Malaysia Part One: The Arrival - hot, sticky, but happy to be there

Between a combination of vacation lethargy, exhaustion and general laziness I neglected to write a hell of a lot on my trip. My notebook is a series of messy scribbles of things I took the initiative to write down whilst being jostled around in a bus. Quite frankly it looks like something attempted by a blind jack rabbit doctor writing with its oversized feet on a prescription pad. Therefore, these will be rather spread out in production. So perhaps by this time next year, I will have related all my new worldly knowledge of leeches, rude German tourists, Malaysian drinks in plastic baggies and palm trees.

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The flight attendants decked out in seemingly traditional colorful Malaysian garb start cramming the drink cart full of complimentary wine, champagne, beer, Nyquil, horse downers, barbiturates and mild sedatives, anything that would numb the nerves of the passengers. There are several babies aboard the plane (with disturbingly handsome fathers) and the flight attendants are savvy enough to preempt a problem. After about seven hours the plane noses down, comes to a bumpy halt and we emerge, disoriented and blinking into the bright Malaysia sun that has infiltrated the stunningly clean airport. We have all barely lifted a finger during the long, arduous journey and yet we are oddly exhausted. The thick Malaysia air hits us hard as we step off the plane and start down the walkway. Its lovely, warm embrace envelops me. I think I am a little tanner already.

Kuala Lumpur has an odd way of welcoming its visitors. As my lovely travel companion and I make our way off the subway which appears on the map (“That’s, what, a centimeter or two? Obviously that’s close!”) to be quite near our hostel we, moments later, find all our bearings utterly lost and, are left with what can only be described as large, ungainly heifers strapped to our backs. The heifers are in a rush to find a home and a place to stay where they may chew their cud in peace. Out of fatigue, necessity and a wee bit of fear which the dark, black, garbage strewn allies of Kuala Lumpur has instilled in me, I stop a local guard who is making rounds with her partner who is armed with a rather deadly looking long, black rifle. She looks quizzically at my map in the darkness, gives us some vague directions that require us to cross a highway-like street with seemingly endless traffic and then sends us away.

Upon second thought.

“Wait!” she calls in rather heavily accented English.

I turn around hoping that in the past eight seconds she has grown as a person; she’s going to offer us a ride, or somehow morph into a kindly, abnormal, self-sacrificing Japanese person, take our hands and lead us exactly where we’re trying to go. Perhaps she’ll give us a present in passing to celebrate our existence.

“Where are you from? What’s in the bag?” She motions to my friend’s red purse. Her tone is accusatory. Crap, I should have told her we’re Canadian. For a minute I think she’s going to give us a hard time about being American and demand the weed that we naturally must have stashed in our bags under our Phish Cds, endless supply of bandanas and Birkenstocks.

“You have money in there?”
My friend looks confused. “Some… I guess…”
Oh my God. Is this GUARD going to ROB us?

Her tone however becomes less threatening and more confiding as she nudges over to us, looks us up and down, gives us a knowing nod insinuating the scum and filth that runs amok in this city and warns us quite seriously to lock up all our belongings. After all, the big city can eat two little twelve-year-old girls traveling alone rather quickly. And steal their Phish Cds.

I thank the guard for her kind concern and we proceed on our way. Welcome to Malaysia indeed.

Our hostel is evasive. I speak to half of Kuala Lumpur in an attempt to find the place. Locals are remarkably unknowledgeable of the city they live in. Security guards at nearby towering hotels cannot tell me the names of the cross streets that run behind their establishments and look profoundly abashed when I look at them in amazement mingled with odium.

Hot, sweaty, still bearing our heifer children on our backs we manage to finally find our hostel. A rainforest themed building easily blends into its surroundings as trees, vines and creepers cover its façade. Down the street a large rundown tenement-looking building houses several local eateries below. Local Malay men sit in white plastic lawn furniture chairs, some having animated conversations, others looking mildly bored, but all carefully watching and scrutinizing whoever may happen to pass. Brownie points if you happen to be female. Varied colorful curries, stews, red meats and vibrant fresh fruits line the windows and provide some much needed color against the bleak looking furniture and decor. The building above boasts a large sign amidst hanging laundry which reads: “Tenant Needed: Chinese Girl Only.”

“Why so hot?” are the words that greet us as we enter the hostel panting and generally disheveled.

We are shown to our room. I am welcomed by twelve of me as I open the door. It is a room of mirrors. A fun house. A room of reflection. A room of vanity. A disco ball in room format. A room of angles. A room of one way mirrors? A room from Alice in Wonderland. A honeymoon suite for cheap backpackers who fashion rings from twisty ties. Every surface is shiny and glassy if not with a mirror then with a window; it’s hard to tell the difference at night. I have no desire to see twelve of my sweltering self. Lights go off and twelve of me disappear. Even in the city the bug symphonies are loud or perhaps this is part of the ‘rainforest atmosphere’ we have paid for.

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Published:
5.8.07 / 7pm
Category:
what i call life, travel, culture