Rainy afternoon in Penang

The rain is loud on the tin roofs. The floor of the balcony of the Baba Guesthouse is painted a deep, glossy burgundy. Faded blue roll-up blinds lined with fraying, floral silk scarves keep out the gusts of wind, but not the sound of the rain or the roar of the surf across the narrow street. The brown plastic stacking chairs around the laminated plywood table have their legs sheathed in segments of black bicycle inner tubes meant to muffle the sound of scraping on the floor during late night card games. The bead board inner walls are painted a cool aqua, the color one imagines the sea should be but seldom is.

The cement courtyard of the house next door - Shalina's Guesthouse, "A Home Like Home" -looks like every Malaysian courtyard: the ubiquitous rubber hoses, plastic buckets and tubs - some hanging from nails, others sitting about upright or upside down. Wire coathangers dangle from the chain link fence next to gray, cotton mopheads and twining vines. Besides the ever- present laundry hung hopefully out to dry, the space contains a stack of pock-marked styrofoam coolers and some rusty corrugated metal panels and pipes leaning up against the side of the concrete house.

Between the two guesthouses winds a tiny lane, filled with several inches of water despite the metal roof which shields it from the rain. The roof is red with rust. Everything in sight except for this cheerful balcony, is rusted, dented, faded or torn.


Despite the rain, people constantly pass in and out of the narrow lane - a man on an ancient bike holding a woman's blue geometric print umbrella in one hand weaves unsteadily along the alleyway. A darkskinned, Ghandi-like man with skinny, bow legs and a green plaid traditional skirt and mud-colored polo shirt picks his way carefully across the wet, pitted pavement in black rubber slippers, taking his time under a red and white striped, feminine umbrella. A thin, dusky man in flip-flops, his blue workpants rolled halfway up his calves, passes slowly on the road, clutching a black garbage bag closely under his chin, wearing it like a cape over his shoulders and back.



On the other side of the crowded, one- lane road, across from the ancient metal sign, Baba Guesthouse, Nice, Clean, Simple - See to Believe, scrubby grass lines the beach. The ocean, the same muddy gray color as the sky, though a slightly darker hue, heaves and rolls with swells that start far out and break in opaque, tan foam high on the deserted beach. All the beachfront cafes have pulled down their metal doors against the steady rain, the tables on the cement courtyards and on the sand under the huge, dense foliage of ancient trees are empty. Their wooden chairs with peeling paint or mildew-stained plastic seats look dreary and cheap in the dull afternoon light. Lat night they were charming under the strings of lights and neon signs, but their enchantment has dissolved in the rain.

On the balcony we read, doze or play games idly, waiting out the rain. It's not a bad way to spend an afternoon on vacation, and rain in Malaysia seldom lasts more than a few hours. The cool wetness of the air is a pleasant reprieve from the usual steamy atmosphere. We're in no hurry. We can wait.