Monkeys may snigger but cold showers aren't really my thing. During one year at university, an unwisely chosen lodging turned out to lack a water heater. So on days when a shower could not be stolen from Kent Ridge Hall (then still located across the sports complex), a dry lather of soap helped to insulate frigid ducks from the chilling onslaught of shuddering drops.
Back at the hotel, I had to resort to the same trick as the heater in the nearest bathroom was broken. Joe wisely used the cubicle at the end of the corridor which proved functionable and made her chirpy for dinner. The sweet little boy we cuddled earlier was nowhere to be seen. But as we passed by the now-opened drinking hole with larger-than-life posters of pool-ladies, we saw that long bushy tails might be a recurring trait in the town's alleycats. This time, though, the feline was a mangy tom with a scowl to curdle eggnog, whom we declined to caress. The cluster of Chinese diners was now ready for business and we sat to order a plate of Malaysian-style Hokkien mee, pork ribs, stir-fried vegetables with garlic and a quart of Guinness Foreign Extra. Chunks of lard littered the noodles like slices of dark, unmelted butter. A family of mixed heritage occupied a nearby table, their daughters promising to grow up into beauties of Chindian bearing.
The recent bout of rain had run its course, but the cool air lingered as we sifted through what retailers were open after dark. Joe made a hit-and-run-away foray into a jamu specialist stocking tinctures of seahorse and ginseng. One little sundry shop was filled with Indonesian sing-song tones. And clearbagged bootleg cereals that resembled catfood more than breakfast snacks lined a local grocery.
The boat to Kuala Tahan on the following day would only depart at two, so we spent the morning at the Pasar Tani. Plates from the previous night's suppers were still uncleared, attended by flies and free-wheeling magpie robins. The weekend farmer's market occupies the town square, rimmed on one end by low shops and on the other by the regular market complex where fowl are plucked and seafood sold from permanent niches. Stallholders in neat rows peddled fruits, vegetables, forest produce, drinks, home-cooked food, poultry, fish, garments and gaudy knick-knacks. From a Hakka-speaking uncle, we bought warm soymilk to counter the morning damp. The hills overlooking Jerantut were still shrouded in thick mist pierced by small flocks of bright white birds.
Marine catch could be found quite readily, even so far inland. I mistook for a shark a fish-and-a-front-half that was labelled 'ikan duri', until Joe pointed out the barbels. Apparently, at least three marine Siluriforms bear that common name in Malaysia. Other catfishes seen include gasping Bagrus(?), buckets of live Clarias and basins of floundering Pangasius or patin. Together with hapless tilapia, the ikan sangkar (literally caged fish reared in aquaculture farms) were butchered alive, descaled, definned and gutted for weekend woks before they could catch a final breath. Some patin were offered cooked and crisp, appearing better charred than some of the birds on sale. A few large cyprinids of riverine stock were also spotted.
A stall run by two Malay ladies displayed a good variety of small batches. We were intrigued by a bunch of long stem-like strips that didn't appear appetising at all and queried the proprietors, who said these were 'daun palas' used to wrap ketupat (Malay rice dumplings). One makcik helpfully unravelled a strip, revealing even fan-like folds with a width that seems to fit the dimensions of a polyhedronal wrap. Regular ketupat uses coconut leaves, but this is a variant called ketupat daun palas that employs the foliage of a forest palm (Licuala sp.). Petai and plantain were other staples, along with the Clitoria-tinged grains of nasi kerabu. Another curiosity were splintered seeds of a hardened demeanour (lower left photo above). The stallholder said these were 'buah keras' and pointed to green pods on an adjacent plate. They are used in nasi ulam, she added. I found out that these are probably the seeds of candlenuts, which are so called on account of their high lipids content which some islandic peoples use as a source of light. The raw seeds are noted laxatives. Still unidentified are the brown pods in the lower right photo above.
After a canai breakfast at a nearby stall, we surveyed the market again. A freshly set-up table was drawing a gathering of hoary swanks who felt and discussed the rich array of strange woods, stones, crystals, gems, horn and keratin. The proprietor was engaged in trimming and carving the raw materials into beadlets that he would then set onto crude steel rings. Many local men (including some of the rangers at Taman Negara) sported these amulets which purportedly offer a catalogue of protection against venom and vicious spirits or the power to ward off maladies and misfortune. In a glass container, there was a fetus of a kijang. Joe pondered the source of a largish avian mandible that appeared neither Coraciiform nor Falconiform.
A Guanyin temple behind a columbarium gave a bird's eye view of Jerantut. Inside, swarthy gods lurked in dark corners and Joe noted an artisan's fondness for dwarfish warriors. A few mongrels snoozed by an airy wayang stage. The way down led to the railway station, where a train was idling. A goodly host was thronging the cantina and here peckish Joe discovered what could be claimed as the best ayam goreng in the Malay Archipelago. The crowd certainly knew it; the trays were kept restocked every so often with piping hot and succulent wings, legs, breasts and thighs soaked in an aromatic coating of savoury spices and bathed in oily crumbles of crispy flavour. Befuddled by a cryptic coffee advertisement on the canteen wall, I was more thirsty than rumbly (my loss) but hungry Joe bought a bagful and devoured her way back to the hotel, vowing to return some day for a second bite of the chicken.
Comments