Penang

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We've been in a bit of a slump lately. Our last month in India was a drag. We became thoroughly disgruntled with the country, its ways, and its people. Our arrival in Singapore perked us up some. We felt the thrill of being in a new and unfamiliar place, a different culture and landscape. The cleanliness and orderliness of the place was shocking but relieving. Everything sparkled and shone; the space-age skyscrapers, the spanking new cars, the fashionable teenagers, even the pavements themselves. The people were polite, and after India, seemed cheerful and relaxed. With more than 4 million people living on an island measuring 227 square miles, Singapore is one of the most densely populated countries in the world. But it doesn't seem so, and the streets are lined with beautiful tropical trees. There are good parks on the island, even a little virgin rainforest remains.
Despite being thrown into a more organised environment, we were having difficulty pulling ourselves out of our rut and become excited about travelling again. We told ourselves that we were over-travelled and over-tired, that it is time to go home. Our arrival in Penang seems to have signaled an end to this slump, and a week dragging ourselves up through the palm oil plantations of Malaysia, trying to force an interest in this otherwise interesting country.

The touts hang around outside the central bus station in Kuala Lumpur, and when they see you coming with your backpack they snap to attention. "Where are you going?" they demand. Reluctantly you mutter that you're heading to Penang, but avoid making eye contact, as if by doing so they will become discouraged and leave you alone. "OK, come!" they say, and begin walking in front of you as you make your way to the ticket offices, looking back at you regularly, extending their arm towards you and wriggling their fingers in a gesture to follow. They take you to the most expensive company, the one which pays them commission, so you quickly lose them in the crowd and buy a ticket from one of the other several dozen companies that have buses leaving within the next fifteen minutes.
Thus we found ourselves on a cushy, air-conditioned bus with lots of leg room and reclining seats. Bus travel in Malaysia is substantially more expensive than in India, but you do get extra comfort for your money. It wasn't long before the endless monotony of palm oil plantations lulled me to sleep. I awoke to see ocean on all sides. We were crossing the Penang bridge, whose existence had somehow managed to elude me; I'd been expecting a ferry trip. A minute later the bus stopped and we were being ushered off, the bus was returning to the mainland. Going out into the heat of the day was a shock, and we stood there on the side of a busy highway, groggy and disoriented, squinting in the sun. A moment later another bus pulled up and the driver helpfully informed us that he was going to Georgetown (Penang's main town). So we climbed aboard, back into the domain of AC.
In Georgetown we got off at the main mosque and walked up to Chinatown. In the lobby of the first guesthouse we visited we were greeted by a man who took one look at us and said "Ah, you want the cheap room? Come." He then proceeded up a creaky wooden stairway. He led us to a simple but clean room furnished with a bed, a table, a chair, a sink and mirror, and a wardrobe that looked like it might have been part of the set for "The shining", in a scene involving an axe and the line "Here's Johnny!"
The building had a certain charm. We agreed to take it, relieved that our hotel hunting was to come to an end so quickly. He handed us the key and smiled, saying "I am very happy for you!" before disappearing downstairs.
Penang is an interesting place. It was colonised by the British in 1786 and became major trading port for the East India Company. Before long it became a major hub of the spice trade and was known as "the pearl of the orient". People began to flock there from all over Asia, and soon the island was a melting pot of cultures. Now that the East India Company has ceased to be, and the spice trade has declined, what is left is a multi-ethnic society occupying a crumbling but quaint colonial city.
We spent the first day wandering around the streets of Georgetown. Chinatown was bustling with markets, foodstalls and hawkers selling various goods, interspersed with clusters of noisy and haphazard mechanics' and welders' workshops. Along the esplanade would have been the focal point of the town during the British era, but on this day it was practically abandoned, the grandiose administrative buildings looking solemn and ghostly. Little India was like a parody of the real thing, like India in almost every aspect but it lacked cows, piles of putrid garbage and suffocating exhaust fumes. The smell of incense permeated the air and loud hindi-pop offended the ears. People were busy buying and selling silks, saris, jewellery, DVDs, Indian sweetmeats, samosas and other snacks.
Walking along Pitt Street, in the centre of town, we passed St Georges church, an imposing whitewashed stone building that was the main place of worship for the colonialists. It is still a functioning church, although currently closed for restoration. A block further on we passed a Hindu temple, in the south Indian Dravidian style, a jumble of multi-coloured statuettes of gods, animals and people gracing its facade. Across the street was a Buddhist temple dedicated to the Goddess of Mercy (Buddhism in Penang is heavily syncretised with Taoism and Confucianism). The next block was dominated by the Mughal style main mosque. These buildings, all within a three minute walk, have stood side by side for 200 years.
The Buddhist temple was a hive of activity. In the front courtyard, giant pink incense sticks stood burning, 6 feet high and thicker than my arm. Crowds of people milled around holding bundles of incense and flower garlands above their heads. The activity was most intense around the main entrance and at the many idols, where people jostled for position, making offerings and saying prayers. We struck up a conversation with a Malay man holding a baby, whose wife was inside praying. Today was the annual festival of the Goddess of Mercy, he told us. She has become popular in Penang, ever since world war II, when the Japanese were bombing the island. When the airstrikes began, people poured into the temple, praying to the Goddess to provide them with refuge. She obliged, and the people of Penang have not forgotten. We chatted with this guy for a while and watched the goings on. Next to us, a woman was selling pigeons, sparrows and finches. She had hundreds of them crammed into a few cages. People would buy a bird then take it to the temple entrance, face the image of the goddess, and release it.
We wandered on to the mosque down the street, where a man greeted us at the entrance. He explained that he was a volunteer, and would gladly take us on a tour of the mosque, free of charge. He said it skillfully, in a way which left us in no doubt of what he was really saying: we were to be supervised inside the mosque, and really he would rather that we hadn't come at all, our presence being a violation of the sanctity of the mosque. We began our tour, and he imparted information in a patronizing way, treating us like imbeciles.
In front of the ablutions tank he suddenly broke off his spiel, saying "Don't be afraid to ask me any questions. Anything at all, I am your friend." We began asking him about the history of the mosque and Islam on Penang. He answered our questions defensively.
I commented on the diversity of religious structures on this street. He smiled, "Yes, many westerners cannot believe this, but all of our religions have been living together peacefully for hundreds of years. This street is called Pitt Street after the British prime minister, but to local people it is known as Harmony Street."
He then led us to a notice board, upon which was posted a family tree of all the prophets of Islam, from Adam to Mohammed. He began talking about the prophets but interrupted himself. "Which religion do you belong to?" he asked.
"Eh, Christian" replied Emily.
"Which denomination?"
"Presbyterian."
"And you sir?"
"The same." I said.
He then drew our attention to Mary and Jesus on the chart, pointing out that Muslims also honour them as prophets. "But some people despise them," he said "Do you know who?"
Perplexed, we admitted that we didn't. "Jewish people" he said, nodding his head solemly. He then embarked on a rant about how the Jews despise Christianity and all that it stands for. It was a blatant attempt to win us over to his side, to band together against the perceived common enemy. But he was going about it in a sneaky and indirect way, saying enough to be highly offensive but leaving an escape route open for himself should we turn on him.
I interrupted him, "What's your point?" I said, more to get him to stop speaking for a second than because I actually wanted to hear his point.
"I am telling you about what the Jews think," he said "Ask any Jewish people what they think about Jesus. In America, in Scotland, anywhere. But make sure you don't tell them you are christian or they won't be honest."
"We came here to learn about Islam, not Judaism" said Emily.
"OK, I am telling you" he said, beginning to get worked up, "Ask them about Jesus, then you will know. They say Jesus is a bastard. That Mary is a bitch! A prostitute!" He spat the words out venomously.
"I really don't think you should be using a place of worship to try and create divisions like this, least of all to tourists who are just visiting. A minute ago you were talking proudly about religious pluralism and about salvation lying in pure intentions ..."
He cut me off and continued on his rant, only fueled by our protestations. "Let's go" said Emily.
"I can see that you are very angry" he said angrily.
"Not angry" replied Emily calmly, "just disappointed."
"I can see that you love the Jews very much," he said in a bitter voice as we turned to leave.
"Not especially," I said, "we just don't want to listen to you trying to breed hatred." We walked off, disgusted.

After spending the last 8 months on the Indian subcontinent, it would be no surprise if we were thoroughly sick of Indian cuisine. But since arriving in south-east Asia, again and again we have found ourselves turning to the Indian community for sustenance. This is due in no small part to the certainty of obtaining pure vegetarian food, as well as luxury of being able to understand what items on a menu are (if there is one). Malay and Chinese dishes, though delicious, tend to be on the meaty side, and communicating the needs of a vegetarian is not always easy. But in Penang, determined to be more adventurous, we took a walk by the food stalls which congregate in chinatown in the evening. We stopped by one which looked appealling, serving up wontons and fried vegetables on a bed of noodles. I ordered a plate and we sat down at a table where an old Chinese man was getting tucked into the same dish.
He welcomed us to the table. "This food very good taste," he said, "called wonton mee." A baseball hat on his head struggled to contain fuzzy tufts of wiry grey hair. We got to talking. He was a taxi driver, had lived in Penang his whole life, and knew where all the best food stalls were.
"You stay in cheap hotel?" he asked. I admitted that we did. "How much? Fifty ringet?"
"Twenty," I said.
He laughed, "Twenty ringet," he managed between chuckles, "That is not a room!" I could see his point.
He finished his meal and excused himself, he had things to do, he said. We were left with our own wonton mee, which I found fairly good, although the wontons were a little slimy.
After dinner we went for a fruit juice and then headed back towards our guesthouse, passing by the foodstalls once again. At one, a large bowl of noodle soup caught our eyes, and we paused to admire it, commenting to eachother how good it looked. "This food very good taste," said the man eating the soup. The voice was familiar; it was the same taxi driver. Upon recognising him we laughed and asked how the food compared to the other place. "This different taste, this fishball soup." We told him we'd try it tomorrow and left him to it.

Today, the population of Penang is made up largely of three groups; Malay, Chinese and Indian. There are also many smaller minorities, including Indonesians, Filipinos, Burmese, Japanese and a smattering of western expats. There is a vibrant tourist industry, which seems to add to the vibrancy of the place rather than diminish its authenticity. It's a nice place to spend a few days, and we never did make it outside of Georgetown ...

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Comments

[Mary Lou]

News from Penang
As always, enjoyed your commentaries and the colorful pictures, and the story in the mosque. Thanks for including pictures of yourselves, you both look fresh, even after these many months. Now I know something about Penang. Always educational, your blogs. What adventures.