Wet in Malaysia

I am unfortunately still in Malaysia — Kuala Lumpur, to be precise. I qualify that statement with “unfortunately” because my boxer shorts are wet, I’m blind, I’m somewhat pissed off and I miss my mommy. Allow me to explain.

But before I do, I need to make an observation. Since I started writing, I have noticed that the drama in my life has multiplied tenfold. Yes, I know that this could just be a factor of me being more observant than I used to before. But I think it’s a little bit more than that. I’m personally starting to wonder if I’m not subconsciously allowing weird things to happen to me just so I can write about them. You know; some warped law of attraction of sorts.

In any case, I’m here for about a week for a series of meetings involving myself, a gentleman from The Netherlands and some locals. Our Malaysian contact picks us up from the hotel this morning and takes us to his company’s headquarters. We have a great, fruitful meeting. But then there is a bit of a conundrum — my Dutch friend has another meeting elsewhere in the city and I need to return to the hotel. There is no time for both of us to be dropped off at our respective destinations — naturally (remember the Law of Underneath the Furniture). I pick the short straw (now how did I know?) and I’m told: “Just stand in front of the building and there will be a taxi to pick you up — only RM10 [about R20].” (Note to self: the bastard is coming to Johannesburg in the near future. I’ll make sure to drop him off at the corner of Wolmarans and Claim in Doornfontein and tell him: “Just stand here …”)

I step out into the street and stand where I’m told and start waving down every vehicle with “teksi” (that’s Malay for taxi) written on it. For some reason I cannot fathom, none of the taxis is stopping. Now I’m thinking: “Perhaps I’m using the wrong sign.” You know, back home in the kasie each destination has a specific sign. So I try the hitchhiker thumb. Nothing. I switch over to the one finger pointing skywards — no silly, the index finger. An outraged ~~taxi~~ “teksi” driver responds in kind with a middle finger. Crap. I try the “holla seven” sign. Diddly-squat. The peace V-sign. Zilch. And I’m starting to feel a little self-conscious out there. A chubby, bald black man making hand signals in the middle of Kuala Lumpur tends to blend in like a brilliant thought inside George W’s brain.

At this point some kind of tropical storm just sommer starts coming down. Oh, bummer. My Malaysian contact mentioned something about this being the rainy season (they have no winter or summer here). This information might have been useful before I left home. Within a few seconds my shirt is clinging to my chest and I can feel water seeping into my shoes. So I take off my brand-new pair of glasses (I’ve had them for about a week) and stick them into my pocket — you know; no wipers and all that. After about two more minutes it dawns on me that perhaps no taxi is going to stop. Plus, water is starting to seep into my drawers. I don’t know about anyone else; I can tolerate getting drenched to the bone, but I draw the line at my nuts getting wet. So I run for cover under a bus shelter where a couple is watching this scene with bemused expressions.

How does one get a taxi here, I enquire. The woman starts gesticulating wildly and pointing towards my left. Her lips are moving; I can hear a sound but I cannot understand a word she is saying. Which I was kind of expecting. People round here use consonants rather sparingly. No biggie. We all have our speech defects. Afrikaners have a thing with pronouncing the “th” sound — you know, “I caught it wif my hand.” Zulu people have issues with “r” — “I sleep in a londawel.” Xhosa people have their own “th” thing — “There were tree of us.” And so on. People around here can have an entire conversation using only vowels. So I thank her — I believe my exact words were: “Ai oo hay hee,” and move in the general direction of her finger.

After being subjected to a few more consonant-less conversations I spot a white woman who turns out to be British — sorry, I meant “Bri’ish”. God bless those imperialists from that tiny island. You can’t just wave a taxi down here, good fellow, she tells me. Go and stand in front of the Sheraton and a taxi will come. So I start running towards the general direction of the imposing building.

I need to interrupt myself at this point and explain something about Kuala Lumpur. The whole place is crawling with those tiny moped-thingamascooters — great for global warming and all that crap, but not as nice for pedestrians, as I was soon to find out. The problem is that the drivers of these things treat themselves as pedestrians — which means that you are likely to meet one travelling on the side of the road against the traffic. Again, no one had told me this.

So I’m running half-blind in the rain over a pedestrian crossing towards a taxi I see parked in front of some hotel called the Imperial when, out of nowhere, I clutter into this scooter thing. My glasses fly out of my pocket and before I could scream “Son of a gun!” another scooter rides over my glasses — CRUUUNCCHH! I’d love to write here how I castigated the young scooterist firmly but fairly. But that’d be like claiming that Vavi finds Mbeki a little annoying.

By now, I am truly angry at the turn of events, but I could still take all of it in my stride. What pushes me over the edge and makes me scream louder than Mel Gibson in one of his godawful movies is the realisation that my boxer shorts are, by this time, wet. I wanna go home.

Plus, I miss my mommy.

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