Landing in Kuala Lumpur
The greeting as we landed on our Air Asia flight from London was “Welcome to Malaysia. Anyone caught carrying drugs will be put to death. Enjoy your stay.”
I’m pretty sure I wasn’t the only innocent passenger on board who started to open his proverbial bowels at this point at the warning-cum-welcome. If nothing else, I was happy I hadn’t bowed to my neighbour’s invitation for a departing spliff before I left London, and possibly this life.
After being threatened with death I was surprised to walk unchecked through customs. I don’t know if it is just me, but whenever this happens I have momentary pangs of frustration at not having at least tried to smuggle in something. I was 30 seconds in to my plans for a drug-smuggling return to Malaysia when I saw the Sky Bus ticket counter.
It was my first piece of bad news – the bus would be going to KL Sentral, not Pudu Raya. I had planned my stay in Stansted on the assumption the airport bus alighted at Pudu Raya. Thus, I did what any self-respecting Westerner would do in a crisis abroad. I went to Starbucks.
Having decided I would try the metro system to get to Pudu Raya, I made the short walk to the correct gate. Everything was immediately buzzing, with people everywhere. This was just the airport and I was met with smells and sights that were exotic to say the least. Based on very little evidence, I decided I would like Kuala Lumpur.
Kuala Lumpur Underground
Having reached KL Sentral I was directed towards the ticket counter and I encountered what seem to be as archetypal of Asia as rice and noodles – giggling schoolgirls. These two Malay girls directed me onwards and I thanked them before being greeted again by a middle-aged Indian man on the escalator.
This almost-too-friendly Indian man was actually making the same journey as me and offered to be my guide. I was sure he was either mentally-ill or some modern-day Asian Fagin about to lure me into a world of crime and vice, but I followed him anyway.
Upon reaching Plaza Rekyat, we parted and I reflected on my short flirtation with life in the Kuala Lumpur underworld. I approached the ticket counter for advice on how to find my hostel and I had another of those Asian moments, when women giggle through conversations in what could be any number of languages, none of which are English.
Nonetheless, they were very helpful and they called over the security guard who personally escorted me out of the station and towards my hostel. I had only been here an hour or so and yet another person was going out of their way to either help me, or move me on. It wasn’t altogether clear.
Casa Villa and the Match
The hostel was nice enough, with a nice communal front courtyard with wi-fi and a team of Indian workers working round the clock. To be honest I didn’t care much about any of that as my mission was to find somewhere to watch the Spurs match in four hours.
Hallelujah! A TV with ESPN was perched above the pool table, empty! My nightmare had been averted – finding a TV encircled by annoying backpackers watching some kind of ‘movie’, as they would call it, while the football was on. I had encountered such blasphemy before on my travels and my thirst to kill that night has never quite been quenched.
Well the match started and it finished. I promptly went to bed wondering why I hadn’t watched a movie.
Breakfast
Technically this was day two, but the inter-lapse between full-time and breakfast was merely a freezing-but-refreshing shower. I ventured straight out to discover what Kuala Lumpur had to offer. I opted for the restaurant perched over the junction at Pudu Raya as it was fairly busy. I ordered roti teran having no idea what it was.
Well, that is slightly disingenuous as I know roti is a kind of flat fried bread, similar to a chapatti, but the teran I was in the dark about. It manifested itself as a pancake-cum-omelette, and it was delicious. Served with a range of curry dips and all for around 30p, it was the perfect light breakfast.
I eagerly finished up and politely left my dishes on the counter, hoping my impeccable manners would be noticed by the locals. I walked out proud at having eaten my first Malay meal and began the search for my bus station, stopping en route at a street stall and buying a handful of what were mini Cornish pasty-like samosas.
I must have walked about five times around the bus station looking and asking everywhere for the bus to Batu when I realised my mistake - I hadn’t paid the bloody bill in the restaurant! I hustled back, certain I was to be greeted by machete-wielding locals grinning as they sacrifice the polite-but-imperialist Britisher! I was instead greeted by Malay indifference. He smiled, I nervously shuffled and bought water as a peace offering and we both went about our day. Very civilised.
No.11 Bus
After numerous false hopes, I finally found my bus stop opposite Bangkok Bank. The number 11 pulled up and I jumped on. The ticket collector was a jovial little fellow and seemed to take great delight at taking the piss out of passengers with the driver.
When I boarded there was a young lady in a Malay head scarf aboard. The joker turned out to be a bit of a lady’s man too, and I was surprised at their open affection on the bus. Obviously Islamic mores are challenged by some of the younger generation.
He really did seem like a laugh a minute, or just an absolute tosser. Luckily due to my poor Malay I had no way of knowing which. After his lady friend departed he seemed to cast his eyes upon every female who boarded from his perfect vantage point. I was pretty sure he had a girl at each bus stop.
At every stop he would lurch out of the bus shouting ‘BATU’ at the potential passengers. Even if the bus had passed the stop by up to 30m it would still allow each passenger to board. As each boarded he would have to grab his tickets, follow them to their seat and engage in his beloved banter.
Travelling by public bus is definitely the best way to get to know somewhere when travelling. We began to pass through some gorgeous suburbs with Malay houses, which are big and broad, much like Thai homes and built from tropical woods, like teak. The result is much like an alpine hut that has been flattened and broadened, as if under immense gravitational pressure. Those with gardens are stunning and I imagined a life in one.
Batu Caves
Reaching Batu Caves I was advised by the driver where to catch the bus when returning to town and I thanked him. Surprisingly for a pilgrimage site that attracts millions of visitors each year, I found that the only way to enter Batu Caves was to traverse six lanes of traffic akin to the North Circular. All part of the purification process I suppose.
On entering I was immediately met by two men carrying pots on their heads and naked but for Beckham-esque saffron shawls around their waists. Not so much Golden Balls, as Golden Shawls.
I can’t remember how many steps Batu has, but it is over 200. This is quite tame when you consider what other religious trials people do to prove their faith, but it worked for me, especially in the tropical, albeit morning heat.
All the way up I encountered devotees richly adorned in colourful garments and make-up. At the top I turned to look down and the sun was rising behind the cave, casting the shadow of the huge Murugan statue down on to the streets below. Everything seemed tinged with gold.
I entered the cave and was surprised by its wetness. Stalagmites and –tites were all over, and they dripped constantly. The birds and/or bats were ceaseless and to say the scene was otherworldly would be an understatement.
The music and Tamil chants reverberated all around the cave and I followed them to find a group of worshippers gathered around the main temple. A family seemed to be undergoing a cleansing process. Fire burnt near the entrance to purify the devotees and the priests blessed those within. I felt like I was in India.
After having a mull around the caves and observing the atmospheric statues all around, I made my descent. As the morning was ageing, more worshippers were making the ascent. Most harrowing were the screams of a young child, which seemed to be rising from within the cave itself.
I started suspecting a couple near the bottom of the stairs who were carrying huge palm leaves, but I could see no child. Then I realised, they had constructed a hammock and hung it from the palm branches and intended to carry the baby all the way to the top!
I left thinking that if the baby didn’t need purification before the ascent, it certainly would after it. Maybe that was the point.
You spend a lot of time on your blog but it's well worth it. I like it, very interesting Darry-san.