The plan today was to drive west to Pontian, near the coast, and visit some friends and relatives of Foo and Julie, then I would take a bus along Route 5, hugging the coast, to Melaka. It was so hot, the sun blazing in a cloudless sky all day. The roads were good, as good as anything back home anyway, and there was a considerable amount of family traffic, today being Sunday. Although Malaysia is a Moslem country Sunday is a holiday, due, Foo said, to economic reasons. All the houses we passed were single-story dwellings set back from the road with gardens out front and appeared to be Chinese, some with red decorations in Chinese characters (probably something to do with Chinese New Year) or red lanterns.

We stopped off at a prosperous-looking country club that was built in the Indonesian style. Various invaders from what is present-day Indonesia brought their construction styles with them, which were then adapted by the Malays (more about this when we arrive at Melaka).

On the way Foo told me about Feng Shui, or geomancy. The Hyatt hotel off Orchard Road was an example of a place that just would not prosper despite its prime location. They called in some Feng Shui experts who cut a piece off the doors, and it hasn't looked back since. And about the number 8, the lucky number. 8.8.88 was a good year for Chinese. 4 is bad, meaning death.

Our first stop was before Pontian at a small fruit farm belonging to relatives of a college-friend of Foo's. The small one-story house, like all the houses I saw here, was about 30 yards back from the main road. Actually this seems to have been the house of the older couple, parents of the husband. Another 30 yards behind that was the house of the younger couple. First we removed our shoes, then entered the living room, a large room with a bare floor around which were strewn the toys of the 2 children, along with the 2 culprits (all the Chinese kids I came across were always quiet and well behaved). Behind the living room, at the back of the house, was a large kitchen. Against one wall was a Chinese altar, with joss sticks, to one of the deities, a grey-haired figure whose name I can't recall. Foo presented the obligatory small gift, while our hostess provided coke, and we sat on the couch in front of the coffee-table. She had come from Sumatra 12 years before and had 3 kids. Keeping our eyes peeled for snakes, we went into the garden where Foo pointed out tapioca trees, durian trees (in picture), which reputedly had a very strong aroma, bougainvilla, a popular flower, and a few other fruit trees bearing fruit that I had never heard of, but that I recorded on video.

Our next stop was at one of Julie's relatives, a few miles north of Pontian, Mr. Choo. The house had two little roaring lions on each side of the entrance, like a smaller version of those seen outside the Chinese temples (or restaurants, for that matter). These are supposed to frighten off evil spirits. To the side of the entrance was a little tangerine tree, bearing some religious pictures. Foo told me that Chinese tend to keep these not to eat but because of the golden colour of the fruit, which signifies prosperity.

The house had the usual living room just inside the front door and the large kitchen beyond. Rooms with small doors leading off the living room were presumably bedrooms. The elderly relatives were watching a film in Chinese broadcast from Singapore. In the little alcove where we were seated, the youngest member of the family (about 2 years) had his own video showing animals devouring each other. Against a side wall was the little altar, with the 3 usual deities.

We had big mugs of strong black coffee (which seems to be the usual way of drinking coffee here), then did a tour of the garden behind the house. Again a bewildering variety of exotic fruits, including European durian, banana, sweet potato, mango, and lots of others which I recorded on the video. Next to Mr. Choo's house was a Chinese temple, behind which were graves dating back to the Japanese occupation. Everything in and around Mr. Choo's garden looked overgrown and dilapidated, and the temple was no exception.

Although both Foo and Mr. Choo were of Chinese extraction and could speak the language of their respective ancestors, they had to converse in Malay with each other, as they couldn't understand each other's dialects.

We then took a trip to Mr. Choo's plantation, a couple of miles away, on a road leading off the main road. This consisted of palm trees, bearing clusters of the fruit, which I assume are called palm nuts--these are pressed to produce palm oil. In between the palm trees he plants other trees, in this case I think it was banana.

We drove on to the next town to the north, Banut, I think, where we wanted to have a bite to eat and enquire for the buses to Melaka. It seemed to be getting hotter--I could feel the sunburn on my arms beginning to burn. The sweat was only pouring off me. We had lunch at a little Chinese restaurant (well, they're all Chinese around here, I suppose). Ayam (chicken) and nasi (rice) with a chilie (chibai) sauce and clear soup. Foo said the Chinese always eat soup, with the meal, not before.

Mr. Choo went off enquiring of the drivers--there were no direct buses for Melaka, but there were buses going to the next town, Batu Pahat, and I could get other buses from there. So that's what I did, stopping briefly in Batu Pahat, a town that figured in the independence struggle, then to Muar, an old port town. I'd liked to have had more time to explore the old part of this town, but it couldn't be done this trip. I found the bus to Melaka, and we were on our way again.

The scenery on each side of the road changed slightly as we proceeded north. There seemed to be fewer Chinese and more Malay houses, and a different variety of fruit. On the way to Muar I sat beside a little schoolgirl dressed like a nun (though in bright colours) wearing a white khimar (scarf) and jilbab, and on the bus to Melaka she was sitting in front of me, and turned around to speak. In halting English she told me that she came from outside Melaka, but went to school there. A large number of the passengers were girls dressed like her, carrying stationary and copy-books, looking like they were returning from the Islamic version of a Sunday School.

The bus station at Melaka was noisy and the air was hot and sticky. I needed to get somewhere quieter to get my head together and plan the next move. I walked along several streets in what was a textile market area until I came to a small family restaurant where I had some more ayam and nasi. I got talking to a group of young folks about places to stay--they were staying in a place called Sunny's Inn, over in Taman Melaka Raya. As the asking rate was 35RM for an air-conditioned room with shower, I thought why not. Of course, I was thinking of something like my room in the Metropole hotel!

Walking back to the noisy bus station I was hailed by a taxi driver (usually it's the other way around!) standing next to a Merc. I showed him Raymond Choy's address, given to me by Foo, also in Taman Melaka Raya, and he said he'd take me there for 8RM. Although we found the area, he couldn't find the place, after driving around for about 20 minutes. It didn't help that very few of the buildings had numbers on them. It was almost as bad trying to find the guest house. I gave up and said I would find it myself, which I did in a couple of minutes.

Sunny's was a good deal worse off than I had expected. It looked like an office or warehouse cheaply converted into a hostel. The quality of the rooms wasn't up to much, but the atmosphere was OK and I didn't fancy going out into the heat to search further.