Kota Bharu to Terengganu
Rain just about delayed play this week. It happens on the sports fields, and it happens when you try seeing the world in 12 months. I thought I had left the monsoons behind, but late October in Malaysia proved me otherwise. Coupled with Ramadan, in which Muslims fast from sunrise to sunset, it was simply no time to be a visitor in Kota Bharu, Malaysia’s most religious state. Especially a Gonzo traveller, in a town with no bars and no kindred spirits to drink $6 beers with. I was a fish out of curry, a peanut out the satay, and a solo journeyman spending too much time with food for company.
The Renaissance Hotel continued to spread on the style, but after a while it became what I fondly called my “five-star isolation chamber.” Even a visit to tourist information came up empty. “Everything is closed, Mr Robin, not the season, if only you came in May, oh the islands are so beautiful sir. People only come here on their way to the islands, and unfortunately they are closed sir.” I walked around the quiet town, popping into the colorful Central Market where ladies were surrounded by fruits, vegetables, sambal and sauces. The rain sent me into the WW2 museum, where I learnt about the Japanese occupation of Malaysia and read the formalities of an official surrender. Finally, I took a taxi to a beach village called Pantai Cahaya Bulan, where I hoped to find some local kite builders. Everything was shut for the season. So, on the sticky beach with a warm breeze blowing from the South China Sea, I walked up the coconut-tree coast in a light drizzle (I admit, even my bad days are never that bad). I passed a father teaching his son how to fish, and an hour later, a village fisherman cleaning his nets. I sat next to him, happy to see another human being, while he looked at me as if I had just walked out the sea dressed in a pink tutu with a trident poking out my ass. If I smoked I would have offered him one, but we just grunted like men do, and I followed my footsteps in the sand back to the road. I stuck out my thumb and the first car to come along stopped. It was a Proton, the local make of car that are everywhere in Malaysia. The speedometer was in the middle of the dashboard, so it looked like a dinky toy. The radio was tuned to an English station, and the guy had lived in England for four years. I was excited to have my first meaningful conversation in days.
“So, what’s it like to live in Kota Bharu,” I asked, looking forward to the vocal exercise.
“Boring,” he replied, and said nothing more.
