Paloh Trip #1 - The Railway Station.

Paloh? Why is that name so familiar? Most of you probably have not been to that town yet the name seemed to float in the peripheral of your mind. And it is not famous for anything outstanding. Then why have you known, yet not known about it? The above is the sleepy railway station of a sleepy town.

Well, I won’t tease you further. “Paloh” is the biggest budget movie of its time with great publicity and fanfare. It attempted to deal the serious subject of nationalism, duty, inter-racial love, during the last days of the Japanese occupation of Malaysia in the small town of Paloh. And what happened? It sank faster than a cement block in Klang River. More about it later. Meanwhile, lets take a casually stroll/drive round town.

I loved railway stations and it is not due to the railway ghost ha ha (see - The Ghosts & I), especially in small towns. When I stand in one and look down the track that disappear into the distance, I think about a slow journey to adventure, a sad parting (why always sad, beats me; maybe more romantic that way). But seldom do I think of a train bringing someone you wanted to meet. Airport seems to serve that purpose better. Got to get my head examined.

A picture of the Main Railway Terminal in Kuala Lumpur was painted on the wall of this railway station. It is quite old as the paint is starting to flake off. Ah, why did they paint a modern train in the grand Moorish architecture of that majestic building? One railway station advertising another – very generous of it. And someone parked a bicycle with a Malaysian flag against the wall, like that.

Maybe it belonged to these two boys who wanted me to take their pictures. So I obliged them and make them famous. I had many such requests but always in small places.

The modern ticket counter where you can buy a trip to get away from it all. Made me think of taking another train journey. The farthest trip I had taken on a train was to Bangkok. I had always had the notion of taking The Orient Express but one look at the cost was enough to discourage me for life. Sigh…

In the quiet open air waiting room of a small town railway station, my imagination always run wild. I looked at the passengers sitting there dreamily and I wondered what their stories are. Where are they going to? What are they waiting for? It is always a rich area for me spin tales.

Many railway station’s coffee shops are famous for their coffee and toast if they still retained the original purveyor. And it is a popular place for the local inhabitants to gather, exchange news and gossips and unwind. From the look of it, this is another popular such places and the judging by the crowd at this time of the day – late evening, the food should be good.

Motor bikes are parked under two huge trees while the local caught up with the latest news.

As we drove out of the railway station, a sudden drizzle descended on us. I saw this traditional Indian barber shop as we drove out and I took a shot out of our rain stained window.

The name of the shop is “White Rose” and the proud barber with one hand still on the head of his customer looked out his window as I took this shot. This brought back my childhood memory of sitting on a wooden plank placed on top of the armrest of the barber chair (too small to sit and disappear in it). The smell of the cheap jasmine perfume, the thick white cold lather, the flying scissors that went “clip, clip”, the sharpening of the dangerous looking shaving knife on the leather belt, the large white cloth that covered and trapped my tiny body within, the very loud boisterous upbeat Indian song that played to a completely different rhythm of the consistent clips, the beating of my young heart as the cold blade was placed next to my throat even though my Chinese chin has nothing to shave, the relaxing and enjoyable open palm slaps on my shoulder, the huge hands that massaged my tiny neck, and just when getting I was getting relaxed and drowsy, a sudden movement that twisted my head and the sickening cracking of my twisted head. It was a wonder that no necks were ever broken in the history of Indian hair cuts. All these memories came flooding back to me.

To be continued...