Return to the bus, an uneventful journey brings us to the historic Portuguese town of Malacca. Many buildings are antediluvian and are constructed of crimson stone, sprinkled like children's blocks. My first trishaw trip with the rider is straining up the hill. I feel guilty, cubed between suitcases in the back. A salmagundi of sweet tempered Malaysians, Chinese, Indians, Indonesians and Aborigines, with their own religions, living analogously.
Coffee follows and is thick and strong in large cups with tinned condensed milk.
Ashtrays are filled with water, to prevent ash flying from the swirling fan. Looking out, schoolgirls pristinely dressed, so characteristically Asian with brilliant white blouses, turquoise skirts and white plimsolls. A constant shower of rain as ladies come into view with multi-coloured, spinning, waxen umbrellas. The jungle soon impinges as we leave Malacca. Through the clearing, cream oxen and water buffalo are set against the background of verdurous muted shades of banana trees and giant ferns.