The snappily named Kuala Lumpur Lake Gardens in the largest open green area near the center of town. It is quite extensive and thoughtfully landscaped for public park. Walking through the gates from the National Planetarium I felt to be entering a peaceful, if rather humid, refuge from the chronic Sunday traffic. Native plants have been used throughout the park, some of them even being labeled with their name in Malay, English and Latin. One or two have posters beside them describing special features, their history or how they are useful. These are tastefully interspersed with play areas, pavilions for a quiet canoodle and oversized plants meticulously modeled out of reinforced concrete and peeling paint. Canoodling, whilst a popular pastime worldwide, is inappropriate for a public place in Malaysia, so perhaps these gazebos were intended as shelters against rain or sun.
Paths, even a rubberised jogging track, wind through the park and are popular with joggers and those who are temporarily committed to getting fit. The latter are easy to spot -- they walk slowly but with pained concentration, their buttocks wobbling slightly and and they wear too many clothes in the misguided belief that sweating will make the extra rolls of flesh dissolve. Path surfaces have to be considered carefully in this hot, humid and frequently wet climate. The designers have made interesting choices. The jogging track, comfortable under the feet on the flat, takes on a remarkably slippery quality when taken at a gradient in the rain. Two materials have been used for the walking paths; paving stones and fine concrete painted orange and scored to look like crazy paving. Both are hideously slick when damp. Expatriate joggers have obviously got nowhere in their legal actions against Malaysian government.
Around the lake loudspeakers play local radio, complete with the adverts, ensuring that you never feel too far away from civilization. Irritated by this, and by small children whose parents think it is cute to buy them running shoes that squeak loudly at every step, I left the park to run on the streets. I was soon lost, partly though my own lack of sense of direction and partly due to the local proclivity for saving face. Rather than tell me he didn’t know where Jalan Parliamen was, he sent me off in completely the wrong direction. With rain threatening I gave up and retraced my steps through the park, developing a new uphill running technique to avoid falling flat on my farce.
Sunday is a holiday in Malaysia and it appears that a good proportion of the population heads to the shopping areas and malls. Malaysian tourists must find Britain very boring at the weekends, with everything closed at 5pm on Saturday and earlier on Sunday. By 7.30 pm the roads are jammed solid with the afternoon shoppers heading home and after dinner browsers heading in. In these affluent days it appears that only the young ride motorbikes in KL. If their parents have ever stood at a road junction in KL at 7.30 pm on a Sunday evening, they must dread the day that their children become old enough to get a license. The driving is unbelievably dangerous, egregious almost beyond description. Imagine, if you can, a hundred and fifty small motorbikes, dressed to look like powerful racing bikes, their exhaust pipes tuned for maximum volume; on each a young driver and a precariously balanced passenger on the pillion. The challenge is to weave between the four or five lanes of traffic to get to the front of the queue at the next red light. This must be done at the highest speed your bike can manage, with as much noise as possible, preferably whilst having a running conversation with your pillion -- with whom you should make frequent eye contact -- or your friend riding along side -- ditto. Breaking must be done suddenly and as late as possible for effect, or if you really want to impress shortly after you have narrowly missed being mowed down by a bus.
Paths, even a rubberised jogging track, wind through the park and are popular with joggers and those who are temporarily committed to getting fit. The latter are easy to spot -- they walk slowly but with pained concentration, their buttocks wobbling slightly and and they wear too many clothes in the misguided belief that sweating will make the extra rolls of flesh dissolve. Path surfaces have to be considered carefully in this hot, humid and frequently wet climate. The designers have made interesting choices. The jogging track, comfortable under the feet on the flat, takes on a remarkably slippery quality when taken at a gradient in the rain. Two materials have been used for the walking paths; paving stones and fine concrete painted orange and scored to look like crazy paving. Both are hideously slick when damp. Expatriate joggers have obviously got nowhere in their legal actions against Malaysian government.
Around the lake loudspeakers play local radio, complete with the adverts, ensuring that you never feel too far away from civilization. Irritated by this, and by small children whose parents think it is cute to buy them running shoes that squeak loudly at every step, I left the park to run on the streets. I was soon lost, partly though my own lack of sense of direction and partly due to the local proclivity for saving face. Rather than tell me he didn’t know where Jalan Parliamen was, he sent me off in completely the wrong direction. With rain threatening I gave up and retraced my steps through the park, developing a new uphill running technique to avoid falling flat on my farce.
Sunday is a holiday in Malaysia and it appears that a good proportion of the population heads to the shopping areas and malls. Malaysian tourists must find Britain very boring at the weekends, with everything closed at 5pm on Saturday and earlier on Sunday. By 7.30 pm the roads are jammed solid with the afternoon shoppers heading home and after dinner browsers heading in. In these affluent days it appears that only the young ride motorbikes in KL. If their parents have ever stood at a road junction in KL at 7.30 pm on a Sunday evening, they must dread the day that their children become old enough to get a license. The driving is unbelievably dangerous, egregious almost beyond description. Imagine, if you can, a hundred and fifty small motorbikes, dressed to look like powerful racing bikes, their exhaust pipes tuned for maximum volume; on each a young driver and a precariously balanced passenger on the pillion. The challenge is to weave between the four or five lanes of traffic to get to the front of the queue at the next red light. This must be done at the highest speed your bike can manage, with as much noise as possible, preferably whilst having a running conversation with your pillion -- with whom you should make frequent eye contact -- or your friend riding along side -- ditto. Breaking must be done suddenly and as late as possible for effect, or if you really want to impress shortly after you have narrowly missed being mowed down by a bus.
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