I passed the fountain in the center of KL, near the Royal Selangor Club, the huge flagpole and the padang that I had photographed in the early 1990s. It doesn’t look quite as well maintained as it once did but it is still there. The walk along the river between the post office and the mosque used to be the place where newly married and courting couples promenaded at night, enjoying a quiet moment in the shady seclusions of the old trees, the hibiscus flowers adding a touch of romance to the setting. Nobody was there this evening, the pavement green with algae, cracked in parts and the marble seats no longer with their lovers’ patina. The malls have taken over as the place to walk. They are airconditioned and huge, large enough to provide anonimity perhaps.
I passed by the Hard Rock Cafe, never one of my favouite haunts but a good place to get a beer in the past, when pubs and bars were in short supply in the city. It looked the same; TG Friday’s too, unchanged. Only I have changed since I last ate their with Angela a dozen years ago. As I walked down Jalan P Ramlee I wondered what my ambitions had been then ... in twelve years ... a PhD of course, a lecturship ... and surely by now a Chair at some prestigeous university. What happened? Have I wasted the last twelve years, I began to think before deciding, resolutely, that I shouldn’t. What in another 12 years? I’ll be 55 by then. Not a clue.
Age has come up twice in the last twenty four hours. During a late night forray to 7-11 for a Tiger, the Chinese shop where it is RM2.50 a bottle cheaper having just closed, I was approached by a pair of aging prostitutes. One Indian and not pretty, the other of indeterminate race, with too much makeup and too ugly to be a transvestite. The Indian lady said “Hello baby boy, lets make it three! We’ll show you a good time.” I declined laughing, and politely asked for directions to the liquor store. Baby boy. They must have been older than I thought. And then today, in Starbucks - yes, all the way to Malaysia to sit in Starbucks, my only defence being that they have a free, fast internet connection. The baristas know me by name now, and John introduced me to his new colleague, explaining that I was a professor at USM. I savoured the promotion for a moment before explaining to the girl, who was perhaps 32, that I was a teacher, but not at USM. “Oh, so you have retired-lah?”, she said. “Still working-lah, you too old, should retire-lah.” When I said that I was only 43, she laughed and told me to die my hair. She was fat and so I forgave her. She was ugly too, so I just smiled and paid for my coffee.
My hotel room and pocket knife of choice niether having a bottle opener, I have been making use of the door latch in the bathroom. By carefully aligning the bottle cap against the metal latch and giving the bottle a sharp slap, I have been able to remove the top easily. Over the course of the week I have become gradually more proficient. So efficent in fact, that today the top shot straight off with the first slap and hit me square between the eyes, causing the bridge of my nose to bleeed.
It was a fluke. The second bottle was so stubborn, so tightly capped that I woke the man in the next room.
I passed by the Hard Rock Cafe, never one of my favouite haunts but a good place to get a beer in the past, when pubs and bars were in short supply in the city. It looked the same; TG Friday’s too, unchanged. Only I have changed since I last ate their with Angela a dozen years ago. As I walked down Jalan P Ramlee I wondered what my ambitions had been then ... in twelve years ... a PhD of course, a lecturship ... and surely by now a Chair at some prestigeous university. What happened? Have I wasted the last twelve years, I began to think before deciding, resolutely, that I shouldn’t. What in another 12 years? I’ll be 55 by then. Not a clue.
Age has come up twice in the last twenty four hours. During a late night forray to 7-11 for a Tiger, the Chinese shop where it is RM2.50 a bottle cheaper having just closed, I was approached by a pair of aging prostitutes. One Indian and not pretty, the other of indeterminate race, with too much makeup and too ugly to be a transvestite. The Indian lady said “Hello baby boy, lets make it three! We’ll show you a good time.” I declined laughing, and politely asked for directions to the liquor store. Baby boy. They must have been older than I thought. And then today, in Starbucks - yes, all the way to Malaysia to sit in Starbucks, my only defence being that they have a free, fast internet connection. The baristas know me by name now, and John introduced me to his new colleague, explaining that I was a professor at USM. I savoured the promotion for a moment before explaining to the girl, who was perhaps 32, that I was a teacher, but not at USM. “Oh, so you have retired-lah?”, she said. “Still working-lah, you too old, should retire-lah.” When I said that I was only 43, she laughed and told me to die my hair. She was fat and so I forgave her. She was ugly too, so I just smiled and paid for my coffee.
My hotel room and pocket knife of choice niether having a bottle opener, I have been making use of the door latch in the bathroom. By carefully aligning the bottle cap against the metal latch and giving the bottle a sharp slap, I have been able to remove the top easily. Over the course of the week I have become gradually more proficient. So efficent in fact, that today the top shot straight off with the first slap and hit me square between the eyes, causing the bridge of my nose to bleeed.
It was a fluke. The second bottle was so stubborn, so tightly capped that I woke the man in the next room.
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