Malaysia

Day forty

I wake at 6am. I remove my earplugs, letting in the sound of the air-conditioning. I’m comfortable here in my little Airbnb room on the 32nd floor of the Riveria Tower block. The noise of the relentless traffic outside is already in full swing, so I ease myself out of bed, flick on the kettle, and open the curtains to darkness across Kuala Lumpur.

This morning I have errands to do, mostly involving laundry. I leave my room barefoot, and take the lift to the rooftop terrace, still in my pyjamas. The pool on floor 53A is empty, and I’m the only person there. I take photographs of the view and stand there gawking at the buildings and the traffic rushing past in the dark.

From the rooftop, I take the lift down one floor and check out the co-working space and the gym, discovering to my dismay that I can’t even do one pull-up. Something else to work on at some point in my future. Perhaps one day I’ll be a middle-aged gym bunny.

I take the lift again, down to floor 30 and the row of laundry machines. I haven’t seen a washing machine since I left New Zealand and I feel a thrill at the thought of clean clothes, but I need the right Malaysian currency to get the coins to switch the machines on, so first thing I need to go to the shops to buy some breakfast and get some change.

The morning passes with laundry and planning and catching up with friends online.  I decide not to trek across the city to try to get a China visa, but will wing it with the 30 day visa-free exemption for New Zealanders. And if that doesn’t work, I guess I’ll change plans. I’m beginning to lose my grip on having to complete plan A, and I think that’s a good thing.

I eventually leave the apartment at 3 pm after a swim in the rooftop pool and my clothes freshly laundered. They all look reasonably clean, except for the sun-sleeves which were once white and are now still a grubby shade of brown with stains from a pen that leaked that first week and from the leaky fruit incident. My knickers suddenly seem to be falling apart too – as though my clothes from my old life are giving up on me.

I head to KL Sentral monorail station, where the young man at the ticket office sells me a Touch ‘n’ Go card. Then I hop on the next train to Bukit Bintang where Anna recommended I should go for street food. I’m not really hungry but I remind myself I have to eat. It’s only a few stops to where I’m going, and the train is busy with teenagers in school uniform – the girls in white blouses and turquoise pinafores, the boys in white shits and pants. They stare at their phones in tight huddles as the train moves between stations.

It’s not long until we’re at my stop and I successfully negotiate the exit gates, out into the bustling city centre. I don’t look at Google maps. I don’t care which direction I’m going. I’m just thrilled to be here. In the middle of Kuala Lumpur. I wander down the streets, surrounded by buildings that stretch to the sky, advertising hoardings flashing. I wander into the cool air conditioning of a mall. Everything is shiny and clean and expensive-looking. For a moment, I just stand there, feeling dazed by it all. The newness the wealth. It’s like Jakarta’s rich uncle has just turned up and is making a point.

I finally switch on my app and start to navigate my way to the street food place, ducking down the backroads where I can. Here, things aren’t so polished. There’s durian skins in the gutters and street-food carts selling chicken wings. Wandering through the streets, I feel content – all this newness is invigorating, but part of me wishes I had someone to share it with.

The street Anna recommended is famous in KL – Japan Alor – lined with food vendor with red Chinese lanterns strung across between the buildings. I have a mango and dragonfruit juice, then wander through the street, looking at all the different foods on offer – whole squid on sticks ready to be grilled, chicken legs and feet, crates full of rambutans and durian.

As I finish my drink and turn around to head back up Jalan Alor, something catches my eye on the ground. A playing card. The seven of hearts. Just there.

I’m not particularly superstitious but this feels like a message. I pick it up and tuck it in my bag, wondering what the universe is trying to tell me.

On my way back through the stalls, I sample the Stinky Tofu. According to Google Stinky Tofu is made by fermenting tofu for several months until it develops a thick black crust. It’s then deep fried and served with fermented cabbage. It doesn’t smell too bad to me, and it tastes reasonably bland. The cabbage has more flavour as well as a bit of a kick. Legend says that the legendary stinky tofu was invented in China during the Qing Dynasty – a merchant accidentally left a batch to ferment for months, then decided try eating it, and it had a funky flavour which he kind of liked.

After the tofu, I’m ready to head back to the hotel – it’s been a quiet day, but perhaps that’s what I needed. On the way home I pop into Decathlon in the mall and buy myself new UV sleevies to replace the white ones I brought from New Zealand, as well as a replacement sunhat and new knickers. Living the dream!

That evening a friend who’s going through some life changes of their own, messages me. I know it’s cliché but I’ve been a bit lost lately. I want to find fulfilment and find someone who really wants me.

I reply, Fulfilment is a big ask.

Because it is. We can’t expect a journey or a partner or anything in life to fulfil us. We need to find that within ourselves. We need to find our own sense of meaning and direction, whatever that is. Right now, I have no idea what fulfilment looks like, and I hope I’ll recognise when it arrives.

I reply. I’ve been paying attention to the little things. A nice cup of coffee, a smile from a stranger, an unexpectedly good view.

One good moment every day. Isn’t that all we need? Is that enough to feel fulfilled?

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