It’s always a little embarrassing that I’ve traveled a bit but haven’t seen much of neighbouring Malaysia. Last month I went up to KL for only the 2nd time I could remember, with CK and CM for a meeting.
For someone used to the glitzy décor of Terminal 2 and 3, T1 was slightly sobering. I haven’t stepped in the grand daddy of Changi in over 10 years. It’s sprawling with foreign workers, Asian tour groups and all types of colourfully-dressed business travelers jetting around the region on budget flights.
Not that it’s run down at all (impossible after a $500m upgrade), just a different crowd. Mind you, it’s still a hell lot better than the European and American airports I frequent. Wish I had grabbed some shots, but taking pictures at the home airport somehow didn’t come naturally.
Up next was my first flight on a budget airline (I was really feeling like a first-time flyer by now). The Thai stewardess was nice enough but she stamped her authority when I stopped halfway along the aisle to stash my bag into the storage above me.
“PLEASE DON’T HOLD UP THE LINE!” she shouted from the front of the plane.
Memories rushed back to primary school and first day on the school bus. I quickly sat down like a scared puppy.
The 45-minute flight into KL was, needless to say, a breeze compared to the usual 13 and 20 hour flights I’m more accustomed to. I’ve barely chosen my songs on the iPod before the pilot announced he was descending. The only thing that felt weird was flying an airline sponsored by Manchester United (their logos were everywhere). I’m a Liverpool supporter so it’s like sleeping with the enemy. I wanted to humiliate myself.
The KL LCCT (Low Cost Carrier Terminal) is visibly less impressive, but efficient. Suddenly T1 felt like the Taj Mahal. I walked off the plane, crossed the runway and headed towards the gate. Theoretically, I could be run over by a plane.
Once out of the terminal touters flocked to us like moths to a lamp. We tried damn hard to be cool, like we’ve done this hundreds of time. (I’m pretty sure we failed miserably). Next thing we knew we were being led to a dark, shady corner where a beat-up Proton Wira was waiting – engine running, ready to hit the dirt.
A lady was behind the wheel, sucking the life out of a dying cigarette. I reached for the front passenger door, but was halted by the man who led us there. He pointed to the rear seats, just as the woman got out and moved into the front. The man is driving, and I wasn’t about to fight the woman for a front seat view.
So three Asian boys sat thigh-to-thigh at the back of the car as we rolled into town, hoping to spot the unmistakable shape of the Petrona Towers soon just so we know we aren’t being shipped elsewhere.
Of course we got there safely, checked in to Novotel and went looking for food at Jalan Alor. Had some awesome chicken wings and dark, disgusting-looking noodles that look sinfully unhealthy but taste fantastic.
On the way back we bought a large bottle of beer for the night cap. Couldn’t find an opener in the hotel room, so three of us took turns at attempting to pry open the stubborn cap, which went on for 15 minutes. The beer was warm by now. Out of ideas, we finally called the concierge who sent someone up with an opener. The guy walked into the room and froze – in front of him were three Chinese men in their boxers and t-shirts, foreheads glistening with sweat (from struggling with the bottle), and one holding helplessly onto a bottle of Tiger beer, with American Idol blasting on the telly.
It was a classic ‘Moment of Wrong’.
Anyway we finally opened the damn bottle, drank warm beer and watched David Cook and David Archuleta fight it out.
The meeting the next day went well enough. It’s funny though – no matter how far you are away from home, be it an hour away by air or half way round the world, it takes one night in a foreign bed, regardless of how comfortable it is, to make you miss your own sack.
