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| live journal open March 2005 |
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| I had come here to catch the early morning local jungle train. The journey would take me from east to west of peninsular Malaysia through some of south East Asia's last stands of virgin rainforest. Wakaf Bharu Guest House is a new operation run and owned by Yan Eng, a Malay Chinese. In this village, time is suspended. First we drank Chinese tea, ate tiny sweet bananas and fresh Papaya fruit picked from his garden, whilst Yan Eng told me about all his travels through Europe some twenty years ago now. This is Yan Eng's home, and whilst you are staying, you belong to him. At 3pm sharp (give or take an hour) - he showed me around his back yard to see his prize winning birds, on the way to his brothers house where we would drink coffee, a daily ritual. I was looking forward to the coffee, as I have missed my regular dose of caffeine. I was not to be disappointed on the caffeine front at least - Chinese coffee comes with the spoon standing up. I tried his tobacco, locally grown. They do not use rizla papers, but dried coconut leaf, which naturally coil is up as it dries. Difficult to explain, about the size of a piece of straw. You carefully un-furl it, lay just a couple of strands of tobacco within, then just let go. It snaps shut and you have yourself a roll-up! The only problem is it tastes a bit like I imagine the Sunday Telegraph would, if you were to roll that up and smoke it. While sat in Mr Yan Giap’s place, as you do in anyone’s house, I looked around the vast amount of stuff, which covered the walls and hung from the roof. These ranged from humming bird nests, a bicycle frame and a sieve to various agricultural implements and a "welcome" sign, as you would find at the entrance to an international hotel. All this was decorated with strings of flags for Guinness and Carlsberg, of the kind you sometimes see in British beer gardens, and which all Asians insist on using for decorating their entire homes. Pride of place was a locked glass cabinet, the kind used for displaying gems in a jewellery shop; all shelves empty except for the main central one that accommodated one carefully arranged spark plug. Add pile upon pile of newspaper and egg cartons, cover generously with thick cobwebs and you have the picture. As I looked around, my eye's kept returning to Mr Yan Giap’s desk, where he was now sat. Among everything was a calendar, a huge pile of used incense stick ends and......the naked bodies of Barbie and Ken. You know, Barbie and Ken as in the doll. While in conversation with Yan Eng various visitors passed through, the latest was sat before Mr Yan Giap. He started stabbing poor Barbie repeatedly. Noticing my fear of impending doom at the hands of a possessed Chinese man, Yan Eng informed me his brother was a witch doctor (more correctly "Chinese Spiritual Healer"). I settled, and watched the performance unfold before me. He then turned his instrument of torture on a piece of paper upon which was a diagram of the human body with lots of symbols. He went into what I can only describe as a trance, his eye balls rolled around and he continuously made a burping noise of the kind you hear when you’re dog is immanently going to be sick behind the sofa. He then stood up, removed the Muslim women's head scarf and proceeded to rub the piece of paper all over her head while continuing with the burping noise. Then it was all over. Wow, what a strange experience! Over the next two days, I was to watch many people being treated. Clinics are held every afternoon, Fridays being busiest as this is day of rest in this Islamic state. A wide range of people would pass through his house, from young to old, male and female. He treats people for whatever issue they may have, for example, one man wanted good luck and strength for a sporting event the following day, and one woman wanted to feel at ease with family problems, into which I did not enquire too much further. |
| Wakaf Bharu, NE Peninsular Malaysia - March 2004 |
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| I look after you, Dim! |
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| click logos to view - opens in new window |
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| medicine doctor at work |
| my new friends |
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| Wakaf Bharu Mosque |
| myself & Floren |
| Yan Eng and I wobbled our way along the dirt tracks on his scooter to visit his various friends. We rode barely fast enough to stay on two wheels. Day turned to evening, and I was to discover all his friends keep large amounts of Beer Chang for events such as this. I can't tell you how my very empty stomach was beginning to feel as yet another beer can was placed in front of me accompanied by "Dim, DRINK, I look after you Dim". As we made our way along to another house, thankfully it seemed Yan Eng’s riding skills improved with each beer. This house also doubled as the polling station for the forthcoming elections, and was hectic with people coming and going. We had visited to treat one of his best friends whom had a nasty looking rash across his chest. You see, Yan Eng is a medicine doctor. He disappeared into the bush, and came out with two hands full of various ingredients. In seconds, he transformed a bunch of dry grass into a brilliantly made brush. All the other ingredients went into his mouth, which he would use to grind up the mixture for the next twenty minutes. Then, carefully positioning his patient, he spat the bright red mixture all over the affected area. The patient was instructed to wear this mixture for the next four days. One of the ingredients was the Betel nut - something that Indian men like to chew socially. It is incredibly hot and turns your entire mouth and lips blood red. The Indians spit the remains out - the Chinese swallow. I opted for the Indian method. By now, I had given up all hope of getting a meal, and Yan Eng become overly excited at my support for his idea of visiting the local disco. A mistake on my part, the word "disco" conjured up images of bars, dance floors full of beautiful women, loud music and crowds of happy going young people. I should have known better really. Take a small room, tile it from top to bottom, throw in a few plastic garden chairs and tables, hang some white fairy lights from the roof then wheel in two speakers each the size of a large chest freezer - and you have yourself a Malay night-spot! Therefore, I was not to be disappointed on one count - the loud music. It seemed the entire village turned out tonight, and I met many of Yan Eng’s friends and family. The fact that I had to be up at 5am as far from my mind as ever, we drank into the wee hours. |
| Quite predictably, I never awoke at 5am to catch my train. Later, much later, I surfaced to share breakfast with my new drinking partner. I could manage a little rice and tea. Later, with Yan Eng out for the count I was able to slip away for a few hours to explore the local village. It did not go too far, but was interesting none the less. I watched the men at prayer time in the mosque and shopped around for a new bandana. The relentless sun has forced me to use this essential hippy garment lately, and I had purchased a beautifully made one in Thailand last week. Unfortunately though last night I had given it to a mystery Thai girl as a pledge of my un-dying love. I soon enough found my way back to the railway platform, the hub of life here. This is where everyone hangs out - and where I met Ms Sukin, a tiny Muslim woman whose age I found difficult to place. She knows Yan Eng well, as has worked with him to get the guesthouse going. From what I can determine, she waits for the infrequent trains, collars any travellers and a) tries to get them into the guest house or b) tries to get them to book a jungle trek or c) in the event of a) or b) failing, tries to marry them. As I had lost the only day I had spare for jungle trekking by missing today's train, and I was already staying in Yan Eng’s place, the options were limited to (c). |
| Relying on my battered internal clock meant very intermittent sleep, as its alarm sounded about once every hour. So, once I made it to 0430 I got up. Mr Yan Eng rose shortly after, and cooked up a rice meal, neatly packaged in a banana leaf for my journey, while I took a cold shower. I took time to enter my remarks about my visit to Wakaf Bharu Guest house into the comments book - and wondered how my experiences here measured up to previous guests. I bet they were all good, but all individual. The location is ideal, it is clean and good value - but, I hope it does not get too busy. He assures me that he will always "look after" every guest the same way. So I, along with a few other travellers this year, feel privileged to have been here now, and experienced his un-ending hospitality, and that of his friends. I said my goodbyes to Yan Eng, and was duly escorted to the platform by Floren. As my train rumbled to a halt, she gave me a paper serviette, which was covered in the tiniest script - a poem she had written. How nice, I felt honoured. With Asian trains not being renowned for hanging around at stations - I threw my pack through a convenient window, said goodbye to Floren then legged it onto the train. I was at last able to do something you just cannot do on English trains anymore. I could hang out the window waving as we moved off, just as they do in all old movies. You cannot do this in England nowadays because a) the windows do not open and b) there is a surprising lack of any women prepared to run along the platform waving at moving trains. Goodbye to Yan Eng, to Floren and everyone else I met - and to Wakaf Bharu. A truly unique experience for me! |