67 - Not Just Dead… (Kuala Lumpur, Malyasia)
“And then there was the ‘pay to piss’ phenomenon. Ain’t no such thing as a free lunch… or dump. Free public restroom? Don’t be ridiculous. That’s the entrepreneurial equivalent of pissing away cash, y'all. Tinkle-potty-time is non-negotiable for many mall-goers…”
INDONESIA IN MY REARVIEW. SRI LANKA IN MY SIGHTS… but first Kuala Lumpur (KL). One-way ticket from Bali to KL? Eighty dollars. Sure, the Boeing 737 could’ve smashed into the ocean, but eighty dollars is eighty dollars, a’ight? A’ight. I bought tickets to Colombo a mere week in advance, and it still felt like a stranglehold of obligation. Oh, the weight of responsibility. Commitment issues, ya think? I think.
KL was a way station. I was happy to see what I could see but wasn’t there for KL’s sake. Take stock. Stock up. Recharge, refuel, and retool. Shopping is right up there with having my toenails pulled, but my list of to-do’s made it unavoidable. To the mall! Not just any mall would do. I could only deign to visit “Malaysia’s Largest IT Lifestyle Centre”, a.k.a Plaza Low Yat—a technophile’s wet dream. Seven floors of digital bliss.
First and foremost, I was hoping to repair the external hard drive I dropped in Bali, or at the very least retrieve the data. Wish in one hand, shit in the other. See which one fills up first. Six different shops crushed my hopes and dreams in succession. A corrupted drive? Yeah, there’s an app for that. A broken (as in no spinny-spin) hard drive was a horse of a different color… or a unicorn as it were. I required a repair and extract solution. They didn’t have it. Who does have it? Um, forensic data engineers? NASA? The NSA? Google? Bill Gates? One shop owner intimated I might find someone in KL, but it would cost both my legs and one-third of my liver. A bridge too far to recover an iTunes library and some bootleg movies… sigh. The last shop owner on my digital trail of tears put it perfectly. I speculated the drive might be dead. His response? “It’s not just dead, it’s deadly dead.” Nice. I nearly soiled my underbritches when he said this.
You know what they say about a guy with a small camera lens? When in digital Rome, ya know? Best way to celebrate defeat was grab my purse and spend, girlfriend. I went on the prowl for an upgrade. My bargain-hunting neurosis led me to every camera shop in that god-forsaken place. I have nary a clue how individual shops in such superstore singularities show a profit. Basically, they’re all selling the same shit (ex. Nikkor lenses) for roughly the same price point. This boggled my mind enough to spur investigation. I queried a few vendors, but no one seemed to understand the question. Perhaps, therein lies my answer.
In between data storage disappointments, I happened upon a hair salon. A fortuitous turn indeed as I was beginning to look a fright. So, I dragged my forlorn ass inside for a trimy-trim. I opted for the cut and shampoo because, like I’ve said many times, I’m fucking worth it. Shampoo time included a somewhat salacious head and neck massage courtesy of a young effeminate Malaysian male with a funky (as in matted spikes) haircut. “Massage” isn’t the right term. It was closer to a shampoo head-neck masturbation. I felt a little violated, but couldn’t deny the relaxing grip of shampoo laddie’s magic hands. I almost fell asleep.
Sure, I felt dirty afterward, but it’s not like I asked for a happy ending. When he was “finished”, a woman stepped in for the trim. This was mostly uneventful save the finale. As she put the finishing touches on the masterpiece that is my noggin, another male youth (assistant shampoo boy?) sat in the adjacent chair and eyed me with a fervent brand of malevolence. Maybe some patrons are into exhibitionism? Dunno. When I replied “no” to the hair gel option from my stylist, the voyeur began mocking my response with “Naah-OH, naah-OH, naah-OH.”
Odd, yes? Yes. The vocals were strange enough but the look was, dare I say, mongoloid bastard-like with hints of retardation. (Politically incorrect much?) I found this unsettling but held it together as I made my escape. With my departure, he started blow-drying his head. Not his hair, but his whole fucking head. His hair wasn’t wet, mind you. Enhancing his hair’s poof factor? Sure. Why not?
A day at the mall ended in moderate success. I buried my hard drive, tamed my head forest, and found a decent zoom lens. All that during my first full day in the K to the L. I was as dizzy as a blow-dried shampoo boy. My KL remainder was spent wandering and whatnot. I gathered most of what I needed at the outset, so I could relax, stroll, and ponder the idiosyncrasies. For example? Cab drivers. They’re a hoot. All refused to engage their meters citing insufficient state-regulated fare rates, malfunction, sunspots, and other contingencies as justification. There may be something to the dismal pay, but the Lonely Planet strongly urged travelers to strongly urge drivers to employ the meter. I tried that.
One driver claimed it was cheaper without the meter, going so far as to turn it on to prove his assertion. He reprogrammed the device constantly as I watched in awe. After arriving at my destination, he pointed as if to say, “Seeeeeeeeee, told ya!” Ironclad, no? I’ve seen fire and I’ve seen rain. Suck me sideways. He made me a believer. And let’s say, by some miracle, you get the driver to use the meter. Do you have any idea where you’re going? Sure don’t. Get ready for a city tour.
And then there was the “pay to piss” phenomenon. Ain’t no such thing as a free lunch… or dump. Free public restroom? Don’t be ridiculous. That’s the entrepreneurial equivalent of pissing away cash, y'all. Tinkle-potty-time is non-negotiable for many mall-goers. Maybe I could appreciate the capitalist vision from afar, but when I saw bathroom facilities at the mall with a turnstile, I decided shit can get out of hand (pun intended). It made me want to piss in the street out of spite. If I were a betting man, I’m guessing many share my spite and act accordingly.
KL isn’t bad as mega-metropolises go. I’m certainly not a big city guy, but this one was tolerable, if only just. Very walkable and not so difficult to navigate (at least in the center). The streets are wide, the sidewalks serviceable, and the traffic not so chaotic as to dampen one’s motivation to cross the street. This was a rare set of circumstances in most Indonesian cities I graced. There I had no desire to walk anywhere as traffic was insane, the sidewalks cluttered and mutilated. Felt good to stretch my wheels in a walkable city. Not having to deal with obstinate taxi drivers was a cherry on the sundae.
I paid my respects to the Menara KL Tower, the seventh largest in the world, for a panoramic 360-degree view of KL. Its location on a hill makes it taller than the Petronas Towers and a superior viewpoint. If the view isn’t enough, there’s a plethora of activities for the whole goddamn family. Included in the entrance fee? Admission to the small zoo on the ground floor, a pony ride, and a spin in the Formula One simulator! Yes. According to the ticket, you can “see and feel the animals”, be “spellbound” by the pony, and “excite yourself” inside the Formula One vroom-vroom machine. Violate the animals and gratify yourself in the simulator? That’s what I call a great afternoon.
Well, I was one for three. The “zoo” was more of a terrarium filled with snakes, spiders, birds, turtles, lizards, frogs, and primates in glass enclosures and cages. And, yes, that’s as depressing as it sounds. Still, my little boy instincts took control. Honestly, I wasn’t disappointed, but I couldn’t avoid the sour taste. Zoos are fucking sad. No way around it.
The five-year-old within broke free and overpowered my self-restraint mechanism. I ain’t proud of it, but I was taken in by the chance to hold an enormous iguana. This is where a travel-conscience buddy comes in handy—so there’s somebody to kick my ass swiftly when I fall out of line. For the sake of a photo, I exploited the gargantuan beast for personal aggrandizement. I’m pretty sure the lizard couldn’t give two fucks, but that’s not the point, now is it?
Lion and tigers and bears, oh my… without the lions or the tigers or the bears. They did have oodles of menacing snakes and spiders to tickle my horror fantasy and a slew of caged mammals (primates, raccoons, rodents, etc.) The tiny enclosures chapped my asshole, but it didn’t stop me from admiring the poor bastards. Of particular note was the buffy-tufted marmoset which is, hands down, my favorite marmoset of all time.
They have a quasi-mythical air about them. As I eyed one of the little fairies through the glass, I imagined being transported to a magical land of diminutive creatures. There’s a calculating sentience in their mien that reeks of Machiavellian deviousness. I could almost believe a twitch of the nose or twirl of the tale might lead to freedom… and some Old Testament retribution levied against their oppressors. If PETA had their druthers…
I left the zoo (along with my shame) behind and headed to the iconic Petronas Towers. To complete the circle of barbarity, I paused at yet another obnoxious mall for some ethnic cuisine: Pizza Hut pizza. Listen, if you want to truly apprehend a culture, you’ve got to immerse yourself, ya know? I went with the “Mediterranean” pie.
To the towers! They’re impressive and certainly worth a gander. Although displaced as the tallest buildings by the Tapei 101 Tower, they still hold the “tallest twin buildings” title. That's something, huh? Some would (and do) argue the Burj Khalifa is the tallest, but it all hinges on the definition of “building”. The Burj Khalifa is the tallest “structure”. To include the spire or not to include the spire? If “usable space” is the criterion, then the Sears Tower (a.k.a the Willis Tower) is still king. I know one thing, this debate keeps me up nights.
**A note on photography. For the most part, I had absolutely no idea what the hell my photos actually looked like while on the road. Between the camera LCD (distorted by screen protector), my computer screen (poor resolution 10-inch screen), and all the other computers I’ve viewed them on, reality was skewed. Usually, I just took a million shots and crossed my testicles. Welcome to the digital age.
After a paltry three and a half days, it was time to take my leave. I circled back on my way to Vietnam, but scheduling constraints kept me from a deeper exploration of KL or Malaysia. On to Sri Lanka. I was giddy. Real giddy. Undiscovered country. I was excited to educate myself, and on top of that, excited to explore another land via motorcycle. I’d contacted a local rental agency in Negombo and was cautiously optimistic. (My optimism would prove justified.)
Giddy? Yes, but also apprehensive. A bloody civil war ravaged the island nation for over twenty-five years and had only recently come to a close when government forces broke the spine of the rebel Tamil Tiger insurgency. Some areas were still off limits, most notably in the North. You’d think all this strife would’ve kept people away, but such was not the case. Tourism was still alive and well.