With a spirit of adventure, I arrived at Penang airport. Following the quiet voice of intuition I did not pre-book a hotel, instead I waited patiently until the airport had housed, taxied, and shuttled off all the other tourists, businessmen, and families enjoying the Malaysian school half-term holiday. My last chance of sharing a cab ride left, so I waited alone, intrigued as to what fate had in store for me The Malaysian woman I had approached for help swept across the vacant arrivals floor and welcomed me to Penang. Fortunately for me, her hotel was fully booked. It was one of the ugly neon lit things that dominate parts of Batu Ferringhi, the idyllic beach village north of George Town. However there was a vacancy at the Lone Pine Hotel.
A two-storey boutique hotel that had retained all of its subtle charm and glory, and boasts as being the first hotel in Batu Ferringhi. Refurnished and unostentatiously stylish, this tasteful abode sits directly on the beach and is secluded enough for a quiet rest, yet opens into the bay for parasailing, jet skis, scuba diving, and donkey rides. Malaysia hospitality is first rate and, never without a genuine smile, the staff at the Lone Pine ensure that I am settled, informed, and want for nothing.
The cultural diversity in Penang affords every type of face, language, accent, dress code, food, and religion. Harmony is the key word, and this is reflected in the natural smiles of every person you meet, pass in the street, on the beach, or in the bar. Softly spoken, warm and welcoming, nothing appears to be too much trouble for the natives of this island, and I enjoyed acclimatizing to this natural unhurried state of being.
As the evening and my appetite drew on, I left the tranquility of my hotel and walked out into the village itself. Avoiding the modern shopping complex nearby, with its all too familiar KFC and McDonald's bright lights, I wove in and out of the street market. Stalls heavy under the weight of Gucci, Fendi, and Prada handbags vied for my money alongside locally carved pewter, wood, and silver ornaments. A gap-toothed old man turned the volume up on Britney and Eminem hoping to induce my interest, but I preferred the piped tunes of the Indian sitar from the restaurant over the road.
A well-known essence of Batu Ferringhi wafted like incense in my direction, and following it I found myself amongst the plastic coated tables of locals, tourists, and onlookers in the Hawkers food market, home to nearly every type of Asian influenced food. The market is a collection of kiosks, some of which resemble fine jewelers, with delightful and colourful arrangements of ingredients and treats. Chefs disappear behind clouds of rising steam from the huge cooking pots as they prepare the food to-order. The centre of the market gives way to a hundred or so functional tables and chairs, seated upon which are locals and Asian tourists in equal number. Chinese clucking and chattering combined with order shouting and laughter culminates in wild and friendly, efficient service.
With no pressure to buy here, there, now or later, I was free to wander through the market and noted a wide and varied choice. Crispy noodles, Won Ton, Chinese Spring rolls, various fried and boiled rice, and Tofu, to unfamiliar and odd looking seafood, Singapore noodles, Indian chapattis, the local dish of fried Koay Teow, and other foods of unknown origin. Passing the plentiful kiosks, the chefs extend a warm invitation to try their particular delicacy. Westerners, like me, tackle the noodle soup by slurping but end up dribbling down our chins, but the Asians comfortably hunch over the table and, chin to bowl, devour the noodles quickly and with a smile.
Sizzling hot plates are carried to the tables, steam rising in all directions. And like the food, the faces are a blend of Hindu, Buddhist, Muslim, and Christian. A vapour cloud holds the moment then evaporates, and everything changes. I get a wet elbow from the wet wiped table, and water dribbles from my cold beer glass into my lap and again onto my book, staining the fresh ink on the page. Finishing dinner, I wandered through the market and back out onto the street into the mingling aromas of exotic food, motorbike fumes, street dust, and unfortunate sewage arrangements.
And, finally done with the heckles to buy saris, seaweed, and sandals, I nipped into one of the many bars/restaurants along the main street and sipped a beer watching the harmless happy mayhem of Malaysia unfold before my eyes.