Passports and Eyerolls

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Malacca is old. As you walk its streets – dodging pedestrians, dogs, scooters, and cars – you can’t help but look at the Peranakan-style townhomes (now boutique hotels and charming storefronts) and easily imagine what these byways looked like hundreds of years ago.

Some places pave over their past so you have to hunt for it: a church here, an old house there, a notable crossroads elsewhere. I enjoy that kind of treasure hunt (have I mentioned my love of a good plaque?) but in Malacca, history doesn’t hide. It simply is.

Even by European standards Malacca is old; for Americans, its timeline feels eons long. Founded in the late 1300s by the semi-mythical Parameswara at the site of a fishing village, the city sits at a strategic choke point on the Strait of Malacca. The Chinese first visited in 1401, and Malacca eventually became a Ming protectorate and a vital trading port. A century later the Portuguese arrived, conquering the city in 1511 and promptly destabilizing regional trade. The Dutch followed in 1624, holding power for roughly two centuries before ceding the territory to the British under the Anglo-Dutch Treaty of 1824. After World War II, Malaya declared independence in 1957, and on September 16, 1963, Malacca joined what is now Malaysia (sans Singapore). That layered mix of Chinese, Portuguese, Dutch, and British influence still shows up – in the food, the architecture, and the people.

We woke early that morning, grabbed breakfast at the sister property across the street (cementing my love of Peranakan architecture and the boys’ love of Asian breakfasts), and set out on foot. Malacca’s compact footprint makes wandering easy.

Built by the Portuguese in 1521 as a cathedral, reconsecrated by the Dutch as a church, and used until 1753 (when Christ Church – at the bottom of the hill – took over), the structure later served as British munitions storage and slowly fell into ruin.

Ruin though it is, the site is lovely. Perched atop St. Paul’s Hill, it catches a steady breeze, and from the highest natural point in Malacca you can see the strait, massive cargo ships, and—rumor has it, on a clear day—Indonesia.

We spent a long while wandering the grounds. Lining the walls are recovered Portuguese and Dutch tombstones, enormous slabs with intricate carvings that offer a surprisingly moving glimpse into lives long past.

Next up were the remains of A Famosa, built in 1511. Only one gate survives from what was once an extensive fortification. As modern buildings dig foundations, they still run into old walls; history sitting just beneath the surface.

From there we wandered to the Proclamation of Independence Memorial, actually and confusingly a museum, housed in the old Malacca Club, a former refuge of British colonists. These colonial social clubs pop up all over the world, each with a very specific vibe, and many have been repurposed as museums or government buildings. The boys have started spotting them on sight, “Looks like an old colony club!”. They’re usually right. Inside, exhibits trace Malacca’s story from the Malay Sultanate through Malaysia’s path to independence.

At this point the boys, especially the tween, were in dire need of sustenance. We passed the reconstructed Sultanate Palace (I attempted to cajole them inside; they declined), and instead headed back toward town for coffee and snacks. Malaysia’s coffee culture did not disappoint, and I happily indulged in a comically large, iced coffee.

Caffeinated and fortified, we meandered down Harmony Street, so named for the places of worship representing Malaysia’s major religions, all sharing one stretch of road. We started at the Kampung Kling Mosque, tucked behind high walls. Inside the courtyard, mosaics and a fountain created a quiet, cool respite. I’d foolishly left my headscarf behind (last time I would make that mistake in Malaysia) so I couldn’t enter the mosque itself. The boys were encouraged to go in but felt unsure tackling their first mosque solo.

Next came the Sri Poyyatha Vinayagar Moorthi Temple. Since India is a later stop on the itinerary, I told the boys they could opt out of Hindu temples for the moment – we’d have plenty of chances later. Finally, we reached Cheng Hoon Teng Temple and Xiang Lin Si Temple. The latter was closed, but Cheng Hoon Teng was open and bustling. It felt strange to be a camera-toting tourist in an active holy space, but an attendant assured us that as long as we were respectful, visitors were welcome.

With the sun high and the heat index climbing, the boys wanted nothing more than to retreat to the hotel for schoolwork and chill time. I wanted one more stop. Since it was on the way, they grumbled but agreed.

I’d already fallen hard for Malacca’s Peranakan heritage houses, and the Baba & Nyonya Heritage Museum is a textbook example. The building is slowly recovering from years as a commercial space (a recording studio, then an art studio) and traces of those previous iterations remain in various rooms. Restoration happens as funds allow. Still, this is the joy of good bones being rediscovered. I was enthralled, imagining generations of families moving through those rooms.

The boys were bored. They humored me for a bit, but the eyerolls eventually won, and we headed back to the hotel luckily just steps away.

Afternoons in Malacca are sultry, and we were far from the only ones seeking the climate-controlled comfort of our rooms. We spent a few hours studying and doing some light packing for the bus ride to Kuala Lumpur the next day.

As the cooling hours of dusk hit teenage hunger set in with the accompanying pestering and snapping. We headed back out. It was Saturday night, and the market was even more lively than the evening before. We grabbed snacks while I continued my quest for traditional laksa, which had so far eluded me.

Street performers filled the road, and a young dance troupe had claimed the street, performing a popular (possibly traditional?) routine. Crowd members jumped in, tourists included, and the dancers happily taught the steps. I gave it a go, made a complete hash of it, and was mostly relieved I didn’t wipe out and take the whole group down. The tween picked it up instantly. The teen was beyond appalled and melted into the crowd.

I was delighted watching them – slow to start (the teen is heavy!), then picking up speed – off into the night while I soaked in the atmosphere.

I chatted with a few dancers, and by the time the boys returned I had solid dinner recommendations in hand. We continued strolling through the magical chaos of the night market. The tween has a terrible habit of stopping at every trinket stall and touching everything. Fortunately, Malacca’s hawkers are gentle, and we escaped unscathed (mental note: that habit will need breaking). Eventually we found the laksa spot. The boys stuck with their favorites. The laksa did not disappoint.

Replete, and knowing the next day was a travel day, we headed back to the hotel. Malacca had given us a lovely entrée into Malaysia, and we were more than ready to see what came next.