I recently got back from a short road trip with some dear girls, every day of which was brimming with laughter, private jokes, good food (in Penang, how can you not?), and photos (my limited phone storage is still recovering from those four days' worth of photos.) Though Singapore is just next door to Malaysia, I haven't really travelled much--what little I've done has always been limited to very functional trips; visiting people, going for camps, and seldom actually sight-seeing, the tourist way. I always think that visiting another country becomes a totally different experience as long as you have a loved one, family or friends there; you see the place as the home of someone you know, get to glimpse how familiar eyes see it as everyday and ordinary at the same time you see it as an exotic novelty with your tourist's eyes.
On the plane, I tried to get a headstart on my travel journal:
The clouds are amazing. Once you enter cloud land you feel like you're in another dimension, where all these huge masses are weightless and you hopelessly puny yet so solidly material, a clumsy thing of the earth. It reminds me why all those old paintings always show God among the clouds. Truly it's the sense of being in a spiritual realm, in a whole different dimension.
After landing, we went straight to have some coconut ice cream, surely God's good gift to lactose-intolerant people. In the car, I caught my first glimpses of Penang, and it fascinated me. On one hand it had such a modern urban atmosphere, sporting futuristic shopping malls that reminded me of Singapore except on a larger scale (space obviously isn't an issue here.) The roads were clean, orderly, and the decorative plants along them were surviving pretty well--my indicator for how well new roads are maintained over time. Even the buses move along with a sense of importance and purpose that was quite Singaporean to me. And then boom all of a sudden you have this beautiful old colonial building, sitting quietly and demurely in its fenced space, like a delicate little granny sitting on the cushy chair designated for her, watching the young people bustle about during a party.
(As you can see Shrimpy, my furry travelling companion, is a law-abiding and responsible creature. But more on his adventures later.)
Having come almost straight from church camp, where I'd been sharing a bed with two of the little girls in my Sunday School class (being the chaperone for the 'little girl's room') having one whole mattress to oneself was a luxury at Esther (our Penang friend)'s home. That night I slept like a--king, I was about to say, but remembering Xerxes's insomnia and so many philosophers' wise words, perhaps guinea pig would be a better analogy. My guinea pig slept like there was no tomorrow. I went to sleep blissfully conscious that I was incredibly comfortable; my body was incredibly grateful for it (after the inevitable sleep-deprivation that comes with being a camp committee member) and that I was about to have a wonderfully refreshing deep sleep. I don't know if it's coincidence that I dreamt I was a modern day Sleeping Beauty, except without the negative perspective on sleeping forever. Come to think of it, most people I know nowadays would be quite happy to sleep forever.
My first morning in Penang was a clean gray day; a gorgeous rooster strutted about on the street and a random neighbour smoked moodily against a car as we did morning stretches on Esther's balcony, getting more exercise from laughing and falling over than the actual stretches. From Esther's fruitful garden I got to pluck and try my first fig and mulberry--"everyone under his own vine and fig tree." I think being able to eat produce from your own garden surely captures the sense of contentment when you enjoy living at home.
Firstly, expectations. I was warned by everyone I knew that three days wouldn't be enough meals or time to properly experience Penang, also that it would be scorching hot. The first was true--to some extent. Meals, definitely. How as four girls we managed to try all the food on the list that friends had sent us (yes they actually compiled a list for us to follow) was quite a feat, I think. Here's how.
The first meal, at an open air hawker spot, we learnt our lesson big time. After each ordering an individual portion besides several famous dishes to share, we realized that we not only blew a hole in our kiwi (a kiwi-shaped purse that served as our kitty for meals and the like) but we were absolutely stuffed.
The second day, we were wiser. We ordered two or three portions to share among the four of us, and that way we managed to try more than one dish in a meal, and also making it possible to have tea at random times of the day (basically whenever we passed by one of the eating places on The List) without actually exploding. I can now understand why people go on makan tours, but personally I think it would be quite intimidating actually if the only thing on your itinary was food. You would feel positively guilty every time you were full, and in between meals you would have to occupy yourself by finding ways to make yourself hungry in time, reminiscent of the Romans if you ask me.
The only problem with this strategy was that we got some shade from shop owners, who didn't appreciate us taking up so much space after buying only one or two bowls of food; I guess we must have looked like anxious dieters. And before anyone expects a detailed list of food reviews and locations: not being a very discerning or opinionated eater, I'm far from a food critic--my best attempt would be "nice" and "nicer"--so I won't go into details about the food, although it certainly was very good.
If dreams could be scooped and chilled, this would be it: coconut ice cream with toppings of choice!
We strolled through the Ramadan bazaar--I've always had a weakness for them; the colourful drinks, the mountains of fried chicken, the trays of kueh kueh, the enormous tin pots of briyani and curry that I could never imagine being finished. Every kind of curry you could imagine. We sat under an enormous banner that proclaimed the sale of what seemed like every kind and part of goat and chicken, curried in different ways. I was fascinated by the piles of dark brown doughnuts made from rice flour and brown sugar, the bright red deep fried dough ribbons laced liberally with condensed milk--or was it mayonnaise? I'd have liked to try them.
Sipping hot, milky ginger tea under an umbrella at rickety plastic tables, trying to dodge being in the background of the photos of stray Caucasian tourists looking extremely white and extremely blonde in that setting. This bazaar was twice the colour, twice the noise, twice the experience of any one I've been to.
We watched the vendor make roti jalla with a triple spout bottle, expertly drawing delicate webs of dough on the hot plate with flicks of his wrist, stealing peeks at us under his eyebrows as we took pictures and marked ourselves as tourists.
It came out hot, yellow, and flimsy, with an accompanying bowl of curry, and made our fingers greasy when tearing it apart.
Then, feeling like explorers, we navigated the many mountains of red fried chicken to choose some for dinner, and it was one of the best fried chicken I've ever had, studded with curry leaves and eaten together with nasi tomato (tomato rice.) I could spend hours just watching all those different kinds of food being made on the spot there, from prata to murtabak to things I'd never seen before.
Just smelling all those spices was an education. So much work went into the preparation of all that food. If you've watched The Hundred Foot Journey you'd have glimpsed what I'm trying to convey.
Am I right that I'm not the only Singaporean who had no idea that "Singapore Murtabak" was a thing? For the world's information, we tried one, and it was not distinctly different from any other murtabak we've had.
Times like these I am reminded of the appeal street photography, people-watching, and writing has for me; the fascination of people and what they've made, which reflects their personalities and lives--be it their actions, food, narratives, or homes. I remember spending hours on long lazy afternoons studying National Geographic magazines, imagination aroused by how that one picture captured so much meaning, how a story and a person breathed swelling within the confines of the camera frame. Or looking out of the window of my Singapore HDB apartment at the signs of life crowded and jostling together--someone cooking; an arm watering plants; the sound of a vacuum; someone's plush toy collection or school shoes airing on the windowsill; some marathon runner's shirts hanging out to dry. People and their stories, their spaces, their loves, the work of their hands.
Then we checked into our little seaside chalet (more like a service apartment actually;) and listened to the landlady warn us to be careful of "jellafish" when we went swimming at the beach.
continued in part 2