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Lisbon – First Impressions
(Painting by Manuela Gouveia, in Lisbon’s Sofitel Hotel, Room 7-11, just like the convenience stores.)
Until November, Lisbon was uncharted territory for Monsieur and me, yet we’d decided to go and check out both Lisbon and Madeira for various reasons, being: (a) we’d never been to Portugal, (b) the flights and accommodation were insanely cheap as November is low season, (c) it’s not too far from us in London and (d) the weather would be considerably warmer than in England. We also had a bunch of leave to use up before the end of the year.
We’d heard unending positive reviews from those who’d been there before us. One colleague has a holiday home in the Algarve and another goes to Portugal for R&R every year without fail. The Epic Brother had visited friends there earlier in the year and raved about the Portuguese, how helpful and welcoming and warm they are without being flashy or in-your-face. Then others told me that to be in Portugal was like being in a world between worlds; that sometimes it seems modern and at others it’s quite medieval, but nonetheless enchanting. Monsieur and I were now keen to check it out for ourselves.
Our first good impression on arriving in Lisbon was created by the weather: for a Northern Hemisphere November, to find 18 degrees Celsius awaiting us at 7.30pm on a Friday night was an excellent way to start our holiday.
Customs was unusually straightforward, the luggage caroussel quick to produce our suitcases, and, as an added bonus for the traveller disembarking with a growl in their tum – all around baggage claim were opportunities to grab a snack. There were little shops selling food, a well-stocked café, and a woman with a trolley laden with crisps, drinks and plastic containers filled with fresh fruit. Now, that’s what I call civilised.
On a more romantic note, as we waited for our bags, a tall black man walked past us in robes of flowing gold. On his feet were pointy-toed slippers of cream silk and on his head sat a loosely-wound turban. Not only was the man a reminder of Portugal’s colonialist ties, he was the picture of orientalist elegance as he glided on by, a good head or more taller than anyone else in the hall, his robes glistening against the blue-black of his skin.
Once land-side, I noticed something rarer than a two-trunked elephant: a properly-stocked information desk with real maps, not just those freebie maps for tourists that only show one in four streets (never the one you’re actually looking for) and which never, ever show the routes to or from the airport. Here at Lisbon airport there were city maps, regional maps and maps of the entire country, stood on racks alongside guides from various publishers. This is just what’s needed at every airport in the world. I was impressed.
We didn’t wait long for a cab to our hotel on Avenida da Liberdade and our driver was patient with our novice attempts at speaking Portuguese, phonetic phrasebook in hand. The road leading away from the airport was lined with big, square houses, reminiscent of the architecture we’d seen in Melaka, Malaysia, where the Portuguese once ruled the roost. Many sported a deep rusty red colour, also familiar from our Malaysian travels. It struck me that we’d seen the effects of a country out there before understanding it’s background, which was now right here in front of us. It may be a back-to-front way to travel, but it works.
It was also soon apparent that the Lisboetas like their monuments, especially large ones parked at the centre of busy roundabouts. We circled two elaborate examples and spotted a couple more during the 15 minute ride to the hotel, and would see a lot more in the course of the next few days. Lisbon’s stonemasonry rocks.
(I’m terrible at night photography but this is one monument at Restauradores, on Avenida da Liberdade, and this monument is small compared to some of the others we saw!)
A modest €7.00 later, we arrived at the Avenida da Liberdade. It is a long, wide thoroughfare, with dual carriageway through the middle separated from extra lanes at either side by islands planted with mature trees. For November the branches were decorated with weepy drops of twinkling white lights and one corner building was wrapped like a gift box with a gigantic illuminated bow, a hint that Christmas would be upon us within a matter of weeks.
Monsieur and I like the Accor hotel chain when we travel. They always look after us well. This time we were staying at one of their Sofitels. The lobby was decorated in reds and blacks and golds in what would have been quite an asiatic style but for the pair of golden angels clinging to the wall behind reception. The concierge treated us to free welcome drink vouchers and a room upgrade as we checked in – another positive to travelling out of season, no doubt - and a few minutes later we were walking into our room overlooking the Avenida. Once again the décor had the hint of asia with dark wooden furniture of Japanese style and the walls hung with striking paintings of silhouettes on a red background – by Manuela Gouveia.
(a Sofitel bed. See how SOFT it looks? And it’s even better when you lie down on it. If you never go to Sofitel for any other reason, do at least go to try out their beds.)
There was also an unexpected surprise waiting for us: on the desk sat a cellophane-wrapped plate of half a dozen pasteis da nata, or the special custard-filled tarts for which Lisbon is famous. But best of all was that Sofitel bed. All you have to do is look at one to know that when you slip into it, the linens will be cool and their trademark mattress topper will support you in such luxurious comfort that you will dream of sleeping on marshmallow beds in a land constructed entirely of clouds. Monsieur and I are not the only ones who feel this way, either; next to the bed was a brochure outlining Sofitel beds and Sofitel pillows and the Sofitel bed linens and mattress toppers and everything you could possibly wish for when trying to recreate the Sofitel bed experience at home. Alas, the prices are steep. You’ll have to be an exceptionally good girl or boy for Santa to put Sofitel bed things in your stocking at Christmas. Either that or exceptionally rich.
(I’m not even into custard but these cunning little pastries foxed me into enjoying their sweet creamy wickedness. Note that there are only 5 on the plate in this photo. One has already been wolfed. I won’t say by whom.)
Before we could even think about sleeping, however, Monsieur and I had a date with a rotisserie chicken at the nearby Bom Jardim restaurant. It was time to see whether this bastion of Portuguese chicken was all it was cracked up to be.
Nyonya in Notting Hill
When Monsieur and I returned to London after our holiday in Malaysia, it didn’t take long before we were craving Malaysian food, so off we went in search of good Malaysian eateries in London. Before too long, we found ourselves eating at Nyonya, a restaurant in Notting Hill.
Nyonya is a word used to describe Peranakan women, that is, women who are the offspring of Chinese and Malaysian parents. The Nyonya culture is prevalent in Melaka, with food rich in distinctive spices such as tamarind, so we were keen to try it out.
Nyonya sits at the busy junction of two roads, within easy walking distance of Notting Hill Gate tube. Patrons can see the traffic and passers-by from their seats behind the floor-to-ceiling windows and passers-by can gawp back at them, if they have time to be interested. The wipe-clean tables and simple stools inside are not conducive to leisurely meals, however. This is an enter-eat-pay-and-leave type of place, but as it doesn’t pretend to be otherwise, you can’t be offended by the brusque service. Nyonya is a restaurant which has absolutely zero atmosphere with a decor so incredibly practical that everything even FEELS a sterile white. So why do a pair of atmosphere-seekers like us keep going back?
The menu is one reason. From deep-fried dumplings to satay sticks of chicken with a delightful peanut sauce that has that ‘je ne sais quoi’ about it, or the coolness of the Kerabu prawns with a sweet chilli-imbued sauce. (‘Kerabu’ means ‘salad’ in Malay). The Hainanese chicken rice is a typical Nyonya dish, which arrives looking typically white and uninspiring, but transports us back to Malaysia in one taste. I usually go for a laksa or mee soup, using my chopsticks to fish for noodles and other ingredients in the steaming broth, whilst watching my neighbours consume their choices and making mental notes to order what they’re having on our next visit.
The freshness of the ingredients at Nyonya is a huge plus in its favour, as is the laid-back vibe (even if it is a bit bland). We also appreciate the speed with which the bill arrives once it’s asked for. We hate that moment where the table is cleared and you ask for the bill but suddenly the wait staff abandon you to twiddle your thumbs. It can be a case of the invisible patron the instant you stop ordering food. Well, there’s definitely no risk of that happening at Nyonya. Masses of warmth and engagement, no. Speed and efficiency, yes. So much so that we often combine a quick bite at Nyonya with a trip to the cinema because we know won’t be kept waiting.
Monsieur and I still haven’t tried the kuih-kuih, a traditional dessert made from a family recipe, but we’ll give it a whirl next time. For now, I remember the driver who took us to our hotel in Melaka. “what do you like to eat?” I asked him. His reply was a veritable menu of dishes made with pineapple. I know he’d approve of Nyonya. They use pineapple in at least two of their mains.
2A Kensington Park Road, Notting Hill, London, W11 3BU, T 020 7243 1800
Malaysia, Part 13: Formula 1 Malay style
To read Malaysia part 14, click here.
To read Malaysia part 12, click here.
Leaving Melaka was far from straightforward. There were no buses, as we’d hoped, to take us to the Low Cost Carrier Terminal (LCCT) outside KL, at least, not if we wanted to make a zillion stops en route. There wasn’t a train service for where we wanted to go and if we flew it would arrive at the wrong KL airport. In the end, the hotel staff recommended booking a car, which wasn’t that expensive, considering the value of working air con in this country, but now the car was half an hour late in picking us up. Pacing the pavement in the heat didn’t help but eventually our driver arrived so we piled in. There wasn’t a minute to lose if we were to make our flight.
Five minutes later, the driver stopped for petrol. He’d collected us with an empty tank which seems to me like going to work with only part of your brain, thinking you might just grow a new one when you need it. In this case, it wasn’t a simple case of stopping car, filling tank, paying and leaving. Oh, no. There was quite a queue in front of us, so we were there for about 15 minutes. It doesn’t seem long, but we were already 45 minutes behind schedule and we hadn’t even left Melaka yet.
At last, tanked up and raring to go, we got stuck in a traffic jam on the main road out of Melaka. Monsieur and I checked our watches with such frequency that we could probably have drawn them in great detail for anyone who’d asked. “How much longer?” we asked the driver, “With this traffic, about two hours.” Came his reply. We could be in trouble here. The hotel had told us that the journey would take an hour and a half tops and we’d already lost close to an hour of travel time, thanks to our nonchalant driver. The annoying thing about this was that we were being driven by a perfectly pleasant, well-presented, middle-aged man but this lack of interest in our airport deadline didn’t match his other attributes. At. All.
We reached the motorway at long last, immediately making up some of the lost time as well-presented driver morphed into speed-fiend. Monsieur and I settled back into our seats, the tension evaporating. A few minutes later, Driver pulls off the motorway, into a gas station. What? We can’t have run out of petrol already. The gas station was closed so before we could ask the obvious question of “What are you doing?” we’d pulled back onto the motorway and were speeding along again.
Several minutes pass and we seem to be making good progress. Until, we stop again. This time, it’s a rest stop. Driver leaves the motor running as he dashes to the conveniences, calling out that he needs to ‘wash his hands’. By this time I figured it wasn’t worth wasting any more energy on my fast-developing Transfer Anxiety. We’d either make the flight or we wouldn’t. C’est la blooming vie.
As signs to KL started appearing, the traffic became denser. This was a red rag to the bull that dwelled inside our driver. Now he had obstacles. Now he had vehicles to overtake. Now he could prove his manliness through speed. He was the fastest, the most adept driver on that road and he could out-manoevre anything that moved in his path. (In his head, at least.)
Meanwhile, I was white-knuckled with fear. We slipped between lorries (how we didn’t end up beneath them, I really couldn’t tell you). We were swooping in and out of the different lanes, sometimes driving in between two lanes. When we squeezed between two lorries, travelling side by side, it was clear that an untimely end was fast approaching. I gripped the seat and yelped involuntarily. “Please God, let us get there alive!” I begged, suddenly dying for something very, very alcoholic to calm my nerves.
Have I mentioned that Driver made it a habit NOT to use his indicators, was often driving with both hands (yes BOTH hands) OFF the wheel, using them instead to unwrap sweets? He then sucked the sweets with such an infuriating loudness that my motion-sickness moved up a notch in intensity. Saliva occasionally splattered around the front of the car, so energetic was his chomping. “You want one?” he turned around, hands off steering wheel again to offer us one of his sweets. This must be it, I thought. The End. He looked at us as if we were really odd when we refused his offer, and not a second too soon returned his gaze to the road ahead, just in time to avoid crashing into the car in front of us.
The Driver’s next trick was to use his mobile phone without a handsfree kit. Monsieur and I couldn’t say much more in Malaysian than Selamat Datang (welcome) which you couldn’t help but learn, given that the phrase appeared everywhere we went. Interestingly enough, we understood pretty well what Driver was saying on the phone. “Lah lah lah wah low cost wah?” he said, looking at every road sign with urgency. He didn’t know where the LCCT was. That had to be it. We’d definitely miss our flight.
“I never been to LCCT before,” Driver eventually admitted, “jus’ getting direction from friend.” Okay… feeling really reassured now.
We took the wrong slip road from the motorway, then had to drive for ages to get back on the motorway to the right exit. Just before we reached the airport zone, we passed the Malaysian Formula 1 Race Track at Sepang, where the Malaysian Grand Prix takes place every year. At the speed we were travelling, the irony of this was not lost on us. Driver had missed his calling, BIG time. Meanwhile, we were careening around roundabouts in the middle of the cargo area, trying to find the right way into the LCCT terminal just over the way. We could see it now but still felt far away. Driver repeatedly took the wrong entrance road but was driving so fast that we couldn’t correct him in time.
After what seemed like an interminable time racing around the terminal grounds with Sepang snorting at our F1 emulating efforts in the background, we pulled up in front of the passenger terminal. My legs were jelly as we got out of the car. Driver was visibly proud of himself for getting us here, smiling widely at us as we took our cases from the boot. He obviously didn’t understand why we looked so pale and unimpressed. Pushing the agreed number of Ringgits into his hand, we raced into the terminal, screeching to a halt in front of the Air Asia check-in counters with a mere three minutes to spare before the cut-off for our flight. Only when we’d passed through security did I stop shaking. It would seem our angels are with us on this trip, but Driver’s days are most definitely numbered.
Malaysia Part 12: In search of bound feet shoes
Back in London, I had been planning our Malaysian itinerary when something in the guidebook caught my eye:
“Wah Aik, 103 Jalan Kubu. Renowned for making silk shoes for bound feet. With foot binding no longer practised, the shoes are now lined up in the window as souvenirs, at a mere RM75 per pair.”
I hadn’t even left the country yet, but I already knew where to buy a present for my decorative shoe-collecting mother.
Monsieur and I had booked a car to take us to the airport just after lunch, so we had the morning to see a bit more of Melaka. Off we went down the street in search of shoes for foot-bound women. We went to the address given in the guide but the shop was boarded up. We then popped into a large shop with aisles of offerings to help one’s prayers at the Buddhist temple – fake money in bundles, cardboard platinum Amex cards, models of Mercedes cars… you name it. Anything that could possibly help you in the after-life was there,and we even got directions to Wah Aik’s new location at 56 Jalan Tokong.
Ever since childhood I’ve heard of foot-binding in China. Jung Chang’s book, Wild Swans, was the first to teach me how incredibly painful and smelly it was. Also worth reading is the novel by Lisa See, called Snow Flower and the Secret Fan , describing the life of a girl who must bind her feet to secure her future. Some say that binding women’s feet helped a woman to remain loyal to her husband because she could never run away, such was the excruciating pain of walking. Others say that tiny feet were a sign of beauty at that time, just as a 17 inch waist was desirable of Victorian women in England. In spite of knowing these basic facts, nothing could prepare me for how tiny the bound feet shoes are at Wah Aik’s. There, in a display window at the front of the shop, are a number of regular-sized slippers and shoes, below which sit rows of shoes that would better suit the feet of a large doll than a human being’s. The shoes are quite beautiful in their various colours of embroidered silk – the Emperor’s red, a soft chartreuse, turquoise, but at a mere 4 inches long, all I could think about was the crippled women who’d been subjected to such a terrible ritual. Honestly. Who comes up with these ridiculous concepts?
The shoemakers at Wah Aik’s were welcoming. They explained that not only did they sell these diminutive shoes to tourists; they also supplied them to the handful of foot-bound women still alive here in Malaysia. As we chose pairs of shoes to take home to our mothers I noticed a photocopy of a review from the Guide Routard stapled to the wall, indicating that the French must like visiting here, too. There you are, Monsieur, it wasn’t such a wild goose chase after all.
Mission accomplished, Monsieur and I now sought out the temples on Jalan Tokong, otherwise known as Temple Street. There were three to visit: Masjid Kampung Kling with a Mecca-green roof sloping like a pagoda’s but quite empty at this time of day; Sri Poyyatha Vinoyagar, with its ochre façade and Hindu statuary, but the one we really enjoyed was the Buddhist temple of Cheng Hoon, or Temple of the Merciful Cloud.
Here we were able to watch members of the local Chinese community pay their respects in a variety of ways. They burned rods of incense in clusters, held between their pressed palms as they bowed before the Goddess of Mercy, to whom the temple is dedicated, eventually leaving them to smoulder in a large, brass urn. Inside, the walls were panelled with dark wood. Offerings such as fresh flowers or fruit sat on ornate, carved altars, above which golden figures glistened in the gloom. Back outside, we watched, intrigued, as worshippers burned written prayers and fake money in a busy incinerator and could probably have wandered about there quite happily for another hour, just observing the rites of the temple’s visitors, but once again we had deadlines.
Back on Jonkers Street (also known as Jalan Hang Jebat) we wandered into The Geographer Café, just ever so slightly starving as there was practically nothing left in our tums, given that the fat-fest of the previous night hadn’t done much to fill us up and we hadn’t yet had breakfast. For hours now, we’d been existing on bottled water. In the humidity, this wasn’t really as hard as it sounds.
The Geographer is reputed to be quite a cool hang-out, but when we were there, it was hard to tell. The place, with its stacks of GEO and National Geographic magazines, all well-read with curled corners and tumbler-stained covers, felt just a bit tired, but the food was great. I took a brief break from the Asian scene, just for one meal, tucking into a delicious pasta tossed simply with olive oil, garlic and red chilli. Monsieur chose a piccante pizza as we sat in the open air, watching the world go by. Compared to the night before, it was almost disturbingly quiet. Perhaps all that line dancing had tired everyone out.
One of my (many) strangenesses is a love for tiny cars. I think the old Fiat cinquecento is a superb piece of design for urban living and, wherever I go in the world, I always find myself face-to-face with a little vehicle of some unusual appeal to me, and only me. Monsieur, being a man and French to boot, would never admit to liking little cars. He’d rather ogle a luxury sportscar, making me wonder if he’s headed for an early mid-life crisis, but reassuring in the fact that I know that at least he’s not suddenly producing an excess of oestrogen. Anyway, here is the little yellow car I fell for just before we left Melaka. It was parked just along the street from The Geographer and Monsieur had to pretend not to know me as I angled for just the right shot. I don’t desire much in this overly-materialistic world but my, how I would love a little yellow car like that.
Malaysia Part 11 – In the Night Market
Melaka was livelier in the dark than she had been in the daylight. Once we’d bade farewell to Cedric, we walked across to Jonker Street, past the miniature windmill surrounded by a perfect bed of flowers that would look more appropriate in Disneyland. It was a very different place to the one we’d left that afternoon: stalls had been set up along the length of the street in front of the shops, selling everything you could possibly conceive, from terrapins to knock-off handbags, earrings to pewter souvenirs. It was time for some touristy retail therapy so my wallet came out.
I was very proud of one purchase: a boxed model of the Petronas Towers which now lives on my desk at the Architects’ Offices. Priced at 18 Ringgit, I later saw its twin at the airport for a cool 80 Ringgit. Epicurienne loves a bargain, so this deal has gone down in her hall of fame. Then I picked up a handful of painted ceramic magnets. There was one of a couple in a rickshaw in front of Christ Church, so that had to be bought as a reminder of Cedric The Brave. Another of a Nyonya woman was destined for my soon-to-be Former Flatmate, whose fridge door is invisible beneath his magnet collection. Then our attention turned to a shop full of collapsible model junks. Monsieur admired the wooden masterpieces, and we chatted away about how little they cost (RM 180), but the bulk at this point of our journey would prove impractical and we didn’t know where we’d put it once home, so on the shelf they stayed.
Further along Jonker Street, we found an emporium packed to the gunnels with inexpensive souvenirs. There I bought cellophane-wrapped packs of floral incense with ceramic burners and a sweet little daisy ties for friends back home. A few doors down, we gazed into a hall filled with middle-aged women practising line dancing. This seemed so incongruous at first – line dancing in Malaysia? – until we passed more halls of the same and a large outdoor stage where ‘Achy Breaky Heart’ was pumping out as line-dancing groups competed in country and western team uniforms, replete with cowboy hats. The crowd clapped along and cheered their favourites. Apparently line dancing is quite THE thing in Melaka.
There were lots of stalls selling animals at he Night Market. We saw mice, hamsters and turtles, tarantulas, scorpions and even a pile of fluffy, sleeping pups. At a calligraphy stand I found Double Happiness signs for home, deemed a good luck charm by feng shui enthusiasts. Hopefully this would see the fates smiling happily on my future home with Monsieur.
It was time to stop shopping. Monsieur was getting hungry and I had managed to fill my bag with gifts for almost everyone back home without destroying my budget. Our stomachs had now begun a noisy protest against the omnipresent signs that it was dinner time. Food was all around us and the locals were standing in groups gossiping as they ate plastic platefuls of delicious-smelling food. Everywhere we looked there were steamed dumplings, noodles in polystyrene containers, chicken rice and fast-moving chopsticks. It had been quite a day. In spite of the dinner gongs going off inside us, we were desperate to rest our heavy legs somewhere quiet, so we left the market behind in search of a sit-down restaurant and a bit of peace.
This was not easy. Our guidebook proved unhelpful for the immediate area. There is no restaurant at the Hotel Puri, a neighbouring restaurant that had looked promising at lunch time was now closed for dinner, everywhere along Jonker Street was heaving and the only other place was too surreal. As we entered the latter option we noticed a large iguana asleep in a cage, an empty dancefloor and four bored staff who fell upon us with menus in case we might give them a purpose in life. Stale smoke hung in the air from previous evenings and there were no other patrons. Bad sign. This wouldn’t do at all.
At the end of Jonker Street we took a cab to a Chinese restaurant at the Renaissance Hotel. “We haven’t made a reservation,” muttered Monsieur, “I wonder if they’re fully booked.” We needn’t have worried. As we walked through a lobby that screamed 5 star hotel, up to our second floor destination, the Long Feng Restaurant, we couldn’t have guessed that our prayers for calm would be so accurately answered. The dining room was certainly stunning. There were the requisite fish in a crystal clear aquarium at the door, starched white table cloths throughout, carved rosewood furniture and beautiful ink wash pictures on the walls. But there were no other patrons, and once more, there were four staff, just for us.
The Rough Guide lauds Long Feng as providing “excellent Cantonese and Szechuan dishes in a classy setting.” As we settled at our table which could have seated six, the setting was certainly as they’d described. There was even a private banquet room with sliding doors off the main dining area and Chinese singers warbled away over the music system. The view from our window told a different story; across the street there was one of the dubious hotel frontages with crooked blinds and seedy entrance that we’d passed earlier on with Cedric. Nearby were massage parlours. Distracting us for a moment, our very pregnant waitress, dressed in a shapeless blue sack, brought us menus and delicious jasmine tea. Thirsty enough to drink a lake dry at this point, we swiftly moved on to beer and water. The food, however, was not to please our Western tastebuds. Everything we chose looked wonderful, but when we started eating, there was an all-pervasive greasiness that we weren’t used to. Monsieur’s duck had been cross sectioned to include marrow in the bone. We’d never seen it done like that before, although apparently duck marrow appeals in this part of the world. My chicken smelled divine but consisted of more fat than meat, so most of that went untouched. What a waste. I felt so guilty that we couldn’t finish what must be considered a feast by so many in this town. The rice and Chinese vegetables were simple and tasty, however, and kept us going, but we left hungry. Already feeling bad about the leftovers at our table, I felt worse about our waitress. The poor girl had looked tired when we arrived but now she had turned grey and looked ready to collapse. She needed to get home and rest with someone else to wait on her, not expend all her energy on a mere two diners as she’d done tonight.
Back at the hotel I found a benefit of staying at the Hotel Puri: they had the Travel and Leisure Channel. I watched a presenter called Jennifer Convey as she travelled around the “Coat d’Azewer” (Côte d’Azur), eating “kwassantes” (croissants) and referring repeatedly to the “absolutely breathtaking views”. She played with a puppet called August (presumably Auguste) in a marionnette shop, crooned in saccharine tones “that’s so CUTE!” or “that’s so sweeeeeeet”, talked about walking in “jar-deens” (jardins) and was generally annoying. However, it was wonderful to see our beloved France from a very different part of the world so I nodded off that night on a cloud of imagined Provençale lavender, to dream of poppy fields and the Dordogne.
Malaysia part 10 – Cedric makes Melaka
Owning a rickshaw is serious business in Malaysia. It’s not just about cycling your heart out as you transport passengers from A to B in exchange for Ringgits. You need and an eye for clashing colours, a friend in the plastic flower business and Lawrence Llewellyn Bowen flair; anything to make your ‘shaw stand out from the rest. It’s a case of ‘my ‘shaw’s better than yours,’ with the aim of attracting more business.
As rickshaw novices, Monsieur and I didn’t know any of this when we presented ourselves at Dutch Square in Melaka. There, outside the Stadthuys, an imposing Dutch colonial building with a perfect dark terracotta façade, stood a clutch of rickshaws with their owners, all competing for the attention of tourists like ourselves. We almost stepped into one ‘shaw, only to be hijacked at the last minute by Cedric, a slight and smiling chap with enough front to get us away from a rival and into his vehicle before we could say ‘hello’.
Seconds later we were in the middle of Melaka traffic, our lives flashing before our eyes as Cedric pumped his chicken legs up and down furiously, weaving us through cars and lorries, occasionally of the oncoming variety. We barely had time to consider the rickshaw’s decoration on the rick-ter scale of trashy. We supposed it might be an 8, surrounded as we were by more plastic floral arrangements than you’d find in a funeral home. Then we realised that it was probably more of a 6 or 7; Cedric didn’t have fairy lights on his ‘shaw.
Cedric turned back to us to tell us what we were passing, but we didn’t understand much, partly because he was speaking a unique combination of Malay and English, and partly because the breeze carried half his words into the buzz of traffic. He turned off the road at the foot of St Paul’s Hill, “Lah lah Sin Paul Hill,” he said, pointing up at the ruins above us. I was much more interested in how we hadn’t yet crashed. Cedric only spent fifty per cent of the time looking at the road; the rest of the time he was twisting around to tell us what we were seeing, chattering away in an enthusiastic but incomprehensible manner. “What did he say?” asked Monsieur, repeatedly, thoroughly convinced that being a native English speaker, I would understand. “Haven’t a clue,” I replied with a shrug.
At St Paul’s Hill we parked near A’Famosa, a gate that is the last surviving part of a Portuguese fortress that once stood here. Built in the early part of the 16th century, that makes this lone gate the oldest evidence of European construction in Asia. Somehow, Cedric made us understand that we should go to the top of the hill and he’d wait for us at the bottom. We should take our time. This was all conveyed using an expressive selection of gestures, proving the point that spoken language is only responsible for a very small part of communication.
Heeding Cedric’s instruction, up the hill we trudged, past locals hawking their crafts on picnic blankets at regular intervals. It was so humid that I wanted to plonk myself down next to them and have a rest, but Monsieur marched me on. Somewhat breathless we soon reached the top where St Paul’s Church stands in ruins. In spite of being a bit of a wreck these days, its position makes for some spectacular photos. We marvelled at the gnarled trunks of the trees by the church, wondering how old they were and what they’d witnessed in the course of their lives. Below us, the port was busy with the comings and goings of container ships, a far cry from Portuguese galleons or colonial trading vessels. We looked down the other side of the hill to the dark, peaked roofs of the Melaka Sultanate Palace, a modern building the architecture of which is based on traditional palace styles. Looking at our watches we realised we should be getting back to Cedric. We descended the hill to receive the warmest greeting from the brave little man. He made us feel like long-lost family. Nevertheless, it was with some mild anxiety that we climbed back into the rickshaw for part two of our tour.
Straight back into the traffic we went, brave Cedric riding for his life. Somewhere on our left was the Independence Memorial, not that I noticed. Cedric was driving us into the middle of the road now, in rush hour traffic. I was convinced we’d be roadkill in minutes. Cedric turned across cars which approached at a horrifying speed, braking to give way to us at the last minute. “I can’t look, I can’t look!” I yelped at Monsieur, covering my eyes as Cedric pedalled us towards a certain death. But no. Somewhat obviously, we survived, as I’m able to write about this experience, which has probably lowered my expected age of death by about a decade, and were soon travelling along calm residential streets. At last, my heart resumed a regular beating pattern.
These streets were Melaka’s answer to suburbia. The single-storey bungalows stood on smallish lots, and all seemed to have a covered porch acting as an outdoor living room. People were sitting on their porches shelling peas, drinking cola, dozing in the late-afternoon sun or listening to music. It was blessedly restful here compared to the bustle just behind us, apart from all the yelling, that is.
It was soon obvious that lots of the residents knew our man, Cedric. They shouted out to him and he looked happy and proud as he waved back, yelling something in his own, special martian lingo, yet again, as he pointed back at us. For all I know, he could have been calling us names, like ’Pale Man No Balls’ and ‘No Good Wife’ but I didn’t get that vibe. Cedric was a hard worker; a dynamo, in fact. He was proud of us. We showed his friends that all was well with business.
Soon, we entered a massive, empty car park by the water. This was Portuguese Square, and was surrounded by hawker stalls selling fish and seafood straight from the net. Cedric was melting before us. We suggested he join us for a drink, but he politely declined, saying he would rest for 20 minutes and talk to his friends. Judging by the many people approaching him with shouts and smiles Cedric certainly seemed to know everyone in Melaka.
Monsieur and I sat by the shore, drinking beer as the setting sun cast a pink glow on Melaka. A woman sold fried fish at a portable barbecue stand near our table, her baby jiggling happily beside her in his pushchair. Crates of sea creatures, (the likes of which I’d never seen before but resembling giant armoured beetles), sat near us twitching their antennae but unable to escape. The various fish stalls and snack stands were already busy, even though it was still too early for the dinner trade thus, in its total simplicity, that seaside beer break turned into one of the most beautiful Kodak moments in my memory.
Having watched the sky change from blue to rose to mauve and purple as we finished our beers, it was time to move on. In hindsight, I wish we’d stayed there all evening, but we weren’t yet to know what culinary strangeness awaited us that evening. Cedric had recovered his energy now, so off we rode, onto dark Melaka streets. This time, the roads were quieter, thankfully, because we didn’t have the fairy lights that twinkled on some of the over-pimped ‘shaws we saw. We passed seedy hotels with narrow stairways straight off the street, massage parlours and non-descript eateries. Turning into a quieter road, Cedric became super-animated “Lah lah high school,” he pointed across at a modern brick building with student artwork taped to the inside of the windows. Things like that are so universal, it makes us remember that we’re not all so different after all.
Just before returning to Dutch Square, Cedric waved at people squeezed into an open shop frontage where food was being sold. “Lah lah, Hainanese Chicken Ball, Melaka BEST!” He lit up, perhaps indicating that he’d worked up an appetite in the previous few hours. It did have the air of a place which probably did serve the best rice balls in town, but at the same time, its location was uninspiring to say the least. That was probably the second mistake I made regarding our one dinner in Melaka. More about that later.
Superhuman Cedric was now slowing down. He deserved a ginormous serving of those chicken rice balls but heaven only knows where he’d put them; he was seriously small in stature, and now he was tired out.
Back outside the Stadthuys, we paid Cedric the agreed amount for the afternoon’s adventures, and he kindly took photos of us in his beloved ‘shaw before riding off slowly into the Melaka night. If ever I should be asked for advice on visiting Melaka, I’d say this: go to the Stadthuys and insist on finding Cedric. He’s very slim, but genial and genuine, and he rides as if he were born in a rickshaw. Don’t expect to understand everything he says but do expect to end the ride happier for having met such a man. He’s modest, he’s hardworking, he’s popular, but most of all he makes you feel like part of his family and when you’re travelling, that’s a very good feeling indeed.
To read previous instalment, click here.
Malaysia Part 9 – Melaka Moments
As Monsieur had selected most of the hotels for our Malaysian holiday, I decided to find something a bit different for our time in Melaka. Trawling tripadvisor, I found repeated reference to the Hotel Puri, its fabulous antiques and themed rooms and the über-efficient Madame Jo who ran front desk. If the five-star hotels we’d stayed in so far were cheap by London standards and therefore spoiling us due to a hugely favourable exchange rate, then this was to be a bit more real and a complete bargain.
It was therefore with some anticipation that we arrived at the Hotel Puri. Just as we walked through the doors, a couple burst out, visibly angry. “Take us to another hotel. A better hotel,” the woman instructed the taxi driver struggling with their bags. “This place is horrible. Nothing like the website!” Not exactly the best of omens for incoming guests.
We never saw the famous Madame Jo, instead being checked in, eventually, by slow and surly staff who really couldn’t be bothered with us or the people ahead of us. The lobby was a large tiled rectangle with cane seating around the sunken centre, where it felt like there should have been a pond or water feature. It all looked tired, but had character and would be nice contrast to the generic interiors of the international hotel groups. Or so I thought.
As we followed directions to our room, it was to be one disappointment after another. First we passed through a room full of antiques and reproductions of antiques all bundled together. None of the styles matched and nothing had been dusted in quite a long time. Then we exited a door into an outdoor courtyard, past a communal loo and up some stairs to a long, sterile corridor, where the only sign of local colour was a lizard scurrying around a plant by our door. Surely our room would be interesting? Especially after all those great photos on the hotel website. But no. It was small, boring, looked as if it belonged in a hostel and had a single window looking straight out at bricks and a smelly alleyway. To give credit where it’s due, everything was spotlessly clean, but dark and anonymous. None of the promised Perykanan accents seen on the website were present. We could have been anywhere in the world. My face fell. I had been charged with choosing one hotel for this trip and I’d failed. Miserably.
“Never mind, darling,” soothed Monsieur, “it’s only for one night.” That much was true. Thank goodness. Playing Pollyanna for a moment, we could be glad that we were centrally located and that things were clean. Besides, a change in environment wouldn’t be a bad thing; it would keep us real.
Travel always makes us hungry, so at the risk of sounding repetitive, we scuttled off down the street for a late lunch at The Coconut House, an eatery recommended by The Rough Guide:
“Art gallery, bookshop, art-film venue and woodfire pizzeria all in a tastefully renovated Chinese townhouse. Mid-range prices, good atmosphere, great pizzas, recommended.”
Hmmm. By the looks of the peeling walls and rusty old bike leaning against one wall, we were a few years out of date with our information. Still, the pizza was going to be good, right? The waitress came over with a couple of well-worn menus. Mine had half the words rubbed off so I had to ask the waitress to return fill in the gaps to help me choose.
Once we’d ordered, I looked around. There was the famous pizza oven at the back, with an open drain in the floor and a long-deceased cockroach of some notable size smeared across the wall. On another wall was painted the following saying:
‘Whoever is the lord of Melakka has his hand on the throat of Venice.’ harking back to the battles of spice trade routes, apparently.
On a specials blackboard was written: ‘Fried Calzone, Fried My Pocket, Fried Little Prince.’ I’m always keen to try new things, but eating a pocket or a Little Prince wasn’t one of them. The pocket turned out to be a small, folded over pizza, somewhat like a calzone, but regarding the Fried Little Prince, I figured that at his burial spot in Carqueiranne, St Exupéry must have been spinning a little to think that his beloved creation was on a menu in Malaysia. The Coconut House may have been a tired old haunt, but it certainly wasn’t boring.
The service was a bit eclectic as Monsieur had almost finished his pizza by the time mine arrived, but we couldn’t say they were bad. In fact, for anyone tiring of local cuisine, this was a good choice. Just don’t visit unless your OCD has been treated successfully and you can deal with indifferent service, otherwise you might find yourself back to scrubbing your hands fifty times before and after eating, and throwing your cutlery to get the waitress’s attention.
Back outside on Jalan Tun Tan Cheng Lock, we walked in the sun, intrigued by the local colonial architecture and occasional house stuffed full of expensive looking antiques. As we doubled back to the hotel, we spotted a couple of rickshaws parked in front of an important looking ancestral home behind firmly closed gates. The rickshaws were a riot of plastic flowers and other items intended to accessorise them; the sort of thing that makes me giggle involuntarily. Then we had an idea: how about taking a rickshaw tour of Melaka? So off we skipped to the rickshaw pick-up point of Dutch Square.
To read previous instalment, click here.
Malaysia, Part 8: Hey Mambo, Melaka!
We were soon to leave the island state of Singapore to return to Malaysia, but first we enjoyed a last breakfast on the terrace outside The Line. There was no more rain. Isn’t that typical? It had rained off and on the whole time we’d been in Singapore but on our day of departure the sun decided to shine.
As Monsieur buried his nose deep in a newspaper, keen for an update on world events, I dashed around with my camera, snapping the lush surrounds without raindrops distorting the view of the lens. The three-hole putting green amused me; too small to be of any real use, and vaguely decorative, I suppose… As I pondered the wannabe pro golfers who might find it a beneficial amenity, the mysterious mist rising from a valley in the gardens lured me away. Following the quiet path, I found at its end a gazebo overflowing with orchids and tropical flowering plants. It was a florist’s own Shangri La. I managed to snap a few pics of the stunning flowers, colours clashing happily in the shade and a testament to a loving gardener. Then I heard Monsieur calling. It was time to go.
We checked out and walked straight into a cab that was waiting for us, bags already loaded in the boot. Now, that’s what I call efficient. As we drove through Singapore to the Lavender Road bus station, it felt a bit sad to be leaving with so much still to see, but we didn’t have time for regrets. It was now Melaka’s turn to enthrall us.
The bus was full this time. Italian girls chattered away on the back seat as Chinese families unwrapped home-made snacks, bringing forth aromas of chilli, soy, noodles and a sniff of something fishy. Once more we cleared customs twice before zooming along the Malaysian jungle highways. There wasn’t a lot to see. Just trees, a straight road and clear blue sky. We made one rest stop at a small clutch of uninspiring roadside buildings. This time, I did not visit the ladies’ room. I didn’t need to, and didn’t think I could stomach it alongside the pervasive cooking smell from an adjacent noodle bar. Instead, Monsieur and I basked in the warm day, stretching our legs in anticipation of the last stretch of journey.
As we neared Melaka, we drove past a large man-made waterfall gushing water over perfect rock formations. Then I heard ‘Hey Mambo’ playing. At first it sounded like a ringtone and I silently cursed the owner of the offending mobile. The music got louder. It wasn’t a phone, after all; it was the bus’s sound system.
‘Hey, mambo! Mambo italiano
Go, go, go you mixed up siciliano
All you calabraise-a do the mambo like a crazy with a…’
and, joy of joys, for all the Rosemary Clooney fans out there, it continued on a loop:
‘Hey mambo, don’t wanna tarantella
Hey mambo, no more a mozzarella
Hey mambo! Mambo italiano!’ and on…and on…and on it went. We were stuck in a traffic jam for ages, but that’s okay. We could mambo our way into Melaka!
By the time we reached the Sentral bus station, we were just a little bit mamboed out. The station itself was a modern hub of shops, stalls and ticket counters. There were racks of colourful headscarves next to bright plastic toys and snack stands. Locals and travellers milled around waiting for buses to somewhere else. Monsieur and I dragged our bags to a cab. Boy, did we ever have a friendly driver. He wasted no time finding out what we were about.
“You on honeymoon?” Not exactly. “No, we’re just on holiday.” we replied. Driver beamed a smile as warm as the sun outside. “You like Malaysia?” he asked. “Yes, we love it. It’s a fascinating country.” I enthused. If possible, Driver’s smile widened. He was obviously proud of his homeland. A brief but searching Malaysian Inquisition commenced, covering our itinerary, where we’d been so far and where we were headed next.
“You return to Malaysia one day? Maybe on honeymoon?” Ah, how to answer this one without Monsieur running off for the Cameron Highlands. “Yes, definitely, we’d love to come back.” That satisfied Driver for the moment. Now it was my turn to interrogate. “What’s your favourite food?” I asked. A menu of dishes tripped off Driver’s tongue. “I like pineapple fried rice, sweet and sour chicken with pineapple, seafood with pineapple, Singapore noodles with pineapple, and fresh pineapple.” Wow. My mother likes a good Hawaiian pizza from time to time, but this was pineapple overdrive. The man was in the wrong business. He should be working for Dole in Hawaii.
“Ah, see that place there?” Driver asked, pointing at a humble-looking tented hawker stall with a dozen white plastic table sets surrounding it, “you eat golf balls there. Best golf balls, haha.” He laughed at his own joke, creasing his happy eyes almost closed in mirth. “Hainanese chicken rice balls. I call them golf balls because they look like golf balls.” he chortled. Driver’s humour was infectious. I giggled along with him.
Soon we reached the hotel and removed our bags from the boot. The driver shook our hands warmly. “You each gain six kilo before you leave Malaysia,” he instructed, “or we not welcome you back, haha!”
Even if we did not know it at the time, our gaining weight was not to be a problem.
To read the previous instalment, click here.
To read the next instalment, click here.
