So Where've you been? 7 KL; woozy mid-journey airport post

uniquely singapore,
originally uploaded by digitalia.

I'm in Singapore now, at the airport, late at night, after a nine hour bus ride, then a two hour fun filled adventure to find somewhere to sleep.

Within two hours I was reminded why I liked Singapore so much.

I checked out of my poshish KL hotel at 11, and asked them to get me a taxi. They waved vaguely at the street outside. So I don my 22kilo pack, crosses the road, and flags one down. I only want to go four blocks, but it's too hot to carry stuff. Actually, at that time of day, it's too hot to walk without any baggage, also. He starts an argument about the price independently of me (he's quoted me one pound thirty). Whatever, I say, the price doesn't matter, get me to the bus station.

Two minutes later, we're on the wrong side of the highway of KL bus station, when he chucks me out, and charges me more than the figure he'd quoted (now it's one pound thirty one pence). I pay up and haul ass across the road. I charge through the masses of crowds of people suddenly in traditional Malaysian dress travelling on Hari Raya to meet their families. It takes a while to get through the hordes to my ticket window, and around me touts are screaming non stop. The lady takes my ticket, and scrawls the registration plate number of my bus on the back. I'm two hours early to get it. I decide to eat at the food court here.

Vaguely laxative food just before a five hour bus ride, what could go wrong?

I dump the massively heavy pack, and a mini-tout tries to drag me to his food court table. An argument ensues. He will get me the food I want, but only if I go ten yards further to his table. I tell him unless he lifts my pack for me, I ain't moving. I've landed at a chinese food table. They refuse to sell me any Malaysian food. I can have chinese food. They're kind - they let me buy a lemon ice tea, and go get some food elsewhere to bring back to their table. They didn't have to do that.
So I go to the Malay food stalls and ask for laksa. It's my last hour in KL, I want a laksa. Nobody does laksa. Tom Yam? Nope. Anything spicy? This is a tour of six different stalls each time.

Nononono. Malaysian favourite word.

So I shout "Rice? Give me some bloody rice?" and some bloke lets me serve myself dubious looking stuff on top of it.

I try to ignore the locals staring intently at my every move, because I'm beginning to get a tad grumpy. I try to make myself amusing, and smile. No doubt, I am amusing, so better to live up to it than to let any furiousness through.
Using sign language, I indicate to the table of women staring at me that my pack weigh four handfuls of kilos and is heavy. I stagger to the bus stand, which is an unmarked pavement, having remembered to buy some tissue for the squat bogs on the way. I won't mention how I knew I'd need it.

Hari Raya traffic is incredible. The roads are chockablock. Everyone is out of their western clothes and in a bright batik silk concoction. They're in buoyant mood. Unless they're driving.

I give up counting accidents, and try to sleep through the Steven Seagal movies. Malaysian coaches are twenty times better than UK coaches - they're actually comfy. But cold.

My hotel room in KL was 19 degrees celsius at night - I would sleep in sweaters and sleeping bag on top of the blankets. The bus is 22. Every now and then it stops and I get thrown off, and made to stand in inexplicable queues, for customs, frisking, kaya splat cakes, squat toilets.

We get to Singapore, and they chuck me unceremoniously out in the street. Which street, I don't know. Then the driver buggers off, leaving some of my stuff left in the coach.

One family helps me work out where I am. Then where to get money. Then how to get to the airport. Another family watches my bags, makes sure I get a cup of ice tea, gives suggestions. Another three families show me where the coach drivers' office is. The coach driver eventually turns up, and lets me get my stuff.

Everyone on the street laughs when they see I was waiting and fussing to pick up a water bottle. I try to explain through sign language that though water is cheap, unbreakable plastic is expensive by beating the glass against my forehead. I think I made my point rather eloquently.

Another family get me a taxi, saying I look "lost". The taxi driver gives me good tips on hotels and on avoiding rip off taxis. He charges me an eighth of what I'd pay.

I announce to the wrong airline that because of Hari Raya, I'm twelve hours early for my flight. The transit hotel is behind the boarding gates, and check in doesn't open for ten hours.

They run about fussing. Check me in anyway, running to the right airline for me to pick up unnumbered passes and tickets. Process half of my gear as diving gear, despite obvious appreances, and don't charge me extra for the over weight stuff. Suggest other hotels in the area.

Behind the gates, clam looking chaps in suits rent me a room in a five star airport hotel (with bath! with bath! with tea, coffee, CABLE TV! did I mention the bath?), by the hour.
Book a wake up call for 8am. Warn me there might be some building noise in the night.

Send me off round the corner for my free massage and movies.

I never get there because I spot the free internet stand.

Did I say how much I love Singapore?