Five hours, a Super-VIP bus, no less and twenty three Malaysian Ringgit (GB£3) saw me in Butterworth. We left Tanah Rata exactly on time, drove up to Brinchang and parked in the lay-bye where they hold the night market. The driver put on white gloves and messed about with something along the side of the bus for twenty minutes, but as he had no tools and didn’t get his gloves in the least dirty, goodness knows what. Satisfied with his work, he got back in and drove back down the hill again for diesel.
Heading over the hills from Brinchang the road passes through a number of small, agricultural settlements where the most common vehicles you see are ancient, beat up Landrovers. There is no tourist development on this side of the highlands, although it would have been no less beautiful at one time. In much of the valley you can’t see what is being grown because everything is covered in tatty polythene greenhouses.
As you leave the Highlands shortly before joining the Ipoh road, you pass through an area of limestone karst scenery. It must have been beautiful at one time, soaring limestone cliffs topped with forest and dripping with lianas. Around every corner though there seems to be a different quarry, a new cement plant.
It is not uncommon here, especially with tourists, that they clothes smell sour. The high humidity makes it difficult to dry clothes fast enough and as they are reheated by sweaty bodies, they take on a particularly nasty smell. I have grown to associate with Europeans in SE Asia. Most Malaysians are remarkably clean. Some of the school kids even have completely white uniforms that look as crisp at the end of the day as they did in the morning. Smelling bag in the tropics isn’t an European prerogative though; the Tamil chap on the seat behind me in the bus had an aura, a nose twitchingly bad smell that hovered around him in a 3 meter radius. His clothes were clean though.
Ten miles out of Butterworth we had a blow out. The driver stopped, shook his head and then waved down another bus into which we squashed. Total delay? Ten minutes.
The ferries from Butterworth to Georgetown haven’t changed much at all, although they are now painted in different colours and carry adverts. The floor of my ferry had been newly painted in green too. It must have been done on a tight budget as the painters had gone around the passenger benches leaving half meter wide rectangles grey and rust underneath.
The ferry system was always efficient, with at least four large boats sailing back and forth across the Straight of Melacca at any one time, cars on the lower deck, passengers on the open upper deck. Turnstiles have now been fitted at the entrance, which isn’t an improvement - slowing people down as they scramble for the right change.
As a general rule, travelling with one bag works well, with two you are somewhat handicapped and with three you are a hazard, an accident waiting to happen. Mine came at the turnstiles. I inserted my MR1.20 and edged through. The stainless steel prong clicked forward under the resistance of my left leg. It then stopped solid. This was a turnstile for the tiny. The attendant indicated that I should hurry up. I muttered something about being stuck, but he wasn’t listening and couldn’t see my predicament because of all the baggage. As he obviously wasn’t going to help I performed a neat backwards hop, dragging my bags and right leg over the turnstile, bouncing backwards and in the process almost flattening a poor Malay lady.
My taxi driver asked why I was staying at the Mingood Hotel, which made me suspicious. Its OK, but dingy and the air-conditioning is not very effective. At US$20 a night I had hoped for better.
Heading over the hills from Brinchang the road passes through a number of small, agricultural settlements where the most common vehicles you see are ancient, beat up Landrovers. There is no tourist development on this side of the highlands, although it would have been no less beautiful at one time. In much of the valley you can’t see what is being grown because everything is covered in tatty polythene greenhouses.
As you leave the Highlands shortly before joining the Ipoh road, you pass through an area of limestone karst scenery. It must have been beautiful at one time, soaring limestone cliffs topped with forest and dripping with lianas. Around every corner though there seems to be a different quarry, a new cement plant.
It is not uncommon here, especially with tourists, that they clothes smell sour. The high humidity makes it difficult to dry clothes fast enough and as they are reheated by sweaty bodies, they take on a particularly nasty smell. I have grown to associate with Europeans in SE Asia. Most Malaysians are remarkably clean. Some of the school kids even have completely white uniforms that look as crisp at the end of the day as they did in the morning. Smelling bag in the tropics isn’t an European prerogative though; the Tamil chap on the seat behind me in the bus had an aura, a nose twitchingly bad smell that hovered around him in a 3 meter radius. His clothes were clean though.
Ten miles out of Butterworth we had a blow out. The driver stopped, shook his head and then waved down another bus into which we squashed. Total delay? Ten minutes.
The ferries from Butterworth to Georgetown haven’t changed much at all, although they are now painted in different colours and carry adverts. The floor of my ferry had been newly painted in green too. It must have been done on a tight budget as the painters had gone around the passenger benches leaving half meter wide rectangles grey and rust underneath.
The ferry system was always efficient, with at least four large boats sailing back and forth across the Straight of Melacca at any one time, cars on the lower deck, passengers on the open upper deck. Turnstiles have now been fitted at the entrance, which isn’t an improvement - slowing people down as they scramble for the right change.
As a general rule, travelling with one bag works well, with two you are somewhat handicapped and with three you are a hazard, an accident waiting to happen. Mine came at the turnstiles. I inserted my MR1.20 and edged through. The stainless steel prong clicked forward under the resistance of my left leg. It then stopped solid. This was a turnstile for the tiny. The attendant indicated that I should hurry up. I muttered something about being stuck, but he wasn’t listening and couldn’t see my predicament because of all the baggage. As he obviously wasn’t going to help I performed a neat backwards hop, dragging my bags and right leg over the turnstile, bouncing backwards and in the process almost flattening a poor Malay lady.
My taxi driver asked why I was staying at the Mingood Hotel, which made me suspicious. Its OK, but dingy and the air-conditioning is not very effective. At US$20 a night I had hoped for better.
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