A Quiet Town Breathing by the Strait
Seberang Prai. Not many people can conjure an image immediately upon hearing this name. Situated on the northwestern coast of the Malay Peninsula, directly across from Penang Island, this town serves as the mainland hub of Penang State—yet it possesses a quietude where people’s lives breathe steadily, rather than the glitter of a tourist destination.
In Malay, “Seberang” means “the other side,” and “Prai” refers to the mainland. True to its name, this town lies on the opposite shore from Penang Island, on the peninsula side. Once prosperous as a tin-loading port, it still maintains its function as a harbour city while embodying a microcosm of Malaysia’s multiethnic society. Malay, Chinese, and Indian communities live here together, and beneath the same sky, the call to prayer from mosques mingles with Buddhist chanting and the bells of Hindu temples.
As a gateway to Penang Island, this town has a ferry terminal from which one can cross to the island in roughly fifteen minutes. Yet for this journey, I chose to remain in Seberang Prai. I wanted to step away from the bustle of tourists on the island and touch the everyday life of Malaysia.
The scent of brine carried on the strait’s wind, the aroma of spices drifting through back alleys, the vitality of markets and the stillness of residential neighbourhoods. This town holds a richness that doesn’t appear in travel magazines yet undeniably exists. With such a premonition in my heart, I set off for this small port town.
Day 1: Guided by the Winds of the Strait
After roughly four hours on an express bus heading north from Kuala Lumpur, I arrived at the Seberang Prai bus terminal late in the morning. The moment I stepped off, humid heat enveloped me—that heavy, sweet air particular to lands near the equator. Yet mixed with the breeze from the sea, it felt strangely pleasant.
The guesthouse I had booked was in a residential area of the Butterworth district. A small establishment converted from an old two-storey building, it was run by an elderly Chinese woman. “Welcome,” she greeted me in Malay tinged with a Hokkien accent, and her smile eased the fatigue of my long journey. The room was simple but clean, and through the window I could see bougainvillea blooming in the neighbour’s garden.
After setting down my luggage, I headed out to explore the town. My first destination was the area around the ferry terminal. This is the heart of the town, a place where the flow of people never ceases. The terminal building was somewhat weathered, but that seemed to tell the story of this town’s history. In the waiting area, commuters heading to Penang Island, students returning from school, and housewives carrying shopping bags each passed their time in their own way.
Leaving the terminal, I walked along the waterfront. The Strait of Malacca spread before me, and Penang Island was clearly visible on the opposite shore. The buildings of George Town gleamed white in the midday light. Watching the ferries and cargo ships crossing the strait, I could sense that this had been a vital trading hub since ancient times.
Around noon, hunger led me to a nearby hawker centre—a covered food court where rows of stalls gather under one roof. The options were vast, but I chose asam laksa. This noodle dish, a Penang specialty, features a sour soup based on tamarind. The complex interplay of fish umami, tartness, and the freshness of mint and pineapple made me sigh with pleasure. At the next table, a Malay family was laughing over nasi kandar. An elderly Indian man ate roti canai alone while reading a newspaper. Each person freely chose their preferred dish and ate in the same space. This diversity, I thought, is the richness of Malaysian food culture.
In the afternoon, I decided to walk through a residential area slightly inland. I had no particular destination. I simply wanted to feel the daily life of this town. Along the streets stood shophouses that appeared to have been built before the war—a common Southeast Asian architectural style with shops on the ground floor and residences above. Some buildings had beautiful tile decorations; others had faded entirely. Hardware stores, fabric shops, traditional Chinese medicine pharmacies, kopitiams. All seemed to carry on their old-fashioned trades.
Passing by a certain temple, I heard chanting from within. A plaque reading “Guan Yin Temple” hung above the entrance. I removed my shoes and quietly stepped inside, entering a dim space filled with incense smoke. Several worshippers offered their prayers in silence. I too put my hands together and wished for safe travels—not from religious faith, but prompted naturally by the sacred atmosphere of the place.
Toward evening, on my way back to the guesthouse, I discovered a small market. A local market selling vegetables, fruits, fish, and meat. Mangosteen, rambutan, dragon fruit—tropical fruits piled in vibrant colours. At the fish stalls, species I had never seen lay arranged on ice. When I asked the woman running the stall, “What is this?” she told me the fish’s name in Malay, but I couldn’t catch it. Still, her kindness in recommending it with gestures, saying “It’s delicious,” warmed my heart.
That night, I went to a mamak stall the guesthouse owner had told me about. “Mamak” refers to eateries run by Indian Muslims. The menu was extensive, ranging from North Indian dishes to those adapted with a Malay twist. I ordered roti tissue and milk tea. The egg-filled roti was crispy on the outside and chewy inside, eaten dipped in sweet condensed milk. It was exquisite. Inside the stall, young Indian men were excitedly watching a football match on television. I sat at a corner table, savouring my meal while taking in the lively scene.
Back at the guesthouse, the owner was watching television in the living room. “Did you enjoy yourself?” she asked, and I replied, “Very much.” She nodded with satisfaction and asked, “Where will you go tomorrow?” When I said I hadn’t decided yet, she laughed. “That’s fine. Travel doesn’t have to go according to plan.” Her words lingered strangely in my mind.
Day 2: Where Faith and Orchards Meet
On the second morning, I was awakened by birdsong. Opening the window, the air of early morning, before the sun had fully risen, flowed in. In the neighbour’s garden, a man was watering his plants. “Good morning,” he called out, and I returned the greeting. These casual exchanges warm the mornings of a journey.
I decided to have breakfast at a nearby kopitiam. “Kopi” means coffee, and “tiam” means shop. An old Chinese-style café, it was already bustling with locals in the morning. I ordered kaya toast and kopi-O. Kaya toast is spread with kaya—a sweet jam made from eggs, coconut milk, and sugar—sandwiched with butter. Kopi-O is black coffee with sugar added, rich and sweet. This combination is the quintessential Southeast Asian morning.
At the next table, elderly men chatted in Hokkien. Occasional laughter arose. Watching them, I understood that this kopitiam was not merely a place to eat and drink but a gathering space for the community. The owner knew the regulars’ preferences and began preparing before even taking their orders. Such places, I thought, weave the memory of a town.
In the morning, I decided to head to Bukit Mertajam, a hilly area slightly outside the centre. After about thirty minutes on a local bus, I arrived in a region of tranquil rural scenery. This was once an area of rubber plantations. Even now, some rubber trees remain, their trunks marked with diagonal cuts and cups attached to collect the sap.
This area also has several fruit orchards. Durian, mango, rambutan, and other fruits are cultivated here. Passing by one orchard, a man who appeared to be the owner called out, “Want to have a look?” I took him up on the offer. In fluent English, he explained how the fruits were grown and when they were harvested. “It’s not durian season, unfortunately, but we have mangoes that are just ripe,” he said, and gave me a freshly picked one. When I peeled and bit into it, it was unbelievably sweet, juice dripping down. It was utterly different from a supermarket mango.
Near noon, I visited an old church called St. Anne’s Church. Built in the late 19th century by French missionaries, it is a beautiful neo-Gothic structure. Its white walls and spire stood out against the tropical greenery. Since it was not Sunday, the interior was hushed. Coloured light from the stained glass windows cast patterns on the floor. I sat in a pew and surrendered to the silence for a while.
This region is home to Christianity, Buddhism, Hinduism, and Islam, all coexisting. Just near the church stands a Chinese temple, and a little further on, a Hindu temple. Each respects the others while preserving their own faith. In this way of coexistence, I saw the very formation of Malaysia as a nation.
For lunch, I had nasi lemak at a small eatery near the church. Rice cooked in coconut milk, served with sambal sauce, anchovies, peanuts, egg, and cucumber—Malaysia’s national dish. The unity of spiciness, sweetness, and savouriness never grows tiresome no matter how many times one eats it. The woman at the eatery asked with concern, “Can you handle spicy food?” When I answered, “Yes, it’s delicious,” she smiled happily.
In the afternoon, I returned to central Seberang Prai and walked along the Prai River. The river flowed gently, mangroves lining both banks. Along the waterside stood stilt houses where people lived. Laundry fluttered in the wind; children played by the river. While urbanisation progresses, I felt a sense of relief that such traditional ways of life still remain.
Walking along the river, I came upon a large Hindu temple called Sri Subramania Swamy Temple. Its colourful gopuram, or tower gate, caught my eye. I removed my shoes and entered, enveloped by a distinctive atmosphere where the scent of flower offerings mingled with incense. Before the deity, women in saris offered prayers. I too put my hands together quietly in a corner so as not to disturb them. Visiting places of worship of different religions, one can sense the depth of each faith.
Toward evening, before returning to the guesthouse, I stopped by a local supermarket—an ordinary one, not for tourists. I enjoy looking at the products on display. On the condiment shelves, sauces and pastes I had never seen were lined up. In the snack section, durian-flavoured chocolates and spicy crisps. All things I never see in Japan, and simply looking at them was entertaining. In the end, I bought white coffee powder and peanut snacks as souvenirs.
That night, the guesthouse owner invited me to join her at a nearby Hokkien mee stall. Hokkien mee is a noodle dish rich with prawn broth, a local specialty. The old woman seemed to be acquainted with the stall owner and chatted happily in Hokkien. The noodles that arrived had an intense prawn fragrance and a rich soup. The dish contained both thick and thin noodles, making the texture enjoyable. “Delicious, isn’t it?” the old woman asked. “Truly delicious,” I replied, and she nodded with satisfaction.
After dinner, on the walk back to the guesthouse, she shared stories from the past. How her family had migrated from Fujian Province, China, before the war. How her husband had passed away but her children now lived in Kuala Lumpur and Singapore. And so she had started this guesthouse in this old house. “Don’t you feel lonely?” I asked. “Travellers come, so every day brings new encounters. That’s what makes it enjoyable,” she said. In her words, I sensed the depth of a life fully lived.
Day 3: Farewell and What Lingers in the Heart
On the final morning, I woke a little earlier than usual. Thinking that today I would part with this town, a sense of reluctance welled up. Opening the window, I saw the town veiled in morning mist. Few people were about yet, and it was quiet. I wanted to savour this stillness a little longer.
For breakfast, I went to the same kopitiam as the day before. I sat in the same seat and ordered the same thing. The owner remembered me and smiled. “You came back.” Being recognised after just two days made me happy. Biting into my kaya toast, I reflected on these three days. I had not visited any special tourist sites. I had not joined any famous attractions. I had simply walked through the daily life of this town and touched the lives of its people. And yet, that was precisely the journey I had been seeking.
In the morning, I walked to the ferry terminal. I wanted to gaze upon the Strait of Malacca one last time. Ferries bound for Penang Island came and went with regularity. People waiting to board formed lines—commuters, tourists, traders crossing to the island for business, each with their own purpose.
I sat on a bench near the terminal and looked out at the sea. The waves were calm, sparkling as they reflected the sunlight. Seabirds flew low. This ordinary scene seemed, for some reason, profoundly beautiful. Perhaps when a journey nears its end, everything becomes dear.
Around noon, I returned to the guesthouse to collect my luggage. The owner said regretfully, “Leaving already?” When I replied that my bus time was approaching, she said, “Come again. I’ll always keep a room for you.” As we parted, she held my hands and said, “Safe travels.” The warmth of her touch is something I will not forget.
On my way to the bus terminal, I stopped by the market one last time. I thought I would buy some fruit to eat on the bus. As I selected mangosteens, the vendor said, “I’ll pick the sweet ones for you,” and carefully chose them. When I thanked her, she saw me off with a smile and said, “Take care.”
Arriving at the bus terminal, I boarded the bus bound for Kuala Lumpur. I took a window seat and waited for departure. Soon the bus began to move, and the town of Seberang Prai slowly receded. The streets lined with shophouses, the spires of temples, the stilt houses along the river. All flowed past beyond the window.
When the bus entered the expressway and the town disappeared entirely from view, I let out a small breath. It had been only a three-day stay. And yet, the faces of the people I met in this town, the flavours of the food I ate, the smells of the alleys I walked—all are etched clearly in my memory.
I had thought that travel was about seeking the extraordinary. Yet the time I spent in Seberang Prai was, rather, the ordinary itself. Nothing special happened. I merely touched the daily lives of the people who live there and joined in, just a little. And that, for me, became an irreplaceable experience.
Beyond the window, palm trees swayed in the wind. The Malaysian land grew distant. But within my heart, the scenery of Seberang Prai remains, unmistakably present.
Certain Memories Within an Imaginary Journey
This journey does not actually exist. I have never set foot on the soil of Seberang Prai, never eaten kaya toast at that kopitiam, never exchanged words with the old woman who ran the guesthouse. All of it is a product of imagination.
And yet, as I wrote this piece, I felt as though I had truly been there. The scent of wind from the Strait of Malacca, the prawn fragrance of Hokkien mee, the incense smoke of temples, the bustle of markets, the warm smiles of people. Though born in imagination, they feel strangely real.
Perhaps the essence of travel does not lie solely in physically going somewhere. To turn one’s thoughts toward places never seen, to imagine the lives of people who live there, to open one’s heart to different cultures—such inner journeys, too, enrich us.
Seberang Prai is a real town. People truly live there, carrying on their days. If someday I actually visit, it will surely reveal a different face from the scenery I depicted in this imaginary journey. Yet even then, a new story will begin.
The imaginary journey has ended. But certain memories remain in my heart. They are not actual memories, yet neither are they false. They are, I believe, another kind of truth that imagination brings forth.
Someday, I would like to truly walk the streets of Seberang Prai. And if I find something somewhere resembling the people and places I encountered in this imaginary journey, I am sure it will bring me joy. Perhaps a journey begins before one ever departs.
