I killed time in the Ipoh bus station eating prawn and taw-fu (tofu) rice, cooked in an iron wok as I watched. It turned out that the number handwritten on the back of my bus ticket was the registration number of my bus -- the driver seemed annoyed that I hadn't figured this out for myself.
After a short bus ride to Kuala Kangsar I took a taxi to the hotel I had picked -- there were only two to choose from. One in the town center, and a former government "bungalow" on the river. The "bungalow" provided a huge room with verandah and river view -- although it had a second door which looked like it had already lost at least one contest with an intruder.
The taxi driver wanted to take me on a tour of the attractions, but I thought that he was asking too much, and the lady at reception kept telling me that I could walk it. Normally it would have been no problem to walk it, but I promptly undid all the good I had done to my foot resting in Tanah Rata. There were two attractions, a kilometer or so from the hotel. The mosque was big and dramatically black and white, but its grumpy guardian wouldn't let me anywhere near the prayer hall. I limped the long way round the new palace in its carefully-tended grounds to the museum in the old, wooden, palace, where yellow curtains fluttered in the breeze at the second-story windows. Like other Malaysian museums it was long on photos and short on exhibits. This time uniformed Brits stared out of the photos -- those who signed the first treaty with the Sultan, and those who kept an eye on his successors.
The museum closed at 5:00 p.m. I had asked the elderly man in charge about calling me a taxi, as I didn't think that my injured ankle would get me back to the hotel, but when I was ready to leave, at 4:45, he closed the place down and drove me himself. After establishing that I could eat local food, he stopped to buy me a snack at a roadside stall, and again at a cafe for coffee, insisting on paying. He told me about his daughters and grandchildren. One daughter is a stewardess on Malaysian Airlines, but he said that he couldn't afford to travel himself.
I dined in solitary state overlooking the wide river. The fast-flowing water, fringed by dark green trees, faded to silver in the dusk. A slow ferry churned between the banks, a small fishing boat slipped past me, and a jet ski drew circles before disappearing under the two-arched bridge upstream. Lights came on in the town, throwing long wavering lines of orange light across the water. At 7:05 the call to prayer broke the silence.
The next morning the hotel owner joined me at breakfast. He seemed well-traveled, and had a nephew in North Carolina. Again, I had asked for a taxi -- to take me to the bus station -- again, I was driven, this time in a nearly-new jeep. Aside from the fact that my foot was now worse, Kuala Kangsar was a great success. I saw no other foreigners, I enjoyed the river, and I met a couple of very nice people.
The driver on the bus from Kuala Kangsar to Kota Bharu also took good care of me. Long distance buses in Malaysia have two drivers, and the front passenger-side seat is used as a makeshift bed by the one not driving. I was the only foreigner on the bus, and the "off" driver, acting as conductor, seemed thrilled to have an American on board (I'm thinking of answering "England" on odd days and "America" on even days to the inevitable "where are you from?" question). He had been to Los Angeles for the Olympic Games, supporting a friend who had competed, and had visited Hawaii and Las Vegas on the same trip. At the first stop I amused both drivers by eating Thai (i.e. spicy) fish curry, and we talked as well as we could given my lack of Malay and their basic English. Again, the next generation seemed to be doing well.
On this bus the "off" driver slept at the back, and after the stop I was promoted to the front seat, where I could put my feet up and admire the view of the new and scenic East-West Highway, cut through hilly jungle that was once the preserve of Communist insurgents. I was glad to see "real" trees after so many palms -- I know palms are trees, but after hundreds of kilometers of nothing else I was beginning to have doubts. We crossed a beautiful green-blue lake (man-made), labored up hills and rushed down them, and saw little sign of life until we reached Kelantor.
Kelantor and Terengganu, the two northeastern states, are considered the most "Malay", having been controlled by Thailand rather than Britain for most of the colonial era. The ethnic make-up of the Malay peninsula, which had consisted of the Orang Asli (aboriginals), the Malays and a few Peranakans (Straits Chinese) was significantly altered when the British brought in Chinese and Indian workers to exploit tin, rubber and tea. These are now such significant minorities that at independence the "bumiputra" or "sons of the soil" (i.e. ethnic Malays, no mention of "daughters") were given special privileges to help them catch up economically.
Unfortunately, the apparent ethnic and religious harmony may be eroding. Malay children go to Malay school, where they learn Malay and English. Chinese children go to Chinese school, where they learn Malay, Mandarin and English. Indian children go to Indian school, where they learn Malay, Tamil and English. According to the newspaper, when they get to university, special "unity" clubs are needed to get them to mix.
In Kelantor and Terengganu the PAS, or Muslim party, holds power, and in both states has voted to institute sharia law. So far this has been blocked by the federal government on the grounds that it is unconstitutional, but the issue will not go away. I had a long conversation with two Muslim proselytizers over breakfast (they paid), one local, one a convert from Ghana, who manned a booth in the middle of the street in front of the cafe I had chosen. They argued that Muslims had been strong when they followed the Qur'an 100%, and that they would not be strong again until they again followed it 100%. My suggestion that more freedom and democracy might be equally effective was swiftly rejected. While they did repudiate the use of terrorism, they wanted to apply sharia law to everyone living in a majority Muslim area -- apparently that was the practice while Muhammad was alive.
Kota Bharu is quite clearly more Muslim, and more fundamentalist (my missionaries made a distinction between fundamentalism -- good -- and fanaticism -- bad) than the rest of Malaysia. Arriving in K.B. by bus, I thought that I had strayed into a nunnery -- every car seemed to be full of women in wimples. Headscarves were worn at least elbow, and often wrist, length. Only a few Chinese women, and the foreigners, went bareheaded. On the other hand, I saw a number of young women in McDonal's wearing headscarves with jeans. The wait staff there wore uniform blue scarves with yellow edging.
By the time I reached K.B. I was becoming seriously worried about my bad ankle -- rather than limping I was now hobbling. While I felt that my new Birkenstocks were likely responsible, a change of footgear didn't help. I wondered if I could cope with an "exploratory" tour of Laos, and whether I should try to find a doctor in Bangkok. So, while I wanted to visit K.B. for its own sake, I was also there to find out whether I could reach the Perhentian Islands -- during the northeast monsoon the ferry boats don't run. If so, I planned to sit on Perhentian Besar -- the more laid back island -- for five nights in the hope that rest -- and arnica, compression and Reiki -- would heal the damage.
I was in luck -- the season was not quite over. I shared a packed ferry boat with about 18 other people, and their luggage, including four young western women and their Malay escorts. I learned that one of the women came from Hitchin, the town where I went to secondary school, and that the group had been on the islands for six weeks -- they had been to K.B. for supplies such as soap and beer -- no alcohol is sold on the islands.
We pottered around the harbor avoiding the big fishing boats and collecting passengers before heading for the South China Sea. The twin 200 h.p. Mariner outboards dug in astern, the bow came up, and we shot across a stunningly blue sea between towering rooster tails of sparkling spray. I took my slip-behind shades off to keep them from blowing away, leant forward to avoid the spray and tried to ignore the noise. After about 30 minutes two green hills rose from the sea ahead of us. We dropped a few passengers at jetties, then slowed as a small boat approached on an apparent collision course. This, it turned out, was my transport to the Coral View Resort. I managed the transfer without disaster, and then followed the boatman and my pack up the beach to a collection of wooden chalets. (There is nothing on the Perhentians except chalets, resorts and cafes.)
The Coral View was closing in three days, so the next day I limped through the jungle (on a wooden walkway) to the Perhentian Island Resort, where an end of season special provided me with a huge oceanfront room, a queen-size bed and a big bathroom with bath and hot water for RM 200 a night. Although still 5-10 times the cost of a spartan A-frame on the smaller island, it was just what I needed. The half-moon beach was soft white sand, the sky was blue, the sea was green, the fresh-squeezed orange juice was perfection and the deck chairs were shaded by coconut palms. I went catatonic.
Gazing idly at the baby breakers dissolving on the shore I realized that I hadn't had a break since I got home from my last trip. The two weeks I had allowed for leisurely preparation for this trip had instead been spent dealing with repairs to my house -- the result of a leaking hot water tank, and of delayed repairs to a double bay window. I left with the painting still unfinished.
Perhaps my feet were going on strike so that I would slow down? Even snorkeling seemed too energetic for them, although I otherwise enjoyed my first attempt. I found it fascinating to float so easily above a hidden world of coral and fish. After the beaches of my childhood -- pebbles, cold grey North Sea water, brisk breezes that made wind breaks valuable accessories -- this tropical island was magical.
I shared the island with a changing cast of sun-worshippers and snorkelers, a monitor lizard, and rat-faced squirrels with unusual agility. I must have really needed the rest, because normally five days of nothing to do would drive me nuts. By the time I left my foot seemed much better (although snorkeling had given me a sunburned back). I had timed my departure well, as the last day was overcast, and thunderstorms woke me both of the last two nights. The trip back under grey skies was decidedly bumpier than the one over.
Back in Kota Bharu I tried to take it easy, riding tuk-tuks when I could. Unlike in India, where hopeful rickshaw drivers may pursue pedestrians down the street, it was often hard to find a tuk-tuk in Malaysia. I spent an evening watching shadow puppetry at the cultural center -- more popular with Malays than foreigners as the dialog was in Malay. The first hour was traditional, but the second seemed contemporary, including a puppet representing a foreign woman in a bikini that got a lot of laughs.
The Islamic museum was again well provided with non-Malay items, but I did learn about "Maisonnettes" -- Islamic boarding schools -- and was reminded that Qur'anic verses were seen as protective and appeared on shields and on shirts intended to be worn into battle. The huge indoor market was well organized with fabric upstairs and fruit, vegetables, fish and meat on rows of tables downstairs. The vendors mostly sat on their tables amidst the produce.
After two nights in Kota Bharu I took a taxi to the Thai border on my way to Bangkok. Malaysia had been easy traveling -- good roads, good buses, good food, nice people and lots of English signs. There had been no blockbuster sights to match the Forbidden City or the Himalayas, but perhaps the country itself was the sight - an Asian country that seems to be handling ethnic divisions and economic development successfully. The new concrete structures show some imagination, public transport works well, streets are clean, shops well-stocked, while at the same time the markets, the shop-houses, the occasional temple and the Muslim dress are all Asian. And the tropical island I used for my rest cure would be hard to match.
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