A mum, dad and their three kids from Tasmania, go on an epic adventure in Borneo for 3 weeks in December
Luckily we have some great friends in KL called Mark and Deb (that’s their English names – they are in fact real Kuala Lumpians) who have invited us to stay for the layover through to Kuching in Borneo tomorrow.
We breeze through immigration/customs/stamping documents and strangely the blokes in uniform don’t seem to have had their humor surgically removed like those in most countries. Mark had messaged his address and to take a taxi which should cost around 100 ringgit which I think is steep. I hoped to find an alternative. As we exited baggage claim there was a counter with shouting people. It was a bus ticket bazaar. I approached slowly wondering how to pick so I randomly went for the yelling Airbus counter and showed her the address. Bus to KL Sentral then taxi from there came the answer. Nani handed over 28 rm and the lady handed me the change. Patriarchal maybe or perhaps i look poor. We headed for platform 2 (in truth we just followed Nani who was walking flat out). We rushed out onto the street and I looked around but there were no signs to any platforms just huge car parks. Nani headed left – fast. I’m fully 2ft taller than her so my recon is pretty good and she’s never been to the bus station at LCCT airport in her life. She leads us directly to it. Possibly this ability is related to the one where she can always find a bargain in a shopping centre.
We loved the bus trip. Primarily because it had psychedelic carpet – on the ceiling – and golden tassly curtains.
50km later as we neared KL Sentral the thought struck me “what if it still costs 100rm for a taxi from here?” after all the shouting people at the ticket bazaar were there to sell bus tickets not dole out public transport information.
We descend the bus and are set upon by people asking where we want to go. Taxi touts. No taxis in sight. This is a bus depot not a taxi depot I realise. I explain we are going to Petaling Jaya and there are 5 of us thinking we need a mini bus. Tout 1 goes and gets Tout 2 who says he can take us. I say there are 5 of us. He looks concerned. T1 says not to worry some of us are really small. I figure they will cram us into a sedan. I ask T2 how much and he says 34 rm. “34rm?” i confirm. He replies “35rm”. Either I’m a really bad negotiator or my hearing is going. He takes off to get his car. Eventually we find our destination. He really didn’t know where we were going but drove round for long enough to find it. He didn’t seem to have a map but I had already agreed on the price so it didn’t matter. We put it down to the scenic route and he was a friendly guy despite being told by Abbey that her dad was bigger than he.
Mark wasn’t home when we arrived but his parents were (they live at their parents house) and Deb was too and a lot of other people. They have four children and Marks sister was over with her boy then there were two maids and a boy that might have been one of the maids sons maybe.
The hospitality was fantastic. We were told to rest prior to tea – who gets to have a lie down while dinner is prepared?!
As we lay under the fans a small boy with a #1 clipper job sneaked in. Being the uber parent I strike up a conversation leading with the trusty “what’s your name?” with my play school presenter voice. “Ong Chai Chen” he announced loudly. It sounded oddly like the mandarin for “thank you”. It was a mouthful so I persevered. “yeah but what do people call you?” “Ong Chai Chen!” He reiterated. Probably thinks I’m so old I’m hard of hearing. Nani chimed in “what does your teacher call you?” same answer. I ask if I can just call him Chai or Chen. Charlie maybe? He says he can do the work of a five year old at school. Nani asks how old is he. He says “five”.
His grandma knocked and offered us a pile of towels. The small one dived behind the door. I recall Mark telling me on a recent trip down under that she was the no nonsense one. Apparently she sleeps at 16deg so it seems she is to the kids what the ice queen was to Narnia. He emerges when it’s safe and shows us some karate moves. Either he’s really fast because he’s small or he’s really fast because he’s really fast. I decide the latter. He reminds me of Dash from The Incredibles. He says he’s got a machine gun. When I enquire further he says he also has a bazooka. Ahhh a kindred spirit. I like talking munitions. Then he discloses that he has not one but two bombs. I caution him that bombs can tend to explode and to let me know before he sets them off so I can get out onto the street because I don’t want to be trapped in the rubble of his grandparents former house.
The dinner is amazing. It’s a spread of roast duck, bak kut teh which is pork bones in a garlic star anise broth, fried chicken, chicken feet soup with mushroom and fish maw (I think that’s something in fish guts), tofu, barbecued pork (char skew) and on it went. We were besides ourselves.
Eventually whilst peeling and stuffing our faces with tiny thumb sized Goreng Susu bananas and Rambutan, mark called to say he was on the way home from his part in the closing ceremony of the inaugural Asian Shotgun Championship where a new Asian record and equal world record in skeet shooting had been set.
There’s talk at the table of dogs being locked up before he arrives and a reminder a few minutes later. My interest is piqued. I wonder if they don’t like mark maybe? Then I figure maybe they’re a bit feral and could take off when the automatic gate opens. It’s the latter. Then deb adds that she’s worried they could take off down the street and attack and kill someone so they lock them up when someone arrives home and let them back out when the gate closes. Presumably a game of fetch is out question then. I stayed at the home of a magistrate in Singapore once that had three dobermans, one of which bailed me up on a foray to the dunny one night so I ask what kind of dogs are Debs? The dad replies “just normal ones”. He represented Malaya in shotgun shooting at the ’54 Rome Olympics so I don’t press him about the dogs.
As I squat in the plugless bath pouring a little bucket of hot water over myself and wondering what the ceramic thing with the hole and tap next to the toilet is, I feel that I really like KL. First impressions count for something and I decided that while it wasn’t slick like say Singapore or as developed as Melbourne I felt at home here. It’s a work in progress with the odd abandoned apartment block being reclaimed by moss and ferns amidst the sprawling brand new cookie cutter identical terraces overshadowed by the sparkling twin towers in the distance.
T2 had said the traffic was jammed due to UMNO (the ruling political party) holding their annual convention but having just plowed through Melbourne peak hour in drizzle this morning theirs was a breeze.
Malaysians strike me as being really laid back. In the toilets at the airport a couple of the cleaners were having a bit of a kip possibly figuring the boss couldn’t see them back there. It strikes a chord in my laid back Aussie heart. Combine that with talk of deer shooting and the Cameron Highland Rusa stag head hanging in the foyer its no wonder I’m feeling at home.