Malaka-ka-ka-ka

After a hearty breakfast we set off to explore.  Crossing the river, the deafening noise of loud music with plenty of base booms out. We automatically think boy racers in souped up cars are cruising early but we laugh when we identify the source.  Melaka is home to the trishaw, a combination of bicycle and rickshaw for taking tourists around the sights of the town.  Each trishaw is garishly decorated with bright, mostly plastic flowers and garlands and the owners assume that the playing of extremely loud pop music will draw punters wanting to take a musical tour. Although the trishaw peddlers are keen for business we are mostly ignored – mainly because John snarls at the thought of travelling with this racket!

Pimp my trishaw

We walk to a small fortress with cannons facing in all directions which is part of the original Dutch defence of the town.  Several groups of youngsters, all wearing purple t-shirts appear to be taking part in an orienteering competition.  We watch as each team completes a task (throwing water filled balloons into various buckets) and on completion receives further instruction as to the next location. We continued to see purple clad groups throughout the day – come to think of it the last group passed us when we were in the pub at midnight!

A refreshing mango’ shake and a bust up with a Buddhist priest set us up for the well-trodden tourist route to the reconstructed Sultan’s palace which was made of wood and contained no nails. Some interesting gems were found inside (see below) and the A/C was definitely welcome. 

Glass, bottle, bottle glass - please yer bloody selves

The Sultan’s secret garden which whilst being wonderfully laid out is a little neglected possibly because the gardners aren’t in on the secret. We spot a lot of birds in the gardens including a small hawk before wandering back to the main drag and the thud of the trishaw boom boxes.

Malaka has more museums than you can shake a stick at – and they cover almost every topic under the sun (although the stick shaking museum is in Kluang) – literature, nautical, architecture, customs and stamps. John spotted the stamp museum but I managed to discourage him from entering by pointing out some trains and old aircraft a little further on.  He walked around happily taking photos although there was little context to the display which also included armoured cars and a 1957 white Cadillac.

In need of a comfort break and having already experienced the not inconsiderable risks associated with the local facilities we head for a shopping centre where we have learnt a better standard of bathroom can be experienced.  The mall is packed with youngsters shopping ‘til they drop and John struggles to get me past the myriad of shoe shops on our way to the loos which are as expected, top quality.  We navigate our way out of the centre past Burger King, KFC and Macdonalds – although the mall has plenty of outlets selling local food it’s the fast food chains that are packed out.  We don’t go in.

Outside, we cross six lanes of traffic to reach the other side only to realise we should have stayed on the other side.  The rules of the road are less clear in Malaka and appear to involve wandering through the lines of traffic and praying that a nippy Honda 50 doesn’t come past on the outside! 

We search in vain for an eatery for a snack and a drink - don’t ask how we end up in the Chinese equivalent of Gleggs. The helpful assistant explains what’s in each mound of pastry and John picks out a few delights although I’m pleased to say he leaves behind the ‘sweet wife buns’.  I offer a 5 ringett note but when they notice a small tear they refuse to accept it – obviously they share Nuttall’s obsession with perfection.  After paying with a pristine note the shopkeeper produces scissors and sellotape to repair the damaged note with surgical precision. I can now pass it on to a street seller who won’t be so fussy.

The shop's claims come up short - it only sells cakes

The little pastries are as hot as molten lava and I suffer first degree burns when a blob of the sweet pork drips out and disappears up the leg of my shorts – I rebuff John’s offer of assistance and eventually cool down.  

Unusually, tonight we do things right!  We have a rest back at the hotel before heading out about 9 o’clock.  First stop is Pak Putra which is heaving  – Plastic tables and chairs fill the street which is full of local families enjoying the balmy night air and the excellent cheap food. There’s a real feel of community and most customers are apparently locals dining in extended families and giving a real feel of community. Pak Putra is basic with all the cooking done in front of you on the street in the tandoors and we quickly grab a table.  The dining equivalent is eating your tea sitting outside the Newbold co-op – the smell of the drains doesn’t detract from the food nor bother anyone. The tandoori chicken and nan does not disappoint.

What does cause some concern however is the appearance of a large flying insect – the chap at an adjacent table to us preforms a spectacular evasion of the winged attacker and diners scatter.  I am in awe of John’s courage as he alone resists the urge to panic and sits calmly as the creature flies nearer – although he moves quite sharpish when I tell him the beast has settled between his legs!

Heading back to Jonkers for a few drinks at about 10.30 we find the place jumping – the bars are packed and spill out into the streets and everyone is having a good time.  In Geographers, the incoherent resident DJ has just taken the mike as we sit down. To my surprise, he announces what sounds like ‘tonight we’re going to do some Longmoor line dancing’.  Up get the locals and the line dancing begins although I’m not sure it was in ‘Longmore’ style. We sit transfixed and as the line dancing finishes  the local equivalent of Fred Astaire and Ginger who were sitting next to us get up and perform the Malaka Strictly Come Dancing tribute with complicated rumbas and passadobles incorporating throws and twists which have the appreciative and intoxicated audience cheering.  

 

The Geographer has an arrangement with Ringo’s Bar over the road whereby our incoherent song slaughterer does a half hour slot before their incoherent song slaughter takes over for half an hour.  Chatting to Fred and Ginger between their frequent trips to the dance floor they tell us that many of the locals attend dance classes which they try out on Saturday night.

When the rock-n-roll comes on an old boy with a white cap (possibly the last surviving member of the Rubettes) puts everyone to shame as he and his partner jive around the small dance floor in a style which can only be described as CAF.

Much to our amusement the best is saved for late on as the locals take their turn at the mike singing in a style reminiscent of Vic Reeves’ pub singer – singing lessons have obviously not been part of their preparations and they don’t let the lyrics get in the way either as they slaughter some well-known classics including Jail House Lock - John had tears rolling down his face to some of the interpretations given by these karaoke singers who whatever they lack in skill more than compensate with sheer gusto.  The haranguing delivery of Ob la di Ob la dah has to be heard to be believed.

We leave the bar at 2am but get the feeling that they will still all be going strong for a good few hours yet.