Malacca, February 27 and Kuala Lumpur, February 28

A mix of Malay and Muslim

I read somewhere that this is country  is a mix of diesel fumes and chilies frying in vendor stalls, sweet incense from Indian shops and Chinese  temples, pungent curry powders from spice merchants, and hints of frangipani and other fragrant blooming flowers.  But that’s just the beginning.

In the fifteenth century Islam entered Malaysia and become the official religion of Malacca during the reign of the Sultan Iskandar Shah.  Today, Malaysia still has nine sultans, and every five years one is elected to serve as the monarch.

And we weren’t allowed to forget the power of Islam on our fascinating visit to Malacca, Kuala Lumpur, and Penang.  Or of the culture of the Chinese.  We visited many sites where we took off our shoes, saw mosques evident in all the cities we visited, and were presented with many examples of the importance of this religion to the people of Malaysia. 

But on our entry to Malacca we weren’t thinking about religion.  We were thinking about getting to land safely.   Known as the “city of dreams”, Malacca we founded in 1400.  It is the oldest city in Malaysia,  and it also is impossible for a ship the size of the R2 to dock there except by tender.  R2’s three tenders were lowered to the open waters of the Strait of Malacca early in the day of February 27, and in turn we boarded the glass enclosed boats that held perhaps 60 or 80 people for the ride of a mile or so into the narrow harbor.

It was hot and stifling in the glass enclosed boat on this steamy tropical day, but I didn’t think much about it---until we snaked our way through a tight maze of old wooden boats anchored in the narrow harbor entrance to Malacca.  The space for navigating our tender was extremely tight, and we passengers began to realize this fact as the pilot inched his way through the tight squeeze of water between the old wooden boats that lined the channel..  The first inkling that something was awry came when the pilot snagged the side of one of these wooden fishing boats and ripped off a jagged piece of the side.  Then he bounced up against another one anchored on the opposite side of the narrow channel opening.  It was then that I began to eye the dirty harbor water a few feet below my seat on the window and think about plotting my escape, if necessary, from this fully loaded tender.  It wouldn’t be possible, I soon realized.  There was only an opening the approximate size of a door on either side and this was way up in the front. (I still don’t know front and back terms for ships—most embarrassing at times.)

So, I sat quietly in the 90-degree heat and humidity, mopping my brow and suppressing my urge to get off that boat NOW.  Coming to the docking site, it was clear the pilot didn’t know how to dock the tender.  The rumor (true we learned) passed along quickly that this was his first tender piloting.   The anxiety level rose.  Then to make matters worse, he began to back up and go forward, back up and go forward in the tight space allotted his docking procedure.  One of our ship’s other tenders was following our boat, and that pilot quickly got out of the way—but not before we saw that he himself had rammed another boat in the harbor and had broken a passenger window.

Our pilot, much like a 16-year-old first learning how to park a car---finally made it to the dock after about 12 attempts at jockeying back and forth---to the rising laughter and derisive remarks of some passengers.

But I didn’t laugh. I was just happy finish the game of  seagoing bumper cars and get off that little boat safely.

And our visit to Malacca made the initial anxiety well worth it.  I won’t review all the sights we saw.  Sufficient to say, this oldest city in Malaysia has a noble history of rulership by the Portuguese, the Dutch, the British, and the Japanese who invaded  Singapore in March 1942, changing life in Malaysia for the duration of World War II.  Finally, the nation gained its independence in  1963, when the nation of Malaysia was created.  Those Malaysians we met were extremely proud of this independence.

We saw ample examples of various cultures  and the remnants of the ancient spice and other trade routes that can still be found in this delightful old city.  The Chinese began their relationships in 1409, and the first Chinese immigrants were followed by a succession of European colonizers—the Portuguese (1510), Dutch (1641), and finally the British (1824).    We explored 600 years of Malaysian history, and especially, in Chinatown that has existed for hundreds of years, explored fascinating Chinese houses ,  temples filled with the pungent aroma of incense, a Chinese cemetery with 12,500 graves that date back 600 years, and a Chinese market where we sampled rambutan and mangosteen fruits, and just looked at durian—a fruit that smells so bad it isn’t allowed on the ship.

Through all of this our guide was Kevin Costner.  Really!  He said we should call him that.  Kevin took us to the Baba Nyona house and we learned about a Chinese family’s life in this aristocratic dwelling over several hundred years old.  Then across a Chinese bridge we visited to another home where the Malaysian owner gave us a short tour and proudly described the geneology of his family through charts and ancient photos mounted on the walls.

Finally, came the highlight of the day---another  ride in a trishaw back to the dock.  By this time I was accustomed to anything that might happen as again through the fumes of diesel buses and loudly roaring motor bikes I was hauled around corners and roundabouts..  But my Malaccan trishaw driver was more sophisticated than the previous mad Singaporean.  In fact, we didn’t even come close to the terror of the previous day.  We did, however, exchange cards!  He gave me his business card with his e-mail address, and I promised to send him an e-mail from Maryland when I returned home.

And best of all---in the old Baba Nyona house, there was a tiny room with gifts for purchase—of course.  And what did I find?  My quest for the Chinese backscratcher had summarily come to an end---kind of.  I found a little backscratcher with a hand for the perfect scratching—but though constructed of bamboo, it was only 12 inches long, hardly the perfect piece I had envisioned.  I bought two.

So my search was not yet over.  But soon it would be.

I had alerted all of my friends on the ship to my futile treasure hunt. So, there, when I returned was a call from my buddy, Jackie.  She—curses, not I---had found the perfect Chinese backscratcher in her travels that day.  And she bought it for me.  We celebrated with a happy hour drink of Scotch.