Melaka, between Malaysia and Indonesia. It came off as pretty hardcore, however, a seedy pirate town this was not. It resembled Galveston more than the sketchy places I had seen in the magazine’s photos of pool halls and gangsters.
It was touristy and I submitted myself to the town’s tourist route through all the historical sites of colonialism. Portugal, then Britain, whatever. Go and see the quaint colonial houses. See the old church. Look at the influences of European culture in the food or architecture. It’s the same story in scores of other places around the world.
Tourist transportation! Admittedly very cool, especially the ones with banging sound systems.
Portuguese Colonial Church.
Eventually used for weapons storage by the British. Thanks Portugal!
Check how jolly this roger is!
But mostly, check out its GRILL!
Muslim kids on a field trip to the church. What if we had colonial era mosques to visit on field trips in America?
Look at all those tourists!!! Yes, most of them were local, or from other parts of Asia.
Melaka
Check Melaka's Space Needle. A big rotating disc that carries tourists up and down the big pole for views of the city. Also, check Melaka's awesome housing development.
Spinning disc as seen from the housing development.
Colonial dancing? Huh?
I'm mature.
Even having a huge dormitory completely to myself couldn’t keep me around for more than two nights. Malaysia must not have budget backpackers as the cheapest places seem to always be nearly deserted. At least the night market was good. The food was par, but the real treat was seeing the elderly Chinese men and women doing karaoke on a huge stage set up in the middle of the market. I must have been a weird sight as one of about ten people in the hundred seats set up in front of the market. Also, I was the only one who was not old, Chinese and waiting my turn to do karaoke.
Entering the Night Market
On a small stretch of road near the center, you can see all of Malaysia's most significant religious representatives.
Mosque
Hindu Ceremony
Chinese Temple
Mosque again
And this guy.
When it was time to go, I decided to make my next leg by hitchhiking. Supposedly it’s good in Malaysia, so I had high hopes. It was a long walk out of town before the thumbing commenced. The thumb, however, is not understood in Asia, but instead I waved my hand up and down in a gesture that looks like “slow down”. Even doing it in the local fashion, people seemed pretty confused by me. It is always awkward to start hitchhiking in a new country as you never know how you will be received. I did not get a ride as quickly as I had hoped, leaving me to wonder if anyone understood what I was doing out here. Some people waved, some people stared in confusion, some avoided eye contact and some were just going way too fast to notice.
My savior that day was a middle-aged computer programmer (or something like that). He spoke little English, but we got along fine. He is an avid chess player and had a large wicker knight decorating his dashboard. He told me to take a closer look, and it was actually not wicker, but tightly rolled, painted and laquered newspaper woven into the shape of the chess piece. He said he had made it, along with a whole set he has at home for a larger version of the game. My plan for the day was not clear cut. I wanted to make it to a beach before meeting Lise in Singapore. Melaka had no beach except for an offshore island that cost too much to get to. So I asked him if there was a beach in Muar, the next town. He said there was and that he would drop me off there if I liked. It was out of his way, but he insisted.
I was hoping to camp on the beach in Muar, that is, until I saw the “beach”. You could only call it a beach if you define the word as a place where land meets water. The town is on a river that empties into the sea. Around the river and seafront areas there are parks and jogging paths. Lots of concrete, lots of middle class families milling about. It was a relaxing place to spend the day, but not a good place to set up a tent. Near the seaside, there were a few little gazebos that would pass as a sleeping platform with protection for the rain. Around sunset I went and staked out my choice of gazebo, but to my surprise the whole area was crowded with couples taking evening walks and people going on jogs. There were even exercise stations along the path. When the sun set, I assumed the place would be deserted, but no. Fishermen arrived and cast their poles from around the gazebo. Teenage couples made their way, holding hands, under the dim street lamps. Everyone that noticed me, calmly reading on a bench with my backpack, didn’t give me more than a passing glance, but I knew I was being weird.
For hours I waited, and finally at 1 AM the last of the couples left my gazebo, and I seized it. I spread out my tarp and wrapped up in my sleeping bag, bungeeing my backpack to my sleeping bag as a security measure. I thought I would finally get some sleep, but then a motorbike, who may have been the police made their way up and down the path. This left me worried and paranoid for another hour until I could finally sleep.
Before sunrise the exercisers were already back. They were trickling in by 5:30 AM and I felt extremely awkward and out of place. There’s no hobos in Malaysia (that might not be true), especially not in this town. By the time I packed my bag, the path seemed packed with joggers. I was out of there as the sun started to show it’s ugly face.
I trudged through town for nearly an hour, looking for the way out of town going south. The street signs meant for cars led me in all sorts of directions with the one way streets.
As soon as I got to a hitching spot, a local bus going to the next town stopped for me. It was too tempting so I got in. It dropped me off on the wrong end of an even bigger town. It was time to stop messing around if I wanted to make it to a beach before going to Singapore. I broke down and took a bus to Johor Bahru, then a bus to Kota Tingi, then a bus to Kota something else, and from there I was within a few km of the beach destination. I desperately wanted to make it to beach before sunset and time was running short. Only taxis would go there, and they were not being friendly with their fares. I finally asked a school bus driver if he was going to Desaru (the beach area). He agreed to take me, but I had to wait for it to fill with all the high school students.
Although Desaru was described as remote and undeveloped without being overrun with tourist resorts, it seems that that is all there. I thought there would be a town of some sort, but no, just four km of beach dotted with occasional resorts. Still, it made nice for camping as they were far enough apart not to notice even my bright orange tent. I made it with just enough time to swim before sunset. I had to savor it, knowing that I had to get all the way back to Singapore by tomorrow evening to pick up Lise from the airport. I did the calculations, and decided I needed to be on the road by ten in the morning. And that was my fourth of July.
Supposedly there is a bus that, at least during some hours of the day, runs between the beach and the nearest town. Some men in charge of the parking near the public part of the beach asked if I needed a taxi. The price they quoted was even more than the ripoff rate the taxi drivers had told me the day before. I told them I would be taking the bus. They said there was no bus on Mondays. I smiled, catching their lie, and told them it was Tuesday. They maintained that whatever day it was there would be no bus, and I should probably just let them call them a taxi. Nice try. Hitching it is, free rides all around!
Within minutes a Bangladeshi truck driver pulled over for me. He could only communicate that he was Bangladeshi. He dropped me off after a km, and I kept walking. A few minutes later and a Malay man in a skullcap and long robe picked me up in his shiny new sedan. He didn’t speak much English, but he had a very kind air about him. He took me to the bus station and I was now ready to get on my way to Singapore. Two buses to Johor Bahru, the border town, and I was already worried about my time. The total distance I needed to cover was something like a hundred km (62 miles) but it would take the entire day. Surprisingly one of the busses’ tires exploding on the highway only delayed us five minutes until the next bus came. Crossing the border was straightforward, but still slowed me down. The worst mistake on my part was to not wait for the express bus. Getting from the border of Singapore to the center, about 15 km away too well over an hour. I finally arrived at the obscenely overpriced, but still cheapest, guesthouse at 5:30. Just in time, as Lise’s plane would be arriving in an hour. I only had enough time to figure out how to get to the airport, and then get there.
An hour and a half after her flight landed, she still was not there. I eventually assumed she had either missed the flight, or was in jail for committing some minor infraction like spitting.
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