Water-holes rather than lakes fifteen minutes outside Ipoh on the electric line. (The train earlier in the year from Johor Bahru to Tampin was certainly much slower, steam perhaps, and narrower gauge.) What look like lakes in this region are in fact remnants from the tin mining, Ipoh having been one of the major sites, indeed created by tin. (The same as Taiping and Kuala Lumpur itself.) As we progressed the number of them could leave no doubt—the ore was not confined only to the hills. And soon after palms, rows upon rows of palms of the one single species. A doubly blighted landscape. The old low cemeteries along the line could only hold the bones of miners, nothing else.
Generic housing estates fitting with the rest. For all their touches of individuality, are our own suburbs any better? Small herds of cattle come as a welcome relief, even in grays and dun colours, a little glimmer of independent, roaming life that reaches the heart in this particular context. Tapah Road had a truncated old tower of some sort beside the tracks, as well as a Hindu temple. The latter is entirely familiar from that other line on that other train earlier in the year: Indian work-gangs laying the rail in order to get the product out a hundred years ago had been much in need of places of worship in the foreign land. The bright-eyed uniformed Malay steward cannot shed light on either tower or place-name—Tapah Road. Did it too have something to do with tin? (Google answers a particular form of fish—introduced into the artificial lakes perhaps? A corruption of "tapper" for the former rubber plantations?) More and more water-holes; occasional creeks that seem as if they could possibly be natural features of the landscape.
Another surprise in the other direction; another small stab of delight. No possible mistake about it. Beneath some palms that cast dark shadow the small, scrabbly chaos of a chook run! Copper and dusty brown mainly, a few pesky ones darting about behaving just like our own kind back in the day—reminding too somehow of busy, lively housewives in aprons back in the same day. Many, many, as they say in the local English of the region, there under the tall trees planted in unnerving rows. The fowls had been set racing by the locomotive possibly. Most certainly certifiable Free-range. As outstanding as any other feature the length of the entire ride.
And what can Slim River denote? A suggestion of American English. The mighty green-back brought in at some point to extract the ore more quickly? Another Hindu temple directly adjacent the line; and on the other side Chinese, directly adjacent. Signaling a rich vein of ore in the vicinity. In those days of course the ore was not extracted with any sophisticated heavy machinery. Man-power, raw strength and endurance. The English segregated the introduced labour. Just as currently down in Singapore, and indeed many industrialized countries, for intensive labour projects cohesive work-gangs function best. Historically here in Malaysia, Chinese for the mines; Indians the rubber and rail-lines (Sikhs and Gurkhas policing). In both cases from the south, near the beach-heads/trading ports—Special Economic Zones (SEZs) in the current terminology.
One hundred and thirty odd kilometres per hour the computerized screen showed. In order to soften the ride an ancient historical epic on the screen, thankfully mute— a saga of Perseus timed for the length of journey. After more than a couple of months in the various Malaysian centres, this clock-like precision rather striking. Uniformed young chap with the whistle on the platform at Ipoh blowing at precisely twenty-four minutes past; arrival on the dot the other end (driver pulled up speed to make sure). The cleanliness, soft-padded new upholstery, synchronized announcements: the hand of Singaporean management the author will lay ten-to-one.
Sure enough, a couple of kilometres outside Tanjung Malim, another Hindu temple. Faux lakes; another bone-yard. Further along before higher hills rolling clouds almost at ground level, an unusual feature of the topography in the tropics. Sporadic housing. The hero on the screen asking an elder for hints on how to seduce a mermaid. Concrete aviaries—not granaries as previously assumed: for the birds-nest farming. Not a great number—inner-city Taiping’s old housing stock has likely cornered that market. Bananas the small variation. Looked like a head-stone of a grave near an out-house off from the main residence. (On arrival at Chow Kit a casket maker beside the Pakistani Eatery surprised. Many meals had been taken at Restoran Mehran over the term, without that particular casket place noticed. At Jimmy Lim's Backpackers in Cintra Street, Georgetown there was another immediately next door. In amongst a range of shops in the new funky quarter in JB the same. Before that evening at Chow Kit never had the traditional old heavy scalloped timber unit been sighted. They came from Ipoh, the owner out front informed, sides and ends in whole lengths, no lamination involved. Traditional Chinese, he said—oddly crossed with some echo of Viking form. Set back a prestigious family RM16,000—almost five thousand Australian just for the box. Old tin mining Execs. perhaps.)
Smoking chimneys of a smelter; yellow-orange terraces: more processing plants past half-way. Finally some farming at Rawang. Two further stops remaining in the Gold Class service. (Only a few ringgit more expensive than Silver: RM35.) Train on a siding showed more than one coach FOR LADIES ONLY. Very unlikely to be any Japanese groping here, but there you have it. Low-cut jack-fruit immediately adjacent the line—a Tamil railway planter sure as the day, not an itinerant either. A major station Rawang, a number of lines; deep-gouged hills bared to rock with the accompanying smelter. Closing on the outer suburbs of KL revealed by billboards that leapt from remnant jungle.
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