Whilst eating a baguette stuffed with a tasty herb omelette
in Cambodia, The Travel Addict’s Puzzle records that colonialism, although
abhorrent to our modern set of values, has simply added a greater depth of interest
and colour for the intrepid traveller.
The book also notes, when coming across the ubiquitous Irish
pub in Kazakhstan (found everywhere in the world except Ireland), that it is
impossible to replicate the English pub outside its native habitat. Our
colonial forebears must have recognised this limitation and so instead they
created The Club, the fortress from which expats exuded Britishness and gin in
equal measure.
Where we live the Royal Ipoh Club, established in the 19th
century, is still going strong. The membership has completely changed but
curiously some of the attitudes and behaviours are still relevant to a Somerset
Maugham story. We were invited by the owner of our apartment; a Chinese
Malaysian businessman and ex local MP. In
the wood panelled bar he produced an expensive bottle of scotch which I was
sorry to see left behind when we moved through to the restaurant. I needn’t
have worried as he had instructed a girl to follow us with a tray carrying our
drinks and jug of water. After the meal she was again employed as an acolyte as
we made our way to the Palm Court, overlooking the padang, (the sports field
essential for any British club) and joined a table of men also drowning and
downing de-luxe whisky in tumblers of water.
The racial make-up of the country allows Malaysians to
celebrate holidays from an assortment of cultures and this evening was
Vaisakhi, the Punjabi New Year. Once the Explorers Edition Johnnie Walker was
finished we were shown another pub area featuring a long bar made out of a
single piece of wood. The original was burnt for fuel by the Japanese who,
insensitive to its charm and presumably unable to play cricket, used the
building as a laundry during the occupation. The current long bar was provided
by a very wealthy Chinese tin miner who happened at the same time to become the
first non-white, other than the Sultan, allowed membership.
We seemed to be the only Europeans at the function but, as
our tour of the club ended in the billiard room, I was left with the feeling
that nearly 60 years after independence the spirit of the British Raj somehow
lingers on. Royal Ipoh is a friendly place, full of fun and laughter and
nothing like the dusty drear club of George Orwell’s Burmese Days. And yet I
couldn’t help thinking of another of his works; as Malays, Chinese and Indians
have taken over the club, some animals are still more equal than others.
