Of Foreign Build (8 page)

Great sailing is when you put your cup of tea down and it stays put. But the Malacca Straits had other ideas for us. We could indeed put our cup of tea down, because the movement was not the problem, but rather the fog. We motored across, filled with dread. The soupy water seemed to thicken the fog that hung limply above, camouflaging other vessels. Huge monolithic ships continually glided silently up and down the busy, narrow stretch. To add to the fun, a strong current pushed us along sideways. Imagine sliding on your bottom on ice. You might be facing left, but your body is going forwards. In a strong current this is how boats behave. It is rather disconcerting when you are weaving between enormous ships that are moving at twenty-six knots. Our maximum speed, under motor, was about six-and-a-half knots. We put a lot of faith in our equipment on board, as well as our ability.

We arrived at Port Dickson in the beginning of November 2000. So much had happened already; we had only left Australia in September. I felt like we had been sailing away from Australia for years.

Port Dickson was oppressively hot. The marina, surrounded by tall buildings, prevented any breeze from reaching us. However, it was clean and well equipped with a pool. By now, we had seen a few pools and nice marinas, but that wasn’t what our travelling was about. However, we were grateful for the refreshing plunge.

Port Dickson is a funky town in more ways than one. It contains almost everything you could desire except good bread and most western supermarket food, which was exactly what we needed. Checking in was dramatic – customs was difficult, and I don’t think my mindless wardrobe helped. I had forgotten to cover up and exposed arms and legs were a big no no; after much grovelling, they stamped our passports and sombrely let us go. The bus station was nearby, so without thought or plan, we jumped on a bus to Kuala Lumpur. The ride provided a welcome reprieve from walking in the heat. For two hours, with air conditioning blasting on our damp skin, we sat back and soaked up the scenery.

Kuala Lumpur was buzzing, so it didn’t take us long to find the markets and barter for items that we just did not need. There were no clothing bargains to be had, as they were expensive, fake branded gear with very
real
prices.

We walked through the town seeking an Information Bureau. We found it in an unremarkable basement, hidden, with no indication of its existence. Organised tours were ridiculously expensive, so we stole some ideas from the shelved brochures and set off on our own tour. We bumped into a German couple that were also sight-seeing; they gave us some other must-see ideas.

Armed with knowledge, we first thought it prudent to check the departure time of the last bus – 9:30 pm – plenty of time to play the tourist. We booked a Chinese buffet restaurant for dinner and a show and then hot-footed it to the Telecom Tower, which offered a staggering view of the city. Bustling with dozens of other tourists, we viewed the magnificent sights of Kuala Lumpur. We paid one ringgit (about thirty-three Australian cents) to use the telescope and found we had to fight to keep it. Malaysians had no idea of queuing and even less idea about paying. At first I thought they were ignorant, then I realised that they were actually quite smart.

Soon we were heading back to the restaurant for the show and dinner. Of course we picked a night there was a school outing and we were accompanied with about one-hundred-and-fifty kids! Just as we were about to avail ourselves to the buffet, a secret signal was given and one-hundred-and-fifty kids stood up en-mass and charged towards the feast. The swarm of locusts eventually cleared, and we went up to pick at the remains.

The show consisted of Asian dancing. The girls looked bored and only one of the guys knew what he was doing. Still, it was colourful. We finished our scraps and all too soon we were on our way back to the bus station from hell.

The bus station was underground within an enormous concrete coffin. Since building the airless tomb, newer buses had been built, which meant bigger buses. Unfortunately, the concrete coffin had no way of expanding. The engines grunted and groaned as they were slammed backwards and forwards, trying to edge their way into the tiny bays. It took a surprisingly short time for the basement to become thick with lung clogging fumes. No vents or windows meant the fetid air had no escape. The black exhaust fumes smeared walls and covered any lighting that may have been there and our lungs disintegrated with every breath.

Our bus, the last bus, had broken down. We waited an hour for a replacement. Even though there was a language barrier, the ticket-selling attendant managed to indicate that we should buy tickets when we stepped on the bus. It was getting later and later; we were becoming a mite sceptical of getting home. Spending far too much time in the deadly basement of buses, we awaited eagerly for our transport home. Finally, it arrived. The trip was once again pleasant: comfy seats, cool air, and thought of our cherished home waiting for us. I dozed and Noel chatted to a friendly Indian man, who subsequently gave us a lift back to the marina from the final bus stop (with wife and two children in one car). We were to experience endless helpful gestures such as these in every country we visited.

We arrived late back to the marina, and all the gates were locked. No security guards were to be seen. Our Indian friend helped us break into the kitchens that were part of the restaurant (causing no damage), where we could make our way back, through deserted buildings, to the sanctuary of
Mariah
.

The next night we opted for a quieter option. Barry and Judy on
Theta
were coming over to
Mariah
for a quiet dinner. First, they were having cocktails on
Fraden
. Early in the evening, after our swim, Noel and I strolled past
Fraden
.

‘Come on board,’ Francina and Denny called out, ‘we have made some punch we’d like you to try.’

‘Oh, okay only a quick one,’ we said – famous last words. Two hours later, after meeting new cruisers and sharing unique, strange, and mostly hysterical stories with the added ingredient of plenty of punch, we were ready to hit the town. A group of about ten international sailors set off in three taxis to a highly recommended Indian restaurant. The group consisted of Australians, French, Americans, New Zealanders, and English; needless to say, the joviality continued, as did the flow of beer. The food was delicious and the company great. My shyness had all but evaporated, I wasn’t sure anymore if it was my confidence, knowledge gained, or that I was simply quite drunk most of the time in this particular port!

The clock was ticking and it was time for us and our knackered kidneys to leave. We travelled from Port Dickson in a convoy with two American yachts. All of us reluctantly steered over fishing nets, as there were too many to avoid. The worry of what might happen at these times was exhausting. Fouling a propeller in an ocean meant someone would have to dive overboard (with a snorkel) to fight the waves and rolling boat in order to untangle the tenacious fishing line, all the while hoping the boat didn’t sail off into the sunset without leaving him or her. Of course, being tied on with a rope and having a competent partner on board should allay these fears – but it was still a concern. Fortunately, we did not have to contend with this drama.

It was now 9 November, and we made an overnight trip to Lumut. The night stint contained the normal hair-raising fishing boats with indecipherable lights speeding around us in all directions. We made it through the night safely, and at dawn we were almost there. We had chosen this destination to take the opportunity to head up into the hills. We wanted to see the tea plantations and longed for some cooler air. With
Mariah
safely tied up on her own in a small marina, we arranged to catch a bus the next day into the hills.

Cameron Highlands tea plantations looked like a green velvet carpet, and the air was cool, clean, and crisp. It catered for tourists, but it wasn’t over-run with the travelling breed. The taxi driver recommended to us accommodation that a friend of his owned. Our room for two nights was clean and cheap: a double room with a bathroom down the hall to share, all at 30 ringgit per night (about ten Australian dollars – a great bargain). We even asked for extra blankets that night! It was so refreshing to be cool again.

The next morning, we organised a half-day tour. Honey bee farms, markets, butterfly farms, and best of all, a tea plantation. BOH plantations were the biggest in Malaysia and carried the most tantalising smells. Tea comes from the original wild plant,
Camellia Sinensis
. The leaves are fermented, dried, and rolled differently to give each tea its particular flavour. A nice pot of tea and a bun was the perfect end to a touring day.

The second night we stayed in our accommodation and watched a complimentary movie. Continuous sightseeing could become tiring. Noel and I enjoyed meeting the locals in their environment and other travellers/visitors that had their own goals in life. We didn’t need to keep seeing the latest tourist attraction – sharing a home with different people of new cultures was just as thrilling.

Most off-putting was the ridiculously loud music that was blaring from two enormous speakers, which swamped the town, and prevented any ideas of having a conversation. This was quite common in Malaysia, and we never found out exactly why this occurred; it presumably held some religious connotation. We just settled back in our own egotistical summation that large speakers were the worst objects to arrive in Malaysia.

Arriving too early at the bus station for the journey home the next day, we started a conversation with a couple: he German, she Thai. They were heading for KL, so we could share a taxi part way together. Racing down a steep, winding hill in a bus that would have been lucky to have had a service in the last fifty years, was not a prospect we were relishing. We were all glad to share the cost of a private car. We stopped at the waterfall again on the way down. Noel and I wanted a blowgun (we had had a practice with one in a shop in the Highlands, blowing small darts through the tube – not poisoned projectiles though!). We found an authentic Malaysian gun, which we proudly mounted on one of
Mariah’s
bulkheads. I wondered what future customs officials would make of it.

Arriving home was, as always, a great joy. Although tired from travelling, we both had this continual need to move, and so that afternoon we prepared
Mariah
and left the following morning at dawn.

Twenty-four hours of motoring later, we arrived in Langkawi. This was our last stop in Malaysia. Our next stop was Thailand then, unbelievably, Sri Lanka. Were we really going to sail all the way to Sri Lanka? I asked myself in my disturbingly regular soliloquies. It would seem so.

My parents booked a flight to visit us. We had a few weeks up our sleeves before they arrived on 21 December. There was painting and varnishing to be done, and we were only permitted to stay one month in Thailand. We decided to anchor in Langkawi and set to work. Noel was becoming more accustomed to my strange ways – my soliloquies one of many oddities. There were times when I would say something to him and he would ignore me. I could be quite snobbish and get really offended, finding this behaviour rude. However, it would seem that I often chatted to myself more frequently than I realised. Noel had tried to talk to me when I was talking to myself. I, apparently would tell him off quite sharply, saying, ‘I’m talking to myself, not you!’ Quite rightly, thereafter, he was never quite sure who I was talking to, him or myself!

Before anchoring in Kuah, Langkawi, we anchored near the entrance, between a couple of islands inhabited only by wildlife. Anchored between sheer cliff faces without neighbours was heavenly. The water was, at last, much clearer. It was still slightly a green-pea colour, but certainly cleaner than it had been for some time. We spent two days watching the wild monkeys trapeze in the trees before dipping in the water; the wild pigs tentatively rummaged on the small beach, and the graceful eagles glided and swooped for their dinner. The anchorage was tranquil, still, and a calming balm for our moving souls. Thick, green jungle gave relief to our eyes; the clear and crisp azure skies with white birds cutting a gliding arc consolidated the serenity.

Langkawi had two marinas, both of which required taxi rides to reach town. One marina meant a lengthy taxi ride and was expensive. The other marina was a lot closer to town, but continually buffeted by the wakes from the constant ferries. Anchoring was easy, safe, and free. It also had a cooler breeze, and we liked the price. We liked Langkawi.

To get ashore we took our dinghy into a small lagoon, tied it up, and climbed up a bank into the town. We had heard through the grapevine that there was a bar here called Jimmy’s, which was popular with the cruising folk. The town was not huge, so on our arrival we walked around the dusty streets trying to locate Jimmy’s. We stumbled upon a hotel, and seeing as how we had plans to call home, using the hotel’s phone, we decided to have a quick beer. The hotel beer was incredibly expensive; this was certainly not Jimmy’s!

The cold beer had become our ritual on arrival to a new port. Making a safe landing in a new place was an achievement, the beer the reward. We never drank at sea.

Refreshed, sated, and thoroughly skint, after letting our families know we were safe, we had another look around town. We noticed that there was plenty of duty-free alcohol, so this was where we would stock up for Christmas. We also found where we could buy bacon and cheese. Asking for the bacon was done in a whisper, once you had found the right shop; it was illegal to sell it in a Muslim village. It was excellent and made a great change from noodles, which had been our main diet.

Food was simple on board; we didn’t have a fridge so it had to be. Pasta and rice were our main diet. We kept vegetables in the cupboards below the water line where they kept cool. Cabbage was peeled, not sliced, and would last weeks and weeks. Eggs were turned daily. Tomatoes kept in egg cartons, separate and unable to roll around and bruise. Buying supplies became a bit of an art. Not only did we search for the freshest items, but the quantity of bruising and general all-over condition was important, too. Of course, green bananas and tomatoes helped – any fruit or vegetable that could ripen along the way was useful. Bananas give off a natural gas called ethylene, which speeds up ripening. So we spread the bananas around to other places within the boat. If we were lucky to find a big bunch of green bananas, we would lash them under the solar panel, out of the sun. Each day we would pick one or two and put them in the sun for ripening. It all became incredibly easy and life was simple. It was surprising how little we needed.
Mariah
was a simple boat all round: having fewer gadgets meant fewer things broke down and needed maintenance. We were always a little smug when hearing about cruisers searching for parts for their fridge, water-maker, radar, and so on.