About thirty hours in total in the town and a few more on the mountain, without one single other Caucasian sighted. Indeed Malays themselves were not numerous. Unsurprising all the furtive looks, helpless smiles from young girls—even scarved young girls—and numerous greetings.
The memory of Taiping up in Perak State strongly returned. In Kluang the hills round the town stood at more of a remove and the marvellous old buildings of Taiping were not much in evidence here.
Kluang was more recently built, largely post-war, certainly the town centre. As usual in Malaysia, the traders and the professional class were often Chinese.
After nearly three years in Singapore the stray town dogs surprised. One old bedraggled beast crossing an intersection presented a startling sight for all the odd folds of flesh hanging from its body. A few moments one thought one was seeing a ragged, slipping coat of some kind, mud perhaps.
Crossing the bridge from the bus-stop on entry to the town there was immediately a pack down on a spit of land in the middle of what appeared deep, muddy water. With the pedigrees dogs in Singapore and Australian cities the mongrels appeared another species.
A young Singaporean trekking group which had been joined needed to visit a mall within an hour of arrival. On one of the upper levels a couple of whiteboards commemorating the missing MH370 offered photo opportunities.
A fine, helpful and considerate group of women trekkers, with perhaps some sense of premature ageing in the conservative Asian manners and attitudes. Preoccupation with food delicacies, cheap massage and beauty treatments at a fraction of the cost back home.
Thankfully, the prudent gals sought out the simple street-stalls.
Five years since the last climb meant a tough haul on the steep sides of beautifully wooded and fragrant Lambak. Ropes helped. The monkeys in the wild were compelling. Later finding the peak topped a mere 500 metres was difficult to believe. The steep, perpendicular ascent chosen by the more toughened part of the group had followed a track that had been carved by a work-crew some years before.
Back down at the base local fruits and juices were provided by uncles and aunties at improvised stalls. Fresh and fleshy mangosteen, pineapple and papaya, as well as tasty kway of various sorts.
The culmination of the visit arrived without notice under the trees eating the fruit.
First an old grandma came over with her grandchild in order to get a closer look at the foreigner. The woman had three children in Singapore, one a teacher. Meandering talk.
The woman was in her mid-seventies, same as the chap pointed out as her husband buying fruit for their party. Once the interaction had begun, Grand-dad strode over with a long piece of papaya for the new-comer.
— Oh, Oh! Very kind. I have just taken three or four fruits…
The man could not be shaken. Five minutes later too, back again with another offering.
Oh, Grand-dad! Dear me! Overwhelming.
A juice too had been taken earlier.
— Never mind, never mind. You try. Mangosteen. Try uncle.
One should plainly admit the wounding at the address. Like an unexpected sock in the jaw!
Yet, how to take offence? How?
Unexpected kindness all these many months from all sides and all quarters.
...In the old man's excitement he had confused mangosteen and dragonfruit in English.
Only days later did the penny drop. Mangosteens were not in season currently.
Johor, Malaysia 2015
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