Drenched, Shat On, and Good Times in Kuala Lumpur

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The flight went by fast as I slept through most of it. I began Haruki Murakami’s Kafka on the Shore. It caught me on the first page. I love the fact that the main character, a young 15-yr-old boy, is running away from home by travelling to a random spot on a map for the sole reason that it draws him and it’s warm, so less clothes to pack. Perhaps the parallel of travel makes it more intriguing.

Excerpt: Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions. You change direction but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn’t something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you. This storm is you. Something inside of you. So all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn’t get in, and walk through it, step by step. There’s no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time. Just fine white sand swirling up into the sky like pulverized bones. That’s the kind of sandstorm you need to imagine.

I land into KLIA airport for the second time since my last layover from Thailand to Japan. Just as before, the sky is overcast and the ground dark green. On the screen, a captioned song shares that Malaysia is the best Asian country and is so diverse and full of culture. The music is pretty lame, but the images are beautiful.

We land a little past five and the airport feels hollow it’s so empty. The workers at KLIA are the most helpful compared to any other airport. If they sense you are lost, they quickly approach to help. Everyone speaks eloquent English and it’s very easy to get around. I grab the shuttle to the main terminal, exchange money, and grab the train to KL Sentral (Note: the exchange rates are better at KL Sentral).

The rail tracks are surrounded by jungles of palm trees and occasional bodies of muddy water. The train plays ubiquitous elevator music. Are these cheap remixes of mainstream 90s music really all over the world?

I pickup my reserved ticket for Ipoh later on in the week. Good thing because all the tickets are sold out. I’ve arrived during Ramadan, and Hari Raya (the culmination of all the fasting, which ends in celebration) is just around the corner. This means the whole of Malaysia will become an exodus of people heading out to visit their families. Besides the increase in traffic, I’m not sure what the celebrations will be like and am curious if I will witness anything special because of it.

KL Sentral reminds me of the big underground subway stations in Korea except people are darker, the clothing styles different, and the layout much easier to navigate. Dress ranges from conservative to modern. Some girls wear short shorts equally revealing as what I saw in Korea. Others wear scarves over their heads and cover their arms and legs.

I walk out the station to catch the monorail, a straight shot to the Medan Tuanku where Tune Hotel is situated. When I exit, I walk in the general direction knowing I’m close then stand confused at an intersection trying to choose straight or right, so I ask a pedestrian who laughs at me and points across the street where the Tune Hotel stands very obvious and bright red.

As I check in, I overhear a customer complain about the lack of air conditioning, smells, and other details. It’s no 5-star hotel, simple, and just right for a person of simple taste like me. I have a fan. I don’t plan on living here. And so far, no smells. If you can’t live without a TV, refrigerator, phone, or can’t handle small spaces, it’s probably not for you. I've smashed three itty-bitty ants, but nothing I can't handle. If ants are the biggest bugs I see on my travels, I will be more than content.

I set up my toiletries in the bathroom and brush my teeth. As my eyes wander, they land on my hairbrush, “The Cock.” No kidding, it’s the brand name for a lot of beauty supplies found in regular grocery stores in Korea. I bought it because I like the bristles. Ah, Korea, how I will miss you and your wonderful English translations and horrible logos. Don’t change too much while I’m gone.

Getting to Know KL

I wake up swollen yet well-rested. The two greatest things about sleeping in a hotel: (1)you don't have to make the bed, and (2)oftentimes, they have those heavy curtains that block out any sun from leaking in, so you can slumber in complete darkness. I look at the clock and it reads 7:30. Too early. Try to go back to sleep, but it's not happening.

So, I drop downstairs at the Kapitian Cafe and order a Milo and Kaya & Bread Toast. I ask what Milo is and am told it's hot chocolate but "a little different." Perhaps, my taste buds aren't acute because it tastes like any other standard hot cocoa I've ever had. The only difference is the coffee spoon that looks more like a small soup spoon to me.

The Kaya & Bread Toast looks squished compared to the one advertised but it tastes good. The small dabs of butter mix with a sweet and juicy jam, but not jam, is this kaya? Juice squeezes out when I bite into the bread. I can't describe it any more than that, but it's light and delicious. I don't remember the last time I had toast. You're probably thinking, C'mon Michelle, you're in Malaysia and you're eating toast? Yup.

First things first, I need a new bag as mine's too small to carry all my necessities (some of which I had to leave behind in Korea). I'll head over to the Petronas Towers by way of the Hop-on Hop-off bus and check out the Suria KLCC Mall. Every country I have been to carries many of the name brands I'm used to seeing in the USA: Armani, Adidas, Jimmy Choo, Montblanc, etc. Regardless of religion or opinion, capitalism has definitely spread throughout the world. I find a store named "Tear Proof," which assures me of the bags' durability and pick a bag around $50US (not bad for this type of bag).

I drop by the food court and ask the ladies what tastes best and order a Penang Char Kuey Teow. Eh. It's okay. The bean sprouts are refreshing and crisp, but the rest is an indeterminable mix of shrimp, eggs, something else from the sea, and maybe oyster that's not quite oyster. It tastes like generic fried rice with mysterious clumps of seafood.

As I leave, the empty court begins filling up with lines and tables. I came into Kuala Lumpur knowing that it has a diverse population, but still expecting the majority of people to be Muslim and fasting. So, I’m surprised to see so many people eating in the middle of the day.

Afterward, I rush back to Tune Hotel. Try out the bag. Yes! It works! And it's already three in the afternoon. Most people say Kuala Lumpur is boring or there's not much to do, but I feel like I'm already short on time. Then, I remember, I still need to buy the necessities that I left behind: mosquito repellent, contact solution, and a toothbrush. I just want to get these all out of the way.

I figure, I can head back to KLCC since I already know the layout, buy what I need and grab the bus to KL Tower. I take the monorail over to Dang Wangi. Then I follow a woman down the stairs and am not sure where to go next. So, I ask her how to reach the Petronas Towers and she points straight down the street. Walk. Sure. Why not?

I'll tell you why not. No umbrella.

Droplets of water sprinkled randomly all day, and I didn’t think this would be any different. You already know what’s coming. About halfway to the towers and the droplets fall down a little harder and a little faster. 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, and as if a drain has been unplugged, a torrential downpour ensues!

I take cover at a bus stop where I ask a man if there is any other means for me to reach the towers. He shakes his head no and climbs up onto the seats as the wind blows a shower of rain onto all of us. I decide running will be the quickest escape, and most of all, I’m worried about my camera. I don’t know how long my small bag will keep it dry. The downfall becomes so intense, my eyes sting and blur as I try to avoid the infamous drivers as I run across the streets.

My shoes are not waterproof, I realize, as my feet squish inside. When I reach the towers in one last mad dash, people stare at my white shirt, completely see through at this point. Nice job, Michelle.

Hearing the “squish, squish” of my cheap shoes, heads turn and eyes grow wide as they stare at this Asian-looking girl who looks like she’s had a heyday at a water park. A few people laugh. I laugh at myself, too, but not aloud for fear of looking like a mad woman.

I purchase an umbrella, a darker shirt, and look for a new bra as I don’t want my new shirt getting soaked with the imprint of a sports bra. Now, I won’t delve into too many details here, but what struck me as strange after the woman measured and helped me, was when she offered to come into the dressing room and help me further.

Now, I’m sure her intentions were good, and I don’t suffer from any homophobia, but I thought, Um…why? As I declined her help, feeling fully capable of dressing myself, I shake my head and laugh at the past hour.

I returned to my hotel once again instead of going to the KL Tower. This time, I’m tired from the running, my eyes bloodshot as if I’d kept them open in a chlorine-filled swimming pool. So, I take a nap and when I wake up, I head down to grab some Asam Laksa (that wasn’t the whole name, but it’s all I can read on the receipt). The soup resembled a delicious ramen in the photo, but there’s that whole lesson about not judging a book by its cover, right? This would be the worst dish I’ve tried so far in Malaysia. The soup base tastes spicy, minty, and really really fishy. I try to eat as much of it as possible to not waste money and to see if it’ll grow on me. I make it halfway and put my chopsticks down. I probably smell like fish the remainder of the evening.

A little after 9, I meet up with other travelers at the Sky Bar on the 33rd floor of the Trader’s Hotel. I chose this location because it bragged a gorgeous view and an indoor swimming pool with lounge seats in between. There’s already four people at our table when I arrive, and behind them a stunning view of the Petronas Towers glowing in the evening.

When you meet with nomads, it’s hard to say where they’re really from because they’ve lived all over the world. They essentially become citizens of the world. After all, are you defined by your ethnicity, where you were born, where you are living, or your mentality? Our group consisted of Europeans, Malaysians, and I am the sole American. Needless to say, the conversations are great. We anticipate a drunk person falling into the pool as people come quite close to the wooden ledge overhanging the water. There’s no way out except walking the planks.

Somebody suggests Zouk. Really? A club on a Monday night? I can’t remember the last time I went to a club. Maybe I’m getting old, but I consider this an exception to see another side of Malaysia. When we arrive, Zouk is closed, but Beach Bar is open. Beach Bar is, in fact, packed.

Trannies of deceptive feminine features saunter around, approaching our table once, to which one acquaintance politely declines. A live band sings everything from Linkin Park, The Cranberries, to Lady Gaga. The guitarist is off the chain, and the rest of the band isn’t bad, either. We jump up and down, rock our heads, and I feel like an 18-yr-old again.

One guy gives me a thumbs-up while enjoying his time with his beautiful tranny, and I just laugh not knowing if he meant, “Good lookin’,” “Nice moves,” or “You havin’ as much fun as me”? Minus the fact that I know I’m in Malaysia, this bar could be any gay district in the world.

Tourist Day

On my last full day, I board the Hop-on Hop-off bus choosing which tourist sites I want to see. First stop: KL Tower. Pretty anticlimactic. Although I like Malaysia so far, I don’t think the skyline is very beautiful. The only buildings that stand out are the Petronas Towers, KL Tower and a few other buildings I can’t name, which tend to shine (literally) in the evening-time.

I grab the next bus. Traffic slows us down and by the time we reach Chinatown, my stomach growls a hint. I walk down the street, then do a roundabout and look into the many restaurants where roasted ducks sweat behind windows.

I see one billboard with a hilarious photo of a man stuffing his face with a dumpling. Good advertising, I guess, because I grab a seat. I open the menu and see the title, “Frog and Chicken” or maybe it was “Frog and Duck,” either way, I order frog for the first time in my life. Fried Frog with Ginger & Spring Onions. Around me, people chatter in Chinese and plates and chopsticks clink and clank. The restaurant opens to the street, so I hear the constant roar of buses, cars, and motorcycles as I read my book.

When my plate comes out, it doesn’t look much different from any other Chinese dish I’ve tried. The meat’s tender like soft scallops, milder than chicken, and delicious. For the first time in a long time, I can’t focus on my book and put it down to give my food my 100% undivided attention I consume large slices of ginger, juicy slivers of green onions, and suck the meat off the tiny bones. I finish the whole plate and crave more.

Instead, I order some hot tea to follow the greasy Chinese food, a habit my mother instilled in me. There’s a saying in Korea that Chinese people can eat greasy food and not get fat because they drink so much tea. The server hands me tea in a beer glass. As I drink, an old couple sits across from me and the old man stares with a grin as I guzzle all of my tea. Perhaps he finds humor in the idea that I’m an alcoholic lush, or perhaps most people don’t guzzle tea.

I ask for directions and find a white building with the intricate gopuram (tower) of the Sri Mariamman Hindu Temple situated in the middle. Looking at each tier, I feel like I’m reading a colorful, visual story of war, celebration, life, and death.

Before marching in, I ask permission. The man points at my feet and says, “Shoes,” and points to the left. I take off my shoes, and another old man with a kind smile grabs a container to place my shoes in. I bow in thanks and tiptoe in with my socks. It is empty minus a few other visitors allowing me to appreciate the colorful sculptures by myself.

When I return to the bus, the heavy heat soaks through my clothes as I pant like a dog the remainder of the day. We make a 5-minute stop at the National Palace. Nothing too spectacular.

It’s more entertaining hearing the girl in charge of the bus slapping her paper drumstick and singing along to the lyrics, “I can’t stop loving you” and breaking into random howls of “yar yar yar yar!”

I exit at the KL Bird Park. I’m not sure if the bird park will be impressive or cheesy. Impressive. I pay 15rm to get a photo with some birds, and the man places one bird on each hand, then an unexpected small fellow on my head to which, I respond, “Oh, um, really?” Too late. And, right before the man takes a photo, a warm liquid trickles onto the side of my neck. Yes, I got shat on. I keep my cool and say, “Um...I think he pooped on me.”

The man continues taking photos like it’s no big deal while two other tourists observe my situation like it’s a nice sunset instead. First day, drenched. Second day, shat on. I wipe the crap off with a wet nap. I’m glad it wasn’t the big bird on my head. And, still, I'm having a good time as a tourist.

The bird park is the “World’s Largest Free-flight Walk-in Aviary” meaning almost all the birds fly around free within the jungle of trees that is covered with netting. Imagine your local zoo covered in a net and the animals roaming free instead of behind cages.

Afterwards, I grab a taxi to the Sultan Abdul Samad Building. The architecture is beautiful. The aesthetic curves look perfectly smooth and rounded. I decide to return later when the lights come on. When I return in the evening, there’s a surprise waiting. All the photos I’ve seen when the building is lit are golden yellow, but this evening, it’s purple. I wonder if it has to do with the Ramadan? There are couples and families sitting around the park across the street, gazing upon the building in the quiet evening whispering to one another. Purple buildings are usually tacky, and maybe it’s the atmosphere, but the Sultan Abdul Samad Building is magical.

I must confess, it will be hard to write a blog once a week if my following travels are as packed as the last few days. Plus, internet speeds aren’t like the US or South Korea with all the Star Craft junkies promoting some of the fastest internet connections in the world. I just want to let you guys know that I’m safe and sound, and the adventures have definitely begun. I feel like I’ve been traveling a week, but it’s only been 2 ½ days. In the morning, I’m off to Ipoh (Religious Undertaking with the Ipoh Sams).

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Photos

Woman making and selling flowers
Basically like the Hawaiian lei, but I don't know the Indian name.