Home / Bukit Mertajam culture
Nestled between Penang’s bustling George Town and the serene highlands of Balik Pulau, Bukit Mertajam (often abbreviated as BM by locals) is a cultural microcosm that defies easy categorization. This unassuming town in Seberang Perai—Penang’s mainland—boasts a heritage as layered as its famous kaya toast, blending Chinese clan traditions, Indian spice markets, and Malay kampung warmth. But what makes BM particularly fascinating today is how it navigates 21st-century challenges—gentrification, climate change, and digital globalization—while preserving its soul.
While George Town’s clan jetties drown in Instagrammers, BM’s lesser-known Kongsi houses whisper stories of Hokkien pioneers. The town’s Chew, Lim, and Tan family associations still host mooncake-making workshops using 19th-century molds, even as delivery apps park motorcycles outside their ornate gates. At the century-old Shanxiang Temple, TikTokers film themselves lighting joss sticks beside grandmothers chanting Teochew prayers—a surreal harmony of analog devotion and digital curation.
Follow the scent of toasted cumin to BM’s Morning Market, where third-generation Indian spice grinders compete with vegan rempah startups. "My grandfather sold curry leaves to British planters," says Mr. Maniam, whose stall now supplies artisanal sambal to Berlin hipster cafes via Shopify. Yet climate shifts loom: unpredictable monsoons have doubled cardamom prices, forcing some vendors to pivot to lab-grown pandan essence.
When Penang’s 2017 floods submerged BM’s streets, the Sam Poh Tong temple’s floating Buddha statue became an accidental symbol of adaptive design. Today, young architects retrofit pre-war shophouses with amphibious foundations—a fusion of Malay stilt-house wisdom and Dutch water-management tech. Meanwhile, frustrated fishermen along the Juru River repurpose WWII-era "fish bombs" (now solar-powered) to scare off invasive Amazonian pacu fish disrupting local ecosystems.
BM’s durian orchards face a paradox: global demand for Musang King has skyrocketed, but heatwaves cause premature fruit drops. Farmers now experiment with AI-powered irrigation and mycorrhizal fungi to save their "king of fruits." At the same time, Gen Z activists push "Durian Without Borders"—a CSA-style subscription model to bypass exploitative middlemen.
The BM Digital Hub, a converted 1930s rice mill, attracts remote workers chasing "authenticity" between Zoom calls. Local mamaks cleverly rebrand as "5G Warongs," offering free WiFi with teh tarik—though elders grumble about kids trading congkak skills for Roblox. Heritage purists cringe at blockchain startups hosting NFT launches in colonial-era warehouses, but the cross-pollination sparks surprises: a viral #TikTokGamelan trend revives interest in BM’s nearly extinct boria theater.
When COVID-19 shuttered BM’s iconic Hai Kee kopitiam, its 80-year-old Hainanese chicken rice recipe got a second life via cloud kitchens. Now, GrabFood riders weave through BM’s back alleys delivering lor bak to millennials who’ve never set foot in a wet market. Yet some traditions resist digitization: the town’s last ice-ball vendor still hand-shaves syrupy ice using tools from 1953, refusing to "dilute the craft" for Instagram aesthetics.
Behind the veneer of sleepy suburbia, BM’s Wesak Day parades now feature heavy metal bands accompanying lion dance troupes. At Gerakbudaya, Malaysia’s oldest indie bookstore, slam poets riff on topics from rising sea levels to BTS fandom in Manglish. The most subversive act? A guerrilla theater group staging wayang kulit critiques of local deforestation—using recycled Lazada delivery boxes for shadow puppets.
Unlike George Town’s curated murals, BM’s backstreets bloom with unauthorized art: cheeky mural of Mat Salleh tourists struggling with belacan, or QR codes linking to oral histories of Tamil rubber-tappers. When authorities whitewashed one piece, artists retaliated with projection mapping on heritage buildings—ephemeral, impossible to censor.
As BM grapples with LRT constructions and generational rifts over heritage, its true resilience lies in kaleidoscopic adaptability. The same town where monks bless Tesla deliveries at the Jade Emperor Temple also hosts Southeast Asia’s only sustainable bak kwa (jerky) factory powered by rice husks. Perhaps BM’s greatest lesson is this: globalization need not erase identity—it can be a rojak of preservation and reinvention, spicy-sweet as the town’s legendary cendol.