Delhi to Kuala Lumpur

 Delhi was not going to let me go without one final cab story. 

The auto wallas and uber drivers here have been… unconventional but experienced. There is a method to the madness. I was woken up before my alarm by a call from the front desk, letting me know that my airport transfer had arrived… more than an hour early. My tour company likes to partner with charity organizations whenever they can. Tourism can be bad for a country, using it for good is a lovely way to counter the evils of inviting a bunch of goras over to crowd your historic sites. Without going into details, the cab company that was contracted to handle the ride is well intentioned but uses drivers who are not typically doing professional work in India. The hour and a half early wake up call was my first clue.

When we went to load the car, the trunk wasn’t big enough for my bag and so it went in the front seat. We were on our way and after the driver stopped to ask for directions out of the neighborhood, we were actually on our way. The driver was nervous and clearly new. I know what it feels like to get your first miles in on a stick shift and that’s exactly what was happening here. Partway over I notice the driver start to fiddle with their phone, the screen was freaking out and the map was off in the corner. I pull up Google Maps for the airport on my phone and we continue. That’s when I find out that this is their first day on the job and that I’m the first client. Oh joy. I suppose someone had to be the first. The car stalls three times on the drive over and we’re crawling. The driver is clearly nervous and not accustomed to the mean streets of Delhi. In the end I arrive intact and get to experience the joy of what Delhi magazine calls the best airport in India.

Passport control and customs go smooth enough. After an early morning airport beer I check my phone and find that my hotel in KL doesn’t have water due to a municipal level outage. My flight is long enough that I may arrive to a hot bath yet but we’ll see.

On the flight I watched a movie that was more or less Outsourced but French. A man is working in a matress factory and the boss moves the whole operation to India. He is sent along to be the new foreman. Typical fish out of water stuff plus him teaching his coworkers to strike, very French. When we landed I talked a bit with my seat mate. He is Indian from Rishikesh. We talked about the culture vultures who come to his town for the Beatles ashram. Funny people. He asked me if I was from Long Beach when I said I was from California. He’s a yoga teacher and apparently knows folks in the local yoga scene. He asked me if Long Beach was a spiritual place. I laughed.

Immigration is a breeze here. Just scan your passport and go. Boom boom, no stamps needed. You can’t judge a country by its airport but already I am beginning to sense a higher standard of order here than what I’ve seen in India. When you travel you start to get excited about odd things. Right now I’m most excited to start flushing toilet paper again. I haven’t experienced this novelty since I left Rome. 

Airport train to the city center and a metro ride to get near my hotel. I surface in the middle of party central on Saturday night. Crowds so packed it’s hard to move. Cheering. Whooping. Music. After Delhi it feels calm, clean, and orderly. Using my newly sharpened crowd navigating skills, I shove my way to the road and walk to a pickup point for my ride to the hotel. Between this magic ability to push through people and the AQI dropping from 450 to 80, I feel like I have superpowers. 

This place is the pasha’s palace. I’m not sure why they cut me such a good deal but I’m essentially in a 1.5 bedroom apartment that’s bigger than the last place I rented. The facility is spotless and the shower doesn’t have a bucket in it. It’s the little things sometimes. I need to sync up with local time and my jet lag works with me here. Back to Bukit Bintang for a bite and some drinks.

Changkat Bukit Bintang is crawling with tourists, locals, hawkers, and prostitutes. The last group is an odd standout in an Islamic monarchy that’s a fan of social order and rules. I proceed to have the worst Mei Goring of my life (at least it was cheap) and settle down at a Cuban bar down the road. I strike up a conversation with a Hungarian next to me. He’s been living in Thailand for some years now and has a sense of how to conduct oneself in Southeast Asia. When I met him, he was chatting with a man pretending to not be a club promoter and figuring out where not to go out that night. We ditched the promoter and his friend and share a few beers down the road, drinking in peace.

New country, new taxi chaos. The local ride hailing app didn’t want to charge my credit card so I hopped in a nearby taxi. The local vultures have meters here, a feature I have not laid eyes on since Italy. How bad could it be? Well, I don’t have cash and he doesn’t have a card reader. We settle on a barter deal. We stop at seven eleven on the way to my room and I grab him two packs of smokes. Too much but worth it for the story. I should get some local paper tomorrow.