Travel as Experience
There is something strangely peaceful about Malacca. The sense of complete relaxation that takes over once you get past the Ayer Keroh exit from the highway is unexplainable. It is as if the journey has come to an end and the moment for releasing all the cares in the world has arrived.
I have travelled to Malacca several times and for well over thirty years now. In the beginning the drive took some five hours, snaking its way through country roads leading from Johor Bahru. Now that there is a highway and an alternative route from Tuas, the journey takes exactly three hours if the vagaries of the Singapore authorities do not upset the rhythm. On one occasion I flew from Seletar in Singapore. The flight took less than an hour. In all these travels, arrival in Malacca preceded a time of quiet thought and peaceful reflection.
There is much to reflect on in Malacca. It has a steeped history beginning with the sultanates of the Malay world; the arrival of the Portuguese in 1511; by the Dutch in 1641; and the British in 1824. In a span of over 445 years three European colonisers came to this port city. But Arab, Indian and Chinese traders had been coming to this city well before that time. The Chinese Admiral Cheng Ho visited it during his various voyages to Southeast Asia and beyond. For the Dutch Malacca became an important port of call for the East Indies trade. Ships leaving Batavia called at Malacca, Galle in Sri Lanka, Cochin in Kerala, Mauritius and Cape Town before sailing north to Amsterdam. There was a reverse order in the stopovers on the return journey.
In the early voyages the Dutch brought Javanese and Malay (from Malacca) slaves to Galle and Cape Town where they eventually became part of the local population. These arrivals became farmers and labourers in their new land. In Sri Lanka they came to be known as the Ceylon Malays and in South Africa, the Cape Malays. This trade flow created in its wake a movement of Malay and Javanese people between Java and Malacca, and beyond. But more than that Malacca is the place where miscegenation of the races is probably most pronounced in Malaysia.
As if to dispel any doubt, the remnants of a rump of the Portuguese occupation live on in the Portuguese settlement in Malacca. In reality, they are the offspring of centuries of mixed marriages between the early Portuguese settlers and the Malay, Indian and Chinese communities. The Portuguese, in their explorations of that time, had a policy of ensuring their sailors and settlers married local women. Unlike the Dutch and the English of the later periods, they never attached any stigma to these local alliances. The language spoken by the Portuguese descendants today is Kristang, or Cristao, a form of Portuguese creole which has several Malay words. Many in the community are fishermen, throwing lines out from small wooden boats or picking cockles from the shore next to the settlement. It is a colourful community but suffers from the effects of marginalization and a general disregard by the other groups.
There is otherwise the large Chinese Peranakan and the smaller Indian Chitty communities that also call Malacca home. In many respects it is the true melting pot in Malaysia. But most Malaysians will also not know that independence was proclaimed by the Tunku in 1957 from the padang in Malacca.
Perhaps it is this sense of history and of place that lulls you into a mood of deep thought and bliss when you are in Malacca. Nothing in Malacca is hurried; there is a measured pace to life here. The old town is littered with Dutch names such as Jonker Street and Heeren Street, borrowed from Heerengracht (gentleman’s canal) in Amsterdam. The streets are narrow and the houses stand cheek by jowl. All of them are Peranakan (Straits Chinese) owned and of a particular design. The frontage is narrow and, in some, ornate. But they stretch deep into the back ensuring that the houses have many rooms, an airy courtyard or two, and a large kitchen. The floorboards of the upper levels are of unusually good quality teak. In the more grand houses the entrance hall is bedecked with fine rosewood furniture inlaid with mother-of-pearl. In their time both the Dutch and the Peranakan Chinese enjoyed enormous privileges with the royal court.
While the old town has been restored to become a tourist haven, the rest of Malacca has had vulgar modernization imposed upon it. New high rise buildings have sprouted in once lovely neighbourhoods and the remarkable Malacca Rest House of yore has been demolished. Where the state administrative machinery was once embedded in the historical centre, it has now been decentralised to the outer municipal area in keeping with the post-modernist planner’s designs. If there is a method in destroying the active life of a city then nowhere is this more visible than in the hands of the new generation of Le Corbusier-led urban planners. Malacca was a latecomer to this ingenious destructive force. But come it has and the results are a dead daytime city with traffic jams relegated to the outer municipal area where the bureaucracy has now ensconced itself. So, where it once was easier to get into the centre of Malacca it is now more difficult to get in because of the heavy traffic in the outer areas. The logic is befuddling: in the past, the centre attracted people; now, they are prevented from getting in.
Despite all attempts to modernise Malacca, the laid-back atmosphere of the place cannot be easily erased. It has a provincial feel, as it must. People are connected in different ways in this city. Temple, mosque and other religious activities provide an anchor for interaction on an almost daily basis. The availability of ample fresh produce in the traditional markets obviates the need to go to modern air-conditioned ones. The traditional market has thus become a meeting ground for the different races – Malays, Chinese, Portuguese and Indians. It is this social interaction, albeit a weak one, that adds to the charm of the place. For me, Malacca is more than just these excursions. I can also see parts of Amsterdam, Surabaya, Jakarta, Cape Town and Cochin all apparent in Malacca in some fashion. It appears in place names, in the architecture, in people’s faces and in the evening as the light fades. It adds a sense of history and location to this part of Malaysia. It is also the benign provincialism of the place that allows the people to be more welcoming than in a modern city.
In the Indian Quarter there are garland makers; flower, provision and saree shops owned by South Indians, Sindhis and, in the past, by Gujaratis. There are several Indian eateries all within walking distance of the centre of the historical city. Within the narrow streets of the old town are numerous Chinese temples. One street, known in the past as Temple Street, has two Chinese temples, an Indian, Ganesh, temple and the Kampong Keling Mosque, all in a row. The mosque was built by the first Indian muslim settlers, while the Hindu temple was built by a Malacca Chitty during the Dutch period. Nobody remembers the name Temple Street, for it is now known as Jalan Tukang Mas – Goldsmith’s Street.
There is also an area, Kampong Java, where the Javanese once lived. Today, however, it is mostly Chinese who live there. There are no more remnants of Java except for the name. There are antique shops aplenty in the old town. Just as you would find in Surabaya, Cape Town or Cochin, Malacca has a fascinating variety of antiques on offer. Many are from the Portuguese and Dutch periods. But the curse of modern tourism has now descended on the historical town. The old quarter has been gentrified with numerous boutique hotels and shops. God and mammon reside next to each other within the confines of the old streets. With more heritage-based development on the way it will only be a matter of time before god flees to make way for Singaporeans to spend even more on their Malacca experience.
The Malacca Chitty area in Gajah Berang is unusual. Here, the Chitty’s, Indians who have adapted to Malay ways and dress, have their homes and temples. Over several generations they have forgotten Tamil and now more often speak Malay. They are a dwindling community and in the years to come will most likely lose even more of their unique culture. Although there is a resurgence of interest in the community and its ways, the fear is that the modern world will not be kind to future generations.
In an Indian coffee shop I sat watching a couple of Eurasian retirees discussing the state of hockey in Malaysia. Earlier, in a cafe along the riverbank, I saw two old Chinese men reading newspapers and having their morning tea. On a Sunday morning, some years ago, I watched several older folks doing tai chi outside the fort while one sat in the doorway, reading a newspaper. There are retirees like these everywhere in Malacca. It is only in a place such as this that they can find a rhythm for their daily life.
On Deepavali morning in Malacca, last year, I watched the industrial-style cooking of a South Indian mass lunch in a back lane kitchen. In a huge pot chopped chicken was stirred in a curry while in a large frying pan pieces of marinated chicken were fried and tossed with a long wooden paddle. Off on the side two, dark-complexioned, fat women sat peeling onions and potatoes. Pails of various colours were on the slippery floor, each filled with condiments, chopped onions, chillies and the like. Out in the back lane, meanwhile, rice was boiled in a massive aluminium pot which could feed a hundred. The food, when it came, was exceptionally good.
In the traditional market, on another occasion, I watched Malay women in tudong selling vegetables, tapioca, fruits, fermented soya, salted fish and a variety of dried goods. The bargaining, as in any souk in the Muslim world, was frenetic even if the amounts were small. For the stallholder and the customer alike, the act of bargaining seemed more important that the actual bargain that was struck. It, no doubt, made for a lively and noisy market. The fusion of the different smells here brought memories of the markets in Surabaya and Semarang.
On a more recent trip I spent the evening at the Nattukottai Chettiar’s temple set in the outskirts of the town. We arrived as the evening’s rays threw their long shadows on the ground. It was a serene moment. The silence was broken only by the ringing of the temple bell and the occasional screech of the peacock. For here, as in all Chettiar temples in the East, the main deity is Subramaniam, the god of war. We prayed and got back into the car as darkness descended. Within minutes we were engulfed in a torrential downpour as we made our way home.
The rains, I suppose, were a blessing of a kind, for Malacca is unusual: it is, in many ways, a holy place.