May 29, 2015
George Town, Penang: Trishaws and trying to invade
Once again we sailed southwards overnight and by morning were approaching a Malaysian island. This time it was a port in Penang that we docked up next to, the tall tower blocks of Malaysia’s second largest city of George Town glinting white as the first rays of another bright sunny day reflected off them.
Tom had already spent two weeks in Penang during his own bicycle travels through Malaysia, and had stopped off here to look for a sailing boat that would take him to Australia. Of course he hadn’t found a sailing boat that would take him to Australia, which I suspect was partly because of his appearance but mostly because of the fact that Penang is, relatively speaking, absolutely nowhere near Australia. Still, his dreams had eventually come true, and today he actually would be boarding a boat in Penang that would take him to Australia, having of course made the longwinded route back here via Sumatra, Singapore, and countless hours in the Malacca Straits. Knowing George Town quite well he announced that he would show me around and that he also really must stop off at the hostel that he stayed at in order to tell all his friends that he had finally found his boat.
The inner city of George Town is actually a UNESCO world heritage site, I believe primarily because of the old colonial buildings. Whether this protection means that the building of safe footpaths is prohibited I don’t know, but certainly I didn’t hugely enjoy walking around in busy Asian roadways any more than I had during the preceding year and a half. So close to the end of Asia it seemed a shame to get run over now. In order to avoid this fate most of the large number of tourists that flooded the streets opted for the (relative) safety of a trishaw. Essentially a rickshaw with the passengers seated at the front, these rickety old bikes were everywhere, gaunt Chinese men straining at the pedals beneath sun-shielding umbrellas. The passengers seemed to love the ride, snapping photos as they trundled along, but perhaps their tourist dollars were not being effectively spent here. Tom told me he saw many of the men sleeping at night in their trishaws and that for many of them the money they made was simply to fuel drug habits.
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We walked through Little India, which probably would have looked a bit more like a little version of India had not 90% of the people there been white tourists, and then found our way down a little side street. Ahead of us was the hostel where Tom had stayed before, and where he wanted to return to triumphantly reveal that he had at last found his boat. As we approached there was another guest, dreadlocked and scruffy, sitting outside with at least a passing resemblance to both Tom and a caricature of a backpacker. Beyond him was the hostel manager who looked up at us. Tom said hello. The manager looked at him vacantly. A few words were exchanged and Tom walked away.
“He didn’t recognise you did he?” I asked.
“No. Let’s go.”
Next we walked to the 18th century Fort Cornwallis that these days seems a rather silly little thing lying beneath the skyscrapers close to the bay. Having said that, although the fort walls were not that high, the modern-day level of protection remained enough to keep us out. The canons may no longer be loaded and the drawbridge permanently down, but the considerable entrance fee requested at the gate held us back. Tom considered an invasion, a scaling of the walls out of sight of the ticket counter, and went so far as to clamber halfway up before declaring that he was scared of getting in trouble and dropping back down to the ground. So we retreated to the safety of the ship, leaving Fort Cornwallis’s defences unbreached.
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Back on board and away we sailed, and between periodic visits to the buffet I managed to fill my evening with a visit to the gym, a show featuring dancing girls, and a Hugh Grant movie under the stars. It doesn’t get much better than that.
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