Taking The Massage Coach To Malacca

We’re leaving Singapore this morning. Taking a bus into Malacca, Malaysia, taking a coach rather. Taking a luxury massage coach to be exact. The only way to travel, apparently.

To be honest I have no idea what to expect, no-one in my party does. I mean, a massage coach?

“Yes, very comfortable,” says the generously proportioned agent the steaming night before as we try to choose from a mini mall of coach operators. She has a gleam in her eye, a sense of humor. Right then we’re not sure whether it’s working for or against us but the night is hot and our clothes are slipping off us, or trying to.

“Be here tomorrow, 11am. My sister will be here. She looks just like me.” Another smile, another almost wink. Is there a sister? Is there a coach, a luxury massage coach?

The next morning it’s there, resplendent. On the back in big Vegas-type lettering: First Class Massage Coach. We throw our baggage in below and climb into the bus. We are instantly assailed by its décor, most prominently its upholstery. It seems to have taken a cue primarily from the psychedelic mayhem of cruise ship carpets.

The extraordinary upholstery matters because it’s spread about quite a bit; the seats are weirdly wide and opulent deluxe, if there is such a thing. Once we’re over the shock of the Type A color scheme we settle into the vast chairs. They are clean and comfortable. We can do this, in fact, why aren’t all coaches like this? So mean are they normally, so mean and understated in dimension and color. The air conditioner transports us to cooler climes and we’re off.

Out the large windows, past the frippery of drapes, Singapore changes to Malaysia and I instantly fall in love with it. Good, a coach is so much of a better thing than a plane. You see so much more.

We try the massage feature and feel immediately carsick. Nope, mobile massages are disconcerting, especially if you’re a short person and the neck and shoulders part of the program does funny things to the crown of your head.

Outside green goes past. Green of all kinds, such fanciful trees; some grow like bouquets, some like rattan fans. Palm trees, slim, languid, shimmering green against green, against green.

Apparently we are not like the normal passengers. The normal ones find the trip boring. Screens drop down from the ceiling and Pandora with all it’s frondy exuberance blasts forth. Everyone is instantly drawn into Avatar’s green world with blue people. I put my headphones on to shut out the soundtrack and stare fixedly out the window trying, and succeeding, to keep my jungles separate.

The bus pulls up four hours later at the central bus station in Malacca. The movie continues. Nobody moves. How sweet, how strange, apparently no-one wants to miss the end of the movie. This is Malaysia time. Apparently the driver will wait for the passengers to see what happens in the end.

We decide not to get up and ruin the atmosphere for everyone.

Too slowly it dawns on us. All the other passengers are going on to Kuala Lumpur. Everyone is waiting patiently for us to collect our things and get off the bus.