Navigating the Narrow Straits: A Pre-Dawn March on Penang

Posted by parkers travels March 29, 2025

Navigating the Narrow Straits: A Pre-Dawn March on Penang

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The ship picks its way carefully through the inky darkness of the Malacca Strait, the lane markers—red to port, green to starboard—glowing faintly in the night. It’s a tight channel, barely wider than the ship itself, and there’s something quietly thrilling about watching the crew guide us through without scraping the paintwork.

It had slipped my mind that George Town sits on Penang Island rather than the Malaysian mainland—a small but persistent geographical hiccup in my mental map. Not that it matters much now, as the first hints of dawn begin to soften the sky.

Sleep last night was, against all odds, reasonably uninterrupted—no prolonged coughing fits, just the usual pre-dawn coffin cough (that rasping, death-rattle hack that signals either imminent expiration or the need for a glass of water). I hauled myself out of bed just before six, partly to spare Judith the symphony of my disturbances, partly because lying there pretending not to be awake is its own special torment.

Illness in our household is met with roughly the same enthusiasm as a visit from old aunt. Sympathy is rationed, patience thin. Judith’s approach to my sniffling is stoic indifference; mine to her is strategic deafness. We definitely deserve one another.

Now, at 6:37 a.m., having completed my ten laps of the deck, I watch as the pilot boat—a noisy little tug that announced its presence long before it came into view—drops off its navigator and chugs away. The ship is wonderfully peaceful at this hour: crew members hosing down the decks, a few determined walkers marching off last night’s dessert, all of us engaged in the silent, futile battle against cruise-ship gluttony.

Because let’s face it—the real challenge of life aboard isn’t navigation or seasickness, but resisting the siren call of the buffet. A brisk walk is the least we can do to prepare for the coming maelstrom of scrambled eggs, pastries, and whatever else we can pile onto our plates with only the flimsiest justification.

Up ahead, the landing crew assembles on deck, ready to secure us to solid ground. George Town awaits—and with it, breakfast. Priorities, as ever, firmly in order.

Stepping onto the docks of George Town is rather like being thrust onto the stage of an elaborate pantomime—one where the principal actors are thrashing dragons, and a battalion of selfie-snapping tourists.

The dragon dance was in full, flailing swing as we disembarked, its sinuous body twisting through the crowd to the manic percussion of what sounded like several dozen drummers who had mistaken their instruments for mortal enemies. Fellow passengers, displaying either admirable courage or a profound lack of self-preservation, ducked beneath its lashing tail to capture the perfect holiday snap, their faces alight with the kind of glee usually reserved for lottery wins.

Meanwhile, goody bags were being dispensed with the solemnity of wartime rations—each one a treasure trove of items both useful and baffling.

we ventured into the terminal, where a troupe of dancers moved with the serene elegance of people who had not just been menaced by a giant fabric reptile. Their performance was a brief, hypnotic respite before Penang’s true welcome committee arrived: the heat. It descended upon us like a sodden Cunard pool towel, heavy and inescapable.

But the real test of endurance came moments later, the onslaught of the taxi drivers, tour guides, and rickshaw wallahs, all converging in a cacophony of discounts and desperation. Business, it seemed, was not booming. With each rejection, their prices plummeted as if governed by some unseen economic freefall. Had we lingered, I suspect we might have been paid to take a tour.

We escaped the scrum and set off towards the bus terminal, a journey that required the agility of a mountain goat and the nerves of a bomb disposal expert. Footpaths, in any recognisable form, did not exist. Instead, we teetered along the ragged fringe of the road, traffic whizzing past at a distance best measured in millimetres. Our destination? The fabled Clan Jetties of Penang—centuries-old stilt villages clinging gamely to the water’s edge like maritime shantytowns.

Dating back to the 19th century, these jetties were established by Chinese immigrants who arrived seeking work and a new life. Astonishingly, their descendants still live here today, maintaining a way of life that seems suspended somewhere between history and stubborn defiance of modernity.

We visited two jetties, beginning with the lesser-known Lee Jetty—a ramshackle maze of wooden homes perched on creaking stilts, connected by boardwalks worn smooth by generations of bare feet. Washing flapped lazily in the sea breeze, and the scent of frying garlic drifted from open doorways. It was gloriously, unapologetically real—the kind of place where you half-expected a grizzled fisherman to offer you a cup of Chai and a story about the old days.

Chee Jetty, by contrast, had fully embraced its role as a tourist attraction. Souvenir stalls and snack vendors jostled for space along the narrow walkways, their cries blending into the general hubbub of commerce. The atmosphere was lively, if slightly chaotic—a floating bazaar where tradition had been repackaged for the Instagram age.

Desperate to escape the heat, we flung ourselves onto a local bus just as it was preparing to depart—a manoeuvre executed with all the grace of a flapping anorak.

Inside, we found ourselves amidst a lively congregation of locals, all chatting as if they were at a particularly animated family reunion. Most disembarked at the shopping mall, though two elderly ladies remained, deep in conversation. I strongly suspect they had boarded purely for the pleasure of a good gossip, with no actual destination in mind. Perhaps they were still riding in circles as we left.

Now, when I say ‘shopping mall’, I use the term loosely. It was less a temple of commerce and more a sprawling bazaar masquerading as a department store. One section resembled a British pound shop, if pound shops were staffed by people who believed in the philosophy of ‘more is more’. Most items cost the equivalent of 50 pence, which made browsing an oddly compelling pastime—retail therapy as a form of heatstroke prevention.

The upper floors offered diminishing returns (unless one had a sudden need for baby clothes or industrial air-conditioning units), so we soon retreated, staggering back to the ship in search of showers, clean clothes, and the blessed relief of setting down our mysteriously heavy goody bags.

Lunch in the Britannia restaurant was a necessary act of caloric replenishment—a cheese quiche and beef chow mein, washed down with heroic quantities of iced water. Thus fortified, we steeled ourselves for the afternoon’s mission: hunting down Penang’s famed street art.

Hats pulled low, necks swathed in fabric like amateur mummies, we set off with map in hand, tracing a circuitous route through lanes and alleys that had thus far escaped our attention. It quickly became apparent that Penang’s status as a UNESCO World Heritage Site has not, alas, been accompanied by a corresponding flood of restoration funds. Many buildings leaned at precarious angles, their plaster crumbling. One got the sense that a stiff breeze might reduce entire blocks to nostalgic rubble.

Still, the street art was a delight—whimsical murals and clever wrought-iron sculptures tucked into unexpected corners. We dodged traffic, navigated crumbling monoliths, and eventually staggered into the grand old Eastern & Oriental Hotel, established in 1885 and presumably last cleaned in 1886. Farquhar’s Bar, with its oak-and-brass counter and plush leather sofas, was a welcome oasis—or would have been, had the windows afforded any view of the strait beyond their grimy panes. Still, the cocktails were cold, and that, in the end, was all that mattered.

Revived, if not entirely refreshed, we made our way back to the ship—another day in Penang survived, another chapter in the eternal traveller’s tale of heat, hustle, and the relentless pursuit of cold drinks.

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Navigating the Narrow Straits: A Pre-Dawn March on Penang

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