Lost in Langkawi

by Sabrina Dougall (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

Making a local connection Malaysia

“Miss, where are you going?”, “Miss, miss, hello?” The ceaseless caterwauling was starting to grate my nerves. “Miss, over here,” “Come here.” Yes it was country dark and I was alone at the roadside, making my way to elusive lodgings in a rural area that did not recognise me, but the whole point of backpacking alone was to get lost. And they weren’t letting me. Solitary, wearing shorts and blatantly female, the audacity of my night-time walk had alarmed the Malay villagers of eastern Langkawi. Tourists tend to cluster on the island’s west side near the airport and Cenang Beach where bars and booze buzz into the late hours. But my after-dark arrival round these rural parts had taken the locals by surprise. Night’s air was alive and warm, heavy with humidity but comfortable and serene. I was happy to make my way to the pre-booked hotel by Google light following my phone. Slipping out of my Grab car with a “Thank-you-I’m-sure-it’s-nearby” half an hour ago should have been enough to shake free of a chaperone – or so I thought. On this tiny lick of land in Kedah, northern Malaysia, I learned you never walk alone. Regardless if you actually wanted to. “Miss where you going?” I tried using my hand to block the stream of light from the motorcycle headlamp that pulled up in front of me. “Oh it’s OK, I’m just looking for my hotel, it’s around here somewhere,” I replied, sidestepping the vibrating red chassis and setting off along the dried mud path. A youngish round face and concerned eyes locked onto me from under the motorbike helmet. He proceeded to ask the question several times, grunting in bewilderment when I repeated the name. I swerved out of his vicinity and attracted the cries of several more motorists. “Miss, where-” I closed my eyelids hard. Back in England, men calling out to a woman walking alone, in spite of her trying to dismiss them, is threatening behaviour. As dusty grime sinks into my sandals and mosquitoes pierce my tricep, I tell myself these men are truly concerned for my welfare and try to take heart from their kindness. Rejoining the main road again – three promising inroads turned out to be dead-ends – I find my Grab driver standing exchanging worries, loudly, with three other middle-aged men. I cannot avoid their sudden shouts at seeing me emerge. Weary of trying to soothe the fears of strangers, I calmly explain they need not worry, and quickly round the corner into the nearest village. After a while following stoney trails between low, flat houses, I hear laughter among women. Not wanting to intrude, but intrigued by the alternative to sleeping out in nature, I circled the edges of detached homesteads, pausing as startled chickens and cats scampered around me. Finally I reach a grassy hump where my options are: wade into a river or take the alleyway beside someone’s house. Picking the dry option, I stumble into a clearing and spot four women belly-laughing around a concrete table under a bare lightbulb. One of them is carving slices off a thin pale branch between outstretched legs. Smiling sheepishly, I approach and introduce myself as lost. “Ah, you need place to stay?” the oldest of the three asks, smiling wryly. The women laugh again, and it dawns on me that the villagers have been watching me awkwardly creep between their homes. Over the next few days I would learn that not much happens in a village which is not instantly known by everyone in it. Happy to be perceived as bizarre and entertaining rather than suspicious, I agree enthusiastically, knitting my eyebrows and hoping for acceptance. What follows in the next hour is near enough the most embarrassment I have ever felt, as more cousins and uncles are called out from nearby homes, adding their smiles and chuckles as they learn of my unfortunate situation. Desperate to avoid fuss, I insist that anywhere at all would be more than gratefully accepted. As villagers fetch me water and offer me a seat, I am struck by their compassion and generosity. It takes a village to raise a traveller.