I've been grappling with my Malaysia problem for more than a week now, and I've decided to lay it to rest. The inescapable fact is that some places I find agreeable, and others I do not.
Malaysia falls in the latter category.
Today, I spent several hours touring the National Museum and some of the gardens that surround it. On paper, everything looked good for a rewarding day away from the bustle of the central city, and the fact that I wouldn't have to spend hours traveling on a bus to get a taste of the real Malaysia was icing on the cake. All I had to do was walk a few blocks to Pasar Seni, hop on an air-conditioned train for a one-stop ride to Central, get off and walk over to the museum and park area.
What actually happened in the first hour pretty much typifies my experience here. Getting to Central is something I've rehearsed, and it works every time. Even when the system went into total dysfunction a couple of days ago, all that happened was we all stood around and waited twenty minutes instead of five minutes and nineteen seconds. The normal time between trains actually is about five minutes, which I find amazing, and in my ten days here I've seen only that one exception. Twenty minutes would be a short wait for a train in Atlanta, so no big whoop.
Today, the train ran on time, and fifteen minutes after walking out of my hotel, I was standing in Kuala Lumpur's Grand Central Station.
If you read tripadvisor or any of the other online sources of information about tourism, you'd think all I had to do was walk across the street to the National Museum and start my day of cultural exploration. Three different entries by "reviewers" told me I could do just that. After I got back, I reviewed the reviewers and came to the conclusion I was reading PR releases from the ministry of culture. First time around, I skimmed through quickly, but a more careful reading made it obvious I was getting the exact same info in each, but with slightly different wording.
Here's the truth. When you walk across the street toward the National Museum, the first thing you'll run into is the parking lobby for the Hilton and Meridien hotels. Assuming this to be a minor obstacle, I simply walked straight through the parking deck and came out on the back side. Sure enough, I had a great view of the National Museum, perched on a hill about three hundred yards away, but that's all I had. Between the spot where I stood and the museum was a huge freeway interchange, and the exit from the parking deck quickly became an on-ramp headed in the wrong direction. I walked over to the two security guards in military mufti and asked them how I could get across without dying, and they smiled broadly. They nodded and smiled quite a bit, and finally one of them said something. His companion said something else. Then they smiled at me. Broadly. Neither of these men guarding the Hilton Hotel rear entrance spoke a word of English.
Now, I'm not one of those irascible old white guys who assume every working stiff should speak English and every restaurant should serve Earl Grey, but English is compulsory in Malaysian schools, and Hilton caters to a very upscale business traveler who often speaks the tongue. However, they also pay the guards so little that the government is having to step in and set minimum wage standards for private security personnel, and the cliche about getting what you pay for hasn't endured so long for any lack of accuracy. I smiled at the guys, nodded vigorously, shook hands and walked back inside.
I'd spent about twenty minutes on this first sortie, and although I'd started the day early, heat was already a factor. The chill inside the Hilton was a very welcome bit of instant gratification, as were the young man and woman at the concierge desk. Both spoke English, and both exuded the kind of perky confidence corporations love to see in their hires. Unfortunately, the very confidently delivered instructions I got were to go back and take a chance with the freeway. Being fundamentally trusting, and something of an optimist, I went back and looked again. No way in hell. Not even I'm crazy enough to try charging across six lanes of traffic divided by a three-foot high concrete barrier. Besides, I couldn't even see from my position whether or not I'd actually end up on a part of the interchange that would land me within striking distance of my target.
I have a thing about taxis. I'll do almost anything to avoid taking one because of my totally plebeian upbringing. My father thought very little of those who would squander money on such a luxury, and his disdain lives on in the guilt and shame I feel every time I'm forced to take one. Sometimes however, a taxi is the most rational and appropriate transportation available because it's the only thing available period. So I threw myself on the mercy of the many predatory taxi-drivers hanging around the exit to the train station and soon discovered there are fares they'd rather not take. As it developed, not a single driver was interested in taking me over to the museum, because they knew I could just walk it in five minutes while it would take them a half hour to negotiate all the twists and turns involved in getting around the interchange. I could relate.
Finally, I found a guy who restored my confidence in total strangers, and I followed his pointing finger in the direction of the museum. He and his three taxi-driver pals assured me I only had to walk straight ahead, and before I had to enter the freeway sans vehicle, I'd encounter a set of steps that led to a tunnel walkway into the grounds of the museum. With hearty handshakes all around, and many joyous repetitions of the name Barack Obama, I opened my Dr. Doolittle umbrella and trudged off into the blazing sunshine of a morning that had become midday all too soon. Within a hundred yards, it was painfully obvious there were no steps, but at least there was a tiny pedestrian walk running down the side of the ramp onto the freeway, and I could clearly see I'd soon be directly opposite the museum. I could also see there was a break in the median barrier large enough for me to walk through, so I decided to abandon what was left of my better judgement and go for it.
It only took a few really exciting minutes to make my way over, and I climbed the many steps up the hill to my goal as slowly as a man mounting the gallows. The temperature had to be well over ninety, there was no breeze at all and every movement cost me another pint of sweat. Without the umbrella, I wouldn't have made it, but it had done its job well enough for me to ooze into the cool darkness behind the entrance door just before noon. I'd started the trek shortly before nine. I would have gotten an earlier start, but like many places here, the museum doesn't open until after it's too late to enjoy the morning. I'd budgeted a half hour's travel time, and expected to be there shortly after they unlocked. As it was, I could smell lunch odors swelling up the stairwell from the basement cafeteria.
As for the museum itself, I can only say it's nice and cool inside.
Malaysia doesn't really have a history, and the curators struggle unsuccessfully to make a few mediocre artifacts into a timeline resulting in the modern state we know by that name. It's a trading crossroads, and not very old. The word "ancient" is used in connection with developments as late as the 7th Century. It has no indigenous religious history, and if it did that's been expunged by a long association with Islam. If there is any artwork aside from carved doors and ceremonial daggers, it's not represented at the museum. My favorite pieces were in an exhibit under a shed outdoors, and included a Dennis fire truck, an Austin 7 from 1934 and a boat that looks like something you'd find at Disneyworld. The cafeteria offers a pretty good spread at a reasonable price, and everybody I ran into seemed cheerful and friendly. The building itself is massively beautiful, and the grounds are immaculate.
I strolled down to the Tourist Information Center located nearby, and had a brief chat with an Indian who spoke in that veddy proper English way. He informed me the legendary "steps" from the train station actually existed, but did not lead to a tunnel. The tunnel actually leads from the museum parking lot to the lake gardens. The steps, which he tried really hard to point out to me, came down at a point where one only had to traverse a three lane entrance ramp, which he assured me saw relatively little traffic. When I told him I'd already walked across the entire freeway, he was aghast, and informed me with great severity that I had put myself in considerable danger. I agreed, took a map of the gardens and set off through the tunnel.
The garden by the lake reminded me very much of the green desert common to southern Chiapas and northern Guatemala. You see quite a lot of plant growth, but it's far from lush in its overall effect on the senses. It's not uncommon for people to think all jungles are rainforests, but that's not the case. I was curious to see how they managed to have such a diverse orchid garden, but never made it that far. Unfortunately, I fell prey to the World's Largest Walk Through Aviary which I found along the way. It's not worth fussing over now, but it's an extraordinarily expensive eco-tourist attraction that promises much and delivers little. For the equivalent of a day's pay for one of the security guards, you get to go through some elaborate barriers and hang out with a bunch of birds who wouldn't fly away if you bribed them. There are some interesting specimens in the place, but those are kept in standalone locked enclosures where they can't be see very well, and certainly can't be photographed.
I watched rich Asians and Europeans take pictures of one another in front of carp ponds and parrots on stands (costs extra, by the way) for an hour or so, and then began the long, confusing walk back to my part of town. I elected to avoid retracing my steps and taking my chances with the freeway. It was already rush hour inside the park, and I really didn't feel up for trying my luck on the freeway again. Circling the hill, I came upon a huge police headquarters and the national parliamentary chambers. Shortly thereafter, I was on Jalan Parliamen, and headed downhill to the Central Market. I'd spent five hours slogging around a city that's about as pedestrian friendly as Dallas or Atlanta, and I'd found very little satisfaction in the effort.
One of the burning issues being discussed in the letters section of the Straits Times is what to do about Penang. Thirty years ago, it was paradise on earth, but now it's a 24/7 traffic jam. Everybody agrees there's only one answer. Build another bridge, and widen the freeway.
Malaysia is about business. Period.
It may have a great future as a hub for multinationals, but it has no past, no art, very little native cuisine and an almost unbearable climate.
Barring some unforseeable circumstance, I won't be back here again.
