Tailormade for trishaw touring

An hour’s trishaw ride in Malacca costs about $12. Picture / Susan Buckland

My memories of Malacca will always be warmed by the recollection of a wiry trishaw driver and the colourful contraption in which he conveyed me around town.

When he arrived at the hotel to pick me up, the driver looked as if he weighed several kilos less than me. But I should not have worried. He flexed his bare arms into tight balls of muscle and smiled as if to say: "Come on, lady, step aboard."

The trishaw came with a frilled canopy and double seat embellished with colourful plastic flowers. The back and sides of the seat had been carved in a flourish of gold-painted curves. Several dicey looking wires threaded their way from blinking lights above the canopy to the handlebars and into a transistor radio which was tied between them.

The radio crackled out a Neil Diamond ditty as we set off to explore the town.

Malacca is regarded as the birthplace of Malaysia. It was a former seat of government and the venue for Malaysia's declaration of independence in February, 1956.

The old town is compact and tailor-made for trishaw touring. And there is much to absorb because Malacca reaches back to the late 14th-Century when, it is believed, the foundations were laid by a Muslim prince from Sumatra.

Less than a century later the prime coastal location had become a trading empire for seafaring nations.

The Portuguese were first to impose their rule in 1511, followed by the Dutch in 1641 and the British in 1824. The result is that 21st-Century Malacca is a vibrant melange.

The Government has plans to turn the province into a fully industrialised state by 2010. But it must be hoped that the surge of development will steer clear of the historic old town. People are drawn to its clatter of colourful streets where Malay, Chinese and Indian neighbourhoods resist the march of time. And Portuguese and Peranakan (Straits-born Chinese) communities add their distinctive flavour to Malaccan society.

The trishaw driver had asked for RM60 (about $12) to cycle me for an hour. It seemed cheap but then Malaysia is not an expensive destination for New Zealand travellers.

The driver's grasp of English was scant. "Yes," was his stock reply.

We headed first for the historic town square. The old salmon-coloured Stadhuys, built by the Dutch for their governors in 1650, is now a museum. But the adjacent Christ's Church is still a church.

The trishaw driver didn't attempt to pedal us up the hill to the ruins of St Paul's church, built by the Portuguese more than a century before the Dutch arrived. Instead we went around the base of the hill to see the mournful remains of a Portuguese fort which Dutch canons had pounded 350 years ago.

The transistor's music lightened the sight somewhat.

To the rousing Calypso refrain of Tally me banana we headed for Jonker St. Cheek-by-jowl shop houses are crammed with knick-knacks cheerfully described as antiques.

Leaving the driver to smoke half of a roll-your-own he had taken from his pocket, I explored a pair of handsome old houses. Richly decorated and furnished in the style of their original Peranakan owners, both had been converted into small hotels.

Peranakan culture merges with traditional Chinese with Malaysian ways of life. And the Baba House and Puri Hotels preserve its distinctive charm.

The garden courtyard at Hotel Puri was an oasis. Prices for rooms at both places started at a most reasonable RM110 ( around $45) including breakfast for two.

A trip to Malacca should include a meal in a Peranakan restaurant. I can recommend Restaurant Nyonya Maris Sayang on Taman Melaka Raja St where six of us dined on subtly flavoured dishes such as fresh mackerel simmered in spicy tamarind and lemongrass. We shared eight memorable dishes and the total cost was $40.

But back to Tun Tan Cheng Lock St. My trishaw driver rolled another cigarette while I explored the nearby Baba Nonya Heritage Museum further along the road. A treasure house of old Peranakan photos and genuine antiques, the museum, like the Hotels Puri and Baba House, once belonged to a wealthy Peranakan merchant. And he, or one of his descendants, had created an intriguing device for deterring unwanted guests: a removable panel from the ceiling above the front door through which buckets of water could be sloshed on top of the hopeful caller.

My hour with the trishaw driver was almost up. Off we pedalled with a Nat King Cole song crooning from the transistor and competing with a cacophony of transistor-radio music from overtaking trishaws. We passed men sitting cross-legged and bent over their work in shop doorways. Stalls were being set up for a night market. One was spread with paperbacks entitled Laila Chatterlee's Lover. Another was surrounded by people ogling a couple of nervous Japanese tourists who were having their photo taken while a white snake was draped round their shoulders.

By the time the rickshaw driver had deposited me back at the Plaza Hotel, I was looking forward to exchanging the tropical humidity for an air-conditioned hour in my hotel room.

I asked my trishaw driver one last question.

Were the Museum of Independence and the Sultan's Palace close enough to visit on foot? Or should one hire a trishaw?

"Yes," came the stock reply but this time with unusual emphasis.

He handed me a home-made business card and pedalled off around the corner with a confident parp of his trishaw horn.