Rats With Thumbs: First impressions of the Malaysian Ecosystem.

The trouble first started when I landed in Kuala Lumpur.

“You need visa to pass through customs!”

“To hell with that. I need a cigarette and some sleep.”

After three hours of supervisors and broken English I finally convinced the crack team of custom officials that;

A.      I was Australian and therefore needed no visa to cross the Malaysian border,

B.      I wasn’t leaving the airport before my next flight and

C.      To give me a god damn smoke.

As soon as I was free of that ugly scene I fled the airport terminal.

Once I got to the hotel district I was greeted almost immediately by the overwhelming stench of a country gone horribly wrong and about 30 pimps/ dealers. Some of them as young as 12 years old.

I pushed my way through the crowd of hookers, dazed tourists, crooked rent-a-cops and poultry into the nearest McDonalds.

Good god! I thought. The beggars have taken over the golden arches!

The place had a line back out the door with confused customers while what looked like the endeavour foundation dashed around with their arms outstretched like a zombie film in fast forward behind the counter. They were colliding with each other in benny hill fashion. No order. True chaos.

I left hungry.

Walking through the lobby of a hotel I noticed a similar style of behaviour. The room was full of men in suits almost climbing over one another to retrieve a discarded newspaper or have a conversation with an old friend from college sitting 20 seats down.

It was as if the sewer rats had gone out, bought 3 piece evening wear, grown thumbs and hijacked the business sector. Now they were swarming for higher ground as the flood waters of a royally fucked economy began to rise.

In my room I showered and washed the pollution from my skin then laid down for the first rest in 34 hours. Finally. I thought. Some shut-eye after 2 days of airports, trains and frantic last minute fucks.

Damn that alarm clock and its persistent attitude. Screaming at me from its shelf. Needless to say that hotel is down on alarm clock. After deciding to skip the lunch time violence I dressed and caught a cab back to the airport. The toothless bastard of a cab driver didn’t speak a word of English. What is it with these people and their aversion to the most spoken language in the world? I thought. 20 minutes of charades later and we were off. Hurtling down the freeway, hitting break neck speeds of 40 and 50 km/h. the cab itself was a reflection of its owner; confusing, disfigured and old. It looked like something the Taliban would use against the infidels.

Once we got to the terminal I emptied my wallet onto his seat. He seemed satisfied so I sucked down my last Marlboro Red for the next 13 hours and lined up for customs.

“Anything to declare?”

“Don’t go to Malaysia.”