Once I reached the hotel, I knocked off and slept like a baby. When I finally woke, the sun was already high. It was almost lunchtime by the time when I wandered down to the hotel restaurant, still feeling the sway of the trawler in my bones.
Even as I sat, there was that odd floating sensation, as if the sea had followed me ashore. I had no real plans for the day. After the long night out at sea and the strange weight of listening to the tape recorder, I only wanted rest. The beach was enough sand under my feet, the hush of waves, the company of my books.
I brought two with me: Salina and Ranjau Sepanjang Jalan. I was already halfway through Salina and promised myself I’d finish it by this afternoon. Then I would move on to Ranjau Sepanjang Jalan, one of the great Malay classics. So far, only three Malay writers have truly captured my imagination: Shahnon Ahmad, Usman Awang, and A. Samad Said. I’ve collected their works over the years, each one sitting like a gem in my private library: Protes (Protest), Menteri (Minister), Perdana (Prime), Srengenge, Sampah (Rubbish), Kemelut, Langit Petang (Evening Cloud), Tulang-tulang Berserakan (Scattered Bones).
Beside them lie my other obsessions, books and scholarly works on the keris. The Guardian of the Kris has been haunting me for some time now, waiting to be born. I’ve carried its pieces in my head for months: fragments, images, whispers, all floating without form.
Maybe here, on Pulau Pangkor, I might find the thread to tie them together. What I need now is to sit, to breathe, to let the fragments settle until they show me their shape in words. I left the hotel right after lunch, took out my bicycle and headed toward Pasir Bogak.
It’s only about ten minutes from the main town, a short ride from the hotel. The sun was fierce, but I didn’t mind. The staff had told me Pasir Bogak was “the largest swimming pool in the world.” I laughed then, unsure how true the claim was. But standing there now, staring at the sweep of sand and the calm, shallow waters stretching out endlessly, I thought maybe they weren’t exaggerating.
The beach was breathtaking. Coconut palms lined the shore, their shadows striped across the sand. The beach itself seemed to go on forever, a ribbon of white stretching for kilometres. Out on the horizon, I could see Pangkor Laut, the sister island, just a mile away.
Its five-star resort stood proudly on stilts, villas over the sea, the architecture unmistakably Malaysian. From where I sat, it looked like another world entirely, all polished wood and exclusivity, while I claimed my little spot beneath a palm tree with a book and a bottle of water. I found the right tree, dropped myself there, and promised not to move for the rest of the afternoon.
The weather was perfect. My books, the sea, the breeze all I needed. Tomorrow morning, I would head back. The bus from Lumut leaves at ten, first to Kuala Lumpur, then on to Singapore. My shopping was already done: ikan bilis in different varieties, sweet-and-spicy cuttlefish, dried squid, and packets of keropok made from every kind of fish imaginable.
I didn’t know what I’d do with them all. But somehow, I felt better just having them, a piece of Pangkor to take home.That would keep my mother busy for a while. I knew she would distribute the ikan bilis and dried cuttlefish to relatives and neighbours. After all, these were directly from Pulau Pangkor, they had to be good.
I had a few chapters left of Salina and was just settling into them when a young boy came wandering by, asking if I wanted a drink. I glanced at the little stall nearby, coconuts piled in clusters, their husks catching the sun.
“Yes,” I said. “A coconut drink would be perfect.”He returned quickly, handed me the drink, and was about to leave when something struck me.
“Do you know anyone by the name Budak Pantai?” I asked.
He stopped mid-step and turned back, eyes wide. “Budak Pantai?”
“Yes. Do you know them?”
“Of course,” he said, surprised. “How do you know about them?”
“I’m looking for a man called abang Mat. Do you know him?” The boy grinned.
“Of course. Abang Mat owns the boat.” He pointed toward the horizon, where a speedboat bobbed lazily about a mile from shore.
“You want me to call him?”
“Is he around?” He nodded eagerly.
“Alright,” I said. “Call him to meet me here in ten minutes. I just need to run back to the hotel for something.”
But before I could finish, he was already sprinting down the beach, shouting “Bang Mat! Bang Mat!” at the top of his lungs.
When I returned ten minutes later, a crowd had already gathered at the beach. Mostly boys and young men, anywhere from ten to twenty-four, their eyes curious, expectant. At the center stood a tall, slim young man with dark skin. Twenty-four, maybe. The way the others hovered around him left no doubt he was their leader. He stood with his arms folded, confident, his gaze fixed straight on me as I walked toward the group.
“My younger brother said someone was looking for me,” he said evenly. “Are you the one? Who are you and how do you know about me, about us?”
I slipped the parcel from my bag and held it out. He hesitated, brows furrowed, before finally taking it. For a moment, he only weighed it in his hands, as if suspicious of what lay inside. Then, slowly, he unwrapped it.
Three boxes of chocolates, each with the Merlion printed on the cover. And an envelope, unsealed. He pulled out several photographs. His face changed instantly from guarded to stunned before he let out a cry of pure jubilation.
“Oh my God! Oh my God! It’s from her… it’s from her!”
He thrust the pictures toward the boys around him. They all pressed in, pointing excitedly at something in the photos, their voices rising in a chorus of disbelief and laughter. The air itself seemed to shift charged with joy, with reunion, with memory.
“Hey! That’s me! Did you see? That’s Atan… that’s Sulong!”
In an instant, I ceased to exist. All eyes were on the photographs, hands reaching, voices tumbling over one another. I sat down quietly, watching them in amazement. If only I’d brought my camera what a moment to capture. Their joy was infectious, a sudden burst of life on the hot afternoon beach.The chocolates were opened and passed around, vanishing within minutes.
She must have known how much they loved them. But then again who doesn’t love chocolates? At last, Abang Mat seemed to remember me. He came over, holding the photos carefully, and showed them to me one by one.
It was her sitting beside him at a feast, the boys gathered all around, grinning at the camera. Some were pulling faces, others mid-laughter, the kind of joy you can almost hear just by looking. Another picture showed them all in a group, crowded around a table heavy with seafood, eyes bright, mouths open with laughter.
“So you’re her friend,” he said, his voice eager now. “How is she? When will she come back again? We’ve all been waiting for her…”
The questions came too quickly, tumbling over one another. I didn’t have the chance to answer. I was too caught up myself, too swept into their excitement, as if I too had known her and been part of those nights.
As he settled down, Abang Mat turned to me. “I am so happy… I really cannot say how thankful we are to you for bringing these pictures and chocolates. And to your friend…”
I didn’t know what to say. Even though I had lived with her for some time, there were so many things I never knew. She never spoke, and I never asked. That had always been our code as roommates. She would ask about me, my family, my troubles. But when I once tried to ask about her mother, she had quickly changed the subject.
Somehow, my mother became the topic instead, and I let it go. After that, I never tried again.
“Have you been round the town?” Abang Mat asked.
“Oh yes,” I nodded.
“Have you been to the islands around Pulau Pangkor?”
“Not yet.”
“I will bring you around Pulau Pangkor,” he said eagerly, “and to the little islands on my boat.”
“No, no… you shouldn’t—”
“But I want to,” he interrupted firmly. “You are our special guest. You will love the islands. They are beautiful. The water there is clearer, you can see the corals…”
I hesitated. Last night it was the fishing trip. And now a boat ride around the islands. How could I resist?
“Wait here,” he said, and ran off, disappearing into one of the houses. While I waited, I spent the time chatting with several of the boys still lingering nearby. They asked me about Singapore, then began to tell me about her.
One boy pointed to the very spot I had been sitting under the coconut tree earlier.“She used to sit there,” he said. “We went to talk to her once. At first, we thought she’d ignore us like the others. A lot of Singaporeans come here, but they don’t talk. They act sombong look down at us. We try to be friendly and they think we want to steal from them.”
He grinned, shaking his head. “But not her. She stayed here for almost a week, at the A-campsite. Spent a lot of time on this beach, always with a book. She came alone. Said she was angry with some people in Singapore and wanted to get away. But she was never angry with us. She talked. She told us stories. We loved to hear about Singapore, about her life, about the people there.”
Twenty minutes later, I heard the putter of a motor out at sea. Abang Mat steered his boat close, cut the engine, and hauled it in by hand. I slipped off my shoes, packed my things, and climbed aboard.
The ride was unforgettable, as memorable as my night out on the trawler. He circled the main island first, then Pangkor Laut, and finally the smaller outlying islets. The water was exactly as he’d promised: crystal-clear, cool, and alive with color.
We stopped at one deserted island, nothing but large stones and wild trees. We sat there for a while, letting the cool wind whip against our faces. The silence of the place felt almost sacred.
He broke it. “We’ve had problems with the Pangkor Laut people, the resort owners. They won’t let us land there or even come near. But we were born here. We’ve lived here all our lives. How can they deny us?”
His voice carried both anger and admiration. “She was the one who told us about our rights. Said we must speak up. She told us, the resort might own the land, but not the sea. They cannot drive us away from waters that have always been ours. If they want limits, they must mark them. Nobody ever explained this to us until her.”
He paused, then smiled faintly at the memory. “Before she left, she belanja us all a big seafood dinner at the restaurant. Every single one of us The Budak Pantai. That’s what we call ourselves, you know, the beach boys. Because we all grew up here, along this sand. We were all at the jetty the next morning to say goodbye to her. That was the last time we saw her.”
I didn’t try to interrupt. He spoke as though he had been waiting years for someone to listen. I let him. It felt like all I needed to do was be there to bear witness. We returned to the same spot where he had first met me. It felt only right that I give him something, even though he never asked. I had no idea what it normally cost to hire a boat for such a trip, but since he owned the boat himself, I couldn’t let him walk away empty-handed. I rummaged in my money pouch where I kept all my Malaysian ringgit. There was about RM500 left more than enough. I put aside what I would need for my journey home and handed him the rest. He refused at first, insisting it was too much. But I insisted harder. I told him I wouldn’t need it anymore I hardly even crossed to Johor these days. Who knew when I would be back in Malaysia again? Better he and the boys enjoy it.
The look on his face made me glad I did. He was radiant. He promised that he and the Budak Pantai would gather for a seafood dinner at the same restaurant they had once celebrated with her. A farewell dinner for me this time. I agreed to join them.
They were right Pangkor seafood was famous for being fresh. I had tasted some at the hotel, but something told me the local restaurant would be different, richer somehow. He assigned one of the boys to fetch me from the hotel later on a motorbike. Only after we set off did I realize the boy had no license, and neither of us wore helmets.
But the wind in my hair, the speed of the bike skimming the narrow island roads I was ecstatic. This was something I would never get in Singapore. And for that moment, it felt like freedom. It was a typical kampung restaurant — the kind of place no tourist would ever stumble upon. It catered only to locals.
Abang Mat leaned over and told me quietly, “We don’t want tourists spoiling it. This place is for us for those who belong here, or who know where to look.” The atmosphere was lively, different from the town warong I had visited earlier.
If the warong had been the territory of the senior citizens, tonight was for the young. Men and women in their twenties and thirties filled the long tables, laughing, teasing one another, their voices echoing off the wooden walls. Some, I was told, had never left Pangkor their entire lives.I became the center of their curiosity.
They crowded around, peppering me with questions about Singapore the buildings, the trains, the way of life. One boy, barely more than a teenager, with short curly hair and eyes that shone with quiet determination, leaned in close.
“One day,” he said softly, “I will go to Singapore. Not to work… but to study. I want to become a doctor.”
The seafood was everything they promised: fresh, tender, full of flavor. Each dish carried the sea’s imprint, something no hotel kitchen could replicate. By ten o’clock, I excused myself. The night was still alive around the restaurant, but I knew I had to rest for the journey home.
They saw me off warmly, and the same boy who had fetched me earlier roared me back to the hotel on his motorbike, the night wind in my hair, the island’s laughter still ringing in my ears.I tried to sleep but couldn’t.
My mind kept drifting back to the beach boys and the night on the fish trawler. I realized then: if ever there was a place I would choose to escape from the rush of city life, Pulau Pangkor would be it.
Here, you can lose yourself so easily.I’d always been told that island people are different — warmer, more open, more caring than the hurried crowds in Kuala Lumpur or Penang. Tonight, I believed it.
They are not stingy with their smiles, their hospitality flows naturally, and you feel as though you are part of their circle even if you’ve only just arrived. At last, weariness caught up with me. I fell asleep with Ranjau Sepanjang Jalan still open in my hands, the words blurring into dreams.
