One of the main trading ports for Eastern spices and
fragrances between the C16th-18th. The location, as important as Fort Cochin in
South India, was vied for by the Portuguese, Dutch, Chinese, Indians and
British. The Europeans knew that
securing the area for themselves, would bring further wealth to their
burgeoning empires. Read the guide books
and you will find them extolling the cultural heritage of Malacca, the
colonial, eastern and Indian influences that made the place a thriving hub of
commerce and trade. We were looking
forward to getting here, having enjoyed Fort Cochin, a sleepy atmosphere, with
old colonial buildings fading with times, grandeur long gone. A place with charm, ambience, an easy-going
vibe, and lazy winding roads, all shaded from the sun by the large Portuguese
rain trees.
The trees are here. As
are the colonial buildings. There is a
nice river. Lots of old Chinese
architecture. It has been designated
UNESCO world heritage site. So why the
fuck did they invite Walt Dinsey’s cousin to enhance the area for tourism? Any, well preserved, colonial building has been
painted garish terracotta red. All of
them. If one looks in one direction, it
is the only colour one can see aside from the umbrellas of the hawkers that
peddle their plastic crap along the sides of the buildings. The old Chinese architecture, still largely
evident, has been introduced to modern Chinese, in an awful clash of
centuries. There is an old Portuguese
tall ship, painted entirely in shit brown, so that it looks like something
bought from an Ikea store. Then there
are the shopping malls. Of course, what
every heritage site needs, is a few malls dedicated to selling cheap clothes,
electrical equipment, and a number of MacDonalds, KFC’s and Pizza Huts to
refresh the weary time traveller, to remind them what stupid century they are
living in. And there is the ‘sky tower’,
a rotating bulbous disc of people being wound up a pole to look over the
intense tackiness history can be made into with a ill-chosen lick of paint and
a few malls.
The greatest offense by far are the trishaws. Bicycles with side carts, covered in plastic
flowers and other tat – in one case Barbie dolls. Hundreds of them swarming around the
‘heritage’ areas each sponsored by Digi (a mobile communications company)
blaring, and I mean blaring, violently loud, shit music; from the immature,
sentimental pop music of Thailand, to Guns n’ f’n’ Roses. All of which is completely incongruent with
the image of a history of bloodshed, war, trade, religious friction, wealth,
and multiculturalism.
We thought we were going to stay here for a month or
two. Relax, bathe in the history of
turbulent and interesting past. But fuck
that. And here is something I didn’t
think I would be saying. Get me back to
India.
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