Life, In Kuala Lumpur : AainaA

I prayed hard.

I dislike Kuala Lumpur more and more. It’s a nice fantasy city – it’s filled with almost everything in a hodge-podge style, that the curry of flavors just seemed a tad no-where. It’s neither this nor that, neither here or there.

It would have been nice I thought several months ago, to live in a small studio right in the heart of Kuala Lumpur, but after several months working in the city, and seeing the forced animated state of the people hurrying like waves honking their car horns as if they deserved to be treated like royalty, just blew me farther away… My mind is resting in Samarqand right now. At this very instant, in Gur Timur’s {Timor the Lame} tomb beneath the splendor and the glory of Islaam where he gained power over, what is now known as the Commonwealth Independent States. Samarqand and Buxoro are truly a work of art. In its humility, power is birthed.

I think I’m growing really, really old. The world with its madness can do that to you – Even when you’re like stilled water in that stream of hope. The cab arrived just as soon as I finished praying for you, the other, and …

At the Ampang Taxi station:

“Kota Damansara…” I said without looking at the driver. All I could hear was his voice beckoning me into the small tin-can of a car, they call the Saga. He was courteous, and I tired. It has been a very long day, especially when the Internet was hardly even crawling at snail’s pace. It was practically dead, and online research was way too tedious. You spend so much time trying to do many things in a day, only to be back at square one. Telekom Malaysia needs to do something about this intolerable service.

I was about to close my eyes, when his voice broke the silence in the cab

“You will show me which way you like?”
“Take Penchala Link via lebuhraya Mahameru, onto Jalan Duta, please” I answered, my head banging {I’m having a migraine attack!!}.
“Ah… where do you come from?” he asked, amused. He was literally giggling. I didn’t want to answer. I am tired. Does it not show that when a woman is silent, she is so not interested in small chats? I could have strangled him, but he’s driving me home. He cleared his throat, and asked me again, this time the voice a bit coarse, articulating his words better.

“From Hell!”

He kept quiet. After a couple of minutes of silence, he switched on his favorite radio station – some Malay pop music came blaring in. Oh he wanted a chat, but since I snapped, he decided to ‘entertain/educate’ me about the richness of Malay culture.

“I am Ma-lay” he said. “We Ma-lays like to learn about other cultures as well – you like this music – it’s a Ma-lay song about love. Let me translate you this song…” he said. But before he could do it, I glared at him {it didn’t work}. I know I’m terrible with people trying to be nice, but really, I am tired lah – it clearly shows on my face.

“I’m tired – I just had a hard day at work, and I would appreciate silence please” I said. Obviously he couldn’t be bothered. He went talking about the Malays, and how they differ from the Chinese, or the Indians. I swore I saw a government stamp for racial propaganda, on his forehead – the same thing happened when I was in Langkawi in March – the little children in the streets rushed across the busy road much to my dismay {I was wrought with fear for them} shouting “Welcome to Malaysia” and hugging me. The music amplified his voice, and then I did what I should have done. I switched off his radio, and told him to chill. He couldn’t understand what I did, so he switched it on again.

Just then he smiled, and welcomed me to Malaysia.

I just stared at him. What is wrong with these people? Have they gone utterly insane? I looked at him, and said, that it would be nice if he’d stop me at KLCC instead of driving me all the way to Kota Damansara. I told him that I had changed my mind and needed to get a book at Kinokuniya instead. He was clearly saddened. I could see it in his eyes. Oh Lord – please forgive me, for this bluntness. As soon as he dropped me off, I droned towards the entrance and after a few steps, did a full turn to the taxi station. I felt like Cruella, just about bursting at the seams. As I was queuing up for the cab, I overheard the locals talking.

“Susah-lah. Taxi kat sini semua tak pakai meter!” one said.
“Itu lah, semua nak kaya cepat – ikut lah meter – menyusahkan orang aje” another said.

They were complaining about cabbies not using the meter, at the KLCC Taxi Station. I know it’s terrible, but the economy’s not faring and everyone wants a piece of the cherry on that icing cake too. Next month, I’ll re-sit for my learner’s license. If and when I pass that test, I will not get the car of my dreams here in Kuala Lumpur. I’d be crazy to want to drive a sports car in bumper-to-bumper Kuala Lumpur when its peak hours. I’d most likely be a road hog, and that’ll be the one in the violet cape slashed over the headlines in local dailies.

When I got in the Waja, the cabbie was courteous. He was Chinese. He didn’t say a word, just nodded, pumped-up the air-conditioning, and drove me home. It was a metered Ringgit Malaysia fifteen worthwhile ride that was lavishly tipped!