Steeped in history, a former port of some significance in the Portuguese empire, later colonised by the British, Malaka or Malacca, is a fascinating town. The old town, that is. The bus station and 'modern' quarter less so. But the streets around Jonker Street with their exotic mix of Chinese, Indian and Portuguese were charming. It reminded many of us of Hoi An in Vietnam.
We were staying in an old merchant house converted to a hotel. Shortly after arriving we convened for a briefing and then for a walk through the town. Although quite touristy, with many shops selling souvenirs and handicrafts, and subsequently quite busy, it was an easy town to get around. The heat was another matter entirely. Like Penang, the heat was challenging to say the least. Temperatures in the mid to high thirties with added humidity.
Walk over, we headed back to the hotel and found ourselves a little local hangout, The Geographer's Cafe, that became our home from home and preferred drinking hole for the next couple of days. We bought buckets of beer and ate some inspired vegetarian dishes including tempeh and fried bean curd skin, which tasted better than it sounds. We drank into the night. As some drifted back to the hotel, others including me, went off in search of karaoke. Karaoke in SE Asia seems to involve more than just singing. In many of the places we'd been, Vietnam in particular, it seemed to be a euphemism for a place to pick up women. So it was in Malaysia too.
Googling 'karaoke Malaka' we found one such bar and made our way there. It was a precondition that we had to buy beer to sign up so beer duly purchased and songs selected, we warbled our way through songs that had by now become old favourites, American Pie and Piano Man. We passed the microphone around and sang to our hearts content. Then, because we weren't buying beer, the songs came to an end. Chinese pop songs were now being sung by the other clientele in the bar, mostly men, being entertained by the female 'hostesses'. But we were happy, we'd had our karaoke fix. We headed back to the hotel.
Next day I went for a wander and took in a bit more of the architecture and feel of Malaka. I retraced my steps to the waterfront, looking at the replica Portuguese sailing ship moored in the dock, past the market selling food, souvenirs and assorted 'tat' to lure in unsuspecting tourists. I stopped briefly at the request of an Indian family to have my photograph taken with them. I walked past the bicycle-rickshaw drivers whose brightly coloured, elaborated decorated vehicles pedalled past carrying tourists on a tour of the city, music blaring. I smiled as a middle-aged Indian couple went past on one such rickshaw, while heavy rock music blared out. Somehow the combination of the two just seemed wrong.
I wandered round the Mall, finally drifting back to the Geographer's where others from the group had stopped for lunch. Later that evening we returned to the Geographer's for dinner, drinks and some impromptu karaoke with the live musician who was playing there that night. Finally we drifted off to the hotel to pack rucksacks and get ready for another early start.
Our final stop on the tour was just around the corner. Tomorrow we'd be in Singapore, saying goodbye to people who had become like family over the preceding seven weeks. We were determined to go out with a bang. And go out with a bang we did.