I am referring, of course, to the weather. I have spent some large number of months in SEA over the last year, a region renowned for its swampy weather, where average temperatures in the 90s are the norm. None of that prepared me for the miasma of Malaysia.

Let’s set the daytime 90s aside for a moment. I walked out the other night on what should have been a balmy, pleasant 78 degree evening. Within twenty minutes I was literally dripping sweat and had to mop my face with a handkerchief. To be fair, this is as close to the equator as we’ve been, a mere 200 or so miles north. We were pretty close in Java, about 550 miles south, but I guess that extra distance matters. Or, and this is a distinct possibility, Malaysia is a portal to hell. Just putting that out there.

That justified getting a condo with a pool, which has been religiously used. Not five-times-a-day call-to-prayer religiously used. But daily. I offer my thanks at least daily, and they are sincere. Also, moist and cool. The very best kind of thanks.

Although now that I think of it, I’m probably showering on the call to prayer schedule. That sounds right.

At Least The French Have Clean Hands (Hint: They Were Otherwise Occupying)

As part of my Get Acquainted tour of Kuala Lumpur, I visited the National Museum of Malaysia. That would normally get a post of its own, except a) it’s pretty small (six galleries), and b) it’s focus is pretty tightly on Malaysia’s long, sumptuous history of colonial predation. There’s history going as far back as Paleolithic times and a skosh of culture, but mostly it’s the predation. So not a lot of pictures. Except for this.

Am I mocking a culture that’s not my own, making fun of rich traditions simply because they look humorous to my Western sensibilities? I am not. I am mocking nose flutes. I am an equal opportunity nose flute mocker. If they were a part of my own culture, I would be on mockery’s front lines, daring the rearguard Tucker Carlsons of Big Nose Flute to cancel me. I stand proud.

And just so you know I take all this cross-cultural stuff seriously… The museum featured a high-tech digital kiosk where you could try on different outfits and get the photo sent to you via QR code.

But I digress.

Thailand, as one of a handful of countries on the planet that have never been colonized, was a refreshing chaser to the Malort of post-colonial outcomes we’ve been chugging. I don’t think I truly appreciated that break until I landed back on the Tour de Fuckery. Malaysia was the dusky temptress that every one of the colonial powers had to ravish at least once. Except the French, who were busy tearing the knickers off of Haiti.

The Dutch and Portuguese fought over Malacca for a while back in the good old days of colonialism, the 1500s and 1600s. But the British brought Malaysia the brutal efficiency of the industrial revolution in the 1700s, turning the sleepy colonialism of their forebears into the hellish Bosch triptych of mechanized dehumanization that they later perfected in India.

The Chamber of Horrors Theater of the Absurd Chamber of the Absurd Horrors crescendoed in the Malayan Emergency that lasted from 1948 to 1960. What was the Emergency? Apparently, that the natives were restless. Having tired of the extrajudicial killings of activists, they were beginning to see torching plantations as legitimate political speech.

But why an Emergency? Because British insurers wouldn’t have paid out claims during a war, so the government simply refused to call it a war. Everything old is new again.

You’ll be shocked, shocked to learn that the British, intent on importing their enlightened civilization to the savage natives, committed war crimes and atrocities in pursuit of their goals. It finally led to their departure in 1957 when the Federation of Malaya pried the Brits’ fingers from around their throats and sent them home. I love a story with a happy ending. Even if it takes a few centuries to get there.

As a ridiculous sidebar, I would be remiss if I didn’t share the story of the White Rajahs of Sarawak. A Brit named James Brooke was adventuring around Borneo and made himself of use to the Sultan of Brunei, fighting off pirates and such. In gratitude, the Sultan granted James the province of Kuching in 1841, making him the first White Rajah of Sarawak, a title that descended through patrilineage to his heirs for over 100 years!

How did it end? One of the grandnephews, not the actual Rajah at the time, ceded the territory to the British in 1946, his not having the actual rights to do so being a non-factor for the British, who were delighted to claim a new Crown Colony. It wasn’t to last, as they were booted out of all of Malaysia in 1957.

You cannot make this shit up.

Ethnography

Malaysia is a mostly country. It’s mostly Bumiputra, a catchall for ethnic Malays and other indigenous groups, with healthy dollops of Chinese and Indian, the descendants of the indentured workers the British imported to work the plantations. Malaysia is mostly Muslim, but while Islam is the official state religion, freedom of religion is enshrined in the constitution. About ⅔ of the population identifies as Muslim, with the rest split amongst Buddhists, Hindus, and even Christians (mostly a sad remnant of Anglican converts).

But that’s really the iceberg tip. In fact, Malaysia is home to over 100 distinct indigenous languages, bespeaking a much richer stew of ethnicity and belief than the raw statistics suggest. In our experience, it most resembles Indonesia in that regard, which seems to have a distinct ethnolinguistic profile for each of its inhabited islands. If Malaysia is one thing, it’s that it’s not just one thing.

The Apartment

I’m in Southeast Asia, so my condo features the usual insults: a duvet instead of a top sheet, hot water only from the shower head, and a mattress clearly discarded from an oubliette as inhumane. Also, like my Chiang Mai condo, I’m being charged for electric, but at least here I can get a running read on consumption. I’m pretty sure I lived unnecessarily like a monk in Chiang Mai.

I suppose if I’m groping for positives, it’s nice that I don’t have to wait for the hot water when I’m doing dishes.

The apartment itself is a little studio, which is fine for me but way too small if I’d been traveling with my usual allotment of wife. But it has a “full” kitchen and is comfortably appointed and centrally located. No complaints.

Although I did have the owner send a plumber to fix the bidet, which has, in the last year, moved to a lower level of Maslow for me. I opened the valve, closed the valve, nothing.

So the plumber comes over, presses the handle and water comes out. Looks at me. “What’s the problem?” It turns out the handle holder is also the fucking valve. Pull the handle out and you can rotate the holder to open the water line. Great way to start off with my host, establishing without question that I’m an actual idiot.

Although, tell the truth. Would any of you have tried rotating that piece? That’s a special bit of hardware, right there.

But the real attraction is the pool. You know that moment when you get in the pool or the ocean and you clench up and tell yourself that if you just get in all at once your temperature will adjust and you’ll be fine? And then you are.

That doesn’t happen here. You just slide right in without any hesitation at all, because the water temperature is perfect and delicious. I’m not ashamed to admit that there are days in this heat when I’ve gone in twice. I filtered for pools on Airbnb. I am unrepentant.

Transit

Getting around is easy. Grab, SEA’s Uber, is everywhere, and KL boasts a modern, unified transit system that’s accessible through a single payment apparatus.

The hardest part of getting around is as a pedestrian. Everywhere in the world, pedestrian traffic follows vehicular traffic: Drive on the left, walk on the left. Drive on the right, walk on the right. Simple. Except fucking Thailand, where they drive on the left and walk on the right! It’s maddening. After three months in Thailand I accommodated, but now I’m back somewhere rational and I’m all verklempt. I’m walking on the right now when I should be walking on the left, causing all kinds of farang (technically Mat Salleh in Malay) chaos. I’ll adjust, but those are tough patterns to break and relearn constantly. Makes my head hurt.

Buildings

KL is a skyscraper kind of town. Most notable is the Merdeka 118, just a couple of blocks from my condo. It’s the second tallest building in the world, after the Burj Khalifa. 118 refers to the number of floors. Will I overcome my acrophobia and visit the observation deck on 118? That sounds stupid, so probably. On the other hand, airplanes don’t squick me, so what could possibly go wrong? I’m the spokesmodel for the Willing Suspension of Disbelief. And the Complete Absence of Executive Function.

At 88 stories, the twin Patronas Towers fall short of Merdeka 118, but they are probably KL’s most iconic skyline view. I’d seen them from afar, but it wasn’t until I was right up on them at night that I realized how insanely beautifully they’re lit. They’re Deco confections made almost entirely of light. Unbelievable.

Up Up & Away

So. Did I go to the 118th floor observation deck of the Merdeka 118? I did not. But not, I am at pains to admit, because I thought better of it. They’re still working on the Merdeka, and the observation deck won’t be open until later in the year.

I bet you’re thinking that I was lucky to be saved from my own folly, but that just shows how poorly you know me. Both the Patronas Towers and the KL Tower offer vertiginous observation decks. At 1,000 feet, the KL Tower has the highest open air deck in the city. At $35, it had better offer some superlatives.

How about Most Iconically Phallic? Most Like A Billionaire’s Rocket? Most Likely To Absorb Cows?

The tickets for KL Tower aren’t timed, like Patronas. They’re for the day, and you can show up whenever you like. I got there at about 6:30, so I could see both the daytime and nighttime views. You would be right to think, from 1,000 feet up, that they’re spectacular. You’re very clever.

The daytime views are great, providing a real sense of KL’s scope.

But the nighttime views kill. I think of all the big cities we’ve visited, I like KL’s skyline best. It’s iconic skyscraper after iconic skyscraper, each more beautiful than the one before.

But KL Tower had one more trick up its nasty sleeve: the Sky Box. The Sky Box is a cantilevered glass box that sits out over the edge of the tower. Shockingly, given the extortionate entry fee, they tack on another 10rm (about $2.50 USD) for a timed 45 seconds in the Sky Box. Although I imagine that’s less about the revenue and more about gating access so people don’t camp out in it and everyone gets a shot.

There are two Sky Boxes, one in front of the Patronas Towers, one in front of Merdeka 118. That’s just dumb luck, as the KL Tower is thirty years old and predates both of those towers. I had plenty of time to circumnavigate the deck, waiting for the transition to night, and I danced right up to the edge of the Sky Boxes repeatedly. “Don’t be a weenie, just do it, you’re here.” “I’m a weenie for a reason, I should listen to my guts. Especially when they’re churning.” Who says I don’t have a rich interior life? Oh, right. Everyone who knows me.

With my Jiminy back in Chicago, I didn’t stand a chance. Look, grannies are doing it! [that’s how I needed to be rescued from the top of a pyramid] My 10rm blood money paid, it was my turn to face death. I inched my way across the platform to the box itself.

Hilariously, I couldn’t go all the way in. The white band in the picture below is the actual edge of the tower structure, and I couldn’t get past it. Even though I was standing in the same structure, I couldn’t get over the visual of floating in space. Too much. Plus, and this is definitely not nothing, I could feel the fucking thing sway. No way was I staying in a second longer than necessary.

I used up a fraction of my 45 seconds and backed out sweating. At least I didn’t need a rescue.

Shopping

There’s a perfectly credible supermarket in, as is typical, the basement of the closest mall, a mere fifteen minute walk. There are convenience stores near the condo, so I don’t have to haul gallons of water too far. Or carry ice cream bars even fifteen minutes in this heat.

As is usual in Muslim countries, the Jaya Grocery keeps their liquor in a segregated area that’s almost a separate store within the store. They’ve gone a step further than I’ve seen so far, designating that shop the Non-Halal Zone. All of the sins, not just booze, but ham and sausage, are under the same roof. Convenient!

They’re also happy to editorialize. I’ve never seen this sentiment expressed before, but sure. Why not?

Bukit Bintang

Jalan Bukit Bintang is central KL’s nightlife and restaurant locus, and it’s packed, especially at night. I’m about fifteen minutes from it, now that I know where I can cross illegally and cut out an unnecessary loop.

It also offers up what is now my new favorite street food, beef roti. It’s a dough ball filled with spiced, curried minced beef and griddle-fried until it will burn your face off. Seriously, I’ve taken some home and thirty minutes later they were barely cool enough to eat. They appear to be popular in Sri Lanka and South India, but this is the first time I’ve seen them in SEA.

This place, Restoran Mon Chinese Beef Roti, had a long, slow line, so I figured it was the best. Hard to say since I haven’t compared, but so good I haven’t been tempted to compare. Also, given how generally expensive it is here, the roti are a bargain at 6.50rm, about $1.50 USD.

In addition to restaurants, bars, and massage spas, BB also hosts the night street food market on Jalan Alor.

Also available on Jalan Alor, and everywhere else: durian. Durian has been a favored treat everywhere in SEA, but in Malaysia it rivals Islam as the state religion. While plain old durian was on offer in other places, here the range of cultivars is a selling point. They are clearly connoisseurs.

Bukit Bintang also hosts KL’s most glitteriest mall, the Pavilion. Of course, it’s more than just a seven-story, 1.7M square foot mall. It’s also an office tower, residential towers, and a five star hotel. And a yacht. I think it’s also a yacht. And a pony. It opened in 2007, but it’s still top of the mall food chain here. Which is a big deal. SEA loves its malls.

I went, perversely, in search of crafts. Dorothy had found a maker of tudung saji, woven food covers, and the article suggested there was a little shop in the Pavilion that carried them. I didn’t find that shop, but I found the maker’s FB page and reached out and she told me where I could find them in KL: one shop in the Central Market, the crafts locus, and one in the Pavilion that I’d missed. In fact, on my first tour, the closest I found to a craft shop was the Christian Louboutin boutique. That counts, right?

I went back after getting instructions and was able to find the little shop in the top floor Tokyo Street section, which largely featured small Japanese shops. This shop, Artist’s Haven, specialized in local crafts, but I guess there was nowhere else to put it.

This should probably be in the Crafts post, but fuck it. Here are the tudung saji. The two shops only had the smallest size, 12″, which was fine. Even getting one of the little ones back safely will be a packing challenge.

Chinatown

Chinatown is orthogonal to Bukit Bintang, still very close to the condo. Although in this weather even a twenty minute walk leaves you drenched. The big attraction here is Jayan Petaling, a bustling street market. Perhaps I’m getting jaded (this is month nine in SEA, total), but the bustle seems very merchcentric. Nothing but tourist stuff.

Street Art & Follies

The usual review of entertaining streetscapes.

I thought this was the world’s worst retail mascot job, in KL’s heat, until I realized that they were cavorting for tips, like dehydrated Times Square Elmos competing in the Heatstroke Olympics.

Here we have one of my favorite sights so far, a location that obliterates the fine line that customarily separates restaurants and miniature golf courses.

Massage Culture

I didn’t set out to see how far I could walk without passing a massage spa, but after a while it was hard not to notice that I hadn’t seen any. Their absence was a palpable presence. My second night in KL I went for a walk to learn the neighborhood, and I walked a tick short of six miles without once seeing a massage spa, some kind of SEA record.

Crossing Jalan Bukit Bintang is Changkat Bukit Bintang, and this is where KL’s massage spas are clustered. There are spas scattered throughout the city, in the neighborhoods, but Changkat BB is the only place where they’re dense like the rest of SEA.

Like everything else here, I’ve found KL to be the most expensive place we’ve been in SEA. Not First World expensive, but definitely the high end for the area. Food, groceries, crafts… and massage. For example, an hour of massage in Thailand runs about $11 USD. That same hour in KL is $16. Not a life threatening difference, but notable.

In both cases, that’s the bottom end of the price spectrum. I’ve found that the more expensive spas are more luxuriously appointed, but I don’t think there’s much difference in the quality of the actual massage. I’ve yet to have a bad massage, and some of my best massages have been from the cheapest neighborhood dumps. I’m a value traveler.

I was all freaked about the massage scene in Thailand, because I didn’t want to wander into a Happy Ending joint looking for a real massage. Everyone would end disappointed. But I had no such qualms in Malaysia, an officially Islamic nation. While the massage spas all seem legit (I’ve yet to be offered any extras) the scene on Changkat Bukit Bintang is typical on the one hand, with women standing in front of the spas trying to lure you in, but surprising on the other hand. As in I was walking along and a woman came up from behind me and grabbed my hand. Which surprised me. If I don’t ask for consent I’m a monster, but I’m apparently fair game on the mean streets of an Islamic state.

She kept trying to steer me into restaurants, and I kept peeling her off, like I was clean enough, dammit, and no longer needed my remora. I think I finally clipped her off by taking a sharp corner around a parked car, but it made me look at my surroundings a little more closely. Why, over there are three beautiful African women in revealing dresses, each sitting alone in a restaurant. And that cluster of women offering massages are all wearing LBDs and standing on a corner that doesn’t have a massage spa. Huh. Makes you think.

Does falling in love with every one of my masseuses make me shallow? [yes] But I’m a sucker for strong, knowledgeable hands. And elbows. And feet. And knees. Like Thai massage, the local flavor, Urut Melayu, is a full contact sport, although with less yoga-like stretching and more pressure. Each practitioner I’ve tried has had some minor variation, but, like the Thai massage, they’re riffing from a common base.

I think my particular flexibility issues are best addressed through Thai massage, but Urut Melayu does include stretching, and it may be better than Thai massage for the upper shoulder tension that’s a natural side effect of immoderate blogging.

I liked one masseuse a lot, and asked her name so I could request her on a return visit. She said she didn’t have a name, just a number. She was number 21. That seemed… dystopian? Sad? Liberating? I mean, I assume that was a work thing. I’d hate to think she really didn’t have a name at all. Maybe her parents named her 21.

Money

After the differential calculus required for some currency conversions we’ve suffered *cough* Indonesian rupiah *cough*, the ringgit is a straightforward quarter. One ringgit = 25¢. 100rm = $25. Praise the Lord.

Malay

After the hell of Vietnamese and, somehow worse, Thai, Malay is a breath of distinctly less fetid air. Why so sweet? It uses the same Latin alphabet we know and love, and those letters largely make the same sounds we expect them to (looking at you, Vietnamese…). Bonus, it’s basically the same language as Indonesian, so I’ve already learned it some.

Of course, it’s only the same language to me because I speak both so badly. Native speakers can certainly tell them apart, although they are mutually intelligible, sharing about 70-80% of the same root language, Malay. The difference is in pronunciation, grammatical structure, and the source of loanwords, the latter driven by the usual colonial suspects.

Malay is stuffed full of loanwords (and a handful of cognates, but mostly loanwords), meaning that many signs are decipherable with zero Malay. Farmasi. Restoran. Kaunter Tiket. Agensi. Stimbot. Polis. Nasional. Klinik. Teksi. Komputer. Telefon. Coklat.

That last one only works if you remember that Malay has sensibly assigned the ch sound to C. K makes a hard C and S makes a soft C, so what is the C even for? It’s the appendix of letters, and Malay and Indonesian have at least put it to good use. Finally. Personally, I’ve been over the C for ages.

They’ve donated to us, as well. We can thank them for amok, ketchup, bamboo, orangutan (from orang hutan, man of the forest), compound (from kampung), gingham, rattan, sarong, gong, and tea. We’ve given them so much more. Well, the Portuguese, Dutch, and British did. And not just loanwords.

Also, not for nothing, English is the unofficial second language here, so most signage doesn’t have to be pieced together from loanwords. It’s super easy to navigate here, and the English levels are really high. I’m in the big city, so I’m sure that fades in the hinterlands, but smooth linguistic sailing so far.

Or as smooth as sailing can be through the admittedly turgid air.