Sublime and Suspicion in the Malacca Straits

Sublime and Suspicion

in the Malacca Straits

Cover Magazine Photo

The large trading dhow loomed on the misty horizon, making a fast approach in our direction in the Malacca Straits. Scud, our 44’ St. Francis performance catamaran, coasted under a light breeze going like a train under a billowing spinnaker. Onboard were my husband Peter and myself. It was a hot sticky day in September: the tail end of the southwest monsoon. Anticipating a nice fish that would be flung across our bows, I gathered up a couple cokes and sweet biscuits for trading. Traders and fishermen of the high seas often came alongside, wanting to trade fish for onboard depleted items. Today however, the captain had only business in mind: He shot a congenial wave our way from his tiny navigation window, and steered past. We admired the dhow’s ancient design and attractive coloring: A scarlet boot stripe stretched across the majestic hull, glistening with fresh lacquer.

Much like their ancestral sword-wielding sultans before them, local trading dhows frequently ply the waters of the narrow Malacca Straits, trading in rice, grain, and latex, which is extracted from the rubber tree. In ancient times, due to Malaysia’s strategic location on the sea route between India, China and Arabia, sea merchants sought riches in the lucrative spice trade of nutmeg and clove.

Bruised clouds started piling up across the horizon, and by late afternoon the spinnaker had lost its fill, replaced by hot dead air. We had been blessed with comfortable fresh trades on our cruise from Darwin through the remote eastern archipelago of Indonesia, and into the Malacca Straits. Being September though, the southwest monsoon season was beginning to move into the northeast monsoon, bringing variables and calm winds. Midnight squalls were accompanying the transitory period too, so to avoid the nocturnal confusion of navigating through the confetti of fish nets that lay scattered across the straits, we put into Admiral Marina outside Port Dickson.

From behind the marina desk, an Indian woman regarded me with liquid brown eyes rimmed in the traditional Kohl. Malaysia is a melting pot of ethnic races: Hindu, Malays, and Chinese live in close proximity in relative harmony. “Selamat pagi! Good day!” I greeted her in Bahasa Malay. She flashed me an engaging smile, while I asked a staccato of questions: Where’s the closest supermarket, laundry, best café? Suddenly, she stopped me short, and exclaimed, “Oh, sweet little dog!” Bella, our new Belgium barge puppy, known as a Schipperke, was swept swiftly off her feet and into the woman’s arms. In broken English, she answered me, “Midday, I take you! My name Lati!”

Bella was lucky. According to the Islamic religion, dogs are considered unclean; perhaps they carried jinn (bad spirits). We’d seen grown men cry in despair and race through trees in sheer terror, tearing at their clothes as if they were on fire – from Bella, the size of a small cat! Still, respecting their faith and culture, we maintained a low profile and kept her on a leash. Although Islam is the state religion of Malaysia, all religions (Hindu, Buddhism, Christianity, animist) are freely practiced.

At high noon, Peter and I clambered into Lait’s miniature Volkswagon, along with two veiled Muslim woman, to drive into town. But it was not good: With white knuckles, the Muslim women gripped their door handles, eye-whites ablaze, faces planted into windowpanes. Horror vibrated their nerves like guitar strings. We shouldn’t have come, I thought. Above the whine of urban noise outside the car, I shouted to Lati, “We can walk! The girls…our dog!”

Animated Malay chatter followed, and soon the car erupted with harmonious giggles. “It’s OK,” Lati explained, then added, “but they must rub sand over their body thirteen times, wash, then burn their clothes later!” The Muslim women released a chorus of groans, and I smiled wanly, then slid Bella further down into the duffle. At the market, we declined Lati’s return graces, and took a taxi back.

In dawn light, we headed out in a rental car for old Melaka City, revered as the soul of Malaysia, which draws admirers far and wide It promised to be an auspicious day: Sun gilded treetops, turning the sky into vibrant hues of violet, purple, and nuclear orange. “Take the old road,” Lati had instructed us.

After several misguided turns and bumbling roundabouts, a scenic panorama opened before us. Bordering the winding road were citrus groves and rubber tree plantations. Little bags hung from their tapped trunks, sagging with liquid latex. We passed traditional Malay homes of varnished wood: Veiled young girls clustered in their open doorways, as young boys played in pressed-earthen courtyards.

Darkened skies replaced the rosy sunrise, and we stopped for tea at a quaint village to escape the impending deluge. Just as the sky opened up with a monsoon downpour that flooded the streets, we scrambled into a sidewalk café. Wanting to wash up, I vanished into the dark recesses of the rustic café, while Peter ordered the delectable fare of the Muslim doughnut – a sumptuous, sticky mountain of soursop jam baked in doughy pastry.

In the back of the café, I emerged into a darkened room where my senses were arrested, when I inhaled the rich aromatic tang of spicy curries and rich meats roasting over charcoal braziers. Eyes adjusted to the gloom, I peered at an immense veiled woman with shiny skin the color of warm walnut, huddled over a smoky vat, stirring thick satay sauce. “Tadas? Toilet?” I muttered with more confidence than I felt. She stabbed a fleshy thumb into the open doorway beside her that opened into sheer bush. Oh boy, I thought to myself. Here goes…that hole in ground again. Crikey. Gathering myself up, I stoically ambled through mud to the outhouse to immerse myself in a humble effort to achieve sanitary sanity.

Mission complete, I exited with pompous nobility, located the communal sink, and freed my trusty bar of soap from my skirt-side pocket to wash up. When I reentered the kitchen, the cook’s shadow filled the open doorway. Brandishing a large wooden spoon in her left hand, she regarded me with knowing amusement: A wide grin spread across her moon face that split her face in two, and she thrust the bulky spoon towards my quivering lips. They parted ever so slightly, then wider to make way for the driver. Pushing down the savory satay sauce, my eyes went wide, whites winking like headlights. Taste-buds exploded from the welcoming intrusion. The synthesis of spicy, herbal, tangy sweetness was sumptuous! With genuine enthusiasm, I mumbled loudly from bruised lips, “Yummmm.” The spoon retreated, and I pointed towards the bubbling vat behind her while rubbing my belly, complementing her, “Bagus! Good!” She guffawed, then without warning, enveloped me with her fleshy arms. My face went into her gargantuan writhing bosom, and I submitted into her loving embrace, going limp with pure bliss, loose arms dangling at my side. Then ever so slowly, I raised them to encircle her lumpy figure. Through my namaste eye, I recognized the Divine in her and in a flash of waking vision I realized why I had come to a Muslim country: to understand the people, get to know them, love them. And I had. I found myself blinking back tears, pondering a time when war would not plague my country or any other. Multi-cultural misunderstandings are created, taking decades to heal.

Overcome, I stumbled to our table and relayed the story to Peter. He grabbed the soap, and wanting his Muslim hug, disappeared into the depths of the restaurant – he never found her. We continued sipping fresh mint tea at our table, while watching veiled women negotiate the flooded streets in spiky heels. Their eyes crinkled shut with merriment when we waved, but their children gazed back wide-eyed.

Bright sunlight replaced darkened skies, and mystically calmed, we returned to the country road. It gave way to the hectic freeway of old Melaka City, home to stately colonial architecture and historical museums located in restored homes. As we approached, tall minarets and shiny domed mosques began to stab the indigo sky. Exits to Chinatown and Little India whizzed past.

It was the Portuguese who first colonized Malaysia, seeking riches in the spice trade of frankincense and myrrh, clove and ginger. Rich Arabian sultanates and turbaned sheiks plied the trade in ocean-going dhows, pulled by colorful lateen sails. The Portuguese were supplanted by the Dutch, followed by the British. Seeking to protect their seaports and trade along the sea route to England, the British remained in power until Malaysian independence in 1957.

In the Old City, we parked at a swollen canal bordered by birds-of-paradise as big as baseballs: Their fragrance mingled with the salty sea breeze that cooled us. Rustic chock-a-block dwellings covered in creeping vines overlooked the canal, and from outdoor verandas, toothless old men languished in rickety chairs, as their womenfolk shouted gossip across skinny alleyways to friends. From decorative iron rod railings, fresh-washed underwear and brassieres flapped in the hot breeze like Tibetan prayer flags.

The infamous Dutch Square swarmed with a kaleidoscope of linguistic groups: Muslim, Chinese, and Indian. We waved down a bicycle-rickshaw driver, whose face was mapped in dry riverbeds of sun. His cart was festooned in pink and red roses, and the overhead sun-canopy resembled a virtual lovers’ garden. Clambering aboard, our cheery driver parted waves of humanity. He peddled along a narrow flagstone lane, nestled between ancient colonial buildings in pastel hues of yellow and purple.

At the bottom of a steep hill, we ascended a thousand whitewashed stone steps to Stadthuys, the governors’ residence: oldest Dutch building in the east. Against the backdrop of a sparkling cobalt-blue sea, it overlooked a scenic panorama of the Old City and the historical Portuguese fort (A’Famosa). At the top, we heard them before we saw them: the entire high school class of Kuala Lumpur on tour. The jocular children raced up the steps two at a time like a venting volcano. They joined us at the entrance, just as we were removing our shoes – a time honored custom in Muslim countries. In Bahasa Malay they peppered us with: “Hello Mister! Where are you from?” A hundred pairs of shoes soon lay scattered in a jumbled array of ‘whose is whose’? Inside, the elaborate long house was decorated in rich Arabian brocades and Chinese silks – remnants of an earlier time. Life-like waxed figures of scarlet robed sultans and turbaned sheiks wielded bejeweled daggers; Western colonists clasped trading documents crafted from the indigenous papyrus.

Suddenly, an eerie percussion of the thrump-thrump of blades cutting the sky announced the arrival of a military chopper, creating a fury of activity to open doorways and windows. Peter and I gazed in surprise at the apocalyptic scene below: The chopper hovered near a large crowd flanked by policemen who barked orders into handheld radios; military jeeps screeched around corners and exploded with camouflaged soldiers wielding automatic weapons mid-air; unruly German Shepherds strained at leashes; horses with soldier mounts stood sentinel. Inside the governor’s residence, the crowd sensed trouble, and broke into pandemonium. A flood of humanity rushed for the single exit door. Peter seized my arm, yanked me out the door, and then down the stairs ahead of a tumbling wall of arms, legs, and limbs behind us.

We never made it to our rickshaw drive in time: Two gnarly-looking men donned in red bandanas raced down the road in front of us, pursued by soldiers; shots rang out. We stood mute, and my neck hairs rose, sending a cold chill running down my arms and legs. The commotion was frightening!

Suddenly, all went still, as if the last take had ended from the director – only there weren’t any cameras. High-fives were exchanged between the would-be terrorists and police force, sending the pedestrian crowd into a crescendo of weighted sighs and exhausted mirth.

We located our driver, who stood in the shadow of a stately palm, casually smoking a cigarette with his comrades. A slight twinkle lit up his eyes, where he saw us. Clambering aboard his flowery rickshaw, he parted the crowd, peddling past, and dropped us at a pretty sidewalk café – a required refuge to recover lost wits. The café owner, donned in kain songket (handwoven fabric of gold and silver threads), provided the inside intelligence we sought: “Happens all the time,” she explained, then added, “Military exercise… for possible terrorist attack, you know.” Hardly amused, we grinned anyway, and proceeded to indulge in the pungent meal of spicy okra stuffed with tofu, alongside a side dish of pickled egg with ginger.

Afterwards, we ambled down the narrow lane to the eloquent fountain of the famous old Dutch Square, to languish on park benches – like the tourists that we were – to watch giggling schoolgirls veiled in vibrant hues of blues, pinks, and yellows. They whispered secrets, as their pretty dark eyes darted to their handsome young suitors who wandered past.

Shadows began to lengthen, and we headed back to find our rental car, parked beside the rustic canal. Pressing my face into the aromatic petals of the bird-of-paradise that grew in profusion alongside the canal, their heady scent assaulted my nostrils, the fragrance mirroring my impressions of Melaka City: rich, colorful, and memorable – surely memorable.

“Shall we venture into Chinatown and Little India on the way out?” Peter asked me with less enthusiasm than he felt. With a chuckle I said, “I think we’ve seen the best already. Don’t you think?”

“My words exactly,” he chuckled. And then I pleasantly realized we had discovered the soul of this country and its people. It was the reason we cruised globally.

Weary of work as a commercial real estate broker in Houston, Texas in 1982, I sought adventure, answered an ad for crew in Florida, and ended up marrying the owner. Together, we have accrued nearly 100,000 bluewater miles after thirty years of world cruising.

Our two sons began our world circumnavigation with us in 2002 from South Africa, where we purchased Scud (a St. Francis 44' performance catamaran). They have since departed from Australia into lives of their own: we carried on.

Currently, we are in the Bahamas, having returned to the Bahamas, our homebase for cruising the Caribbean and Central and South America.

BIOGRAPHY of TINA DREFFIN