The Road Warriors: Georgetown

Back to the buses. This time we were searing a path from coast to coast on our way to the island of Penang. It's capital, Georgetown, carries a historical significance. When the British established the East India Trading Company, they made Georgetown its HQ. Strategically located in the Strait of Malacca, a major trade route to the east, it made perfect sense. The entire island flourished and attracted merchants and industrialists from all over the world; China, India, Ceylon, Siam. Today the city is not quite the bustling commercial hub it once was, but it still contains the colonial remnants of its heyday. So it was decided that Georgetown would be our next destination.

First, we had to get there. Getting off of the fast boat from the Perhentians, we were flanked by touts and taxi drivers. I'm not sure what the sleepy port town of Kuala Besut was like before the Perhentians became an attraction, but now, it seems to have morphed into a tourist ghetto, with alleys of dodgy travel companies and aggressive touts. It's funny how after a little tourist money goes floating through, the entire makeup of the town gets altered to accommodate it. And by accomodate, I mean badger, annoy and provide a generally negative experience for.

One tout managed to hold our attention with the promise of a cheaper fare than what most others were asking. He was a salt of the earth chap, with teeth long given up on. He would drive us to the bus terminal in Kota Bharu for a rather hefty fee which would be offset by the alleged cheap price of the bus ticket there. We agreed and boarded his boxy 25-year old Toyota Corola. Hardly a pleasure cruise. A plastic film was stapled to the interior and springs jabbed us in the back. We were both tired, hungry, cranky. He would ask us questions. The springs poked us in the back, compelling us to answer. He would occasionally punctuate his questions with morsels of wisdom, followed by his very characteristic laugh. Apparently Thai durians and Malaysian durians are different. In Thailand, if a durian falls off of a tree, they cut them all down. In Malaysia, they eat only what has fallen from the tree. He insisted that the durian we had in Kuala Lumpur was a Thai durian and that we should try a real Malaysian one. I don't know. Anyone who's read about my durian experience won't be surprised to hear that they will absolutely not get a second chance with me.

So he dropped us off at Kota Bharu and sure enough, the bus ticket was much cheaper (38 ringgets vs the 90 ringgets being offered in tout alley). We handed him his fee (35 ringgets each) and he was off to go do god knows what. Sniff the money and cackle maybe.

Great bus ride. Buses took a huge leap forward since we got out of Indonesia. The Krui Putra is a thing of legend now, like a magic beast of a bus, so unbelievably and inhumanely uncomfortable that we will recant to our grand kids the fateful day we came across it. The worst bus in the world. Malaysian buses are a dream. Air con, legroom, reclining seats and rarely overcrowded. I dozed off as we weaved through Malaysia's mountainous interior.

I woke up at the destination. That never happens. It didn't take long for us to orientate ourselves and find a place. Again, in Chinatown. Our hostel owner was mentioned by name in the Lonely Planet because of his innate kindness, and boy were they right.

The streets of Georgetown seem to sigh. Their faded paint in pastel hues, their window shutters, always shut, their open gutters and narrow walkways. They all stand at a uniform height, long given up on trying to outdo one another. A Chinese medicine shop here, a key cutter there. No way to tell if any of them were closed for the day or closed for good. Appearance would suggest the latter, but you can never be too sure in this town. Near our hotel, the old red light district. Opium dens and brothels converted into backpacker hostels. Some left derelict. The street is now officially named "Love Lane", complete with a proper city signpost, after decades of being informally referred to as so.

The residents of the city seem vibrant. Thanks to a melting pot of cultures, Georgetown has a wealth of worldly cuisines to sample, all steeped in authenticity. A fellow traveler, when asked what there was to do in Georgetown, simply replied "eat". We abided.

Now, I am convinced that the Malaysian government is trying to sabotage any attempt at having a good time. Heavy taxes are already implemented on alcohol making beer the only thing in the country that's the same price as back home. When all of the ATMs shut down on a Friday night, I became convinced that fun was destined not to be had, and both Adam and I retreated to our hostel, defeated. The next day would be one of substance, so no sense wasting it on a hangover.

Adam is an early riser and I am anything but. When he came back from his city walk, I was still in a towel shaving off the last patch of my Perhentian beard. I planned a walk that would take me to all of the major sights the city had to offer, conveniently ending at a Malay hawker center for late lunch. I saw Hainan Temple, Kapitan Keling Mosque, Cheong Fatt Tze Mansion, Penang Museum, Kuan Yin Teng and Fort Cornwallis. I won't get into each one specifically, but they each varied in quality, from decent to intolerably boring. For late lunch, it was char keow tuey, flat noodles with shrimp and vegetables in soya sauce. To drink, carrot juice with condensed milk. I would come to learn the importance condensed milk played in Penang's hawker food culture. Dinner was had back in Chinatown, after fighting the locals for service at a particularly busy food cart.

That evening we felt it necessary to explore Georgetown's nightlife, if for anything, to make up for the failure the night before. Lo and behold, the ATMs were down again, but thankfully Adam had the foresight to get money during the day.

Before heading out, we took turns drinking from a flask of Canadian Club I was given by a local barowner in Seoul as a goodbye gift. In a testament to how low-key the trip has been thus far, the thing was still full. After a few passes, it was time to go.

Now, Lonely Planet has been pretty good at recommending hostels, but they tend to be way off when it comes to bars. If any place is mentioned as being a "favorite of the locals", you can be sure that by the time you've read that, it's already become a swamp of tourists and ladyboys. Our first selection was one such den of iniquity. We paid 35 ringgit to get in too, so we dutifully finished our weak gin and sodas and left to find another spot.

Eschewing "Slippery Sinoritas", we checked out a place that looked busy from the outside. It too was pricey. The music was a sludgy mash of popular hip hop tracks, the bass incessantly gut-rocking. Fun if you're hammered I suppose. We weren't. The scene before us sobered us up pretty quickly, which was good because full faculties were required to artfully dodge the pile of vomit in the bathroom entrance. In the end it wasn't worth it. I never really got into club culture back in Canada. In Korea, the people I was with were generally the only thing that made it bearable. In Tokyo I was actually able to find clubs that played the kind of music I liked. Here it was just more of the same old same old. I'm not sure what compels me to keep going back to these places. It certainly wasn't the fact that this particular club was 90% dudes.

I knew that the next morning would be rough. We had over 500km to cover, not to mention a border crossing. We woke up late regardless and enjoyed an Indian breakfast. Adam ordered ABC, a local desert that resembles a glowing lump of something you'd mine from another planet. It was shaved ice with colourful flavoring topped with, of course, condensed milk. I thought it was gross. I think Adam did too, but he dutifully finished it. We packed up afterwards and sauntered to the pier, bidding Georgetown and ultimately Malaysia, a polite goodbye.