Preface
Road to Betong: Eternal Summer is a deeply personal work of fiction exploring love, loss, and the search for meaning, set against the vibrant landscapes of Malaysia and Thailand. In this modern novella, I weave together the threads of my own passions—Southeast Asia's rich history, the nostalgic allure of the '90s, and my love for music, films, photography, food, culture, fashion, books, video games, travel, and small towns. These elements, along with the escapism found in childhood games and cherished movies, form a tapestry that reflects both the world and the inner life of the protagonist.
I must admit, many strange feelings surfaced while writing this novel—almost like revisiting a place I once called home but no longer belonged to. I knew him. I understood him. But I was not him anymore. That was the boy, and later the man, I had left behind. And along the way, I got to see and feel my own ethos.
It all happened at the end of 2023. Richard, a British expatriate in his late forties, found himself at a crossroads. Having recently lost his wife, Louise, he grappled with grief while searching for a way forward. His journey took him on a road trip through Peninsular Malaysia, eventually leading him to the small town of Betong in Southern Thailand—a place that became a sanctuary for his aching heart. In Betong, Richard discovered a love for the town's serene beauty and warm culture, and unexpectedly found companionship in Kritsada, a Thai woman in her thirties whom he had a crush on, who helped him begin to heal.
Throughout his journey, Richard is often drawn back into the comforting embrace of his childhood, imagining himself as a character in the video games he once loved, playing G.I. soldier, and losing himself in the music and movies that shaped his youth. The 90s fashion, Vietnam War films, and the anthems of his younger days become more than just memories—they are his way of coping, a means of reconnecting with a simpler time.
As Richard navigates the complexities of new love with Kritsada, he also reflects on his enduring love for his daughter, Joel, her boyfriend, Ben, and his late wife, Louise. His friendship with Mark, a fellow British expat living in KL with his Malaysian Chinese wife, Sonia—who joins him on holiday in Betong—provides both camaraderie and a mirror to his own struggles and joys. Together, they relive the past, discuss their futures, and find solace in each other's company, much like their bachelor days, both quietly hoping for an early retirement.
Road to Betong: Eternal Summer is a tribute to the power of travel, not just as a physical journey but as a path to emotional and spiritual renewal. It is about the places that stay with us, the memories that define us, and the love that guides us forward. I invite you to join Richard on his road to Betong, where every turn offers a chance for reflection, healing, and rediscovery of the self.
Love,
E-Synn
December 2025
Also by E-Synn
Non-Fiction
Wanderlust
Travelling Asia
The Year-End Diaries
Coffee Table Books
My Photography Romance
Volume I: Captured Journeys – A Visual Diary of 2023 Road Trips
Volume II: Memories of My Exploration – A 2024 Journey in Images
Fiction
Nil by Mouth
Arrow Heart
The People's Court
Copyright & Disclaimer
Road to Betong: Eternal Summer
© 2025 by E-Synn
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events or locales is purely coincidental. While inspired by real places in Malaysia and Thailand, the story is a creative interpretation and should not be read as a factual account.
The author has taken care to present a respectful and affectionate portrayal of Southeast Asian culture, particularly the unique sensibilities of small towns in Malaysia and Southern Thailand. Any historical, political, or cultural references are included for narrative depth and do not reflect any official position or comprehensive historical record.
Content Advisory:
This book contains some explicit content and mature themes intended for adult readers. Reader discretion is advised.
Use of Trademarks, Games, Music, and Movies:
This work may reference video games, songs, movies, and other media for narrative, descriptive, or illustrative purposes. All trademarks, registered trademarks, copyrights, songs, films, and video games mentioned are the property of their respective owners. They are included only for context, homage, or realism, and no affiliation, sponsorship, or endorsement is claimed or implied.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the author, except for brief quotations used in critical articles or reviews.
This book is dedicated to all Malaysians and Southeast Asians who have experienced love, loss, memory, and the quiet resilience of ordinary days. It is also a deeply personal homage to nostalgia and the emotional landscapes of the 1990s.
The characters, locations, and emotional experiences portrayed herein are an artistic reflection of the author's personal sensibilities and imaginative exploration. The author makes no claim to representing all perspectives or lived realities of any region or people mentioned.
For inquiries, feedback, or permissions, please contact:
Email: [email protected]
Cover and interior graphic design directed by E-Synn.
Printed in Malaysia.
First Edition, December 2025.
Road to Betong: Eternal Summer
By E-Synn.
A Modern Prose Novel of Fiction.
To my editor Sonia,
For bearing with me through all these years and enduring my emotional rollercoaster from time to time. Your patience and unwavering support have been invaluable.
This novel is dedicated to the people of Betong, to a Thai friend, and to all the Thai and Malaysian people. It's also for everyone living in cities and small towns who, like me, find themselves dreading Monday and the relentless grind of work life.
Regrets Are Heavy.
Chapter 1. 90s Nostalgia & Southern Thai Dreams.
/Betong Calls.-16 December 2023, Saturday.
The Start of The Journey Through Peninsular Malaysia.
Chapter 2. Through Selangor to Tanjung Karang.
/The Journey Begins.-23 December 2023, Saturday.
Chapter 3. A Night in Ayer Tawar.
/Under the Night Sky of a Small Town.-23 December 2023, Saturday.
Chapter 4. Pangkor Island, Lumut, Setiawan.
/Sunlit Drifting.-24 December 2023, Sunday.
The Road to Betong.
Chapter 5. Penang to Betong.
/Christmas Day Arrival.-25 December 2023, Monday.
Chapter 6. Reaching Betong.
/Beaten, But Here.-25 December 2023, Monday.
Holiday in Southern Thailand.
Chapter 7. A Day in Betong.
/Boxing Day Walk.-26 December 2023, Tuesday.
Chapter 8. Breaking Ice.
/Thai Dinner, Thai Beats, Thai Trance.-26 December 2023, Tuesday.
Chapter 9. Day Three in Betong.
/Exploring Yala's Heart.-27 December 2023, Wednesday.
Chapter 10. First Date with Kritsada.
/Love Deluxe.-27 December 2023, Wednesday.
Chapter 11. Bad Dreams.
/P.T.S.D.- 28 December 2023, Thursday, Early hours.
Chapter 12. Saying Goodbye to Mark./ Moody Morning.-28 December 2023, Thursday.
Chapter 13. A Day & Night in Betong.
/Quality Time, Alone and Together.-28 December 2023, Thursday.
Leaving Betong.
Chapter 14. Departure from Betong.
/Farewells & Fresh Starts.-29 December 2023, Friday.
Chapter 15. Reaching Penang.
/Rainy Reflections.-29 December 2023, Friday.
The Final Days of the Holiday.
Chapter 16. Love Stoned.
/Emo Moments.-30 December 2023, Saturday.
Chapter 17. Going Down South – On the Way Back Home, Crossing Peninsular Malaysia's Countryside.
/Through Nibong Tebal, Bagan Serai & Kamunting.-31 December 2023, Sunday.
Chapter 18. New Year's Eve at Peking Hotel.
/Alone with Everybody in Taiping.-31 December 2023, Sunday.
Chapter 19. Stops at Tronoh, Tanjung Tualang, Chenderiang.
/A Dose of Under Rug Swept on a New Year's Day.-1 January 2024, Monday.
Chapter 20. Back in KL.
/Returning to Reality.-1 January 2024, Monday.
Epilogue.
Chapter 21. I Got Nothing for Her.
/Beyond.- 1 May 2024, Wednesday.
Appendix.
THAI LANGUAGE FOR FUN.
SOME OF THE LANGUAGE OF THE VIETNAM WAR.
Regrets Are Heavy.
Chapter 1. 90s Nostalgia & Southern Thai Dreams./Betong Calls.
16 December 2023, Saturday.
Tamagotchi, Nintendo Game Boy, Live's Throwing Copper, Death in Vegas's The Contino Sessions, G-SHOCK, All-Star high-top sneakers—whatever brand I substitute for Converse—Levi's® 501s; the '90s never, ever leave me. They live within me.
My name is Richard. At 48, I'm an English expat, a self-styled amateur widower. Malaysia is beautiful. Peninsular Malaysia is breathtakingly gorgeous. But as enchanting as this country is, the familiarity can sometimes breed a certain dullness.
I've called Kuala Lumpur—or KL as it's affectionately known—home for a decade now. Ten years can seem like a lifetime, yet the allure of Thailand, especially Southern Thailand, continues to beckon me. Yala District, or more specifically, Betong, holds a special place in my heart. It feels like an eternity—nearly three decades—since I last traveled to Thailand. Time slips away so swiftly.
Once, I was a backpacker, roaming freely. Now, I find myself a corporate slave. Regrets weigh upon me like lost loves and heartbreaks, yet the spirit of the '90s keeps me buoyant. It was a time when coffee, cigarettes, and a good conversation were all we needed. I've tasted much of life carrying that spirit. Along the way, I've savored its pleasures.
Who am I? Who was I? In my youth, I was a loner, a misfit in the UK, walking through cold streets, sometimes shivering. I spent years in Manchester, then London. Then, I became like everyone else—fortunate. Fortunate to have had a loving wife, a small family. My daughter, Joel, was everything to us, and still is everything to me, even after losing Louise, my beloved wife. My only wife.
Cancer took her from us. It took her away from me and stole our love. I always urged Louise to get checked, but she'd always shrug it off with a smile—always cheeky, my little woman, stubborn as ever. Her loss haunts me, a constant reminder of missed chances and unspoken words. It feels like it was just yesterday. And I miss her.
Among my regrets is never gifting Louise a Tamagotchi, a Casio G-Shock, or an Alba Spoon watch—tokens of affection I had dreamt of giving her on her birthdays. I know she wouldn't have minded. A gift from Tiffany & Co. never crossed my mind; it felt frivolous at the time. But I know she would have loved that too. Still, I never said never. I simply believed she deserved a Tamagotchi, a G-Shock, or an Alba Spoon from me first.
Anyway, it's too late now.
And now? Now, I simply exist, punching in and out of life's clock, supporting Joel until her college days are behind her—just two more years. That's my aim, that's my direction.
At one time, my friend Mark said, "Richard, the COVID-19 pandemic came and went in a blink. It's been four years since it began, and more than a year since it ended. Retirement is on the horizon."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah", I replied, half-listening.
"Really?", I mused quietly.
"Yes, just five more years or so, and it'll be here before you know it."
"I know you hate your job", Mark added, and he was right.
"But you'll find peace at 55. We will", he assured me.
"I hope so", I whispered to myself.
"At least your mortgage will be paid off, our mortgage will be paid off, and you can enjoy your savings and some money from the pension scheme", Mark continued.
"Let's see. It won't be much", I replied.
"True, but at least you won't be as stressed. You could even work as a lecturer in Thailand after 55", Mark suggested.
I muttered, "Yeah, I know. That's right."
Thailand—it's always on my mind. There's something about Thailand that draws me in—Thai music, Thai food, Thai people, Thai streets, Thai tea, and the many 7-Elevens. Lately, images from Città Bella magazine have been tantalizing me, beckoning me for a well-deserved vacation. Talk is cheap, and I always crave action. I'm an action man, but I've been doing very little of it lately. That's why I told Mark, "Let's do it this time. Perhaps four days, three nights, or more."
Mark often suggested we explore all of Yala, but his conversations always circled back to Betong. As for me, I knew little about the place beyond what Mark had shared with me over the past few months. I'd never been there, never really heard much about it before. The last time I ventured into Southern Thailand, I'd only made it as far as Danok and Hat Yai, though I did visit Bangkok a few years back. But Mark insisted that Betong was different, and from his descriptions, it certainly sounded that way. A Chinese Hakka enclave on Thai soil, nestled among majestic mountains and hills. A place with a deep communist history, once a stronghold for insurgents. Maybe Stalin had ties to it, or perhaps Hồ Chí Minh—I wasn't sure. What I did know, according to Mark, was that Chin Peng, the leader and commander of the Communist Party of Malaysia (CPM) and the Malayan National Liberation Army, was associated with the area. I wasn't certain if that was true, but I knew Chin Peng had deepened his Marxist-Leninist education during Malayan Emergency. After years of exile, he retired and passed away in Bangkok in 2013.
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The Communist Party of Malaya (CPM) was a significant political and military force in Malayan history, established in 1930. Rooted in anti-colonial sentiment, the CPM sought to overthrow British colonial rule and later aimed to create a communist state. The party's influence peaked during the Malayan Emergency (1948-1960), a violent insurgency marked by guerrilla warfare in jungles and rural areas. Led by figures like Chin Peng, the CPM conducted sabotage, ambushes, and assassinations to disrupt the colonial government and intimidate local populations.
Despite substantial support among some segments of the population, particularly the Chinese community, the CPM faced fierce opposition from British and later Malaysian forces. The Emergency officially ended in 1960, but the CPM continued its activities, albeit with diminished strength, until it formally laid down arms in 1989 following a peace agreement with the Malaysian government. The legacy of the CPM is complex, seen by some as freedom fighters against colonial oppression and by others as violent insurgents.
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With all these thoughts cramming my mind, I craved an eternal summer—not in Bangkok or on Khao San Road; those places had become too touristy, and I'd been there, done that. I couldn't stand the hordes of tourists or backpackers anymore. I yearned for something raw and authentic, a real adventure. I wanted to climb hills or, at the very least, ride up to one on a motorbike with Mark. I longed to walk on brown soil, tread less-traveled paths, and kick stubborn mud from my shoes or slippers in some remote corner of Southern Thailand. I fantasized about messing around with automatic weapons, firing off cheap bullets in some secluded spot—if such a place even existed down there. I wanted to recapture the past, maybe by indulging in hoy naang rom sot (Thai-style fresh raw oysters with toppings) in a seedy restaurant or losing myself in a neon-lit, loud discotheque with weathered mammoth speakers, perhaps in downtown Betong—if such a place was out there.
I pictured myself checking in at the border control checkpoint late at night, just before it closed, slipping past drowsy Thai or Malaysian soldiers with M16s slung over their shoulders, all while puffing on a Marlboro Lights, not giving a damn about anything. I craved the fear, the worry, the excitement, and the wonder. I yearned for those melodramatic thrills and chills I'd been chasing since childhood. I wanted to see a booby trap, and if I stumbled into one, so be it—just as long as it didn't kill me. I wanted to relive the wild adventures I once shared with Mark, to make the world as vibrant and dramatic as it seemed on TV and in the movies. Betong had been lingering in my thoughts for some time now, and Mark kept bringing it up more and more; he'd been there once not too long ago. Every time I felt like I was on the brink of giving up, Mark gave me something to hold onto, something to keep me moving forward. I guessed that's friendship.
So that was it. We planned to meet up somewhere up north on the 25th of December—Christmas Day. Mark would pick me up in his two-year-old BMW, and we'd drive to the border together. I needed a change, something to breathe life back into me. Work had been suffocating lately—the end of the year brought the dread of KPI reports and year-end reviews, and the monotony was draining me. The timing couldn't have been better. I was about to embark on my journey from KL, a different man than the last time I set foot in the Land of Smiles. But it didn't matter—everyone gets old. Sometimes, we just need something to remind us that we're still alive.
It's been a while since I performed the wai, the traditional Thai greeting I was so accustomed to in the past—a slight bow with palms pressed together in a prayer-like fashion. I used to practice it incessantly in my early twenties while traveling through Thailand. I couldn't wait to say a bit of Thai again, like sa-wad-dee (hello) and kob-khun (thank you). I longed for a steaming glass of cha ron (Thai hot tea) and the taste of hoy naang rom sot, one of my all-time favorites.
Reflecting on the day Louise passed away, I remember acting in ways that terrified me. It was a darkness I never wanted to feel again. Losing Louise was unbearable, but the thought of losing myself was beyond imagination. I resolved never to let that kind of pain take hold of me again. We're all born to die anyway, so why not choose happiness for the rest of my life?
Betong beckoned as the days slipped by, and I eagerly counted down each one, knowing this trip would be worth every ounce of effort and anticipation. Work had become a dull routine, devoid of any real passion. The company no longer held any allure for me—it was just a means to pay the bills, and that was enough. I didn't care about anything else. A holiday, on the other hand, was always a resounding yes—YES, YES, YES. And so, Betong became my beacon. I knew it would be a sanctuary where I could lose myself in the embrace of eternal summer, even if just for a fleeting moment.
Though Malaysia and Thailand don't have a defined summer, it always felt like summer to me as a farang (a white person). I didn't give a damn about what awaited me on the other side. I've always believed that the key is to keep moving. Betong would be the perfect temporary escape—a place to shield my private life from the monotony of work and the toxicity of office culture, far from the prying eyes of nosy colleagues. More than that, I was drawn to the idea of witnessing the nora dance, which I had only seen on YouTube. I sensed its cultural decline and wanted to experience it firsthand before it vanished from Thailand and the world forever.
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The nora dance, originating from Southern Thailand's predominantly Muslim communities, is a vibrant expression of cultural richness and spiritual significance. Dancers, adorned in intricate costumes, perform to traditional Thai music, narrating tales of folklore and spiritual beliefs. More than just an artistic expression, the nora dance serves as a sacred ritual in ceremonies and celebrations, preserving centuries-old traditions despite the passage of time. In towns and villages, its lively performances reflect the community's resilience and deep connection to their cultural heritage.
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I thanked God that I had Mark by my side at this age. True friendship made the midlife crisis much more bearable, and travel offered the same solace. Mark, like me, was an expat working in KL, but he seemed to have settled in well with Sonia, his Malaysian Chinese wife. I was genuinely happy for him. But right now, my focus was on my own life journey and the solo road trip I was about to embark on before meeting up with Mark. I couldn't wait to set off on this journey of rediscovery—to leave behind the comforts of home and the predictability of city life in search of something more—something meaningful, perhaps.
Not that I hated KL; it had been my home for a decade. But I needed to escape the capital city, even though it held a special place in my heart. I wanted to step away from KLCC (Kuala Lumpur City Centre), where I had worked for so long. This wasn't just a fleeting desire; it was a necessity. This break was long overdue, and I knew it would do me good.
The Start of The Journey Through Peninsular Malaysia.
Chapter 2. Through Selangor to Tanjung Karang./The Journey Begins.
23 December 2023, Saturday.
I woke up early, the insistent cawing of black crows piercing the morning quiet with their relentless calls. Their cries were a stark reminder of nature's presence amidst the urban bustle, signaling the start of a new day. I didn't view it as a bad omen—just another morning unfolding. Still, I couldn't shake the fears and anxieties that lingered beneath the surface.
As I opened my eyes, it dawned on me that it was the start of my holiday. I followed my usual routine, beginning with dental hygiene. After brushing my teeth and scraping my tongue, I meticulously used interdental brushes between my tooth gaps and rinsed with Listerine for that extra-fresh feeling. Despite recently undergoing scaling and whitening, I noticed my teeth had turned a mustard yellow—likely from my smoking and coffee-drinking habits, those many bad habits of mine. That smoker's toothpaste I used just didn't work.
I then attended to my nasal and ear hygiene, lathered on shaving cream, and shaved while neatly trimming my nose hair and eyebrows with scissors and a razor trimmer. After scrubbing my face with Cetaphil's creamy, non-foaming cleanser, I splashed it with water several times before cleaning it with a cotton pad soaked in the same brand's toner. A generous application of moisturizer completed my bathroom ritual—a perfected routine that set the tone for the day ahead.
After my bath, I dressed in a Quiksilver tank top and board shorts, topping off the look with a Levi's® drawstring bucket hat. A few spritzes of 212 Men Heroes Forever Young EDT added a refreshing touch to my outfit. Breakfast was a quick, simple affair—just a bowl of oats with soya milk powder from my pantry. Eating at home wasn't about pinching pennies; it was about saving time. Before heading out, I slid on my Ray-Ban Cutters and stepped into my maroon Havaianas flip-flops, feeling ready to tackle the day. My G-SHOCK, the only watch I brought along for this holiday, was the final piece to my laid-back ensemble.
The day held a pleasant surprise: the Malaysian government had declared a toll-free period for two days, starting today, as I learned from messages in one of my WhatsApp group chats. With my belongings snugly packed into my trusty backpack, I made my way to the open car park via the lift to retrieve my small car. Though no longer brand new, my Proton Iriz had faithfully served me for over a year now, taking me to every corner of Peninsular Malaysia. A farang driving a locally made car might seem odd, but I couldn't care less.
I remembered how much I loved going on road trips with Louise when she was alive, and even after her death, though not as often. Everything was set for the journey—nothing elaborate, just some good music. The Jesus and Mary Chain's Stoned & Dethroned album was always a fitting soundtrack for the open road.
As I maneuvered through the bustling streets of KL, I daydreamed about owning a rugged Suzuki Jimny one day—perfect for my adventurous spirit. Who doesn't have hopes and wishes? I certainly have my long list of desires and a bucket list tucked away in the back of my mind. But for now, my affordable, sleek hatchback would suffice. It wasn't cheap, just affordable. To me, nothing in the modern world is truly cheap; most things are just affordable. I bought it with cash—the last thing I wanted was a car loan at this stage in my life. I have enough bills to deal with; they don't wait for you—they chase after you. I'm cautious about owning things these days, wary of getting tangled up again.
First things first, I stopped at a nearby petrol station in KL to fill the tank. Malaysian petrol is inexpensive compared to England, and I figured it was likely cheaper than in many other countries as well. Today, I chose the tranquility of the trunk roads over the chaos of the expressways. There's something about the trunk roads that resonates with me—a sense of connection, of being in tune with the journey.
While most people opted for the faster route since it was a toll-free day, I chose the scenic drive—away from bumper-to-bumper traffic and overcrowded rest stops on the expressways. As a man, when you start to improve yourself, you end up alone most of the time. Loneliness is the price you have to pay, but it's a good kind of loneliness—the kind that grants you a bit of freedom from work life and society, letting you slip into self-romance and a quiet connection with the different states people find themselves in, the different lives they lead at times or once in a while. Still, sometimes, it doesn't feel quite right—but I'm alright with it. I love cruising at a comfortable speed, my favorite music playing in the background, the road unfolding before me. And if the mood was just right, I might even indulge in a bit of Post Malone, letting his beats set the tone for the journey ahead.
Soon, I reached Selangor, passing through Sabak Bernam, where the traffic tested my patience. At one point, I imagined my car and me leaping over the congestion like the clown Charlie in my childhood video game, Circus Charlie—wanting to be Charlie. The game's theme, The Blue Danube, echoed in my mind, a nostalgic reminder of simpler times. Those days were long gone, and I found myself saying in my heart, Life, for fuck's sake? Yet, despite the frustration, I found solace in the picturesque landscapes of Peninsular Malaysia.
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Circus Charlie is a classic arcade game from the 1980s where players control Charlie, a circus performer. The game features several stages, each showcasing different circus acts. In one level, Charlie rides a lion and jumps through flaming hoops; in another, he walks a tightrope, avoiding obstacles like monkeys and bouncing balls. The objective is to successfully complete each act while avoiding hazards, earning points along the way. The vibrant graphics and playful music contribute to the nostalgic charm of this timeless game, which was widely played in video game arcades across the world in the 1980s.
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Complaining felt like a waste of time. If I couldn't change the situation, I might as well focus on driving and enjoy some good music. Malaysia is a beautiful country; the lush greenery and tropical vistas never fail to uplift my spirits, reminding me of the beauty of my homeland.
In contrast to the cold, weathered landscapes of England, Malaysia is warmer, hotter, raw, and alive. The vibrant colors and sounds of the tropics filled me with a sense of vitality I found impossible to experience elsewhere. Despite the bad traffic at times, I savored the journey, relishing the freedom it brought.
Swaying coconut trees, short-span culvert bridges, rivers, rustic Malay village houses, lush greenery, and the bustling atmospheres of small towns whizzed by as my car journeyed on. As I traversed the tranquil trunk road, the haunting melodies of Soundgarden's Superunknown album filled the airwaves, creating a fitting soundtrack for my drive. For someone grappling with depression like me, this dark album—or really, any dark album—struck a deep chord.
Released in the early '90s, Superunknown blended grunge, alternative rock, and heavy metal into a masterpiece of its time and one of my favorites. Its raw energy, intricate guitar riffs, and Chris Cornell's powerful vocals—ranging from soulful croons to primal screams—captivated me. Tracks like Black Hole Sun and Fell on Black Days enthralled with their brooding lyrics and mesmerizing instrumentals, while Spoonman and My Wave exuded a rebellious spirit that resonated with the open road I was traveling.
Good songs kept me engaged; I was never bored driving on trunk roads with quality music playing through my car's basic speakers. As I drove, lost in the depths of Superunknown, each track became a soundtrack to the passing landscapes, enriching my journey with its dynamic range of emotions. From the melancholy introspection of Like Suicide to the adrenaline-fueled frenzy of Kickstand, the album's diverse sonic palette mirrored the highs and lows of my adult life—from bereavement to promotion, from receiving bonuses to facing relentless deadlines and dealing with toxic colleagues in a hostile work environment. The negativity that arose from those who didn't like me or backstabbed me only fueled my determination; their inferiority and insecurity were burdens I refused to bear. Give them bread and circuses and they will never revolt. And of course, the loss of my beloved wife. Life would have been so much better if Louise had still been with me, and I hadn't had to navigate this madness alone.
I reminded myself to be kinder to my colleagues these days; something had to give. I didn't like them, but that didn't mean I wanted to harm them. I didn't want to be bogged down by petty annoyances or let real hatred take root. Those faces I saw every weekday in the office weren't entirely without hope; like me, they were just caught in the rat race, navigating a system that often felt suffocating. They were simply people who hadn't yet had their third eyes opened. Honestly, I didn't care much about what my bosses thought. Playing G.I. in my mind now, I reminded myself to be smart every time, avoiding any situations at the office that could lead to an Article 15.
Yes, the company struggled, but it wasn't my company, nor was it my fault. That didn't mean I couldn't take a holiday when times were tough. I didn't have the Porsches or Bentleys that the bosses flaunted, but that wasn't my concern. As I drove, I thought, We all die in the end. Do I really care what people think of me? That thought brought a sense of relief, reaffirming my commitment to this holiday—my well-deserved escape. Work slowly slipped from my mind—a good sign, one I'd been eagerly awaiting.
With every chord and lyric, Superunknown enveloped me, transforming my drive into a vivid, emotional journey. The music fused seamlessly with the road, creating a singular experience as I passed through small towns in Selangor.
Tanjung Karang greeted me with its serene charm as I drove along its winding roads. This small town, nestled in the Kuala Selangor District of Selangor state, boasted traditional Malay wooden houses, their intricate designs reflecting the town's rich heritage. Coconut trees swayed lazily in the breeze, casting dappled shadows on the roadside. The scene transported me to an earlier time, reminiscent of old Bali before tourism took hold—like the old photos I had seen—yet distinctly Malay with a strong village atmosphere, even though I knew this place was far more modern than the Bali of those images.
Tempted though I was to explore more of the town, I pressed on, eager to reach Ayer Tawar, my destination for the night. Located in the Manjung District of Perak, I planned to stay there, explore the area, and perhaps visit nearby Lumut and Pangkor Island the following day. From Lumut, I would continue my journey to Penang to meet Joel and her boyfriend, Ben—her first love, who happened to be on holiday in Penang.
I was always proud of my daughter; she had grown into a remarkable young woman. I always looked forward to spending time with those I loved—my family and friends. Though Louise was no longer with me, I had built a new family. Joel, Ben, Mark, and my few close friends were my chosen family. I believed that most people in life were merely visitors, but family was forever.
Tanjung Karang was known for its lush paddy fields and agricultural roots. The sight of locals going about their daily routines added to the town's tranquil ambiance—a welcome escape from the bustle of city life. From my vantage point in the car, it was clear that life here was simple, a stark contrast to the complexities of city living.
As I continued my leisurely drive around town, the sounds of honking and the gentle hum of passing vehicles filled the air. It seemed like a busy day here, with the holiday season in full swing and the typical Malaysian tradition of year-end staycations in effect. I was glad to avoid the congested expressways—the usual government-driven schemes to boost the country's economy. Taking the back roads offered a sense of relief—a slower pace that allowed me to soak in the surroundings without the stress of bumper-to-bumper traffic compared to the expressways.
Suddenly, a coffee cup icon and a 'Take a Break' message appeared on my car's dashboard. I wasn't even sure my affordable car had a drowsiness alert system, but it seemed to know I was tired—or perhaps it was programmed to appear after a certain mileage. After three hours of non-stop driving, I realized I really needed a break. Channeling G.I. Joe, I said in my heart, Richard, let's stop for R&R.
Still in Tanjung Karang, I spotted a modest wooden warung (a roadside Malay stall) under a large tree, raised on stilts above a trench along the main road. A colorful sign advertising 'Cendol Santan Sawit' caught my eye. I parked my car on the brown soil beside the road and walked over, eager to try the local treats. The day was hot, and I knew a bowl of sweet cendol (a popular Malaysian iced dessert) would be the perfect way to cool off. Fortunately, I was dressed comfortably.
I ordered a bowl of cendol and a couple of chicken curry puffs displayed on the table. Smiling at the Malay warung owner, I greeted him in Malay.
"Selamat petang (good afternoon)! Can I have a bowl of cendol and two chicken curry puffs, please?" I asked.
"Selamat petang (good afternoon)! Of course", the Malay owner replied with a warm smile. "One cendol and two chicken curry puffs coming right up."
As I waited, I took in the surroundings—Malay children playing nearby, the faint scent of frangipani in the air, and the rustling of leaves. The warung, with its rustic charm, felt like a small, peaceful haven on a scorching hot day.
"Where are you from?" , he asked, his curiosity evident.
"UK, but I work in Malaysia", I replied.
"Ah, I see. Good, good. Your Malay is good. Malaysia is a beautiful country", he said with a nod.
"Thank you. Right, I love this country so much", I agreed, genuinely.
I walked over to a nearby empty table and seated myself, watching as he expertly prepared my bowl of cendol from afar. A few minutes later, he approached, carrying the bowl of cendol and a plastic plate with two pieces of chicken curry puffs, placing them gently on the table in front of me. I savored the sweet, icy dessert first before turning my attention to the curry puffs.
"Have you tried cendol before?" he asked as I looked at the colorful ingredients in the bowl. They were familiar to me and reminded me a bit of Filipino halo-halo.
"Yes, but never with santan sawit (palm milk). I'm excited to taste the difference", I said.
He nodded, a small smile playing on his lips as he set the bowl and plate before me. "You'll love it. Enjoy!"
"Thank you", I said, pulling the bowl closer.
As I took my first spoonful of the enticing cendol, I noticed the seller watching me intently, eager for my reaction.
"How is it?", he asked.
"Cold, sweet, creamy and delicious!", I exclaimed with a grin. "The palm milk adds a unique flavor. It's fantastic."
"I'm glad you like it", he said, visibly pleased. "Enjoy your meal."
"Thanks, I will", I replied, turning back to my bowl of cendol, savoring each spoonful.
The combination of the sweet cendol and the savory chicken curry puffs was a delightful indulgence in traditional Malay cuisine. The cendol was refreshingly cool, and the prices were incredibly affordable. It was a far cry from the English fare of my youth. Food in Asia, especially in Malaysia, was a vibrant explosion of colors and flavors, worlds apart from the simple chips with vinegar I was accustomed to back in the UK. Not that I disliked it, but there's only so much excitement one can find in endless servings of chips with vinegar.
We Brits may have conquered vast parts of the world and amassed great wealth, yet we rarely brought back truly exciting dishes. Beyond chicken vindaloo, chicken tikka masala, kebab, and chow mein, our culinary contributions seem limited. It's a bit disheartening, really. But at least we're known for our tea—a legacy passed down from the Chinese and later the Indians. I guess that's why some places in the UK call it chai, while others simply refer to it as tea.
I learned that the distinction has roots in historical influences like the Silk Road, where most regions it passed through called tea chai, as the Chinese referred to it as cha, which eventually evolved into chai. As an Englishman, I take pride in our tea-drinking culture. Tetley is my favorite—not TWG; I see myself as a straightforward salaryman.
The golden pastry crust of the chicken curry puffs gave way to a rich, aromatic, spicy filling, while the cold cendol provided a refreshing escape from the afternoon heat. Each scoop was invigorating, a perfect blend of flavors that made this simple roadside meal a memorable highlight of my day.
Indulging in the exquisite pleasure of cendol with a tantalizing twist—creamy, fragrant palm milk replacing the customary coconut milk—was a revelation. The rich palm milk cascaded over the soft, green, jelly-like strands, while elongated boiled red beans added a hearty texture to this heavenly, cold dessert. Each spoonful enveloped my taste buds in a velvety embrace, the subtle creaminess of the palm milk perfectly harmonizing with the delicate pandan-flavored strands and the sweetness of gula Melaka (Malaccan palm sugar). It was a sumptuous alternative to the traditional version, with the whitish palm milk adding a luxurious depth that elevated this beloved Malaysian dessert to new heights of culinary delight. It felt like discovering a new love, inspiring me to embrace different experiences.
As I savored each spoonful, I felt a deep sense of gratitude for moments like these—a brief pause from the chaos of everyday life, allowing me to reconnect with the simple joys of living. Surprisingly, being alone was fulfilling. I had begun to resent work, growing uneasy with each ping from my work phone. Yet, I still responded to those messages, like a G.I. following orders, unwilling to face reprimands from my commander. But in these quiet moments, I found solace, much like the connection I felt with my favorite music. It was a great day, and I looked forward to enjoying my holiday without the looming shadow of the office. Soon, I finished my afternoon snack—or late brunch. This simple meal in the heart of Tanjung Karang was a moment of pure contentment, a reminder that the best experiences are often the ones you stumble upon unexpectedly.
Afterward, I took my time to savor a pleasurable smoke while seated at the table. In this rural setting, surrounded by lush green and warm brown vistas, indulging my nicotine craving felt blissful. I knew I was fortunate to enjoy this experience on Malaysian soil. As I exhaled, the gentle breeze carried my worries away, if only for a moment.
Once my short break ended, I resumed my journey. The coffee cup icon on my dashboard disappeared as I started the engine, signaling that I was ready to continue. With the lingering taste of cendol still on my palate and the sounds and hum of Tanjung Karang fading behind me, I felt a renewed sense of adventure stirring within me.
Chapter 3. A Night in Ayer Tawar./Under the Night Sky of a Small Town.
Continue…
23 December 2023, Saturday.
I arrived in Ayer Tawar late in the afternoon, a quaint town nestled between Ipoh and Lumut in Perak state, near Sitiawan. Predominantly inhabited by descendants of Chinese immigrants from Fuzhou, China, the town had preserved its ancestral dialect and culinary traditions for over a century. As I approached, I passed a Chinese Christian cemetery along the roadside. Its presence added to the town's old-world charm yet stirred an unsettling chill within me. My phobia—perhaps rooted in a fear of ghosts—persisted despite my best efforts to dismiss it. I couldn't shake the unease, likely exacerbated by the many horror movies I had watched, including the recent The Undertaker (or Supparor in Thai), which had left a lingering sense of dread.
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The Fuzhou people in Peninsular Malaysia represent a vibrant and distinctive Chinese community with roots in the Fuzhou region of Fujian Province, China. Their migration to Peninsular Malaysia began in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, with many settling in Sitiawan, Perak, and various parts of Selangor. Renowned for their strong cultural identity, the Fuzhou people have successfully preserved their unique dialect, traditional cuisine, and customs.
Their contributions to Malaysia's local agriculture, particularly in rubber and palm oil plantations, as well as the seafood industry, have been significant. The Fuzhou community is also known for its rich culinary heritage, with dishes that reflect their regional origins, such as Fuzhou-style fish balls and various seafood preparations.
Celebrations such as the annual Chinese New Year and Qingming Festival hold deep significance for the Fuzhou community in Peninsular Malaysia, remaining rooted in traditional rituals and marked by distinctive dishes that help preserve their rich cultural heritage within Malaysia's multicultural landscape. In addition, a substantial Fuzhou population in Borneo—particularly in the state of Sarawak in East Malaysia—further enriches the nation's cultural tapestry.
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Parking my car in a lot at a newer commercial zone in the heart of town, I was immediately captivated by the legendary aura of Sin Han Seong Restaurant nearby as I walked toward it. Operating since the 1930s, this establishment stood as a beacon of authentic Foochow cuisine—a hidden gem I had discovered through a YouTube video months ago. The restaurant's façade, adorned with a weathered sign and modest décor, whispered tales of generations who had dined within its walls, each visitor adding to its rich tapestry of history.
As I reached its entrance, the inviting aromas wafting through the air hinted at the culinary delights that awaited inside. The chatter of patrons mingled with the clinking of dishes, creating a warm, lively atmosphere that felt both familiar and nostalgic. It was as if time stood still here, allowing me to step into a world where tradition reigned supreme. I couldn't help but feel a thrill of anticipation for the culinary journey about to unfold.
I settled at an unoccupied table, taking in the nostalgic ambiance that surrounded me. Before long, an elderly Chinese man in his sixties approached, his demeanor warm and welcoming. Introducing himself as Uncle Ling, he asked for my name, and I told him it was Richard. Uncle Ling was a fixture of the restaurant, a living connection to its storied past and a custodian of its heritage.
During our conversation, he shared captivating stories about the restaurant's history, his voice tinged with both pride and nostalgia. He spoke warmly of their house specialty—Foochow red rice wine mee sua—a dish steeped in tradition and rich with flavor. Intrigued by his passion, I decided to order it, eager to experience a taste of authentic Foochow cuisine. I paired the dish with a cup of hot black coffee, hoping it would complement the meal. As I waited, I felt a deep appreciation for the authenticity and heritage that this place represented, a reminder of the enduring connections that food can create across generations.
Foochow red rice wine, also known as red yeast rice wine, has a sweet, fruity aroma that's integral to Foochow cuisine, as I learned from him. It's used in cooking meats, seafood, and as a finishing touch for vegetable dishes. As an Englishman, it reminded me of red wine vinegar from back home—a staple in many of Gordon Ramsay's cooking videos I had watched. Imagining the depth of flavor it would bring to a dish made me eager to try it.
Foochow red rice wine mee sua is a specialty soup noodle dish originally from Fujian, China, typically made with Foochow red rice wine. Mee sua, or wheat vermicelli, is a very thin variety of salted noodles made from wheat flour.
While waiting for my order, I observed the bustling atmosphere around me. Seated on one of the weathered wooden chairs at an aged wooden table, I felt a wave of nostalgia. Despite being busy, the restaurant wasn't overcrowded; it had a comfortable buzz, filled with what seemed to be regular patrons and locals from Ayer Tawar.
The ancient wooden counter served as the owner's stronghold for managing the till, while a small round table nearby held recycled tall glass beer bottles filled with homemade barley drink—a specialty of the restaurant in place of beer. Most customers ordered a bottle to share with companions, while those dining alone opted for a steaming cup of hot milk tea, black coffee, or a glass of hot, amber-colored oolong tea.
From my vantage point, I watched as Uncle Ling skillfully arranged handmade dim sum in a steaming metal cabinet with fogged-up glass windows, greeting customers with warmth despite the late afternoon hour. Every table showcased at least one of their signature dishes: stir-fried spicy and sour fish fillets, stir-fried spicy and sour pork ribs, Fuzhou stir-fried mixed vegetables, spicy and sour fish maw soup, red rice wine mee sua, or the dark, rich-looking Fuzhou braised noodles. Each dish arrived piping hot, infused with the unmistakable wok hei—the breath of the wok, as I had come to know.
As I waited for my food, I couldn't resist snapping a few shots of the bustling scene with my Fuji camera.
Soon, Uncle Ling brought a steaming cup of black coffee that he had just made for me. With one sip, I could tell it was authentic—slightly bitter and not overly sweet, just to my liking.
Finally, my bowl of Foochow red rice winemee sua arrived—a feast for the senses. The soup, a deep crimson red, was garnished with fresh coriander leaves, adding a burst of color and freshness. Delicate mee sua noodles floated in the hot broth, enriched with julienned fresh ginger, enticing me to take my first sip.
I blew on my spoon first, not wanting to burn my tongue. The first scoop of the dish, consisting solely of the soup, revealed a unique blend of exotic flavors—alcoholic, savory, slightly sweet, and slightly sour, yet undeniably delicious. The vivid green coriander leaves and julienned ginger contrasted beautifully with the rich red broth, infusing it with a refreshing herbal essence and a gingery flavor that elevated the experience. The second scoop, this time with noodles, was just as delightful, hinting at a meal that promised to be truly memorable.
As I lifted my third spoonful to my lips, the aroma of the red rice wine enveloped me, its earthy, slightly sweet fragrance filling my senses. The scent carried a nostalgic familiarity, despite being unlike anything I had known before. Upon tasting, I was met with a symphony of flavors. The soup was hearty and robust, with a complex umami profile that tantalized my taste buds. The subtle tang from the red rice wine balanced the richness of the broth, infusing each sip with a depth of flavor that lingered long after. The mee sua, cooked al dente, offered a tender yet firm texture, harmonizing perfectly with the broth. Every mouthful was a delight, with the flavors melding seamlessly into a truly comforting culinary masterpiece.
In every aspect, from appearance to taste, the Foochow red rice wine mee sua was a triumph. It satisfied both the palate and the soul with its hearty flavors and comforting warmth. I was grateful that I had ordered it and that Uncle Ling had recommended this traditional dish.
Uncle Ling then approached my table and struck up a conversation.
"Why is a foreigner like you in a small town like Ayer Tawar?", Uncle Ling inquired.
"Oh, nothing in particular", I replied with a smile. "I just enjoy visiting small towns, and I love your restaurant. I actually saw a video about it on YouTube a few weeks ago."
Uncle Ling's eyes widened in surprise. "Really?", he exclaimed.
"Yes", I nodded. "Your restaurant has a legendary aura—it truly embodies that authentic Chinese working ethos. This place is beautiful to me."
"I see", Uncle Ling nodded in approval. "Thank you for the kind words. Seldom does an ang moh (a white person) come here alone", he added.
"Really?" I replied, surprised.
"The red rice wine mee sua here is delicious", I further complimented.
"Thank you, thank you... We've been cooking this for as long as I can remember. It's a family recipe", he replied.
We spent some time chatting about the history of the restaurant and the town of Ayer Tawar. Uncle Ling shared fascinating details about his family's restaurant and the area. Earlier, as I walked toward the restaurant, I had noticed that Sin Han Seong Restaurant was nestled in a corner lot among a row of old shophouses, with the rest—now abandoned—facing the main road of Ayer Tawar. Uncle Ling told me that the restaurant was originally owned by the same landlord who had once owned the now-defunct cinema behind it, which was built around 1935. Initially named Han Seong Teahouse, it was renamed Sin Han Seong Restaurant when ownership passed to Uncle Ling's father in 1954.
Uncle Ling then took me behind the restaurant to see the old cinema, which had ceased operations about 30 years ago. Sadly, it now stood in ruins, surrounded by scrubs and bushes, and looked eerie from the outside—almost haunted, as if it had a story to tell. Despite its decrepit state, it was intriguing nonetheless.
Uncle Ling explained that his late father, senior Mr. Ling, had come from China. Initially settling in Kampung Koh (Koh Village) in Sitiawan, Perak, he worked as a kitchen cook at a Chinese restaurant. Later, seeking a better life, he moved with his family to Ayer Tawar, where he acquired this shop.
Facing challenging living conditions, the entire family had to come together to run the restaurant at one point, embodying the hardworking spirit of the Fuzhou clan. Uncle Ling shared that his family used to open the restaurant for long hours every day, starting at 6:00 a.m. to serve bao, dim sum, and porridge. They catered to the local rubber tappers before their early shifts and provided hot meals throughout the day for local residents and travelers, especially during lunch and dinner.
Uncle Ling nostalgically recalled the golden days of the now-forgotten small town. He described a Malaysia that has since faded—a time when trunk roads connected all the small towns, cars were fewer, and traffic jams were rare. People were smartly dressed, and the roads were less crowded. However, with the advent of expressways, many of these small towns were left behind, and the fashion of that era had also faded into memory. Despite the challenges, he said running the restaurant was worth it because everyone in his family was happy. Even as a child, Uncle Ling spent most of his time after school working alongside his siblings and parents, contributing to the family business.
Through their collective efforts, Sin Han Seong Restaurant's business soon flourished. The second floor, originally their living quarters, was expanded into a banquet hall, which hosted various events throughout the 1970s and 1980s. As a result, the family relocated to a new residence nearby.
During this period, Sin Han Seong Restaurant gained popularity not only in Ayer Tawar but throughout Perak, becoming the talk of the town. However, by the 1990s, market competition and the advent of the North-South Expressway posed new challenges. This prompted the restaurant to refocus solely on dine-in service, leading to the closure of the banquet section. Despite these changes, the restaurant has managed to survive over the decades.
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The first highway in Peninsular Malaysia, the Federal Highway, was constructed in the 1960s. Connecting Kuala Lumpur to Port Klang, it serves as a major toll road and was initially built to improve connectivity and transportation efficiency in the region. Following this, the second major highway, the North-South Expressway, was completed in stages between the 1980s and 1990s. This highway runs from the northern border with Thailand to the southern tip of Johor, significantly enhancing transportation and economic development across Peninsular Malaysia. However, it also led to the decline of many small towns located off its route, as fewer motorists now use the trunk roads that once connected these towns.
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Uncle Ling then shared that, over the decades, there had been waves of diaspora, with locals and some family members moving to big cities or overseas. After senior Mr. Ling retired, his seven sons took turns running the restaurant. As the second generation aged and some passed away, the remaining family members decided to resume joint operations, but with shorter opening hours.
Eventually, most of the family either passed away or grew too old to continue. Among the siblings still actively involved were Uncle Ling, who managed operations and beverages, and his youngest brother, who handled cooking with the help of their two nephews. Occasionally, they also relied on local Indian helpers for tasks like dishwashing and cleaning.
Uncle Ling also discussed the impact of the nearby West Coast Expressway and North-South Expressway on the town's dwindling traffic, which had led to a decline in business. He explained how the trunk roads, once the lifelines of Perak's travel network, had made Ayer Tawar a bustling thoroughfare in its heyday.
"I agree, Uncle Ling", I nodded, savoring the sentiment. "That's why I love using the trunk road. It's like stepping back into the past, soaking in the ethos of small places and towns."
"You're not alone in that sentiment, Richard", Uncle Ling concurred, a knowing smile creasing his weathered face. "But not many are as daring as you to opt for the trunk roads over the modern expressways. Can't blame them; they just love convenience."
I chuckled, acknowledging the truth in his words. "Perhaps I'm just drawn to the living heritage, like you, Uncle Ling." Our laughter mingled with the late afternoon breeze, a brief respite from the weight of nostalgia that hung thick in the air. "If time permits, I'll always choose the scenic route", I added, reflecting on the enduring charm of old towns in Malaysia.
"Ah, you've got the right spirit, Richard", Uncle Ling praised, his eyes twinkling with approval. "But me, I'm already old", he added with a touch of humor.
As the conversation shifted to the survival of his restaurant, Uncle Ling revealed the secret to its longevity: loyal patrons, particularly during weekends and holidays. He fondly recalled Chinese New Year, when former Ayer Tawarians would return to savor a taste of their childhood.
Yet, amidst this nostalgia, a grim reality loomed—the neighboring shophouses, once vibrant, now stood abandoned, victims of neglect with rumored government redevelopment plans. I could empathize with his sentiments; walking past these decaying structures earlier had elicited a pang of sadness. Ayer Tawar's heritage was fading, and with Uncle Ling's nephews showing little interest in continuing the family legacy, as he told me, the future of Sin Han Seong Restaurant seemed uncertain. It was genuinely disheartening to know.
Despite the underlying melancholy, I cherished the opportunity to converse with a humble, straightforward, and friendly man like Uncle Ling while enjoying my meal. His fluent English bridged the gap between us, effortlessly transcending any linguistic barriers. In his restaurant—surrounded by the warmth of mostly red-hued dishes and the lively chatter of the Fuzhou dialect—I found solace in an authenticity that money couldn't buy. It was a stark contrast to the sterile ambiance of modern establishments, like those in malls that I was accustomed to, and a reflection of the enduring spirit of hard work and tradition.
Reflecting on my love for genuine experiences, I was reminded of my past travels in Southeast Asia while at the restaurant, particularly my time in Thailand and the Philippines. Places like Palawan in the Philippines had left a lasting impression on me, fostering a deep appreciation for Filipino culture and history.
Perhaps, in my quest for authenticity, I had unwittingly adopted the spirit of a colonialist. I wasn't quite sure. All I knew was that I felt a profound connection to an old town like Ayer Tawar.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows over the restaurant, I turned to Uncle Ling for accommodation advice. He mentioned the Rong Chern Hotel, which sounded like a beacon of hope in this sleepy town. With a sense of gratitude, I prepared to bid farewell to Sin Han Seong Restaurant, thankful for the glimpse into a vanishing world.
"You're closing up the restaurant now?", I asked, noticing the dwindling activity around us.
"I'm sorry for the rush; I'll finish up my meal quickly", I assured him, eager not to overstay my welcome.
"No need to rush, Richard. Take your time and enjoy your meal", Uncle Ling insisted with a warm smile. "In fact, the last order we took was for you just now. We knew you came from far to appreciate our family restaurant and the food here", he explained, a hint of pride in his voice. "But it's getting late, and I'm not as young as I used to be. Time for me to head home and rest", he chuckled lightly.
"I understand. No worries, Uncle Ling. I'll finish my drink and be on my way", I replied, grateful for his hospitality and the enriching experience.
"No worries, Richard", he said with a nod.
After settling the bill and expressing my gratitude to Uncle Ling, I promised myself I would return for breakfast or lunch the next day, if time allowed. As I bade him farewell, I couldn't shake the feeling of attachment to this humble eatery, which felt more like a home than a restaurant. I made a mental note to revisit tomorrow if I had the chance, and if not, then the next time.
Walking back to my car through the quiet streets, now dimming as evening settled in, I felt a sudden pang of loneliness. The absence of Louise seemed to echo in the silence, a stark reminder of the void she had left behind. Lost in thought, I gazed up at the darkening sky, its once-clear blue fading into a somber gray. The air was warm, the early evening a gentle lull between the day's heat and the cool of night. At least I knew I still had the rest of the night ahead of me.
With dinner concluded, I set out to explore the newer part of town, leaving behind the old town's familiar charm. As I drove through the quiet streets, the reality of Ayer Tawar began to sink in—a town that had once thrived but now felt like a sleepy, almost-forgotten ghost town. The air seemed thick with the memory of its former vibrancy, now distilled into a hushed stillness.
Eventually, I stumbled upon the Rong Chern Hotel. Its exterior, more akin to a rundown motel than a proper hotel, didn't exactly inspire confidence. But given the circumstances, it seemed like the best option available—a far cry from luxury, but still better than the grim accommodations of the 'Hanoi Hilton' I'd seen in Vietnam War movies. The thought made me chuckle, letting a bit of humor lighten my mood as I approached the entrance.
After parking in the front lot, I made my way up the worn staircase to the reception. The dimly lit steps carried a faintly eerie feel, amplified by the unsettling silence that greeted me as I reached the next floor. When I arrived at the reception desk, it was completely deserted—no bell to ring, no sign of life. The emptiness only heightened the ghostly atmosphere, making me wonder if I had stumbled into a place forgotten by time.
Spotting a handwritten note on the yellow-painted wall with a contact number, I dialed it and was met by the voice of an elderly Chinese man who instructed me to wait. Twenty minutes later, a friendly man who appeared to be in his sixties arrived and introduced himself as Uncle Yong, telling me he was the one I had spoken to over the phone earlier. After filling out the necessary details and settling the bill, I followed Uncle Yong to my room on the same floor, feeling a twinge of apprehension about what awaited me.
As Uncle Yong inspected the room, ensuring everything was in order, I couldn't help but feel relieved at the sight of its decent condition. "Good. Everything works!", he declared with a smile, putting my mind at ease.
"Thank you so much for your help", I expressed my gratitude to Uncle Yong, relieved that my accommodation for the night seemed satisfactory. After Louise's passing, I had become more appreciative of everything and more conscious of my health. Last year, I had polyps in my colon that were removed, and my recent checkup revealed that I was in the pre-diabetes stage. I was fortunate to catch these issues early. Now, I was determined to take better care of my health, not to stress myself too much, focusing on self-care and cherishing the small things. I was thankful to Uncle Yong for checking on my room to make sure that everything was alright, and it was reassuring that the accommodation was decent, even though the price was cheap.
That late evening, I cruised through the town's quiet streets, feeling like a lone explorer. I stopped at Tealive, a popular franchise brand known for its boba milk tea, and bought a tall cup of cold classic roasted milk tea with grass jelly—a familiar comfort I planned to enjoy in my room. I was pleasantly surprised to find a Tealive outlet in this small Malaysian town, where modern amenities were otherwise sparse.
A visit to an Indian sundry shop led me to purchase a pack of Mevius Wind Blue cigarettes, their modern allure and LESS SMOKE SMELL technology promising a smoother smoke—something that had kept me loyal to this brand for years. I also had a chat with the Indian couple, who appeared to be in their sixties and owned the shop.
Afterward, guided by curiosity, I cruised slowly into a quaint neighborhood, where a makeshift stall at the entrance of a semi-detached house displayed tantalizing home-cooked fried chicken. Despite its humble appearance, the stall exuded an aura of authenticity that drew me in. I couldn't resist the temptation, so I parked my car in front, walked up, joined the locals in the queue, and bought two pieces of fried chicken to take back to my room.
With my purchases in hand, I walked back to my car and continued my exploration, cruising around as the distinctive, dark ambiance of the night surrounded me. The softly lit streets seemed to whisper the ancient tales of Ayer Tawar, adding layers to its quiet mystique. At one point, I found myself in an especially dark, eerie stretch, and allowed a bit of childish imagination to take over. Muttering under my breath as I drove, "NUMBER TEN… Shit, OUT-COUNTRY… BRING SMOKE to this place… I don't think there are ghosts, but VC, CONG… SEARCH AND CLEAR." With a chuckle, I made a U-turn, heading back to reality and into a brighter area where I could see people—back to The World. Talking to myself—it was more listening than speaking, really.
Being on holiday, I felt no shame in my childish imaginings or odd behaviors. I believed imagination mattered more than knowledge, which is inherently limited. Imagination encircles the world, and I was reconnecting with my innocence. As for my childish behaviors, I was simply being myself. After all, what harm could it do?
Returning to my modest hotel room, I was once again greeted by its simple charm. Though sparsely furnished, the room had a welcoming feel. A neatly folded 'Good Morning' brand white towel lay on the bed, and inexpensive toiletries adorned the vanity table, hinting at the thoughtfulness of the caretakers and promising a refreshing start to the next day.
As I settled onto the bed, the crisp white sheets providing comfort, I found solace in the tranquility of the night. The gentle hum of the wall fan and air conditioning unit created a soothing ambiance, lulling me into a state of peaceful contemplation. I thought to myself that this kind of comfort was even rare in a five-star hotel.
I turned on the old TV mounted on the wall and browsed through the limited selection of channels, eventually settling on a local soap opera. Indulging in a few of my favorite rituals—a charcoal-filtered cigarette, sips of classic roasted milk tea with grass jelly, and bites of crispy fried chicken—I found comfort in the familiar routine. Each bite of the chicken was a revelation, a testament to the rich culinary heritage of this sleepy town. This experience was far removed from the sterile embrace of fast-food chains; the fried chicken was not only delicious but far better than KFC. It was a perfect night to be alone in my room.
In that moment of indulgence, I found contentment in life's simple pleasures. Despite its basic amenities, the hotel room felt like a sanctuary from the outside world—offering a five-star experience at a one-star price. It was a revelation, surpassing my expectations and revealing a hint of the quiet charm Ayer Tawar holds at night.
Later, I took out my cheap black-ink Faber-Castell ballpoint pen and began jotting down a few thoughts in my faux-leather-covered mini pocket notebook. I rarely kept a journal, but on this trip, I'd brought them along. I wasn't sure if journaling would make me a better thinker or writer—and I wasn't a full-time writer anyway. Yet, as I lay on my bed reflecting, I realized that in some ways, everyone is a writer: through emails, texts, and other everyday words. Perhaps there was value in capturing my feelings and experiences during this journey.
Afterward, I took a bath.
As midnight approached, I turned off the lights and closed my eyes, ready to surrender to the tranquility of the night. In Ayer Tawar—amidst the whispers of old stories and the gentle hum of the darkness—I felt a profound sense of belonging, as if I were woven into the fabric of the locals' lives and their shared dreams for this charming old town.
Yet, amid this newfound connection, I couldn't escape the deep longing for Louise. Her absence was a shadow over my contentment, a poignant reminder of the profound emptiness her departure had left behind. I really missed my wife.