by Rob Binkley
The next morning, I said farewell to Eric and his horny monkeys and caught the famous KTM train (Keretapi Tanah Melayu), Malaysia’s national railway service, up the Malaysian peninsula to Kuala Lumpur.
The entire trip took seven hours; I spent most of the time writing in my journal. Observations from the train: The Malaysian peninsula is not an island! It feels like an Asian version of Florida, except there’s no Disney World. Instead of swamps, you get jungle as far as the eye can see, until you see the monolithic city of Kuala Lumpur growing large in the distance like the Emerald City in the land of Oz.
Malaysia is really two countries in one. (Three if you count Singapore, which was once part of Malaysia.) The huge space-age cities of Kuala Lumpur and Singapore seemed strangely out of place amid all the primitive jungle villages that surround the two cities. I can’t speak for the other half of Malaysia, which is the island of Borneo across the North China Sea, since I didn’t see it. (At that point I was trying to wean myself off islands, so I stayed on the mainland.)
When the KTM train arrived in Kuala Lumpur (or KL, as the locals call it), I stepped out into the city hoping to find some filth, and I did—I stepped right into a huge puddle from an unrepaired city street. It was beautiful. Walking around I got the sense that KL is Singapore’s evil twin; a big dirty lawless metropolis in the middle of a tropical third-world country. Maybe KL isn’t completely lawless; sixty percent of the population is Muslim, after all, so many of the people are no doubt very devout. But I could tell it had an outlaw dark side lurking out there somewhere. I could smell it. It felt like crimes were being committed all around me.
I was home again.
I checked into the Traveller’s Moon Lodge downtown. It was an inexpensive hostel in an expensive city and it showed; the walls were made of cardboard. As I settled in, it felt weird to be alone. Instead of staying lost in a cardboard maze of my own undoing, I went looking for some friends to quiet the demons barking like those stray dogs inside my head.
I met four Norwegian girls at the lodge. They were cute and bubbly and taken with my Americanness. One was named Monica. I liked her immediately. She had kind eyes and an earthiness about her that made me feel good. They wanted to go have some fun, so we went out to eat and had drinks. Monica helped me take my mind off of Brian’s betrayal.
When we returned to our hostel, we made our way up to the rooftop deck and saw the full moon hanging over a bunch of backpackers who were all flirting in the night air. “So that’s why they call it the Moon Lodge,” I said.
“It’s very romantic, no?” Monica leaned in for a kiss, which I quickly gave her. Then a guy named Lars ruined the vibe by showing us some huge spiders and scorpions he had as pets, which is not exactly a turn-on to most of the world’s female population. Lars told us he was collecting them for a zoo in the Czech Republic. It was fun watching them run around. They were big and hairy and looked deadly, especially to Monica, who didn’t seem to enjoy the spider and scorpion show as much as I did.
Monica was busy the next day so I set out to tour Kuala Lumpur on my own like a real adult. It was the rainy season so I saw the city from under my umbrella. Brian and I had been starving ourselves for months, so I followed my nose around town; there were amazing food smells coming from everywhere. With no wingman to lure me into nefarious situations, I proceeded to eat my way across town. The food in KL was just as diverse and exotic as Singapore; you could find anything you wanted on the cheap.
I started by feasting on a Chinese-Malay cuisine called nyonya with all their delicious buffets—then moved on to the many red, green, and yellow curries of India. Then I hit the Malay food aromas and trucks. When I thought I couldn’t eat any more, I stuffed myself with Western food; I even found french fries, which were great.
Full-bellied, I walked over to the Petronas Twin Towers, which were the tallest twin towers in the world at that time. They are amazing postmodern spectacles of human engineering—1,483 feet in the air and quite a sight to see, especially considering they’re located right in the middle of a tropical jungle.
After my solo day tour, I met back up with Monica and the Norwegian girls. We went to a gay bar, where it was my job to flirt with all the ladyboys and try to score drinks to bring back to the girls. What a job. After a few hours, my beer goggles couldn’t tell who was what, so I stuck with Monica, who I knew didn’t have a penis.
Later, the girls wanted to dance so we moved over to a hotspot called Jump. We snuck in the back; I had to bribe the doorman to get us in, but it was worth it. We actually stumbled onto something cool. Hundreds of local Malaysians were partying like the end of the world was imminent. We jumped into the madness. I met an attractive girl at the bar named Anna from London and some guy from Austria, who was standing beside her and who appeared to be her boyfriend. We became fast friends—at least Anna and I did.
Our group of five quickly swelled to ten. Monica and I spent the rest of the night dancing with our new friends. I have little recollection of what happened next. All I remember is that Anna’s Austrian boyfriend was insulting me in German.
My blackout lifted around seven o’clock in the morning in mid-bite. I was eating breakfast at some restaurant with a bunch of people. All the buttoned up drones were on their way to work. I took in the scene around the table. I was so happy to be back in my own body, I made a heartfelt speech to my new friends: “Wow … Here we are, a bunch of lunatics off the grid watching the responsible ones trudge off to their soul-sucking jobs, and we don’t have a care in the world … I love you guys!”
“He speaks English,” my Austrian enemy jabbed.
Everyone laughed. They were mocking me but I didn’t care. “So you do speak English!” I said to the Austrian.
“I always did, my friend. It was you who were too far gone to understand it.” His name was Hans; he wasn’t Anna’s boyfriend, he was her cousin.
“Amazing what you learn when your blood alcohol level dips.” I extended my hand and we introduced ourselves. “Sorry, Hans.” He was my enemy no more. I finally let myself be happy again. My brooding over Brian and Jack had subsided. I was back to living in the moment and enjoying the possibility of the now.
This postparty breakfast with new friends felt like a turning point. I can’t explain it other than to say it was one of those ephemeral moments that is a big part of what traveling is all about. I mentioned this before, but it’s what you remember the most—not the places or the museums or the bars. What sticks with you is meeting new friends from different cultures. It’s the only way a California boy like me could get a glimpse into how other cultures view the world.
“You stupid Americans are so optimistic about life,” Anna said. “It’s rather charming.”
“And maddening,” Monica said.
This exchange sums up what I’ve learned over and over again during my travels: Most Europeans love Americans, but they also hate us too. “I feel the same way,” I said. “But isn’t it why you love us?”
“No!” the table said emphatically, then they threw their napkins at me.
This is the Kuala Lumpur breakfast I still remember like it was yesterday. Just like riding out the rainstorm in Dede’s hut while sipping milk and honey tea in Australia, or tripping on mushrooms under the shooting stars in Bali, or drumming in the rain forest with Brian and a bunch of hippies. These traveling moments are pure gold.
After breakfast, we hopped in a taxi to go back to the hostel. Malaysian taxis were cheap but the drivers always seem to be running some scam. Their best one, which is common in Asia and would be taken to the highest level in India, is when they drive around in large circles until you start seeing the same building over and over and finally give up and pay to get out of the cab.
This happened to us on the way back to the Lodge. “Let us ouuuuuut!!!” I yelled after seeing the same turnaround three times. The driver slammed on his brakes and demanded money. Monica and the Norwegians piled out of the taxi while I negotiated the bill dow
n, which is tricky. If you are ever in this situation, try to be firm without offending their honor and you will (probably) avoid jail or an international incident. (Probably.)
Back at the Moon Lodge, we all shared a bottle of rum on the roof that wasn’t Bundaberg. We surprised some of the hostel residents who were just getting up for their morning coffee, so we called it a night. We all hugged and said our goodbyes. Even Hans hugged me. We all promised to stay in touch. I knew we wouldn’t.
When I returned to my room, I must’ve missed Brian because something inspired me to call him from the pay phone in the hall. I dialed the number he left. I was surprised he answered.
“Rob! What are you doing up so early?”
“I haven’t gone to bed.”
“Are you in a Turkish prison?”
“No, we haven’t been there yet. I’m in Kuala Lumpur! You deep into your brunette?”
“I’m knuckle deep … I’m still in Singapore.”
“Am I ever going to see you again, or should I hire a ladyboy to be my wingman?”
“That’s entirely up to you, man.” He dropped into a whisper. “I’ve been trying to break up with her for days, but the nonstop sexcapades have kept me from having the talk. Gymnasts, dude….”
“Just leave a note on her pillow, tell her you’ve gone to meet your gay lover, and that nine of ten Philippine doctors agree she should be checked for monkey herpes.”
“This is why Carrie hates you,” he was still whispering.
“You think I care what she thinks? Seriously, don’t let this Cabriolet-driving Yoko screw up our trip. That’s why we left America—to flee from these American bitch-goddesses. Remember?”
“Yes! But she’s not my Yoko … she’s more like my Cher.”
“Same difference.”
“It’s just … Our naughty bits have a lot of catching up to do. You understand, right brother?”
“I guess … brother. Just don’t leave me hanging or I will stab you in the eyeballs with a Swiss Army knife when we get home.”
“Big talker. I need to go have more goodbye sex. Meet me in Koh Samui, Thailand, in three days. Can you swing it?”
“Another island?”
“I hear good things!”
“I’ll be there.”
And just like that, the Fun & Funner World Tour was back on.
The next morning, I took the train to Butterworth where I hopped a ferry to Georgetown, the oldest town in Malaysia. I checked into the Plaza Hostel for about eight dollars. I met two more backpacker gals from the Netherlands who offered to tour me around Fort Cornwallis, the Khoo Kongsi Temple and the Kapitan Keling Mosque. My new Dutch tour guides had been there for a few days, so they knew their way around.
We wandered through the maze of narrow lanes and streets, visiting all the Chinese and Indian temples and the little shops with their fortune tellers, all the while the skyscrapers in downtown Georgetown loomed over our heads. This was another city with two personalities (one modern, the other ancient). Its historic section is heavily influenced by China with lots of tumbledown shops and colonial architecture.
When we returned to the hostel that night, a couple of backpackers I didn’t know approached me.
“You’re on the fourth floor, right?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Your room was ransacked. Heard it was some guys from Nigeria … Thought you should know.”
I burst into my room ready to rumble, but they had cleared out. They only made off with a small amount I had in my pack. Thankfully, I always travel with most everything on me. The thieves never found my real stash, which I hide so well I’ve been known to forget about it. A few times, my expert stashing skills resulted in me having to reverse course to retrieve my hidden valuables. I slept with one eye open that night.
I woke up the next morning without a hangover for the first time in a few days. I spent a few hours reading in bed naked, and lo-and-behold the thieves had the gall to try and break in again. This time I was there and busted them. “Aha!” I yelled and jumped up ready to pounce. “So we meet again, my Nigerian nemesis!” I chased the two guys out of the room and down the hall. I think my nudity scared them off. It certainly surprised my neighbors, who all got a good look at my bare ass.
The double attempted robberies were a sign; it was time to go. I was sick of slumming it in big cities anyway, so I got up early and left for Thailand the next morning. I was excited to be reuniting with Brian, but I was even more motivated by the thought of tantalizing Thailand—she was drawing me close to her exotic bosom. I had heard she was an awesome mistress. You don’t want to marry Thailand, but you definitely want to take her for a spin—for the sights, the sand, the sex appeal, and the scuba diving.
I traveled north by bus, bus, bus, train, bus, then ferried over to Koh Samui, a Thai island off the east coast of the Kra Isthmus. “Island living,” I said to another backpacker on the ferry that didn’t speak English. “You just can’t beat it.” The backpacker just looked at me blankly, then we struck up a conversation anyway.
If you’re traveling alone, you’ll find it very easy to make friends in Thailand.
I walked through town and saw backpackers everywhere, camping on quiet parts of the beach among the palms and coconut trees. I decided to rent a bungalow on the beach for eight dollars a night. Koh Samui has been a hot spot in tourism forever, and for good reason. It has amazing international cuisine, luxury spas, and—more important for young backpackers—beach parties that last for days, especially on the island to the north, Ko Pha Ngan, where they have the famous “Full Moon” parties.
After a long day of travel, I collapsed in bed, exhausted. I hoped there wouldn’t be any thieves lurking in the night trying to steal my money. I slept naked, just in case.
The next morning I did the unthinkable. I broke out my new Speedo. I never wear one back home, but I wanted to fit in with all the other travelers and work on my tan. I slipped it on and strutted down Chaweng Beach and laid out with all the other locals and white-skinned foreigners. I felt ridiculous but didn’t care—until I met a couple of sexy girls named Carly and Buffy, who were from Canada. They weren’t your typical polite, pale-skinned Canadians; they were tan, wildly untethered, and didn’t look like they had worn toques in years.
They could tell I was uncomfortable in my Speedo and paranoid about my ridiculous tan lines, but they didn’t say anything. We talked for hours while my pasty upper thighs melted under the sweltering sun. I should have taken cover but I couldn’t stop staring at their shapely bodies. “Umm … is this your first time wearing a Speedo?” Carly finally asked, knowing damn well it was.
“How can you tell??”
They said they “weren’t shy” ; they had been “stripping for the last two years in Japan.” Then they busted out laughing, like they had just told the best inside joke in the world. They turned out to be super nice. They said they were happy not to have some perverted Japanese businessman drooling over them.
“I’m just a nice California boy slobbering over you!” I could feel my skin sizzling but I couldn’t get up; I was talking to the hottest girls I had seen in a while.
We made plans to meet up later and they took off. I spent the rest of the day under an umbrella, putting salve on my thighs and reading For Whom the Bell Tolls.
Without Brian, I’d been writing in my journal and cranking through books; my last two were A Tale of Two Cities and Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. I try not to read garbage. I figure if I’m ultimately unable to curb all my debauched urges, at least I can improve my mind while I’m killing it, right?
I woke up the next day in complete agony. My thighs were stuck to the sheets; I had second degree burns. I cursed my Speedo experiment and hobbled around town looking for more aloe vera like I had two prosthetic legs. I ate breakfast at a restaurant called The Wait, then found a spot in a shaded area on the beach to sprawl out with ice on my thighs. I ordered beer after beer trying to ease my pain. I never wo
re another Speedo again.
That night I foolishly decided to go out and have some fun. The nightclubs in Thailand didn’t open until eleven-thirty, so I hung out at the go-go bars until they did. While drinking alone, I noticed I had developed a habit of flirting with the ladyboys who were dancing. Not sure if Brian would approve of my new proclivity; actually, I knew he wouldn’t but these ladymen were deceptively hot. I had to keep telling myself, I only like girls … I only like girls.’
The next day my sunburn had improved, so I called up Carly and Buffy and I went out to cleanse myself of my ladyboy habit. I made the mistake of starting off our dinner with seven beers, then the girls started in with the sex talk.
“So, are you a boobs, legs, or ass man?” Buffy asked.
“Actually, I’m a vagina man.”
“Of course you are!” they shouted and showed me they weren’t wearing any underwear, which inspired me to order a round of shots for the table.
After dinner, Buffy wanted to go crazy at the clubs, so we rode our three mopeds around town. I kept the shots coming; my hormones were running wild. In the back of my mind I knew if I got too wasted I might end up in a shallow grave or missing a kidney since I didn’t have Brian as my wingman, but who cares—I had two strippers as escorts. What could possibly go wrong?
A lot. Around midnight, I started to feel sicker than normal. My Bukowski-esque tolerance was failing me; the club was spinning. I felt like someone had kicked me in the face with a steel-toed jackboot. What the hell was happening? My chance to score with Buffy and Carly was slipping through my fingers. The last thing I remember was fading to black under a strobe light from hell….
The next thing I knew, I was in a bed. It was daytime. Was I still alive?
I crawled to the bathroom to throw up. I looked at a clock, it was five in the evening. “What day is it?” My head was pounding; I was so dehydrated I almost couldn’t walk to get water. I limped around outside looking for an oasis, I was sure I got roofied. Who did this to me?? Maybe Carly and Buffy had some dirty plan to do naughty things to me? That was probably wishful thinking. More likely it was some club guys that didn’t like my cock-blockage and wanted me gone so they could feast on the girls’ ample stripper flesh.