Riding the rails along the Malay peninsula

The metallic click of the wheels brings Southeast Asia up close. Along the route -- a palace built without metal nails, a blood-red church, and a look at vipers in a stupor at the Snake Temple.

I had come to Johor Bahur, Malaysia, to ride the train that skirts the western part of the Malay Peninsula and to keep going as long as time and finances permitted. With luck, I would get as far as Bangkok. Maybe I'd only reach Kuala Lumpur.

Who knows? All I knew was that my first tentative stop was Malacca and that it would be daylight when I got there. Malacca is a strange town with a sordid past. That's where the West first came to plunder the East and where the East learned to hustle the West, and the twain became inexorably entwined -- no matter what Rudyard Kipling's elegant prose says.

INFO: Malaysian Railways (Keretapi Tanah Melayu), or KTM, runs from Singapore up the Malay peninsula into Thailand, stopping at most cities in between. There are two main routes, the east coast and west coast lines. Click here for more information.

But my first task was to find my railroad car and settle for the four-hour ride. The Malaysian railroad, Keritapi Kanai Malaysia, is an impressive operation. The cars are clean, comfortable and air-conditioned. In about four minutes we began moving and a steward handed me a bottle of chilled water and a slice of pound cake, and my cares disappeared with every metallic click of the wheels.

The last time I rode a train in Southeast Asia was under different circumstances. I was photographing a platoon of Marines riding shotgun on the run between Danang and Hue in Vietnam, and it wasn't a pleasant journey. This is more like it, I thought, as I sipped water and waited for the conductor to come by to punch tickets.

Dawn doesn't break slowly in these latitudes. It is a rampage of colors; I watched the light show as the jungle blurred by. This is a humid greenhouse where orchids grow like weeds.

Right on schedule, I got off at the station in Tampin, 12 miles from Malacca. There's no station in the old city and I was considering either a taxi or a bus to the coast when a hustling cab driver decided for me. He told me in broken English that, should I opt for the bus, I would miss the ancient wooden palace in Paya Rumput. Why not ride with him and he'd show it to me?

Why not, indeed?

If you want to get an idea of what ancient Malaysian life was like, there's no better place to see it than in Paya Rumput. The palace, on the outskirts of Malacca, was built in 1861 by a lord whose family lived in it until 1921. It's all fine, hand-carved panelings and sliding doors. Not one single metal nail was used in its construction and all the pieces mesh like a jigsaw puzzle. It's a national landmark, a fine example of craftsmanship at its best. If you don't think woodcarving is an art, go to the palace in Paya Rumput.

Less than a half-hour later, the driver dropped me off in the center of Malacca. You know what it smells like when you open an old, dusty trunk that belonged to your grandparents? That's the smell of Malacca. This is a city founded on myth and built by greed.

First, the myth: A Hindu prince, a descendant of Alexander the Great, fell asleep while fleeing from Sumatra, had nice dreams and built a great city, the capital of a sultanate, in 1396.

And the greed: In 1511, the Portuguese came to establish one of the first western outposts in Asia to monopolize the spice trade. They built a fort on the highest hill to protect the Straits of Malacca and to keep the Malay lords in line. The Portuguese married native women and amassed great wealth until the Dutch drove them out, only to be squeezed out by the British in 1824.

Although Malacca is the oldest city in the country, it's neither Malay nor Portuguese. It's not Dutch or British, either. If anything, it's more Chinese than some cities in China, although during Holy Week, Portuguese-Malay Catholics hold processions in the streets and march past Hindu and Buddhist temples, and Muslim mosques. It's an uncanny spectacle.

Within a one-mile radius you can see all that's worth seeing in Malacca. The city has the most colorful Chinatown in Southeast Asia, a marvelous, peeling and decaying relic full of shops that would make antique lovers salivate. Jonker Street (Jalan Hang Jebat) is the most colorful street in Malaysia. Teak furniture, oil lamps from the British period, Chinese wedding beds and U.S. Far East Trade silver dollars issued around the turn of the century lie next to genuine-looking Ming dynasty trinkets in musty old shops run by Chinese merchants who give new meaning to the word bartering.

In all my travels through Malaysia I didn't find any place where the evidence of colonialism is as strong as in Malacca. Parts of the town look like they fell asleep centuries ago and refuse to wake up, a mishmash of styles of cultures that have made themselves at home in Malaysia.

Decaying Western-style colonial homes painted in grimy pastels have Buddhist shrines at the entrance. The replica of a 16th century Portuguese merchantman is docked between Malay sailboats. Women in (ITAL) chadors (uqTAL) tour the Medan Portugis (Portuguese Square) where Eurasian street minstrels sing sad Portuguese ballads that their grandmothers learned from their grandmothers.

Across the Malacca River, there's a distinctly Dutch park dominated by the blood-red Christ Church and a salmon-pink building, the Stadthuys (Town Hall).

A short walk will take you to the Porta de Santiago (St. James Gate), all that's left of the A Famosa Fortress, within which the Portuguese flexed their expansionist muscles, and up St. Paul's Hill to the marvelous ruins of a Jesuit church. During the Portuguese occupation, it was painted white so as to reflect the sunlight and serve as a sort of beacon for ships sailing the Straits of Malacca. St. Francis Xavier was buried here for a while.

After a couple of days I took a bus back to the Tampin station to resume the rail journey north. I felt sad to leave a town that appeals to my sense of the bizarre, but I was careful not to look back over my shoulder. After all, a fruit vendor told me that if you look back on Malacca, bad spirits will follow wherever you go.

We began the three-hour ride to Kuala Lumpur. I dozed in a car bathed with the golden light of a tropical sunset until the train pulled into the most beautiful station in Asia, if not the world -- a sultan's palace designed by Queen Victoria.

It's sparkling clean and white, built in an Indo-Islamic style that's all minarets, onion domes, towers and arches. This dream from the ``Arabian Nights'' was begun in 1892 and wasn't deemed fit for service until British engineers determined conclusively that the roof was capable of holding the weight from one meter of snow. Imagine that, in a sweltering tropical country whose people can't grasp the notion of frozen rain falling from the sky.

I wanted to stay in one of the modern hotels in the northeast section, and took a taxi there only to discover that things had changed since my last visit some 16 years before. Kuala Lumpur means ``muddy estuary'' in Malay. Its modern meaning, however, should be ``gridlock.'' This is the traffic from hell, a ribbon of steel and overboiling engines that makes Bangkok seem like a walk in the park.

Also, the city's symbol should be the construction crane. Skyscrapers are going up all over the place and traffic is not made easier by some of the major streets having been cut during construction of an ambitious monorail that will be finished later this year. If Malacca is the past, Kuala Lumpur is the future. The city basks under a prodigious economic boom that has the (ITAL) Far Eastern Economic Review (uqTAL) gushing about how Malaysia is one of only two countries having the confidence of Asian business leaders. The other is Singapore, the business center that Malaysia has long wanted to surpass. Some experts say that Kuala Lumpur will soon be Asia's Silicon Valley.

But I didn't stop here to confirm the findings of economists. I got up early the next morning to revisit some old haunts and found the city had completely transformed itself.

Kuala Lumpur is clean, not quite to Singaporean standards yet, but it's up there. This is a city that takes itself seriously. On one hand, locals like to brag about their ultra-modern amenities while, on the other, they seem proud to point out places where authors Somerset Maugham or Kipling would feel at home. I had come to Kuala Lumpur to dip my toe in its charm and wound up diving headfirst into an exotic world that reeked of antiquity mixed with the smell of freshly poured cement from the skyscrapers in the background.

I took an air-conditioned bus to Chinatown, hopped off and began to walk around. The humidity stuns you and the smells daze you, but that's to be expected. I stopped at Yusoof for breakfast and ordered sweet tea and (ITAL) roti canai (uqTAL), the delicious Indian griddle cake served with mango curry, and was pleased that things hadn't changed that much.

After breakfast, I moved through the monsoon of colors called Chinatown, passing a compound of cultures where Hindu merchants speak Chinese and Chinese shop owners feel as comfortable bartering in Urdu as they do in Malay.

Because I had no specific destination, I decided to check out Sri Mahamariamman at the south end of Chinatown. This is a marvelously garish Hindu temple built in 1873. Like everything in Kuala Lumpur, its exterior was being refurbished. I took off my shoes and walked in to witness a purification rite that was already underway.

The Brahmin inside was splashing water on various deities, while a one-day-old baby laid bundled on the floor. The smell of flowers and spices drifted with the chants from women squatting nearby. The child's father told me that it would be an honor if I photographed the rite that only superficially resembled a Catholic baptism.

It was a moving ceremony. The Brahmin told me that he wished me a life as long as the child's and, later, I thought about how the baby's mother looked like a madonna in a sari. Of course, they wouldn't let me go until I had feasted on vegetables and milk spread on tables outside the temple.

I spent the next few days becoming reacquainted with the city: The Central Market, where batik shops and jewelry stores have replaced the old vegetable stalls; the stunning Bagunan Sultan Abdul Samad, an Arabesque jewel housing Malaysia's Supreme Court, right across from Merdaka Square where the Union Jack was lowered for the last time in 1957; the Central Post Office, which looks like a Muslim wedding cake; the night market at Pasar Malam, where you can buy uncanny reproductions of Gucci watches and bootleg movies and, like they say, ``If they ain't got it, they'll get it.''

I spent my last afternoon there hanging out in Kampong Baru (New Village), a dusty strip jammed with food stalls, joking with the locals and eating (ITAL) pisang goreng (uqTAL) (ripe bananas deep-fried in coconut oil), and (ITAL) satay (uqTAL) (skewers of beef, chicken or crab grilled over a charcoal fire and dipped in peanut sauce). Kampong Baru is a world removed from the bustle of Kuala Lumpur. Chickens and children scamper down dusty streets while the city's ultra-modern skyline looms in the distance.

It wasn't the only place in Malaysia where cooks refused my money because of their sense of hospitality, and I had to hide some (ITAL) ringgit (uqTAL) (Malaysian dollars) under the plate so as not to embarrass them.

I left on a train early the next morning and disembarked in Ipoh. Once a sleepy little hollow, Ipoh gained something of a reputation late in the last century as a Wild West frontier town with the discovery of some rich tin mines nearby which, in turn, led to bloody gang wars from various mining clans.

The railroad station is called the Taj Mahal of Ipoh, but that's a long stretch. It's actually a British colonial heirloom with a nifty hotel on the top floor. The Majestic Hotel has a wonderful, rickety cage elevator that opens into a 600-foot veranda where ceiling fans make the potted palms sway. You can almost see Kipling drinking gin rickeys at the bar.

I dropped off my bags and hit the streets.

About two blocks away I stopped to watch an Indian-Muslim wedding at the main mosque, the Masjid India, and was immediately invited to attend the ceremony. I removed my shoes and knelt while an imam chanted from the Koran. It was the Muslim wedding rite attended only by males while the bride and the women waited across the street.

I asked and was allowed to witness the bride's side of the rite in a crowded, sweltering room where she awaited the groom. It was an elaborate affair that culminates with the groom entering the room with a (ITAL) qadi (uqTAL), the Muslim judge who solemnized the marriage, to have the bride kiss his hands before the guests join in a (ITAL) kenduri (uqTAL), a Muslim feast.

Again, they didn't want to let me go, and it was only after a pretty woman pressed a (ITAL) bunga telor (uqTAL) (egg flower) cake in my hands that they allowed me to leave. I wanted to see Sam Poh Tong, the Buddhist cave temple outside the city.

Once there, I paid 2 ringgit to buy leaves for the hundreds of turtles swimming in a pool where, a (ITAL) bonsai (uqTAL) told me, every wish will come true if you feed the beasts.

After asking me to light an incense spiral near the main altar, he allowed me into the cave to climb up 351 steps to the top. The climb inside the incense-filled limestone cave, with heat and humidity so thick it can be sliced with a butter knife, is not for the fainthearted. But the view of the Ipoh Valley from the top of the mountain is well worth the discomfort.

Ipoh is dead at night. Dinner is usually the highlight of the evening, and a downtown restaurant on Cockman Street will show you why Ipoh is the New Orleans of Malaysian food. The Restoran Miga was a military officer's mess during British colonial days and looks like a stuffy London club, except that everything has a Malaysian flavor. Dinner begins with (ITAL) tomyam (uqTAL) soup, a sizzling hot brew that clears your sinuses, followed by (ITAL) sayur kailan (uqTAL) (Siamese-style vegetables) and finally the entree, (ITAL) ikan kerapy masak masam manis (uqTAL), a deep-fried fish with wonderfully crisp skin and a tender, sweet flesh. Dinner for four costs about $18.

I left Ipoh on a northbound train under a threatening morning monsoon that never developed. I don't know why I got off in Taiping. Maybe it was because I wanted to see the rain trees in the Lake Gardens. Maybe it was because Taiping is the only Malaysian city with a Chinese name. Or maybe it was because I wanted to do a little gambling. Gambling is taboo in Muslim Malaysia, but Taiping has the most uncommon lottery in the world. You have to go to the Chinese market to find it, so I went there to see how it worked.

Because Taiping has the highest rainfall in Malaysia, the Chinese developed a lottery based on what time the afternoon rain will fall. The only sure bet is that the rain will fall every afternoon. The person picking the time when rain begins wins the pot.

I lost.

I spent the next morning at the sparkling clean Lake Gardens and bought lunch from a roadside stand to take with me to the Burmese pool, where I watched parents and their kids wading in the warm spring waters.

About six miles outside the city, there's a quaint, rather primitive lodge atop Maxwell Hill. You get there in four-wheel drive vehicles that chug up a dizzying road built by Japanese prisoners of war after World War II. The bungalows are not too luxurious, but when the weather is right, you can see a panoramic view all the way to the Andaman Sea.

I took the morning train out of town, after eating breakfast at the notorious food shacks across the street from the railroad station. Although some people may balk at eating from them, Malaysian food shacks are legendary. Some of the country's most famous chefs practice their trade in such stands and are as celebrated and as rich as Wolfgang Puck is in America.

I left the train at Butterworth and took a taxi to George Town, the capital of Penang Island. Penang has grown up and become a yuppie hooked on hi-tech, and is still everything Bali wishes it were: Great beaches, fantastic people and a holiday atmosphere permeating the island like the smell from its ubiquitous frangipani trees. On the north side, at Batu Ferringhi about eight miles from George Town, there's a row of ultra-plush hotels that rival Maui's. On the southside, near the airport, electronic firms have built huge plants to assemble electronic components and have turned Penang into a hot economic zone that has given it a new lease on life.

But, George Town hasn't changed much.

The Chinese clan piers, where families have lived for centuries on their own separate quays, still provide much of the local color, and the splendid Buddhist temples on Burma Road are among the best in Asia.

I walked past the old walled cemetery, under ancient frangipani trees with gnarled trunks to find the old Eastern and Oriental Hotel. At one time, the E&O was as famous and as elegant as Raffles in Singapore or the Oriental in Bangkok, and I wanted to sit at the bar where Herman Hesse and Somerset Maugham once sat.

Unfortunately, I found the shell of a building. The structure has been gutted and renovation will not be completed for another two years.

During my stay in Penang, I roamed the width of the island, from the largest butterfly farm in Asia to the waterfall at Titi Kerawang, over a road meandering through coconut and clove plantations.

There are tiny restaurants that serve a delicious (ITAL) mee udang (uqTAL), gigantic tiger prawns served on a bed of crispy noodles. This is one of the few dishes not found at the Pesarian Gurney, a funky night food market on the George Town waterfront where you can sample a variety of Malay, Hindu and Chinese dishes for practically pennies. After dinner, nothing hits the spot like (ITAL) ais kacang (uqTAL), a strange concoction of shaved ice smothered with tropical fruit juices and -- oddly enough -- baked beans. It's delicious.

On my last day in Penang, I went to the Temple of the Azure Cloud, better known as The Snake Temple, a house of worship in which highly poisonous green and gold Wagler's pit vipers are coiled around the altars. They're not as numerous as they once were, but they're still around, languishing and dazed into a hypnotic state by the pungent incense smoke.

The followers of the god Chor Soo Kong swear that the creatures are harmless and try to drape one around your neck to have your picture taken.

I passed.

I retraced my steps to Butterworth later that day to wait for the train. This is the northernmost part of the Golden Chersonese's Sultanates. A few miles north, there's a mountain pass and beyond that lies Thailand, a kingdom where a different world begins, a world that I would have to leave for another visit.

Malaysian Railways (Keretapi Tanah Melayu), or KTM, runs from Singapore up the Malay peninsula into Thailand, stopping at most cities in between. There are two main routes, the east coast and west coast lines. (My article is based on the west coast route.)

Malaysian cars are clean and comfortable. All first-class cars are air-conditioned and show video movies on television screens.

There are three classes, sleepers and even twin-berth cabins on most trains. The passenger has the choice of traveling on local trains that stop at most stations, or the sleek express trains that stop only at major towns.

KTM offers a railpass for foreign tourists. This allows unlimited travel in any class to any destination for a period of 10 or 30 days. A rail pass costs approximately 130 ringgit (about $50 U.S.) for 10 days and 300 ringgit (about $160 U.S.) for 30 days.

(Sergio Ortiz is a free-lance writer in Malibu. Calif.)

© 1998, Sergio Ortiz. Distributed by Los Angeles Times Syndicate.