We caught a bus down to Kuala Lumpur. The driver was driving like a loon as is standard in Asia. He was texting, writing down the schedules for his next trip and driving the bus all at the same time, and in that order of importance. There must be a special time portal here, because he drove like an absolute madman, complained when we wanted to stop at toilet stops, and yet it still took about five hours to go only three hundred kilometres.
Finally we reached Kuala Lumpur. Rob and I had been here before about three years ago during one of his "last" trips home to live in Melbourne. It was fitting that here we were again, and here he was saying, again, that this is definitely the last trip home.
We stayed in exactly the same hotel in the middle of China Town, surrounded by all of the market stalls, fakes, hustlers, copy DVDs and ear waxers. A good place to escape the city's choking traffic fumes. I read in their tourist pamphlets that Kuala Lumpur is supposedly called 'The Garden City'. Someone must have built the garden round the back somewhere, because this is the last title I would choose to give it. Don't get me wrong, it is still a great city, bustling with noodle stands and friendly, honest people; just no gardens to speak of that I've ever seen, well, unless garden is a Malay word for sucking on an exhaust pipe.
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