Going out on a Lim

We wake in George Town and decide against going for the early morning jog that we’d promised ourselves the previous evening. Must have been the cocktails talking. It’s another scorcher outside, but armed with a freebie map from the hostel, we brave the heat to do some sightseeing. George Town is a city of more than 1.2 million people that lies on the north-east corner of Penang Island. It was founded in 1786 by Captain Francis Light, a trader for the British East India Company, and much of the city is steeped in British history, with its CBD listed as a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Pete and I start the day with a walking tour of the city’s heritage zone, visiting an overgrown cemetery where the town’s first Mayor is buried, along with a host of other British settlers.

The real highlights of George Town, though, come right at the end of the day. Pete has read about trishaws (like Vietnamese rickshaws) and waves one down for us to do some sightseeing the lazy tourist’s way – being biked around by a local. Our trishaw driver says people call him Lim - "That's L-I-M", he tells us. Lim is a legend of a man. The trishaw he rents is one he’s driven for 20 years. He says he loves the job, which affords him independence. But clearly he also loves chatting to tourists, as there’s barely a quiet moment. He’s lived in Penang all his life and has three grown-up children. He loves the city of George Town and knows almost everything about it, from the years that buildings were erected, to the various practices of religious and cultural groups active in Penang, the history of Malaysia and the Commonwealth, and who has reigned here throughout the years.

First up, Lim takes us to the Mosque, where we stop to take photos and are invited inside – as long as we don long black robes. It’s so hot that I don’t do all the buttons up on mine – my first cultural faux pas of the trip, I realise, when I accidentally show a big of leg. The tour guide stares me down, and motions for me to cover up. He’s very friendly though, and gets into a deep conversation with Pete about the differences between Islam, Hinduism, Judaism and Christianity.

Returning to Lim’s brightly decorated trishaw, with its plastic flowers and colourful foil windmills that remind me of the Whenua Tapu cemetery back home, he takes us through China Town, where we’re greeted by the huge banging noise of fires crackling in pots on the street outside a Chinese temple. There are traditional Chinese dances taking place, and pigs’ heads roast on a spit. It’s preparation for Chinese New Year, Lim tells us, and the smoke from the fire burning in the street is to request good luck for the celebrations. In the temple next door, Lim shows us the statue of the God of Prosperity, which is placed into an ornate gold and glass case once and year and paraded around the town.

Lim takes us to a tiny village built on the wharf, where we see families going about their day-to-day business; baskets of goods are being cycled down the wharf, children wave to us and happily pose for photos as they paint a fence in bright colours, and the elderly snooze in wicker chairs as the afternoon sun envelops the entrances to their homes. Lim also takes us to Little India, and we tell him we’re heading to Big India, the real deal, in just a day’s time. He says he’s never visited India before, and he doesn’t think he ever will. “In my imagination, I know Penang is much better place than India," Lim says. "Here, no one ever go hungry. No one ever go without food. The Malay people – they look after each other, you know. No poverty here.” We nod in agreement, and I realise I haven’t quite prepared myself for the next few weeks ahead.

The trishaw ride was meant to last an hour, but by the time we bid farewell to our new Penang friend, two hours have disappeared. We happily pay Lim more than the requested 25 ringgits per hour, and both declare it the best tour of a city we’ve ever been on.

We wander back through the beautiful colonial part of town, collect our laundry and head off for another walk. Pete’s also read about the largest live fish shop in South East Asia, right here in George Town. It turns out to be an aquarium, as opposed to a market where you go to buy fresh seafood for dinner, but we take a look anyway. Pete takes a keen interest in the Super Red Arowana, advertised as being “an excellent jumper”. There are rows and rows of tanks, and then around the corner we come across an English Cocker Spaniel puppy, some raccoons from Paraguay, hairless Russian Don Sphynxes like Mr Bigglesworth, Dr Evil’s cat, and a spiky green iguana. We ask ourselves what the hell we’re doing in a pet shop in a foreign country, and head back out into the street.

We grab a gelato and catch a bus to Pengang Hill at dusk. At higher than 800m, the lookout promises to provide excellent vistas of the city that's fast becoming one of the loveliest places I’ve ever been. It doesn’t disappoint. The cable car ride up to the top is totally my cup of tea, and the views are picture perfect. I get the chance to try out my bigger camera lens, but still need some practice getting the settings right to capture the magic outlook as the sun sets over Malaysia. We get the best seat in the house at the hotel above the lookout, which makes the ice cold Carlsberg one of the most delicious beers I’ve ever had.

Back down in George Town we sample the city’s Nasi Goreng, satay, freshly squeezed lime juice and more beer before ferrying to Butterworth to board our 11pm overnight train to Kuala Lumpur. As we pull the mustard yellow curtains closed around our bunks on the train, I remember something Mum used to tell us when we were little and couldn’t get to sleep at night – something that her father used to say to her. Instead of suggesting we count sheep, Mum would say, “Well, girls, Grandad used to say to me, ‘At least you’re not sleeping on a train tonight’.”

Tonight, Mum, I actually am sleeping on a train, so I’ve got every excuse not to sleep. But I’m worn out from our day’s adventures with Lim, and before too long I’m nodding off to the chugging of the engine and Pete’s snoring in the bunk across the aisle. George Town – you’re a dream.

Flooded streets and flooded eyes

For the next two weeks, it’s just me and Pete (aka ‘Barney’). Our shuttle picks us up at midday on New Year’s Day, just as rain starts to fall on the revellers of Koh Saumi. We make our way to the other side of the island, and board a bus which drives onto a ferry and then takes us over to the main part of Thailand. By the time we get there, torrential rain has set in, and we get drenched running from the ferry back to the bus, to then be taken to Surat Thani, a city of 130,000, near the mouth of the river Tapi on the Gulf of Thailand.

According to Wikipedia, and also now according to me and Barney, “The city offers no major tourist attractions in itself, and is thus known to tourists as a transfer to the nearby popular Koh Samui Island.” The place is dead when we arrive and check into the Thai Rung Ruang Hotel – two mattresses on the floor and what was advertised as a bathroom, for 500 Baht (about $20 NZD).

Nowhere seems to be open for dinner, but we find a coffee house advertising spaghetti. We were rather hoping for Thai cuisine over Italian, and assume that the use of the word ‘spaghetti’ is a mistranslation of ‘noodles’. But when we look at pictures on the menu (a godsend for international travellers), it does actually look like bona fide pasta, so we enquire as to the availability of a green curry. The owner of the café doesn’t speak a word of English and enlists the help of another customer to assist with translation – to no avail. A couple of minutes later, we get an, “Ahhhh!” lightbulb moment from the restaurateur, who then walks over to his computer and types in ‘www.google.com’. Success.

By the time we’ve had our green curry and found an internet café to print the following day’s train tickets, the previously-dead town is, strangely, buzzing on a Sunday night. Street markets are alive, and parents, children, teens and the elderly are everywhere. It later dawns on me that Monday is a public holiday here in Thailand, too.

Part 1: The flooded streets

The next morning, the rains have well and truly set in, and we can’t find a taxi to take us to the railway station. Instead, we commandeer a tuk tuk to get us to the bus station which we’re promised by the lady at reception will have a bus going to the Surat Thani Railway Station. It does, and we hop on board, pay the driver, and wait. And wait. And wait some more. I ask how long it’s going to be. Ten minutes, he says. Ten minutes later, it’s going to be another ten. The train we’re meant to be catching is the first of three connecting trains to get us to Kuala Lumpur in two days’ time, so we’re getting more anxious by the second. We’re screwed if we miss this.

No taxis are in sight, the tuk tuks are reluctant to take us in this weather. Barn eventually finds one (for a price) and the driver takes us through the torrential rain for about 15 minutes, before slowing down and finally coming to a stop on the side of the road. Saying, “Sorry, sorry”, he gestures for us to get off the back of the tuk tuk and onto the street which is now a shin-deep river of muddy water. Pete has his jandals on, but wanting to avoid slipping on the tiles this morning, I’d donned my new Nike trainers.

There’s no way I’m stepping into that water in shoes, so I’m left with no option but to pull them off and wade barefoot down the street. The tuk tuk driver tries to wave down another vehicle for us, but dozens pass us by – including, I think, the bus we’d got off in the first place – and the flood waters drench us even further. This is the first time I’m grateful for the 16kg pack I’m lugging around on my back, as opposed to my usual wheeled trolley case.

Eventually a Thai man driving a late model ute pulls over, gives us a sympathetic smile and gestures for us to jump on the back of his vehicle. We’d been told the whole journey to the station from the hotel would be around 15 minutes, but after the unsuccessful tuk tuk ride, we endure a further 15 minutes on the back of the ute in the most driving rain I have ever witnessed. Soaked to the skin, he drops us off at Surat Thani Railway Station and humbly refuses our offer of a 100 Baht note. We arrive after our train should have departed, but the flood waters have caused delays, and mercifully the train is late.

We spend the next two hours on platform 3 at the Surat Thani train station shivering, and comparing what was going through our heads as we were squatting down holding on to all of our belongings on the back of a ute driving at 100km/h through torrential rain and flood waters. Barney admits he initially thought we were being taken into a remote paddock "to be butchered”. A comforting thought. He’d clearly been quite serious, as he followed this up with: “I was actually planning our escape route. I was thinking we would have to do the ol’ traffic lights bolt.”

Personally, I was more concerned about getting my new camera wet and about what my Dad would have to say about me not wearing: 1) a seatbelt, 2) a helmet, and 3) a life jacket (considering the extreme weather conditions). Still on the platform, we chat to a local who’s drinking beer at 9 in morning. His personality grows at the same rate his beers disappear down his throat, and he gradually works up the confidence to come and talk to us. He tells us that the even drunker man swaying his way over the tracks is trying to get to Bangkok with no money. The friendly beer-drinking local has just given the guy some cash to go and buy something to eat – which explains why he’s dancing over the tracks, headed towards the food stalls on the other side. He asks where we’re from and he seems to have heard of New Zealand. Our new friend wishes us good luck, and the train eventually arrives.

Chilled to the bone, I open the bottom of my pack to pull out some of the merino clothes I’d reserved for Base Camp, and make my way to the toilet on board to get changed. I hover around the squatter, desperately trying to not get my dry clothes wet, as the window is wide open and everything in the tiny bathroom is drenched. And it reeks. Like, really reeks. This is less of a high point of the trip so far, but I make it back to my seat, narrowly avoiding hypothermia. I look out the window and see people navigating their scooters through the flood waters; some are steering with one hand while holding an umbrella in the other – a novel alternative to possessing a vehicle with a roof.

The flooding along the way is heart-breaking. Villages along the sides of the tracks washed out, homes and schools ruined, livelihoods destroyed. Four hours after leaving Surat Thani, we chug in to a scorching hot Hat Yai, in southern Thailand, near the Malaysian border. On the way in, we pass kilometre upon kilometre of rusting corrugated iron slums, and I could swear we're already in Mumbai.

We’re told our next train to Butterworth, in the Penang province of Malaysia, has been cancelled due to the lines being washed out. There hasn’t been a train to KL for two days, and they won’t be going tomorrow either. We dance with the idea of a flight and a travel insurance claim, but happen upon a travel agent down the street who says he can get us to Butterworth in a minivan for 650 Baht. We sign up, and then have a look around Hat Yai, before spending the next four and a bit hours in the back seat of a van with German tourists, me trying to use my seven years of Deutsch lessons to decipher what they're saying. We cross the Malaysian border at Betong and go through the palaver of passport control and having all our luggage x-rayed – the last thing we can be bothered doing after a total nightmare of a day.

We arrive in Penang at 9.20pm and check into the Ryokan Chic Hostels, a newly-build Japanese hostel in George Town, the capital of Penang Island, just in time for a Penang curry – the sole reason we made a stop here in our itinerary. But Mum had texted me earlier asking if I’d checked my emails lately; I hadn’t, and curiosity gets the better of me, so I quickly log onto the free wi-fi before we head out for food. Nothing on gmail, but I open Facebook to find a private message from my cousin Sarah who I grew up with (the one we met up with in Singapore on the way here), who’s more of a best friend than just a relative.

Part 2: The flooded eyes

Sarah's message says, "Bec! I have been trying to get hold of you but it seems I cannot call you. Some Thai woman gave me a spiel about your phone being out of range. This is MOST inconvenient as I have some news to share which would be way more fun to share on the phone." I skip to the next paragraph pronto.  "Mark proposed this afternoon! And I said yes!" 

She and Mark are engaged! My baby cousin is getting married! I’m squealing at the top of my lungs in the small hostel room, and with a tear in my eye, try to call her straight away. Much excitement ensues (from Barney too, as Sarah was at Knox with us, and is a good friend of all of us on the trip). I get hold of her and we discuss details of the proposal and the ring via an erratic phone connection between London and Malaysia.

By all accounts, it’s a “big dog” of a ring (her words), and Sarah was in a mixture of laughter and tears during Mark's proposal on the Thames. Dinner later is punctuated with choruses of, “Oh my god, Sarah’s ENGAGED!”, “Oh my GOD, Sarah’s engaged!” and “Oh my god, SARAH’S engaged!” Poor Barney laughs and humours me by responding with an, “I know”, each time. We finish the evening with some Tom Collins gin cocktails on Upper Jalan Penang, the Courtenay Place of George Town, to toast the newly engaged couple. A most brilliant end to a most horrific start to the day.