Straight out of The Jetson’s!

PETRONAS Towers, headquarters of the national oil and gas company PETRONAS, is KL’s most advertised landmark. Resembling twin silver rockets 451.9 meters in height, they represent the meteoric rise of this city from tin miners’ shanty town to a space-age metropolis. Argentinian architect Cesar Pelli based each floor plan on an eight-sided star echoing arabesque patterns. Islam’s five pillars may also have influenced each tower’s five tiers with the 63-meter masts crowning them calling to mind minarets of a mosque. From the Skybridge off the 41st floor, cars looked like toys on play roads; from the viewing deck on the 86th floor, they looked like matchbox cars! It was not a clear enough day to see all the way to our home area landmarks, but the view was still fine. I spotted a lake and green space worth a return and noted yet another mosque enlarging capacity with construction.     I was definitely higher than Menara KL, the Communications Tower built atop a hill that I’d visited recently. I strolled around the observation circle once more before the ear-popping ride down, glad I’d shelled out a hefty ticket price to add PETRONAS to experiences in Chicago and Dubai (now the tallest single  tower in the world; PETRONAS claims the tallest twin towers). The Eifel Tower didn’t even get honorable mention.

On the third floor of the upscale PETRONAS shops in Suria KLCC, I found the free Galeri PETRONAS that showcased contemporary humor, photography, and a few paintings. My favorite was the 3-cartoon frame elephant chased by Malaysia’s epic mosquitoes. One dark room dedicated to the 2014 championship with engine-parts mobile, neon-outlined racing car, and a video that left you feeling like you were in the driver’s seat. Room after room of cartoons (in Malay) made quite an impressive display for a free museum without a huge gift shop at the exit door. The modern shows here are curated. I may return in a month and see what social commentary replaces Tarzan!

I repeat, “Don’t mess with Malaka!”

I finally found one Malaysian to respond about their street-lamp banners. Mark gave  such a succinct English pitch to ride his bicycle rickshaw that I climbed aboard behind Hello Kitty. Twenty years of pedaling (his father had forty!) left him plenty of breath to answer. “What does the banner mean–‘Don’t mess with Melaka’?”

He read aloud, then mused, “I guess it means to leave Melaka like it is.” I mentally reviewed this seaside-cradle of what now is unified Malaysia with UNESCO World Heritage status. Tribes fought with primitive weapons before Melaka was established in 1403 as a trading post along the Straits of Malacca. Sultans and village leaders’ fortuitously arranged marriages continued, adding foreign unions to the mix. Portuguese admiral Alfonso d’Albuquerque built A’Famosa in 1511. Dutch invasion came in 1641 building state houses with salmon-red walls, heavy wooden doors, and wrought-iron hinges. 1753 Dutch Reformed Christ Church epitomizes this architecture near Stadhuys, 1645, the oldest Dutch building in the East. A Dutch-English cemetery stretches over a long block nearby, memorials crumbling as centuries pass. Sir Stamford Raffles saved what remains of A’Famosa today, during Great Britain’s rule. English is spoken among tourists, school children, and venders. During WWII, Japanese rule prevailed a short time. Malaysia declared independence in 1957. No wonder this port city has had enough!

Kampung Morten was like a community of life-size doll houses, many of them home-stays. All were built on stilts, had front stairs, and used artfully arranged plants. An owner-conducted tour of 100-year-old Villa Sentosa, the largest house made into a living museum, alone made my trip worthwhile. Open central courtyards ventilated and caught rain, screens discretely separated guests from family, and generations of artifacts and photos adorned inner walls. Wedding couples and royalty had special seats of honor. My peddling tour-guide held forth, and I forgot to have him stop for a picture of St. Peter’s, Malaysia’s oldest Catholic Church, built in 1710.  Upon return to Jonkers Street, I jostled with autos/cycles/shoppers until I found a Coconut Shake shop with a working fan. Coconut water, ice, and ice cream hits the spot when it reaches 32-34 degrees centigrade! I sipped and thought of last night’s dinner, Nyonyan noodles with seasonings, shrimp, and vegetable slivers, that required two lemon-teas to balance the spiciness. Tonight I would try non-halal satay celup,  sticks with raw seafood, vegetables, and bread cubes dunked into bubbling spicy peanut sauce and served with sliced cucumbers. Delicious! I decided to choose stuffed okra, pork, crab ball, lobster ball, and bak choi while my mouth watered. Since Heeren House served a complimentary breakfast with egg, sausage, baked beans, grilled tomato, toast, fruit, juice, coffee or tea, I doubted I’d have enough appetite for other Chetti foods (blends of local and Indian spices):  ikan parang masak pindang (fish in spicy soup), nasi lemak,  nasi kembuli, (a type of rice) or pulut tekan (glutinous rice cake), let alone pasu kaemadu (baked fish), garing garing fretu (fried whitebait with sliced sallhots), or fiery el diablo curry. Since I can gain pounds at the very thought of food, I began walking sidestreets off Jalan Tun tan Cheng Lock again, seeing some places I wished they would restore. . Melaka Tengah, a typical 19th century home of wealthy Chinese and Malaysian couples, was the next stop.  No pictures allowed at Baba and Nyona  Museum after the Victorian entry parlor, but our able guide took us past three storeys of treasures from three generations. Frontage was narrow (taxes were paid on street width); Dutch influenced the townhouse’s high ceilings with beams, no nails in carpentry, and some furniture; 3-storey courtyard opening let in central light, marble-topped tables felt cool in Melaka’s hot climate, and the upper stairs could be locked and covered to discourage unwanted visitors (“or late-arriving husbands,” the guide said). At least three sets of Johnson Brothers China were displayed in dining areas, the same 1910 porcelain set I got from mom’s side of the family when Uncle Tom sold his antiques. That put me up there with the peranakan (wealthy traders with Malaysian spouses) elite!  A walk along the river to Kampung Chitty (Straits-born Indian traders) or Little India found me buying spices for soups. I returned by    the Dutch Cemetery,  then made my way to Melaka Sultanate Palace, 15th century replica of sultan’s court (complete with seated dummies), stone inscriptions, clothing, weapons, musical instruments, and photographs. The Shah of Mansur Shaw lived here, 1456-77, in this structure erected without nails. Sunday morning, I chose to attend St. Francis’ packed 7:30 a.m. mass. Although it was listed as a Portuguese service, it announced Pentecost in English with a rollicking organist leading the  English music.  Three priests officiated, and a layman asked me pointedly, “Are you a Catholic?” and quickly withdrew the communion wafers he had offered. I quietly exited and walked over to Harmony Street where Cheng Hoon Teng Temple (the oldest, with Kuan Yin) plus three  others, both Hindu and Buddhist, wafted incense. tea and flower fragrances.   I happened on the Cheng Ho Museum, built by Ming Dynasty’s admiral Cheng Ho (or Zheng He). There were replicas of his fleet of hundreds that sailed “seven times to the Western Ocean from China to Africa, 1405-1433”, cargo examples, pottery, porcelain, instruments, spices, tea, puppet show, and a three-storey ceramic giraffe in the 55,000 square-foot museum area where I followed yellow footprints in/out, up/down, around/over, reading about Cheng Ho’s influence spreading Islam in Southeast Asia. A refugee prince founded the Melaka kingdom; a Ming eunuch assisted in the development of the Melaka Sultanate; and the Cino-Malay cultural exchange included trade, commerce, agriculture, fishery, and religion.  Ganesh, cast in bronze on nearby Jonkers Street, would probably agree that much of this exchange still persists in Melaka.

Don’t Mess With Melaka!

Memorial Day in America coincided with a three-day weekend for me while Hagen and Annalize went to Singapore. I found it easy to buy a bus ticket to historic Melaka and to reach the sprawling station with one transit change. Rain followed us out of town while the hills gradually lost their highrise adornments to palm forests. Welcome sun shone when we had gone half the 2.5 hours’ ride. Chinese newlyweds’ hotel was near mine, so we saved a cab ride by finding Bus 17 for Stadhuys’ island stop (1 ringgit fare). Chinese Henry and Marcia settled me into 18th century Dutch Heeren House, 1 Jalan Tun Tan Lock,  with my shuttered window opening toward Melacca River, the new fort (with cannons pointing toward land, not sea), and the tourist office’s backside. My hotel edged China Town; everything was within a short walk. While the room was in need of refurbishing, it was clean and adequate; full European breakfast, included, was another welcome surprise. A wedding couple, in traditional dress, staged a photo op across the river. Everything seemed within walking distance, but sweat poured in 34-degree Centigrade heat.  I sought Stadhuys, 1650s residence of the Dutch governor and deputy, exhibiting clothes, cribs, and artifacts and timelines as “Museum of History and Ethnography”. The pink bricks came from Holland, plastered with local laterite; beams had no joints and were cut from a single tree. Handmade pews dated back 200 years. It was bargain day, I guess, with “only two ringgit” giving me entrance to the rambling museum of history, the governor’s house, and three stories celebrating Malaysian writers and writings. I asked the talkative man why only one woman was pictured; he missed my point and asked where I was from, how old I was, etc. I told him about my book set in Montana, unleashing a further chance for him to practice his English. As often happens, he eventually asked if I “liked Obama,” another oft-asked question in Malaysia. He was still practicing his English as I put my shoes back on and walked up Jin Bandar Hilir to the hill to St. Paul’s Church ruins (where St. Francis Xavier was once buried; it also stored gun powder c. 1590). also).   Hawkers sold souvenirs, while a young man  filed his photogenic lizard’s nails above the ocean view.  The dilapidated sword-shaped  tower, still in tour books, was abandoned for  lack of funds some time  ago. Down the hill, A’Famosa, oldest surviving remnant of  European architecture in Asia, waited. Also called Porta de Santiago, it reminded me  that the Portuguese ruled for 130 years before the Dutch arrived for their  influential 150-year governance. A Malaysian accent, accompanied by ukulele, brought me a happy rendition of “Raindrops keep falling on my head” and earned him a tip (not an expectation here). Smiling, I turned toward Heeren House for a nap before  a Jonker Street dinner.

Views and Very Good Food

 Friday evening and Saturday were interesting Kuala Lumpur contrasts. Bangsar South is mostly four imposing towers across a walkway that spans three multi-lane highways just beyond Kerinchi LRT station, where I access the train. Walking the long stretch above polluting traffic, skirting two familiar seated men with begging cups, I saw the construction workers’ take-up volleyball game before I ascended there escalators to Nexus level. Bangsar’s upscale restaurants and shops are a far cry from the corner restaurant where I can get excellent “coffee ice” and a spicy chicken-rice-greens meal for 8 ringgit (<$3). Free to explore, I read every menu in Nexus’ fancy restaurant row–Chinese, Japanese, Malaysian, and Souled Out. “Burger and fries” awakened long-dead taste buds. The waiter said it was Australian hamburger, and it rivaled Big Island beef with vegetables and cheese on sesame seed bun. Mineral water, where most folks were having cocktails or wine (overpriced and low quality here), was 4RM, as opposed to 1 (33 cents), but air-conditioning made even that pleasant.  Next door, I went into Mango Chili to spend my drink money on “Mango Tango” with proceeds donated to  Nepalese Earthquake Fund. The “lawyers with a heart” sign behind me made me  wish MT niece, Kate, were helping me eat the scoop of vanilla ice cream and a sliced half-mango drizzled with mango syrup–my first Malaysian dessert, if you don’t count the cookies Hagen and I baked. A walk home the long way took care of the extra calories from my lapse into American tastes. Next morning, British Angela and I linked up at Kerinchi platform for KL Tower, three subway lines and a 20 minute walk south. Bukit (hill) Nanas is green and tall, but a free shuttle took us to the tower.  Angela’s advance-price ticket equaled 105RM for me; we traded lack of language with the girl behind the counter hawking several offers, finally giving me a 35 RM deal that included nearby TelekoMuzium, built 1928 to house the manual telephone exchange. We avoided three photographers hawking pictures of viewers  276 meters above the city. I saw PETRONAS’ double towers, Menara TM just behind our condos, and tracks for Commuter and LRT. KL is surrounded by green bukits stretching hazily in all directions. We weren’t invited to the broadcasting or telecommunication stations or megaview banquet hall, skipped the revolving restaurant after looking at its fancy menu, and didn’t need the refuge area layered in the tower’s top. After an ear-popping elevator  drop, we visited the threatened jelutong tree, reputed to be over 100 years old. The simulators, 6D theatre, blue coral aquarium didn’t call to us, so we said good-bye to the the 421-meter “Jewel in the Sky”and walked toward the food markets near mosques I remembered from a Kampung Baru tour. Just as Angela declared none of the street foods to her taste, a local woman pointed down an alley filled with fans and food stalls. Angela had white rice and a fried fish; I smelled lemongrass-chicken broth, and a vender scooped the most heavenly rice (cardoman?) I’ve yet had into my hand. Lunch–rice, chicken cleavered into bite-sized slivers, cucumber, red chili sauce, and lemon-iced tea–allowed us to cool off, trade histories, and fortify for the train changes home. On a shortcut to find Dang Wangi station, we ducked into SoGo  department store and found every bargain hunter in the north end of  Kuala Lumpur!

Batu Cave Monkey Business

Hagen and I made ginger cookies with his play-dough cutters after he had so much kneading that his stars picked up an extra 1/2 cup of flour! I escaped Friday to find Brickfields yoga location, failed miserably (no help from the Little India shrine I happened on in an alleyway), stumbled into another yoga exercise place where I received an hours’ instruction from lovely people who promised I’d live as long as I desired if I did the list faithfully. Maharishi Vethathiri lived until age 95 and “only died because someone killed him.” I may join them another morning, but I’m not going for a spiritual diploma anytime soon. Saturday, we decided to visit Batu (Bat) Caves, a Hindu shrine to Lord Muruga. Stepping over a mandala and around a monkey, we started up the 272 steps toward the cliff.Monkeys joined us. Hagen intoned, “I want to be a monkey, Mama.” like a broken record. That chant turned to screams, “Naughty monkey! He took my ice cream!” when one snatched a just-bought popcicle from his hand, unwrapped it, and polished it off. It was nice to get down, scatter the pigeons, and eat our sandwiches and apple in semi-peace. With the great blue diety guarding our lunch, the critters didn’t stand a chance of stealing anything!  We made it home on the Commuter train in time to rest a bit before meeting Perth, Australia, friends for a dinner on food street. We plucked  “chickenfish” (meaty, white flesh, deliciously spiced), calamari, chicken satay, rice, prawns, four-angle beans (green vegetable), and something close to baby bak choy with our chopsticks. I heard Africaans across the table and talked with the deputy mayor beside me about gifted education. Watermelon juice and beer flowed freely, while roaming venders proved as annoying as the monkeys had been at Batu Caves.

 

Brickfields again, Botanical Garden, and Banana Leaf Dinner

I thought I was revisiting Brickfields to become familiar with places blogged earlier without a guide. Arriving at YMCA, I felt I was back in China–harsh syllables, all pushing to the counter at once. Yes, tour started there, but “maybe not today” (Labor Day–Worker’s Day holiday May 1-4, plus rain fell outside). No one came, so I struck out past a Methodist College, big fish atop a temple, flower venders before another temple, and the traffic fountain (flowing today). Elbowing at vegetable markets and choosing sparkly bangles finished the morning nicely. On the LRT line home, I considered where I’d walked several feet above houses–Chinese Shophouses and Indian apartments here. After KL’s 1881 fire, Frank Swettenham urged rebuilding traditional atap/wooden houses with bricks and tile roofs. These combination store and living quarters all had a kaki lima, veranda walkway at least 5′ wide in front. Utilities and sewers were laid beneath roads, raising the walkways over the years. Twins across from me used their time to nod off for a nap.  A friend from Borneo, Stefani, was visiting “my family,” so I enjoyed their remains of a German-style breakfast (cold meats, cheeses, toast) before we caught a cab to Perdana Botanical Gardens, 104 acres of banyans and rainforest planted 1888. Pre-wedding photo shots found the bride on the ground and by the lake.   Rain threatened, so we exited toward the south, snapping a picture of an ornate, early village boat. Next: “Symbols of Power and Beauty” at the Islamic Arts Museum. I may have seen Mohammed’s sword and sheath (covered with turquoise and coral), the longest rifle ever, a “two-edged sword”, and the richest bridle anywhere. They were powerfully displayed in sparkling glass cases. The repetition and richness of lacy Islamic art captivates and impresses me. We reluctantly left the beautiful setting after a glass of freshly-squeezed watermelon juice in their coffee shop. Stefani’s friend, Lisa Spykers, joined us before her gig on a KL street corner with another musician. Conversation was interesting. Australian Lisa left elementary teaching here to try full time songwriting and performing, her passion. She’s waiting for a paycheck and to see if Ganesh is laughing at her. We followed her vegetarian lead and enjoyed a delicious meal served on a banana leaf. Malysians use their right fingers to scoop up curry and chili-seasoned vegetables, dahl (lentils, spinach), and meat with rice. We opted for forks and ate until we were stuffed. A mango addition got requests for seconds. My South African friends ordered dishes of bone marrow (hollow bones included), chicken livers (actually gizzards, wonderfully seasoned), and mutton (somewhat like meatballs, covered in dark red spice). Before  saying good-bye, we wished Lisa good luck and noticed that Ganesh, Devi’s Corner Restaurant mascot, raised his trunk in blessing!  

Kampong Bharu, earliest Kuala Lumpur houses

  A half-hour walk from Chow Kit monorail station took me to meet Niki, knowledgeable Malaysian guide, for a three-hour “cultural guided walk.” We found  Palladian style Master Mat’s (blue) House, where  generations of 1921 builder, English headmaster Haji Ahmad bin Mohamed, still live. Gabled roofs, concrete ballistrade staircases, ventilation above windows, and clay tile roofs, mark these small houses raised on stone pillars.  Teacher’s house had burned, but the artful characteristics still remained. Life goes on in each of the houses and yards in this cluster of Malay houses, where people literally moved their houses (not just belongings) to this village in past Malaya. Rumah Limas, Colonial hybrid built in 1913 and the largest to retain the unique roof plan and style, sat charmingly in front of skyscrapers. Between houses, old and new scenes presented themselves in contrasting layers of time. What was a rising number of Malay farmers in the 1890s is managed by a head man whose home signage contained email and telephone number. Kampong Bharu (New Village), is still a community whose heritage and traditions carry on against development’s backdrop.   Kelab Sultan Suleiman Gallery’s rebuilt (2007) replica was momentarily without power, so we removed shoes, squinted at history on shadowy walls, and recalled political struggles. Like British colonial days’ model, membership is exclusively Malay, but it is shared with all who wish to use it. One interesting fact was that WWII Japanese administration used the building and the football (American Soccer) field was literally a field to grow vegetables. Sultan Suleiman Sports Complex has twice replaced the thatched wooden 1901 social meeting place of Malay Agriculture Settlement, but a rattan ball is still used there for sepak takraw play. We stopped at two mosques. Century-old Masjid Jamek Kampong Bharu  uses Mughal and Malay  mosaic elements and is in near-constant renovation to contain the growing  numbers of Malaysian Muslims. A much  smaller Sikk community built the Gurdware (Sikk temple) in 1922 on two acres given by  the British administration; it serves complimentary vegetarian Sunday lunches and teaches a Punjabi language school. We were dripping sweat without womens’ head coverings or mens’ traditional clothing, so we didn’t enter either temple. Our stomachs growled as we approached the food street. Coconut with palm sugar in bamboo came in two colors. A guitarist played as families relaxed at one corner. I joined harmony for LEAVING ON A JET PLANE, great fun! We skirted an open street  fire and went toward more markets. Herbal venders promise many cures; some are used in nearby Muslim hospital. You can buy Malaysian escargot  or grow tapioca and lemon grass in your yard.The girls school or kindergarten will serve meals. Children here eat their vegetables.