Enough to put you off adventures

Press, 13 December 1982, Page 20

Enough to put you off adventures

Pamela Williams recalls a hair-raising taxi ride undertaken in search of authentic local colour in ‘old’ Malaysia.

Few New Zealanders would have any idea of the dangers awaiting travellers on the roads of many of our popular overseas tourist destinations. Travelling the 250 kilometres from Singapore to Malacca in local transport was a hair-raising yet fascinating segment of’ a more conventional recent trip overseas. While we were enjoying our holiday in Singapore, a well-earned break from the previous five weeks of conference and research stations, both my husband and I felt the urge to see something of the “old" Malaysia. We were told that we could take a bus tour to Malacca. But that left no time to explore the varied Malaysian. Dutch. Portuguese, and British his-

tory of the once strategically important coastal town. So we decided to lake a "shared taxi." rather than the regular bus service, hoping to gain an extra half day of exploration in the three days we had alloted to our Malaccan visit. We were told the taxi trip would take only four hours and so off we set, collected promptly at 8 a m. bv the driver of a Malaysian registered car. Seven horn's later we levered our numbed, sweaty bodies from the old Mercedes taxi and entered the cool, peaceful interior of the Malacca Information Bureau. We booked a quiet, air-conditioned room in a local hotel before venturing into narrow streets to find the local money-exchanger in his darkened shop interior. With local coins in our pockets we next braved the hurtling, hectic local buses to reach our hotel. We survived the chaotic bus station, where we had to change buses, congratulating ourselves for travelling with only one small suitcase as we clambered on , to a numbered bus which just left at an apparently random time. A day later that bus was to haemorrhage between the motor and rear wheels while we were rattling, at speed. But after an initial five second stop it slowly graunched and rumbled on tc the bus station. After a welcome shower and two cups of strong coffee at our hotel we finally felt some degree of recovery and reflected on our travelling “experience.” There is only one sealed,

two-lane road leading north from Singapore to the major centres of Malaysia. Trucks and tankers battle their way along this main route, carrying everything from livestock to engines, fruit to rubber products, and the drivers appear to suffer from death-wish. At times the trucks were bumper to bumper, our taxi sandwiched in between, awaiting the rare opportunities to escape the belching diesel fumes. Never have I studied the local countryside, crops, vegetation, buildings,, and people with such intensity. It was an active attempt to avoid the sight of the oncoming, space-splitting, overtaking trucks. Oil palms marched like regiments of green tufted feather dusters across low rolling hills. Tall rubber trees leaned at a subtle angle in their plantation lines, slanted latex dripping belts at various heights. Rubber workers poured the brimming cups of latex into large tins and carried them to a collection point. Soft white rubber mats were draped, presumably to dry. over what appeared to be household washing lines. Where areas of old rubber .trees had been felled there were now new plantings of pineapple, cocoa, or oil palms. A few groves of young rubber trees w'ere seen, but

the extensive plantations of young and mature oil palms were indicators of the importance of palm oil in Malaysia's wealth. Malay-style houses on very tall piles, peak-roofed, verandaed. and some with thatch patches in their corrugated iron roofs were tucked amongst the trees and plantations lining the highway. Brahman cattle w’ere tethered on grass patches in front of some homes, while ant-hills shared the corners of other packed earth yards where colourful hens and roosters scratched and strutted. In 110 kilometres we were held up by two spectacular truck accidents, and drove through the still-spilling diesel from one cab-obli-terated overturned tanker. Head-on smashes were obviously the rule, so my attention turned avidly to roadside detail. Fruit stalls seemed dangerously close to the road. Huge pineapples swung from support poles, local fruits brimmed over wide wooden trays and piles of coconuts. soursops and pineapples waited at the road edge. Bundles of tall sugar-cane leaned against some stalls and interesting bunches of large apricot-like fruits hung pendulously from stall shades. Our elderly Chinese travelling companion insisted on sharing his delicious refresh-

ing "langsat” fruits with us — we easily peeled and popped out the firm jelly-like flesh from the pale apricot coloured, plum-sized fruits. Later we were to sample a range of similar fruits in the Malacca market. The road passed right through the central market areas of the local towns. The local people seemed adept at dodging the traffic, which conceded little speed through populated areas. Great stacks of large khaki-glazed earthenware pots, used for storage of water, beans, eggs, or whatever captured my imagination. but I could not envisage transporting one safely back to New Zealand. Eventually we pulled into a drab, road-side cafe area. The wooden open-sided, concrete floored structure had grim toilet facilities but did have a wash-basin and soap. However, the tables were clean, the service friendly and quick, and the Malaysian food was excellent and inexpensive. Iced China tea assuaged our thirst before we climbed into the back seat of the taxi to rejoin the thundering stream of traffic. Fortunately we soon turned off the main Singa-pore-Kuala Lumpur road and headed more westwards towards Malacca. Local “traffic” was more evident on the road. Schoolgirls dressed in long tunics, flowing skirts and Muslim-

type headresses rode seemingly carefree along the side of the road and local merchants pedaled their overloaded bicycles. Scooters zipped everywhere. and we watched anxiously as an overtaking truck completely ignored the presence of an on-coming scooter, forcing the rider to flee into the roadside ditch — from where he yelled and shook his helmet at the rear of the offending truck. Obviously hang-gliding would be a tame recreation compared with riding a scooter in Malaysia — a thought reinforced later in Malacca when my alert husband snatched me from the path of a kamikaze scooter outside our hotel. For reasons known only to himself our driver detoured near Muar, into an apparent junk-yard, made some arrangement with a fellow compatriot who then took over the driving of our “taxi,” and climbed into another car. With a fresh driver at the wheel we now hurtled onwards. I desperately studied the extensive rice-growing areas, the groups and rows of wide-brimmed planter hats sheltering the workers laboriously hand-planting the rice paddies. Harnessed Brahman bullocks trudged steadily through areas being prepared for planting. Everywhere the glint of water was apparent. Houses

need to be on stilts in those areas. Temples abounded along the road areas, some Indian with carved female figures and incense galore, some Chinese with ornate roof edg T ings and dragons entwined. My favourite temple roof shape was that of the halfopen umbrella on top of regularly shaped buildings. Suddenly I spotted some beautifully decorated steps, leading up to the traditionally styled Malay homes. They reminded me of a prize-winning suburban garden street, so much careful beautification. Huge trees were loaded with unusual red or yellow fruits, bright tropical flowers brightened the intense green of the local vegetation. Steam rose from the hot road and warm earth after a small shower had passed. Eventually we reached the outskirts of Malacca, passed through a kampong style village and on pulling into the Information Bureau were able to escape our transport. Needless to say. I had no intention of repeating such a trip when we returned to Singapore, and announced I'd pay the extra and fly. However, there is no direct air or rail link between Singapore and Malacca. That left only the option of a bus trip. Knowing that. I made sure my time in Malacca was well spent and endeavoured to “see all." But that is another story.