by Jamie Maslin
The city’s morning rush hour was in full swing and it wasn’t long before a car began to pull over for me. It narrowly missed my pack but hit the helmet Dan had given me back on Bali, jamming it between the bumper and the gravelly roadside. It took a considerable effort to yank it free, and although in one piece, it now sported several deep grooves from the stony surface along which it scraped.
Needless to say, it was with a distinct air of caution that I approached the passenger side of the vehicle. Did I really want to get in? But then again, a lift is a lift. The driver was a short and skinny old bloke, with a deeply furrowed face, and wild angry eyes, who wore an Arab-style one-piece body-dress, and a red and white checkered headscarf.
“Where you go?” he not so much asked as demanded.
“Melaka,” I replied, but sensed that he was after money, so told him I couldn’t pay.
It was as if I’d flicked a switch in him. He went crazy and started shouting and cursing at me with uncontrolled venom.
“You fucking!—You donkey!—FUCK!” he screamed as if trying to remember how to insult someone in English.
He began to pull off, but then hit the brakes so he could give me some more.
“Why you come Malaysia if no money!” he yelled, pulling off now, shouting more abuse and swerving wildly into the road.
“Freak,” I muttered to myself, turning back to face the oncoming traffic.
I thought nothing more of the incident, until, a minute later, I spotted the weirdo sitting in his car on the gas station forecourt, staring my way with a fixated glare. His car faced towards me and the oncoming traffic. He had initially passed the gas station so must have hung a U-turn to return, and it didn’t look like it was to purchase fuel; he couldn’t pull out onto the road this way so I began to wonder if he had come back with the intention of running me or my pack down. No sooner had the macabre thought popped into my head, he floored it in my direction. Grabbing my pack I hastily stepped forwards and to the side, finishing up past a curb leading into the station, over which he couldn’t drive. He came skidding to a halt nearby, looking none too happy I’d thwarted him.
“Why you have no money!” he yelled at me through his open window.
“Oh, just piss off, you old bastard,” I replied.
It didn’t have the desired effect.
“This is Muslim country!” he screamed back at me repeatedly like a stuck record, as if that meaningless utterance was somehow relevant or justified his attempt at running me down.
“Why you come Malaysia if you have no money!” he yelled once more, fumbling now in his wallet for a handful of banknotes, which he waved sarcastically in my direction.
Despite attempting to run me over, for the briefest of moments I stood watching, almost entertained. I wasn’t the only one. Motorists passing in the now slow-moving, congested traffic began staring towards the both of us.
More inane invective flowed from him towards me, and it wasn’t long before I found it tedious. With no sign of him moving on, I looked further up the road to see if there was anywhere else feasible for me to wait. Nothing was within sight.
I tried to wave him off but it was no good.
“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” he yelled among other nonsense; baiting me, desperate, it seemed, for a row.
I took the bait.
Pointing his way I mimed, “You’re crazy!” It hardly calmed him down.
From his glove compartment came something wrapped up in a clump of fabric, which he hastily unraveled, revealing—a meat cleaver!
Bloody hell. This guy was a complete fruitcake!
Brandishing it in my direction he began screwing up his face, no doubt trying to look intimidating. He looked like a twat. Thrusting the cleaver down the side of his seat he opened the car door and got out. Walking aggressively towards me, he stopped just outside my personal space and then really embarrassed himself. Striking an over-the-top theatrical martial arts-style pose—the sort of thing you might expect from a nineteen-seventies kung-fu flick titled, Praying Mantis and the Rum Soaked Fist—he beckoned me on, challenging for a fight.
I laughed in his face and told him to “fuck off.”
If he had been thirty years younger, a foot taller and a hundred-and-fifty pounds heavier then I might have afforded him a little more caution, but without his battering ram of a car he was as much threat as an angry sparrow. The old bugger abandoned his Jackie Chan antics when a packed public bus came to a standstill in the traffic next to us, and its passengers began pointing and staring his way. He reverted back to yelling, now almost exclusively in Malaysian. As the bus began to pull off I pondered giving the crowd a laugh by yanking down his headscarf, but then spotted a couple of motorcycle cops and decided to flag them down. Maybe they could move him on.
They dutifully came to a stop, and after a brief consultation with me, quickly pulled the old guy to one side. He started remonstrating with them, pointing my way and no doubt describing me in the darkest possible manner.
With the cops’ backs turned, a mischievous idea flashed across my mind.
I flicked the old bastard the bird.
He went ballistic. Yelling and pointing, he tried to replicate for the police what I had done, but in his fury used his index finger instead of middle one. The cops turned around to look at me.
Butter wouldn’t have melted in my mouth. I was the picture of innocence, and looked their way with a confused expression, as if to say, “Is there a problem officers?”
They turned back to him. No sooner had they done so and I did it again.
The same result followed but this time he got the correct finger when demonstrating. Once more the cops looked my way, and once more they found me standing there, hands by my side, innocent as a lamb.
I really should have quit while I was ahead, but couldn’t resist a third go, and this time got complacent. Flicking him the middle finger, I let it linger in the air a satisfying moment too long, and before I knew it, one of the officers had whipped his neck around and caught me in the act.
He was not best pleased.
“If you do that again I will take you to the police station.”
I apologized, and probably shouldn’t have been so gung-ho with the law in the first place, but I can’t say I was particularly concerned.
“You must leave now or get a bus,” he instructed.
I did as I was told—leaving that is—hiking up the road, doing so with periodic cautionary glances behind me, just in case the geriatric nut-case had a mind to follow and run me over.
It took a while before I located another suitable place to wait, and after about five minutes a medium-sized truck pulled over. Two guys sat inside. Both were cheery souls but only the driver spoke English. From his traditional songkok cap and the prayer beads hanging in the cab, it was clear that he was Muslim. Unlike his brethren down the road, he couldn’t have been nicer. In good English he told me how he always picked up hitchhikers and tried to help others whenever the opportunity arose.
“If you do good, then good will be done to you,” he said.
And, as if to emphasise the point, he drove me a significant distance out of his way, dropping me on a highway turning for the historic colonial port city of Melaka; once part of the Portuguese Empire, then the Dutch, then British, as well as having a brief stint under Japanese rule during the Second World War. It was my intended destination today. Apparently a toll section began about a mile along the highway, but having no idea whether or not it was illegal to hike along a highway in Malaysia, I did so at a considerably fast pace, so as to reach it before any further shenanigans with the law.
On arrival I slipped through to the other side, using a coach to block my view from the official working the booth, just in case this turned out to be prohibited. Vehicles streamed past for about ten minutes before an almighty modern truck came to a stop next to me, letting out a loud pneumatic hiss. To reach the cab required climbing several metal steps. Inside were a couple of ultra enthusiastic g
uys in their late thirties, Isa and Botak. Both were delighted with some foreign company and although neither spoke much English, we hit it off from the start, with us all singing karaoke-style to their Eagles CD less than a minute into the drive.
After the roads of Indonesia, traveling in Malaysia was a dream. The highways were modern, and the vehicles likewise. Whizzing through a generally flat and green landscape, we passed an area where a river had burst its banks, flooding the surrounding fields and reaching just shy of the road.
“I see twenty dead cow on other road,” said Isa, pointing to the floods.
Further on and we stopped at a rest area where Isa kindly presented me with a can of “100” energy drink, as well as some fresh pineapple and watermelon, served with an odd covering of seasoning called “lam powder.”
“What is it made from?” I asked.
He struggled a bit with the words, but left me with the impression that it was dried mango.
“Eat too much, not good stomach,” he said.
Our journey together came to an end at another toll, roughly twenty miles from Melaka.
“Jamie, you no forget me,” requested Isa as we parted.
I promised him I wouldn’t.
I had no problem picking up another ride, this time in a car driven by a former Olympian hockey player, now a coach, named Shaiful, who took me to another toll. From here a charming couple in their sixties, Ester and Albert, drove me in a car with a crucifix hanging from its mirror into Melaka, where they downright insisted on buying me lunch at a quaint little “satay house” near the banks of the Melaka River.
“Eat as much as you like,” instructed Ester in the packed restaurant as a waiter delivered the first of multiple servings of Malaysian delicacy, satay—tender marinated pork on sticks, served with peanut sauce, cucumber and onions.
“The price of onions is very expensive due to a bad harvest,” said Albert, a stockbroker by trade, when a measly second portion was brought out.
After lunch they took me into the historic heart of the city, and before dropping me at a centrally located hostel, handed a little patterned red envelope my way.
“For Chinese new year,” said Ester with a motherly smile.
When they’d disappeared I opened it. Inside was twenty ringgit (about seven dollars).
After dropping off my pack in a stuffy windowless room, I strode off to get a better look at Melaka. It was a clean, modestly-sized port city with a medley of historic architecture; a pleasant enough location to spend the day, but somewhat tame, lacking in the buzz of Indonesia, and crawling with foreign tourists—the first I’d seen since Borobudur. For the next few hours I strolled around this one-time maritime trading hub of three successive European powers, perusing salmon-colored Dutch architecture from the seventeenth century, the ruins of an old sixteenth century Portuguese fortress, the roofless shell of a hilltop Catholic church, and a landlocked full-size replica of a 500-year-old, 400 ton sailing ship. It was relaxing and interesting, but hardly high adventure; come the morning I decided to push north towards Thailand.
* * *
Now here’s a tip. If you’re hitchhiking through a foreign land and can’t speak the language, then do yourself a favor and have a map. Having previously navigated from Johor Bahru to Melaka after glancing at Google Maps in the lobby of my hotel, I felt confident of doing the same again in Melaka in order to travel the far longer journey to the country’s border with Thailand. On screen was a long straight highway heading there by way of the capital, Kuala Lumpur, so it seemed simple enough. But with no map in my possession to point at for drivers, things got a little confusing, especially with non English speakers. It was a stupid mistake that cost me a good couple of hours after the inevitable happened, and I was taken off course.
As a result, by mid-afternoon I found myself riding along a minor road, past foliage-covered sugar-loaf mountains, one in the process of being torn down as part of a mining operation. Behind the wheel of the car sat an interesting character; a traditional Malay restaurant owner from the north with an odd sense of distance.
“Thailand is long way,” he told me. “You should get bus.”
I reassured him that it really wasn’t very far—roughly a hundred miles—especially given that I had already hitchhiked here from Tasmania.
“Noooo!” he stated in a manner that all but invited the conclusion he thought I was lying. “That is very long way.”
“Yeah, it’s a bit of a distance,” I concurred with a good dose of British understatement.
“You like Thailand,” he told me with wide-eyed enthusiasm further up the road. “They got lady boy. You know lady boy?”
I told him that I was familiar, in a strictly academic sense, with the concept.
“Thai girl, twenty for night. You think okay to come three time?”
“Depends on the small print, I guess.”
“They like European, they have big cock! I watch movie and they have very big COCK.”
He emphasized the last word with a perverse smile as if deriving a thrill out of uttering it, and mimed grasping a hold of something the size of a football.
“Do you have big cock?” he asked. “You got BIG COCK?
“Erm, sufficient,” I answered.85
Deeming this conversation to have gone far enough, I not so much faked tiredness as finally gave in to the nagging blanket of fatigue that had, for the last few hours, been threatening to envelop me. I closed my heavy eyes and almost instantly fell asleep.
Sometime later I was rudely shaken to a jolted state of consciousness.
“Look! Look!” he cried.
By the side of the road was a twisted five car pile-up, one belching dancing flames and thick black smoke into the filthy air. Victims stood around in various states of distress. A mother cradled a baby by the roadside.
Then they were gone.
We parted company at a toll. As I stood here by the roadside my gaze fell towards the setting sun, now big and bright orange, and soon to drop beneath the horizon. The oppressive heat of the day had now departed. Fatigue took a hold of me again, gnawing away at my resolve to push forward to the border. It had been a long day, and with a reluctant sigh I began to glance around for somewhere to throw my tent. A gas station stood nearby, where about twenty young guys sat on their motorbikes, revving them in unison, creating a deafening roar. Further on were a few random buildings—cafés, bathrooms and the like—where several cars were parked. Beyond lay a generally undulating terrain with occasional random strips of greenery. Nowhere looked particularly feasible. I decided to try my luck a little longer.
Somewhere in the region of twenty minutes passed by, when one of the cars that had been parked in front of the bathroom-block began reversing in my direction. Behind the wheel sat a pretty girl in her mid twenties, next to whom was a guy in his late teens.
“Where are you trying to get to?” asked the girl in excellent English.
“The border with Thailand.”
“Oh. That’s a long way.”
It really wasn’t, but Malaysians, it was confirmed once more, had their own thoroughly distorted sense of scale.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“Alor Setar.”
This was perfect. Having previously got my cock-obsessed lift to write down the major towns on the way to the border, I knew Alor Setar was one of them, and only thirty miles from Thailand. It really is an odd thing about hitchhiking that often people conclude that unless they’re going right to your final destination, then any lift along the way, even if it’s for a good distance, is somehow not worth offering. From now on I would only request a ride to the next town; if the driver was traveling beyond this then I’d negotiate something further once on the move.
I explained that Alor Setar was a fine destination and that a lift there would be much appreciated.
“Get in,” said the girl, reaching into the back with a smooth and delicate hand to shake as I clambered on board. “I’m Ann. O
h, and this is my brother, Jalal.”
He nodded my way.
Jalal spoke little English, so Ann and I chatted between ourselves as she drove.
“Many years ago my family picked up an Australian like you. We call him Uncle David, he stayed with us for a month and still stays in touch. He is part of our family now.”
Ann explained that she had to rendezvous with her family at a distant truck stop, from where they would all drive on in convoy to Alor Setar. They would book into a hotel in readiness for the wedding of another brother in the morning. It grew dark shortly before we reached the truck stop, which was a scene of unremitting chaos, packed to the rafters with travel-weary motorists and passengers, which Ann attributed to the Chinese New Year.
By the looks of it most of her extended family was here: nieces and nephews, aunties and uncles, cousins and grandparents, all in attendance waiting for Ann and her brother in the truck-stop car-lot. With the exception of Ann, all the women wore traditional headscarfs.
“Ah, like Uncle David!” rejoiced Ann’s mother as I was introduced.
She was a small elegant-looking woman with an infectious personality.
“Jamie,” she said, leaning in towards me with a knowing smile after hearing my next destination. “When you go to Thailand, if you want to live a long time—” she paused for effect, tilting her head downwards and ever-so-slightly to one side while peered my way as if over a pair of imaginary spectacles “—then no sex with prostitutes!” She shook her head from side to side to emphasise the point, then repeated the last line, this time tapping out the syllables with a finger, “NO—SEX—WITH—PROS—TI—TUTES!” A beaming, smile crept across her face.
Recalling for me now the time she had spent in London, we chatted for a minute about the U.K. before she queried, “Would you like to come to a wedding tomorrow?”
I did.
Brief introductions with the rest of the family were made, and then we were on our way. Before I knew it we had arrived in Alor Setar. I can’t say I paid much attention to my surroundings; by now I was ready for a sleep, and looked out on the darkened town through eyes almost comatose with fatigue.